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

Lucy was indignantly fetched home by her stepmother, who insisted on treating her with extreme pity as a deserted maiden, and thus counteracting Aunt Cecily’s wise representations, that there never should, and therefore never could, have been anything save fraternal affection between the young people, and that pity was almost an insult to Lucy. The good girl herself was made very uncomfortable by there demonstrations, and avoided them as much as possible, chiefly striving in her own gentle way to prepare her little sisters to expect numerous charms in brother Berenger’s wife, and heartily agreeing with Philip that Berenger knew his own mind best.

‘And at any rate,’ quoth Philip, ‘we’ll have the best bonfire that ever was seen in the country! Lucy, you’ll coax my father to give us a tar-barrel!’

The tar-barrel presided over a monstrous pile of fagots, and the fisher-boys were promised a tester to whoever should first bring word to Master Philip that the young lord and lady were in the creek.

Philip gave his pony no rest, between the lock-out on the downs and the borders of the creek; but day after day passed, and still the smacks from Jersey held no person worth mentioning; and still the sense of expectation kept Lucy starting at every sound, and hating herself for her own folly.

At last Philip burst into Combe Manor, fiery red with riding and consternation. ‘Oh! father, father, Paul Duval’s boat is come in, and he says that the villain Papists have butchered every Protestant in France.’

Sir Marmaduke’s asseveration was of the strongest, that he did not believe a word of it. Nevertheless, he took his horse and rode down to interrogate Paul Duval, and charge him not to spread the report was in the air. He went to the Hall, and the butler met him with a grave face, and took him to the study, where Lord Walwyn was sitting over letter newly received from London, giving hints from the Low Countries of bloody work in France. And when he returned to his home, his wife burst out upon him in despair. Here had they been certainly killing her poor buy. Not a doubt that he was dead. All from this miserable going to France, that had been quite against her will.

Stoutly did Sir Marmaduke persevere in his disbelief; but every day some fresh wave of tidings floated in. Murder wholesale had surely been perpetrated. Now came stories of death-bells at Rouen from the fishermen on the coast; now markets and petty sessions discussed the foul slaughter of the Ambassador and his household; truly related how the Queen had put on mourning, and falsely that she had hung the French Ambassador, La Mothe Feneon. And Burleigh wrote to his old friend from London, that some horrible carnage had assuredly taken place, and that no news had yet been received of Sir Francis Walsingham or of his suite.

All these days seems so many years taken from the vital power of Lord Walwyn. Not only had his hopes and affections would themselves closely around his grandson, but he reproached himself severely with having trusted him in his youth and inexperience among the seductive perils of Paris. The old man grieved over the promising young life cut off, and charged on himself the loss and grief to the women, whose stay he had trusted Berenger would have been. He said little, but his hand and head grew more trembling; he scarcely ate or slept, and seemed to waste from a vigorous elder to a feeble being in the extremity of old age, till Lady Walwyn had almost ceased to think of her grandson in her anxiety for her husband.

Letters came at last. The messenger despatched by Sir Francis Walsingham had not been able to proceed till the ways had become safe, and he had then been delayed; but on his arrival his tidings were sent down. There were letters both from Sir Francis Walsingham and from heart-broken Mr. Adderley, both to the same effect, with all possible praises of the young Baron de Ribaumont, all possible reproach to themselves for having let him be betrayed, without even a possibility of recovering his remains for honourable burial. Poor Mr. Adderley further said that Mr. Sidney, who was inconsolable for the loss of his friend, had offered to escort him to the Low Countries, whence he would make his way to England, and would present himself at Hurst Walwyn, if his Lordship could endure the sight of his creature who had so miserably failed in his trust.

Lord Walwyn read both letters twice through before he spoke. Then he took off his spectacles, laid them down, and said calmly, ‘God’s will be done. I thank God that my boy was blameless. Better they slew him than sent him home tainted with their vices.’

The certainty, such as it was, seemed like repose after the suspense. They knew to what to resign themselves, and even Lady Thistlewood’s tempestuous grief had so spent itself that late in the evening the family sat round the fire in the hall, the old lord dozing as one worn out with sorrow, the others talking in hushed tones of that bright boyhood, that joyous light quenched in the night of carnage.

The butler slowly entered the hall, and approached Sir Marmaduke, cautiously. ‘Can I speak with you, sir?’

‘What is it, Davy?’ demanded the lady, who first caught the words. ‘What did you say?’

‘Madam, it is Humfrey Holt!’

Humfrey Holt was the head of the grooms who had gone with Berenger; and there was a general start and suppressed exclamation. ‘Humfrey Hold!’ said Lord Walwyn, feebly drawing himself to sit upright, ‘hath he, then, escaped?’

‘Yea, my Lord,’ said Davy, ‘and he brings news of my young Lord’

‘Alack! Davy,’ said Lady Walwyn, ‘such news had been precious a while ago.’

‘Nay, so please your Ladyship, it is better than you deem. Humfley says my young Lord is yet living.’

‘Living! shrieked Lady Thistlewood, starting up. ‘Living! My son! and where?’

‘They are bearing him home, my Lady,’ said the butler; ‘but I fear me, by what Humfley says, that it is but in woeful case.’

‘Bringing him home! Which way?’ Philip darted off like an arrow from the bow. Sir Marmaduke hastily demanded if aid were wanted; and Lady Walwyn, interpreting the almost inaudible voice of her husband, bade that Humfley should be called in to tell his own story.

Hands were held out in greeting, and blessings murmured, as the groom entered, looking battered and worn, and bowing low in confusion at being thus unusually conspicuous, and having to tell his story to the head and body, and slashed about the face so as it is a shame to see. Nor hath he done aught these three weary weeks but moan from time to time so as it is enough to break one’s heart to hear him; and I fear me ‘tis but bringing him home to die.’

‘Even so, God be thanked; and you too, honest Humfley,’ said Lady Walwyn.’ ‘Let us hear when and how this deed was done.’

‘Why, that, my Lord, I can’t so well say, being that I was not with him; more’s the pity, or I’d have known the reason why, or even they laid a finger on him. But when Master Landry, his French foster-brother, comes,