He cast a rapid glance all around. Segrave and Lambert--both flushed and

panting--were forcibly held apart. Sir Marmaduke noted with a grim smile

that the latter was obviously the center of a hostile group, whilst

Segrave was surrounded by a knot of sympathizers who were striving

outwardly to pacify him, whilst in reality urging him on through their

unbridled vituperations directed against the other man.

The noise of arguments, of shrill voices, of admonitions and violent

abuse had in no sense abated.

Over the sea of excited faces Sir Marmaduke caught the wide-open,

terrified eyes of Editha de Chavasse.

She too, had heard.

He beckoned to her across the room with a slight gesture of the hand,

and she obeyed the silent call as quickly as she dared, working her way

round to him, without arousing the attention of the crowd.

"Do not lose your head," he whispered as soon as she was near him and

seeing the wild terror expressed in every line of her face. "Slip into

the next room ... and leave the door ajar.... Do this as quietly as may

be ... now ... at once ... then wait there until I come."

Again she obeyed him silently and swiftly, for she knew what that cry of

"Halt!" meant, uttered at the door of her house. She had heard it, even

as Sir Marmaduke had done, and after it the peremptory knocks, the loud

call, the word of command, followed by the sound of an awed and

supplicating voice, entering a feeble protest.

She knew what all that meant, and she was afraid.

As soon as Sir Marmaduke saw that she had done just as he had ordered,

he deliberately joined the noisy groups which were congregated around

Segrave and Lambert.

He pushed his way forward and anon stood face to face with the young man

on whom he had just wreaked such an irreparable wrong. Not a thought of

compunction or remorse rose in his mind as he looked down at the

handsome flushed face--quite calm and set outwardly in spite of the

terrible agony raging within heart and mind.

"Lambert!" he said gruffly, "listen to me.... Your conduct hath been

most unseemly.... Mistress Endicott has for my sake, already shown you

much kindness and forbearance ... Had she acted as she had the right to

do, she would have had you kicked out of the house by her servants....

In your own interests now I should advise you to follow me quietly out

of the house...."

But this suggestion raised a hot protest on the part of all the

spectators.

"He shall not go!" declared Segrave violently.

"Not without leaving behind him what he has deliberately stolen,"

commented Endicott, raising his oily voice above the din.

Lambert had waited patiently, whilst his employer spoke. The last

remnant of that original sense of deference and of gratitude caused him

to hold himself in check lest he should strike that treacherous coward

in the face. Sir Marmaduke's callousness in the face of his peril and

unmerited disgrace, had struck Lambert with an overwhelming feeling of

disappointment and loneliness. But his cruel insults now quashed despair

and roused dormant indignation to fever pitch. One look at Sir

Marmaduke's sneering face had told him not only that he could expect no

help from the man who--by all the laws of honor--should have stood by

him in his helplessness, but that he was the fount and source, the

instigator of the terrible wrong and injustice which was about to land

an innocent man in the veriest abyss of humiliation and irretrievable

disgrace.

"And so this was your doing, Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse," he said,

looking his triumphant enemy boldly in the face, even whilst compelling

silent attention from those who were heaping opprobrious epithets upon

him. "You enticed me here.... You persuaded me to play, ... Then you

tried to rob me of mine honor, of my good name, the only valuable assets

which I possess.... Hell and all its devils alone know why you did this

thing, but I swear before God that your hideous crime shall not remain

unpunished...."

"Silence!" commanded Sir Marmaduke, who was the first to perceive the

strange, almost supernatural, effect produced on all those present, by

the young man's earnestness, his impressive calm. Segrave himself stood

silent and abashed, whilst everyone listened, unconsciously awed by that

unmistakable note of righteousness which somehow rang through Lambert's

voice.

"Nay! but I'll not be silent," quoth Richard unperturbed. "I have been

condemned ... and I have the right to speak.... You have disgraced me

... and I have the right to defend mine honor ... by protesting mine

innocence.... And now I will leave this house," he added loudly and

firmly, "for it is accursed and infamous ... but God is my witness that

I leave it without a stain upon my soul...."

He pointed to the fateful table whereon a pile of gold lay scattered in

an untidy heap, with the tiny leather wallet containing his five guineas

conspicuously in its midst.

"There lies the money," he said, speaking directly to Segrave, "take it,

sir, for I had never the intention to touch a penny of it.... This I

swear by all that I hold most sacred.... Take it without fear or

remorse--even though you thought such evil things of me ... and let him

who still thinks me a thief, repeat it now to my face--an he dare!"

Even as the last of his loudly uttered words resounded through the room,

there was a loud knock at the door, and a peremptory voice commanded:

"Open! in the name of His Highness, the Lord Protector of England!"

In the dead silence that followed, the buzz of a fly, the spluttering of

wax candles, could be distinctly heard.

In a moment with the sound of that peremptory call outside, tumultuous

passions seemed to sink to rest, every cheek paled, and masculine hands

instinctively sought the handles of swords whilst lace handkerchiefs

were hastily pressed to trembling lips, in order to smother the cry of

terror which had risen to feminine throats.

"Open! in the name of His Highness, the Lord Protector of England."

Mistress Endicott was the color of wax, her husband was gripping her

wrist with a clutch of steel, trying, through the administration of

physical pain, to keep alive her presence of mind.

And for the third time came the loud summons:

"Open! in the name of His Highness the Lord, Protector of England!"

Still that deathly silence in the room, broken only now by the firm step

of Endicott, who went to open the door.

Resistance had been worse than useless. The door would have yielded at

the first blow. There was a wailing, smothered cry from a dozen

terrified throats, and a general rush for the inner room. But this door

now was bolted and barred, Sir Marmaduke--unperceived--had slipped

quickly within, even whilst everyone held his breath in the first moment

of paralyzed terror.

Had there been time, there would doubtless have ensued a violent attack

against that locked door, but already a man in leather doublet and

wearing a steel cap and collar had peremptorily pushed Endicott aside,

who was making a futile effort to bar the way, after he had opened the

door.

This man now advanced into the center of the room, whilst a couple of

soldierly-looking, stalwart fellows remained at attention on the

threshold.

"Let no one attempt to leave this room," he commanded. "Here, Bradden,"

he added, turning back to his men, "take Pyott with you and search that

second room there ... then seize all those cards and dice and also that

money."

It was not likely that these hot-headed cavaliers would submit thus

quietly to an arbitrary act of confiscation and of arrest. Hardly were

the last words out of the man's mouth than a dozen blades flashed out of

their scabbards.

The women screamed, and like so many frightened hens, ran into the

corner of the room furthest out of reach of my Lord Protector's

police-patrol, the men immediately forming a bulwark in front of them.

The whole thing was not very heroic perhaps. A few idlers caught in an

illicit act and under threat of arrest. The consequences--of a

truth--would not be vastly severe for the frequenters of this secret

club; fines mayhap, which most of those present could ill afford to pay,

and at worst a night's detention in one of those horrible wooden

constructions which had lately been erected on the river bank for the

express purpose of causing sundry lordly offenders to pass an

uncomfortable night.

These were days of forcible levelings: and my lord who had contravened

old Noll's laws against swearing and gambling, fared not one whit better

than the tramp who had purloined a leg of mutton from an eating-house.

Nay! in a measure my lord fared a good deal worse, for he looked upon

his own detention through the regicide usurper's orders, as an indignity

to himself; hence the reason why in this same house wherein a few idle

scions of noble houses indulged in their favorite pastime, when orders

rang out in the name of His Highness, swords jumped out of their

sheaths, and resistance was offered out of all proportion to the threat.

The man who seemed to be the captain of the patrol smiled somewhat

grimly when he saw himself confronted by this phalanx of gentlemanly

weapons. He was a tall, burly fellow, broad of shoulder and well-looking

in his uniform of red with yellow facings; his round bullet-shaped head,

covered by the round steel cap, was suggestive of obstinacy, even of

determination.

He eyed the flushed and excited throng with some amusement not wholly

unmixed with contempt. Oh! he knew some of the faces well enough by

sight--for he had originally served in the train-bands of London, and

had oft seen my Lord Walterton, for instance, conspicuous at every

entertainment--now pronounced illicit by His Highness, and Sir Anthony

Bridport, a constant frequenter at Exeter House, and young Lord

Naythmire the son of the Judge. He also had certainly seen young Segrave

before this, whose father had been a member of the Long Parliament; the

only face that was totally strange to him was that of the youngster in

the dark suit of grogram, who stood somewhat aloof from the irate crowd,

and seemed to be viewing the scene with astonishment rather than with

alarm.

Lord Walterton, flushed with wine, more than with anger, constituted

himself the spokesman of the party:

"Who are you?" he asked somewhat unsteadily, "and what do you want?"

"My name is Gunning," replied the man curtly, "captain commanding His

Highness' police. What I want is that you gentlemen offer no resistance,

but come with me quietly to answer on the morrow before Judge Parry, a

charge of contravening the laws against betting and gambling."

A ribald and prolonged laugh greeted this brief announcement, and some

twenty pairs of gentlemanly shoulders were shrugged in token of

derision.

"Hark at the man!" quoth Sir James Overbury lightly, "methinks,

gentlemen, that our wisest course would be to put up our swords and to

throw the fellows downstairs, what say you?"

"Aye! aye!" came in cheerful accents from the defiant little group.

"Out with you fellow, we've no time to waste in bandying words with ye

..." said Walterton, with the tone of one accustomed to see the churl

ever cringe before the lord, "and let one of thy myrmidons touch a thing

in this room if he dare!"

