THE BEGINNING OF WAR
An enviable characteristic of Lord Lynborough’s was that, when he had
laid the fuse, he could wait patiently for the explosion. (That last
word tends to recur in connection with him.) Provided he knew that his
adventure and his joke were coming, he occupied the interval
profitably--which is to say, as agreeably as he could. Having launched
the padlock--his symbolical ultimatum--and asserted his right, he spent
the morning in dictating to Roger Wilbraham a full, particular, and
veracious account of his early differences with the Dean of Christ
Church. Roger found his task entertaining, for Lynborough’s mimicry of
his distinguished opponent was excellent. Stabb meanwhile was among the
tombs in an adjacent apartment.
This studious tranquillity was disturbed by the announcement of a call
from Mr Stillford. Not without difficulty he had persuaded the Marchesa
to let him reconnoitre the ground--to try, if it seemed desirable, the
effect of a bit of “bluff”--at anyrate to discover, if he could,
something of the enemy’s plan of campaign. Stillford was, in truth, not
a little afraid of a lawsuit!
Lynborough denied himself to no man, and received with courtesy every
man who came. But his face grew grim and his manner distant when
Stillford discounted the favourable effect produced by his appearance
and manner--also by his name, well known in the county--by confessing
that he called in the capacity of the Marchesa’s solicitor.
“A solicitor?” said Lynborough, slightly raising his brows.
“Yes. The Marchesa does me the honour to place her confidence in me; and
it occurs to me that, before this unfortunate dispute----”
“Why unfortunate?” interrupted Lynborough with an air of some surprise.
“Surely it is--between neighbours? The Castle and the Grange should be
friends.” His cunning suggestion elicited no response. “It occurred to
me,” he continued, somewhat less glibly, “that, before further annoyance
or expense was caused, it might be well if I talked matters over with
your lordship’s solicitor.”
“Sir,” said Lynborough, “saving your presence--which, I must beg you to
remember, was not invited by me--I don’t like solicitors. I have no
solicitor. I shall never have a solicitor. You can’t talk with a
non-existent person.”
“But proceedings are the natural--the almost inevitable result--of such
a situation as your action has created, Lord Lynborough. My client can’t
be flouted, she can’t have her indubitable rights outraged----”
“Do you think they’re indubitable?” Lynborough put in, with a sudden
quick flash of his eyes.
For an instant Stillford hesitated. Then he made his orthodox reply. “As
I am instructed, they certainly are.”
“Ah!” said Lynborough drily.
“No professional man could say more than that, Lord Lynborough.”
“And they all say just as much! If I say anything you don’t like, again
remember that this interview is not of my seeking, Mr Stillford.”
Stillford waxed a trifle sarcastic. “You’ll conduct your case in
person?” he asked.
“If you hale me to court, I shall. Otherwise there’s no question of a
case.”
This time Stillford’s eyes brightened; yet still he doubted Lynborough’s
meaning.
“We shouldn’t hesitate to take our case into court.”
“Since you’re wrong, you’d probably win,” said Lynborough, with a smile.
“But I’d make it cost you the devil of a lot of money. That, at least,
the law can do--I’m not aware that it can do much else. But, as far as
I’m concerned, I should as soon appeal to the Pope of Rome in this
matter as to a law-court--sooner, in fact.”
Stillford grew more confidently happy--and more amazed at Lynborough.
“But you’ve no right to--er--assert rights if you don’t intend to
support them.”
“I do intend to support them, Mr Stillford. That you’ll very soon find
out.”
“By force?” Stillford himself was gratified by the shocked solemnity
which he achieved in this question.
“If so, your side has no prejudice against legal proceedings. Prisons
are not strange to me----”
“What?” Stillford was a little startled. He had not heard all the
stories about Lord Lynborough.
“I say, prisons are not strange to me. If necessary, I can do a month. I
am, however, not altogether a novice in the somewhat degrading art of
getting the other man to hit first. Then he goes to prison, doesn’t he?
Just like the law! As if that had anything to do with the merits!”
Stillford kept his eye on the point valuable to him. “By supporting your
claim I intended to convey supporting it by legal action.”
“Oh, the cunning of this world, the cunning of this world, Roger!” He
flung himself into an arm-chair, laughing. Stillford was already seated.
“Take a cigarette, Mr Stillford. You want to know whether I’m going to
law or not, don’t you? Well, I’m not. Is there anything else you want to
know? Oh, by the way, we don’t abstain from the law because we don’t
know the law. Permit me--Mr Stillford, solicitor--Mr Roger Wilbraham, of
the Middle Temple, Esquire, barrister-at-law. Had I known you were
coming, Roger should have worn his wig. No, no, we know the law--but we
hate it.”
