The Wicked Marquis Part 33

Let.i.tia nodded.

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

The d.u.c.h.ess smiled her approbation.

"I am delighted," she declared. "You are so difficult, Let.i.tia, 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. Let.i.tia's engagements are capable of curtailment, and my own are of no account. We are thinking of going at once."

"And your neighbour," the d.u.c.h.ess 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 a.s.sured her.

"What Let.i.tia'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 Let.i.tia continued their promenade.

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

"I think," Let.i.tia 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," Let.i.tia 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, Let.i.tia," 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."

Let.i.tia 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 eyegla.s.s, and turned away towards his study--empty-handed.

"Several notes for you, Let.i.tia," 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 gra.s.s 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 pa.s.s 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 st.u.r.dily. "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 you'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 t.i.ttle-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.