The Wicked Marquis

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER IX

  David Thain, arrived at the end of his journey, seated himself on thesecond stile from the road, threw away his cigar and looked facts inthe face. He who had run the gamut of the Wall Street fever, who inhis earlier days had relied almost upon chance for a meal, who hadstood the tests of huge successes as well as the anxieties of possiblefailures without visible emotion--in such a fashion, even, that hisclosest friends could scarcely tell whether he were winning orlosing--found himself now, without any crisis before him, and engagedin the most ordinary undertaking of a stroll from the station across afew fields, suddenly the victim of sensations and weaknesses whichdefied analysis and mocked at restraint. It was the England of hisboyhood, this, the sudden almost overpowering realisation of thosedreams which had grown fainter and fainter during his many years ofstruggle in a very different atmosphere. Birds were singing in thelong grove which, behind the high, grey-stone wall, fringed the roadfor miles. Rooks--real English rooks--were cawing above his head. Alight evening breeze was bending the meadow grass of the field whichhis footpath had cloven, and from the hedge by his side came the faintperfume of hawthorn blossom. Before him was the park with itssplendours of giant oaks, with deer resting beneath the trees, and inthe distance the grey, irregular outline of Mandeleys Abbey. He hadplayed cricket, when he was a boy, in the very field through which hewas passing. Some time in that dim past, he had stood with his uncle,whilst he had issued with the beaters from that long strip ofplantation, watching with all a boy's fervid admiration the carelessease with which the Lord of Mandeleys was bringing the pheasants downfrom the sky. He had skated on the lake there, had watched at arespectful distance the antics of the ladies Letitia and Margaret,anxious to escape from their retinue of servants and attendants. Aqueer little vision came before him at that moment of Lady Letitiahobbling towards him upon the ice, with one skate unbuckled, and a firmbut gracious entreaty that the little boy--he was at least a headtaller than she--would fasten it for her. Strange little flashes ofmemory had come to him now and then in that new world where he hadcarved his way to success, memories so indistinct that they broughtwith them no thrills, scarcely even any longing. And now all hisstrength and hardness, qualities so necessary to him throughout hisstrenuous life, seemed to have passed away. He was a child again,breathing in all these simple sights and perfumes, his memory takinghim even further back to the days when he sat in the meadow, in the hotsun, picking daisies and buttercups, and watching for the fish thatsometimes jumped from the stream. It was an entirely unexpectedemotion, this. When once more he strode along the footpath, he felt adifferent man. He had lost his slight touch of assurance. He lookedabout him eagerly, almost appealingly. He was ashamed to confess evento himself that he had the feeling of a wanderer who has come home.

  He crossed the last stile and was now in the park proper. Severalvillagers were strolling about under the trees, and they looked at thisnewcomer, with his dark-coloured clothes and strangely-shaped hat, withsome surprise. Nevertheless, he held uninterruptedly on his way untilhe reached the broad drive which led to the Abbey. He walked on theturf by the side of it, over the bridge which crossed the stream,through the inner iron gates, beyond which the village people were notallowed to pass, and so to the well-remembered spot. On his right wasthe house--a strange, uneven building, at times ecclesiastical, hereand there domestic, always ancient, with its wings of cloisters runningalmost down to the moat which surrounded it. And just over the moat,crossed by that light iron handbridge, with its back against what heremembered as a plantation, but which had now become a wood, the littlered brick cottage, smothered all over with creepers, its tiny gardenablaze with flowers, its empty rows of dog kennels, its deserted lineof coops. David glanced for a moment at the drawn blinds of the Abbey.Then he crossed the footbridge and the few yards of meadow, lifted thelatch of the gate and, walking up the gravel path, came to a suddenstandstill. A man who was seated almost hidden by a great cluster offox-gloves rose to his feet.

  "It's you, then, lad!" he exclaimed, holding out both his hands."You're welcome! There's no one to the house--there won't be for aquarter of an hour--so I'll wring your hands once more. It's a queerworld, this, David. You're back with me here, where I brought you upas a stripling, and yon's the Abbey. Sit you down, boy. I am not theman I was since I came here."

  David Thain dragged an old-fashioned kitchen chair from the porch, andsat by his uncle's side. Richard Vont, although he was still youngerthan his sixty-four years, seemed to his nephew curiously changedduring the last week. The hard, resolute face was disturbed. Themouth, kept so tight through the years, had weakened a little. Therewas a vague, almost pathetic agitation, in the man's face.

  "You'll take no notice of me, David," his uncle went on. "I'm honestwith you. These few days have been like a great, holy dream, likesomething one reads of in the Scriptures but never expects to see.There's old Mary Wells--she's doing for me up there. Just a word ortwo of surprise, and a grip of the hand, and no more. And there's theAbbey--curse it!--not a stone gone, only the windows are blank. Yousee the weeds on the lawn, David? Do you mark the garden behind? Theytell me there's but two gardeners there to do the work of twenty. Andthe drive--look at it as far as you can see--moss and weed! They'recoming down in the world, these Mandeleys, David. Even this lastlittle lawsuit, the lawyers told me, has cost the Marquis nineteenthousand pounds. God bless you for your wealth, David! It's moneythat counts in these days."

  David produced a pouch of tobacco from his pocket and handed it over tohis uncle, who filled a pipe eagerly.

  "That's thoughtful of you, David," he declared. "I'd forgotten to buyany, and that's a fact, for I can't stand the village yet. You'relooking strange-like, David."

