PART IV

Transcriber's Notes:

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by

=equal signs=.

Small uppercase have been replaced with regular uppercase.

Blank pages have been eliminated.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the

original.

BY BARONESS ORCZY

"UNTO CAESAR"

EL DORADO

THE HEART OF A WOMAN

MEADOWSWEET

THE NOBLE ROGUE

PETTICOAT RULE

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

NEW YORK

THE POCKET BOOKS

THE NOBLE ROGUE

_By_ BARONESS ORCZY

Author of "The Scarlet Pimpernel,"

"The Noble Rogue," "Petticoat Rule"

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

NEW YORK

Copyright, 1912,

By George H. Doran Company

THE NOBLE ROGUE

PART I

CHAPTER I

This act is an ancient tale new told.

--SHAKESPEARE.

M. Legros, tailor-in-chief to His Majesty Louis XIV and to the Court

of Paris and Versailles, bowed himself out of the room; with back bent

nearly double, and knees trembling in the effort, he receded towards

the door even whilst Monseigneur the Archbishop spoke a final and

encouraging benediction.

"Have no fear, my good Monsieur Legros," pronounced Monseigneur with

urbane kindness; "your affairs shall come under the special notice of

the Holy Father. Be of good cheer, right and justice are on your side.

Solemn vows cannot be flouted even in these days of godlessness. Go in

peace, my son; you are dismissed."

"And if the Holy Father--hem--I mean if Monseigneur would take

cognizance of the fact--hem--that I will place--" stammered M. Legros

with some confusion. "I mean, Monseigneur--that is--I am a man of

substance--and if the sum of fifty thousand francs--or--or a hundred

thousand--"

"Nay, my son, what would you suggest?" quoth Monseigneur with a slight

lifting of elegantly-arched brows. "The thought of money doth not enter

into the decrees of the Holy Father."

"I know--I know, Monseigneur," said M. Legros with ever-growing

confusion. "I only thought--"

"An you thought, my son, of pleasing God by the bestowal of alms in

these days of licentiousness and of evil luxury, then by all means

do so in accordance with your substance--I will see to the proper

distribution of those alms, good Master Legros--the two hundred

thousand francs you speak of shall be worthily bestowed, our promise

thereon."

M. Legros did not think of protesting. The sum mentioned by Monseigneur

was a heavy one in these days, when the working and trading classes

had but little left for their own pleasures once the tax collector had

passed their way. But the worthy tailor had made no idle boast when he

said that he was a man of substance; he was well able to pay a goodly

sum for the gratification of his most cherished desire.

He received his final congé almost on his knees, then he disappeared

through the doorway. Lacqueys to the right of him, lacqueys to the

left of him, lacqueys all the way along the carpeted stairs down to

the massive front door, formed a living avenue through which M. Legros

now passed with his back not yet fully straightened out after its many

humble curvatures.

Soon he reached the narrow, ill-ventilated street on which gave the

great gates of Monseigneur the Archbishop's palace. Instinctively M.

Legros gave a deep sigh of content and relief, inhaling the fresh

autumnal air which could not altogether be excluded even from these

close purlieus where roof almost met roof overhead, and evil-smelling

gutters overflowed along the roughly-constructed pavements.

The good master tailor had succeeded passing well in his momentous

errand. Monseigneur had been overgracious, and two hundred thousand

francs was after all only a small sum to come out of Rose Marie's ample

marriage portion. M. Legros now walked with a brisk step along the

right bank of the Seine, then crossing the Pont Neuf he found himself

near the Châtelet prison, and thence by narrow by-paths at his own

front door in the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie.

Here he gave a sharp rap with the polished brass knocker, and within

a very few seconds the door was opened and an anxious feminine voice

hailed him from out the darkness of the narrow passage.

"Eh bien?--Monseigneur?--What did he say?"

M. Legros closed the door behind him with great deliberation, then he

turned, stretched out both arms and, catching the speaker round the

shoulders, imprinted two well-sounding kisses on a pair of fresh young

cheeks.

"He says," said the worthy bonhomme gaily, "that Rose Marie, the

fairest maid in France, shall be called Countess of Stowmaries before

the year is out, for right and justice and indissoluble marriage vows

are all on her side."

A little gasp--which sounded almost like a hysterical sob--broke from

the woman's throat. It seemed as if the news--evidently very anxiously

expected--was overwhelmingly good. There was silence in the little

passage for a moment, then the fresh voice, now quite cheerful and

steady, said lightly:

"Let us go and tell maman!"

Together father and daughter went up the steep, slightly-winding stair

which led to an upper story. Rose Marie, silent once more, felt as if

her young heart would presently burst through her corselet, so rapidly

did it beat with excitement and anticipation.

She followed her father into the large, cheerful-looking room which

gave on the first landing. Here a bright fire blazed in an open hearth;

blue cotton curtains hung on each side of the single, narrow window,

through which the last rays of this October day struggled faintly.

A large iron stewpot, from which escaped a jet of savoury-smelling

steam, stood invitingly upon the hob, and beside the hearth, wooden

spoon in hand, her ample proportions carefully draped in a thick

brown linen apron, stood Mme. Legros herself, the wife of one of the

wealthiest men in the whole of Paris.

"Eh bien! Legros, 'tis good news then?" she asked with cheerful

optimism, whilst a benevolent smile shone all over her round face, red

as an Eydam cheese and quite as shiny and greasy, for Madame had been

cooking and she was mightily hot.

"The best, Maman," came in hilarious accents from her husband; "our

daughter shall be installed in her English castle before many moons are

over. The Holy Father himself will interfere, and this--this--milor

Stowmaries will have to obey at once--failing which 'twill be

excommunication and nothing less than that."

M. Legros had thrown himself into the tall-backed chair, black with age

and the smoke from many a previous stewpot, and had stretched out his

legs before him, in order that his dutiful daughter Rose Marie might

the more easily divest him of his high out-door boots.

Kneeling before her father, she performed this little service for

him with all the grace of loving girlhood, and he cocked his cropped

head on one side and looked down at her with eyes in which merriment

struggled with happy tears.

She was so good to look at as she knelt thus on one knee, her fair

hair--touched with the gold of the sun of her native Provence--falling

in thick ringlets round her young face. She was so girlish and so pure,

fresh as the hawthorn in May, and withal luscious to behold like a

ripening fruit in June.

"Nay! nay!" said M. Legros with mock gravity, as he put his now

stockinged feet to the ground and rose with a great show of ceremony;

"this is no place for Madame la Comtesse of Stowmaries. She must not

kneel at any man's feet, not even at those of her fond old father. Come

to my arms, my girl," he added, once more resuming his seat, his voice

breaking in the vain endeavour to seem flippant; "sit here on my knee.

Maman, for the Lord's sake put down that spoon, and sit down like a

Christian and I'll tell you both all that Monseigneur said to me."

With a happy little sigh Rose Marie jumped to her feet. Obviously

her young heart was still too full for speech. She had said nothing,

practically, since her first greeting to her father, since she had

heard from him the good news--the confirmation of her hopes.

Her cheeks were glowing until they quite ached with the throbbing of

the veins beneath the delicate skin, and the palms of her hands felt

cold and damp with suppressed nervousness and excitement.

Obedient to her father's call, she came close to him and perched

herself on his knee, whilst his arm sought her slender waist and clung

to it with all the gentle firmness born of his fond paternal love, of

his pride in the beauty and grace of his child.

Mme. Legros--somewhat reluctantly--had pulled the stewpot further

away from the fire, and put her wooden spoon aside. Then she sat down

opposite her lord and her daughter and said blandly:

"I am listening."

"Monseigneur was most affable," now began M. Legros, speaking with some

pride at the recollection of his late reception in the Archbishop's

palace, "but from the first he bade me to be brief, so as I had

rehearsed the whole scene in my mind over and over again, and knew

exactly what I wished to say to His Greatness, I was able to put our

case before him in the most direct, most straightforward way possible.

Now if you will listen very attentively and not interrupt me I will

tell you word for word just what passed between Monseigneur and myself."

"Go on, Armand," said Madame; "I am burning with impatience and I'll

promise not to interrupt."

As for Rose Marie, she said nothing, but from the expression in her

eyes, it was obvious that she would listen attentively.

"Monseigneur sat at his desk and he was pleased to tell me to be

seated. Then he said: 'Commence, my son; I am all attention.' He fixed

his eyes upon me and I then began my narrative. 'My wife had a distant

relative,' I said, 'married to an officer in the army of the English

king. At a time of great pecuniary distress this fashionable lady

bethought herself of her connection with the humble tailor of Paris and

wrote to him an amiable letter suggesting a visit to his modest home.'

That was so, was it not, Maman?" he asked, turning for confirmation to

his buxom wife.

"Exactly so, Armand," she replied in assent; "except that the

fashionable lady was at pains not to tell us that her husband was

in prison for debt over in England and that she herself was almost

destitute--and to think that I was such a simpleton as not to guess at

the truth when she arrived with her little boy, and he with his shoes

all in holes and--"

"Easy--easy, Mélanie," rejoined M. Legros tartly. "Am I telling you my

adventures of this afternoon, or am I not?"

"But of a truth thou art telling us, Armand," replied fat Mme. Legros

blandly.

"Then I pray you to remember that I said I would not be interrupted,

else I shall lose the thread of my narration."

"But thou didst ask me a question, Armand, and I did answer."

"Then do not answer at such lengths, Mélanie," quoth the tailor

sententiously, "or I shall be an hour getting through my tale, and that

savoury stew yonder will be completely spoilt."

Harmony being thus restored under threat of so terrible a contingency,

M. Legros now resumed his narrative.

"I did tell Monseigneur," he said with reproachful emphasis, "that

at the time that Mistress Angélique Kestyon came on a visit to us in

company with her small son, then aged six and a half years, but without

nurse, serving or tiring woman of any kind, we were quite unaware of

the distressful position in which she was, and in which she had left

her lord and master over in England. I then explained to Monseigneur

how Mistress Kestyon seemed over-pleased with the grace and beauty

of our own child Rose Marie, who had just passed through her first

birthday. She would insist on calling the wench Rosemary, pronouncing

the name in an outlandish fashion, and saying that in England it stood

for remembrance. A pretty conceit enough, seeing that our Rose Marie

once seen would surely never be forgotten."

And a vigorous pressure on Rose Marie's waist brought an additional

glow to the girl's bright eyes.

"At this point," continued M. Legros, "it pleased Monseigneur to show

such marked interest in my story, that he appeared quite impatient

and said with a show of irritation--which could but be flattering to

me:--'Yes! yes! my son, but there is no need to give me all these

trifling details. I understand that you are rich, are of somewhat

humble calling, and have a daughter, and that the English lady was

poor, if high-born, and had a son. Ergo! the children were betrothed.'

Which, methinks showed vast penetration on the part of Monseigneur,"

added the worthy bonhomme naïvely, "and gracious interest in my

affairs. Whereupon, warming to my narrative, I exclaimed: 'Not only

betrothed, Monseigneur, but married with the full rites and ceremonials

of our Holy Church as by law prescribed. My wife and I--so please

Your Greatness--thought of the child's future. It has pleased God to

bless my work and to endow me with vast wealth which in the course of

time will all pass to our Rose Marie. But here in France, the great

gentlemen would always look askance at the daughter of the man who made

their coats and breeches; not so in England where trade, they say, is

held in high esteem, and in order that our child should one day be as

great a lady as any one in the land and as noble as she is beautiful,

we wedded her to a high and mighty well-born English gentleman, who

was own great nephew to one of the most illustrious noblemen in that

fog-ridden country--the Earl of Stowmaries, so he is called over there,

Monseigneur!' and you may be sure," continued M. Legros, "that I

mentioned this fact with no small measure of pride."

"Well, and what did His Greatness say to that?" queried Mme. Legros,

who would not curb her impatience, even for those few seconds whilst

her man paused in order to take breath.

"Monseigneur did not seem over-pleased at seeing me display quite so

much pride in empty titles and meaningless earthly dignities," rejoined

M. Legros lightly. "His Greatness was pleased to rebuke me and to

inform me that he himself was well acquainted with the distinguished

English family who bears the name of Kestyon of Stowmaries. The

Kestyons are all good Catholics and Monseigneur thought that this fact

was of far greater importance than their worldly honours and their

ancient lineage, and should have weighed much more heavily with us,

Maman, when we chose a husband for our daughter."

"We should not have given Rose Marie to a Protestant, Armand; you

should have told that to Monseigneur. No, not if he had been the King

of England himself," retorted Mme. Legros indignantly.

"The King of England is as good a Catholic as any of us, so 'tis

said," commented M. Legros, "but this is a digression, and I pray

you, Mélanie, not to interrupt me again. I felt that His Greatness

had lapsed into a somewhat irritable mood against me, which no

doubt I fully deserved, more especially as Monseigneur did not then

know--but 'tis I am digressing now," resumed the good man after a

slight hesitation. "In less time than I can repeat it all, I had

told Monseigneur how directly after the marriage ceremony had been

performed, we found out how grossly we had been deceived, that le

Capitaine Kestyon, the husband of Mistress Angélique, had been in a

debtor's prison in London all the time that his wife was bragging to us

about his high position and his aristocratic connections; we heard that

the great Earl of Stowmaries not only refused to have anything to do

with his nephew, who was a noted rogue and evil-doer, but that he had a

son and three grandsons of his own, so that there were a goodly number

of direct inheritors to his great title and vast estates. All this and

more we heard after our darling child had been indissolubly tied to

the son of the best-known scoundrel in the whole of England, and who

moreover was penniless, deeply in debt, and spent the next ten years in

extracting our hard-earned money from out our pockets."

The recollection of those same ten years seemed to have even now a

terrible effect on the temper of M. Legros. Indignation at the memories

his own last words evoked seemed momentarily to choke him. He pulled

a voluminous and highly-coloured handkerchief from the pocket of his

surcoat and moped his perspiring forehead, for choler had made him warm.

Mme. Legros--equally indignant in retrospect but impatient to hear

Monseigneur's final pronouncement on the great subject--was nervously

rapping a devil's tattoo on the table. Rose Marie's fair head had

fallen forward on her breast. She had said nothing all along, but

sat on her father's knee, listening with all her ears, for was not

he talking about the people who would be her people henceforth, the

land which would be her land, the man who of a truth was her lord and

husband? But when Legros, with just indignation, recalled the deceits,

the shifts, the mean, mercenary actions of those whose name she would

bear through life, then the blush of excitement seemed to turn into

one of shame, and two heavy tears fell from her eyes onto her tightly

clasped hands.

"Father, Father!" cried fat Mme. Legros in horror, "cannot you see that

you have made the child cry?"

"Then heaven punish me for a blundering ass," exclaimed Legros, with

renewed cheerfulness. "Nay! nay! my little cabbage, there's naught

to cry for now; have I not said that all is well? Those ten years

are past and done with and eight more lie on the top of them--and

if Monseigneur showed some impatience both at my pride and at my

subsequent indignation, he was vastly interested, I can tell you that,

when he heard that the son and three grandsons of the great English

nobleman were by the will of God wrecked while pleasure-cruising

together off the coast of Spain and all four of them drowned, and that

the old lord himself did not long survive the terrible catastrophe,

which had swept four direct inheritors of his vast wealth and ancient

name off the face of the earth and into the sea. His Greatness

became quite excited--and vastly amiable to me: 'Ah!' he said, 'then

surely--you cannot mean--?' You see Monseigneur was so interested he

scarce could find his words. 'Yes, so please Your Greatness,' quoth

I with becoming dignity, 'the husband of our Rose Marie, the son of

the capitaine who in life had been nought but a rogue, has inherited

the title and the wealth of his great-uncle. He is now styled by the

English the Earl of Stowmaries and Rivaulx, Baron of Edbrooke and of

Saumaresque, and he has many other titles besides, and one of the

richest men in the whole of England!' 'Mais, comment donc!' exclaims

Monseigneur, most affably, and you'll both believe me, an you will,

but I give you my word that His Greatness took my hand and shook it,

so pleased did he seem with what I had told him. 'We must see the

lovely Comtesse of Stowmaries!--Eighteen years ago, did you say, my

son? and she was a baby then! The decrees of God are marvellous, of

a truth!--And your Rose Marie a great English lady now, eh?--with a

quantity of money and a great love for the Church!--By the Mass, my

son, we must arrange for a solemn Te Deum to be sung at St. Etienne,

before the beautiful comtesse leaves the sunny shores of France for

her fog-wrapped home across the sea!' Nay! but His Greatness said much

more than that. He spoke of the various forms which our thank-offering

might take, the donations which would be most acceptable to God on this

occasion; he mentioned the amount of money which would most adequately

express the full meed of our gratitude to Providence, by being given

to the Church, and I most solemnly assure you that he simply laughed

at the very thought of the Earl of Stowmaries contemplating the

non-fulfilment of his marriage vows. I pointed out to His Greatness

that the young man seemed inclined to repudiate the sacred bond. We

had not seen him since the ceremony eighteen years ago, and after our

final refusal to further help his parents with money or substance, we

had even ceased to correspond. His parents had gone to live in some

far, very far-off land across the ocean, where I believe cannibals and

such like folk do dwell. They had taken the boy with them, of course.

We thought the young man dead, or if alive then as great a rogue as his

father, and mourned that our only child was either a girl-widow, or

the wife of a reprobate. ''Tis eighteen years,' I said, 'since those

marriage vows were spoken.' 'Were they fifty,' retorted His Greatness,

'they would still be sacred. The Catholic Church would scorn to tie a

tie which caprice of man could tear asunder. Nay! nay!' he added with

sublime eloquence, 'have no fear on this matter, my son. Unless the

Earl of Stowmaries chooses to abjure the faith of his fathers, and

thereby cause his own eternal damnation, he cannot undo the knot which

by the will of his parents--he being a minor at the time--tied him

indissolubly to your daughter.' Thus spoke His Greatness, Monseigneur

the Archbishop of Paris," concluded M. Legros, with becoming solemnity,

"and in such words will the message be conveyed to the man who by all

laws human and divine is the husband of Rose Marie Dieudonnée Legros,

our only and dearly loved child."

There was silence in the small room now. The fast-gathering twilight

had gradually softened all sharp outlines, covering every nook and

cranny with a mantle of gloom and leaving the dying embers of the fire

to throw a warm glow over the group of these homely folk: fat Mme.

Legros in cooking apron of coarse linen, her round, moist face pale

with excitement, the sleeves of her worsted gown rolled back over her

shapely arms; the kindly tailor with rubicund face gleaming with pride

and paternal love, one arm still encircling the cherished daughter

whose future had been mapped out by him on such glorious lines, and

she, the girl--a mere child, fair and slender, with great, innocent

eyes which mirrored the pure, naïve soul within, eyes which still

looked the outer world boldly in the face, which had learned neither

to shrink in terror, nor yet to waver in deceit, a child with rosy,

moist lips which had not yet tasted the sweet and bitter savour of a

passionate kiss.

The silence became almost oppressive, for Mme. Legros dared not speak

again, lest she irritate the mightily clever man whom God had pleased

to give her as husband, and Rose Marie was silent because, unknown even

to herself, in the far-off land of Shadows, the Fates who sit and spin

the threads of life had taken in their grim and relentless hands the

first ravellings of her own.

Vaguely now, for her ears were buzzing, she heard her father speak

again, talking of Monseigneur's graciousness, of the intervention of

the French ambassador at the Court of the King of England, of an appeal

to the Holy Father who would command that the great English milor

shall acknowledge as his sole and lawful wife, Rose Marie Legros, the

daughter of the Court tailor of Paris.

It was so strange--almost uncanny, this intervention of great and

clever gentlemen, of Monseigneur the Archbishop of Paris, whom hitherto

she had only seen at a great distance passing through the streets in

his glass coach or celebrating High Mass at the great altar in Notre

Dame, of the King of England, whom she had once seen at a pageant in

Versailles, actually talking to young King Louis himself, the greatest

man in the whole world and most wonderful of all, of the Holy Father,

second only on earth to le bon Dieu Himself--all, all of these great

and marvellous people troubling about her, Rose Marie.

For the moment she could not bear to think of it all, and she supposed

that she must outwardly have looked as strange as she felt herself to

be from within, for maman suggested that the child was overwrought and

must go to her room, where presently she should partake of fricassée of

chicken and a glass of good red wine with a little clove and cinnamon

in it, the panacea, in good Mme. Legros' estimation, for every ailment

of body, mind or heart.

CHAPTER II

True hope is swift, and flies with swallows' wings;

Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.

--RICHARD III. V. 2.

Rose Marie hardly knew how she reached the tiny room up under the

sloping roof, which room was her very own.

She only realised that she longed to be alone to think matters out all

by herself, and then to indulge in a long and happy cry.

Oh, yes! she was quite, quite sure that she was very happy, and that it

was because of this great happiness which filled her heart to bursting,

that she felt so very much inclined to cry.

Presently maman came in with the red wine and the fricassée and was

horrified to find the child in tears.

"My pigeon, my little cabbage, but what ails thee, my jewel?"

ejaculated the good old soul, as she hastily put down the platter and

bottle which she was carrying and went to kneel beside the narrow bed

in the wall, from the depths of which came ominous sounds of a girl

sobbing.

"Nothing, Maman, nothing!" said Rose Marie, smiling at her mother's

anxiety and hastily endeavouring to dry her tears.

"Nothing--nothing--" grumbled Mme. Legros, "one does not cry for

nothing, my child--"

"And I am vastly silly, Maman, for doing it--but I assure you that it

is nothing--and--and--"

The young voice broke in renewed sobs, and two arms were stretched

forth from out the bed and sought the mother's kindly shoulder, whereon

a strangely overburdened childish heart could sob itself out in perfect

peace.

"There! there! my little cabbage," said Mme. Legros, trying with tender

pattings of the soft fair hair to soothe this well-nigh hysterical

outburst, "of a truth, thou hast been overwrought, and it was not right

for father to speak of all this before thee. Thou didst not know that

the young English lord had endeavoured to break his marriage vows,

and that thy father and I have been working hard in order to bring

influence to bear upon the rogue. Fortunately now we have succeeded,

with the help of Monseigneur, so there is no need to cry, my cabbage,

is there?"

"No, no, Maman, it is not that," said the girl more quietly; "I cannot

quite explain to you what it is that made me cry--for I have known all

along that milor--now that he is a milor and passing rich--was anxious

to forget us humble folk, who helped his parents in their need--I

have felt the shame of that before now, and it never made me cry. But

to-day--somehow--Maman, darling," she added, sitting up quite straight

in bed and looking at her mother with enquiring eyes, whilst her fine

brow was puckered in a deep frown of thought, "somehow I feel--I cannot

quite explain how it is--I feel as if my old life was finished--quite,

quite finished--as if nothing would ever be quite the same again--my

little room here, the pink curtains, that chair over there--they do not

seem the same--not quite, quite the same--Maman, cherie, I suppose you

don't understand?"

And the great childish eyes sought anxiously the mother's face, longing

for comprehension, for the explanation of an unaccountable mystery.

"No, my pigeon, I confess I do not understand," quoth worthy Mme.

Legros drily, "for I do not see--nor would any sensible person

admit--that a great English milor just because he is thy husband--can

from all that distance, from the other side of the sea, change thy room

and thy chair, nor yet thy curtains, though the latter, I will say,

sorely need washing at the present moment," she added with sublime

irrelevance.

The girl sighed. Maman for once did not understand. Nor of a truth

did she understand herself. She had tried to explain it all but had

signally failed--had only succeeded in suggesting something which of

course was supremely silly.

"I'll tell thee how it is, Rose Marie," resumed Mme. Legros with firm

decision, "thy stomach is in a disturbed condition, and a cup of cold

camomile tea thou shalt drink to-morrow before rising. I'll see to the

making of it at once,--for it must be brewed over-night to be truly

efficacious,--and come back and give thee thy supper a little later on."

Mme. Legros struggled back to her feet, happy to have found in a

prospective cup of camomile tea a happy solution for Rose Marie's

curious mood. She took up the platter again, for the fricassée must

be kept hot, and the child must eat some supper a little later on.

The good woman's heart was filled with that cheerful optimism which

persistently seeks the good side of every eventuality and nearly

always finds it. In this case Mme. Legros failed to see that anything

but good could come out of the present position. That same wonderful

optimism of hers had not been altogether proof against the events of

the past years, when she first began to realise that the marriage

which she--more so than her husband--had planned in conjunction

with Mistress Angélique Kestyon, was destined to prove a bar to her

daughter's happiness.

In those far-off days eighteen years ago, Mme. Legros had still

fostered in her homely bosom the--since then--aborted seeds of social

ambition. Well-connected on her mother's side, with a good English

family, she had wedded the Paris tailor for pecuniary rather than

for sentimental reasons, and she had a sufficiency of sound common

sense to understand that as a tradesman's wife she could not in these

days of arbitrary class distinction aspire to remain within that same

social circle to which her connections and parentage would otherwise

have entitled her. But though the seeds of ambition lay dormant in the

homely soil of her husband's back shop, they were not then altogether

destroyed.

Mélanie de Boutillier had been well past her youth when she married

Armand Legros; when her baby girl was born, and the mother with

justifiable pride realised that the child was passing fair, those

same seeds once more began to germinate. The visit of the English

relative--high-born, well-connected and accompanied by a boy not yet

seven years of age, brought them to final perfection. What Mélanie

de Boutillier had failed to obtain, Rose Marie Legros should possess

in measureless plenty, and little Rupert Kestyon, great nephew of an

English milor, should be the one to shower the golden gifts on her.

All these schemes seemed at first so easy of accomplishment. It had

been useless afterwards to cry over undue haste; at the time it seemed

right, fitting and proper. Times then were troublous in England;

Mistress Angélique Kestyon feared the democratic spirit there. It

seems that the English were actually fighting against their king, and

that the fate of the great noblemen in the country was in consequence

somewhat uncertain; but only temporarily, of course, for King Charles

Stuart would soon overcome his enemies and duly crush the rebellious

traitors who had taken up arms against him. In the meanwhile the

children would grow up, and anon when the Court of England had resumed

its former splendour, Rupert Kestyon, the dearly-loved relative of the

powerful Earl of Stowmaries, would introduce his beautiful bride to the

charmed inner circle of English aristocracy.

It all seemed so clear--so simple--as if, of a truth, the match and its

glorious consequences had been specially designed by Providence for the

glorification and social exaltation of Rose Marie Legros. Surely no

one in those days would have thought that any blame could be attached

to the parents for hurrying on the marriage ceremony between the two

children, whose united ages fell short of a decade.

The catastrophe came afterwards when the tale of deceit and of fraud

was gradually unfolded. Then came the requests for money, the long

voyage to America, the knowledge that milor Stowmaries not only had

no love for these relatives of his, but had finally and irrevocably

refused to help them in their distress, unless they took ship for a far

distant colony and never troubled him with sight of their faces again.

Good Armand Legros, who adored his daughter, was quite broken-hearted.

Madame tried to remain hopeful against these overwhelming odds--always

thinking that--though it had certainly pleased God to try the Legros

family very severely for the moment--something would inevitably turn up

which would be for the best.

The immediate result of that unvarying optimism was that she continued

Rose Marie's education on the same lines as she had originally

intended, as if the girl-wife was indeed destined anon to grace the

Court of the King of England. The child was taught the English language

by one of the many impoverished English gentlemen who had settled in

France after the murder of their king. She learned to write and to

read, to spell and to dance. She was taught to play on the virginals

and to sing whilst playing a thorough-bass on the harpsichord. Nay! her

knowledge, so 'twas said, extended even as far as geography and the

Copernican system.

Her mother kept her apart from girls of her own age, unless these

belonged to one of those few families where learning was esteemed. She

was never allowed to forget that some day she would leave her father's

shop and be a great lady in England.

Whilst Mme. Legros and the kindly bonhomme Armand gradually drifted in

their middle age to the bourgeois manners and customs of their time

and station, they jealously fostered in their only child that sense of

elegance and refinement which mayhap she had inherited from one of her

remote ancestors, or mayhap had received as a special gift from the

fairy godmother who presided at her birth.

Mme. Legros cooked and scoured, Master Armand made surcoats and

breeches, but Rose Marie was never allowed to spoil her hands with

scrubbing, or to waste her time presiding over the stewpot. Her father

had bought her a pair of gloves; these she always wore when she went

out, and she always had stockings and leather shoes on her feet. As

the girl grew up, she gradually assimilated to herself more and more

this idea that she was to be a great lady. She never doubted her future

for a moment. Her father from sheer fondness, her mother from positive

conviction, kept the certitude alive within her.

But it became quite impossible to keep from the girl's growing

intelligence all knowledge of the Kestyon's misdeeds. The worthy

tailor who was passing rich kept but a very small house, in which the

one living room, situate just above the shop, was the family meeting

ground. Rose Marie could not be kept out of the room every time her

father and mother talked over the freshly-discovered deceits and frauds

practised by their new relations.

We must suppose that the subject thus became such a familiar one with

the child-wife from the moment when she first began to comprehend it,

that it never acquired any horror or even shame for her. Mistress

Angélique Kestyon had grossly deceived papa and maman; they were not so

rich or so grand just now as they had represented themselves to be, but

it would all come right in the end--maman at least was quite sure of

that.

If--as time went on and Rose Marie from a child became a girl--that

pleasing optimism somewhat gave way, this was no doubt due to too much

book learning. Rose Marie was very fond of books, and books we all know

have a tendency to destroy the innocent belief in the goodness of this

world. This at least was Papa Legros' opinion.

Mme. Legros spoke less and less on the subject. She hoped.

She hoped resolutely and persistently, whilst the Kestyons from distant

Virginia begged repeatedly for money. She went on hoping even whilst

urging her husband to cut off further supplies, after ten years of this

perpetual sponging. She still hoped whilst no news whatever came from

the emigrants and when the rumour reached her that young Rupert Kestyon

had died out there.

At this point, however, her optimism took a fresh turn. She hoped that

the rumour was true, and that Rose Marie was now free to wed some

other equally high-born but more reliable gentleman. She continued to

hope despite the difficulty of proving that the young man had really

died, and Monseigneur the Archbishop's refusal to grant permission for

a second marriage.

Then when the news filtered through from England as far as the back

shop in the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie that Rupert Kestyon was not

only alive but had--by a wonderful, almost miraculous series of

events--inherited the title and estates of his deceased kinsman and was

now of a truth by the will of God and the law of his country milor of

Stowmaries, and one of the greatest gentleman in the whole of England,

Mme. Legros' optimism found its crowning glory in its justification.

That the young milor seemed disinclined to acknowledge the daughter of

the Paris tailor as his wife and that he seemed to be taking serious

steps to have the marriage annulled, were but trifling matters which

never upset Mme. Legros' equanimity.

She was quite sure that the marriage could not be annulled without

special dispensation from the Holy Father himself, and equally sure

that that dispensation would never be granted. She had perfect faith

not only in the sacred indissolubility of the marriage tie, but in the

happy future of Rose Marie.

When Monseigneur the Archbishop of Paris granted her Armand a special

audience, whereat the tailor had begged permission to lay the family

case before His Greatness, Mme. Legros never for a moment doubted the

happy issue of that interview: and when her man came home and told his

satisfactory tale, maman was in no way astonished.

Her optimism had been justified: that was all.

But what did astonish the good soul was the fact that the child--Rose

Marie--sat crying in her bed, whereas she should have been singing and

laughing all about the place.

Therefore, maman, with commendable forethought, prescribed cold

camomile tea as a remedy against what was obviously but a sharp attack

of megrims.

CHAPTER III

Come Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain

And bring the fated Fairy Prince.

--TENNYSON.

And in the narrow bed built within the wall in the tiny room, wherein

a tallow candle placed on a central table threw only very feeble rays,

the girl Rose Marie lay dreaming.

She--Rose Marie--the daughter of Papa Legros--as he was uniformly

called in the neighbourhood--she was now a great lady, by the will of

God and the decree of the Holy Father himself. She would have a glass

coach like the ladies whom she had so often seen driving about in

Versailles, and sit in it, dressed in the latest fashion and holding a

fan in her hand, which would be encased in a lace mitten.

At this point in her dreams Rose Marie sat up in bed, very straight

and dignified, with her little hands folded over the cotton coverlet,

and she bent her young head to right and to left, like one saluting

a number of passers-by. A nod accompanied by an encouraging smile

indicated the greeting to a supposed friend, whilst a condescending

nod and a haughty stare suggested the presence of an acquaintance of

somewhat low degree.

Thus Rose Marie had seen the ladies behave in their coaches in

Versailles. She had seen Maria Mancini bow serenely to her admirers,

and the Queen Mother bestow the stony stare on her detractors. She

had watched, wondered and admired, but never had she tried to imitate

until now--now that her smile would be appreciated by many, her frown

be of consequence to others.

Up to now it had not mattered. Though her father was reputed to be

wealthy, he was only a tailor, who had to bow and scrape and wallow

before the great gentlemen of the Court. Aye! and had more than once

been soundly thrashed because of the misfit of a pair of Court breeches.

And Rose Marie had oft sighed for greatness, for the gilded coach and

a seat at the opera, for silken dresses, flowers, patches and rouge.

She was only a child with an acutely developed sense of sympathy for

everything that was dainty and refined, everything that smelt sweetly

and was soft and tender to the touch.

Thus she went on dreaming her dream in content, never doubting for a

moment that happiness lay closely linked with this sudden accession

to grandeur. The fact that her lawful lord and husband had shown a

desire to break his marriage vows, and to take unto himself some other

wife more equal to him in rank and breeding than the humble tailor's

daughter, troubled Rose Marie not at all. With sublime faith in the

workings of Providence, she put her husband's reluctance to acknowledge

her down to his ignorance of herself.

He had never seen her since the day of the ceremony, eighteen years

ago. She was a baby in arms then, whilst now--

Rose Marie drew in her breath and listened. Maman was evidently not

yet coming up. All was still on this upper floor of the house. Rose

Marie put her feet to the ground and rose from her bed. She picked up

the candle from the table and tripped across the room to where--on the

whitewashed wall opposite--there hung a small gilt-framed mirror.

Into this she peeped, holding the candle well above her head. Her face

wore neither the look of vanity, nor even that of satisfaction: rather

was it a look of the closest possible scrutiny. Rose Marie turned her

head to right and left again, but not--this time--in order to enact a

private comedy, but in order to convince herself in her own mind that

her cheeks had indeed that peach-like bloom, which her overfond father

had so oft proclaimed, and that her hair was sufficiently brilliant in

colour to be called golden, and yet not too vivid to be called "roux."

We may take it that this scrutiny, which lasted nearly twenty minutes,

was of a satisfactory character, for presently, with a happy little

sigh, and heaving breast, Rose Marie tripped lightly back to her narrow

bed in the wall, and squeezed herself well within the further dark

angle, to which the flickering light of the tallow candle had no access.

This she did because she had heard maman's step on the stairs, and

because her own cheeks now were of a flaming red.

PART II

CHAPTER IV

For what is wedlock forced but a hell.

--1 HENRY VI. V. 5.

"My Lord is sad."

"Oh!--"

"My Lord is weary!"

"!!--"

A pause. Mistress Julia Peyton, you understand, was waxing impatient.

Can you wonder? She was not accustomed to moodiness on the part

of her courtiers; to a certain becoming diffidence mayhap, to

tongue-tiedness--if we may be allowed so to call it--on the part of her

young adorers fresh from their country homes, fledglings scarce free

from the gentle trammels of their mother's apron strings, to humility

in the presence of so much beauty, grace and wit as she was wont to

display when taken with the desire to please, to all that yes, yes and

a thousand times yes, the adorable Julia was fully accustomed. But to

silence on the part of the wittiest gentleman about town, to moodiness

akin to ill-humour on the part of the most gallant young rake this side

of Westminster--no! no! and a thousand times no! Mistress Julia would

have none of it.

Her daintily-shod foot beat a quick measure against the carpets, her

fingers delicately tipped with rouge played a devil's tattoo on the

polished top of the tiny marqueterie table beside her, and her small

teeth, white and even as those of a kitten, tore impatiently at her

under lip.

Still Lord Stowmaries paid no heed to these obvious signs of a coming

storm. He lolled in an armchair opposite the imperious beauty, his chin

was resting in his hand, his brow was puckered, and oh! most portentous

outward indication of troubles within! his cravat looked soiled and

crumpled, as if an angry hand had fidgeted its immaculate whiteness

away.

At last Mistress Julia found herself quite unable to control her

annoyance any longer. Granted that Lord Stowmaries was the richest,

most promising "parti" that had ever come her way; that he was young,

good-looking, owned half the county of Hertford, and one of the oldest

names in England, and that, moreover, he was of sufficiently amiable

disposition to be fashioned into a model husband by and by! granted

all that, say I! Had not all these advantages, I pray you to admit,

caused the fair Julia to hide her ill-humour for close on half an hour,

whilst the young man frowned and sighed, gave curt answers to her most

charming sallies, and had failed to notice that a filmy handkerchief,

lace-edged and delicately perfumed, had been dropped on that veriest

exact spot of the carpet which was most conveniently situated for

sinking on one knee within a few inches of the most adorable foot in

London?

But now the irascible beauty was at the end of her tether. She

rose--wrathfully kicking aside that same handkerchief which her surly

visitor had failed to notice--and took three quick steps in the

direction of the bell-pull.

"And now, my lord," she said, "I pray you to excuse me."

And she stretched out her hand in a gesture intended to express the

full measure of her wrath.

Lord Stowmaries roused himself from his unpleasant torpor.

"To excuse you, fair one?" he murmured in the tone of a man who has

just wakened from slumber, and is still unaware of what has been going

on around him whilst he slept.

"Ay, my good lord," she replied with a shrill note of sarcasm very

apparent in the voice which so many men had compared to that of a

nightingale. "I fain must tear myself away from the delights of your

delectable company--though I confess 'twere passing easy to find more

entertaining talk than yours has been this last half-hour."

"Would you be cruel to me now, Mistress?" he said with a deep and

mournful sigh, "now, when--"

"Now, when what?" she retorted still pettishly, though a little

mollified by his obvious distress.

She turned back towards him, and presently placed a hand on his

shoulder.

"My lord," she said resolutely, "either you tell me now and at once

what ails you this afternoon, or I pray you leave me, for in your

present mood, by my faith, your room were more enjoyable than your

company."

He took that pretty hand which still lingered on his shoulder, and

pressing it for a few lingering seconds between both his, he finally

conveyed its perfumed whiteness to his lips.

"Don't send me away," he pleaded pathetically; "I am the most miserable

of mortals, and if you closed your doors against me now, you would be

sending your most faithful adorer straight to perdition."

"Tut, man!" she rejoined impatiently, "you talk like a gaby. In the

name of Heaven, tell me what ails you, or I vow you'll send me into my

grave with choler."

"I have been trying to tell you, Mistress, this past half-hour."

"Well?"

"But Lud help me, I cannot."

"Then it's about a woman," she concluded with firm decision.

He gave no reply. The conclusion was obvious.

The fair Julia frowned. This was threatening to become serious. It was

no mere question of moodiness then, of ill-humour anon to be forgiven

and dissipated with a smile.

There was a woman at the bottom of my lord Stowmaries' ill-humour. A

woman who had the power to obtrude her personality between his mental

vision and the daintiest apparition that had ever turned a man's brain

dizzy with delight. A woman in fact who might prove to be an obstacle

to the realisation of Mistress Julia Peyton's most cherished dreams.

All thoughts of anger, of petulance, of bell-pulls and peremptory

congés fled from the beauty's mind. She sat down again opposite the

young man; she rested her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands;

she looked serious, sympathetic, interested, anything you like. A

sufficiency of moisture rose to her eyes to render them soft and

lustrous, appealing and irresistible. Her lips parted and quivered just

sufficiently to express deep emotion held courageously in check, whilst

from beneath the little lace cap one or two rebellious curls free from

powder, golden in colour, and silky in texture, were unaccountably

allowed to escape.

Thus equipped for the coming struggle, she repeated her question,

not peremptorily this time, but gently and in a voice that trembled

slightly with the intensity of sympathy.

"What ails my lord?"

"Nothing short of despair," he replied, whilst his eyes rested with a

kind of mournful abnegation on the enchanting picture so tantalisingly

near to him.

"Is it quite hopeless, then?" she asked.

"Quite."

"An entanglement?"

"No. A marriage."

Outwardly she made no sign. Mistress Julia was not one of those

simpering women who faint, or scream, or gasp at moments of mental

or moral crises. I will grant you that the colour left her cheek,

and that her fingers for one brief instant were tightly clutched--no

longer gracefully interlaced--under her chin. But this was in order to

suppress emotion, not to make a show of it.

There was only a very momentary pause, the while she now, with

deliberate carelessness, brushed a rebellious curl back into its place.

"A marriage, my good lord," she said lightly; "nay! you must be

jesting--or else mayhap I have misunderstood.--A marriage to render you

moody?--Whose marriage could that be?--"

"Mine, Mistress--my marriage," exclaimed Lord Stowmaries, now in tones

of truly tragical despair; "curse the fate that brought it about, the

parents who willed it, the necessity which forced them to it, and which

hath wrecked my life."

Mistress Julia now made no further attempt to hide her fears. Obviously

the young man was not jesting. The tone of true misery in his voice was

quite unmistakable. It was the suddenness of the blow which hurt her

so. This fall from the pinnacle of her golden dreams. For weeks and

months now she had never thought of herself in the future as other than

the Countess of Stowmaries, chatelaine of Maries Castle, the leader of

society both in London and in Newmarket, by virtue of her husband's

wealth and position, of her own beauty, tact and grace.

