E Phillips Oppenheim

by The Wicked Marquis

  "I have signed," the Marquis acknowledged, "a bill, I believe the document was called, for forty thousand pounds, due in about two months' time."

  "Has your lordship any idea as to how this liability is to be met?"

  "None at all. It is possible that the shares will have advanced in value sufficiently to justify my selling them. If not, I take it that the bank will advance the sum against the scrip."

  Mr. Wadham, Junior, could scarcely contain himself.

  "Does your lordship know," he exclaimed, "that the bank hesitated about advancing a sum of less than a thousand pounds upon the security of those shares?"

  The Marquis yawned.

  "They will probably have changed their minds in two months' time," he remarked.

  "But if they have not?" Mr. Wadham persisted.

  "It is the unfortunate proclivity of you who are immersed in the narrow ways of legal procedure," his client observed, "to look only upon the worst side of a matter. Personally, I am an optimist. I rather expect to make a fortune on those shares."

  "It is the belief of my firm, on the contrary," Mr. Wadham confessed gloomily, "that they will end in a petition in bankruptcy being presented against your lordship."

  The Marquis shook out his handkerchief, wiped his lips and lit a cigarette.

  "Yours appears to be rather a dismal errand, Mr. Wadham," he said coldly. "Is there any reason why I should detain you further?"

  "None whatever, so long as I have made it quite clear that there is no prospect of raising a single half-penny in excess of the mortgages already completed. The matter of the forty thousand pounds draft is, of course, entirely in your lordship's hands. I thought it my duty to inform you as to the value of the shares, in case you were able to persuade the gentleman who sold them to you to cancel the transaction."

  "You mean well, Wadham, no doubt," the Marquis declared, a little patronisingly, "but, as I said before, your turn of mind is too legal. My respects to your father. You will forgive my ringing, will you not? Lady Letitia is waiting for me to walk with her."

  Mr. Wadham departed, saying blasphemous things all the way into Piccadilly, and the Marquis walked with Lady Letitia in the Park. As a rule their conversation, although mostly of personal matters, was conducted in light-hearted fashion enough by Letitia, and responded to with a certain dry though stately humour by her father. This morning, however, a silence which amounted almost to constraint reigned between them. The Marquis, realising this, finally dragged his thoughts with difficulty away from his own affairs.

  "I had intended to speak to you, Letitia," he began, "concerning the announcement of your marriage. Some festivities must naturally follow, and a meeting between myself and the Duke."

  "Whom you hate like poison, don't you, dad!" Letitia said, with a little grimace. "Well, so do I, for the matter of that."

  "One's personal feelings are scarcely of account in such a case," the Marquis averred; "that is to say, any personal feelings with the exception of yours and Grantham's. The match is suitable in every way, and at a time when every young man of account is being chased by a new race of ineligible young women, it must be a comfort to his family to contemplate an alliance like this."

  Letitia shrugged her shoulders.

  "With regard to the actual announcement, dad," she said, "we are going to keep it to ourselves for a few weeks longer, or at any rate until we are safely settled in the country. It's such a bore to have every one you have ever spoken to in your life come rushing round to wish you happiness and that sort of thing. Charlie rather agrees with me."

  "The matter, naturally, is in your hands," the Marquis replied, with a slight air of relief.

  "Of course, I am seeing rather more of Charlie," Letitia went on, "but people won't take any notice of that. There have been rumours of our engagement at least half a dozen times already. Aren't you getting just a little sick, dad, of this everlasting walk and these everlasting people we keep on bowing to and wish we didn't know?"

  "I hadn't thought of it exactly in that way," her father confessed, "and yet perhaps London is a little wearisome this season."

  "I think," Letitia sighed, "that I never felt so keen about leaving town and getting into the country. I suppose you wouldn't care to go down to Mandeleys a week earlier, would you?" she asked tentatively.

