Broad sunlight showed through the chinks of the drawn curtains when Fantine Le Grand awoke. She lay yawning for a minute or two, content to be still drowsy. Then memory returned, and she was out of bed in a second and at the window. The lawns lay dewy, a late blackbird was tugging away at an inadvertent worm, and shrill on the morning air rose the sound of Davie Sim's pipes playing "Hey! Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin' yet?" as he came up from the keep to strut through the corridors of the castle. It must be eight o'clock! And--what had happened? How had she come to sleep so long? She passed swiftly, being quick of thought, to the dressing-table and took up the bottle of sleeping drops. It was half empty.
Almost before she had time to realise this, and what it might possibly mean, a knock came to the door, and Marrion Paul, opening it, came into the room with a can of hot water.
She had been there at the earliest possible moment to satisfy herself that all was right, so she was not surprised to see Fantine Le Grand on foot. The look on the latter's face, however, the bottle in her hand, gave warning of what was to come, and it came instantly short and sharp, for Fantine had plenty of wit.
"Why did you give me what you did?" she asked imperiously.
Marrion Paul set down the water-can and faced her.
"Because I wanted to prevent you from joining Captain Muir at the Cross-keys," she replied quietly. It was waste of time, she felt, to beat about the bush with this woman, the solid truth was her best weapon.
It proved so for the moment. Fantine utterly taken aback retired into personal injury.
"You might have killed me," she began, almost whimperingly.
"Maybe," interrupted Marrion, "but I had to risk it--an' it's no hurt you----"
A sense of outrage came to her victim.
"Not hurt me, indeed! And why had you to risk it? Are you Captain Muir's keeper? His mistress you are, of course; but if you think you've succeeded you're very much mistaken. I shall join him by the coach to-morrow instead of to-day. And you may thank your stars that, as I don't want any fuss just now, you'll get scot free of your attempt to murder me. Now go! I never want to see your face again. Josephine will manage somehow, I've no doubt."
She pointed to the door, and Marrion, going down the wide stairs, felt relieved that that, at least, was over. The interview also had given her a clue as to what must be her next step. Mdlle. Le Grand had said that fuss would be inconvenient; for that reason, therefore, a fuss must be made. Hitherto she had hesitated between taking a further and still more active part in stopping the intrigue, or leaving the matter to Marmaduke's own good sense, which, removed from Fantine's personal influence, might surely be trusted. He could not want to marry the woman. It was the two thousand pounds he wanted. Marrion on her way to the keep-house made up her mind to risk everything by an appeal to the old lord; it would, at any rate, put a spoke in the woman's wheel for a time, and prevent her getting away to Marmaduke at once; it would, at any rate, make a fuss.
As a matter of fact, more fuss was facing Marrion than she had bargained for, since the first thing she saw on entering the keep-house was her step-grandmother seated at the table sipping a cup of tea she had just made for herself.
It was an unpleasant surprise, as she had not been expected home so soon, and Marrion bit her lip with vexation at the sight of her. After laying elaborate plans to avoid even the sight of one she despised and detested, it was bitter to find her established as mistress in the house. So anger kept her silent and Mrs. Sim, whilom Penelope of the castle, said no word either. She simply rose theatrically and stretched a dramatic finger across the table. So standing she showed like a wide extinguisher, the knob of which was formed by her head. This was still small and, so far as the upper part of the face was concerned, unmarred by fat, but obesity began on the double chin and went on increasing from shoulder to waist, from waist to hip, till the flounce of a wide petticoat completed the base of the triangle. Her hair of bright orange-red was untouched by grey, and the china-blue of her hard eyes startled you by the intensity of their colour in a face otherwise somewhat tallowy.
"Ye hizzie!" she said at last, in a deep contralto voice. "I wonder ye have the face to stan' there disgracin' the honest hearth o' an honest man! Awa wi' you, ye baggage, afore yer faither comes to beat you frae the door."
Marrion had stood with open mouth before this sudden onslaught; now she recovered herself and said haughtily--
"I do not understand." In her heart of hearts, however, she told herself that this woman knew of last night's happenings.
Penelope Sim gave a snort and sat down again to sipping her tea.
"Div' ye no understand?" she asked scornfully. "Then I'll tell ye. A lassie that goes tae spend the night wi' a man in a strange hottle is no ane to share an honest woman's home. An' so I'll tell yer faither. Shame upon ye, Marrion Paul!"
"Perhaps you'll oblige me, Mrs. Sim, by holding your tongue," retorted Marrion superbly. "I did not spend the night with any man, and if you say I did, you lie!"
"My certy!" cried Penelope, her face flaming. "So I'm a liar, am I? I tell you I saw you wi' my own eyes at the Cross-keys----"
"And what might you be doing there?" put in Marrion. "No good, likely."
Mrs. Penelope's voice began to rise.
"I'm no goin' to bandy words wi' you, Marrion Paul, ye're no worth it. But here comes your gran'faither; give your lip to him, if ye like. Ye sall no give it to me, a decent, married woman!"
"Decent!" echoed Marrion scornfully, and would have gone on to heaven knows what of indignant criticism had not the entry of her grandfather tied her tongue for she was fond of him, with all his faults, and he represented to her the only family life she had ever known.
