Gwen Wynn Part 61

CHAPTER LXIII.

A STRANGE FATHER CONFESSOR.

"He's gone away--given it up! Be glad, madame!"

Father Rogier so speaks on entering the drawing-room of Llangorren Court, where Mrs. Murdock is seated.

"What, Gregoire?" (Were her husband present, it would be "Pere"; but she is alone.) "Who's gone away? And why am I to rejoice?"

"_Le Capitaine._"

"Ha!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es, with a pleased look, showing that the two words have answered all her questions in one.

"Are you sure of it? The news seems too good for truth."

"It's true, nevertheless; so far as his having gone away. Whether to stay away is another matter. We must hope he will."

"I hope it with all my heart."

"And well you may, madame; as I myself. We had more to fear from that _chien de cha.s.se_ than all the rest of the pack--ay, have still, unless he's found the scent too cold, and in despair abandoned the pursuit; which I fancy he has, thrown off by that little rock slide. A lucky chance my having caught him at his reconnaisance; and rather a clever bit of strategy so to baffle him! Wasn't it, _cherie_?"

"Superb! The whole thing from beginning to end! You've proved yourself a wonderful man, Gregoire Rogier."

"And I hope worthy of Olympe Renault?"

"You have."

"_Merci!_ So far that's satisfactory; and your slave feels he has not been toiling in vain. But there's a good deal more to be done before we can take our s.h.i.+p safe into port. And it must be done quickly, too. I pine to cast off this priestly garb--in which I've been so long miserably masquerading--and enter into the real enjoyments of life. But there's another, and more potent reason, for using despatch; breakers around us, on which we may be wrecked, ruined any day, any hour. Le Capitaine Ryecroft was not, or is not, the only one."

"Richard--_le braconnier_--you're thinking of?"

"No, no, no! Of him we needn't have the slightest fear. I hold his lips sealed, by a rope around his neck; whose noose I can draw tight at the shortest notice. I am far more apprehensive of Monsieur, _votre mari_!"

"In what way?"

"More than one; but for one, his tongue. There's no knowing what a drunken man may do or say in his cups; and Monsieur Murdock is hardly ever out of them. Suppose he gets to babbling, and lets drop something about--well, I needn't say what. There's still suspicion abroad--plenty of it,--and, like a spark applied to tinder, a word would set it ablaze."

"_C'est vrai!_"

"Fortunately, Mademoiselle had no very near relatives of the male s.e.x, nor any one much interested in her fate, save the _fiance_ and the other lover--the rustic and rejected one--Shenstone _fils_. Of him we need take no account. Even if suspicious, he hasn't the craft to unravel a clue so cunningly rolled as ours; and for the _ancien hussard_, let us hope he has yielded to despair, and gone back whence he came. Luck, too, in his having no intimacies here, or, I believe, anywhere in the s.h.i.+re of Hereford. Had it been otherwise, we might not so easily have got disembarra.s.sed of him."

"And you do think he has gone for good?"

"I do; at least, it would seem so. On his second return to the hotel--in haste as it was--he had little luggage; and that he has all taken away with him. So I learnt from one of the hotel people, who professes our faith. Further, at the railway station, that he took ticket for London.

Of course that means nothing. He may be _en route_ for anywhere beyond--round the globe, if he feel inclined for circ.u.mnavigation. And I shall be delighted if he do."

He would not be much delighted had he heard at the railway station of what actually occurred--that in getting his ticket Captain Ryecroft had inquired whether he could not be booked through for Boulogne. Still less might Father Rogier have felt gratification to know, that there were two tickets taken for London; a first-cla.s.s for the Captain himself, and a second for the waterman Wingate--travelling together, though in separate carriages, as befitted their different rank in life.

Having heard nothing of this, the sham priest--as he has now acknowledged himself--is jubilant at the thought that another hostile p.a.w.n in the game he has been so skilfully playing has disappeared from the chess-board. In short, all have been knocked over, queen, bishops, knights, and castles. Alone the king stands, he tottering; for Lewin Murdock is fast drinking himself to death. It is of him the priest speaks as king,--

"Has he signed the will?"

"_Oui._"

"When?"

"This morning, before he went out. The lawyer who drew it up came, with his clerk to witness----"

"I know all that," interrupts the priest, "as I should, having sent them. Let me have a look at the doc.u.ment. You have it in the house, I hope?"

