Marmaduke Part 20

MRS. MARSDEN _Layettes_

look quite countrified and summerlike.

Peter Muir, coming in languidly, complaining of the cold, slipped into the easy-chair as one accustomed to it. He also was older, his weak face showed signs of recent ill-health; but he was otherwise the loose knit, errant, yet dandified figure he had been. Dressed in the height of the fashion, his blue-and-white bird's eye bow and stiff stand up collar seemed the most striking parts of his personality.

"This place is the only peaceful spot in all the town," he sighed. "I often wish I were back in the little room upstairs where you nursed me so patiently."

"And your brother, Major Marmaduke," she put in kindly, "don't forget him, Mr. Peter. If it hadn't been for him, I don't believe you would have lived."

Peter Muir fingered his nails nervously.

"No, I don't suppose I should. You see, it was all Vienna. It's the devil of a place for a young fellow, especially if he has got no money--and we never have any, have we? But that is really the reason why I've dropped in to have a quiet talk with you, so I thought I would come in the morning, in case Marmaduke----"

"I haven't seen your brother for ten days," she interrupted quietly.

"I believe he has been away hunting in Hampshire, hasn't he?"

Peter Muir went on fingering his nails.

"Yes," he said at last, "part of the time." Then he suddenly burst out--"I don't know why we should beat about the bush, you and I. You were a perfect Providence to me, Marmie; I used to call you that, you know, when I was so ill and the doctors swore that D.T. must end in an asylum. Duke means a lot to both of us, doesn't he? And it's about him I want to speak. You've noticed, of course, that he is hipped and out of spirits, haven't you?"

"No one could help noticing that," she replied coldly.

"And he says it is because the old man of the sea at the Castle won't give him the money to purchase the colonel's step, I suppose?" asked the young man tentatively.

"That is the case, I believe," she replied, even more coldly. "There was the same difficulty about the majority."

Peter Muir laughed and looked at her quizzically.

"I've often wondered how that was done," he said. "But this time it isn't quite fair on the baron. To give the devil his due, I believe he is quite ready to fork out the money if Marmaduke will only promise to marry within the year. You see the question of succession is becoming acute. There is no chance of an heir to the barony from Pitt. And I--I--well, let's out with it! I've dished myself with the peer as well as with Providence. It's my d.a.m.ned own fault, of course, but there it is. And it isn't as if there was not a real picture man in the family whose sons should do credit to the Castle."

He had run on rapidly, and now paused to look at his companion.

"And does the Major refuse to accept the conditions?" she asked quietly. "I wonder why?"

Peter Muir felt distinctly injured by her calm.

"So do I, and I was wondering if----"

She stopped him with a gesture of her hand, which sent all his conventional decorum to the right-about, and left him, a man, before her a woman--left him, instead of an elaborate detective, a reluctant admirer.

"Mr. Peter," she said, smiling, "don't wonder! It is very kind of you to come and tell me the truth--kind also to try and find me out; but, believe me, I do not stand in your brother's way. It is two years since Major Muir first brought you here to me, a milliner living by her work only. All that while he and I have been good friends--nothing more. I had no claim to be anything else. Does that satisfy you?"

Peter Muir held out a hot, damp, but enthusiastic hand to meet her cool, wholesome one.

"I'm not quite sure if it does," he said, in a manner suddenly and to her painfully reminiscent of Marmaduke. "You've been a good sight more to him than any friend has been to me, worse luck! Perhaps if I had had someone like you in a peaceful little room like this--but Marmaduke always had the devil's own luck. However, you are not angry, are you? Only I thought it right to put you up to the ropes in case----"

"There is no in case about it," she interrupted quickly. "I--I make no claim." She rose, pa.s.sed to the window, and looked out. "Has Lord Drummuir any--any special selection for his future daughter-in-law?"

she asked, and the young man at the fireplace jiggled the seals in his pocket amusedly.

He knew a thing or two, he imagined, about women.

"Not so far as I am aware of, at _present_," he replied, negligently; "but the consent is a trifle urgent, for the colonelcy will be going ere long. He ought to make up his mind soon and come with me to a roaring New Year at the Castle--it's always a bachelor party--and it may be his last chance. So, if you could say a word or two--you have more influence over Marmaduke----"

She flashed round suddenly.

"I used to have some," she corrected. "However, thanks very many. Now let us talk of something else."

After her visitor had gone Marrion Paul, who called herself Mrs.

