CHAPTER XXIII
THE ABSENT FRIEND
The prince kept his word, and she was fairly free to see him at least once a week, somewhere within the leafy thicknesses of the park or in the woods, usually at the hour when dusk finally yields to the overwhelming embrace of night.
Sir Marmaduke was away. In London or Canterbury, she could not say, but she had scarcely seen him since that terrible time, when he came back from town having left Richard Lambert languishing in disgrace and in prison.
Oh! how she missed the silent and thoughtful friend who in those days of pride and of joy had angered her so, because he seemed to stand for conscience and for prudence, when she only thought of happiness and of love.
There was an almost humiliating isolation about her now. Nobody seemed to care whither she went, nor when she came home. Mistress de Chavasse talked from time to time about Sue's infatuation for the mysterious foreign adventurer, but always as if this were a thing of the past, and from which Sue herself had long since recovered.
Thus there was no one to say her nay, when she went out into the garden after evening repast, and stayed there until the shades of night had long since wrapped the old trees in gloom.
And strangely enough this sense of freedom struck her with a chill sense of loneliness. She would have loved to suddenly catch sight of Lambert's watchful figure, and to hear his somewhat harsh voice, warning her against the foreigner.
This had been wont to irritate her twelve weeks ago. How mysteriously everything had altered round her!
And yearning for her friend, she wondered what had become of him. The last she had heard was toward the middle of October when Sir Marmaduke, home from one of his frequent journeyings, one day said that Lambert had been released after ten weeks spent in prison, but that he could not say whither he had gone since then.
All Sue's questionings anent the young man only brought forth violent vituperations from Sir Marmaduke, and cold words of condemnation from Mistress de Chavasse; therefore, she soon desisted, storing up in her heart pathetic memories of the one true friend she had in the world.
She saw without much excitement, and certainly without tremor, the rapid advance of that date early in November when she would perforce have to leave Acol Court in order to follow her husband whithersoever he chose to command her.
The last time that they had met there had been a good deal of talk between them, about her fortune and its future disposal. He declared himself ready to administer it all himself, as he professed a distrust of those who had watched over it so far—Master Skyffington, the lawyer, and Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse, both under the control of the Court of Chancery.
She explained to him that the bulk of her wealth consisted of obligations and shares in the Levant and Russian Companies, her mother having been the only daughter and heiress of Peter Ford the great Levantine and Oriental merchant; her marriage with the proud Earl of Dover having caused no small measure of comment in Court circles in those days.
There were also deeds of property owned in Holland, grants of monopolies for trading given by Ivan the Terrible to her grandfather, and receipts for moneys deposited in the great banks of Amsterdam and Vienna. Master Skyffington had charge of all those papers now: they represented nearly five hundred thousand pounds of money and she told her husband that they would all be placed in her own keeping, the day she was of age.
He appeared to lend an inattentive ear to all these explanations, which she gave in those timid tones, which had lately become habitual to her, but once—when she made a slip, and talked about a share which she possessed in the Russian Company being worth £50,000, he corrected her and said it was a good deal more, and gave her some explanations as to the real distribution of her capital, which astonished her by their lucidity and left her vaguely wondering how it happened that he knew. She had finally to promise to come to him at the cottage in Acol on the 2d of November—her twenty-first birthday—directly after her interview with the lawyer and with her guardian, and having obtained possession of all the share papers, the obligations, the grants of monopolies and the receipts from the Amsterdam and Vienna banks, to forthwith bring them over to the cottage and place them unreservedly in her husband's hands.
And she would in her simplicity and ignorance gladly have given every scrap of paper—now in Master Skyffington's charge—in exchange for a return of those happy illusions which had surrounded the early history of her love with a halo of romance. She would have given this mysterious prince, now her husband, all the money that he wanted for this wonderful "great work" of his, if he would but give her back some of that enthusiastic belief in him which had so mysteriously been killed within her, that fateful moment in the vestry at Dover.
CHAPTER XXIV
NOVEMBER THE 2D
A dreary day, with a leaden sky overhead and the monotonous patter of incessant rain against the window panes.
Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse had just come downstairs, and opening the door which lead from the hall to the small withdrawing-room on the right, he saw Mistress de Chavasse, half-sitting, half-crouching in one of the stiff-backed chairs, which she had drawn close to the fire.
There was a cheerful blaze on the hearth, and the room itself—being small—always looked cozier than any other at Acol Court.
