style="font-size:15px;"> "Because it seems to me, as though you had yourself the making of it."
He is saying no more than he thinks; far less. For he believes she could make fate itself – control it, as she can his. And as he would now confess to her – is almost on the eve of it – but hindered by recalling that strange look and sigh sent after Shenstone. His fond fancies, the sweet dreams he has been indulging in ever since making her acquaintance, may have been but illusions. She may be playing with him, as he would with a fish on his hook. As yet, no word of love has passed her lips. Is there thought of it in her heart – for him?
"In what way? What mean you?" she asks, her liquid eyes turned upon him with a look of searching interrogation.
The question staggers him. He does not answer it as he would, and again replies evasively – somewhat confusedly —
"Oh! I only meant, Miss Wynn – that you so young – so – well, with all the world before you – surely have your happiness in your own hands."
If he knew how much it is in his he would speak more courageously, and possibly with greater plainness. But he knows not, nor does she tell him. She, too, is cautiously retentive, and refrains taking advantage of his words, full of suggestion.
It will need another séance– possibly more than one – before the real confidence can be exchanged between them. Natures like theirs do not rush into confession as the common kind. With them it is as with the wooing of eagles.
She simply rejoins:
"I wish it were," adding with a sigh, "Far from it, I fear."
He feels as if he had drifted into a dilemma – brought about by his own gaucherie– from which something seen up the river, on the opposite side, offers an opportunity to escape – a house. It is the quaint old habitation of Tudor times. Pointing to it, he says:
"A very odd building, that! If I've been rightly informed, Miss Wynn, it belongs to a relative of yours?"
"I have a cousin who lives there."
The shadow suddenly darkening her brow, with the slightly explicit rejoinder, tells him he is again on dangerous ground. He attributes it to the character he has heard of Mr. Murdock. His cousin is evidently disinclined to converse about him.
And she is; the shadow still staying. If she knew what is at that moment passing within Glyngog – could but hear the conversation carried on at its dining table – it might be darker. It is dark enough in her heart, as on her face – possibly from a presentiment.
Ryecroft more than ever embarrassed, feels it a relief when Ellen Lees, with the Rev. Mr. Musgrave as her cavalier attendant – they, too, straying solitarily – approach near enough to be hailed, and invited into the pavilion.
So the dialogue between the cautious lovers comes to an end – to both of them unsatisfactory enough. For this day their love must remain unrevealed; though never man and woman more longed to learn the sweet secret of each other's heart.
CHAPTER XV
A SPIRITUAL ADVISER
While the sports are in progress outside Llangorren Court, inside Glyngog House is being eaten that dinner to commence with salmon in season and end with pheasant out.
It is early; but the Murdocks often glad to eat what Americans call a "square meal," have no set hours for eating, while the priest is not particular.
In the faces of the trio seated at the table a physiognomist might find interesting study, and note expressions that would puzzle Lavater himself. Nor could they be interpreted by the conversation which, at first, only refers to topics of a trivial nature. But now and then, a mot of double meaning let down by Rogier, and a glance surreptitiously exchanged between him and his countryman, tell that the thoughts of these two are running upon themes different from those about which are their words.
Murdock, by no means of a trusting disposition, but ofttimes furiously jealous, has nevertheless, in this respect, no suspicion of the priest, less from confidence than a sort of contempt for the pallid puny creature, whom he feels he could crush in a moment of mad anger. And broken though he be, the stalwart, and once strong, Englishman could still do that. To imagine such a man as Rogier a rival in the affections of his own wife, would be to be little himself. Besides, he holds fast to that proverbial faith in the spiritual adviser, not always well founded – in his case certainly misplaced. Knowing nought of this, however, their exchanged looks, however markedly significant, escape his observation. Even if he did observe, he could not read in them aught relating to love. For, this day there is not; the thoughts of both are absorbed by a different passion – cupidity. They are bent upon a scheme of no common magnitude, but grand and comprehensive – neither more nor less than to get possession of an estate worth £10,000 a year – that Llangorren. They know its value as well as the steward who gives receipts for its rents.
It is no new notion with them; but one for some time entertained, and steps considered; still nothing definite either conceived, or determined on. A task, so herculean, as dangerous and difficult, will need care in its conception, and time for its execution. True, it might be accomplished almost instantaneously with six inches of steel, or as many drops of belladonna. Nor would two of the three seated at the table stick at employing such means. Olympe Renault, and Gregorie Rogier have entertained thoughts of them – if not more. In the third is the obstructor. Lewin Murdock would cheat at dice and cards, do money-lenders without remorse, and tradesmen without mercy, ay, steal, if occasion offered; but murder – that is different – being a crime not only unpleasant to contemplate, but perilous to commit. He would be willing to rob Gwendoline Wynn of her property – glad to do it, if he only knew how – but to take away her life, he is not yet up to that.
But he is drawing up to it, urged by desperate circumstances, and spurred on by his wife, who loses no opportunity of bewailing their broken fortunes, and reproaching him for them; at her back the Jesuit secretly instructing, and dictating.
Not till this day have they found him in the mood for being made more familiar with their design. Whatever his own disposition, his ear has been hitherto deaf to their hints, timidly, and ambiguously given. But to-day things appear more promising, as evinced by his angry exclamation "Never!" Hence their delight at hearing it.
During the earlier stages of the dinner, as already said, they converse about ordinary subjects, like the lovers in the pavilion silent upon that paramount in their minds. How different the themes – as love itself from murder! And just as the first word was unspoken in the summer-house at Llangorren, so is the last unheard in the dining-room of Glyngog.
While the 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 Murdock'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
