_Chapter Eight_
THE MARCHESA MOVES
After her demonstration against Scarsmoor Castle, the Marchesa went into lunch. But there were objects of her wrath nearer home also. Shereceived Norah's salute--they had not met before, that morning--with icycoldness.
"I'm better, thank you," she said, "but you must be feelingtired--having been up so very early in the morning! Andyou--Violet--have you been over to Scarsmoor again?"
Violet had heard from Norah all about the latter's morning adventure.They exchanged uneasy glances. Yet they were prepared to back oneanother up. The men looked more frightened; men are frightened whenwomen quarrel.
"One of you," continued the Marchesa accusingly, "pursues LordLynborough to his own threshold--the other flirts with him in my ownmeadow! Rather peculiar signs of friendship for me under the presentcircumstances--don't you think so, Colonel Wenman?"
The Colonel thought so--though he would have greatly preferred to be atliberty to entertain--or at least to express--no opinion on so thorny apoint.
"Flirt with him? What do you mean?" But Norah's protest lacked the ringof honest indignation.
"Kissing one's hand to a mere stranger----"
"How do you know that? You were in bed."
"Carlotta saw you from her window. You don't deny it?"
"No, I don't," said Norah, perceiving the uselessness of such a course."In fact, I glory in it. I had a splendid time with Lord Lynborough. Oh,I did try to keep him out for you--but he jumped over my head."
Sensation among the gentlemen! Increased scorn on the Marchesa's face!
"And when I got John Goodenough to help me, he just laid John down onthe grass as--as I lay that spoon on the table! He's splendid, Helena!"
"He seems a good sort of chap," said Irons thoughtfully.
The Marchesa looked at Wenman.
"Nothing to be said for the fellow, nothing at all," declared theColonel hastily.
"Thank you, Colonel Wenman. I'm glad I have one friend left anyhow. Oh,besides you, Mr. Stillford, of course. Oh, and you, dear old Jennie, ofcourse. You wouldn't forsake me, would you?"
The tone of affection was calculated to gratify Miss Gilletson. Butagainst it had to be set the curious and amused gaze of Norah andViolet. Seen by these two ladies in the act of descending from a stylish(and coroneted) victoria in the drive of Nab Grange, Miss Gilletson had,pardonably perhaps, broken down rather severely in cross-examination.She had been so very proud of the roses--so very full of LordLynborough's graces! She was conscious now that the pair held her intheir hands and were demanding courage from her.
"Forsake you, dearest Helena? Of course not! There's no question of thatwith any of us."
"Yes--there is--with those of you who make friends with that wretch atScarsmoor!"
"Really, Helena, you shouldn't be so--so vehement. I'm not sure it'sladylike. It's absurd to call Lord Lynborough a wretch." The pale faintflush again adorned her fading cheeks. "I never met a man morethoroughly a gentleman."
"You never met--" began the Marchesa in petrified tones. "Then you havemet--?" Again her words died away.
Miss Gilletson took her courage in both hands.
"Circumstances threw us together. I behaved as a lady does under suchcircumstances, Helena. And Lord Lynborough was, under the circumstances,most charming, courteous, and considerate." She gathered more courage asshe proceeded. "And really it's highly inconvenient having that gatelocked, Helena. I had to come all the way round by the road."
"I'm sorry if you find yourself fatigued," said the Marchesa with formalcivility.
"I'm not fatigued, thank you, Helena. I should have been terribly--butfor Lord Lynborough's kindness in sending me home in his carriage."
A pause followed. Then Norah and Violet began to giggle.
"It was so funny this morning!" said Norah--and boldly launched on afull story of her adventure. She held the attention of the table. TheMarchesa sat in gloomy silence. Violet chimed in with more reminiscencesof her visit to Scarsmoor; Miss Gilletson contributed new items,including that matter of the roses. Norah ended triumphantly with aeulogy on Lynborough's extraordinary physical powers. Captain Ironslistened with concealed interest. Even Colonel Wenman ventured to opinethat the enemy was worth fighting. Stillford imitated his hostess'ssilence, but he was watching her closely. Would her courage--or herobstinacy--break down under these assaults, this lukewarmness, thesedesertions? In his heart, fearful of that lawsuit, he hoped so.
"I shall prosecute him for assaulting Goodenough," the Marchesaannounced.
"Goodenough touched him first!" cried Norah.
"That doesn't matter, since I'm in the right. He had no business to bethere. That's the law, isn't it, Mr. Stillford? Will he be sent toprison or only heavily fined?"
"Well--er--I'm rather afraid--neither, Marchesa. You see, he'll pleadhis right, and the Bench would refer us to our civil remedy and dismissthe summons. At least that's my opinion."
