Broad sunlight showed through the chinks of the drawn curtains when
Fantine Le Grand awoke. She lay yawning for a minute or two, content
to be still drowsy. Then memory returned, and she was out of bed in a
second and at the window. The lawns lay dewy, a late blackbird was
tugging away at an inadvertent worm, and shrill on the morning air
rose the sound of Davie Sim's pipes playing "Hey! Johnnie Cope, are ye
waukin' yet?" as he came up from the keep to strut through the
corridors of the castle. It must be eight o'clock! And--what had
happened? How had she come to sleep so long? She passed swiftly, being
quick of thought, to the dressing-table and took up the bottle of
sleeping drops. It was half empty.
Almost before she had time to realise this, and what it might possibly
mean, a knock came to the door, and Marrion Paul, opening it, came
into the room with a can of hot water.
She had been there at the earliest possible moment to satisfy herself
that all was right, so she was not surprised to see Fantine Le Grand
on foot. The look on the latter's face, however, the bottle in her
hand, gave warning of what was to come, and it came instantly short
and sharp, for Fantine had plenty of wit.
"Why did you give me what you did?" she asked imperiously.
Marrion Paul set down the water-can and faced her.
"Because I wanted to prevent you from joining Captain Muir at the
Cross-keys," she replied quietly. It was waste of time, she felt, to
beat about the bush with this woman, the solid truth was her best
weapon.
It proved so for the moment. Fantine utterly taken aback retired into
personal injury.
"You might have killed me," she began, almost whimperingly.
"Maybe," interrupted Marrion, "but I had to risk it--an' it's no hurt
you----"
A sense of outrage came to her victim.
"Not hurt me, indeed! And why had you to risk it? Are you Captain
Muir's keeper? His mistress you are, of course; but if you think
you've succeeded you're very much mistaken. I shall join him by the
coach to-morrow instead of to-day. And you may thank your stars that,
as I don't want any fuss just now, you'll get scot free of your
attempt to murder me. Now go! I never want to see your face again.
Josephine will manage somehow, I've no doubt."
She pointed to the door, and Marrion, going down the wide stairs, felt
relieved that that, at least, was over. The interview also had given
her a clue as to what must be her next step. Mdlle. Le Grand had said
that fuss would be inconvenient; for that reason, therefore, a fuss
must be made. Hitherto she had hesitated between taking a further and
still more active part in stopping the intrigue, or leaving the matter
to Marmaduke's own good sense, which, removed from Fantine's personal
influence, might surely be trusted. He could not want to marry the
woman. It was the two thousand pounds he wanted. Marrion on her way to
the keep-house made up her mind to risk everything by an appeal to the
old lord; it would, at any rate, put a spoke in the woman's wheel for
a time, and prevent her getting away to Marmaduke at once; it would,
at any rate, make a fuss.
As a matter of fact, more fuss was facing Marrion than she had
bargained for, since the first thing she saw on entering the
keep-house was her step-grandmother seated at the table sipping a cup
of tea she had just made for herself.
It was an unpleasant surprise, as she had not been expected home so
soon, and Marrion bit her lip with vexation at the sight of her. After
laying elaborate plans to avoid even the sight of one she despised and
detested, it was bitter to find her established as mistress in the
house. So anger kept her silent and Mrs. Sim, whilom Penelope of the
castle, said no word either. She simply rose theatrically and
stretched a dramatic finger across the table. So standing she showed
like a wide extinguisher, the knob of which was formed by her head.
This was still small and, so far as the upper part of the face was
concerned, unmarred by fat, but obesity began on the double chin and
went on increasing from shoulder to waist, from waist to hip, till the
flounce of a wide petticoat completed the base of the triangle. Her
hair of bright orange-red was untouched by grey, and the china-blue of
her hard eyes startled you by the intensity of their colour in a face
otherwise somewhat tallowy.
"Ye hizzie!" she said at last, in a deep contralto voice. "I wonder ye
have the face to stan' there disgracin' the honest hearth o' an honest
man! Awa wi' you, ye baggage, afore yer faither comes to beat you frae
the door."
Marrion had stood with open mouth before this sudden onslaught; now
she recovered herself and said haughtily--
"I do not understand." In her heart of hearts, however, she told
herself that this woman knew of last night's happenings.
Penelope Sim gave a snort and sat down again to sipping her tea.
"Div' ye no understand?" she asked scornfully. "Then I'll tell ye. A
lassie that goes tae spend the night wi' a man in a strange hottle is
no ane to share an honest woman's home. An' so I'll tell yer faither.
Shame upon ye, Marrion Paul!"
"Perhaps you'll oblige me, Mrs. Sim, by holding your tongue," retorted
Marrion superbly. "I did not spend the night with any man, and if you
say I did, you lie!"
"My certy!" cried Penelope, her face flaming. "So I'm a liar, am I? I
tell you I saw you wi' my own eyes at the Cross-keys----"
"And what might you be doing there?" put in Marrion. "No good,
likely."
Mrs. Penelope's voice began to rise.
"I'm no goin' to bandy words wi' you, Marrion Paul, ye're no worth it.
