"Just why do you want to see him so much?" he asked.
"Hate," was the quiet reply. "It's twenty years since, and I've a kind of craving to see him that much older. There's hate and love, you know, David. They're both writ of here. But I tell you it's hate that lasts the longest. Love is like my flowers. Look at them—my tall hollyhocks, my bush roses, my snapdragon there. They blossom and they fade, and they lie dead—who knows where? And in the spring they come again, or something like them. And hate," he went on, pointing to a spade which lay propped against the paling, "is like that lump of metal. It's here winter and summer alike. It doesn't change, it doesn't die; there's no heat would melt it. It was there last year, it's there to-day, it will be there to-morrow."
David sighed, and looked for a moment wearily away. The old man watched him anxiously. Exercise had brought a slight flush to his pallid cheeks and an added brightness to his eyes. He sat his horse well, and his tweed riding-clothes were fashionably cut. His uncle's frown became deeper.
"You're young, David," he said, "and I know well that you and me look out on life full differently. But an oath—an oath's a sacred thing, eh?"
"An oath is a sacred thing," David repeated. "I've never denied it."
"You'll not flinch, lad?" the old man persisted eagerly.
"I shall not flinch."
"Then ride off now. There's no gain to either of us in talking here, for your mind is set one way and mine another. You'll have a score of years of youth left after you've done my behest."
David paused with his foot in the stirrup, withdrew it and returned to the paling.
"Let me know the worst," he begged. "I've beggared your enemy for you. I've soiled my conscience for the first time in my life. I've lied to and ruined the man who trusted in my word. What is this further deed that I must do?"
Richard Vont shook his head.
"When the time comes," he promised, "you shall know. Meanwhile, let be! It's a summer morning, and you are but young; make the most of it. Come when I send for you."
So David rode off, up the broad slopes of the great park, along the wonderful beech avenue and out on to the highway. He turned in his saddle for a moment and looked towards the road from London.
CHAPTER XXIV
The Marquis, with an after-breakfast cigarette in his mouth, strolled out of his front door, a few mornings later, to find himself face to face with Richard Vont. He called Letitia, who was behind.
"The worst has happened," he groaned.
Letitia stood by her father's side and looked across the stone flags, across the avenue, with its central bed of gay-coloured flowers, the ring fence, the moat, the few yards of park, to where, just inside his little enclosed garden, Richard Vont was seated, directly facing them.
"Well, you expected it, didn't you, father?" she observed.
"All the same," the Marquis declared, with a frown, "it's an irritating thing to have a man seated there within a hundred yards of your front door, with a Bible on his knee, cursing you. I am convinced now, more than ever, that my case against this man must have been grossly mismanaged. The law could never permit such an indignity."
Letitia stepped back for a moment to light a cigarette. Then she rejoined her father and contemplated that somewhat grim figure critically.
"If he is going to do that all the time," the Marquis went on, "I shall have nerves. I shall have to live in the back part of the house."
Letitia gravely considered the matter.
"Why don't you try talking common sense to him?" she suggested. "Perhaps a few words from you would make all the difference."
"He is probably sitting there with a gun," her father sighed. "However, it's an idea, Letitia. I'll try it."
He strolled across the avenue, through a little iron gate in the railings, and across the moat by a footbridge. When he had approached within a dozen paces of the palings, however, Richard Vont rose to his feet.
"You're nigh enough, Lord Mandeleys," he called out, "nigh enough for your own safety."
The Marquis advanced with his usual leisurely and aristocratic walk to the edge of the palings. Richard Vont stood glaring at him like a wild beast, but there was no signs of any weapon about.
"Vont," the former said, "we both have rights. This park is mine so far as your paling, just as your garden is yours where you are. I have no fancy for shouting, and I have a word to say to you."
"Say it and begone, then," Vont exclaimed fiercely.
