Brute worshippers or wielders of the rod
Most murderous even of all that call thee God!
Most treacherous even of all that called thee Lord!
—SWINBURNE.
No one—not even her parents—knew what the proposed journey cost the girl in bitter sense of shame. She had, in order to consent to this pilgrimage of humiliation, to put aside all thoughts of her own feelings in the matter. She as a sentient, thinking, suffering woman must for awhile cease to be; her individuality must sink into nothingness, her pride, alas, must be broken on the wheel of her filial affection, crushed out of all desire for rebellion.
If the dear folk thought that a personal appeal to Lord Stowmaries was a possible loophole out of the present abyss of sorrow and disgrace, then she—Rose Marie—would lend herself to that appeal: and that not as a martyr, a saint going to the rack, but as readily, as cheerfully, as if the meeting with the man who had despised and discarded her, who had sold her to another man, as if seeing him face to face was at least a matter of indifference to her.
Once having made up her mind to the sacrifice, Rose Marie would not allow herself to think of it. She set to her little preparations for the journey with well-feigned eagerness. Even maman was at times deceived, for the child would sing whilst she put a few stitches to the clothes which she was to take away.
Only when she was quite alone, or lying awake in the narrow little bed in the wall, would that sinful and rebellious pride rise up in arms, and Rose Marie would almost have to cling to the woodwork of her bed lest she found herself jumping up and rushing to her parents with a frantic cry of revolt: "I cannot go! I cannot do it!"
One word of protest from her even at this eleventh hour, and the journey would have been abandoned. But she made no protest, and the day for the voyage was fixed.
It was some two or three days before the projected departure that M. Legros, going down at his accustomed hour, to see the last of his 'prentices and cutters ere they left the workshop, found that two strangers were waiting to speak with him.
One of them was not altogether a stranger, for Papa Legros looking—with the keen eyes of a successful business man—on the unkempt and slouchy figure that stood expectantly in the doorway soon made up his mind that he had seen the face before. A second look decided the point, and brought back with a sharp pang the bitter memory of that gay wedding festivity which the advent of this same stranger, then the bearer of a fateful letter, had so rudely interrupted.
Daniel Pye and his companion, a meek-faced young man who looked like a scholar very much out at elbows, were kept humbly standing in the doorway, the while the 'prentices filed out past them, on the close of the working-day. We may assume that these rowdy youngsters did not make the two men's halt there any too pleasant for them. But Pye had learnt patience in the past two months, ever since he had ceased to be the dreaded majordomo in a pretty woman's household. He did not understand the gibes aimed at him by the impertinent crowd, and the pin-pricks, covert pinches and other physical inconveniences to which he was subjected left him passably indifferent.
As for the young student who accompanied him, he certainly looked well accustomed to buffetings from whatever quarter these might descend upon him.
The two men stood stolidly still, twirling their soft felt hats in their hands, never moving from the spot where they had been told to wait until such time as Maitre Legros might condescend to speak with them. Maitre Legros for the nonce was engaged in counting out his 'prentices as they filed past him and then out by the door, lest one of them bent on nocturnal mischief remained behind in safe concealment until time was ripe for pranks. After the 'prentices, the cutters and fitters filed out—more soberly for they were older men, but every man as he passed threw a curious look at the visitors, more especially at the shaggy, grimy face of Daniel Pye.
When the last of the crowd of workers had passed out into the street, Papa Legros turned to his foreman cutter, who had introduced the strangers into the shop.
"What do these men want?" he asked. "Have they told you their business, Master Duval?"
"No, M'sieu," replied the foreman, "one of them does not understand French, the other one only seems to be here as interpreter. The one with the shaggy beard is the principal, he asked for M. Legros with great insistence and as he has been here before—"
"Ah!—You do recognize him then?"
"I have seen his face before, M'sieu—I'd take my oath on that—though when that was I could not say."
"Bien, my good Duval, I'll speak to the stranger anon," rejoined M. Legros. "I shall not require you any more to-day. You may go now. I'll lock the back doors."
Whilst Duval obeyed, Legros studied the face of his visitor very attentively. He had no doubt in his mind that this was the same man who had brought him that fateful letter on Rose Marie's wedding day, just an hour after the child had gone away with that cruel and treacherous blackguard. Undoubtedly the face was very much altered; it had been trim and clean-shaved before, now an unkempt beard hid the mouth and jaw. The eyes, too, looked more sunken, the nose and forehead more pinched, and a shifty, furtive expression replaced the former obsequious manner peculiar to the well-drilled lacquey.
