Tales of two people

“Not to-day, thank you, Colonel Wenman. I – I have a great deal to think about. We shall meet again at tea – unless you’re all going to tea at Scarsmoor Castle!” With this Parthian shot she left them.

She had indeed much to think of – and her reflections were not cast in a cheerful mould. She had underrated her enemy. It had seemed sufficient to lock the gate and to forbid Lynborough’s entry. These easy measures had appeared to leave him no resource save blank violence: in that confidence she had sat still and done nothing. He had been at work – not by blank violence, but by cunning devices and subtle machinations. He had made a base use of his personal fascinations, of his athletic gifts, even of his lordly domain, his garden of roses, and his carriage. She perceived his strategy; she saw now how he had driven in his wedges. Her ladies had already gone over to his side; even her men were shaken. Stillford had always been lukewarm; Irons was fluttering round Lynborough’s flame; Wenman might still be hers – but an isolation mitigated only by Colonel Wenman seemed an isolation not mitigated in the least. When she had looked forward to a fight, it had not been to such a fight as this. An enthusiastic, hilarious, united Nab Grange was to have hurled laughing defiance at Scarsmoor Castle. Now more than half Nab Grange laughed – but its laughter was not at the Castle; its laughter, its pitying amusement, was directed at her; Lynborough’s triumphant campaign drew all admiration. He had told Stillford that he would harry her; he was harrying her to his heart’s content – and to a very soreness in hers.

For the path – hateful Beach Path which her feet at this moment trod – became now no more than an occasion for battle, a symbol of strife. The greater issue stood out. It was that this man had peremptorily challenged her to a fight – and was beating her! And he won his victory, not by male violence in spite of male stupidity, but by just the arts and the cunning which should have been her own weapons. To her he left the blunt, the inept, the stupid and violent methods. He chose the more refined, and wielded them like a master. It was a position to which the Marchesa’s experience had not accustomed her – one to which her spirit was by no means attuned.

What was his end – that end whose approach seemed even now clearly indicated? It was to convict her at once of cowardice and of pig-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 her friends to think that about her. Then she would be left alone – to fight a lost battle all alone.

Was he right in his charge? Did it truly describe her conduct? For any truth 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 instant surrender; he had given her no fair time for consideration, no opportunity for a dignified retreat. He had offered her no choice save between ignominy and defiance. If she chose defiance, his rather than hers was the blame.

Suddenly – across these dismal broodings – there shot a new idea. Fas est et ab hoste doceri; she did not put it in Latin, but it came to the same thing – Couldn’t she pay Lynborough back in his own coin? She had her resources – perhaps she had been letting them lie idle! Lord Lynborough did not live alone at Scarsmoor. If there were women open to his 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 heart had its reward. She had not been there above a minute when Roger Wilbraham came out from the Scarsmoor gates.

Lynborough had, he considered, done enough for one day. He was awaiting the results of to-morrow’s manœuvres anent the cricket match. But he amused himself after lunch by proffering to Roger a wager that he would not succeed in traversing Beach Path from end to end, and back again, alone, by his own unassisted efforts, and without being driven to ignominious flight. Without a moment’s hesitation Roger accepted. “I shall 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 walking back towards the gate when Roger first came in sight. He did not see her until after he had reached the gate. There he stood a moment, considering at what point to attack it – for the barricade was formidable. He came to the same conclusion as Lynborough had reached earlier 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 he saw. The Marchesa’s tall slender figure stood before him – all in white, crowned by a large, yet simple, white hat; her pale olive cheeks were tinged with underlying red (the flush of which Lynborough had dreamed!); her dark eyes rested on the young man with a kindly languid interest; her very 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, and I shall be so glad if you’ll use it. I’m going to the Grange myself, so I 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 when you come back,” said she.

If Norah was no match for Lynborough, Roger was none for the Marchesa’s practised 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 the key.

“Will you please lock the padlock? It’s not – safe – to leave the gate open.”

Her smile had come into the open – it was on the red lips now! For all his agitation Roger was not blind to its meaning. His hand was to lock the gate against his friend and chief! But the smile and the eyes commanded. He obeyed.

It was the first really satisfactory moment which the contest had brought to the Marchesa – some small instalment of consolation for the treason of her friends.

Roger had been honestly in love once with a guileless maiden – who had promptly and quite unguilefully refused him; his experience did not at all 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 to be comely and agreeable.

They walked on side by side – not very quickly. The Marchesa’s eyes were now downcast. Roger was able to steal a glance at her profile; he could compare it to nothing less than a Roman Empress on an ancient silver coin.

“I suppose you’ve been taught to think me a very rude and unneighbourly person, 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 the Vicar told me about. Though he said Mr Stabb was absolutely delightful – 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’t think anything of that sort about you. And – and I’ve never heard Lynborough say anything – er – unkind.”

