The Wicked Marquis Read online

  CHAPTER XVII

  "I feel like the German lady," Marcia observed, as she stood before herlittle sideboard and mixed a whisky and soda, "who went on cuttingbread and butter. The world falls to pieces before my eyes--and Ipress the handle of a syphon. There!"

  She carried the tumbler to Borden, who was seated by her fireside, andthrew herself into an easy-chair opposite to him.

  "I know it's all wrong," she declared. "My instincts are so obstinateeven about the simplest things. You see, I have even wheeled away hiseasy-chair so that you shan't sit in it."

  "Women always confuse instincts with prejudices," Borden rejoined,calmly sipping his whisky and soda. "May I smoke a pipe?"

  Marcia gave a little gesture of despair.

  "I never knew a man," she exclaimed, "who exhibited such a propensityfor making himself at home! Tell me," she went on, "did you notice avery aristocratic looking, almost beautiful girl, with large brown eyesand a pale skin, seated in the stalls just below our box?"

  "The girl with Charles Grantham?"

  Marcia nodded.

  "That was Lady Letitia Thursford," she told him.

  "Is she engaged to Grantham?"

  "She wasn't last week," Marcia replied. "I think the Marquis wouldlike it, but Lady Letitia is by way of being difficult. I saw herlooking at me thoughtfully, once or twice. I was dying to send downword to her that I had permission."

  Borden moved in his chair a little uneasily.

  "You are bound to no one," he reminded her. "There is no one of whomyou need to ask permission."

  "Don't be silly," Marcia replied. "I asked permission, and without itI wouldn't have dined with you alone to-night or lunched with MorrisHyde on Tuesday."

  "I trust that both entertainments," he ventured, "have been a success."

  Marcia shook her head.

  "Morris Hyde was very disappointing," she confessed. "I was lookingforward to being tremendously entertained, but instead of telling meall about these unknown tribes in Central America, his only anxietyseemed to be to know if I was going to let him kiss me in the taxiafterwards. Explorers, I am afraid, are far too promiscuous."

  "Publishers," Borden said firmly, "are renowned throughout the worldfor their fidelity."

  "Fidelity to their cash boxes," Marcia scoffed.

  Borden, who had lit his pipe, blinked at her through a little cloud ofsmoke. They had come straight from the theatre, and he was in theevening clothes of a man who cares nothing about his appearance,--theblack waistcoat, the none-too-well fitting shirt, the plainest ofstuds, and the indifferently arranged white tie. Nevertheless, Marcialiked the look of him, seated at ease in her low chair, and it was veryobvious that he, too, approved of his hostess. She was curled up nowat the end of the sofa, a cigarette in her mouth, an expression ofcurious perplexity upon her face. She was dressed very plainly inblack, having alternately tried on and discarded all her more elaborateevening gowns. She had had a queer, almost desperate fancy to makeherself look as unattractive as possible, but the very simplicity ofher dress enhanced the gleaming perfection of her throat and arms.Even her posture, which should have been ungraceful, suited her. Herdisturbed and doubtful frame of mind had softened her firm mouth, andlit with a sort of sweet plaintiveness her beautiful eyes.

  "Do you think," he asked, "that I look upon you as a promisinginvestment?"

  "Well, I am," Marcia replied. "You admit having made money out of methis spring."

  "At any rate, I am willing to divide it," he suggested.

  "Upon conditions!"

  "No one in the world gives something for nothing," he reminded her.

  "We seem to be mixing up business and the other things mostshockingly," Marcia declared. "Do you really mean that you are willingto share the profits of my next novel with me?"

  "I couldn't do that," he objected, "it would be too unbusinesslike. Iam quite willing, however, to share my life and all I have with you."

  "Mere rhetoric!" Marcia exclaimed uneasily.

  "Solemn earnest," he insisted. "Will you marry me, Marcia?"

  She looked across at him. Her eyebrows were a little raised, her eyesinclined to be misty, her mouth tremulous.

  "James," she replied, "I believe I'd like to. I'm not quite sure--Ibelieve I would. But just tell me--how can I?"

  "He has kept you to himself for pretty well twenty years," Borden saidgruffly.

  She sighed.

  "When I was a child of seventeen," she confided, "a young farmer downat Mandeleys kissed me. If I had been one year younger," she went on,"I should have spat at him. As it was, I never spoke to him again.Then, a few months after that, the schoolmaster at the school where Iwas teaching made an awkward attempt at the same thing. He missed me,but his lips just touched my cheek. Then Reginald came. Let me see,that was nineteen years ago, and since then no one else has kissed me."

  "A record of fidelity," Borden observed, "at which, even in your ownstories, you would scoff."

  "But then, you see," she reminded him, "I never write about a personwith queer ideas like mine, because they wouldn't be interesting.People like a little more resilience about their heroines."