Stillford was jubilant at a substantial gain--the appeal to law lay
within the Marchesa’s choice now; and that was in his view a great
advantage. But he was legitimately irritated by Lynborough’s sneers at
his profession.
“So do most of the people who belong to--the people to whom prisons are
not strange, Lord Lynborough.”
“Apostles--and so on?” asked Lynborough airily.
“I hardly recognise your lordship as belonging to
that--er--er--category.”
“That’s the worst of it--nobody will,” Lynborough admitted candidly. A
note of sincere, if whimsical, regret sounded in his voice. “I’ve been
trying for fifteen years. Yet some day I may be known as St Ambrose!”
His tones fell to despondency again. “St Ambrose the Less, though--yes,
I’m afraid the Less. Apostles--even Saints--are much handicapped in
these days, Mr Stillford.”
Stillford rose to his feet. “You’ve no more to say to me, Lord
Lynborough?”
“I don’t know that I ever had anything to say to you, Mr Stillford. You
must have gathered before now that I intend to use Beach Path.”
“My client intends to prevent you.”
“Yes?--Well, you’re three able-bodied men down there--so my man tells
me--you, and the Colonel, and the Captain. And we’re three up here. It
seems to me fair enough.”
“You don’t really contemplate settling the matter by personal conflict?”
He was half amused, yet genuinely stricken in his habits of thought.
“Entirely a question for your side. We shall use the path.” Lynborough
cocked his head on one side, looking up at the sturdy lawyer with a
mischievous amusement. “I shall harry you, Mr Stillford--day and night I
shall harry you. If you mean to keep me off that path, vigils will be
your portion. And you won’t succeed.”
“I make a last appeal to your lordship. The matter could, I believe, be
adjusted on an amicable basis. The Marchesa could be prevailed upon to
grant permission----”
“I’d just as soon ask her permission to breathe,” interrupted
Lynborough.
“Then my mission is at an end.”
“I congratulate you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you’ve found out the chief thing you wanted to know, haven’t you?
If you’d asked it point-blank, we should have saved a lot of time.
Good-bye, Mr Stillford. Roger, the bell’s in reach of your hand.”
“You’re pleased to be amused at my expense?” Stillford had grown huffy.
“No--only don’t think you’ve been clever at mine,” Lynborough retorted
placidly.
So they parted. Lynborough went back to his Dean, Stillford to the
Marchesa. Still ruffled in his plumes, feeling that he had been chaffed
and had made no adequate reply, yet still happy in the solid, the
important fact which he had ascertained, he made his report to his
client. He refrained from openly congratulating her on not being
challenged to a legal fight; he contented himself with observing that it
was convenient to be able to choose her own time to take proceedings.
Lady Norah was with the Marchesa. They both listened attentively and
questioned closely. Not the substantial points alone attracted their
interest; Stillford was constantly asked--“How did he look when he said
that?” He had no other answer than “Oh--well--er--rather queer.” He left
them, having received directions to rebarricade the gate as solidly and
as offensively as possible; a board warning off trespassers was also to
be erected.
Although not apt at a description of his interlocutor, yet Stillford
seemed to have conveyed an impression.
“I think he must be delightful,” said Norah thoughtfully, when the two
ladies were left together. “I’m sure he’s just the sort of a man I
should fall in love with, Helena.”
As a rule the Marchesa admired and applauded Norah’s candour, praising
it for a certain patrician flavour--Norah spoke her mind, let the crowd
think what it would! On this occasion she was somehow less pleased; she
was even a little startled. She was conscious that any man with whom
Norah was gracious enough to fall in love would be subjected to no
ordinary assault; the Irish colouring is bad to beat, and Norah had it
to perfection; moreover, the aforesaid candour makes matters move
ahead.
“After all, it’s my path he’s trespassing on, Norah,” the Marchesa
remonstrated.
They both began to laugh. “The wretch is as handsome as--as a god,”
sighed Helena.
“You’ve seen him?” eagerly questioned Norah; and the glimpse--that
tantalising glimpse--on Sandy Nab was confessed to.
The Marchesa sprang up, clenching her fist. “Norah, I should like to
have that man at my feet, and then to trample on him! Oh, it’s not only
the path! I believe he’s laughing at me all the time!”
“He’s never seen you. Perhaps if he did he wouldn’t laugh. And perhaps
you wouldn’t trample on him either.”
