No danger!
The thought--such an ill-considered thought, it seemed--recurred to
Marrion Paul as she held a slip of crumpled paper in her hand and read
its slight contents over and over again.
She had found it on the floor of the room where Andrew Fraser had
packed up his master's spare things. There had been heaps of other
papers on the floor, when, during the time that Fantine Le Grand was
on duty with the old lord, Marrion, more to still thought than from
necessity, had set herself the task of clearing up and making tidy;
but this one showed her Duke's handwriting, and, half mechanically,
she had reached down to pick it up. And then? Women, as a rule, have
not nearly so hard and fast a rule of conventional honour as men on
such points, so she had smoothed it out and read--
Evidently a memorandum made to help out a memory excellent in its way,
but random, careless.
"Write for rooms at Cross-keys. Order trap from Crow; 9.30, copse by
avenue gate."
She drew in her breath and considered, her thoughts punctuated by the
rapid beating of her heart.
The Cross-keys? That was the inn where the south coach stopped, and
where the ferry road branched off; she could almost see it from her
window across the estuary on the edge of the moorland. What did
Marmaduke want with rooms there? And the trap from the Crow? That was
the little inn down in the back purlieus of the town. For whom was
that trap wanted? And why not order from the big posting hotel as
usual?
Then in an instant a solution flashed upon her. Marmaduke had not
really gone by the afternoon coach; or, if he had, so far, was to
return that night to the Cross-keys, and the trap was to take Fantine
Le Grand to him by the bridge road!
The beating of her heart steadied itself. She folded up the paper and
put it in her pocket, her vehement determination, somehow or another,
to frustrate this plan almost forgotten for the time in wonder at the
chance which had brought to her this knowledge.
The paper must have fallen out of the pocket of some coat Andrew had
been packing up--how easily it might not so have fallen! How easily
she might not have noticed it! A facile wonder obscured real thought,
and, as usual in such sudden crises, concrete determination hid itself
under one general determination to frustrate the machinations of the
enemy, if possible. She did not even ask herself how this was to be
done; all she told herself was that it _must_ be done.
So, rousing to a sense that afternoon was passing to evening, and that
it was time for her to be in attendance at the castle, she went
thither, feeling vaguely that if it was necessary to kill the woman,
even that must be done, sooner than she should be allowed to hamper
Marmaduke's young life.
Fantine Le Grand had not yet come up from her daily duty of amusing
Lord Drummuir, so Marrion mechanically began, as usual, to prepare for
the evening's toilette, She found all the valuables gone from the
jewel-case, and, after a hasty search, discovered them in a tiny
valise, ready packed hidden away behind laces and ribbons in a drawer.
So she had been right. Fantine Le Grand meant to give them the slip.
Ere she had time to consider a fretful voice came from the boudoir.
"Marrion, Marrion! I do hope the girl's there. Just like 'em if she
isn't. Ah," as Marrion appeared at the door, "for heaven's sake, girl,
take off my shoes and bring me my dressing-gown! That wretched old man
has worn me out. I shall be fit for nothing! Oh, lord, it was too
bad--nothing would please him! What o'clock is it? Six o'clock! Good
gracious, I shall hardly have time before dinner! I won't go down;
there's no one to go down for now Marmaduke's gone. Lord, what a
relief it will be! Tell them to bring dinner up here at eight and give
me my sleeping drops. Not too much, as I don't want to sleep too long;
but I have such a headache, I shan't be fit for anything without a
rest."
Fantine Le Grand did not see her attendant's face. Had she done so,
she would have been startled. The colour had left it, every feature
was set and hard. For she had found the clue. Even if an overdose
killed the woman, she must be made to sleep sound.
"Yes, madam," she replied, "but a rest will take your headache away, I
hope."
She poured out the narcotic without a tremble, doubling the double
dose. It was a risk, of course; but risks must be run.
"That is very strong--how much did you give me?" asked Fantine, as,
with a sigh of content, she snuggled down under the _duvet_.