"Really," the Marquis expostulated, "you are behaving in a most unreasonable manner. I am here to discuss the past. For any wrong which you may consider I have done you, I express my regret. I suggest to you that your daughter's present position in life should reconcile you to what has happened."
"My daughter's brains nor your money don't make an honest woman of her."
The Marquis sighed wearily.
"Your outlook, Vont," he said, "is full of prejudice and utterly illogical. I found qualities in your daughter which endeared her to me, and she has lived a perfectly reputable and engrossing life ever since she left your home, such a life as she could not possibly have lived under your roof or in this part of the world. In every way that counts, she has prospered. Therefore, I ask you to reconsider the matter. I claim that any wrong I may have done you is expiated, and I suggest that you abandon an attitude which—pardon me—is just a little theatrical, put aside that very excellent Book or else read it as a whole, and give me your hand."
"I'd cut it off first," Vont declared savagely.
"This is rank prejudice," the Marquis protested.
"It seems so to you, belike," was the scornful answer. "You clever folk who can crowd your brain with thoughts and ideas from books—you've no room there for the big things. You've so many little weeds growing up around that the flower doesn't count. Nought that you can say about Marcia can alter matters. I'd sooner have seen her married to the poorest creature on your land than to know that she has lived as your dependent for all these years."
The Marquis shook his head sorrowfully.
"You're an obstinate old man, Vont," he said, "and a very selfish one. You are wrapped up in your own narrow ideas, and you won't even allow any one else to show you the truth. Marcia has been happy with me. She would have been the most miserable creature on earth married to a clod."
"Ay, she's been here to show herself," Vont muttered, "down in a motor-car, in furs and silks, like a creature from some world that I know not about. She's talked as you've talked. I've listened to the pair of you. I thrust my daughter out of the garden and bade her go away and learn the truth. And you—well, I just take leave to say that as I cursed you nigh on a score of years ago, and have cursed you in my heart ever since, so I curse you now!"
"But are you going to sit there every day doing it?" the Marquis enquired, a little irritably.
"This house and garden are mine," Richard Vont replied stolidly, "although you've done your best to beggar me by taking them away. When I choose, I shall sit here. When I choose, I shall sit and watch you with your guests, watch you morning, noon and night. I've one wish in my heart, hour by hour. Maybe that wish will reach home, Marquis of Mandeleys. If it does, you'll see them all in black along the churchyard path there, and hear the doors of your vault roll open."
"You're a little mixed in your similes, my friend," the Marquis remarked, "because, you know, if those things happen—to me, I shall be the one person who doesn't hear them. Still, I gather that you are implacable, and that is what I came to find out. What astonishingly fine hollyhocks!" he observed, as he turned away. "I must go and look at my own."
For a moment there was tragedy in Vont's clenched fists and fierce, convulsive movement forward. The Marquis, however, without a backward glance, lounged carelessly away and, finding Letitia, strolled with her to the walled garden.
"The man is impossible," he proclaimed. "It is obviously his intention to sit there and make himself a nuisance. Well, we get used to everything. I may get used to R
ichard Vont."
Letitia hesitated for a few moments.
"Father," she said, "there are certain subjects which are not, as a rule, mentioned, but if you will permit me—"
The Marquis stopped her.
"My dear, please not," he begged, a little stiffly. "Remember, if you will, that I have little in common with the somewhat modern school of thought indulged in by most of your friends. There are certain subjects which cannot be discussed between us. Let us hear what Mr. Hales has to say."
Hat in hand, the head gardener had hastened down to meet them, and under his tutelage they explored his domain. His master murmured little words of congratulation.
"I have done my best, your lordship," the man observed, "but Mr. Merridrew has been cruel hard on me for bulbs and seeds and plants, and as to shrubs and young trees, he'll not have a word to say."
The Marquis nodded sympathetically.
"We may be able to alter that next year, Hales," he promised. "Mr. Merridrew, I know, has had great trouble with the tenants for the last few quarters. Next year, Mr. Hales, we will see what we can do."
