The Marquis, with several account books and Mr. Merridrew, who had
ridden over from his office on a motor-bicycle, had settled down to a
laborious evening. The former, for no particular reason, was enjoying
a slight relapse into his customary optimism.
"I am not without expectation," the Marquis commenced by explaining to
his agent, "that at the end of the next two months I may find myself in
possession of a large sum of money. Under those circumstances, it will
not be a purposeless proceeding to work out what is really required in
the way of repairs on the various farms. It will be a great pleasure
for me to meet my tenants in any way possible. On the whole, I
consider that they have been very reasonable and loyal."
Mr. Merridrew agreed with his lordship, agreed with him fervently.
"Some of them," he confessed, "have been very troublesome. A few of
them have been driven to make some slight repairs themselves, but on
the whole, your lordship, it would be a great relief if one were able
to assist them so far as regards positive dilapidations."
The Marquis dipped his pen in the ink and settled down to his task. At
that moment, however, Gossett knocked at the door, opened it and
advanced towards his master with a card upon a salver.
"The gentleman is staying at Fakenham, I believe, sir, and has motored
over."
The Marquis lifted the card. "Mr. James Borden" at first conveyed
nothing to him. Then he felt a sudden stab of memory.
"The gentleman wishes to see me?" he enquired.
"He begs to be allowed a short interview with your lordship," Gossett
replied.
"You can show him into the library," was the brief direction. "Mr.
Merridrew," he added, turning to the agent, "you can proceed with the
abstract without me. I shall return in time to go through the totals
and learn the family records of the various tenants--I refer, of
course, to those with which I am not acquainted."
Mr. Merridrew was quite sure that he could manage alone and settled
down to his task. The Marquis presently left him and crossed the great
hall, one of the wonders of Mandeleys, the walls of which were still
hung with faded reproductions, in ornate tapestry, of mediaeval
incidents. From somewhere amongst the shadows came Gossett, who
gravely took up his stand outside the library. As though with some
curious prescience of the fact that this was an unwelcome visitor, his
bow, as he threw open the door, was lower even than usual.
"Shall I light the lamp, your lordship?" he asked.
The Marquis glanced towards the oriel windows, through which the light
came scantily, and at the figure of James Borden, advancing now from
somewhere in the dim recesses of the room--an apartment which remained
marvellously little altered since the days when it had contained the
laboriously collected books of a Franciscan order of Monks.
"Perhaps it would be as well, Gossett," his master assented. "You wish
to see me?" he added, turning towards his visitor.
James Borden had come posthaste from London, acting upon an impulse
which had swept him off his feet. All the way down he had been the
prey to turbulent thoughts. A hundred different ways of conducting
this interview had presented themselves before him with such facility
that he had come to look upon it as one of the easiest things on earth.
Yet now the moment had arrived he was conscious of an unexpected
embarrassment. The strange tranquillity of the house and this stately
apartment, the personality of the Marquis himself--serene, slightly
curious, yet with that indefinable air of good-breeding which magnifies
the obligations of a host--had a paralysing effect upon him. He was
tongue-tied, uncertain of himself. All the many openings which had
come to him so readily faded away.
"My name is Borden," he announced. "I have come here, hoping for a
short conversation with you."
The Marquis made no immediate reply. He watched the lighting of a huge
lamp which Gossett silently placed in the middle of an ebony black
writing table, to the side of which he had already drawn up two
high-backed chairs.
"Is there anything else your lordship desires?" the man asked.
"Not at present, Gossett. I will ring."
The Marquis pointed towards one of the chairs, and seated himself in
the other.
"I shall be very glad to hear of your business with me, Mr. Borden," he
said courteously.
His visitor had lost none of his embarrassment. The Marquis, in his
old-fashioned dinner clothes, his black stock, the fob which hung from
his waistcoat, his finely chiselled features, and that mysterious air
of being entirely in touch with his surroundings, had him at a
disadvantage from the first. Borden was wearing the somewhat shabby
blue serge suit in which he had travelled all day, and which he had
neglected to brush. He had been too much in earnest about his mission
to do more than make the most hasty toilet at the hotel. The
high-backed chair, which suited the Marquis so well, was an unfamiliar
article of furniture to him, and he sat upon it stiffly and without
ease. Nevertheless, he reminded himself that he was there--he must say
what he had come to say.