She had even with meticulous care so reorganised her mind and memory,

that she could now eliminate from them all recollections of the more

humble past--the home at Norwich, the yeoman father, kindly but

absorbed in the daily struggle for existence, the busy, somewhat vulgar

mother, the sordid existence peculiar to impoverished smaller gentry;

then the early marriage with Squire Peyton. It had seemed brilliant

then, for the Squire, though past his youth, had a fine house, and

quite a few serving men--but no position--he never came to London and

Mistress Julia's knowledge of Court and society was akin to that which

children possess of fairies or of sprites.

But Squire Peyton it appears had more money than he had owned to in

his lifetime. He had been something of a miser apparently, for even

his young widow was surprised when at his death--which occurred if you

remember some twenty-four months ago--she found herself possessed of

quite a pleasing fortune.

This was the beginning of Mistress Julia's golden dreams, of her

longings towards a more brilliant future, which a lucky second marriage

could easily now secure for her. The thousand pounds a year which she

possessed enabled her to take a small house in Holborn Row, and to lay

herself out to cut a passable figure in London society. Not among the

Court set, of course, but there were all the young idlers about town,

glad enough to be presented to a young and attractive widow, endowed

with some wealth of her own, and an inordinate desire to please.

The first few idlers soon attracted others, and gradually the pretty

widow's circle of acquaintances widened. If that circle was chiefly

composed of men, who shall blame the pretty widow?

It was a husband she wanted, and not female companionship. Lord

Swannes, if you remember, paid her his court, also Sir Jeremiah

Harfleet, and it was well known that my lord of Craye--like the true

poet that he was--was consumed with love of her. But as soon as

Mistress Julia realised that richly-feathered birds were only too

willing to fly into her snares, she aimed for higher game. A golden

eagle was what she wanted to bring down.

And was not the young Earl of Stowmaries the veritable prince of golden

eagles?

He came and saw and she conquered in a trice. Her beauty, which was

unquestionable, and an inexhaustible fund of _verve_ and high-spirited

chatter which easily passed for wit were attractive to most men, and

Lord Stowmaries, somewhat blasé already by the more simpering advances

of the Court damsels, found a certain freshness in this young widow who

had not yet shaken off the breezy vulgarity of her East Anglian home,

and whose artless conversation, wholly innocent of elegance, was more

amusing than the stilted "Ohs!" and "Luds!" of the high-born ladies of

his own rank.

The golden eagle seemed overwilling to allow the matrimonial snare set

by the fair Julia to close in around him: she was already over-sure of

him, and though she did not frequent the assemblies and salons where

congregated his lordship's many friends, she was fully aware that her

name was being constantly coupled with that of the Earl of Stowmaries.

But now she saw that she had missed her aim, that the glorious bird no

longer flew within her reach, but was a prisoner in some one else's

cage, fettered beyond her powers of liberation.

But still Mistress Julia with persistence worthy a better cause refused

to give up all hope.

"Tell me all about it, my lord," she said as quietly as she could. "It

had been better had you spoken before."

"I have been a fool, Mistress," he replied dully, "yet more sinned

against than sinning."

"You'll not tell me that you are actually married?" she insisted.

"Alas!"

"And did not tell me so," she retorted hotly, "but came here, courting

me, speaking of love to me--of marriage--God help you! when the very

word was a sacrilege since you were not free--Oh! the perfidy of it

all!--and you speak of being more sinned against than sinning. 'Tis the

pillory you deserve, my lord, for thus shaming a woman first and then

breaking her heart."

She was quite sincere in her vehemence, for self-control had now quite

deserted her, and the wrong and humiliation which she had been made to

endure, rose up before her like cruel monsters that mocked and jeered

at her annihilated hopes and her vanished dreams. Her voice rose in a

crescendo of shrill tones, only to sink again under the strength of

choking sobs. Despair, shame and bitter reproach rang through every

word which she uttered.

"As you rightly say, Mistress," murmured the young man, "God help me!"

"But the details, man--the details--" she rejoined impatiently; "cannot

you see that I am consumed with anxiety--the woman?--who is she?--"

"Her name is Rose Marie," he replied in the same dull, even tones,

like a schoolboy reciting a lesson which he hath learned, but does not

understand; "she is the daughter of a certain M. Legros, who is tailor

to His Majesty the King of France."

"A tailor!" she gasped, incredulous now, hopeful once more that the

young man was mayhap suffering from megrims and had seen unpleasant

visions, which had no life or reality in them.

"A tailor's daughter?" she repeated. "Impossible!"

"Only too true," he rejoined. "I had no choice in the matter."

"Who had?"

"My parents."

"Tush!" she retorted scornfully, "and you a man!"

"Nay! I was not a man then."

"Evidently."

"I was in my seventh year!" he exclaimed pathetically.

There was a slight pause, during which the swiftly-risen hope a few

moments ago once more died away. Then she said drily:

"And she?--this--this Rose or Mary--daughter of a tailor--how old was

she when you married her?"

"In her second year, I think," he replied meekly. "I just remember

quite vaguely that after the ceremony she was carried screaming and

kicking out of the church. That was the last I saw of my wife from that

day to this--"

"Bah!"

"My great-uncle, the late Lord Stowmaries, shipped my father, mother

and myself off to Virginia soon after that. My father had been

something of a wastrel all his life and a thorn in the flesh of the

old miser. The second time that he was locked up in a debtor's prison,

Lord Stowmaries paid up for him on the condition that he went off to

Virginia at once with my mother and myself, and never showed his face

in England again."

"Hm! I remember hearing something of this when you, my lord, came into

your title. But these--these--tailor people--who were they?"

"Madame Legros was a distant connection of my mother's who, I suppose,

married the tailor for the same reason that I--an unfortunate lad

without a will of my own--was made to marry the tailor's daughter."

"She is rich--of course?"

"Legros, the tailor, owns millions, I believe, and Rose Marie is his

only child. It was the first time that my poor father, Captain Kestyon,

found himself actually in prison and unable to pay his debts. The Earl

of Stowmaries--a wicked old miser, if ever there was one--refused to

come to his rescue. My mother was practically penniless then; she had

no one to whom she could turn for succour except the cousin over in

Paris, who had always been kind to her, who was passing rich, burning

with social ambition, and glad enough to have the high-born English

lady beneath her bourgeois roof."

"And that same burning social ambition caused the worthy tailor to

consent to a marriage between his baby daughter and the scion of one of

the grandest families in England," commented Mistress Julia calmly. "It

were all so simple--if only you had had the manhood to tell me all this

ere now."

"I thought that miserable marriage forever forgotten."

"Pshaw!" she retorted, "was it likely?"

"I had heard nothing of the Legros for many years," he said dejectedly.

"My father had died out in the Colony: my mother and I continued to

live there on a meagre pittance which that miserly old reprobate--my

great-uncle--grudgingly bestowed upon us. This was scarce sufficient

for our wants, let alone for enabling us to save enough money to pay

our passage home. At first my mother was in the habit of asking for

and obtaining help from the Legros!--you understand? she never would

have consented to the connection," added the young man with naïve

cynicism, "had she not intended to derive profit therefrom, so whenever

an English or a French ship touched the coast my poor mother would

contrive to send a pathetic letter to be delivered in Paris, at the

house of the king's tailor. But after a while answers to these missives

became more and more rare, soon they ceased altogether, and it is now

eight years since the last remittance came--"

"The worthy tailor and his wife were getting tired of the aristocratic

connection," commented Mistress Julia drily; "no doubt they too had

intended to derive profit therefrom and none came."

"Was I not right, Mistress, in thinking that ill-considered marriage

forgotten?" quoth Lord Stowmaries with more vehemence than he had

displayed in the actual recital of the sordid tale; "was I not

justified in thinking that the Legros had by now bitterly regretted the

union of their only child to the penniless son of a spendthrift father?

Tell me," he reiterated hotly, "was I not justified?--I thought that

they had forgotten--that they had regretted--that Rose Marie had found

a husband more fitted to her lowly station and to her upbringing--and

that her parents would only be too glad to think that I too had

forgotten--or that I was dead."

There was a slight pause. Mistress Julia's white brow was puckered into

a deep frown of thought.

"Well, my lord," she said at last, "ye've told me the past--and though

the history be not pretty, it is past and done with, and I take it that

your concern now is rather with the present."

"Alas!"

"Nay! sigh me not such doleful sighs, man!" she exclaimed with angry

impatience, "but in the name of all the saints get on with your tale.

What has happened? The Legros have found out that little Rupert Kestyon

hath now become Earl of Stowmaries and one of the richest peers in the

kingdom--that's it--is it not?"

"Briefly, that is it, Mistress. They demand that their daughter be

instated in her position and the full dignities and rights to which her

marriage entitle her."

"Failing which?" she asked curtly.

"Oh! scandal! disgrace! they will apply to the Holy Father--the orders

would then come direct from Rome--I could not disobey under pain of

excommunication--"

"Such tyranny!"

"The Kestyons have been Catholics for five hundred years," said the

young man simply, whilst a touch of dignity--the first since he began

to relate his miserable tale--now crept into his attitude. "We do not

call the dictates of the Holy Father in question, nor do we name them

tyranny. They are irrevocable in matters such as these--"

"Surely--a sum of money--" she hazarded.

"The Legros have more of that commodity than I have. But it is not a

question of money. Believe me, fair Mistress," he said in tones which

once more revealed the sorrow of his heart, "I have thought on the

matter in all its bearings--I have even broached the subject to the

Duke of York," he added after an imperceptible moment of hesitation.

"Ah? and what said His Highness?" asked Mistress Julia with that

quick inward catching of her breath which the mentioning of exalted

personages was ever wont to call forth in her.

"Oh! His Highness only spoke of the sanctity of the marriage tie--"

"'Twas not likely he would talk otherwise. 'Tis said that his bigotry

grows daily upon him--and that he only awaits a favourable moment to

embrace openly the Catholic Faith--"

"His Majesty was of the same opinion, too."

"Ah? You spoke to His Majesty?"

"Was it not my duty?"

"Mayhap--mayhap--and what did His Majesty say?"

"Oh! he was pleased to take the matter more lightly--but then there is

the Queen Mother--and--"

"Who else? I pray you, who else?" said Mistress Julia now with renewed

acerbity. "His Majesty, His Royal Highness, the Queen--half London, to

boot--to know of my discomfiture and shame--"

Her voice again broke in a sob, she buried her face in her hands, and

tears which mayhap had more affinity to anger than to sorrow escaped

freely from between her fingers. In a moment the young man was at her

feet. Gone was his apathy, his sullenness now. He was on one knee and

his two arms encircled the quivering shoulders of the fair, enraged one.

"Mistress, Mistress," he entreated, whilst his eager lips sought the

close proximity of her shell-like ear; "Julia, my beloved, in the name

of the Holy Virgin, I pray you dry your tears. You break my heart, fair

one. You--O God!" he added vehemently, "am I not the most miserable

of men? What sin have I committed that such a wretched fate should

overwhelm me? I love you and I have made you cry--"

"Nay, my lord," whispered Julia through her tears, "an you loved me--"

She paused with well-calculated artfulness, whilst he murmured with

pathetic and tender reproach:

"An I loved you! Is not my heart bound to your dainty feet? my soul

fettered by the glance of your eyes? Do you think, Mistress, that I can

ever bear to contemplate the future now, when for days, nay! weeks and

months, ever since I first beheld your exquisite loveliness, I have

ever pictured myself only as your slave, ever thought of you only as my

wife? That old castle over in Hertfordshire, once so inimical to me,

I have learnt to love it of late because I thought you would be its

mistress; I treasured every tree because your eyes would behold their

beauty; I guarded with jealous care every footpath in the park because

I hoped that some day soon your fairy feet would wander there."

Mistress Julia seemed inclined to weep yet more copiously. No doubt the

ardently-whispered words of my lord Stowmaries caused her to realise

more vividly all that she had hoped for, all that was lost to her now.

Oh! was it not maddening? Had ever woman been called upon to endure

quite so bitter a disappointment?

"It's the shame of it all, my lord," she said brokenly, "and--"

she whispered with tenderness, "I too had thought of a future

beside a man whom I had learned to--to love. I suffer as you do, my

lord--and--besides that, the awful shame. Your favours to me, my

lord, have caused much bitter gall in the hearts of the envious--my

humiliation will enable them to exult--to jeer at my discomfiture--to

throw scandalous aspersions at my conduct--I shall of a truth be

disgraced, sneered at--ruined--"

"Let any one dare--" muttered the young man fiercely.

"Nay! how will you stop them? 'Tis the women who will dare the most.

Oh! if you loved me, my lord, as you say you do, if your protestations

are not mere empty words, you would not allow this unmerited disgrace

to fall upon me thus."

Who shall say what tortuous thoughts rose in Mistress Peyton's mind

at this moment? Is there aught in the world quite so cruel as a woman

baffled? Think on it, how she had been fooled. The very intensity of

the young man's passion, which had been revealed to her in its fulness

now that he knew that an insuperable barrier stood between him and the

fulfilment of his desires, showed her but too plainly how near she had

been to her goal.

At times--ere this--she had dreaded and doubted. The brilliancy of his

position, his wealth and high dignity had caused her sometimes a pang

of fear lest he did not think her sufficiently his equal to raise her

to his own high rank. At such moments she had redoubled her efforts,

had schemed and had striven, despite the fact that her efforts in

that direction had--as she well knew--not escaped the prying eyes of

the malevolent. What cared she then for their sneers so long as she

succeeded?

And now with success fully in sight, she had failed--hopelessly,

ridiculously--ignominiously failed.

Oh! how she hated that unknown woman, that low-born bourgeoise, who had

robbed her of her prize! She hated the woman, she hated the family, the

Parisian tailor and his scheming wife. God help her, she even hated the

unfortunate young deceiver who was clinging passionately to her knees.

She pushed him roughly aside, springing to her feet, unable to sit

still, and began pacing up and down the small room, the tiny dainty

cage wherein she had hoped to complete the work of ensnaring the golden

bird.

"Julia!"

He too jumped to his feet. Once more he tried to embrace the quivering

shoulders, to imprison the nervous, restless fingers, to capture

the trembling lips. But she would no longer yield. Of what use were

yielding now?

"Nay! nay! I pray you, leave me," she said petulantly. "Of what purpose

are your protestations, my lord--they are but a further outrage.

Indeed, I pray you, go."

Once more she turned to the bell-pull, and took the heavy silken

cord in her hand, the outward sign of his dismissal. Some chivalrous

instinct in him made him loth to force his company on her any longer.

But his glowering eyes, fierce and sullen, sought to read her face.

"When may I come back?" he asked.

"Never," she replied.

But we may be allowed to suppose that something in her accent, in her

attitude of hesitancy, gave the lie to the cruel word, for he rejoined

immediately:

"To-morrow?"

"Never," she repeated.

"To-morrow?" he insisted.

"What were the use?"

"I vow," he said with grim earnestness, "that if you dismiss me now,

without the hope of seeing you again, I'll straight to the river, and

seek oblivion in death."

"'Twere the act of a coward!" she retorted.

"Mayhap. But Fate has dealt overharshly with me. I cannot face life

if you turn in bitterness from me. Heaven only knows how I can face

it at all without you--but your forgiveness may help me to live; it

would keep me back from the lasting disgrace of a suicide's grave, from

eternal damnation. Will you let me come to-morrow? Will you give me

your forgiveness then?"

He tried to draw near her again, but she put out her hand and drew

resolutely back.

"Mayhap--mayhap," she said hurriedly. "I know not--but not now, my

lord--I entreat you to go."

She rang the bell quickly, as if half afraid of herself, lest she might

yield, after all. Mistress Julia knew but little of love--perhaps until

this moment she had never realised that she cared for this young man,

quite apart from the position and wealth which he would be able to give

her. But now, somehow, she felt intensely sorry for him, and there was

quite a small measure of unselfishness in her grief at this irrevocable

turn of events. The glance which she finally turned upon him softened

the cruelty of his dismissal.

"Come and say good-bye to-morrow," she murmured. Then she raised a

finger to her lips. "Sh!--sh!--sh!" she whispered scarce above her

breath; "say nothing more now--I could not bear it. But come and say

good-bye to-morrow."

The serving man's steps were heard the other side of the door. He was

coming in answer to the bell.

Lord Stowmaries dropped on one knee. He contrived to capture

a feebly-resisting little hand and to impress a kiss upon the

rouge-tipped fingers.

Then after a final low bow, he turned and walked out of the room.

CHAPTER V

There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man.

--I HENRY IV. II. 4.

Mistress Julia Peyton waited for a few moments until the opening

and shutting of the outer door proclaimed the fact that young Lord

Stowmaries had really and definitely gone.

Then she went to the little _secrétaire_ which stood in an angle of the

room, drew forth a sheet of paper, took a heavy quill pen in her hand,

and feverishly--though very laboriously--began to write.

It was a difficult task which the fair lady had set herself to do, for

neither writing nor spelling were among her accomplishments, being

deemed unnecessary and not pertaining to the arts of pleasing. But

still she worked away, with hand cramped round the rebellious quill,

dainty fingers stained with the evil-smelling black liquid, and her

brow puckered with the intensity of mental effort, until she had

succeeded in putting on paper just what she wished to say:

"_To siR john Ayloff at His resedence in lincoln's inn

Filds._

"HONORD SIR COSIN: This to Tell yo That i wish to speke with

yo This da and At ons opon a Matter of life and Deth.

"yr obedt Servt

"JULIA PEYTON."

A goodly number of blots appeared upon this missive as well as upon

Mistress Julia's brocaded kirtle, before she had finished. But once

the letter duly signed, she folded and sealed it, then once more rang

the bell.

"Take this to the house of Sir John Ayloffe at once," she said

peremptorily to her serving man who appeared at the door, "and if he be

within bring him hither without delay. If he be from home, seek him at

the Coffee Tavern in Holborn Bars, or at the sign of the Three Bears in

the Strand. But do not come back until you've found Sir John."

She gave the letter to the man, and, as the latter with a brief word

indicative of obedience and understanding prepared to go, she added

curtly:

"And if you do not find Sir John and bring him hither within half an

hour, you may leave my service without notice or character, but with

twenty blows of the stick across your back. You understand? Now you may

go."

Then--as the man finally retired--Mistress Julia was left alone to face

the problem as to how best she could curb her impatience until the

arrival of Sir John.

Her threat would lend wings to her messenger's feet, for her

service was reckoned a good one, owing to the many lavish gifts and

unconsidered trifles which fell from the liberal hands of Mistress

Julia's courtiers, whilst her old henchman--a burly East Anglian relict

of former days in Norfolk--loved to wield a heavy stick over the backs

of his younger subordinates.

If Sir John Ayloffe was at home, he could be here in ten minutes; if

he had gone to the Coffee Tavern in Holborn Bars, then in twenty; but

if the messenger had to push on as far as the Strand, then the full

half-hour must elapse ere the arrival of Sir John.

And if he came, what should she say to him? Of all her many adorers,

Sir John was the only one who had never spoken of matrimony. A distant

connection of the late Squire Peyton's, he it was who had launched the

young widow on her social career in London and thus enabled her to

enter on her great matrimonial venture.

Sir John Ayloffe, who in his early youth had been vastly busy in

dissipating the fortune left to him by a thrifty father, was chiefly

occupied now that he had reached middle age in finding the means to

live with outward decency, if not always with strict honesty. Among

these means gambling and betting were of course in the forefront.

These vices were not only avowable, they were thought gentlemanly and

altogether elegant.

But how to gamble and bet without cheating is a difficult problem which

Sir John Ayloffe never really succeeded in solving. So far chance had

favoured him. His various little transactions at the hazard tables or

betting rings had gone off with a certain amount of luck and not too

much publicity.

He had managed to keep up his membership at Culpeper's and other

fashionable clubs, and had not up to the present been threatened with

expulsion from Newmarket. He was still a welcome guest at the Coffee

Taverns where the young bloods congregated, and at the Three Bears in

the Strand, the resort of the most fashionable young rakes of the day.

But one or two dark, ugly-looking clouds began to hover on his

financial horizon, and there was a time--some eighteen months ago--when

Sir John Ayloffe had serious thoughts of a long voyage abroad for the

benefit of his health.

This was just before he received the intimation that his cousin--old

Squire Peyton--had left a young and pretty widow, who was burning with

the desire not to allow her many charms to be buried in oblivion in a

tumble-down Norfolk manor.

Although Mistress Julia Peyton knew little if anything of spelling and

other book lore, her knowledge of human--or rather masculine--nature

was vast and accurate. After half an hour's conversation with her

newly-found kinsman, she had gauged the use which she could make of him

and of his impecuniousness to a nicety.

He was over-ready, on the other hand, to respond to her wishes. The

bargain was quickly struck, with cards on the table, and the calling of

a spade by its own proper appellation.

Mistress Julia Peyton was calculated to do credit to any London

kinsman who chose to introduce his most aristocratic friends into her

house. And remember, Sir John Ayloffe had plenty of these, and was to

receive a goodly sum from the young widow for every such introduction.

Such matters were not difficult to arrange at a time when money was

scarce and love of display great. The fair Julia lost nothing by the

business. Her house, thanks to Sir John, was well frequented by the

pleasure-loving set of London.

Then there loomed ahead the final and great project: the marriage of

Mistress Julia! and herein Sir John's cooperation was indeed to be well

paid. From one thousand pounds, up to five, was to be his guerdon,

according as his fair kinswoman's second husband was a wealthy baronet,

a newly-created peer, or the bearer of one of those ancient names and

high dignities or titles which gave him entrées at Court, privileges of

every sort and kind, which his wife would naturally share with him.

When the brigantine _Speedwell_ went down off the Spanish coast with

all on board, the late Earl of Stowmaries lost at one fell swoop his

only son and heir, and the latter's three young boys, who were all on

a pleasure cruise on the ill-fated vessel. The old man did not survive

the terrible shock of that appalling catastrophe. He died within six

months of the memorable tragedy, and Rupert Kestyon--the son of the

impecunious spendthrift who was lying forgotten in a far-off grave in a

distant colony--became Earl of Stowmaries, one of the wealthiest peers

in England.

In a moment he became the most noted young buck of the Court of the

Restoration, the cynosure of every feminine eye. He was young, well

looking, and his romantic upbringing in the far-off colony founded by

his co-religionists, made him a vastly interesting personality.

Mistress Julia, as soon as she heard his name, his prestige, and

his history, began to dream of him--and of herself as Countess of

Stowmaries. Once more Cousin John was appealed to.

"Six thousand pounds for you, Cousin, the day on which I become

Countess of Stowmaries."

Only the introduction was needed. Mistress Julia, past-mistress by now

in the art of pleasing, would undertake to do the rest.

Young Lord Stowmaries was a member of Culpeper's. Sir John Ayloffe

contrived to attract his attention, and one day to bring him to the

house of the fascinating widow.

Sir John had done his work. So had the beautiful Julia. It was Chance

who had played an uneven game, wherein the two gamblers, handicapped by

their ignorance of past events, had lost the winning hand.

And it was because she felt that Cousin John had almost as much at

stake in the game as she had, that Mistress Julia Peyton sent for her

partner, when Chance dealt what seemed a mortal blow to her dearest

hope and scheme.

CHAPTER VI

'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes

Between the pass and fell incenséd points of mighty opposites.

--HAMLET V. 2.

Less than twenty minutes after the despatch of her missive--twenty

minutes which seemed to Julia more like twenty cycles of immeasurable

time--Sir John Ayloffe was announced.

He entered very composedly. Having been formally announced by the

servant, he waited with easy patience that the man should close the

doors and leave him alone with his fair cousin.

He scarcely touched her fingers with his lips and she said quickly:

"'Twas kind to come at once. You were at home?"

"Waiting for this summons," he replied.

"Then you knew?" she asked.

"Since last evening!" he said simply.

He was of a tall, somewhat fleshy build, the face--good-looking

enough--rendered heavy by many dissipations and nights of vigil and

pleasure. His eyes were very prominent, surrounded by thick lids,

furtive and quick in expression like those of a fox on the alert.

The heavy features--nose, chin and lips--were, so 'twas said, an

inheritance from a Jewish ancestress, the daughter of a rich Levantine

merchant, brought into England by one of the Ayloffes who graced this

country in the days of Richard III.

It was the money of this same ancestress which had enriched the

impoverished family, and had at the same time sown the seeds of that

love of luxury and display which had ruined the present bearer of the

ancient name. From that same Oriental ancestress Sir John Ayloffe had

no doubt inherited his cleverness at striking a bargain as well as his

taste for showy apparel. He was always dressed in the latest fashion,

and had already adopted the new modes lately imported from France, the

long vest tied in with a gaily coloured sash, the shorter surcoat with

its rows of gilded buttons, and oh! wonder of wonders, the huge French

periwig, with its many curls which none knew better than did Sir John

how to toss and to wallow when he bowed.

His fat fingers were covered with rings, and the buckles on his shoes

glittered with shiny stones.

Julia, quivering with eagerness and excitement which she took no pains

to conceal, now dragged Sir John down to a settee beside her.

"You knew that my lord of Stowmaries was a married man, and that I have

been fooled beyond the powers of belief!" she ejaculated, whilst her

angry eyes searched his furtive ones, in a vain endeavour to read his

thoughts.

"I heard my lord's miserable story from his own lips last night,"

reiterated Sir John.

"Ah! He told it then over the supper table, between two bumpers of

wine, to a set of boon companions as drunken, as dissolute as himself?

Man! man! why don't you speak?" she cried almost hysterically, for

she had suffered a great deal to-day, her nerves were overwrought and

threatening to give way in the face of this new and horrible vision

conjured up by her own excited imagination. "Why don't you describe

the whole scene to me--the laughter which the tale evoked, the sneers

directed against the unfortunate woman who has been so hideously

fooled?"

Ayloffe listened to the tirade with the patience of a man who has had

many dealings with the gentle if somewhat highly-strung sex. He patted

her twitching fingers with his own soft, pulpy palm, and waited until

her paroxysm of weeping had calmed down, then he said quietly:

"Nay, dear coz, the scene as it occurred round the most exclusive table

at the Three Bears, in no way bears resemblance to the horrible picture

which your fevered fancy has conjured up. My lord of Stowmaries told

his pitiable tale in the midst of awed and sympathetic silence, broken

only by brief exclamations of friendship and pity."

"And my name was not mentioned?" she asked, mollified but still

incredulous.

"Not save in the deepest respect," he replied, whilst a line of sarcasm

quickly repressed rose to his fleshy lips. "How could you suppose the

reverse?"

"Ah, well, mayhap, since women were not present. But they will hear

of it, too, to-day or to-morrow. The story is bound to leak out. My

lord of Stowmaries' attentions to me were known all over the town--and

to-day or to-morrow people will talk, will laugh and jeer. Oh! I cannot

bear it," she added with renewed vehemence; "I cannot--I cannot--I

verily believe 'twill drive me mad."

She rose and resumed her agitated walk up and down the small room,

her clenched fists beating one against the other, her trembling lips

murmuring with irritating persistency.

"I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it. The ridicule--the ridicule will

kill me--"

Suddenly she paused in her restlessness, stood in front of Sir John and

let her tear-dimmed eyes rest on his thick-set face.

"Cousin," she said deliberately, "you must find a way out of this

impasse."

"You must find a way out of it," she reiterated firmly.

He shrugged his shoulders, and said drily:

"Fair Mistress, you may as well ask me to reconcile the Pope of Rome

and all the hierarchy of the Catholic Church to the idea of flouting

the sacrament of marriage, by declaring that its bonds are no longer

indissoluble. The past few centuries have taught us that in Rome they

are none too ready to do that."

"I was not thinking of such vast schemes," said Julia in tones as dry

as his had been. "I was not thinking either of corrupting the Roman

Church, or of persuading one of her adherents to rebel against her.

My lord of Stowmaries has already explained to me," she continued

with bitter sarcasm, "that against the Pope's decision there would be

no appeal--he himself would not wish to appeal against it. His love

for me is apparently not so boundless as I had fondly imagined, its

limits meseems are traced in Rome. He has given me to understand that

his wife's people--those--those tailors of Paris--actually hold a

promise from the Pope that a command will be issued ordering that their

daughter be installed and acknowledged as Countess of Stowmaries and

that without any undue delay. Failing which, excommunication for my

lord, scandal, disgrace. Bah! I know not!--these Romanists are servile

under such tyranny--and we know that not only the Duke of York, but the

king himself is at one with the Catholics just now. No--no--no--that

sort of thing is not to be thought on, Cousin, but there are other

ways--"

Her eyes, restless, searching, half-fearful, tried to fix the glance of

his own. But his shifted uneasily, now responding to her questioning

look, anon trying to avoid it, as if dreading to comprehend.

"Other ways, other ways!" he muttered; "of a truth there are many

such--but none of which you, fair Cousin, would care to take the risk."

"How do you know that?" she retorted. "There are no risks which I

would not run, in order to free the man I love from the trammels of an

undesired marriage."

Cousin John said nothing in reply. His eyes, still furtive in

expression, were no longer restless. They were fixed upon the beautiful

face before him, the luminous eyes, the daintily-curved mouth, the

rounded chin--a transparent and exquisite mask which scarcely concealed

now the strange and tortuous thoughts which chased one another behind

that white brow, smooth as that of a child.

She held his gaze, willing that he should read those thoughts, wishing

him to divine them; in fact, to save her the humiliation of framing

them into words. But as he seemed disinclined to speak, she reiterated

with slow and deliberate emphasis:

"There are no risks, Cousin, which I would not run."

"'Tis nobly said," he remarked, without attempting this time to conceal

the sarcastic smile which played round his sensuous lips. "Odd's fish!

the man whom you have honoured with such sublime devotion is lucky

beyond compare."

"A truce on your sneers, Sir John," she retorted imperiously; "you said

that there were several ways whereby that hateful marriage could be

annulled. What are they?"

Sir John Ayloffe glanced down the length of his elegant surcoat; with

careful hand he smoothed out a wrinkle which had appeared in the

well-fitting breeches just above his knee, he readjusted the set of

his fringed scarf, and of his lace-edged cravat. All this took time

and kept Mistress Julia on tenter hooks, the while she felt as if her

temples would burst from their throbbing.

Then, at last, Cousin John looked up at her again.

"Poison," he said drily; "an Italian stiletto an you prefer that

method. An hired assassin in any event--"

A shudder ran down her spine. Had she really harboured these thoughts

herself, and had Cousin John merely put her wild imaginings into

words? Thus crudely put they horrified her--for the moment--and she

looked down almost with loathing on the man who accompanied each grim

suggestion with a leer, which caused his thick lips to part and to

disclose a row of large, uneven teeth stained with tobacco juice and

giving his face a cruel expression like that of a hyena.

"You see, there are always means, fair Cousin," continued Sir John

with pleasing urbanity; "it is only a question of money--and of the

risks which one is prepared to run. Beyond that, I believe, that the

task, though difficult, can be accomplished in Paris. There are some

amiable gentry there ever ready to do your bidding, whatever it may be,

provided you are generous--"

She passed the gossamer handkerchief over her dry lips.

"I had not thought of crime," she murmured.

"Had you not?" he said blandly. "Yet 'tis the most easy solution of the

difficulty."

"But there are others," she insisted.

"I fear not."

Again she paused, then continued, speaking very low, scarce above a

whisper.

"You would help me, of course?"

"I could certainly go over to Paris," he said with marked hesitation,

"always providing I were plentifully supplied with money--a voyage of

reconnaissance, you understand--nothing more--"

"Which means that you will not help me."

"The risks are too great, Cousin--I--"

"You would not care to run them, in order to be of service to me?"

"Frankly--no!"

"And suppose, Cousin John," she now said more quietly, once more

sitting down beside him, "supposing, I say for the sake of argument,

that I were to come to you and tell you that I will give half of my

fortune to the man who will at this juncture so ordinate matters that

my marriage with the Earl of Stowmaries once more becomes not only

feasible, but inevitable. What then?"

"Then--also for the sake of argument," he rejoined blandly, "I would

ask you, fair Cousin, of what your fortune consists."

"Squire Peyton left me £20,000 and the principal is still intact."

"Deposited--where?"

"The bulk of it with Mr. Brooke the goldsmith. He pays me six per cent.

per year thereon. It hath sufficed for my needs. No one--except you,

Cousin, now--knows the extent of this fortune. Half of it will suffice

me for pin money, once I am Countess of Stowmaries. My lord would marry

me--if he were free--an I had not a groat to my name, nor more than one

gown to my back. Ten thousand pounds shall be yours, Cousin, if you can

bring this about."

"Call it £12,000, Mistress, and it shall be done," he said cynically.

"How will you do it?"

"Let that be my secret for the nonce."

"I'll give you no advance, remember," she said quickly, for she had

seen the swift glitter of joy in his eyes, at the first mention of

money, and she knew full well that she could not count on the most

elementary feelings of honesty on the part of this unscrupulous gambler.

"Then I can do nothing," he concluded decisively.

"What do you mean?"

"Only this, fair Cousin, that putting aside the question--a somewhat

humiliating one for me, you must admit--that your refusal to place

certain funds in advance in my hands, implies a singular and--if I may

say so--an ill-considered want of trust on your part; putting this

question aside, I say, you must understand that nothing in this present

world can be accomplished without money, and I am reduced to my last

shilling."

"Have I not said that £10,000 shall be yours the day that my marriage

with Lord Stowmaries is irrevocably settled?"

"£12,000," he corrected suavely.

"Very well, then, £12,000. We'll have the bond duly writ out and

signed."

"And you, fair Cousin, will immediately place in my hands a first

instalment of £2,000."

"Failing which?"

"As I have had the honour to tell you, I can do nothing. This is my

last word, fair Cousin," he added, seeing that Mistress Julia still

seemed inclined to hesitate.

There was silence in the little room for a few seconds, a silence all

complete save for the solemn ticking of a little French clock over

the hearth. Sir John Ayloffe lounging on the settee with one firm leg

clad in the new-fashioned tight breeches stretched out at full length,

the other doubled inwards, so that the satin shimmered and crackled

over his knee, his jewelled hands toying with the lace cravat, or

with the dark curls of his periwig, looked now the picture of supreme

indifference.

It almost seemed as if £12,000 more or less in his vest pocket would

affect him not at all. But the fleshy lids had half-closed over the

prominent eyes, and from beneath their folds he was watching the

fair young widow, who made no attempt to hide her hesitancy and her

perturbation.

He knew quite well that his personality, the weight of his whole

individuality, would win against her prudence in the end. He was fully

aware that among the crowd of her several adorers, she had no one to

whom she could confide her present troubles, no one whose aid she could

with so much surety invoke. Few were so resourceful, none quite so

unscrupulous, as Sir John Ayloffe where his own interests were at stake.

That £12,000 which was to be his price would mean the final ending of

his shiftless career. He felt himself getting older every day, and

the thought of what the morrow might bring--a morrow when he would no

longer be active and alert, neither amusing nor interesting to those

whose company was a necessity to his livelihood--that thought was

embittering his present life, until at times he wondered whether a

self-inflicted sword thrust to end a miserable existence were not the

most desirable contingency after all.

How he would earn that £12,000 he did not know as yet. His secret was

that he did not know. But he had lived for the past twenty years in

sublime ignorance of the various shifts which he might be put to from

day to day, and he knew that he could trust to his imagination to find

a means now, when the result would mean security in old age, peace from

that eternal war against chance--almost a fortune in these days when

money was scarce after the great turmoil of civil war.

Therefore, though he said no more, though he assumed an indifference

which he was very far from feeling, he not only watched Mistress Julia,

but with every nerve within him, with all the magnetism of his powerful

personality, he willed her to accede to his wishes.

She, feeling this subtle influence in the same manner as in ages to

come mediums were destined to feel the influence of hypnotic power,

she gradually yielded to his unspoken desire--yielded to him whilst

believing that she held the threads of her own destiny, and that the

final decision only rested with her.

Then she rose and went to that same little bureau in the angle of the

room, at which just an hour ago she had penned so laboriously the

missive which had summoned Sir John Ayloffe hither. This time, as she

sat down to it, she took from beneath her kerchief a small key which

was fastened round her neck by a silk ribbon. With this she opened

one of the drawers of the bureau, and after another moment of final

hesitation she deliberately took a packet from the drawer.

The packet was tied up with green cord; this she untied with a hand

that trembled somewhat with feverish excitement. Having selected a

paper from among a number of others, she once more fastened the green

cord, replaced the packet in the drawer, locked the latter and replaced

the key in the folds of her gown.

Then paper in hand she turned back to the settee whereon lolled Sir

John Ayloffe, and holding the paper out to him, she said:

"This is an order requesting Master Brooke, goldsmith, of Minchin Lane,

to hand over to you on my behalf the sum of £2,000."

Sir John roused himself from his well-studied apathy. He took the paper

from Mistress Julia's hand, looked at it very carefully, then folded

it and prepared to slip it in his breast pocket.

"Remember, Cousin," she said calmly, "that if I find that you have

deceived me in this, that you have deliberately robbed me of this

£2,000 without having any intention or power to help me in my need,

that, in such a case you will lose the only friend you have in the

world. I will turn my back on you for ever; you shall never darken the

threshold of my door, and if I saw you in want or in a debtor's prison,

I would not pay one farthing to help you in your need. You believe

that, do you not?"

"I believe that a woman thwarted is capable of anything," he retorted

with a sneer.

"There I think you are right, Cousin," she assented, whilst a look of

determination which assorted strangely with her otherwise impulsive

ways marred for a moment the childlike prettiness of her face. "You

would find me very hard and unforgiving, if you cheated me of my hopes."

"Very hard, I doubt not," he said blandly. "Did I not see a while ago,

fair Cousin, your gentle soul taking in with scarce a thought of horror

my first suggestion of poison or hired assassin?"

"Tush, man! prate not so lightly of these things. Bah!" she added with

some of her former vehemence, "there are other things that kill besides

poison or stilettos--things that hurt worse than death--things that no

Countess of Stowmaries could endure and live. You have your £2,000,

man--go--go and think--a fortune an you succeed."

Sir John Ayloffe smiled. The lady had at last shown to him--mayhap

without meaning to do so--the real desire of her heart. She had also

set his active brain athinking. As she said, it would be a fortune if

he succeeded.

He had placed the valuable paper carefully away in his breast pocket;

he tapped this pocket gently to feel that it was secure. Then--as

obviously the interview must now come to an end--he rose to go.

Vague thoughts were already floating in his mind, and when she too rose

to bid him farewell, and her fevered eyes found his and held them, he

responded with a look of distinct encouragement.

Long after Cousin John's footsteps had ceased to echo along the short

flagged corridor, Mistress Julia Peyton sat musing, whilst a sigh of

content and of hope ever and anon escaped her lips. Her face was quite

serene, her expression one of anticipation rather than of trouble.

Never for a moment did a pang of conscience trouble her. Remember,

that the unknown Countess of Stowmaries--the daughter of the Paris

tailor--was but a shadowy personality to her. Less than two hours ago,

Mistress Julia was not aware of her existence.

Was it wrong then to wish her out of the way? With commendable

satisfaction, the outraged beauty realised that she felt no direct

wish for any bodily harm to come to her successful rival. And pray,

how many women would have had such scruples? A certain feeling of

self-righteousness eased Mistress Julia's soul at the thought.

No. She wished the real and only Countess of Stowmaries no bodily harm.

She had made Cousin John understand that, she hoped. Crime might mean

remorse, which would be unpleasant, also fear of discovery. Mistress

Julia hoped now that she had made Cousin John understand quite clearly

that she wanted neither poison nor hired assassin for the end which

she had in view--not at first at any rate--later on, mayhap--if other

schemes had failed--

There are things which hurt worse than death--and Mistress Julia had

placed in the hands of an unscrupulous gambler the means whereby such

things could easily be brought about.

If such things be crimes, they certainly were not of the kind which

troubled Mistress Julia's conscience.

Having settled these abstract points to her own satisfaction, she

adjourned to her tiring-room and rang for her maid. She told the wench

to prepare that new butter-coloured satin gown with the pink rosebuds

broidered thereon--a vastly becoming gown for setting off the fair

Julia's style of beauty--and also the colverteen pinner which had the

advantage of making any woman look demure. She had her hair redressed

in the newest fashion with immense taure and puffs which made her small

head look wide and her tiny face more childlike and innocent than ever.

She meant to finish the day at the King's Playhouse, there to witness

a vastly diverting comedy by the late Master Shakespeare. She wished

to see and to be seen by His Majesty, by the Duke of York, and all

London society. Knowing that her name would be in everybody's mouth,

she wished to appear radiant with beauty and good spirits, and in

no way concerned with the ugly rumours anent the tailor's daughter

over in Paris, and the ridiculous cock and bull story that my lord of

Stowmaries was other than engaged to wed Mistress Julia Peyton ere the

London season had fully run its course.

CHAPTER VII

Enquire at London 'mongst the taverns there.

--RICHARD II. V. 3.

You know the place well enough, or failing yourself--if so be that

you are less than three-score years and ten--then your father would

remember it well.

It was situate in the Strand until that time, close to its junction

with Fleet Street and within a pebble's throw from St. Clements. A

tall narrow building, raftered and gabled, the timbers painted a dark

chocolate colour, with alternate lines of a luscious creamy tint

rendered mellow with the dirt and smoke of London. It stood on that

selfsame spot two hundred and more years ago, when it was the favourite

resort of that band of young rakes who adorned the Court of the Merry

Monarch.

