Sometimes lurk I in a gossip's bowl. —A Midsummer Night's Dream.
"By the Mass, but the blackguard bears himself bravely! And you, my lord, have no cause to be ashamed of your substitute."
 
It was Lord Rochester who spoke. He, together with Lord Stowmaries and Sir John Ayloffe, was standing on the top of the steps beneath the ancient stone portcullis which surmounts the porch. They formed a compact little group, which gained distinction from the rest of the motley throng, by the sober cut of the English-made clothes, and by the drooping plumes of the hats—a fashion long since discarded in France.
 
Michael Kestyon with his bride on his arm had just come out of the church. She, wrapped in cloak and hood—for the spring day was chilly and the east wind keen—looked little more for the moment than a small bundle of humanity desirous above all of escaping observation.
 
But Michael for all the world looked the picture of the soldier of fortune, defiant and conscious of danger, ready to walk straight into that yawning abyss, at the bottom of which lurks a mysterious death, yet disdainful to evade it, too proud to halt, too obstinate to turn back.
 
As he came out of the porch, a violent gust of wind caught the folds of his cloak, and lashed him in the face, whipping up the swiftly-coursing blood which the solemnity of the religious service, the drowsy influence of[181] faded roses had lulled into temporary somnolence. The glare of the young April sun dazzled him, after the sombre, grey tones of the majestic chancel; the pupils of his eyes contracted to a pin's point, making the eyes themselves seem pale in colour, and tawny as those of a wild beast sweeping the desert with great savage orbs. There was altogether for the moment in the man's expression a strange look of dreamy aloofness. His eyes wandered over the crowd but obviously they recognised no individual face.
 
No wonder that Lord Rochester—essentially a man himself and a despiser of the other sex—gazed with ungrudging admiration at this splendid blackguard, who bore the stamp of virility on every line of his massive frame, and who seemed to defy contempt and dare contumely to reach him. Looking at Michael now it seemed impossible to think that he could ever regret any action which he had set his mind to do. Compunction is for the weak who is led astray, who fears gibes and dreads humiliation, but this man had donned an armour of pride and of ruthless ambition which neither sneers nor contempt could ever penetrate.
 
He might be a blackguard—he was one by every code of moral or religious civilisation, but in his most evil moments he was never paltry and never vile.
 
"I feel no longer any sorrow for the girl," continued Lord Rochester after awhile. "Odd's fish! Were I a woman I would not complain at the bridegroom. And withal she looked vastly pleasing as a bride, and methinks Michael Kestyon, too, is overmuch in luck's way. What say you, Ayloffe? are you not grieved that you did not take the entire business on your own shoulders, rather than depute that good-looking young reprobate to earn a fortune and an exquisite bride to boot?"
 
[182]
 
Sir John frowned. Some thought, such as the one expressed by Rochester, had mayhap crossed his own mind during the past three weeks—but this was not for other people to see. He, too, watched Michael's tall retreating figure, as he led Rose Marie down the stone steps, giving it ungrudging admiration and also the tribute of secret envy, until a crowd of friends and servants closed in round the bridal pair and hid them both from view.
 
Then Sir John turned to his friends and said drily:
 
"My lord of Rochester is ever ready for a joke. I desired this scheme to succeed, and obviously the worthy tailor yonder would never have mistaken me for a man who was seven years old eighteen years ago. But I'll confess, an it'll please you, my lord and also my lord of Stowmaries, that I do deem Michael Kestyon a lucky dog. One hundred and twenty thousand pounds and such a bride! By Gad, had I been able to put back the hand of time some twenty years—"
 
"The bride would have loathed you," retorted Stowmaries with an unpleasant snarl. "She'll fall in love with Michael and clear me of remorse."
 
"Surely my lord of Stowmaries is not troubled with any such unpleasantness?" said Ayloffe imperturbably. "'Tis too late now to give way to remorse. By to-morrow's dawn, my lord, you'll be as free as air to wed whom you please. That simpering tailor's daughter will not have a rag of reputation left to her name, and you can repudiate her whenever you feel so inclined."
 
