A Woman's Soul, by Charles Garvice—A Project Gutenberg eBook (2024)

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[Pg 1]

A Woman’s Soul

BY

CHARLES GARVICE

AUTHOR OF

“CLAIRE,” “HER HEART’S DESIRE,” “HER RANSOM,”“ELAINE,” ETC.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers

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.

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CHAPTER I.

BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS.

“Good-night! Good-night! Parting is such sweetsorrow that I shall say good-night till it be morrow!”

The speaker was a young girl, who stood in the middleof the room, her hands clasped, her head bent forward,her eyes fixed in a dreamy rapture, and the remark wasaddressed to—no one.

She paused, sighed a little—not from impatience, butwith a wistful dissatisfaction—and absently moved to thewindow, through which the last rays of the June sunwere flickering redly.

She stood there for a moment or two, then began topace the room with a lithe, undulating grace. It was apity that she was alone, because such beauty and gracewere wasted on the desert air of the rather grim anddingy room. It was a pity that Sir John Everett Millais,or Mr. Edwin Long, or some other of the great portraitpainters were not present to transfer her beauty of faceand form, for it was a loveliness of no common order.

Many a poet’s pen had attempted to describe DorisMarlowe, but it may safely be said that not one had succeeded;and not even a great portrait painter could havedepicted the mobility of her clear, oval face, and its darkeyes and sensitive lips—eyes and lips so full of expressionthat people were sometimes almost convinced that she hadspoken before she had uttered a word.

This evening, and at this moment, her face was allalive, as it were, with expression, as she put up her handto smooth back the thick tresses of dark brown hair—sodark that it was almost black—and, stopping suddenly[Pg 6]before a pier glass which stood at the end of the room,repeated the familiar lines:

“Good-night! Good-night! Parting is such sweet sorrowthat I shall say good-night till it be morrow!”

“Ah, no! No, no, no!” she exclaimed, stamping herfoot and drawing her brows together at the reflection inthe glass. “That is not it, nor anything like it. I shallnever get it! Never! Nev——”

The door opened behind her, and she turned her wistful,dissatisfied, restless face over her shoulder towardthe comer. It was an old man, bent almost double, witha thin and haggard face, from which gleamed a pair ofdark eyes so brilliant and peering that they made the restof 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 couldbe!” and the mobile lips allowed a quick, impatient laughto escape, then compressed themselves as if annoyed attheir levity. “I cannot do it! I cannot! I have tried ita hundred times, a thousand times! And it sounds morelike—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 laughingagain. “Oh, Jeffrey, I can’t do it, and that is the simpletruth! Tell them I cannot do it, and—and beg me off.”

The old man stretched out his hand slowly, and takingthe paper from the table, as slowly unfastened it anddisplayed it at full length.

It was a playbill, printed in the usual style, in red andblue ink—

Theatre Royal, Barton.
“Romeo and Juliet.”
Miss Doris Marlowe as Juliet.

The girl looked at it, a faint color coming into herface; then she raised her eyes to the glittering ones abovethe placard and shook her head.

[Pg 7]

“Miss Doris Marlowe will murder Juliet!” she said;“that is what it will be, Jeffrey—simple murder. Youmust prevent the perpetration of so hideous a crime!”

“Too late!” he said in his hollow voice; “the bills arealready out. The play is advertised in the papers; theywere booking at the theatre when I left. You must playit. What is the matter?”

“The matter——” she began, then stopped abruptly, asif in despair. “I don’t know what is the matter. I onlyfeel as if—oh, as if I were any one but Juliet. Why didn’tyou let me go on playing little comedy parts, Jeffrey? Icould do those after a fashion—but Juliet! I ought tobe flattered,” and she looked at the bill, “but I am veryfrightened!” and she laughed again.

“Frightened!” he said, his thick white brows comingtogether. “Why should you be frightened? Have I nottold you you could do it, and do I not know? Am I everwrong?”

“No, no,” she hastened to reply. “You are alwaysright, and it is I who am always wrong. And indeed,Jeffrey, dear, I will try! I will try for your sake!” andshe glided across to his chair and laid her hand—a long,white hand, soft and slim as a child’s—upon his shoulderwith tender docility.

“Try for your own,” he said, not unkindly, but gravely.“Try for art’s sake, and yet—yes, try for mine! Youknow how I have set my dream on your success—youknow that it is the dream, the aim of my life! Eversince you were a child and sat upon my knee looking upinto my face with your great eyes, I have looked forwardto the day when the world should acknowledge that JeffreyFlint 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 saidmore calmly. “You have done well up to now; I haven’tpraised you: that is not my way; but—but—I am satisfied.Up to now you have got on in regular strides—to-morrownight is the great leap! The great chance thatseldom comes more than once in a life. Take it, Doris,take it!”

[Pg 8]

“Yes, Jeffrey,” she said, softly; but he heard the sighshe 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 thetrying in the world would not make me a Shakespeare’sJuliet! The lines are beautiful, and I know them—oh,yes, I know them, but——” she paused, then went ondreamily: “Do you think any young girl, any one soyoung 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—butthen you see she had met Romeo.”

The old man looked at her attentively, then his keengaze dropped to the floor.

“Is it necessary for an actor to have actually died beforehe 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—andlost—before one can play Juliet, and I’ve doneneither.”

He made no response to this piece of speculation; butafter some minutes’ silence he said:

“Do some of it, Doris.”

She started slightly, as if he had awakened her froma dream, and recited some of the lines.

The old man watched her, and listened anxiously atfirst, then with rapt attention, as, losing herself in thepart, she grew more emphatic and spontaneous; but suddenlyshe stopped.

“It will not do, Jeffrey, will it?” she said, quickly.“There—there is no heart in it, is there? Don’t tell meit’s all right!” she pleaded. “I always like the truth fromyou—at least!”

“And you get it,” he said, grimly. “No, it is not allright. You look——” he stopped—“and your voice ismusical and thrilling, but—there is something wanting[Pg 9]yet. Do not give it up—it will all come right. To-morrowwith the lights and the people—there will be afull house, crammed—the feeling you want will come, andI 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 bookand go out into the fields. This room is not largeenough—” and he passed out.

She understood him and, after a moment or two ofreflection, got her hat, murmuring as she ran down thestairs—

“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 ispossible to imagine. It is too generally supposed by thegreat public that an actress must necessarily be “loud” inword, dress and voice, that she must be affected on andoff the stage, and that her behavior is as objectionableas her manner and attire. If the usual run of actressesare of this fashion, Doris was a singular exception tothis rule. Her voice was soft and low, and as refinedin its tones as the daughter of an earl; her manner wasas quiet as any well-bred lady’s could be, and in her plainwhite dress and straw hat she looked as much like aschoolgirl as anything else, especially as she had a copyof “Romeo and Juliet” in her hand, which might havebeen mistaken for a French grammar.

There was in fact nothing “loud” about her; indeed,when off the stage she was rather silent and shy, andthe color was as apt to come into her pale white cheeksas into those of the schoolgirl she resembled. It wasonly from the quiet play of the dark thick brows, andthe ever changing expression of the eloquent eyes, thatthe keenest observer would ever have detected that DorisMarlowe was something different from the ordinaryyoung lady whom one meets—and forgets—every day.

She passed up the street, her book held lightly in herhand, her eyes fixed dreamily on the roseate sky, andwatching the din and bustle of the big manufacturing[Pg 10]town which climbed up the hill in front of her, turnedaside, and, making her way up a leafy lane, reached thefields which are as green as if Barton and its score offactory chimneys were a hundred miles away.

There was not only green grass, but clumps of treesand a running brook, and Doris, casting herself, after thefashion of her sex, on the bank by the stream, openedthe book and began to study.

But after a few minutes, during which she kept hereyes upon the page with knitted brows, her thoughts beganto wander, and, letting the book slip to the ground,she leaned against the trunk of a tree, and, claspingher hands around her knees, gave herself up to maidenmeditation, fancy-free.

And it was of herself—of all people in the world!—shewas thinking. She was looking back, recalling herpast life, and marveling over it with a pleasant littlewonder.

And yet there was nothing very marvelous in it afterall.

Ever since she could remember she and Jeffrey—“dearold Jeffrey!”—had been alone. Ever since she could rememberhe had seemed to her as bent and white-hairedand old as he was now, and she knew no more of him, orhow it happened that he had stood to her in place ofmother and father, and kith and kin, than she knew now.

Of her real father and her mother she had always beentotally ignorant. As a child she had accepted Jeffrey asa fact, without questioning, and when, in later years, shehad put some questions about her parents to him, shehad 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 thequestion.

They had lived, she remembered, in complete solitude.Of Jeffrey’s early life she knew nothing for certain, exceptingthat he had been an actor; that he had been—andwas—a gentleman; and that he had received a good education.

She had no other tutor than he, and she could havehad no better. With a skill and patience which sprang[Pg 11]from his love for her, he had taught her as few girls aretaught. As a child, she would speak and write with wonderfulfluency, and at the age most girls are strugglingwith five-finger exercises, she could play a sonata ofBeethoven’s with a touch and brilliance which a professionalmight have envied.

Her strange guardian’s patience was untiring. Heransacked the stores of his memory on her behalf, hespent hours explaining the inner meaning of some linefrom Shakespeare—in showing her how to render a difficultpiece of music.

And when, one day, when her beautiful girlhood wasrich 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 taughtme?” he had startled her by turning to her with flashingeyes, and saying, with grim earnestness:

“I have taken all this trouble, as you call it, for thisreason—because I love you, and because I mean you to bea great actress!”

She accepted his dictum without a word, or a thoughtof questioning it. She knew, then, why he had taughther to love the great poet—why he had made her, andstill made her, recite whole plays of Shakespeare—whyhe spent hours in showing her how such and such aspeech should be delivered. And she was grateful—asgrateful as if he had been rich and surrounded herwith luxury, instead of being poor and sharing with herthe shabby rooms and simple fare which were the besthe could afford.

It was a gray and sober life, enlivened only by frequentvisits to the theatre. They had lived in France andGermany as well as in England, and he had taken herto see the first players in each country.

“Remember,” he would say, when they had returnedfrom seeing some famous actress, “remember how shespoke that line, that is how it should be delivered,” or,“Did you notice how Madame So-and-so went off in thesecond scene? Then don’t go and do likewise!” andDoris’s trained intellect had stored up the hints for futureuse.

[Pg 12]

It was a life of hard work, and some girls would havebecome dull and listless, but Doris was light-hearted;her laugh was always ringing in the dingy lodgings as ifthey were palaces and she was happy and content.

Then had come the time of her first appearance on thestage. It is the fashion nowadays for an actor to beginat the top of the ladder—and, alas, how often he worksdownward! Jeffrey chose that the beautiful girl whomhe 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 whitecaps, and played servant maids for a time. From themshe rose to young lady parts—always easy, unpretentiousones, 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 arteach month, and the critics began to notice her, and topraise not only her beauty but her talent.

And all this time, Doris, even in the gayest surroundingsof her daily life, remained unsophisticated and natural.Jeffrey watched over her as jealously as a fathercould have done.

He could not prevent people admiring her, but he keptthe love letter, the neat little cases of jewelry from her,and Doris—Doris Marlowe the actress—was as ignorantand unconscious of the wickedness of the world as thedaughter of a country rector.

And as ignorant and innocent of love, save the love shehad for the strange, grim being who had lavished somuch on her.

She had read of love in books, had acted it on thestage, but it was as one who speaks a language he doesnot understand, and who marvels at the effect his wordshave upon his initiated hearers.

Once a young actor, who had played lovers’ parts withher during a season, had managed to speak with heralone—it was during the “wait” between acts—and infaltering accents had tried to tell her that he had daredto fall in love with the beautiful being so jealouslyguarded by the dragon. Doris had listened for a moment[Pg 13]or two, with her lovely eyes wide open, withpuzzled astonishment, then she said:

“Oh, please, don’t go on! I thought it was a part ofthe play,” and a smile flashed over her face.

The young fellow grew black, and as he passed her togo on the stage, muttered, “Heartless!”

But Doris was not heartless. She had smiled becauseher heart lay too deep for him to touch, because, likethe Sleeping Beauty, it was waiting for the coming princewho should wake it into life and love, and the youngactor was not that prince.

Doris sat thinking of the past, quite lost, until thestriking of a church clock recalled her to the fact that acertain young lady was to play Juliet to-morrow, andthat the aforesaid young lady had come out into the fieldto 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 onenight Jeffrey had taken her to Drury Lane to see a famousactress in the part; but they did not see her afterall, for during the first act there had been one of thoseslight but unmistakable movements in the audience whichannounces the entrance of some one of importance.

Doris looked round, with the rest, and saw some personscome into a box on the grand tier. Among themwas an old gentleman, tall and thin, with a remarkablydistinguished presence. He wore a blue ribbon acrosshis waistcoat, but Doris had been attracted more by hisface even than by the ribbon.

It was a handsome face, but there was something init, a certain cold and pitiless hauteur, that seemed tostrike a chill almost to Doris’ heart. As he stood infront of the box, and looked around the house with anexpression of contempt that was just too indolent to besheer hatred, she met the hard, merciless eyes and shuddered.

“Who is he, Jeffrey?” she asked, in a whisper, andtouching his arm with a hand that trembled a little.

Jeffrey’s rapt face had been fixed on the stage, but heturned and looked at the distinguished personage, andDoris remembered now the sudden pallor of his face,[Pg 14]from which his glittering eyes had flashed like two spotsof 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 hadstopped and seen the great actress; especially as Jeffreyhad always afterward avoided “Romeo and Juliet,” as ifthe play had some painful association.

“I shall have to draw on Shakespeare alone for inspiration,”she thought, looking at the brook. “But, ah! ifonly 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 earsbeside that of her voice and the brook.

It was a dull thud, thud, on the meadow in front ofher, and as it came nearer a voice broke out in a kind ofaccompaniment, a voice singing not unmusically:

“The Maids of Merry England, the Merry, MerryMaids of England!”

There was a hedge on the other side of the brook, andDoris raised herself on her elbow and looked over.

What she saw was a young man galloping across themeadow at a breakneck speed, which the horse seemedto enjoy as much as his rider.

Doris had never seen any one ride like that, and shewas too absorbed in the general spectacle to notice thatthe young man was singularly handsome, and that hemade, as he sat slightly in the saddle, with the sunsetrays turning the yellow of his mustache and hair to puregold, a picture which Murillo might have painted andchristened “Youth and Health.”

She watched for a moment or two; then, thinkingherself safe from observation behind her hedge, sankdown 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,[Pg 15]almost above her head, and the next the horse was on itsknees, with its nose on the ground, and the rider laystretched at her feet, as if a hand from the blue sky hadhurled him from his seat.

CHAPTER II.

OVER THE FENCE.

It had all happened so suddenly that Doris sat for amoment staring at the motionless figure. Then the colorforsook her face, and she sprang up with a cry, andlooked round for help. There was not a moving thingin sight excepting the horse, who had picked himself upand was calmly, not to say contemptuously, grazing afew yards off.

Doris, trembling a little, knelt down and bent over theyoung man. His eyes were closed, and his face waswhite, and there was a thin streak of red trickling downhis forehead.

A spasm ran through her heart as she looked, for thesudden dread had flashed across her mind that—he wasdead.

“Oh, what shall I do?” she cried, and she sprang toher feet, aroused by the impulse to run for assistance;but the white, still face seemed to utter a voiceless appealto her not to leave him, and she hesitated. No!—shewould not leave him.

She whipped out her handkerchief, and, running tothe brook, dashed it into the water; then, kneeling downbeside him, bathed his forehead, shuddering a little as shesaw that the thin streak of red came again as fast as shewashed it away.

Presently she fancied that she saw a faint tremor uponthe pale lips, and in her eagerness and anxiety she sankdown upon the grass and drew his head upon her knee,and with faltering hands unfastened his collar. She didit in pure ignorance, but it happened to be exactly theright thing to do, and after a moment or two the youngfellow shivered slightly, and, to Doris’ unspeakable relief,opened his eyes. There was no sense in them for aspell, during which Doris noticed, in the way one notices[Pg 16]trivial things in moments of deep anxiety, that theywere handsome eyes, of a dark brown; and that the restof the face was worthy of the eyes; and there flashedthrough her mind the half-formed thought that it wouldhave been a pity for one so young and so good-lookingto have died. Then a faint intelligence came into his upturnedgaze, and he looked up into her great pityingeyes with a strange look of bewilderment which graduallygrew into a wondering admiration that brought adash of color to Doris’ face.

“Where am I?” he said at last, and the voice that hadsung “The Maids of Merry England” sounded strangelythin and feeble; “am I—dead?”

It was a queer question. Did he think that it was anangel bending over him? A faint smile broke overDoris’ anxious face, and one sprang up to his to meet it.

“I remember,” he said, without taking his eyes fromher face; “Poll pitched me over the hedge.”

He tried to laugh and raise his head, but the laughdied away with suspicious abruptness and his head sunkback.

“I—I beg your pardon!” he said. “I must have comean awful cropper; I—I feel as if I couldn’t move!” andhe 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 someone else to help,” she exclaimed in a piteous voice.

“Don’t—don’t—please don’t you trouble about it,” hesaid, pleadingly. “I shall be all right directly. It’sridiculous—” he added faintly, but endeavoring to laughagain. “I feel as if I’d got rusty hinges at the back ofmy neck.”

His eyes closed for a moment, for, notwithstanding thelaugh and his would-be light tone, he was in considerablepain; then he opened them again and let them rest uponher face.

“You’re awfully good to me!” he said, slowly. “I feelashamed—” he stopped, and a deep blush rose throughthe tan of his face, for he had suddenly realized that hishead was in her lap, a fact of which Doris was perfectlyunconscious. “Awfully good!” he repeated.

[Pg 17]

“Oh, don’t talk!” she said, earnestly. “You—you arenot able! Oh! if there was something I could do!Water! I will get you some to drink,” and she put hishead gently from her and rose.

He smothered a sigh.

“There’s—there’s a flask in my saddle-pocket, if Icould only get at it,” he said.

“I’ll get it,” she said, swiftly.

“No, no,” he said, quickly. “The—the horse, I meanmight—”

But she was off like the wind, and quite regardless ofdanger. 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 thesaddle.

“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 stoppedshort for a moment as she remembered that she had nothingto 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, andturned to him carefully, fearful of spilling a drop.

The young fellow hesitated, and first glanced up at herface, 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 handswith a sudden swiftness.

Reverently, gratefully as his lips had touched herhands, their touch had sent a strange thrill through her.

“I—I am afraid you did not get much,” she said, andher voice faltered, though she strove to keep it firm andsteady.

“Yes, yes!” he said. “Thank you very much. I ambetter—all right now!” and to prove it he sat up andlooked round him.

[Pg 18]

But his eyes returned to her face almost instantly, asif loth to leave it.

“I never was so sorry in all my life,” he said. “Tothink that I should have given you all this trouble! And—andfrightened you, too!” he added, for she had sunkdown upon the bank and was trembling a little as shewiped her hands.

“No, no, I am not frightened,” she said. “But it—itwas so sudden.”

He looked round and bit his lip.

“Great Heavens!” he exclaimed, remorsefully, “I—Imight 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 facepenitently.

“It was abominably careless of me,” he said in a lowvoice. “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 quiveredwith a little shudder, as she recalled the moment inwhich she saw him fall.

He glanced at it carelessly.

“Polly would have done it if it hadn’t been for thebrook! I’d forgotten that there might be a drop thisside, and——” He stopped short, his eyes fixed uponher dress, upon which were two or three red spots stainingits whiteness. He put his hand to his head. “Yourdress!” he said. “Look there! I’ve spoiled it!”

She looked down at the stains—they were still wet—andfelt for her handkerchief. It was lying on the grass.

“Will you let me?” he said pleadingly, and he took outhis 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 andglanced at the latter. “‘Romeo and Juliet!’ You werereading! What a nuisance I have made of myself. Ishall never forgive myself nor forget your kindness! Ifyou 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[Pg 19]beautiful women, this young man, but he thought, as helooked at her, that he had never seen any one so perfectlylovely.

With a vague feeling of wonder he noticed that herhair 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 rememberednoticing it in the first moments of wandering consciousness.

Was it this strange contrast, the blue eyes and blackhair, that made her so lovely? Or was it the shape of thethin, delicate red lips? He tried to answer the mentalquestion, but his brain seemed in a whirl.

It was not the effects of his fall, but the witchery ofher presence.

She was so perfectly still, her face set in quiet gravity,that he feared to speak or move, lest he should disturbher. 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 littlewhile!”

She turned her face toward him with a smile, but hereyes 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 afright, and are—are upset, and no wonder. I’m afraidyou’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, thatyou will think of me as—as the clumsy fellow who nearlyrode 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 shespoke. He was still bareheaded, and his hat lay a shapelessmass in the brook, and the water had formed theyellow hair into short, crisp curls on his white forehead,and in his dark eyes lingered the look which they hadworn when he had first returned to consciousness—alook of hungering, reverent admiration.

She took up her hat and put it on slowly. A spellseemed to have fallen on her. She thought it was thereaction after the excitement.

[Pg 20]

“I must go,” she said. “But you? Shall I send someone to help you?”

He rose, reluctantly, and laughed softly.

“To help me!” he said. “But I am all right; I neverfelt better. It’s not my first tumble by many; and, besides,I’ve not far to go. But you will let me see youhome? I”—he faltered—“I should like to tell your people,and thank them——”

“No, no,” she said, her eyes following the directionwhich he had taken when he said that he had not farto go.

“I am staying at the Towers,” he said, responding toher look. “You know the Towers?”

She shook her head.

“I am staying with my uncle. My name is Neville—CecilNeville——” he stopped as if he expected or wishedthat she would tell him hers, but Doris remained silent.

“That’s my uncle’s horse, and I hope I haven’t lamedher!” he laughed.

“Oh, no! Poor thing!” said Doris, pityingly. “Itwasn’t her fault!”

“No, it was all mine,” he said. “And I may not gohome 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 turnedaway.

“Good-afternoon.”

He glanced up at the sky.

“Good-night!” he said, slowly. “Good-night!” in solow a voice that it seemed almost a whisper.

She walked through the clump of trees for a hundredyards perhaps, then stopped with a start.

In the spell that had fallen upon her, she had forgottenher book. She looked round and saw that he was standingwhere she had left him. She waited, and presentlyhe moved, and going to the brook, knelt down andbathed his face and head. Then he went toward thehorse, and calling it to him, got into the saddle. Nottill he had got some distance did she venture to return.

[Pg 21]

Her book was there, and beside it the handkerchiefwith which he had tried to remove the stains from herdress; they were there still!

She took it up and looked at it dreamily; the wholeincident seemed almost a dream! and saw in a corner,worked in red silk, the initials C. N., and above them acoronet.

She was about to drop the handkerchief where shehad found it, but instead she thrust it out of sight in thebosom of her dress.

Then with a smile she opened the book.

By a strange coincidence it opened at the page uponwhich appeared the words that had proved such astumbling-block to her, and half unconsciously she murmured:

“Good-night, good-night!”

What was it that made her start and brought the warmblood to her face?

Only this, that now for the first time the words seemedto possess their real meaning. She had learned how tospeak them!

“Good-night! Good-night! Parting is such sweetsorrow that I shall say good-night till it be morrow!”

She ought to have been glad; why then did she uttera little cry almost of dismay, and cover her face with herhands?

CHAPTER III.

“IF I SHOULD FAIL.”

Doris sped homeward, but, fast as she walked, herthoughts seemed to outrun her. Had she fallen asleep bythe brook and dreamed it all? She could almost havepersuaded herself that she had, but for the handkerchiefhidden 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 hisface, for that floated before her mental vision as she hurriedon with downcast, dreamy eyes.

[Pg 22]

“Am I out of my senses?” she exclaimed, at last, tryingto rid herself of the spell by a light laugh. “Any onewould think I was playing the part of a sentimental younglady in a three-act comedy. It was rather like a play;but it’s generally the hero who saves the life of the principallady. I didn’t save his life, though he says I did.How he said it! Why can’t one speak like that on thestage, now? Cecil Neville!”

She took out the handkerchief and looked at it.

“And this is a coronet. What is he, I wonder? Aduke, or an earl, or what? And what does it matter tome what he is?” she asked herself in the next breath. “Imay never see him again, and if I did we should meet asstrangers. Dukes or earls have nothing in common withactresses. I wish I could forget all about him. But Ican’t—I can’t,” she murmured, almost piteously. “Oh, Iwish I had stayed at home, and yet I don’t, either,” sheadded, slowly. “If I had not been there, perhaps hewould not have come to, and might be lying there now!”she shuddered. “How brave and strong he looked ridingat the hedge; it was a mad thing to do! And yet hemade light of it! Ah, it is nice to be a man—and such aman! Cecil Neville! I wish he had not told me hisname! I cannot get it out of my head. And he liveswith his uncle at the Towers. Perhaps Jeffrey knowswho the uncle is. I must tell him,” she sighed. Somehowshe felt a strong reluctance to speak of the afternoon’sadventure; but she had never had any secrets fromJeffrey, and she added with another sigh: “Yes, I musttell him. He will be angry—no, he is never angry, buthe will be—what? sorry. And yet I could not help it.It was not I who rode at the hedge, and—I wonder whathe thought of me when he came to?” A burning blushrose to her face, and she stopped still to contemplate thenew phase of the question. “I—I had his head uponmy lap! Oh, what could he have thought? That I wasforward and impertinent, and yet, no, he did not look asif he did, and—and he thanked me and asked me to forgivehim—how many times! Cecil Neville. There”—andshe laughed impatiently—“that is the last time I will thinkof his name—or him!”

With this prudent resolve she hurried on, and burst[Pg 23]into the little room out of breath, to find Jeffrey seatedat 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 tothe table.

“No matter,” he said; “you have been walking up anddown in the fields studying, I know,” and he nodded.“It is just the hour, the mystic gloaming, when the brainquickens and ideas are born.”

“Yes,” she said, her long lashes covering her eyes. “Ihave been in the fields, and, Jeffrey, I’ve had an adventure!”

“Cows?” he said, absently. “There is nothing like theopen air for such work as you have in hand. Rachel,the greatest actress of her time, or any other, did mostof her work in the open air——”

“It wasn’t cows,” she broke in, trying to speak in amatter-of-fact voice; “it was a horse,” and she laugheda little nervously.

“My kingdom for a horse,” he quoted, failing to see theunusual color in her face, and not observing that she wasmaking a mere pretense of eating, just breaking a piece oftoast with her fingers and sipping her coffee. “And areyou more satisfied now? I have only just come from thetheatre; the booking is the heaviest they have had foryears. I have persuaded the manager to increase the orchestra!Have you seen your dress? It has come, andI 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 anddown 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 ofanything but the play, but she made another effort, forconscience 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.

[Pg 24]

“Well, I saw the nephew of the marquis—if he is amarquis—this afternoon. He fell off his horse——”

“Yes!” he said, with profound indifference. “I remembera 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 theballroom scene; leave Romeo room to get near you withouthaving to draw it on one side; it attracts attentionfrom the action of the play at a most important moment.A detail; but it is the details that, massed together, makeor 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 herwith alarm in his face.

“What accident? I have only just left the theatre; itwas all right then! Oh, you allude to the man who tumbledoff his horse? Never mind; put it out of yourhead; don’t think of anything but your part. Have youfinished 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,” andhe snatched up the book and turned to the page with nervousfingers.

Doris rose and opened her lips; then, with a suddenblush, 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 anervousness that was strange in her. “I—I could not!Don’t be angry, but”—she looked from side to side witha strangely troubled air—“I—I don’t think I could do itto-night! Don’t ask me!”

He nodded once or twice, looking at her meditatively.

“I think I understand,” he said, as if to himself. “Youare afraid of getting hackneyed? Perhaps you are right.Yes, you are right,” he added, quietly; “there is sucha thing as over-training. Yes, I know what you mean.Better let it rest for to-night, after the rehearsal thismorning and the study this afternoon.”

Doris turned her head away with a guilty sense of havingdeceived him.

[Pg 25]

“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, withgrim 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 offin alarm, for he could feel that she was crying softly, andcrying 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 Iknew. Perhaps it’s the excitement! There, I’m all rightnow,” and she slid away from him.

The old man seized her arm, and looked into her faceintently.

“Doris!” he said, in a husky voice; “you—you are notunhappy?”

“Unhappy!” and she laughed again. “Why should Ibe unhappy? Perhaps I cried because I’m too happy!Grief and joy are next of kin, you know. And oughtn’tI to be filled with joy, I, the Doris Marlowe, who is toplay Juliet to-morrow night?”

His hand dropped from her arm, but he was only half-satisfied.

“If I thought——” he muttered. “Doris, you are allthe world to me! Before Heaven I have had no thoughtbut for you since”—he stopped abruptly—“since you becamemy care; day and night, early and late, I haveworked to one end—to make you great and famous andhappy! If I thought——” he wiped the perspirationfrom 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’tknow, but I can guess all you have been to me, all youhave done for me. And I am happy, very, very happy!And I will be great and famous if you wish it! Youshall see!” she said, nodding, and smiling through thetears that veiled her lovely eyes. “Wait till to-morrownight. There, it is you who are excited now! And nowI’m going to try my dress on. We must look the Juliet[Pg 26]if we cannot act her,” and she stooped and kissed his foreheadand ran from the room.

The old man stood where she had left him, his handsworking behind his back, his brows knotted into thickcords, his eyes fixed on the ground.

Doubt, almost remorse, were depicted on his countenancewith an intensity almost terrible. He sank into achair, and, covering his face with his hands, seemed lostin a dream. Presently the door opened, and Doris, likea vision of loveliness, stood in her white satin dress beforehim.

She held the long train in one hand, and in the othera candle above her head, and stood with a grave smileupon her beautiful face, waiting. He looked up, thenwith a sudden cry threw out his arms.

“Lucy, Lucy, I did it for the best, for the best!”

“Jeffrey!” exclaimed Doris, “Jeffrey!” and she hastenedtoward him in alarm; but the sound of her voicehad recalled him to himself, and, passing his hand acrosshis 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 overhim, her brows drawn together anxiously.

“Did I?” he replied, evasively. “I—I must have beendreaming. There—ask me no more questions. Thedress is perfect. Perfect!” he repeated, emphatically, butlooking at her face and not the dress. “Walk across theroom.” 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 themcould look it better—no! And to-morrow”—he stoppedand regarded her with an earnestness that was almostfierce. “Child, if you fail to-morrow, you will kill me!Go now; go to bed and rest. Go!” he repeated, still lookingat her, but waving her away with his hand as if sherecalled some memory too painful to be borne; and Doris,stooping and kissing him, went up to her own roomagain. There she stood before the glass and looked atherself with a scrutiny that she had never used before.

[Pg 27]

Jeffrey had called her beautiful. Was she really beautiful?Did others think her so?—did he? She took upthe handkerchief and looked at it dreamily; then, still inher Juliet dress, she joined her hands together as she haddone when she had made a cup for him; and as she didso, the warm blood rushed to her face, for she could almostfancy that even now she could feel the touch of hislips 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 bendingover the handsome face, all pale but for the thinstreak of red; to hear in her sleep the strong, musicalvoice murmuring, “Will you forgive me?” was rest—thenDoris was resting, indeed!

CHAPTER IV.

AT THE TOWERS.

Cecil Viscount Neville rode off at a gallop at first, butpresently he pulled the horse up into a walk, for hewanted to think. Something had happened besides histumble that afternoon to “shake the soul of him,” as Tassosays. The blood was coursing through his veins at racingpace, and his heart was beating violently with a newand strange emotion. It seemed to him that he had beenin fairyland.

Just as Doris had taken out the handkerchief andlooked at it to convince herself that she had not beendreaming, so he put his hand to the cut on his foreheadto help him to realize that imagination had not been playingpranks with him.

He had seen beautiful women; in the language of hisworld 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 hadlooked down upon him when he came back to consciousness.

“I thought I was dead and that she was an angel!” hemurmured, his face flushing. “There never were eyeslike hers! And her voice! And I don’t know her name[Pg 28]even! And I may never see her again! I must, I must!And I might have ridden over that beautiful creature—shemight have been lying there instead of me!” he shuddered.“I ought to have killed myself, clumsy, awkwardidiot! But she forgave me, yes, she forgave me!” andhe tried to recall, and succeeded in recalling, every wordshe had spoken. “I wonder who she is?” he asked himselffor the hundredth time. “Why didn’t I ask her hername? No, I remember I could not! I—I never feltlike 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 afool! She must have thought me one! I’ll ride backand beg her to tell me who she is. I must know!” andhe was about to turn the horse when the clock of theTowers solemnly chimed the hour.

