if you will permit me----"
"Oh, but I can't! Helena would never forgive me. I'm a friend of hers,
you know--of the Marchesa di San Servolo. Really you can't come through
here."
"Do you think you can stop me?"
"There isn't room for you to get over as long as I stand here--and the
wall's too high to climb, isn't it?"
Lynborough studied the wall; it was twice the height of the wall on the
other side; it might be possible to scale, but difficult and laborious;
nor would he look imposing while struggling at the feat.
"You'll have to go round by the road," remarked Norah, breaking into a
smile.
Lynborough was enjoying the conversation just as much as she was--but he
wanted two things; one was victory, the other coffee.
"Can't I persuade you to move?" he said imploringly. "I really don't
want to have to resort to more startling measures."
"You surely wouldn't use force against a girl, Lord Lynborough!"
"I said startling measures--not violent ones," he reminded her. "Are
your nerves good?"
"Excellent, thank you."
"You mean to stand where you are?"
"Yes--till you've gone away." Now she laughed openly at him. Lynborough
delighted in the merry sound and the flash of her white teeth.
"It's a splendid morning, isn't it?" he asked. "I should think you stand
about five feet five, don't you? By the way, whom have I the pleasure of
conversing with?"
"My name is Norah Mountliffey."
"Ah, I knew your father very well." He drew back a few steps. "So you
must excuse an old family friend for telling you that you make a
charming picture at that gate. If I had a camera--Just as you are,
please!" He held up his hand, as though to pose her.
"Am I quite right?" she asked, humoring the joke, with her merry
mischievous eyes set on Lynborough's face as she leaned over the top of
the gate.
"Quite right. Now, please! Don't move!"
"Oh, I've no intention of moving," laughed Norah mockingly.
She kept her word; perhaps she was too surprised to do anything else.
For Lynborough, clapping his hat on firmly, with a dart and a spring
flew over her head.
Then she wheeled round--to see him standing two yards from her, his hat
in his hand again, bowing apologetically.
"Forgive me for getting between you and the sunshine for a moment," he
said. "But I thought I could still do five feet five; and you weren't
standing upright either. I've done within an inch of six feet, you know.
And now I'm afraid I must reluctantly ask you to excuse me. I thank you
for the pleasure of this conversation." He bowed, put on his hat,
turned, and began to walk away along Beach Path.
"You got the better of me that time, but you've not done with me yet,"
she cried, starting after him.
He turned and looked over his shoulder: save for his eyes his face was
quite grave. He quickened his pace to a very rapid walk. Norah found
that she must run, or fall behind. She began to run. Again that gravely
derisory face turned upon her. She blushed, and fell suddenly to
wondering whether in running she looked absurd. She fell to a walk.
Lynborough seemed to know. Without looking round again, he abated his
pace.
"Oh, I can't catch you if you won't stop!" she cried.
"My friend and secretary, Roger Wilbraham, tells me that I have no right
to stop," Lynborough explained, looking round again, but not standing
still. "I have only the right to pass and repass. I'm repassing now.
He's a barrister, and he says that's the law. I daresay it is--but I
regret that it prevents me from obliging you, Lady Norah."
"Well, I'm not going to make a fool of myself by running after you,"
said Norah crossly.
Lynborough walked slowly on; Norah followed; they reached the turn of
the path towards the Grange hall door. They reached it--and passed
it--both of them. Lynborough turned once more--with a surprised lift of
his brows.
"At least I can see you safe off the premises!" laughed Norah, and with
a quick dart forward she reduced the distance between them to
half-a-yard. Lynborough seemed to have no objection; proximity made
conversation easier; he moved slowly on.
Norah seemed defeated--but suddenly she saw her chance, and hailed it
with a cry. The Marchesa's bailiff--John Goodenough--was approaching the
path from the house situated at the southwest corner of the meadow. Her
cry of his name caught his attention--as well as Lynborough's. The
latter walked a little quicker. John Goodenough hurried up. Lynborough
walked steadily on.
"Stop him, John!" cried Norah, her eyes sparkling with new excitement.
"You know her Excellency's orders? This is Lord Lynborough!"