"Only as much as was necessary," replied Marrion steadily.
Her heart was hard as the nether millstone. She waited in the boudoir
till the soft regular breathing told her Fantine was asleep, then,
giving orders in passing that her mistress did not wish to be
disturbed, she made her way back to her own room at the keep-house in
order to mature further plans. In this she was hampered by ignorance
as to what she had to frustrate. It would have been easy to walk down
to the Crow and countermand the trap, but for aught she knew to the
contrary, Marmaduke might be awaiting Mdlle. Le Grand there; so she
judged it better to adhere as far as possible to what she did know,
and this pointed to someone taking the trap, as ordered--whether to
the Cross-keys or not, mattered little--and meeting Marmaduke. The
very idea stirred her blood! Of course she must do it. She must go and
beg him--nay, force him to reconsider an action which would for ever
ruin him with his father.
The colour came back to her face, the light to her eyes, with this
decision, and her mind was busy at once with precautions.
The Cross-keys, she knew, was held by new people who would not be
likely to know her; still she must do her best to avoid recognition.
To begin with she must secure retreat. She looked down the estuary,
then at low tide, and little more than a still pool with a faint
stream in it, and saw no boat at the further side. That, however,
could easily be remedied. The castle boat lay this side, and it would
not take her half an hour to row it over and swim back.
By this time it was full seven o'clock, the shadows were lengthening
and everyone at the castle would be busy with dinner. Now was her
opportunity. Ten minutes afterwards in her bathing suit, but wrapped
in her plaid, and with a lighted lantern at the bottom of the boat,
for she remembered it would be dark on the return journey, she was
pulling with long vigorous strokes to the little pier of seaweed-grown
slippery rocks. To fasten the boat to the outermost ring on the shore,
so that she could get at it at all tides, and hang the lantern over
the bows as a guide to the whereabouts, did not take her long. That
done, she folded the plaid away, placed it in the stern sheets, and
slipped over the side like a seal.
So much, then, was done. She must now go and carry up Fantine Le
Grand's supper and then prepare herself to take the latter's place.
She was relieved to find all well. Fantine lay comfortably snuggled
up, very dead asleep it is true, but breathing quietly and regularly,
and Marrion, with a lighter heart, for all it was still hard as the
nether millstone, closed the door on her, secure that no interruption
was likely to come from that side.
And now to disguise herself so as to pass muster with the driver of
the coach, should he happen to be an acquaintance. This was easy
enough. High heels, silk stockings, a little lace, a furbelow or two,
and a big black silk cloak go far in semi-darkness, and all these were
to be found in her mother's wardrobe.
Having time to spare, indeed, Marrion spent it, half-eagerly,
half-reluctantly, in seeing how near she could bring herself to the
daintinesses of modern fashion. And she so far succeeded that, as she
went away from the looking-glass, her face showed radiant, as of a
girl going to her first ball. Unconfessed, the thought was there that
Marmaduke would see her so, possibly in the discarded brocades worn by
his own mother in her youth; anyhow, in the garments of his own class.
So, with the ample cloak round her, its hood drawn over the shining
hair piled in the latest fashion, she made her way to the copse by the
avenue gate. The chariot with two horses was in waiting; the driver,
touching his hat, asked if there was no luggage. She answered no,
stepped in, and they were off. Evidently the man had his orders, for
they skirted the town and crossed the river by the lower and older
bridge. This lengthened the journey by some two miles; so much the
better. It would be quite dark by the time they arrived at the
Cross-keys. Hitherto Marrion's mind had been fully occupied with action.
Now, in this hour's drive, she had time to think of what would happen
when she met Marmaduke, and her heart sank a little. Not that she was
afraid of him or of herself, but it was all so strange, so unlike real
life. Then in a flash came the memory of that dawn-tide swim of
theirs! That was not common, trivial, everyday life either. They two
had somehow the trick of escaping from that sometimes. Why not now?
