Tales of two people

“I’d just as soon ask her permission to breathe,” interrupted Lynborough.

“Then my mission is at an end.”

“I congratulate you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you’ve found out the chief thing you wanted to know, haven’t you? If you’d asked it point-blank, we should have saved a lot of time. Good-bye, Mr Stillford. Roger, the bell’s in reach of your hand.”

“You’re pleased to be amused at my expense?” Stillford had grown huffy.

“No – only don’t think you’ve been clever at mine,” Lynborough retorted placidly.

So they parted. Lynborough went back to his Dean, Stillford to the Marchesa. Still ruffled in his plumes, feeling that he had been chaffed and had made no adequate reply, yet still happy in the solid, the important fact which he had ascertained, he made his report to his client. He refrained from openly congratulating her on not being challenged to a legal fight; he contented himself with observing that it was convenient to be able to choose her own time to take proceedings.

Lady Norah was with the Marchesa. They both listened attentively and questioned closely. Not the substantial points alone attracted their interest; Stillford was constantly asked – “How did he look when he said that?” He had no other answer than “Oh – well – er – rather queer.” He left them, having received directions to rebarricade the gate as solidly and as offensively as possible; a board warning off trespassers was also to be erected.

Although not apt at a description of his interlocutor, yet Stillford seemed to have conveyed an impression.

“I think he must be delightful,” said Norah thoughtfully, when the two ladies were left together. “I’m sure he’s just the sort of a man I should fall in love with, Helena.”

As a rule the Marchesa admired and applauded Norah’s candour, praising it for a certain patrician flavour – Norah spoke her mind, let the crowd think what it would! On this occasion she was somehow less pleased; she was even a little startled. She was conscious that any man with whom Norah was gracious enough to fall in love would be subjected to no ordinary assault; the Irish colouring is bad to beat, and Norah had it to perfection; moreover, the aforesaid candour makes matters move ahead.

“After all, it’s my path he’s trespassing on, Norah,” the Marchesa remonstrated.

They both began to laugh. “The wretch is as handsome as – as a god,” sighed Helena.

“You’ve seen him?” eagerly questioned Norah; and the glimpse – that tantalising glimpse – on Sandy Nab was confessed to.

The Marchesa sprang up, clenching her fist. “Norah, I should like to have that man at my feet, and then to trample on him! Oh, it’s not only the path! I believe he’s laughing at me all the time!”

“He’s never seen you. Perhaps if he did he wouldn’t laugh. And perhaps you wouldn’t trample on him either.”

“Ah, but I would!” She tossed her head impatiently. “Well, if you want to meet him, I expect you can do it – on my path to-morrow!”

This talk left the Marchesa vaguely vexed. Her feeling could not be called jealousy; nothing can hardly be jealous of nothing, and even as her acquaintance with Lynborough amounted to nothing, Lady Norah’s also was represented by a cypher. But why should Norah want to know him? It was the Marchesa’s path – by consequence it was the Marchesa’s quarrel. Where did Norah stand in the matter? The Marchesa had perhaps been constructing a little drama. Norah took leave to introduce a new character!

And not Norah alone, as it appeared at dinner. Little Violet Dufaure, whose appealing ways were notoriously successful with the emotionally weaker sex, took her seat at table with a demurely triumphant air. Captain Irons reproached her, with polite gallantry, for having deserted the croquet lawn after tea.

“Oh, I went for a walk to Fillby – through Scarsmoor, you know.”

“Through Scarsmoor, Violet?” The Marchesa sounded rather startled again.

“It’s a public road, you know, Helena. Isn’t it, Mr Stillford?”

Stillford admitted that it was. “All the same, perhaps the less we go there at the present moment – ”

“Oh, but Lord Lynborough asked me to come again and to go wherever I liked – not to keep to the stupid road.”

Absolute silence reigned. Violet looked round with a smile which conveyed a general appeal for sympathy; there was, perhaps, special reference to Miss Gilletson as the guardian of propriety, and to the Marchesa as the owner of the disputed path.

“You see, I took Nellie, and the dear always does run away. She ran after a rabbit. I ran after her, of course. The rabbit ran into a hole, and I ran into Lord Lynborough. Helena, he’s charming!”

“I’m thoroughly tired of Lord Lynborough,” said the Marchesa icily.

“He must have known I was staying with you, I think; but he never so much as mentioned you. He just ignored you – the whole thing, I mean. Wasn’t it tactful?”

Tactful it might have been; it did not appear to gratify the Marchesa.

“What a wonderful air there is about a – a grand seigneur!” pursued Violet reflectively. “Such a difference it makes!”

That remark did not gratify any of the gentlemen present; it implied a contrast, although it might not definitely assert one.

“It is such a pity that you’ve quarrelled about that silly path!”

“Oh! oh! Miss Dufaure!” – “I say, come, Miss Dufaure!” – “Er – really, Miss Dufaure!” – these three remonstrances may be distributed indifferently among the three men. They felt that there was a risk of treason in the camp.

The Marchesa assumed her grandest manner; it was mediæval – it was Titianesque.

“Fortunately, as it seems, Violet, I do not rely on your help to maintain my rights in regard to the path. Pray meet Lord Lynborough as often as you please, but spare me any unnecessary mention of his name.”

“I didn’t mean any harm. It was all Nellie’s fault.”

The Marchesa’s reply – if such it can be called – was delivered sotto voce, yet was distinctly audible. It was also brief. She said “Nellie!” Nellie was, of course, Miss Dufaure’s dog.

Night fell upon an apparently peaceful land. Yet Violet was an absentee from the Marchesa’s dressing-room that night, and even between Norah and her hostess the conversation showed a tendency to flag. Norah, for all her courage, dared not mention the name of Lynborough, and Helena most plainly would not. Yet what else was there to talk about? It had come to that point even so early in the war!

Meanwhile, up at Scarsmoor Castle, Lynborough, in exceedingly high spirits, talked to Leonard Stabb.

“Yes, Cromlech,” he said, “a pretty girl, a very pretty girl if you like that petite insinuating style. For myself I prefer something a shade more – what shall we call it?”

“Don’t care a hang,” muttered Stabb.

“A trifle more in the grand manner, perhaps, Cromlech. And she hadn’t anything like the complexion. I knew at once that it couldn’t be the Marchesa. Do you bathe to-morrow morning?”

“And get my head broken?”

“Just stand still, and let them throw themselves against you, Cromlech. Roger! – Oh, he’s gone to bed; stupid thing to do – that! Cromlech, old chap, I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

He just touched his old friend’s shoulder as he passed by: the caress was almost imperceptible. Stabb turned his broad red face round to him and laughed ponderously.

“Oh, and you understand!” cried Lynborough.

“I have never myself objected to a bit of fun with the girls,” said Stabb.

Lynborough sank into a chair murmuring delightedly, “You’re priceless, Cromlech!”

CHAPTER VI