"His lordship! Aye, it is. I beg your pardon, my lord, but--I'm very
sorry to interfere with your lordship, but----"
"You're in my way, Goodenough." For John had got across his path, and
barred progress. "Of course I must stand still if you impede my steps,
but I do it under protest. I only want to repass."
"You can't come this way, my lord. I'm sorry, but it's her Excellency's
strict orders. You must go back, my lord."
"I am going back--or I was till you stopped me."
"Back to where you came from, my lord."
"I came from Scarsmoor and I'm going back there, Goodenough."
"Where you came from last, my lord."
"No, no, Goodenough. At all events, her Excellency has no right to drive
me into the sea." Lynborough's tone was plaintively expostulatory.
"Then if you won't go back, my lord, here we stay!" said John,
bewildered but faithfully obstinate.
"Just your tactics!" Lynborough observed to Norah, a keen spectator of
the scene. "But I'm not so patient of them from Goodenough."
"I don't know that you were very patient with me."
"Goodenough, if you use sufficient force I shall, of course, be
prevented from continuing on my way. Nothing short of that, however,
will stop me. And pray take care that the force is sufficient--neither
more nor less than sufficient, Goodenough."
"I don't want to use no violence to your lordship. Well now, if I lay my
hand on your lordship's shoulder, will that do to satisfy your
lordship?"
"I don't know until you try it."
John's face brightened. "I reckon that's the way out. I reckon that's
law, my lord. I puts my hand on your lordship's shoulder like that----"
He suited the action to the word. In an instant Lynborough's long lithe
arms were round him, Lynborough's supple lean leg twisted about his.
Gently, as though he had been a little baby, Lynborough laid the sturdy
fellow on the grass.
For all she could do, Norah Mountliffey cried "Bravo!" and clapped her
hands. Goodenough sat up, scratched his head, and laughed feebly.
"Force not quite sufficient, Goodenough," cried Lynborough gaily. "Now I
repass!"
He lifted his hat to Norah, then waved his hand. In her open impulsive
way she kissed hers back to him as he turned away.
By one of those accidents peculiar to tragedy, the Marchesa's maid,
performing her toilet at an upper window, saw this nefarious and
traitorous deed!
"Swimming--jumping--wrestling! A good morning's exercise! And all
before those lazy chaps, Roger and Cromlech, are out of bed!"
So saying, Lord Lynborough vaulted the wall again in high good humor.
_Chapter Seven_
ANOTHER WEDGE!
Deprived of their leader's inspiration, the other two representatives of
Scarsmoor did not brave the Passage Perilous to the sea that morning.
Lynborough was well content to forego further aggression for the moment.
His words declared his satisfaction----
"I have driven a wedge--another wedge--into the Marchesa's phalanx. Yes,
I think I may say a second wedge. Disaffection has made its entry into
Nab Grange, Cromlech. The process of isolation has begun. Perhaps after
lunch we will resume operations."
But fortune was to give him an opportunity even before lunch. It
appeared that Stabb had sniffed out the existence of two old brasses in
Fillby Church; he was determined to inspect them at the earliest
possible moment. Lynborough courteously offered to accompany him, and
they set out together about eleven o'clock.
No incident marked their way. Lynborough rang up the parish clerk at his
house, presented Stabb to that important functionary, and bespoke for
him every consideration. Then he leaned against the outside of the
churchyard wall, peacefully smoking a cigarette.
On the opposite side of the village street stood the Lynborough Arms.
The inn was kept by a very superior man, who had retired to this
comparative leisure after some years of service as butler with
Lynborough's father. This excellent person, perceiving Lynborough,
crossed the road and invited him to partake of a glass of ale in memory
of old days. Readily acquiescing, Lynborough crossed the road, sat down
with the landlord on a bench by the porch, and began to discuss local
affairs over the beer.
"I suppose you haven't kept up your cricket since you've been in foreign
parts, my lord?" asked Dawson, the landlord, after some conversation
which need not occupy this narrative. "We're playing a team from
Easthorpe to-morrow, and we're very short."
"Haven't played for nearly fifteen years, Dawson. But I tell you what--I
daresay my friend Mr. Wilbraham will play. Mr. Stabb's no use."
