E Phillips Oppenheim

by The Wicked Marquis

  David strolled about the gardens of his new demesne until Sylvia reappeared. She had pinned on a blue tam-o'-shanter and was wearing a jersey of the same colour.

  "I shall love a spin in your car!" she exclaimed. "And you drive yourself, too. How delightful!"

  They swung off through the more thickly wooded part of the park, driving in places between dense clumps of rhododendrons, and coming unexpectedly upon a walled garden, neglected, but brilliant with spring and early summer flowers.

  "Isn't it queer to have a garden so far away from the house," the girl remarked, "but I dare say you've heard that the late Marquis of Mandeleys was mad about underground passages. There is one existing somewhere or other to the summer house in that garden from the Abbey, and lots of others. I am not at all sure that there isn't one to Broomleys."

  "Haven't you been afraid sometimes lest the ghosts of the dead monks might pay you an unexpected visit?"

  She shook her head.

  "They always held the funeral services in the chapel," she explained, "but the burying place is at the side of the hill there. You can see the Mandeleys vault from here."

  "And the cypress trees," David pointed out. "I wonder how old they are."

  "The American of you!" she scoffed. "You ought to love Mandeleys—and Broomleys. Everything about the place is musty and ancient and worn out. You know the Marquis, don't you?"

  "Slightly," David assented.

  "Is he really human," she asked, "or is he something splendidly picturesque which has just stepped out of one of the frames in his picture gallery? I can never make up my mind. He is so beautiful to look at, but he doesn't look as though he belonged to this generation, and why on earth they ever used to call him 'The Wicked Marquis' I can't imagine. I've tried him myself," she went on ingenuously, "in no end of ways, but he treats me always as though I were some grandchild, walking on stilts. Of course you're in love with Lady Letitia?"

  "Must I be?"

  "But isn't it all absolutely preordained?" she insisted, "in fact, it's almost depressingly obvious. Here are the Mandeleys estates, the finest in Norfolk, mortgaged up to the hilt, the Abbey shut up, the Marquis and all of them living on credit, the family fortunes at their lowest ebb. And here come you, an interesting American stranger, with more millions than the world has ever heard of before. Of course you marry Lady Letitia and release the estates!"

  "Do I!" he murmured. "Well, it seems plausible."

  "It has to be done," she decided, with a sigh. "It's a pity."

  "Why?"

  She shook her head.

  "We mustn't flirt. We should be interfering with the decrees of Providence.—What an interesting-looking woman! You know her, too."

  They passed Marcia and her companion, about half-way to Fakenham. Marcia bowed cheerfully and looked with interest at Sylvia.

  "I know her very slightly," David admitted.

  "She doesn't belong to these parts," Sylvia said. "We've lived here for nearly seven years, you know, and I know every one for miles round, by sight."

  "She came originally from somewhere in the neighbourhood, I believe," David observed.

  "Tell me everything about her, please?" his companion demanded. "I am a born gossip."

  "You finish with the romance of Mandeleys first," he suggested evasively.

  "Well, we've finished that, so far as you are concerned," she said, "but as soon as you have rescued the family and the wedding bells have ceased ringing, you'll find yourself faced with another problem. Did you notice a queer little cottage, right opposite the Abbey?"

  "Of course I did."

  "Well, there's an old man sits in the garden there," she went on, "reading the Bible and cursing the Marquis, most of the day. He used to do it years ago, and then he went to America. Now he's come back, and he's started it again."

  "And what does the Marquis do about it?" David enquired.

  "He can't do anything. The late Marquis made the old man a present of the cottage for saving his life, and they can't take it away from him now. I suppose he must have been really wicked when he was young—I mean the Marquis," she went on, "because, you see, he ran away with that old man's daughter. It's the sort of thing," she went on, "that Marquises are supposed to do in stories, but it doesn't make them popular in a small neighbourhood. Now tell me about the good-looking woman who bowed to you, please?"

  "She is the daughter of the man of whom you have been speaking," David told her. "She is the lady with whom the wicked Marquis eloped nearly twenty years ago."

