Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great-sized monster of ingratitudes.
—TROILUS & CRESSIDA III. 3.
That same evening in the small house in the parish of Soho, Michael sat beside an old woman whose wrinkled, toil-worn hand he held tenderly in his own.
Life had dealt hardly with her, unaccustomed toil and a rough life had done their work. Her sensibilities were blunted, almost extinct save one—her love for her son.
Obediently she had left her Kentish village, her miserable cottage, and ungrateful garden, to come to London when first he bade her so to do. She had exchanged her rough worsted kirtle for a gown of black silk, soft and pliable to the touch. This she had done to please Michael, not because she cared. It was many, many years since last she had cared.
Humbly acceding to his wish she had lived in the house in Soho Square, allowing herself to be tended by servants, she who awhile ago had been scrubbing her own floors. To please him she had accepted all the comforts, all the luxuries which he gave her. As for herself she had no need of them.
Then when he went away and she was all alone in the big house, save for the army of mute and obedient servants round her, she had wept not a little because she did not see her son. She knew not whither he had gone, and when she asked any of the servants they gave no definite answer, only seemed more mute, more obedient than before.
But she did not complain. Michael was oft wont to go away like this, to the wars mayhap; soon he would return all in good time and she would see him again. Not the faintest echo from the great world outside reached the lonely house in Soho Square; but then it had not reached the Kentish village either, so old Mistress Kestyon was quite satisfied.
To-night Michael had returned. She was over-glad to see him. It seems he had not been wounded in the wars, for which she was over-glad. He would not let her out of his sight, even when a visitor came desiring speech with him.
The visitor was Rupert Kestyon; the name hardly reached the feeble intelligence, and the face conveyed no meaning. The old dame was quite happy, however, for Michael sat beside her, holding her hand in his. She did not understand much of what went on between the two men. They were cousins, so Michael had said when first the young man entered and he himself went forward to greet him and warmly took his hand.
"You see me shamed before you, Coz," he said gravely. "You know that had I had the control of my fate, I should be watching you now from the height or depth of another world—"
"You sent for me," said Rupert, in no way responding to the other's cordiality. "I presume 'tis because you have something to say to me of more importance than excuses for your happening to be alive."
"Nay! There is nothing more important than that just now, Coz," retorted the other quietly. "I sent for you because a chance of word from your servant to mine revealed to me the fact that you were in London. You came, no doubt, to see me hanged. A beautiful woman of whom you, Coz, were never worthy, hath decided that I shall live."
The word that Rupert uttered in response brought an ugly frown on Michael's brow.
"Cousin," he said sternly, "in your own interest I pray you cease this wanton talk. I would have you know that I mean well by you."
He drew from out his pocket the paper that had the seal of His Holiness the Pope attached to it and handed it to Rupert, who with a savage oath took it from him.
"Here, Coz," he said, "is the papal dispensation which good M. Legros gave into my hands when I parted from him at Westminster Hall. The civil law of England will not take long in setting you free. What money can accomplish, that it shall do to expedite your case. My word on it! The lady will not defend it and the nullity of your marriage shall be pronounced ere the first bud appears on the chestnut trees."
"A free man and yet a beggar," murmured Rupert moodily.
"Nay, nay, Cousin, why should you look on me as your enemy? Have I ever acted as such? My mother, alas, is here as a proof that you and yours were enemies to me, but I, not to you, 'pon my honour. I have no need of great riches. The hundred and twenty thousand pounds with which you gambled a year ago are yours, Cousin. Let us call them a loan which you made me, and wherewith Fate hath worked its will for us. I give them to you freely and with all my heart. You are not a beggar, you see, and are free to marry whom you choose. You are still the cousin of, if not the actual Earl of Stowmaries; many a pretty woman with taste and ambition will—an I mistake not—smile on you. Life is full of joys yet for you, Cousin, and Mistress Peyton will relent."
While he thus spoke lightly, almost gaily, the frown of moodiness fled from Rupert Kestyon's brow. He could not help but be gratified at his cousin's generosity, even though his heart no longer turned toward the faithless beauty whose callousness had killed in him all love for her. But there were plenty of pretty women yet in England, thank God, and a man well-born and well-connected could cut a very fine figure in London society these days on one hundred and twenty thousand pounds. In the far-off days in old Virginia he had been quite glad of as many pence.
He was quite manly enough to thank his cousin warmly. But before he went, he told Michael the news that had been all over London for some day before the trial, namely, that beautiful Mistress Peyton had finally decided to bestow her hand and fortune and her heart—on John Ayloffe.
Good Cousin John! Confronted with beggary and the irretrievable loss of that £12,000, he had bethought himself of the only plan whereby the latter goodly sum could, after all, find its way into his own pocket.
The money with the lady was his only chance, and we are told that he took it boldly, even contriving not to make too wry a face when the capricious beauty—realising that Cousin John was her only hope of matrimony now that her name had been so plentifully bespattered with ridicule—decided to bestow her £20,000, her house and her person, on the one man who would accept.
Cousin John became exceedingly fat after his marriage, for he led a life of ease and comfort even though his former merry haunts knew him no more.