"I am venturing to address you, Lord Mandeleys," he began, "upon a
personal subject."
The Marquis raised his eyebrows gently. It was perhaps a suggestion of
surprise that a personal subject should exist, lending itself to
discussion between him and this visitor.
"And before I go any further," the latter continued, "I want to make it
clear that I am here at my own initiative only--that the other person
interested is entirely ignorant of my visit."
Mr. Borden paused, and the Marquis made no sign whatever. He was
sitting quite upright in his chair, the fingers of his right hand
toying lazily with an ancient paper knife, fashioned of yellow ivory.
"Nevertheless," the speaker went on, "I wish to tell you that my visit
is a sequel to a conversation which I had last night with Miss Marcia
Hannaway, a conversation during which I asked her, not for the first
time, to be my wife."
The Marquis's fingers ceased to trifle with the paper knife.
Otherwise, not a muscle of his body or a single twitch of the features
betrayed any emotion. Nevertheless, his visitor realised for the first
time that all his life he had had a wrong conception of this man. He
knew quite well that he had altogether underrated the difficulties of
his task.
"I am taking it for granted," he proceeded, "that you are broad-minded
enough, Lord Mandeleys, to admit that we can discuss this, or any other
matter, on terms of equality. I am unknown to you. My father was a
Dean of Peterborough; I was myself at Harrow and Magdalen."
The Marquis's fingers stretched out once more towards the paper knife.
"You mentioned, I believe," he said, "the name of a lady with whom I am
acquainted."
"I am coming to that," was the eager reply. "I only wanted to have it
understood that this was a matter which we could discuss as equals, as
man to man."
"I am so far from agreeing with you," the Marquis declared calmly,
"that I prefer to choose my own companions in any discussion, and my
own subjects. It happens that you are a stranger to me."
Borden checked a hasty retort, which he realised at once would have
placed him at a further disadvantage.
"Lord Mandeleys," he said, "I was at first Miss Hannaway's publisher.
I have become her friend. I desire to become her husband. Her whole
story is known to me, even from the day when you brought her away from
the Vont cottage and chose her for your companion. I have watched the
slow development of her brain, I know how much she has benefited
intellectually by the forced seclusion entailed upon her by the
conditions of your friendship. I realise, however, that the time has
come when in justice to her gifts, which have not yet reached fruition,
it is necessary that she should come into closer personal contact with
the world of which she knows so little. She can attain that position
by becoming my wife."
"Really!" his listener murmured, with a faint note of unruffled
surprise in his tone.
Borden set his teeth. The task which had seemed to him so easy was
presenting now a very different appearance. Nevertheless, he kept an
iron restraint upon himself.
"I do not wish to weary you," he went on, "by making a long story of
this. I am forty-one years old and unmarried. Marcia Hannaway is the
first woman whom I have wished to make my wife, and I wish it because
I--care for her. I have been her suitor for nine years. During all
that time she has given me no word of encouragement. I have never
once, until these last few days, been permitted to dine alone with her,
nor been allowed even the privilege of visiting her at her home. The
restrictions upon our intercourse have been, I presume, in obedience to
your wishes, or to Marcia's interpretation of them."
"If we could come," the Marquis said gently, "to the reason for this
visit--"
The words supplied the sting that Borden needed.
"I believe," he declared, "that Marcia Hannaway in her heart wishes to
marry me. I believe that she cares enough to marry me. Only a short
time ago she admitted it, and within twelve hours I received a note,
retracting all that she had promised."
There was a deep silence throughout the great room. The faces of the
two men--a little closer now, for Borden had moved his chair--were both
under the little circle of lamplight. For a single second something
had disturbed the imperturbability of the Marquis's countenance--it
seemed, indeed, as though some strange finger had humanised it, had
softened the eyes and drawn apart the lips. Then the moment passed.
"Are we nearing the end of this discussion, Mr. Borden?"
"Every word brings us nearer the end," was the ready reply. "I am
going to tell you the truth as I feel it in my heart. Marcia would be
at her best in the life to which I should bring her. Mentally,
spiritually and humanly, as my wife she would be happier. She has
refused me out of loyalty to you."
