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.
“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.