CHAPTER XXVI
THE OUTCAST
It took Mistress Charity some little time to recover her breath.
She had thrown herself into a chair, with her pinner over her face, inan uncontrollable fit of laughter.
When this outburst of hilarity had subsided, she sat up, and lookedround her with eyes still streaming with merry tears.
But the laughter suddenly died on her lips and the merriment out of hereyes. A dull, tired voice had just said feebly:
"Is Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse within?"
Charity jumped up from the chair and stared stupidly at the speaker.
"The Lord love you, Master Richard Lambert," she murmured. "I thoughtyou were your ghost!"
"Forgive me, mistress, if I have frightened you," he said. "It is mineown self, I give you assurance of that, and I, fain would have speechwith Sir Marmaduke."
Mistress Charity was visibly embarrassed. She began mechanically to rubthe black stain on her cheek.
"Sir Marmaduke is without just at present, Master Lambert," shestammered shyly, "... and ..."
"Yes? ... and? ..." he asked, "what is it, wench? ... speak out? ..."
"Sir Marmaduke gave orders, Master Lambert," she began with obviousreluctance, "that ..."
She paused, and he concluded the sentence for her:
"That I was not to be allowed inside his house.... Was that it?"
"Alas! yes, good master."
"Never mind, girl," he rejoined as he deliberately crossed the hall andsat down in the chair which she had just vacated. "You have done yourduty: but you could not help admitting me, could you? since I walked inof mine own accord ... and now that I am here I will remain until I haveseen Sir Marmaduke...."
"Well! of a truth, good master," she said with a smile, for 'twas butnatural that her feminine sympathies should be on the side of a youngand good-looking man, somewhat in her own sphere of life, as against theill-humored, parsimonious master whom she served, "an you sit there sodeterminedly, I cannot prevent you, can I? ..."
Then as she perceived the look of misery on the young man's face, hispale cheeks, his otherwise vigorous frame obviously attenuated by fear,the motherly instinct present in every good woman's heart caused her togo up to him and to address him timidly, offering such humble solace asher simple heart could dictate:
"Lud preserve you, good master, I pray you do not take on so.... Youknow Master Courage and I, now, never believed all those stories aboutye. Of a truth Master Busy, he had his own views, but then ... you see,good master, he and I do not always agree, even though I own that he isvastly clever with his discoveries and his clews; but Master Courage now... Master Courage is a wonderful lad ... and he thinks that you are apersecuted hero! ... and I am bound to say that I, too, hold thatview...."
"Thank you! ... thank you, kind mistress," said Lambert, smiling despitehis dejection, at the girl's impulsive efforts at consolation.
His head had sunk down on his breast, and he sat there in thehigh-backed chair, one hand resting on each leather-covered arm, hispale face showing almost ghostlike against the dark background, and withthe faint November light illumining the dark-circled eyes, the bloodlesslips, and deeply frowning brow.
Mistress Charity gazed down on him with mute and kindly compassion.
Then suddenly a slight rustling noise as of a kirtle sweeping thepolished oak of the stairs caused the girl to look up, then to pause abrief while, as if what she had now seen had brought forth a new trainof thought; finally, she tiptoed silently out through the door of thedining-hall.
"Charity! Mistress Charity, I want you! ..." called Lady Sue fromabove.
We must presume, however, that the wench had closed the heavy doorbehind her, for certainly she did not come in answer to the call. On theother hand, Richard Lambert had heard it; he sprang to his feet and sawSue descending the stairs.
She saw him, too, and it seemed as if at sight of him she had turned andmeant to fly. But a word from him detained her.
"Sue!"
Only once had he thus called her by her name before, that long ago nightin the woods, but now the cry came from out his heart, brought forth byhis misery and his sorrow, his sense of terrible injustice and of anirretrievable wrong.
It never occurred to her to resent the familiarity. At sound of her namethus spoken by him she had looked down from the stairs and seen hispallid face turned up to her in such heartrending appeal for sympathy,that all her womanly instincts of tenderness and pity were aroused, allher old feeling of trustful friendship for him.
She, too, felt much of that loneliness which his yearning eyes expressedso pathetically; she, too, was conscious of grave injustice and of anirretrievable wrong, and her heart went out to him immediately inkindness and in love.
"Don't go, for pity's sake," he added entreatingly, for he thought thatshe meant to turn away from him; "surely you will not begrudge me a fewwords of kindness. I have gone through a great deal since I sawyou...."
