The Project Gutenberg eBook of A woman's soul
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: A woman's soul
Author: Charles Garvice
Release date: July 23, 2024 [eBook #74103]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Street & Smith, 1901
Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN'S SOUL ***
No. 250 (EAGLE SERIES)
A WOMAN’S SOUL
BY
CHARLES
GARVICE
[Illustration: EAGLE
SERIES
STREET & SMITH PUBLISHERS NEW YORK]
ALL
STORIES
COPYRIGHTED
CANNOT BE HAD
IN ANY OTHER
EDITION
_Copyright Fiction by the Best Authors_
NEW EAGLE SERIES
ISSUED WEEKLY
The books in this line comprise an unrivaled collection of copyrighted
novels by authors who have won fame wherever the English language is
spoken. Foremost among these is Mrs. Georgie Sheldon, whose works
are contained in this line exclusively. Every book in the New Eagle
Series is of generous length, of attractive appearance, and of
undoubted merit. No better literature can be had at any price. Beware
of imitations of the S. & S. novels, which are sold cheap because
their publishers were put to no expense in the matter of purchasing
manuscripts and making plates.
ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT
TO THE PUBLIC:--These books are sold by news dealers everywhere. If
your dealer does not keep them, and will not get them for you, send
direct to the publishers, in which case four cents must be added to
the price per copy to cover postage.
=Quo Vadis= (New Illustrated Edition) =By Henryk Sienkiewicz=
1--Queen Bess By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
2--Ruby’s Reward By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
7--Two Keys By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
12--Edrie’s Legacy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
44--That Dowdy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
55--Thrice Wedded By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
66--Witch Hazel By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
77--Tina By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
88--Virgie’s Inheritance By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
99--Audrey’s Recompense By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
111--Faithful Shirley By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
122--Grazia’s Mistake By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
133--Max By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
144--Dorothy’s Jewels By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
155--Nameless Dell By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
166--The Masked Bridal By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
177--A True Aristocrat By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
188--Dorothy Arnold’s Escape By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
199--Geoffrey’s Victory By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
210--Wild Oats By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
219--Lost, A Pearle By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
222--The Lily of Mordaunt By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
233--Nora By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
244--A Hoiden’s Conquest By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
255--The Little Marplot By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
266--The Welfleet Mystery By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
277--Brownie’s Triumph By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
282--The Forsaken Bride By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
288--Sibyl’s Influence By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
291--A Mysterious Wedding Ring By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
299--Little Miss Whirlwind By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
311--Wedded by Fate By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
339--His Heart’s Queen By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
351--The Churchyard Betrothal By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
362--Stella Rosevelt By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
372--A Girl in a Thousand By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
373--A Thorn Among Roses By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Sequel to “A Girl in a Thousand”
382--Mona By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
391--Marguerite’s Heritage By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
399--Betsey’s Transformation By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
407--Esther, the Fright By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
415--Trixy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
419--The Other Woman By Charles Garvice
433--Winifred’s Sacrifice By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
440--Edna’s Secret Marriage By Charles Garvice
451--Helen’s Victory By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
458--When Love Meets Love By Charles Garvice
476--Earle Wayne’s Nobility By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
511--The Golden Key By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
512--A Heritage of Love By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Sequel to “The Golden Key”
519--The Magic Cameo By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
520--The Heatherford Fortune By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Sequel to “The Magic Cameo”
531--Better Than Life By Charles Garvice
537--A Life’s Mistake By Charles Garvice
542--Once in a Life By Charles Garvice
548--’Twas Love’s Fault By Charles Garvice
553--Queen Kate By Charles Garvice
554--Step by Step By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
555--Put to the Test By Ida Reade Allen
556--With Love’s Aid By Wenona Gilman
557--In Cupid’s Chains By Charles Garvice
558--A Plunge Into the Unknown By Richard Marsh
559--The Love That Was Cursed By Geraldine Fleming
560--The Thorns of Regret By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
561--The Outcast of the Family By Charles Garvice
562--A Forced Promise By Ida Reade Allen
563--The Old Homestead By Denman Thompson
564--Love’s First Kiss By Emma Garrison Jones
565--Just a Girl By Charles Garvice
566--In Love’s Springtime By Laura Jean Libbey
567--Trixie’s Honor By Geraldine Fleming
568--Hearts and Dollars By Ida Reade Allen
569--By Devious Ways By Charles Garvice
570--Her Heart’s Unbidden Guest By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
571--Two Wild Girls By Mrs. Charlotte May Kingsley
572--Amid Scarlet Roses By Emma Garrison Jones
573--Heart for Heart By Charles Garvice
574--The Fugitive Bride By Mary E. Bryan
575--A Blue Grass Heroine By Ida Reade Allen
576--The Yellow Face By Fred M. White
577--The Story of a Passion By Charles Garvice
579--The Curse of Beauty By Geraldine Fleming
580--The Great Awakening By E. Phillips Oppenheim
581--A Modern Juliet By Charles Garvice
582--Virgie Talcott’s Mission By Lucy M. Russell
583--His Greatest Sacrifice; or, Manch By Mary E. Bryan
584--Mabel’s Fate By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
585--The Ape and the Diamond By Richard Marsh
586--Nell, of Shorne Mills By Charles Garvice
587--Katherine’s Two Suitors By Geraldine Fleming
588--The Crime of Love By Barbara Howard
589--His Father’s Crime By E. Phillips Oppenheim
590--What Was She to Him? By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
591--A Heritage of Hate By Charles Garvice
592--Ida Chaloner’s Heart By Lucy Randall Comfort
593--Love Will Find the Way By Wenona Gilman
594--A Case of Identity By Richard Marsh
595--The Shadow of Her Life By Charles Garvice
596--Slighted Love By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
597--Her Fatal Gift By Geraldine Fleming
598--His Wife’s Friend By Mary E. Bryan
599--At Love’s Cost By Charles Garvice
600--St. Elmo By Augusta J. Evans
601--The Fate of the Plotter By Louis Tracy
602--Married in Error By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
603--Love and Jealousy By Lucy Randall Comfort
604--Only a Working Girl By Geraldine Fleming
605--Love, the Tyrant By Charles Garvice
606--Mabel’s Sacrifice By Charlotte M. Stanley
608--Love is Love Forevermore By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
609--John Elliott’s Flirtation By Lucy May Russell
610--With All Her Heart By Charles Garvice
611--Is Love Worth While? By Geraldine Fleming
612--Her Husband’s Other Wife By Emma Garrison Jones
613--Philip Bennion’s Death By Richard Marsh
614--Little Phillis’ Lover By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
615--Maida By Charles Garvice
617--As a Man Lives By E. Phillips Oppenheim
618--The Tide of Fate By Wenona Gilman
619--The Cardinal Moth By Fred M. White
620--Marcia Drayton By Charles Garvice
621--Lynette’s Wedding By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
622--His Madcap Sweetheart By Emma Garrison Jones
623--Love at the Loom By Geraldine Fleming
624--A Bachelor Girl By Lucy May Russell
625--Kyra’s Fate By Charles Garvice
626--The Joss By Richard Marsh
627--My Little Love By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
628--A Daughter of the Marionis By E. Phillips Oppenheim
629--The Lady of Beaufort Park By Wenona Gilman
630--The Verdict of the Heart By Charles Garvice
631--A Love Concealed By Emma Garrison Jones
633--The Strange Disappearance of Lady Delia By Louis Tracy
634--Love’s Golden Spell By Geraldine Fleming
635--A Coronet of Shame By Charles Garvice
636--Sinned Against By Mary E. Bryan
637--If It Were True! By Wenona Gilman
638--A Golden Barrier By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
639--A Hateful Bondage By Barbara Howard
640--A Girl of Spirit By Charles Garvice
641--Master of Men By E. Phillips Oppenheim
642--A Fair Enchantress By Ida Reade Allen
643--The Power of Love By Geraldine Fleming
644--No Time for Penitence By Wenona Gilman
645--A Jest of Fate By Charles Garvice
646--Her Sister’s Secret By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
647--Bitterly Atoned By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
648--Gertrude Elliott’s Crucible By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
649--The Corner House By Fred M. White
650--Diana’s Destiny By Charles Garvice
651--Love’s Clouded Dawn By Wenona Gilman
652--Little Vixen By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
653--Her Heart’s Challenge By Barbara Howard
654--Vivian’s Love Story By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
655--Linked by Fate By Charles Garvice
656--Hearts of Stone By Geraldine Fleming
657--In the Service of Love By Richard Marsh
658--Love’s Devious Course By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
659--Told in the Twilight By Ida Reade Allen
660--The Mills of the Gods By Wenona Gilman
661--The Man of the Hour By Sir William Magnay
662--A Little Barbarian By Charlotte Kingsley
663--Creatures of Destiny By Charles Garvice
664--A Southern Princess By Emma Garrison Jones
666--A Fateful Promise By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
667--The Goddess--A Demon By Richard Marsh
668--From Tears to Smiles By Ida Reade Allen
670--Better Than Riches By Wenona Gilman
671--When Love Is Young By Charles Garvice
672--Craven Fortune By Fred M. White
673--Her Life’s Burden By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
674--The Heart of Hetta By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
675--The Breath of Slander By Ida Reade Allen
676--My Lady Beth By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
677--The Wooing of Esther Gray By Louis Tracy
678--The Shadow Between Them By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
679--Gold in the Gutter By Charles Garvice
680--Master of Her Fate By Geraldine Fleming
681--In Full Cry By Richard Marsh
682--My Pretty Maid By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
683--An Unhappy Bargain By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
684--Her Enduring Love By Ida Reade Allen
685--India’s Punishment By Laura Jean Libbey
686--The Castle of the Shadows By Mrs. C. N. Williamson
687--My Own Sweetheart By Wenona Gilman
688--Only a Kiss By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
689--Lola Dunbar’s Crime By Barbara Howard
690--Ruth, the Outcast By Mrs. Mary E. Bryan
691--Her Dearest Love By Geraldine Fleming
692--The Man of Millions By Ida Reade Allen
693--For Another’s Fault By Charlotte M. Stanley
694--The Belle of Saratoga By Lucy Randall Comfort
695--The Mystery of the Unicorn By Sir William Magnay
696--The Bride’s Opals By Emma Garrison Jones
697--One of Life’s Roses By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
698--The Battle of Hearts By Geraldine Fleming
700--In Wolf’s Clothing By Charles Garvice
701--A Lost Sweetheart By Ida Reade Allen
702--The Stronger Passion By Mrs. Lillian R. Drayton
703--Mr. Marx’s Secret By E. Phillips Oppenheim
704--Had She Loved Him Less! By Laura Jean Libbey
705--The Adventure of Princess Sylvia By Mrs. C. N. Williamson
706--In Love’s Paradise By Charlotte M. Stanley
707--At Another’s Bidding By Ida Reade Allen
708--Sold for Gold By Geraldine Fleming
710--Ridgeway of Montana By William MacLeod Raine
711--Taken by Storm By Emma Garrison Jones
712--Love and a Lie By Charles Garvice
713--Barriers of Stone By Wenona Gilman
714--Ethel’s Secret By Charlotte M. Stanley
715--Amber, the Adopted By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
716--No Man’s Wife By Ida Reade Allen
717--Wild and Willful By Lucy Randall Comfort
718--When We Two Parted By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
719--Love’s Earnest Prayer By Geraldine Fleming
720--The Price of a Kiss By Laura Jean Libbey
721--A Girl from the South By Charles Garvice
722--A Freak of Fate By Emma Garrison Jones
723--A Golden Sorrow By Charlotte M. Stanley
724--Norna’s Black Fortune By Ida Reade Allen
725--The Thoroughbred By Edith MacVane
726--Diana’s Peril By Dorothy Hall
727--His Willing Slave By Lillian R. Drayton
728--Her Share of Sorrow By Wenona Gilman
729--Loved at Last By Geraldine Fleming
730--John Hungerford’s Redemption By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
731--His Two Loves By Ida Reade Allen
732--Eric Braddon’s Love By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
733--Garrison’s Finish By W. B. M. Ferguson
734--Sylvia, the Forsaken By Charlotte M. Stanley
735--Married for Money By Lucy Randall Comfort
736--Married in Haste By Wenona Gilman
737--At Her Father’s Bidding By Geraldine Fleming
738--The Power of Gold By Ida Reade Allen
739--The Strength of Love By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
740--A Soul Laid Bare By J. K. Egerton
741--The Fatal Ruby By Charles Garvice
742--A Strange Wooing By Richard Marsh
743--A Lost Love By Wenona Gilman
744--A Useless Sacrifice By Emma Garrison Jones
745--A Will of Her Own By Ida Reade Allen
746--That Girl Named Hazel By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
747--For a Flirt’s Love By Geraldine Fleming
748--The World’s Great Snare By E. Phillips Oppenheim
749--The Heart of a Maid By Charles Garvice
750--Driven from Home By Wenona Gilman
751--The Gypsy’s Warning By Emma Garrison Jones
752--Without Name or Wealth By Ida Reade Allen
753--Loyal Unto Death By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
754--His Lost Heritage By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
755--Her Priceless Love By Geraldine Fleming
756--Leola’s Heart By Charlotte M. Stanley
757--Dare-devil Betty By Evelyn Malcolm
758--The Woman in It By Charles Garvice
759--They Met by Chance By Ida Reade Allen
760--Love Conquers Pride By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
761--A Reckless Promise By Emma Garrison Jones
762--The Rose of Yesterday By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
763--The Other Girl’s Lover By Lillian R. Drayton
764--His Unbounded Faith By Charlotte M. Stanley
765--When Love Speaks By Evelyn Malcolm
766--The Man She Hated By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
767--No One to Help Her By Ida Reade Allen
768--Claire’s Love-Life By Lucy Randall Comfort
769--Love’s Harvest By Adelaide Fox Robinson
770--A Queen of Song By Geraldine Fleming
771--Nan Haggard’s Confession By Mary E. Bryan
772--A Married Flirt By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
773--The Thorns of Love By Evelyn Malcolm
774--Love in a Snare By Charles Garvice
775--My Love Kitty By Charles Garvice
776--That Strange Girl By Charles Garvice
777--Nellie By Charles Garvice
778--Miss Estcourt; or, Olive By Charles Garvice
779--A Virginia Goddess By Ida Reade Allen
780--The Love He Sought By Lillian R. Drayton
781--Falsely Accused By Geraldine Fleming
782--His First Sweetheart By Lucy Randall Comfort
783--All for Love By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
784--What Love Can Cost By Evelyn Malcolm
785--Lady Gay’s Martyrdom By Charlotte May Kingsley
786--His Good Angel By Emma Garrison Jones
787--A Bartered Soul By Adelaide Fox Robinson
788--In Love’s Shadows By Ida Reade Allen
789--A Love Worth Winning By Geraldine Fleming
790--The Fatal Kiss By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
791--A Lover Scorned By Lucy Randall Comfort
792--After Many Days By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
793--An Innocent Outlaw By William Wallace Cook
794--The Arm of the Law By Evelyn Malcolm
795--The Reluctant Queen By J. Kenilworth Egerton
796--The Cost of Pride By Lillian R. Drayton
797--What Love Made Her By Geraldine Fleming
798--Brave Heart By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
799--Between Good and Evil By Charlotte M. Stanley
800--Caught in Love’s Net By Ida Reade Allen
801--Love is a Mystery By Adelaide Fox Robinson
802--The Glitter of Jewels By J. Kenilworth Egerton
803--The Game of Life By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
804--A Dreadful Legacy By Geraldine Fleming
805--Rogers, of Butte By William Wallace Cook
806--The Haunting Past By Evelyn Malcolm
807--The Love That Would Not Die By Ida Reade Allen
808--The Serpent and the Dove By Charlotte May Kingsley
809--Through the Shadows By Adelaide Fox Robinson
810--Her Kingdom By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
811--When Dark Clouds Gather By Geraldine Fleming
812--Her Fateful Choice By Charlotte M. Stanley
813--Sorely Tried By Emma Garrison Jones
814--Far Above Price By Evelyn Malcolm
815--Bitter Sweet By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
816--A Clouded Life By Ida Reade Allen
817--When Fate Decrees By Adelaide Fox Robinson
818--The Girl Who Was True By Charles Garvice
819--Where Love is Sent By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
820--The Pride of My Heart By Laura Jean Libbey
821--The Girl in Red By Evelyn Malcolm
822--Why Did She Shun Him? By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
823--Between Love and Conscience By Charlotte M. Stanley
824--Spectres of the Past By Ida Reade Allen
825--The Hearts of the Mighty By Adelaide Fox Robinson
826--The Irony of Love By Charles Garvice
827--At Arms With Fate By Charlotte May Kingsley
828--Love’s Young Dream By Laura Jean Libbey
829--Her Golden Secret By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
830--The Stolen Bride By Evelyn Malcolm
831--Love’s Rugged Pathway By Ida Reade Allen
832--A Love Rejected--A Love Won By Geraldine Fleming
833--Her Life’s Dark Cloud By Lillian R. Drayton
834--A Hero for Love’s Sake By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
835--When the Heart Hungers By Charlotte M. Stanley
836--Love Given in Vain By Adelaide Fox Robinson
837--The Web of Life By Ida Reade Allen
838--Love Surely Triumphs By Charlotte May Kingsley
839--The Lovely Constance By Laura Jean Libbey
840--On a Sea of Sorrow By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
841--Her Hated Husband By Evelyn Malcolm
842--When Hearts Beat True By Geraldine Fleming
843--WO2 By Maurice Drake
844--Too Quickly Judged By Ida Reade Allen
845--For Her Husband’s Love By Charlotte May Stanley
846--The Fatal Rose By Adelaide Fox Robinson
847--The Love That Prevailed By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
848--Just an Angel By Lillian R. Drayton
849--Stronger Than Fate By Emma Garrison Jones
850--A Life’s Love By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
851--From Dreams to Waking By Charlotte M. Kingsley
852--A Barrier Between Them By Evelyn Malcolm
853--His Love for Her By Geraldine Fleming
854--A Changeling’s Love By Ida Reade Allen
855--Could He Have Known! By Charlotte May Stanley
856--Loved in Vain By Adelaide Fox Robinson
857--The Fault of One By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
858--Her Life’s Desire By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
859--A Wife Yet no Wife By Lillian R. Drayton
860--Her Twentieth Guest By Emma Garrison Jones
861--The Love Knot By Charlotte M. Kingsley
862--Tricked into Marriage By Evelyn Malcolm
863--The Spell She Wove By Geraldine Fleming
864--The Mistress of the Farm By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
865--Chained to a Villain By Ida Reade Allen
866--No Mother to Guide Her By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
867--His Heritage By W. B. M. Ferguson
868--All Lost But Love By Emma Garrison Jones
869--With Heart Bowed Down By Charlotte May Kingsley
870--Her Slave Forever By Evelyn Malcolm
871--To Love and Not be Loved By Ida Reade Allen
872--My Pretty Jane By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
873--She Scoffed at Love By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
874--The Woman Without a Heart By Emma Garrison Jones
875--Shall We Forgive Her? By Charlotte May Kingsley
876--A Sad Coquette By Evelyn Malcolm
877--The Curse of Wealth By Ida Reade Allen
878--Long Since Forgiven By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
879--Life’s Richest Jewel By Adelaide Fox Robinson
880--Leila Vane’s Burden By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
881--Face to Face With Love By Lillian R. Drayton
882--Margery, the Pearl By Emma Garrison Jones
883--Love’s Keen Eyes By Charlotte May Kingsley
884--Misjudged By Evelyn Malcolm
885--What True Love Is By Ida Reade Allen
886--A Well Kept Secret By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
887--The Survivor By E. Phillips Oppenheim
888--Light of His Heart By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
889--Bound by Gratitude By Lillian R. Drayton
890--Against Love’s Rules By Emma Garrison Jones
891--Alone With Her Sorrow By Charlotte May Kingsley
892--When the Heart is Bitter By Evelyn Malcolm
893--Only Love’s Fancy By Ida Reade Allen
894--The Wife He Chose By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
895--Love and Louisa By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
896--A Terrible Secret By May Agnes Fleming
To be published during August, 1914.
897--When To-morrow Came By May Agnes Fleming
898--Wedded for Wealth By Lillian R. Drayton
899--Laurel, the Faithful By Emma Garrison Jones
900--A Question of Honor By Charlotte May Kingsley
To be published during September, 1914.
901--The Seed of Hate By Evelyn Malcolm
902--A Queen at Heart By Ida Reade Allen
903--Married Too Early By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
904--A Mad Marriage By May Agnes Fleming
905--A Woman Without Mercy By May Agnes Fleming
To be published during October, 1914.
906--The Cost of a Promise By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
907--Hope’s Winding Path By Adelaide Fox Robinson
908--The Wine of Love By Lillian R. Drayton
909--Just for a Title By Emma Garrison Jones
To be published during November, 1914.
910--Blunder of an Innocent By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
911--A Little Impostor By Charlotte May Kingsley
912--One Night’s Mystery By May Agnes Fleming
913--The Cost of a Lie By May Agnes Fleming
To be published during December, 1914.
914--Love’s Fetters By Evelyn Malcolm
915--The Good and the Bad By Ida Reade Allen
916--The Fortunes of Love By Mrs. E. Burke Collins
917--Forever and a Day By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
918--All in Vain By Adelaide Fox Robinson
To be published during January, 1915.
919--When the Heart Sings By Lillian R. Drayton
920--Silent and True By May Agnes Fleming
921--A Treasure Lost By May Agnes Fleming
In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the
books listed above will be issued, during the respective months, in New
York City and vicinity. They may not reach the readers, at a distance,
promptly, on account of delays in transportation.
THE EAGLE SERIES
Principally Copyrights Elegant Colored Covers
While the books in the New Eagle Series are undoubtedly better value,
being bigger books, the stories offered to the public in this line
must not be underestimated. There are over four hundred copyrighted
books by famous authors, which cannot be had in any other line. No
other publisher in the world has a line that contains so many different
titles, nor can any publisher ever hope to secure books that will match
those in the Eagle Series in quality.
This is the pioneer line of copyrighted novels, and that it has struck
popular fancy just right is proven by the fact that for fifteen years
it has been the first choice of American readers. The only reason
that we can afford to give such excellent reading at such a low
price is that our unlimited capital and great organization enable us
to manufacture books more cheaply and to sell more of them without
expensive advertising, than any other publishers.
ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT
TO THE PUBLIC:--These books are sold by news dealers everywhere. If
your dealer does not keep them, and will not get them for you, send
direct to the publishers, in which case four cents must be added to
the price per copy to cover postage.
3--The Love of Violet Lee By Julia Edwards
4--For a Woman’s Honor By Bertha M. Clay
5--The Senator’s Favorite By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
6--The Midnight Marriage By A. M. Douglas
8--Beautiful But Poor By Julia Edwards
9--The Virginia Heiress By May Agnes Fleming
10--Little Sunshine By Francis S. Smith
11--The Gipsy’s Daughter By Bertha M. Clay
13--The Little Widow By Julia Edwards
14--Violet Lisle By Bertha M. Clay
15--Dr. Jack By St. George Rathborne
16--The Fatal Card By Haddon Chambers and B. C. Stephenson
17--Leslie’s Loyalty (His Love So True) By Charles Garvice
18--Dr. Jack’s Wife By St. George Rathborne
19--Mr. Lake of Chicago By Harry DuBois Milman
21--A Heart’s Idol By Bertha M. Clay
22--Elaine By Charles Garvice
23--Miss Pauline of New York By St. George Rathborne
24--A Wasted Love (On Love’s Altar) By Charles Garvice
25--Little Southern Beauty By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
26--Captain Tom By St. George Rathborne
27--Estelle’s Millionaire Lover By Julia Edwards
28--Miss Caprice By St. George Rathborne
29--Theodora By Victorien Sardou
30--Baron Sam By St. George Rathborne
31--A Siren’s Love By Robert Lee Tyler
32--The Blockade Runner By J. Perkins Tracy
33--Mrs. Bob By St. George Rathborne
34--Pretty Geraldine By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
35--The Great Mogul By St. George Rathborne
36--Fedora By Victorien Sardou
37--The Heart of Virginia By J. Perkins Tracy
38--The Nabob of Singapore By St. George Rathborne
39--The Colonel’s Wife By Warren Edwards
40--Monsieur Bob By St. George Rathborne
41--Her Heart’s Desire (An Innocent Girl) By Charles Garvice
42--Another Woman’s Husband By Bertha M. Clay
43--Little Coquette Bonnie By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
45--A Yale Man By Robert Lee Tyler
46--Off with the Old Love By Mrs. M. V. Victor
47--The Colonel by Brevet By St. George Rathborne
48--Another Man’s Wife By Bertha M. Clay
49--None But the Brave By Robert Lee Tyler
50--Her Ransom (Paid For) By Charles Garvice
51--The Price He Paid By E. Werner
52--Woman Against Woman By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
54--Cleopatra By Victorien Sardou
56--The Dispatch Bearer By Warren Edwards
58--Major Matterson of Kentucky By St. George Rathborne
59--Gladys Greye By Bertha M. Clay
61--La Tosca By Victorien Sardou
62--Stella Stirling By Julia Edwards
63--Lawyer Bell from Boston By Robert Lee Tyler
64--Dora Tenney By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
65--Won by the Sword By J. Perkins Tracy
67--Gismonda By Victorien Sardou
68--The Little Cuban Rebel By Edna Winfield
69--His Perfect Trust By Bertha M. Clay
70--Sydney (A Wilful Young Woman) By Charles Garvice
71--The Spider’s Web By St. George Rathborne
72--Wilful Winnie By Harriet Sherburne
73--The Marquis By Charles Garvice
74--The Cotton King By Sutton Vane
75--Under Fire By T. P. James
76--Mavourneen From the celebrated play
78--The Yankee Champion By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
79--Out of the Past (Marjorie) By Charles Garvice
80--The Fair Maid of Fez By St. George Rathborne
81--Wedded for an Hour By Emma Garrison Jones
82--Captain Impudence By Edwin Milton Royle
83--The Locksmith of Lyons By Prof. Wm. Henry Peck
84--Imogene (Dumaresq’s Temptation) By Charles Garvice
85--Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold By Charles Garvice
86--A Widowed Bride By Lucy Randall Comfort
87--Shenandoah By J. Perkins Tracy
89--A Gentleman from Gascony By Bicknell Dudley
90--For Fair Virginia By Russ Whytal
91--Sweet Violet By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
92--Humanity By Sutton Vane
94--Darkest Russia By H. Grattan Donnelly
95--A Wilful Maid (Philippa) By Charles Garvice
96--The Little Minister By J. M. Barrie
97--The War Reporter By Warren Edwards
98--Claire (The Mistress of Court Regna) By Charles Garvice
100--Alice Blake By Francis S. Smith
101--A Goddess of Africa By St. George Rathborne
102--Sweet Cymbeline (Bellmaire) By Charles Garvice
103--The Span of Life By Sutton Vane
104--A Proud Dishonor By Genie Holzmeyer
105--When London Sleeps By Chas. Darrell
106--Lillian, My Lillian By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
107--Carla; or, Married at Sight By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
108--A Son of Mars By St. George Rathborne
109--Signa’s Sweetheart (Lord Delamere’s Bride) By Charles Garvice
110--Whose Wife is She? By Annie Lisle
112--The Cattle King By A. D. Hall
113--A Crushed Lily By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
114--Half a Truth By Dora Delmar
115--A Fair Revolutionist By St. George Rathborne
116--The Daughter of the Regiment By Mary A. Denison
117--She Loved Him By Charles Garvice
118--Saved from the Sea By Richard Duffy
119--’Twixt Smile and Tear (Dulcie) By Charles Garvice
120--The White Squadron By T. C. Harbaugh
121--Cecile’s Marriage By Lucy Randall Comfort
123--Northern Lights By A. D. Hall
124--Prettiest of All By Julia Edwards
125--Devil’s Island By A. D. Hall
126--The Girl from Hong Kong By St. George Rathborne
127--Nobody’s Daughter By Clara Augusta
128--The Scent of the Roses By Dora Delmar
129--In Sight of St. Paul’s By Sutton Vane
130--A Passion Flower (Madge) By Charles Garvice
131--Nerine’s Second Choice By Adelaide Stirling
132--Whose Was the Crime? By Gertrude Warden
134--Squire John By St. George Rathborne
135--Cast Up by the Tide By Dora Delmar
136--The Unseen Bridegroom By May Agnes Fleming
138--A Fatal Wooing By Laura Jean Libbey
139--Little Lady Charles By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
140--That Girl of Johnson’s By Jean Kate Ludlum
141--Lady Evelyn By May Agnes Fleming
142--Her Rescue from the Turks By St. George Rathborne
143--A Charity Girl By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
145--Country Lanes and City Pavements By Maurice M. Minton
146--Magdalen’s Vow By May Agnes Fleming
147--Under Egyptian Skies By St. George Rathborne
148--Will She Win? By Emma Garrison Jones
149--The Man She Loved By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
150--Sunset Pass By General Charles King
151--The Heiress of Glen Gower By May Agnes Fleming
152--A Mute Confessor By Will M. Harben
153--Her Son’s Wife By Hazel Wood
154--Husband and Foe By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
156--A Soldier Lover By Edward S. Brooks
157--Who Wins? By May Agnes Fleming
158--Stella, the Star By Wenona Gilman
159--Out of Eden By Dora Russell
160--His Way and Her Will By Frances Aymar Mathews
161--Miss Fairfax of Virginia By St. George Rathborne
162--A Man of the Name of John By Florence King
163--A Splendid Egotist By Mrs. J. H. Walworth
164--Couldn’t Say No By John Habberton
165--The Road of the Rough By Maurice M. Minton
167--The Manhattaners By Edward S. Van Zile
168--Thrice Lost, Thrice Won By May Agnes Fleming
169--The Trials of an Actress By Wenona Gilman
170--A Little Radical By Mrs. J. H. Walworth
171--That Dakota Girl By Stella Gilman
172--A King and a Coward By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
173--A Bar Sinister By St. George Rathborne
174--His Guardian Angel By Charles Garvice
175--For Honor’s Sake By Laura C. Ford
176--Jack Gordon, Knight Errant By Barclay North
178--A Slave of Circumstances By Ernest De Lancey Pierson
179--One Man’s Evil By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
180--A Lazy Man’s Work By Frances Campbell Sparhawk
181--The Baronet’s Bride By May Agnes Fleming
182--A Legal Wreck By William Gillette
183--Quo Vadis By Henryk Sienkiewicz
184--Sunlight and Gloom By Geraldine Fleming
185--The Adventures of Miss Volney By Ella Wheeler Wilcox
186--Beneath a Spell By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
187--The Black Ball By Ernest De Lancey Pierson
189--Berris By Katharine S. MacQuoid
190--A Captain of the Kaiser By St. George Rathborne
191--A Harvest of Thorns By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman
193--A Vagabond’s Honor By Ernest De Lancey Pierson
194--A Sinless Crime By Geraldine Fleming
195--Her Faithful Knight By Gertrude Warden
196--A Sailor’s Sweetheart By St. George Rathborne
197--A Woman Scorned By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
200--In God’s Country By D. Higbee
201--Blind Elsie’s Crime By Mary Grace Halpine
202--Marjorie By Katharine S. MacQuoid
203--Only One Love By Charles Garvice
204--With Heart So True By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
205--If Love Be Love By D. Cecil Gibbs
206--A Daughter of Maryland By G. Waldo Browne
208--A Chase for a Bride By St. George Rathborne
209--She Loved But Left Him By Julia Edwards
211--As We Forgive By Lurana W. Sheldon
212--Doubly Wronged By Adah M. Howard
213--The Heiress of Egremont By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
214--Olga’s Crime By Frank Barrett
215--Only a Girl’s Love By Charles Garvice
216--The Lost Bride By Clara Augusta
217--His Noble Wife By George Manville Fenn
218--A Life for a Love By Mrs. L. T. Meade
220--A Fatal Past By Dora Russell
221--The Honorable Jane By Annie Thomas
223--Leola Dale’s Fortune By Charles Garvice
224--A Sister’s Sacrifice By Geraldine Fleming
225--A Miserable Woman By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman
226--The Roll of Honor By Annie Thomas
227--The Joy of Loving By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
228--His Brother’s Widow By Mary Grace Halpine
229--For the Sake of the Family By May Crommelin
230--A Woman’s Atonement, and A Mother’s Mistake By Adah M. Howard
231--The Earl’s Heir (Lady Norah) By Charles Garvice
232--A Debt of Honor By Mabel Collins
234--His Mother’s Sin By Adeline Sergeant
235--Love at Saratoga By Lucy Randall Comfort
236--Her Humble Lover (The Usurper; or, The Gipsy Peer) By Charles Garvice
A Woman’s Soul
BY
CHARLES GARVICE
AUTHOR OF
“CLAIRE,” “HER HEART’S DESIRE,” “HER RANSOM,”
“ELAINE,” ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS.
CHAPTER II. OVER THE FENCE.
CHAPTER III. “IF I SHOULD FAIL.”
CHAPTER IV. AT THE TOWERS.
CHAPTER V. AN IDEAL JULIET.
CHAPTER VI. A BUNCH OF VIOLETS.
CHAPTER VII. A RARE DIAMOND.
CHAPTER VIII. SPENSER CHURCHILL.
CHAPTER IX. A SECRET COMPACT.
CHAPTER X. FOR HIM ALONE.
CHAPTER XI. LOVE’S SUBTLE SPELL.
CHAPTER XII. TO WED AN ACTRESS.
CHAPTER XIII. AN ACCEPTED OFFER.
CHAPTER XIV. A BROKEN TRYST.
CHAPTER XV. A TERRIBLE THREAT.
CHAPTER XVI. THE PART OF A HYPOCRITE.
CHAPTER XVII. A CHANCE FOR ESCAPE.
CHAPTER XVIII. FASHIONING THE WEB.
CHAPTER XIX. IN STRANGE SURROUNDINGS.
CHAPTER XX. AN EXTRAORDINARY PROPOSAL.
CHAPTER XXI. AN ART PATRON.
CHAPTER XXII. TWO SONG BIRDS.
CHAPTER XXIII. A SAD HOME-COMING.
CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE HOUR OF NEED.
CHAPTER XXV. AS IN A DREAM.
CHAPTER XXVI. NOT LOVE, BUT PITY.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE GLASS OF FASHION.
CHAPTER XXVIII. ENGAGED.
CHAPTER XXIX. WICKED LORD STOYLE.
CHAPTER XXX. IN THE TOILS.
CHAPTER XXXI. A POSTPONEMENT.
CHAPTER XXXII. “I LOVE HIM STILL.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. OUT OF THE PAST.
CHAPTER XXXIV. “I, TOO, AM FREE.”
CHAPTER XXXV. THE APPROACH OF THE SHADOW.
CHAPTER XXXVI. CONSPIRATORS.
CHAPTER XXXVII. FOILED.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. RETRIBUTION.
Keys to Knowledge
We have a line of the best and cleanest hand books ever published. They
are known as DIAMOND HAND BOOKS. Each one was written by a man or woman
thoroughly conversant with the subject he or she treated. The facts are
presented in an especially attractive manner so that every one who can
read, can understand.
HERE ARE THE TITLES
_PRICE, TEN CENTS EACH_
Sheldon’s Twentieth Century Letter Writer, By L. W. SHELDON
Women’s Secrets; or, How to be Beautiful, By GRACE SHIRLEY
Sheldon’s Guide to Etiquette, By L. W. SHELDON
Physical Health Culture, By PROF. FOURMEN
National Dream Book, By MME. CLARE ROUGEMONT
Zingara Fortune Teller, By a Gypsy Queen
The Art of Boxing and Self-Defense, By PROF. DONOVAN
The Key to Hypnotism, By ROBERT G. ELLSWORTH, M.D.
U. S. Army Physical Exercises, Revised by PROF. DONOVAN
Heart Talks With the Lovelorn, By GRACE SHIRLEY
Frank Merriwell’s Book of Physical
Development, By BURT L. STANDISH
SPECIAL
_PRICE, FIFTEEN CENTS_
How to Keep Fit and Healthy, By MRS. FRANK STEPHENS
If sent by mail, three cents must be added to the cost of each book to
cover postage.
STREET & SMITH, 79 Seventh Avenue. NEW YORK
Twenty Books Every Girl Should Read
Little Nan. By Mary A. Denison.
Eagle No. 439, 10c.
Sunset Pass. By General Charles King.
Eagle No. 150, 10c.
Dear Elsie. By Mary J. Safford.
Eagle No. 337, 10c.
Country Lanes and City Pavements. By Maurice Minton.
Eagle No. 145, 10c.
Couldn’t Say No. By John Habberton.
Eagle No. 164, 10c.
Catmur’s Cave. By Richard Dowling.
Eagle No. 86, 10c.
Wyoming. By Edward S. Ellis.
New Medal No. 532, 15c.
Breakneck Farm. By Evelyn Raymond.
Medal No. 367, 10c.
Service Courageous. By Don Cameron Shafer.
New Medal No. 707, 15c.
Service Audacious. By Don Cameron Shafer.
New Medal No. 717, 15c.
Jack Wheeler, a Western Story. By Capt. David Southwick.
Medal No. 45, 10c.
Frank Merriwell’s Marriage. By Burt L. Standish.
New Medal No. 587, 15c.
The Duchess. By The Duchess.
Select No. 71, 10c.
The First Violin. By Jessie Fothergill.
Select No. 64, 10c.
Meadowbrook. By Mary J. Holmes.
Select No. 48, 10c.
Rory O’More. By Samuel Lover.
Select No. 133, 10c.
John Halifax, Gentleman. By Miss Mulock.
Select No. 117, 10c.
The King’s Stratagem. By Stanley J. Weyman.
Select No. 164, 10c.
East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood.
Select No. 14, 10c.
Plain Tales From the Hills. By Rudyard Kipling.
Select No. 72, 10c.
Complete List of S. & S. Novels sent anywhere upon request
STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK
A WOMAN’S SOUL.
CHAPTER I.
BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS.
“Good-night! Good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say
good-night till it be morrow!”
The speaker was a young girl, who stood in the middle of the room,
her hands clasped, her head bent forward, her eyes fixed in a dreamy
rapture, and the remark was addressed to--no one.
She paused, sighed a little--not from impatience, but with a wistful
dissatisfaction--and absently moved to the window, through which the
last rays of the June sun were flickering redly.
She stood there for a moment or two, then began to pace the room with a
lithe, undulating grace. It was a pity that she was alone, because such
beauty and grace were wasted on the desert air of the rather grim and
dingy room. It was a pity that Sir John Everett Millais, or Mr. Edwin
Long, or some other of the great portrait painters were not present to
transfer her beauty of face and form, for it was a loveliness of no
common order.
Many a poet’s pen had attempted to describe Doris Marlowe, but it
may safely be said that not one had succeeded; and not even a great
portrait painter could have depicted the mobility of her clear, oval
face, and its dark eyes and sensitive lips--eyes and lips so full of
expression that people were sometimes almost convinced that she had
spoken before she had uttered a word.
This evening, and at this moment, her face was all alive, as it were,
with expression, as she put up her hand to smooth back the thick
tresses of dark brown hair--so dark that it was almost black--and,
stopping suddenly before a pier glass which stood at the end of the
room, repeated the familiar lines:
“Good-night! Good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say
good-night till it be morrow!”
“Ah, no! No, no, no!” she exclaimed, stamping her foot and drawing her
brows together at the reflection in the glass. “That is not it, nor
anything like it. I shall never get it! Never! Nev----”
The door opened behind her, and she turned her wistful, dissatisfied,
restless face over her shoulder toward the comer. It was an old man,
bent almost double, with a thin and haggard face, from which gleamed a
pair of dark eyes so brilliant and peering that they made the rest of
the face look almost lifeless. He looked at her keenly, as he paused as
if for breath, and, still looking at her, went to the table and laid a
long roll of paper upon it; then he sank into a chair, and, leaning on
his stick, said, in a hollow voice:
“Well?”
“But it isn’t well, Jeffrey. It’s bad, as bad as could be!” and the
mobile lips allowed a quick, impatient laugh to escape, then compressed
themselves as if annoyed at their levity. “I cannot do it! I cannot!
I have tried it a hundred times, a thousand times! And it sounds more
like--oh, it sounds more like a servant-maid saying, ‘Good-night,
good-night, call me at seven to-morrow!’ than Juliet’s immortal adieu!”
“Does it?” said the old man, calmly.
“Yes, it does; very much!” she retorted, half laughing again. “Oh,
Jeffrey, I can’t do it, and that is the simple truth! Tell them I
cannot do it, and--and beg me off.”
The old man stretched out his hand slowly, and taking the paper from
the table, as slowly unfastened it and displayed it at full length.
It was a playbill, printed in the usual style, in red and blue ink--
Theatre Royal, Barton.
“Romeo and Juliet.”
Miss Doris Marlowe as Juliet.
The girl looked at it, a faint color coming into her face; then she
raised her eyes to the glittering ones above the placard and shook her
head.
“Miss Doris Marlowe will murder Juliet!” she said; “that is what it
will be, Jeffrey--simple murder. You must prevent the perpetration of
so hideous a crime!”
“Too late!” he said in his hollow voice; “the bills are already out.
The play is advertised in the papers; they were booking at the theatre
when I left. You must play it. What is the matter?”
“The matter----” she began, then stopped abruptly, as if in despair.
“I don’t know what is the matter. I only feel as if--oh, as if I
were any one but Juliet. Why didn’t you let me go on playing little
comedy parts, Jeffrey? I could do those after a fashion--but Juliet!
I ought to be flattered,” and she looked at the bill, “but I am very
frightened!” and she laughed again.
“Frightened!” he said, his thick white brows coming together. “Why
should you be frightened? Have I not told you you could do it, and do I
not know? Am I ever wrong?”
“No, no,” she hastened to reply. “You are always right, and it is I who
am always wrong. And indeed, Jeffrey, dear, I will try! I will try for
your sake!” and she glided across to his chair and laid her hand--a
long, white hand, soft and slim as a child’s--upon his shoulder with
tender docility.
“Try for your own,” he said, not unkindly, but gravely. “Try for art’s
sake, and yet--yes, try for mine! You know how I have set my dream on
your success--you know that it is the dream, the aim of my life! Ever
since you were a child and sat upon my knee looking up into my face
with your great eyes, I have looked forward to the day when the world
should acknowledge that Jeffrey Flint could make a great actor though
he failed himself!”
The dark eyes glittered still more keenly as he spoke, and the hand
that held the playbill tightened.
“You will succeed if you set your heart on it,” he said more calmly.
“You have done well up to now; I haven’t praised you: that is not my
way; but--but--I am satisfied. Up to now you have got on in regular
strides--to-morrow night is the great leap! The great chance that
seldom comes more than once in a life. Take it, Doris, take it!”
“Yes, Jeffrey,” she said, softly; but he heard the sigh she tried to
stifle and looked up.
“Well?” he said grimly. “You would say----”
She moved away from him and leaned against the table, her hands clasped
loosely.
“I was going to say that it seems to me as if all the trying in
the world would not make me a Shakespeare’s Juliet! The lines are
beautiful, and I know them--oh, yes, I know them, but----” she paused,
then went on dreamily: “Do you think any young girl, any one so young
as I am, could play it properly, Jeffrey?”
“Juliet was fourteen,” he said, grimly.
Doris smiled.
“That’s a mistake, I think, Jeffrey; she was eighteen, most people say!
Oh, she was young enough; yes, but--but then you see she had met Romeo.”
The old man looked at her attentively, then his keen gaze dropped to
the floor.
“Is it necessary for an actor to have actually died before he can
perfectly represent a death scene?” he asked.
She laughed, and a faint blush rose to her face.
“Perhaps dying isn’t so important as falling in love, Jeffrey; but it
seems to me that one must have loved--and lost--before one can play
Juliet, and I’ve done neither.”
He made no response to this piece of speculation; but after some
minutes’ silence he said:
“Do some of it, Doris.”
She started slightly, as if he had awakened her from a dream, and
recited some of the lines.
The old man watched her, and listened anxiously at first, then with
rapt attention, as, losing herself in the part, she grew more emphatic
and spontaneous; but suddenly she stopped.
“It will not do, Jeffrey, will it?” she said, quickly. “There--there is
no heart in it, is there? Don’t tell me it’s all right!” she pleaded.
“I always like the truth from you--at least!”
“And you get it,” he said, grimly. “No, it is not all right. You
look----” he stopped--“and your voice is musical and thrilling,
but--there is something wanting yet. Do not give it up--it will all
come right. To-morrow with the lights and the people--there will be a
full house, crammed--the feeling you want will come, and I shall be
satisfied.”
He rose and rolled up the paper.
“I have to go back to the theatre.”
“I’ll come with you,” she said, quickly.
“No,” he said; “you are better alone. Take your book and go out into
the fields. This room is not large enough--” and he passed out.
She understood him and, after a moment or two of reflection, got her
hat, murmuring as she ran down the stairs--
“Dear old Jeffrey, I must do it for his sake.”
Doris Marlowe, as she passed down the quiet street, was as unlike the
popular idea of an actress as it is possible to imagine. It is too
generally supposed by the great public that an actress must necessarily
be “loud” in word, dress and voice, that she must be affected on and
off the stage, and that her behavior is as objectionable as her manner
and attire. If the usual run of actresses are of this fashion, Doris
was a singular exception to this rule. Her voice was soft and low, and
as refined in its tones as the daughter of an earl; her manner was as
quiet as any well-bred lady’s could be, and in her plain white dress
and straw hat she looked as much like a schoolgirl as anything else,
especially as she had a copy of “Romeo and Juliet” in her hand, which
might have been mistaken for a French grammar.
There was in fact nothing “loud” about her; indeed, when off the stage
she was rather silent and shy, and the color was as apt to come into
her pale white cheeks as into those of the schoolgirl she resembled.
It was only from the quiet play of the dark thick brows, and the ever
changing expression of the eloquent eyes, that the keenest observer
would ever have detected that Doris Marlowe was something different
from the ordinary young lady whom one meets--and forgets--every day.
She passed up the street, her book held lightly in her hand, her eyes
fixed dreamily on the roseate sky, and watching the din and bustle of
the big manufacturing town which climbed up the hill in front of her,
turned aside, and, making her way up a leafy lane, reached the fields
which are as green as if Barton and its score of factory chimneys were
a hundred miles away.
There was not only green grass, but clumps of trees and a running
brook, and Doris, casting herself, after the fashion of her sex, on the
bank by the stream, opened the book and began to study.
But after a few minutes, during which she kept her eyes upon the
page with knitted brows, her thoughts began to wander, and, letting
the book slip to the ground, she leaned against the trunk of a tree,
and, clasping her hands around her knees, gave herself up to maiden
meditation, fancy-free.
And it was of herself--of all people in the world!--she was thinking.
She was looking back, recalling her past life, and marveling over it
with a pleasant little wonder.
And yet there was nothing very marvelous in it after all.
Ever since she could remember she and Jeffrey--“dear old Jeffrey!”--had
been alone. Ever since she could remember he had seemed to her as bent
and white-haired and old as he was now, and she knew no more of him, or
how it happened that he had stood to her in place of mother and father,
and kith and kin, than she knew now.
Of her real father and her mother she had always been totally ignorant.
As a child she had accepted Jeffrey as a fact, without questioning, and
when, in later years, she had put some questions about her parents to
him, she had equally accepted the answer.
“Ask me nothing, Doris. Your mother was an angel; your father----” Then
he had stopped and left her; and, from that day to this, Doris had not
repeated the question.
They had lived, she remembered, in complete solitude. Of Jeffrey’s
early life she knew nothing for certain, excepting that he had been an
actor; that he had been--and was--a gentleman; and that he had received
a good education.
She had no other tutor than he, and she could have had no better. With
a skill and patience which sprang from his love for her, he had taught
her as few girls are taught. As a child, she would speak and write
with wonderful fluency, and at the age most girls are struggling with
five-finger exercises, she could play a sonata of Beethoven’s with a
touch and brilliance which a professional might have envied.
Her strange guardian’s patience was untiring. He ransacked the stores
of his memory on her behalf, he spent hours explaining the inner
meaning of some line from Shakespeare--in showing her how to render a
difficult piece of music.
And when, one day, when her beautiful girlhood was rich with the
promise of a still more beautiful womanhood, she had looked up at him
laughingly, and said:
“Why do you take all this trouble with me, Jeffrey? What shall I do
with all these things you have taught me?” he had startled her by
turning to her with flashing eyes, and saying, with grim earnestness:
“I have taken all this trouble, as you call it, for this
reason--because I love you, and because I mean you to be a great
actress!”
She accepted his dictum without a word, or a thought of questioning
it. She knew, then, why he had taught her to love the great
poet--why he had made her, and still made her, recite whole plays of
Shakespeare--why he spent hours in showing her how such and such a
speech should be delivered. And she was grateful--as grateful as if he
had been rich and surrounded her with luxury, instead of being poor and
sharing with her the shabby rooms and simple fare which were the best
he could afford.
It was a gray and sober life, enlivened only by frequent visits to the
theatre. They had lived in France and Germany as well as in England,
and he had taken her to see the first players in each country.
“Remember,” he would say, when they had returned from seeing some
famous actress, “remember how she spoke that line, that is how it
should be delivered,” or, “Did you notice how Madame So-and-so went
off in the second scene? Then don’t go and do likewise!” and Doris’s
trained intellect had stored up the hints for future use.
It was a life of hard work, and some girls would have become dull and
listless, but Doris was light-hearted; her laugh was always ringing
in the dingy lodgings as if they were palaces and she was happy and
content.
Then had come the time of her first appearance on the stage. It is the
fashion nowadays for an actor to begin at the top of the ladder--and,
alas, how often he works downward! Jeffrey chose that the beautiful
girl whom he had trained so carefully should begin at the bottom.
“Learn to walk the stage, and deliver a simple message: that is
difficult enough at first, easy as it seems,” he had said; and
Doris put on cotton frocks and white caps, and played servant maids
for a time. From them she rose to young lady parts--always easy,
unpretentious ones, and always in the country theatres.
“When we take London it shall be by storm,” he said.
And so she went from one country town to another, and the young actress
grew more familiar with her art each month, and the critics began to
notice her, and to praise not only her beauty but her talent.
And all this time, Doris, even in the gayest surroundings of her daily
life, remained unsophisticated and natural. Jeffrey watched over her as
jealously as a father could have done.
He could not prevent people admiring her, but he kept the love letter,
the neat little cases of jewelry from her, and Doris--Doris Marlowe the
actress--was as ignorant and unconscious of the wickedness of the world
as the daughter of a country rector.
And as ignorant and innocent of love, save the love she had for the
strange, grim being who had lavished so much on her.
She had read of love in books, had acted it on the stage, but it was as
one who speaks a language he does not understand, and who marvels at
the effect his words have upon his initiated hearers.
Once a young actor, who had played lovers’ parts with her during a
season, had managed to speak with her alone--it was during the “wait”
between acts--and in faltering accents had tried to tell her that he
had dared to fall in love with the beautiful being so jealously guarded
by the dragon. Doris had listened for a moment or two, with her lovely
eyes wide open, with puzzled astonishment, then she said:
“Oh, please, don’t go on! I thought it was a part of the play,” and a
smile flashed over her face.
The young fellow grew black, and as he passed her to go on the stage,
muttered, “Heartless!”
But Doris was not heartless. She had smiled because her heart lay
too deep for him to touch, because, like the Sleeping Beauty, it was
waiting for the coming prince who should wake it into life and love,
and the young actor was not that prince.
Doris sat thinking of the past, quite lost, until the striking of a
church clock recalled her to the fact that a certain young lady was to
play Juliet to-morrow, and that the aforesaid young lady had come out
into the field to study it!
She took up the book with a sigh.
“I wish I could see some one play it,” she thought; and then there
flashed into her mind the memory of one night Jeffrey had taken her to
Drury Lane to see a famous actress in the part; but they did not see
her after all, for during the first act there had been one of those
slight but unmistakable movements in the audience which announces the
entrance of some one of importance.
Doris looked round, with the rest, and saw some persons come into a box
on the grand tier. Among them was an old gentleman, tall and thin, with
a remarkably distinguished presence. He wore a blue ribbon across his
waistcoat, but Doris had been attracted more by his face even than by
the ribbon.
It was a handsome face, but there was something in it, a certain cold
and pitiless hauteur, that seemed to strike a chill almost to Doris’
heart. As he stood in front of the box, and looked around the house
with an expression of contempt that was just too indolent to be sheer
hatred, she met the hard, merciless eyes and shuddered.
“Who is he, Jeffrey?” she asked, in a whisper, and touching his arm
with a hand that trembled a little.
Jeffrey’s rapt face had been fixed on the stage, but he turned and
looked at the distinguished personage, and Doris remembered now the
sudden pallor of his face, from which his glittering eyes had flashed
like two spots of red fire set in white ashes.
The look vanished in a moment and he made no reply, and a few minutes
afterward had said:
“It is too hot--let us go.”
Doris recalled the incident now, and wished they had stopped and seen
the great actress; especially as Jeffrey had always afterward avoided
“Romeo and Juliet,” as if the play had some painful association.
“I shall have to draw on Shakespeare alone for inspiration,” she
thought, looking at the brook. “But, ah! if only some one could only
teach me to say that ‘Good-night, good-night!’ properly.”
She was repeating the words in a dozen different tones, and shrugging
her shoulders discontentedly over each, when suddenly there came
another sound upon her ears beside that of her voice and the brook.
It was a dull thud, thud, on the meadow in front of her, and as it came
nearer a voice broke out in a kind of accompaniment, a voice singing
not unmusically:
“The Maids of Merry England, the Merry, Merry Maids of England!”
There was a hedge on the other side of the brook, and Doris raised
herself on her elbow and looked over.
What she saw was a young man galloping across the meadow at a breakneck
speed, which the horse seemed to enjoy as much as his rider.
Doris had never seen any one ride like that, and she was too absorbed
in the general spectacle to notice that the young man was singularly
handsome, and that he made, as he sat slightly in the saddle, with the
sunset rays turning the yellow of his mustache and hair to pure gold,
a picture which Murillo might have painted and christened “Youth and
Health.”
She watched for a moment or two; then, thinking herself safe from
observation behind her hedge, sank down again, and took up her book.
But the thud, thud, and the “Maids of Merry England” came nearer and
nearer. Then they stopped together, and a voice, speaking this time,
said:
“Hallo, old girl!--over with you!”
The next moment Doris saw horse and rider in the air, almost above her
head, and the next the horse was on its knees, with its nose on the
ground, and the rider lay stretched at her feet, as if a hand from the
blue sky had hurled him from his seat.
CHAPTER II.
OVER THE FENCE.
It had all happened so suddenly that Doris sat for a moment staring at
the motionless figure. Then the color forsook her face, and she sprang
up with a cry, and looked round for help. There was not a moving thing
in sight excepting the horse, who had picked himself up and was calmly,
not to say contemptuously, grazing a few yards off.
Doris, trembling a little, knelt down and bent over the young man. His
eyes were closed, and his face was white, and there was a thin streak
of red trickling down his forehead.
A spasm ran through her heart as she looked, for the sudden dread had
flashed across her mind that--he was dead.
“Oh, what shall I do?” she cried, and she sprang to her feet, aroused
by the impulse to run for assistance; but the white, still face seemed
to utter a voiceless appeal to her not to leave him, and she hesitated.
No!--she would not leave him.
She whipped out her handkerchief, and, running to the brook, dashed it
into the water; then, kneeling down beside him, bathed his forehead,
shuddering a little as she saw that the thin streak of red came again
as fast as she washed it away.
Presently she fancied that she saw a faint tremor upon the pale lips,
and in her eagerness and anxiety she sank down upon the grass and
drew his head upon her knee, and with faltering hands unfastened his
collar. She did it in pure ignorance, but it happened to be exactly
the right thing to do, and after a moment or two the young fellow
shivered slightly, and, to Doris’ unspeakable relief, opened his eyes.
There was no sense in them for a spell, during which Doris noticed, in
the way one notices trivial things in moments of deep anxiety, that
they were handsome eyes, of a dark brown; and that the rest of the
face was worthy of the eyes; and there flashed through her mind the
half-formed thought that it would have been a pity for one so young
and so good-looking to have died. Then a faint intelligence came into
his upturned gaze, and he looked up into her great pitying eyes with
a strange look of bewilderment which gradually grew into a wondering
admiration that brought a dash of color to Doris’ face.
“Where am I?” he said at last, and the voice that had sung “The Maids
of Merry England” sounded strangely thin and feeble; “am I--dead?”
It was a queer question. Did he think that it was an angel bending over
him? A faint smile broke over Doris’ anxious face, and one sprang up to
his to meet it.
“I remember,” he said, without taking his eyes from her face; “Poll
pitched me over the hedge.”
He tried to laugh and raise his head, but the laugh died away with
suspicious abruptness and his head sunk back.
“I--I beg your pardon!” he said. “I must have come an awful cropper;
I--I feel as if I couldn’t move!” and he made another effort.
“Oh, no, no,” said Doris anxiously; “do not try--yet. Oh, I am afraid
you are very much hurt! Let me----” she wiped his forehead again. “If
there were only some one else to help,” she exclaimed in a piteous
voice.
“Don’t--don’t--please don’t you trouble about it,” he said, pleadingly.
“I shall be all right directly. It’s ridiculous--” he added faintly,
but endeavoring to laugh again. “I feel as if I’d got rusty hinges at
the back of my neck.”
His eyes closed for a moment, for, notwithstanding the laugh and his
would-be light tone, he was in considerable pain; then he opened them
again and let them rest upon her face.
“You’re awfully good to me!” he said, slowly. “I feel ashamed--” he
stopped, and a deep blush rose through the tan of his face, for he had
suddenly realized that his head was in her lap, a fact of which Doris
was perfectly unconscious. “Awfully good!” he repeated.
“Oh, don’t talk!” she said, earnestly. “You--you are not able! Oh! if
there was something I could do! Water! I will get you some to drink,”
and she put his head gently from her and rose.
He smothered a sigh.
“There’s--there’s a flask in my saddle-pocket, if I could only get at
it,” he said.
“I’ll get it,” she said, swiftly.
“No, no,” he said, quickly. “The--the horse, I mean might--”
But she was off like the wind, and quite regardless of danger. The
horse raised his head and looked at her, and apparently seemed to take
in the gravity of the situation, for it stood quite still while she
searched the saddle.
“It is not here!” she said, in a voice of distress.
“No, by Jove, I recollect! I left it at home,” he faltered. “I’m so
sorry! Don’t--please--don’t trouble!” and he raised himself on his
elbow.
She flew from the horse to the brook, then stopped short for a moment
as she remembered that she had nothing to hold water. He watched her
and understood.
“Never mind,” he said.
“But there must be some way!” she cried, distressfully.
“If--if you’ll bring some in your hands,” he suggested, the color
coming into his face.
She stopped and made a cup of her two palms, and turned to him
carefully, fearful of spilling a drop.
The young fellow hesitated, and first glanced up at her face, unseen by
her, then bent his head.
When he raised it there was a strange look in his eyes, and he drew a
long breath. Doris dropped her hands with a sudden swiftness.
Reverently, gratefully as his lips had touched her hands, their touch
had sent a strange thrill through her.
“I--I am afraid you did not get much,” she said, and her voice
faltered, though she strove to keep it firm and steady.
“Yes, yes!” he said. “Thank you very much. I am better--all right now!”
and to prove it he sat up and looked round him.
But his eyes returned to her face almost instantly, as if loth to leave
it.
“I never was so sorry in all my life,” he said. “To think that I should
have given you all this trouble! And--and frightened you, too!” he
added, for she had sunk down upon the bank and was trembling a little
as she wiped her hands.
“No, no, I am not frightened,” she said. “But it--it was so sudden.”
He looked round and bit his lip.
“Great Heavens!” he exclaimed, remorsefully, “I--I might have fallen on
to you!”
A faint smile played upon her lips for an instant.
“You nearly did so as it was,” she said.
He drew a long breath, and his eyes sought her face penitently.
“It was abominably careless of me,” he said in a low voice. “But I had
no idea that there was any one here; I didn’t think of looking over the
hedge.”
“It is a very high one,” she said, and her lips quivered with a little
shudder, as she recalled the moment in which she saw him fall.
He glanced at it carelessly.
“Polly would have done it if it hadn’t been for the brook! I’d
forgotten that there might be a drop this side, and----” He stopped
short, his eyes fixed upon her dress, upon which were two or three
red spots staining its whiteness. He put his hand to his head. “Your
dress!” he said. “Look there! I’ve spoiled it!”
She looked down at the stains--they were still wet--and felt for her
handkerchief. It was lying on the grass.
“Will you let me?” he said pleadingly, and he took out his own
handkerchief and tried to wipe out the spots.
“Never mind,” she said. “It does not matter.”
“And your hat and book!” He picked them up and glanced at the latter.
“‘Romeo and Juliet!’ You were reading! What a nuisance I have made of
myself. I shall never forgive myself nor forget your kindness! If you
hadn’t been here----” he stopped.
She seemed to be scarcely listening to him.
He sat down, almost at her feet, and fastened his collar, his eyes
resting on her face. He had seen many beautiful women, this young man,
but he thought, as he looked at her, that he had never seen any one so
perfectly lovely.
With a vague feeling of wonder he noticed that her hair was dark,
almost black, and yet her eyes were blue. They were hidden now
between the long, dark lashes, and yet he knew they were blue, for he
remembered noticing it in the first moments of wandering consciousness.
Was it this strange contrast, the blue eyes and black hair, that made
her so lovely? Or was it the shape of the thin, delicate red lips? He
tried to answer the mental question, but his brain seemed in a whirl.
It was not the effects of his fall, but the witchery of her presence.
She was so perfectly still, her face set in quiet gravity, that he
feared to speak or move, lest he should disturb her. Then, suddenly,
she looked up with a little start.
“I must go,” she said, almost to herself.
“Oh, no!” he pleaded. “Wait and rest for a little while!”
She turned her face toward him with a smile, but her eyes were half
veiled by the long lashes.
“It is you that should rest,” she said.
“Oh! I’m all right,” he said. “But you have had a fright, and are--are
upset, and no wonder. I’m afraid you’ll never forgive me,” he added,
remorsefully.
“Forgive?” she repeated, as if she had not understood.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m afraid, if ever we meet again, that you will think
of me as--as the clumsy fellow who nearly rode over you, and--and gave
you all this trouble!”
“No,” she said, simply, “there is nothing to forgive.”
She raised her eyes to his face for a moment as she spoke. He was
still bareheaded, and his hat lay a shapeless mass in the brook, and
the water had formed the yellow hair into short, crisp curls on his
white forehead, and in his dark eyes lingered the look which they had
worn when he had first returned to consciousness--a look of hungering,
reverent admiration.
She took up her hat and put it on slowly. A spell seemed to have fallen
on her. She thought it was the reaction after the excitement.
“I must go,” she said. “But you? Shall I send some one to help you?”
He rose, reluctantly, and laughed softly.
“To help me!” he said. “But I am all right; I never felt better. It’s
not my first tumble by many; and, besides, I’ve not far to go. But you
will let me see you home? I”--he faltered--“I should like to tell your
people, and thank them----”
“No, no,” she said, her eyes following the direction which he had taken
when he said that he had not far to go.
“I am staying at the Towers,” he said, responding to her look. “You
know the Towers?”
She shook her head.
“I am staying with my uncle. My name is Neville--Cecil Neville----” he
stopped as if he expected or wished that she would tell him hers, but
Doris remained silent.
“That’s my uncle’s horse, and I hope I haven’t lamed her!” he laughed.
“Oh, no! Poor thing!” said Doris, pityingly. “It wasn’t her fault!”
“No, it was all mine,” he said. “And I may not go home with you? Will
you let me call and thank you--properly--to-morrow?”
She raised her eyes with a fleeting glance.
“It is not necessary,” she said.
His face fell. She lingered a moment, then she turned away.
“Good-afternoon.”
He glanced up at the sky.
“Good-night!” he said, slowly. “Good-night!” in so low a voice that it
seemed almost a whisper.
She walked through the clump of trees for a hundred yards perhaps, then
stopped with a start.
In the spell that had fallen upon her, she had forgotten her book. She
looked round and saw that he was standing where she had left him. She
waited, and presently he moved, and going to the brook, knelt down and
bathed his face and head. Then he went toward the horse, and calling it
to him, got into the saddle. Not till he had got some distance did she
venture to return.
Her book was there, and beside it the handkerchief with which he had
tried to remove the stains from her dress; they were there still!
She took it up and looked at it dreamily; the whole incident seemed
almost a dream! and saw in a corner, worked in red silk, the initials
C. N., and above them a coronet.
She was about to drop the handkerchief where she had found it, but
instead she thrust it out of sight in the bosom of her dress.
Then with a smile she opened the book.
By a strange coincidence it opened at the page upon which appeared
the words that had proved such a stumbling-block to her, and half
unconsciously she murmured:
“Good-night, good-night!”
What was it that made her start and brought the warm blood to her face?
Only this, that now for the first time the words seemed to possess
their real meaning. She had learned how to speak them!
“Good-night! Good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say
good-night till it be morrow!”
She ought to have been glad; why then did she utter a little cry almost
of dismay, and cover her face with her hands?
CHAPTER III.
“IF I SHOULD FAIL.”
Doris sped homeward, but, fast as she walked, her thoughts seemed to
outrun her. Had she fallen asleep by the brook and dreamed it all?
She could almost have persuaded herself that she had, but for the
handkerchief hidden in the bosom of her dress.
“Cecil Neville!” She repeated the name twenty times, and each time it
sounded more pleasant and musical. There was no need to call up the
remembrance of his face, for that floated before her mental vision as
she hurried on with downcast, dreamy eyes.
“Am I out of my senses?” she exclaimed, at last, trying to rid herself
of the spell by a light laugh. “Any one would think I was playing the
part of a sentimental young lady in a three-act comedy. It was rather
like a play; but it’s generally the hero who saves the life of the
principal lady. I didn’t save his life, though he says I did. How
he said it! Why can’t one speak like that on the stage, now? Cecil
Neville!”
She took out the handkerchief and looked at it.
“And this is a coronet. What is he, I wonder? A duke, or an earl, or
what? And what does it matter to me what he is?” she asked herself
in the next breath. “I may never see him again, and if I did we
should meet as strangers. Dukes or earls have nothing in common with
actresses. I wish I could forget all about him. But I can’t--I can’t,”
she murmured, almost piteously. “Oh, I wish I had stayed at home, and
yet I don’t, either,” she added, slowly. “If I had not been there,
perhaps he would not have come to, and might be lying there now!” she
shuddered. “How brave and strong he looked riding at the hedge; it
was a mad thing to do! And yet he made light of it! Ah, it is nice
to be a man--and such a man! Cecil Neville! I wish he had not told
me his name! I cannot get it out of my head. And he lives with his
uncle at the Towers. Perhaps Jeffrey knows who the uncle is. I must
tell him,” she sighed. Somehow she felt a strong reluctance to speak
of the afternoon’s adventure; but she had never had any secrets from
Jeffrey, and she added with another sigh: “Yes, I must tell him. He
will be angry--no, he is never angry, but he will be--what? sorry.
And yet I could not help it. It was not I who rode at the hedge,
and--I wonder what he thought of me when he came to?” A burning blush
rose to her face, and she stopped still to contemplate the new phase
of the question. “I--I had his head upon my lap! Oh, what could he
have thought? That I was forward and impertinent, and yet, no, he
did not look as if he did, and--and he thanked me and asked me to
forgive him--how many times! Cecil Neville. There”--and she laughed
impatiently--“that is the last time I will think of his name--or him!”
With this prudent resolve she hurried on, and burst into the little
room out of breath, to find Jeffrey seated at the table and waiting for
his supper.
He looked up with his keen glance, and nodded.
“I am so sorry I’ve kept you waiting, Jeffrey,” she said, humbly, as
she threw her hat on the sofa and went to the table.
“No matter,” he said; “you have been walking up and down in the fields
studying, I know,” and he nodded. “It is just the hour, the mystic
gloaming, when the brain quickens and ideas are born.”
“Yes,” she said, her long lashes covering her eyes. “I have been in the
fields, and, Jeffrey, I’ve had an adventure!”
“Cows?” he said, absently. “There is nothing like the open air for such
work as you have in hand. Rachel, the greatest actress of her time, or
any other, did most of her work in the open air----”
“It wasn’t cows,” she broke in, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact
voice; “it was a horse,” and she laughed a little nervously.
“My kingdom for a horse,” he quoted, failing to see the unusual color
in her face, and not observing that she was making a mere pretense of
eating, just breaking a piece of toast with her fingers and sipping her
coffee. “And are you more satisfied now? I have only just come from the
theatre; the booking is the heaviest they have had for years. I have
persuaded the manager to increase the orchestra! Have you seen your
dress? It has come, and I had it sent up to your room.”
“I did not go up; I will try it on directly.”
He pushed his chair back, and began walking up and down the room, his
hands crossed behind his bent back, his head drooping, his glittering
eyes fixed on the floor.
Doris knew that it was hopeless to attempt to speak of anything but the
play, but she made another effort, for conscience sake.
“Do you know who lives in that large place on the hill, Jeffrey,
the--the Towers, it is called?”
He shook his head with distinct indifference.
“No; some marquis or other. What does it matter?” he added,
impatiently.
“Well, I saw the nephew of the marquis--if he is a marquis--this
afternoon. He fell off his horse----”
“Yes!” he said, with profound indifference. “I remember a manager
who put horses on in the first scene of ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ It was
effective--but unnecessary. By the way, take care how you arrange your
train in the ballroom scene; leave Romeo room to get near you without
having to draw it on one side; it attracts attention from the action of
the play at a most important moment. A detail; but it is the details
that, massed together, make or mar the whole.”
She made yet another effort.
“I was going to tell you about the accident, Jeffrey.”
He started, and, stopping in his walk, confronted her with alarm in his
face.
“What accident? I have only just left the theatre; it was all right
then! Oh, you allude to the man who tumbled off his horse? Never mind;
put it out of your head; don’t think of anything but your part. Have
you finished your supper?”
“Yes,” she said, with a sigh and a smile; it was, indeed, utterly
useless to make any further attempt.
“Well, then, let us go over the balcony scene,” and he snatched up the
book and turned to the page with nervous fingers.
Doris rose and opened her lips; then, with a sudden blush, that was as
quickly followed by a strange pallor, she went to him and gently took
the book from his hand.
“Not to-night, not again, Jeffrey,” she said, with a nervousness that
was strange in her. “I--I could not! Don’t be angry, but”--she looked
from side to side with a strangely troubled air--“I--I don’t think I
could do it to-night! Don’t ask me!”
He nodded once or twice, looking at her meditatively.
“I think I understand,” he said, as if to himself. “You are afraid
of getting hackneyed? Perhaps you are right. Yes, you are right,” he
added, quietly; “there is such a thing as over-training. Yes, I know
what you mean. Better let it rest for to-night, after the rehearsal
this morning and the study this afternoon.”
Doris turned her head away with a guilty sense of having deceived him.
“It is not that,” she faltered, “but----” She stopped, and going to him
suddenly, hid her face on his shoulder. “Oh, Jeffrey, if I should fail
to-morrow!”
He patted her arm soothingly.
“There’s no such word for us, Doris,” he said, with grim confidence.
“Don’t speak of failing. Fail! What, after all these years!”--his voice
grew hoarse. “Why, child, what is the matter with you to-night?” he
broke off in alarm, for he could feel that she was crying softly, and
crying was by no means one of Doris’ customary habits.
She raised her head, and hastily wiping her eyes, laughed.
“What is the matter with me, Jeffrey? I wish I knew. Perhaps it’s the
excitement! There, I’m all right now,” and she slid away from him.
The old man seized her arm, and looked into her face intently.
“Doris!” he said, in a husky voice; “you--you are not unhappy?”
“Unhappy!” and she laughed again. “Why should I be unhappy? Perhaps I
cried because I’m too happy! Grief and joy are next of kin, you know.
And oughtn’t I to be filled with joy, I, the Doris Marlowe, who is to
play Juliet to-morrow night?”
His hand dropped from her arm, but he was only half-satisfied.
“If I thought----” he muttered. “Doris, you are all the world to me!
Before Heaven I have had no thought but for you since”--he stopped
abruptly--“since you became my care; day and night, early and late, I
have worked to one end--to make you great and famous and happy! If I
thought----” he wiped the perspiration from his brow, and looked at her
almost wildly.
“I know, I know! Dear, dear old Jeffrey!” she murmured, soothing him
with touch and voice. “No, I don’t know, but I can guess all you have
been to me, all you have done for me. And I am happy, very, very happy!
And I will be great and famous if you wish it! You shall see!” she
said, nodding, and smiling through the tears that veiled her lovely
eyes. “Wait till to-morrow night. There, it is you who are excited now!
And now I’m going to try my dress on. We must look the Juliet if we
cannot act her,” and she stooped and kissed his forehead and ran from
the room.
The old man stood where she had left him, his hands working behind his
back, his brows knotted into thick cords, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Doubt, almost remorse, were depicted on his countenance with an
intensity almost terrible. He sank into a chair, and, covering his face
with his hands, seemed lost in a dream. Presently the door opened, and
Doris, like a vision of loveliness, stood in her white satin dress
before him.
She held the long train in one hand, and in the other a candle above
her head, and stood with a grave smile upon her beautiful face,
waiting. He looked up, then with a sudden cry threw out his arms.
“Lucy, Lucy, I did it for the best, for the best!”
“Jeffrey!” exclaimed Doris, “Jeffrey!” and she hastened toward him in
alarm; but the sound of her voice had recalled him to himself, and,
passing his hand across his forehead he rose and looked at her.
“Yes, yes!” he said, still in a half-dazed manner. “Yes, it will do.
Doris, you are very beautiful.”
She colored and shook her head.
“What a wicked thing to say, you flatterer! But, Jeffrey, why did you
call me Lucy?” she asked, bending over him, her brows drawn together
anxiously.
“Did I?” he replied, evasively. “I--I must have been dreaming.
There--ask me no more questions. The dress is perfect. Perfect!” he
repeated, emphatically, but looking at her face and not the dress.
“Walk across the room.” She did so. “Now, stand as I showed you. So!
Yes, yes,” he murmured with a sigh of satisfaction; “perfect! You
look the part, Doris; not one of them could look it better--no! And
to-morrow”--he stopped and regarded her with an earnestness that was
almost fierce. “Child, if you fail to-morrow, you will kill me! Go now;
go to bed and rest. Go!” he repeated, still looking at her, but waving
her away with his hand as if she recalled some memory too painful to
be borne; and Doris, stooping and kissing him, went up to her own room
again. There she stood before the glass and looked at herself with a
scrutiny that she had never used before.
Jeffrey had called her beautiful. Was she really beautiful? Did others
think her so?--did he? She took up the handkerchief and looked at
it dreamily; then, still in her Juliet dress, she joined her hands
together as she had done when she had made a cup for him; and as she
did so, the warm blood rushed to her face, for she could almost fancy
that even now she could feel the touch of his lips and the golden
moustache upon the soft, pink palms.
Rest! If to lie awake until the clock struck midnight, and then to fall
asleep and dream that she was still bending over the handsome face, all
pale but for the thin streak of red; to hear in her sleep the strong,
musical voice murmuring, “Will you forgive me?” was rest--then Doris
was resting, indeed!
CHAPTER IV.
AT THE TOWERS.
Cecil Viscount Neville rode off at a gallop at first, but presently he
pulled the horse up into a walk, for he wanted to think. Something had
happened besides his tumble that afternoon to “shake the soul of him,”
as Tasso says. The blood was coursing through his veins at racing pace,
and his heart was beating violently with a new and strange emotion. It
seemed to him that he had been in fairyland.
Just as Doris had taken out the handkerchief and looked at it to
convince herself that she had not been dreaming, so he put his hand to
the cut on his forehead to help him to realize that imagination had not
been playing pranks with him.
He had seen beautiful women; in the language of his world he had had
some half-a-dozen of them at least “pitched at his head;” but this
one----
He stopped the horse, and recalled her face as it had looked down upon
him when he came back to consciousness.
“I thought I was dead and that she was an angel!” he murmured, his face
flushing. “There never were eyes like hers! And her voice! And I don’t
know her name even! And I may never see her again! I must, I must!
And I might have ridden over that beautiful creature--she might have
been lying there instead of me!” he shuddered. “I ought to have killed
myself, clumsy, awkward idiot! But she forgave me, yes, she forgave
me!” and he tried to recall, and succeeded in recalling, every word she
had spoken. “I wonder who she is?” he asked himself for the hundredth
time. “Why didn’t I ask her her name? No, I remember I could not! I--I
never felt like that before, never! I felt actually afraid of her! I’ve
half a mind to ride back--would she be angry, I wonder? I didn’t thank
her enough. Why, I behaved like a fool! She must have thought me one!
I’ll ride back and beg her to tell me who she is. I must know!” and
he was about to turn the horse when the clock of the Towers solemnly
chimed the hour.
He started and looked at his watch.
“Dinner time,” he murmured, “and it’s a mortal sin to be five minutes
late! No matter, I must go back,” and he swung round. Then he pulled up
again. “No; she will not like it! It--it will seem as if I were forcing
myself on her, and after all her goodness to me! But not to know her
name even!” and, with something between a sigh and a groan, he put the
horse into a gallop and rode toward home.
Fortunately for the horse, she had struck her knees upon the bank, and
was uninjured, for Lord Cecil had--with unusual indifference--quite
forgotten her, and it was not until he had ridden into the courtyard of
the Towers, and met the surprised stare of the groom who came forward,
that he remembered the animal.
“I’ve had a tumble,” he said. “It was my fault, not Polly’s! Give her
an extra feed and wipe down,” he added, as he patted her. “She isn’t
hurt, I’m glad to say.”
“But you are, my lord, I’m afraid!” said the groom.
“Not a bit,” said Lord Cecil, with a smile, and he hurried across the
courtyard, and up the stone steps to the terrace.
The long walk, laid in Carrara marble, and running the whole length of
the house, was perfectly empty, and everything was suspiciously quiet.
“They’ve begun dinner,” said Lord Cecil, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“That’s unpleasant! I don’t know my uncle very intimately, but I have a
shrewd suspicion that he is the sort of man to cut up rough! Well, no,
I don’t suppose he would be rough if I burned the place down, but he’d
be unpleasantly smooth.”
He hurried along, past a long line of windows, screened by their
curtains, and then past one through which the light came in innumerable
streaks of color--it was the stained oriel window--and at last reached
the great hall.
A groom of the chambers, attired in a dark purple livery that looked
almost like a court suit, came forward with something like solemn
gravity.
“I’m late, eh?” said Lord Cecil, and his clear, young voice, musical as
it was, sounded large and loud in the solemn, subdued air of the place.
“Dinner has been served twenty-two minutes, my lord,” was the grave
reply.
“Oh! hang the two minutes,” said Lord Cecil, “I shan’t be long.” And
he bounded up the stairs, apparently to the amazement of the official
and a couple of stately footmen, who looked after him with surprise. It
took him some two or three minutes to reach his room. The Towers was a
huge place, but which, huge as it was, the marquis only dwelt in for
a month or two once in three or four years--he had so many other and
huger places--and Lord Cecil found his valet waiting for him.
“Look sharp, Parkins,” he said, slipping off his coat. “I’m awfully
late. Has the marquis inquired for me?”
“No, my lord,” said Parkins, as he set about his ministration with
quiet celerity. “Mr. Scobie, the butler, did mention that his lordship
never waited for any one.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Lord Cecil. “It’s bad enough to spoil one’s
own dinner without ruining other people’s. All right? What are you
fumbling at?”
“I was trying to hide the cut on your forehead, my lord.”
“Oh! never mind that,” said Lord Cecil, impatiently, and he hurried
down.
The groom came forward with stately step, and led the way to the
dining-room, and opened the door slowly, as if it were the entrance to
the court.
It was a magnificent room, so large that it had been found necessary to
curtail its dimensions with screens and curtains, the last of crimson
plush with heavy bullion fringe. The table was loaded with a splendid
service of plate, and at the head of it sat the Most Honorable the
Marquis of Stoyle, Earl of Braithwaite and Denbigh, of Scotland, Baron
Barranough of Ireland, Knight of the Garter of England, etc.
He rose with majestic courtesy as Lord Cecil entered, and the light
from the delicately-shaded lamp, falling full upon his face and figure,
made a picture of them calculated to strike the least observant of
mortals.
He was an old man--seventy-two, the “Peerage” says, and that cannot
lie, as somebody remarks--but he was as straight as an arrow, and save
for two lines running from the corners of his finely-shaped nose, and
a few wrinkles at the ends of his gray, piercing eyes, the face was as
smooth as Lord Cecil’s own; smooth and almost as pale as ivory; every
feature as cleanly cut as if it were carved in; smooth and cold as
ice; and yet, with all its icelike impassability, a vague, indefinite
something, not marked enough for an expression, which always riveted
a stranger’s gaze, and made him uncomfortable. It was not exactly
contempt, or hauteur, or dislike, but a commingling of all three, which
imparted to the face a quality hard to define but easy to feel. It
should be added, to complete the picture, that his white hair, worn
rather long, was brushed straight back from his white forehead, and
that the hands were snowy in color and of quite feminine shape and
texture.
This imposing figure stood upright until Lord Cecil had taken his seat,
the hard, steellike eyes regarding him with an impassive, icelike
courtesy, then sank into its seat again.
It was not until he had done so that Lord Cecil was startled by seeing
that a third person was present, for he had been unable to remove his
eyes from the marquis’ while they were on his face. Now he saw that
between him and the marquis sat a lady; and Lord Cecil, as his senses
woke to the fact of her presence, was guilty of an astonished stare.
It is not given to every one to meet in one day the two most beautiful
women he had ever seen, but this was Lord Cecil’s fate. The lady was
young, with a fair and perfectly-tinted face, with dark-brown eyes, and
hair that shone like raw silk under the mellow light that fell from the
candelabra above.
Her presence was so unexpected that Lord Cecil might be pardoned for
expressing in his gaze something of the surprise he felt.
The sound of the marquis’ voice, low and yet clear, like the sound of a
treble-bell, recalled him to himself and his manners.
“This is Lord Cecil Neville, Lady Grace,” he said, and he just moved
his snowy hand. “Cecil, I think I told you that I expected Lady Grace?”
Lord Cecil bowed, and the lady inclined her head with a smile.
“As we are strangers, and Lord Neville has probably never heard of me,
marquis, perhaps you had better add that I am Lord Peyton’s daughter.”
The marquis bowed.
“Of course I have heard of you, Lady Grace,” said Lord Cecil.
The dark-brown eyes opposite him grew rather keen as they rested on his
face, but for a moment only, then she smiled again.
“If I had known that you were here----” He stopped and laughed. “Well,
I was going to say that I’d have been home earlier, but the fact is I
met with a slight accident and was detained.”
The dark eyes seemed to flash over him, then fixed themselves upon the
cut on his forehead.
“You were not hurt, I hope?” she said. “I see you have a cut on your
brow.”
“No,” he said. “It is nothing.”
“How did it happen?” asked Lady Grace. The marquis had not condescended
to make any inquiry; indeed, for any sign or interest he might have
been stone deaf.
“Got pitched over a hedge,” he said.
“By a man?” she asked, raising her brows.
He laughed.
