Marrion Paul herself failed to answer that question. When she had
returned at six o'clock to the castle--having spent the intervening
time down by the seashore in order to avoid Penelope--she had been
completely taken aback by the sudden development of affairs, wondering
if she were in any way responsible for what had happened.
But a single look at the old lord's face, as he was wheeled in to take
his place at the marriage ceremony, made her realise that the unwieldy
body, instinct with malice and controlled by autocratic unassailable
will, held every inmate of Drummuir Castle, herself included, as
puppets in the hollow of its gouty hand.
A sudden unreasoning desire to get away from that influence, an
extreme distaste at the part she had played in the serio-comic tragedy
filled her. She envied the Reverend Patrick Bryce his independence,
and it was with real relief that, according to her plan, she found
herself once more rumbling to the Cross-keys in the chaise from the
Crow.
This should be her last departure from the conventional. Now that
Duke's safety from the dancing woman's wiles had been secured, she had
time to blame for his supineness; and he, of course, when he heard of
the marriage, was not likely to forgive her. Thus they were quits!
So be it. She could return to her dressmaking and never see him again.
He had his majority, and, born soldier as he was, had his chance.
Not knowing, for certain, under what name Fantine Le Grand had
engaged her room for the night, she was wary with the landlady of the
Cross-keys and felt relieved when she was shown into a less
pretentious room than the one she had been in the night before. Her
vigil--and she knew it would be a long one ere the house was quiet
enough to allow of her slipping down to the office to see if Marmaduke
had written anything in the visitors' book--would have been harder in
surroundings so full of keen memory. What a fool she had been! Why had
she been so frank with him? The hot blood mounted to her very temples
at the thought of it even while she felt angry with herself that it
should be so. After all, she was not quite as the other douce country
folk; there was something in her blood that was different; something
that rebelled against the tyranny of that bloated old man, sitting
like a spider in his web, imposing his wicked will upon all by sheer
force of character.
Yet he had behaved well to her, and he was terribly, horribly like
Duke.
So she sat raging, her head aching, till it was time to do the last
bit of trickery, as it seemed to her now. Yet it must be done; for if
Marmaduke had been indiscreet, Penelope, in her pryings, which were
certain, would be sure to find it out. It was not, however, till
between two and three--that time when even the ostlers at an inn
sleep--that it was safe for her to steal downstairs to the visitors'
book. Even so, Boots lay snoring on a sofa in the office. But her task
did not take long. There, as she had foreseen, was Marmaduke's
unmistakable writing in the words "Captain the Honourable and Mrs.
Marmaduke Muir." Below, as if as witnesses, two commercial travellers
had written their name and address. She had brought a sharp penknife
with her, so, in less than a minute, the page was removed, the
corresponding one in the quire pulled out, and the book closed again
without trace of any removal. She gave a sigh of relief when she
reached her bedroom again, and, folding up the written sheet, placed
it in her purse. Then, after burning the other, she lay down and tried
to sleep. But unsuccessfully, though she felt outwearied to an
altogether unusual degree. The arrival of the early coach was a
relief. She took her seat in it, hoping the fresh air would drive away
her _malaise_; but it did not.
"You're no feelin' just the thing, miss," said a sympathetic bagman as
he got out to stretch his legs at a change of horses. "Try just a wee
sup of whisky; its awful inspirin'."
Marrion, smiling, shook her head. By this time she was beginning to
wonder if, despite her usual hardiness, she had got a chill the night
before.
It was past eight in the evening ere Edinburgh was reached, and,
anxious to be housed as soon as possible, she left her box at the
coach office and made her way giddily to her old lodgings where the
landlady had agreed to keep her belongings until her return from her
holiday. They were up a common stair that echoed and re-echoed to the
slam of the street door and her own wavering steps. The rooms were
high up and more than once Marrion had to pause for breath, and when
at last she rang she had to lean against the door, to recover herself.
