Tales of two people

CHAPTER VIII

THE MARCHESA MOVES He was triumphant with what he had achieved—he was full of hope for what he had planned. If he reckoned right, the loyalty of the ladies at Nab Grange to the mistress thereof was tottering, if it had not fallen. His relations with the men awaited the result of the cricket match. Yet neither his triumph nor his hope could in the nature of the case exist without an intermixture of remorse. He hurt—or tried to hurt—what he would please—and hoped to please. His mood was mixed, and his smile not altogether mirthful as he stood looking at the fast-receding carriage. Then suddenly, for the first time, he saw his enemy. Distantly—afar off! Yet without a doubt it was she. As he turned and cast his eyes over the forbidden path—the path whose seclusion he had violated, bold in his right—a white figure came to the sunk fence and stood there, looking not towards where he stood, but up to his castle on the hill. Lynborough edged near to the barricaded gate—a new padlock and new chevaux-de-frise of prickly branches guarded it. The latter, high as his head, screened him completely; he peered through the interstices in absolute security. The white figure stood on the little bridge which led over the sunk fence into the meadow. He could see neither feature nor colour; only the slender shape caught and chained his eye. Tall she was, and slender, as his mocking forecast had prophesied. More than that he could not see. Well, he did see one more thing. This beautiful shape, after a few minutes of what must be presumed to be meditation, raised its arm and shook its fist with decision at Scarsmoor Castle; then it turned and walked straight back to the Grange. There was no sort of possibility of mistaking the nature or the meaning of the gesture. It had the result of stifling Lynborough’s softer mood, of reviving his pugnacity. “She must do more than that, if she’s to win!” said he. CHAPTER VIII THE MARCHESA MOVES A FTER her demonstration against Scarsmoor Castle, the Marchesa went in to lunch. But there were objects of her wrath nearer home also. She received Norah’s salute—they had not met before, that morning—with icy coldness. “I’m better, thank you,” she said, “but you must be feeling tired—having been up so very early in the morning! And you—Violet—have you been over to Scarsmoor again?” Violet had heard from Norah all about the latter’s morning adventure. They exchanged uneasy glances. Yet they were prepared to back one another up. The men looked more frightened; men are frightened when women quarrel. “One of you,” continued the Marchesa accusingly, “pursues Lord Lynborough to his own threshold—the other flirts with him in my own meadow! Rather peculiar signs of friendship for me under the present circumstances—don’t you think so, Colonel Wenman?” The Colonel thought so—though he would have greatly preferred to be at liberty to entertain—or at least to express—no opinion on so thorny a point. “Flirt with him? What do you mean?” But Norah’s protest lacked the ring of honest indignation. “Kissing one’s hand to a mere stranger——” “How do you know that? You were in bed.” “Carlotta saw you from her window. You don’t deny it?” “No, I don’t,” said Norah, perceiving the uselessness of such a course. “In fact, I glory in it. I had a splendid time with Lord Lynborough. Oh, I did try to keep him out for you—but he jumped over my head.” Sensation among the gentlemen! Increased scorn on the Marchesa’s face! “And when I got John Goodenough to help me, he just laid John down on the grass as—as I lay that spoon on the table! He’s splendid, Helena!” “He seems a good sort of chap,” said Irons thoughtfully. The Marchesa looked at Wenman. “Nothing to be said for the fellow, nothing at all,” declared the Colonel hastily. “Thank you, Colonel Wenman. I’m glad I have one friend left anyhow. Oh, besides you, Mr Stillford, of course. Oh, and you, dear old Jennie, of course. You wouldn’t forsake me, would you?” The tone of affection was calculated to gratify Miss Gilletson. But against it had to be set the curious and amused gaze of Norah and Violet. Seen by these two ladies in the act of descending from a stylish (and coroneted) victoria in the drive of Nab Grange, Miss Gilletson had, pardonably perhaps, broken down rather severely in cross-examination. She had been so very proud of the roses—so very full of Lord Lynborough’s graces! She was conscious now that the pair held her in their hands and were demanding courage from her. “Forsake you, dearest Helena? Of course not! There’s no question of that with any of us.” “Yes—there is—with those of you who make friends with that wretch at Scarsmoor!” “Really, Helena, you shouldn’t be so—so vehement. I’m not sure it’s ladylike. It’s absurd to call Lord Lynborough a wretch.” The pale faint flush again adorned her fading cheeks. “I never met a man more thoroughly a gentleman.” “You never met——” began the Marchesa in petrified tones. “Then you have met——?” Again her words died away. Miss Gilletson took her courage in both hands. “Circumstances threw us together. I behaved as a lady does under such circumstances, Helena. And Lord Lynborough was, under the circumstances, most charming, courteous, and considerate.” She gathered more courage as she proceeded. “And, really, it’s highly inconvenient having that gate locked, Helena. I had to come all the way round by the road.” “I’m sorry if you find yourself fatigued,” said the Marchesa with formal civility. “I’m not fatigued, thank you, Helena. I should have been terribly—but for Lord Lynborough’s kindness in sending me home in his carriage.” A pause followed. Then Norah and Violet began to giggle. “It was so funny this morning!” said Norah—and boldly launched on a full story of her adventure. She held the attention of the table. The Marchesa sat in gloomy silence. Violet chimed in with more reminiscences of her visit to Scarsmoor; Miss Gilletson contributed new items, including that matter of the roses. Norah ended triumphantly with a eulogy on Lynborough’s extraordinary physical powers. Captain Irons listened with concealed interest. Even Colonel Wenman ventured to opine that the enemy was worth fighting. Stillford imitated his hostess’s silence, but he was watching her closely. Would her courage—or her obstinacy—break down under these assaults, this lukewarmness, these desertions? In his heart, fearful of that lawsuit, he hoped so. “I shall prosecute him for assaulting Goodenough,” the Marchesa announced. “Goodenough touched him first!” cried Norah. “That doesn’t matter, since I’m in the right. He had no business to be there. That’s the law, isn’t it, Mr Stillford? Will he be sent to prison or only heavily fined?” “Well—er—I’m rather afraid—neither, Marchesa. You see, he’ll plead his right, and the Bench would refer us to our civil remedy and dismiss the summons. At least, that’s my opinion.” “Of course that’s right,” pronounced Norah in an authoritative tone. “If that’s the English law,” observed the Marchesa, rising from the table, “I greatly regret that I ever settled in England.” “What