He started and looked at his watch.

“Dinner time,” he murmured, “and it’s a mortal sinto be five minutes late! No matter, I must go back,” andhe swung round. Then he pulled up again. “No; shewill not like it! It—it will seem as if I were forcingmyself on her, and after all her goodness to me! But notto know her name even!” and, with something betweena sigh and a groan, he put the horse into a gallop androde toward home.

Fortunately for the horse, she had struck her kneesupon the bank, and was uninjured, for Lord Cecil had—withunusual indifference—quite forgotten her, and it wasnot 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, notPolly’s! Give her an extra feed and wipe down,” headded, as he patted her. “She isn’t hurt, I’m glad tosay.”

“But you are, my lord, I’m afraid!” said the groom.

“Not a bit,” said Lord Cecil, with a smile, and he hurriedacross the courtyard, and up the stone steps to theterrace.

The long walk, laid in Carrara marble, and running thewhole length of the house, was perfectly empty, andeverything was suspiciously quiet.

[Pg 29]

“They’ve begun dinner,” said Lord Cecil, with a shrugof his shoulders. “That’s unpleasant! I don’t know myuncle very intimately, but I have a shrewd suspicion thathe is the sort of man to cut up rough! Well, no, I don’tsuppose 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, screenedby their curtains, and then past one through which thelight came in innumerable streaks of color—it was thestained oriel window—and at last reached the great hall.

A groom of the chambers, attired in a dark purple liverythat looked almost like a court suit, came forward withsomething like solemn gravity.

“I’m late, eh?” said Lord Cecil, and his clear, youngvoice, musical as it was, sounded large and loud in thesolemn, 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, “Ishan’t be long.” And he bounded up the stairs, apparentlyto the amazement of the official and a couple ofstately footmen, who looked after him with surprise. Ittook 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 inthree or four years—he had so many other and hugerplaces—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 ministrationwith quiet celerity. “Mr. Scobie, the butler, didmention that his lordship never waited for any one.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Lord Cecil. “It’s bad enoughto 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, mylord.”

“Oh! never mind that,” said Lord Cecil, impatiently,and he hurried down.

The groom came forward with stately step, and led theway to the dining-room, and opened the door slowly, as ifit were the entrance to the court.

[Pg 30]

It was a magnificent room, so large that it had beenfound necessary to curtail its dimensions with screens andcurtains, the last of crimson plush with heavy bullionfringe. The table was loaded with a splendid service ofplate, and at the head of it sat the Most Honorable theMarquis of Stoyle, Earl of Braithwaite and Denbigh, ofScotland, Baron Barranough of Ireland, Knight of theGarter of England, etc.

He rose with majestic courtesy as Lord Cecil entered,and the light from the delicately-shaded lamp, falling fullupon his face and figure, made a picture of them calculatedto 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 wasas straight as an arrow, and save for two lines runningfrom the corners of his finely-shaped nose, and a fewwrinkles at the ends of his gray, piercing eyes, the facewas as smooth as Lord Cecil’s own; smooth and almost aspale as ivory; every feature as cleanly cut as if it werecarved in; smooth and cold as ice; and yet, with all itsicelike impassability, a vague, indefinite something, notmarked enough for an expression, which always riveted astranger’s gaze, and made him uncomfortable. It wasnot exactly contempt, or hauteur, or dislike, but a comminglingof all three, which imparted to the face a qualityhard to define but easy to feel. It should be added, tocomplete the picture, that his white hair, worn rather long,was brushed straight back from his white forehead, andthat the hands were snowy in color and of quite feminineshape and texture.

This imposing figure stood upright until Lord Cecilhad taken his seat, the hard, steellike eyes regarding himwith an impassive, icelike courtesy, then sank into its seatagain.

It was not until he had done so that Lord Cecil wasstartled by seeing that a third person was present, forhe had been unable to remove his eyes from the marquis’while they were on his face. Now he saw that betweenhim and the marquis sat a lady; and Lord Cecil, as hissenses woke to the fact of her presence, was guilty of anastonished stare.

It is not given to every one to meet in one day the two[Pg 31]most beautiful women he had ever seen, but this was LordCecil’s fate. The lady was young, with a fair and perfectly-tintedface, with dark-brown eyes, and hair thatshone like raw silk under the mellow light that fell fromthe candelabra above.

Her presence was so unexpected that Lord Cecil mightbe pardoned for expressing in his gaze something of thesurprise he felt.

The sound of the marquis’ voice, low and yet clear, likethe sound of a treble-bell, recalled him to himself and hismanners.

“This is Lord Cecil Neville, Lady Grace,” he said, andhe just moved his snowy hand. “Cecil, I think I told youthat I expected Lady Grace?”

Lord Cecil bowed, and the lady inclined her head witha smile.

“As we are strangers, and Lord Neville has probablynever heard of me, marquis, perhaps you had better addthat I am Lord Peyton’s daughter.”

The marquis bowed.

“Of course I have heard of you, Lady Grace,” saidLord Cecil.

The dark-brown eyes opposite him grew rather keenas they rested on his face, but for a moment only, thenshe smiled again.

“If I had known that you were here——” He stoppedand laughed. “Well, I was going to say that I’d havebeen home earlier, but the fact is I met with a slightaccident and was detained.”

The dark eyes seemed to flash over him, then fixedthemselves upon the cut on his forehead.

“You were not hurt, I hope?” she said. “I see youhave a cut on your brow.”

“No,” he said. “It is nothing.”

“How did it happen?” asked Lady Grace. The marquishad 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[Pg 32]the marquis, “I am glad to say that the horse is not injured.”

“No?” said the marquis, with slow indifference. “Perhapsthat is as well; horses are valuable,” and the tonemore than the words seemed to add—“and men—especiallyLord Cecil Neville—are not.”

Lord Cecil glanced at him quickly, but the pale face wasset and impassive, as if innocent of any intent to insult.

After this cheerful remark the conversation rather naturallylanguished. Lord Cecil was hungry, and devotedhis attention to his plate; the servants moved to and frowaiting with subdued and watchful assiduity; the marquisate his dinner with slow, wearied glance, his eyes fixedon the great, golden epergne in the centre of the table, asprofoundly silent as if he never meant to utter anotherword. Now and again Lady Grace raised her eyes andscanned the handsome face opposite her, and Lord Cecilwould have returned the compliment, but while he ate hisdinner he was thinking of that other face with the darkhair and blue eyes, which had bent over him by the brook,recalling the sweet voice, which still rang in his ears likedistant 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 hisfirst visit to any house of the marquis, his uncle, for tenyears.

“Two days,” he replied, simply.

Lady Grace’s eyes grew keen, and she glanced from theyoung man to the old one.

“I have just been trying to tell the marquis how intenselyI 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 haveever seen. I am quite surprised to hear that the marquisseldom visits it. The view from the terrace is simplymagnificent. The country round about must be verybeautiful.”

“I think it is,” said Lord Cecil; the marquis made nosign. “I haven’t seen much of it.”

“I shall expect you to act as guide to what you have[Pg 33]seen,” she said, with a smile that seemed to flash like abeam 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 Iam always glad to get a little while, a short breathingtime, 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 headof the table. “I have retired.”

“What a pity!” she said, and her eyes seemed to takein, at a glance, his broad chest and stalwart limbs.

“Do you extend your sympathy to the army or to LordCecil?” asked the marquis, in a voice too smooth for thesneer which his question conveyed.

Lord Cecil’s eyes flashed, and his color rose, but he containedhimself and smiled.

“Oh, for both, of course. Surely the commander-in-chiefcannot afford to lose a good officer, and Lord Cecilmust be sorry to leave the army.”

“No,” murmured the marquis. “I do not suppose thecommander-in-chief can afford to lose a good officer.Lord Cecil must have been a great loss,” and his icyglance rested for a moment, without a spark of expression,upon the handsome face which had flushed againunder his cruel taunt.

“The loss was all on my side, Lady Grace,” he managedto say, with a smile; “at any rate, the duke bears upwonderfully well.”

Once more the marquis had succeeded in freezing theconversation, and Lady Grace, after toying with a strawberry,rose to leave the table. And as Lord Cecil openedthe door for her, she put up her fan, and in a remarkablylow voice murmured:

“You will not stay long?”

“I certainly sha’n’t,” he replied, emphatically, and in anequally low voice: but, low as it was, the marquis appearedto have heard it.

“I shall not detain you long,” he said. “You drink, ofcourse?” and he touched the decanter.

The tone, and not the words, again seemed to convey[Pg 34]an insult, and Lord Cecil shook his head, feeling as if hewould rather have perished of thirst than drank a glass ofthe wine thus offered.

“No?” said the marquis, and he managed to make eventhis single word offensive. “I thought it was the presentcustom with young men.”

“No, sir,” said Lord Cecil; “we have changed the fashion.”

The marquis inclined his head as if the retort were acompliment.

“Ah, the present age has no vices, I presume. Is itbecause they have no strength for them?”

“I don’t know,” said Lord Cecil, almost coldly.

The marquis filled a glass with the rare and costlywine, and as he sipped it, allowed his eyes to stray overthe 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 ofmine.” The pause conveyed the sneer which lay in almostevery sentence he uttered, and was expressed by tone orword. “He did me a great service, and I owe him a debtof gratitude.”

Lord Cecil looked up inquiringly. The marquis dippedhis white fingers in the finger-glass, and added, smoothly:

“He ran off with a girl to whom I was going to bemarried. This is her daughter, and I am naturally—attachedto her.”

The idea of the marquis being attached to any humanbeing on the face of the earth almost raised a smile onLord Cecil’s face. He might have laughed outright; themarquis would have made no sign. He sipped his wineslowly, then he said:

“She is what the people call a beautiful girl?”

This was put as a question, and Lord Cecil hastened toreply:

“She is very beautiful, sir.”

“If you say so!” said the marquis, with an inclinationof 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.

[Pg 35]

In his embarrassment Lord Cecil seized the decanter,and poured out a glass of wine, and the ghost of a smilecrossed the marquis’ face.

“It is rather singular that Lady Grace should havementioned the army,” he said. “It reminded me that Iwanted to speak to you on the subject. First let me thankyou for complying with my desire.”

Lord Cecil smiled, but rather grimly.

“I don’t think I could have done otherwise, sir,” hesaid.

“Ah! true—yes. I think, if I remember rightly, that Imade the continuance of your allowance subject to yourresigning. No doubt you thought the condition ratherarbitrary. Permit me to explain it. I could not affordit.”

Lord Cecil stared in an unfeigned astonishment, whichappeared to give the marquis immense satisfaction.

“I generally avoid business matters,” he said, slowly,and as smoothly as ever; “I leave them to my stewardand lawyer. But I think we had better speak of them—itis a good opportunity! It will surprise you to hear,no doubt, that I am a poor man!”

Lord Cecil certainly looked surprised. The marquissmiled.

“Y—es,” he said, slowly, as if he enjoyed making thestatement. “It appears that I have spent rather morethan double my income for say fifty years since, and Iimagine that my father and grandfather must have donethe same; at least that is the only way in which I canaccount for the fact that the whole of the free estates aremortgaged up to the neck. Up to the neck,” he added, asif 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 conveyedhis infinite regret; “but even the income from thatwill be drawn upon to pay the interest on the others.Consequently,” with bland and icy politeness, “you willprobably be the poorest peer of the realm.”

Lord Cecil remained silent, his eyes fixed gravely onthe pale, set face, which bore not the faintest indicationof regret.

[Pg 36]

“It is an uncomfortable position! I cannot imagine amore 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’tfelt it because, you see, I have been able to raise moneyfor myself! That is unfortunate for you, of course, butI imagine you would have done the same in my place.”

Lord Cecil did not reply. The heartlessness of thespeech simply staggered him.

The marquis waited, as if to give him time to digestthis charmingly candid statement, then remarked, in ascasual a voice as if he were commenting on the weather:

“Lady Grace’s grandfather made his money and histitle out of beer. She will be immensely rich, I believe,and will not require the small sum—though it will be myall—which I shall leave her.”

He paused and looked at his white hands, then in anutterly wearied voice, as if he had exhausted all the interestin the subject, said:

“I am glad you think her so charming! Pray, do notlet me keep you from her any longer!” and he rose andstood like a statue.

Lord Cecil pushed his chair back and rose, his handsomeface rather pale, his eyes flashing.

“Do I understand, sir—do you want me to understandthat you wish me to——” He hesitated a moment, thenbrought 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 merelymaking an attempt, I fear a vain attempt, to amuse youby giving you some information. It is”—the wordsdropped with icy, contemptuous indifference from hisscarcely moving lips—“a matter of profound indifferenceto me whether you marry Lady Grace—or one of themaids in the kitchen!”

A fierce retort trembled on the tip of Lord Cecil’stongue, but he closed his lips tightly, and, returning thecourtly bow which the marquis at this moment accordedhim, with a short inclination of the head, left the room.The marquis gently sank back into his chair with the[Pg 37]placid and serene air of a man who has spent a remarkablypleasant quarter of an hour.

Outside, in the hall, Lord Cecil pulled himself up anddrew a long breath, as a man does who has kept a tighthold upon himself for about as long as he can manage;then he paced up and down the full length of the hall—muchto the concealed amazement of the groom and thefootmen, one of whom stood ready to open the drawing-roomdoor for him—and, at last, remembering that LadyGrace was waiting for him, greatly relieved the footman’sfeelings by entering the room.

Lady Grace was reclining, almost completely lying, ona couch near the fire. At a little distance sat a middle-agedlady, bent over some kind of needlework. It was adistant connection of the marquis, who acted as a kind ofhousekeeper, and who was more like a shadow than aliving, breathing woman. Beyond his first greeting whenhe had arrived, Lord Cecil had not succeeded in exchanginga word with her. As he entered now she just raisedher head like an automaton, and let it fall again over herwork. Lady Grace looked across at him with a smile,and he went and leaned against the mantel-piece of carvedmarble and mosaic, and she let her eyes scan his face insilence 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-morrowmorning.”

He started.

“Right the first time!” he acknowledged, with a shortlaugh.

She moved her fan—it was a large one of fancy bluefeathers—which in juxtaposition with her face made itsfairness 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.

[Pg 38]

She laughed softly, her eyes still fixed on his face, as ifit were a book whose pages she was reading.

“How charming the marquis is, isn’t he?”

“Charming!” he assented, with a volume of bitternessin the word.

“You must be so glad to be here with him, and it is thefirst 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 youknow him.”

“There are some people one doesn’t want to know, LadyGrace.”

“And then we must make allowances,” she said. “Whydo they call him Wicked Lord Stoyle?” she asked him,not abruptly, but in the same soft voice that most peoplefound acted upon them like a caress.

“I don’t know. For good and fully sufficient reasonsI’ve no doubt,” he replied.

“Do you think he has murdered anybody, now?” sheinquired, with a smile.

“I don’t know. Perhaps. I daresay. At any rate, I’mquite sure a great many people must have longed to murderhim.”

“Oh, fie!” she said, touching him with the edge of herfan; “and your uncle, too! I wonder what he has done?”

“I was just wondering what he hasn’t done,” said LordCecil, grimly.

She laughed.

“You amuse me, Lord Cecil.”

“I’m awfully glad,” he said. “I didn’t think it was inme 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 rhythmiccurves.

“No? Oh, yes, there was a marchioness once. Yearsand years ago. I believe he killed her—with kindness.”

“Poor woman!” he said, under his breath.

[Pg 39]

“Yes. But that’s the mystery. No one knows, yousee, and never will know. Everybody knows about hisruining his cousin, Lord Denbigh, at cards; he committedsuicide, and so the marquis inherited the Denbigh title;and about his shooting old Lady Dalrymple’s son—theysay that the marquis fired before the word was given;and about his running away with that foolish Lady Penelope—shedied in a garret at Dieppe; but nobody knowsabout 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 greatsarcasm.

“Oh, no; these are trifles which I happened to rememberhearing 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 ladysitting 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 thanyou suppose! Shall I tell you what the marquis has beensaying to you in the drawing-room; and why do you lookso grim and gloomy?”

He did not answer.

She let her eyes rest upon his face with a serene andlanguid expression of amusem*nt.

“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 hiseyes dropped from hers to the diamond pendant that glistenedon the white neck.

She laughed softly, and the diamonds seemed to laughwith her, as they scintillated in the subdued light.

“Am I right? You need not answer—your face is eloquentenough! And now I will tell you why I came here—Icame to see you.”

[Pg 40]

He tried to speak, but she held up her fan to commandhim to silence.

“You see, I know the marquis and his charming waysbetter 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 tookup the train of her dress—“but you are not obliged tomarry me, and I”—she laughed softly up at his handsomeface—“I am certainly not obliged to marry you. Andnow, in reward for my candor—I have been candid,haven’t I?—you will not leave me alone in this castle ofGiant 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 slowlyup the great staircase to the magnificent apartments whichhad been prepared for her. The smile was still on herface while her maid brushed the long tresses of silky hairthat fell like a shower of gold over the white shoulders,and even when she was alone she smiled still as she leanedforward and looked at her face in the glass.

“Yes,” she murmured, falling back and half-closing hereyes. “He is worth winning. There is only one thing Ifear.” She paused, with a faint sigh. “I am afraid thatI shall love him too well!”

Lord Cecil stood with his back to the fire for twentyminutes after Lady Grace had left him. To say that hewas amazed would be only inadequately to describe thestate of his feelings. At last, as if he were making aneffort to cast off the bewilderment which had fallen uponhim, he wished the old lady good-night, and went, not tohis room, but out on to the terrace, for he felt a kind ofcraving for the open air, in which he might rid himselfof the effects produced by his insight into his uncle’scharacter 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 presentmoment,” he murmured, “she’ll know I’m thinking ofthat train still! Yes, I’ll be off the first thing to-morrowmorning!”

[Pg 41]

And with this firm resolution he turned to go back tothe house. As he did so, something white fluttered pasthim, blown by the faint night breeze.

He stooped and picked it up, and absently glanced atit 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 readingby the brook. Instantly her lovely face rose beforehim, 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 thegirl who had bent over him, whose hands his lips hadtouched.

“No!” he said, with a sharp sigh; “no, I can’t go, forshe is somewhere here, and I must find her!”

CHAPTER V.

AN IDEAL JULIET.

The hour was approaching. Doris, still in her hat andjacket, sat in the tiny apartment behind the stage whichserved as her dressing-room. She was paler than usual,and her eyes looked of a deeper and darker blue thanusual; but she was calm, with a calm which Jeffrey couldnot attain to.

With his hands folded behind him, his head bent uponhis breast—his favorite attitude—he paced up and downthe 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 placesyou would be sure of playing ‘Romeo and Juliet’ toempty benches, but not here. It is a flourishing place,and they are intelligent and educated. They have a[Pg 42]theatre they may be proud of, and they are proud of it.In some towns the theatre is a neglected barn, and whenthat is so, you may take it that the people are uncultivatedand barbaric. Yes—you will have a fair andpatient hearing; I knew that when I chose Barton forthe scene of your great trial. In London there are somany new Juliets that the critics and the audience havegot incredulous and suspicious—they have seen so manyfailures that they go prepared for disappointment; here,it will be different. They love Shakespeare, they knowyou, they will hope for the best, and you will not disappointthem,” and his eyes glittered down upon her.

Doris smiled.

“Perhaps they will hiss me off the stage!” she said, butshe did not say it very fearfully.

He shook his head, and went on in his monotonouspacing; and presently a familiar sound struck his ear.

“The curtain is up on the farce,” he said. “You hadbetter begin to dress. Is there anything I can do—anythingI can suggest—anything you would like to askme?” he inquired, with his long, thin fingers on thehandle of the door.

Doris shook her head.

“No, Jeffrey, dear; I don’t know of anything, unlessyou would get into my skin, and play Juliet insteadof me.”

“You are not nervous?” he asked.

“Not a bit,” she answered; “and that is strange, isn’tit? No, I feel as calm and easy as if I were going toplay a waiting-maid’s part; but I shall be all on the quiverwhen I am standing at the wings, ready to go on.”

He nodded, as if he understood, and went out, sendingher dresser to her.

Doris dressed quietly and slowly. Jeffrey had impressedupon her the importance of avoiding all hurryjust before her appearance, and she had finished, andwas sitting before the glass, not looking at herself, butmusing, 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 sinceMr. Irving was here. The boxes look like Londonboxes, people in evening dress, and ladies with flowers.”

[Pg 43]

He stood in front of her, and scanned her dress andget-up keenly.

The dress was of white satin, made quite plainly, witha long train, its only ornament a row of pearls, whichwere not stage jewels, but real, and of great value, anda present from Jeffrey himself. Her dark hair, lookingblack by the light, fell round her exquisitely-shaped facelike a frame, and, caught up by a white ribbon behind,swept in curving tresses to her shoulders. The fainttouch of rouge—every actress must rouge, whether shelikes it or not—gave the intense blue eyes an added depthand brilliance, which the long dark lashes veiled nowand again, but to rise and render the brilliance and colormore marked by their temporary concealment.

It was not his way to praise her beauty, but as heturned away he muttered something that sounded likeapproval.

“Did you see any one you know, in front, Jeffrey?” sheasked.

“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; itis from them you must get your verdict, the boxes andstalls will follow suit.”

“Poor county people!” she said, with a smile, but absently.

“Of what are you thinking—the third scene?” heasked.

Doris started, and the natural color forced its waythrough the powder and rouge. She was not thinkingof Romeo and Juliet at all, but of the handsome facethat lay in her lap yesterday afternoon, of the youngfellow whose name was Cecil Neville.

“I—I don’t know,” she said, faltering a little. “Ithink I was dreaming, Jeffrey.”

“Then you must wake up,” he retorted firmly, but notunkindly. “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 smilingsurprise.

“And you, who are always preaching against it!” shesaid.

[Pg 44]

“I know,” he admitted; “but to-night——”

The manager knocked at the door. He was a keenbusiness man, just and not ungenerous, and he noddedand smiled at the beautiful vision admiringly and encouragingly.

“Beautiful house, Miss Marlowe,” he said, “and inthe very best of tempers; a child might play with themto-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 besurprised if I forget my part, and am hissed off!” but hersmile belied her words.

“If you are I’ll close the theatre and take to—marketgardening!” retorted the manager.

“Let her alone! I do not want her to talk!” growledJeffrey, and Mr. Brown, shrugging his shoulders andmaking a grimace behind the bent back, glanced at hiswatch 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 downat her with a world of wistful tenderness and pride andloving anxiety.

“Do your best, Doris!” he said.

“I will, for your sake, Jeffrey!” she responded, touchinghis hand caressingly.

“No, for your art’s,” he said, gravely. “I shall be atthe wings.”

Now that she was left alone, Doris tried to concentrateher thoughts upon the coming ordeal; but she couldnot. Each time she tried to picture herself upon thestage and speaking the lines set down for Juliet, thevoice of Cecil Neville rang in her ears, and with a lowcry, almost of alarm, she put her hands to her head.

“Ah, that’s stage fright!” said the dresser. “I knowwhat it is, miss; I’ve had it myself, in my old actingdays. But it will pass off directly you face the house, depend[Pg 45]upon it. Don’t you be afraid and nervous; for,Miss Marlowe, I’ve heard that the very first actors feellike that, some of them every night, too!”

Doris laughed softly.

“Do they, Mrs. Parkhouse?” she said. “Then thereis hope for me. There is the overture over. Not manyminutes now; the curtain is up!”

She bent her head upon her hands and forced herselfto think of the scene that was at that moment beingplayed, to think of the good-looking young fellow—agreat Barton favorite—who was playing Romeo; butmarvel of marvels, instead of his face, which she knewso well, there rose before her, as Romeo, the face overwhich she had bent yesterday.

“Ah, it is no use, no use!” she cried, springing up.

“Oh, don’t say that, miss!” said Mrs. Parkhouse, whohad been watching her with respectful anxiety. “I’m sure—we’reall of us sure and certain that it will be a success.It will all go right directly you get on to thestage.”

“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 sentenceunfinished, Doris caught up her train and went tothe wings.

The Barton Theatre was a properly conducted one,and none but those who had business there were permittedbehind the scenes; but Doris had to passthrough a small crowd of actors and supernumeraries andcarpenters, and she felt rather than saw the curiousglances bent upon her.

But instantly Jeffrey was by her side.

“It has gone well, so far,” he said. “Mr. Brown wasright; the house is in good humor, notwithstanding theheat and that it is packed. You played well, Mr. Garland,”he said to the Romeo, who came striding up andbowed to Doris.

“Did I? Thanks. Not nearly so well as I shall dowhen I have Juliet to play to. May I, without offense,say that you are looking your part most beautifully, MissMarlowe?”

Doris inclined her head with a smile.

[Pg 46]

“Romeo should pay compliments, Mr. Garland, andthat is a very pretty one. But I want to do more thanlook my part!”

“Don’t be afraid,” said the young fellow, gallantlyand 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 feltas sure.”

“Your cue!” said Jeffrey in a solemn voice, as hetouched her arm warningly.

She started slightly, then with the light, careless gaitof a light-hearted, careless girl, who has no forecast ofthe doom hanging over her, she went upon the stage.

A greater part of the audience knew her, but theywere astonished by the sight of her beauty, renderedmore beautiful by the exquisite dress, and they led thethunder of welcome which the strangers, who saw herfor the first time, followed as heartily.

Doris had been taught by Jeffrey that to stop thebusiness of the scene to acknowledge applause was acardinal sin, and commenced at once, and the crowdedhouse fell into instant silence, in which her sweet, clearvoice 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 herpart well, but there was nothing extraordinary in heracting.

“That’s right, Miss Marlowe!” said Romeo, as shepassed him at the wing. “Saving yourself up! Reserveforce, and all that! Quite right! You’ll let yourself goin the later scenes!”

“Well?” she said to Jeffrey, as he threw a silk shawlover her and drew her into a corner out of the draughts.

“It is for you to answer that,” he said, quietly. “Itwas 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 thatquavered: “It is not your best scene. It ought to becut out. It is sometimes. You have nothing to fear.Did you see the house?”

She shook her head.

[Pg 47]

“No, I did not look.”

He nodded approvingly.

“That’s right. Take no notice of them! Don’t lookbeyond the footlights, and—and—the next scene is atrying 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 hurryingon to the stage; the orchestra was playing the familiarmusic; the audience were applauding the reallyhandsome 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 wantingyet!

There were two London critics in the stalls, and theyexchanged 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 thepart, so to speak? Seems as if she were going throughit in a dream! But she’s as beautiful as a dream, too!”

The balcony scene came on—the scene in which aJuliet, who is a Juliet, can display her powers to thebest advantage. In this scene are opportunities for thedisplay 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, withfingers lacing and unlacing themselves, was devoured byanxiety, mitigated by hope.

“Now or never!” he muttered. “This is the scene! Oh!Doris, Doris! Now you raise my heart to the seventhheaven, or break it!—break it!”

“Awfully pretty scene, Miss Marlowe,” said Romeo,as they stood together for a moment or two; “you’ll letyourself go now, I expect!”

“Shall I?” she said, dreamily, almost absently. “Idon’t know.”

He looked at her curiously.

[Pg 48]

“Yes, I think I’d put all I know into this,” he said,gently and respectfully. “It’s a big scene for both ofus.”

“Yes,” she said, in a low voice. Then she glided pasthim and took her place on the balcony.

The scene began, the audience was as silent as thegrave, as Romeo entered and made his well-knownspeech.

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 unconsciouslylooked toward the house.

It was almost darkened; but a single light had beenleft in the chandelier, and it fell upon the handsome faceof a young man sitting in the centre box. He was leaningforward, his eyes fixed upon her face, a strange intentexpression in them. His face was pale, his handsclasped tightly on the velvet lining of the box-edge, hiswhole expression that of one surprised, amazed, bewilderedand fascinated.

She saw the face for a moment only, but she recognizedit.

It was the one over which she had bent on the precedingday; it was Cecil Neville’s!

The color rose to her face, and her hands, claspedtightly on the balcony edge, trembled. Then she wentpale again, and her eyes were raised to the moon.

Then she spoke, and again, marvel of marvels! thevery tones of her voice seemed altered. There was nolonger any trace of the cold abstraction which hadmarred the preceding scenes.

Melting, ravishing, they fell upon the audience likedrops 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 uponit; every one knows it; there is no other like it in thewhole range of English literature.

Like notes of music, sounding the full depths of a girl’spure passion, her words dropped from her perfect lips.[Pg 49]Her face was like a poem of Dante Gabriel Rosetti’s;pale, passion-pale, yet eloquent. Every gesture—as sheswept the dark, silky hair from her forehead with an impatientmovement; as she bent forward in the keen hopeof touching Romeo’s hand; as she kissed her fingers tohim; as she pressed her throbbing heart, full to o’erbrimmingwith love—every gesture was noted and dwelt uponby the enraptured audience, and when the scene closed,a wild and unanimous burst of applause rolled likethunder from pit to boxes, from boxes to pit!

They clapped, they stamped, they cheered. It almostseemed as if a crowd of rational beings had taken leaveof their senses. In plain truth, she had witched thehearts out of them, and they were fascinated.

Romeo stood, for the first time in his experience, at aloss 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 andtrembling, but his voice was stern and grim.

“No!” he said. “Not yet! This is nothing. Let themwait till the last scene; then—then, if they want her, sheshall go, but not till then!”

The two London critics in the stalls exchangedglances.

“Wonderful bit of acting,” said one. “Really wonderfulfor so young a girl!”

“Yes,” assented the second; then he added thoughtfully,“I wonder what made her wake up. It came quitesuddenly, did you notice?”

There was one person in the theatre, one out of thewhole crowd, however, who neither clapped nor cheered,but sat perfectly silent. It was Lord Cecil Neville. Hesat, breathing slowly and heavily, like one under a spell,his eyes fixed on the spot where she had stood, all hissenses in thrall.

A BUNCH OF VIOLETS.

He had spent the greater part of the day looking forher, his disappointment growing hour by hour as hegrew convinced that he should not find her; that he hadlost her forever. If he had only known her name, hecould have inquired in the town; but he could scarcelygo about asking people if they had happened to see theloveliest girl on earth, with dark hair and wonderful blueeyes; besides, there was, to him, something almost sacredin his meeting with her, and he shrank from puttingcommonplace questions about her.

By luncheon time he was, I am sorry to say, in anythingbut a good temper. Fortunately the marquis rarelyput in an appearance at that meal, or, in all probability,there would have occurred an open quarrel between himand his nephew, and Lord Cecil would have fled thehouse. Lady Grace, too, did not appear; she had goneto pay a visit to a friend in the neighborhood, and LordCecil, therefore, ate his cutlet and drank his ChateauMargaux in solitude.

He was not at all sorry for this, for, to tell the truth,Lady Grace’s candor, though extremely original, hadvery much embarrassed him, and Lord Cecil was too littleused to embarrassment to find it agreeable. She wasvery beautiful, very charming, and he admired her verymuch, but still he felt her absence a relief; he was freeto muse over the unknown, who had eluded his search allthe morning.

Suddenly, as he finished his last glass of claret, he rememberedthe play-bill he had picked up on the terrace,and it occurred to him that here was the means of escapingdinner at the Towers; for this night, at all events, hecould get away from the marquis’ sneers and sarcasm.

“I shall not be home to dinner,” he said to the statelybutler. “I think I’ll go to the theatre.”

“Yes, my lord,” responded the butler, displaying not asign of the disgust which the announcement caused him.[Pg 51]To think that any one—a viscount, especially—shouldprefer 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 Londontheatre, and that there is an excellent company there.They play ‘Romeo and Juliet’ to-night. That is,” hemade haste to add, “I heard some of the under-servantstalking about it; I never go to the theatre myself, mylord. 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 willgive you a lot of trouble, will it not? I can get a chopor something at the hotel in the town, can’t I?”

“Oh, no, my lord; it will be no trouble,” the butlermade haste to reply; “the marquis would be much annoyedif your lordship were to be inconvenienced.”

