saw you from her window. You don’t deny it?”
“No, I don’t,” said Norah, perceiving the uselessness of such a course. “In fact, I glory in it. I had a splendid time with Lord Lynborough. Oh, I did try to keep him out for you – but he jumped over my head.”
Sensation among the gentlemen! Increased scorn on the Marchesa’s face!
“And when I got John Goodenough to help me, he just laid John down on the grass as – as I lay that spoon on the table! He’s splendid, Helena!”
“He seems a good sort of chap,” said Irons thoughtfully.
The Marchesa looked at Wenman.
“Nothing to be said for the fellow, nothing at all,” declared the Colonel hastily.
“Thank you, Colonel Wenman. I’m glad I have one friend left anyhow. Oh, besides you, Mr Stillford, of course. Oh, and you, dear old Jennie, of course. You wouldn’t forsake me, would you?”
The tone of affection was calculated to gratify Miss Gilletson. But against it had to be set the curious and amused gaze of Norah and Violet. Seen by these two ladies in the act of descending from a stylish (and coroneted) victoria in the drive of Nab Grange, Miss Gilletson had, pardonably perhaps, broken down rather severely in cross-examination. She had been so very proud of the roses – so very full of Lord Lynborough’s graces! She was conscious now that the pair held her in their hands and were demanding courage from her.
“Forsake you, dearest Helena? Of course not! There’s no question of that with any of us.”
“Yes – there is – with those of you who make friends with that wretch at Scarsmoor!”
“Really, Helena, you shouldn’t be so – so vehement. I’m not sure it’s ladylike. It’s absurd to call Lord Lynborough a wretch.” The pale faint flush again adorned her fading cheeks. “I never met a man more thoroughly a gentleman.”
“You never met – ” began the Marchesa in petrified tones. “Then you have met – ?” Again her words died away.
Miss Gilletson took her courage in both hands.
“Circumstances threw us together. I behaved as a lady does under such circumstances, Helena. And Lord Lynborough was, under the circumstances, most charming, courteous, and considerate.” She gathered more courage as she proceeded. “And, really, it’s highly inconvenient having that gate locked, Helena. I had to come all the way round by the road.”
“I’m sorry if you find yourself fatigued,” said the Marchesa with formal civility.
“I’m not fatigued, thank you, Helena. I should have been terribly – but for Lord Lynborough’s kindness in sending me home in his carriage.”
A pause followed. Then Norah and Violet began to giggle.
“It was so funny this morning!” said Norah – and boldly launched on a full story of her adventure. She held the attention of the table. The Marchesa sat in gloomy silence. Violet chimed in with more reminiscences of her visit to Scarsmoor; Miss Gilletson contributed new items, including that matter of the roses. Norah ended triumphantly with a eulogy on Lynborough’s extraordinary physical powers. Captain Irons listened with concealed interest. Even Colonel Wenman ventured to opine that the enemy was worth fighting. Stillford imitated his hostess’s silence, but he was watching her closely. Would her courage – or her obstinacy – break down under these assaults, this lukewarmness, these desertions? In his heart, fearful of that lawsuit, he hoped so.
“I shall prosecute him for assaulting Goodenough,” the Marchesa announced.
“Goodenough touched him first!” cried Norah.
“That doesn’t matter, since I’m in the right. He had no business to be there. That’s the law, isn’t it, Mr Stillford? Will he be sent to prison or only heavily fined?”
“Well – er – I’m rather afraid – neither, Marchesa. You see, he’ll plead his right, and the Bench would refer us to our civil remedy and dismiss the summons. At least, that’s my opinion.”
“Of course that’s right,” pronounced Norah in an authoritative tone.
“If that’s the English law,” observed the Marchesa, rising from the table, “I greatly regret that I ever settled in England.”
“What are you going to do this afternoon, Helena? Going to play tennis – or croquet?”
“I’m going for a walk, thank you, Violet.” She paused for a moment and then added, “By myself.”
“Oh, mayn’t I have the privilege – ?” began the Colonel.
“Not to-day, thank you, Colonel Wenman. I – I have a great deal to think about. We shall meet again at tea – unless you’re all going to tea at Scarsmoor Castle!” With this Parthian shot she left them.
She had indeed much to think of – and her reflections were not cast in a cheerful mould. She had underrated her enemy. It had seemed sufficient to lock the gate and to forbid Lynborough’s entry. These easy measures had appeared to leave him no resource save blank violence: in that confidence she had sat still and done nothing. He had been at work – not by blank violence, but by cunning devices and subtle machinations. He had made a base use of his personal fascinations, of his athletic gifts, even of his lordly domain, his garden of roses, and his carriage. She perceived his strategy; she saw now how he had driven in his wedges. Her ladies had already gone over to his side; even her men were shaken. Stillford had always been lukewarm; Irons was fluttering round Lynborough’s flame; Wenman might still be hers – but an isolation mitigated only by Colonel Wenman seemed an isolation not mitigated in the least. When she had looked forward to a fight, it had not been to such a fight as this. An enthusiastic, hilarious, united Nab Grange was to have hurled laughing defiance at Scarsmoor Castle. Now more than half Nab Grange laughed – but its laughter was not at the Castle; its laughter, its pitying amusement, was directed at her; Lynborough’s triumphant campaign drew all admiration. He had told Stillford that he would harry her; he was harrying her to his heart’s content – and to a very soreness in hers.
For the path – hateful Beach Path which her feet at this moment trod – became now no more than an occasion for battle, a symbol of strife. The greater issue stood out. It was that this man had peremptorily challenged her to a fight – and was beating her! And he won his victory, not by male violence in spite of male stupidity, but by just the arts and the cunning which should have been her own weapons. To her he left the blunt, the inept, the stupid and violent methods. He chose the more refined, and wielded them like a master. It was a position to which the Marchesa’s experience had not accustomed her – one to which her spirit was by no means attuned.
What was his end – that end whose approach seemed even now clearly indicated? It was to convict her at once of cowardice and of pig-headedness, to exhibit her as afraid to bring him to book by law, and yet too churlish to cede him his rights. He would get all her friends to think that about her. Then she would be left alone – to fight a lost battle all alone.
Was he right in his charge? Did it truly describe her conduct? For any truth there might be in it, she declared that he was himself to blame. He had forced the fight on her by his audacious demand for instant surrender; he had given her no fair time for consideration, no opportunity for a dignified retreat. He had offered her no choice save between ignominy and defiance. If she chose defiance, his rather than hers was the blame.
Suddenly