are you going to do this afternoon, Helena? Going to play tennis—or croquet?” “I’m going for a walk, thank you, Violet.” She paused for a moment and then added, “By myself.” “Oh, mayn’t I have the privilege——?” began the Colonel. “Not to-day, thank you, Colonel Wenman. I—I have a great deal to think about. We shall meet again at tea—unless you’re all going to tea at Scarsmoor Castle!” With this Parthian shot she left them. She had indeed much to think of—and her reflections were not cast in a cheerful mould. She had underrated her enemy. It had seemed sufficient to lock the gate and to forbid Lynborough’s entry. These easy measures had appeared to leave him no resource save blank violence: in that confidence she had sat still and done nothing. He had been at work—not by blank violence, but by cunning devices and subtle machinations. He had made a base use of his personal fascinations, of his athletic gifts, even of his lordly domain, his garden of roses, and his carriage. She perceived his strategy; she saw now how he had driven in his wedges. Her ladies had already gone over to his side; even her men were shaken. Stillford had always been lukewarm; Irons was fluttering round Lynborough’s flame; Wenman might still be hers—but an isolation mitigated only by Colonel Wenman seemed an isolation not mitigated in the least. When she had looked forward to a fight, it had not been to such a fight as this. An enthusiastic, hilarious, united Nab Grange was to have hurled laughing defiance at Scarsmoor Castle. Now more than half Nab Grange laughed—but its laughter was not at the Castle; its laughter, its pitying amusement, was directed at her; Lynborough’s triumphant campaign drew all admiration. He had told Stillford that he would harry her; he was harrying her to his heart’s content—and to a very soreness in hers. For the path—hateful Beach Path which her feet at this moment trod—became now no more than an occasion for battle, a symbol of strife. The greater issue stood out. It was that this man had peremptorily challenged her to a fight—and was beating her! And he won his victory, not by male violence in spite of male stupidity, but by just the arts and the cunning which should have been her own weapons. To her he left the blunt, the inept, the stupid and violent methods. He chose the more refined, and wielded them like a master. It was a position to which the Marchesa’s experience had not accustomed her—one to which her spirit was by no means attuned. What was his end—that end whose approach seemed even now clearly indicated? It was to convict her at once of cowardice and of pig-headedness, to exhibit her as afraid to bring him to book by law, and yet too churlish to cede him his rights. He would get all her friends to think that about her. Then she would be left alone—to fight a lost battle all alone. Was he right in his charge? Did it truly describe her conduct? For any truth there might be in it, she declared that he was himself to blame. He had forced the fight on her by his audacious demand for instant surrender; he had given her no fair time for consideration, no opportunity for a dignified retreat. He had offered her no choice save between ignominy and defiance. If she chose defiance, his rather than hers was the blame. Suddenly—across these dismal broodings—there shot a new idea. Fas est et ab hoste doceri ; she did not put it in Latin, but it came to the same thing—Couldn’t she pay Lynborough back in his own coin? She had her resources—perhaps she had been letting them lie idle! Lord Lynborough did not live alone at Scarsmoor. If there were women open to his wiles at the Grange, were there no men open to hers at Scarsmoor? The idea was illuminating; she accorded it place in her thoughts. She was just by the gate. She took out her key, opened the padlock, closed the gate behind her, but did not lock it, walked on to the road, and surveyed the territory of Scarsmoor. Fate helps those who help themselves: her new courage of brain and heart had its reward. She had not been there above a minute when Roger Wilbraham came out from the Scarsmoor gates. Lynborough had, he considered, done enough for one day. He was awaiting the results of to-morrow’s manœuvres anent the cricket match. But he amused himself after lunch by proffering to Roger a wager that he would not succeed in traversing Beach Path from end to end, and back again, alone, by his own unassisted efforts, and without being driven to ignominious flight. Without a moment’s hesitation Roger accepted. “I shall just wait till the coast’s clear,” he said. “Ah, but they’ll see you from the windows! They will be on the lookout,” Lynborough retorted. The Marchesa had strolled a little way down the road. She was walking back towards the gate when Roger first came in sight. He did not see her until after he had reached the gate. There he stood a moment, considering at what point to attack it—for the barricade was formidable. He came to the same conclusion as Lynborough had reached earlier in the day. “Oh, I’ll jump the wall,” he said. “The gate isn’t locked,” remarked a charming voice just behind him. He turned round with a start and saw—he had no doubt whom he saw. The Marchesa’s tall slender figure stood before him—all in white, crowned by a large, yet simple, white hat; her pale olive cheeks were tinged with underlying red (the flush of which Lynborough had dreamed!); her dark eyes rested on the young man with a kindly languid interest; her very red lips showed no smile, yet seemed to have one in ready ambush. Roger was overcome; he blushed and stood silent before the vision. “I expect you’re going to bathe? Of course this is the shortest way, and I shall be so glad if you’ll use it. I’m going to the Grange myself, so I can put you on your way.” Roger was honest. “I—I’m staying at the Castle.” “I’ll tell somebody to be on the lookout and open the gate for you when you come back,” said she. If Norah was no match for Lynborough, Roger was none for the Marchesa’s practised art. “You’re—you’re awfully kind. I—I shall be delighted, of course.” The Marchesa passed through the gate. Roger followed. She handed him the key. “Will you please lock the padlock? It’s not—safe—to leave the gate open.” Her smile had come into the open—it was on the red lips now! For all his agitation Roger was not blind to its meaning. His hand was to lock the gate against his friend and chief! But the smile and the eyes commanded. He obeyed. It was the first really satisfactory moment which the contest had brought to the Marchesa—some small instalment of consolation for the treason of her friends. Roger had been honestly in love once with a guileless maiden—who had promptly and quite unguilefully refused him; his experience did not at all fit him to cope with the Marchesa. She, of course, was merciless: was he not of the hated house? As an individual, however, he appeared to be comely and agreeable. They walked on side by side—not very quickly. The Marchesa’s eyes were now downcast. Roger was able to steal a glance at her profile; he could compare it to nothing less than a