Andrew Fraser stood at attention watching a couple of figures, a man and a woman, who for the last hour had been dredging a sea-pool with a landing net as if they were boy and girl. He had watched them at it often in the last six weeks, and, honest, straight-forward fellow as he was, had wondered how they managed to treat each other with such perfect unconsciousness that they were man and woman. So far as his master was concerned, that might be, for Andrew was shrewd enough to see the difference between friendship and passion; but, if anyone was ever heart-wholly in love, Marrion Paul was that person. You could see it in her face; yet it never seemed to influence her actions. The perception of this made Andrew vaguely afraid of her; it put a sort of damper on his own passion for her, since such self-control was not natural; it was barely human.
Hour after hour, the simple soul would tell himself, those two would play themselves like a couple of weans. Three or four times a week the major would, after the morning parades were over, drive out in his tilbury--Andrew perched in the tiny back seat--and spend his afternoon at the little inn which was also the ferry-house over the Doon river where Marrion lodged. Sometimes the two would go out sailing together, but more often they amused themselves on the shore, as they were doing now, dredging for sea things or catching miller's thumbs. It was childish, but--Andrew's lean, anxious face puckered with confused thought as he turned to a sound which he knew would bring with it a more commonsensical outlook on the situation than he, with his passionate love for the woman concerned, his passionate affection for the man, could bring to bear on it. It was the click of busy knitting needles, and they belonged to the landlady of the "Plough." She was a thoroughly good, kindly, healthy woman, whose views were strictly conventional on all subjects appertaining to the relations between the sexes; and as these in those days--and even now, for the most part--were that sex was the only possible tie between two spirits if they happened to be living for the time being, one in a male body, the other in a female--they were not likely to approve of the dredgers of sea-treasures.
"When are yon two gaun to be marriet?" she asked firmly. She was a just woman, and having seen no signs of wrong-doing was willing to believe the best.
Andrew hesitated.
"I'm thinkin'," he replied slowly, "that they are no considering marriage."
"Then they aught tae think shame tae themsels," retorted the landlandy severely. "Her week's up the morrow's morn, an' I'll just tell her she canna stop in my house. It's just clean redeeklus."
Andrew flushed up.
"There's no need for you to say aught, ma'am," he protested eagerly. "She's leavin', anyhow. Ye ken she only came for her health and that's re-established. It would only hurt the lassie--and--and do harm, mayhap."
The landlady looked at him and sniffed.
"The lassie, as you ca' her--will take no hairm from what I sall say to her, an' she'd be the better to give up moithering about wi' majors, and tak' up wi' a gude, God-fearin' man like yersel'."
And with that she carried the click of her knitting-pins back into the inn, leaving Andrew Fraser battling with his own heart. Aye, surely, surely, it would be better, more seemly, more discreet.
But there they were coming up from the beach like happy children.
"Then I'll bring a boat along at one to-morrow," said the major, as he climbed into the tilbury. "I can't get away before, and we'll try and get to the Craig. It's eighteen miles south, so if this north-west wind holds good we shall have plenty of time, shan't we?"
"Plenty of time!" echoed Marrion happily.
But she had been happy every day of those six weeks, and even now, though the hair money was running short, and she knew she must be up and doing in a few days, she would not, could not, think of the future. Sufficient to the day was the evil and the good thereof.
Half an hour after Marmaduke's departure, however, she came out of the inn-parlour with a heightened colour. It had been no use attempting to explain the position to the landlady, it was foolish to mind what she had said; the more so as, automatically, that position must end in a day or two; still it was disturbing!
In this early September the twilights were long and the sky was still golden high up to the zenith. She threw a shawl over her head and, taking a boat, sculled herself across the ferry for a calming walk down the coast-line.
"The banks and braes of bonny Doon!"
The song kept echoing in her head. How pinchbeck it all was, that love of which men sung--
"But my false lover stole the rose,But, ah, he left the thorn wi' me!"
"But my false lover stole the rose,But, ah, he left the thorn wi' me!"
That was a man's view of it. He came, he saw, he conquered. Then he could ride away leaving a thorn behind him. But why? She laughed aloud as she thought of her own passionate love for Duke, a love nothing could touch, a love that was unsoilable, unassailable, untouchable!
It was dark ere she returned and then someone tall and soldierly rose out of the shadows of the little sitting-room of the inn which she used as her own. For an instant her heart leapt. Then she saw it was Andrew Fraser.
"There's nothing wrong, is there?" she asked hastily.
"I'm no that sure," he replied unsteadily, and then his outstretched hands found hers, warm almost compelling in their fierce yet tender clasp.
