CHAPTER XXII
BREAKING THE NEWS
Sir Marmaduke talked openly of this plan of going to Canterbury withEditha de Chavasse, mentioning the following Friday as the most likelydate for his voyage.
Full of joy she brought the welcome news to her lover that same evening;nor had she cause to regret then her ready acquiescence to his wishes.He was full of tenderness then, of gentle discretion in his caresses,showing the utmost respect to his future princess. He talked less of hispassion and more of his plans, in which now she would have her fullshare. He confided some of his schemes to her: they were somewhat vagueand not easy to understand, but the manner in which he put them beforeher, made them seem wonderfully noble and selfless.
In a measure this evening--so calm and peaceful in contrast to theturbulence of the other night--marked one of the great crises in thehistory of her love. Even when she heard that Fate itself was conspiringto help on the clandestine marriage by causing Sir Marmaduke andMistress de Chavasse to absent themselves at a most opportune moment,she had resolved to break the news to her lover of her own immensewealth.
Of this he was still in total ignorance. One or two innocent remarkswhich he had let fall at different times convinced her of that. Nor wasthis ignorance of his to be wondered at: he saw no one in or about thevillage except the old Quakeress and Adam Lambert with whom he lodged.The woman was deaf and uncommunicative, whilst there seemed to be somesort of tacit enmity against the foreigner, latent in the mind of theblacksmith. It was, therefore, quite natural that he should suppose herno whit less poor than Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse or the otherneighboring Kentish squires whose impecuniousness was too blatant a factto be unknown even to a stranger in the land.
Sue, therefore, was eagerly looking forward to the happy moment when shewould explain to her prince that her share in the wonderful enterprisewhich he always vaguely spoke of as his "great work" would not merely beone of impassiveness. Where he could give the benefit of hispersonality, his eloquence, his knowledge of men and things, she couldadd the weight of her wealth.
Of course she was very, very young, but already from him she hadrealized that it is impossible even to regenerate mankind and give itpolitical and religious freedom without the help of money.
Prince Amede d'Orleans himself was passing rich: the fact that he choseto hide in a lonely English village and to live as a poor man wouldlive, was only a part of his schemes. For the moment, too, owing to thatever-present vengefulness of the King of France, his estates andrevenues were under sequestration. All this Sue understood full well,and it added quite considerably to her joy to think that soon she couldrelieve the patriot and hero from penury, and that the news that shecould do so would be a glad surprise for him.
Nor must Lady Sue Aldmarshe on this account be condemned for an ignorantor a vain fool. Though she was close on twenty-one years of age, she hadhad absolutely no experience of the world or of mankind: all she knew ofeither had been conceived in the imaginings of her own romantic brain.
Her entire childhood, her youth and maidenhood had gone by in silent andfanciful dreamings, whilst one of the greatest conflicts the world hadever known was raging between men of the same kith and the same blood.The education of women--even of those of rank and wealth--was avowedlyupon a very simple plan. Most of the noble ladies of that time knew nothow to spell--most of them were content to let the world go by them,without giving it thought or care, others had accomplished prodigies ofvalor, of heroism, aye! and of determination to help their brothers,husbands, fathers during the worst periods of the civil war.
But Sue had been too young when these same prodigies were beingaccomplished, and her father died before she had reached the age whenshe could take an active part in the great questions of the day. Amother she had never known, she had no brothers and sisters. A brieftime under the care of an old aunt and a duenna in a remote Surreyvillage, and her stay at Pegwell Court under Sir Marmaduke'sguardianship, was all that she had ever seen of life.
Prince Amede d'Orleans was the embodiment of all her dreams--or nearlyso! The real hero of her dreams had been handsomer, and also more gentleand more trusting, but on the whole, he had not been one whit moreromantic in his personality and his doings.
The manner in which he received the news that unbeknown to him, he hadbeen wooing one of the richest brides in the land, was characteristic ofhim. He seemed boundlessly disappointed.