"In my hand," she answers, diving into a drawer of the table by which she sits, and drawing forth a folded sheet of parchment: "_Le voila!_"

She spreads it out, not to read what is written upon it--only to look at the signatures, and see they are right. Well knows he every word of that will, he himself having dictated it. A testament made by Lewin Murdock, which, at his death, leaves the Llangorren estate--as sole owner and last in tail he having the right so to dispose of it--to his wife Olympe--_nee_ Renault--for her life; then to his children, should there be any surviving; failing such, to Gregoire Rogier, Priest of the Roman Catholic Church; and in the event of his demise preceding that of the other heirs hereinbefore mentioned, the estate, or what remains of it, to become the property of the Convent of----, Boulogne-sur-mer, France.

"For that last clause, which is yours, Gregoire, the nuns of Boulogne should be grateful to you; or at all events, the abbess, Lady Superior, or whatever she's called."

"So she will," he rejoins, with a dry laugh, "when she gets the property so conveyed. Unfortunately for her, the reversion is rather distant, and having to pa.s.s through so many hands, there may be no great deal left of it, on coming into hers. Nay!" he adds, in exclamation, his jocular tone suddenly changing to the serious, "if some step be not taken to put a stop to what's going on, there won't be much of the Llangorren estate left for any one--not even for yourself, madame. Under the fingers of Monsieur, with the cards in them, it's being melted down as snow on the sunny side of a hill. Even at this self-same moment it may be going off in large slices--avalanches!"

"_Mon Dieu!_" she exclaims, with an alarmed air, quite comprehending the danger thus figuratively portrayed.

"I wouldn't be surprised," he continues, "if to-day he were made a thousand pounds the poorer. When I left the ferry, he was in the Welsh Harp, as I was told, tossing sovereigns upon its bar counter, 'Heads and tails, who wins?' Not he, you may be sure. No doubt he's now at a gaming-table inside, engaged with that gang of sharpers who have lately got around him, staking large sums on every turn of the cards--Jews'

eyes, ponies, and monkeys, as these _chevaliers d'industrie_ facetiously term their money. If we don't bring all this to a termination, that you will have in your hand won't be worth the price of the parchment it's written upon. _Comprenez-vous, cherie?_"

"_Parfaitement!_ But how is it to be brought to a termination. For myself, I haven't an idea. Has any occurred to you, Gregoire?"

As the ex-courtesan asks the question, she leans across the little table, and looks the false priest straight in the face. He knows the bent of her inquiry, told it by the tone and manner in which it has been put--both significant of something more than the words might otherwise convey. Still, he does not answer it directly. Even between these two fiends in human form, despite their mutual understanding of each other's wickedness, and the little reason either has for concealing it, there is a sort of intuitive reticence upon the matter which is in the minds of both. For it is murder--the murder of Lewin Murdock!

"_Le pauvre homme!_" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es the man, with a pretence at compa.s.sionating, under the circ.u.mstances ludicrous. "The cognac is killin' him, not by inches, but ells; and I don't believe he can last much longer. It seems but a question of weeks; may be only days. Thanks to the school in which I was trained, I have sufficient medical knowledge to prognosticate that."

A gleam as of delight pa.s.ses over the face of the woman--an expression almost demoniacal; for it is a wife hearing this about her husband!

"You think only _days_?" she asks, with an eagerness as if apprehensive about that husband's health. But the tone tells different, as the hungry look in her eye while awaiting the answer. Both proclaim she wishes it in the affirmative; as it is.

"Only days!" he says, as if his voice were an echo. "Still, days count in a thing of this kind--ay, even hours. Who knows but that in a fit of drunken bravado he may stake the whole estate on a single turn of cards or cast of dice? Others have done the like before now--gentlemen grander than he, with t.i.tles to their names-rich in one hour, beggars in the next. I can remember more than one."

"Ah! so can I."

"Englishmen, too, who usually wind up such matters by putting a pistol to their heads, and blowing out their brains. True, Monsieur hasn't very much to blow out; but that isn't a question which affects us--myself as well as you. I've risked everything--reputation, which I care least about, if the affair can be brought to a proper conclusion; but should it fail, then--I need not tell you. What we've done, if known, would soon make us acquainted with the inside of an English gaol. Monsieur, throwing away his money in this reckless fas.h.i.+on, must be restrained, or he'll bring ruin to all of us. Therefore some steps must be taken to restrain him, and promptly."

"_Vraiment!_ I ask you again--have you thought of anything, Gregoire?"

He does not make immediate answer, but seems to ponder over, or hang back upon it. When at length given, it is itself an interrogation, apparently unconnected with what they have been speaking about.

"Would it greatly surprise you if to-night your husband didn't come home to you?"