CHAPTER XIII

Andrew Fraser stood at attention watching a couple of figures, a man

and a woman, who for the last hour had been dredging a sea-pool with a

landing net as if they were boy and girl. He had watched them at it

often in the last six weeks, and, honest, straight-forward fellow as

he was, had wondered how they managed to treat each other with such

perfect unconsciousness that they were man and woman. So far as his

master was concerned, that might be, for Andrew was shrewd enough to

see the difference between friendship and passion; but, if anyone was

ever heart-wholly in love, Marrion Paul was that person. You could see

it in her face; yet it never seemed to influence her actions. The

perception of this made Andrew vaguely afraid of her; it put a sort of

damper on his own passion for her, since such self-control was not

natural; it was barely human.

Hour after hour, the simple soul would tell himself, those two would

play themselves like a couple of weans. Three or four times a week the

major would, after the morning parades were over, drive out in his

tilbury--Andrew perched in the tiny back seat--and spend his afternoon

at the little inn which was also the ferry-house over the Doon river

where Marrion lodged. Sometimes the two would go out sailing together,

but more often they amused themselves on the shore, as they were doing

now, dredging for sea things or catching miller's thumbs. It was

childish, but--Andrew's lean, anxious face puckered with confused

thought as he turned to a sound which he knew would bring with it a

more commonsensical outlook on the situation than he, with his

passionate love for the woman concerned, his passionate affection for

the man, could bring to bear on it. It was the click of busy knitting

needles, and they belonged to the landlady of the "Plough." She was a

thoroughly good, kindly, healthy woman, whose views were strictly

conventional on all subjects appertaining to the relations between

the sexes; and as these in those days--and even now, for the most

part--were that sex was the only possible tie between two spirits if

they happened to be living for the time being, one in a male body, the

other in a female--they were not likely to approve of the dredgers of

sea-treasures.

"When are yon two gaun to be marriet?" she asked firmly. She was a

just woman, and having seen no signs of wrong-doing was willing to

believe the best.

Andrew hesitated.

"I'm thinkin'," he replied slowly, "that they are no considering

marriage."

"Then they aught tae think shame tae themsels," retorted the landlandy

severely. "Her week's up the morrow's morn, an' I'll just tell her she

canna stop in my house. It's just clean redeeklus."

Andrew flushed up.

"There's no need for you to say aught, ma'am," he protested eagerly.

"She's leavin', anyhow. Ye ken she only came for her health and that's

re-established. It would only hurt the lassie--and--and do harm,

mayhap."

The landlady looked at him and sniffed.

"The lassie, as you ca' her--will take no hairm from what I sall say

to her, an' she'd be the better to give up moithering about wi'

majors, and tak' up wi' a gude, God-fearin' man like yersel'."

And with that she carried the click of her knitting-pins back into the

inn, leaving Andrew Fraser battling with his own heart. Aye, surely,

surely, it would be better, more seemly, more discreet.

But there they were coming up from the beach like happy children.

"Then I'll bring a boat along at one to-morrow," said the major, as he

climbed into the tilbury. "I can't get away before, and we'll try and

get to the Craig. It's eighteen miles south, so if this north-west

wind holds good we shall have plenty of time, shan't we?"

"Plenty of time!" echoed Marrion happily.

But she had been happy every day of those six weeks, and even now,

though the hair money was running short, and she knew she must be up

and doing in a few days, she would not, could not, think of the

future. Sufficient to the day was the evil and the good thereof.

Half an hour after Marmaduke's departure, however, she came out of the

inn-parlour with a heightened colour. It had been no use attempting to

explain the position to the landlady, it was foolish to mind what she

had said; the more so as, automatically, that position must end in a

day or two; still it was disturbing!

In this early September the twilights were long and the sky was still

golden high up to the zenith. She threw a shawl over her head and,

taking a boat, sculled herself across the ferry for a calming walk

down the coast-line.

"The banks and braes of bonny Doon!"

The song kept echoing in her head. How pinchbeck it all was, that love

of which men sung--

"But my false lover stole the rose,

But, ah, he left the thorn wi' me!"

That was a man's view of it. He came, he saw, he conquered. Then he

could ride away leaving a thorn behind him. But why? She laughed aloud

as she thought of her own passionate love for Duke, a love nothing

could touch, a love that was unsoilable, unassailable, untouchable!

It was dark ere she returned and then someone tall and soldierly rose

out of the shadows of the little sitting-room of the inn which she

used as her own. For an instant her heart leapt. Then she saw it was

Andrew Fraser.

"There's nothing wrong, is there?" she asked hastily.

"I'm no that sure," he replied unsteadily, and then his outstretched

hands found hers, warm almost compelling in their fierce yet tender

clasp.

"Marrion, Marrion, my dear," he said hoarsely, "ye're bringing wae

into yure life! Oh, dinna draw away frae me, I'm not come to tell ye I

love you; _that's_ sure! You know that, Marrion, if you know anything.

But listen! You cou'dna marry me. That's sure, too; d'ye think I can't

feel that, too, Marrion? Right through to the very cauld core o' my

heart, an' it's cauld, Marrion--it's deathly cauld!" He paused, and

the girl in his passionate hold shivered.

"It makes me cauld, too, Andry," she half-sobbed, "deathly cauld.

You're meybe worth more than he is, but--but I canna help myself."

Andrew's voice grew firmer.

"An' I canna help it either, my dear. But if ye canna marry me, why

sou'd you not marry him?"

She shook her head. "I willna tie him down," she interrupted hoarsely.

"I willna do him harm!"

"It's no harm!" he urged. "See you, lassie; would ye rather hae a Lord

Drummuir wi' a wife like yersel', or a Lord Drummuir like to the auld

man at the Castle now? I'm no sayin', mind you, that he wad be just as

his father, but--well, I hae lived wi' the major these eight years,

and I ken fine he needs a guide--why, my dear, since ye cam here, he's

away to his bed like a lad to sleep like a child; an' there's a

play-actin' woman at the theaytre in Glasgi' that had laid hands on

him and thocht she'd got him; but he's just escapit the snare like a

bird from a fowler. Sae ye might do good, not harm." There was a

pause.

"Ye mean well, Andry," she said softly, "but--but he hasn't really

asked me to--to marry him."

Andrew turned aside wearily.

"Has he no?" he replied. "Weel, that may be your fault, lassie; ye can

keep a man at arm's length wi' a smilin' face, as I know tae my cost."

A sudden realisation of the man's self-sacrificing devotion came to

her.

"An' ye've come to tell me this," she almost whispered, "to tell me to

your cost! Oh, Andry, Andry, yere love is greater than mine!"

A sort of half sob came from the darkness.

"God bless ye for that, Marrion--God bless ye for that, my dear!"

The scalding tears were in her eyes as she raised them from her hiding

hands to look for him; but he had gone. The shadows were empty.

The morning rose still and serene save for the puffing of the westerly

wind that ruffled the blue sea with tiny white-crested waves. The

Ayrshire coast stretching south lay green and yellow with ripe corn in

little bays and promontories--far away like a faint cloud the cliffs

of Ailsa Craig showed almost translucent.

An ideal day indeed for a sail!

Marrion, her mind still disturbed by her landlady's half-threatening

remonstrances and by Andrew's pathetic appeal to the same conventional

outlook, turned with relief to the prospect of her afternoon's

holiday; probably the last one she would have, since she had made up

her mind to leave for work next day.

It was a good deal past one when Marmaduke, in rather an evil temper,

ran the pleasure-boat into the little pier where she was ready

waiting. He looked less buoyant than usual and apologised for being

late. All the fishing fleet were out, he said, and he had waited in

vain to get a man.

"Not that that matters!" he added, recovering himself, as he helped

her in. "You are as good as a man any day, Marmie."

And yet, when, after a three hours' sail before the wind, they

reached the Craig, and, mooring the boat, climbed to the westering

cliffs beneath which the waves set a frill of white lace, he fairly

startled her by saying suddenly:

"Marmie, I've made up my mind; I am going to marry you. I've thought

over everything from start to finish, and I'm certain it is the best

thing for both of us. Now, my dear girl, let me have my say for once;

you shall have yours by-and-by. I'm not going to talk of what you did

for me with my father. I'm not sure yet, you see, whether I am vexed

or grateful. A man doesn't like to be exactly--well--herded; but you

did it; and that intolerable vixen Penelope--but I won't talk about

her either. Then there's the hair business," he eyed her ruefully,

though in truth, now that the ends began to curl, the shearing was no

such dis-sight, "that also was my fault; and now"--he paused, and a

red flush of anger rose to his brow--"the goody-goodies in Ayr

apparently won't let you alone, and one of the youngsters this morning

tried to cut a joke; but I won't talk of that either. The long and

short of it is, Marmie, that you and I have got to get married.

And"--his voice changed to almost affection--"you know, dear, what you

stand for with me--for everything that I know to be really worth

having--everything that--well--I ought to be and am not. For it's the

old story, Marmie, I'm Tristram Shandy and you are the Shorter

Catechism, so--so come and help me, won't you?"

With his voice in her ears she sat for a moment looking out westwards.

A low bank of cloud had obscured the horizon, the sun just thinking of

sinking behind it shone with unearthly brilliance over the sea, over

him, over herself. Then she disengaged her hand from his gently, and,

rising, stood on the extreme verge of the cliff, looking down into the

dazzling, shifting green of the waves. Would it, after all, be so

great a plunge downwards? She had often imagined the choice coming to

her. Suddenly she spoke:

"There is no need for--for Tristram Shandy to be--to be bound up with

the Shorter Catechism, is there? The two could help each other without

the binding, couldn't they? And then"--her voice had the break of

half-tears, half-laughter in it--"you see Tristram Shandy would be

free--free to marry." She had been so intent on her own words, her

eyes looking out far beyond that dark horizon that she had not

realised he had risen to stand beside her; but now his arm about

her waist, his face bent caressingly to hers, quite overset her

self-control, she turned with a sob and buried her face on his breast.

"Oh, Duke, Duke!" she cried. "I mustn't, I daren't harm you!"

He held her to him and kissed her again and again.

"You won't harm me," he said exultantly. "Of course I shan't be able

to noise our marriage abroad just now, so you will have plenty of time

to prepare for your future position."

All the glamour, all the glitter seemed gone from the world; she drew

herself away from him and smiled at him tenderly, feeling glad that he

had failed apparently to realise the magnitude of her offer.

"You must give me time to think, Duke," she said.

He looked a little offended.

"Oh, take it, by all means; only if you won't marry me we must give up

being friends, for I'm not such a cad as to let a girl like you lose

her character over me--but I expect I shall go to the devil, all the

same."

They were very silent when they set sail once more. They had intended

to tack along the coast to a village where Andrew had been told to

await them with the tilbury; but after one or two attempts to make way

against a momentarily increasing wind, Marmaduke, with a rapid glance

at that arc of black cloud which had by now overcast the zenith,

remarked briefly:--

"We are in for it, I fear, and had better run for Girvan. Wait till I

am ready, Marmie, then take her round sharp."

Even as he spoke the gust of a coming squall struck them, the boat

heeled over, and but for skill both at tiller and sheet, might have

overset.

"It's a mercy you can steer," he said, a minute or two later, as by a

deft giving way the boat over-rode a following seventh wave; "but if

you keep your head there's no harm done."

So they flew before the rapidly rising gale, which, as it rose,

shifted from north-west to nor'-nor'-by-west and threatened to drive

them down the coast.

"We shall have to tack to make Girvan," he said sharply, "and it's

best to do it before the full fury of the storm touches us. It looks

ugly out there."

Marmie nodded.

"I'll take my time from you," she replied, "but don't hurry; we shall

get into a slacker bit in a minute or two."

"Now!" came his voice.

The helm went round with all her young strength, but the boat hung for

a second, a following wave took her broadside on, there was a crash,

and Marmaduke was overboard. For one dreadful second Marrion's heart

stood still; the next she realised he had still the sheet-rope in his

hand, and, bringing the boat up sideways to him, he had his hand on

the gunwale and was clambering in.

"That was a narrow shave," he said, with a brilliant smile. "Now,

Marmie, as the yard has gone, there's nothing for it but let the sail

fill as it can or can't. It will steady us, anyhow. So I'll tie the

sheet and take the tiller. You'd better sit at my feet--see, here's my

coat--rubbish, put it on, I tell you! I don't think we shall make

Girvan, but I--I think I can run her ashore further down. If not----"

He stooped and kissed her.