It was a beautiful clear night and she could see his face quitedistinctly, and could note how its former happy expression was marredsuddenly by a look of sorrow. He owned to being disappointed. He hadloved the idea, so he explained, of taking her to him, just as she was,beautiful beyond compare, but penniless--having only her exquisite selfto give.
Oh! the joy after that of coaxing him back to smiles! the pride ofproving herself his Egeria for the nonce, teaching him how to look uponwealth merely as a means for attaining his great ends, for continuinghis great work.
It had been perhaps the happiest evening in her short life of love.
For that day at Dover now only seemed a dream. The hurried tramp to themain road in a torrent of pouring rain: the long drive in the stuffychaise, the arrival just in time for the brief--very brief--ceremony inthe dark church, with the clergyman in a plain black gown mutteringunintelligible words, and the local verger and the church cleaner actingas the witnesses to her marriage.
Her marriage!
How differently had she conceived that great, that wonderful day, theturning point of a maiden's life. Music, flowers, beautiful gowns andsweet scents filling the air! the sunlight peeping gold, red, purple orblue through the glass windows of some exquisite cathedral! Thebridegroom arrayed in white, full of joy and pride, she the bride with aveil of filmy lace falling over her face to hide the happy blushes!
It was a beautiful dream, and the reality was so very, very different.
A dark little country church, with the plaster peeling off the walls!the drone of a bewhiskered, bald-headed parson being the sole musicwhich greeted her ears. The rain beating against the brokenwindow-panes, through which icy cold draughts of damp air reached hershoulders and caused her to shiver beneath her kerchief. She wore herpretty dove-colored gown, but it was not new nor had she a veil over herface, only a straw hat such as countrywomen wore, for though she was anheiress and passing rich, her guardian did but ill provide her withsmart clothing.
And the bridegroom?
He had been waiting for her inside the church, and seemed impatientwhen she arrived. No one had helped her to alight from the ricketychaise, and she had to run in the pouring rain, through the miserableand deserted churchyard.
His face seemed to scowl as she finally stood up beside him, in front ofthat black-gowned man, who was to tie between them the sacred andirrevocable knot of matrimony. His hand had perceptibly trembled when heslipped the ring on her finger, whilst she felt that her own wasirresponsive and icy cold.
She tried to speak the fateful "I will!" buoyantly and firmly, butsomehow--owing to the cold, mayhap--the two little words almost dieddown in her throat.
Aye! it had all been very gloomy, and inexpressibly sad. Theceremony--the dear, sweet, sacred ceremony which was to give her whollyto him, him unreservedly to her--was mumbled and hurried through in lessthan ten minutes.
Her bridegroom said not a word. Together they went into the tiny vestryand she was told to sign her name in a big book, which the bald-headedparson held open before her.
The prince also signed his name, and then kissed her on the forehead.
The clergyman also shook hands and it was all over.
She understood that she had been married by a special license, and thatshe was now legally and irretrievably the wife of Amede Henri, Princed'Orleans, de Bourgogne and several other places and dependenciesabroad.
She also understood from what the bald-headed clergyman had spoken whenhe stood before them in the church and read the marriage service thatshe as the wife owed obedience to her husband i
n all things, for she hadsolemnly sworn so to do. She herself, body and soul and mind, her goodsand chattels, her wealth and all belongings were from henceforth theproperty of her husband.
Yes, she had sworn to all that, willingly, and there was no going backon that, now or ever!
But, oh! how she wished it had been different!
Afterwards, when in the privacy of her own little room at Acol Court,she thought over the whole of that long and dismal day, she oft foundherself wondering what it was through it all that had seemed soterrifying to her, so strange, so unreal.
Something had struck her as weird: something which she could not thendefine; but she was quite sure that it was not merely the unusualchilliness of that rainy summer's day, which had caused her to trembleso, when--in the vestry--her husband had taken her hand and kissed her.
She had then looked into his face, which--though the vestry was but illlighted by a tiny very dusty window--she had never seen quite so clearlybefore, and then it was that that amazing sense of something awful andunreal had descended upon her like a clammy shroud.
