What be her cards you ask? Even these:--
The heart, that doth but crave
More, having fed; the diamond,
Skilled to make base seem brave;
The club, for smiting in the dark
The spade, to dig a grave.
--DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
The one supreme moment of complete and abject weakness was soon
past; it had gone by in solitude. No one saw the fall of the defiant
reprobate brought to the dust by the intensity of his grief. No one but
God and triumphant Love.
Within a few minutes Michael had gathered together his scattered
senses. What avail were tears and the bitter joys of lingering memories
when there was still so much to do? Of a truth, Rose Marie's firm
attitude of loyalty towards her rightful husband had not so much
astonished Michael, for to a man who loves, the adored one necessarily
possesses every virtue that ever adorned the halo of a saint; but he
did not know that she loved her husband, and the warmth of her defence
of the absent one had, in Michael's ears, sounded like the expression
of her love. He did not stop to reason, to visualize the fact that Rose
Marie did not know Stowmaries, that the passion in her voice had the
ring of tragic despair in it, coupled with the sublime ardour of heroic
self-sacrifice.
A man in love never stops to reason. Passion and the dormant seeds of
ever-present jealousy still the powers of common sense.
The thought that Rose Marie loved him, the remembrance of that day when
he had held her in his arms, feeling her young body quivering at his
touch, seeing her eyes glowing in response to his ardour, her exquisite
lips moist with the promise of a kiss, these had been his life during
the past few months; they had been the very breath of his body, the
blood in his veins, the strength which bore him through all that he had
set himself to do.
The winning of name and estate, and then a reconquering of his
snowdrop, with a foregone certainty of victory ahead, that had been his
existence.
A foregone certainty of victory! How oft had he exulted at the thought,
drugging his despair with the intoxicating potion of hope, and now one
brief word from her and defeat had been more hopeless, more complete
than before.
"I am his wife," she said; "his wife in the sight of God; his wife
despite the infamy in which you bore the leading hand!"
Michael had thought of everything, had envisaged everything save
this: that Rose Marie would turn from him, because she loved the
other. Loyalty and love, love and passion, were all synonymous
to the impatient ardour, the proud defiance of this splendid
blackguard--splendid in this, that he never swerved from the path
into which he had once engaged his footsteps, never looked back with
purposeless longing, and neither cursed Fate nor ever gave way to
despair.
Even now, he pulled himself together, and within half an hour of the
Legros' departure from his house he was on his way to see his friend
Sir William Jones, the Attorney-General, first, and thence to his
cousin's house on the outskirts of Piccadilly.
Rupert Kestyon--by the king's mandate no longer Lord of Stowmaries
now--still occupied the same house into which he had made triumphant
entry some two years ago on the death of the old earl. It was an
ancient family mansion built a century and a half back, with gigantic
and elaborate coat of arms carved in stone above the majestic porch.
The serving-man who in response to Michael's peremptory knocking opened
the massive door to him, gave no outward sign that so great a change
had come, and with appalling suddenness, in the fortunes of his master.
He even addressed Michael as "sir" and spoke of "his lordship" being
still in his room upstairs.
Impatiently waving the man aside, Michael threw hat and cloak down in
the hall, and not waiting to be formally announced he ran quickly up
the broad staircase. He knew the house well, for in childhood he had
oft been in it, when his mother, holding him by the hand, came to ask
for pecuniary assistance from the wealthy kinsman.
Without hesitation, therefore, Michael went up to the door of the
principal bedroom and gave an impatient rap with his knuckles on the
solid panel.
A fretful "Come in!" from within invited him to enter.
Rupert Kestyon was lying on the monumental four-post bedstead stretched
out flat on his back and staring moodily into the glowing embers of the
wood-fire which was burning in the wide-open grate.
At sight of his cousin he jumped up to a sitting posture; a deep frown
of anger puckered his brow, and lent to the face a look of savagery. He
stared at Michael for awhile, more than astonished at this unlooked-for
appearance of his triumphant enemy; then he blurted out in his
overwhelming wrath:
"Out of my house! Out of my house, you thief--you--out of here, I
say--the men are still my servants--and I am still master here."
He put his feet to the ground, and made straightway for the door, but
Michael intercepted him, and gripping the young man's wrists with his
own strong fingers, he pushed him gently but firmly back.
