Mist Over Pendle (37 page)

“You keep your promise,” he said, when it came to an end.

“Which promise?”

“Of warm welcome. Why did you send it?”

“Was that not natural?”

“I do not know. You bewilder me--aye, and you dazzle me too, as you’d dazzle any man.”

She chose the easier half to answer. “Do I dazzle?”

“You know it well. As you look tonight---“ He looked her up and down, and his admiration was obvious. “As you look tonight you’d light the Great Hall at Lathom--as I once told you you could do.”

She flushed with pleasure.

“I take some pains,” she answered. “That is all.”

“Not all.” She waited for the further compliment, but it did not come. “Not all,” he repeated. “You take pains, but you give them too.”

That was startling, and Margery almost gasped with relief when a surge of people swept them to the wall and the whisper ran that the Mummers were coming. That would at least give her a chance to think, and she felt she needed it. Plainly he had admiration for her; just as plainly, he was not lost in admiration; he had resentments too.

Then the doors were flung wide, and the Mummers came marching two by two in slow procession: rustic fellows these, gay in their home-made finery, and marching slowly with a tramp of their high boots. Then the tramp became louder as it gave the rhythm to their ancient song:

“We’ve not come to your house to beg or to borrow,
But we’ve come to your house to drive away sorrow.
Though if when we’ve ended, we look as if we’re dry,
We’d thank you for ale, and a bite of the pie.”

Round the room they went, stiff and wooden, with their deep-chested voices rolling out. Margery, pressed against the wall by the crowd, found Frank somehow at her side, and her hand was in his as the Mummers came round again.

“We come with good will, and a story to play,
To bring you the joy that belongs to this Day.
And God send you grace to give thanks on the morrow,
Who sent One to your house to drive away sorrow.”

The words rang clear, and Margery pressed closely against Frank at her side.

“Shall I have cause to give those thanks?” she whispered.

He let that sink in before he made answer. Then his whisper came in her ear:

“Has God sent grace to you--and me--this night?”

Then Margery knew that the time had come.

“We’ll talk of that in private,” she said.

She led him apart, out of the crowded hall and into the little parlour that was private to Roger Nowell. Margery calmly appropriated it, for Roger was with the Mummers and would scarcely disturb them here.

She sat herself in the elbow-chair and looked up at him steadily as he stood by the tiny hearth.

“You seem,” she told him, “to have some complaint of me. Certainly we seem at odds over something. Do you care to be precise?”

He chose to remain standing, and when he spoke his words came deliberately.

“When we first met,” he said slowly, “that day when your horse fell, and you lay among the leaves---“

“Yes?” She was half smiling at the memory of it.

“I found in you what I’d never known before. Do not ask me what it was. I’m not skilled with words.”

Margery was avoiding his eye, but the smile was still with her. Memory of her own feeling was helping her to understand his.

“I forgot that papist.” His tone was hardening now. “I forgot him so that he rode away. I all but forgot him those next three days--till I was reminded, and rode to Lathom. You know why I forgot him?”

Margery looked up and met his eye again, but she did not speak; it seemed as if he hardly expected her to.

“I forgot him because of you,” he went on quietly. “I forgot him because my head was full of you, and there was no space left for any other. It was so from the moment I found you in the leaves. It was so when we rode in Pendle Forest. It was so when I rode alone to Lathom.”

“Yes?” Margery’s voice was hardly a whisper. “And then?”

“Then there was warmth in you.” His voice was rising a little. “There was warmth that lit everything--for me. I’d some little conceit of myself then, and perhaps something to ground it on. I could account myself come of a good family and placed in the service of a great one. I’d some share of milord’s favour, and some fair hope of rising in the world. And then came you--and we rode in Pendle. I felt your warmth and I dreamed. Was it too much that I should dream?”

He paused and seemed to wait for an answer; but no answer came. Margery was looking down, and clinging tightly to the arms of her chair.

“So it stood,” he went on. “So it stood that day I rode for Lathom. You came in the dawn to see me go, and your coming warmed the mist. Do you remember that mist?”

