Whence all this plenty, within walls where of late and for so long, has been such scarcity?
As no one visits at Glyngog save Father Rogier, there is no one but he to ask the question. And he would not, were he there; knowing the answer, better than anyone else. He ought. The cheer upon Lewin Murdock’s table, with a cheerfulness observable on Mrs Murdock’s face, are due to the same cause, by himself brought about, or to which he has largely contributed. As Moses lends money on post obits, at “shixty per shent,” with other expectations, a stream of that leaven has found its way into the ancient manor-house of Glyngog, conducted thither by Gregoire Rogier, who has drawn it from a source of supply provided for such eventualities, and seemingly inexhaustible—the treasury of the Vatican.
Yet only a tiny rivulet of silver, but soon, if all goes well, to become a flood of gold grand and yellow as that in the Wye itself, having something to do with the waters of this same stream.
No wonder there is now brightness upon the face of Olympe Renault, so long shadowed. The sun of prosperity is again to shine upon the path of her life. Splendour, gaiety, volupté, be hers once more, and more than ever!
As she stands in the door of Glyngog, looking down the river, at Llangorren, and through the darkness sees the Court with only one or two windows alight—they but in dim glimmer—she reflects less on how they blazed the night before, with lamps over the lawn like constellations of stars, than how they will flame hereafter, and ere long—when she herself be the ruling spirit and mistress of that mansion.
But as the time passes and no husband home, a cloud steals over her features. From being only impatient, she becomes nervously anxious. Still standing in the door she listens for footsteps she has oft heard making approach unsteadily, little caring. Not so to-night. She dreads to see him return intoxicated. Though not with any solicitude of the ordinary woman’s kind, but for reasons purely prudential. These are manifested in her muttered soliloquy:—
“Gregoire must have got off long ere this—at least two hours ago. He said they’d set out soon as it came night. Half an hour was enough for my husband to return up the meadows home. If he has gone to the Ferry first, and sets to drinking in the Harp? Cette auberge maudit. There’s no knowing what he may do, or say. Saying would be worse than doing. A word in his cups—a hint of what has happened—might undo everything: draw danger upon us all! And such danger—l’prise de corps, mon dieu!”
Her cheek blanches at thought of the ugly spectres thus conjured up.
“Surely he will not be so stupid—so insane? Sober he can keep secrets well enough—guard them closely, like most of his countrymen. But the Cognac? Hark Footsteps! His I hope.”
She listens without stirring from the spot. The tread is heavy, with now and then a loud stroke against stones. Were her husband a Frenchman it would be different. But Lewin Murdock, like all English country gentlemen, affects substantial foot gear; and the step is undoubtedly his. Not as usual however; to-night firm and regular, telling him to be sober! “He isn’t such a fool after all!” Her reflection followed by the inquiry, called out—