The day had been brilliantly fine and warm, but with the sun setting,
clouds had gathered and lay dark and threatening on the horizon,
though the moon rode unobscured high in the heavens. A few spots of
heavy rain fell in great splashes, and the bustling landlady of the
Cross-keys, as she came to the door, was full of congratulations that
madam had escaped the thunderstorm which was evidently brewing.
Meantime, Captain Muir, who had not expected his lady quite so soon,
was away in the kennels to see if some medicine which he--kindly
gentleman--had prescribed for a puppy ill of distemper had bettered
the poor beastie; but he would be back syne and the rooms were ready.
This was a relief to Marrion as it ensured that their meeting would be
private; so she followed the landlady upstairs, the latter asking if
Mrs. Muir would rather a cup of tea, or to go to bed at once, since
she would have to be up so early to catch the first coach south.
Marrion, as she refused both suggestions, felt startled at the Mrs.
Muir. Was it possible that there was to be more than a mere intrigue?
In Scotland one did not pose so easily as married--unless indeed
Marmaduke was reckless--he was so, often----
She glanced round the bedroom into which she was shown, recognising
that some of the luggage in it must be a woman's, then passed into the
sitting-room adjoining. The fire had lately been lit, doubtless with a
view to a sudden chilliness foretelling the coming storm, and the
flames of its crackling wood danced on the walls, making the two
lighted candles on the table unnecessary. Half mechanically she blew
them out, and with a sombre, almost stern face, stood watching the
blazing sticks.
Suddenly a cheerful well-known voice rose below.
"The puppy's much better, Mrs. McTavish. What, my wife has come?
That's all right."
My wife! For an instant Marrion's head whirled. Was she too late? No.
Confused memories of what in Scotland constituted an irregular
marriage sent a flood of crimson to her face as she realised that Duke
had all unwittingly acknowledged her as his "wife" before witnesses.
His footsteps coming up the stairs two steps at a time steadied her;
but what followed shook her to her very foundations. Unheeding of her
feeble "Duke" as he opened the door, he was across the room holding
her in his arms and passionately kissing her averted face, her neck,
her hair.
"This is good," he whispered. "Now for a splendid honeymoon!"
For a second she yielded; then she wrenched herself from him and faced
him fairly.
"You're making a mistake, Captain Muir," she said sharply, "I am only
Marrion Paul."
She would have liked to add "your friend"; but she dared not. At the
moment she knew she was far more than that.
"Marmie!" he echoed stupidly. "Marmie!"
At first he was too surprised for more; then he drew himself up and
stared at her angrily.
"What the deuce are you doing here?" he said at last, adding hastily,
as possibilities struck him, "Did she send you? Is she ill?"
In her long drive the girl had gone over and over the coming
interview, settling what she would say, but the sudden solicitude of
his tone swept all her preparations away. Did he then really care? If
so, nothing but the naked truth would be any use.
"No," she replied calmly, only her tightly interlaced fingers showing
the tension of her mind and body. "She is quite well. I gave her a
double dose of her sleeping drops to prevent her coming. I came
instead because I wanted to speak to you."
The flickering firelight showed sheer anger on the young man's
face--sheer brutal anger.
"Because you wanted to take her place, eh?"
She gave a little sort of sob. What would she not have given to take
it? The very intensity of her desire made her pass the insult by.
"It is no use being angry," she said quietly. "I came to try and make
you hear reason. You may as well listen. She can't come to-night, and
surely, meanwhile, we can sit down and talk it over--as friends!"
"We used to be friends, I admit," he replied coldly; "but if you are
going to presume on friendship as you appear to have done, the sooner
the farce ends the better."
For all that he sat down, his bold eyes taking in every detail of her
altered appearance.
"Your dress suits you," he jibed. "I suppose you put it on to----"
"I had to put it on," she interrupted; "I had to pass muster. I didn't
want to set the town talking. You know, as well as I, that it wasn't
easy--it wasn't pleasant."
