CHAPTER XLII
THE RETURN
Master Courage Toogood had long ago given up all thought of waiting forthe mistress. He had knocked repeatedly at the door of the cottage, frombehind the thick panels of which he had heard loud and--hethought--angry voices, speaking words which he could not, however, quiteunderstand.
No answer had come to his knocking and tired with the excitement of theday, fearful, too, at the thought of the lonely walk which now awaitedhim, he chose to believe that mayhap he had either misunderstood hismaster's orders, or that Sir Marmaduke himself had been mistaken when hethought the mistress back at the cottage.
These surmises were vastly to Master Courage Toogood's liking, whosename somewhat belied his timid personality. Swinging his lantern andstriving to keep up his spirits by the aid of a lusty song, heresolutely turned his steps towards home.
The whole landscape seemed filled with eeriness: the events of the dayhad left their impress on this dark November night, causing the sighs ofthe gale to seem more spectral and weird than usual, and the dim outlineof the trees with their branches turned away from the coastline, toseem like unhappy spirits with thin, gaunt arms stretched dejectedly outtoward the unresponsive distance.
Master Toogood tried not to think of ghosts, nor of the many stories ofpixies and goblins which are said to take a malicious pleasure in thetimorousness of mankind, but of a truth he nearly uttered a cry ofterror, and would have fallen on his knees in the mud, when a darkobject quite undistinguishable in the gloom suddenly loomed before him.
Yet this was only the portly figure of Master Pyot, the petty constable,who seemed to be mounting guard just outside the cottage, and who wasvastly amused at Toogood's pusillanimity. He entered into converse withthe young man--no doubt he, too, had been feeling somewhat lonely in themidst of this darkness, which was peopled with unseen shadows. MasterCourage was ready enough to talk. He had acquired some of Master Busy'seloquence on the subject of secret investigations, and the mystery whichhad gained an intensity this afternoon, through the revelations of theold Quakeress, was an all-engrossing one to all.
The attention which Pyot vouchsafed to his narration greatly enhancedMaster Toogood's own delight therein, more especially as the pettyconstable had, as if instinctively, measured his steps with those of theyounger man and was accompanying him on his way towards the Court.
Courage told his attentive listener all about Master Busy's surmises andhis determination to probe the secrets of the mysterious crime,which--to be quite truthful--the worthy butler with the hard toes hadscented long ere it was committed, seeing that he used to spend longhours in vast discomfort in the forked branches of the old elms whichsurrounded the pavilion at the boundary of the park.
Toogood had no notion if Master Busy had ever discovered anything ofinterest in the neighborhood of that pavilion, and he was quite, quitesure that the saintly man had never dared to venture inside that archaicbuilding, which had the reputation of being haunted; still, he wasover-gratified to perceive that the petty constable was vastlyinterested in his tale--in spite of these obvious defects in itscompleteness--and that, moreover, Master Pyot showed no signs of turningon his heel, but continued to trudge along the gloomy road in companywith Sir Marmaduke's youngest serving-man.
Thus Editha, when she ran out of Mistress Lambert's cottage, her earsringing with the fanatic's curses, her heart breaking with the joy ofthat reverent filial kiss imprinted upon her hands, found the road andthe precincts of the cottage entirely deserted.
The night was pitch dark after the rain. Great heavy clouds still hungabove, and an icy blast caught her skirts as she lifted the latch of thegate and turned into the open.
But she cared little about the inclemency of the weather. She knew herway about well enough and her mind was too full of terrible thoughts ofwhat was real, to yield to the subtle and feeble fears engendered byimaginings of the supernatural.
Nay! she would, mayhap, have welcomed the pixies and goblins who bymischievous pranks had claimed her attention. They would, of a truth,have diverted her mind from the contemplation of that awful andmonstrous deed accomplished by the man whom she would meet anon.
If he whom the villagers had called Adam Lambert was her son, Henry Adamde Chavasse, then Sir Marmaduke was the murderer of her child. All thecurses which the old Quakeress had so vengefully poured upon her were asnothing compared with that awful, that terrible fact.
