"I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer."
--BROWNING.
After half an hour's continuous walking--for the roads out of London
were over-bad after the heavy rains during the past week--the Huguenot
clerk, closely followed by Master Legros, who had his daughter on his
arm, turned into the new parish of Soho, where a number of fine houses
had been recently erected, and a few more were even now in process of
construction.
The clerk had at first seemed desirous of imparting various scraps of
topographical information to his compatriots, but to his interesting
conversation the tailor only responded in curt monosyllables. He
still harboured a vague mistrust against his guide. The latter part
of the walk through the ill-paved, muddy and evil-smelling streets of
London was therefore accomplished in silence. Rose Marie's nerves were
tingling with excitement, and she shivered beneath her cloak and hood,
despite the warmth of this fine summer afternoon.
Soon the little party came to a halt before a newly-built house,
fashioned of red brick with a fine portico of stone, richly carved and
tall, arched windows set in flush with the outside walls and painted in
creamy white.
"Here lives my lord of Stowmaries," said the clerk, as without waiting
for further permission he plied the brass knocker vigorously. "Shall I
ask if he hath come home?"
The tailor nodded in assent. He, too, was now getting too excited to
speak. The next moment a serving-man, dressed in clothes of sober grey,
opened the front door, and to the clerk's query whether my lord was at
home, he replied in the affirmative.
Master Legros and Rose Marie were far too troubled in their minds to
notice the furnishings and appointments of the house. Rose Marie threw
the hood back from her face, and asked whether they could speak with my
lord forthwith.
"Will you tell him, I pray you," she added, "that Monsieur Legros from
Paris desires speech with him."
Legros dismissed the clerk--who was eager enough to get away--by
bestowing a shilling upon him, and after that he and his daughter
followed the serving-man through the hall into a small withdrawing room
where they were bidden to wait.
A few moments of suspense--terrible alike to the girl and to the
father--then a firm tread on the flagged floor outside; a step that
to Rose Marie's supersensitive ear sounded strangely, almost weirdly
familiar.
The next moment Michael Kestyon had entered the room.
"You have come to speak with me, good M. Legros--" he said even as he
entered. Then he caught sight of Rose Marie and the words died on his
lips.
They looked at one another--these two who once had been all in all one
to the other--parted now by the shadow of that unforgettable wrong.
Instinctively--with eye fixed to eye--each asked the other the mute
question: "Didst suffer as I did?" and in the heart of each--of the
defiant adventurer, and the unsophisticated girl--there rose the wild,
mad thrill, the triumphant, exulting hosanna, at sight of the lines of
sorrow, so unmistakable, so eloquent on the face so dearly loved.
Rose Marie saw at once how much Michael had altered--that tender,
motherly instinct inseparable from perfect womanhood told her even
more than that which the sunken eyes and the drawn look in the face so
pathetically expressed.
Yet outwardly he had changed but little; the step--as he rapidly
crossed the room--had been as firm, as elastic as of old; he still
carried his head high, and his manner--as of yore--was easy and
gracious. When he had first entered, there was even an eager, joyful
expression in his face. He did not know, you see, that M. Legros'
visit to him was the result of a mistake, the freak of a mischievous
clerk. He really thought that the good tailor had come here to see
him, Michael, and the news had brought almost joy to his heart and had
accelerated his footsteps as he flew down to greet his visitor.
No, the change was in none of these outward signs. It was the spirit
in him which had changed. The dark eyes once so full of tenderness had
a cold, steely look in them now, which was apparent even through the
first pleasurable greeting. The mouth, too, looked set in its lines;
the lips, which ere this were ever wont to smile, were now tightly
pressed as if for ever controlling a sigh or trying to suppress a cry
of pain.
Michael--with the eyes of a man hungering for love--gazed on his
snowdrop and saw the change which the past dark months had wrought on
the former serenity of her face. And if he had suffered during that
time the exquisite pangs of mad and hopeless longing, how much more
acute did that pain seem now that he saw her, looking pale and fragile,
almost frightened, too, in his presence, cold as she had been ere that
mad glad moment when he had held her--a living, loving woman--in his
arms, with the hot blood rushing to her cheeks at his whispered words
of passion, and the light of love kindled in her eyes.