Roman Empress on an ancient silver coin. “I suppose you’ve been taught to think me a very rude and unneighbourly person, haven’t you, Mr Wilbraham? At least, I suppose you’re Mr Wilbraham? You don’t look old enough to be that learned Mr Stabb the Vicar told me about. Though he said Mr Stabb was absolutely delightful—how I should love to know him, if only——!” She broke off, sighing deeply. “Yes, my name’s Wilbraham. I’m Lynborough’s secretary. But—er—I don’t think anything of that sort about you. And—and I’ve never heard Lynborough say anything—er—unkind.” “Oh, Lord Lynborough!” She gave a charming little shrug, accompanied with what Roger, from his novel-reading, conceived to be a moue . “Of course I—I know that you—you think you’re right,” he stammered. She stopped on the path. “Yes, I do think I’m right, Mr Wilbraham. But that’s not it. If it were merely a question of right, it would be unneighbourly to insist. I’m not hurt by Lord Lynborough’s using this path. But I’m hurt by Lord Lynborough’s discourtesy. In my country women are treated with respect—even sometimes (she gave a bitter little laugh) with deference. That doesn’t seem to occur to Lord Lynborough.” “Well, you know——” “Oh, I can’t let you say a word against him, whatever you may be obliged to think. In your position—as his friend—that would be disloyal; and the one thing I dislike is disloyalty. Only I was anxious”—she turned and faced him—“that you should understand my position—and that Mr Stabb should too. I shall be very glad if you and Mr Stabb will use the path whenever you like. If the gate’s locked you can manage the wall!” “I’m—I’m most awfully obliged to you—er—Marchesa—but you see——” “No more need be said about that, Mr Wilbraham. You’re heartily welcome. Lord Lynborough would have been heartily welcome too, if he would have approached me properly. I was open to discussion. I received orders. I don’t take orders—not even from Lord Lynborough.” She looked splendid—so Roger thought. The underlying red dyed the olive to a brighter hue; her eyes were very proud; the red lips shut decisively. Just like a Roman Empress! Then her face underwent a rapid transformation; the lips parted, the eyes laughed, the cheeks faded to hues less stormy, yet not less beautiful. (These are recorded as Mr Wilbraham’s impressions.) Lightly she laid the tips of her fingers on his arm for just a moment. “There—don’t let’s talk any more about disagreeable things,” she said. “It’s too beautiful an afternoon. Can you spare just five minutes? The strawberries are splendid! I want some—and it’s so hot to pick them for oneself!” Roger paused, twisting the towel round his neck. “Only five minutes!” pleaded—yes, pleaded—the beautiful Marchesa. “Then you can go and have your swim in peace.” It was a question whether poor Roger was to do anything more in peace that day—but he went and picked the strawberries. CHAPTER IX LYNBOROUGH DROPS A CATCH “S OMETHING has happened!” (So Lynborough records the same evening.) “I don’t know precisely what—but I think that the enemy is at last in motion. I’m glad. I was being too successful. I had begun to laugh at her—and that only. I prefer the admixture of another element of emotion. All that ostensibly appears is that I have lost five shillings to Roger. ‘You did it?’ I asked. ‘Certainly,’ said Roger. ‘I went at my ease and came back at my ease, and——.’ I interrupted, ‘Nobody stopped you?’ ‘Nobody made any objection,’ said Roger. ‘You took your time,’ says I. ‘You were away three hours!’ ‘The water was very pleasant this afternoon,’ says Roger. Hum! I hand over my two half-crowns, which Roger pockets with a most peculiar sort of smile. There that incident appears to end—with a comment from me that the Marchesa’s garrison is not very alert. Another smile—not less peculiar—from Roger! Hum! “Then Cromlech! I trust Cromlech as myself—that is, as far as I can see him. He has no secrets from me—that I know of; I have none from him—which would be at all likely to interest him. Yet, soon after Roger’s return, Cromlech goes out! And they had been alone together for some minutes, as I happen to have observed. Cromlech is away an hour and a half! If I were not a man of honour, I would have trained the telescope on to him. I refrained. Where was Cromlech? At the church, he told me. I accept his word—but the church has had a curious effect upon him. Sometimes he is silent, sulky, reflective, embarrassed—constantly rubbing the place where his hair ought to be—not altogether too civil to me either. Anon, sits with a fat happy smile on his face! Has he found a new tomb? No; he’d tell me about a new tomb. What has happened to Cromlech? “At first sight Violet—the insinuating one—would account for the phenomena. Or Norah’s eyes and lashes? Yet I hesitate. Woman, of course, it is, with both of them. Violet might make men pleased with themselves; Norah could make them merry and happy. Yet these two are not so much pleased with themselves—rather they are pleased with events; they are not merry—they are thoughtful. And I think they are resentful. I believe the hostile squadron has weighed anchor. In these great results, achieved so quickly, demanding on my part such an effort in reply, I see the Marchesa’s touch! I have my own opinion as to what has happened to Roger and to Cromlech. Well, we shall see—to-morrow is the cricket match!” “ Later. I had closed this record; I was preparing to go to bed (wishing to bathe early to-morrow) when I found that I had forgotten to bring up my book. Coltson had gone to bed—or out—anyhow, away. I went down myself. The library door stood ajar; I had on my slippers; a light burnt still; Cromlech and Roger were up. As I approached—with an involuntary noiselessness (I really couldn’t be expected to think of coughing, in my own house and with no ladies about)—I overheard this remarkable, most significant, most important conversation:— “ Cromlech : ‘On my soul, there were tears in her eyes!’ “ Roger : ‘Stabb, can we as gentlemen——?’ “Then, as I presume, the shuffle of my slippers became audible. I went in; both drank whisky-and-soda in a hurried fashion. I took my book from the table. Naught said I. Their confusion was obvious. I cast on them one of my looks; Roger blushed, Stabb shuffled his feet. I left them. “ ‘Tears in her eyes!’ ‘Can we as gentlemen?’ “The Marchesa moves slowly, but she moves in force!” It is unnecessary to pursue the diary further; for his lordship—forgetful apparently of the bourne of bed, to which he had originally destined himself—launches into a variety of speculations as to the Nature of Love. Among other questions, he puts to himself the following concerning Love:—(1) Is it Inevitable? (2) Is it Agreeable? (3) Is it Universal? (4) Is it Wise? (5) Is it Remunerative? (6) Is it Momentary? (7) Is it Sempiternal? (8) Is it Voluntary? (9) Is it Conditioned? (10) Is it Remediable? (11) Is it Religious? (There’s a note here—“Consult Cromlech”)—(12) May it be expected to survive the Advance of Civilisation? (13) Why does it exist at all? (14) Is it Ridiculous? It is not to be inferred that Lord Lynborough answers these questions. He is, like a wise man, content to propound them. If, however, he had answered them, it might have been worth while to transcribe the diary. “Can we as gentlemen——?”