She nodded and still said nothing. But the hand kerchief of cambric was crumpled in her hand, and she seemed to be nibbling its corner.

“You stood in the mist,” he said. “You stood by my stirrup with your hand on mine, and you said it was I that needed to be cared for. Do you remember?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“That was when I rode for Lathom.” A ring was coming into his voice now. “The next day I rode back. I was no longer in milord’s favour. I was scarcely in his service. I was no more than I had always been--a younger son, with neither land nor place. All I had was a worthy name, and a memory of you.”

He waited, as if to give her the chance to speak. Then he went on again.

“A memory of you,” he repeated. “I made all haste back to you, and again you gave me welcome. You came running down the stair, all gladness. Do you remember?”

“Remember?” Margery stirred at last. “How could I not remember?”

But he ignored that, and followed his own thoughts.

“There and then, at the foot of the stair, I told you what had passed at Lathom.”

He stopped short, and waited till Margery lifted her eyes to his. Then he spoke bitterly.

“From the hour when you learned how I had fallen, your warmth faded. All was ice.”

“Frank!” The name burst from her in startled protest.

“It faded,” he repeated. “It faded when I was most in need of it. And only God knows how I needed it.”

“Frank! What are you saying to me?” She was on her feet now in agitation. “What made you think such---”

“Is it not true?” His voice cut her short. “Is it not true you’ve shown me naught but coldness since?”

That stopped her. She knew only too well that she had shown him coldness, and she groped wildly for words that could explain.

“What did you suppose?” he asked suddenly. “That I came to you hunting fortune?”

“Fortune?” This, she thought, was madness, but at least it could be denied. “Fortune, do you say? What fortune should you find with me, that have none?”

His eye swept over her taffeta and damask, and seemed to linger on the pearls in her collar.

“You’re kin to an Esquire of fine estate,” he said slowly. “And I, a younger son.”

Margery stared wildly, her thoughts all chaos. It was all so plausible, and she had just remembered that even Alice Nutter had made the same mistake. She struggled for control.

“Frank,” she said urgently. “Understand, if you please, that I’m heir to nobody and nothing. My father’s gone, and my family’s poor. I’ve less place in the world than you yourself.”

It was his turn to stand silent, and again he looked her over.

“You’re not so attired,” he said doubtfully.

“Nor are you.”

Her retort was instant, and it drew the flicker of a smile from him. Margery saw it, and the sight of it increased her urgency.

“Attire and purse don’t always march together,” she told him. “You should know that.”

“I do.”

“Then listen. You can either give me the lie to my face, or you can accept it that I did not at any time suppose you to have come to me for fortune. Now which is it?”

She was indignant, and her tone showed it. He had sense enough not to flout her.

“I accept it,” he said at once, and Margery sighed with relief. But at once he returned to his point.

“Then why did you show me such coldness? And so suddenly? You’ll hardly deny the fact of it?”

Margery’s relief vanished. She had no good answer to that, and she stood silent under his searching eyes.

“Do you deny the fact of it?”

His voice was insistent, and she knew she must answer. “I deny coldness,” she said at last. “I can’t deny some--some change of manner. There were difficulties.”

“What difficulties?”

That deepened her perplexity. She could hardly tell him she had feared he might learn too much of the Southworth affair. Yet what else could she say?

“May I not be trusted?”

His quiet question went to the root of it. That was precisely what had made her wary. But how could she explain that? Then he shifted the point of his attack.

“That day I met you,” he said, “that day I picked you from the leaves and the papist rode away--had you known this Southworth before that day?”

Margery’s eyes narrowed. This was coming very near home, and it touched on secrets that were Roger’s as much as hers.

“Had you known him before?”

He was very quiet and very firm, and Margery felt she was trapped. This was not to be evaded easily.

“Had you known him before? Look at me.”

There was nothing for it then but the truth.

“Yes,” she said as she lifted her eyes to his. “But once only.”

He ignored that and pressed his attack.

“Did you know, when you came upon me that day, that it was the papist Southworth who rode beside me?”

