The Quiet Gentleman

that of a mere commoner's wife. I do not blame them: Miss Bolderwood is worthy of the highest honour.'

He said no more, and she did not pursue the subject, but turned the talk, after a minute's silence, into less awkward channels.

Martin, meanwhile, had reached Whissenhurst a little earlier. As he rode in at the gate, he obtained a glimpse of Marianne through a division in the yew hedge which screened the drive from the gardens. He guessed that she was busy amongst the spring bulbs which had become one of her chief hobbies, and at once turned his horse towards the stableyard. Leaving the hack in the care of the head-groom, he made his way to the succession- houses which Sir Thomas had had erected at such enormous expense. She was not there, but just as Martin was standing irresolute, wondering if, by ill-luck, she had gone into the house again, he heard the sound of her voice uplifted in a gay ballad. It came from the potting-shed, and he strode up to it, and looked in, to find that she was alone there, engaged in transferring several white hyacinths from their separate earthenware pots to a large Worcestershire bowl. She made a charming picture, with her pale golden curls uncovered, and confined only by a blue riband, a shawl pinned round her shoulders, and a small trowel in one hand. She did not immediately perceive Martin, but went on singing to herself, and carefully pressing down the earth round her bulbs, while he watched her. Some slight movement he made which caught her attention; she looked round, and with a startled exclamation dropped the trowel.

He came into the shed, and picked up the trowel. 'You need not jump and squeak!' he said. 'It's only I!'

She took the trowel from him, and laid it down. 'Oh, no! I did not mean— That is, I was not expecting— You gave me such a fright! Thank you! See, are they not perfect blooms? I am so proud of them, and mean to place them in Papa's book-room, for he would only laugh, when I began my gardening, and said my bulbs would come to nothing, because I should forget all about them in a week. He will be regularly set-down!'

'Marianne,' he said, disregarding this speech, 'I came because I must and will speak to you!'

'Oh, pray—! Of course I am always pleased to see you, Martin, but I can't think what you should want to speak to me about! Don't look so grave! It is such a lovely day, and when the sun shines I can't be solemn—you must know I cannot!'

He was not to be diverted; he said: 'You have not allowed me to come near you since the night of the ball. I frightened you—I should not have spoken to you then!—but you cannot have doubted my—my sentiments towards you!'

'I hope we have always been good friends,' she said nervously. 'Pray do not pain me by speaking of what happened that night! You did not mean it—I am persuaded you did not mean it!'

'Nonsense!' he interrupted, almost angrily. 'Of course I meant it! You know that!'

She hung down her head, faltering: 'I am afraid I have not always behaved as I should. I didn't guess—but it was wrong of me, if—if my conduct led you to suppose—that I was in the expectation of receiving a declaration from you.'

He looked at her with a kindling pair of eyes. 'It was not so with you a week ago!'

'I was foolish—Mama said I ought not—'

'It is all since this frippery fellow Ulverston came to Stanyon!' he interrupted. 'You have been flirting with him, encouraging his advances—'

'It is not true! I won't listen to you! You ought not to say these things, Martin! you know you ought not! Pray do not!'

'You think you may keep me on your string with all the rest, but you are mistaken! I love you, Marianne!'

She made a protesting gesture, and he caught her hand, and held it in a hard grasp. Words tumbled off his tongue, but she was too much distressed to listen to his vows to make her happy, if only she would marry him. Trying unavailing to free her hand, she gasped: 'No, no, you must not! Papa would not permit me—indeed, indeed, this is very wrong in you, Martin!'

He now had possession of her other hand as well; looking up at him, she was alarmed to see so stormy an expression in his face. She could as readily have believed that he hated her as that he loved her, and the knowledge that her own lighthearted coquetry had roused so much passion filled her with as much penitence as terror. With tears trembling on the ends of her lashes, she could only utter: 'I didn't mean it! I didn't understand!'

'You thought differently once! Until St. Erth came home! Is that what it is? First St. Erth, now Ulverston! You would sing another tune if I were St. Erth, wouldn't you? By God, I think I begin to value you as I should!'

She was provoked into crying out against this accusation, her tears now falling fast. 'It is untrue! Let me go! You are hurting me! Let me go! Oh, please, please let me go!'

There seemed to be little likelihood of his attending to her, but at that moment the Viscount, who had come out of the house in search of her, looked into the shed. Two swift strides brought him up to them; his hand gripped Martin's shoulder; he said authoritatively: 'That will do! You forget yourself, Frant!'

Marianne was released immediately. Martin spun round, the intervention, coming from such a source, being all that was needed to fan his passion to a flame. The Viscount was granted barely more than a second to read his purpose in his blazing eyes, but he was a quick-witted young man, and it was enough. He rode the blow aimed for his chin, countered swiftly, and floored Martin. Marianne, backed against the wall of the shed, uttered a little scream of terror, pressing her hands to her blanched cheeks.

The Viscount stepped quickly up to her, saying, with a reassuring smile: 'Beg pardon! An infamous thing to alarm you so! Don't cry! No need at all—word of a gentleman! Will you go into the house? Miss Morville is sitting with your Mama. You'll find Theo Frant as well—overtook 'em on the road here! Say nothing about this to your parents! Much better not, you know!'

'Oh, no!' she said faintly. 'But you won't—you won't-—?'

'Lord, no!' he said cheerfully, drawing her towards the door. 'Nothing for you to tease yourself about!'

She whispered his name beseechingly, but he said, in a low tone: 'Hush! Not now!' and gave her a little push over the threshold.

Martin had picked himself up from among the shattered pots, and was furiously brushing the dirt from his person. The Viscount surveyed him sardonically. 'Habit of yours—forcing your attentions on females who don't want 'em?'

Martin's fists clenched, but he kept them at his sides. 'You'll meet me for this, my lord!'

'Tomfoolery!' Ulverston said shortly.

'You may name your friends! They will hear from mine!'

'Good God, how can I meet you?' demanded Ulverston. 'I'm a guest in your brother's house, you young fool!'

'It is not my house! You've knocked me down: do you mean to deny me satisfaction?'

'Y'know I've no taste for rodomontade!' said Ulverston. 'You should be thanking me for having given you the leveller you were standing in crying need of!'

He would have left the shed on the words, but Martin stood in his way. 'Will you, my lord, name your friends, or don't you care to pit your marksmanship against mine?'

'Oh, go to the devil!' snapped Ulverston. 'Whom would you have me name? Your brother? Your cousin?'

Martin was for the moment nonplussed, but he recovered quickly, and said: 'Mr. Warboys will be happy to serve you!'

'Thank you! I shan't call upon him to act for me.'

Martin's right hand came up like a flash, and struck him an openhanded blow across the cheek. 'Does that make you change your mind, my lord?'

The Viscount, curbing his instincts, kept his own hands lowered, but he was by this time very angry indeed. He said: 'Yes, that makes me change my mind! If no one else will teach you a lesson, Martin Frant, I will!'

CHAPTER 14

 «     ^     »

It was fortunate for the cordiality of the relations between Stanyon and Whissenhurst that before she had reached the house Marianne was met by Miss Morville, who had walked out to look for her. It was evident that Marianne was much discomposed, her bosom heaving, her eyes full of tears, and her cheeks whitened. She uttered the one word: 'Martin!' in answer to her friend's solicitous enquiry, and seemed inclined to fall into strong hysterics. Miss Morville needed no more to prompt her to convey Marianne upstairs to her own room, and to beg her to tell her the whole. The story which was poured into her ears was incoherent, and freely interspersed with self-blame. She unravelled it as best she might, and did what lay in her power to soothe