The Wicked Marquis Read online

  CHAPTER IV

  The Marquis devoted the remainder of that afternoon, as he did mostothers, to paying a call. Very soon indeed after David Thain'sdeparture, he left the house, stepped into the motor-car which waswaiting for him, and, with a little nod to the chauffeur whichindicated his indulgence in a customary enterprise, drove off towardsBattersea. Here he descended before a large block of flats overlookingthe gardens, stepped into the lift and, without any direction to theporter, was let out upon the sixth floor. He made his way along thecorridor to a little mahogany front door, on which was a brass plateinscribed with the name of _Miss Marcia Hannaway_. He rang the belland was at once admitted by a very trim parlourmaid, who took his hatand cane, and ushered him into a remarkably pleasant little sittingroom. A woman, seated before a typewriter, held out two ink-stainedhands towards him with a little laugh.

  "I've been putting a ribbon in," she confessed. "Did you ever see sucha mess! Please make yourself comfortable while I go and wash."

  The Marquis glanced with a slight frown at the machine, and, taking herwrists, stooped down and kissed them lightly.

  "My dear Marcia," he expostulated, "is this necessary!"

  She shook her head with a droll smile.

  "Perhaps if it were," she confessed, "I should hate to do it. There'sa _Nineteenth Century_ on the sofa. You can read my article."

  She hurried out of the room, from which she was absent only a very fewmoments. The Marquis, with a finger between the pages of the reviewwhich he had been reading, looked up as she re-entered. She was awoman of nameless gifts, of pleasant if not unduly slim figure. Herforehead was perhaps a little low, her eyes brilliant and intelligent,her mouth large and exceedingly mobile. She was not above theallurements of dress, for her house gown, with its long tunic trimmedwith light fur, was of fashionable cut and becoming. Her fingers,cleansed now from the violet stains, were shapely, almost elegant. Shethrew herself into an easy chair opposite her visitor, and reached outher hand for a cigarette.

  "Well," she asked, "and how has the great trial ended?"

  "Adversely," the Marquis confessed.

  "You foolish person," she sighed, lighting the cigarette and throwingthe match away. "Of course you were bound to lose, and I suppose it'scost you no end of money."

  "I believe," he admitted, a little stiffly, "that my lawyers aresomewhat depressed at the amount."

  She smoked in silence for a moment.

  "So he will go back to Mandeleys. It is a queer little fragment oflife. What on earth does he want to do it for?"

  "Obstinacy," the Marquis declared,--"sheer, brutal, ignorant obstinacy."

  "And the boy?" she asked, pursuing her own train of thought. "Have youheard anything of him?"

  "Nothing. To tell you the truth, I have made no enquiries. Beyond thefact that it seems as though, for the present, Richard Vont will havehis way, I take no interest in either of them."

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  "If only we others," she sighed, "could infuse into our lives somethingof the marvellous persistence of these people whom in other respects wehave left so far behind!"

  "My dear Marcia," he protested, "surely, with your remarkableintelligence, you can see that such persistence is merely a form ofnarrow-mindedness. Your father has shut in his life and driven italong one narrow groove. To you every day brings its fresh sensation,its fresh object. Hence--coupled, of course, with your naturalgifts--your success. The person who thinks of but one thing in lifemust be indeed a dull dog."

  "Very excellent reasoning," she admitted. "Still, to come back to thislittle tragedy--for it is a tragedy, isn't it?--have you any idea whathe means to do when he gets to Mandeleys?"

  "None at all!"

  "Let me see," she went on, "it is nineteen years ago last September,isn't it?--nineteen years out of the middle of his life. Will he sitin the garden and brood, I wonder, or has he brought back with him somescheme of mediaeval revenge?"

  "There was a time," the Marquis reflected, "when several of my Irishtenants used to shoot at me every Saturday night from behind a hedge.It was not in the least a dangerous operation, and I presume it broughtthem some relief. With Vont, however, things would be different. Iremember him distinctly as a most wonderful shot."

  "Psychologically," Marcia Hannaway observed, "his present action isinteresting. If he had shot you or me in his first fit of passionateresentment, everything would have been in order, but to leave thecountry, nurse a sullen feeling of revenge for years, and then comeback, seems curious. What shall you do when you see him sitting in hisgarden?"

  "I shall address him," the Marquis replied. "I fear that his longresidence in such a country as America will have altered himconsiderably, but it is of course possible that the instincts of hisclass remain."

  "How feudal you are!" she laughed.