The young cavalier was standing somewhat in advance of his friends,

having stepped forward in order to emphasize the peremptoriness of his

words. The women were still in the background well protected by a

phalanx of resolute defenders who, encouraged by the captain's silence

and Walterton's haughty attitude, were prepared to force the patrol of

police to beat a hasty retreat.

Endicott and his wife had seemed to think it prudent to keep well out of

sight: the former having yielded to Gunning's advance had discreetly

retired amongst the petticoats.

No one, least of all Walterton, who remained the acknowledged leader of

the little party of gamesters, had any idea of the numerical strength of

the patrol whose interference with gentlemanly pastimes was

unwarrantable and passing insolent. In the gloom on the landing beyond,

a knot of men could only be vaguely discerned. Captain Gunning and his

lieutenant, Bradden, had alone advanced into the room.

But now apparently Gunning gave some sign, which Bradden then

interpreted to the men outside. The sign itself must have been very

slight for none of the cavaliers perceived it--certainly no actual word

of command had been spoken, but the next moment--within thirty seconds

of Walterton's defiant speech, the room itself, the doorway and

apparently the landing and staircase too, were filled with men, each one

attired in scarlet and yellow, all wearing leather doublets and steel

caps, and all armed with musketoons which they were even now pointing

straight at the serried ranks of the surprised and wholly unprepared

gamesters.

"I would fain not give an order to fire," said Captain Gunning curtly,

"and if you, gentlemen, will follow me quietly, there need be no

bloodshed."

It may be somewhat unromantic but it is certainly prudent, to listen at

times to the dictates of common sense, and one of wisdom's most cogent

axioms is undoubtedly that it is useless to stand up before a volley of

musketry at a range of less than twelve feet, unless a heroic death is

in contemplation.

It was certainly very humiliating to be ordered about by a close-cropped

Puritan, who spoke in nasal tones, and whose father probably had mended

boots or killed pigs in his day, but the persuasion of twenty-four

musketoons, whose muzzles pointed collectively in one direction, was

bound--in the name of common sense--to prevail ultimately.

Of a truth, none of these gentlemen--who were now content to oppose a

comprehensive vocabulary of English and French oaths to the brand-new

weapons of my Lord Protector's police--were cowards in any sense of the

word. Less than a decade ago they had proved their mettle not only sword

in hand, but in the face of the many privations, sorrows and

humiliations consequent on the failure of their cause and the defeat,

and martyrdom of their king. There was, therefore, nothing mean or

pusillanimous in their attitude when having exhausted their vocabulary

of oaths and still seeing before them the muzzles of four-and-twenty

musketoons pointed straight at them, they one after another dropped

their sword points and turned to read in each other's faces uniform

desire to surrender to _force majeure_.

The Captain watched them--impassive and silent--until the moment when he

too, could discern in the sullen looks cast at him by some twenty pairs

of eyes, that these elegant gentlemen had conquered their impulse to

hot-headed resistance.

But the four-and-twenty musketoons were still leveled, nor did the

round-headed Captain give the order to lower the firearms.

"I can release most of you, gentlemen, on parole," he said, "an you'll

surrender your swords to me, you may go home this night, under promise

to attend the Court to-morrow morning."

Bradden in the meanwhile had gone to the inner door and finding it

locked had ordered his companion to break it open. It yielded to the

first blow dealt with a vigorous shoulder. The lieutenant went into the

room, but finding it empty, he returned and soon was busy in collecting

the various "_pièces de convictions_," which would go to substantiate

the charges of gambling and betting against these noble gentlemen. No

resistance now was offered, and after a slight moment of hesitation and

a brief consultation 'twixt the more prominent cavaliers there present,

Lord Walterton stepped forward and having unbuckled his sword, threw it

with no small measure of arrogance and disdain at the feet of Captain

Gunning.

His example was followed by all his friends, Gunning with arms folded

across his chest, watching the proceeding in silence. When Endicott

stood before him, however, he said curtly:

"Not you, I think. Meseems I know you too well, fine sir, to release you

on parole. Bradden," he added, turning to his lieutenant, "have this

man duly guarded and conveyed to Queen's Head Alley to-night."

Then as Endicott tried to protest, and Gunning gave a sharp order for

his immediate removal, Segrave pushed his way forward; he wore no sword,

and like Lambert, had stood aloof throughout this brief scene of

turbulent yet futile resistance, sullen, silent, and burning with a

desire for revenge against the man who had turned the current of his

luck, and brought him back to that abyss of despair, whence he now knew

there could be no release.

"Captain," he said firmly, "though I wear no sword I am at one with all

these gentlemen, and I accept my release on parole. To-morrow I will

answer for my offense of playing cards, which apparently, is an illicit

pastime. I am one of the pigeons who have been plucked in this house."

"By that gentleman?" queried Gunning with a grim smile and nodding over

his shoulder in the direction where Endicott was being led away by a

couple of armed men.

"No! not by him!" replied Segrave boldly.

With a somewhat theatrical gesture he pointed to Lambert, who, more of a

spectator than a participant in the scene, had been standing mutely by

outside the defiant group, absorbed in his own misery, wondering what

effect the present unforeseen juncture would have on his future chances

of rehabilitating himself.

He was also vaguely wondering what had become of Sir Marmaduke and

Mistress de Chavasse.

But now Segrave's voice was raised, and once more Lambert found himself

the cynosure of a number of hostile glances.

"There stands the man who has robbed us all," said Segrave wildly, "and

now he has heaped disgrace upon us, upon me and mine.... Curse him! ...

curse him, I say!" he continued, whilst all the pent-up fury, forcibly

kept in check all this while by the advent of the police, now once more

found vent in loud vituperation and almost maniacal expressions of rage.

"Liar ... cheat! ... Look at him, Captain! there stands the man who must

bear the full brunt of the punishment, for he is the decoy, he is the

thief! ... The pillory for him ... the pillory ... the lash ... the

brand! ... Curse him! ... Curse him! ... the thief! ..."

He was surrounded and forcibly silenced. The foam had risen to his lips,

impotent fury and agonized despair had momentarily clouded his brain.

Lambert tried to speak, but the Captain, unwilling to prolong a conflict

over which he was powerless to arbitrate, gave a sign to Bradden and

anon the two young men were led away in the wake of Endicott.

The others on giving their word that they would appear before the Court

on the morrow, and answer to the charge preferred against them, were

presently allowed to walk out of the room in single file between a

double row of soldiers whose musketoons were still unpleasantly

conspicuous.

Thus they passed out one by one, across the passage and down the dark

staircase. The door below they found was also guarded; as well as the

passage and the archway giving on the street.

Here they were permitted to collect or disperse at will. The ladies,

however, had not been allowed to participate in the order for release.

Gunning knew most of them by sight,--they were worthy neither of

consideration nor respect,--paid satellites of Mistress Endicott's,

employed to keep up the good spirits of that lady's clientèle.

The soldiers drove them all together before them, in a compact,

shrinking and screaming group. Then the word of command was given. The

soldiers stood at attention, turned and finally marched out of the room

with their prisoners, Gunning being the last to leave.

He locked the door behind him and in the wake of his men presently

wended his way down the tortuous staircase.

Once more the measured tramp was heard reverberating through the house,

the cry of "Attention!" of "Quick march!" echoed beneath the passage

and the tumble-down archway, and anon the last of these ominous sounds

died away down the dismal street in the direction of the river.

And in one of the attics at the top of the now silent and lonely house

in Bath Street--lately the scene of so much gayety and joy, of such

turmoil of passions and intensity of despair--two figures, a man and a

woman, crouched together in a dark corner, listening for the last dying

echo of that measured tramp.

PART III

CHAPTER XXI

IN THE MEANWHILE

The news of the police raid on a secret gambling club in London,

together with the fracas which it entailed, had of necessity reached

even as far as sea-girt Thanet. Squire Boatfield had been the first to

hear of it; he spread the news as fast as he could, for he was overfond

of gossip, and Dame Harrison over at St. Lawrence had lent him able

assistance.

Sir Marmaduke had, of course, the fullest details concerning the affair,

for he himself owned to having been present in the very house where the

disturbance had occurred. He was not averse to his neighbors knowing

that he was a frequenter of those exclusive and smart gambling clubs,

which were avowedly the resort of the most elegant cavaliers of the day,

and his account of some of the events of that memorable night had been

as entertaining as it was highly-colored.

He avowed, however, that, disgusted at Richard Lambert's shameful

conduct, he had quitted the place early, some little while before my

Lord Protector's police had made a descent upon the gamblers. As for

Mistress de Chavasse, her name was never mentioned in connection with

the affair. She had been in London at the time certainly, staying with

a friend, who was helping her in the choice of a new gown for the coming

autumn.

She returned to Acol Court with her brother-in-law, apparently as

horrified as he was at the disgrace which she vowed Richard Lambert had

heaped upon them all.

The story of the young man being caught in the very act of cheating at

cards lost nothing in the telling. He had been convicted before Judge

Parry of obtaining money by lying and other illicit means, had been

condemned to fine and imprisonment and as he refused to pay the

former--most obstinately declaring that he was penniless--he was made to

stand for two hours in the pillory, and was finally dragged through the

streets in a rickety cart in full sight of a jeering crowd, sitting with

his back to the nag in company of the public hangman, and attired in

shameful and humiliating clothes.

What happened to him after undergoing this wonderfully lenient

sentence--for many there were who thought he should have been publicly

whipped and branded as a cheat--nobody knew or cared.

They kept him in prison for over ten weeks, it seems, but Sir Marmaduke

did not know what had become of him since then.

