While the sports are in progress outside Llangorren Court, inside Glyngog House is being eaten that dinner to commence with salmon in season and end with pheasant out.

It is early; but the Murdocks often glad to eat what Americans call a "square meal," have no set hours for eating, while the priest is not particular.

In the faces of the trio seated at the table a physiognomist might find interesting study, and note expressions that would puzzle Lavater himself. Nor could they be interpreted by the conversation which, at first, only refers to topics of a trivial nature. But now and then, a mot of double meaning let down by Rogier, and a glance surreptitiously exchanged between him and his countryman, tell that the thoughts of these two are running upon themes different from those about which are their words.

Murdock, by no means of a trusting disposition, but ofttimes furiously jealous, has nevertheless, in this respect, no suspicion of the priest, less from confidence than a sort of contempt for the pallid puny creature, whom he feels he could crush in a moment of mad anger. And broken though he be, the stalwart, and once strong, Englishman could still do that. To imagine such a man as Rogier a rival in the affections of his own wife, would be to be little himself. Besides, he holds fast to that proverbial faith in the spiritual adviser, not always well founded—in his case certainly misplaced. Knowing nought of this, however, their exchanged looks, however markedly significant, escape his observation. Even if he did observe, he could not read in them aught relating to love. For, this day there is not; the thoughts of both are absorbed by a different passion—cupidity. They are bent upon a scheme of no common magnitude, but grand and comprehensive—neither more nor less than to get possession of an estate worth £10,000 a year—that Llangorren. They know its value as well as the steward who gives receipts for its rents.

It is no new notion with them; but one for some time entertained, and steps considered; still nothing definite either conceived, or determined on. A task, so herculean, as dangerous and difficult, will need care in its conception, and time for its execution. True, it might be accomplished almost instantaneously with six inches of steel, or as many drops of belladonna. Nor would two of the three seated at the table stick at employing such means. Olympe Renault, and Gregorie Rogier have entertained thoughts of them—if not more. In the third is the obstructor. Lewin Murdock would cheat at dice and cards, do money-lenders without remorse, and tradesmen without mercy, ay, steal, if occasion offered; but murder—that is different—being a crime not only unpleasant to contemplate, but perilous to commit. He would be willing to rob Gwendoline Wynn of her property—glad to do it, if he only knew how—but to take away her life, he is not yet up to that.

But he is drawing up to it, urged by desperate circumstances, and spurred on by his wife, who loses no opportunity of bewailing their broken fortunes, and reproaching him for them; at her back the Jesuit secretly instructing, and dictating.

Not till this day have they found him in the mood for being made more familiar with their design. Whatever his own disposition, his ear has been hitherto deaf to their hints, timidly, and ambiguously given. But to-day things appear more promising, as evinced by his angry exclamation "Never!" Hence their delight at hearing it.

During the earlier stages of the dinner, as already said, they converse about ordinary subjects, like the lovers in the pavilion silent upon that paramount in their minds. How different the themes—as love itself from murder! And just as the first word was unspoken in the summer-house at Llangorren, so is the last unheard in the dining-room of Glyngog.

While the blotcher is being carved with a spoon—there is no fish slice among the chattels of Mr. Murdock—the priest in good appetite, and high glee pronounces it "crimp." He speaks English like a native, and is even up in its provincialisms; few in Herefordshire whose dialect is of the purest.

The phrase of the fishmonger received smilingly, the salmon is distributed and handed across the table; the attendance of the slavey, with claws not over clean, and ears that might be unpleasantly sharp, having been dispensed with.

There is wine without stint; for although Murdock's town tradesmen may be hard of heart, in the Welsh Harp there is a tender string he can still play upon; the Boniface of the Rugg's Ferry hostelry having a belief in his post obit expectations. Not such an indifferent wine either, but some of the choicest vintage. The guests of the Harp, however rough in external appearance and rude in behaviour, have wonderfully refined ideas about drink, and may be often heard calling for "fizz"—some of them as well acquainted with the qualities of MÖet and Cliquot, as a connoisseur of the most fashionable club.

Profiting by their Æsthetic tastes, Lewin Murdock is enabled to set wines upon his table of the choicest brands. Light Bordeaux first with the fish, then sherry with the heavier greens and bacon, followed by champagne as they get engaged upon the pheasant.

At this point the conversation approaches a topic hitherto held in reserve, Murdock himself starting it:—

"So my Cousin Gwen's going to get married, eh! Are you sure of that, Father Rogier?"