"No one asked you to do it," he replied, "and I wonder how you had
the--the cheek!" Then suddenly he laughed; he could not help it. The
whole business tickled him and his eyes took on a certain admiration.
"It beats cock-fighting, my dear," he went on. "No one but you would
have dared to do it. But it won't do, Marmie. You don't understand.
That old man--I won't call him my father, Marmie--won't give me the
two thousand pounds for my majority. Fantine Le Grand has shown me how
to get it, and I----" He paused; in sober truth now he came to think
of the plan for so getting it, the less it appealed to him.
Marrion waited a second, then said--
"How?"
There was no reason why he should have answered her categorically, but
he did; perhaps at the back of his mind was a desire to know what she
thought of it. He gave a forced laugh.
"We are to dance for it. Oh, I know all the stuff that's talked about
dancing men and women, but we would go abroad! I should get leave of
absence for six months on urgent private affairs, and no one would be
a bit the worse."
"_You_ would!" commented Marrion briefly.
There was a world of scornful criticism in the words.
"Oh, dash it all," cried Marmaduke, "a man can't always ride the high
horse! And you've put me in the deuce of a hole, though I suppose you
meant well. You see, I can't wait for her now, as I must see Pringle
tomorrow; but I can come back again," he added complacently, "and I
will."
"Then you mean to--to marry--that woman?" put in Marrion.
He rose angrily and began to pace up and down the room. In sober truth
once more, now that he was away from Fantine Le Grand's allurements,
he had begun to wonder if he were not paying rather dearly for his two
thousand pounds.
"Of course I do; it's in the bond, and I'm a man of my word. And
you've no right to call her that woman. She is far better than you
think, and I am very fond of her, very fond of her indeed!" He stopped
opposite Marrion with a certain defiance. The blaze of the fire had
died down; it was almost dark, save for a red glow on their faces. "Of
course," he went on, "I ought to be deucedly angry with you, Marmie;
but somehow I'm not, and if you will only take her a note from me----"
She started to her feet passionately.
"A note!" she echoed, her voice vibrating with scorn. "Oh, Duke, Duke,
sometimes I wonder if you can understand?--if any man ever
understands? I came here, risking all, everything for you; you've been
the sun in my heaven ever since I can remember; you've always been
something very bright and very far away that is not to be touched or
harmed. Yes, I come here to beg you not to ruin yourself body and
soul, and you ask me to take a note!"
A sudden flash of lightning from the storm, now nigh at hand, lit up
the room for a second, and showed her to him standing white and rigid
like some accusing angel.
"You say you're fond of her, but you're not. I tell ye you're no fond
of her, Duke; ye ken na what love is--an' I do--for I love the verra
ground you tread on, the verra things you've touched----"
Her voice, which in the extremity of her passion had forgotten its
acquired accent, failed; she sank back to her seat, and, throwing her
arms out over the table, buried her face in them.
And a great silence fell between them, man and woman.
At last he laid his hand on her shoulder, and spoke humbly.
"I beg your pardon, Marmie; I did not understand, But I'm not worth
it, child. Let me go my way----"
She pulled herself together.
"It's time I was going home," she said, unsteadily.
"You can't go in this storm," he put in relieved, as all men are, that
the mental storm was over, "you'd better stop here for the night.
I"--he went to the fire and deliberately lit the candles, as if, with
their light, to bring things back to normal again--"I--I'll find a bed
somewhere, and you can stop----"
Marrion interrupted him hastily.
"No, no, I must go! Folk will wonder. The boat is on this shore. I can
easily slip over."
He walked to the window and looked out.
"It's raining cats and dogs; you can't go!" he said masterfully. "You
stop here like a good girl, and I'll go and settle up something for
myself."
He left the room and for one second she stood irresolute. Should she
stop? He had called her his wife, would doubtless call her so again to
the landlady, and if she stopped--if she stopped----
Then, with a little sob, she caught up her cloak and ran downstairs.
