“But is there still?” she asks, her alarm taking a new turn, as she observes a slight shade of apprehension pass over his face.
“Certainly there is.”
“What?”
“That little convent matter.”
“Mon Dieu! I supposed it arranged beyond the possibility of danger.”
“Probability is the word you mean. In this sweet world there’s nothing sure except money—that, too, in hard cash coin. Even at the best we’ll have to sacrifice a large slice of the estate to satisfy the greed of those who have assisted us—Messieurs les Jesuites. If I could only, as by some magician’s wand, convert these clods of Herefordshire into a portable shape, I’d cheat them yet; as I’ve done already, in making them believe me one of their most ardent doctrinaires. Then, chère amie, we could at once move from Llangorren Court to a palace by some Lake of Como, glassing softest skies, with whispering myrtles, and all the other fal-lals, by which Monsieur Bulwer’s sham prince humbugged the Lyonese shopkeeper’s daughter. Ha! ha! ha!”
“But why can’t it be done?”
“Ah! There the word impossible, if you like. What! Convert a landed estate of several thousand acres into cash, presto-instanter, as though one were but selling a flock of sheep! The thing can’t be accomplished anywhere; least of all in this slow-moving Angleterre, where men look at their money twice—twenty times—before parting with it. Even a mortgage couldn’t be managed for weeks—may be months—without losing quite the moiety of value. But a bona fide sale, for which we must wait, and with that cloud hanging over us! Oh! it’s damnable. The thing’s been a blunder from beginning to end; all through the squeamishness of Monsieur, votre mari. Had he agreed to what I first proposed, and done with Mademoiselle, what should have been done, he might himself still—The simpleton, sot—soft heart, and softer head! Well; it’s of no use reviling him now. He paid the forfeit for being a fool. And ’twill do no good our giving way to apprehensions, that after all may turn out shadows, however dark. In the end everything may go right, and we can make our midnight flitting in a quiet, comfortable way. But what a flutter there’ll be among my flock at the Rugg’s Ferry Chapel, when they wake up some fine morning, and rub their eyes—only to see that their good shepherd has forsaken them! A comical scene, of which I’d like being a spectator. Ha! ha! ha!”
She joins him in the laugh, for the sally is irresistible. And while they are still ha-ha-ing, a touch at the door tells of a servant seeking admittance.
It is the butler who presents himself, salver in hand, on which rests a chrome-coloured envelope—at a glance seen to be a telegraphic despatch.