The Nest of the Sparrowhawk | Page 4

have no cause to regret this, mistress," said Busy complacently, "we will be married this very autumn, and I have it in my mind--an it please the Lord--to go up to London and take secret service under my Lord Protector himself."
"Secret service, Master Busy ... hem ... I mean Hymn-of-Praise, dear ... secret service? ... What may that be?"
"'Tis a noble business, Charity," he replied, "and one highly commended by the Lord: the business of tracking the wicked to their lair, of discovering evil where 'tis hidden in dark places, conspiracies against my Lord Protector, adherence to the cause of the banished tyrants and ... and ... so forth."
"Sounds like spying to me," she remarked curtly.
"Spying? ... Spying, didst thou say?" he exclaimed indignantly. "Fie on thee, Charity, for the thought! Secret service under my Lord Protector 'tis called, and a highly lucrative business too, and one for which I have remarkable aptitude."
"Indeed?"
"Aye! See the manner in which I find things out, mistress. This house now ... thou wouldst think 'tis but an ordinary house ... eh?"
His manner changed; the saintliness vanished from his attitude; the expression of his face became sly and knowing. He came nearer to Charity, took hold of her wrist, whilst he raised one finger to his lips.
"Thou wouldst think 'tis an ordinary house ... wouldst thou not?" he repeated, sinking his voice to a whisper, murmuring right into her ear so that his breath blew her hair about, causing it to tickle her cheek.
She shuddered with apprehension. His manner was so mysterious.
"Yes ... yes ..." she murmured, terrified.
"But I tell thee that there's something going on," he added significantly.
"La, Master Busy ... you ... you terrify me!" she said, on the verge of tears. "What could there be going on?"
Master Busy raised both his hands and with the right began counting off the fingers of the left.
"Firstly," he began solemnly, "there's an heiress! secondly our master--poor as a church mouse--thirdly a young scholar--secretary, they call him, though he writes no letters, and is all day absorbed in his studies ... Well, mistress," he concluded, turning a triumphant gaze on her, "tell me, prithee, what happens?"
"What happens, Master Hymn-of-Praise? ... I do not understand. What does happen?"
"I'll tell thee," he replied sententiously, "when I have found out; but mark my words, mistress, there's something going on in this house ... Hush! not a word to that young jackanapes," he added as a distant clatter of pewter mugs announced the approach of Master Courage. "Watch with me, mistress, thou'lt perceive something. And when I have found out, 'twill be the beginning of our fortunes."
Once more he placed a warning finger on his lips; once more he gave Mistress Charity a knowing wink, and her wrist an admonitory pressure, then he resumed his staid and severe manner, his saintly mien and somewhat nasal tones, as from the gay outside world beyond the window-embrasure the sound of many voices, the ripple of young laughter, the clink of heeled boots on the stone-flagged path, proclaimed the arrival of the quality.
CHAPTER II
ON A JULY AFTERNOON
In the meanwhile in a remote corner of the park the quality was assembled round the skittle-alley.
Imagine Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse standing there, as stiff a Roundhead as ever upheld my Lord Protector and his Puritanic government in this remote corner of the county of Kent: dour in manner, harsh-featured and hollow-eyed, dressed in dark doublet and breeches wholly void of tags, ribands or buttons. His closely shorn head is flat at the back, square in front, his clean-shaven lips though somewhat thick are always held tightly pressed together. Not far from him sits on a rough wooden seat, Mistress Amelia Editha de Chavasse, widow of Sir Marmaduke's elder brother, a good-looking woman still, save for the look of discontent, almost of suppressed rebellion, apparent in the perpetual dark frown between the straight brows, in the downward curve of the well-chiseled mouth, and in the lowering look which seems to dwell for ever in the handsome dark eyes.
Dame Harrison, too, was there: the large and portly dowager, florid of face, dictatorial in manner, dressed in the supremely unbecoming style prevalent at the moment, when everything that was beautiful in art as well as in nature was condemned as sinful and ungodly; she wore the dark kirtle and plain, ungainly bodice with its hard white kerchief folded over her ample bosom; her hair was parted down the middle and brushed smoothly and flatly to her ears, where but a few curls were allowed to escape with well-regulated primness from beneath the horn-comb, and the whole appearance of her looked almost grotesque, surmounted as it was by the modish high-peaked beaver hat, a marvel of hideousness and discomfort, since the small brim afforded no protection against the sun, and