There was no answer. She rang again and waited--waited an interminable
time, until someone coming down the common stair said briefly--
"Ye're wastin' yer time, mum. Mistress McGillivray's deid."
"Dead!" she echoed feebly.
"Aye, last week, and the polis hae lockit up the place till the heirs
be known," replied the man, as he passed on, rousing the echoes again.
Marrion followed him, realising that she must seek another lodging.
Easy in a way, yet difficult, since in that quarter of the old town
many of the houses were not over-respectable. Still it was only for a
night, and bed she must have as soon as possible. So she closed with
an exorbitant offer in cash of a fairly clean attic made by a
loose-lipped lady who smelt rather of whisky, and five minutes later,
having locked herself in, threw herself, still half-dressed, on the
truckle bed.
There the landlady next morning, having placidly unlocked the
door with a master key, found her, flushed, breathless and
delirious--briefly, down with a sharp attack of pneumonia. Infirmaries
and district nurses being not as yet, Mother Gilchrist, as her
_clientele_ called her, coolly took possession of her lodger's purse,
sent for an apothecary doctor from round the corner, and thereinafter
treated the patient with a certain amount of rough kindness, sending
some of her other lodgers, girls with haggard faces and loose hair, to
sit with her, and going up occasionally with water-gruel and still
more watery beef-tea. But Marrion Paul was strong, and so, after a
fortnight's struggle in the valley, she came out of it wan and
emaciated, and lay looking at a bit of torn paper on the wall, that
all through her fever dreams had flapped like a sail in a boat in
which she and Duke were drifting out to sea, and wondering how much of
what she remembered was true and how much dreams.
"I must get up," she said suddenly, when Mother Gilchrist appeared in
company with water-gruel. "And will you give me my purse, please? I
put it under my pillow, I think, but it isn't there."
Mother Gilchrist laughed a loose-lipped laugh and produced the purse
from her pocket.
"Yon's the purse, my dearie; but there's naethin' in it the now. What
wi' rent an' doctors an' physic, forby nursin', what else is to be
expectit?"
Marmie stared aghast.
"But there was nigh ten pun' in till't," she protested.
"It's just awfie expensive bein' ill," replied Mother Gilchrist
calmly. "Ye can hae the reckonin' later on. Meanwhile, tak yer
nourishment like a good lammie."
"What's ten pun' to you one way or another," continued the exemplar of
youth, when Marmie, up for the first time, returned to the charge.
"You've gotten a paper in yon purse that's worth a guid deal tae
you, my lass, if it's written in the man's own write--an' if ye can
prove----"
Marrion interrupted her in an angry flash.
"You're making a mistake. It has nothing to do wi' me. An' I wouldn't
prove if I could."
She paused, feeling she was contradicting herself.
"Lord sakes," retorted Mother Gilchrist, "ye needna loup down a body's
throat! An', anyhow, a lassie wi' such hair as you've gotten needna
look for ten pounds."
Marrion, still weakened body and soul by her illness, thought almost
regretfully of her hairdresser.
"Aye," she assented languidly, "they'd give me that for it; but I
should feel bad if it were cut off, shouldn't I?"
Mother Gilchrist burst into a cackling laugh.
"There's more ways, my lammie, o' makin' money by hair than by
shearin' it off like a sheep's fleece," she said meaningly.
But the meaning did not come home to Marmie until one of the rather
bedraggled girls in cheap finery let her into the secret of the house.
They paid Mother Gilchrist a certain sum for board and lodging, and on
the whole she was kind to them. Anyhow, they had to lump it, as most
of them were in debt to her. However, there was always the chance of a
stroke of luck, especially when one was new to the business and had
such hair as Marrion had.
That same afternoon Marrion managed to creep round to the coach
office. She intended to get her box and pawn some of her things--even
the little brilliant brooch of her father's--so as to keep her in
decent lodgings till she could find employment in some dressmaking
concern. She would not go back to her old employers, for her address
there was known and she wanted to lose herself; for a while at any
rate.
