CHAPTER XLI
THEIR NAME
What had prompted Editha de Chavasse to return thus alone to theQuakeress's cottage, she herself could not exactly have told.
It must have been a passionate and irresistible desire to heap certaintyupon a tangle of horrible surmises.
With Adam Lambert lying dead--obviously murdered--and in the clothesaffected by de Chavasse when masquerading as the French hero, therecould be only one conclusion. But this to Editha--who throughout hadgiven a helping hand in the management of the monstrous comedy--was soawful a solution of the puzzle that she could not but recoil from it,and strive to deny it while she had one sane thought left in her madlywhirling brain.
But though she fought against the conclusion with all her might, she didnot succeed in driving it from her thoughts: and through it all therewas a vein of uncertainty, that slender thread of hope that after allshe might be the prey of some awful delusion, which a word from someonewho really knew would anon easily dissipate.
Someone who really knew? Nay! that someone could only be Marmaduke, andof him she dared not ask questions.
Mayhap that on the other hand the old woman and Richard Lambert knewmore than they had cared to say. Sue was indeed deeply absorbed inthoughts, walking with head bent and eyes fixed on the ground like asomnambulist. Editha, moved by unreasoning instinct, determined to seethe Quakeress again, also the man who now lay dead, hoping that from himmayhap she might glean the real solution of that mystery which sooner orlater would undoubtedly drive her mad.
Running rapidly past horse and rider, for she would not speak toMarmaduke, she reached the cottage soon enough.
In response to her knock, Master Lambert opened the door to her.
The dim light of a couple of tallow candles flickered weirdly in thedraught. Editha looked around her in amazement, astonished that--likeherself--Squire Boatfield had also evidently retraced his steps and wassitting now in one of the high-backed chairs beside the hearth, whilstthe old Quakeress stood not far from him, her attitude indicative ofobstinacy, even of defiance, in the face of a duty with which apparentlythe squire had been charging her.
At sight of Mistress de Chavasse, Boatfield rose. A look of annoyancecrossed his face, at thought that Editha's arrival had, mayhap,endangered the success of his present purpose. Ink and paper were on thetable close to his elbow, and it was obvious that he had beenquestioning the old woman very closely on a subject which sheapparently desired to keep secret from him.
Mistress Lambert's attitude had also changed at sight of Editha, whostood for a moment undecided on the threshold ere she ventured within.The look of obstinacy died out of the wrinkled face; the eyes took on astrange expression of sullen wrath.
"Enter, my fine lady, I pray thee, enter," said the Quakeress; "art alsoa party to these cross-questionings? ... art anxious to probe thesecrets which the old woman hath kept hidden within the walls of thiscottage?"
She laughed, a low, chuckling laugh, mirthless and almost cruel, as shesurveyed Editha's cloaked figure and then the lady's scared and anxiousface.
"Nay, I crave your pardon, mistress," said Editha, feeling oddly timidbefore the strange personality of the Quakeress. "I would of a truthdesire to ask your help in ... in ... I would not intrude ... and I ..."
"Nay! nay! prithee enter, fair mistress," rejoined Mistress Lambertdryly. "Strange, that I should hear thy words so plainly.... Thy wordsseem to find echo in my brain ... raising memories which thou hastburied long ago.... Enter, I prithee, and sit thee down," she added,shuffling towards the chair; "shut the door, Dick lad ... and ask thisfair mistress to sit.... The squire is asking many questions ... mayhapthat I'll answer them, now that she is here...."
In obedience to the quaint peremptoriness of her manner, Richard hadclosed the outer door, and drawn the chair forward, asking Mistress deChavasse to sit. Squire Boatfield, who was visibly embarrassed, wasstill standing and tried to murmur some excuse, being obviously anxiousto curtail this interview and to postpone his further questionings.
"I'll come some other time, mistress," he said with obvious nervousness."Mistress de Chavasse desires to speak with you, and I'll return lateron in the evening ... when you are alone...."