The other gentlemen got off fairly lightly with fines and brief periods

of imprisonment. Young Segrave, so 'twas said, had been shipped to New

England by his father, but Master and Mistress Endicott had gone beyond

the seas at the expense of the State, and not for their own pleasure or

advancement. It appears that my Lord Protector's vigilance patrol had

kept a very sharp eye on these two people, who had more than once had to

answer for illicit acts before the Courts. They tried in a most shameful

manner it appears, to implicate Sir Marmaduke and Mistress de Chavasse

in their disgrace, but as the former very pertinently remarked, "How

could he, a simple Kentish squire have aught to do with a smart London

club? and people of such evil repute as the Endicotts could of a truth

never be believed."

All these rumors and accounts had, of course, also reached Sue's ears.

At first she took up an attitude of aggressive incredulity when her

former friend was accused: nothing but the plain facts as set forth in

the _Public Advertiser_ of August the 5th would convince her that

Richard Lambert could be so base and mean as Sir Marmaduke had averred.

Even then, in her innermost heart, a vague and indefinable instinct

called out to her in Lambert's name, not to believe all that was said of

him. She could not think of him as lying, and cheating at a game of

cards, when common sense itself told her that he was not sufficiently

conversant with its rules to turn them to his own advantage. Her

hot-headed partisanship of him gave way of necessity as the weeks sped

by, to a more passive disapproval of his condemnation, and this in its

turn to a kindly charity for what she thought must have been his

ignorance rather than his sin.

What worried her most was that he was not nigh her, now that her

sentimental romance was reaching its super-acute crisis. During her

guardian's temporary absence from Acol she had made earnest and resolute

efforts to see her mysterious lover. She thought that he must know that

Sir Marmaduke and Mistress de Chavasse were away and that she herself

was free momentarily from watchful eyes.

Yet though with pathetic persistence she haunted the park and the

woodlands around the Court, she never even once caught sight of the

broad-brimmed hat and drooping plume of her romantic prince. It seemed

as if the earth had swallowed him up.

Upset and vaguely terrified, she had on one occasion thrown prudence to

the winds and sought out the old Quakeress and Adam Lambert with whom he

lodged. But the old Quakeress was very deaf, and explanations with her

were laborious and unsatisfactory, whilst Adam seemed to entertain a

sullen and irresponsible dislike for the foreigner.

All she gathered from these two was that there was nothing unusual in

this sudden disappearance of their lodger. He came and went most

erratically, went no one knew whither, returned at most unexpected

moments, never slept more than an hour or two in his bed which he

quitted at amazingly early hours, strolling out of the cottage when all

decent folk were just beginning their night's rest, and wandering off

unseen, unheard, only to return as he had gone.

He paid his money for his room regularly, however, and this was vastly

acceptable these hard times.

But to Sue it was passing strange that her prince should be out of her

reach, just when Sir Marmaduke's and Mistress de Chavasse's absence had

made their meetings more easy and pleasant.

Yet with it all, she was equally conscious of an unaccountable feeling

of relief, and every evening, when at about eight o'clock she returned

homewards after having vainly awaited the prince, there was nothing of

the sadness and disappointment in her heart which a maiden should feel

when she has failed to see her lover.

She was just as much in love with him as ever!--oh! of that she felt

quite sure! she still thrilled at thought of his heroic martyrdom for

the cause which he had at heart, she still was conscious of a wonderful

feeling of elation when she was with him, and of pride when she saw this

remarkable hero, this selfless patriot at her feet, and heard his

impassioned declarations of love, even when these were alloyed with

frantic outbursts of jealousy. She still yearned for him when she did

not see him, even though she dreaded his ill-humor when he was nigh.

She had promised to be his wife, soon and in secret, for he had vowed

that she did not love him if she condemned him to three long months of

infinite torture from jealousy and suspense.

This promise she had given him freely and whole-heartedly more than a

fortnight ago. Since that memorable evening when she had thus plighted

her troth to him, when she had without a shadow of fear or a tremor of

compunction entrusted her entire future, her heart and soul to his

keeping, since then she had not seen him.

Sir Marmaduke had gone to London, also Mistress de Chavasse, and she had

not even caught sight of the weird silhouette of her French prince.

Lambert, too, had gone, put out of her way temporarily--or mayhap,

forever--through the irresistible force of a terrible disgrace. There

was no one to spy on her movements, no one to dog her footsteps, yet she

had not seen him.

When her guardian returned, he seemed so engrossed with Lambert's

misdeeds that he gave little thought to his ward. He and Mistress de

Chavasse were closeted together for hours in the small withdrawing-room,

whilst she was left to roam about the house and grounds unchallenged.

Then at last one evening--it was late August then--when despair had

begun to grip her heart, and she herself had become the prey of vague

fears, of terrors for his welfare, his life mayhap, on which he had oft

told her that the vengeful King of France had set a price--one evening

he came to greet her walking through the woods, treading the soft carpet

of moss with a light elastic step.

Oh! that had been a rapturous evening! one which she oft strove to

recall, now that sadness had once more overwhelmed her. He had been all

tenderness, all love, all passion! He vowed that he adored her as an

idolater would worship his divinity. Jealous? oh, yes! madly, insanely

jealous! for she was fair above all women and sweet and pure and

tempting to all men like some ripe and juicy fruit ready to fall into a

yearning hand.

But his jealousy took on a note of melancholy and of humility. He

worshiped her so and wished to feel her all his own. She listened

entranced, forgetting her terrors, her disappointments, the vague ennui

which had assailed her of late. She yielded herself to the delights of

his caresses, to the joy of this hour of solitude and rapture. The night

was close and stormy; from afar, muffled peals of thunder echoed through

the gigantic elms, whilst vivid flashes of lightning weirdly lit up at

times the mysterious figure of this romantic lover, with his face

forever in shadow, one eye forever hidden behind a black band, his voice

forever muffled.

But it was a tempestuous wooing, a renewal of that happy evening in the

spring--oh! so long ago it seemed now!--when first he had poured in her

ear the wild torrents of his love. The girl--so young, so inexperienced,

so romantic--was literally swept off her feet; she listened to his wild

words, yielded her lips to his kiss, and whilst she half feared the

impetuosity of his mood, she delighted in the very terrors it evoked.

A secret marriage? Why, of course! since he suffered so terribly through

not feeling her all his own. Soon!--at once!--at Dover before the

clergyman at All Souls, with whom he--her prince--had already spoken.

Yes! it would have to be at Dover, for the neighboring villages might

prove too dangerous. Sir Marmaduke might hear of it, mayhap. It would

rest with her to free herself for one day.

Then came that delicious period of scheming, of stage-managing

everything for the all-important day. He would arrange about a chaise,

and she should walk up to the Canterbury Road to meet it. He would await

her in the church at Dover, for 'twas best that they should not be seen

together until after the happy knot was tied, when he declared that he

would be ready to defy the universe.

It had been a long interview, despite the tempest that raged above and

around them. The great branches of the elms groaned and cracked under

fury of the wind, the thunder pealed overhead and then died away with

slow majesty out towards the sea. From afar could be heard the angry

billows dashing themselves against the cliffs.

They had to seek shelter under the colonnaded porch of the summerhouse,

and Sue had much ado to keep the heavy drops of rain from reaching her

shoes and the bottom of her kirtle.

But she was attune with the storm, she loved to hear the weird sh-sh-sh

of the leaves, the monotonous drip of the rain on the roof of the summer

house, and in the intervals of intense blackness to catch sight of her

lover's face, pale of hue, with one large eye glancing cyclops-like into

hers, as a vivid flash of lightning momentarily tore the darkness

asunder and revealed him still crouching at her feet.

Intense lassitude followed the wild mental turmoil of that night. She

had arranged to meet him again two days hence in order to repeat to him

what she had heard the while of Sir Marmaduke's movements, and when she

was like to be free to go to Dover. During those intervening two days

she tried hard to probe her own thoughts; her mind, her feelings: but

what she found buried in the innermost recesses of her heart frightened

her so, that she gave up thinking.

She lay awake most of the night, telling herself how much she loved her

prince; she spent half a day in the perusal of a strange book called

_The Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet_ by one William Shakespeare who had

lived not so long ago: and found herself pondering as to whether her own

sentiments with regard to her prince were akin to those so exquisitely

expressed by those two young people who had died because they loved one

another so dearly.

Then she heard that towards the end of the week Sir Marmaduke and

Mistress de Chavasse would be journeying together to Canterbury in order

to confer with Master Skyffington the lawyer, anent her own fortune,

which was to be handed to her in its entirety in less than three months,

when she would be of age.

CHAPTER XXII

BREAKING THE NEWS

Sir Marmaduke talked openly of this plan of going to Canterbury with

Editha de Chavasse, mentioning the following Friday as the most likely

date 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 his

passion and more of his plans, in which now she would have her full

share. He confided some of his schemes to her: they were somewhat vague

and not easy to understand, but the manner in which he put them before

her, made them seem wonderfully noble and selfless.

In a measure this evening--so calm and peaceful in contrast to the

turbulence of the other night--marked one of the great crises in the

history of her love. Even when she heard that Fate itself was conspiring

to help on the clandestine marriage by causing Sir Marmaduke and

Mistress de Chavasse to absent themselves at a most opportune moment,

she had resolved to break the news to her lover of her own immense

wealth.

Of this he was still in total ignorance. One or two innocent remarks

which he had let fall at different times convinced her of that. Nor was

this ignorance of his to be wondered at: he saw no one in or about the

village except the old Quakeress and Adam Lambert with whom he lodged.

The woman was deaf and uncommunicative, whilst there seemed to be some

sort of tacit enmity against the foreigner, latent in the mind of the

blacksmith. It was, therefore, quite natural that he should suppose her

no whit less poor than Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse or the other

neighboring Kentish squires whose impecuniousness was too blatant a fact

to be unknown even to a stranger in the land.