That was all; but whether the next hour was a nightmare or a heavenly

dream Marrion Paul in after years never could decide. The great waves

rushing past the little boat, the half-dismasted sail bellying out

over the uplifted bows, scarce seen in the gathering darkness, their

figures in the stern, close--ah! so close together, she resting

against his knees, with upturned face on his, one arm round his waist,

the other, round his feet sheltering him as best she could with the

coat he had insisted on her taking. And he? He seemed to her as the

archangel Michael might have seemed, as he sat courageous, alert,

bending down once or twice, after a stiffer struggle, to touch her

hair with his lips, and almost laugh his confidence.

"Getting along nicely, Marmie. We may have to swim for it--but it has

got to be done!"

At last there came a roar ahead of breakers on a beach.

"It's sand, I think, so off with your boots and everything else you

can!" he called above the roar. "No, don't--ah, thank you, now I can

kick them off! Be ready, child, and hold on to me. We sink or swim

together!"

So she stood beside him for a minute or two, her skirts thrown aside,

her bare arms ready for a forward drive. Then came a faint grating, a

shock as the boat, heeled round by his strong arm, struck broadside on

on the sand and pitched them forward nearer the land into the

breakers. There was a terrific back draw, and Marrion felt as if her

arms would be torn out of the sockets; but Marmaduke's grip upon her

was as iron; then he was on his feet, then, with a cry--

"Run--run for all you're worth!" He half-dragged her beyond the whole

awful onslaught of the sea. Another wild struggle, another forward

run, and they were safe on the sandy shore, with low moorland around

them. Then for the first time he began, manlike, to fuss over

discomfort.

"You must get out of this as soon as may be," he exclaimed, as they

stood in the full blast of the biting wind. "I see a light over

yonder. Let's run for it, it will keep you warm."

He held out his hand and together they ran, the bruised leaves of the

bog myrtle as they sped over the moor sending their clean aromatic

odour into the night air.

"Better than last time," he said, with a laugh. "By Jove, I did get

deep into the bog that time! It's better in couples."

So, once again those two, caught by the glamour of pure life, raced on

almost forgetful of past danger and present discomfort.

The light proved to be from a shepherd's hut, where they found warmth

and shelter, a sup of porridge, and some milk. It was four good miles

to Girvan by a bad road, and that made a retreat thither impossible in

the teeth of such a furious gale as was now raging; so the old

shepherd, after providing Marrion with a petticoat of his dead wife's

and a plaid of his own, proposed to retreat to an outhouse and leave

the cottage to his uninvited guests. Marmaduke, however, negatived the

proposal. His wife, he said, would be the better of a good sleep,

while he must be off at daybreak to Girvan in order to get a

conveyance; so she could lie down in the bed-place and he and the

shepherd could just snoozle by the fire. Which they did.

Marrion, wide awake at first, her nerves all athrill, listened to

their even voices for a time, then watched them asleep in their

chairs, the firelight on their placid faces, and finally fell asleep

herself, to wake with bright sunlight streaming into the little

cottage.

A scribbled note in pencil awaited her from Marmaduke. He might be

away some time; she was not to expect him till she saw him.

It was early afternoon when he did return in an open chaise and four

with postillions.

"The road is very bad," he explained airily, "and I've brought you

some clothes. You'd better go and put them on, as we ought to start at

once."

"You ought not----" she began hastily at her first glance at the

milliner's box. "You really----"

"My dear girl," he replied, with a charming smile, "mayn't I see you

dressed for once as you ought to be dressed!"

There was no alternative with the postillions waiting, and as she put

on the things he had brought she was forced into admitting he had good

taste.

"You do look nice!" he cried, joyous as a child, as he handed her into

the chaise.

The next instant they were off, the grey horses with their red-coated

postillions lending quite a bridal appearance to the couple behind

them, for Marmaduke was also very spruce, though he was wearing his

left hand tucked into the roll collar of his coat. Something in the

look of the arm, now she had time for observation, made Marrion say

suddenly--

"You hurt yourself?"

He nodded.

"Dislocated my wrist--you see that first wave was an awful jerk. So I

had to get back to the regimental surgeon to get it sorted and get my

three days' leave."

She looked at him startled.

"What for?" she asked quickly.

"For our honeymoon, dear," he replied, his kindly, handsome

affectionate face bent close to hers. "Don't look so alarmed, Marmie,

it had to be after what you and I went through together yesterday; we

can't get away from each other, even if we would."

"But----" she began.

At that instant the cross road on which they had been merged into a

turnpike, and with a swerve the grey horses turned to the right.

"But me no buts!" he cried gaily. "We are on the south road, not the

north." Then he suddenly grew grave. "And God bless you, dear, for all

you've done for me and will do for me in the years to come!"

That turn south had brought them face to face with the glorious line

of coast fading away into a golden mist. Far out on the wide expanse

of sea the same soft September mist lay like a veil, hiding--what?

Marrion Paul, sitting hand-in-hand with the one love of her life, did

not even ask the question; for all things, everything, seemed

swallowed up in a golden glory.

Marmaduke's voice roused her, joyous, confident.

"And I've got a wedding present for you. I wouldn't give it you

before. You see you are such a wilful customer, I was afraid you

mightn't get into the chaise."

Half-mechanically she opened the case he laid on her lap. It contained

two very long, very thick plaits of red-brown hair, each held together

by an entwined monogram of M's in brilliants. She looked at him and he

looked at her in affectionate raillery.

"Now!" he cried joyously. "You'll be fit to be seen. You didn't think,

did you, I was going to let your hair be appraised by those young

fools? So that day we left Edinburgh--you remember I nearly missed the

train--I raced back to that beast of a hairdresser. I didn't know till

then, Marmie, it was so valuable; but it was well worth it. Then I had

it set." He paused, aware of some jarring note, and added, "You do

like it, dear, don't you?"

Marrion, sitting with her long coils of hair in her lap, felt somehow

that the glamour had gone from the gold of earth and sky.

"Of course I like it," she said, making an effort, "but--but why the

diamonds?"

He laughed.

"Because I like diamonds and I like you to look well. I--I suppose you

couldn't twist 'em up somehow now, could you? The postillions won't

see."

She removed her bonnet and deftly coiled the long plaits about her

shapely head.

"I'm afraid it's not very neat," she said solidly.

But he was more than satisfied.

"You look divine!" he cried exultantly. "More like other people, you

know; and I dare say it is mean of me, but your close crop always made

me feel bad, because you know I was really the cause of it. So now we

start fair, don't we?"

"Quite fair," she answered, with a smile. He was such a child. Yet

some of the glamour had gone.

END OF BOOK I.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

"Mr. Peter Muir wishes to know if he can see you, ma'am," said the

servant.

The woman seated at a table by the window in the small drawing-room of

a tiny house in one of the back streets of Belgravia laid down her

work and rose. It was Marrion Paul; but she was seven years older and

neither face nor figure had quite the same buoyant youthfulness.

Indeed, as she crossed to the fireplace a distinct limp was apparent.

Still her face had gained in beauty, and the masses of her red bronze

hair glinted bright as ever. Those seven years of life had been hard

in some ways; but they had been happy in others--happy most of all in

that Marmaduke Muir was well and content.

Marrion drew an easy-chair to the fire and closed the window, knowing

her visitor to be chilly. She did the latter with reluctance, for the

late November sunshine shone golden in the narrow street, and the

somewhat mews-laden atmosphere of those back purlieus of fashionable

houses was sweetened as it filtered through the wide boxes of trailing

musk which made the little house with the brass plate bearing its

legend,

MRS. MARSDEN

_Layettes_

look quite countrified and summerlike.

Peter Muir, coming in languidly, complaining of the cold, slipped into

the easy-chair as one accustomed to it. He also was older, his weak

face showed signs of recent ill-health; but he was otherwise the loose

knit, errant, yet dandified figure he had been. Dressed in the height

of the fashion, his blue-and-white bird's eye bow and stiff stand up

collar seemed the most striking parts of his personality.

"This place is the only peaceful spot in all the town," he sighed. "I

often wish I were back in the little room upstairs where you nursed me

so patiently."

"And your brother, Major Marmaduke," she put in kindly, "don't forget

him, Mr. Peter. If it hadn't been for him, I don't believe you would

have lived."

Peter Muir fingered his nails nervously.

"No, I don't suppose I should. You see, it was all Vienna. It's the

devil of a place for a young fellow, especially if he has got no

money--and we never have any, have we? But that is really the reason

why I've dropped in to have a quiet talk with you, so I thought I

would come in the morning, in case Marmaduke----"

"I haven't seen your brother for ten days," she interrupted quietly.

"I believe he has been away hunting in Hampshire, hasn't he?"

Peter Muir went on fingering his nails.

"Yes," he said at last, "part of the time." Then he suddenly burst

out--"I don't know why we should beat about the bush, you and I. You

were a perfect Providence to me, Marmie; I used to call you that, you

know, when I was so ill and the doctors swore that D.T. must end in an

asylum. Duke means a lot to both of us, doesn't he? And it's about him

I want to speak. You've noticed, of course, that he is hipped and out

of spirits, haven't you?"

"No one could help noticing that," she replied coldly.

"And he says it is because the old man of the sea at the Castle won't

give him the money to purchase the colonel's step, I suppose?" asked

the young man tentatively.

"That is the case, I believe," she replied, even more coldly. "There

was the same difficulty about the majority."

Peter Muir laughed and looked at her quizzically.

"I've often wondered how that was done," he said. "But this time it

isn't quite fair on the baron. To give the devil his due, I believe he

is quite ready to fork out the money if Marmaduke will only promise to

marry within the year. You see the question of succession is becoming

acute. There is no chance of an heir to the barony from Pitt. And

I--I--well, let's out with it! I've dished myself with the peer as

well as with Providence. It's my damned own fault, of course, but

there it is. And it isn't as if there was not a real picture man in

the family whose sons should do credit to the Castle."

He had run on rapidly, and now paused to look at his companion.

"And does the Major refuse to accept the conditions?" she asked

quietly. "I wonder why?"

Peter Muir felt distinctly injured by her calm.

"So do I, and I was wondering if----"

She stopped him with a gesture of her hand, which sent all his

conventional decorum to the right-about, and left him, a man, before

her a woman--left him, instead of an elaborate detective, a reluctant

admirer.

"Mr. Peter," she said, smiling, "don't wonder! It is very kind of you

to come and tell me the truth--kind also to try and find me out; but,

believe me, I do not stand in your brother's way. It is two years

since Major Muir first brought you here to me, a milliner living by

her work only. All that while he and I have been good friends--nothing

more. I had no claim to be anything else. Does that satisfy you?"

Peter Muir held out a hot, damp, but enthusiastic hand to meet her

cool, wholesome one.

"I'm not quite sure if it does," he said, in a manner suddenly and to

her painfully reminiscent of Marmaduke. "You've been a good sight more

to him than any friend has been to me, worse luck! Perhaps if I had

had someone like you in a peaceful little room like this--but

Marmaduke always had the devil's own luck. However, you are not

angry, are you? Only I thought it right to put you up to the ropes in

case----"

"There is no in case about it," she interrupted quickly. "I--I make no

claim." She rose, passed to the window, and looked out. "Has Lord

Drummuir any--any special selection for his future daughter-in-law?"

she asked, and the young man at the fireplace jiggled the seals in his

pocket amusedly.

He knew a thing or two, he imagined, about women.

"Not so far as I am aware of, at _present_," he replied, negligently;

"but the consent is a trifle urgent, for the colonelcy will be going

ere long. He ought to make up his mind soon and come with me to a

roaring New Year at the Castle--it's always a bachelor party--and it

may be his last chance. So, if you could say a word or two--you have

more influence over Marmaduke----"

She flashed round suddenly.

"I used to have some," she corrected. "However, thanks very many. Now

let us talk of something else."

After her visitor had gone Marrion Paul, who called herself Mrs.

Marsden on the door-plate, threw the window wide with an air of relief

and sat down once more to her work. It was an infant's cap of almost

incredibly fine stitchings and embroideries; the kind of cap which,

perched on slender, white, much-beringed hands would give tremors of

delightful anticipation to rich young wives awaiting motherhood. On

the table were strewn other tiny habiliments dainty and delicate

beyond compare; for Mrs. Marsden's layettes were renowned. Nothing

crude, nothing out of place came from her skilful hands; all things

bore the indefinable stamp of absorbing care and almost divine hope

that the little unknown atom of life to come should have garments

worthy of its mission.

The truth being that, as she worked, her mind always held at the back

of it the memory of a certain box upstairs in which lay the first baby

clothes she had ever made--clothes laboured at day by day in a perfect

heaven of happiness for her child and Duke's, the poor little dear

which had lost its life in the effort to save hers after that terrible

accident.

