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 flavor 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 toward 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
worshiping 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.
On the night of the twenty-second she walked with the Marchesa in the
gardens of the Grange after dinner. Helena was very silent; yet to Norah
the silence did not seem empty. Over against them, on its high hill,
stood Scarsmoor Castle. Roger had dined with them, but had now gone
back.
Suddenly--and boldly--Norah spoke. "Do you see those three lighted
windows on the ground floor at the left end of the house? That's his
library, Helena. He sits there in the evening. Oh, I do wonder what he's
been doing all this week!"
"What does it matter?" asked the Marchesa coldly.
"What will he propose, do you think?"
"Mr. Stillford thinks he may offer to pay me some small rent--more or
less nominal--for a perpetual right--and that, if he does, I'd better
accept."
"That'll be rather a dull ending to it all."
"Mr. Stillford thinks it would be a favorable one for me."
"I don't believe he means to pay you money. It'll be something"--she
paused a moment--"something prettier than that."
"What has prettiness to do with it, you child? With a right of way?"
"Prettiness has to do with you, though, Helena. You don't suppose he
thinks only of that wretched path?"
The flush came on the Marchesa's cheek.
"He can hardly be said to have seen me," she protested.
"Then look your best when he does--for I'm sure he's dreamed of you."
"Why do you say that?"
Norah laughed. "Because he's a man who takes a lot of notice of pretty
women--and he took so very little notice of me. That's why I think so,
Helena."
The Marchesa made no comment on the reason given. But now--at last and
undoubtedly--she looked across at the windows of Scarsmoor.
"We shall come to some business arrangement, I suppose--and then it'll
all be over," she said.
All over? The trouble and the enmity--the defiance and the fight--the
excitement and the fun? The duel would be stayed, the combatants and
their seconds would go their various ways across the diverging tracks of
this great dissevering world. All would be over!
"Then we shall have time to think of something else!" the Marchesa
added.
Norah smiled discreetly. Was not that something of an admission?
In the library at Scarsmoor Lynborough was inditing the proposal which
he intended to submit by his ambassadors on the morrow.
_Chapter Twelve_
AN EMBASSAGE
The Marchesa's last words to Lady Norah betrayed the state of her mind.
While the question of the path was pending, she had been unable to think
of anything else; until it was settled she could think of nobody except
of the man in whose hands the settlement lay. Whether Lynborough
attracted or repelled, he at least occupied and filled her thoughts. She
had come to recognize where she stood and to face the position.
Stillford's steady pessimism left her no hope from an invocation of the
law; Lynborough's dexterity and resource promised her no abiding
victory--at best only precarious temporary successes--in a private
continuance of the struggle. Worst of all--whilst she chafed or wept, he
laughed! Certainly not to her critical friends, hardly even to her proud
self, would she confess that she lay in her antagonist's mercy; but the
feeling of that was in her heart. If so, he could humiliate her sorely.
Could he spare her? Or would he? Try how she might, it was hard to
perceive how he could spare her without abandoning his right. That she
was sure he would not do; all she heard of him, every sharp intuition of
him which she had, the mere glimpse of his face as he passed by on Sandy
Nab, told her that.
But if he consented to pay a small--a nominal--rent, would not her pride
be spared? No. That would be victory for him; she would be compelled to
surrender what she had haughtily refused, in return for something which
she did not want and which was of no value. If that were a cloak for her
pride, the fabric of it was terribly threadbare. Even such concession as
lay in such an offer she had wrung from him by setting his friends
against him; would that incline him to tenderness? The offer might leave
his friends still unreconciled; what comfort was that to her when once
the fight and the excitement of countering blow with blow were
done--when all was over? And it was more likely that what seemed to her
cruel would seem to Stabb and Roger reasonable--men had a terribly rigid
sense of reason in business matters. They would return to their
allegiance; her friends would be ranged on the same side; she would be
alone--alone in humiliation and defeat. From that fate in the end only
Lynborough himself could rescue her; only the man who threatened her
with it could avert it. And how could even he, save by a surrender which
he would not make? Yet if he found out a way?