“Ah, but I would!” She tossed her head impatiently. “Well, if you want
to meet him, I expect you can do it--on my path to-morrow!”
This talk left the Marchesa vaguely vexed. Her feeling could not be
called jealousy; nothing can hardly be jealous of nothing, and even as
her acquaintance with Lynborough amounted to nothing, Lady Norah’s also
was represented by a cypher. But why should Norah want to know him? It
was the Marchesa’s path--by consequence it was the Marchesa’s quarrel.
Where did Norah stand in the matter? The Marchesa had perhaps been
constructing a little drama. Norah took leave to introduce a new
character!
And not Norah alone, as it appeared at dinner. Little Violet Dufaure,
whose appealing ways were notoriously successful with the emotionally
weaker sex, took her seat at table with a demurely triumphant air.
Captain Irons reproached her, with polite gallantry, for having deserted
the croquet lawn after tea.
“Oh, I went for a walk to Fillby--through Scarsmoor, you know.”
“Through Scarsmoor, Violet?” The Marchesa sounded rather startled again.
“It’s a public road, you know, Helena. Isn’t it, Mr Stillford?”
Stillford admitted that it was. “All the same, perhaps the less we go
there at the present moment----”
“Oh, but Lord Lynborough asked me to come again and to go wherever I
liked--not to keep to the stupid road.”
Absolute silence reigned. Violet looked round with a smile which
conveyed a general appeal for sympathy; there was, perhaps, special
reference to Miss Gilletson as the guardian of propriety, and to the
Marchesa as the owner of the disputed path.
“You see, I took Nellie, and the dear always does run away. She ran
after a rabbit. I ran after her, of course. The rabbit ran into a hole,
and I ran into Lord Lynborough. Helena, he’s charming!”
“I’m thoroughly tired of Lord Lynborough,” said the Marchesa icily.
“He must have known I was staying with you, I think; but he never so
much as mentioned you. He just ignored you--the whole thing, I mean.
Wasn’t it tactful?”
Tactful it might have been; it did not appear to gratify the Marchesa.
“What a wonderful air there is about a--a _grand seigneur_!” pursued
Violet reflectively. “Such a difference it makes!”
That remark did not gratify any of the gentlemen present; it implied a
contrast, although it might not definitely assert one.
“It is such a pity that you’ve quarrelled about that silly path!”
“Oh! oh! Miss Dufaure!”--“I say, come, Miss Dufaure!”--“Er--really, Miss
Dufaure!”--these three remonstrances may be distributed indifferently
among the three men. They felt that there was a risk of treason in the
camp.
The Marchesa assumed her grandest manner; it was mediæval--it was
Titianesque.
“Fortunately, as it seems, Violet, I do not rely on your help to
maintain my rights in regard to the path. Pray meet Lord Lynborough as
often as you please, but spare me any unnecessary mention of his name.”
“I didn’t mean any harm. It was all Nellie’s fault.”
The Marchesa’s reply--if such it can be called--was delivered _sotto
voce_, yet was distinctly audible. It was also brief. She said
“_Nellie!_” Nellie was, of course, Miss Dufaure’s dog.
Night fell upon an apparently peaceful land. Yet Violet was an absentee
from the Marchesa’s dressing-room that night, and even between Norah and
her hostess the conversation showed a tendency to flag. Norah, for all
her courage, dared not mention the name of Lynborough, and Helena most
plainly would not. Yet what else was there to talk about? It had come to
that point even so early in the war!
Meanwhile, up at Scarsmoor Castle, Lynborough, in exceedingly high
spirits, talked to Leonard Stabb.
“Yes, Cromlech,” he said, “a pretty girl, a very pretty girl if you like
that _petite_ insinuating style. For myself I prefer something a shade
more--what shall we call it?”
“Don’t care a hang,” muttered Stabb.
“A trifle more in the grand manner, perhaps, Cromlech. And she hadn’t
anything like the complexion. I knew at once that it couldn’t be the
Marchesa. Do you bathe to-morrow morning?”
“And get my head broken?”
“Just stand still, and let them throw themselves against you, Cromlech.
Roger!--Oh, he’s gone to bed; stupid thing to do--that! Cromlech, old
chap, I’m enjoying myself immensely.”
He just touched his old friend’s shoulder as he passed by: the caress
was almost imperceptible. Stabb turned his broad red face round to him
and laughed ponderously.
“Oh, and you understand!” cried Lynborough.
“I have never myself objected to a bit of fun with the girls,” said
Stabb.
Lynborough sank into a chair murmuring delightedly, “You’re priceless,
Cromlech!”