“Oh, Lord Lynborough!” She gave a charming little shrug, accompanied with 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. But that’s not it. If it were merely a question of right, it would be unneighbourly to insist. I’m not hurt by Lord Lynborough’s using this path. But I’m hurt by Lord Lynborough’s discourtesy. In my country women are treated with respect – even sometimes (she gave a bitter little laugh) 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 obliged to think. In your position – as his friend – that would be disloyal; and the one thing I dislike is disloyalty. Only I was anxious” – she turned and 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 the path 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 heartily welcome. Lord Lynborough would have been heartily welcome too, if he would have approached me properly. I was open to discussion. I received orders. I don’t take orders – not even from Lord Lynborough.”

She looked splendid – so Roger thought. The underlying red dyed the olive to a brighter hue; her eyes were very proud; the red lips shut decisively. Just like a Roman Empress! Then her face underwent a rapid transformation; the lips parted, the eyes laughed, the cheeks faded to hues less stormy, yet not less beautiful. (These are recorded as Mr Wilbraham’s impressions.) Lightly she laid the tips of her fingers on his 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? The strawberries are splendid! I want some – and it’s so hot to pick them for oneself!”

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 peace that day – but he went and picked the strawberries.

CHAPTER IX

LYNBOROUGH DROPS A CATCH

“SOMETHING has happened!” (So Lynborough records the same evening.) “I don’t know precisely what – but I think that the enemy is at last in motion. I’m glad. I was being too successful. I had begun to laugh at her – and that only. I prefer the admixture of another element of emotion. All that ostensibly appears is that I have lost five shillings to Roger. ‘You did it?’ I asked. ‘Certainly,’ said Roger. ‘I went at my ease and came back at my ease, and – .’ I interrupted, ‘Nobody stopped you?’ ‘Nobody made any objection,’ said Roger. ‘You took your time,’ says I. ‘You were away three hours!’ ‘The water was very pleasant this afternoon,’ says Roger. Hum! I hand over my two half-crowns, which Roger pockets with a most peculiar sort of smile. There that incident appears to end – with a comment from me that the Marchesa’s garrison is not very alert. Another smile – not less peculiar – from Roger! Hum!

“Then Cromlech! I trust Cromlech as myself – that is, as far as I can see him. He has no secrets from me – that I know of; I have none from him – which would be at all likely to interest him. Yet, soon after Roger’s return, Cromlech goes out! And they had been alone together for some minutes, as I happen to have observed. Cromlech is away an hour and a half! If I were not a man of honour, I would have trained the telescope on to him. I refrained. Where was Cromlech? At the church, he told me. I accept his word – but the church has had a curious effect upon him. Sometimes he is silent, sulky, reflective, embarrassed – constantly rubbing the place where his hair ought to be – not altogether too civil to me either. Anon, sits with a fat happy smile on his face! Has he found a new tomb? No; he’d tell me about a new tomb. What has happened to Cromlech?

“At first sight Violet – the insinuating one – would account for the phenomena. Or Norah’s eyes and lashes? Yet I hesitate. Woman, of course, it is, with both of them. Violet might make men pleased with themselves; Norah could make them merry and happy. Yet these two are not so much pleased with themselves – rather they are pleased with events; they are not merry – they are thoughtful. And I think they are resentful. I believe the hostile squadron has weighed anchor. In these great results, achieved so quickly, demanding on my part such an effort in reply, I see the Marchesa’s touch! I have my own opinion as to what has happened to Roger and to Cromlech. Well, we shall see – to-morrow is the cricket match!”

“Later. I had closed this record; I was preparing to go to bed (wishing to bathe early to-morrow) when I found that I had forgotten to bring up my book. Coltson had gone to bed – or out – anyhow, away. I went down myself. The library door stood ajar; I had on my slippers; a light burnt still; Cromlech and Roger were up. As I approached – with an involuntary noiselessness (I really couldn’t be expected to think of coughing, in my own house and with no ladies about) – I overheard this remarkable, most significant, most important conversation: —

“Cromlech: ‘On my soul, there were tears in her eyes!’

“Roger: ‘Stabb, can we as gentlemen – ?’

“Then, as I presume, the shuffle of my slippers became audible. I went in; both drank whisky-and-soda in a hurried fashion. I took my book from the table. Naught said I. Their confusion was obvious. I cast on them one of my looks; Roger blushed, Stabb shuffled his feet. I left them.

“ ‘Tears in her eyes!’ ‘Can we as gentlemen?’

“The Marchesa moves slowly, but she moves in force!”

