The Chaplet of Pearls by Charlotte M. Yonge (i am reading a book .txt) 📕

‘He is free now,’ said Lady Thistlewood, beginning to cry (for the last letters received from Berenger had been those from Paris, while he still believed Eustacie to have perished at La Sablerie); ‘and I do say it is very hard that just when he is rid of the French baggage, the bane of his life, and is coming home, maybe with a child upon his hands, and all wounded, scarred, and blurred, the only wench he would or should have married should throw herself away on a French vagabond beggar, and you aiding and abetting.’

‘Come, come, Dame Nan,’ said Sir Marmaduke, ‘who told you I was aiding and abetting?’

‘Tell me not, Sir Duke, you that see them a courting under your very eyes, and will not stir a finger to hinder it. If you like to see your daughter take up with a foreign adventurer, why, she’s no child of mine, thank Heaven! And I’ve nought to do with it.’

‘Pshaw, dame, there’s no taking up in the case; and if there were, sure it is not you that should be hard on Lucy.’

Whereupon Annora fell into such a flood of tears at the cruelty of casting such things up to her, that Sir Marmaduke was fain in his blundering way to declare that he only meant that an honest Englishman had no chance where a Frenchman once came in, and then very nearly to surrender at discretion. At any rate, he escaped from her tears by going out at the door, and calling to Lucy to mind her rose-leaves; then, as she gazed round, dismayed at the pink track along the ground, he asked her what she had been doing. Whereto she answered with bright face and honest eyes, that Mr. Mericour had been going over with her the ode ‘Jam satis,’ of Horatius, wherewith to prepare little Nan for him to-morrow, and then she ran hurriedly away to secure the remainder of the rose-leaves, while her companion was already on his knees picking up the petals she had dropped.

‘Master Merrycourt,’ said Sir Marmaduke, a little gruffly, ‘never heed the flower-leaves. I want a word with you.’

Claude de Mericour rose hastily, as if somewhat struck by the tone.

‘The matter is this,’ said the knight, leading him from the house, and signing back the little girls who had sprung towards them—‘it has been brought to my mind that you are but a youth, and, pardon me, my young master, but when lads and lasses have their heads together over one book, tongues wag.’

The colour rushed hotly into young Mericour’s face, and he answered quickly, ‘My rank—I mean my order—should answer that.’

‘Stay, young man, we are not in France; your order, be it what it may, has not hindered many a marriage in England; though, look you, no man should ever wed with my consent who broke his word to God in so doing; but they tell me your vows are not always made at your age.’

‘Nor are they,’ exclaimed Mericour, in a low voice, but with a sudden light on his countenance. ‘The tonsure was given me as a child, but no vow of celibacy has passed my lips.’

Sir Marmaduke exclaimed, ‘Oh!—’ with a prolongation of the sound that lasted till Mericour began again.

‘But, sir, let tongues wag as they will, it is for nought. Your fair daughter was but as ever preparing beforehand with me the tasks with which she so kindly indoctrinates her little sisters. I never thought of myself as aught but a religious, and should never dream of human love.’

‘I thought so! I said so!’ said Sir Marmaduke, highly gratified. ‘I knew you were an honourable man that would never speak of love to my daughter by stealth, nor without means to maintain her after her birth.’

The word ‘birth’ brought the blood into the face of the son of the peer of France, but he merely bowed with considerable stiffness and pride, saying, ‘You did me justice, sir.’

‘Come, don’t be hurt, man,’ said Sir Marmaduke, putting his hand on his shoulder. ‘I told you I knew you for an honourable man! You’ll be over here to-morrow to hear the little maids their Jam satis, or whatever you call it, and dine with us after to taste Lucy’s handiwork in jam cranberry, a better thing as I take it.’

Mericour had recovered himself, smiled, shook the good Sir Marmaduke proffered hand, and, begging to excuse himself from bidding good night to the ladies on the score of lateness, he walked away to cross the downs on his return to Combe Walwyn, where he was still resident, according to the arrangement by which he was there to await Berenger’s return, now deferred so much beyond all reasonable expectation.

Sir Marmaduke, with a free heart, betook himself to the house, dreading to find that Lucy had fallen under the objurgations of her step-mother, but feeling impelled to stand her protector, and guided to the spot by the high key of Dame Annora’s voice.

He found Lucy—who, on the race occasions when good-natured Lady Thistlewood was really angry with her, usually cowered meekly—now standing her ground, and while the dame was pausing for breath, he heard her gentle voice answering steadily, ‘No, madam, to him I could never owe faith, nor troth, nor love, save such as I have for Philip.’

‘Then it is very unfeeling and ungrateful of you. Nor did you think so once, but it is all his scars and—-’

By this time Sir Marmaduke had come near enough to put his arm round his daughter, and say, ‘No such thing, dame. It had been unseemly in the lass had it been otherwise. She is a good girl and a discreet; and the Frenchman, if he has made none of their vows, feels as bound as though he had. He’s an honest fellow, thinking of his studies and not of ladies or any such trumpery. So give me a kiss, Lucy girl, and thou shalt study Jam satis, or any other jam he pleases, without more to vex thee.’

Lucy, now that the warfare was over, had begun to weep so profusely that so soon as her father released her, she turned, made a mute gesture to ask permission to depart, and hurried away; while Lady Thistlewood, who disliked above all that her husband should think her harsh to her step-children, began to relate the exceeding tenderness of the remonstrance which had been followed with such disproportionate floods of tears.

Poor Sir Marmaduke hoped at least that the veil of night had put an end to the subject which harassed him at a time when he felt less capable than usual of bearing vexation, for he was yearning sadly after his only son. The youths had been absent ten months, and had not been heard of for more than three, when they were just leaving Paris in search of the infant. Sir Francis Walsingham, whose embassy had ended with the death of Charles IX., knew nothing of them, and great apprehensions respecting them were beginning to prevail, and, to Sir Marmaduke especially, seemed to be eating out the peace and joy of his life. Philip, always at his father’s side ever since he could run alone, was missed at every visit to stable or kennel; the ring of his cheery voice was wanting to the house; and the absence of his merry whistle seemed to make Sir Marmaduke’s heart sink