It were somewhat difficult to say why my lord of Craye, or Sir Anthony

Wykeham, or the Earl of Stowmaries had chosen this very unprepossessing

tavern for their evening assemblies. The exterior, as your father could

tell you, was certainly not inviting, for the gables were all askew,

the stories low and widening one over another, all awry as if ready to

fall, the front door, too, was cracked from corner to corner, nor were

the public rooms much more alluring. In the coffee room the window with

its small panes of bottle glass hardly allowed any daylight to filter

in; the floor had once been neatly covered in bricks, but now most

of these were broken in half, with pieces of them missing, showing

little three-cornered holes which suggested dirt-grubbing insects and

storehouses of dust.

There were other disadvantages, too, about the place, which should

have scared off any fastidious young man however bent on pleasure he

might be, but we have it on M. Misson's own authority--and he was no

great admirer of things English and speaks somewhat ill-naturedly of

everything he saw during his voyage--that the cellars at the sign

of the Three Bears were exceedingly well stocked with Spanish and

Rhenish wines and even with French brandies which were heady and vastly

pleasing to the palate first and to the temper afterwards.

We are also told by that same highly-critical French traveller that

Mistress Janet Foorde, wife of the landlord of the Three Bears, could

turn out a better supper than any other cook in London, and fashioned

a lamprey pie, or a _fricassée_ of rabbits and chickens, in such a

delicious manner that once eaten it could never be forgotten.

Be that as it may, we know it for a fact that in this year of grace

1678 the Tavern in the Strand at the sign of the Three Bears was, every

evening after the hour of eight, frequented by the very élite of London

society. Supper was served in one of the smaller rooms at a table

around which sat those same gentlemen who in the earlier part of the

day had graced His Majesty's levee, or the Court of the unhappy Queen,

or that narrow circle which stood as a phalanx round the person of the

unpopular Duke of York.

The assembly purported to be political. There was more than a mere

suggestion of Roman Catholic discontent freely expressed around that

congenial board, and it was well known that on more than one occasion

the King himself had been present at these gatherings--incognito, of

course--his identity known only to his own intimate friends.

But the discussion of the political and social position of Roman

Catholics in England, was, we must admit, not the primary object of the

nightly reunions in the private room at the Three Bears. Supper after

the play in the King's House came first, then dice, hazard or the more

fashionable game of Spanish ombre, all well interlarded with the chief

gossip and scandals of the day.

Reputations for beauty, wit or morals were made or marred around that

table in the small room; the latest fashions were discussed, which

to adopt and which to reject. The young fops fresh from the Grand

Tour here recounted their impressions, displayed--for approval or

disfavour--the latest modes from Paris, the new surcoats, the monstrous

periwigs, the very latest notion in lace cravats.

Here, too, the young rakes aired their--oft scandalous--literary

efforts, bonsmots unfit for ladies' ears were invented and retailed,

and we all know that my lord of Rochester never thought of publishing

verse or prose without first submitting it to the censorship of the

select party at the Three Bears.

We may take it that Sir John Ayloffe--despite the vicissitudes of

fortune which had brought him to the pass of empty pockets and

of unavowable shifts--was still a _persona grata_ at the nightly

assemblies of the distinguished tavern, for some few hours after his

interview with his beautiful kinswoman on this memorable evening of

February 8th, 1678, we see him turning his footsteps unhesitatingly in

the direction of the "Three Bears" in the Strand.

Closely wrapped in his cloak, for the wind blew bitter gusts, he bent

his head against the driving rain as he walked. The rickety door of the

tavern stood invitingly open and as one accustomed to the place Sir

John with quickened steps entered the narrow passage.

Immediately his nostrils were greeted with the pungent odour of onions

and of boiling fat, and his ears with loud shouts of merriment, which

raised a boisterous echo in the tumble-down building and seemed to make

the walls totter on their insecure foundation.

This hilarious noise, wherein songs, sung in hoarse voices very much

out of tune, mingled with violent outbursts of prolonged laughter and

with volleys of full-toned oaths, proceeded from behind a door on the

cracked panels of which the ten letters of the word Coffee Room tumbled

one against the other, like a row of drunken men.

For a moment Sir John paused just outside that door, bending his ear to

listen in an attitude of deep attention, like one trying to catch one

special sound from out that confused babel which went on within.

The passage in which he stood had been wholly dark but for the dim,

uncertain light which came from a brass lanthorn suspended from the

blackened ceiling just above his head. Sir John waited a second or two,

until a loud and merry shout of laughter rose above the bibulous din.

It was the laughter which comes from a young and lusty throat, the

laughter of careless irresponsibility and of thoughtless debauchery.

It seemed to be also the sound for which Sir John had been waiting in

the ill-lighted passage outside, for now he threw up his head and flung

his cloak back with a gesture of satisfaction, whilst a strange laugh,

which had but little of merriment in it and a great deal of contempt,

broke from his lips as an echo to the light-hearted gaiety beyond.

Sir John now continued his way, past the Coffee Room to a door beyond

the stairway at the extreme end of the passage. This he threw open

without further ceremony and found himself in that small room of the

tavern, wherein Master Foorde--the host--served his more distinguished

guests. As a rule merriment and noise, equal at least to that which

obtained in the public coffee room, reigned in this private sanctum:

many would have said that the great and courtly gentlemen who

foregathered here indulged usually in carouses and drunken orgies which

would have put the more plebeian merrimakers to shame.

But to-night, at the moment that Ayloffe entered the room, a kind of

sullen silence reigned therein. Through the thick haze of tobacco

smoke which hung like a grey pall above the feebly flickering light

of some half dozen tallow candles, the newcomer could perceive four

faces--flushed with wine and heavy meats, dimly outlined against the

full greyness of drab-coloured walls, and dark oak wainscotting.

The candles themselves guttering in their sockets threw forth fillets

of thick grimy smoke which mingled with the fumes of tobacco, and

helped to cast fantastic and trembling shadows on fine cloth surcoats

and vests of broidered silk. From the coffee room immediately adjoining

the parlour came--echoing faintly through the thick timbered walls--the

shouts of laughter, the loudly-uttered oaths, the ribald songs of the

merry company, and at intervals, against the tiny panes of the small

casement window the dull patter of the rain or the occasional distant

call of the watchman challenging an evening prowler.

In the furthest angle of the room, my lord Rochester seated in the

chair of honour had apparently been reading aloud to this moody

company, the expressions of his latest poetic fancy. He was in the

act of rolling up his manuscript and tying it up with a length of

rose-coloured ribbon, but his face usually so self-satisfied and so gay

bore an expression of keen discontent.

As a rule his poems--highly prized by the king and the ladies--were

listened to here among the circle of his intimates with the greatest

delight and oft with noisy appreciation. But on this occasion he had

been quite unable to hold the attention of his audience, and even

whilst he read his most impassioned verses he could not help but notice

that all eyes were fixed on the young Earl of Stowmaries, who sat with

his head resting in his hand, leaning forward half across the table in

an attitude of the deepest dejection.

The young man had arrived late, only joining the convivial party when

supper was already at an end, and Mistress Foorde had removed the

remains of the finest venison pie which she had ever concocted.

He had taken his place at the table after a curt and sullen nod to

the company who had greeted him most sympathetically. He had declared

himself unable to eat, but had ordered a bottle of strong sherry

and also a bottle of brandy, which expensive liquid--so 'twas said

afterwards by some of the company present--he freely mixed with sherry

and drank very plentifully.

The story of his unfortunate early marriage and of his hopeless passion

for Mistress Julia Peyton had somehow or other leaked out, and before

his arrival had been freely discussed in a facetious and irresponsible

spirit.

"Old Rowley liked the tale, and was vastly amused thereby," Lord

Rochester had said, thus unceremoniously referring to the merry

King of England. "I told it him in all its bearings, and he laughed

immoderately at thought of a tailor's wench being actually married

to my lord of Stowmaries, and expecting to be presented at Court. But

after that first outburst of hilarity he looked very grave and said

that the matter must presently be arranged to the satisfaction of all

those concerned."

"But how can that be done?" queried Sir Anthony Wykeham, who was a

strict Catholic and liked not this light talk of breaking marriage vows.

"Bah! money will do a great deal nowadays," sighed Sir Knaith Bullock,

a young Irishman but scantily blessed with the commodity.

"As for me," quoth my lord Rochester with easy bonhomme, "I am on

the side of the angels. Mistress Julia Peyton is the most beautiful

woman in London. She at any rate would be worthy to become chatelaine

of Maries Castle and to be our hostess in the many feasts to be

given there to my lord of Stowmaries' friends. As for a tailor's

daughter!--Bah!--gentlemen, I ask you, can we see ourselves being

entertained by a tailor's daughter? She would feed us on pottage and

small beer--"

A roar of laughter greeted this exposé of the situation. Lord Rochester

had of a truth voiced the opinion of the majority.

"But--" protested Sir Anthony Wykeham.

"Tush man," interrupted my lord with scant ceremony. "I know what you

would say. The marriage sacrament and all that--Odd's fish! we are none

of us heathens, and ye Papists are not the only ones, by my faith!

who know how to keep vows. But there are other ways of unravelling

an undesired tangle--and old Rowley had no thought of suggesting

irreligious measures--"

"Hush!" said one of the others suddenly, "I hear Stowmaries' voice

outside. I fancy he'll not be in a mood for jesting over the matter."

It was at this point that Stowmaries had entered the room. There was

no doubt that he looked excessively glum, and the first attempts at

treating his disappointed love in a hilarious manner were met with such

obvious moodiness, that gradually the subject was dropped, and the

company, who at supper had been fairly numerous, soon began to dwindle

away, each seeking in turn more cheerful society than that of this

sober young man who seemed determined to look at his own future life in

its very blackest aspect.

Only Lord Rochester remained awhile longer for he wanted an audience

for his latest poem, also Sir Anthony Wykeham--an intimate friend of

my lord Stowmaries--and Sir Knaith Bullock, an irresponsible youth

who seemed to scent an adventure in the romantic child-marriage, and

vaguely hoped to find sport therein.

These three gentlemen with Lord Stowmaries himself formed the little

group around the table of the private parlour at the "Three Bears" at

the moment that Sir John Ayloffe entered it.

CHAPTER VIII

I was a nameless man; you needed me:

Why did I proffer you my aid? there stood

A certain pretty cousin at your side.

--BROWNING.

With a quick glance thrown on each of the four faces, shrewd Sir John

had quickly appraised the mood of this small clique. Stowmaries in

sullen rage against the whole world because of this thwarting of his

most cherished desire, Rochester and the Irishman, flippant and eager

for sport, with Wykeham as the sobering influence, the self-constituted

guardian of religious obligations.

It was also obvious to this keen observer of other people's moods that

there would be no need for circumlocution. Though silence reigned in

the room, the subject of Stowmaries' marriage was uppermost in the

minds of his friends.

Sir John therefore, having thrown aside his hat and cloak, went boldly

up to the table and greeting the others with easy familiarity, he

placed one fleshy hand on Stowmaries' shoulder and said abruptly:

"Tush man! be not so downhearted. My faith on it! have I not seen worse

plights even than yours? Yet from which a man of daring and resource

soon found a means of extricating himself."

The interruption was a welcome one, for though Sir John Ayloffe was no

longer very popular with the gilded clique of young and noble rakes,

since he was known to be at his last resources and was oft in sore

straits to pay his gaming debts, nevertheless at this moment his lusty,

cheery voice helped to dissipate the gloom which was such an unusual

atmosphere for these ribald pleasure-seekers to breathe, and one or two

voices with obvious signs of relief cordially invited the newcomer to

sit.

"Then you, too, know our friend's melancholy story?" queried Lord

Rochester as he pushed with hospitable intent a mug of wine in the

direction of Ayloffe.

"Yes," replied the latter. "Mistress Julia Peyton is my kinswoman. 'Tis

from her I heard the tale."

Stowmaries' frown grew even darker than before. He liked not the

suggestion thus implied, the more than obvious hint of this second

sentimental complication in his life.

Sir John, in the meanwhile, had selected a chair, which was less

rickety than most, and sat down deliberately in such a position that

not one of the flickering and uncertain rays of candle light touched

his face or illumined its expression.

He took the cup of wine offered him by my lord Rochester and drank it

down slowly and at one draught, the while a few ribald remarks flew

across the table. Ayloffe's advent seemed certainly to have brought a

new atmosphere into the room. Despite Stowmaries' frown and Wykeham's

protests, Rochester and Sir Knaith took up the lighter side of the past

events; they refused to appreciate the solemnity of the subject or the

serious obligations resulting from that solemn sacrament of matrimony

performed between children over eighteen years ago.

Sir John waited patiently whilst a volley of somewhat coarse jests was

fired at the gloomy hero of the romantic adventure, and until he saw

that Stowmaries was on the verge of losing his temper, and Wykeham on

the point of quarrelling with Bullock.

Then he pushed the empty cup away from him and leaning forward across

the table, he broke in quietly: "Nay Sir Anthony," he said with

pleasing urbanity, "we all know what you would say. 'Sdeath! an I

mistake not you have harped on that string passing often in the last

hour or so, and we all know too that Lord Stowmaries is not desirous

of seeing it snap. But I maintain that if a gentleman is placed in so

terrible a predicament as is my lord, then it is the duty of all his

friends to try and effect an honourable rescue."

The earnestness with which he spoke had silenced the jocose as well as

the moody tongues. But Sir Anthony Wykeham now protested hotly.

"That is impossible," he said. "The sacrament of marriage cannot be set

aside."

"Only under certain conditions," corrected Sir John.

"Methinks this is braggart's talk," muttered young Bullock who had no

love for the older man.

"How will you do it?" queried Stowmaries with moody hopelessness.

"With his tongue chiefly," sneered the Irishman.

But Ayloffe seemed in no way abashed by the hostility, which his

statement had evoked; he returned the sarcastic or angry glances

levelled at him with a stare of assurance.

Leaning heavily upon the table, his prominent eyes fixed boldly on

the over-excited faces before him, he looked a strange contrast to

the small, chattering crowd which was grouped around him. Unlike the

others, he had supped soberly at home and drunk little or no wine; his

head was clear, his tongue glib, and the only uncertainty apparent in

his demeanour was that with which from time to time he seemed to be

listening to the noise in the next room; then a look of vague doubt

would suddenly overshadow his steady gaze and cause a more furtive,

more anxious look to creep into his eyes.

"Nay, gentlemen," he resumed after a slight pause vaguely smiling in

a condescending manner like one who tells an obvious fact to a child,

"'tis no braggart's talk to speak of saving a friend from the most dire

calamity that can befall any man. I repeat most emphatically that this

can be done, effectually and easily and without interfering with any of

those religious scruples which do my lord of Stowmaries and his friend

here so much honour."

He spoke so quietly, so confidently and with such an air of certitude

that instinctively the sneering tongues ceased to aim their shafts at

him and four pairs of eyes were now fixed upon the speaker, who with a

calm gesture of indifference was readjusting the lace of his cravat.

He waited thus for awhile like the true entertainer who husbands his

effects; he waited until the circle round him drew closer and closer,

until four pairs of elbows rested on the table and flagons and mugs

were impatiently pushed aside.

Sir Anthony Wykeham was the last to hold aloof, but even he said at

last with a distinct ring of excitement in his voice:

"Tell us more fully what you mean, man! Cannot you see that Stowmaries

is devoured with impatience?"

"An impatience which I am over-anxious to relieve," rejoined Ayloffe

imperturbably, "but firstly let me ask Lord Stowmaries himself--who I

assert is a wealthy man--whether he would not give a good tenth of his

fortune to be conveniently rid of an unwelcome wife, without hindrance

to his belief or conscience."

"I would give half my fortune, good Sir John," sighed Stowmaries

dolefully.

"Half is too much, good my lord," responded Sir John blandly. "Popular

rumour deems your lordship worth some four hundred thousand pounds in

solid cash, besides the rent rolls of half Hertfordshire. Methinks one

fourth of that should purchase the freedom which you seek."

"Are you minded to earn that fortune, Sir John?" asked the other not

without a sneer.

"Nay, my lord, I am neither young enough, nor sufficiently

well-favoured for that desirable task," retorted Sir John imperturbably.

"What have looks or favours to do with it all? Odd's fish!" growled

Stowmaries more vehemently, and bringing a clenched fist crashing down

upon the table so that mugs and bottles rattled, "meseems that you,

Sir John, are trying to fool me, God help me! are even trying to bring

ridicule upon my sorrow! By the Mass, sir, if that be so, you'll not

find me in a mood to be trifled with."

"Good my lord, I pray you to calm your temper. Am I a man to trifle

with your feelings? Have I not professed myself to be your friend? am I

not the kinsman of the lady whom you have honoured with your addresses?

On mine honour I have her welfare at heart even more so than yours. Can

you wonder that I should wish to see you wed her?"

Shrewd Sir John had played a trump card. There was no denying the logic

of his statement. He had owned to having much at stake, yet had done

so with no lack of dignity. With a certain graciousness not altogether

free as yet from his original surliness, Lord Stowmaries owned himself

in the wrong.

"You must pardon my evil temper, Sir John," he said with a

self-deprecating sigh, "for I am vastly troubled."

This brief interlude had but whetted the curiosity of the others. From

Sir John's manner and mode of speech it was fully evident now that his

was no empty talk, but that he had assuredly come here this night, with

some definite plan for what he termed the welfare of his kinswoman,

which no doubt he had much at heart.

The idea pleased these young pleasure-seekers more and more; they cared

of a truth but little for the troubles of their friends, but there

was now a twinkle in Ayloffe's eyes which vaguely suggested to them

the thought of intrigue, mayhap of some adventure, quite unavowable,

possibly highly scandalous, which would have that unknown tailor's

daughter for its victim.

Such adventures were the delight of the merry monarch who now sat upon

the English throne, whose advent had been so earnestly desired, whose

personality had been so ardently worshipped. He it was who set the

fashion for those gallant episodes which were the boast and delectation

of men and the shame and the sorrow of women. But for him and the

example set by him I doubt if Sir John Ayloffe would ever have thought

of formulating proposals which should have put his present companions

to the blush, and which carried subsequently in their train agonies of

remorse and of disgrace, wounded honour and more than one broken heart.

CHAPTER IX

Strictly, 'tis what good people style untruth

But yet, so far, not quite the full-grown thing!

--BROWNING.

Sir John Ayloffe leaned back in his chair, and satisfied that he once

more held the close attention of the company, he resumed pleasantly:

"Will you, good my lord, and all of you gallant gentlemen grant me five

minutes wherein to place before you the situation as it at present

stands? Here is my lord of Stowmaries tied by so-called indissoluble

marriage vows to a bride whom he doth not desire for wife, and whom

he last saw borne away kicking and screaming in the arms of a waiting

wench. And there over in Paris is the daughter of a worthy tailor,

a girl born in a back shop, presumably ill-favoured and certainly

vulgar, but who has pretensions of being Countess of Stowmaries _de

facto_ as well as _de jure_. She it was who eighteen years ago was as

aforesaid borne away kicking and screaming in the arms of a waiting

wench. She was then not much more than twelve months of age, and has

not since that moment seen my lord of Stowmaries here, our gracious,

if--momentarily--somewhat troubled friend."

A sneering grunt from Sir Knaith Bullock, a groan from Stowmaries and

a murmur of assent from the others were audible whilst Sir John paused

for breath.

"The Catholic Church for which we all have deep respect," continued

Ayloffe, "doth not allow that the bonds of matrimony thus contracted

eighteen years ago shall be severed just because my lord of Stowmaries

doth not happen for the moment to have a desire for the tailor's

daughter; she having done naught to merit repudiation, since her being

carried away kicking and screaming from the presence of her lord when

her age had not reached fifteen months, doth not constitute a serious

offence in the eyes of the law."

"We know all that, man, we know all that," quoth Stowmaries moodily,

"and by the Mass you repeat yourself like a country parson in the

pulpit."

"Gently, good my lord," rejoined Ayloffe imperturbably. "What I have

to say is a somewhat delicate matter. I am dealing with a Countess of

Stowmaries--and if you did not accept my scheme--"

He paused and shrugged his shoulders in token of self-deprecation.

"It may not after all meet with your favour."

"Out with it, man--out with it," came, partly gaily, wholly impatiently

from every side.

"'Tis simple enough," said Sir John, "but were easier to say an you,

gentlemen, would help me by guessing--My lord of Stowmaries hath not

seen his bride, nor was he seen by her, since she was little more than

a year old--that is so, my lord, is it not?"

"It is," assented Stowmaries curtly.

"Impressions at that age are not lasting. Infantile memory doth not

hold an image. We may assume that if the tailor's daughter were placed

in the presence of--er--of any gentleman of noble bearing, she would

not know if he were her lord--or not."

There was silence around the table now. Neither assent nor dissent

followed Ayloffe's last words. On the face of the young Irishman

curiosity still remained impressed. The suggestion so slightly hinted

at had not yet reached his inner consciousness; on that of Lord

Rochester comprehension had just begun to dawn, a sense of astonishment

plainly struggled with one of doubt. But Sir Anthony Wykeham almost

imperceptibly drew his chair somewhat away from the table.

Lord Stowmaries in the meanwhile kept his eyes steadily fixed on those

of Sir John. They expressed neither doubt nor astonishment, only

intense excitement, an obvious desire to hear that hint more fully

explained. It was his hoarse mutter "Go on! curse you--why don't you go

on?" that first broke the momentary silence which had fallen over the

small assembly.

"Nay!" rejoined Ayloffe blandly, "I see that you, at least, my lord,

have already taken me. Is not my scheme vastly simple? The tailor's

daughter awaits her lord. He comes. She falls into his arms, and after

the usual festivities in the back shop of her estimable parents, the

bridegroom takes his bride home to far-off England. But mark what hath

occurred--it was not my lord of Stowmaries who had gone to claim his

bride, but some other man who prompted by his passion for the tailor's

beautiful daughter, a passion--we might even suppose--encouraged by

the lady herself, had impersonated the bridegroom and snatched the

golden prize despite my lord of Stowmaries and the most solemn vows

of matrimony contracted eighteen years ago. Imagine the result: the

shame, the crying scandal! My lord of Stowmaries is of a surety no

longer bound to acknowledge a wife whose very name will have become a

byword for every gossip to peck at, and whose virtue hath already been

the toy of an adventurer as unscrupulous as he was daring. Not the

Catholic Church, not the law of England, nor the decree of the Pope

would enforce the original marriage vows after that. I give you my

word, gentlemen, that my lord of Stowmaries will be granted leave by

every high tribunal, spiritual or temporal, to repudiate the wench who

had thus disgraced his name."

Sir John Ayloffe had long finished speaking and silence still reigned

all around him. Even the noise in the next room seemed for the moment

unaccountably to have ceased. Folk say that when such silences occur

in merry company, angels fly across the room, and the flutter of their

wings can distinctly be heard. What angels then were these who haunted

the private room of the "Three Bears" now? What record of ignominy and

dishonour did they mark upon the tablets of infinity when with gentle

flutter of wings they passed silently by? To the credit of all these

gentlemen here present be it said, that their first feeling was one

of shame, when they fully understood the dastardly suggestion which

Sir John was making to one of themselves; but the shame was not acute

enough to produce horrified repudiation.

Sir Anthony Wykeham certainly still held aloof, but Stowmaries had not

winced. That he understood the suggestion to the full, there could be

no doubt. His face had flushed to the roots of his hair, his fingers

were fidgeting nervously against one another and excitement verging on

intoxication caused his eyes to glow with an unnatural inward fire. His

thoughts had flown straight back to the prettily furnished parlour in

Holborn Row, to Mistress Julia Peyton's violet eyes and the exquisite

scent of her white hands when he had pressed them to his lips. His love

for her--call it passion or desire an you will--had grown in intensity

as the obstacle which separated him from her had seemed more and more

insurmountable. In the past few hours that same passion had reached a

stage of fever heat, impatient at control, chafing at impotence and

longing for satisfaction with all the strength of thwarted desire.

Rupert Kestyon, Earl of Stowmaries and Riveaulx, had been brought

up in the hard school of colonial life; in his boyhood he had been

denied every kind of pleasure and luxury in which the sense of youth

revels, through what he called an unjust Fate; then suddenly he had

seen himself thrown in the very lap of Fortune, his every desire

satisfied and his every whim made law. The change was sudden enough to

throw off its balance a more firm character than that of the son of

Captain Kestyon--spendthrift, profligate, a rogue from temperament.

Like his father's, Rupert's was essentially a weak nature. He had

never attempted to fight Fate, when Fate was against him. When

Fortune smiled, he took everything she offered him without attempt at

restraint;--and the jade had become very lavish with her gifts to the

young outcast who awhile ago had often enough been obliged to tighten

his belt against the gnawing pangs of hunger.

He had found friends, followers, sycophants; had been favoured by

royalty and smiled on by beauty, but Mistress Peyton was the first

passion in his life. He had flirted with her for months, made easy

love to her for weeks, but he had not realised that he loved her until

twenty-four hours ago when he knew that she was lost to him.

The knowledge that here was the chief desire of his heart, and that

this desire he could not gratify, despite his position, his personality

and his wealth, almost unhinged his mind. It was two years now since he

had exercised any self-denial. He had lost all knowledge of that useful

art, and was determined not to learn it again.

The day on which he heard that through an appalling catastrophe, which

had swept his kindred into the sea and broken the heart of an old man,

he, Rupert Kestyon, the penniless son of a spendthrift father, had

become rich, influential, one of the greatest gentlemen in the kingdom,

he had said with a sigh of genuine satisfaction: "Now I mean to live!"

and with him living meant solely the gratification of his every wish.

Now he saw his greatest wish in all the world born only to be thwarted.

It was monstrous, unthinkable! But from that wholesome fear of

ecclesiastical authority peculiar in those days to men of his creed, he

would have rebelled. Respect for the Church to which he belonged, dread

of a scandal which might tarnish the great name he bore, and undermine

his pleasant position alone caused him to be submissive.

He was not clever enough to find out a means of freeing himself from

irksome bonds, and had drained the cup of despair to its bitter dregs

without thinking or even hoping for an issue out of his misery.

But now a man spoke--a man whom in his saner moments he heartily

despised, whom he knew to be shiftless, unscrupulous, a born

gambler--but yet a man who showed him a way out of the quagmire of

despair into a possible haven of hope.

He had not been long in catching Ayloffe's meaning. Whilst the others

doubted he had already seen the possibilities of success. His bride had

never seen him since consciousness grew into her brain; her parents'

only recollections of himself dated back eighteen years! Why indeed

should not some other man impersonate the bridegroom, carry the bride

away and thus forever after leave on her fair maiden name a stain which

would render her unfit to be acknowledged as the wife of any honourable

gentleman?

How simple it all seemed!

Unlike his friends here present, Stowmaries saw no shame in the

scheme--no shame, let us say to himself! Disgrace to the woman--yes!

but he did not know her, and he hated the very thought of her! Disgrace

perhaps to the scoundrel who would undertake the ignoble treachery!

but to the Earl of Stowmaries who would sit quietly at home whilst the

roguery was being carried on by others?--'Sblood! who would suggest

such a ridiculous idea?

His eyes wandered round the table. Sir Anthony Wykeham was no

longer frowning and Lord Rochester had laughed--a little nervously

perhaps--but no one had actually protested.

There was no gainsaying the fact that Ayloffe was a rogue to suggest

so profligate a scheme, but profligacy was all the rage now and vastly

pleased the King.

"By Gad, a mad notion!--But a right merry one!" quoth Sir Knaith

Bullock, himself a rogue and as full of dare-devil schemes as an egg is

full of meat.

The remark loudly spoken and accompanied by a blasphemous oath and

the loud banging of a clenched fist against the table, eased the

tension finally. Even Wykeham began to laugh. Not one of these young

men here had wanted to feel ashamed, rather did each one desire to

seem a vast deal worse than his neighbour. It was no good allowing the

recollections of early lessons in chivalry to mar the enjoyment of the

present merry life; not even if those lessons had been taught by a

father who had died fighting for King and cause.

Let the ball of pleasure be set rolling; that ball partly made up of

love of devilry, partly of ennui seeking for amusement and of contempt

for woman's virtue.

"'Twere rare sport!" said Rochester.

Sport! The word acted like magic and shame was completely vanquished by

the pleasing sense of excitement.

Bah! what was the virtue, the fair name, the happiness of a tailor's

daughter worth, in the face of the vastly pleasing entertainment she

herself would provide for her betters.

"An ignoble trick to play on a woman," murmured Wykeham.

But his protest had become very feeble. He saw nothing in the

suggestion that shocked his religious scruples, for the rest he cared

but little. The victim was only a tailor's daughter after all, and

Stowmaries--his friend--would not be the one to repudiate his marriage

vows.

"Bah! a tailor's daughter!" was the gist of the argument in favour of

the scheme.

"She shall have full compensation," quoth my lord Stowmaries somewhat

tonelessly, for his throat felt parched and his tongue seemed to be

several sizes too large for his mouth.

He drank down a large bumper full of sherry into which Ayloffe had

unobtrusively thrown a dash of raw brandy.

"Have you forgotten, gentlemen," now said gallant Sir John lustily,

"that my lord of Stowmaries will give seventy thousand pounds to the

friend who will help him in his need. A fortune methinks, which should

tempt any young gallant in search of romantic adventure and a pretty

wife."

"But the details, man! the details!" came from every side, "surely you

have thought of them!"

"And of the risks!" suggested Lord Rochester, who was practical, and

who had oft suffered because of his gallant adventures.

"There are no risks, gentlemen," quoth Sir John Ayloffe, "not to us

at any rate, nor yet to my lord Stowmaries. As for the tailor and

his family, believe me they will be so covered with ridicule, that

they will not cause his lordship a moment's anxiety. Just think on

it! To give away one's daughter to a man who is not her husband! to

greet him with festivities and merrimaking, to kill the fatted calf

in honour of the man who brings dishonour into one's home! Nay! Nay!

The breeches-maker of Paris will have cause to keep silent after the

adventure. The maid perchance will retire into a convent, and the

gallant adventurer can brave the world in comfort with seventy thousand

pounds in his pocket."

"Bravo! Well said!--But the details?--how will you work, it, Ayloffe?"

Obviously the scheme was commending itself more and more to these

over-heated brains. There were no shame-faced looks round the table

now. Stowmaries did not speak; his excitement was too keen to find vent

in words, and he was shrewd enough to realise at once that Ayloffe did

not mean to give away the details of his plans to this trio of young

addle-pated rakes.

But cries of "The details, man, the details!" became more and more

insistent. Sir John, glass in hand, at last rose in response.

"The details are simple enough, gentlemen, and now that I have your

approbation, I will be quick enough in working them out. In the

meanwhile let us drink to the gallant adventurer who must help us in

our scheme. We do not yet know his name, who he is or whence he comes;

the fairy Prince who will free my lord Stowmaries from irksome bondage

and the tailor's daughter from the fetters of a respectable home. What

we do know is that this Prince must be young, else he could not pass

for milor of Stowmaries, he must be well-favoured, else the lady might

fight shy of him; but he may be as poor as the proverbial church

mouse, since seventy thousand pounds, and the fortune of the richest

tailor in Paris are jointly to be his. Come, gentlemen, will you take

my toast?"

Loud banging of pewter mugs against the deal table greeted this merry

sally. The young men jumped to their feet.

"To him! To the unknown!" they shouted laughing with one accord. There

were loud calls for Master Foorde, and confused orders for more Spanish

wine. Sir John called for brandy, and anon when the worthy hosteler

filled the bumpers all round the table, Ayloffe followed him adding

brandy here and there to the wine, laughingly insistent, praising

the quality of the liquor for inducing to gaiety and all the elegant

qualities of amiable drunkenness so fashionable in a gentleman of the

period.

He was quite clever enough not to make any further direct allusions to

the scheme, the realisation of which meant the transference of twelve

thousand pounds from Mistress Julia Peyton's pocket into his own. So

far he had gained the first stake in the game which he had set himself

to play, and was content for the moment merely to addle still further

the heads of these young reprobates by wild talks of adventure, and

sly allusions to the delights of coming scandal, mixed with sweeping

sarcasm directed at feminine virtue in general and the morals of the

Paris bourgeoisie in particular.

He knew well enough that Stowmaries was at one with him by now, but

that he never would have succeeded in persuading the young man to enter

into such villainous schemes, if he had been alone with him.

Away from the glamour of his rakish friends, of the atmosphere of the

tavern, of the smell of wine and tobacco, Stowmaries' better nature

and the inherited instincts of honour would have rebelled against

the roguery. Any of these young men here present would individually

have repudiated the monstrous proposal whilst collectively they were

over-ready to trample on any nascent idea of chivalry, each one ashamed

to be called squeamish or Puritanical by the other. There was nothing

really depraved in these young men, only a desire to outdo each other

in profligacy, in a show of anti-Puritanism, the immediate outcome of

the enforced restraint of the past generation.

Ayloffe knew this, and, therefore, he had chosen the supper hour, and

the presence of a select number of the worst rakes in London--Rochester

and Bullock--for testing Stowmaries' willingness to enter into his own

villainous scheme. He wanted the support of confused brains, of rowdy

excitement, of shouts and of laughter to drown the preliminary call of

conscience. This once smothered, would probably never lift a warning

voice again, and details could be comfortably settled in private later

on.

"Believe me, gentlemen," he said gaily, "that that tailor's minx will

thank us all on her knees for the entertainment which we will provide

for her. Odd's fish and I mistake not she hath but little stomach for

becoming an honourable British matron, and you may be sure that 'tis

only her parents who force her into an unwelcome marriage. We shall be

the rescuers of beauty in distress, and will provide the wench with

such an adventure as will draw the eyes of half Europe upon her and

give her that notoriety which all women prize far beyond those virtues

which are only vaunted by the old and ugly ones of their own sex. A

bumper on it, gentlemen! I pledge the tailor's minx, ill-favoured

though she be--my word on that! she'll become the talk of London--I

drink to her adventure--and to the bold man who will share in it--By

my halidame, were I but twenty years younger, I'd apply for the post

myself."

Ayloffe's irresponsible talk, and the heady wines mixed with alcohol

completed the work of destruction. Lord Stowmaries and his friends

contrived within the next hour or so to lose more self-respect than

their fathers had gained in a lifetime through sublime adherence to a

forlorn cause.

CHAPTER X

But indeed words are very rascals since bonds disgrace them.

--TWELFTH NIGHT III. 1.

I think that we shall have to accept Sir Anthony Wykeham's account of

how the proceedings finally terminated. He avers that by the time the

church clock of St. Clement's had struck the hour of ten, Sir John

Ayloffe was the only man present in that small private room who could

at all be called sober.

At that hour my lord of Rochester it seems lay right across the table

with flushed face hidden in the bend of the elbow, snoring lustily

at intervals and at others lifting a heavy head in order to hurl a

bibulous remark at impassive Sir John or over-excited Stowmaries: Sir

Knaith Bullock had quite frankly exchanged the rickety incertitude of

Master Foorde's chairs for the more solid level of the floor, where

after sundry struggles with a tiresome cravat and a persistently wry

perruque he lay amidst the straw and the unsavoury postprandial debris

that littered it, in comfort and security.

Wykeham, according to his own account, had lapsed into somnolent

sulkiness, vaguely listening to the ribald jests and coarse oaths

uttered by the others, and to the monotonous murmur of Sir John's voice

as he explained the details of his scheme to Stowmaries.

The latter had certainly drunk more brandy than was good for the

clearness of his brain. Excitement, too, had wrought upon his blood,

with the result that the events of this night took on the garb of some

over-vivid dream: but, as soon as he realised that his perceptions

were becoming too confused to take in Ayloffe's varied suggestions, he

made a vigorous effort to regain possession of himself. He called for

a bowl of iced water, and dashed its contents into his face and across

his eyes. After that he steadily refused to drink any more, nor did Sir

John press him any further.

The insinuating poison had done its work: there was no fear now that

Stowmaries would wish to draw back.

"I pray you draw your chair nearer, my lord," said Ayloffe after awhile

when of a truth he saw that the rest of the company was quite helpless,

"these gentlemen are not like to disturb us now."

With unaccountable reluctance Stowmaries did as the older man bade him,

and presently the two men withdrew altogether from out the circle of

dim light thrown by the guttering tallow candles.

"Your lordship, I take it then, agrees with the broad basis of my

scheme," said Ayloffe, speaking quite low, only just above a whisper.

"You are anxious to free yourself from this undesired marriage, and

you think that my suggestion is one which will most easily help you to

accomplish this purpose?"

"That is so," assented Stowmaries readily.

"On the other hand," continued Ayloffe, "your lordship is prepared to

pay the sum of seventy thousand pounds to the man who will impersonate

your lordship in the house of M. Legros, merchant tailor of Paris,

who will--in your name and person--claim the Legros girl as his wife,

and go through the necessary civil and religious ceremonies that will

ratify the original marriage; and, finally, who will undertake not to

reveal his own identity to the tailor's daughter until you, my lord,

will grant him leave. For these services," concluded Sir John with

emphasis, "is your lordship prepared to pay the vast sum of seventy

thousand pounds?"

"More than that," replied Stowmaries in an excited whisper, which

rendered his voice hoarse and his tongue stiff and parched. "More than

that and money down: fifty thousand pounds on that day that he signs

and seals the bargain with me, and starts on his errand for Paris, and

a further seventy thousand on the day that the tailor's daughter leaves

her parents' home in his company. A hundred and twenty thousand pounds!

mine honour! my life upon it. But where in the name of Hell will you

find the man to take it?"

By way of an immediate reply, Sir John placed a warning finger to his

mouth, then rose and beckoning to the other to follow him, he went to

the door which divided the private parlour from the public Coffee Room,

and throwing it open he pointed to the rowdy company who sat assembled

each side of the oblong trestle table.

"Amongst that crowd," he whispered with an insinuating smile.

CHAPTER XI

Good-night, good sleep, good rest from sorrow

To these that shall not have good morrow.

--SWINBURNE.

At first when Sir John Ayloffe threw open the door of the public room,

Stowmaries was only conscious of an almost Satanic din; he certainly

could see nothing through the dense cloud of smoke which filled every

corner of the long, narrow hall.

Gradually, however, his eyes, still dimmed from recent libations and

acute excitement, became accustomed to this haze-covered gloom, whilst

his ears distinguished isolated sounds, drunken songs, loud oaths or

hoarse laughter from out the deafening roar which surged towards him

like the noise of breakers against a rock.

A narrow deal table ran from end to end of the room, from the main

door at the top to the small latticed window at the bottom. The floor

was strewn with rushes on which sprawled recumbent figures in various

stages of drunken sleep, in the very midst of a litter of debris,

broken glasses, overthrown mugs, patches of spilt wine or ale, bones

and remnants of pastry and of bread--all evil-smelling and unspeakably

dirty. On the table itself the remnants of pies and cooked meats, and a

forest of empty mugs and bottles. One by one the tallow candles which

had been placed at intervals throughout the whole length of the table

had thrown up their last flicker of feeble light, had spluttered their

last with a hissing sound and finally died out in a column of grimy

smoke.

There were but some half dozen or so left now, which threw uncertain

yellow gleams through the thick veil of tobacco fumes, on the prostrate

figures that sprawled across the table, on overthrown goblets and jugs,

on all the unsavoury debris--remnants of the past orgy.

The rest of the room was in darkness, and through the gloom the figure

of a young man, with flushed face and dark brown hair innocent of

perruque, moved backwards and forwards to the rhythmic cadence of a

boisterous chorus of song.

The draught from the badly-fastened window wafted the strips of

cotton which hung in lieu of curtains, straight into the room, with

a swishing, moaning sound around which--soft though it was--could

be heard like a long drawn-out sigh of pain, in the pauses of lusty

laughter and of ribald song.

The storm outside seemed to have ceased, for, as the curtains blew away

from the window the pale, ghost-like streaks of moonbeams searched

the darkness of that end of the room and found here a fold of satin

tattered and frayed, there a broken paste buckle, or rusty sword hilt

on which to play its weird gamut of faint and ghoulish rays.

The noise was incessant, merriment mixed with quarrelsome oaths, lively

songs alternating with hoarse shouts. All those who were not snoring

babbled incoherently, swore or sang; Irish brogue mingling with broad

Yorkshire tones, round Scotch oaths striking against Gaelic ones,

whilst from time to time, a noisome word loudly flung from end to end

of the table like a filthy rag would rouse one of the sleepers and

spur him to respond to the challenge with vile blasphemy.

At times the clink of a sword would cut sharply through the buzzing

air, the beginnings of a quarrel, a volley of vituperations, a pewter

mug or half-empty bottle thrown right across the table scattering its

contents over tattered coats and already much-stained vests: then the

hoarse admonitions of the peacemakers, the first refrain of a song by

way of a diversion, more lively, more out of tune than before, and

laughter and jests once more reigned supreme.

Stowmaries gazed on this scene, the while he still felt that somnolent

feeling of being in a dream, enveloping his senses. He heard the noise

and saw the figures swaying to and fro, moving on unsteady legs, in

and out of the narrow circles of yellow light like gnomes dancing the

figures of a saraband, in the anteroom of Hell.

The figure of the young man at the extreme end of the room fascinated

him. He could not discern the face clearly, only as a flushed mask with

the pale moonbeams touching the dark hair with their ghostly rays.

"'Tis your cousin Michael," whispered Ayloffe close to his ear.

Stowmaries gave a sudden start. He understood now why Sir John had

shown him this scene, the picture of this rowdy crowd composed of the

ne'er-do-well, unclassed profligates who had flooded the country ever

since the Restoration, hurrying back to England from Flanders or from

Spain, under the guise of Royalist loyalty which had suffered exile for

the great cause, and was now eager and ready for reward.