  The Marquis looked upwards towards the tops of the trees. He thought of that particular spot on the hall table where notes were left for him, of the old-fashioned silver salver laid by his side on the breakfast table, upon which his letters were placed. He thought of the queer new feeling with which, day by day, he glanced them through, opening none, searching always, covering his disappointment by means of some ingenious remark; and of the days when he returned from such a walk as this, or from the club, his eyes glued upon the sideboard even while the butler was relieving him of his coat and gloves. This morning all the accumulated sickness, all the little throbs of disappointment, seemed to be lumped into one gigantic and intolerable depression, so that his knees even trembled a little while he walked, and his feet felt as though they were shod with lead. He remembered his sleepless nights. He thought of that dull ache which came to him sometimes in the still hours, when he lay and fancied that he could hear her voice, her cheerful laugh, the tender touch of her fingers. He felt a sudden, overmastering desire to be free, at any rate, from that minute by minute agony. At Mandeleys there would be only the post. Or perhaps, if he made up his mind to leave town earlier than he had expected, he would not be breaking his word to himself if he sent just a line to tell her of his changed plans. The country, by all means!

  "So far as I am concerned, Letitia," he said, "I think that I have never before felt so strongly the desire to leave London. I suppose that, if we were content to take things quietly, we could collect a few servants and be comfortable there?"

  "I am sure of it, dad!" she exclaimed eagerly. "You don't need to bother. I could arrange it all," she went on, passing her arm through his. "Four or five women will be all that we need, and Mrs. Harris can collect those in the village. Then we need only take Gossett and Smith from here, and of course cook. The others can go on to board wages."

  The Marquis smiled indulgently.

  "You must not disperse the establishment too completely, my dear," he said. "I have great hopes that a certain business venture which I have made will place us in a very different financial position before very long."

  She looked a little dubious.

  "Was that what Mr. Wadham was worrying about this morning?" she asked.

  "Mr. Wadham, Junior, is a most ignorant young man," her father proclaimed stiffly. "The venture, such as it is, is one which I have made entirely on my own responsibility."

  A sudden thought struck her. Her arm tightened upon her father's.

  "Has it anything to do with Mr. Thain?"

  "It was Mr. Thain who placed the matter before me," he assented.

  "And Mr. Wadham doesn't approve?"

  "You really are a most intelligent young person," her father declared, smiling. "Mr. Wadham's disapproval, however, does not disturb me."

  Letitia was conscious of a curious uneasiness.

  "Are you quite sure that Mr. Thain is an honest man, father?" she asked.

  The Marquis's eyebrows were slightly elevated.

  "My dear!" he said reprovingly. "Mr. Thain's position as a financier is, I believe, beyond all question. Your aunt, who, you will remember, first brought him to us, spoke of his reputation in the States as being entirely unexceptionable."

  "After all, aunt only met him on the steamer," Letitia observed.

  "Consider further," the Marquis continued, "that he has taken Broomleys and will therefore be a neighbour of ours for some time. Do you think that he would have done this with the knowledge in his mind he had involved me in a transaction which was destined to have an unfortunate conclusion?"

  Letitia was silent. Her fine forehead was clouded by a little perplexed frown. The problem of David Thain
was not so easily solved. Then the Duchess called to them from her car and beckoned Letitia to her side.

  "I have heard rumours, Letitia," she whispered.

  Letitia nodded.

  "I was coming round to see you, aunt," she replied. "We are not going to announce it until a little later on."

  The Duchess smiled her approbation.

  "I am delighted," she declared. "You are so difficult, Letitia, and there are so many girls about just now, trying to get hold of our young men. Some one was telling me only last night of an American girl—or was she South American; I don't remember—with millions and millions, who almost followed Charlie about. Of course, that sort of thing is being done, but it hasn't happened in our family yet. Dear people, both of you! When are you going to Mandeleys?"

  "We have just decided," the Marquis told her, "to shorten our stay in London. Letitia's engagements are capable of curtailment, and my own are of no account. We are thinking of going at once."

  "And your neighbour," the Duchess enquired; "when is he going into residence?"

  "I have not heard."

  "I am expecting him to come to Scotland later on," she observed.

  The Marquis was gently surprised.

