Are the skies wet because we weep,
Or fair because of any mirth?
Cry out; they are gods; perchance they sleep!
—SWINBURNE.
Rupert Kestyon—erstwhile styled my lord of Stowmaries and Rivaulx—turned away from his house in Piccadilly with a comparatively light heart.
Comparatively only, because strive as he might he could not altogether banish from his mind the last picture he had of his cousin, standing all alone in the gloomy withdrawing room, tall, erect, perfectly cheerful and placid, just as if he were awaiting a summons to some festivity rather than to disgrace and to death.
"It is best that I should remain here pending the execution of the magistrate's warrant," Michael had explained simply. "It will then be done without confusion of identity or difficulties of any kind. The informer will probably not see me until I am on my trial, and, in any case, I imagine that he will be just as content to tell his lies against me as he would against you."
Rupert, of a truth, did marvel not a little at his cousin's coolness at such a moment; he himself felt a tingling of all his nerves and his faculties seemed all numb in face of this terrible crisis through which he was passing. He could not really imagine that any man could thus calmly discuss the details of his own coming dishonour, of the awful public disgrace, the physical and mental agony of a coming trial and of ignominious death. Yet Michael was quite serene, even cheerful, and ever and anon a whimsical smile played round the corners of his lips when he caught the look of shame, of perturbation and renewed hesitancy in the younger man's face.
He himself was ever wont to decide quickly for good or ill, to map his course of action and never to deviate from it. Many there were who knew Michael Kestyon well, and who declared that he had no conscience, no real sense of what was right or wrong. That may be so. Certain it is that whatever part in life he chose to play, he never paused to think whether morally it was right or wrong that he should play it.
Even now he did not pause to think whether what he was doing was sublime or infamous. He gave his honour, his name and his life not in order to right a wrong, not in order to atone for a sin which he himself had committed, but because his love for Rose Marie transcended every other feeling within him, overshadowed every thought. She had told him that her happiness lay there where duty and loyalty called. He—poor fool!—imagined that she loved Rupert, her husband, from a sense of duty mayhap, but loved him nevertheless.
With an accusation of conspiracy threatening that man, an accusation which could only find its complement in a traitor's death, Rose Marie could not be aught but unhappy. So thought Michael to himself, whereupon the giving of name, of honour and of life to the man whom Rose Marie loved, was as natural to Michael as to draw his breath.
The fact that this sacrifice meant dishonour and shame was no pang. Michael cared less than naught for public opinion. To himself he would not stand disgraced. He had weighed his action, looked at it from every point; had in his mind's eye seen the public trial, the ignominious condemnation, all the disgrace which pertains to such a death. He had seen it, and decided without the slightest hesitation.
All this Rupert could not of course understand. In this he was different to Michael, that he felt poignant remorse for his own action, the while he had really not the moral power to reverse his decision. Had the acceptance of another man's heroic sacrifice to be done again, he again would have accepted it, and again have bitterly repented, hesitated, repented and accepted again. He would have understood Michael's attitude better if there were any prospect of an admiring world knowing subsequently the truth of the sacrifice, of there being a chance of the public recognition of the heroism, even after death. But here there was no such prospect. For Michael it would be humiliation, and nothing but humiliation, shame and disgrace even beyond the grave.
Therefore, the young man was over-glad when—the preparations for his journey being all complete—he at last turned his back on the old house in Piccadilly. All the servants had been enjoined that if any one came thither and asked for my lord of Stowmaries the new and only real lord of Stowmaries would receive the visitor, whatever his errand might be. Then Rupert took his leave of his cousin; not a word more was said on the subject of the future, nor did the young man attempt to express any gratitude. I do not think that he felt any in the true sense of the word, and Michael's attitude was not one that called forth any outward show of sentiment. An hour later Rupert Kestyon had finally turned his steps in the direction of Fleet Street; soon he found himself inside the yard of the Bell Inn, asking if he might have speech with Master Legros of Paris, lately come to the hostelry.
There was something almost comical in good Papa Legros' expression of surprise when he realised who his visitor was. Rupert's face was of course unfamiliar to him, and it took him quite a little time to collect his thoughts, in view of the happy prospect which this unexpected visit had called forth before him.
His kindly heart, ever prone to see good, even where none existed, quickly attributed to this erring sinner the saving clause of loyal repentance. Knowing nothing of what had occurred between the cousins, Papa Legros naturally sprang to the conclusion that the young man, tardily smitten with remorse, had come of his own accord to make reparation, and the worthy tailor was only too ready to smooth the path of atonement for him as much as lay in his power.
