In the early part of the afternoon he persuaded Rose Marie to lie awhile on her bed and rest. "Milor"—for so he still persisted in calling Rupert Kestyon in his mind—would be here at six o'clock; his coach would then be ready for the journey to Dover. It was now little more than three.
Rose Marie obeyed willingly. She was very tired and she longed to be all alone. Papa declared his intention of going out for a walk and of returning within an hour.
A great longing had seized him to see Michael once again. The worthy man cursed himself for his folly and for his weakness but he felt that he could not go away from England without grasping once more that slender, kindly hand, which he once used to look on as that of a dearly-loved son.
Papa Legros did not see the reason why—now that all difficulties had been duly planed—he and Michael should not remain friends. He had more than a vague suspicion, too, that "milor's" repentant attitude was due to Michael's persuasion.
Asking his way from the passers-by as he went, he soon found himself once again before the house in Soho. But his disappointment was bitter when he heard that my lord was from home, and no one knew when he would return.
Sadder of heart then, Master Legros retraced his steps towards the Bell Inn. On the way he had wiped many a tear which had fallen down his cheeks, blaming himself severely the while for this display of weakness. But—strange though it may seem—this failure in seeing Michael and in hearing his cheery voice speak the "God-speed" had weighed the good tailor's spirits down with an oppressive weight which seemed almost like a foreboding.
In the yard of the inn, Master Legros encountered quite a crowd of gaffers. Some great excitement seemed to be in the air; they talked volubly to one another, with that stolid absence of gesture, that burying of hands in breeches pockets which always makes an Englishman's excitement seem so unconvincing to the foreign observer. In the centre of the yard, a heavy coach—a note of bright canary yellow in the midst of all the sober greys and drabs around—stood ready, with ostlers at the leaders' heads, the horses champing their bits and impatiently pawing the cobblestones. The driver, with thick coat unbuttoned displaying an expanse of grey woolen shirt, was quenching his thirst inside the vehicle; obviously it was not his intention to join actively in the babel of voices which went on all round him, although the coach itself and the horses seemed special objects of curiosity, since a crowd of gaffers surrounded it as closely as the impatient horses themselves would allow.
Master Legros made his way through the crowd, trying to catch a chance phrase or so, which might give him the keynote to all this unwonted bustle. The words "Papist" and "arrest," which he understood, caught his ear repeatedly, also the name "Stowmaries," invariably accompanied with a loud imprecation.
Feeling naturally diffident through his want of knowledge of the language, he was somewhat timorous of asking questions, but hurried up to his room, having bidden the barman downstairs take a bottle of wine and two glasses up to his room.
He found Rose Marie sitting quietly in the armchair, pensive but otherwise serene. To the father's anxious eyes it seemed as if she had been crying, but she returned his kiss of greeting with clinging fondness, and assured him that she felt quite rested and ready for the journey.