"Nay! nay, man! ..." rejoined the Quakeress, "prithee, sit again ... theevening is young yet ... and what I may tell thee now has something todo with this fine lady here. Wilt question me again? I would mayhapreply."
She stood close to the table, one wrinkled hand resting upon it; theguttering candles cast strange, fantastic lights on her old face,surmounted with the winged coif, and weird shadows down one side of herface. Editha, awed and subdued, gazed on her with a kind of fear, evenof horror.
In a dark corner of the little room the straight outline of the longdeal box could only faintly be perceived in the gloom. Richard Lambert,silent and oppressed, stood close beside it, his face in shadow, hiseyes fixed with a sense of inexplicable premonition on the face ofEditha de Chavasse.
"Now, wilt question me again, man?" asked the old Quakeress, turning tothe squire, "the Lord hath willed that my ears be clear to-day. Wiltquestion me? ... I'll hear thee ... and I'll give answer to thyquestions...."
"Nay, mistress," replied the squire, pointing to the ink and the paperon the table, "methought you would wish to see the murderer of your ...your nephew ... swing on the gallows for his crime.... I would sign thispaper here ordering the murderer of the smith of Acol to be apprehendedas soon as found ... and to be brought forthwith before the magistrate... there to give an account of his doings.... I asked you then to giveme the full Christian and surname of the man whom the neighborhood and Imyself thought was your nephew ... and to my surprise, you seemed tohesitate and ..."
"And I'll hesitate no longer," she interposed firmly. "Let the lad thereask me his dead brother's name and I'll tell him.... I'll tell him ...if he asks ..."
"Justice must be done against Adam's murderer, dear mistress," saidRichard gently, for the old woman had paused and turned to him,evidently waiting for him to speak. "My brother's real name, hisparentage, might explain the motive which led an evildoer to commit suchan appalling crime. Therefore, dear mistress, do I ask thee to tell usmy brother's name, and mine own."
"'Tis well done, lad ... 'tis well done," she rejoined when Richard hadceased speaking, and silence had fallen for awhile on that tiny cottageparlor, "'tis well done," she reiterated. "The secret hath weighedheavily upon my old shoulders these past few years, since thou and Adamwere no longer children.... But I swore to thy grandmother who died inthe Lord, that thou and Adam should never hear of thy mother'swantonness and shame.... I swore it on her death-bed and I have kept myoath ... but I am old now.... After this trouble, mine hour will surelycome.... I am prepared but I will not take thy secret, lad, with me intomy grave."
She shuffled across to the old oak dresser which occupied one wall ofthe little room. Two pairs of glowing eyes followed her every movement;those of Richard Lambert, who seemed to see a vision of his destinyfaintly outlined--still blurred--but slowly unfolding itself in thetangled web of fate; and then those of Editha, who even as the old womanspoke had felt a tidal wave of long-forgotten memories sweeping rightover her senses. The look in the Quakeress's eyes, the words sheuttered--though still obscure and enigmatical--had already told her thewhole truth. As in a flash she saw before her, her youth and all itsfollies, the gay life of thoughtlessness and pleasures, the cradles ofher children, the tiny boys who to the woman of fashion were but ahindrance and a burden.
She saw her own mother, rigid and dour, the counterpart of this same oldPuritan who had not hesitated to part two children from their mother forover a score of years, any more than she hesitated now to fling insultupon insult on the wretched woman who had more than paid her debt toher own careless frivolity of long ago.
"Thy brother's name was Henry Adam de Chavasse, and thine MichaelRichard de Chavasse, sons of Rowland de Chavasse, and of the wanton whowas his wife."
The old woman h
ad taken a packet of papers, yellow with age and stainedwith many tears, from out a secret drawer of the old oak dresser.