Lord Cecil nodded; he could scarcely suppress a smileat the butler’s crediting the marquis with such hospitablesentiments.

“All right,” he said, again; “I’ll have it at half-pastsix.”

“Yes, my lord,” assented the butler, with a faint sigh;it seemed to him a dreadful sacrifice; and Lord Cecilsoon afterward took up his hat and went out.

He made his way to the meadows, and stood lookingdown on the brook and at the spot where Polly hadlanded him so nearly upon his head; and at the bankwhere the fair unknown, whose face and voice hauntedhim perpetually, had sat, and a vague hope dwelt in hisbreast that she might, perhaps, revisit the scene as hewas doing.

But an hour passed and she did not come, and hestrode off, moodily, full of disappointment and halfangry with himself.

“I am a fool!” he thought. “She has forgotten me bythis time. Why should she come back here? If I wereto meet her, what could I say to her? She’d very likelythink me an impertinent snob if I did more than lift myhat. I couldn’t very well tell her that I have scarcelythought of anything but her since we parted yesterday[Pg 52]and to say anything less to her would seem to me to besaying nothing at all!”

Thus musing, he went into the town, his stalwartfigure, with its military carriage, his handsome, patricianface, and his Poole-made clothes, which he wore as ifthey had grown on him, causing no little sensationamongst the inhabitants.

But though he stared into the shop windows andlooked at every girl who came in sight, he did not seethe girl of whom he was thinking; and it was nearlyseven before he came back to the “small dinner of threeor four courses” which the considerate butler had servedfor him in the breakfast room.

He was half inclined to give up the idea of thetheatre, and if it had not been for his dread of the marquis’society he would have done so. As it was, he atehis dinner slowly, and enjoyed it, although he was inlove; and then, and not till then, he fully made up hismind 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 afterdinner.”

The butler—more in sorrow than in anger—askedwhat time he should send the carriage, but Lord Cecildeclined a conveyance for any part of the evening.

“I’ll walk back,” he said; “I rather like a stroll afterthe 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 breathof spring, a thought—a hope—flashed through his mindthat he might, perhaps, see the girl in the theatre. Henever asked himself what his object in seeking her mightbe; men seldom ask themselves such questions. LordCecil was not an altogether bad character. He was nota modern Lovelace in pursuit of his prey, by any means.He was not, in fact, a Lovelace at all. He had lived in afast set—had been the star and centre of the crack regimentin which he had held a commission—had gonethrough the ordeal of London life as completely as mostyoung men of title; but he had come out of it, if he[Pg 53]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 hadnot been any tamer than his ancestors; but in all his wildnesshe had drawn the line. For women in general—forthe sex, as a whole—he possessed a respect which hadsometimes amused his less scrupulous companions.

He had overspent his allowance; lost large sums atbaccarat 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 nowoman had, as yet, any indictment against him. He couldtruthfully declare, with the Frenchman, on his deathbed:“No woman can come to my grave and say that for wantof heart I broke hers.”

To women he was always frank and gentle, and thewomen of his set adored him. If he had broken nohearts in the sterner sense of the word, he had all unwittinglycaused many to ache, and many a belle of theLondon season had “given herself away” to Cissy Neville,as his intimate friends called him.

And now the marquis had intimated that he mustmarry Lady Grace. Lord Cecil thought of last night’safter-dinner conversation as he strolled along, tried tothink of it gravely and seriously, but somehow he couldnot; all his thoughts flew, whether he would or wouldnot, to the dark-haired, blue-eyed girl he had so nearlyridden over in the meadows. After all, he was notobliged to marry Lady Grace. The marquis could notcompel him, and as for the money—— He shrugged hisshoulders, and, having reached the theatre, put the subjectfrom him.

It must be confessed that he followed the box-keeperto the private box he had taken with rather doubtful anticipations.

“Romeo and Juliet” in a country theatre is not alwaysan entrancing spectacle, and Lord Cecil only wonderedhow long he should stand it. He was rather surprisedat the air of elegance perceptible, and still more surprisedat the crowded state of the house, and he congratulatedhimself, as he looked round at the well-dressed and aristocraticaudience, that he had come in evening dress, for[Pg 54]he had at one time thought of retaining his morningclothes.

He settled himself in his box—he had arrived duringthe entr’acte—and looked at the programme.

“Juliet—Doris Marlowe.”

The name struck him at once as a pretty one, and hedid not trouble to read the rest of the cast. Then thecurtain drew up on the balcony scene, and, leaning forwardcarelessly, he looked at the stage and saw, therein 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 thecolor rushed to his face. Then he looked again, “all hissoul in his eyes,” and saw that he was not dreaming, butthat it was in solemn truth she, herself.

If he had had any doubts her voice would have dispelledthem. He would have remembered and recognizedthose musical tones if he had heard them fiftyyears hence instead of as many hours.

He was amazed, bewildered, engrossed, but not tooengrossed 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, imaginehow she moved him who had been thinking of her andlonging to see her!

His heart beat wildly, the color came and went in hisface; he was lost to everything but that bright, celestial,and yet purely human, being on the stage, then renderingthe exquisite lines of her part; and it was not untilhe caught one or two curious glances directed at himthat he drew back a little and tried to look simply interestedlike the rest.

The drop scene went down on the act, and he, to usehis own phrase, “pulled himself together.”

He got up and went out into the lobby, and made hisway to the refreshment bar; and when he had obtainedhis brandy and soda he lingered over it and got in conversationwith the attendant.

“This Miss Doris Marlowe is a great success?” hesaid, trying to speak indifferently.

“Oh, yes, she is, indeed,” said the girl, with a longsigh; she had dreamed of being an actress herself, poor[Pg 55]thing; “I just stole out and looked in at the last act. Asuccess?—I should think so! I call it magnificent. Inever saw anything like it; did you, sir?”

“No, never,” responded Lord Cecil. “She is a Londonactress, I suppose? And yet I don’t remember seeingher in London,” he added.

“No, I don’t think she’s ever played in London, butalways in the provinces. This is the first time she’s everdone anything like this. She’s played here in smallparts; this is her first appearance in Shakespeare.”

“Who is she?” he asked, endeavoring to make hisquestion commonplace, yet feeling that he was hangingon her reply.

The girl paused in the wiping of a glass and lookedpuzzled.

“Who is she? I don’t know, sir. I question whetheranybody knows rightly, excepting Mr. Jeffrey.”

“Mr. Jeffrey? Who’s he?” asked Lord Cecil, with asharp pang. Could this man be her husband?

“Oh, the old gentleman who goes about with her. Heain’t her father, but a kind of guardian. He was an actoronce. 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 totheatre. He is a very extraordinary old gentleman, andvery 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 fora drink, and one of them bowed to Lord Cecil.

“Quite an eventful evening, my lord,” he said, withthe 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, butshe will not be so after to-night. We shall see her inDrury Lane before many months are passed.”

“Who was that?” his friend, the other critic, asked.

“Lord Cecil Neville,” was the reply. “The heir tothe Marquisate of Stoyle. A splendid fellow, and, strange[Pg 56]to say, not a bit spoiled, though all the women make adead set at him.”

“The Marquis of Stoyle,” said the other thoughtfully.“That old villain? And this is his nephew. He is immenselygood-looking.”

“Oh, a splendid fellow. Did you ever hear that storyabout him——?” and they moved away.

Lord Cecil drank half his soda and brandy, and thenwent back to his box.

Meanwhile, a thrill of excitement seemed to runthrough those engaged behind the scenes. A theatre isrendered famous by its actors, and it seemed that theTheatre Royal, Barton, was going to be made celebratedas the place of the first appearance of a great actress.

“If she can only carry us through to the end!” mutteredJeffrey, as he paced to and fro, his hands claspedbehind his back, his eyes flashing fire.

“Oh, she’ll do it!” said the manager, who happenedto hear him. “Don’t you be afraid, Mr. Jeffrey; thatyoung lady is a genius! I knew it from the first. Shewill carry it through to the very last. And about theengagement now? You make your own terms, and I’llagree 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 balconyscene and yet fail in the later and more importantones.

But there did not seem much fear of failure with Doris.

Off the stage, and in her dressing room, she wasquiet and subdued, but the moment she got on theboards her eyes flew to the centre box, and she seemedto draw inspiration from the handsome face that leanedforward in rapt, almost devout, attention.

The play proceeded. The great scene, in which Romeotakes leave of Juliet, his newly-made wife, went witha rush. The audience cheered until it was hoarse. Thricethe young actress was called to the front, and everybodywho had brought a bouquet flung it at her feet.

Jeffrey, pale and statuesque, implored Doris to becalm.

“It is not all over yet!” he said, warningly. “There isthe last scene. Remember what I taught you! It is the[Pg 57]last scene in which a Juliet, who is a Juliet, declares herself!Do not let their applause make you forget whatis due to your art! I would rather that they remainedmute and silent, Doris.”

And for answer she simply smiled. She did not tellhim that while she could see a certain face in the centrebox all would be well.

The pause before the last scene arrived. The wholehouse was talking in excited whispers. To the Bartonfolk, ardent theatre-goers as they were, nothing like thishad befallen them. A twitter of excitement ran throughthe house, and amongst the crowd that thronged the lobbiesLord Cecil walked about, as excited as the rest.

Suddenly, as if he had been stricken by an idea, heturned up the collar of his coat and made his waythrough the press to the streets, and looked about himeagerly.

Some women selling oranges came hurrying up tohim, and amongst them a woman with a basket ofviolets.

He bought the whole contents of her basket, and badeher tie them together; then, with the flowers in his hand,he went back to the theatre; but, instead of going to hisbox, he made his way to the stalls and stood close to theorchestra.

The last scene came on. Again it is unnecessary todescribe it; the grim and solemn vault, the beautifulfigure of the girl in the death throes, the terrible agonyof Romeo, were all here, rendered real and lifelike by thegenius of the actors.

Spellbound, the house watched and listened in profoundsilence. Listened to the passionate, despairingplaint of Romeo, and the deeper agony of Juliet, whoawakes to find her lover dead.

Never, perhaps, since the play was played, was actressmore touching, more tear-compelling than Doris Marlowethat night at the Theatre Royal, Barton; and as herlast words died away in solemn silence, a great sobseemed to rise from the crowded house.

Then the sob gave place to a thunder of applause.Once more the sober audience seemed possessed by aspirit of delirium; men sprang to their feet and waved[Pg 58]their hats, women rose and waved their handkerchiefswith which they had wiped away their tears; and cries of“Juliet! Juliet!” resounded through the theatre.

A pause, and presently Romeo appeared, leading Julietby the hand.

The audience stormed and cheered as one man, andthose who had not already thrown their bouquets to herthrew them now.

She was pale to the lips, and the blue eyes looked almostblack as she bent them on the cheering crowd, andlike a queen bowed beneath the tribute of their devotion,she bent her girlish head low.

She had nearly crossed the stage, had reached the spotexactly opposite that on which Lord Cecil stood. Then,and not till then, he raised his bunch of violets and tossedthem at her feet.

She paused a moment in her triumphant progress, forit was nothing less, then stooped and picked up therough-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 thebunch of violets to her lips and passed off, the side wingsengulfing her.

Three times more they called her, as if they couldnot let her go from their sight, and thrice she came beforethem, and, modestly, girlishly, bowed her acknowledgments.

Then—tired, hot and thirsty—the crowd began to disperse.

Lord Cecil Neville alone remained on the spot fromwhich he had thrown his bouquet. He could scarcely believethat it was over, until the attendants began to coverup the seats with their calico wrappings, and, taking thehint, he made his way out.

The groups of people he passed through were talkingabout 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 asshe drove away from the theatre.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes the greatest excitementprevailed. There had never been a Juliet like her, they[Pg 59]were declaring; and they prophesied a success in Londonwhich should even eclipse that of Barton!

And Doris, looking pale, stood smiling dreamilythrough it all. Even while Jeffrey paced to and fro inher dressing-room, too excited for speech, she remainedcalm 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 flywas waiting, and Jeffrey took her away from the excitedcrowd.

“Draw your cloak well round your throat,” he said, asanxiously as if she were so fragile that a breath of windwould sweep her away. “Give me those violets to holdfor you,” he said.

She drew her hand back, almost with a gesture ofdread, 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 themup to him for a second.

“Yes,” he said, absently. “Were they thrown with therest?”

“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, Iwas going to say, all the rest of them, beautiful andcostly though some of the bouquets are. But I daresayyou don’t agree with me?” and he smiled.

“But I do,” she said, averting her eyes. “Yes, I thinkthem worth all the rest!”

They had traversed the long passage by this time, andreached the fly. Jeffrey put her in carefully, and washimself following, when he stopped suddenly, frowningand biting his lips.

“Doris,” he said, “you leave all to me? You leave allto my judgment, as hitherto? You are a famous womannow, or will be to-morrow, and may like to be independent.Would you rather wait till to-morrow and makeyour own arrangements with the manager, or shall I,as of old——”

[Pg 60]

“Jeffrey!” she broke in, with a reproachful look in hereyes.

“Very well,” he said. “Brown has made me a verylarge offer for a month. I put him off just now, but Ithink I will go back and accept for you. I shall not bemany minutes.”

Doris leaned back, and, closing her eyes, pressed theviolets against her cheek. She could see the handsomeface all aglow with excitement and admiration as heraised his right arm and flung the flowers; she could seeit at that moment, and the mental vision shut out all therest of that eventful night.

Suddenly she heard her name spoken beside the carriagewindow, and, leaning forward, she saw, in realearnest, the face which had been her inspiration. It wasLord Cecil Neville’s.

“Miss Marlowe,” he said, learning forward and speakingquietly, pleadingly. “Don’t be angry! Pray forgiveme! I—I could not pass on without saying a word—oneword 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 notsee me, of course, but I was there, and—I can’t tell youhow we all felt, how we all feel. It was superb; it was—butthere, 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 berather difficult to get credit for this statement in certainquarters in London.

“I couldn’t get any better ones,” he said, apologetically.

“No,” she said; “I think you could not! Yes, I sawyou in the theatre,” she added, as if she had been thinkingof his first sentence. “Were—were you surprised, ordid you know?” and she glanced at him with a half curioussmile.

“Surprised!” he said. “I could scarcely believe mysenses! I had no idea, until I saw you on the stage, that[Pg 61]you, who were so good to me yesterday, were a greatactress.”

“I am not,” she said, in a low voice. “I am only avery little one. To-night I succeeded, another night Imight fail——” a faint shadow came on her face, as helooked puzzled; then she smiled, as she broke off, toadd: “I have something of yours——”

“Yes, my heart!” was his mental comment, but he saidaloud: “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 bosomof her dress. “I—I will send it to you if you tell mewhere.”

“Let me call for it,” he said, eagerly.

Doris’ brows came together, and she shook her headgently. She knew that Jeffrey’s welcome to a strangerwould be a rough one.

“I will send it,” she said. “I think I know—theTowers, 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—youmay, you know!—lay it on the bank where you satyesterday. Will you do this, Miss Marlowe? I will fetchit in the afternoon.”

The beautiful eyes dwelt upon his face with a deepgravity for a moment, as if she were wondering what hisobject 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 youhave made so many people miserably so! I shall dreamof Juliet all night!”

She let her hand rest in his for a moment, then drewit away and he was gone.

But at that moment it chanced that a handsomely-appointedcarriage came round the bend of the road, anda lady, with softly-shimmering hair and darkly-brillianteyes, who was leaning back in a corner of it, suddenly[Pg 62]caught sight of the fly and the stalwart figure standingbeside it.

She bent forward eagerly, and her keen eyes took in,as the carriage rolled past, not only the expression ofCecil Neville’s face, but the face of the girl in the fly.

For an instant the warm blood rushed to Lady Grace’sface; then, as she sank back again into her corner, shelaughed, a laugh of cold, insolent contempt.

“Some actress or shop-girl,” she murmured. Then herexpression 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 thecheck-string; then she let it fall, and the carriage go onits way. “No; I think I’ll keep my little discovery tomyself—it may be useful—and let you walk home, LordCecil!”

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 thepreceding night had left any baleful effects. In her soft-whitedress, she still looked more like a schoolgirl homefor the holidays than the tragedienne who had, a fewhours ago, moved a vast audience to tears and wild enthusiasm.

She came into the room singing, just as the birds sangunder the eaves by her window, and laughed lightly asshe saw Jeffrey bending earnestly over a copy of the localdaily paper.

“Well, have I got a tremendous slating, Jeffrey?” shesaid, 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.

[Pg 63]

“If it should make any one vain, it should you—notme, dear,” she said, quietly. “It was you made lastnight’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 thenews of your success will reach London, too. There werea couple of critics from London in the stalls; I didn’t tellyou 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 Ihave been puzzling my brain to account for it. Perhapsyou can explain it.”

She shook her head, and kept her eyes on her plate.

“No? Strange. But such inspirations are not uncommonwith genius; and yours is genius, Doris.”

“Don’t frighten me, Jeffrey,” she said, with a faintsmile.

“I have agreed with Brown, the manager,” he went on,“that you should play Juliet for a week, and after thatsome other of the big characters for a month, and he isto pay you ten pounds a week.”

Doris looked up, surprised. Ten pounds per week is alarge sum for merely provincial actresses.

He smiled grimly.

“You think it a great deal? In a day or two you willget offers from London of twenty, thirty, forty pounds.But I am in no hurry. I have not been in a hurry allthrough. I want you to feel your feet, to feel secure inall the big parts here in the provinces before you appearin London. Then your success will be assured whateveryou may undertake.”

“You think of everything, Jeffrey,” she said, gratefully.

“I have nothing else to think of, nothing else to tellyou!” he responded, quietly, almost pathetically. “Ihave set my heart upon you being a great actress and”—he[Pg 64]paused—“I think it would break, if you failed. Butthere 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 neverquite contented away from it. “You’d better look overyour part this morning. Take it into the open air asyou 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 allweathers, and went away, and Doris sat looking dreamilybefore her.

Then, suddenly, she got up. She would take his adviceand go into the meadows—for the meadows meantthe open air to her—and as she was going she would takeCecil Neville’s handkerchief and place it on the bank ashe had requested.

She put on her hat and jacket, and, possibly for theconvenience of carrying, thrust the handkerchief in thebosom of her dress, where it lay hidden all the precedingday, and started.

It was a glorious morning, with only a feather of cloudhere and there in the sky, and the birds sang as if winterwere an unknown season in England.

With her stage copy of “Romeo and Juliet” under herarm, Doris Marlowe, the simple child of nature, thefamous actress, made her way to the meadows.

The Barton folks have something else to do than wanderin their meadows, and Doris did not meet a soul; thegreat elms, which threw their shadows over the brook,were as solitary as if they had been planted in Eden. Butlonely as the spot was, Doris peopled it with memories;and she stood by the brook and recalled the vision of thepowerful figure on the great horse, as it appeared beforeher the moment prior to its being hurled at her feet.

“How strange that he should have been at the theatrelast night!” she thought. “How curious it must haveseemed to him, seeing me there as Juliet! I wonderwhether he was sorry or glad!”

She could not answer the question to her satisfaction,but she stood motionless for a moment or two, recallingthe words he had spoken as he stood beside the fly lastnight.

[Pg 65]

Then she took the handkerchief from her bosom, and,folding it with careful neatness, placed it on the bankwhere she had sat.

“It is not likely that any one will come here before hecomes to fetch it this afternoon,” she said.

Almost before the words were out of her lips a stalwartform 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 fatedto startle you, Miss Marlowe. I had no idea you werehere——” he stopped, awed to silence by her silence.

“You said you would come for it in the afternoon,” sheremarked, almost coldly.

He colored.

“Yes, I know; but I could not come this afternoon, andI thought——” he stopped, and raised his frank eyes toher face, pleadingly.

“You thought?” she said very gravely, her brows drawntogether slightly.

“Well,” he said, as if with an effort, “I will tell thetruth! I thought that if I came this morning I mightmeet you. It was just a chance. Are you angry?”

She was silent a moment. Was she angry? She feltthat she ought to be; and had a suspicion that he had, soto speak, entrapped her into a meeting with him; and shehonestly 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. Sheturned to go, with a slight inclination of her head, buthe went on, speaking hurriedly and so earnestly, that shepaused, her head half turned over her shoulder, her eyescast down; an attitude so full of grace that it almost drovewhat he was going to say out of his head. “I don’t deservethat you should have brought it.”

“I don’t think you do,” she assented, a faint smile curvingher lips at his ingenuousness.

“I daresay you think it strange that I didn’t ask youto send it to the Towers?” he went on. “You know you[Pg 66]would not let me call at your place for it,” he added, apologetically.

“Why did you not let me send it?” she asked, withfaint curiosity.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. “Won’t you sit downand rest? It’s warm this morning, and you have walkedfar, perhaps.”

She hesitated a moment, then sat down, almost on thespot she had sat the preceding day, and Cecil Nevillecould not help a wild wish rushing to his heart that hewas 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’smy uncle, you know——”

“I don’t know,” she said, with a faint smile, her eyesfixed dreamily on her book.

“Of course not,” he assented. “Well, we don’t get ontogether. He is—not to put too fine a point on it—aboutas disagreeable a person as you’d find in two days’ walk!We never have got on together. They say that a manalways hates the fellow who is to come after him, unless ithappens to be his own son; and I suppose that’s the reasonthe marquis hates me——”

“Because you are to be the next marquis?” she said.

He nodded coolly, and tilted his hat so that it screenedhis eyes from the sun, and permitted him to feast upon herbeautiful face more completely.

“Yes, that is about it; but I’ll give the marquis thecredit of hating everybody all round, himself into thebargain, I dare say; but I fancy he reserves a special lineof detestation for his own relatives. Ah, you are smiling,”he broke off, with the short laugh that sounded sogood and frank. “You are wondering what this has todo with my disliking you to send the handkerchief!”

Doris smiled again in assent.

“Well, you see, I thought it might come into the marquis’spossession, or that he’d hear of it through LadyGrace——”

She turned her eyes upon his, not curiously, but withgraceful questioning.

“That’s a lady—Lord Peyton’s daughter—who is stopping[Pg 67]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, andI will; and the fact is I didn’t want to be asked questionsabout 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 wereraised for a moment.

“Yes. When a man gets a good thing—Suppose—”he broke off—“a fellow found a big nugget, or a rarediamond, or anything of that sort, he would like to keep itto himself, you know!”

She smiled again.

“Do you want me to take that as a compliment?” shesaid. “Am I the big nugget, the rare diamond whichyou 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—yourkindness and goodness to me was so precious that Ididn’t want a lot of people talking about it. I wanted tokeep it to myself, as something especially belonging to me,something too precious to discuss with others. I’m afraidI can’t make you understand.”

“You do yourself an injustice,” she said. “You expressyourself very well!”

“Now, you are laughing at me,” he said.

“As you would laugh at me, Lord Neville, if I believedwhat you said!” she retorted, not sharply, but with asweet gravity that was indescribable.

“I said I would tell you the truth, and I’ve told nothingbut the truth,” he said, earnestly. “I dare say itseems strange to you that I should have this feeling aboutour meeting yesterday. I dare say you forgot all about ithalf-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[Pg 68]her, and tell him how much, how constantly she hadthought of him!

“You,” he went on, “who are so clever and gifted, agreat 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 amnot a great actress. Last night was my first success, ifsuccess it was——”

“There is no ‘if’ about it!” he said, with fervent enthusiasm.“It was a tremendous success! Why, I heardpeople declare that there had been nothing like it sinceKate Terry’s Juliet! And I—though I’m not of muchaccount—I was never so much carried out of myself.Why, to tell you how great and grand you were, I actuallyforgot that you were the young lady who was so good tome yesterday, and only thought of you as Shakespeare’sJuliet; and I felt quite ashamed that I had ever givenso much trouble to so great a personage.”

His warm, ardent praise touched her, and her lipsquivered.

“Juliet was only a simple girl, after all,” she said. “Ifshe had chanced to have been placed in my position yesterdayshe 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 deprecatorygesture. “But I know you must have somethingelse to think of than the fellow who was such anidiot as to jump a hedge before he saw what was on theother side; and, of course, you must have no end of—ofpeople round you!”

“But I have not! You are quite wrong,” she said, withher sweet, thoughtful smile. “I live with an old friend,who has been like a father to me! I haven’t any fatheror mother, and I see no one, except at the theatre, andthen only in the way of business,” and she laughed.

He listened as if every word she dropped from hersweetly-curved lips were a pearl.

“How strange it sounds! You so clever and beau——sogreat an actress.”

“Yes,” she said dreamily; “I suppose it does soundstrange! Everybody thinks that an actress must be thegayest of the gay; surrounded by light-hearted people[Pg 69]turning night into day, and living on champagne androast chicken.” She smiled. “Jeffrey and I knowscarcely any one, and I do not think I have tasted champagne,excepting once, when one of the managers had abenefit; and we go straight to bed directly we get homefrom the theatre; and, oh, it is quite different to whatpeople imagine.”

He drew forward a little, so that the hand upon whichhe 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 fromtheir horses at my feet, Lord Neville,” she said, but sheturned her face from him.

“And I,” he said. “Why, I have not been able to getit out of my head! I thought of you every minute; andI 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——” hestopped. “For a moment or two I couldn’t believe thatit was really you on the stage there. And when the peoplein the theatre began to shout out your name, it wokeme from a kind of dream.”

She smiled in silence; then she made a movementthreatening her departure.

“Ah, wait a little while!” he pleaded. “It is delightfulhere in the sunshine. Don’t go for a minute or two.I wish——” he stopped.

“What is it you wish?” she asked, regarding him withsmiling eyes that drooped under his ardent ones.

“Well,” he said, “I wish that you would let me gohome with you and see Mr. Jeffrey——”

“Jeffrey Flint,” she said. She shook her head. “Hesees no one, makes no acquaintances. He—he is very reserved.”

Speaking of him reminded her of the fact that he wouldstrongly disapprove of her interview with this strangeyoung gentleman. She rose.

“I must go now,” she said. “I have not asked whetheryou were hurt by your fall, Lord Neville, but I hope youwere not.”

[Pg 70]

“Must you go?” he said, ignoring the rest of her sentenceas of no account. “We seem to have been talkingonly a few minutes! And there was such a lot that Iwanted to say! I wanted to tell you all that I thoughtwhen I saw you last night; but I couldn’t if I had thechance, because I am a perfect idiot when it comes toexpressing 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 playevery night!”

“I shall be there,” he said, as if it were a matter ofcourse.

She looked at him thoughtfully.

“Of course I shall!” he said. “Why, last night Iseemed to have a kind of interest in it which the otherpeople in the theatre hadn’t. Yes. As if—as if—I knewyou intimately, you know. Of course, I shall be there!And I shall bring a big bouquet. What flowers do youlike best?”

She almost started, as if she had not been listeningto him; as a matter of fact, she had been listening to thedeep, measured voice rather than the words.

“Flowers?—oh—violets,” she said, unthinkingly.

“Why!” he exclaimed. “That is what I threw you lastnight! Of course, you didn’t know. You can’t see beyondthe 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 meenough already,” she said with a smile.

“No, but I haven’t!” he responded, eagerly. “I couldn’tsee you or hear you too much if I looked at you andlistened to you all day!”

Her face grew crimson, but she turned her head towardhim with a smile on her face.

“For flattery, pure and simple, I don’t think you couldsurpass that, Lord Neville.”

“Flattery!” he exclaimed, as if hurt. “It is no flattery,it is the honest truth. And, Miss Marlowe, I do not askyou to believe—” he saw her start and lift her head asif listening, and looking up to ascertain the cause, saw[Pg 71]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 asense of the situation.

“Ah, no,” he breathed; then he leaned toward her withhalf-timid eagerness. “Will you come to-morrow?”

The footsteps came nearer.

“I promise—nothing,” said Doris, her brows comingtogether, and with a half glance at his earnest face sheglided away from him.

Lord Neville rose and looked after her with the expressionwhich 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 earthbrought you here?”

CHAPTER VIII.

SPENSER CHURCHILL.

The new comer was a man apparently of middle age;I say apparently, because opinions on that subject wereextremely conflicting. Some persons regarded SpenserChurchill as quite a young man, others declared that hehad reached the meridian of life, and there were somewho were inclined to think that he was, if anything, onthe verge of old age. His appearance was singular. Hewas of medium height, with a figure that was eithernaturally youthful, or admirably preserved. He was fairalmost to effeminacy, and he wore his hair long andbrushed back from his face; and he was close shaven.But it was not the length of the hair that lent him hissingularity, but the expression of his face and his manner.

If he was not the most amiable of men, his countenancebelied him. There was always a smile, soft andbland, and good-tempered in his eyes, on his lips, and asthe Irishman said, “all over him.” The smile, in conjunction[Pg 72]with the fair face and long hair, gave him asconfiding and benevolent an expression that the worldhad long ago come to the conclusion that SpenserChurchill was the epitome of all the virtues.

Most women were fond of confiding in him; most men—notall—trusted him; he was regarded by crossing-sweepers,waiters and beggars generally as their naturalprey, and so effective was his smile, that even when hedid not bestow his alms, he always received a blessingfrom the disappointed ones.

Whenever his name was mentioned, some one wassure to say:

“Oh, Spenser Churchill! Yes! Awfully good-naturedfellow, you know. No end of a good soul. Share hislast crust with you. Kind of cherub with legs, don’t youknow.”

But, if strict inquiry had been made—which it neverwas—it would have been difficult to bring forward evidenceto prove the benevolent Spenser had ever sharedanything with anybody, or that he had ever been liberalwith anything, excepting always the smile and his softpersuasive voice.

Of his past history, and, indeed, his present mode oflife, the persons who were always ready to praise himknew very little—or nothing, and yet he was alwaysspoken of as one of the best known men in society.

You met him everywhere; at the first reception of theseason, at the meeting of the Four-in-Hand Club, at thesmoking-room of the “Midnight,” sauntering in the foyerat the opera, seated in the stalls of the fashionable theatres,in county houses of the most exclusive kinds, onthe shady side of Pall Mall, in the picture galleries, atthe big concerts, at dinner parties. His neat figurealways most carefully dressed, his countenance alwaysserene and placid, as if the world were the most charmingof all possible places, and had been specially created forSpenser Churchill; and with the benedictory smile alwaysshining.

He was rich, it was supposed; he was a bachelor, itwas thought; he was connected with half the peerage, soit was stated; and that was all concerning his privatelife that any one knew. But, if little was known about[Pg 73]him, Spenser Churchill knew a great deal about otherpeople; some said, too much.

Lord Neville’s surprise at seeing him was quite uncalledfor, because Spenser Churchill was in the habit of“turning up” at the most unlikely places, and at themost unlikely times; and whatever surprise you mightfeel at seeing him, he never expressed any at meetingyou.

Now, as Lord Neville stared at him, he blandly andplacidly smiled, as if he had parted from Neville only aquarter-of-an-hour ago, and held out his hand as if hewere bestowing a bishopric by the action.

“Why, the last time I saw you was at Nice!” saidLord Neville, with a laugh, “and here you are at Barton!What on earth brings you here? Don’t make theusual answer about the two-twenty-five train and yourlegs——”

“I wasn’t thinking of doing so,” said Spenser Churchill,softly. “What a charming spot!” and he looked roundwith a soft rapture beaming on his face. “Charming!So rural! That brook—those trees—the clear, spring sky—thesongs of the birds—didn’t I hear human voices, bythe way?” he asked; and it is to be noticed that he didn’tbreak off to put the question abruptly, but allowed itto form portions of his softly-gliding sentence, as if itwere the most innocent and careless of queries, and helet his eyes fall with a gentle, beaming interrogation onthe handsome face.

Lord Neville looked aside for a moment. Cherubimicas Spenser Churchill was, Lord Neville did not quite careto answer the question.

“I daresay,” he said; “but you haven’t answered meyet, 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 meadowsand the purling brook. I always fly from town at everyopportunity. And you?”

“I am staying at Barton,” said Cecil Neville, rathershortly.

Spenser Churchill raised his pale eyebrows with a faintsurprise.

“With the marquis—with the uncle?” he said, softly.

[Pg 74]

“Exactly. You are surprised; so was I when I gotthe invitation.”

“No, really? Ah, I am so glad! It is so nice to seerelations living together in harmony——”

“But we don’t live in harmony!” broke in Neville, inhis impetuous fashion. “We have only met once or twiceand have nearly quarreled on each occasion.”