“No, by a horse. By the way, sir,” he said, turning to the marquis, “I
am glad to say that the horse is not injured.”
“No?” said the marquis, with slow indifference. “Perhaps that is as
well; horses are valuable,” and the tone more than the words seemed to
add--“and men--especially Lord Cecil Neville--are not.”
Lord Cecil glanced at him quickly, but the pale face was set and
impassive, as if innocent of any intent to insult.
After this cheerful remark the conversation rather naturally
languished. Lord Cecil was hungry, and devoted his attention to his
plate; the servants moved to and fro waiting with subdued and watchful
assiduity; the marquis ate his dinner with slow, wearied glance, his
eyes fixed on the great, golden epergne in the centre of the table, as
profoundly silent as if he never meant to utter another word. Now and
again Lady Grace raised her eyes and scanned the handsome face opposite
her, and Lord Cecil would have returned the compliment, but while he
ate his dinner he was thinking of that other face with the dark hair
and blue eyes, which had bent over him by the brook, recalling the
sweet voice, which still rang in his ears like distant music.
He started when the low, soft voice of Lady Grace said:
“Have you been at the Towers long, Lord Cecil?”
It was rather an awkward question, for this was his first visit to any
house of the marquis, his uncle, for ten years.
“Two days,” he replied, simply.
Lady Grace’s eyes grew keen, and she glanced from the young man to the
old one.
“I have just been trying to tell the marquis how intensely I admire the
place,” she said.
The marquis inclined his head to her in courtly acknowledgment, but
without a word.
“It is the prettiest--no, the grandest--old place I have ever seen. I
am quite surprised to hear that the marquis seldom visits it. The view
from the terrace is simply magnificent. The country round about must be
very beautiful.”
“I think it is,” said Lord Cecil; the marquis made no sign. “I haven’t
seen much of it.”
“I shall expect you to act as guide to what you have seen,” she said,
with a smile that seemed to flash like a beam of light from her white
face.
“I shall be most happy,” he responded.
“I think the country is at its best in the spring, and I am always glad
to get a little while, a short breathing time, before the London season
commences. Let me see, you are in the Two Hundred and Fifteenth, aren’t
you, Captain Neville?”
“I was,” said Lord Cecil, with a momentary embarrassment, and a glance
at the marble-like face at the head of the table. “I have retired.”
“What a pity!” she said, and her eyes seemed to take in, at a glance,
his broad chest and stalwart limbs.
“Do you extend your sympathy to the army or to Lord Cecil?” asked
the marquis, in a voice too smooth for the sneer which his question
conveyed.
Lord Cecil’s eyes flashed, and his color rose, but he contained himself
and smiled.
“Oh, for both, of course. Surely the commander-in-chief cannot afford
to lose a good officer, and Lord Cecil must be sorry to leave the army.”
“No,” murmured the marquis. “I do not suppose the commander-in-chief
can afford to lose a good officer. Lord Cecil must have been a great
loss,” and his icy glance rested for a moment, without a spark of
expression, upon the handsome face which had flushed again under his
cruel taunt.
“The loss was all on my side, Lady Grace,” he managed to say, with a
smile; “at any rate, the duke bears up wonderfully well.”
Once more the marquis had succeeded in freezing the conversation, and
Lady Grace, after toying with a strawberry, rose to leave the table.
And as Lord Cecil opened the door for her, she put up her fan, and in a
remarkably low voice murmured:
“You will not stay long?”
“I certainly sha’n’t,” he replied, emphatically, and in an equally low
voice: but, low as it was, the marquis appeared to have heard it.
“I shall not detain you long,” he said. “You drink, of course?” and he
touched the decanter.
The tone, and not the words, again seemed to convey an insult, and
Lord Cecil shook his head, feeling as if he would rather have perished
of thirst than drank a glass of the wine thus offered.
“No?” said the marquis, and he managed to make even this single word
offensive. “I thought it was the present custom with young men.”
“No, sir,” said Lord Cecil; “we have changed the fashion.”
The marquis inclined his head as if the retort were a compliment.
“Ah, the present age has no vices, I presume. Is it because they have
no strength for them?”
“I don’t know,” said Lord Cecil, almost coldly.
The marquis filled a glass with the rare and costly wine, and as he
sipped it, allowed his eyes to stray over the rim to his nephew’s face.
“I think I told you Lady Grace was expected?” he said.
“I think not, sir,” said Lord Cecil.
“Ah, it escaped me. Her father is an old--friend of mine.” The pause
conveyed the sneer which lay in almost every sentence he uttered, and
was expressed by tone or word. “He did me a great service, and I owe
him a debt of gratitude.”
Lord Cecil looked up inquiringly. The marquis dipped his white fingers
in the finger-glass, and added, smoothly:
“He ran off with a girl to whom I was going to be married. This is her
daughter, and I am naturally--attached to her.”
The idea of the marquis being attached to any human being on the face
of the earth almost raised a smile on Lord Cecil’s face. He might have
laughed outright; the marquis would have made no sign. He sipped his
wine slowly, then he said:
“She is what the people call a beautiful girl?”
This was put as a question, and Lord Cecil hastened to reply:
“She is very beautiful, sir.”
“If you say so!” said the marquis, with an inclination of the head,
which brought the color to Lord Cecil’s face, and caused him to mutter:
“I can’t stand this much longer.”
“I beg your pardon?” said the marquis, blandly.
In his embarrassment Lord Cecil seized the decanter, and poured out a
glass of wine, and the ghost of a smile crossed the marquis’ face.
“It is rather singular that Lady Grace should have mentioned the army,”
he said. “It reminded me that I wanted to speak to you on the subject.
First let me thank you for complying with my desire.”
Lord Cecil smiled, but rather grimly.
“I don’t think I could have done otherwise, sir,” he said.
“Ah! true--yes. I think, if I remember rightly, that I made the
continuance of your allowance subject to your resigning. No doubt you
thought the condition rather arbitrary. Permit me to explain it. I
could not afford it.”
Lord Cecil stared in an unfeigned astonishment, which appeared to give
the marquis immense satisfaction.
“I generally avoid business matters,” he said, slowly, and as smoothly
as ever; “I leave them to my steward and lawyer. But I think we had
better speak of them--it is a good opportunity! It will surprise you to
hear, no doubt, that I am a poor man!”
Lord Cecil certainly looked surprised. The marquis smiled.
“Y--es,” he said, slowly, as if he enjoyed making the statement. “It
appears that I have spent rather more than double my income for say
fifty years since, and I imagine that my father and grandfather must
have done the same; at least that is the only way in which I can
account for the fact that the whole of the free estates are mortgaged
up to the neck. Up to the neck,” he added, as if it were a line of
especially beautiful poetry.
Lord Cecil sat silent and attentive.
“The land that couldn’t be mortgaged will, of course, come to you,”
continued the marquis, and his tone conveyed his infinite regret; “but
even the income from that will be drawn upon to pay the interest on
the others. Consequently,” with bland and icy politeness, “you will
probably be the poorest peer of the realm.”
Lord Cecil remained silent, his eyes fixed gravely on the pale, set
face, which bore not the faintest indication of regret.
“It is an uncomfortable position! I cannot imagine a more deplorable
one, can you?”
Lord Cecil nodded.
“I--I don’t think I have realized it yet, sir,” he replied.
“Ah!” said the marquis. “But you will. I haven’t felt it because, you
see, I have been able to raise money for myself! That is unfortunate
for you, of course, but I imagine you would have done the same in my
place.”
Lord Cecil did not reply. The heartlessness of the speech simply
staggered him.
The marquis waited, as if to give him time to digest this charmingly
candid statement, then remarked, in as casual a voice as if he were
commenting on the weather:
“Lady Grace’s grandfather made his money and his title out of beer.
She will be immensely rich, I believe, and will not require the small
sum--though it will be my all--which I shall leave her.”
He paused and looked at his white hands, then in an utterly wearied
voice, as if he had exhausted all the interest in the subject, said:
“I am glad you think her so charming! Pray, do not let me keep you from
her any longer!” and he rose and stood like a statue.
Lord Cecil pushed his chair back and rose, his handsome face rather
pale, his eyes flashing.
“Do I understand, sir--do you want me to understand that you wish me
to----” He hesitated a moment, then brought it out, bluntly--“to marry
Lady Grace?”
The marquis surveyed him from under half-closed eyelids, as if he were
some insignificant object at a distance.
“Certainly not!” he said, smoothly. “I was merely making an attempt, I
fear a vain attempt, to amuse you by giving you some information. It
is”--the words dropped with icy, contemptuous indifference from his
scarcely moving lips--“a matter of profound indifference to me whether
you marry Lady Grace--or one of the maids in the kitchen!”
A fierce retort trembled on the tip of Lord Cecil’s tongue, but he
closed his lips tightly, and, returning the courtly bow which the
marquis at this moment accorded him, with a short inclination of the
head, left the room. The marquis gently sank back into his chair with
the placid and serene air of a man who has spent a remarkably pleasant
quarter of an hour.
Outside, in the hall, Lord Cecil pulled himself up and drew a long
breath, as a man does who has kept a tight hold upon himself for about
as long as he can manage; then he paced up and down the full length of
the hall--much to the concealed amazement of the groom and the footmen,
one of whom stood ready to open the drawing-room door for him--and, at
last, remembering that Lady Grace was waiting for him, greatly relieved
the footman’s feelings by entering the room.
Lady Grace was reclining, almost completely lying, on a couch near the
fire. At a little distance sat a middle-aged lady, bent over some kind
of needlework. It was a distant connection of the marquis, who acted as
a kind of housekeeper, and who was more like a shadow than a living,
breathing woman. Beyond his first greeting when he had arrived, Lord
Cecil had not succeeded in exchanging a word with her. As he entered
now she just raised her head like an automaton, and let it fall again
over her work. Lady Grace looked across at him with a smile, and he
went and leaned against the mantel-piece of carved marble and mosaic,
and she let her eyes scan his face in silence for a moment, then she
said, with a smile:
“Have you been enjoying yourself, Lord Cecil?”
“Oh, very much!” he said.
She laughed a low, soft laugh.
“Shall I tell you what you are thinking?” she said.
He looked at her inquiringly.
“You were wondering what train you could catch to-morrow morning.”
He started.
“Right the first time!” he acknowledged, with a short laugh.
She moved her fan--it was a large one of fancy blue feathers--which in
juxtaposition with her face made its fairness seem dazzling.
“Well, don’t,” she said, “for my sake.”
“For your sake?” he said, half-absently.
“Yes. Don’t you see that you would leave me alone? You would not be so
cruel! And after two days only.”
“It seems about two years,” he said, grimly.
She laughed softly, her eyes still fixed on his face, as if it were a
book whose pages she was reading.
“How charming the marquis is, isn’t he?”
“Charming!” he assented, with a volume of bitterness in the word.
“You must be so glad to be here with him, and it is the first time for
ten years!”
“And the last for another ten,” he said, under his breath, but she
heard him.
“Don’t say that. After all, he is not so bad when you know him.”
“There are some people one doesn’t want to know, Lady Grace.”
“And then we must make allowances,” she said. “Why do they call him
Wicked Lord Stoyle?” she asked him, not abruptly, but in the same soft
voice that most people found acted upon them like a caress.
“I don’t know. For good and fully sufficient reasons I’ve no doubt,” he
replied.
“Do you think he has murdered anybody, now?” she inquired, with a smile.
“I don’t know. Perhaps. I daresay. At any rate, I’m quite sure a great
many people must have longed to murder him.”
“Oh, fie!” she said, touching him with the edge of her fan; “and your
uncle, too! I wonder what he has done?”
“I was just wondering what he hasn’t done,” said Lord Cecil, grimly.
She laughed.
“You amuse me, Lord Cecil.”
“I’m awfully glad,” he said. “I didn’t think it was in me to amuse any
one to-night.”
“You have had rather a bad quarter of an hour--yes?” she said, softly.
“What a happy woman the marquis’ wife must have been.”
Lord Cecil started.
“I didn’t know----” he said, inquiringly.
She laughed, and the fan moved to and fro in rhythmic curves.
“No? Oh, yes, there was a marchioness once. Years and years ago. I
believe he killed her--with kindness.”
“Poor woman!” he said, under his breath.
“Yes. But that’s the mystery. No one knows, you see, and never will
know. Everybody knows about his ruining his cousin, Lord Denbigh, at
cards; he committed suicide, and so the marquis inherited the Denbigh
title; and about his shooting old Lady Dalrymple’s son--they say that
the marquis fired before the word was given; and about his running away
with that foolish Lady Penelope--she died in a garret at Dieppe; but
nobody knows about the marchioness. How shocked you look!”
“Do I?” he said. “I didn’t think I was capable of it. But surely that
isn’t all he has done?” he said, with great sarcasm.
“Oh, no; these are trifles which I happened to remember hearing about.
They are only trifles.”
“That is all,” he said.
They were silent for a moment or two; then she said, in the same voice,
too low and soft to reach the old lady sitting at the other end of the
room:
“And now shall I tell you what you are thinking about, Lord Cecil?”
“Don’t! I’m afraid!” he cried.
She laughed.
“You are wondering why I am here?”
His eyes replied in the affirmative for him.
“Because----But, wait! I am more clever even than you suppose! Shall I
tell you what the marquis has been saying to you in the drawing-room;
and why do you look so grim and gloomy?”
He did not answer.
She let her eyes rest upon his face with a serene and languid
expression of amusement.
“Well, then, he has been advising you to marry me.”
Lord Cecil was almost guilty of a start.
He could not speak. The color rose to his face, and his eyes dropped
from hers to the diamond pendant that glistened on the white neck.
She laughed softly, and the diamonds seemed to laugh with her, as they
scintillated in the subdued light.
“Am I right? You need not answer--your face is eloquent enough! And now
I will tell you why I came here--I came to see you.”
He tried to speak, but she held up her fan to command him to silence.
“You see, I know the marquis and his charming ways better than you
do. I knew that he wished us to meet, that we might--how shall I put
it?--respect each other. Well, Lord Cecil, I have seen you, and you
have seen me. But”--she rose with slow and graceful ease and took up
the train of her dress--“but you are not obliged to marry me, and
I”--she laughed softly up at his handsome face--“I am certainly not
obliged to marry you. And now, in reward for my candor--I have been
candid, haven’t I?--you will not leave me alone in this castle of Giant
Despair?”
She did not wait for his answer, but with a soft “good-night” and a
smiling nod, glided from the room.
With the smile still on her face, Lady Grace went slowly up the great
staircase to the magnificent apartments which had been prepared for
her. The smile was still on her face while her maid brushed the long
tresses of silky hair that fell like a shower of gold over the white
shoulders, and even when she was alone she smiled still as she leaned
forward and looked at her face in the glass.
“Yes,” she murmured, falling back and half-closing her eyes. “He is
worth winning. There is only one thing I fear.” She paused, with a
faint sigh. “I am afraid that I shall love him too well!”
Lord Cecil stood with his back to the fire for twenty minutes after
Lady Grace had left him. To say that he was amazed would be only
inadequately to describe the state of his feelings. At last, as if he
were making an effort to cast off the bewilderment which had fallen
upon him, he wished the old lady good-night, and went, not to his
room, but out on to the terrace, for he felt a kind of craving for the
open air, in which he might rid himself of the effects produced by his
insight into his uncle’s character and the extraordinary candor of Lady
Grace.
He drew a long breath as he leaned over the balustrade, and his brain
cleared somewhat.
“If Lady Grace is reading my thoughts at this present moment,” he
murmured, “she’ll know I’m thinking of that train still! Yes, I’ll be
off the first thing to-morrow morning!”
And with this firm resolution he turned to go back to the house. As he
did so, something white fluttered past him, blown by the faint night
breeze.
He stooped and picked it up, and absently glanced at it by the light
from the window. It was a small hand-bill, having on it in red letters:
Theatre Royal, Barton.
“Romeo and Juliet.”
“Romeo and Juliet!” It was that she had been reading by the brook.
Instantly her lovely face rose before him, and dispelled all memory of
the events of the night. He stood, looking down at the paper dreamily,
wistfully,--seeing, not it, but the dark hair and blue eyes of the girl
who had bent over him, whose hands his lips had touched.
“No!” he said, with a sharp sigh; “no, I can’t go, for she is somewhere
here, and I must find her!”
CHAPTER V.
AN IDEAL JULIET.
The hour was approaching. Doris, still in her hat and jacket, sat in
the tiny apartment behind the stage which served as her dressing-room.
She was paler than usual, and her eyes looked of a deeper and darker
blue than usual; but she was calm, with a calm which Jeffrey could not
attain to.
With his hands folded behind him, his head bent upon his breast--his
favorite attitude--he paced up and down the narrow limits of the room,
like a tiger in its cage, waiting for his supper.
“Will the house be full, Jeffrey?” asked Doris, presently.
“Yes,” he replied. “The pit and gallery are full now; they were waiting
at the doors as early as six o’clock. They are not fools, these
Barton people. In some places you would be sure of playing ‘Romeo and
Juliet’ to empty benches, but not here. It is a flourishing place,
and they are intelligent and educated. They have a theatre they may
be proud of, and they are proud of it. In some towns the theatre is a
neglected barn, and when that is so, you may take it that the people
are uncultivated and barbaric. Yes--you will have a fair and patient
hearing; I knew that when I chose Barton for the scene of your great
trial. In London there are so many new Juliets that the critics and the
audience have got incredulous and suspicious--they have seen so many
failures that they go prepared for disappointment; here, it will be
different. They love Shakespeare, they know you, they will hope for the
best, and you will not disappoint them,” and his eyes glittered down
upon her.
Doris smiled.
“Perhaps they will hiss me off the stage!” she said, but she did not
say it very fearfully.
He shook his head, and went on in his monotonous pacing; and presently
a familiar sound struck his ear.
“The curtain is up on the farce,” he said. “You had better begin to
dress. Is there anything I can do--anything I can suggest--anything you
would like to ask me?” he inquired, with his long, thin fingers on the
handle of the door.
Doris shook her head.
“No, Jeffrey, dear; I don’t know of anything, unless you would get into
my skin, and play Juliet instead of me.”
“You are not nervous?” he asked.
“Not a bit,” she answered; “and that is strange, isn’t it? No, I feel
as calm and easy as if I were going to play a waiting-maid’s part; but
I shall be all on the quiver when I am standing at the wings, ready to
go on.”
He nodded, as if he understood, and went out, sending her dresser to
her.
Doris dressed quietly and slowly. Jeffrey had impressed upon her the
importance of avoiding all hurry just before her appearance, and she
had finished, and was sitting before the glass, not looking at herself,
but musing, as it seemed, when he came in again.
“Dressed? That is right! The house is crammed! The manager says it is
the best house he has had since Mr. Irving was here. The boxes look
like London boxes, people in evening dress, and ladies with flowers.”
He stood in front of her, and scanned her dress and get-up keenly.
The dress was of white satin, made quite plainly, with a long train,
its only ornament a row of pearls, which were not stage jewels, but
real, and of great value, and a present from Jeffrey himself. Her dark
hair, looking black by the light, fell round her exquisitely-shaped
face like a frame, and, caught up by a white ribbon behind, swept in
curving tresses to her shoulders. The faint touch of rouge--every
actress must rouge, whether she likes it or not--gave the intense blue
eyes an added depth and brilliance, which the long dark lashes veiled
now and again, but to rise and render the brilliance and color more
marked by their temporary concealment.
It was not his way to praise her beauty, but as he turned away he
muttered something that sounded like approval.
“Did you see any one you know, in front, Jeffrey?” she asked.
“No,” he said, almost impatiently. “I know no one! I suppose all the
people in the boxes are county people, I do not know! I only care for
the pit and gallery; it is from them you must get your verdict, the
boxes and stalls will follow suit.”
“Poor county people!” she said, with a smile, but absently.
“Of what are you thinking--the third scene?” he asked.
Doris started, and the natural color forced its way through the powder
and rouge. She was not thinking of Romeo and Juliet at all, but of the
handsome face that lay in her lap yesterday afternoon, of the young
fellow whose name was Cecil Neville.
“I--I don’t know,” she said, faltering a little. “I think I was
dreaming, Jeffrey.”
“Then you must wake up,” he retorted firmly, but not unkindly. “I heard
the curtain go down on the farce. Will you have a glass of wine?”
She shook her head, and looked at him with smiling surprise.
“And you, who are always preaching against it!” she said.
“I know,” he admitted; “but to-night----”
The manager knocked at the door. He was a keen business man, just
and not ungenerous, and he nodded and smiled at the beautiful vision
admiringly and encouragingly.
“Beautiful house, Miss Marlowe,” he said, “and in the very best of
tempers; a child might play with them to-night.”
“Ah, it is only a child who is going to play to them, Mr. Brown!” said
Doris.
He laughed approvingly.
“By George, that’s good! I must remember that. How do you feel?”
“Frightened out of my life!” said Doris. “Do not be surprised if I
forget my part, and am hissed off!” but her smile belied her words.
“If you are I’ll close the theatre and take to--market gardening!”
retorted the manager.
“Let her alone! I do not want her to talk!” growled Jeffrey, and Mr.
Brown, shrugging his shoulders and making a grimace behind the bent
back, glanced at his watch and hurried off, saying--
“Ten minutes, Miss Marlowe!”
“Ten minutes!” said Doris, dreamily. “Leave me now, Jeffrey, dear.”
He laid his hand on her shoulder and looked down at her with a world of
wistful tenderness and pride and loving anxiety.
“Do your best, Doris!” he said.
“I will, for your sake, Jeffrey!” she responded, touching his hand
caressingly.
“No, for your art’s,” he said, gravely. “I shall be at the wings.”
Now that she was left alone, Doris tried to concentrate her thoughts
upon the coming ordeal; but she could not. Each time she tried to
picture herself upon the stage and speaking the lines set down for
Juliet, the voice of Cecil Neville rang in her ears, and with a low
cry, almost of alarm, she put her hands to her head.
“Ah, that’s stage fright!” said the dresser. “I know what it is,
miss; I’ve had it myself, in my old acting days. But it will pass off
directly you face the house, depend upon it. Don’t you be afraid and
nervous; for, Miss Marlowe, I’ve heard that the very first actors feel
like that, some of them every night, too!”
Doris laughed softly.
“Do they, Mrs. Parkhouse?” she said. “Then there is hope for me. There
is the overture over. Not many minutes now; the curtain is up!”
She bent her head upon her hands and forced herself to think of
the scene that was at that moment being played, to think of the
good-looking young fellow--a great Barton favorite--who was playing
Romeo; but marvel of marvels, instead of his face, which she knew so
well, there rose before her, as Romeo, the face over which she had bent
yesterday.
“Ah, it is no use, no use!” she cried, springing up.
“Oh, don’t say that, miss!” said Mrs. Parkhouse, who had been watching
her with respectful anxiety. “I’m sure--we’re all of us sure and
certain that it will be a success. It will all go right directly you
get on to the stage.”
“Do you think so?” said Doris, with a curious smile. “I hope so--ah, I
hope so; if not----”
“Juliet!” shouted the call boy; and leaving her sentence unfinished,
Doris caught up her train and went to the wings.
The Barton Theatre was a properly conducted one, and none but those
who had business there were permitted behind the scenes; but Doris
had to pass through a small crowd of actors and supernumeraries and
carpenters, and she felt rather than saw the curious glances bent upon
her.
But instantly Jeffrey was by her side.
“It has gone well, so far,” he said. “Mr. Brown was right; the house
is in good humor, notwithstanding the heat and that it is packed. You
played well, Mr. Garland,” he said to the Romeo, who came striding up
and bowed to Doris.
“Did I? Thanks. Not nearly so well as I shall do when I have Juliet to
play to. May I, without offense, say that you are looking your part
most beautifully, Miss Marlowe?”
Doris inclined her head with a smile.
“Romeo should pay compliments, Mr. Garland, and that is a very pretty
one. But I want to do more than look my part!”
“Don’t be afraid,” said the young fellow, gallantly and seriously. “I
haven’t the slightest fear of the result. It will be a big hit; I have
said so all along.”
“And you should know!” said Doris. “I wish I felt as sure.”
“Your cue!” said Jeffrey in a solemn voice, as he touched her arm
warningly.
She started slightly, then with the light, careless gait of a
light-hearted, careless girl, who has no forecast of the doom hanging
over her, she went upon the stage.
A greater part of the audience knew her, but they were astonished by
the sight of her beauty, rendered more beautiful by the exquisite
dress, and they led the thunder of welcome which the strangers, who saw
her for the first time, followed as heartily.
Doris had been taught by Jeffrey that to stop the business of the scene
to acknowledge applause was a cardinal sin, and commenced at once, and
the crowded house fell into instant silence, in which her sweet, clear
voice rang like a silver bell.
A round of applause marked the close of the scene, but there was not
much enthusiasm in it.
She had looked a very typical Juliet, had played her part well, but
there was nothing extraordinary in her acting.
“That’s right, Miss Marlowe!” said Romeo, as she passed him at the
wing. “Saving yourself up! Reserve force, and all that! Quite right!
You’ll let yourself go in the later scenes!”
“Well?” she said to Jeffrey, as he threw a silk shawl over her and drew
her into a corner out of the draughts.
“It is for you to answer that,” he said, quietly. “It was well done;
quietly and with self-possession.”
“I see!” she said, growing pale. “I have failed!”
“No!” he almost shouted; then, in a low voice that quavered: “It is
not your best scene. It ought to be cut out. It is sometimes. You have
nothing to fear. Did you see the house?”
She shook her head.
“No, I did not look.”
He nodded approvingly.
“That’s right. Take no notice of them! Don’t look beyond the
footlights, and--and--the next scene is a trying one--but I don’t want
to make you nervous!”
“You will not make me nervous,” she said, almost sadly. “I wish that I
could feel it more than I do----”
She turned away, and her lips quivered.
The ballroom was set, crowds of supers were hurrying on to the stage;
the orchestra was playing the familiar music; the audience were
applauding the really handsome scene. Then her time came, and she
went on, and the house listened and watched with rapt attention. When
she went off, there was a distinct round of applause, but still not
enthusiastic; the fire was wanting yet!
There were two London critics in the stalls, and they exchanged glances
and comments.
“Awfully pretty girl!” said one.
“And a lady. Plays well, too,” responded the other.
“Ye-es,” assented the first. “Not at all badly, but, somehow, doesn’t
she strike you as being out of the part, so to speak? Seems as if she
were going through it in a dream! But she’s as beautiful as a dream,
too!”
The balcony scene came on--the scene in which a Juliet, who is a
Juliet, can display her powers to the best advantage. In this scene are
opportunities for the display of love and tenderness, maidenly fear and
modesty, and womanly passion, which no other play can afford.
Jeffrey, pacing to and fro behind the wings, with fingers lacing and
unlacing themselves, was devoured by anxiety, mitigated by hope.
“Now or never!” he muttered. “This is the scene! Oh! Doris, Doris! Now
you raise my heart to the seventh heaven, or break it!--break it!”
“Awfully pretty scene, Miss Marlowe,” said Romeo, as they stood
together for a moment or two; “you’ll let yourself go now, I expect!”
“Shall I?” she said, dreamily, almost absently. “I don’t know.”
He looked at her curiously.
“Yes, I think I’d put all I know into this,” he said, gently and
respectfully. “It’s a big scene for both of us.”
“Yes,” she said, in a low voice. Then she glided past him and took her
place on the balcony.
The scene began, the audience was as silent as the grave, as Romeo
entered and made his well-known speech.
Then Doris moved forward to the edge of the balcony, and into the glare
of limelight that poured down upon her.
And then a strange thing occurred. As she sighed, that well-known sigh,
she raised her eyes and all unconsciously looked toward the house.
It was almost darkened; but a single light had been left in the
chandelier, and it fell upon the handsome face of a young man sitting
in the centre box. He was leaning forward, his eyes fixed upon her
face, a strange intent expression in them. His face was pale, his
hands clasped tightly on the velvet lining of the box-edge, his whole
expression that of one surprised, amazed, bewildered and fascinated.
She saw the face for a moment only, but she recognized it.
It was the one over which she had bent on the preceding day; it was
Cecil Neville’s!
The color rose to her face, and her hands, clasped tightly on the
balcony edge, trembled. Then she went pale again, and her eyes were
raised to the moon.
Then she spoke, and again, marvel of marvels! the very tones of her
voice seemed altered. There was no longer any trace of the cold
abstraction which had marred the preceding scenes.
Melting, ravishing, they fell upon the audience like drops of dew upon
sun-baked travelers.
A thrill seemed to run through the house. Romeo, experienced actor as
he was, felt the change, the difference, and actually almost faltered.
Then they took up the scene. No need to dwell upon it; every one knows
it; there is no other like it in the whole range of English literature.
Like notes of music, sounding the full depths of a girl’s pure passion,
her words dropped from her perfect lips. Her face was like a poem
of Dante Gabriel Rosetti’s; pale, passion-pale, yet eloquent. Every
gesture--as she swept the dark, silky hair from her forehead with an
impatient movement; as she bent forward in the keen hope of touching
Romeo’s hand; as she kissed her fingers to him; as she pressed her
throbbing heart, full to o’erbrimming with love--every gesture was
noted and dwelt upon by the enraptured audience, and when the scene
closed, a wild and unanimous burst of applause rolled like thunder from
pit to boxes, from boxes to pit!
They clapped, they stamped, they cheered. It almost seemed as if a
crowd of rational beings had taken leave of their senses. In plain
truth, she had witched the hearts out of them, and they were fascinated.
Romeo stood, for the first time in his experience, at a loss what to
do, till there rose from the pit a cry, “Juliet, Juliet!” Then he went
to the wings and, breathless, grabbed at her hand.
“Come on!” he said, excitedly.
But Jeffrey held her fast by the arm. He was pale and trembling, but
his voice was stern and grim.
“No!” he said. “Not yet! This is nothing. Let them wait till the last
scene; then--then, if they want her, she shall go, but not till then!”
The two London critics in the stalls exchanged glances.
“Wonderful bit of acting,” said one. “Really wonderful for so young a
girl!”
“Yes,” assented the second; then he added thoughtfully, “I wonder what
made her wake up. It came quite suddenly, did you notice?”
There was one person in the theatre, one out of the whole crowd,
however, who neither clapped nor cheered, but sat perfectly silent. It
was Lord Cecil Neville. He sat, breathing slowly and heavily, like one
under a spell, his eyes fixed on the spot where she had stood, all his
senses in thrall.
CHAPTER VI.
A BUNCH OF VIOLETS.
He had spent the greater part of the day looking for her, his
disappointment growing hour by hour as he grew convinced that he should
not find her; that he had lost her forever. If he had only known her
name, he could have inquired in the town; but he could scarcely go
about asking people if they had happened to see the loveliest girl on
earth, with dark hair and wonderful blue eyes; besides, there was, to
him, something almost sacred in his meeting with her, and he shrank
from putting commonplace questions about her.
By luncheon time he was, I am sorry to say, in anything but a good
temper. Fortunately the marquis rarely put in an appearance at that
meal, or, in all probability, there would have occurred an open quarrel
between him and his nephew, and Lord Cecil would have fled the house.
Lady Grace, too, did not appear; she had gone to pay a visit to a
friend in the neighborhood, and Lord Cecil, therefore, ate his cutlet
and drank his Chateau Margaux in solitude.
He was not at all sorry for this, for, to tell the truth, Lady Grace’s
candor, though extremely original, had very much embarrassed him, and
Lord Cecil was too little used to embarrassment to find it agreeable.
She was very beautiful, very charming, and he admired her very much,
but still he felt her absence a relief; he was free to muse over the
unknown, who had eluded his search all the morning.
Suddenly, as he finished his last glass of claret, he remembered the
play-bill he had picked up on the terrace, and it occurred to him that
here was the means of escaping dinner at the Towers; for this night, at
all events, he could get away from the marquis’ sneers and sarcasm.
“I shall not be home to dinner,” he said to the stately butler. “I
think I’ll go to the theatre.”
“Yes, my lord,” responded the butler, displaying not a sign of the
disgust which the announcement caused him. To think that any one--a
viscount, especially--should prefer going to the play to dining!
“What sort of a theatre is it?” asked Lord Cecil, carelessly, and for
the sake of talking.
“Very good, my lord, I believe,” was the solemn reply. “I’ve heard that
it’s almost as good as a London theatre, and that there is an excellent
company there. They play ‘Romeo and Juliet’ to-night. That is,” he made
haste to add, “I heard some of the under-servants talking about it; I
never go to the theatre myself, my lord. I will send a small dinner, of
three or four courses, at an early hour in the breakfast room, for you,
my lord.”
“All right,” said Lord Cecil, carelessly. “That will give you a lot of
trouble, will it not? I can get a chop or something at the hotel in the
town, can’t I?”
“Oh, no, my lord; it will be no trouble,” the butler made haste to
reply; “the marquis would be much annoyed if your lordship were to be
inconvenienced.”
Lord Cecil nodded; he could scarcely suppress a smile at the butler’s
crediting the marquis with such hospitable sentiments.
“All right,” he said, again; “I’ll have it at half-past six.”
“Yes, my lord,” assented the butler, with a faint sigh; it seemed to
him a dreadful sacrifice; and Lord Cecil soon afterward took up his hat
and went out.
He made his way to the meadows, and stood looking down on the brook and
at the spot where Polly had landed him so nearly upon his head; and
at the bank where the fair unknown, whose face and voice haunted him
perpetually, had sat, and a vague hope dwelt in his breast that she
might, perhaps, revisit the scene as he was doing.
But an hour passed and she did not come, and he strode off, moodily,
full of disappointment and half angry with himself.
“I am a fool!” he thought. “She has forgotten me by this time. Why
should she come back here? If I were to meet her, what could I say to
her? She’d very likely think me an impertinent snob if I did more than
lift my hat. I couldn’t very well tell her that I have scarcely thought
of anything but her since we parted yesterday and to say anything less
to her would seem to me to be saying nothing at all!”
Thus musing, he went into the town, his stalwart figure, with its
military carriage, his handsome, patrician face, and his Poole-made
clothes, which he wore as if they had grown on him, causing no little
sensation amongst the inhabitants.
But though he stared into the shop windows and looked at every girl who
came in sight, he did not see the girl of whom he was thinking; and it
was nearly seven before he came back to the “small dinner of three or
four courses” which the considerate butler had served for him in the
breakfast room.
He was half inclined to give up the idea of the theatre, and if it had
not been for his dread of the marquis’ society he would have done so.
As it was, he ate his dinner slowly, and enjoyed it, although he was in
love; and then, and not till then, he fully made up his mind to go.
“I’ll have a brougham round in ten minutes, my lord,” said the butler,
but Lord Cecil declined it.
“I’d rather walk,” he said. “I like a stroll after dinner.”
The butler--more in sorrow than in anger--asked what time he should
send the carriage, but Lord Cecil declined a conveyance for any part of
the evening.
“I’ll walk back,” he said; “I rather like a stroll after the theatre,”
and the butler, with a sigh of resignation, gave him up as a bad job.
As he walked along the lanes, fragrant with the breath of spring, a
thought--a hope--flashed through his mind that he might, perhaps, see
the girl in the theatre. He never asked himself what his object in
seeking her might be; men seldom ask themselves such questions. Lord
Cecil was not an altogether bad character. He was not a modern Lovelace
in pursuit of his prey, by any means. He was not, in fact, a Lovelace
at all. He had lived in a fast set--had been the star and centre of the
crack regiment in which he had held a commission--had gone through the
ordeal of London life as completely as most young men of title; but he
had come out of it, if he could be said to have come out of it, not
altogether unscathed, but not very badly burned or smirched.
The Nevilles had always been wild, and Lord Cecil had not been any
tamer than his ancestors; but in all his wildness he had drawn the
line. For women in general--for the sex, as a whole--he possessed a
respect which had sometimes amused his less scrupulous companions.
He had overspent his allowance; lost large sums at baccarat and
kindred games, turned night into day, risked his money and his neck
at steeplechases, and generally, as his friends put it, played Old
Harry, but no woman had, as yet, any indictment against him. He could
truthfully declare, with the Frenchman, on his deathbed: “No woman can
come to my grave and say that for want of heart I broke hers.”
To women he was always frank and gentle, and the women of his set
adored him. If he had broken no hearts in the sterner sense of the
word, he had all unwittingly caused many to ache, and many a belle of
the London season had “given herself away” to Cissy Neville, as his
intimate friends called him.
And now the marquis had intimated that he must marry Lady Grace. Lord
Cecil thought of last night’s after-dinner conversation as he strolled
along, tried to think of it gravely and seriously, but somehow he
could not; all his thoughts flew, whether he would or would not,
to the dark-haired, blue-eyed girl he had so nearly ridden over in
the meadows. After all, he was not obliged to marry Lady Grace. The
marquis could not compel him, and as for the money---- He shrugged his
shoulders, and, having reached the theatre, put the subject from him.
It must be confessed that he followed the box-keeper to the private box
he had taken with rather doubtful anticipations.
“Romeo and Juliet” in a country theatre is not always an entrancing
spectacle, and Lord Cecil only wondered how long he should stand it.
He was rather surprised at the air of elegance perceptible, and still
more surprised at the crowded state of the house, and he congratulated
himself, as he looked round at the well-dressed and aristocratic
audience, that he had come in evening dress, for he had at one time
thought of retaining his morning clothes.
He settled himself in his box--he had arrived during the
_entr’acte_--and looked at the programme.
“Juliet--Doris Marlowe.”
The name struck him at once as a pretty one, and he did not trouble
to read the rest of the cast. Then the curtain drew up on the balcony
scene, and, leaning forward carelessly, he looked at the stage and saw,
there in the balcony--the girl for whom he had been seeking, the girl
with the dark hair and blue eyes!
For a moment he thought he was dreaming, and the color rushed to his
face. Then he looked again, “all his soul in his eyes,” and saw that he
was not dreaming, but that it was in solemn truth she, herself.
If he had had any doubts her voice would have dispelled them. He would
have remembered and recognized those musical tones if he had heard them
fifty years hence instead of as many hours.
He was amazed, bewildered, engrossed, but not too engrossed to be aware
that the “Juliet” he looked upon, Miss Doris Marlowe, was a great
actress.
If she moved the rest of the vast audience, imagine how she moved him
who had been thinking of her and longing to see her!
His heart beat wildly, the color came and went in his face; he was lost
to everything but that bright, celestial, and yet purely human, being
on the stage, then rendering the exquisite lines of her part; and it
was not until he caught one or two curious glances directed at him that
he drew back a little and tried to look simply interested like the rest.
The drop scene went down on the act, and he, to use his own phrase,
“pulled himself together.”
He got up and went out into the lobby, and made his way to the
refreshment bar; and when he had obtained his brandy and soda he
lingered over it and got in conversation with the attendant.
“This Miss Doris Marlowe is a great success?” he said, trying to speak
indifferently.
“Oh, yes, she is, indeed,” said the girl, with a long sigh; she had
dreamed of being an actress herself, poor thing; “I just stole out and
looked in at the last act. A success?--I should think so! I call it
magnificent. I never saw anything like it; did you, sir?”
“No, never,” responded Lord Cecil. “She is a London actress, I suppose?
And yet I don’t remember seeing her in London,” he added.
“No, I don’t think she’s ever played in London, but always in the
provinces. This is the first time she’s ever done anything like this.
She’s played here in small parts; this is her first appearance in
Shakespeare.”
“Who is she?” he asked, endeavoring to make his question commonplace,
yet feeling that he was hanging on her reply.
The girl paused in the wiping of a glass and looked puzzled.
“Who is she? I don’t know, sir. I question whether anybody knows
rightly, excepting Mr. Jeffrey.”
“Mr. Jeffrey? Who’s he?” asked Lord Cecil, with a sharp pang. Could
this man be her husband?
“Oh, the old gentleman who goes about with her. He ain’t her father,
but a kind of guardian. He was an actor once. It was he, so they say,
who taught her to act. Anyhow, she treats him just like a father.”
Lord Cecil drew a breath of relief.
“They are always together; they go from theatre to theatre. He is a
very extraordinary old gentleman, and very trying at rehearsals, so
I’ve heard the actors say; but he knows all about it, quite as well as
the stage manager.”
At this moment the two London critics came up for a drink, and one of
them bowed to Lord Cecil.
“Quite an eventful evening, my lord,” he said, with the easy respect of
a fellow-Londoner.
“Yes,” said Lord Cecil. “It is a great success, I suppose. Do you know
who Miss Doris Marlowe is?”
The critic shrugged his shoulders.
“Haven’t the least idea. Quite a _stella incognita_, but she will not
be so after to-night. We shall see her in Drury Lane before many months
are passed.”
“Who was that?” his friend, the other critic, asked.
“Lord Cecil Neville,” was the reply. “The heir to the Marquisate of
Stoyle. A splendid fellow, and, strange to say, not a bit spoiled,
though all the women make a dead set at him.”
“The Marquis of Stoyle,” said the other thoughtfully. “That old
villain? And this is his nephew. He is immensely good-looking.”
“Oh, a splendid fellow. Did you ever hear that story about him----?”
and they moved away.
Lord Cecil drank half his soda and brandy, and then went back to his
box.
Meanwhile, a thrill of excitement seemed to run through those engaged
behind the scenes. A theatre is rendered famous by its actors, and it
seemed that the Theatre Royal, Barton, was going to be made celebrated
as the place of the first appearance of a great actress.
“If she can only carry us through to the end!” muttered Jeffrey, as he
paced to and fro, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes flashing
fire.
“Oh, she’ll do it!” said the manager, who happened to hear him. “Don’t
you be afraid, Mr. Jeffrey; that young lady is a genius! I knew it from
the first. She will carry it through to the very last. And about the
engagement now? You make your own terms, and I’ll agree to them. You’ll
find me straight and honest----”
But Jeffrey paced on. He was an old theatrical hand, and he knew, full
well, that a Juliet may score in the balcony scene and yet fail in the
later and more important ones.
But there did not seem much fear of failure with Doris.
Off the stage, and in her dressing room, she was quiet and subdued,
but the moment she got on the boards her eyes flew to the centre box,
and she seemed to draw inspiration from the handsome face that leaned
forward in rapt, almost devout, attention.
The play proceeded. The great scene, in which Romeo takes leave of
Juliet, his newly-made wife, went with a rush. The audience cheered
until it was hoarse. Thrice the young actress was called to the front,
and everybody who had brought a bouquet flung it at her feet.
Jeffrey, pale and statuesque, implored Doris to be calm.
“It is not all over yet!” he said, warningly. “There is the last scene.
Remember what I taught you! It is the last scene in which a Juliet,
who is a Juliet, declares herself! Do not let their applause make you
forget what is due to your art! I would rather that they remained mute
and silent, Doris.”
And for answer she simply smiled. She did not tell him that while she
could see a certain face in the centre box all would be well.
The pause before the last scene arrived. The whole house was talking
in excited whispers. To the Barton folk, ardent theatre-goers as they
were, nothing like this had befallen them. A twitter of excitement ran
through the house, and amongst the crowd that thronged the lobbies Lord
Cecil walked about, as excited as the rest.
Suddenly, as if he had been stricken by an idea, he turned up the
collar of his coat and made his way through the press to the streets,
and looked about him eagerly.
Some women selling oranges came hurrying up to him, and amongst them a
woman with a basket of violets.
He bought the whole contents of her basket, and bade her tie them
together; then, with the flowers in his hand, he went back to the
theatre; but, instead of going to his box, he made his way to the
stalls and stood close to the orchestra.
The last scene came on. Again it is unnecessary to describe it; the
grim and solemn vault, the beautiful figure of the girl in the death
throes, the terrible agony of Romeo, were all here, rendered real and
lifelike by the genius of the actors.
Spellbound, the house watched and listened in profound silence.
Listened to the passionate, despairing plaint of Romeo, and the deeper
agony of Juliet, who awakes to find her lover dead.
Never, perhaps, since the play was played, was actress more touching,
more tear-compelling than Doris Marlowe that night at the Theatre
Royal, Barton; and as her last words died away in solemn silence, a
great sob seemed to rise from the crowded house.
Then the sob gave place to a thunder of applause. Once more the sober
audience seemed possessed by a spirit of delirium; men sprang to their
feet and waved their hats, women rose and waved their handkerchiefs
with which they had wiped away their tears; and cries of “Juliet!
Juliet!” resounded through the theatre.
A pause, and presently Romeo appeared, leading Juliet by the hand.
The audience stormed and cheered as one man, and those who had not
already thrown their bouquets to her threw them now.
She was pale to the lips, and the blue eyes looked almost black as she
bent them on the cheering crowd, and like a queen bowed beneath the
tribute of their devotion, she bent her girlish head low.
She had nearly crossed the stage, had reached the spot exactly opposite
that on which Lord Cecil stood. Then, and not till then, he raised his
bunch of violets and tossed them at her feet.
She paused a moment in her triumphant progress, for it was nothing
less, then stooped and picked up the rough-and-ready bouquet; Romeo’s
arms were quite full.
For an instant her eyes rested on Lord Cecil’s face, then, as if with
an involuntary movement, she raised the bunch of violets to her lips
and passed off, the side wings engulfing her.
Three times more they called her, as if they could not let her go from
their sight, and thrice she came before them, and, modestly, girlishly,
bowed her acknowledgments.
Then--tired, hot and thirsty--the crowd began to disperse.
Lord Cecil Neville alone remained on the spot from which he had thrown
his bouquet. He could scarcely believe that it was over, until the
attendants began to cover up the seats with their calico wrappings,
and, taking the hint, he made his way out.
The groups of people he passed through were talking about her triumph.
He caught a word here and there, and, all unconsciously, found himself
at the stage door. At least, he thought, he should get a glimpse of her
as she drove away from the theatre.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes the greatest excitement prevailed. There
had never been a Juliet like her, they were declaring; and they
prophesied a success in London which should even eclipse that of Barton!
And Doris, looking pale, stood smiling dreamily through it all. Even
while Jeffrey paced to and fro in her dressing-room, too excited for
speech, she remained calm and serene, wrapt in a kind of spiritual veil.
Managers, actors, thronged round her with congratulations; even the old
dresser, declared, with tears, that “nothing had been seen like it.”
At last, the porter announced that Miss Marlowe’s fly was waiting, and
Jeffrey took her away from the excited crowd.
“Draw your cloak well round your throat,” he said, as anxiously as if
she were so fragile that a breath of wind would sweep her away. “Give
me those violets to hold for you,” he said.
She drew her hand back, almost with a gesture of dread, and a dash of
color came flying into her pale face.
“No, no--I can manage, thanks,” she said, quickly. “How sweet they
smell, do they not?” and she held them up to him for a second.
“Yes,” he said, absently. “Were they thrown with the rest?”
“Yes,” she said, in a low voice.
“Some one of the poor people in the pit, I daresay,” he said; “a
graceful and spontaneous tribute, worth, I was going to say, all the
rest of them, beautiful and costly though some of the bouquets are. But
I daresay you don’t agree with me?” and he smiled.
“But I do,” she said, averting her eyes. “Yes, I think them worth all
the rest!”
They had traversed the long passage by this time, and reached the
fly. Jeffrey put her in carefully, and was himself following, when he
stopped suddenly, frowning and biting his lips.
“Doris,” he said, “you leave all to me? You leave all to my judgment,
as hitherto? You are a famous woman now, or will be to-morrow, and may
like to be independent. Would you rather wait till to-morrow and make
your own arrangements with the manager, or shall I, as of old----”
“Jeffrey!” she broke in, with a reproachful look in her eyes.
“Very well,” he said. “Brown has made me a very large offer for a
month. I put him off just now, but I think I will go back and accept
for you. I shall not be many minutes.”
Doris leaned back, and, closing her eyes, pressed the violets against
her cheek. She could see the handsome face all aglow with excitement
and admiration as he raised his right arm and flung the flowers; she
could see it at that moment, and the mental vision shut out all the
rest of that eventful night.
Suddenly she heard her name spoken beside the carriage window, and,
leaning forward, she saw, in real earnest, the face which had been her
inspiration. It was Lord Cecil Neville’s.
“Miss Marlowe,” he said, learning forward and speaking quietly,
pleadingly. “Don’t be angry! Pray forgive me! I--I could not pass on
without saying a word--one word of thanks.”
“Thanks?” she murmured.
Her eyes were lifted for a moment to his ardent face, then dropped to
the violets and rested there.
“Yes. I was in the theatre,” he said. “You did not see me, of course,
but I was there, and--I can’t tell you how we all felt, how we all
feel. It was superb; it was--but there, I can only thank you.”
“You have done that already,” she said, with a smile, as she raised the
violets.
Lord Cecil Neville blushed. I am afraid it would be rather difficult to
get credit for this statement in certain quarters in London.
“I couldn’t get any better ones,” he said, apologetically.
“No,” she said; “I think you could not! Yes, I saw you in the theatre,”
she added, as if she had been thinking of his first sentence.
“Were--were you surprised, or did you know?” and she glanced at him
with a half curious smile.
“Surprised!” he said. “I could scarcely believe my senses! I had no
idea, until I saw you on the stage, that you, who were so good to me
yesterday, were a great actress.”
“I am not,” she said, in a low voice. “I am only a very little one.
To-night I succeeded, another night I might fail----” a faint shadow
came on her face, as he looked puzzled; then she smiled, as she broke
off, to add: “I have something of yours----”
“Yes, my heart!” was his mental comment, but he said aloud: “Of mine?”
“Yes,” she said. “A handkerchief, I haven’t it here,” and she smiled
again; then, suddenly, her face grew crimson, for she remembered that
she had left it in the bosom of her dress. “I--I will send it to you if
you tell me where.”
“Let me call for it,” he said, eagerly.
Doris’ brows came together, and she shook her head gently. She knew
that Jeffrey’s welcome to a stranger would be a rough one.
“I will send it,” she said. “I think I know--the Towers, you said, did
you not?”
A sudden inspiration seized him, and, bending forward, he said, in a
low voice:
“If you should walk in the fields to-morrow morning--you may, you
know!--lay it on the bank where you sat yesterday. Will you do this,
Miss Marlowe? I will fetch it in the afternoon.”
The beautiful eyes dwelt upon his face with a deep gravity for a
moment, as if she were wondering what his object could be in making the
request; then she said, gently:
“Yes, why should I not?” as she held out her hand; “good-night.”
“Thanks, thanks!” he said, in his deep, musical voice. “Good-night! You
should be happy to-night, for you have made so many people miserably
so! I shall dream of Juliet all night!”
She let her hand rest in his for a moment, then drew it away and he was
gone.
But at that moment it chanced that a handsomely-appointed carriage
came round the bend of the road, and a lady, with softly-shimmering
hair and darkly-brilliant eyes, who was leaning back in a corner of
it, suddenly caught sight of the fly and the stalwart figure standing
beside it.
She bent forward eagerly, and her keen eyes took in, as the carriage
rolled past, not only the expression of Cecil Neville’s face, but the
face of the girl in the fly.
For an instant the warm blood rushed to Lady Grace’s face; then, as she
sank back again into her corner, she laughed, a laugh of cold, insolent
contempt.
“Some actress or shop-girl,” she murmured. Then her expression changed,
and she bit her lip thoughtfully. “And yet he looked terribly in
earnest!” she added. “Shall I take him up?” and her hand went out to
the check-string; then she let it fall, and the carriage go on its
way. “No; I think I’ll keep my little discovery to myself--it may be
useful--and let you walk home, Lord Cecil!”
CHAPTER VII.
A RARE DIAMOND.
When Doris came down from her room the next morning, it did not seem
as if the tremendous excitement of the preceding night had left any
baleful effects. In her soft-white dress, she still looked more like a
schoolgirl home for the holidays than the tragedienne who had, a few
hours ago, moved a vast audience to tears and wild enthusiasm.
She came into the room singing, just as the birds sang under the eaves
by her window, and laughed lightly as she saw Jeffrey bending earnestly
over a copy of the local daily paper.
“Well, have I got a tremendous slating, Jeffrey?” she said, almost
carelessly.
“Slating!” he replied. “If anything, it is too laudatory; read it!” and
he held it out to her.
“After breakfast; I am so hungry,” she said, contentedly. “Read it to
me, Jeffrey; all the nicest paragraphs,” and she laughed again.
He glanced at Doris under his heavy brows.
“At any rate, your success has not made you vain, Doris,” he said with
grim approval.
“If it should make any one vain, it should you--not me, dear,” she
said, quietly. “It was you made last night’s Juliet, good or bad.”
“Very well,” he said; “I’ll be vain for both of us. Yes, it is a
wonderfully good _critique_, and I think the news of your success
will reach London, too. There were a couple of critics from London in
the stalls; I didn’t tell you last night, in case it should make you
nervous.”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“I don’t think it would have made much difference,” she said. “I seemed
to forget everybody and everything----”
“After the second act,” he put in.
She blushed to her temples.
“There was a distinct change, then; I noticed it, and I have been
puzzling my brain to account for it. Perhaps you can explain it.”
She shook her head, and kept her eyes on her plate.
“No? Strange. But such inspirations are not uncommon with genius; and
yours is genius, Doris.”
“Don’t frighten me, Jeffrey,” she said, with a faint smile.
“I have agreed with Brown, the manager,” he went on, “that you should
play Juliet for a week, and after that some other of the big characters
for a month, and he is to pay you ten pounds a week.”
Doris looked up, surprised. Ten pounds per week is a large sum for
merely provincial actresses.
He smiled grimly.
“You think it a great deal? In a day or two you will get offers from
London of twenty, thirty, forty pounds. But I am in no hurry. I have
not been in a hurry all through. I want you to feel your feet, to feel
secure in all the big parts here in the provinces before you appear in
London. Then your success will be assured whatever you may undertake.”
“You think of everything, Jeffrey,” she said, gratefully.
“I have nothing else to think of, nothing else to tell you!” he
responded, quietly, almost pathetically. “I have set my heart upon you
being a great actress and”--he paused--“I think it would break, if you
failed. But there is no need to speak of failure after last night.”
He got up as he spoke and folded the newspaper.
“I’m going down to the theatre,” he said; he was never quite contented
away from it. “You’d better look over your part this morning. Take it
into the open air as you did the other day; it seems to succeed.”
“Very well,” she said, obediently.
He put on his hat and the thick inverness he wore in all weathers, and
went away, and Doris sat looking dreamily before her.
Then, suddenly, she got up. She would take his advice and go into the
meadows--for the meadows meant the open air to her--and as she was
going she would take Cecil Neville’s handkerchief and place it on the
bank as he had requested.
She put on her hat and jacket, and, possibly for the convenience of
carrying, thrust the handkerchief in the bosom of her dress, where it
lay hidden all the preceding day, and started.
It was a glorious morning, with only a feather of cloud here and there
in the sky, and the birds sang as if winter were an unknown season in
England.
With her stage copy of “Romeo and Juliet” under her arm, Doris Marlowe,
the simple child of nature, the famous actress, made her way to the
meadows.
The Barton folks have something else to do than wander in their
meadows, and Doris did not meet a soul; the great elms, which threw
their shadows over the brook, were as solitary as if they had been
planted in Eden. But lonely as the spot was, Doris peopled it with
memories; and she stood by the brook and recalled the vision of the
powerful figure on the great horse, as it appeared before her the
moment prior to its being hurled at her feet.
“How strange that he should have been at the theatre last night!” she
thought. “How curious it must have seemed to him, seeing me there as
Juliet! I wonder whether he was sorry or glad!”
She could not answer the question to her satisfaction, but she stood
motionless for a moment or two, recalling the words he had spoken as he
stood beside the fly last night.
Then she took the handkerchief from her bosom, and, folding it with
careful neatness, placed it on the bank where she had sat.
“It is not likely that any one will come here before he comes to fetch
it this afternoon,” she said.
Almost before the words were out of her lips a stalwart form leaped the
hedge, and stood before her.
Doris started and her face flushed; then, pale and composed, she lifted
her eyes to his.
“Well, now!” he said, in humble apology, “I seem fated to startle you,
Miss Marlowe. I had no idea you were here----” he stopped, awed to
silence by her silence.
“You said you would come for it in the afternoon,” she remarked, almost
coldly.
He colored.
“Yes, I know; but I could not come this afternoon, and I thought----”
he stopped, and raised his frank eyes to her face, pleadingly.
“You thought?” she said very gravely, her brows drawn together slightly.
“Well,” he said, as if with an effort, “I will tell the truth! I
thought that if I came this morning I might meet you. It was just a
chance. Are you angry?”
She was silent a moment. Was she angry? She felt that she ought to be;
and had a suspicion that he had, so to speak, entrapped her into a
meeting with him; and she honestly tried to be angry.
“It does not matter,” she said, at last, very coldly. “There is your
handkerchief.”
He picked it up, and thrust it in his pocket.
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” he said, gratefully. She turned to go, with
a slight inclination of her head, but he went on, speaking hurriedly
and so earnestly, that she paused, her head half turned over her
shoulder, her eyes cast down; an attitude so full of grace that it
almost drove what he was going to say out of his head. “I don’t deserve
that you should have brought it.”
“I don’t think you do,” she assented, a faint smile curving her lips at
his ingenuousness.
“I daresay you think it strange that I didn’t ask you to send it to the
Towers?” he went on. “You know you would not let me call at your place
for it,” he added, apologetically.
“Why did you not let me send it?” she asked, with faint curiosity.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. “Won’t you sit down and rest? It’s warm
this morning, and you have walked far, perhaps.”
She hesitated a moment, then sat down, almost on the spot she had sat
the preceding day, and Cecil Neville could not help a wild wish rushing
to his heart that he was once again lying at her feet!
He sat down on the bank, as near to her as he dared, and leaned on his
elbow toward her.
“You see, I’m only a visitor at the Towers. The marquis--that’s my
uncle, you know----”
“I don’t know,” she said, with a faint smile, her eyes fixed dreamily
on her book.
“Of course not,” he assented. “Well, we don’t get on together. He
is--not to put too fine a point on it--about as disagreeable a person
as you’d find in two days’ walk! We never have got on together. They
say that a man always hates the fellow who is to come after him, unless
it happens to be his own son; and I suppose that’s the reason the
marquis hates me----”
“Because you are to be the next marquis?” she said.
He nodded coolly, and tilted his hat so that it screened his eyes
from the sun, and permitted him to feast upon her beautiful face more
completely.
“Yes, that is about it; but I’ll give the marquis the credit of hating
everybody all round, himself into the bargain, I dare say; but I fancy
he reserves a special line of detestation for his own relatives. Ah,
you are smiling,” he broke off, with the short laugh that sounded
so good and frank. “You are wondering what this has to do with my
disliking you to send the handkerchief!”
Doris smiled again in assent.
“Well, you see, I thought it might come into the marquis’s possession,
or that he’d hear of it through Lady Grace----”
She turned her eyes upon his, not curiously, but with graceful
questioning.
“That’s a lady--Lord Peyton’s daughter--who is stopping there,” he
explained, “and they might ask questions, and--and bother me about it!”
“Well?” she said, quietly.
He looked down half hesitatingly, then met her eyes, which seemed in
their fixed regard to reach to his soul.
“Well--I’ve said that I’ll tell you the whole truth, and I will; and
the fact is I didn’t want to be asked questions about the--the accident
yesterday. I--yes, I’ll speak out, though I should offend you--I wanted
to keep it to myself!”
“To keep it to yourself?” she repeated.
A flush came to his tanned face, and his eyes were raised for a moment.
“Yes. When a man gets a good thing--Suppose--” he broke off--“a fellow
found a big nugget, or a rare diamond, or anything of that sort, he
would like to keep it to himself, you know!”
She smiled again.
“Do you want me to take that as a compliment?” she said. “Am I the big
nugget, the rare diamond which you discovered?”
He flushed more deeply, and looked at her pleadingly.
“I’m such an idiot that I can’t express myself,” he said,
apologetically. “I meant that the whole thing, your--your kindness
and goodness to me was so precious that I didn’t want a lot of
people talking about it. I wanted to keep it to myself, as something
especially belonging to me, something too precious to discuss with
others. I’m afraid I can’t make you understand.”
“You do yourself an injustice,” she said. “You express yourself very
well!”
“Now, you are laughing at me,” he said.
“As you would laugh at me, Lord Neville, if I believed what you
said!” she retorted, not sharply, but with a sweet gravity that was
indescribable.
“I said I would tell you the truth, and I’ve told nothing but the
truth,” he said, earnestly. “I dare say it seems strange to you that I
should have this feeling about our meeting yesterday. I dare say you
forgot all about it half-an-hour afterward! Why should you remember it,
you who have so much to think of?”
Doris turned her face away, lest her eyes should betray her, and tell
him how much, how constantly she had thought of him!
“You,” he went on, “who are so clever and gifted, a great actress, with
no end of people round you----”
She looked at him with a pensive smile.
“But you are wrong, quite wrong,” she said. “I am not a great actress.
Last night was my first success, if success it was----”
“There is no ‘if’ about it!” he said, with fervent enthusiasm. “It was
a tremendous success! Why, I heard people declare that there had been
nothing like it since Kate Terry’s Juliet! And I--though I’m not of
much account--I was never so much carried out of myself. Why, to tell
you how great and grand you were, I actually forgot that you were the
young lady who was so good to me yesterday, and only thought of you as
Shakespeare’s Juliet; and I felt quite ashamed that I had ever given so
much trouble to so great a personage.”
His warm, ardent praise touched her, and her lips quivered.
“Juliet was only a simple girl, after all,” she said. “If she had
chanced to have been placed in my position yesterday she would have
done the same.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I’m not clever, like you,” and he
pushed his hat off his brows with a deprecatory gesture. “But I know
you must have something else to think of than the fellow who was such
an idiot as to jump a hedge before he saw what was on the other side;
and, of course, you must have no end of--of people round you!”
“But I have not! You are quite wrong,” she said, with her sweet,
thoughtful smile. “I live with an old friend, who has been like a
father to me! I haven’t any father or mother, and I see no one, except
at the theatre, and then only in the way of business,” and she laughed.
He listened as if every word she dropped from her sweetly-curved lips
were a pearl.
“How strange it sounds! You so clever and beau----so great an actress.”
“Yes,” she said dreamily; “I suppose it does sound strange! Everybody
thinks that an actress must be the gayest of the gay; surrounded by
light-hearted people turning night into day, and living on champagne
and roast chicken.” She smiled. “Jeffrey and I know scarcely any one,
and I do not think I have tasted champagne, excepting once, when one of
the managers had a benefit; and we go straight to bed directly we get
home from the theatre; and, oh, it is quite different to what people
imagine.”
He drew forward a little, so that the hand upon which he leaned touched
the edge of her cotton dress.
“And--and you didn’t quite forget our strange meeting?”
“I am not in the habit of seeing gentlemen flung from their horses at
my feet, Lord Neville,” she said, but she turned her face from him.
“And I,” he said. “Why, I have not been able to get it out of my head!
I thought of you every minute; and I tried not to, because----”
“Because?” she said. “Pray go on!” and she smiled.
“Well,” he said, modestly, “because it seemed like presumption. And
then I went to the theatre, and----” he stopped. “For a moment or two
I couldn’t believe that it was really you on the stage there. And when
the people in the theatre began to shout out your name, it woke me from
a kind of dream.”
She smiled in silence; then she made a movement threatening her
departure.
“Ah, wait a little while!” he pleaded. “It is delightful here in the
sunshine. Don’t go for a minute or two. I wish----” he stopped.
“What is it you wish?” she asked, regarding him with smiling eyes that
drooped under his ardent ones.
“Well,” he said, “I wish that you would let me go home with you and see
Mr. Jeffrey----”
“Jeffrey Flint,” she said. She shook her head. “He sees no one, makes
no acquaintances. He--he is very reserved.”
Speaking of him reminded her of the fact that he would strongly
disapprove of her interview with this strange young gentleman. She rose.
“I must go now,” she said. “I have not asked whether you were hurt by
your fall, Lord Neville, but I hope you were not.”
“Must you go?” he said, ignoring the rest of her sentence as of no
account. “We seem to have been talking only a few minutes! And there
was such a lot that I wanted to say! I wanted to tell you all that I
thought when I saw you last night; but I couldn’t if I had the chance,
because I am a perfect idiot when it comes to expressing myself. But
I do think it was wonderful! Are you going to play to-night? But of
course you are.”
“Yes,” she said, absently, “I play to-night. I play every night!”
“I shall be there,” he said, as if it were a matter of course.
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“Of course I shall!” he said. “Why, last night I seemed to have a kind
of interest in it which the other people in the theatre hadn’t. Yes.
As if--as if--I knew you intimately, you know. Of course, I shall be
there! And I shall bring a big bouquet. What flowers do you like best?”
She almost started, as if she had not been listening to him; as a
matter of fact, she had been listening to the deep, measured voice
rather than the words.
“Flowers?--oh--violets,” she said, unthinkingly.
“Why!” he exclaimed. “That is what I threw you last night! Of course,
you didn’t know. You can’t see beyond the footlights, can you? I’ve
heard you can’t. Violets! I’ll get some. I shall take a seat in the
stall to-night. I shall see and hear you better there.”
“I should have thought you had seen and heard me enough already,” she
said with a smile.
“No, but I haven’t!” he responded, eagerly. “I couldn’t see you or hear
you too much if I looked at you and listened to you all day!”
Her face grew crimson, but she turned her head toward him with a smile
on her face.
“For flattery, pure and simple, I don’t think you could surpass that,
Lord Neville.”
“Flattery!” he exclaimed, as if hurt. “It is no flattery, it is the
honest truth. And, Miss Marlowe, I do not ask you to believe--” he
saw her start and lift her head as if listening, and looking up to
ascertain the cause, saw that her eyes were fixed upon some spot
behind him, and he heard the sound of footsteps.
“I must go,” she said, as if suddenly awakened to a sense of the
situation.
“Ah, no,” he breathed; then he leaned toward her with half-timid
eagerness. “Will you come to-morrow?”
The footsteps came nearer.
“I promise--nothing,” said Doris, her brows coming together, and with a
half glance at his earnest face she glided away from him.
Lord Neville rose and looked after her with the expression which
encompassed the desire to follow her; but in that moment a hand fell
lightly upon his shoulder, and a voice exclaimed:
“What, Cissy!”
Lord Neville swung round.
“Hallo, Spenser!” he said. “Why, what on earth brought you here?”
CHAPTER VIII.
SPENSER CHURCHILL.
The new comer was a man apparently of middle age; I say apparently,
because opinions on that subject were extremely conflicting. Some
persons regarded Spenser Churchill as quite a young man, others
declared that he had reached the meridian of life, and there were some
who were inclined to think that he was, if anything, on the verge of
old age. His appearance was singular. He was of medium height, with a
figure that was either naturally youthful, or admirably preserved. He
was fair almost to effeminacy, and he wore his hair long and brushed
back from his face; and he was close shaven. But it was not the length
of the hair that lent him his singularity, but the expression of his
face and his manner.
If he was not the most amiable of men, his countenance belied him.
There was always a smile, soft and bland, and good-tempered in his
eyes, on his lips, and as the Irishman said, “all over him.” The smile,
in conjunction with the fair face and long hair, gave him as confiding
and benevolent an expression that the world had long ago come to the
conclusion that Spenser Churchill was the epitome of all the virtues.
Most women were fond of confiding in him; most men--not all--trusted
him; he was regarded by crossing-sweepers, waiters and beggars
generally as their natural prey, and so effective was his smile, that
even when he did not bestow his alms, he always received a blessing
from the disappointed ones.
Whenever his name was mentioned, some one was sure to say:
“Oh, Spenser Churchill! Yes! Awfully good-natured fellow, you know. No
end of a good soul. Share his last crust with you. Kind of cherub with
legs, don’t you know.”
But, if strict inquiry had been made--which it never was--it would
have been difficult to bring forward evidence to prove the benevolent
Spenser had ever shared anything with anybody, or that he had ever
been liberal with anything, excepting always the smile and his soft
persuasive voice.
Of his past history, and, indeed, his present mode of life, the persons
who were always ready to praise him knew very little--or nothing, and
yet he was always spoken of as one of the best known men in society.
You met him everywhere; at the first reception of the season, at
the meeting of the Four-in-Hand Club, at the smoking-room of the
“Midnight,” sauntering in the foyer at the opera, seated in the stalls
of the fashionable theatres, in county houses of the most exclusive
kinds, on the shady side of Pall Mall, in the picture galleries, at the
big concerts, at dinner parties. His neat figure always most carefully
dressed, his countenance always serene and placid, as if the world
were the most charming of all possible places, and had been specially
created for Spenser Churchill; and with the benedictory smile always
shining.
He was rich, it was supposed; he was a bachelor, it was thought; he was
connected with half the peerage, so it was stated; and that was all
concerning his private life that any one knew. But, if little was known
about him, Spenser Churchill knew a great deal about other people;
some said, too much.
Lord Neville’s surprise at seeing him was quite uncalled for, because
Spenser Churchill was in the habit of “turning up” at the most unlikely
places, and at the most unlikely times; and whatever surprise you might
feel at seeing him, he never expressed any at meeting you.
Now, as Lord Neville stared at him, he blandly and placidly smiled, as
if he had parted from Neville only a quarter-of-an-hour ago, and held
out his hand as if he were bestowing a bishopric by the action.
“Why, the last time I saw you was at Nice!” said Lord Neville, with
a laugh, “and here you are at Barton! What on earth brings you here?
Don’t make the usual answer about the two-twenty-five train and your
legs----”
“I wasn’t thinking of doing so,” said Spenser Churchill, softly. “What
a charming spot!” and he looked round with a soft rapture beaming on
his face. “Charming! So rural! That brook--those trees--the clear,
spring sky--the songs of the birds--didn’t I hear human voices, by
the way?” he asked; and it is to be noticed that he didn’t break
off to put the question abruptly, but allowed it to form portions
of his softly-gliding sentence, as if it were the most innocent and
careless of queries, and he let his eyes fall with a gentle, beaming
interrogation on the handsome face.
Lord Neville looked aside for a moment. Cherubimic as Spenser Churchill
was, Lord Neville did not quite care to answer the question.
“I daresay,” he said; “but you haven’t answered me yet, Spenser. What
brings you here?”
“A deeply-rooted love of the country, my dear Cissy; from a child I
have reveled in--er--the green meadows and the purling brook. I always
fly from town at every opportunity. And you?”
“I am staying at Barton,” said Cecil Neville, rather shortly.
Spenser Churchill raised his pale eyebrows with a faint surprise.
“With the marquis--with the uncle?” he said, softly.
“Exactly. You are surprised; so was I when I got the invitation.”
“No, really? Ah, I am so glad! It is so nice to see relations living
together in harmony----”
“But we don’t live in harmony!” broke in Neville, in his impetuous
fashion. “We have only met once or twice and have nearly quarreled on
each occasion.”
“Oh, come, I don’t think the dear marquis could quarrel with you, his
nephew.”
“No, you’re right,” said Neville, with a rather grim laugh. “The dear
marquis doesn’t quarrel, he’s too highly polished to do anything so
vulgar; he only carries on until one is driven half mad by the longing
to pitch him out of the window----”
“My dear Neville! Always the same wild recklessness. Pitch the marquis
out of the window!” and Spenser Churchill laughed--a kind of dove-like
coo. “Now, that is strange! I always find the marquis so delightfully
charming----”
“But so you do everybody,” retorted Lord Neville, laughing.
“Well, most people are, aren’t they?” said Spenser Churchill, blandly.
“I don’t know,” replied Lord Neville. “I’m afraid I must be getting
back. I’m due at lunch.” He pulled out his watch, but instead of
looking at it, glanced in the direction Doris had taken.
“Looking for any one?” inquired Spenser, softly.
Lord Neville started rather impatiently.
“No,” he said, “oh, no. Where are you staying? I’ll look you up----”
“I’ll come with you,” said Spenser. “The walk will be delightful, and I
am glad to see you.”
“All right, come on then,” said Lord Neville, and the two started in
the direction of the Towers.
Spenser Churchill did most of the talking--it was almost like singing,
so soft and bland and unobtrusive was the voice; Lord Neville listening
rather absently, and making answers rather wide of the mark at
times--for he was thinking of Doris--and when they reached the entrance
to the avenue he stopped.
“I’m sorry I can’t take upon myself to ask you in to lunch,
Spenser,” he said, with a laugh; “but my uncle might--and probably
would--consider it a liberty, and have you, possibly both of us,
chucked out; and, though I shouldn’t mind it, you mightn’t like it, you
know.”
“I really think I’ll take the risk” said Spenser. “The marquis and I
are such old friends, that I--yes, I’ll chance being expelled.”
“All right,” assented Lord Neville, as before. “Come on, then; and
don’t blame me if the consequences are as I suggested.”
“No, I won’t blame you,” said Spenser Churchill.
They made their way to the hall, and the groom of the chambers and the
footmen received them as if they were royal visitors.
Lord Neville said:
“Tell the marquis that Mr. Spenser Churchill has arrived, please.”
The groom did not look surprised, but merely bowed as he departed.
The drawing-room was empty, and the two men stood talking for a minute;
then the groom came and led Mr. Spenser Churchill to wash his hands,
and Lord Neville went up to his room. As he came down the luncheon bell
rang, and he led Spenser Churchill into the dining-room.
The marquis was already seated, and Lord Neville was about to explain
Spenser’s presence, when he saw the marquis give a start, and as he
rose and extended his hand, Neville fancied that he noticed a peculiar
twitch of the thin, colorless lips.
“Ah! Spenser,” said his lordship, and he spoke, Lord Neville thought,
with something less than his usual cold and biting hauteur, “this is a
surprise! Pray be seated,” and he himself sank into his chair, with no
trace of the mental disturbance in his face or manner, if there had,
indeed, been any.
“Yes, it is a surprise,” said Spenser Churchill, softly, taking his
seat, and unfolding his napkin, as if he had been lunching at the same
table for months past; “I was so fortunate as to meet our dear Neville
in the--er--fields, I may say, where he was roaming in happy and
poetic solitude, and he was kind enough to assure me of a welcome if I
came on with him.”
“His assurance was--on this occasion--justified,” said the marquis,
with a cold glance at the young man.
Spenser Churchill smiled, as if the taunting and exasperating speech
were one of the most amiable.
“Thanks,” he murmured; “and you are well, I hope, marquis?”
“I am never ill,” replied his lordship, as if he were quite incapable
of such vulgarity.
“Ah, no, that is always so delightful of you!” said Spenser. “Our dear
Neville enjoys the famous Stoyle constitution also; he is never ill,
are you, Neville?”
“No,” said Neville, grimly, and without lifting his eyes from his plate.
“I have always been given to understand that the possession of rude
health is the privilege of the fool,” remarked the marquis. “Of course,
we are the exceptions from the rule.”
“Exactly,” murmured Spenser again, as if this were the most charming
of compliments. “Some of us, alas, have become convinced that we have
hearts and livers!”
“Not all of us--so far as the hearts are concerned,” said Neville,
curtly.
The marquis almost smiled; to goad any one into a retort made him as
nearly happy as it was possible for him to be.
“Where are you staying? You will come on here, of course?” he said.
“I am staying at the hotel at Barton. I think they call it the ‘Royal.’
It would be quite too charming if it did not smell so strongly of stale
tobacco and coffee. Thanks, yes, I shall be very glad.”
The marquis looked at the butler, the look meaning: “Send for Mr.
Spenser Churchill’s luggage.” The butler glided from the room.
“You find us quite a merry party,” said the marquis. “We have another
visitor besides Neville----”
“Who can scarcely be counted a visitor,” murmured Spenser.
“Really, that is scarcely fair,” said the marquis, blandly. “Neville
has his faults, but he is not quite the nonentity you would represent
him.”
Neville raised his head, stung to a retort, when the door opposite him
opened and Lady Grace entered.
She was charming, perfectly dressed, looking like a vision of one of
Lippo Lippi’s angels.
“I’m afraid I’m late----” she began, lightly, then her eyes fell upon
Spenser’s smiling face, and her own paled. For a second she stood still
and put out her hand as if seeking something to support her, then her
face resumed its usual serenity, and with a smile she came forward.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill! Really! What a nice surprise!”
“How good, how kind of you to say so!” he sang, as he bent over her
hand.
“I am always good and kind; I can’t help it. Well, Lord Neville, how
have you been amusing yourself?” she went on, as he rose and arranged
her chair for her.
“Under melancholy boughs in the woods, musing in moody meditation,
mentally morbid!” said Spenser Churchill. “I found him beside a purling
brook, composing sonnets, Lady Grace.”
“Or dreaming of last night’s Juliet?” she said, smiling.
He looked up quickly, but her eyes seemed full of unconsciousness and
innocence.
“You did go to the theatre last night, didn’t you?” she asked. “They
told me so.”
“Yes, I went,” he replied.
“And it was ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ wasn’t it?”
He nodded.
She made a little grimace.
“Fancy ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at a country theatre, Mr. Churchill!--the
Romeo striding about, all gasps and sighs, the Juliet fat, fair and
forty! Poor Lord Neville!” and her silvery laugh rang softly through
the room.
Lord Neville knew it would be the better, wiser course to smile and
shrug his shoulders, but he could not.
“It was quite the reverse,” he said, and his voice sounded short and
almost grim. “The play was well cast, and admirably staged. The Romeo
didn’t gasp or strut, and the Juliet----” he stopped, feeling that his
voice had grown more enthusiastic, and was betraying his. “Oh! she
played very well,” he said.
“Indeed! Really!” exclaimed Lady Grace. “Oughtn’t we to patronize the
local talent, marquis?”
He raised his cold eyes to her lovely face.
“I am too old to commit mental suicide,” he said; “take Neville’s
recommendation, and go, if you like, and be sorry for it.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“After all, I don’t think I could venture on it; it would be--forgive
me, Lord Neville--too awful. And so you have come to Barton, Mr.
Churchill. And from whence, pray?”
They talked together in this light, careless, half-indifferent _blasé_
manner which is now--Heaven help us!--the fashion; and Lord Neville
finished his lunch in silence.
“I promise nothing!” rang in his ears; “I promise nothing!” It was a
strange answer. Most girls would have said: “Yes,” or glanced at him,
so to speak, indignantly; but, “I promise nothing!” she had said, in
her sweet, grave, penetrating voice. Would she come? And if she did,
how much the happier would it be? What on earth had come to him, that
he should be unable to think of anything but this lovely, bewitching
girl, so beautiful in face and great in genius?
He woke with a start as the marquis rose, and bowed to Lady Grace, who
was quitting the room.
“Come with me and smoke a cigar,” said Lord Neville to Spenser
Churchill.
“Mr. Churchill will do nothing of the kind,” exclaimed Lady Grace,
stopping and looking over her shoulder, not at his smiling face, but at
the opposite wall. “How inconsiderate you are, Lord Neville; you forget
that I am dying to hear all the latest news.”
“I thought you’d heard it all,” he said, with a smile.
“Not half!” she retorted. “I shall be on the terrace, Mr. Churchill.”
He bowed and smiled; then he turned to the marquis.
“There used to be a very fine old port, marquis,” he said.
The marquis glanced at the butler, who went out, and returned
presently, carefully carrying a bottle in a wicker frame, and Mr.
Spenser Churchill sipped the famous wine with angelic enjoyment.
“There is nothing like port,” he murmured. “Nothing. Yes, marquis, you
look the picture of health. Ah, my dear Neville, depend upon it, that
the moralists are right after all, and that, if one would enjoy life at
its fullest, the thing is to be good!” and he smiled beamingly at the
marquis, who had, for a generation, been called: “Wicked Lord Stoyle.”
Lord Neville glanced at the pale, cold face of his uncle, expecting
some cutting retort, but the marquis only smiled.
“You were always a moralist, Churchill,” he said. “But your advice
comes rather late for Neville, who has, I’m afraid, made acquaintance
with the prodigal’s husks pretty often.”
“And now comes back to find the fatted calf killed for him,” sang Mr.
Spenser Churchill, sweetly.
The marquis rose.
“Don’t let me interfere with your port,” he said.
Neville looked after him.
“I think I can stand about another day of this,” he said, quietly.
“After that you would really not be able to resist the temptation to
throw him out of the window, eh? Fie, fie, my dear Neville!” murmured
Spenser Churchill, with a smile. “Shall we go and join Lady Grace? She
won’t object to a cigarette, I suppose?”
“I don’t know; I never asked her,” he said. “I’ll go and get some
cigars,” and he sprang up and left the room.
Spenser Churchill’s bland smile followed him for a moment or two, then
the expression of his face wholly changed. His lips seemed to grow
rigid, his soft, sleepy eyes acute, his very cheeks, usually so soft
and rotund, hard and angular; and he sat with his glass held firmly in
his hand, peering thoughtfully at the tablecloth.
Then he rose, and, carefully examining the bottle, poured the remains
of it into his glass, and drank it slowly and appreciatively, and then
stepped through the open window on to the terrace.
A slim and graceful figure leaned against the balustrade. It was Lady
Grace; her hands, clasped together, were pressed hard against the stone
coping, as if they were trying to force their way through it, and the
face she turned towards him was pale and anxious, the face of one
waiting for the verdict; of one expecting the dread fiat of a judge.
With a benign smile, more marked than ever, perhaps intensified by the
famous port, he slowly approached her.
“What an exquisite view,” he said, softly, and extending his hands as
if he were pronouncing a benediction on the scenery; “now that nature
is in her spring-time. How refreshing, how inspiring, how vernal! I
cannot express to you, Lady Grace, how deeply this beauteous prospect
moves me! One must have a hard and unimpressionable heart, indeed, who
is not moved by such a landscape as this; so soft, so--er--green----”
Her clasped hands grew together more tightly.
“Why have you come here?” she said, suddenly, in a strained voice.
He raised his pale eyebrows.
“Here--on the terrace, do you mean, Lady Grace?” he said, in a voice of
an innocent, unsophisticated child; “surely you forget. You, yourself,
asked me!”
“Why have you come here?” she repeated.
Without changing his expression or his attitude of bland, serene
enjoyment, he murmured:
“I came because I thought you wanted me--and you do!”
CHAPTER IX.
A SECRET COMPACT.
“I came because I thought you wanted me, and you do,” said Spenser
Churchill, softly.
Lady Grace looked at him, with an expression of dislike and
fear--actual fear. It displayed itself in every line of the fair,
perfectly-formed face, in the expansion of her clear eyes, in the
tight--almost painful--compression of her slim, white hands.
“Why do you think so?” she demanded, in a low voice.
He smiled, until it seemed as if he meant it for his only reply, then
he said, in a dulcet voice:
“A little bird whispered----”
She made a movement of impatience.
“Is there anything you do not know? Is there anything one does or says
that does not reach you?”
He shrugged his shoulders, not cynically, but still with the amused
gesture with which one meets the petulance of a spoiled child.
“I believe there is no secret in any of the lives of the men and women
who call you friend--friend!--that you have not become possessed of.
How is a mystery!”
“It is a question of sympathy, my dear Lady Grace,” he said. “Nature
bestowed upon me a large and sympathetic heart----”
Again she made a movement of impatience.
“Spare yourself the trouble of trying to delude me!” she said, in a
kind of quiet despair. “There are many who fully believe you to be what
your face, and voice, and manner, and reputation make you appear, but I
am not one of them--I think I have known you from the first.”
“You have such keen penetration,” he murmured, as if she had paid him a
delicate compliment.
“I see you without your mask--that mask which presents the appearance
of a smiling, benevolent goodwill! You cannot impose upon me, Spenser
Churchill!”
“Do me the credit of admitting, dear lady, that I never tried,” he
said, softly.