"I wish I were as sure of going to heaven."

"But what sort of man is he? you haven't told us."

"Yes, I have. You forget my description, Monsieur—cross between Mars and Phoebus—strength herculean; sure to be father to a progeny numerous as that which spring from the head of Medusa—enough of them to make heirs for Llangorren to the end of time—keep you out of the property if you lived to be the age of Methuselah. Ah! a fine looking fellow, I can assure you; against whom the baronet's son, with his rubicund cheeks and hay-coloured hair, wouldn't stand the slightest chance—even were there nothing more to recommend the martial stranger. But there is."

"What more?"

"The mode of his introduction to the lady—that quite romantic."

"How was he introduced?"

"Well, he made her acquaintance on the water. It appears Mademoiselle Wynn and her companion Lees, were out on the river for a row alone. Unusual that! Thus out, some fellows—Forest of Dean dwellers—offered them insult; from which a gentleman angler, who chanced to be whipping the stream close by, saved them—he no other than le Capitaine Ryecroft. With such commencement of acquaintance, a man couldn't be much worth who didn't know how to improve it—even to terminating in marriage if he wished. And with such a rich heiress as Mademoiselle Gwendoline Wynn—to say nought of her personal charms—there are few men who wouldn't wish it so to end. That he, the Hussar officer—captain, colonel, or whatever his rank—does, I've good reason to believe, as also that he will succeed in accomplishing his desires; no more doubt of it than of my being seated at this table. Yes; sure as I sit here that man will be the master of Llangorren."

"I suppose he will—must," rejoins Murdock, drawing out the words as though not greatly concerned, one way or the other.

Olympe looks dissatisfied, but not Rogier, nor she after a glance from the priest, which seems to say "Wait." He himself intends waiting till the drink has done its work.

Taking the hint, she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell, and the deceit of the devil.

She preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table—poor and pro forma—obedient to a look from Rogier, with a slight nod in the direction of the door, she makes her congÈ, and retires.

Murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes—of which he carries a case—and for some time they sit smoking and drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that uppermost in their minds. They seem to fear touching it, as though it were a thing to contaminate. It is only after repeatedly emptying their glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the Frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with cautious circumlocution.

"By the way, M'sieu," he says, "we've forgotten what we were conversing about, when summoned to dinner—a meal I've greatly enjoyed—notwithstanding your depreciation of the menu. Indeed, a very bonne bouche your English bacon, and the greens excellent, as also the pommes de terre. You were speaking of some event, or circumstance, to be conditional on your death. What is it? Not the deluge, I hope! True, your Wye is subject to sudden floods; might it have aught to do with them?"

"Why should it?" asks Murdock, not comprehending the drift.

"Because people sometimes get drowned in these inundations; indeed, often. Scarce a week passes without some one falling into the river, and there remaining, at least till life is extinct. What with its whirls and rapids, it's a very dangerous stream. I wonder at Mademoiselle Wynn venturing so courageously—so carelessly upon it."

The peculiar intonation of the last speech, with emphasis on the word carelessly, gives Murdock a glimpse of what it is intended to point to.

"She's got courage enough," he rejoins, without appearing to comprehend. "About her carelessness I don't know."

"But the young lady certainly is careless—recklessly so. That affair of her going out alone is proof of it. What followed may make her more cautious; still, boating is a perilous occupation, and boats, whether for pleasure or otherwise, are awkward things to manage—fickle and capricious as women themselves. Suppose hers should some day go to the bottom, she being in it?"

"That would be bad."

"Of course it would. Though, Monsieur Murdock, many men situated as you, instead of grieving over such an accident, would but rejoice at it."

"No doubt they would. But what's the use of talking of a thing not likely to happen?"

"Oh, true! Still, boat accidents being of such common occurrence, one is as likely to befall Mademoiselle Wynn as anybody else. A pity if it should—a misfortune! But so is the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"That such a property as Llangorren should be in the hands of heretics, having but a lame title too. If what I've heard be true, you yourself have as much right to it as your cousin. It were better it belonged to a true son of the Church, as I know you to be, M'sieu."

Murdock receives the compliment with a grimace. He is no hypocrite; still with all his depravity he has a sort of respect for religion, or rather its outward forms—regularly attends Rogier's chapel, and goes through all the ceremonies and genuflexions, just as the Italian bandit, after cutting a throat, will drop on his knees and repeat a paternoster at hearing the distant bell of the Angelus.

