The Wicked Marquis Part 26

The Marquis smiled tolerantly.

"Then what, my dear child," he asked, "hastened your decision?"

Let.i.tia became suddenly more serious. She bit her lip and frowned distinctly into the fire. At that moment she was furious with a thought.

"I can't tell you, dad," she confessed. "I'd hate to tell you. I'd hate to put it in plain words, even to myself."

He patted her hand tolerantly.

"You must not take yourself too hardly to task, Let.i.tia," he said, "if at times you feel the pressure of the outside world. You are young and of versatile temperament. Believe me, those voices to which you may have listened are only echoes. Nothing exists or is real in life which the brain does not govern. I am quite sure that you will never regret the step which you have taken this evening."

Let.i.tia stood up.

"I hope not, father," she sighed, a little wistfully. "There are times when I am very dissatisfied with myself, and to-night, I am afraid, is one of them."

"You a.n.a.lyse your sentiments, my dear, too severely," her father told her. "You are too conscientious. Your actions are all that could be desired."

"You won't be lonely if that idiot takes me away from you soon?" she asked.

The Marquis looked almost shocked.

"Loneliness is not a complaint from which I ever expect to suffer, dear," he said, as he rose and opened the door for her.

He returned to his empty chair, his half consumed whisky and soda, his vellum-bound volume, carefully marked. Somehow or other, the echoes of his last words seemed to be ringing in his ears. The fire had burned a little low, the sound of pa.s.sing vehicles from outside had grown fainter and fainter. He took up his book, threw himself into his chair, gazed with vacant eyes at the thick black print. There was a sudden chill in his heart, a sudden thought, perhaps a fear. There was one way through which loneliness could come.

CHAPTER XVIII

Marcia, who had dreamed all night of blue skies flecked with little fragments of white cloud, a soft west wind and sun-bathed meadows, descended the creaking stairs of the Inn at Fakenham, paused upon the broad landing to admire the great oak chests and the cupboards full of china, and then made her way to the coffee room. She found Borden standing at the window, looking down into the country street and talking with a stranger, whom he left, however, at her entrance. They took their places at the breakfast table to which a waiter ushered them.

"Still lucky," her companion remarked, as he watched Marcia pour out the coffee. "It's going to be another delightful day."

She glanced out into the sunlit street. Just opposite was a house almost hidden in clematis, and in the background was a tall row of elm trees amongst the branches of which the rooks were cawing.

"I feel like Rip van Winkle," she whispered. "Do you know that twenty-five years ago I came to what is called a Farmers' Ordinary in this very room? Tell me," she went on, "who was the man with whom you were talking? His face is quite familiar to me."

He glanced around. Thain had taken his place at the further end of the room.

"The man of whom we were speaking the other day," he said,--"David Thain. I think that you have met him, haven't you?"

She nodded.

"Why, of course! I didn't recognise him in tweeds. Whatever is he doing down here? But I know before you can tell me," she continued quickly. "He has taken Broomleys, hasn't he?"

"He told me that he had taken a house in the neighbourhood," Borden replied. "He is going over there this morning to meet the present occupiers."

"It is a very small world," Marcia observed. "I wonder whether he recognised me."

"Without undue flattery, I think I might say that I should think it probable."

"And of course he is imagining all sorts of improper things,--chuckling about them, I dare say, in the way men do. He is being what I suppose he thinks tactful. He never glances in this direction at all. I'll give him a surprise in a minute or two!"

They finished their breakfast, and Marcia crossed towards David's table. As soon as he was conscious of her approach, he rose. He welcomed her, however, without a smile.

"From Trewly's at dinner to the Mandeleys Arms for breakfast," she remarked, smiling. "I feel quite flattered that you remembered me, Mr.

Thain."

"Did I show any signs of remembering you?" he asked a little grimly.

"Of course you didn't," she acknowledged. "You ignored even my sweetest bow. That is why I felt sure that you recognised me perfectly."

David remained silent, standing still with an air of complete but respectful patience.

"You have taken a house down here, the Marquis tells me," she continued.

"I have taken Broomleys."

"I hope that you will like the neighbourhood," she said. "I used to live here once myself."

"So I understood."

She was for a moment taken aback, conscious now of a certain definitely inimical att.i.tude in the man who stood looking coldly into her eyes.

"You know all about me, then? That is the worst of getting into 'Who's Who.'"

"I know more about you than I do about your companion, certainly," he admitted.

She laughed mockingly. To a downright declaration of war she had no objection whatever.

"That is Mr. Borden, who publishes my stories," she told him. "I don't suppose you read them, do you?"

"I am not sure," he replied. "I read very little modern fiction, and I never look at the names of the authors."

"Then we must take it for granted," she sighed, "that my fame is unknown to you. If you should see the Marquis before I do, please tell him that he was entirely wrong about the best route here. His advice has cost us nearly thirty miles and a punctured tire. You won't forget?"

"Certainly not," he promised.

She turned away with a little nod of farewell, to which David's response was still entirely formal. Left alone in the room he resumed his breakfast, finished it with diminished appet.i.te, and within a few minutes was speeding through the country lanes in his great Rolls-Royce car. The chauffeur sat a little uneasily in his place. It was very seldom that his master showed such signs of haste. In a quarter of an hour they were in the avenue of Mandeleys. Instead of turning to the right, however, to Broomleys, he took the turning to the Abbey and pulled up short when within a hundred yards of the house.

"Wait here for me," he directed. "If you see another car coming up, blow your horn."

He walked across the smooth, ancient turf, stepped over the wire fence and raised the latch of Richard Vont's cottage gate. His uncle, a little disturbed, came hastily down the garden path. His clothes were stained with clay, and the perspiration was on his forehead. David looked at him in surprise.

"Working so early?"

Vont nodded.