"Of course that's right," pronounced Norah in an authoritative tone.
"If that's the English law," observed the Marchesa, rising from thetable, "I greatly regret that I ever settled in England."
"What are you going to do this afternoon, Helena? Going to playtennis--or croquet?"
"I'm going for a walk, thank you, Violet." She paused for a moment andthen added, "By myself."
"Oh, mayn't I have the privilege--?" began the Colonel.
"Not to-day, thank you, Colonel Wenman. I--I have a great deal to thinkabout. We shall meet again at tea--unless you're all going to tea atScarsmoor Castle!" With this Parthian shot she left them.
She had indeed much to think of--and her reflections were not cast in acheerful mold. She had underrated her enemy. It had seemed sufficient tolock the gate and to forbid Lynborough's entry. These easy measures hadappeared to leave him no resource save blank violence: in thatconfidence she had sat still and done nothing. He had been at work--notby blank violence, but by cunning devices and subtle machinations. Hehad made a base use of his personal fascinations, of his athletic gifts,even of his lordly domain, his garden of roses, and his carriage. Sheperceived his strategy; she saw now how he had driven in his wedges. Herladies had already gone over to his side; even her men were shaken.Stillford had always been lukewarm; Irons was fluttering roundLynborough's flame; Wenman might still be hers--but an isolationmitigated only by Colonel Wenman seemed an isolation not mitigated inthe least. When she had looked forward to a fight, it had not been tosuch a fight as this. An enthusiastic, hilarious, united Nab Grange wasto have hurled laughing defiance at Scarsmoor Castle. Now more than halfNab Grange laughed--but its laughter was not at the Castle; itslaughter, its pitying amusement, was directed at her; Lynborough'striumphant campaign drew all admiration. He had told Stillford that hewould harry her; he was harrying her to his heart's content--and to avery soreness in hers.
For the path--hateful Beach Path which her feet at this momenttrod--became now no more than an occasion for battle, a symbol ofstrife. The greater issue stood out. It was that this man hadperemptorily challenged her to a fight--and was beating her! And he wonhis victory, not by male violence in spite of male stupidity, but byjust the arts and the cunning which should have been her own weapons. Toher he left the blunt, the inept, the stupid and violent methods. Hechose the more refined, and wielded them like a master. It was aposition to which the Marchesa's experience had not accustomed her--oneto which her spirit was by no means attuned.
What was his end--that end whose approach seemed even now clearlyindicated? It was to convict her at once of cowardice and ofpig-headedness, to exhibit her as afraid to bring him to book by law,and yet too churlish to cede him his rights. He would get all herfriends to think that about her. Then she would be left alone--to fighta lost battle all alone.
Was he right in his charge? Did it truly describe her conduct? For anytruth there might be in it, she declared that he was himself to blame.He had forced the fight on her by his audacious demand for instantsur
render; he had given her no fair time for consideration, noopportunity for a dignified retreat. He had offered her no choice savebetween ignominy and defiance. If she chose defiance, his rather thanhers was the blame.
Suddenly--across these dismal broodings--there shot a new idea. _Fas estet ab hoste doceri_; she did not put it in Latin, but it came to thesame thing--Couldn't she pay Lynborough back in his own coin? She hadher resources--perhaps she had been letting them lie idle! LordLynborough did not live alone at Scarsmoor. If there were women open tohis wiles at the Grange, were there no men open to hers at Scarsmoor?The idea was illuminating; she accorded it place in her thoughts.
She was just by the gate. She took out her key, opened the padlock,closed the gate behind her, but did not lock it, walked on to the road,and surveyed the territory of Scarsmoor.
Fate helps those who help themselves: her new courage of brain and hearthad its reward. She had not been there above a minute when RogerWilbraham came out from the Scarsmoor gates.
Lynborough had, he considered, done enough for one day. He was awaitingthe results of to-morrow's manoeuvers anent the cricket match. But heamused himself after lunch by proffering to Roger a wager that he wouldnot succeed in traversing Beach Path from end to end, and back again,alone, by his own unassisted efforts, and without being driven toignominious flight. Without a moment's hesitation Roger accepted. "Ishall just wait till the coast's clear," he said.
"Ah, but they'll see you from the windows! They will be on the lookout,"Lynborough retorted.
The Marchesa had strolled a little way down the road. She was walkingback toward the gate when Roger first came in sight. He did not see heruntil after he had reached the gate. There he stood a moment,considering at what point to attack it--for the barricade wasformidable. He came to the same conclusion as Lynborough had reachedearlier in the day. "Oh, I'll jump the wall," he said.