"Marrion, Marrion, my dear," he said hoarsely, "ye're bringing wae into yure life! Oh, dinna draw away frae me, I'm not come to tell ye I love you;that'ssure! You know that, Marrion, if you know anything. But listen! You cou'dna marry me. That's sure, too; d'ye think I can't feel that, too, Marrion? Right through to the very cauld core o' my heart, an' it's cauld, Marrion--it's deathly cauld!" He paused, and the girl in his passionate hold shivered.
"It makes me cauld, too, Andry," she half-sobbed, "deathly cauld. You're meybe worth more than he is, but--but I canna help myself."
Andrew's voice grew firmer.
"An' I canna help it either, my dear. But if ye canna marry me, why sou'd you not marry him?"
She shook her head. "I willna tie him down," she interrupted hoarsely. "I willna do him harm!"
"It's no harm!" he urged. "See you, lassie; would ye rather hae a Lord Drummuir wi' a wife like yersel', or a Lord Drummuir like to the auld man at the Castle now? I'm no sayin', mind you, that he wad be just as his father, but--well, I hae lived wi' the major these eight years, and I ken fine he needs a guide--why, my dear, since ye cam here, he's away to his bed like a lad to sleep like a child; an' there's a play-actin' woman at the theaytre in Glasgi' that had laid hands on him and thocht she'd got him; but he's just escapit the snare like a bird from a fowler. Sae ye might do good, not harm." There was a pause.
"Ye mean well, Andry," she said softly, "but--but he hasn't really asked me to--to marry him."
Andrew turned aside wearily.
"Has he no?" he replied. "Weel, that may be your fault, lassie; ye can keep a man at arm's length wi' a smilin' face, as I know tae my cost."
A sudden realisation of the man's self-sacrificing devotion came to her.
"An' ye've come to tell me this," she almost whispered, "to tell me to your cost! Oh, Andry, Andry, yere love is greater than mine!"
A sort of half sob came from the darkness.
"God bless ye for that, Marrion--God bless ye for that, my dear!"
The scalding tears were in her eyes as she raised them from her hiding hands to look for him; but he had gone. The shadows were empty.
The morning rose still and serene save for the puffing of the westerly wind that ruffled the blue sea with tiny white-crested waves. The Ayrshire coast stretching south lay green and yellow with ripe corn in little bays and promontories--far away like a faint cloud the cliffs of Ailsa Craig showed almost translucent.
An ideal day indeed for a sail!
Marrion, her mind still disturbed by her landlady's half-threatening remonstrances and by Andrew's pathetic appeal to the same conventional outlook, turned with relief to the prospect of her afternoon's holiday; probably the last one she would have, since she had made up her mind to leave for work next day.
It was a good deal past one when Marmaduke, in rather an evil temper, ran the pleasure-boat into the little pier where she was ready waiting. He looked less buoyant than usual and apologised for being late. All the fishing fleet were out, he said, and he had waited in vain to get a man.
"Not that that matters!" he added, recovering himself, as he helped her in. "You are as good as a man any day, Marmie."
And yet, when, after a three hours' sail before the wind, they reached the Craig, and, mooring the boat, climbed to the westering cliffs beneath which the waves set a frill of white lace, he fairly startled her by saying suddenly:
"Marmie, I've made up my mind; I am going to marry you. I've thought over everything from start to finish, and I'm certain it is the best thing for both of us. Now, my dear girl, let me have my say for once; you shall have yours by-and-by. I'm not going to talk of what you did for me with my father. I'm not sure yet, you see, whether I am vexed or grateful. A man doesn't like to be exactly--well--herded; but you did it; and that intolerable vixen Penelope--but I won't talk about her either. Then there's the hair business," he eyed her ruefully, though in truth, now that the ends began to curl, the shearing was no such dis-sight, "that also was my fault; and now"--he paused, and a red flush of anger rose to his brow--"the goody-goodies in Ayr apparently won't let you alone, and one of the youngsters this morning tried to cut a joke; but I won't talk of that either. The long and short of it is, Marmie, that you and I have got to get married. And"--his voice changed to almost affection--"you know, dear, what you stand for with me--for everything that I know to be really worth having--everything that--well--I ought to be and am not. For it's the old story, Marmie, I'm Tristram Shandy and you are the Shorter Catechism, so--so come and help me, won't you?"