"Easy, easy, Coz!" he said with kindly firmness; "by our Lady, but 'tis
poor policy to harass the harbinger of good news."
"Good news," quoth Rupert, who was boiling over with rage, "good news
from you, who have just robbed me of my inheritance!"
"'Twas an even game, good Coz," retorted Michael good-naturedly. "My
father, my mother and I had all been robbed in the past, and left in
a more pitiable plight, believe me, than it was ever my intention to
leave you."
"Prate not of your intentions, man. You used my money, the money I
myself did give you, in order to wage war against me, and press a claim
which you never would have made good but for that money which I gave
you."
"Let us be fair, good Coz. I offered you the whole of that money back
on that memorable night in April at the inn of St. Denis."
"Ay, on a ridiculous condition to which I cared not to agree."
"The ridiculous condition," said Michael gravely, "consisted in your
acknowledging as your lawful wife, an exquisitely beautiful and
virtuous lady who already had claim on your loyalty."
"The exquisitely beautiful lady," retorted Rupert with an ugly sneer,
"had, an I mistake not, already dragged her virtue in the wake of your
chariot, my friend."
"Silence, man," said Michael sternly, "for you know that you lie."
"Will you attempt to deny that your magnanimous offer at St. Denis was
made because you were in love with my wife?"
"I'll not deny it, but what my feelings were in the matter concerned no
one but myself."
"Mayhap, mayhap, but e'en you admit, good Coz," quoth Rupert with
obvious spite, "that a wife's conduct--"
"Your wife's conduct, Cousin, is beyond reproach," broke in Michael
calmly, "as you know right full well."
"Pardi! Since she is in love with you--"
"That, too, is a lie--She loves no one but you."
"Mayhaps she told you so?" queried the young man, as with a yawn of
ostentatious indifference he stretched himself out again--on a couch
this time, with one booted leg resting on the ground and tapping
it impatiently, whilst the other kicked savagely at an unoffensive
sofa-cushion, tearing its silk cover to shreds.
"Yes!" replied Michael calmly, "she hath told me so." Then as the other
broke into a loud, sarcastic laugh, he continued earnestly:
"Listen, Cousin, for what I am about to tell you concerns the whole
of your future. You are a penniless beggar now--nay, do not interrupt
me--I have well weighed every word which I speak, and have an answer
for each of your sneers--you are a penniless beggar--through no fault
of your own, mayhap, but I was a beggar, too, through none of mine. My
mother was left--almost to starve--alone in a God-forsaken village. For
years I kept actual starvation from her by courting wounds in order to
get blood-money. That has been your fault ever since the old uncle's
death, Cousin, for you knew that your kinswoman starved, and did
naught to help her. But that is over, let it pass! I was a wastrel, a
reprobate, a dissolute blackguard an you will! Had I been a better man
than I was, you had never dared to offer me money to dishonour a woman.
Let that pass too. But this I swear before God that I never meant to
dishonour the girl. I was ready to take her to my heart, to give her
all that she asked and more, the moment you in your wantonness had
cast her off. But she is too proud to take anything from me, and wants
nothing but her rights. Nay, you must listen to me patiently, till I
have told you all--She is loyal to you, with heart and soul and body,
and hath come to England to beg of you to render her justice."
"Have I not told you, man," here broke in Rupert Kestyon, with a
blasphemous oath which momentarily drowned the quieter tones of the
other man, "have I not told you that were that accursed tailor and his
miserable wench to go on their knees to me, I would not have her--no,
a thousand times no--with the last penny left in my pocket I'll obtain
the decree of nullity, and marry the woman whom I love--"
"If she'll have you, Cousin," quoth Michael drily, "now that you are a
beggar."
In a moment Rupert was on his feet again, burning with rage, swearing
mad oaths in his wrath, and clenching his fists with a wild desire to
rush at Michael and grip him by the throat.
"Nay, Coz," said the latter with a smile, "let us not fight like two
brawling villains. My fist is heavier than yours: and if you attack me,
I should have in defending mine own throat to punish you severely. But
why should you rage at me; I have come to you with good intent. Think
you, I would have left you to shift for yourself in this inhospitable
world? Great God, do I not know what it means to shift for oneself--the
misery, the wretchedness, the slow but certain degradation of mind and
of body? By all the saints, man, I would not condemn mine enemy to such
a life as I have led these past ten years."
