David proved himself such a very satisfactory incoming tenant that the
Colonel insisted upon his staying to lunch and hastened off into the
cellar to find a bottle of old Marsala, of which he proposed that they
should partake with a dry biscuit before Mr. Merridrew's departure.
Sylvia sank into a low chair with a little exclamation of despair.
"Now daddy's done it!" she exclaimed. "Are you hungry, Mr. Thain?"
"Not very--yet," David replied, glancing at his watch. "You see, it's
only half-past eleven."
"Because," she said impressively, "there are exactly three rather
skinny cutlets in the house. All the servants left this
morning--'all', I said. We only have two!--and an old woman from the
village is coming up at half-past twelve to cook them. One was for me
and two were for father. Perhaps you will tell me what I am to do?"
David smiled.
"Well," he observed, "I was distinctly asked to luncheon, and I
accepted. Haven't you anything--"
"Anything what?" she asked patiently.
"Tinned in the house, or that sort of thing?" he suggested, a little
vaguely.
"Of course we haven't," she replied. "Don't you know that we are all
packed up and leaving to-morrow? It's the biggest wonder in the world
that we have any biscuits to eat with that precious Marsala."
"Why not," he proposed hopefully, "put on your hat and motor into
Fakenham with me? I suppose there is a butcher's shop there. We can
buy something together."
She sprang to her feet.
"And you can choose exactly what you like!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Thain,
you are delightful! That is the best of you Americans. You are full
of resource. I shan't be a minute getting a hat and a pair of gloves."
David strolled about the gardens of his new demesne until Sylvia
reappeared. She had pinned on a blue tam-o'-shanter and was wearing a
jersey of the same colour.
"I shall love a spin in your car!" she exclaimed. "And you drive
yourself, too. How delightful!"
They swung off through the more thickly wooded part of the park,
driving in places between dense clumps of rhododendrons, and coming
unexpectedly upon a walled garden, neglected, but brilliant with spring
and early summer flowers.
"Isn't it queer to have a garden so far away from the house," the girl
remarked, "but I dare say you've heard that the late Marquis of
Mandeleys was mad about underground passages. There is one existing
somewhere or other to the summer house in that garden from the Abbey,
and lots of others. I am not at all sure that there isn't one to
Broomleys."
"Haven't you been afraid sometimes lest the ghosts of the dead monks
might pay you an unexpected visit?"
She shook her head.
"They always held the funeral services in the chapel," she explained,
"but the burying place is at the side of the hill there. You can see
the Mandeleys vault from here."
"And the cypress trees," David pointed out. "I wonder how old they
are."
"The American of you!" she scoffed. "You ought to love Mandeleys--and
Broomleys. Everything about the place is musty and ancient and worn
out. You know the Marquis, don't you?"
"Slightly," David assented.
"Is he really human," she asked, "or is he something splendidly
picturesque which has just stepped out of one of the frames in his
picture gallery? I can never make up my mind. He is so beautiful to
look at, but he doesn't look as though he belonged to this generation,
and why on earth they ever used to call him 'The Wicked Marquis' I
can't imagine. I've tried him myself," she went on ingenuously, "in no
end of ways, but he treats me always as though I were some grandchild,
walking on stilts. Of course you're in love with Lady Letitia?"
"Must I be?"
"But isn't it all absolutely preordained?" she insisted, "in fact, it's
almost depressingly obvious. Here are the Mandeleys estates, the
finest in Norfolk, mortgaged up to the hilt, the Abbey shut up, the
Marquis and all of them living on credit, the family fortunes at their
lowest ebb. And here come you, an interesting American stranger, with
more millions than the world has ever heard of before. Of course you
marry Lady Letitia and release the estates!"
"Do I!" he murmured. "Well, it seems plausible."
"It has to be done," she decided, with a sigh. "It's a pity."
"Why?"
She shook her head.
"We mustn't flirt. We should be interfering with the decrees of
Providence.--What an interesting-looking woman! You know her, too."
They passed Marcia and her companion, about half-way to Fakenham.
Marcia bowed cheerfully and looked with interest at Sylvia.
"I know her very slightly," David admitted.