With his voice in her ears she sat for a moment looking out westwards. A low bank of cloud had obscured the horizon, the sun just thinking of sinking behind it shone with unearthly brilliance over the sea, over him, over herself. Then she disengaged her hand from his gently, and, rising, stood on the extreme verge of the cliff, looking down into the dazzling, shifting green of the waves. Would it, after all, be so great a plunge downwards? She had often imagined the choice coming to her. Suddenly she spoke:
"There is no need for--for Tristram Shandy to be--to be bound up with the Shorter Catechism, is there? The two could help each other without the binding, couldn't they? And then"--her voice had the break of half-tears, half-laughter in it--"you see Tristram Shandy would be free--free to marry." She had been so intent on her own words, her eyes looking out far beyond that dark horizon that she had not realised he had risen to stand beside her; but now his arm about her waist, his face bent caressingly to hers, quite overset her self-control, she turned with a sob and buried her face on his breast. "Oh, Duke, Duke!" she cried. "I mustn't, I daren't harm you!"
He held her to him and kissed her again and again.
"You won't harm me," he said exultantly. "Of course I shan't be able to noise our marriage abroad just now, so you will have plenty of time to prepare for your future position."
All the glamour, all the glitter seemed gone from the world; she drew herself away from him and smiled at him tenderly, feeling glad that he had failed apparently to realise the magnitude of her offer.
"You must give me time to think, Duke," she said.
He looked a little offended.
"Oh, take it, by all means; only if you won't marry me we must give up being friends, for I'm not such a cad as to let a girl like you lose her character over me--but I expect I shall go to the devil, all the same."
They were very silent when they set sail once more. They had intended to tack along the coast to a village where Andrew had been told to await them with the tilbury; but after one or two attempts to make way against a momentarily increasing wind, Marmaduke, with a rapid glance at that arc of black cloud which had by now overcast the zenith, remarked briefly:--
"We are in for it, I fear, and had better run for Girvan. Wait till I am ready, Marmie, then take her round sharp."
Even as he spoke the gust of a coming squall struck them, the boat heeled over, and but for skill both at tiller and sheet, might have overset.
"It's a mercy you can steer," he said, a minute or two later, as by a deft giving way the boat over-rode a following seventh wave; "but if you keep your head there's no harm done."
So they flew before the rapidly rising gale, which, as it rose, shifted from north-west to nor'-nor'-by-west and threatened to drive them down the coast.
"We shall have to tack to make Girvan," he said sharply, "and it's best to do it before the full fury of the storm touches us. It looks ugly out there."
Marmie nodded.
"I'll take my time from you," she replied, "but don't hurry; we shall get into a slacker bit in a minute or two."
"Now!" came his voice.
The helm went round with all her young strength, but the boat hung for a second, a following wave took her broadside on, there was a crash, and Marmaduke was overboard. For one dreadful second Marrion's heart stood still; the next she realised he had still the sheet-rope in his hand, and, bringing the boat up sideways to him, he had his hand on the gunwale and was clambering in.
"That was a narrow shave," he said, with a brilliant smile. "Now, Marmie, as the yard has gone, there's nothing for it but let the sail fill as it can or can't. It will steady us, anyhow. So I'll tie the sheet and take the tiller. You'd better sit at my feet--see, here's my coat--rubbish, put it on, I tell you! I don't think we shall make Girvan, but I--I think I can run her ashore further down. If not----" He stooped and kissed her.
That was all; but whether the next hour was a nightmare or a heavenly dream Marrion Paul in after years never could decide. The great waves rushing past the little boat, the half-dismasted sail bellying out over the uplifted bows, scarce seen in the gathering darkness, their figures in the stern, close--ah! so close together, she resting against his knees, with upturned face on his, one arm round his waist, the other, round his feet sheltering him as best she could with the coat he had insisted on her taking. And he? He seemed to her as the archangel Michael might have seemed, as he sat courageous, alert, bending down once or twice, after a stiffer struggle, to touch her hair with his lips, and almost laugh his confidence.
"Getting along nicely, Marmie. We may have to swim for it--but it has got to be done!"
At last there came a roar ahead of breakers on a beach.
"It's sand, I think, so off with your boots and everything else you can!" he called above the roar. "No, don't--ah, thank you, now I can kick them off! Be ready, child, and hold on to me. We sink or swim together!"
So she stood beside him for a minute or two, her skirts thrown aside, her bare arms ready for a forward drive. Then came a faint grating, a shock as the boat, heeled round by his strong arm, struck broadside on on the sand and pitched them forward nearer the land into the breakers. There was a terrific back draw, and Marrion felt as if her arms would be torn out of the sockets; but Marmaduke's grip upon her was as iron; then he was on his feet, then, with a cry--
"Run--run for all you're worth!" He half-dragged her beyond the whole awful onslaught of the sea. Another wild struggle, another forward run, and they were safe on the sandy shore, with low moorland around them. Then for the first time he began, manlike, to fuss over discomfort.