  "Couldn't we talk brutal common sense for once?" he asked impatiently."I have never abused your Marquis. From your own showing, he hasplayed the game, as you have. All I want to say is that the naturaltime has come for your separation. I have waited for you a good manyyears, and I am a domestic man. I want a home--and children. It'squite time you wanted the same."

  Perhaps for a moment the light in her eyes was a shade softer. Shemoved uneasily in her place.

  "Quite primitive, aren't you, James?" she murmured.

  "Life's a primitive thing when we get down to the bone," he answered."You and I have wasted many an hour discussing the ologies, trying tothrust ourselves into the peculiar point of view of these neuroticNorwegians or mad Russians. When you come down to bedrock, though, forsober, decent people there is only one outlet to passion, only oneelementary satisfaction for man and woman."

  "You make things sound very simple."

  "It isn't that," he persisted. "It's you who make them complex bybeing maudlin about this man. He has had what many would call the bestpart of your life. He has given up nothing for your sake, done nothingfor your sake. He has kept you in the same seclusion that hisgrandfather would have done. He has treated you, so far as regards theoutside world, as a man does--"

  He stopped abruptly. Something in her eyes warned him.

  "There are limits," she told him drily, "to my appreciation ofunbridled speech. According to his lights, Reginald has beenwonderful. To me there has been more romance than ignominy in many ofhis ideas. My trouble is something different. I can't quite make upmy mind what it would mean for him if I were to strike out for myselfnow."

  "You are like all women," he declared furiously. "You complicate everysituation in life by thinking of other people. Think for yourself,Marcia. What about your own future? I promise you that your Marquiswould think for himself, if he were up against a similar problem. Heis getting all he wants. Are you? Of course you aren't!"

  "Does anybody get all they want out of life?"

  "It is generally their own fault if they don't get the main things," heinsisted. "But, see here, I'll attack you with your own weapons. Heream I, forty-one years old, in love with you since I was thirty-two.What about those nine years? I am dropping into the ways of untidy,unsatisfactory bachelordom. I only order new clothes when some friendchaffs me into it, and if I do I forget the ties and shirts and thosesorts of things. I've lost all interest in myself. I loaf at theclub, play auction bridge when I might be doing something a great dealbetter, and drink a whisky and soda when any one asks me. I hang on tothe business, but when I've finished my work I drift. In another fiveyears' time I shall begin to stoop, I shall live with cigar ash allover my clothes, and I shall have to be taken home from the club everyother night. Your doing, Marcia--your responsibil
ity."

  "I should think," she said severely, "that your self-respect--"

  "Oh, don't bother about my self-respect!" he interrupted. "I am ahuman being, and I tell you, Marcia, that every man needs something inhis life to lift him just a little, to live up to, not down to. Thereis only one person in the world can take that place for me. I'm aclear charge upon your hands. You know that I love you, that you'vedriven all thoughts of other women out of my head, that you keep mebeating against the walls of my impotence every time we meet and part.I am perfectly certain, if you don't come down to the world of commonsense, I shall sink into the world of melodrama and go and tackle yourMarquis myself. He must let you go."

  "Do you want me as much as all that?" she asked, a little wistfully.

  He was by her side in a moment, inspired by the break in her tone, thesweet, soft look in her eyes. He sank on one knee by the side of hercouch and took her hands in his, kissing them one after the other.

  "Ah, Marcia," he murmured, "I want you more than anything else onearth! I want you so much that, when you come, you will make the yearsthat have passed seem like nothing but a nightmare, and the minutes, asthey come, years of happiness. I am awkward, I know, sometimes, andgruff and morose, but so is any man who spends his life fretting forthe thing he can't get. I only ask you, dear, to be fair. I havenever said an unkind word about the man for whom you have cared solong. I only say now that you belong to me. I am not a bit foolish--Iam not even jealous--only your time has come, your time for that littlehome in the country, a husband always with you, and, I hope to Heaven,children."

  She took his face between her hands and kissed him. He understood herso perfectly that, as she drew her lips away, he rose and stood on thehearthrug, a conqueror yet humble.

  "You won't mind," she begged, "if I choose my own time? It may be verysoon, it may be a little time. You will leave it to me, and you willtrust me. From to-night, of course--"

  She hesitated, but his gesture was sufficient. She knew that she wasunderstood.

  "You have made me the happiest man in the world," he said. "I can'tstop a moment longer--I should simply say extravagant things. And Iknow how you feel. It isn't quite time for them yet. But you'll sendfor me?"

  "Of course!"

  "And about your visit to Mandeleys?" he asked. "I shan't begin to bebusy again for another fortnight."

  She hesitated.

  "Somehow," she confessed, "it seems a little different now.

