A saint whose perfect soul
With perfect love for goal
Faith hardly might control,
Creeds might not harden.
—SWINBURNE.
When Legros was alone once more with his daughter he asked for a fuller explanation.
"I wish, my jewel, that you had not interfered," he said reproachfully, "when first I desired to kick those rascals out of doors. My first instinct was right, you see."
"Nay, but, Father dear," she said gently, "I am glad that you yielded to me in this. If we had not listened to what these men said, we should know nothing of the villainies which they are concocting, and could not warn those whom they attack."
"Methinks that were no concern of ours," retorted her father gruffly.
"They are proposing to bring false accusations of treason against Lord Stowmaries," urged Rose Marie, almost reproachfully.
"And what is that to us, my child?"
"Lord Stowmaries is my husband, Father; to-morrow we set out on a journey in order to ask him to render me justice—and this we do on Monseigneur's advice."
"There is no obligation on our part to undertake the journey."
"There was none yesterday, Father dear, but there is to-day."
"Because to-day we know that Lord Stowmaries—my husband—is in danger of his life, and that we can, mayhap, give him timely warning."
"Lord Stowmaries is so little thy husband, child, that even to-day when thou thinkest of saving him from these perjurers, he goes about carrying in the pocket of his coat the dispensation to repudiate thee, which he hath obtained from His Holiness by a misrepresentation of facts."
Even as he spoke these harsh words—and he spoke them roughly, too—the good tailor took his daughter's hand tenderly in his, and stroked it, as if to mitigate by this loving touch the cruelty of the words. But the child who had been once so yielding and submissive was now an obstinate woman.
"All the more reason, Father dear," she said, "for proving to my Lord Stowmaries that he hath deeply wronged me, and that I am worthy to be his wife."
He was wholly unaccustomed to this new phase in his daughter's character. She had always been of a meek, gentle disposition, still a child in her expressions of loving obedience, in her tender, clinging ways. Now, suddenly she seemed to have a will of her own. She it was who had decreed that Monseigneur's advice should be followed, she it was now who refused to give up all thoughts of the journey.
Let us confess that worthy M. Legros was now for awaiting events. If the rascals spoke true, God Himself had provided a glorious vengeance against the dastardly young reprobate who had so ill-used Rose Marie. Papa Legros of a truth did not see that she—the injured wife—was called upon to move a finger in the cause of a man who had paid another to dishonour her. There are times and circumstances in life when the meekest of men become as ravenous tigers. The kindly tailor had a heart of gold, a simple mind and an adoring fondness for his child. He would never have done the meanest man any hurt. Yet in this case, and because of the terrible wrong done to his Rose Marie, he almost gloated on the thought of the troubles which were about to descend on Stowmaries. Vaguely the hope wormed itself into his heart that my lord would cease to exist—painlessly if possible—still that he would cease to be, and then Rose Marie would be free, a child-widow, who might yet find happiness in the arms of a good man.
But not one thought of Michael in all this! Legros himself would not let his mind dwell on that reprobate whom he had loved as a son. And Rose Marie? Did she perchance, when thinking of her journey to England, feel a vague thrill of hope that she might see him there?
Who shall pry into the secret orchard, the key of which lies hid in a young girl's heart. Those who knew Rose Marie both before and after the tragic episode of the mock marriage, declared that she had a great desire to see Michael Kestyon again.
If only to tell him that she had not forgiven him—that she would never forgive—and never, never forget.