“No,” she said; “it would have been useless. Others you may deceive; me
you cannot. Therefore, I ask you plainly, why you came here? Of course,
I know that you were aware I was here!”
“Oh, yes, I was aware of it,” he admitted; “but think, dear Lady
Grace, such knowledge does not prove much astuteness on my part. Lady
Grace Peyton’s movements are one of the social events which are duly
reported----”
“None of the papers said that I was at Barton Towers,” she said,
sharply; “you got your information from some other source!”
“What does it matter?” he remarked, soothingly.
“No,” she said; “it does not matter, excepting that it proves what I
say, that there is nothing you do not know. And now, once more, why
have you come? I put a plain question. I expect a plain answer.”
“If we always got what we expected!” he murmured, mockingly.
She colored and bit her lip.
“You do not mean to answer? It was from no love for or goodwill to me.
I know you do not--like me, Spenser Churchill!”
He looked quite shocked, and whispered:
“My dear Lady Grace, you hurt me; you do, indeed! There is no one in
the charming circle to which you belong whom I more ardently admire
and respect! Oh, really, you wound me! Not like you!”--he held out his
soft, plump hands reproachfully--“Lady Grace Peyton possesses the whole
of my esteem; and if I could do her a service----”
“You would do it!” she broke in, abruptly, with a bitter, scornful
laugh.
He sighed and looked up at the sky with an injured air of patience and
long suffering.
“How little you know me! How cruelly you wrong me! Alas! it is always
thus! One’s best effort on behalf of others is always met with scorn
and incredulity----”
“There is the marquis,” she said, as if she had been thinking deeply
and had not heard his pathetic appeal. “What do you know about him? How
have you got him in your power?”
“Got the marquis in my power! My dear Lady Grace----”
“Pshaw!” she said. “Do you think I am blind that I cannot see how
different he treats you to others? Is there any other man who would
come to Barton Towers, and be received as you have been? Is there any
other man who would dare to brave him--yes, and taunt him--as you have
done to-day? You know something about him--you have some hold upon him.
I don’t ask what it is--oh, no,” she added, quietly, as he smiled,
“for I know that you would not tell me or would palm off some smooth
falsehood----”
“Oh, Lady Grace, Lady Grace!” he answered, plaintively; but there was
a flicker of self-jubilation and satisfaction on his smiling face.
“It is so, or why should he, who is civil to no one else, be civil to
you? You know why I am here?” she said, abruptly, as if to throw him
off his guard. But the ruse failed utterly; he turned his smiling face
to her, suavely.
“I can guess,” he said, softly.
Her face flushed, then grew hard and defiant.
“Of course you can! Guess? You know! I am here because I was
‘commanded’ by the marquis; I am here because his mightiness pleases to
wish that I should----”
He glanced over his shoulder warningly.
“Is it wise to speak so loudly, my lady?”
She made a gesture of impatient self-scorn.
“What does it matter? Why should I care who knows it? I am here that I
may learn to regard myself as the future wife of the future marquis!
And you know it.”
He looked at her quietly, with a frank, benevolent regard---just the
look one bestows on an irritable child.
“And is that so distasteful?” he asked. Her face crimsoned, and her
eyes drooped, and his smile grew broader. “Not distasteful, I should
say,” he murmured; “quite the reverse. Lady Grace, let me return you
a compliment. You praised me for my power of acting; yours is a great
deal higher! You wanted me to believe that the marquis’ idea was
repugnant, whereas----” he chuckled, smoothly.
Her face had grown crimson again, and she turned it from him for a
moment, then faced him again.
“Well!” she said, “and if I do wish it, what then? Is it so unnatural?
Are there many better matches, many better men than Cecil Neville?”
“Few, if any!” he assented, blandly. “He is young, handsome, popular,
brave, and--a future marquis!” She picked at the moss in the crevice of
the stone coping. “A very good match, indeed, and Lady Grace is worthy
of such a partner, truly!”
“And you mean to do your best or your worst for the match?” he said,
swiftly.
He took out a cigarette.
“May I?” he asked, then lit it, and leaning on the railing, surveyed
the beautiful scene as if he were quite absorbed in peaceful
contemplation, and had quite forgotten his companion and the subject
of their conversation. Then he turned his head, and smiled at her.
“No,” he said, slowly and softly, “I mean to do all I can to further
the idea.”
She started slightly, and her lips parted in a faint sigh.
“You do! You--you mean to help me! and why?”
He was silent again, smoking with placid, serene enjoyment for a moment
or two, then he replied:
“If I were to answer that I am prompted solely by a desire for your
happiness----”
She made a movement of impatience.
“You see!” he said, reproachfully. “You would not believe me; so, what
is the use? Suppose that we do not go into my motives. Let us, if it
please you, decide that they are utterly selfish and bad, abandoned and
wicked ones--will that do? Very well! After all, what do my motives
matter? If I can help you, and I think I can, do not seek to go beyond
the mere solid fact of my assistance. Leave the reasons alone. They
can’t matter much, can they?” and he looked into her eyes with the
bland and innocent gaze of a child.
She moved restlessly.
“If I could trust you!” she said, uneasily.
“I thought I had already proved myself worthy of confidence,” he said,
simply; but there must have been some hidden significance in his words,
for they brought the blood to Lady Grace’s face, and then left it pale
and white to the lips.
“I--I----” she faltered.
“Oh, do not say anything of the past,” he murmured, soothingly. “Let us
think of the present. We will speak plainly. It is the dear marquis’
wish that you should marry Lord Cecil Neville; you being gratified by
his choice and willing to fall in with his views, an old and tried
friend offering his services to you do not hesitate to avail yourself
of them: I am the old and tried friend.”
The last words were more softly and cooingly spoken than any that
had preceded them, but Lady Grace started up and looked at him
suspiciously; he, however, met her scrutiny with his bland and innocent
smile.
“If I really thought you would help me,” she said, doubtfully.
“You may think so, for I will,” he answered. “As I said, never mind my
motives--they concern only myself. And how goes the business? Has our
dear friend Cecil--eh?”
She frowned slightly as if the question touched her self-love and
vanity.
“Our dear friend does not at present seem much smitten by your humble
servant’s charms,” she said, with a short laugh, which only barely hid
her vexation.
He smiled and nodded.
“Our young friend is rather spoiled, you see. One cannot be the favored
of the gods in the matter of youth, and strength, and features, without
paying the usual penalty. Cecil is the most popular man in London.
Believe me, there are twenty young ladies--I could give you their
names”--and his lips curled--“who are, if not dying, living in love of
him.”
“I know,” she said, with hardly restrained impatience. “Of course,
there has been a dead-set at him. That is very natural, is it not?
But--but I don’t think----”
“That the sultan has shown any partiality, that he has not yet thrown
the handkerchief,” he finished for her. “No,” thoughtfully; “I don’t
think he has. His lordship has, indeed, been so very impartial, not to
say invulnerable, that I have sometimes wondered whether there was not
some young lady hidden away, eh?” and he looked at her questioningly.
She started, and colored.
“Then there is?” he said at once.
“I--I don’t know,” she replied, musingly. “There may be. Last night I
dined away from the Towers, at the Thurltons, you know?”
“I know,” he murmured, pleasantly. “Thurlton’s grandfather was
transported for forgery; his wife’s sister ran away with young Lengard,
I remember.”
“Of course, you know all about them, every shameful secret in the
family for generations back?” she said, with a sigh.
He laughed.
“I have such a dreadfully good memory, dear lady. Well, you dined
there----”
“Yes; and coming home I passed down the High street, and saw Lord
Cecil. He was standing at the door of a fly, opposite the theatre,
talking to a lady, a girl.”
He nodded, and puffed at his cigarette placidly, with half-closed eyes,
looking, indeed, almost asleep; but his next question proved that he
was very much awake.
“Was she pretty, Lady Grace?”
“I only saw her for a moment. Yes,” she admitted, reluctantly.
“You did not know her?”
She shook her head.
“No. She was not one of the daughters of any of the county people;
besides, it was a fly. It was opposite the side entrance----”
“She was an actress,” he interrupted, quietly.
“How do you know?”
“My dear lady! It is so simple! The fly was the only one there, or you
would not have seen her so plainly; it was at the side entrance; she
was unknown to you. Oh, plainly it was an actress. And it was she who
was with Lord Cecil this morning.”
“Then you have seen her?” she exclaimed, eagerly.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said, “only heard her. I met our dear Cecil in the woods. As
I approached, I heard two voices, though he, of course, denied it.
One was a woman’s, and, though I am not in the habit of laying wagers
with ladies--for they never pay when they lose--I would bet something
considerable that the voice belonged to the young lady whom you saw
talking to Lord Cecil outside the theatre last night!”
She bit her lip, and the look came into her eyes which indicates the
first approach of the green-eyed monster--jealousy.
“Some worthless actress, painted and powdered. Some woman old enough to
be his mother, though made up as a girl----”
He shook his head and laughed with serene enjoyment.
“No, no; such an experienced bird as Lord Cecil is not to be caught
with such chaff, my dear lady! Depend upon it, this girl is young and
pretty.”
She twisted her handkerchief in her hands, then smiled contemptuously.
“It must be the Juliet of last night!” she said.
“Perhaps.”
“Well”--she drew a long breath--“I think I am a match for a common
actress, though she be young and pretty!” and she raised her head and
turned to him defiantly.
He looked at her with the calm eyes of a _connoisseur_.
“Yes, I should think so,” he said, blandly. “Certainly, I should think
so. A match for half-a-dozen of them. Forgive me if I say that I don’t
think there is a more beautiful woman in England than Lady Grace
Peyton, or a more charming one!”
She took no notice of the compliment; to her ears there rang a tone of
mockery behind the smooth phrases.
“What--what is to be done? What do you advise?” she asked, after a
moment’s pause, and with an affected indifference which made him smile.
He puffed a thin line of smoke from his sleek lips and watched it with
half-closed eyes.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing?” she repeated.
“No,” he said. “Nothing, so far as you are concerned. Just go on being
beautiful and charming--as you cannot help being--and leave it to me
to do the rest. If this is not a serious business, if his lordship
is really only scratched, why----” He laughed lazily. “If, on the
contrary, he is badly hit, and means business, means to make her the
future Marchioness of Stoyle, why we must deal with the young lady
herself.”
“Deal with her?” she asked, with an eager interest she did not attempt
to conceal.
He nodded at the scenery.
“Yes. There are two ways of going to work, each suited to the subject
we are speaking on. Money and moral suasion. It may be money in this
case; if so----”
“I am rich,” she said, in a quiet undertone. “If the creature requires
to be bought; if----”
“You will do it? Exactly. But the moral suasion?”
“I will leave to you, who have so much of it,” she said, with a
half-sneer.
He laughed softly.
“So they all say, dear lady, but, alas! I am so tender-hearted that I
can never bring myself to use it! I am all heart, all heart!” and he
laid his hand on the spot in which the organ is situated, and beamed
at her. Then, without moving a muscle, he went on: “And so, dear Lady
Grace, we had the poor children to an evening party, and gave them tea
and buns, and I am sure you would have been melted to tears at the
sight of their overbrimming happiness.”
Lady Grace looked round in astonishment, and saw that Lord Cecil had
stepped from one of the windows. Spenser Churchill’s quick ear had
heard him, and hence the swift change in the topic of conversation.
“Mr. Churchill begging again, Lady Grace?” said Lord Cecil. “Beware
of him; he never comes near you without an attempt on your purse.
What’s it for now, Spenser; the ‘Indigent Washerwomen,’ or the
‘Chimney Sweeps’ Orphans?’ He’s chairman or secretary of half-a-dozen
charities--aren’t you, Spenser?--and he won’t let you rest until you’ve
put yourself down for lady patroness for half of ’em!” and he laughed
the short, frank laugh which was so refreshing a contrast to Spenser
Churchill’s oily one, that Lady Grace felt as if it washed the other
away.
“It’s the ‘Indigent Basketmakers’ Children,’ my dear Cecil,” said
Spenser Churchill, smoothly. “Dear Lady Grace has consented to become
one of our lady patronesses, have you not, Lady Grace?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, indifferently; “and now having hooked me, I’ll
leave you to go for Lord Cecil,” and with a nod and a smile to the
latter, she turned and entered the house.
Spenser Churchill looked after her with a rapt gaze of benevolent
admiration.
“What a beautiful young creature!” he murmured softly; “and as good as
she is beautiful!”
“Eh?” said Cecil, seating himself on the balcony, lighting an immense
cigar, and offering his case to Spenser Churchill, who shrank back and
put up his hands with a gesture of alarm.
“I never smoke anything so--er--huge and strong. But is she not as good
as she is beautiful, now?”
“She is beautiful enough, certainly,” said Lord Cecil, carelessly; “as
to her goodness, why, yes, I suppose she is good enough. All women are
good, especially pretty ones.”
“I--see,” murmured Churchill, with his head on one side; “you’d say
that--er--there was a faint sign of, shall we say, temper in dear Lady
Grace? Well, perhaps--but--oh, really you must be mistaken, my dear
Cecil; so charming a creature!”
“Why, I didn’t accuse her of temper!” said Lord Cecil, with some
astonishment and an amused laugh; “it was you yourself!”
“No, really? Did I? I’m sure I had no such intention. But I see you
think--eh?--perhaps a little inclined to jealousy? Well, there may be a
touch of that in her composition, now you speak of it.”
Lord Cecil stared at him with a half-amused smile.
“Terrible thing, jealousy, Cecil! My poor father--I don’t think you
knew him?”
Lord Cecil shook his head, as he thought, “And no one else that I ever
heard of!”
“My poor dear father,” continued Spenser Churchill, with a plaintive
air of reflection, “had warned me against that peculiar temperament.
‘Never, my dear Spenser,’ he would say, ‘never marry a jealous-natured
woman. You had better throw yourself into the first horsepond!’”
“And you never have done either?” said Lord Cecil, knocking the ash off
his cigar.
“N--o,” said Spenser Churchill; “and do you really think that dear Lady
Grace has a jealous disposition? Now, really, Cecil, I think you must
be mistaken----”
“Confound it!” said Lord Cecil, “I never said anything of the kind!
Don’t put words I never used into my mouth, please, Churchill!”
“Didn’t you? Then how did I get the idea, I wonder?” responded the
other, looking gravely troubled. “Surely not from Lady Grace herself?
Oh! no--no!” and he looked extremely pained. “I should very much regret
giving you a wrong impression of my opinion of that charming young
creature, my dear Cecil! Most charming! Ah! what a wife she will make!
You don’t agree with me--no? Well, perhaps--er--yes, I understand
you. Beauty, however charming it may be, is not the best possession
a woman can boast. No! after all, perhaps, as you think, a young,
unsophisticated girl, unaccustomed to the intoxication of constant
admiration, would prove a more valuable companion for one’s life.
These London belles are--er--like the well-known Oriental fruit, more
beautiful to the eye than the touch, and----”
Lord Cecil broke into a laugh.
“What on earth are you driving at?” he demanded.
“I driving at!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, opening his eyes with an
innocent stare. “What do you mean, my dear Cecil? What on earth do you
mean?”
Lord Cecil clasped his hands round his knees, and looked at the round,
smooth face and extended eyes with faint amusement.
“You’d make an excellent Chinese puzzle, Churchill,” he said. “If what
you mean is to warn me against marrying Lady Grace----”
“My dear Cecil,” broke in the soft voice, pitched in a tone of strained
horror.
“You can spare yourself the trouble, for I haven’t the least intention
of doing so--at present.”
Spenser Churchill’s thick eyelids quivered almost imperceptibly; but
beyond this faint sign, no other trace of any emotion was visible at
this frank announcement.
“Really?” he said; “I thought---- But, my dear Cecil, don’t you
consider her a most beautiful and charming woman? and--er--come now,
after all, you would find it difficult to discover a more suitable
partner, eh?”
Lord Cecil frowned.
“Let us change the subject,” he said, curtly.
“Well, perhaps you’re right, after all,” said the other, with bland
promptitude. “Yes, no doubt, you are right! That sort of woman is
better in a picture, eh? Yes, we’ll change the subject! What time do
you dine here?”
“Eight,” said Lord Cecil. “I don’t dine at home to-night--at the
Towers,” he corrected himself. “I have an engagement.”
“Really? I am so sorry! Can’t you put it off--for my sake? Write and
tell the people that you are too good-natured to dine out when an old
friend turns up.”
“I’m not going to dine out,” said Lord Cecil, absently.
“No; really? Now, where can you be going?”
“I think the marquis was inquiring for you,” said Lord Neville curtly;
“I’ll tell him you are here,” and dropping from his perch, he sauntered
into the house.
Spenser Churchill leaned over the balcony and smiled.
“Going to the theatre again!” he murmured, “Yes; I haven’t been to a
country theatre for some time; I really think I should like to go and
see what it is like!”
CHAPTER X.
FOR HIM ALONE.
Doris went home, her heart throbbing with an emotion which was half
pain, half joy.
Lord Cecil Neville had asked her to meet him to-morrow. “I promise
nothing!” she had said, and when she said it she fully meant that she
would not come; and yet, now, as she walked hurriedly to the lodgings,
she knew that when the morrow arrived, she would feel drawn to the spot
as the steel is drawn to the magnet.
But if she had promised nothing, he had promised. He had said that he
would be at the theatre that night, and she remembered how her heart
had leaped at his words; even now they rang sweetly in her ears.
Heaven only knows with what delight she dwelt upon the thought that he
would be present, listening to her as she spoke the passion-laden words
of Juliet.
All this was joy, but the pain came on. Alas, that all our joy should
be attended so closely by that grim companion.
“Love’s feet are softly shod with pain.”
says the poet.
For the first time in her young life she had a secret from Jeffrey. It
had been difficult to tell him yesterday of her acquaintance with Lord
Cecil Neville; she felt now that it would be impossible to tell him,
for she knew that she could not recount the incidents of their meeting
without letting him know how interested she had become in this young
nobleman, whose head had rested on her knee, and whose face haunted her
night and day.
And she knew that once she had told Jeffrey, he would forbid her even
to see or speak to Lord Neville again. And this seemed too dreadful for
her to bear.
Yes, it had come to this: that the great actress, with the heart and
purity of a child, had become so interested, so fascinated--if that is
the right word--with this stranger, that the thought of not seeing him
again, or hearing his voice, was intolerable.
Her steps grew less hurried as she neared home, and her thoughts had
crystalized into this shape.
“After all, where is the harm? He is good and kind, and I have so few
friends--no one, excepting dear old Jeffrey!--that I cannot afford
to lose him. Besides, I shall act better if I know that he is in the
theatre. I don’t know why that is, but it is so. And Jeffrey ought to
be glad of that. Oh, if I could only tell him! But I cannot!”
Once during the day she did make the effort; she began to talk about
the fields and the beautiful on-coming of spring, but Jeffrey would not
listen. He was full of the business of the theatre, full of expected
offers from the great London managers, and paid no attention to what
she was saying, merely remarking that, after all, the open air was the
place to study in.
To study in! Yes, she knew that! It was in the open air that she
had first seen Lord Neville, and learned the way to speak Juliet’s
“Good-night!”
She did not leave the house again that day, but spent it studying her
part. There were one or two points that she had missed, so Jeffrey
said, and she went over them again and again.
And how do you think she mastered them? By imagining that Lord Neville
was the Romeo, and it was for love of him she suffered and died!
“It was wrong?” Yes, but life is full of wrong, and it is not until
youth is passed; and experience is gained, that we learn to distinguish
the wrong from the right.
The night came, and with it the fly to carry them to the theatre.
There was an immense crowd collected outside the pit and gallery doors,
and the manager met them with the glad tidings that all the reserved
seats were taken.
“An immense success, my dear Miss Marlowe. You have hit them hard!” he
said, smiling and nodding.
That he had only spoken truly was patent from the welcome which she
received when she made her first appearance. A roar went up and shook
the very chandelier, as the slim, graceful, girlish figure entered from
the wings.
As is usual, I believe, with actors, for some minutes she could not
see beyond the footlights; but presently she began to distinguish
faces in the hazy glow, and she saw the handsome, tanned face she had
expected--and longed for!
He had come then, as he had promised!
He was in the box he had occupied on the preceding night; leaning
forward, his hands clasped on the velvet edge, his eyes following her
every movement.
She lost all consciousness of the rest of the audience, and played only
to those rapt, attentive eyes.
Every word she uttered she spoke to him, every glance of the blue
eyes--which grew violet when she was agitated--though bent upon the
Romeo on the stage, was meant for the one face in the vast audience.
She played, if anything, better than she had played last night, and the
manager came to her to tell her so.
“Better and better, Miss Marlowe!” he said, bowing and smiling. “If you
go on like this----”
“The house is crammed,” said Jeffrey, who was standing near the wings
with a shawl to throw over Doris’s shoulders, for like that of most
country theatres, the Barton one was rich in draughts.
“Yes,” said the manager, “and a first-class audience. Did you notice
those two side boxes?”
Jeffrey looked.
“They have both got the curtains drawn,” he said.
The manager laughed.
“Yes. They have been drawn like that since the first scene. I expect
that a London manager is behind each, eh, Miss Marlowe? Ah, I shan’t be
able to keep you long!”
Doris smiled absently and passed on to her dressing-room.
But in the next act she happened to look up at the right-hand box, and
she saw that the curtains had been drawn aside.
She glanced at it with the pre-occupied look of an actor, and saw that
the only occupant of the box was a young and very beautiful girl, with
dark, flashing eyes, and bright, golden hair.
The other box remained screened, and the occupant invisible.
The play proceeded, and then came the shower of bouquets.
Now, Barton is not a floral town by any means, so that the bouquets
which fell at the feet of the girlish Juliet must have been procured at
some pains and trouble. The Romeo filled his arms with them, and one
only remained lying on the stage.
It was a magnificent bouquet of white and purple violets, and as it
fell, Doris, looking up, saw the handsome face of Lord Neville close to
the stage in the orchestra stalls.
She stooped and raised the bouquet and glanced at him, but this time
she did not lift the flowers to her lips.
As she passed off, the manager touched her arm.
“I’ve found out who it is that’s got the box on the prompt side,” he
said; “it’s Lady Grace Peyton, the great London beauty. She’s staying
at Barton Towers, the Marquis of Stoyle’s place, you know.”
“At Barton Towers!” said Doris. Then she went to the side of the
proscenium and looked at the box in which Lady Grace’s face was just
visible. “How beautiful she is!” she murmured.
“Yes, I should think so!” said the manager. “Why, she’s the
professional beauty of the season; it’s an honor to have her in the
theatre! And who else do you think is here?” he added, exultingly.
“I don’t know,” said Doris, moving away.
“Why, Lord Cecil Neville, the marquis’ nephew, and he was here last
night! What do you think of that? It isn’t only the pit and gallery
that have gone mad over you, Miss Marlowe, but the gentry, too! Just as
I said last night! Lord Cecil Neville; I daresay you haven’t heard of
him, but he’s the best-known man in London. I wish I knew who was in
the other box, but I can’t find out.”
“Perhaps it’s the marquis himself,” said Doris, with an absent smile.
“Oh! no!” said the manager; “he’d be with Lord Neville or Lady Grace!
No, it’s not the marquis!”
She went and dressed for the last and great scene, and when she came
out found Jeffrey pacing up and down.
“Better than last night, Doris,” he said nodding, and glancing at her
under his thick frowning brows. “You have made all the points to-night;
that’s right! Keep cool! Don’t let your head be turned by the applause,
and the bouquets. What! Violets again to-night? Very kind, very
characteristic! Let me hold them for you,” and he held out his hand for
the bouquet, which, unthinkingly, she had brought out with her.
She extended them to him, when, her eyes dwelling on them, she saw a
mark of white among the purple blossoms.
Then she gave them to him, saying hurriedly, “Take care of them: they
smell so sweet,” and went and took her place at the wing, crushing the
piece of paper into the bosom of her dress.
She had to wait some few minutes, and with a quickly throbbing heart
she took out the paper and glanced at it.
A scribble in pencil ran across it:
Will you meet me in the fields to-morrow? I must speak to you.
CECIL NEVILLE.
That was all. She replaced the paper in her bosom, where it seemed to
burn like a living thing and went on the stage.
If her performance in this scene on the preceding night was good, this,
to-night, was much in advance of it. Her voice seemed to thrill the
vast audience, and, with her face, moved them to tears.
But Doris was conscious of only one spectator and auditor, the one who
leaned forward in the centre box, with the rapt attention of a devotee
at a shrine.
The curtain fell amidst a thunder of applause, and, pale and quivering,
she was led on by the Romeo to receive the enthusiastic expression of
approbation and delight.
“Wonderful, Miss Marlowe!” said the Romeo. “Miles ahead of last night,
and that was good enough.”
She was about to acknowledge the frank and generous compliment, when
she felt her arm seized, and saw Jeffrey standing beside her.
His face was white and drawn, the sunken eyes blazing with passion.
“Doris! Doris!” he gasped.
“Jeffrey!” she said, half frightened. “What is the matter?”
“Look, look!” he panted hoarsely, and he drew the edge of the curtain
back and pointed to a box on the right-hand side.
Doris looked and saw a fair, pleasant-looking man standing in the front
of the box. He was watching the dispersing audience with a gentle
smile, and his fat white hand was softly smoothing his long, fair hair
from his forehead. He looked benevolent enough to be a bishop, and
Doris stared from him to the white ashen face of Jeffrey.
“What is it, dear Jeffrey?” she asked.
“Look! look!” he repeated hoarsely. “There stands your greatest enemy,
save one! Your greatest enemy in the world! Look at him, Doris! Look at
him and remember him!”
She turned her eyes to the box.
“That fair gentleman with the long hair, do you mean, Jeffrey?”
“Yes, that is him! Curse him! Curse him!” he muttered. Then suddenly he
seemed to recover himself.
“Come away!” he said brokenly. “Don’t pay any attention to what I have
said. It--it is nothing!” and he let the edge of the curtain fall.
CHAPTER XI.
LOVE’S SUBTLE SPELL.
At any other time Doris would have been alarmed at Jeffrey’s sudden
outburst of rage, occasioned by the sight of the amiable-looking
stranger in the box, but she could think of nothing but the little
white note lying hidden in the bunch of violets which Lord Cecil
Neville had thrown to her.
It was the first note she had received in that way, and she felt guilty
and unhappy.
If she had only told Jeffrey on the first of her acquaintance with Lord
Neville! She would have taken the note to him, if she had done so; but
she felt that to place it in his hands now would be to call forth one
of his fierce outbursts of rage, in which it was quite possible he
might seek Lord Neville and force a quarrel on him.
What should she do? The question haunted her all the way home. Should
she write and tell Lord Neville that she could not meet him, and
request him not to write to her again? This seemed the easiest thing to
do, but she shrank from it for two reasons: One, because Jeffrey had
often warned her against writing to strangers, and the other, because
it seemed so stern a rebuke for so slight an offense.
For, after all, his sin was not so great. He had asked permission to
call upon her, asked it respectfully and with all the deference of a
gentleman addressing a lady his equal in position, and she had refused
to grant him the permission. If he wanted to see her, what else could
he do than write and ask her to meet him?
Once she nearly summoned up courage to tell Jeffrey everything, but, as
she looked up at him as he leaned back in the corner of the fly, with
bent head and folded arms, she saw so stern and moody an expression
on his face that her courage failed her; he was just in the humor to
consider the note an insult, and seek to avenge it.
And somehow Doris could not regard it in this way. As she read
the words, she seemed to hear Lord Neville’s deep, musical voice
pronouncing them, pleadingly, respectfully, with reverence rather than
insult.
Doris was a great actress, but she was as ignorant of the world outside
the theatre as a child; she had only her instinct to guide her, and
that seemed to say that it was impossible Lord Neville could have meant
to insult her!
But the result of all her thinking was this: That her acquaintance with
him must cease. She must have no friends save those of the theatre;
least of all, a young nobleman who tossed her bouquets of violets, and
begged her to meet him in the meadows!
Jeffrey’s mood clung to him during the remainder of the night. As a
rule, after their supper, which was an exceedingly simple one, he grew
cheerful and talkative; but to-night he sat with bent head and frowning
brows, apparently brooding over the past.
Once or twice she saw him look up at her with a half-troubled glance;
then, as his eyes met hers, he compressed his lips and sighed; and
after a while he said suddenly:
“You are happy, Doris?”
She started slightly and the color rushed to her face. It almost seemed
as if he knew something was troubling her.
“Happy, Jeffrey? Yes,” she said, and she went and sat at his feet and
folded her hands on his knee.
He looked down into her beautiful face--not into her eyes, for they
were downcast.
“Yes,” he said, moodily and absently, as if he were communing with
his own thoughts rather than addressing her, “yes, you are happy; how
could it be otherwise? All that I have wished for has come to pass.
You are a great actress, you will be famous. The world will be at your
feet--even as you are now at mine! It will hang upon your voice, watch
with breathless interest your face, pour its gold into your lap. Great,
famous; you are--you must be--happy!”
“Yes, Jeffrey,” she said, “and I owe it all to you.”
“To me?” he said. “Yes. But if you do, it is a debt that I myself owed.
To you, to her----”
“To her?” she murmured, wonderingly.
“To Lucy, to your mother,” he said, still absently.
“To my mother?” said Doris, with bated breath.
He was silent for a moment, then he seemed as if awakening from a dream.
“Doris,” he said, gravely, and with visible emotion, “there is
something I must tell you. I ought to have told you before this; but I
put it off. I would put it off now--” his lips quivered--“for I hate
the thought of it. But to-night my conscience has been roused. That
man--” he stopped, and his teeth clicked. “Doris!” he exclaimed, with
a catch in his breath. “Tell me, have I not been as a father to you?
Could any father have striven more hardly for his daughter’s good?
Could any father have loved you better, and lived for you more solely
and entirely than I have done?”
“No, Jeffrey, none!” she said, in a low voice, and laying her soft,
white hand upon his rugged and gnarled one soothingly.
“I call Heaven to witness that I have only had one thought, your
welfare. When you lay, a little child, in my arms, I devoted my life to
you. Every hour of the day I have thought of you, and planned out your
future. It was not my own happiness I sought, not my own ambition, but
yours--yours! I have lived and striven for one end--your success, and
your happiness! And I have won! You are a great actress, Doris, and it
is I--I!--who have taught and trained and made you what you are!”
“Yes, Jeffrey,” she murmured, “I know it! and I am grateful--grateful!”
“But are you happy? Are you happy, child?” he demanded, and his voice
sounded almost stern in its intensity.
The color came and went in her face.
“How could I be otherwise, Jeffrey?” she said. “Yes, I am happy!”
He drew a long breath, as of relief, but went on--
“Compare your lot with others. I don’t mean the poor and commonplace;
but those others, the rich, the well-born, the titled. Would you have
been happier, for instance, if you had been--let me say--the daughter
of a nobleman----”
She smiled at the question, earnestly as it was put.
“I don’t know any daughters of noblemen, Jeffrey,” she said; “but I
don’t think I would exchange places with any of them.”
He nodded, and laid his hand upon her head.
“No, no,” he said, moodily.
“No,” she said, with a faint laugh. “I would not exchange places with
the highest lady in the land! To be able to move a theatre full of
people to tears or laughter, that is better than being an earl’s
daughter, is it not, Jeffrey?”
He started.
“Yes, yes,” he said, eagerly; “that is what I wanted you to feel! Any
one can be an earl’s daughter, but few!--how few!--the Doris Marlowe
who wrought an audience to enthusiasm to-night?”
She smiled up at him.
“And what is this that you are going to tell me, Jeffrey?”
He started, and his hand fell from her head.
“I--I--” he said, uncertainly, “I don’t think I’ll tell you to-night,
Doris; it will keep. I’m not certain that it would make you happier;
I’m half inclined to think that it would only make you miserable.
No!--I won’t tell you. Go to bed, and forget----” He stopped.
“Forget that pleasant-looking gentleman in the box, Jeffrey?” she said,
with a smile.
His face darkened, and the hand that rested on the table clenched
tightly.
“You saw him!--you saw him!” he said, with suppressed fury. “Remember
him, Doris! He is a villain!--a scoundrel! He is your, and my, greatest
enemy----”
“That smiling, fair-haired gentleman?” she said.
“One may smile, and smile, and then be a villain, Doris,” he said,
quoting “Hamlet.”
“And you won’t tell me who he is and all about him, Jeffrey?”
“Not to-night,” he said, knitting his brows. “Go now, Doris. Some other
time----”
She touched his forehead with her lips, and stole away from him
quietly, and went upstairs.
She slept little that night. The roar of the crowded theatre seemed to
force its way into the white little room, and with it mingled Jeffrey’s
strange words hinting at some fraud, and the words of Lord Cecil
Neville’s note.
The morning broke clear and bright, and she came down, looking rather
pale and grave.
Jeffrey ate his breakfast almost in silence, and there was no trace of
last night’s emotions on his broad brow. As was usual with him, he went
down to the theatre directly after breakfast, and Doris was left alone.
The time had now arrived in which she must decide what she must do
respecting Lord Neville’s note.
She opened her writing-case, and, after sitting before it for
half-an-hour, wrote an answer in which she declined a meeting with him;
and it gave her satisfaction for a few minutes, at the end of which
she--tore it up!
No answer she could pen--and she tried hard--seemed satisfactory. Some
were too familiar, others too stiff and haughty.
“I shall have to see him!” she murmured, at last, as if in
despair--“for the last time!” A thrill of regret ran through her at the
words; they sounded so sad and significant.
Trying to frame some form of words in which she could speak to him, she
made her way to the meadows, and as she went the beauty of the spring
morning seemed to take to itself a new and strange loveliness, and,
notwithstanding her difficult task, the thought that she was going to
meet him again filled her with a vague, indescribable sensation that
half-pleased, half-troubled her.
All the place was silent save for the singing of the birds and the
babbling of the brook, and as she seated herself on the mossy bank she
looked round, as one views a place rendered familiar and pleasant by
associations.
Wherever she went, whatever happened to her in the future, she thought,
she should always remember Barton meadows, the clump of elms, the
silver brook, and--ah, yes!--the handsome face lying so still and white
in her lap.
As she was recalling the scene, dwelling on it with a singular
commingling of pleasure and pain, she heard the beat of a horse’s
hoofs, just as she had heard it the first morning; and Lord Neville
came flying over the hedge, a little further from her this time, and
still upon his horse, and not upon his head.
He pulled the animal up almost on its haunches, and, slipping from the
saddle, hurried toward her.
In the second that she raised her eyes, she took in, as if by a species
of mental photography, the handsome face with its clear and now eager
eyes, the graceful figure, in its suit of gray cords that seemed to be
part and parcel of the wearer, and the air--distinguished, patrician,
it is so difficult to describe it, which is the birthright of the
gentleman--the air which the parvenu, though he count his gold by the
million, cannot purchase.
“You have come!” he said, raising his hat. “I am so glad, so grateful,
Miss Marlowe.”
“You would not be, Lord Neville, if you knew how sorry I am to be
here,” she said, and her wonderful eyes met his ardent gaze steadily
and with a gravity that lent a subtle and altogether new charm to her
face.
His face fell.
“Sorry?” he said, regretfully.
“Yes,” she said; “very, very sorry. Lord Neville, you should not have
written me that note; it was wrong.”
“Let me tell you,” he said, eagerly, pleadingly; “I feared you would
say this----”
“I did not intend to come,” she said, as if he had not spoken. “I meant
to pass the note by unanswered. But it seemed--well, yes, unkind. And I
tried to write, but----” her brows came together, “I could not please
myself. It is so hard to write such a letter for the first time in
one’s life, and at last I decided to meet you, that I might tell you
how wrong you were, and that your note showed me--ah! so plainly--that
we must not meet again--that, in short, Lord Neville, our acquaintance
must cease!”
She actually half rose, as if she were about to leave him then and
there; but he put out his hand pleadingly, without daring to touch her,
and implored her to wait.
“Don’t go--for a moment, only a moment!” he pleaded. “Let me speak in
my defense. Do listen to me! I only ask you to listen to me!”
She sank down again slowly, reluctantly, as it seemed, and he threw
himself beside her, bending forward, his eyes fixed upon her face, all
alight with the ardent desire to turn aside her anger, to melt her
coldness.
“Why did you write that note?” she said.
“Why--I was mad!” he said. “Stop--I was mad; I wrote it while I was in
the theatre. It was wrong, I know, of course; but I’m not sorry that I
wrote it!”
She turned her eyes with surprise and reproach upon him.
“No, I’m not sorry!” he said, almost defiantly. “I wrote it during the
_entr’acte_; I’d been watching you and listening to you until--well,
until I had lost myself, I suppose. Anyhow, I got the piece of paper
and wrote on it, and put it among the violets, all in a moment, as
it were. I felt that I must see you again--wait, ah, wait and hear
me out!” for she had made a movement that seemed to threaten her
departure. “I don’t know how long I may be here; I may go at any
moment--from Barton, I mean; and then, as I thought that I might not
see you again for weeks, for months, perhaps----” he stopped, not
because he had no words, but for breath, and to regain his composure.
“I knew you would be angry, but--what was I to do? You had forbidden
me--well, you hadn’t given me permission to call on you----”
She caught her under-lip in her teeth; he was using the argument in his
defense which she had used for him in the morning.
--“And I thought I would write it. Miss Marlowe, you shall blame me
for sending that note to you, for asking you to meet me here. It was
wrong, impertinent, whatever you like to call it, but I had a distinct
object----”
She did not start, but looked at him for a moment with faint surprise,
then looked at the brook.
“I wanted to tell you something,” he said, not so smoothly or glowing
now, but with a sudden gravity in his voice, an intensity in the
expression of his eyes that ought to have warned her; but it did not,
for she looked at him with calm surprise.
“It will sound sudden to you, sudden and abrupt, I daresay,” he said.
“I--I can’t help it! It seems sudden to me, and yet sometimes I feel
as if I had known you for years--all my life. Miss Marlowe, when a man
finds that the face and the voice of a girl are haunting him day and
night, that he cannot drive them out of his head for half a minute,
when he is only happy when he is near her and altogether wretched when
he is away from her, there is only one explanation: He is in love with
that girl. I am in love with you!”
The blood rushed to Doris’s face, then left it white to the lips.
She drew her eyes away from his slowly and sat mute and motionless.
“I love you!” he said, bending a little nearer to her, the words
fraught with the intensity--and the truth--of a man’s passion. “I love
you with all my heart and soul!” He drew a long breath. “That is why I
wrote to you, that is what I had to say to you--wait a moment, I know
what you are going to say--perhaps you are going to laugh. For Heaven’s
sake, don’t, for this is a serious business for me!”
She made a slight gesture of negation.
“No, forgive me; I was wrong! You would not laugh! But I know what
you will say--that I have only seen you a few times, that I have only
spoken to you on two occasions. Well, I know. Do you think I haven’t
told myself all that? I have, a hundred times; but it doesn’t alter the
fact. I do love you. I know that, and that’s about all I know of it.”
His deep, musical voice was tremulous for a moment, but he mastered
it. “And I don’t wonder at it! Where is the man with half-a-heart
in his bosom who wouldn’t love you! I have never seen any one so
beautiful--half so beautiful!”
She moved her hand as if to silence him, but he went on.
“And I’ve sat for hours, fascinated--feeling my heart drawn out of me
by your face, your voice! Why, look how you move the rest of the people
at the theatre, and think what it must mean to me, who loved you the
very first time I saw you! Ah, Miss Marlowe--Doris--let me call you
Doris for once!--if I could only tell you how dearly and truly and
passionately I love you! But I can’t. I know it’s no use. Who am I that
you should feel anything but amusement----”
“Do not say that,” she said, in a low voice, almost inaudible, indeed.
“You are as beautiful as an angel, and as clever--why, you are famous
already, and I”--he laughed with self-scorn--“I’m just an ordinary fool
of a fellow. Of course, there is no hope for me, and yet somehow I felt
that I must tell you. You won’t laugh, I know. You’ll tell me that I’m
very foolish, and that we mustn’t meet again--and--and all that”--he
rose, but sank down again, and touched her arm reverently--“and you’ll
send me away and--and--perhaps forget all about me in a week or two.
While I--well--” he pushed the short, crisp hair from his brow with an
impatient gesture--“well, I shall get over it in time. No!” he said,
simply, passionately, “I shall never forget you. If I live to be a
hundred I shall never forget the other day when I opened my eyes and
saw you bending over me, or those next two nights when I looked at you
in the theatre! I shall never forget, nor cease to love you! I know it
as surely as I stand here!”
He rose and thrust his hands in his pockets, and looked down at her,
his handsome face set hard, his eyes dwelling upon her with the hungry
look of the man who loves and yet does not hope.
“And now, I’ve told you,” he said, with a short breath, “and now I
suppose it’s ‘good-by, Lord Neville, I hope you will be happy and----’”
His voice broke, and he knelt beside her and caught her hand. “Miss
Marlowe! Doris! If--if there is the slightest chance for me! If there
is the least bit of hope in the world, give it to me! I’m--I’m like
a man pleading for his life! For his life? For more than that--his
happiness----” He stopped sudden, smitten silent, for the hand that
was free had gone up to her face and covered her eyes, and she was
trembling.
She had heard love made to her on the stage, and it had meant--just her
“cue,” no more; this was the first time the accents of a real, genuine
passion had ever smote upon her ear, and its tones thrilled to her
heart.
She trembled with joy, with fear, with doubt, with the almost
irrepressible longing to hide her burning face upon his breast, and
give words to the cry that rang in her heart, “I love you! I love you!”
“Doris!” he said; “Doris!” and there was truth in his voice. “For
Heaven’s sake, don’t cry! I’m not worth it; I am not, indeed! Are you
crying? Don’t! I’ll--I’ll go----”
She put out her hand and laid it gently on his arm as gently as a
butterfly alights upon a flower.
He caught it and drew nearer to her.
“Doris! Is it possible? Do you--may I hope? Doris! Oh, my darling, my
darling!” and his strong arms wound round her, and his kisses fell like
hot rain upon her hair and eyelids.
For a moment she surrendered herself to the storm of passion, as a tree
bends before the whirlwind; then she put her hands palm-wise upon his
breast, and gently kept him from her.
“Oh, wait, wait!” she murmured. “I don’t know----”
“Don’t know! Don’t know whether you love me, you mean?” he said,
kneeling beside her, and gazing hungrily in her face, ready to swoop
down upon her with renewed caresses.
“Yes,” she said, and her voice came in a whisper. “It is all so--so
sudden! I don’t know----”
“My darling!” he whispered. “Let me ask you! I know what love means,
for I learned it from my love for you. Look at me, Doris!”
She raised her eyes--they seemed weighted with lead--and let them rest
upon his ardent, glowing face.
“Let me ask you,” he said, “would you like me to be unhappy? Would you
like me to leave you, to go away from you, not for an hour, or a day,
but forever?”
A faint shudder shook her, and the hands touching his breast
half-closed on him.
“Would you be happy if I were miles away, and there were no chance
of ever seeing me again? Doris, answer me; shall I go? Will you say
‘good-by?’”
He drew back from her in a feint of leaving her, and her small, soft
hands closed upon him.
“No, no!”
He asked for no more. With a cry of joy he drew her to him and kissed
her, all unrebuked this time.
“My darling!--my beautiful!” he murmured. “Oh, Doris, is it true--can
it be true? Tell me, dearest; I can’t believe it otherwise. Tell me, do
you love me just a little?” and he looked into her downcast eyes as if
he would read her soul.
She put her hand upon his arm and raised her eyes to his slowly, and
let them rest there.
“Yes!” she said, as if the effort cost her much; “I do love you!”
A linnet, perched upon a branch of the tree above them, burst into
song; a lamb, that had been regarding them curiously, drew near and
bleated; the brook babbled over the stones; all nature in its happy
springtide seemed to take up the harmony of these two souls bound in
Love’s subtle spell, and to find voice; but they were silent.
At last he spoke.
“It is like a dream!” he said, removing his eyes from her face for a
moment and looking round like a man awaking from sleep. “Like a dream!
Tell me once more, Doris; just once more!”
“Is it so difficult to believe? Well, then--I love you!” she murmured,
and a smile--the first fruit of love--beamed from her eyes.
“Difficult to believe!” he said; “well, I should think so! Great
Heaven! what on earth do you see in me to love?”
“Quite enough,” she said, the smile growing sunnier, as she looked at
his handsome face and ardent eyes.
“It’s wonderful!” he said. “Just look at the difference between us:
you, so beautiful, so clever, such a genius; oh, I know! Why, you will
be famous--are famous already, I daresay--and I!” he laughed with
self-scorn. “It is wonderful!” and he drew her hand to his lips and
kissed it.
“Isn’t it?” she said, slowly, with loving mockery.
“Yes, it is,” he asseverated. “Simply wonderful! And to think that you
belong to me! You, you, you!” and his eyes flashed upon her lovely,
bewitching face. “By Jove, I shall wake up presently, and find that it
really is only a dream.”
She started, and would have withdrawn her hand if it had not been so
tightly clasped in his.
“It is only a dream,” she murmured.
“Only a dream?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “A--a--very pleasant dream----”
“Thank you!”
“But a dream still, Lord Neville----”
“My name is Cecil, I’d have you to know!”
“Lord Cecil----”
“Cecil, without the ‘lord,’ if you please.”
“It is only a dream! We must wake now! I--and you--have forgotten!”
“Forgotten what, dearest?” he said.
“Forgotten who you are, and what I am.”
“You are an angel!” he remarked, seating himself beside her, and
stealing his arm round her waist.
“I am an actress, and you are a viscount,” she said.
“I believe I am,” he said, smilingly. “But, all the same, you are an
angel! Every moment I expect to see you spread your wings, and fly from
me.”
“So I shall directly,” she said, with a smile that was half-sorrowful.
“I am an actress--one of the people! One who has no status, no standing
in the world; and you are a nobleman! You will be a marquis some day,
will you not?”
“I daresay,” he assented, carelessly, trying to decide whether she was
more beautiful, grave or smiling.
“There is a gulf between you and me, Lord Neville!”
“Cecil, if you please!”
“A gulf----”
“Which love can stride across,” he said. “That is, if you are going
to draw up a list of comparisons! As if there could be any comparison
between Doris Marlowe, the great actress, and Cecil Neville, the stupid
dragoon!”
“And future marquis!” she said. “Ah, I know! Yes, there’s a gulf!”
“Look here, Doris,” he said, taking her hand, which she had withdrawn,
and kissing each finger separately; “don’t talk nonsense. I’m a future
marquis. All right. I don’t deny it.”
“You cannot.”
“Just so--I cannot. But I’m not a marquis at present. I’m simply Cecil
Neville! I’m not even a dragoon, for--confound him!--the marquis made
me retire! I’m simply nothing, while you--you!” he emphasized the
pronoun by raising the edge of her dress and kissing it, “you are a
great and famous actress----”
“And outside the pale of society,” she said, with sudden wisdom.
“Society!” he exclaimed, “what do I care for that? I never cared very
much for it; at this moment I care less. You are society enough for me!”
No woman could have been otherwise than touched by his devotion; she
allowed him to retain her hand.
“If you only knew what a sacrifice you are making, my darling!” he
said, smilingly. “Why, presently you will appear in London, and will
find the world at your feet; and they will all be in love with you,
peasants--only there are no peasants in London--and peers! I daresay
you would have an offer from a duke! Think of that! And you have
pledged your troth to a simple viscount!”
“I am satisfied,” she said, with a smile.
“And precious little you have to be satisfied with!” he said, “for I
am a poor kind of viscount. I am entirely at the mercy of the great
marquis--the Marquis of Stoyle! He forced me to leave the army, where
I had a chance, and he keeps me on starvation allowance. Oh! you had
better have waited and hooked your duke, Doris!”
She laughed softly, but the laugh was rather a grave one.
“What will the marquis say?” she asked, looking at him, with her brows
drawn, her lovely eyes half-curious.
Lord Neville smiled.
“He will be sure to say something disagreeable; he always does.”
“But tell me,” she insisted, gently. “Or shall I tell you?”
“You couldn’t,” he said. “That beautiful face of yours couldn’t manage
to look like the marquis’ hard, stony one, and certainly your voice
that is just like music----”
“Shall I get up and curtsey?” she put in, with a faint smile.
“You needn’t; it’s no compliment. No, you couldn’t harden your voice to
anything approaching the marquis’ steely, icy tones.”
“No?” she said, absently; then suddenly she sat upright, and her face
grew set and cold, and her eyes hardened with a disdainful hauteur.
“So, Cecil!” she said, and her voice was stern and cuttingly scornful,
“so you have made up your mind to marry--what is it?--a dairymaid--no,
pardon me!--an actress! An actress, a social pariah, a person one pays
one’s money to see upon the stage, to make us laugh for an hour or
two, but with whom one would rather not be seen walking in the public
streets; and you propose to marry this--this girl? Well, do so, but
remember that in marrying her you cut yourself off from me and the
world to which you belong, and that you sink into the mud from which
she sprang, and are utterly ruined, a social suicide!”
Lord Neville sat and stared at her.
It was not the words, dramatic though they were, which amazed him, but
the face, the voice.
“Why, Doris,” he said, at last, “you have seen, you know the marquis?”
She shook her head as her countenance resumed its own girlish freshness
and beauty.
“No,” she said, gently. “I have never seen him.”
“No? Well, of all the extraordinary likenesses! It was my esteemed
uncle the marquis--making an allowance for the difference in age and
the rest--to a point!”
“You forget that I am an actress,” she said, with a little sigh. “It
was easy enough, as easy to guess what he--what any one in his position
would say to his nephew and heir when he told him what he proposed
doing! It is something like what he would say, is it not?”
“It was a wonderful imitation of the marquis’ expression and way of
talking--wonderful, darling!--but I don’t think he would have said so
much. But there, what difference can it make what he says or thinks,
eh, Doris?” he broke off.
“But will it make no difference?” she asked, leaning forward, her hands
clasped on her knees, her eyes fixed dreamily on the ground. “I know
there must be a sacrifice--let me know how great a one. What difference
will it make?” and she looked at him.
Lord Neville frowned slightly as he thought of the speech his uncle had
addressed to him after dinner on his first night at the Towers, and she
saw the frown and sighed.
“The sacrifice would be greater even than I thought,” she said. “Is it
not so? I--yes, I am so ignorant of the world. I know nothing about it,
excepting what I have learned from books and plays----”
“Don’t say another word!” he broke in, almost grimly in his
earnestness. “Every word you say makes me ashamed! Do you think I set
anything in the scales against your love? The marquis may say and do
what he pleases; he may curse or bless me, and it won’t make any
difference! All the same--I mention it for your sake, and not my own,
you seem so afraid, my darling; he can’t rob me of the title, and if
he could I would surrender it rather than lose you. Lose you!” he
exclaimed, with his short laugh. “Look here, Doris, I’d rather be your
husband, and--and sweep a crossing, than marry another woman and be the
future King of England! That sounds rather high and lofty, doesn’t it?
But I’m rather bad at expressing myself, and it’s as near as I can get
to my meaning!”
“It is near enough,” she said, with a smile, her heart giving a little
leap at his ardent, manly avowal.
“And that’s enough of the marquis,” he said. “We’ve forgotten quite as
important a person, it seems to me. Your guardian, Doris!”
She started slightly.
“Jeffrey!” she murmured. “Ah, yes!”
“Yes,” said Lord Neville. “Now, I value his goodwill quite as much as
I do my uncle’s, and I don’t feel at all sure that I shall get it. You
see, with all deference to you, sweetheart----”
Sweetheart! She whispered the word to herself and glowed over it.
“I’m not, in all points, the very best kind of young man for a husband,
and your guardian is very likely to remark it. What if he should refuse
his consent?”
Her face grew faintly troubled.
“Jeffrey refuse!” she said, almost to herself. “N--o. Not if----”
“Not if you wished for it very much?” he said, divining her meaning.
“I see! And I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine any man stony-hearted
enough to refuse you anything, even such an unwise thing as this! Look
here, Doris, I’ll go back home with you and see him.”
The trouble on her face grew more marked.
“I hate suspense and delay, and, well, I want to feel sure, quite sure,
that you are my very own! You don’t mind my going home with you and
telling him straight out, do you?”
She was silent a moment, then she looked at him, hesitatingly.
“No, do not. I----” She stopped. “I think I would rather see him
first. I--I could tell him. Ah, do you not see how suddenly it would
come upon him? How unprepared----”
He nodded.
“You haven’t told him anything about me?”
The color rose to her face.
“No,” she said, and her eyes were downcast. “No, I have not told him;
he would be so surprised and----I will see him first and tell him.”
“All right,” he said. “Then, to-morrow?”
“Yes, to-morrow,” she said, with a little sigh of relief. “I wish I
could tell you all he has been to me, how tender and loving--father,
mother, brother! Ah, I have had no one else but him in the world, and
he has devoted all his life to me!”
“I will never forget that,” said Lord Neville, gravely, “and I will try
and thank him to-morrow! Yes, I can understand how hard it will seem to
him to have to lose you. But, Doris, he need not do that. He has stood
in a father’s place to you; I shall not oust him from it, or separate
you from him. There is room in that big heart of yours for both of us,
isn’t there?”
She turned to him as if moved by an irresistible impulse, and held out
her hands, and her eyes were full of tears.
“If I had not loved you until this moment, I should now,” she said, in
a low voice.
Of course, he captured the little quivering hands, and they sat in
silence for a minute or two. Then suddenly she started.
“The time!” she exclaimed. “I had forgotten! There is a rehearsal,” and
she sprang to her feet. “No, no!” pressing her fingers on his shoulder.
“You must not come--not an inch of the way. I--I want to be alone to
think--to think!” She stopped, with a little, dazed air, and smiled
down at him.
“Oh, if you are tired of me----” he said, with a loving mockery.
“To-morrow, Doris, in the morning?”
“Yes, to-morrow--ah, what a long time!” she whispered, almost
inaudibly. “Let me think. If I cannot come--there may be a
rehearsal----”
He looked disappointed--man like.
“I shall be here,” he said, “and I’ll wait all day if you like.”
She laughed softly, her eyes dwelling upon him lovingly.
“Without your lunch or your dinner? That would be too much. No; if you
come and I am not here, leave some message for me,” she looked round;
“write me a word, and put it under this big stone by the tree there.”
“All right,” he said. “But you will come, if not in the morning, in the
afternoon--sometime! Remember, I am to see your guardian to-morrow!”
“Yes,” she said. “But do you remember, too, that I am not my own
master, Lord Neville--that I belong to the public.”
“Indeed, Miss Marlowe?” he said, retorting the formality upon her. “I
was under the impression that you belonged to me!”
“Ah, yes,” she murmured, with sweet surrender, as he held her in his
arms.
“We’ve forgotten one part of the ceremony,” he said. “People when they
are engaged give each other a ring. I wasn’t conceited enough to think
that you’d listen to me, or I would have brought one.”
“Have mine,” she said. Then, suddenly, she disengaged her hand, and
held it up, and swiftly drew from her finger a quaint old silver ring.
“See,” she said, the color stealing into her face. “Will you have that?”
“Will I?” he said, taking it, hand and all.
“What a small hand you have,” she said, laughing softly. “It is too
large for your little finger; you had better give it back to me.”
“It will be a bad day for me when I do,” he said, grimly, “for I shall
be limp and cold.”
“Or faithless,” she said, with a smile.
Then, before he could retort, she touched his lips with hers, murmured
his name, and was gone.
He watched her until the slight, girlish figure had vanished, then went
slowly to his horse, mounted, and rode slowly away.
A minute or so afterward a lady and gentleman came out from among the
trees. The gentleman was Spenser Churchill, the lady--Lady Grace.
He wore his usual bland, benevolent smile, intensified, if anything,
as he looked after the disappearing horseman, but Lady Grace was white
almost to pallor, and stood biting her under lip, and breathing heavily.
“What a charming pastoral!” he said, with his smooth, oily laugh; “Adam
and Eve, or Edwin and Angelina, in Goldsmith’s poem--you know it, dear
Lady Grace?--were never more poetical or touching! Really, one cannot
help feeling grateful to the happy chance which enabled me to be a
witness of so moving and charming a scene.”
“Chance!” she said, and her voice sounded thick and forced. “You knew
that they would be here when you asked me to come!” and she shot a
glance of scorn and hate at him.
“I, my dear lady! Now, how was that possible? Do you think our enamored
Cecil would confide his appointments to me? And not having the
inestimable privilege of knowing the lady----”
“She is the actress--the girl we saw last night!” she muttered, between
her teeth; “an actress--a painted----”
“Was she painted? Yes, I daresay! I am, alas! rather near-sighted,” he
said, smiling as he recalled the youthful bloom of Doris’ sweet face.
“Ah! yes, I daresay! But perhaps our dear Cecil is near-sighted, too!
At any rate, he seems very--ah--very far gone, does he not?”
“He is mad!” she almost hissed.
“You think, then, that he--ah--means this quite seriously? You know so
much more of the world than I, dear lady!--you think he would marry
this interesting young creature?”
A light of hateful hope--such a light as shamed her womanhood--flashed
for a moment in Lady Grace’s eyes; then as it died out she said,
moodily, scornfully:
“Oh, yes, he is mad enough for that! Oh, yes, he would--even--marry
her!”
“In-deed! Really! How charming! So romantic!” pursued Spenser
Churchill. “The future Marchioness of Stoyle an actress, a provincial
actress! Clever, oh, certainly, and beautiful--ahem!--well, with her
paint and powder, of course; but provincial, quite! And the future
marchioness! Let me see, when was the marquisate created?”
His smooth, suave speech almost frenzied her.
“Why do you exasperate me?” she exclaimed, between her teeth, and
turning upon him. “Why have you brought me here? To laugh at me, to
mock me with this--this scandalous scene? You know he will marry her,
unless----”
“Unless?” he said, softly. “Unless an accident happens. And accidents
do happen--alas!--so often in this unsatisfactory, disappointing world.”
She watched his face eagerly, with a faint glimmer of hope on her face,
which was still pale and eloquent of the fierce jealousy which racked
and tore her.
“What do you mean?” she demanded, half-angrily, half-pleadingly.
He smiled unctuously.
“‘’Twixt the cup and the lip.’ The old, old adage, dear Lady Grace.
These young people, in the full flush of their mutual passion----”
She bit her lip till two red spots showed where the white, even teeth
had pressed.
“Doubtless think that their path to happiness is quite plain and
smooth. Alas! I fear they will find that the road is stony and
difficult. It is a pity, a thousand pities! It is so sweet to see two
hearts that beat as one----”
“Cease!” she said, as if she could endure his soft, mocking voice
no longer. “What will you do? What can you do? He is mad and--and
headstrong. How can you prevent----” She stopped suddenly, and,
stooping, picked up something from the grass.
“Ah!” he said. “Treasure-trove! What is it? A broken sixpence? No! A
ring--the ring!”
She held it almost at arm’s length, as if it were some noxious reptile,
then with a gesture of scorn and hate, she raised her hand as if to
throw the ring from her; but instantly he seized her arm, and his soft,
fat hand slid down until it had reached and secured the ring.
“Dear me, dear me!” he murmured, as he held it up. “How sorry he will
be, how----” He stopped suddenly, and his eyes seemed riveted to
the ring; then, as he became aware of Lady Grace’s fixed gaze, the
benevolent smile returned to his face. “Actually lost it a few minutes
after she had given it to him! Now, some superstitious persons would
call that a bad omen. Are you superstitious, dear Lady Grace?”
“Give it to me; let me throw it----” she said, with malignant intensity.
He held it out of her reach, surveying her with smiling scrutiny.
“No, really you must not. Poor Cecil----” He stopped suddenly, and the
expression of his face changed. His quick ears had caught the sound of
a horse’s hoofs.
Touching her arm, he signed to her to follow him, and slid back behind
the trees. She followed him, and, looking over her shoulder, saw Lord
Cecil galloping toward them.
He cleared the hedge, and, dropping from the horse, walked quickly to
the spot where they had stood, and commenced to search in the grass
with anxious eagerness. He went down on his knees, and examined every
inch of the spot where Doris and he had sat, groped along the bank
where they had stood, and hunted every likely spot.
They could see his anxious face, hear his half-muttered ejaculations
of disappointment, and Spenser Churchill, with the ring in his hand,
smiled sweetly.
CHAPTER XII.
TO WED AN ACTRESS.
The ring was nowhere to be seen! Full of pain and remorse, Lord Cecil
was obliged to admit to himself that it was gone beyond recovery; he
might search for a week, a month, and not find it, for it might have
dropped off his finger and fallen at any spot between the tree and the
brook.
“My darling’s ring!” he murmured aloud, so that the two listeners could
hear him where they stood concealed; “my darling’s ring! I would give
all the Stoyle jewels to get it back!”
Then he mounted slowly, and with many a backward glance, as if he hoped
that even at the last moment he might get a glimpse of it shining among
the grass, he rode off.
Then the thought of his happiness rose as a tide and swept away his
distress; he had lost the ring, but Doris--beautiful, sweet Doris--was
still his!
It seemed too wonderful, too good to be true, and he recalled every
word she had spoken, every glance of her love-lit eyes, that he might
impress them on his memory.
The air seemed full of her; the birds seemed to sing her name: “Doris,
Doris Marlowe;” all the earth, clad in its bright spring colors, was
smiling a reflection of the delirious joy that burnt like a flame in
his heart.
She was so beautiful! He tried to think of some of the girls that he
had known, that he might compare them with her; but they all seemed
insipid and colorless beside the intense, spiritual loveliness of
Doris, with her deep, melting eyes, and grave, clear brows. And she
was not only beautiful, but a genius. Every word she spoke was lifted
out of the region of commonplace by her marvelous voice, with its
innumerable changes of expression. The touch of her small, smooth hand
lingered about him; yet, the shy kiss of the warm lips burned upon his
brow.
What had he done to deserve so great, so overwhelming a happiness? And
as he asked himself the question Cecil Neville’s face grew grave, and a
pang shot through his heart, a pang of remorse--and of shame--for some
of the follies of his past life.
Doris was worthy of the best and noblest man in England, and he----!
He set his teeth and breathed hard. He had laughed at love, had smiled
almost contemptuously at passion, and now he felt that this was the
only thing worth living for, and that rather than lose his darling he
would ride his mare at the stone wall before him and break his neck.
Then he thought of the marquis and his own position. What would the
marquis say? He laughed grimly as he pictured the scene before him. He
could imagine the marquis’ cold, haughty face turning to ice and steel
as he listened, and the cutting, smiling voice bidding him to marry his
actress and go to the devil.
He was entirely dependent on the marquis; was in debt as heavily as
even the heir to such a title and estates could be. What would the
marquis do when he, Lord Cecil, told him that he could not marry Lady
Grace, because he was going to marry--an actress?
“I wish to Heaven I were anything but what I am,” he said to himself,
with a sigh. “If I were only capable of earning my own living, a
barrister, or a doctor, or an artist, or something, I could make a home
for my darling then, but I am simply a useless, worthless being, who
happens, unfortunately, to be the next-of-kin to the Marquis of Stoyle!”
What should he do, if the marquis turned him adrift? His allowance
would cease, his creditors would become pressing--he would be ruined;
and he would have to wait until the marquis died before he could make
Doris his wife.
The thought was gall and wormwood. Much as he disliked his uncle, Cecil
Neville was not the man to wish for his death. The marquis might live
forever, if only Cecil could marry his darling.
“If he only had a heart in his bosom, instead of a flint, and could see
her!” he thought, as he rode on; “or if I were only a barrister or an
artist, or anything that earns money enough to make my darling my wife!”
He was in no hurry to reach the Towers; it was far pleasanter to
be alone, to think over his happiness, and he made a wide circuit,
bringing Polly into the stable-yard just before the dressing-bell rang.
And, after all his thinking, this was the result: That he must try
somehow to win the marquis’ consent to the marriage.
He had intended going to the theatre; to feast his eyes and ears upon
his beautiful love, but--with a pang--he resolved to dine and spend
the evening at the Towers, and after dinner he would tell the marquis.
Perhaps the old port would soften the old man’s heart! Anyhow, he would
tell him.
As he passed through the hall he almost ran against Spenser Churchill,
who was coming out of the marquis’ apartments.
“Ah, my dear Cecil!” he murmured, with a benevolent smile, “just got
back? What a lovely evening! Have you enjoyed your ride? Did you notice
the sunset? Quite a Leader! You know those beautiful pictures Leader
paints, all crimson and mauve?”
Lord Cecil nodded and strode up the stairs to his rooms.
When he came down into the drawing-room, Lady Grace was seated at the
piano, playing softly, and she glanced up at him with a smile.
“What have you been doing with yourself all day, Lord Neville?” she
asked.
“Oh, I’ve just been loafing about,” he said, carelessly; “and you?”
“I am ashamed to say that I haven’t been outside the grounds,” she
replied. “Mr. Churchill and I have been botanizing in the gardens. I
told him that we really ought to do something in the way of exploring
the neighborhood, but I could not induce him to go outside the gates.
Are you going to the theatre to-night?” she asked, innocently.
He started and bent over the music.
“Not to-night,” he said.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I myself should like to go and see that
girl play Juliet again; it was wonderful.”
“Yes,” he said in his curt way.
“Yes, she played it so remarkably well. But I’m afraid a second night
would spoil the impression, wouldn’t it?”
“I daresay,” he said.
Then the bell rang, and he gave her his arm and took her into dinner.
All through the elaborate meal she seemed in the best and brightest of
spirits, and her sallies of well-bred merriment called a smile even to
the face of the marquis.
Lord Cecil noticed that he was less bitter than usual, and that he
refrained from making the sneering and contemptuous remarks with which
he usually adorned the conversation.
Spenser Churchill, too, appeared in his most benevolent and amiable
mood, and grew quite pathetic as he talked of his pet charity for
distressed chimney sweeps.
The dessert came, and then Lady Grace took up her fan and left the
room, and Spenser Churchill, after a single glass of claret, rose, and
saying: “Don’t let me disturb you two; I am going to ask Lady Grace
for some music,” glided out of the room.
The moment had arrived for Lord Cecil’s announcement, and as he filled
his glass, his face grew set and grave.
The marquis, instead of rising, seemed to linger over his wine, and
leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful air. Once he glanced at Lord
Cecil curiously.
“Have you heard the news from Ireland, Cecil?” he said.
Lord Cecil started, and set down his glass.
“No, sir. I have not seen the papers.”
“I was not alluding to the papers,” said the marquis, with a trace of
his cold sneer. “I rarely read them; there is plenty of fiction in the
library. But I have heard from my agent in Connemara. The country is
very unsettled.”
“Yes?” said Lord Cecil absently; he had his own ideas about Ireland,
and they would probably have much astonished the marquis, who was
a Tory of the old and thorough-going sort. But Lord Cecil was not
thinking of Ireland, but of Doris Marlowe.
“I imagine you know that I--I suppose I ought to say ‘we’--have a great
deal of property there?”
Lord Cecil nodded.
“I suppose so, sir.”
“Yes,” said the marquis, glancing at him from the corners of his cold,
keen eyes. “You don’t take much interest in the matter--at present. But
you will be marquis very soon, and then----” he laughed. “I don’t envy
you your Irish property!”
“I am in no hurry to possess it, sir,” said Lord Cecil.
“I daresay not.”
“But I think the people have some reason for what they are doing.”
“No doubt,” assented the marquis, drily. “You view the business from
the patriotic side.”
“I sympathize with the people,” said Lord Neville, firmly.
The marquis poured out a glass of wine and smiled coldly.
“Yes--you are young,” he said. “But I’ll admit the thing wants looking
into, and I’m too old to undertake the inspection.”
Lord Neville raised his head. He did not want to talk about Ireland,
but about Doris Marlowe. And now, he thought, was the time. The old
port stood beside them, the door was closed. Lady Grace and Spenser
Churchill were in the drawing-room.
He looked at the cold, haughty face and plunged at his task.
“I’m afraid I can’t go into the Irish question to-night, sir,” he said.
“Indeed?” said the marquis, leaning back.
“No,” said Lord Cecil, quietly; “I have a personal matter I wish to
speak to you about.”
The marquis eyed him calmly and patiently.
“Personal matters claim first attention. What is it? Is it money?”
“I want your consent to my marriage,” said Lord Cecil.
If he had expected the marquis to express surprise by word or gesture
he was disappointed.
“Your marriage?” he said, quietly. “You intend taking my advice, I
see. You are wise; Lady Grace is desirable in every way. I’d marry her
myself, if I were younger.”
Lord Cecil colored, but he did not flinch.
“I am sorry, sir,” he said.
“That I am not younger?” put in the marquis, with a sardonic smile.
“Well, yes, I’m sorry for that, if youth would make you any happier, my
lord,” said Lord Neville, and he spoke sincerely. The marquis eyed him
keenly. “But it is not Lady Grace, sir. I think her a most beautiful
and charming lady, of whom I am quite and entirely unworthy.”
“For once I agree with you,” was the caustic comment.
Lord Neville inclined his head.
“But there is another reason why I cannot venture to ask Lady Grace to
be my wife. I do not love her.”
The marquis smiled.
“I thought it was out of fashion to be in love with your wife; forgive
me, I have been outside the world so long. Pray go on.”
“And I love another lady.”
“Indeed!” came the cold response. There was no surprise, scarcely a
trace even of displeasure, but the keen eyes glittered like those of
an eagle as they rested on his handsome, manly face. “Don’t you think
it would have saved both of us some trouble and many words if you
had mentioned this rather important fact when we were discussing the
question the other night?”
Lord Neville smiled faintly.
“I did not know it myself,” he replied; “I had not met the young lady.”
“Ah, love at first sight!” said the marquis. “Interesting, but rather
imprudent. You have known her, and loved her, and want to marry her,
all in--how many days is it?”
Lord Neville colored.
“I seem to have known her for years,” he said, almost to himself.
“And may I ask--I don’t desire to appear inquisitive--who this young
lady is? I didn’t know that you had visited any of the people here. Do
I know her?”
“I think not, sir,” said Lord Neville. “Her name is Doris Marlowe.”
“Doris Marlowe,” repeated the marquis; “a pretty name. No, I don’t know
it. There is no county family hereabouts, that I remember, of the name
of Marlowe.”
“She is not a member of a county family; she is an actress,” said Lord
Neville.
He looked up steadily, expecting to see the cold, haughty face break
into an expression of rage, fury, scorn; but there was not the least
emotion displayed on the thin, curled lips and glittering eyes.
“An actress; really! Dear me! This is very--entertaining! I was under
the impression that only callow schoolboys ever fell in love with
actresses. I should have thought--pray forgive me--that you were too
old, if not too sensible, to be guilty of such a _gaucherie_.”
Lord Neville pressed his foot down upon the Turkey carpet, and sat
himself squarely in his chair, in his effort to command his temper. He
had resolved that nothing the marquis should say should rouse him to
anger or to retaliation.
“An actress! I don’t think the Stoyles have ever had an actress in the
family; and some of us have gone pretty low down for our wives, too!”
Lord Neville bit his lip.
“If you knew Miss Marlowe, sir, I think you would scarcely consider
that I was condescending in asking her to marry me.”
The marquis stared at him as if he were some curious specimen, worthy
of calm and careful consideration.
“I will take your word for that! At any rate, I won’t venture to
contradict you; but you must permit me to express my satisfaction that
Fate has spared me to that extent! I have no desire to add an actress
to my list of acquaintances.”
Lord Neville inclined his head.
“This is exactly what I expected you to say, sir,” he said, quietly;
“but I considered it my duty to tell you, and to ask your consent, as I
should have asked my father’s, had he been living.”
“Thanks; you are very considerate,” said the marquis, with a fine
sneer; “and do not mind me! Pray unbosom yourself! Treat me as if I
were your father, and dilate upon the lady’s charms. Of course she is
beautiful.”
“She is very beautiful,” said Lord Neville, quietly.
--“And clever! Quite a genius, in fact, and equally, of course, pure
and innocent as the driven snow.”
The words--the tone--almost maddened Lord Cecil. His face crimsoned,
then went pale, and his eyes burnt fiercely as they met the keen,
sardonic gaze.
“She is clever! She is a genius! Yes!” he said, controlling himself
by a great effort. “She will be, or would have been famous. As to her
innocence and purity, she has been brought up and carefully guarded by
a man, against whom and herself the tongue of scandal has not dared
even to hint a word.”
“In--deed! You are singularly fortunate!” came the scornful response.
Lord Neville sprang to his feet, a half audible oath wrung from him in
his torture; but the marquis waved his thin, white, clawlike hand.
“Pray sit down. We had better endeavor to discuss this matter quietly.
If she is an actress, that is no reason why you should treat me to
dramatic attitudes. Pray be calm! I have no doubt you believe all you
say, I am quite convinced of it. We’ll agree that she is everything
that is beautiful and innocent and talented, and that you are very much
in love with her----” and he laughed, such a laugh of taunting scorn
and contempt as might have been echoed in Tophet.
Lord Neville sank into his chair again.
“And you propose to marry her?” said the marquis, after sipping his
wine. “To marry her! Now that surprises me! How fashions alter! In my
day that is the last thing we should have done.”
Lord Neville’s face darkened.
“Even in your day, my lord, all men were not scoundrels,” he said,
grimly.
“No,” said the marquis, delighted at having driven him to retort. “No;
there were some fools--even in my day!”
“You shall call me what you please, sir.”
“My dear fellow, what else can I call you? Even you will not expect me
to applaud such a step as you propose taking. You are a Neville, you
will be the Marquis of Stoyle, a peer of the three kingdoms: you will
get, or you would have got, the Garter; and you propose to marry--an
actress! An actress! If there is any man in England who would not call
you a fool, I should like to see him; I should like to see him very
much, indeed. Why, my dear fellow, depend upon it, no one thinks you
more decidedly a fool than the girl herself.”
“By Heaven, if you only knew her!” broke from Lord Neville’s parched
lips.
The marquis laughed.
“Thanks, again. But you’ll excuse me, I trust! An actress! Come, I’m
not a betting man--now, but I will wager you a hundred pounds to five
that before two months after you have been married you will admit to me
that I was right and that you were a very great fool, indeed!”
“I take you, sir,” said Lord Neville, grimly, and he drew out his
pocketbook and carefully jotted down the bet. The old man’s eyes shone
with a swift approval; it was a touch worthy of himself.
“And I’ll make you another that in the same period the girl herself
will be as sorry that she married you.”
“I don’t take that,” said Lord Neville, coldly. “For, considering the
blood that runs in my veins, any woman’s chance of happiness as my wife
is a small one.”
CHAPTER XIII.
AN ACCEPTED OFFER.
The effect of this retort upon the marquis was fearful! His face, pale
at all times, went livid, his eyes gleamed like ardent coals, his teeth
came together with a click, and he drooped as if he had been struck;
then in a moment or two he recovered himself and made an elaborate bow.
“Fairly hit,” he said, and his voice was very low and sharp. “Very well
done, indeed. But you forgot when you taunted me with the unhappiness
of my own married life, that you were admitting that I spoke with
experience.”
Lord Neville flushed.
“By Heaven, sir,” he said, quietly, “you drove me too hard. I know
little or nothing of your married life--I scarcely thought of it when I
spoke----”
The marquis waved his hand.
“Don’t spoil it by an apology,” he said, quietly. “You struck home and
should be satisfied. My marriage was almost as great a mistake as yours
will be. Almost, not quite. It ruined my life; if by a little trouble
I could have saved you from a like experience, I should have been glad
to have done so; but I am not prepared to take much trouble. We will,
therefore, if you please, consider that you have made up your mind to
marry this girl from the gutter--don’t look so fierce; a girl who is of
no family is from the gutter--the pavement!--that you have made up your
mind to become the laughing-stock of all your friends, old and young;
to chain yourself to a woman who will, while she lives, be pointed and
stared at as ‘the actress,’ that you are contented to leave the society
to which your birth and position entitle you, and sink into grim
solitude or the companionship of people of her class. We will take all
this for granted. And now, what do you expect me to do, if I may ask?”
“To request me to leave this house, to discontinue my allowance, and to
cut me from henceforth,” said Lord Neville, promptly but calmly.
The marquis smiled.
“Y--es,” he said, nodding, “that is my duty forcibly and concisely.
This is what I ought to do; but all my life I have never done what I
ought to have done, and have always done what I ought not. You are
welcome to remain at the Towers as long as you please.”
Lord Neville looked at him with faint surprise, and the marquis sipped
his wine slowly.
“I shall double your allowance, and, as to cutting you, that would be
inconvenient and troublesome, not to say vulgar. Of course I shall keep
to my resolve respecting the property, that will go to Lady Grace as I
said.”
Lord Neville’s face flushed.
“She is welcome to it--quite welcome to it,” he said at once; “I am
glad that it should be so. I--I think you have acted very generously to
me, and I thank you, sir.”
The marquis inclined his head, a faint smile hovering about his thin
lips.
“You might be able to marry upon your allowance doubled, as I propose,”
he said. “You would not be very rich, but it might do.”
“It will be quite sufficient,” said Lord Neville, as yet unrecovered
from his surprise.
“I shall not live very long, I hope--though, by the way, I should like
to live long enough to win that five pounds of you”--Lord Neville
smiled--“and then you will have the estates, such as they are.”
“I ask you to believe me, that I am in no hurry. I do not wish, and
never have wished for your death,” and his face flushed.
The marquis waved his hand.
“Thanks, very much! But to return: I presume that you have not the
slightest doubt of the stability of your feelings? You are sure that
you won’t change your mind--your heart, I should have said?”
“Quite certain,” replied Lord Neville, Doris’ face rising before him
as he spoke. “My happiness is bound up in Miss Marlowe; I shall never
cease to love her.”
“Very good,” said the marquis. “Of course, you want to be married at
once? Oh, I have no objection; it is a matter of perfect indifference
to me, I assure you.”
“Then your kindness and liberality are all the more marked, sir,”
said Lord Neville. “I wish I could convince you of my gratitude; it
is sufficient to make me forget--almost--all the hard things you have
said.”
“Ah,” said the marquis, “gratitude is a fine sentiment--very fine. But
rather hollow and shadowy. If I were to ask you to do something, for
instance, to prove this beautiful sentiment!” he sneered, as a finish
to the sentence.
Lord Neville looked up.
“I wish you would!” he said. “I should like to prove my sincerity, sir.”
The marquis looked round the room with a smile of idle amusement.
“Really,” he said, “there is nothing I can think of asking you to do,
excepting to pass the wine, and that does not entail much sacrifice.”
“I was not jesting, sir,” said Lord Neville, gravely. “My offer was
made in all sincerity.”
“Really? Dear me, I wish I could think of something, Ah!” he stopped
and looked at Lord Neville’s attentive face keenly, sarcastically.
“What do you say if I ask you to go over to Ireland for me?”
Lord Neville’s face grew grave, and the marquis leaned back and laughed
with grim satisfaction.
“You see! Gratitude’s a very fine thing--to talk about!”
Lord Neville flushed.
“You misunderstand my silence,” he said, quietly. “If you mean by going
to Ireland for you, I’m to take side with the landlords”--stopped--“I
could not join in the oppression of those poor people, my lord, even to
prove my own sincerity.”
The marquis toyed with his fruit knife.
“Charmingly put, my dear Cecil; quite fit for a political platform. But
you misunderstand me. I know nothing of the question, and care less; I
hate and detest politics; they bore me, they always did. All I want is
this: I am told that my agent is a rogue, who has made himself rich by
grinding down the tenants; I am also told that he is the most merciful
and upright of men. I’m rather curious to know--well, scarcely curious,
perhaps--which account is true. Will you go and find out? I don’t think
you can call that oppressing the people.”
Lord Neville looked up with quiet eagerness.
“Certainly, I will go, sir,” he said.
The marquis inclined his head.
“Mind, I don’t care a brass farthing whether you go or refuse; I don’t
care about anything; and it is very likely that after you are gone
to-morrow morning I shall have ceased to remember what you have gone
about.”
“To-morrow morning?” said Lord Neville, almost inaudibly. To-morrow
morning! and his appointment with Doris, his interview with her
guardian!
“Yes,” said the marquis, carelessly, but shooting a glance,
half-scornful, half-amused, at the grave face. “If you go at all it
must be at once! Some one should have started to-night! The man will
collect the rents in a day or two; he should be stopped--or the other
thing.”
“Yes,” said Lord Neville, absently.
Go without seeing Doris! Without gaining her guardian’s consent. His
heart throbbed with a dull ache.
“Yes, of course you see that! The early train would enable you to catch
the Irish mail at Sandstone Junction----Ah, I see,” and he laughed
mockingly.
Lord Neville looked up inquiringly.
“You want to see Miss Barlow----”
“Marlowe,” said Lord Neville.
“Pardon. Marlowe. To tell her that the wicked uncle has proved less
black than he is painted----”
Lord Neville smiled.
“Is that unnatural?”
“By no means; but permit me to suggest that you can write to her. I
merely suggest it.”
Lord Neville rose with a quiet air of determination.
“What time does the early train start, sir?” he said.
The marquis shrugged his shoulders.
“Parkins will tell you,” he said, carelessly. “You mean to go, then?”
“Yes,” said Lord Cecil.
The marquis laughed.
“Will you kindly give me that despatch box?” he said.
Lord Cecil brought it to him, and the marquis took out some papers.
“Here are the papers,” he said, languidly. “I haven’t read them all;
you can bore yourself over them in the train. And will you favor me by
accepting this toward the expenses,” and he laid a roll of uncounted
notes on the table.
Cecil took them up and examined them.
“There is more than enough here,” he said, quietly.
“There is never more than enough money,” said the marquis. “If you
think there is too much, you can distribute the surplus among the poor
people with whom you sympathize.”
“Yes, I can do that--and will!”
“As you like. I will say ‘good-night;’ by the way, I should say
‘good-by,’ for you may be shot!” he added, as calmly as if he were
saying, “It may rain.”
“I am not coward enough to be afraid of that, or fool enough to think
it likely!” said Lord Cecil, as carelessly. “Good-night, sir,” and he
held the door open for him.
As he did so the marquis raised his eyelids and shot a glance at the
handsome face; then, with a bow and a cold smile, passed out.
Lord Cecil went up to his own room, and, lighting a cigar, paced up and
down, thinking deeply.
It was marvelous that the marquis should have acted as he had done!
Double his allowance! He would be able to marry at once, instead of
waiting. Marry Doris at once! The blood beat in a tumult at his heart;
then a dull weight seemed to fall upon him as he remembered his debts.
But he thrust the incubus from him; something might be done respecting
them, some arrangement made. At any rate, he would have an income large
enough to marry on, and Doris----! He puffed at his cigar fiercely,
and called up a vision of the lovely face, and tried to imagine the
expression the deep, dark, melting orbs would wear when he told her.
Then, as he reflected that he should not see her on the morrow, he
sighed.
“It almost seems as if my darling had some presentiment that we should
not meet,” he said to himself. “What will she say when she finds that I
am not there and goes to the stone for the letter?”
Then he sat down to the table to write it. It was not easy, for he
wanted to say enough to cover ten pages; but at last he wrote a few
lines only:
MY DARLING:--While you are reading this I shall be on my way to
Ireland--with my heart in Barton meadows. I can’t tell you in a letter
all that has happened; only this, that, as he himself put it, the
wicked marquis is not so bad as he is painted! Doris, when I come
back, it will be to ask you to be my wife--not in a year or two, but
soon, soon! I’m a bad hand at writing letters, and I could not, if I
tried, tell you how I love you, or how I wish I were near you, to see
and hear you, my beautiful angel! Ever yours,
CECIL.
