“But not when he leaves at a late hour—as, for instance, when he dines at the Court; which I know he has done several times?”
“Oh, yes; even then. Only last week he was there for dinner; and Ma’mselle Gwen went with him to his boat, or the pavilion—to bid adieus. No matter what the time to her. Ma foi! I’d risk my word she’ll do the same after this grand ball that’s to be. And why shouldn’t she, Père Rogier? Is there any harm in it?”
The question is put with a view of justifying her own conduct, that would be somewhat similar were Jack Wingate to encourage it, which, to say truth, he never has.
“Oh, no,” answers the priest, with an assumed indifference; “no harm, whatever, and no business of ours. Mademoiselle Wynn is mistress of her own actions, and will be more, after the coming birthday number vingt-un. But,” he adds, dropping the rôle of the interrogator, now that he has got all the information wanted, “I fear I’m keeping you too long. As I’ve said, chancing to come by I signalled—chiefly to tell you, that next Sunday we have High Mass in the chapel. With special prayers for a young girl, who was drowned last Saturday night, and whom we’ve just this day interred. I suppose you’ve heard?”
“No, I haven’t. Who Père?” Her question may appear strange, Rugg’s Ferry being so near to Llangorren Court and Abergann still nearer. But for reasons already stated, as others, the ignorance of the Frenchwoman as to what has occurred at the farmhouse, is not only intelligible, but natural enough.
Equally natural, though in a sense very different, is the look of satisfaction appearing in her eyes, as the priest in answer gives the name of the drowned girl. “Marie, la fille de fermier Morgan.”
The expression that comes over her face is, under the circumstances, terribly repulsive—being almost that of joy! For not only has she seen Mary Morgan at the chapel, but something besides—heard her name coupled with that of the waterman, Wingate.
In the midst of her strong, sinful emotions, of which the priest is fully cognisant, he finds it a good opportunity for taking leave. Going back to the tree where the bit of signal paper has been left, he plucks it off, and crumbles it into his pocket. Then, returning to the path, shakes hands with her, says “Bonjour!” and departs.
She is not a beauty, or he would have made his adieus in a very different way.