“Oh, come, I don’t think the dear marquis could quarrelwith you, his nephew.”

“No, you’re right,” said Neville, with a rather grimlaugh. “The dear marquis doesn’t quarrel, he’s toohighly polished to do anything so vulgar; he only carrieson until one is driven half mad by the longing topitch him out of the window——”

“My dear Neville! Always the same wild recklessness.Pitch the marquis out of the window!” and SpenserChurchill laughed—a kind of dove-like coo. “Now,that is strange! I always find the marquis so delightfullycharming——”

“But so you do everybody,” retorted Lord Neville,laughing.

“Well, most people are, aren’t they?” said SpenserChurchill, blandly.

“I don’t know,” replied Lord Neville. “I’m afraid Imust be getting back. I’m due at lunch.” He pulled outhis watch, but instead of looking at it, glanced in thedirection 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’lllook you up——”

“I’ll come with you,” said Spenser. “The walk willbe delightful, and I am glad to see you.”

“All right, come on then,” said Lord Neville, and thetwo started in the direction of the Towers.

Spenser Churchill did most of the talking—it was almostlike singing, so soft and bland and unobtrusive wasthe voice; Lord Neville listening rather absently, andmaking answers rather wide of the mark at times—forhe was thinking of Doris—and when they reached theentrance to the avenue he stopped.

“I’m sorry I can’t take upon myself to ask you in[Pg 75]to lunch, Spenser,” he said, with a laugh; “but my unclemight—and probably would—consider it a liberty, andhave you, possibly both of us, chucked out; and, thoughI shouldn’t mind it, you mightn’t like it, you know.”

“I really think I’ll take the risk” said Spenser. “Themarquis and I are such old friends, that I—yes, I’llchance being expelled.”

“All right,” assented Lord Neville, as before. “Comeon, then; and don’t blame me if the consequences areas I suggested.”

“No, I won’t blame you,” said Spenser Churchill.

They made their way to the hall, and the groom ofthe chambers and the footmen received them as if theywere royal visitors.

Lord Neville said:

“Tell the marquis that Mr. Spenser Churchill has arrived,please.”

The groom did not look surprised, but merely bowedas he departed.

The drawing-room was empty, and the two men stoodtalking for a minute; then the groom came and led Mr.Spenser Churchill to wash his hands, and Lord Nevillewent up to his room. As he came down the luncheonbell rang, and he led Spenser Churchill into the dining-room.

The marquis was already seated, and Lord Nevillewas about to explain Spenser’s presence, when he sawthe marquis give a start, and as he rose and extendedhis hand, Neville fancied that he noticed a peculiar twitchof the thin, colorless lips.

“Ah! Spenser,” said his lordship, and he spoke, LordNeville thought, with something less than his usual coldand biting hauteur, “this is a surprise! Pray be seated,”and he himself sank into his chair, with no trace of themental 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 hadbeen lunching at the same table for months past; “I wasso fortunate as to meet our dear Neville in the—er—fields,I may say, where he was roaming in happy and[Pg 76]poetic solitude, and he was kind enough to assure meof a welcome if I came on with him.”

“His assurance was—on this occasion—justified,” saidthe marquis, with a cold glance at the young man.

Spenser Churchill smiled, as if the taunting and exasperatingspeech 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 werequite incapable of such vulgarity.

“Ah, no, that is always so delightful of you!” saidSpenser. “Our dear Neville enjoys the famous Stoyleconstitution also; he is never ill, are you, Neville?”

“No,” said Neville, grimly, and without lifting hiseyes from his plate.

“I have always been given to understand that thepossession of rude health is the privilege of the fool,” remarkedthe marquis. “Of course, we are the exceptionsfrom the rule.”

“Exactly,” murmured Spenser again, as if this werethe 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 aretort made him as nearly happy as it was possible forhim to be.

“Where are you staying? You will come on here, ofcourse?” he said.

“I am staying at the hotel at Barton. I think theycall it the ‘Royal.’ It would be quite too charming if itdid 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 butlerglided 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,” murmuredSpenser.

“Really, that is scarcely fair,” said the marquis, blandly.[Pg 77]“Neville has his faults, but he is not quite thenonentity you would represent him.”

Neville raised his head, stung to a retort, when thedoor opposite him opened and Lady Grace entered.

She was charming, perfectly dressed, looking like avision of one of Lippo Lippi’s angels.

“I’m afraid I’m late——” she began, lightly, then hereyes fell upon Spenser’s smiling face, and her own paled.For a second she stood still and put out her hand as ifseeking something to support her, then her face resumedits usual serenity, and with a smile she cameforward.

“Mr. Spenser Churchill! Really! What a nice surprise!”

“How good, how kind of you to say so!” he sang, ashe 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 inmoody meditation, mentally morbid!” said SpenserChurchill. “I found him beside a purling brook, composingsonnets, Lady Grace.”

“Or dreaming of last night’s Juliet?” she said, smiling.

He looked up quickly, but her eyes seemed full ofunconsciousness and innocence.

“You did go to the theatre last night, didn’t you?” sheasked. “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 andsighs, 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 courseto smile and shrug his shoulders, but he could not.

“It was quite the reverse,” he said, and his voicesounded short and almost grim. “The play was wellcast, and admirably staged. The Romeo didn’t gasp orstrut, and the Juliet——” he stopped, feeling that his[Pg 78]voice had grown more enthusiastic, and was betrayinghis. “Oh! she played very well,” he said.

“Indeed! Really!” exclaimed Lady Grace. “Oughtn’twe 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 wouldbe—forgive me, Lord Neville—too awful. And so youhave come to Barton, Mr. Churchill. And from whence,pray?”

They talked together in this light, careless, half-indifferentblasé manner which is now—Heaven help us!—thefashion; and Lord Neville finished his lunch in silence.

“I promise nothing!” rang in his ears; “I promisenothing!” It was a strange answer. Most girls wouldhave said: “Yes,” or glanced at him, so to speak, indignantly;but, “I promise nothing!” she had said, in hersweet, grave, penetrating voice. Would she come? Andif she did, how much the happier would it be? Whaton earth had come to him, that he should be unableto think of anything but this lovely, bewitching girl, sobeautiful in face and great in genius?

He woke with a start as the marquis rose, and bowedto Lady Grace, who was quitting the room.

“Come with me and smoke a cigar,” said Lord Nevilleto Spenser Churchill.

“Mr. Churchill will do nothing of the kind,” exclaimedLady Grace, stopping and looking over her shoulder, notat his smiling face, but at the opposite wall. “How inconsiderateyou are, Lord Neville; you forget that I amdying 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,” hesaid.

The marquis glanced at the butler, who went out, and[Pg 79]returned presently, carefully carrying a bottle in a wickerframe, and Mr. Spenser Churchill sipped the famouswine 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 areright after all, and that, if one would enjoy life at itsfullest, the thing is to be good!” and he smiled beaminglyat the marquis, who had, for a generation, beencalled: “Wicked Lord Stoyle.”

Lord Neville glanced at the pale, cold face of hisuncle, expecting some cutting retort, but the marquisonly 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 huskspretty often.”

“And now comes back to find the fatted calf killed forhim,” 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,” hesaid, quietly.

“After that you would really not be able to resist thetemptation to throw him out of the window, eh? Fie,fie, my dear Neville!” murmured Spenser Churchill, witha smile. “Shall we go and join Lady Grace? She won’tobject to a cigarette, I suppose?”

“I don’t know; I never asked her,” he said. “I’ll goand get some cigars,” and he sprang up and left theroom.

Spenser Churchill’s bland smile followed him for amoment or two, then the expression of his face whollychanged. His lips seemed to grow rigid, his soft, sleepyeyes acute, his very cheeks, usually so soft and rotund,hard and angular; and he sat with his glass held firmlyin 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 itslowly and appreciatively, and then stepped through theopen window on to the terrace.

[Pg 80]

A slim and graceful figure leaned against the balustrade.It was Lady Grace; her hands, clasped together, werepressed hard against the stone coping, as if they weretrying to force their way through it, and the face sheturned towards him was pale and anxious, the face ofone waiting for the verdict; of one expecting the dreadfiat of a judge.

With a benign smile, more marked than ever, perhapsintensified by the famous port, he slowly approachedher.

“What an exquisite view,” he said, softly, and extendinghis hands as if he were pronouncing a benedictionon the scenery; “now that nature is in her spring-time.How refreshing, how inspiring, how vernal! I cannotexpress to you, Lady Grace, how deeply this beauteousprospect moves me! One must have a hard and unimpressionableheart, indeed, who is not moved by such alandscape as this; so soft, so—er—green——”

Her clasped hands grew together more tightly.

“Why have you come here?” she said, suddenly, in astrained 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 ofbland, serene enjoyment, he murmured:

“I came because I thought you wanted me—andyou do!”

CHAPTER IX.

A SECRET COMPACT.

“I came because I thought you wanted me, and youdo,” said Spenser Churchill, softly.

Lady Grace looked at him, with an expression of dislikeand fear—actual fear. It displayed itself in everyline of the fair, perfectly-formed face, in the expansion ofher clear eyes, in the tight—almost painful—compressionof her slim, white hands.

[Pg 81]

“Why do you think so?” she demanded, in a low voice.

He smiled, until it seemed as if he meant it for his onlyreply, 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 anythingone does or says that does not reach you?”

He shrugged his shoulders, not cynically, but still withthe amused gesture with which one meets the petulance ofa spoiled child.

“I believe there is no secret in any of the lives of themen and women who call you friend—friend!—that youhave not become possessed of. How is a mystery!”

“It is a question of sympathy, my dear Lady Grace,” hesaid. “Nature bestowed upon me a large and sympatheticheart——”

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 manywho fully believe you to be what your face, and voice,and manner, and reputation make you appear, but I amnot one of them—I think I have known you from thefirst.”

“You have such keen penetration,” he murmured, as ifshe had paid him a delicate compliment.

“I see you without your mask—that mask which presentsthe appearance of a smiling, benevolent goodwill!You cannot impose upon me, Spenser Churchill!”

“Do me the credit of admitting, dear lady, that I nevertried,” he said, softly.

“No,” she said; “it would have been useless. Othersyou may deceive; me you cannot. Therefore, I ask youplainly, why you came here? Of course, I know that youwere aware I was here!”

“Oh, yes, I was aware of it,” he admitted; “but think,dear Lady Grace, such knowledge does not prove muchastuteness on my part. Lady Grace Peyton’s movementsare 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 someother source!”

“What does it matter?” he remarked, soothingly.

[Pg 82]

“No,” she said; “it does not matter, excepting that itproves what I say, that there is nothing you do not know.And now, once more, why have you come? I put a plainquestion. 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 foror goodwill to me. I know you do not—like me, SpenserChurchill!”

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 belongwhom I more ardently admire and respect! Oh,really, you wound me! Not like you!”—he held out hissoft, plump hands reproachfully—“Lady Grace Peytonpossesses the whole of my esteem; and if I could do hera 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 airof patience and long suffering.

“How little you know me! How cruelly you wrongme! Alas! it is always thus! One’s best effort on behalfof others is always met with scorn and incredulity——”

“There is the marquis,” she said, as if she had beenthinking deeply and had not heard his pathetic appeal.“What do you know about him? How have you got himin your power?”

“Got the marquis in my power! My dear LadyGrace——”

“Pshaw!” she said. “Do you think I am blind that Icannot see how different he treats you to others? Is thereany other man who would come to Barton Towers, and bereceived as you have been? Is there any other man whowould dare to brave him—yes, and taunt him—as youhave done to-day? You know something about him—youhave some hold upon him. I don’t ask what it is—oh,no,” she added, quietly, as he smiled, “for I know thatyou would not tell me or would palm off some smoothfalsehood——”

“Oh, Lady Grace, Lady Grace!” he answered, plaintively;[Pg 83]but there was a flicker of self-jubilation and satisfactionon 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 rusefailed 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 herebecause I was ‘commanded’ by the marquis; I am herebecause 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 knowsit? I am here that I may learn to regard myself as thefuture wife of the future marquis! And you know it.”

He looked at her quietly, with a frank, benevolent regard—-justthe 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 thereverse. Lady Grace, let me return you a compliment.You praised me for my power of acting; yours is a greatdeal 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 itfrom him for a moment, then faced him again.

“Well!” she said, “and if I do wish it, what then? Isit so unnatural? Are there many better matches, manybetter men than Cecil Neville?”

“Few, if any!” he assented, blandly. “He is young,handsome, popular, brave, and—a future marquis!” Shepicked at the moss in the crevice of the stone coping. “Avery good match, indeed, and Lady Grace is worthy ofsuch a partner, truly!”

“And you mean to do your best or your worst for thematch?” 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 absorbedin peaceful contemplation, and had quite forgotten[Pg 84]his companion and the subject of their conversation.Then he turned his head, and smiled at her. “No,” hesaid, slowly and softly, “I mean to do all I can to furtherthe 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 enjoymentfor a moment or two, then he replied:

“If I were to answer that I am prompted solely by adesire for your happiness——”

She made a movement of impatience.

“You see!” he said, reproachfully. “You would notbelieve me; so, what is the use? Suppose that we do notgo into my motives. Let us, if it please you, decide thatthey are utterly selfish and bad, abandoned and wickedones—will that do? Very well! After all, what do mymotives matter? If I can help you, and I think I can, donot seek to go beyond the mere solid fact of my assistance.Leave the reasons alone. They can’t matter much, canthey?” and he looked into her eyes with the bland andinnocent 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 somehidden significance in his words, for they brought theblood to Lady Grace’s face, and then left it pale and whiteto 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 speakplainly. It is the dear marquis’ wish that you shouldmarry Lord Cecil Neville; you being gratified by hischoice and willing to fall in with his views, an old andtried friend offering his services to you do not hesitate toavail yourself of them: I am the old and tried friend.”

The last words were more softly and cooingly spokenthan any that had preceded them, but Lady Grace startedup and looked at him suspiciously; he, however, met herscrutiny with his bland and innocent smile.

“If I really thought you would help me,” she said,doubtfully.

[Pg 85]

“You may think so, for I will,” he answered. “As Isaid, 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-loveand vanity.

“Our dear friend does not at present seem much smittenby your humble servant’s charms,” she said, with ashort laugh, which only barely hid her vexation.

He smiled and nodded.

“Our young friend is rather spoiled, you see. One cannotbe the favored of the gods in the matter of youth, andstrength, 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 theirnames”—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 isvery natural, is it not? But—but I don’t think——”

“That the sultan has shown any partiality, that he hasnot yet thrown the handkerchief,” he finished for her.“No,” thoughtfully; “I don’t think he has. His lordshiphas, indeed, been so very impartial, not to say invulnerable,that I have sometimes wondered whether there wasnot some young lady hidden away, eh?” and he looked ather questioningly.

She started, and colored.

“Then there is?” he said at once.

“I—I don’t know,” she replied, musingly. “There maybe. Last night I dined away from the Towers, at theThurltons, you know?”

“I know,” he murmured, pleasantly. “Thurlton’sgrandfather was transported for forgery; his wife’s sisterran away with young Lengard, I remember.”

“Of course, you know all about them, every shamefulsecret in the family for generations back?” she said, witha 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,[Pg 86]and saw Lord Cecil. He was standing at the door of afly, opposite the theatre, talking to a lady, a girl.”

He nodded, and puffed at his cigarette placidly, withhalf-closed eyes, looking, indeed, almost asleep; but hisnext 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 thecounty people; besides, it was a fly. It was opposite theside entrance——”

“She was an actress,” he interrupted, quietly.

“How do you know?”

“My dear lady! It is so simple! The fly was the onlyone there, or you would not have seen her so plainly; itwas at the side entrance; she was unknown to you. Oh,plainly it was an actress. And it was she who was withLord 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 Cecilin 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 withladies—for they never pay when they lose—I would betsomething considerable that the voice belonged to theyoung lady whom you saw talking to Lord Cecil outsidethe theatre last night!”

She bit her lip, and the look came into her eyes whichindicates the first approach of the green-eyed monster—jealousy.

“Some worthless actress, painted and powdered. Somewoman old enough to be his mother, though made up as agirl——”

He shook his head and laughed with serene enjoyment.

“No, no; such an experienced bird as Lord Cecil is notto be caught with such chaff, my dear lady! Dependupon it, this girl is young and pretty.”

She twisted her handkerchief in her hands, then smiledcontemptuously.

[Pg 87]

“It must be the Juliet of last night!” she said.

“Perhaps.”

“Well”—she drew a long breath—“I think I am amatch for a common actress, though she be young andpretty!” 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 morebeautiful woman in England than Lady Grace Peyton, ora more charming one!”

She took no notice of the compliment; to her ears thererang 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 affectedindifference which made him smile.

He puffed a thin line of smoke from his sleek lips andwatched 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 cannothelp being—and leave it to me to do the rest. If this isnot a serious business, if his lordship is really onlyscratched, why——” He laughed lazily. “If, on thecontrary, he is badly hit, and means business, means tomake her the future Marchioness of Stoyle, why we mustdeal with the young lady herself.”

“Deal with her?” she asked, with an eager interest shedid not attempt to conceal.

He nodded at the scenery.

“Yes. There are two ways of going to work, eachsuited to the subject we are speaking on. Money andmoral suasion. It may be money in this case; if so——”

“I am rich,” she said, in a quiet undertone. “If thecreature 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[Pg 88]that I can never bring myself to use it! I am allheart, all heart!” and he laid his hand on the spot in whichthe organ is situated, and beamed at her. Then, withoutmoving a muscle, he went on: “And so, dear LadyGrace, we had the poor children to an evening party, andgave them tea and buns, and I am sure you would havebeen melted to tears at the sight of their overbrimminghappiness.”

Lady Grace looked round in astonishment, and saw thatLord Cecil had stepped from one of the windows. SpenserChurchill’s quick ear had heard him, and hence theswift change in the topic of conversation.

“Mr. Churchill begging again, Lady Grace?” saidLord Cecil. “Beware of him; he never comes near youwithout an attempt on your purse. What’s it for now,Spenser; the ‘Indigent Washerwomen,’ or the ‘ChimneySweeps’ Orphans?’ He’s chairman or secretary of half-a-dozencharities—aren’t you, Spenser?—and he won’tlet you rest until you’ve put yourself down for ladypatroness for half of ’em!” and he laughed the short,frank laugh which was so refreshing a contrast to SpenserChurchill’s oily one, that Lady Grace felt as if itwashed the other away.

“It’s the ‘Indigent Basketmakers’ Children,’ my dearCecil,” said Spenser Churchill, smoothly. “Dear LadyGrace has consented to become one of our lady patronesses,have you not, Lady Grace?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, indifferently; “and now havinghooked me, I’ll leave you to go for Lord Cecil,” and witha nod and a smile to the latter, she turned and enteredthe house.

Spenser Churchill looked after her with a rapt gazeof benevolent admiration.

“What a beautiful young creature!” he murmuredsoftly; “and as good as she is beautiful!”

“Eh?” said Cecil, seating himself on the balcony, lightingan immense cigar, and offering his case to SpenserChurchill, who shrank back and put up his hands witha 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,[Pg 89]carelessly; “as to her goodness, why, yes, I suppose sheis good enough. All women are good, especially prettyones.”

“I—see,” murmured Churchill, with his head on oneside; “you’d say that—er—there was a faint sign of, shallwe say, temper in dear Lady Grace? Well, perhaps—but—oh,really you must be mistaken, my dear Cecil; socharming a creature!”

“Why, I didn’t accuse her of temper!” said Lord Cecil,with some astonishment and an amused laugh; “it wasyou yourself!”

“No, really? Did I? I’m sure I had no such intention.But I see you think—eh?—perhaps a little inclinedto jealousy? Well, there may be a touch of that in hercomposition, now you speak of it.”

Lord Cecil stared at him with a half-amused smile.

“Terrible thing, jealousy, Cecil! My poor father—Idon’t think you knew him?”

Lord Cecil shook his head, as he thought, “And noone else that I ever heard of!”

“My poor dear father,” continued Spenser Churchill,with a plaintive air of reflection, “had warned me againstthat 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 reallythink 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 anythingof the kind! Don’t put words I never used intomy 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 muchregret giving you a wrong impression of my opinion ofthat charming young creature, my dear Cecil! Mostcharming! Ah! what a wife she will make! You don’tagree with me—no? Well, perhaps—er—yes, I understandyou. Beauty, however charming it may be, is not[Pg 90]the best possession a woman can boast. No! after all,perhaps, as you think, a young, unsophisticated girl, unaccustomedto the intoxication of constant admiration,would prove a more valuable companion for one’s life.These London belles are—er—like the well-known Orientalfruit, 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, openinghis eyes with an innocent stare. “What do you mean, mydear Cecil? What on earth do you mean?”

Lord Cecil clasped his hands round his knees, andlooked at the round, smooth face and extended eyes withfaint amusem*nt.

“You’d make an excellent Chinese puzzle, Churchill,”he said. “If what you mean is to warn me against marryingLady Grace——”

“My dear Cecil,” broke in the soft voice, pitched in atone of strained horror.

“You can spare yourself the trouble, for I haven’t theleast intention of doing so—at present.”

Spenser Churchill’s thick eyelids quivered almost imperceptibly;but beyond this faint sign, no other trace ofany 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 charmingwoman? and—er—come now, after all, you would findit 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’llchange the subject! What time do you dine here?”

“Eight,” said Lord Cecil. “I don’t dine at home to-night—atthe Towers,” he corrected himself. “I have anengagement.”

“Really? I am so sorry! Can’t you put it off—formy sake? Write and tell the people that you are toogood-natured to dine out when an old friend turns up.”

“I’m not going to dine out,” said Lord Cecil, absently.

[Pg 91]

“No; really? Now, where can you be going?”

“I think the marquis was inquiring for you,” said LordNeville curtly; “I’ll tell him you are here,” and droppingfrom 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 reallythink I should like to go and see what it is like!”

CHAPTER X.

FOR HIM ALONE.

Doris went home, her heart throbbing with an emotionwhich was half pain, half joy.

Lord Cecil Neville had asked her to meet him to-morrow.“I promise nothing!” she had said, and when shesaid it she fully meant that she would not come; and yet,now, as she walked hurriedly to the lodgings, she knewthat when the morrow arrived, she would feel drawn tothe 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 hiswords; even now they rang sweetly in her ears.

Heaven only knows with what delight she dwelt uponthe thought that he would be present, listening to her asshe spoke the passion-laden words of Juliet.

All this was joy, but the pain came on. Alas, that allour joy should be attended so closely by that grim companion.

says the poet.

For the first time in her young life she had a secretfrom Jeffrey. It had been difficult to tell him yesterdayof her acquaintance with Lord Cecil Neville; she felt nowthat it would be impossible to tell him, for she knew thatshe could not recount the incidents of their meeting withoutletting him know how interested she had become inthis young nobleman, whose head had rested on her knee,and whose face haunted her night and day.

[Pg 92]

And she knew that once she had told Jeffrey, he wouldforbid 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, withthe 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 hearinghis voice, was intolerable.

Her steps grew less hurried as she neared home, andher 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 oldJeffrey!—that I cannot afford to lose him. Besides, Ishall act better if I know that he is in the theatre. Idon’t know why that is, but it is so. And Jeffrey oughtto be glad of that. Oh, if I could only tell him! But Icannot!”

Once during the day she did make the effort; she beganto talk about the fields and the beautiful on-coming ofspring, but Jeffrey would not listen. He was full of thebusiness of the theatre, full of expected offers from thegreat London managers, and paid no attention to whatshe was saying, merely remarking that, after all, theopen air was the place to study in.

To study in! Yes, she knew that! It was in the openair that she had first seen Lord Neville, and learned theway to speak Juliet’s “Good-night!”

She did not leave the house again that day, but spentit studying her part. There were one or two points thatshe had missed, so Jeffrey said, and she went over themagain and again.

And how do you think she mastered them? By imaginingthat Lord Neville was the Romeo, and it was forlove of him she suffered and died!

“It was wrong?” Yes, but life is full of wrong, andit 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 tothe theatre.

There was an immense crowd collected outside the pitand gallery doors, and the manager met them with theglad tidings that all the reserved seats were taken.

[Pg 93]

“An immense success, my dear Miss Marlowe. Youhave hit them hard!” he said, smiling and nodding.

That he had only spoken truly was patent from thewelcome 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 fromthe wings.

As is usual, I believe, with actors, for some minutesshe could not see beyond the footlights; but presently shebegan to distinguish faces in the hazy glow, and she sawthe handsome, tanned face she had expected—and longedfor!

He had come then, as he had promised!

He was in the box he had occupied on the precedingnight; leaning forward, his hands clasped on the velvetedge, 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 glanceof the blue eyes—which grew violet when she was agitated—thoughbent upon the Romeo on the stage, wasmeant for the one face in the vast audience.

She played, if anything, better than she had playedlast night, and the manager came to her to tell her so.

“Better and better, Miss Marlowe!” he said, bowingand smiling. “If you go on like this——”

“The house is crammed,” said Jeffrey, who was standingnear the wings with a shawl to throw over Doris’sshoulders, for like that of most country theatres, theBarton 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 firstscene. I expect that a London manager is behind each,eh, Miss Marlowe? Ah, I shan’t be able to keep youlong!”

Doris smiled absently and passed on to her dressing-room.

But in the next act she happened to look up at the[Pg 94]right-hand box, and she saw that the curtains had beendrawn aside.

She glanced at it with the pre-occupied look of an actor,and saw that the only occupant of the box was a youngand very beautiful girl, with dark, flashing eyes, andbright, golden hair.

The other box remained screened, and the occupantinvisible.

The play proceeded, and then came the shower of bouquets.

Now, Barton is not a floral town by any means, sothat the bouquets which fell at the feet of the girlishJuliet must have been procured at some pains and trouble.The Romeo filled his arms with them, and one onlyremained lying on the stage.

It was a magnificent bouquet of white and purple violets,and as it fell, Doris, looking up, saw the handsomeface of Lord Neville close to the stage in the orchestrastalls.

She stooped and raised the bouquet and glanced athim, 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 theprompt side,” he said; “it’s Lady Grace Peyton, the greatLondon beauty. She’s staying at Barton Towers, theMarquis of Stoyle’s place, you know.”

“At Barton Towers!” said Doris. Then she went tothe side of the proscenium and looked at the box in whichLady Grace’s face was just visible. “How beautiful sheis!” she murmured.

“Yes, I should think so!” said the manager. “Why,she’s the professional beauty of the season; it’s an honorto have her in the theatre! And who else do you thinkis here?” he added, exultingly.

“I don’t know,” said Doris, moving away.

“Why, Lord Cecil Neville, the marquis’ nephew, andhe was here last night! What do you think of that? Itisn’t only the pit and gallery that have gone mad overyou, Miss Marlowe, but the gentry, too! Just as I saidlast night! Lord Cecil Neville; I daresay you haven’theard of him, but he’s the best-known man in London.[Pg 95]I wish I knew who was in the other box, but I can’t findout.”

“Perhaps it’s the marquis himself,” said Doris, withan absent smile.

“Oh! no!” said the manager; “he’d be with Lord Nevilleor Lady Grace! No, it’s not the marquis!”

She went and dressed for the last and great scene, andwhen she came out found Jeffrey pacing up and down.

“Better than last night, Doris,” he said nodding, andglancing at her under his thick frowning brows. “Youhave made all the points to-night; that’s right! Keepcool! 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 foryou,” 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 onthem, she saw a mark of white among the purple blossoms.

Then she gave them to him, saying hurriedly, “Takecare of them: they smell so sweet,” and went and tookher place at the wing, crushing the piece of paper intothe bosom of her dress.

She had to wait some few minutes, and with a quicklythrobbing heart she took out the paper and glanced at it.

A scribble in pencil ran across it:

That was all. She replaced the paper in her bosom,where it seemed to burn like a living thing and went onthe stage.

If her performance in this scene on the preceding nightwas good, this, to-night, was much in advance of it. Hervoice seemed to thrill the vast audience, and, with herface, moved them to tears.

But Doris was conscious of only one spectator andauditor, 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, paleand quivering, she was led on by the Romeo to receivethe enthusiastic expression of approbation and delight.

[Pg 96]

“Wonderful, Miss Marlowe!” said the Romeo.“Miles ahead of last night, and that was good enough.”

She was about to acknowledge the frank and generouscompliment, when she felt her arm seized, and saw Jeffreystanding beside her.

His face was white and drawn, the sunken eyes blazingwith passion.

“Doris! Doris!” he gasped.

“Jeffrey!” she said, half frightened. “What is thematter?”

“Look, look!” he panted hoarsely, and he drew the edgeof the curtain back and pointed to a box on the right-handside.

Doris looked and saw a fair, pleasant-looking manstanding in the front of the box. He was watching thedispersing audience with a gentle smile, and his fat whitehand was softly smoothing his long, fair hair from hisforehead. He looked benevolent enough to be a bishop,and Doris stared from him to the white ashen face ofJeffrey.

“What is it, dear Jeffrey?” she asked.

“Look! look!” he repeated hoarsely. “There standsyour greatest enemy, save one! Your greatest enemy inthe world! Look at him, Doris! Look at him and rememberhim!”

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 anyattention to what I have said. It—it is nothing!” and helet the edge of the curtain fall.

CHAPTER XI.

LOVE’S SUBTLE SPELL.

At any other time Doris would have been alarmed atJeffrey’s sudden outburst of rage, occasioned by thesight of the amiable-looking stranger in the box, but she[Pg 97]could think of nothing but the little white note lyinghidden in the bunch of violets which Lord Cecil Nevillehad thrown to her.

It was the first note she had received in that way, andshe felt guilty and unhappy.

If she had only told Jeffrey on the first of her acquaintancewith Lord Neville! She would have taken thenote to him, if she had done so; but she felt that to placeit in his hands now would be to call forth one of his fierceoutbursts of rage, in which it was quite possible hemight seek Lord Neville and force a quarrel on him.

What should she do? The question haunted her allthe way home. Should she write and tell Lord Nevillethat she could not meet him, and request him not towrite to her again? This seemed the easiest thing to do,but she shrank from it for two reasons: One, becauseJeffrey had often warned her against writing to strangers,and the other, because it seemed so stern a rebuke forso slight an offense.

For, after all, his sin was not so great. He had askedpermission to call upon her, asked it respectfully and withall the deference of a gentleman addressing a lady hisequal in position, and she had refused to grant him thepermission. If he wanted to see her, what else could hedo than write and ask her to meet him?

Once she nearly summoned up courage to tell Jeffreyeverything, but, as she looked up at him as he leanedback in the corner of the fly, with bent head and foldedarms, she saw so stern and moody an expression on hisface that her courage failed her; he was just in thehumor to consider the note an insult, and seek toavenge it.

And somehow Doris could not regard it in this way.As she read the words, she seemed to hear Lord Neville’sdeep, musical voice pronouncing them, pleadingly,respectfully, with reverence rather than insult.

Doris was a great actress, but she was as ignorant of theworld outside the theatre as a child; she had only her instinctto guide her, and that seemed to say that it wasimpossible Lord Neville could have meant to insult her!

But the result of all her thinking was this: That heracquaintance with him must cease. She must have no[Pg 98]friends save those of the theatre; least of all, a young noblemanwho tossed her bouquets of violets, and beggedher to meet him in the meadows!

Jeffrey’s mood clung to him during the remainder ofthe night. As a rule, after their supper, which was anexceedingly 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-troubledglance; then, as his eyes met hers, he compressedhis 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 troublingher.

“Happy, Jeffrey? Yes,” she said, and she went andsat at his feet and folded her hands on his knee.

He looked down into her beautiful face—not into hereyes, for they were downcast.

“Yes,” he said, moodily and absently, as if he werecommuning with his own thoughts rather than addressingher, “yes, you are happy; how could it be otherwise?All that I have wished for has come to pass. You are agreat actress, you will be famous. The world will be atyour feet—even as you are now at mine! It will hangupon your voice, watch with breathless interest yourface, pour its gold into your lap. Great, famous; you are—youmust 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 debtthat 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 ifawakening from a dream.