Obviously this man was the principal in this new affair, and at a curt word from M. Legros he came forward into the room with a certain air of sulky defiance, the while his companion followed meekly in the rear.
Papa Legros would have not owned to it for worlds, but as a matter of fact his heart was throbbing with anxiety. Instinctively he looked on the shaggy figure of Daniel Pye as on a bird of ill-omen. It was through the agency of those same grimy hands that the first terrible blow of a crushing misfortune had fallen on the tailor and his family. What other misery would this unwelcome visitor bring in his train?
"You have business with me, my masters?" asked M. Legros at last. He settled himself down resolutely in the high-backed chair, which he always used when talking to his inferiors—but he left the two men standing before him; there were no other chairs in the room.
Daniel Pye had grunted a surly assent.
"And of what nature is that business?" continued M. Legros, keeping up an air of haughty indifference.
"It is of a private nature, Master," here interposed the younger of the two men. He was evidently impressed by the great tailor's august condescension and spoke timidly with a slight impediment in his speech.
"Then you may speak of it freely," said M. Legros. "No one can overhear you. All my men have gone. So I pray you be brief. My time is much occupied, and I have none to waste."
The young student no doubt would have hemmed and hawed very hesitatingly for some little while to come. But Daniel Pye, moody and impatient, gave him a vigorous nudge in the ribs.
"Go it, Master Clerk," he said gruffly in English. "By G—d, man, I am not paying you to toady to this old fool, but to state my business clearly before him. Let me tell you that that business will be highly welcomed in this house, so there is no cause for this damnable shaking of your body, as if you were afraid."
"What does your friend say to you, sirrah?" asked the tailor peremptorily, for he did not like this conversation carried on in a language which he did not understand.
"He says, my Master," replied the clerk, "that I must speak up boldly, for his business will be pleasing to your graciousness. I am but the poor, ill-paid interpreter, who—"
"Then I pray you interpret both boldly and briefly," interposed M. Legros impatiently. "What is your friend's business? Out with it, quick, before I have you both kicked out of this door."
The clerk did not think it necessary to translate the tailor's last words into English.
"The business concerns my lord the Earl of Stowmaries and Rivaulx," he began.
"Then 'tis none of mine," retorted the tailor coldly.
"Ay, but of a truth it is, good Master," rejoined the other more boldly, "and my friend here, Master Daniel Pye, by name, a worthy and independent Englishman, hath journeyed all the way from London to speak with you on this business. The noble Earl of Stowmaries hath greatly wronged you, sir, and your family. You have suffered great humiliation at his hands. Your daughter through his neglect is neither wife nor maid—"
"And you, sirrah, will be neither alive nor dead, but near to both estates, an you do not hold your tongue," said M. Legros bringing an angry fist crashing down on the arm of his chair. "Out of my house this instant!—How dare you speak my daughter's name without my leave, you dirty paper-scraper, you bundle of quill feathers, you—"
Good M. Legros was choking with wrath but he did fully intend to put his threat into execution and to kick these two impertinent rascals out of his house. Ere he could recover himself, however, the clerk forcibly egged on by Daniel Pye had interposed quietly but firmly:
"Nevertheless, sir, it is my duty to be the mouthpiece of my friend who hath come all this way to tell you that God himself hath taken up your cause against the great and noble Earl of Stowmaries, whose pride will soon be laid in the dust, who will become an abject, cringing creature, dependent mayhap on your bounty for subsistence, dispossessed, disinherited, nay worse, tried for treason, and hanged, sir, hanged as a traitor! Is not that a glorious revenge, sir, for the wrongs which he has done to you?"
"Nay, and by the Mass, sirrah," said M. Legros who had recovered sufficiently from his blind wrath to be justly indignant at this mealy-mouthed harangue, "if you do, value your shoulders and if your friend cares for his skin, you can have thirty seconds wherein to reach that door, after which the toe of my boot and the stout stick in yonder corner shall accelerate your footsteps."
"Sir," protested the clerk, prompted thereto by Daniel Pye, "my friend here desires to remind you that he was driven away by blows from your doors in this like manner just five months ago. Had you given him more ready access to your august person, the letter which he bore and which was written by my hand at a kind lady's bidding, would have been delivered into your hands one hour the earlier, and thus would have averted a misery which you yourself would now give your life's blood to undo."
