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Updated: June 24, 2025
He had given no thought during the fleeting hours to the necessity of communicating with his relatives in case he fell a victim to Marigny's rancor, so he devoted himself now to writing a brief account to the Marquis of Scarland of the causes that led up to the duel.
"What is her husband?" "She married rather well, as the saying is. Her husband is a man named Scarland, and he is chiefly interested in pedigree cattle." "Let me see," she mused. "I seem to remember the name; it had something to do with fat cattle, too.... Scarland? Does he exhibit?" Medenham wished then that he had not been so glib with the Marquis of Scarland's pet occupation.
"I may be detained in France somewhat longer than I anticipated," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. "If that is so, and you have to return to England without me, hand this letter to the Marquis of Scarland. Take great care of it, and keep it in your possession until you are positively assured that I am unable to go with you."
Sir Ashley Stoke condemned the Government, the Marquis of Scarland was more than skeptical as to the prospects of grouse shooting after the deluge in April and May, Lord Fairholme growled at the pernicious effects of the Ground Game Act, and Medenham spoke of these things with his lips but in his heart thought of Cynthia.
"Oh, just a curious way of running in grooves people have in this country. They call towns after men and men after towns." She was about to add that Fitzroy had told her of a sister Betty who was married to a man named Scarland, a breeder of pedigree stock, but checked the impulse.
"By gad! Did she, though? I heard something from Scarland about that affair. Well, well there's no accounting for tastes. I suppose you realize, George, that I am keeping back a good deal of the tittle-tattle which reached me during your absence. I don't want to hurt your feelings " "Thank you.
Thus, on Friday, when they had motored to Grasmere, and had gathered before lunch in the lounge of the delightfully old-fashioned Rothay Hotel, Vanrenen happened to pick up an illustrated paper, containing a page of pictures of the Scarland short-horns. Now, being a busy man, he gave little heed to the terminological convolutions of names among the British aristocracy.
"I never thought for a minute that any Frenchman could kill George," cried Scarland cheerfully. But the two women said nothing, could see nothing, and the white-faced but smiling Cynthia standing near the shoreward end of the gangway had vanished in a sudden mist.
Who would have thought that a pillar of the state like Scarland would approve of this Vanrenen girl as a match for George, even in jest? But he had the good sense to steer clear of explanations. When he found his voice it was to swear at the quality of the whisky. Medenham, meanwhile, had rushed into the hall. He expected to find Dale there, but saw no one except the suave footman on duty.
As a result, two elderly men, a younger one, in the person of the Marquis of Scarland, and two tearful women Lady St. Maur and Mrs. Leland met at Charing Cross about one o'clock in the morning to travel by special train and steamer. Another woman telegraphed from Shropshire saying that baby was better, and that she would follow by the first steamer on Sunday. Mrs. Devar did not await developments.
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