Can brain of man or of torturing devils conceive aught so cruel as this
living, breathing embodiment of the might-have-been; this tearing of
every heart-string in the maddening desire for one more embrace, one
last lingering kiss, one touch only of hand against hand, one final
breath of life--after which, death and peace?
As in a dream, good Master Legros' diffident voice struck on Michael's
ear:
"It was with my lord of Stowmaries that we wished to speak."
And directly after that, Rose Marie's trembling tones, half-choked with
sobs resolutely suppressed:
"Let us go, Father--we--we must not stay here--let us go--"
She had drawn close to her father, and was twining her hands round his
arm trying to drag him away.
The sad pathos of this appeal--this clinging to another as if for
protection and help, whilst he--Michael--stood by--nothing to her,
less than nothing, a thing to fear, to hate, mayhap, certainly to
despise--struck him as with a whip-lash across his aching breast. But
it woke him from his dream. It brought him back to earth, with senses
bruised and temples throbbing, his pride of manhood brought down to the
dust of a childish desire to keep her here in his presence if only for
a moment, a second; to hear her speak, to look on her, to endure her
scorn if need be, only to have her there.
Therefore, he turned to Papa Legros and almost humbly said:
"Will you at least tell me, good Master, if I cannot serve you in any
way?"
"No, sir, you cannot," replied Papa Legros gruffly. "I would have you
believe and know that we came here under a misapprehension. A miscreant
interpreter brought us hither, though he was bidden to take us to the
house of Lord Stowmaries. We did not know that this was your house,
sir, or believe me, we had never entered it."
"This is not my house," rejoined Michael gravely. "It is that of my
mother, who hath left her Kentish village in order to dwell with me.
For the rest, the misapprehension is most easy of explanation; nor is
your interpreter so very much to blame."
He paused for the space of a second or two, then fixing steady eyes on
the face of Rose Marie and throwing his head back with an air that was
almost defiant in its pride, he said:
"You asked to speak with my lord of Stowmaries--'tis I who am the lord
of Stowmaries now."
Then, as Legros, somewhat bewildered, stared at him in blank surprise,
he added more quietly:
"You did not know this, mayhap?"
"No--no--my lord," stammered the tailor, who of a truth felt strangely
perturbed, "we--that is, I and my daughter did not know that--"
"His Majesty gave his decision late last night."
There was a moment's silence in the room. It seemed as if Michael was
anticipating something, waiting for a word from Rose Marie. His very
attitude was an expectant one; he was leaning forward, and his eyes had
sought her lips, as if trying to guess what they would utter.
"Then the title which you borrowed from your cousin awhile ago, and to
some purpose, you have now succeeded in filching from him altogether?"
said the girl coldly.
If she had the desire to hurt him, she certainly did succeed. Michael
did not move, but his cheeks, already pale, turned to ashy grey; the
eyes sank still deeper within their sockets, and in a moment the face
looked worn and haggard as that of a man with one foot in the grave.
Then he said slowly:
"Your pardon, Mistress; I have filched naught which was not already
mine, mine and my father's before me. That which I took was my right;
it is also my mother's, who for years had been left to starve whilst
another filched from her that which was hers. For her sake did I claim
that which was mine, because during all those years of starvation,
misery and degradation--her misery and mine own degradation--she kept
up her faith in me. And also for mine own sake did I claim my right,
and in order to mend a wrong which, it seems, I had committed. Good
Master Legros," he added, turning to the vastly bewildered tailor, "as
Lord of Stowmaries I entered your house and, methinks, your heart. Of
this I am not ashamed; the wrong that I did you is past; the righting
thereof will last my lifetime and yours. I was Lord Stowmaries then by
the word of God--I am that now by the word of the King and Parliament.