P. S.--I owe my uncle something, for he has behaved with unusual
kindness, and this journey to Ireland is the only way in which he will
let me pay him. I will tell you all about it when I come back.
He sighed over the unsatisfactory epistle and closed it; then reopened
the letter and caught up his pen to tell her of the loss of the ring
and ask her to look for it; but he hesitated, and put the letter back
in the envelope with the sentence unwritten. Then he put on his coat
and walked to the meadows. The night was dark, and he had to light a
match to enable him to find the stone beneath the trees, but he found
it and concealed his letter, and then, after standing for a few moments
and looking round him dreamily, casting up the vision of Doris, he
turned and made his way back to the Towers.
The marquis had gone to his room, as was customary with him; his valet
exchanged his master’s dress coat for a velvet dressing-gown, and the
old man lay back in the chair looking at the fire with half-closed eyes.
The room was magnificently furnished, but in rather a subdued tone,
which was rendered almost sombre by the heavy curtains that screened
the window and a greater portion of the walls.
Against the deep purple of the hangings the clear, sharp-cut face with
its distinct pallor looked almost like that of a dead man’s, and only
the steel-like glitter of the eyes spoke of the vitality which lingered
in the body, and burned in the spirit of the most honorable, the
Marquis of Stoyle.
Presently there came a soft tap at the door, and in response to the
marquis’ “come in,” Spenser Churchill entered.
If anything his smooth, innocent face looked more benevolent and
charitable than usual, and the smile he bent upon the hard, cold face
upturned to him was like that of a man whose sole delight is in doing
good to his fellowmen.
“Well?” he said--or rather purred.
The marquis waved his hand to a chair, and Spenser Churchill dropped
softly into it, and leaned back, his eyes on the ceiling, his fat hands
clasped on his knee.
“You were right, you spoke nothing but the truth; the fool is in
earnest.”
“Dear Cecil,” purred Spenser Churchill.
“He is so much in love that he bore all the insults that I could heap
upon him--no! I wrong him. He struck home once!” and he smiled a
strange smile.
“And he means to marry her?”
“Yes,” said the marquis, with a cruel sneer; “he is even fool enough
for that.”
“Dear Cecil!” murmured Spenser Churchill again. “How delightful, how
refreshing it is, in this practical, stupid life, to find----”
“And he will marry her, unless this scheme of yours answers,” said the
marquis, breaking in upon the smooth voice.
“And you doubled his income?”
“I did,” said the marquis.
“And he will go to Ireland? To-morrow?”
“He will, to-morrow,” said the marquis, watching the sleek, false face.
“Now, that’s very good of him,” murmured Spenser Churchill; “very
good, most charming and nice. To go to Ireland on the very day he has
arranged a meeting with that beautiful girl. Now----”
“Is she so beautiful?” asked the marquis, who seemed to take the
unctuous words as meaningless and not worth listening to. “I suppose
she must be. He has seen many pretty women, many clever ones. What has
caught him? What is she like?”
Spenser Churchill shot a sidelong glance at him.
“The usual thing, my dear marquis,” he said, softly. “Just the usual
thing! They make those face powders wonderfully well now--wonderfully!”
The marquis smiled grimly.
“The fool, to be caught by a painted vixen, old enough----I suppose she
is old, eh?”
Spenser Churchill shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah, yes, of course! A young girl wouldn’t have had the tact to catch
him so easily. And he has written to her, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Spenser Churchill; “and gone to post his letter under the
stone. The romance is simply charming! Charming!”
The marquis eyed the fire thoughtfully.
“I am almost inclined to let him marry her,” he said, in a low
voice. “I should enjoy the misery that would follow! Yes, I’m half
inclined----” and an evil light flashed from his eyes.
Spenser Churchill watched him behind the mask of a benevolent smile.
“Oh, no, no,” he murmured; “we really must not, we really must not let
dear Cecil ruin himself. My dear marquis, we should not sleep; our
consciences----”
The marquis broke in with a cold, sardonic laugh.
“Yes, you are right! After all, it will be more amusing to thwart
him--if we can.”
“If we can,” echoed Spenser Churchill with a smile.
“Oh, I don’t doubt your ability,” said the marquis with a sneer; “the
devil himself could not be a fitter person for such work. What do you
mean to do?” he added, with a half-contemptuous, half-weary gesture.
“Have you a letter of dear Cecil’s?” said Spenser Churchill. “I really
am half ashamed! It is only the conviction that I am acting for the
dear fellow’s ultimate good that gives me courage----”
The marquis pointed to a cabinet.
“You will find some letters of his there,” he said.
“Thanks,” murmured Spenser Churchill, and he rose and opened the
cabinet.
Then he selected two or three letters, and, smiling and nodding at the
marquis as if they were conspiring to do some good deed in secret, he
went to a davenport and wrote.
After a few moments he came across the room, and with his head on one
side, a benevolent smile on his innocent face, he dropped a letter on
the marquis’ knee.
The marquis took it up and looked at it with a careless air, then
started.
“Forgery must be very easy,” he said, with a sneer, “or you must have
had a great deal of practice, Spenser.”
“You really think it is like--just a little like?” said Spenser
Churchill, as if he had received high praise for a virtuous action.
“Now, really, you think it is something of a resemblance?”
“It is so close a forgery that Cecil himself might almost be persuaded
that it is his own.”
“No! Really! But read it, dear marquis! The handwriting is only of
secondary importance; the style of the letter--eh? What do you say?”
The marquis read the note, and a smile of sardonic amusement lit up his
pallid face.
“Now, please don’t flatter me, tell me your true opinion, marquis!”
purred Spenser Churchill, leaning forward, and rubbing his hands
together.
The marquis tossed the letter to him.
“It is a very good counterfeit,” he said.
Spenser Churchill laughed softly.
“I tried to imagine the way in which our dear Cecil would write, and
you think I have succeeded? Poor Cecil, poor girl! What a hard world
it is! Now, why can’t these interesting young things be permitted to
be happy in their own charming, unsophisticated way? What a pity it is
that one feels bound, in the cause of humanity and society, to--er--so
to speak--put a spoke in their wheel!” and he stood up and began
buttoning his coat.
“You yourself are going to take that letter?” asked the marquis.
“Oh, yes!” purred Spenser Churchill. “We mustn’t confide our nice
little plot to a servant.”
“You are taking a great deal of trouble; why?” said the marquis, eyeing
him keenly.
Spenser Churchill’s eyes dropped, and a benevolent smile shone on his
smooth face.
“Simply out of regard and affection for you, marquis, and our dear
Cecil, and the house of Stoyle, to which I am so much attached. Yes, I
shall take the letter myself.”
“Ah!” said the marquis, slowly. Then he looked up. “I should recommend
you to keep clear of Cecil,” he said, with a sneer. “He’s as strong as
an ox and--a Neville. Seriously, Spenser, if he should get an inkling,
and catch you, I fear you would come off badly. Unless you are tired of
life, you had better keep out of his way.”
“No, I am not tired of life,” said Spenser Churchill. “But I shall
take my pretty little letter myself. Adieu!” and he nodded, and smiled
himself out of the room.
CHAPTER XIV.
A BROKEN TRYST.
Doris went home with her heart beating, every nerve throbbing with the
thrill of a woman’s first love; and it was not until she had her hand
upon the door that she fully realized the task that lay before her.
She had to tell Jeffrey. To tell him that all his lifelong plans for
her were shattered and cast to the winds; that, just at the moment of
success, success won by hard, persistent work and untiring effort, on
his part and hers, she, Doris Marlowe, who was to have been the actress
of the day, was going to retire from the stage forever.
She scarcely realized it herself yet, and yet she knew that it must
be. The future wife of the heir to the marquisate of Stoyle could not
be permitted to remain an actress, to be gazed at by a nightly mob, to
be cheered or hissed by a public audience. She sighed as the thought
came home to her, not for herself, and the sacrifice of fame, but for
Jeffrey. It would be hard for him to bear, very, very hard; but she
did not doubt that he would give his consent. As she had said to Lord
Neville, Jeffrey could not find it in his heart to refuse her anything
she wanted very much, and she did want to marry this handsome young
lover, whose simple touch had power to move her, very much indeed.
She opened the door. Jeffrey was seated at a small table, covered
with papers and old letters. He was bending over them with an air and
attitude of deep abstraction, and he did not hear her light footfall as
she crossed the room, and laid her small hand rather tremulously upon
his stooping shoulders.
“Doris!” he exclaimed, looking up with a start, and covering the papers
before him with both his thin, gnarled hands.
“Why, Jeffrey, dear, did I frighten you?” she said gently. “What are
you doing? You look as if you were trying to write a play!”
He smiled constrainedly and began collecting the papers and letters in
a nervous, hurried fashion.
“I--I have been busy,” he said. “Old papers and--and letters. Where
have you been, and what have you been doing?”
He did not look at her or he would have seen the color which suffused
her face and noticed the suddenly downcast eyes.
“I have been to the meadows, Jeffrey. I--I want to tell you something.”
“Yes,” he said, tying the letters together in a bundle, and folding up
a couple of yellow, time-stained papers. “What is it? What is the time?
I--I have been sitting here so long that I’ve forgotten.” He looked at
his old-fashioned watch, and rising hastily, put the bundle of letters
in a box that stood on the table. “It is time for the rehearsal; are
you ready? I shall not be a moment.”
“Yes, I am quite ready; but there is plenty of time, Jeffrey, and I
want to tell you--have you forgotten those papers? Are you not going to
lock them up with the others,” and she pointed to them.
He snatched them up almost jealously.
“No, no,” he said. “I keep them--here!” and he placed them with a
nervous carefulness in a pocket within the breast of his waistcoat.
“I--I meant to show you to-day, Doris. I have been going to show
them to you for--” he sighed--“years. But I’ve put it off from day
to day, from year to year. They belong to you, and you shall have
them--to-morrow, say to-morrow.”
Doris started slightly. It was to-morrow that Lord Neville was coming
to see Jeffrey; perhaps he would give them to Lord Neville!
“How well you look this morning,” he said suddenly, his eyes resting
for a moment upon her lovely face with their old keenness. “Those
meadows, as you call them, must be wonderfully healthy. Where is my
hat?”
She got it for him, and as she gave it to him she let her hand fall
lightly upon his arm.
“And don’t you want to hear what I have to tell you, Jeffrey?”
“Eh?” he said. “What is it? Nothing very important, I suppose? A new
bonnet you’ve seen in the Barton milliner’s? Well, you can buy it!
You can buy all the bonnets in the window now, if you like!” and he
chuckled grimly. “No more pinching and scraping--though we’ll be
careful still, eh, Doris? We’ll be careful! Hard-earned money’s too
precious to be squandered. Buy your bonnet, Doris, by all means. Come
along!” and he was across the room and out of the door before she could
summon up courage to stop him.
She would tell him after rehearsal, she thought, with a sigh; but after
rehearsal he came hurrying to her to tell her that he had arranged to
go to the next town on important business for the manager.
“I shall be back to-night,” he said, in his quick, stern voice; “in
time to take you home, as usual,” and he touched her forehead with his
lips.
“You will be sure to be back to-night, Jeffrey?” she said, clinging to
him for a moment.
“Yes, yes,” he said, hurriedly. “If anything should prevent me----” He
put his hand to his breast thoughtfully, and his heavy brows knitted
with a troubled expression; then he seemed to shake it off. “But I
shall be back. If by any chance I should lose the train----”
“Jeffrey!”
“I said by any chance only, and it is not likely; but if I should I
will come by the first in the morning. Mrs. Parkhouse, the dresser,
will see you home if I am not here. Good-by, my child! Play your best
to-night! I am working for you; stone by stone I am building up the
edifice of your fame----” He stopped, pressed her shoulder with his
thin hand, and was gone.
Doris felt a strange sense of loneliness fall upon her. It was the
first time he had left her for so many hours that his absence oppressed
her for a moment or two with a sense of helplessness. Then suddenly
there flashed upon her the remembrance of Cecil and his love, and the
oppression vanished. How could she be helpless while he was so near to
love and protect her?
Was it strange that her feet should wander from the straight road home,
to the brook in the meadows? Was it strange that she should linger on
the spot made sacred to her by her love until the last moment, so that
she left herself barely time to dress and reach the theatre?
“Perhaps I shall see him to-night,” she thought; “perhaps he will come
to the cab and say one word, just one word!” And when she came on, her
beautiful eyes wandered over the crowded house with an eagerness which
she could scarcely conceal.
But he was not there: and he did not come during the whole evening. She
felt that she should know if he were in the theatre, though she should
not be able to see him, and she knew even before she left the stage
door to go to the cab that she should not see him, and Jeffrey had not
come back!
“You feel tired to-night, Miss Marlowe,” said Mrs. Parkhouse, as Doris
leaned back in the cab, and drew her cloak round her. “Shall I come
home and stay with you to-night? I dare say you feel lonely without Mr.
Jeffrey.”
But Doris would not let her do that.
“I am tired,” she said, “and I feel rather lonely, but Mr. Jeffrey
would laugh at me for being so nervous. No, you shall not stay.”
She sat up into the night looking at the stars from the window, which
she threw open, for the air was balmy with the breath of the coming
summer; and she tried to realize all that had happened to her, all that
was going to happen to her.
It was not of the title and rank that were to be hers she thought, but
of Cecil’s love, and she stretched her long white arms out toward
Barton Towers with a yearning gesture, murmuring, “My love, my love!”
The morning broke, not brightly and sunnily, but in fitful gleams
glancing through shower clouds; and when she came downstairs she found
a yellow telegram envelope beside her plate.
It was from Jeffrey, saying that the merest chance he had spoken of had
occurred, and that he had been detained the night, but that he would
catch the eleven o’clock train, and asking her to meet him.
Her face brightened as she read it. Yes, she would meet him, and as
they walked through the woods from the station, she would tell him of
her strange meeting with Lord Neville and all that had sprung from it,
and then they both could go and meet Cecil by the brook.
She hurried through a mere pretense of a breakfast, and putting on her
hat and jacket, set out.
The sky had cleared somewhat, and the sun, shining through the spaces
of blue, touched the green leaves with a dazzling sheen.
As she went toward the meadows, her heart beating with an anticipatory
joy, her mind was hard at work.
Perhaps, after all, Jeffrey would not so much mind her giving up the
stage and the career for which he had so carefully prepared her. It
was her happiness he had been seeking--only her happiness, and when he
learned that it was bound up in her love for Cecil Neville, he would
not refuse his consent or throw any obstacle in the way.
Looking at it in this hopeful fashion, she reached a spot where the
footpath branched in two directions--one led to the brook, the other to
the railway station.
She stopped and glanced at the path to the brook wistfully; perhaps
Cecil was already waiting for her. Consulting her tiny watch--a present
from Jeffrey--she saw that there was just time to go round by way of
the brook, and, with a heightened color and eager eyes, she took the
path that led thither.
“After all,” she murmured, when she reached the bank, and looked round
upon the unbroken solitude; “I might have waited! He is not here! I
dare say he has not finished his breakfast yet; and yet, if he knew
that I was here----”
She sat down on the bank, and gazed dreamily about her. The brook
babbling at her feet; the branches of the trees waving solemnly above
her head; the very air seemed eloquent of the lover who had stolen her
heart and absorbed her life, and she fell into a delicious reverie.
Then, suddenly, her eyes fell upon the big round stone at the foot of
the tree, and a smile broke over her face.
“What a foolish, romantic girl he must have thought me,” she murmured;
“as if he would let anything prevent him coming.”
As she spoke she rose, and, almost mechanically, knelt down and turned
the stone over.
Then, with a start, she woke, for there lay a white envelope.
She took it up and gazed at it, turning it over and over, a dull, heavy
disappointment weighing upon her, and examined the address, and the
elaborate crest stamped on the back.
“Then it was not so romantic or foolish,” she murmured, sorrowfully.
“He is not coming!”
She sank down upon the bank, and looked before her with a vacant air,
the envelope still unopened. “Not coming! Not coming!” It was like the
announcement of some terrible calamity.
Then, suddenly, hope sprang into her bosom.
“He has written to tell me why he cannot come,” she said to herself,
and the color rushed back into her face. “Yes, that is it! He has been
prevented--his uncle, the marquis! Something has prevented him, and he
has just written to tell me when he can come, and when I shall see him.”
She tore the envelope open, and something fell upon the grass. She
leaned forward and picked it up; it was the old pearl-silver ring she
had given to him.
She looked at it, turning it over with a vague aching sense of
disappointment and trouble.
“My ring!” she murmured, “my ring! Now, what does this mean?” then her
face brightened. “Ah, yes, he has sent it to remind me of yesterday!”
Eagerly she opened the letter, and her lovely eyes seemed to devour it;
but as she read they grew dim and hazy, and she swept her hand across
them with an impatient gesture.
“I--I can’t read!” she murmured piteously. “I can’t read it!” Her hands
closed tightly on the thick, smooth sheet of notepaper, and she set
her teeth hard. “I must be mad--yes, that is it! Let me wait a moment.
Now!” and she bent forward, and, with knitted brows, read it out word
by word, slowly, painfully, like a child reading a repugnant task.
DEAR MISS MARLOWE--for I feel that I dare not call you by the name
engraven on my heart, and yet I must, though it is for the last time!
Dear, dear Doris! I am the most wretched and miserable of men! And
yesterday I was the happiest! Doris, I have seen my uncle and told
him all, and he has proved to me, beyond all question, that it is
impossible for me to make you mine. I can’t tell you all that passed
between us; I scarcely know what I am writing, but the dreadful fact
remains that by making you my wife I should work you nothing but
wretchedness and misery. Don’t ask me to tell you anything more; I
cannot! Try and forget me, Doris! I am not, and never can be, worth
a single thought of yours! I know what you will think, and the
knowledge only adds to my misery. You will think that I value my
worldly prosperity above your love; but I swear it is not so! I would
willingly resign everything--rank, money, position--for your sake; but
there are other reasons. Forgive and forget me, Doris, or if you still
think of me, remember me as one who wishes himself dead! Good-by--and
forever!
CECIL NEVILLE.
I return your ring. I dare not keep it, having lost you!
Thrice she read it slowly, carefully, as if she were trying to learn it
by heart; then she rose, and, white as the stones washed by the brook
stood gazing at the broken and hastily scrawled lines.
“Good-by--and forever!” she murmured. “Good-by--and forever!”
A wild laugh forced itself from her lips, and she dropped down on the
bank as if she had been felled by a blow.
CHAPTER XV.
A TERRIBLE THREAT.
Half an hour later Jeffrey was making his way along the footpath
through the woods, his thin, bent figure throwing a fantastic shadow
on the tree trunks, as he walked with his head projected and drooping,
his eyes fixed on the ground. Every now and then he raised his head,
looking about him as if he remembered that he had asked Doris to meet
him; but he almost immediately again relapsed into his pre-occupied
manner. Once he stopped and took the papers from the pocket in his
breast and looked at them with a deep and thoughtful frown.
“Yes, to-day!” he murmured. “I will tell her to-day! Why should I be
afraid? It will make no difference; she will be my child still; it will
make no difference.” He took off his hat and wiped his brow and sighed.
“Yes, I’ll tell her to-day. I--I’m not so strong as I was, and one
can’t tell what may happen. If I died before I’d told her----”
The muttered words stopped suddenly, and he looked up with a
startled air which swiftly changed to one of fierce anger. A dapper,
comfortably-rounded figure stood before him, with placidly smiling face
and serenely benevolent air.
“Spenser Churchill!” exclaimed Jeffrey hoarsely, his hands closing with
a gesture at once threatening and repressive.
“My dear Mr. Flint!” purred Spenser, his head on one side, his
hand extended benignantly. “My dear Mr. Flint! What a delightful
coincidence! After all, nothing is more true than the rather hackneyed
assertion that the world is a small place.”
Jeffrey, glaring at him fiercely, waved his hand.
“Pass on--pass on!” he panted; “I--I will have nothing to say to you!”
“Now really, my dear Jeffrey,” murmured Spenser Churchill
remonstratingly, “is it--I put it to you as a sensible man--is it
really worth while to nourish these--er--unchristianlike resentments?
Look at me----” It was quite an unnecessary request, for the fierce,
deeply-sunken eyes had never left the smooth, supple face. “Look at me,
my dear Jeffrey. I, too, have had my trials; but--er--I sink them, I
let them drop--I bury them, and I make it my principle to forget and
forgive.”
“Let me pass, you----!” panted Jeffrey, his whole frame shaking with an
effort at self-control.
“To forget and forgive,” repeated the other, as if the words were a
sweet morsel he was turning over his tongue. “Believe me, dear Jeffrey,
that is far, far the wiser plan.”
“You think so?” said Jeffrey, hoarsely. “You can forget, Spenser
Churchill; I cannot, for it was you who wronged, I who suffered! So you
have forgotten, and you dared to think that I had done so? That you may
see how well I remember, villain----No, stop!” for Spenser Churchill
had backed a few steps, and glanced round, as if meditating a retreat.
“Stop, Spenser Churchill, while I remind you why, when the devil sends
you across my path, that it would be wiser for you to crawl on one
side, lest I crush you, you smiling, fawning reptile! You forget! You
forget the life you ruined! Look on me and remember! I was young, rich
in health and hope, blessed with the love of an honest, tender-hearted
girl, when that devil--your master--the Marquis of Stoyle, the beast
for whom you jackalled, employed you to entice her from me. You
succeeded, Spenser Churchill, and have forgotten her misery, and mine;
all, save perhaps the sum your master flung you.”
His hands were so near the delicate white throat opposite him that
Spenser Churchill drew his head back sharply, and turned pale.
“My dear Jeffrey!” he murmured soothingly. “Now, come, come. Now,
really, you know! If any one were listening--which I am thankful, for
your sake, is not the case--they would gather from your--er--really
extravagant language that I had, like the bad man in a play, contrived
the ruin of the usual virtuous young lady, whereas I must, in justice
to myself, remind you, my dear Jeffrey, that the young lady in question
was only guilty of the remarkably bad taste of jilting you for the
Marquis of Stoyle, who, like an honorable gentleman, made her his
lawful wife and sharer of his exalted rank.”
“Yes,” said Jeffrey, hoarsely. “Because, by no other means could he get
her in his power! Made her his wife! Yes, that he might crush her the
more easily! Enough, Spenser Churchill!”
“Pardon me! One word more! You appear to have forgotten that the
lady, marchioness as she was, preferred to return to her first
admirer----There, there!” he broke off, putting up his hand to ward off
the threatened blow; “as you say, it is not worth talking about, and,
as I say, it is as much wiser to forget. The poor lady is dead, and the
child----”
“Is dead, too!” said Jeffrey.
“Is playing ‘Juliet’ at the Theatre Royal, Barton,” put in Spenser
Churchill, smoothly. “Miss Doris Marlowe, otherwise Lady Mary, daughter
of the Most Honorable the Marquis of Stoyle----”
Jeffrey staggered, and sank trembling on a fallen tree, great drops of
sweat trickling down his white, wrinkled face.
Spenser Churchill took out a cigarette and lit it, smiling blandly down
upon the stricken figure.
“Upon my word, my dear Jeffrey,” he said, pleasantly, “I am almost
inclined to cry, ‘Fie, for shame!’ and to retort one of the ugly words
which you so liberally applied to me. To afford shelter to the wife of
the dear marquis is one thing, but to steal his child----”
“She--she died!” gasped Jeffrey, hoarsely.
“So it was stated, and so it was believed by all excepting the
gentleman who has the honor to stand before you.” He laughed
unctuously. “I had my suspicions from the first, and I found them
justified when I saw Miss Doris Marlowe in her charming performance the
other evening, and, on inquiry, found that she was the daughter of Mr.
Jeffrey Flint!”
Jeffrey wiped the sweat from his forehead and opened his lips, but he
seemed deprived of the power of speech.
“You must permit me,” continued the softly mocking voice, “to
congratulate you upon the result of your excellent training. The young
lady is a most talented actress--most charming! But, my dear Jeffrey,
does it not occur to you sometimes that it is, to use the vulgar slang
of the day, rather rough upon her? To deprive a young and helpless girl
of her rank and position----”
Jeffrey extended his trembling hands entreatingly.
“Stop--stop!” he panted. “I--I did it for the best--I did it for her
good----”
Spenser Churchill laughed mockingly.
“Yes!” cried Jeffrey, rising with sudden despair. “For her good! You
saw her--you saw how happy, how innocent she is! All her life has been
happy and free from care. What would it have been if I had yielded her
back to the man who broke her mother’s heart, the man who would have
hated her for that mother’s sake? Man, man, don’t torture me with your
devilish smile! I did it for the best!”
Spenser Churchill laughed again.
“Dear, dear!” he murmured, “how dreadfully easy it is to deceive
oneself! Now, here are you, a most excellent man, I have no doubt, my
dear Jeffrey, actually persuading yourself that in robbing another
man of his only child and depriving her of her rights, you have been
committing a noble and virtuous action! Now I am sorry to say that I
don’t agree with you! I’ve no doubt you have become attached to the
girl----”
Jeffrey put up his hand.
“Silence!” he said, hoarsely. “It is not for such as you to understand
the love I bear her--my child, my child!”
“Pardon me, the Marquis of Stoyle’s child!” said the sneering voice.
Jeffrey raised his head and confronted the smiling, mocking face.
“Enough. You know my secret, and you alone----”
“Are you sure of that?” said Spenser Churchill, smoothly. “Are you sure
that no one else shares it?”
Jeffrey made a gesture of assent.
“No one else. Not even she. To-day I had resolved to tell her.”
A flash came into the watchful eyes.
“To-day--ah, yes!”
“Yes,” said Jeffrey, with a deep sigh that was almost a groan, “I have
brought myself to it at last, after much a struggle as you cannot
understand. To-day she was to be told, was to take her future into her
own hands; to choose--” his voice broke--“between one who has loved
her like a father, and the man who drove her mother from his house and
broke her heart!”
“Hem--yes!” murmured Spenser Churchill; “and you flatter yourself she
will remain with you, of course?”
“You do not know her,” was the tremulous reply. “You do not know her!
My child, my child!”
Spenser Churchill watched him in silence from under his white, smooth
lids.
“By the way, my dear Jeffrey,” he said softly, “did it ever strike you,
that supposing Lady Mary decided to return to her father”--Jeffrey
winced--“her father--that the marquis might refuse to acknowledge her?”
Jeffrey looked at him as if he scarcely understood.
“You see,” continued Spenser Churchill, resting his foot on the tree,
and leaning forward with a subtle smile; “it is such an extraordinary
story; the marquis might be inclined to remark that he would require
some proofs! I need scarcely remind you that he is not the most
credulous of men; in fact, that he is rather inclined to be suspicious.”
Jeffrey nodded grimly.
“I know him,” he said, almost as if to himself. “I have thought of
that, and am prepared with proofs.” He put his hand to his breast
pocket mechanically, and drew out the papers, and Spenser Churchill’s
eyes darted to them with a swift eagerness. “If--if Doris chooses
to--to go to him, and leave me, it will not be in his power to
repudiate her! These,” and he touched the papers with his forefinger,
and then put them in his pocket again; “these will establish her birth
beyond dispute.”
“I am delighted to hear it. That is quite satisfactory, quite. And so,
my dear Jeffrey, you expect the young lady to renounce her father, the
marquis--her rank and title, and all that would become hers--think of
it--and remain with you; all will go on as before, and the father and
his adopted child will be happy ever afterward, like the people in the
fairy story?”
Jeffrey nodded, and the deep lines in his face grew lighter.
“Yes,” he said in a low voice again, as if he were communing with
himself rather than answering the other man’s question; “yes, we
shall take up our lives as before, my child, my Doris and I! She will
be my Doris still, mine to love, and guard, and watch over! You saw
her----” he went on with suppressed eagerness. “There was truth in
what you said, though you meant it insultingly; she will be a great
actress--great! And it is I who have taught her--I, who loved her
mother! You taunted me, Spenser Churchill, with selfish aims in keeping
from her the knowledge of her birth. It was unjust. ‘Hide my child from
him always--always, Jeffrey!’ she said. They were her last words. Poor
Lucy!”
His head drooped, and he covered his eyes with his thin, gaunt hands
for a moment; then, as if remembering the presence of the other man,
turned to him.
“You are here still? Why are you waiting? Go your way, and let me go
mine. You know my secret--it is no concern of yours. Forget it, as you
forget the wrong you did me. Go!” and he pointed down the path.
Spenser Churchill smiled blandly.
“My dear Jeffrey, doesn’t it occur to you that perhaps this little
secret of yours does concern me?”
The haggard eyes were raised to the smooth, mocking face.
“Doesn’t it occur to you that, though you don’t appear to have any
conscience to speak of, that I may not be so hardened. Oh, fie,
Jeffrey! You know, you really must know, what it is my duty to do!”
“Your duty?” repeated Jeffrey, in a low voice. “What do you mean?”
“Why, my dear sir, of course it is my duty to go to the marquis, and
inform him of the existence of his child. Oh! and how sweet a duty,” he
murmured, “to restore a long lost child to its father’s loving arms!”
Jeffrey sprang to his feet, and stood, breathing hard, his hand
clinched tightly at his side.
Spenser Churchill looked at him with an air of gentle reproach.
“I cannot think how it is you haven’t seen that from the first, dear
Jeffrey. You may be so lost to all sense of right as to conceal the
fact of Lady Mary’s existence, but I--oh, my dear Jeffrey--I am a man
of honor and must act as my conscience dictates. And how great a reward
will be mine! To restore to a father the child he has mourned as dead!
The dear marquis, I can picture his delight--” the smile grew sardonic
for a moment--“his delight at recovering her, and his gratitude to
you----”
Jeffrey drew nearer.
“You--you will do this?” he panted, almost inaudibly.
“Yes,” said Spenser Churchill; then with a rapid change of voice, and
laying his hand on the quivering shoulder of the man he was torturing,
he added, “unless you come to my terms, my dear Jeffrey.”
“Your terms?” echoed Jeffrey, his face working, his hands clasping and
unclasping each other.
Spenser Churchill nodded blandly.
“Y--es. I take an interest in this charming young lady; I knew her
mother, you see----”
“Beware!” broke from Jeffrey’s parched lips. “Don’t--don’t try me too
hard!”
“And I should like to have a hand in restoring her to her proper place,
or permitting her to remain under your care.”
“You mean that her fate is to be in your hands?”
“Yes, exactly; and that it may do so most completely and
satisfactorily, I think I will take charge of those interesting papers
which you referred to, my dear Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey’s hand flew to his breast.
“The papers!” he articulated, hoarsely.
Spenser Churchill nodded.
“Yes. Don’t say you will not, my dear fellow, because if you do you
will compel me to go straight to the marquis--who is at Barton Towers,
by the way----”
“Barton Towers--the marquis--Doris!” muttered Jeffrey wildly and with a
vacant stare.
“Yes, Doris, who will not be your Doris any longer, but will have to
remain with her father, the marquis, whether she likes it or not----”
He had gone too far. With a spring, the tortured man was upon him, the
long, thin fingers fastened tightly in the soft, white throat, the
gaunt face was close upon the smooth, false one.
Spenser Churchill reeled, and went down on one knee.
“Take your hands off!” he croaked, suffocatingly, as he struggled
to release himself; but Jeffrey, though the older man of the two,
seemed possessed of the strength of an athlete, and, after a desperate
struggle, Spenser Churchill lay on his back, with Jeffrey’s knee on his
chest, and Jeffrey’s fingers still choking him.
“Are--are you going to murder me?” he managed to gasp out.
“I am going to kill you!” was the grim reply, a wild, fierce light
burning in the hollow eyes. “One kills a snake, not murders it. I kill
you as I would any other vermin!”
“Jeffrey--let me go! Let me go, and I swear to keep your secret. I
swear--my honor----”
An awful smile lit up the face above him.
“Trust her happiness to your oath!” he said, hoarsely. “Trust her to
your honor!” the hands tightened, the sky grew black, the trees danced
a mad carnival in Spenser Churchill’s eyes, and they were closing for
the last time, when suddenly the steel-like fingers relaxed their hold;
Jeffrey reeled back, and, throwing up his arms, screamed:
“Doris, Doris!” and fell across the man who, only a moment ago, was at
his mercy.
Dazed, sick with terror, and half-suffocated, Spenser Churchill
struggled to his feet and staggered to a tree. He leaned against it
for a moment or two, panting and gasping, tugging at the collar of his
shirt, and regaining his breath, and at last he looked shudderingly at
the still form upon the ground.
Still shuddering, he went toward and knelt over it.
“Fainted!” he exclaimed, hoarsely. “Another moment!” a shiver ran over
his sleek, white face. “Another moment and I should have been lying
like that. The madman!”
He spurned the body with his foot.
“Lie there and cool yourself!” he snarled, and was turning away, when
suddenly he started and put his hand to his brow.
“The beast has driven my senses out of me! The papers! Of course! Ha,
ha, Master Jeffrey!” and, kneeling down again, he hurriedly turned the
still figure over, and, unbuttoning the waistcoat, snatched out the
papers.
As he did so, something--was it the nameless terror of death, to which
mortal humanity is and ever will be thrall?--something made him wince
and shrink back.
He stared for a moment or two at the white face, then, slowly, slowly,
extended his hand, and trembling, laid it over the heart. The next
instant he started back, and, white as the face beneath him, cried:
“Great Heaven! He’s dead!”
CHAPTER XVI.
THE PART OF A HYPOCRITE.
“Doris!” The cry rang through the wood and reached the spot where Doris
lay full length upon the bank like a crushed flower. For a moment
she thought it was an invention of her disordered mind, then she
seemed to recognize Jeffrey’s voice, and, thrusting the letter in her
bosom, she sprang to her feet, and, with hurried steps, made her way,
half-blindly, in the direction of the sound.
A few moments brought her to the open glade, and, with a cry of terror,
she was on her knees beside the still form.
She had never before been in the presence of death, and for a time she
thought that he had only fainted, and she raised his head and called
upon him in accents of alarm and affection; then suddenly she heard a
step behind her, and, looking round, saw the smooth, bland face of the
man who had stood up in the box at the theatre, the man against whom
Jeffrey had warned her.
She shrank back and clasped the dead man closer to her, as if to
protect him.
“Has anything happened?” asked Spenser Churchill, with tender concern.
“Dear me, I am afraid there has been an accident; the gentleman is ill?”
“Yes, yes!” panted Doris. “Help me! oh, help me!”
Spenser Churchill knelt down and examined the stern face with an
anxious regard.
“Why, I know him!” he said, with an air of surprise. “It is Mr.
Flint--Mr. Jeffrey Flint, is it not?”
Doris made a gesture of assent without removing her eyes from the old
man’s face.
“Yes. Is he--is he very ill?”
Spenser Churchill shook his head, solemnly.
“I am afraid--how did it happen, Miss Marlowe? It is Miss Marlowe, is
it not?”
“I do not know,” sobbed Doris, heedless of the latter part of the
question. “I--I was not here--I heard him call! Oh, Jeffrey, Jeffrey!
dear Jeffrey! Is he----A doctor! oh, if I could get a doctor! Some
one----”
“My dear young lady!” murmured Spenser Churchill, pityingly, “I am
afraid--do not give way, bear up! In the midst of life----”
A cry rang through the wood, and a shudder shook her frame, then she
looked up with a terrible calmness.
“You say that he is dead--is that it? Dead! Oh, Heaven, dead!”
Spenser Churchill shook his head.
“I fear--I very much fear----” he murmured, gravely, and he laid his
hand upon the thin wrist. “And you do not know how it happened?” he
asked again, his eyes scrutinizing her face with a quick keenness.
“No!” said Doris, hoarsely, and with a sob. “He was alone--I was coming
to meet him--I heard him call my name, and--and I found him like this!
Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”
“Can you bear to be left alone for a little while?” said Spenser
Churchill. “There is a cottage near here, on the outskirts of the wood.
I will go and get some assistance. The poor fellow has died from a
sudden attack of heart disease!”
“Oh, go, go!” panted Doris.
He went, after another searching glance at her white face; and she bent
over the motionless form, almost as lifeless herself.
In a few minutes Spenser Churchill returned, with a couple of farm
laborers carrying a hurdle, and the body was tenderly and reverently
carried to the house, Doris walking beside it and still holding the
cold, dead hand.
Hasty preparation had been made for the reception of the stricken man,
and he was carried up to the best room. A messenger had been sent to
Barton for the doctor, and in a short time he appeared and was received
by Mr. Spenser Churchill, who awaited him at the gate.
“Mr. Jeffrey Flint!” said the doctor, as Spenser Churchill, in
sympathetic accents, gave an account of the case. “Yes, yes! Ah, yes, I
know something of him; he consulted me a few days ago.”
Then he passed upstairs and into the room where the dead man lay upon
the bed, with Doris kneeling beside him still holding his hand.
“My dear,” said the doctor, after a short examination, “this is no
place for you. No one can do anything for him; your friend has gone to
his last rest,” and he motioned to the woman of the cottage, who stood
crying at the door.
Slowly, reluctantly, Doris permitted them to take her away, and the
doctor after a few minutes went downstairs and rejoined Spenser
Churchill.
“It is only too true, I see,” said that gentleman, sadly.
The doctor nodded gravely.
“Yes,” he said; “he has been dead some time. It is very sad, very! That
poor young creature--Miss Marlowe, I believe?”
Spenser Churchill nodded again.
“I believe so,” he said.
“Poor girl, poor girl!” murmured the kind-hearted doctor, turning his
face away. “So suddenly.”
“My heart bleeds for her!” said Spenser Churchill, wiping away
something that may have been a tear. “So young and friendless----”
“Friendless?” said the doctor.
“Well, I am given to understand she has no father or mother,” he
explained. “I should not have said friendless. I trust, I humbly trust,
that, seeing I was on the spot, sent, so to speak, providentially, that
she will permit me to be of some service to her, poor young thing.”
He took out his cardcase and handed a card.
The doctor glanced at it and bowed.
“Oh, Mr. Spenser Churchill? Your name is known to me, sir, of course;
and I feel that I am justified in saying that this poor girl will
indeed have a friend in you, if you are the Mr. Spenser Churchill, the
well-known philanthropist.”
Spenser Churchill cast down his eyes and sighed.
“I have no claim to so high a title, doctor,” he said, meekly, “though
I trust I may say that I take a humble interest in any good work. Poor
girl, poor girl! I fear there will have to be an inquest? That will be
a terrible trial for her!” and he shot a glance under his lids at the
doctor’s thoughtful face.
“Well,” he replied, hesitatingly, “I don’t know. I--I really think it
may be avoided.”
“If it is not quite necessary,” said Spenser Churchill, softly. “It is
a trying ordeal for the survivor at any time, but with this poor child,
so young and sensitive----”
“Yes, yes,” assented the doctor. “I do not think it will be necessary.
Mr. Flint consulted me the day before yesterday, and I warned him then
that he must be careful to avoid all excitement; indeed, I told him as
plainly as I dared that any sudden shock would be fatal.”
“Dear me! Poor fellow!” murmured Spenser Churchill.
“And I think, under the circumstances, that I can give a certificate,
and so avoid an inquest.”
Spenser Churchill heaved a soft sigh of relief.
“I shall be glad if you will tell me all you know respecting the case,
Mr. Churchill?”
“Certainly,” assented Spenser Churchill, with a sigh. “It is soon told.
I was strolling through the woods in the direction of the town--I
had left the Towers half-an-hour previously--when I heard a girl’s
voice--poor Miss Marlowe’s, in fact--crying piteously. I hurried up,
and found her kneeling beside him. That is all, excepting that I am
quite sure he was dead when I reached the spot, and I think he had been
dead some time.”
The doctor smiled.
“And you met no one, saw no one excepting Miss Marlowe?”
“No, no one; I heard and saw nothing but what I have told you,” replied
Spenser Churchill, quietly.
“Hem! I don’t quite see. It would appear as if there had been a
shock----”
“Is that absolutely necessary?” suggested Spenser Churchill, softly.
“In heart disease death may result--I speak with deference--without any
shock or excitement.”
“Oh, quite so, quite so,” assented the doctor. “The deceased might have
died at any moment--in his bed, or during his ordinary avocations. Oh,
yes.”
“I am relieved to hear you say that,” said Spenser Churchill. “I am so
anxious, on Miss Marlowe’s account, to avoid an inquest.”
“Quite so, quite so. There will be no necessity. Did you know the
deceased?”
“I knew something of him some years ago,” replied Spenser Churchill;
“but we have not met for a long period; indeed, it must be ten or
fifteen years. I only knew him quite slightly, and had not seen him of
late, even at a distance. It was quite a shock to me, recognizing him
lying there on the grass, dead!”
“I dare say,” said the doctor, quite sympathetically. “And now, what is
to be done?--I mean, with reference to this poor young girl.”
“If you will leave it to me,” murmured Spenser Churchill, meekly, “I
will do all that lies in my power. She may have relations and friends.
I will ascertain from her, and communicate with them. You may trust me
to do all that I can to soften the terrible blow for the poor young
creature.”
The doctor took his hand and wrung it.
“You are a good man, Mr. Churchill,” he said, “and Heaven will reward
you! Pray count upon me if I can be of any assistance. I will go and
make out the certificate.”
Spenser Churchill accompanied him to his gig, then lit a cigarette, and
paced up and down for a few minutes, thinking intensely.
His voice and manner, while he had been talking with the simple-minded
provincial doctor, had been completely under control--quiet, calm, and
sadly sympathetic; but now that he was alone he felt that his hands
were shaking, and that his face was white.
“My dear--Spenser--” he murmured. “Steady--steady!” and he held his
hand out and regarded it clinically. “No shaking and trembling!
Chance--or shall we say Providence--has placed a great game in your
hands, and you must play it properly if you mean to win, and you
do mean to win! Great Heaven, what a narrow escape it was! Another
minute, another half-minute, and you would have been removed from this
terrestial sphere! And to think that he should have died just at the
critical moment! It was a special interposition! Let me think--now,
steady, my dear fellow, steady! Jeffrey dead--thank Heaven!--no one
but myself knows the secret of this girl’s birth! The papers--” he
took them from his pocket, and looked at them, and it may be stated,
to his credit, that a shudder ran through him as he did so, for they
still seemed warm by their contact with their dead owner, from whom
he had stolen them--“yes, he was right. They are all here; proof
incontestable, evidence that no one, not even the dear marquis, could
refute! No one knows of their existence but myself! And she is alone
and friendless, yes, friendless, for my letter has done its work, and
Cecil Neville is too far off to undo it! We must keep you in Ireland,
dear Cecil, we cannot have you back interfering in this business.
No one knows that Doris Marlowe is the daughter of the Marquis of
Stoyle, but me. Spenser, my dear fellow, you hold all the cards,
play them carefully and properly, and----” he flung the stump of his
cigarette into the hedge, and, smoothing his face into its usual bland
expression, returned to the cottage.
The woman, the wife of the woodman, stood waiting for him.
“How is poor Miss Marlowe, Mrs. Jelf?” he said.
Mrs. Jelf dropped a curtsey.
“Ah, poor young thing, sir!” she said, wiping her eyes with her apron.
“She’s lying down, sir, quite worn out and looking like a corpse
herself! It don’t seem as if she had strength to speak or move! I was
thinking, sir, that we’d better send for her friends----”
“Not at present, I think, Mrs. Jelf,” he said, gently. “I think she had
better be left to herself for a while. I have promised the doctor to do
all I can in my poor way----”
“Oh, sir, I know you’ve a kind heart,” murmured Mrs. Jelf.
“We must all do our simple best, Mrs. Jelf,” he replied, lifting up his
eyes. “I happen to know something of the poor fellow who lies upstairs,
and, for the sake of old times, you understand, and for the sake of the
poor young lady----”
“And she such a sweet young thing!” said Mrs. Jelf, beginning to cry
again.
“I will do my best for her. I am now going to the town, and I think,
Mrs. Jelf, it would be as well, if any one inquires for Miss Marlowe,
if you told them that she is not well enough to see anybody. And if
there should be any letters, perhaps you will give them to me; I will
keep them until poor Miss Marlowe is strong enough to see them. At such
times as these, in moments of such deep sorrow as this, Mrs. Jelf, the
human heart must not be harassed by contact with the outer world.”
“No, indeed, sir,” assented Mrs. Jelf, quite touched by such
sympathetic consideration. “I won’t let any one see her, and she shan’t
be worried by anything. I’ll keep people from her, and I’ll give you
any letters.”
“Thank you, I think it will be better,” said Spenser Churchill.
“Perhaps you might tell Miss Marlowe that a friend--you need not
mention my name; you might say the doctor--has gone to the theatre
and will make all arrangements. All she has to do is to try and
remain quiet. Rest, rest, my dear Mrs. Jelf, is the great soother for
the--er--tortured breast,” and leaving this sublime piece of sentiment
to do its work in honest Mrs. Jelf’s mind, he went off to Barton.
Ill news travels apace, and the tidings of Jeffrey’s sudden death had
reached the theatre even before Spenser Churchill arrived there.
His manner with the manager was simply perfection.
“I came on at once, my dear sir,” he said, “because I felt that
you should be the first to know of this--er--dreadful calamity. I
am fully sensible of the responsible position you occupy, and that
your relations as a manager with the public entitle you to every
consideration. Of course, Miss Marlowe will not act for some time--if
ever she acts again.”
“Of course, of course!” said the manager, rather blankly. “Poor
Jeffrey! An admirable man, sir; admirable! Might have been a great
actor himself, but contented himself with presenting an ornament to
the stage in his adopted daughter. A great genius Miss Marlowe, Mr.
Churchill! Splendid! magnificent! A wonderful career before her! Of
course, she can’t be expected to act at present, certainly not; but in
time--ahem!--in time.”
“We shall see,” said Spenser Churchill. “In time, perhaps; but I cannot
say. I am not authorized to speak for Miss Marlowe; but this I will
say, that if she should resume her professional career, you--you will
have the first claim upon her!” and he shook the manager’s hand in so
emphatic and impressive a manner that the manager was quite touched.
Two hours afterward all Barton was placarded with the announcement
that, in consequence of sudden domestic bereavement, Miss Doris Marlowe
would not appear that evening, and that in place of “Romeo and Juliet,”
would be performed the famous drama, “The Corsican Brothers.”
Mr. Spenser Churchill was as good as his word. If he had been a near
and dear relative of the bereaved girl, he could not more completely
have taken the whole arrangements into his own hands. He saw to the
funeral, examined the dead man’s papers and effects; even carried his
thoughtful consideration so far as to ask Mrs. Jelf to order mourning
for Miss Marlowe and herself. In fact he did all that was necessary on
such mournful occasions--all except one thing. By a strange oversight,
Mr. Spenser Churchill omitted to send notice of the death to the
newspapers, so that there was nothing to tell Lord Cecil Neville, away
in Ireland, that the girl he loved had suddenly been left alone in the
world!
CHAPTER XVII.
A CHANCE FOR ESCAPE.
Alone in the world! Lying back in a chair by the open window of the
woodman’s cottage--for she could not bring herself to go back to the
lodgings in Barton, where every inanimate object would remind her of
the father-like friend she had lost--Doris kept repeating the ominous
words to herself. Although a week had passed since the funeral she
had not yet recovered from the terrible blow, and as she lay back
with half-closed eyes and white, wan face she still looked “like one
wandering in other worlds than this.”
The dead man had been so much to her. Mother, father, brother--indeed
her only friend and companion--that the sense of helplessness which
follows all bereavement was intensified in her case. She was indeed
utterly alone; drifting on the stream of life like a rudderless vessel,
to be blown hither and thither by the cruel caprice of every wind.
Since the day of Jeffrey’s death she had seen no one excepting the
kind-hearted woman of the cottage, Mrs. Jelf; and had done nothing but
commune in silence with the great sorrow that had fallen upon her.
In one day, in one hour, she had lost her lover and the man who had
been as a father to her.
She tried to put all thought of Lord Cecil Neville away from her, and
to think of Jeffrey alone; but with an agony of remorse she found that
the loss of her lover seemed almost as great a grief as the death of
poor Jeffrey.
All day long she dwelt upon the joy and happiness of those few short
days while he had been hers; recalling every word he had spoken, every
tone of the musical voice that seemed to have spoken of nothing but
love--deep, true, passionate love to her. She remembered how many times
he had kissed her, the fond endearing names by which he had called
her; and now it was all over! So completely a thing of the past, and
gone from her life, that it appeared more like a dream than a reality.
Were it not for the aching void in her heart, and the letter--the
cruel letter he had written, and that lay crushed and hidden against
her bosom--she could almost have believed that no such person as Cecil
Neville existed.
Where was he now? she wondered. Did he still think of her? or had he
never really loved her?
“Who am I, that I should have won the love of such as he?” she asked
herself over and over again. “No, he never loved me! He never loved me,
while I----” Then she would cover her face with her hands, and wish
that she could find relief in the unshed tears that seemed to scorch
her heart.
This morning, as she sat by the window, her hands folded listlessly in
her lap, thinking and thinking till her head ached, and wishing that
she lay in the quiet churchyard beside Jeffrey, Mrs. Jelf came into
the room, and, speaking in the subdued voice which is perhaps the most
irritating and trying to one in Doris’ condition, said:
“How do you find yourself this morning, miss?”
“I am quite well,” said Doris, rousing herself.
“I am glad to hear it, miss,” responded Mrs. Jelf, gently arranging the
pillow which she had insisted upon placing in the armchair. “Do you
think you are well enough to see any one this morning?”
“To see any one?” said Doris, with a start, and a sudden thrill of the
heart, for a wild, mad hope arose within her breast that it might be
Cecil Neville.
“Yes, miss; you are not to unless you quite like, he says, but if you
do feel strong enough----”
“He--who?” asked Doris.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill, the gentleman who has been so kind all through
your great trouble, miss.”
The color ebbed from Doris’ face, and she sank back.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill,” she said, vacantly, then a vague sense of
dread fell upon her, and she recalled Jeffrey’s warning.
“Yes, miss; the kindest-hearted gentleman as ever I knew. I’m sure, if
he’d been your own father or brother, he couldn’t have done more. Why,
he’s seen to everything, you know.”
Doris thrilled with an indefinable alarm and remorse.
“Why--why did you not tell me? Why should he do all this?” she asked.
“Well, miss, because it’s his nature, I suppose,” replied Mrs. Jelf.
“You see, he’s what they call a--a philanthropish; always ready to do
a kind action, and--lor’, come to that, who wouldn’t be glad to do
anything for a sweet young creature like yourself, left so friendless
and helpless? There he is now, just coming up the path. Now, you’re not
to see him unless you feel strong enough; he can wait, he says----”
“Will you please tell Mr. Churchill that I will see him,” said Doris,
and Mrs. Jelf, after another pat or two to the pillow, went out.
Doris tried to brace herself to the coming interview. Her mind had been
so clouded that she had not until this moment realized all that this
strange gentleman--against whom poor Jeffrey had warned her as her
greatest foe--had done for her, and she scarcely knew how to receive
him.
The door opened and Spenser Churchill entered. He was dressed in black,
and his face was almost seraphic with its expression of reverent
sympathy.
“Do not rise, my dear young lady,” he murmured softly. “Mrs. Jelf
assured me that you felt equal to seeing me; indeed, wished me to do
so, or I should not have intruded upon the sacred solitude of your
grief.”
Notwithstanding the honeyed accents, the words seemed to sound
artificial to Doris’ acute sense, and she turned her large dark eyes
upon him with an unconscious scrutiny.
“I am quite well, and I did wish to see you, sir,” she said, “I wish
to thank you for all you have done for me. I scarcely know yet the
extent of your kindness”--her voice faltered--“I think I must have been
ill, for I seem to have forgotten”--she put her hand to her brow for a
moment, then with an effort recovered herself.
“What I have done, my dear Miss Marlowe, does not deserve a word of
thanks. It has been a sad satisfaction to me to have been of some
slight service to you.”
“But you have done everything,” persisted Doris, in a low
voice--“everything! Why----?” she stopped abruptly, the question
sounded a cold and ungrateful one.
But Mr. Spenser Churchill filled up the pause.
“You would--and not unnaturally--ask why I have taken upon myself to
interfere in your affairs, my dear young lady?”
Doris made a slight gesture of dissent.
“Well, we will not say interfere,” he murmured, softly; “we will use
the word ‘interested.’ The question is very easily answered. For one
thing, I happened to be on the spot when your poor guardian--but we
will not recall the sad scene,” he broke off, as Doris winced and her
face grew paler. “And the second reason is that I was once a friend of
poor Mr. Jeffrey’s.”
“A friend?” Doris could not help saying.
He shot a sharp glance at her, unseen by her, and sighed.
“I understand your surprise,” he said, mournfully. “You will observe
that I said that I was once a friend. Some time ago, I regret to say,
a difference arose between us. I do not know whether you know the
circumstances, whether he ever told you?”
Doris shook her head, and he emitted a suppressed and inaudible sigh of
relief.
“Well, well, we will not speak of it; but this I will say, the quarrel,
the misunderstanding, arose from no fault of his. The fault was mine,
entirely mine, my dear young lady!”
It was a cunning speech, and produced the effect he had intended.
“Looking back to that time--when we parted, friends no longer--my heart
is filled with remorse and sorrow! Ah, Miss Marlowe, if we would all
of us reflect that life is short, and that death may come to prevent
forever any reconciliation between parted friends, how often--ah, how
often the rash and foolish quarrel would be averted;” and, apparently
overcome by his emotion, he turned his head away and softly blew his
nose. “But we will not go back over this sad quarrel,” he said. “I
have come to see you this morning that I may see if I can be of any
further use to you. I trust I may be. There are several things I find
that I must speak to you about, much as I should wish to leave you
undisturbed.”
“Will you please tell me everything I should know,” said Doris. “I am
ashamed that I should have left everything so entirely.”
“No, no,” he murmured. “Such a terrible bereavement as yours, so
sudden, is so overwhelming that no excuse is needed.” He took some
papers from his pocket. “I will not trouble you more than I can avoid
with business matters, my dear young lady, but there are a few things
that I find I must speak to you about. First, I must ask you if there
is any one, any friend you would rather I went to who would take this
trouble off your shoulders?”
Doris shook her head.
“No, there is no one,” she said, quietly enough and with a firm voice.
“I have no friend in all the world.”
“Except--dare I say except my humble self?” he murmured. “My dear young
lady, what little I have done afforded me a melancholy satisfaction.
I have felt all through that by serving you in some slight measure, I
have been making an attempt at some poor atonement for the error that
separated my poor dead friend and myself. Will you allow me to call
myself your friend?”
Doris turned to thank him, and he inclined his head gratefully.
“Well, then, I have taken upon myself to see to all the arrangements,
and have ventured to act, just as if I were, say your father. It was
necessary that I should look into poor Jeffrey’s affairs, and I have
come to tell you the result. I am sorry to say, my dear young lady,
that your guardian did not leave any wealth behind him. He died a poor
man--perhaps this will not surprise you?”
“No,” said Doris, in a low voice; “we were always poor, I think. There
was always enough----”
He nodded.
“Yes, yes, I understand. There is some money; it is not much, about a
hundred pounds, I think.”
Doris listened with faint interest. If she had heard that she had
been left without a penny, or heiress to a million, it would not have
affected her in her present condition.
“Besides the money there were some papers--nothing of any consequence,
however--letters and documents relating to business affairs,
engagements at theatres, and so on.”
A faint flush came into Doris’ face, then left it absolutely colorless.
“Nothing more?” she said, with downcast eyes.
“Nothing more,” he said, gravely, watching her closely, though he
seemed occupied in turning over the papers. “Did you expect----”
“I do not know,” she faltered; then she raised her large, sad eyes.
“You know that I am not--Jeffrey’s daughter?”
He inclined his head.
“Yes, I know that; and I know what you expected--hoped, shall I say;
that I should find something, some papers that would give us a clew to
your parentage. Is that not so?”
Doris’ lips formed the “Yes.”
He sighed and shook his head.
“I regret there is no such clew. The secret of your birth, my dear
young lady, is buried in my poor friend’s grave.”
Doris had leaned forward with a suppressed eagerness, and she sank back
as her eyes filled with tears.
“I am sorry, sorry,” he murmured, “for I too had hoped that I might
make some discovery. But there is not a single paper, not the slightest
clew.”
“And yet”--said Doris, more to herself than to him--“there was
something he--he was going to tell me, some papers; he had them with
him the morning----” Her voice broke.
Spenser Churchill listened with the deepest sympathy glowing in his
benevolent face.
“Dear, dear!” he murmured. “And he did not tell you? And these papers
now? He had them with him, you say? They were not found. I myself did
not examine----; but the doctor assured me there was nothing beyond a
little money and so on. I fear--I very much fear--that our poor friend
must have decided to allow the mystery to remain, and have destroyed
the papers you speak of.”
Doris’ hands closed tightly.
“He knew best,” she said, with all a woman’s loving loyalty. “I--I am
satisfied. He knew best,” and the tears came at last and rolled down
the pale cheeks.
Spenser Churchill heaved a sigh.
“Nobly said, my dear young lady! Yes, doubtless he knew best. Rest
assured that he kept the secret from you for good reasons. Yes, he knew
best! Poor Jeffrey, poor Jeffrey!” He wiped his eyes. “And now shall I
go--some other time----”
“No, no,” said Doris. “Tell me everything, please; I do not know what
to do--I am so alone----”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “About your future; forgive me if I mention such a
subject; but I presume you will continue your profession----”
A shudder ran through Doris’ frame at the thought of again facing the
crowded theatre.
“No, no!” she said, almost fiercely. “I shall never act again!”
As she answered, the scene of the first night of “Romeo and Juliet”
rose before her, and she thrilled with the recollection of the
inspiration which had come to her from her love for Cecil Neville. That
inspiration had vanished forever now, and to act with a broken heart
would, she knew, be impossible to her.
“I shall never go on the stage again,” she responded firmly.
Spenser Churchill put up his white hand to his lips to hide the smile
of satisfaction her words called up on them.
“No?” he said, thoughtfully and significantly. “Yes, I understand! I
quite understand, and I must say I think your decision is a wise one.
It was different while your guardian was alive, to watch over you and
protect you! You, great as your success has been, I think you are right
in your resolve to leave the profession.”
“I shall never go back,” she said, quietly.
“Then, forgive me, may I ask what you intend doing?”
Doris let her eyes fall upon him almost vacantly for a moment. She had
been lost in the memory of those few happy days and nights, and had
almost forgotten his presence.
“What I intend doing? Oh, I don’t know! I have not thought,” she said,
and her white hand went to her brow.
“I understand! I understand! and fully sympathize, my dear young lady,
but, as your friend--you know you have allowed me to be your friend--it
is my duty to ask you! This sum of money, alas, will soon take to
itself wings, and----”
Doris roused herself.
“And I must still live, and eat, even after it is gone, you would say,”
she said, not bitterly, but, ah, so wearily. “Yes, I know!”
“You could earn a large sum on the stage, of course,” he murmured.
She put out her hand as if to silence him.
“That is out of the question,” she said. “I suppose there are other
ways of earning money?”
“There are,” he murmured, softly.
“I am young and strong,” she said. “Other women have to work. What do
they do? Needlework----”
She looked at her hands with a smile that was like the glint of her old
light-hearted one.
He shook his head.
“That, too, is out of the question,” he said. “But there are still
other ways. I believe--indeed, I have heard--that you are very
accomplished, Miss Marlowe.”
“Am I?” said Doris, simply.
“I believe that you are a musician, and that you speak several
languages----”
“Yes,” she said, as simply as before. “Ah, how much I owe to him! I
understand it better now--now that it is too late to thank him,” and
she turned her head away.
“A good musician and linguist need not take to her needle for her
maintenance,” said Spenser Churchill. “I have, of course, foreseen
that the question would arise, and I have--pray forgive me, my dear
young lady--been making some inquiries on your behalf.” He drew out a
pocketbook, and took a letter from it. “It happens that a friend of
mine--Lady Despard--you may have heard of her; she is well known for
her charitable work----”
Doris shook her head.
“I have never heard of her,” she said, trying to speak with some
interest.
“A sweet creature! A widow, alas, though young! Very wealthy, moving
in the best society--ahem!--and fond of traveling. She is just going
abroad, and requires a companion. I think--I am sure--that you would
like her, and that if you could bring yourself to accept the position,
which is so much below your genius----”
“She is going abroad?” said Doris, with sudden eagerness.
He inclined his head.
“Yes, to Italy. The change would do you good--is, indeed, absolutely
necessary.”
Abroad, out of England, beyond the chance of meeting Cecil Neville! A
faint hope, for the first time since Jeffrey’s death, rose in Doris’
heart.
“But you need not decide to-day. You shall think it over,” he said,
taking up his hat. “By the way, if you should need me, will you send
word--at any time, and the very moment you would like to see me--to
Barton Towers? I am staying with my friend, the Marquis of Stoyle.”
Doris started, and the blood rose to her face.
“Barton Towers?” she murmured, mechanically.
“Yes,” he said, smoothly, as if he had not noticed her sudden
agitation. “The marquis is an old friend of mine. So is his nephew and
heir, Lord Cecil Neville. You may have heard of him?”
“Yes--I--have heard of him,” said Doris, in a low voice, which
faltered, notwithstanding her efforts to keep it steady.
“Yes; a most charming young fellow,” he went on, with a smile, “but a
terribly unsteady one. But, there, we must not be hard upon a young
fellow in his position. Young men who are blessed with good looks and
heirships to marquisates are apt to be unsteady; though I am glad to
say that Lord Neville’s wild days are nearly over. He is in Ireland at
present, but when he comes back he is to marry Lady Grace Peyton.”
Doris sat perfectly motionless, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes
fixed on the lovely summer scene framed in the window; but the view was
all blurred in her sight, and a sound as of rushing waves rang in her
ears.
“To marry Lady Grace Peyton!” she echoed, dully, as if the words
possessed no sense.
“Yes,” he purred. “It is a very old attachment. She is a most charming
and beautiful creature, and I am not surprised that, notwithstanding
his numerous flirtations, Lord Neville has remained constant. It will
be a most suitable and advantageous match for both of them----My dear
young lady,” he broke off, for Doris had sunk back, white to the lips,
and with closed eyes, “you are ill. Let me call Mrs. Jelf.”
But, with an almost superhuman effort, Doris fought down the terrible
faintness, and, stretching out her hand, commandingly, said:
“No! It is nothing. The heat--stay, please!”
He stood, regarding her silently, watchfully, with an anxious,
sympathetic expression on his smooth face.
“This lady”--she went on, speaking every word as if it cost her an
effort--“this Lady Despard. Will you ask her to take me?”
“But, my dear Miss Marlowe! Had you not better consider----”
“I have considered,” she said, interrupting him. “If she thinks I can
be of any service to her--if she is going away from England at once----”
“She is,” he said, softly.
“Well, then--tell her, please, that I am ready; that I will go with
her!”
“I will do everything you wish, my dear young lady,” he murmured.
“I fear I have wearied you! Leave it all to me,” and with a softly
murmured “Heaven bless you!” he left her.
CHAPTER XVIII.
FASHIONING THE WEB.
Two days later, Mrs. Jelf brought Doris a letter. The envelope bore an
elaborate crest, stamped in crimson and gold, and as she opened it, a
faint perfume emanated from it.
It was from Lady Despard, who wrote--in the delightfully-illegible
hand, all points and angles, known as “the Italian”--that her dear
friend, the well-known philanthropist, Mr. Spenser Churchill, had
recommended Miss Marlowe to Lady Despard, and, placing the greatest
reliance upon Mr. Churchill, her ladyship would be very pleased if Miss
Marlowe would come to her at number twelve Chester Gardens, as soon as
Miss Marlowe could find it convenient. Lady Despard added that she was
certain, from all Mr. Churchill had said, she and Miss Marlowe would
get on together, and that she intended starting for Italy as soon as
possible.
Doris read and re-read the elegant epistle, vainly striving, as we all
do, to form some idea of the character of the unknown writer; then she
sat down and wrote an answer, saying that she would come to Chester
Gardens the following day.
Now that she had recovered from the lethargy which had closely followed
her great trouble, she was filled with a restless desire to get away
from Barton and its painful association. She at once set to work at the
preparations for her journey, and it was not until she had packed up
her things that it occurred to her that she could not go until she had
bidden farewell to Mr. Spenser Churchill.
Doris’ feeling toward that gentleman was a peculiar one. He had
befriended her when she had been most in need of a friend; had shown an
amount of consideration and delicacy to her, a stranger, which, when
she pondered over it, amazed her; and she was grateful. But she had not
forgotten the dead man’s warning, and it still haunted her, although
Spenser Churchill had so cleverly managed to allay her suspicions by
his frank confession that, in the quarrel between him and Jeffrey, he
had been in the wrong. And yet, though her suspicions were allayed,
she was conscious of a strange feeling of disquietude while in his
presence; a feeling that was neither quite dread nor doubt, but partook
of both sentiments.
Still, he had been most kind, and her gratitude would not allow her to
go without seeing him again.
After a good deal of reflection, she wrote a couple of lines to him,
telling him that she had arranged to start on the morrow, and asking
him to call and see her; and she sent it by a lad to the Towers.
An hour or two later Mr. Spenser Churchill arrived.
“I am glad, very glad, my dear young lady,” he said, pressing the hand
which she gave him, “that you have resolved to seek change of scene so
promptly. You will find dear Lady Despard a most charming and amiable
lady, who will prove a--er--valuable friend; and I hope, I may say I
am sure, that you will be happy. You must let me have the pleasure of
seeing you off by the train to-morrow----”
Doris shook her head gently but firmly.
“I could not let you take so much trouble,” she said. “I am leaving
quite early in the morning, and----”
He nodded.
“Well, well, I understand. That shall be as you wish. And is there
anything I can do now? Your luggage----”
“It is all ready,” said Doris. “I am quite prepared.”
“Then nothing remains for me to do but to hand over to you the money I
hold for you,” he said, and he took out and counted some banknotes.
Doris colored.
“I have been thinking,” she said, “that I would ask you to be so good
as to take charge of some of it for me. It seems so large a sum--I have
never been used to having large sums of money,” her eyes filled as she
spoke. “I am ashamed to cause you any further trouble, but if you will
take charge of some of it for me, if you will give me twenty pounds,
and keep the rest in case I should want it, I shall be very grateful:
you will be adding to all your past kindness to me.”
“Yes, yes, I see. I shall be very happy,” he said, benevolently.
“Twenty pounds; that will leave eighty. And when you want it you can
write to me. Perhaps when you come to know Lady Despard you will like
her to act as your banker. By the way, I don’t think we said anything
about the remuneration?”
“No,” said Doris; “I did not think of it.”
“You left it all to me. Quite right. Well, I hope you will think I have
done the best I could. Lady Despard and I have agreed upon a hundred
pounds a year.”
“That is a great deal, I suppose,” said Doris, simply. “It is more than
enough, and once more I thank you.”
“It is not more than enough, not half enough in return for so sweet and
charming a companion, but, my dear young lady, we must be content,” he
said. “And now, is there anything else?”
Doris replied in the negative, then suddenly her face crimsoned.
“There is one thing more,” she said in a low voice. “Can you tell me
Lord Neville’s address in Ireland?”
Her voice faltered, but her clear pure eyes met his steadily. He showed
not the faintest surprise, but seemed to think for a moment or two.
“I am sorry to say I cannot,” he said. “Did you want to write to him?”
“Yes,” she said. “I wish I could tell you----” her voice broke.
He raised his hand with a soft, deprecating smile.
“My dear young lady, tell me nothing more than you wish. I am--” he
laid his hand upon his heart--“I beg you to believe that I am not
curious. Why should you not write to Lord Neville, if you choose, or to
any other person? I presume you know him?”
“Yes--I know him,” she said, turning her head aside.
“Just so,” he assented, smoothly. “And you wish to tell him where you
are going? Is it not so?”
“No!” said Doris, suddenly, and turning pale. “I do not wish him to
know--ah, I cannot tell you, you would not understand!”
“You shall tell me nothing,” he said, waving his hand. “I am sorry I
can’t give you his address. But I will tell you what we can do!” he
added as if an idea had occurred to him. “If you will write to him and
intrust the letter to me, I will see that it is forwarded--indeed, I
will get the address from the marquis and forward it to-night.”
“Thank you,” said Doris, in a low voice, and she went to the table.
Mr. Spenser Churchill, with true delicacy, slipped out, and had a few
minutes’ chat with Mrs. Jelf, who was reduced to tears at the prospect
of losing her young charge.
When he came back, Doris was standing with a note in her hand.
“There it is,” she said. “If”--she paused for a second, then went on
firmly--“if Lord Neville should ask you where I am gone, will you
promise not to tell him, please? No one knows but yourself, and--and I
do not wish him to be told.”
He inclined his head as he took the note, and with a great show of
carefulness, put it in his pocketbook.
“My lips are sealed, my dear young lady. Whatever your reasons may
be--and please understand that I do not seek to know them--your request
shall be considered sacred by me. Lord Neville shall never learn your
whereabouts from me!” and it is only fair to say, that for once, Mr.
Spenser Churchill spoke the truth!
A subdued and placid smile beamed on his benevolent countenance when,
having taken leave of Doris, he made his way across the meadows to the
Towers; and the smile grew more placid and self-complacent when, having
reached his own rooms, he took the note from his pocket, and rang for a
jug of hot water.
“Let it be quite hot, if you please,” he said to the chamber-maid, and
the girl brought it almost boiling.
Then he locked the door, and, holding the envelope over the steam until
it had become ungummed, he drew out the note, and read it.
“I was right, and you were wrong. It would have been better if we had
never met, and I hope that we may never meet again. If we should do
so, it must be as strangers. No one shall ever learn from me that we
have ever been anything else.
“DORIS MARLOWE.”
He pondered over these few lines, word by word, for some minutes, then,
with a satisfied nod, re-enclosed the note in its envelope, and neatly
re-fastened it.
“I don’t think any one, however sharp and critical his sight, would
detect that her little note had been opened,” he murmured. “The gum had
scarcely dried. Yes, that will do very well! Admirably; in fact, there
is no need for me to add a word. But all the same, my dear young lady,
we will not send it to Cecil Neville just yet! No, no, it would be so
sudden a shock. No, really, in common charity, we must give him some
slight preparation.”
Then he took from his pocket four letters, and, with a soft smile of
enjoyment, read them over.
They were in Lord Cecil’s anything but elegant handwriting, and were
addressed to Miss Marlowe at the lodgings, and had kindly been taken
charge of by Mr. Spenser Churchill.
“Youth, rash youth! How frantically he writes! Dear me, I am very glad
Providence permitted me to keep them from the dear young thing’s sight;
they would have unsettled her so sadly! Quite eloquent they are! I had
no idea Master Cecil had such a ready pen. I am afraid you are spending
anything but a pleasant time over there waiting for the answers to
these frantic epistles, the answer which will rather surprise you
when you get it. What will you do when you find the bird has flown,
I wonder? Be as mad as a March hare for a few days, and then----” He
shrugged his shoulders, and with a laugh, struck a match and made a
bonfire of the intercepted letters, and watched them until all that
remained of their imploring eloquence was a little heap of ashes in the
empty grate.
In such excellent spirits was Mr. Spenser Churchill, so full of the
peace which flows from the possession of a good conscience, that, as
he entered the drawing-room a few minutes before dinner that evening,
he hummed a few bars from the “Lost Chord,” that cheerful melody being
the nearest approach to profane music which he permitted himself; and,
going up to the sofa upon which Lady Grace was reclining, raised her
white hand to his lips and kissed it with playfully solemn gallantry.
She snatched her hand away impatiently, and drawing her handkerchief
over the spot his lips had touched, said:
“You appear conspicuously cheerful to-night. May one inquire the
reason? Don’t trouble to tell me if you are not sure it will be
interesting. I am quite bored enough already,” and she moved her fan
with a weary gesture.
“Bored, dear lady!” he murmured, smoothing his long, yellow hair from
his forehead. “Now, really! And I am never bored! But then I am always
busy; I never permit my mind to be unoccupied. Surely one can always
find some pleasant and congenial task to lighten the lengthy hours----”
She flashed a scornful look at him from her keen eyes.
“Please don’t treat me as if I were the audience at a charity meeting.”
“Alas!” he murmured softly. “Charity-meeting ladies do not wear such
charming toilettes as this; would that they did!” and he beamed down
admiringly at the magnificent evening dress. “What a pity it is that it
should be wasted--no, I will not say that!--but it is a pity there are
not younger eyes to see and admire it than mine and the dear marquis’.
Now, if Cecil were here--he has so keen an appreciation for all that is
beautiful!”
She looked up at him sharply.
“What do you want to tell me about him?” she demanded quickly, a faint
color coming into her face. “Is--is he coming back?”
“Is Cecil coming back, dear marquis?” he asked, turning as the door
opened and the marquis entered.
The marquis stopped and looked from one to the other under his brows.
“You should know best. The person who sent him to Ireland probably
knows when he can come back,” he said, with cold contempt.
“Now, now, really I must protest!” said Spenser Churchill, wagging
his forefinger playfully. “I know nothing about it, nothing whatever.
It was on your business he went, dear lord, not mine. No, come now,
really!”
The marquis smiled grimly.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “She”--and he indicated Lady Grace with a
slight motion of his hand--“knows, or guesses, all about it. We neither
of us have any desire to rob you of the credit of the plot, eh, Grace?”
She shrugged her snowy shoulders with an air of indifference, but she
could not keep her eagerness from flashing in her eyes, which were
fixed on Spenser Churchill’s smooth, smiling face.
“Well, if you ask my advice, I should say dear Cecil might as well come
back; not quite directly, but say--yes--say, in a week.”
The marquis raised his eyebrows with haughty indifference.
“When you like! There is a letter from him to-night.” and he flung
it on the table. “He seems to have unmasked the agent, and made
himself quite popular with his dear friends, the great unwashed! I
suppose”--with a sneer--“he will want to go into Parliament next, on
the Radical side, no doubt.”
“Y--es,” murmured Spenser Churchill, as he read the letter; “I always
said dear Cecil was clever.”
“Really?” said the marquis, in a tone of calm and indifferent
surprise. “The problem with me has always been whether he was a greater
fool than he looked, or looked a greater fool than he is.”
Mr. Spenser Churchill chuckled oilily, but Lady Grace half rose, and
shut her fan with a snap.
“He who buys Cecil for a fool will lose his money,” she said.
The marquis made her an elaborate bow, and Spenser Churchill clapped
his fat hands softly.
“Good--very good, dear lady! I must remember that; I must, indeed! So
truly witty.”
“So truly vulgar, you mean,” she said; “but I was following the
marquis’ suit.”
The marquis made her another bow.
“This is quite refreshing,” he said, his thin upper lip curling
scornfully. “And now that we have exchanged civilities, perhaps
Churchill will tell us what is to happen. Is Cecil to come back and
marry this pure and innocent ballet girl?”
“Actress, actress, dear marquis,” cooed Spenser Churchill, folding his
hands, and smiling with his head on one side. “If you appeal to me, I
am afraid I must be the bearer of bad news.”
“Bad news! He is married already?” exclaimed Lady Grace, rising and
confronting him with white face and furious eyes.
Spenser Churchill chuckled at her alarm, then, with his head a little
more on one side, murmured:
“No, no! I am sorry to say there is a little hitch--ahem--the fact is
the engagement is broken off.”
“Broken off?” exclaimed Lady Grace, and her face crimsoned as she
leaned forward, with scarcely repressed eagerness.
The marquis toyed with the diamond stud at his wrist, and maintained
his accustomed air of cold and haughty indifference; but Spenser
Churchill’s keen eyes detected a slight tremor of the thin, white
fingers.
“Y--es! It is very sad, and my heart bleeds for poor Cecil----” Lady
Grace tapped her hand with her fan with impatience, and seeing and
recognizing it, he went on with still more exasperating slowness. “Only
they who have suffered as he will and must suffer can sympathize with
him. To have one’s tenderest affections nipped in the bud, to find that
one’s true and devoted love has been misplaced, and--er--betrayed; ah,
how cruel and sharp a torture it is! Poor Cecil, poor Cecil!”
The fan snapped loudly, its delicate ivory leaves broken in the
restless, impatient fingers.
“Can you not tell us what has occurred--the truth, without this--this
sermon?” she exclaimed, almost fiercely.
“Yes, pray spare us, if you can, Spenser,” said the marquis, with a
cold smile. “I gather from what you say, that this miserable business
has come to an end. Is that so?”
“Yes! Is that so?” demanded Lady Grace.
Spenser Churchill heaved a deep sigh, but a faint smile of satisfaction
lurked in his half-closed eyes.
“I regret to say that it is,” he said. “Poor Cecil’s affections have
been wasted! The tenderest emotions of his heart betrayed! The young
lady has--discarded him!”
The marquis raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, but
Lady Grace rose and laid her hand--with no gentle grasp--on Spenser
Churchill’s arm.
“Is this true?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
“Yes,” he said; “I have his dismissal in my hand,” and he held up
Doris’ note.
Lady Grace drew a long breath.
“You--you are very clever!” she said.
He looked at her with an affectation of surprise.
“I--I!” he murmured; “I know nothing about it! I happen to know the
young lady slightly, and she, not knowing Lord Cecil’s address----”
“He must have written to her!” broke in Lady Grace.
“Has he, do you think?” responded Spenser Churchill, opening his eyes
with a childlike innocence.
Lady Grace smiled.
“I see! I see! You intercepted the letters?”
“I beg your pardon! What did you say? Not knowing Lord Cecil’s address,
Miss Marlowe committed this letter to my care. Now the question is,
shall we send it on to him, or wait till he comes back? I think you
said he would be back in a week, dear marquis?”
“You said so,” said the marquis, coldly.
“Well, in that case, don’t you think it would be better to wait until
he comes back? Letters do miscarry so, don’t they?”
The marquis smiled sardonically.
“I agree with Lady Grace,” he said. “You are a clever fellow, Spenser.”
“They do miscarry so often,” continued Spenser Churchill. “So I think,
if you ask me, it will be better to keep it till he returns. That is my
humble advice.”
The marquis nodded.
“And my humble advice is that you are not here when it is delivered,”
he said, with a grim smile. “I have no doubt you have taken every
precaution, but if Cecil should get an inkling----” He stopped, and
smiled again significantly.
“Dear Cecil,” murmured Spenser Churchill; “I should so like to have
stayed till he came back, and attempted to soothe and comfort him”--the
marquis smiled more sardonically than before--“but,” continued Spenser
Churchill, “I am sorry to say important business compels me to return
to London to-morrow, so I must leave the letter in your charge. You
will take every care of it? Poor Cecil! And you must be very kind and
gentle with him, dear Lady Grace!”
“We will take every care of it, and Lady Grace will be very kind and
gentle, no doubt,” retorted the marquis, with a sneer.
CHAPTER XIX.
IN STRANGE SURROUNDINGS.
Feeling as if the world were quite a new and different one, and she
equally new and strange, Doris left Barton the following morning, Mrs.
Jelf driving her to the station in a little pony-cart, and obviously
weeping as the train left the station.
It was not a particularly long journey, and the time passed very
quickly, as it seemed to Doris, for she was thinking all the time,
dwelling on the past and considering what the future would be like, and
when they reached Waterloo she was about to ask a porter for a cab,
when a footman came up to the carriage, and, touching his hat, inquired
if she were Miss Marlowe.
“The carriage is quite close, miss,” he said, with evident respect,
after a glance at the slim, graceful, black-clad figure and delicately
refined face. “She’s a lady, anyhow,” was his mental comment.
The carriage was an admirably appointed one, the horses evidently as
good as money could buy, and the get-up of the equipage quiet and
reserved, corresponding with the dark liveries of the coachman and
footman.
They went, at a smart, businesslike pace, through the crowded Strand,
and, entering the sacred regions of the upper ten, pulled up at one of
the largest houses in Chester Gardens.
Now, there is one advantage, at any rate, in being an actress: that
nothing surprises you. No grandeur can overwhelm a person who has
been nightly playing with kings and queens--perhaps enacted a queen
herself; and though the first glimpse of the interior of Lady Despard’s
town house was rather startling, Doris was capable of concealing her
surprise. The house was new, and magnificently furnished after the
latest art craze. The hall was intended to represent the outer court of
a Turkish harem, with richly chased arches, marble passages, tropical
ferns, and a plashing fountain. Brilliantly colored rugs made splashes
of color on the cool marble, and here and there a huge but graceful
vase lent variety to the decorations. It certainly rather reminded you
of one of the divisions of a Turkish bath; but Lady Despard couldn’t
help that.
As Doris passed through this oriental hall she heard the sound of an
organ, and found that one stood in a dimly-lighted recess. A young
man was playing, and he scarcely raised his eyes from the keys as he
glanced at her.
“Miss Marlowe,” said the footman, opening a door on the left of the
hall, and Doris entered a room as dimly lighted as the organ recess;
so dark, in fact, that for a moment she could distinguish nothing; the
next, however, she saw a lady rise from a low divan and approach her.
Doris could not make out her features, but she heard a very pleasant
and musical voice say:
“How do you do, Miss Marlowe? I am so glad you have come. Will you sit
down a little while, or would you rather go to your own room first?”
Doris sat down, and Lady Despard drawing aside a curtain from before
a stained-glass window, Doris saw that her ladyship was young and
remarkably pretty; she was dressed in exquisite taste, and in colors
which set off her delicate complexion and softly-languid eyes. Lady
Despard scanned Doris’ face for a second or two, and her gaze grew more
interested.
“It was very good of you to come to me, Miss Marlowe,” she said.
Of course Doris responded that it was more than good of Lady Despard to
have her.
“Not at all; the favor--if there be any--is on your side,” said her
ladyship. “I am simply bored to death and pining for a companion.
I hope we shall get on together. Mr. Spenser Churchill was quite
eloquent in your praise; and he certainly didn’t exaggerate in one
respect”--and her ladyship let her eyes wander over the pale, lovely
face meaningly--“and I am sure you look awfully lovable. By the way,
what’s your name--I mean your Christian name?”
Doris told her.
“How pretty. You must let me call you by it. ‘Miss Marlowe’ sounds so
stiff and formal, as if you were a governess, doesn’t it? Mr. Spenser
Churchill says that you are dreadfully clever; I hope you aren’t.”
Doris smiled.
“I am afraid Mr. Churchill has prepared a disappointment for you, Lady
Despard,” she said.
Her ladyship shook her head.
“I don’t think so. I only hope you won’t be disappointed in me. I am
awfully stupid; but I’m always trying to learn,” she added, with a
smile. “Do you know Mr. Churchill very well? Is he an old friend of
yours?”
“No,” said Doris, gravely; “I have known him for a few days only. He
was very kind to me; very kind, indeed.”
“I know. He always is,” said Lady Despard. “Such a benevolent man,
isn’t he? I always say that he reminds me of one of the patriarchs,
with his gentle smile, and long hair, and soft voice. Any one would
guess he was a philanthropist the moment they saw him, wouldn’t they?”
“I don’t know,” said Doris; “I have seen so few philanthropists.”
“No. Well, I suppose there aren’t many, are there? Oh, Mr. Spenser
Churchill is a wonderfully good man; he’s so charitable, and all
that. Why, I don’t know how many societies he is connected with. I
try and do all the good I can,” she added, looking rather bored; “but
my philanthropy is generally confined to subscribing five pounds; and
there’s not much in that, is there?”