So she stood defiant as Penelope of the castle, gloating over her own newly acquired propriety, held forth on what she had seen from the bar-parlour of the Cross-keys.
"Grandfather," she said at last, "you know me better than she does. Do you think I would do such a thing?"
"Ask her," broke in the shrilled contralto voice, "ask her, gudeman, if she was at the Cross-keys last night. I tell you she was, dressed up fine like a lady--an' the things lyin' yet in her room, for I went to see. Aye, ask her if she was there wi' a young spark--they tell't me it was Captain Duke, but that I'll never believe----"
"You may believe what you like!" put in Marrion fiercely. "But I'll tell you the truth, grandfather. I was at the Cross-keys last night, and I did see Captain Duke, but it was no harm I was after."
"Hark to her!" shrilled Penelope. "She was there, and for no harm! Out o' the house with her, Davie Sim, or your wedded wife will find her way out hersel'."
Here Davie who, man-like, had looked from one to the other of the two women, uncertain of approbation or reprobation, shook his head and began mumblingly--
"I never thocht, Marrion, to praise God your poor mother is in her grave, but if she'd lived to see this day----"
"Leave my mother alone, please grandfather," said Marrion, passion in voice and manner. "If you choose to judge me by that cast-off creature, do so! But there's no need to quarrel about it. You know I would not sleep under the same roof with her----"
"Hark to her, hark to her, an' me as gude a wife as ever stepped. Are ye goin' tae put up wi' that, Davie Sim?" whimpered Penelope.
Once more the master of the house looked as though he would speak, but a wave of Marrion's hand stopped him.
"So I shall leave this evening, and if what I've done is a disgrace to you, you have the remedy in your own hands--you can hold your tongues. So that ends it!"
She made her way past them and up the stairs, feeling a trifle dazed. This unlooked-for recognition complicated matters for herself; but did not alter her determination to risk all in order to get Marmaduke out of the hands of Fantine Le Grand.
So she packed up her things, leaving all the treasures of her childhood and her mother's, unlocked in drawers and cupboards, and sitting down on her bed by the window took her last look out over the rugged coast she had watched so often by storm and shine, by night and by day. And as she looked with lack-lustre, preoccupied eyes her thoughts were busy, not with the past but with the new life that was opening out before her; since, come what might, she realised that never again would she be simple Marrion Paul, old Davie Sim's granddaughter. To begin with, if she knew aught of Penelope, reputation was gone. Women of that sort were pitiless, and, in addition, her grandfather's wife desired nothing more than to make Drummuir and all belonging to it an impossibility for her step-granddaughter. Then she, Marrion, had definitely set herself the task of defending Marmaduke, and heaven only knew how far that might take her. For one thing, in view of Penelope's curiosity, she must make sure that Marmaduke had not left anything incriminating behind him at the Cross-keys. It would be so like him to write Captain the Honourable Marmaduke Muir and Mrs. Muir in the visitor's book!
The idea made her smile tenderly, even while she took a mental note that it must be seen to.
So, going down, while it was yet early, to order a handcart to take her slight luggage to the coach office, she came upon a castle stable-boy, who was a distant admirer of hers, riding to the Cross-keys with a note.
"It's frae the dancin' woman," said the lad, with a broad grin, "an' she guve me a golden soverin' to take it quick; an' I've to leave anither at the Crow."
"I can deliver that one," said Marrion cheerfully, "for I'm goin' yon way."
So, note in hand, she made her way to the Crow, and by a dexterous question or two elicited the fact that, as on the previous night, a carriage was ordered to be in waiting at half-past nine. If all went well, therefore, she might hope to avail herself of it. She did not, however, anticipate exactly what she meant to do--her plans were fluid, so much depending on the success of her next step. It was an overwhelmingly bold one, and she shivered visibly as she sat waiting for an answer to her request to be allowed an interview with his lordship.
"I'm right sure his lordship wad see me," she pleaded with Dewar, the valet, who in common with all the men-servants at the castle, had an approving eye on her good looks, "did he ken what I cam' about; and"--she added, with a laugh that was a challenge--"I'm no sae ill-looking but he might be blythe to see me forbye business."
"An' that's God's truth, my dear," replied Dewar gallantly, "sae I'll see what I can do."
Fortune favoured him, for Fantine Le Grand being in an evil, reckless temper had just sent to say she had a headache and could not come to amuse his lordship, who, up and dressed to receive her as usual, was cursing and swearing at womankind in the abstract, and therefore, not unwilling to have a concrete specimen on which to vent his ill-humour.
Marrion Paul, consequently, found herself without delay facing the heavy figure in the big padded chair. One foot swathed in flannels lay on a leg-rest, and the large hand that clasped the lion-head knobs of the armchair showed swollen and disfigured by gout; still there was something dignified, almost regal, in the pose of the man; while his face--Marrion, despite her thumping heart, as she looked above the treble chin to the open forehead, felt that here, when all was said and done, was kinship with Marmaduke.
And she for her part pleased the old man's eye also. She had not dressed herself for the occasion, but stood in her usual striped petticoat and bed-gown with a green tartan shoulder shawl of the Muir tartan and a snood of tartan ribbon to match in the red bronze coils of hair.