The thought of that possibility--though she could devise or imagine no
means by which it might find accomplishment--carried her toward
Lynborough in a rush of feeling. The idea--never wholly lost even in her
moments of anger and dejection--came back--the idea that all the time he
had been playing a game, that he did not want the wounds to be mortal,
that in the end he did not hate. If he did not hate, he would not desire
to hurt. But he desired to win. Could he win without hurting? Then there
was a reward for him--applause for his cleverness, and gratitude for his
chivalry.
Stretching out her arms toward Scarsmoor Castle, she vowed that
according to his deed she could hate or love Lord Lynborough. The next
day was to decide that weighty question.
The fateful morning arrived--the last day of the armistice--the
twenty-third. The ladies were sitting on the lawn after breakfast when
Stillford came out of the house with a quick step and an excited air.
"Marchesa," he said, "the Embassy has arrived! Stabb and Wilbraham are
at the front door, asking an audience of you. They bring the proposal!"
The Marchesa laid down her book; Miss Gilletson made no effort to
conceal her agitation.
"Why didn't they come by the path?" cried Norah.
"They couldn't very well; Lynborough's sent them in a carriage--with
postilions and four horses," Stillford answered gravely. "The
postilions appear to be amused, but the Ambassadors are exceedingly
solemn."
The Marchesa's spirits rose. If the piece were to be a comedy, she could
play her part! The same idea was in Stillford's mind. "He can't mean to
be very unpleasant if he plays the fool like this," he said, looking
round on the company with a smile.
"Admit the Ambassadors!" cried the Marchesa gaily.
The Ambassadors were ushered on to the lawn. They advanced with a
gravity befitting the occasion, and bowed low to the Marchesa. Roger
carried a roll of paper of impressive dimensions. Stillford placed
chairs for the Ambassadors and, at a sign from the Marchesa, they seated
themselves.
"What is your message?" asked the Marchesa. Suddenly nervousness and
fear laid hold of her again; her voice shook a little.
"We don't know," answered Stabb. "Give me the document, Roger."
Roger Wilbraham handed him the scroll.
"We are charged to deliver this to your Excellency's adviser, and to beg
him to read it to you in our presence." He rose, delivered the scroll
into Stillford's hands, and returned, majestic in his bulk, to his seat.
"You neither of you know what's in it?" the Marchesa asked.
They shook their heads.
The Marchesa took hold of Norah's hand and said quietly, "Please read it
to us, Mr. Stillford. I should like you all to hear."
"That was also Lord Lynborough's desire," said Roger Wilbraham.
Stillford unrolled the paper. It was all in Lynborough's own
hand--written large and with fair flourishes. In mockery of the
institution he hated, he had cast it in a form which at all events aimed
at being legal; too close scrutiny on that score perhaps it would not
abide successfully.
"Silence while the document is read!" said Stillford; and he proceeded
to read it in a clear and deliberate voice:
"'Sir Ambrose Athelstan Caverly, Baronet, Baron Lynborough of Lynborough
in the County of Dorset and of Scarsmoor in the County of Yorkshire,
unto her Excellency Helena Vittoria Maria Antonia, Marchesa di San
Servolo, and unto All to whom these Presents Come, Greeting. Whereas the
said Lord Lynborough and his predecessors in title have been ever
entitled as of right to pass and repass along the path called Beach Path
leading across the lands of Nab Grange from the road bounding the same
on the west to the seashore on the east thereof, and to use the said
path by themselves, their agents and servants, at their pleasure,
without let or interference from any person or persons whatsoever----'"
Stillford paused and looked at the Marchesa. The document did not begin
in a conciliatory manner. It asserted the right to use Beach Path in the
most uncompromising way.
"Go on," commanded the Marchesa, a little flushed, still holding Norah's
hand.
