CHAPTER XXIII
Richard Vont, a few mornings later, leaned upon his spade and gazedover towards Mandeleys with set, fixed eyes. His clothes and handswere stained with clay, the sweat was pouring down his face, he wasbreathing heavily like a man who has been engaged in strenuous labour.But of his exhausted condition he seemed to take no count. There wassomething new at the Abbey, something which spoke to him intimately,which was crowding his somewhat turgid brain with the one greatimagining of his life. For Mandeleys had opened its eyes. A hundredblinds had been raised, long rows of windows stood open. Men were atwork, weeding the avenue, and driving mowing machines across the lawnswhich stretched down to the ring fence and the moat. Flaming bordersof yellow crocuses became miraculously visible as the dank grassdisappeared, and many spiral wreaths of smoke were ascending into themisty stillness of the spring morning. Away behind, in the high-walledgarden, were more gardeners, bending at their toil. Richard Vont wasno reader of the _Morning Post_, but an item in its fashionableintelligence of that morning lay clearly written before him. TheMarquis was coming back!
Vont turned slowly away, left his spade in the tool shed, entered thecottage by the back door, carefully changed his clothes, washed theclay from his face and hands, and descended into the sitting room,where his breakfast awaited him. Mrs. Wells looked at him curiously.She was a distant connection and stood upon no ceremony with him.
"Richard," she demanded, "where were you when I come this morning?"
"Sleeping, maybe," he answered, taking his place at the table.
"And that you weren't," she contradicted, "for I made bold to knock atyour door to ask if you'd like a rasher of bacon with your eggs."
He raised his head and looked at her steadily.
"Well?"
"I'm not one to pry into other people's affairs," she continued, "butyour goings on are more than I can understand. All day long you sitwith the Book upon your knee, and if a neighbour asks why you neverpass the gate, or seemingly move a limb, it's the rheumatics you speakof. And yet last night your bed was never slept in, my man, and Ibegin to suspect other nights as well. What's it mean, eh?"
Richard Vont rose to his feet and opened the door.
"Just that," he answered harshly, pointing to it. "I'll not be spiedon. Inch for inch and yard for yard, this cottage and garden are mine,I tell you--mine with dishonour, maybe, but mine. I'll have nonearound me that watches and frets because of the things that I choose todo. I'll lie out in the garden at nights, if I will, and not accountto you, Mary Wells; or sleep on the floor, if it pleases me, and it'sno concern of any one but mine. So back to the village gossips, if youwill, and spread your tale. Maybe I'm a midnight robber and roam thecountryside at night. It's my affair."
"A robber you're not, Richard Vont," was the somewhat dazed reply, "andthat the world knows. And there's summut more that the world knows,too, and that is that since you came back from Americy, never have youset foot outside that gate. There's friends waiting for you at thevillage, and there's them as smokes their pipe at night in thealehouse, whose company 'd do you no harm, but for some reason of yourown you live like a hermit. And yet--yet--"
"Go on, Mary," he said sturdily. "Finish it."
"It's the nights that are baffling," Mrs. Wells declared. "There'ssome of your clothes in the morning wrings with sweat. There'ssometimes the look in your face at breakfast time as though you'd had ahard day's work and done more than was good for your strength."
"I'm no sleeper," he declared, "no sleeper at all. If I choose to walkin the garden, what business is it of yours, Mary, or of any one downin th' village? Answer me that, woman?"
"Every man, I suppose, may please himself," she conceded grudgingly,"but I don't hold with mysteries myself."
"Then you full well know," he replied, "how to escape from them. Ifthey're too much for you, Mary, I've fended for myself before, and Ican do it again."
Mrs. Wells snorted.
"Keep your own counsel, then, Richard."