But here comes your gran'faither; give your lip to him, if ye like. Ye
sall no give it to me, a decent, married woman!"
"Decent!" echoed Marrion scornfully, and would have gone on to heaven
knows what of indignant criticism had not the entry of her grandfather
tied her tongue for she was fond of him, with all his faults, and he
represented to her the only family life she had ever known.
So she stood defiant as Penelope of the castle, gloating over her own
newly acquired propriety, held forth on what she had seen from the
bar-parlour of the Cross-keys.
"Grandfather," she said at last, "you know me better than she does. Do
you think I would do such a thing?"
"Ask her," broke in the shrilled contralto voice, "ask her, gudeman,
if she was at the Cross-keys last night. I tell you she was, dressed
up fine like a lady--an' the things lyin' yet in her room, for I went
to see. Aye, ask her if she was there wi' a young spark--they tell't
me it was Captain Duke, but that I'll never believe----"
"You may believe what you like!" put in Marrion fiercely. "But I'll
tell you the truth, grandfather. I was at the Cross-keys last night,
and I did see Captain Duke, but it was no harm I was after."
"Hark to her!" shrilled Penelope. "She was there, and for no harm! Out
o' the house with her, Davie Sim, or your wedded wife will find her
way out hersel'."
Here Davie who, man-like, had looked from one to the other of the two
women, uncertain of approbation or reprobation, shook his head and
began mumblingly--
"I never thocht, Marrion, to praise God your poor mother is in her
grave, but if she'd lived to see this day----"
"Leave my mother alone, please grandfather," said Marrion, passion in
voice and manner. "If you choose to judge me by that cast-off
creature, do so! But there's no need to quarrel about it. You know I
would not sleep under the same roof with her----"
"Hark to her, hark to her, an' me as gude a wife as ever stepped. Are
ye goin' tae put up wi' that, Davie Sim?" whimpered Penelope.
Once more the master of the house looked as though he would speak, but
a wave of Marrion's hand stopped him.
"So I shall leave this evening, and if what I've done is a disgrace to
you, you have the remedy in your own hands--you can hold your tongues.
So that ends it!"
She made her way past them and up the stairs, feeling a trifle dazed.
This unlooked-for recognition complicated matters for herself; but did
not alter her determination to risk all in order to get Marmaduke out
of the hands of Fantine Le Grand.
So she packed up her things, leaving all the treasures of her
childhood and her mother's, unlocked in drawers and cupboards, and
sitting down on her bed by the window took her last look out over the
rugged coast she had watched so often by storm and shine, by night and
by day. And as she looked with lack-lustre, preoccupied eyes her
thoughts were busy, not with the past but with the new life that was
opening out before her; since, come what might, she realised that
never again would she be simple Marrion Paul, old Davie Sim's
granddaughter. To begin with, if she knew aught of Penelope,
reputation was gone. Women of that sort were pitiless, and, in
addition, her grandfather's wife desired nothing more than to
make Drummuir and all belonging to it an impossibility for her
step-granddaughter. Then she, Marrion, had definitely set herself the
task of defending Marmaduke, and heaven only knew how far that might
take her. For one thing, in view of Penelope's curiosity, she must
make sure that Marmaduke had not left anything incriminating behind
him at the Cross-keys. It would be so like him to write Captain the
Honourable Marmaduke Muir and Mrs. Muir in the visitor's book!
The idea made her smile tenderly, even while she took a mental note
that it must be seen to.
So, going down, while it was yet early, to order a handcart to
take her slight luggage to the coach office, she came upon a castle
stable-boy, who was a distant admirer of hers, riding to the
Cross-keys with a note.
"It's frae the dancin' woman," said the lad, with a broad grin, "an'
she guve me a golden soverin' to take it quick; an' I've to leave
anither at the Crow."
"I can deliver that one," said Marrion cheerfully, "for I'm goin' yon
way."
So, note in hand, she made her way to the Crow, and by a dexterous
question or two elicited the fact that, as on the previous night, a
carriage was ordered to be in waiting at half-past nine. If all went
well, therefore, she might hope to avail herself of it. She did not,
however, anticipate exactly what she meant to do--her plans were
fluid, so much depending on the success of her next step. It was an
overwhelmingly bold one, and she shivered visibly as she sat waiting
for an answer to her request to be allowed an interview with his
lordship.
"I'm right sure his lordship wad see me," she pleaded with Dewar, the
valet, who in common with all the men-servants at the castle, had an
approving eye on her good looks, "did he ken what I cam' about;
and"--she added, with a laugh that was a challenge--"I'm no sae
ill-looking but he might be blythe to see me forbye business."
"An' that's God's truth, my dear," replied Dewar gallantly, "sae I'll
see what I can do."
Fortune favoured him, for Fantine Le Grand being in an evil, reckless
temper had just sent to say she had a headache and could not come to
amuse his lordship, who, up and dressed to receive her as usual, was
cursing and swearing at womankind in the abstract, and therefore, not
unwilling to have a concrete specimen on which to vent his ill-humour.
