Days are long to a man and a woman when one of them passionately
desires the other, for every instant counts, every moment spells
success or failure. And Fantine Le Grand, with her almost lifelong
experience of intrigue, was not one to let the grass grow under her
feet. So when, two days later, Marmaduke ran over the quadrangle to
beg a favour of Marrion Paul, most of his scruples had disappeared,
and, for the time, at any rate, he was an admiring lover, eager to do
anything and everything for the woman of the moment.
"You can, quite well, if you like, Marrion," he pleaded. "It would
only be for a day or two, till Josephine could put her foot to the
ground again. And Mdlle. Le Grand--she has been very much maligned,
Marmie--is perfectly charming. Now do. It isn't often I ask you to do
anything for me, is it?"
Marrion Paul had opened her eyes at the proposition, which was briefly
that, during the temporary disablement of Mdlle. Le Grand's French
maid, she should go over and take her place. She had been on the point
of refusal when that "for me" startled her. Was it possible that he
could count that woman's convenience his own? She hesitated, but only
for a second.
"I will do what I can for you, Captain Duke," she said.
In an instant all the old charm, all the old _camaraderie_ came to his
voice--
"I knew you would, Marmie. I told her so. You're a real friend, you do
such a lot of things for me." Then he in his turn hesitated, looked
confused, and finally spoke: "I had such odd dreams that night--the
night we danced, you know. I dreamt that you helped me up the stairs
and--and put me to bed like a baby." He paused. "Did you, really,
Marmie?"
The colour rushed to her face.
"Aye, Captain Duke, I did. Andrew was ill and you were drunk."
Her straightforward candour abashed him beyond words.
"I'm sorry," he said at last, so humbly that her heart melted within
her. Then he added, with a sudden influx of joyousness, "But I'm
really going to turn over a new leaf. I'm going to cut and run before
long and let my father stew in his own juice."
She caught him up instantly.
"Your father's your father, Mr. Duke, and you're the heir to the old
barony. You mustn't forget that. It's laid on you, and it's not to be
put aside."
He paused as he was going, vexedly.
"I'm not going to put it aside, Marmie. I am only going to make the
best of a bad bargain. If the old lord won't give me the money for my
majority, I'm not going to stick on here getting drunk to please him."
There was distinct virtue in the last phrase, and Marmie smiled. And
as she looked in the old clothes drawer for some black silk-frilled
aprons which her mother had worn when she was maid to the first Lady
Drummuir, she told herself that Duke was nothing but--as he had
said--a big baby, and that, no matter what the dancing-woman might be
like, she, Marrion, was glad to be in a position where she could see
for herself what was going on.
She looked very demure, very uncompromising and upright, therefore,
when that same afternoon, attired after a little coloured sketch of
her mother as maid, she stood waiting for Fantine Le Grand to come up
and dress for dinner. Yet, even so, the latter's instant and quite
unpremeditated remark was--
"Captain Muir did not tell me you were so good-looking."
It was a revelation to Marrion's quick wits, but she was ready in
reply.
"Maybe he never looked to see, ma'am," she said demurely, "having his
eyes busy with prettier things."
Fantine Le Grand laughed easily and her manner changed to more
familiarity at once.
"You know which side your bread is buttered, my girl. So much the
better. Now I wonder how much use you will be?"
"I was six years at the dressmaking, madam," replied Marrion, "and the
forewoman gave me all the touching-up work; she said I had a good hand
for folds."
Fantine gave a relieved sigh.
"Then you're not quite a bumpkin, but I suppose you can't do hair?"
"I can, a little," said Marrion; "I learnt just a wee while in
Perragier's shop in Edinburgh. The foreman wanted me to stop, but I
don't care for the business."
All of which was absolutely true; for the hairdresser who had offered
her gold for her russet hair had afterwards offered her his heart and
hand. What is more he had hardly yet withdrawn his offer, and only
that morning the post had brought her a long and friendly letter
enclosing a sachet and a most particular account of how he had dressed
the hair of all the Edinburgh celebrities in the latest fashion for
the last big ball.
