Steep and deep and sterile, under fields no plough can tame,
Dip the cliffs full-fledged with poppies red as love or shame.
--SWINBURNE.
And it was in consequence of Monseigneur the Archbishop's advice, and
of maman's desire that this advice be acted upon, that anon we see
Master Legros, tailor-in-chief to His Majesty, the King of France,
journeying with his daughter to England.
But this was chiefly, too, because of what Daniel Pye, the informer,
had gone over to Paris to say. Nothing would take it out of Rose
Marie's head that it was her duty now, if ever, to be loyal to the
man who was still her husband in the sight of God. He could repudiate
her--if His Holiness gave him leave--but two great wrongs could never
make one simple right.
She, Rose Marie, had no dispensation to break the marriage vows of
eighteen years ago. She had done no wrong to justify a dissolution of
that marriage. Her husband was her husband; he was in danger of losing
his honour and his life. She could at least give him timely warning.
If she failed in this, her duty, then indeed would she deserve the
scorn of the world, the repudiation and the disgrace which pertains to
the unfaithful wife.
On a beautiful sunny day early in October, Master Legros and his
daughter first caught sight of the white cliffs of England gleaming
beneath the kiss of the radiant sun. Rose Marie had sat silently,
meditatively, in the prow of the boat; she had gazed during the past
few hours into that distant horizon whereon trembled a heat-laden mist.
The titanic band of gilded atoms had long hidden from her view the
shores of that mysterious country wherein he dwelt.
England to her meant the land where Michael Kestyon lived, and with
aching eyes and throbbing heart she watched and watched, waiting for
that first view when the mist would part and reveal to her the soil on
which his foot was wont to tread. How starved was her heart that even
that thought was a solace; the sensation of putting her foot down on
the selfsame land whereon he dwelt was almost a consolation.
She gazed at the white cliffs like one anhungered, and as the
slowly-moving boat drew nearer to this new land of promise, the sun
slowly setting in the west changed with a touch of the fairy wand the
white cliffs into gold.
She thought England beautiful both in the long twilight when mysterious
veils of grey and mauve soften the outlines of the distant landscape,
and in the glory of noon when tiny clouds chase one another across a
sky of tender sapphire blue. She loved the early morning when every
blade of grass on the crest of the cliffs at Dover was adorned by a
tiny brilliant diamond, and she loved the midday sun which had drawn
the breath of the dew until its soul had passed into delicate golden
vapours.
She loved the quaintly-arrayed army of fruit trees in the orchards,
the tender green of the lawns, the ruddy tints of early autumn which
clothed the hillside with a brilliant mantle of gold. No! She could not
believe that in this land of beauty, of peace and of plenty, all men
were born traitors, all men were liars and thieves of honour.
Some subtle change came over them, no doubt, and their bravery, their
loyalty, passed away from them, revealing the devil which had taken
possession of their soul. She would persist in thinking that Michael,
whom she had loved, was a different man to the one who stood before
her, accused and self-convicted--more shamed than she whom he had
wronged.
Thus her thoughts kept her body alert and she scarcely felt the fatigue
of that long, lumbering drive on the stage-coach between Dover and
London. There was so much to see and so much to think on and to plan.
The very next day her father should seek out my lord of Stowmaries and
tell him all that was brewing against him. It was surely more than
likely that my lord would be grateful and in his gratitude strive to
undo the mischief which his own wantonness had created.
What this would mean to Rose Marie she had not even dared to ask
herself. A strong sense of right and of justice and an overwhelming
love for her parents had prompted her to offer herself a willing
sacrifice for their happiness. Her own poor heart was already so
bruised, so battered, almost broken in its agony of sorrow, what
mattered a little more humiliation, a few more tears, another pang?
Rose Marie sighed with regret when in the gloaming the stage-coach
finally left behind it the orchards and green pastures of Kent and
rattled over the cobblestones of the big city. At seven o'clock, with
much rattle of chains and billets, many shouts from driver and ostler
and much champing of bits, the big vehicle swung through the gates of
the yard at Savage's Bell Inn near Lud Gate. Here the tailor and his
daughter meant to put up, the hostelry having been warmly recommended
to him by several business friends who travelled to and fro from London
to Paris.
As Rose Marie climbed down from the top of the coach, it seemed to her
that despite the fast-gathering gloom within the enclosed yard, she
could recognise the face of Master Daniel Pye among the crowd who were
assembled to witness the arrival of the coach.
The face disappeared in the crowd almost as soon as she had recognised
it, but the brief vision left her with a great sense of satisfaction
that obviously the journey had not been undertaken in vain. The man
had taken the trouble to watch and to wait, obviously fearing that
his nefarious plans might be frustrated by those whom he had hoped to
enlist on his side.
Neither Rose Marie nor good M. Legros slept much that night. The
fatigue of the journey, the sound of many voices jabbering in a tongue
unfamiliar to their ear, chased sleep resolutely away. Only toward
early morning did father and daughter, each in their respective very
uncomfortable beds, fall into troubled slumber.
Master Legros dreamt of the morrow's meeting with his lordly
son-in-law, and Rose Marie fell asleep wondering in what quarter of the
great city dwelt the man whose very image she would wish to blot out of
her memory.