Her son had been murdered ... her eldest son whom she had never known,and she--involuntarily mayhap, compulsorily certes--had in a measurehelped to bring about those events which had culminated in thatappalling crime.
She had known of Marmaduke's monstrous fraud on the confiding girl whomhe now so callously abandoned to her fate. She had known of it andhelped him towards its success by luring her other son Richard to thatvile gambling den where he had all but lost his honor, or else hisreason.
This knowledge and the help she had given was the real curse upon hernow: a curse far more horrible and deadly than that which had drivenCain forth into the wilderness. This knowledge and the help she hadgiven had stained her hands with the blood of her own child.
No wonder that she sighed for ghouls and for shadowy monsters,well-nigh longing for a sight of distorted faces, of ugly deformedbodies, and loathsome shapes far less hideous than that specter of aninhuman homicide which followed her along this dark road as she ran--ranon--ran towards the home where dwelt the living monster of evil, the manwho had done the deed, which she had helped to accomplish.
Complete darkness reigned all around her, she could not see a yard ofthe road in front of her, but she went on blindly, guided by instinct,led by that unseen shadow which was driving her on. All round her thegale was moaning in the creaking branches of the trees, branches whichwere like arms stretched forth in appeal towards the unattainable.
Her progress was slow for she was walking in the very teeth of thehurricane, and her shoes ever and anon remained glued to the slimy mud.But the road was straight enough, she knew it well, and she felt neitherfatigue nor discomfort.
Of Sue she did not think. The wrongs done to the defenseless girl wereas nothing to her compared with the irreparable--the wrongs done to hersons, the living and the dead: for the one the foul dagger of an inhumanassassin, for the other shame and disgrace.
Sue was young. Sue would soon forget. The girl-wife would soon regainher freedom.... But what of the mother who had on her soul the taint ofthe murder of her child?
The gate leading to the Court from the road was wide open: it had beenleft so for her, no doubt, when Sir Marmaduke returned. The house itselfwas dark, no light save one pierced the interstices of the ill-fittingshutters. Editha paused a moment at the gate, looking at the house--agreat black mass, blacker than the surrounding gloom. That had been herhome for many years now, ever since her youth and sprightliness hadvanished, and she had had nowhere to go for shelter. It had been herhome ever since Richard, her youngest boy, had entered it, too, as adependent.
Oh! what an immeasurable fool she had been, how she had been tricked andfooled all these years by the man who two days ago had put a crown uponhis own infamy. He knew where the boys were, he helped to keep them awayfrom their mother, so as to filch from them their present, and aboveall, future inheritance. How she loathed him now, and loathed herselffor having allowed him to drag her down. Aye! of a truth he had wrongedher worse even than he had wronged his brother's sons!
She fixed her eyes steadily on the one light which alone pierced theinky blackness of the solid mass of the house. It came from the littlewithdrawing-room, which was on the left of this entrance to the hall;but the place itself--beyond just that one tiny light--appeared quitesilent and deserted. Even from the stableyard on her right and from theserving-men's quarters not a sound came to mingle with the weirdwhisperings of the wind.
Editha approached and stooping to the ground, she groped in the muduntil her hands encountered two or three pebbles.
She picked th
em up, then going close to the house, she threw thesepebbles one by one against the half-closed shutter of thewithdrawing-room.
The next moment, she heard the latch of the casement window being liftedfrom within, and anon the rickety shutter flew back with a thin creakingsound like that of an animal in pain.
The upper part of Sir Marmaduke's figure appeared in the windowembrasure, like a dark and massive silhouette against the yellowishlight from within. He stooped forward, seeming to peer into thedarkness.
"Is that you, Editha?" he queried presently.
"Yes," she replied. "Open!"
She then waited a moment or two, whilst he closed both the shutter andthe window, she standing the while on the stone step before the portico.In the stillness she could hear him open the drawing-room door, thencross the hall and finally unbolt the heavy outer door.
She pushed past him over the threshold and went into the gloomy hall,pitch dark save for the flickering light of the candle which he held.She waited until he had re-closed the door, then she stood quite still,confronting him, allowing him to look into her face, to read theexpression of her eyes.