Marrion Paul, consequently, found herself without delay facing the
heavy figure in the big padded chair. One foot swathed in flannels lay
on a leg-rest, and the large hand that clasped the lion-head knobs of
the armchair showed swollen and disfigured by gout; still there was
something dignified, almost regal, in the pose of the man; while his
face--Marrion, despite her thumping heart, as she looked above the
treble chin to the open forehead, felt that here, when all was said
and done, was kinship with Marmaduke.
And she for her part pleased the old man's eye also. She had not
dressed herself for the occasion, but stood in her usual striped
petticoat and bed-gown with a green tartan shoulder shawl of the Muir
tartan and a snood of tartan ribbon to match in the red bronze coils
of hair.
"So you're Marrion Paul?" he said, his keen clear blue eyes taking in
every point of her person. "I haven't seen you to speak to since you
were so high. You're a devilish good-looking girl. Come and give me a
kiss, my lass."
To his surprise, amusement, and approval she stepped forward instantly
and obeyed. The touch of her cool lips on his seemed to stagger him.
"Don't object to kisses--hey?" he said, as she remained standing close
beside him.
"Why should I, Drummuir," she replied quietly, "when you've kenned me
since I was a baby in arms."
He burst into one of his guffaws of rough laughter.
"Hey? What? One for the old reprobate! Sit down, my dear, and tell me
what you want."
"It's about Mr. Marmaduke, sir," she began, her voice shaking a
little.
"Hey? What? Has that young devil been--no, I beg your pardon, my dear,
you're not that sort. Trust a man who's kicked over the traces a bit
to know an honest horse when he sees one. You take my word for it; the
best judge of a good woman is a bad man. Well, what of Duke?"
The mere abbreviation of the name was encouraging. She felt that to
attempt a bargain, even to beg for patience, would be a mistake. She
simply took her courage in both hands and told him all she knew. He
sat, his unwieldy body impassive as some carven image, one strong
emotion after another sweeping over the mobile face that held so much
laughter in every line that Time had graven on it. Only once or twice
he interrupted her when, fearing she was too lengthy, she began to cut
out details. Then his quick "Let's have it all; don't you know, you're
as good as a play. Beat the immortal wizard all to bits! Don't
skip"--brought her back to the accessories of her tale. When she had
finished he sat and looked at her for a second.
"And you say Duke let you go as you came? Well, he was a d----d young
fool; that's all I've got to say! I wouldn't in his place. Even
now--my God, what a Lady Drummuir you'd make, if it wasn't for the
curse of class! I'll turn Socialist before I die." He paused, and his
blue eyes narrowed. "Now, why have you come and told me all this?"
She had her answer ready, and all fear of the old man having vanished
she gave him the truth boldly.
"Because I want payment. I've put it into your power to stop Mdlle.
Fantine----"
His whole face changed in a second, an expression of sheer devilish
anger took possession of it.
"You leave that alone!" he thundered. "I can settle that business for
myself."
It was the first mistake she had made, and she became more wary.
"I want payment," she went on, "because I've risked everything
for--for Duke. My father's turned me out of his house and
Penelope----"
"Damn Penelope!" broke in his lordship complacently. "Having no virtue
of her own, she's deuced careful about other people's. And so Duke
really contemplated marrying Fantine in order to make two thousand
pounds by dancing. Confound the boy! He can dance, I'll allow; but it
was a big price to pay. And the idea of my son dancing for money! He
must have been hard put to it, even to entertain the idea." He bent
those blue eyes of his suddenly on her. "And so you want me to give
Duke the two thousand pounds myself, do you? Of course you do! Trust a
woman who is in love asking for the moon." He paused a moment and gave
a little laugh. "Heaps of women have asked me to be a saint, my dear,
but I never could compass virtue. However, you've given me as good a
morning's entertainment as ever I had in my life; and what's more
you've given me an opportunity of as fine an afternoon's amusement."
Here he chuckled wickedly, then added, "Shall I give you the cheque or
send it direct?"
She felt staggered at his indifference. She had expected to brave his
anger and have perchance to threaten him with what she knew of
Fantine's plans for the evening; but, here, with scarce an argument,
she found herself successful. In truth she had not gauged accurately
the phenomenal malice as well as the almost incredible good nature of
the man.
"You must send it, my lord," she said swiftly. "There is no need to
say anything about all this."
He frowned in a second.
"Do you mean to dictate to me, my good girl?" he asked fiercely.
"You'd better leave the business in my hands. I'll settle it to my own
satisfaction. Come back at six o'clock and you shall be made
acquainted with my decision."
He rang the hand-bell on the table beside him and when Dewar entered,
said carelessly:
"Show the young woman out; and, Dewar, tell Penelope to come and
see me at two o'clock. And, Dewar, send a message to the Manse and
tell that jackanapes of a parson Bryce that I want to confess my
sins or something of that sort. Tell him I'm ill--dying, if you
like--anything--and I want him as soon as he can come. Do you
understand?"
"Yes, my lord," replied Dewar discreetly, though he was considerably
mystified; but everyone in the castle knew there was but one way of
receiving Lord Drummuir's orders, acquiescence and obedience.