Tales of two people

CHAPTER V

THE BEGINNING OF WAR

AN enviable characteristic of Lord Lynborough’s was that, when he had laid the fuse, he could wait patiently for the explosion. (That last word tends to recur in connection with him.) Provided he knew that his adventure and his joke were coming, he occupied the interval profitably – which is to say, as agreeably as he could. Having launched the padlock – his symbolical ultimatum – and asserted his right, he spent the morning in dictating to Roger Wilbraham a full, particular, and veracious account of his early differences with the Dean of Christ Church. Roger found his task entertaining, for Lynborough’s mimicry of his distinguished opponent was excellent. Stabb meanwhile was among the tombs in an adjacent apartment.

This studious tranquillity was disturbed by the announcement of a call from Mr Stillford. Not without difficulty he had persuaded the Marchesa to let him reconnoitre the ground – to try, if it seemed desirable, the effect of a bit of “bluff” – at anyrate to discover, if he could, something of the enemy’s plan of campaign. Stillford was, in truth, not a little afraid of a lawsuit!

Lynborough denied himself to no man, and received with courtesy every man who came. But his face grew grim and his manner distant when Stillford discounted the favourable effect produced by his appearance and manner – also by his name, well known in the county – by confessing that he called in the capacity of the Marchesa’s solicitor.

“A solicitor?” said Lynborough, slightly raising his brows.

“Yes. The Marchesa does me the honour to place her confidence in me; and it occurs to me that, before this unfortunate dispute – ”

“Why unfortunate?” interrupted Lynborough with an air of some surprise.

“Surely it is – between neighbours? The Castle and the Grange should be friends.” His cunning suggestion elicited no response. “It occurred to me,” he continued, somewhat less glibly, “that, before further annoyance or expense was caused, it might be well if I talked matters over with your lordship’s solicitor.”

“Sir,” said Lynborough, “saving your presence – which, I must beg you to remember, was not invited by me – I don’t like solicitors. I have no solicitor. I shall never have a solicitor. You can’t talk with a non-existent person.”

“But proceedings are the natural – the almost inevitable result – of such a situation as your action has created, Lord Lynborough. My client can’t be flouted, she can’t have her indubitable rights outraged – ”

“Do you think they’re indubitable?” Lynborough put in, with a sudden quick flash of his eyes.

For an instant Stillford hesitated. Then he made his orthodox reply. “As I am instructed, they certainly are.”

“Ah!” said Lynborough drily.

“No professional man could say more than that, Lord Lynborough.”

“And they all say just as much! If I say anything you don’t like, again remember that this interview is not of my seeking, Mr Stillford.”

Stillford waxed a trifle sarcastic. “You’ll conduct your case in person?” he asked.

“If you hale me to court, I shall. Otherwise there’s no question of a case.”

This time Stillford’s eyes brightened; yet still he doubted Lynborough’s meaning.

“We shouldn’t hesitate to take our case into court.”

“Since you’re wrong, you’d probably win,” said Lynborough, with a smile. “But I’d make it cost you the devil of a lot of money. That, at least, the law can do – I’m not aware that it can do much else. But, as far as I’m concerned, I should as soon appeal to the Pope of Rome in this matter as to a law-court – sooner, in fact.”

Stillford grew more confidently happy – and more amazed at Lynborough.

“But you’ve no right to – er – assert rights if you don’t intend to support them.”

“I do intend to support them, Mr Stillford. That you’ll very soon find out.”

“By force?” Stillford himself was gratified by the shocked solemnity which he achieved in this question.

“If so, your side has no prejudice against legal proceedings. Prisons are not strange to me – ”

“What?” Stillford was a little startled. He had not heard all the stories about Lord Lynborough.

“I say, prisons are not strange to me. If necessary, I can do a month. I am, however, not altogether a novice in the somewhat degrading art of getting the other man to hit first. Then he goes to prison, doesn’t he? Just like the law! As if that had anything to do with the merits!”

Stillford kept his eye on the point valuable to him. “By supporting your claim I intended to convey supporting it by legal action.”