"I'm thinking," she went on deftly, "that the new Sevigne style would
just suit madam, if she will allow me to try. There will be time to
change if it doesn't please."
Five minutes later Fantine Le Grand, in pink wrapper, was watching in
the glass Marrion's fingers curling and twisting and combing and
puffing. And Marrion was watching the glass also, a half inherited,
half acquired perception of what was beautiful and becoming aiding her
lack of practice.
"My dear girl," said Fantine delighted, when Marrion stepped back, her
task completed, "you're an artist! It makes me look ten years younger.
You must come with me." She paused and gave a little conscious laugh.
"Anyhow, you are much better than Josephine, and so I shall tell
Captain Muir."
Apparently she did, for Marrion, meeting him by chance that evening on
the stairs, had to draw back from his outstretched hand.
"Hang it all," he said, almost boisterously, "I forgot you were a
servant here! Do you ever forget your p's and q's, I wonder? I wish
you would sometimes. Anyhow, you have made her look quite divine, and
she says she means to ask you to take the place permanently."
"It is very kind of _her_," replied Marrion, accenting the pronoun;
but Marmaduke was too absorbed to notice it. Only that afternoon he
had had his final attack on his father's purse-strings, and had come
down to the library where Jack Jardine and Peter were smoking, white
with rage.
"It's all up!" he said. "The old man--I'll never call him father
again--insulted me beyond bearing."
"I warned you, Duke," began Peter; "he isn't half recovered yet."
"And do you think I've got time to waste until my precious parent
takes enough colchicum and nitre to kill a horse, all because he
guzzles and swills? No. As I told him, Pringle won't wait over the
week, so--so I'm making other arrangements. I shall have to ask you,
Jack, to raise two hundred pounds to clinch the bargain when I meet
Pringle. I don't know how the devil you do it, but you always do."
"Yes, I always do," assented Jardine a trifle wearily; "but you know,
Duke, it would be wiser to raise the two thousand pounds at once and
have done with it. If Pitt and Peter here were to join in a _post
obit_, and I were to back it----"
"Thanks!" said Marmaduke curtly. "I only asked for two hundred pounds,
and you can put that in the bill, can't you?"
"Yes," assented Jardine again wearily, "I can put it in the bill"
When Marmaduke had gone out of the room Peter crossed over to the fire
and knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
"I wonder what he has got in his head," he remarked thoughtfully.
"It's something to do with Fantine, _alias_ Fanny Biggs, I'm sure."
"Fantine?" echoed Jack Jardine. "Why, of course, anyone can see that
Marmaduke has been trying to get to the right side of her. I advised
him to do so. And she, of course--by that scoundrel Compton's advice,
I expect--has been trying to make the peer jealous in order to get rid
of Marmaduke!"
Peter burst out laughing.
"Look here, Jack, you're excellent as a man of business, but you're a
mole with women, you old bachelor! I could tell you a thing or two,
but I won't--it's too amusing." And he strolled out of the room
chuckling to himself.
Over in the keep-house, Marrion Paul felt that she, also, could tell a
thing or two, even after the brief experience of being maid to Fantine
Le Grand; but she did not find it amusing. On the contrary, it sent
her about her new work with a frown in her eyes that were keen for
every sign.
The day had been a troublous one. The old peer, up for the first time,
had been so irritable that the whole household was upset. Fantine Le
Grand, indeed, coming up for her usual late afternoon rest, had
professed herself so outwearied by a protracted penance in milord's
private room that she bade Marrion give her a double dose of her
sleeping draught and tell the butler she was not coming down to
dinner. She would have a dainty little supper in her boudoir at ten
o'clock, and till then did not wish to be disturbed. Being thus set
free, Marrion was going home when, as she passed the stairway leading
to the room which Marmaduke had occupied and where Andrew Fraser still
kept some of his master's spare things, she heard a noise as of
someone shifting boxes. Running up to see what it was, she found
Andrew busy packing up.