In order to do this he had raised the candle, his hand tremblingperceptibly, and the feeble light quivered in his grasp, illumining herface at fitful intervals, creeping down her rigid shoulders and arms, asfar as her hands, which were tightly clenched. It danced upon his facetoo, lighting it with weird gleams and fitful sparks, showing the wildlook in his eyes, the glitter almost of madness in the dilated pupils,the dark iris sharply outlined against the glassy orbs. It licked thetrembling lips and distorted mouth, the drawn nostrils and dank hair,almost alive with that nameless fear.
"You would denounce me?" he murmured, and the cry--choked andtoneless--could scarce rise from the dry parched throat.
"Yes!" she said.
He uttered a violent curse.
"You devil ... you ..."
"You have time to go," she said calmly, "'tis a long while 'twixt nowand dawn."
He understood. She only would denounce him if he stayed. She wished himno evil, only desired him out of her sight. He tried to say somethingflippant, something cruel and sneering, but she stopped him with aperemptory gesture.
"Go!" she said, "or I might forget everything save that you killed myson."
For a moment she thought that her life was in danger at his hands, soawful in its baffled rage was the expression of his face when heunderstood that indeed she knew everything. She even at that momentlonged that his cruel instincts should prompt him to kill her. He couldnever succeed in hiding that crime and retributive justice would of asurety overtake him then, without any help from her.
No doubt he, too, thought of this as the weird flicker of thecandle-light showed him her unflinching face, for the next moment, withanother muttered curse, and a careless shrug of the shoulders, he turnedon his heel, and slowly went upstairs, candle in hand.
Editha watched him until his massive figure was merged in the gloom ofthe heavy oak stairway. Then she went into the withdrawing-room andwaited.
CHAPTER XLIII
THE SANDS OF EPPLE
Five minutes later Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse, clad in thick dark doubletand breeches and wearing a heavy cloak, once more descended the stairsof Acol Court. He saw the light in the withdrawing-room and knew thatEditha was there, mutely watching his departure.
But he did not care to speak to her again. His mind had been quicklymade up, nay! his actions in the immediate future should of a truth havebeen accomplished two days ago, ere the meddlesomeness of women hadwell-nigh jeopardized his own safety.
All that he meant to do now was to go quickly to the pavilion, find theleather wallet then return to his own stableyard, saddle one of his nagsand start forthwith for Dover. Eighteen miles would soon be covered, andthough the night was dark, the road was straight and broad. De Chavasseknew it well, and had little fear of losing his way.
With plenty of money in his purse, he would have no difficulty inchartering a boat which, with a favorable tide on the morrow, shouldsoon take him over to France.
All that he ought to have done two days ago! Of a truth, he had been acowardly fool.
He did not cross the hall this time but went out through thedining-room by the garden entrance. Not a glimmer of light came fromabove, but as he descended the few stone steps he felt that a few softflakes of snow tossed by the hurricane were beginning to fall. Of coursehe knew every inch of his own garden and park and had oft wandered abouton the further side of the ha-ha whilst indulging in lengthysweetly-spoken farewells with his love-sick Sue.
Absorbed in the thoughts of his immediate future plans, he neverthelesswalked along cautiously, for the paths had become slippery with thesnow, which froze quickly even as it fell.
He did not pause, however, for he wished to lose no time. If he was toride to Dover this night, he would have to go at foot-pace, for the roadwould be like glass if this snow and ice continued. Moreover, he wasburning to feel that wallet once more between his fingers and to hearthe welcome sound of the crushing of crisp papers.
He had plunged resolutely into the thickness of the wood. Here he couldhave gone blindfolded, so oft had he trodden this path which leads underthe overhanging elms straight to the pavilion, walking with Sue's littlehand held tightly clasped in his own.
The spiritual presence of the young girl seemed even now to pervade thethicket, her sweet fragrance to fill the frost-laden air.