Her voice was no longer tremulous as it was wont to be, but firm anddull, monotonous in tone like that of one who speaks whilst in a trance.Squire Boatfield had uttered an exclamation of boundless astonishment.Mechanically he took the packet of papers from the Quakeress's hand andafter an instant's hesitation, and in response to an appealing look fromRichard, he broke the string which held the documents together andperused them one by one.
But Editha, even as the last of the old woman's words ceased to echo inthe narrow room, had risen to her feet. Her heavy cloak glided off hershoulders down upon the ground; her eyes, preternaturally large, glowingand full of awe, were now fixed upon the young man--her son.
"De Chavasse," she murmured, her brain whirling, her heart filled notonly with an awful terror, but also with a great and overwhelming joy."My sons ... then I am ..."
But with a peremptory gesture the Quakeress had stopped the word in hermouth.
"Nay!" she said loudly, "do not pollute that sacred name by letting itpass through thy lips. Women such as thou were not made formotherhood.... Thy own mother knew that, when she took thy children fromthee and cursed thee on her death-bed for thy sins and for thy shame!Thy sons were honest, God-fearing men, but 'tis no thanks to thee. Thoualone hast heaped shame upon their dead father's name and hast contrivedto wreak ruin on the sons who knew thee not."
The Quakeress paused a moment, her pale opaque eyes lighted with aninward glow of wrath and of satisfied vengeance. She and her dead friendand all their co-religionists had hated the woman, who, in defiance ofher own Puritanic upbringing, had cast aside her friends and her home inorder to throw herself in that vortex of pleasure, which her motherconsidered evil and infamous.
Together they had all rejoiced over this woman's subsequent humiliation,her sorrow and longing for her children, the ceaseless search, theever-recurrent disappointments. Now the Quakeress's hour had come, hersand that of the whole of the dour sect who had taken it upon itself topunish and to avenge.
Editha, shamed and miserable, not even daring now to approach her ownson and to beg for affection with a look, stood quite rigid and pale,allowing the torrent of the old woman's pent-up hatred to fall upon herand to crush her with its rough cruelty.
Squire Boatfield would have interposed. He had glanced at the variousdocuments--the proofs of what the old woman had asserted--and wassatisfied that the horrible tale of what seemed to him unparalleledcruelty was indeed true, and that the narrow bigotry of a community hadsucceeded in performing that monstrous crime of parting this wretchedwoman for twenty years from her sons.
Vaguely in his mind, the kindly squire hoped that he--asmagistrate--could fitly punish this crime of child-stealing, and theexpression with which he now regarded the old Quakeress was certainlynot one of good-will.
Mistress Lambert had, in the meanwhile, approached Editha. She now tookthe younger woman's hand in hers and dragged her towards the coffin.
"There lies one of thy sons," she said with the same relentless energy,"the eldest, who should have been thy pride, murdered in a dark spot bysome skulking criminal.... Curse thee! ... curse thee, I say ... as thymother cursed thee on her death-bed ... curse thee now that retributionhas come at last!"
Her words died away, as some mournful echo against these whitewashedwalls.
For a moment she stood wrathful and defiant, upright and stern like ajusticiary between the dead son and the miserable woman, who of a truthwas suffering almost unendurable agony of mind and of heart.
Then in the midst of the awesome silence that followed on that loudlyspoken curse, there was the sound of a firm footstep on the rough dealfloor, and the next moment Michael Richard de Chavasse was kneelingbeside his mother, and covering her icy cold hand with kisses.
A heart-broken moan escaped her throat. She stooped and with tremblinglips gently touched the young head bent in simple love and uninquiringreverence before her.
Then without a word, without a look cast either at her cruel enemy, orat the silent spectator of this terrible drama, she turned and ranrapidly out of the room, out into the dark and dismal night.
With a deep sigh of content, Mistress Lambert fell on her knees andthence upon the floor.
The old heart which had contained so much love and so much hatred, suchstern self-sacrifice and such deadly revenge, had ceased to beat, nowthe worker's work was done.