ON A JULY AFTERNOON
In the meanwhile in a remote corner of the park the quality was
assembled round the skittle-alley.
Imagine Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse standing there, as stiff a Roundhead
as ever upheld my Lord Protector and his Puritanic government in this
remote corner of the county of Kent: dour in manner, harsh-featured and
hollow-eyed, dressed in dark doublet and breeches wholly void of tags,
ribands or buttons. His closely shorn head is flat at the back, square
in front, his clean-shaven lips though somewhat thick are always held
tightly pressed together. Not far from him sits on a rough wooden seat,
Mistress Amelia Editha de Chavasse, widow of Sir Marmaduke's elder
brother, a good-looking woman still, save for the look of discontent,
almost of suppressed rebellion, apparent in the perpetual dark frown
between the straight brows, in the downward curve of the well-chiseled
mouth, and in the lowering look which seems to dwell for ever in the
handsome dark eyes.
Dame Harrison, too, was there: the large and portly dowager, florid of
face, dictatorial in manner, dressed in the supremely unbecoming style
prevalent at the moment, when everything that was beautiful in art as
well as in nature was condemned as sinful and ungodly; she wore the dark
kirtle and plain, ungainly bodice with its hard white kerchief folded
over her ample bosom; her hair was parted down the middle and brushed
smoothly and flatly to her ears, where but a few curls were allowed to
escape with well-regulated primness from beneath the horn-comb, and the
whole appearance of her looked almost grotesque, surmounted as it was by
the modish high-peaked beaver hat, a marvel of hideousness and
discomfort, since the small brim afforded no protection against the sun,
and the tall crown was a ready prey to the buffetings of the wind.
Mistress Fairsoul Pyncheon too, was there, the wife of the Squire of
Ashe; thin and small, a contrast to Dame Harrison in her mild and
somewhat fussy manner; her plain petticoat, too, was embellished with
paniers, and in spite of the heat of the day she wore a tippet edged
with fur: both of which frivolous adornments had obviously stirred up
the wrath of her more Puritanical neighbor.
Then there were the men: busy at this moment with hurling wooden balls
along the alley, at the further end of which a hollow-eyed scraggy
youth, in shirt and rough linen trousers, was employed in propping up
again the fallen nine-pins. Squire John Boatfield had ridden over from
Eastry, Sir Timothy Harrison had come in his aunt's coach, and young
Squire Pyncheon with his doting mother.
And in the midst of all these sober folk, of young men in severe
garments, of portly dames and frowning squires, a girlish figure,
young, alert, vigorous, wearing with the charm of her own youth and
freshness the unbecoming attire, which disfigured her elders yet seemed
to set off her own graceful form, her dainty bosom and pretty arms. Her
kirtle, too, was plain, and dull in color, of a soft dovelike gray,
without adornment of any kind, but round her shoulders her kerchief was
daintily turned, edged with delicate lace, and showing through its filmy
folds peeps of her own creamy skin.
'Twas years later that Sir Peter Lely painted Lady Sue when she was a
great lady and the friend of the Queen: she was beautiful then, in the
full splendor of her maturer charms, but never so beautiful as she was
on that hot July afternoon in the year of our Lord 1657, when, heated
with the ardor of the game, pleased undoubtedly with the adulation which
surrounded her on every side, she laughed and chatted with the men,
teased the women, her cheeks aglow, her eyes bright, her brown
hair--persistently unruly--flying in thick curls over her neck and
shoulders.
"A remarkable talent, good Sir Marmaduke," Dame Harrison was saying to
her host, as she cast a complacent eye on her nephew, who had just
succeeded in overthrowing three nine-pins at one stroke: "Sir Timothy
hath every aptitude for outdoor pursuits, and though my Lord Protector
deems all such recreations sinful, yet do I think they tend to the
development of muscular energy, which later on may be placed at the
service of the Commonwealth."
Sir Timothy Harrison at this juncture had the misfortune of expending
his muscular energy in hitting Squire Boatfield violently on the shin
with an ill-aimed ball.
"Damn!" ejaculated the latter, heedless of the strict fines imposed by
my Lord Protector on unseemly language. "I ... verily beg the ladies'
pardon ... but ... this young jackanapes nearly broke my shin-bone."
There certainly had been an exclamation of horror on the part of the
ladies at Squire Boatfield's forcible expression of annoyance, Dame
Harrison taking no pains to conceal her disapproval.
"Horrid, coarse creature, this neighbor of yours, good Sir Marmaduke,"
she said with her usual air of decision. "Meseems he is not fit company
for your ward."
"Dear Squire Boatfield," sighed Mistress Pyncheon, who was evidently
disposed to be more lenient, "how good-humoredly he bears it! Clumsy
people should not be trusted in a skittle alley," she added in a mild
way, which seemed to be peculiarly exasperating to Dame Harrison's
irascible temper.