  "Won't he be just a little—"

  "Not at all," the Duchess interrupted. "He shoots and fishes, and does everything other men do. I am not quite sure," she went on, "that you thoroughly appreciate Mr. Thain."

  "My dear Caroline, you are entirely mistaken," the Marquis assured her. "What Letitia's sentiments with regard to him may be, I do not know, but so far as I am concerned, I consider him a most desirable acquisition to my acquaintances."

  "If only I had your manner!" she said earnestly. "Poor Mr. Thain!"

  With a little nod she drove off. The Marquis and Letitia continued their promenade.

  "Why 'Poor Mr. Thain'?" the former mused. "Exactly what did Caroline mean, I wonder?"

  "I think," Letitia replied, "that she was emphasising the distinction between your acceptance of Mr. Thain and hers."

  Her father remained puzzled.

  "Mr. Thain has been a guest at my house," he said, "and we shall treat him as a neighbour when we meet at Mandeleys."

  "Those things are indications of a friendly feeling," Letitia observed, "but you yourself know where you have placed the barriers. Now Aunt Caroline doesn't mean to have any barriers. If Mr. Thain can be awakened to his great opportunities, it is perfectly clear that she means to enter upon a flirtation with him."

  The Marquis was a little shocked.

  "You are somewhat blunt, my dear," he said. "So far as your Aunt Caroline is concerned, too, I fear that she has in a measure lost that fine edge—perhaps I should say that very delicate perception of the differences which undoubtedly do exist. I am pointing this out to you, Letitia," he continued, as they left the Park, "but it occurs to me that my doing so is unnecessary. I have noticed that since your entrance into Society, some four or five years ago, you have identified yourself entirely with my views. Nothing could have been more discriminating than your treatment of the various excellent people with whom you have been brought into contact."

  Letitia did not speak for a moment. Then she turned to her father with a little sigh.

  "An inherited weakness, I suppose," she murmured. "I sometimes rather envy other people their standpoint."

  The Marquis made no reply. They were nearing Number 94, and he was conscious of that slight, nervous expectancy which required always a firm hand. The door was opened before they could ring. The young man who served under Gossett was already relieving him of his hat and gloves. With a perfectly leisurely step, the Marquis advanced towards the hall table. He glanced at the superscription of two or three notes, dropped his eyeglass, and turned away towards his study—empty-handed.

  "Several notes for you, Letitia," he said, without looking around.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Richard Vont, a few mornings later, leaned upon his spade and gazed over towards Mandeleys with set, fixed eyes. His clothes and hands were stained with clay, the sweat was pouring down his face, he was breathing heavily like a man who has been engaged in strenuous labour. But of his exhausted condition he seemed to take no count. There was something new at the Abbey, something which spoke to him intimately, which was crowding his somewhat turgid brain with the one great imagining of his life. For Mandeleys had opened its eyes. A hundred blinds had been raised, long rows of windows stood open. Men were at work, weeding the avenue, and driving mowing machines across the lawns which stretched down to the ring fence and the moat. Flaming borders of yellow crocuses became miraculously visible as the dank grass disappeared, and many spiral wreaths of smoke were ascending into the misty stillness of the spring morning. Away behind, in the high-walled garden, were more gardeners, bending at their toil. Richard Vont was no reader of the Morning Post, but an item in its fashionable intelligence of that morning lay clearly written before him. The Marquis was coming back!

  Vont turned slowly away, left his spade in the tool shed, entered the cottage by the back door, carefully changed his clothes, washed the clay from his face and hands, and descended into the sitting room, where his breakfast awaited him. Mrs. Wells looked at him curiously. She was a distant connection and stood upon no ceremony with him.

  "Richard," she demanded, "where were you when I come this morning?"

  "Sleeping, maybe," he answered, taking his place at the table.

  "And that you weren't," she contradicted, "for I made bold to knock at your door to ask if you'd like a rasher of bacon with your eggs."

  He raised his head and looked at her steadily.

  "Well?"

