are over-scrupulous in their treatment of one man when their affections are set upon another.
He showed Miss Gilletson all the family tombs. He escorted her from the church. Under renewed vows of secrecy he induced her to enter Scarsmoor. Once in the gardens, the good lady was lost. They had no such roses at Nab Grange! Lynborough insisted on sending an enormous bouquet to the Vicar’s wife in Miss Gilletson’s name – and Miss Gilletson grew merry as she pictured the mystification of the Vicar’s wife. For Miss Gilletson herself he superintended the selection of a nosegay of the choicest blooms; they laughed again together when she hid them in a large bag she carried – destined for the tea and tobacco which represented her little charities. Then – after pausing for one private word in his gardener’s ear, which caused a boy to be sent off post-haste to the stables – he led her to the road, and in vain implored her to honour his house by setting foot in it. There the fear of the Marchesa or (it is pleasanter to think) some revival of the sense of youth, bred by Lynborough’s deferential courtliness, prevailed. They came together through his lodge gates; and Miss Gilletson’s face suddenly fell.
“That wretched gate!” she cried. “It’s locked – and I haven’t got the key.”
“No more have I, I’m sorry to say,” said Lynborough. He, on his part, had forgotten nothing.
“It’s nearly two miles round by the road – and so hot and dusty! – Really Helena does cut off her nose to spite her face!” Though, in truth, it appeared rather to be Miss Gilletson’s nose the Marchesa had cut off.
A commiserating gravity sat on Lord Lynborough’s attentive countenance.
“If I were younger, I’d climb that wall,” declared Miss Gilletson. “As it is – well, but for your lovely flowers, I’d better have gone the other way after all.”
“I don’t want you to feel that,” said he, almost tenderly.
“I must walk!”
“Oh no, you needn’t,” said Lynborough.
As he spoke, there issued from the gates behind them a luxurious victoria, drawn by two admirable horses. It came to a stand by Lynborough, the coachman touching his hat, the footman leaping to the ground.
“Just take Miss Gilletson to the Grange, Williams. Stop a little way short of the house. She wants to walk through the garden.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Put up the hood, Charles. The sun’s very hot for Miss Gilletson.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Nobody’ll see you if you get out a hundred yards from the door – and it’s really better than tramping the road on a day like this. Of course, if Beach Path were open – !” He shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly.
Fear of the Marchesa struggled in Miss Gilletson’s heart with the horror of the hot and tiring walk – with the seduction of the shady, softly rolling, speedy carriage.
“If I met Helena!” she whispered; and the whisper was an admission of reciprocal confidence.
“It’s the chance of that against the certainty of the tramp!”
“She didn’t come down to breakfast this morning – ”
“Ah, didn’t she?” Lynborough made a note for his Intelligence Department.
“Perhaps she isn’t up yet! I – I think I’ll take the risk.”
Lynborough assisted her into the carriage.
“I hope we shall meet again,” he said, with no small empressement.
“I’m afraid not,” answered Miss Gilletson dolefully. “You see, Helena – ”
“Yes, yes; but ladies have their moods. Anyhow you won’t think too hardly of me, will you? I’m not altogether an ogre.”
There was a pretty faint blush on Miss Gilletson’s cheek as she gave him her hand. “An ogre! No, dear Lord Lynborough,” she murmured.
“A wedge!” said Lynborough, as he watched her drive away.
He was triumphant with what he had achieved – he was full of hope for what he had planned. If he reckoned right, the loyalty of the ladies at Nab Grange to the mistress thereof was tottering, if it had not fallen. His relations with the men awaited the result of the cricket match. Yet neither his triumph nor his hope could in the nature of the case exist without an intermixture of remorse. He hurt – or tried to hurt – what he would please – and hoped to please. His mood was mixed, and his smile not altogether mirthful as he stood looking at the fast-receding carriage.
Then suddenly, for the first time, he saw his enemy. Distantly – afar off! Yet without a doubt it was she. As he turned and cast his eyes over the forbidden path – the path whose seclusion he had violated, bold in his right – a white figure came to the sunk fence and stood there, looking not towards where he stood, but up to his castle on the hill. Lynborough edged near to the barricaded gate – a new padlock and new chevaux-de-frise of prickly branches guarded it. The latter, high as his head, screened him completely; he peered through the interstices in absolute security.
The white figure stood on the little bridge which led over the sunk fence into the meadow. He could see neither feature nor colour; only the slender shape caught and chained his eye. Tall she was, and slender, as his mocking forecast had prophesied. More than that he could not see.
Well, he did see one more thing. This beautiful shape, after a few minutes of what must be presumed to be meditation, raised its arm and shook its fist with decision at Scarsmoor Castle; then it turned and walked straight back to the Grange.
There was no sort of possibility of mistaking the nature or the meaning of the gesture.
It had the result of stifling Lynborough’s softer mood, of reviving his pugnacity. “She must do more than that, if she’s to win!” said he.
CHAPTER VIII
THE MARCHESA MOVES
AFTER her demonstration against Scarsmoor Castle, the Marchesa went in to lunch. But there were objects of her wrath nearer home also. She received Norah’s salute – they had not met before, that morning – with icy coldness.
“I’m better, thank you,” she said, “but you must be feeling tired – having been up so very early in the morning! And you – Violet – have you been over to Scarsmoor again?”
Violet had heard from Norah all about the latter’s morning adventure. They exchanged uneasy glances. Yet they were prepared to back one another up. The men looked more frightened; men are frightened when women quarrel.
“One of you,” continued the Marchesa accusingly, “pursues Lord Lynborough to his own threshold – the other flirts with him in my own meadow! Rather peculiar signs of friendship for me under the present circumstances – don’t you think so, Colonel Wenman?”
The Colonel thought so – though he would have greatly preferred to be at liberty to entertain – or at least to express – no opinion on so thorny a point.
“Flirt with him? What do you mean?” But Norah’s protest lacked the ring of honest indignation.
“Kissing