“Oh, the cunning of this world, the cunning of this world, Roger!” He flung himself into an arm-chair, laughing. Stillford was already seated. “Take a cigarette, Mr Stillford. You want to know whether I’m going to law or not, don’t you? Well, I’m not. Is there anything else you want to know? Oh, by the way, we don’t abstain from the law because we don’t know the law. Permit me – Mr Stillford, solicitor – Mr Roger Wilbraham, of the Middle Temple, Esquire, barrister-at-law. Had I known you were coming, Roger should have worn his wig. No, no, we know the law – but we hate it.”

Stillford was jubilant at a substantial gain – the appeal to law lay within the Marchesa’s choice now; and that was in his view a great advantage. But he was legitimately irritated by Lynborough’s sneers at his profession.

“So do most of the people who belong to – the people to whom prisons are not strange, Lord Lynborough.”

“Apostles – and so on?” asked Lynborough airily.

“I hardly recognise your lordship as belonging to that – er – er – category.”

“That’s the worst of it – nobody will,” Lynborough admitted candidly. A note of sincere, if whimsical, regret sounded in his voice. “I’ve been trying for fifteen years. Yet some day I may be known as St Ambrose!” His tones fell to despondency again. “St Ambrose the Less, though – yes, I’m afraid the Less. Apostles – even Saints – are much handicapped in these days, Mr Stillford.”

Stillford rose to his feet. “You’ve no more to say to me, Lord Lynborough?”

“I don’t know that I ever had anything to say to you, Mr Stillford. You must have gathered before now that I intend to use Beach Path.”

“My client intends to prevent you.”

“Yes? – Well, you’re three able-bodied men down there – so my man tells me – you, and the Colonel, and the Captain. And we’re three up here. It seems to me fair enough.”

“You don’t really contemplate settling the matter by personal conflict?” He was half amused, yet genuinely stricken in his habits of thought.

“Entirely a question for your side. We shall use the path.” Lynborough cocked his head on one side, looking up at the sturdy lawyer with a mischievous amusement. “I shall harry you, Mr Stillford – day and night I shall harry you. If you mean to keep me off that path, vigils will be your portion. And you won’t succeed.”

“I make a last appeal to your lordship. The matter could, I believe, be adjusted on an amicable basis. The Marchesa could be prevailed upon to grant permission – ”

“I’d just as soon ask her permission to breathe,” interrupted Lynborough.

“Then my mission is at an end.”

“I congratulate you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you’ve found out the chief thing you wanted to know, haven’t you? If you’d asked it point-blank, we should have saved a lot of time. Good-bye, Mr Stillford. Roger, the bell’s in reach of your hand.”

“You’re pleased to be amused at my expense?” Stillford had grown huffy.

“No – only don’t think you’ve been clever at mine,” Lynborough retorted placidly.

So they parted. Lynborough went back to his Dean, Stillford to the Marchesa. Still ruffled in his plumes, feeling that he had been chaffed and had made no adequate reply, yet still happy in the solid, the important fact which he had ascertained, he made his report to his client. He refrained from openly congratulating her on not being challenged to a legal fight; he contented himself with observing that it was convenient to be able to choose her own time to take proceedings.

Lady Norah was with the Marchesa. They both listened attentively and questioned closely. Not the substantial points alone attracted their interest; Stillford was constantly asked – “How did he look when he said that?” He had no other answer than “Oh – well – er – rather queer.” He left them, having received directions to rebarricade the gate as solidly and as offensively as possible; a board warning off trespassers was also to be erected.

Although not apt at a description of his interlocutor, yet Stillford seemed to have conveyed an impression.

“I think he must be delightful,” said Norah thoughtfully, when the two ladies were left together. “I’m sure he’s just the sort of a man I should fall in love with, Helena.”

As a rule the Marchesa admired and applauded Norah’s candour, praising it for a certain patrician flavour – Norah spoke her mind, let the crowd think what it would! On this occasion she was somehow less pleased; she was even a little startled. She was conscious that any man with whom Norah was gracious enough to fall in love would be subjected to no ordinary assault; the Irish colouring is bad to beat, and Norah had it to perfection; moreover, the aforesaid candour makes matters move ahead.