Nevertheless, Editha's face was pallid and drawn, and she stared into the fire with eyes which seemed aglow with anxiety and even with fear. Her cloak was tied loosely about her shoulders, and at sight of Sir Marmaduke she started, then rising hurriedly, she put her hood over her head, and went towards the door.
"Ah! my dear Editha!" quoth her brother-in-law, lightly greeting her, "up betimes like the lark I see. . . . Are you going without?" he added as she made a rapid movement to brush past him and once more made for the door.
"Yes!" she replied dully, "I must fain move about . . . tire myself out if I can . . . I am consumed with anxiety."
"Indeed?" he retorted blandly, "why should you be anxious? Everything is going splendidly . . . and to-night at the latest a fortune of nigh on £500,000 will be placed in my hands by a fond and adoring woman."
He caught the glitter in her eyes, that suggestion of power and of unspoken threats which she had adopted since the episode in the Bath Street house. For an instant an ugly frown further disfigured his sour face: but this frown was only momentary, it soon gave way to a suave smile. He took her hand and lightly touched it with his lips.
"After which, my dear Editha," he said, "I shall be able to fulfill those obligations, which my heart originally dictated."
She seemed satisfied at this assurance, for she now spoke in less aggressive tones:
"Are you so sure of the girl, Marmaduke?" she asked.
"Absolutely," he replied, his thoughts reverting to a day spent at Dover nearly three months ago, when a knot was tied of which fair Editha was not aware, but which rendered Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse very sure of a fortune.
"Yet you have oft told me that Sue's love for her mysterious prince had vastly cooled of late!" urged Editha still anxiously.
"Why yes! forsooth!" he retorted grimly, "Sue's sentimental fancy for the romantic exile hath gone the way of all such unreasoning attachments; but she has ventured too far to draw back. . . . And she will not draw back," he concluded significantly.
"Have a care, Marmaduke! . . . the girl is more willful than ye wot of. . . . You may strain at a cord until it snap."
"Pshaw!" he said, with a shrug of his wide shoulders, "you are suffering from vapors, my dear Editha . . . or you would grant me more knowledge of how to conduct mine own affairs. . . . Do you remember, perchance, that the bulk of Sue's fortune will be handed over to her this day?"
"Aye! I remember!"
"Begad, then to-night I'll have that bulk out of her hands. You may take an oath on that!" he declared savagely.
"And afterwards?" she asked simply.
"Afterwards?"
"Yes . . . afterwards? . . . when Sue has discovered how she has been tricked? . . . Are you not afraid of what she might do? . . . Even though her money may pass into your hands . . . even though you may inveigle her into a clandestine marriage . . . she is still the daughter of the late Earl of Dover . . . she has landed estates, wealth, rich and powerful relations. . . . There must be an 'afterwards,' remember! . . ."
His ironical laugh grated on her nerves, as he replied lightly:
"Pshaw! my dear Editha! of a truth you are not your own calm self to-day, else you had understood that forsooth! in the love affairs of Prince Amédé d'Orléans and Lady Susannah Aldmarshe there must and can be no 'afterwards.'"
"I don't understand you."
"Yet, 'tis simple enough. Sue is my wife."
"Your wife! . . ." she exclaimed.
"Hush! An you want to scream, I pray you question me not, for what I say is bound to startle you. Sue is my wife. I married her, having obtained a special license to do so in the name of Prince Amédé Henri d'Orléans, and all the rest of the romantic paraphernalia. She is my wife, and therefore, her money and fortune are mine, every penny of it, without question or demur."
"She will appeal to the Court to have the marriage annulled . . . she'll rouse public indignation against you to such a pitch that you'll not be able to look one of your kith and kin in the face. . . . The whole shameful story of the mysterious French prince . . . your tricks to win the hand of your ward by lying, cheating and willful deceit will resound from one end of the country to the other. . . . What is the use of a mint of money if you have to herd with outcasts, and not an honest man will shake you by the hand?"
"None, my dear Editha, none," he replied quietly, "and 'tis of still less use for you to rack your nerves in order to place before me a gruesome picture of the miserable social pariah which I should become, if the story of my impersonation of a romantic exile for the purpose of capturing the hand of my ward came to the ears of those in authority."
"Whither it doubtless would come!" she affirmed hotly.
"Whither it doubtless would come," he assented, "and therefore, my dear Editha, once the money is safely in my hands I will leave her Royal Highness the Princesse d'Orléans in full possession, not only of her landed estates but of the freedom conferred on her by widowhood, for Prince Amédé, her husband, will vanish like the beautiful dream which he always was."