"I pray you, Sir Timothy," here interposed Lady Sue, trying to repress
the laughter which would rise to her lips, "forgive poor Squire John.
You scarce can expect him to moderate his language under such
provocation."
"Oh! his insults leave me completely indifferent," said the young man
with easy unconcern, "his calling me a jackanapes doth not of necessity
make me one."
"No!" retorted Squire Boatfield, who was still nursing his shin-bone,
"maybe not, Sir Timothy, but it shows how observant I am."
"Oliver, pick up Lady Sue's handkerchief," came in mild accents from
Mistress Pyncheon.
"Quite unnecessary, good mistress," rejoined Dame Harrison decisively,
"Sir Timothy has already seen it."
And while the two young men made a quick and not altogether successful
dive for her ladyship's handkerchief, colliding vigorously with one
another in their endeavor to perform this act of gallantry
single-handed, Lady Sue gazed down on them, with good-humored contempt,
laughter and mischief dancing in her eyes. She knew that she was good to
look at, that she was rich, and that she had the pick of the county,
aye, of the South of England, did she desire to wed. Perhaps she thought
of this, even whilst she laughed at the antics of her bevy of courtiers,
all anxious to win her good graces.
Yet even as she laughed, her face suddenly clouded over, a strange,
wistful look came into her eyes, and her laughter was lost in a quick,
short sigh.
A young man had just crossed the tiny rustic bridge which spanned the
ha-ha dividing the flower-garden from the uncultivated park. He walked
rapidly through the trees, towards the skittle alley, and as he came
nearer, the merry lightheartedness seemed suddenly to vanish from Lady
Sue's manner: the ridiculousness of the two young men at her feet,
glaring furiously at one another whilst fighting for her handkerchief,
seemed now to irritate her; she snatched the bit of delicate linen from
their hands, and turned somewhat petulantly away.
"Shall we continue the game?" she said curtly.
The young man, all the while that he approached, had not taken his eyes
off Lady Sue. Twice he had stumbled against rough bits of root or branch
which he had not perceived in the grass through which he walked. He had
seen her laughing gaily, whilst Squire Boatfield used profane language,
and smile with contemptuous merriment at the two young men at her feet;
he had also seen the change in her manner, the sudden wistful look, the
quick sigh, the irritability and the petulance.
But his own grave face expressed neither disapproval at the one mood nor
astonishment at the other. He walked somewhat like a somnambulist, with
eyes fixed--almost expressionless in the intensity of their gaze.
He was very plainly, even poorly clad, and looked a dark figure even
amongst these soberly appareled gentry. The grass beneath his feet had
deadened the sound of his footsteps but Sir Marmaduke had apparently
perceived him, for he beckoned to him to approach.
"What is it, Lambert?" he asked kindly.
"Your letter to Master Skyffington, Sir Marmaduke," replied the young
man, "will you be pleased to sign it?"
"Will it not keep?" said Sir Marmaduke.
"Yes, an you wish it, Sir. I fear I have intruded. I did not know you
were busy."
The young man had a harsh voice, and a strange brusqueness of manner
which somehow suggested rebellion against the existing conditions of
life. He no longer looked at Lady Sue now, but straight at Sir
Marmaduke, speaking the brief apology between his teeth, without opening
his mouth, as if the words hurt him when they passed his lips.
"You had best speak to Master Skyffington himself about the business,"
rejoined Sir Marmaduke, not heeding the mumbled apology, "he will be
here anon."
He turned abruptly away, and the young man once more left to himself,
silently and mechanically moved again in the direction of the house.
"You will join us in a bowl of sack-posset, Master Lambert," said
Mistress de Chavasse, striving to be amiable.
"You are very kind," he said none too genially, "in about half-an-hour
if you will allow me. There is another letter yet to write."
No one had taken much notice of him. Even in these days when kingship
and House of Lords were abolished, the sense of social inequality
remained keen. To this coterie of avowed Republicans, young Richard
Lambert--secretary or what-not to Sir Marmaduke, a paid dependent at any
rate--was not worth more than a curt nod of the head, a condescending
acknowledgment of his existence at best.
But Lady Sue had not even bestowed the nod. She had not actually taken
notice of his presence when he came; the wistful look had vanished as
soon as the young man's harsh voice had broken on her ear: she did not
look on him now that he went.
She was busy with her game. Nathless her guardian's secretary was of no
more importance in the rich heiress's sight than that mute row of
nine-pins at the end of the alley, nor was there, mayhap, in her mind
much social distinction between the hollow-eyed lad who set them up
stolidly from time to time, and the silent young student who wrote those
letters which Sir Marmaduke had not known how to spell.