Doris was tempted to say: “Exactly one hundred shillings,” but,
instead, remarked that if everybody gave five pounds poverty would be
very much on the decrease.
“Yes,” said her ladyship, as if the subject had exhausted itself and
her, too. “How well you look in black!--oh, forgive me!” as Doris’ lips
quivered. “How thoughtless of me!--that is always my way--I never think
until I’ve spoken! Of course, Mr. Churchill told me about your trouble.
I’m so sorry. I’ve had trouble myself.”
She glanced at a portrait which hung on the wall as she spoke, a
portrait of a very elderly gentleman, who must have been extremely
ugly, or very cruelly wronged by the artist.
“Your father?” said Doris, gently.
“No, that is the earl--my husband,” said Lady Despard, not at all
discomposed, though Doris’ face went crimson. “You think he looks
old? Well,” reflectively, “he was old. He was just sixty-eight when
we married. We were only married two years. He was very good to me,”
she went on, calmly eying the portrait as if it were that of a chance
acquaintance, “extremely so--too much so, they all said, and I dare say
they were right. He was immensely rich, and he left me everything he
could. I’m afraid I’m wickedly rich,” she added, almost plaintively;
“at any rate, I know there is so much money and houses and that kind of
thing as to be a nuisance.”
A knock was heard at the door, and a footman entered.
“A person with the tapestry, my lady,” he said.
“Oh, very well!” said her ladyship, languidly. “I’ll come and see it.
Would you like to come, or are you too tired, dear?”
“I should like to come,” said Doris.
They went into the hall, and a man displayed a length of ancient
tapestry.
Lady Despard linked her arm in Doris’, and looked at it for a moment or
two with a very small amount of interest, then asked the price.
The man mentioned a sum that rather startled Doris, but her ladyship
nodded carelessly.
“Shall I buy it?” she asked of Doris.
Doris could scarcely repress a smile.
“I--really I am no judge,” she said. “I don’t know whether it is worth
the money or not.”
Lady Despard laughed indolently.
“Oh, as to that, of course it isn’t worth it,” she said, with a candor
which must have rather discomfited the man. “Nothing one buys ever is
worth the money, you know; but one must go on buying things; there’s
nothing else to do. Yes, I’ll have it,” she added to the man, and drew
Doris away.
“Now, I’ve kept you with your things on quite long enough,” she said.
“You shall go upstairs. I’ve got some people coming to tea--it’s my
afternoon--but you needn’t come down unless you like; I dare say you’ll
be glad to rest.”
Doris was about to accept the suggestion thankfully, but, remembering
her new position, said:
“I am not tired; I shall come down, Lady Despard.”
“Very well, then,” said her ladyship, touching an electric bell. “Send
Miss Marlowe’s maid, please.”
A quiet, pleasant-looking maid came to the door, and Doris followed her
through the hall, and up a winding staircase of carved pine, and into a
daintily-furnished room.
The maid brought her a cup of tea, and leaving Doris to rest for
half-an-hour, returned to show her down to the drawing-room.
As they made their way to it, Doris heard the sound of a piano and the
hum of voices, and, a footman opening the door, she saw that the room
was full of people.
She made her way, with some little difficulty, to Lady Despard, who was
seated at a small table, evidently merely pretending to superintend
a tea-service, for the footman was handing around cups supplied from
something outside, and more capacious than the tiny kettle on the
table, and her ladyship looked up and smiled a pleasant little welcome.
“You have come down, after all?” she said, making room on the settee
beside her. “This is my new friend, Miss Marlowe, your grace,” she
added, addressing a stout and dignified-looking lady near her, the
Duchess of Grantham.
Her grace surveyed Doris through a pair of gold eye-glasses, and
inclined her head with ducal condescension, and Lady Despard introduced
several other persons in the circle.
“We are going to Florence together,” said Lady Despard, “though why
Florence I haven’t the slightest idea; it’s a whim of my doctor’s. I
don’t feel the slightest bit ill, but he says I am, and he ought to
know, I suppose.”
The room, which had seemed to Doris quite full when she entered,
appeared to get still fuller. People came, exchanged a few words
with Lady Despard, took a cup of tea, strolled about and talked with
one or the other, or listened to some one who sang or played, and
then wandered out. Everybody appeared either languidly indifferent
or horribly bored. Doris, as she leaned back, half-hidden by Lady
Despard’s elaborate tea-gown on one side and the voluminous folds of a
plush curtain on the other, looked on at the crowd, and listened to the
hum and buzz of voices, half in a dream.
Every now and then she heard some well-known name mentioned, and
discovered that the people around her were not only persons of rank,
but men and women famous in the world of music and letters.
Suddenly she heard a name spoken that made her heart leap, and caused
her to shrink still further back.
“What has become of Cecil Neville?” asked the duchess.
Lady Despard shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m sure I don’t know. Oh, yes, I do. I had forgotten. He has gone
down to stay with his uncle, the Marquis of Stoyle, you know.”
“Poor Cecil,” commiserated the duchess, with a faint smile. “How he
must suffer!”
“I heard that he’d been obliged to leave England,” remarked another
lady in a subdued voice. “Up to his ears in debt, poor fellow!”
“Well, he has had a very long rope,” said the duchess. “It is time he
married and settled down.”
“That is just what he is going to do,” said Lady Despard, laughing. “I
heard from Mr. Spenser Churchill--he is stopping at Barton Towers, you
know--that Lord Cecil is engaged to Grace Peyton.”
The duchess raised her eyebrows.
“At last! Well, it is a good match, and I’m sure she’ll be happy.”
“Oh, how severe!” said the other lady. “You mean that he won’t be, your
grace?”
“I mean that if I were a man I should think twice before----” She
stopped, as if she had suddenly remembered the number and mixed
character of her audience.
“Oh, she is a charming girl--and so very beautiful, you know,” said
Lady Despard.
“Yes, very,” said her grace, dryly, and changed the subject.
Doris sat perfectly motionless, and very pale, fighting against the
dizziness which assailed her.
“What is that the senor is playing?” asked the duchess presently.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” replied Lady Despard, helplessly.
Doris rose.
“I will go and inquire,” she said, feeling that she had better seize
the opportunity of making herself useful.
Her grace looked after her.
“That’s a very beautiful girl, my dear,” she said, slowly.
“Isn’t she!” responded Lady Despard. “I call her lovely--simply lovely.
I’m awfully obliged to Mr. Spenser Churchill.”
“Who is she?--where does she come from?”
“Oh, it’s quite a long story!” said her ladyship, who was not so simple
as to throw down Doris’ history for her aristocratic friends to worry.
“The poor child has just lost her father.”
“She will create a sensation,” said the duchess, calmly and
emphatically. “I don’t think I ever saw a more lovely face, or a more
graceful figure--excepting yours, my dear.”
“Oh, you can leave mine out, too!” said Lady Despard, good-naturedly.
Meanwhile, Doris made her way through the crowd, and the duchess’
prophecy was speedily fulfilled. Men and women, as they made room for
the slight, girlish figure to pass, looked after her with a startled
curiosity, and turned to each other, asking eager questions, some of
which were pitched in a quite high enough key for Doris to hear. But,
with the modest self-possession which her training had bestowed upon
her, she reached the piano, learned the name of the piece, and returned
to the duchess.
“It is Beethoven’s sonata in G, your grace,” she said in her low,
musical voice.
“Thank you, my dear,” said the duchess. “It was very good-natured of
you to take so much trouble. Good-by, Lady Despard,” and as she shook
hands with her hostess she bestowed a smile and a nod on Doris.
Lady Despard laughed.
“My dear,” she said, “you are going to be a success. It isn’t often the
duchess is so amiable.”
Two hours later, Mr. Spenser Churchill, with a smile that seemed to
cast a benediction on everything it lighted on, was slowly walking down
the still warm pavement of Bentham street, Soho.
Bentham street, Soho, is by no means an aristocratic thoroughfare, and
the eminent philanthropist had to meander in and out of a crowd of
dirty children, who shouted and sprawled over the curb and pavement,
much to their own delight and the peril of the foot passengers; but Mr.
Churchill seemed quite familiar with the street and its humors, and,
stopping at a house half-way down, knocked at the door as if he had
done it before.
A young and overgrown girl shuffled along the passage, and answering
an inquiry of Mr. Churchill’s as to whether Mr. Perry Levant was in,
nodded an affirmative, and requested Mr. Churchill to follow her.
She knocked at a door on the first floor, and receiving a peculiarly
clear-voiced “Come in,” opened the door, and jerked her finger by way
of invitation to Mr. Churchill to enter.
Notwithstanding the neighborhood in which it was situated, and the
dingy condition of the rest of the house, this room was comfortably
furnished, and indicated the possession of some amount of taste by its
occupant. There was a fair-sized table, with a large bowl of flowers
in the center, some pictures rather good than bad, a Collard & Collard
piano stood on one side of the small room, with a guitar leaning
against it. Besides the pictures, there hung on the walls a pair of
fencing foils and masks, and a set of boxing-gloves.
The room was full of the smoke which emanates from a good Havana, and
the smoker was reclining in a comfortable chair, with his feet on
another, and a glass of, apparently, soda and brandy by his elbow.
He was a young man, who if he possessed no other qualities, had been
remarkably favored by the gods in one particular; he was perhaps as
singularly handsome a specimen of the human race as it is possible to
conceive. So finely cut and delicately molded was his face that it
would have been considered effeminate but for the mustache which, like
his hair and eyebrows, and the long lashes that swept the clear olive
cheek, was a silky, lustrous black. It was a face which Van Dyke would
have loved to paint, a face which, once seen, lingered in one’s memory,
and it wore an added charm, a certain devil-may-care, _debonnaire_
expression which at once attracted attention and lent it impressiveness.
“Hallo, Spenser, is that you?” he exclaimed, with a laugh, as he rose
and held out his hand, as white--though not so soft and fat--as the
philanthropist’s own. “An unexpected honor! Sit down! You don’t mind
the smoke, do you?” he asked, as Mr. Spenser Churchill coughed two or
three “wow, wows” behind his handkerchief. “Rather thick, isn’t it? The
room’s small, you see, and I’ve been smoking for--oh, Lord knows how
long! Have anything? Brandy and soda, eh? All right!” and, going to
the window, he leaned out, and called some instructions to an urchin
below.
“My dear Percy, isn’t that--er--rather a public way of procuring
refreshments?” said Mr. Churchill.
The young fellow laughed.
“Well, perhaps it is,” he admitted. “But it saves trouble, and they’re
used to it! There are always some youngsters outside glad to earn a
penny, and the ‘Pig and Whistle’ keeps a very good article, so they
say! Have a cigar?” and he pushed a box toward him. “You’ll find them
all right, I think. And now, what brings you to the aristocratic
regions of Soho?”
Mr. Spenser Churchill lit his cigar and took two or three preliminary
puffs before answering, the young man leaning against the mantel-shelf
in graceful abandon, and watching him with a faintly-amused curiosity;
then the great philanthropist said, in his soft, dulcet voice:
“I have come to make your fortune, Percy!”
CHAPTER XX.
AN EXTRAORDINARY PROPOSAL.
“Oh you have come to make my fortune!” said Percy Levant. “Pardon me,
but that sounds rather--funny!” and he regarded Mr. Spenser Churchill
with a faint smile.
“Funny!” echoed the philanthropist, in an injured tone, “why ‘funny’? I
trust I have always proved myself your friend and well-wisher, my dear
Percy?”
The young man smiled again, and stroked his silky mustache with his
white, long, artistic-looking hand.
“Yes--oh, yes! I didn’t mean to be offensive, but you must allow that
people don’t generally go about making other people’s fortunes--that’s
all. Pray proceed. I’m all impatience, and grateful by anticipation!
Goodness knows my fortune needs making very badly!” and he glanced
round the room, and down at his shabby velvet jacket, which hung over a
chair, with a little grimace.
“Forgive me, my dear Percy, if I remark that the poverty which you
lament may be as much your fault as your misfortune.”
“I dare say,” he assented, with good-tempered indolence; “you mean that
there is not enough of the busy bee about me, Mr. Churchill?”
The philanthropist shook his head gravely.
“I am afraid you have not been industrious, my dear Percy. Let us for a
moment review your position.”
“Review it for half-an-hour if you like,” said the young fellow. “It
won’t hurt me, and it will probably amuse you. Meanwhile, here’s
something that won’t hurt you and will amuse both of us,” and he opened
the door to the urchin who had brought the liquid refreshment. “Go
ahead while I mix. Plenty of brandy in yours, eh?”
“Here you are, my dear Percy,” said Mr. Churchill, blandly, “in the
possession of youth and health, and--shall I say--remarkable good
looks----”
“Say what you like. You’ll excuse my not blushing.”
“And in addition to those great advantages, a wonderful talent for one
of the fine arts. I believe, my dear Percy, that you are a musician of
a high order----”
“Thanks again! Here’s your health!” interjected the young fellow. “Yes,
I can ‘play a bit, and sing a bit, and jump Jim Crow.’ As to being a
musician----” he shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“You play and sing like an artist, my dear Percy, and most young
fellows so highly endowed as you are would have made a name for
themselves and a place in the world.”
“Instead of which, here I am in dingy Soho, with the last two quarters’
rent unpaid, and forced to borrow a five-pound note from my dear
friend, Mr. Spenser Churchill,” he said, lightly.
The philanthropist shook his head.
“What good will a five-pound note do you, Percy?”
“Well, ten pounds would certainly do me more good. Are you going to
make it ten?”
“I will make it much more than ten if you will listen to me
and--er--promise to follow my advice. Just consider your position, as I
say, my dear Percy. Have you no ambition? Surely you, with your great
gifts and youth and good looks, must feel that this is not the place
for you----”
“That I am wasting my sweetness on the desert air. Just so. I often
feel it; but once having got lost in the desert, it’s rather difficult
to find one’s way out, you see. Have I no ambition?” The black eyes
flashed, and the clear olive tint of his complexion grew warm. “Of
course I have! What do you take me for--a mule, a packhorse? Why,
man, I never see a well-dressed man of my own age but I envy him his
clothes; I never lean over the railings in the park and watch the
fellows riding by but I envy them their horses and their acquaintance
with the pretty girls--the daughters and wives of swell people; I never
pass a good club but I feel that I’d give ten years of my life to be a
member and one of the class to which it belongs. Do you think I live in
this stifling den from choice? Do you think I dine on a sixpenny plate
of meat, and drink porter, sit in the gallery of a theatre, and wear
old clothes because I like doing it?”
He drew himself up to his full height, and flashed down upon his
observant listener for a second, then relapsed into his old lounging
attitude, and laughed musically.
“Why do you come here with your Arabian Nights’ kind of speeches and
stir me up! Bah, it’s too hot for such mental exercise,” and he sank
into a chair and folded his hands behind his head. “No, Churchill, I am
in the desert, and there I shall stick.”
“Unless some friendly guide extends a helping hand and leads you out,”
said the philanthropist. “I can quite understand your feelings, my dear
Percy, and I must say they are very natural ones. You are, without
flattery, formed by nature to adorn a higher sphere than your present
one. I don’t think any of the young fellows you envy could do greater
credit to their wealth and position than you could do. Seriously, I
think you were cut out for better things than teaching the piano to the
daughters of the inhabitants of Soho and its neighborhood.”
“No doubt. I was intended for the heldest son of a hearl,” said Percy,
sarcastically, “but there happens to be a hitch somewhere.”
“And suppose I tell you that I can undo that hitch, that I can give you
a helping hand to better and higher things; in short, to repeat myself,
to make your fortune! Think of it, my dear Percy. Plenty of money,
the entrance to good society, horses to ride, club doors thrown open
to you, choice wines, men of rank for friends, and a world ready to
welcome with outstretched hands good-looking and accomplished Mr. Percy
Levant!”
The young fellow regarded him with the same incredulous smile, but
there was a light of subdued eagerness in his eyes, and a warmer color
in his face.
“You ought to go into the house, Churchill,” he said. “I don’t mean
the workhouse, but the House of Commons. I suppose you learn all this
kind of thing at your charitable public meetings? I’ll come and hear
you some of these days; they tell me you make uncommonly good speeches.
Well, go on. How is this fortune of mine to be made, and--excuse my
bluntness--why are you so anxious to make it?”
“A very natural question, my dear Percy, and, believe me, I am not at
all annoyed by it. I intend to be perfectly frank and open-minded with
you----”
Percy Levant smiled, and got another cigar.
“I beg your pardon, Churchill, but the idea of your being frank rather
tickled me. The spasm has passed, however; proceed. Is it a new gold
mine you are going to ask me to become a director of? Or have you
invented a new washing machine, and want me to travel for it? What is
it?”
“It has always seemed so strange to me,” resumed Mr. Spenser Churchill,
ignoring the interruption, “that you have never turned your attention
to matrimony.”
The young fellow stared at him, then laughed sarcastically.
“You think that the palatial dimensions of this room are too large
for one individual; that I should be more comfortable if I shared my
sixpenny plate of meat and thread-bare wardrobe with another? My dear
Churchill, you might as well ask a limping, footsore tramp why he
doesn’t turn his attention to riding in a carriage and pair! Matrimony!
Good Lord! I am not quite out of my mind!”
“But your wife need not be poor, my dear Percy. She may be rich in this
world’s goods----”
“Oh, yes, I didn’t think of that; and you suggest that there are
hundreds of wealthy heiresses who are dying to become Mrs. Percy
Levant; perishing with the desire to bestow their hands and fortunes
on the music teacher of Soho!”
“You would not be the first man who has married money,” said the
philanthropist, smoothly. “But let me be more explicit, my dear Percy.
By one of those strange chances, which are indeed providential, I
happen to be acquainted with a young lady who would, in all respects,
make you a most suitable wife.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” said Spenser Churchill, gravely, “the circumstances of the case
are peculiar, not to say romantic. The fact is, I am that young lady’s
guardian, not exactly such in a legally qualified sense, but by--er--an
unfortunate accident; and, as her guardian, I am naturally desirous
of promoting her present and future welfare. Ah, my dear Percy, how
sacred a trust one undertakes when one accepts the care of a young and
innocent girl!” and he looked up at the ceiling with a devout sigh.
Percy Levant smiled with mingled mockery and amusement.
“Very nice sentiments,” he said. “But go on. And this is the young lady
you have in your eye for me, is it?”
The philanthropist nodded gravely.
“I confess it, my dear Percy. I have considered the question in all its
numerous bearings, and I am convinced that I shall be promoting both
her future welfare and yours by--er--bringing you together.”
Percy Levant stared at him.
“This grows serious,” he said. “And may I ask if this young lady is
‘rich in this world’s goods,’ as you so beautifully put it?”
“She is--or, rather, she will be,” replied Spenser Churchill, leaning
forward, and speaking in a lower tone, and with his eyes fixed on the
other man’s face with a keen, yet covert watchfulness. “I said that
there were peculiar and romantic circumstances in the case, and one of
them is this, that the young lady has no idea of the wealth which will
some day be hers.”
“Oh!” said Percy, curtly, “she hasn’t, eh? Yes, that’s peculiar,
certainly. I suppose there is no doubt about the golden future, eh?”
“It is as certain as that you and I are in this room.”
“And the romance--where does that come in?”
“Her story is a singular one. Her name----” he stopped suddenly, and
smiled blandly, “but perhaps I’d better reserve that for a while, my
dear Percy.”
“Yes, you’d better,” rejoined the young man, sarcastically. “I might
go in for the speculation on my own account, and throw you over!
Churchill, for a saint, you are singularly suspicious!”
“Not suspicious, my dear Percy; say careful, perhaps cautious,”
suggested the philanthropist, with an oily smile.
“All right; choose your own word! Go on.”
“The young lady’s career has been a singular one; she has been an
actress.”
Percy whistled and stared.
“But she is a lady in every sense of the word,” continued Spenser
Churchill, slowly and significantly. “She has left the stage, acting on
my advice, and in consequence of the death of her only relative, and
is living now with some dear friends of mine. With the exception of
myself, she has no one to turn to for advice and assistance. I am her
sole guardian, and--I may say--friend. She will, I am sure, be guided
entirely by me, and that is why I am so anxious to provide for her
future welfare.”
“By marrying her to a needy adventurer,” finished Percy Levant, with a
smile.
“No; to one who, though deficient in the energy which achieves
greatness by its own strength is, I am sure, a man of honor,” said
Spencer Churchill, suavely.
Percy Levant stared at him with a curious smile.
“This is amusing and romantic with a vengeance,” he said. “And the
young lady--of course she is as ugly as sin?”
Spenser Churchill was about to answer in the negative, and dilate upon
Doris’ beauty, but he stopped himself and made a gesture of denial with
his hands.
“By no means, my dear Percy. This, I will say, that she is refined,
accomplished, amiable----”
“And quiet in single or double--especially double--harness?”
“In sporting parlance, my dear Percy, that exactly describes my
charming ward.”
The young man took a turn up and down the room, and then, resuming his
old attitude, looked down upon the smooth face of the tempter with a
curious and half-troubled regard.
“You don’t offer me a penny for my thoughts, Churchill, and so I’ll
just make you a present of them. I am wondering--what--the--devil--you
are going to gain in this business. Wait a moment. You come here and
offer this young girl to me--is she young, by the way?”
Spenser Churchill nodded and smiled.
“To me--a penniless man, without position or anything else that makes a
man eligible for a husband----”
“You forget your youth and good looks--your undoubted talents, dear
Percy,” murmured the philanthropist.
“A most undesirable match in every way,” went on the other, taking no
notice of this interpolation. “Why do you do it? Of course, you have
some game----”
“My dear Percy!”
“Oh, nonsense. For Heaven’s sake, let us have no hypocrisy. You offer
to sell this girl to me, with her fortune in the future--what is the
price I am to pay for it?”
“If you insist upon putting it with such--may I say--barbaric
directness----”
“Yes, I do. I want the thing plain and distinct. I don’t suppose it is
for any love of me that you come, as you say, to ‘make my fortune!’”
“Not altogether; though I have always regarded you as a very dear
friend, Percy.”
The young man made a movement of impatience.
“Yes, yes, I know! But you have some object in view; what is it? You
don’t want me to believe that I am to give you nothing in return for a
wealthy wife. What is it?”
Spenser Churchill drew a paper from his pocket.
“Really, it is marvelously like Faust and Mephistopheles, isn’t it?”
“If that’s a document I am to sign, it really is,” assented Percy, with
a grim smile.
“Well, I shall want your signature, my dear Percy, but only in ordinary
ink--only in ordinary ink.”
“What does it contain?” asked the young fellow. “One moment before you
tell me. If it is anything detrimental--anything that would interfere
with the happiness of this young girl, you can put your precious paper
back in your pocket and light your pipe with it.”
“Right, quite right; your caution does credit to your heart and honor,
my dear Percy,” said Spenser Churchill. “I say nothing of the injustice
you’ve done to me by your suspicion. I forgive you! In a word, this is
a little bond by which you undertake three things. To marry the young
lady when I shall request you, and not till then; to keep the marriage
secret until I give you permission to disclose it, and on your wedding
day to pay me ten thousand pounds, or give me a bond for that amount.”
“Is that all?” demanded Percy Levant, staring at him with knitted brows.
“Yes; and I don’t think the conditions over hard. Consider, my dear
Percy; I don’t think you would have a chance of knowing who the young
lady is without I tell you, you certainly haven’t of marrying her
without my assistance; as to the secrecy of the affair--why, that is
not a great hardship; and for ten thousand pounds, believe me, my dear
Percy, that it will be but a bagatelle to the man who shall marry my
ward.”
“She will be very rich then?”
“Very rich.”
“How am I to know that this is not a trick of yours, my good
Churchill?--that I may marry this _protégée_ of yours, and wake up to
find that it is ‘beggar mated to beggar’?”
Spenser Churchill nodded a smiling approval.
“A very proper question, very proper. If you will look over this bond,
you will see that the payment of the ten thousand pounds is contingent
upon the young lady’s becoming possessed of at least twenty thousand a
year. Do me the favor of perusing it; it is very short and very simple.”
“And very sweet,” said Percy, and he rapidly ran over the paper. “I see
you have left a blank where the young lady’s name should go.”
“Which I will fill in when you have signed.”
“Ah! How long will you give me to consider this extraordinary proposal
of yours?”
“Exactly five minutes,” said Spenser Churchill blandly; “and excuse me,
my dear Percy, if I say that that is four minutes too long! My dear
young friend, consider! A young, refined, accomplished lady, with a
future fortune of at least twenty thousand a year--and you hesitate.
Are you so fond of Soho, and this rather--excuse me--squalid life of
yours? Think what a vista this opens before you? You are ambitious. I
present you with a golden ladder by which you may climb to any height
you please. What are your prospects now, save those of a lifelong
drudgery with the workhouse at the end? You, whose gifts warrant your
taking your place among the flower of the land----”
“Wait, wait!” interrupted Percy. “I can’t think with your drivel
buzzing in my ears! I want to think! Man alive, I can scarcely believe
that this is sober earnest, and if it were not for the price you exact,
I should find it impossible to do so; but now I see your game, or part
of it----” he wandered to the piano as he spoke, and dropping into his
music chair, abstractly let his hands stray over the keys.
“I think more easily to music,” he murmured, dreamily.
Spenser Churchill watched him in silence for a few minutes, then he
said:
“Time is up, my dear Percy. Is it to be ‘Yes,’ or ‘No?’”
The young fellow rose from the piano; his face was pale, and his eyes
glowing with a strange excitement.
“I cannot resist it!” he said, in a low voice, whose tremor belied his
faint smile. “You are right--more right than you guessed--when you said
I was ambitious. I am sick and weary of this life of squalid drudgery.
I feel as if I would sell my soul--perhaps I am doing it!--to get out
of it. Give me the paper and I’ll sign it!”
Spenser Churchill spread it on the table, and Percy Levant snatched up
a pen and wrote his name.
“There!” he said, pushing it from him, folding his arms, and looking
down at Spenser Churchill with an almost defiant light in his dark
eyes. “And now what next? I am all attention! Who and where is my
future bride, and when shall I see her?”
“Her name is Doris Marlowe,” said Spenser Churchill, softly, writing
the name in the blank left for the purpose as he spoke. “She is at
present acting as companion to Lady Despard, and you shall see her in a
day or two.”
“Doris Marlowe!” repeated Percy Levant. “Doris Marlowe; it sounds
pretty, ‘but a rose by any other name,’ etc.; and she is acting as
companion to Lady Despard, is she? And has no suspicion of the wealth
that will be hers? Churchill, are you sure that this is not a fiction
born of your too fertile imagination?”
“You will see in a day or two,” said Spenser Churchill.
“It is really genuine? And what is the plan to be adopted? You will, I
suppose, introduce me as a prince traveling incog., a millionaire in
embryo, a something brilliant enough to dazzle the eyes of the young
lady and carry her fancy captive? Is this to be the line?”
The philanthropist shook his head with an indulgent smile.
“No, my dear Percy; I’m free to admit that that is the kind of thing
most men would do; but I think that you and I are too wise, not to say
too honorable, to adopt such a course of deception.”
Percy Levant laughed sardonically.
“Pardon; I forgot that you were a man of high principle, and a light of
Exeter Hall. Well, what will you do?”
“I shall tell the truth,” said Spenser Churchill, with a virtuous
uplifting of the eyes. “I shall introduce you to Lady Despard as a
musical genius--you are a genius, you know, my dear Percy!--struggling
against the difficulties and obstacles insuperable to poverty
and--er--that kind of thing. Lady Despard is never so happy as when
she is assisting struggling talent, and she will receive any one whom
I recommend; dear Lady Despard! The rest I leave to you. If you cannot
find a way to Miss Marlowe’s heart, then I will confess that I am very
much mistaken in you.”
“Thanks for your flattering opinion,” said Percy, with a short bow. “I
will do my best--or my worst, which is it? Meanwhile, touching that ten
pounds!”
“You shall have it with pleasure,” said Spenser Churchill, and he took
a note from his purse and handed it to him with a benevolent smile. “Do
not spend it----”
“In riotous living! No, father patriarch, I won’t; I will buy myself
some decent clothes, and get my hair cut, for I’ve noticed that your
Lady Despards take a great deal more interest in struggling genius when
it is clean and neatly dressed.”
Spenser Churchill nodded.
“You know the world, I see, my dear Percy. I think that is all we need
say. We thoroughly understand each other----”
“I thoroughly understand you,” returned the young fellow; “whether you
understand me is quite another matter.”
“I think I do, I think I do,” murmured Spenser Churchill, blandly. “I
think that you will do your best to win the game which will secure you
a charming wife and future independence. Good-by, my dear Percy. Don’t
let the new suit of clothes be too resplendent; remember that you are a
poor young man of genius.”
“I’m not likely to forget the poverty,” said Percy, slowly. “Good-by.
Mind how you go downstairs; there are generally from twenty to thirty
children asleep on them at this hour, and the parents, strange to say,
have an unreasonable objection to having them smashed.”
“I will take care,” said the philanthropist, and, with a murmured
benediction, he ambled out.
CHAPTER XXI.
AN ART PATRON.
“Dear me, how interesting!” said Lady Despard.
It was the third day after Doris’ arrival, and they were sitting at
breakfast in a small room, beautifully cool and shady, and furnished
with an elaborate simplicity which, while it avoided all garish color,
was fresh and bright. A great bowl of roses stood in the centre of the
table, from which rose a long fountain of perfumed water. Curtains of
the faintest blush-pink threw a warm tint upon her ladyship, who, in
her morning gown of delicate chintz, looked like one of the Dresden
shepherdesses which stood on the mantel-shelf. Doris, in her white
morning frock, with its deep black sash, was the only patch of decided
color--if white can be called a color--in the room, but, beside Lady
Despard’s rather insipid prettiness, her fresh young loveliness looked
like one of the roses in the bowl.
She looked up from the coffee cup she was filling from the great silver
urn with a faint smile of curiosity. In three days she had learned all
that there was to learn of Lady Despard’s character, and had grown to
like her. As for her ladyship, she had already taken to the beautiful
girl and her quaint, graceful ways and soft, musical voice, and, twenty
times in each of the days, had congratulated herself and blessed Mr.
Spenser Churchill on having sent her such a treasure.
“Really very interesting!” she repeated, turning over the note she
was reading, and regarding it with a pensive smile. “It is from our
friend, Mr. Churchill, dear,” she said; “one of his charming little
letters. The good that man does in a quiet, unobtrusive way, is really
astounding!”
“What has he been doing now?” asked Doris, quietly.
“Why, he has written asking me to help him in assisting a young friend
of his who has had a great deal of trouble and all that. He is a great
musician--that is, he ought to be great, you know--but he is poor and
friendless, and Mr. Churchill wants me to take him by the hand. He says
that I have such immense influence in the arts and musical world that I
can do anything. Of course that’s nonsense; that is only his nice way
of putting it. But there’s the note. Just read it out, dear.”
Doris took the letter and read it. It was a charming little
composition, as Lady Despard had said, and in the pleasantest way
told the story of struggling genius, which only needed Lady Despard’s
patronage to rise to the heights of success and fame. Might he bring
his young friend to see dear Lady Despard? Perhaps, if he might
suggest, and her ladyship was disengaged, she would kindly ask them to
dinner. He was quite sure she had only to know his dear young friend,
Percy Levant, to feel an interest in him for his own sake, and the
sake of the art of which dear Lady Despard was so distinguished a
patroness.
Charmingly worded as was the epistle, Doris, as she read it, felt a
strange and vaguely indefinite want of faith in it; an incredulity for
which she at once took herself to task, as she reminded herself that
Mr. Churchill was only doing for the young man that which he had done
for her.
“It is a nice letter,” she said, handing it back. “Shall you ask him,
Lady Despard?”
“Well, yes, dear; I think so,” said her ladyship. “I don’t know that I
can do much for the young man; you see, we go to Florence in a week’s
time. I might give a concert; and so introduce him to the musical
people; but I daresay Mr. Churchill has a plan ready--he is always so
systematic. I wonder what the young man is like? Percy Levant is the
name, isn’t it? Sounds Greek, doesn’t it? I hope he isn’t a foreigner;
they generally smell so of tobacco, and it’s so dreadfully difficult
to understand them; and they are not always presentable. There was a
Signor Something-or-other, an artist they got me to patronize, and
he used to swear dreadfully in Spanish, which no one understood,
fortunately.”
“Then it did not so much matter,” said Doris.
“No,” said her ladyship, pensively. “I forget what became of him; I
think he got into debt, and went back to Spain. There is one of his
pictures in the saloon. I hope this young man is presentable. These
young geniuses are often so--so _gauche_, and wear such old clothes.”
Doris could not help laughing at her ladyship’s doubts and fears.
“But genius covers a multitude of sins, doesn’t it?” she suggested, and
Lady Despard brightened up.
“So it does; and, after all, if he should be a little rough why we can
point out that all clever people are eccentric. Didn’t Dr. Johnson eat
sweet sauce with his fish, and use his knife when he ought to have used
his fork?”
“I think he did,” said Doris.
“Very well, then,” said Lady Despard, as if that settled it. “Just
write a line and tell Mr. Churchill to bring him to dinner to-night! I
think”--doubtfully--“that we’d better not have anybody!”
“In case this genius should eat with his knife,” said Doris, with a
laugh; and presently she rose and, going to a davenport, wrote the
required note.
Lady Despard, with her head on one side, watched her with pensive
admiration.
“How lovely you look in that pose, dear,” she said. “You certainly
have the loveliest profile! And how quickly and--and easily you write!
It takes me no end of a time to get my sentences together, and the
spelling--I suppose you can spell like a dictionary?”
“Not quite so well,” said Doris, with a smile; “but fortunately, there
aren’t many words of ten syllables required for this note,” and she
handed it for Lady Despard’s inspection, but her ladyship extended both
hands with a gesture of refusal.
“No, dear; I don’t want to see it, and won’t! I can trust to your taste
and discretion, and shouldn’t think of being so rude and presuming as
to read it! I’m sure it’s everything that’s nice!”
Doris laughed again.
“You are not very hard to please, Lady Despard,” she said, with a
little flush.
“I should be, if I were not pleased with you, you little snake
charmer,” responded her ladyship, leaning over her and gently pulling
the tiny, shell-like ear. “And now let’s go for a drive! I want you to
get some roses in those pale cheeks of yours. I think you are looking
better already, do you know?”
“I should be very ungrateful if I were not,” said Doris. “But hadn’t I
better tell the butler that these two gentlemen are coming to dinner?”
“I declare you think of everything!” exclaimed her ladyship. “You must
have been wonderfully trained, Doris!”
A faint flush rose to the pale cheeks, and then left it all the paler
for the swiftly passing color.
“Poor people learn to be thoughtful. The dear friend to whom I owe
everything, Lady Despard, spent all his life in tender devotion to me!”
“There, I’ve made you nearly cry!” exclaimed her ladyship, putting her
arm round her. “What an awkward idiot I am! But I’ll be more careful,
dear; I will, indeed. And now go and put on that pretty bonnet of
yours, and we’ll go and work havoc with the hearts of those foolish
young men who hang on the rails in the park.”
Doris gave the butler the necessary information. Although she had only
been three days in the house, Lady Despard had almost handed over the
management of it to her, and the servants had commenced to look to
her for their orders. It was a strange change from her old life of
dependence and excitement, but it was a change which Doris found very
grateful; the quiet of the magnificently-appointed house gave her a
sense of repose which she needed greatly, and but for the memory of her
loss of Jeffrey, but for the dull, aching pain which smote her heart
whenever she thought of the man who had stolen her heart in Barton
meadows, and tossed it almost contemptuously back to her, she could
have been happy.
All day long she strove to put the memory of Cecil Neville away from
her, but it haunted her sleeping and waking, and a great dread assailed
her that all her life she should strive for forgetfulness and find it
not.
As they drove in the park she leaned back in the carriage, and--lost
to all sense of the crowded drive and the long lines of pedestrians,
nearly all of whom plucked off their hats to the well-known Lady
Despard--let her mind wander back to Barton meadows. She did not
observe that she attracted as much attention as pretty Lady Despard
herself, and woke with a start when her ladyship, with an arch little
laugh, said:
“I never got so much notice before! I wonder why it is. Can you guess,
Doris?”
“I? No,” said Doris, innocently.
“Really no? Well, for a really pretty girl I think you are the most
modest I have ever met, my dear.”
Doris laughed and drew farther back.
“There!” exclaimed her ladyship. “I’ve put my foot in it again! Never
mind, dear, we’ll go home now; I’m tired of bowing; besides it’s
scarcely fair to me to do all, when half ought to be your share.”
Long before the evening Lady Despard had forgotten about the invited
guests; but Doris dressed early and arranged some flowers in the small
dining-room in which the meal was to be served; and thinking that it
would be required, arranged as well as she could the music which lay
in a confused heap in the rare Chippendale canterbury. Presently Lady
Despard came down, fresh from the hands of her maid, in a costume of
Worth’s, with which she had been entirely satisfied until she saw
Doris’ simple frock of black lace with a yellow rose nestling in its
bosom for her only ornament.
“How nice you look, dear!” she exclaimed, taking her by the shoulders
and holding her at arms’ length. “Now I wonder why it is that you
always seem just perfectly dressed. That neat little frock of yours is
simply exquisite, while mine looks all furbelows and fuss. Where did
you learn to dress like that?”
Doris could have answered, “At the best of all schools, the theatre;”
but instead, she smilingly put the question by and praised the other’s
handsome costume.
They were still talking when a footman announced Mr. Spenser Churchill
and Mr. Percy Levant. Lady Despard gave a little start.
“Bless me!” she exclaimed, “I had forgotten them!” and she glided
forward to receive them. Doris turned aside for a moment to pick up
a flower which had fallen from a vase, then looking round, found Mr.
Spenser Churchill waiting with extended hand.
“My dear Miss Marlowe!” he purred, pressing her hand and smiling down
upon her with a perfect wealth of benevolence; “I’m so glad, so glad to
see you again. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Percy Levant. May I?”
He stepped on one side, and Doris, looking up, saw a tall, graceful
young man, with a face almost perfectly handsome; and as she noticed
the well-cut and carefully severe style of his evening dress, she felt
surprised and amused. This aristocratic gentleman, with the face of a
Greek god, must have startled Lady Despard, with her doubts and fears.
“Miss Doris Marlowe, Percy,” said Mr. Spenser Churchill, glancing at
him sideways and with keen watchfulness.
Percy Levant did not start, but the quick flash of his eyes and a
certain quiver of the delicately-formed lips, sufficiently indicated
the surprise which fell to his share.
He had imagined a girl, plain almost to ugliness; not only plain, but
shy and diffident, and--as he would have put it--bad form; a dark,
colorless, governess kind of creature; and this vision of perfect
grace and youthful loveliness startled him almost to bewilderment. He
bowed low to hide the faint signs of his discomfiture, and Doris, just
inclining her head, at once moved away.
Dinner was announced, and Lady Despard, talking in her
languidly-glowing style, gave her arm to Spenser Churchill, leaving
Percy to escort Doris.
The dinner was served on the oval table, and the little party--which
would have seemed cold and formal in the larger apartment, with its
huge table and splendid furniture--was made to appear pleasant and
homelike. Spenser Churchill and Lady Despard did all the talking for
some time, and Percy Levant only joined in occasionally; but his
silence was perfectly self-possessed, and without a touch of the
_gaucherie_ or awkwardness and want of breeding Lady Despard had so
much dreaded.
Every now and then he let his splendid eyes wander to the lovely face
beside him, and each time the amazement overwhelmed him, although he
sat apparently so calm. This exquisite creature had been sold to him
by Spenser Churchill! This beautiful girl to be his wife! He caught
himself once or twice looking round the room with a close scrutiny, as
if to convince himself that he was awake and not dreaming. But he could
not sit there silent all through the dinner, and at last he forced
himself to address her.
It was only some trivial remark about the weather, but it seemed to him
that his voice trembled with the emotion with which his heart literally
throbbed.
Doris responded in her soft, quiet voice, and the sound of it somehow
lulled the storm within him and gave him confidence. He found
himself talking to her more freely, and each moment the spell her
unexpected beauty and grace cast upon him grew stronger. To listen to
a commonplace from Doris was delightful enough, but she could talk
something better than commonplace; and Percy Levant, the adventurer,
the man who “knew the world,” was again startled to find that Mr.
Spenser Churchill’s ward was, young as she looked, well read in
subjects of which most women were utterly and sublimely ignorant. And
yet she talked so modestly, so diffidently that her knowledge was an
added charm.
He started when Lady Despard, rising, said:
“The butler knows the claret you like, Mr. Churchill; I shall leave you
to his tender mercies. Mr. Levant, we will have some tea for you when
you come into the drawing-room, so don’t expect any to be sent in.”
He opened the door for them, and then sank into his chair, let his head
fall upon his bosom, his lips tightly compressed.
Spenser Churchill filled his glass and remained silent until the butler
had left the room, then he said, with a smile:
“Well, my dear Percy, what do you think of my dear young ward?”
Percy Levant raised his head and looked at him with a curious
expression.
“Give me some wine,” he said; then, after he had drank a glass, he
demanded, almost sternly: “Why did you not tell me?”
“Tell you what?” asked Mr. Spenser Churchill, with a chuckle. “I told
you she was a charming young lady----”
“And you wished me to think that you lied in saying so,” retorted the
other. “Why did you not tell me that she was as beautiful as--she is?”
Spenser Churchill chuckled again.
“My dear Percy, I thought that a little surprise would not come amiss.
If I had told you that she was pretty----”
“Pretty!”
“Well, beautiful--lovely--you would not have believed me!”
“No, I should not,” he said, curtly. “Don’t say any more. I want to
think! Great Heaven, she is like a dream! Stop! Don’t talk, I say; I’m
not equal to any of your smooth platitudes at present. Let me be in
peace!”
Mr. Spenser Churchill laughed softly.
“Certainly, certainly, my dear Percy,” he said. “Yes, I can understand
your astonishment. This claret is very fine----”
“No more!” said Percy, rising and taking a step or two across the room,
with his arms behind him, his head bent upon his breast again. “Let us
go to them.”
“I’m quite ready,” said Spenser Churchill, smiling with intense
enjoyment.
They went into the drawing-room. Lady Despard was turning over the
music, Doris was seated at the tea-table.
“I am trying to find something for you to play, Mr. Levant,” she said.
“We are so eager to hear you play, Miss Marlowe and I.”
He bowed, and his glance caught Doris’; but she only smiled.
“Will you not play or sing?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” she said; “I should be afraid.”
“Of me? It is I who should fear, for I know from your conversation that
I shall have a musician for a critic.”
“No,” she said, quietly; “I am not a musician. You will have some tea
presently?” and she raised her eyes to his with the calm politeness of
perfect self-possession and good breeding.
CHAPTER XXII.
TWO SONG BIRDS.
Percy Levant bowed and went to the piano, and Mr. Spenser Churchill
walked across the drawing-room and took a seat immediately beside Doris.
“I hope you like my young friend?” he said, in his softest voice, and
glancing affectionately toward him as he stood by the piano talking to
Lady Despard.
“I have seen so little of him,” said Doris, “but he is very agreeable.”
“Yes. Ah, my poor Percy!” he sighed. “Poor boy! He has suffered so
much--so much! There should be sympathy between you two, my dear young
lady, for he has known what it is to lose his dearest. I should move
your heart if I were to tell you what sorrow and trouble have fallen to
my poor young friend’s lot, and win your admiration and esteem for him
if I recounted the many difficulties he has had to encounter. It has
been a hard world for him, a hard life, poor fellow! I do so hope you
and Lady Despard will like him.”
Doris remained silent, but the softly-spoken words had something of the
effect their speaker intended, and she looked toward the young man with
increased interest.
“I think, with the exception of myself, he has scarcely a friend in the
wide world,” said Spenser Churchill, sipping his tea and sighing. “I
am counting so much on your and Lady Despard’s sympathy, my dear Miss
Marlowe! A word of encouragement from such kind hearts as yours will go
far to console him for the cruel disappointments he has endured. Ah! he
is going to sing, I see! Now you will see if I spoke too highly of his
voice and abilities.”
Percy Levant was certainly going to sing, but he seemed somehow
loth to begin. For a few minutes his fingers strayed over the keys
irresolutely, then he struck a chord and commenced.
He had chosen not an elaborate specimen of the flowery school, but
a simple Brittany ballad, and he sang it exquisitely. Doris, as she
listened to the long-drawn notes that seemed to float on eider wings
through the room, felt a singular sensation at her heart. It was as if
this stranger had defined the trouble of her young life, and had put
it into music! With tightly compressed lips she sat fighting back the
tears that threatened to flood her eyes, her hands closely clasped in
her lap, her eyes fixed on the ground, unconscious that Mr. Spenser
Churchill’s eyes were covertly fixed on her with a keen watchfulness.
The last notes of the song died away, and Lady Despard’s soft, languid
voice poured out her praise.
“Oh, but that is very, very beautiful, Mr. Levant; and you have a
lovely voice! How kind of you to come and sing to us! And I am so
grateful to Mr. Churchill for bringing you! You must sing again, must
he not, Doris?”
He had risen and bowed to Lady Despard, but his dark eyes looked beyond
her, and sought Doris’ face.
Her lips trembled, but she forced a smile; taking it as a request, he
returned to the piano and sang again.
Lady Despard was in raptures, but he prevented her asking for another
song by going across to Doris.
“Lady Despard will not play; will you?” he said. “You are not afraid
now?”
“Yes, more than afraid,” she said, with a smile.
“Will you sing with me? Here is a duet!” he said, quietly, his eyes
downcast.
“Do, dear!” said Lady Despard. “Miss Marlowe sings like a professional,
Mr. Levant.”
Doris rose reluctantly, and he led her to the piano.
Mr. Spenser went and sat beside Lady Despard, and began to talk to her
in an earnest but softly persuasive tone. The two voices at the piano
rose and fell in harmony, and seemed to act as an accompaniment to his.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Lady Despard. “Their singing together is
simply delicious!”
“And if your ladyship assents to my proposal, they can sing together as
often as you please!” he murmured, insinuatingly.
She laughed and nodded.
“That’s true! Oh, yes, just as you like. I’m sure he is most
interesting, and such a perfect gentleman!”
“Ah! yes,” said Mr. Spenser Churchill; “I would not have brought him to
you if he had been anything less. And it is settled, then?”
“Yes,” nodded her ladyship.
He rose at once and looked at his watch.
“I will make all arrangements,” he said, in a low voice. “Say nothing
to him to-night.”
The two men said good-night, and Percy Levant found himself outside,
his brain in a whirl, his heart beating wildly.
“Well, may one ask your highness what you think of my ward now?” said
Spenser Churchill, softly.
Percy Levant thrust his hands in his pockets.
“Has she been ill, or is it trouble that makes her look like that?” he
asked, in a grave, thoughtful tone.
“Trouble,” said Spenser Churchill. “Poor girl. Yes, she has been ill,
too; but she is better, and the change will completely set her up, I
hope.”
“Change?”
“Yes,” he purred. “She and Lady Despard go to Italy next week,” and he
smiled as he struck the blow and saw Percy wince.
“To Italy next week!” He turned upon him. “What are you scheming? What
are you doing? Why did you take me to see her to-night, if----Do you
think I am made of stone; that, like yourself, I’ve no heart! To Italy!”
“Yes,” murmured Spenser Churchill, “and I have arranged that you shall
go with them----”
Percy Levant started again, and, stopping, confronted him with a pale,
eager face.
“What?”
“Yes, exactly! You are to go with them as--what shall we say?--friendly
cavalier, courier, what you will--anything will serve as an excuse.
What do you say? Perhaps, after all, you regret your bargain! If so,
say so, and I’ll release you.”
Percy Levant caught him by the shoulder and held him in a savage grip.
“You--you devil!” he said, fiercely, almost wildly. “You know that
I cannot! If I had not seen her I might have had the strength; but
now----”
He withdrew his hand, and, almost thrusting the other man away from
him, strode on.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A SAD HOME-COMING.
Lord Cecil Neville was a man of his word. He had pledged himself to
remain in Ireland until the mission he had undertaken was completed,
and he meant keeping his word, though his life depended on it. And
it seemed to him that more than his life, his happiness, hung in the
balance. He had written again and again to Doris, and had received no
answer to any one of his letters. That they had reached her was evident
from the fact that none were returned through the post to him. To all
his passionate attempts for an explanation of her silence not one word
came from her!
Life had gone fairly smoothly for Viscount Neville up to this, and
his hot, impetuous nature--inherited from his mother’s side of the
family--found it difficult to endure the suspense. Many men would have
broken their word and returned posthaste to England and Barton, but a
pledge was a solemn thing to Cecil Neville, and like a soldier on duty
he stuck to his post.
It is not necessary to speak in detail of what he accomplished in
Ireland, but this much may be said, that he found the people in the
right and the agent in the wrong, and that that agent had a bad time
of it! It may be added that Lord Neville succeeded in a few short
weeks in winning more hearts among the marquis’ tenants than all the
Stoyles for centuries had been able to do, and that before many days
had passed “the young lord,” as he was called, was regarded as a friend
and protector, and many a faltering voice called down a blessing on his
head, and implored him to remain in “the old country.” The Irish are a
warm-hearted people, quick to resent an injury, but equally quick in
their gratitude for a benefit; this handsome young nobleman who had
relieved them from their oppressor, and done his best to better their
hard lot, received his reward in the shape of an affectionate gratitude
which he should remember and cherish all his life through.
The absentee landlord, the man who screws the last penny from the
tenant, and spends it in Paris or London, has been the curse of the
country; and it was because Lord Neville saw this, and owned it freely,
that the people trusted him.
Often, when he had returned from a day’s inspection of the estate, and
had relieved the oppressed, he wondered what the marquis would say
when he heard what his ambassador had done! Often when, tortured by an
anxiety respecting Doris’ silence, he spent the night pacing up and
down his room, he vowed that when they were married they would come
and live among these people, who had welcomed him so readily, and so
gratefully recognized his efforts on their behalf.
But for the constant hard work, the incessant traveling, Lord Neville
would have suffered more than he did; for, as the days wore on, and no
news of Doris reached him, he began to imagine all sorts of terrible
things. One night he dreamed that she was dead, and woke trembling and
shaking, half-persuaded that he had heard her voice calling to him.
All day her image haunted him, and he found himself pulling up his
horse, and sitting staring vacantly before him, recalling her last
words, her shy, passionate kiss; and then he would dash forward, and
try and persuade himself that his letters had, in some way, miscarried,
and that all would be well.
One morning his servant brought him a letter, and he seized it eagerly,
but his face fell as he saw the Stoyle coat of arms on the envelope.
The letter was from the marquis. It was the first he had written,
though Cecil had sent him a short report of his proceedings each week,
and the contents caused him to spring from his chair. It said:
My dear Cecil, I think you had better come back. It appears that your
course of true love, like other persons, is not running smoothly.
STOYLE.
That was all, but it was enough for Cecil. In less than an hour he
was on his way to the station as fast as the car could carry him. He
was fortunate enough to catch the mail, and, traveling day and night,
arrived at Barton Towers just after dinner. The butler started and
stared at the young viscount’s haggard face and travel-stained clothes,
and in his solemn fashion looked quite shocked.
“Where is the marquis?” demanded Lord Cecil.
“In his room, my lord. I’m sorry to say, dinner is over, but I can
serve you----”
“Will you tell the marquis I have arrived, and ask him to see me,
please?” said Lord Cecil, interrupting his stately periods. “I shall be
ready in ten minutes.”
He was scarcely longer, and still pale and wearied-looking, was
conducted to the library.
The marquis was sitting in his easy-chair, wrapped in his velvet
dressing-gown, and looked up with his usual cold smile, and a slight
elevation of the eyebrow, denoted his recognition of Cecil’s altered
appearance.
“How do you do?” he said, giving him the tips of his thin fingers. “I
am afraid you have been rather hurried in your journey----”
“I came back without the loss of a moment,” said Lord Cecil, gravely.
“I should have come before, but I waited to complete the business, or
until I heard from you----”
The marquis shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m afraid you have inconvenienced yourself on my account,” he said,
coolly and indifferently. “There was no reason on earth why you should
remain there a moment longer than you liked----”
Lord Cecil’s pale face flushed, and he made a movement of impatience,
almost of indignation.
“You must have been bored to death--oh, no; I forgot--you take an
interest in those people. Ah, yes. I got your letters--quite reports,
weren’t they? I am ashamed to say I didn’t read them.”
Lord Cecil’s eyes flashed, but he restrained himself with an effort.
“My lord,” he said, grimly, more firmly and sternly than he had ever
spoken in his life, “I will not trouble you with an account of my
mission--for it was a mission, carelessly as you ignore it. I am too
full of anxiety on another matter. Will you tell me the meaning of the
note you sent me?”
The marquis stopped again and looked at him with a faint, puzzled
confusion, as if he were trying to remember what it was he had written;
then he nodded.
“Ah, yes; I remember. I sent you the note because I thought you would
like to hear some information I received about Miss Barlow----”
“Miss Marlowe, do you mean?” said Lord Cecil, biting his lips. “What
information----”
“Give me time, please,” said the marquis, arranging his dressing-gown.
“Your impetuosity is rather trying.”
“Great heavens!” exclaimed Lord Cecil, clinching his hands; “why do
you torture me like this? You forget--or do you not forget?--is it
from sheer malice that you keep me in this suspense? You know, I see
you know, that I have not heard from Miss Marlowe; that I fear some
accident----”
“I know nothing of your not having heard from her,” said the marquis,
with perfect coolness; “and I care less. I wrote to you because I
considered that I should do so, on a point of honor. You were absent
on my business, and it was my duty to let you know what I had heard. I
have always done my duty, and I did it in this case, though the writing
of even a short note is irksome to me.”
“Well, my lord, well?” demanded Lord Cecil, and he paced to and fro,
“what is it? Is she ill?--is she----” He could not force his lips to
utter the word “dead.”
“Ill? Oh, no; I hope not. The fact is, I--I may say ‘No,’ for it is
generally known, I imagine, that Miss Barlow--pardon, Miss Marlowe--has
disappeared.”
Dreadful as the word sounded, Lord Cecil drew a breath of relief, and a
smile, a very mirthless one, crossed his lips.
“Disappeared?” he said, almost contemptuously. “You mean she has
left Barton? That accounts for her not having received my letters or
answered them. Where has she gone?”
The marquis shrugged his shoulders.
“I had better tell you what I know; we are getting rather confused. It
appears that Miss Marlowe’s guardian died suddenly; probably you know
this?”
Lord Cecil uttered an exclamation of dismay and pity.
“No! I did not know it! I have not heard from her--from any one! My
poor Doris! When--when did he die?”
“Some time ago--soon after you left, I believe; and here in Barton. I
know nothing of the particulars.”
“And she did not write! Why not, why not?”
“For reasons best known to herself. My dear Cecil, I am reluctant to
shake your faith in this young lady, but I am afraid I must.”
“What!” demanded Lord Cecil, scarcely understanding. “My faith in
Doris! Go on, sir!”
“It would seem----Pray take a chair; your constant moving is harassing.”
Lord Cecil sank into a chair, impatiently.
“It would seem that the young lady was not very serious in her little
love affair with you. I imagine that that kind of young person seldom
is. How can it be expected of them? They are actresses by profession.
I daresay she was practicing for a love scene when she was exchanging
vows of perpetual faith with you. Pray don’t take my suggestion in
bad part!” he put in, for Lord Cecil leaned forward with crimson
face. “I am sorry you should have regarded the matter so seriously!
It is a mistake--I speak with experience--a mistake to take any woman
seriously; they are all daughters of Eve, and as unreliable as their
first mother. Miss Marlowe is like the rest, that is all!”
“Will you tell me, my lord, what it is you insinuate?” said Lord Cecil,
in despair.
“I insinuate nothing! Why should I? I believe it is perfectly true, but
you can ascertain for yourself, of course, that she has jilted you, and
gone off with her first, and, pardon me if I add, her more suitable
young man.”
Lord Cecil started up, his face pale and working, his eyes flashing.
“It--it is a lie!” he said, hoarsely.
The marquis regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt, the
kind of look with which one might regard the movements of a strange
animal.
“Yes, it may be! I don’t answer for the truth of the story, as I said.”
“Where has she gone? Who is this--this man? It is false! I will stake
my existence upon her truth! It is a ridiculous lie!”
The marquis smiled.
“A large stake; too large for so paltry a prize as a woman’s faith!” he
said, calmly. “I have heard that she has gone to Australia with a man
named--named--excuse me, my memory is very faulty, but, fortunately,
I jotted down the details. I had an idea that you would like to hear
them.” He reached for an elegant-bound memorandum book as he spoke, and
consulted it.
“Ah, yes, here it is! ‘Miss Marlowe sailed in the _Orion_ on the
fourteenth, in company with Mr. Garland, late of the Barton Theatre
Royal; engagement at Melbourne.’ The _Orion_, the fourteenth! I am glad
it occurred to me to jot it down with the particulars.”
Lord Cecil stared at him as if he were in doubt whether he or the
marquis was mad, and the marquis, closing the book, regarded him with a
calm, set placidity.
Then Lord Cecil laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh to hear.
“Who told you this fable?” he demanded.
“I got it from Spenser Churchill!” said the marquis, promptly.
“Spenser Churchill! Spenser Churchill!” repeated Lord Cecil. “What had
he to do with it?”
“Too much,” said the marquis. “Very much against my advice, he
insisted--you know he is a professional philanthropist?”--with a
sneer--“he insisted upon pleading your cause with the young lady. But
it was of no avail; even so distinguished an individual could not
persuade a woman to keep her faith.”
Lord Cecil strode up and down, his physical weariness and exhaustion
playing their part in his mental disturbance.
“It is not true!” he asseverated, vehemently. “It is not true! Why
should Spenser Churchill be mixed up in this matter? Why----”
“That is easily answered,” said the marquis. “It appears that he
discovered that the young lady’s guardian was an old friend of his. I
don’t know his name----” which was true. “I don’t know anything more
than I’ve told you; and forgive me for saying so, that, seeing the
reception my information has received at your hands, I’m very sorry
I know so much! I hate and detest this kind of business. It was bad
enough when I took a personal interest in it, but now----” he shrugged
his shoulders. “It is a pity that the world could not have got on
without women; we men would have been better and happier, believe me.”
“Where is Spenser Churchill?” demanded Lord Cecil, hoarsely.
“Heaven only knows!” said the marquis, shrugging his shoulders. “In
London, possibly, or he may have gone out on a mission to the Jews, or
the Turks, or the Sandwich Islanders. I neither know nor care, if I may
say so. And now, hadn’t you better go and get something to eat? I fear
we have exhausted the subject,” and he leaned back and regarded the
opposite wall with an expression which was intended to indicate that,
whether they had exhausted the subject or not, the subject had entirely
and completely exhausted him.
Lord Cecil regarded him sternly for a moment, as if he were about to
speak, then, with a gesture of farewell, opened the door and went
out. Scarcely had he done so than the curtains over a door behind the
marquis’ chair fluttered violently, and Lady Grace glided out.
She was pale, and her under lip was caught in her white teeth, in her
endeavor to appear calm and self-possessed.
“Has he gone?” she said.
“Oh, yes!” replied the marquis. “You heard our interesting and dramatic
dialogue?”
She nodded.
“Do you think----” She paused and turned aside. “Do you think that he
cared for her very much?”
His lordship smiled sardonically.
“I should say he was what is termed madly in love with her.”
Lady Grace moved a little away, out of reach of the cold, piercing
eyes, and a quiver shot over her face.
“Has he left the house, do you think?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I should imagine so. I should fancy that wild horses would not hold
him!”
“Where’s he going?”
The marquis smiled indifferently.
“I haven’t the least idea--to Australia, probably.”
She started.
“He would not be so mad!”
“If my opinion is worth anything, I think he is mad enough for
anything! This girl must be extremely good-looking, Grace!”
She bit her lip till the blood came.
“Y--es, she is,” she assented, as if the admission cost her an agony.
“Oh! yes. And he is going! I thought he would have stayed the night!”
“And I didn’t,” said the marquis, grimly. “He is a Stoyle, and its not
our way to take the loss of our mistresses meekly.”
“Did you give him the letter?” she asked.
The marquis uttered an exclamation.
“Phew!” he said, with a laugh. “I knew there was something I should
forget. I told you and Churchill that you’d better play the game
yourselves, and that I should bungle it. You see, I am so unused
to intrigues of this description,” and the great intriguer of his
generation smiled grimly.
“Give it to me,” said Lady Grace, as if struck by a sudden idea.
The marquis pointed to a cabinet.
“It’s there somewhere,” he said, indolently.
Lady Grace opened the door sharply.
“Take care, please,” he said, with a smothered yawn. “That cabinet is
unique, and I have left it to you.”
She made an impatient gesture, caught up poor Doris’ letter, and glided
from the room and up the corridor.
As she did so Lord Cecil came out of his room, followed by his valet,
with a portmanteau in his hand, and wrap on his arm.
“Lady Grace!” said Lord Cecil.
“Why, where are you going?” she exclaimed. “I have only just heard of
your return! You are not going again?”
“Yes,” he said, trying to speak lightly, and force a conventional
smile; “I am as bad as a queen’s messenger.”
She laid her hand lightly on his arm.
“Something’s the matter,” she said, in a low voice. “What is it? Is it
anything you can tell me--anything I can help you in?”
He shook his head as he signed to his man to go on.
“I have learned bad news, Lady Grace,” he said, as coolly as he could,
but his voice shook as he added, “No, you cannot help me, and, I fear,
no one can!”
She came closer to him, and laid her hand upon his arm, looking up at
him with her magnificent eyes softened with womanly sympathy.
“I am so sorry! Can you not tell me what it is? Stay; where are you
going?”
“To London,” he replied.
“To London!” She leaned over the balustrade, and looked at the great
clock in the hall. “You have plenty of time. Stay one moment. Lord
Cecil, do you remember the first night you came?”
“Yes,” he said, gravely.
A faint flush rose to her face.
“And all I said to you? Do you think I should have spoken to you as I
did unless--unless I had liked you?”
“I appreciated your candor, Lady Grace,” he said, in the same grave
tone.
Her hand trembled on his arm.
“Well, then, I am going to be still more candid. I am going to ask you
to try and fancy that you had asked me to be your wife and that I had
refused.”
It was his turn to flush now, and his eyes dropped under her fixed,
earnest gaze.
“Do you know why I say that? It is because you may not misunderstand me
when I ask you--as I do now--to let me be your friend.”
“I am grateful, Lady Grace----” he began, in a low voice, but she
stopped him.
“Wait. It is no idle, meaningless offer. I will be a real friend, Lord
Cecil, if you will let me. I will prove that a woman and a man can be
friends without being--lovers! Now, then, trust me, and show me that
you trust me by telling me what this trouble is.”
Her eyes looked so honest, so eager, so trustworthy, that Cecil--his
heart wrung with the misery of suspense and doubt, his brain heavy and
bewildered by fatigue and harassing anxiety--fell into the net.
“I will trust you, Lady Grace,” he said, and there was a quiver in his
voice which was no discredit to his manliness. “In a word, I have lost
the girl I love.”
“Lost her!” she said, with wide-open eyes. “Ah, yes! I know! Miss
Marlowe, is it not?”
“Yes,” he said. “Do you know anything? For Heaven’s sake tell me
everything----”
“I will,” she said. “But I have heard nothing more than this--that
she has gone to Australia with--with a man to whom she was engaged
before----”
“And you believe it?” he said, with grave reproach.
“No!” she said at once. “I do not believe a word of it!”
He took her hand and pressed it, all unconsciously, so that the rings
almost cut into her delicate fingers.
“How shall I thank you for saying that?” he exclaimed, in a low voice,
which showed how deeply he was moved. “They are the first words of
comfort, of encouragement! You do not believe it?”
“No, I am certain it is not true. She has left Barton, I know, but
as to the rest--why, it is too absurd! Shall I tell you why I do not
believe it? Because I have something for you which will explain all,
I’ve no doubt,” and she held out the letter.
He almost snatched it from her.
“A letter! Why--where--when--how----” And he stared at her with eager
impatience.
“It came while you were away, and I took it. Don’t be angry.”
“Angry! Has any one seen it but yourself?”
“No one!--no one! I kept it. Of course, I felt that its safety was of
importance to you. I should have forwarded it to you, but I knew you
were moving about, and I feared it might be lost.”
“I see, I see!” he said, and already hope was displaying itself in his
face and voice.
“Yes, that will tell you where she is, and why she has gone, no doubt,”
said Lady Grace; and with an affectation of delicate consideration she
turned to the great oriel window, that he might read it undisturbed.
Suddenly he uttered a cry, and, looking round, she saw him leaning
against the balustrade staring at the letter, which shook like an aspen
leaf in his hands.
“Oh, what is it?” she breathed, and her face went almost as white as
his own.
He looked up with a bewildered stare; then, with a working face, seemed
to struggle for composure.
“You--I--we were both wrong!” he said, hoarsely; “she--she has gone!”
“Oh, no, no!” murmured Lady Grace; “don’t say that! Do not believe it!
Oh, Lord Cecil!” and she laid both her hands upon his arms and looked
up at him beseechingly, sympathizingly, as a sister might strive to
soothe and encourage a brother.
“Yes,” he said, almost inaudibly, and with a catch in his voice, “it
is true--it is true! Great Heaven! and I loved--I trusted--I----” He
turned his head aside for a second, then faced her, every muscle of
his face quivering under the effort to appear unmoved. “Lady Grace,
the letter proves the marquis’ estimate of women to be a true one,
and mine--Heaven help me!--false! Read it. No, I cannot! It is the
only letter she ever wrote me--it is sacred! The first and the last!
Great Heaven, to think that she, she!----” and as he recalled the pure
and innocent face, the truthful, trustful eyes that had looked up so
devotedly, so passionately, with such an infinity of love into his, his
voice broke and he could not utter another word.
“No, do not show me the letter!” she said. “It should be sacred to you.
And I do not believe it yet. Where were you going, Cecil?”
Her omission of his formal title escaped him at the moment.
“To London,” he said. “But where”--and he made a despairing
gesture--“it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now!” and he forced a
rueful smile.
“Yes, but it does matter,” she said. “There may be some mistake--there
is, there must be! It is useless to ask you to remain here, I feel
that. Go to London, Cecil, and go to the offices of the _Orion_. Go and
see if her name is on the passenger list. I will stake my faith in the
honor and truth of my sex that it is not!”
He seized her hand and pressed it again.
“How can I thank you?” he breathed. “Yes! Ah, what woman’s wit will do!
I will go to the office!”
“And you will let me know? You will not forget--your friend!”
“I shall never forget all you have done, all you have been to me this
day, Lady Grace,” he said, fervently; and with a grave solemnity that
might well have become one of the old knightly Stoyles whose pictures
looked down on them, he raised her hand to his lips.
A deep red suffused Lady Grace’s face, and she drew a quick, sharp
breath.
“Go, then!” she said, her hand resting on his clingingly, “and come
back with good news!”
He nodded, and with the letter in his hand, ran down the stairs. Lady
Grace leaned over the balustrade and looked at him, her heart beating
wildly, her eyes flashing with suppressed excitement. She looked at
that moment like one
Whose soul and brain with keen desire,
Burnt in a flame of all-consuming fire.
Then, as the door closed behind her, and she heard the retreating sound
of the dogcart, she drew herself upright, and, pressing her hand to her
forehead, she thought intently.
“A wrong step now, a false move, and--and I lose him!” she murmured.
“Oh, if I were there with him; if I could be sure that Spenser
Churchill had got her out of the way! Ah!”
The ejaculation was forced from her lips by an idea worthy of a woman.
Without waiting a moment she sprang up the staircase to her own room.
“Find the next train to this,” she said to her astonished maid. “Don’t
stand staring! There may not be a moment to lose. Pack a bag--a small
bag--and order a brougham. Say nothing to anybody but the groom of the
chambers, and tell him to keep his tongue quiet--give him this!” She
handed her a couple of sovereigns. “Wait! I want this to go to the
telegraph office. Stay! No! I will take it myself as I go!”
“The office is closed, my lady,” said the maid, looking up from the
portmanteau she had already commenced to pack.
Lady Grace’s face fell, then it cleared again.
“Of course! All offices are closed by this time; none will be open till
to-morrow! No matter. Give me a telegraph form.”
She sat down and wrote quickly:
He will be at the _Orion_ packet office the first thing to-morrow.
Act. Meet me at the square at ten.
Two hours later she was seated in the train following that which had
borne Lord Cecil to London, and her telegram lay at the office to be
forwarded to Mr. Spenser Churchill at eight the next morning.
Lord Cecil reached his chambers in the gray of the summer morning,
looking like a man who had received sentence of death, and yet hoped
that by some chance a reprieve might save him.
Not until the train started had he remembered that the steam
packet-office would not be open until ten o’clock, and, yielding to the
respectful entreaties of his man, who was deeply attached to him, and
saw with dismay the change which the last few days had made in him,
Lord Cecil threw himself on the bed. But he found it impossible to
rest there, and spent the long hours pacing up and down, vainly trying
to draw encouragement from a remembrance of Lady Grace’s assertion of
faith in Doris.
“She believed in her, and she does not know her; how much more should I
trust in her, who do know her? And yet this letter!” and he took it out
and read it for the hundredth time.
Long before ten he had a bath, drank a cup of coffee to appease his
valet, and, dressing himself, went down in a cab to the office of the
Australian Steamship Company.
He was there before the office opened, and had to wait for a quarter of
an hour. While he was pacing up and down, smoking a cigar, with fierce
impatience, a quietly-dressed man, in a brown pot hat, sauntered up,
glanced at him casually, and passed by; then, as if he had remembered
something, took out his watch, and returned at a quick pace, so
quickly, indeed, that he almost ran against Lord Cecil, and offered
profuse apologies.
A few minutes after ten a yawning boy wound up the iron shutters, and
Lord Cecil went into the office.
“I want to know----” he commenced; but the boy, struggling with a yawn
which threatened to bisect his face, said, languidly:
“Clerks not here yet; don’t know nothing myself.”
Lord Cecil inquired when they would be there, was told five minutes,
ten, perhaps; lit another cigar; was informed by the intelligent lad
that he mustn’t smoke in the office; flung the cigar away, and strode
to the door, nearly knocking over the quiet-looking gentleman in the
brown hat, who was looking in at the door inquiringly.
Ten minutes--a quarter of an hour passed, and at last a clerk arrived;
and Lord Cecil made for him as if he were going to demand his life.
“Can you tell me whether a lady of the name of Marlowe sailed by the
_Orion_, for Melbourne?” he began, with suppressed eagerness.
The clerk eyed him with the charming impassibility and indifference
which distinguishes some of his class, and read a letter which lay
before him before answering.
“You will find her name in the passenger list if she did,” he said at
last.
“Then, for Heaven’s sake, give me the passenger list!” said Lord Cecil,
with suppressed fury. “I have been waiting----” He pulled himself up on
the verge of an outbreak, and the clerk, with a great deal of dignity,
got down a huge ledger and leisurely found the proper page. Then he
proceeded to read off the names; there seemed a million of them to poor
Cecil, who leaned against the counter, his eyes fixed on the book, his
lips tightly compressed.
“Mr. and Mrs. Browne, Mr. and Miss Tompkins, Mr. Garland, Miss Doris
Marlowe. Yes, she sailed,” said the clerk.
Lord Cecil gripped the counter hard, and stared in a dazed, blind way
at the open page.
“Mr. Garland! Miss Doris Marlowe!” Great Heaven, then the marquis had
spoken the truth, and she had jilted him; had left him for the other
man--this actor. In a moment he recalled the young fellow, the handsome
Romeo, who had played so well to her Juliet. And she had gone with
him! She--Doris! Doris, the girl he loved; whose faith, and honor, and
truth---ah, and innocent purity of mind and soul--he would have sworn
by.
The clerk stared at his white face and compressed lips curiously. It
was not the first time anxious inquiries had been made respecting
missing persons at the office, but no one had taken the information
given as this handsome young gentleman took it. He seemed, as the clerk
put it afterward, when recounting the incident to his fellow-clerks,
“as if he were struck dumb, and deaf, and blind.”
“Is there anything else I can tell you, sir?” he asked.
Lord Cecil raised his head and regarded him vacantly.
“Anything else? No,” he said, with a grim smile. “That will do, thanks.
When will the _Orion_ arrive?”
The man referred him to a calendar and told him.
“There or thereabouts,” he said. “She’s a fine vessel.”
“Ah, so I’ve heard,” said poor Cecil, not knowing what he was saying;
and, wishing the clerk good-day, he made his way out.
At the door he paused and took off his hat in a confused kind of way,
as a man does who has received news which is either too good or too
bad to be realized all at once; and as he stood there, he felt a hand
upon his shoulder. Looking round, he saw that it was the persistent
personage in the brown hat.
“Lord Cecil, Viscount Neville, I believe?” he said, quietly and
respectfully enough.
“Yes, I am Lord Neville,” said Cecil. “What do you want?” he added,
with weary surprise.
The man took a paper from his breast pocket.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, my lord,” he said, “but I’m a sheriff’s
officer, and I have to arrest you on a debt warrant.”
“Arrest me?” said Lord Cecil, not with the surprise the man doubtless
expected. Lord Cecil would not have been surprised that morning if he
had been arrested for murder. “I don’t understand----”
“If you’ll step aside for a moment,” said the man, very respectfully,
indeed apologetically, “I will show you. These are the items,” and he
took some papers from a greasy pocketbook, and read them off.
Lord Cecil recognized them as some old debts, bills and I O U’s, which
he had almost forgotten.
“Yes, that is right, I expect,” he said, gravely, and very wearily.
“But I thought,” he said, as the idea occurred to him, “that there was
no arrest for debt now?”
The man smiled almost pityingly.
“Nor is there, my lord; it’s called contempt of court now! You have
been ordered to pay these sums by the court, and you haven’t done it,
therefore it’s contempt, and they take you on that.”
“Ordered to pay them?” said Cecil. “When? I have heard nothing of it.”
The man looked incredulous of so much innocence, for a moment, but,
after a long and steady scrutiny of the pale, grave face, with its
frank, honest eyes, he looked puzzled.
“Hem! I don’t quite see. Ah, yes, I do! These processes have been
served on your lawyers, no doubt, my lord. Haven’t they let you know?”
“No,” said Lord Cecil, quietly. “I have been away in Ireland. I’ve seen
no letters----”
“It’s plain enough, my lord,” said the officer. “You ought to have had
your letters forwarded. The court has been under the impression that
you’ve neglected the order out of sheer contrariness, and so these
creditors have got the warrant. Ah, my lord, no end of mischief comes
of you swell gentlemen not opening your letters. I’m very sorry, but
here’s the warrant, and I’m bound to execute it.”
Lord Cecil did not by any means fully comprehend the man’s meaning even
yet.
“What do you want me to do?” he said, gravely. “Ah, I see, you want to
take me to prison!”
“Oh, no, no; my lord, certainly not,” said the officer, respectfully.
“If your lordship will settle the amounts; the banks are open, and
close at hand. We might walk to your lordship’s bank, and you could
give me a check.”
“Let me see the paper,” said Lord Cecil; then his face flushed. “I have
not one quarter of this in the bank,” he said, quietly.
The man looked rather nonplussed.
“Well, I don’t know what’s to be done,” he said, looking at the
pavement with a frown. “Your lordship has got friends--I’ll go
anywhere--to your lordship’s rooms, while you communicate with them. Of
course, I must have the money. Duty’s duty. As a soldier, your lordship
knows that.”
Lord Cecil nodded.
“Come to my rooms,” he said.
The man called a cab, and they got into it and were driven to Clarges
street.
To attempt to describe the valet’s face when he saw the kind of person
whom his master had brought back with him would be difficult, and quite
impossible to picture it when Lord Cecil requested him to get this
person breakfast.
“I will telegraph to my uncle, the Marquis of Stoyle, while you are
eating it,” he said; but the man looked up reproachfully.
“Will you send your man, my lord?” he said, significantly, and Lord
Cecil started, for he realized that he was a prisoner. He sent the
telegram, requesting the marquis to order his bankers to pay the sum to
Lord Cecil’s order; then went and stood by the window and looked out on
the street; and in a few minutes he had forgotten the presence of the
officer and all pertaining to him.
“Mr. Garland--Miss Marlowe,” rang through his brain to the exclusion of
anything else.
A couple of hours passed, and the return telegram arrived. It was short
and emphatic:
Sorry. Quite impossible.--STOYLE.
Lord Cecil read it, and, with a grim smile, tossed it across the table
to the officer, who was enjoying himself with one of Cecil’s choicest
cigars and a glass of whisky and water. He looked aghast.
“Good gracious, my lord! What’s to be done?”
“I don’t know,” said Lord Cecil, shrugging his shoulders, very much as
the marquis might have done.
“But--look here, my lord, this is getting serious! Isn’t there any
other friend? Surely, your lordship must know ever so many friends
as would only too gladly lend you the money! Think, my lord!” Lord
Cecil shook his head. “I am afraid it is of no use thinking,” he said;
“I cannot pay the money, and----” He leaned against the window, and
smiled. “But there is no hurry, I suppose? You can finish your drink.”
Before the man could reply, a voice floated through the open window.
“Lord Cecil!”
He started, and looked out. A hansom cab was pulled up opposite his
door, and Lady Grace was leaning out and looking up at him.
“Lady Grace!” he cried, in amazement.
“Yes; it is I,” she said. “Will you come down? I want to speak to you.
I could not wait.”
He made for the door, but the man rose.
“My lord! my lord!” he said, reproachfully.
Lord Cecil turned pale; then he laughed, and going to the window, said,
grimly:
“Lady Grace, I cannot come down to you. Please go. I will see
you--to-morrow.”
She seemed to hesitate for a moment; then he saw her alight, and a
moment or two afterward, she stood in the doorway of his room.
CHAPTER XXIV.
IN THE HOUR OF NEED.
It need scarcely be remarked that it is not usual for young ladies
unattended to pay gentlemen visits at their chambers. Scandal is only
too ready to seize upon the slightest excuse for the exercise of its
malignity, and the fact, if it were known, that Lady Grace Peyton had
been seen in Cecil Neville’s rooms would be quite sufficient to set
evil tongues wagging.
All this flashed across Cecil Neville’s mind as she stood in the
doorway, a picture of queenly beauty which seemed to light up the room,
and made the sheriff’s officer stare with all his eyes.
Lord Cecil went forward, a slight flush on his face denoting his
embarrassment.
“Lady Grace!” he said.
Then he stopped suddenly, remembering that it would be well not to
mention her name before the man.
She bit her lip and looked from one to the other as she gave him her
hand.
“I--I thought you were alone!” she said, in a low voice full of
confusion and anxiety.
The officer rose and made a slight bow.
“I’ll step outside, my lord,” he said, respectfully, and he did so.
“I--I did not know,” faltered Lady Grace, looking after him. “Have I
done anything very wrong in coming? I did not stop to think. I was so
anxious that I thought I would come up to town----”
“Will you not sit down?” he said, gravely, and he placed a chair for
her.
She sank into it, and looked up at him.
“What news is there? Have you heard of her? I can’t tell you how
anxious I am! Ah! I see by your face that something has happened! What
is it?”
“Yes; I have had news,” he said, in a low voice. “My uncle was right,
and you and I were wrong, Lady Grace. Miss Marlowe”--his voice grew
grim--“has sailed for Australia.”
“Oh, no, no! But alone?” she breathed.
“No, not alone. She went with this Mr. Garland,” he said, sternly.
She held out her hand to him.
“Oh, I am so sorry! What can I say, dear Lord Neville, to comfort you?”
He smiled wearily.
“Nothing, I am afraid. There is nothing to be said--or done; I have got
to bear it, that is all! I am not the only man who has been--jilted.”
The cruel word left his lips like a note of steel. “Probably my lot is
all too common. Yes, I have got to bear it!”
“There--there is no doubt about it?” she asked.
“None, whatever,” he replied. “I have been down to the office and seen
the list of passengers, and her name is among them, together with this
man’s.”
“How bad, how heartless, she must be!” she murmured, indignantly.
He winced and looked aside; even in this, the first hour of his
trouble, he could scarcely endure to hear Doris thus spoken of.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can scarcely believe that she has done what
she has; it seems more like a dream than sober reality. But I suppose
every man in my case feels like that.”
“If I could only do something for you!” she murmured, leaning forward,
and looking up into his face with the sympathy which, coming from a
woman, is so precious to a man, especially when the woman is young and
beautiful.
“Thanks, awfully,” he said, trying to speak in a conventional tone to
hide the acuteness of his suffering, “but, as I said, no one can do
anything, except it is our old friend, Time. I shall ‘get over it,’”
and he smiled, as the Spartan may have smiled while the fox was gnawing
at his bosom.
“You look very tired,” she said, after a moment’s pause. “What will you
do with yourself to-day? Will you--don’t think me obtrusive!--but will
you come and drive with me--come, and do something? I am so afraid that
you will sit here and mope.” She glanced round, then started and looked
up at him, as if with a sudden remembrance of the situation. “But I am
forgetting! I--I ought not to be here, ought I? Lord Neville, you don’t
think ill of me for coming?” and the color rose to her face, and she
dropped her eloquent eyes as if with a sudden shame.
“Think ill of you, Lady Grace!” he echoed, impetuously. “What, for
coming to try and help a poor fellow with your sympathy? I can’t tell
you how grateful I am! It was a kind action, which not one woman out of
a thousand would have done!”
“Ah!” she said, in a low voice; “that is it! One woman in a thousand!
Tell me, Lord Cecil, and tell me the truth! I have been foolish
and--and forward in coming here to you like this?”
If he had told to her the truth, Lord Cecil would certainly have
been obliged to admit that she had been foolish; but what man in his
position ever does make such an admission?
“I think you have done a very kind action, Lady Grace,” he said,
gravely. “And--shame to him who thinks ill of it! Besides----” He
hesitated.
She looked at him with an intelligent flash of her eyes.
“You were going to say that no one need know. You forget the cabman and
the man outside.”
Lord Cecil bit his lip.
“At any rate, no one else need know,” he said. “The cabman does not
know who you are----”
“I engaged him from just outside our own house,” she said, in a voice
of concern.
“Cabmen are discreet,” he said, to reassure her.
“But the man--who is he, Lord Neville?”
He wiped his moustache, and made a great business of it.
“Oh! a man I do business with,” he said; “nobody of any consequence. He
does not know you, I’ll answer for it.”
She drew a long breath.
“Not until this moment have I realized what I have done,” she said, and
he saw her lips tremble.
“Don’t be uneasy, Lady Grace,” he said, soothingly. “Let me discharge
this cabman and call another----”
“Very well,” she said; then she added, tremulously; “but will you not
come back with me?”
“Of course I will!” he assented, promptly, and he seized his hat. “I
will come and see Lord Peyton----”
“My father is away, yachting,” she said; “but come as far as the house,
if you will.”
“Yes!” Then he stopped and turned crimson, and stared at her, the
picture of a man embarrassed beyond measure.
“Oh, what is it now?” she exclaimed, almost clasping her hands.
“Nothing, nothing,” he hastened to reassure her, though his voice
was anything but reassuring; “only that I have just remembered that
I cannot leave the--the house just at present. The fact is, I have
important business with this man, and--and--oh, Lady Grace, I am
so sorry! Don’t misunderstand! I’d give all I’m worth”--he laughed
bitterly, and corrected himself--“ten years of my life, to come with
you, but----”
He turned away, and set down his hat almost savagely.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured, anxiously, and there seemed to him
a touch of reproach in her voice, which maddened him. “But I will not
ask you to explain. Good-by,” and she turned away without offering her
hand.