But Fate was against her. Failing a claimant the box had been sent
back whence it came, as the only address to be found on it was
Drummuir Castle, Drum. Nor was her call at her old landlady's more
successful. The flat was still locked up; so she came back utterly
wearied and disheartened, to be met by a demand for more money from
Mother Gilchrist, who looked at her as one looks at a rat caught in a
trap. She had miscalculated with Marrion, however; and in an instant
the latter made up her mind. She must get out of the present quagmire
without delay. Yet she did not wish to make herself known to the
friends she had in Edinburgh, because during the past fortnight her
desire to lose herself--to get away once and for all from Drummuir and
all that Drummuir entailed--aye, even Duke---had been strengthening.
But she could sell her hair. Mother Gilchrist, arguing from other
girls, was calculating she would not; but she would find she was
mistaken. She might think it safe enough to let a girl without a penny
in her pocket go out alone, but she would find herself wrong.
That night Marrion slept the sleep of the just, and it was one
o'clock--for the gun had just fired from the castle--next day when,
with a curiously light heart, she walked out of the most fashionable
hairdresser's shop in Prince's Street. She had eschewed her old
admirer's for obvious reasons, but she had found no difficulty in her
bargain; and if her heart was light, her purse was heavy. She was
free, at any rate, of Mother Gilchrist and her kind; she was free also
of any necessity for recalling the past. She would make her own future
in life.
As she passed through the shop heavily veiled, for she would run no
risk of recognition, a group of fashionably dressed young men were
daffing over _pommade hongroise_ with an attractive young person
behind the counter, but they took no notice of the somewhat shabbily
dressed figure which passed out and went westward. With money in her
pocket Marrion's plans began to formulate rapidly. She would not stop
in Edinburgh; she would go to some place where the fear of recognition
would not constantly be with her. So she would go--whither?
She pondered the question idly, heedless of Fate behind her in the
shape of one of those fashionably dressed young men, who, two minutes
after Marrion had passed through the shop, had burst out after her,
leaving his companions still looking with admiration at a great pile
of red-brown hair which the proprietor of the shop, hugely delighted
with his bargain, had brought in for these privileged customers to
see.
So she had not long for freedom. Ere she had reached Frederick Street
a detaining hand was on her arm and a joyous voice in her ears--
"Marmie! I knew it must be you! I have been looking for you
everywhere."
"Duke," she said feebly as she looked round. And as she did so, the
distant Calton Hill blocking the blue slopes of Arthur's Seat, the
wonderful blending of town and country which makes Edinburgh seem an
epitome of human life, was lost to her eyes; she only saw his face,
_insouciant_, smiling, yet full of affection. The douce commonsensical
world in which she had resolved to live was gone; she was among the
stars again, in a different existence, herself a different being. Yet
even as she realised this she realised that she was alone. He had not
found his wings to follow her.
Yet he was prompt; without pause he hailed a passing cab, put her into
it unresisting, gave the order Pentland Hotel, and as he seated
himself beside her reached out a hand with glad delight in the clasp
of its warm fingers to find her own.
"Where are we going, Duke?" she asked, with a sort of sob in her
effort to keep herself to normal.
"To have lunch, my dear!" he replied joyously. "You look as if you
wanted it. And we haven't much time to spare, for the train starts for
Glasgow at 2.30 and we must go by it, for my leave is up and I have to
get back to Ayr by to-morrow. I'm in command of the detachment there."
The certitude of his words roused instant resentment.
"I must ask you to excuse me," she said peremptorily. "Will you stop
the cab, Captain Muir?"
"But, my dear," he replied, quite pathetically, "I must speak to you
somehow, and this is my only chance. Do come, Marmie, at any rate, to
lunch."
The simplicity of his plea disarmed her again, and the hotel being
reached at that moment she allowed him to take her on his arm up
the steps after the fashion of the day. But once in the private
sitting-room, which, with lunch for two as quick as possible, he had
commanded in a lordly voice as he entered, his manner changed again.