"You must get out of this as soon as may be," he exclaimed, as they stood in the full blast of the biting wind. "I see a light over yonder. Let's run for it, it will keep you warm."
He held out his hand and together they ran, the bruised leaves of the bog myrtle as they sped over the moor sending their clean aromatic odour into the night air.
"Better than last time," he said, with a laugh. "By Jove, I did get deep into the bog that time! It's better in couples."
So, once again those two, caught by the glamour of pure life, raced on almost forgetful of past danger and present discomfort.
The light proved to be from a shepherd's hut, where they found warmth and shelter, a sup of porridge, and some milk. It was four good miles to Girvan by a bad road, and that made a retreat thither impossible in the teeth of such a furious gale as was now raging; so the old shepherd, after providing Marrion with a petticoat of his dead wife's and a plaid of his own, proposed to retreat to an outhouse and leave the cottage to his uninvited guests. Marmaduke, however, negatived the proposal. His wife, he said, would be the better of a good sleep, while he must be off at daybreak to Girvan in order to get a conveyance; so she could lie down in the bed-place and he and the shepherd could just snoozle by the fire. Which they did.
Marrion, wide awake at first, her nerves all athrill, listened to their even voices for a time, then watched them asleep in their chairs, the firelight on their placid faces, and finally fell asleep herself, to wake with bright sunlight streaming into the little cottage.
A scribbled note in pencil awaited her from Marmaduke. He might be away some time; she was not to expect him till she saw him.
It was early afternoon when he did return in an open chaise and four with postillions.
"The road is very bad," he explained airily, "and I've brought you some clothes. You'd better go and put them on, as we ought to start at once."
"You ought not----" she began hastily at her first glance at the milliner's box. "You really----"
"My dear girl," he replied, with a charming smile, "mayn't I see you dressed for once as you ought to be dressed!"
There was no alternative with the postillions waiting, and as she put on the things he had brought she was forced into admitting he had good taste.
"You do look nice!" he cried, joyous as a child, as he handed her into the chaise.
The next instant they were off, the grey horses with their red-coated postillions lending quite a bridal appearance to the couple behind them, for Marmaduke was also very spruce, though he was wearing his left hand tucked into the roll collar of his coat. Something in the look of the arm, now she had time for observation, made Marrion say suddenly--
"You hurt yourself?"
He nodded.
"Dislocated my wrist--you see that first wave was an awful jerk. So I had to get back to the regimental surgeon to get it sorted and get my three days' leave."
She looked at him startled.
"What for?" she asked quickly.
"For our honeymoon, dear," he replied, his kindly, handsome affectionate face bent close to hers. "Don't look so alarmed, Marmie, it had to be after what you and I went through together yesterday; we can't get away from each other, even if we would."
"But----" she began.
At that instant the cross road on which they had been merged into a turnpike, and with a swerve the grey horses turned to the right.
"But me no buts!" he cried gaily. "We are on the south road, not the north." Then he suddenly grew grave. "And God bless you, dear, for all you've done for me and will do for me in the years to come!"
That turn south had brought them face to face with the glorious line of coast fading away into a golden mist. Far out on the wide expanse of sea the same soft September mist lay like a veil, hiding--what?
Marrion Paul, sitting hand-in-hand with the one love of her life, did not even ask the question; for all things, everything, seemed swallowed up in a golden glory.
Marmaduke's voice roused her, joyous, confident.
"And I've got a wedding present for you. I wouldn't give it you before. You see you are such a wilful customer, I was afraid you mightn't get into the chaise."
Half-mechanically she opened the case he laid on her lap. It contained two very long, very thick plaits of red-brown hair, each held together by an entwined monogram of M's in brilliants. She looked at him and he looked at her in affectionate raillery.
"Now!" he cried joyously. "You'll be fit to be seen. You didn't think, did you, I was going to let your hair be appraised by those young fools? So that day we left Edinburgh--you remember I nearly missed the train--I raced back to that beast of a hairdresser. I didn't know till then, Marmie, it was so valuable; but it was well worth it. Then I had it set." He paused, aware of some jarring note, and added, "You do like it, dear, don't you?"
Marrion, sitting with her long coils of hair in her lap, felt somehow that the glamour had gone from the gold of earth and sky.
"Of course I like it," she said, making an effort, "but--but why the diamonds?"
He laughed.
"Because I like diamonds and I like you to look well. I--I suppose you couldn't twist 'em up somehow now, could you? The postillions won't see."
She removed her bonnet and deftly coiled the long plaits about her shapely head.
"I'm afraid it's not very neat," she said solidly.
But he was more than satisfied.