“Doris,” he said, gravely, and with visible emotion,“there is something I must tell you. I ought to havetold you before this; but I put it off. I would put it offnow—” his lips quivered—“for I hate the thought of it.But to-night my conscience has been roused. That[Pg 99]man—” he stopped, and his teeth clicked. “Doris!” heexclaimed, with a catch in his breath. “Tell me, have Inot been as a father to you? Could any father havestriven more hardly for his daughter’s good? Could anyfather have loved you better, and lived for you moresolely and entirely than I have done?”

“No, Jeffrey, none!” she said, in a low voice, and layingher soft, white hand upon his rugged and gnarledone soothingly.

“I call Heaven to witness that I have only had onethought, your welfare. When you lay, a little child, inmy arms, I devoted my life to you. Every hour ofthe day I have thought of you, and planned out yourfuture. It was not my own happiness I sought, not myown ambition, but yours—yours! I have lived andstriven for one end—your success, and your happiness!And I have won! You are a great actress, Doris, andit is I—I!—who have taught and trained and made youwhat you are!”

“Yes, Jeffrey,” she murmured, “I know it! and I amgrateful—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 poorand 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 anobleman——”

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 placeswith 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 exchangeplaces with the highest lady in the land! To beable to move a theatre full of people to tears or laughter,[Pg 100]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 youto feel! Any one can be an earl’s daughter, but few!—howfew!—the Doris Marlowe who wrought an audienceto 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 tellyou to-night, Doris; it will keep. I’m not certain thatit would make you happier; I’m half inclined to think thatit would only make you miserable. No!—I won’t tellyou. 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 thetable clenched tightly.

“You saw him!—you saw him!” he said, with suppressedfury. “Remember him, Doris! He is a villain!—ascoundrel! 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 awayfrom him quietly, and went upstairs.

She slept little that night. The roar of the crowdedtheatre seemed to force its way into the white little room,and with it mingled Jeffrey’s strange words hinting atsome fraud, and the words of Lord Cecil Neville’s note.

The morning broke clear and bright, and she camedown, looking rather pale and grave.

Jeffrey ate his breakfast almost in silence, and therewas no trace of last night’s emotions on his broad brow.As was usual with him, he went down to the theatre directlyafter breakfast, and Doris was left alone.

[Pg 101]

The time had now arrived in which she must decidewhat she must do respecting Lord Neville’s note.

She opened her writing-case, and, after sitting beforeit for half-an-hour, wrote an answer in which she declineda meeting with him; and it gave her satisfaction for a fewminutes, at the end of which she—tore it up!

No answer she could pen—and she tried hard—seemedsatisfactory. Some were too familiar, others toostiff and haughty.

“I shall have to see him!” she murmured, at last, asif in despair—“for the last time!” A thrill of regret ranthrough her at the words; they sounded so sad and significant.

Trying to frame some form of words in which shecould speak to him, she made her way to the meadows,and as she went the beauty of the spring morningseemed to take to itself a new and strange loveliness,and, notwithstanding her difficult task, the thought thatshe was going to meet him again filled her with a vague,indescribable sensation that half-pleased, half-troubledher.

All the place was silent save for the singing of thebirds and the babbling of the brook, and as she seatedherself on the mossy bank she looked round, as oneviews a place rendered familiar and pleasant by associations.

Wherever she went, whatever happened to her in thefuture, she thought, she should always remember Bartonmeadows, the clump of elms, the silver brook, and—ah,yes!—the handsome face lying so still and white in herlap.

As she was recalling the scene, dwelling on it with asingular commingling of pleasure and pain, she heard thebeat of a horse’s hoofs, just as she had heard it the firstmorning; and Lord Neville came flying over the hedge,a little further from her this time, and still upon hishorse, 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, asif by a species of mental photography, the handsomeface with its clear and now eager eyes, the graceful[Pg 102]figure, in its suit of gray cords that seemed to be partand parcel of the wearer, and the air—distinguished, patrician,it is so difficult to describe it, which is the birthrightof 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 soglad, so grateful, Miss Marlowe.”

“You would not be, Lord Neville, if you knew howsorry I am to be here,” she said, and her wonderful eyesmet his ardent gaze steadily and with a gravity that lenta subtle and altogether new charm to her face.

His face fell.

“Sorry?” he said, regretfully.

“Yes,” she said; “very, very sorry. Lord Neville, youshould not have written me that note; it was wrong.”

“Let me tell you,” he said, eagerly, pleadingly; “Ifeared you would say this——”

“I did not intend to come,” she said, as if he had notspoken. “I meant to pass the note by unanswered. Butit seemed—well, yes, unkind. And I tried to write,but——” her brows came together, “I could not pleasemyself. It is so hard to write such a letter for the firsttime in one’s life, and at last I decided to meet you, that Imight tell you how wrong you were, and that your noteshowed me—ah! so plainly—that we must not meetagain—that, in short, Lord Neville, our acquaintancemust cease!”

She actually half rose, as if she were about to leavehim 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!” hepleaded. “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, hiseyes fixed upon her face, all alight with the ardent desireto 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; Iwrote it while I was in the theatre. It was wrong, Iknow, of course; but I’m not sorry that I wrote it!”

[Pg 103]

She turned her eyes with surprise and reproach uponhim.

“No, I’m not sorry!” he said, almost defiantly. “Iwrote it during the entr’acte; I’d been watching you andlistening to you until—well, until I had lost myself, Isuppose. Anyhow, I got the piece of paper and wrote onit, and put it among the violets, all in a moment, as itwere. I felt that I must see you again—wait, ah, waitand hear me out!” for she had made a movement thatseemed to threaten her departure. “I don’t know howlong I may be here; I may go at any moment—from Barton,I mean; and then, as I thought that I might not seeyou again for weeks, for months, perhaps——” hestopped, not because he had no words, but for breath,and to regain his composure. “I knew you would beangry, 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 usingthe argument in his defense which she had used for himin the morning.

—“And I thought I would write it. Miss Marlowe,you shall blame me for sending that note to you, for askingyou 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 withfaint surprise, then looked at the brook.

“I wanted to tell you something,” he said, not sosmoothly or glowing now, but with a sudden gravity inhis voice, an intensity in the expression of his eyes thatought to have warned her; but it did not, for she lookedat him with calm surprise.

“It will sound sudden to you, sudden and abrupt, Idaresay,” he said. “I—I can’t help it! It seems suddento me, and yet sometimes I feel as if I had known you foryears—all my life. Miss Marlowe, when a man finds thatthe face and the voice of a girl are haunting him day andnight, that he cannot drive them out of his head for halfa minute, when he is only happy when he is near her andaltogether wretched when he is away from her, there isonly one explanation: He is in love with that girl. Iam in love with you!”

[Pg 104]

The blood rushed to Doris’s face, then left it white tothe lips.

She drew her eyes away from his slowly and sat muteand motionless.

“I love you!” he said, bending a little nearer to her,the words fraught with the intensity—and the truth—of aman’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 knowwhat you are going to say—perhaps you are going tolaugh. For Heaven’s sake, don’t, for this is a seriousbusiness 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 seenyou a few times, that I have only spoken to you on twooccasions. Well, I know. Do you think I haven’t toldmyself all that? I have, a hundred times; but it doesn’talter the fact. I do love you. I know that, and that’sabout all I know of it.” His deep, musical voice wastremulous for a moment, but he mastered it. “And Idon’t wonder at it! Where is the man with half-a-heartin his bosom who wouldn’t love you! I have never seenany one so beautiful—half so beautiful!”

She moved her hand as if to silence him, but he wenton.

“And I’ve sat for hours, fascinated—feeling my heartdrawn out of me by your face, your voice! Why, lookhow you move the rest of the people at the theatre, andthink what it must mean to me, who loved you the veryfirst time I saw you! Ah, Miss Marlowe—Doris—let mecall you Doris for once!—if I could only tell you howdearly and truly and passionately I love you! But Ican’t. I know it’s no use. Who am I that you shouldfeel anything but amusem*nt——”

“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’mjust an ordinary fool of a fellow. Of course,there is no hope for me, and yet somehow I felt that Imust tell you. You won’t laugh, I know. You’ll tell me[Pg 105]that I’m very foolish, and that we mustn’t meet again—and—andall that”—he rose, but sank down again, andtouched her arm reverently—“and you’ll send me awayand—and—perhaps forget all about me in a week or two.While I—well—” he pushed the short, crisp hair from hisbrow with an impatient gesture—“well, I shall get over itin time. No!” he said, simply, passionately, “I shallnever forget you. If I live to be a hundred I shall neverforget the other day when I opened my eyes and saw youbending over me, or those next two nights when I lookedat you in the theatre! I shall never forget, nor cease tolove you! I know it as surely as I stand here!”

He rose and thrust his hands in his pockets, and lookeddown at her, his handsome face set hard, his eyes dwellingupon her with the hungry look of the man who lovesand 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 hopeyou will be happy and——’” His voice broke, and heknelt beside her and caught her hand. “Miss Marlowe!Doris! If—if there is the slightest chance for me! Ifthere 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 stoppedsudden, smitten silent, for the hand that was free hadgone up to her face and covered her eyes, and she wastrembling.

She had heard love made to her on the stage, and ithad meant—just her “cue,” no more; this was the firsttime the accents of a real, genuine passion had ever smoteupon her ear, and its tones thrilled to her heart.

She trembled with joy, with fear, with doubt, with thealmost irrepressible longing to hide her burning face uponhis breast, and give words to the cry that rang in herheart, “I love you! I love you!”

“Doris!” he said; “Doris!” and there was truth in hisvoice. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t cry! I’m not worthit; I am not, indeed! Are you crying? Don’t! I’ll—I’llgo——”

She put out her hand and laid it gently on his arm asgently as a butterfly alights upon a flower.

He caught it and drew nearer to her.

[Pg 106]

“Doris! Is it possible? Do you—may I hope?Doris! Oh, my darling, my darling!” and his strongarms wound round her, and his kisses fell like hot rainupon her hair and eyelids.

For a moment she surrendered herself to the storm ofpassion, as a tree bends before the whirlwind; then sheput her hands palm-wise upon his breast, and gently kepthim from her.

“Oh, wait, wait!” she murmured. “I don’t know——”

“Don’t know! Don’t know whether you love me, youmean?” he said, kneeling beside her, and gazing hungrilyin her face, ready to swoop down upon her with renewedcaresses.

“Yes,” she said, and her voice came in a whisper. “Itis all so—so sudden! I don’t know——”

“My darling!” he whispered. “Let me ask you! Iknow what love means, for I learned it from my love foryou. Look at me, Doris!”

She raised her eyes—they seemed weighted with lead—andlet them rest upon his ardent, glowing face.

“Let me ask you,” he said, “would you like me to beunhappy? Would you like me to leave you, to go awayfrom you, not for an hour, or a day, but forever?”

A faint shudder shook her, and the hands touching hisbreast half-closed on him.

“Would you be happy if I were miles away, and therewere no chance of ever seeing me again? Doris, answerme; shall I go? Will you say ‘good-by?’”

He drew back from her in a feint of leaving her, andher small, soft hands closed upon him.

“No, no!”

He asked for no more. With a cry of joy he drew herto 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’tbelieve it otherwise. Tell me, do you love me just alittle?” and he looked into her downcast eyes as if hewould read her soul.

She put her hand upon his arm and raised her eyes tohis slowly, and let them rest there.

“Yes!” she said, as if the effort cost her much; “I dolove you!”

[Pg 107]

A linnet, perched upon a branch of the tree above them,burst into song; a lamb, that had been regarding themcuriously, drew near and bleated; the brook babbled overthe stones; all nature in its happy springtide seemed totake up the harmony of these two souls bound in Love’ssubtle spell, and to find voice; but they were silent.

At last he spoke.

“It is like a dream!” he said, removing his eyes fromher face for a moment and looking round like a manawaking from sleep. “Like a dream! Tell me oncemore, 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—beamedfrom 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 differencebetween us: you, so beautiful, so clever, such a genius;oh, I know! Why, you will be famous—are famousalready, I daresay—and I!” he laughed with self-scorn.“It is wonderful!” and he drew her hand to his lips andkissed 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 reallyis only a dream.”

She started, and would have withdrawn her hand if ithad 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—andyou—have forgotten!”

[Pg 108]

“Forgotten what, dearest?” he said.

“Forgotten who you are, and what I am.”

“You are an angel!” he remarked, seating himself besideher, 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 youspread your wings, and fly from me.”

“So I shall directly,” she said, with a smile that washalf-sorrowful. “I am an actress—one of the people!One who has no status, no standing in the world; and youare a nobleman! You will be a marquis some day, willyou not?”

“I daresay,” he assented, carelessly, trying to decidewhether 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, ifyou are going to draw up a list of comparisons! As ifthere 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 shehad withdrawn, and kissing each finger separately; “don’ttalk nonsense. I’m a future marquis. All right. I don’tdeny 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—confoundhim!—the marquis made me retire! I’m simplynothing, while you—you!” he emphasized the pronounby raising the edge of her dress and kissing it, “you are agreat and famous actress——”

“And outside the pale of society,” she said, with suddenwisdom.

“Society!” he exclaimed, “what do I care for that? Inever 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 byhis devotion; she allowed him to retain her hand.

[Pg 109]

“If you only knew what a sacrifice you are making, mydarling!” he said, smilingly. “Why, presently you willappear in London, and will find the world at your feet;and they will all be in love with you, peasants—only thereare no peasants in London—and peers! I daresay youwould have an offer from a duke! Think of that! Andyou 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!” hesaid, “for I am a poor kind of viscount. I am entirely atthe 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 hadbetter have waited and hooked your duke, Doris!”

She laughed softly, but the laugh was rather a graveone.

“What will the marquis say?” she asked, looking athim, with her brows drawn, her lovely eyes half-curious.

Lord Neville smiled.

“He will be sure to say something disagreeable; healways does.”

“But tell me,” she insisted, gently. “Or shall I tellyou?”

“You couldn’t,” he said. “That beautiful face of yourscouldn’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 faintsmile.

“You needn’t; it’s no compliment. No, you couldn’tharden 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 hardenedwith a disdainful hauteur. “So, Cecil!” she said, and hervoice was stern and cuttingly scornful, “so you have madeup your mind to marry—what is it?—a dairymaid—no,pardon me!—an actress! An actress, a social pariah, aperson one pays one’s money to see upon the stage, tomake us laugh for an hour or two, but with whom onewould 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[Pg 110]from me and the world to which you belong, and thatyou sink into the mud from which she sprang, and areutterly ruined, a social suicide!”

Lord Neville sat and stared at her.

It was not the words, dramatic though they were, whichamazed him, but the face, the voice.

“Why, Doris,” he said, at last, “you have seen, youknow the marquis?”

She shook her head as her countenance resumed itsown girlish freshness and beauty.

“No,” she said, gently. “I have never seen him.”

“No? Well, of all the extraordinary likenesses! Itwas my esteemed uncle the marquis—making an allowancefor the difference in age and the rest—to a point!”

“You forget that I am an actress,” she said, with alittle sigh. “It was easy enough, as easy to guess whathe—what any one in his position would say to his nephewand heir when he told him what he proposed doing! It issomething like what he would say, is it not?”

“It was a wonderful imitation of the marquis’ expressionand way of talking—wonderful, darling!—but Idon’t think he would have said so much. But there, whatdifference can it make what he says or thinks, eh, Doris?”he broke off.

“But will it make no difference?” she asked, leaningforward, her hands clasped on her knees, her eyes fixeddreamily on the ground. “I know there must be a sacrifice—letme know how great a one. What difference willit make?” and she looked at him.

Lord Neville frowned slightly as he thought of thespeech his uncle had addressed to him after dinner on hisfirst night at the Towers, and she saw the frown andsighed.

“The sacrifice would be greater even than I thought,”she said. “Is it not so? I—yes, I am so ignorant of theworld. I know nothing about it, excepting what I havelearned from books and plays——”

“Don’t say another word!” he broke in, almost grimlyin his earnestness. “Every word you say makes meashamed! Do you think I set anything in the scalesagainst your love? The marquis may say and do whathe pleases; he may curse or bless me, and it won’t make[Pg 111]any difference! All the same—I mention it for your sake,and not my own, you seem so afraid, my darling; he can’trob me of the title, and if he could I would surrender itrather than lose you. Lose you!” he exclaimed, with hisshort laugh. “Look here, Doris, I’d rather be your husband,and—and sweep a crossing, than marry anotherwoman and be the future King of England! Thatsounds rather high and lofty, doesn’t it? But I’m ratherbad at expressing myself, and it’s as near as I can get tomy meaning!”

“It is near enough,” she said, with a smile, her heartgiving a little leap at his ardent, manly avowal.

“And that’s enough of the marquis,” he said. “We’veforgotten 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 goodwillquite as much as I do my uncle’s, and I don’t feel at allsure that I shall get it. You see, with all deference toyou, sweetheart——”

Sweetheart! She whispered the word to herself andglowed over it.

“I’m not, in all points, the very best kind of young manfor a husband, and your guardian is very likely to remarkit. 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, diviningher meaning. “I see! And I’m not surprised. Ican’t imagine any man stony-hearted enough to refuse youanything, 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 feelsure, quite sure, that you are my very own! You don’tmind my going home with you and telling him straightout, do you?”

She was silent a moment, then she looked at him, hesitatingly.

“No, do not. I——” She stopped. “I think I would[Pg 112]rather see him first. I—I could tell him. Ah, do younot see how suddenly it would come upon him? Howunprepared——”

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, Ihave not told him; he would be so surprised and——Iwill 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 tenderand loving—father, mother, brother! Ah, I have had noone else but him in the world, and he has devoted all hislife to me!”

“I will never forget that,” said Lord Neville, gravely,“and I will try and thank him to-morrow! Yes, I canunderstand how hard it will seem to him to have to loseyou. But, Doris, he need not do that. He has stood ina father’s place to you; I shall not oust him from it, orseparate you from him. There is room in that big heartof 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 oftears.

“If I had not loved you until this moment, I shouldnow,” she said, in a low voice.

Of course, he captured the little quivering hands, andthey sat in silence for a minute or two. Then suddenlyshe started.

“The time!” she exclaimed. “I had forgotten! Thereis a rehearsal,” and she sprang to her feet. “No, no!”pressing her fingers on his shoulder. “You must notcome—not an inch of the way. I—I want to be alone tothink—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 lovingmockery. “To-morrow, Doris, in the morning?”

“Yes, to-morrow—ah, what a long time!” she whispered,almost inaudibly. “Let me think. If I cannotcome—there may be a rehearsal——”

He looked disappointed—man like.

[Pg 113]

“I shall be here,” he said, “and I’ll wait all day if youlike.”

She laughed softly, her eyes dwelling upon him lovingly.

“Without your lunch or your dinner? That would betoo much. No; if you come and I am not here, leavesome message for me,” she looked round; “write me aword, and put it under this big stone by the tree there.”

“All right,” he said. “But you will come, if not inthe morning, in the afternoon—sometime! Remember, Iam to see your guardian to-morrow!”

“Yes,” she said. “But do you remember, too, that Iam not my own master, Lord Neville—that I belong tothe public.”

“Indeed, Miss Marlowe?” he said, retorting the formalityupon her. “I was under the impression that youbelonged to me!”

“Ah, yes,” she murmured, with sweet surrender, as heheld 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 tome, or I would have brought one.”

“Have mine,” she said. Then, suddenly, she disengagedher hand, and held it up, and swiftly drew from herfinger a quaint old silver ring. “See,” she said, the colorstealing into her face. “Will you have that?”

“Will I?” he said, taking it, hand and all.

“What a small hand you have,” she said, laughingsoftly. “It is too large for your little finger; you hadbetter 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 withhers, murmured his name, and was gone.

He watched her until the slight, girlish figure had vanished,then went slowly to his horse, mounted, and rodeslowly away.

A minute or so afterward a lady and gentleman cameout from among the trees. The gentleman was SpenserChurchill, the lady—Lady Grace.

[Pg 114]

He wore his usual bland, benevolent smile, intensified, ifanything, as he looked after the disappearing horseman,but Lady Grace was white almost to pallor, and stoodbiting her under lip, and breathing heavily.

“What a charming pastoral!” he said, with his smooth,oily laugh; “Adam and Eve, or Edwin and Angelina, inGoldsmith’s poem—you know it, dear Lady Grace?—werenever more poetical or touching! Really, one cannot helpfeeling grateful to the happy chance which enabled me tobe a witness of so moving and charming a scene.”

“Chance!” she said, and her voice sounded thick andforced. “You knew that they would be here when youasked me to come!” and she shot a glance of scorn andhate at him.

“I, my dear lady! Now, how was that possible? Doyou think our enamored Cecil would confide his appointmentsto me? And not having the inestimable privilegeof knowing the lady——”

“She is the actress—the girl we saw last night!” shemuttered, between her teeth; “an actress—a painted——”

“Was she painted? Yes, I daresay! I am, alas! rathernear-sighted,” he said, smiling as he recalled the youthfulbloom of Doris’ sweet face. “Ah! yes, I daresay! Butperhaps 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 interestingyoung creature?”

A light of hateful hope—such a light as shamed herwomanhood—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, hewould—even—marry her!”

“In-deed! Really! How charming! So romantic!”pursued Spenser Churchill. “The future Marchioness ofStoyle an actress, a provincial actress! Clever, oh, certainly,and beautiful—ahem!—well, with her paint andpowder, of course; but provincial, quite! And the futuremarchioness! Let me see, when was the marquisatecreated?”

[Pg 115]

His smooth, suave speech almost frenzied her.

“Why do you exasperate me?” she exclaimed, betweenher teeth, and turning upon him. “Why have youbrought me here? To laugh at me, to mock me with this—thisscandalous scene? You know he will marry her,unless——”

“Unless?” he said, softly. “Unless an accident happens.And accidents do happen—alas!—so often in thisunsatisfactory, disappointing world.”

She watched his face eagerly, with a faint glimmer ofhope on her face, which was still pale and eloquent of thefierce 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 flushof their mutual passion——”

She bit her lip till two red spots showed where thewhite, even teeth had pressed.

“Doubtless think that their path to happiness is quiteplain and smooth. Alas! I fear they will find that theroad 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, mockingvoice no longer. “What will you do? What can youdo? He is mad and—and headstrong. How can youprevent——” She stopped suddenly, and, stooping,picked up something from the grass.

“Ah!” he said. “Treasure-trove! What is it? Abroken sixpence? No! A ring—the ring!”

She held it almost at arm’s length, as if it were somenoxious reptile, then with a gesture of scorn and hate, sheraised her hand as if to throw the ring from her; but instantlyhe seized her arm, and his soft, fat hand sliddown 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 becameaware of Lady Grace’s fixed gaze, the benevolentsmile returned to his face. “Actually lost it a few minutesafter she had given it to him! Now, some superstitious[Pg 116]persons would call that a bad omen. Are you superstitious,dear Lady Grace?”

“Give it to me; let me throw it——” she said, withmalignant intensity.

He held it out of her reach, surveying her with smilingscrutiny.

“No, really you must not. Poor Cecil——” Hestopped 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, andslid back behind the trees. She followed him, and, lookingover her shoulder, saw Lord Cecil galloping towardthem.

He cleared the hedge, and, dropping from the horse,walked quickly to the spot where they had stood, and commencedto search in the grass with anxious eagerness.He went down on his knees, and examined every inch ofthe spot where Doris and he had sat, groped along thebank where they had stood, and hunted every likely spot.

They could see his anxious face, hear his half-mutteredejacul*tions 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 andremorse, Lord Cecil was obliged to admit to himselfthat it was gone beyond recovery; he might search fora week, a month, and not find it, for it might havedropped off his finger and fallen at any spot betweenthe tree and the brook.

“My darling’s ring!” he murmured aloud, so that thetwo listeners could hear him where they stood concealed;“my darling’s ring! I would give all the Stoyle jewelsto get it back!”

Then he mounted slowly, and with many a backwardglance, as if he hoped that even at the last moment hemight get a glimpse of it shining among the grass, herode off.

[Pg 117]

Then the thought of his happiness rose as a tide andswept 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, andhe recalled every word she had spoken, every glanceof her love-lit eyes, that he might impress them on hismemory.

The air seemed full of her; the birds seemed to singher name: “Doris, Doris Marlowe;” all the earth, cladin its bright spring colors, was smiling a reflection ofthe delirious joy that burnt like a flame in his heart.

She was so beautiful! He tried to think of some ofthe girls that he had known, that he might comparethem with her; but they all seemed insipid and colorlessbeside the intense, spiritual loveliness of Doris,with her deep, melting eyes, and grave, clear brows. Andshe was not only beautiful, but a genius. Every wordshe spoke was lifted out of the region of commonplaceby her marvelous voice, with its innumerable changesof expression. The touch of her small, smooth handlingered about him; yet, the shy kiss of the warm lipsburned upon his brow.

What had he done to deserve so great, so overwhelminga happiness? And as he asked himself the questionCecil Neville’s face grew grave, and a pang shot throughhis heart, a pang of remorse—and of shame—for someof the follies of his past life.

Doris was worthy of the best and noblest man inEngland, and he——! He set his teeth and breathedhard. He had laughed at love, had smiled almost contemptuouslyat passion, and now he felt that this wasthe only thing worth living for, and that rather thanlose his darling he would ride his mare at the stonewall 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 hepictured the scene before him. He could imagine themarquis’ cold, haughty face turning to ice and steel ashe listened, and the cutting, smiling voice bidding himto marry his actress and go to the devil.

He was entirely dependent on the marquis; was indebt as heavily as even the heir to such a title and estates[Pg 118]could be. What would the marquis do when he,Lord Cecil, told him that he could not marry LadyGrace, 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 capableof earning my own living, a barrister, or a doctor, or anartist, or something, I could make a home for mydarling then, but I am simply a useless, worthless being,who happens, unfortunately, to be the next-of-kin to theMarquis of Stoyle!”

What should he do, if the marquis turned him adrift?His allowance would cease, his creditors would becomepressing—he would be ruined; and he would have towait until the marquis died before he could make Dorishis wife.

The thought was gall and wormwood. Much as hedisliked his uncle, Cecil Neville was not the man towish for his death. The marquis might live forever, ifonly Cecil could marry his darling.

“If he only had a heart in his bosom, instead of aflint, and could see her!” he thought, as he rode on; “orif I were only a barrister or an artist, or anything thatearns money enough to make my darling my wife!”

He was in no hurry to reach the Towers; it was farpleasanter to be alone, to think over his happiness, andhe made a wide circuit, bringing Polly into the stable-yardjust before the dressing-bell rang.

And, after all his thinking, this was the result: Thathe must try somehow to win the marquis’ consent to themarriage.

He had intended going to the theatre; to feast hiseyes and ears upon his beautiful love, but—with a pang—heresolved to dine and spend the evening at theTowers, 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 againstSpenser Churchill, who was coming out of the marquis’apartments.

“Ah, my dear Cecil!” he murmured, with a benevolentsmile, “just got back? What a lovely evening! Haveyou enjoyed your ride? Did you notice the sunset?[Pg 119]Quite a Leader! You know those beautiful picturesLeader paints, all crimson and mauve?”

Lord Cecil nodded and strode up the stairs to hisrooms.

When he came down into the drawing-room, LadyGrace was seated at the piano, playing softly, and sheglanced 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 thegrounds,” she replied. “Mr. Churchill and I have beenbotanizing in the gardens. I told him that we reallyought to do something in the way of exploring theneighborhood, but I could not induce him to go outsidethe gates. Are you going to the theatre to-night?” sheasked, innocently.

He started and bent over the music.

“Not to-night,” he said.

“I didn’t know,” she said. “I myself should like togo 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 afraida second night would spoil the impression, wouldn’t it?”

“I daresay,” he said.

Then the bell rang, and he gave her his arm andtook her into dinner.

All through the elaborate meal she seemed in thebest and brightest of spirits, and her sallies of well-bredmerriment 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 contemptuousremarks with which he usually adorned theconversation.

Spenser Churchill, too, appeared in his most benevolentand amiable mood, and grew quite pathetic as hetalked of his pet charity for distressed chimney sweeps.

The dessert came, and then Lady Grace took up herfan and left the room, and Spenser Churchill, after asingle glass of claret, rose, and saying: “Don’t let me[Pg 120]disturb you two; I am going to ask Lady Grace forsome 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 andgrave.

The marquis, instead of rising, seemed to linger overhis wine, and leaned back in his chair with a thoughtfulair. Once he glanced at Lord Cecil curiously.

“Have you heard the news from Ireland, Cecil?” hesaid.

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 heardfrom my agent in Connemara. The country is very unsettled.”

“Yes?” said Lord Cecil absently; he had his ownideas about Ireland, and they would probably havemuch astonished the marquis, who was a Tory of theold and thorough-going sort. But Lord Cecil was notthinking of Ireland, but of Doris Marlowe.

“I imagine you know that I—I suppose I ought tosay ‘we’—have a great deal of property there?”

Lord Cecil nodded.

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Yes,” said the marquis, glancing at him from the cornersof his cold, keen eyes. “You don’t take much interestin the matter—at present. But you will be marquisvery soon, and then——” he laughed. “I don’t envy youyour 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 whatthey are doing.”

“No doubt,” assented the marquis, drily. “You viewthe business from the patriotic side.”

“I sympathize with the people,” said Lord Neville,firmly.

The marquis poured out a glass of wine and smiledcoldly.

“Yes—you are young,” he said. “But I’ll admit the[Pg 121]thing wants looking into, and I’m too old to undertakethe inspection.”

Lord Neville raised his head. He did not want totalk about Ireland, but about Doris Marlowe. And now,he thought, was the time. The old port stood besidethem, the door was closed. Lady Grace and SpenserChurchill were in the drawing-room.

He looked at the cold, haughty face and plunged athis 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 personalmatter 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 LordCecil.

If he had expected the marquis to express surpriseby word or gesture he was disappointed.

“Your marriage?” he said, quietly. “You intendtaking my advice, I see. You are wise; Lady Grace isdesirable in every way. I’d marry her myself, if I wereyounger.”

Lord Cecil colored, but he did not flinch.

“I am sorry, sir,” he said.

“That I am not younger?” put in the marquis, witha sardonic smile.

“Well, yes, I’m sorry for that, if youth would makeyou any happier, my lord,” said Lord Neville, and hespoke sincerely. The marquis eyed him keenly. “Butit is not Lady Grace, sir. I think her a most beautifuland charming lady, of whom I am quite and entirelyunworthy.”

“For once I agree with you,” was the caustic comment.

Lord Neville inclined his head.

“But there is another reason why I cannot venture toask 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[Pg 122]your wife; forgive me, I have been outside the world solong. Pray go on.”

“And I love another lady.”

“Indeed!” came the cold response. There was nosurprise, scarcely a trace even of displeasure, but thekeen eyes glittered like those of an eagle as they restedon his handsome, manly face. “Don’t you think it wouldhave saved both of us some trouble and many wordsif you had mentioned this rather important fact whenwe were discussing the question the other night?”

Lord Neville smiled faintly.

“I did not know it myself,” he replied; “I had notmet the young lady.”

“Ah, love at first sight!” said the marquis. “Interesting,but rather imprudent. You have known her, andloved her, and want to marry her, all in—how manydays is it?”

Lord Neville colored.

“I seem to have known her for years,” he said, almostto himself.

“And may I ask—I don’t desire to appear inquisitive—whothis young lady is? I didn’t know that you hadvisited any of the people here. Do I know her?”

“I think not, sir,” said Lord Neville. “Her name isDoris Marlowe.”

“Doris Marlowe,” repeated the marquis; “a prettyname. No, I don’t know it. There is no county familyhereabouts, that I remember, of the name of Marlowe.”

“She is not a member of a county family; she is anactress,” 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 onthe thin, curled lips and glittering eyes.

“An actress; really! Dear me! This is very—entertaining!I was under the impression that only callowschoolboys ever fell in love with actresses. I should havethought—pray forgive me—that you were too old, if nottoo sensible, to be guilty of such a gaucherie.”

Lord Neville pressed his foot down upon the Turkeycarpet, and sat himself squarely in his chair, in his effortto command his temper. He had resolved that nothing[Pg 123]the marquis should say should rouse him to anger orto retaliation.

“An actress! I don’t think the Stoyles have everhad an actress in the family; and some of us have gonepretty low down for our wives, too!”

Lord Neville bit his lip.

“If you knew Miss Marlowe, sir, I think you wouldscarcely consider that I was condescending in askingher to marry me.”

