"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 mold. 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 manoeuvers 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 toward 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 she was. 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 unneighborly
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
unneighborly 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
one's self!"
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 Nine_
LYNBOROUGH DROPS A CATCH
"Something 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 honor, 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
burned 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 borne 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 Civilization? (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 spoiled 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 honorable 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
signaled 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 wagonette drove up. Four ladies descended. A bench was
placed at their disposal, and the two menservants 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 recognize 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 traveling through high heaven
toward 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 toward 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 apologized 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 dryly. 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.