"You look divine!" he cried exultantly. "More like other people, you know; and I dare say it is mean of me, but your close crop always made me feel bad, because you know I was really the cause of it. So now we start fair, don't we?"
"Quite fair," she answered, with a smile. He was such a child. Yet some of the glamour had gone.
"Mr. Peter Muir wishes to know if he can see you, ma'am," said the servant.
The woman seated at a table by the window in the small drawing-room of a tiny house in one of the back streets of Belgravia laid down her work and rose. It was Marrion Paul; but she was seven years older and neither face nor figure had quite the same buoyant youthfulness. Indeed, as she crossed to the fireplace a distinct limp was apparent. Still her face had gained in beauty, and the masses of her red bronze hair glinted bright as ever. Those seven years of life had been hard in some ways; but they had been happy in others--happy most of all in that Marmaduke Muir was well and content.
Marrion drew an easy-chair to the fire and closed the window, knowing her visitor to be chilly. She did the latter with reluctance, for the late November sunshine shone golden in the narrow street, and the somewhat mews-laden atmosphere of those back purlieus of fashionable houses was sweetened as it filtered through the wide boxes of trailing musk which made the little house with the brass plate bearing its legend,
Mrs. MarsdenLayettes
look quite countrified and summerlike.
Peter Muir, coming in languidly, complaining of the cold, slipped into the easy-chair as one accustomed to it. He also was older, his weak face showed signs of recent ill-health; but he was otherwise the loose knit, errant, yet dandified figure he had been. Dressed in the height of the fashion, his blue-and-white bird's eye bow and stiff stand up collar seemed the most striking parts of his personality.
"This place is the only peaceful spot in all the town," he sighed. "I often wish I were back in the little room upstairs where you nursed me so patiently."
"And your brother, Major Marmaduke," she put in kindly, "don't forget him, Mr. Peter. If it hadn't been for him, I don't believe you would have lived."
Peter Muir fingered his nails nervously.
"No, I don't suppose I should. You see, it was all Vienna. It's the devil of a place for a young fellow, especially if he has got no money--and we never have any, have we? But that is really the reason why I've dropped in to have a quiet talk with you, so I thought I would come in the morning, in case Marmaduke----"
"I haven't seen your brother for ten days," she interrupted quietly. "I believe he has been away hunting in Hampshire, hasn't he?"
Peter Muir went on fingering his nails.
"Yes," he said at last, "part of the time." Then he suddenly burst out--"I don't know why we should beat about the bush, you and I. You were a perfect Providence to me, Marmie; I used to call you that, you know, when I was so ill and the doctors swore that D.T. must end in an asylum. Duke means a lot to both of us, doesn't he? And it's about him I want to speak. You've noticed, of course, that he is hipped and out of spirits, haven't you?"
"No one could help noticing that," she replied coldly.
"And he says it is because the old man of the sea at the Castle won't give him the money to purchase the colonel's step, I suppose?" asked the young man tentatively.
"That is the case, I believe," she replied, even more coldly. "There was the same difficulty about the majority."
Peter Muir laughed and looked at her quizzically.
"I've often wondered how that was done," he said. "But this time it isn't quite fair on the baron. To give the devil his due, I believe he is quite ready to fork out the money if Marmaduke will only promise to marry within the year. You see the question of succession is becoming acute. There is no chance of an heir to the barony from Pitt. And I--I--well, let's out with it! I've dished myself with the peer as well as with Providence. It's my damned own fault, of course, but there it is. And it isn't as if there was not a real picture man in the family whose sons should do credit to the Castle."
He had run on rapidly, and now paused to look at his companion.
"And does the Major refuse to accept the conditions?" she asked quietly. "I wonder why?"
Peter Muir felt distinctly injured by her calm.
"So do I, and I was wondering if----"
She stopped him with a gesture of her hand, which sent all his conventional decorum to the right-about, and left him, a man, before her a woman--left him, instead of an elaborate detective, a reluctant admirer.
"Mr. Peter," she said, smiling, "don't wonder! It is very kind of you to come and tell me the truth--kind also to try and find me out; but, believe me, I do not stand in your brother's way. It is two years since Major Muir first brought you here to me, a milliner living by her work only. All that while he and I have been good friends--nothing more. I had no claim to be anything else. Does that satisfy you?"
Peter Muir held out a hot, damp, but enthusiastic hand to meet her cool, wholesome one.
"I'm not quite sure if it does," he said, in a manner suddenly and to her painfully reminiscent of Marmaduke. "You've been a good sight more to him than any friend has been to me, worse luck! Perhaps if I had had someone like you in a peaceful little room like this--but Marmaduke always had the devil's own luck. However, you are not angry, are you? Only I thought it right to put you up to the ropes in case----"
"There is no in case about it," she interrupted quickly. "I--I make no claim." She rose, passed to the window, and looked out. "Has Lord Drummuir any--any special selection for his future daughter-in-law?" she asked, and the young man at the fireplace jiggled the seals in his pocket amusedly.