Sue, therefore, was eagerly looking forward to the happy moment when she

would explain to her prince that her share in the wonderful enterprise

which he always vaguely spoke of as his "great work" would not merely be

one of impassiveness. Where he could give the benefit of his

personality, his eloquence, his knowledge of men and things, she could

add the weight of her wealth.

Of course she was very, very young, but already from him she had

realized that it is impossible even to regenerate mankind and give it

political and religious freedom without the help of money.

Prince Amédé d'Orléans himself was passing rich: the fact that he chose

to hide in a lonely English village and to live as a poor man would

live, was only a part of his schemes. For the moment, too, owing to that

ever-present vengefulness of the King of France, his estates and

revenues were under sequestration. All this Sue understood full well,

and it added quite considerably to her joy to think that soon she could

relieve the patriot and hero from penury, and that the news that she

could do so would be a glad surprise for him.

Nor must Lady Sue Aldmarshe on this account be condemned for an ignorant

or a vain fool. Though she was close on twenty-one years of age, she had

had absolutely no experience of the world or of mankind: all she knew of

either had been conceived in the imaginings of her own romantic brain.

Her entire childhood, her youth and maidenhood had gone by in silent and

fanciful dreamings, whilst one of the greatest conflicts the world had

ever 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 avowedly

upon a very simple plan. Most of the noble ladies of that time knew not

how to spell--most of them were content to let the world go by them,

without giving it thought or care, others had accomplished prodigies of

valor, 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 being

accomplished, and her father died before she had reached the age when

she could take an active part in the great questions of the day. A

mother she had never known, she had no brothers and sisters. A brief

time under the care of an old aunt and a duenna in a remote Surrey

village, and her stay at Pegwell Court under Sir Marmaduke's

guardianship, was all that she had ever seen of life.

Prince Amédé d'Orléans was the embodiment of all her dreams--or nearly

so! The real hero of her dreams had been handsomer, and also more gentle

and more trusting, but on the whole, he had not been one whit more

romantic in his personality and his doings.

The manner in which he received the news that unbeknown to him, he had

been wooing one of the richest brides in the land, was characteristic of

him. He seemed boundlessly disappointed.

It was a beautiful clear night and she could see his face quite

distinctly, and could note how its former happy expression was marred

suddenly by a look of sorrow. He owned to being disappointed. He had

loved the idea, so he explained, of taking her to him, just as she was,

beautiful beyond compare, but penniless--having only her exquisite self

to give.

Oh! the joy after that of coaxing him back to smiles! the pride of

proving herself his Egeria for the nonce, teaching him how to look upon

wealth merely as a means for attaining his great ends, for continuing

his 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 the

main road in a torrent of pouring rain: the long drive in the stuffy

chaise, the arrival just in time for the brief--very brief--ceremony in

the dark church, with the clergyman in a plain black gown muttering

unintelligible words, and the local verger and the church cleaner acting

as the witnesses to her marriage.

Her marriage!

How differently had she conceived that great, that wonderful day, the

turning point of a maiden's life. Music, flowers, beautiful gowns and

sweet scents filling the air! the sunlight peeping gold, red, purple or

blue through the glass windows of some exquisite cathedral! The

bridegroom arrayed in white, full of joy and pride, she the bride with a

veil 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 music

which greeted her ears. The rain beating against the broken

window-panes, through which icy cold draughts of damp air reached her

shoulders and caused her to shiver beneath her kerchief. She wore her

pretty dove-colored gown, but it was not new nor had she a veil over her

face, only a straw hat such as countrywomen wore, for though she was an

heiress and passing rich, her guardian did but ill provide her with

smart clothing.

And the bridegroom?

He had been waiting for her inside the church, and seemed impatient

when she arrived. No one had helped her to alight from the rickety

chaise, and she had to run in the pouring rain, through the miserable

and deserted churchyard.

His face seemed to scowl as she finally stood up beside him, in front of

that black-gowned man, who was to tie between them the sacred and

irrevocable knot of matrimony. His hand had perceptibly trembled when he

slipped the ring on her finger, whilst she felt that her own was

irresponsive and icy cold.

She tried to speak the fateful "I will!" buoyantly and firmly, but

somehow--owing to the cold, mayhap--the two little words almost died

down in her throat.

Aye! it had all been very gloomy, and inexpressibly sad. The

ceremony--the dear, sweet, sacred ceremony which was to give her wholly

to him, him unreservedly to her--was mumbled and hurried through in less

than ten minutes.

Her bridegroom said not a word. Together they went into the tiny vestry

and she was told to sign her name in a big book, which the bald-headed

parson 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 that

she was now legally and irretrievably the wife of Amédé Henri, Prince

d'Orléans, de Bourgogne and several other places and dependencies

abroad.

She also understood from what the bald-headed clergyman had spoken when

he stood before them in the church and read the marriage service that

she as the wife owed obedience to her husband in all things, for she had

solemnly sworn so to do. She herself, body and soul and mind, her goods

and chattels, her wealth and all belongings were from henceforth the

property of her husband.

Yes, she had sworn to all that, willingly, and there was no going back

on 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 found

herself wondering what it was through it all that had seemed so

terrifying to her, so strange, so unreal.

Something had struck her as weird: something which she could not then

define; but she was quite sure that it was not merely the unusual

chilliness of that rainy summer's day, which had caused her to tremble

so, 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 ill

lighted by a tiny very dusty window--she had never seen quite so clearly

before, and then it was that that amazing sense of something awful and

unreal had descended upon her like a clammy shroud.

He had very swiftly averted his own gaze from her, but she had seen

something in his face which she did not understand, over which she had

pondered ever since without coming to any solution of this terrible

riddle.

She had pondered over it during that interminable journey back from

Dover to Acol. Her husband had not even suggested accompanying her on

her homeward way, nor did she ask him to do so. She did not even think

it strange that he gave her no explanation of the reason why he should

not return to his lodgings at Acol. She felt like a somnambulist, and

wondered how soon she would wake and find herself in her small and

uncomfortable bed at the Court.

The next day that feeling of unreality was still there; that sensation

of mystery, of something supernatural which persistently haunted her.

One thing was quite sure; that all joy had gone out of her life. It was

possible that love was still there--she did not know--she was too young

to understand the complex sensations which suddenly had made a woman of

her ... but it was a joyless love now: and all that she knew of a

certainty about her own feelings at the present was that she hoped she

would never have to gaze into her lover's face again ... and ... Heaven

help her! ... that he might never touch her again with his lips.

Obedient to his behests--hurriedly spoken as she stepped into the chaise

at Dover after the marriage ceremony--she had wandered out every

evening 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 a

pungent smell of dahlias and of oak-leaved geraniums to her nostrils,

which helped her to throw off that miserable feeling of mental lassitude

which had weighed her down ever since that fateful day at Dover. She

walked slowly along, treading the young tendrils of the moss, watching

with wistful eyes the fleecy clouds, as they appeared through the

branches of the elms, scurrying swiftly out towards the sea ... out

towards freedom.

But evening after evening passed away, and she saw no sign of him. She

felt the futility, the humiliating uselessness of these nightly

peregrinations in search of a man who seemed to have a hundred more

desirable occupations than that of meeting his wife. But she had not the

power to drift out towards freedom now. She obeyed mechanically because

she must. She had sworn to obey and he had bidden her come and wait for

him.

August yielded to September, the oak-leaved geraniums withered whilst

from tangled bosquets the melancholy eyes of the Michaelmas daisies

peeped out questioningly upon the coming autumn.

Then one evening his voice suddenly sounded close to her ear, causing

her to utter a quickly-smothered cry. It had been the one dull day

throughout this past glorious month, the night was dark and a warm

drizzle had soaked through to her shoulders and wetted the bottom of her

kirtle so that it hung heavy and dank round her ankles. He had come to

her as usual from out the gloom, just as she was about to cross the

little bridge which spanned the sunk fence.

She realized then, with one of those sudden quivers of her

sensibilities, to which, alas! she had become so accustomed of late,

that he had always met her thus in the gloom--always chosen nights when

she could scarce see him distinctly, and this recollection still further

enhanced that eerie feeling of terror which had assailed her since that

fateful moment in the vestry.

But she tried to be natural and even gay with him, though at the first

words of tender reproach with which she gently chided him for his

prolonged absence, he broke into one of those passionate accesses of

fury which had always frightened her, but now left her strangely cold

and 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 to

kiss her.

For this she was immeasurably grateful.

He was obviously constrained, and so was she, and when she opposed a

cold silence to his outburst of passion, he immediately, and seemingly

without any effort, changed his tone and talked more reasonably, even

glibly of his work, which he said was awaiting him now in France.

Everything was ready there, he explained, for the great political

propaganda which he had planned and which could be commenced

immediately.

All that was needed now was the money. In what manner it would be needed

and for what definite purpose he did not condescend to explain, nor did

she care to ask. But she told him that she would be sole mistress of her

fortune 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 at

regular intervals during the six weeks which would intervene until the

great day when she would be free to proclaim her marriage and place

herself unreservedly in the hands of her husband.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE ABSENT FRIEND

The prince kept his word, and she was fairly free to see him at least

once a week, somewhere within the leafy thicknesses of the park or in

the woods, usually at the hour when dusk finally yields to the

overwhelming embrace of night.

Sir Marmaduke was away. In London or Canterbury, she could not say, but

she had scarcely seen him since that terrible time, when he came back

from town having left Richard Lambert languishing in disgrace and in

prison.