“After all, it’s my path he’s trespassing on, Norah,” the Marchesa remonstrated.

They both began to laugh. “The wretch is as handsome as – as a god,” sighed Helena.

“You’ve seen him?” eagerly questioned Norah; and the glimpse – that tantalising glimpse – on Sandy Nab was confessed to.

The Marchesa sprang up, clenching her fist. “Norah, I should like to have that man at my feet, and then to trample on him! Oh, it’s not only the path! I believe he’s laughing at me all the time!”

“He’s never seen you. Perhaps if he did he wouldn’t laugh. And perhaps you wouldn’t trample on him either.”

“Ah, but I would!” She tossed her head impatiently. “Well, if you want to meet him, I expect you can do it – on my path to-morrow!”

This talk left the Marchesa vaguely vexed. Her feeling could not be called jealousy; nothing can hardly be jealous of nothing, and even as her acquaintance with Lynborough amounted to nothing, Lady Norah’s also was represented by a cypher. But why should Norah want to know him? It was the Marchesa’s path – by consequence it was the Marchesa’s quarrel. Where did Norah stand in the matter? The Marchesa had perhaps been constructing a little drama. Norah took leave to introduce a new character!

And not Norah alone, as it appeared at dinner. Little Violet Dufaure, whose appealing ways were notoriously successful with the emotionally weaker sex, took her seat at table with a demurely triumphant air. Captain Irons reproached her, with polite gallantry, for having deserted the croquet lawn after tea.

“Oh, I went for a walk to Fillby – through Scarsmoor, you know.”

“Through Scarsmoor, Violet?” The Marchesa sounded rather startled again.

“It’s a public road, you know, Helena. Isn’t it, Mr Stillford?”

Stillford admitted that it was. “All the same, perhaps the less we go there at the present moment – ”

“Oh, but Lord Lynborough asked me to come again and to go wherever I liked – not to keep to the stupid road.”

Absolute silence reigned. Violet looked round with a smile which conveyed a general appeal for sympathy; there was, perhaps, special reference to Miss Gilletson as the guardian of propriety, and to the Marchesa as the owner of the disputed path.

“You see, I took Nellie, and the dear always does run away. She ran after a rabbit. I ran after her, of course. The rabbit ran into a hole, and I ran into Lord Lynborough. Helena, he’s charming!”

“I’m thoroughly tired of Lord Lynborough,” said the Marchesa icily.

“He must have known I was staying with you, I think; but he never so much as mentioned you. He just ignored you – the whole thing, I mean. Wasn’t it tactful?”

Tactful it might have been; it did not appear to gratify the Marchesa.

“What a wonderful air there is about a – a grand seigneur!” pursued Violet reflectively. “Such a difference it makes!”

That remark did not gratify any of the gentlemen present; it implied a contrast, although it might not definitely assert one.

“It is such a pity that you’ve quarrelled about that silly path!”

“Oh! oh! Miss Dufaure!” – “I say, come, Miss Dufaure!” – “Er – really, Miss Dufaure!” – these three remonstrances may be distributed indifferently among the three men. They felt that there was a risk of treason in the camp.

The Marchesa assumed her grandest manner; it was mediæval – it was Titianesque.

“Fortunately, as it seems, Violet, I do not rely on your help to maintain my rights in regard to the path. Pray meet Lord Lynborough as often as you please, but spare me any unnecessary mention of his name.”

“I didn’t mean any harm. It was all Nellie’s fault.”

The Marchesa’s reply – if such it can be called – was delivered sotto voce, yet was distinctly audible. It was also brief. She said “Nellie!” Nellie was, of course, Miss Dufaure’s dog.

Night fell upon an apparently peaceful land. Yet Violet was an absentee from the Marchesa’s dressing-room that night, and even between Norah and her hostess the conversation showed a tendency to flag. Norah, for all her courage, dared not mention the name of Lynborough, and Helena most plainly would not. Yet what else was there to talk about? It had come to that point even so early in the war!