"So you're Marrion Paul?" he said, his keen clear blue eyes taking in every point of her person. "I haven't seen you to speak to since you were so high. You're a devilish good-looking girl. Come and give me a kiss, my lass."
To his surprise, amusement, and approval she stepped forward instantly and obeyed. The touch of her cool lips on his seemed to stagger him.
"Don't object to kisses--hey?" he said, as she remained standing close beside him.
"Why should I, Drummuir," she replied quietly, "when you've kenned me since I was a baby in arms."
He burst into one of his guffaws of rough laughter.
"Hey? What? One for the old reprobate! Sit down, my dear, and tell me what you want."
"It's about Mr. Marmaduke, sir," she began, her voice shaking a little.
"Hey? What? Has that young devil been--no, I beg your pardon, my dear, you're not that sort. Trust a man who's kicked over the traces a bit to know an honest horse when he sees one. You take my word for it; the best judge of a good woman is a bad man. Well, what of Duke?"
The mere abbreviation of the name was encouraging. She felt that to attempt a bargain, even to beg for patience, would be a mistake. She simply took her courage in both hands and told him all she knew. He sat, his unwieldy body impassive as some carven image, one strong emotion after another sweeping over the mobile face that held so much laughter in every line that Time had graven on it. Only once or twice he interrupted her when, fearing she was too lengthy, she began to cut out details. Then his quick "Let's have it all; don't you know, you're as good as a play. Beat the immortal wizard all to bits! Don't skip"--brought her back to the accessories of her tale. When she had finished he sat and looked at her for a second.
"And you say Duke let you go as you came? Well, he was a d----d young fool; that's all I've got to say! I wouldn't in his place. Even now--my God, what a Lady Drummuir you'd make, if it wasn't for the curse of class! I'll turn Socialist before I die." He paused, and his blue eyes narrowed. "Now, why have you come and told me all this?"
She had her answer ready, and all fear of the old man having vanished she gave him the truth boldly.
"Because I want payment. I've put it into your power to stop Mdlle. Fantine----"
His whole face changed in a second, an expression of sheer devilish anger took possession of it.
"You leave that alone!" he thundered. "I can settle that business for myself."
It was the first mistake she had made, and she became more wary.
"I want payment," she went on, "because I've risked everything for--for Duke. My father's turned me out of his house and Penelope----"
"Damn Penelope!" broke in his lordship complacently. "Having no virtue of her own, she's deuced careful about other people's. And so Duke really contemplated marrying Fantine in order to make two thousand pounds by dancing. Confound the boy! He can dance, I'll allow; but it was a big price to pay. And the idea of my son dancing for money! He must have been hard put to it, even to entertain the idea." He bent those blue eyes of his suddenly on her. "And so you want me to give Duke the two thousand pounds myself, do you? Of course you do! Trust a woman who is in love asking for the moon." He paused a moment and gave a little laugh. "Heaps of women have asked me to be a saint, my dear, but I never could compass virtue. However, you've given me as good a morning's entertainment as ever I had in my life; and what's more you've given me an opportunity of as fine an afternoon's amusement." Here he chuckled wickedly, then added, "Shall I give you the cheque or send it direct?"
She felt staggered at his indifference. She had expected to brave his anger and have perchance to threaten him with what she knew of Fantine's plans for the evening; but, here, with scarce an argument, she found herself successful. In truth she had not gauged accurately the phenomenal malice as well as the almost incredible good nature of the man.
"You must send it, my lord," she said swiftly. "There is no need to say anything about all this."
He frowned in a second.
"Do you mean to dictate to me, my good girl?" he asked fiercely. "You'd better leave the business in my hands. I'll settle it to my own satisfaction. Come back at six o'clock and you shall be made acquainted with my decision."
He rang the hand-bell on the table beside him and when Dewar entered, said carelessly:
"Show the young woman out; and, Dewar, tell Penelope to come and see me at two o'clock. And, Dewar, send a message to the Manse and tell that jackanapes of a parson Bryce that I want to confess my sins or something of that sort. Tell him I'm ill--dying, if you like--anything--and I want him as soon as he can come. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lord," replied Dewar discreetly, though he was considerably mystified; but everyone in the castle knew there was but one way of receiving Lord Drummuir's orders, acquiescence and obedience.
An hour or so afterwards Fantine Le Grand coming in from a ramble on the rocks, whither she had gone despite her pretended headache, in order to quiet her nerves for what she foresaw was to be a stand-up fight between her and Marrion, found old Lord Drummuir in possession of her boudoir. He was in his wheeled-chair, but was looking remarkably spruce in a blue coat with brass buttons, an immaculate white stock and frill, and his gouty foot was swathed in kersey to match the breeches he wore. His ruddy face was all smiles, but there was a vicious look in the blue eyes that reminded her of a horse about to kick.
And kick he did with a force that left her breathless.
"I've come to tell you," he said, "that we are going to be married this evening."
She recoiled as if from a blow.
"Now, don't be foolish and make a fuss," he continued, as she gave a little cry, "or you won't look well in your wedding-dress!" So far he had gone lightly; but now he settled down to a decision of voice and manner that was positively terrifying to the woman in its intensity. "I tell you I won't have any fuss, and I know everything. Marrion Paul told it me from start to finish, and I don't want to hear any more about it, if you please!"
