enable him to live in England being responsible for those same ten years of foreign service. But distance softens shadows; besides, the very idea that a man could go and cut down historical trees just to spite another man was foreign to Marmaduke's nature.
"Oh, curse the whole lot!" he broke out at last. "Upon my soul I'll go back to the East--it isn't half a bad place--or wouldn't be if one only had a little tin--besides, I must get the money for my majority."
His words, following his impulsive thoughts, made Marrion smile indulgently.
"I wouldn't if I was you, Mr.--I mean Captain Duke," she remarked, with a twinkle in her eye. "Mayhap, my lord will bury the hatchet now you're home, if ye don't anger him." She looked pretty with that half-mischievous smile, and the sight cheered Marmaduke instantly.
"What a wise lassie you always were, Marmie," he said, with wilful charm, "and what a lot of scrapes you've gotten me out of, and what a lot you'd get me out of, if you were only bound up with me like the Shorter Catechism was by mistake with Tristram Shandy--d'you remember? Good lord, I've forgotten my duty to my neighbour! However, here goes, and I'll do my best not to anger the baron! You see, I must get the money for my majority," he added, half to himself, as he spun round on his heel rather dramatically.
In fact, there was no denying it, the Honourable Marmaduke Muir was a trifle flamboyant as he swaggered across the courtyard which led from the old keep of Drummuir Castle to the southern and modern portion of the building. Marrion Paul watched the figure with a certain distaste. Perhaps, she thought, it was only the ultrafashionable dress, the all too palpable fit-out of a smart military tailor, eager for a bill, that clashed with the grim old walls. Inside he had seemed much the same as she remembered him. Kindly, affectionate, not over wise, but charming, absolutely charming. And, after all, who was she to judge a gentleman born? That question was a hard one to answer. Her mother had undoubtedly been Maggie Sim, old Sim's daughter, who had been maid to the first Lady Drummuir. But her father had been Paul, the foreign valet, whom Lord Drummuir's younger brother had brought over with him when he was invalided from the diplomatic service. A very decent, respectable sort of chap, as old Sim admitted even while he objected strongly to his daughter's marriage. Not without reason it turned out, since Paul, after tending his sick master with unremitting care and resource until his death, disappeared the day of the funeral, leaving his young wife expecting her first child. And he had never been heard of since. That Mrs. Paul should pine away and die early was, the folk about said, only to be expected, for Paul, despite his foreign birth, had been a man to be regretted--a man who had a way with him which his daughter had inherited. She, however, would never hear a word in his favour, and nothing made her more angry than to find in herself little traits of character unaccountable to her sturdy Scots upbringing.
So she told herself that she was no judge of what a gentleman's dress or deportment should be, and turned at the sound of a footstep coming through the archway of the keep behind her to greet the newcomer with a more effusive welcome than she would otherwise have given the young man who came towards her carrying a valise on his shoulder. He set down his burden and grasped her outstretched hand in a sort of transport.
"Ah, Marrion--Marrion, my lass!" he cried. "God, but it's gude to see you once mair!"
The words summed him up from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. You might have spent long hours in analysing Andrew Fraser's mind and body at that particular moment, and you would have got no nearer the mark, since for the time being existence was sheer gladness because of the sight of a woman.
"And I've brocht him safe home as ye bade me when I joined. Ye'll have seen him yerself. He's fine, isn't he?"
There was a world of pride in his tone; the pride of the soldier-servant who is responsible for the smartness of his master's outturn.
"Aye!" assented Marrion, grimly recognising that the figure before her was more to her mind in some ways than the other which had gone swaggering through the quadrangle. This one was broader in the chest, simpler in its ugly angular face and small pathetic-looking blue eyes, and simple--oh, so irritatingly simple!--in the devotion writ large in its every look, its every intonation.
"Well, I'm glad you're both home safe," she said, putting the barrier of refined speech between them. Then a resentment, of which she was innately ashamed even while she yielded to it, made her add: "And I suppose you've brought home a wife on the strength of the regiment?"
Andrew Fraser stared for a second, then shouldered his valise again deftly--
"Ye ken fine, Marrion Paul," he said sternly, as he went on, "that there never was but ae woman in the wurrld for me, an' never will be."
And so he left her feeling small and mean.
She watched him across the courtyard following on his master's steps. A fine figure of a man. No swagger there, nothing to clash with the grey old walls.
But that made no difference, no difference at all. That was the worst of it.
CHAPTER II
Marmaduke Muir had meanwhile found his familiar way through the low arch which, piercing the extreme corner of the eastern side of the quadrangle, formed the connecting link between the older part of Drummuir Castle and the new. For the rest, this eastern wall showed blank save for a loophole or two. It was, in effect, simply the back wall of what in Scotland is called the square; that is, the continuation of stables, cow-houses and woodsheds which appertain to a country mansion in the north. It had evidently been built as a wind-screen to the western wing, which, overlooking the river, had been the residential portion of the house before the southern wing had been added to close in the quadrangle. Altogether it was a fine old place, magnificently situated in the slight hollow which dipped between the high old red sandstone cliffs of the Aberdeenshire coast, and the lower yet still high old red sandstone cliffs which for a mile or two formed the eastward bank of the river Drum. Standing still on the grass-plot in the centre of the courtyard a quick ear could detect two water sounds--the rhythmic roll of the waves of the North Sea on the one hand, and the incessant rush of the running river on the other.
Marmaduke did not pause to listen. He only felt a thrill of pride in the beauty of the stern old place before he passed through the arch into totally different surroundings. Here were wide well-kept lawns, beds of rhododendrons, then somewhat of a novelty, and in those northern climes ablaze with blossom this middle June. Further afield lay a typical East Aberdeenshire landscape of rolling arable land set with square plantations of wood and dotted at sparse intervals with solid grey granite farm-houses. Behind him, despite its wide portico and Grecian balustrade, the new wing of the old castle looked stern and stubborn as the rest.
He stood for a moment on the curving flight of massive steps and drew in a long breath of satisfaction; for right in front of him stretched something that once seen could never be forgotten. People came from far for a sight of the great beech avenue of Drummuir. And what they went out for to see was worth the seeing.
A cathedral aisle, not made by hand, solemn, serene. Soft sunlight filtering through a vaulted roof of leaves, wide spandrils of brown branches sweeping to wide arch from the pillars of the mighty tree trunks--a tessellated pavement of shade and shine.
He had seen the sight a thousand times, yet it brought now, as it had always brought, a vague wonder as to the long years since those giant beeches had sent their first feeler into Mother Earth's bosom. But, as ever, after the manner of such idle human wonders when confronted with the