The words were well chosen. The Huguenot clerk had interpreted Daniel Pye's promptings in a manner which could not fail to bear impress on Master Legros' mind. The shaft had been well aimed. It had struck a vital nerve centre. The tailor, feeling the justice of the reproof, curbed his wrath. He was silent for a moment or two, while the two men watched and waited.
Suddenly the touch of a hand which he loved, roused Master Legros from his moody incertitude and a girl's voice said with firm decision:
"These men are right in what they say, Father. There is no harm in hearing what they have to say. If they bring lying news or empty scandal 'twill be ample time then to turn them out of doors."
"You have not heard all their impertinent canting harangues, my jewel."
"I heard enough to understand that these men have come here to tell you of some evil which is about to descend on my lord of Stowmaries, my husband before God. That is so, is it not?"
And she turned great inquiring eyes on Daniel Pye and on the clerk.
"My mother and I heard my father's voice raised in anger against you. She bade me come down to see what was amiss. The matter which concerns my lord of Stowmaries also concerns me, so I pray you tell my father all about it in my presence, and have no fear of his wrath, for he will listen to you for my sake."
"Then, sirrah, an my daughter desires it, I pray you tell your story!" rejoined Legros. "But do so briefly; I'll patiently hear of the evil which hath befallen my lord Stowmaries, but will not listen to any impertinent comments on his actions past or in the present."
"Tell them the whole tale just as you did write it out," whispered Daniel Pye to his interpreter. "Damn you, sir, how much longer will you be about it!"
"Then hear me, master tailor, for it began this wise," now said the clerk with a great effort at composure. "My lord of Stowmaries hath a kinsman, one named Michael Kestyon, whom you know, and on whose conduct I am not permitted to make comment. Michael hath for years held—on grounds which it would take too long now to explain—that he and not his cousin should own the titles and estates of Stowmaries and Rivaulx. But hitherto he hath had no money wherewith to press his claim. The law as administered in England is a vastly expensive affair, my master, and Michael Kestyon was a poor man, poorer even than I; he was a wastrel and many called him a dissolute reprobate."
"Enough of Michael Kestyon," interrupted Legros gruffly. "Have I not told you to be brief."
"Michael Kestyon's affairs form part of my tale, Master. You must know that he is now passing rich. Many and varied are the rumours as to the provenance of his wealth, and many the comments as to the change in the man himself. Armed with money Michael Kestyon hath obtained the ear and attention of the high dignitaries of the law and the favour of the King himself. The fact hath become of public knowledge that only His Majesty's signature to a document is needed now to instate Michael Kestyon in the title and dignities which are declared to be legally his. My lord of Stowmaries, therefore, is, as you see, no longer secure in his position and his wealth, and though you may not permit the humble clerk to make comment on the doings of his betters, yet Master Daniel Pye hath come all the way from England to bring you this news, which must be vastly gratifying to you, whom that same lord of Stowmaries had so wantonly injured."
Daniel Pye and his mouthpiece both looked at the tailor with marked assurance now. Of a truth they were quite confident that the Legros thirsting for revenge would receive the news with every sign of exultation. But the master tailor was silent and moody, and it was Mademoiselle who spoke.
"And is this all the news which you, sir, came all the way from England to impart to my father?" she asked, addressing Daniel Pye in his mother tongue.
"No, not altogether all, Mistress," he replied; "I have better news for you yet."
"Anent my lord Stowmaries' troubles?"
"Ay, something you will be still more glad to hear."
"What is it?"
"My lord of Stowmaries is a Papist—or—saving your presence he is a Catholic, and Catholics are in bad odour in England just now—they are said to be conspiring to murder the King, and to place the Duke of York on the throne—to sell England to France, and to place the English people under the yoke of the Pope of Rome."
"Hath my lord of Stowmaries thus conspired?" she asked coldly.
"I think so," replied Daniel Pye.
"How do you mean? That you think so is no proof that he hath done it."
"I can soon bring forward the proofs," said Pye with a knowing leer directed at her from under his shaggy brows, "if you, Mistress, will help me."
Rose Marie felt a shudder which was almost one of loathing creeping up her spine, at sight of the expression in the man's face.
It told such an infamous tale of base thoughts and desires, of cupidity and of triumphant revenge, that her every nerve rebelled against further parleyings with such a villain.