The mock politeness of the last finished her. She was ill-bred, not over brave, and reverting to her early upbringing she burst into a torrent of abuse of the viper, the hussy who was no better than she should be, who, if Penelope at the keep-house was to be believed--and she had seen her but now--had----
So far Lord Drummuir had let her storm; now he stopped her impatiently.
"I know what Penelope says," he snarled, "and I shall be sorry for her when she hears what I have to say. And I know you, Fanny, down to the ground. You're not a bad sort, but you are getting old. Look in the glass, you foolish woman, and you'll see I'm right. But you suit me and I mean to have you. There's an end of it."
She summoned up a little courage.
"And supposing I won't! I am a free woman."
He lowered his brows and his words cut like a knife.
"Don't tell lies! You're not free. You think I paid your debts. I wasn't such a fool till I had you fast. Look here, when I heard all about this midsummer madness with Marmaduke--the d----d impertinence of trying to inveigle my son into posturing at the Courts of Europe for pennies almost made me give you yourcongé, miss, I can tell you--I sent for Compton. You think I don't know what he is to you; but I do. If he'd known of this business, I'd have kicked you both out. But he didn't, poor devil; he was flabbergasted. So I saw it was all your fault and I determined to punish you, and I'm going to do it my own way. Now, don't look like a frightened hare; I never touched a woman save in the way of kindness all my life, and we'll get on all right once we're married; so the sooner the better."
She sat and looked at him, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. The bald truth of it all took words from her, and her one feeling was that she could cheerfully have strangled Marrion Paul for her courage and straightforwardness.
"My wedding-dress isn't ready," she sobbed at last futilely, and the old man leant back in his chair and roared with laughter.
"By Gad, Fan," he bawled, "you're a woman, and no mistake; so don't make those eyes of yours too red with crying. Remember, you're not so young as you were. And as for this littlepenchantof yours for Marmaduke, why, God bless my soul, my dear, you've had dozens such episodes, and so have I, by Gad, so we'll suit each other down to the ground. Now, if you will please ring the bell for Dewar, I'll leave you to prepare--six o'clock sharp. I've told the gardeners to send you some orange blossoms from the houses and to decorate the hall. My daughters will be your bridesmaids."
When his wheeled-chair had gone the effect of his brutal determination, his colossal masterfulness, did not pass with it. That remained, and Fantine Le Grand gave in to it helplessly. The old man had said very little; on the whole he had been wonderfully polite, but she knew she was trapped, and that she might as well try to fly as to escape from his watchful eye, his unscrupulous power.
And, after all, it was but a return to the old plans; so after a while she followed Lord Drummuir's advice and dried her eyes.
"You ought to think yourself deuced lucky," growled Colonel Compton, when he came in, after a time full of alarm and recriminations. "If anyone had told me the old man would take it so quietly I wouldn't have believed it. I expected he would have kicked us both out into the gutter, and then where should we be? And such a mad idea, too! The Honourable Marmaduke Muir as a public dancer--preposterous!"
"It would only have been for six months and under an assumed name," interrupted Fantine defiantly; but all initiative was passing from her. She felt like clay in the hands of the potter.
"Twaddle!" insisted Colonel Compton. "I can only think you were insane. The fact is, my dear Fanny, you're getting old and your ankles wouldn't stand the hacking about of a dancer's life. That is why we agreed on your becoming Lady Drummuir, and you ought to be very much obliged to the old man for letting you off so easily."
This, combined with the reiterated allusions to her age, was too much for patience. Fantine jumped up and stamped her foot in impotent anger.
"Easily?" she echoed. "Can't you see the malice of the man? He is making us all feel fools. He is doing all the harm he can. I tell you he is enjoying himself thoroughly."
She was perfectly right. Lord Drummuir had not felt so young for years. At that moment, after disposing of Penelope in a way that reached the very marrow of the unseen bones hidden under that extinguisher of fat, he was facing, with a special licence in his hand, the dapper little figure of the Reverend Patrick Bryce, who, called on some pretext of illness, found himself confronted with an order to solemnise a marriage that same evening.
The countenance of the small divine was a study in outraged dignity; that of Lord Drummuir one of supercilious toleration--the toleration of a cat for the unavailing efforts of a mouse to escape its paralysing captor.
"Am I to understand, sir, that you refuse to carry out this special licence at a perfectly appropriate time and place?" said the latter, his voice even but deliberate. "If so, I must ask you for your reasons in writing, that I may forward them with my complaint." He waited a moment, then went on: "You were appointed by the Crown to this charge. A parishioner of yours in possession of a legal licence calls upon you to perform the duties of your office. You refuse, and I refuse to accept your refusal. That, I think, summarises the position between us. But let me remind you, my good sir, that nothing short of reliable information of cause or just impediment can justify a minister of the Church of Scotland in refusing to do the duty for which he is paid by the State. And if, sir, the licence of this house shocks you--as I am told it does--I think this endeavour of a man and a woman to keep within the bounds of so-called respectability should meet your approval. Briefly, my dear sir, you have not a leg to stand upon, and I demand your services at six o'clock this evening."
The little minister rose and made him a courtly bow.
"It shall be as your lordship wishes; but I reserve to myself the right of showing to your lordship that special licences can be used for, as well as against, the Church."
