Afterwards it seemed to him that there must have been something mortally terrifying in his own appearance as he stood there with his back to the wall and his eyes fixed upon the solitary occupant of the room. Lady Letitia, in a blue dressing gown, was lying upon a couch drawn up before a small log fire. There seemed to be no detail of the room which in those sickening moments of mental absorption was not photographed into his memory. The old four-poster bedstead, hung with chintz; the long, black dressing table, once a dresser, covered carelessly with tortoise-shell backed toilet articles, with a large mirror in the centre from which a chair had just been pushed back. But, above all, that look in her face, from which every other expression seemed to have permanently fled. Her lips were parted, her eyes were round with horrified surprise. The book which she had been reading slipped from her fingers and fell noiselessly on to the hearth-rug. She sat up, supporting herself with her hands, one on either side, pressed into the sofa. She seemed denied the power of speech, almost as he was. And then a sudden wonderful change came to him. He spoke quite distinctly, although he kept his voice low.
"Lady Letitia," he said, "let me explain. I shall never ask for your forgiveness. I shall never venture to approach you again. I have come here by the secret passage from Vont's cottage. I have come here to keep an oath which I swore in America to Richard Vont, and I have come because, if I had broken my word, he would have killed himself."
He spoke with so little emotion, so reasonably, that she found herself answering him, notwithstanding her bewilderment, almost in the same key.
"But who are you?" she demanded. "Who are you to be the slave of that old man?"
"I am his nephew," David answered. "I am the little boy who played about the park when you were a girl, who picked you up on the ice once when you fell. All that I have I owe to Richard Vont. He sent me to college. He lent me the money upon which I built my fortune, but on the day he lent it to me he made me swear a terrible oath, and to-night he has forced me to keep it by setting foot within your chamber. Now I shall return the way I came, and may God grant that some day you will forgive me."
Almost as he spoke there was a little click behind. He started round and felt along the wall. There was a moment's silence. Then he turned once more towards Letitia, his cheeks whiter than ever, his sunken eyes filled with a new horror. Even the composure which had enabled him to explain his coming with some show of reason, had deserted him. He seemed threatened with a sort of hysteria.
"He followed me! Damn him, he followed me!" he muttered. "I heard footsteps. He has fastened us in!"
He tore desperately at the tapestry, shook the concealed door and rattled it, in vain. Letitia rose slowly to her feet.
"You see what has happened," she said. "Richard Vont was more cunning than you. He was not content that you should make your little speech and creep back amongst the rats. Tell me, what do you propose to do?"
He looked around him helplessly.
"There is the window," he muttered.
She shook her head.
"We are on the second story," she told him, "and there is nothing to break your fall upon the flags below. To be found with a broken neck beneath my window would be almost as bad as anything that could happen."
"I am not afraid to try," he declared.
He moved towards the window. She crossed the room swiftly and intercepted him.
"Don't be absurd," she admonished. "Come, let us think. There must be a way."
"Let me out of your room on to the landing," he begged eagerly. "If I can reach the hall it will be all right. I can find a window open, or hide somewhere. Only, for God's sake," he added, his voice breaking, "let me out of this room!"
A flash of her old manner came back to her.
"I am sorry you find it so unattractive," she said. "I thought it rather pretty myself. And blue, after all, is my colour, you know, although I don't often wear it."
"Oh, bless you!" he exclaimed. "Bless you, Lady Letitia, for speaking to me as though I were a human being. Now I am going to steal out of that door on tiptoe."
"Wait till I have listened there," she whispered.
She stole past him and stooped down with her ear to the keyhole. She frowned for a moment and held out her hand warningly. It seemed to him that he could feel his heart beating. Close to where he was standing, her silk stockings were hanging over the back of a chair.—He suddenly closed his eyes, covered them desperately with the palms of his hand. Her warning finger was still extended.
"That was some one passing," she said. "I don't understand why. They all came to bed some time ago. Stay where you are and don't move."
They both listened. David seemed in those few minutes to have lost all the composure which had become the habit of years. His heart was beating madly. He was shaking as though with intense cold. Lady Letitia, on the other hand, seemed almost unruffled. Only he fancied that at the back of her eyes there was something to which as yet she had given no expression, something which terrified him. Then, as they stood there, neither of them daring to move, there came a sudden awful sound. It had seemed to him that the world could hold no greater horror than he was already suffering, but the sound to which they listened was paralysing, hideous, stupefying. With hoarse, brazen note, rusty and wheezy, yet pulled as though with some desperate clutch, the great alarm bell which hung over the courtyard was tolling its dreadful summons.
Letitia stood up, her cheeks ghastly pale. She, too, was struggling now for composure.
"Really," she exclaimed, "this is an evening full of incidents.—Don't touch me," she added. "I shall be all right directly."
For a single moment he knew that she had nearly fainted. She caught at the side of the wall. Then they heard a cry from outside. A spark flew past the window. A hoarse voice from somewhere below shouted "Fire!" And then something more alarming still. All down the corridor, doors were thrown open. There was the sound of eager voices—finally a loud knocking at the door which they were guarding. Letitia shrugged her shoulders.