—Roger had put the question. It waited unanswered till Lynborough had taken his book and returned to record its utterance— together with the speculations to which that utterance gave rise. Stabb weighed it carefully, rubbing his bald head, according to the habit which his friend had animadverted upon. “If such a glorious creature——” cried Roger. “If a thoroughly intelligent and most sympathetic woman——” said Stabb. “Thinks that she has a right, why, she probably has one!” “At any rate her view is entitled to respect—to a courteous hearing.” “Lynborough does appear to have been a shade—er——” “Ambrose is a spoilt child, bless him! She took a wonderful interest in my brasses. I don’t know what brought her to the church.” “She waited herself to let me through that beastly gate again!” “She drove me round herself to our gates. Wouldn’t come through Scarsmoor!” They both sighed. They both thought of telling the other something—but on second thoughts refrained. “I suppose we’d better go to bed. Shall you bathe to-morrow morning?” “With Ambrose? No, I sha’n’t, Wilbraham.” “No more shall I. Good-night, Stabb. You’ll—think it over?” Stabb grunted inarticulately. Roger drew the blind aside for a moment, looked down on Nab Grange, saw a light in one window—and went to bed. The window was, in objective fact (if there be such a thing), Colonel Wenman’s. No matter. There nothing is but thinking makes it so. The Colonel was sitting up, writing a persuasive letter to his tailor. He served emotions that he did not feel; it is a not uncommon lot. Lynborough’s passing and repassing to and from his bathing were uninterrupted next morning. Nab Grange seemed wrapped in slumber; only Goodenough saw him, and Goodenough did not think it advisable to interrupt his ordinary avocations. But an air of constraint—even of mystery—marked both Stabb and Roger at breakfast. The cricket match was naturally the topic—though Stabb declared that he took little interest in it and should probably not be there. “There’ll be some lunch, I suppose,” said Lynborough carelessly. “You’d better have lunch there—it’d be dull for you all by yourself here, Cromlech.” After apparent consideration Stabb conceded that he might take luncheon on the cricket ground; Roger, as a member of the Fillby team, would, of course, do likewise. The game was played in a large field, pleasantly surrounded by a belt of trees, and lying behind the Lynborough Arms. Besides Roger and Lynborough, Stillford and Irons represented Fillby. Easthorpe Polytechnic came in full force, save for an umpire. Colonel Wenman, who had walked up with his friends, was pressed into this honourable and responsible service, landlord Dawson officiating at the other end. Lynborough’s second gardener, a noted fast bowler, was Fillby’s captain; Easthorpe was under the command of a curate who had played several times for his University, although he had not actually achieved his “blue.” Easthorpe won the toss and took first innings. The second gardener, aware of his employer’s turn of speed, sent Lord Lynborough to field “in the country.” That gentleman was well content; few balls came his way and he was at leisure to contemplate the exterior of the luncheon tent—he had already inspected the interior thereof with sedulous care and high contentment—and to speculate on the probable happenings of the luncheon hour. So engrossed was he that only a rapturous cheer, which rang out from the field and the spectators, apprised him of the fact that the second gardener had yorked the redoubtable curate with the first ball of his second over! Young Woodwell came in; he was known as a mighty hitter; Lynborough was signalled to take his position yet deeper in the field. Young Woodwell immediately got to business—but he kept the ball low. Lynborough had, however, the satisfaction of saving several “boundaries.” Roger, keeping wicket, observed his chief’s exertions with some satisfaction. Other wickets fell rapidly—but young Woodwell’s score rapidly mounted up. If he could stay in, they would make a hundred—and Fillby looked with just apprehension on a score like that. The second gardener, who had given himself a brief rest, took the ball again with an air of determination. “Peters doesn’t seem to remember that I also bowl,” reflected Lord Lynborough. The next moment he was glad of this omission. Young Woodwell was playing for safety now—his fifty loomed ahead! Lynborough had time for a glance round. He saw Stabb saunter on to the field; then—just behind where he stood when the second gardener was bowling from the Lynborough Arms end of the field—a waggonette drove up. Four ladies descended. A bench was placed at their disposal, and the two men-servants at once began to make preparations for lunch, aided therein by the ostler from the Lynborough Arms, who rigged up a table on trestles under a spreading tree. Lord Lynborough’s reputation as a sportsman inevitably suffers from this portion of the narrative. Yet extenuating circumstances may fairly be pleaded. He was deeply interested in the four ladies who sat behind him on the bench; he was vitally concerned in the question of the lunch. As he walked back, between the overs, to his position, he could see that places were being set for some half-dozen people. Would there be half-a-dozen there? As he stood, watching, or trying to watch, young Woodwell’s dangerous bat, he overheard fragments of conversation wafted from the bench. The ladies were too far from him to allow of their faces being clearly seen, but it was not hard to recognise their figures. The last man in had joined young Woodwell. That hero’s score was forty-eight, the total ninety-three. The second gardener was tempting the Easthorpe champion with an occasional slow ball; up to now young Woodwell had declined to hit at these deceivers. Suddenly Lynborough heard the ladies’ voices quite plainly. They—or some of them—had left the bench and come nearer to the boundary. Irresistibly drawn by curiosity, for an instant he turned his head. At the same instant the second gardener delivered a slow ball—a specious ball. This time young Woodwell fell into the snare. He jumped out and opened his shoulders to it. He hit it—but he hit it into the air. It soared over the bowler’s head and came travelling through high heaven towards Lord Lynborough. “Look out!” cried the second gardener. Lynborough’s head spun round again—but his nerves were shaken. His eyes seemed rather in the back of his head, trying to see the Marchesa’s face, than fixed on the ball that was coming towards him. He was in no mood for bringing off a safe catch! Silence reigned, the ball began to drop. Lynborough had an instant to wait for it. He tried to think of the ball and the ball only. It fell—it fell into his hands; he caught it—fumbled it—caught it—fumbled it again—and at last dropped it on the grass! “Oh!” went in a long-drawn