He knew a thing or two, he imagined, about women.
"Not so far as I am aware of, atpresent," he replied, negligently; "but the consent is a trifle urgent, for the colonelcy will be going ere long. He ought to make up his mind soon and come with me to a roaring New Year at the Castle--it's always a bachelor party--and it may be his last chance. So, if you could say a word or two--you have more influence over Marmaduke----"
She flashed round suddenly.
"I used to have some," she corrected. "However, thanks very many. Now let us talk of something else."
After her visitor had gone Marrion Paul, who called herself Mrs. Marsden on the door-plate, threw the window wide with an air of relief and sat down once more to her work. It was an infant's cap of almost incredibly fine stitchings and embroideries; the kind of cap which, perched on slender, white, much-beringed hands would give tremors of delightful anticipation to rich young wives awaiting motherhood. On the table were strewn other tiny habiliments dainty and delicate beyond compare; for Mrs. Marsden's layettes were renowned. Nothing crude, nothing out of place came from her skilful hands; all things bore the indefinable stamp of absorbing care and almost divine hope that the little unknown atom of life to come should have garments worthy of its mission.
The truth being that, as she worked, her mind always held at the back of it the memory of a certain box upstairs in which lay the first baby clothes she had ever made--clothes laboured at day by day in a perfect heaven of happiness for her child and Duke's, the poor little dear which had lost its life in the effort to save hers after that terrible accident.
It had not been Duke's fault, though he had reproached himself bitterly at first; but that had been more because of her consequent lameness. For to a man a dead baby does not count for much--not even if no other follows it--at least not to a man like Marmaduke, so light-hearted, so affectionate, so free from all carping cares and thoughts.
No, it had been her fault from the beginning. She should have held her own as she had done for his good in so many other ways before and since. And now, after these years of freedom, was the tie between them--the unreal tie which ought never to have existed--to hold him back from taking his rightful place in life?
Suddenly she folded up the tiny cap, putting it by with a wistful little smile and a pat against happier thoughts, went upstairs, put on her bonnet, and, leaving word she would not be back till late, passed out into the street. One thing was certain, she must avoid seeing Marmaduke until her mind was indelibly fixed, and there was always a chance he might drop in to see her.
London in those days was a dreary spot for anyone requiring a quiet place wherein to look Fate in the face; but Marrion knew her way to two places where she could secure peace and quiet--the National Gallery and the reading-room of the British Museum. She had often spent long hours in the former, not moving from place to place, but seated before some masterpiece, scarce seeing it, yet vaguely learning something from it which had been missing in her life; but to-day she chose the latter, as being farther away, and it was time she wished to kill--time in which it was possible to hear the familiar step on the stairs, perhaps to be greeted by some affectionate jest that stockings were not mended or that new handkerchiefs required marking. She smiled as she thought of those seven long years during which she had kept this man as comfortable and as tidy as she could, during which she had managed for him as well as any woman could have managed, and tried to imagine the estimation in which such devotion would be held by the wives and mothers for whose infants she worked. She was a constant reader at the Museum, having, when she came to London, set herself deliberately to gain what she had perforce missed in her life, so she found a place, sent in her slip for a book, and was soon apparently studying it. But she was not even thinking. In the great crises of life one does not weigh pros and cons; decision comes from outside to those who recognise that there is something beyond one's own individual life. It is those who do not see, who fail to recognise the spiritual plane, who cannot distinguish good from evil, evil from good, who err past forgiveness. And from the moment Marrion Paul had heard of the condition on which old Lord Drummuir would buy the colonelcy she had known she must face him again. The only question was when, and how.
The sooner the better. She would inquire about the journey on her way home.
It was dark ere she arrived there with a long list of startings and arrivals in her hand, and a new sense of elation in her heart--the elation of the born fighter at yet another chance of battle.
"The Major was here asking for you, ma'am, about five o'clock," said the maidservant, "and he said if you could let him have two or three white ties to-night he would be obliged, as he is going into the country early to-morrow."
Marrion laughed. So much the better for her plans.
"Take a hot iron to the dining-room," she said, "and set the lace-board. You can take the ties round to his lodgings after supper."