It had not been Duke's fault, though he had reproached himself

bitterly at first; but that had been more because of her consequent

lameness. For to a man a dead baby does not count for much--not even

if no other follows it--at least not to a man like Marmaduke, so

light-hearted, so affectionate, so free from all carping cares and

thoughts.

No, it had been her fault from the beginning. She should have held her

own as she had done for his good in so many other ways before and

since. And now, after these years of freedom, was the tie between

them--the unreal tie which ought never to have existed--to hold him

back from taking his rightful place in life?

Suddenly she folded up the tiny cap, putting it by with a wistful

little smile and a pat against happier thoughts, went upstairs, put on

her bonnet, and, leaving word she would not be back till late, passed

out into the street. One thing was certain, she must avoid seeing

Marmaduke until her mind was indelibly fixed, and there was always a

chance he might drop in to see her.

London in those days was a dreary spot for anyone requiring a quiet

place wherein to look Fate in the face; but Marrion knew her way to

two places where she could secure peace and quiet--the National

Gallery and the reading-room of the British Museum. She had often

spent long hours in the former, not moving from place to place, but

seated before some masterpiece, scarce seeing it, yet vaguely learning

something from it which had been missing in her life; but to-day she

chose the latter, as being farther away, and it was time she wished to

kill--time in which it was possible to hear the familiar step on the

stairs, perhaps to be greeted by some affectionate jest that stockings

were not mended or that new handkerchiefs required marking. She smiled

as she thought of those seven long years during which she had kept

this man as comfortable and as tidy as she could, during which she had

managed for him as well as any woman could have managed, and tried to

imagine the estimation in which such devotion would be held by the

wives and mothers for whose infants she worked. She was a constant

reader at the Museum, having, when she came to London, set herself

deliberately to gain what she had perforce missed in her life, so she

found a place, sent in her slip for a book, and was soon apparently

studying it. But she was not even thinking. In the great crises of

life one does not weigh pros and cons; decision comes from outside to

those who recognise that there is something beyond one's own

individual life. It is those who do not see, who fail to recognise the

spiritual plane, who cannot distinguish good from evil, evil from

good, who err past forgiveness. And from the moment Marrion Paul had

heard of the condition on which old Lord Drummuir would buy the

colonelcy she had known she must face him again. The only question was

when, and how.

The sooner the better. She would inquire about the journey on her way

home.

It was dark ere she arrived there with a long list of startings and

arrivals in her hand, and a new sense of elation in her heart--the

elation of the born fighter at yet another chance of battle.

"The Major was here asking for you, ma'am, about five o'clock," said

the maidservant, "and he said if you could let him have two or three

white ties to-night he would be obliged, as he is going into the

country early to-morrow."

Marrion laughed. So much the better for her plans.

"Take a hot iron to the dining-room," she said, "and set the

lace-board. You can take the ties round to his lodgings after supper."

CHAPTER II

Seven years had not improved old Lord Drummuir's temper, neither had

it softened the arrogance of his sway over the household. Marrion

realised this in a second, as, entering the study under the name of

Mrs. Marsden--a lady who, according to the footman, was--"Oh, yes,

sir, quite young, and yes, sir, quite good-looking!" and who had

private business with his lordship, she found herself instantly

recognised by three pairs of eyes. One the occupant of the familiar

wheel-chair, the others those of my lady and Penelope. The sight of

the latter was unexpected, for though Marrion knew her grandfather had

died the previous year she had not heard of Penelope's reinstallation

as confidential attendant to my lady. It was not an arrangement likely

to occur to anyone out of Drummuir Castle; but there all things were

possible.

In the instant's pause which followed on her entrance Marrion had time

to note that the old man had changed but little. His face had lost

somewhat of its colour, but the look of absolute domineering power was

strong as ever. My lady had grown stout--the very idea of a _fandango_

was far from her now--and the colour had come to her face in

unbecoming fashion. Penelope, on the other hand, had grown thinner,

and in her black dress looked prim propriety.

"Well, young woman?" began his lordship.

It was a signal for indignant protest from those two.

"Drummuir," shrilled the lady, "if you speak to that creature I must

leave the room!"

Penelope's answering assent was audible in a snort.

The old man fixed them with a stony stare.

"I was just about to ask you to do so, my dear," he said, with suave

politeness. "Penelope, open the door for your mistress."

Marrion, as mechanically she stepped aside towards the window to let

them pass out, felt that nothing was altered. The spider was master of

his web still, every stick and stone of the old place existed by this

old man's wicked will. And it was this heritage she had set herself to

gain for the man she loved! A spasm of repugnance shot through her.

Yet surely the place itself was glorious. Her glance speeding

northwards took in the same old familiar view that had been visible

from her window in the keep-house; the grey northern sea trending

away, round promontory and point, the cliffs looking so strangely red

compared with the white hills, the white moors--for snow lay thick

everywhere. In those long years of London life she seemed to have

forgotten that snow could be so white. "Though your sins be as

scarlet, they shall be white as snow." The words recurred to her

irrelevantly.

The old man's voice roused her.

"You are not so good-looking as you were; and you limp. How's that?"

"I had an accident," she replied briefly.

"And why do you call yourself Mrs. Marsden?"

"Because it is the name I have gone by for some years."

"Ever since I last saw you--eh?"

"Ever since you last saw me--nearly," she corrected. Then there was

silence.

"Well," he said at length, "what is it all about? You have come for

money, I suppose--women always do. Tell the truth solidly please, I've

no time to waste."

The sneer in his words was intolerable.

"Yes, I have come for money," she replied, "because your son, Major

Marmaduke Muir, married me six years ago. I've brought proofs with

me."

If he wanted the truth he had got it. Bitter as she was, however, the

sudden whiteness of the old man's face made her sorry for him. There

was something more than anger here. That turned him purple; yet his

words were resentful, nothing more.

"Then he is a damned fool!"

"You didn't write so to him seven years ago, Lord Drummuir," she

began.

"H'm, so he showed you the letter, did he? No, you behaved well

then--and, by God, I made them dance!" The recollection seemed to

please; then a sudden thought evidently struck him. "Any children?" he

asked.

She shook her head.

"One--a boy--died. Major Muir had an accident in the tilbury. The

child," she paused, her eyes on the far stretches of dazzling white

snow, "it--it ransomed my life. I shall never have another." Then with

a rush all she had come to say sprang to mind and lips, she held out

her hands appealingly. "Lord Drummuir, I wish you would let me tell my

story!"

"Eh, what?" he replied peevishly. "Well, curse it all, I've been

plagued by the gout and those two virtuous frumps for seven months,

for Jack Jardine has the jaundice, and you were deuced amusing last

time. But, don't stop over there--makes me cold to think of you. Sit

there, by the fire, and take off your bonnet; you look better without

it. Women with good hair shouldn't wear bonnets."

She sat down as he bade her, feeling inclined to cry, he reminded her

so much of Marmaduke.

He would not spare her any details; it seemed an amusement to him to

hear of her doubts, her scruples, and he laughed aloud when she told

him how two years ago she had dismissed her lover.

"Why?" he sneered. "Come, out with it!"

His hard clear eyes peered into hers.

"Because I didn't want to injure him, and I don't want to injure him

now," she replied. "I haven't come to claim my rights as his wife."

"Then what the devil do you want, my lady?"

"I want you to do as you did before and give him the money to buy his

colonelcy. If you will do this I will never claim to be his wife. He

shall be as free, as far as I am concerned, to marry whom you choose."

Lord Drummuir sat looking at her with hard clear eyes.

"And if I don't," he said at last, "are you going to threaten me with

this bogus marriage, for it may be bogus for all I know--eh, what?"

Marrion felt that the supreme moment had come; she must stake her all.

"No," she answered quietly. "To show you I threaten nothing, there are

my marriage lines. Burn them if you will!"

She sat quite still while the old man, with fingers that trembled

visibly, unfolded the paper she gave him. There was no mistaking its

worth. In Marmaduke's bold black writing were the words--

"I, Marmaduke Muir, second son of Baron Drummuir, of Drummuir Castle,

hereby acknowledge Marrion Paul as my lawful wife." Underneath in her

finer writing was her own acknowledgment of her tie to Marmaduke.

The old man, for all he had had no hopes of escape, was wary.

"You give this up because you know he, my fool of a son, has a

counterpart, eh? That's about it, I expect?"

Marrion flushed to the very roots of her hair, but she spoke calmly.

"Yes, your son has the counterpart----" she began.

The old man burst into one of his sudden rude guffaws.

"Ha, ha, ha! And you thought you'd take in the old fox, my fine

madam!" he said, then paused before the passion of her face.

"If you will listen you will believe me. I could claim to be his wife

now if I chose. I do not choose. I prefer that he should lead the life

he loved, that he should marry and bring you the heir for which--for

which you would sell your soul, you poor old man! But Marmaduke is a

soldier born; if he misses this chance he will be a disappointed man.

As like as not he will never marry, even though he knows I've set him

free. But send him this money, and I swear to you the counterpart

shall be destroyed. What shall I swear by? I swear by the poor dead

baby!" She paused. "Marmaduke said he was so like you. I never saw

him. I was too near death."

Her voice trailed away to monotony. The old man sat staring at her, an

odd tremor in his face.

"I swear it shall be destroyed," she continued. "I--I have very great

influence over your son; he--he will do what I ask."

"Then why the devil are you giving him up, and your prospects here?

They're not to be sneezed at by a woman like you!"

The phrase nettled her. She rose and stood beside him strong and

steady.

"Lord Drummuir," she said sarcastically, "I know you to be clever and

I thought, being a gentleman, that you might have seen the truth and

spared me the pain of that question. I will answer it, however. It is

cause your son never loved me. He is very, very fond of me. He has

been so ever since we were boy and girl together. And I have been of

great use to him. But I could not bring love into his life, and I

could not bring him a child. So it did not seem worth while; I could

only stand aside."

There was a pause. The old man's face had grown sharp and paler; there

was uncertainty even in the cruel lines about the mouth.

"You're rather an extraordinary young woman," he remarked coolly;

"might have made your fortune on the stage. Wish I'd met you there!"

He grinned. "But now to business. You have the whip hand, of course--I

admit that. Now, if I give you--or that fool, my son, it's the same

thing--the money for this paper, you promise to make him destroy his

counterpart."

"I promise," she replied eagerly. "I can make him do most things----"

"Except love you," interrupted the old man, with a horrible sneer; but

the next instant his gouty hand, trembling a little, was outstretched

to her in deprecation. "Excuse me, that should not have been said.

Well, you know as well as I do that this game is a real confidence

trick. You must have heaps of evidence up your sleeve if you chose to

bring it forward. But I'll chance that. I haven't seen many of your

sort in my life. If I had, I mightn't have been the cursed cripple I

am; but I've had a rattlin' good life of it and I don't regret

anything--except having begot Pitt. So we will come to terms. I will

send the colonelcy money to Marmaduke on condition that he consents to

marry within the year. Is that agreed?"

"Agreed," she said firmly.

"In that case perhaps you'll oblige me by ringing the bell."

She did so, but when the valet appeared, instead of the curt order to

show her out Marrion had expected, the old man commanded the instant

production of cake and wine.

"Nonsense!" he growled decisively to her protestations. "It is

devilish cold. You haven't on warm enough clothes, and you don't leave

this house without bite or sup, if only because your father Paul was a

deuced good servant to my poor brother. Good fellow was Paul--always

suspicioned he was a gentleman--think now he must have been.

Here"--the valet had come and gone, leaving the tray on the

table--"pour yourself out a glass of port. Won't get better anywhere,

I'll go bail. Only half a binn left, so I shall finish that before I

die, thank God! Now," he eyed her narrowly, "drink to the health of

Marmaduke Muir's son, the heir to Drummuir!"

The room seemed to spin round for a moment. Then without a quiver she

drank the health, put down her glass and turned to the door. Just as

she reached it the old man said--

"Good-bye. I'm damned sorry that little chap of yours died; he would

have been game, anyhow."

She gave back one sudden grateful look, and the memory of what she saw

remained with her till the day of her death. The pearly whiteness of

the snow outside showing behind the mountain of diseased flesh swathed

in scarlet flannel, the gouty hands in the act of tearing up the paper

they had been holding, a cruel smile in the old grey eyes, despite the

words which had just fallen from the cruel lips.

"Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow."

The phrase recurred and recurred as she tramped her way down the beech

avenue. There were many gaps in it now. How many trees would be left

when Marmaduke's heir came to his own?