Again she was too closely under his eye to evade it.

“I ... I thought it might be,” she admitted unhappily.

“And did you intend--what followed?”

He waited watchfully, but this time it was Margery who attacked.

“Will you tell me why you put such motives on me? Why do you use me with such uncharity?”

She said it in desperation, and to her surprise and her unspeakable relief, it disconcerted him. He looked at his feet uneasily and when he spoke his tone had changed.

“I have some shame of it,” he said. He looked her over doubtfully, almost as if he were wondering whether he might go on. Margery pounced on it.

“Your name’s Frank.”

She said it quickly, and again the half-smile nickered as his memory took the point. It seemed to hearten him.

“You shall have the truth of it then,” he said. “I’ve said I’ve some shame of it, and it’s not as I like it. But here it is. I went to Westby knowing you’d be here at Christmas, and having it in mind to visit you and sort these things. But half a week back, there was a vexing tale brought me by Tom Lister. I hated to hear a tale of you, Margery, but---“

“What was this tale?”

Her voice rang sharply, and that was by intention. He seemed to be on the defensive now, and she meant to keep him there. But his voice still came steadily.

“The tale was this. There’s a woman at Westby, it seems, who has some connections in Pendle. A rustic woman. She swills the dairy and gives some hand in the house. She made a Christmas visit to her folk in Pendle, and being returned to Westby she dropped some gossip by Tom Lister’s ear.”

“Gossip, do you say? And of me?”

There was something of anger in Margery’s voice now, and apparently it was not lost on him. He was almost diffident when he resumed.

“Aye, of you. Tom Lister told me as a confidence---“

“Confidence? Gossip as a confidence? And of me? Here’s a fine tale! But pray continue. What was this tale of me?”

“Just this: that you knew this Southworth of old, and that you had given him aid and comfort before; that you spilled from your horse before me with deliberate intent; and that all that followed was deception. That was the tale.”

He ended and stood waiting while icy quiet gripped the little room. Margery stood rigid while the chill crept about her. This tale was wicked. It was too deadly and too exact to be chance. Here was malice, precise, calculated, and informed.

“And did you credit that of me?”

Margery’s voice was very clear and steady. The secret cold of Pendle had come into this fire-lit room, and the chill of it had cooled her wits. Her mind was working icily now, and she had remembered young Jennet’s tale of Anne Redfern, hidden in the brush and hurrying to the Rough Lee. She was beginning to understand.

“Did you credit that of me?”

She repeated it, and he stirred uneasily, finding it hard to meet her eye.

“It ... it fitted,” he said at last.

“How?” She almost snapped the question.

“I had thought--I had even told you--that day we met, that you were not so hurt as you made appearance to be. Also----“

“Yes?”

“It fitted in another way. You kept me amused. You kept me dreaming--till I was back from Lathom and the papist safe to ground.”

“That’s not the tale you told just now.” Margery sounded brisk and confident. “You say I changed when you were back from Lathom. First it’s because you lacked advancement. Now it’s because a papist’s safe to ground. You leave me giddy.”

But he was hard to put to silence. He was plainly ill at ease, but he persisted.

“At the least,” he said, “you’ve admitted some change of manner, and you’ve not said whence it came. Moreover---“

“Yes?”

“You’ve admitted knowing this Southworth, and guessing it was he who rode beside me. And as I’ve said, you seemed more hurt than you were. It fits snug to the woman’s tale. Am I at fault for raising it? Also---“

“Yes? What more?”

“Even from the first, you kept it hid from me that you knew this man and had ridden at me with a guess. There’s some dishonesty in that.”

He came to an end, and then he waited quietly. Margery’s thoughts ran clearly. She must give him the explanation now. It was all too clear and too dangerous to allow of evasions, and on no account must he detect her in some shifty tale. All that remained was to cling tight to Roger’s secrets while letting go her own.

“All that is true.” She said it with a smile, and she hoped her voice was steady. “It’s more true than I like, and you shall hear how it came to be. One question first---“