Father Rogier."
"Riddles easily read, M'sieu. Of this particular one you'll find the interpretation there."
This, pointing to a plain gold ring on the fourth finger of Mrs. Murdock's left hand, put upon it by Murdock himself on the day he became her husband.
He now comprehends – his quick-witted wife sooner.
"Ha!" she exclaims, as if pricked by a pin, "Mademoiselle to be married?"
The priest gives an assenting nod.
"That's news to me," mutters Murdock, in a tone more like he was listening to the announcement of a death.
"Moi aussi! Who, Père? Not Monsieur Shenstone, after all?"
The question shows how well she is acquainted with Miss Wynn – if not personally, with her surroundings and predilections!
"No," answers the priest. "Not he."
"Who then?" asked the two simultaneously.
"A man likely to make many heirs to Llangorren – widen the breach between you and it – ah! to the impossibility of that ever being bridged."
"Père Rogier!" appeals Murdock, "I pray you speak out! Who is to do this? His name?"
"Le Capitaine Ryecroft."
"Captain Ryecroft! Who – what is he?"
"An officer of Hussars – a fine-looking fellow – sort of combination of Mars and Apollo; strong as Hercules! As I've said, likely to be father to no end of sons and daughters, with Gwen Wynn for their mother. Helas! I can fancy seeing them now – at play over yonder, on the lawn!"
"Captain Ryecroft!" repeats Murdock musingly; "I never saw – never heard of the man!"
"You hear of him now, and possibly see him too. No doubt he's among those gay toxophilites – Ha! no, he's nearer! What a strange coincidence! The old saw, 'speak of the fiend.' There's your fiend, Monsieur Murdock!"
He points to a boat on the river with two men in it; one of them wearing a white cap. It is dropping down in the direction of Llangorren Court.
"Which?" asks Murdock mechanically.
"He with the chapeau blanc. That's whom you have to fear. The other's but the waterman Wingate – honest fellow enough, whom no one need fear – unless indeed our worthy friend Coracle Dick, his competitor for the smiles of the pretty Mary Morgan. Yes, mes amis! Under that conspicuous kepi you behold the future lord of Llangorren."
"Never!" exclaims Murdock, angrily gritting his teeth. "Never!"
The French priest and ci-devant French courtezan exchange secret, but significant, glances; a pleased expression showing on the faces of both.
"You speak excitedly, M'sieu," says the priest, "emphatically, too. But how is it to be hindered?"
"I don't know," sourly rejoins Murdock; "I suppose it can't be," he adds, drawing back, as if conscious of having committed himself. "Never mind, now; let's drop the disagreeable subject. You'll stay to dinner with us, Father Rogier?"
"If not putting you to inconvenience."
"Nay; it's you who'll be inconvenienced – starved, I should rather say. The butchers about here are not of the most amiable type; and, if I mistake not, our menu for to-day is a very primitive one – bacon and potatoes, with some greens from the old garden."
"Monsieur Murdock! It's not the fare, but the fashion, which makes a meal enjoyable. A crust and welcome is to me better cheer than a banquet with a grudging host at the head of the table. Besides, your English bacon is a most estimable dish, and with your succulent cabbages delectable. With a bit of Wye salmon to precede, and a pheasant to follow, it were food to satisfy Lucullus himself."
"Ah! true," assents the broken-down gentleman, "with the salmon and pheasant. But where are they? My fishmonger, who is conjointly also a game-dealer, is at present as much out with me as is the butcher; I suppose, from my being too much in with them – in their books. Still, they have not ceased acquaintance, so far as calling is concerned. That they do with provoking frequency. Even this morning, before I was out of bed, I had the honour of a visit from both the gentlemen. Unfortunately, they brought neither fish nor meat; instead, two sheets of that detestable blue paper, with red lines and rows of figures – an arithmetic not nice to be bothered with at one's breakfast. So, Père, I am sorry I can't offer you any salmon; and as for pheasant – you may not be aware, that it is out of season."
"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