Boisterous, unscrupulous, disrespecters of persons and of dignity, they

traded on the people's avowed dislike of the canting Puritans who

had ruled in England for so long. Jeering, mocking and carousing they

filled London with their noise, the open scandal of their lives, the

disgrace of their conduct.

By day they paraded the streets loudly singing licentious songs,

dressed in the rags and tatters of cavalier accoutrements long since

thrown away, seeking the peaceful citizen with the Puritan leanings,

who chanced to find himself in their way and holding him up to

ridicule, the butt of their uncontrolled merriment.

By night they filled the taverns and coffee houses of the city and

only the small hours of the morning witnessed their final retirement

into the small brothels of evil repute where alone they could obtain

lodgings.

There were hundreds of these men about the London streets during

the few years which followed the Restoration. The great plague had

decimated them somewhat, the fire of 1666 had scattered some of them

broadcast, but in this present year there were still a goodly number of

them about. They were the terror of the night watchmen and the despair

of the ill-organised and inefficient police-patrols, and rendered the

lesser streets of the city well-nigh impassable to quiet citizens and

to decent women.

And it was amongst these men that Michael Kestyon was most often to be

found; shouting with them by day, drinking and gambling with them by

night. Michael Kestyon, cousin to my lord of Stowmaries and like him

descended from those who in mediæval days had writ their name largely

on the pages of history: Michael, the ne'er-do-well, the wastrel, the

profligate: Michael the idler who strove in such company to forget that

he had been born a gentleman, and that he held a claim to the title and

estates of Stowmaries which many thought was passing just.

CHAPTER XII

Oh, the strife

Of waves at the stone, some devil threw

In my life's mid-current thwarting God.

--BROWNING.

For Michael Kestyon was a man with a grievance. A just grievance enough

since many held that he and not his cousin Rupert should have been the

present Earl of Stowmaries.

But possession in those far-off days was even more absolutely an

integral part of the law than it is now. Rupert Kestyon was _de facto_

established at Maries Castle, whilst Michael had to begin life by

selling his sword or his skin to the highest bidder, and all because

his father and grandfather before him had been either very supine or

hideously neglectful of their own respective son's interests to enforce

the decree of King Edward III anent the family succession.

That the decree existed no one attempted to deny; it was embodied

in a document which with other family archives was actually in the

possession of Michael Kestyon the pretender. These papers in fact were

the only inheritance bequeathed to him by his father, besides a legacy

of hatred and covetousness against the usurpers of the name and fortune

of Stowmaries. But ye shall judge if the reigning earls were usurpers

or not.

It seems that in those distant days when Edward III reigned over

England and France, the then Lady of Stowmaries presented her lord

with twin boys, born within an hour of another. Fine boys they were, so

tradition hath it, well grown and sturdy and as like to one another as

two peas lying in the same pod.

The fond mother as she gazed proudly upon these children--who of a

truth were each endowed with a powerful pair of lungs--little guessed

the mischief which their joint arrival would cause in the ancient and

noble family of Kestyon.

According to the laws of military tenure, the eldest of these two

boys--older remember than his own brother only by a short hour or

so--should have been held to be the heir to the titles, dignities,

lands and appurtenances held in fief direct by the Lord of Stowmaries

from his suzerain liege Lord Edward III by the Grace of God King of

England and of France.

But as evil chance--presided over by some imp of mischief--would have

it, the twins--when scarce a few hours old--being placed by my lady's

tiring-woman side by side in the bed, presently took to vigorous

quarrelling. My lady thereupon was much perturbed and her women were

all hastily summoned to her bedside, so that they might administer such

soothing draughts as were usual under the circumstances.

When my lady was once more restored to her former quietude she asked

for her boys, requesting that the eldest be first placed in her arms.

Alas! the mischief was done! The tiring-woman could not remember which

child she had lain on the right side of the bed, and which on the left,

nor could her astuteness combined with the adoring mother's searching

eyes state positively afterwards which boy was heir to the barony of

Stowmaries, and which the mere younger son.

Imagine the confusion which ensued. Stories of innumerable quarrels

between the brothers as they grew up to boyhood's estate have been

handed down to their posterity. The father himself was at a loss what

to do. He had a great love for both his boys, and not knowing which was

the elder and which the younger son, he had a vast fear of doing an

injustice either to the one or to the other.

What could he do but ask the advice and ascertain the wishes of his

suzerain liege? This we are told he did as soon as the children had

reached the mature age of ten and owed military service to their lord.

King Edward III we all know was a model of justice and of sound common

sense. He declared it impossible that either of the boys should be

deprived of what might be his lawful inheritance. Therefore, by a

special decree signed by his own hand manual, he declared that on the

death of his faithful cousin, the Baron of Stowmaries, the title,

estates in fief or military tenure and other lands and appurtenances

thereof should devolve jointly on the twin sons of the said lord, and

that the first born child in the next generation should then once more

reunite in his own person the titles and estates of Stowmaries.

Moreover the King decreed that if at any future time, a Lady of

Stowmaries should take it into her gracious head to present her lord

with twins, this same rule of succession should apply.

Thus said His Majesty King Edward III, and my lord of Stowmaries was

thereby satisfied. The brothers were henceforth brought up as joint

heirs of one of the finest baronies in the Kingdom and we hear nothing

more of family feuds or dissensions.

That the twins eventually did jointly succeed to their father's

title and estates we know from the records anent the twin Barons of

Stowmaries who fought under the banner of John of Gaunt in the days of

Richard II; and from the fact that King Henry IV in 1410 created the

then Baron of Stowmaries, Earl of Stowmaries and Riveaulx we may infer

that one of those turbulent twins did have a son who succeeded alone

to his father and uncle, and once more united in his own person all

dignities and lands belonging to the ancient family.

Thus the carelessness of a tiring-wench had for the time being no

further serious consequences on the fortunes of the Kestyons. For some

generations to come it seemed that the ladies of Stowmaries had no

predilection for twins. But in the year 1552, so the family archives

tell us, the wife of John, Earl of Stowmaries--Grand Master of the

Ceremonies to King Edward VI--presented her lord with a sturdy pair of

boys.

As like to one another as the proverbial peas were these two new scions

of the ancient family of Kestyon, and mightily proud of them was their

fond mother, but there never was any confusion as to their identity.

One of them--Rupert--was born fully two hours before his brother

Michael, and was ever after looked upon as his father's heir. Nor, on

the death of the Earl, did any one seem to have thought of disputing

his sole right to the title and estates of Stowmaries.

Rupert succeeded his father and in his turn was succeeded by his son.

But what we do know as a certain fact is that Michael, the younger

twin, had a son born to him a full year before his elder brother took

unto himself a wife, and that if the decree of King Edward III had been

duly enforced by law, Rupert and Michael should have been joint Earls

of Stowmaries and it should have been Michael's son--the first born in

the next generation--who should have united the title and estates in

his own person.

Why Michael did not endeavour to enforce the ancient decree of Edward

III we shall never know: there are neither letters nor other documents

to explain this supineness, which is all the more inexplicable since it

affected the future of his own son even more than his own.

We are concerned with the present generation. With Rupert, Earl of

Stowmaries, the direct descendant of the older twin, and with Michael

Kestyon, the grandson of the younger.

Such as I have related is the true history of the grievance which this

Michael nurtured against his cousin whom he deemed an usurper, and

against all his peers, kinsmen and fellow gentlemen for the injustice

which they abetted by admitting that usurper as one of themselves.

But unlike his father and grandfather before him Michael was not

content to see any one else in possession of the family title and

estates, which of a truth should have been his. From his father he had

inherited among other family archives the mediæval document embodying

the decree of Edward III and bearing that monarch's signature. How

and wherefore this had remained as an heirloom in this branch of the

family, tradition does not tell us. The fact seems to suggest that the

younger twin--Michael--may have had some intention of enforcing his

son's claim at a future time--an intention, mayhap, frustrated by death.

The man whom Lord Stowmaries saw at this moment, with flushed face and

unsteady voice singing ribald songs to the accompaniment of boisterous

laughter, chink of dice and sword, and blasphemous oaths, had at one

time taken up his own cause with ardent and heart-whole enthusiasm.

At the age when boyhood first yields to maturity, Michael had lost his

father and thereupon had begun to fight for his rights, with all the

strength of a turbulent nature, full of instincts of luxury and driven

to penury through flagrant injustice. He had spent some of the best

years of his life, in a perpetual appeal to the King and to his peers

to try his cause and if necessary to find it just. But the King was

not fond of settling important questions himself and the Lords' House

of Parliament was overbusy re-establishing a number of its own lapsed

privileges to bother about a claimant with empty pockets.

Driven from pillar to post, Michael appealed to Common Law, to Chancery

and to equity, setting up divers pleas in order to bring his case

within the jurisdiction of these respective Courts. He spent all his

substance in lawyer's fees, in sworn documents, in meeting constant

demands for bribery, the while his kinsman sat comfortably enthroned

at Maries Castle paying no heed to a claim, the justice of which one

attempted to deny yet which no one was able legally to enforce.

Gradually as his pockets grew more and more empty, as constant rebuffs

took the edge off his optimism, Michael carried on the fight with less

and less hope if with unabated doggedness.

In the intervals he had sold his sword and his skin to the highest

bidder, to Italy or Flanders, to the Emperor or to the King of France.

He had led the life of the adventurer, who knows not from day to day

whence will come the rations for the morrow, of the soldier of fortune

who has neither kindred nor home.

His mother whom he adored--in his own turbulent passionate way--spent

a life of humble penury in a remote Kentish village. To this lowly

abode of peace Michael returned from time to time from his far-off

wanderings in Sicily or Spain; here he would spend some few days in

worshipping his mother, until the agony of seeing her patient and

serene within measurable sight of starvation drove him frantic from out

her doors.

Then he would rush back to London and once more haunt the Courts and

the purlieus of Whitehall, swallowing his outbursts of pride in vain

supplications for a fresh hearing, in a mad desire to see the King, in

licking the dust before the feet of those who might help him to further

his cause.

At those times self-deprecation would render him moody; his

pleasure-loving nature was swamped beneath the heavy pall of a mother's

want, a mother's sorrow and misery. He despised himself for being

unable to lift her out of such humiliating penury. She who should

be Countess of Stowmaries, one of the greatest ladies in the land,

scrubbed her own floors and oft lacked a meal, the while her son, the

able-bodied and reckless adventurer, was eating out his heart with the

shame of his own impotence.

But what he could not accomplish whilst the scanty means left to him by

his father were still at his command, he was totally unable to obtain

now that he had not one stiver to offer to those who might have helped

him but whose palms seemed forever to be in want of grease.

Blood-money abroad had also become more meagre. The King of France and

the Emperor had their own standing armies now, and had less need of

mercenary troops than of yore. Michael who in battle sought wounds as

another would seek cheap glory, was given but twenty crowns for a sword

thrust which he received at Fehrbellin whilst fighting for the Elector

of Brandenburg.

He nearly died of the thrust, and afterwards of starvation, for

he sent the twenty crowns to his mother, and being considered too

enfeebled for active service, he could not immediately obtain further

enlistment.

This was but one of the many episodes which had helped to make Michael

Kestyon what he now was. A bitter sense of wrong gnawed at his

heartstrings, the while he strove to hide his better nature beneath the

mask of boisterous gaiety, of a licentious life and reckless gambling.

The buffetings of law officials, the corrupt practises of second rate

attorneys, the constant demands on his scanty purse now made up the sum

total of his dealings with humanity, when he was not actually in the

company of adventurers more profligate, more dissolute than himself.

He saw the better world--that world which was composed of his own

kindred--turned, as if in arms against him. Not a friend to give him

help save at a price which he could not afford to pay. It was money and

always money: money which he could not get, and without which he saw

the last chance of getting a hearing for his case vanishing beyond his

reach.

The descent from those early boyish days full of idealism and of hope,

down to the lowest rung of the social ladder, to the companionship of

gamesters and of drunkards, had been overcertain and none too slow.

Accustomed to the revelries of camp life, to that light-hearted gaiety

so full of exuberance to-day and oft the precursor of a bloody death on

the morrow, Michael found the England of the Restoration a mercenary

and inhospitable spot.

Among his own kind, mockery of his vain endeavours; among the

others--the wastrels--a life of boisterous merrimaking which at any

rate made for forgetfulness.

CHAPTER XIII

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues

And every tongue brings in a several tale,

And every tale condemns me for a villain.

--RICHARD III. V. 3.

In response to Ayloffe's whisper, Stowmaries had asked hurriedly:

"Is this the man?"

The older man nodded, and Stowmaries gazed long and searchingly upon

his cousin, vaguely wondering if Sir John's astuteness had pointed in

the right direction, if indeed this were the man most likely to lend

himself for a large sum of money to the furtherance of an ignoble

scheme.

Stowmaries saw before him a man--still in the prime of life but on

whom dissipation, sleeplessness by night and starvation by day had

already boldly writ their impress; a man like unto himself in feature,

a distinct family resemblance being noticeable between the two cousins,

but in Michael Kestyon--the reckless adventurer--the evenly placid

expression born of a contented life had long ago yielded to the wild,

hunted look, the mirror of a turbulent soul. He wore a surcoat which

was obviously of rich cloth though the many vicissitudes of camp life

had left severe imprints upon its once immaculate surface: beneath this

coat there peeped out innocent of vest, the shirt, which once had been

wrought by loving fingers, of fine linen and delicate stitchery, but

now presented the appearance of a miscellaneous collection of tatters

and darns with here and there a dark stain on it, which spoke of more

than one sword thrust in the breast, of the miseries of that life of

fighting and of toil, of aches and pains and of ill-tended wounds.

The rest of Michael's attire was in keeping with the surcoat and the

shirt: the faded silk sash long since deprived of tassels, the collar

free from starch, the breeches a veritable motley of patchwork, and

the high boots of untanned leather, stained a dark greenish brown from

exposure to constant damp.

This then was the man who was most like to sell himself for so much

money, and Stowmaries noting the squalor of Michael's attire, the

dissipated yet wearied look in his face, ceased to wonder how it came

that Sir John had thought of this wastrel, and in his mind fully

approved of the choice.

Suddenly Michael Kestyon caught sight of the two men standing under the

lintel of the door. He greeted them at once with a shout of welcome.

"My worthy coz!" he said gaily, "and if I mistake not 'tis gallant Sir

John Ayloffe, the finest rogue that ever graced a court. Gentlemen!"

he continued mocking, and advancing with mincing and unsteady steps

towards the two men, "pray tell us--though by the Mass I call you

right welcome--what procures this humble abode the honour of such

distinguished company?"

Whilst the young man spoke, most of his companions had ceased both song

and laughter; several faces--all flushed with heady liquor--were turned

towards the door, whilst glances wherein suspicion fought with the

confusing fumes of alcohol, were directed on the newcomers.

But Sir John Ayloffe with determined good humour had returned Michael's

greeting with easy bonhomie.

"Nay, friend Michael," he said, the while he prudently closed the door

behind him and Stowmaries, lest the noise in the coffee room awaken his

sleeping friends, "your amiable cousin and I myself were tired of the

sober assembly in the parlour and had desire for more merry company. I

hope your call of welcome was no mere empty word, and that of a truth

we may join your hospitable board."

With much gravity Michael surveyed Ayloffe and Stowmaries up and down,

from the diamond buckles on their shoes to the elaborate curls of their

gigantic perruques; then he turned to his friends, who had followed his

every movement with that solemn attention peculiar to the drunkard,

which tries yet fails to comprehend what is going on before him.

"What say you, gentlemen?" he said, "shall we admit these noble rogues

to our table? My cousin here, as you see, has but lately emerged from

the surveillance of his keeper, he inhabited a monkey garden for a

considerable time, and hath collected a vast amount of hair on his head

from the shavings of his many companions."

A terrific and prolonged shout of laughter shook the very walls of the

room, the while Stowmaries, who suddenly had became pale with rage,

placed a quivering hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Insolent beggar!--" he murmured in a hoarse voice, which, however, was

completely drowned in the bibulous noise which had greeted Michael's

impertinent sally and which rose and fell in a continuous roar for some

considerable time, the while Michael himself, satisfied at the effect

which he had produced, struck up the refrain of a drinking song.

"In the name of the lady whom you honour with your love, good my

lord," whispered Ayloffe close to Stowmaries' ear and with impressive

earnestness, "I entreat you to keep your temper. We have need of this

wastrel for the success of our scheme, and a quarrel would of a surety

ruin it completely."

Michael Kestyon now turned to his cousin once more.

"I pray you take your seats, gentlemen," he said pointing with unsteady

gesture to a couple of empty chairs placed at the head of the table,

"though you may not be aware of it, my friends here have shown a

desire for the continuance of your presence amongst us. Had they not

desired it they would have shown their disapproval by various hints

more or less gentle, such as the throwing of a pewter mug at you or the

elevation of their toe to the level of your majestic persons. But as it

is ye may rest assured, ye are welcome here."

"I thank you, good Michael," said Ayloffe pleasantly, as in response to

Michael's invitation he now advanced further into the room and took his

seat at the head of the board, followed by Stowmaries who was making

vain attempts to conceal his contempt of the proceedings, and to master

his ill-humour.

"Indeed," continued Sir John addressing with gracious familiarity the

united company present, "I know not what we have done to deserve your

favours. Believe me, we came as suppliants desiring to be entertained

by the most noted merrimakers in London."

Michael with the same mock gravity once more resumed his place at the

table close beside Sir John Ayloffe. He drew two mugs towards him and

from a gigantic pewter jug, he poured out full measures of a thick red

liquid, which had the appearance of spiced wine.

The beverage certainly exhaled a remarkable methylic odour, which from

the nostrils seemed to strike straight into the brain making the blood

seethe in the head and the eyes glow as with the heat of running fire.

Moreover the mugs which Michael had filled, and then pushed towards the

newcomers were not over clean. Even Sir John had much ado to keep his

outward show of geniality and to mask his friend's more and more marked

impatience and disgust.

"By the Mass, merry sirs," quoth Michael with boisterous hilarity, "an

you really desire to be of our company we will grant you admittance.

But first must ye pledge us in a full bumper of this nectar, concocted

by good Master Foorde for the complete undoing of his most favoured

guests. We drink to you, gentlemen, brother rogues an you please. If

you are saints do not drink. The liquid will poison you."

"To you all, brother rogues," came in lusty accents from Sir John

Ayloffe as he jumped to his feet, bumper in hand, "and may you accept

us as two of the worst rogues that ever graced your hospitable board."

He quaffed the sickly, very heady liquid at one draught. He had kept

himself uncommonly sober throughout the evening and the potion he knew

could not do him a great deal of harm. He had a solid head and was not

unused to the rough concoctions made up of cheap wines, of alcohol and

sundry spices wherewith these noisy louts were wont still further to

addle their over-confused pates.

Stowmaries would have demurred, despite the warning look thrown at him

from beneath Sir John's heavy lids, but, looking up, he saw Michael's

deep-set eyes fixed upon him with a measure of amusement not altogether

free from sarcasm which vastly irritated him and without attempting to

hide his disgust he raised the heavy mug with a gesture of recklessness

and contempt and he too drank it down at one draught.

There were loud shouts of approval at this, and the occasion was

further improved by more drinking and the singing of various snatches

culled from the most noted and most licentious songs.

But Michael was now examining Sir John Ayloffe very attentively. The

latter having drunk expressed distinct appreciation of the beverage,

and even made pretence, as he once more resumed his seat, of asking for

more.

"You are looking at me with strange persistence, good Michael," he said

at last with unalterable blandness, as he returned the younger man's

questioning gaze.

"May not a cat look at a king," retorted the other lightly, "or a

beggar gaze on the exalted personality of Sir John Ayloffe?"

"By all means, and welcome. But, on my faith, my personality is in no

wise exalted, therefore, I may be permitted to ask again what is the

cause of your flattering attention?"

"Curiosity," replied Michael curtly.

"Curiosity?"

"Yes. I was wondering in my mind why you are here to-night, and why you

have brought mine estimable if somewhat weak-minded cousin with you

here, in the very midst of the most evil-reputed crowd in London?"

"Oh!" protested Sir John gallantly, "'tis not the most evil-reputed

crowd by any means. We, who are accustomed to the profligate life of

a gentleman, look over leniently on the innocent if somewhat flashy

debaucheries of these pleasure-lovers here."

"Yet are we no mere pleasure lovers, Sir John," said Michael with

a sudden air of seriousness which contrasted strangely with his

flushed face and his slovenly and ragged attire. "You see here before

you the very scum of humanity, the bits of flotsam and jetsam which

the tide of fortune throws upon the shores of life; tattered rags

of manhood, shattered lives, disappointed hopes! This room is full

of these wreckages, like morsels of poisonous seaweed or of empty

shells that litter the earth and make it foul with their noisome

putrefaction. Elegant gentlemen like you and my fair cousin here

should not join in this mêlée wherein crime falls against crime, and

moral foulness pollutes the air. We are rogues here, sir, all of us,"

he added bringing his hand open-palmed crashing down upon the table,

"rogues that have long ago ceased to blush, rogues that shrink neither

before crime nor before shame. Rogues! rogues! all of us--not born so

remember, but made rogues because of some one else's crime, some one

else's shame!--but damned rogues for all that!"

He drank another bumper full of spiced wine! He had spoken loudly and

hoarsely with wrathful eyes gazing straight ahead before him, as if

striving through the foul smoke and vitiated air of this den of thieves

to perceive that nook in a Kentish village, where in a tumble-down,

miserable cottage, a woman who should have been Countess of Stowmaries

was often on her knees scrubbing the tiled floors.

But Stowmaries's laugh, loud and almost malignant, broke the trend of

Michael's thoughts.

"Ay, ay! Well said!" he shouted as loudly, as hilariously as had done

the others. "Well said, Michael, for you at least, an rumour doth not

lie, are a damned rogue for all that!"

"Nay! Nay!" interposed Ayloffe with mild amiability, "you do your

cousin Michael a grave injustice. I know that my lord of Rochester

would back me up in what I say. All these gentlemen here are rogues but

in name. They shout and they sing, they parade the streets and make

merry, but they are, of a truth, of a right good sort, and if only a

pleasing turn of fortune came their way, they would all become peaceful

citizens in a trice and forswear all their deeds of profligacy, of

which they are often cordially ashamed."

'Twas Michael's turn to laugh. He threw back his head so that the

muscles of his neck stood out like cords, and he laughed loudly and

immoderately, with a laugh that had absolutely no mirth in it.

"Ashamed of our roguery," he said at last, when that outburst had

ceased and he was once more learning forward across the table with

dark, glowing eyes wandering from one flushed face to another. "Hark at

him, gentlemen! Sir John Ayloffe here would make saints of us! Hark ye,

sir," he continued bringing his excited face close to that of Sir John,

"I for one delight in mine own roguery. I am what I am, do you hear?

what the buffetings of Fate and the injustice of man have made me. The

more my mealy-mouthed cousin here exults in his courtliness and in his

honour, the more do I glory in mine own disgrace. If _that_ is honour,"

he said pointing with a trembling hand at Stowmaries who despite his

brave attire cut but a sorry figure at the present moment, for he felt

supremely ill at ease, "then am I content to be a rogue. The greater

the villainy, the prouder am I to accomplish it, and if I am to go to

Hell for it, then let my damnation be on the head of those who have

driven me thither."

Stowmaries shrugged his shoulders in moody contempt. Sir John looked

like one profoundly impressed at an unforeseen aspect of affairs.

"As for me," growled one of the men sulkily, "pay me for it and I'll

stick a knife into any person you list."

He was an elderly man with a red face and straggly white hair. He had

been a scholar once, drunkenness and an inordinate love of gambling had

made him what he now was.

"For ten golden sovereigns I'd poison the King!" quoth another thickly.

"For less than that I'd sell my soul!" added another.

"Thou canst not sell what thou hast not got," comes in a quick reply

from the further end of the table.

"And you, friend Michael, what would you do for a fortune?" asked Sir

John returning Michael's gaze with a firm, earnest look.

"I'd ask the devil to spare my cousin here!" replied Michael flippantly.

"You would not play the part of an hired assassin, I am sure."

"If I hated any one well enough, I'd kill him without pay," retorted

the other.

"Or abduct a woman?"

"An she pleased me, I'd not want money to tell her so."

"Then meseems," sighed Sir John with a deprecating shrug of the

shoulders, "that I have come to the wrong man with mine offer."

"There was no offer," quoth Michael curtly.

"Ay! of a fortune," rejoined the other calmly.

"Not a serious one."

"As serious as mine own presence here."

"You have come here prepared to make me an offer?" reiterated the

young man now, with contemptuous incredulity.

"The offer of a fortune," reiterated Ayloffe quietly.

"How much?"

"One hundred and twenty thousand pounds."

"One hundred--"

"And twenty thousand pounds," repeated Sir John with slow emphasis.

"Bah!--'tis a stupid and a purposeless lie!"

And Michael striving to look indifferent leaned back in his chair, then

fell forward again with elbows resting heavily on the table the while

his eyes glowing with the excitement of heady liquor and the vague

suggestion only half expressed searched the face of the older man.

"Who would give a ne'er-do-well one hundred and twenty thousand

pounds?" he reiterated in an unsteady voice, "and for what purpose? Are

you fooling me, Sir John?"

"On my solemn word of honour, no!" asserted the latter calmly.

"Then for what purpose?" repeated Michael, whilst a sneer which looked

almost evil for a moment quite distorted his face. "Am I to murder some

offending stranger in the dark? bribe the King's physician to poison

him, or turn informant against my cousin's co-religionists in England

as is the fashion nowadays? Well! tell me what it is? Have I not told

you that I am rogue enough to accomplish mine own damnation--at a

price."

"My good Michael, you mistake my meaning. I propose no roguery unworthy

a gentleman. An you'll accept my offer you'd have no cause to regret

it, for you'd be a rich, happy and contented man to the last day of

your life."

"An it were so simple as that, man," quoth Michael drily, "you'd have

no need to offer a fortune to a rogue in order to get what you want. As

for the rest, methinks that most rogueries are unworthy a gentleman.

But then you see I am no gentleman, else I were not here now, and

probably had long ere this flung my glove in your face. So out with

it--you offer me one hundred and twenty thousand pounds--for what?"

Instinctively for the last five minutes or so as their conversation

drew into more serious channels, the two men had gradually dropped

their voices, speaking almost in a whisper. They had drawn their chairs

closely together to the corner of the table, with Lord Stowmaries

between them, silent and attentive.

Sir John at this stage was sitting close to the end of the table, the

full length of which stretched out on his right. He raised his head now

and gave a quick glance at the rest of the assembly.

Those of the revellers who were not wholly incapable, either sprawling

across the table, or lying prone upon the floor, had drawn up their

chairs in groups. The rattle of dice in boxes was distinctly audible

above the snoring of the sleepers, also muttered curses from the

gamblers who were losing and the clink of brass money passing from hand

to hand. Satisfied that the attention of the company had long since

wandered away from himself and Michael, he once more turned to the

young man and said quietly in response to that impatient: "For what?"

"For marrying the pretty daughter of an amiable Paris bourgeois, the

wench being over-ready to fall into your arms."

Michael made no movement but he studied Sir John's face, as if he

thought that the man was not completely sane, or had succumbed to the

fumes of spiced wine.

"I do not understand," he murmured quite bewildered.

"Must I repeat my words?" said Sir John imperturbably. "There is a

wench over in Paris, as pure and good as the day on which she lisped

her first Ave Maria at her mother's knee. For certain simple reasons

which you will hear anon, a husband must be found for her within the

next fourteen days. An you'll be that happy man there will be fifty

thousand pounds for you as soon as you agree to the bargain, and

seventy more on the day that you bring home the bride."

"Yes! that sounds simple enough. But now tell me the hitch."

"The hitch?"

"Yes. The hitch which forces you to ask a blackguard like myself to

do the work for you. Why do you not become the happy man yourself for

instance?"

"Oh! I am not young enough, nor yet well-favoured. The first fifty

thousand pounds will help to make of you the most dashing gallant in

the two kingdoms."

"But why a blackguard?" persisted Michael with cutting sarcasm. He felt

agitated, even strangely excited. He was shrewd enough to see that Sir

John was not fooling him, that there was more than a mere undercurrent

of seriousness in this extraordinary offer made across this common

supper table. His fingers were beating an incessant tattoo upon the

boards, and his eyes restless, keen as those of a wild beast scenting a

trap, searched the face of his interlocutor.

"Why a blackguard if the wench is a saint as you say, why a

blackguard?" he insisted.

"A blackguard? Perish the thought!" said Sir John lightly. "Nay!

the reason why your personality commended itself to me and to my

lord of Stowmaries was because you are a gentleman, despite the many

vicissitudes of an adverse Fate, and that you would render the girl

happy and proud to be your wife."

"Ah! my worthy cousin is a party to this game?" queried Michael with a

sneer.

"In Heaven's name, man," he added with almost savage impatience, "why

cannot you speak up like a man? Cards on the table, by the Mass, or my

hand will come in contact with your mealy mouth--"

He checked himself, angry at his own outburst of rage which he had been

unable to control.

"Have I not said that I am on my way to Hell," he added more quietly,

"why should you hesitate to show me a short cut?"

"Cards on the table, friend Michael, since you'll have it so," now

said Ayloffe in a quiet impressive whisper, "bear that one hundred and

twenty thousand pounds in your mind all the while you listen to me.

The wench over in Paris was made to go through a marriage ceremony

with your cousin here, eighteen years ago, when she was a babe in arms

and he a mere lad, unable to defend himself against this encroachment

on his future liberty. Since then my lord of Stowmaries has never met

his bride, nor did her parents--worthy yet mercenary tradespeople of

Paris--desire him to see their daughter. He was poor Rupert Kestyon

then, an undesirable son-in-law if ever there was one: they would

have broken the marriage then, only the Church would not allow it.

Then my lord became what he now is, rich, influential, desirable, and

promptly the Paris shopkeepers changed their tactics. They demanded

that your cousin shall acknowledge and take to his heart and home a

woman whom he has never seen, whom he can never love; for the affection

of his heart, of his whole manhood is pledged to another whom he

adores. In his despair my lord hath come to me and I am proud to be

his friend. I would help him to regain that liberty which an untoward

Fate hath fettered. Is not my lord a wholly innocent victim? He did

not ask to wed--for long he was spurned as one unworthy. Now because

he is rich, he is to be made the tool of rapacious bourgeois, who

would see their daughter Countess of Stowmaries. They have invoked

the aid of the Church who spurred by their gold hath threatened

anathema and excommunication on my lord. The King--sorely inclined to

Catholicism--will not hear of breaking marriage vows which he calls

solemn, and which under such circumstances sensible men cannot fail to

call a farce. My lord hath come to me and I have thought of a scheme--"

So far Michael had listened with unswerving attention to this long

exposé delivered by Sir John in clear, even voice that was hardly

raised above a whisper. He had listened, his head resting in his right

hand, his left lying clenched and motionless on the table. But now he

interrupted Ayloffe's placid flow of eloquence.

"You need not tell me your scheme, man," he said, "I have guessed it

already. I know now why you had need of a rogue for the furtherance

of your project. I, Michael Kestyon, am to go to Paris and there

impersonate my love-sick cousin, carry away the bride by that

trick, and thus forever so shame her, that a dissolution of that

child-marriage will readily be granted by Church and State."

"And that for the sum of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, friend

Michael! one hundred and twenty thousand pounds--a fortune that would

tempt a King!" added Sir John earnestly.

Michael made no comment, and there was thus an instant's silence at

this end of the table where sat the three men: only a second or two

mayhap during which a blasphemous oath uttered at the further end of

the room seemed in some strange and occult way to mark the descent of a

soul one step further down on its way to Hell. One instant during which

the tempter watched the tempted, and from the giddy heights of future

satisfied ambition showed him the world conquered at the paltry price

of momentary dishonour.

One fitful ray of a ghoulish moon searched, through a narrow slit

between swishing curtains, the fleshy face of Ayloffe, the descendant

of the Hebrew bondswoman; the thickly-lidded eyes fixed like those of

some poison-giving reptile upon the trapped victim. It played weird and

ghost-like upon the dull scarlet of his cloak, and made strange shadows

beneath his heavy brows, giving him an eerie, satanic expression, which

Stowmaries--whose brain was on fire--was quick to note.

He shuddered and instinctively drew away. But Michael Keyston who had

not stirred a muscle, who had scarce breathed during that moment's

solemn pause, now leaned forward and said quietly:

"For the sum of one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, I will do what

you wish."

Then noting that the look of satisfaction on Stowmaries' face was not

wholly unmixed with contempt, he added with a quick return to his

flippant mood:

"Nay, Cousin, look not so loftily from adown the giddy heights of

supposed integrity. 'Tis useless at this stage to despise the hand

that will help you in your need. Methinks that my share in the intrigue

is no more unavowable than your own. 'Tis you are married to the lady

and owe her protection, yet you offer money to further treachery

against her. Now I have never seen the wench and am no traitor to

her since I do not know her. I owe her no allegiance; she is but one

woman out of a million to me. Have you never tried to win a woman by

trickery, good Coz?"

He spoke lightly, even gaily, only Sir John--the keen observer of his

fellowmen--noted that the laugh which accompanied this tirade had a

hollow ring in it, also that Michael after he had spoken drank down one

after another two large goblets full of wine.

"Do not let us split hairs, gentlemen, over the meaning of a word,"

said Ayloffe pleasantly. "Friend Michael, my hand on it. I devised

the scheme, and confess that my thoughts flew to you for its

accomplishment." He put out his hand, but Michael seemed to ignore

the gesture. With a shrug of the shoulders indicating good-tempered

toleration, the other continued glibly, "Let us own to it, gentlemen,

we are all rogues, every one of us here present; I, who made the

proposal, my lord of Stowmaries who pays the piper, and Michael who

takes a fortune in exchange for a trick. Bah, gentlemen, 'tis but a

merry jest, and, on my honour, no harm can come to any one. Is not

Michael Kestyon henceforth rich, as well as highly-connected and

amiable of mien. By Gad the practised hand of his future father-in-law

together with that of a court barber, would soon turn him into the most

gallant gentleman in the two kingdoms."

"A truce on this nonsense," interposed Michael with a quick return to

his impatient mood. "Tell me what you expect me to do, and I'll do it;

but there's no cause for such empty talk. I am being paid to act and

not to listen."

"We'll be serious, old sobersides," quoth Sir John with imperturbable

good humour, "and think of the best schemes to bring our scheme to a

successful issue. My lord of Stowmaries, have I your leave to place the

details of our plan before our friend here?"

Scarce waiting for the impatient assent of the other, Ayloffe

continued, speaking directly to Michael:

"Firstly, then: to-morrow as soon as the shopkeepers have taken down

their shutters you shall go to the King's tailor in Holborn and there

order yourself various suits of clothes, befitting the many occasions

when you shall have need of them in Paris and on your honeymoon. Once

the bargain sealed between us, by word of honour as between gentlemen,

your gracious cousin will place fifty thousand pounds in your hands.

You will be a rich man to-morrow, friend Michael, and can attire

yourself in accordance with your whim. From the tailor's in Holborn you

had best proceed to the barber's in Fleet Street, who will provide you

with the most fashionable perruques--"

"I know all that, man," interrupted Michael with ever-growing

impatience. "I know that the monkey hath to be tricked out for parade.

When I have been made to look like a fool in motley garb, what further

shall I do?"

"You'll hie over to France as soon as may be; for already at break of

day to-morrow you--in your temporary name of Earl of Stowmaries--will

write a letter to M. Legros, merchant tailor of Paris apprising him of

your intentions no longer to disobey the decrees of the Church, or the

dictates of your own heart, which of a truth has ever been true to your

baby bride; also you will tell him of your desire to proceed forthwith

to Paris in order to claim your wife, to have the marriage ceremony of

eighteen years ago formally ratified and finally to bring her back in

state and solemnity to her new home in England."

"Am I to write all these lies myself?" asked Michael.

"Nay! I'll constitute myself your secretary," replied Ayloffe, "you

need only to sign 'Stowmaries.' As I mistake not, 'tis a name you would

gladly sign always, 'twill not come amiss for once. You may have to

sign papers over there, 'twere better that your handwriting be known at

once."

"When do I start for Paris?"

"What say you to a fortnight's hence from this day? 'Twill give you

ample time for the completion of your toilet. An you will allow me

I will provide you with a retinue worthy of your rank. It must be

composed of men whom we can trust, and men who do not know my lord of

Stowmaries by sight and are not like to guess that something is amiss.

Three will be sufficient. I will engage them at the last, so that there

may be no fear of our secret reaching their knowledge."

"Clothes, men, money," quoth Michael, "methinks, Sir John, you have

thought of everything. Once I am in Paris?"

"You will act as judgment guides you."

"And no doubt seventy thousand pounds is a good guide to judgment."

Michael's somewhat defiant manner seemed completely to have vanished.

He appeared to be yielding himself quite freely to the delights of

the promised adventure; at least this was what good Sir John hoped

whilst congratulating himself on the remarkable attainment of his

fondly-cherished desire.

But remember that this same good Sir John was no superficial observer

of human nature. He was not altogether deceived by Michael's outward

show of flippancy. That excitement had got hold of the adventurer's

imagination was undoubted and probably the obstinacy of an untamed

nature would prevent his drawing back from a promise once given.

At the same time the glint of excitement in Michael's eyes had but

little genuine merriment in it. It was more like the unnatural fire

produced by fever-heated blood.

It was the money which had tempted Michael--so concluded Ayloffe in

his own mind. The money which mayhap would help the claimant to bring

forward his cause once again into the light of day. Money which would

mean bribes, high enough to tempt corrupt judges or even--who knows--a

pleasure-loving King.

What Michael thought of the adventure itself, what it cost him to

acquiesce in it with an outward show of careless gaiety even the astute

Sir John could not have said: he himself had achieved his own ends and

personally he cared little what Michael felt so long as the young man

fulfilled his share of the ignoble contract.

Was it so ignoble after all? Sir John with a smile of self-contempt

found himself wondering in his mind whether any one would indeed be

the loser by it. Stowmaries? certainly not!--he could well afford

to pay twice a hundred thousand pounds for the gratification of his

most ardent desire: his freedom to marry the woman whom he loved.

Michael?--of a truth Michael would lose a little more self-respect than

he had already done, but then he must have so little left--and he would

become passing rich.

As for the tailor's wench, bah!--one husband was as good as another,

concluded Sir John with a splendid cynicism, and if Michael Kestyon

was not actually Earl of Stowmaries, by Gad he was mighty near to it,

and--who knows?--with one hundred and twenty thousand pounds in his

pocket might yet oust his cousin from that enviable state.

And he--Sir John Ayloffe--gambler on his beam ends, would henceforth

look forward to a comfortable old age with Mistress Julia Peyton's

twelve thousand pounds carefully placed at interest so that there might

be no temptation to dribble it away.

All was for the best in the best possible world!

CHAPTER XIV

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

--MACBETH IV. 1.

But there was one more card which Ayloffe, the gambler, desired to play

ere he lost sight momentarily of the man who was to be his tool in the

carving of their respective fortunes.

He now rose from the table and went up to the door which gave on

the private parlour. This he opened and looked in. Just as he had

anticipated, there was but little change in the attitude of the three

gentlemen whom he had left in the room.

Sir Anthony Wykeham still sat moodily leaning back in his chair, a

shade more confused in his brain than he had been before, his eyes

more shifty and uncertain in expression. A couple of empty bottles in

front of him mutely explained the reason for this gradual change in the

emphatic moraliser of a while ago.

Sir Knaith Bullock was still lying on the floor, in the midst of the

straw which with idle hands he had gradually heaped up all round him,

so that he seemed reclining in a nest. But he was not asleep now; he

was singing chorus to the songs of my lord Rochester, who--frankly

tipsy--made as much noise and sang as thoroughly out of tune as any of

the plebeian revellers in the coffee room.

"Hello, Sir John!" he shouted lustily, "where in the devil's name have

you and Stowmaries been hiding yourselves?"

His tongue was thick and the words fell inarticulately from his

quivering lips. Sir Knaith Bullock rolled over in the straw in order to

have a good view of the intruder.

"Where the devil--sh--sh--Stowmaries?" he babbled as incoherently as

his friend.

"We have been busy finding an alternative husband for the tailor's

daughter," said Sir John gaily.

"And have you found one?" queried Wykeham with vague, somnolent eyes

fixed upon the speaker.

"Ay! that we have! And I pray you gentlemen to join the merry company

in the coffee room and to pledge the bold adventurer in a monster

goblet of wine."

"Egad!--you--you don't mean--that--hic!--" hiccupped Bullock who had

rolled right over in the straw and now looked like a giant and frowzy

dog with prickly wisps standing out of his perruque and sticking to his

surcoat and velvet breeches. He contrived to work himself about until

he got onto his feet, whereupon he stood there tottering and swaying

the while his bleary eyes tried to take in what was going on around him.

A great shout issuing from the coffee room, great banging of mugs

against the boards, loud laughter and the first verse of a song, roused

Rochester from his apathy and Wykeham from his moodiness.

"They are passing roisterous over there!" remarked the latter, gazing

covetously toward the open door.

"They are toasting the gallant adventurer," said Sir John; "I pray

you, gentlemen, come and join us. Let us drink to the future husband

of the tailor's daughter, the future possessor of one hundred and

twenty thousand pounds in solid cash and of my lord Stowmaries' eternal

gratitude. Let us drink to Michael Kestyon."

