The Marquis devoted the remainder of that afternoon, as he did most
others, to paying a call. Very soon indeed after David Thain's
departure, he left the house, stepped into the motor-car which was
waiting for him, and, with a little nod to the chauffeur which
indicated his indulgence in a customary enterprise, drove off towards
Battersea. Here he descended before a large block of flats overlooking
the gardens, stepped into the lift and, without any direction to the
porter, was let out upon the sixth floor. He made his way along the
corridor to a little mahogany front door, on which was a brass plate
inscribed with the name of _Miss Marcia Hannaway_. He rang the bell
and was at once admitted by a very trim parlourmaid, who took his hat
and cane, and ushered him into a remarkably pleasant little sitting
room. A woman, seated before a typewriter, held out two ink-stained
hands towards him with a little laugh.
"I've been putting a ribbon in," she confessed. "Did you ever see such
a mess! Please make yourself comfortable while I go and wash."
The Marquis glanced with a slight frown at the machine, and, taking her
wrists, 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's
a _Nineteenth Century_ on the sofa. You can read my article."
She hurried out of the room, from which she was absent only a very few
moments. The Marquis, with a finger between the pages of the review
which he had been reading, looked up as she re-entered. She was a
woman of nameless gifts, of pleasant if not unduly slim figure. Her
forehead was perhaps a little low, her eyes brilliant and intelligent,
her mouth large and exceedingly mobile. She was not above the
allurements of dress, for her house gown, with its long tunic trimmed
with light fur, was of fashionable cut and becoming. Her fingers,
cleansed now from the violet stains, were shapely, almost elegant. She
threw herself into an easy chair opposite her visitor, and reached out
her 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 throwing
the match away. "Of course you were bound to lose, and I suppose it's
cost you no end of money."
"I believe," he admitted, a little stiffly, "that my lawyers are
somewhat depressed at the amount."
She smoked in silence for a moment.
"So he will go back to Mandeleys. It is a queer little fragment of
life. 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 you
heard anything of him?"
"Nothing. To tell you the truth, I have made no enquiries. Beyond the
fact that it seems as though, for the present, Richard Vont will have
his way, I take no interest in either of them."
She nodded thoughtfully.
"If only we others," she sighed, "could infuse into our lives something
of the marvellous persistence of these people whom in other respects we
have left so far behind!"
"My dear Marcia," he protested, "surely, with your remarkable
intelligence, you can see that such persistence is merely a form of
narrow-mindedness. Your father has shut in his life and driven it
along one narrow groove. To you every day brings its fresh sensation,
its fresh object. Hence--coupled, of course, with your natural
gifts--your success. The person who thinks of but one thing in life
must be indeed a dull dog."
"Very excellent reasoning," she admitted. "Still, to come back to this
little tragedy--for it is a tragedy, isn't it?--have you any idea what
he 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 sit
in the garden and brood, I wonder, or has he brought back with him some
scheme of mediaeval revenge?"
"There was a time," the Marquis reflected, "when several of my Irish
tenants 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 brought
them some relief. With Vont, however, things would be different. I
remember him distinctly as a most wonderful shot."
"Psychologically," Marcia Hannaway observed, "his present action is
interesting. If he had shot you or me in his first fit of passionate
resentment, everything would have been in order, but to leave the
country, nurse a sullen feeling of revenge for years, and then come
back, seems curious. What shall you do when you see him sitting in his
garden?"
"I shall address him," the Marquis replied. "I fear that his long
residence in such a country as America will have altered him
considerably, but it is of course possible that the instincts of his
class remain."
"How feudal you are!" she laughed.
The Marquis frowned slightly. Although this was the one person in the
world whom he felt was necessary to him, who held a distinct place in
his very inaccessible heart, there were times when he entertained a dim
suspicion that she was making fun of him. At such times he was very
angry indeed.
"In any case," he said, "we will not waste our time in speculating upon
this man's attitude. I am still hoping that I may be able to devise
means 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 will
make 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 little
holiday. 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 of
people 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 a
tiny little boarding house, or take a villa in one of the quiet
places--San Raphael, perhaps, or one of those little forgotten spots
between Hyeres and Cannes. Phillis Grant would go with me. She isn't
going 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 very
even but very forlorn tone, "I will instruct Mr. Wadham to make a
suitable addition to your allowance. At the same time, Marcia," he
added, "I shall miss you."
His words were evidently a surprise to her. She threw away her
cigarette and came and sat on the sofa by his side.
"Do you know, I believe you would," she murmured, resting her hand upon
his. "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 strangely
that sounds! But listen. You said something just now about my
allowance. If I allude to it in return, will you believe that it is
entirely for your sake?"
"Of course!"
She rose from her chair and, crossing the room, rummaged about her desk
for a moment, produced a letter, and brought it to him. The Marquis
adjusted his horn-rimmed eyeglass and read:
_Dear Madam_:
We feel that some explanation is due to you with regard to the
non-payment for the last two quarters of your allowance from our
client, the Marquis of Mandeleys. We have to inform you that for some
time 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 our
opinion his lordship scarcely took the circumstance seriously. We
think it better, therefore, that you should communicate with him on the
subject.
Faithfully yours,
WADHAM, SON AND DICKSON.