expostulation round the field; and Lynborough heard a voice say plainly: “Who is that stupid clumsy man?” The voice was the Marchesa’s. He wheeled round sharply—but her back was turned. He had not seen her face after all! “Over!” was called. Lynborough apologised abjectly to the second gardener. “The sun was in my eyes, Peters, and dazzled me,” he pleaded. “Looks to me as if the sun was shining the other way, my lord,” said Peters drily. And so, in physical fact, it was. In Peters’ next over Lynborough atoned—for young Woodwell had got his fifty and grown reckless. A one-handed catch, wide on his left side, made the welkin ring with applause. The luncheon bell rang too—for the innings was finished. Score 101. Last man out 52. Jim (office boy at Polytechnic) not out 0. Young Woodwell received a merited ovation—and Lord Lynborough hurried to the luncheon tent. The Marchesa, with an exceedingly dignified mien, repaired to her table under the spreading oak. Mr Dawson had done himself more than justice; the repast was magnificent. When Stillford and Irons saw it, they became more sure than ever what their duty was, more convinced still that the Marchesa would understand. Colonel Wenman became less sure what his duty was—previously it had appeared to him that it was to lunch with the Marchesa. But the Marchesa had spoken of a few sandwiches and perhaps a bottle of claret. Stillford told him that, as umpire, he ought to lunch with the teams. Irons declared it would look “deuced standoffish” if he didn’t. Lynborough, who appeared to act as deputy-landlord to Mr Dawson, pressed him into a chair with a friendly hand. “Well, she’ll have the ladies with her, won’t she?” said the Colonel, his last scruple vanishing before a large jug of hock-cup, artfully iced. The Nab Grange contingent fell to. Just then—when they were irrevocably committed to this feast—the flap of the tent was drawn back, and Lady Norah’s face appeared. Behind her stood Violet and Miss Gilletson. Lynborough ran forward to meet them. “Here we are, Lord Lynborough,” said Norah. “The Marchesa was so kind, she told us to do just as we liked, and we thought it would be such fun to lunch with the cricketers.” “The cricketers are immensely honoured. Let me introduce you to our captain, Mr Peters. You must sit by him, you know. And, Miss Dufaure, will you sit by Mr Jeffreys?—he’s their captain—Miss Dufaure—Mr Jeffreys. You, Miss Gilletson, must sit between Mr Dawson and me. Now we’re right—What, Colonel Wenman?—What’s the matter?” Wenman had risen from his place. “The—the Marchesa!” he said. “We—we can’t leave her to lunch alone!” Lady Norah broke in again. “Oh, Helena expressly said that she didn’t expect the gentlemen. She knows what the custom is, you see.” The Marchesa had, no doubt, made all these speeches. It may, however, be doubted whether Norah reproduced exactly the manner, and the spirit, in which she made them. But the iced hock-cup settled the Colonel. With a relieved sigh he resumed his place. The business of the moment went on briskly for a quarter of an hour. Mr Dawson rose, glass in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “I’m no hand at a speech, but I give you the health of our kind neighbour and good host to-day—Lord Lynborough. Here’s to his lordship!” “I—I didn’t know he was giving the lunch!” whispered Colonel Wenman. “Is it his lunch?” said Irons, nudging Stillford. Stillford laughed. “It looks like it. And we can hardly throw him over the hedge after this!” “Well, he seems to be a jolly good chap,” said Captain Irons. Lynborough bowed his acknowledgments, and flirted with Miss Gilletson; his face wore a contented smile. Here they all were—and the Marchesa lunched alone on the other side of the field! Here indeed was a new wedge! Here was the isolation at which his diabolical schemes had aimed. He had captured Nab Grange! Bag and baggage they had come over—and left their chieftainess deserted. Then suddenly—in the midst of his triumph—in the midst too of a certain not ungenerous commiseration which he felt that he could extend to a defeated enemy and to beauty in distress—he became vaguely aware of a gap in his company. Stabb was not there! Yet Stabb had come upon the ground. He searched the company again. No, Stabb was not there. Moreover—a fact the second search revealed—Roger Wilbraham was not there. Roger was certainly not there; yet, whatever Stabb might do, Roger would never miss lunch! Lynborough’s eyes grew thoughtful; he pursed up his lips. Miss Gilletson noticed that he became silent. He could bear the suspense no longer. On a pretext of looking for more bottled beer, he rose and walked to the door of the tent. Under the spreading tree the Marchesa lunched—not in isolation, not in gloom. She had company—and, even as he appeared, a merry peal of laughter was wafted by a favouring breeze across the field of battle. Stabb’s ponderous figure, Roger Wilbraham’s highly recognisable “blazer,” told the truth plainly. Lord Lynborough was not the only expert in the art of driving wedges! “Well played, Helena!” he said under his breath. The rest of the cricket match interested him very little. Successful beyond their expectations, Fillby won by five runs (Wilbraham not out thirty-seven)—but Lynborough’s score did not swell the victorious total. In Easthorpe’s second innings—which could not affect the result—Peters let him bowl, and he got young Woodwell’s wicket. That was a distinction; yet, looking at the day as a whole, he had scored less than he expected. CHAPTER X IN THE LAST RESORT! I T will have been perceived by now that Lord Lynborough delighted in a fight. He revelled in being opposed; the man who withstood him to the face gave him such pleasure as to beget in his mind certainly gratitude, perhaps affection, or at least a predisposition thereto. There was nothing he liked so much as an even battle—unless, by chance, it were the scales seeming to incline a little against him. Then his spirits rose highest, his courage was most buoyant, his kindliness most sunny. The benefit of this disposition accrued to the Marchesa; for by her sudden counter-attack she had at least redressed the balance of the campaign. He could not be sure that she had not done more. The ladies of her party were his—he reckoned confidently on that; but the men he could not count as more than neutral at the best; Wenman, anyhow, could easily be whistled back to the Marchesa’s heel. But in his own house, he admitted at once, she had secured for him open hostility, for herself the warmest of partisanship. The meaning of her lunch was too plain to doubt. No wonder her opposition to her own deserters had been so faint; no wonder she had so readily, even if so scornfully, afforded them the pretext—the barren verbal permission—that they had required. She had not wanted them—no, not even the Colonel himself! She had wanted to be alone with Roger and with Stabb—and to complete the work of her blandishments on those guileless, tender-hearted, and susceptible persons. Lynborough admired, applauded, and promised himself considerable entertainment at