"Michael--Kesh--Keshtyon is it?" babbled Sir Knaith.

"The damned blackguard--" murmured Wykeham.

"I say hurrah for Michael Kestyon!" roared my lord Rochester lustily,

"the beggar hath pluck. By Gad! won't old Rowley laugh at the

adventure? Would I'd had the impudence to go through with it myself!--I

say hurrah for Michael Kestyon!"

He lurched forward in the wake of Sir John who had once more turned

towards the coffee room, and closely followed by the others, all four

men shouting: "Hurrah for Michael Kestyon! Hurrah for the tailor's

daughter!"

Their advent was greeted by more vigorous shouting, more singing and

cries of: "Hurrah!" which issued from out the darkness. For by now only

one last tallow candle was left spluttering and dripping, its feeble

yellow rays illumining but one narrow circle of light wherein the

remnant of a pie, an overturned bottle and a pool of red wine, stood

out as the sole objects actually visible in the room.

In this total darkness, the noise of hoarse shouts, of cries for

"Michael Kestyon!" of blasphemies and of oaths sounded weird and

satanic, like a babel of ghouls exulting in the realms of the night.

Sir John paused at the door. He had wished to see Michael Kestyon

commit himself finally before these other three gentlemen, who were

almost partners in the conspiracy. He wanted to see the bond sealed

with the word of honour of the rogue who--as Ayloffe well knew--would

never break a pledge once given.

Therefore, he called loudly to Michael, and listened for the cheery

tones of his voice. But no response came, only from out the gloom a

curt answer from Stowmaries:

"Oh! 'tis no use calling for Michael! He hath gone!"

CHAPTER XV

Still his soul fed upon the sovereign hour

That had been or that should be:

--SWINBURNE.

Michael in the meanwhile was running through the deserted streets like

a man possessed. Cloakless and hatless he ran, bending his head to the

gusts of wind which tore down the narrow byways in the neighbourhood of

the Strand.

Fitful clouds chased one another over his head, obscuring the moon, and

from time to time descending in sharp showers of icy rain.

But Michael loved the wind and cared naught for the wet. The rags he

wore were soon soaked through, but he did not attempt to take shelter

beneath the various yawning archways which he passed from time to time;

on the contrary he liked the cold douches of these winter showers which

seemed to cool his head, burning with inward fever.

Michael Kestyon, the gambler, the adventurer, the wastrel, had begun

the fight against his own soul.

For the space of a few seconds, there in the over-heated tavern room

in the midst of all those drunkards, those profligates--scums of

humanity--dying honour had called out in its agony: "Wilt sell me for

gold?" but Michael had laughed out loud and long, and smothered those

warning cries with the recklessness of the soldier of fortune who

stakes his all on the winning card.

His claim, his rights! His and those of that patient old soul dying of

want in a lonely cottage, the while she should be living in the lap of

luxury and of ease.

She was dying of want, of actual hard, bitter starvation. Michael knew

it and could do naught to help, and in the midst of the dissolute life

of the town had vainly striven to forget that even at the cost of his

life's blood, which he would have given gladly drop by drop, he could

not purchase for her a soft bed on which she would finally go to her

eternal sleep.

His claim! His rights! Her happiness! The happiness of the one being

in the whole wide world who had clung to him, who loved him for what

he was and did not despise him for what he had become: this he could

purchase for one hundred and twenty thousand pounds.

Had not Sir John Ayloffe himself said that 'twas a fortune which would

tempt a king.

The lawyers had told Michael that only money was wanted to bring his

claim before the Lords' House of Parliament now, and once publicly

debated, justice could not stand against it.

Michael had oft laughed at those two words, "Only money!"

Only money! and when he sought and got a sword thrust that nearly

killed him, he was given twenty crowns as blood-money. He reckoned at

this rate that his miserable body would have to be as full of holes as

a sieve, before he obtained enough money wherewith to satisfy the first

lawyer who would condescend once more to take up his case.

But now all that--lawyers' fees, fees for a first hearing, for a

second and for a third, for pleadings, interrogatories and affidavits,

for petitions to the King and for briberies to obtain a private

audience--all that would be within his reach.

The price? A woman's honour and his own self-respect.

Once--very long ago, these would have mattered to him a great deal; in

those days he had believed in men's honour and in women's virtue.

But now? He had lost so much self-respect already--what mattered if a

few more shreds of it went the way of all his other ideals.

He had once boldly said that he would give his life's blood drop by

drop, endure every agony, undergo every torture to see his mother

installed at Maries Castle, her rightful and proper place.

Well, that had been easy to say! These things were not asked of him,

and he had gone through so much, suffered often so terribly from

hunger, wounds and fatigue that the sacrifice of his life or the

endurance of most bitter tortures would have been an easy sacrifice.

He was hard and tough--what nerves he had had been jarred beyond all

sensibility long ago.

But now something was asked of him. Fate had spoken in no uncertain

accents. She had said: "Make a sacrifice of thine honour, and thy most

cherished wish will be gratified!"

If those former bold words--offers of blood and life--were not the talk

of a weak-kneed braggart, then, Michael Kestyon, thou shouldst not

hesitate!

Dost prize those paltry remnants of self-respect so highly that thou

wouldst see thy mother starve ere thou sell them?

Starve, remember, starve!--in the direct, absolute, unmitigated sense

of the word. If thou canst not provide her with the necessities of

life, she must starve sooner or later, in a month, in a year, in two

mayhap, that would depend how charitably inclined the neighbours

happened to be. But starve she must, if thou, her son, dost naught for

her.

And Fate had whispered: "Money, power, justice await thee, at the price

of thy self-respect and the honour of a woman who is a stranger to

thee."

The subtle temptation had entered into Michael's heart like an

insinuating poison which killed every objection, every argument, every

moral rebellion in his soul. And the temptation assailed him just at

this time when his whole being ached with the constant buffetings

of life, when he longed with all the maddening strength of defiant

impotence to hit right and left at the world which had derided him, to

begin again a new life of action, of combat, of lofty aspirations.

Try and pity him, for the temptation was over-great; pity him

because Fate had struck him one blow after another, each more and

more difficult to bear since his soul, his mind, his entire self had

scarcely time to recover from one before the next came crashing down,

leaving him with one hope the less, one more ideal shattered, one more

misery to bear.

One hundred and twenty thousand pounds!--Michael kept repeating the

half dozen wonderful words to himself over and over again as he walked.

Thus tottering, buffeted by the wind, drunk with the magic of the

thought which the words evoked, he reached his lodgings at last.

He rapped loudly at a low door with his knuckles, but had to wait some

time before it was opened. A gnome-like figure wrapped in a tattered

dressing gown and wearing a cotton night-cap appeared in the doorway.

It was difficult to distinguish if the figure was that of man or woman.

In brown and wrinkled hands it held a guttering tallow dip which threw

a trembling light on the dank walls of the narrow passage and feebly

illumined the approach to the rickety stairs beyond.

Michael paid no heed to the muttered grumblings of the creature, but

walked straight past it along the passage, and then up the creaky

stairs which led to the garret above. As he reached the several

landings he nearly fell over various prostrate bundles made up of human

rags from out of which issued sleepy oaths, as Michael's foot stumbled

against them.

His own garret was not much better than those open landings across

which he had tottered and fumbled in the dark. Here the roof sloped

down to the tiny dormer window, innocent of curtains, and made up of

some half dozen tiny panes, mostly cracked and covered with thick

coatings of grime.

Along the low wall opposite the window a row of ragged bundles--human

only in shape--and similar to those which encumbered the landings, told

their tale of misery and of degradation. There were some half dozen of

these bundles lying all of a row against the wall. They were Michael's

room companions, the wreckages of man and womankind, with whom he had

lived now for close on eighteen months.

Snores and drunken oaths, blasphemy too and noisome words spoken in

sleep came from these bundles, greeting Michael's somewhat stormy

entrance into this den.

He shut the rickety door behind him, and made his way to the little

window, through which the light of some street lanthorn opposite came

shyly peeping through.

Michael threw the casement open, allowing that feeble light to enter

more fully, then he turned and surveyed his surroundings,--those

bundles along the floor, the wooden boards across which a crowd of

vermin were scrampering out of sight, the two chairs, innocent of

seats, the wooden packing case in lieu of table, the walls dank and

grey, covered with obscene writing scribbled with shaky fingers dipped

in grime!

Michael looked at it all, as if he had never seen it before. In an

angle of the room was the straw paillasse still empty which awaited

him, and around which the dying instincts of gentle birth had caused

him to erect a kind of unseen barrier between that corner and the rest

of the room. Here the floor was clean, the straw was fresh; above the

paillasse the wall had been carefully wiped clean and rubbed over with

lime, and on an overturned wooden case beside the miserable bed there

were one or two books, and a small metal crucifix which profane fingers

had apparently never dared to touch.

But these very trifling attempts at cleanliness were the only luxury

which had come within Michael's reach, ever since he came home from

that last campaign in Brandenburg and sent his last crown to his mother

in Kent. And remember that such garrets, such degrading propinquity,

such misery and such dirt represented the only kind of life which

London offered in those days to the poor, to the outcast and the

homeless. There was nothing else except the gutter itself.

Michael stood in the centre of this garret and looked upon the

picture--his life! His life such as it had been for the past eighteen

months, such as it would continue to be until he became too old and

too feeble to drag himself up from that straw paillasse in the corner.

Then he would lie there sick and starving until he was taken away feet

foremost down the rickety stairway to the paupers' graveyard out beyond

St. Paul's.

With arms akimbo, hands resting on his hips and feet firmly planted

on the dust-covered floor, Michael looked and laughed; not bitterly

or mirthlessly. Bitterness had gone--strangely enough--at sight of

the picture. He laughed, mocking himself for the few scruples which

had assailed him awhile ago, for having conjured up--yes! conjured up

himself--those phantoms of honour which accused him of selling his

self-respect.

Was this self-respect, this den of rogues, this herd of miserable

ne'er-do-wells, these filthy walls, this life of misery, of

wretchedness, of shifts--growing day by day more unavowable for

obtaining bread for the morrow? Was this manhood to stand against such

odds? Was this honour to endure such a life?

Bah! if it was, then far better sell it for the price of oak boards

sufficient to make two coffins: one for the man, the other for the old

woman living the same life and enduring the same misery.

Michael turned back to the window and with a brusque, impatient gesture

tore open the second casement. A gust of wind found its way into the

musty corners of the garret and scattered the vitiated air, the while

the moon emerging triumphantly from her long imprisonment behind the

clouds searched with bluish and ghostly rays the grey walls opposite,

the drunken sleepers on the floor, the vermin scuttling between those

litters of straw more fit for cattle than for human beings.

The blustering wind, as it tore at the rickety casements roused some of

the sleepers from their dreams. Volleys of oaths were flung at Michael,

but he heard nothing now. He leaned out of the narrow window--as far

out as he could--and looked on the forest of chimney stacks, the

irregular roofs and tall spires of this great and heartless city.

How peacefully she lay beneath the cool kiss of the moon! Invisible

arms seemed to be stretched out toward the lonely watcher bidding him

to come and conquer.

There was no longer any compunction in Michael's heart, and certainly

no shame.

"I am a man," he said speaking to those unseen shadows, "and what I do,

I do!"

The freshness of the air came as a bath of moral cleanliness to his

soul; he felt an excitement, too, akin to that of a war horse when

scenting the coming battle. To Michael now the whole transaction--to

which on the morrow he would affix the seal of his pledged word--was

but a mighty combat wherein a powerful weapon would be placed in his

hand.

He would at last be able to hit right and left, to be even with that

world which had buffeted him, which had scorned his efforts, but

allowed his mother to starve.

Aye! He was a turbulent soul; a soul created to fight and not to endure.

And if at moments during that lonely watch above the chimney stacks and

roofs of London there came floating to his mind the thought of the girl

who was nothing to him, the stranger whom he would so bitterly wrong,

then with a proud toss of the head, a joy which literally lighted

up his whole being, he would send an unspoken challenge up to those

swiftly-flying clouds which tended southwards, towards Paris.

"Go tell her!" he murmured, "that whoever she may be Michael Kestyon

will serve her with gratitude and love all the days of his life. On

his knees will he worship her, and devote his life to her happiness.

And," he added mentally, whilst a quiver of excitement shook his broad

shoulders, "tell her that an she desires to be Countess of Stowmaries,

even that desire Michael Kestyon will gratify, for he will make her

that--tell her--tell her that before next December's snows cover the

earth there will be two Countesses of Stowmaries in England: Michael

Kestyon's mother and Michael Kestyon's wife."

He did not attempt to go and rest on his miserable couch, but leant

for hours up against the window watching the moon slowly drawing its

peaceful course along the dark firmament, seeing the fleecy, silvered

clouds fly madly across the sky, lashed by the wind into fantastic

shapes of witches' heads and of lurid beasts. He watched the roofs

and towers of many churches as gradually they were wrapped in the

mist-laden mantle of approaching dawn.

He watched until far away above chimney stacks and pointed steeples

a feeble rosy glow precursed the rising sun. He was too weary now to

think any more, too weary to dream, too weary he thought even to live.

And through the gathering mist it seemed to him that the ghostly

spectres of his tumultuous past came to him enwrapped in white palls,

monstrous and majestic, towering above mighty London, and that walking

slowly in their wake, tottering and shy was his mother, enfeebled by

starvation and the wretchedness of her life. She held out emaciated

arms to him in a mute appeal for help, whilst the ghosts of the past

spoke with unseen lips of all that he had suffered, of the great

sorrows and the tiny pin-pricks.

And with every word they uttered his soul sank more and more to rest,

and even as his aching head sank down upon his outstretched arms, and

his eyes closed in a dreamless sleep, his lips murmured with final

defiance:

"I am a man! and what I do, I do."

CHAPTER XVI

Now mark! To be precise--Though

I say "lies," all these, at this first stage

'Tis but for science' sake.

--BROWNING.

In the meanwhile my lord of Stowmaries had been allowed to spend a

happy hour in the tiny withdrawing room at Holborn Row, kneeling at

Mistress Julia Peyton's feet.

He had been so excited, so full of Sir John's proposals and their

more than probable success that like Michael Kestyon he had no desire

for rest. He had soon wearied of the crowd in the coffee room, and

presently had allowed Ayloffe to lead him out into the streets.

Instinctively his footsteps turned in the direction of Holborn Row, the

while he lent a somewhat inattentive ear to what Sir John was saying to

him. Ayloffe was talking of the details of his scheme; of the payment

of the money to Michael on the morrow, if the latter finally pledged

himself to the bargain; fifty thousand pounds then, and a further

seventy on the day that the tailor's daughter left her home in her

husband's company.

"We must be as good as our word, my lord," said the astute Sir John.

"A word misplaced, the faintest suggestion of withdrawal on any point

might upset Michael's curious temper and turn his acquiescence into

obstinate refusal."

Ayloffe had no doubt of Stowmaries' integrity, only the sum was such a

vast one--and the worthy baronet was so unaccustomed to the handling

of thousands--that he could not help dreading the fact that the young

man had mayhap overestimated his power of paying away such large sums

at such short intervals, and that, when the time came for disbursement,

a hitch might occur which would rouse Michael's antagonism and upset

the perfectly-laid scheme once and for all.

Stowmaries, however, seemed to attach very slight importance to this

question of money.

"I am a man of my word," he said curtly. "I have no wish to draw back.

What I've said, I've said."

What cared he if it cost him twice one hundred thousand pounds, if

indeed he were free to wed the beautiful Julia?

He was over-eager to be at her feet now and showed marked impatience to

rid himself of Ayloffe's company.

"My hand on it, Sir John," he said, halting at the corner of Holborn

Row, for he did not want the older man to see whither he was going, the

while the latter was well aware that my lord was on his way to Mistress

Peyton's house. "My hand on it; and to-morrow Michael Kestyon shall

have his fifty thousand pounds, if he finally agrees to do what we

want."

"This he must do in the presence of witnesses--my lord of Rochester or

Sir Knaith Bullock would favour us as much. Yet have I no fear that the

rogue will play us false, 'tis the money he wants, and fifty thousand

were not enough to tempt him; 'tis that further seventy that he'll

crave for most."

"I know, I know," said Stowmaries, impatiently anxious to get away, now

that he had perceived--as he thought--a light in one of the windows

of his fair Julia's house. "He shall have that, too. The money is at

interest with Master Vivish the diamond merchant. I can get it at any

time."

"We promised it to Michael on the day that the tailor's daughter leaves

her father's home," urged the over-prudent Sir John.

"On that day he shall have it," rejoined the other.

"Then your lordship would have to journey to France in order to fulfil

that promise."

"I'll to France then," retorted the young man who had come to the end

of his tether, "an you'll go to Hell now and leave me in peace."

Ayloffe laughed good-humouredly. Usually prone to quarrel he was

determined to keep his temper to-night; and as he felt that nothing

further would be gained now by talking whilst Stowmaries was so

obviously waiting to be rid of him, he said nothing more, but gave his

friend a cordial Good-night and turned on his heel in the direction of

Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Stowmaries--as soon as the other was out of sight--walked down Holborn

Row, and had soon reached the familiar door.

In response to his loud knocking the East Anglian serving-man came to

open it. With the stolidity peculiar to his race, he showed no surprise

at the untimely visitor, and with solemn imperturbability held out his

furrowed hand even before Stowmaries had produced the small piece of

silver which alone would induce the old man to permit that visitor to

enter.

The piece of silver being deemed sufficient to overcome the man's

scruples, he shuffled along the flagged passage without uttering a

word, leaving Stowmaries to follow as he liked, and presently he threw

open the door which gave on the small parlour.

Though it was close on midnight, Mistress Peyton was not abed. She

had been to the Playhouse, and was still attired in that beautiful

cream-coloured brocade which had been the envy of the feminine portion

of the audience there; but though she was tired after the many and

varied emotions of that eventful day, yet she felt that she could

not have slept. Her proposals to Sir John Ayloffe, the schemes which

she well knew that the gambler would concoct, the possibility or

probability of ultimate success, harassed her nerves and fired her

brain.

She had spent the last two hours in that narrow room, now pacing up and

down like a caged rodent, now throwing herself down in a chair in an

agony of restlessness.

The advent of my lord Stowmaries occurred in the nick of time, for she

was on the verge of hysterics.

He knelt at her feet, adoring and excited. He told her all that had

occurred during that momentous evening, humbly begging her pardon for

having betrayed the secret of their mutual love, his own passion and

his despair, to some of his most intimate friends.

Mistress Julia whose flushed face when my lord entered might have

been caused by shyness at his stormy entrance, or by anger at the

untimeliness of his visit, looked adorable in her obvious agitation.

She chided him gently for his impetuosity, and for disclosing her

tender secret to those who mayhap would sneer at her hopeless love.

Then my lord told her of Sir John Ayloffe's scheme, the proposed public

disgrace of the tailor's daughter which would render the dissolution of

the child-marriage not only probable but certain. Mistress Julia looked

quite sad and shed sympathetic tears; she was so sorry, so very sorry

for the poor dear child.

But when she heard that my lord had actually promised one hundred and

twenty thousand pounds to his cousin Michael Kestyon for rendering him

this service, the fair Julia frowned and checked an angry exclamation

which had risen to her lips.

"The sum seems overvast," she remarked with affected indifference.

"The bribe had to be heavy, Mistress," replied my lord. "Michael was

the only man who could help us. He might have refused for less. It

had to be a fortune worth a gentleman's while to accept. Michael is a

gentleman despite his roguery, and we were asking him to do a mighty

villainous action. He had to be well paid for it," repeated the young

man decisively, "methinks that for less he would have refused."

Mistress Peyton allowed the subject to drop for the moment and her

lover to wander back into the realms of dithyrambic utterances, of

vows and of sighs. But anon she recurred to the question of the money,

showing a desire to know how and when it would be paid over.

"To-morrow when we have Michael's final acquiescence," said Stowmaries,

eager to dismiss this question, "I will hand over fifty thousand pounds

to him, and another seventy thousand the day on which Rose Marie Legros

leaves her father's shop in company with mine adventurous cousin."

"You talk lightly of such vast sums, my lord," said Julia.

"Would I not give my fortune to win you?" he rejoined.

She continued for a long time afterwards to listen shyly and adorably

to my lord's continued protestations, and when these became too

violent, she rang for her tiring-wench and with many charmingly-timid

blushes dismissed her adorer, promising to receive him again on the

morrow.

He went away quite happy, vowing that he would gladly have given not

only his entire fortune, but also his family estates and titles to

Michael for enabling him to regain his freedom and to marry the most

adorable woman in the whole world.

But Mistress Julia Peyton was not quite so content as all that. After

my lord's departure, she went up to her sleeping room and exchanging

her stiff brocade for a loose and easy wrap, she sat down in order to

think various matters out.

Agitation and restlessness had gone from her, but not the frown of

disapproval.

Her impetuous lover had been a fool, and Sir John a traitor to have

allowed such monstrous promises to be made to Michael Kestyon. Surely

her own kinsman should have known that her ardent love for my lord

of Stowmaries consisted in the main of an overmastering desire to

become a countess. Now with one hundred and twenty thousand pounds in

Michael's hands and given that claimant's obstinate temperament and

determination to carry his cause through, was there not a grave danger

that the wretch would win his case after all and that my lord would

presently have to yield his title and estates to the cousin whom he had

so needlessly rendered rich?

It was monstrous, silly and childish! Sir John of course must have

been well under the influence of liquor ere he allowed such a bargain,

without realising the danger which threatened his kinswoman's ambitious

desires.

She was mightily angry with Sir John, who should have been more shrewd,

and could not understand how it was that so astute and so unscrupulous

a schemer had overlooked the eventuality which she herself had foreseen

in a flash.

The first fifty thousand, well and good!--Julia supposed that so vast

a sum would certainly be required to bribe even a broken-down gentleman

to enter into Ayloffe's dishonourable schemes.

But the further seventy thousand, was unnecessary, she felt sure of

that and moreover it was dangerous.

Would it not be the most bitter irony of which Fate was capable if the

tailor's daughter became Countess of Stowmaries after all?

Such a thing had become possible now, nay, probable, thanks to the

blunder made by Sir John. As for my lord, he seemed unaware of the

danger--he was too fond of laughing at Michael Kestyon's pretensions,

and was ever inclined to dismiss them as puerile and beneath contempt;

mayhap, too, that he was fatuous enough to think that even without

wealth or title his adored one would become his.

But the adored one had no such intention.

Like unto the adventurer himself up in that squalid garret above the

roofs of London, Mistress Peyton could not rest that night. Her active

mind was troubled with plans of how to undo the blunders of the past

hour.

And whilst Michael dreamed of future glory, of power and of wealth,

Julia racked her woman's brain to find a means to bring him back to the

dust.

PART III

CHAPTER XVII

Her eyes were deeper than the depth

Of waters still at even:

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

--DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

"No, no, my cabbage, I do not find that plain gown becoming, of a

verity thou must remember that thou art an English Countess and must

henceforth adorn thy person with proper grandeur."

And worthy Mme. Legros, whilst vainly trying to express disapproval,

gazed with obvious admiration at the dainty apparition before her.

"Let be, Maman, let be!" interposed Papa Legros soothingly, "the chit

is well enough as she is. When she is over there in England, she may

well look grand and stately; for the present she is still a tailor's

daughter and I'll challenge the world to produce a daintier bale of

goods. _Par ma foi!_ were I not thy father, my pigeon, I were tempted

to envy that profligate young scoundrel, thy noble lord and husband.

'Tis a mightily succulent morsel he will bite into the nonce."

Rose Marie striving to hide the confusion, which her kind father's

broad allusion caused in her sensitive young heart, buried her face in

the bouquet of snowdrops which she held in her hand.

No wonder that her adoring parents were proud of her. She looked a

picture on this cold winter's morning, standing there in her little

room beneath the eaves, clad in pure white like the snow which lay

thick on the narrow window sill and along the streets of Paris.

She had fashioned her gown herself, of white grogram with a beautiful

openwork lace pinner and delicate kerchief demurely folded across her

young bosom. Her fair hair was dressed in small curls all over her

small head, her neck was bare, as were her arms and hands, and in

colour as delicate as the snowdrops which she carried.

The spring was still in its infancy and snowdrops were very scarce;

worthy M. Legros had paid a vast sum of money in order that Rose Marie

should carry a bouquet when first she met her lord.

All white she looked--almost like a little snow image, only that her

cheeks glowed with the excitement in her blood, and her bosom rose

and fell with unwonted rapidity beneath the filmy folds of her muslin

kerchief.

My lord of Stowmaries had arrived in Paris the evening before, and had

sent one of his serving-men round to say that he would come and pay his

respects before midday.

Oh! there seemed no laggardness about him now. The influence of

Monseigneur the Archbishop and no doubt his own better nature had

prevailed at last, and since a fortnight ago when his letter arrived

announcing his coming, he seemed to have lost no time in useless

preparations.

Now he was here in Paris and Rose Marie had put on her pretty gown

in order to receive him. She did so mightily desire to please him,

for she on her side was quite ready to give him that respectful love

which husbands demand of their wives. Mme. Legros had fussed round

the child all the morning, and though she grumbled at the simplicity

of the gown, she could not help but admire the exquisite picture of

innocent girlhood which her daughter presented with such charming

unconsciousness.

Rose Marie had been singularly silent all the while that she dressed.

She was very anxious to be beautiful, and thought that this could

not be accomplished without much care and trouble. This she bestowed

ungrudgingly on every curl as she twisted and pinned it up, on every

fold of her kerchief, on the tying of her shoe.

She had taken over two hours in completing her toilet, selecting with

scrupulous care each article of dainty underlinen, which her own

fingers had embroidered months ago, in anticipation of this great day:

the white stockings, the silken garters, the beribboned shift and

petticoat.

When she was ready, she called to maman to come and inspect, and oh!

to criticise if there were any fault to find, which maman of a surety

would detect. Mme. Legros determined not to let affection blind her,

had turned the snow-white apparition round and round, seeking for

defects, where none existed, readjusting a curl here, a ribbon there,

and finally calling to good M. Legros to come and give his verdict on

the picture.

But good M. Legros was far too adoring to do aught but admire. So now

Rose Marie, if not quite free from doubt, was at any rate satisfied

that everything which could be done to render her beautiful and

desirable, had of a truth been done.

"We had best go down, Maman," said Legros at last, when he had finished

feasting his eyes on the beauty of his daughter, "and make ready to

receive milor. The child had best remain up here, and not enter the

parlour until her lord is there, ready to greet her as she advances."

The worthy tailor was more agitated than he cared to own. He felt

fussy and could not manage to sit still. It still lacked nearly an hour

to midday, and he was ready and over-ready to receive milor. He bustled

maman out of the room, then ran back to have a final look at Rose Marie.

"Keep calm, my treasure," he said agitatedly, "_par Dieu_! There's no

need for excitement. Thou art not the first and only bride who has ever

been claimed by an unknown husband. 'Tis milor, no doubt, who feels

flustered. He has been in the wrong and comes to make amends. Not a

very pleasant position for a proud English lord, eh, my pigeon? But

thou art within thy rights, and wilt receive him with becoming dignity."

With gentle, insinuating gestures Rose Marie contrived to lead her

father out of the room, and finally to close the door behind him.

Time was hurrying on and she did so want to be alone and to think. This

was the end of the old life, the beginning of the new: the new with all

its hopes, its fears, its mysteries. She had put it very pertinently to

her mother when she said that nothing, nothing would ever be quite the

same again.

Now that dear Papa Legros' heavy footsteps had died down the steep

staircase, Rose Marie could sit by the open window and just think of

it all, for the last time, before these mysteries of the new life were

revealed to her.

I think that what struck her as most curious in the future was the idea

that she would never be quite alone again. For she had--despite the

loving care of adoring parents--been very much alone. We must remember

that there is never complete harmony between the young and the old.

The former live for the future, the latter for the present, oft times

only for the past. Papa and Maman Legros found their joy in seeing Rose

Marie grow up and live, like some beautiful flower, carefully tended,

guarded against the tearing winds of life, nourished, fed and caressed.

But Rose Marie thought she cherished her parents, dreamed of the time

when she would be a woman with another home, with other affections,

with other kindred. Therefore she was lonely even in the midst of her

happy home. There was a great deal that Rose Marie did not understand

in life, but there was an infinity which maman would never comprehend.

Would this newcomer, this stranger understand better than maman, she

wondered. Would he know what ailed her when in the very midst of joy

she suddenly felt inclined to cry? Would he then know just the right

word to say, the right word to soothe her, and to fit in with her mood?

There were other thoughts that flew through Rose Marie's mind during

this, the last lonely hour of her girlhood, but these she would not

allow to linger in her mind, for they caused her cheeks to blush, and

her heart to beat with sudden, nameless fear. She had seen the girls

and boys of Paris wandering arm in arm in the woods of Fontainebleau,

she had seen a fair head leaning against a dark head, and lips meeting

lips in a furtive kiss, and now in her innocent heart she wondered what

it felt like thus to be kissed.

Hush!--sh!--sh!--No, no! Maman was not there to see the quick blush

which at the thought rose to the girlish cheek. Maman would not

understand. She would say gaily: "_Pardi_ my cabbage! but thy husband

shall kiss thee of a truth and right lustily on thy fresh cheeks or thy

budding mouth. A good, round, sounding kiss an he loves thee, which of

course he will!" And the girls, too, in the woods at Fontainebleau,

they usually laughed after that furtive kiss snatched behind some

tree, when they thought that no one was looking.

But Rose Marie did not think that she would laugh when my lord kissed

her. It seemed to her so strange that girls should make light of such

wondrous moments in their lives. Rose Marie thought that when my lord

kissed her she would probably cry, not in grief, oh, no! but with a

strange exultant joy because of his love for her.

And that was what she hoped that he would understand.

CHAPTER XVIII

And a bird overhead sang "Follow"!

And a bird to the right sang "Here";

And the arch of the leaves was hollow

And the meaning of May was clear.

--SWINBURNE.

But good M. Legros could not contrive to sit still.

He had gone down into the parlour and worried maman, until, poor soul,

she had put milk into the metheglin, in mistake for ale, and had to

brew the mixture all over again, quite a quantity of good Spanish wine

having been completely spoilt, owing to the fidgety temper of her lord.

He hung round her whilst she evolved the fresh bowl of posset, and

made her so nervous that in desperation, fearing that more waste of

expensive liquid would ensue, she ran upstairs loudly calling to Rose

Marie to come down and help keep papa quiet by engaging him in a game

of cribbage.

Therefore it was that when with loud clatter of hoofs on the rough

pavement of the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie, my lord and his retinue drew

rein outside the tailor's shop, Rose Marie was sitting in the room

above playing cribbage with her father.

She heard the noise of the horses, the brief word of command as the

small party halted, but not for all the treasures of this world could

she at this moment have risen in order to peep out of the window and

thus get a glimpse of her future husband.

Papa rose in great agitation. Maman ceased fussing round the room and

there was silence for a time, the while no doubt my lord dismounted.

Then M. and Mme. Legros went out of the room in order to welcome the

distinguished guest. But Rose Marie sat quite still, with her trembling

fingers clasped tightly round the tiny bouquet of snowdrops. Through

the window behind her the spring sun peeped in, pale and tender, and

searching the remote corner of the homely parlour found the dainty,

white-clad figure of the girl and touching her fair hair with the magic

of its kiss turned it into an aureole of gold.

The door opened and Michael entered. Thus he saw her for the first

time--she, the woman whom he had been paid to wrong.

He realised this the moment he saw her. In all the whirl of riotous

thought which had assailed him during the past three weeks since that

night which he had spent in self-communion, the impression of the

woman had never been a lasting one. He had never thought of her as a

distinct personality, as a creature of flesh and blood with thoughts

and feelings mayhap as deep as his own.

To his mind so far she had only been a tool, a sexless means to his

ends: and this man who had such a passionate attachment for his mother,

such a sense of her worth and importance, had given but a very cursory

thought to her who was to become his wife by a trick.

In this we must do him justice, that he did not dream of wronging the

woman, who was the channel which Fortune had selected for her welcome

course towards him. His cousin Stowmaries would of course repudiate

her, that was understood. Undoubtedly he would be allowed to do this:

but he--Michael Kestyon--would atone for his kinsman's villainy, he

would keep, honour and respect her as his wife and the future mother

of his children, and make her--by the will of God, the King and the

Lords' House of Parliament, and by the power of his newly acquired

wealth--Countess of Stowmaries despite the rogues who had planned to

oust her from that place.

Because of all these good resolutions, Michael had therefore

anticipated his meeting with his future wife with perfect equanimity. I

do not think that during the many preparations for his journey which he

had to see to in the past three weeks, he ever tried even for a moment

to picture to himself what she would be like.

Now she stood before him, in the full charm of her innocent girlhood,

clad all in white, with her little hands clasping that bunch of

flowers, the pale rays of an April sun touching her fair hair with

gold. Her blue eyes were raised shyly to him just for an instant as she

rose to meet him. He thought her elegant and pretty, stately, too, in

her prim white gown.

"She was born to be a great lady," he thought to himself with an inward

chuckle, "and by Gad I'll make her one."

In his mind--which seemed all in a whirl now--he compared her to

Mistress Julia Peyton, and thought his cousin a mighty fool for

preferring the latter.

He bowed very low as Rose Marie advanced and at an encouraging word

from maman, she placed her hand on his, and he kissed the tips of her

ice-cold fingers.

"A snow-maiden, by my faith!" he thought to himself. "Michael, thou

rogue! Thou'lt of a surety have to infuse warmth into those pale

cheeks."

She felt almost paralyzed with shyness, and very angry with herself

for seeming so gauche and stupid. The while she curtsied to my lord

in the most approved and primmest of fashions, the little bouquet of

snowdrops escaped her trembling fingers. My lord stooped and picked it

up, and she held out her hand for it, but he met her swift and timid

glance with a bold challenge, and raised the bouquet to his lips before

he hid it in the folds of his surcoat.

Rose Marie thought her future lord picturesque in his elegant

accoutrements; the fine cloth of his coat, of a dull shade of red,

the cut of his garments, the delicate bit of lace at throat and wrist

set off the massive strength of his figure: she was not quite sure if

he were really handsome, for there was a curious look in his eyes,

especially when they met hers which she had never seen in any man

before, and a strange setting of mouth and jaw which did I not suggest

the love-sick husband.

But she liked his easy bearing as he talked to maman with an easy

familiarity that proclaimed high birth and, gentle breeding. He had

declined for himself Mme. Legros' offers of refreshment in the shape

of mead or aromatic wines, but accepted gratefully when she offered to

take mugs of steaming ale out to his men.

Rose Marie felt as if this were all a dream, and as if she would wake

anon in her narrow bed behind the cotton curtains in her room under

the eaves. She took several furtive glances at her future lord, and

felt not a little piqued that he took so little heed of her. After

that first hand kiss, and that quick flash of his deep-set eyes, when

he hid her bouquet in his coat, she had not caught him once looking at

her--was it because he did not think her fair?

Papa talked incessantly, and presently maman came back, and in that

same vague dream-like way Rose Marie seemed to hear them talking about

the wedding ceremony. My lord seemed impatient and anxious to get

through the necessary formalities prescribed by the Church, and then

to take his bride away with him to England as quickly as possible.

Obviously she was not to be left alone with her future husband just

now; and though in her young heart, she had looked forward to the

moment when she would be alone with my lord, she now felt relieved at

the thought that it was not to be.

Poor Rose Marie was bitterly disappointed. It had all been so very,

very different--this first meeting--to what she had anticipated. She

felt very angry with herself indeed for being so childish and so

timid--no doubt by now my lord had set her down as a silly goose quite

unfit to be a great English lady. At this thought she felt tears of

shame welling to her eyes, and was infinitely relieved when maman took

hold of her hand and led her out of the room.

She bowed to my lord, and then held her head very erect as she walked

past him to the door; she wanted to look proud and defiant now, for

she had felt those strange deep-set eyes of his fixed upon her with an

expression she could not define.

And when she was alone in her room, she went straight to the image of

the Virgin Mary which hung against the wall close to her narrow bed.

She knelt on the prie-dieu beneath it, and she begged the Holy Mother

of God to teach her not to be rebellious, and to be ready to obey her

lord in all things, to give him love and respect, "And O holy Mary,

Mother of God!" she added with a pitiful little sigh, "if it be in your

power to make my lord love me, then I humbly pray you tell him so to

do; and whisper to me from on high what I must do to please him and to

find favour in his sight."

CHAPTER XIX

Smiling, frowning, evermore

Thou art perfect in love-lore.

--TENNYSON.

"My cabbage," said Maman Legros in that decisive tone, which she

only assumed on great occasions, and which then no one dreamed of

contradicting, "what thou dost ask is entirely out of the question.

It is not seemly for a maiden to be left alone in company with her

lord. Why! every one down the street would know of it--thy father's

'prentices would make mock of thee--and thy reputation would be as

surely gone as is thistle-down after a gale."

"But, Maman," hazarded Rose Marie, bold for the first time in her

life, in the face of maman's stern refusal, "my lord is not my future

husband. He _is_ my husband, and surely I have the right to talk to him

alone sometimes."

"Rose Marie, thou talkest like a goose, that cackles without

understanding," replied maman sternly, "though my lord is thy husband

by law and by the will of the Church, he will not be thy true lord

until the day after to-morrow, when thou wilt ratify thy vows to love,

honour and humbly obey him, which vows I, thy mother, took in thy name

eighteen years ago. Before thou hast spoken them with thine own lips,

after High Mass on Wednesday, thou dost an unseemly and unmaiden-like

act in wishing to be alone in his company. Truly thy guardian angel

must be veiling his face with the shame of thee at the present moment."

But Rose Marie refused to look upon the troubles of her guardian angel

with proper compunction. She still felt rebellious and argumentative;

but she changed her tactics. The sly young damsel realised that she

had taken maman the wrong way and that she would gain nothing by

controversy. She, therefore, brought forth her other weapons of attack,

certain methods of pressure on the parental will which hitherto she had

never known to fail.

She commenced proceedings by allowing her blue eyes to be veiled in

tears, then seeing that maman turned her face away so as not to be

forced to look on those pathetic dewdrops the rogue went close up to

her mother and kneeling beside her put two loving arms round the old

woman's shoulders.

"Maman!" she whispered with quivering lips.

"'Tis no use," retorted maman obdurately.

"Only one very tiny, short quarter of an hour, Maman _chérie_--after

dinner--when papa goes downstairs to set the afternoon work to the

'prentices--you could be busy in the kitchen--accidentally--just for

one quarter of an hour--Maman _chérie_!"

The pleading voice was hard to resist. Maman tried to steel her heart

and obstinately turned away from those liquid eyes, drowned in tears.

"But in the name of the Holy Virgin, child," she said gruffly, "what is

there that thou wouldst say to my lord, that thou canst not do in thy

mother's presence?"

"'Tis not what I would say, Maman--" rejoined Rose Marie in a soft

murmur quite close to maman's ear.

"Then what?"

"I want to hear him speak to me, Maman _chérie_--oh, I am sure that he

will say naught that is unseemly--he is too proud and too rigid for

that--but, when you and papa are in the room he never, never speaks to

me at all--I have oft wondered if he thought me a goose. When he comes,

he greets me of a truth as if I were a queen, he kisses my hand--and

bows in the most correct manner--then, when I sing to him and play on

the harpsichord, he praises my voice, and coldly thanks me for the

entertainment--"

"And 'tis right and proper conduct on the part of a great gentleman,"

retorted maman hotly, "thou wouldst not have him kiss thee, as if thou

wert a kitchen wench."

But Rose Marie did not commit herself into saying what she did wish in

this matter, but continued with seeming irrelevance.

"When I go out of the room, after the frigid and stately adieux which

my lord bestows upon me, I oft hear his ringing, merry voice echoing

up the stairs, right through the walls to my room. I hear papa and

you laughing, in obvious response to his sallies--and once--it was

yesterday--I stayed peeping over the bannister until my lord departed--"

"Very unseemly behaviour," growled maman whilst an obvious blush rose

to her fat cheeks, and her little, beady eyes seemed to twinkle at a

certain recollection.

"I saw my lord take thee in his arms, Maman," continued Rose Marie with

stern reproach, "and he imprinted two such kisses on thy cheeks that

literally raised the echoes in the house and must have been heard in

the 'prentices' shop."

Maman made great efforts to preserve her gravity.

"Well!" she said, "and if he did--I am old enough to be his mother--and

would it had pleased God to give me a son like him! Those merry eyes

give joy to my heart when I look into them, and he has such funny ways

with him--such amusing sallies--why not later than yesterday, he said,

speaking of Mme. Renaud, the cobbler's wife down the street, that--"

Maman caught Rose Marie's blue eyes fixed eagerly upon her--there were

no tears in them now--only excitement and curiosity--Maman promptly

checked her own flow of eloquence and suddenly resumed her gruff, stern

voice.

"But that is naught for thee, my pigeon--and now, enough of this

talk--the _pot-au-feu_ will be boiling over."

She wore a great air of finality now and would have risen but for Rose

Marie's clinging arms.

"Maman darling," pleaded the girl.

"Nonsense!" retorted Mme. Legros decisively.

"One little, tiny, very, very short quarter of an hour."

"Nonsense."

"I want so to know what he would say when we are alone--he could not

sit before me mute as a carp, and stiff as papa's wooden measure. I

want to hear his merry voice myself. I want to see--what he looks

like--when he laughs."

"Nonsense," reiterated maman for the third time.