"Wonder where he gets his manners from," commented Lord Drummuir to himself, as the trim figure bowed itself out. "Father must have been someone's valet, I suppose; and that reminds me of Marmaduke's girl. She's true blue, somehow."
So he sat down, filled from top to toe with a wicked elation at his own success in upsetting everybody's plans, and indited the following epistle to his son, as a sort of top note to his manœuvres:
"Dear Boy,--You will be glad to hear that Fantine Le Grand becomes Lady Drummuir this evening at six o'clock. We have agreed that this is better than hunting two thousand pounds through the capitals of Europe, even in company with you. So that is settled. For the rest, I enclose a cheque for two thousand pounds on my bankers. You owe this to Marrion Paul, who is worth the whole batch of you put together. I cannot conceive how you were such a confounded ass as not to see this, but to let her slip through your fingers and leave the poor girl to face the insults of the neighbours, as she is doing; for, of course, her escapade is the talk of the town. My dear Marmaduke, I am ashamed of you!--Your affectionate father,Drummuir.
"Your step-mamma sends you her duty."
He chuckled over the production which he calculated told enough to rouse anger and not enough to satisfy curiosity, and which, while being a regular facer, left the relations between them much as they were.
After which he had himself wheeled to the big hall where the ceremony was to take place, and amused himself vastly by superintending decorations and mystifying Peter, who came in from a day after wild duck, to find the house upside down. It was the sort of situation in which his lordship revelled, and he became almost lachrymose over reminiscences of the past with Jack Jardine, who never moved a muscle, but took the ceremony as a matter of course. Only when Peter, less experienced, asked him what the deuce the old man meant by playing the goat at a moment's notice, he shook his head solemnly, and replied--
"Your father is a very remarkable man, Peter, a very remarkable man indeed."
So at the appointed hour the wheeled-chair took its place, its occupant duly bedecked with the white flower of a blameless life in his buttonhole, before the improvised sort of altar which bore on it a beautiful bunch of late roses; and the Reverend Patrick Bryce with a colour in his usually pale cheeks sailed in very stiff in his starched bands and rustling academical black robes and took his place before it. The bride, composed and cheerful, looking quite virginal in white and orange blossoms, appeared on the arm of Colonel Compton and followed by her bridesmaids, also in white. There were, however, but two of them, for Margaret Muir boldly stalked in separately, attired in a fine new purple gown, and took a place sedately beside Jack Jardine, who stared at her incredulously; for her father's eyes were upon her and scowling disapproval at her disobedience to his commands. She seemed quite indifferent to this, and nodded an encouraging smile to her sisters, who, poor souls, were the only people who showed by their red eyes and general emotion that the occasion was serious and not a mere farce.
So curtly, baldly, shorn of every unnecessary word, every touch of sentiment, the simple formula binding those two sinners in the most holy of bonds went swiftly on, until the Reverend Patrick Bryce closed the register in which Peter, as his father's best man, and Jack Jardine, as family friend, had duly attested the marriage, and stepped down to where Lord Drummuir's chair stood with the new-made Lady Drummuir beside it.
"My part in this pitiable travesty being ended, sir," he said, with a dignified bow, "I take my leave. Before I do so, however, I wish to introduce my wife to you and acquaint you with my marriage--also by special licence--to your daughter. Margaret, my dear!" he added, raising his voice, "oblige me by saying farewell to your father. It is the last time you are likely to see him."
For a second the figure in the purple gown hesitated and gave an agonised glance at her sisters in white; then with her eyes fixed on the small dignified figure of the man to whom she had unreservedly given her whole large heart, her courage returned, she walked forward, her head held high, and faced her father. He was purple with rage, and looked as if he would have a fit.
"Do you mean to tell me," he stuttered, "that you have married that--that jackanapes?"
Her face flushed, her temper was up in a second, and matched his own.
"No, sir; I have married an honourable gentleman of birth equal to my own! It is more than you can say of your bride's----"
"Margaret, Margaret!" came the little parson's warning voice; for, be Lord Drummuir's faults what they may, he was still her father.
But she would have none of it, she was going to have her say for the first and last time of her life; so she went on while the old lord listened, a sort of wicked approval in his eyes. He had not known she was so much his daughter.
"And I married him without asking your consent, because I knew you never would have given it, and I am of age----"
"Yes, my dear, a bit long in the tooth!" broke in the old man viciously.
"Very," she replied; "but not so old a bride as you are a groom. I'm thirty-six, and, as you said yourself, if I choose to get married by special licence, provided there's no cause or just impediment, no one--not even the nearest and dearest--have a right to object. Isn't that what he said?" she added, in appeal.
The Reverend Patrick Bryce looked at his lordship and his lordship looked at him. Then suddenly came one of the rough, rude gaffaws.
"You've caught a tartar, parson!" chuckled the old man. "Take her, and be d----d to you both for a couple of fools. I'll leave you to be angry, if you like; this is my wedding-day and I want to be jolly. Here, Davie--Davie Sim, where the devil are you with your pipes? Skirl up 'Muir's Matching.' Now, my lady."
And as the wheeled-chair moved off accompanied by white satin and orange blossoms he looked round to the purple robe with almost boyish malice in his eye.