Meanwhile, up at Scarsmoor Castle, Lynborough, in exceedingly high spirits, talked to Leonard Stabb.

“Yes, Cromlech,” he said, “a pretty girl, a very pretty girl if you like that petite insinuating style. For myself I prefer something a shade more – what shall we call it?”

“Don’t care a hang,” muttered Stabb.

“A trifle more in the grand manner, perhaps, Cromlech. And she hadn’t anything like the complexion. I knew at once that it couldn’t be the Marchesa. Do you bathe to-morrow morning?”

“And get my head broken?”

“Just stand still, and let them throw themselves against you, Cromlech. Roger! – Oh, he’s gone to bed; stupid thing to do – that! Cromlech, old chap, I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

He just touched his old friend’s shoulder as he passed by: the caress was almost imperceptible. Stabb turned his broad red face round to him and laughed ponderously.

“Oh, and you understand!” cried Lynborough.

“I have never myself objected to a bit of fun with the girls,” said Stabb.

Lynborough sank into a chair murmuring delightedly, “You’re priceless, Cromlech!”

CHAPTER VI

EXERCISE BEFORE BREAKFAST

“LIFE – ” (The extract is from Lynborough’s diary, dated this same fourteenth of June) – “may be considered as a process (Cromlech’s view, conducting to the tomb) – a programme (as, I am persuaded, Roger conceives it, marking off each stage thereof with a duly guaranteed stamp of performance) – or as a progress – in which light I myself prefer to envisage it. Process – programme – progress; the words, with my above-avowed preference, sound unimpeachably orthodox. Once I had a Bishop ancestor. He crops out.

“Yet I don’t mean what he does. I don’t believe in growing better in the common sense – that is, in an increasing power to resist what tempts you, to refrain from doing what you want. That ideal seems to me, more and more, to start from the wrong end. No man refrains from doing what he wants to do. In the end the contradiction – the illogicality – is complete. You learn to want more wisely – that’s all. Train desire, for you can never chain it.

“I’m engaged here and now on what is to all appearance the most trivial of businesses. I play the spiteful boy – she is an obstinate peevish girl. There are other girls too – one an insinuating tiny minx, who would wheedle a backward glance out of Simon Stylites as he remounted his pillar – and, by the sun in heaven, will get little more from this child of Mother Earth! There’s another, I hear – Irish! – And Irish is near my heart. But behind her – set in the uncertain radiance of my imagination – lies her Excellency. Heaven knows why! Save that it is gloriously paradoxical to meet a foreign Excellency in this spot, and to get to most justifiable, most delightful, loggerheads with her immediately. I have conceived Machiavellian devices. I will lure away her friends. I will isolate her, humiliate her, beat her in the fight. There may be some black eyes – some bruised hearts – but I shall do it. Why? I have always been gentle before. But so I feel towards her. And therefore I am afraid. This is the foeman for my steel, I think – I have my doubts but that she’ll beat me in the end.

“When I talk like this, Cromlech chuckles, loves me as a show, despises me as a mind. Roger – young Roger Fitz-Archdeacon – is all an incredulous amazement. I don’t wonder. There is nothing so small and nothing so great – nothing so primitive and not a thing so complex – nothing so unimportant and so engrossing as this ‘duel of the sexes.’ A proves it a trifle, and is held great. B reckons it all-supreme, and becomes popular. C (a woman) describes the Hunter Man. D (a man) descants of the Pursuit by Woman. The oldest thing is the most canvassed and the least comprehended. But there’s a reputation – and I suppose money – in it for anybody who can string phrases. There’s blood-red excitement for everybody who can feel. Yet I’ve played my part in other affairs – not so much in dull old England, where you work five years to become a Member of Parliament, and five years more in order to get kicked out again – but in places where in a night you rise or fall – in five minutes order the shooting squad or face it – boil the cook or are stuffed into the pot yourself. (Cromlech, this is not exact scientific statement!) Yet always – everywhere – the woman! And why? On my honour, I don’t know. What in the end is she?