But even as she spoke the word, she looked down upon the beautiful

upturned head, the glowing eyes, the quivering lips parted in earnest

pleading, and like the thistle-down in a gale, which she herself had

quoted, the worthy old woman's resistance fell away.

"Of a truth thou'rt a rogue," she said more gently.

"Fifteen minutes, Maman."

"Thy father would not hear of it."

"He need not know. When he goes down after dinner--to set the work for

the 'prentices."

Maman hesitated one moment longer, but that final hesitation was

useless by now. The fortress had yielded to the powerful weapons of the

loved one in tears.

"Very well," she said. And Rose Marie jumped to her feet with a little

cry of triumph. "But remember," continued maman with stern, upraised

finger, "it shall be ten minutes and no more."

CHAPTER XX

--So that hour died

Like odour rapt into the winged wind

Borne into alien lands and far away.

--TENNYSON.

Thus it was that this day, after maman had cleared the debris of

dinner, and papa went downstairs to set the 'prentices to their

afternoon's work, that no sooner had Rose Marie sat down to her

harpsichord and begun to sing:

"La nuit écoute et se penche sur l'onde

Pour y cueillir rien qu'un souffle d'amour,"

then maman gave a slight cry of surprise, and jumped to her feet

exclaiming:

"Oh, _mon Dieu_! I had forgot the pot-au-feu--it must be boiling over,"

and incontinently ran out of the room.

Rose Marie continued her song. She was sitting with her back to the

light, and my lord straight in front of her: and as her young voice

rose and fell to the simple cadence of the old song, she was able to

throw many a veiled look in his direction.

At first when maman ran away, he had made a movement as if he would

follow her, then seeing that Rose Marie remained at the harpsichord, he

seemed to think that mayhap courtesy compelled him to remain with her.

He sat down again in the high-backed arm chair and rested his head in

his hand. Every time that Rose Marie looked up she caught his deep-set

eyes fixed upon her. Strangely enough the look in them seemed quite

sad--indeed if it were possible in one so rich and in so high-born a

gentleman--Rose Marie would almost have imagined that my lord's whole

attitude was one which made appeal to her tenderness and even to her

pity.

Then when the last note of her song died away in a soft murmur, my lord

rose and came up to her.

"What a sweet voice you have, Rose Marie," he said in that even, gentle

voice with which he usually addressed her and which seemed to her

veiled with studied coldness, "and 'tis a tender song which you sang."

"It pleases me, my lord, that it should find favour with you," she

replied demurely, the while she allowed her long lashes to veil the

light of excitement which danced in her eyes.

"Nay! who am I that you should try to please me, dear heart?" he said

a trifle sadly, "rather is it I who with my whole mind and soul and

strength should strive to make you happy."

"That were not very difficult, my lord."

She would then and there have liked to give her excitement fuller rein,

to jump up, to clasp her hands together and to look up into his grave

face and say: "Only, only be kind and gentle to me, give me as much

love as ever you can--I am prepared to be the truest, most devoted,

most loving wife that e'er strove to be a joy to her lord. Give me

sunshine, and gaiety and laughter, and what meed of love you are able

to give."

But she did not quite dare to say and do all that, for maman's

admonitions were still fresh in her mind, and her guardian angel would

of a surety have had to veil his face again before this unseemly

behaviour on the part of his turbulent charge.

Therefore she added somewhat tamely:

"I have been taught to be easily contented, and meseems that by

honouring me with your love, you, my lord, would be doing all that God

doth ask of you."

Though she had spoken lightly, almost flippantly, for her heart was

glad, and her mind free from any presage of sorrow, his face, which all

along had been passing grave now looked deeply troubled at her words.

"Doing all that God doth ask of me," he exclaimed with sudden

vehemence, whilst a tone of bitterness, which she could not understand,

rang through his usually clear and fresh voice. "Nay, little snowdrop,

therein you wrong divine justice--if indeed there be one. Dear heart,

were I from this time forth to shed drop by drop all the blood of my

veins, were I to give my life inch by inch, my flesh piece by piece

to secure your happiness, even then I would not be doing all that God

would ask of me."

He had turned from her and while he spoke he paced up and down the

narrow room like some untamed creature fretful of its cage; then he

broke into a laugh--not the merry laugh which she had so oft heard

ringing through the house, but a harsh outburst of passionate sarcasm,

which had an undercurrent in it of deep and hidden sorrow. Rose Marie

felt a wealth of pity surging in her heart, when she heard that

mirthless laugh. Yet was it not passing strange that she, an humble

tradesman's daughter, with no knowledge of that great world in which

lived my lord, that she should thus dare to pity this noble, high-born

and rich English gentleman? But she could not combat the feeling and

her innocent blue eyes watching his restless movements, and that

troubled look on his face, were filled with the tears of womanly

compassion.

She looked divinely pretty thus, sitting at the harpsichord, one

delicate hand idly resting on the ivory keys, from which almost

unconsciously she had just evoked one sweet and melancholy chord from

out the soul of the old instrument, like a long-drawn-out sigh of

unspoken sorrow. Her young bosom rose and fell beneath the folds of

the primly folded kerchief, and her upturned face showed the white

column of her throat round which nestled a string of pearls, large and

translucent--his bridal gift to her.

He paused beside her, and in his expressive face the signs of a great

inward combat became strangely visible. Then he knelt down, close to

her, and with a curious gesture half masterful and half appealing he

took both her hands and imprisoned them in his own. He looked straight

into those tear-dimmed eyes, with a questioning look that seemed to

probe the very depths of her soul.

"My lord you are troubled," she said gently.

"Ay, little snowdrop," he replied, "deeply troubled at sight of the

exquisite purity which speaks to me with such mute eloquence from out

the depths of your blue eyes. How dare I, miserable wretch, drag you

from out that secluded garden of innocence wherein you have grown to

such perfect beauty. How dare I with impious hand guide you toward

that great outer world which lies so far beyond the glorious land of

your girlish dreams? It is a world, dear heart, wherein great monsters

dwell, pollution, sin and evil and that canker of corruption which will

inevitably mar the calyx of the snowdrop and cause her white petals to

droop at its touch."

"I have no fear of that great world, my lord," she rejoined simply,

"since I will enter it in your company."

"No, no, you must not talk like that, dear heart," he said with strange

persistence, "you must not trust me so. What do you know of me or of

my life? You so young, so pure, so exquisite, and I--"

He paused and pushing her hands away with a rough, impetuous movement

he jumped to his feet and once more resumed his restless wanderings up

and down the room.

"Have you ever wandered, little one, in the forests round Cluny," he

asked with one of those sudden transitions in voice and manner which

puzzled her so, "and paused beside that pool which the country folk

about there call the Lake of Sighs? Yes, I see from your telltale eyes

that you do remember it. Well then, you must oft have seen it lying

silent and stagnant beneath the shades of the overhanging willows,

whilst on its smooth, dark surface water lilies as white as snowdrops

rear their stately heads in June. You should see these in the spring

tall and majestic, with graceful upright stems and fragrant, wide-open

buds, which seem to invite with a kind of cold aloofness the rough

caresses and kisses of the bee. Tall and majestic like you, dear heart,

pure and coldly innocent like your soul--the spring, coy and cool,

smiles and passes by, leaving those lilies to face the scorching breath

of awakened summer. Have you stood beside the Lake of Sighs, little

one, when dying a summer draws out her last sigh of agony? When rank

weeds and poisonous plants begin to grow apace from out the slimy ooze

which encircles the pool, and throw out sinewy, death-dealing arms

along its peaceful surface? Then noisome trails of slugs and grime

skim the once pure waters of the pond and rank growths of coarse weeds

cover the slender stems of the lilies, and drag them down, down until

the stately flowers, weighted with mud-scattering rain bend their proud

heads to the mire, the while in their slimy hovels, loathsome toads

croak their chorus in unison. The world to which I must take you,

little snowdrop, is just such another pool, you the lily and I the

weed--and men and women the loud-voiced croakers who are always ready

to proclaim triumphantly the pollution of a work of God."

Whilst he spoke he halted opposite to her and looking down into her

face he studied every line of it, watching for the first look of horror

which would mar its perfect peace. He was conscious of a strange desire

to see her afraid of him, to feel that at his words her innocence would

rebel, that if after what he had said he attempted to touch her, she

would shrink away in unexplainable horror.

Now that he was alone with her for the first time, and could study

at leisure every line of her graceful form, the perfect shell which

contained a perfect soul, the first poisoned fangs of remorse fastened

themselves into his heart, and impatient of the monster's attack, he

strove to smother it, and thus longed to see her less trustful, less

innocent, even--God help him--less pure!

Already he was searching for justification for that great wrong which

he was about to commit, nay which he did commit with every word of

gentleness which he spoke to her, with every moment that he spent in

her company. Therefore he tried to make his voice harsh and rough, he

did not want the child's regard, her trust, her allegiance. He would

have had her ambitious, sordid and grasping for in this he could

satisfy her by and bye, when he had all the promised riches in his

hands, and had made her Countess of Stowmaries. He would have had her

look on him as a necessary means to her own ends, as a man who would at

best be wholly indifferent to her, or if that could not be, then as a

man whom she would hate.

But in spite of all he said, in spite of his harsh words, and strange

imageries, the meaning of which she scarce understood, yet almost

feared to guess, her face remained perfectly calm, and her eyes--still

tender and compassionate--met his in absolute, childlike serenity.

"I am not afraid of entering that world, my lord," she said, "with you

to guide me."

"What a brave snowdrop," he said, "nay, you foolish little daughter of

the frosts, you'll want an angel to guard you and to stand 'twixt you

and me. I begin to think that cold ice-maiden though you be, you must

at some time of your brief terrestrial existence have offended the

God who made you, since He has thought fit to punish you so severely

by giving you for husband the most abandoned sinner that ever defiled

His earth. Or was it in a former existence, dear heart, when you dwelt

amidst the snows that you roused the ire of devils to such an extent

that they swore to be revenged on you, once you were a woman and could

understand and feel. 'Twas a cowardly revenge of a surety, for there

were other men--less vile, less corrupt, less contemptible than he in

whose hand you so trustfully place yours. God forgive me, but meseems

that I do feel tempted to draw aside the veil of ignorance which

lies before your blue eyes, and to show you pictures of evil and of

wretchedness from which your calm soul would shrink in horror, and even

your serene virginity would recoil in fear. See the abandoned wretch

that I am! I would rouse terror in those eyes--which hitherto have been

the blue and opaque windows through which a placid soul hath gazed

upon the devilries of mankind--and gazing hath not seen. Dear heart,

how will you bear it, this first contact with pollution, and with sin;

my hand to guide you, my finger to be the one to point the hideous

way?--Broad the priests call it, and an easy descent to Hell, lined

with the grinning faces of monstrous ghouls, one of which is called

drunkenness, the other licentiousness, whilst blasphemy is the constant

companion of both--and right and left from the road itself stand those

hideous booths where poverty and degradation shrink out of sight in the

dark hours of the evening gloom, and where hovers--like a gigantic bat

with black and loathsome wings outspread and claw-like feet that grip

and tear--that cruel Titan, called Remorse. Little snowdrop, snow-white

and so pure, how will you trust after that, the hand that would guide

you still further on the way, the voice that in its agony of shame

would yet murmur in your ears promises of a turning out of the hideous

road, a turning which leads to happiness and peace?"

His voice broke in a sigh which was almost a sob. Gradually as he spoke

he had drawn nearer to her, until his knee touched the ground, and his

head was bowed in his hands. But had he looked at her face even now

he would not on any line of it have seen the slightest sign of the

fear which he wished to evoke, nor of the loathing which he would have

conjured up, yet would dread to see.

Only her eyes as pure, as childlike as before, were veiled in the tears

of infinite pity. There was silence for awhile in the little parlour,

her hands had fallen away from the keys of the harpsichord. Only the

old clock ticked solemnly on, marking the brief minutes wherein these

two souls met each other in this their first communion. Then as she

did not speak, his whole soul recoiled at thought of losing her and

a great dread seized him, lest after all she had understood, and in

understanding, turned away from him in fear.

And humbly, gently, not daring to look up, and murmuring scarce above a

whisper, he said:

"Little snowdrop, would you trust me still?"

And whilst despite iron will, obstinacy and pride hot tears would surge

to his eyes and sear his aching lids, he suddenly felt a light touch,

soft and cool as a snowflake, a tiny hand resting upon his shoulder.

"I trusted you ere this, my lord," she said simply, "trusted and

honoured you, mayhap a little feared you as my lord and master. But

now, methinks that a great sorrow lies buried in your heart--you choose

to call it sin--mayhap it is--that I do not know--I am a woman--soon to

be your wife, but never your judge, my lord. And if you have sinned,

then you stand nearer to me, who am so far from that perfection which,

alas! you see in me. If I feared you before, my lord--meseems that I

could love you now."

To Michael Kestyon, with a life of insubordination behind him, a life

of debauchery, of loneliness and lovelessness, it seemed as if some

unknown Heaven had opened and he had his first vision of what paradise

might be. A paradise wherein voices of angels spoke to him of love, and

cool white hands, cold as snowflakes yet infinitely gentle, led him

towards that open door. That tiny snowflake fell from his shoulder onto

his own burning hands, and to his vague astonishment it did not melt at

the contact, but lay there cool and soft, mayhap a little trembling,

having suddenly changed into some fairy bird.

Michael pressed his hot forehead against it, his eyes and then his

lips. His whole soul cried out mutely now in a passionate longing

for happiness. Womanly tenderness, womanly pity awaited him in that

paradise, the door of which stood open, and if honour long since

dormant called out loudly against treachery and against a trick, who

shall pronounce judgment on this man, if he had not the strength at

this moment to respond to that call?

With his own hands now, with one word spoken by his own lips, he could

shut against himself those glorious gates of Heaven, and deliberately

turn his back on that brief vision of paradise, and walk once more down

that hideous path which leads straight to Hell.

There were but the two courses open to him. The one was to take this

trusting, loving woman to his heart, to guard and keep her in happiness

and peace, whilst showering on her all the gifts which her weaker

nature might desire. He was rich now, would be richer still, he could

satisfy her ambition, and by constant love and tender care, he could

win her heart and her inner self in time, even though he had won her

person by a trick.

The other course was the rugged path to which the inexorable hand of

almost barbaric honour pointed relentlessly, to tell her all and to

lose her forever. To throw back in his kinsman's face the price of

this girl's innocence, and then to go back to that life in London, the

drinking booths, the degrading hovels, the propinquity of abandoned

reprobates as despicable as he had been himself before he met her.

Pity him if you can!--judge him not if you've never been tempted to

chose 'twixt life and living death, 'twixt happiness and degradation,

'twixt the hand of an angel and the gripping tentacles of devils.

Pity him for he was only a man, with a burning thirst for happiness, a

mad longing for love and for peace.

Michael Kestyon kissed the little hand which had confirmed the promise

of love spoken by the girl's pure lips. He looked up then and met her

eyes. Heaven alone knows what he would have said or done the next

moment. The Fates who in their distant, rock-bound cavern spin the

threads of destiny decreed that these two people should --ere another

word was spoken between them--be incontinently hurled from out the

realms of romance wherein they had wandered hand in hand for over ten

minutes.

For that--as we know--was the time limit set by maman, for allowing her

daughter to be alone in the company of my lord. And Michael had only

just time to free the small imprisoned hand so that it might wander

back to the keys of the harpsichord ere Mme. Legros--rubicund, fussy

and prosy--made irruption into the room.

Thus it was that for Michael Kestyon the gates of paradise remained for

the nonce invitingly open, nor did the Fates give him another chance to

close them against his own happiness.

CHAPTER XXI

Love took up the Harp of Life and smote on all the chords with might;

Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

--TENNYSON.

The old, majestic Church of St. Gervais had been made quite gay with

flowers. Good M. Legros was passing rich, thank God! He could gratify

his only child's every whim--however trivial--on this her wedding day.

She had expressed a great desire to see the church quite full of

flowers--as many flowers as it could hold, and Papa Legros had

spent--so the gossips said--enough money in indulging this wish as

would have kept a dozen poor families in comfort for a dozen years.

'Twas mid April and there were white roses from the King's

conservatories in Versailles, white hyacinths from Fontainebleau and

white violas from the walled-in gardens at Blois, there were white

violets and snowdrops and sweet-scented narcissi. They lay everywhere

in heavy fragrant bunches and wreaths fashioned by loving hands,

untutored in the art of decoration. The high altar groaned beneath the

weight of huge brass pots wherein old-fashioned stocks reared their

sweet-scented heads. The Virgin in her niche, the saints upon their

altars almost disappeared beneath their monster crowns of violets and

of roses.

The central nave was filled with a motley crowd, attired in holiday

clothes, come to see the tailor's daughter wedded to the English milor.

A few simple folk there were--gaffers and cronies who had watched Rose

Marie as she grew up in her father's back shop, and who came with

shaking heads and ominous murmurs to see the last of the poor child,

who of a surety would be drowned when she sailed upon the sea or if she

did survive that calamity, would certainly be most unhappy in a land

of evil-doers, and of cruel, red-haired, large-toothed men. But there

were others, too, mere idlers these, who had never before set eyes on

an English milor, and were curious to know if what was said of these

English were true, namely that they were big as giants and like them

ferocious, with fangs instead of teeth, and fists as heavy as bullocks.

Under one of the arches, quite close to the chancel, special places had

been reserved and chairs covered with red cloth. Here a small group of

gaily-dressed ladies and gentlemen had assembled, gilded butterflies

flown from out their silken nets over in the St. Germain quarter and

even from the Louvre and Versailles; gentlemen of the court and of His

Majesty's bedchamber with their ladies in stiff brocaded paniers and

silken skirts which made a soft swishing sound as the wearers turned

to right or left to lend an ear to the whisperings of a gallant or to

murmur a word of scandal in that of a friend.

They had crossed the river and wandered into this abandoned quarter of

the city from idle curiosity. Rumours had reached the Court that the

Earl of Stowmaries, one of the richest young gallants of London, had

come to wed the daughter of the Paris breeches-maker, a man well-known

to all. His Majesty had deigned to seem interested, Mme. de Montespan

expressed a desire to see this milor, whom gossip had reported as

handsome and had endowed with the romantic history of early life

spent in distant lands, where he was kept in poverty and exiled by a

rapacious kinsman, who robbed him of his inheritance.

Gossip as a rule had mingled truth with fiction, but the marquise was

interested and brought her brilliantly decked-out sycophants in her

train--gentlemen and ladies who sunned themselves in the sunshine of

her graces,--to witness the ceremony of St. Gervais. From this group

beneath the archway came the constant murmur of fluttering fans, the

rustle of silks, the creaking of chairs on the flag-stones of the

floor--also at times a giggle quickly suppressed, a cry of astonishment

or amusement held in check only by the solemnity of the surroundings.

The atmosphere was waxing oppressive, despite the cold April breeze

which found its way into the edifice through the chinks of many

cracked window panes. The scent of the poet's narcissus, heavy and

intoxicating, filled nostrils and brain with its overpowering savour;

the roses already inclined to droop added their faded fragrance to the

air, mingling, too, with the penetrating odour of white Roman hyacinths

and the pungent smell of primroses and of violas, whilst through it

all the heavy fumes of incense rose upwards to the high-vaulted roof

and wrapped the statues of saints, the small side altars and tall

embroidered banners in their mystery-creating clouds.

Monseigneur the Archbishop of Paris had just entered, robed in gorgeous

cope and mitre and followed by the clergy of St. Gervais and the band

of acolytes clad in scarlet and white. Behind heavy curtains, a band of

skilled musicians from His Majesty's own opera house were playing an

Introit from one of M. Lulli's most exquisite scores.

All necks were craned to catch sight of the man and woman who were

kneeling on crimson cushions at the foot of the chancel steps.

The bride could scarce be seen though her figure looked dainty in her

simple white gown; but her golden head was hidden beneath a filmy veil

of delicate Mechlin lace, which fell right over her face and far back

to the edge of her gown.

But every one could see milor well, for his dark head towered above

those of the spectators. And he held his head very erect, some folk

thinking that on this occasion a man should look less proud and

certainly less defiant. He was gorgeously clad in surcoat and vest of

delicate ivory-tinted silk, with exquisite embroideries of gold and

silver which the gaffers thought must have cost a mint of money. But

then English milors were all so rich, and this one--so 'twas said--was

one of the richest amongst all; he certainly was one of the most

handsome. Goodly to look at was the verdict of the women, with his dark

hair innocent of those monstrous perruques which the _jeunesse dorée_

of Paris and Versailles had lately affected. He wore neither beard nor

moustache and every one could see what a firm, strong mouth and jaw he

had--an obstinate one murmured some of the ladies, a masterful one,

sighed the others.

Mme. de Montespan enthroned on a velvet-covered armchair made vain

attempts to draw his dark, deep-set eyes to hers.

But milor looked straight before him, and his arms were crossed over

his broad chest. When Monseigneur kneeled at the foot of the altar

and began to recite the first verse of the Introibe, milor knelt too,

beside his bride, and buried his face in his hands.

M. and Mme. Legros clad in their Sunday best, knelt quite close to the

bridal pair. Maman in rich puce-coloured brocade, her scanty locks

hidden beneath a remarkable confection of lace was frequently mopping

her eyes, the while M. Legros, master tailor to the Court of Paris,

tried to conceal the inordinate pride which he felt at seeing his only

child wedded to so great a lord.

Now Monseigneur bent his broad shoulders and sotto voce murmured the

Confiteor. Rose Marie in the innocence of her heart prayed to the

Virgin to make her quite, quite perfect, as good as my lord thought her

to be, lest he be deceived and disappointed in her. She had not spoken

to him alone again after that happy yet sad quarter of an hour when she

had seen his proud head bent before her, and felt that unutterable pity

for him, which so quickly then became unutterable love.

That his self-accusations were only the result of an over-sensitive

conscience she firmly believed, and if in his early youth my lord

had sinned as other young men sin from thoughtlessness and want of a

guiding hand, who was she that she should judge him, now that he had

honoured her with his love?

And as Monseigneur at the altar read the Holy Gospel wherein the Good

God himself enjoins man and woman to cleave to one another, Rose

Marie's whole heart went out to the man by her side, and the magnetism

of her enthusiastic sacrifice of her whole self to him drew his dark

eyes down to hers.

Michael, as in a dream, saw the exquisite white-clad figure close to

him; never--he thought--had he beheld aught so lovely, so pure, so

worthy of love. Then looking from her to the great altar before him, he

saw through the moving clouds of incense phantom figures and objects

from out his past.

There in that dark recess, beside the niche of that mitred saint,

faces of men who had sneered at his misfortunes, the men of law who

had plundered him, and a forest of outstretched palms, oily and

smooth awaiting the bribes. There again high up in the groined roof,

his companions in those far-off days in Flanders, faces red with the

excesses of the day, hands soiled with the evil deeds of night; the

miserable camp followers in the wake of a starving mercenary army,

dissolute men and intemperate women; and all around him the poor,

miserable scum of London, the men with whom he had herded, beasts like

himself, no more human since wretchedness had killed all manhood in

that perpetual, that degrading search after forgetfulness.

All these monsters and ghoulish phantoms grinned at Michael now,

polluting the sacred edifice with their imaginary presence. They

floated corpse-like on the shifting clouds of the ever-rising incense

and taunted Michael with their grinning faces, daring him now to turn

from the broad path of happiness whither the snow-white hand of an

ignorant girl was so trustingly leading him.

"Follow the path of honour, follow truth and loyalty now, Michael,

and to-morrow thou'lt be one of us again: one with the grinning

and dishonest sceptics, one with the profligate crowd of mercenary

soldiers, one with the flotsam and jetsam of criminal London, the

drunkards, the roisterers, God's damned upon earth. Truth leads the way

to perdition, follow truth now, Michael, an you can."

And as, up high on the altar steps, Monseigneur now held up for the

adoration of the multitude the sacred mysteries which no brain of man

can understand, Michael bowing his head and looking within himself with

searching, conscience-stricken eyes, saw nothing but loyalty to the

girl who was thus unwittingly snatching him from out the yawning abyss

of misery and degradation, of humiliation for himself and starvation

for his mother.

Anon Monseigneur whispered the Pater Noster, and after that he

turned and with hand upheld, three fingers pointing upwards to the

mystery-hidden vault, he pronounced the solemn benediction on Michael

Kestyon and Rose Marie his wife. Not a sound stirred in the vast and

ancient church, save the voice of the Archbishop as it rose high above

the chancel, and the blessing spoken by him seemed to descend with

unseen wings on the bowed heads of the two young people whom so strange

a fate was linking together.

To her--the girl--it was a Sacrament--this confirmation of the vows

spoken in her name when she was too young even to lisp them; for him it

was the word of honour of a man who throughout a rough life had never

succeeded in burying honour out of sight.

Both pronounced their vows without thought of ever rebelling against

them. Both pronounced the solemn "I will" with fervour as well as

gladness. The assistants almost held their breath. Instinctive awe had

silenced every chattering tongue, stilled every careless laugh.

My lord's voice rang out clear and distinct in the midst of that hushed

reverence, and more than one fair dame accustomed to the insipid

gallantries of the Court of Versailles sighed for the latent and rugged

passion which rang out through that firm "I will."

Rose Marie's young heart gave a great leap for joy.

"He loves me," she whispered exultantly to herself, despite the

solemnity of the moment, the sacredness of her surroundings, "he loves

me, he loves me. I can tell it by the sound of his voice."

And she had to press her bouquet of roses to her lips to suppress

the little cry of joy which almost escaped her throat. Perhaps she

did not altogether understand at this moment what she herself meant

when she thought "he loves me!" Mayhap some of those ladies in the

stiff brocades, who cast admiring glances at my lord knew and guessed

much more of what went on in his mind than did the simple tradesman's

daughter with the innocent mind and the pure heart of childhood still

undefiled within her.

And now Monseigneur came right down the altar steps and my lord and

Rose Marie had to rise, and to pass through the wrought-iron gates of

the rood screen, then pause, standing just below the communion rail.

Monseigneur stood there awaiting them, and the good curé of St. Gervais

was near him holding a jewelled salver whereon rested two circlets

of gold. My lord took one of these between his fingers and some one

whispered in Rose Marie's ear to hold out her hand.

From far away came in sweet muffled sounds the opening bars of Lulli's

Beati Omnes exquisitely played on the string instruments. All round

Rose Marie's feet lay a carpet of white roses which sent their last

dying fragrance into the air. She felt my lord's strong hand grasping

her own and the tiny band of gold being slipped on her finger--the sign

of her bondage to her lord; she was so happy that she could have cried

for joy, so happy that she longed to kiss that cold little circlet

which now irrevocably bound her to him.

She raised her eyes and saw his dark head bent just over her hand, and

it seemed as if a magnetic fluid ran from his veins into hers, for she

felt the passion which quivered in his pulse, and though she might not

wholly understand it as yet, she nevertheless responded to it with all

the strength of her young nature full of the joy of love and of life.

"May the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob be with you

and remain with you always."

Monseigneur had begun to speak the final prayer. Bride and bridegroom

had partaken of the Sacrament together, and Monseigneur had declared

that the other sacrament, that of matrimony, had indissolubly now

renewed the ties which already bound them to one another since

childhood. This was not a marriage, he said, but the repetition of

solemn vows made in their name when they were too young to understand,

the consecration by the Church of those bonds which she forged for them

eighteen years ago.

The solemn Amen was pronounced and sung; the King's musicians played

the first bars of a stirring wedding march specially composed for this

great occasion by Maître Colasse of His Majesty's orchestra. There was

a general movement amongst the spectators, a great sigh of excited

satisfaction as Monseigneur having stood for a few moments whispering

final admonitions to milor, now turned and walked with slow steps out

through the chancel door.

One by one the glittering group of gorgeously-clad priests and acolytes

disappeared out through the narrow opening. The strains of the hidden

orchestra swelled in glorious volume until they filled every corner

of the vast building, like a pæan of triumph and of joy. There was a

general frou-frou of silken skirts, a clink of swords, a scraping of

chairs against the flagged floor, as my lord now led his young bride

down the nave. He pressed her trembling hand against his side, the

while he frowned--despite himself--at this crowd of peering faces,

this sea of importunate looks which made him restive and impatient.

He longed to take his snowdrop away with him, out of this indifferent

throng, far, far away to some hidden nook among the Kentish hills,

there where the lime trees were just beginning to unfold their

delicate leaves of emerald tinged with gold, where lying on a carpet

of primroses and violets, beneath a cool, grey sky, his burning head

fanned by the cold, spring breezes, he could kneel at her feet and tell

her that with her small icy tendrils she had already twined herself

around his heart; that her blue eyes, cold and pure as those of a

forget-me-not beside a brook, had taught the miserable reprobate his

first lesson of love.

Then when the pale tints of the limes turned to a more vivid green,

when primroses had paled beneath the shadows of brilliant Lent lilies,

then he would try his hand at the great miracle of which he dreamed,

the transmutation of the white snowdrop into a glowing, crimson rose.

CHAPTER XXII

Sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl.

--A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

"By the Mass, but the blackguard bears himself bravely! And you, my

lord, have no cause to be ashamed of your substitute."

It was Lord Rochester who spoke. He, together with Lord Stowmaries

and Sir John Ayloffe, was standing on the top of the steps beneath

the ancient stone portcullis which surmounts the porch. They formed a

compact little group, which gained distinction from the rest of the

motley throng, by the sober cut of the English-made clothes, and by the

drooping plumes of the hats--a fashion long since discarded in France.

Michael Kestyon with his bride on his arm had just come out of the

church. She, wrapped in cloak and hood--for the spring day was chilly

and the east wind keen--looked little more for the moment than a small

bundle of humanity desirous above all of escaping observation.

But Michael for all the world looked the picture of the soldier of

fortune, defiant and conscious of danger, ready to walk straight into

that yawning abyss, at the bottom of which lurks a mysterious death,

yet disdainful to evade it, too proud to halt, too obstinate to turn

back.

As he came out of the porch, a violent gust of wind caught the folds of

his cloak, and lashed him in the face, whipping up the swiftly-coursing

blood which the solemnity of the religious service, the drowsy

influence of faded roses had lulled into temporary somnolence. The

glare of the young April sun dazzled him, after the sombre, grey tones

of the majestic chancel; the pupils of his eyes contracted to a pin's

point, making the eyes themselves seem pale in colour, and tawny as

those of a wild beast sweeping the desert with great savage orbs. There

was altogether for the moment in the man's expression a strange look of

dreamy aloofness. His eyes wandered over the crowd but obviously they

recognised no individual face.

No wonder that Lord Rochester--essentially a man himself and a despiser

of the other sex--gazed with ungrudging admiration at this splendid

blackguard, who bore the stamp of virility on every line of his massive

frame, and who seemed to defy contempt and dare contumely to reach him.

Looking at Michael now it seemed impossible to think that he could ever

regret any action which he had set his mind to do. Compunction is for

the weak who is led astray, who fears gibes and dreads humiliation, but

this man had donned an armour of pride and of ruthless ambition which

neither sneers nor contempt could ever penetrate.

He might be a blackguard--he was one by every code of moral or

religious civilisation, but in his most evil moments he was never

paltry and never vile.

"I feel no longer any sorrow for the girl," continued Lord Rochester

after awhile. "Odd's fish! Were I a woman I would not complain at the

bridegroom. And withal she looked vastly pleasing as a bride, and

methinks Michael Kestyon, too, is overmuch in luck's way. What say you,

Ayloffe? are you not grieved that you did not take the entire business

on your own shoulders, rather than depute that good-looking young

reprobate to earn a fortune and an exquisite bride to boot?"

Sir John frowned. Some thought, such as the one expressed by Rochester,

had mayhap crossed his own mind during the past three weeks--but this

was not for other people to see. He, too, watched Michael's tall

retreating figure, as he led Rose Marie down the stone steps, giving

it ungrudging admiration and also the tribute of secret envy, until a

crowd of friends and servants closed in round the bridal pair and hid

them both from view.

Then Sir John turned to his friends and said drily:

"My lord of Rochester is ever ready for a joke. I desired this scheme

to succeed, and obviously the worthy tailor yonder would never have

mistaken me for a man who was seven years old eighteen years ago.

But I'll confess, an it'll please you, my lord and also my lord of

Stowmaries, that I do deem Michael Kestyon a lucky dog. One hundred and

twenty thousand pounds and such a bride! By Gad, had I been able to put

back the hand of time some twenty years--"

"The bride would have loathed you," retorted Stowmaries with an

unpleasant snarl. "She'll fall in love with Michael and clear me of

remorse."

"Surely my lord of Stowmaries is not troubled with any such

unpleasantness?" said Ayloffe imperturbably. "'Tis too late now to give

way to remorse. By to-morrow's dawn, my lord, you'll be as free as

air to wed whom you please. That simpering tailor's daughter will not

have a rag of reputation left to her name, and you can repudiate her

whenever you feel so inclined."

"And that will be at once," replied Stowmaries, who, of a truth, was

not experiencing the slightest pricks of conscience. The thought of

this mock wedding which he had actually witnessed to-day had been

dwelling in his mind for close upon a month. He had envisaged it from

every point of view and had completely exonerated himself from blame

in the matter. The image of his fair Julia had quite succeeded in

screening from his mental vision all thought of the unfortunate girl

whom he was thus condemning to disgrace and to shame, and whilst he

steadily looked on Michael as a miserable blackguard he firmly believed

that when once he had paid over the price of an innocent girl's

betrayal he himself would remain absolutely free from blame.

"I have made all enquiries," now continued Sir John drawing his two

friends out of earshot of the crowd. "I understand that there are to

be rare doings to-day in Master the tailor's back shop--a banquet,

dancing and I imagine a good deal of wine drinking and licentious

entertainment. These French bourgeois have no knowledge of decency and

Michael Kestyon, methinks, did not learn to be squeamish whilst herding

with the scum of mercenary armies in Flanders and Brandenburg. At

five o'clock however a coach is to take the bridal pair as far as St.

Denis--"

He paused a moment, then added with a cynical smile, almost cruel in

its callousness:

"The first stage of their journey to Havre."

Lord Rochester laughed loudly. He had all along only seen the humour of

the adventure. A woman's reputation destroyed, a woman won by a trick,

by Gad! these were of every-day occurrence in the life of a fashionable

gentleman. Indeed he thought that both Stowmaries and Ayloffe were

making far too much of the whole business, and though he, too, called

Michael Kestyon a rogue, yet he admired him for his pluck and envied

him for his good fortune.

In his heart of hearts he much regretted that on the memorable night

when the adventure was proposed, he had been too drunk to accept its

terms or to enter the lists for it himself.

"Nay then!" he said lustily, "we'll all call on the turtle doves at St.

Denis to-night, and whilst my lord of Stowmaries pays up like a man for

all that he gains by Michael's roguery, Sir John Ayloffe and I will

entertain the bride by hoodwinking her still further into the belief

that she is of a truth Countess of Stowmaries forever and ever Amen, as

the Archbishop told her this day."

"I should be glad to get to St. Denis to-night," rejoined Stowmaries.

"I owe Michael seventy thousand pounds, which according to promise I

should pay him to-day. The draft for it on Master Vivish the goldsmith

is in my pocket now. The sooner I am rid of it the more pleased will I

be."

"Then will I at once and see about a coach," said Sir John. "We can

make a start at about six o'clock, one hour after the dove hath flown

out of the paternal cote."

"Nay, old Daniel Pye will see about the coach," rejoined Stowmaries.

"He hath met a crony who speaks English and knows his way about Paris

better than we do. He'll get us what we want."

"Daniel Pye!" exclaimed Sir John in astonishment. "What doth my

kinswoman's faithful henchman in this depraved city?"

"Mistress Julia Peyton desired him to do certain commissions for

her here in Paris. When she heard that I was making the journey she

requested that I should allow her servant to travel in the company of

my men, since he was unversed in foreign ways, and knew nothing of the

French language."

Sir John made no further comment, but he wondered vaguely in his mind

as to why the fair Julia had sent old Pye over to Paris. The question

of commissions was of course nonsense. Daniel could no more choose a

length of silk or even of grogram, than he could trim a lace coif or

fashion a pinner.

"Mayhap my fair coz is jealous," was Sir John's mental comment and the

conclusion to which he arrived with that convenient cynicism of his,

with which he usually disposed of any problem wherein feminine motives

or feminine actions played an important part. "She hath mayhap deputed

that old sinner, Daniel Pye, to watch over young Stowmaries and to make

report in case the wiles of this wicked city make my lord forget his

allegiance to herself."

Thus content with his own explanation of the circumstance, Sir John

dismissed the old serving-man from his mind, but not without deciding

to question Pye closely as soon as he had an opportunity so to do.

Most of the crowd had dispersed by now. The bridal pair with good M.

and Mme. Legros were being escorted by a merry crowd of 'prentices,

servants and friends as far as the worthy tailor's house in the Rue

de l'Ancienne Comédie. This cortège had already turned the angle

of the street, and the noise of laughter and of songs sung to the

accompaniment of flute and _hautbois_ was gradually dying away in the

distance.

The few laggards who remained behind were discussing the chief actors

in the pageant which they had witnessed. Mme. de Montespan and her

gaily chattering court were gossiping whilst waiting for their chaises.

"Ah!" sighed Madame provokingly, "are all these English milors as

handsome as that? I vow our gallants of Versailles have much to learn

from them, if indeed they all look like milor of Stowmaries."

And while the gallants there present protested in dismay an

ill-concealed jealousy, Madame's roving eyes had discovered the small

group of Englishmen close by, and amongst them had recognised Lord

Rochester.

"Ah, milor," she exclaimed, "I pray you approach. I did not know you

were in Paris! What brings you hither, I pray?"

Lord Rochester, obedient to the call, had already advanced, and was

duly allowed to kiss those finger tips whereon royal lips were ever

wont to linger. Englishmen were in high favour with Madame for the next

half hour at least.

"Why are you in Paris?" she repeated.

"To catch a glimpse of the most beautiful woman in Europe," replied my

lord of Rochester with bold gallantry.

"Then you'll come see her in Versailles," she replied, drinking in the

full measure of his flattering speech, the obvious falseness of which

would not have deceived a child.

"Nay, now that I have seen her!" he retorted, "I must hie me home to

England again."

"So soon! Then why did you come? Nay!" she added with mock severity,

"Do not repeat your pretty lie again. You could not imagine to see

me in this old church to-day. I came out of curiosity, to see this

strange, ill-assorted marriage. Tell me what makes the rich Earl of

Stowmaries wed a tailor's daughter?"

"He was not always rich, nor always Earl of Stowmaries. The ceremony

was not a marriage. It was a confirmation."

"And you came to witness it?"

"And to take part in an adventure."

"I might have guessed. Who is the lady?"

"The bride of half an hour ago."

"I do not understand," said Mme. de Montespan with a frown. "Pray

explain."

"I'll do even more than that, Madame la Marquise," retorted Lord

Rochester as he stepped a little to one side and disclosed the person

of my lord of Stowmaries. "I will with your permission present to

you my friend the Earl of Stowmaries and Rivaulx, the _only_ Earl

of Stowmaries whom I or His Majesty the King of England would ever

acknowledge as such."

The Marquise looked very bewildered, her great violet-hued eyes opened

wide and wandered in puzzlement from the face of Lord Rochester to that

of his friend.

"The only Earl of Stowmaries!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "I vow

milor that you have vastly puzzled me. Then who was that handsome young

milor who just now swore to love the tailor's daughter, the while the

hearts of two Duchesses, and one other Marquise besides myself were

pining for his glance."

My lord of Rochester, however, kept Madame on the tenter-hooks of

expectation, whilst he affected the elaborate presentation of his

friend which the etiquette of the time demanded. He introduced my lord

of Stowmaries to Madame la Marquise de Montespan, and performed a like

service for Sir John Ayloffe. Then only did he partly satisfy Madame's

curiosity.

"The young reprobate," he said airily, "whom the most beautiful

Marquise in Christendom has honoured with a glance of her Myosotis eyes

is--well! just a young reprobate, whom my lord of Stowmaries here is

paying handsomely to take an unwelcome bride from off his shoulders.

My lord of Stowmaries was seven years old when he wedded the tailor's

daughter--now he has other matrimonial views--also a handsome cousin

who was not averse to stepping into his shoes for this occasion which

we have all witnessed to-day. He'll be well paid--neither bride nor

bridegroom will have much to complain of--the bridegroom was a wastrel

ere my lord of Stowmaries proposed this adventure--and the bride is

only a tailor's daughter. She will have a handsome husband, if Michael

Kestyon chooses to acknowledge her--if not there is always the nunnery

handy for those saintly women like herself who have made a temporary

if not wholly voluntary diversion from the strict paths of decorum and

virtue. Et puis voila!"

Mme. de Montespan had listened attentively to this tale so cynically

told; her friends, too, had closed in round her. Every one was vastly

interested and I assure you not the least in the world shocked. The

Court of le Roi Soleil abounded in such adventures, the convents of

France were filled with the grief-stricken victims of the dissolute

idlers of the day. Lord Rochester's story evoked nothing but amusement,

and Lord Stowmaries at once became the centre of an admiring little

crowd.

"But par ma foi!" commented Madame with a sigh not altogether free from

envy, "you English gentlemen are mighty blackguards!"

"We do our best, Madame," rejoined Rochester lightly, "to emulate our

confrères in France."

"His Majesty shall hear of your gallantries this very night. I

pray you, Lord Rochester, do not leave us yet, nor you, my lord of

Stowmaries, nor you, Sir Ayloffe. His Majesty would delight in your

company. He so loves a bold adventure. And I am much mistaken he'll

wish to see our handsome young reprobate, too--Michael Kestyon, did you

say?" she added, prettily mispronouncing the English vowels, "'tis an

ugly name--but oh! he hath fine eyes and a manly bearing--and did he

really do it for money?"