Oh! how she missed the silent and thoughtful friend who in those days of

pride and of joy had angered her so, because he seemed to stand for

conscience and for prudence, when she only thought of happiness and of

love.

There was an almost humiliating isolation about her now. Nobody seemed

to care whither she went, nor when she came home. Mistress de Chavasse

talked from time to time about Sue's infatuation for the mysterious

foreign adventurer, but always as if this were a thing of the past, and

from which Sue herself had long since recovered.

Thus there was no one to say her nay, when she went out into the garden

after evening repast, and stayed there until the shades of night had

long since wrapped the old trees in gloom.

And strangely enough this sense of freedom struck her with a chill sense

of loneliness. She would have loved to suddenly catch sight of Lambert's

watchful figure, and to hear his somewhat harsh voice, warning her

against the foreigner.

This had been wont to irritate her twelve weeks ago. How mysteriously

everything had altered round her!

And yearning for her friend, she wondered what had become of him. The

last she had heard was toward the middle of October when Sir Marmaduke,

home from one of his frequent journeyings, one day said that Lambert had

been released after ten weeks spent in prison, but that he could not say

whither he had gone since then.

All Sue's questionings anent the young man only brought forth violent

vituperations from Sir Marmaduke, and cold words of condemnation from

Mistress de Chavasse; therefore, she soon desisted, storing up in her

heart pathetic memories of the one true friend she had in the world.

She saw without much excitement, and certainly without tremor, the rapid

advance of that date early in November when she would perforce have to

leave Acol Court in order to follow her husband whithersoever he chose

to command her.

The last time that they had met there had been a good deal of talk

between them, about her fortune and its future disposal. He declared

himself ready to administer it all himself, as he professed a distrust

of those who had watched over it so far--Master Skyffington, the lawyer,

and Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse, both under the control of the Court of

Chancery.

She explained to him that the bulk of her wealth consisted of

obligations and shares in the Levant and Russian Companies, her mother

having been the only daughter and heiress of Peter Ford the great

Levantine and Oriental merchant; her marriage with the proud Earl of

Dover having caused no small measure of comment in Court circles in

those days.

There were also deeds of property owned in Holland, grants of monopolies

for trading given by Ivan the Terrible to her grandfather, and receipts

for moneys deposited in the great banks of Amsterdam and Vienna. Master

Skyffington had charge of all those papers now: they represented nearly

five hundred thousand pounds of money and she told her husband that they

would all be placed in her own keeping, the day she was of age.

He appeared to lend an inattentive ear to all these explanations, which

she gave in those timid tones, which had lately become habitual to her,

but once--when she made a slip, and talked about a share which she

possessed in the Russian Company being worth £50,000, he corrected her

and said it was a good deal more, and gave her some explanations as to

the real distribution of her capital, which astonished her by their

lucidity and left her vaguely wondering how it happened that he knew.

She had finally to promise to come to him at the cottage in Acol on the

2d of November--her twenty-first birthday--directly after her interview

with the lawyer and with her guardian, and having obtained possession of

all the share papers, the obligations, the grants of monopolies and the

receipts from the Amsterdam and Vienna banks, to forthwith bring them

over to the cottage and place them unreservedly in her husband's hands.

And she would in her simplicity and ignorance gladly have given every

scrap of paper--now in Master Skyffington's charge--in exchange for a

return of those happy illusions which had surrounded the early history

of her love with a halo of romance. She would have given this mysterious

prince, now her husband, all the money that he wanted for this wonderful

"great work" of his, if he would but give her back some of that

enthusiastic belief in him which had so mysteriously been killed within

her, that fateful moment in the vestry at Dover.

CHAPTER XXIV

NOVEMBER THE 2D

A dreary day, with a leaden sky overhead and the monotonous patter of

incessant rain against the window panes.

Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse had just come downstairs, and opening the door

which lead from the hall to the small withdrawing-room on the right, he

saw Mistress de Chavasse, half-sitting, half-crouching in one of the

stiff-backed chairs, which she had drawn close to the fire.

There was a cheerful blaze on the hearth, and the room itself--being

small--always looked cozier than any other at Acol Court.

Nevertheless, Editha's face was pallid and drawn, and she stared into

the fire with eyes which seemed aglow with anxiety and even with fear.

Her cloak was tied loosely about her shoulders, and at sight of Sir

Marmaduke she started, then rising hurriedly, she put her hood over her

head, and went towards the door.

"Ah! my dear Editha!" quoth her brother-in-law, lightly greeting her,

"up betimes like the lark I see.... Are you going without?" he added as

she made a rapid movement to brush past him and once more made for the

door.

"Yes!" she replied dully, "I must fain move about ... tire myself out

if I can ... I am consumed with anxiety."

"Indeed?" he retorted blandly, "why should you be anxious? Everything is

going splendidly ... and to-night at the latest a fortune of nigh on

£500,000 will be placed in my hands by a fond and adoring woman."

He caught the glitter in her eyes, that suggestion of power and of

unspoken threats which she had adopted since the episode in the Bath

Street house. For an instant an ugly frown further disfigured his sour

face: but this frown was only momentary, it soon gave way to a suave

smile. He took her hand and lightly touched it with his lips.

"After which, my dear Editha," he said, "I shall be able to fulfill

those obligations, which my heart originally dictated."

She seemed satisfied at this assurance, for she now spoke in less

aggressive tones:

"Are you so sure of the girl, Marmaduke?" she asked.

"Absolutely," he replied, his thoughts reverting to a day spent at Dover

nearly three months ago, when a knot was tied of which fair Editha was

not aware, but which rendered Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse very sure of a

fortune.

"Yet you have oft told me that Sue's love for her mysterious prince had

vastly cooled of late!" urged Editha still anxiously.

"Why yes! forsooth!" he retorted grimly, "Sue's sentimental fancy for

the romantic exile hath gone the way of all such unreasoning

attachments; but she has ventured too far to draw back.... And she will

not draw back," he concluded significantly.

"Have a care, Marmaduke! ... the girl is more willful than ye wot of....

You may strain at a cord until it snap."

"Pshaw!" he said, with a shrug of his wide shoulders, "you are suffering

from vapors, my dear Editha ... or you would grant me more knowledge of

how to conduct mine own affairs.... Do you remember, perchance, that the

bulk of Sue's fortune will be handed over to her this day?"

"Aye! I remember!"

"Begad, then to-night I'll have that bulk out of her hands. You may take

an oath on that!" he declared savagely.

"And afterwards?" she asked simply.

"Afterwards?"

"Yes ... afterwards? ... when Sue has discovered how she has been

tricked? ... Are you not afraid of what she might do? ... Even though

her money may pass into your hands ... even though you may inveigle her

into a clandestine marriage ... she is still the daughter of the late

Earl of Dover ... she has landed estates, wealth, rich and powerful

relations.... There must be an 'afterwards,' remember! ..."

His ironical laugh grated on her nerves, as he replied lightly:

"Pshaw! my dear Editha! of a truth you are not your own calm self

to-day, else you had understood that forsooth! in the love affairs of

Prince Amédé d'Orléans and Lady Susannah Aldmarshe there must and can be

no 'afterwards.'"

"I don't understand you."

"Yet, 'tis simple enough. Sue is my wife."

"Your wife! ..." she exclaimed.

"Hush! An you want to scream, I pray you question me not, for what I say

is bound to startle you. Sue is my wife. I married her, having obtained

a special license to do so in the name of Prince Amédé Henri d'Orléans,

and all the rest of the romantic paraphernalia. She is my wife, and

therefore, her money and fortune are mine, every penny of it, without

question or demur."

"She will appeal to the Court to have the marriage annulled ... she'll

rouse public indignation against you to such a pitch that you'll not be

able to look one of your kith and kin in the face.... The whole shameful

story of the mysterious French prince ... your tricks to win the hand of

your ward by lying, cheating and willful deceit will resound from one

end of the country to the other.... What is the use of a mint of money

if you have to herd with outcasts, and not an honest man will shake you

by the hand?"

"None, my dear Editha, none," he replied quietly, "and 'tis of still

less use for you to rack your nerves in order to place before me a

gruesome picture of the miserable social pariah which I should become,

if the story of my impersonation of a romantic exile for the purpose of

capturing the hand of my ward came to the ears of those in authority."

"Whither it doubtless would come!" she affirmed hotly.

"Whither it doubtless would come," he assented, "and therefore, my dear

Editha, once the money is safely in my hands I will leave her Royal

Highness the Princesse d'Orléans in full possession, not only of her

landed estates but of the freedom conferred on her by widowhood, for

Prince Amédé, her husband, will vanish like the beautiful dream which he

always was."

"But how? ... how?" she reiterated, puzzled, anxious, scenting some

nefarious scheme more unavowable even than the last.

"Ah! time will show! ... But he will vanish, my dear Editha, take my

word on it. Shall we say that he will fly up into the clouds and her

Highness the Princess will know him no more?"

"Then why have married her?" she exclaimed: some womanly instinct within

her crying out against this outrage. "'Twas cruel and unnecessary."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Cruel perhaps! ... But surely no more than necessary. I doubt if she

would have entrusted her fortune to anyone but her husband."

"Had she ceased to trust her romantic prince then?"

"Perhaps. At any rate, I chose to make sure of the prize.... I have

worked hard to get it and would not fail for lack of a simple ceremony

... moreover ..."

"Moreover?"

