AVOWED ENMITY
The pavilion had been built some fifty years ago, by one of the Spantons
of Acol who had a taste for fanciful architecture.
It had been proudly held by several deceased representatives of the
family to be the reproduction of a Greek temple. It certainly had
columns supporting the portico, and steps leading thence to the ground.
It was also circular in shape and was innocent of windows, deriving its
sole light from the door, when it was open.
The late Sir Jeremy, I believe, had been very fond of the place. Being
of a somewhat morose and taciturn disposition, he liked the seclusion of
this lonely corner of the park. He had a chair or two put into the
pavilion and 'twas said that he indulged there in the smoking of that
fragrant weed which of late had been more generously imported into this
country.
After Sir Jeremy's death, the pavilion fell into disuse. Sir Marmaduke
openly expressed his dislike of the forlorn hole, as he was wont to call
it. He caused the door to be locked, and since then no one had entered
the little building. The key, it was presumed, had been lost; the lock
certainly looked rusty. The roof, too, soon fell into disrepair, and no
doubt within, the place soon became the prey of damp and mildew, the
nest of homing birds, or the lair of timid beasts. Very soon the proud
copy of an archaic temple took on that miserable and forlorn look
peculiar to uninhabited spots.
From an air of abandonment to that of eeriness was but a step, and now
the building towered in splendid isolation, in this remote corner of the
park, at the confines of the wood, with a reputation for being the abode
of ghosts, of bats and witches, and other evil things.
When Master Busy sought for tracks of imaginary criminals bent on
abducting the heiress he naturally drifted to this lonely spot; when
Master Courage was bent on whispering sweet nothings into the ear of the
other man's betrothed, he enticed her to that corner of the park where
he was least like to meet the heavy-booted saint.
Thus it was that these three met on the one spot where as a rule at a
late hour of the evening Prince Amédé d'Orléans was wont to commence his
wanderings, sure of being undisturbed, and with the final disappearance
of Master Busy and Mistress Charity the place was once more deserted.
The bats once more found delight in this loneliness and from all around
came that subdued murmur, that creaking of twigs, that silence so full
of subtle sounds, which betrays the presence of animal life on the
prowl.
Anon there came the harsh noise of a key grating in a rusty lock. The
door of the pavilion was cautiously opened from within and the
mysterious French prince, bewigged, booted and hatted, emerged into the
open. The night had drawn a singularly dark mantle over the woods. Banks
of cloud obscured the sky; the tall elm trees with their ivy-covered
branches, and their impenetrable shadows beneath, formed a dense wall
which the sight of human creatures was not keen enough to pierce. Sir
Marmaduke de Chavasse, in spite of this darkness, which he hailed
gleefully, peered cautiously and intently round as he descended the
steps.
He had not met Lady Sue in the capacity of her romantic lover since that
evening a week ago, when his secret had been discovered by Mistress de
Chavasse. The last vision he had had of the young girl was one redolent
of joy and love and trust, sufficient to reassure him that all was well
with her, in regard to his schemes; but on that same evening a week ago
he had gazed upon another little scene, which had not filled him with
either joy or security.
He had seen Lady Sue standing beside a young man whose personality--to
say the least--was well-nigh as romantic as that of the exiled scion of
the house of Orléans. He had seen rather than heard a young and
passionate nature pouring into girlish ears the avowal of an unselfish
and ardent love which had the infinite merit of being real and true.
However well he himself might play his part of selfless hero and of
vehement lover, there always lurked the danger that the falseness of his
protestations would suddenly ring a warning note to the subtle sense of
the confiding girl. Were it not for the intense romanticism of her
disposition, which beautified and exalted everything with which it came
in contact, she would of a surety have detected the lie ere this. He had
acted his dual rôle with consummate skill, the contrast between the
surly Puritanical guardian, with his round cropped head and shaven face,
and the elegantly dressed cavalier, with a heavy mustache, an enormous
perruque and a shade over one eye, was so complete that even Mistress de
Chavasse--alert, suspicious, wholly unromantic, had been momentarily
deceived, and would have remained so but for his voluntary revelation of
himself.
