Broad sunlight showed through the chinks of the drawn curtains when Fantine Le Grand awoke. She lay yawning for a minute or two, content to be still drowsy. Then memory returned, and she was out of bed in a second and at the window. The lawns lay dewy, a late blackbird was tugging away at an inadvertent worm, and shrill on the morning air rose the sound of Davie Sim's pipes playing "Hey! Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin' yet?" as he came up from the keep to strut through the corridors of the castle. It must be eight o'clock! And--what had happened? How had she come to sleep so long? She passed swiftly, being quick of thought, to the dressing-table and took up the bottle of sleeping drops. It was half empty.

Almost before she had time to realise this, and what it might possibly mean, a knock came to the door, and Marrion Paul, opening it, came into the room with a can of hot water.

She had been there at the earliest possible moment to satisfy herself that all was right, so she was not surprised to see Fantine Le Grand on foot. The look on the latter's face, however, the bottle in her hand, gave warning of what was to come, and it came instantly short and sharp, for Fantine had plenty of wit.

"Why did you give me what you did?" she asked imperiously.

Marrion Paul set down the water-can and faced her.

"Because I wanted to prevent you from joining Captain Muir at the Cross-keys," she replied quietly. It was waste of time, she felt, to beat about the bush with this woman, the solid truth was her best weapon.

It proved so for the moment. Fantine utterly taken aback retired into personal injury.

"You might have killed me," she began, almost whimperingly.

"Maybe," interrupted Marrion, "but I had to risk it--an' it's no hurt you----"

A sense of outrage came to her victim.

"Not hurt me, indeed! And why had you to risk it? Are you Captain Muir's keeper? His mistress you are, of course; but if you think you've succeeded you're very much mistaken. I shall join him by the coach to-morrow instead of to-day. And you may thank your stars that, as I don't want any fuss just now, you'll get scot free of your attempt to murder me. Now go! I never want to see your face again. Josephine will manage somehow, I've no doubt."

She pointed to the door, and Marrion, going down the wide stairs, felt relieved that that, at least, was over. The interview also had given her a clue as to what must be her next step. Mdlle. Le Grand had said that fuss would be inconvenient; for that reason, therefore, a fuss must be made. Hitherto she had hesitated between taking a further and still more active part in stopping the intrigue, or leaving the matter to Marmaduke's own good sense, which, removed from Fantine's personal influence, might surely be trusted. He could not want to marry the woman. It was the two thousand pounds he wanted. Marrion on her way to the keep-house made up her mind to risk everything by an appeal to the old lord; it would, at any rate, put a spoke in the woman's wheel for a time, and prevent her getting away to Marmaduke at once; it would, at any rate, make a fuss.

As a matter of fact, more fuss was facing Marrion than she had bargained for, since the first thing she saw on entering the keep-house was her step-grandmother seated at the table sipping a cup of tea she had just made for herself.

It was an unpleasant surprise, as she had not been expected home so soon, and Marrion bit her lip with vexation at the sight of her. After laying elaborate plans to avoid even the sight of one she despised and detested, it was bitter to find her established as mistress in the house. So anger kept her silent and Mrs. Sim, whilom Penelope of the castle, said no word either. She simply rose theatrically and stretched a dramatic finger across the table. So standing she showed like a wide extinguisher, the knob of which was formed by her head. This was still small and, so far as the upper part of the face was concerned, unmarred by fat, but obesity began on the double chin and went on increasing from shoulder to waist, from waist to hip, till the flounce of a wide petticoat completed the base of the triangle. Her hair of bright orange-red was untouched by grey, and the china-blue of her hard eyes startled you by the intensity of their colour in a face otherwise somewhat tallowy.

"Ye hizzie!" she said at last, in a deep contralto voice. "I wonder ye have the face to stan' there disgracin' the honest hearth o' an honest man! Awa wi' you, ye baggage, afore yer faither comes to beat you frae the door."

Marrion had stood with open mouth before this sudden onslaught; now she recovered herself and said haughtily--

"I do not understand." In her heart of hearts, however, she told herself that this woman knew of last night's happenings.

Penelope Sim gave a snort and sat down again to sipping her tea.

"Div' ye no understand?" she asked scornfully. "Then I'll tell ye. A lassie that goes tae spend the night wi' a man in a strange hottle is no ane to share an honest woman's home. An' so I'll tell yer faither. Shame upon ye, Marrion Paul!"

"Perhaps you'll oblige me, Mrs. Sim, by holding your tongue," retorted Marrion superbly. "I did not spend the night with any man, and if you say I did, you lie!"

"My certy!" cried Penelope, her face flaming. "So I'm a liar, am I? I tell you I saw you wi' my own eyes at the Cross-keys----"

"And what might you be doing there?" put in Marrion. "No good, likely."

Mrs. Penelope's voice began to rise.