He sprang forward; then pulled up, and with something between a groan
and an oath, sank into a chair.
She passed out, closing the door after her. On the bottom of the stairs
she found the man sitting with his hands in his pockets, his hat on the
back of his head; but he sprang up and removed his hat as she appeared.
She made a slight gesture with her hand, and he followed her to the
door; there she turned and, looking at him, calmly said:
“You are a sheriff’s officer?”
He looked rather surprised.
“Yes, I am, my lady,” he admitted. “I suppose his lordship told you?”
“No matter,” she said. “Do you know who I am?”
His eyes dropped before her steady gaze, and he looked rather uncertain
how to answer.
“I see you do!” she said.
“Well, yes, my lady. You see, I get about a good deal,” he added,
apologetically, “and anybody who is accustomed to seeing much of the
upper ten, knows Lady Grace Peyton.”
She looked round as he spoke her name, and bit her lip.
“Yes, I am Lady Grace Peyton,” she said; “and I have come to see Lord
Cecil Neville because he is in trouble. I am a very great friend of
his.”
The man nodded appreciatively. He took her words as meaning that she
was engaged to Lord Cecil.
“He is in great trouble, is he not?”
“Well, yes, he is,” he replied. “That is, he is in just a bit of a hole
at present! It’s not much of a hole, but he seems as if he couldn’t get
out of it.”
“You have arrested him for debt, have you not?”
“Well, yes I have,” he admitted, almost reluctantly. “I suppose he
has told you, and it’s no use my denying it, my lady, especially
if--begging your pardon for the liberty--you are going to help him; and
I suppose you are?”
“Yes,” she said, quietly. “What is the amount?”
He handed her the paper.
“Is that all?”
“All I’m concerned with,” he replied, significantly.
“I will pay it,” she said, after a moment’s reflection. “Will you come
with me to the bank?”
He hesitated a moment, then put on his hat with a certain amount of
emphasis.
“Yes, I will! It’s not usual, but I’d trust your ladyship to the
utmost.”
“Walk down the street and beckon the cab to follow, please,” she said.
“I do not wish Lord Neville to see us together. I do not wish him to
know anything of what I have done. Can I trust you?”
“You can, my lady,” he said.
They drove in silence to the West End branch of the bank, which was
only half-a-mile off, and Lady Grace drew a check for the amount and
handed it to the officer, who took it with unfeigned pleasure.
“I can’t tell you now how glad I am you came, Lady Grace,” he said.
“If ever I’ve had a disagreeable job, this one of Lord Neville’s was
one. Most of ’em treat one like dirt, and give a lot of trouble into
the bargain. I’ve met with rough usage sometimes, my lady; but Lord
Neville, though he’s young and full of go, so to speak, has behaved
like a gentleman, and treated me as if I had the feelings of a man.
Yes, he’s a nobleman, every inch of him, and--I hope you won’t laugh,
my lady!--but, I declare, if I’d had the money, I’d have lent it him
myself rather than taken him off. There’s the receipt.”
She thought a moment, holding the paper in her hand; then she said:
“Take it to Lord Neville, and put an end to his anxiety; but, remember
your promise, and do not tell him from whom you got the money.”
Then she lowered her veil, and left him.
He walked back to Clarges street--almost ran, indeed--and, opening
the door in response to Lord Cecil’s gloomy “Come in,” entered, and
pantingly surveyed him with a smile.
“Well?” said Lord Cecil, grimly. “You are agreeably surprised at
finding me here still! Most jailbirds would have taken advantage of
your absence and flown, would they not?”
“Yes, they would,” assented the man, emphatically. “But I spoke the
truth when I said you were a real nobleman. And I didn’t hurry back
because I was afraid. No!--I knew you’d wait! You are the right sort,
you are, my lord!”
“Thanks,” said Lord Cecil, curtly; “and where have you been?”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, that’s a secret; but I’ve been on
business, and there it is!” and he laid the discharge on the table.
Lord Cecil took it up indifferently; then, when he had realized its
purport, he started and flushed.
“Why!--what does this mean?” he demanded.
“It means that the claim is settled, and that you are a free man, my
lord,” said the officer, warmly; “and if you’ll allow me to offer my
respectful congratulations and a word of warning----”
“A word of warning?” said Lord Cecil, confusedly.
“Yes, my lord. This business--though it’s all right in a legal way--has
had a curious feature or two about it. I mean that there’s been some
underhand work going on: Jews, I expect. You see, though the amounts
were owing to several persons originally, they’ve been bought up by
some one--some one who’s got a grudge against you! Can you guess who it
is?”
Lord Cecil shook his head.
“I know no one who has any grudge against me,” he said, still
bewildered.
“Very well, my lord, all the more reason that you should keep your eyes
open. At any rate, you’re clear of ’em now, and I wish you good-day.
You won’t be sorry to see the back of me, I daresay.”
“Stop!” exclaimed Lord Cecil; and the man turned, with his hand on the
door. “Some one has paid this money. Who was it?”
The man shook his head.
“A friend who wishes to remain unknown, my lord,” he said.
Lord Cecil stared at him.
“A friend who--nonsense, man! I must know! Who was it? The marquis?”
The man shook his head again.
“I’m pledged, my lord,” he said. “But it wasn’t the marquis--confound
him!” he added, under his breath.
“Not the marquis? I know of no one else--stop!” His face went crimson.
“The lady who was here”--he sprang forward and seized the man’s arm in
a grip like that of a vice--“was it she?”
“I’m pledged, my lord. I’ve given my word. I have, indeed!”
Lord Cecil dropped his arm.
“You have answered,” he said, in a low voice, and the officer, after a
moment’s hesitation, nodded ruefully and went out.
Lord Cecil paced up and down the room with the discharge in his hand.
The excitement of the last twenty-four hours, the suspense respecting
Doris, the arrest, and now this sudden release, added to his physical
exhaustion, told upon him fearfully.
That he owed his escape from the disgrace of imprisonment to Lady
Grace he could not doubt. Doris, on whose truth he would have staked
his life, had jilted him; his uncle, the marquis, had, in his hour of
trouble, disdainfully deserted him and cast him aside and this woman,
whom he had regarded as a perfect type of worldliness, had come to his
aid and freed him.
She had done more than that, for she had risked her reputation in her
desire to show him her sympathy with him. She had done that which only
one woman in a thousand would have dared to do: come to his room alone
and unprotected.
A man is never so tender as regards his heart as in the moment when
he has been betrayed by one woman and succored by another; and Lord
Cecil’s heart throbbed with a painful sense of admiration and gratitude
toward this woman of the world, the girl whom he had always regarded as
just a society beauty, who had, at such fearful risks to her own name,
come to his side in his dark hour.
“May Heaven forget me if ever I forget it!” he said to himself, not
once nor twice only. “What shall I say to her? What am I to do to show
her how I feel about it? And where shall I get the money to repay her?
I can’t let her be the loser; I must pay her; but how--but how?”
Meanwhile, Lady Grace had reached her house in Grosvenor Square, and,
going to the drawing-room, found Mr. Spenser Churchill seated in an
easy-chair, reading the last annual report of the Sweeps’ Orphan Home.
“Well?” he said, looking up with a bland smile.
She sank into a chair, and began pulling off her gloves, her eyes
downcast, her face pale and thoughtful.
“It is done,” she said.
“Ah!” he said, with a nod of satisfaction. “You have seen him, then?”
“Yes, I have seen him,” she said, in a low voice. “I was only just in
time.”
He smiled with an air of complacency.
“Oh, I think I timed it carefully,” he said. “I knew he would be at
the office the moment they opened it; I calculated that he would be
arrested shortly after, and that he would go to his rooms and telegraph
to the marquis, allowing a little over an hour--say two--for the
answer, a refusal, as the dear marquis and I arranged; and there you
are, you see!” and he laughed, softly.
“Yes,” she said; “you arranged it very well.”
“Ye--s! And the news at the office. Is he satisfied?”
“Yes, he is satisfied. He saw her name. It did not occur to him
to ascertain if she had really sailed; if it had----” She paused,
significantly.
The philanthropist laughed with unctuous enjoyment.
“But he didn’t, you see, my dear young lady. That is just the little
risk one has to run; but, after all, it isn’t much risk. Why should he
suspect that any one should go to the trouble and expense of booking a
passage for Miss Marlowe? And you found him in bonds--just starting for
prison?” And he rubbed his hands together with renewed enjoyment. “Poor
Cecil! Really, it is very sad that one should be compelled to take such
strong measures. And yet, after all, will not the lesson be a salutary
one? Pride must have a fall, dear lady; pride must have a fall! And
our dear Cecil”--his small eyes glinted maliciously for a moment--“was
very, very proud! And you paid the money?”
She looked up with a little start.
“Yes, I paid the money. In fact, I have carried out your instructions
to the letter.”
“Yes, yes; you are a courageous girl, dear lady. It is not every one so
well known as you who would so far brave the consequences as to go to a
gentleman’s rooms----”
She looked at him, with a flash in her eyes and with a tight
compression of the lips, but he pretended not to notice the warning
signs.
“Our dear Cecil ought to be very grateful to you; very! And, if I know
his generous nature--and I fancy I do--I think he must be. Oh, yes, he
will never forget it--never! Why, bless me, if it were known--if, for
instance, any acquaintance had seen you going or departing--what would
not be said?” And he held up his fat hands.
She sprang to her feet, and stood with her hand pressed against the
chair, her bosom heaving, her magnificent eyes fixed upon him with
suppressed fury.
“A word, a hint, just a whisper, is enough nowadays for the
scandal-loving world; and I can just fancy how delighted the society
papers would be with such a dainty morsel as the incident of a visit to
Lord C----l N----l from Lady G----e P----n. They never print the name
in full; oh, no; but everybody understands----”
“Take care!” she breathed. “Do not drive me too far!”
“Oh, yes, yes; we must take care!” he assented, feigning to
misunderstand her. “We must not breathe a word of it, of course; must
flatly contradict it, if we hear a hint dropped. But there, dear Cecil
would rather die than admit it!”
“Yes,” she said, between her teeth; “yes, you speak the truth there; he
would rather die than harm should come to me--to any one--for his sake!”
“Y-e-s, he is so high-minded, isn’t he? And how does the dear fellow
bear this blow? It isn’t pleasant to be jilted, is it? Is he resigned?
I am curious now to hear how he takes it!”
“Go to him and ask him!” she said, with fine scorn. “Take care, Spenser
Churchill! Up to the present your schemes have succeeded. You know
best how far they will carry you. To me it seems that you--and I are
walking on a volcano. What if he should find this--this girl?”
“Miss Marlowe, do you mean?” he said. “My dear lady, you forget; she is
in Australia!” he said.
“Is she in London?” she asked, in a lower voice, and looking away from
him. “If so, and he finds her----” She stopped, significantly.
He smiled blandly.
“Let me beg of you not to be uneasy, dear lady,” he said, seriously.
“The young lady in question left England nearly a week ago, and there
is no chance of our friend Cecil meeting her until it is too late.”
“Too late?” she echoed, raising her eyes to his face.
“Yes,” he smiled. “Until he is married.”
She let her hand fall from the mantel shelf, and a warm crimson flooded
her face, and he chuckled, unctuously.
“I am quite sure it is time dear Cecil ‘ranged himself,’ as the French
say; it really is time he was married and settled down. Don’t you agree
with me? Ah, I see it is too delicate a subject. Well, good-morning,
dear lady. Accept my profound homage and admiration for your courage
and generosity in our dear young friend’s behalf,” and with another
chuckle he smiled himself out of the room.
CHAPTER XXV.
AS IN A DREAM.
“There is no place like Florence,” said Lady Despard, in her soft,
languorous voice. “One gets tired of London, and Paris, and Venice! I
always fancy, when I’m there, that I’m living somewhere in Regent’s
Park, near the canal, you know; and, as for the country in England,
you either get burned up by the heat or drowned by the rain. But
Florence”--she paused, and sighed contentedly--“oh, it’s always
delicious!”
She was lying in a hammock, swung between two laburnums, on the lawn
in front of the Villa Rimini, and she addressed Doris, who sat on the
ground, with an open book in her lap, but with her eyes fixed dreamily
on the exquisite view, which stretched out in an endless vista of
grassy plains, and violet-tinted hills, over which the full moon was
shedding its silvery light.
The soft evening breeze came to the two women, laden with flowers, as
with an offering; there were flowers everywhere; in the long beds,
starring the velvety lawns; on the banks, which ran along the limits of
the garden; in huge jardinieres, on the terraces and balconies; on the
plains, which lay like embroidered cloths beneath them, and over the
hills, to which they lent color and perfume.
It was a land of fairies, a land of beauty, in which every breath
of wind that blew carried with it the memory of music and song, of
laughter and joyfulness. In a word, it was Florence in the height of
her loveliness, crowned as a bride for her bridegroom the summer, and
rejoicing in her splendor.
The Villa Rimini, with its numerous windows twinkling with the
recently-lit candles, was one of the most beautiful of the many
palatial residences in the “City of Flowers.” It had been a home of one
of the ancient princes, and when Lady Despard had first seen, fancied
and bought it, was nearly in ruins; but, with the immense wealth at her
command, she had restored it, if not to quite its ancient splendor, at
least to a semblance which came very near the original reality.
Marble corridors, vast saloons, with rare hangings and costly frescoes,
statues which the Louvre would gladly have bidden for, antique
fountains and priceless mosaics were all here as in the days when the
princely owners were, indeed, a name and a power in the land.
And here she and Doris had been living a dreamy existence, a period of
lotus-eating, for nearly a month.
There was the usual colony of English in Florence, of which the Villa
Rimini was, by right of its splendor and the rank and wealth of Lady
Despard, the center.
Her hospitality was limitless, and the Salon of the Princes, as
the vast reception-room was called, was every afternoon the scene
of a gathering which almost resembled a royal levee; while the
widely-extending grounds were open to those fortunate individuals who
had procured an introduction to the wealthy owner.
To the Villa Rimini came also the Florentine nobility; tall,
grave-looking Italians, with their high-bred voices and polished
manners, men whom Doris always pictured as wearing the silken hose
and brocaded tunics of their forefathers in the old Florentine days,
when men wore shoes almost as pointed as the swords which were always
ready to leap from their scabbards with--or without--the slightest
provocation.
Amidst these surroundings, Lady Despard held what might, with little
exaggeration, be termed a court; but it might be said, to her credit,
the admiration, the adoration she received did not turn her head,
probably because she recognized the obvious fact that she shared her
throne with the quiet-looking, soft-voiced girl who had come to her as
a companion, and whom she had grown to regard and love as a friend.
Once, when the reception was over and the two women were alone, as they
were this evening, she looked at Doris, laughingly, and said:
“Well, dear, tired of all the adulation and worship, or are you looking
forward to to-morrow’s repetition? Seriously, my dear, I am beginning
to be a little jealous; more than half the pretty speeches this
afternoon were addressed to Miss Marlowe, and your bouquets were quite
as numerous as mine. Beware of vanity, Doris!”
And Doris had looked up at her with the quiet smile, beneath which
always lay an undercurrent of sadness, and shook her head, as she
replied:
“The danger is all on your side, Lady Despard. You are the sun, I am
merely the shadow. Some day some one will pluck the sun from its place,
and the shadow will be desolate!”
But Lady Despard had laughed placidly.
“No, thank you, dear! I’ve been married once, and, as the boy said of
the prickly pear, ‘No more for me, thank you!’ But yours is another
case altogether, and I confess that I tremble every day lest you should
come and tell me, with that mouselike little smile of yours, that one
of these men is going to take you from me! Ah! what a pity it would
be!--for we are so happy, you and I, dear! If girls could only know
when they are well off! But they never do. It’s only when they have
resigned their liberty and given all their heart for about a quarter of
some selfish man’s that they discover what a fraud matrimony is!”
And Doris had made no reply beyond the quiet, “mouselike smile,” and a
little sigh, which was too low to reach her companion’s ear.
Not Lady Despard alone, but many another of the frequenters of the
Villa Rimini, have wondered that this beautiful English girl should
be so irresponsive to the admiration and attentions lavished upon
her. Men of rank and position, for whom the matrons of society angled
unceasingly, paid court to her, needing but a smile or word of
encouragement to lay their titles at her feet; but the smile nor the
word were never extended to them. As the Princess of Carthage, clad
in the mystic veil, moved, like an unapproachable spirit, among the
suitors at her father’s court, so Doris Marlowe lived, surrounded by
a barrier of reserve which, vague and intangible as it was, served to
keep the most ardent at arm’s length.
The past alone was to her reality; the present seemed like a dream;
and often she sat beside Lady Despard, surrounded by a crowd of people
laughing and talking, the voices died upon her ears, and she heard only
the murmur of the brook in Barton meadows, mingling with the voice of
the man who had won her heart and tossed it aside, shattered and broken
forever.
Often she wondered whether he had married the Lady Grace--whose name,
when first she had heard it on his lips, had sounded like a knell in
her ears.
If stone walls do not a prison make, a crowd cannot destroy solitude,
and Doris, in the midst of the brilliant throng which made the Villa
Rimini its center, lived in a mental and spiritual solitude, on the
threshold of which only two persons ever trod. One was Lady Despard,
whom she loved, the other was--Percy Levant. She would have treated him
as coldly as she did all the others, but it was impossible. He made
it impossible by never giving her a chance of repulsing him. Since
the evening he had come to Chester Gardens for the first time he had
never paid her a single compliment, and from his lips alone she never
received a single “pretty” speech.
Although he slept at the inn, he had a luxurious suite of apartments in
the villa, and they met at almost every meal, and frequently during the
day, but his manner to Doris was one of studious courtesy toned by a
reserve which matched her own.
By the rest he was regarded as the most charming of men. The women
secretly--some of them openly--adored him for his good looks, which
were remarkable even in that land of handsome faces, and for the
exquisite voice, which was always at their service. The men voted him a
“good fellow,” and were warm in his praises. The reception from which
he was absent always seemed lacking in its accustomed brightness, and
no dance or outdoor excursion was complete without Mr. Percy Levant.
Perhaps the air of mystery which surrounded him increased the interest
he awakened. Nobody knew anything about him, except that he was in
Florence to study music, and, in some vague, unexplained way, to
collect materials for a magnificent and unique music-room which Lady
Despard intended building in one of her houses, and at some unfixed
time in the dim future.
Of himself, and his own affairs and past history, he was as silent as
Doris was of hers; and people who were at first inclined to be curious
accepted his want of a past and were content to take him for what he
was--a light-hearted waif floating like a bubble on the surface of
society.
To the superficial frequenters of the Villa Rimini he did not seem to
have a care and scarcely an object in life, excepting it were to play
and sing at all times and seasons, whenever Lady Despard requested him.
But Doris was something more than a superficial observer, and often
when, in the early morning or in the delicious gloaming, she was
wandering dreamily through the flower-scented grounds, she would come
across him pacing moodily beneath the trees, or lying on a bank, with
his head resting on his hands, and his handsome face darkened by an
expression which would have startled his many friends who thought they
knew him quite intimately.
At such times he would spring up, dispelling his moodiness instantly,
and resume his usual manner; but the impression he had made remained
with Doris.
And, having seen him off his guard, as it were, she found herself,
at odd times, thinking of him. He seemed as alone in the midst of
the pleasure-seeking crowd as herself. From thinking of him in an
indifferent, casual kind of way, she grew, all unconsciously, to
entertain a vague sort of sympathy for him, which she would never have
been capable of if he had lavished compliments upon her, as the rest
did. She felt convinced that some shadow lay in his past, and that the
ready jest and the fluent laugh only hid a wound which he was too proud
to permit the world to gape at.
This was the first phase of their relation; the second began during the
second week of their Florentine life. She became conscious that his
presence at the villa contributed not only to the enjoyment of Lady
Despard and the rest, but to hers!
In an indescribable way he seemed to know exactly what was wanted at
any given moment, and to supply it, and his thoughtfulness, strangely
enough, always appeared to save trouble to Doris.
From the first day of her coming to Lady Despard, she had undertaken
the arrangement of the flowers in the various rooms, and she continued
to do so in Florence as in London. The head gardener was accustomed to
send up huge baskets of flowers each morning, which Doris would set out
and arrange in the various vases and bowls. It was a long task, and
one morning he had entered the salon and found her in the midst of it,
looking rather pale and tired, for the room was hot and close with the
almost overpowering perfume.
“That is a serious business,” he said, in his quiet fashion.
“Isn’t it?” she assented, with a smile.
He said nothing more, and passed out; but the next morning Doris found
the flowers spread out on a table, under an awning, in a shady part of
the terrace.
“Why, how thoughtful of the gardener!” she said to Lady Despard’s maid,
who stood near.
“Oh, but it wasn’t the gardener, miss,” said the girl. “It was Mr.
Percy who brought the table out here; he did it himself, and put the
awning up.”
“It was very kind of him,” said Doris, and when he came in to breakfast
she thanked him.
He bowed, slightly.
“It is cooler out there,” he said, simply, and turned to speak to Lady
Despard at once.
A few evenings afterward a discussion arose respecting a book that had
suddenly leaped into popular favor.
“What do you think of it, Miss Marlowe?” inquired an old Italian
nobleman, whose breast sparkled with orders.
“I haven’t read it, count,” said Doris.
Instantly there was an inquiry for the book, but it appeared that no
one possessed a copy.
“Oh, you must read it! I’ll send to London for a copy,” said the count.
An hour afterward some one wanted a song from Percy Levant, but he was
nowhere to be found, but presently one of the young men, of whom there
were always more than a sufficient quantity at the villa, came in with
a:
“I say, Lady Despard, if Mr. Levant doesn’t mind, he’ll lose that jolly
voice of his! I’ve just met him in the hall, wet through; it’s raining
cats and dogs, you know! Can’t make out where on earth he’s been, don’t
you know!”
A little later, Percy Levant sauntered into the room, and Doris saw him
laughing and talking with one and another on his way to the piano, and
she thought the lad must have been mistaken; but, when all had gone,
and she was going upstairs, he came to her, with something in his hand.
“There is the book they were talking about,” he said. “I fancy it isn’t
worth the fuss they are making about it.”
“Where did you get it?” said Doris.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I was lucky enough to find a copy in the town,” he replied.
“Then it was for that you went out and got wet!” she exclaimed. “It
was very kind, but--was it worth while, Mr. Levant?”
“I thought so, and think so still, but I may be mistaken,” he retorted,
with his peculiar, half-cynical smile. “Good-night,” and he moved away,
as if the incident were done with.
Gradually she began to realize that in any difficulty he was always
at her side. A big picnic was to be arranged, and Lady Despard, who
had got accustomed to leaving everything to Doris, had done so on this
occasion, and Doris was up early in the morning to give the necessary
orders. She found that all the preparations had been made. Mr. Percy
Levant had interviewed the major domo, and the thing was done.
When Doris thanked him, he smiled, and courteously cut her short.
“I don’t deserve any thanks,” he said. “You see, my Italian is not so
good as yours, and I was anxious to practice it with the major domo,
that’s all. We are all moved by selfish motives, Miss Marlowe.”
“Not all,” said Doris. “Not Mr. Percy Levant.”
He started slightly, and fixed his brilliant eyes on her for a second;
then, with a laugh, said:
“Yes, even Mr. Percy Levant.”
Twenty times a day she found him coming to her assistance, but always
in the same way, always with the same unobtrusiveness, which was almost
coldness, but which was very welcome to Doris, contrasted with the
fervent, accentuated attention of the rest of the men.
This evening, as she sat beside the hammock, looking at the stars,
which were beginning to peep out from the midst of the deep blue of the
sky, and thinking of the past, she was conscious, in a half-troubled
way, of recalling one of the innumerable services Percy Levant had
rendered her, and she started when Lady Despard said, in her sleepy
fashion:
“I wonder where Mr. Levant is? Has he gone to the hotel? I haven’t seen
him all the evening. How one misses him, doesn’t one?”
“Yes,” said Doris. “That is our tribute to his amiability.”
Lady Despard laughed.
“He is quite the bright particular star of our group,” she said. “Some
of our fair Florentine friends are almost mad about him. I shouldn’t
wonder if he were caught and chained before we leave.”
“Yes?” said Doris.
Lady Despard leaned over the hammock and regarded her with a lazy smile.
“What a cold little ‘yes,’” she said. “I really believe you are the
only woman here who doesn’t admire him.”
“But I do admire him,” said Doris, smiling in return. “I think he is
the handsomest man I ever saw----” She stopped and picked up the book,
for unnoticed by Lady Despard he had come up and stood beside the
hammock.
“May one inquire the subject of Miss Marlowe’s encomium?” he asked,
and he looked from one to the other with his usual smile, but Doris,
glancing up at him, saw, or fancied she saw, the shadow of the darkness
which she, and she alone, had discovered his face could wear.
“Oh, no one you know,” said Lady Despard. “May one ask where you have
been all this long while?”
“All this long while! A few hours! What a testimony to one’s worth!”
he said, as lightly as before, but his eyes, as they rested on Doris’
pensive face, were grave and intent. “I have been wandering in the
woods, listening to the birds.”
“While we have been dying to listen to you,” said Lady Despard, with
mock reproach. “We have missed you terribly, haven’t we, Doris?”
“Miss Marlowe is halting between truth and politeness,” he said, as
Doris remained silent. “I will spare her a reply.”
“We’ve had no music to speak of,” said Lady Despard. “Won’t you sing us
something now? Shall we go into the house?”
“No, no,” he said, almost abruptly. “Who would exchange this”--and
he waved his hand--“for four walls? What shall I sing to you? Let me
think.”
He thought for a moment, then he began to sing.
Doris never heard his voice, even in the crowded saloon, without
feeling a thrill run through her, but to-night, although he sang in so
low a tone that it seemed scarcely more than a whisper, the melody
stirred her to her depths, and brought the tears to her eyes.
“That is beautiful,” said Lady Despard, with a little sigh. “We won’t
spoil it by asking for another. Come, Doris, dear. Will you come in,
Mr. Levant?”
“No, thanks,” he said, slowly. “I’ll say good-night now.”
He did not offer to shake hands, and the two ladies left him and went
toward the house. As they were ascending the steps, Lady Despard
stopped, and uttered an exclamation:
“Oh, my bracelet!”
“What is it? Have you lost it?” inquired Doris.
“Yes; I must have dropped it while I was in the hammock! I’ll go
back----”
“No; I’ll go!” said Doris, and she ran back.
She had almost reached the spot where they had been sitting, when,
with a start, she saw in the starlight, a man lying full length on the
grass, with his face hidden on his arm. It was Percy Levant. He sprang
up at the sound of her footsteps, and confronted her, and Doris saw
that his face was pale and haggard, so different, indeed, to its usual
bright and careless expression, that she felt a shock of distress and
almost fear.
“Mr. Levant!” she said, falteringly; then she recovered herself. “I
have come back for Lady Despard’s bracelet,” stooping down and looking
about her, to give him time.
“It is here,” he said, picking it up.
“Thanks!” she said. “Good-night!”
“Wait! Will you wait a moment?” he asked, and his voice, usually so
soft and musical, sounded hoarse and strained.
Doris stood, silent and downcast, and waited for him to go on.
CHAPTER XXVI.
NOT LOVE, BUT PITY.
Doris’ own face grew a little paler as she looked at him, so haggard
was his; and yet his pallor lent an added charm to his delicately-cut
features and expressive, deeply-colored eyes bent upon her with a
strange, intent look, as she sat on the edge of the hammock, and half
trembling, for she knew not what reason, waited for him to speak. She
was startled by the changed appearance of the man, who was usually
self-possession itself. He stood for a moment in silence, leaning
against one of the trees to which the hammock was slung, his arms
folded, his head sunk on his breast, and a nightingale in a neighboring
tree commenced to sing; all her life afterward Doris never heard a
nightingale without recalling this night.
“Miss Marlowe,” he said, at last, and he spoke in a voice so low that
it seemed to harmonize with the voice of the bird. “If I were wise I
should let you go, even now! But--I cannot, I cannot! Chance is too
strong for me. It sent you back to find me--as you found me, and I
must speak to you, and perhaps for the last time. I am leaving the
villa--Italy. I go to England to-morrow.”
Doris glanced up at him; a streak of light from one of the brilliant
windows fell across his handsome face, and she saw that, with all his
self-command, his lips trembled.
“I am sorry,” she murmured, and a faint thrill of regret stirred her.
She knew that he had been her friend, that with all his apparent
coldness and reserve he had never lost an opportunity of quietly
serving her. “I am afraid you have heard bad news.”
“No,” he said. “I have heard no bad news, for the best of reasons;
there is no one to send me news of any kind, bad or good. I am a man
without a friend in the world.”
“Ah, no!” she said, almost inaudibly.
“I am not forgetting you, nor Lady Despard,” he said. “But you--but
Lady Despard, for whose kindness I am, and shall ever be,
grateful--will she remember me after one week’s absence, excepting as
that of the man whose voice helped to while away an idle half-hour, and
amuse her friends? And why should she?” he added, not bitterly, but
with a grave sadness that touched Doris deeply. “I am, as I have always
been, alone in the world--a man of no account, a speck of dust dancing
in the sunbeam one moment, the next, floating in the gutter. Don’t
think I say this to excite your pity. No! It is because I want you to
remember what I am, how worthless and insignificant--just Percy Levant,
‘the man who sings for Lady Despard!’”
He smiled with a bitter self-scorn which lent to his face an air of
tragedy that fascinated Doris.
“And now you wonder, seeing that I am basking in the sunshine just
at present, that I should wish to leave it, and sink into the mire
again. I don’t wish it. If I could I would remain at the Villa Rimini,
to play the part of Lady Despard’s singing man, till she grew weary,
or the voice which renders me acceptable lost its novelty and became
valueless. But I cannot stay. A power stronger than my will is driving
me, and if you had not come back to seek for her ladyship’s bracelet, I
should have gone without a word of farewell to you, who are the cause
of my flight.”
Doris started and looked up at him.
“I?” she said, her brows drawn together with startled trouble.
“Yes, you, Miss Marlowe,” he said, quietly, but with something in the
music of his voice that thrilled Doris. “You will listen while I try
and tell you? Heaven knows, I find it hard enough. Be patient with
me--oh, be patient with me!” He held out his hand with a sudden gesture
of entreaty, then let it fall to his side. “How poor, how friendless,
how completely alone I am, you know; but I am base enough to be proud
as well, and all my life I have been prouder of nothing more than my
power to repay the world’s scorn of my poverty and abjectness with my
scorn for the world. I prided myself on the fact that I had no heart.
For other men there might be happiness, a life shared with some one
whom they loved, and who loved them in return; for me, the social
outcast, the pariah, there could be no such thing as love, no hope
that any woman could be found to share my poverty and my hopelessness.
So I went through the world, hardening my heart, and telling myself
that at least I should be spared the madness which men call love.”
He paused a moment, and looked at her downcast face, then went on:
“This was before I went to Chester Gardens. You don’t remember that
night, I dare say; I shall never forget it, for it was the night upon
which I first saw you--first learned that all my pride was to melt at
the sight of a woman’s face, at the sound of a woman’s voice. Miss
Marlowe, if I had been a wise man, I would have taken my hat and gone
out of your presence never to return; but the spell was wrought, and I
consented to come here in the train of Lady Despard, as her jester--her
singing man. I would have come in the capacity of her footman or
bootboy, if there had been no other place for me, no other way of being
near you----”
Doris looked up with a pale, startled face, and made a movement to
depart, but he stretched out his hand again pleadingly.
“Ah! wait! Let me finish. I fought hard against the influence which had
fallen on me--fought day by day, with all my strength; but against the
spell you had, all unconsciously, woven around me, fighting was of as
little avail as it would be to try and stem the incoming tide. The iron
had entered my soul, and I knew all at once that my heart and life were
bound up in one sentiment, my intense love for you!”
Doris rose tremblingly.
“I have said it now,” he continued. “My secret is out. I love you,
Miss Marlowe--I, Lady Despard’s camp follower, the jester of the Villa
Rimini, have dared to love its brightest ornament!”
And he laughed with mingled sadness and bitterness.
“I was mad, was I not? I ought to have selected her lady’s maid--any
one of the maids about the place. But Miss Marlowe! The beautiful
creature for whose smile lords and princes, men of fame and note,
were willing to contend! Mad! Yes! But all love is madness, so they
say, and--well, that is my only excuse. And now, before you send me
away with one of those gentle smiles of yours, let me tell you what I
have to offer you. Myself--and nothing! I have nothing but my voice
to depend upon. I lay it at your feet, knowing well that at a word
from you other men would lay their coronets and their gold there.” He
laughed again. “Not much to offer, Miss Marlowe; but it is my all, and
my life goes with it! And yet, if you stooped to take it--well”--he
drew a long breath and his magnificent eyes seemed to glow--“well, I
think I could make a good fight of it! The world should hear of Percy
Levant, and you should not be ashamed of the man whose hand you had
stooped to take. Yes!”--he bent forward with outstretched hands. “With
your love to encourage me, with you by my side to make the struggle
worth while, I would win a name which at least might be not unworthy
of you! Ah, think a moment!” he pleaded, his voice suddenly quivering
in its intensity. “Think what your answer means to me! To any of these
others it might matter a good deal, I grant, whether you said them
‘yes’ or ‘no;’ but they have so many other things to live for--rank,
wealth, place in the world! But I! I have nothing but this wild mad
love of mine, this deep love for you which seems part and parcel of
my very being! Miss Marlowe--Doris--it is a beggar who pleads to you
for the one chance which will lift him from a life which has never yet
known happiness to one of hope and perfect joy! Think and--ah, I love
you! I love you! Don’t send me away!” and he was on his knees beside
her, his face upturned to hers with an expression which a man might
wear who is indeed pleading for his life.
Doris looked down at him speechlessly. His passionate avowal, the
wonderful music of every word, the handsome face and thrilling eyes
affected her strangely; but she was more moved by the confession of
his lowliness and loneliness than by aught else. She, too, was she
not lowly enough and lonely enough, also? This, at least, made a bond
between them.
She did not love him, but--she pitied him; and pity, with such a girl
as Doris, is indeed, near akin to love.
What should she say to him? The thought of having to tell him that
there was no hope for him smote her with a keen sense of pain! She
dreaded seeing his face as she dealt the blow. She herself had loved,
you see, and could sympathize with him. Heaven! how hard it was that
she should have to rob the friendless, solitary man of his one chance
of happiness! She faltered and hesitated; and a light of hope--wild,
almost maddening hope--burned in his eyes.
“Doris!” he breathed; “Doris!”
“Hush! hush!” she said. “Ah! why have you told me this? Why didn’t you
go without telling me?”
“Forgive me!” he answered. “I was going. If you had not come back in
the moment of my struggle, you would not have seen me again! And now I
have told you! You hesitate!”
“I hesitate because----” she paused, and looked down at him with sweet,
troubled gravity and tenderness, the tenderness of a woman who is
about to deal a man who loves her the deadliest blow he can receive at
her hands. “Because I cannot love you. I”--her voice broke, but she
struggled with it and went on--“I care nothing for rank or wealth;
they are nothing to me. I should say what I have said if you were a
prince. I shall never marry any one, Mr. Levant!” She turned her head
aside, but he saw the tears fill her eyes. “I am sorry, sorry, sorry!”
she murmured. “There is no one I like better. I did not know, I never
guessed that you wished--that you wished me to be your wife; but I knew
that you were my friend, and I was proud that it should be so.”
“Your friend!” he breathed. “Only friend! Ah, Doris! many and many a
night I have wandered here, watching the light in your window, and
wondering whether by some miracle I should win you! Your friend! Well,
I played my part well--I hid my heart’s secret while it was possible.”
“Yes,” she said, gently. “I never guessed it! And now we must part--I
must lose my friend! But I am grateful--ah, so grateful. You speak
as if I were so far above you! You forget that I also am alone, and
lowlier than yourself, for I am a woman, while you are a man, with all
the world before you.”
“No,” he said; “all the world lies behind me. Losing you I say good-by
to any hope of happiness; good-by to ambition! Percy Levant and the
world have done with each other from to-night!”
“Oh, no! no!” she murmured, pleadingly. “You do not know! If I told
you that I am not worthy of your love; that I am not only poor and
friendless, but”--her face went paler, and her lips quivered--“but
nameless! That my life has been wrecked----”
“Wait! wait!” he said, with a strange expression on his face, his voice
suddenly hoarse. “Tell me nothing! I know--I know as surely as that
these stars are above us, that not an ignoble thought, not one unworthy
deed, has ever stained your life. What sorrows have come to you have
been undeserved. Nothing could shake my faith in you, my queen, for you
are my heart’s queen. Ah, Doris, give yourself to me from to-night! Let
me make a fresh life for you; let me teach you to forget the past; let
me make the future for you! Say yes, for my sake--or your own! Yes, for
your own! See how confident I am that I can make you forget--make you
happy! It is my love gives me confidence. I ask for so little--I don’t
ask you to love me! I ask you to confide yourself and your future to
me. I know that I shall win your love--I am not afraid.” His face lit
up as if transfigured by the hope that had sprung up within his breast.
“With you by my side I can face the world, and vanquish it! Doris!
Doris!”
She put her hand to her eyes, and her lips quivered.
“And you will be content?” she murmured, almost inaudibly. “Content to
accept so little for all you offer me--for so much love?”
“Content? Yes!” he responded, fervently, with a world of meaning in his
voice. “Yes, I shall be content! I can guess, though you shall tell me
nothing now, dearest, that there has been some one else, some other
man, who proved unworthy the great treasure of your love, that you have
not forgotten him, and the sorrow he caused you! I ask nothing! I am
content to wait, and win back your heart for myself, and I shall win
it! Now, my queen, give me my sentence,” and he held his hand out to
her.
Half-dazed by his passionate pleading, touched by the generosity of
his faith and belief in her, thinking of him and not of herself, Doris
slowly let her hand fall into his.
He did not take her in his arms, but his hand closed on hers and held
it in a close grasp, then, as he pressed his lips to it, he murmured:
“My queen! my queen!” with a passionate reverence that would have moved
a harder heart than Doris’.
She drew her hand from his clasp gently, and he did not offer to retain
it, as if he meant to show her that his promise to be content to wait
until he had won her love was something more than an empty phrase.
“Good-night,” he murmured. “Good-night, Doris! Some day you will know
how happy you have made me! Some day when I have taught you to know
what happiness means! Good-night, my love, my queen!”
She looked at him for a moment through a mist of tears--tears that fell
upon the grave of her old love--and then glided from his side.
He stood, where she had left him, watching her till the glimmer of her
white dress faded from his sight; then he threw himself on the ground
and covered his eyes with his hands.
“Great Heaven!” he murmured, “am I mad or dreaming? Is she mine, mine,
mine? Oh, my darling, my beautiful! I will keep my word! You shall
be happy! I swear it! I swear----” he raised his hand to the silent,
star-gemmed sky, then stopped and stared with a sudden horror, for
there in front of him stood Mr. Spenser Churchill. He stood with his
pale, smooth face smiling unctuously down upon him, a half-mocking
smile curving the sleek lips.
“Ah, my dear Percy!” he murmured, smoothly. “How do you do? How do you
do? Surprised to see me. Yes. You look rather startled. Almost as if
you had forgotten me!”
Percy Levant rose to his feet, his eyes still fixed on the smiling face.
“By Heaven;” he breathed, almost with a groan. “I had forgotten you!”
“Really? Now wasn’t that a little ungrateful, eh? To forget your best
friend--one who has always had your best and truest interests at heart!
Tut, tut, my dear Percy.”
“When--when did you come?” demanded the other, in a low voice.
“Almost this moment. I have just looked in at the villa, and greeted
our fair hostess. Hearing that my dear young friend, Miss Marlowe,
was in the garden, I asked permission to come in search of her,
and--er--found her so deeply engaged that I did not venture to intrude
myself.”
Percy Levant looked from one side to the other.
“You--you have been listening?” he said.
Mr. Spenser Churchill looked very much shocked.
“My dear Percy, what a dreadful charge! Listening? Certainly not!
Seeing you--er--immersed in each other’s conversation, I took a little
stroll, and waited until the interview had come to a close.”
Percy Levant leaned against the tree with his arms folded, his head
bent upon his breast, but his eyes still fixed upon the other man’s.
His face was pale, and there were great drops of sweat upon his brow.
“And how goes our little arrangement, my dear Percy? Am I to
congratulate you? Though I didn’t listen, as you so cruelly suggested,
I gathered that your suit was meeting with a favorable reception. Did
my judgment play me false, or has Miss Marlowe accepted you?”
The younger man remained silent for a moment; then he said, almost
inaudibly:
“She--accepted me.”
Spenser Churchill nodded with a smile of satisfaction.
“Capital! I congratulate you, my dear Percy. I congrat----”
The smooth, oily voice broke off suddenly, for Percy Levant had seized
the speaker by the shoulder, and held him in a grasp of steel.
“Silence!” he groaned out between his teeth. “What devil prompted you
to come here to-night?--Heaven!--to-night!”
“My dear Percy, I came to see how you were progressing; not that I was
anxious! Oh, dear, no! I knew that that handsome face and lovely voice
of yours would prove irresistible; but I wanted to see for myself how
our little scheme was going on----”
“And I had forgotten you!” dropped from Percy Levant’s lips. “Yes, I
swear it! I remembered nothing but that I loved her----”
Mr. Spenser Churchill’s lips wreathed in a rather painful smile, for
the grasp of the strong hand made him shudder.
“You--you fiend, you cannot believe it, cannot understand! How should
such as you believe that I had forgotten our devilish contract, that
I should love her for herself alone----” He broke off and his head
dropped.
“Come, come, my dear Percy, the delicate sentiment you have expressed
does you credit. Of course you love Miss Marlowe for herself, and
the fact that you happen to know that she is not so poor as she
thinks herself--in fact, that in marrying her you make a rich man
of yourself--goes for nothing. Of course, of course! Very nice
and--er--proper. But--would you mind taking your hand from my shoulder;
you have remarkably strong fingers, my dear Percy! But I trust you will
not forget that I have a curious document in my possession----”
Percy Levant withdrew his hand with a sudden and violent thrust that
caused the philanthropist to spin round like a teetotum.
“Remember? Yes, I remember!” he said, hoarsely. “It would be as well
for you if I had continued to forget it! Keep out of my sight while you
are here, or I will not answer for myself!”
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE GLASS OF FASHION.
Doris went back to the house scarcely knowing whether she was awake
or dreaming. Could it be possible that she had promised to be Percy
Levant’s wife? She stood for a moment outside the door of Lady
Despard’s _boudoir_, trying to realize all that had passed, and the
step she had taken so strangely, so suddenly, and when Lady Despard
called out, “Is that you, Doris?” she started like one awakening from
sleep.
“Yes, it is I,” she said. “There is your bracelet.”
“Oh, thank you, dear. I am afraid you have had a hard search! Why--what
is the matter?” she broke off to exclaim as Doris turned her face
to the light. “Why, dear, you are as white as a ghost, and your
hands”--taking them anxiously--“are burning. Doris, you have taken a
chill! You foolish child, to stay out so long, and on account of this
stupid bracelet. Why, it isn’t of the slightest consequence! Go to bed
at once, dear. Stay, I’ll come up with you. You look dreadfully ill!”
“I am not ill,” said Doris, and she sank down on the leopard skin at
Lady Despard’s feet. “I have something to tell you, Lady Despard. It
was not your bracelet that kept me so long; I--I have been talking to
Mr. Levant.”
“To Percy Levant! He was there still? What could he have to say?
Ah! You don’t mean to tell me, Doris, that he has proposed to you?”
exclaimed her ladyship, in a tone of suppressed excitement.
“Yes,” said Doris, in a low voice; “he has asked me to be his wife.”
“And--and you said ‘No,’ of course?”
“I said ‘Yes,’” replied Doris.
Her ladyship sank back, and stared at the pale, lovely face.
“You--said--‘yes’! But, good heavens, my dear Doris, have you thought?
Percy Levant! Why, child, there are half-a-dozen of the best of the men
here madly in love with you. I know--I know--that the Prince Romanis
is only waiting an opportunity to propose to you! He hinted as much to
me yesterday! And Percy Levant! Of course, I’m not surprised that he
should ask you; I’ve seen that he was over head in love with you. Of
course, we’ve all seen it, but never thought he would venture to tell
you, least of all that he should ask you to be his wife. Why--why, he
hasn’t a penny; he is as poor as a churchmouse.”
“Then he is as rich as I,” said Doris, in a low voice.
“Yes; but--but----! But, there, what is the use of talking; it’s his
face and his voice, of course. And how long have you cared for him? Are
you sure you love him?”
Doris’ face grew scarlet for a moment, then went pale again.
“He loves me very dearly and truly,” she murmured, almost inaudibly.
“Yes! That’s nothing wonderful; so do other men. But you, you--do you
love him?”
“I shall marry him,” said Doris, gently.
Lady Despard almost groaned.
“Why, child, you must have taken leave of your senses. You have
consented to marry a poor man, a man of whom one knows nothing, and you
haven’t even the excuse that you love him!”
Doris leaned her head upon her hand so that her face was hidden from
Lady Despard’s anxiously searching eyes.
“I respect him; I think him worthy----”
Lady Despard broke in impatiently:
“My dear, dear child, how can you tell? What experience have you had?”
Doris looked up with a swift spasm of pain.
“I have had some experience,” she said, in a low, troubled voice. “You
ask me if I love him. He knows that I do not, and he is content. Lady
Despard, I have had two great sorrows in my life--the loss of him who
stood as a father to me was one; the other was the discovery that the
man to whom I had given my heart----” She stopped. “Is it so easy to
love, and lose, and forget, and love again so quickly?”
Lady Despard laid her hand upon her head with tender sympathy.
“My poor Doris!” she said, gently and pityingly. “And that is why you
are so cold to them all? I might have known there was something. I am
so sorry, dear! But--but why consent to marry Percy Levant?”
Doris smiled wearily.
“I--don’t be angry with me--I don’t think I can answer in set terms.
Perhaps it is because I think I can make him happy; perhaps it is
because he is as lonely as I am, or should be but for you, dear Lady
Despard. Why should I not marry him and make his life happier and
brighter? Perhaps”--her lips quivered--“I shall learn to forget the
past now that I have buried it forever!”
Lady Despard looked at her with troubled apprehension.
“My dear----” she commenced, but Doris stopped her almost excitedly.
“If you are going to tell me that that is hopeless, that I shall never
forget, don’t go on,” she said, in a low, hurried voice. “Right or
wrong, I have given my word, and--and for the future it is of him I
shall think and not of myself. I am a woman--and shall not break my
promise,” she added, almost to herself, and with a touch of bitterness
as she thought of the man who had broken his promise to her. “Dear
Lady Despard, I have told you because I thought it right you should
know, because,” with a little wince, “I will never again conceal
anything--anything that should be told. And now you will accept it as
something fixed and irrevocable, will you not? And you will wish me
happiness?” she added, looking up at her with a smile shining through a
veil of tears.
Lady Despard stooped and put her arm round the slender neck and kissed
her.
“Wish you happiness? With all my heart, dear!” she said, warmly.
“And now you must forgive all I have said. I was a little surprised
and--yes, just a little disappointed. I was thinking of the poor
prince, you must remember. But, after all, you have chosen the
handsomest and nicest man of them all; and I’m sure all the women will
be fit to die with envy.” Doris smiled at this characteristic touch.
“And as to his being poor--why, we will see about that, my dear. They
tell me I’ve no end of influence, and it will be a very hard case if we
can’t find some nice place for him. Oh, you needn’t blush, dear; I know
he is proud, and you, too, but it’s the duty of practical folks like me
to look after such romantic young couples as you! Oh, you will see! And
now I’ve got a surprise for you: Who do you think has come?”
Doris shook her head.
“I don’t think I’m equal to the feeblest kind of conundrum to-night,”
she said.
“I dare say not. Well, Mr. Spenser Churchill--your guardian, as I call
him--is here.”
Doris started.
“He!” she said, in a low voice, as the old feeling of mingled fear and
repugnance rose within her.
“Yes! I was as surprised as you are, for he had not written, as you
know. He is out in the grounds looking for you----”
Doris rose almost hastily.
“I--I think I will go to bed,” she said. “I am very tired, and you will
excuse me.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll excuse you,” said Lady Despard, smiling. “It is only
natural that you should want to run away and hide yourself to-night.
And, am I to tell him, dear?”
Doris turned at the door.
“You may tell every one,” she said, quietly. “All the world may know
it. It is quite fixed and certain, Lady Despard.”
Doris lay awake all through that night trying to realize the fact
that she was betrothed to Percy Levant, and by the morning she had
succeeded. She would begin a new chapter of her life from this date.
The past, which was illuminated by the memory of those happy days in
Barton meadows, when she loved and thought herself beloved by Lord
Cecil Neville, must be buried forever. In the future she must set her
heart upon one task, that of learning to love the man who loved her so
truly and devotedly, and whom she had promised to marry.
She went down to breakfast a little paler than usual, but very calm and
self-possessed, looking, as Lady Despard thought, as she greeted her
with a loving kiss, like a lily, in her simple white frock.
“Well, dear!” she said, “you have come down, then! I told Mr. Churchill
that you were so tired last night that you would very likely not put in
an appearance till lunch. He’s on the terrace--oh! here he is!”
Mr. Spenser Churchill came in at the French window as she spoke, and
advanced to Doris with his sweetest and most benevolent smile.
“My dear Miss Marlowe!” he murmured. “How do you do? I am so glad to
see you, and looking the picture of health and happiness”--there were
dark marks under Doris’ eyes, which wore the look a sleepless night
always produces--“the very picture of health and happiness! And with
good reason--good reason! You see, a little bird has told me the news,”
and he wagged his head playfully.
“Am I very much like a little bird?” said Lady Despard. “I told him,
Doris, dear; you said I might.”
“Yes, dear Lady Despard has told me!” he said, spreading his napkin
over his knee and smiling upon them both. “And I hasten to express my
best and most heartfelt wishes. Lucky Percy! I must confess that I envy
him! He is such a dear fellow! I have known him since he was, oh, quite
a boy, and he was always, oh, quite too charming! But I never dreamed
he would be so fortunate as to win so great a prize as the beautiful
Miss Doris!”
Doris took her place in silence. Lady Despard laughed.
“That’s a very nice speech and hits them both,” she said.
“And it is such a strange coincidence,” he went on. “They say that good
luck always comes in showers! Do you know I am the bearer of a very
good offer for our dear Percy? I won’t give you the particulars, but
will only say that it will make him almost a rich man. Really, the dear
fellow is in favor with the gods.”
The door opened and Percy Levant walked in. He bowed to Lady Despard,
and to Spenser Churchill, then went to Doris, took her hand and raised
it to his lips, and, as a matter of course, seated himself next to her.
He held a couple of small bouquets in his hand, and, placing one beside
Lady Despard’s plate, laid the other against Doris’.
“Oh, thanks,” said Lady Despard, talking quickly to cover the little
embarrassment. “You have been flower-gathering this morning? And you
met Mr. Spenser Churchill last night? I am so glad he has come, for I
want to hear all the news--all the London news, I mean! We seem to be
quite at the other end of the world here.”
Mr. Spenser Churchill shrugged his shoulders amusedly.
“One comes here to learn the news,” he said, with a significant smile
at Doris and Percy Levant.
Doris’ face flushed, but Percy Levant’s remained grave.
“As Mr. Churchill has no gossip to relate, perhaps this will be
acceptable,” he said. “I have just got it by this post,” and he took a
society journal from his pocket and handed it to Doris to pass to Lady
Despard.
“_The Glass of Fashion!_” exclaimed her ladyship. “How nice! I
haven’t seen it for ages,” and she opened it with a little flush of
satisfaction. “I always enjoy _The Glass_; it is always so charmingly
spiteful. It ought to be called _The Cup of Poison_, for it destroys a
reputation every week.”
She began turning over the pages of this, the latest product in
society journalism, and Spenser Churchill in vain endeavored to engage
Percy Levant in conversation, then suddenly Lady Despard uttered an
exclamation.
“What is the matter, dear Lady Despard?” asked Spenser Churchill. “Has
_The Glass_ attacked one of your bosom friends?”
“Oh, no; it’s this!” replied Lady Despard. “Just listen:
“‘Rumor, which is not always untruthful, hinted some time ago at the
engagement of one of our principal beauties to the heir of the oldest
marquisate in England; and we are now authorized to formally announce
that Lady Grace Peyton is engaged to Lord Cecil Neville, the heir and
nephew of the Marquis of Stoyle. The marriage will take place as soon
as the marquis has recovered from his present attack of illness.’
“Cecil Neville and Grace Peyton are really engaged, then, and to be
married out of hand! Well--oh, look!--Doris!” she broke off, with a cry
of dismay, for Doris had fallen back in a dead faint.
Mr. Spenser Churchill, with a cry of alarm, sprang from his chair and
hastened round the table; but Percy Levant had raised her in his arms,
and, as he supported her lifeless form on his breast, stretched out one
hand to ward Spenser Churchill off.
“Stand back!” he said, hoarsely, his white face set hard and stern.
“You shall not touch her!” and, lifting her bodily, he carried her into
the hall.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
ENGAGED.
On this occasion, at least, the society papers did not lie! Lord Cecil
Neville and Lady Grace Peyton were engaged! If some marriages are made
in Heaven, certainly some other matches are made by the gossip-mongers,
and this was one of them.
If any one had told Cecil Neville that in a few short months he would,
though having lost Doris, have proposed to Lady Grace, he would have
laughed the prophet to scorn; and yet propose to her he did.
From that eventful morning when he had received, as he thought,
irrefutable proof of Doris’ faithlessness and treachery, and been
rescued from imprisonment by Lady Grace, a great change had fallen upon
Cecil Neville. Life had lost its savor, and the days that used to pass
so swiftly, with pleasure at the helm and youth at the prow, hung like
lead upon his hands. Time, which most of us find all too short, dragged
terribly with him. Do what he would, he could not drown the memory of
the beautiful girl whom he had loved so passionately, and whose image
seemed engraven upon his heart. Morning, noon, and night her presence
seemed to haunt him. He went about as usual for a day or two, but the
old amusements; the clubs, where he was always so warmly greeted; the
dances, which never seemed complete successes without “Cissy” Neville;
the river parties, and four-in-hand excursions, in which he was always
the leading spirit, all seemed tame and spiritless, and though he
laughed as usual, and tried to hide the wound which he had received,
his friends noticed that he seemed preoccupied and gloomy; and when
he found that they observed it, and that he was sitting silent in the
midst of the carnival of pleasure, like the ghost-haunted man in the
ballad, he suddenly took his fishing-rod and went off to Norway.
He had met Lady Grace frequently since the morning she had come to his
rescue, but they had only exchanged a few words at meeting and parting,
as he felt that he could not talk as if nothing had happened, and he
would not talk of what had happened, and on the night before his sudden
departure he had only said a few concise words of farewell.
“Going to Norway?” she said, in a constrained voice. “Yes?--well, I
think that is the best thing you can do; it is all very stupid here in
London!” and she had given him her hand, and let her magnificent eyes
rest on his for a second or two with a look that would have impressed
him and set him thinking, if he had ever given thought to any other
subject but the faithless girl who had jilted him.
If any one had told him that Lady Grace had gone home a few minutes
after parting from him, and shut herself up for a couple of days,
reappearing, looking pale and weary, it would never have occurred to
him that her sudden disappearance had been on his account.
He went to Norway, and though he thought of her now and again with a
gratitude which made him miserable--for he could not see how on earth
he was going to repay her the money she had so generously paid for
him--he was too much occupied with recalling Doris to think much of
this other beautiful woman. He ought to have been happy in Norway, for
the fishing was good, and he was lucky, but the big salmon did not
bring him the satisfaction they used to do; and he was sitting one
evening in the room of the rather rough inn at which he was staying,
wondering what he should do with himself next, and whether it wouldn’t
be better to go and bury himself in South Africa, or volunteer for the
next of our little wars, when he heard his name mentioned. There was a
party of young men staying at the inn, and they occupied the room next
to his and divided from it by the thinnest of partitions, through which
their constant chatter and laughter filtered day and night to worry him.
When he heard his name, he woke up from a reverie in which he was
wondering whether Doris was happy, and whether she ever thought of him
and those days in the Barton meadows; and, remembering that listeners
seldom hear any good of themselves, he took up his pipe, and was
walking out to smoke in the open air, when it seemed to him that he
heard Lady Grace’s name also.
Thinking that the speakers might be friends of his and hers, he waited
a moment, then sunk back into his chair, his face scarlet, his brow
dark with a heavy frown--for this is what he heard:
“I tell you, it’s an absolute truth,” said one of the young fellows.
“I had it from a most reliable source. The lady in question was seen
leaving Lord Cecil Neville’s rooms alone and unattended----”
“Nonsense! Lady Grace--Lady Grace, of all women in the world!--go alone
to Lord Neville’s chambers! You must be mad, old fellow!”
“I’m not mad!” retorted the first speaker, “and I wish to goodness you
wouldn’t bellow out her name; I carefully avoided mentioning it; these
walls are no thicker than paper, and you can’t tell who may be on the
other side.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said the other; “but, come, you know, the story
is as thin as the partition! Why, no woman would do such a thing,
unless she were utterly reckless of her good name.”
“I daresay not,” said the first, still as coolly; “but perhaps the lady
in question happens to be reckless where this gentleman is concerned.
Anyhow, I had it on good authority, and I happen to know it is an
undisputable fact. Why, man, it was all the talk when I left London. It
is said that she is head over ears in love with him----”
“Phew!” exclaimed one of the others, “that makes it worse. If she was
guilty of such an indiscretion, all I can say is she must be very much
in love! Lady Grace----”
“Do shut up!” cried the first speaker. “No names, remember!”
“Well, well, the lady in question is one of the best known women in
society, and such a report would mean social ruin to her. Where did you
hear it? Give me your authority.”
The first man seemed to pause a moment, then in a voice too low for
Cecil to hear, said:
“I don’t mind giving it to you; I heard it from Spenser Churchill!”
“Then you may swear to its truth; that man never makes a mistake!”
responded one of the young fellows. “Well, I’m awfully sorry. Lady--the
lady is always very kind and pleasant to me, and I think her one of the
loveliest creatures in the world. As for Lord Neville--well, if he can
remain quiescent while this story is going about, and does nothing to
contradict it or set it right--all I can say, he is a very different
man from what I have always understood him to be. Where is he now? I
hear he has come a regular cropper in money matters. I saw him a little
while ago, and he looked awfully down on his luck.”
“Oh, he’s gone abroad, I believe,” replied the other.
Lord Cecil sat perfectly still for a minute, his brain surging, his
heart beating with mingled fury and consternation; then, with his pipe
still in his hand, he got up and knocked at the door of the adjoining
room.
Some one opened it, and Lord Cecil, with a slight bow, stepped in and
stood before the group of young men, who stared at his now grave, pale
face inquiringly.
“I am sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,” he said; “but it is only right
I should tell you that I am the occupant of the next room, and that I
have heard every word you said.”
“There!” exclaimed the young fellow who had started the conversation,
in a tone of vexation and reproach; “I told you so! I said the
partition was like paper, and that some one might be on the other side,
and you fellows wouldn’t believe me!”
“Yes; I have heard every word,” said Lord Neville, sternly; “and as I
have the honor to be a friend of the lady of whom you were speaking,
it is my duty to tell you that the man who whispers a word against the
reputation of that lady is a liar!”
They sprang to their feet as a body, and stared at him with angry
surprise; but Lord Cecil put up his hand to command silence.
“Hear me out, please. You may, not unnaturally, demand to know why I
should take upon myself to champion this lady’s cause. I do so because
I hope to have the honor of being that lady’s husband. My name is Cecil
Neville; there is my card.” He did not toss it melodramatically, but
courteously placed it on the table before them. “If any of you consider
that he is affronted by what I have said, I shall be happy to afford
him any satisfaction he may think necessary.”
With a slight bow he was leaving the room, when the young fellow who
had been the first speaker, said:
“One moment, Lord Neville, if you please.” Lord Cecil stopped, and
stood facing them, with a stern countenance. “If any one is to blame in
this matter, it is myself; and I am ready to give you any satisfaction
you may require; but I think it right to state, frankly and freely,
that I did not mention the lady’s name, nor was I aware that she was
engaged to you. I will say, also, that I deeply regret that I should
have mentioned the subject at all. But I spoke the simple truth when
I said that it was a topic of common rumor; and I may add that it
will give me great pleasure and satisfaction to contradict the report
whenever and wherever I may hear it repeated.”
“I thank you,” said Lord Cecil, simply, and with a grave bow that took
in all of them, he turned and left the room.
An hour later he was on his way to England.
By whomsoever spread, this report was in circulation--and he could not
contradict it! Lady Grace had been to his rooms alone and unattended,
and it was his duty as a gentleman and a man of honor to protect her.
He had heard, with a scarlet face, the words of the young fellow, who
had said that Lady Grace was in love with him, and though he did not
believe it--for had she not herself said that it was not so?--it was
his duty to propose to her.
What did it matter what became of him, or whom he married? He must
marry some one, and some day. The heir to the marquisate of Stoyle
could not remain single. Rank has its duties as well as its privileges,
and it is the duty of the head of a noble house to carry on the direct
line. He would have to marry sooner or later, though his heart throbbed
and ached every time he thought of Doris Marlowe; and why not marry
Lady Grace?
He thought of her beauty; he recalled her noble generosity to him. Why,
she had not only come to his aid when he was in mortal straits, but
she had done so at the risk of her social reputation! Surely, if he
must marry some one, it must be Lady Grace.
He might also have reminded himself that by so doing he would win his
uncle’s--the marquis’--favor; but, to do Lord Cecil credit, he did not
think of that; he only remembered Lady Grace’s goodness to him.
He reached London at noon, had a bath, and allowed his valet to clothe
him in the regulation morning attire, and went straight to the Peytons’
house.
The footman told him that Lady Grace was out, riding in the park.
“I’ll wait,” said Lord Cecil, and he went into the drawing-room.
He paced up and down the Turkey carpet, looking out of the window, and
staring at the ornaments on the mantel-shelf. Among them was one of
the fashionable cabinet photograph frames, with the portrait covered
by a curtain. In absence of mind he drew the curtain aside and saw a
portrait of himself.
With a sudden flush he let it fall, as the door opened, and Lady Grace
entered.
She was in her riding-habit--in the garb which set off her perfectly
graceful figure to its very best advantage.
As she entered, her mature and majestic loveliness struck him fully for
the first time, and he remembered with a sudden vividness the words of
one of the young fellows at the Norwegian inn. Yes, she was one of the
loveliest of society women!
She started perceptibly at sight of him, so much so that she dropped
her whip. He sprang forward and picked it up for her, and by the time
he had given it her--few moments though the action required--she had
recovered herself.
“Back so soon!” she said, giving him her hand, small, and white, and
warm. “This is a surprise! Don’t the salmon bite, or rise, or whatever
you call it? Or has it rained all the time, and have you been bored to
death? I’m afraid you’ll be bored just as much in London, for every one
is leaving.”
“The salmon were all right,” he said, still holding her hand. “I came
back because I wanted to see you!”
“To see me?” she said, her eyes flashing into his for a moment, and
then drooping. “Well, you were just in time, for papa and I were off to
the Continent.”
“Then I have just come in time,” he said.
“Let me give you some tea; sit down,” she said, and gently tried to
withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly.
“Never mind the tea, Lady Grace,” he said, with something of his old
light-heartedness. “You shall give me--or refuse me--a cup after you
have heard what I have to say.”
“And what have you to say that is more important than tea?” she
retorted, in a light tone, which was belied by the quiver on her lips.
“I have come to ask you to be my wife,” he said, quietly.
She put her left hand to her bosom, and her beautiful eyes dilated.
If joy always killed, then Lady Grace would have fallen dead at Cecil
Neville’s feet that moment; but it is sorrow, not joy, that kills, and
instead of falling, she leaned towards him with a tremulous sigh. It
was almost too good to be believed! Spenser Churchill had told her that
it would come, but she had always doubted it; and now--it had come! He
was hers. Hers!--he, whom she had grown to love--the man for whom she
had plotted and risked so much, even her social good name--was hers!
It was a proud, an ecstatic moment; no wonder she prolonged it.
“What do you say?” he asked, still holding her hand, his grave voice as
much unlike an ardent lover’s as it is possible to imagine; and yet it
was like music to her! “I know I am not worthy to win so great a prize,
but I will do my best to make you happy.”
“And--and you love me?” she asked.
It was a dangerous question, but she was a woman, and longed to hear
the magic words which every woman loves to hear from the lips of the
man she loves.
He paused imperceptibly.
“Who could do anything but love you, dear Grace!” he replied. “Will
you be my wife? I will try and make you happy, indeed I will! What do
you say?”
Her soft, warm fingers closed on his, and she leaned towards him
involuntarily.
“If you are sure”--she murmured--“if you are sure you want me to say
‘yes’----”
“Indeed I do!” he responded. “I have come all the way from Norway in
the hope that you would.”
“Then I will say--‘yes!’” she breathed, and her head sank upon his
breast. “You will be good to me--Cecil?”
“I will be good to you,” he responded, and he put his arm round her and
kissed her in lover-wise, but not--ah, not!--with the passionate kisses
which he had rained upon the lips, and eyes, and hair of Doris Marlowe!
CHAPTER XXIX.
WICKED LORD STOYLE.
The news spread, as such news will, and in a day or two all London
knew, through the gossip-mongers and the society papers, that Lord
Cecil Neville, the heir to the marquisate of Stoyle, had proposed to
Lady Grace.
“So that there was something in that story of her going to his rooms,
you see!” envious mothers whispered behind their fans.
And the following morning Cecil Neville received a short message from
the marquis, who was staying at the big house in Grosvenor Square,
requesting that Cecil would come and see him.
Cecil went, and found his lordship seated by the window of his own
room, looking at the passers-by as if he were a judge just donning the
black cap. His thin lips drew together with a smile that was more like
a sneer as he gave Cecil a couple of cold fingers.
“So you’ve come to your senses at last?” was his amiable greeting.
Lord Cecil smiled rather grimly.
“I suppose you allude to my engagement to Lady Grace, sir?” he said. “I
was coming to call on you when your message reached me.”
“Ah! Well, I congratulate you, and I wish her every happiness,”
remarked the marquis by way of a blessing, and his tone said quite
plainly: “But I don’t think she’ll get it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lord Cecil.
“Yes, I think you are a confoundedly lucky fellow,” continued the
marquis, “especially as you nearly got into the worst mess a man can
get into. I suppose that affair turned out as I expected? The wench
jilted you--oh, I don’t want to know any particulars, they wouldn’t
interest me; but I may be permitted to express a hope that you have
completely washed your hands of the whole affair, and that if the girl
turns up again, there will be no nonsense. Grace is far too good for
you, and very much too good for any trick of that kind.”
Lord Cecil bit his lip and frowned.
“If I understand you, my lord----” Then he stopped. “No, sir, we won’t
quarrel to-day. As you say that--that affair is over and done with, and
if Miss Marlowe were to come back, I promise that I will not, as you
delicately suggest, desert Lady Grace for her.”
“Yes, that’s what I hinted,” said the marquis, coolly. “I’m glad
to hear there’s no danger of it. Men are such fools--young ones
especially--that one never knows.”
“I may be a fool, but I’m not a blackguard!” said Cecil, almost beside
himself.
“I hope not,” assented the marquis, deliberately, “and now I suppose
you mean to have the marriage quickly?”
“That rests entirely with Lady Grace,” said Lord Cecil.
“Of course. I hate long engagements; besides, I’ve an absurd fancy for
seeing her married before I die. Not that I think of dying just yet,
you’ll be sorry to hear. Better get the affair settled speedily. You
can live in one of the places in the country; I don’t care where it
is, as long as you don’t expect me to come and live with you,” and he
smiled sardonically.
Lord Cecil remained silent.
“You’d better take the Barton place. I hate it; but I hate all of them,
so that is not much of a reason.”
“Barton is too large, is it not, sir?” said Lord Cecil.
“That’s my business,” retorted his lordship, with something like a
snarl. “I don’t mean you to be a pauper, or to live with a couple of
servants and on bread and cheese. You have done as I wished you to do,
though not until you were compelled,” and he smiled, significantly,
“and I will do what is requisite in the way of money--for her sake.”
“Thank you, my lord--for her sake,” said Lord Cecil, grimly.
“Yes. Why doesn’t she come and see me? Tell her to do so, if you
please.” He was silent a moment as Lord Cecil bowed, then he added:
“The affair is making some stir, I suppose. I’m thinking whether I can
summon up courage to give a party--in honor of the event.”
“Pray, don’t take so much trouble, sir,” said Cecil.
“Yes, I suppose I must,” continued the marquis, as if Cecil had not
spoken. “It is the usual thing, and she will look for it.”
“I don’t think Lady Grace expects----”
“You know very little of what Lady Grace expects,” he interrupted,
with cold contempt. “Tell her to come to me. Wait a moment, please,”
he added, as Lord Cecil was making his escape. “I am going to send her
a present; that is also due to her. I suppose you have been able to
afford her a thirty-shilling ring?”
“I gave rather more than that, sir,” replied Lord Cecil, with a smile.
“Ah! go to that safe, if you please, and bring me one or two of the
jewel cases. I will send her something now. Here are the keys--no, they
are in that drawer,” and he pointed to the small writing cabinet which
always accompanied him, and handed Lord Cecil a small key.
Lord Cecil unlocked the cabinet, got the keys, and was crossing the
room to the safe, when the door opened.
“What the devil do you mean by coming in without knocking, sir?”
exclaimed the marquis; then, as he saw who it was, he said, in a softer
voice: “Oh, it’s you, Spenser, is it? You’ve come in time to hear the
news and congratulate the bridegroom.”
“Which I do with all my heart, my dear Cecil,” murmured Spenser
Churchill, taking Lord Cecil’s hand in both of his and pressing it
affectionately, while he beamed a benedictory smile all over him. “With
all my heart! I can’t tell you, my dear marquis, how rejoiced I was
to hear the news. Dear Lady Grace! So beautiful and so good! You are,
indeed, a happy man, Cecil! May every good gift which Heaven has to
bestow----”
“That will do,” broke in the marquis, with a sneer; “we’ll take the
rest as read, if you don’t mind. I’ve told Cecil that I will give a
party to mark my sense of his sense.”
“A party? Excellent! admirable!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, rubbing
his hands, his eyes going from the marquis’ cold, sardonic face to
Lord Cecil’s grave and rather moody one with keen watchfulness. “Now,
how good of you to think of that! Why, how many years is it since you
entertained in this house?”
The marquis compressed his lips.
“The last time was”--he paused a moment, then, as if out of sheer
bravado, went on--“the night before my wife ran away from me! Not a
pleasant omen for ‘dear Cecil,’ is it?”
Spenser Churchill coughed behind his hand.
“Oh, there must be no bad omens for the young couple,” he said, rather
confusedly. “And what date is the party to be?”
“When you like,” replied the marquis, with the most profound
indifference. “I should enjoy it better if you’d wait until I’m dead,
but, as it is, I don’t care when it is.”
“Ah! then we must leave it to dear Lady Grace,” said Spenser Churchill.
“I’m sending her a present,” said the marquis, listlessly. “There are
some things in that safe there; get them out and choose something.”
“Now, how delightful,” purred Spenser Churchill. “One of the old family
jewels, eh, dear marquis? A bracelet, or a ring, or something of that
kind, I suppose?”
By this time Lord Cecil had reached the safe and opened it, and Spenser
Churchill, with a smile of childlike interest and curiosity, went and
stood beside him.
The safe was half-full of papers, and nothing but papers, as it
appeared, and Lord Cecil said so, and waited for instructions.
“The cases are at the back,” said the marquis. “For Heaven’s sake!
don’t bother me over the business, or I shall regret my sudden and
unusual generosity,” he added, with a sneer.
Lord Cecil took some of the documents out, and revealed a couple of
jewel cases, and placing the former on a chair, carried the latter to
the marquis.
“These papers want arranging, dear marquis,” said Spenser Churchill,
and he lingered behind, as if casually; but his eyes flashed over the
litter of parchments with keen and searching scrutiny.
“I dare say,” assented the marquis, indifferently. “There are some
wills of mine there, I think, but it doesn’t matter. I shall live to
make two or three more to add to this collection,” and he glanced at
Lord Neville maliciously.
Spenser Churchill laughed, as if it were an excellent joke, and Lord
Cecil opened the cases and set them on the small table beside the
marquis.
“Are these what you want?” he asked.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said his lordship. “Choose something; here,
Churchill!”
“Am I to help in the selection? Really!” he exclaimed, and leaned
forward with such alacrity that he overturned the chair upon which the
deeds were lying, and scattered them on the floor.
“Oh, I am so sorry! Tut, tut, how clumsy of me!” he exclaimed,
apologetically, and he went down on his knees and gathered up the
papers.
“Let them alone, for Heaven’s sake!” snarled the marquis, with cold
irritation.
“Yes, yes, I’ll just pick them up,” murmured Spenser Churchill, and
with his back to the other two, he rapidly examined each deed as he
placed it on the chair. “Now, then,” and he came to the table. “Ah!
these are some of the Stoyle jewels! How exquisite they are, and what
a pity they should have been hidden away so long! How nice it is to
reflect that they will soon adorn our beautiful Lady Grace; eh, dear
Cecil?”
Lord Cecil did not answer, but moodily took the jewels from their
respective cases, and held them up for the marquis’ inspection.
He eyed them with his usual cold impassibility, but presently Lord
Cecil held up a suite of pearls. It was an antique and evidently
priceless set, and Cecil was regarding them with a listless interest
when suddenly a strange idea flashed across his mind that he had seen
them before; and yet he knew that he could not have done so. The last
person upon whose neck and wrists that priceless suite of antique gems
had shone was the ill-fated marchioness, whom he had never seen, and
whose end was still a mystery to him. He was convinced that he had
never seen them before, and yet he seemed to remember them.
“Beautiful, beautiful!” murmured Spenser Churchill, but looking at his
companion’s face instead of the jewels with a watchful scrutiny.
“Yes, they are,” said Lord Cecil, and he turned the remaining jewels
over as if searching for something.
“What are you looking for?” demanded the marquis, his eyes fixed with a
strange expression upon the pearls in Lord Cecil’s hands.
“I am looking for the ring. I suppose there ought to be one to make the
set complete? There is everything else here.”
The marquis’ face seemed to grow gray; then he laughed a dry, harsh
laugh.
“The ring is missing,” he said, almost inaudibly. “It went with----”
“No, no,” cut in Spenser Churchill, softly. “I saw it at the bottom
of the box a moment ago; but, really, my dear Cecil,” he continued,
hurriedly, as if to prevent the marquis contradicting him, “I don’t
think they would suit dear Lady Grace as well as some of these other
things. Now, if I might suggest, may I?” and, with smooth deftness,
he took the case from him and picked out a diamond and ruby bracelet.
“Now, that is the kind of thing which would please dear Lady Grace.
These pearls will be more suitable when she is married.”
The marquis took the bracelet, and Lord Cecil fancied that the clawlike
hands trembled slightly, and looked at it absently. Then he dropped it
on the table and turned aside with listless indifference.
“The pearl suite will do,” he said, curtly. “Take it and give it to
her. Will you be good enough to send my man to me?” he added, as a hint
that he desired to be rid of their presence.
“Good-day, sir, and thank you,” said Cecil, moving to the door.
“Stop, my dear Cecil--the safe. You must put those jewels away and lock
it, you know.”
“Let him go. You can lock it,” said the marquis, with icy impatience.
“Oh, Cecil will lock it,” murmured Spenser Churchill. “I am going to
get some lunch, marquis,” and with a nod he went to the door, but there
he turned. “Oh, would you like a newspaper, marquis?” he asked, and as
he waited for the reply he watched Cecil lock the safe and deposit the
keys in the cabinet drawer.
“No!” answered the marquis, almost fiercely, and the two men went out.
Spenser Churchill locked his arm in Lord Cecil’s reluctant one.
“Dear marquis!” he murmured, softly. “So generous and--er--thoughtful!
You have made him very happy, my dear Cecil, and be sure that his
happiness will find its reflection in your own heart. Ahem! Did you
notice, my dear Cecil, how--er--unwell and, so to speak, generally
feeble he looked?”
“No,” said Cecil, gravely.
“No? Then perhaps--indeed, I fervently hope--that it was only my fancy;
but I certainly did think that I saw a change in him since last I was
here. I do hope it was only fancy! The world could ill afford to lose
so great and kind-hearted a man as our dear marquis! And so you are
going to marry the beautiful and charming Lady Grace! Ah, youth, youth!
what a blessed possession it is! How I envy you, my dear Cecil!”
“Thanks!” said Lord Cecil, curtly. “I’ll tell Lady Grace, who will feel
duly complimented, I’ve no doubt.”
“Yes, yes--tell her, you happy rogue!” said the philanthropist, and,
with a playful nod and laugh, he watched Cecil go down the hall and out
at the door.
Then his face changed to one of keen reflection, and, as he went into
the dining-room to the little lunch he had ordered, he muttered:
“Yes, the one I want is there! and the keys are in that drawer, which
he always keeps locked. I must have that will--but how?”
When the invitations to an evening party at the Stoyle House were
issued, they caused as much astonishment to the recipients and the
world at large as if the trustees of the British Museum had announced
their intention of giving a dance at that revered institution.
Only a very few of the last generation remembered any entertainment at
Stoyle House, and they declared that the rumor must either be false, or
that the marquis had at last, and very appropriately, gone out of his
mind; and it was not until signs of the vast preparations for the event
made themselves felt that the world began to realize the truth.
Then arose such a struggle and scramble for tickets as occurs in
connection with one of the events of the season, and Lady Grace was
worried and pestered for an invitation as if it were a permit to
Paradise itself.
For a couple of seasons she had been the acknowledged belle, but now
it seemed as if suddenly she had become one of the veritable queens of
society. Wherever she went, she was surrounded by a crowd, eager to
lay their tribute of adulation at the feet of the beautiful girl who
had succeeded, where so many had failed, in securing handsome Cecil
Neville, the future Marquis of Stoyle. Women who envied and hated
her approached her with faces wreathed in smiles and voices soft and
affectionate. Her carriage, or her horse, in the Park was surrounded by
men eager to claim acquaintance with the future marchioness, who could
give them invitations to so many shooting and hunting parties “when the
old marquis died!”
And Lady Grace bore herself through it all with charming moderation.
She delighted in all this worship, but it may be truly said, that she
was never happier than when Lord Cecil was by her side. Some of us tire
of the prize we scheme and toil so eagerly for; but in Lady Grace’s
eyes the prize she had so basely won increased in value day by day.
She had loved him the first night they had met at Barton Towers, and
her love, perhaps by opposition and the struggle she had made to win
him, had grown into an absorbing passion. She was restless and nervous
when he was absent, and those who knew her well could tell when he was
in the room or near at hand, by the joyous smile on her lips and the
soft glow in her eyes.
“Always thought that girl had no heart,” remarked one keen observer.
“Only shows how a fellow can be mistaken in a woman. She’s as clean
gone upon Cissy as a girl can be.”
“And Cissy?” queried the man to whom he spoke; “what about him?”
The cynic shrugged his shoulders.
“Don’t know. Seems as if he’s got something on his mind, and couldn’t
get it off. Never saw a man so changed in all my life; perhaps his
happiness is rather too much for him.”
And yet Lord Cecil’s conduct gave no cause for evil comment. No man
could be more attentive to his _fiancée_. He was with her every day,
was by her side at nearly all the “at homes,” was seen at the crushes
at concerts and balls, her shawl upon his arm, the arm itself always at
her command; and yet the old “Cissy” had gone, and in its place was the
tall, grave-faced man, with the look as if he had something on his mind.
The night of the party arrived. Some preparations had been necessary,
and they had been made with a lavish hand. The big house, which had
sheltered so many generations of the Stoyles through so many London
seasons, was ablaze with lights, which shone upon the handsome
decorations of the great saloon and the magnificent dresses of the
women.
Only at one of the state balls could have been seen such a display of
diamonds, and very soon after the ball commenced it was declared by the
experienced that it would prove the event of the season.
It was not until the fourth dance on the list had been reached that the
marquis put in an appearance. Lady Grace, magnificently dressed--robed,
one might almost say--had been questioned concerning his absence by the
throng that surrounded her, but had shaken her head with a charming
smile as she answered:
“He has promised to come into the room, if only for a few minutes, but
I don’t know when he will come.”
She was, by right of her beauty and position, the queen of the
brilliant assemblage, and she reigned in truly queenly fashion. Lord
Cecil, moving about as host during his uncle’s absence, glanced toward
her now and again, and said to himself that if he needs must choose a
mate, he could not have chosen a more beautiful or more splendid one.
But he sighed as he made the admission, and there rose before him the
vision of Doris’ ivory-pale face, with its wealth of dark hair and
witching blue eyes; and he would have given half that remained of his
life to be sitting at her feet once more--only once more!
He was roused from one of these fits of reverie by a subdued murmur
of interest and curiosity, and, looking up, saw the tall, thin figure
of the marquis entering the room at one of the doors leading from his
private apartments.
The clean-cut face was deadly pale, but the dark eyes shone with a
hard, steel-like brilliance, and the thin, cruel lips wore a reflection
of a smile as he came forward and greeted those near to him.
There was no vulgar pushing and crowding, but somehow, in an impalpable
kind of way, a circle gathered round him, and then the marquis of old,
or a shadow and semblance of him, shone forth. The polished wit, like
a rapier long disused, leaped from its scabbard and set the group
admiring and laughing as of yore. As he moved from one to the other,
addressing his courtly flattery to the women and his biting cynicisms
to the men, a feeling of wonder ran through the room.
“By Heaven!” exclaimed an old man, who remembered him in years gone
by, “it is like a resurrection! It is like going back a quarter of a
century! That is the kind of wit we were accustomed to, sir! Look at
him, and compare him with the young fellows of the present day! And
don’t tell me that we haven’t degenerated!”
Lord Cecil stood a little apart, looking on at the success which the
marquis was making, the enthusiasm which he was arousing, when he felt
a hand softly touch his arm, and Spenser Churchill’s unctuous voice
purred in his ear.
“Do you see the dear marquis, Cecil? Wonderful, isn’t it? Quite like
what he used to be, I assure you! Remarkable man. Really, it fills
me with admiration and--er--astonishment. Did you hear that brilliant
repartee of his at which they are all laughing?”
“No,” said Cecil, gravely.
“Astonishing! Ah, my dear Cecil he is a marvelous man. They were saying
that he was going to dance--a square dance, of course, just a walk
through a quadrille, but I shouldn’t think--eh? Why, yes, he is--” he
broke off, smoothly, “actually is!” and followed by Cecil he made his
way toward a circle that surrounded the marquis who was seen going
toward Lady Grace.
“These young people have set me thinking of old times, Lady Grace,”
he said, in his clear, metallic voice. “Will you dare to brave their
ridicule by giving your hand to an old man? Or perhaps you would prefer
a more suitable partner?” and he shot a sarcastic glance at Cecil, who
had now reached his side.
