Gwen Wynn: A Romance of the Wye

Father Rogier is a French priest of a type too well known over all the world – the Jesuitical. Spare of form, thin-lipped, nose with the cuticle drawn across it tight as drum parchment, skin dark and cadaverous, he looks Loyola from head to heel.

He himself looks no one straight in the face. Confronted, his eyes fall to his feet, or turn to either side, not in timid abashment, but as those of one who feels himself a felon. And but for his habiliments he might well pass for such; though even the sacerdotal garb, and assumed air of sanctity, do not hinder the suspicion of a wolf in sheep’s clothing – rather suggesting it. And in truth is he one; a very Pharisee – Inquisitor to boot, cruel and keen as ever sate in secret Council over an Auto da Fé.

What is such a man doing in Herefordshire? What, in Protestant England?

Time was, and not so long ago, when these questions would have been asked with curiosity, and some degree of indignation. As for instance, when our popular Queen added to her popularity, by somewhat ostentatiously declaring, that “no foreign priest should take tithe or toll in her dominions,” even forbidding them their distinctive dress. Then they stole timidly, and sneakingly, through the streets, usually seen hunting in couples, and looking as if conscious their pursuit was criminal, or, at the least, illegal.

All that is over now; the ban removed, the boast unkept – to all appearance forgotten! Now they stalk boldly abroad, or saunter in squads, exhibiting their shorn crowns and pallid faces, without fear or shame; instead, triumphantly flouting their vestments in public walks or parks, or loitering in the vestibules of convents and monasteries, which begin to show thick over the land – threatening us with a curse as that anterior to the time of bluff King Hal. No one now thinks it strange to see shovel-hatted priest, or sandalled monk – no matter in what part of England, nor would wonder at one of either being resident upon Wyeside. Father Rogier, one of the former, is there with similar motive, and for the same purpose, his sort are sent everywhere – to enslave the souls of men and get money out of their purses, in order that other men, princes, and priests like himself, may lead luxurious lives, without toil and by trickery. The same old story, since the beginning of the world, or man’s presence upon it. The same craft as the rain maker of South Africa, or the medicine man of the North American Indian; differing only in some points of practice; the religious juggler of a higher civilisation, finding his readiest tools not in roots, snake-skins, and rattles, but the weakness of woman. Through this, as by sap and mine, many a strong citadel has been carried, after bidding defiance to the boldest and most determined assault.

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.

“Ha!” she exclaims, as if pricked by a pin, “Mademoiselle to be married?”

The priest gives an assenting nod.

“That’s news to me,” mutters Murdock, in a tone more like he was listening to the announcement of a death.

“Moi aussi! Who, Père? Not Monsieur Shenstone, after all?”

The question shows how well she is acquainted with Miss Wynn – if not personally, with her surroundings and predilections!

“No,” answers the priest. “Not he.”

“Who then?” asked the two simultaneously.

“A man likely to make many heirs to Llangorren – widen the breach between you and it – ah! to the impossibility of that ever being bridged.”

“Père Rogier!” appeals Murdock, “I pray you speak out! Who is to do this? His name?”

“Le Capitaine Ryecroft.”

“Captain Ryecroft! Who – what is he?”

“An officer of Hussars – a fine-looking fellow – sort of combination of Mars and Apollo; strong as Hercules! As I’ve said, likely to be father to no end of sons and daughters, with Gwen Wynn for their mother. Helas! I can fancy seeing them now – at play over yonder, on the lawn!”

“Captain Ryecroft!” repeats Murdock, musingly; “I never saw – never heard of the man!”

“You hear of him now, and possibly see him too. No doubt he’s among those gay toxophilites – Ha! no, he’s nearer! What a strange coincidence! The old saw, ‘speak of the fiend.’ There’s your fiend, Monsieur Murdock!”

He points to a boat on the river with two men in it; one of them wearing a white cap. It is dropping down in the direction of Llangorren Court.

“Which?” asks Murdock, mechanically.

“He with the chapeau blanc. That’s whom you have to fear. The other’s but the waterman Wingate – honest fellow enough, whom no one need fear – unless indeed our worthy friend Coracle Dick, his competitor for the smiles of the pretty Mary Morgan. Yes, mes amis! Under that conspicuous kepi you behold the future lord of Llangorren.”

“Never!” exclaims Murdock, angrily gritting his teeth. “Never!”

The French priest and ci-devant French courtesan exchange secret, but significant, glances; a pleased expression showing on the faces of both.

“You speak excitedly, M’sieu,” says the priest, “emphatically, too. But how is it to be hindered?”

“I don’t know,” sourly rejoins Murdock; “I suppose it can’t be,” he adds, drawing back, as if conscious of having committed himself. “Never mind, now; let’s drop the disagreeable subject. You’ll stay to dinner with us, Father Rogier?”

“If not putting you to inconvenience.”

“Nay; it’s you who’ll be inconvenienced – starved, I should rather say. The butchers about here are not of the most amiable type; and, if I mistake not, our menu for to-day is a very primitive one – bacon and potatoes, with some greens from the old garden.”

“Monsieur Murdock! It’s not the fare, but the fashion, which makes a meal enjoyable. A crust and welcome is to me better cheer than a banquet with a grudging host at the head of the table. Besides, your English bacon is a most estimable dish, and with your succulent cabbages delectable. With a bit of Wye salmon to precede, and a pheasant to follow, it were food to satisfy Lucullus himself.”

“Ah! true,” assents the broken-down gentleman, “with the salmon and pheasant. But where are they? My fishmonger, who is, conjointly also a game-dealer, is at present as much out with me as is the butcher; I suppose, from my being too much in with them – in their books. Still, they have not ceased acquaintance, so far as calling is concerned. That they do with provoking frequency. Even this morning, before I was out of bed, I had the honour of a visit from both the gentlemen. Unfortunately, they brought neither fish nor meat; instead, two sheets of that detestable blue paper, with red lines and rows of figures – an arithmetic not nice to be bothered with at one’s breakfast. So, Père; I am sorry I can’t offer you any salmon; and as for pheasant – you may not be aware, that it is out of season.”

“It’s never out of season, any more than barn-door fowl; especially if a young last year’s coq, that hasn’t been successful in finding a mate.”

“But it’s close time now,” urges the Englishman, stirred by his old instincts of gentleman sportsman.

“Not to those who know how to open it,” returns the Frenchman, with a significant shrug. “And suppose we do that to-day?”

“I don’t understand. Will your Reverence enlighten me?”

“Well, M’sieu; being Whit-Monday, and coming to pay you a visit, I thought you mightn’t be offended by my bringing along with me a little present – for Madame here – that we’re talking of – salmon and pheasant.”

The husband, more than the wife, looks incredulous. Is the priest jesting? Beneath the froc, fitting tight his thin spare form, there is nothing to indicate the presence of either fish or bird.

“Where are they?” asks Murdock mechanically. “You say you’ve brought them along?”

“Ah! that was metaphorical. I meant to say I had sent them. And if I mistake not, they are near now. Yes; there’s my messenger!”

He points to a man making up the glen, threading his way through the tangle of wild bushes that grow along the banks of the rivulet.

“Coracle Dick!” exclaims Murdock, recognising the poacher.