them lie idle! Lord Lynborough did not live alone at Scarsmoor. If there were women open to his wiles at the Grange, were there no men open to hers at Scarsmoor? The idea was illuminating; she accorded it place in her thoughts.
She was just by the gate. She took out her key, opened the padlock, closed the gate behind her, but did not lock it, walked on to the road, and surveyed the territory of Scarsmoor.
Fate helps those who help themselves: her new courage of brain and heart had its reward. She had not been there above a minute when Roger Wilbraham came out from the Scarsmoor gates.
Lynborough had, he considered, done enough for one day. He was awaiting the results of to-morrow’s manœuvres anent the cricket match. But he amused himself after lunch by proffering to Roger a wager that he would not succeed in traversing Beach Path from end to end, and back again, alone, by his own unassisted efforts, and without being driven to ignominious flight. Without a moment’s hesitation Roger accepted. “I shall just wait till the coast’s clear,” he said.
“Ah, but they’ll see you from the windows! They will be on the lookout,” Lynborough retorted.
The Marchesa had strolled a little way down the road. She was walking back towards the gate when Roger first came in sight. He did not see her until after he had reached the gate. There he stood a moment, considering at what point to attack it – for the barricade was formidable. He came to the same conclusion as Lynborough had reached earlier in the day. “Oh, I’ll jump the wall,” he said.
“The gate isn’t locked,” remarked a charming voice just behind him.
He turned round with a start and saw – he had no doubt whom he saw. The Marchesa’s tall slender figure stood before him – all in white, crowned by a large, yet simple, white hat; her pale olive cheeks were tinged with underlying red (the flush of which Lynborough had dreamed!); her dark eyes rested on the young man with a kindly languid interest; her very red lips showed no smile, yet seemed to have one in ready ambush. Roger was overcome; he blushed and stood silent before the vision.
“I expect you’re going to bathe? Of course this is the shortest way, and I shall be so glad if you’ll use it. I’m going to the Grange myself, so I can put you on your way.”
Roger was honest. “I – I’m staying at the Castle.”
“I’ll tell somebody to be on the lookout and open the gate for you when you come back,” said she.
If Norah was no match for Lynborough, Roger was none for the Marchesa’s practised art.
“You’re – you’re awfully kind. I – I shall be delighted, of course.”
The Marchesa passed through the gate. Roger followed. She handed him the key.
“Will you please lock the padlock? It’s not – safe – to leave the gate open.”
Her smile had come into the open – it was on the red lips now! For all his agitation Roger was not blind to its meaning. His hand was to lock the gate against his friend and chief! But the smile and the eyes commanded. He obeyed.
It was the first really satisfactory moment which the contest had brought to the Marchesa – some small instalment of consolation for the treason of her friends.
Roger had been honestly in love once with a guileless maiden – who had promptly and quite unguilefully refused him; his experience did not at all fit him to cope with the Marchesa. She, of course, was merciless: was he not of the hated house? As an individual, however, he appeared to be comely and agreeable.
They walked on side by side – not very quickly. The Marchesa’s eyes were now downcast. Roger was able to steal a glance at her profile; he could compare it to nothing less than a Roman Empress on an ancient silver coin.
“I suppose you’ve been taught to think me a very rude and unneighbourly person, haven’t you, Mr Wilbraham? At least, I suppose you’re Mr Wilbraham? You don’t look old enough to be that learned Mr Stabb the Vicar told me about. Though he said Mr Stabb was absolutely delightful – how I should love to know him, if only – !” She broke off, sighing deeply.
“Yes, my name’s Wilbraham. I’m Lynborough’s secretary. But – er – I don’t think anything of that sort about you. And – and I’ve never heard Lynborough say anything – er – unkind.”
“Oh, Lord Lynborough!” She gave a charming little shrug, accompanied with what Roger, from his novel-reading, conceived to be a moue.
“Of course I – I know that you – you think you’re right,” he stammered.
She stopped on the path. “Yes, I do think I’m right, Mr Wilbraham. But that’s not it. If it were merely a question of right, it would be unneighbourly to insist. I’m not hurt by Lord Lynborough’s using this path. But I’m hurt by Lord Lynborough’s discourtesy. In my country women are treated with respect – even sometimes (she gave a bitter little laugh) with deference. That doesn’t seem to occur to Lord Lynborough.”
“Well, you know – ”
“Oh, I can’t let you say a word against him, whatever you may be obliged to think. In your position – as his friend – that would be disloyal; and the one thing I dislike is disloyalty. Only I was anxious” – she turned and faced him – “that you should understand my position – and that Mr Stabb should too. I shall be very glad if you and Mr Stabb will use the path whenever you like. If the gate’s locked you can manage the wall!”
“I’m – I’m most awfully obliged to you – er – Marchesa – but you see – ”
“No more need be said about that, Mr Wilbraham. You’re heartily welcome. Lord Lynborough would have been heartily welcome too, if he would have approached me properly. I was open to discussion. I received orders. I don’t take orders – not even from Lord Lynborough.”
She looked splendid – so Roger thought. The underlying red dyed the olive to a brighter hue; her eyes were very proud; the red lips shut decisively. Just like a Roman Empress! Then her face underwent a rapid transformation; the lips parted, the eyes laughed, the cheeks faded to hues less stormy, yet not less beautiful. (These are recorded as Mr Wilbraham’s impressions.) Lightly she laid the tips of her fingers on his arm for just a moment.
“There – don’t let’s talk any more about disagreeable things,” she said. “It’s too beautiful an afternoon. Can you spare just five minutes? The strawberries are splendid! I want some – and it’s so hot to pick them for oneself!”
Roger paused, twisting the towel round his neck.
“Only five minutes!” pleaded – yes, pleaded – the beautiful Marchesa. “Then you can go and have your swim in peace.”
It was a question whether poor Roger was to do anything more in peace that day – but he went and picked the strawberries.
CHAPTER IX
LYNBOROUGH DROPS A CATCH
“SOMETHING has happened!” (So Lynborough records the same evening.) “I don’t know precisely what – but I think that the enemy is at last in motion. I’m glad. I was being too successful. I had begun to laugh at her – and that only. I prefer the admixture of another element of emotion. All that ostensibly appears is that I have lost five shillings to Roger. ‘You did it?’ I asked. ‘Certainly,’ said Roger. ‘I went at my ease and came