She bent toward him with perfect grace, and placed her hand upon his
arm.
A thrill of amazement and curiosity ran through the room, and those
near the two fell back. The set was formed, and Lord Cecil found
himself standing at one of the sides, with a young girl for a partner.
“What a delightful man to have for an uncle,” she said, with a smile.
“Yes, yes,” he replied, absently, his eyes fixed on the thin, white
face.
The music commenced, the dance began, and the marquis, with a grace
which reminded those of his old friends of the days when “Wicked Lord
Stoyle” was in the prime of his youth--and his wickedness--led Lady
Grace to the center. A crowd had collected round the set; all eyes were
fixed upon him and the lovely woman who bore her triumph with such
queenly self-possession, when suddenly a cry--a shudder, rather--of
alarm ran from lip to lip; for the erect, stately figure was seen to
swerve and rock, and then stand still, as if rooted to the spot, with
its arms held above its head, and its starting eyes fixed strangely on
vacancy.
“Great Heaven! It’s a fit! He’s dying!” said some one.
Cecil sprang forward, and, just in time, caught him in his arms.
Some one silenced the band, and the whole assemblage became instantly
mute.
Lord Cecil raised the motionless form in his arms--it seemed to weigh
nothing to him, so thin and emaciated was it--and, through a lane of
horrified spectators, carried him up the broad stairs, and into his
bedroom.
Three persons followed him--Lady Grace, Spenser Churchill and the
marquis’ valet--and entered the room with him.
Lord Cecil laid his frail burden on the bed, and the valet quickly
unfastened the old-fashioned cravat.
“It is a fit, my lord!” he murmured, agitatedly. “I expected it! I have
been watching him from one of the doorways. His face was so white,
and--and strained--like----”
“Go for a doctor,” said Lord Cecil, quietly. “Grace, go down, and get
rid of these people.”
“Oh! come with me, Cecil!” she said, brokenly; “I--I shall break down!”
“Yes, go with her,” said Spenser Churchill. “You need not be more than
a few minutes, and I’ll stay here with him.”
Reluctantly, Cecil drew his arm within hers, and left Spenser Churchill
alone with the unconscious man.
Alone with him!
He waited until Lady Grace and Lord Cecil had left the room; then,
scarcely looking at the white, distorted face, he searched the pockets
of the helpless man, and with a suppressed cry of satisfaction, darted
to the cabinet, got the keys and opened the safe.
Taking out two deeds engrossed, “The last will and testament of the
Marquis of Stoyle,” he thrust one in the breast pocket of his coat and
replaced the other in the safe, and locked it, and returned the keys to
the cabinet.
Scarcely had he done so, and taken his place at the bedside, than Lord
Cecil and the valet hurried in with a doctor, who had been one of the
guests.
He bent over the unconscious marquis and made his examination.
“Is he? Oh, don’t say that my dear friend is dead?” exclaimed Spenser
Churchill, with a sob.
Lord Cecil waited for the answer in silent horror.
“No, no, he is not dead! Open that window!” said the doctor. “It is a
fit produced by sudden excitement.”
“Thank Heaven!” murmured Spenser Churchill, devoutly. “And will he
recover, doctor?”
The doctor looked grave.
“I cannot say. If he should----” He hesitated, and looked at Lord
Cecil. “It is a very serious case, my lord; a sudden collapse. The
unusual excitement has been too much for his lordship. He may recover,
but if he should”--he stopped, and touched his forehead--“I fear it
will be a bodily and not mental recovery.”
Spenser Churchill drew back, and covered his face with his hands.
“My poor friend!” he sobbed; and if he gave expression to his thoughts,
he would have added: “will not be able to make a fresh will!”
CHAPTER XXX.
IN THE TOILS.
The great marquis recovered consciousness by midday, but he lay very
weak and silent, the keen, hard face looking like a mask carved in old
ivory. Cecil Neville scarcely left his side, and, though the marquis
did not attempt to speak, he turned his eyes upon him now and again
with a curious expression in them. Mr. Spenser Churchill was, as became
so well-known and tender-hearted a philanthropist, most attentive and
sympathetic, and he hovered about the bedside, and shed the light of
his benevolent countenance upon the patient, as if he were the marquis’
brother. And him, too, the sick man regarded with an expression of
thoughtful watchfulness.
Mr. Spenser Churchill waited four days, then, hearing from the doctors
that the marquis might possibly remain in his present condition for
weeks, or even months, he thought that he had better attend to the
other threads of his plot. It was time that Percy Levant secured Doris.
Everything in England was working wonderfully well for Mr. Spenser
Churchill, and, in anticipation, he could almost see the accomplishment
of his object and the reward of all his scheming and toiling.
“It cuts me to the heart to leave the dear patient, Cecil,” he said;
“but I have most urgent business on the Continent, connected with one
of our great charitable societies, and I really must go. I have the
consolation, however, of reflecting that I leave my dear old friend
in such loving hands as yours and dear Lady Grace’s. He will, I know,
receive every attention that affectionate hearts can suggest.”
“Yes,” said Cecil, rather grimly. “We shall neither starve nor neglect
him; don’t remain a moment longer than you like. You had better leave
your address.”
“Y--es,” said Spenser Churchill. “Dear me, I scarcely know what address
to give you. I shall be moving about so much for the first few weeks;
but perhaps you had better write to Meuriguy’s, at Paris. You will
telegraph to me, of course. I shall be back as soon as possible.
And when I come,” he added, mentally, as he wrung Cecil’s hand,
“perhaps I may have the satisfaction of dealing you a slight shock, my
self-sufficient young friend!”
He started for Italy that same evening, and three days later appeared
in the garden of the Villa Rimini to find that Doris had consented to
be Percy Levant’s wife.
There was something so complete in the success of his plans that Mr.
Spenser Churchill was almost startled. The marquis lying bereft of
reason and helpless away in England, and Doris Marlowe engaged to Percy
Levant! It was little short of marvelous!
“Now, if I could only see them married,” he murmured, as he lay on the
lawn smoking a cigarette, and blinking placidly up at the blue sky; “if
I could only see them married, and the dear marquis would kindly remove
himself from this troublous world, I should be ten thousand pounds
richer in pocket, and be able to repay my dear Lord Cecil for the many,
the very many snubs he has bestowed upon me. Ah, here comes Percy. How
the young man hates me! And yet I have been the means of giving him a
beautiful wife and a large fortune. Strange how deeply ingratitude is
engrained in the human heart! Well, Percy,” he purred, “and how is
dear Miss Marlowe now? It was nothing serious, I trust? Only the heat,
my dear Percy? I noticed that the room was hot, and the air quite heavy
with flowers. I’m not sure that too many flowers are wholesome; to some
ultra-refined sensibilities, like those of our dear Miss Doris, for
instance, their perfume is overwhelming. How is she?”
Percy Levant stood with folded arms looking thoughtfully into vacancy,
his handsome face grave and sombre.
“Miss Marlowe has gone to her own room,” he said, in a low voice. “Yes,
it may have been the heat and the scent of the flowers.” As he spoke,
he took the society journal from his pocket and opened it. “What was it
Lady Despard was reading when--when Miss Marlowe fainted, Churchill?”
and he bent his dark eyes keenly upon the placid face.
Spenser Churchill touched his white, smooth forehead with his
forefinger.
“Really, my dear Percy, I forget! Wasn’t it something about that floral
_fete_ to the Amalgamated Charity Children? Or was it the account of
Lady Brabazon’s ball? Miss Marlowe’s sudden and alarming indisposition
so startled me that it drove the matter out of my head.”
Percy Levant looked at him fixedly, then opened the paper and scanned
it carefully; then his eyes flashed as he came across the paragraph
respecting Lord Cecil’s engagement, and he read it aloud.
“That was it, was it not?”
“N--o, I don’t think so, but I really can’t be sure. To tell you the
truth I wasn’t paying much attention. You see, I’d read the paper
coming across.”
“It was this, and you know it,” said Percy Levant, in a low voice.
“Was it? I daresay. But what has that to do with Miss Marlowe’s swoon?”
inquired Spenser Churchill, with a patient smile.
Percy Levant paced up and down, his head sunk upon his breast.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, inaudibly; “but I will know!”
“Don’t look so distressed, my dear Percy!” purred Spenser Churchill,
leaning his head on his elbow, and watching him through half-closed
eyes. “I trust there is nothing to be really anxious about. Miss Doris
will be well and honor us with her presence at lunch, or at dinner, at
latest. Of course, I can understand your anxiety, but don’t give way to
it, my dear Percy. Will you come and sit down? I want to talk to you
for a few moments.”
Percy Levant stopped short in his pacing to and fro, and looked down at
him.
“Well?” he said, impatiently.
“I want to speak to you about the marriage,” said Spenser Churchill.
“What marriage?” demanded Percy Levant, with a frown.
Spenser Churchill opened his eyes and laughed softly.
“Why, your marriage, my dear fellow,” he returned; “yours and Miss
Doris’. I don’t know whether you agree with me, but I am, on principle,
strongly opposed to long engagements. When two young hearts are
yearning for each other----Percy, this marriage must take place at
once,” he broke off with a sharp and sudden change of voice.
Percy Levant watched him closely and in silence for a moment.
“Why?” he asked.
Spenser Churchill smiled blandly.
“For several reasons; one, and not the least, being my anxiety to see
two young people in whom I am deeply interested, made happy; another,
if I may be candid, is because I am anxious to complete our contract
and destroy the bond,” and he touched his breast-pocket.
A strange expression came into Percy Levant’s face, came and passed
like a flash.
“You want your money?” he said.
“Naturally, and you want your bride! So that we are of one mind, my
dear Percy.”
“And what if I say I will go no further in this vile business; if I say
that I will no longer be a party in this conspiracy against a helpless
girl!” said Percy Levant in a low voice, and with a sudden crimson
rising to his face.
Spenser Churchill smiled blandly.
“But you won’t say any such nonsense, my dear fellow,” he retorted,
blowing a thin wreath of smoke from his complacent lips; “and it would
be nonsense, sheer nonsense, for you couldn’t draw back if you would,
because, my dear Percy, you are so completely and madly in love with
her!”
Percy Levant grew pale, and he clenched his hands.
“You fiend!” he muttered.
Spenser Churchill laughed softly.
“Come, come, we had enough hard names last night! If I am a fiend,
as you call it, don’t you be a fool. Why, my good sir, you have got
everything you wanted, and, like a spoiled child, you are still
dissatisfied, and want to quarrel with the person who has been your
best friend. What, give up charming Doris Marlowe! Tut, tut, you
couldn’t do it; now, could you?”
Percy Levant turned his head aside, and something like a groan escaped
his compressed lips.
“No, you couldn’t. And therefore I say that the sooner the marriage
takes place, and you have got for your bride the beautiful young
creature with whom you are so madly in love, the better. ‘A bird in the
hand,’ and ‘There is many a slip, etc., etc.’ You know the two old, but
exquisitely true, proverbs, I daresay. Get the marriage over, my dear
Percy!”
“You speak of a marriage, and we were engaged only last night!” he
said, after a pause. “Do you think she would consent? How little you
know her. Perhaps you think”--with a bitter smile--“that she is as
madly in love with me as I am with her!”
Spenser Churchill shook his head.
“No, my dear fellow, I don’t think anything of the kind. I think I can
understand why Miss Doris has promised to marry you. But if she doesn’t
love you now, she will do so. Oh, yes, believe me, with most women love
comes after marriage!”
A light shone in the dark eyes for a moment, then faded out again, and
left the handsome face grave and moody.
“I think she will consent--in fact, I am sure she will.” He leaned
forward on his elbow, and whispered the ensuing words insidiously: “She
must be made to!”
“Made to?”
“Yes. Tut, tut, don’t look so black. Moral force, not physical, my dear
Percy, is what I mean. Listen to me. I think you will admit that, up
to now, my judgment has been pretty correct, and that I didn’t start
you on a wild-goose chase that morning in Soho, when I offered to give
you a beautiful wife, and make your fortune. Eh, my dear Percy? Well,
I’ll finish what I began, and here is my little plan. Do you know
Pescia?”
Percy Levant nodded.
“A charming little place, my dear Percy. So quiet and secluded, and so
much healthier than Florence. Now, if I were a medical man I should say
that Miss Doris wanted a change, and that no place, within even easy
distance, could be more suitable than Pescia. Though I am not a doctor,
I think I shall venture to suggest to Lady Despard that she and Doris
go there for a few weeks.”
Percy Levant listened intently, his brilliant eyes covered by their
long, dark lashes, so that Spenser Churchill could not see the
expression that gleamed in them.
“Well, they go to Pescia, and you, of course, with them. You are
there, say, a fortnight or three weeks, when I write to offer you an
engagement at a large salary, in Australia.”
Percy Levant did not move a muscle.
“It is a most tempting offer, but, alas! poor as you are, you cannot
bring yourself to leave your ladylove for years, perhaps forever, as
the song says. And what so natural and reasonable as the suggestion
that you should marry her, and take her out with you? At first, she
will hesitate--oh! yes, certainly she will hesitate--but I think--”
with a smile, “I think I do not over-estimate your powers of persuasion
when I say that I am convinced you will overcome her reluctance to
so hasty a marriage. There is a charming little English church in
Pescia--most charming!--the very church for a quiet wedding. A _quiet_
wedding, mark me, my dear Percy! You see! Come admit that I am as
thoughtful on your behalf as even a parent could be!” and he laughed
unctuously.
“To Australia!” said Percy Levant in a low voice.
Spenser Churchill made a mocking gesture.
“Nonsense, my dear fellow! Why should you go to Australia? On the
day after the wedding you and I will have a little explanation. I
shall have the happiness of telling you whom you have married, and
the extent of your good fortune; of putting you in the way of paying
me that little bonus we agreed upon--and then you may go where you
please--London--Paris--Jericho!”
“I see,” said Percy Levant, slowly. “It is a clever plan. And you will
tell me nothing until after the marriage? You will not trust me----”
The gentle philanthropist’s smile spoke volumes by way of answer. It
really meant, “Do you take me for a fool?”
“Yes, it is a clever plan,” repeated Percy Levant. “But, clever as it
is, I think you will spoil it, Spenser Churchill.”
“I! Spoil it!” he echoed with reproachful indignation.
“Yes, I think so. Do you think Lady Despard will not suspect that there
is something wrong when you dog our footsteps and follow us about----”
Mr. Spenser Churchill laughed.
“But I do not intend to inflict my presence upon you, my dear Percy. I
shall ask dear Lady Despard’s permission to remain here at the villa,
in charge, as it were, during her absence. You see? So that there will
be nothing to be suspicious about.”
A curious expression, almost one of satisfaction, shone for a moment in
Percy Levant’s dark eyes.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “Though not with us you will be near
at hand? And I am to come here the day after the wedding?”
“Yes,” said Spenser Churchill, nodding complacently. “You will come
to me and obtain the key to the enigma, and I flatter myself, my dear
Percy, that you will, I fear, alas, for the first time, overwhelm me
with gratitude! Ah, lucky, lucky boy! If I had had the good fortune in
early life to possess such a friend as I have proved myself to you,
where should I be now, I wonder?” and he sighed unctuously.
“In gaol, I should say,” retorted Percy, grimly. Then he added,
quickly, “But I like your plan, and I shall do my best to carry it out.
As you say, it is too late to draw back now----”
“Much too late,” laughed the philanthropist, “even if you wished to,
which you do not, my dear boy.”
“No, I do not,” he assented, and he took a cigar from his case and
lit it, his white, shapely hands trembling slightly. “I am willing to
follow your instruction; and all I ask is that which you have consented
to: that you keep away from Pescia.”
Spenser Churchill nodded acquiescingly.
“Certainly. I agree with you, that the less I am in evidence the
better.”
As he spoke, a footman came across the lawn with a telegram.
It was from Lord Cecil, and had been forwarded from Meuriguy’s. Mr.
Spenser Churchill took it and opened it.
“The marquis’ condition is unaltered. Cecil Neville,” it ran.
He tore it into minute fragments.
“A request that I will speak at the annual meeting of the Washerwomen’s
Burial Fund next week. You see what sacrifices I am making in your
behalf, my dear Percy,” he said, shaking his head. “I think I am rather
thirsty; it is this peculiar air, I suppose. A small brandy-and-soda,
now--will you join me, my dear Percy? No?” and with a gentle sigh he
ambled toward the house.
Percy Levant dropped down on the grass and smoked furiously for some
minutes, then he flung the cigar from him as if he were too agitated to
smoke.
“Yes, I’ll do it!--I’ll do it!” he muttered. “Oh, my beautiful angel,
for your sake--it is for your sake.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
A POSTPONEMENT.
Some men take a great deal of killing; the Marquis of Stoyle ought,
according to medical rules and poetical justice, to have died out of
hand; but he clung to life tenaciously, and not only refused to die,
but got better!
In ten days from Spenser Churchill’s departure, his lordship rallied,
and, to the surprise of every one, including the doctors, regained
sufficient strength to enable him to leave his bed.
But a great change had taken place; one of those extraordinary changes
which baffle medical science and set all its knowledge at naught. The
marquis had not lost his reason, but his memory.
He was perfectly sane, understood every word that was said to him, and
could converse with all his wonted acuteness and sardonic cynicism, but
he had forgotten everything excepting those things which had occurred
in years long back. It was exactly as if the later years of his life,
with all their experience, had been wiped clean from the tablets of his
mind, and, as he sat in his easy chair looking out of the window, he
was under the impression that his wife had just left him, and that Time
had put back the hands on life’s dial twenty years.
The doctors were both startled and puzzled. If he had become actually
insane and idiotic, they could have understood it; but that a man
should lose all hold upon twenty years of his life, and yet be able to
understand what was said to him and converse rationally, was little
short of phenomenal.
They sent for Lord Cecil, who came hurriedly, and was received by the
old man with a cold, haughty courtesy, as if they had not met for years.
“I am glad to see you, Cecil,” he said. “You have altered a great
deal since I saw you last; you have grown, grown very much. I suppose
you think of entering the army? Well, I will consider the matter. I
imagine you would do as much mischief as a civilian as you will do
as a soldier. Tell your father, my brother, that, though I bear him
no good will, I will do my duty by you. Ask the steward to give you
a five-pound note, and--you may go now, please,” and Lord Cecil,
dismissed like a schoolboy, left the room, too embarrassed and
confounded to utter a word.
“What is to be done?” he said to the doctors. “Will he remain like
this? It is terrible, terrible!”
Sir Andrew shook his head.
“It is very extraordinary, very; but I must remind you, Lord Cecil,
that it might be worse. His lordship is in possession of all his
faculties, and, excepting this remarkable loss of memory, is as sane
as you and I. I have had a long, and, I must add most interesting,
conversation with him this morning, and he talked with all his old
brilliance----”
“And bitterness,” said the other famous doctor, under his breath.
“As to how long this singular lapse of memory will affect him, I really
cannot say. It is an altogether unusual case. It is very bad, my lord,
I admit,” for Lord Cecil was much moved by the old man’s condition;
“but, as I say, it might be worse. His lordship’s physical strength is
improving daily, we may say hourly.”
Lord Cecil sighed.
“It is dreadful to hear him talk so strangely,” he said. “Can nothing
be done, no experiment be tried? Perhaps if I brought Lady Grace?”
“Bring her ladyship, by all means,” said the doctor. “There is no
knowing what a familiar face may do. Yes, bring her, Lord Cecil.”
Cecil jumped into a hansom, and returned with Lady Grace, whom he took
up to the marquis’ chair.
“Here is Grace, sir,” he said.
“Grace? Grace? What Grace?” demanded the old man, with a hard, keen
glance at the beautiful face he used to know so well. “I have not the
honor and pleasure of the young lady’s acquaintance. Do me the favor to
introduce me, if you please.”
“Surely you know me, dear marquis!” said Lady Grace, bending over him.
The old man took her hand, and turned it over in his, with a vacant
smile. “Let me see, Peyton calls this girl of his Grace, doesn’t he?
Are you Peyton’s daughter?”
“You know I am, my lord!” she said. “You remember my father, your
oldest friend!”
“Jack Peyton! Oh, yes!” he said, with his old, caustic smile. “My
oldest and best friend; he proved himself so by running off with the
girl I was going to marry. And then I married Lucy----” His lips
tightened, and seemed to grow stiff and hard--“and she ran away, too.
I dare say she had reason. The child was a girl; it ought to have been
a boy, and I hated it because it was not one. Yes, it ought to have
been a boy, and cut out Cecil. And now Cecil will be the heir. I beg
your pardon, Cecil,” he broke off with his sardonic smile, “I forgot
you were present. Yes, it was a girl. Some one told me that it was
dead, and Lucy, too. No, I don’t wear mourning; why should I?” with a
hard, haughty stare. “Let the man who went with her wear mourning; I
dare say he regrets her, the fool. He was an old flame of hers. Spenser
Churchill can tell you all about him, for he helped me to get Lucy away
from him. Heaven knows what I saw in her to take so much trouble! I
don’t! Where is Churchill, by the way?” he broke off to inquire.
“He is on the Continent, sir,” said Lord Cecil.
“Oh, what a Pecksniff the fellow is! The biggest hypocrite on the face
of the earth, but useful--oh, yes, useful! And so you are Grace Peyton,
are you?” turning his glittering eyes upon Lady Grace, who shrank back,
half-frightened. “Hem! I should think you’d make a good match with
Cecil.”
“Have you forgotten that we are engaged, Cecil and I, marquis?” she
murmured, bending over him.
“Engaged, are you?” he said. “Rather early, isn’t it? But I’ve no
objection. Engaged to Cecil, eh? By gad, I pity you if he has any of
the Stoyle temper! The Stoyles are the worst husbands in the world,
so they say, and I think it’s true. He’ll make you wish you were dead
before you have been married twelve months!”
“Come away, Grace,” said Cecil, pale and stern, and he led her out of
the room.
“Oh! Cecil, I am sorry!” she murmured, clinging to his arm, and looking
up into his face. “And we were to be married soon, too!”
“Yes,” he said, “I am afraid the wedding must be put off, Grace!”
and, though he spoke in accents of regret, a guilty thrill of relief
shot through him. “Poor old man! Poor old man! We were never on very
affectionate terms, but it hurts me to see him like this!”
“And he may remain like it for ever so long!” she said, raising her
eyes, as her head lay on his breast. “For months, perhaps. Do--do you
think it would matter if we had a quiet, a very quiet, wedding, Cecil?”
He frowned.
“I am afraid it isn’t possible, Grace,” he replied, and again he was
conscious of the same guilty thrill of relief.
She drew a long breath, and pulled irritably at the lace on her sleeve.
“It couldn’t have been more awkward if he had died,” she said, almost
sullenly.
Lord Cecil looked down at her gravely.
“I am very glad he is not dead,” he said. “I hope, and I think, he may
recover completely. We can wait, Grace.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, with an effort; “we can wait; but it is terribly
awkward, all the same, and people are talking so.”
“Let them talk!” he said, almost sternly. “What do I--or what should
you--care what they say?”
A week passed, and the marquis still remained in the same condition
mentally, but physically he progressed in a remarkable manner.
To all intents and purposes he was as well and strong as he was before
his sudden attack, and one morning he rang for his valet, and said, in
his old, haughty, listless manner:
“It is very cold here, in London, Williams.”
“Cold, my lord? We are all complaining of the heat!”
“So you may be; but that does not affect me, if I am cold,” retorted
the marquis, grimly. “I shall go south! Pack up what is necessary, and
see that we start to-morrow.”
The valet was too well trained to exhibit any sign of surprise.
“Yes, my lord,” he said, quietly. “Lord Cecil will accompany us, I
presume?”
“You do presume!” retorted the marquis. “Lord Cecil will not accompany
us! Great heaven, do you think I want a schoolboy hanging to my coat
tails? Certainly not--we go alone! Let me see, it will be very pleasant
in Italy! Rome! No; not Rome, it will be too crowded; and Florence is
full of tourists at this time! We will go to Pescia.”
“Very good, my lord,” said the man, and he left the room and went
straight to the doctors.
“Italy?” said Sir Andrew. “Well, yes, it will do his lordship no
harm and may do him good. Pescia is a quiet place and will suit the
marquis. I will write to the doctor over there and ask him to watch his
lordship. And he wants to go alone, does he? Well, I suppose you can
take care of him?”
The valet professed himself quite capable of doing so, and in the end
it was decided not to thwart the sick man’s fancy.
Lord Cecil was consulted and came to see him.
“Will you not let me come with you, sir?” he asked.
“Thanks, no,” replied the marquis. “Delighted as I should be to have
you as my companion,” with a bow, “I must not forget that your military
duties have a prior claim upon you. No, I shall go alone. I am aware
that you all think I am dying, but I can assure you, with some regret,
that you are very much mistaken. You will have to wait for the title a
little while longer, Cecil Neville,” and he smiled sardonically.
What could Cecil say or do but assist as far as he was able in securing
the comfort and safety of the old man, who even in his weakness
possessed a fiercer self-will than most men can boast of in the prime
of their strength? They wrote to the English doctor at Pescia, engaged
a villa in the best part of the town, and sent over his lordship’s
traveling chariot and those servants whom he was accustomed to have
about him. And Cecil himself accompanied the party across the channel,
though even to this short escortage the marquis was opposed.
“Great heaven!” he exclaimed, irritably. “I have traveled half round
the globe several times without your assistance, and I cannot conceive
why you should consider it necessary to bore yourself, and me, too, by
coming across the channel.”
“You forget that you have been ill, sir,” said Cecil, quietly, “and
that it is my duty to see that your journey is made as comfortably as
possible.”
“Thanks,” retorted the marquis. “It’s a pity you couldn’t have arranged
a calm passage; but you couldn’t do that, and for the life of me I
can’t think of anything else you can do. Good-by. Don’t trouble to
write, I hate reading letters when I am abroad.”
And this, with a cold touch of his thin hand, comprised his adieu to
his nephew and heir!
CHAPTER XXXII.
“I LOVE HIM STILL.”
“Really, that was a very good idea of Mr. Spenser Churchill’s,” said
Lady Despard, looking round her, as she leaned over the bridge which
spans the river running sleepily down to the sea. “I should never have
thought of coming to Pescia, but, then, I never have any ideas of any
sort, and Mr. Spenser Churchill is so clever, isn’t he, Mr. Levant?”
she added, turning her head lazily to where Percy Levant sat upon the
stone coping of the bridge, looking down at the river, and now and
again glancing at the face of Doris, who stood with her eyes fixed
dreamily upon the perfect blue of the skies.
“Oh, yes, he is very clever,” he assented, quietly; “very.”
“And I really think the change is doing Doris good,” continued her
ladyship, looking admiringly at the ivory pale face and dark blue eyes;
“I think she is better. Not much to boast of in the way of color,
perhaps, but we have only been here ten days, and you never do run to
color, do you, Doris?”
Doris started.
“I--I beg your pardon,” she said. “I am afraid I was not listening----”
Lady Despard laughed.
“What a dreamer you are, dear,” she said, banteringly. “I often wish
you would sell me your thoughts for the proverbial penny; they should
be worth it, judging by your face. Does she sell them--or give them to
you, Mr. Levant?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and pushed a loose pebble from the coping of
the bridge into the water.
“‘My thoughts are all I have, but they’re my own,’” he quoted. “Will
you tell me what you were thinking of, Doris?” he added, in a low voice.
A dash of color came into the pale face.
“They were not worth telling,” she said, with a little twinge in her
voice. “I--I scarcely know what I was thinking about!”
“Just dreaming, dreaming,” said her ladyship.
“Well, you couldn’t have come to a more suitable place than sleepy, old
Pescia, where nothing happens, or has happened since the Ghibellines
and the Florentines used to squabble and fight,” said Percy Levant. “By
the way, though, something has happened; there has been a new arrival
lately. I met a handsome carriage in the Via Grandia, and was told that
it belonged to some great English milord, who had come for the benefit
of his health.”
Lady Despard yawned.
“I do hope it’s no one we know, and that we sha’n’t be compelled to
call,” she said. “Did they tell you his name?”
“No,” replied Percy Levant, “for a very good reason--no native of
Pescia could possibly pronounce an English name. They make something
awful out of Smith, even.”
Lady Despard laughed.
“I think I shall go in,” she said. “This sun is making me feel drowsy,
and, as when I dream I fall asleep, it would be awkward tumbling
into the water. You need not come, Doris,” she added, as Doris made
a movement to follow her, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Doris
remained.
It was seldom that she was alone with Percy Levant, though they were
engaged, and his manner toward her was as full of respect, almost as
full, indeed, of reserve, as it had been before the night she had
promised to be his wife. Not once had he ventured to kiss her, and when
his lips touched her hand it was with a reverence which was almost that
of a subject for a monarch. And certainly no monarch ever had a more
devoted servant. As Lady Despard said, Percy Levant was a model lover,
and she declared that his devotion almost made her wish that he had
proposed to her instead of Doris.
“I wish he had,” Doris had retorted, with a smile that was rather too
grave to accompany a jest.
They stood now in silence for a moment or two, then he turned his head
and looked at her.
“I am glad you stayed, Doris,” he said. “I have something to tell you,
to show you.”
“Yes?” she said, leaning on the bridge, and shading her eyes with her
hands, that she might the more easily watch the upward flight of a hawk
which had been hovering over the plain.
“It is some news I have had,” he said, and he drew a letter from his
pocket and held it out to her, but kept his fingers closed on it, as
he added, quietly: “Before you read it, let me tell you that I shall
accept the offer it contains. Now will you read it, Doris?”
She took it.
“It is from Mr. Churchill,” she said; “I know the writing.”
He nodded, and she read the letter, and as she read her face grew pale.
“To Australia?” she said, in a low voice; “and you are going?”
“Yes,” he said. “And now the question I am going to ask you, Doris,
is--am I to go alone?”
“Are you to go alone?” she repeated, as if she did not understand him;
then, reading his meaning in his eyes, she shrank back a little, and
her face grew crimson, and then white. “You mean that--that----”
“That you should come with me,” he said, in a grave voice.
“But--but----” she glanced at the letter again, “he says that you must
start in a fortnight!”
“We could be married in less than that, Doris,” he said, gently.
She clasped her hands tightly, as they rested on the bridge.
“In a fortnight--in two weeks!” she said, with a little catch in her
breath.
“Is the idea terrible?” he murmured, with a touch of sadness in his
voice.
“No--oh, no!” she made haste to answer. “But it is so--so sudden! Two
weeks----!”
He watched her anxiously, with a strange and curious watchfulness.
“Yes, it is a short notice, but, you see, it is Hobson’s choice with
me. Poor men must take what is offered them, and I, as you know, Doris,
am very poor, and this--well, it is a wonderful offer!”
“It comes through Mr. Spenser Churchill,” she said, as if speaking to
herself.
His lips twitched, and he looked quickly at her.
“Yes--why?”
“Nothing--nothing,” she murmured, thoughtfully, and with her brows
knit; “but--it is so strange!”
“What is strange, dear Doris?” he asked.
“Ever since I have known him, Mr. Churchill seems bound up and
connected in some way or other with my life!” and she sighed.
He leaned forward and averted his face, as she turned her eyes toward
him.
“It--it is strange, coincidental,” he said, in a dry voice. “But--what
is your answer, Doris? Stop! Don’t think of me, think of yourself----”
She shook her head.
“I--I will go if you wish me,” she said, almost inaudibly.
He took her hand--it was as cold as if she had been bathing it in the
river beneath them--and pressed it to his lips.
“Thanks, dearest,” he said, and his voice trembled. “You shall never
regret your choice--never. I will say no more,” and he let her hand
fall, and moved away, as if he could not trust himself to speak further.
A moment or two after he came close to her, and laid his hand, with an
almost imploring gesture, upon her arm.
“Doris,” he said, and his voice rang solemnly, “you think me selfish
and exacting, I know----”
“You are always all that is good and kind to me!” she broke in,
her lips quivering, her eyes growing moist with tears. “Am I to do
nothing--give nothing--in return?”
“Oh, yes, I understand!” he said. “I understand more clearly than you
guess, dearest. Try not to think too hardly of me. Some day--before
long, perhaps--you will know how deeply and truly I love you!” and he
turned and left her.
Doris remained standing on the bridge, looking at the sleepy river,
with a dull pain in her heart and her eyes half-blinded with the rush
of emotion that seemed to overwhelm her.
In a fortnight! In two short weeks! Not until this moment had she fully
realized what she had done in promising to be Percy Levant’s wife; but
now----! She leaned her head upon her hands, and tried to crush down
the rebellious thoughts that rose within her. Tried to wipe out, as it
were, the remembrance of Cecil Neville, which haunted and tortured her.
“I love him still!” she moaned. “I love him still, and I am to be
another man’s wife in a fortnight! Oh, if I were only dead--if I were
only lying at rest at the bottom of the river here! In a fortnight! Oh,
what have I done, what have I done?” and she wrung her hands, wildly.
Then suddenly, with an effort, she fought down the mad remorse and
misery, and, in a dull despair, murmured:
“What does it matter? Why should I not marry him--or any one else? What
can Cecil Neville ever be to me, even if I were free? He will be the
husband of Lady Grace; he has forgotten that such a person as Doris
Marlowe ever existed; or, if he remembers me, recalls me as the girl
who served to amuse him for a few days in the country. What a shame it
is that I should give a thought to him who has been so base and mean,
while this other, to whom I have pledged my word, is all that is good
and true! Marry Percy Levant! Yes, I would marry him to-morrow if he
asked me!” and, setting her teeth hard, she turned to leave the bridge.
As she did so, a tall, thin old man, with a white, wasted face, from
which a pair of sharp gray eyes gleamed like cold steel, came onto the
bridge, and she made way for him.
He was leaning on a stick, and, as he raised his hat in courtly
acknowledgment, he let the stick slip from his thin, clawlike hands.
Doris stooped and picked it up, and, as she gave it to him and he was
thanking her in Italian, his piercing eyes scanned her face with a cold
earnestness.
Doris bowed and went on, but some impulse moved her to look back after
she had gone a few yards, and she saw him leaning against the bridge,
with his hands pressed to his heart, and his face deathly white.
She was at his side in an instant, and had drawn his wasted arm within
her firm, strong one almost before he knew of it.
“I am afraid you are ill,” she said.
He started as her sweet, musical voice sounded in his ears, and raised
his eyes to her face.
“No, no,” he said, evidently with an effort. “But I have been ill,
and--and I am a little weak, which,” he added, with all the old
courtesy, “is my good fortune, seeing that it has procured me the--the
happiness of your assistance. You are English. I took you for an
Italian. My eyes are not so strong”--he stopped, from sheer weakness,
and leaned upon her arm heavily, if the word can be used in connection
with the lightness of his frail form--“not so strong as they were. I
have the misfortune to be old, you see,” and he forced a smile.
“Let me help you to the seat there,” said Doris, gently.
“Thank you, thank you; but I could not think of troubling a lady----”
Disregarding his apologies, she led him carefully to the seat, into
which he sank with a sigh of weary relief. Doris looked at him
anxiously. It was a striking face, and a vague kind of idea crossed her
mind that she had seen it somewhere before to-day, but she could not
fix the time or place, and presently she found the keen, glittering
eyes fixed in a meditative scrutiny upon herself.
“You have been very kind to me, my dear young lady,” he said, in a
voice that still trembled a little; “very kind. And you are English?
Will you tell me your name? I am an old man, and claim an old man’s
privilege--inquisitiveness--you see.”
“My name is Doris--Doris Marlowe,” said Doris, seating herself beside
him, and looking down the road in the hope that a carriage might come
up in which she could place him.
“Doris Marlowe? No,” he shook his head; “I never heard it before; and
yet I fancied your face awakened some dim memories. Do you know me,
Miss Marlowe?”
Doris looked at him, and shook her head.
“No,” she replied. She did not like to ask his name.
“Ah, perhaps that is as well,” he said, with a faintly cynical smile;
“I mean that I am not worth knowing. And are you living here, Miss
Marlowe? Your mother must be a very happy woman, having so sweet a
daughter,” and he drooped his head toward her, with the old, graceful
salute.
A deep red stained Doris’ pale face.
“My mother is dead,” she said.
He put up his white hand, with a pleading gesture.
“Forgive me, my dear! Your father----”
“I have no father,” said Doris, almost inaudibly, and with a strange
pang shooting through her heart. “There was one who was father and
mother to me, but--he is dead, too,” and her voice quivered.
“You are young to have seen so much trouble,” he said, pityingly. “But
you are living here with some relative, is it not so?”
Doris shook her head.
“I have not a relative in the world,” she replied. “I am living with
Lady Despard. I am her companion.”
“Lady Despard?” he put his white hand to his head. “Lady Despard?
I--I think I know her. And you are living with her? I envy her her
companion, my dear. I will do myself the honor of calling upon her.
Tell me your name again. I--I forget, sometimes. I am very old, older
than you think, because you see I am so strong still. You smile?”
sharply.
“No, no, I did not smile, indeed!” said Doris, quickly. “But I do not
think you are strong enough--you have told me that you have been ill,
you know--to walk about alone.”
He sighed, and shrugged his shoulders, with a mirthless smile.
“Alone. I have only a valet, and I hate to have him with me. I had a
wife once”--he stopped, and looked darkly before him--“she left me--she
died, I mean, of course and I’ve no one else. I had a child, a little
girl, but she died, too. You see, I am like you somewhat, though I
have other relations who, doubtless, wish that I would die also,” and
he smiled, cynically.
Doris shrank a little, then, ashamed of the momentary repugnance, said,
gently:
“That is not true, I am sure. And now, will you tell me where you live?
I will come with you if you will let me. Or will you come with me to
Lady Despard’s, and have her carriage?”
He shook his head and straightened himself.
“I have the Villa Vittoria,” he said.
Doris knew it. It was the largest, and, after Lady Despard’s, the
handsomest in Pescia.
“Yes, I know it,” she said. “It is too far for you to go alone. When
you are rested--but there is no hurry, we will stay as long as you
like--I will go with you.”
“You are very kind, my dear,” he said, looking at her with a gentleness
which assuredly was an unfamiliar expression on that cold, haughty
face. “Very! I will rest a little longer, if I may.”
He sat silent for a short time, and Doris heard him murmuring her name
several times, and then he looked up and sighed.
“No, I don’t remember, and yet----” he passed his hand over his
forehead with a wistful, puzzled look in his keen eyes. “I am ready
now, my dear young lady,” he said, presently. “You see, I accept your
kind offer,” as he placed his hand upon the arm Doris offered him. “Not
so long ago, fair ladies were wont to rest upon my arm; now the order
is changed. One gets old suddenly!” he added, with a grim smile. “And
I have been ill. I think I told you. Yes, very ill. They thought I was
dead; but”--with a gesture of defiance--“my race die hard---die hard!
And you have no father or mother? That is sad! Did I tell you I had
a little girl once? She died! Yes, she died!” His head drooped for a
moment. “If she had lived and stayed with me, I should have had her arm
to lean upon. By Heaven, I never thought of that before!” he exclaimed,
in a suppressed voice, and his head sank lower.
They crossed the bridge in silence, and reached the Via Grandia, where
Doris saw a man, whom she took for a servant, hurriedly cross the road
and approach them.
“I am afraid you are ill, my lord,” he said, touching his hat. “I
missed you on leaving the chemist’s----”
The old gentleman drew his hand slowly from Doris’ arm, and took the
servant’s.
“This is my man, Miss Marlowe,” he said, “and I shall not need to tax
your kindness and patience any longer. How deeply grateful I am for
that kindness and patience I cannot tell you. But for you----” He
stopped expressively. “Will you tell Lady Despard that I shall have the
honor of calling upon her to-morrow, to congratulate her upon having so
sweet and beautiful a friend?”
“Yes,” replied Doris, allowing her soft, warm hand to remain in his,
which seemed to cling to it confidingly. “But you have not told me your
name yet?” she added, with a smile.
“Have I not?” he said; “I am the Marquis of Stoyle, my dear.”
Doris recoiled, and drew her hand away so suddenly that his thin,
feeble one fell abruptly to his side.
“The Marquis of Stoyle!” she echoed, every vestige of color leaving
her face. “Yes, I will tell her, my lord,” and she turned and walked
quickly away.
The marquis looked after her with knitted brows--looked so long that
the valet gently pressed his arm as a reminder.
“Yes, yes--I am coming!” exclaimed the old man, impatiently. Then he
said, “Do I know that young lady? You saw her--do I know her? She has
been very kind to me--very!”
“No, my lord, she is a stranger to me,” replied the man.
“A stranger. Yes, yes. And yet----”
And, with knitted brows and troubled look in his eyes he permitted his
man to lead him away.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
OUT OF THE PAST.
“So the illustrious visitor turns out to be the great Marquis of
Stoyle!” exclaimed Lady Despard, with a laugh of surprise. “The Marquis
of Stoyle! And you have been leading him about like a blind beggar? How
I wish I had been there to see you! But it seems to have upset you,
dear,” she added; “you look really pale now, and--why, you haven’t been
crying?” and she drew Doris beside her on to the lounge.
“No, I haven’t been crying,” said Doris, quietly; then, after a
pause, she said, gravely, “I have promised to marry Percy Levant in a
fortnight’s time, Lady Despard.”
Her ladyship started.
“In a--what time did you say? A fortnight! Oh, nonsense! No wonder
you look pale! I think it is a shame you should try to impose upon my
credulity, Doris; for, of course, it is only a joke!”
“It is sober earnest, dear Lady Despard,” said Doris; and then she
told her of the letter of Spenser Churchill containing the offer of an
engagement for Percy Levant.
“And you intend to marry him and go with him! What on earth shall I do
without you? What shall I do? What a wicked girl you must be to entice
me into loving you so, and then to leave me! Why, I didn’t expect this
dreadful marriage to take place for at least two years, and now--! Two
weeks! You must love him very dearly, Doris.”
“I respect him very highly,” said Doris. “He is not like some men--”
she sighed--“he is true and steadfast, and he--he really cares for me,
I think,” in a low voice. “Why should I not make him happy if I can?”
“Really cares for you! Yes, I should think he does; why, child, he
worships every inch of ground those little feet of yours tread on. And
so he might, considering the many others who would be only too happy to
take his place. And why should you make him happy? Well, I don’t know.
But it seems to me, dear, that you are one of those women who consider
that they were only born to make others happy. I only hope that you
will make yourself happy.”
“Oh, yes; I shall be as happy as I deserve,” said Doris with a faint
smile.
“And you have quite made up your mind?” demanded Lady Despard.
“Quite,” said Doris.
“Then the only thing to be done is to grin and bear it, for I know the
stiff-necked, resolute kind of young person you are. Oh, there is one
other thing we must do: we can set about getting your things ready.”
“I shall not want many,” said Doris; “we are both very poor, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said Lady Despard, dryly. “All the same, I suppose you
will go decently clad.”
“And the wedding is to be very quiet,” said Doris, pushing back the
hair from her forehead with a weary little gesture; “quite quiet. I
don’t want any bridesmaids--”
Lady Despard shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, very well; have it all your own way. You shall be married at
midnight, and in darkest secrecy, if you like. And in a fortnight!
Great heavens! Why, it scarcely gives one time to make a couple of
dresses.”
“Which are all I shall require,” said Doris, with a smile. “Dear Lady
Despard, you forget that it is not your sister who is going to be
married, but only your companion.”
Lady Despard moved away with a despairing gesture.
“I only wish you were my sister. I would show you if you should make
ducks and drakes of your future in this way.”
“Don’t let us talk about it any longer,” said Doris, rising and
stretching out her arms as if she were ridding herself of some incubus.
“No, the better thing to do is to act and not talk. Put on your hat,
and let us go down to the shops and see if there is anything decent we
can buy. A fortnight! I rather liked Percy Levant on the whole, but now
I feel as if I hated him. I wish to Heaven, Spenser Churchill had not
sent him with us!”
Apparently the Pescia drapers had something decent on sale, for her
ladyship made purchases so extensive as to alarm Doris, who, when
she remonstrated, was told to mind her own business; and the next
two or three days were occupied in consultation with dressmakers and
milliners; and Lady Despard had quite forgotten the Marquis of Stoyle
and his promised visit.
But Doris had not. And often as she sat, surrounded by “materials” and
bonnet shapes, she thought of the strange meeting with the man who had
stepped in between her and Lord Cecil, and robbed her of her lover.
How surprised he would have been if she had said:
“Yes, I know, my lord. You are the man who has wrecked my whole life,
and broken my heart!”
And yet that was what he had done; for in losing Cecil Neville she had
lost all that makes life worth living.
Was there a single night in which, in feverish dreams, she did not hear
his voice, and feel his passionate kisses on her lips? Was there a
single morning on which she did not wake with that dull aching of the
heart which some of us know so well! And she was to marry another man
in a fortnight!
During these two days Percy Levant was absent. He, too, had to make
preparations for the approaching wedding, and, strange to say, Doris
missed him. He had been so like her shadow for months past, always near
her and ready, and promptly ready, to forestall her lightest wish, that
his absence made itself felt.
On the third day Lady Despard and she were sitting in the former’s
boudoir, literally up to their knees in millinery, when a footman
brought in a card.
“Can’t see any one this afternoon,” said Lady Despard. “Unless they
understand and can undertake plain sewing. Who is it, dear?”
Doris took the card.
“The Marquis of Stoyle,” she answered, falteringly.
Lady Despard rose in her usual languid style.
“The marquis! Oh, I think we must see him, dear. He has come to pour
out his gratitude----”
“It isn’t the marquis, my lady, but his valet,” said the footman.
Lady Despard sank back into the midst of the whirlpool of muslin.
“Oh, well, show him in.”
“Here, my lady?”
“Yes; I’m too busy to go to any one short of a marquis.”
The valet, a grave, distinguished-looking man, who might well have been
taken for a marquis, or, for that matter, a duke, entered a moment or
two afterward, and bowed.
“His lordship’s compliments, my lady, and he would be glad to know how
Miss Doris Marlowe is.”
Lady Despard jerked her thumb lightly toward Doris.
“That is Miss Marlowe.”
The valet bowed respectfully--very respectfully--to Doris.
“His lordship is very ill, miss; or he would have done himself the
honor to wait upon you to thank you for your great kindness to him,” he
said.
Doris’ face flushed for an instant.
“I am sorry,” she said, bending over her work; “but I did very little,
as the marquis knows.”
“He is very ill, miss--that is, he is very weak, and----” he hesitated,
“and he requested me to say that he should deem it a very great favor,
indeed, if you would come and see him. He wished me to say that, if he
could have crawled--crawled was his word, my lady”--turning to Lady
Despard, “he would have come himself. But he is quite confined to his
room, and perfectly unable to leave it. The marquis is an old man, you
see, my lady, and has been ill, very ill.”
Lady Despard looked at Doris and seemed to wait her reply; and the
valet crossed his hands and also seemed to wait, respectfully and
patiently.
Doris’ white brow wrinkled painfully, and she laid a tremulous hand
upon Lady Despard’s arm.
“I--I don’t know,” she said, in a troubled voice.
“His lordship has spoken of you several times, miss,” said the valet,
in an earnest tone; “indeed, he has talked of little else since he
came home. He is very old, you see----”
Doris’ gentle heart melted at the repetition of this simple formula.
“What shall I do?” she whispered to Lady Despard.
Her ladyship shrugged her shoulders.
“I suppose you had better go. Of course you will go. Why, you know you
couldn’t resist an appeal of this kind!”
Doris looked before her with wistful, troubled eyes for a moment or
two, then she laid down the work she was engaged on.
“I will come with you,” she said.
When she re-entered the room with her hat and jacket on, she looked
round, and taking some flowers from one of the vases, quickly
rearranged them, and then said:
“I am ready.”
“I will get a carriage, my lady----” said the valet; but Doris shook
her head.
“It is no distance; I would rather walk.”
Lady Despard waved her hand to her with a smile made up of affection
and amusement.
“Another conquest, my dear,” she said. “It’s a pity Percy Levant isn’t
a curate; you would have made such an admirable district visitor.”
On their way through the quiet streets the valet, answering Doris’
questions, gave her some information respecting the marquis’ condition.
“It was the excitement of the grand party, you see, miss,” he said.
“The party given in Lady Grace’s honor, the young lady who is to marry
my Lord Cecil, that did it. His lordship isn’t used to excitement,
and it was quite against Lord Cecil’s wish that the party was given,
but the marquis was so delighted at the engagement that he would
insist--I’m afraid I’m walking too fast for you, miss,” he broke off,
as he glanced at Doris’ face, which had grown pale and wan.
“No, no,” she said, quickly. “It--it is rather warm. Lady Grace is very
beautiful, is she not? Yes, I know she is beautiful.”
“Oh, yes, miss; her ladyship is one of the acknowledged beauties, as I
dare say you are aware.”
“Yes,” said Doris, raising her nosegay to her face to hide the quiver
of the lips. “And--and Lord Cecil”--how little the man guessed the
effort it cost her to speak the name!--“he is very much attached----”
she stopped, remembering that it was rather indiscreet to discuss his
master’s affairs with this man.
“Attached to her ladyship, miss?” he said, with perfect respect. “Yes,
oh, yes; how could he be otherwise?” He seemed to hesitate a moment,
then he said, rather reflectively, “Lord Cecil has rather changed of
late.”
“Rather changed?” said Doris, faintly.
“Well, yes, miss. He used to be rather wild, and certainly always in
the best of humors, what would be described as light-hearted. I used to
say that it made one laugh one’s self to hear his laugh, so free and
blithesome it was, so to speak. But he’s got quieter of late, and we
hear him laugh scarcely at all now. But perhaps you know his lordship,
miss?”
A scarlet wave of color rose and passed over Doris’ face, and she shook
her head silently.
“Ah, well, miss, you wouldn’t have known him for the same person.
Perhaps it’s the responsibility of this engagement and the marquis’
illness.”
“He--is not here?--here at Pescia?” she asked, stopping short suddenly,
with a look of alarm.
“Oh, no, miss; or of course he would have brought the marquis’ message
instead of me. Oh, no; it was the marquis’ wish that he should come on
the Continent quite alone, and Lord Cecil remained, very reluctantly,
in England. Of course, I should take upon myself to send for him if the
marquis got seriously worse. This is the house--villa, as they call
it,” and he conducted Doris into the miniature palace which his agents
had succeeded in renting for the marquis.
Doris waited in the--literally--marble hall, while the valet went
upstairs to convey the result of his mission to his master, and she
employed the few minutes before his return in composing herself.
She was going, in obedience to his whim, to sit beside the bed of this
sick old man, who had robbed her of her lover and wrecked all her life,
the Marquis of Stoyle, at whose request or command Lord Cecil had
abandoned her!
“If any one had told me that I should have done this thing,” she
mused, in sad wonderment, “with what scorn I should have repelled the
suggestion; and yet--I am here. And, what is more wonderful still, I
cannot hate him--could not, if I tried. Is it because he is so old, and
ill, and helpless, and looks so unhappy? Only the wretched can feel for
the wretched, they say,” and she sighed as she followed the man up the
stairs into a carefully-shaded room.
The great marquis lay upon a couch wrapped in his velvet dressing-gown,
the brightness of which seemed to heighten the effect of his pallid,
wasted face, with its piercing eyes shining like brilliants in their
hollow, dark-ringed sockets.
He made an effort to rise as she entered, but fell back with an
apologetic wave of his emaciated hand.
“You see how helpless I am, my dear!” he said; “worse than when you
so generously came to my aid the other day. And so you consented to
gratify the sick fancy of an old man, and have come to see me!”
Doris drew near and took the hand he extended to her, and as she bent
over him a strange, mysterious feeling of pity thrilled through her.
“I am so sorry to see you so weak, my lord,” she said, gently; “but you
will be better when the weather is cooler.”
“Yes, yes,” he assented, eagerly. “Oh, yes; I shall get better! It
is only a passing weakness! I have been very ill--I told you? Yes, I
am very strong. We Stoyles have the constitution and”--with a grim
smile--“the temper of Old Nick! Yes, I shall get better.”
“I have brought you some flowers,” said Doris.
The valet came forward with a vase, but the marquis waved him back.
“No,” he said. “Give them to me! Give them to me,” and he took them
from her with a courtly eagerness. “Ah, beautiful; and you were so
gracious as to think of them! They are almost as beautiful as yourself;
but not more pure, not more innocent or pure,” he added to himself,
with a strange, wistful gravity, as his eyes rested on her sweet face,
“whose goodness lay open to all men’s eyes,” as the poet says.
The valet came forward again to arrange the pillows, which had slipped
down, and the marquis’ face flashed angrily.
“Go, go!” he said, irritably.
The man drew back with unmoved countenance, and Doris leaned forward.
“Let me put them more comfortably for you, my lord,” she said.
He allowed her to do it, without a word or sign of protest or
resentment, and sank back with a sigh.
Oh, woman, in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou.
“Scott! Walter Scott! I can understand that now--now you are here! Yes,
a ministering angel!”
He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he turned his keen eyes
upon her inquiringly.
“You look pale and sad. Have you been in trouble? I have no right to
ask, you will say; but curiosity is an old man’s privilege, remember,
my dear.”
“‘Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward,’ my lord,” said
Doris, in a low voice.
“Aye,” he said, knitting his brows “Yes. Trouble we make for ourselves;
but sorrow must have been unmerited in your case, child. Tell me----”
he stopped short and sighed. “I am forgetting,” he said. “Why should
you tell me? I am not your father----” he stopped again. “Did I tell
you that I had a daughter once? She is dead. If she had lived she would
have been about your age, I think. I wish----” again he stopped, and
the proud lips quivered slightly. “I have neither son nor daughter;
only a nephew, who, doubtless, thinks I am an unconscionable time
dying; and he is right. It is time that there was a new Marquis of
Stoyle.”
Doris looked down.
“I--I think you do him an injustice, my lord,” she said.
He laughed the old cynical laugh.
“If he doesn’t, I’ve no doubt Grace does. Lady Grace Peyton, the girl
he is going to marry,” he explained, “is a clever girl; too clever for
Cecil,” and he smiled half-scornfully. “She will have all the brains,
and, perhaps, he will have all the honesty. Yes, I’ll say that for him;
he may be a fool, but he’s no knave. A knave would have been too sharp
for us----” He put his hand to his brow as if his memory were slipping
from him and he was endeavoring to keep a hold upon it. “Did I tell you
about him and Lady Grace? I think I told you.”
Doris shook her head.
“No, my lord,” she replied, almost inaudibly.
“No? I thought----” He paused, and looked round with a helpless
sigh. “I have forgotten it now. Spenser Churchill could tell you.
It will amuse you.” He smiled with childish enjoyment. “I wish I
could remember, but I can’t. My memory is worse, much worse since my
illness;” and he sighed again.
“Do not distress yourself, my lord,” said Doris. “You shall tell me
when you remember it, if you like.”
He inclined his head.
“One time, not so long ago, I could remember everything,” he said,
with a forced smile which was infinitely pitiable. “Not a face or a
story but I could carry it in my mind, and now”--he looked at her
apologetically--“I have actually forgotten your name, who have been so
kind to a feeble old man, my dear.”
“Doris Marlowe,” said Doris.
He repeated it twice or thrice; then shook his head.
“Yes, a pretty name. I don’t think I ever heard it before. My little
girl’s name was Mary. They wanted to call it Lucy, after her mother;
but there has always been a Mary Neville--until now. I told you she
died, did I not?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Doris, soothingly.
“Y--es,” he repeated, musingly. “If she had lived I should have had
some one, like yourself, to see me through the last mile of life’s
race--the last mile. I kept race horses once. I’ve done and seen
everything in my time. Wicked Lord Stoyle they called me. But through
it all I was never so bad as some. Spenser Churchill, for instance----”
“Mr. Spenser Churchill has been very good to me, my lord,” said Doris,
gently.
The keen, piercing eyes opened upon her with amazement.
“Good to you!--Spenser Churchill? You are jesting, child. He was never
good to any one, man or woman!” he laughed. “Spenser Churchill. Why, it
was he who----” He stopped, with a troubled look on his face. “No--I’ve
forgotten--it has slipped me again. It is something Grace was in, too.
Clever woman, Grace; too clever for Cecil. But I had my way. Yes! I had
my way.”
Doris rose.
“I must go now, my lord,” she said, faintly.
“Yes?” he said, wistfully. “Yes, I suppose so. It was very good of you,
my dear, to humor an old man’s whim. Let me look at you,” and he raised
himself on his elbow. “You are very pretty. Did I tell you I had a
daughter? Yes, yes. I think--it is only a fancy, this--that she would
have looked like you. He will be a happy man who wins that beautiful
face and gentle heart!”
Doris’ face flushed, and her eyes dropped, and his keen ones noted her
embarrassment.
“Ah,” he said; “there is some one already, is there not?”
“Yes, my lord,” said poor Doris, in a low voice.
He nodded.
“Yes, yes! Who is he? What is his name? But it’s no use telling me; I
can’t remember, you see! I should like to see him. Will you ask him
to come and see me, an old man on the verge of the grave? You can say
that, though it isn’t true! No, I’m worth twenty dead men still,” and
he raised himself, and glared at the opposite wall with a proud, cold
hauteur, which made Doris shrink, for suddenly there flashed upon her
mind the night Jeffrey had taken her to Drury Lane, and she had seen
the old, stern-looking man in the box; and this was he! She remembered
and recognized him now.
She rose trembling, and filled with a vague fear.
“Must you go? Thank you for coming to me! Remember, tell the fortunate
man who has won you that I shall esteem it a favor if he will bring you
to see me again. I should like to congratulate him upon the treasure
he has got.”
His shaking hand rested in her soft palm for a moment, then he fell
back with a sigh; but immediately afterward, as she left the room, she
heard him address his valet in a dead, cold voice.
Doris went home greatly agitated.
“Your visit has been a trying one, I am afraid, dear,” said Lady
Despard, regarding her pale face with sympathetic curiosity. “Was he a
very irritable old man? I’ve heard all sorts of stories about him.”
Doris sighed.
“He is very ill and old,” she said. “He--he was very kind and gentle to
me,” and, though she could scarcely have told why, her eyes grew moist.
“Well, he would have to be a perfect monster, with a heart of stone,
if he had been anything else than kind and gentle to you. And now
I have some good news for you. Percy Levant has come back. All his
preparations are complete, he says, for the happy event----”
Doris started. She had almost forgotten Percy Levant in the excitement
of the interview with the marquis, and the memories and emotions he had
evoked.
“I should think he had been working pretty hard or worrying about
something,” continued Lady Despard, “for he looks as grave as a judge,
and hadn’t a laugh in him. Oh, here he comes.”
Percy Levant entered the room as she spoke, and Lady Despard, murmuring
some excuse, left the two young people alone.
He took Doris’ hands, and looked down at her with a grave tenderness
that, if she had met his gaze, would have startled her by its sadness.
“Well, Doris,” he said, “I have come back, and all is ready.”
“I am glad you have come back,” she said, in her low, sweet voice.
“Lady Despard has missed you terribly.”
“And you?” he asked.
“And I!” she answered, lifting her eyes to his face for a moment. “Yes,
I have missed you. I have not so many friends that I can afford to lose
one without missing him.”
“Friend!” he said, almost inaudibly. “Well, yes, I am truly your
friend. And you don’t regret--you have no misgivings as to the future,
Doris?”
She paused, almost perceptibly, then, in a still lower voice, replied:
“No, I have no regrets, no misgivings. I--I trust you entirely.”
“Yes, dearest,” he said, and he bent and kissed her hands, “and you may
do so, I think, entirely. I must go and dress now.”
“Wait a moment,” she said, falteringly. “I have something to tell you,”
and she told him of her meeting with the marquis and her visit to him.
“The Marquis of Stoyle!” he said, as she mentioned his name, and he let
her hands drop suddenly. “The Marquis of Stoyle!” and his eyes rested
upon her face with a curious expression.
“Yes,” she said, her heart beating. “Do--do you know him?”
“No; but I have heard of him,” he replied. “Who has not? He is the
uncle of Lord Cecil Neville;” and he watched her closely.
Her face flushed for an instant, then grew pale again.
“Yes,” she said, simply. “And will you come with me to see him? He is
very ill, worse than he thinks, and--and nearer death than he would
believe.”
“I will come with you if you wish it,” he said. “I will do anything you
wish, now and always, Doris.”
“Well, I do wish it. I don’t know why,” she said, with a smile that was
rather troubled, “but I do wish it.”
“Then we will go,” he said, as a matter of course. “And now I’ll go and
make myself presentable.”
With his change of clothes he seemed to have got rid of the gravity
and melancholy which Lady Despard had remarked upon; and that evening
he was the Percy Levant of old, causing Lady Despard to laugh until
she declared that she was tired, and bringing a smile even to Doris’
quietly brooding face.
Once or twice Lady Despard referred to the now rapidly-approaching
marriage day, but when she did so he evaded the subject and changed it,
as if it were too close to his heart to be spoken of lightly.
“After all, dear,” said Lady Despard, as she came into Doris’
dressing-room for a few minutes’ chat before going to bed, “I don’t
know that you could have done better. He loves you to distraction, and
he’s awfully clever and light-hearted. You’ll never know what it is to
be bored for a single moment,” and her ladyship, recalling the many
wearisome hours she had endured in the society of her dear departed,
sighed; “and he is really the handsomest man I have ever met. Yes, I
don’t know, dear, that you haven’t done wisely in choosing him. But I
wish he had some money and a title. I have a fancy that you ought to be
called ‘my lady.’ There is something about you--a certain dignity----”
Doris swung her thick hair over her shoulders, and looked down at Lady
Despard’s pensive face with a smile.
“That’s ‘spoke sarcastic,’ as Artemus Ward would say,” she said. “I ‘my
lady’! Plain ‘Mrs.’ will suit me better than anything grander, I think.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Lady Despard; “but it can’t be helped
now, and, after all, one is none the happier for a title; and I do hope
you will be happy, dear! You deserve it so very much,” and she put her
arm round the slim waist and kissed her.
Doris slept little that night. The white, haggard face of the old man
haunted her, and, strangely enough, the frank, handsome one of Lord
Cecil, in all its bravery of youth and strength, mingled with it in an
inextricable fashion.
At breakfast Percy Levant was still in a bright humor, and jested even
about their visit to the marquis.
“Not content with playing the Lady Charitable herself, you see, Lady
Despard, Doris must needs make a district visitor of me! What part do
I take now? Am I to carry the basket with the tea and tracts, or what?
Perhaps, when you get there, the marquis will have forgotten your
existence.”
“I am quite sure he is too gallant to do that,” interrupted Lady
Despard.
“Or perhaps he will regard my presence as an intrusion, and order me
to be cast into the deepest dungeon. Anyway, I suppose we have got to
chance it, so put on your things, Doris, and let us get it over.”
Doris filled a basket with some flowers, and a bunch of grapes--“just
to keep up the character,” Percy Levant remarked--and the valet
received them in the villa with an air of respectful gratitude.
“His lordship has been inquiring for you all the morning, miss,” he
said. “He has spoken of nothing else, scarcely,” he said, as he led
them upstairs.
As Doris entered she saw, or fancied she saw, that a change had taken
place even in the few hours since she had last seen him; and his voice
sounded to her weaker, as, raising himself on his elbow, he stretched
out his hand toward her with feeble eagerness.
“Thank you, thank you, my dear!” he said, his thin, wasted fingers
closing over her soft, warm ones. “This is very good of you, very! And
this, who is this?”
“This is Mr. Levant,” said Doris, in a low voice.
“Mr. Levant,” he repeated, in quite a different voice. “And who
is----Ah, yes, I remember. I thank you sir, for granting my request,”
and he inclined his head to Percy Levant with stately courtesy. “I
wished to see you, wished to see you very much. This young lady has
been very kind to the old and feeble man you see before you. She has a
gentle and a good heart, sir. And you are the fortunate man who has won
her, it would seem.”
“I deem myself very fortunate, my lord,” said Percy Levant.
The keen, piercing eyes seemed to dart through him.
“That is the truth, if you never spoke it before,” he retorted, in his
old, cynical way. “Have I had the honor of meeting you before, Mr.
Levant?”
“Never that I am aware of, my lord,” said Percy Levant; “and my
acquaintances are so few that I am not likely to have forgotten it.”
“Ah,” said the old man, still eying him as if he were trying to gain
some glimpse of his character. “You are ready with a repartee, I
observe.”
“One need be who would hope to be worthy of crossing swords with the
Marquis of Stoyle.”
The old man’s eyes glittered.
“Good, good!” he said, in a low voice; then, to Doris, whose hand he
still held as she sat beside the couch: “You will have a clever man
for a husband, my dear, and that is better than having a fool.”
Doris hung her head.
“And you, sir, will have such a treasure as falls to the lot of few
mortals.”
Percy Levant, as he stood with folded arms, bowed gravely.
“I am fully sensible of that, my lord.”
“You should be,” said the marquis.
There was a moment’s silence, during which his eyes lost their keen
expression and grew absent and dreamy.
“Marriages are made in heaven,” he said, as if to himself. “Yes, in
heaven. Do you know my nephew, Cecil Neville?”
Doris sank lower into her chair, and averted her face.
“I have heard of him, my lord,” replied Percy Levant.
“Ah, no doubt! He is not clever, but he marries a clever girl! Yes,
Grace is clever,” and a smile curved his thin lips. “Cecil gave us some
trouble, but we were too sharp for him. I think I told you, my dear?”
he broke off to ask of Doris.
She shook her head and tried to speak, to lead him away from further
mention of the name which struck her heart, but with the persistence of
old age he went on:
“It’s a curious story, Mr.----forgive me, sir, but I have forgotten
your name.”
“Percy Levant; but it is of no consequence, my lord.”
“Thank you, Mr. Levant. A curious story. My nephew, Cecil Neville, is
the next in succession. He will be the Marquis of Stoyle. We were never
very friendly. My fault, no doubt; I plead guilty, my dear,” to Doris.
“All old men in my position have plans, and I have one. I wanted him to
marry Peyton’s daughter Grace. You see, Peyton and I were old friends,
and Grace had a claim upon me. I thought she would make a very good
marchioness, and a capital match for Cecil. I’m afraid I weary you,
sir,” he broke off.
“On the contrary,” said Percy Levant, in a constrained voice, and
carefully avoiding looking in Doris’ direction.
“No? You are very good. Well, I wanted Cecil to marry her. I expected
some opposition, but, by gad, I didn’t expect that he would thwart me
to the extent of falling in love--engaging himself to another girl!”
Doris, white and trembling, laid her hand upon his arm.
“You--you will tire yourself, my lord,” she managed to murmur.
“No, no,” he said. “I want to tell you, my dear. It is a very good
story. Where was I----”
“Lord Cecil was in love with another lady, I believe, my lord,” said
Percy Levant, in a dry voice.
“Yes, yes,” murmured the marquis, feebly, “a young person by the name
of----” He stopped and knit his brows. “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember
her name!”
“It is of no consequence, my lord,” said Percy Levant, still averting
his eyes from the spot where Doris sat with drooping head.
“I can’t remember her name. She was an actress. An actress! Imagine it,
my dear!” and he turned to Doris with a smile. “A common actress to be
the Marchioness of Stoyle! I thought Cecil had gone out of his mind,
and that I could laugh him, or argue him out of his absurd fancy; but
sarcasm and logic were thrown away upon him, and I admit that I should
have been beaten, yes, beaten!--I, who had never been thwarted in my
life!--but, fortunately, some one came to my aid.”
He stopped and dropped back upon the cushions; and Doris, with an
effort, rose and gave him some water.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, gratefully, his eyes resting on her pale
face with an affectionate smile.
“Spenser Churchill----” Doris nearly let the glass fall and sank back
into her chair.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill, the great philanthropist, my lord?” asked Percy
Levant, in a dry voice.
The marquis laughed a sardonic laugh.
“Yes, the great philanthropist! The man who takes the chair at the
great annual meetings; the man who champions the cause of the widow and
the orphans. Yes, that is the man. Everybody knows Spenser Churchill.”
He stopped and smiled, as if he were reveling in some memory connected
with the name. “That is the man. You know him?”
Percy Levant nodded.
“Every one knows him, my lord.”
“And believes in him! That’s an admirable joke! Well, he came to my
assistance. My nephew, Cecil, had arranged to meet his ‘ladye love,’
this actress girl, or to put a letter to her underneath a stone or in a
hollow tree--the usual thing, Mr.--Mr.----”
“Levant, my lord,” said Percy.
“Thank you, thank you! Yes, Mr. Levant. And my friend, Spenser
Churchill, the great philanthropist, suggested that I should send Cecil
out of the way, and that he, Spenser Churchill, should forge a letter
from Cecil dissolving the engagement, and place it in the hollow tree,
or whatever it was. I forget----” and he fell back, struggling for
breath.
Doris sat motionless as a statue, with her hands clasped in her lap.
Percy Levant bent over him and gave him some water.
“It--it was dangerous work, for Cecil had not left for Ireland,
and--and if he had caught Spenser Churchill----” He stopped and
smiled significantly. “But I’ll give Churchill his due. He risked the
thing, and exchanged the real letter for the forgery, and--_heigh,
presto!_--the engagement to this actress girl was done away with.
The simple girl fell into the pit Spenser Churchill had dug for her,
and”--he waved his thin, white hand--“there was an end of her, thank
Heaven!”
“Yes,” said Percy Levant, grimly, his eyes still fixed on the white,
wrinkled face; “and Lord Cecil, what of him?”
“Oh, he’ll get over it in time,” said the marquis. “I think he was hard
hit. I remember when he came back from Ireland he was rather cut up. I
think so. My memory is very bad. But he could not have felt it much,
for he proposed to Grace.”
“And Mr. Spenser Churchill--did he have anything to do with this
engagement, my lord?”
The marquis thought for a moment.
“I don’t know; but I expect he had. Oh, yes, he must have had, for I
promised to give him a couple of thousand pounds the day Cecil and
Grace were married and I daresay he did his best to earn it. Trust
Spenser Churchill for that!”
“Yes. And Lord Cecil and Lady Grace Peyton--are they married yet?”
asked Percy Levant.
The marquis shook his head.
“No; they are waiting until I get better, and I am getting better! I
shall be quite well directly; and, my dear, an idea has just struck me.
You shall be one of Grace’s bridesmaids!”
Doris started, and shrank back speechlessly. Suddenly she felt Percy
Levant’s hand upon her arm.
“Say ‘Yes,’” he said, hoarsely.
“I--I cannot!” she almost moaned.
Percy Levant looked at her; then he took her hand in his, and held it
for a moment.
“I understand,” he said, and dropped it gently. “Your lordship is very
kind,” he said; “but Miss Marlowe is going to be married very soon,
and, probably, before Lord Cecil. You have not told us the name of the
young lady whose engagement to Lord Cecil was so cleverly broken off by
Mr. Spenser Churchill. What was it?”
Doris rose, pale as a ghost, and caught Percy Levant’s arm.
“No, no!” she breathed. “No! Do not ask him that!”
The marquis knit his brows.
“Her name?” he said, in a low voice and with a bewildered air. “I--I
can’t remember. I am an old man, you see, sir, and--and--her name? What
was it?”
Doris, drooping like a lily bent by the storm, clung to Percy Levant’s
arm.
“No, you shall not ask him,” she panted.
Slowly, painfully, he removed her fingers from his arm.
“There is no need,” he said, inaudibly to the marquis; “you have told
me already. Her name was Doris Marlowe!”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
“I, TOO, AM FREE.”
“No need to tell me,” said Percy Levant in a voice inaudible to the
marquis. “I know!”
Doris sank back into her chair and covered her face with her hands.
The marquis leaned forward, regarding her with alarm.
“What is it? What is the matter?” he inquired, agitatedly. “What have
I said----” He broke down and began to cough and tremble, and the
valet hurried to his side; but the old man waved him away with feeble
savageness.
“What is the matter with her?” he demanded of Percy Levant as
imperiously as his weak voice would let him.
“Miss Marlowe is not strong, and the heat of the room----Come, Doris,”
he broke off more gently, and he drew her hand through his arm.
She was going with a glance--a glance of reproach--at the thin,
wrinkled face; then her heart seemed to yearn, and she touched the
wasted hand stretched out to her.
“Heaven forgive you, my lord!” she murmured, with infinite sadness, and
allowed Percy Levant to lead her away.
The marquis almost rose in his alarm and anxiety.
“Where are you going? What have I said? Come back----” Then he fell on
his side gasping for breath, and the terrified valet sprang to the bell
and sent for the doctor.
Doris walked home in a state of mind easy enough to imagine but very
difficult to describe. Imagine the emotion of a tender-hearted woman
who for many weary months has deemed the man she loved with all her
pure, ardent nature false, and then suddenly discovering that she has
misjudged and wrongfully condemned him!
The sudden shock of joy that ran through her almost seemed to deprive
her of her senses, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she
could refrain from crying aloud, “Oh, my love! my love! forgive me!
forgive me!” And if she did not say it aloud, the prayer rose from her
heart. The cruel letter, which she read and re-read daily in the hope
that its perusal would crush out her love for him, was false! A fiend
in the form of a man had betrayed them both, and Cecil was true! He had
loved her--loved her, Doris, until he had received that letter which
she had given to Spenser Churchill--had loved her and deemed her as
false as she had thought him!
For a time her mind failed to realize the web and woof of the plot
which the “philanthropist” had woven with such devilish cunning; but
though she did not know all the threads and lines of the scheme, she
gradually began to understand how completely she and Cecil had been
deceived. But why? What was the motive? She put the question away from
her, and returned to the delicious thought that, after all, he, Cecil,
had not deserted her; that the wicked letter was a forgery; and that
her faith in him was restored to her.
And Percy Levant watched by her side, tenderly supporting her trembling
arm in silence. Love bestows a keen insight into the feelings of the
one beloved, and he knew all that was passing through her mind, and
read it as one reads a printed book, and--he kept silence.
They reached the villa, and he led her into the hall.
“Go up to your room and rest,” he said, in a low voice.
“Yes,” she said, with a little start, as if she had forgotten his
presence. “Yes, I--I am tired--very, very tired!” and she pressed her
hand over her heart.
“Rest,” he repeated. “I shall remain in the house in case you
should want me,” and he dropped her hand, and, strolling into the
drawing-room, walked to the window, and looked out with the face of a
man who has received sentence of death, and to whom all mundane matters
can be of no consequence whatever.
Doris went upstairs to her own room slowly, and sank into a chair.
“Cecil was true! Cecil was true! Cecil loved me!” she repeated to
herself a hundred times; then suddenly she started, for on a chair
opposite her she caught sight of her wedding dress.
It was as if a ghost had suddenly risen to dispel her newly recovered
joy and happiness with a word, a breath.
Cecil had been true, yes, but he was engaged to Lady Grace, and she,
Doris, was within a few days of her marriage with Percy Levant.
The sudden revulsion of feeling sent the blood from her cheeks, and
made her blind and dizzy, and she stretched out her hands as if to push
some terrible phantom from her.
So she sat for a full minute; then her brain cleared, and she saw the
situation distinctly and plainly.
She had regained her faith in her lover, but--it was too late to save
her! After all, Spenser Churchill had effected his purpose, whatever
it was, for Lord Cecil Neville was almost wedded to Lady Grace, and
she----! She uttered a cry, almost a sob, as she thought of the man who
was waiting for her downstairs.
If Lord Cecil had loved her, so had Percy Levant, and with a love as
strong, and as true! Could she desert him? If so, then she would prove
herself as false as she had deemed Cecil Neville, who could be nothing
to her now, for was he not to marry Lady Grace? He had forgotten her,
Doris, by this time, and even if he had not, her word was pledged to
the other man who loved her so devotedly! What should she do? She fell
on her knees and hid her face in her hands, and in that attitude of
despairing supplication remained for half-an-hour.
Then she rose, and, bathing her burning eyes, went slowly downstairs.
He was there, standing at the window, and he came to meet her with a
haggard face, which told of the agony the intense suffering of waiting
had cost him.
“Are you--are you rested?” he said, in a low voice, and he took her
hand and led her to a couch. “I waited because I thought you would like
to say ‘good-by.’”
She just raised her heavy lids, then clasped her hands in her lap and
waited for him to go on.
“I am going. Of course, you know that. My love for you has not yet
robbed me of all manliness, Doris, and--I am going. This discovery
which you made this afternoon was half-suspected by me. The eyes of a
man who loves are keen in all matters pertaining to the woman he loves,
and from certain signs I suspected that Lord Cecil Neville was bound
up in your past life; but it was suspicion only. The marquis’ innocent
exposure has turned it into certainty. And so--I have waited to bid you
good-by.”
She sat perfectly motionless for a moment. Then she looked up at him,
with a piteous entreaty.
“What shall I say?” she murmured.
“Say nothing,” he replied, huskily. “I give you your freedom, Miss
Marlowe. Knowing, as I do, how cruelly you have been deceived--you and
Lord Cecil,” he put in, as if the speaking of his name were difficult
to him, “there is no other course open to me. I love you--ah, yes!--you
know that; but my very love for you pleads for you against myself! And
so I give you back all your pledges, and say simply, ‘good-by!’”
He held out his hand, eying her keenly and sorrowfully. But she did not
place her burning hand in his. Instead, she shook her head slowly.
“Stay,” she murmured, almost inaudibly, and her pale face grew crimson
for a second.
He leaned upon the couch, and bent over her, trembling, and white as
death.
“You say ‘Stay!’” he breathed. “Think--think what the word means to me,
Doris!”
“I--I have thought!” she breathed.
“It means--ah, you cannot imagine all it means to me! Will you repeat
it?”
“Yes,” she said, in as low a voice as before.
He took her hand and held it in his.
“And will you tell me that--that you do not love Lord Cecil; that you
can forget him?”
She turned her face away.
“Don’t--don’t drive me too hard!” she murmured, piteously.
His face grew wan and haggard again.
“I--I understand,” he said. “Yes, I understand--and I must be content.”
He let her hand fall, and walked to the window, turning his back to
her. Then he returned, and kneeling beside her, said, in a low voice:
“Doris, I asked you to trust me. I ask it still. Remember that no man,
not even Lord Cecil”--with a touch of bitterness--“could love you more
dearly than I love you; and--trust me.”
“Yes, I trust you! I have always done so,” she said, almost inaudibly.
“We are to be married on the sixteenth,” he said, musingly. “Everything
is ready, Doris.”
She inclined her head.
“We will be married on the sixteenth!” he said, almost solemnly. He
raised her hand to his lips. “Don’t look so scared, Doris,” he said,
with a curious smile. “I--I am a better man than you think me!” and,
dropping her hand, he left the room.
Doris had burned her boats. There was no returning across the river.
She had pledged herself now irrevocably.
The next morning at breakfast the marquis’ valet called to inquire
after Miss Marlowe.
“His lordship has been in a terrible state, miss,” he said, gravely.
“He was afraid that something he had said had offended or alarmed you,
and although he was put at a loss to remember what it was, the idea
distressed him very much, and seems to be preying on his mind. He was
very ill, indeed, last night, quite wandering, so to speak, and the
doctor did not leave him for a moment.”
“Please tell the marquis that I--I have forgiven all that he said,
that I know he was not aware there was anything to offend me in--in
the incident he related,” said Doris, painfully. “Yes; tell him that
whatever it was, I forgive it freely.”
“Thank you, miss,” said the valet, with a look of relief. “His lordship
will be very glad to get the message. Begging your pardon, miss, but
his lordship seems, if I may be so bold, to be wrapped up in you.
He was talking about her ladyship, the marchioness, last night, her
ladyship and the little girl, and he kept repeating your name, as if
you reminded him of her.”
Doris sighed. Percy Levant stood gravely regarding the tablecloth,
saying not a word.
“I suppose you have sent for Lord Cecil as the marquis is so much
worse?” said Lady Despard.
The valet shrugged his shoulders.
“I certainly intended doing so as soon as the telegraph office was
open this morning, my lady; but directly the marquis became conscious
he distinctly forbade me doing so. Of course, I should not disobey him
while he was sensible, and there was no immediate danger. The marquis
demands implicit obedience from his household, my lady.”
“Perhaps Miss Marlowe will be able to call and see him this morning,”
said Lady Despard, glancing inquiringly at Doris; but Doris grew pale,
and shook her head.
“Not to-day,” she said, in a low voice, and almost pleadingly.
“To-morrow--perhaps.”
The valet bowed.
“Thank you, miss,” he said, gratefully, and as he withdrew he added,
respectfully, “a sight of you will do him more good than all the
doctors in Italy, I am sure, miss.”
If Doris had promised to pay the sick man a visit she could not have
done so, for Percy Levant, without consulting either of the ladies,
ordered the phaeton and pair and calmly requested them to get their
things on.
“I am going to take you ladies for a long drive,” he said, with that
air of resolution which all women admire in a man. “You, Doris, because
you need it for your health’s sake, and you, Lady Despard, because you
are in danger of becoming a monomaniac!”
“Oh, indeed!” retorted Lady Despard, languidly; “and what’s my mania,
pray?”
“Wedding millinery,” he replied, pointing to the confused mass of lace
and muslin amid which Lady Despard seemed to exist.
“Well, there’s some truth in that,” she said, with a smile; “and,
anyway, I suppose we shall have to go, eh, Doris? And this is the man
whom we thought all milk and honey, so meek and docile as scarcely to
have a will of his own!” she added, pouting. “You see what you have
done, my dear; you have completely spoiled him by being foolish enough
to promise to marry him!”
She went for the drive, Percy Levant taking the reins and Doris
seated beside him, and in after years she remembered, with a singular
vividness, every incident of the day, almost every word he spoke. Never
had he been in lighter humor, or in better “form;” and if his object
was to drive, for the time at least, all remembrance of the marquis
and his story of Spenser Churchill’s villainy from her mind, he almost
succeeded, and as the hours sped by, the exquisite scenery, the keen,
fresh air, and the unflagging wit and humor of her companion brought
the color to Doris’ pale cheeks, and drove the lines of care and
trouble from her brow.
And through it all he permitted no sign of his own suffering to become
visible. The handsome face was serenely cheerful, the pliant lips wore
a settled smile, causing Lady Despard to look at him once, and exclaim,
with a sigh:
“I wish you could sell me that butterfly nature and disposition of
yours, Percy. I would give you more than half my kingdom.”
“Would you?” he said, turning on the box and glancing at Doris as he
did so. “Would you?” and a curious expression flashed across his face
for a moment. “I’m afraid you would be like the man who thought he
was doing a clever thing in buying a sovereign for nineteen shillings
and sixpence until he tried to change the coin and discovered that it
was--a counterfeit!”
They went to a country inn, at which he had ordered dinner by a
servant sent on before, and Lady Despard was enchanted by the dainty
simplicity of the menu and the manner in which he played the host, and
when he strolled off to smoke his cigar and leave them to trifle with
the grapes and the ripe figs which nestled in the center of a huge
_repousse_ dish of such flowers as only Italy can produce, Lady Despard
patted Doris on the cheek, causing her to start from a reverie, and
said:
“Yes, my dear, I will say it again: You have done very well! He will
be simply a treasure of a husband. I assure you, I don’t know another
man in all my extensive list of friends and acquaintances who could
have behaved so perfectly. Fancy taking two women out for the day,
keeping them amused every minute, and then giving them all the nice
things women love, not ugly chops and steaks, but all these delicate
things for dinner. And he’ll be just as fresh and bright all the way
home, of course! Yes, I must repeat it, my dear. I think you have made
an excellent choice, and if I hadn’t registered a vow never to marry
again, why--oh, there’s time to cut you out yet if I tried very hard,
so don’t look so exasperatingly self-confident! And now the best thing
you can do,” she went on, as Doris smiled and sighed, “is to go and
find him, and repay him for all his trouble with one of those sweet,
little speeches of yours, and several of those upward glances of those
blue eyes which seem so innocent and commonplace, and yet, as I have
been told, drive poor men to thoughts of suicide. Go and find him, my
dear; he hasn’t gone far, and is, of course, waiting for you to join
him. I shall be quite happy and content for an hour, I assure you. Come
back when the moon is up above those trees, and then we will start.”