"Take the parson's arm and come along, Meg. You may as well get a good send off from the castle and have your share of the family wedding march, since it is little else you'll be getting from the Muirs of Drummuir."
That evening, after the newly made Lady Drummuir had been dismissed to her own rooms with the injunction to remember her new honours, and not to stand any cursed nonsense from any one, and the old man, regardless of gout, sat drinking one glass of port after another on the ground that, having got royally drunk at his three previous weddings, he was not going to treat his fourth with less consideration--Jack Jardine, somewhat breathless after all the disturbing and inexplicable events of the day, shook his head and said once more--
"Your father is a remarkable man--a very remarkable man!"
"Very," assented Peter. "Now I wonder what Marrion Paul had to do with it all!"
Marrion Paul herself failed to answer that question. When she had returned at six o'clock to the castle--having spent the intervening time down by the seashore in order to avoid Penelope--she had been completely taken aback by the sudden development of affairs, wondering if she were in any way responsible for what had happened.
But a single look at the old lord's face, as he was wheeled in to take his place at the marriage ceremony, made her realise that the unwieldy body, instinct with malice and controlled by autocratic unassailable will, held every inmate of Drummuir Castle, herself included, as puppets in the hollow of its gouty hand.
A sudden unreasoning desire to get away from that influence, an extreme distaste at the part she had played in the serio-comic tragedy filled her. She envied the Reverend Patrick Bryce his independence, and it was with real relief that, according to her plan, she found herself once more rumbling to the Cross-keys in the chaise from the Crow.
This should be her last departure from the conventional. Now that Duke's safety from the dancing woman's wiles had been secured, she had time to blame for his supineness; and he, of course, when he heard of the marriage, was not likely to forgive her. Thus they were quits!
So be it. She could return to her dressmaking and never see him again. He had his majority, and, born soldier as he was, had his chance.
Not knowing, for certain, under what name Fantine Le Grand had engaged her room for the night, she was wary with the landlady of the Cross-keys and felt relieved when she was shown into a less pretentious room than the one she had been in the night before. Her vigil--and she knew it would be a long one ere the house was quiet enough to allow of her slipping down to the office to see if Marmaduke had written anything in the visitors' book--would have been harder in surroundings so full of keen memory. What a fool she had been! Why had she been so frank with him? The hot blood mounted to her very temples at the thought of it even while she felt angry with herself that it should be so. After all, she was not quite as the other douce country folk; there was something in her blood that was different; something that rebelled against the tyranny of that bloated old man, sitting like a spider in his web, imposing his wicked will upon all by sheer force of character.
Yet he had behaved well to her, and he was terribly, horribly like Duke.
So she sat raging, her head aching, till it was time to do the last bit of trickery, as it seemed to her now. Yet it must be done; for if Marmaduke had been indiscreet, Penelope, in her pryings, which were certain, would be sure to find it out. It was not, however, till between two and three--that time when even the ostlers at an inn sleep--that it was safe for her to steal downstairs to the visitors' book. Even so, Boots lay snoring on a sofa in the office. But her task did not take long. There, as she had foreseen, was Marmaduke's unmistakable writing in the words "Captain the Honourable and Mrs. Marmaduke Muir." Below, as if as witnesses, two commercial travellers had written their name and address. She had brought a sharp penknife with her, so, in less than a minute, the page was removed, the corresponding one in the quire pulled out, and the book closed again without trace of any removal. She gave a sigh of relief when she reached her bedroom again, and, folding up the written sheet, placed it in her purse. Then, after burning the other, she lay down and tried to sleep. But unsuccessfully, though she felt outwearied to an altogether unusual degree. The arrival of the early coach was a relief. She took her seat in it, hoping the fresh air would drive away hermalaise; but it did not.
"You're no feelin' just the thing, miss," said a sympathetic bagman as he got out to stretch his legs at a change of horses. "Try just a wee sup of whisky; its awful inspirin'."
Marrion, smiling, shook her head. By this time she was beginning to wonder if, despite her usual hardiness, she had got a chill the night before.
It was past eight in the evening ere Edinburgh was reached, and, anxious to be housed as soon as possible, she left her box at the coach office and made her way giddily to her old lodgings where the landlady had agreed to keep her belongings until her return from her holiday. They were up a common stair that echoed and re-echoed to the slam of the street door and her own wavering steps. The rooms were high up and more than once Marrion had to pause for breath, and when at last she rang she had to lean against the door, to recover herself. There was no answer. She rang again and waited--waited an interminable time, until someone coming down the common stair said briefly--
"Ye're wastin' yer time, mum. Mistress McGillivray's deid."
"Dead!" she echoed feebly.
"Aye, last week, and the polis hae lockit up the place till the heirs be known," replied the man, as he passed on, rousing the echoes again.
Marrion followed him, realising that she must seek another lodging. Easy in a way, yet difficult, since in that quarter of the old town many of the houses were not over-respectable. Still it was only for a night, and bed she must have as soon as possible. So she closed with an exorbitant offer in cash of a fairly clean attic made by a loose-lipped lady who smelt rather of whisky, and five minutes later, having locked herself in, threw herself, still half-dressed, on the truckle bed.
