The Wicked Marquis Part 34

"You can run races with yourself round the garden all night long, if you've a will. I'll close my eyes from now. But," she added, as a parting shot, "that clay on your old clothes takes a sight of getting off."

Richard Vont ate his breakfast slowly and thoughtfully, entirely with the air of a man who accomplishes a duty. Afterwards, with the Bible under his arm, he took his accustomed seat at the end of the garden facing Mandeleys. There were tradesmen's carts and motor-vans pa.s.sing occasionally on their way to and from the house, but he saw none of them. He was in his place, waiting, watching, perhaps, but without curiosity. Presently a summons came, however, which he could not ignore. He turned his head. David Thain, on a great black horse, had come galloping across the park from Broomleys, and had brought his restive horse with some difficulty up to the side of the paling. The greeting between the two was a silent, yet, so far as Vont was concerned, an eager one.

"You know what that means?" David observed, pointing with his crop towards the house.

"I know well," was the swift answer. "It's what I've prayed for. Move your horse out of the way, boy. Can't you see I'm watching?"

David looked at the old man curiously. Then he dismounted, and with his arm through the reins, leaned against the paling.

"There's nothing to watch yet," he said, "but tradesmen's carts."

"It's just the beginning," Vont muttered. "Soon there'll be servants, and then--him! If he comes in the night," the old man went on, his voice thickening, "I'll--"

Words seemed to fail him, but he had clenched his hands on the cover of the book he had closed, and his blue veins stood out in ugly fashion.

David sighed. Yet, notwithstanding his despair, some measure of curiosity prompted a question.

"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 Let.i.tia, who was behind.

"The worst has happened," he groaned.

Let.i.tia 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."

Let.i.tia 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."

Let.i.tia 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, Let.i.tia. 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 att.i.tude 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.