“Which means that you want to go to sleep,” said Doris, smiling as she
rose.
“Quite right, dear,” assented Lady Despard, serenely. “I want to go to
sleep for a few minutes, and dream that I, too, have got a handsome
young man who is fortunately poor enough to have to work for me, and
who worships the ground I tread on. Go and find him, and--be good to
him, for he deserves it!”
Doris went slowly in the direction Percy Levant had taken, but she
did not see him, and presently, losing herself in her thoughts, she
wandered across the lawn which stretched between the inn and the high
road, and, leaning against the low wall, gave herself to brooding over
the confession which the marquis had made--if confession it could be
called!
Presently she was startled by the sound of wheels coming down the steep
road to her right, and a few minutes afterward she saw a traveling
carriage pull up at the door of the inn, amidst a great bustle and
confusion, the stamping of horses’ hoofs, the click of changing
harness, and the shouting of outriders.
Then she heard voices asking and answering questions, and among
them the landlord’s suave tones, begging some one--the travelers,
presumably--to enter and rest themselves while the horses were fed.
Doris listened in an absent kind of fashion, in which the noises and
voices came to her like those in a dream, until, suddenly looking up,
she saw the moon had risen above the tree tops, and she turned to go
back to the arbor in which Lady Despard was doubtless sleeping the
sleep of the just. As she did so, she heard a slow step at her side,
and glancing in its direction, saw a tall figure coming toward her
with a slow and listless step. She was drawing back into the shadow of
the shrubs to let him pass without seeing her, when suddenly the moon
smiled from behind a cloud, and poured its light full on his face, and
she saw that it was Lord Cecil Neville!
Yes, it was his face, but how altered! Pale and haggard it looked, as
if as many years as minutes had passed over it since she saw it last in
all its bright, fresh youthfulness, and it was the shock caused by this
change in the beloved face, as much as the sudden appearance which kept
her rooted to the spot.
She could not have moved if her life had depended on it, and he was
almost upon her before he noticed her. Then, raising his hat, he
murmured:
“Pardon, senorita,” and was going on, when, looking more closely at
her, he uttered an exclamation, and stood like herself, stock-still.
For a space in which one could count twenty, these two stood looking
into each other’s eyes speechless, then he said:
“Doris!” and stretching out his arms, made a step toward her.
For a second the desire to sink upon his breast was terrible, but she
fought against it and shrank back.
The color which had rushed to his face as he spoke her name died away
at her gesture of repudiation, and letting his arms drop to his side,
he said in a constrained voice:
“Miss Marlowe! Am I dreaming? Doris, is it you?”
“Yes, it is I,” she said, almost inaudibly, her heart beating so loudly
in her ears as almost to drown her voice.
“You! You!” he repeated, looking round as if he could not believe the
evidence of his senses. “You, and here! Good Heavens, I thought I was
dreaming!” he muttered. “I--I thought you were--when did you come
here?” he broke off as if he scarcely knew what he was saying; his eyes
devouring her face with the expression in them which might shine in the
eyes of a man who, dying of thirst, sees the limpid stream--just beyond
his reach.
“I--I came here, to Italy, some months ago, my lord,” she said, and her
voice sounded strange and hollow.
“Some months, some months?” he repeated, putting his hand to his head
and pushing the hair from his forehead; a trick which Doris remembered
with a vividness which was like a stab.
“Why, how could that be? You could not get back from Australia--and
yet, yes, I suppose so!”
She started and looked at him, and was about to exclaim, “Australia? I
have never been there, my lord!” when she thought it better to remain
silent, remembering the marquis’ story.
“You--you did not stay long,” he said. “Were you, are you happy?” he
asked, abruptly.
She turned her head away; her lips quivering at the dull accents of
pain in his voice.
“Few mortals are happy, my lord,” she replied, in a low voice.
He waved his hand impatiently.
“For Heaven’s sake don’t address me as if we were strangers!” he broke
out. “It is a farce in which I find it impossible to play! Doris----”
he stopped and drew nearer to her--“are you so hard of heart, or so
light of memory, that you can forget, absolutely forget, all that
passed between us--you and I? Have you forgotten Barton meadows? The
day I fell off the horse at your feet? the day I told you that I loved
you, and asked you to be my wife? the day you promised to be my wife?”
She shrank back against the wall, and put her hands against it as if to
sustain her and keep her from falling.
“Have you clean forgotten?” he demanded, bitterly.
“I have tried to forget,” she panted.
“Oh, Heaven!” he exclaimed, with suppressed passion; “and they say
women have hearts, they boast that women are gentle and merciful! You
tried to forget; and, of course, you succeeded! While I----” he drew
near to her and looked longingly at her pale face, all the lovelier for
its pallor and the intense light shining in the beautiful eyes, the
tremor on the perfectly curved lips; “while I have thought of you day
by day, night by night! I swear that there is not a night in which I
have not dreamed of you, in which you have not stood beside me to mock
me with those eyes of yours, to murmur the vows which fell so readily
from those sweet lips. Great Heavens, how cruel, how merciless even the
best of you can be!”
In the fury of his agony it almost seemed as if he were about to strike
her with his upraised hand, and Doris felt a wild thrill run through
her as the conviction that he still loved her forced itself upon her.
“He loves me still! He loves me still!” she almost cried aloud.
“Yes, the best of you,” he repeated, dully, like a man whose senses are
half numbed with pain. “For I counted you the best, and--Heaven help
me!--I still count you so! Doris--I don’t know by what name I should
call you, but till I die you will be ‘Doris’ to me--Doris, why did you
deceive me? I have lain awake at nights trying to answer that question.
I ask you to tell me now, now that all is over between us----” and he
bit his lips till the blood came as he gazed at the lovely, downcast
face. “All is over, and we are miles apart, worlds apart,” and he
stifled a groan, “and you can tell me safely. Why did you treat me as
you did? Was it simply deviltry, coquetry, what? What fun, amusement,
was there in it? They said you were practising your profession upon me;
that I was a mere block, which you were acting--always acting--up to.
Was that true?”
She made no reply, but stood statue-like, her hands pressed against the
rough wall, her heart beating in dull, heavy throbs which seemed to
stifle her.
“Was it true? If so, then you were the wickedest, the cruelest woman
God ever made!” he said, fiercely. “There are some women whose trade it
is--professed flirts--to fool and betray men; but they carry the sign
of their trade on faces and voices, and we men are aware of them. But
you--you, with that innocent face of yours, with that sweet, girlish
voice of yours, with those eyes whose truth a man might stake his soul
upon----” he stopped and gazed at her as if his soul were slipping from
him. “Why don’t you answer me?” he broke off, almost savagely.
Her dry lips quivered, a longing so intense as to be almost
irresistible assailed her; the desire to exclaim: “I did not deceive
you; I did love you; I still love you. No treachery of mine parted
us!” but she remembered the promise she had made to Percy Levant, the
promise renewed only that morning; remembered that he, Lord Cecil,
was either already married, or pledged to marry Lady Grace, and she
remained silent.
He drew a long breath and shrugged his shoulders.
“You can’t answer. I suppose it was merely for amusement that you led
me on to loving you, merely for amusement that you got the heart out
of my bosom, merely for amusement that you promised to be my wife, and
still merely for amusement--broke my heart!”
She turned. They say the worm will turn if trodden on too persistently.
“Was it only a broken heart you offered to Lady Grace, my lord?” she
said. The moment after she had spoken the words she would have recalled
them, for she saw by the sudden pallor of his face, the quiver of his
lips, how much they had cost him.
“I see,” he said, in a low voice; “you seek to excuse yourself of
unfaithfulness by accusing me!”
“No, no,” she breathed; but he went on, disregarding her.
“Yes, I am engaged to Lady Grace! It is quite true. All the world knows
it,” with a suppressed bitterness; “but I did not ask her to be my wife
until you had--jilted--me! Jilted! It is too light a word. Men use it
as a jest. But you did not jilt, you deserted and betrayed me!”
“I--I!” she panted.
“Yes!” he said, passionately. “You waited until I had left
England--left England to please and conciliate my uncle--and then,
disregarding my letters, my appeals to your love and your honor, you
coldly--like a finished coquette!--cast me off with a few cold words.
Good Heavens, I cannot recall it without feeling the old pain, the
old madness!” he broke off. “Oh, Doris, you have broken other hearts
than mine, I dare say, but you never broke one that loved you half as
dearly, half as truly, as mine did! I would have staked my life, my
honor, on your truthfulness. I would have upheld it in the face of
the whole world, and,” with a bitter smile, “should have been rightly
laughed at for my pains! Doris, the treachery that was sport to you,
was death to me! Look at me!” he drew nearer to her, and folded his
arms. “That day I lay with my head in your lap I was a young man, with
all a young man’s keen zest for life, with all a young man’s keen
desire for life and belief in happiness! I feel like an old man now,
bereft of all hope, haunted by the memory of your deceit. This is your
work! Be proud of it, if you can!”
She hid her face in her hands, lest it should tell him too much, and he
mistook the gesture and attitude for a confession of her guilt, and it
moved him to a softer mood.
“I--I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “Don’t--for Heaven’s sake--don’t
cry! That won’t do any good. I’m awfully sorry I should have blared
out what I felt. It’s--it’s all past and gone now. Of course, you are
married?”
Her lips formed the word “no,” though it was not audible.
“No!” he exclaimed, and the blood rushed to his face. “Not married!
Then you are still Doris Marlowe, still Doris--the Doris I think and
dream of----” He laid his hand on the wall and bent over her, trembling
visibly. “Not married! Why--why--I don’t understand! I thought--that
is--Doris----” a strange change in his voice smote upon her ears
suddenly, a tone of wild, mad hope. “Doris, I thought you were utterly
lost to me! That you were married! Why have you not married?”
She remained silent, and the color came and went on his face, and his
eyes flashed.
“Why, Doris? You must answer me! Is it because--ah, no! you can’t have
remembered--and yet----You are still Doris Marlowe! The dear, sweet
Doris who won my heart in Barton meadows! Doris--you--you--drive me
almost mad! The mere sight of you wipes out all the weary months since
we parted! You are free still? Free? By Heaven, I can scarcely believe
it!” He drew nearer, panting heavily, like a man who suddenly dares
entertain the hope that dawns upon him. “Not married! Doris, do you
remember? Let me look at your face! Why do you turn away from me? Are
you playing with me still? If you are not married, there must be some
reason! Great Heavens! don’t deceive, don’t betray me now! Listen! I,
too, am free! I will be free! I’d give up all the world for your sake!
Doris, listen to me! It may not be--it may not be too late!”
He was bending over her so closely now that she could feel his breath
upon her cheek; an awful, a terrible languor was creeping over her; if
he had caught her in his arms, and touched her lips with his, she could
not have resisted. Love, the all-powerful god, was pleading with her
for this, the only man she had ever loved, and she was conscious that
she was yielding--yielding.
“Tell me, Doris; tell me again!” he exclaimed, passionately. “It may
not be too late! You are not married; and I thought--they told me----My
darling, my love, my Doris----”
His hand was upon her arm, his lips close to her face, his breath
stirred her hair; she felt powerless to move; in another moment she
would, by no consent of her own, have been in his arms, when, suddenly,
she felt herself drawn from him, and a voice said, in calm, clear
accents:
“Lord Cecil Neville, I believe?”
Cecil drew himself up to his full height.
“My name is Neville,” he said, haughtily.
Percy Levant slowly and gently drew Doris’ arm within his.
“So I imagined, my lord,” he said, not sternly nor haughtily, but
with a calm--almost judicial--gravity. “I could have wished that our
meeting could have been under freer circumstances,” and he nodded
significantly; “but as it is, allow me to introduce myself! My name is
Levant--Percy Levant!”
Lord Cecil gave the short, military bow which is half a nod and half an
obeisance, and glanced at Doris, who leaned upon Percy Levant’s arm,
and hung her head; her quivering lips and pallid face bearing evidence
to the emotions which wrung her heart.
“Yes, I am Cecil Neville,” said Lord Cecil. “I am an old--” he
paused--“an old friend of Miss Marlowe’s, whom I did not expect to meet
here. You are a relation, I presume?”
“No,” said Percy Levant, meeting the half-fierce gaze of the dark
Stoyle eyes. “But I hope to be. I have the happiness and honor to be
Miss Marlowe’s affianced husband.”
Cecil Neville drew back a step, and his face grew white.
“I--I beg your pardon,” he said, stiffly. “I--I did not know. Why
did you not tell me?” he asked, turning to Doris with white lips and
reproachful eyes.
She tried to speak, had opened her lips, indeed, when a voice,
impatient and querulous, broke the silence. It was the voice of Lady
Grace.
“Cecil! Cecil!” she called. “Where are you? Ce--cil! Ce--cil!”
His face reddened.
“I am going to Pescia to visit a sick relative,” he said, addressing
Percy Levant, in a low voice. “You will be able to find me at the
hotel, if you should require me,” he added, significantly.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Percy Levant, as significantly.
“Ce--cil!” called the voice again.
He bit his lip, and, without another word, turned and left them; but as
he passed out of the walk, illumined by the bright rays of the moon,
he stopped, and looked back, as Adam might have looked back upon the
Paradise he had left forever, as one might have looked for the last
time upon a treasure utterly and entirely lost.
Lord Cecil walked toward the carriage, in which Lady Grace and the
marquis’ lady housekeeper were sitting, and Lady Grace, leaning
through the window, greeted him with a smiling, but scarcely concealed
impatience. She was dressed in a traveling costume of Redfern’s, which
must have astonished the intelligent foreigner pretty considerably, and
looked, for all her famous loveliness, rather tired, worn and ill at
ease.
“Why, Cecil, where have you been?” she exclaimed; “I have been calling
for the last half-hour.”
“Scarcely as long as that, Grace,” he said, and his voice sounded
hoarse and strained. “I have only been a few yards away, and heard you.”
“At least, then, you might have answered,” she retorted. “Do you know
how long we are to wait here?”
“Not much longer,” he replied, leaning against the carriage, and
averting his face from the gaze of her sharp, keen eyes. “Horses are
not machines, you must remember, and want rest sometimes.”
“Horses, I don’t call them horses,” she said, contemptuously; “they
are living skeletons. I am so tired of sitting here!”
“Will you come inside the inn?” he asked, with a barely concealed
weariness.
“Oh, no, thanks. I know what that means. These inns are a disgrace to
any civilized country. What with the smell of garlic and the dreadful
men hanging about them, they are too awful. If you could get me a glass
of wine, of decent wine, dear----”
“All right,” he said, and went into the inn. “Give me a bottle of
the best wine you have got, and a glass of brandy,” he said to the
landlord, and he drank the latter almost at a draught, his hand shaking
as he carried the glass to his lips. If he had seen a ghost instead of
sweet Doris Marlowe, he could not have been more completely unmanned
and upset. Indeed, he had seen a ghost; the ghost of his lost happiness
and wrecked life, and she was to marry this stranger, this Percy
Levant; what had become of the Mr. Garland, with whom she had sailed to
Australia, then? He was so lost in troubled reverie that he had quite
forgotten Lady Grace, until the familiar, too familiar, “Ce--cil,”
issuing from the carriage, recalled his wandering mind.
He caught up the wine bottle and a glass and strode back to the
carriage, filled with that weariness and despair which renders every
moment of existence almost unendurable to the galley slave and convict.
At that moment he would have given half a continent, had he possessed
it, to be alone and free to indulge in his sad and bitter reflections.
Unknown to the valet, the Pescia doctor had telegraphed to him a few
days ago, and he had told Lady Grace that he must start for Italy, and
at once. Much to his surprise, to his embarrassment, also, she had
declared her intention of accompanying him. The fact must be stated,
alas! that Lady Grace could not endure her lover’s absence from her
side, even for a few days. Her love for him--her passion, as it must be
called--had become the absorbing sentiment of her life, and, like all
absorbing emotions, it tortured her. She knew, knew for a certainty,
that he did not love her, and all her days and nights were filled by
a devouring jealousy and discontent. She was rendered wretched if he
spoke to or danced with a young and pretty girl. She was jealous of his
past as a whole, but madly, fiercely jealous of the girl Doris Marlowe,
from whom she had, by the assistance of Spenser Churchill, succeeded in
separating him.
She knew he did not love her; that she had entrapped him into the
engagement, and she dreaded with an agony of apprehension lest anything
should occur to separate them. It is not too much to say that she hated
the marquis for being ill and causing the postponement of her marriage.
A woman, when she knows that love is returned, is full of trust and
confidence, but Lady Grace, knowing that Cecil bore her no love, was
full of distrust and suspicion, doubt, and fear. She was never happy,
nor at ease, unless he was in her sight, and she found it simply
impossible to allow him to go to Italy without her. Sometimes, in the
dead of night, she would awake with a start and a cry of terror from a
nightmare in which she had dreamed that he had discovered her share in
the plot which had robbed him of Doris and bound him to herself, and by
day she lived in a constant dread that some accident would reveal the
conspiracy and deprive her of him.
So intense an anxiety began to tell upon her, and already there were
lines and wrinkles on the face which artists had painted and of which
poets had sung.
To put it briefly, Lady Grace’s punishment had commenced even in the
first hour of her triumph! Black care sits behind every sorrow, but he
is never more safely seated than when he rides behind the man or woman
whose success depends upon a lie.
She knew that the world would talk and shrug its shoulders if she
accompanied Lord Cecil to Italy, although she took the elderly lady as
a _chaperone_; but she set the world’s opinion at naught, just as she
had done when, in obedience to Spenser Churchill’s prompting, she went
down to Lord Cecil’s chambers. She could not let him out of her sight,
and that was the long and short of it.
Lord Cecil took the wine to the carriage, and poured some out for her,
but she only put her lips to it.
“It is too awful!” she said, irritably. “Pray hurry them on, Cecil. I
am sure those horses must be rested by now. It is sheer laziness. Who
was that you were talking to when I called you?” she asked, abruptly,
her keen eyes fixed on his face.
He felt himself growing white.
“Nobody you know,” he said, abruptly. “Try and drink some wine, it is
not so bad.”
“Are you sure I don’t know them? I thought I heard English voices.”
“You don’t know them,” he said, almost curtly.
“Let me out and let me see,” she said, querulously. “I am sick of being
cooped up here.”
“Come out by all means, if you like, Grace,” he responded, “but there
is no one there, and the horses are just being put to.”
As he spoke, the postilion led the weary animals into the shafts, and
Lady Grace sank back with a restless sigh.
“We shall find the marquis dead,” she said, callously. “We seem to have
been years on the journey; yes, he’ll be dead!”
“I trust not,” he responded, grimly. “I’ll ride outside and smoke a
cigar,” he added, as the postboy smacked his whip.
She flung herself back among the cushions.
“Oh, very well,” she said, petulantly.
Lord Cecil got on the box, and the carriage rolled onward to Pescia and
the Fate awaiting them.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE APPROACH OF THE SHADOW.
Heaven only knows what complexion Cecil’s thoughts took during the
journey, but he was graver and grimmer than ever when he got down at
the door of the villa to help his affianced bride to alight.
The marquis’ valet received them with surprise, tempered by
satisfaction.
“I am glad you have come, my lord, though I did not like to take the
responsibility of wiring for you. The marquis is much worse. Oh, yes,
decidedly much worse. He is asleep just now, but it is quite as well
that you came.”
“I will see him at once,” said Lord Cecil.
“And I, too,” said Lady Grace, slipping her arm within his.
The valet led the way upstairs.
The old man was lying apparently asleep, but as Lord Cecil bent over
him he opened his eyes, and after a few seconds said, in a feeble voice
and with the old cynical smile:
“Oh, it’s you, Cecil, is it? And is that you, my dear?” turning his
eyes in the direction of Lady Grace.
“Yes, it is I, dear marquis,” she murmured.
He started.
“Oh, Grace, is it?” he mumbled. “I thought it was she.”
“She? Who, dear marquis?” she demanded.
He smiled.
“No matter. And so they have sent for you, have they? They think
I am in danger. You have come on a fool’s errand, both of you.
I”--grimly--“I don’t mean to die yet, Grace.”
“Oh, I hope not! Pray, don’t talk of anything so dreadful,” she
responded with a false smile. “Why, you know,” and she bent lower, with
a fine affectation of modesty, “you are to dance at our--our--wedding,
dear marquis.”
“Ah, yes!” he said, wearily, and with none of the enthusiasm she had
expected. “Yes, yes, of course. You are going to be married; you and
Cecil. Yes, I remember. I’ll make haste and get better. In a day or
two----” his eyes closed and he turned his face away.
“He may last for weeks, months, even years, my lady,” said the doctor,
of whom Lady Grace made inquiries with a scarcely concealed impatience.
“Marvelous constitution, you see, and with care----” and he waved his
hands deferentially.
The days passed in what her ladyship declared to be a tediousness
almost insupportable. She had the best rooms of the best hotel, but
they were not grand enough for her fine London taste, and, as for the
scenery, Lady Grace would have exchanged the whole Alpine range for
a quarter of a mile of Hyde Park. She would have been happy enough
if Cecil could have spent every minute of his time with her, but this
Cecil could not do. In his present condition of mind, the society of
his engaged wife nearly drove him mad, and he spent most of his time
either beside the marquis’ bed or at the villa.
“Surely you do not intend to play the part of sick nurse, my dear
Cecil!” Lady Grace remonstrated when, on the third morning after their
arrival, he told her that he could not go out riding with her, because
he had promised to sit with the marquis.
“Not exactly that, Grace,” he replied, quietly. “But I am naturally
anxious about him and wish to be with him, more especially as, strange
to say, he seems to desire my presence.”
“He must have changed to an extraordinary extent!” she retorted, with
something like a sneer on her exquisitely carved lips.
Cecil nodded.
“Yes,” he assented, simply. “He has changed--for the better. I suppose
we shall all feel the approach of the Great Shadow! Poor old man!”
She stared at him, then laughed, a cold laugh of amusement, almost of
mockery.
“Really, you are the most forgiving of men, Cecil!”
“I’m afraid not,” he said, stifling a sigh. “I’m sorry I can’t go with
you, Grace.”
“Oh, I dare say you will be happier with the marquis!” she retorted,
as she turned to the glass to arrange her riding hat. “I only hope and
trust that the marquis will soon get better, and allow us to leave this
place. I was never in a duller hole in my life.”
“They call Pescia pretty, too,” he replied, absently, as he followed
her out and helped her to mount.
Then he lit a cigar, and was going across to the villa, his mind heavy
with thought, when suddenly Percy Levant stopped in front of him and
raised his hat.
Cecil’s face reddened for an instant; then, as he responded to the
greeting, he said:
“I had expected to see you before this, Mr. Levant. Will you walk
upstairs?”
Percy Levant declined the offer.
“What I have to say will take but a few minutes,” he said, gravely. “We
neither of us desire a prolonged interview.”
“I am at your service,” returned Lord Cecil, with a slight bow.
Percy Levant eyed him with a strange expression, scarcely that of
resentment as of dull, heavy sadness.
“I presume, my lord, you conceive that I am here to demand from, or
offer, you the satisfaction which an appeal to arms would afford both
of us--both of us!” he added, grimly.
“I can only say that I am prepared to accept any proposal you may have
to make, Mr. Levant,” said Lord Cecil. “But I am obliged, in honor, to
say this: I don’t want you to take it as an apology; great Heavens,
no! But I’m bound to say that the words you heard me address to Miss
Marlowe the other evening were uttered in complete ignorance that her
word was plighted to you or any other gentleman.”
Percy Levant bowed.
“Were you in ignorance that your word was plighted to another lady?” he
said, in a low voice.
Lord Cecil’s face flamed, then grew pale, and he sprang from his
lounging attitude against the mantel-shelf to an upright position; but,
with a palpable effort, he restrained himself.
“That is a rebuke which I have deserved and must submit to, Mr.
Levant,” he said, grimly. “It is true that I am engaged to Lady
Grace Peyton, and that I had no right to address Miss Marlowe as I
did, but”--he turned his face away for a moment--“but I think if you
knew all the circumstances of the case, you, even you, would feel
more inclined to pity than to condemn me. But I don’t appeal to your
consideration. As I said”--with a touch of hauteur--“I am at your
disposal, in any way, and at any time.”
“You mean, of course, that you are ready to fight, my lord?”
“You interpret my meaning,” replied Lord Cecil, calmly. “I have no
doubt you feel aggrieved. I should if I stood in your place. I have no
doubt Miss Marlowe”--his lips quivered--“has told you of our past--our
past relationship----”
“Miss Marlowe has told me nothing, but I have drawn my own conclusions.
I have been content to accept Miss Marlowe’s silence--complete
silence--respecting the past.”
“Ah, yes,” said Cecil, with a repressed sigh. “What does it matter to
you, who have the priceless boon of her present and future love?”
The words were wrung from him, and he would have recalled them if he
could have done so, when he saw the effect they produced upon Percy
Levant, whose face grew white, and whose eyes flashed.
But he, too, seemed to be striving for self-restraint.
“I am afraid you do not know all, my lord,” he said. “But to come
to the business which brought me here! Miss Marlowe and I are to be
married on the sixteenth!”
Lord Cecil bit his lip and nodded.
“So soon?” he said, almost inaudibly. “Well, sir, why do you tell me
this?”
“Because I have to make a proposal to you, my lord. You expect a
challenge from me?”
“I have expected it for the last three days, Mr. Levant.”
“Will you, my lord, permit me to withhold that challenge until the
sixteenth?”
Lord Cecil stared at him.
“Till the day of your marriage?” he exclaimed.
“Exactly,” returned Percy Levant. “Such a request astonishes you, no
doubt. It is only natural that you should demand my reasons for this
delay, but I shall ask, as a favor, that you permit me to keep them to
myself until the sixteenth! I have another request to make, which, I
fear, you will deem as strange as those which have preceded it.”
“Go on!” said Cecil, knitting his brows.
“I shall be glad if your lordship will permit me to call at the Villa
Vittoria, Lord Stoyle’s residence, at four o’clock on the sixteenth.
I shall have an explanation to make, which you may consider an ample
excuse for accepting any challenge I may offer.”
Cecil, after a moment’s perplexed consideration, turned to him.
“I haven’t the least idea of your motives in these requests, Mr.
Levant,” he said, with a quiet dignity, “but I don’t think I can
do anything else than grant them. After all, I have no claim for
satisfaction from you; the offense lies with me.”
“Just so, my lord,” said Percy Levant, taking his hat. “I wish you
good-morning. On the sixteenth you and I shall understand each other
more easily.”
“I hope so,” said Cecil, grimly. “One moment,” he added, hesitatingly,
as Percy Levant turned to leave the room. “Is--is Miss Marlowe in
Pescia?” he asked, in a low voice.
“Miss Marlowe is in Pescia, my lord,” replied Percy Levant, looking at
him steadily.
Cecil’s face grew hot.
“Will you tell her that--that I knew nothing of her engagement? No!
tell her nothing!”
“I think that is far the better course, my lord,” said Percy Levant,
and with another bow he went.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CONSPIRATORS.
Mr. Spenser Churchill had been having the very good time which a man
might be expected to have who has had a magnificent palace with a host
of obsequious servants placed at his disposal, and who is monarch of
all he surveys--of another person’s property.
He enjoyed himself most amazingly. He went on pleasant little
excursions to the neighboring towns; he ordered the richest and most
luxurious dinners; he accepted the best of the numerous invitations
which Lady Despard’s neighbors freely accorded him, as a friend of
her ladyship left in charge of the Villa Rimini, and wherever he went
he was voted a most charming and agreeable companion. Indeed, since
Percy Levant’s departure no one had so completely won the hearts of the
Florentine ladies as Mr. Spenser Churchill.
And do not for a moment suppose that the good man gave himself up
to carnal enjoyment without giving thought to his less fortunate
fellowmen. No! The eminent and tender-hearted philanthropist remembered
his poor brethren, and gave such touching accounts of the various
charitable societies with which he was connected--“The Sweeps’
Orphanage,” “The Indigent Knife Grinders’ Society,” “The Society for
the Distribution of Knives and Forks to the South Sea Islanders,”
and so on, that he succeeded in collecting a very tidy sum for these
eminently deserving and practical charities; and everybody agreed that
if ever there was a man too good for this sinful and selfish world, Mr.
Spenser Churchill was indeed that individual!
And so the days passed pleasantly--and profitably--and on the morning
of the sixteenth Mr. Spenser Churchill was sitting over the second
bottle of Lady Despard’s choicest claret, with a cigarette between his
lips, and his benevolent eyes half-closed, with that expression of
bland peace and serenity which only the truly good can experience, when
a servant brought him a letter.
He eyed it with sleepy indifference until he saw the writing, and the
man had left the room; then he tore the letter open eagerly.
“Dear Churchill,” it ran, “the marriage takes place to-morrow morning.
Come, without fail, to the Villa Vittoria here, at four o’clock
to-morrow afternoon.--P. L.”
Mr. Spenser Churchill’s face grew radiant.
“I knew he’d do it! I knew it! What an eye for character I have! I
should have made a good general! I know how to pick my men. I was
confident Percy would do what I wanted! To-morrow! Oh, yes, I’ll be
there. Spenser, my dear friend, you have won the trick; you have----”
He stopped, and a shade crossed his benevolent face. “I wish I’d made
it twenty thousand, instead of ten,” he muttered, wistfully; “I might
just as well have done so--he would not have said anything, and she
wouldn’t have missed it. Why, her mother’s portion, of settlement
money, will bring her five-and-twenty thousand a year, and that
will which the marquis is not capable of altering makes her the
mistress of all his money. Yes, I might just as well have had twenty!
However”--and the smile beamed out again--“dear Percy shall make it
up to me. He wouldn’t like his wife to know of our little contract, I
should think, and I might feel it my duty to tell her, unless--unless
he made it worth my while to hold my tongue. Yes, Churchill, my dear
friend, you have warmed your nest pretty well; and now”--filling his
glass--“now for the enjoyment. No more of these beastly charitable
societies; no longer any need for playing the saint. Let me see--I’ll
live in Paris, I think, most of my time. A man can enjoy himself in
Paris without a parcel of fools interfering or holding him up to
censure! In Paris or--yes, Constantinople. That’s not bad! Oh, what a
time I will have! And Cecil, dear Cecil, who used to sneer at me and
treat me as if I were an impostor; I think, yes, I think, dear Cecil,
I shall have the laugh on you this time, you and your beautiful bride!
For I’m afraid I shall feel it my duty to tell you how completely you
have been fooled. Yes, I think I must do that, really! To-morrow!
To-morrow the new life begins. Hem! well, the old one hasn’t been so
bad! The charitable business has paid, it certainly has paid; but no
more of it; I’m sick of it and the whole cant of it. I’ll enjoy myself
in a proper fashion, enjoy myself in my honestly earned wealth. Let me
see! Ten thousand pounds, with what I have--ahem!--saved, together with
say a thousand or two a year out of dear Percy--how grateful he will
be, of course--will make a nice little income. Spenser, my dear boy,
you are a genius, and you ought to have been a general. Here’s your
health and your future happiness!” and, with a chuckle, he filled his
glass till it ran over, and drained it at a draught.
The Italians are not fond of high houses, and the Villa Vittoria, like
most of its fellows in Pescia, covered a long space of ground, its
rooms being arranged on two stories, with very few stairs and fewer
corridors.
The apartments which the marquis occupied for his own personal use
consisted of a sitting-room, and a dressing-room and bedroom adjoining,
the latter divided from the sitting-room by heavy curtains. On the
other side of the center room was a small anteroom which the marquis
had not used; it was intended as a reception-room for tradespeople or
persons who paid visits of business.
Percy Levant on the occasion of his interview with the marquis had
noticed--very few things escaped his quick eyes--the arrangement of
the rooms, and at half-past three on the afternoon of the sixteenth,
the valet, who had received his instructions from Percy, ushered that
gentleman, Lady Despard and Doris--who were closely veiled--into the
anteroom, and softly closed the door.
Lady Despard raised her veil and shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly.
“Well, here we are, my dear Percy,” she said, in a low voice; “but I
don’t think any one else in this world but you would have induced me to
have come; and do you mean to say that you still decline to give us any
explanation of these extraordinary proceedings?”
He shook his head as he drew Doris to a chair, into which she sank with
a weary but resigned gesture.
“And you think that you are treating us properly by all this mystery;
and on the dear child’s wedding day; for I suppose you two mean to be
married this evening? Or is this but a preliminary to the breaking-off
of the match; for, of course, I can see something is the matter between
you two?” and she dropped into the chair with a movement of impatience.
“I shall be ready to marry Doris this evening,” said Percy Levant,
holding Doris’ hand. “It rests with her to decide, dear Lady Despard,”
and he crossed the room and bent over her appealingly. “When you
consented to come here with her this afternoon, you did so knowing that
I should have to keep you in ignorance of my motives; do you think I am
not grateful for your confidence in me? Do you think I would inflict
unnecessary pain on dear Doris?”
“N-o--I don’t!” she said, with languid irritability; “I’m quite ready
to admit that you love her to distraction, but it certainly is enough
to drive one out of one’s senses, these mysterious proceedings of
yours; and Doris tells me nothing lately,” she added.
Doris raised her lovely eyes pleadingly, but remained silent.
“Don’t blame her,” said Percy Levant, gravely. “She, too, is in
ignorance of this, which I am about to do, and my motives! She trusts
me; will not you, Lady Despard?”
“Well, I suppose I must,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “But why
have we come here? My acquaintance with the marquis is too slight to
excuse this intrusion.”
“If it is an intrusion, that which will result from it will excuse it,”
he said. “The fact is,” and he smiled rather sadly, “I have arranged a
little comedy for your ladyship’s amusement! Comedy and tragedy, alas,
are very thinly divided; there is but a step between them. All I ask of
you is that you will remain quiet and silent, whatever you may hear;
and I intend you to hear all. Doris I can rely on,” and he laid his
hand upon her arm with a reverent, gentle touch.
“Oh, I’m not hysterical or nervous,” said Lady Despard. “I shan’t
shriek, however sensational your conjuring trick--or whatever it
is--may be. Come and sit beside me, dear, will you! and, Percy,
remember, if the marquis should hear of our visit here, and want to
know why on earth we came, I shall refer him to you.”
“I abide by that,” he said, gravely. “And now I am going to leave
you----” he added, as they heard the valet speaking to some one in the
hall. “Doris,” and he bent over her, “you will be patient and brave?”
She looked at him trustingly.
“I will be silent, at least. I can promise that,” she said, in a low
voice.
“I am content with that,” he said. “And--and if you should hear that
which might shake your faith in me----” he asked, his face pale and his
lips quivering.
“Nothing can do that,” she responded.
“We shall see,” he said, almost inaudibly, and left them, closing the
door behind him.
Lady Despard took Doris’ hand and caressed it.
“For all my bravado, I feel rather nervous, dear,” she said, with a
forced laugh. “His manner has been so strange of late, and you--you
have had something on your mind, Doris. Oh, of course I have seen that,
though I would rather have died than asked you to tell me!”
“And I think I would rather have died than tell you!” said Doris, with
something like a sob.
“Has there been a quarrel between you? Do you want the match broken
off? For heaven’s sake, speak while there’s time if you want it broken
off!”
Doris shook her head sadly.
“No; I shall marry him this evening, if he wishes it!” she murmured.
“If he wishes it! Why, of course--ah!” she broke off, her hand closing
nervously upon Doris’ burning fingers; “that is Spenser Churchill’s
voice!”
It was Mr. Spenser Churchill’s voice, and as he was ushered into the
center room he held out both hands to Percy Levant and smiled his
sweetest smile.
“My dear Percy, may I congratulate you? May I?”
“You may,” said Percy Levant, giving him a hand.
Spenser Churchill drew a long breath and laughed, an oily laugh of vast
contentment.
“Happy bridegroom! Lucky fellow!” he murmured. “This is the marriage
day, eh?”
“This is the happy day, yes,” said Percy Levant. “Sit down, won’t you?
I’m afraid you are tired. Let me offer you some wine?” He went to the
sideboard. “I’m sorry there’s nothing but brandy here. I’ll ring for
some----”
“Pray don’t trouble, my dear Percy,” said Spenser Churchill, blandly;
“a little brandy is an excellent thing, if taken in moderation.”
Percy Levant mixed a stiff glass, and placed it before him.
“You can understand why I sent for you,” he said, seating himself
opposite to Spenser Churchill, whose back was turned to the curtains
which divided this room from the marquis’ dressing-room. “My part of
the contract being fulfilled, I want to know what my position really
is, and whether this nonsense of yours has any particle of truth in it?”
Spenser Churchill stared indignantly.
“Young man!” he exclaimed, solemnly; “this is the first time I have
ever been accused--to my face--of falsehood! This nonsense! If you
allude to the agreement--the perfectly legal agreement, which you
signed, and which I hold--you will discover that it is anything but
nonsense.”
“I’m delighted to hear it, of course,” said Percy Levant; “don’t be
angry! Well, then, seeing that I am to give you ten thousand pounds
as a fee for your assistance in procuring me a wife, I should like to
know exactly how I am to manage it--I should like to know all about my
wife’s property.”
“Your wife! How well it sounds!” chuckled Spenser Churchill; then his
face grew suddenly suspicious. “By the way, my dear Percy, have you the
marriage certificate? I am not of a suspicious nature. Heaven forbid!
I am, indeed, too trustful and confiding; but I should like to see the
certificate, my dear boy.”
“Certainly,” assented Percy Levant, cheerfully; “I’ll go and ask my
wife for it. Indeed, she may as well be present----”
“No, no,” interrupted Spenser Churchill, putting out his hand. “Never
mind; don’t trouble. The fact is--ahem!--there are some things which
Mrs. Levant--Mrs. Levant!--had better not hear. And to tell you the
truth, my dear fellow, your wife is a young lady I’m not over-anxious
to meet. There’s something about her which makes me uncomfortable.
I’ll--I’ll take a little more brandy, my dear Percy--a capital and
useful spirit, if used in moderation. I have been recommended to take
it by my medical man.”
Percy Levant rose to get the decanter. As he did so, the curtain parted
and Lord Cecil Neville stood in the opening.
Percy Levant made a circuit so as to approach him.
“Remember our understanding, my lord, and wait!” he said, in a whisper.
Lord Cecil seemed to hesitate, his eyes fixed on Spenser Churchill
suspiciously; then he dropped the curtain, which again concealed him.
“There you are! And now to business, Churchill.”
“Yes, to business,” said Spenser Churchill unctuously. “I dare say,
my dear Percy, you think I have earned that ten thousand pounds very
easily--by the way, it ought to have been twenty, it ought, indeed!”
and he shook his head solemnly.
“I’d as soon pay you twenty as ten,” said Percy Levant, carelessly.
“You would? Give me your hand, my dear boy!” exclaimed Spenser
Churchill, with blind enthusiasm. “You are just what I always thought
you--a noble youth, a truly noble and unselfish young man! You would
just as soon give me twenty!”
“Yes, or thirty! I’m as unselfish as you are,” said Percy.
Spenser Churchill’s emotion was so great at this fresh proof of his
dear young friend’s unselfish generosity that he was constrained to
turn his head aside and wipe his eyes.
“You are an honorable, a noble young man, my dear boy!” he murmured.
“And now I will lay the whole story before you. But, as I said, don’t
think I have not earned the money! My dear Percy, are you aware that
your wife was once engaged to Lord Cecil Neville, the marquis’ nephew,
the heir to the title? Eh?” and he chuckled.
“Really!”
“Yes, yes! Oh, it’s true, and I assure you that they would have made
a marriage of it but for me. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Bless my
soul, if I am not a match for a simple and confiding couple like those,
why----” He raised his hand. “But it was a troublesome affair, my
dear Percy, and cost me a deal of thought. And ra--ther risky, too!”
he added, thoughtfully. “Forged letters--ahem!--that is fictitious
correspondence, though rendered inevitable by the circumstances of the
case, is dangerous.”
“I see,” said Percy Levant, distinctly. “You forged letters from Lord
Cecil Neville to Miss Marlowe----”
“Yes. But, quietly, my dear Percy. Bless my soul, you and I don’t
want to publish our little mutual confidences on the housetops;
and--er--this room is rather, I say, rather, public, isn’t it? What’s
behind those curtains? Good gracious!” and he half rose.
“My dear fellow, all the servants speak Italian,” said Percy Levant,
leaning back in his chair with a careless and indifferent air. “While
you speak English you are quite safe!”
Spencer Churchill fell back.
“Oh, all right!” he said. “I rely on your discretion. Well, it didn’t
suit me that Cecil should marry Miss Marlowe for several reasons. One
being that I could not drive a bargain with him as I could----” he
stopped.
“As you could with a penniless adventurer like me,” finished Percy
Levant. “I understand. And so you succeeded in separating them
and--selling her to me. That’s quite clear. I’ve no doubt you managed
it very cleverly; I should think forgery and that kind of thing would
come easy to you, my dear Churchill.”
“Sir! Mr. Levant!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, pugnaciously, and half
rising from his chair; then, as he met the steady gaze of the dark
eyes, he subsided again, and waved his hand pityingly.
“My dear Percy, you wrong me. What I did, I did as much in the interest
of my dear friend, the Marquis of Stoyle, and the young man himself. It
was the marquis who assisted me, I assure you. Packed dear Cecil off to
Ireland, and kept him there--kept him there--till I’d got his ladylove
away.”
The curtain stirred behind the self-satisfied, triumphant plotter, but
Percy Levant, unseen by his companion, held up his hand warningly.
“Really! And the marquis is gratified, no doubt. But, after all, this
is not my business. I want to know----”
Spenser Churchill leaned forward and dropped his voice, but not to so
low a pitch but that the listeners on either side of the room could
hear distinctly.
“You want to know whom it is you have married. I’ll tell you. Wait, you
don’t know the Marquis of Stoyle?”
“I’ve seen him,” said Percy. “Speak louder; what are you afraid of,
man? We are not two conspirators on the stage!”
“Quite right, my dear Percy. Conspirators! Certainly not! We are two
men bound by a common impulse to--to--relieve--benefit our fellow
creatures, and--ourselves!”
“Exactly,” said Percy Levant. “But go on. Remember that you have just
congratulated me on my marriage, and that I am anxious to join my
bride.”
“Yes, yes. Well, then, are you aware, my dear Percy, that my friend the
marquis was once married?”
“I know nothing about the Marquis of Stoyle.”
“That he was married----” he stopped and laughed with unctuous
enjoyment. “When I think of it, my dear boy, I’m always tickled by
the desire to laugh. You must know that the young lady had three
lovers--the marquis, a certain Jeffrey Flint, and--myself!” and he laid
his hand upon his heart and bowed.
As he did so, the curtains opened and three figures stood in the
opening. They were those of Cecil, Lady Grace--and the trembling,
emaciated form of the marquis himself. White, deathly white, the old
man stood, clinging to Cecil’s arm, his piercing eyes fixed on the
smooth, long-haired head of Spenser Churchill, with an expression that
baffles all description.
Percy Levant rose, and, under the pretense of filling Spenser
Churchill’s glass, made a warning gesture to them. Lady Grace seemed
about to speak, but the marquis turned upon her with an awful ferocity,
which seemed to deprive her of the power to speak or move.
Percy Levant sank back in his seat.
“Well?” he said.
Spenser Churchill sipped his brandy and water.
“Well, the case stood thus: The girl was engaged to the fellow Jeffrey.
Consequently there was no chance for me. So, my dear Percy, I decided,
as most men of common sense would have decided, to--ahem!--assist
the marquis. I did so, and, bewildered and fascinated by the offer
of a marchioness’ coronet, Lucy accepted and married the marquis.
The result was--er--rather disastrous. With all respect to my dear
friend, the marquis, I must say, my dear Percy, that if ever there was
a fiend incarnate he was one! I don’t wish to be hard upon a fellow
mortal--Heaven forbid!--but if there is anything worse, more cruel and
selfish and altogether unscrupulous than a fiend, then that being may
yield the palm to the Most Honorable the Marquis of Stoyle!”
The marquis, shaking in every limb with fury, clutched Cecil’s arm,
who, with some difficulty restrained him from rushing upon the
oily-voiced speaker.
“Well, the natural result followed. The marchioness fled. Where, and
to whom? Why, to her former lover, Jeffrey Flint. No, my dear Percy,
her conduct was blameless. She died within a few hours after reaching
him. She died, but she left a child, a girl, behind. That girl Jeffrey
Flint adopted and called--can you guess her name?”
“Doris Marlowe,” said Percy Levant, hoarsely, and with white lips--for
this was a revelation to him.
Spenser Churchill lolled back in his chair with an unctuous smile of
enjoyment.
“Right! Quite right, my dear Percy! Doris Marlowe! That is--ah,
ah!--Mrs. Percy Levant!”
The marquis staggered, and clutched at Lord Cecil, and Lady Grace was
rushing forward, but Cecil raised his hand, and, holding her face in
her hands, she sank back.
“So Doris Marlowe is the daughter of the Marquis of Stoyle?” said Percy
Levant.
“Just so,” assented Spenser Churchill. “And now, my dear Percy, that
cat is out of the bag; the daughter of the Marquis of Stoyle--in other
words, Lady Mary Neville! And the money! Well, I think you won’t regret
your liberal offer when I tell you that her mother’s portion amounts to
five-and-twenty thousand a year, and that her father has made a will
which will leave all he can leave to her.”
“Which he can unmake!” said Percy Levant.
“I think not,” murmured Spenser Churchill, blandly. “There have been
later wills, I think, but--ahem!--I have taken charge of them----”
“You are a clever fellow, Churchill.”
“Y--es, I think I am! I honestly, and modestly, think I am! I ought to
have been a great statesman, or a general, my dear Percy.”
“You ought, indeed!” said Percy Levant. “But--pardon me!--although I
believe every word you say most implicitly, I am afraid the world,
including the marquis, will want some proofs. It is all very well to
say that Miss Marlowe--that is, my wife,” he put in, hurriedly--“is
Lord Stoyle’s daughter; but proof, proof, my dear fellow!”
“You’re no fool, either, Percy,” said Spenser Churchill. “Of course,
we want proofs, and here they are!” and he took some papers from his
pocket. “Here is the certificate of marriage of Lucy--Miss Marlowe’s
mother--to the marquis; the certificate of Miss Marlowe’s otherwise
Lady Mary Neville’s, birth, a full and exhaustive statement of Lady
Stoyle on her deathbed, duly attested; and a statement of Jeffrey
Flint. Pretty complete, I think.”
“Complete, indeed! And how did you get them, Churchill? Upon my word,
you are a cleverer man even than I thought you.”
“How did I get them?” he repeated, lowering his voice; “I got them from
Jeffrey Flint.”
“He gave them to you?”
“Not exactly! My dear Percy, I took them. What use are papers to a
dead man?” He stopped and turned pale, as the scene of Jeffrey’s death
rose before him. “But don’t let us talk of it; it--it was a most
unpleasant affair, I assure you, my dear Percy. But you will, with your
quick intelligence, soon understand how, once having those papers in
my possession, I saw my way to making, with your assistance and Lady
Grace’s, a _grande coup_!”
“Lady Grace’s, eh?” said Percy.
Spenser Churchill laughed softly.
“My dear Percy, never despise women. They may be fools--I fear they
generally are--but they are, oh, they are so useful! Without Lady Grace
I could have done little or nothing; but she was really invaluable.
Cecil--dear Cecil--was always suspicious of me; but, of course, he
trusted Lady Grace, and she and I between us caught him. ‘Caught him’
is the only expression applicable! To this day he considers himself
under an obligation to her which only marriage can repay.” He laughed.
“Poor Cecil; I can’t help pitying him; for between you and me, my dear
Percy, I’d rather marry a tigress than beautiful Lady Grace! But don’t
let us talk of him or her. Let us talk of ourselves. The whole thing
has gone splendidly, though I say it. Providence, my dear Percy,” and
he turned up his eyes, “has been on our side. The dear marquis--how
surprised he would be if he knew this true story I have revealed to
you!--is lying in a senseless and utterly incapable condition in
London; Cecil and Lady Grace are going to be, if they are not already,
married; and you--you, my dear Percy, are the happy husband of Lady
Mary, the daughter of the Marquis of Stoyle! Think of it! Realize it,
and oh, my dear Percy, make it twenty instead of the ten thousand you
agreed upon! Here are the papers. They are at your service; indeed, I
consider that they belong to you----”
He pushed the papers across the table, smiling with oily triumph and
satisfaction, and Percy Levant leaned forward to take them, when a
thin, wasted hand clutched them clawlike and a harsh, strained voice
said:
“No! They are mine!”
Percy Levant sank back into his chair, and wiped the perspiration from
his brow; but Spenser Churchill sprang from his seat, and grabbed at
the papers mechanically. Then, as he encountered the piercing eyes
fixed upon him, he, too, sank back, and, in a terrified voice, gasped:
“The marquis!”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
FOILED.
“The marquis!” gasped Spenser Churchill, and he sank back, still
staring at the haggard and wasted face, from which the piercing eyes
glared down at him like ardent coals, with a fearful, horrified gaze.
Then he half-rose, and, with a grotesque attempt at a smile, wagged his
head at Percy Levant, who stood erect and alert.
“This--this--is a very pretty little plot, my dear Percy,” he said;
“but you don’t imagine that the dear marquis will take your word
against mine? Marquis,” and he managed to raise his eyes to the fierce
face with a ghastly attempt at a smile, “I am sorry that you should
have been deceived by what was palpably an attempt on my part to lure
this gentleman into a trap. He is--you don’t know him, but I do, and I
must introduce him. This man is an adventurer, a scamp who would sell
his soul for a ten-pound note. You won’t let his word weigh against
mine--against Spenser Churchill’s!”
“It is quite true, my lord,” said Percy Levant. “As this man says--I
am an adventurer. I have been willing to sell my soul for a ten-pound
note; I am utterly unworthy of belief,” his voice grew hoarse and
broken, “and it is only the influence of a woman’s pure and spotless
nature that has, at the eleventh hour, induced me to stop short in the
villainous work to which this man tempted me. I am as bad as he--up to
this point. I ask for no mercy, no indulgence, no credit; from his own
lips you shall judge him, and from the papers you have in your hand.”
The marquis just glanced at him--no more, then turned his fierce eyes
upon Spenser Churchill again.
“Very good,” said Spenser Churchill, shrugging his shoulders, and
stretching a trembling hand toward his hat. “I--I leave the whole
business to you, my dear marquis. I will not condescend to--to answer
the accusations which--which----” He shuffled nearer to the door, and
his heart rose as he saw that neither Percy Levant nor the marquis made
any attempt to stop him--“which my character will enable me to--to
repel. I wish you success, Mr. Percy Levant, and--and good-morning.”
He made an ironical bow as he backed toward the door, and was turning
to make a rush for it, when Lord Cecil stepped before him.
At sight of him Spenser Churchill’s face grew livid, and he put up his
hand as if to ward off an expected blow; but Lord Cecil scarcely looked
at him, and passed to the marquis’ side.
“Is--is this true, my lord?” he demanded, hoarsely.
The marquis dropped into a chair, and, still clutching the papers,
gazed up at him with a wild despair which would have touched even Lord
Cecil if he had not loved Doris too well to think of any one but her.
“It is true, my lord!” said Percy Levant, solemnly and sorrowfully.
“Would to Heaven that both he and I had lied! It is true, every word
of it! The separation between Miss Marlowe and yourself was worked by
Spenser Churchill. He did, by word and deed, sell her to me.”
Lord Cecil made a movement as if to strike him, but Percy Levant stood
patient and unresisting.
“And yet more, my lord! It was he who set the trap which caught you and
handed you, fettered and bound, to his accomplice.”
“Grace! It is--it must be--a lie!” broke from Cecil’s white lips.
A hollow laugh rang out behind him, and Lady Grace glided from
her dressing-room. All eyes were fixed upon her as she stood, her
exquisitely-clad form posed in an attitude of contemptuous defiance.
A hectic flush burned on her cheeks, and she swept the group with a
disdainful glance, as she fanned herself.
“Permit me to bear my testimony to this gentleman’s veracity,” she
said. Spenser’s face, which had cleared suddenly at her appearance,
fell again, and he shrank back and leaned against the wall, where he
stood, nervously passing his hands over each other. “What he states is
quite correct. I don’t know how he discovered it, but he seems to have
made a tool of ‘dear’ Mr. Churchill, while ‘dear’ Mr. Churchill was
under the pleasing delusion that he had got a submissive and willing
dupe in him. It is probable that he knows the whole scheme. For it was
a scheme, Cecil, and,” with a disdainful smile, “a very good one. Any
but the most trustful of men would have seen through it. I compliment
you, my dear Cecil--I suppose I must say Lord Cecil now!--upon your
credulity.”
Cecil looked at her; then hung his head with shame--for her, seeing her
utter shamelessness.
“I am utterly at a loss to conceive why my dear Mr. Churchill should
have exerted himself on my behalf. Of course, I knew it was from no
love he bore me--but I understand it all now!”
Cecil turned his back upon her, and, leaning his elbow on the
mantel-shelf, covered his eyes with his hand.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill is really and truly a remarkably clever man;
but, like some other clever men, he has chosen his tools badly. I
can’t understand why he should have confided in a person of Mr.
Levant’s character!” and she shot a contemptuous glance from under her
half-closed lids at his pale face. “But having done so, he has, of
course, been betrayed. ‘Put not your trust in--adventurers’ will for
the future be an excellent motto for him!” She laughed, and the fan
moved a little more quickly. “And now, having borne my testimony to the
truth of Mr. Levant’s assertions, I have only to express my sympathy
for ‘dear’ Mr. Churchill’s discomfiture, and your disappointment, my
dear Cecil”--her face grew red, and her delicately-molded nostrils
expanded with a malignant enjoyment--“your terrible disappointment! If
you had only known all this a few hours earlier, why, you would have
thrown off your new love, and been on with the old! But as it is, Mr.
Levant, with all his newly-born penitence, has been clever enough to
secure Miss Marlowe, otherwise the marquis’ daughter, for his wife, and
you are tricked. It is a vulgar word, Lord Cecil, but it is the only
suitable one.” She laughed again, and her fan moved rapidly. “Won’t you
see--or do you?--this penitent and remorse-stricken gentleman’s game?
You don’t! Why, you observe that he has married the lady he wanted,
and by his betrayal of his accomplice saved his ten thousand pounds.
Mr. Levant, I congratulate you upon your dexterity,” and she made him
a sweeping curtsey. “Mr. Spenser Churchill is clever, I admit. I, too,
always had an idea that I possessed a turn for intrigue; but you--oh,
you are a genius, and the honors remain in your deserving hands.”
Percy Levant remained as silent, as impressive, as a statue; but
Spenser Churchill, whose face had reflected every word Lady Grace had
uttered, began to draw himself upright, and a low, chuckling laugh
broke from him.
“You are right,” he said, half-gloatingly, half-fearfully; “you and I
are out of the game, dear Lady Grace; but I think--I really do think
that dear Lord Cecil is in the same boat! Yes, Mr. Levant has been
one too many for us all. All! My dear Cecil, you have my profound
sympathy in the loss of the young lady you had set your heart on. My
dear marquis, if I may be permitted to offer a word of humble advice,
I should recommend you to forgive your newly found daughter, the
ballet girl--no! pardon, the actress; and welcome as a son-in-law the
gentleman upon whom she has bestowed her hand. It is true that he is
an adventurer; that he sprang from the gutter; that he bought her and
captured her by a plot; but he is her husband after all, and, really,
he is no worse than the stock from which she sprang. He will be a
worthy addition to the house of Stoyle! Forgive the young couple--the
adventurer and the actress--and make them happy with your blessing. Do!
my dear marquis.”
Lord Cecil’s hand closed spasmodically, but he kept it at his side;
Percy Levant stood silent and impassive, and the marquis merely raised
his eyes from the paper upon which they had been fixed.
“I--I really don’t think we need remain any longer, dear Lady Grace,”
murmured Spenser Churchill. “I really don’t think we have any right
to intrude upon this happy family party. We must leave them to
settle their little differences, eh? Allow me to escort you to your
hotel. I have to preside at a charitable meeting in London the day
after to-morrow, alas! or I should like to remain and see the mutual
reconciliation; but duty--duty.” He crept nearer the door and offered
his arm, but Lady Grace, with a haughty gesture, waved him off.
“No? You would like to linger till the denouement? Yes? Then I must go
alone----”
“Stop!” said Percy Levant, quietly.
Spenser Churchill pulled up and looked at him sideways. “I--I beg your
pardon.”
“Move at your peril,” said Percy, sternly.
Spenser Churchill sidled toward the window, and with a quick movement
threw it open.
“You mean to threaten me, detain me, offer me violence, my dear Percy,”
he said, with a leer. “I think not. If any person--any person,” and he
glanced at Lord Cecil, “presumes to prevent my departure, I shall call
for assistance. There are police in the street, who will protect me, an
English gentleman of unblemished character and honorable repute. There
are police, I say.”
“There are,” said Percy Levant, quietly and incisively. “There is an
English detective at the door ready to arrest you.”
Spenser Churchill shrank back from the window.
“Indeed! On what charge, pray?”
“Conspiracy, and robbery from the dead!” and he pointed to the papers
which had been stolen from Jeffrey Flint’s body.
Spenser Churchill’s face grew white, but he forced a laugh.
“Conspiracy, eh? The other is nonsense, utter nonsense! Who’s to
prove--ahem! But, conspiracy? With whom? With Mr. Percy Levant?”
“With Mr. Percy Levant,” repeated Percy, grimly. “Your fellow criminal!
One step, one cry for assistance, and he arrests us both.”
Spenser Churchill clutched the curtain.
“You--you--traitor!” he gasped.
Percy Levant turned to Lord Cecil.
“I have simply stated the truth, my lord. A detective is waiting
outside. It rests with you; it is for you to decide whether you will
charge us. One thing remains for me to do.”
He went to the door of the anteroom, and taking Doris’ hand led her
toward the group.
“Doris,” he said, in a low voice that trembled and broke for the first
time. “Doris--your father!”
With pale face, wet with tears, Doris stood for a moment, irresolute.
The old man, who had raised his head as her name smote upon his ear,
made an effort to rise; then sank back with outstretched hands and
piteously pleading face.
“My child, my child!” he cried, hoarsely.
It would have required a harder heart than Doris’ to resist such an
appeal, an appeal for forgiveness, a cry of penitence and remorse. She
hesitated a moment, while one could count twenty. Then she was at his
knee, and his weak, quivering hands were upon her head.
Lady Grace, panting with the suppressed fury of jealousy, glanced at
the picture which nearly moved two of the spectators to tears.
“How--how charming!” she said in a harsh voice. “Father and daughter.
You have only to extend your blessing to the husband, my lord!” and she
swept a contemptuous courtesy on Percy Levant.
“Yes, don’t forget the wily adventurer, the music teacher of Soho, your
son-in-law, dear marquis!” pursued Spenser Churchill, sardonically.
The marquis started, and looked up at Percy Levant piteously.
“Are you--are you her husband?” he managed to articulate.
Percy Levant turned his haggard face toward him. “No, my lord,” he
said, hoarsely, “we are not, and never shall be, married.”
The marquis drew a long breath. “No!”
“No,” said Percy Levant, almost inaudibly. “If I had loved her
less----” he stopped. “My love for her has saved her, my lord. Miss
Marlowe--Lady Mary--is free from any claims from me.”
Lady Grace’s fan came to a sudden stoppage.
“Not married!” she gasped.
“Not married!” echoed Spenser Churchill, in accents of malignant
disappointment.
Percy Levant looked at them both with a steady gaze. “Not married,” he
said. “You may go now, Spenser Churchill.”
“No!” cried a grave voice. It was Lord Cecil’s; and he sprang to the
window. “Not till justice----”
Percy Levant folded his arms and stood resigned and patient.
“Not till justice has been satisfied. I charge you, Spenser Churchill,
with conspiracy----”
“And--and--Levant, and Lady Grace!” said Spenser Churchill, with a leer.
“I am ready,” said Percy Levant, quietly.
But as he spoke Doris sprang to her feet, and, gently putting her
father’s arm aside, stood in front of Percy Levant.
“No!” she cried, panting; “I say no!”
Percy Levant drew a long breath. “Let the law take its course, Lady
Mary!” he said, in a low voice. But she still stood in front of him as
if to shield and protect him.
The marquis held out his hand to her as if he could not bear her to
leave his side.
“Come to me, come to me. Let them--let them go,” and he glanced in the
direction of Lady Grace and Spenser Churchill.
The latter did not wait for the permission to be repeated. With an air
of long-suffering patience and saintly resignation, he shook his head
reproachfully at Percy Levant.
“Judas!” he murmured, “we shall have a day of reckoning, we two, Judas!”
Percy Levant scarcely glanced at him; and Spenser Churchill as he
moved slowly to the door, smiled a ghastly smile at Lady Grace. “Let
me escort you from this exclusively family party, dear Lady Grace,”
he said, sardonically. But, like most conspirators when the plot has
failed, she drew back and eyed him scornfully.
“Thanks, Mr. Churchill; but I have no further use for you.”
At this turning of the tables, at this repudiation by the woman he had
regarded and used as a tool and dupe, Spenser Churchill was almost
overcome, and his light eyes flashed viciously; then, with an effort
that must have caused him a great deal of self-restraint, he checked
himself, and stretching out his hand and casting up his eyes to the
ceiling, said decorously, and proudly:
“I forgive you, Lady Grace. I pity you, and I shall not forget to
remember you in my prayers. Poor woman!”
Now, Lady Grace ought to have turned her back upon him in silent
contempt, but she had been sorely strained, and this, the hypocritical
taunting of the worm who had a few moments ago been ready to crawl at
the feet of his accusers, was the last straw which broke the back of
her self-restraint, and as Mr. Spenser Churchill passed her, I regret
to say that she closed her fan sharply and struck him across the face
with it. Lady Grace possessed a magnificent arm; the fan was a large
one, of carved ivory, with many sharp corners. Mr. Spenser Churchill
uttered a howl of pain, and fled.
Lord Cecil approached her and offered her his arm. She had merely, if
not quite, wrecked his life, she had caused pain and suffering to the
girl he loved, she was unworthy of one moment’s pity, but he remembered
that she was a woman, and that she would have been his wife, and he
offered her his arm in silence. She looked up at his face with a quick,
almost agonized, questioning, then turned from him, her face white, her
lips quivering.
“No!” she said, almost inaudibly, “there can be no half way for us.
Friend or foe, Cecil! Will you keep your promise to me?” She had no
need to go further; his face, grave and grim, answered for him. With
a swift compression of her lips she caught up a shawl that hung on a
chair, and without lifting her eyes to his face, again slowly left the
room.
Percy Levant took up his hat and went to Lady Despard, who was standing
beside Doris.
“Will you--will you stay with her and--and help her? She was never more
in need of your love than now,” and he glanced significantly at the
white face of the old man at whose knees Doris knelt.
She nodded silently, and Percy Levant, as he passed Lord Cecil, said in
a low voice:
“I hold myself at your disposal, my lord, completely, entirely,
without any reservation.” Then he stopped and looked at Doris--a look
impossible to describe, easy enough to imagine--and seemed about to
speak, but with a sigh he turned and walked out, and Doris scarcely
knew that he had gone.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
RETRIBUTION.
Lady Despard and Lord Cecil stood beside the marquis’ bed, at which,
still holding the hand now slowly growing cold, Doris knelt. Death,
whom the old man, with the stubborn obstinacy of the Stoyle race, had
hitherto kept at bay, was drawing near, very near. They had carried
him from the adjoining room, speechless and sightless, and so he had
remained through the long hours of the night. It was morning now, and
white and weary with all she had undergone, Doris saw the rosy streaks
faintly penetrating the window shutters.
Now and again the valet or the doctor, or perhaps Cecil, moistened the
old man’s lips; and now and again Doris smoothed the pillow, which
might have been of stone for all it mattered to the head that rested
on it. On the bed, and clasped tightly between the rigid fingers, were
the papers which proved her right to the title of a peer’s daughter,
and beside them the will which might make her the mistress of the
Stoyle wealth. Suddenly, quite suddenly, as if, though appearing so
incapable of effort, the old man had been battling in the darkness for
consciousness and strength, the marquis opened his eyes and looked at
her.
“Doris!” he said. “Mary!”
“I am here!” she said, inaudibly to all but him.
His fingers closed on her hand. “Cecil--all who are here!” They
drew closer to him, and he flashed his dim eyes upon them. “Listen
to me. These are my last words. I--I acknowledge this lady to be
my--my daughter--the child of my wife, Lucy!” A spasm shot across
his face. “My will--the will which leaves all to her--is my last.
Remember--remember! My daughter--my child!” His eyes closed, and they
thought he was dead, but his lips opened again, and Doris, if no other,
heard the words that struggled from them. “Lucy! Lucy! forgive! I am
punished--punished!”
These were the last words of the great Marquis of Stoyle, who had all
his life boasted that he had earned the title of “wicked,” whose heart
had never once melted until death came to turn it into the dust to
which even penitence and remorse are impossible!
* * * * *
The wicked flourish as the bay-tree, and the truly good are unable
to live through persecution. If any one imagines that Mr. Spenser
Churchill was utterly annihilated by the disclosure of his pretty plot,
that person is very little acquainted with the peculiar character of
which Mr. Spenser Churchill was a prominent type. For a week or two the
good man betook himself to Paris, and there, in that quiet and peaceful
spot, soothed his troubled spirits with, doubtless, pious reflections;
but shortly afterward he emerged from his retreat, and the papers of
London announced that the great philanthropist would deliver a lecture
at Exeter Hall to aid the funds of the Broken-winded Horses’ Society.
The subject of the lecture was to be a glorious and inspiring one:
“Truth.”
Punctually at the hour announced the eminent man, with placidly serene
face, and softly, tenderly melting eyes, stepped on to the platform,
amidst the cheering of the audience, the majority of whom were ladies,
who waved their pocket handkerchiefs, which they well knew they should
presently require. Mr. Spenser Churchill began his address. It was
eloquent, touching, impressive; the handkerchiefs grew quite moist
long before it was concluded, and when at last his soft and tearfully
sympathetic voice died away in his final words, many a soft-hearted
woman--and dare I say soft-headed man?--felt perfectly convinced that
Mr. Spenser Churchill was far, far too good for this wicked world!
I am surely convinced that the hour will come in which the world will
see him without his mask, and be ready to stone the hypocritical
villain whom they almost worshiped as a saint; but the hour has not yet
come, and the great philanthropist still flourishes as the bay-tree.
Great will be the fall thereof when the truth he so loves to talk about
shall prevail, and the ax lays the accomplished hypocrite low! May we
be there to see!
A year passed away, and the sun, which goes on shining, though
marquises die and hypocrites continue to flourish, shone through Lady
Despard’s beautiful boudoir in Chester Gardens.
In her favorite attitude--half-reclining, half-sitting--her ladyship
nestled among the soft cushions of her favorite couch. Near her sat
Doris--who, though known to the world as Lady Mary Stoyle, shall be
Doris to us till the end of this eventful history. She was sitting at a
writing-table, spread with letters and volumes, some of them fearfully
like pages of account books, and her beautiful face was puckered up
with a charming frown.
Every now and then she consulted one of the appalling volumes, and then
wrote for a few moments, after which operation she would grow more
puckered and draw a series of perplexed and bothered sighs.
“How happy you look, dear!” said Lady Despard, with a smile, after
watching her for some time.
Doris started slightly, and turned round to her.
“I thought you had gone away hours--days--weeks ago. Happy! I am almost
driven to distraction. I wish--oh, I do wish, there were no such things
as accounts! or, at any rate, that I had nothing to do with them.”
Lady Despard laughed.
“‘Muckle coin, muckle care,’ my dear. Though I sympathize with your
misery, I must confess I rather enjoy the sight of it. I suffered so
much when I came into my own property. Oh, the weary, weary hours I
plodded through heavy columns of figures and dreary ‘statements.’ But
I’ve got used to it, and that’s what you will do, in time.”
“In time! Yes, when I have grown prematurely old and gray,” said Doris,
with a vexed smile. “I never understood what hard work it is, this
being rich.”
“I am afraid we shouldn’t like it if we were very poor. I wonder”--she
paused a moment, then went on--“I wonder how a certain marquis likes
poverty?”
Doris bent lower over her blundering and utterly futile arithmetic. “I
don’t know,” she said, stiffly.
Lady Despard smiled. “Any one would know you were a Stoyle by your
pride, my dear,” she remarked.
Doris looked up with affected indignation.
“Pride! I am the meekest and humblest----”
“Of empresses,” put in Lady Despard. “My dear girl, you may not
know it, but you are as proud a minx as ever lived, and the most
unforgiving.”
Doris looked over her shoulder for a moment, then turned her head away.
“I think you are unjust,” she said, in a low voice.
“Oh, no, I’m not. For instance, here are you suddenly become possessed
of a grand title, large estates, and heaps of money. The title you
can’t help taking, if people choose to call you by it, and the money.
Well, you take as little of that as possible; but not once have you
set your foot in any one of the houses that are yours, or upon a spot
of the many acres which your father left you. That’s pride, though of
course you’ll say it isn’t.”
“I----”
“I haven’t finished yet. Counsel for the prosecution first, if you
please; afterward we shall be happy to hear what you have to say in
defense----”
“And find me guilty, whatever that may be,” said Doris.
“Here, too, is a young woman with two lovers----”
“Oh, don’t,” muttered Doris, wincing; but Lady Despard declined to show
mercy.
“My dear, I am going to continue. It is well that you should hear the
truth from some one, and, as I am the only person who dares tell it to
your royal highness, why, I’ll do my duty. Two lovers. One was utterly
unworthy of you, poor fellow, an adventurer, who--but never mind. He
repented in time, and I am not the woman to be hard upon him. The other
is a young man who loved you devotedly, and is all that is honorable
and lovable--and miserable! He never wronged you in any way, and,
though I can understand your sending the penitent adventurer about his
business, I cannot understand how you could let poor Cecil go to this
beastly little war, where, as likely as not, he will either be killed
by some dirty, half-naked savage, or die of the yellow, or blue, or
black, fever, whichever it is they have over there. Yes, I must say I
do pity Lord Cecil, who never did anything----”
“But transfer his affections to another woman,” murmured Doris, her
face and neck a vivid crimson.
Lady Despard sank back onto the cushions and laughed with evident
enjoyment.
“You little goose, I was leading you on to showing your hand. And you
didn’t see it! Of course, that is his offense. We could forgive the
adventurer-lover who would have sold us for filthy lucre, and who only
repented and drew back at the last moment; oh, yes, we can forgive him;
but the other--he must be sentenced to lifelong disappointment, because
possibly he was caught, lured into the net of the cleverest and most
unscrupulous woman in England, and the cleverest and most unscrupulous
man to back her. And we are not proud, we are not unforgiving! Oh, no,
certainly not!” she summed up, ironically.
Doris screened her face with her hands.
“Why does not he----?” she stopped.
“Why doesn’t he come forward and beg for forgiveness and ask you
to become his own little Doris again and Mrs. Marquis?” cried Lady
Despard, dryly. “Because he is as proud as you are, my dear. What!
Ask a girl as rich as a female Crœsus to be his wife when he has only
a few paltry thousands a year; ask the girl who would scarcely speak
a word to him when he came to wish her good-by, perhaps for the last
time. Why, isn’t he a Stoyle, too, and haven’t all of you got, and
haven’t all of you always had, the pride and stiff-neckedness of the
dev--ahem! the evil one? My dear, I am the laziest soul in London,
and I’ve registered a vow that I’ll never get excited and warm over
anything; but really when I think of you spending your days and nights
in hungering for him----”
“Oh!” murmured Doris, and she glided to her and hid her face on her
shoulder.
“So you do! Do you think I can’t hear you sighing long after you
ought to be asleep, you obstinate and abandoned girl,” retorted Lady
Despard. “Doris, my dear, if I were only old enough, or you were young
enough, it would be my pleasing duty to shut you up in your room on
bread and water till you came to your senses and consented to hide
your silly little head against his shirt front, spoiling his clothes
instead of mine. My dear, would you mind covering my dress with your
pocket-handkerchief if you are crying.”
“I’m not crying,” said Doris, indignantly, and giving her a little
push, but still hiding her face. “When--when did you hear from him
last?” she asked, in a whisper.
“Just two months ago,” replied Lady Despard, her voice growing suddenly
serious. “You were too proud to ask for the news, or I would have
told you. He was well then, but was going up the country after those
miserable Decoys--Dacoits, or whatever they’re called, and from what
I’ve read in the papers I’m afraid----”
Doris’ hand tightened on her shoulder spasmodically.
“Don’t pinch me, my dear. I didn’t send him there. Catch me! I only
wish he’d ask me to be his wife. I’d have married either of the two
men you sent to Jericho; but that’s the way with the gods, they always
shower their gifts on the unworthy and ungrateful, and deserving people
can go starving.”
“I wish he had,” murmured Doris; “you would both have been happy then.”
“No, you don’t wish anything of the kind,” retorted Lady Despard,
indolently. “You would be ready to tear my eyes out if there had ever
been the slightest chance of such a thing. Oh, you can’t delude me
into thinking you the gentle dove most people imagine you, you little
scorpion.”
“And that is all you know about--about him?” said Doris, timidly.
“Nearly all. I wish I knew more. I did mention the matter to his grace
at the reception the other night, and he looked rather grim and solemn,
as if the whole expedition was sentenced----No, no, Doris, I don’t mean
that!” she added, hastily, as Doris’ hand relaxed its hold, and she
drew herself up, white and shuddering. “No, it ain’t so bad as that;
but--but----Well--Ah, my dear, you ought not to have let him go.”
Doris threw herself down again. “It was not my fault; if--if he had
said--if he had asked----”
“Give me no ifs!” retorted Lady Despard. “My dear child, no man could
have asked you anything while you treated him as you treated Lord Cecil
after the marquis’ death. You were not a live, breathing woman, but a
marble effigy, a block of ice, and you froze him--you froze him--and
sent him to Burmah to thaw himself. Now, I’m not going to talk any more
about him. Get on your habit, and let us go for a ride. Thank Heaven, I
love no man, and no man loves me! Heigh-ho!”
The footman brought in the evening papers as she spoke, and she took
one and glanced at it languidly; then suddenly she sat up, and uttered
a low cry.
Doris, who had gone to the door, but who had not left the room, went
back to her swiftly.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
Lady Despard closed the paper. “I--thought you had gone,” she said.
“Matters?--nothing. The pins and needles in my feet----”
“There is something in that paper,” said Doris, in her low voice, her
eyes fixed on it. “Tell me what it is!”
Lady Despard hesitated a moment, then she shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, you’d buy one and see for yourself, so I may as well show it to
you; but--but don’t imagine the worst at once.”
She handed her the paper, and pointed to a letter from the seat of war.
In a few--but, alas, how pregnant! words the correspondent told the
story of the disaster which had befallen a detachment sent into the
interior. Surrounded and outnumbered by the enemy, savages in nothing
more than their mode of conducting warfare, the handful of English
soldiers had fallen, as so many thousands of their fellows in the
glorious years of the past have done, fighting to the last. There were
only the few details which can be crammed into a column of newspaper
type, but one line stabbed Doris to the heart.
“I am sorry to say that an aide-de-camp, the Marquis of Stoyle,
better known as Lord Cecil, accompanied the detachment. Throughout
the campaign Lord Cecil has distinguished himself by his bravery and
devotion to duty, and by his genial and modest disposition had won
the hearts of both officers and men. If, as there is too much reason
to fear, his lordship has fallen with his ill-fated comrades, his
loss will be sorely felt, and he can never be replaced. It will be
remembered that he succeeded to the historic title just twelve months
ago, and very shortly before joining the regiment.”
Doris said not a word, but stood staring at the paper, with dry eyes,
and that awful feeling of benumbing anguish which crushes pain for a
time but to lend it additional force afterward.
Lady Despard put her arm round her.
“Doris, Doris! my dear, my dear!” she murmured. “Don’t give way! While
there’s life there’s hope; we can’t tell what may have happened; I
have reason to hope, to think----” She stopped and sprang--actually
sprang--to the door, and throwing it open, said, hurriedly, “Come in;
oh, come in!”
The next moment a tall figure, with a sunburned face and one arm in a
sling, entered, and after a glance, one anxious glance, at the white
face, rushed forward and caught Doris to him with his sound arm. Lady
Despard waited until this happened, then glided out.
* * * * *
They sat up very late that night, and Lady Despard’s boudoir was so
dimly lighted that as she reclined on her couch she could not see, or
pretended not to see, that Doris, as she sat at the marquis’ feet, had
got his hand fast locked in hers, almost as if she dreaded lest he
should vanish as suddenly as he had come. And every now and then she,
glancing fearfully at Lady Despard, laid the brown hand against her
cheeks, and near, very near, to her lips.
There was not much talking, for Lady Despard was merciful, but at last
she looked up.
“And now, my dear Othello, if you can and will deign to recount some of
your adventures, Desdemona and your humble servant will be gratified.
Though I have known since yesterday that you had escaped, I haven’t
any of the details, and I will confess to a faint and lazy kind of
curiosity. Touching that interesting wound now, which I do trust will
soon be all right, for it must be so awkward----” she stopped and
glanced at Doris, with provoking archness.
“Yes, tell us!” murmured Doris.
Lord Cecil--he shall be Cecil for us to the end--looked suddenly grave,
and hesitated.
“Yes, I want to tell you, and I must,” he said. “Not about myself so
much as----” He stopped. “Did you see the list of the killed? Did they
give a list of names?”
“No,” said Lady Despard, “it was all surmise. Why do you ask that?”
“Because----” he stopped again. “Doris,” and he laid his hand on her
head, soothingly, “there was another person whom you know in this awful
business, besides myself. Cam you guess his name?”
Doris shook her head apprehensively. Lady Despard leaned forward.
“He was--he became a fast and devoted friend of mine, Doris. But for
him I should not be here, dearest. He came out with the hospital, and
I saw him first beside my bed. He pulled me through the fever.” He
stopped again, and Doris held her face low down, out of the lamplight.
“We were great friends after that, and when our detachment was ordered
to the interior he volunteered. I tried to dissuade him. There was
no reason that he should go, but he insisted, and----On the evening
of the fight he stood by the guns with the rest, and with the rest
fought like a lion. Once or twice I found a moment to speak to him,
for he was always near me. When the fast struggle came, I joined in
the rush--that’s the only word for it--and saw a couple of the Dacoits
making for me. One I cut down, the other gave me this,” he pointed to
his arm, “and would have settled me--hush, dearest, don’t cry--but this
friend was near me still, and he threw himself between us.”
He stopped and drew a long breath. “I don’t remember any more till I
came to, and, crawling about, came upon him. He was alive, just alive,
but he knew me. I--I took his head on my knee, and bent down. Doris, my
darling, Doris, my dearest. Hush, hush! ‘Tell her that her love saved
me from worse than this, Cecil,’ he said. ‘Tell her that I died with
her name on my lips. Be good to her, Cecil; be good to--Doris!’”
Lady Despard was crying audibly.
“You know, dear, who it was that saved my life,” said Cecil, in a low
voice. “It was Percy Levant.” And he drew her head upon his breast, and
kissed her with protecting tenderness, as if he were responding to the
dead man’s solemn injunction.
* * * * *
When the marquis and marchioness returned from their long--but for them
not too long--honeymoon, society, deeming it incumbent upon itself to
bestow an impressive welcome on two of its most distinguished members,
gave a ball in honor of the young, and, as the journals put it,
“romantic couple.”
It was a very grand affair, and the _Morning Post_ next morning devoted
a column and a half to its description and a list of the high and
mighty and famous guests, and stated, rather emphatically, that the
most beautiful woman in the room was the young lady in whose honor
the entertainment was given. It went into newspaper raptures over
her manner, her smile, her dress, and, lastly, her jewels, which, as
it said, consisted of a _suite_ of magnificent diamonds--the Stoyle
diamonds--and poetically declared that their brilliance was only
outshone by the wearer’s eyes.
They were very beautiful, as a matter of fact, and no other jewels
in the magnificent assemblage could compare with them, excepting,
perhaps, a _suite_ of pearls set in antique silver, which was worn
by--Lady Grace Peyton.
Twice in the course of the evening Doris and she met each other, and on
both occasions, while Doris, with the meekness which, somehow, always
distinguishes the injured innocents, turned her head aside, Lady Grace
stared at her rival with a bold, defiant flash of her handsome eyes.
“I think,” said Lady Despard, as she stood for a moment in a corner
with Doris, “I think that for cool, unbrazen impudence, Grace Peyton
excels all the world. Most women, all other women--having done what
she has done, and knowing that we know what she has done--would have
buried themselves in some German watering-place for the rest of their
lives. But, oh no! she not only thinks fit to put in an appearance here
to-night, but actually--actually flaunts that set of pearls which she
got by fraud--stole, if any one ever stole anything in this world--from
your husband. The whole set!”
“No, not the whole set,” murmured Doris, softly, as she looked at Lady
Grace gliding through a waltz. “I have the ring.”
“You have! Why, I have never seen it. The ‘ring!’”
“No, you never saw it,” said Doris, a warm flush rising to her lovely
face. “I don’t wear it on my finger, dear, but--here,” and she touched
her heart. “She is welcome to all the rest while I have that and--him!”
she added, turning to her husband as he came up to them.
THE END.
Only One Best
is possible so far as paper-covered novels are concerned. It is only
natural that the novels for which there is the greatest demand should
be considered =BEST=.
This fits the
S. & S.
NOVELS
to perfection. Thousands are sold to hundreds of all others combined.
There are reasons and you don’t have to search very far for them after
you become familiar with the S. & S. kind. Better stories, better
authors, better value, place our books in a class by themselves.
A catalogue, arranged alphabetically by authors, sent free upon request.
Street & Smith, Publishers
New York
BEST COPYRIGHTS
[Illustration]
Years ago, one of our readers said that the S. & S. novels were “the
right books at the right price,” and the term still applies to all of
the 3000 titles in the S. & S. lines.
Our novels are principally copyrights by the best authors, such as:
=CHARLES GARVICE=
=MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON=
=NICHOLAS CARTER=
=RICHARD MARSH=
=BURT L. STANDISH=
=GERALDINE FLEMING=
=IDA READE ALLEN=
=E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM=
and dozens of others whose work usually appears between cloth covers.
Send for our complete catalogue. You will be surprised at the value it
contains.
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH :: Publishers :: NEW YORK
Transcriber’s Notes
A table of contents has been added by the transcriber and placed in the
public domain.
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
The last sentence of page 201 is unclear in the source printing and the
words “be in” may be an incorrect transcription.
Some inconsistent hyphenation has been retained from the original.
This book has been published under a variety of other titles,
including: _A Woman’s Soul: Behind the Footlights_, _A Woman’s Soul;
or, Doris_ and _Doris Marlowe; or, A Woman’s Soul_.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN'S SOUL ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
