The Quiet Gentleman

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!”