She descended a few steps, her delicate hand still resting on thebanisters, her silken kirtle making a soft swishing noise against thepolished oak of the stairs. It was a solace to him, even to watch hernow. The sight of his adored mistress was balm to his aching eyes. Yethe was quick to note--with that sharp intuition peculiar to Love--thather dear face had lost much of its brightness, of its youth, of its joyof living. She was as exquisite to look on as ever, but she seemedolder, more gentle, and, alas! a trifle sad.
"I heard you had been ill," she said softly, "I was very sorry, believeme, but ... Oh! do you not think," she added with sudden inexplicablepathos, whilst she felt hot tears rising to her eyes and causing hervoice to quiver, "do you not think that an interview between us now canonly be painful to us both?"
He mistook the intention of her words, as was only natural, and whilstshe mistrusted her own feelings for him, fearing to betray that yearningfor his friendship and his consolation, which had so suddenlyoverwhelmed her at sight of him, he thought that she feared theinterview because of her condemnation of him.
"Then you believed me guilty?" he said sadly. "They told you thishideous tale of me, and you believed them, without giving the absentone, who alas! could not speak in his own defense, the benefit of thedoubt."
For one of those subtle reasons of which women alone possess the secret,and which will forever remain inexplicable to the more logical sex, shesteeled her heart against him, even when her entire sensibilities wentout to him in passionate sympathy.
"I could not help but believe, good master," she said a little coldly."Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse, who, with all his faults of temper, is a manof honor, confirmed that horrible story which appeared in the newspaperand of which everyone in Thanet hath been talking these weeks past."
"And am _I_ not a man of honor?" he retorted hotly. "Because I am poorand must work in order to live, am _I_ to be condemned unheard? Is awhole life's record of self-education and honest labor to be thusobliterated by the word of my most bitter enemy?"
"Your bitter enemy? ..." she asked. "Sir Marmaduke? ..."
"Aye! Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse. It seems passing strange, does it not?"he rejoined bitterly. "Yet somehow in my heart, I feel that SirMarmaduke hates me, with a violent and passionate hatred. Nay! I knowit, though I can explain neither its cause nor its ultimate aim...."
He drew nearer to the stairs whereon she still stood, her gracefulfigure slightly leaning towards him; he now stood close to her, his headjust below the level of her own; his hand had he dared to raise it,could have rested on hers.
"Sue! my beautiful and worshiped lady," he cried impassionedly, "Ientreat you to look into my eyes! ... Can you see in them the reflex ofthose shameful deeds which have been imputed to me? Do I look like aliar and a cheat? In the name of pity and of justice, for the sweet sakeof our first days of friendship, I beg of you not to condemn meunheard."
He lowered his head, and rested his aching brow against her cool, whitehand. She did not withdraw it, for a great joy had sud
denly filled herheart, mingling with its sadness, a sense of security and of bitter, yetreal, happiness pervaded her whole being: a happiness which she couldnot--wished not--to explain, but which prompted her to stoop yet furthertowards him, and to touch his hair with her lips.
Hot tears which he tried vainly to repress fell upon her fingers. He hadfelt the kiss descending on him almost like a benediction. The exquisitefragrance of her person filled his soul with a great delight which wasalmost pain. Never had he loved her so ardently, so passionately, as atthis moment, when he felt that she too loved him, and yet was lost tohim irrevocably.
"Nay! but I will hear you, good master," she murmured with infinitegentleness, "for the sake of that friendship, and because now that Ihave seen you again I no longer believe any evil of you."
"God bless my dear lady," he replied fervently. "Heaven is my witnessthat I am innocent of those abominable crimes imputed to me. SirMarmaduke took me to that house of evil, and a cruel plot was thereconcocted to make me appear before all men as a liar and a cheat, and todisgrace me before the world and before you. That the object of thisplot was to part me from you," added Richard Lambert more calmly andfirmly, "I am absolutely confident; what its deeper motive was I darenot even think. It was known that I ... loved you, Sue ... that I wouldgive my life to save you from trouble ... I was your slave, yourwatch-dog.... I was forcibly removed, torn from you, my name disgraced,my health broken down.... But my life was not for them ... it belongs tomy lady alone.... Heaven would not allow it to be sacrificed to theirvillainous schemes. I fought against sickness and death with all theenergy of despair.... It was a hand-to-hand fight, for discouragement,and anon despair, ranged themselves among my foes.... And now I havecome back," he said with proud energy, "broken mayhap, yet stillstanding ... a snapped oak yet full of vigor, yet ... I have come back,and with God's help will be even with them yet."
