"Several notes for you, Letitia," he said, without looking around.
CHAPTER XXIII
Richard Vont, a few mornings later, leaned upon his spade and gazed over towards Mandeleys with set, fixed eyes. His clothes and hands were stained with clay, the sweat was pouring down his face, he was breathing heavily like a man who has been engaged in strenuous labour. But of his exhausted condition he seemed to take no count. There was something new at the Abbey, something which spoke to him intimately, which was crowding his somewhat turgid brain with the one great imagining of his life. For Mandeleys had opened its eyes. A hundred blinds had been raised, long rows of windows stood open. Men were at work, weeding the avenue, and driving mowing machines across the lawns which stretched down to the ring fence and the moat. Flaming borders of yellow crocuses became miraculously visible as the dank grass disappeared, and many spiral wreaths of smoke were ascending into the misty stillness of the spring morning. Away behind, in the high-walled garden, were more gardeners, bending at their toil. Richard Vont was no reader of the Morning Post, but an item in its fashionable intelligence of that morning lay clearly written before him. The Marquis was coming back!
Vont turned slowly away, left his spade in the tool shed, entered the cottage by the back door, carefully changed his clothes, washed the clay 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 at your door to ask if you'd like a rasher of bacon with your eggs."
He raised his head and looked at her steadily.
"Well?"