The marquis stared at him as if he were some curiousspecimen, worthy of calm and careful consideration.

“I will take your word for that! At any rate, I won’tventure to contradict you; but you must permit me toexpress my satisfaction that Fate has spared me to thatextent! I have no desire to add an actress to my list ofacquaintances.”

Lord Neville inclined his head.

“This is exactly what I expected you to say, sir,” hesaid, quietly; “but I considered it my duty to tell you,and to ask your consent, as I should have asked myfather’s, had he been living.”

“Thanks; you are very considerate,” said the marquis,with a fine sneer; “and do not mind me! Pray unbosomyourself! Treat me as if I were your father, anddilate 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 burntfiercely as they met the keen, sardonic gaze.

“She is clever! She is a genius! Yes!” he said, controllinghimself by a great effort. “She will be, or wouldhave been famous. As to her innocence and purity, shehas been brought up and carefully guarded by a man,against whom and herself the tongue of scandal has notdared even to hint a word.”

“In—deed! You are singularly fortunate!” came thescornful response.

Lord Neville sprang to his feet, a half audible oathwrung from him in his torture; but the marquis wavedhis thin, white, clawlike hand.

[Pg 124]

“Pray sit down. We had better endeavor to discussthis matter quietly. If she is an actress, that is no reasonwhy 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 everythingthat is beautiful and innocent and talented, andthat you are very much in love with her——” and helaughed, such a laugh of taunting scorn and contempt asmight 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 surprisesme! How fashions alter! In my day that is thelast 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 himto retort. “No; there were some fools—even in myday!”

“You shall call me what you please, sir.”

“My dear fellow, what else can I call you? Even youwill not expect me to applaud such a step as you proposetaking. You are a Neville, you will be the Marquisof Stoyle, a peer of the three kingdoms: you will get, oryou would have got, the Garter; and you propose to marry—anactress! An actress! If there is any man in Englandwho would not call you a fool, I should like to seehim; I should like to see him very much, indeed. Why,my dear fellow, depend upon it, no one thinks you moredecidedly a fool than the girl herself.”

“By Heaven, if you only knew her!” broke from LordNeville’s parched lips.

The marquis laughed.

“Thanks, again. But you’ll excuse me, I trust! Anactress! Come, I’m not a betting man—now, but I willwager you a hundred pounds to five that before twomonths after you have been married you will admit to methat I was right and that you were a very great fool, indeed!”

“I take you, sir,” said Lord Neville, grimly, and hedrew out his pocketbook and carefully jotted down the[Pg 125]bet. The old man’s eyes shone with a swift approval; itwas a touch worthy of himself.

“And I’ll make you another that in the same period thegirl 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, anywoman’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 gleamedlike ardent coals, his teeth came together with a click, andhe drooped as if he had been struck; then in a moment ortwo he recovered himself and made an elaborate bow.

“Fairly hit,” he said, and his voice was very low andsharp. “Very well done, indeed. But you forgot whenyou taunted me with the unhappiness of my own marriedlife, that you were admitting that I spoke with experience.”

Lord Neville flushed.

“By Heaven, sir,” he said, quietly, “you drove me toohard. I know little or nothing of your married life—Iscarcely thought of it when I spoke——”

The marquis waved his hand.

“Don’t spoil it by an apology,” he said, quietly. “Youstruck home and should be satisfied. My marriage wasalmost as great a mistake as yours will be. Almost, notquite. It ruined my life; if by a little trouble I couldhave saved you from a like experience, I should havebeen glad to have done so; but I am not prepared to takemuch trouble. We will, therefore, if you please, considerthat you have made up your mind to marry this girl fromthe gutter—don’t look so fierce; a girl who is of no familyis from the gutter—the pavement!—that you havemade up your mind to become the laughing-stock of allyour friends, old and young; to chain yourself to a womanwho will, while she lives, be pointed and stared at as ‘theactress,’ that you are contented to leave the society to[Pg 126]which your birth and position entitle you, and sink intogrim solitude or the companionship of people of herclass. We will take all this for granted. And now, whatdo you expect me to do, if I may ask?”

“To request me to leave this house, to discontinue myallowance, and to cut me from henceforth,” said LordNeville, promptly but calmly.

The marquis smiled.

“Y—es,” he said, nodding, “that is my duty forcibly andconcisely. This is what I ought to do; but all my life Ihave never done what I ought to have done, and have alwaysdone what I ought not. You are welcome to remainat the Towers as long as you please.”

Lord Neville looked at him with faint surprise, and themarquis sipped his wine slowly.

“I shall double your allowance, and, as to cutting you,that would be inconvenient and troublesome, not to sayvulgar. Of course I shall keep to my resolve respectingthe 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 atonce; “I am glad that it should be so. I—I think youhave acted very generously to me, and I thank you, sir.”

The marquis inclined his head, a faint smile hoveringabout his thin lips.

“You might be able to marry upon your allowancedoubled, as I propose,” he said. “You would not bevery rich, but it might do.”

“It will be quite sufficient,” said Lord Neville, as yetunrecovered from his surprise.

“I shall not live very long, I hope—though, by theway, I should like to live long enough to win that fivepounds of you”—Lord Neville smiled—“and then youwill have the estates, such as they are.”

“I ask you to believe me, that I am in no hurry. I donot wish, and never have wished for your death,” and hisface flushed.

The marquis waved his hand.

“Thanks, very much! But to return: I presume thatyou have not the slightest doubt of the stability of yourfeelings? You are sure that you won’t change your mind—yourheart, I should have said?”

[Pg 127]

“Quite certain,” replied Lord Neville, Doris’ face risingbefore him as he spoke. “My happiness is bound upin Miss Marlowe; I shall never cease to love her.”

“Very good,” said the marquis. “Of course, you wantto be married at once? Oh, I have no objection; it is amatter of perfect indifference to me, I assure you.”

“Then your kindness and liberality are all the moremarked, sir,” said Lord Neville. “I wish I could convinceyou of my gratitude; it is sufficient to make me forget—almost—allthe hard things you have said.”

“Ah,” said the marquis, “gratitude is a fine sentiment—veryfine. But rather hollow and shadowy. If I were toask you to do something, for instance, to prove this beautifulsentiment!” he sneered, as a finish to the sentence.

Lord Neville looked up.

“I wish you would!” he said. “I should like to provemy sincerity, sir.”

The marquis looked round the room with a smile ofidle amusem*nt.

“Really,” he said, “there is nothing I can think of askingyou to do, excepting to pass the wine, and that doesnot 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 attentiveface keenly, sarcastically. “What do you say if Iask you to go over to Ireland for me?”

Lord Neville’s face grew grave, and the marquis leanedback and laughed with grim satisfaction.

“You see! Gratitude’s a very fine thing—to talkabout!”

Lord Neville flushed.

“You misunderstand my silence,” he said, quietly. “Ifyou mean by going to Ireland for you, I’m to take sidewith the landlords”—stopped—“I could not join in theoppression of those poor people, my lord, even to provemy own sincerity.”

The marquis toyed with his fruit knife.

“Charmingly put, my dear Cecil; quite fit for a politicalplatform. But you misunderstand me. I know nothingof the question, and care less; I hate and detest politics;[Pg 128]they bore me, they always did. All I want is this:I am told that my agent is a rogue, who has made himselfrich by grinding down the tenants; I am also told thathe is the most merciful and upright of men. I’m rathercurious to know—well, scarcely curious, perhaps—whichaccount is true. Will you go and find out? I don’t thinkyou 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 orrefuse; I don’t care about anything; and it is very likelythat after you are gone to-morrow morning I shall haveceased to remember what you have gone about.”

“To-morrow morning?” said Lord Neville, almost inaudibly.To-morrow morning! and his appointmentwith Doris, his interview with her guardian!

“Yes,” said the marquis, carelessly, but shooting aglance, half-scornful, half-amused, at the grave face. “Ifyou go at all it must be at once! Some one should havestarted to-night! The man will collect the rents in aday or two; he should be stopped—or the other thing.”

“Yes,” said Lord Neville, absently.

Go without seeing Doris! Without gaining her guardian’sconsent. His heart throbbed with a dull ache.

“Yes, of course you see that! The early train wouldenable 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 unclehas proved less black than he is painted——”

Lord Neville smiled.

“Is that unnatural?”

“By no means; but permit me to suggest that you canwrite 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. “Youmean to go, then?”

[Pg 129]

“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 outsome papers.

“Here are the papers,” he said, languidly. “I haven’tread them all; you can bore yourself over them in thetrain. And will you favor me by accepting this towardthe expenses,” and he laid a roll of uncounted notes onthe 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 themarquis. “If you think there is too much, you can distributethe surplus among the poor people with whom yousympathize.”

“Yes, I can do that—and will!”

“As you like. I will say ‘good-night;’ by the way, Ishould say ‘good-by,’ for you may be shot!” he added, ascalmly as if he were saying, “It may rain.”

“I am not coward enough to be afraid of that, or foolenough 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 aglance at the handsome face; then, with a bow and a coldsmile, passed out.

Lord Cecil went up to his own room, and, lighting acigar, paced up and down, thinking deeply.

It was marvelous that the marquis should have actedas he had done! Double his allowance! He would beable to marry at once, instead of waiting. Marry Dorisat once! The blood beat in a tumult at his heart; then adull weight seemed to fall upon him as he rememberedhis debts. But he thrust the incubus from him; somethingmight be done respecting them, some arrangementmade. At any rate, he would have an income largeenough to marry on, and Doris——! He puffed at hiscigar fiercely, and called up a vision of the lovely face,and tried to imagine the expression the deep, dark, meltingorbs would wear when he told her. Then, as he reflectedthat he should not see her on the morrow, he sighed.

“It almost seems as if my darling had some presentiment[Pg 130]that we should not meet,” he said to himself.“What will she say when she finds that I am not thereand goes to the stone for the letter?”

Then he sat down to the table to write it. It was noteasy, for he wanted to say enough to cover ten pages;but at last he wrote a few lines only:

He sighed over the unsatisfactory epistle and closed it;then reopened the letter and caught up his pen to tell herof the loss of the ring and ask her to look for it; but hehesitated, and put the letter back in the envelope with thesentence unwritten. Then he put on his coat and walkedto the meadows. The night was dark, and he had to lighta match to enable him to find the stone beneath the trees,but he found it and concealed his letter, and then, afterstanding for a few moments and looking round himdreamily, casting up the vision of Doris, he turned andmade his way back to the Towers.

The marquis had gone to his room, as was customarywith him; his valet exchanged his master’s dress coat fora velvet dressing-gown, and the old man lay back in thechair looking at the fire with half-closed eyes.

The room was magnificently furnished, but in rather asubdued tone, which was rendered almost sombre by theheavy curtains that screened the window and a greaterportion of the walls.

Against the deep purple of the hangings the clear,sharp-cut face with its distinct pallor looked almost likethat of a dead man’s, and only the steel-like glitter of theeyes spoke of the vitality which lingered in the body, and[Pg 131]burned in the spirit of the most honorable, the Marquisof Stoyle.

Presently there came a soft tap at the door, and in responseto the marquis’ “come in,” Spenser Churchill entered.

If anything his smooth, innocent face looked morebenevolent and charitable than usual, and the smile hebent upon the hard, cold face upturned to him was likethat of a man whose sole delight is in doing good to hisfellowmen.

“Well?” he said—or rather purred.

The marquis waved his hand to a chair, and SpenserChurchill dropped softly into it, and leaned back, hiseyes on the ceiling, his fat hands clasped on his knee.

“You were right, you spoke nothing but the truth; thefool is in earnest.”

“Dear Cecil,” purred Spenser Churchill.

“He is so much in love that he bore all the insults that Icould heap upon him—no! I wrong him. He struckhome once!” and he smiled a strange smile.

“And he means to marry her?”

“Yes,” said the marquis, with a cruel sneer; “he iseven 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 yoursanswers,” said the marquis, breaking in upon the smoothvoice.

“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 thesleek, false face.

“Now, that’s very good of him,” murmured SpenserChurchill; “very good, most charming and nice. To goto Ireland on the very day he has arranged a meeting withthat beautiful girl. Now——”

“Is she so beautiful?” asked the marquis, who seemedto take the unctuous words as meaningless and not worthlistening to. “I suppose she must be. He has seen[Pg 132]many pretty women, many clever ones. What has caughthim? 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 powderswonderfully well now—wonderfully!”

The marquis smiled grimly.

“The fool, to be caught by a painted vixen, oldenough——I suppose she is old, eh?”

Spenser Churchill shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah, yes, of course! A young girl wouldn’t have hadthe tact to catch him so easily. And he has written toher, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Spenser Churchill; “and gone to post hisletter 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, ina low voice. “I should enjoy the misery that would follow!Yes, I’m half inclined——” and an evil lightflashed from his eyes.

Spenser Churchill watched him behind the mask of abenevolent smile.

“Oh, no, no,” he murmured; “we really must not, wereally must not let dear Cecil ruin himself. My dearmarquis, 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 amusingto thwart him—if we can.”

“If we can,” echoed Spenser Churchill with a smile.

“Oh, I don’t doubt your ability,” said the marquis witha sneer; “the devil himself could not be a fitter personfor 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 SpenserChurchill. “I really am half ashamed! It is only theconviction that I am acting for the dear fellow’s ultimategood 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 roseand opened the cabinet.

[Pg 133]

Then he selected two or three letters, and, smiling andnodding at the marquis as if they were conspiring to dosome good deed in secret, he went to a davenport andwrote.

After a few moments he came across the room, andwith his head on one side, a benevolent smile on his innocentface, he dropped a letter on the marquis’ knee.

The marquis took it up and looked at it with a carelessair, then started.

“Forgery must be very easy,” he said, with a sneer, “oryou must have had a great deal of practice, Spenser.”

“You really think it is like—just a little like?” saidSpenser Churchill, as if he had received high praise for avirtuous action. “Now, really, you think it is somethingof a resemblance?”

“It is so close a forgery that Cecil himself might almostbe persuaded that it is his own.”

“No! Really! But read it, dear marquis! The handwritingis only of secondary importance; the style of theletter—eh? What do you say?”

The marquis read the note, and a smile of sardonicamusem*nt 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 Cecilwould write, and you think I have succeeded? PoorCecil, poor girl! What a hard world it is! Now, whycan’t these interesting young things be permitted to behappy in their own charming, unsophisticated way? Whata pity it is that one feels bound, in the cause of humanityand society, to—er—so to speak—put a spoke in theirwheel!” and he stood up and began buttoning his coat.

“You yourself are going to take that letter?” asked themarquis.

“Oh, yes!” purred Spenser Churchill. “We mustn’tconfide our nice little plot to a servant.”

“You are taking a great deal of trouble; why?” saidthe marquis, eyeing him keenly.

[Pg 134]

Spenser Churchill’s eyes dropped, and a benevolentsmile 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 amso 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,” hesaid, 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. Unlessyou 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 nervethrobbing with the thrill of a woman’s first love; and itwas not until she had her hand upon the door that shefully realized the task that lay before her.

She had to tell Jeffrey. To tell him that all his lifelongplans 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 ofthe day, was going to retire from the stage forever.

She scarcely realized it herself yet, and yet she knewthat it must be. The future wife of the heir to the marquisateof Stoyle could not be permitted to remain anactress, to be gazed at by a nightly mob, to be cheeredor hissed by a public audience. She sighed as the thoughtcame home to her, not for herself, and the sacrifice offame, but for Jeffrey. It would be hard for him to bear,very, very hard; but she did not doubt that he would givehis consent. As she had said to Lord Neville, Jeffreycould not find it in his heart to refuse her anything shewanted very much, and she did want to marry this handsome[Pg 135]young lover, whose simple touch had power to moveher, very much indeed.

She opened the door. Jeffrey was seated at a smalltable, covered with papers and old letters. He was bendingover them with an air and attitude of deep abstraction,and he did not hear her light footfall as she crossedthe room, and laid her small hand rather tremulouslyupon his stooping shoulders.

“Doris!” he exclaimed, looking up with a start, andcovering the papers before him with both his thin, gnarledhands.

“Why, Jeffrey, dear, did I frighten you?” she saidgently. “What are you doing? You look as if you weretrying to write a play!”

He smiled constrainedly and began collecting the papersand letters in a nervous, hurried fashion.

“I—I have been busy,” he said. “Old papers and—andletters. Where have you been, and what have you beendoing?”

He did not look at her or he would have seen the colorwhich suffused her face and noticed the suddenly downcasteyes.

“I have been to the meadows, Jeffrey. I—I want totell 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 sittinghere so long that I’ve forgotten.” He looked at his old-fashionedwatch, and rising hastily, put the bundle of lettersin a box that stood on the table. “It is time for therehearsal; 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 thosepapers? Are you not going to lock them up with theothers,” and she pointed to them.

He snatched them up almost jealously.

“No, no,” he said. “I keep them—here!” and he placedthem with a nervous carefulness in a pocket within thebreast 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,[Pg 136]from year to year. They belong to you, and you shallhave them—to-morrow, say to-morrow.”

Doris started slightly. It was to-morrow that LordNeville was coming to see Jeffrey; perhaps he wouldgive them to Lord Neville!

“How well you look this morning,” he said suddenly,his eyes resting for a moment upon her lovely face withtheir 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 lether 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 Bartonmilliner’s? Well, you can buy it! You can buy allthe bonnets in the window now, if you like!” and hechuckled grimly. “No more pinching and scraping—thoughwe’ll be careful still, eh, Doris? We’ll be careful!Hard-earned money’s too precious to be squandered. Buyyour bonnet, Doris, by all means. Come along!” and hewas across the room and out of the door before she couldsummon up courage to stop him.

She would tell him after rehearsal, she thought, with asigh; but after rehearsal he came hurrying to her to tellher that he had arranged to go to the next town on importantbusiness for the manager.

“I shall be back to-night,” he said, in his quick, sternvoice; “in time to take you home, as usual,” and hetouched her forehead with his lips.

“You will be sure to be back to-night, Jeffrey?” shesaid, clinging to him for a moment.

“Yes, yes,” he said, hurriedly. “If anything shouldprevent 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 shallbe back. If by any chance I should lose the train——”

“Jeffrey!”

“I said by any chance only, and it is not likely; butif I should I will come by the first in the morning. Mrs.Parkhouse, the dresser, will see you home if I am nothere. Good-by, my child! Play your best to-night! I[Pg 137]am working for you; stone by stone I am building up theedifice of your fame——” He stopped, pressed her shoulderwith 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 hoursthat his absence oppressed her for a moment or two witha sense of helplessness. Then suddenly there flashedupon her the remembrance of Cecil and his love, and theoppression vanished. How could she be helpless whilehe was so near to love and protect her?

Was it strange that her feet should wander from thestraight road home, to the brook in the meadows? Wasit strange that she should linger on the spot made sacredto her by her love until the last moment, so that she leftherself barely time to dress and reach the theatre?

“Perhaps I shall see him to-night,” she thought; “perhapshe will come to the cab and say one word, just oneword!” And when she came on, her beautiful eyes wanderedover the crowded house with an eagerness whichshe could scarcely conceal.

But he was not there: and he did not come during thewhole evening. She felt that she should know if he werein the theatre, though she should not be able to see him,and she knew even before she left the stage door to goto the cab that she should not see him, and Jeffrey hadnot come back!

“You feel tired to-night, Miss Marlowe,” said Mrs.Parkhouse, as Doris leaned back in the cab, and drew hercloak round her. “Shall I come home and stay with youto-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, butMr. Jeffrey would laugh at me for being so nervous.No, you shall not stay.”

She sat up into the night looking at the stars fromthe window, which she threw open, for the air was balmywith the breath of the coming summer; and she triedto realize all that had happened to her, all that was goingto happen to her.

It was not of the title and rank that were to be hersshe thought, but of Cecil’s love, and she stretched her[Pg 138]long white arms out toward Barton Towers with a yearninggesture, murmuring, “My love, my love!”

The morning broke, not brightly and sunnily, but infitful gleams glancing through shower clouds; and whenshe came downstairs she found a yellow telegram envelopebeside her plate.

It was from Jeffrey, saying that the merest chance hehad spoken of had occurred, and that he had been detainedthe night, but that he would catch the eleven o’clocktrain, and asking her to meet him.

Her face brightened as she read it. Yes, she wouldmeet him, and as they walked through the woods from thestation, she would tell him of her strange meeting withLord Neville and all that had sprung from it, and thenthey 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, shiningthrough the spaces of blue, touched the green leaves witha dazzling sheen.

As she went toward the meadows, her heart beatingwith an anticipatory joy, her mind was hard at work.

Perhaps, after all, Jeffrey would not so much mind hergiving up the stage and the career for which he had socarefully prepared her. It was her happiness he had beenseeking—only her happiness, and when he learned thatit was bound up in her love for Cecil Neville, he wouldnot refuse his consent or throw any obstacle in the way.

Looking at it in this hopeful fashion, she reached aspot where the footpath branched in two directions—oneled 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. Consultingher tiny watch—a present from Jeffrey—she sawthat there was just time to go round by way of the brook,and, with a heightened color and eager eyes, she took thepath that led thither.

“After all,” she murmured, when she reached the bank,and looked round upon the unbroken solitude; “I mighthave waited! He is not here! I dare say he has notfinished his breakfast yet; and yet, if he knew that I washere——”

[Pg 139]

She sat down on the bank, and gazed dreamily abouther. The brook babbling at her feet; the branches of thetrees waving solemnly above her head; the very airseemed eloquent of the lover who had stolen her heartand absorbed her life, and she fell into a delicious reverie.Then, suddenly, her eyes fell upon the big round stone atthe foot of the tree, and a smile broke over her face.

“What a foolish, romantic girl he must have thoughtme,” she murmured; “as if he would let anything preventhim coming.”

As she spoke she rose, and, almost mechanically, kneltdown 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 examinedthe address, and the elaborate crest stamped onthe 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 herwith a vacant air, the envelope still unopened. “Not coming!Not coming!” It was like the announcement ofsome terrible calamity.

Then, suddenly, hope sprang into her bosom.

“He has written to tell me why he cannot come,” shesaid to herself, and the color rushed back into her face.“Yes, that is it! He has been prevented—his uncle, themarquis! Something has prevented him, and he has justwritten to tell me when he can come, and when I shallsee him.”

She tore the envelope open, and something fell uponthe grass. She leaned forward and picked it up; it wasthe old pearl-silver ring she had given to him.

She looked at it, turning it over with a vague achingsense of disappointment and trouble.

“My ring!” she murmured, “my ring! Now, whatdoes this mean?” then her face brightened. “Ah, yes, hehas sent it to remind me of yesterday!”

Eagerly she opened the letter, and her lovely eyesseemed to devour it; but as she read they grew dim and[Pg 140]hazy, and she swept her hand across them with an impatientgesture.

“I—I can’t read!” she murmured piteously. “I can’tread it!” Her hands closed tightly on the thick, smoothsheet of notepaper, and she set her teeth hard. “I mustbe mad—yes, that is it! Let me wait a moment. Now!”and she bent forward, and, with knitted brows, read itout word by word, slowly, painfully, like a child readinga repugnant task.

Thrice she read it slowly, carefully, as if she were tryingto learn it by heart; then she rose, and, white as thestones washed by the brook stood gazing at the brokenand hastily scrawled lines.

“Good-by—and forever!” she murmured. “Good-by—andforever!”

A wild laugh forced itself from her lips, and shedropped down on the bank as if she had been felled by ablow.

A TERRIBLE THREAT.

Half an hour later Jeffrey was making his way alongthe footpath through the woods, his thin, bent figurethrowing a fantastic shadow on the tree trunks, as hewalked with his head projected and drooping, his eyesfixed on the ground. Every now and then he raised hishead, looking about him as if he remembered that he hadasked Doris to meet him; but he almost immediately againrelapsed into his pre-occupied manner. Once he stoppedand took the papers from the pocket in his breast andlooked 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; shewill be my child still; it will make no difference.” Hetook 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, andone can’t tell what may happen. If I died before I’d toldher——”

The muttered words stopped suddenly, and he lookedup with a startled air which swiftly changed to one offierce anger. A dapper, comfortably-rounded figure stoodbefore him, with placidly smiling face and serenely benevolentair.

“Spenser Churchill!” exclaimed Jeffrey hoarsely, hishands closing with a gesture at once threatening and repressive.

“My dear Mr. Flint!” purred Spenser, his head onone side, his hand extended benignantly. “My dear Mr.Flint! What a delightful coincidence! After all, nothingis more true than the rather hackneyed assertionthat the world is a small place.”

Jeffrey, glaring at him fiercely, waved his hand.

“Pass on—pass on!” he panted; “I—I will have nothingto say to you!”

“Now really, my dear Jeffrey,” murmured SpenserChurchill remonstratingly, “is it—I put it to you as asensible man—is it really worth while to nourish these—er—unchristianlike[Pg 142]resentments? Look at me——” Itwas quite an unnecessary request, for the fierce, deeply-sunkeneyes 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, andI make it my principle to forget and forgive.”

“Let me pass, you——!” panted Jeffrey, his wholeframe shaking with an effort at self-control.

“To forget and forgive,” repeated the other, as if thewords were a sweet morsel he was turning over histongue. “Believe me, dear Jeffrey, that is far, far thewiser plan.”

“You think so?” said Jeffrey, hoarsely. “You can forget,Spenser Churchill; I cannot, for it was you whowronged, I who suffered! So you have forgotten, andyou dared to think that I had done so? That you maysee how well I remember, villain——No, stop!” forSpenser Churchill had backed a few steps, and glancedround, as if meditating a retreat. “Stop, SpenserChurchill, while I remind you why, when the devil sendsyou across my path, that it would be wiser for you tocrawl on one side, lest I crush you, you smiling, fawningreptile! You forget! You forget the life youruined! 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—theMarquis of Stoyle, the beast for whom you jackalled,employed you to entice her from me. You succeeded,Spenser Churchill, and have forgotten her misery, andmine; all, save perhaps the sum your master flung you.”

His hands were so near the delicate white throat oppositehim that Spenser Churchill drew his head backsharply, and turned pale.

“My dear Jeffrey!” he murmured soothingly. “Now,come, come. Now, really, you know! If any one werelistening—which I am thankful, for your sake, is not thecase—they would gather from your—er—really extravagantlanguage 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, mydear Jeffrey, that the young lady in question was onlyguilty of the remarkably bad taste of jilting you for the[Pg 143]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 othermeans could he get her in his power! Made her hiswife! Yes, that he might crush her the more easily!Enough, Spenser Churchill!”

“Pardon me! One word more! You appear to haveforgotten that the lady, marchioness as she was, preferredto return to her first admirer——There, there!”he broke off, putting up his hand to ward off the threatenedblow; “as you say, it is not worth talking about,and, as I say, it is as much wiser to forget. The poorlady is dead, and the child——”

“Is dead, too!” said Jeffrey.

“Is playing ‘Juliet’ at the Theatre Royal, Barton,” putin Spenser Churchill, smoothly. “Miss Doris Marlowe,otherwise Lady Mary, daughter of the Most Honorablethe Marquis of Stoyle——”

Jeffrey staggered, and sank trembling on a fallen tree,great drops of sweat trickling down his white, wrinkledface.

Spenser Churchill took out a cigarette and lit it, smilingblandly down upon the stricken figure.

“Upon my word, my dear Jeffrey,” he said, pleasantly,“I am almost inclined to cry, ‘Fie, for shame!’ andto retort one of the ugly words which you so liberallyapplied to me. To afford shelter to the wife of the dearmarquis 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 exceptingthe gentleman who has the honor to stand beforeyou.” He laughed unctuously. “I had my suspicionsfrom the first, and I found them justified when I sawMiss Doris Marlowe in her charming performance theother evening, and, on inquiry, found that she was thedaughter of Mr. Jeffrey Flint!”

Jeffrey wiped the sweat from his forehead and openedhis lips, but he seemed deprived of the power of speech.

“You must permit me,” continued the softly mockingvoice, “to congratulate you upon the result of your excellenttraining. The young lady is a most talentedactress—most charming! But, my dear Jeffrey, does it[Pg 144]not occur to you sometimes that it is, to use the vulgarslang of the day, rather rough upon her? To deprive ayoung 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—Idid it for her good——”

Spenser Churchill laughed mockingly.

“Yes!” cried Jeffrey, rising with sudden despair. “Forher good! You saw her—you saw how happy, how innocentshe is! All her life has been happy and free fromcare. What would it have been if I had yielded her backto the man who broke her mother’s heart, the man whowould have hated her for that mother’s sake? Man, man,don’t torture me with your devilish smile! I did it forthe best!”

Spenser Churchill laughed again.

“Dear, dear!” he murmured, “how dreadfully easy itis to deceive oneself! Now, here are you, a most excellentman, I have no doubt, my dear Jeffrey, actually persuadingyourself that in robbing another man of his onlychild and depriving her of her rights, you have beencommitting a noble and virtuous action! Now I amsorry to say that I don’t agree with you! I’ve no doubtyou have become attached to the girl——”

Jeffrey put up his hand.

“Silence!” he said, hoarsely. “It is not for such asyou to understand the love I bear her—my child, mychild!”

“Pardon me, the Marquis of Stoyle’s child!” said thesneering 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 resolvedto tell her.”

A flash came into the watchful eyes.

“To-day—ah, yes!”

“Yes,” said Jeffrey, with a deep sigh that was almosta groan, “I have brought myself to it at last, after much[Pg 145]a struggle as you cannot understand. To-day she wasto be told, was to take her future into her own hands; tochoose—” his voice broke—“between one who has lovedher like a father, and the man who drove her motherfrom his house and broke her heart!”

“Hem—yes!” murmured Spenser Churchill; “and youflatter 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 underhis white, smooth lids.

“By the way, my dear Jeffrey,” he said softly, “did itever strike you, that supposing Lady Mary decided toreturn to her father”—Jeffrey winced—“her father—thatthe marquis might refuse to acknowledge her?”

Jeffrey looked at him as if he scarcely understood.

“You see,” continued Spenser Churchill, resting hisfoot on the tree, and leaning forward with a subtle smile;“it is such an extraordinary story; the marquis might beinclined to remark that he would require some proofs!I need scarcely remind you that he is not the most credulousof men; in fact, that he is rather inclined to besuspicious.”

Jeffrey nodded grimly.

“I know him,” he said, almost as if to himself. “Ihave thought of that, and am prepared with proofs.”He put his hand to his breast pocket mechanically, anddrew out the papers, and Spenser Churchill’s eyes dartedto them with a swift eagerness. “If—if Doris chooses to—togo to him, and leave me, it will not be in his powerto repudiate her! These,” and he touched the paperswith his forefinger, and then put them in his pocketagain; “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 younglady to renounce her father, the marquis—her rank andtitle, and all that would become hers—think of it—andremain with you; all will go on as before, and the fatherand his adopted child will be happy ever afterward, likethe people in the fairy story?”

Jeffrey nodded, and the deep lines in his face grewlighter.

[Pg 146]

“Yes,” he said in a low voice again, as if he were communingwith himself rather than answering the otherman’s question; “yes, we shall take up our lives as before,my child, my Doris and I! She will be my Dorisstill, mine to love, and guard, and watch over! Yousaw her——” he went on with suppressed eagerness.“There was truth in what you said, though you meant itinsultingly; she will be a great actress—great! And it isI who have taught her—I, who loved her mother! Youtaunted me, Spenser Churchill, with selfish aims in keepingfrom her the knowledge of her birth. It was unjust.‘Hide my child from him always—always, Jeffrey!’ shesaid. They were her last words. Poor Lucy!”

His head drooped, and he covered his eyes with histhin, gaunt hands for a moment; then, as if rememberingthe presence of the other man, turned to him.

“You are here still? Why are you waiting? Go yourway, and let me go mine. You know my secret—it isno concern of yours. Forget it, as you forget the wrongyou did me. Go!” and he pointed down the path.

Spenser Churchill smiled blandly.

“My dear Jeffrey, doesn’t it occur to you that perhapsthis little secret of yours does concern me?”

The haggard eyes were raised to the smooth, mockingface.

“Doesn’t it occur to you that, though you don’t appearto have any conscience to speak of, that I may not beso hardened. Oh, fie, Jeffrey! You know, you reallymust know, what it is my duty to do!”

“Your duty?” repeated Jeffrey, in a low voice. “Whatdo you mean?”