  Sylvia's interest was almost breathless.

  "You mean to say that you knew the story—you—an American?"

  "Absolutely," he replied. "I came into touch with it in a queer way. The old man Vont came back from America on the same steamer that I did. I'll tell you another thing. The wicked Marquis, as you call him, and that lady whom we have just passed, dine together now at least one night a week, and the woman has become quite a famous authoress. She writes under the name, I believe, of Marcia Hannaway."

  Sylvia threw herself back in her seat.

  "Why, it's amazing!" she declared. "It turns a sordid little village tragedy into a piece of wonderful romance. Perhaps, after all, that is what makes the Marquis seem like a piece of wood to every other woman."

  "I have heard it said," David continued, "that he has been entirely faithful to her all his life. Where do I stop, please?"

  "Here," she replied, "at this shop. Please come in and choose your own meat. I feel in much too romantic a frame of mind to even know beef from mutton."

  David followed her a little doubtfully into the shop.

  "Perhaps," he ventured to suggest, "as the nucleus of your meal has already been decided upon—"

  "Of course," she interrupted; "cutlets. We want more cutlets. You needn't bother. I'll see about it."

  David slipped into the next shop and reappeared with a huge box of chocolates, which he handed over apologetically.

  "I am not sure whether you'll find these up to much."

  "For the first time," she exclaimed, as she accepted them, "I realise what it must be to be a millionaire! I have never seen such a box of chocolates in my life. Do you mind going over to the grocer's and letting him see me with you?" she went on. "It will be so good for our credit, and his is just one of the accounts we have to leave for a little time. Were you ever poor, Mr. Thain?"

  "Poor, but not, alas! romantically so," he confessed. "To be the real thing, I ought to have earned my first few pounds, oughtn't I? You see, I didn't. I was educated by relatives, and when a great chance came my way I was able to take advantage of it. An uncle advanced me a thousand pounds, upon one condition."

  "Had you to make him a partner?" she asked, in the intervals of giving a small order at the grocer's.

  He shook his head.

  "No," he answered gravely, "it wasn't a financial condition. In a way it was something more difficult."

  She looked at him curiously.

  "Whatever it was," she said, "if you promised, I am quite sure that you would keep your word."

  They motored homewards and David was for a few minutes unexpectedly thoughtful. He deliberately approached Broomleys from the back, but even then it was impossible to avoid a distant view of the cottage. He looked towards it grimly.

  "Conditions are stern things," he sighed.

  "Haven't you kept that one yet?" she asked.

  "The time is only just coming," he told her.

  She looked up at him pleadingly.

  "Don't bother about it now, please," she begged. "This is such a delightful day. And whatever you do, you mustn't let it interfere with your eating three cutlets."

  CHAPTER XX

  Borden's car came to a standstill in the avenue, and Marcia looked across the strip of green turf towards the cottage with a queer little thrill of remembrance.

  "You are sure you won't mind waiting?" she asked, as she sprang down. "If there is any fatted calf about, I'll call you in."

/>   Borden showed her his pockets, bulging with newspapers.

  "I shall be perfectly content here," he said, "however long you may be. I shall back the car on to the turf and read."