But there was something more than mere feminine curiosity in her wish to know something definite of what was really passing in the mind of Daniel Pye. That shrewd instinct and sound common sense—which is the inalienable birthright of the French bourgeoisie—told her that the man would not have undertaken the arduous and costly journey from England to France unless he had some powerful motive to prompt him thereunto, or—what was more likely still—some reward to gain.
The desire to learn the truth of this motive or of this hoped-for gain remained therefore paramount in her mind, and she did her best not to give outward expression to her sense of repulsion when Daniel Pye drew nearer to her in an attempt at confidential familiarity.
He was far from guessing that his last words had done aught but please this wench and her father, both of whom had as serious a grievance against Lord Stowmaries as he himself had against Mistress Peyton.
It had not taken the dismissed serving-man very long to learn the lesson of how he could best be revenged on his past mistress. The easiest way to hit at the ambitious lady was undoubtedly—as Master Tongue had pointed out to him—by bringing the man she desired to marry to humiliation and ruin. Michael Kestyon's successful claim to the peerage of Stowmaries had paved the way for the more complete undoing of my lord, and Daniel Pye soon knew the lesson by heart which the informers of Whitefriars had taught him.
Oates was ready with his lies; he and his confederates had soon mustered up a goodly array of names of Papist gentlemen against whom these lies could most easily be proved. The first spark had been set to the tinder which presently would set the whole of England ablaze with the hideous flame of persecution. But to make their villainous perjuries more startling, and at the same time to obtain better pay for uttering them, they wanted to add to their list a few more high-sounding names which would have the additional advantage of proving the far-reaching dimensions of the supposed Popish plot. Amongst these names that of Stowmaries would be of great moment. Daniel Pye with his intimate acquaintance with my lord became a valuable addition to the band.
Soon he was taught to concoct a plausible story; information against Papists was being richly rewarded already by the terrorised Ministry and Parliament. But Pye, grafting his own wits onto the lesson given, bethought himself of the rich tailor over in Paris who surely would not only help him actively in the telling of his lies, but also pay him passing well for bringing Lord Stowmaries to humiliation and disgrace—if not to the gallows.
Tongue—who had remained Daniel Pye's guide and leader in all his villainies—fully approved of the plan; we may take it that he intended to levy a percentage on what the more ignorant peasant would obtain from Master Legros.
It was felt among that vile band of informers that foreign witnesses, especially those of French nationality, would be a valuable help to the success of the accusations, and to all these men of low and debased mind, it seemed quite natural that the tailor—whose daughter had been the heroine of a public scandal brought about by Lord Stowmaries' repudiation of her—would out of vengeful malice be only too ready to swear to any falsehood against the young man.
Thus Daniel Pye went over to France, accompanied by the good wishes of an infamous crowd. The few pounds which he had saved whilst he was in Mistress Peyton's service were rapidly dwindling away. The journey to Paris had been expensive, too, and he had therefore much at stake in this interview with the tailor, and watched with greedy eyes the face both of Legros and of his daughter, now that the latter was silent and that the old man resolutely took no part in the conversation.
Of a truth Legros had been listening moodily to what this uncouth stranger was saying, trying to comprehend the drift of all his talk. But the worthy tailor had only a very scanty knowledge of the English tongue, only so much in fact as enabled him in his business to make himself understood by the cloth manufacturers and button makers of England with whom he came in contact. Therefore he had only made vague guesses as to what Pye was saying to Rose Marie. Once or twice he tried to interpose, but every time his daughter checked him with a gesture of firm entreaty, and then a whispered: "Chéri, allow me to speak with him!"
Now after that first instinctive movement of recoil quickly suppressed, Rose Marie, keen to know what ugly schemes were being nurtured in the man's brain, feeling, too, that to know might mean the power to avert or to help, turned with well-assumed cordiality once more to Daniel Pye.
"Meseems, sir," she said, "that you have more to tell me. In what way can I help to prove that my lord of Stowmaries hath conspired against the King of England?"
"You need not do much, Mistress," rejoined Pye confidentially. "I will do most of the work for you. But I am a poor man and—"
"I understand. You want some money. You wish to be paid. For what?"
That sense of repulsion almost overmastered her again. Was she not lending herself—if only with words and with seeming acquiescence—to some abominable infamy? Swiftly her thoughts flew back to the pool of Cluny, the water lilies smirched with the slime. How true had been those words he spoke: contact with what is depraved, what is mean and base, soils and humiliates ineradicably very soon.