"You do the tailor's wench no good anyhow by preaching to me," growled
Rupert sulkily, feeling somewhat shamed.
He sat down once more, in an attitude of dejection, resting his elbows
on his knees and burying his head in his hands.
"I did not come to preach," rejoined Michael quietly. "A blackguard
like me hath no right to preach, and a blackguard like you, Cousin, is
not like to listen. Nay, man, we are quits; we have both of us a pretty
black mark against us in the book of records up there. 'Tis nigh on a
year ago now that you came to me with your proposals. They have had far
wider reaching consequences than any of us had dreamed of at the time.
When I made a proposal to you at the inn at St. Denis, you refused my
terms peremptorily--they were not sufficiently munificent, it seems,
to tempt you to right a great wrong. I felt my weakness, then. I had
no more to offer than just the return of your own money. You were a
rich man still and could afford to pay largely for the satisfaction of
a wanton caprice. But now matters stand differently; the money which
you so contemptuously flung away at St. Denis hath borne royal fruit. I
made that money work; I forced it to toil and slave to gain my purpose.
I have beggared you, Cousin, and made myself powerful and strong,
not because I hated you, not because I any longer desire dignity and
riches, but because I wanted to hold in my hand a bribe that would be
regal enough to tempt you."
He paused awhile, with stern dark eyes fixed on the weak, somewhat
feminine face before him. Rupert Kestyon's vacillating pupils searched
his cousin's face, trying to divine his thoughts. He raised his head,
and rubbed his eyes, like a man wakened from sleep, and stared at
Michael as on a man bereft of his senses.
"I do not understand," he stammered in his bewilderment.
"Yet, 'tis simple enough," resumed Michael calmly. "The good tailor
whom you despise hath come over from France because he had heard
rumours that a charge of conspiracy against the king was being brought
against you by false informers."
"Great God!" murmured Rupert, who at these words had suddenly become
pale, whilst great beads of perspiration rose upon his forehead.
"Ay," said the other, "we know what that means, Cousin. Your name
amongst those implicated in this so-called Popish plot--think you
you'll escape the block? Hath any one escaped it hitherto who hath come
within the compass of the lies told by that scoundrel Oates?"
"It's not true," murmured Rupert Kestyon.
"What is not true? That the information hath been laid against you?
That, alas, is only too true. A man named Daniel Pye is the informant.
It seems that his former mistress--your own liege lady, Coz--had him
flogged for theft awhile ago. This has been his idea of revenge on
her--to bring you to disgrace or death, he cares not which, so long
as the desires of her life--which, it seems, are that she be wedded
to you--are frustrated. I have all this from the Attorney-General
whom I saw a quarter of an hour ago. Nay, there is no doubt that the
blackguard hath informed against you, and in a vastly circumstantial
manner. Come, you are a man, Coz," added Michael not unkindly, seeing
that Rupert was on the point of losing his wits in the face of the
awful prospect of this accusation, knowing full well its probable
terrible consequences, "and men in these troublous times must know how
to look on death in whatever grim guise it may appear."
"But not that," murmured the younger man involuntarily, "surely not
that--"
"I trust not," rejoined the other. "Have I not told you that I was the
bearer of good news?"
"Good news!"
"I own it sounds like irony, but, nevertheless, Coz, you'll presently
see that it is better than it seems. Let me resume, and tell you all
I know. Daniel Pye hath lodged his information against you. I have it
directly from Sir William Jones, who in his turn had it from Sir Edmund
Berry Godfrey. The villainous rogue says that on a certain day in April
he was at the hostelry of the 'Rat Mort' in Paris, in the company of
one Legros--tailor of Paris--and that there he overheard you talking
over with one of the ministers of the King of France, a plan whereby
Charles Rex is to be murdered, the Duke of York to be placed on the
English throne, and the whole of England sold to France and to Rome.
It is one of those impudent and dastardly lies which, alas, find ready
credence in our poor country just now. You remember Stailey's trial
on the information of that scoundrel Oates, who in spite of his own
obvious blunderings and contradictions was absolutely believed."
"I know, I know," said Rupert Kestyon with a groan, "I am undone,
I know. Cousin, I must fly the country at once--I can reach Dover
to-night."
"Nay, that you cannot, Cousin; your arrest is imminent. The warrant is
out and would take effect the moment you attempted to leave your house."