dinner. How was the Marchesa, in her turn, bearing her domestic isolation, the internal disaffection at Nab Grange? He flattered himself that she would not be finding in it such pleasure as his whimsical temper reaped from the corresponding position of affairs at Scarsmoor. There he was right. At Nab Grange the atmosphere was not cheerful. Not to want a thing by no means implies an admission that you do not want it; that is elementary diplomacy. Rather do you insist that you want it very much; if you do not get it, there is a grievance—and a grievance is a mighty handy article of barter. The Marchesa knew all that. The deserters were severely lashed. The Marchesa had said that she did not expect Colonel Wenman; ought she to have sent a message to say that she was pining for him—must that be wrung from her before he would condescend to come? She had said that she knew the custom with regard to lunch at cricket matches; was that to say that she expected it to be observed to her manifest and public humiliation? She had told Miss Gilletson and the girls to please themselves; of course she wished them to do that always. Yet it might be a wound to find that their pleasure lay in abandoning their friend and hostess, in consorting with her arch-enemy, and giving him a triumph. “Well, what do you say about Wilbraham and Stabb?” cried the trampled Colonel. “I say that they’re gentlemen,” retorted the Marchesa. “They saw the position I was in—and they saved me from humiliation.” That was enough for the men; men are, after all, poor fighters. It was not, however, enough for Lady Norah Mountliffey—a woman—and an Irishwoman to boot! “Are you really asking us to believe that you hadn’t arranged it with them beforehand?” she inquired scornfully. “Oh, I don’t ask you to believe anything I say,” returned the Marchesa, dexterously avoiding saying anything on the point suggested. “The truth is, you’re being very absurd, Helena,” Norah pursued. “If you’ve got a right, go to law with Lord Lynborough and make him respect it. If you haven’t got a right, why go on making yourself ridiculous and all the rest of us very uncomfortable?” It was obvious that the Marchesa might reply that any guest of hers who felt himself or herself uncomfortable at Nab Grange had, in his or her own hand, the easy remedy. She did not do that. She did a thing more disconcerting still. Though the mutton had only just been put on the table, she pushed back her chair, rose to her feet, and fled from the room very hastily.. Miss Gilletson sprang up. But Norah was beforehand with her. “No! I said it. I’m the one to go. Who could think she’d take it like that?” Norah’s own blue eyes were less bright than usual as she hurried after her wounded friend. The rest ate on in dreary conscience-stricken silence. At last Stillford spoke. “Don’t urge her to go to law,” he said. “I’m pretty sure she’d be beaten.” “Then she ought to give in—and apologise to Lord Lynborough,” said Miss Gilletson decisively. “That would be right—and, I will add, Christian.” “Humble Pie ain’t very good eating,” commented Captain Irons. Neither the Marchesa nor Norah came back. The meal wended along its slow and melancholy course to a mirthless weary conclusion. Colonel Wenman began to look on the repose of bachelorhood with a kinder eye, on its loneliness with a more tolerant disposition. He went so far as to remember that, if the worst came to the worst, he had another invitation for the following week. The Spirit of Discord (The tragic atmosphere now gathering justifies these figures of speech—the chronicler must rise to the occasion of a heroine in tears), having wrought her fell work at Nab Grange, now winged her way to the towers of Scarsmoor Castle. Dinner had passed off quite as Lynborough anticipated; he had enjoyed himself exceedingly. Whenever the temporary absence of the servants allowed, he had rallied his friends on their susceptibility to beauty, on their readiness to fail him under its lures, on their clumsy attempts at concealment of their growing intimacy, and their confidential relations, with the fascinating mistress of Nab Grange. He too had been told to take his case into the Courts or to drop his claim—and had laughed triumphantly at the advice. He had laughed when Stabb said that he really could not pursue his work in the midst of such distractions, that his mind was too perturbed for scientific thought. He had laughed lightly and good-humouredly even when (as they were left alone over coffee) Roger Wilbraham, going suddenly a little white, said he thought that persecuting a lady was no fit amusement for a gentleman. Lynborough did not suppose that the Marchesa—with the battle of the day at least drawn, if not decided in her favour—could be regarded as the subject of persecution—and he did recognise that young fellows, under certain spells, spoke hotly and were not to be held to serious account. He was smiling still when, with a forced remark about the heat, the pair went out together to smoke on the terrace. He had some letters to read, and for the moment dismissed the matter from his mind. In ten minutes young Roger Wilbraham returned; his manner was quiet now, but his face still rather pale. He came up to the table by which Lynborough sat. “Holding the position I do in your house, Lord Lynborough,” he said, “I had no right to use the words I used this evening at dinner. I apologise for them. But, on the other hand, I have no wish to hold a position which prevents me from using those words when they represent what I think. I beg you to accept my resignation, and I shall be greatly obliged if you can arrange to relieve me of my duties as soon as possible.” Lynborough heard him without interruption; with grave impassive face, with surprise, pity, and a secret amusement. Even if he were right, he was so solemn over it! The young man waited for no answer. With the merest indication of a bow, he left Lynborough alone, and passed on into the house. “Well, now!” said Lord Lynborough, rising and lighting a cigar. “This Marchesa! Well, now!” Stabb’s heavy form came lumbering in from the terrace; he seemed to move more heavily than ever, as though his bulk were even unusually inert. He plumped down into a chair and looked up at Lynborough’s graceful figure. “I meant what I said at dinner, Ambrose. I wasn’t joking, though I suppose you thought I was. All this affair may amuse you—it worries me. I can’t settle to work. If you’ll be so kind as to send me over to Easthorpe to-morrow, I’ll be off—back to Oxford.” “Cromlech, old boy!” “Yes, I know. But I—I don’t want to stay, Ambrose. I’m not—comfortable.” His great face set in a heavy, disconsolate, wrinkled frown. Lord Lynborough pursed his lips in a momentary whistle, then put his cigar back into his mouth, and walked out on to the terrace. “This Marchesa!” said he again. “This very remarkable Marchesa! Her riposte is admirable. Really I venture to hope that I, in my turn, have very seriously disturbed her household!” He walked to the edge of the terrace, and stood there musing. Sandy Nab loomed up, dimly the sea