CHAPTER III

The swing doors leading to the smoking-room of the fashionable club in

London fell back with a slightly louder thud than usual, and more than

one occupant of the room looked up--looked up, however, to smile, for

the newcomer was a universal favourite. It was Marmaduke Muir, fresh

from one of his many disappearances, for he was quartered at the new

camp of Aldershot and his London visits were generally but a passing

flash on his way to find sport in the counties. At seven-and-thirty he

showed almost more youthful than he had done at seven-and-twenty, for

he was thinner, more alert, and the laughter in his face seemed to

belong to him more absolutely. For the rest he was handsome beyond

compare, and dressed faultlessly in a taste that had sobered itself

from those early days in England when Marrion Paul had found him

_flamboyant_. There was still a slight exuberance in the carnation in

his buttonhole and the immense size of the cigar he drew out of his

case; but the case itself was simple, and there was a simplicity about

his whole bearing which disarmed criticism.

"What you b'in after, old chap?" said an occupant of an armchair,

laying down the "Illustrated London News," in which he had been

reading the pros and cons of beard and moustachios as against clean

shaving. He felt his own chin doubtfully as he looked at Marmaduke's

upper lip; but then he, of course, was a soldier.

"Killin' somethin', I bet," yawned another. "What was it, Duke?"

"Not ladies, anyhow," put in a third. "Our Adonis is a regular

misogynist; and yet, just look at his letters--faugh! they make the

place smell like Truefitt's."

"Better than your fags, anyhow, Mac!" laughed Marmaduke, as he took

the pile of notes and letters which the attendant had brought in on a

salver. Then, as he threw himself into the most comfortable chair

vacant, he held up half the bundle with a gay--"Anyone like them?

They're all invitations, I expect, and I have to go back to-night!"

"And moneylenders, Muir! Don't forget Moses!" put in the man he had

called Mac.

"Not so many of them either," retorted Marmaduke, "as you know Jack

Jardine keeps us going. God bless him!" he added cheerfully.

"Here, hand us over a few, Major!" said a callow youth who lived to

envy the more fashionable habitues.

"No go, Smithers!" remarked another youth less sallow; "even Nathan

couldn't make you up to his form."

But Marmaduke, after a hasty glance at the superscriptions, had

dexterously flung a dozen or so of letters into the applicant's tall

hat, which was obstructing the way between his chair and the next. One

smaller than the rest which Marmaduke had overlooked flew over it and

lay on the carpet. It was directed in an uneducated hand.

"Hullo, pretty milliner, eh, Duke?" said Mac, taking it up and opening

it. "No, no, fair play, you gave it----"

Marmaduke, standing over him, blushed like a girl as he glanced at the

writing.

"It's nothing, Mac," he began.

But Mac was not to be put off in a moment.

"'Respekted and Honerd Sir'--can't spell, anyhow," he read out. "'The

money as you scent save my wife an' children from blank

starvayshion"'--he turned round and looked at Marmaduke reproachfully.

"And you owe me five pounds, you d----d Christian philanthropist."

Marmaduke Muir gave an apologetic laugh.

"The poor devil was in my regiment once--and as for the five pounds,

here you are. I had a stroke of luck down in Norfolk at loo----"

"Save you from 'blank starvayshion,' eh, Mac?" growled a man who also

owed money in the same quarter, whereat there was a general laugh, for

Major Macdonald was known to be near.

Marmaduke, opening his letters rapidly, put most of them into the

waste-paper basket. Invitations from people he scarcely knew to balls

and dances, others to festivities past and gone. Some few he put in

his pocket, and one he sat and stared at as he smoked his cigar.

Luncheon--one o'clock--there was plenty of time; and Louisa

Marchioness of Broadway was the most amusing old lady in town. An old

friend of his father's, too, though that wasn't in her favour. Still

she was interested in the family, and had always been particularly

kind to him.

An hour later, therefore, he sat waiting his hostess' appearance in

the tiny drawing-room of one of that row of tiny houses which, till a

very few years ago, stood back from Knightsbridge Road, separated from

it by a tiny secluded carriage-drive of their own and opening out with

little narrow strips of back gardens to the park. He was seated at the

window, but it seemed to him as if he were close to the roaring fire;

indeed, all things were close to each other in the small room where

the big, central, mid-Victorian table, with its broidered tablecloth,

solitary vase of flowers, and besprinkling books of beauty seemed to

monopolise all space. One of these same books of beauty lay open at a

simpering bottlenecked portrait subscribed in a fine feminine hand,

"Louisa Broadway." It always did; the servant had orders to that

effect.

"_A la bonheur, monsieur!_" came a voice from the door. It was the

most ancient thing about Louisa Marchioness of Broadway. All else was

open to manipulation and the manipulation was good. She did not,

however, dye her hair. Spiteful folk said it was because powder had

been the fashion when she was in the heyday of her beauty; but she was

a very clever lady, and doubtless she realised how much more real a

make-up seems when toned to white hair than to dark. As it was, the

effect was still charming, and her figure was that of a girl of

eighteen.

"_A moi l'honneur_," quoth Marmaduke gallantly, as he advanced to kiss

the old lady's outstretched hand and lead her to a chair.

In a certain set at that time there was a fashion for interpolating

French into English--one of the signs of the coming war which was

darkening the horizon of Europe.

So they sat and talked lightly of it, and of the Prince Consort's

unpopularity, and the coming opening of the King's new Royal Palace of

Westminster, which are now, forgetfully and conveniently, called the

Houses of Parliament, until luncheon was announced, and Marmaduke had

to pilot his hostess down the narrow stairs--a difficult task which he

felt would have been far easier had he carried her. And with the

thought came in a rush that delight in freedom, that fresh enjoyment

of the unconventional, which always made him remember Marrion Paul. It

sobered him a little and he talked with more effort. Not that it

mattered, since his hostess was all sparkle and wit. And the luncheon

itself was everything that could be desired. Marmaduke, a bit of an

epicure in personal matters, found the snug little horse-shoe table,

with its curve to the fire so that you could feel the warmth while you

looked out of the window, very conducive to comfort, for you sat

undisturbed by servings behind you. All that went on in front, and you

could see what was handed to you without fear of ricking your neck or

getting the gravy spilt over your clothes. The _menu_, too, if sparse,

was super-excellent. In her youth Louisa Broadway had been

Ambassadress at various European Courts; she was a _gourmet_ of

distinction, so it was quite a complacent Marmaduke who at her

invitation, after the servant left the room, turned his chair to the

fire and joined his hostess in a glass of Madeira.

"And now for business," she said, while her face took on a new

expression which obscured the paint and the prettiness, and left it

wise yet kindly--wise with the wisdom of a worldly old age. "Now, you

don't suppose, do you, young man, that I asked you here to give you a

good lunch--you'll admit you have had one, I presume--and talk to you

about things that don't really matter a brass farthing to either of

us? For what do you care about the Houses of Parliament, and what do I

care about scandals--I have had plenty--_de trop_, in fact! No, I

brought you here to introduce you to my grand-niece--Sibthorpe's

youngest daughter. She will be here immediately, and I want you to

marry her."

"Really, Lady Broadway!" flustered Marmaduke.

"Rather crude, I admit," continued his hostess, "but I object to

beating about the bush, especially when I want to get inside. The fact

is, Marmaduke, I have heard from your father----"

"It is good of you to read his letters; they are not----" began the

son stiffly.

"Don't be silly, my dear lad," went on the old woman, "your father has

his faults, but he was quite as good-looking as a young man as you

are--at any rate, I thought so. Now, he wants you to marry, and he has

every reason to wish it. It is the only chance of an heir to the

title, for Peter's last escapade has about finished his hopes in that

quarter."

"I can't discuss----" began Marmaduke very stiff.

"Oh, yes, you can!" went on the old lady imperturbably. "We

are _en petit comite_, and I'll confess to being old, very

old, old enough to be your great-grandmother. Now, Marmaduke,

a great-great-grandmother--did I put in the two greats the

first time?--can talk over things more sensibly than even a

great-great-grandfather. You see, my dear, she has passed through it

all and left it all behind her. And so, my dear child--I nursed you as

a baby, remember--why don't you marry? Or perhaps you are married

already?"

There was an exquisite lightness of raillery in the suggestion which

absolutely barred offence, and there was kindness in the keen old

eyes. Nevertheless, Marmaduke was uncomfortably aware that they took

in his sudden flush. She gave him no time for interruption, however,

and went on airily--

"For all I know the heir may already be in existence!" Here Marmaduke

asserted himself with great dignity. "My dear madam, if I had any

children I should acknowledge them!"

Louisa Lady Broadway smiled gently. She had gained one piece of

knowledge, anyhow. The obstruction, if there was one, was a childless

wife.

"I am glad to hear it, my dear, but I knew you had a good heart, or I

wouldn't have risked speaking to you. I wouldn't do as much for one in

a thousand. Now, my dear, I am nearly eighty years old, and I

understand things as perhaps few women do understand them. I don't

expect many men have lived to be your age without forming ties of some

kind, especially if they live in Scotland, Marmaduke"--the thrust went

home again, she thought--"but money does a lot, especially when there

are no children. A good round annuity means much when a man is not

well off, as you are, and has probably to wait for many years ere he

falls into money--as you have, for Pitt is the heir, of course. But

your father would find the cash----"

"If he would find the money to pay for my colonelcy," burst in

Marmaduke, "it would be better than setting people to find out mare's

nests! I don't mean to be rude, Lady Broadway; you are very kind, but

I really can't discuss----"

"I think you can," interrupted Louisa Broadway in her turn,

"especially if it is not a question of mere money, and money is, I

believe, a very small matter to some people--to you, for instance,

Marmaduke! You never think of it, do you, so long as you've got

it?--ha, ha! But there are other considerations. To begin with, I

believe that when there are no children a marriage should

automatically become null and void. And apart from that I don't

believe that any woman who really loves a man would ever stand in his

light or prevent him from doing his duty. I am sure if I had had no

children, and Broadway----" The illustration, however, was beyond even

her powers of fiction, and the opening of the door brought relief.

"Oh, here is the young lady! Amabel, let me introduce Major Marmaduke

Muir. Major Muir, Lady Amabel Sibthorpe. I expect you are kindred

spirits, as you are both such outdoor people."

The girl, who had rushed in somewhat unceremoniously, looked up

frankly into Marmaduke's blue eyes. There was undisguised admiration

in her glance.

"Oh, yes," she said, "I've always wanted to know Major Muir since I

saw him punish a horrid little boy in the park for bullying his dog!"

Marmaduke, as he made his bow, felt that the clever old lady with the

painted face was very clever indeed. She had gauged her man

completely. Most people on the task would have supplied him with a

befrilled fashionable beauty; the sort of woman with whom he flirted,

who amused him, attracted him, tempted him. But this joyous, buoyant

girl, with good-breeding in every line and feature----

No, Louisa Lady Broadway had made a mistake; she had reminded him of

Marrion Paul.

So, after the shortest interval compatible with his role of charming

young man, he took his leave and went fuming back to his lodgings in

Duke Street, which he kept as a _pied-a-terre_ for himself and Peter.

The latter was out, so Marmaduke went straight up to his bedroom to

change his London things for his uniform, since he had to report

himself on arrival at Aldershot. There was plenty of time, but he

meant to go round by Marrion's first. He had not seen her for over ten

days, and----

Despite an anger at interference which had grown instead of

diminishing, old Lady Broadway's words, "a woman who loves a man will

never stand in his light or prevent him from doing his duty," would

keep recurring to his mind. It was exactly what Marrion had said to

him scores and scores of times. Curious, two such different women

having precisely the same views. Not that they mattered. He had his

own. Still, half-mechanically when he was dressed he took out of his

despatch-box a small packet of papers, and, opening one of the

envelopes, began to read the contents. One sheet was the excerpt from

the visitors' book at the Cross-keys Inn where he had written "Captain

the Honourable Marmaduke and Mrs. Muir." He smiled at it bitterly,

wondering whether, if he had relied on that, as Marrion had begged

him, he should have felt as bound as he did now. With a shrug of his

shoulders he folded it again and thrust it back into the envelope. The

other sheet was a counterpart of the paper which Marrion Paul had,

unknown to him, given to his father. He sat staring at it almost

stupidly until a knock came to the door, when he hastily replaced it

and put the bundle in his breast-pocket. The new-comer was Andrew

Fraser, and he carried a letter.

"I was roond tae the club, sir," he said, with a salute, "as I thocht

it might be o' importance seein' it was frae the castle; but you was

awa."

The man's face was as ever, full of devotion and duty. The past seven

years had brought him many an anxiety, many an agony, but he had stuck

by the two beings he loved best on earth with a steadfastness beyond

all praise.