He had very swiftly averted his own gaze from her, but she had seensomething in his face which she did not understand, over which she hadpondered ever since without coming to any solution of this terribleriddle.
She had pondered over it during that interminable journey back fromDover to Acol. Her husband had not even suggested accompanying her onher homeward way, nor did she ask him to do so. She did not even thinkit strange that he gave her no explanation of the reason why he shouldnot return to his lodgings at Acol. She felt like a somnambulist, andwondered how soon she would wake and find herself in her small anduncomfortable bed at the Court.
The next day that feeling of unreality was still there; that sensationof mystery, of something supernatural which persistently haunted her.
One thing was quite sure; that all joy had gone out of her life. It waspossible that love was still there--she did not know--she was too youngto understand the complex sensations which suddenly had made a woman ofher ... but it was a joyless love now: and all that she knew of acertainty about her own feelings at the present was that she hoped shewould never have to gaze into her lover's face again ... and ... Heavenhelp her! ... that he might never touch her again with his lips.
Obedient to his behests--hurriedly spoken as she stepped into the chaiseat Dover after the marriage ceremony--she had wandered out everyevening beyond the ha-ha into the park, on the chance of meeting him.
The evenings now were soft and balmy after the rain: the air carried apungent smell of dahlias and of oak-leaved geraniums to her nostrils,which helped her to throw off that miserable feeling of mental lassitudewhich had weighed her down ever since that fateful day at Dover. Shewalked slowly along, treading the young tendrils of the moss, watchingwith wistful eyes the fleecy clouds, as they appeared through thebranches of the elms, scurrying swiftly out towards the sea ... outtowards freedom.
But evening after evening passed away, and she saw no sign of him. Shefelt the futility, the humiliating uselessness of these nightlyperegrinations in search of a man who seemed to have a hundred moredesirable occupations than that of meeting his wife. But she had not thepower to drift out towards freedom now. She obeyed mechanically becauseshe must. She had sworn to obey and he had bidden her come and wait forhim.
August yielded to September, the oak-leaved geraniums withered whilstfrom tangled bosquets the melancholy eyes of the Michaelmas daisiespeeped out questioningly upon the coming autumn.
Then one evening his voice suddenly sounded close to her ear, causingher to utter a quickly-smothered cry. It had been the one dull daythroughout this past glorious month, the night was dark and a warmdrizzle had soaked through to her shoulders and wetted the bottom of herkirtle so that it hung heavy and dank round her ankles. He had come toher as usual from out the gloom, just as she was about to cross thelittle bridge which spanned the sunk fence.
She realized then, with one of those sudden quivers of hersensibilities, to which, alas! she had become so accustomed of late,that he had always met her thus in the gloom--always chosen nights whenshe could scarce see him distinctly, and this recollection still furtherenhanced that eerie feeling of terror which had assailed her since thatfateful moment in the vestry.
But she tried to be natural and even gay with him, though at the firstwords of tender reproach with which she gently chided him for hisprolonged absence, he broke into one of those passionate accesses offury which had always frightened her, but now left her strangely coldand unresponsive.
Was the subtle change in him as well as in her? She could not say.Certain it is that, though his hands had sought hers in the darkness,and pressed them vehemently, when first they met he had not attempted tokiss her.
For this she was immeasurably grateful.
He was obviously constrained, and so was she, and when she opposed acold silence to his outburst of passion, he immediately, and seeminglywithout any effort, changed his tone and talked more reasonably, evenglibly of his work, which he said was awaiting him now in France.
Everything was ready there, he explained, for the great politicalpropaganda which he had planned and which could be commencedimmediately.
All that was needed now was the money. In what manner it would be neededand for what definite purpose he did not condescend to explain, nor didshe care to ask. But she told him that she would be sole mistress of herfortune on the 2d of November, the date of her twenty-first birthday.
After that he spoke no more of money, but promised to meet her atregular intervals during the six weeks which would intervene until thegreat day when she would be free to proclaim her marriage and placeherself unreservedly in the hands of her husband.
The Nest of the Sparrowhawk: A Romance of the XVIIth Century Page 22