"Milor," he began, as soon as he understood who Rupert was, and stretching out a cordial hand to him.
"Nay! I am no longer milor now," broke in Rupert Kestyon with a slight show of petulance. "My Cousin Michael is Lord of Stowmaries now. I am only a poor suppliant of high birth and low fortunes who would humbly ask if your daughter—my wife before God—is still prepared to link her fate to mine."
"My daughter, milor—sir—will answer herself," rejoined the tailor with at least as much dignity as a high-born gentleman would have displayed under the like circumstances; then he went to the door, and opening it called to Rose Marie.
Rupert Kestyon, despite the deep-rooted antagonism which he felt against this woman to whom now his future was irrevocably bound, was forced to own to himself that Fate tempered her stern decrees with a goodly amount of compensation.
Rose Marie's beauty was one which sorrow doth not mar; in her case it had even enhanced it, by etherealising the childlike contour of the face, and giving the liquid blue eyes an expression such as the mediæval artists of old lent to the saints whom they portrayed. She came forward with quiet self-possession, through which shone an air of simple confidence and of sublime forgiveness. Though she had not expected Rupert's coming, yet she showed no surprise, only pleasure that he had so nobly forestalled her, and saved her the humiliation of coming to him as a suppliant.
Rupert Kestyon was young, and his senses were quickly enflamed at sight of so much loveliness, and though inwardly he railed at chance, that had not made of this exquisite woman a great lady, yet when she so graciously extended her hand to him, he kissed it as deferentially as he would that of a duchess.
"Madam," he said, as soon as she was seated, and he standing before her, "we are told in the Scriptures that there is more joy in Heaven for the conversion of one sinner than for the continued goodness of one hundred holy men. It had always struck me ere this that this dictum was somewhat unfair on the holy men, but now I have come to be thankful for this disposition of Heaven's rejoicings, since you—who no doubt have come straight from there—will mayhap show some consideration to the repentant sinner who hath so miserably wronged you, and who now craves humbly for pardon at your feet."
He was very much pleased with himself for this speech, accompanied as it was with pretence of bending the knee. He felt sure that Michael would be pleased with him for it, nor did it cost him much to make it, for of a truth Rose Marie was exquisitely beautiful.
"By Gad," he murmured to himself, "meseems that I am ready to fall in love with the wench."
"My lord," she said quietly, meeting with perfect impassiveness the sudden gleam of admiration which lit up his eyes, "'tis not for me—your wife—to judge you or your conduct. The wrong which you did to me, I do readily forgive, so be it that my father and mother, whom you have wronged as deeply as you did mine own self, are equally ready to forget all that is past."
"An my lord is willing to make amends," said Papa Legros with an involuntary sigh. He thought of Michael and how different he had looked when first he had wooed Rose Marie; Michael with the handsome proud head, the merry smile, the twinkling dark eyes so full of fun at times, at others so earnest and so infinitely tender. Papa Legros sighed, even as he felt that rectitude was a hard taskmistress, and that 'twas a vast pity Rose Marie was quite such an angel of goodness. But Rupert's impatient voice broke in on these thoughts.
"I pray you," he said, "do not persist in calling me my lord. My Cousin Michael is and has always been, it seems, the rightful Lord of Stowmaries. I am a poor man, now—"
"And my father, sir, is rich enough that your poverty need not fret you," said Rose Marie quietly. "An you'll have me as your wife—"
"It is my duty as well as my pleasure, Madam," he broke in decisively, "to ask you if you'll permit me to lay my submission at your feet."
"You have but to command me, sir," she rejoined coldly.
"An unfortunate incident, of which I understand you have some inkling, will force me to leave England for a time."
"We know that a false charge has been preferred against you, sir, and we came to England—I trust not too late—to warn you of your danger."
"Nay, not too late, Madam; as you see I am still free. I had warnings from other quarters yet am equally grateful for your pains."
"The cloud will blow over," she said stiffly. "When do you propose to go to France?"
"To-night an it please you, Madam," he replied. "Will you journey in my company?"
"If you so desire it, sir."
She rose, and with the same calm dignity prepared to go. Rupert's glowing eyes followed her graceful movements and dwelt with unconcealed pleasure on every line of her young figure, which the somewhat stiff mode of the day could not altogether disguise. A warm tinge of colour flew to her cheeks when, raising her eyes to his for a moment, she encountered his bold look; then when the colour flew as swiftly as it came she looked pale and frail as the snowdrops to which Michael had ever loved to compare her.
