The company had roared over a broad farce; for Lord Drummuir, when he
entertained his neighbours, did so with a lavish hand, and thought
nothing of importing a theatrical company from the nearest big town. A
coach and four went for them and took them back, full up with supper
and good wine. This particular one was not up to much, but they did
well enough, as his lordship said, for the country bumpkins; and the
real entertainment was yet to come.
It was a pretty little miniature, this theatre which Lord Drummuir had
fitted up in the days of his youth, though Marmaduke, as he sat in the
sham Royal box into which his father's armchair had been wheeled,
thought it smelt a little musty and fusty.
But even his laughter had been long and loud. And now there was a
pause during which the noisy band of four--a cornet, a fiddle, a
'cello, and an oboe--hustled up their instruments and music and
disappeared. Marmaduke, with the fine instincts for art he had
inherited from his father, and which still made the latter a gourmet
and not a gourmand of all good things, felt relieved. Then suddenly a
thin thread of sound, vibrant, musical--just a whing like the whing of
a mosquito on a hot Indian night--made itself more felt than heard. It
seemed to thrill the air, to go further and thrill the heart-strings.
Marmaduke leant forward expectantly as the curtains drew up slowly on
a background of pale pink velvet hanging in loose folds to a pale pink
velvet floor. And the musty fustiness had gone! That was attar of
roses, pale pink roses like the pale pink _mise-en-scene_. And hark,
the thread of sound changed to two! It became rhythmic, louder! A
guitar? No; it must be a Hungarian zither. Marmaduke, thoroughly
roused, thrilled through to the marrow of his bones as he waited. Bent
on conquest, he had dressed with the greatest care; from head to foot
he was perfection. Expectant as he was, he was yet prepared to be
critical; but one glance at the figure which, after peeping with
roguish face between the velvet folds, stole out on tiptoe to the very
footlights, then stood, finger on lip, as if imploring silence for an
escapade, told him he was in the presence of a past mistress in her
art, and he sat back prepared for enjoyment.
And La Fantine, as she had been called, had brought pleasure to many
men. She was looking her best, dainty to a degree. The footlights,
with the larger possibilities of powder and paint, had restored her
youth, and her dress was entrancing. Short clouds of pale pink tulle
scarcely veiled with gossamer black lace, all set and sparkling with
dewdrops of paste diamonds. How they glittered and disappeared,
twinkling one moment like stars amid the diaphanous black lace wings
she wore on her head, then sinking to shadow again as she moved.
And heavens, how she moved! The zither thrilled louder and Marmaduke
sat entranced, for their eyes had met and he realised that she was
keeping her promise--she was dancing for him, for him alone. Like most
young and vital creatures dancing was sheer delight to him, and the
very precision of the black lace-shod, sandalled feet was pure joy to
him. And now the rhythm grew faster and faster; she was like a mad
butterfly drunk with honey from the waiting flowers.
The desire of the eyes does not take long to flame up and flare, and
Marmaduke felt quite dizzy as he joined in the burst of applause when,
with a final pirouette, the _danseuse_ kissed her hand to the
audience. Or was it to him?
"Never saw La Fantine dance better, Drum," remarked a thin old man, a
relic of the past youth when he and the bridegroom expectant had
roystered about together, "except, perhaps, that time, you remember,
when she danced the _fandango_ with that South American fellow
she----"
He paused, remembering that this incident in Mdlle. Le Grand's career
had best not be mentioned under present circumstances.
"The _fandango?_" put in Marmaduke, afire. "I should like to see her
dance that. It's the finest dance in the world. I learnt it in Cuba."
"Hullo, Drum," said the old buck, "here's a chance! Your son says he
can dance the _fandango_. Here's a chance. Let's have it. They'd make
a handsome couple."
Marmaduke blushed up to the ears; why, he knew not. Then he said
stiffly--
"I'd rather not, Sir John."
The refusal was opportune for the _fandango_; it roused the old man's
arrogance.