"And you keep yours," he advised. "You're my nearest of kin, Mary,though you're but my cousin's widdy. If you can learn to keep a stilltongue in your head and do what's asked of you, there may be a triflecoming to you when my time comes. But if you get these curious fits onyou, and they're more than you can stand; if you're going bleating fromhouse to house in the village, and spending your time intittle-tattling, then we'll part. Them's plain words, anyhow."
Mrs. Wells became almost abject.
"You've said the word, Richard, and I'll bide by it," she declared."You can run races with yourself round the garden all night long, ifyou've a will. I'll close my eyes from now. But," she added, as aparting shot, "that clay on your old clothes takes a sight of gettingoff."
Richard Vont ate his breakfast slowly and thoughtfully, entirely withthe air of a man who accomplishes a duty. Afterwards, with the Bibleunder his arm, he took his accustomed seat at the end of the gardenfacing Mandeleys. There were tradesmen's carts and motor-vans passingoccasionally on their way to and from the house, but he saw none ofthem. He was in his place, waiting, watching, perhaps, but withoutcuriosity. Presently a summons came, however, which he could notignore. He turned his head. David Thain, on a great black horse, hadcome galloping across the park from Broomleys, and had brought hisrestive horse with some difficulty up to the side of the paling. Thegreeting between the two was a silent, yet, so far as Vont wasconcerned, an eager one.
"You know what that means?" David observed, pointing with his croptowards the house.
"I know well," was the swift answer. "It's what I've prayed for. Moveyour horse out of the way, boy. Can't you see I'm watching?"
David looked at the old man curiously. Then he dismounted, and withhis arm through the reins, leaned against the paling.
"There's nothing to watch yet," he said, "but tradesmen's carts."
"It's just the beginning," Vont muttered. "Soon there'll be servants,and then--him! If he comes in the night," the old man went on, hisvoice thickening, "I'll--"
Words seemed to fail him, but he had clenched his hands on the cover ofthe book he had closed, and his blue veins stood out in ugly fashion.David sighed. Yet, notwithstanding his despair, some measure ofcuriosity prompted a question.
"Just why do you want to see him so much?" he asked.
"Hate," was the quiet reply. "It's twenty years since, and I've a kindof craving to see him that much older. There's hate and love, youknow, David. They're both writ of here. But I tell you it's hate thatlasts the longest. Love is like my flowers. Look at them--my tallhollyhocks, my bush roses, my snapdragon there. They blossom and theyfade, and they lie dead--who knows where? And in the spring they comeagain, or something like them. And hate," he went on, pointing to aspade which lay propped against the paling, "is like that lump ofmetal. It's here winter and summer alike. It doesn't change, itdoesn't die; there's no heat would melt it. It was there last year,it's there to-day, it will be there to-morrow."
David sighed, and looked for a moment wearily away. The old manwatched him anxiously. Exercise had brought a slight flush to hispallid cheeks and an added brightness to his eyes. He sat his horsewell, and his tweed riding-clothes were fashionably cut. His uncle'sfrown became deeper.
"You're young, David," he said, "and I know well that you and me lookout on life full differently. But an oath--an oath's a sacred thing,eh?"
"An oath is a sacred thing," David repeated. "I've never denied it."
"You'll not flinch, lad?" the old man persisted eagerly.
"I shall not flinch."
"Then ride off now. There's no gain to either of us in talking here,for your mind is set one way and mine another. You'll have a score ofyears of youth left after you've done my behest."
David paused with his foot in the stirrup, withdrew it and returned tothe paling.
"Let me know the worst," he begged. "I've beggared your enemy for you.I've soiled my conscience for the first ti
me in my life. I've lied toand ruined the man who trusted in my word. What is this further deedthat I must do?"
Richard Vont shook his head.
"When the time comes," he promised, "you shall know. Meanwhile, letbe! It's a summer morning, and you are but young; make the most of it.Come when I send for you."
So David rode off, up the broad slopes of the great park, along thewonderful beech avenue and out on to the highway. He turned in hissaddle for a moment and looked towards the road from London.