“I adjourn the question – and put a broader one. What am I? The human being as such? If I’m a vegetable, am I not a mistake? If I’m an animal, am I not a cruelty? If I’m a soul, am I not misplaced? I’d say ‘Yes’ to all this, save that I enjoy myself so much. Because I have forty thousand a year? Hardly. I’ve had nothing, and been as completely out of reach of getting anything as the veriest pauper that ever existed – and yet I’ve had the deuce of a fine existence the while. I think there’s only one solid blunder been made about man – he oughtn’t to have been able to think. It wastes time. It makes many people unhappy. That’s not my case. I like it. It just wastes time.

“That insinuating minx, possessed of a convenient dog and an ingratiating manner, insinuated to-day that I was handsome. Well, she’s pretty, and I suppose we’re both better off for it. It is an introduction. But to myself I don’t seem very handsome. I have my pride – I look a gentleman. But I look a queer foreign fish. I found myself envying the British robustness of that fine young chap who is so misguided as to be a lawyer.

“Ah, why do I object to lawyers? Tolstoy! – I used to say – or, at the risk of advanced intellects not recognising one’s allusions, one could go farther back. But that is, in the end, all gammon. Every real conviction springs from personal experience. I hate the law because it interfered with me. I’m not aware of any better reason. So I’m going on without it – unless somebody tries to steal my forty thousand, of course. Ambrose, thou art a humbug – or, more precisely, thou canst not avoid being a human individual!”

Lord Lynborough completed the entry in his diary – he was tolerably well aware that he might just as well not have written it – and cast his eyes towards the window of the library. The stars were bright; a crescent moon decorated, without illuminating, the sky. The regular recurrent beat of the sea on the shore, traversing the interval in night’s silence, struck on his ear. “If God knew Time, that might be His clock,” said he. “Listen to its inexorable, peaceable, gentle, formidable stroke!”

His sleep that night was short and broken. A fitful excitement was on his spirit: the glory of the summer morning wooed his restlessness. He would take his swim alone, and early. At six o’clock he slipped out of the house and made for Beach Path. The fortified gate was too strong for his unaided efforts. Roger Wilbraham had told him that, if the way were impeded, he had a right to “deviate.” He deviated now, lightly vaulting over the four-foot-high stone wall. None was there to hinder him, and, with emotions appropriate to the occasion, he passed Nab Grange and gained the beach. When once he was in the water, the emotions went away.

They were to return – or, at any rate, to be succeeded by their brethren. After he had dressed, he sat down and smoked a cigarette as he regarded the smiling sea. This situation was so agreeable that he prolonged it for full half-an-hour; then a sudden longing for Coltson’s coffee came over him. He jumped up briskly and made for the Grange gate.

He had left it open – it was shut now. None had been nigh when he passed through. Now a young woman in a white frock leant her elbows comfortably on its top rail and rested her pretty chin upon her hands. Lady Norah’s blue eyes looked at him serenely from beneath black lashes of noticeable length – at anyrate Lynborough noticed their length.

Lynborough walked up to the gate. With one hand he removed his hat, with the other he laid a tentative hand on the latch. Norah did not move or even smile.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” said Lynborough, “but if it does not incommode you, would you have the great kindness to permit me to open the gate?”

“Oh, I’m sorry; but this is a private path leading to Nab Grange. I suppose you’re a stranger in these parts?”

“My name is Lynborough. I live at Scarsmoor there.”

“Are you Lord Lynborough?” Norah sounded exceedingly interested. “The Lord Lynborough?”

“There’s only one, so far as I’m aware,” the owner of the title answered.

“I mean the one who has done all those – those – well, those funny things?”

“I rejoice if the recital of them has caused you any amusement. And now, if you will permit me – ”

“Oh, but I can’t! Helena would never forgive me. I’m a friend of hers, you know – of the Marchesa di San Servolo. Really you can’t come through here.”

“Do you think you can stop me?”

“There isn’t room for you to get over as long as I stand here – and the wall’s too high to climb, isn’t it?”

Lynborough studied the wall; it was twice the height of the wall on the other side; it might be possible to scale, but difficult and laborious; nor would he look imposing while struggling at the feat.