"All right, Andrew," replied his master cheerily, "pack up, will you,

and take the things to the station. I'm going round by Mrs.

Marsden's."

"Very well, sir," replied the servant quietly.

He had been discretion itself all these years, ever since Marrion had

come to him one day and told him the truth, that she was married. If

she had not so told him, what would he have done? His simple soul

could never answer the question.

Meanwhile, Marmaduke in a cab was reading his father's epistle, which

ran thus--

"MY DEAR MARMADUKE,--I believe you are my son, so I expect you to give

this letter your earnest consideration. As you are aware there is no

heir to the title or estate. I had the misfortune to beget a creature

who calls himself the Master of Drummuir and is not the master of

anything. Then there is Peter, a promising boy whom you have ruined by

providing him with an attacheship at Vienna, a place which did for his

uncle whom he greatly resembles. The accounts of the physician

concerning his health are simply disastrous. He has narrowly escaped

an asylum for life. This being so, it is imperative that you shall

marry and produce an heir for the estate. I see by various letters of

yours (unanswered) that you are again in want of money to purchase

your promotion to colonel. It is a nefarious, a reprehensible swindle

which should be abolished, and to which I should never yield were it

not that I wish to strike a bargain with you--namely, I will purchase

your colonelcy, if you will consent at once to seek out a suitable

wife and marry her within the year. If you accede to this most

reasonable request I will send a cheque to your bankers and I shall

expect to see you--and Peter also if he is really sane--here for

Christmas.

"Yours truly,

"DRUMMUIR.

"P.S.--Let me tell you, sir, that it is deuced dull here with those

two virtuous frumps, my Lady and Penelope. They were more amusing when

they were young. But if you come--and why shouldn't you?--we'll have a

regular rouser."

Marmaduke read this letter over twice. It was the kindest, most

reasonable one he had ever had from his father. And the postscript

touched him. Its very frankness made him realise what life must now be

to one who in his youth had been "quite as good-looking as you are."

Old Lady Broadway's words recurred to him as he stood at the little

door with its brass name-plate waiting for admission. And if he got

his colonelcy and the command of the regiment? If there was going to

be war?

But was there going to be war? He felt a little as if he had to face

an enemy as he ran upstairs two steps at a time.

CHAPTER IV

But upstairs all was peace, and Marrion, the light of the lamp on her

bronze hair, beautiful as ever, looked up from her work, her face

bright with pleasure.

"Ah, there you are! I was expecting you, for Andrew was round this

afternoon and told me you were in town."

He did not go up to her or greet her; only smiled content and sank

into the easy-chair placed between where she sat and the fire. The big

table wheeled cosily into the corner was littered with lace and

muslin. He took up a small pinafore and looked at it distastefully.

"I wish you wouldn't work so hard," he said suddenly, "and I hate to

see you busy over those things; it reminds me----" he broke off.

She laid down the little frock she was embroidering on the instant,

and went to kneel beside him; for her insight into this man's moods

was complete, and she felt what was coming.

"And it reminds me too, Duke. That is why I love it. I have told you

so often it was nobody's fault; if anybody's, mine."

He shook his head.

"You can't make me believe that."

"But it is true. See here, Duke, I ought never to have allowed you to

bind yourself. It put me in a false position. I was too anxious to

please, too anxious to pay you back the gift, as it were, so I did

what I ought not to have done. I thought of you, not of the child. But

what is the use of going over it all again? It is past and done with."

He sat with his hands between his knees for a minute, looking at the

fire.

"Well, I am sorry the poor little chap died."

It gave her the opening she needed.

"That is what your father said when I told him," she said quietly.

He stared at her.

"My father!"

"Yes, Duke, I have been to see him again. He was quite kind. Sit still

and I will tell you everything."

And she told him though she saw his face grow stern and angry.

"You had no business to do it," he said, when she finished. "Can't you

even leave me to manage my own affairs? I didn't interfere with yours

when you broke away and set up on your own, did I?"

"You have been very good to me, Marmaduke," she replied, with a catch

in her voice, "and I've tried to be as good to you."

The memory of many a helping hand, of long years in which this woman's

companionship had been an anchor to him, came to appease his easy

nature.

"Well, it is no use being angry," he said at last; "the thing's done.

And you really destroyed your lines?"

"Your father tore them up. He quite agreed with me that as I had no

children, and there was no chance of one--at any rate, of a living

one--that I was bound to release you. And I am bound. I refuse to be

your wife."

"And if I claim you?" he said swiftly, resentment in his voice. She

smiled.

"I shall still refuse you, then in three years we shall be

automatically divorced."

"In Scotland only. You are very clever, my dear, but you forget some

things."

His deft diversion, however, had done its work, the subject was no

longer personal.

"It is impossible," he continued. "I can't leave you in the lurch."

"You don't. Look at it clearly, please. Since we agreed to

separate----"

"I never agreed," he put in angrily. "I was quite ready to fulfil----"

"The bond," she interrupted a trifle bitterly, "and I wasn't or

couldn't. But ever since then--and before then, too--before you came

home, I kept myself. And I'm quite rich, Duke. I have money in the

bank. There is no fear for me."

"Is it all money?" he said tragically, gloomily.

She laid her hand lightly on his knee; the touch thrilled her through

and through, but he sat unmoved, looking at the fire.

"You can give me all you have ever given me still, dear," she said;

"there is no reason why we should not continue to be friends."

There was a long pause. Then she began again--

"I promised your father you would destroy the counterpart. Duke, it is

far better done. You will feel free, and you don't, somehow, now,

though I hoped you would. And I shall be glad. A woman who loves a man

cannot bear to stand in the way of his doing his duty--and this is

your duty----"

He turned to her.

"Just what that old harridan said. Curious you two should agree--and

you're so different!"

"What old harridan?"

"Lady Broadway. She has been at me, too. Why can't you women leave a

man alone? She wants me to marry her niece, Lady Amabel."

Marrion felt a sudden spasm of elemental jealousy. Self-sacrifice was

exhilarating in the abstract, in the concrete it was painful.

"Did--did you see her?" she asked.

"Yes--nice little girl. But--but if this is to be, how will you manage

about Andrew? You had to tell him, if you remember."

She remembered right well; remembered how even the man's fidelity to

his master, his devotion to her, would not stand the strain of what he

thought wrong-doing. The difficulty had occurred to her before, but

she set it aside now as of small importance in comparison with the

destruction of the paper.

"Ill manage Andrew," she replied, "if you will only----"

He stood up tall and strong and curiously antagonistic.

"You are always managing, Marmie. Some day you'll find you've made a

mistake. But if you will have it so, I happen to have the paper with

me." He took out his pocket-book and handed her an envelope. "You can

do as you like with it. Oh, it is the right one!" he added

impatiently. "I was looking at it just now. I am not always a fool!"

She paused in a half-unconscious search induced by her knowledge of

Marmaduke's careless habits. The contents of the envelope, half-pulled

out, showed her the printed heading "Cross-keys Inn." She thrust them

back hurriedly and dropped the whole into the fire. It flamed up

showing his face full of irritation, hers of decision. They watched it

flame, fade, sparkle out. Then he turned away.

"You've made me feel a scoundrel somehow," he said, "but I suppose I

shall get over it in time."

"You've no right to say that," she flared out. "You've no right to put

that thought into my life. We have done our duty."

"Well, don't let's part in anger, anyhow," he said kindly. "I shan't

see you for some time. I'm on duty, and then I shall go north for

Christmas, and then----"

"And you will get your colonelcy," she added.

He smiled.

"Yes, I shall get it, thanks to you again. Ah, Marmie, Marmie, it's no

use your trying to unbind Tristram Shandy and the Shorter Catechism!

We were mixed up together right away in the beginning of things, and

we shall be mixed up in the end, you'll see. Now I must be off.

Good-bye!"

He held out his hand. She took it and gripped it fast, every fibre of

her athrill with the dear touch. Her whole soul seemed for the second

to crave for him, for his presence always. And he was going away, out

of her life for ever. For she was wiser than he was. She knew that her

talk of continued friendship was a sham; one of the many baits she

laid so often to get her own way. Ah, how weary she was of cutting and

contriving Dame Nature's plain, honest web! Well, she would have to do

it no longer; it would be another's task. But there was one thing he

had said which was not to be endured, which could not be allowed to

pass.

"Good-bye," she said, "and don't please feel like a scoundrel. You

never did a better deed in your life. You have done your duty like an

honest gentleman, and--and I'm proud of you!"

"That's something, anyhow," he said, and was gone.

She sat down and began stitching away at a little gown she was making.

It had to be finished that night, for the christening of the infant

for whom it had been bespoken was on the morrow. And the task soothed

her. For the more ordinary parts she had apprentices during the day

who worked downstairs, but all the distinctive features of the

marvellously delicate little garments came from her own clever

fingers. That evening, as she worked away at a tiny wreath of

snowdrops for another woman's child, every atom of her went out in

unavailing regret for the little life that had gone to save her own.

She was not worth it--nothing was worth it. Those men--father and

son--might say "I am sorry the little chap died!" but did they, could

they, would they, realise what it meant to a woman that something very

precious, something which she was bound to protect, for which she

ought to have given her heart's blood, had given her its own instead?

Well, she had paid for it since to the uttermost farthing. She had no

illusions. Marmaduke had gone out of her life for ever.

Not entirely, however, for at Christmas time one of his long breezy

letters came to her--for Marmaduke was a great letter-writer--telling

her about all her old friends in the neighbourhood; a charming,

cheerful epistle, full of awed wonder at the extreme stoutness and

sanctity of "stepmamma" and the rigorous respectability of Penelope.

"For the first time in my life," he wrote, "I feel sorry for the old

man, and I begin to think we did right, Marmie. In fact, I'm sure we

did."

Her lip hardened as she read. Undoubtedly they had done right, but----

She sewed harder than ever, wishing that the whole thing was settled

and done with. Then there would be no more letters to bring pain.

Fate, however, had other things in store for her, for just after the

New Year Andrew Fraser appeared in her small drawing-room. He came in,

tall, gaunt, hard-featured as ever, stood at the door and saluted, as

he had done ever since Marrion in self-defence had told him that she

and his master were fast married.

"Back so soon!" she cried. "I thought the major was to be longer at

the castle."

"He is the colonel now," returned Andrew gloomily, "an' we are awa tae

Portsmouth the day. But I cam', Marrion, tae tell ye that the domed

fowk in the ha' at Drummuir were sayin' 'he was tae get marriet tae

Lady Amabel.' An' that canna be.'

"Lady Amabel," echoed Marrion, glad in a way of a surprise which

enabled her to make a diversion, at any rate, for a time. "He didn't

say anything. I thought it was to be a bachelor party."

Andrew snorted a vexed denial.

"Sma' count o' that! The auld peer had gotten Lady Penrigg, the

railway man's wife, tae gi' him countenance wi' the gentry, and

there was the Marchioness o' Broadway and the young leddy--a nice,

straight-speakin' girlie. An' it was a' decent and God-fearin' with

curlin' and skatin' and sleighin' an' songs an' forfeits in the

evenin'. Dewar, my lord's valet, tell't me he had never heard the

Baron swear sae awfie as he did when he got tae his own room o'

nichts. It jest turned him cauld. But it was lying on the poor falla's

stummick a' day. Hoo'ever I didna come for that."

"And the major--I mean the colonel," interrupted Marrion hastily, "did

he enjoy himself?"

It was an unwise remark, for it hastened what she wished to avoid.

"Ower much, mayhap," put in Andrew, taking a step nearer her, his

little grey eyes looking at her with pathetic earnestness. "Marrion,

my dear," he went on, "I've helt ma tongue a' these years, relying on

your word that ye had your lines safe. Not that they matter sae much,

since I can swear to yer bein' man and wife--aye, and mayhap bring

ithers tae swear it, too. But I'm no satisfied, an' that's God's

truth. Ye ken fine that by a' the laws o' God and man ye're bound

together, an' surely ye're no seekin' to get past the responsibility

that ye took upon yersels?"

There was something merciless in the stern solid figure before her;

but Marrion had courage, and faced her task.

"Sit down, Andrew, and let me explain," she began, but he stood to

attention more rigidly, and with a forecast of failure in her mind she

went through the whole set of arguments she had used with success on

Marmaduke. But here she had different metal to weld.

"Ye took it upon yersels," he reiterated. "It was the Lord's doin'

that the poor wee bairnie didna live. It's ill tryin' tae get the

better o' Providence."