But the watchful and disappointed young lover was the real danger: a
danger complicated by the fact that the Prince Amédé d'Orléans actually
dwelt in the cottage owned by Lambert's brother, the blacksmith. The
mysterious prince had perforce to dwell somewhere; else, whenever spied
by a laborer or wench from the village, he would have excited still
further comment, and his movements mayhap would have been more
persistently dogged.
For this reason Sir Marmaduke had originally chosen Adam Lambert's
cottage to be his headquarters; it stood on the very outskirts of the
village and as he had only the wood to traverse between it and the
pavilion where he effected his change of personality, he ran thus but
few risks of meeting prying eyes. Moreover, Adam Lambert, the
blacksmith, and the old woman who kept house for him, both belonged to
the new religious sect which Judge Bennett had so pertinently dubbed the
Quakers, and they kept themselves very much aloof from gossip and the
rest of the village.
True, Richard Lambert oft visited his brother and the old woman, but did
so always in the daytime when Prince Amédé d'Orléans carefully kept out
of the way. Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse had all the true instincts of the
beast or bird of prey. He prowled about in the dark, and laid his snares
for the seizure of his victim under cover of the night.
This evening certain new schemes had found birth in his active mind; he
was impatient that the victim tarried, when his brain was alive with
thoughts of how to effect a more speedy capture. He leaned against the
wall, close by the gate as was his wont when awaiting Sue, smiling
grimly to himself at thought of the many little subterfuges she would
employ to steal out of the house, without encountering--as she
thought--her watchful guardian.
A voice close behind him--speaking none too kindly--broke in on his
meditations, causing him to start--almost to crouch like a frightened
cat.
The next moment he had recognized the gruff and nasal tones of Adam
Lambert. Apparently the blacksmith had just come from the wood through
the gate, and had almost stumbled in the dark against the rigid figure
of his mysterious lodger.
"Friend, what dost thou here?" he asked peremptorily. But already Sir
Marmaduke had recovered from that sudden sense of fear which had caused
him to start in alarm.
"I would ask the same question of you, my friend," he retorted airily,
speaking in the muffled voice and with the markedly foreign accent which
he had assumed for the rôle of the Prince, "might I inquire what you are
doing here?"
"I have to see a sick mare down Minster way," replied Lambert curtly,
"this is a short cut thither, and Sir Marmaduke hath granted me leave.
But he liketh not strangers loitering in his park."
"Then, friend," rejoined the other lightly, "when Sir Marmaduke doth
object to my strolling in his garden, he will doubtless apprise me of
the fact, without interference from you."
Adam Lambert, after his uncivil greeting of his lodger, had already
turned his back on him, loath to have further speech with a man whom he
hated and despised.
Like the majority of country folk these days, the blacksmith had a
wholesale contempt for every foreigner, and more particularly for those
who hailed from France: that country--in the estimation of all Puritans,
Dissenters and Republicans--being the happy abode of every kind of
immorality and debauchery.
Prince Amédé d'Orléans--as he styled himself--with his fantastic
clothes, his airs and graces and long, curly hair was an object of
special aversion to the Quaker, even though the money which the
despised foreigner paid for his lodgings was passing welcome these hard
times.
Adam resolutely avoided speech with the Prince, whenever possible, but
the latter's provocative and sarcastic speech roused his dormant hatred;
like a dog who has been worried, he now turned abruptly round and faced
Sir Marmaduke, stepping close up to him, his eyes glaring with
vindictive rage, a savage snarl rising in his throat.
"Take notice, friend," he said hoarsely, "that I'll not bear thine
impudence. Thou mayest go and bully the old woman at the cottage when I
am absent--Oh! I've heard thee!" he added with unbridled savagery,
"ordering her about as if she were thy serving wench ... but let me tell
thee that she is no servant of thine, nor I ... so have done, my fine
prince ... dost understand?"
"Prithee, friend, do not excite yourself," said Sir Marmaduke blandly,
drawing back against the wall as far as he could to avoid close
proximity with his antagonist. "I have never wished to imply that
Mistress Lambert was aught but my most obliging, most amiable
landlady--nor have I, to my certain knowledge, overstepped the
privileges of a lodger. I trust that your worthy aunt hath no cause for
complaint. Mistress Lambert is your aunt?" he added superciliously, "is
she not?"
"That is nothing to thee," muttered the other, "if she be my aunt or no,
as far as I can see."
