The Wicked Marquis Part 49

"Yes," he a.s.sented. "Your note found me there. I came as soon as I could."

"I never doubted ye," the old man muttered. "I knew you'd come."

David, suddenly stifled, threw open the cottage window. When he came back into the little circle of lamp-light, his face was pale and set.

He was filled with a premonition of evil.

"I want you to listen to me, uncle," he said earnestly. "I have something to say."

"Something to say?" the old man repeated. "Another time, my boy---another time. To-night you have work to do," he added, with a fierce flash of triumph in his eyes.

"Work?"

"Aye!--to keep your oath."

"But to-night? What can I do to-night?" David exclaimed. "No, don't tell me," he went on quickly. "I'll have my say first."

"Get on with it, then. There's time. I'm listening."

"I have forgotten nothing," David began, "I am denying nothing. I remember even the words of the oath I swore."

"With your hand upon the Bible," Vont interrupted eagerly,--"your hand upon the Book."

David shivered.

"I am not likely to forget that night," he said. "What I swore we both know. Well? I have begun to keep my word. You know that."

"Aye, and to-night you'll finish it!" Vont cried, with uplifted head.

"After to-night you'll be quit of your oath, and you can go free of me.

I've made it all easy for you. It's all planned out."

"I must finish what I have to say," David insisted. "It's been on my mind like lead. He's a ruined man, uncle--beggared to the last penny.

I've dishonoured myself, but I've done it--for your sake. Beyond that I cannot go."

"You cannot go?" Vont muttered blankly.

"I cannot. I don't know what this scheme of yours is, uncle, but leave me out of it. I'm in h.e.l.l already!"

"You think--"

Vont was breathing heavily. The words suddenly failed him, his fingers seemed to grip the air. David had a momentary shock of terror. Then, before he could stop him, the old man was down upon his knees, holding him by the legs, his upraised face horrible with a new storm of pa.s.sion.

"David, you'll not back out! You'll not break that oath you swore when I lent you the money--all my savings! And it might have gone wrong, you know. It might have beggared me. But I risked it for this! You don't know what I've been through. I tell you there isn't a night, from darkness till nigh the dawn, I haven't toiled with these hands, toiled while the sweat's run off my forehead and my breath's gone from me. And I've done it! I've made all ready for you--and to-night--it's to-night, boy! If you go back on me, David, as sure as that Book's the truth, you shall know what it is to feel like a murderer, for I'll sit and face you, and I'll die! I mean it. As G.o.d hears me at this moment, I mean it. If you falter to-night, you shall find me dead to-morrow, and if it blackens my lips, I'll die cursing you as well as him--you for your softness because they've flattered you round, him because he still lives, with the wrong he did me unpunished."

David dragged him up by sheer force and pushed him back into his chair.

"What is it you want me to do?" he asked in despair.

"You can't refuse me," Vont went on, his voice strong enough now.

"Watch me and listen," he added, leaning forward. "There's my hand on the Book. Here's my right hand to Heaven, and I swear by the living G.o.d that if you fail me, you shall find me to-morrow, sitting dead.

That's what your broken oath will do."

"Oh, I hear," David answered drearily. "I'll keep my word. Come, what is it?"

Vont rose deliberately to his feet. All trace of pa.s.sion seemed to have disappeared. He took an electric torch from his pocket and led the way to the door.

"Just follow me," he whispered.

They made their way down the little tiled path to the bottom of the garden. In the right-hand corner was what seemed to be the top of a well.

"You remember that, perhaps?"

David nodded.

"I know," he said. "I used to play down there once."

Vont rolled the top away, and, stooping down, flashed the light. There were stone steps leading to a small opening, and at the bottom the mouth of what seemed to be a tunnel. David started.

"It's one of the secret pa.s.sages to Mandeleys!" he exclaimed.

"There are seven of them somewhere," his uncle replied, in a hoa.r.s.e undertone--"one, they say, from Broomleys, but that's too far, and the air would be too foul, and maybe it don't lead where I want it to.

I've made air-holes along this, David. You take the torch, and you make your way. There's nothing to stop you. It's dry--I've sprinkled sand in places--and there's air, too. When you come to the end there's a door. Four nights it took me to move that door. It's wide open now.

Then you mount a little flight of stairs. They go round and round, and at the top there's a little stone landing. You'll see before you what seems to be blank wall. You press your palms on it--so--and soon you find an iron handle. It'll turn easy--I've oiled it well--and you step right into the room."

"What room?" David demanded, in bewilderment.

The old man's fingers clutched his arm.

"Into the bedchamber of the Lady Let.i.tia Mandeleys!" he proclaimed triumphantly. "Keep your voice low, boy. Remember we are out of doors."

"Into the--! Are you mad, uncle?" David muttered, catching at his voice as though it were some loose quality that had escaped from him.

"There's never a saner man in this county," was the fierce reply.

"It's what I've worked for. It's the worst blow I can deal his pride.

Oh, I know she is a haughty lady! You'll step into her chamber, and she'll see you, and she'll shriek for her servants, but--but, David,"

he added, leaning forward, "they'll find you there--they'll find you there! The Marquis--he'll be told. The nephew of Richard Vont will be found in his daughter's chamber! There'll be explanations enough, but those things stick."

David suddenly found himself laughing like a madman.

"Uncle," he cried, "for G.o.d's sake--for Heaven's sake, listen to me.

This is the maddest scheme that ever entered into any one's head. I should be treated simply like a common burglar. I should have no excuse to offer, nothing to say. I should be thrown out of the house, and there isn't a human being breathing who'd think the worse of the Lady Let.i.tia. You don't know what she's like! She's wonderful!

She's--"

"I'll not argue with you, boy," Vont interrupted doggedly. "You think I know nothing of the world and its ways, of the tale-bearing and the story-telling that goes on, women backbiting each other, men grasping even at shadows for a sensation. You'll do your job, David, you'll keep your oath, and from to-night you'll stand free of me. There'll be no more. You can lift your head again after you've crossed that threshold. Make what excuse you like--come back, if you will, like a frightened hare after they've found you there--but you'll have stood in her bedchamber!"

David shivered like a man in a fever. He was beginning to realise that this was no nightmare--that the wild-eyed man by his side was in sober and ghastly earnest.

"Uncle," he pleaded, "not this. Lady Let.i.tia has been kind and gracious to me always. We can't strike through women. I'd rather you bade me take his life."

"But I don't bid you do anything of the sort," was the sullen reply.