That which seemed a lie I have proved to be true. Will you give me
back your daughter, whom the caprice of a wanton reprobate would have
cast from him, and whom I have justly won, by my deeds, by my will, by
my crime if you call it so, but whom I have won rightfully and whom I
would wish to render happy even at the cost of my life."
Gradually, as he spoke, the tone of defiance died out of his voice
and only pride remained expressed therein--pride and an infinity of
tenderness. There was no attempt at mitigating the fault that was
past, no desire to excuse or to palliate. The man and his sin were
inseparable; obviously had the sin to be again committed, Michael would
have committed it again, with the same determination and the same
defiance.
"I am a man, and what I do, I do. I won you by a trick. I fought for
your love and won it. Mine enemy put a weapon in my hand. With it I
conquered him; I conquered Fate and you. Had I been ashamed of the act,
I had never committed it. I looked sin squarely in the face and took it
by its grim hand and allowed it to lead me to your feet. To you I never
lied; you I do not cheat."
These thoughts and more were fully expressed in his eyes as they
rested on Rose Marie, and so subtle is the wave of sympathy that she
understood every word which he did not utter; she understood them, even
though she steeled her heart against the insidious whisperings of a
drowsy conscience.
We may well imagine that on the other hand, good M. Legros, though
he did not altogether grasp the proud sophistries of such a splendid
blackguard, nevertheless quickly ranged himself against the whole array
of all the grim virtues. Would you blame him very much if you knew that
within the innermost recesses of his kindly and simple heart he no
longer greatly desired to speak with the man whom he had come all the
way from Paris to supplicate and to warn?
Was it very wrong, think you, very self-interested on the part of
this amiable little tailor to be now cursing those very necessities
engendered by an ultrasensitive sense of loyalty which imposed on him
the task of cleaving to that man who was now dispossessed, beggared, a
most undesirable husband for his beautiful daughter?
Truly the situation, from the point of view of conscience and of
decency, was a very difficult one. Is it a wonder that the doting
father was quite unable to grapple with it?
Here was a man who was a terrible scoundrel, yet a mightily pleasing
one for all that. He was now rich, of high consideration and power;
he professed and undoubtedly felt a great and genuine love for Rose
Marie. On the other hand, the other--his daughter's rightful lord--only
too ready, nay, anxious, to repudiate her--who truly was a far greater
blackguard and not nearly such an attractive one--he was now poor and
insignificant--always providing that Michael Kestyon's story was true
and--and--
Good M. Legros' conscience was having such a tough fight inside him
that he had to take out his vast, coloured handkerchief and to mop his
forehead well, for he was literally in a sweat of intense perturbation.
He would not meet Michael's enquiring eyes, lest the latter should
read in his own the ready assent which they proclaimed. The worst of
the situation was that good M. Legros was bound to leave the ultimate
decision to his daughter, and alas, he knew quite well what that
decision would be. And God help them all, but he was bound to admit
that that decision was the only right one, in the sight of the Lord and
of all His self-denying and uncomfortably rigid saints.
Even now Rose Marie's clear voice, which had lost all its childlike
ring of old and all its light tones of joy, broke in on her father's
meditation.
"Sir, or my lord," she said coldly, "for of a truth I know not which
you are, meseems you do a cowardly thing by appealing to my father.
He would only have my earthly welfare in view, and even in this he
might be mistaken if he thought that my earthly welfare could lie
there, where there is disloyalty and shameless betrayal. For all your
pride, good sir, and for all your defiance, you cannot e'en persuade
yourself that what you do is right. As for me, I am a wife--not yours,
my lord--despite the trick wherewith you drew from me an oath at the
altar. I swore no love, no allegiance to any man save to him whom
you have now wholly despoiled and beggared--nay," she added with a
look of pride at least as great as his own, "I need no reminder, sir,
that I stand here, a cast-out wife, repudiated for no fault of mine
own, but through an infamy in which _you_ bore the leading hand. But,
nevertheless, I am a wife, and as such God hath enjoined me to cleave
to my husband. Since you have beggared him, I, thank God, can still
enrich him. Never have I blest my father's wealth so sincerely as now,
when it can go to proving to a scoffer that there is truth and loyalty
in women, even when sordid self-interest fights against truth and
justice. And if all the world, his king and country, turned against
my lord, I, his wife, good sir, his wife in the sight of God, despite
dispensations, despite courts of law and decrees of popes or kings, I,
his wife, for all that would still be ready to serve him."
