Marmaduke

Flora Annie Steel

• Publisher: Read & Co. Classics
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781528714518
• eBook ISBN: 9781528788809
• Subtopic: Classics

Flora Annie Steel (1847 – 1929) was an English writer who notably lived in British India for 22 years and is best remembered for her books set or related to the sub-continent. Steel's 1917 historical novel "Marmaduke" offers the reader a glimpse into colonial India that is typical of her fiction, weaving a delicate story to the backdrop of British imperialism in an exotic land. An entertaining and insightful novel, this book is highly recommended for those with an interest in India's history and will not disappoint those who have read and enjoyed other works by this author. Also by this author: "Tales of the Punjab" (1894), "The Flower of Forgiveness" (1894), and "The Potter's Thumb" (1894). Many vintage books such as this are becoming increasingly scarce and expensive. It is with this in mind that we are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with the original text and artwork.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

"Mr. Peter Muir wishes to know if he can see you, ma'am," said the servant.

The woman seated at a table by the window in the small drawing-room of a tiny house in one of the back streets of Belgravia laid down her work and rose. It was Marrion Paul; but she was seven years older and neither face nor figure had quite the same buoyant youthfulness. Indeed, as she crossed to the fireplace a distinct limp was apparent. Still her face had gained in beauty, and the masses of her red bronze hair glinted bright as ever. Those seven years of life had been hard in some ways; but they had been happy in others—happy most of all in that Marmaduke Muir was well and content.

Marrion drew an easy-chair to the fire and closed the window, knowing her visitor to be chilly. She did the latter with reluctance, for the late November sunshine shone golden in the narrow street, and the somewhat mews-laden atmosphere of those back purlieus of fashionable houses was sweetened as it filtered through the wide boxes of trailing musk which made the little house with the brass plate bearing its legend,

Mrs. Marsden
Layettes

look quite countrified and summerlike.

Peter Muir, coming in languidly, complaining of the cold, slipped into the easy-chair as one accustomed to it. He also was older, his weak face showed signs of recent ill-health; but he was otherwise the loose knit, errant, yet dandified figure he had been. Dressed in the height of the fashion, his blue-and-white bird's eye bow and stiff stand up collar seemed the most striking parts of his personality.

"This place is the only peaceful spot in all the town," he sighed. "I often wish I were back in the little room upstairs where you nursed me so patiently."

"And your brother, Major Marmaduke," she put in kindly, "don't forget him, Mr. Peter. If it hadn't been for him, I don't believe you would have lived."

Peter Muir fingered his nails nervously.

"No, I don't suppose I should. You see, it was all Vienna. It's the devil of a place for a young fellow, especially if he has got no money—and we never have any, have we? But that is really the reason why I've dropped in to have a quiet talk with you, so I thought I would come in the morning, in case Marmaduke—"

"I haven't seen your brother for ten days," she interrupted quietly. "I believe he has been away hunting in Hampshire, hasn't he?"

Peter Muir went on fingering his nails.

"Yes," he said at last, "part of the time." Then he suddenly burst out—"I don't know why we should beat about the bush, you and I. You were a perfect Providence to me, Marmie; I used to call you that, you know, when I was so ill and the doctors swore that D.T. must end in an asylum. Duke means a lot to both of us, doesn't he? And it's about him I want to speak. You've noticed, of course, that he is hipped and out of spirits, haven't you?"

"No one could help noticing that," she replied coldly.

"And he says it is because the old man of the sea at the Castle won't give him the money to purchase the colonel's step, I suppose?" asked the young man tentatively.

"That is the case, I believe," she replied, even more coldly. "There was the same difficulty about the majority."

Peter Muir laughed and looked at her quizzically.

"I've often wondered how that was done," he said. "But this time it isn't quite fair on the baron. To give the devil his due, I believe he is quite ready to fork out the money if Marmaduke will only promise to marry within the year. You see the question of succession is becoming acute. There is no chance of an heir to the barony from Pitt. And I—I—well, let's out with it! I've dished myself with the peer as well as with Providence. It's my damned own fault, of course, but there it is. And it isn't as if there was not a real picture man in the family whose sons should do credit to the Castle."

He had run on rapidly, and now paused to look at his companion.

"And does the Major refuse to accept the conditions?" she asked quietly. "I wonder why?"

Peter Muir felt distinctly injured by her calm.

"So do I, and I was wondering if—"

She stopped him with a gesture of her hand, which sent all his conventional decorum to the right-about, and left him, a man, before her a woman—left him, instead of an elaborate detective, a reluctant admirer.

"Mr. Peter," she said, smiling, "don't wonder! It is very kind of you to come and tell me the truth—kind also to try and find me out; but, believe me, I do not stand in your brother's way. It is two years since Major Muir first brought you here to me, a milliner living by her work only. All that while he and I have been good friends—nothing more. I had no claim to be anything else. Does that satisfy you?"

Peter Muir held out a hot, damp, but enthusiastic hand to meet her cool, wholesome one.

"I'm not quite sure if it does," he said, in a manner suddenly and to her painfully reminiscent of Marmaduke. "You've been a good sight more to him than any friend has been to me, worse luck! Perhaps if I had had someone like you in a peaceful little room like this—but Marmaduke always had the devil's own luck. However, you are not angry, are you? Only I thought it right to put you up to the ropes in case—"

"There is no in case about it," she interrupted quickly. "I—I make no claim." She rose, passed to the window, and looked out. "Has Lord Drummuir any—any special selection for his future daughter-in-law?" she asked, and the young man at the fireplace jiggled the seals in his pocket amusedly.

He knew a thing or two, he imagined, about women.

"Not so far as I am aware of, at present," he replied, negligently; "but the consent is a trifle urgent, for the colonelcy will be going ere long. He ought to make up his mind soon and come with me to a roaring New Year at the Castle—it's always a bachelor party—and it may be his last chance. So, if you could say a word or two—you have more influence over Marmaduke—"

She flashed round suddenly.

"I used to have some," she corrected. "However, thanks very many. Now let us talk of something else."

After her visitor had gone Marrion Paul, who called herself Mrs. Marsden on the door-plate, threw the window wide with an air of relief and sat down once more to her work. It was an infant's cap of almost incredibly fine stitchings and embroideries; the kind of cap which, perched on slender, white, much-beringed hands would give tremors of delightful anticipation to rich young wives awaiting motherhood. On the table were strewn other tiny habiliments dainty and delicate beyond compare; for Mrs. Marsden's layettes were renowned. Nothing crude, nothing out of place came from her skilful hands; all things bore the indefinable stamp of absorbing care and almost divine hope that the little unknown atom of life to come should have garments worthy of its mission.

The truth being that, as she worked, her mind always held at the back of it the memory of a certain box upstairs in which la...

Table of contents

• BOOK I
• BOOK II
• L'ENVOI