The night was dark, but the moon shone fitfully between rifts in the
clouds. The rain, coming in gusts with the wind, had ceased for a
moment. She drew the hood of her cloak over her head and ran swiftly
past the lighted windows of the bar, thinking she had escaped; but a
moment after she heard swift steps following her own and, turning to
look, saw Marmaduke, hatless, coatless, in pursuit.
The instinct of the chase awoke in her in a second; she doubled off
the white road behind the shelter of a low beech copse.
"Marmie, Marmie, stop, I tell you! Don't be a little fool!"
Easy to say that. But it was he was the fool, not she. If she kept in
such cover as there was she might reach the boat before him--she must!
In the old days she had run as quick as he; and she knew where the
boat was and he didn't.
She tucked her petticoats high above the knee like any Leezie Lindsay
and ran as for dear life. If she had failed in her mission--and had
she?--she would not fail here. That last double had been successful.
His cry of "Marmie, Marmie, don't be so foolish, dear!" sounded quite
far off--like the wail of a plover.
Now it came nearer. Perhaps he had seen the lantern she had left to
guide her own steps to the boat. If so, she had no time to lose, as he
would make straight for it, and so must she, forsaking the bend to
avoid a peat bog, and braving the moss hags even in the dark. Anyhow,
she was lighter than he, and would not sink so deep; though, after the
long spell of fine weather, the bog could not be very bad. And this
was the worst part of it. With the ease of long practice she jumped
lightly from hag to hag, sparing no time to look round for the figure
behind her, though she knew it must be perilously near; for that
instinct of the chase was as strong in him, perhaps stronger, than it
was in her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eye was bright, her heart
beat high, despite her breathlessness, and she knew that his did so
also. Briefly they had both forgotten everything save their
determination to have their own way.
"Marmie, you little devil, stop, I tell you!" came his voice close
behind her. Then a splash, a loud "damnation," told her that he had
missed his hag.
That would give her time. She redoubled her speed, raced to the shore,
and, not pausing to unfasten the boat, waded through the water, almost
swimming the last bit, to where it rode at anchor on the outgoing
tide. Clambering over the side she set to work at once to unknot the
rope from the bow-ring. Not a second too soon, for Marmaduke, after a
minute's delay, due to his flounder and an unavailing search for the
shore ring, had found it.
"Got you!" he cried joyfully, but he spoke too soon. The rope, undone,
gave easy way to his strong pull, and the boat, with Marrion laughing
in the bows, drifted slowly out from the shore.
He stood looking at her, the useless rope in his hand. By the light of
the moon, now riding serene overhead (for the brief summer storm had
passed the zenith and now lay to the south, a dense bank of black
quivering every now and again with throbs of summer lightning), he
could see her tall and white, for her cloak had long since been flung
aside, and heart-whole admiration possessed him.
"Marmie," he cried, "hold up--or, by God, I'll swim after you. I want
to speak to you."
She took an oar, stopped her way by holding on to one of the submerged
seaweed-covered rocks of the boat-pier and waited.
"Why did you run away? Why wouldn't you stop?"
She gave him the truth squarely and fairly.
"Because I should have passed as your wife, and if I had chosen I
might----" She hesitated, and he relieved her by a low whistle.
"By Jove!" he said slowly, almost absently. "I didn't think of that,
but"--he hesitated, in his turn--"but I thought, Marmie, you said
you--you loved me!"
His voice lingered and lowered in altogether distracting fashion.
She turned hastily to the other oar, and let the blade drop into the
water with a splash.
"Aye," she said, "that's why! For see, you--you've got to be Lord
Drummuir!"
Her words silenced him. He watched her scull away, a dark shadow in
the darkling water. Then his voice rang out to her as it were from
very far off.
"Flash the light to me, Marmie, dear, when you get to the other side.
I'll wait till I see you're safe."