  She nodded, turned away, lifted the latch of the gate and made her way towards the cottage,—curiously silent, and with no visible sign of habitation except for the smoke curling up from the chimney. As she drew nearer to the rustic entrance, she hesitated. A rush of those very sensations at which she had so often gently mocked swept through her consciousness, unsteadying and bewildering her. Mandeleys, imposing in its grim stillness, seemed to be throwing out shadows towards her, catching her up in a whirlpool of memories, half sentimental, half tragical. It was in the little cottage garden where she now stood, and in the woods beyond, that she had wandered with that strange new feeling in her heart of which she was, even at that moment, intensely conscious, gazing through the mists of her inexperience towards the new world and new heaven which her love was unfolding before her. A hundred forgotten fancies flashed into her brain. She remembered, with a singular and most unnerving accuracy, the silent vigils which she had spent, half hidden amongst those tall hollyhocks. She had seen the grey twilight of morning pass, seen the mists roll away and, turret by turret, the great house stand out like some fairy palace fashioned from space in a single night. She had seen the thrushes hop from the shrubberies and coverts on to the dew-spangled lawn, had heard their song, growing always in volume, had seen the faint sunlight flash in the windows, before she had crept back to her room. Another day in that strange turmoil which had followed the coming of her love! She had watched shooting parties assemble in the drive outside, her father in command, she herself hidden yet watchful, her eyes always upon one figure, her thoughts with him. And then the nights—the summer nights—when men and women in evening costume strolled down from the house. She could see their white shirt fronts glistening in the twilight. Again she heard the firm yet loitering step and the quiet, still voice which had changed the world for her. "Is Vont about, Miss Marcia?" she would hear him say. "I want to have a talk with him about the partridge drives to-morrow." She closed her eyes. The smell of the honeysuckle and the early cottage roses seemed suddenly almost stupefying. There were a few seconds—perhaps even a minute—before Vont had donned his brown velveteen coat and issued from the cottage—just time for a whispered word, a glance, a touch of the fingers.—Marcia felt her knees shake as she lingered underneath the porch. She was swept with recalcitrant memories, stinging like the lash of a whip. Perhaps this new wisdom of hers was, after all, a delusion, the old standards of her Calvinistic childhood unassailable. Then, for the first time, she was conscious of a familiar figure. Richard Vont was seated in a hard kitchen chair at the end of the garden, with a book upon his knee and his face turned to Mandeleys. At the sound of her little exclamation he turned his head. At first it was clear that he did not recognise his visitor. He laid down the book and rose to his feet. Marcia came a few steps towards him and then paused. Several very ingenious openings escaped her altogether.

  "Father," she began, a little hesitatingly, "you see, I've come to see you. Are you glad?"

  He stood looking at her—a man of rather more than middle height but bowed, with silvery hair and a little patch of white whiskers. The rest of his face was clean-shaven, still hard and brown as in his youth, and his eyes were like steel.

  "No," he answered, "I am not glad. Since you are here, though, take this chair. I will fetch another while I hear what you have to say."

  "Shall we go inside?" she suggested.

  He shook his head.

  "Your mother lived and died there," he reminded her.

  Marcia set her teeth.

  "I suppose she walked in the garden sometimes," she said resentfully.

  "The garden is different," he declared. "The earth changes from generation to generation, just as the flowers here throw out fresh blossoms and the weeds come and go. But my rooftree stands where it always did. Wait."

  He disappeared into the house and returned in a few moments with a chair which he placed a few feet away from Marcia. Then he sat and looked at her steadily.

  "So you are Marcia," he said. "You've grown well-looking."

  "Marcia—your daughter," she reminded him gently. "Are you going to forget that altogether?"

  "Not," he replied, "if you are in need of succour or help, but I judge from your appearance that you need neither. You are flesh of my flesh, as I well know."

  "I want nothing from you, father, except a little kindness," she pleaded.

  His hands trembled.

  "Kindness," he repeated. "That's strange hearing. You are without friends, perhaps? You made some, maybe, and they heard of your disgrace, and they've cast you off?"

  She shook her head.

  "No, it isn't that at all. I have many friends, and they most of them know my history."

  "Friends of your own sort, then!"

  Marcia moved uneasily in her chair.

  "Father," she said gently, "don't you sometimes think that your views of life are a little narrow? I am very sorry indeed for what I did, inasmuch as it brought unhappiness to you. For the rest, I have nothing to regret."

  He was breathing a little harder now.

  "Nothing to regret?" he muttered.

  "Nothing," she repeated firmly. "For many years the man who took me away from you gave me everything I asked of him in life, everything he promised. He is still willing to do the same. If any change comes into our relations, now or in the future, it will be my doing, not his."

  "Meaning," he demanded, "that you've seen the wickedness of it?"