She called Lord Stowmaries to her side and closely questioned him,

until she knew the entire discreditable story from beginning to

end. Her amusement in the recital of the tale, her appreciation of

the adorable wickedness which had prompted the scheme for the cruel

hoodwinking of another woman, did much to dissipate once and for all

any lingering thoughts of remorse which Stowmaries may still have been

troubled with.

Nothing would do but the imperious beauty's decree that after the call

at St. Denis--which was the call of honour since it meant the paying

of money for services rendered--the three English gentlemen must

straightway back to Versailles, where they would be sure of a cordial

welcome from His Majesty and from every lady and gentleman at his Court.

"And," urged Madame, when at last she was installed in her chaise and

was bidding farewell to her array of courtiers, "if you can bring that

adorable young blackguard with you, you'll earn a gratified smile from

the lips of King Louis, and I'll promise not to do more than turn his

head and make him forget that he was paid in order to wed the daughter

of a tailor--brrr--the thought makes me shudder. The rogue is an

Apollo, milors, else a Hercules--and has just that wicked look which

makes us poor women tremble and which we adore."

And with this parting shot levelled at those who would have fought to

the death for praise such as this, Madame ordered her serving-men to

bear her away.

Rochester, satisfied that he had sown the seeds of the most amusing

and most comprehensive piece of scandal that had ever amused the

jaded monarchs of two rival kingdoms, turned to his friends for final

approval. Ayloffe was distinctly appreciative of the new move, but

Stowmaries with that shiftiness peculiar to weak characters was not

quite sure if it had been premature.

Anyhow the draft for seventy thousand pounds on Master Vivish seemed

to burn a hole in the pocket of his elegant surcoat. He was longing to

be rid of all obligations in the matter, firmly convinced as he was

when he had made Michael richer by one hundred and twenty thousand

pounds and himself poorer by that vast sum, this tiresome feeling of

uncertainty would leave him, and he could once more enjoy life in its

full--life with the prospect of adorable Mistress Julia as a constant

companion by his side.

He and his friends walked back to the hostelry where they had put up

for the night. There Stowmaries called for Daniel Pye in order to give

him instructions about getting a coach ready for the trip to St. Denis.

But it seems that Daniel had gone out earlier in the day and no one

knew whither he had gone. But there was no difficulty about the coach.

The amiable host of the uncomfortable little inn assured MM. les milors

that one would be ready by half-past five of the clock and that the

journey to St. Denis could be accomplished in something less than three

hours.

CHAPTER XXIII

The man was my whole world all the same

With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame

And either or both to love.

--BROWNING.

The workshop of Master Legros, tailor-in-chief to His Majesty the King

of France, had been transformed into a vast assembly-room. The big

central tables whereon usually sat cross-legged the 'prentices and

stitchers, had been pushed to one side, right along the wall where

it now groaned beneath the weight of pasties, and of pies, of a lamb

roasted whole, of dishes of marrow bones, of prawns and of cheese,

amongst which dishes and platters, the bottles of good Burgundy and of

wine of Navarre, and the jugs of metheglin and hypocras reared their

enticing heads.

The centre of the room was given over to dancing. The wooden floor had

been greased and polished until it had become slippery to the feet,

whilst in a corner raised upon a wooden platform covered with crimson

cloth a band of musicians were playing good lilting, swinging measures

for a dance. None of your simpering minuets or slow-going pavanes for

these young people; but something with a good lively tune in it, and

plenty of noise and banging of the small drum and cymbal, so that

a youngster could have a chance of gripping a wench well round the

waist and of turning her round and round until she became so giddy, so

breathless and so hot that she had to cry for mercy even at the price

of a sounding kiss.

For close upon an hour now the musicians had played the same rousing

tune, and for close upon an hour indefatigable feet--some clad in shoe

leather, others with hard bare soles beating the polished floor--had

been raising up a mighty cloud of dust which settled on pasties and on

cheese, on the big drum and on perspiring faces. Cheeks were crimson

from the exertion, short hair and long hair, curly and straight hung

limply over sweating, greasy foreheads. Pinners were getting awry,

displaying more bosom than prudery would otherwise allow. To right and

left surcoats and vests were being cast aside and flung across the room

leaving bare arms and chests to view, or else a shirt more full of

tatters than of stitches.

Daylight still came streaming in for it was only four o'clock and

_les mariés_ would not be leaving for at least another hour. In the

meanwhile M. Legros had much ado to keep the curious, the idle, the

impertinent from his doorstep, for, look you! though the hospitable

abode of the goodly tailor was open on this great occasion to all and

sundry friends and acquaintances who wished to eat and drink and to

make merry, yet there was no intention of permitting every shiftless

vagabond to come and partake of the cheer.

Good Papa Legros had planted two of his most stalwart assistants at the

door, with orders to admit no one who did not bear a familiar face, and

if any one prove importunate, why then the end of a whip-lash or even a

stout stick should drive impudence away.

Thus it was that when Master Daniel Pye--the faithful henchman of fair

Mistress Peyton--presented himself at the tailor's shop in the Rue de

l'Ancienne Comédie, he was incontinently refused admittance.

"I desire to speak with M. Legros, tailor to His Majesty the King of

France," growled Daniel Pye in excessively bad French, for he knew

nothing of the gibberish and had only learnt this phrase off by heart

like a parrot that jabbers without understanding.

"Then thou silly lout of a buffle-headed Englishman, thou'lt have to

wait with thy desire until to-morrow."

"I desire to speak with M. Legros, tailor to His Majesty the King of

France," repeated Pye mechanically. It was the only sentence which he

knew, and he had been assured by his crony that the magic phrase would

ope the doors for him without any difficulty.

"Get thee gone, and come back to-morrow," retorted the stalwart

sentinel.

"I desire to speak with--"

"An thou'lt not go at once," shouted the tailor's irascible cutter,

"I'll give thee a taste of a French stick across thy English shoulders."

"I desire--"

Bang! came the stout stick crashing down on worthy Pye's broad back,

quickly bent in order to check the strength of the blow.

But he held his ground.

"Thou'lt go to Paris in company with my lord," the mistress had said

to him peremptorily, "and on the day on which the daughter of Master

Legros, tailor-in-chief to His Majesty the King of France weds an

English gentleman, thou'lt to the house of that same Master Legros, and

thou'lt deliver him this letter--to him and to no one else--and without

saying whence thou comest, nor who it was that sent thee. Thou'lt go to

him one hour after the religious ceremony of matrimony shall have been

performed in the church and before the newly-wedded pair have quitted

the bride's parental home."

Daniel Pye had presented himself according to instructions. He had

safely hidden in his breast pocket the letter which he was to deliver

to the tailor of his Majesty the King of France, and to no one else. If

he failed in the discharge of his duty, he knew that his fair mistress

would punish him mercilessly, probably dismiss him from her service

altogether and send him--old and unfit for other work--to starve in his

remote East Anglian village.

At best there were plenty of subordinates in Mistress Peyton's

household who would only too gladly wield the lash on him who never

spared it to others. Therefore Daniel Pye held his ground. The more

blows he received, the more sure would he be of the indulgence of his

own mistress. He had a tough hide, and after all is said and done, one

does not die of a beating. So he bore the blows of the stick on his

back, and the stinging swish of whipcord round his legs. He knew quite

well that on occasions such as marriage-feasts or other merrimaking

days, 'prentices and young assistants would have their bit of fun.

He had had his own many a time. So when his back ached overmuch, and

his legs were more sore than he could stand, he gave up all further

attempts to force his way into the house and beat a retreat in the rear

of the good-natured crowd.

He would, he thought, find a means to speak to Master Legros a little

later on, when every one's attention would be more fully concentrated

on merrimaking, and the door was not so closely guarded.

When Papa Legros heard of the incident he was vastly amused, then he

bethought himself that mayhap the persistent English lout had some

command for him for some rich clothes on behalf of one or other of the

elegant milors who were in Paris at this moment--friends of my Lord

Stowmaries, mayhap. Master Legros was vastly perturbed, and sent one

of his 'prentices to search for the Englishman in the crowd, and to

bring him hither forthwith. But Master Daniel Pye with that stolidity

peculiar to his race had gone very quietly off to a neighbouring coffee

house to nurse his sores, to drink mulled ale and to await events.

In the meanwhile within the house itself much time had been spent in

eating and drinking, as the debris which at this hour littered Mme.

Legros' kitchen could well testify. The banquet had lasted for nearly

two hours and had gone on at intervals ever since. M. Legros had made

a speech which had caused his fair young daughter to blush and made

every one there clap mugs against the table and shout: "Long live! long

live!" until the old rafters and beams shook with the mighty echo.

One or two buxom maids of all work, with muscular, bare arms and

streaming, red faces had since then brought in fresh relays of

victuals, and any number of bottles of wine--quite enough for every

'prentice in the shop to get as drunk as any lord.

The noise in the back shop was now incessant and the shouting of

the dancers, the screams of the girls, the laughing and hooting

of the boys, almost drowned the cymbal, _hautbois_ and big drum.

The intoxication of pleasure had whipped up the blood of all these

youngsters. Ay! and of the sober folk, too, for behold Mme. Legros in

her beautiful puce silk footing it with good M. Dumas, the shoesmith,

and displaying a length of stockinged leg such as no decent matron

should show except to her husband.

But what would you? This is an occasion such as only occurs once

in a lifetime: the marriage of an only daughter, and that to the

handsomest, richest, most noble seigneur that ever dwelt at the Court

of the King of England.

Then _vogue la galère_! Let us dance and make merry! Dance until every

sinew in the body aches and clothes slip off dripping shoulders.

"_Mais va donc! vieille tortue!_" shouted some of the young 'prentices

to the musicians as these poor wretches, perspiring profusely,

straining their arms and puffing out their cheeks tried to keep up the

measure to the required rapidity.

"_C'est un enterrement par Dieu!_" yelled another, as he whirled his

partner round until both her little feet gave way and she and the

indefatigable youth collapsed with a violent thud upon the hard floor.

A terrific shout of laughter greeted the catastrophe. The musicians,

in response to vigorous shouts, struck up the measure with renewed

quickness. They blew and puffed at such a rate now that no foot of man

could have kept up with the tune, at least not after an hour of this

same exertion.

"Assez! assez! not so fast morbleu!"

But the players evidently had resented the previous comments anent

their slowness, and now would listen to no admonition in the contrary

direction. Faster and faster they played, the exhausted, sweating

'prentices tripped it with frantic efforts; the girls loudly clamoured

for the music to stop. They were giddy, they were toweringly hot, the

young men's breath almost burned their cheeks.

"Enough! enough! _par tous les diables!_ These musicians have the devil

in them!"

The couples fell back one by one panting against the wall, only one

pair remained in the centre now twirling and twisting in a cloud of

dust. The girl's white skirts flew out all round her like a thousand

wings which seemed to lift her off her feet. The man held her tightly,

his strong arms twined round her as if he never would let her go

again, but meant to dance and turn, to whirl her through space even to

eternity.

His head was bent for he was over-tall and towered above every one else

in the room. He was a head taller than she was, but he looked straight

down at her as he held her, straight into her eyes, those beautiful

blue eyes of hers which he had thought so cold. They were dark now,

almost as dark as his own, and flashed with curious purple lights,

and deep velvety shadows; her lips were parted with the effort of

breathing, they were red and full, and showed glimpses of small pearly

teeth, and the red moist tongue between them.

The man's heart gave a great bound of joy. This was no ice-maiden

wrapped in a mantle of snow, the tips of whose chaste fingers he had

hitherto hardly dared to touch with his lips. No! this was a living,

breathing woman full of passion, full of the joy of life, a woman

moreover who was ready to love him, to return passion for passion, and

kiss for kiss.

Ye gods! Michael, but thou'rt a happy man!

He held her close in his arms, for is not God's most glorious, most

perfect creation upon earth a woman who is pure the while she burns

with passion? And that priceless treasure was his. Fate had given her

to him, Fate and his own damnable action.

Nay, Michael, thou blackguard, if thine action be damnable, then by all

the Saints in Heaven and by all the devils in Hell, do thou go and be

damned, but hold this woman first.

And wild, mad thoughts went coursing through his brain, thoughts of

himself and of her:

"I am a man, and what I do, I do. With mine honour did I buy thee, with

mine own humiliation and shame have I conquered thee. Thou who art no

snow-maiden but living lava melting at my touch, thou whom I adore,

for whom were it to be done again, I would lie and I would cheat, I

would descend to Hell or conquer paradise. I am a man and what I do, I

do! Perish honour, perish life itself and eternal salvation if to gain

honour mean to forsake thee."

These were the tumultuous coursings of his excited brain the while he

held her thus, swirling and whirling in his arms, swaying as a reed in

the embrace of a blasting wind.

The cloud of dust enveloped them, as, on the Brocken, the steam from

unseen cauldrons envelops the witches in their revels. Through this

haze Rose Marie saw nothing but his face and in it she read mayhap

something that was passing in his mind, something of that passion which

her mind as yet could not understand, even though her blood and heart

were so ready to respond.

But strangely enough she was not afraid. The child whose life boundary

did not extend far beyond the walls of the parental home looked out on

a limitless horizon of men's passions and men's sins, but even beyond

that horizon the personality of the man to whom she had given her

innocent love stood out clear and pure: the master to obey, the hero to

worship. That she had roused a great love in him, she could not fail

to see; of that she was proud, for her feminine instinct whispered

that the greatness of his love transcended any sin which he ever might

commit.

* * * * *

How it all happened she never afterwards could say; but it was all so

different to what had been prearranged by mother and father, and by

all the friends. Rose Marie had not heard the pawing of horse's hoofs

outside, nor yet the rumble of the coach. Truth to tell she was so lost

in the wild dream of the moment that she had forgotten all about what

was to come: the farewell to maman and papa, the noisy "good-bye" to

friends, the conventional departure accompanied by shouts and cheers

and showers of rose leaves which all richly-dowered brides have to

experience.

In her case, too, it had all been duly planned, but it happened so

differently!

She had been dancing with her lord, looking up like a fascinated bird

into his face glowing with ardent love. Then the room began to spin

round and round, she could see nothing very clearly, yet a delicious

languor stole into her every limb, she closed her eyes, and gave

herself over limp and motionless into his embrace. Suddenly she felt

herself lifted off her feet and carried by strong protecting arms

through door and passage, until the cold April wind struck her cheeks

and forced her with the power of his frolicsome will to open her eyes

once more. She saw as in a quick vision a rearing horse, two or three

men in sad-coloured surcoats, one of whom clung to the horse's bridle,

whilst the other held the stirrup, and then as a background of curious

faces the crowd of street gaffers standing gaping round. Behind her the

dense throng of 'prentices and wenches, of friends and serving-maids

pressed forward down the narrow passage, shouting, clamouring cheering

to the echoes; in the forefront of these papa and maman half laughing,

half crying, waving hands and mopping tears.

But it was only a vision swift and sudden, for everything happened

so quickly--and she was still so dizzy with the frantic whirl of the

dance that she hardly remembered being lifted up on to the saddle and

landed safely in the strong arms of her lord. The words of command

had been so quickly spoken, my lord had jumped with such rapidity into

the saddle, no wonder that she did not know exactly how she came to be

where she was, clinging to him with all her might, and making herself

very, very small lest she hindered him in the guiding of his horse.

She knew exactly how to hold on, and how to sit, for she had oft sat

thus ere now, on her father's saddle when he took her with him for a

ride--he bent on some business errand, she enjoying the movement, and

the fresh air as soon as the grime and smoke of Paris had been left

behind.

But no other ride had ever been quite like this one, for soon the horse

settled down to an easy, swinging canter in the soft mud of the road,

and there was an infinite sense of security in the clasp of the sinewy

arm which held her so deliciously close.

Just one slight shifting of her lissome body to settle herself more

comfortably, one little movement which seemed to bring her yet a little

nearer to him.

"Is it well with you, my snowdrop?" he asked, bending his head in a

vain endeavour to catch sight of her face.

He only could see the top of a small, fair head, from which the hood

had slipped off, disclosing the wealth of quaint curls and puffs, the

formal bridal coiffure since then somewhat disarranged.

The wealth of curls shook in obvious assent, and presently a shy voice

murmured:

"Why do you call me snowdrop?"

"Because I was an ignorant fool," he replied, "when I first beheld you,

a blind and senseless lout who did not distinguish the lovely crimson

rose that hid so shyly within a borrowed mantle of ice."

"They call me Rose Marie," she whispered.

"Rosemary to me," he said fervently, "which is for remembrance."

"Tu m'aimes?" she asked, but so softly that whilst she wondered if he

would hear she almost hoped that the April breeze would fail to carry

her words to his ear.

Of course he did not reply. There is no answer to that exquisite

question when it is asked by the loved one's lips, but his right arm

tightened round her, until she felt almost crushed in the passionate

embrace.

CHAPTER XXIV

Love that keeps all the choir of lives in chime

Love that is blood within the veins of time.

--SWINBURNE.

You all know that funny little inn at St. Denis, on what was then the

main road between Paris and Havre; it stands sheltered against north

and east winds by a towering bouquet of mighty oaks, which were there,

believe me--though mayhap not quite so gnarled and so battered by

storms of wind and thunder as they are now--in the April of that year

1678.

The upper story gabled and raftered hung then as now quite askew above

its lower companion, and the door even in those days was in perpetual

warfare with its own arched lintel, and refused to meet it in a spirit

of friendly propinquity. The Seine winds its turgid curves in the rear

of the building with nothing between it and the outer walls only the

tow path always ankle deep in mud.

The view out and across the winding river is only interesting to the

lover of colour and of space, for there are no romantic hills, no

rugged crags or fir-crowned plateaus to delight the eye. Only a few

melancholy acacias sigh and crackle in the wind and tall poplars rear

their majestic heads up to the vast expanse of sky.

Now elegant villas and well-trimmed gardens fill the space over which

two hundred and forty years ago the eye wandered seeking in vain for

signs of human habitation. Rank grass covered the earth, and close to

the water's edge clumps of reeds gave shelter to water rats and birds.

Through the small dormer window just beneath the gable, Michael Kestyon

looked out upon the melancholy landscape and found it exquisitely fair.

The wind howled down the wide chimney and sighed drearily through the

reeds, whereon the spring had not yet thrown her delicate tints of

green; but Michael thought the sound divine, for it mingled in his ear

with the tones of a fresh, young voice which had prattled gaily on

throughout supper-time, of past and of future--not of the present, for

that was sacred, too sacred even for her words.

She was a little tired at first, when he lifted her off the saddle,

and the amiable hostess of the ramshackle inn took charge of her and

saw to her comforts. But after a little rest in her room, she came and

joined him in the stuffy parlour, the window of which gave on that far

horizon, beyond which lay the sea, England and home.

She seemed a little scared when she found herself quite alone with him,

without maman or papa to interrupt the tête-à-tête. She was so young,

and oh! how tender and fragile she appeared to him, as she came forward

a little timidly, with great, blue eyes opened wide, wherein her pure

love fought with her timidity.

Her whole appearance, her expression of face as she yielded her hand to

him, and allowed him to draw her closer ever closer to his heart, made

appeal to all that was best, most humbly reverent within him.

Rose Marie was home to him, she was joy and she was peace, and he,

the homeless, the joyless, the insubordinate wastrel, felt a wave of

infinite tenderness, a tenderness which purified his love, and laid

ardent passion to rest.

He led her to the window, and throwing it wide open, he knelt down

beside her there in the embrasure. She sat on the narrow window seat,

looking out on that vast expanse of sky and land whereon the shadows

of evening had thrown a veil of exquisite sadness and peace. The bare

branches of the acacias as yet only tipped with tiny flecks of green

moaned softly beneath the kiss of the breezes. Banks of clouds lashed

into activity by the wind hurried swiftly past, out towards the unseen

ocean, now obscuring the moon, now revealing her magic beauty, more

transcendent and glorious after those brief spells of mystery conquered

and of darkness subdued. Michael said very little. There was so little

that he could say, which was not now a lie. He could not speak to her

of his home, for home to him had been a miserable garret under the

grimy roof of a house of disrepute, shared with others as miserable, as

homeless as himself. He could not speak to her of friends, for of these

he had none, only the depraved companions of a dissolute past, nor

could he speak of kindred, unless he told her that it was because his

mother was dying of hunger in a wretched hovel that he had spoken the

mighty lie and taken payment for speaking it.

I would not have you think that even now Michael felt any remorse for

what he had done. He was not a man to act first and blush for his

actions afterwards. He knew his action to be vile, but then he had

known that ere he committed it, and knowing it had deliberately taken

his course. Were it to be done all over again, he would do it; since

she never could be his save by the great lie and the monstrous trick,

then the lie must be spoken and the trick accomplished. For she meant

love and purification; she meant the re-awakening of all that was holy

in him and which the Creator infuses in every man be he cast into this

world in a gutter or upon a throne.

And he would make her happy, for he had gained her love, and a woman

such as she hath but one love to give. She would never have loved

Stowmaries, and not loving, she would have been unhappy. He had taken

upon himself the outer shell of another man, and that was all; just

another man's name, title and past history, nothing more. But it was

his personality which had conquered her, his love which had roused

hers. She loved--not an Earl of Stowmaries, the plighted husband of her

babyhood. No! she loved him, Michael, the blackguard, the liar, the

cheat an you will call him so; but she loved him, the man for all that.

Therefore he felt no remorse, when he knelt beside her and during that

exquisite hour of evening, when shadows flew across the moon, and the

acacias whispered fairy tales of love and of brave deeds, he listened

to her innocent prattle with a clear mind and a determined conscience,

and the while she spoke to him of her simple past life, of her books

and of her music, his ambition went galloping on into the land of

romance.

The title of Earl of Stowmaries which he had assumed, he could easily

win now; the riches, the position, everything that could satisfy a

woman's innocent vanity he would shower upon his snowdrop. She would

have all that her parents wished for her, all and more, for she would

have a husband who worshipped her, whose boundless love was built on

the secure foundation of a great and lasting gratitude.

It was in this same boundless gratitude that he kissed her hands now;

those little hands which had been the exquisite channels through which

had flown to him the pure waters of love and of happiness.

How quaint she looked, with her fair hair almost wild round her little

head. The dance first, then the ride through wind and space had

loosened most of the puffs and curls from their prearranged places.

That tired look round the eyes, the ring of dark tone which set off the

pearly whiteness of her skin, the beads of moisture on her forehead,

these gave her a strangely-pathetic air of frailty, which most

specially appealed to Michael's rugged strength.

Her white gown was torn here and there--Michael remembered catching

his foot in it in the mazes of the dance--it was crumpled, too, and

hung limply round her young figure, showing every delicate curve of the

childlike form, every rounded outline of budding womanhood.

Think you it was an easy task for Michael to keep his tempestuous

passion in check, he who throughout his life had known no control save

that of cruel necessity? Think you he did not long to take her in his

arms, to cover those sweet lips with kisses, to frighten her with

the overwhelming strength of his love and then to see fright slowly

changing to trust and the scared look give way beneath the hot wave of

passion.

But with all that mad desire coursing through brain and blood, Michael

knelt there at her feet, holding her hands, and listening to the flow

of talk which like a cooling stream rippled in his ear. She asked him

about England and about his home, and wanted to know if in springtime

the white acacias were in bloom in Sussex, and if rosemary--her

namesake--grew wild in the meadows.

In the woods round Fontainebleau the ground was carpeted with anemones;

were there such sweet white carpets in the English woods? Then she

looked about her in the ugly, uninteresting little room and saw a

broken-down harpsichord standing in a corner.

She jumped up gay as a bird and ran to open it. There were several

broken keys, and those that still were whole gave forth quaint,

plaintive little sounds but she sang:

"Si tu m'aimais, tu serais roi de la terre!"

and he remained beside the window, with the cold breeze fanning his

cheek, his head resting in his hand, and his eye piercing the gloomy

corner of the room from whence came the heavenly song.

Indeed! was he not king of all the world?

Thus passed a delicious hour. Anon the coach--which originally should

have brought the bridal pair hither, had not milor carried off the

bride in such high-handed fashion--came lumbering up to the door.

Prudent maman had despatched it off in the wake of the impetuous rider.

It contained a bundle of clothes and change of linen for Rose Marie and

had my lord's effects, too, in the boot.

Rose Marie gave a little cry of delight when she realised maman's

forethought, and then one of dismay for she suddenly became conscious

of her disordered dress.

The worthy hostess--fat, greasy and motherly, had entered, candle in

hand, to announce the arrival of the coach.

"Me and my man expected Monsieur and Madame to arrive in it," she

explained volubly. "Monsieur's servant came yesterday to bespeak

the rooms and to arrange for the stabling. I was so surprised when

Monsieur arrived on horseback, so much earlier, too, than we had

anticipated--else I had had supper ready ere this, for Monsieur and

Madame must surely be hungry."

"But supper must be ready by now, good Madame Blond," said Rose Marie

blushing to hear herself called "Madame," "and I pray you have my

effects taken to my room."

"They are there already, so please you, my pigeon," said the amiable

old soul, "and there is some water for washing your pretty face."

"And will supper be ready soon?" she reiterated insistently for she was

young and healthy, and had eaten very little for sheer excitement all

day.

"While you smooth out your golden curls, _ma mignonne_, I'll dish

up the soup. Nay! but Monsieur is in luck's way!" she said, shaking

her large round head. "Madame is the comeliest bride we have seen

at St. Denis for a long time past. And they all come this way, you

know--away from the prying eyes of kindly friends. Me and my man are so

discreet!--especially if the bride be so pretty and the bridegroom so

good to look at."

She would have babbled on a long time, despite Monsieur's look of

fretful impatience, but fortunately just then the hissing sound of an

overflowing soup-pot came ominously through the open door.

"Holy Joseph, patron of good housewives, defend us!" exclaimed Mme.

Blond, making a dash for the door, "the croûte-au-pot is boiling over."

Rose Marie made to follow her.

"Need you go, my snowdrop?" he asked, loth to let her go.

"Just to change my crumpled gown, and smooth my hair," she replied

demurely.

"You are so beautiful like this, I would not wish to see one single

curl altered upon your head, or one fold changed upon your gown."

She was standing against the table, the fingers of one hand resting

lightly upon the blackened oak, her head bent slightly forward the

while her blue eyes half sought, half shrank from his gaze.

He went up to her, and drew her to him. The desire was irresistible and

she almost called for that first kiss by her beauty, her innocence, her

perfect girlishness which was so ready to give all bliss and to taste

all happiness.

He kissed her fair hair, her eyes, her delicate cheeks now suffused

with blushes. Then with a look he asked for her lips and she understood

and yielded them to him with a glad little sigh of infinite trust.

The hand of time marked these heavenly minutes; surely the angels

looked down from their paradise in envy at this earthly heaven. Outside

the wind sighed amid the branches of the acacias, wafting into the room

something of the pungent odour of this spring air, of the opening buds

of poplars and of beeches and the languorous odour of newly-awakened

life.

Gently she tried to disengage herself from his arms.

"I must go now," she whispered.

"Not yet."

"For a moment and I'll come back."

"Not yet."

"Let go, dear lord, for I would go."

"Not till I've had another kiss."

Happiness and the springtime of the earth, joy and life and love

dancing hand in hand with youth! O Time, why dost not stop at moments

such as this?

The sighing of the reeds on the river bank came as the sound of a

fairy lullaby, the scent of the spring reached the girl's nostrils

like an intoxicant vapour, which clouded her brain. The room was quite

dark, and she could scarcely see his face, yet she felt that his eyes

perpetually asked a question, to which she could only respond by

closing her own:

"Tu m'aimes?" he whispered, and the heavy lids falling over ardent eyes

made mute response to him.

A confused sound of horses' hoofs outside, of shouts and calls

from within roused them both from their dream. She succeeded now in

disengaging herself from his arms, and still whispering:

"I'll come back!" she retreated toward the door.

Just as she reached it, the moon so long obscured burst forth in full

glory from behind a bank of clouds, her rays came straight into the

narrow room and lighted on the dainty figure of the girl standing with

crumpled white dress and hair disarranged, cheeks rosy red and eyes

full of promise and love against the dark background of the heavy oaken

door.

Michael looked upon her with longing, hungry eyes, drinking in every

line of that delicately-moulded form, the graceful neck, the slender

hands, the firm girlish shoulders on which the prim kerchief had become

slightly disarranged. Then as she retreated further into the next room,

she vanished from his sight; the door fell to behind her with a heavy,

ominous sound, shutting out the radiant vision of Michael's cherished

dream, leaving him on the other side of the heavenly portals, alone and

desolate.

Thus he saw her in full light, and lost her in the shadows. Something

of the premonition of what was to come already held his heart as in

a cold and cruel vice. When the door closed upon his dream, upon his

Rose Marie, he knew by an unerring and torturing instinct that he would

never, never see her quite as she had been just now. The Rose Marie who

had left him was for remembrance.

CHAPTER XXV

Though doom keep always heaven and hell

Irreconcilable, infinitely apart;

Keep not in twain for ever heart and heart

That once, albeit by not thy law, were one.

--SWINBURNE.

The next moment the door which gave on the landing was thrown open, and

Michael stood face to face with M. Legros.

Thus premonition had come true. Thus would nothing remain of the past

delicious hour only remembrance and bitter, bitter longing for what

could never be.

The light of the one candle fell full upon the unromantic figure of

the good tailor, on his pallid face whereon beads of perspiration told

their mute tale of anxiety and of fulsome wrath. His eyes, dilated and

tawny in colour were fastened full upon the reprobate, demanding above

all things to know if the outraged father had perchance arrived too

late.

The man's gay wedding clothes were torn and awry; mud covered his shoes

and stockings for he had not even stopped to be booted and spurred. The

old English serving-man who had vainly tried earlier in the day to gain

speech with the master tailor, had reached the august presence at last,

and had handed to M. Legros the letter which was to be given to him and

to no one else. It was written in a bold, clear hand and in scholarly

French for the better understanding of Monsieur the tailor to the king.

Mistress Peyton having penned a few ill-scrawled, ill-spelt words had

bethought herself of a young Huguenot clerk of French parentage who

earned his living in London by the work of his pen; and being desirous

above all that M. Legros should fully comprehend her letter, she caused

it to be translated and writ clearly by that same young clerk, ere she

finally entrusted it to Daniel Pye for delivery.

Thus it was that that which was written in the letter did not fail to

reach the understanding of good Papa Legros. It was a full and detailed

account of the treachery which had been perpetrated on the tailor's

daughter by one Michael Kestyon, who was naught but a dissolute

profligate, a liar and a cheat, since his own cousin was Earl of

Stowmaries, and no one else had any right to such title but he.

Papa Legros did not trouble to ask many questions, and since the

English lout knew not a word of French, the good tailor took no further

heed of him. He spoke to no one, not even to his wife. The letter said

something which must be verified at once--at once--before it was too

late. He gave orders that no one--least of all Mme. Legros--was to be

disturbed, the merrimaking was to go on, the dancing, the eating and

drinking, the speech making and all.

Then he slipped out by the back door and reached the small outbuilding

where he kept a horse, which served him on occasions when he had to go

to Versailles to try on a pair of breeches for His Majesty the King.

It took good M. Legros no time to saddle his horse, and a ride of over

three hours had no terrors for him beside the awful fear which gripped

his paternal heart.

Before he left his home he detached from a nail on the wall of the shed

an enormous stick with heavy leather thong, with which he at times

administered castigation to refractory or evil-minded 'prentices.

Then he mounted his horse and rode away in the fast-gathering twilight.

He knew his way to St. Denis and to the inn whither he wished to go. He

put his horse to a gentle canter and it was just past nine o'clock when

he saw the light in the old tower of the Church of St. Denis.

He was tired and stiff from riding, but he had sufficient control of

himself to speak quietly to the host of the little inn, and to ask

cheerfully of good Mme. Blond which room his daughter was occupying.

The amiable old soul pointed the way up the stairs, then returned to

her stock-pot with the cheerful comment that she would serve the soup

in a few moments.

Then Papa Legros went upstairs and pushing open the door stood face

to face with Michael. With one hand he gripped the heavy stick with

the stout leather thong on it, with the other he fumbled in the pocket

of his surcoat until he found the letter again--the letter which was

penned in such scholarly French by the Huguenot clerk, and which

revealed such damnable treachery.

But Papa Legros wanted above all to be fair. During the long,

monotonous ride in the silence and darkness of this spring evening he

had had time to collect his thoughts somewhat, to weigh the value of

the anonymous writing, to think of milor as he had known him these

past three weeks: gallant and plucky to a fault, proud, generous and

brave; and now that he stood before the man, saw the noble bearing of

the head, the fine dark eyes, the mouth that was so ready to smile or

to speak gentle words, his terror fled from him, and though his voice

still shook a little from the intensity of his emotion, he contrived to

say quite quietly, as he held the crumpled letter out toward Michael:

"My lord--you will forgive me--I know you will understand--but it is

the child's happiness--and--and--my lord, will you read this letter and

tell me if its contents are true?"

Michael took the paper from him quite mechanically, for of course he

had guessed its contents, but mayhap he had a vague desire to know who

it was that had so wantonly destroyed his happiness. He went to the

table and drew the flickering candle a little nearer, then bent his

tall figure to read that cruel letter.

The handwriting told him nothing, but the tale was plainly told. The

avenging angel of God was already standing with flaming sword at the

gate of his paradise, forbidding him ever to enter. He looked up from

the letter to that black door behind which she was; it almost seemed as

if his aching eyes could pierce the solid oak. She was there behind the

door and he could never, never again go to her, he could never, never

again hold her in his arms.

Heaven had vanished and at his feet now yawned merciless, illimitable

Hell.

"My lord," and the trembling voice of the outraged father broke in upon

his thoughts, "my lord, I still await your answer--I'll not believe

that nameless scrawl--I ask your word--only your solemn word, my lord,

and all my fears will vanish. Swear to me, my lord, on the innocent

head of my darling child that this letter holds nothing but calumnies

and I'll believe you, my lord--if you'll swear it on her golden head."

Do you know that hush that to the imagination seems to fall upon the

whole world just when a human heart is about to break? Michael felt

that hush all around him now; the April wind ceased its moaning in the

boughs of the young acacia trees, the reeds by the river bank sighed

no longer in the breeze, awakened nature just for one moment fell

back into winter-like sleep, and a shadow--blacker and more dense than

any that can fall from an angry heaven over the earth--descended on

Michael's soul.

To swear--as he had sworn this morning at the foot of the altar? To

swear by that most sacred thing upon God's earth, her sweet head?--no!

"Will you swear, my lord, that this letter is but vile calumny?"

And Michael gave answer loudly and firmly:

"It is the truth!"

Less like a man than like an infuriated beast, the meek man--now an

outraged father--literally sprang forward with upraised arm wielding

the heavy dog-whip, ready to strike the miscreant in the face.

The proud, defiant head, noble even now in its humiliation, was bent

without a murmur. Michael made no movement to avert the blow.

"Will you not kill me instead?" was all the protest which he made.

Legros' upraised hand fell nerveless by his side. He threw the stick

away from him. He, poor soul, had never learned to control emotion,

he had gone through no hard school wherein tears are jeered at, and

sorrows unshared. He had never learned to be ashamed either of joy or

of grief, and now, face to face with this man who had so deeply wronged

him, and whom, despite his wrath, he was powerless to strike, he sank

into a chair, and buried his face in his hands whilst a pitiful moan

escaped his lips.

"The child--the poor child--how shall I ever tell her? The shame of it

all--the cruelty--the shame--how shall I tell her?"

And Time's callous hand marked these minutes of terrible soul-agony,

just as awhile ago it had marked the fleeting moments of

celestial joy. Michael was silent, the while he wondered almost

senselessly--stupidly--if Hell could hold more awful agony than he was

enduring now.

Yet through it all his turbulent soul rebelled at the situation,

the sentimental parleyings, the pitiful grief of the father and the

enforced humility of his own attitude. He knew that he had lost his

Rose Marie, that the parents would never give her to him now; the solid

and indestructible wall of bourgeois integrity stood between him and

those mad, glad dreams of triumph and of happiness.

It was characteristic of the man that he never for a moment attempted

to guess or to find out the channel through which his own misery had

come to him. He certainly never suspected his cousin of treachery.

Fate had dealt the blow cruelly and remorselessly and sent him back

to a worse hell than he had ever known; a hell which Satan reserves

for those he hates the most--the way to it leads past the entrance to

heaven.

"Good M. Legros," said Michael at last, striving to curb his impatience

and to speak with gentleness, "will you try and listen to me? Nay,

you need not fear, 'tis not my purpose to plead justification, nor

yet leniency--I wish that you could bring yourself to believe that

though I wooed and won your daughter by what you think is naught but

an abominable trick, I had one great thought above all others and that

was that I would make her happy. This I do swear by the living God, and

by what I hold dearer still, by the love which I bear to Rose Marie.

And as there is a heaven above me, I would have made her happy, for I

had gained her heart, and anon when the bonds of mine own boundless

love had rivetted her still more closely to me, I should have taught

her to forgive my venial sin of having entered heaven by a tortuous

way. The name which I bear is mine own, the title which I have assumed

is mine by right, I would have conquered it for myself and for her.

You say that it is not to be--yet I swear to you that she will not be

happy if you take her from me. This I know; if I did not I would go to

her myself and tell her that I have lied to her. If despite what you

know you will still confide her to me, you will never regret it to your

dying day, for apart from the life of love and happiness which will be

hers, I will lavish upon her all the treasures of satisfied ambition,

far surpassing anything which you--her father--have ever wished for

her."

M. Legros despite his grief which had completely overmastered him for

awhile, raised his head in absolute astonishment. Surely these English

were the most astounding people in all the world! Here was this man

who of a truth had committed the most flagrant, most impudent act

of trickery, that had ever been perpetrated within memory of living

man--he had done this thing and been ignominiously found out. By all

the laws of decent and seemly behaviour he should now be standing

humble and ashamed before the man whom he had tried to injure. And yet

what happened? Here he stood, in perfect calm and undisguised pride,

not a muscle of his face twitched with emotion, and his neck was as

stiff as if he were exulting in some noble deed.

Had these English no sense of what was fitting? had they no heart? no

feelings? no blood within their veins? The man--so help us the living

God!--was actually suggesting that his trickery be condoned, that an

innocent child be entrusted to him, who stood convicted of falsehood

and of treachery! Good M. Legros' Gallic blood boiled within him,

overwhelming grief gave place to uncontrollable wrath. He rose to his

feet, and pulled up his small stature to its uttermost height.

"You will make her happy!" he thundered, throwing an infinity of

withering scorn into every word. "You--who like a prying jackal came to

steal the fledgling from its nest? You who took money with one hand,

the while you snatched a girl's honour with the other? With lying lips

and soft, false words you stole our child's heart--even until father

and mother were forgotten for the sake of the liar and the cheat who--"

Michael held up a quick warning hand, and instinctively the insults

died on the other man's lips. Rose Marie--white as the clinging,

crumpled gown which she had hastily refastened when anon she heard her

father's voice raised in angered scorn--Rose Marie silent and still,

and with great eyes fixed on Michael Kestyon, was standing in the

doorway.

At sight of her good M. Legros' grief swept over him with renewed

force. Once more he sank into a chair, and buried his face in his hands

whilst a moan of painful soul-agony escaped his lips.

"The child!--the child! My God how to tell her!"

But Rose Marie's voice came quite clear and distinct, there was no

catch in her throat, nor tremor in the gentle tones as she said quietly:

"Nay! my dear father, an there is aught to tell--milor will best know

how to say it to me."

CHAPTER XXVI

As the dawn loves the sunlight, I love thee.

--SWINBURNE.

Papa Legros at first had been too dazed to protest. Truly his loving

heart had been for hours on the rack at thought of the awful task which

lay before him--the opening of his child's eyes to the monstrous trick

played upon her by the man to whom her innocent heart had turned in

perfect love and in perfect trust. He, the father, who worshipped this

dainty, delicately-nurtured daughter, who had spent the past twenty

years of an arduous life in trying to smooth away every unevenness

from the child's pathway of life, now suddenly saw himself like unto

the scarlet-clad executioner, rope and branding irons in hand, forced

to bind his beloved one on the rack, and himself to apply the searing

torture of sorrow and of shame to her soul.

The child's calm words as she stood confronting the miscreant had

almost brought relief. Why indeed should not the villain accomplish

his own unmasking? Papa Legros hating the man who had done him and his

child an infinite wrong, had a sufficiency of perception in him to

realise, with that subtle cruelty of which the meek are alone capable,

that he could not inflict more exquisite torture on his enemy than by

forcing him to stand self-convicted before the child.

Just for the moment--and truly he may be forgiven for it--all that was

good and kind in the gentle nature of the tailor had been ousted by his

wrath as a father and as a man. He had found himself unable to strike

the liar just now; but he longed for the power to torture his very

soul, to bring him to the dust in sorrow and humiliation, to see the

proud head down in the mud of abject shame. Great God! did you not know

that Papa Legros had learned to love this man like he would his own

son, and that the grief which he felt was in part for Rose Marie and in

part for the miscreant who had twined himself around his heartstrings,

and whom he cherished the while he longed to chastise him with infinite

cruelty?

"Father dear," said Rose Marie after a slight pause, "will you not

allow me to speak with milor alone?"

"I would not trust thee one second in his keeping, child, now I know

him for what he is."

