"I tell you these manifestations are of the Devil! Have you read that splendid pamphlet, Table-moving Tested and Proved to be the Result of Satanic Agency} Or Tableturning, the Devil's Modern Masterpiece?"
"No," Marianne admitted.
"The table confessed," Mr. St. John said solemnly, "that it was moved by the spirit of a lost soul sent from Hell."
"Oh, dear."
"Will you read these books if I give them to you?"
"Yes; but -"
"Wait here. Wait only a moment."
Any other man would have looked foolish running at such a pace, his coattails flapping; but Mr. St. John – his admirer thought -even ran beautifully. He vanished into the parsonage; in a moment he came pelting back, waving several small volumes.
"Here," he panted, pressing them into her hand. "Read and heed the blessed words in them. Read and pray, my dear Miss Ransom. And if you should ever require spiritual guidance, I am at your service – at any hour of the day or night."
A thrill ran down Marianne's spine. "Thank you," she said. "I… I must go now."
"Yes, you must." The young man stepped back. "I have kept you too long. But it was well done, if my words bear fruit. Remember."
"I will."
He looked as if he would have said more, but a burst of distant laughter from the inn made him recollect himself. He made her a formal bow and turned to return to the house.
Stella looked inquiringly at her new mistress. "May we go on now?" she seemed to say. Marianne said absently, "Yes, Stella, go on, do," and they trotted sedately off, with Marianne's head craned to watch the vicar until he disappeared inside.
Stella knew her way home, which was fortunate, because her rider was daydreaming.
They had passed into the drive before Marianne realized it would never do to let the Duchess see the books the vicar had given her. She thrust them into the front of her jacket. They made an unseemly bulge, but at least their titles were not visible.
She found one of the grooms waiting by the front steps, sent, he said, by Mr. Carlton, who had promised she would be along directly. After an affectionate farewell to Stella, Marianne crossed both arms awkwardly over her breast to hide the books and made a dash for her room. She thrust the dangerous little volumes into her wardrobe under a heap of undergarments, and just in time – a tap at the connecting door heralded the arrival of the Duchess.
"Well," she exclaimed, smiling, "from your appearance, my dear Marianne, I would conclude that you have spent a happy, busy day."
"I lost my hat," Marianne said.
The Duchess laughed outright. "I heard about that. Roger pretended to be annoyed at the trick you played on him, but I could tell he was greatly entertained. Don't concern yourself, child; he has sent one of the menservants out to look for your hat, and if it is not found we well get you another. I would sacrifice a dozen hats to see you looking so bright and healthy."
"You are too kind," Marianne said miserably. She felt as if the offending volumes were out in plain sight, blazoning their messages aloud.
"Not at all." The Duchess patted her cheek. "What do you say to a cup of tea here in your room, and a little rest? My dear old Gruffstone has arrived, so we will be seven for dinner. I sometimes allow Henry to dine when Horace is here; they are so fond of one another. And one can't exclude M. Victor, he is so sensitive… And Annabelle, of course. I only hope she will not bring half a dozen cats. A bientot, then, my child."
She went out, leaving Marianne no opportunity to speak even if she had wanted to – which she did not. As she watched the maids running in and out with trays of tea and cakes, buckets of hot water, warm towels, and other luxuries, she felt like a racehorse being groomed – and bribed – for the evening's performance.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marianne was not looking forward to the dinner party. The presence of one man whom she had tried to slap and another whom she had not only slapped, but struck with her fist, was enough to promise discomfort. Add to them Dr. Gruffstone, who thoroughly disapproved of her, the Duke, the most accomplished little Paul Pry of all time, Lady Annabelle and her cats…
Yet the meeting turned out to be surprisingly successful. Dr. Gruffstone met her kindly, taking her hand and asking with concern how she felt. "Have you been sleeping?" he inquired. "You appear a little pale."
"This is not your consulting room, Horace," the Duchess said with a smile. "You medical men, always seeing symptoms where there are none! Marianne has had a long day in the fresh air and feels splendid, don't you, my love?"
Carlton's greeting, too, was pleasant. "I am happy to report that the lost treasure has been found," he said lightly. "Your hat is being refurbished and will be returned to you by morning, plumes and all."
To be sure, Victor sulked, but he did not dare do it ostentatiously. Marianne thought she was the only one who noticed his reproachful and pleading looks until Carlton said sotto voce, "Have you been forced to put our Irish Frenchman in his place? I trust he did not make rude advances to you."
"How absurd," Marianne said haughtily.
But the big surprise was Lady Annabelle, who appeared on time, without cats, and wearing quite a nice gown from which most of the cat hairs had been removed. It was obvious that the doctor was the cause of her transformation. To say that she fawned on him or flirted with him would be inaccurate; rather, she courted his approval and hung on his pronouncements. There was no denying that the plain, aging man radiated a strong aura of fatherly authority when he chose. Even Henry was on his best behavior.
When the ladies retired to the drawing room, Marianne felt an immediate change in the atmosphere. It originated with the Duchess, who showed signs of increasing agitation as time wore on and the men lingered in the dining room. Marianne offered to play, but was refused, though in a kindly fashion. Lady Annabelle, removed from the doctor's presence, relapsed into a peaceful doze.
Finally a burst of laughter from Carlton heralded the appearance of the gentlemen. They sauntered into the drawing room with the smug sleepy look of men who had drunk quite a quantity of good port.
"What a long time you have been," the Duchess exclaimed. "I hope you were not telling stories – you know the kind I mean – in front of Henry, or that you did not let him drink with you."
"He had a single glass of port," the doctor said, giving Henry a paternal pat on the shoulder. "He must learn to handle his wine like a gentleman, Honoria; he is growing up."
Henry's chest swelled visibly.
"Well and good; but it is time for him to go to bed now," said the Duchess.
"Oh, no, not yet! I'm too old to be sent off to bed like a baby. Besides, I want to see the table turning."
The doctor's face lost its good humor and became thunderous. "Honoria, you gave me your word -"
"I did nothing of the sort! In any event I refuse to discuss it in front of Henry. Monsieur Victor, assert your authority."
"Certainement, madame la duchesse." Said Victor, with a look of utter incompetence. "Henri -"
"No, I won't. I want to stay."
"Off with you, young man," the doctor said. "I intend to test your progress in Latin tomorrow, and I promise you you will need your wits about you."
"But… Oh, very well."
The doctor beamed approval. Marianne was not so sanguine; she had caught a familiar expression on Henry's face and suspected he had some scheme in mind.
He went off quietly, however, with Victor trailing after him. Then Gruffstone turned to the Duchess.