Père Rogier well knows all this; and by experience, having played the propagandist game with some success since his settling in Herefordshire. He has not been quite three years resident on Wyeside, and yet has contrived to draw around him a considerable coterie of weak-minded Marthas and Marys, built him a little chapel, with a snug dwelling-house, and is in a fair way of further feathering his nest. True, his neophytes are nearly all of the humbler class, and poor. But the Peter’s pence count up in a remarkable manner, and are paid with a regularity which only blind devotion, or the zeal of religious partisanship, can exact. Fear of the Devil, and love of him, are like effective in drawing contributions to the box of the Rugg’s Ferry chapel, and filling the pockets of its priest.
And if he have no grand people among his flock, and few disciples of the class called middle, he can boast of at least two claiming to be genteel—the Murdocks. With the man no false assumption either; neither does he assume, or value it. Different the woman. Born in the Faubourg Montmartre, her father a common ouvrier, her mother a blanchisseuse—herself a beautiful girl—Olympe Renault soon found her way into a more fashionable quarter. The same ambition made her Lewin Murdock’s wife, and has brought her on to England. For she did not many him without some knowledge of his reversionary interest in the land of which they have just been speaking, and at which they are still looking. That was part of the inducement held out for obtaining her hand; her heart he never had.
That the priest knows something of the same, indeed all, is evident from the word he has respondingly pronounced. With step, silent and cat-like—his usual mode of progression—he has come upon them unawares, neither having note of his approach till startled by his voice. On hearing it, and seeing who, Murdock rises to his feet, as he does so saluting. Notwithstanding long years of a depraved life, his early training has been that of a gentleman, and its instincts at times return to him. Besides, born and brought up Roman Catholic, he has that respect for his priest, habitual to a proverb—would have, even if knowing the latter to be the veriest Pharisee that ever wore single-breasted black-coat.
Salutations exchanged, and a chair brought out for the new comer to sit upon, Murdock demands explanation of the interrupting monosyllable, asking:
“What do you mean, Father Rogier, by ‘two’?”
“What I’ve said, M’sieu; that there are two between you and that over yonder, or soon will be—in time perhaps ten. A fair paysage it is!” he continues, looking across the river; “a very vale of Tempe, or Garden of the Hesperides. Parbleu! I never believed your England so beautiful. Ah! what’s going on at Llangorren?” This as his eyes rest upon the tent, the flags, and gaily-dressed figures. “A fête champètre: Mademoiselle making, merry! In honour of the anticipated change, no doubt.”
“Still I don’t comprehend,” says Murdock, looking puzzled. “You speak in riddles, Father Rogier.”
“Riddles easily read, M’sieu. Of this particular one you’ll find the interpretation there.”
This, pointing to a plain gold ring on the fourth finger of Mrs Murdock’s left hand, put upon it by Murdock himself on the day he became her husband.
He now comprehends—his quick-witted wife sooner.