"Surely not. I asked in a spirit of polite inquiry."
But apparently this subject was one which had more than any other the
power to rouse the blacksmith's savage temper. He fought with it for a
moment or two, for anger is the Lord's, and strict Quaker discipline
forbade such unseemly wrangling. But Adam was a man of violent
temperament which his strict religious training had not altogether
succeeded in holding in check: the sneers of the foreign prince, his
calm, supercilious attitude, broke the curb which religion had set upon
his passion.
"Aye! thou art mighty polite to me, my fine gentleman," he said
vehemently. "Thou knowest what I think of thy lazy foreign ways ... why
dost thou not do a bit of honest work, instead of hanging round her
ladyship's skirts? ... If I were to say a word to Sir Marmaduke, 'twould
be mightily unpleasant for thee, an I mistake not. Oh! I know what
thou'rt after, with thy fine ways, and thy romantic, lying talk of
liberty and patriotism! ... the heiress, eh, friend? That is thy
design.... I am not blind, I tell thee.... I have seen thee and her ..."
Sir Marmaduke laughed lightly, shrugging his shoulders in token of
indifference.
"Quite so, quite so, good master," he said suavely, "do ye not waste
your breath in speaking thus loudly. I understand that your sentiments
towards me do not partake of that Christian charity of which ye and
yours do prate at times so loudly. But I'll not detain you. Doubtless
worthy Mistress Lambert will be awaiting you, or is it the sick mare
down Minster way that hath first claim on your amiability? I'll not
detain you."
He turned as if to go, but Adam's hard grip was on his shoulder in an
instant.
"Nay! thou'lt not detain me--'tis I am detaining thee!" said the
blacksmith hoarsely, "for I desired to tell thee that thy ugly French
face is abhorrent to me ... I do not hold with princes.... For a prince
is none better than another man nay, he is worse an he loafs and steals
after heiresses and their gold ... and will not do a bit of honest
work.... Work makes the man.... Work and prayer ... not your titles and
fine estates. This is a republic now ... understand? ... no king, no
House of Lords--please the Lord neither clergymen nor noblemen soon....
I work with my hands ... and am not ashamed. The Lord Saviour was a
carpenter and not a prince.... My brother is a student and a
gentleman--as good as any prince--understand? Ten thousand times as good
as thee."
He relaxed his grip which had been hard as steel on Sir Marmaduke's
shoulder. It was evident that he had been nursing hatred and loathing
against his lodger for some time, and that to-night the floodgates of
his pent-up wrath had been burst asunder through the mysterious prince's
taunts, and insinuations anent the cloud and secrecy which hung round
the Lamberts' parentage.
Though his shoulder was painful and bruised under the pressure of the
blacksmith's rough fingers, Sir Marmaduke did not wince. He looked his
avowed enemy boldly in the face, with no small measure of contempt for
the violence displayed.
His own enmity towards those who thwarted him was much more subtle,
silent and cautious. He would never storm and rage, show his enmity
openly and caution his antagonist through an outburst of rage. Adam
Lambert still glaring into his lodger's eye, encountered nothing therein
but irony and indulgent contempt.
Religion forbade him to swear. Yet was he sorely tempted, and we may
presume that he cursed inwardly, for his enemy refused to be drawn into
wordy warfare, and he himself had exhausted his vocabulary of sneering
abuse, even as he had exhausted his breath.
Perhaps in his innermost heart he was ashamed of his outburst. After
all, he had taken this man's money, and had broken bread with him. His
hand dropped to his side, and his head fell forward on his breast even
as with a pleasant laugh the prince carelessly turned away, and with an
affected gesture brushed his silken doublet, there where the
blacksmith's hard grip had marred the smoothness of the delicate fabric.
Had Adam Lambert possessed that subtle sixth sense, which hears and sees
that which goes on in the mind of others, he had perceived a thought in
his lodger's brain cells which might have caused him to still further
regret his avowal of open enmity.
For as the blacksmith finally turned away and walked off through the
park, skirting the boundary wall, Sir Marmaduke looked over his shoulder
at the ungainly figure which was soon lost in the gloom, and muttered a
round oath between his teeth.
"An exceedingly unpleasant person," he vowed within himself, "you will
have to be removed, good master, an you get too troublesome."