rose and fell, twinkled and sank into darkness. It talked too—talked to Lynborough with a soft, low, quiet voice; it seemed (to his absurdly whimsical imagination) as though some lovely woman gently stroked his brow and whispered to him. He liked to encourage such freaks of fancy. Cromlech couldn’t go. That was absurd. And the young fellow? So much a gentleman! Lynborough had liked the terms of his apology no less than the firmness of his protest. “It’s the first time, I think, that I’ve been told that I’m no gentleman,” he reflected with amusement. But Roger had been pale when he said it. Imaginatively Lynborough assumed his place. “A brave boy,” he said. “And that dear old knight-errant of a Cromlech!” A space—room indeed and room enough—for the softer emotions—so much Lynborough was ever inclined to allow. But to acquiesce in this state of things as final—that was to admit defeat at the hands of the Marchesa. It was to concede that one day had changed the whole complexion of the fight. “Cromlech sha’n’t go—the boy sha’n’t go—and I’ll still use the path,” he thought. “Not that I really care about the path, you know.” He paused. “Well, yes, I do care about it—for bathing in the morning.” He hardened his heart against the Marchesa. She chose to fight; the fortune of war must be hers. He turned his eyes down to Nab Grange. Lights burned there—were her guests demanding to be sent to Easthorpe? Why, no! As he looked, Lynborough came to the conclusion that she had reduced them all to order—that they would be whipped back to heel—that his manœuvres (and his lunch!) had probably been wasted. He was beaten then? He scorned the conclusion. But if he were not—the result was deadlock! Then still he was beaten; for unless Helena (he called her that) owned his right, his right was to him as nothing. “I have made myself a champion of my sex,” he said. “Shall I be beaten?” In that moment—with all the pang of forsaking an old conviction—of disowning that stronger tie, the loved embrace of an ancient and perversely championed prejudice—he declared that any price must be paid for victory. “Heaven forgive me, but, sooner than be beaten, I’ll go to law with her!” he cried. A face appeared from between two bushes—a voice spoke from the edge of the terrace. “I thought you might be interested to hear——” “Lady Norah?” “Yes, it’s me—to hear that you’ve made her cry—and very bitterly.” CHAPTER XI AN ARMISTICE L ORD LYNBOROUGH walked down to the edge of the terrace; Lady Norah stood half hidden in the shrubbery. “And that, I suppose, ought to end the matter?” he asked. “I ought at once to abandon all my pretensions and to give up my path?” “I just thought you might like to know it,” said Norah. “Actually I believe I do like to know it—though what Roger would say to me about that I really can’t imagine. You’re mistaking my character, Lady Norah. I’m not the hero of this piece. There are several gentlemen from among whom you can choose one for that effective part. Lots of candidates for it! But I’m the villain. Consequently you must be prepared for my receiving your news with devilish glee.” “Well, you haven’t seen it—and I have.” “Well put!” he allowed. “How did it happen?” “Over something I said to her—something horrid.” “Well, then, why am I——?” Lynborough’s hands expostulated eloquently. “But you were the real reason, of course. She thinks you’ve turned us all against her; she says it’s so mean to get her own friends to turn against her.” “Does she now?” asked Lord Lynborough with a thoughtful smile. Norah too smiled faintly. “She says she’s not angry with us—she’s just sorry for us—because she understands——” “What?” “I mean she says she—she can imagine——” Norah’s smile grew a little more pronounced. “I’m not sure she’d like me to repeat that,” said Norah. “And of course she doesn’t know I’m here at all—and you must never tell her.” “Of course it’s all my fault. Still, as a matter of curiosity, what did you say to her?” “I said that, if she had a good case, she ought to go to law; and, if she hadn’t, she ought to stop making herself ridiculous and the rest of us uncomfortable.” “You spoke with the general assent of the company?” “I said what I thought—yes, I think they all agreed—but she took it—well, in the way I’ve told you, you know.” Lady Norah had, in the course of conversation, insensibly advanced on to the terrace. She stood there now beside Lynborough. “How do you think I’m taking it?” he asked. “Doesn’t my fortitude wring applause from you?” “Taking what?” “Exactly the same thing from my friends. They tell me to go to law if I’ve got a case—and at any rate to stop persecuting a lady. And they’ve both given me warning.” “Mr Stabb and Mr Wilbraham? They’re going away?” “So it appears. Carry back those tidings. Won’t they dry the Marchesa’s tears?” Norah looked at him with a smile. “Well, it is pretty clever of her, isn’t it?” she said. “I didn’t think she’d got along as quickly as that!” Norah’s voice was full of an honest and undisguised admiration. “It’s a little unreasonable of her to cry under the circumstances. I’m not crying, Lady Norah.” “I expect you’re rather disgusted, though, aren’t you?” she suggested. “I’m a little vexed at having to surrender—for the moment—a principle which I’ve held dear—at having to give my enemies an occasion for mockery. But I must bow to my friends’ wishes. I can’t lose them under such painful circumstances. No, I must yield, Lady Norah.” “You’re going to give up the path?” she cried, not sure whether she were pleased or not with his determination. “Dear me, no! I’m going to law about it.” Open dismay was betrayed in her exclamation: “Oh, but what will Mr Stillford say to that?” Lynborough laughed. Norah saw her mistake—but she made no attempt to remedy it. She took up another line of tactics. “It would all come right if only you knew one another! She’s the most wonderful woman in the world, Lord Lynborough. And you——” “Well, what of me?” he asked in deceitful gravity. Norah parried, with a hasty little laugh; “Just ask Miss Gilletson that!” Lynborough smiled for a moment, then took a turn along the terrace, and came back to her. “You must tell her that you’ve seen me——” “I couldn’t do that!” “You must—or here the matter ends, and I shall be forced to go to law—ugh! Tell her you’ve seen me, and that I’m open to reason——” “Lord Lynborough! How can I tell her that?” “That I’m open to reason, and that I propose an armistice. Not peace—not yet, anyhow—but an armistice. I undertake not to exercise my right over Beach Path for a week from to-day, and before the end of that week I will submit a proposal to the Marchesa.” Norah saw a gleam of hope. “Very well. I don’t know what she’ll say to me, but I’ll tell her that. Thank you. You’ll make it a—a pleasant proposal?” “I haven’t had time to consider the proposal yet. She must inform me to-morrow morning whether she accepts the armistice.” He suddenly turned to the house, and shouted up to a window above his head, “Roger!” The window was open. Roger Wilbraham put his head out. “Come down,” said Lynborough. “Here’s somebody wants to