There the landlady next morning, having placidly unlocked the door with a master key, found her, flushed, breathless and delirious--briefly, down with a sharp attack of pneumonia. Infirmaries and district nurses being not as yet, Mother Gilchrist, as herclientèlecalled her, coolly took possession of her lodger's purse, sent for an apothecary doctor from round the corner, and thereinafter treated the patient with a certain amount of rough kindness, sending some of her other lodgers, girls with haggard faces and loose hair, to sit with her, and going up occasionally with water-gruel and still more watery beef-tea. But Marrion Paul was strong, and so, after a fortnight's struggle in the valley, she came out of it wan and emaciated, and lay looking at a bit of torn paper on the wall, that all through her fever dreams had flapped like a sail in a boat in which she and Duke were drifting out to sea, and wondering how much of what she remembered was true and how much dreams.
"I must get up," she said suddenly, when Mother Gilchrist appeared in company with water-gruel. "And will you give me my purse, please? I put it under my pillow, I think, but it isn't there."
Mother Gilchrist laughed a loose-lipped laugh and produced the purse from her pocket.
"Yon's the purse, my dearie; but there's naethin' in it the now. What wi' rent an' doctors an' physic, forby nursin', what else is to be expectit?"
Marmie stared aghast.
"But there was nigh ten pun' in till't," she protested.
"It's just awfie expensive bein' ill," replied Mother Gilchrist calmly. "Ye can hae the reckonin' later on. Meanwhile, tak yer nourishment like a good lammie."
"What's ten pun' to you one way or another," continued the exemplar of youth, when Marmie, up for the first time, returned to the charge. "You've gotten a paper in yon purse that's worth a guid deal tae you, my lass, if it's written in the man's own write--an' if ye can prove----"
Marrion interrupted her in an angry flash.
"You're making a mistake. It has nothing to do wi' me. An' I wouldn't prove if I could."
She paused, feeling she was contradicting herself.
"Lord sakes," retorted Mother Gilchrist, "ye needna loup down a body's throat! An', anyhow, a lassie wi' such hair as you've gotten needna look for ten pounds."
Marrion, still weakened body and soul by her illness, thought almost regretfully of her hairdresser.
"Aye," she assented languidly, "they'd give me that for it; but I should feel bad if it were cut off, shouldn't I?"
Mother Gilchrist burst into a cackling laugh.
"There's more ways, my lammie, o' makin' money by hair than by shearin' it off like a sheep's fleece," she said meaningly.
But the meaning did not come home to Marmie until one of the rather bedraggled girls in cheap finery let her into the secret of the house. They paid Mother Gilchrist a certain sum for board and lodging, and on the whole she was kind to them. Anyhow, they had to lump it, as most of them were in debt to her. However, there was always the chance of a stroke of luck, especially when one was new to the business and had such hair as Marrion had.
That same afternoon Marrion managed to creep round to the coach office. She intended to get her box and pawn some of her things--even the little brilliant brooch of her father's--so as to keep her in decent lodgings till she could find employment in some dressmaking concern. She would not go back to her old employers, for her address there was known and she wanted to lose herself; for a while at any rate.
But Fate was against her. Failing a claimant the box had been sent back whence it came, as the only address to be found on it was Drummuir Castle, Drum. Nor was her call at her old landlady's more successful. The flat was still locked up; so she came back utterly wearied and disheartened, to be met by a demand for more money from Mother Gilchrist, who looked at her as one looks at a rat caught in a trap. She had miscalculated with Marrion, however; and in an instant the latter made up her mind. She must get out of the present quagmire without delay. Yet she did not wish to make herself known to the friends she had in Edinburgh, because during the past fortnight her desire to lose herself--to get away once and for all from Drummuir and all that Drummuir entailed--aye, even Duke---had been strengthening. But she could sell her hair. Mother Gilchrist, arguing from other girls, was calculating she would not; but she would find she was mistaken. She might think it safe enough to let a girl without a penny in her pocket go out alone, but she would find herself wrong.
That night Marrion slept the sleep of the just, and it was one o'clock--for the gun had just fired from the castle--next day when, with a curiously light heart, she walked out of the most fashionable hairdresser's shop in Prince's Street. She had eschewed her old admirer's for obvious reasons, but she had found no difficulty in her bargain; and if her heart was light, her purse was heavy. She was free, at any rate, of Mother Gilchrist and her kind; she was free also of any necessity for recalling the past. She would make her own future in life.
As she passed through the shop heavily veiled, for she would run no risk of recognition, a group of fashionably dressed young men were daffing overpommade hongroisewith an attractive young person behind the counter, but they took no notice of the somewhat shabbily dressed figure which passed out and went westward. With money in her pocket Marrion's plans began to formulate rapidly. She would not stop in Edinburgh; she would go to some place where the fear of recognition would not constantly be with her. So she would go--whither?
She pondered the question idly, heedless of Fate behind her in the shape of one of those fashionably dressed young men, who, two minutes after Marrion had passed through the shop, had burst out after her, leaving his companions still looking with admiration at a great pile of red-brown hair which the proprietor of the shop, hugely delighted with his bargain, had brought in for these privileged customers to see.
So she had not long for freedom. Ere she had reached Frederick Street a detaining hand was on her arm and a joyous voice in her ears--
"Marmie! I knew it must be you! I have been looking for you everywhere."