It is unnecessary to pursue the diary further; for his lordship – forgetful apparently of the bourne of bed, to which he had originally destined himself – launches into a variety of speculations as to the Nature of Love. Among other questions, he puts to himself the following concerning Love: – (1) Is it Inevitable? (2) Is it Agreeable? (3) Is it Universal? (4) Is it Wise? (5) Is it Remunerative? (6) Is it Momentary? (7) Is it Sempiternal? (8) Is it Voluntary? (9) Is it Conditioned? (10) Is it Remediable? (11) Is it Religious? (There’s a note here – “Consult Cromlech”) – (12) May it be expected to survive the Advance of Civilisation? (13) Why does it exist at all? (14) Is it Ridiculous?

It is not to be inferred that Lord Lynborough answers these questions. He is, like a wise man, content to propound them. If, however, he had answered them, it might have been worth while to transcribe the diary.

“Can we as gentlemen – ?” – Roger had put the question. It waited unanswered till Lynborough had taken his book and returned to record its utterance – together with the speculations to which that utterance gave rise. Stabb weighed it carefully, rubbing his bald head, according to the habit which his friend had animadverted upon.

“If such a glorious creature – ” cried Roger.

“If a thoroughly intelligent and most sympathetic woman – ” said Stabb.

“Thinks that she has a right, why, she probably has one!”

“At any rate her view is entitled to respect – to a courteous hearing.”

“Lynborough does appear to have been a shade – er – ”

“Ambrose is a spoilt child, bless him! She took a wonderful interest in my brasses. I don’t know what brought her to the church.”

“She waited herself to let me through that beastly gate again!”

“She drove me round herself to our gates. Wouldn’t come through Scarsmoor!”

They both sighed. They both thought of telling the other something – but on second thoughts refrained.

“I suppose we’d better go to bed. Shall you bathe to-morrow morning?”

“With Ambrose? No, I sha’n’t, Wilbraham.”

“No more shall I. Good-night, Stabb. You’ll – think it over?”

Stabb grunted inarticulately. Roger drew the blind aside for a moment, looked down on Nab Grange, saw a light in one window – and went to bed. The window was, in objective fact (if there be such a thing), Colonel Wenman’s. No matter. There nothing is but thinking makes it so. The Colonel was sitting up, writing a persuasive letter to his tailor. He served emotions that he did not feel; it is a not uncommon lot.

Lynborough’s passing and repassing to and from his bathing were uninterrupted next morning. Nab Grange seemed wrapped in slumber; only Goodenough saw him, and Goodenough did not think it advisable to interrupt his ordinary avocations. But an air of constraint – even of mystery – marked both Stabb and Roger at breakfast. The cricket match was naturally the topic – though Stabb declared that he took little interest in it and should probably not be there.

“There’ll be some lunch, I suppose,” said Lynborough carelessly. “You’d better have lunch there – it’d be dull for you all by yourself here, Cromlech.”

After apparent consideration Stabb conceded that he might take luncheon on the cricket ground; Roger, as a member of the Fillby team, would, of course, do likewise.

The game was played in a large field, pleasantly surrounded by a belt of trees, and lying behind the Lynborough Arms. Besides Roger and Lynborough, Stillford and Irons represented Fillby. Easthorpe Polytechnic came in full force, save for an umpire. Colonel Wenman, who had walked up with his friends, was pressed into this honourable and responsible service, landlord Dawson officiating at the other end. Lynborough’s second gardener, a noted fast bowler, was Fillby’s captain; Easthorpe was under the command of a curate who had played several times for his University, although he had not actually achieved his “blue.” Easthorpe won the toss and took first innings.

The second gardener, aware of his employer’s turn of speed, sent Lord Lynborough to field “in the country.” That gentleman was well content; few balls came his way and he was at leisure to contemplate the exterior of the luncheon tent – he had already inspected the interior thereof with sedulous care and high contentment – and to speculate on the probable happenings of the luncheon hour. So engrossed was he that only a rapturous cheer, which rang out from the field and the spectators, apprised him of the fact that the second gardener had yorked the redoubtable curate with the first ball of his second over! Young Woodwell came in; he was known as a mighty hitter; Lynborough was signalled to take his position yet deeper in the field. Young Woodwell immediately got to business – but he kept the ball low. Lynborough had, however, the satisfaction of saving several “boundaries.” Roger, keeping wicket, observed his chief’s exertions with some satisfaction. Other wickets fell rapidly – but young Woodwell’s score rapidly mounted up. If he could stay in, they would make a hundred – and Fillby looked with just apprehension on a score like that. The second gardener, who had given himself a brief rest, took the ball again with an air of determination.

“Peters doesn’t seem to remember that I also bowl,” reflected Lord Lynborough.

The next moment he was glad of this omission. Young Woodwell was playing for safety now – his fifty loomed ahead! Lynborough had time for a glance round. He saw Stabb saunter on to the field; then – just behind where he stood when the second gardener was bowling from the Lynborough Arms end of the field – a waggonette drove up. Four ladies descended. A bench was placed at their disposal, and the two men-servants at once began to make preparations for lunch, aided therein by the ostler from the Lynborough Arms, who rigged up a table on trestles under a spreading tree.