  The Marquis frowned slightly. Although this was the one person in theworld whom he felt was necessary to him, who held a distinct place inhis very inaccessible heart, there were times when he entertained a dimsuspicion that she was making fun of him. At such times he was veryangry indeed.

  "In any case," he said, "we will not waste our time in speculating uponthis man's attitude. I am still hoping that I may be able to devisemeans to render his occupancy of the cottage impossible."

  "I should like to hear about the boy."

  "If," the Marquis promised, "I find Vont's attitude respectful, I willmake enquiries."

  "When are you going to Mandeleys?" she asked.

  "I am in no hurry to leave London," he replied.

  "When you go," she told him, "I have made up my mind to take a littleholiday. I thought even of going to the South of France."

  The lines of her companion's forehead were slightly elevated.

  "My dear Marcia," he protested gently, "is that like you? The class ofpeople who frequent the Riviera at this time of the year--"

  She laughed at him delightfully.

  "Oh, you foolish person!" she interrupted. "If I go, I shall go to atiny little boarding house, or take a villa in one of the quietplaces--San Raphael, perhaps, or one of those little forgotten spotsbetween Hyeres and Cannes. Phillis Grant would go with me. She isn'tgoing to act again until the autumn season."

  Her visitor's expression was a little blank.

  "In the case of your departure from London," he announced, in a veryeven but very forlorn tone, "I will instruct Mr. Wadham to make asuitable addition to your allowance. At the same time, Marcia," headded, "I shall miss you."

  His words were evidently a surprise to her. She threw away hercigarette and came and sat on the sofa by his side.

  "Do you know, I believe you would," she murmured, resting her hand uponhis. "How queer!"

  "I have never concealed my affection for you, have I?" he asked.

  This time the laugh which broke from her lips was scarcely natural.

  "Concealed your affection, Reginald!" she repeated. "How strangelythat sounds! But listen. You said something just now about myallowance. If I allude to it in return, will you believe that it isentirely for your sake?"

  "Of course!"

  She rose from her chair and, crossing the room, rummaged about her deskfor a moment, produced a letter, and brought it to him. The Marquisadjusted his horn-rimmed eyeglass and read:

  _Dear Madam_:

  We feel that some explanation is due to you with regard to thenon-payment for the last two quarters of your allowance from ourclient, the Marquis of Mandeleys. We have to inform you that for sometime past we have had no funds in our possession to pay this allowance.We informed his lordship of the fact, some time back, but in ouropinion his lordship scarcely took the circumstance seriously. Wethink it better, therefore, that you should communicate with him on thesubject.

  Faithfully yours, WADHAM, SON AND DICKSON.

  The Marquis deliberately folded up the letter, placed his eyeglass inhis pocket, and sat looking into the fire. There was very littlechange
in his face. Only Marcia, to whom he had been the study of alifetime, knew that so far as suffering was possible to him, he wassuffering at that moment.

  "You mustn't think it matters," she said gently. "You know my lastnovel was quite a wonderful success, and for that article in the_Nineteenth_ you were looking at, they gave me twenty guineas. I amreally almost opulent. Still, I thought it was better for you to knowthis. The same thing might refer to other and more important matters,and you know, dear, you are rather inclined to walk with your head inthe air where money matters are concerned."

  "You have been very considerate, but foolishly so, my dear Marcia," hedeclared. "This matter must be put right at once. I fear that ayounger element has obtruded itself into the firm of Wadham, an elementwhich scarcely grasps the true position. I will see these people,Marcia."

  "You are not to worry about it," she begged softly. "To tell you thetruth--"

  Marcia was a brave woman, and the moment had come up to which she hadbeen leading for so long, which for many months, even years, had beenin her mind. And when it came she faltered. There was something inthe superb, immutable poise of the man who bent a little courteouslytowards her, which checked the words upon her lips.

  "It will be no trouble to me, Marcia, to set this little affair right,"he assured her. "I am only glad that your circumstances have been suchthat you have not been inconvenienced. At the same time, is itentirely necessary for you to manipulate that hideous machineyourself?" he enquired, inclining his head towards the typewriter.

  "There are times," she confessed, "when I find it better. Of course, Isend a great deal of my work out to be typed, but my correspondencegrows, and my friends find my handwriting illegible."

  "I have never found it difficult," he remarked.

  "Well, you've had a good many years to get used to it," she remindedhim.

  His hand rested for a moment upon her shoulder. He drew her a littletowards him. She suddenly laughed, leaned over and kissed him on bothcheeks, and jumped up. The trim little parlourmaid was at the doorwith tea.