  "And I feel it," was the quiet answer. "Uncle, hasn't it made anydifference to you, this coming back?"

  "In what way?" the old man asked.

  "Well, I don't know. I walked across those fields to the park, and Iseemed suddenly to feel more like a boy again, and I felt that somehowI was letting go of things. Do you know what I mean?"

  "Letting go of things," Richard Vont repeated suspiciously. "No!"

  "Well, somehow or other," David continued, as he filled his own pipeand lit it, "I found myself looking back through the years, and Iwondered whether we hadn't both let one thing grow too big in ourminds. Life doesn't vary much here. Things are very much as we leftthem, and it's all rather wonderful. I felt a little ashamed, as Icame up through the park, of some of the things we've planned andsworn. Didn't you feel a little like that, uncle? Can you sit hereand think of the past, and remember all that burden we carried, and notfeel inclined to let it slip, or just a little of it slip, from ourshoulders?"

  Vont laid down his pipe. He rose to his feet. His fingers suddenlygripped his nephew's shoulder. He turned him towards the house.

  "Listen, David," he said; "there's twilight an hour away yet, but itwill soon be here. The blackbirds are calling for it, and the wind'sdropping. Now you see. That was her room," he added, touching thewindow, "and there's the door out, just the same. You see that treethere? I was crouching behind that with my gun ready loaded, and therewas murder in my heart--I tell you that, boy. I watched the Abbey. Iwas supposed to be safe in Fakenham Town, safe for a good two hours,and I lay there and watched because I knew, and no one came. And thenI heard a whisper. I turned my head, although I was most afeared, andout of that door--that door from Marcia's room, David--I saw him come.I saw her arms come out and draw him back, and then I began to breathehard, but the trees were thick that way--I'd been looking for himcoming from the Abbey---and they stole out together, arm in arm. I wasso near them that they must have heard me groan, for Marcia started.And then, before I knew what was happening, he--the Marquis, mind--hadstruck up my gun, caught it by the barrel and sent it flying. My handwas on his throat, but he was as strong as I was, in those days, and amighty wrestler. It's my shame, boy, after all these ye
ars to have toconfess it, but he got the better of me. I was crazy with anger, andhe had me down. And then he stood aside and bade me get up, and mystrength seemed all gone. He stood there looking at me contemptuously.'Don't make a fool of yourself, Vont,' he said. 'Your daughter and Iunderstand one another, and our concerns have nothing to do with you.If you have anything to say to me, come up to the Abbey to-morrow.You'll find your gun in the thicket.' He turned round and he kissedMarcia's fingers, just like I'd seen them do in the distance at theirfine parties up there, and he strolled away. There was the gun in thethicket, and he knew it, and I knew it, and I couldn't move, and hewent. And all I could hear was Marcia crying, and those birds singingbehind, and I just slipped away into the wood."

  "Uncle, is it worth while bringing this all up again?" Davidinterrupted.

  "Aye, it's worth while!" the old man insisted fiercely. "It's worthwhile for fear I should forget, for the old place has its cling on me.That next day I went to the Abbey, and I saw the Marquis. He was quitecool, sent the servants out--he'd no weapon near--and he talked a lotthat I don't understand and never shall understand, but it was aboutMarcia, and that she was his, and was leaving with him for London thatevening. I just asked him one question. 'It's for shame, then?' Iasked. And he looked at me just as though I were some person whom hewas trying to make understand, who didn't quite speak the language.And he said--'Your daughter made her choice months ago, Vont. She willlive the life she desires to live. I am sorry to take her away fromyou. Think it over, and try and feel sensible about it.' It was thenI felt a strange joy, that I've never been able rightly to understand.I'd just remembered that the cottage was mine, and I had a suddenfeeling that I wanted to sit at the end of the garden and watch theAbbey and curse it, curse it with a Bible on my knee, till its stonesfell apart and the grass grew up from the walks and the damp grew outin blotches on the walls. And that's why I've come back after allthese years."

  "And you're just the same?" David asked curiously. "You feel just thesame about him?"

  "Don't you, my lad?" his uncle demanded. "You're not telling me thatyou're climbing down?"

  David took the old man's arm.

  "On the contrary, uncle," he said, "my promised share of the work isdone. I hold his promissory notes for forty thousand pounds, due inthree months. I have sold him some shares that aren't worth fortythousand pence, and won't be for many a year. I've cheated him, if youlike, but when the three months comes you can make him a bankrupt, ifyou will. I'll give you the notes."

  Richard Vont drew himself up. He turned his face towards the Abbey,growing a little indistinct now in the falling twilight.

  "It's grand hearing," was all he said. "There's Mary, coming roundwith the supper, boy. I'll take the liberty of asking you to have abite with me and a glass of ale, but I'll not forget that you're thegreat David Thain, the millionaire from America, who took kindly noticeof me on the steamer. Come this way, sir," he went on, throwing openthe cottage door. "It's a queer little place, but it's a novelty foryou American gentlemen. Step right in, sir. Mrs. Wells," heannounced, "this is a gentleman who was kind to me upon the steamer,and he promised that if ever he was this way he'd drop in. He'll takesome supper with me. You'll do your best for us?"

  The old lady looked very hard at David Thain, and she dropped a curtsey.

  "From America, too," she murmured. "'Tis a wonderful country! Aye,I'll do my best, Richard Vont."