by Anthony Hope
_Chapter Ten_
IN THE LAST RESORT!
It will have been perceived by now that Lord Lynborough delighted in afight. He revelled in being opposed; the man who withstood him to theface gave him such pleasure as to beget in his mind certainly gratitude,perhaps affection, or at least a predisposition thereto. There wasnothing he liked so much as an even battle--unless, by chance, it werethe scales seeming to incline a little against him. Then his spiritsrose highest, his courage was most buoyant, his kindliness most sunny.
The benefit of this disposition accrued to the Marchesa; for by hersudden counterattack she had at least redressed the balance of thecampaign. He could not be sure that she had not done more. The ladies ofher party were his--he reckoned confidently on that; but the men hecould not count as more than neutral at the best; Wenman, anyhow, couldeasily be whistled back to the Marchesa's heel. But in his own house, headmitted at once, she had secured for him open hostility, for herselfthe warmest of partisanship. The meaning of her lunch was too plain todoubt. No wonder her opposition to her own deserters had been so faint;no wonder she had so readily, even if so scornfully, afforded them thepretext--the barren verbal permission--that they had required. She hadnot wanted them--no, not even the Colonel himself! She had wanted to bealone with Roger and with Stabb--and to complete the work of herblandishments on those guileless, tenderhearted, and susceptiblepersons. Lynborough admired, applauded, and promised himselfconsiderable entertainment at dinner.
How was the Marchesa, in her turn, bearing her domestic isolation, theinternal disaffection at Nab Grange? He flattered himself that she wouldnot be finding in it such pleasure as his whimsical temper reaped fromthe corresponding position of affairs at Scarsmoor.
There he was right. At Nab Grange the atmosphere was not cheerful. Notto want a thing by no means implies an admission that you do not wantit; that is elementary diplomacy. Rather do you insist that you want itvery much; if you do not get it, there is a grievance--and a grievanceis a mighty handy article of barter. The Marchesa knew all that.
The deserters were severely lashed. The Marchesa had said that she didnot expect Colonel Wenman; ought she to have sent a message to say thatshe was pining for him--must that be wrung from her before he wouldcondescend to come? She had said that she knew the custom with regard tolunch at cricket matches; was that to say that she expected it to beobserved to her manifest and public humiliation? She had told MissGilletson and the girls to please themselves; of course she wished themto do that always. Yet it might be a wound to find that their pleasurelay in abandoning their friend and hostess, in consorting with herarch-enemy, and giving him a triumph.
"Well, what do you say about Wilbraham and Stabb?" cried the trampledColonel.
"I say that they're gentlemen," retorted the Marchesa. "They saw theposition I was in--and they saved me from humiliation."
That was enough for the men; men are, after all, poor fighters. It wasnot, however, enough for Lady Norah Mountliffey--a woman--and anIrishwoman to boot!
"Are you really asking us to believe that you hadn't arranged it withthem beforehand?" she inquired scornfully.
"Oh, I don't ask you to believe anything I say," returned the Marchesa,dexterously avoiding saying anything on the point suggested.
"The truth is, you're being very absurd, Helena," Norah pursued. "Ifyou've got a right, go to law with Lord Lynborough and make him respectit. If you haven't got a right, why go on making yourself ridiculous andall the rest of us very uncomfortable?"
It was obvious that the Marchesa might reply that any guest of hers whofelt himself or herself uncomfortable at Nab Grange had, in his or herown hand, the easy remedy. She did not do that. She did a thing moredisconcerting still. Though the mutton had only just been put on thetable, she pushed back her chair, rose to her feet, and fled from theroom very hastily.
Miss Gilletson sprang up. But Norah was beforehand with her.
"No! I said it. I'm the one to go. Who could think she'd take it likethat?" Norah's own blue eyes were less bright than usual as she hurriedafter her wounded friend. The rest ate on in dreary conscience-strickensilence. At last Stillford spoke.
"Don't urge her to go to law," he said. "I'm pretty sure she'd bebeaten."
"Then she ought to give in--and apologize to Lord Lynborough," saidMiss Gilletson decisively. "That would be right--and, I will add,Christian."
"Humble Pie ain't very good eating," commented Captain Irons.
Neither the Marchesa nor Norah came back. The meal wended along its slowand melancholy course to a mirthless weary conclusion. Colonel Wenmanbegan to look on the repose of bachelorhood with a kinder eye, on itsloneliness with a more tolerant disposition. He went so far as toremember that, if the worst came to the worst, he had another invitationfor the following week.
The Spirit of Discord (The tragic atmosphere now gathering justifiesthese figures of speech--the chronicler must rise to the occasion of aheroine in tears), having wrought her fell work at Nab Grange, nowwinged her way to the towers of Scarsmoor Castle.