The gardener once more doffed his cap and received the intelligence with gratified interest. Over the top of the hill, a small governess' cart, drawn by a fat pony, came into sight, and Letitia waved her hand to the girl who was driving.
"It's Sylvia Laycey," she murmured. "Now how on earth can that child still be at Broomleys, if Mr. Thain is really here?"
Sylvia explained the matter as she drove into the great stableyard, Letitia walking on one side of her and the Marquis on the other.
"Of course we've left Broomleys," she told them, "but we are staying with the Medlingcourts for three or four days. They asked us at the last moment. And then your letter came, Letitia—just in time. I'm simply crazy to come and stay with you. Letitia, you lucky girl! You are going to be here all the time! I am simply foolish about him!"
"About whom?" Letitia asked indifferently.
"Why, Mr. David Thain, of course! He's the nicest thing I've ever talked to. He lunched with us on Thursday—but of course you're in love with him, too, so there'll be no chance for me."
Letitia's laugh was half amused, half scornful.
"If you are in earnest, Sylvia," she said, "which doesn't seem very likely, I can assure you that you need fear no rival. Mr. Thain does not appeal to me."
"We have nevertheless found Mr. Thain," the Marquis observed, suddenly reminding them both of his presence, "a very agreeable and interesting acquaintance."
Sylvia made a little grimace. She thrust her arm through Letitia's and drew her off towards the lawn, where some chairs had been brought out under a cedar tree.
"You are such a wonderful person, Letitia," she said, "and of course your father's a Marquis and mine isn't. But I thought, nowadays, Americans were good enough for anybody in the world, if only they had enough money."
"Both my father and I, you see," Letitia observed, "are a little old-fashioned. I have never had any idea of marriage, except with some one whose family I knew all about."
"Of course," Sylvia declared, "I am a horrid Radical, and I think I'd sooner not know about mine. If Mr. Thain's antecedents were unmentionable, I should adore him just the same, but, as I know your father would remind me in some very delicate fashion if he were here, the situation is different. You don't mind talking about him, do you, Letitia, because that's what I've come for?"
"Well, I'll listen," Letitia promised, as she settled herself in an easy-chair. "I really don't know what I should find to say, except that he's moderately good-looking, has quite nice manners, and money enough to buy the whole county."
"You are fearfully severe," Sylvia sighed. "Of course, I've been talking rot, as I always do, but we did find him charming, Letitia, both Daddy and I. He was so simple and unaffected, and he drove me into Fakenham and bought cutlets for our luncheon. When I come to think of it," she went on, with a look of horror in her face, "I believe he paid for them, too."
"He can well afford to," Letitia laughed.
The Marquis came to them across the lawn. He held in his hand an open telegram.
"From Grantham, my dear," he said to Letitia. "It appears that he is bored with town and proposes to come down to-morrow night instead of waiting until Saturday. I have replied that he will be very welcome. Mrs. Foulds will really have to bestir herself. I have a line from Caroline, too, to ask if she may stay for a couple of days on her way to Harrogate."
Letitia rose to her feet. The cloud which had fallen upon her face was doubtless owing to housekeeping cares. The Marquis, shading his eyes with his hand, was gazing across the park.
"Really," he remarked, a little drily, "I shall have to hint to our new neighbour that turf which is several hundred years old is not meant to be cut up like prairie-land. He sits his horse well, though."
Sylvia jumped quickly up and Letitia gazed in the direction which her father had indicated. David, on his black horse, was riding across the park towards Broomleys.
CHAPTER XXV
The Marquis, as he sat at his study table after lunch, was not inclined to regard his first day at Mandeleys as a success. The only post of the day had been delivered, and the letter for which he was waiting with an anxiety greater than he even realised himself, was still absent. There was a letter, however, from Mr. Wadham, which afforded him some food for thought. It was a personal letter, written by the head of the firm, and he perused it for the second time with a frown upon his forehead.