"She doesn't belong to these parts," Sylvia said. "We've lived here
for nearly seven years, you know, and I know every one for miles round,
by sight."
"She came originally from somewhere in the neighbourhood, I believe,"
David observed.
"Tell me everything about her, please?" his companion demanded. "I am
a born gossip."
"You finish with the romance of Mandeleys first," he suggested
evasively.
"Well, we've finished that, so far as you are concerned," she said,
"but as soon as you have rescued the family and the wedding bells have
ceased ringing, you'll find yourself faced with another problem. Did
you notice a queer little cottage, right opposite the Abbey?"
"Of course I did."
"Well, there's an old man sits in the garden there," she went on,
"reading the Bible and cursing the Marquis, most of the day. He used
to do it years ago, and then he went to America. Now he's come back,
and he's started it again."
"And what does the Marquis do about it?" David enquired.
"He can't do anything. The late Marquis made the old man a present of
the cottage for saving his life, and they can't take it away from him
now. I suppose he must have been really wicked when he was young--I
mean the Marquis," she went on, "because, you see, he ran away with
that old man's daughter. It's the sort of thing," she went on, "that
Marquises are supposed to do in stories, but it doesn't make them
popular in a small neighbourhood. Now tell me about the good-looking
woman who bowed to you, please?"
"She is the daughter of the man of whom you have been speaking," David
told her. "She is the lady with whom the wicked Marquis eloped nearly
twenty years ago."
Sylvia's interest was almost breathless.
"You mean to say that you knew the story--you--an American?"
"Absolutely," he replied. "I came into touch with it in a queer way.
The old man Vont came back from America on the same steamer that I did.
I'll tell you another thing. The wicked Marquis, as you call him, and
that lady whom we have just passed, dine together now at least one
night a week, and the woman has become quite a famous authoress. She
writes under the name, I believe, of Marcia Hannaway."
Sylvia threw herself back in her seat.
"Why, it's amazing!" she declared. "It turns a sordid little village
tragedy into a piece of wonderful romance. Perhaps, after all, that is
what makes the Marquis seem like a piece of wood to every other woman."
"I have heard it said," David continued, "that he has been entirely
faithful to her all his life. Where do I stop, please?"
"Here," she replied, "at this shop. Please come in and choose your own
meat. I feel in much too romantic a frame of mind to even know beef
from mutton."
David followed her a little doubtfully into the shop.
"Perhaps," he ventured to suggest, "as the nucleus of your meal has
already been decided upon--"
"Of course," she interrupted; "cutlets. We want more cutlets. You
needn't bother. I'll see about it."
David slipped into the next shop and reappeared with a huge box of
chocolates, which he handed over apologetically.
"I am not sure whether you'll find these up to much."
"For the first time," she exclaimed, as she accepted them, "I realise
what it must be to be a millionaire! I have never seen such a box of
chocolates in my life. Do you mind going over to the grocer's and
letting him see me with you?" she went on. "It will be so good for our
credit, and his is just one of the accounts we have to leave for a
little time. Were you ever poor, Mr. Thain?"
"Poor, but not, alas! romantically so," he confessed. "To be the real
thing, I ought to have earned my first few pounds, oughtn't I? You
see, I didn't. I was educated by relatives, and when a great chance
came my way I was able to take advantage of it. An uncle advanced me a
thousand pounds, upon one condition."
"Had you to make him a partner?" she asked, in the intervals of giving
a small order at the grocer's.
He shook his head.
"No," he answered gravely, "it wasn't a financial condition. In a way
it was something more difficult."
She looked at him curiously.
"Whatever it was," she said, "if you promised, I am quite sure that you
would keep your word."
They motored homewards and David was for a few minutes unexpectedly
thoughtful. He deliberately approached Broomleys from the back, but
even then it was impossible to avoid a distant view of the cottage. He
looked towards it grimly.
"Conditions are stern things," he sighed.
"Haven't you kept that one yet?" she asked.
"The time is only just coming," he told her.
She looked up at him pleadingly.
"Don't bother about it now, please," she begged. "This is such a
delightful day. And whatever you do, you mustn't let it interfere with
your eating three cutlets."