"Every one helps," said Dawson. "We've got two of the gentlemen from the
Grange--Mr. Stillford, a good bat, and Captain Irons, who can bowl a
bit--or so John Goodenough tells me."
Lynborough's eyes had grown alert. "Well, I used to bowl a bit, too. If
you're really hard up for a man, Dawson--really at a loss, you
know--I'll play. It'll be better than going into the field short, won't
it?"
Dawson was profuse in his thanks. Lynborough listened patiently.
"I tell you what I should like to do, Dawson," he said. "I should like
to stand the lunch."
It was the turn of Dawson's eyes to grow alert. They did. Dawson
supplied the lunch. The club's finances were slender, and its ideas
correspondingly modest. But if Lord Lynborough "stood" the lunch----!
"And to do it really well," added that nobleman. "A sort of little feast
to celebrate my homecoming. The two teams--and perhaps a dozen places
for friends--ladies, the Vicar, and so on, eh, Dawson? Do you see the
idea?"
Dawson saw the idea much more clearly than he saw most ideas. Almost
corporeally he beheld the groaning board.
"On such an occasion, Dawson, we shouldn't quarrel about figures."
"Your lordship's always most liberal," Dawson acknowledged in tones
which showed some trace of emotion.
"Put the matter in hand at once. But look here, I don't want it talked
about. Just tell the secretary of the club--that's enough. Keep the tent
empty till the moment comes. Then display your triumph! It'll be a
pleasant little surprise for everybody, won't it?"
Dawson thought it would; at any rate it was one for him.
At this instant an elderly lady of demure appearance was observed, to
walk up to the lych-gate and enter the churchyard. Lynborough inquired
of his companion who she was.
"That's Miss Gilletson from the Grange, my lord--the Marchesa's
companion."
"Is it?" said Lynborough softly. "Oh, is it indeed?" He rose from his
seat. "Good-by, Dawson. Mind--a dead secret, and a rattling good lunch!"
"I'll attend to it, my lord," Dawson assured him with the utmost
cheerfulness. Never had Dawson invested a glass of beer to better
profit!
Lynborough threw away his cigar and entered the sacred precincts. His
brain was very busy. "Another wedge!" he was saying to himself. "Another
wedge!"
The lady had gone into the church. Lynborough went in too. He came
first on Stabb--on his hands and knees, examining one of the old brasses
and making copious notes in a pocket-book.
"Have you seen a lady come in, Cromlech?" asked Lord Lynborough.
"No, I haven't," said Cromlech, now producing a yard measure and
proceeding to ascertain the dimensions of the brass.
"You wouldn't, if it were Venus herself," replied Lynborough pleasantly.
"Well, I must look for her on my own account."
He found her in the neighborhood of his family monuments which, with his
family pew, crowded the little chancel of the church. She was not
employed in devotions, but was arranging some flowers in a
vase--doubtless a pious offering. Somewhat at a loss how to open the
conversation, Lynborough dropped his hat--or rather gave it a dexterous
jerk, so that it fell at the lady's feet. Miss Gilletson started
violently, and Lord Lynborough humbly apologized. Thence he glided into
conversation, first about the flowers, then about the tombs. On the
latter subject he was exceedingly interesting and informing.
"Dear, dear! Married the Duke of Dexminster's daughter, did he?" said
Miss Gilletson, considerably thrilled. "She's not buried here, is she?"
"No, she's not," said Lynborough, suppressing the fact that the lady had
run away after six months of married life. "And my own father's not
buried here, either; he chose my mother's family place in Devonshire. I
thought it rather a pity."
"Your own father?" Miss Gilletson gasped.
"Oh, I forgot you didn't know me," he said, laughing. "I'm Lord
Lynborough, you know. That's how I come to be so well up in all this.
And I tell you what--I should like to show you some of our Scarsmoor
roses on your way home."
"Oh, but if you're Lord Lynborough, I--I really couldn't----"
"Who's to know anything about it, unless you choose, Miss Gilletson?" he
asked with his ingratiating smile and his merry twinkle. "There's
nothing so pleasant as a secret shared with a lady!"