"And that will be at once," replied Stowmaries, who, of a truth, was not experiencing the slightest pricks of conscience. The thought of this mock wedding which he had actually witnessed to-day had been dwelling in his mind for close upon a month. He had envisaged it from[183] every point of view and had completely exonerated himself from blame in the matter. The image of his fair Julia had quite succeeded in screening from his mental vision all thought of the unfortunate girl whom he was thus condemning to disgrace and to shame, and whilst he steadily looked on Michael as a miserable blackguard he firmly believed that when once he had paid over the price of an innocent girl's betrayal he himself would remain absolutely free from blame.
 
"I have made all enquiries," now continued Sir John drawing his two friends out of earshot of the crowd. "I understand that there are to be rare doings to-day in Master the tailor's back shop—a banquet, dancing and I imagine a good deal of wine drinking and licentious entertainment. These French bourgeois have no knowledge of decency and Michael Kestyon, methinks, did not learn to be squeamish whilst herding with the scum of mercenary armies in Flanders and Brandenburg. At five o'clock however a coach is to take the bridal pair as far as St. Denis—"
 
He paused a moment, then added with a cynical smile, almost cruel in its callousness:
 
"The first stage of their journey to Havre."
 
Lord Rochester laughed loudly. He had all along only seen the humour of the adventure. A woman's reputation destroyed, a woman won by a trick, by Gad! these were of every-day occurrence in the life of a fashionable gentleman. Indeed he thought that both Stowmaries and Ayloffe were making far too much of the whole business, and though he, too, called Michael Kestyon a rogue, yet he admired him for his pluck and envied him for his good fortune.
 
In his heart of hearts he much regretted that on the[184] memorable night when the adventure was proposed, he had been too drunk to accept its terms or to enter the lists for it himself.
 
"Nay then!" he said lustily, "we'll all call on the turtle doves at St. Denis to-night, and whilst my lord of Stowmaries pays up like a man for all that he gains by Michael's roguery, Sir John Ayloffe and I will entertain the bride by hoodwinking her still further into the belief that she is of a truth Countess of Stowmaries forever and ever Amen, as the Archbishop told her this day."
 
"I should be glad to get to St. Denis to-night," rejoined Stowmaries. "I owe Michael seventy thousand pounds, which according to promise I should pay him to-day. The draft for it on Master Vivish the goldsmith is in my pocket now. The sooner I am rid of it the more pleased will I be."
 
"Then will I at once and see about a coach," said Sir John. "We can make a start at about six o'clock, one hour after the dove hath flown out of the paternal cote."
 
"Nay, old Daniel Pye will see about the coach," rejoined Stowmaries. "He hath met a crony who speaks English and knows his way about Paris better than we do. He'll get us what we want."
 
"Daniel Pye!" exclaimed Sir John in astonishment. "What doth my kinswoman's faithful henchman in this depraved city?"
 
"Mistress Julia Peyton desired him to do certain commissions for her here in Paris. When she heard that I was making the journey she requested that I should allow her servant to travel in the company of my men, since he was unversed in foreign ways, and knew nothing of the French language."
 
Sir John made no further comment, but he wondered[185] vaguely in his mind as to why the fair Julia had sent old Pye over to Paris. The question of commissions was of course nonsense. Daniel could no more choose a length of silk or even of grogram, than he could trim a lace coif or fashion a pinner.
 
"Mayhap my fair coz is jealous," was Sir John's mental comment and the conclusion to which he arrived with that convenient cynicism of his, with which he usually disposed of any problem wherein feminine motives or feminine actions played an important part. "She hath mayhap deputed that old sinner, Daniel Pye, to watch over young Stowmaries and to make report in case the wiles of this wicked city make my lord forget his allegiance to herself."
 
Thus content with his own explanation of the circumstance, Sir John dismissed the old serving-man from his mind, but not without deciding to question Pye closely as soon............