Marsden on the door-plate, threw the window wide with an air of relief and sat down once more to her work. It was an infant's cap of almost incredibly fine st.i.tchings and embroideries; the kind of cap which, perched on slender, white, much-beringed hands would give tremors of delightful antic.i.p.ation to rich young wives awaiting motherhood. On the table were strewn other tiny habiliments dainty and delicate beyond compare; for Mrs. Marsden's layettes were renowned. Nothing crude, nothing out of place came from her skilful hands; all things bore the indefinable stamp of absorbing care and almost divine hope that the little unknown atom of life to come should have garments worthy of its mission.

The truth being that, as she worked, her mind always held at the back of it the memory of a certain box upstairs in which lay the first baby clothes she had ever made--clothes laboured at day by day in a perfect heaven of happiness for her child and Duke's, the poor little dear which had lost its life in the effort to save hers after that terrible accident.

It had not been Duke's fault, though he had reproached himself bitterly at first; but that had been more because of her consequent lameness. For to a man a dead baby does not count for much--not even if no other follows it--at least not to a man like Marmaduke, so light-hearted, so affectionate, so free from all carping cares and thoughts.

No, it had been her fault from the beginning. She should have held her own as she had done for his good in so many other ways before and since. And now, after these years of freedom, was the tie between them--the unreal tie which ought never to have existed--to hold him back from taking his rightful place in life?

Suddenly she folded up the tiny cap, putting it by with a wistful little smile and a pat against happier thoughts, went upstairs, put on her bonnet, and, leaving word she would not be back till late, pa.s.sed out into the street. One thing was certain, she must avoid seeing Marmaduke until her mind was indelibly fixed, and there was always a chance he might drop in to see her.

London in those days was a dreary spot for anyone requiring a quiet place wherein to look Fate in the face; but Marrion knew her way to two places where she could secure peace and quiet--the National Gallery and the reading-room of the British Museum. She had often spent long hours in the former, not moving from place to place, but seated before some masterpiece, scarce seeing it, yet vaguely learning something from it which had been missing in her life; but to-day she chose the latter, as being farther away, and it was time she wished to kill--time in which it was possible to hear the familiar step on the stairs, perhaps to be greeted by some affectionate jest that stockings were not mended or that new handkerchiefs required marking. She smiled as she thought of those seven long years during which she had kept this man as comfortable and as tidy as she could, during which she had managed for him as well as any woman could have managed, and tried to imagine the estimation in which such devotion would be held by the wives and mothers for whose infants she worked. She was a constant reader at the Museum, having, when she came to London, set herself deliberately to gain what she had perforce missed in her life, so she found a place, sent in her slip for a book, and was soon apparently studying it. But she was not even thinking. In the great crises of life one does not weigh pros and cons; decision comes from outside to those who recognise that there is something beyond one's own individual life. It is those who do not see, who fail to recognise the spiritual plane, who cannot distinguish good from evil, evil from good, who err past forgiveness. And from the moment Marrion Paul had heard of the condition on which old Lord Drummuir would buy the colonelcy she had known she must face him again. The only question was when, and how.

The sooner the better. She would inquire about the journey on her way home.

It was dark ere she arrived there with a long list of startings and arrivals in her hand, and a new sense of elation in her heart--the elation of the born fighter at yet another chance of battle.

"The Major was here asking for you, ma'am, about five o'clock," said the maidservant, "and he said if you could let him have two or three white ties to-night he would be obliged, as he is going into the country early to-morrow."

Marrion laughed. So much the better for her plans.

"Take a hot iron to the dining-room," she said, "and set the lace-board. You can take the ties round to his lodgings after supper."

CHAPTER II

Seven years had not improved old Lord Drummuir's temper, neither had it softened the arrogance of his sway over the household. Marrion realised this in a second, as, entering the study under the name of Mrs. Marsden--a lady who, according to the footman, was--"Oh, yes, sir, quite young, and yes, sir, quite good-looking!" and who had private business with his lordship, she found herself instantly recognised by three pairs of eyes. One the occupant of the familiar wheel-chair, the others those of my lady and Penelope. The sight of the latter was unexpected, for though Marrion knew her grandfather had died the previous year she had not heard of Penelope's reinstallation as confidential attendant to my lady. It was not an arrangement likely to occur to anyone out of Drummuir Castle; but there all things were possible.

In the instant's pause which followed on her entrance Marrion had time to note that the old man had changed but little. His face had lost somewhat of its colour, but the look of absolute domineering power was strong as ever. My lady had grown stout--the very idea of a _fandango_ was far from her now--and the colour had come to her face in unbecoming fashion. Penelope, on the other hand, had grown thinner, and in her black dress looked prim propriety.

"Well, young woman?" began his lordship.

It was a signal for indignant protest from those two.

"Drummuir," shrilled the lady, "if you speak to that creature I must leave the room!"

Penelope's answering a.s.sent was audible in a snort.