"Moreover, my dear Editha, there is always the possibility ... remote,

no doubt ... but nevertheless tangible ... that at some time or other

... soon or late--who knows?--the little deception practiced on Lady Sue

may come to the light of day.... In that case, even if the marriage be

annulled on the ground of fraud ... which methinks is more than doubtful

... no one could deny my right as the heiress's ... hem ... shall we

say?--temporary husband--to dispose of her wealth as I thought fit. If I

am to become a pariah and an outcast, as you so eloquently suggested

just now ... I much prefer being a rich one.... With half a million in

the pocket of my doublet the whole world is open to me."

There was so much cool calculation, such callous contempt for the

feelings and thoughts of the unfortunate girl whom he had so terribly

wronged, in this exposé of the situation, that Mistress de Chavasse

herself was conscious of a sense of repulsion from the man whom she had

aided hitherto.

She believed that she held him sufficiently in her power, through her

knowledge of his schemes and through the help which she was rendering

him, to extract a promise from him that he would share his ill-gotten

spoils in equal portions with her. At one time after the fracas in Bath

Street, he had even given her a vague promise of marriage; therefore, he

had kept secret from her the relation of that day spent at Dover. Now

she felt that even if he were free, she would never consent to link her

future irretrievably with his.

But her share of the money she meant to have. She was tired of poverty,

tired of planning and scheming, of debt and humiliation. She was tired

of her life of dependence at Acol Court, and felt a sufficiency of youth

and buoyancy in herself yet, to enjoy a final decade of luxury and

amusement in London.

Therefore, she closed her ears to every call of conscience, she shut her

heart against the lonely young girl who so sadly needed the counsels and

protection of a good woman, and she was quite ready to lend a helping

hand to Sir Marmaduke, at least until a goodly share of Lady Sue's

fortune was safely within her grasp.

One point occurred to her now, which caused her to ask anxiously:

"Have you not made your reckonings without Richard Lambert, Marmaduke?

He is back in these parts, you know?"

"Ah!" he ejaculated, with a quick scowl of impatience. "He has

returned?"

"Yes! Charity was my informant. He looks very ill, so the wench says: he

has been down with fever, it appears, all the while that he was in

prison, and was only discharged because they feared that he would die.

He contrived to work or beg his way back here, and now he is staying in

the village.... I thought you would have heard."

"No! I never speak to the old woman ... and Adam Lambert avoids me as he

would the plague.... I see as little of them as I can.... I had to be

prudent these last, final days."

"Heaven grant he may do nothing fatal to-day!" she murmured.

"Nay! my dear Editha," he retorted with a harsh laugh, "'tis scarcely

Heaven's business to look after our schemes. But Lambert can do us very

little harm now! For his own sake, he will keep out of Sue's way."

"At what hour does Master Skyffington arrive?"

"In half an hour."

Then as he saw that she was putting into effect her former resolve of

going out, despite the rain, and was once more readjusting her hood for

that purpose, he opened the door for her, and whispered as he followed

her out:

"An you will allow me, my dear Editha, I'll accompany you on your walk

... we might push on down the Canterbury Road, and perchance meet Master

Skyffington.... I understand that Sue has been asking for me, and I

would prefer to meet her as seldom as possible just now.... This is my

last day," he concluded with a laugh, "and I must be doubly careful."

CHAPTER XXV

AN INTERLUDE

Master Hymn-of-Praise Busy was vastly perturbed. Try how he might, he

had been unable to make any discovery with regard to the mysterious

events, which he felt sure were occurring all round him, a discovery

which--had he but made it--would have enabled him to apply with more

chance of success, for one of the posts in my Lord Protector's secret

service, and moreover, would have covered his name with glory.

This last contingency was always uppermost in his mind. Not from any

feeling of personal pride, for of a truth vanity is a mortal sin, but

because Mistress Charity had of late cast uncommonly kind eyes on that

cringing worm, Master Courage Toogood, and the latter, emboldened by the

minx's favors, had been more than usually insolent to his betters.

To have the right to administer serious physical punishment to the

youth, and moral reproof to the wench, was part of Master Busy's

comprehensive scheme for his own advancement and the confusion of all

the miscreants who dwelt in Acol Court. For this he had glued both eye

and ear to draughty keyholes, had lain for hours under cover of prickly

thistles in the sunk fence which surrounded the flower garden. For this

he now emerged, on that morning of November 2, accompanied by a terrific

clatter and a volley of soot from out the depth of the monumental

chimney in the hall of Acol Court.

As soon as he had recovered sufficient breath, and shaken off some of

the soot from his hair and face, he looked solemnly about him, and was

confronted by two pairs of eyes round with astonishment and two mouths

agape with surprise and with fear.

Mistress Charity and Master Courage Toogood--interrupted in the midst of

their animated conversation--were now speechless with terror, at sight

of this black apparition, which, literally, had descended on them from

the skies.

"Lud love ye, Master Busy!" ejaculated Mistress Charity, who was the

first to recognize in the sooty wraith the manly form of her betrothed,

"where have ye come from, pray?"

"Have you been scouring the chimney, good master?" queried Master

Courage, with some diffidence, for the saintly man looked somewhat out

of humor.

"No!" replied Hymn-of-Praise solemnly, "I have not. But I tell ye both

that my hour hath come. I knew that something was happening in this

house, and I climbed up that chimney in order to find out what it was."

Pardonable curiosity caused Mistress Charity to venture a little nearer

to the soot-covered figure of her adorer.

"And did you hear anything, Master Busy?" she asked eagerly. "I did see

Sir Marmaduke and the mistress in close conversation here this

morning."

"So they thought," said Master Hymn-of-Praise with weird significance.

"Well? ... And what happened, good master?"

"Thou beest in too mighty an hurry, mistress," he retorted with quiet

dignity. "I am under no obligation to report matters to thee."

"Oh! but Master Busy," she rejoined coyly, "methought I was to be your

... hem ... thy partner in life ... and so ..."

"My partner? My partner, didst thou say, sweet Charity? ... Nay, then,

an thou'lt permit me to salute thee with a kiss, I'll tell thee all I

know."

And in asking for that chaste salute we may assume that Master

Hymn-of-Praise was actuated with at least an equal desire to please

Mistress Charity, to gratify his own wishes, and to effectually annoy

Master Courage.

But Mistress Charity was actuated by curiosity alone, and without

thought of her betrothed's grimy appearance, she presented her cheek to

him for the kiss.

The result caused Master Courage an uncontrollable fit of hilarity.

"Oh, mistress," he said, pointing to the black imprint left on her face

by her lover's kiss, "you should gaze into a mirror now."

But already Mistress Charity had guessed what had occurred, her good

humor vanished, and she began scouring her cheek with her pinner.

"I'll never forgive you, master," she said crossly. "You had no right to

... hem ... with your face in that condition.... And you have not yet

told us what happened."

"What happened?"

"Aye! you promised to tell me if I allowed you to kiss me. 'Tis

done...."

"I well nigh broke my back," said Master Busy sententiously. "I hurt my

knee ... that is what happened.... I am well-nigh choked with soot....

Ugh! ... that is what happened."

"Lud love you, Master Busy," she retorted with a saucy toss of her head,

"I trust your life's partner will not need to hide herself in chimneys."

"Listen, wench, and I'll tell thee. No kind of servant of my Lord

Protector's should ever be called upon to hide in chimneys. They are not

comfortable and they are not clean."

"Bless the man!" she cried angrily, "are you ever going to tell us what

did happen whilst you were there?"

"I was about to come to that point," he said imperturbably, "hadst thou

not interrupted me. What with holding on so as not to fall, and the soot

falling in my ears...."

"Aye! aye! ..."

"I heard nothing," he concluded solemnly. "Master Courage," he added

with becoming severity, seeing that the youth was on the verge of

making a ribald remark, which of necessity had to be checked betimes,

"come into my room with me and help me to clean the traces of my

difficult task from off my person. Come!"

And with ominous significance, he approached the young scoffer, his hand

on an exact level with the latter's ear, his right foot raised to

indicate a possible means of enforcing obedience to his commands.

On the whole, Master Courage thought it wise to repress both his

hilarity and his pertinent remarks, and to follow the pompous, if

begrimed, butler to the latter's room upstairs.

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, in

an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

When this outburst of hilarity had subsided, she sat up, and looked

round her with eyes still streaming with merry tears.

But the laughter suddenly died on her lips and the merriment out of her

eyes. 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 thought

you were your ghost!"

"Forgive me, mistress, if I have frightened you," he said. "It is mine

own self, I give you assurance of that, and I, fain would have speech

with Sir Marmaduke."

Mistress Charity was visibly embarrassed. She began mechanically to rub

the black stain on her cheek.

"Sir Marmaduke is without just at present, Master Lambert," she

stammered shyly, "... and ..."

"Yes? ... and? ..." he asked, "what is it, wench? ... speak out? ..."

"Sir Marmaduke gave orders, Master Lambert," she began with obvious

reluctance, "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 and

sat down in the chair which she had just vacated. "You have done your

duty: but you could not help admitting me, could you? since I walked in

of mine own accord ... and now that I am here I will remain until I have

seen Sir Marmaduke...."

"Well! of a truth, good master," she said with a smile, for 'twas but

natural that her feminine sympathies should be on the side of a young

and good-looking man, somewhat in her own sphere of life, as against the

ill-humored, parsimonious master whom she served, "an you sit there so

determinedly, I cannot prevent you, can I? ..."

Then as she perceived the look of misery on the young man's face, his

pale cheeks, his otherwise vigorous frame obviously attenuated by fear,

the motherly instinct present in every good woman's heart caused her to

go up to him and to address him timidly, offering such humble solace as

her simple heart could dictate:

"Lud preserve you, good master, I pray you do not take on so.... You

know Master Courage and I, now, never believed all those stories about

ye. 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 is

vastly clever with his discoveries and his clews; but Master Courage now

... Master Courage is a wonderful lad ... and he thinks that you are a

persecuted hero! ... and I am bound to say that I, too, hold that

view...."

