Mr Dawson had done himself more than justice; the repast was magnificent. When Stillford and Irons saw it, they became more sure than ever what their duty was, more convinced still that the Marchesa would understand. Colonel Wenman became less sure what his duty was – previously it had appeared to him that it was to lunch with the Marchesa. But the Marchesa had spoken of a few sandwiches and perhaps a bottle of claret. Stillford told him that, as umpire, he ought to lunch with the teams. Irons declared it would look “deuced standoffish” if he didn’t. Lynborough, who appeared to act as deputy-landlord to Mr Dawson, pressed him into a chair with a friendly hand.
“Well, she’ll have the ladies with her, won’t she?” said the Colonel, his last scruple vanishing before a large jug of hock-cup, artfully iced. The Nab Grange contingent fell to.
Just then – when they were irrevocably committed to this feast – the flap of the tent was drawn back, and Lady Norah’s face appeared. Behind her stood Violet and Miss Gilletson. Lynborough ran forward to meet them.
“Here we are, Lord Lynborough,” said Norah. “The Marchesa was so kind, she told us to do just as we liked, and we thought it would be such fun to lunch with the cricketers.”
“The cricketers are immensely honoured. Let me introduce you to our captain, Mr Peters. You must sit by him, you know. And, Miss Dufaure, will you sit by Mr Jeffreys? – he’s their captain – Miss Dufaure – Mr Jeffreys. You, Miss Gilletson, must sit between Mr Dawson and me. Now we’re right – What, Colonel Wenman? – What’s the matter?”
Wenman had risen from his place. “The – the Marchesa!” he said. “We – we can’t leave her to lunch alone!”
Lady Norah broke in again. “Oh, Helena expressly said that she didn’t expect the gentlemen. She knows what the custom is, you see.”
The Marchesa had, no doubt, made all these speeches. It may, however, be doubted whether Norah reproduced exactly the manner, and the spirit, in which she made them. But the iced hock-cup settled the Colonel. With a relieved sigh he resumed his place. The business of the moment went on briskly for a quarter of an hour.
Mr Dawson rose, glass in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “I’m no hand at a speech, but I give you the health of our kind neighbour and good host to-day – Lord Lynborough. Here’s to his lordship!”
“I – I didn’t know he was giving the lunch!” whispered Colonel Wenman.
“Is it his lunch?” said Irons, nudging Stillford.
Stillford laughed. “It looks like it. And we can hardly throw him over the hedge after this!”
“Well, he seems to be a jolly good chap,” said Captain Irons.
Lynborough bowed his acknowledgments, and flirted with Miss Gilletson; his face wore a contented smile. Here they all were – and the Marchesa lunched alone on the other side of the field! Here indeed was a new wedge! Here was the isolation at which his diabolical schemes had aimed. He had captured Nab Grange! Bag and baggage they had come over – and left their chieftainess deserted.
Then suddenly – in the midst of his triumph – in the midst too of a certain not ungenerous commiseration which he felt that he could extend to a defeated enemy and to beauty in distress – he became vaguely aware of a gap in his company. Stabb was not there! Yet Stabb had come upon the ground. He searched the company again. No, Stabb was not there. Moreover – a fact the second search revealed – Roger Wilbraham was not there. Roger was certainly not there; yet, whatever Stabb might do, Roger would never miss lunch!
Lynborough’s eyes grew thoughtful; he pursed up his lips. Miss Gilletson noticed that he became silent.
He could bear the suspense no longer. On a pretext of looking for more bottled beer, he rose and walked to the door of the tent.
Under the spreading tree the Marchesa lunched – not in isolation, not in gloom. She had company – and, even as he appeared, a merry peal of laughter was wafted by a favouring breeze across the field of battle. Stabb’s ponderous figure, Roger Wilbraham’s highly recognisable “blazer,” told the truth plainly.
Lord Lynborough was not the only expert in the art of driving wedges!
“Well played, Helena!” he said under his breath.
The rest of the cricket match interested him very little. Successful beyond their expectations, Fillby won by five runs (Wilbraham not out thirty-seven) – but Lynborough’s score did not swell the victorious total. In Easthorpe’s second innings – which could not affect the result – Peters let him bowl, and he got young Woodwell’s wicket. That was a distinction; yet, looking at the day as a whole, he had scored less than he expected.
CHAPTER X
IN THE LAST RESORT!
IT will have been perceived by now that Lord Lynborough delighted in a fight. He revelled in being opposed; the man who withstood him to the face gave him such pleasure as to beget in his mind certainly gratitude, perhaps affection, or at least a predisposition thereto. There was nothing he liked so much as an even battle – unless, by chance, it were the scales seeming to incline a little against him. Then his spirits rose highest, his courage was most buoyant, his kindliness most sunny.
The benefit of this disposition accrued to the Marchesa; for by her sudden counter-attack she had at least redressed the balance of the campaign. He could not be sure that she had not done more. The ladies of her party were his – he reckoned confidently on that; but the men he could not count as more than neutral at the best; Wenman, anyhow, could easily be whistled back to the Marchesa’s heel. But in his own house, he admitted at once, she had secured for him open hostility, for herself the warmest of partisanship. The meaning of her lunch was too plain to doubt. No wonder her opposition to her own deserters had been so faint; no wonder she had so readily, even if so scornfully, afforded them the pretext – the barren verbal permission – that they had required. She had not wanted them – no, not even the Colonel himself! She had wanted to be alone with Roger and with Stabb – and to complete the work of her blandishments on those guileless, tender-hearted, and susceptible persons. Lynborough admired, applauded, and promised himself considerable entertainment at dinner.
How was the Marchesa, in her turn, bearing her domestic isolation, the internal disaffection at Nab Grange? He flattered himself that she would not be finding in it such pleasure as his whimsical temper reaped from the corresponding position of affairs at Scarsmoor.
There he was right. At Nab Grange the atmosphere was not cheerful. Not to want a thing by no means implies an admission that you do not want it; that is elementary diplomacy. Rather do you insist that you want it very much; if you do not get it, there is a grievance – and a grievance is a mighty handy article of barter. The Marchesa knew all that.
The deserters were severely lashed. The Marchesa had said that she did not expect Colonel Wenman; ought she to have sent a message to say that she was pining for him – must that be wrung from her before he would condescend to come? She had said that she knew the custom with regard to lunch at cricket matches; was that to say that she expected it to be observed to her manifest and public humiliation? She had told Miss Gilletson and the girls to please themselves; of course she wished them to do that always. Yet it might be a wound to find that their pleasure lay in abandoning their friend and hostess, in consorting with her arch-enemy, and giving him a triumph.
“Well, what do you say about Wilbraham and Stabb?” cried the trampled Colonel.
“I say that they’re gentlemen,” retorted the Marchesa. “They saw the position I was in – and they saved me from humiliation.”
That was enough for the men; men are, after all, poor fighters. It was not, however, enough for Lady Norah Mountliffey – a woman – and an Irishwoman to boot!
“Are you really asking