"Why not, sir?" he asked angrily. "You'd never get a better partner.
Here, Fantine, my dear," he added, raising his voice, "this oaf of a
boy of mine says he can dance the _fandango!_ Show him he can't,
there's a good girl!"
"I will do my leetle best, milor," she replied, with a maliciously
provocative smile that would have incited anyone of spirit to action.
"I am at mademoiselle's command for tuition," said Marmaduke, with a
fine bow.
His head was ringing, his pulses bounding. He was divided between
anger and delight, between a desire to teach the little devil and his
father a lesson, and keen pleasure at the thought of the coming dance.
A minute after he stood making his bow beside La Fantine.
"Do you really know it?" she had whispered.
"Better than you do," he had whispered back brutally. "I've danced it
in the pot-houses of Habana."
Then it would be a trial of skill between them! She nodded to the
zither player to begin, striking the strings with loud full-blooded
notes that vibrated and thrilled through the little theatre and came
back to aid the growing clamour of the music. It was grace and grace,
suppleness and suppleness at first; then by degrees something fiercely
beautiful, profoundly, almost overwhelmingly, appealing to the senses.
The audience sat spellbound, while to those two there grew an
absorbing forgetfulness of all save that they two, man and woman, were
playing each with the other. Suddenly, when that reckless
forgetfulness seemed to have reached its climax, the woman faltered
for a second, turned to her companion.
"Don't you know the rest?" he whispered softly. "Come on, I'll teach
it you."
Half-hypnotised by his look, his manner, she followed his lead.
The music, bewildered, ignorant, failed, came to a full stop.
But it was not needed. Those two danced to the music of the spheres.
The coarse sensuality of this earth had passed. This was the
refined super-sensuality of a world of art, of sentiment. It was
self-renunciation divorced from its real meaning, and when finally,
with La Fantine's heart pressed to his, he laid his burning lips to
hers, a great silence like a sigh came to the whole audience. It was
broken by Lord Drummuir's stentorian voice--
"You--you d----d young scoundrel! This is too much----"
Marmaduke looked up jubilant.
"It's in the original dance, isn't it, Mademoiselle Le Grand?"
"I--I believe it is," she faltered uncertainly. She had met with her
match, and that she knew.
"A most remarkable performance," said Sir John, with unction. "I'll
tell you what it is, young man. You two would be the talk of London if
you could persuade Mdlle. Fantine----" he paused again, coughed, and
added precipitately, "Really, my dear Drum, you are to be
congratulated on such a son, and such a future wife! Inimitable, quite
inimitable! You'll never feel the least dull in the long winter
evenings. Ah, Mdlle. Fantine, _mes compliments!_ I have not seen you
for years; not since----" here once more he pulled himself up short,
and Lord Drummuir, beguiled from wrath by his ever-ready sense of
humour, burst in a loud guffaw.
"Look here, Johnnie," he cried, "hold your tongue and don't splay that
old foot of yours about any more. Winter evenings be dashed! Marmaduke
is going back to his Cuban partners, and little Fanny here is going to
make my gruel, aren't you, Fan? Meanwhile, let's come and have some
supper."
So they supped outrageously, and the noise of their laughter echoed
out over the quadrangle, where Marrion Paul sat at her door listening
for Marmaduke's step. She had promised to call Andrew Fraser the
moment she heard it; Andrew, who for two hours had been shivering and
shaking with ague under the spare-room blankets, and had now
apparently fallen asleep, secure in Marrion's promise to rouse him on
his master's appearance.
She had been up twice to see that the captain's room was in order, and
like any valet had laid out everything that would be required for the
night. So, leaving the candles alight, she had come down to stand at
the door of the keep-house again and watch the slow whirling stars
almost stupidly, and wonder what had best be done at once to keep Duke
friends with his father, and at the same time to get him away from the
godless crew up at the castle.