"This," she murmured, "is fate."
She opened the door. There was a little confused group outside. The Marquis, fully dressed, stood with his eyes fixed upon Thain at first in blank astonishment,—afterwards as one who looks upon some horrible thing. Grantham in a dressing gown, took a quick step forward.
"My God, it's Thain!" he exclaimed. "What in hell's name—?"
Letitia turned towards her father.
"Father," she began—
The Marquis made no movement, yet she was suddenly aware of something in his expression, something which shone more dimly in the face of her aunt, which throbbed in Grantham's incoherent words. Her brave little speech died away. She staggered. The Marquis still made no movement. It was David who caught her in his arms and carried her to the couch. He turned and faced them. In the background, Sylvia was clinging to Grantham's arm.
"You gibbering fools!" he cried. "What if an accursed chance has brought me here! Isn't she Lady Letitia, your daughter, Marquis? Isn't she your betrothed, Grantham? Your niece, Duchess? Do you think that anything but the rankest and most accursed accident could ever have brought me within reach even of her fingers?"
No one spoke. The faces into which he looked seemed to David like a hideous accusation. Suddenly Gossett's voice was heard from behind.
"The fire is nothing, your lordship. It is already extinguished. Some one seems to have brought some blazing brambles and thrown them into the courtyard."
"Get some water, you fools!" Thain shouted. "Can't you see that she is faint?"
The Duchess began to collect herself. She advanced further into the room in search of restoratives. The Marquis came a step nearer to Thain.
"Tell me how you found your way into this room, sir?" he demanded.
"By the foulest means on God's earth," Thain answered. "I came through the secret passage from Vont's cottage."
"Without Lady Letitia's knowledge, I presume?" Grantham interposed hoarsely.
"N
o one but a cad would have asked such a question," David thundered. "I broke into her room, meaning to deliver one brief message and to go back again. Vont followed me and fastened the door.—Can't you read the story?" he added, turning appealingly to the Marquis. "Don't you know who I am? I am Vont's nephew, the boy who played about here years ago. I lived with him in America. He paid for my education at Harvard; he lent me the money to make my first venture. He has been all the relative I ever had. Out there I pledged my word blindly to help him in his revenge upon you, Marquis, in whatever manner he might direct. To-night he sprung this upon me. I was face to face with my word of honour, and the certainty that if I refused to fulfil my pledge he would kill himself before morning. So I came. It was he who rang the alarm bell, he who planned the pretence of a fire to trap me here. This was to be his vengeance.—Be reasonable. Don't take this miserable affair seriously. God knows what I have suffered, these last few minutes!"
Letitia sat up, revived. She was still very pale, and there was something terrible in her face.
"For heaven's sake," she begged, "bring this wretched melodrama to an end. Turn that poor man out," she added, pointing to David. "His story is quite true."
Every one had gone except the Marquis and Grantham. Neither of them spoke for several moments. Then the Marquis, as though he were awaking from a dream, moved to the door, opened it and beckoned to David.
"Will you follow me," he invited.
Very slowly they passed along the great corridor, down the broad stairs and into the hall. The Marquis led the way to the front door and opened it. Neither had spoken. To Thain, every moment was a moment of agony. The Marquis held the door open and stood on one side. David realised that he was expected to depart without a word.
"There is nothing more I can say?" he faltered despairingly.
The Marquis stood upon his own threshold. He spoke slowly and with a curious lack of expression.
"Nothing. It is the times that are to blame. We open our houses and offer our hospitality to servants and the sons of servants, and we expect them to understand our code. We are very foolish.—Since you have broken this silence, let me spare myself the necessity of further words. If your contrition is genuine, you will break the lease of Broomleys and depart from this neighbourhood without further delay. My agent will wait upon you."
Without haste, yet before any reply was possible, the Marquis had closed the great door. David was once more in the darkness, staggering as though his knees would give way. The avenue stretched unevenly before him. He started off towards Broomleys.
CHAPTER XXXIV
At a few minutes after nine, the following morning, the Marquis entered the room where breakfast was usually served. The Duchess, in travelling clothes and a hat, was lifting the covers from the silver dishes upon the sideboard, with a fork in her hand. She welcomed him a little shortly.
"Good morning, Reginald!"
"Good morning, Caroline," he replied. "Are you the only representative of the household?"
She snorted.
"Charlie Grantham went off in his little two-seater at eight o'clock this morning," she announced. "He is motoring up to town. Left apologies with Gossett, I believe—telegram or something in the night. All fiddlesticks, of course!"
"Naturally," the Marquis assented, helping himself from one of the dishes and drawing his chair up to his sister's side. "So exit Charles Grantham, eh?"
"And me," the Duchess declared, returning to her place and pouring out the coffee. "I suppose you can send me to Fakenham for the ten o'clock train?"
The Marquis considered for a moment.
"I am not sure, Caroline," he said, "that your departure is entirely kind."
"Well, I'm jolly certain I don't mean it to be," she answered bitterly. "I ask no questions, and I hate scenes. A week ago I should have scoffed at the idea of David Thain as a prospective suitor for Letitia. Now, my advice to you is, the sooner you can get them married, the better."