Lord Lynborough’s reputation as a sportsman inevitably suffers from this portion of the narrative. Yet extenuating circumstances may fairly be pleaded. He was deeply interested in the four ladies who sat behind him on the bench; he was vitally concerned in the question of the lunch. As he walked back, between the overs, to his position, he could see that places were being set for some half-dozen people. Would there be half-a-dozen there? As he stood, watching, or trying to watch, young Woodwell’s dangerous bat, he overheard fragments of conversation wafted from the bench. The ladies were too far from him to allow of their faces being clearly seen, but it was not hard to recognise their figures.

The last man in had joined young Woodwell. That hero’s score was forty-eight, the total ninety-three. The second gardener was tempting the Easthorpe champion with an occasional slow ball; up to now young Woodwell had declined to hit at these deceivers.

Suddenly Lynborough heard the ladies’ voices quite plainly. They – or some of them – had left the bench and come nearer to the boundary. Irresistibly drawn by curiosity, for an instant he turned his head. At the same instant the second gardener delivered a slow ball – a specious ball. This time young Woodwell fell into the snare. He jumped out and opened his shoulders to it. He hit it – but he hit it into the air. It soared over the bowler’s head and came travelling through high heaven towards Lord Lynborough.

“Look out!” cried the second gardener. Lynborough’s head spun round again – but his nerves were shaken. His eyes seemed rather in the back of his head, trying to see the Marchesa’s face, than fixed on the ball that was coming towards him. He was in no mood for bringing off a safe catch!

Silence reigned, the ball began to drop. Lynborough had an instant to wait for it. He tried to think of the ball and the ball only.

It fell – it fell into his hands; he caught it – fumbled it – caught it – fumbled it again – and at last dropped it on the grass! “Oh!” went in a long-drawn expostulation round the field; and Lynborough heard a voice say plainly:

“Who is that stupid clumsy man?” The voice was the Marchesa’s.

He wheeled round sharply – but her back was turned. He had not seen her face after all!

“Over!” was called. Lynborough apologised abjectly to the second gardener.

“The sun was in my eyes, Peters, and dazzled me,” he pleaded.

“Looks to me as if the sun was shining the other way, my lord,” said Peters drily. And so, in physical fact, it was.

In Peters’ next over Lynborough atoned – for young Woodwell had got his fifty and grown reckless. A one-handed catch, wide on his left side, made the welkin ring with applause. The luncheon bell rang too – for the innings was finished. Score 101. Last man out 52. Jim (office boy at Polytechnic) not out 0. Young Woodwell received a merited ovation – and Lord Lynborough hurried to the luncheon tent. The Marchesa, with an exceedingly dignified mien, repaired to her table under the spreading oak.

Mr Dawson had done himself more than justice; the repast was magnificent. When Stillford and Irons saw it, they became more sure than ever what their duty was, more convinced still that the Marchesa would understand. Colonel Wenman became less sure what his duty was – previously it had appeared to him that it was to lunch with the Marchesa. But the Marchesa had spoken of a few sandwiches and perhaps a bottle of claret. Stillford told him that, as umpire, he ought to lunch with the teams. Irons declared it would look “deuced standoffish” if he didn’t. Lynborough, who appeared to act as deputy-landlord to Mr Dawson, pressed him into a chair with a friendly hand.

“Well, she’ll have the ladies with her, won’t she?” said the Colonel, his last scruple vanishing before a large jug of hock-cup, artfully iced. The Nab Grange contingent fell to.

Just then – when they were irrevocably committed to this feast – the flap of the tent was drawn back, and Lady Norah’s face appeared. Behind her stood Violet and Miss Gilletson. Lynborough ran forward to meet them.

“Here we are, Lord Lynborough,” said Norah. “The Marchesa was so kind, she told us to do just as we liked, and we thought it would be such fun to lunch with the cricketers.”

“The cricketers are immensely honoured. Let me introduce you to our captain, Mr Peters. You must sit by him, you know. And, Miss Dufaure, will you sit by Mr Jeffreys? – he’s their captain – Miss Dufaure – Mr Jeffreys. You, Miss Gilletson, must sit between Mr Dawson and me. Now we’re right – What, Colonel Wenman? – What’s the matter?”

Wenman had risen from his place. “The – the Marchesa!” he said. “We – we can’t leave her to lunch alone!”

Lady Norah broke in again. “Oh, Helena expressly said that she didn’t expect the gentlemen. She knows what the custom is, you see.”

The Marchesa had, no doubt, made all these speeches. It may, however, be doubted whether Norah reproduced exactly the manner, and the spirit, in which she made them. But the iced hock-cup settled the Colonel. With a relieved sigh he resumed his place. The business of the moment went on briskly for a quarter of an hour.