"A very poor one," he replies, with a half smile, half grin.

"In a worldly sense you mean? I'm aware you're not very rich."

"In more senses than that. Your Reverence, I've been a great sinner, I admit."

"Admission is a good sign—giving promise of repentance, which need never come too late if a man be disposed to it. It is a deep sin the Church cannot condone—a dark crime indeed."

"Oh, I haven't done anything deserving the name. Only such as a great many others."

"But you might be tempted some day. Whether or not it's my duty, as your spiritual adviser, to point out the true doctrine—how the Vatican views such things. It's after all only a question of balance between good and evil; that is, how much evil a man may have done, and the amount of good he may do. This world is a ceaseless war between God and the devil; and those who wage it in the cause of the former have often to employ the weapons of the latter. In our service the end justifies the means, even though these be what the world calls criminal—ay, even to the TAKING OF LIFE, else why should the great and good Loyola have counselled drawing the sword, himself using it?"

"True," grunts Murdock, smoking hard, "you're a great theologian, Father Rogier. I confess ignorance in such matters; still, I see reason in what you say."

"You may see it clearer if I set the application before you. As for instance, if a man have a right to a certain property, or estate, and is kept out of it by a quibble, any steps he might take to possess himself would be justifiable providing he devote a portion of his gains to the good cause—that is, upholding the true faith, and so benefitting humanity at large. Such an act is held by the best of our Church authorities to compensate for any sin committed—supposing the money donation sufficient to make the amount of good it may do preponderate over the evil. And such a man would not only merit absolution, but freely receive it. Now, Monsieur, do you comprehend me?"

"Quite," says Murdock, taking the pipe from his mouth and gulping down a half-tumbler of brandy—for he has dropped the wine. Withal, he trembles at the programme thus metaphorically put before him, and fears admitting the application to himself.

Soon the more potent spirit takes away his last remnant of timidity, which the tempter perceiving, says:—

"You say you have sinned, Monsieur. And if it were only for that, you ought to make amends."

"In what way could I?"

"The way I've been speaking of. Bestow upon the Church the means of doing good, and so deserve indulgence."

"Ah! where am I to find this means?"

"On the other side of the river."

"You forget that there's more than the stream between."

"Not much to a man who would be true to himself."

"I'm that man all over." The brandy has made him bold, at length untying his tongue, while unsteadying it. "Yes, PÈre Rogier; I'm ready for anything that will release me from this damnable fix—debt over the ears—duns every day. Ha! I'd be true to myself, never fear!"

"It needs being true to the Church as well."

"I'm willing to be that when I have the chance, if ever I have it. And to get it I'd risk life. Not much if I lose it. It's become a burden to me, heavier than I can bear."

"You may make it as light as a feather, M'sieu; cheerful as that of any of those gay gentry you saw disporting themselves on the lawn at Llangorren—even that of its young mistress."

"How, PÉre?"

"By yourself becoming its master."

"Ah! if I could."

"You can!"

"With safety?"

"Perfect safety."

"And without committing"—he fears to speak the ugly English word, but expresses the idea in French—"cette dernier coup?"

"Certainly! Who dreams of that? Not I, M'sieu."

"But how is it to be avoided?"

"Easily."

"Tell me, Father Rogier!"

"Not to-night, Murdock!"—he has dropped the distant M'sieu—"Not to-night. It's a matter that calls for reflection—consideration, calm and careful. Time, too. Ten thousand livres esterlies per annum! We must both ponder upon it—sleep nights, and think days, over it—possibly have to draw Coracle Dick into our deliberations. But not to-night—Par-dieu! it's ten o'clock! And I have business to do before going to bed. I must be off."

"No, your Reverence; not till you've had another glass of wine."

"One more, then. But let me take it standing—the tasse d'estrope, as you call it."

Murdock assents; and the two rise up to drink the stirrup cup. But only the Frenchman keeps his feet till the glasses are emptied; the other, now dead drunk, dropping back into his chair.

"Bon soir Monsieur!" says the priest, slipping out of the room, his host answering only by a snore.

For all, Father Rogier does not leave the house so unceremoniously. In the porch outside he takes more formal leave of a woman he there finds waiting for him. As he joins her going out, she asks, sotto voce:—

"C'est arrangÉ?"

"Pas encore serait tout suite."

This the sole speech that passes between them; but something besides, which, if seen by her husband, would cause him to start from his chair—perhaps some little sober him.