"I'm no goin' to bandy words wi' you, Marrion Paul, ye're no worth it. But here comes your gran'faither; give your lip to him, if ye like. Ye sall no give it to me, a decent, married woman!"

"Decent!" echoed Marrion scornfully, and would have gone on to heaven knows what of indignant criticism had not the entry of her grandfather tied her tongue for she was fond of him, with all his faults, and he represented to her the only family life she had ever known.

So she stood defiant as Penelope of the castle, gloating over her own newly acquired propriety, held forth on what she had seen from the bar-parlour of the Cross-keys.

"Grandfather," she said at last, "you know me better than she does. Do you think I would do such a thing?"

"Ask her," broke in the shrilled contralto voice, "ask her, gudeman, if she was at the Cross-keys last night. I tell you she was, dressed up fine like a lady--an' the things lyin' yet in her room, for I went to see. Aye, ask her if she was there wi' a young spark--they tell't me it was Captain Duke, but that I'll never believe----"

"You may believe what you like!" put in Marrion fiercely. "But I'll tell you the truth, grandfather. I was at the Cross-keys last night, and I did see Captain Duke, but it was no harm I was after."

"Hark to her!" shrilled Penelope. "She was there, and for no harm! Out o' the house with her, Davie Sim, or your wedded wife will find her way out hersel'."

Here Davie who, man-like, had looked from one to the other of the two women, uncertain of approbation or reprobation, shook his head and began mumblingly--

"I never thocht, Marrion, to praise God your poor mother is in her grave, but if she'd lived to see this day----"

"Leave my mother alone, please grandfather," said Marrion, passion in voice and manner. "If you choose to judge me by that cast-off creature, do so! But there's no need to quarrel about it. You know I would not sleep under the same roof with her----"

"Hark to her, hark to her, an' me as gude a wife as ever stepped. Are ye goin' tae put up wi' that, Davie Sim?" whimpered Penelope.

Once more the master of the house looked as though he would speak, but a wave of Marrion's hand stopped him.

"So I shall leave this evening, and if what I've done is a disgrace to you, you have the remedy in your own hands--you can hold your tongues. So that ends it!"

She made her way past them and up the stairs, feeling a trifle dazed. This unlooked-for recognition complicated matters for herself; but did not alter her determination to risk all in order to get Marmaduke out of the hands of Fantine Le Grand.

So she packed up her things, leaving all the treasures of her childhood and her mother's, unlocked in drawers and cupboards, and sitting down on her bed by the window took her last look out over the rugged coast she had watched so often by storm and shine, by night and by day. And as she looked with lack-lustre, preoccupied eyes her thoughts were busy, not with the past but with the new life that was opening out before her; since, come what might, she realised that never again would she be simple Marrion Paul, old Davie Sim's granddaughter. To begin with, if she knew aught of Penelope, reputation was gone. Women of that sort were pitiless, and, in addition, her grandfather's wife desired nothing more than to make Drummuir and all belonging to it an impossibility for her step-granddaughter. Then she, Marrion, had definitely set herself the task of defending Marmaduke, and heaven only knew how far that might take her. For one thing, in view of Penelope's curiosity, she must make sure that Marmaduke had not left anything incriminating behind him at the Cross-keys. It would be so like him to write Captain the Honourable Marmaduke Muir and Mrs. Muir in the visitor's book!

The idea made her smile tenderly, even while she took a mental note that it must be seen to.

So, going down, while it was yet early, to order a handcart to take her slight luggage to the coach office, she came upon a castle stable-boy, who was a distant admirer of hers, riding to the Cross-keys with a note.

"It's frae the dancin' woman," said the lad, with a broad grin, "an' she guve me a golden soverin' to take it quick; an' I've to leave anither at the Crow."

"I can deliver that one," said Marrion cheerfully, "for I'm goin' yon way."

So, note in hand, she made her way to the Crow, and by a dexterous question or two elicited the fact that, as on the previous night, a carriage was ordered to be in waiting at half-past nine. If all went well, therefore, she might hope to avail herself of it. She did not, however, anticipate exactly what she meant to do--her plans were fluid, so much depending on the success of her next step. It was an overwhelmingly bold one, and she shivered visibly as she sat waiting for an answer to her request to be allowed an interview with his lordship.

"I'm right sure his lordship wad see me," she pleaded with Dewar, the valet, who in common with all the men-servants at the castle, had an approving eye on her good looks, "did he ken what I cam' about; and"--she added, with a laugh that was a challenge--"I'm no sae ill-looking but he might be blythe to see me forbye business."

"An' that's God's truth, my dear," replied Dewar gallantly, "sae I'll see what I can do."

Fortune favoured him, for Fantine Le Grand being in an evil, reckless temper had just sent to say she had a headache and could not come to amuse his lordship, who, up and dressed to receive her as usual, was cursing and swearing at womankind in the abstract, and therefore, not unwilling to have a concrete specimen on which to vent his ill-humour.