The hopelessness of influencing him made her at last try an appeal to

his personal devotion to her; but his reply sent her crimson to her

very heart-strings.

"That's neither here nor there, Marrion. If ye was twenty times free

by yere ain makin', I wadna take yer love at a gift."

The most she could get out of him was a promise to wait and say

nothing till there was more than mere servants'-hall gossip to go by.

He left her wearied and vexed, sorry that she had not been able to get

him to hear reason, yet knowing that she was sure of her own ground,

since, if she and Duke both refused to acknowledge marriage there

could be no possible claim by anyone else. Only to take up this ground

would, she foresaw, make Andrew into an enemy. Besides, it would be a

confession of failure on her part, and the years had brought so much

success to her in all her managements that the idea of defeat, even in

a small thing, was irksome.

So for a day or two more she sat and worked while all the noise of

London was deadened by the snow which defied man's effort to remove.

In her quiet little street she felt as if she were wrapped away in a

white winding sheet from all the interests of the world--waiting,

waiting, waiting. It would come at last, of course. The _Court

Journal_ would have the announcement of an impending marriage in high

life. Then, if Andrew were still inflexible, she must tell him he had

no power. And then--and then--and then?

Her mind busied itself in plans, in conjectures, more from habit than

from any hope of action; for in her heart of hearts she knew, and she

was always telling herself, that she had said good-bye to Duke for

ever.

Yet, as has been said, Fate had willed otherwise. Less than a week

after Andrew's visit, she stood up, her heart beating, at a well-known

step coming up two stairs at a time, and there was Duke! A Duke such

as she had always dreamt he should be--radiant, rejoicing--a perfect

specimen of manly beauty. He was in the full-dress uniform of his

Highland regiment, and he flung his bonnet in among the laces and

muslins, as if the whole world were his.

"We're off to Constantinople to-morrow," he said joyously, "and I

had to come and say good-bye. Oh, my dear, my dear, what a relief it

is--every way!"

She gasped.

"But war--war hasn't been declared yet!"

"And won't be for another two months," he interrupted, "but for all

that we are sending our troops. It's kept secret, of course, but my

regiment is in it. It seems too good to be true!"

"And--and Lady Amabel?" asked Marrion, a grip at her heart.

He laughed joyously.

"No harm done. You see the War Office told me when I got the colonelcy

this was up, and it wouldn't have been fair. So we were very good

friends. She is a dear little girl, and if I come home--but that's to

be seen. Now, ah, how glad I am to be free!"

The words cut deep, spoiling the relief at Marrion's heart; but, after

all, why should he not be glad? He was going to do a man's work.

"I'm glad you have the colonelcy," she said soberly; it was the only

consolation she could find for herself.

"Glad!" he echoed. "I should think I was! It's been the dream of my

life. And do you know the old man was really quite reasonable about

it. We talked the thing over, and I told him what we had done, and

were prepared to do--or rather not to do. Of course he was in a fury

about the foreign service, but he saw I couldn't shirk, so I've

promised and vowed everything he wanted. And now"--his eyes shone,

content seemed to radiate from him--"I feel, Marmie, as if I were

beginning a new life. I've only had to obey orders hitherto, and

deuced stupid many of them have seemed to me; but now I am head and

the men are splendid--they'd follow me anywhere. So--so we are going

to do something, I expect."

The light in his eyes had steadied, he took up his bonnet, then stood

for a moment looking at her, the embodiment of a soldier of fortune

going out, careless, to seek adventure.

"And you, my dear," he said doubtfully, "are you sure you can manage?"

"Quite sure," she replied cheerfully. "Perhaps I shan't stop here. I

may want to see the world, too."

He laughed.

"I believe you'd like to don boy's clothes like Rosalind and follow me

to the wars! By Jove, what a Rosalind you'd make!"

His happy carelessness hurt.

"You forget I am lame," she said, a trifle bitterly.

His face fell.

"That isn't kind," he protested, "not at the last! Don't send me away

feeling that I have been a ruffian to you."

Her composure gave way then. With a little cry she put her arms round

his neck and kissed him.

"You have nothing to reproach yourself with, my dear, my dear!

Go!--forget all about women! Go! You've done your best, so fight your

best!"

He gave her back her kiss as he might have given it to his sister.

"Yes, Marmie," he said, "I'm beginning to think we really did the

right thing, for we can be friends all the same; for the present, at

any rate."

His mixture of wisdom and foolishness made her smile at him, as some

mothers might smile at a high-spirited boy, and she watched his

martial figure go swinging down the street, its flamboyance

admissible, admirable, and told herself it was good that he was free

both of herself and Lady Amabel.

CHAPTER V

He sent her a letter from Malta, a very long letter crossed and

recrossed. Evidently time had hung heavy on hand once the wonders of

being on a steamship had passed. "It will revolutionise war," he

wrote, "if we can rely on getting reinforcements regularly. It was

different when we had to count on hurricanes and doldrums." And he had

a quick eye for weak points in the armour. "Here we are after eleven

days' hard steam, and here, so far as any one knows, we are likely to

remain. Nothing seems to have been arranged for a forward movement;

neither has any provision been made for the hunger of fifteen thousand

troops plumped down on a practically desert island. However, they say

a cattle transport is immediately expected from Alexandria, so we

should have enough beef. Meanwhile, the recent order that neither

officers nor men should appear out of uniform gives colour and variety

to the streets of Valetta; notably when they are tramped by Yours

affectionately."

It was not till late in April that he could send her his impressions

of Gallipoli.

"Take the dilapidated out-houses of a real old English farmyard, add

to them every seedy, cracked, ricketty, wooden structure to be found

in our slums, with a sprinkling of Thames-side huts, and tumble them

all down higgledy-piggledy on a bare round hill sloping to the sea,

scatter about a few slender white minarets, and you have the town--a

place without shade, without water, without food. We can, of course,

do the Kilkenny cat trick, but is it not astounding, is it not

incredible, that such mistakes should be made? However, an

enterprising entrepreneur from Smyrna (Jew, of course) is transforming

a battered old ruin into a 'Restaurant de l'Armee Auxiliare' as the

legend runs, done with a thumb in lamp-black!"

Already "considerable difference of opinion" existed as to the choice

of Gallipoli as the headquarters of the army, and the mere watering

"of thirty-five thousand troops" presented difficulty.

And always and always came the same refrain of chafed patience at

being enmeshed in the mistakes of others. "The stores sent for the

commissariat are beneath contempt. I let out at the quartermaster for

the filthy stuff he was serving out, and he assured me it was the best

he could get. Conningsby of the Hussars tells me half the bales of hay

sent out as forage have centres of wood shavings. Why isn't someone

hanged?"

Marrion Paul, as she read these two effusions, felt vaguely that the

gilt was wearing off the gingerbread. The man's buoyant hopes were

being dashed by the ineptitude of those above him. It was a pity, for

she knew, none better, that underneath all his boyish lightheartedness

Marmaduke Muir had the knack of making men obey him and follow him.

She pictured him leading his regiment into fight and she could see it,

mastered, dominated, held in hand by that cheerful voice, that merry

face.

She waited some time for the next bulletin and when it came it was

short. "The devil's own snowstorm greeted our arrival here--Scutari.

I've seldom seen it worse in Aberdeenshire. The north wind blew big

guns, we were unable to disembark, and half of us--including yours

truly--were sea-sick. Doing nothing, even without enough to eat,

doesn't suit Marmaduke Muir. The barracks here are huge; they will

hold eighteen thousand troops, they say. I know one unit of a

thousand--only about seven hundred and fifty I fear now--that would be

right glad to go anywhere else; anywhere where there was something to

be done. Nigh four months since we left Portsmouth, and, for all the

use I've been, I might as well have enjoyed the trout-fishing on the

Don."

That was the third of the slender envelopes marked "From the British

Army in the East" which reached her.

The next was sealed with a black seal and was full of pious

reflections upon death; for the news of his elder brother Pitt's

demise had just reached Marmaduke and roused his sense of

responsibilities. "In times like these," he wrote, "one feels the

impotence of man--and woman also," he added, "though you, my dear

Marrion, had a wonderful knack of clarifying the muddles. Andrew does

not darn my stockings half so well as you did."

But the beauties of Varna got the better of his reflections and he

drew a picture of it that filled Marrion with doubts and delight. "It

is as beautiful as Scotland--the lakes stretching away into the

scarped woody hills, the sea--so calm that the clouds reflected seem

to sail on it--almost motionless on the shore. The green sward down to

the very edge of the lakes, carpeted with flowers, especially with

irises. They call it the flower of death in India, and I noticed an

evening mist, thick enough almost to be called a fog, rising at sunset

from the low levels and enveloping the town. It did not augur well for

health. As for the town itself, words fail. It is Gallipoli over again

with fewer drains and more filth. Yet to look at it in the clear

sunlight, it is the new Jerusalem. And there are angels in it, Marmie;

the sort of angels you love. I really think these little Turks and

Turkesses are the prettiest children I ever saw. Their little yellow

faces and big brown eyes make one think of Rubens' cherubs seen

through smoked glasses like an eclipse! And an eclipse of most things

it is often for the poor little beggars. At Kustendji, the other day,

Hyde Parker found a couple of pure babies on the battlefield where the

Russians had been bombarding. They're the pets of his frigate now; but

there are dozens of them who have no such luck, and dozens more, I

expect, who die of sheer hunger because we locusts of war eat up

everything. There will be ninety thousand of us here before long, and

for how long? God knows! Five months and nothing done! I wonder how

you would stand it? But it wouldn't happen if you were at the head of

affairs. You'd manage somehow. I feel it in my bones. And, joking

apart, women would be very useful out here. We are going to have a lot

of sick to begin with, and then the misery of the poor folk in town

and village is appalling. However, I suppose England must have time to

turn round and yawn before she wakes up to anything."

Marrion Paul got that letter early one June morning. She laid it down

among the muslins and laces and went to the window. The street was

empty, but she saw, as clearly as if he had really been there,

Marmaduke Muir's buoyant figure going forth to war, full of hope and

confidence.

She never took long making up her mind; and, absolutely without ties

as she was, there were few factors to be considered. Her business was

such a personal one that she had only herself to consult. She had

money and to spare in the bank. Finally, within her heart was the same

spirit of adventure, the same disregard of conventionalities which had

always attracted her in Marmaduke.

Last of all his stockings were not adequately mended.

She laughed aloud at the whimsical thought, for she had no intention

of thrusting herself upon him. But she could be near at hand, and she,

at any rate, need not turn round and yawn before she realised that

women could help.

So quietly, methodically, she set matters in train to get all the work

she had in hand speedily finished. She wrote declining a few orders

that had come in, and then set off with one of her daintiest little

creations to see the wife of the Turkish ambassador, who happened to

be one of her customers.

But, indeed, as Mrs. Marsden, of the "_Layettes_," she could command

plenty of backstairs influence.

The result being that in less than a week she was stepping into the

Dover boat on her way to Marseilles, that being the quickest route to

Constantinople. She carried with her credentials from the ambassador's

family, which she meant to use, if necessary, though she hoped to be

able to do without them, as anything in the nature of publicity might

prevent her carrying out her plan of reaching Varna without Marmaduke

being aware of the fact. As a precaution she wrote to him the day she

left, telling him not to expect further news from her for a few weeks

as she had decided on attempting a cure for her lameness, which a

clever young hospital doctor had advised, but which involved a long

rest.

She had engaged her passage to Constantinople by a small Turkish

mailboat which sailed between Marseilles and the Black Sea. She did

this partly from desire to avoid her fellow-countrymen and the

possibility of recognition or notice, but more because the voyage

would give her an opportunity of learning a few words of Turkish and

of becoming acquainted at least with the husk of Turkish ways. She had

brought a grammar with her, and was laboriously learning perfectly

useless phrases, when something occurred which sent books to the

right-about and plunged her at once into the work she had hoped almost

beyond hope to be able to reach. Cholera, at that time sweeping

erratically through Europe, broke out among the steerage passengers. A

mother died, leaving her month-old baby to be cared for as best it

could. Marrion claimed it, thus became acquainted with the ship's

surgeon and was his right hand in the sharp, decisive epidemic that

followed. It was one of those shipboard epidemics when every hour

brings a new case, until suddenly, with some change of wind or course,

the sickness ceases as it came, mysteriously. They were off the coast

of Candia when the little Turk doctor, who had passed at a French

medical school, made an elaborate bow, laid his hand on his heart, and

said, "Madame, _je suis votre serviteur_." The few convalescents lying

about in the scuppers murmured the same thing in Turkish, making

Marrion realise that what she had set herself to do was possible, if

only she could get footing amongst the people. She decided finally on

consulting her new friend, the little surgeon.

