Marmaduke Part 19

"You must get out of this as soon as may be," he exclaimed, as they stood in the full blast of the biting wind. "I see a light over yonder. Let's run for it, it will keep you warm."

He held out his hand and together they ran, the bruised leaves of the bog myrtle as they sped over the moor sending their clean aromatic odour into the night air.

"Better than last time," he said, with a laugh. "By Jove, I did get deep into the bog that time! It's better in couples."

So, once again those two, caught by the glamour of pure life, raced on almost forgetful of past danger and present discomfort.

The light proved to be from a shepherd's hut, where they found warmth and shelter, a sup of porridge, and some milk. It was four good miles to Girvan by a bad road, and that made a retreat thither impossible in the teeth of such a furious gale as was now raging; so the old shepherd, after providing Marrion with a petticoat of his dead wife's and a plaid of his own, proposed to retreat to an outhouse and leave the cottage to his uninvited guests. Marmaduke, however, negatived the proposal. His wife, he said, would be the better of a good sleep, while he must be off at daybreak to Girvan in order to get a conveyance; so she could lie down in the bed-place and he and the shepherd could just snoozle by the fire. Which they did.

Marrion, wide awake at first, her nerves all athrill, listened to their even voices for a time, then watched them asleep in their chairs, the firelight on their placid faces, and finally fell asleep herself, to wake with bright sunlight streaming into the little cottage.

A scribbled note in pencil awaited her from Marmaduke. He might be away some time; she was not to expect him till she saw him.

It was early afternoon when he did return in an open chaise and four with postillions.

"The road is very bad," he explained airily, "and I've brought you some clothes. You'd better go and put them on, as we ought to start at once."

"You ought not----" she began hastily at her first glance at the milliner's box. "You really----"

"My dear girl," he replied, with a charming smile, "mayn't I see you dressed for once as you ought to be dressed!"

There was no alternative with the postillions waiting, and as she put on the things he had brought she was forced into admitting he had good taste.

"You do look nice!" he cried, joyous as a child, as he handed her into the chaise.

The next instant they were off, the grey horses with their red-coated postillions lending quite a bridal appearance to the couple behind them, for Marmaduke was also very spruce, though he was wearing his left hand tucked into the roll collar of his coat. Something in the look of the arm, now she had time for observation, made Marrion say suddenly--

"You hurt yourself?"

He nodded.

"Dislocated my wrist--you see that first wave was an awful jerk. So I had to get back to the regimental surgeon to get it sorted and get my three days' leave."

She looked at him startled.

"What for?" she asked quickly.

"For our honeymoon, dear," he replied, his kindly, handsome affectionate face bent close to hers. "Don't look so alarmed, Marmie, it had to be after what you and I went through together yesterday; we can't get away from each other, even if we would."

"But----" she began.

At that instant the cross road on which they had been merged into a turnpike, and with a swerve the grey horses turned to the right.

"But me no buts!" he cried gaily. "We are on the south road, not the north." Then he suddenly grew grave. "And G.o.d bless you, dear, for all you've done for me and will do for me in the years to come!"

That turn south had brought them face to face with the glorious line of coast fading away into a golden mist. Far out on the wide expanse of sea the same soft September mist lay like a veil, hiding--what?

Marrion Paul, sitting hand-in-hand with the one love of her life, did not even ask the question; for all things, everything, seemed swallowed up in a golden glory.

Marmaduke's voice roused her, joyous, confident.

"And I've got a wedding present for you. I wouldn't give it you before. You see you are such a wilful customer, I was afraid you mightn't get into the chaise."

Half-mechanically she opened the case he laid on her lap. It contained two very long, very thick plaits of red-brown hair, each held together by an entwined monogram of M's in brilliants. She looked at him and he looked at her in affectionate raillery.

"Now!" he cried joyously. "You'll be fit to be seen. You didn't think, did you, I was going to let your hair be appraised by those young fools? So that day we left Edinburgh--you remember I nearly missed the train--I raced back to that beast of a hairdresser. I didn't know till then, Marmie, it was so valuable; but it was well worth it. Then I had it set." He paused, aware of some jarring note, and added, "You do like it, dear, don't you?"

Marrion, sitting with her long coils of hair in her lap, felt somehow that the glamour had gone from the gold of earth and sky.

"Of course I like it," she said, making an effort, "but--but why the diamonds?"

He laughed.

"Because I like diamonds and I like you to look well. I--I suppose you couldn't twist 'em up somehow now, could you? The postillions won't see."

She removed her bonnet and deftly coiled the long plaits about her shapely head.

"I'm afraid it's not very neat," she said solidly.

But he was more than satisfied.

"You look divine!" he cried exultantly. "More like other people, you know; and I dare say it is mean of me, but your close crop always made me feel bad, because you know I was really the cause of it. So now we start fair, don't we?"

"Quite fair," she answered, with a smile. He was such a child. Yet some of the glamour had gone.

END OF BOOK I.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

"Mr. Peter Muir wishes to know if he can see you, ma'am," said the servant.

The woman seated at a table by the window in the small drawing-room of a tiny house in one of the back streets of Belgravia laid down her work and rose. It was Marrion Paul; but she was seven years older and neither face nor figure had quite the same buoyant youthfulness.

Indeed, as she crossed to the fireplace a distinct limp was apparent.

Still her face had gained in beauty, and the ma.s.ses of her red bronze hair glinted bright as ever. Those seven years of life had been hard in some ways; but they had been happy in others--happy most of all in that Marmaduke Muir was well and content.

Marrion drew an easy-chair to the fire and closed the window, knowing her visitor to be chilly. She did the latter with reluctance, for the late November sunshine shone golden in the narrow street, and the somewhat mews-laden atmosphere of those back purlieus of fashionable houses was sweetened as it filtered through the wide boxes of trailing musk which made the little house with the bra.s.s plate bearing its legend,