Seven years had not improved old Lord Drummuir's temper, neither had it softened the arrogance of his sway over the household. Marrion realised this in a second, as, entering the study under the name of Mrs. Marsden--a lady who, according to the footman, was--"Oh, yes, sir, quite young, and yes, sir, quite good-looking!" and who had private business with his lordship, she found herself instantly recognised by three pairs of eyes. One the occupant of the familiar wheel-chair, the others those of my lady and Penelope. The sight of the latter was unexpected, for though Marrion knew her grandfather had died the previous year she had not heard of Penelope's reinstallation as confidential attendant to my lady. It was not an arrangement likely to occur to anyone out of Drummuir Castle; but there all things were possible.
In the instant's pause which followed on her entrance Marrion had time to note that the old man had changed but little. His face had lost somewhat of its colour, but the look of absolute domineering power was strong as ever. My lady had grown stout--the very idea of afandangowas far from her now--and the colour had come to her face in unbecoming fashion. Penelope, on the other hand, had grown thinner, and in her black dress looked prim propriety.
"Well, young woman?" began his lordship.
It was a signal for indignant protest from those two.
"Drummuir," shrilled the lady, "if you speak to that creature I must leave the room!"
Penelope's answering assent was audible in a snort.
The old man fixed them with a stony stare.
"I was just about to ask you to do so, my dear," he said, with suave politeness. "Penelope, open the door for your mistress."
Marrion, as mechanically she stepped aside towards the window to let them pass out, felt that nothing was altered. The spider was master of his web still, every stick and stone of the old place existed by this old man's wicked will. And it was this heritage she had set herself to gain for the man she loved! A spasm of repugnance shot through her.
Yet surely the place itself was glorious. Her glance speeding northwards took in the same old familiar view that had been visible from her window in the keep-house; the grey northern sea trending away, round promontory and point, the cliffs looking so strangely red compared with the white hills, the white moors--for snow lay thick everywhere. In those long years of London life she seemed to have forgotten that snow could be so white. "Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow." The words recurred to her irrelevantly.
The old man's voice roused her.
"You are not so good-looking as you were; and you limp. How's that?"
"I had an accident," she replied briefly.
"And why do you call yourself Mrs. Marsden?"
"Because it is the name I have gone by for some years."
"Ever since I last saw you--eh?"
"Ever since you last saw me--nearly," she corrected. Then there was silence.
"Well," he said at length, "what is it all about? You have come for money, I suppose--women always do. Tell the truth solidly please, I've no time to waste."
The sneer in his words was intolerable.
"Yes, I have come for money," she replied, "because your son, Major Marmaduke Muir, married me six years ago. I've brought proofs with me."
If he wanted the truth he had got it. Bitter as she was, however, the sudden whiteness of the old man's face made her sorry for him. There was something more than anger here. That turned him purple; yet his words were resentful, nothing more.
"Then he is a damned fool!"
"You didn't write so to him seven years ago, Lord Drummuir," she began.
"H'm, so he showed you the letter, did he? No, you behaved well then--and, by God, I made them dance!" The recollection seemed to please; then a sudden thought evidently struck him. "Any children?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"One--a boy--died. Major Muir had an accident in the tilbury. The child," she paused, her eyes on the far stretches of dazzling white snow, "it--it ransomed my life. I shall never have another." Then with a rush all she had come to say sprang to mind and lips, she held out her hands appealingly. "Lord Drummuir, I wish you would let me tell my story!"
"Eh, what?" he replied peevishly. "Well, curse it all, I've been plagued by the gout and those two virtuous frumps for seven months, for Jack Jardine has the jaundice, and you were deuced amusing last time. But, don't stop over there--makes me cold to think of you. Sit there, by the fire, and take off your bonnet; you look better without it. Women with good hair shouldn't wear bonnets."
She sat down as he bade her, feeling inclined to cry, he reminded her so much of Marmaduke.
He would not spare her any details; it seemed an amusement to him to hear of her doubts, her scruples, and he laughed aloud when she told him how two years ago she had dismissed her lover.
"Why?" he sneered. "Come, out with it!"
His hard clear eyes peered into hers.
"Because I didn't want to injure him, and I don't want to injure him now," she replied. "I haven't come to claim my rights as his wife."
"Then what the devil do you want, my lady?"
"I want you to do as you did before and give him the money to buy his colonelcy. If you will do this I will never claim to be his wife. He shall be as free, as far as I am concerned, to marry whom you choose."
Lord Drummuir sat looking at her with hard clear eyes.
"And if I don't," he said at last, "are you going to threaten me with this bogus marriage, for it may be bogus for all I know--eh, what?"
Marrion felt that the supreme moment had come; she must stake her all.
"No," she answered quietly. "To show you I threaten nothing, there are my marriage lines. Burn them if you will!"