"But in the name of God, is there no way out?" came in tones of tragic
despair from the unfortunate man.
"Ay, that there is and a right simple one. The regal bribe, Cousin,"
said Michael with a grim smile, "which I promised to offer you."
"My life--do you mean my life? You have not the power to save my head
from the block. If I am arrested and brought to trial on one of these
infamous charges, the king himself could not save me."
"No; the king could not--but I can."
"How?"
"On one condition."
"I can guess it."
"The same I put before you at St. Denis."
Rupert Kestyon broke out into a laugh, a harsh, disagreeable laugh of
irony and of despair.
"Man, the wench would not have me now. Am I not beggared and a fugitive
from justice? Her father would now be the first to take her from me.
She married the Earl of Stowmaries and Rivaulx--"
But Michael interrupted him, saying:
"And after a brief sojourn with her in her old home in Paris you, as
Earl of Stowmaries and Rivaulx, will bring your wife back as chatelaine
of Maries Castle, even before the last leaf has fallen from the oak."
"But you--'tis you who--"
"I stay here to meet the charge of high treason and conspiracy
preferred against the Earl of Stowmaries," said Michael very quietly.
Like one in a dream, Rupert Kestyon passed a trembling hand over his
damp forehead.
"You--you would--" he stammered.
"Am I not the Earl of Stowmaries?" queried the other simply. "Was I
not actually in Paris on that memorable day in April? True, I am not
a Romanist by religion, but the travesty of justice which, alas, now
goes on under the guidance of Chief Justice Scroggs, will not ask too
many questions and will be satisfied as long as it has one more prey to
throw to the hungering intolerance of the mob. When I am gone, Cousin,
you are the rightful heir to the title and estates which the king's
mandate hath just conferred on me. You see how simple it is. It but
rests with you to accept or refuse."
"But why--why should you do this?" murmured the other, whose brain
seemed almost reeling with this sudden transition from tragic despair
to the first glimmer of hope. "Why should you give your life--and--and
mayhap die such an awful death?"
"Not for love of you, Coz; you may take an oath on that," said Michael
with a humorous twinkle in his eye and a quick smile which softened the
former stern expression of his face.
"No, I know that," retorted the other, "'tis because you love her--my
wife."
"My head will no longer grace my shoulders when you return with your
bride to England, Cousin; you have therefore no cause for jealousy."
There was silence between the two men now. Rupert was of a truth too
dazed to understand fully all that his cousin's proposal would mean to
him.
"But, by the Mass, man!" he said, "I cannot accept such a sacrifice."
"'Twill not be the first act of cowardice that you'll have committed,
Cousin. This one will atone for the graver sin of a year ago. Take
what I offer you. Now that we are both face to face with the problem
of life or death, we can look back more soberly on the past. We have
both done an innocent woman an infinite wrong. Fate hath so shuffled
the cards that we can both atone; after all, methinks that mine is the
easier rôle. It is ofttimes so much simpler to die than to live. Nay,
Cousin, your part will not be altogether that of a coward, not even
though your path in life will henceforth be strewn with roses. She
loves you purely, loyally, good Coz. 'Tis your duty as a man to render
her happy. Above all, think not of me. Odd's fish, man, death and I
have looked at one another very straight many a time before--we are
friends, he and I."
"But not such a death, Cousin--and the disgrace--"
"Bah, even disgrace and I have held one another by the hand ere this.
And now before I leave you, Coz, your solemn word of honour that you
will make her happy, for by God!" he added more lightly, "methinks my
ghost would haunt you, if ever it saw her in tears."
"Will you take my hand, Cousin?" asked Rupert in simple response, as he
somewhat timidly held his hand out to the other man.
Michael took it without a word and thus at last were the hands of these
two men clasped for the first time in friendship. Kinsmen by blood,
Fate and human passions had estranged them from one another; yet it was
blood that told, else Rupert could not even for a moment--and despite
his love of life and joy in living--have accepted the sacrifice.
Even now he hesitated. This taking of his cousin's hand, this tacit
acceptance of another man's life to save his own, wore an ugly look of
cowardice and of dishonour. Yet the young man was no coward. In open
fight in a good cause, his valour would have been equal to that of any
man, and he would on the field of honour have met death, no doubt, with
fortitude. But what loomed ahead was far different to the glamour, the
enthusiasm of courting death for honour. It meant disgrace and shame,
the trial, the ignominy: death dealt by the hand of the executioner in
sight of a jeering mob. It meant the torture of long imprisonment in a
gloomy, filthy prison; it meant the ill-usage of warders and menials,
insults from the judge, rough handling by the crowd. It meant, above
all, the supreme disgrace of desecration after death, the traitor's
head on Tyburn gates, the body thrown to the carrion, an ignominy from
which even the least superstitious shrank in overwhelming horror.