Gradually her voice as she spoke had become more steady and also
less trenchant; there was a quiver of passion in it, the passion of
self-sacrifice. And he--poor man--mistook that warm, vibrating ring
in the sweet, tender voice for the expression of true love felt for
another.
"I did not know that you loved him, Rose Marie," he said simply.
She bent her head in order to hide the blush which rose to her cheeks
at his words. Was she thankful that he had misunderstood? Perhaps! For
of a truth it would make the battle less hard to fight, and would guard
against defeat. But, nevertheless, two heavy tears rose to her eyes,
and strive as she might she could not prevent their falling down onto
her hands which were clasped before her.
He saw the tears, and heard her murmur:
"He who was my lord of Stowmaries is a beggar now."
"No, not a beggar," he rejoined quietly, "for he is rich beyond the
dreams of men."
"Good sir--or--or my lord," here interposed Papa Legros, who was still
in a grave state of mental perturbation, "you see that the decision
doth not rest with me--Heaven help me, but with all your fault I
would--somehow--somehow have entrusted my child in your keeping with an
easy heart."
"And may God bless you for these words, good Master," said Michael
fervently.
"But you see, kind sir--I mean my lord--that this cannot be. My
lord of Stowmaries--if so be that he is that no longer--yet as lord
of Stowmaries he did wed my daughter. She feels--and rightly, too,
no doubt--that she owes fealty to him. God knows but 'tis all very
puzzling and I never was a casuist, but she says this is right and no
doubt it is. It had all been much easier but for this additional grave
trouble which threatens my lord."
"What additional grave trouble? I know of none such," queried Michael.
"A scoundrel, liar and perjurer hath laid information against my lord,
that he did conspire against the King of England."
"Impossible."
"Ay! 'tis true, good my lord. The damned ruffian came to Paris
to inform me of all the lies which he meant to tell against Lord
Stowmaries, hoping that I would be pleased thereat and would reward him
for his perjuries. I kicked him out of my house, and my daughter and I
came to warn my lord of the mischief that was brewing against him."
A frown of deep perplexity darkened Michael's brow.
"Good master tailor, I pray you leave me to see my cousin forthwith.
The trouble, alas, if your information be correct, is graver than even
you have any idea of. England is mad just now! Terror hath chased away
all her reason, and, God help her, all her sense of justice. It may
be that I shall have to arrange that my cousin leave the country as
soon as may be. An you return to France soon he could travel in your
company."
"I would wish to see my lord myself," said Rose Marie.
"Because you do not trust me?" he asked.
She would not reply to his look of reproach. How strange it is when
a wave of cruelty sweeps over a woman, who otherwise is tender and
kind and gentle. Rose Marie felt herself quite unable to stifle this
longing to wound and to hurt, even though her heart ached at sight of
the hopeless misery which was expressed in Michael's every movement,
in the tonelessness of his voice, and the drawn look in his face. Who
shall probe the secrets of a woman's heart, of a woman who has been
cheated of a great love even at its birth, of a woman who thought that
she had reached the utmost pinnacle of happiness only to find herself
hurled from those giddy heights down, down to an abyss of loneliness,
of lovelessness, and of bitter, undying memories.
"The child is unstrung, good my lord," here interposed Papa Legros
gently. "I pray, do not think that we do not trust in you. It were
better mayhaps that you did see Lord Stowmaries--er--your cousin--alas!
I know not how to call him now--and we'll to him this afternoon. He can
then best tell us what he desires to do."
"Come, Rose Marie, we had best go now," he added with a pathetic sigh,
which expressed all the disappointment of his kindly heart.
He picked up his soft felt hat and with gentle, trembling movement
twirled it round and round in his hand. Rose Marie drew the hood over
her hair and prepared to follow him.