"'And Whereas the said Lord Lynborough is desirous that his rights as
above defined shall receive the recognition of the said Marchesa, which
recognition has hitherto been withheld and refused by the said Marchesa:
And Whereas great and manifold troubles have arisen from such refusal:
And Whereas the said Lord Lynborough is desirous of dwelling in peace
and amity with the said Marchesa----'"
"There, Helena, you see he is!" cried Norah triumphantly.
"I really must not be interrupted," Stillford protested. "'Now Therefore
the said Lord Lynborough, moved thereunto by divers considerations and
in chief by his said desire to dwell in amity and good-will, doth engage
and undertake that, in consideration of his receiving a full, gracious,
and amicable recognition of his right from the said Marchesa, he shall
and will, year by year and once a year, to wit on the Feast of St. John
Baptist, also known as Midsummer Day----'"
"Why, that's to-morrow!" exclaimed Violet Dufaure.
Once more Stillford commanded silence. The Terms of Peace were not to be
rudely interrupted just as they were reaching the most interesting
point. For up to now nothing had come except a renewed assertion of
Lynborough's right!
"'That is to say the twenty-fourth day of June--repair in his own proper
person, with or without attendants as shall seem to him good, to Nab
Grange or such other place as may then and on each occasion be the abode
and residence of the said Marchesa, and shall and will present himself
in the presence of the said Marchesa at noon. And that he then shall and
will do homage to the said Marchesa for such full, gracious, and
amicable recognition as above mentioned by falling on his knee and
kissing the hand of the said Marchesa. And if the said Lord Lynborough
shall wilfully or by neglect omit so to present himself and so to pay
his homage on any such Feast of St. John Baptist, then his said right
shall be of no effect and shall be suspended (And he hereby engages not
to exercise the same) until he shall have purged his contempt or neglect
by performing his homage on the next succeeding Feast. Provided Always
that the said Marchesa shall and will, a sufficient time before the said
Feast in each year, apprise and inform the said Lord Lynborough of her
intended place of residence, in default whereof the said Lord Lynborough
shall not be bound to pay his homage and shall suffer no diminution of
his right by reason of the omission thereof. Provided Further and
Finally that whensoever the said Lord Lynborough shall duly and on the
due date as in these Presents stipulated present himself at Nab Grange
or elsewhere the residence for the time being of the said Marchesa, and
claim to be admitted to the presence of the said Marchesa and to
perform his homage as herein prescribed and ordered, the said Marchesa
shall not and will not, on any pretext or for any cause whatsoever, deny
or refuse to accept the said homage so duly proffered, but shall and
will in all gracious condescension and neighborly friendship extend and
give her hand to the said Lord Lynborough, to the end and purpose that,
he rendering and she accepting his homage in all mutual trust and
honorable confidence, Peace may reign between Nab Grange and Scarsmoor
Castle so long as they both do stand. In Witness whereof the said Lord
Lynborough has affixed his name on the Eve of the said Feast of St. John
Baptist.
LYNBOROUGH.'"
Stillford ended his reading, and handed the scroll to the Marchesa with
a bow. She took it and looked at Lynborough's signature. Her cheeks
were flushed, and her lips struggled not to smile. The rest were silent.
She looked at Stillford, who smiled back at her and drew from his
pocket--a stylographic pen.
"Yes," she said, and took it.
She wrote below Lynborough's name:
"In Witness whereof, in a desire for peace and amity, in all mutual
trust and honorable confidence, the said Marchesa has affixed her name
on this same Eve of the said Feast of St. John Baptist.
HELENA DI SAN SERVOLO."
She handed it back to Stillford. "Let it dry in the beautiful sunlight,"
she said.
The Ambassadors rose to their feet. She rose too and went over to Stabb
with outstretched hands. A broad smile spread over Stabb's spacious
face. "It's just like Ambrose," he said to her as he took her hands.
"He gets what he wants--but in the prettiest way!"