Ay, and there was worse shame, more supreme degradation still--for a
traitor's death was rendered hideous by every means that the cruelty of
man could invent.
This picture stood on one side of Rupert Kestyon's vision, on the other
was only a hated marriage and the somewhat cowardly acceptance of
another man's sacrifice.
Rupert Kestyon did hesitate, the while the insidious voice of Luxury
and of Ease whispered sophistries in his ear:
"He does not do this for thee, man, but for the woman whom he loves.
Why shouldst thou stand in the way of thine own future comfort and
peace?"
The battle was a trying one and whilst it lasted Rupert Kestyon felt
unwilling to meet his cousin's eyes. Yet had he done so, he would have
seen nothing in them save expectancy, and from time to time that same
humorous twinkle, as if the man derived amusement from the conflict
which was raging within the other's heart.
As usual under these circumstances, Fate put her lean, sharp-pointed
finger into this grim pie, and it was the small incident which settled
the big issue in the end, for even as Rupert stood there, shamed,
hesitating, fighting the inward battle, there came a timid rap at the
door, and a serving-man entered, bearing a missive which was tied down
with green cord but otherwise left unsealed.
"What is this?" asked Rupert Kestyon, who seemed to be descending from
the stars, in so dazed a manner did he gaze at the man who was handing
him the letter.
"A man hath just brought it, my lord; he said that the message was
urgent but would not say from whence he came--he went away down the
street very quickly as soon as I had taken the letter from him."
"Good; you may go."
With hands still trembling from recent emotion, Rupert Kestyon, as
soon as the servant had gone, tore open the missive, on the outside
cover of which he had at once recognised the ill-formed scrawls which
emanated from the untutored pen of Mistress Peyton. It was addressed in
that same illiterate but deeply loved hand to Mister Rupert Kestyon,
erstwhile my lord of Stowmaries, and began:
"_Honord Sir._
"This is to warn you that the villan Daniel Pye hath
informed against you, he did make brag of it befor my
servants to-day saying that you will be arrested for treson
and he be thus revenged upon me. i think it were best you
did not com to my house until this clowd has clered away.
But i am yr frend always."
The lady had signed the missive with her name in full. The hot blood
rushed to Rupert Kestyon's face, for despite his own natural vanity
he could not help but see the callous indifference as to his own fate
which pierced through the fair Julia's carefully-worded warning.
Without a word, however, he folded the letter and slipped it into the
inner pocket of his coat. Then he turned once more to his cousin.
"Is there no other way?" he asked, whilst the weakness of his nature,
the vacillation peculiar to his character, was very apparent now, in
the ever-shifting expression of his face, the pains he took to avoid
looking Michael quite square in the face.
"I see none now," rejoined the other. "Methinks, Coz, that you have
received confirmation of what I told you."
"Yes. I have. Unless I leave the country to-day I shall be a prisoner
ere nightfall."
"And Rose Marie, beyond all that we have made her suffer already, will
be left to mourn for you. To torture a woman then leave her desolate!
Nay, man, the shame of that were worse than a traitor's death."
"When shall I see her?"
"Anon, I think. Master Legros is on his way to you."
"Then I'll to France to-day, taking my wife with me," said Rupert
resolutely, "and may God guard you, Cousin."
"Nay, we'll not ask Him to do that just now," rejoined the other
with the same quaint smile; "rather may He protect her, and give her
happiness. We both owe her that, methinks."
Thus was the compact sealed. It had of course been a foregone
conclusion all along, and Michael had never for a moment anticipated
that his cousin would refuse the sacrifice.
The great game begun a year ago across the supper table of a tavern and
in the midst of a drunken orgy, ended here and now. Both the gamblers
lost all that they had staked. One was losing his self-respect, the
woman he loved with a capricious passion, the freedom which he had
coveted; the other was throwing away his all so that a fair-haired
girl, the cold ice-maid who had no love for him, should still be the
only winner in the end.