“Why, my dear sir, of course it is my duty to go to themarquis, and inform him of the existence of his child.Oh! and how sweet a duty,” he murmured, “to restorea 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 gentlereproach.

“I cannot think how it is you haven’t seen that fromthe first, dear Jeffrey. You may be so lost to all senseof right as to conceal the fact of Lady Mary’s existence,[Pg 147]but I—oh, my dear Jeffrey—I am a man of honor andmust act as my conscience dictates. And how great areward will be mine! To restore to a father the childhe has mourned as dead! The dear marquis, I can picturehis delight—” the smile grew sardonic for a moment—“hisdelight at recovering her, and his gratitudeto you——”

Jeffrey drew nearer.

“You—you will do this?” he panted, almost inaudibly.

“Yes,” said Spenser Churchill; then with a rapidchange of voice, and laying his hand on the quiveringshoulder of the man he was torturing, he added, “unlessyou come to my terms, my dear Jeffrey.”

“Your terms?” echoed Jeffrey, his face working, hishands clasping and unclasping each other.

Spenser Churchill nodded blandly.

“Y—es. I take an interest in this charming younglady; I knew her mother, you see——”

“Beware!” broke from Jeffrey’s parched lips. “Don’t—don’ttry me too hard!”

“And I should like to have a hand in restoring her toher proper place, or permitting her to remain under yourcare.”

“You mean that her fate is to be in your hands?”

“Yes, exactly; and that it may do so most completelyand satisfactorily, I think I will take charge of those interestingpapers 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, becauseif you do you will compel me to go straight to the marquis—whois at Barton Towers, by the way——”

“Barton Towers—the marquis—Doris!” mutteredJeffrey 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 manwas upon him, the long, thin fingers fastened tightly inthe soft, white throat, the gaunt face was close upon thesmooth, false one.

[Pg 148]

Spenser Churchill reeled, and went down on one knee.

“Take your hands off!” he croaked, suffocatingly, ashe struggled to release himself; but Jeffrey, though theolder man of the two, seemed possessed of the strengthof an athlete, and, after a desperate struggle, SpenserChurchill lay on his back, with Jeffrey’s knee on hischest, and Jeffrey’s fingers still choking him.

“Are—are you going to murder me?” he managed togasp out.

“I am going to kill you!” was the grim reply, a wild,fierce light burning in the hollow eyes. “One kills asnake, not murders it. I kill you as I would any othervermin!”

“Jeffrey—let me go! Let me go, and I swear to keepyour 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 skygrew black, the trees danced a mad carnival in SpenserChurchill’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 amoment ago, was at his mercy.

Dazed, sick with terror, and half-suffocated, SpenserChurchill struggled to his feet and staggered to a tree.He leaned against it for a moment or two, panting andgasping, tugging at the collar of his shirt, and regaininghis breath, and at last he looked shudderingly at the stillform 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. “Anothermoment 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 wasturning away, when suddenly he started and put hishand to his brow.

“The beast has driven my senses out of me! Thepapers! Of course! Ha, ha, Master Jeffrey!” and,[Pg 149]kneeling down again, he hurriedly turned the still figureover, and, unbuttoning the waistcoat, snatched out thepapers.

As he did so, something—was it the nameless terror ofdeath, to which mortal humanity is and ever will bethrall?—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 itover 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 reachedthe spot where Doris lay full length upon the bank likea crushed flower. For a moment she thought it was aninvention of her disordered mind, then she seemed torecognize Jeffrey’s voice, and, thrusting the letter in herbosom, 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 stillform.

She had never before been in the presence of death,and for a time she thought that he had only fainted, andshe raised his head and called upon him in accents ofalarm and affection; then suddenly she heard a step behindher, and, looking round, saw the smooth, bland faceof the man who had stood up in the box at the theatre, theman against whom Jeffrey had warned her.

She shrank back and clasped the dead man closer toher, as if to protect him.

“Has anything happened?” asked Spenser Churchill,with tender concern. “Dear me, I am afraid there hasbeen an accident; the gentleman is ill?”

“Yes, yes!” panted Doris. “Help me! oh, help me!”

Spenser Churchill knelt down and examined the sternface with an anxious regard.

[Pg 150]

“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 hereyes 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? Itis Miss Marlowe, is it not?”

“I do not know,” sobbed Doris, heedless of the latterpart of the question. “I—I was not here—I heard himcall! Oh, Jeffrey, Jeffrey! dear Jeffrey! Is he——Adoctor! 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! Inthe midst of life——”

A cry rang through the wood, and a shudder shookher 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 donot know how it happened?” he asked again, his eyesscrutinizing her face with a quick keenness.

“No!” said Doris, hoarsely, and with a sob. “He wasalone—I was coming to meet him—I heard him call myname, and—and I found him like this! Oh, what shallI do? What shall I do?”

“Can you bear to be left alone for a little while?” saidSpenser Churchill. “There is a cottage near here, onthe outskirts of the wood. I will go and get some assistance.The poor fellow has died from a sudden attackof heart disease!”

“Oh, go, go!” panted Doris.

He went, after another searching glance at her whiteface; and she bent over the motionless form, almost aslifeless herself.

In a few minutes Spenser Churchill returned, with acouple of farm laborers carrying a hurdle, and the bodywas tenderly and reverently carried to the house, Doriswalking beside it and still holding the cold, dead hand.

Hasty preparation had been made for the reception of[Pg 151]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 SpenserChurchill, in sympathetic accents, gave an account of thecase. “Yes, yes! Ah, yes, I know something of him; heconsulted me a few days ago.”

Then he passed upstairs and into the room where thedead man lay upon the bed, with Doris kneeling besidehim still holding his hand.

“My dear,” said the doctor, after a short examination,“this is no place for you. No one can do anything forhim; your friend has gone to his last rest,” and he motionedto the woman of the cottage, who stood crying atthe door.

Slowly, reluctantly, Doris permitted them to take heraway, and the doctor after a few minutes went downstairsand 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 isvery 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-hearteddoctor, turning his face away. “So suddenly.”

“My heart bleeds for her!” said Spenser Churchill,wiping away something that may have been a tear. “Soyoung and friendless——”

“Friendless?” said the doctor.

“Well, I am given to understand she has no father ormother,” he explained. “I should not have said friendless.I trust, I humbly trust, that, seeing I was on thespot, sent, so to speak, providentially, that she will permitme 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 knownto me, sir, of course; and I feel that I am justified in sayingthat this poor girl will indeed have a friend in you,[Pg 152]if you are the Mr. Spenser Churchill, the well-knownphilanthropist.”

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 humbleinterest in any good work. Poor girl, poor girl! I fearthere will have to be an inquest? That will be a terribletrial for her!” and he shot a glance under his lids at thedoctor’s thoughtful face.

“Well,” he replied, hesitatingly, “I don’t know. I—Ireally 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 itwill be necessary. Mr. Flint consulted me the day beforeyesterday, and I warned him then that he must becareful to avoid all excitement; indeed, I told him asplainly as I dared that any sudden shock would be fatal.”

“Dear me! Poor fellow!” murmured SpenserChurchill.

“And I think, under the circ*mstances, that I can givea 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 respectingthe case, Mr. Churchill?”

“Certainly,” assented Spenser Churchill, with a sigh.“It is soon told. I was strolling through the woods inthe direction of the town—I had left the Towers half-an-hourpreviously—when I heard a girl’s voice—poor MissMarlowe’s, in fact—crying piteously. I hurried up, andfound her kneeling beside him. That is all, exceptingthat I am quite sure he was dead when I reached thespot, and I think he had been dead some time.”

The doctor smiled.

“And you met no one, saw no one excepting MissMarlowe?”

“No, no one; I heard and saw nothing but what Ihave told you,” replied Spenser Churchill, quietly.

“Hem! I don’t quite see. It would appear as ifthere had been a shock——”

“Is that absolutely necessary?” suggested Spenser[Pg 153]Churchill, softly. “In heart disease death may result—Ispeak with deference—without any shock or excitement.”

“Oh, quite so, quite so,” assented the doctor. “Thedeceased might have died at any moment—in his bed, orduring his ordinary avocations. Oh, yes.”

“I am relieved to hear you say that,” said SpenserChurchill. “I am so anxious, on Miss Marlowe’s account,to avoid an inquest.”

“Quite so, quite so. There will be no necessity. Didyou know the deceased?”

“I knew something of him some years ago,” repliedSpenser Churchill; “but we have not met for a longperiod; indeed, it must be ten or fifteen years. I onlyknew him quite slightly, and had not seen him of late,even at a distance. It was quite a shock to me, recognizinghim lying there on the grass, dead!”

“I dare say,” said the doctor, quite sympathetically.“And now, what is to be done?—I mean, with referenceto this poor young girl.”

“If you will leave it to me,” murmured SpenserChurchill, meekly, “I will do all that lies in my power.She may have relations and friends. I will ascertain fromher, and communicate with them. You may trust me todo all that I can to soften the terrible blow for the pooryoung creature.”

The doctor took his hand and wrung it.

“You are a good man, Mr. Churchill,” he said, “andHeaven will reward you! Pray count upon me if I canbe of any assistance. I will go and make out the certificate.”

Spenser Churchill accompanied him to his gig, then lita cigarette, and paced up and down for a few minutes,thinking intensely.

His voice and manner, while he had been talking withthe simple-minded provincial doctor, had been completelyunder control—quiet, calm, and sadly sympathetic;but now that he was alone he felt that his hands wereshaking, 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[Pg 154]we say Providence—has placed a great game in yourhands, and you must play it properly if you mean to win,and you do mean to win! Great Heaven, what a narrowescape it was! Another minute, another half-minute, andyou would have been removed from this terrestialsphere! And to think that he should have died just atthe critical moment! It was a special interposition! Letme think—now, steady, my dear fellow, steady! Jeffreydead—thank Heaven!—no one but myself knows the secretof this girl’s birth! The papers—” he took themfrom his pocket, and looked at them, and it may bestated, to his credit, that a shudder ran through him ashe did so, for they still seemed warm by their contactwith 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 butmyself! And she is alone and friendless, yes, friendless,for my letter has done its work, and Cecil Neville is toofar off to undo it! We must keep you in Ireland, dearCecil, we cannot have you back interfering in this business.No one knows that Doris Marlowe is the daughterof the Marquis of Stoyle, but me. Spenser, my dearfellow, you hold all the cards, play them carefully andproperly, and——” he flung the stump of his cigaretteinto the hedge, and, smoothing his face into its usualbland expression, returned to the cottage.

The woman, the wife of the woodman, stood waitingfor him.

“How is poor Miss Marlowe, Mrs. Jelf?” he said.

Mrs. Jelf dropped a curtsey.

“Ah, poor young thing, sir!” she said, wiping her eyeswith her apron. “She’s lying down, sir, quite worn outand looking like a corpse herself! It don’t seem as if shehad strength to speak or move! I was thinking, sir, thatwe’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. Ihave promised the doctor to do all I can in my poorway——”

“Oh, sir, I know you’ve a kind heart,” murmured Mrs.Jelf.

[Pg 155]

“We must all do our simple best, Mrs. Jelf,” he replied,lifting up his eyes. “I happen to know somethingof the poor fellow who lies upstairs, and, for the sake ofold times, you understand, and for the sake of the pooryoung 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 thetown, and I think, Mrs. Jelf, it would be as well, if anyone inquires for Miss Marlowe, if you told them that sheis not well enough to see anybody. And if there shouldbe any letters, perhaps you will give them to me; I willkeep them until poor Miss Marlowe is strong enough tosee them. At such times as these, in moments of suchdeep sorrow as this, Mrs. Jelf, the human heart mustnot be harassed by contact with the outer world.”

“No, indeed, sir,” assented Mrs. Jelf, quite touched bysuch sympathetic consideration. “I won’t let any onesee her, and she shan’t be worried by anything. I’ll keeppeople from her, and I’ll give you any letters.”

“Thank you, I think it will be better,” said SpenserChurchill. “Perhaps you might tell Miss Marlowe thata friend—you need not mention my name; you might saythe 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—torturedbreast,” and leaving this sublime piece ofsentiment to do its work in honest Mrs. Jelf’s mind, hewent off to Barton.

Ill news travels apace, and the tidings of Jeffrey’ssudden death had reached the theatre even beforeSpenser Churchill arrived there.

His manner with the manager was simply perfection.

“I came on at once, my dear sir,” he said, “because Ifelt that you should be the first to know of this—er—dreadfulcalamity. I am fully sensible of the responsibleposition you occupy, and that your relations as a managerwith the public entitle you to every consideration.Of course, Miss Marlowe will not act for some time—ifever she acts again.”

“Of course, of course!” said the manager, ratherblankly. “Poor Jeffrey! An admirable man, sir; admirable![Pg 156]Might have been a great actor himself, butcontented himself with presenting an ornament to thestage in his adopted daughter. A great genius MissMarlowe, Mr. Churchill! Splendid! magnificent! Awonderful career before her! Of course, she can’t be expectedto act at present, certainly not; but in time—ahem!—intime.”

“We shall see,” said Spenser Churchill. “In time, perhaps;but I cannot say. I am not authorized to speakfor Miss Marlowe; but this I will say, that if she shouldresume her professional career, you—you will have thefirst claim upon her!” and he shook the manager’s handin so emphatic and impressive a manner that the managerwas quite touched.

Two hours afterward all Barton was placarded withthe announcement that, in consequence of sudden domesticbereavement, Miss Doris Marlowe would not appearthat evening, and that in place of “Romeo and Juliet,”would be performed the famous drama, “The CorsicanBrothers.”

Mr. Spenser Churchill was as good as his word. Ifhe had been a near and dear relative of the bereaved girl,he could not more completely have taken the whole arrangementsinto his own hands. He saw to the funeral,examined the dead man’s papers and effects; even carriedhis 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 mournfuloccasions—all except one thing. By a strange oversight,Mr. Spenser Churchill omitted to send notice of thedeath to the newspapers, so that there was nothing to tellLord Cecil Neville, away in Ireland, that the girl he lovedhad suddenly been left alone in the world!

CHAPTER XVII.

A CHANCE FOR ESCAPE.

Alone in the world! Lying back in a chair by the openwindow of the woodman’s cottage—for she could notbring herself to go back to the lodgings in Barton, where[Pg 157]every inanimate object would remind her of the father-likefriend she had lost—Doris kept repeating the ominouswords to herself. Although a week had passed since thefuneral she had not yet recovered from the terrible blow,and as she lay back with half-closed eyes and white, wanface she still looked “like one wandering in other worldsthan this.”

The dead man had been so much to her. Mother,father, brother—indeed her only friend and companion—thatthe sense of helplessness which follows all bereavementwas intensified in her case. She was indeed utterlyalone; drifting on the stream of life like a rudderless vessel,to be blown hither and thither by the cruel capriceof every wind. Since the day of Jeffrey’s death she hadseen no one excepting the kind-hearted woman of the cottage,Mrs. Jelf; and had done nothing but commune in silencewith the great sorrow that had fallen upon her.

In one day, in one hour, she had lost her lover and theman who had been as a father to her.

She tried to put all thought of Lord Cecil Neville awayfrom her, and to think of Jeffrey alone; but with an agonyof remorse she found that the loss of her lover seemedalmost as great a grief as the death of poor Jeffrey.

All day long she dwelt upon the joy and happiness ofthose few short days while he had been hers; recallingevery word he had spoken, every tone of the musical voicethat seemed to have spoken of nothing but love—deep,true, passionate love to her. She remembered how manytimes he had kissed her, the fond endearing names bywhich he had called her; and now it was all over! Socompletely a thing of the past, and gone from her life,that it appeared more like a dream than a reality. Wereit not for the aching void in her heart, and the letter—thecruel letter he had written, and that lay crushed and hiddenagainst her bosom—she could almost have believedthat no such person as Cecil Neville existed.

Where was he now? she wondered. Did he still thinkof her? or had he never really loved her?

“Who am I, that I should have won the love of such ashe?” she asked herself over and over again. “No, henever loved me! He never loved me, while I——”Then she would cover her face with her hands, and wish[Pg 158]that she could find relief in the unshed tears that seemedto scorch her heart.

This morning, as she sat by the window, her handsfolded listlessly in her lap, thinking and thinking till herhead ached, and wishing that she lay in the quiet churchyardbeside Jeffrey, Mrs. Jelf came into the room, and,speaking in the subdued voice which is perhaps the mostirritating 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, gentlyarranging the pillow which she had insisted upon placingin the armchair. “Do you think you are well enough tosee any one this morning?”

“To see any one?” said Doris, with a start, and a suddenthrill of the heart, for a wild, mad hope arose withinher breast that it might be Cecil Neville.

“Yes, miss; you are not to unless you quite like, hesays, but if you do feel strong enough——”

“He—who?” asked Doris.

“Mr. Spenser Churchill, the gentleman who has beenso kind all through your great trouble, miss.”

The color ebbed from Doris’ face, and she sank back.

“Mr. Spenser Churchill,” she said, vacantly, then avague sense of dread fell upon her, and she recalled Jeffrey’swarning.

“Yes, miss; the kindest-hearted gentleman as ever Iknew. 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 hedo all this?” she asked.

“Well, miss, because it’s his nature, I suppose,” repliedMrs. Jelf. “You see, he’s what they call a—aphilanthropish; always ready to do a kind action, and—lor’,come to that, who wouldn’t be glad to do anythingfor a sweet young creature like yourself, left so friendlessand helpless? There he is now, just coming up thepath. Now, you’re not to see him unless you feel strongenough; he can wait, he says——”

“Will you please tell Mr. Churchill that I will see him,”[Pg 159]said Doris, and Mrs. Jelf, after another pat or two to thepillow, went out.

Doris tried to brace herself to the coming interview.Her mind had been so clouded that she had not until thismoment realized all that this strange gentleman—againstwhom poor Jeffrey had warned her as her greatest foe—haddone for her, and she scarcely knew how to receivehim.

The door opened and Spenser Churchill entered. Hewas dressed in black, and his face was almost seraphicwith its expression of reverent sympathy.

“Do not rise, my dear young lady,” he murmuredsoftly. “Mrs. Jelf assured me that you felt equal to seeingme; indeed, wished me to do so, or I should not haveintruded upon the sacred solitude of your grief.”

Notwithstanding the honeyed accents, the wordsseemed to sound artificial to Doris’ acute sense, and sheturned her large dark eyes upon him with an unconsciousscrutiny.

“I am quite well, and I did wish to see you, sir,” shesaid, “I wish to thank you for all you have done for me.I scarcely know yet the extent of your kindness”—hervoice faltered—“I think I must have been ill, for I seemto have forgotten”—she put her hand to her brow for amoment, then with an effort recovered herself.

“What I have done, my dear Miss Marlowe, does notdeserve a word of thanks. It has been a sad satisfactionto me to have been of some slight service to you.”

“But you have done everything,” persisted Doris, in alow 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 havetaken upon myself to interfere in your affairs, my dearyoung 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 veryeasily answered. For one thing, I happened to be onthe spot when your poor guardian—but we will not recallthe sad scene,” he broke off, as Doris winced and her[Pg 160]face grew paler. “And the second reason is that I wasonce a friend of poor Mr. Jeffrey’s.”

“A friend?” Doris could not help saying.

He shot a sharp glance at her, unseen by her, andsighed.

“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 betweenus. I do not know whether you know the circ*mstances,whether he ever told you?”

Doris shook her head, and he emitted a suppressed andinaudible sigh of relief.

“Well, well, we will not speak of it; but this I willsay, the quarrel, the misunderstanding, arose from nofault of his. The fault was mine, entirely mine, my dearyoung lady!”

It was a cunning speech, and produced the effect he hadintended.

“Looking back to that time—when we parted, friendsno longer—my heart is filled with remorse and sorrow!Ah, Miss Marlowe, if we would all of us reflect that lifeis short, and that death may come to prevent forever anyreconciliation between parted friends, how often—ah,how often the rash and foolish quarrel would be averted;”and, apparently overcome by his emotion, he turned hishead away and softly blew his nose. “But we will not goback over this sad quarrel,” he said. “I have come tosee you this morning that I may see if I can be of anyfurther use to you. I trust I may be. There are severalthings I find that I must speak to you about, much as Ishould wish to leave you undisturbed.”

“Will you please tell me everything I should know,”said Doris. “I am ashamed that I should have left everythingso entirely.”

“No, no,” he murmured. “Such a terrible bereavementas yours, so sudden, is so overwhelming that no excuseis needed.” He took some papers from his pocket.“I will not trouble you more than I can avoid with businessmatters, my dear young lady, but there are a fewthings that I find I must speak to you about. First, Imust ask you if there is any one, any friend you would[Pg 161]rather I went to who would take this trouble off yourshoulders?”

Doris shook her head.

“No, there is no one,” she said, quietly enough andwith 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 doneafforded me a melancholy satisfaction. I have felt allthrough that by serving you in some slight measure, Ihave been making an attempt at some poor atonementfor 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 headgratefully.

“Well, then, I have taken upon myself to see to all thearrangements, and have ventured to act, just as if I were,say your father. It was necessary that I should look intopoor Jeffrey’s affairs, and I have come to tell you the result.I am sorry to say, my dear young lady, that yourguardian did not leave any wealth behind him. He dieda poor man—perhaps this will not surprise you?”

“No,” said Doris, in a low voice; “we were alwayspoor, I think. There was always enough——”

He nodded.

“Yes, yes, I understand. There is some money; it isnot much, about a hundred pounds, I think.”

Doris listened with faint interest. If she had heardthat she had been left without a penny, or heiress to amillion, it would not have affected her in her presentcondition.

“Besides the money there were some papers—nothingof any consequence, however—letters and documents relatingto business affairs, engagements at theatres, andso on.”

A faint flush came into Doris’ face, then left it absolutelycolorless.

“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[Pg 162]large, sad eyes. “You know that I am not—Jeffrey’sdaughter?”

He inclined his head.

“Yes, I know that; and I know what you expected—hoped,shall I say; that I should find something, somepapers that would give us a clew to your parentage. Isthat not so?”

Doris’ lips formed the “Yes.”

He sighed and shook his head.

“I regret there is no such clew. The secret of yourbirth, my dear young lady, is buried in my poor friend’sgrave.”

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 hadhoped that I might make some discovery. But there isnot a single paper, not the slightest clew.”

“And yet”—said Doris, more to herself than to him—“therewas something he—he was going to tell me, somepapers; he had them with him the morning——” Hervoice broke.

Spenser Churchill listened with the deepest sympathyglowing in his benevolent face.

“Dear, dear!” he murmured. “And he did not tellyou? 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 nothingbeyond a little money and so on. I fear—I very muchfear—that our poor friend must have decided to allow themystery to remain, and have destroyed the papers youspeak of.”

Doris’ hands closed tightly.

“He knew best,” she said, with all a woman’s lovingloyalty. “I—I am satisfied. He knew best,” and thetears came at last and rolled down the pale cheeks.

Spenser Churchill heaved a sigh.

“Nobly said, my dear young lady! Yes, doubtless heknew best. Rest assured that he kept the secret from youfor good reasons. Yes, he knew best! Poor Jeffrey,poor Jeffrey!” He wiped his eyes. “And now shall Igo—some other time——”

[Pg 163]

“No, no,” said Doris. “Tell me everything, please; Ido not know what to do—I am so alone——”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “About your future; forgive meif I mention such a subject; but I presume you will continueyour profession——”

A shudder ran through Doris’ frame at the thought ofa*gain facing the crowded theatre.

“No, no!” she said, almost fiercely. “I shall never actagain!”

As she answered, the scene of the first night of “Romeoand Juliet” rose before her, and she thrilled with the recollectionof the inspiration which had come to her from herlove for Cecil Neville. That inspiration had vanished forevernow, and to act with a broken heart would, sheknew, be impossible to her.

“I shall never go on the stage again,” she respondedfirmly.

Spenser Churchill put up his white hand to his lips tohide the smile of satisfaction her words called up onthem.

“No?” he said, thoughtfully and significantly. “Yes, Iunderstand! I quite understand, and I must say I thinkyour decision is a wise one. It was different while yourguardian was alive, to watch over you and protect you!You, great as your success has been, I think you are rightin 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 amoment. She had been lost in the memory of those fewhappy days and nights, and had almost forgotten hispresence.

“What I intend doing? Oh, I don’t know! I havenot thought,” she said, and her white hand went to herbrow.

“I understand! I understand! and fully sympathize,my dear young lady, but, as your friend—you know youhave allowed me to be your friend—it is my duty to askyou! This sum of money, alas, will soon take to itselfwings, and——”

Doris roused herself.

[Pg 164]

“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 supposethere are other ways of earning money?”

“There are,” he murmured, softly.

“I am young and strong,” she said. “Other womenhave to work. What do they do? Needlework——”

She looked at her hands with a smile that was like theglint of her old light-hearted one.

He shook his head.

“That, too, is out of the question,” he said. “Butthere are still other ways. I believe—indeed, I haveheard—that you are very accomplished, Miss Marlowe.”

“Am I?” said Doris, simply.

“I believe that you are a musician, and that you speakseveral languages——”

“Yes,” she said, as simply as before. “Ah, how muchI owe to him! I understand it better now—now that itis too late to thank him,” and she turned her head away.

“A good musician and linguist need not take to herneedle for her maintenance,” said Spenser Churchill. “Ihave, of course, foreseen that the question would arise,and I have—pray forgive me, my dear young lady—beenmaking some inquiries on your behalf.” He drew out apocketbook, and took a letter from it. “It happens thata friend of mine—Lady Despard—you may have heard ofher; she is well known for her charitable work——”

Doris shook her head.

“I have never heard of her,” she said, trying to speakwith some interest.

“A sweet creature! A widow, alas, though young!Very wealthy, moving in the best society—ahem!—andfond of traveling. She is just going abroad, and requiresa companion. I think—I am sure—that youwould like her, and that if you could bring yourself toaccept the position, which is so much below yourgenius——”

[Pg 165]

“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 meetingCecil Neville! A faint hope, for the first time sinceJeffrey’s death, rose in Doris’ heart.

“But you need not decide to-day. You shall think itover,” he said, taking up his hat. “By the way, if youshould need me, will you send word—at any time, and thevery moment you would like to see me—to Barton Towers?I am staying with my friend, the Marquis ofStoyle.”

Doris started, and the blood rose to her face.

“Barton Towers?” she murmured, mechanically.

“Yes,” he said, smoothly, as if he had not noticed hersudden agitation. “The marquis is an old friend of mine.So is his nephew and heir, Lord Cecil Neville. You mayhave heard of him?”

“Yes—I—have heard of him,” said Doris, in a lowvoice, which faltered, notwithstanding her efforts to keepit steady.

“Yes; a most charming young fellow,” he went on, witha smile, “but a terribly unsteady one. But, there, wemust not be hard upon a young fellow in his position.Young men who are blessed with good looks and heirshipsto marquisates are apt to be unsteady; though Iam glad to say that Lord Neville’s wild days are nearlyover. He is in Ireland at present, but when he comesback he is to marry Lady Grace Peyton.”

Doris sat perfectly motionless, her hands clasped inher lap, her eyes fixed on the lovely summer scene framedin 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, asif the words possessed no sense.

“Yes,” he purred. “It is a very old attachment. Sheis a most charming and beautiful creature, and I am notsurprised that, notwithstanding his numerous flirtations,Lord Neville has remained constant. It will be a mostsuitable and advantageous match for both of them——My[Pg 166]dear young lady,” he broke off, for Doris had sunkback, white to the lips, and with closed eyes, “you are ill.Let me call Mrs. Jelf.”

But, with an almost superhuman effort, Doris foughtdown 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 ananxious, sympathetic expression on his smooth face.

“This lady”—she went on, speaking every word as ifit cost her an effort—“this Lady Despard. Will you askher to take me?”

“But, my dear Miss Marlowe! Had you not betterconsider——”

“I have considered,” she said, interrupting him. “Ifshe thinks I can be of any service to her—if she is goingaway from England at once——”

“She is,” he said, softly.

“Well, then—tell her, please, that I am ready; that Iwill go with her!”

“I will do everything you wish, my dear young lady,”he murmured. “I fear I have wearied you! Leave it allto 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. Theenvelope bore an elaborate crest, stamped in crimson andgold, and as she opened it, a faint perfume emanatedfrom it.

It was from Lady Despard, who wrote—in the delightfully-illegiblehand, all points and angles, known as “theItalian”—that her dear friend, the well-known philanthropist,Mr. Spenser Churchill, had recommended MissMarlowe to Lady Despard, and, placing the greatest relianceupon Mr. Churchill, her ladyship would be verypleased if Miss Marlowe would come to her at numbertwelve Chester Gardens, as soon as Miss Marlowe couldfind it convenient. Lady Despard added that she was[Pg 167]certain, from all Mr. Churchill had said, she and MissMarlowe would get on together, and that she intendedstarting 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 ofthe unknown writer; then she sat down and wrote ananswer, saying that she would come to Chester Gardensthe following day.

Now that she had recovered from the lethargy whichhad closely followed her great trouble, she was filledwith a restless desire to get away from Barton and itspainful association. She at once set to work at the preparationsfor her journey, and it was not until she hadpacked up her things that it occurred to her that she couldnot go until she had bidden farewell to Mr. SpenserChurchill.

Doris’ feeling toward that gentleman was a peculiarone. He had befriended her when she had been most inneed of a friend; had shown an amount of considerationand delicacy to her, a stranger, which, when she ponderedover it, amazed her; and she was grateful. But she hadnot forgotten the dead man’s warning, and it still hauntedher, although Spenser Churchill had so cleverly managedto allay her suspicions by his frank confession that, inthe quarrel between him and Jeffrey, he had been in thewrong. And yet, though her suspicions were allayed, shewas conscious of a strange feeling of disquietude whilein his presence; a feeling that was neither quite dreadnor doubt, but partook of both sentiments.

Still, he had been most kind, and her gratitude wouldnot allow her to go without seeing him again.

After a good deal of reflection, she wrote a couple oflines to him, telling him that she had arranged to starton the morrow, and asking him to call and see her; andshe 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 haveresolved to seek change of scene so promptly. You willfind dear Lady Despard a most charming and amiablelady, who will prove a—er—valuable friend; and I hope,I may say I am sure, that you will be happy. You must[Pg 168]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 overto you the money I hold for you,” he said, and he tookout and counted some banknotes.

Doris colored.

“I have been thinking,” she said, “that I would askyou 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 havinglarge sums of money,” her eyes filled as she spoke.“I am ashamed to cause you any further trouble, but ifyou will take charge of some of it for me, if you willgive me twenty pounds, and keep the rest in case I shouldwant it, I shall be very grateful: you will be adding to allyour past kindness to me.”

“Yes, yes, I see. I shall be very happy,” he said, benevolently.“Twenty pounds; that will leave eighty. Andwhen you want it you can write to me. Perhaps whenyou come to know Lady Despard you will like her to actas your banker. By the way, I don’t think we said anythingabout the remuneration?”

“No,” said Doris; “I did not think of it.”

“You left it all to me. Quite right. Well, I hope youwill think I have done the best I could. Lady Despardand 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 returnfor so sweet and charming a companion, but, my dearyoung lady, we must be content,” he said. “And now, isthere anything else?”

Doris replied in the negative, then suddenly her facecrimsoned.

[Pg 169]

“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 hissteadily. He showed not the faintest surprise, but seemedto think for a moment or two.

“I am sorry to say I cannot,” he said. “Did you wantto write to him?”

“Yes,” she said. “I wish I could tell you——” hervoice broke.

He raised his hand with a soft, deprecating smile.

“My dear young lady, tell me nothing more than youwish. I am—” he laid his hand upon his heart—“I begyou to believe that I am not curious. Why should younot write to Lord Neville, if you choose, or to any otherperson? I presume you know him?”

“Yes—I know him,” she said, turning her head aside.

“Just so,” he assented, smoothly. “And you wish totell him where you are going? Is it not so?”

“No!” said Doris, suddenly, and turning pale. “I donot wish him to know—ah, I cannot tell you, you wouldnot understand!”

“You shall tell me nothing,” he said, waving his hand.“I am sorry I can’t give you his address. But I will tellyou what we can do!” he added as if an idea had occurredto him. “If you will write to him and intrust the letterto me, I will see that it is forwarded—indeed, I will getthe address from the marquis and forward it to-night.”