"Varna!" he echoed. "So madame desires Varna! That is strange, since,

being in quarantine, we shall not be allowed to stop at

Constantinople. We must go on straight to Varna, where the disease

already is."

She caught in her breath.

"Not bad, I hope?"

"Of the troops I know little," he said, "but the townsfolk have

suffered terribly. It is semi-starvation. Hein!" lie interrupted

himself hastily, and slapped his baggy trousers, "there is an old man

there--a cripple--one of the old school of medicine that knows

nothing. He has a sort of hospital where folk die decently. If I were

to tell him the use you were, and that you had your own stores of

Europe medicines"--for Marrion had spent a considerable sum in fitting

herself out for the part she hoped to play--"he might like your help.

You have plenty of money?"

His little sharp eyes were alight with interest.

"I have plenty of money," replied Marrion promptly, "and I mean to

spend it."

"Then you may consider it settled," said the surgeon. "Old Achmet is a

sort of relation of mine. I come of a physician family; but I warn you

the presence of an English lady in Varna will not pass unnoticed."

"I shall dress as a Turkish lady," remarked Marrion, with a smile. "I

had thought of that. The _yashmak_ is very convenient."

The little Turk laughed in high good humour.

"The dress will become madame. She will have many admirers; but I will

be the first."

So it was settled lightly, but, as the little steamer puffed and

panted over the blue Archipelago where the blue islands lay scattered

like so many shadows, Marrion Paul felt somehow as if the net of Fate

were closing in on her. There was the scent of Death in the air.

She felt it almost overwhelmingly when, on the first night of her

arrival at Varna, she stood on the ricketty wooden verandah of the

half-ruined house which had been found for her, looking out over the

long line of inland lakes that in the past month had gained from the

intruders whose white tents showed everywhere the dismal name of "Lake

of Death." A white miasma rose from it, hiding the level green fields

which in the sunset had glowed purple-red with the meadow saffron.

Everything had gone smoothly. The old _hakim_ Achmet had gripped on

the hope of money, and Marrion Paul, who had remained on board the

steamer until all negotiations had been made, had simply stepped into

the dinghy in her Turkish dress and been carried with due privacy to

the house chosen for her. Mercifully, the ship's surgeon--who was

delighted at his importance as entrepreneur--had been impressed by

Marrion's appearance, and, arguing therefrom the length of her purse,

had fixed on a villa which had once belonged to a pasha of some sort.

It stood high among cypresses on the Devna road, but, by a steep

descent, was close to the worse slums of the town.

So, as Marrion stood, trying to realise her position, it seemed

impossible, unreal that she should be within touch of Marmaduke--if he

were still there--if he were not dead. An indefinable sense of tragedy

impending--tragedy that was not all grief, but which, by very excess

of joy, of glory, of intensity, transcended the normal and so became

almost fearful, seemed to hang round her. She ate the Turkish supper

provided for her by the large fat shrill-voiced woman she found in

charge; she lay down in the Turkish quilt arranged for her on a wooden

bed and tried to leave all questionings for the morrow; but she could

not sleep. The cry of the _muezzin_ from a minaret hard by divided the

night into set portions. She lay and listened to it.

"_Al-sul-lah to khair un mun nun nu_."

She knew what it meant--"Prayer is better than sleep." But she seemed

unable to do either the one or the other.

Mercifully, again, the night was not long. Far away over the sea in

the east the dawn began to break golden. It lit up the scarped hills

above the woody slopes and slowly, like a white curtain, the mists of

the valley lifted, showing the shiny levels of the inland lakes. Below

her, at her feet, beyond the vine pergola set with purpling bunches of

grapes that jutted against the blue distance, lay the town, a packed

mass of red-tiled roofs and shingled outhouses, incoherent, barely

cognisable. There lay her work; not over yonder where, like little

heaps of lime, the white bell-tents outlined every hill.

Hark, the world was waking! From every side sounded the reveille,

echoing and re-echoing among the hills.

How many men had died that night whose ears would never more hear the

call to duty! Was Marmaduke one of them?

Yes, the shadow of death lay on everything; but at least they were

together in it.

CHAPTER VI

But even that poignant question as to whether Marmaduke lived or did

not live lost its arresting power before what she saw when, guided by

the _hakim_ Achmet, she threaded the maze of lanes and alleys which

still formed the real Varna. The quays, it is true, had been widened

and glorified. Along them gay restaurants and _cafes chantants_ were

to be found, filled with reckless soldiers and still more reckless

courtesans. A wide street had been hacked through tenement houses and

lined with tawdry shops which catered for all and every luxury that

can give a moment's pleasure to idle men. And there were plenty of

them here, waiting, waiting still for that expedition of one hundred

thousand soldiers to the Crimea, of which for months past the English

papers had been full. Outwardly, therefore, so far as a fringe of

welcome and a passage through it to the hills beyond went, Varna was

what folk boasted it had become, a cosmopolitan town; but within, down

by the back wharves and the sodden sea-alleys, round by the crushed-in

closes and stifling courts, it was old, rotten, kept from utter

putrefaction by the hot sun which, while it bred flies, dried up the

muck of many men. The _hakim's_ hospital was in the wide courtyard of

a mosque, one of the few air-holes left to the seething city; and

Marrion Paul never forgot her first sight of the sunlit square set

round with the dead and dying. The stench was unspeakable, and as she

stooped over the first patient she saw that the sheet which covered

him was alive with vermin. Achmet himself, a hunchback with a

high-featured, intolerant face, seemed to think that sitting in the

middle of the courtyard reciting his beads and exhorting the inmates

to have patience and trust in God, was the best treatment he could

offer. Mayhap it was, since half the forms that lay moaning on the

stones were doomed to death. That night, when Marrion returned to her

cypress-set villa, the first thing she did was to cut off her

beautiful hair close to her head, and as she laid the great tresses

away she thought once more of Marmaduke. She must find out about him

when she had time, but that day and the next she had her work cut out

for her. "Maryam Effendi" they had already learnt to call her, and old

Achmet, with a daily stipend of so many piastres, was content to let

her have her way. But there were other places besides the mosque

hospital where some fifty men groaned and died, or groaned and got

better, that were surcharged with misery and death. Hovels where

babies tugged vainly at their dead mother's breasts and old women sat

starving silently. It was among these that after a day or two Maryam

Effendi was busiest. She settled to her work bravely, increasing her

stock of Turkish rapidly and gaining for herself sufficient friends

and aid to enable her to enlarge her sphere of usefulness. One of

these was big fat "Heart's Darling," as her solitary servant was

called, who, transferring domestic duties to an unspeakable drudge she

produced, took up the duties of interpreter on the strength of some

slight knowledge of French.

And Fate was so far kind to Marrion that she had little trouble in

finding out the news she desired to hear. A sort of local rag in

French and English was published in which, for equivalent of a penny,

she learnt that Marmaduke's regiment was still camped six miles out

among the hills and that he was still in command. From her verandah

she could actually see the very place where he must be. Once, indeed,

as she was hurrying along the quay in the ordinary dress of the

Turkish gad-about woman she caught a sight of Andrew Fraser, tall,

gaunt, serious as usual, looking on distastefully at one of the many

drunken rows that occurred every day. The temptation to go up and

speak to him was great, but she stuck to her plan and passed on.

When she had really done something she would write and tell Marmaduke

she was at hand, but not till then. Possibly, had she seen him instead

of Andrew Fraser she might not have been so firm; for a glance would

have shown her that she could have been of use. In truth, the

inaction, the constant fret of feeling that all initiative is

of no avail, was beginning to tell on Marmaduke Muir. He also

looked down of an evening on the white pall that covered the Lake of

Death, and wondered--without one shadow of fear, but from simple

curiosity--whether the levels of life would meet his eyes again. And

they seemed such low levels now! Yes, he had missed something in his

life! What was it? These, however, were very secret thoughts. To the

little coterie of careless men of which he was the centre, he was, as

ever, the mainspring of everything. Even the divisional commander

sought his sympathy as day after day the orders for the front tarried,

and day after day the regimental chaplain grew busier and busier. For

cholera was rampant in the camps as in the town, and every evening the

"Dead March in Saul" echoed out through the hills and over the purple

crocuses.

"Nothing will stop it, sir," said the young colonel quietly, "except

orders for Sebastopol. The men are dead sick of waiting and so am I;

that is the truth."

And still the orders lingered on the way. The waiting army did its

best to pass the time. Marmaduke took to tying flies, and thereinafter

thrashed the hill streams with ill success. And he played cricket with

the men, though it was ill finding a proper pitch on the steep

hill-side where they were encamped; and he had to keep his men from

those low levels as much as he could, being rewarded for his care by

the fact that his battalion suffered less from the scourge than any

other. Though this was not to be wondered at, seeing that it was

commanded by one whose cheery youth and strength seemed to defy Fate.

"The Cornel's face is mair tae the purpose nor your pills, doctor,"

said a young recruit fighting his best for life. "I'll just tak a sup

o' it, if ye please, and leave tither alane for fowk as likes them."

Yet that same face often showed a touch of weariness in it when, after

his wont, Marmaduke would climb the hill behind his hut in order to

smoke his solitary after-breakfast cigar at the foot of a scarp whence

the most astounding view of God's world was to be had. Hills and still

more hills. Seas and still more seas; lakes and still more lakes.

Flowers and still more flowers.

"It is the inaction, Mac," he said to his old friend of the regimental

club one day after mess dinner. They had been perforce laughing at the

plight of a braw Hielandman who had been brought up to orderly-rooms

that day from the general guard, clad in Zouave trousers and jacket,

kepi and all complete; only the chequered hose of his own uniform

remaining to betray the drunken bout on which he had been engaged.

"I noo 'im by 'is legs, sir," said the sergeant solemnly, "so I

brought 'im along."

"Ton my soul, I can't help sympathising with the poor beggars," he

went on. "Why the devil can't they give the men something to do

besides getting drunk? Here is the tenth of August and, so far as I

can see, I might be off grouse-shooting on the twelfth. Good Lord,

what wouldn't I give to be on Braemore with my dogs! They're the

best----"

And he began, in true sportsman style, over the virtues of his

setters; whereat others joined in with tales of their own. So,

heartened up, they all repaired to Marmaduke's favourite vantage

ground to finish their cigars.

It was a perfect evening. The day had been hot, but with the sun

setting a little cool sea-breeze had sprung up which seemed to freshen

even the very flowers that had flagged with the sun's heat. They sat,

growing more and more silent as the day died down; and, indeed, what

lay before their eyes was sufficient to make most men hold their

peace; for it was beautiful exceedingly. The far Euxine fading grey

into a pearl-grey sky. Overhead and behind them the rose-pink pennons

of the departing sun floating on the unfathomable clearness of space.

Within the bay great ships of war showed, half-hidden in the evening

haze which turned the squalid city into dreamland.

Close at hand lay innumerable little hills and ravines thrown in sharp

shade and shine that trended away on all sides to the long line of

lakes over whose purpling levels a fine veil of vapour was rising

softly, swiftly.

Truly a dream-picture, unreal in its absolute beauty, its perfect

peace.

"That's the _Agamemnon_, I expect," said one pointing with his cigar

to a big vessel that, rounding the promontory to the south, began to

cross the bay, leaving a great trail of smoke behind her. "I wonder if

she is coming in?"

"Looks like it," said another, "only they weren't sure. Anyhow, we've

company to-night. Look down there by the second wharf. There's another

trail--some steamer is making fast!"

All eyes turned to where a thin column of smoke showed, rising high

then drifting westwards over the town.

"Burning bad coal whatever," assented Mac. "Why, it's getting bigger!"

Marmaduke, watching intently, suddenly started up.

"By George, it is odd! I believe--by heavens, gentlemen, it is a

fire!"

They all followed his example. And now there could be no doubt. With

amazing rapidity the cloud darkened, deepened, then in the departing

daylight showed dusky red. And there--flashing up suddenly came a

great fork of flame. Marmaduke looked round on the others.

"The town is tinder," he said briefly, "and the magazines---- We had

best be off!"

There was no need for more. In truth there was danger. The wind blew

westwards. There were no fire-engines, so every man might be wanted.

And now the sound of fire alarms on the men-of-war echoed out

stridently, and boatload after boatload of blue-jackets, armed with

pumps and pipes, shot from every ship. Almost before Marmaduke was on

his horse, after ordering fatigue parties to come on at the double,

streams of water were pouring on the burning houses. To no purpose.