She answered him in a low voice: "A very knightly way of saving a
foolish woman's pride." She raised her voice. "Bid Lord Lynborough--aye,
Sir Ambrose Athelstan Caverly, Baron Lynborough, attend here at Nab
Grange to pay his homage to-morrow at noon." She looked round on them
all, smiling now openly, the red in her cheeks all triumphant over her
olive hue. "Say I will give him private audience to receive his homage
and to ask his friendship." With that the Marchesa departed, somewhat
suddenly, into the house.
Amid much merriment and reciprocal congratulations the Ambassadors were
honorably escorted back to their coach and four.
"Keep your eye on the Castle to-night," Roger Wilbraham whispered to
Norah as he pressed her hand.
They drove off, Stillford leading a gay "Hurrah!"
At night indeed Scarsmoor Castle was a sight to see. Every window of its
front blazed with light; rockets and all manner of amazing bright
devices rose to heaven. All Fillby turned out to see the show; all Nab
Grange was in the garden looking on.
All save Helena herself. She had retreated to her own room; there she
sat and watched alone. She was in a fever of feeling and could not rest.
She twisted one hand round the other, she held up before her eyes the
hand which was destined to receive homage on the morrow. Her eyes were
bright, her cheeks flushed, her red lips trembled.
"Alas, how this man knows his way to my heart!" she sighed.
The blaze at Scarsmoor Castle died down. A kindly darkness fell. Under
its friendly cover she kissed her hand to the Castle, murmuring
"To-morrow!"
_Chapter Thirteen_
THE FEAST OF ST. JOHN BAPTIST
"As there's a heaven above us," wrote Lynborough that same night--having
been, one would fain hope, telepathically conscious of the hand-kissing
by the red lips, of the softly breathed "To-morrow!" (for if he were
not, what becomes of Love's Magic?)--"As there's a heaven above us, I
have succeeded! Her answer is more than a consent--it's an appreciation.
The rogue knew how she stood: she is haughtily, daintily grateful. Does
she know how near she drove me to the abominable thing? Almost had I--I,
Ambrose Caverly--issued a writ! I should never, in all my life, have got
over the feeling of being a bailiff! She has saved me by the rightness
of her taste. 'Knightly' she called it to old Cromlech. Well, that was
in the blood--it had been my own fault if I had lost it, no credit of
mine if to some measure I have it still. But to find the recognition! I
have lit up the country-side to-night to celebrate that rare discovery.
"Rare--yes--yet not doubted. I knew it of her. I believe that I have
broken all records--since the Renaissance at least. Love at first sight!
Where's the merit in that? Given the sight be fine enough (a thing that
I pray may not admit of doubt in the case of Helena), it is no exploit;
it is rather to suffer the inevitable than to achieve the great. But
unless the sight of a figure a hundred yards away--and of a back
fifty--is to count against me as a practical inspection, I am so
supremely lucky as never to have seen her! I have made her for
myself--a few tags of description, a noting of the effect on Roger and
on Cromlech, mildly (and very unimaginatively) aided my work, I
admit--but for the most part and in all essentials, she, as I love her
(for of course I love her, or no amount of Feast of St. John Baptist
should have moved me from my path--take that for literal or for
metaphorical as ye will!)--is of my own craftsmanship--work of my heart
and brain, wrought just as I would have her--as I knew, through all
delightful wanderings, that some day she must come to me.