A staggering step and Marmaduke's voice joyously thick saying--
"All right, James, you needn't come any further. I can find my way
now. Good-night. Andrew--where the deuce are you, Andrew? Why weren't
you waiting?" sent her in haste to fulfil her promise. But the hot fit
had this time had a firmer grip on Andrew than either she or he had
expected, and she found him lying with closed eyes half-unconscious.
And though he roused at her touch it was only to mutter: "Let me be,
mother! I'm no goin' to the schule the day. I wunna; let me be, I
say!"
Marrion, seeing he was useless, laid a wet cloth on his head and
returned to her station by the door. It was a dark night and she could
see nothing. Neither could she hear anything.
What had happened? Had Marmaduke managed the stairs by himself? If so,
well and good. He could be left to his own devices, and serve him very
well right! The candles were in a safe place. But if he had fallen by
the way, he would be out all night. Serve him right also! Her lips
curled with scorn, and she was about to go in and close the door when
she remembered that the kitchen girls shaking their mats in the
quadrangle in the early morning would see him if he were lying there.
If it were men it would not have mattered, but that girls should see
and snigger was unbearable. She must go and make sure this would not
happen. Taking the lantern--for it was pitch dark--she made her way to
the foot of the stair. He was lying with his head on the lowest step,
as he had fallen, sleeping peacefully. The cool night air had
completed the work of wine, and so doubtless he would sleep for hours.
But he must not; that disgrace must be avoided. Kneeling beside him
she shook him violently by the shoulder; he roused a little, but not
much, and as he sank back to renewed slumber she looked helpless for a
moment, then angry. It was too bad! He must be roused somehow. She
lifted her hand and gave him a good smart blow on the cheek.
The effect was magical.
"Marmie," he murmured dazedly, then sat up and said confusedly, "What
is it, my dear?"
"You've got to get up and go to your bed, Mr. Duke," she replied.
"Come, be quick about it."
He stumbled to his feet obediently.
"Certainly, certainly! No objection whatever," he said thickly; but
when by the light of the lantern he saw the stairs he gave a silly
laugh, and said amiably: "Quite impossible, I 'sure you. Where's
Andrew?"
"Andrew is not here, Mr. Duke," she replied firmly. "I'll help you up.
Hold on to the rail with your right hand; I'll see to you."
He delivered himself into her strong grip, body and soul, and so, with
a few stumbles, they reached the top of the stairs. Here she hesitated
a moment, then led him on.
"Sit you down on your bed, Duke. I'll help you off with your coat.
Ye'll sleep better without it. An' now kick off yer pumps," she went
on calmly, a sort of fierce motherhood possessing her, "an' I'd better
loosen yer stock; 'tis tight enough to suffocate ye."
He acquiesced in all, sinking to sleep without a word almost before
she had finished her ministrations. Then, taking a plaid that hung
over a chair, she covered him over and prepared to go. But regret,
anger, outraged affection were too strong for her. She flung herself
on her knees beside the bed and buried her face on his unconscious
breast.
"Ah, Duke, Duke," she moaned, "how can ye! Ah, Duke, Duke, you
mustn't, you shall not spoil your life--you shall not, you shall not!"
After a time calm came to her, and, drawing a chair to the side of the
bed, she sat down on it and, clasping her hands tight together, forced
herself to think of the future. But again and again she caught herself
comparing those two unconscious faces--Andrew's all flushed with
fever, Duke's all flushed with wine. Yet comparisons were useless
before Fate. She stood up at last, crossed the room, blew out the
candles, shut the door, and went downstairs, certain but of one thing,
that somehow she was bound by the very greatness of her love to stand
between Duke and danger.
Her grandfather was home, and snoring. Andrew she found better and
beginning to fret over his inability to serve his master.
"Dinna fash yersel," she said kindly. "I heard James bring him over a
while back, and he'll have seen to him."
So, absolutely outwearied, she went to her bed, to sleep at once and
dream that Duke had thanked her and gone away from the godless
household never to return. But Duke, meanwhile, was dreaming about
wonderful white arms that had left powder on his coat and wonderful
red lips that he had kissed boldly, defying the world.