  "Yes," she went on, "you have learned to read my handwriting, and Ihave learned how you like your tea. Just one or two more little thingslike that, and life is made between two people, isn't it? Shall I tellyou what I think the most singular thing in the world?" she went on,pausing for a moment in her task. "It is fidelity to purpose--and topeople, too, perhaps. In a way there is a quaint sort of distinctionabout it, and from another point of view it is most horriblyconstraining."

  "I interrupted you this afternoon, I imagine," he observed, "in theconstruction of some work of fiction."

  "Oh, no!" she replied. "What I write isn't fiction. That's why itsells. It's truth, you see, under another garb. But there the factremains--that I shouldn't know how to make tea for another man in theworld, and you wouldn't be able to read the letters of any other womanwho wrote as badly as I do."

  "The fact," he remarked, "seems to me to be a cause for mutualcongratulation."

  She stooped down to place a dish of muffins on a heater near the fire,graceful yet as a girl, and as brisk.

  "I can't imagine," she declared, "why it is that my sex has acquiredthe reputation for fidelity. I am sure we crave for experience muchmore than men."

  The Marquis helped himself to a muffin and considered the point. Therewere many times when Marcia's conversation troubled him. He was by nomeans an ill-read or unintellectual man, only his studies of literaturehad been confined to its polished and classical side, the side whichdeals so much with living and so little with life.

  "Are you preparing for a new work of fiction, Marcia," he asked, "orare you developing a fresh standpoint?"

  "Dear friend," she declared, lightly and yet with an undernote ofearnestness, "how can I tell? I never know what I am going to do inthe way of work. I wish I could say the same about life. Now I amgoing to ask you a great favour. I have to attend a small meeting atmy club, at the other end of Piccadilly, at half-past five. Would youtake me there?"

  "I shall be delighted," he answered, a little stiffly.

  She went presently to put on her outdoor clothes. The Marquis wasdisappointed. He realised how much he had looked forward to that quiettwilight hour, when somehow or other his vanity felt soothed, and thatqueer weariness which came over him sometimes was banished. Heescorted Marcia to the car when she reappeared, however, withoutcomplaint.

  "I see your name in the papers sometimes, Marcia," he observed as hetook his place by her side, "in connection with women's work. Ofcourse, I do not interfere in any way with your energies. I shouldnot, in whatever direction they might chance to lead you. At the sametime, I must confess that I have noticed with considerable pleasurethat you have never been publicly associated with this movement infavour of Woman's Suffrage."

  She nodded.

  "I should like a vote myself," she admitted simply, "but when I thinkof the number of other women who would have to have it, and who don'tyet look at life seriously at all, I think we are better as we are. Isit my fancy," she went on, a little abruptly, "or are you reallytroubled about the return of--of Richard Vont?"

  "As usual, Marcia," he said, "you show a somewhat extraordinaryperception where I am concerned. I am, as you know, not subject topresentiments, and I have no exact apprehension of what the word fearmay mean. At the same time, you are right. I do view the return ofthis man with a feeling which you, as a novelist, might be able toanalyse, but which I, as a layman, unused to fresh sentiments, findpuzzling. You remember what a famous Frenchman wrote in his memoirs,suddenly, across one blank page of his journal--'To-day I feel that agreat change is coming.'"

  She smiled reassuringly.

  "Personally," she told him, "I believe that it is just the call ofEngland to a man who lived very near the soil--her heart. I think hewants the smell of spring flowers, the stillness of an English autumn,the winds of February in the woods he was brought up in. It is a formof heart-sickness, you know. I have felt it myself so often. It isscarcely possible that after all these years he is still nursing thatbitter hatred of us both."

  The car had reached the great building in which Marcia's club wassituated. The Marquis handed her out.

  "I trust that you are right," he remarked. "You will allow me to leavethe car for you?"

  She shook her head.

  "There are so many women here with whom I want to talk," she said. "Imay even stay and dine. And would you mind not coming until Wednesday?To-morrow I must work all day at an article which has to be typed andcatch the Wednesday's boat for America."

  "Exactly as you wish," he assented.

  She waved her hand to him and ran lightly up the steps. The Marquisthrew himself back in his car and hesitated. The footman was waitingfor an address, and his august master was suddenly conscious that theskies were very grey, that a slight rain was falling, and that therewas nowhere very much he wanted to go.

  The man waited with immovable face.

  "To--the club."