"Duke," she said feebly as she looked round. And as she did so, the distant Calton Hill blocking the blue slopes of Arthur's Seat, the wonderful blending of town and country which makes Edinburgh seem an epitome of human life, was lost to her eyes; she only saw his face,insouciant, smiling, yet full of affection. The douce commonsensical world in which she had resolved to live was gone; she was among the stars again, in a different existence, herself a different being. Yet even as she realised this she realised that she was alone. He had not found his wings to follow her.
Yet he was prompt; without pause he hailed a passing cab, put her into it unresisting, gave the order Pentland Hotel, and as he seated himself beside her reached out a hand with glad delight in the clasp of its warm fingers to find her own.
"Where are we going, Duke?" she asked, with a sort of sob in her effort to keep herself to normal.
"To have lunch, my dear!" he replied joyously. "You look as if you wanted it. And we haven't much time to spare, for the train starts for Glasgow at 2.30 and we must go by it, for my leave is up and I have to get back to Ayr by to-morrow. I'm in command of the detachment there."
The certitude of his words roused instant resentment.
"I must ask you to excuse me," she said peremptorily. "Will you stop the cab, Captain Muir?"
"But, my dear," he replied, quite pathetically, "I must speak to you somehow, and this is my only chance. Do come, Marmie, at any rate, to lunch."
The simplicity of his plea disarmed her again, and the hotel being reached at that moment she allowed him to take her on his arm up the steps after the fashion of the day. But once in the private sitting-room, which, with lunch for two as quick as possible, he had commanded in a lordly voice as he entered, his manner changed again.
"Take off that veil and bonnet, will you, please," he said abruptly. "I want to see what that brute has dared to do."
Marrion looked at him startled.
"Oh, yes," he continued, "I know! That's how I found you. When the man brought in that pile of hair to show those young cubs--faugh! it makes me sick to think of them fingering it--I knew it must be yours; no one else has hair like it. Marmie! Marmie! why did you let him do it--the grovelling, money-grubbing beast!"
Once again his anger appeased her, and she replied: "I wanted the money."
He groaned.
"And you got me the two thousand pounds! Oh! yes, the old man--curse him!--told me all about it, and how that harridan Penelope---- But never mind that now, though, you see, we have plenty to talk about. When----"
She had removed her bonnet and now stood a trifle defiant.
"It will grow again!"
But he had passed from his vexation.
"Why, Marmie, surely you've been ill? You are so thin, so pale, child--what has been the matter?" he exclaimed, all his innate kindness coming uppermost. "Here, sit down; you look as if you were going to faint"--he rang the bell violently. "I don't believe you've had anything to eat! Here! Tell the housekeeper to send up a cup of soup--beef-tea, if she has got it--at once, and--and some toast," he called out loudly, after the retreating waiter. Then he came to stand by Marrion and say in an almost tragic voice, "I owe you a lot, Marrion Paul, and I'm going to pay it back, by gad! I am!"
She tried to laugh and failed, feeling she would cry if she spoke. So she took her soup when it came and afterwards, as he eat his lunch, they talked and argued.
"Now look here, my dear," he said at last in his old, rather flamboyant, most masterful manner, "you tell me you don't want to stop in Edinburgh, and you tell me you have plenty of money in your purse. But one thing you haven't got at present--strength to work. I can see you haven't, and you have done an immense amount for me, and--well, I'm dashed if I am going to leave you as you are to face things alone. So that settles it. I must get back to Glasgow now. You come with me so far. I promise you, Marmie, I will not--well, annoy you in any way. See a doctor, and--and do as you like. Only I swear to you, my dear, if you won't be reasonable I'll break my leave and stop here, and--and----"
His boyish face broke into mischief; he came towards her with hands outstretched, frank, absolutely devoid of all save pure affection.
In a way, it cut her to the heart as she acquiesced.
The ride to Glasgow, first-class, with all the alacrity of guards and porters consequent on Marmaduke's lordly ways and tips, was rather an agreeable novelty; so also was the obsequiousness of the hotel where he left her, saying he would be round to see her ere he started for Ayr next morning.
Before he came, however, a rather well-known doctor arrived somewhat to her annoyance, the more so because his verdict was startling. A sharp attack of pneumonia, which mercifully had not killed her, had left both lungs enfeebled. At least six weeks' complete rest, care, and good food, and, if possible, sea air would be necessary to make them normal; but given these desiderata perfect recovery was assured.
Six weeks! Marrion, despite her full purse, was aghast, and Marmaduke, coming in with his usual breezy vitality, found her depressed. He was in uniform, and it was the first time she had seen him so, with all the accessories, as it were, of his young manhood about him, from the glitter of his plaid brooch to the pipe-clay on his white gaiters, for Andrew Fraser would have scorned to have aught astray in his master's kit.
"I have had rather bad news," she began dolefully; but he checked her with a comprehending smile.
"I know," he replied, "I was waiting for the pill-doc's verdict downstairs. But it's perfectly easy, my dear. The sea is simply splendid at Ayr. I'm off there in quarter of an hour; but I'm going to leave Andrew Fraser here to bring you down later on. If I can't find you a suitable lodging before you come you can get one for yourself next day. And if you do run short of money, you can always come to me, can't you?"
She shook her head, but the tears were in her eyes.