"You need have no fear, dear," she rejoined calmly, "and 'twere best

methinks for us all if milor were to tell me himself all that I ought

to know."

The candle flickered low, and Michael stood back amidst the shadow;

thus the good tailor failed to see if his own shaft had gone home--if

it had pierced that armour of stolid English indifference which the

descendant of Gallic forebears found so difficult to comprehend.

Certain it is that Michael raised no protest, and that not even a sigh

escaped him as this final insult was hurled at him with the utmost

refinement of vengeful cruelty.

Rose Marie went up to her father and placed her small cool hands on

his. Then with gentle persuasion she drew him up. He yielded to her,

for vaguely at the bottom of his heart, he knew that he could trust the

man whom he loved and hated, yet even now could not wholly despise.

For one moment as father and daughter stood side by side, he took

her in his arms and kissed her forehead. She rested against him cold

and placid, and when he released her from his embrace she took his

rough toil-worn hand and kissed it tenderly. Then with supreme yet

irresistible gentleness she led him out of the room.

As he passed close to Michael he held out the fateful letter to him.

"You will show her that," he almost commanded.

"An you wish it," replied the other, as he took the letter from him.

A curious instinct prompted Michael to blow out the flickering light,

just as Rose Marie, having closed the door behind her father, turned

back into the room. He went up to her, but she retreated a step or two

at his approach, and of her own accord went to the window seat, there

where a brief hour ago she had sat with him in perfect communion and

perfect happiness.

The casement was still open, and the moon which had been so fitful

throughout the evening poured her cold radiance straight on the dainty

silhouette of the girl, just as she had done awhile ago, ere the gates

of paradise were closed and the angels had ceased to sing their glad

hosannas! Outside, the sighing of the reeds and the moaning of the wind

in the young acacias made a sound as of innumerable feet of restless

spirits stirring the dead leaves of an unforgettable past.

"That letter, milor," said Rose Marie, "will you give it me--since my

father hath so commanded."

Without a word he handed the paper to her, and when he saw that she

could not read it--for the room was dark and the rays of the moon not

sufficiently bright--he took out his tinder-box and relighted the

guttering candle. Then as the wind blew the feeble flame hither and

thither he shielded it with his hand, and held the candle so that she

might read and yet not move from that window seat.

She read the letter through to the end, and while she read he could see

the top of her head bent down to the paper, and the wealth of those

fair curls which he would never again be allowed to kiss.

When she had finished reading, she looked up and he threw the candle

far away out through the window.

"Then you had lied to me," was all that she said; and she said it so

calmly, so quietly, like the true snow maiden which she had once more

become, now that he who alone had the power to turn the snow to living

fire, was proved to be treacherous and false. Then she folded up the

letter and slipped it under her kerchief.

Stately and tall as the water lilies on the pond which he had once

described to her--she drew up her slender figure and held her little

head erect. She did not look in his direction but rose slowly and

turned to go out of the room.

"Rose Marie," he called out to her in an involuntary moan of agony.

Instinctively his hand went out to her as she passed, and clutched the

crumpled wedding dress which seemed to wrap her in, now like a shroud.

She tried to disengage her gown, but as he held it tight she desisted,

standing there cold and impassive, a woman turned to ice.

"Rose Marie!" he whispered, "my own little snowdrop, will you be

so unyielding now? Awhile ago do you remember, you yielded to the

sweetness of a first kiss?"

"And yet you lied to me," she said slowly, tonelessly, the while her

eyes sought the distant horizon far away, where astride on the cold

grey mists unreached by the tender light of the moon, her dreams of

happiness were fleeting quickly away.

He drew himself up and caught her to him with a masterful gesture

of possession. He felt her body rigid and impassive at his touch,

stiffening in a backward motion away from him behind that massive stone

wall of awful finality which had so mercilessly risen between her and

him. He felt that he was losing her, that she was slipping away from

him--slipping--up, up to some cold and unresponsive heaven, peopled

with stern angels, whose great white wings would soon enclose her and

hide her from him forever. He felt that he was losing her, not with

that same bitter-sweet sense of sadness as he did just now when the

savour of her exquisite lips still clung to his own, and she retreated

out of his sight like a perfect vision of beauty.

Now an almost savage longing was in him not to let her go, to keep her

to him at any cost, any sacrifice, even that of his own self-control.

There was enough power in his own ardent love for her so to bind her to

him that she could never, never leave him.

"My beautiful crimson rose," he murmured, drawing her closer, closer,

even while he felt that with her whole gentle strength she opposed an

icy calm to the warm glow of his passion, "turn your dear eyes to me,

just for one brief moment. Oh! think, think of the past few days when

first our hearts, our souls, our entire beings met in perfect accord.

Look at me, my dear, sweet soul, am I not the man to whom you have

listened so oft, sitting at your harpsichord, the while he whispered

to you the first words of love? Look, look, my dear, mine eyes, are

they not the same?--my lips have they not met yours in one sublime,

unforgettable kiss? You were a child, ere your soul met mine--now you

are a woman, 'tis I who applied the magic fire to your heart, 'tis I

who kindled the flame of your pure love; you are no longer a child now,

Rose Marie, you are an exquisitely beautiful woman, and I love you with

every fibre of my body, with every aspiration of my soul--"

"And yet you lied to me."

"And would lie again, would sin again a thousand times, since my sin

gave you to me. Sweetheart, if I have sinned, yet have I expiated

already--one cold look from your dear eyes hath caused me more acute

agony than the damned can ever suffer in Hell. My love--my love--do

you understand what you mean to me? Have you realised the exquisite

gift--your perfect womanhood--which you would snatch from me? I was a

wastrel, a thief, a miserable degraded wretch--awhile ago when I held

you in my arms I was king of all the world. By my sin I won you! Great

God, then is not my sin the greatest, grandest and most glorious deed

ever accomplished by man--in order to gain a heaven?"

But with all his ardour, all his savage strength of will and of

purpose, Michael was but bruising his heart against a solid stone

wall. Perhaps if Rose Marie had been a little older, a little more

sophisticated, a little more wearied in the ways of men, she might have

yielded to the love of the man, and closed her eyes to the deeds of the

sinner. Whatever else he had done, she would easily have forgiven--nay!

she would never have judged--but it was the betrayal of her trust which

turned her heart to stone. Of course she had not had time as yet to

think. In the letter which he had given her she had read the awful

account of that transaction wherein she appeared as a mere chattel

tossed from one hand to another, paid for with money like a bale of

goods.

Oh! the shame of it! And he, to whom she had given her entire heart and

soul, to whom she was ready to yield herself absolutely and completely

had bought her at a price. Love? She no longer believed in it. If he

had lied to her, then neither love nor purity nor manhood existed on

God's earth--and this was no vale of tears but one of infinite shame.

She looked down on him with just such a cold look in her eyes as he had

compared to the infliction of the tortures of the damned. She knew that

physically she would be too weak to resist him, and she would scorn to

call out to her father. This she tried to convey to him by that cold

look and by the perfect placidity of her demeanour.

For one moment he was conscious of the wild desire to snatch his

happiness from out the burning brand even now, and to take her in his

arms and ride away with her into the land of forgetfulness. The wind

in the trees seemed to call out to him not to let her go, and the

reeds murmured as they bent their heavy heads that she would forgive

everything after another kiss.

"Rose Marie!"

Something of what was passing in his mind must have reached her inner

consciousness. She was quite woman enough to know that here was no

ephemeral passion, no flame of desire extinguished as soon as born.

He loved her and she loved him, that was as true, as incontestable as

that--in her understanding--the treacherous act which he had committed

now stood irremediably between them, whilst to his wild and rugged

sense of the overwhelming grandeur of love, nothing could or should

ever part him from her.

In her eyes the betrayal was greater than the love which--in his--had

by its very existence atoned for everything. But throughout her deeply

resentful feeling of wrong done to her and hers there was mayhap an

unconscious sense of weakness, a desire to bring forth a greater array

of will power and set it up against the insinuating persuasion of his

voice, the insidious magic of his touch. Certain it is that she felt

suddenly compelled to break the rigid silence which throughout his

impassioned pleading she had so deliberately imposed upon herself.

Held in his nervy grip, she could not altogether withdraw from him, but

her eyes, cold and calm sought his in the gloom.

"My lord," she said quietly and firmly, "since I know you by no other

name, therefore still my lord to me, I would have you recall the day

when sitting in my father's house, you whiled away an idle afternoon

by telling a foolish maid the pretty allegory of water lilies growing

on the weedy pond at Cluny, and of the slime which oozes from unclean

things and pollutes the white petals of the flowers. 'Twas a pretty

tale and no doubt it afforded you much amusement to see the look of

puzzledom in the eyes of an ignorant tailor's wench. Well, my lord!

the wench is no longer ignorant now--she understands the rude imagery,

her eyes have seen such pollution, such miserable corruption as will

forever leave them tainted with the villainy which they have seen.

Whoever you are, sir, I know not--what other deeds of evil and disgrace

you may have committed I care not--I only pray God that we may never

meet again. You no doubt will find pleasures elsewhere, some other

flower to pollute with your touch, some other heart to break. That you

brought shame upon me, mayhap God will one day forgive you, I could

perchance have forgiven you that had your sin rested there, but you

tried to bring dishonour on my father's house. You did succeed in

bringing sorrow and shame into it. My father and mother, who loved you

almost as a son, will never again hold their heads high among their

kind; a dishonoured daughter--for I am that now, for my true husband

will cast me off as a woman unfit to be his mate--a dishonoured

daughter is a lasting curse upon a house. That is your work, stranger,

whoever you are; and this deed like unto the treachery which by a kiss

brought the beloved Master to death upon the Cross, cries out to heaven

for punishment; it is writ on the very front page in the book of the

recording angel, and all the tears which you may shed, all the blood

and all the atonement could not now wipe that front page clean. All

this I do know, and yet one thing more: and that is that you do err

when you speak of my love for you. To you who have lied, who with soft

words and false pretences did enter my father's house and stole that

which is most precious to us humble folk, our honour and the integrity

of our name, to such as that, I gave no love. 'Tis true that I did love

a man once--for one brief hour he lived in my heart but nowhere else.

He was true and loyal, too proud to lie, too noble to steal. He has

vanished like the mist, leaving no trace of his passage, for my heart

wherein he dwelt is broken, and even his memory hath faded from my

ken--"

Her voice died away like a long-drawn-out sigh, mingling with the

murmur of the reeds and the moaning as of lost souls gliding through

the branches of the acacias in their restless wandering through

infinite space.

The next moment she was gone, leaving in Michael's trembling hands a

scrap of torn lace, a tiny shred of her gown.

All that was left of her--and the savour of a bitter memory--rosemary

for remembrance!

CHAPTER XXVII

Such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour

That ballad-makers cannot be able to express it.

--A WINTER'S TALE V. 2.

It was about an hour later that a hired coach brought three English

gentlemen to the small inn at St. Denis.

M. Blond was much perturbed. He was not accustomed to foreigners at any

time and he held the English theoretically in abhorrence, and now here

were four of these milors actually under his roof at one and the same

time.

The three who had last arrived in the coach from Paris carried matters

off in a very high-handed fashion and seemed ready to throw money about

in a manner which was highly satisfactory to the bedraggled and seedy

married couple who--besides the landlord and his spouse--formed the sum

total of the personnel at the Sign of "Three Archangels" in St. Denis.

Sir John Ayloffe had assumed the leadership of the small party. He gave

his own name to the landlord, and added that he and his two friends had

come to pay their respects to my lord of Stowmaries, but lately arrived

with his young bride.

Now can you wonder at good M. Blond's perturbation? The incidents which

had crowded in at the Sign of the "Three Archangels" in the past half

hour were enough to furnish food for gossip for many a long evening

to come. In point of fact M. and Mme. Blond had just started talking

the whole sequence of events over from the beginning when the coach

arrived with the three English milors, nor had the worthy couple had

any chance of comparing impressions on these same mysterious events.

Firstly there had been the extraordinary arrival of the bride and

bridegroom, who of a truth had been expected, since relays for the

next day's journey had been sent to the "Three Archangels" the day

before, but they certainly had not been expected under such amazing

circumstances, the English milor's horse covered with lather, and

the bride in her wedding gown all crumpled and soiled, clinging to

her newly-wedded husband in front of his saddle, and in a vastly

uncomfortable position.

This astonishing arrival of a bride and bridegroom who were reputed to

be passing wealthy had of course vastly upset mine good host and his

amiable wife. But then English milors were known to be eccentric, in

fact most folk who had travelled in the fog-ridden country vowed that

all the people there were more or less mad. 'Twas but lately that they

had cut off the head of their king and set up a low-born soldier to

rule them. No wonder that King Louis--whom _le bon Dieu_ preserve!--was

greatly angered with these English, and only forgave them when they

returned to their senses and once more acknowledged the authority of

him who was their king by right divine.

Worthy Monsieur Blond had explained all these matters to his buxom wife

in an off-hand yet comprehensive manner, the while the latter made

haste to hurry on the preparations for supper, for the pretty bride and

the English milor--deeply in love with one another though they were, as

any one who looked could see--had shown a very sensible and laudable

desire to have some of Mme. Blond's excellent croûte-au-pot to warm the

cockles of their young hearts.

The second incident on this eventful evening was of minor importance,

and tended greatly to minimise the eccentricity of that romantic

arrival. The coach which should have brought the bridal pair to the

"Three Archangels" did come in due time--even whilst Mme. Blond was

preparing her bit of fricandeau garnished with fresh winter cabbage,

which was to be the second course at the bridal supper.

The thoughtful mother of the love-sick bride had had the good sense to

send her daughter's effects along, and all recollection of the curious

arrival on horseback was forgotten before the prosy advent of boxes and

bundles of clothes.

Mme. Blond, moreover, became fully satisfied that everything was right

as right could be, when she went upstairs to announce the arrival

of the coach. The bride's pretty face was as pink as the eglantine

in June, and her eyes brighter than the full moon outside, whilst

milor--ah, well, Mme. Blond had seen many a man in love in her day,

Blond himself had not been backward when he was courting her--but

never, never, had she seen a man so gloating on the sight of his young

wife, as that eccentric mad milor had done, the while the pretty dear

was prosily asking for supper.

All then had been for the best at nine of the clock that evening,

but mark ye, what happened after that. Less than ten minutes later a

rider--obviously half exhausted from a long and wearying journey--drew

rein outside the "Three Archangels." M. Blond who more than once

had been in Paris, had no difficulty in recognising in the belated

traveller Master Legros, tailor in chief to His Majesty the King, and

the father of the pretty bride upstairs.

Master Legros undoubtedly did not look like himself, though he did try

to assume a jaunty air as he asked to be shown the room wherein his

daughter and milor would presently be supping.

It seemed a fairly simple incident at the time, this late arrival here

of the bride's father, though Mme. Blond in thinking over the matter

afterwards distinctly remembered that the fact did strike her as odd.

What should good M. Legros be doing at St. Denis at this tardy hour,

when most good citizens should be in bed, and when he had given his

paternal blessing to the young couple fully four hours ago?

"Milor's best suit of clothes had not been finished in time for the

departure, and Maitre Legros brought it along himself," suggested M.

Blond placidly.

But he scratched his dark poll while he made this suggestion knowing it

to be nonsense.

Mme. Blond's premonitions proved to be correct. Half an hour elapsed,

the while she and Blond took turns on the upstairs landing to try and

hear something of what was going on inside that room, wherein awhile

ago the turtle doves had been cooing so prettily. The croûte-au-pot had

been ready ages ago but no one had asked for it. No sound penetrated

through the heavy oaken doors; only once had Mme. Blond heard a voice

raised in what seemed most terrible anger. She then fled incontinently

back to her kitchen.

A quarter of an hour later M. Legros gave orders that the coach which

had brought his daughter's effects an hour previously, be got ready

at once, and that those horses be put to it that had been sent down

the day before with a view to the continuance of the journey to Havre.

He gave no explanation, of course, nor answered any of the discreet

questions put to him by Mme. Blond. He tried to swallow some hot soup,

but gave up the attempt after the third spoonful; he looked as white as

a sheet, and trembled like a poplar leaf in the breeze. Presently the

young bride came down the stairs. She still wore her wedding gown under

her thick dark cloak. Mme. Blond noticed how crumpled it looked and

that a great piece of the beautiful lace was torn off.

But she wore her hood closely wrapped round her head, so neither

Monsieur nor Madame could see anything of her face; nor did she speak

any words, save a short "Thank you!" to Mme. Blond, and this she said

in a curious, husky voice as if her throat were choked.

Maitre Legros paid lavishly for everything. The bride's boxes and

bundles were once more stowed away in the boot of the coach; then she

and her father stepped into the vehicle, the postillion cracked his

whip, there was a scraping of iron hoofs on the rough paving stones, a

clanking of chains, a shout or two and the lumbering coach turned out

toward the highroad and was quickly lost to sight in the gloom.

After that nothing!

Not a sound came from the room where the English milor had remained

alone. Mme. Blond at her wits' ends what to do or how to interpret the

remarkable series of incidents which had occurred beneath her roof, had

thought of knocking at milor's door and asking him if he would have

some supper.

Her mind--which as her good man was wont to say--was ever inclined to

romance, had seen horrible visions of a bleeding corpse lying prone

upon the parlour floor. Suicide must have followed this forcible

abduction by an infuriated father, of the ardently worshipped bride.

Great was her astonishment, perhaps also her disappointment, when

in answer to a peremptory "Come in" she went into the room and saw

milor standing there by the open window looking out upon the moonlit

landscape for all the world as if nothing had happened.

"There he was," she explained somewhat irately to her man, for she felt

almost as if she had been cheated out of the most thrilling chapter of

her romance, "dressed in his beautiful bridal clothes, with arms folded

across his chest, and not a hair on his head the least bit ruffled. Ah!

these English! they have no heart. I thought to find him either with a

sword thrust through his heart, else a man mad and raving with grief.

Holy Virgin! Had my father taken me away from thee, my Blond, on the

very night of our wedding day, wouldst thou not have been crazy with

rage, even if thou hadst not actually committed suicide? There's heart

for thee! There's love! But not in these English! And wilt believe me

that when I said something to milor about supper, he did not even curse

me, but said quite quietly that he had no hunger."

Well now! does not all that give furiously to think?

Milor had no hunger, the bride had gone and the supper was ready. What

could Mme. Blond do better than to dish up the croûte-au-pot and the

fricandeau with the winter cabbage and to serve it to her man?

Monsieur Blond took off his heavy boots and donned a pair of cloth

slippers, he covered his dark hair with a warmly-fitting cap and drew

the most comfortable chair to the table, preparatory to enjoying a

supper fit for an English milor.

But he was not destined to enjoy more than a preliminary sniff at the

succulent croûte-au-pot. Mme. Blond had been very talkative and the

dishing-up process consequently slow, and at the very moment when good

M. Blond was conveying the first spoonful of soup to his mouth there

was a loud noise of wheels grating against the slipper, the cracking

of a whip and a good deal of shouting; all of which were unmistakable

signs that more mysterious travellers had chosen this eventful night

for their arrival at the "Three Archangels."

CHAPTER XXVIII

What whisperest thou? Nay, why

Name the dead hours? I mind them well:

Their ghosts in many darkened doorways dwell

With desolate eyes to know them by.

--DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

Michael Kestyon had paid no heed to the noise of this last arrival.

Indeed he had heard nothing since that one awful noise, the departure

of the coach which bore her away from him. How long ago that was he

could not say. It might have been a moment or a cycle of years. Just

before it he had had his last glimpse of her. She crossed the room in

company with her father, who had come up to fetch her. She was wrapped

from head to foot in cloak and hood; all that he could see of her was

her torn wedding gown.

He made no movement as she walked past him, and though his whole soul

called out her name, his lips uttered no sound. What were the use? If

she did not hear the silent call of love, no words could move her.

"Even his memory hath faded from my ken."

Michael vaguely remembering the sacred tale told him in his childhood

by his mother of how God had hurled His sinful angels from Heaven down

to Hell, could not recall that in His anger He had used words that were

quite so cruel.

Well, that page in life had been written, the book was closed. One

brief glimpse at possible happiness, one tiny chink open in the gates

of paradise, and then once more the weary tramp along the road which

leads to misery on this earth, to perdition hereafter.

The gambler had staked his all upon one venture and had lost. But

Michael Kestyon was not made of the mould which rots in a suicide's

grave or harbours a brain which goes crazy with grief.

A weaker man would have felt regrets, a better man would have been

racked with remorse. Michael with her words ringing in his ears thought

only of redemption.

"My father and mother, who loved you as their son, will never again

hold their heads high among their kind--for a dishonoured daughter is

a lasting curse upon a house. That is your work, stranger--it is writ

on the front page in the book of the recording angel, and all the tears

which you may shed, all the blood and all the atonement could not now

wipe that front page clean."

The gambler in losing all had, it seems, involved others in his ruin;

innocent people who had loved and trusted him. The debt which he had

thus contracted would have to be paid to them, not in the coin which

Michael had tendered--since it had been dross in their sight--but in

coin which would compensate them for all that they had lost.

And it was because of the future redemption of that great debt, because

of all that there was yet to do, that Michael held such a tight rein

over his reason, the while it almost tottered beneath the crushing

blow. Nor did he allow the thought of suicide to dwell in his mind. Yet

madness and death--the twin phantoms born of cowardice--lurked within

the dark shadows of the low-raftered room, after Rose Marie's last

passage along the uneven floor when her torn wedding gown swept over

the boards with a sighing and swishing sound, which would reverberate

in Michael's heart throughout eternity.

From beneath the lintel of that oaken door which had clanged to behind

her, the spectre of madness grinned into the deserted room, and

beckoned to the man who stood there in utter loneliness; and on the

window-sill whereat she had sat awhile ago the gaunt shadow of suicide

whispered the alluring words: Rest! Forgetfulness! Rest! Forgetfulness!

Michael did not flee from the twin demons. He called them to his side

and looked fully and squarely at their hideous, alluring forms.

Madness and Death! Destruction of the mind or of the body. Both would

blot her image from his soul. Madness enticed by drink would mean the

bestial forgetfulness of heavy sleep and addled intellect. Death would

mean infinite peace.

The struggle 'twixt devils and the man was fierce and short. Anon the

crouching spectres vanished into the night; and the man stood there

in splendid isolation with the memory of a great crime and of a brief

joy for sole companion of his loneliness. But the man was a man for

all that; body and mind were still the slaves of his will, not for the

carving of his own fortune now, not for the spinning of the web of

Fate, but bound and fettered under the heel of an iron determination to

wipe out the writing on that front page in the book of the recording

angel; not by tears, not by blood and cringing atonement, but by deeds

and acts dark if necessary, heroic always, by vanquishing the wrongs of

the past with the triumphant redemption to come.

In this mood the good landlady of the "Three Archangels" found him and

marvelled at British indifference in the face of a love tragedy. And he

was still in this selfsame mood half an hour or so later when my lord

of Stowmaries and his friends came upon the solitary watcher in the

night.

Michael had not eaten, nor had he relinquished his place by the open

window, for it seemed to his over-sensitive mind as if the sound of

those wheels which bore his snowdrop further and further away from him

echoed against the distant bank of storm-portending clouds, and though

the heartrending sound reverberated within him like unto the grinding

of the rack which tears the limbs and martyrizes the body, yet it still

seemed something of her, the last memory, the final farewell.

It was past ten o'clock now, and of a surety Michael thought that he

must have fallen asleep, dreaming by that open window, when the sudden

noise of several familiar voices, a loud if somewhat forced laugh, and

the peremptory throwing open of the door brought the dreamer back to

the exigencies of the moment.

The aspect of the room was almost weird, dark and gloomy with only the

slanting moonbeams to touch with pale and capricious light the tall,

solitary figure in the window embrasure.

For a moment the three men paused beneath the lintel, their volatile

imagination strangely gripped by the picture before them, that dark

silhouette against the moonlit landscape beyond, the total air of

desolation and loneliness which seemed to hang like a pall even in the

gloom.

Sir John Ayloffe was the first to shake himself free from this unwonted

feeling of superstitious awe:

"Friend Michael, by the Mass!" he shouted with somewhat forced

jocoseness. "Still astir, and like the love-sick poet contemplating the

moon."

The loud words broke the spell of subtle and weird magic which seemed

to pervade the place. Michael Kestyon gave a start and turned abruptly

away from the window.

"Are we welcome, Michael?" added Lord Rochester pleasantly. "Or do we

intrude?"

Michael whose surprise at seeing the three men had been quite

momentary, now came forward with outstretched hands.

"Not in the least," he said cordially, "and ye are right welcome. I had

thoughts of going to bed and yet was longing for merry company, little

guessing that it would thus unexpectedly fall from heaven. And may I

ask what procures St. Denis the honour of this tardy visit from so

distinguished a company?"

"The desire to see you, Cousin," here interposed Lord Stowmaries, "and

if you'll allow us, to sup with you, for we were not invited to your

wedding feast, remember, and have not enjoyed the worthy tailor's good

cheer."

"We have not tasted food since the middle of the day," added Ayloffe,

"and that was none of the best."

"But mayhap Michael hath supped," suggested Lord Rochester, who

contrary to his usual freedom of manner and speech seemed unaccountably

reticent for the nonce.

"Nay, nay! And if I had I could sup again in such elegant company,"

rejoined Michael. "But I was dreaming indeed since I was forgetting

that we were still in the dark. Our amiable host must bring us light as

well as food. It will give me much pleasure to see your amiable faces

more clearly."

Even as he spoke he went to the door, and soon his calls to Mme. Blond

for lights and supper echoed pleasantly through the house.

The three others were left staring at one another in blank surprise.

They had not thought of putting questions to mine host on their

arrival, but had merely and somewhat peremptorily ordered M. Blond to

show them up to the room occupied by their friend, the English milor.

They, therefore, knew nothing of what had happened, but all three of

them vaguely felt--by a curious, unexplainable instinct--that something

was amiss, and knew that Michael's attitude of serene indifference was

only an assumed rôle.

"Strike me dead but there's something almost uncanny about the man,"

said Lord Rochester, forcing a laugh.

"Something has happened of course," rejoined Ayloffe, "but nothing to

concern us. Mayhap an early quarrel with the bride."

"'Tis strange, forsooth, to find the bridegroom alone at this hour,"

added Stowmaries, whilst the refrain of a ribald song rose somewhat

affectedly to his lips.

But Rochester quickly checked him, for Michael's footstep was heard on

the landing. The latter now entered, closely followed by M. Blond who

carried a couple of candelabra of heavy metal and fitted with tallow

candles.

These he soon lighted and the flickering yellow flames quickly

dispersed the gloom which lingered in the corners of the room. They

threw into full relief the faces of the four men, three of whom

retained an expression of great bewilderment, whilst the fourth looked

serene and placid, as if the entertaining of his friends was for nonce

the most momentous thing in his existence.

Michael went to the window and with a quick, impatient gesture he

pulled the curtains together, shutting out the moonlit landscape

and the silhouette of the trees, whose soft sighs had been the

accompaniment to the murmur of her voice; mayhap he had a thought of

shutting out at the same time the very remembrance of the past.

Then he turned once more to the others and his face now was a perfect

mirror of jovial good-humour as he said gaily:

"I hope, gentlemen, that you are anhungered. As for me I could devour

a wilderness of frogs, so be it that it is the only food of which

this remarkable country can boast. I pray you sit. Supper will not be

long--and in the meanwhile tell me, pray, the latest gossip in London."

The company settled itself around the table. Every one was glad enough

to be rid of the uncanny sensation of awhile ago. M. Blond in the

meanwhile had bustled out of the room but he soon reappeared bearing

platters and spoons, and, what was more to the purpose, pewter mugs and

huge tankards of good red wine. Close behind him came his portly spouse

holding aloft with massive, outstretched arms, the monumental tureen

whence escaped the savoury fumes of her famous croûte-au-pot.

Loud cheers greeted the arrival of the worthy pair. Mme. Blond quickly

fell to, distributing the soup with no niggardly hand, the while her

man made the round, filling the mugs with excellent wine.

Gossip became general. Rochester as usual was full of anecdotes, bits

of scandal and gossip, retailed with a free tongue and an inexhaustible

fund of somewhat boisterous humour. The soup was beyond reproach and

the wine more than drinkable.

"Gad's 'ounds," he cried presently when Blond and his wife had retired,

leaving the English company to itself, "this is a feast fit for the

gods! Michael Kestyon, our amiable host, I raise my glass to thee!

Gentlemen, our host!"

He raised his glass, Stowmaries following suit; but Ayloffe checked

them both with a peremptory lifting of his hand.

"Nay, nay!" he said, "my lord Rochester you do forget--and you, too,

gentlemen! Fie on you, fie, I say! Not a drop shall pass your lips

until you have pledged me as you should. 'Tis I will give you the first

toast of the evening. Gentlemen, the bride!"

There was loud clapping of mugs against the table, then lusty shouts of

"The bride! the bride!" The three men raised their bumpers and drained

them to the last drop, honouring the toast to the full. Sir John looked

keenly at Michael, but even his sharp, observant eyes could not detect

the slightest change in the calm and serene face. Michael, too, had

raised his mug, but Ayloffe noted that he did not touch the wine with

his lips.

Shrewd Sir John ever alive to his own interests fell to speculating as

to what had gone amiss, and whether any event had been likely to occur

which would affect his own prospects in any way. Mistress Peyton's

twelve thousand pounds had not yet--remember,--been transferred to

Cousin John's pocket, and no one was more profoundly aware of the

truth of the old dictum that "there's many a slip--" than was Sir John

Ayloffe himself. But there was naught to read on Michael Kestyon's

placid face, only the vague suspicion of carefully concealed weariness;

and in Ayloffe's practical mind there was something distinctly

unnatural in the serene calm of a man who was richer to-day by one

hundred and twenty thousand pounds, not even to mention an excessively

pretty and well-dowered bride.

Sir John, relying on his own powers of observation, had every intention

of probing this matter to the bottom, but in the meanwhile he thought

it best not to let the others see, too clearly, what he himself had

only vaguely guessed, therefore it was he again who shouted more

lustily even than before:

"Now the bridegroom, gentlemen! I give you the bridegroom! Long live!

Long live I say!"

He was on his feet waving his mug with every lusty shout. Then he

drained it once more to the last drop, Stowmaries and Rochester doing

likewise, for time-honoured custom demanded that such toasts must be

responded to right heartily. Michael however made no acknowledgment as

he should have done. He sat quite still with slender, nervy fingers

idly toying with the crumbs on the table.

"Respond, Michael, respond," cried Lord Rochester who seemed to

have quite shaken off his former diffidence. "Man, are you in the

clouds?--Of a surety," he continued with a knowing wink directed at his

friends, "'twere no marvel on this eventful night, and with a pretty

bride awaiting her lord not thirty paces away on the other side of that

door. We saw her in church, Michael, and by Gad, man, you are a lucky

dog! But we did drink to the bridegroom and--"

"And I, too, drink to him," interposed Michael loudly, as he rose to

his feet, bumper in hand and turned directly to his Cousin Stowmaries,

"to you, my lord and cousin do I drink--the only bridegroom worthy of

such a bride."

To say the least of it, this speech was vastly astonishing. No one

quite knew how to take it, and as Michael drained his cup Stowmaries

broke into a forced laugh.

"You do flatter me, Coz," he said, feeling strangely uncomfortable

under the other's steady gaze, and realising that some sort of reply

was expected of him, "but of a truth the flattery is misplaced. The

bride is yours and you have won her by fair means; and I, in my turn,

will add something to my lord Rochester's toast--something which, an

I mistake not, will be vastly acceptable to you--a draft for seventy

thousand pounds on my banker, Master Vivish of Fleet Street. The final

payment of my debt to you."

And Stowmaries took a paper from the pocket of his surcoat and handed

it to Michael, who made no movement to take it.

"Cousin," he said, "when I accepted the bargain which you offered me,

I was more deeply in my cups than I myself had any idea of. Let us

admit that 'twas an ignoble bargain, shameful alike to me and to you.

Now I would pray you to return that draft to your pocket; 'tis but

little I have spent of that first fifty thousand pounds, the balance

of what remains you shall have on my return to London, as for the

rest--that which I have so foolishly spent--I pray you to grant me a

few months delay and I will repay you to the full. Thus we two who made

the bargain, and these two gentlemen who witnessed it, will cease to

have aught but a dim recollection of the shameful doings of a mad and

roisterous night."

Silence greeted this strange speech. The beginning of it had at once

awakened surprise, the end left the three men there present in a

state of complete puzzlement. Stowmaries frankly gazed at Michael

with wide-open eyes wherein good-humoured contempt fought with utter

amazement.

Then as no one spoke, Michael added quietly:

"I await your answer, Cousin."

"Tush, man, you are joking," retorted Stowmaries with a shrug of the

shoulders.

"I never was more serious in my life," rejoined the other with deep

earnestness, "and 'tis a serious answer that I ask of you."

"But I know not to what your lengthy speech did tend, how can I give it

answer?"

"I asked you to put that draft for money yet unpaid into your pocket; I

propose to repay you in full every penny of that which this folly hath

already cost you, and you on the other hand can fulfil your obligations

to the lady who, of a truth, is still legally your wife."

"Hold on, man, hold on!" cried Stowmaries almost in dismay, for it

seemed to him that his cousin was bereft of his senses. "Odd's fish!

But you talk like a madman--and a dangerous one, too, for you use words

which, were I not your guest, I could not help but resent."

"There is naught to resent, Cousin, in what I say, nor is it the act or

speech of a madman to ask you to rescind a bargain which tended neither

to your honour nor to mine own."

"But, by the Mass, Cousin, the bargain good or bad, righteous or

shameful, is no longer in the making. Even were I so minded--which

by our Lady I vow that I am not--I could not now release you of your

pledged word to me. What is done, is done, and you have fulfilled your

share of the bargain. Now 'tis my turn as an honourable gentlemen to

acquit myself of my debt to you. So I pray you take the money--it is

justly yours--but do not prate any further nonsense."

"Ay! ay! friend Kestyon," added Ayloffe with his habitual bonhomme,

through which nevertheless the cloven hoof of sarcasm was quite

perceptible, "do not allow your over-sensitive conscience to persuade

you into refusing what is justly your due."

"Odd's fish, man, you have won the bride and thereby rendered

Stowmaries an incomparable service," quoth Lord Rochester decisively,

"and--"

He was about to say more but Michael interrupted him.

"I pray you, gentlemen," he said, "grant me patience for awhile; I

fear me that my gentle cousin did not altogether grasp my meaning.

Cousin," he added, turning once more fully to Stowmaries, "will you

put your money back into your pocket and instead of fulfilling your

engagements to me, fulfil them toward the lady who hath first claims on

your loyalty?"

"Tush, man!" retorted Stowmaries, who was waxing wrathful, "cannot you

cease that senseless talk? The thing is done, man, the thing is done.

Gad! We none of us want it undone, nor could we an we would."

"My lord of Stowmaries is right," concluded Lord Rochester decisively,

"and you, Kestyon, do but run your head against a stone wall. An you

feel remorse, I for one am sorry for you--but what has been, has been.

You no more can withdraw from your present position than you could

erase from the Book of Life all that has passed to-day. So take your

money, man, you have the right to it. Odd's fish! A hundred and twenty

thousand pounds, and you talk of flinging it as a sop to your perturbed

conscience."

"Who talked of conscience, my lord?" rejoined Michael haughtily, "or

yet of remorse? Surely not I. We have all been gambling on an issue,

and I now offer my cousin of Stowmaries his own stakes back again an

he'll pay his just debt to his wife rather than to me."

"My wife, man, are you joking!" retorted Stowmaries hotly. "After what

has occurred, think you I would take for my countess--"

"The purest, most exquisite woman, Cousin, that ever graced a man's

ancestral home," interposed Michael earnestly. "To say less of her were

blasphemy."

"Pshaw!" ejaculated Stowmaries with ill-concealed contempt.

"Cousin, I swear to you," reiterated Michael with solemn emphasis,

"by all that men hold most sacred, by all that I hold most holy, that

the lady is as pure to-day as when her baby hand was placed in yours

eighteen years ago, in token that she was to be your wife. She is as

worthy to be the wife of a good man, the mother of loyal children, as I

am unfit to tie the laces of her shoe. An you'll do your duty by her,

you'll never regret it--all that you will regret will be the memory of

that turbulent night when in your madness you thought of wronging her!"

"By God, man, I swear that you are crazy!" cried Stowmaries whose

impatience had been visibly growing and who now gave full rein to his

exasperation. "Are you a damned, canting Puritan that you talk to me

like that? Nay, an you wish to be rid of yon baggage, send her back

to the tailor's back shop whence she came,--throw her out into the

streets,--I care not what you do with her, but in G--d's name I tell

you that you shall not palm off on to my mother's son a cast-off troll

whom you no longer want."

But even before the words had fully escaped the young man's lips

Michael had lifted his glass and thrown its full contents in the face

of the blasphemer.

Sickened and blinded with his own fury and the pungent odour of the

wine which poured down his face into his eyes and mouth, Stowmaries

uttered a violent oath and the next instant had sprung upon his kinsman

like an infuriated and raging beast, and had him by the throat even

before Ayloffe and Rochester who had quickly jumped to their feet were

able to interfere.

The onslaught was vigorous and sudden and Stowmaries' fury hot and

uncontrolled. But Michael who throughout the wordy warfare had kept his

own temper in check, who had foreseen the attack even when he threw the

wine in the younger man's face, had already grasped Stowmaries' wrists

with a steel-like pressure of his own nervy hands, causing the other

to relax his grip and forcing an involuntary cry of pain to escape his

throat.

"Nay, Cousin," he said, still speaking quite quietly, but with a slight

tone of contempt now, "in a hand-to-hand struggle you would fare worse

than I. Have I hurt your wrist? Then am I deeply grieved--but 'tis not

broken I assure you--and you know, dear Coz, that since you are still

my debtor, you could not in honour kill me until you had acquitted

yourself of your debt to me. I have offered you a fair way of paying

that debt, not to me but to her to whom you really owe it. An you'll

keep your money now, and take back all you've given me, an you'll

fulfil your sacred promise to take Rose Marie for wife, you'll be the

happiest man on God's earth. This I swear to you, and also that I'll

serve you humbly and devotedly as servant or as slave to the last day

of my life and with the last drop of blood in my veins. After that an

you wish to kill me--why, my life is at your service. Will you do it,

Cousin? God and his army of saints and of angels will give you rich

reward."

But Stowmaries who with a sulky look on his face was readjusting the

lace ruffles at his wrist whilst glowering at the man whose physical

strength he had just been made to feel, turned on him now with an evil

sneer.

"You seem to be intimately acquainted with the heavenly hierarchy,

Cousin," he said, "but, believe me, I have no intention of entering

those celestial spheres which are of your own imagining and of which

you seem to be the self-constituted guardian."

"Sneer at me as much as you will, Cousin, but give me answer," urged

Michael and for the first time his voice shook as he uttered this

final, desperate appeal, "'Twere best for you--this I entreat you to

believe. Best for you and right for her. As for me, I no longer exist;

the ignoble bargain has never been; wipe it out, Cousin, even from your

memory. Take back your money and with it your honour. She is worthy of

your love, of your faith and of your trust; take her to your heart,

Cousin, take her for she is as pure as the Madonna and you will be

richer by all that she can give, the priceless guerdon of her exquisite

womanhood."

The other two men were silent. They had taken no part in the discussion

and had listened to it each with vastly divers emotions. Rochester,

a noble gentleman despite his many extravagances, could not help but

admire the man who thus stood up boldly to right a wrong, fearless

of consequences, fearless of ridicule. But Ayloffe merely hoped that

Michael's rugged eloquence, his earnest, passionate appeal would

fail to reach the armour of selfishness and vanity which effectually

enveloped Stowmaries' better nature.

Now after this last appeal there was a pause. The storm of turbulent

passions was lulled to momentary rest, the better to gather strength

for the final conflict.

"Take her to your heart, Cousin," Michael had urged, and no one there

could guess the infinity of renunciation which lay in this appeal.

Stowmaries was silent for awhile. His glowering eyes expressed nothing

but unyielding obstinacy. Otherwise he was totally unmoved.

Then, keeping his gaze rivetted on Michael, he pointed with

outstretched finger to the paper which lay on the table--the draft for

seventy thousand pounds on Master Vivish of Fleet Street.

"That is my answer, Cousin," he said loudly and firmly. "You have

rendered me a service; for this now I pay you to the full as agreed.

Let there be no more of this crazy talk, for what is done is done, and

you above all should be satisfied."

Once more there was silence in the low-raftered room. A gust of wind

blew the thin curtains way from the open window and caused the scrap of

paper to stir with a soft sound as of a spirit voice that murmured a

warning "Hush!"

Michael had neither moved nor spoken, not a line of his face betrayed

the conflict in his soul. But three pairs of eyes were fixed upon him.

He did not seem to see them, for his own were fixed on the fluttering

curtain which had whispered spectral words to him; between the gently

swaying folds there peeped cold gleams of moonbeam radiance, and from

far away the sighing of the young acacia boughs which had mingled with

her voice awhile ago.

Then he turned his gaze back to the paper which lay before him, still

gently stirring under the soft breath of the evening air. Deliberately

and with a firm hand he took it up, folded it across and across and

slipped it in the inner pocket of his coat.

"You know best, Cousin," he said in a quiet, unmodulated voice. "As you

say, I have rendered you a service. You have paid me in full according

to our bond. We should both be satisfied. And now, gentlemen, shall we

proceed with supper?"

PART IV