  "It needn't," he replied. "I am content with what I have."

  She glanced at the calendar.

  "Tuesday?" she suggested.

  "Tuesday would suit me admirably," he assented.

  She let him out herself, and he kissed her fingers. He was never quitesure whether he walked down the stairs or whether he rang for the lift.He was never quite sure whether he looked for a taxi or decided towalk. He passed over the bridge, and the lights reflected in the darkwaters below seemed suddenly like jewels. He made his way to his clubbecause of the sheer impossibility of sleep. He stood on the thresholdof the reading room and looked in at the little group of semi-somnolentmen. In his way he was popular, and he received a good many sleepygreetings.

  "What's the matter with Borden?" one man drawled. "He looks as thoughsome one had left him a fortune."

  "He has probably discovered another literary star," a rival publishersuggested.

  "I wish to God some one would send him to a decent tailor!" a third manyawned.

  Borden rang the bell for a drink.

  "Dickinson was right," he said. "I've found a new star."

  Letitia, on her return from the theatre that same evening, found herfather seated in a comfortable corner of the library, with a volume ofDon Quixote in his hand, a whisky and soda and a box of cigarettes byhis side. He had exchanged his dinner jacket for a plain black velvetcoat, and, as he laid his book down at her coming, she seemed to noticeagain that vague look of tiredness in his face.

  "Quiet evening, dad?" she asked, flinging herself into a low chair byhis side.

  "A very pleasant one," he replied. "Montavon's party was postponed,but I have reopened an old fund of amusement here. With the exceptionof Borrow, none of our modern humourists appeal to me like Cervantes."

  "You wouldn't call Borrow exactly modern, would you?"

  "Perhaps not," the Marquis conceded. "I may be wrong to ignore theliterature of the present day, but such attempts as I have made toappreciate it have been unsatisfactory. You enjoyed the play, dear?"

  "Very much," Letitia acquiesced. "The house was crowded."

  "Any one you know?"

  She mentioned a few names, then she hesitated. "And that clever womanwho wrote 'The Changing Earth' was there in a box--Marcia Hannaway.She was with rather a dour-looking man--her publisher, I think Charliesaid it was."

  The Marquis received the information with no signs of particularinterest. Letitia stretched out for a cigarette, lit it and looked alittle appealingly at her father.

  "Dad," she said, "I've made an awful idiot of myself."

  "In what direction?" the Marquis enquired sympathetically. "If it is afinancial matter, I am fortunately--"

  "Worse!" Letitia groaned. "I've promised to marry Charlie Grantham."

  The Marquis stretched out his long, elegant hand and patted hisdaughter's.

  "But, my dear child," he said, "surely that was inevitable, was it not?I have looked upon it as almost certain to happen some day."

  "Well, I'm rather glad you take it like that," Letitia remarked. "NowI come to think of it, I suppose I should have had to say 'yes'sometime or another."

  "Where is Charlie?"

  "Gone home in a huff, because I wouldn't let him kiss me in the car orbring him in with me."

  "Either course would surely have been usual," the Marquis ventured.

  "Perhaps, but I feel unusual," Letitia declared. "It isn't that I mindmarrying Charlie, but I know I shall detest being married to him."

  "One must remember, dear," her father went on soothingly, "that withus, marriage is scarcely a subject for neurotic ecstasies or mostunwholesome hysterics. Your position imposes upon you the necessity ofan alliance with some house of kindred associations. The choice,therefore, is not a large one, and you are spared the very undignifiedcompetitive considerations which attach themselves to people when itdoes not matter whom on earth they marry. The Dukedom of Grantham isunfortunately not an ancient one, nor was it conferred upon suchillustrious stock as the Marquisate of Mandeleys. However, theGranthams have their place amongst us, and I imagine that the alliancewill generally be considered satisfactory."

  "Oh, I hope so," Letitia replied, without enthusiasm. "I only hope Ishall find it satisfactory. I didn't mean to say 'yes' for at leastanother year."

  The Marquis smiled tolerantly.

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

  Letitia became suddenly more serious. She bit her lip and frowneddistinctly into the fire. At that moment she was furious with athought.

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

  He patted her hand tolerantly.

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

  Letitia stood up.

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

  "You analyse your sentiments, my dear, too severely," her father toldher. "You are too conscientious. Your actions are all that could bedesired."

  "You won't be lonely if that idiot takes me away from you so
on?" sheasked.

  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, hisvellum-bound volume, carefully marked. Somehow or other, the echoes ofhis last words seemed to be ringing in his ears. The fire had burned alittle low, the sound of passing vehicles from outside had grownfainter and fainter. He took up his book, threw himself into hischair, gazed with vacant eyes at the thick black print. There was asudden chill in his heart, a sudden thought, perhaps a fear. There wasone way through which loneliness could come.