"But how? . . . how?" she reiterated, puzzled, anxious, scenting some nefarious scheme more unavowable even than the last.
"Ah! time will show! . . . But he will vanish, my dear Editha, take my word on it. Shall we say that he will fly up into the clouds and her Highness the Princess will know him no more?"
"Then why have married her?" she exclaimed: some womanly instinct within her crying out against this outrage. "'Twas cruel and unnecessary."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Cruel perhaps! . . . But surely no more than necessary. I doubt if she would have entrusted her fortune to anyone but her husband."
"Had she ceased to trust her romantic prince then?"
"Perhaps. At any rate, I chose to make sure of the prize. . . . I have worked hard to get it and would not fail for lack of a simple ceremony . . . moreover . . ."
"Moreover?"
"Moreover, my dear Editha, there is always the possibility . . . remote, no doubt . . . but nevertheless tangible . . . that at some time or other . . . soon or late—who knows?—the little deception practiced on Lady Sue may come to the light of day. . . . In that case, even if the marriage be annulled on the ground of fraud . . . which methinks is more than doubtful . . . no one could deny my right as the heiress's . . . hem . . . shall we say?—temporary husband—to dispose of her wealth as I thought fit. If I am to become a pariah and an outcast, as you so eloquently suggested just now . . . I much prefer being a rich one. . . . With half a million in the pocket of my doublet the whole world is open to me."
There was so much cool calculation, such callous contempt for the feelings and thoughts of the unfortunate girl whom he had so terribly wronged, in this exposé of the situation, that Mistress de Chavasse herself was conscious of a sense of repulsion from the man whom she had aided hitherto.
She believed that she held him sufficiently in her power, through her knowledge of his schemes and through the help which she was rendering him, to extract a promise from him that he would share his ill-gotten spoils in equal portions with her. At one time after the fracas in Bath Street, he had even given her a vague promise of marriage; therefore, he had kept secret from her the relation of that day spent at Dover. Now she felt that even if he were free, she would never consent to link her future irretrievably with his.
But her share of the money she meant to have. She was tired of poverty, tired of planning and scheming, of debt and humiliation. She was tired of her life of dependence at Acol Court, and felt a sufficiency of youth and buoyancy in herself yet, to enjoy a final decade of luxury and amusement in London.
Therefore, she closed her ears to every call of conscience, she shut her heart against the lonely young girl who so sadly needed the counsels and protection of a good woman, and she was quite ready to lend a helping hand to Sir Marmaduke, at least until a goodly share of Lady Sue's fortune was safely within her grasp.
One point occurred to her now, which caused her to ask anxiously:
"Have you not made your reckonings without Richard Lambert, Marmaduke? He is back in these parts, you know?"
"Ah!" he ejaculated, with a quick scowl of impatience. "He has returned?"
"Yes! Charity was my informant. He looks very ill, so the wench says: he has been down with fever, it appears, all the while that he was in prison, and was only discharged because they feared that he would die. He contrived to work or beg his way back here, and now he is staying in the village. . . . I thought you would have heard."
"No! I never speak to the old woman . . . and Adam Lambert avoids me as he would the plague. . . . I see as little of them as I can. . . . I had to be prudent these last, final days."
"Heaven grant he may do nothing fatal to-day!" she murmured.
"Nay! my dear Editha," he retorted with a harsh laugh, "'tis scarcely Heaven's business to look after our schemes. But Lambert can do us very little harm now! For his own sake, he will keep out of Sue's way."
"At what hour does Master Skyffington arrive?"
"In half an hour."
Then as he saw that she was putting into effect her former resolve of going out, despite the rain, and was once more readjusting her hood for that purpose, he opened the door for her, and whispered as he followed her out:
"An you will allow me, my dear Editha, I'll accompany you on your walk . . . we might push on down the Canterbury Road, and perchance meet Master Skyffington. . . . I understand that Sue has been asking for me, and I would prefer to meet her as seldom as possible just now. . . . This is my last day," he concluded with a laugh, "and I must be doubly careful."
CHAPTER XXV
AN INTERLUDE
Master Hymn-of-Praise Busy was vastly perturbed. Try how he might, he had been unable to make any discovery with regard to the mysterious events, which he felt sure were occurring all round him, a discovery which—had he but made it—would have enabled him to apply with more chance of success, for one of the posts in my Lord Protector's secret service, and moreover, would have covered his name with glory.
