“It’s never out of season, any more than barn-door fowl; especially if a young last year’s coq, that hasn’t been successful in finding a mate.”
“But it’s close time now,” urges the Englishman, stirred by his old instincts of gentleman sportsman.
“Not to those who know how to open it,” returns the Frenchman, with a significant shrug. “And suppose we do that to-day?”
“I don’t understand. Will your Reverence enlighten me?”
“Well, M’sieu; being Whit-Monday, and coming to pay you a visit, I thought you mightn’t be offended by my bringing along with me a little present – for Madame here – that we’re talking of – salmon and pheasant.”
The husband, more than the wife, looks incredulous. Is the priest jesting? Beneath the froc, fitting tight his thin spare form, there is nothing to indicate the presence of either fish or bird.
“Where are they?” asks Murdock mechanically. “You say you’ve brought them along?”
“Ah! that was metaphorical. I meant to say I had sent them. And if I mistake not, they are near now. Yes; there’s my messenger!”
He points to a man making up the glen, threading his way through the tangle of wild bushes that grow along the banks of the rivulet.
“Coracle Dick!” exclaims Murdock, recognising the poacher.
“The identical individual,” answers the priest, adding, “who, though a poacher, and possibly has been something worse, is not such a bad fellow in his way – for certain purposes. True, he’s neither the most devout nor best behaved of my flock; still a useful individual, especially on Fridays, when one has to confine himself to a fish diet. I find him convenient in other ways as well; as so might you, Monsieur Murdock – some day. Should you ever have need of a strong hard hand, with a heart in correspondence, Richard Dempsey possesses both, and would no doubt place them at your service – for a consideration.”
While Murdock is cogitating on what the last words are meant to convey, the individual so recommended steps upon the ground. A stout, thick-set fellow, with a shock of black curly hair coming low down, almost to his eyes, thus adding to their sinister and lowering look. For all a face not naturally uncomely, but one on which crime has set its stamp, deep and indelible.
His garb is such as gamekeepers usually wear, and poachers almost universally affect, a shooting coat of velveteen, corduroy smalls, and sheepskin gaiters buttoned over thick-soled shoes iron-tipped at the toes. In the ample skirt pockets of the coat – each big as a game-bag – appear two protuberances, that about balance one another – the present of which the priest has already delivered the invoice – in the one being a salmon “blotcher” weighing some three or four pounds, in the other a young cock pheasant.
Having made obeisance to the trio in the grounds of Glyngog, he is about drawing them forth when the priest prevents him, exclaiming: —
“Arretez! They’re not commodities that keep well in the sun. Should a water-bailiff, or one of the Llangorren gamekeepers chance to set eyes on them, they’d spoil at once. Those lynx-eyed fellows can see a long way, especially on a day bright as this. So, worthy Coracle, before uncarting, you’d better take them back to the kitchen.”
Thus instructed, the poacher strides off round to the rear of the house; Mrs Murdock entering by the front door to give directions about dressing the dinner. Not that she intends to take any hand in cooking it – not she. That would be infra dig for the ancien belle of Mabille. Poor as is the establishment of Glyngog, it can boast of a plain cook, with a slavey to assist.
The other two remain outside, the guest joining his host in a glass of brandy and water. More than one; for Father Rogier, though French, can drink like a born Hibernian. Nothing of the Good Templar in him.
After they have been for nigh an hour hobnobbing, conversing, Murdock still fighting shy of the subject, which is nevertheless uppermost in the minds of both, the priest once more approaches it, saying: —
“Parbleu! They appear to be enjoying themselves over yonder!” He is looking at the lawn where the bright forms are flitting to and fro. “And most of all, I should say, Monsieur White Cap – foretasting the sweets of which he’ll ere long enter into full enjoyment; when he becomes master of Llangorren.”
“That – never!” exclaims Murdock, this time adding an oath. “Never while I live. When I’m dead – ”
“Diner!” interrupts a female voice from the house, that of its mistress seen standing on the doorstep.
“Madame summons us,” says the priest, “we must in, M’sieu. While picking the bones of the pheasant, you can complete your unfinished speech. Allons!”
Volume One – Chapter Thirteen
Among the Arrows
The invited to the archery meeting have nearly all arrived, and the shooting has commenced; half a dozen arrows in the air at a time, making for as many targets.
Only a limited number of ladies compete for the first score, each having a little coterie of acquaintances at her back.
Gwen Wynn herself is in this opening contest. Good with the bow, as at the oar – indeed with county celebrity as an archer – carrying the champion badge of her club – it is almost a foregone conclusion she will come off victorious.
Soon, however, those who are backing her begin to anticipate disappointment. She is not shooting with her usual skill, nor yet earnestness. Instead, negligently, and to all appearance, with thoughts abstracted; her eyes every now and then straying over the ground, scanning the various groups, as if in search of a particular individual. The gathering is large – nearly a hundred people present – and one might come or go without attracting observation. She evidently expects one to come who is not yet there; and oftener than elsewhere her glances go towards the boat-dock, as if the personage expected should appear in that direction. There is a nervous restlessness in her manner, and after each reconnaissance of this kind, an expression of disappointment on her countenance.
It is not unobserved. A gentleman by her side notes it, and with some suspicion of its cause – a suspicion that pains him. It is George Shenstone; who is attending on her, handing the arrows – in short, acting as her aide-de-camp. Neither is he adroit in the exercise of his duty; instead performs it bunglingly; his thoughts preoccupied, and eyes wandering about. His glances, however, are sent in the opposite direction – to the gate entrance of the park, visible from the place where the targets are set up.
They are both “prospecting” for the selfsame individual, but with very different ideas – one eagerly anticipating his arrival, the other as earnestly hoping he may not come. For the expected one is a gentleman – no other than Vivian Ryecroft.
Shenstone knows the Hussar officer has been invited; and, however hoping or wishing it, has but little faith he will fail. Were it himself no ordinary obstacle could prevent his being present at that archery meeting, any more than would five-barred gate, or bullfinch, hinder him from keeping up with hounds.
As time passes without any further arrivals, and the tardy guest has not yet put in appearance, Shenstone begins to think he will this day have Miss Wynn to himself, or at least without any very formidable competitor. There are others present who seek her smiles – some aspiring to her hand – but none he fears so much as the one still absent.
Just