Bah! he was not the man to indulge in retrospective fancy. The girl wasnaught to him, and there was no sense of remorse in his soul for theterrible wrongs which he had inflicted on her. All that he thought ofnow was the wallet which contained the fortune. That which would forevercompensate him for the agony, the madness of the past two days.
The bend behind that last group of elms should now reveal the outline ofthe pavilion. Sir Marmaduke advanced more cautiously, for the trees herewere very close together.
The next moment he had paused, crouching suddenly like a carnivorousbeast, balked of its prey. There of a truth was the pavilion, but on thesteps three men were standing, talking volubly and in whispers. Two ofthese men carried stable lanterns, and were obviously guiding theircompanion up to the door of the pavilion.
The light of the lanterns illumined one face after another. De Chavasserecognized his two serving-men, Busy and Toogood; the man who was withthem was petty-constable Pyot. Marmaduke with both hands clutching theivy which clung round the gnarled stem of an old elm, watched from outthe darkness what these three men were doing here, beside this pavilion,which had always been so lonely and deserted.
He could not distinguish what they said for they spoke in whispers andthe creaking branches groaning beneath the wind drowned every soundwhich came from the direction of the pavilion and the listener on thewatch, straining his every sense in order to hear, dared not creep anycloser lest he be perceived.
Anon, the three men examined the door of the pavilion, and shaking therusty bolts, found that they would not yield. But evidently they were ofset purpose, for the next moment all three put their shoulder to theworm-eaten woodwork, and after the third vigorous effort the dooryielded to their assault.
Men and lanterns disappeared within the pavilion. Sir Marmaduke heard anejaculation of surprise, then one of profound satisfaction.
For the space of a few seconds he remained rooted to the spot. It almostseemed to him as if with the knowledge that the wallet and the discardedclothes of the smith had been found, with the certitude that thisdiscovery meant his own undoing probably, and in any case the final lossof the fortune for which he had plotted and planned, lied andmasqueraded, killed a man and cheated a girl, that with the knowledge ofall this, death descended upon him: so cold did he feel, so unable washe to make the slightest movement.
But this numbness only lasted a few seconds. Obviously the three menwould return in a minute or so; equally obviously his own presencehere--if discovered--would mean certain ruin to him. Even while he wasmaking th
e effort to collect his scattered senses and to move from thisfateful and dangerous spot, he saw the three men reappear in thedoorway of the pavilion.
The breeches and rough shirt of the smith hung over the arm ofHymn-of-Praise Busy; the dark stain on the shirt was plainly visible bythe light of one of the lanterns.
Petty constable Pyot had the leather wallet in his hand, and was peepingdown with grave curiosity at the bundle of papers which it contained.
Then with infinite caution, Marmaduke de Chavasse worked his way betweenthe trees towards the old wall which encircled his park. The three menobviously would be going back either to Acol Court, or mayhap, straightto the village.
Sir Marmaduke knew of a gap in the wall which it was quite easy toclimb, even in the dark; a path through the thicket at that point ledstraight out towards the coast.
He had struck that path from the road on the night when he met the smithon the cliffs.
The snow only penetrated in sparse flakes to the thicket here. Althoughthe branches of the trees were dead, they interlaced so closely overheadthat they formed ample protection against the wet.
But the fury of the gale seemed terrific amongst these trees and thegroaning of the branches seemed like weird cries proceeding from hell.
Anon, the midnight walker reached the open. Here a carpet of coarsegrass peeping through the thin layer of snow gave insecure foothold. Hestumbled as he pursued his way. He was walking in the teeth of thenorthwesterly blast now and he could scarcely breathe, for the greatgusts caught his throat, causing him to choke.
Still he walked resolutely on. Icy moisture clung to his hair, and tohis lips, and soon he could taste the brine in the air. The sound of thebreakers some ninety feet below mingled weirdly with the groans of thewind.
He knew the path well. Had he not trodden it three nights ago, on hisway to meet the smith? Already in the gloom he could distinguish thebroken line of the cliffs sharply defined against the gray density ofthe horizon.
As he drew nearer the roar of the breakers became almost deafening. Aheavy sea was rolling in on the breast of the tide.