"Are you suggesting," the Marquis enquired, "that I should intervene in
favour of your suit?"
Borden struck the table with the flat of his hand.
"Damn it," he exclaimed, "can't you talk of this like a man! Don't you
care enough for Marcia to think a little of her happiness? I want you
to let her go--to let her believe, whether it is the truth or not, that
she is not, as she seems to think, necessary to your life. Come! Life
has its sacrifices as well as its compensations. You've had the best
part of a wonderful woman's life. I am not saying a word about the
conditions which exist between you. I don't presume. If I did, I
should have to remember that Marcia speaks always of your treatment of
her with tears of gratitude in her eyes. But your time has come.
Marcia has many years to live. There is something grown up within her
which you have nothing to do with--a little flame of genius which burns
there all the time, which at this very moment would be a furnace but
for the fact of the unnatural life she is forced to lead as
your--companion. Now you ask what I've come for, and you know. I want
you to forget yourself and to think of the woman who has been your
faithful and sympathetic companion for all these years. She hasn't
come to her own yet. She can't with you. She can with me. Write and
thank her for what she has given you, and tell her that for the future
she is free. She can make her choice then, unfettered by these
infernal bonds which you have laid around her."
The Marquis turned the lamp a little lower with steady fingers. The
necessity for his action was not altogether apparent.
"You suggest, Mr. Borden, if I understand you rightly," he said, "that
I am now too old and too unintelligent to afford Marcia the stimulating
companionship which her gifts deserve?"
"There can't be a great sympathy between you," the other declared,
"and, to be brutal, the place in life which she deserves, and to which
she aspires, is not open to her under present conditions."
"You allude, I presume," the Marquis said, "to the absence of any legal
tie between Miss Hannaway and myself?"
"I do," Borden assented. "The world is a broad-minded place enough,
but there are differences and backwaters--I am not here to explain them
to you. I don't need to. Marcia Hannaway, married to her publisher,
going where she will, thinking how she will, meeting whom she will,
would be a different person to Miss Marcia Hannaway, living in
isolation in Battersea, with nothing warm nor human in her life
except--"
"Precisely," the Marquis interrupted, with a little gesture which might
have concealed--anything. "I am beginning to grasp your point of view,
Mr. Borden."
"And your answer?"
"I have no answer to give you, sir. You have made certain suggestions,
which I may or may not be prepared to accept. In any case, matters of
so much importance scarcely lend themselves to decisions between
strangers. I shall probably allude to what you have said when I see or
write Miss Hannaway."
"You've nothing more to say to me about it, then?" Borden persisted, a
little wistfully.
"Nothing whatever! You may possibly consider my attitude selfish," the
Marquis added, "but I find myself wholly indifferent to your interests
in this matter."
"I should be able to reconcile myself even to that," was the grim
reply, "if I have been able to penetrate for a single moment that
accursed selfishness of yours--if I have been able to make you think,
for however short a time, of Marcia's future instead of your own."
The Marquis rose without haste from his place, and rang the bell.
"You will permit me, Mr. Borden," he invited, "to offer you some
refreshments?"
"Thank you, I desire nothing."
The Marquis pointed to the door, by which Gossett was standing.
"That, then, I think, concludes our interview," he said, with icy
courtesy.
Mr. Borden walked the full length of the very long apartment, suffered
himself to be respectfully conducted across the great hall, out on to
the flags and into the motor-car which he had hired in Fakenham. It
was not until he was on his way through the park that he opened his
lips and found them attuned to blasphemy. At the top of the gentle
slope, however, where the car was brought to a standstill while the
driver opened the iron gate, he turned back and looked at Mandeleys,
looked at its time-worn turrets, its mullioned windows, the Norman
chapel, the ruined cloisters, the ivy-covered west wing, the beautiful
Elizabethan chimneys. A strange, heterogeneous mass of architecture,
yet magnificent, in its way impressive, almost inspiring. He looked at
the little cottage almost at its gates, from which a thin, spiral
column of smoke was ascending. Perhaps in those few seconds, and with
the memory of that interview still rankling, he felt a glimmering of
real understanding. Something which had always been incomprehensible
to him in Marcia's story stood more or less revealed.