  "I'm not one to pry into other people's affairs," she continued, "but your goings on are more than I can understand. All day long you sit with the Book upon your knee, and if a neighbour asks why you never pass the gate, or seemingly move a limb, it's the rheumatics you speak of. And yet last night your bed was never slept in, my man, and I begin to suspect other nights as well. What's it mean, eh?"

  Richard Vont rose to his feet and opened the door.

  "Just that," he answered harshly, pointing to it. "I'll not be spied on. Inch for inch and yard for yard, this cottage and garden are mine, I tell you—mine with dishonour, maybe, but mine. I'll have none around me that watches and frets because of the things that I choose to do. I'll lie out in the garden at nights, if I will, and not account to you, Mary Wells; or sleep on the floor, if it pleases me, and it's no concern of any one but mine. So back to the village gossips, if you will, and spread your tale. Maybe I'm a midnight robber and roam the countryside at night. It's my affair."

  "A robber you're not, Richard Vont," was the somewhat dazed reply, "and that the world knows. And there's summut more that the world knows, too, and that is that since you came back from Americy, never have you set foot outside that gate. There's friends waiting for you at the village, and there's them as smokes their pipe at night in the alehouse, whose company 'd do you no harm, but for some reason of your own you live like a hermit. And yet—yet—"

  "Go on, Mary," he said sturdily. "Finish it."

  "It's the nights that are baffling," Mrs. Wells declared. "There's some of your clothes in the morning wrings with sweat. There's sometimes the look in your face at breakfast time as though you'd had a hard day's work and done more than was good for your strength."

  "I'm no sleeper," he declared, "no sleeper at all. If I choose to walk in the garden, what business is it of yours, Mary, or of any one down in th' village? Answer me that, woman?"

  "Every man, I suppose, may please himself," she conceded grudgingly, "but I don't hold with mysteries myself."

  "Then you full well know," he replied, "how to escape from them. If they're too much for you, Mary, I've fended for myself before, and I can do it again."

  Mrs. Wells snorted.

  "Keep your own counsel, then, Richard."

  "And you keep yours," he advised. "You're my nearest of kin, Mary, though y
ou're but my cousin's widdy. If you can learn to keep a still tongue in your head and do what's asked of you, there may be a trifle coming to you when my time comes. But if you get these curious fits on you, and they're more than you can stand; if you're going bleating from house to house in the village, and spending your time in tittle-tattling, then we'll part. Them's plain words, anyhow."

  Mrs. Wells became almost abject.

  "You've said the word, Richard, and I'll bide by it," she declared. "You can run races with yourself round the garden all night long, if you've a will. I'll close my eyes from now. But," she added, as a parting shot, "that clay on your old clothes takes a sight of getting off."

  Richard Vont ate his breakfast slowly and thoughtfully, entirely with the air of a man who accomplishes a duty. Afterwards, with the Bible under his arm, he took his accustomed seat at the end of the garden facing Mandeleys. There were tradesmen's carts and motor-vans passing occasionally on their way to and from the house, but he saw none of them. He was in his place, waiting, watching, perhaps, but without curiosity. Presently a summons came, however, which he could not ignore. He turned his head. David Thain, on a great black horse, had come galloping across the park from Broomleys, and had brought his restive horse with some difficulty up to the side of the paling. The greeting between the two was a silent, yet, so far as Vont was concerned, an eager one.

  "You know what that means?" David observed, pointing with his crop towards the house.

  "I know well," was the swift answer. "It's what I've prayed for. Move your horse out of the way, boy. Can't you see I'm watching?"

  David looked at the old man curiously. Then he dismounted, and with his arm through the reins, leaned against the paling.

  "There's nothing to watch yet," he said, "but tradesmen's carts."

  "It's just the beginning," Vont muttered. "Soon there'll be servants, and then—him! If he comes in the night," the old man went on, his voice thickening, "I'll—"

  Words seemed to fail him, but he had clenched his hands on the cover of the book he had closed, and his blue veins stood out in ugly fashion. David sighed. Yet, notwithstanding his despair, some measure of curiosity prompted a question.