Dinner had passed off quite as Lynborough anticipated; he had enjoyedhimself exceedingly. Whenever the temporary absence of the servantsallowed, he had rallied his friends on their susceptibility to beauty,on their readiness to fail him under its lures, on their clumsy attemptsat concealment of their growing intimacy, and their confidentialrelations, with the fascinating mistress of Nab Grange. He too had beentold to take his case into the Courts or to drop his claim--and hadlaughed triumphantly at the advice. He had laughed when Stabb said thathe really could not pursue his work in the midst of such distractions,that his mind was too perturbed for scientific thought. He had laughedlightly and good-humoredly even when (as they were left alone overcoffee) Roger Wilbraham, going suddenly a little white, said he thoughtthat persecuting a lady was no fit amusement for a gentleman.Lynborough did not suppose that the Marchesa--with the battle of the dayat least drawn, if not decided in her favor--could be regarded as thesubject of persecution--and he did recognize that young fellows, undercertain spells, spoke hotly and were not to be held to serious account.He was smiling still when, with a forced remark about the heat, the pairwent out together to smoke on the terrace. He had some letters to read,and for the moment dismissed the matter from his mind.
In ten minutes young Roger Wilbraham returned; his manner was quiet now,but his face still rather pale. He came up to the table by whichLynborough sat.
"Holding the position I do in your house, Lord Lynborough," he said, "Ihad no right to use the words I used this evening at dinner. Iapologize for them. But, on the other hand, I have no wish to hold aposition which prevents me from using those words when they representwhat I think. I beg you to accept my resignation, and I shall be greatlyobliged if you can arrange to relieve me of my duties as soon aspossible."
Lynborough heard him without interruption; with grave impassive face,with surprise, pity, and a secret amusement. Even if he were right, hewas so solemn over it!
The young man waited for no answer. With the merest indication of a bow,he left Lynborough alone, and passed on into the house.
"Well, now!" said Lord Lynborough, rising and lighting a cigar. "ThisMarchesa! Well, now!"
Stabb's heavy form came lumbering in from the terrace; he seemed to movemore heavily than ever, as though his bulk were even unusually inert.He plumped down into a chair and looked up at Lynborough's gracefulfigure.
"I meant what I said at dinner, Ambrose. I wasn't joking, though Isuppose you thought I was. All this affair may amuse you--it worries me.I can't settle to work. If you'll be so kind as to send me over toEasthorpe to-morrow, I'll be off--back to Oxford."
"Cromlech, old boy!"
"Yes, I know. But I--I don't want to stay, Ambrose. I'mnot--comfortable." His great face set in a heavy, disconsolate, wrinkledfrown.
Lord Lynborough pursed his lips in a momentary whistle, then put hiscigar back into his mouth, and walked out on to the terrace.
"This Marchesa!" said
he again. "This very remarkable Marchesa! Her_riposte_ is admirable. Really I venture to hope that I, in my turn,have very seriously disturbed her household!"
He walked to the edge of the terrace, and stood there musing. Sandy Nabloomed up, dimly the sea rose and fell, twinkled and sank into darkness.It talked too--talked to Lynborough with a soft, low, quiet voice; itseemed (to his absurdly whimsical imagination) as though some lovelywoman gently stroked his brow and whispered to him. He liked toencourage such freaks of fancy.
Cromlech couldn't go. That was absurd.
And the young fellow? So much a gentleman! Lynborough had liked theterms of his apology no less than the firmness of his protest. "It's thefirst time, I think, that I've been told that I'm no gentleman," hereflected with amusement. But Roger had been pale when he said it.Imaginatively Lynborough assumed his place. "A brave boy," he said. "Andthat dear old knight-errant of a Cromlech!"
A space--room indeed and room enough--for the softer emotions--so muchLynborough was ever inclined to allow. But to acquiesce in this state ofthings as final--that was to admit defeat at the hands of the Marchesa.It was to concede that one day had changed the whole complexion of thefight.
"Cromlech sha'n't go--the boy sha'n't go--and I'll still use the path,"he thought. "Not that I really care about the path, you know." Hepaused. "Well, yes, I do care about it--for bathing in the morning." Hehardened his heart against the Marchesa. She chose to fight; the fortuneof war must be hers. He turned his eyes down to Nab Grange. Lightsburned there--were her guests demanding to be sent to Easthorpe? Why,no! As he looked, Lynborough came to the conclusion that she had reducedthem all to order--that they would be whipped back to heel--that hismanoeuvers (and his lunch!) had probably been wasted. He was beatenthen?
He scorned the conclusion. But if he were not--the result was deadlock!Then still he was beaten; for unless Helena (he called her that) ownedhis right, his right was to him as nothing.
"I have made myself a champion of my sex," he said. "Shall I be beaten?"
In that moment--with all the pang of forsaking an old conviction--ofdisowning that stronger tie, the loved embrace of an ancient andperversely championed prejudice--he declared that any price must bepaid for victory.
"Heaven forgive me, but, sooner than be beaten, I'll go to law withher!" he cried.
A face appeared from between two bushes--a voice spoke from the edge ofthe terrace.
"I thought you might be interested to hear----"
"Lady Norah?"
"Yes, it's me--to hear that you've made her cry--and very bitterly."