The fire had originated in a wine and oil shop and both burnt

fiercely. By the time he reached the town but one word was on the lips

of every responsible officer--"The magazines!" They were full up. On

them depended the possibility of the attack on Sebastopol; on them

therefore hung the fortunes of war. They stood still far from the

blazing town, but it burnt like the matchwood it was, and between them

and it lay, as it were, nothing but fresh tinder ready to take fire at

a spark.

"Those houses should come down, sir," suggested Marmaduke to a

general, and almost before assent answered him, had sprung to organise

the work. But ramshackle, tumbledown though the wooden piers and

pilasters seemed, they were curiously strong, needing time for

destruction. Hawsers were brought ashore to facilitate the job and

parties told off to each house. Three hundred soldiers--mostly

French--lay to manfully on one of the ropes, pulling for all they were

worth, when just as the house they were tackling began to totter a

loud explosion came from within. And, lo! the only two men left on

that rope were Marmaduke and a young French officer who clicked his

heels together and stood to the salute with a merry "_Mes compliments,

mon Colonel!_"

"_A vous, Monsieur le Capitaine!_" returned Marmaduke laughing, as he

rallied the men.

"It's not the magazines, boys!" he called. "We've to save that yet.

Yo-ho--heave ahoy!"

They set to again with a will; but the flames gained ground every

instant and the densely dark cloud of smoke drifting over the

magazines showed alive with ominous shoals of sparks.

"Mac!" shouted Marmaduke, as he worked like a demon, when his major

came hurrying past with another fatigue party. "Get hold of someone

and suggest the commissariat blankets; there are bales and bales of

them somewhere. Put them on the magazine roofs, soak 'em with water.

Tell the blue-jackets----"

"All right, sir!" shouted back the major.

And thereon came blankets, bales on bales of them, and blue-jackets

swarming up and over everything, and jets of water turned from their

useless work on houses that would burn, to keep those blankets sodden.

The din was deafening. The inhabitants, swept out of their houses,

stood huddled in the streets and kept up a constant wail. The bugle

calls rang out here, there, and everywhere, and above the roar and

crackle could be heard voices in urgent exhortation--"All together,

men! The blue-jackets are laughing at you!" "Heave away, I say, boys,

show the land-lubbers how to do it!" Or shriller, more passionate--"_A

moi, mes enfants! Les Anglais nous regardent!_"

Once there came a sudden pause. The red flare of the conflagration

changed to brilliant blue.

"_Milles tonnerres!_" cried the French soldiers sadly, as they

recommenced work. "_Ahe, le bon eau-de-vie!_" Their commissariat

canteen store had gone.

So through the long night they worked, fighting the flames with their

hands for the most part. Fatigue party after fatigue party poured into

the town and one strong man after another lay down exhausted on the

quays and begged someone to cool him with water.

It was just as a faint lightening over the sea in the east showed dawn

was nigh that Marmaduke, wiping the sweat from his blackened forehead,

said--

"I think that's done with. The magazines are safe now!"

"Yes," said a man near him, "up here it's almost over. But they've got

it still down there, by the dock wharves, poor devils!"

Marmaduke, whose every thought and look had hitherto been for the

magazines, turned to the lower part of the town.

"By Jove, they have!" he cried. "Here, men, follow me!"

"Let me go, sir," put in a subaltern. "You must be done--and they

should all be out of their houses by now."

He might as well have saved his breath. Marmaduke, careless of

fatigue, was racing to danger again. And here it was greater. The two

or three story ramshackle houses almost closed in upon each other, and

in one burnt-out street he had to pass through, a charred beam almost

finished him. But he raced on; and here there was evidence that the

fire had been faced with some method. Houses had been pulled down, the

inhabitants ordered to certain open spaces, and as he neared the spot

where the tenements almost overhung the water's edge, a double line of

men were passing buckets. There were only two houses left in the

street; one was in flames, the other, overhanging the water, must soon

go. Seeing the hopelessness of saving it, or indeed the use, since

evidently those were the occupants who, with shrill cries and excited

gestures, were watching the destruction of their property, he was

about to seek work elsewhere when a big fat woman almost overset him

in her eagerness to find his feet. To these she clung, shrieking at

the top of her voice--

"Maryam Effendi! Maryam Effendi! _Elle est la, elle est la! Sauvez

le--Sauvez le_----"

He would have been at a loss even to grasp the last words had not a

figure shown at that moment on the roof of the burning house. It was

the figure of a tall woman in white and the flare of the flames showed

that she carried a baby in her arms.

"My God!" he muttered under his breath, for there seemed no

possibility of escape.

"Maryam Effendi! Maryam Effendi!" wailed the crowd, adding in mixed

French and Turkish--"She has the child! Ah, the brave woman! She has

the child!"

Aye, she had it, and she meant to hold it, too! A brave woman indeed!

Pausing for a second in her perilous effort to pass from one roof to

the other, she pulled off her veil, wrapped it round the child, and

knotted it high above her shoulders. Then, hands and knees, set

herself to her task. But the flames were almost too quick for her. And

forked tongues licked at her feet; the next instant she was beyond

them and, straightening herself, walked rapidly over a level strip.

And now from below, where even Marmaduke stood arrested, helpless,

watching another's fight for life, came a soft wail of horror. The

last house had caught fire from below, the flames were surging

upwards, the thin shingle roof might be gone any moment.

"Jump, for God's sake, jump!" cried Marmaduke, his voice vibrant with

awful dread. "Jump, we'll catch you, somehow!"

Even as he spoke he felt the uselessness of his appeal to one who

could not understand.

"Tell her to jump--we'll catch her!" he added dully, knowing there was

no time, for already ominous crackings rose from the flames that

mounted higher and higher.

But that familiar voice had reached the ears of the woman clinging her

way for dear life, and tightened her hold upon the ridge-pole that was

her only hope. No, she would not die yet! She would not die with that

voice in her ears!

A faint shudder came from the crowd below as, with a crash, the roof

fell in. A fainter moan of relief followed, as the woman with her pack

still showed standing on the crossway beam of a balcony that overhung

the water. A great tongue of flame shot out at her, but at the instant

she raised her joined hands above her head and dived--a flash of white

lit up by the red flare--into deep water.

"By heaven, what pluck!" muttered Marmaduke as, without a second's

delay, he plunged from the wharf and swam, with quick overhand

strokes, to where the woman had disappeared. He was just preparing to

dive after her when she came up close beside him.

One look was sufficient.

"Marmie!" he cried. "God in heaven, am I dreaming? Marmie!"

"Yes--yes," she gasped impatiently, for owing to the weight she

carried her dive had been prolonged. "The child's head--see that it is

out of water!"

In a second he was cool, self-reliant.

"Your hands on my shoulders, please. That will raise you--I must swim

round--the burning wood."

In truth every instant a fierce hiss, a cloud of steam close to them

showed where some blazing fragment had fallen to be extinguished.

"Are you all right?" he called over his shoulder, as with powerful

strokes he made for a further wharf.

"All right; but please be quick--the child----"

How like Marmie--always the child--the child. He swam on, feeling

bewildered but, he knew not why, desperately happy.

"I don't understand," he began, when at last they stood dripping side

by side, and the baby, being unloosed from its wrappings, was found to

be none the worse.

"I will tell you directly," she said. "I must just give the child back

to its mother; it is quite a tiny thing. Then you can walk up to my

house over yonder and get your clothes dried."

But the stifling air of the streets soon scorched up the moisture, and

Marmaduke protested against anything but a cup of hot coffee--which

fat "Heart's Delight" bustled away to prepare--while those two stood

and talked on the verandah. Below them lay the town, still smoking;

still--as a puff of dawn wind blew the embers to redness--sending out

a shower of sparks, or even a forked tongue of flame. The smell of

burning filled their nostrils, the memory of a great escape filled

their minds. And beyond that, under and deeper than that, stretched

the atmosphere of death and disease, of constant danger, in which they

had both been living for so long. It is an atmosphere which invariably

brings with it, to the wholesome mind and body, a feeling of revolt

against such limitations, a distaste of all things that pertain to

decay: a keen appetite for those that belong to life.

And the dawn-light grew as they stood talking. She had bidden him

begone, had urged as a reason that he must remember his health.

Cholera might be bad on the hills, but it was deadly in the city. And

he had laughed back that caution was a bit late to a man who had seen

six strong men die that very morning. The poor devils seemed to like

his being there. Now he----

"I should only want _you_, Marmie," he said. And she had looked at him

in sudden wonder.

"I must go now if I'm to be in time for parade," he admitted at last.

"Good-night--no, good-morrow, my heart's delight!"

For an instant she held he was joking with the fat coffee-bringer's

name; then she gave a quick tremulous cry--

"Duke! what--what do you mean?"

He laughed a little low, happy laugh, sank on his knees beside her,

and clasped her tight in his arms.

"Only that I love you--only that I've found you--no, I've found myself

for ever and ever and ever!"

He buried his face in the loose folds of her dress and so they

remained for a second. Then she slipped through his hold to her knees

also, and they knelt looking into each other's eyes.

The sun rising slowly, majestically, out of the sea shone upon their

shining faces. Vaguely, as in a glass, darkly the twain had passed to

one; they were nearer the Great Unity.

"Duke," whispered Marmie, with a faint shiver, "I think I'm afraid!"

"And I," he said joyously, finding her lips, "feel as if I never could

be afraid again--never--never--never!"

CHAPTER VII

"Duke," she said, for at least the twentieth time, "I keep wondering

how it came about."

He spent all his spare time now--it was not much--in the vine pergola,

and he was picking out the ripe grapes from a bunch as he answered

her.

"I don't. I had been thinking about you a lot; and then I was

tired--really done!"

"What an excuse for falling in love," she protested half-vexedly; "but

I should like to know."

He came over to her and put his arm round her waist.

"How can I tell, sweetest? I had been thinking, as I said, a lot about

you--and missing a lot--stockings, and all that"--his smile was charm

itself; "then, when I saw your dear old head bob up all shaven and

shorn!" he kissed it deliberately, and she laughed.

"For all that," she persisted, "I should like to understand."

"My dearest dear," he replied, "you are such a beggar for wanting to

know and understand. Now I, my dear Marmie--I'm too happy to want to

know anything! I'm content with what I have--and you are content, too,

you know you are!"

There was no denying the fact. Content, indeed, was no word for the

feeling that you were rapt away from the very possibility of care.

There, in the very shadow of the grave, overlooking the Lake of Death,

those two lovers found their joy enhanced by the uncertainty of life.

"I was chief mourner at six funerals this morning," Marmaduke would

say sadly. "As fine fellows as ever stepped. Sometimes I wonder,

darlingest, if I ought to come to you----"

"You can bring no more harm to me than I am in already," she would

reply. "I am in the thick of it here. Indeed, I was wondering if I

ought to let you come."

"Let me!" he would echo derisively. "As if you could stop me."

And in truth there was no gainsaying him, for Marmaduke, easy-going as

a friend, was an imperious lover.

After he left her in the dawnings Marrion would take out the pocket

Shakespeare she had brought with her and, sitting out under the

purpling vines, read how the immortal lovers parted.

"I am content so thou wouldst have it so."

She had never before realised that so lay the very essence of love. No

plannings, no cuttings, no contrivings. All things simplified,

clarified.

It was a wonderful fortnight. The fire, after a brief recrudescence,

died down, leaving the slums of the city in ruins, but purified. So

cholera, most mysterious of diseases, abated, disappeared from the

town; and even in the camps, exposed to the miasma of the Lake of

Death, was shorn of half its terrors. And there was a stir as of

coming life in the military backwaters. Marmaduke, his face alight,

would say that the one thing needful to perfect happiness must be

close at hand; for that was the curious thing about finding yourself

in love--you wanted to be up and doing all the time.

And so one day when, instead of Marmaduke, Andrew Fraser--long since

let into the secret of Maryam Effendi--appeared with a note, Marrion

tried to echo Romeo's words without any reservations, and to be

content if he would have it so. For the note ran as follows:

"HEART'S DELIGHT,

"The news has come! We are off to the Crimea. I feel that for the

first time in my life I am going to have my chance--or, rather, we are

going to have our chance, for I shall take you with me, never fear. I

wish, dear, your real body were, small enough to go into my knapsack,

but the heart that beats under this uniform coat is large enough to

hold your love. I must be very busy, but I will find time in a day or

two for perfect happiness.

"Yours ever,

"MARMADUKE.

"P.S.--I must get you to box my ears before I go. It will keep me

straight and make me what England expects.--M. M.

"P.P.S.--Andrew says he is taking my stockings for you to mend.

Forgive us poor men bodies.--M."