But beyond that quick blush, she showed no sign of emotion. Her almost mediæval sense of duty to her husband caused her to accept his every word, his every look, without a thought of censure or even of rebellion. She had so schooled her sensibilities that they were her slaves, she their absolute mistress—the rigid and mechanical being come into existence from out the ashes of her past happy self in order to right the great wrong committed by another.
Obedient to her lord's mute but peremptory request, she gave him her hand, and accepted his kiss as she would have done his scorn, coldly and humbly, for her father stood there and watched her, and she would not let him see what this interview was costing her in agony of mind, in humiliation of her entire soul. For, look you, when she left Paris in order to offer herself a willing sacrifice on the altar of filial love, she had steeled her pride against her husband's scorn, but not against his capricious passion, and now that his boldly admiring glance swept over her face and form, she felt a wild, mad longing to flee—to hide her sorrow which had suddenly turned to shame, and to put the whole world between herself and the pollution of her husband's kiss.
Her father's voice recalled her to herself, and even Rupert Kestyon had not noted the swiftly-flying look of agony which had momentarily darkened her eyes.
"Sir," said Papa Legros now, with firmer decision than he had hitherto displayed, "you see that both my daughter and myself are over-ready to forget the past. You are young, sir, and methinks sinned more from thoughtlessness than from any love of evil. Rose Marie is ready to follow you, withersoever you may command. She is your wife before God, and directly we are in Paris we will ask His blessing in confirmation of your union. Monseigneur will not refuse to perform the ceremony—the other, alas, whereat a miscreant held my daughter's hand, was but a mockery—Monseigneur will pass it over. 'Twas he advised me to make a final appeal to your honour, and I thank God on my knees, sir, that with you rests the glory of having made such noble amends entirely of your own accord. I pray you only—and herein you must forgive a father's anxiety—I pray you to place in my hands the final pledge of your good faith towards my daughter."
"What may that be, sirrah?" quoth Rupert, whilst the first show of arrogance suddenly pierced through his borrowed armour of outward deference.
"The decree of His Holiness the Pope," rejoined the tailor quietly, "annulling your marriage with my daughter. An you mean loyally by her you will place the mandate in my hands."
For a second or two only Rupert seemed to hesitate. This simple giving over of a paper meant the final surrender of his will, the giving up of all for which he had planned and intrigued; the acknowledgment that Fate was stronger than his desire, God's decree greater than the schemes of men. That mandate once out of his hands, he could never get it back again, nor ever obtain another. It was real, tangible finality; therefore did he hesitate, but the next moment he had looked once more on Rose Marie, and the natural primitive man in him, the shallow nature, the masterful senses, caused him to shrug his shoulders in indifference. Bah, one woman after all was as good as another; this one loved him in her curious, cold way, and—-by Gad!—she was d—d pretty. So Rupert Kestyon delved in the deep pocket of his surcoat and drew out therefrom a parchment to which was appended an enormous seal that bore the arms and triple crown of His Holiness the Pope.
This he handed to Papa Legros.
The latter took it and glanced at its contents; one phrase therein caused a dark frown to appear on his brow, and a flash of anger to rush to his cheeks. It related to the misconduct of Rose Marie, the daughter of one Armand Legros, master tailor of Paris, in consequence of which His Holiness did grant dispensation to Rupert Kestyon, Earl of Stowmaries and Rivaulx, to contract a marriage with another woman, his former marriage being null and void.
For a brief moment good Papa Legros hated the young reprobate before him with all the strength of which his kind heart was capable; for a moment he longed to throw that lying parchment back into the teeth of the miscreant who had dared to put an insult on record against the purest saint that had ever adorned her sex. The good man's hands shook as they held the paper, and during that brief moment Rupert experienced a hideous sensation of fear. If Rose Marie rejected him now, would Michael withdraw from the sacrifice which he was prepared to make?
But that anxiety was short-lived. With a deep sigh of resignation, and a firm compression of the lips, Master Legros looked the young man straight in the face.
"What is past, is past," he said, as if in answer to the other's thought, "and I am satisfied."
But he did not tear the parchment up, as Rupert had at first thought that he meant to do. He folded it up with hands still slightly shaking from the inward struggle which had just taken place within his simple soul, and then slipped it into the breast pocket of his coat.