"Thank you! ... thank you, kind mistress," said Lambert, smiling despite

his dejection, at the girl's impulsive efforts at consolation.

His head had sunk down on his breast, and he sat there in the

high-backed chair, one hand resting on each leather-covered arm, his

pale face showing almost ghostlike against the dark background, and with

the faint November light illumining the dark-circled eyes, the bloodless

lips, 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 the

polished oak of the stairs caused the girl to look up, then to pause a

brief while, as if what she had now seen had brought forth a new train

of thought; finally, she tiptoed silently out through the door of the

dining-hall.

"Charity! Mistress Charity, I want you! ..." called Lady Sue from

above.

We must presume, however, that the wench had closed the heavy door

behind her, for certainly she did not come in answer to the call. On the

other hand, Richard Lambert had heard it; he sprang to his feet and saw

Sue descending the stairs.

She saw him, too, and it seemed as if at sight of him she had turned and

meant to fly. But a word from him detained her.

"Sue!"

Only once had he thus called her by her name before, that long ago night

in the woods, but now the cry came from out his heart, brought forth by

his misery and his sorrow, his sense of terrible injustice and of an

irretrievable wrong.

It never occurred to her to resent the familiarity. At sound of her name

thus spoken by him she had looked down from the stairs and seen his

pallid face turned up to her in such heartrending appeal for sympathy,

that all her womanly instincts of tenderness and pity were aroused, all

her old feeling of trustful friendship for him.

She, too, felt much of that loneliness which his yearning eyes expressed

so pathetically; she, too, was conscious of grave injustice and of an

irretrievable wrong, and her heart went out to him immediately in

kindness and in love.

"Don't go, for pity's sake," he added entreatingly, for he thought that

she meant to turn away from him; "surely you will not begrudge me a few

words of kindness. I have gone through a great deal since I saw

you...."

She descended a few steps, her delicate hand still resting on the

banisters, her silken kirtle making a soft swishing noise against the

polished oak of the stairs. It was a solace to him, even to watch her

now. The sight of his adored mistress was balm to his aching eyes. Yet

he was quick to note--with that sharp intuition peculiar to Love--that

her dear face had lost much of its brightness, of its youth, of its joy

of living. She was as exquisite to look on as ever, but she seemed

older, more gentle, and, alas! a trifle sad.

"I heard you had been ill," she said softly, "I was very sorry, believe

me, but ... Oh! do you not think," she added with sudden inexplicable

pathos, whilst she felt hot tears rising to her eyes and causing her

voice to quiver, "do you not think that an interview between us now can

only be painful to us both?"

He mistook the intention of her words, as was only natural, and whilst

she mistrusted her own feelings for him, fearing to betray that yearning

for his friendship and his consolation, which had so suddenly

overwhelmed her at sight of him, he thought that she feared the

interview because of her condemnation of him.

"Then you believed me guilty?" he said sadly. "They told you this

hideous tale of me, and you believed them, without giving the absent

one, who alas! could not speak in his own defense, the benefit of the

doubt."

For one of those subtle reasons of which women alone possess the secret,

and which will forever remain inexplicable to the more logical sex, she

steeled her heart against him, even when her entire sensibilities went

out 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 man

of honor, confirmed that horrible story which appeared in the newspaper

and 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 poor

and must work in order to live, am _I_ to be condemned unheard? Is a

whole life's record of self-education and honest labor to be thus

obliterated 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 Sir

Marmaduke hates me, with a violent and passionate hatred. Nay! I know

it, though I can explain neither its cause nor its ultimate aim...."

He drew nearer to the stairs whereon she still stood, her graceful

figure slightly leaning towards him; he now stood close to her, his head

just 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, "I

entreat you to look into my eyes! ... Can you see in them the reflex of

those shameful deeds which have been imputed to me? Do I look like a

liar and a cheat? In the name of pity and of justice, for the sweet sake

of our first days of friendship, I beg of you not to condemn me

unheard."

He lowered his head, and rested his aching brow against her cool, white

hand. She did not withdraw it, for a great joy had suddenly filled her

heart, mingling with its sadness, a sense of security and of bitter, yet

real, happiness pervaded her whole being: a happiness which she could

not--wished not--to explain, but which prompted her to stoop yet further

towards him, and to touch his hair with her lips.

Hot tears which he tried vainly to repress fell upon her fingers. He had

felt the kiss descending on him almost like a benediction. The exquisite

fragrance of her person filled his soul with a great delight which was

almost pain. Never had he loved her so ardently, so passionately, as at

this moment, when he felt that she too loved him, and yet was lost to

him irrevocably.

"Nay! but I will hear you, good master," she murmured with infinite

gentleness, "for the sake of that friendship, and because now that I

have seen you again I no longer believe any evil of you."

"God bless my dear lady," he replied fervently. "Heaven is my witness

that I am innocent of those abominable crimes imputed to me. Sir

Marmaduke took me to that house of evil, and a cruel plot was there

concocted to make me appear before all men as a liar and a cheat, and to

disgrace me before the world and before you. That the object of this

plot was to part me from you," added Richard Lambert more calmly and

firmly, "I am absolutely confident; what its deeper motive was I dare

not even think. It was known that I ... loved you, Sue ... that I would

give my life to save you from trouble ... I was your slave, your

watch-dog.... I was forcibly removed, torn from you, my name disgraced,

my health broken down.... But my life was not for them ... it belongs to

my lady alone.... Heaven would not allow it to be sacrificed to their

villainous schemes. I fought against sickness and death with all the

energy of despair.... It was a hand-to-hand fight, for discouragement,

and anon despair, ranged themselves among my foes.... And now I have

come back," he said with proud energy, "broken mayhap, yet still

standing ... 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 harsh

voice echoed through the oak-paneled hall. He cared not if all the world

heard him, if his enemies lurked about striving to spy upon him. His

profession of love and of service to his lady was the sole remaining

pride of his life, and now that he knew that she believed and trusted

him, 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 a

little pause. "I am glad ... glad that you have come back.... For some

weeks, nay, months past, I have had the presentiment of some coming

evil.... I have ... I have felt lonely and...."

"Not unhappy?" he asked with his usual earnestness. "I would not have my

lady unhappy for all the treasures of this world."

"No!" she replied meditatively, striving to be conscious of her own

feelings, "I do not think that I am unhappy ... only anxious ... and ...

a little lonely: that is all.... Sir Marmaduke is oft away: when he is

at home, I scarce ever see him, and he but rarely speaks to me ... and

methinks 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 that

you have come back, my dear ... dear friend!"

"God bless you for these words!"

"I grieved terribly when I heard ... about you ... at first ..." she

said almost gaily now, "yet somehow I could not believe it all ... and

now...."

"Yes? ... and now?" he asked.

"Now I believe in you," she replied simply. "I believe that you care for

me, 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, and

had the right to do this. He had gradually mastered his emotion, his

sense of wrong, and with that exquisite selflessness which real love

alone can kindle in a human heart, he had succeeded in putting aside all

thought of his own great misery, his helplessness and the hopelessness

of his position, and remembered only that she looked fragile, a little

older, sadder, and had need of his help.

"And now, sweet lady," he said, forcing himself to speak calmly of that

which always set his heart and senses into a turmoil of passionate

jealousy, "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 the

prince. I know that you do not think well of him.... I wish to look upon

you 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, and

she knew what a terrible blow she would be dealing to his heart, from

the 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 look

at him now, for she knew that the sight of his grief was more than she

could bear. She was conscious that at her words he had drawn his hand

away from hers, but he spoke no word, nor did the faintest exclamation

escape his lips.

Thus they remained for a few moments longer side by side: she slightly

above him, with head bent, with hot tears falling slowly from her

downcast eyes, her heart well-nigh breaking with the consciousness of

the irreparable; he somewhat below, silent too, and rigid, all passion,

all emotion, love even, numbed momentarily by the violence, the

suddenness of this terrible blow.

Then without a word, without a sigh or look, he turned, and she heard

his footsteps echoing across the hall, then dying away on the threshold

of the door beyond. Anon the door itself closed to with a dull bang

which seemed to find an echo in her heart like the tolling of a passing

bell.

Then only did she raise her head, and look about her. The hall was

deserted and seemed infinitely lonely, silent, and grim. The young

girl-wife, who had just found a friend only to lose him again, called

out in mute appeal to this old house, the oak-covered walls, the very

stones themselves, for sympathy.

She was so infinitely, so immeasurably lonely, with that awful,

irretrievable day at Dover behind her, with all its dreariness, its

silent solemnity, its weird finish in the vestry, the ring upon her

finger, 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 fingers

there where her friend's had rested in gratitude and love, and she

cried, cried like a broken-hearted woman, cried for her lost illusions,

and the end of her brief romance!

CHAPTER XXVII

LADY SUE'S FORTUNE

Less than an hour later four people were assembled in the small

withdrawing-room of Acol Court.

Master Skyffington sat behind a central table, a little pompous of

manner, clad in sober black with well-starched linen cuffs and collar,

his scanty hair closely cropped, his thin hands fingering with assurance

and perfect calm the various documents laid out before him. Near him Sir

Marmaduke de Chavasse, sitting with his back to the dim November light,

which vainly strove to penetrate the tiny glass panes of the casement

windows.