"Really!" he murmured. "You've given up the idea, then, of taking the young man to Scotland?"
"Entirely," the Duchess assured him emphatically. "I was an idiot to ever consider it. When people of his class find their way amongst us, disaster nearly always follows. You see, they don't know the rules of the game, as we play it. Whilst we are on this subject, Reginald, what are you going to do about it?"
The Marquis unlocked his letter case and shook out the contents.
"You mean about last night?" he asked. "Well, as I don't want to be the laughing-stock of the county, I shall keep as quiet as I can. I knew that something ridiculous would happen, with that poor lunatic sitting in the garden, poring over the Bible all day long."
The Duchess looked distinctly malicious.
"I am not at all as sure as I should like to be," she said, "that the old man is to blame for everything."
The Marquis looked at his sister intently. She bent over the milk jug.
"You leave me in some doubt, Caroline," he observed coldly, "as to what frame of mind you are in, when you make such utterly incomprehensible remarks and curtail your visit to us so suddenly. At the same time, I hope that whatever your private feelings may be, you will not forget certain—shall I call them obligations?"
"Oh, don't be afraid!" she rejoined. "I am not likely to advertise my folly, especially at Letitia's expense. I don't care a jot whether the young man came through a hole in the wall or dropped down from the clouds. I only know that his presence in Letitia's bedchamber—"
"We will drop the discussion, if you please," the Marquis interrupted.
There was just the one note in his tone, an inheritance, perhaps, from those more virile ancestors, which reduced even his sister to silence. The Marquis adjusted his eyeglass and commenced a leisurely inspection of his letters. He did so without any anxiety, without the slightest premonition of evil. Even when he recognised her handwriting, he did so with a little thrill of pleasurable anticipation. He drew the letter closer to him and with a word of excuse turned away towards the window. Perhaps she was wanting him. After all, it would be quite easy to run up to London for a day—and wonderfully pleasant. He drew the single sheet from its envelope. The letters seemed magnified. The whole significance of those cruel words seemed to reach him with a single mental effort.
Reginald, I was married to James Borden this morning. I suppose it is the uncivilised part of me which has been pulling at my heartstrings, day by day, week by week, the savage in me clamouring for its right before it is too late.
So we change positions, only whereas you have atoned and justified every one of your actions towards me since our eyes first met, I am left without any means of atonement.
Will you forgive?
Your very humble and penitent MARCIA.
The Marquis replaced the letter in the envelope. For several moments he stood looking across the park, beyond, to the well-cultivated farms rolling away to the distant line of hills. His brain was numbed. Marcia had gone!—There was a mist somewhere. He rubbed the windowpane, in vain. Then he set his teeth, and his long, nervous fingers gripped at his throat for a moment.
"Your coffee is getting cold," his sister reminded him.
He came back to his place. She watched him a little curiously.
"Any message from our pseudo-Lothario?" she asked.
The Marquis gathered up his other letters.
"There is nothing here from him," he said, "but I must ask you to excuse me, Caroline. There is an urgent matter which needs my attention."
He crossed the room a little more slowly than usual, and his sister, who was still watching him critically, sighed. There was no doubt at all that his walk was becoming the walk of an old man. The stoop of the shoulders was also a new thing. She counted up his age on her fingers, and, rising from her place, looked at herself in the mirror opposite. Her face for a moment was hard and set, and her fingers clenched.
"Years!" she muttered to herself. "How I hate them!"
The Marquis selected a
grey Homburg hat of considerable antiquity, and a thicker stick than usual, from the rack in the hall. The front doors stood wide open, and he walked out into the pleasant sunshine. It was a warm morning, but twice he shivered as he passed down the broad sweep of drive and, with a curious sensation of unfamiliarity, crossed the little bridge over the moat, the few yards of park, and finally approached the palings which bordered Richard Vont's domain. The mist still seemed to linger before his eyes, but through it he could see the familiar figure seated in his ancient chair, with the book upon his knee. The Marquis drew close to the side of the palings.
"Richard Vont," he began, "I have come down from Mandeleys to speak to you. Will you listen to what I have to say?"
There was no reply. The Marquis drew the letter from his pocket.
"You are a cruel and stubborn man, Vont," he continued. "You have gone far out of your way to bring injury and unhappiness upon me. All your efforts are as nothing. Will you hear from me what has happened?"
There was silence, still grim silence. The Marquis stretched out his hand and leaned a little upon the paling.
"I took your daughter, Richard Vont, not as a libertine but as a lover. It was perhaps the truest impulse my life has ever felt. If there was sin in it, listen. Hear how I am punished. Month followed month and year followed year, and Marcia was content with my love and I with hers, so that during all this time my lips have touched no other woman's, no other woman has for a moment engaged even my fancy. I have been as faithful to your daughter, Richard Vont, as you to your vindictive enmity. From a discontented and unhappy girl she has become a woman with a position in the world, a brilliant writer, filled with the desire and happiness of life to her finger tips. From me she received the education, the travel, the experience which have helped her to her place in the world, and with them I gave her my heart. And now—you are listening, Richard Vont? You will hear what has happened?"
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