"You have come to my father to sell him some information against Lord Stowmaries. Is that it?" she reiterated impatiently as Daniel Pye was somewhat slow in replying.
"I can bring Lord Stowmaries to the gallows, by just saying the word," replied the man. "I thought Master Legros would wish me to say the word—that he would help a poor man who tried to do him service."
"My lord of Stowmaries is not at the mercy of false accusers," she said almost involuntarily.
"Papists in England do conspire," retorted Pye phlegmatically, "and I and my friends know a vast deal of their doings—Hark 'ee, Mistress," he added, drawing nearer to her, "and you too, my master, for methinks you understand something of what I say. It is all as simple and as clear as daylight. Papists are in very bad odour in England, and the Ministry and Parliament are all in blue terror lest the country be sold to France or to Rome. Now my friend Titus Oates and some other equally honourable gentlemen bethought themselves of a splendid plan whereby we can all render our own country a great service by exposing these Papist conspiracies. We are being well paid already for any information we get, and information is quite easy to obtain. Look at Master Oates! He hath invented a splendid tale whereby the Duke of York himself and certainly his secretary—one Coleman—and a number of others do find themselves in dire trouble. Lord Stowmaries is a Papist, too. I know him well. You know him passing well. We can readily concoct a famous story between us, which will vastly please the Privy Council and Parliament. Lord Stowmaries, I feel sure, would wish to see England Catholic like himself. He wishes to see the King put away, and the Duke of York reigning in his stead. Well! all that we need do, good Master and Mistress, is to write out a statement wherein we all swear that we overheard my lord of Stowmaries express a desire to that effect, and the man who did you both so great a wrong, the man, Master, who first married your daughter and then cast her away from him as if she were of evil fame, will dangle on the gallows to your satisfaction and to mine."
Daniel Pye paused, viewing his two interlocutors with a glance of triumph. He had absolutely no doubt in his mind that the rich tailor would within the next second or two—as soon, in fact, as he had recovered from the first shock of pleasant surprise, jump up from his chair, and with the impetuous fervour peculiar to Frenchmen, throw himself on the breast of his benefactor. The transference of a bag full of gold from the pocket of the grateful and rich tailor to that of good Master Pye would then be but a matter of time.
But no such manifestations of joyful excitement occurred, and the expression of triumph in the informer's face soon gave place to one of anxiety.
M. Legros had looked up at his daughter, who stood beside him, pale and thoughtful.
"I have not understood all that this man hath said, my jewel."
"'Tis as well, Father dear," she replied, "for methinks you would have thrashed him to within an inch of his life. Nay!" she added coldly as the Huguenot clerk—suddenly realising that matters were taking a dangerous turn all unbeknown as yet to his companion—gripped the latter's arm and began to talk to him volubly in English, "you, sir, need not warn your friend. I will tell him, myself, all that he need know."
"Miserable perjurer," she continued, now speaking directly to Pye, "go out of my father's house forthwith, ere he understands more of your villainies and breaks his stick across your back, as he would over that of a mad and vicious cur. I have listened to your lies, your evil projects, your schemes of villainies only because I wished to know the extent of your infamy and gauge the harm which your perjuries might cause. Now, with the help of God, I can yet warn him, who though he may have injured me, is nevertheless my husband in the sight of Heaven. Your perjuries will do you no good—they will mayhap lead you and your friends to the gallows. If there is justice in England your lies will lead you thither. Now you can go, ere I myself beg my father to lay his dog-whip across your back."
Daniel Pye's surprise was quite boundless. It had never for a moment entered his head that the tailor and his family would not join readily in any project for the undoing of my lord Stowmaries. He blamed himself for having been too precipitate; he would have liked to argue and mayhap to persuade, but though he did not understand the French language, he guessed by the expression in the master tailor's eyes, as his daughter now spoke with cold decision to him, that the moment was not propitious for a prolonged stay in this inhospitable house.
The look of terror on his interpreter's face also warned him that a hasty retreat would be the most prudent course; already M. Legros was gripping his stick very ominously.
But by the time the old man had struggled to his feet, Daniel Pye and his companion had incontinently fled. They had reached the door, torn it open and were out in the street even before M. Legros had time to throw his stick after them.