see you.” “I never said I did, Lord Lynborough.” “Let him take you home. He wants cheering up.” “I like him very much. He won’t really leave you, will he?” “I want you to persuade him to stay during the armistice. I’m too proud to ask him for myself. I shall think very little of you, however, if he doesn’t.” Roger appeared. Lynborough told him that Lady Norah required an escort back to Nab Grange; for obvious reasons he himself was obliged to relinquish the pleasure; Roger, he felt sure, would be charmed to take his place. Roger was somewhat puzzled by the turn of events, but delighted with his mission. Lynborough saw them off, went into the library, sat down at his writing-table, and laid paper before him. But he sat idle for many minutes. Stabb came in, his arms full of books. “I think I left some of my stuff here,” he said, avoiding Lynborough’s eye. “I’m just getting it together.” “Drop that lot too. You’re not going to-morrow. Cromlech, there’s an armistice.” Stabb put his books down on the table, and came up to him with outstretched hand. Lynborough leant back, his hands clasped behind his head. “Wait for a week,” he said. “We may, Cromlech, arrive at an accommodation. Meanwhile, for that week, I do not use the path.” “I’ve been feeling pretty badly, Ambrose.” “Yes, I don’t think it’s safe to expose you to the charms of beauty.” He looked at his friend in good-natured mockery. “Return to your tombs in peace.” The next morning he received a communication from Nab Grange. It ran as follows:— “The Marchesa di San Servolo presents her compliments to Lord Lynborough. The Marchesa will be prepared to consider any proposal put forward by Lord Lynborough, and will place no hindrance in the way of Lord Lynborough’s using the path across her property if it suits his convenience to do so in the meantime.” “No, no!” said Lynborough, as he took a sheet of paper. “Lord Lynborough presents his compliments to her Excellency the Marchesa di San Servolo. Lord Lynborough will take an early opportunity of submitting his proposal to the Marchesa di San Servolo. He is obliged for the Marchesa di San Servolo’s suggestion that he should in the meantime use Beach Path, but cannot consent to do so except in the exercise of his right. He will therefore not use Beach Path during the ensuing week.” “And now to pave the way for my proposal!” he thought. For the proposal, which had assumed a position so important in the relations between the Marchesa and himself, was to be of such a nature that a grave question arose how best the way should be paved for it. The obvious course was to set his spies to work—he could command plenty of friendly help among the Nab Grange garrison—learn the Marchesa’s probable movements, throw himself in her way, contrive an acquaintance, make himself as pleasant as he could, establish relations of amity, of cordiality, even of friendship and of intimacy. That might prepare the way, and incline her to accept the proposal—to take the jest—it was little more in hard reality—in the spirit in which he put it forward, and so to end her resistance. That seemed the reasonable method—the plain and rational line of advance. Accordingly Lynborough disliked and distrusted it. He saw another way—more full of risk, more hazardous in its result, making an even greater demand on his confidence in himself, perhaps also on the qualities with which his imagination credited the Marchesa. But, on the other hand, this alternative was far richer in surprise, in dash—as it seemed to him, in gallantry and a touch of romance. It was far more mediæval, more picturesque, more in keeping with the actual proposal itself. For the actual proposal was one which, Lynborough flattered himself, might well have come from a powerful yet chivalrous baron of old days to a beautiful queen who claimed a suzerainty which not her power, but only her beauty, could command or enforce. “It suits my humour, and I’ll do it!” he said. “She sha’n’t see me, and I won’t see her. The first she shall hear from me shall be the proposal; the first time we meet shall be on the twenty-fourth—or never! A week from to-day—the twenty-fourth.” Now the twenty-fourth of June is, as all the world knows (or an almanac will inform the heathen), the Feast of St John Baptist, also called Midsummer Day. So he disappeared from the view of Nab Grange and the inhabitants thereof. He never left his own grounds; even within them he shunned the public road; his beloved sea-bathing he abandoned. Nay, more, he strictly charged Roger Wilbraham, who often during this week of armistice went to play golf or tennis at the Grange, to say nothing of him; the same instructions were laid on Stabb in case, on his excursions amidst the tombs, he should meet any member of the Marchesa’s party. So far as the thing could be done, Lord Lynborough obliterated himself. It was playing a high stake on a risky hand. Plainly it assumed an interest in himself on the part of the Marchesa—an interest so strong that absence and mystery (if perchance he achieved a flavour of that attraction!) would foster and nourish it more than presence and friendship could conduce to its increase. She might think nothing about him during the week! Impossible surely—with all that had gone before, and with his proposal to come at the end! But if it were so—why, so he was content. “In that case, she’s a woman of no imagination, of no taste in the picturesque,” he said. For five days the Marchesa gave no sign, no clue to her feelings which the anxious watchers could detect. She did indeed suffer Colonel Wenman to depart all forlorn, most unsuccessful and uncomforted—save by the company of his brother-in-arms, Captain Irons; and he was not cheerful either, having failed notably in certain designs on Miss Dufaure which he had been pursuing, but whereunto more pressing matters have not allowed of attention being given. But Lord Lynborough she never mentioned—not to Miss Gilletson, nor even to Norah. She seemed to have regained her tranquillity; her wrath at least was over; she was very friendly to all the ladies; she was markedly cordial to Roger Wilbraham on his visits. But she asked him nothing of Lord Lynborough—and, if she ever looked from the window towards Scarsmoor Castle, none—not even her observant maid—saw her do it. Yet Cupid was in the Grange—and very busy. There were signs, not to be misunderstood, that Violet had not for handsome Stillford the scorn she had bestowed on unfortunate Irons; and Roger, humbly and distantly worshipping the Marchesa, deeming her far as a queen beyond his reach, rested his eyes and solaced his spirit with the less awe-inspiring charms, the more accessible comradeship, of Norah Mountliffey. Norah, as her custom was, flirted hard, yet in her delicate fashion. Though she had not begun to ask herself about the end yet, she was well amused, and by no means insensible to Roger’s attractions. Only she was preoccupied with Helena—and Lord Lynborough. Till that riddle was solved, she could not turn seriously to her own affairs.

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