The Marquis deliberately folded up the letter, placed his eyeglass in
his pocket, and sat looking into the fire. There was very little
change in his face. Only Marcia, to whom he had been the study of a
lifetime, knew that so far as suffering was possible to him, he was
suffering at that moment.
"You mustn't think it matters," she said gently. "You know my last
novel was quite a wonderful success, and for that article in the
_Nineteenth_ you were looking at, they gave me twenty guineas. I am
really almost opulent. Still, I thought it was better for you to know
this. The same thing might refer to other and more important matters,
and you know, dear, you are rather inclined to walk with your head in
the air where money matters are concerned."
"You have been very considerate, but foolishly so, my dear Marcia," he
declared. "This matter must be put right at once. I fear that a
younger element has obtruded itself into the firm of Wadham, an element
which scarcely grasps the true position. I will see these people,
Marcia."
"You are not to worry about it," she begged softly. "To tell you the
truth--"
Marcia was a brave woman, and the moment had come up to which she had
been leading for so long, which for many months, even years, had been
in her mind. And when it came she faltered. There was something in
the superb, immutable poise of the man who bent a little courteously
towards 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 such
that you have not been inconvenienced. At the same time, is it
entirely necessary for you to manipulate that hideous machine
yourself?" he enquired, inclining his head towards the typewriter.
"There are times," she confessed, "when I find it better. Of course, I
send a great deal of my work out to be typed, but my correspondence
grows, 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 reminded
him.
His hand rested for a moment upon her shoulder. He drew her a little
towards him. She suddenly laughed, leaned over and kissed him on both
cheeks, and jumped up. The trim little parlourmaid was at the door
with tea.
"Yes," she went on, "you have learned to read my handwriting, and I
have learned how you like your tea. Just one or two more little things
like that, and life is made between two people, isn't it? Shall I tell
you 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 to
people, too, perhaps. In a way there is a quaint sort of distinction
about it, and from another point of view it is most horribly
constraining."
"I interrupted you this afternoon, I imagine," he observed, "in the
construction of some work of fiction."
"Oh, no!" she replied. "What I write isn't fiction. That's why it
sells. It's truth, you see, under another garb. But there the fact
remains--that I shouldn't know how to make tea for another man in the
world, and you wouldn't be able to read the letters of any other woman
who wrote as badly as I do."
"The fact," he remarked, "seems to me to be a cause for mutual
congratulation."
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 acquired
the reputation for fidelity. I am sure we crave for experience much
more than men."
The Marquis helped himself to a muffin and considered the point. There
were many times when Marcia's conversation troubled him. He was by no
means an ill-read or unintellectual man, only his studies of literature
had been confined to its polished and classical side, the side which
deals so much with living and so little with life.
"Are you preparing for a new work of fiction, Marcia," he asked, "or
are you developing a fresh standpoint?"
"Dear friend," she declared, lightly and yet with an undernote of
earnestness, "how can I tell? I never know what I am going to do in
the way of work. I wish I could say the same about life. Now I am
going to ask you a great favour. I have to attend a small meeting at
my club, at the other end of Piccadilly, at half-past five. Would you
take me there?"
"I shall be delighted," he answered, a little stiffly.
She went presently to put on her outdoor clothes. The Marquis was
disappointed. He realised how much he had looked forward to that quiet
twilight hour, when somehow or other his vanity felt soothed, and that
queer weariness which came over him sometimes was banished. He
escorted Marcia to the car when she reappeared, however, without
complaint.
"I see your name in the papers sometimes, Marcia," he observed as he
took his place by her side, "in connection with women's work. Of
course, I do not interfere in any way with your energies. I should
not, in whatever direction they might chance to lead you. At the same
time, I must confess that I have noticed with considerable pleasure
that you have never been publicly associated with this movement in
favour of Woman's Suffrage."
She nodded.
"I should like a vote myself," she admitted simply, "but when I think
of the number of other women who would have to have it, and who don't
yet look at life seriously at all, I think we are better as we are. Is
it my fancy," she went on, a little abruptly, "or are you really
troubled about the return of--of Richard Vont?"
"As usual, Marcia," he said, "you show a somewhat extraordinary
perception where I am concerned. I am, as you know, not subject to
presentiments, and I have no exact apprehension of what the word fear
may mean. At the same time, you are right. I do view the return of
this man with a feeling which you, as a novelist, might be able to
analyse, but which I, as a layman, unused to fresh sentiments, find
puzzling. You remember what a famous Frenchman wrote in his memoirs,
suddenly, across one blank page of his journal--'To-day I feel that a
great change is coming.'"
She smiled reassuringly.
"Personally," she told him, "I believe that it is just the call of
England to a man who lived very near the soil--her heart. I think he
wants 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 form
of heart-sickness, you know. I have felt it myself so often. It is
scarcely possible that after all these years he is still nursing that
bitter hatred of us both."
The car had reached the great building in which Marcia's club was
situated. The Marquis handed her out.
"I trust that you are right," he remarked. "You will allow me to leave
the car for you?"
She shook her head.
"There are so many women here with whom I want to talk," she said. "I
may 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 and
catch 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 Marquis
threw himself back in his car and hesitated. The footman was waiting
for an address, and his august master was suddenly conscious that the
skies were very grey, that a slight rain was falling, and that there
was nowhere very much he wanted to go.
The man waited with immovable face.
"To--the club."