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--

"_C'est vous, mon mari?_"

"Of course it is. Who else could it be? You don't expect the Father, our only visitor, to-night? You'll not see him for several days to come."

"He's gone then?"

"Two hours ago. By this he should be miles away; unless he and Coracle have had a capsize, and been spilled out of their boat. No unlikely occurrence with the river running so madly."

She still shows unsatisfied, though not from any apprehension of the boat's being upset. She is thinking of what may have happened at the Welsh Harp; for the long interval, since the priest's departure, her husband could only have been there. She is less anxious, however, seeing the state in which he presents himself; so unusual, coming from the "_auberge maudite_."

"Two hours ago they got off, you say?"

"About that; just as it was dark enough to set out with safety, and no chance of being observed."

"They did so?"

"Oh, yes."

"_Le bagage bien arrange?_"

"_Parfaitement_; or, as we say in English, neat as a trivet. If you prefer another form--nice as nine-pence."

She is pleased at his facetiousness, quite a new mode for Lewin Murdock.

Coupled with his sobriety, it gives her confidence that things have gone on smoothly, and will to the end. Indeed, for some days Murdock has been a new man--acting as one with some grave affair on his hands--a feat to accomplish, or negotiation to effect--resolved on carrying it to completeness.

Now, less from anxiety as to what he has been saying at the Welsh Harp, than to know what he has there heard said by others, she further interrogates him:--

"Where have you been meanwhile, monsieur?"

"Part of the time at the Ferry; the rest of it I've spent on paths and roads coming and going. I went up to the Harp to hear what I could hear."

"And what did you hear?"

"Nothing much to interest us. As you know, Rugg's is an out-of-the-way corner--none more so on the Wye--and the Llangorren news hasn't reached it. The talk of the Ferry folk is all about the occurrence at Abergann, which still continues to exercise them. The other don't appear to have got much abroad, if at all, anywhere--for reasons told Father Rogier by your countrywoman, Clarisse, with whom he held an interview sometime during the afternoon."

"And has there been no search yet?"

"Search, yes; but nothing found, and not much noise made, for the reasons I allude to."

"What are they? You haven't told me."

"Oh! various. Some of them laughable enough. Whimsies of that Quixotic old lady who has been so long doing the honours at Llangorren."

"Ah! Madame Linton. How has she been taking it?"

"I'll tell you after I've had something to eat and drink. You forget, Olympe, where I've been all the day long--under the roof of a poacher, who, of late otherwise employed, hadn't so much as a head of game in his house. True, I've since made call at an hotel, but you don't give me credit for my abstemiousness! What have you got to reward me for it?"

"_Entrez!_" she exclaims, leading him into the dining-room, their dialogue so far having been carried on in the porch. "_Voila!_"

He is gratified, though no ways surprised at the set out. He does not need to inquire whence it comes. He, too, knows it is a sacrifice to the rising sun. But he knows also what a sacrifice he will have to make in return for it--one third the estate of Llangorren.

"Well, _ma cherie_," he says, as this reflection occurs to him, "we'll have to pay pretty dear for all this. But I suppose there's no help for it."

"None," she answers, with a comprehension of the circ.u.mstances clearer and fuller than his. "We've made the contract, and must abide by it. If broken by us, it wouldn't be a question of property, but life. Neither yours nor mine would be safe for a single hour. Ah, monsieur! you little comprehend the power of those gentry, _les Jesuites_--how sharp their claws, and far reaching!"

"Confound them!" he exclaims, angrily dropping down upon a chair by the table's side.

He eats ravenously, and drinks like a fish. His day's work is over, and he can afford the indulgence.

And while they are at supper, he imparts all details of what he has done and heard; among them Miss Linton's reasons for having put restraint upon the search.

"The old simpleton!" he says, concluding his narration; "she actually believed my cousin to have run away with that captain of Hussars--if she don't believe it still! Ha, ha, ha! She'll think differently when she sees that body brought out of the water. _It_ will settle the business!"

Olympe Renault, retiring to rest, is long kept awake by the pleasant thought, not that for many more nights will she have to sleep in a mean bed at Glyngog, but on a grand couch in Llangorren Court.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

IMPATIENT FOR THE POST.

Never man looked with more impatience for a post than Captain Ryecroft for the night mail from the West, its morning delivery in London. It may bring him a letter, on the contents of which will turn the hinges of his life's fate, a.s.suring his happiness, or dooming him to misery. And if no letter come, its failure will make misery for him all the same.

It is scarce necessary to say the epistle thus expected, and fraught with such grave consequence, is an answer to his own; that written in Herefordshire, and posted before leaving the Wyeside Hotel. Twenty-four hours have since elapsed; and now, on the morning after, he is at the Langham, London, where the response, if any, should reach him.

He has made himself acquainted with the statistics of postal time, telling him when the night mail is due, and when the first distribution of letters in the metropolitan district. At earliest in the Langham, which has post and telegraph office within its own walls, this palatial hostelry, unrivalled for convenience, being in direct communication with all parts of the world.

It is on the stroke of 8 a.m., and, the ex-Hussar officer, pacing the tesselated tiles outside the deputy-manager's moderately sized room with its front gla.s.s-protected, watches for the incoming of the post-carrier.

It seems an inexorable certainty--though a very vexatious one--that person, or thing, awaited with unusual impatience, must needs be behind time--as if to punish the moral delinquency of the impatient one. Even postmen are not always punctual, as Vivian Ryecroft has reason to know.

That amiable and active individual in coatee of coa.r.s.e cloth, with red rag facings, flitting from door to door, brisk as a blue-bottle, on this particular morning does not step across the threshold of the Langham till nearly half-past eight. There is a thick fog, and the street flags are "greasy." That would be the excuse for his tardy appearance, were he called upon to give one.

Dumping down his sack, and spilling its contents upon the lead-covered sill of the booking-office window, he is off again on a fresh and further flight.

With no abatement of impatience, Captain Ryecroft stands looking at the letters being sorted--a miscellaneous lot, bearing the post-marks of many towns and many countries, with the stamps of nearly every civilized nation on the globe; enough of them to make the eyes of an ardent stamp-collector shed tears of concupiscence.

Scarcely allowing the sorter time to deposit them in their respective pigeon holes, Ryecroft approaches and asks if there be any for him--at the same time giving his name.

"No, not any," answers the clerk, after drawing out all under letter R, and dealing them off as a pack of cards.

"Are you quite sure, sir? Pardon me. I intend starting off within the hour, and, expecting a letter of some importance, may I ask you to glance over them again?"