This last contingency was always uppermost in his mind. Not from any feeling of personal pride, for of a truth vanity is a mortal sin, but because Mistress Charity had of late cast uncommonly kind eyes on that cringing worm, Master Courage Toogood, and the latter, emboldened by the minx's favors, had been more than usually insolent to his betters.
To have the right to administer serious physical punishment to the youth, and moral reproof to the wench, was part of Master Busy's comprehensive scheme for his own advancement and the confusion of all the miscreants who dwelt in Acol Court. For this he had glued both eye and ear to draughty keyholes, had lain for hours under cover of prickly thistles in the sunk fence which surrounded the flower garden. For this he now emerged, on that morning of November 2, accompanied by a terrific clatter and a volley of soot from out the depth of the monumental chimney in the hall of Acol Court.
As soon as he had recovered sufficient breath, and shaken off some of the soot from his hair and face, he looked solemnly about him, and was confronted by two pairs of eyes round with astonishment and two mouths agape with surprise and with fear.
Mistress Charity and Master Courage Toogood—interrupted in the midst of their animated conversation—were now speechless with terror, at sight of this black apparition, which, literally, had descended on them from the skies.
"Lud love ye, Master Busy!" ejaculated Mistress Charity, who was the first to recognize in the sooty wraith the manly form of her betrothed, "where have ye come from, pray?"
"Have you been scouring the chimney, good master?" queried Master Courage, with some diffidence, for the saintly man looked somewhat out of humor.
"No!" replied Hymn-of-Praise solemnly, "I have not. But I tell ye both that my hour hath come. I knew that something was happening in this house, and I climbed up that chimney in order to find out what it was."
Pardonable curiosity caused Mistress Charity to venture a little nearer to the soot-covered figure of her adorer.
"And did you hear anything, Master Busy?" she asked eagerly. "I did see Sir Marmaduke and the mistress in close conversation here this morning."
"So they thought," said Master Hymn-of-Praise with weird significance.
"Well? . . . And what happened, good master?"
"Thou beest in too mighty an hurry, mistress," he retorted with quiet dignity. "I am under no obligation to report matters to thee."
"Oh! but Master Busy," she rejoined coyly, "methought I was to be your . . . hem . . . thy partner in life . . . and so . . ."
"My partner? My partner, didst thou say, sweet Charity? . . . Nay, then, an thou'lt permit me to salute thee with a kiss, I'll tell thee all I know."
And in asking for that chaste salute we may assume that Master Hymn-of-Praise was actuated with at least an equal desire to please Mistress Charity, to gratify his own wishes, and to effectually annoy Master Courage.
But Mistress Charity was actuated by curiosity alone, and without thought of her betrothed's grimy appearance, she presented her cheek to him for the kiss.
The result caused Master Courage an uncontrollable fit of hilarity.
"Oh, mistress," he said, pointing to the black imprint left on her face by her lover's kiss, "you should gaze into a mirror now."
But already Mistress Charity had guessed what had occurred, her good humor vanished, and she began scouring her cheek with her pinner.
"I'll never forgive you, master," she said crossly. "You had no right to . . . hem . . . with your face in that condition. . . . And you have not yet told us what happened."
"What happened?"
"Aye! you promised to tell me if I allowed you to kiss me. 'Tis done. . . ."
"I well nigh broke my back," said Master Busy sententiously. "I hurt my knee . . . that is what happened. . . . I am well-nigh choked with soot. . . . Ugh! . . . that is what happened."
"Lud love you, Master Busy," she retorted with a saucy toss of her head, "I trust your life's partner will not need to hide herself in chimneys."
"Listen, wench, and I'll tell thee. No kind of servant of my Lord Protector's should ever be called upon to hide in chimneys. They are not comfortable and they are not clean."
"Bless the man!" she cried angrily, "are you ever going to tell us what did happen whilst you were there?"
"I was about to come to that point," he said imperturbably, "hadst thou not interrupted me. What with holding on so as not to fall, and the soot falling in my ears. . . ."
"Aye! aye! . . ."
"I heard nothing," he concluded solemnly. "Master Courage," he added with becoming severity, seeing that the youth was on the verge of making a ribald remark, which of necessity had to be checked betimes, "come into my room with me and help me to clean the traces of my difficult task from off my person. Come!"
And with ominous significance, he approached the young scoffer, his hand on an exact level with the latter's ear, his right foot raised to indicate a possible means of enforcing obedience to his commands.
On the whole, Master Courage thought it wise to repress both his hilarity and his pertinent remarks, and to follow the pompous, if begrimed, butler to the latter's room upstairs.