"Think then of my mood for to-morrow! With what feelings do I ring the
bell (unless perchance it be a knocker)! With what sensations accost the
butler! With what emotions enter the presence! Because if by chance I am
wrong--! Upon which awful doubt arises the question whether, if I be
wrong, I can go back. I am plaguily the slave of putting the thing as
prettily as it can be put (Thanks, Cromlech, for giving me the
adverb--not so bad a touch for a Man of Tombs!), and, on my soul, I have
put that homage of mine so prettily that one who was prudent would have
addressed it to none other than a married lady--_vivente marito_, be it
understood. But from my goddess her mortal mate is gone--and to
explain--nay, not to explain (which would indeed tax every grace of
style)--but to let it appear that the homage lingers, abides, and is
confined within the letter of the bond--that would seem scarce
'knightly.' Therefore, being (as all tell me) more of a fool than most
men, and (as I soberly hope) not less of a gentleman, I stand thus. I
love the Image I have made out of dim distant sight, prosaic shreds of
catalogued description, a vividly creating mind, and--to be candid--the
absolute necessity of amusing myself in the country. But the Woman I am
to see to-morrow? Is she the Image? I shall know in the first moment of
our encounter. If she is, all is well for me--for her it will be just a
question of her dower of heavenly venturousness. If she is not--in my
humble judgment, you, Ambrose Caverly, having put the thing with so
excessive a prettiness, shall for your art's sake perish--you must, in
short, if you would end this thing in the manner (creditable to
yourself, Ambrose!) in which it has hitherto been conducted,
willy-nilly, hot or cold, confirmed in divine dreams or slapped in the
face by disenchanting fact--within a brief space of time, propose
marriage to this lady. If there be any other course, the gods send me
scent of it this night! But if she should refuse? Reckon not on that.
For the more she fall short of her Image, the more will she grasp at an
outward showing of triumph--and the greatest outward triumph would not
be in refusal.
"In my human weakness I wish that--just for once--I had seen her! But in
the strong spirit of the wine of life--whereof I have been and am an
inveterate and most incurable bibber--I rejoice in that wonderful moment
of mine to-morrow--when the door of the shrine opens, and I see the
goddess before whom my offering must be laid. Be she giant or dwarf, be
she black or white, have she hair or none--by the powers, if she wears a
sack only, and is well advised to stick close to that, lest casting it
should be a change for the worse--in any event the offering must be
made. Even so the Prince in the tales, making his vows to the Beast and
not yet knowing if his spell shall transform it to the Beauty! In my
stronger moments, so would I have it. Years of life shall I live in that
moment to-morrow! If it end ill, no human being but myself shall know.
If it end well, the world is not great enough to hold, nor the music of
its spheres melodious enough to sound, my triumph!"
It will be observed that Lord Lynborough, though indeed no novice in the
cruel and tender passion, was appreciably excited on the Eve of the
Feast of St. John Baptist. In view of so handsome a response, the
Marchesa's kiss of the hand and her murmured "To-morrow" may pass
excused of forwardness.
It was, nevertheless, a gentleman to all seeming most cool and calm who
presented himself at the doors of Nab Grange at eleven fifty-five the
next morning. His Ambassadors had come in magnificence; humbly he
walked--and not by Beach Path, since his homage was not yet paid--but
round by the far-stretching road and up the main avenue most decorously.
Stabb and Roger had cut across by the path--holding the Marchesa's leave
and license so to do--and had joined an excited group which sat on
chairs under sheltering trees.
"I wish she hadn't made the audience private!" said Norah Mountliffey.
"If ever a keyhole were justifiable--" sighed Violet Dufaure.
"My dear, I'd box your ears myself," Miss Gilletson brusquely
interrupted.
The Marchesa sat in a high arm-chair, upholstered in tarnished fading
gold. The sun from the window shone on her hair; her face was half in
shadow. She rested her head on her left; hand the right lay on her knee.
It was stripped of any ring--unadorned white. Her cheeks were pale--the
olive reigned unchallenged; her lips were set tight, her eyes downcast.
She made no movement when Lord Lynborough entered.
He bowed low, but said nothing. He stood opposite to her some two yards
away. The clock ticked. It wanted still a minute before noon struck.
That was the minute of which Lynborough had raved and dreamed the night
before. He had the fruit of it in full measure.
The first stroke of twelve rang silvery from the clock. Lynborough
advanced and fell upon his knee. She did not lift her eyes, but slowly
raised her hand from her knee. He placed his hand under it, pressing it
a little upward and bowing his head to meet it half-way in its ascent.
She felt his lips lightly brush the skin. His homage for Beach Path and
his right therein was duly paid.