Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye. Reid Mayne

blotcher is being carved with a spoon – there is no fish slice among the chattels of Mr Murdock – the priest in good appetite, and high glee, pronounces it “crimp.” He speaks English like a native, and is even up in its provincialisms; few in Herefordshire whose dialect is of the purest.

      The phrase of the fishmonger received smilingly, the salmon is distributed and handed across the table; the attendance of the slavey, with claws not over clean, and ears that might be unpleasantly sharp, having been dispensed with.

      There is wine without stint; for although Murdoch’s town tradesmen may be hard of heart, in the Welsh Harp there is a tender string he can still play upon; the Boniface of the Rugg’s Ferry hostelry having a belief in his post obit expectations. Not such an indifferent wine either, but some of the choicest vintage. The guests of the Harp, however rough in external appearance and rude in behaviour – have wonderfully refined ideas about drink, and may be often heard calling for “fizz” – some of them as well acquainted with the qualities of Möet and Cliquot, as a connoisseur of the most fashionable club.

      Profiting by their aesthetic tastes, Lewin Murdock is enabled to set wines upon his table of the choicest brands. Light Bordeaux first with the fish, then sherry with the heavier greens and bacon, followed by champagne as they get engaged upon the pheasant.

      At this point the conversation approaches a topic, hitherto held in reserve, Murdock himself starting it: —

      “So, my cousin Gwen’s going to get married, eh! are you sure of that, Father Rogier?”

      “I wish I were as sure of going to heaven.”

      “But what sort of man is he? you haven’t told us.”

      “Yes, I have. You forget my description, Monsieur – cross between Mars and Phoebus – strength herculean; sure to be father to a progeny numerous as that which spring from the head of Medusa – enough of them to make heirs for Llangorren to the end of time – keep you out of the property if you lived to be the age of Methuselah. Ah! a fine-looking fellow, I can assure you; against whom the baronet’s son, with his rubicund cheeks and hay-coloured hair, wouldn’t stand the slightest chance – even were there nothing: more to recommend the martial stranger. But there is.”

      “What more?”

      “The mode of his introduction to the lady – that quite romantic.”

      “How was he introduced?”

      “Well, he made her acquaintance on the water. It appears Mademoiselle Wynn and her companion Lees, were out on the river for a row alone. Unusual that! Thus out, some fellows – Forest of Dean dwellers – offered them insult; from which a gentleman angler, who chanced to be whipping the stream close by, saved them – he no other than le Capitaine Ryecroft. With such commencement of acquaintance, a man couldn’t be much worth, who didn’t know how to improve it – even to terminating in marriage if he wished. And with such a rich heiress as Mademoiselle Gwendoline Wynn – to say nought of her personal charms – there are few men who wouldn’t wish it so to end. That he, the Hussar officer, captain, colonel, or whatever his rank, does, I’ve good reason to believe, as also that he will succeed in accomplishing his desires; no more doubt of it than of my being seated at this table. Yes; sure as I sit here that man will be the master of Llangorren.”

      “I suppose he will;” “must,” rejoins Murdock, drawing out the words as though not greatly concerned, one way, or the other.

      Olympe looks dissatisfied, but not Rogier nor she, after a glance from the priest, which seems to say “Wait.” He himself intends waiting till the drink has done its work.

      Taking the hint she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell, and the deceit of the devil.

      She preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table – poor and pro forma– obedient to a look from Rogier, with a slight nod in the direction of the door, she makes her congé, and retires.

      Murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes – of which he carries a case – and for some time they sit smoking and drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that uppermost in their minds. They seem to fear touching it, as though it were a thing to contaminate. It is only after repeatedly emptying their glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the Frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with cautious circumlocution.

      “By the way, M’sieu,” he says, “we’ve forgotten what we were conversing about, when summoned to dinner – a meal I’ve greatly enjoyed – notwithstanding your depreciation of the menu. Indeed, a very bonne bouche your English bacon, and the greens excellent, as also the pommes de terre. You were speaking of some event, or circumstance, to be conditional on your death. What is it? Not the deluge, I hope! True, your Wye is subject to sudden floods; might it have ought to do with them?”

      “Why should it?” asks Murdock, not comprehending the drift.

      “Because people sometimes get drowned in these inundations; indeed, often. Scarce a week passes without some one falling into the river, and there remaining, at least till life is extinct. What with its whirls and rapids, it’s a very dangerous stream. I wonder at Mademoiselle Wynne venturing so courageously – so carelessly upon it.”

      The peculiar intonation of the last speech, with emphasis on the word carelessly, gives Murdock a glimpse of what it is intended to point to.

      “She’s got courage enough,” he rejoins, without appearing to comprehend. “About her carelessness, I don’t know.”

      “But the young lady certainly is careless – recklessly so. That affair of her going out alone is proof of it. What followed may make her more cautious; still, boating is a perilous occupation, and boats, whether for pleasure or otherwise, are awkward things to manage – fickle and capricious as women themselves. Suppose hers should some day go to the bottom she being in it?”

      “That would be bad.”

      “Of course it would. Though, Monsieur Murdock, many men situated as you, instead of grieving over such an accident, would but rejoice at it.”

      “No doubt they would. But what’s the use of talking of a thing not likely to happen?”

      “Oh, true! Still, boat accidents being of such common occurrence, one is as likely to befall Mademoiselle Wynn as anybody else. A pity if it should – a misfortune! But so is the other thing.”

      “What other thing?”

      “That such a property as Llangorren should be in the hands of heretics, having but a lame title too. If what I’ve heard be true, you yourself have as much right to it as your cousin. It were better it belonged to a true son of the Church, as I know you to be, M’sieu.”

      Murdock receives the compliment with a grimace. He is no hypocrite; still with all his depravity he has a sort of respect for religion, or rather its outward forms – regularly attends Rogier’s chapel, and goes through all the ceremonies and genuflexions, just as the Italian bandit after cutting a throat will drop on his knees and repeat a paternoster at hearing the distant bell of the Angelus.