The Nest of the Sparrowhawk | Page 4

moments for those whom he portrays.
There are no data extant as to what occurred during the next few
seconds in the old oak-beamed dining-room of Acol Court in the Island
of Thanet. Certain it is that when next we get a peep at Master
Hymn-of-Praise Busy and Mistress Charity Haggett, they are standing
side by side, he looking somewhat shame-faced in the midst of his
obvious joy, and she supremely unconcerned, once more absorbed in
the apparently never-ending adornment of the refreshment table.
"Thou'lt 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