He had straightened his young figure, and his strong, somewhat harshvoice echoed through the oak-paneled hall. He cared not if all the worldheard him, if his enemies lurked about striving to spy upon him. Hisprofession of love and of service to his lady was the sole remainingpride of his life, and now that he knew that she believed and trustedhim, he longed for every man to hear what he had to say.
"Nay! what you say, kind Richard, fills me with dread," said Sue after alittle pause. "I am glad ... glad that you have come back.... For someweeks, nay, months past, I have had the presentiment of some comingevil.... I have ... I have felt lonely and...."
"Not unhappy?" he asked with his usual earnestness. "I would not have mylady unhappy for all the treasures of this world."
"No!" she replied meditatively, striving to be conscious of her ownfeelings, "I do not think that I am unhappy ... only anxious ... and ...a little lonely: that is all.... Sir Marmaduke is oft away: when he isat home, I scarce ever see him, and he but rarely speaks to me ... andmethinks there is but scant sympathy 'twixt Mistress de Chavasse and me,though she is kind at times in her way."
Then she turned her eyes, bright with unshed tears, down again to him.
"But all seems right again!" she said with a sweet, sad smile, "now thatyou have come back, my dear ... dear friend!"
"God bless you for these words!"
"I grieved terribly when I heard ... about you ... at first ..." shesaid almost gaily now, "yet somehow I could not believe it all ... andnow...."
"Yes? ... and now?" he asked.
"Now I believe in you," she replied simply. "I believe that you care forme, and that you are my friend."
"Your friend, indeed, for I would give my life for you."
Once more he stooped, but now he kissed her hand. He was her friend, andhad the right to do this. He had gradually mastered his emotion, hissense of wrong, and with that exquisite selflessness which real lovealone can kindle in a human heart, he had succeeded in putting aside allthought of his own great misery, his helplessness and the hopelessnessof his position, and remembered only that she looked fragile, a littleolder, sadder, and had need of his help.
"And now, sweet lady," he said, forcing himself to speak calmly of thatwhich always set his heart and senses into a turmoil of passionatejealousy, "will you tell me something about him."
"Him?"
"The prince...." he suggested.
But she shook her head resolutely.
"No, kind Richard," she said gently, "I will not speak to you of theprince. I know that you do not think well of him.... I wish to look uponyou as my friend, and I could not do that if you spoke ill of him,because ..."
She paused, for what she now had to tell him was very hard to say, andshe knew what a terrible blow she would be dealing to his heart, fromthe wild beating of her own.
"Yes?" he asked. "Because? ..."
"Because he is my husband," she whispered.
Her head fell forward on her breast. She would not trust herself to lookat him now, for she knew that the sight of his grief was more than shecould bear. She was conscious that at her words he had drawn his handaway from hers, but he spoke no word, nor did the faintest exclamationescape his lips.
Thus they remained for a few moments longer side by side: she slightlyabove him, with head bent, with hot tears falling slowly from herdowncast eyes, her heart well-nigh breaking with the consciousness ofthe irreparable; he somewhat below, silent too, and rigid, all passion,all emotion, love even, numbed momentarily by the violence, thesuddenness of this terrible blow.
Then without a word, without a sigh or look, he turned, and she heardhis footsteps echoing across the hall, then dying away on the thresholdof the door beyond. Anon the door itself closed to with a dull bangwhich seemed to find an echo in her heart like the tolling of a passingbell.
Then only did she raise her head, and look about her. The hall wasdeserted and seemed infinitely lonely, silent, and grim. The younggirl-wife, who had just found a friend only to lose him again, calledout in mute appeal to this old house, the oak-covered walls, the verystones themselves, for sympathy.
She was so infinitely, so immeasurably lonely, with that awful,irretrievable day at Dover behind her, with all its dreariness, itssilent solemnity, its weird finish in the vestry, the ring upon herfinger, her troth plighted to a man whom she feared and no longer loved.
Oh! the pity of it all! the broken young life! the vanished dreams!
Sue bent her head down upon her hands, her lips touched her own fingersthere where her friend's had rested in gratitude and love, and shecried, cried like a broken-hearted woman, cried for her lost illusions,and the end of her brief romance!
The Nest of the Sparrowhawk: A Romance of the XVIIth Century Page 26