In a more remote corner of the room sat Editha de Chavasse, vainly

trying to conceal the agitation which her trembling hands, her quivering

face and restless eyes persistently betrayed. And beside the central

table, near Master Skyffington and facing Sir Marmaduke, was Lady

Susannah Aldmarshe, only daughter and heiress of the late Earl of Dover,

this day aged twenty-one years, and about to receive from the hands of

her legal guardians the vast fortune which her father had bequeathed to

her, and which was to become absolutely hers this day to dispose of as

she list.

"And now, my dear child," said Master Skyffington with due solemnity,

when he had disposed a number of documents and papers in methodical

order upon the table, "let me briefly explain to you the object ... hem

... of this momentous meeting here to-day."

"I am all attention, master," said Sue vaguely, and her eyes wide-open,

obviously absent, she gazed fixedly on the silhouette of Sir Marmaduke,

grimly outlined against the grayish window-panes.

"I must tell you, my dear child," resumed Master Skyffington after a

slight pause, during which he had studied with vague puzzledom the

inscrutable face of the young girl, "I must tell you that your late

father, the noble Earl of Dover, had married the heiress of Peter Ford,

the wealthiest merchant this country hath ever known. She was your own

lamented mother, and the whole of her fortune, passing through her

husband's hands, hath now devolved upon you. My much-esteemed patron--I

may venture to say friend--Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse, having been

appointed your legal guardian by the Court of Chancery, and I myself

being thereupon named the repository of your securities, these have been

administered by me up to now.... You are listening to me, are you not,

my dear young lady?"

The question was indeed necessary, for even to Master Skyffington's

unobservant mind it was apparent that Sue's eyes had a look of aloofness

in them, of detachment from her surroundings, which was altogether

inexplicable to the worthy attorney's practical sense of the due fitness

of things.

At his query she made a sudden effort to bring her thoughts back from

the past to the present, to drag her heart and her aching brain away

from that half-hour spent in the hall, from that conversation with her

friend, from the recollection of that terribly cruel blow which she had

been forced to deal to the man who loved her best in all the world.

"Yes, yes, kind master," she said, "I am listening."

And she fixed her eyes resolutely on the attorney's solemn face, forcing

her mind to grasp what he was about to say.

"By the terms of your noble father's will," continued Master

Skyffington, as soon as he had satisfied himself that he at last held

the heiress's attention, "the securities, receipts and all other moneys

are to be given over absolutely and unconditionally into your own hands

on your twenty-first birthday."

"Which is to-day," said Sue simply.

"Which is to-day," assented the lawyer. "The securities, receipts and

other bonds, grants of monopolies and so forth lie before you on this

table.... They represent in value over half a million of English

money.... A very large sum indeed for so young a girl to have full

control of.... Nevertheless, it is yours absolutely and unconditionally,

according to the wishes of your late noble father ... and Sir Marmaduke

de Chavasse, your late guardian, and I myself, have met you here this

day for the express purpose of handing these securities, grants and

receipts over to you, and to obtain in exchange your own properly

attested signature in full discharge of any further obligation on our

part."

Master Skyffington was earnestly gazing into the young girl's face,

whilst he thus literally dangled before her the golden treasures of

wealth, which were about to become absolutely her own. He thought, not

unnaturally, that a girl of her tender years, brought up in the

loneliness and seclusion of a not too luxurious home, would feel in a

measure dazzled and certainly overjoyed at the brilliant prospect which

such independent and enormous wealth opened out before her.

But the amiable attorney was vastly disappointed to see neither

pleasure, nor even interest, expressed in Lady Sue's face, which on this

joyous and momentous occasion looked unnaturally calm and pallid. Even

now when he paused expectant and eager, waiting for some comment or

exclamation of approval or joy from her, she was silent for a while, and

then said in a stolidly inquiring tone:

"Then after to-day ... I shall have full control of my money?"

"Absolute control, my dear young lady," he rejoined, feeling strangely

perturbed at this absence of emotion.

"And no one ... after to-day ... will have the right to inquire as to

the use I make of these securities, grants or whatever you, Master

Skyffington, have called them?" she continued with the same placidity.

"No one, of a surety, my dear Sue," here interposed Sir Marmaduke,

speaking in his usual harsh and dictatorial way, "but this is a strange

and somewhat peremptory question for a young maid to put at this

juncture. Master Skyffington and I myself had hoped that you would

listen to counsels of prudence, and would allow him, who hath already

administered your fortune in a vastly able manner, to continue so to do,

for a while at any rate."

"That question we can discuss later on, Sir Marmaduke," said Sue now,

with sudden hauteur. "Shall we proceed with our business, master?" she

added, turning deliberately to the lawyer, ignoring with calm disdain

the very presence of her late guardian.

The studied contempt of his ward's manner, however, seemed not to

disturb the serenity of Sir Marmaduke to any appreciable extent. Casting

a quick, inquisitorial glance at Sue, he shrugged his shoulders in token

of indifference and said no more.

"Certainly, certainly," responded Master Skyffington, somewhat

embarrassed, "my dear young lady ... hem ... as ... er ... as you wish

... but ..."

Then he turned deliberately to Sir Marmaduke, once more bringing him

into the proceedings, and tacitly condemning her ladyship's

extraordinary attitude towards his distinguished patron.

"Having now explained to Lady Sue Aldmarshe the terms of her noble

father's will," he said, "methinks that she is ready to receive the

moneys from our hands, good Sir Marmaduke, and thereupon to give us the

proper receipt prescribed by law, for the same ..."

He checked himself for a moment, and then made a respectful, if pointed,

suggestion:

"Mistress de Chavasse?" he said inquiringly.

"Mistress de Chavasse is a member of the family," replied Sir Marmaduke,

"the business can be transacted in her presence."

"Nothing therefore remains to be said, my dear young lady," rejoined

Master Skyffington, once more speaking directly to Sue and placing his

lean hands with fingers outstretched, over the bundles of papers lying

before him. "Here are your securities, your grants, moneys and receipts,

worth £500,000 of the present currency of this realm.... These I, in

mine own name and that of my honored friend and patron, Sir Marmaduke de

Chavasse, do hereby hand over to you. You will, I pray, verify and sign

the receipt in proper and due form."

He began sorting and overlooking the papers, muttering half audibly the

while, as he transferred each bundle from his own side of the table to

that beside which Lady Sue was sitting:

"The deeds of property in Holland ... hem.... Receipt of moneys

deposited at the bank of Amsterdam.... The same from the Bank of

Vienna.... Grant of monopoly for the hemp trade in Russia.... hem ..."

Thus he mumbled for some time, as these papers, representing a fortune,

passed out of his keeping into those of a young maid but recently out of

her teens. Sue watched him silently and placidly, just as she had done

throughout this momentous interview, which was, of a truth, the starting

point of her independent life.

Her face expressed neither joy nor excitement of any kind. She knew that

all the wealth which now lay before her, would only pass briefly through

her hands. She knew that the prince--her husband--was waiting for it

even now. Doubtless, he was counting the hours when his young wife's

vast fortune would come to him as the realization of all his dreams.

In spite of her present disbelief in his love, in spite of the bitter

knowledge that her own had waned, Sue had no misgivings as yet as to the

honor, the truth, the loyalty of the man whose name she now bore. Her

illusions were gone, her romance had become dull reality, but to one

thought she clung with all the tenacity of despair, and that was to the

illusion that Prince Amédé d'Orléans was the selfless patriot, the

regenerator of downtrodden France, which he represented himself to be.

Because of that belief she welcomed the wealth, which she would this day

be able to place in his hands. Her own girlish dreams had vanished, but

her temperament was far too romantic and too poetic not to recreate

illusions, even when the old ones had been so ruthlessly shattered.

But this recreation would occur anon--not just now, not at the very

moment when her heart ached with an intolerable pain at thought of the

sorrow which she had caused to her one friend. Presently, no doubt, when

she met her husband, when his usual grandiloquent phrases had once more

succeeded in arousing her enthusiasm for the cause which he pleaded, she

would once more feel serene and happy at thought of the help which she,

with her great wealth, would be giving him; for the nonce the whole

transaction grated on her sense of romance; money passing from hand to

hand, a man waiting somewhere in the dark to receive wealth from a

woman's hand.

Master Skyffington desired her to look over the papers, ere she signed

the formal receipt for them, but she waved them gently aside:

"Quite unnecessary, kind master," she said decisively, "since I receive

them at your hands."

She bent over the document which the lawyer now placed before her, and

took the pen from him.

"Where shall I sign?" she asked.

Sir Marmaduke and Editha de Chavasse watched her keenly, as with a bold

stroke of the pen she wrote her name across the receipt.

"Now the papers, please, master," said Lady Sue peremptorily.

But the prudent lawyer had still a word of protest to enter here.

"My dear young lady," he said tentatively, awed in spite of himself by

the self-possessed behavior of a maid whom up to now he had regarded as

a mere child, "let me, as a man of vast experience in such matters,

repeat to you the well-meant advice which Sir Marmaduke ..."

But she checked him decisively, though kindly.

"You said, Master Skyffington, did you not," she said, "that after

to-day no one had the slightest control over my actions or over my

fortune?"

"That is so, certainly," he rejoined, "but ..."

"Well, then, kind master, I pray you," she said authoritatively, "to

hand me over all those securities, grants and moneys, for which I have

just signed a receipt."

There was naught to do for a punctilious lawyer, as was Master

Skyffington, but to obey forthwith. This he did, without another word,

collecting the various bundles of paper and placing them one by one in

the brown leather wallet which he had brought for the purpose. Sue

watched him quietly, and when the last of the important documents had

been deposited in the wallet, she held out her hand for it.

With a grave bow, and an unconsciously pompous gesture, Master

Skyffington, attorney-at-law, handed over that wallet which now

contained a fortune to Lady Susannah Aldmarshe.