My dear Lord Mandeleys:
I have ventured, in your interests, to do what my son tells me you yourself felt some hesitation in doing—namely, I have made enquiry through a firm of stockbrokers who make a speciality of American oil shares, as to the Pluto Oil Company, Limited, of whose shares you have made so large a purchase. I find that no development of this property has taken place, very little, if any, machinery has been erected, no oil has ever been discovered in the locality or upon the estate. May I beg of you that, to avoid disastrous consequences, you at once see your friend from whom you purchased these shares, and endeavour to make some arrangement with him to take them off your hands, as they were doubtless tendered to you by false representations.
I am quite sure that I need not point out to your lordship that I write you this letter entirely without prejudice and in the interests of the Mandeleys name and estates.
There could be no possibility of the drafts executed by your lordship being met, unless the shares themselves provided the funds, which, under the existing conditions, appears impossible.
Respectfully yours,
STEPHEN WADHAM.
The Marquis looked out upon the lawn. There was in his memory, too, a recent and serious conversation with Mr. Merridrew, concerning the accumulating charges for dilapidations upon the property. He watched David playing croquet with Sylvia Laycey with a deepening frown upon his face, glanced from them to where Letitia sat, apparently absorbed in a book which she was reading, and from her he looked through a side window towards that hated little demesne across the moat, where Richard Vont, in his shabby brown velveteen suit, with his white hair and his motionless figure, seemed to dominate the otherwise peaceful prospect. Somehow or other, both outlooks irritated him almost as much as his own mental condition. The hard pressure of circumstances was asserting itself in his mind. He found himself struggling against an insidious longing to see Letitia in Sylvia's place. In his way he was superstitious. He even began to wonder whether that silent, ceaseless hate, that daily litany of curses, could really in any way be responsible for the increasing embarrassments by which he was surrounded, that great, dumb anxiety which kept him with wide-open eyes at night and sent him about in the daytime with a constant, wearing pain at his heart.
He turned at last wearily away from the window, rose to his feet, opened the French doors which led out into the gardens, and strolled across the lawn to where Letitia was seated. She laid down her book and welcomed him with a smile which had in it just a s
hade of fatigue.
"Our friend Thain," he observed, "seems to be a success with Miss Sylvia."
Letitia turned her head and watched them.
"Sylvia has already confided to me her ardent admiration."
The Marquis sighed as he sank into a chair. Letitia glanced at him a little anxiously.
"Anything wrong, dad?"
"Nothing that should depress one on such a wonderful day. It is more a state of mind than anything. You and I, I fancy, were both born a few hundred years too late."
"Money again?"
He nodded.
"It is one of the most humiliating features of modern existence," he declared, "to find the course of one's daily life interfered with by the paltry necessities of pounds, shillings and pence. One inherits a great name," he went on ruminatively, "great traditions, an estate brimful of associations with illustrious ancestors. In one's daily life one's sense of dignity, one's whole position, is all the time affected, I may say poisoned, by the lack of that one commodity which is neither a proof of greatness or even deserving. We are very poor indeed, Letitia."
She sighed.
"Is it anything fresh?"
"Mr. Merridrew has been here this morning," her father continued, "and has spoken to me very seriously about the condition of the whole estate. No repairs or rebuilding have been effected for years. The whole of the rents, as they have been received, have been required to pay interests on the mortgages. Mr. Merridrew adds that he scarcely dare show himself before any one of the tenants, to whose just demands he is continually promising attention. He considers that unless the whole of the next quarter's rents are spent in making repairs, we shall lose our tenants and the property itself will be immensely deteriorated."
"There are those shares that Mr. Thain sold you," she reminded him hopefully.
"You must take this for what it is worth," he said. "I have a private letter from Mr. Wadham himself this morning, in which he tells me frankly that he has received reports indicating that those shares are worthless."
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