It was all over then! The seconds had flown. She had come and would now
go again, leaving him mayhap a shade more desolate even than before.
It was all over, and the darkness of the past months would descend
on him once more, only that the darkness would be more dense, more
unbearable, because of this one ray of light--caused by her presence
here for these few brief moments.
Of a truth he had not known until now quite how much he had hoped,
during these past months whilst he fought his battle with grim and
steady vigour, winning step by step, until that last final decision of
the king, which gave him all that he wanted, all that he desired to
offer her.
Now she was going out of his life--for the second time--and it seemed
more irrevocable than that other parting at St. Denis. She was going
and there would not remain one single tiny spark of hope to light the
darkness of his despair.
Nothing would remain, only memory! Memory, on which the tears of Love
would henceforth for ever be fed. Her words might ring in his ears, her
image dwell in his mind, but his heart would go on starving, starving,
athirst for just one tiny remembrance on which to dwell until
mercifully it would break at last.
"May I not kiss your finger tips once more, Rose Marie?" he pleaded.
The words had escaped his lips almost involuntarily. The longing for
the tiny remembrance had been too strong to be stilled.
A kiss on her finger tips, one crumb of bread to a man dying of hunger,
the sponge steeped in water to slake a raging thirst.
She turned to him. The tears had dried on her cheeks by now, and her
eyes were seared and aching. She looked on his face, but did not lift
her hand. Papa Legros, who felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat,
busied himself with a careful examination of the door handle.
"It will probably be a long farewell," said Michael gently. "Will you
not let me hold your hand just once again, my snowdrop? Nay, not mine,
but another's--a king now amongst men."
Then, as very slowly, and with eyes fixed straight into his own, she
raised her hand up to his, he took it, and looked long at each finger
tip, tapering and delicately tipped with rose.
"See the epicure I am," he said, whilst a quaint smile played round
the corners of his lips; "your little hand rests now in mine. I know
that I may kiss it, that my lips may linger on each exquisite finger
tip, until my poor brain, dizzy with joy, will mayhap totter into the
land of madness. I know that I may kiss this cold little hand--so cold!
I know that it will chill my lips--and still I wait--for my last joy
now is anticipation. Nay, do not draw your hand away, my beautiful
ice-maid. Let me hold it just one little brief while longer. Are we not
to be friends in the future? Then as a friend may I not hold and kiss
your hand?"
She could not speak, for sobs which she resolutely suppressed would
rise in her throat, but she allowed her hand to rest in his; there was
some solace even in this slight touch.
"Is it not strange," he said, "that life will go on just the same? The
birds will sing, the leaves in autumn will wither and will fall. Your
dear eyes will greet the first swallow when it circles over the towers
of St. Gervais. Nature will not wear mourning because a miserable
reprobate is eating out his heart in an agony of the might-have-been."
"I pray you, milor, release my hand," she murmured, for of a truth she
no longer could bear the strain. "My father waits--"
"And the husband whom you love--nay, he must be a good man since God
hath loved him so--"
"Farewell, my lord."
"Farewell, Rose Marie--my rosemary--'tis for remembrance, you know."
He tasted the supreme joy to the full--all the joy that was left to him
now--five finger tips, cold against his burning lips, and they trembled
beneath each kiss. Then she turned and followed her father out of the
room.
For a moment he remained alone, standing there like one drunken or
dazed. Mechanically his hand went to the inner pocket of his coat and
anon he pulled out a withered, crumbling bunch of snowdrops, the tiny
bouquet which she had dropped at his feet that day in Paris, when
first he saw her, and her blue eyes kindled the flame of a great and
overwhelming passion.
Nay! thou art a man, and of what thou doest, thou art not ashamed;
but, proud man that thou art, there is thy Master, Love; he rules thee
with his rod of steel, and if thou sin, beware! for that rod will smite
thee 'til thou kneel humbly in the dust, with the weakness of unshed
tears shaming thy manhood, and with a faded bunch of snowdrops pressed
against thy lips, to smother a miserable, intensely human cry of awful
agony.