It was a long time since a handsome man had shared a secret with Miss
Gilletson. Who knows, indeed, whether such a thing had ever happened? Or
whether Miss Gilletson had once just dreamed that some day it might--and
had gone on dreaming for long, long days, till even the dream had slowly
and sadly faded away? For sometimes it does happen like that.
Lynborough meant nothing--but no possible effort (supposing he made it)
could enable him to look as if he meant nothing. One thing at least he
did mean--to make himself very pleasant to Miss Gilletson.
Interested knave! It is impossible to avoid that reflection. Yet let
ladies in their turn ask themselves if they are over-scrupulous in their
treatment of one man when their affections are set upon another.
He showed Miss Gilletson all the family tombs. He escorted her from the
church. Under renewed vows of secrecy he induced her to enter Scarsmoor.
Once in the gardens, the good lady was lost. They had no such roses at
Nab Grange! Lynborough insisted on sending an enormous bouquet to the
Vicar's wife in Miss Gilletson's name--and Miss Gilletson grew merry as
she pictured the mystification of the Vicar's wife. For Miss Gilletson
herself he superintended the selection of a nosegay of the choicest
blooms; they laughed again together when she hid them in a large bag she
carried--destined for the tea and tobacco which represented her little
charities. Then--after pausing for one private word in his gardener's
ear, which caused a boy to be sent off post-haste to the stables--he led
her to the road, and in vain implored her to honor his house by setting
foot in it. There the fear of the Marchesa or (it is pleasanter to
think) some revival of the sense of youth, bred by Lynborough's
deferential courtliness, prevailed. They came together through his lodge
gates; and Miss Gilletson's face suddenly fell.
"That wretched gate!" she cried. "It's locked--and I haven't got the
key."
"No more have I, I'm sorry to say," said Lynborough. He, on his part,
had forgotten nothing.
"It's nearly two miles round by the road--and so hot and dusty!--Really
Helena does cut off her nose to spite her face!" Though, in truth, it
appeared rather to be Miss Gilletson's nose the Marchesa had cut off.
A commiserating gravity sat on Lord Lynborough's attentive countenance.
"If I were younger, I'd climb that wall," declared Miss Gilletson. "As
it is--well, but for your lovely flowers, I'd better have gone the other
way after all."
"I don't want you to feel that," said he, almost tenderly.
"I must walk!"
"Oh no, you needn't," said Lynborough.
As he spoke, there issued from the gates behind them a luxurious
victoria, drawn by two admirable horses. It came to a stand by
Lynborough, the coachman touching his hat, the footman leaping to the
ground.
"Just take Miss Gilletson to the Grange, Williams. Stop a little way
short of the house. She wants to walk through the garden."
"Very good, my lord."
"Put up the hood, Charles. The sun's very hot for Miss Gilletson."
"Yes, my lord."
"Nobody'll see you if you get out a hundred yards from the door--and
it's really better than tramping the road on a day like this. Of course,
if Beach Path were open--!" He shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly.
Fear of the Marchesa struggled in Miss Gilletson's heart with the horror
of the hot and tiring walk--with the seduction of the shady, softly
rolling, speedy carriage.
"If I met Helena!" she whispered; and the whisper was an admission of
reciprocal confidence.
"It's the chance of that against the certainty of the tramp!"
"She didn't come down to breakfast this morning----"
"Ah, didn't she?" Lynborough made a note for his Intelligence
Department.
"Perhaps she isn't up yet! I--I think I'll take the risk."
Lynborough assisted her into the carriage.
"I hope we shall meet again," he said, with no small _empressement_.
"I'm afraid not," answered Miss Gilletson dolefully. "You see,
Helena----"
"Yes, yes; but ladies have their moods. Anyhow you won't think too
hardly of me, will you? I'm not altogether an ogre."
There was a pretty faint blush on Miss Gilletson's cheek as she gave him
her hand. "An ogre! No, dear Lord Lynborough," she murmured.
"A wedge!" said Lynborough, as he watched her drive away.
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 toward 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 color; 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 Eight_
THE MARCHESA MOVES
After 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.