"Take off that veil and bonnet, will you, please," he said abruptly.
"I want to see what that brute has dared to do."
Marrion looked at him startled.
"Oh, yes," he continued, "I know! That's how I found you. When the man
brought in that pile of hair to show those young cubs--faugh! it makes
me sick to think of them fingering it--I knew it must be yours; no one
else has hair like it. Marmie! Marmie! why did you let him do it--the
grovelling, money-grubbing beast!"
Once again his anger appeased her, and she replied: "I wanted the
money."
He groaned.
"And you got me the two thousand pounds! Oh! yes, the old man--curse
him!--told me all about it, and how that harridan Penelope---- But
never mind that now, though, you see, we have plenty to talk about.
When----"
She had removed her bonnet and now stood a trifle defiant.
"It will grow again!"
But he had passed from his vexation.
"Why, Marmie, surely you've been ill? You are so thin, so pale,
child--what has been the matter?" he exclaimed, all his innate
kindness coming uppermost. "Here, sit down; you look as if you were
going to faint"--he rang the bell violently. "I don't believe you've
had anything to eat! Here! Tell the housekeeper to send up a cup of
soup--beef-tea, if she has got it--at once, and--and some toast," he
called out loudly, after the retreating waiter. Then he came to stand
by Marrion and say in an almost tragic voice, "I owe you a lot,
Marrion Paul, and I'm going to pay it back, by gad! I am!"
She tried to laugh and failed, feeling she would cry if she spoke. So
she took her soup when it came and afterwards, as he eat his lunch,
they talked and argued.
"Now look here, my dear," he said at last in his old, rather
flamboyant, most masterful manner, "you tell me you don't want to stop
in Edinburgh, and you tell me you have plenty of money in your purse.
But one thing you haven't got at present--strength to work. I can see
you haven't, and you have done an immense amount for me, and--well,
I'm dashed if I am going to leave you as you are to face things alone.
So that settles it. I must get back to Glasgow now. You come with me
so far. I promise you, Marmie, I will not--well, annoy you in any
way. See a doctor, and--and do as you like. Only I swear to you, my
dear, if you won't be reasonable I'll break my leave and stop here,
and--and----"
His boyish face broke into mischief; he came towards her with hands
outstretched, frank, absolutely devoid of all save pure affection.
In a way, it cut her to the heart as she acquiesced.
The ride to Glasgow, first-class, with all the alacrity of guards and
porters consequent on Marmaduke's lordly ways and tips, was rather an
agreeable novelty; so also was the obsequiousness of the hotel where
he left her, saying he would be round to see her ere he started for
Ayr next morning.
Before he came, however, a rather well-known doctor arrived somewhat
to her annoyance, the more so because his verdict was startling. A
sharp attack of pneumonia, which mercifully had not killed her, had
left both lungs enfeebled. At least six weeks' complete rest, care,
and good food, and, if possible, sea air would be necessary to make
them normal; but given these desiderata perfect recovery was assured.
Six weeks! Marrion, despite her full purse, was aghast, and Marmaduke,
coming in with his usual breezy vitality, found her depressed. He was
in uniform, and it was the first time she had seen him so, with all
the accessories, as it were, of his young manhood about him, from the
glitter of his plaid brooch to the pipe-clay on his white gaiters, for
Andrew Fraser would have scorned to have aught astray in his master's
kit.
"I have had rather bad news," she began dolefully; but he checked her
with a comprehending smile.
"I know," he replied, "I was waiting for the pill-doc's verdict
downstairs. But it's perfectly easy, my dear. The sea is simply
splendid at Ayr. I'm off there in quarter of an hour; but I'm going to
leave Andrew Fraser here to bring you down later on. If I can't find
you a suitable lodging before you come you can get one for yourself
next day. And if you do run short of money, you can always come to me,
can't you?"
She shook her head, but the tears were in her eyes.