Legros' upraised hand fell nerveless by his side. He threw the stick away from him. He, poor soul, had never learned to control emotion, he had gone through no hard school wherein tears are jeered at, and sorrows unshared. He had never learned to be ashamed either of joy or of grief, and now, face to face with this man who had so deeply wronged him, and whom, despite his wrath, he was powerless to strike, he sank into a chair, and buried his face in his hands whilst a pitiful moan escaped his lips.
"The child—the poor child—how shall I ever tell her? The shame of it all—the cruelty—the shame—how shall I tell her?"
And Time's callous hand marked these minutes of terrible soul-agony, just as awhile ago it had marked the fleeting moments of celestial joy. Michael was silent, the while he wondered almost senselessly—stupidly—if Hell could hold more awful agony than he was enduring now.
Yet through it all his turbulent soul rebelled at the situation, the sentimental parleyings, the pitiful grief of the father and the enforced humility of his own attitude. He knew that he had lost his Rose Marie, that the parents would never give her to him now; the solid and indestructible wall of bourgeois integrity stood between him and those mad, glad dreams of triumph and of happiness.
It was characteristic of the man that he never for a moment attempted to guess or to find out the channel through which his own misery had come to him. He certainly never suspected his cousin of treachery. Fate had dealt the blow cruelly and remorselessly and sent him back to a worse hell than he had ever known; a hell which Satan reserves for those he hates the most—the way to it leads past the entrance to heaven.
"Good M. Legros," said Michael at last, striving to curb his impatience and to speak with gentleness, "will you try and listen to me? Nay, you need not fear, 'tis not my purpose to plead justification, nor yet leniency—I wish that you could bring yourself to believe that though I wooed and won your daughter by what you think is naught but an abominable trick, I had one great thought above all others and that was that I would make her happy. This I do swear by the living God, and by what I hold dearer still, by the love which I bear to Rose Marie. And as there is a heaven above me, I would have made her happy, for I had gained her heart, and anon when the bonds of mine own boundless love had rivetted her still more closely to me, I should have taught her to forgive my venial sin of having entered heaven by a tortuous way. The name which I bear is mine own, the title which I have assumed is mine by right, I would have conquered it for myself and for her. You say that it is not to be—yet I swear to you that she will not be happy if you take her from me. This I know; if I did not I would go to her myself and tell her that I have lied to her. If despite what you know you will still confide her to me, you will never regret it to your dying day, for apart from the life of love and happiness which will be hers, I will lavish upon her all the treasures of satisfied ambition, far surpassing anything which you—her father—have ever wished for her."
M. Legros despite his grief which had completely overmastered him for awhile, raised his head in absolute astonishment. Surely these English were the most astounding people in all the world! Here was this man who of a truth had committed the most flagrant, most impudent act of trickery, that had ever been perpetrated within memory of living man—he had done this thing and been ignominiously found out. By all the laws of decent and seemly behaviour he should now be standing humble and ashamed before the man whom he had tried to injure. And yet what happened? Here he stood, in perfect calm and undisguised pride, not a muscle of his face twitched with emotion, and his neck was as stiff as if he were exulting in some noble deed.
Had these English no sense of what was fitting? had they no heart? no feelings? no blood within their veins? The man—so help us the living God!—was actually suggesting that his trickery be condoned, that an innocent child be entrusted to him, who stood convicted of falsehood and of treachery! Good M. Legros' Gallic blood boiled within him, overwhelming grief gave place to uncontrollable wrath. He rose to his feet, and pulled up his small stature to its uttermost height.
"You will make her happy!" he thundered, throwing an infinity of withering scorn into every word. "You—who like a prying jackal came to steal the fledgling from its nest? You who took money with one hand, the while you snatched a girl's honour with the other? With lying lips and soft, false words you stole our child's heart—even until father and mother were forgotten for the sake of the liar and the cheat who—"
Michael held up a quick warning hand, and instinctively the insults died on the other man's lips. Rose Marie—white as the clinging, crumpled gown which she had hastily refastened when anon she heard her father's voice raised in angered scorn—Rose Marie silent and still, and with great eyes fixed on Michael Kestyon, was standing in the doorway.