The Noble Rogue. Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
Earl of Stowmaries and one of the richest peers in the kingdom—that's it—is it not?"
"Briefly, that is it, Mistress. They demand that their daughter be instated in her position and the full dignities and rights to which her marriage entitle her."
"Failing which?" she asked curtly.
"Oh! scandal! disgrace! they will apply to the Holy Father—the orders would then come direct from Rome—I could not disobey under pain of excommunication—"
"Such tyranny!"
"The Kestyons have been Catholics for five hundred years," said the young man simply, whilst a touch of dignity—the first since he began to relate his miserable tale—now crept into his attitude. "We do not call the dictates of the Holy Father in question, nor do we name them tyranny. They are irrevocable in matters such as these—"
"Surely—a sum of money—" she hazarded.
"The Legros have more of that commodity than I have. But it is not a question of money. Believe me, fair Mistress," he said in tones which once more revealed the sorrow of his heart, "I have thought on the matter in all its bearings—I have even broached the subject to the Duke of York," he added after an imperceptible moment of hesitation.
"Ah? and what said His Highness?" asked Mistress Julia with that quick inward catching of her breath which the mentioning of exalted personages was ever wont to call forth in her.
"Oh! His Highness only spoke of the sanctity of the marriage tie—"
"'Twas not likely he would talk otherwise. 'Tis said that his bigotry grows daily upon him—and that he only awaits a favourable moment to embrace openly the Catholic Faith—"
"His Majesty was of the same opinion, too."
"Ah? You spoke to His Majesty?"
"Was it not my duty?"
"Mayhap—mayhap—and what did His Majesty say?"
"Oh! he was pleased to take the matter more lightly—but then there is the Queen Mother—and—"
"Who else? I pray you, who else?" said Mistress Julia now with renewed acerbity. "His Majesty, His Royal Highness, the Queen—half London, to boot—to know of my discomfiture and shame—"
Her voice again broke in a sob, she buried her face in her hands, and tears which mayhap had more affinity to anger than to sorrow escaped freely from between her fingers. In a moment the young man was at her feet. Gone was his apathy, his sullenness now. He was on one knee and his two arms encircled the quivering shoulders of the fair, enraged one.
"Mistress, Mistress," he entreated, whilst his eager lips sought the close proximity of her shell-like ear; "Julia, my beloved, in the name of the Holy Virgin, I pray you dry your tears. You break my heart, fair one. You—O God!" he added vehemently, "am I not the most miserable of men? What sin have I committed that such a wretched fate should overwhelm me? I love you and I have made you cry—"
"Nay, my lord," whispered Julia through her tears, "an you loved me—"
She paused with well-calculated artfulness, whilst he murmured with pathetic and tender reproach:
"An I loved you! Is not my heart bound to your dainty feet? my soul fettered by the glance of your eyes? Do you think, Mistress, that I can ever bear to contemplate the future now, when for days, nay! weeks and months, ever since I first beheld your exquisite loveliness, I have ever pictured myself only as your slave, ever thought of you only as my wife? That old castle over in Hertfordshire, once so inimical to me, I have learnt to love it of late because I thought you would be its mistress; I treasured every tree because your eyes would behold their beauty; I guarded with jealous care every footpath in the park because I hoped that some day soon your fairy feet would wander there."
Mistress Julia seemed inclined to weep yet more copiously. No doubt the ardently-whispered words of my lord Stowmaries caused her to realise more vividly all that she had hoped for, all that was lost to her now.
Oh! was it not maddening? Had ever woman been called upon to endure quite so bitter a disappointment?
"It's the shame of it all, my lord," she said brokenly, "and—" she whispered with tenderness, "I too had thought of a future beside a man whom I had learned to—to love. I suffer as you do, my lord—and—besides that, the awful shame. Your favours to me, my lord, have caused much bitter gall in the hearts of the envious—my humiliation will enable them to exult—to jeer at my discomfiture—to throw scandalous aspersions at my conduct—I shall of a truth be disgraced, sneered at—ruined—"
"Let any one dare—" muttered the young man fiercely.
"Nay! how will you stop them? 'Tis the women who will dare the most. Oh! if you loved me, my lord, as you say you do, if your protestations are not mere empty words, you would not allow this unmerited disgrace to fall upon me thus."
Who shall say what tortuous thoughts rose in Mistress Peyton's mind at this moment? Is there aught in the world quite so cruel as a woman baffled? Think on it, how she had been fooled. The very intensity of the young man's passion, which had been revealed to her in its fulness now that he knew that an insuperable barrier stood between him and the fulfilment of his desires, showed her but too plainly how near she had been to her goal.
At times—ere this—she had dreaded and doubted. The brilliancy of his position, his wealth and high dignity had caused her sometimes a pang of fear lest he did not think her sufficiently his equal to raise her to his own high rank. At such moments she had redoubled her efforts, had schemed and had striven, despite the fact that her efforts in that direction had—as she well knew—not escaped the prying eyes of the malevolent. What cared she then for their sneers so long as she succeeded?
And now with success fully in sight, she had failed—hopelessly, ridiculously—ignominiously failed.
Oh! how she hated that unknown woman, that low-born bourgeoise, who had robbed her of her prize! She hated the woman, she hated the family, the Parisian tailor and his scheming wife. God help her, she even hated the unfortunate young deceiver who was clinging passionately to her knees.
She pushed him roughly aside, springing to her feet, unable to sit still, and began pacing up and down the small room, the tiny dainty cage wherein she had hoped to complete the work of ensnaring the golden bird.
"Julia!"
He too jumped to his feet. Once more he tried to embrace the quivering shoulders, to imprison the nervous, restless fingers, to capture the trembling lips. But she would no longer yield. Of what use were yielding now?
"Nay! nay! I pray you, leave me," she said petulantly. "Of what purpose are your protestations, my lord—they are but a further outrage. Indeed, I pray you, go."
Once more she turned to the bell-pull, and took the heavy silken cord in her hand, the outward sign of his dismissal. Some chivalrous instinct in him made him loth to force his company on her any longer. But his glowering eyes, fierce and sullen, sought to read her face.
"When may I come back?" he asked.
"Never," she replied.
But we may be allowed to suppose that something in her accent, in her attitude of hesitancy, gave the lie to the cruel word, for he rejoined immediately:
"To-morrow?"
"Never," she repeated.
"To-morrow?" he insisted.
"What were the use?"
"I vow," he said with grim earnestness, "that if you dismiss me now, without the hope of seeing you again, I'll straight to the river, and seek oblivion in death."
"'Twere the act of a coward!" she retorted.
"Mayhap. But Fate has dealt overharshly with me. I cannot face life if you turn in bitterness from me. Heaven only knows how I can face it at all without you—but your forgiveness may help me to live; it