Marrion Paul, consequently, found herself without delay facing the heavy figure in the big padded chair. One foot swathed in flannels lay on a leg-rest, and the large hand that clasped the lion-head knobs of the armchair showed swollen and disfigured by gout; still there was something dignified, almost regal, in the pose of the man; while his face--Marrion, despite her thumping heart, as she looked above the treble chin to the open forehead, felt that here, when all was said and done, was kinship with Marmaduke.

And she for her part pleased the old man's eye also. She had not dressed herself for the occasion, but stood in her usual striped petticoat and bed-gown with a green tartan shoulder shawl of the Muir tartan and a snood of tartan ribbon to match in the red bronze coils of hair.

"So you're Marrion Paul?" he said, his keen clear blue eyes taking in every point of her person. "I haven't seen you to speak to since you were so high. You're a devilish good-looking girl. Come and give me a kiss, my lass."

To his surprise, amusement, and approval she stepped forward instantly and obeyed. The touch of her cool lips on his seemed to stagger him.

"Don't object to kisses--hey?" he said, as she remained standing close beside him.

"Why should I, Drummuir," she replied quietly, "when you've kenned me since I was a baby in arms."

He burst into one of his guffaws of rough laughter.

"Hey? What? One for the old reprobate! Sit down, my dear, and tell me what you want."

"It's about Mr. Marmaduke, sir," she began, her voice shaking a little.

"Hey? What? Has that young devil been--no, I beg your pardon, my dear, you're not that sort. Trust a man who's kicked over the traces a bit to know an honest horse when he sees one. You take my word for it; the best judge of a good woman is a bad man. Well, what of Duke?"

The mere abbreviation of the name was encouraging. She felt that to attempt a bargain, even to beg for patience, would be a mistake. She simply took her courage in both hands and told him all she knew. He sat, his unwieldy body impassive as some carven image, one strong emotion after another sweeping over the mobile face that held so much laughter in every line that Time had graven on it. Only once or twice he interrupted her when, fearing she was too lengthy, she began to cut out details. Then his quick "Let's have it all; don't you know, you're as good as a play. Beat the immortal wizard all to bits! Don't skip"--brought her back to the accessories of her tale. When she had finished he sat and looked at her for a second.

"And you say Duke let you go as you came? Well, he was a d----d young fool; that's all I've got to say! I wouldn't in his place. Even now--my God, what a Lady Drummuir you'd make, if it wasn't for the curse of class! I'll turn Socialist before I die." He paused, and his blue eyes narrowed. "Now, why have you come and told me all this?"

She had her answer ready, and all fear of the old man having vanished she gave him the truth boldly.

"Because I want payment. I've put it into your power to stop Mdlle. Fantine----"

His whole face changed in a second, an expression of sheer devilish anger took possession of it.

"You leave that alone!" he thundered. "I can settle that business for myself."

It was the first mistake she had made, and she became more wary.

"I want payment," she went on, "because I've risked everything for--for Duke. My father's turned me out of his house and Penelope----"

"Damn Penelope!" broke in his lordship complacently. "Having no virtue of her own, she's deuced careful about other people's. And so Duke really contemplated marrying Fantine in order to make two thousand pounds by dancing. Confound the boy! He can dance, I'll allow; but it was a big price to pay. And the idea of my son dancing for money! He must have been hard put to it, even to entertain the idea." He bent those blue eyes of his suddenly on her. "And so you want me to give Duke the two thousand pounds myself, do you? Of course you do! Trust a woman who is in love asking for the moon." He paused a moment and gave a little laugh. "Heaps of women have asked me to be a saint, my dear, but I never could compass virtue. However, you've given me as good a morning's entertainment as ever I had in my life; and what's more you've given me an opportunity of as fine an afternoon's amusement." Here he chuckled wickedly, then added, "Shall I give you the cheque or send it direct?"

She felt staggered at his indifference. She had expected to brave his anger and have perchance to threaten him with what she knew of Fantine's plans for the evening; but, here, with scarce an argument, she found herself successful. In truth she had not gauged accurately the phenomenal malice as well as the almost incredible good nature of the man.

"You must send it, my lord," she said swiftly. "There is no need to say anything about all this."

He frowned in a second.

"Do you mean to dictate to me, my good girl?" he asked fiercely. "You'd better leave the business in my hands. I'll settle it to my own satisfaction. Come back at six o'clock and you shall be made acquainted with my decision."

He rang the hand-bell on the table beside him and when Dewar entered, said carelessly:

"Show the young woman out; and, Dewar, tell Penelope to come and see me at two o'clock. And, Dewar, send a message to the Manse and tell that jackanapes of a parson Bryce that I want to confess my sins or something of that sort. Tell him I'm ill--dying, if you like--anything--and I want him as soon as he can come. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord," replied Dewar discreetly, though he was considerably mystified; but everyone in the castle knew there was but one way of receiving Lord Drummuir's orders, acquiescence and obedience.