"Aye, we're awa' the morn's morn," he replied cheerfully to her query,
"and blythe am I that the finest gentleman in the Queen's army will
run no more danger o' bein' ruined by a whore-woman and an auld, auld
man, as s'ould be thinkin' o' his grave an' the Last Day."
Despite a sudden catch at her heart, his hearer acquiesced calmly.
"Aye, it's well he's goin! But where is it to?"
"To Edinbro'. He's an appointment tae meet Major Pringle the morrow's
morn aboot the exchange."
"An' when he's comin' back?" asked Marrion sharply.
"I heard no tell o' returnin', and I'm thinkin' not. Ye see the
exchange he tell't me was settled into the auld regiment."
"Then his father----" she interrupted.
Andrew shook his head.
"It's no the auld lord. They had just a fearfu' stramash aboot it. It
will be Jack Jardine again, puir fallow! He always manages it somehow.
Well, he'll hae his reward at the Judgment, though I'm thinkin' he'll
hae to wait till then for a reckoning."
"Maist o' us have to do that, Andry," said Marrion grimly, and then
her face, looking into the hard, honest, homely face before her,
softened; "an' you, abune all, abune all, my lad," she added, as she
went on her way.
Andrew Fraser hesitated for a second, then followed fast.
"Thank ye for that, my dear," he said hoarsely at the foot of the
stairway, "it makes it easier. An' I'll wait--aye, I'll wait till
then, never fear, Marrion!"
His outstretched hand was in hers as they stood gazing into each
other's eyes, his very love forgot in the flood of friendship which
surged through their hearts and brains, when Miss Margaret Muir, fresh
from an afternoon among the rocks with her gallant little parson, came
whistling and calling to her dogs through the keep-gate. She had spent
so many long years of her life without one touch of glamour and
romance that, now it had come to her at last, the whole world seemed
transfigured into a place full to the brim of lovers and their lasses.
So in an instant the sight of those two set her becking and smiling.
"Good luck to you both!" she called. "Good luck, good luck! After all,
Marrion, you see you will be asking Mr. Bryce to get you cried."
Andrew, shamefaced and confused, escaped up the stairs, but Marrion
stood her ground boldly.
"There'll be scant time, Miss Marg'ret," she said, not without some
scorn, "for Andrew is away with his master the morn, and Captain Duke
says he will not be coming back."
Her hearer turned visibly pale. Ever since the rencontre on the rocks
Margaret had been haunted by a fear lest Marmaduke should break the
half-formulated compact of mutual silence. And now this news of his
unexpected departure sent a thousand wild conjectures to her mind.
Had he quarrelled with his father over the woman? Had he in revenge
told----
"Going away!" she gasped. "I didn't know. Surely it's very sudden!
Why? Can my father have found out about Mdlle. Le Grand----" Then
realising her slip, she went on hurriedly, "But it is all nonsense
about Duke's saying he will not come back. The boys always say that
when there is a quarrel; but father forgets, and so do they, as you
know quite well, Marrion. And it's only right that it should be so,
for after all he is their father, isn't he?"
"Aye, Miss Marg'ret," replied Marrion gravely, "my Lord Drummuir is
the present holder o' the barony, an' Captain Marmaduke is the heir to
it if the Master has no son; so that settles it outright."
Margaret Muir looked at her with a sort of wistful surprise.
"You put things very plain, Marrion," she said, "but you always were a
sensible girl; and, being what you are, your grandfather's
granddaughter--you--you belong to Drummuir, as it were."
When she had passed on whistling and calling to her dogs, Marrion Paul
stood echoing those last words in her heart. Yes, she belonged to
Drummuir; but over and above that inherited loyalty there was a
passion of protection for Duke himself. He must not be harmed in any
way.
Was there indeed anything between him and the painted woman she was
serving?
Before she wakened her for the dainty supper at ten o'clock that
evening Marrion stood looking at the sleeping face, all its charm of
_espieglerie_ gone, the mouth cruel, the lines about the eyes hard and
set.
No, whatever came, that woman should not have the spoiling of Duke's
life! Not that there could be much fear since he was leaving the next
day.