She sat quite still while the old man, with fingers that trembled visibly, unfolded the paper she gave him. There was no mistaking its worth. In Marmaduke's bold black writing were the words--
"I, Marmaduke Muir, second son of Baron Drummuir, of Drummuir Castle, hereby acknowledge Marrion Paul as my lawful wife." Underneath in her finer writing was her own acknowledgment of her tie to Marmaduke.
The old man, for all he had had no hopes of escape, was wary.
"You give this up because you know he, my fool of a son, has a counterpart, eh? That's about it, I expect?"
Marrion flushed to the very roots of her hair, but she spoke calmly.
"Yes, your son has the counterpart----" she began.
The old man burst into one of his sudden rude guffaws.
"Ha, ha, ha! And you thought you'd take in the old fox, my fine madam!" he said, then paused before the passion of her face.
"If you will listen you will believe me. I could claim to be his wife now if I chose. I do not choose. I prefer that he should lead the life he loved, that he should marry and bring you the heir for which--for which you would sell your soul, you poor old man! But Marmaduke is a soldier born; if he misses this chance he will be a disappointed man. As like as not he will never marry, even though he knows I've set him free. But send him this money, and I swear to you the counterpart shall be destroyed. What shall I swear by? I swear by the poor dead baby!" She paused. "Marmaduke said he was so like you. I never saw him. I was too near death."
Her voice trailed away to monotony. The old man sat staring at her, an odd tremor in his face.
"I swear it shall be destroyed," she continued. "I--I have very great influence over your son; he--he will do what I ask."
"Then why the devil are you giving him up, and your prospects here? They're not to be sneezed at by a woman like you!"
The phrase nettled her. She rose and stood beside him strong and steady.
"Lord Drummuir," she said sarcastically, "I know you to be clever and I thought, being a gentleman, that you might have seen the truth and spared me the pain of that question. I will answer it, however. It is cause your son never loved me. He is very, very fond of me. He has been so ever since we were boy and girl together. And I have been of great use to him. But I could not bring love into his life, and I could not bring him a child. So it did not seem worth while; I could only stand aside."
There was a pause. The old man's face had grown sharp and paler; there was uncertainty even in the cruel lines about the mouth.
"You're rather an extraordinary young woman," he remarked coolly; "might have made your fortune on the stage. Wish I'd met you there!" He grinned. "But now to business. You have the whip hand, of course--I admit that. Now, if I give you--or that fool, my son, it's the same thing--the money for this paper, you promise to make him destroy his counterpart."
"I promise," she replied eagerly. "I can make him do most things----"
"Except love you," interrupted the old man, with a horrible sneer; but the next instant his gouty hand, trembling a little, was outstretched to her in deprecation. "Excuse me, that should not have been said. Well, you know as well as I do that this game is a real confidence trick. You must have heaps of evidence up your sleeve if you chose to bring it forward. But I'll chance that. I haven't seen many of your sort in my life. If I had, I mightn't have been the cursed cripple I am; but I've had a rattlin' good life of it and I don't regret anything--except having begot Pitt. So we will come to terms. I will send the colonelcy money to Marmaduke on condition that he consents to marry within the year. Is that agreed?"
"Agreed," she said firmly.
"In that case perhaps you'll oblige me by ringing the bell."
She did so, but when the valet appeared, instead of the curt order to show her out Marrion had expected, the old man commanded the instant production of cake and wine.
"Nonsense!" he growled decisively to her protestations. "It is devilish cold. You haven't on warm enough clothes, and you don't leave this house without bite or sup, if only because your father Paul was a deuced good servant to my poor brother. Good fellow was Paul--always suspicioned he was a gentleman--think now he must have been. Here"--the valet had come and gone, leaving the tray on the table--"pour yourself out a glass of port. Won't get better anywhere, I'll go bail. Only half a binn left, so I shall finish that before I die, thank God! Now," he eyed her narrowly, "drink to the health of Marmaduke Muir's son, the heir to Drummuir!"
The room seemed to spin round for a moment. Then without a quiver she drank the health, put down her glass and turned to the door. Just as she reached it the old man said--
"Good-bye. I'm damned sorry that little chap of yours died; he would have been game, anyhow."
She gave back one sudden grateful look, and the memory of what she saw remained with her till the day of her death. The pearly whiteness of the snow outside showing behind the mountain of diseased flesh swathed in scarlet flannel, the gouty hands in the act of tearing up the paper they had been holding, a cruel smile in the old grey eyes, despite the words which had just fallen from the cruel lips.
"Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow."
The phrase recurred and recurred as she tramped her way down the beech avenue. There were many gaps in it now. How many trees would be left when Marmaduke's heir came to his own?