  "Meaning nothing of the sort," she replied. "I want you to try and realise, father, if you can, that I have passed into a larger world than you or this little village community here know very much about. I have written books and been praised for them by men whose praise is worth having. There are plenty of perfectly good and well-living people who know what I have done and who are glad to be my friends. There is one who wants to marry me."

  Richard Vont looked at her long and steadily. Marcia was, as usual, dressed with extreme simplicity, but her clothes were always good, and economy in boots and hats was a vice which she had never practised. When she told him that she had passed into a world apart from his, he realised it. The only wonder was that she had ever been his daughter!

  "To marry you!" he repeated. "It's one of those of your own loose way of thinking, eh? One of those who have forgotten the laws of God and have set up for themselves some graven image in which there's nought of the truth?"

  "The man who wishes to marry me, father," she said warmly, "is a man of honour and position. Can't you believe me when I assure you that there is another way of looking at what you consider so terrible? I have been as faithful to my vows as you to your marriage ones. The man whom I am told you still hate has never wavered in his loyalty to me, any more than I have in my fidelity to him. Can't you believe that to some extent, at least, we have sanctified our love?"

  James Vont passed his hand a little wearily over his forehead.

  "It's blasphemous gibberish that you're talking," he declared. "If you had come back to me, Marcia, in rags and in want, maybe there is something in my heart would have gone, and I'd have taken you and we'd have found a home somewhere far away. But to see you sitting there, soft and well-spoken, speaking of your success, pleased with your life, turns that very hatred you spoke of into fury! You and your learning and your writing of books! Why, you're ignorant, woman, more ignorant than the insects about you. You don't know right from wrong."

  "Father," she pleaded—

  "Aye, but listen," he went on. "You've children, eh?"

  "No," she answered softly.

  "No children to bear your shame, eh? And why not?"

  She looked for a moment into his eyes, and then away.

  "That may be the one weak spot," she confessed.

  "The one weak spot!" he repeated bitterly. "Shall I tell
you what you are, you women who live cheerfully with the men you sell yourselves to, and defy the laws of God and the teaching of the Bible? You're just wastrels and Jezebels. Ay, and there's the garden gate, Marcia, and my heart's as hard as a flint, even though the tears are in your eyes and you look at me as your mother used to look. It's no such tears as you're shedding as'll bring you back into my heart. Your very prosperity's an offence. You carry the price of your shame on your back and in your smooth speech and in this false likeness of yours to the world you don't belong to. If it's duty that's brought you here, you'd better not have come."

  Marcia rose to her feet.

  "You're very hard, father," she said simply.

  "You're very hard, father," she said simply.

  "The ways of the transgressors are hard," he replied, pointing still towards the gate. "If you'd come here in shame and humiliation, if you'd come here as one as had learnt the truth, you'd have found me all that you sought. But you come here a very ignorant woman, Marcia, and you leave me a little harder than ever before, and you leave the curses that choke my throat a little hotter, a little more murderous."

  His clenched fist was pointing towards Mandeleys, his face was like granite. Marcia turned and left him without a word, opened the gate, walked across the little strip of turf, and half shrank from, half clung to the hand which helped her up into the car.

  "Get away quickly, please," she implored him. "Don't talk to me, James. Outside the gates as quickly as you can go!"

  He started his engine, and they drove off, through the lodge gates into the country lane, where the hedges were beautiful with fresh green foliage and fragrant with early honeysuckle.

  "To London," she begged. "Don't stop—anywhere yet."

  He nodded and drove a little faster, his eyes always upon the road. It was not until they had reached the heath country and the great open spaces around Newmarket that a little colour came back into her cheeks.

  "It wasn't a success, James," she said quietly.

  "I was afraid it mightn't be," he admitted.

  "Nothing but a Drury Lane heroine would have moved him," she went on, with an uneasy little laugh. "If I could have gone back in rags, in a snowstorm, with a child in my arms, he'd have forgiven me. As I am now, I am an offence to all that he holds right, and his ideas are like steel cables—you can't twist or bend them."