Still he walked along, towards the brow of the cliffs. Soon he coulddistinguish the irregular heap of chalk against which Adam had stood,whilst he had held the lantern in one hand and gripped the knife in theother.
The hurricane nearly swept him off his feet. He had much ado to steadyhimself against that heap of chalk. The snow had covered his cloak andhis hat, and he liked to think that he, too, now--snow-covered--mustlook like a monstrous chalk boulder, weird and motionless outlinedagainst the leaden grayness of the ocean beyond.
The smith was not by his side now. There was no lantern, no paper, nodouble-edged dagger. Down nearly a hundred feet below the smith had lainuntil the turn of the tide. The man's eyes, becoming accustomed to thegloom, could distinguish the points of the great boulders springingboldly from out the sand. The surf as it broke all round and over themwas tipped with a phosphorescent light.
The gale, in sheer wantonness, caught the midnight prowler's hat andwith a wild sound as of the detonation of a hundred guns, tossed it tothe waves below. The snow in a few moments had thrown a white pall overthe watcher's head.
He could see quite clearly the tall boulder untouched by the tide, onwhich he had placed the black silk shade that night, also thebroad-brimmed hat, so that these things should be found high and dry andbe easily recognizable.
Some twenty feet further on was the smooth stretch of sand where hadlain the smith, after he had been dressed up in the fantastic clothes ofthe mysterious French prince.
Marmaduke de Chavasse gazed upon that spot. The breakers licked it nowand again, leaving behind them as they retreated a track of slimy foam,which showed white in this strange gray gloom, rendered alive and movingby the falling snow.
The surf covered that stretch of sand more and more frequently now, andretreated less and less far: the slimy foam floated now over an inkypool; soon that too disappeared. The breakers sought other bouldersround which to play their titanic hide-and-seek. The tide hadcompletely hidden the place where Adam Lambert had lain.
Then the watcher walked on--one step and then another--and then the onebeyond the edge as he stepped down, down into the abyss ninety feetbelow.
THE EPILOGUE
The chronicles of the time tell us that the mysterious disappearance ofSir Marmaduke de Chavasse was but a nine days' wonder in that greatworld which lies beyond the boundaries of sea-girt Thanet.
What Thanet thought of it all, the little island kept secret, hiding itssurmises in the thicket of her own archaic forests.
Squire Boatfield did his best to wrap the disappearance of his whilomfriend in impenetrable veils of mystery. He was a humane and a kindlyman and feeling that the guilty had been amply punished, he set to workto cheer and to rehabilitate the innocent.
All of us who have read the memoirs of Editha de Chavasse, written whenshe was a woman of nearly sixty, remember that she, too, has drawn athick curtain over the latter days of her brother-in-law's life. It isto her pen that we owe the record of what happened subsequently.
She tells us, for instance, how Master Skyffington, after sundryinterviews with my Lord Northallerton, had the honor of bringing to hislordship's notice the young student--so long known as RichardLambert--who, of a truth, was sole heir to the earldom and to itsmagnificent possessions and dependencies.
From the memoirs of Editha de Chavasse we also know that Lady SueAldmarshe, girl-wife and widow, did, after a period of mourning, marryMichael Richard de Chavasse, sole surviving nephew and heir presumptiveof his lordship the Earl of Northallerton.
But it is to the brush of Sir Peter Lely that we owe that exquisiteportrait of Sue, when she was Countess of Northallerton, the friend ofQueen Catherine, the acknowledged beauty at the Court of theRestoration.
It is a sweet face, whereon the half-obliterated lines of sorrow viewith that look of supreme happiness which first crept into her eyes whenshe realized that the dear and constant friend who had loved her sodearly, was as true to her in his joy as he had been in those dark dayswhen a terrible crisis had well-nigh wrecked her life.
Lord and Lady Northallerton did not often stay in London. The brillianceof the Court had few attractions for them. Happiness came to them afterterrible sorrows. They liked to hide it and their great love in the calmand mystery of forest-covered Thanet.
THE END
The Nest of the Sparrowhawk: A Romance of the XVIIth Century Page 42
