Tales of two people. Hope Anthony

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 back at my ease, and – .’ I interrupted, ‘Nobody stopped you?’ ‘Nobody made any objection,’ said Roger. ‘You took your time,’ says I. ‘You were away three hours!’ ‘The water was very pleasant this afternoon,’ says Roger. Hum! I hand over my two half-crowns, which Roger pockets with a most peculiar sort of smile. There that incident appears to end – with a comment from me that the Marchesa’s garrison is not very alert. Another smile – not less peculiar – from Roger! Hum!

      “Then Cromlech! I trust Cromlech as myself – that is, as far as I can see him. He has no secrets from me – that I know of; I have none from him – which would be at all likely to interest him. Yet, soon after Roger’s return, Cromlech goes out! And they had been alone together for some minutes, as I happen to have observed. Cromlech is away an hour and a half! If I were not a man of honour, I would have trained the telescope on to him. I refrained. Where was Cromlech? At the church, he told me. I accept his word – but the church has had a curious effect upon him. Sometimes he is silent, sulky, reflective, embarrassed – constantly rubbing the place where his hair ought to be – not altogether too civil to me either. Anon, sits with a fat happy smile on his face! Has he found a new tomb? No; he’d tell me about a new tomb. What has happened to Cromlech?

      “At first sight Violet – the insinuating one – would account for the phenomena. Or Norah’s eyes and lashes? Yet I hesitate. Woman, of course, it is, with both of them. Violet might make men pleased with themselves; Norah could make them merry and happy. Yet these two are not so much pleased with themselves – rather they are pleased with events; they are not merry – they are thoughtful. And I think they are resentful. I believe the hostile squadron has weighed anchor. In these great results, achieved so quickly, demanding on my part such an effort in reply, I see the Marchesa’s touch! I have my own opinion as to what has happened to Roger and to Cromlech. Well, we shall see – to-morrow is the cricket match!”

      “Later. I had closed this record; I was preparing to go to bed (wishing to bathe early to-morrow) when I found that I had forgotten to bring up my book. Coltson had gone to bed – or out – anyhow, away. I went down myself. The library door stood ajar; I had on my slippers; a light burnt still; Cromlech and Roger were up. As I approached – with an involuntary noiselessness (I really couldn’t be expected to think of coughing, in my own house and with no ladies about) – I overheard this remarkable, most significant, most important conversation: —

      “Cromlech: ‘On my soul, there were tears in her eyes!’

      “Roger: ‘Stabb, can we as gentlemen – ?’

      “Then, as I presume, the shuffle of my slippers became audible. I went in; both drank whisky-and-soda in a hurried fashion. I took my book from the table. Naught said I. Their confusion was obvious. I cast on them one of my looks; Roger blushed, Stabb shuffled his feet. I left them.

      “ ‘Tears in her eyes!’ ‘Can we as gentlemen?’

      “The Marchesa moves slowly, but she moves in force!”

      It is unnecessary to pursue the diary further; for his lordship – forgetful