"The gate isn't locked," remarked a charming voice just behind him.
He turned round with a start and saw--he had no doubt whom she was. TheMarchesa's tall slender figure stood before him--all in white, crownedby a large, yet simple, white hat; her pale olive cheeks were tingedwith underlying red (the flush of which Lynborough had dreamed!); herdark eyes rested on the young man with a kindly languid interest; hervery red lips showed no smile, yet seemed to have one in ready ambush.Roger was overcome; he blushed and stood silent before the vision.
"I expect you're going to bathe? Of course this is the shortest way, andI shall be so glad if you'll use it. I'm going to the Grange myself, soI can put you on your way."
Roger was honest. "I--I'm staying at the Castle."
"I'll tell somebody to be on the lookout and open the gate for you whenyou come back," said she.
If Norah was no match for Lynborough, Roger was none for the Marchesa'spractised art.
"You're--you're awfully kind. I--I shall be delighted, of course."
The Marchesa passed through the gate. Roger followed. She handed him thekey.
"Will you please lock the padlock? It's not--safe--to leave the gateopen."
Her smile had come into the open--it was on the red lips now! For allhis agitation Roger was not blind to its meaning. His hand was to lockthe gate against his friend and chief! But the smile and the eyescommanded. He obeyed.
It was the first really satisfactory moment which the contest hadbrought to the Marchesa--some small instalment of consolation for thetreason of her friends.
Roger had been honestly in love once with a guileless maiden--who hadpromptly and quite unguilefully refused him; his experience did not atall fit him to cope with the Marchesa. She, of course, was merciless:was he not of the hated house? As an individual, however, he appeared tobe comely and agreeable.
They walked on side by side--not very quickly. The Marchesa's eyes werenow downcast. Roger was able to steal a glance at her profile; he couldcompare it to nothing less than a Roman Empress on an ancient silvercoin.
"I suppose you've been taught to think me a very rude and unneighborlyperson, haven't you, Mr. Wilbraham? At least I suppose you're Mr.Wilbraham? You don't look old enough to be that learned Mr. Stabb theVicar told me about. Though he said Mr. Stabb was absolutelydelightful--how I should love to know him, if only--!" She broke off,sighing deeply.
"Yes, my name's Wilbraham. I'm Lynborough's secretary. But--er--I don'tthink anything of that sort about you. And--and I've never heardLynborough say anything--er--unkind."
"Oh, Lord Lynborough!" She gave a charming little shrug, accompaniedwith what Roger, from his novel-reading, conceived to be a _moue_.
"Of course I--I know that you--you think you're right," he stammered.
She stopped on the path. "Yes, I do think I'm right, Mr. Wilbraham. Butthat's not it. If it were merely a question of right, it would beunneighborly to insist. I'm not hurt by Lord Lynborough's using thispath. But I'm hurt by Lord Lynborough's discourtesy. In my country womenare treated with respect--even sometimes (she gave a bitter littlelaugh) with deference. That doesn't seem to occur to Lord Lynborough."
"Well, you know----"
"Oh, I can't let you say a word against him, whatever you may be obligedto think. In your position--as his friend--that would be disloyal; andthe one thing I dislike is disloyalty. Only I was anxious"--she turnedand faced him--"that you should understand my position--and that Mr.Stabb should too. I shall be very glad if you and Mr. Stabb will use thepath whenever you like. If the gate's locked you can manage the wall!"
"I'm--I'm most awfully obliged to you--er--Marchesa--but you see----"
"No more need be said about that, Mr. Wilbraham. You're heartilywelcome. Lord Lynborough would have been heartily welcome too, if hewould have approached me properly. I was open to discussion. I receivedorders. I don't take orders--not even from Lord Lynborough."
She looked splendid--so Roger thought. The underlying red dyed the oliveto a brighter hue; her eyes were very proud; the red lips shutdecisively. Just like a Roman Empress! Then her face underwent a rapidtransformation; the lips parted, the eyes laughed, the cheeks faded tohues less stormy, yet not less beautiful. (These are recorded as Mr.Wilbraham's impressions.) Lightly she laid the tips of her fingers onhis arm for just a moment.
"There--don't let's talk any more about disagreeable things," she said."It's too beautiful an afternoon. Can you spare just five minutes? Thestrawberries are splendid! I want some--and it's so hot to pick them forone's self!"
Roger paused, twisting the towel round his neck.
"Only five minutes!" pleaded--yes, pleaded--the beautiful Marchesa."Then you can go and have your swim in peace."
It was a question whether poor Roger was to do anything more in peacethat day--but he went and picked the strawberries.