“Thank you,” said Doris, in a low voice, and she wentto the table.

Mr. Spenser Churchill, with true delicacy, slipped out,and had a few minutes’ chat with Mrs. Jelf, who was reducedto tears at the prospect of losing her young charge.

When he came back, Doris was standing with a note inher hand.

“There it is,” she said. “If”—she paused for a second,then went on firmly—“if Lord Neville should ask youwhere I am gone, will you promise not to tell him, please?No one knows but yourself, and—and I do not wish himto be told.”

He inclined his head as he took the note, and with agreat show of carefulness, put it in his pocketbook.

“My lips are sealed, my dear young lady. Whatever[Pg 170]your reasons may be—and please understand that I donot seek to know them—your request shall be consideredsacred by me. Lord Neville shall never learn your whereaboutsfrom 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 benevolentcountenance when, having taken leave of Doris, he madehis way across the meadows to the Towers; and the smilegrew more placid and self-complacent when, havingreached 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 thechamber-maid, and the girl brought it almost boiling.

Then he locked the door, and, holding the envelope overthe steam until it had become ungummed, he drew outthe note, and read it.

He pondered over these few lines, word by word, forsome minutes, then, with a satisfied nod, re-enclosed thenote in its envelope, and neatly re-fastened it.

“I don’t think any one, however sharp and critical hissight, would detect that her little note had been opened,”he murmured. “The gum had scarcely dried. Yes, thatwill do very well! Admirably; in fact, there is no needfor me to add a word. But all the same, my dear younglady, we will not send it to Cecil Neville just yet! No,no, it would be so sudden a shock. No, really, in commoncharity, we must give him some slight preparation.”

Then he took from his pocket four letters, and, witha soft smile of enjoyment, read them over.

They were in Lord Cecil’s anything but elegant handwriting,and were addressed to Miss Marlowe at thelodgings, 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 tokeep them from the dear young thing’s sight; they wouldhave unsettled her so sadly! Quite eloquent they are![Pg 171]I had no idea Master Cecil had such a ready pen. I amafraid you are spending anything but a pleasant timeover there waiting for the answers to these frantic epistles,the answer which will rather surprise you when youget it. What will you do when you find the bird hasflown, I wonder? Be as mad as a March hare for a fewdays, and then——” He shrugged his shoulders, andwith a laugh, struck a match and made a bonfire of theintercepted letters, and watched them until all that remainedof their imploring eloquence was a little heap ofashes in the empty grate.

In such excellent spirits was Mr. Spenser Churchill, sofull of the peace which flows from the possession of agood conscience, that, as he entered the drawing-room afew minutes before dinner that evening, he hummed afew bars from the “Lost Chord,” that cheerful melodybeing the nearest approach to profane music which hepermitted himself; and, going up to the sofa upon whichLady Grace was reclining, raised her white hand to hislips and kissed it with playfully solemn gallantry.

She snatched her hand away impatiently, and drawingher handkerchief over the spot his lips had touched,said:

“You appear conspicuously cheerful to-night. Mayone inquire the reason? Don’t trouble to tell me if youare not sure it will be interesting. I am quite boredenough already,” and she moved her fan with a wearygesture.

“Bored, dear lady!” he murmured, smoothing his long,yellow hair from his forehead. “Now, really! And Iam never bored! But then I am always busy; I neverpermit my mind to be unoccupied. Surely one can alwaysfind some pleasant and congenial task to lightenthe 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 acharity meeting.”

“Alas!” he murmured softly. “Charity-meeting ladiesdo not wear such charming toilettes as this; would thatthey did!” and he beamed down admiringly at the magnificentevening dress. “What a pity it is that it shouldbe wasted—no, I will not say that!—but it is a pity there[Pg 172]are not younger eyes to see and admire it than mineand the dear marquis’. Now, if Cecil were here—he hasso keen an appreciation for all that is beautiful!”

She looked up at him sharply.

“What do you want to tell me about him?” she demandedquickly, a faint color coming into her face. “Is—ishe coming back?”

“Is Cecil coming back, dear marquis?” he asked, turningas the door opened and the marquis entered.

The marquis stopped and looked from one to the otherunder his brows.

“You should know best. The person who sent himto Ireland probably knows when he can come back,” hesaid, with cold contempt.

“Now, now, really I must protest!” said SpenserChurchill, wagging his forefinger playfully. “I knownothing about it, nothing whatever. It was on your businesshe went, dear lord, not mine. No, come now,really!”

The marquis smiled grimly.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “She”—and he indicatedLady Grace with a slight motion of his hand—“knows,or guesses, all about it. We neither of us have any desireto 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 fromflashing in her eyes, which were fixed on SpenserChurchill’s smooth, smiling face.

“Well, if you ask my advice, I should say dear Cecilmight 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 unmaskedthe agent, and made himself quite popular withhis dear friends, the great unwashed! I suppose”—witha sneer—“he will want to go into Parliament next, on theRadical side, no doubt.”

“Y—es,” murmured Spenser Churchill, as he read theletter; “I always said dear Cecil was clever.”

“Really?” said the marquis, in a tone of calm and indifferent[Pg 173]surprise. “The problem with me has alwaysbeen whether he was a greater fool than he looked, orlooked a greater fool than he is.”

Mr. Spenser Churchill chuckled oilily, but Lady Gracehalf 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 SpenserChurchill 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 followingthe marquis’ suit.”

The marquis made her another bow.

“This is quite refreshing,” he said, his thin upper lipcurling scornfully. “And now that we have exchangedcivilities, perhaps Churchill will tell us what is to happen.Is Cecil to come back and marry this pure and innocentballet girl?”

“Actress, actress, dear marquis,” cooed SpenserChurchill, folding his hands, and smiling with his headon one side. “If you appeal to me, I am afraid I mustbe the bearer of bad news.”

“Bad news! He is married already?” exclaimed LadyGrace, rising and confronting him with white face andfurious eyes.

Spenser Churchill chuckled at her alarm, then, withhis head a little more on one side, murmured:

“No, no! I am sorry to say there is a little hitch—ahem—thefact is the engagement is broken off.”

“Broken off?” exclaimed Lady Grace, and her facecrimsoned as she leaned forward, with scarcely repressedeagerness.

The marquis toyed with the diamond stud at his wrist,and maintained his accustomed air of cold and haughtyindifference; but Spenser Churchill’s keen eyes detecteda slight tremor of the thin, white fingers.

“Y—es! It is very sad, and my heart bleeds for poorCecil——” Lady Grace tapped her hand with her fanwith impatience, and seeing and recognizing it, he wenton with still more exasperating slowness. “Only theywho have suffered as he will and must suffer can sympathize[Pg 174]with him. To have one’s tenderest affectionsnipped in the bud, to find that one’s true and devotedlove has been misplaced, and—er—betrayed; ah, howcruel and sharp a torture it is! Poor Cecil, poor Cecil!”

The fan snapped loudly, its delicate ivory leavesbroken in the restless, impatient fingers.

“Can you not tell us what has occurred—the truth,without this—this sermon?” she exclaimed, almostfiercely.

“Yes, pray spare us, if you can, Spenser,” said themarquis, with a cold smile. “I gather from what yousay, that this miserable business has come to an end. Isthat so?”

“Yes! Is that so?” demanded Lady Grace.

Spenser Churchill heaved a deep sigh, but a faint smileof satisfaction lurked in his half-closed eyes.

“I regret to say that it is,” he said. “Poor Cecil’saffections have been wasted! The tenderest emotionsof his heart betrayed! The young lady has—discardedhim!”

The marquis raised his eyebrows and shrugged hisshoulders, but Lady Grace rose and laid her hand—withno 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! Ihappen to know the young lady slightly, and she, notknowing 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 knowingLord Cecil’s address, Miss Marlowe committed this letterto my care. Now the question is, shall we send iton to him, or wait till he comes back? I think you saidhe would be back in a week, dear marquis?”

[Pg 175]

“You said so,” said the marquis, coldly.

“Well, in that case, don’t you think it would be betterto 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 aclever fellow, Spenser.”

“They do miscarry so often,” continued SpenserChurchill. “So I think, if you ask me, it will be better tokeep it till he returns. That is my humble advice.”

The marquis nodded.

“And my humble advice is that you are not here whenit is delivered,” he said, with a grim smile. “I have nodoubt you have taken every precaution, but if Cecilshould get an inkling——” He stopped, and smiled againsignificantly.

“Dear Cecil,” murmured Spenser Churchill; “I shouldso like to have stayed till he came back, and attemptedto soothe and comfort him”—the marquis smiled moresardonically than before—“but,” continued SpenserChurchill, “I am sorry to say important business compelsme to return to London to-morrow, so I mustleave the letter in your charge. You will take everycare of it? Poor Cecil! And you must be very kindand gentle with him, dear Lady Grace!”

“We will take every care of it, and Lady Grace willbe 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 differentone, and she equally new and strange, Doris left Bartonthe following morning, Mrs. Jelf driving her to thestation in a little pony-cart, and obviously weeping asthe train left the station.

It was not a particularly long journey, and the timepassed very quickly, as it seemed to Doris, for she wasthinking all the time, dwelling on the past and consideringwhat the future would be like, and when they reached[Pg 176]Waterloo she was about to ask a porter for a cab, whena 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 evidentrespect, after a glance at the slim, graceful, black-cladfigure and delicately refined face. “She’s a lady,anyhow,” was his mental comment.

The carriage was an admirably appointed one, thehorses evidently as good as money could buy, and theget-up of the equipage quiet and reserved, correspondingwith the dark liveries of the coachman and footman.

They went, at a smart, businesslike pace, through thecrowded Strand, and, entering the sacred regions of theupper ten, pulled up at one of the largest houses inChester Gardens.

Now, there is one advantage, at any rate, in being anactress: that nothing surprises you. No grandeur canoverwhelm a person who has been nightly playing withkings and queens—perhaps enacted a queen herself; andthough the first glimpse of the interior of Lady Despard’stown house was rather startling, Doris was capable of concealingher surprise. The house was new, and magnificentlyfurnished after the latest art craze. The hall wasintended to represent the outer court of a Turkish harem,with richly chased arches, marble passages, tropical ferns,and a plashing fountain. Brilliantly colored rugs madesplashes of color on the cool marble, and here and therea huge but graceful vase lent variety to the decorations.It certainly rather reminded you of one of the divisionsof a Turkish bath; but Lady Despard couldn’t help that.

As Doris passed through this oriental hall she heardthe sound of an organ, and found that one stood in adimly-lighted recess. A young man was playing, and hescarcely raised his eyes from the keys as he glanced at her.

“Miss Marlowe,” said the footman, opening a dooron the left of the hall, and Doris entered a room as dimlylighted as the organ recess; so dark, in fact, that for amoment 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 hearda very pleasant and musical voice say:

“How do you do, Miss Marlowe? I am so glad you[Pg 177]have come. Will you sit down a little while, or wouldyou rather go to your own room first?”

Doris sat down, and Lady Despard drawing aside acurtain from before a stained-glass window, Doris sawthat her ladyship was young and remarkably pretty; shewas dressed in exquisite taste, and in colors which setoff 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 thangood of Lady Despard to have her.

“Not at all; the favor—if there be any—is on yourside,” said her ladyship. “I am simply bored to deathand pining for a companion. I hope we shall get ontogether. Mr. Spenser Churchill was quite eloquent inyour praise; and he certainly didn’t exaggerate in onerespect”—and her ladyship let her eyes wander over thepale, lovely face meaningly—“and I am sure you lookawfully lovable. By the way, what’s your name—I meanyour Christian name?”

Doris told her.

“How pretty. You must let me call you by it. ‘MissMarlowe’ sounds so stiff and formal, as if you were agoverness, doesn’t it? Mr. Spenser Churchill says thatyou are dreadfully clever; I hope you aren’t.”

Doris smiled.

“I am afraid Mr. Churchill has prepared a disappointmentfor you, Lady Despard,” she said.

Her ladyship shook her head.

“I don’t think so. I only hope you won’t be disappointedin me. I am awfully stupid; but I’m alwaystrying to learn,” she added, with a smile. “Do youknow Mr. Churchill very well? Is he an old friend ofyours?”

“No,” said Doris, gravely; “I have known him for afew days only. He was very kind to me; very kind, indeed.”

“I know. He always is,” said Lady Despard. “Sucha benevolent man, isn’t he? I always say that he remindsme of one of the patriarchs, with his gentle[Pg 178]smile, and long hair, and soft voice. Any one wouldguess he was a philanthropist the moment they saw him,wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t know,” said Doris; “I have seen so fewphilanthropists.”

“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 howmany societies he is connected with. I try and do allthe good I can,” she added, looking rather bored; “butmy philanthropy is generally confined to subscribing fivepounds; and there’s not much in that, is there?”

Doris was tempted to say: “Exactly one hundredshillings,” but, instead, remarked that if everybody gavefive pounds poverty would be very much on the decrease.

“Yes,” said her ladyship, as if the subject had exhausteditself and her, too. “How well you look inblack!—oh, forgive me!” as Doris’ lips quivered. “Howthoughtless of me!—that is always my way—I neverthink until I’ve spoken! Of course, Mr. Churchill toldme about your trouble. I’m so sorry. I’ve had troublemyself.”

She glanced at a portrait which hung on the wall as shespoke, a portrait of a very elderly gentleman, who musthave been extremely ugly, or very cruelly wronged bythe artist.

“Your father?” said Doris, gently.

“No, that is the earl—my husband,” said LadyDespard, not at all discomposed, though Doris’ face wentcrimson. “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 goodto me,” she went on, calmly eying the portrait as if itwere that of a chance acquaintance, “extremely so—toomuch so, they all said, and I dare say they were right.He was immensely rich, and he left me everything hecould. I’m afraid I’m wickedly rich,” she added, almostplaintively; “at any rate, I know there is so much moneyand houses and that kind of thing as to be a nuisance.”

A knock was heard at the door, and a footman entered.

[Pg 179]

“A person with the tapestry, my lady,” he said.

“Oh, very well!” said her ladyship, languidly. “I’llcome and see it. Would you like to come, or are youtoo tired, dear?”

“I should like to come,” said Doris.

They went into the hall, and a man displayed a lengthof ancient tapestry.

Lady Despard linked her arm in Doris’, and looked at itfor 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 knowwhether 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 theman. “Nothing one buys ever is worth the money, youknow; but one must go on buying things; there’s nothingelse to do. Yes, I’ll have it,” she added to theman, and drew Doris away.

“Now, I’ve kept you with your things on quite longenough,” she said. “You shall go upstairs. I’ve gotsome people coming to tea—it’s my afternoon—but youneedn’t come down unless you like; I dare say you’ll beglad 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 anelectric bell. “Send Miss Marlowe’s maid, please.”

A quiet, pleasant-looking maid came to the door, andDoris followed her through the hall, and up a windingstaircase of carved pine, and into a daintily-furnishedroom.

The maid brought her a cup of tea, and leaving Doristo rest for half-an-hour, returned to show her downto the drawing-room.

As they made their way to it, Doris heard the sound[Pg 180]of a piano and the hum of voices, and, a footman openingthe door, she saw that the room was full of people.

She made her way, with some little difficulty, to LadyDespard, who was seated at a small table, evidentlymerely pretending to superintend a tea-service, for thefootman was handing around cups supplied from somethingoutside, and more capacious than the tiny kettleon the table, and her ladyship looked up and smiled apleasant little welcome.

“You have come down, after all?” she said, makingroom on the settee beside her. “This is my new friend,Miss Marlowe, your grace,” she added, addressing astout and dignified-looking lady near her, the duch*essof 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 inthe 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 whenshe entered, appeared to get still fuller. People came,exchanged a few words with Lady Despard, took a cupof tea, strolled about and talked with one or the other,or listened to some one who sang or played, and thenwandered out. Everybody appeared either languidly indifferentor horribly bored. Doris, as she leaned back,half-hidden by Lady Despard’s elaborate tea-gown on oneside and the voluminous folds of a plush curtain on theother, looked on at the crowd, and listened to the humand buzz of voices, half in a dream.

Every now and then she heard some well-knownname mentioned, and discovered that the people aroundher were not only persons of rank, but men and womenfamous in the world of music and letters.

Suddenly she heard a name spoken that made her heartleap, and caused her to shrink still further back.

“What has become of Cecil Neville?” asked theduch*ess.

Lady Despard shrugged her shoulders.

[Pg 181]

“I’m sure I don’t know. Oh, yes, I do. I had forgotten.He has gone down to stay with his uncle, the Marquisof Stoyle, you know.”

“Poor Cecil,” commiserated the duch*ess, with a faintsmile. “How he must suffer!”

“I heard that he’d been obliged to leave England,”remarked another lady in a subdued voice. “Up to hisears in debt, poor fellow!”

“Well, he has had a very long rope,” said theduch*ess. “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—heis stopping at Barton Towers, you know—thatLord Cecil is engaged to Grace Peyton.”

The duch*ess raised her eyebrows.

“At last! Well, it is a good match, and I’m sure she’llbe happy.”

“Oh, how severe!” said the other lady. “You meanthat he won’t be, your grace?”

“I mean that if I were a man I should think twicebefore——” She stopped, as if she had suddenly rememberedthe 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 thesubject.

Doris sat perfectly motionless, and very pale, fightingagainst the dizziness which assailed her.

“What is that the senor is playing?” asked the duch*esspresently.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” replied Lady Despard,helplessly.

Doris rose.

“I will go and inquire,” she said, feeling that she hadbetter 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 herlovely—simply lovely. I’m awfully obliged to Mr.Spenser Churchill.”

“Who is she?—where does she come from?”

[Pg 182]

“Oh, it’s quite a long story!” said her ladyship, whowas not so simple as to throw down Doris’ history forher aristocratic friends to worry. “The poor child hasjust lost her father.”

“She will create a sensation,” said the duch*ess, calmlyand emphatically. “I don’t think I ever saw a morelovely 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 duch*ess’ prophecy was speedily fulfilled. Menand women, as they made room for the slight, girlishfigure to pass, looked after her with a startled curiosity,and turned to each other, asking eager questions, someof which were pitched in a quite high enough key forDoris to hear. But, with the modest self-possessionwhich her training had bestowed upon her, she reachedthe piano, learned the name of the piece, and returnedto the duch*ess.

“It is Beethoven’s sonata in G, your grace,” she saidin her low, musical voice.

“Thank you, my dear,” said the duch*ess. “It was verygood-natured of you to take so much trouble. Good-by,Lady Despard,” and as she shook hands with her hostessshe 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 duch*ess is so amiable.”

Two hours later, Mr. Spenser Churchill, with a smilethat seemed to cast a benediction on everything it lightedon, was slowly walking down the still warm pavementof Bentham street, Soho.

Bentham street, Soho, is by no means an aristocraticthoroughfare, and the eminent philanthropist had tomeander 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 thestreet and its humors, and, stopping at a house half-waydown, knocked at the door as if he had done it before.

A young and overgrown girl shuffled along the passage,[Pg 183]and answering an inquiry of Mr. Churchill’s as towhether Mr. Perry Levant was in, nodded an affirmative,and requested Mr. Churchill to follow her. She knockedat a door on the first floor, and receiving a peculiarlyclear-voiced “Come in,” opened the door, and jerked herfinger by way of invitation to Mr. Churchill to enter.

Notwithstanding the neighborhood in which it wassituated, and the dingy condition of the rest of the house,this room was comfortably furnished, and indicated thepossession of some amount of taste by its occupant.There was a fair-sized table, with a large bowl of flowersin 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 agood Havana, and the smoker was reclining in a comfortablechair, 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 otherqualities, had been remarkably favored by the gods in oneparticular; he was perhaps as singularly handsome aspecimen of the human race as it is possible to conceive.So finely cut and delicately molded was his face that itwould have been considered effeminate but for the mustachewhich, like his hair and eyebrows, and the longlashes that swept the clear olive cheek, was a silky, lustrousblack. It was a face which Van Dyke would haveloved to paint, a face which, once seen, lingered in one’smemory, and it wore an added charm, a certain devil-may-care,debonnaire expression which at once attractedattention and lent it impressiveness.

“Hallo, Spenser, is that you?” he exclaimed, with alaugh, as he rose and held out his hand, as white—thoughnot so soft and fat—as the philanthropist’s own. “An unexpectedhonor! Sit down! You don’t mind the smoke,do you?” he asked, as Mr. Spenser Churchill coughed twoor three “wow, wows” behind his handkerchief. “Ratherthick, isn’t it? The room’s small, you see, and I’ve beensmoking for—oh, Lord knows how long! Have anything?Brandy and soda, eh? All right!” and, going to[Pg 184]the window, he leaned out, and called some instructionsto an urchin below.

“My dear Percy, isn’t that—er—rather a public way ofprocuring refreshments?” said Mr. Churchill.

The young fellow laughed.

“Well, perhaps it is,” he admitted. “But it savestrouble, and they’re used to it! There are always someyoungsters outside glad to earn a penny, and the ‘Pig andWhistle’ keeps a very good article, so they say! Have acigar?” and he pushed a box toward him. “You’ll findthem all right, I think. And now, what brings you to thearistocratic regions of Soho?”

Mr. Spenser Churchill lit his cigar and took two orthree preliminary puffs before answering, the young manleaning against the mantel-shelf in graceful abandon, andwatching him with a faintly-amused curiosity; then thegreat 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 PercyLevant. “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 yourfriend and well-wisher, my dear Percy?”

The young man smiled again, and stroked his silkymustache with his white, long, artistic-looking hand.

“Yes—oh, yes! I didn’t mean to be offensive, but youmust allow that people don’t generally go about makingother people’s fortunes—that’s all. Pray proceed. I’mall impatience, and grateful by anticipation! Goodnessknows my fortune needs making very badly!” and heglanced round the room, and down at his shabby velvetjacket, which hung over a chair, with a little grimace.

“Forgive me, my dear Percy, if I remark that the povertywhich you lament may be as much your fault as yourmisfortune.”

[Pg 185]

“I dare say,” he assented, with good-tempered indolence;“you mean that there is not enough of the busybee about me, Mr. Churchill?”

The philanthropist shook his head gravely.

“I am afraid you have not been industrious, my dearPercy. Let us for a moment review your position.”

“Review it for half-an-hour if you like,” said the youngfellow. “It won’t hurt me, and it will probably amuseyou. Meanwhile, here’s something that won’t hurt youand will amuse both of us,” and he opened the door to theurchin who had brought the liquid refreshment. “Goahead 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—shallI say—remarkable good looks——”

“Say what you like. You’ll excuse my not blushing.”

“And in addition to those great advantages, a wonderfultalent 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 theyoung fellow. “Yes, I can ‘play a bit, and sing a bit,and jump Jim Crow.’ As to being a musician——” heshrugged his shoulders and smiled.

“You play and sing like an artist, my dear Percy, andmost young fellows so highly endowed as you are wouldhave made a name for themselves and a place in theworld.”

“Instead of which, here I am in dingy Soho, with thelast two quarters’ rent unpaid, and forced to borrow afive-pound note from my dear friend, Mr. SpenserChurchill,” 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 tome and—er—promise to follow my advice. Just consideryour position, as I say, my dear Percy. Have you no ambition?Surely you, with your great gifts and youth andgood looks, must feel that this is not the place foryou——”

“That I am wasting my sweetness on the desert air.[Pg 186]Just so. I often feel it; but once having got lost in thedesert, it’s rather difficult to find one’s way out, you see.Have I no ambition?” The black eyes flashed, and theclear olive tint of his complexion grew warm. “Of courseI have! What do you take me for—a mule, a packhorse?Why, man, I never see a well-dressed man of my own agebut I envy him his clothes; I never lean over the railingsin the park and watch the fellows riding by but I envythem their horses and their acquaintance with the prettygirls—the daughters and wives of swell people; I neverpass a good club but I feel that I’d give ten years of mylife 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 drinkporter, sit in the gallery of a theatre, and wear old clothesbecause I like doing it?”

He drew himself up to his full height, and flashed downupon his observant listener for a second, then relapsed intohis 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 forsuch mental exercise,” and he sank into a chair and foldedhis hands behind his head. “No, Churchill, I am in thedesert, and there I shall stick.”

“Unless some friendly guide extends a helping handand leads you out,” said the philanthropist. “I can quiteunderstand your feelings, my dear Percy, and I must saythey are very natural ones. You are, without flattery,formed by nature to adorn a higher sphere than yourpresent one. I don’t think any of the young fellows youenvy could do greater credit to their wealth and positionthan you could do. Seriously, I think you were cut outfor better things than teaching the piano to the daughtersof the inhabitants of Soho and its neighborhood.”

“No doubt. I was intended for the heldest son of ahearl,” said Percy, sarcastically, “but there happens to bea hitch somewhere.”

“And suppose I tell you that I can undo that hitch,that I can give you a helping hand to better and higherthings; in short, to repeat myself, to make your fortune!Think of it, my dear Percy. Plenty of money, the entranceto good society, horses to ride, club doors thrown[Pg 187]open to you, choice wines, men of rank for friends, and aworld ready to welcome with outstretched hands good-lookingand accomplished Mr. Percy Levant!”

The young fellow regarded him with the same increduloussmile, but there was a light of subdued eagerness inhis 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 charitablepublic meetings? I’ll come and hear you some of thesedays; 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 tomake it?”

“A very natural question, my dear Percy, and, believeme, I am not at all annoyed by it. I intend to be perfectlyfrank and open-minded with you——”

Percy Levant smiled, and got another cigar.

“I beg your pardon, Churchill, but the idea of your beingfrank rather tickled me. The spasm has passed,however; proceed. Is it a new gold mine you are goingto ask me to become a director of? Or have you inventeda 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 youhave never turned your attention to matrimony.”

The young fellow stared at him, then laughed sarcastically.

“You think that the palatial dimensions of this room aretoo large for one individual; that I should be more comfortableif I shared my sixpenny plate of meat and thread-barewardrobe with another? My dear Churchill, youmight as well ask a limping, footsore tramp why hedoesn’t turn his attention to riding in a carriage and pair!Matrimony! Good Lord! I am not quite out of mymind!”

“But your wife need not be poor, my dear Percy. Shemay be rich in this world’s goods——”

“Oh, yes, I didn’t think of that; and you suggest thatthere are hundreds of wealthy heiresses who are dying tobecome Mrs. Percy Levant; perishing with the desire to[Pg 188]bestow their hands and fortunes on the music teacher ofSoho!”

“You would not be the first man who has marriedmoney,” said the philanthropist, smoothly. “But let mebe more explicit, my dear Percy. By one of those strangechances, which are indeed providential, I happen to beacquainted with a young lady who would, in all respects,make you a most suitable wife.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” said Spenser Churchill, gravely, “the circ*mstancesof the case are peculiar, not to say romantic. Thefact is, I am that young lady’s guardian, not exactly suchin a legally qualified sense, but by—er—an unfortunateaccident; and, as her guardian, I am naturally desirous ofpromoting her present and future welfare. Ah, my dearPercy, how sacred a trust one undertakes when one acceptsthe care of a young and innocent girl!” and helooked up at the ceiling with a devout sigh.

Percy Levant smiled with mingled mockery and amusem*nt.

“Very nice sentiments,” he said. “But go on. Andthis 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 thequestion in all its numerous bearings, and I am convincedthat I shall be promoting both her future welfare andyours by—er—bringing you together.”

Percy Levant stared at him.

“This grows serious,” he said. “And may I ask ifthis young lady is ‘rich in this world’s goods,’ as you sobeautifully put it?”

“She is—or, rather, she will be,” replied SpenserChurchill, leaning forward, and speaking in a lower tone,and with his eyes fixed on the other man’s face with akeen, yet covert watchfulness. “I said that there werepeculiar and romantic circ*mstances in the case, and oneof them is this, that the young lady has no idea of thewealth which will some day be hers.”

“Oh!” said Percy, curtly, “she hasn’t, eh? Yes, that’speculiar, certainly. I suppose there is no doubt about thegolden future, eh?”

“It is as certain as that you and I are in this room.”

[Pg 189]

“And the romance—where does that come in?”

“Her story is a singular one. Her name——” hestopped suddenly, and smiled blandly, “but perhaps I’dbetter 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 ownaccount, and throw you over! Churchill, for a saint, youare singularly suspicious!”

“Not suspicious, my dear Percy; say careful, perhapscautious,” suggested the philanthropist, with an oilysmile.

“All right; choose your own word! Go on.”

“The young lady’s career has been a singular one; shehas been an actress.”

Percy whistled and stared.

“But she is a lady in every sense of the word,” continuedSpenser Churchill, slowly and significantly. “Shehas left the stage, acting on my advice, and in consequenceof the death of her only relative, and is living now withsome 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. Shewill, I am sure, be guided entirely by me, and that is whyI am so anxious to provide for her future welfare.”

“By marrying her to a needy adventurer,” finishedPercy Levant, with a smile.

“No; to one who, though deficient in the energy whichachieves greatness by its own strength is, I am sure, aman of honor,” said Spencer Churchill, suavely.

Percy Levant stared at him with a curious smile.

“This is amusing and romantic with a vengeance,” hesaid. “And the young lady—of course she is as ugly assin?”

Spenser Churchill was about to answer in the negative,and dilate upon Doris’ beauty, but he stopped himself andmade a gesture of denial with his hands.

“By no means, my dear Percy. This, I will say, thatshe is refined, accomplished, amiable——”

“And quiet in single or double—especially double—harness?”

“In sporting parlance, my dear Percy, that exactly describesmy charming ward.”

[Pg 190]

The young man took a turn up and down the room, andthen, resuming his old attitude, looked down upon thesmooth face of the tempter with a curious and half-troubledregard.

“You don’t offer me a penny for my thoughts,Churchill, and so I’ll just make you a present of them. Iam wondering—what—the—devil—you are going to gainin this business. Wait a moment. You come here andoffer this young girl to me—is she young, by the way?”

Spenser Churchill nodded and smiled.

“To me—a penniless man, without position or anythingelse that makes a man eligible for a husband——”

“You forget your youth and good looks—your undoubtedtalents, dear Percy,” murmured the philanthropist.

“A most undesirable match in every way,” went on theother, taking no notice of this interpolation. “Why doyou do it? Of course, you have some game——”

“My dear Percy!”

“Oh, nonsense. For Heaven’s sake, let us have nohypocrisy. You offer to sell this girl to me, with herfortune in the future—what is the price I am to pay forit?”

“If you insist upon putting it with such—may I say—barbaricdirectness——”

“Yes, I do. I want the thing plain and distinct. Idon’t suppose it is for any love of me that you come, asyou say, to ‘make my fortune!’”

“Not altogether; though I have always regarded you asa very dear friend, Percy.”

The young man made a movement of impatience.

“Yes, yes, I know! But you have some object inview; what is it? You don’t want me to believe that I amto give you nothing in return for a wealthy wife. Whatis 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,” assentedPercy, with a grim smile.

“Well, I shall want your signature, my dear Percy, butonly in ordinary ink—only in ordinary ink.”

[Pg 191]

“What does it contain?” asked the young fellow. “Onemoment before you tell me. If it is anything detrimental—anythingthat would interfere with the happiness of thisyoung girl, you can put your precious paper back in yourpocket and light your pipe with it.”

“Right, quite right; your caution does credit to yourheart and honor, my dear Percy,” said Spenser Churchill.“I say nothing of the injustice you’ve done to me byyour suspicion. I forgive you! In a word, this is a littlebond by which you undertake three things. To marrythe young lady when I shall request you, and not till then;to keep the marriage secret until I give you permission todisclose it, and on your wedding day to pay me ten thousandpounds, or give me a bond for that amount.”

“Is that all?” demanded Percy Levant, staring at himwith knitted brows.

“Yes; and I don’t think the conditions over hard. Consider,my dear Percy; I don’t think you would have achance of knowing who the young lady is without I tellyou, you certainly haven’t of marrying her without myassistance; as to the secrecy of the affair—why, that is nota great hardship; and for ten thousand pounds, believeme, my dear Percy, that it will be but a bagatelle to theman 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 ofyours, and wake up to find that it is ‘beggar mated tobeggar’?”

Spenser Churchill nodded a smiling approval.

“A very proper question, very proper. If you will lookover this bond, you will see that the payment of the tenthousand pounds is contingent upon the young lady’s becomingpossessed of at least twenty thousand a year. Dome the favor of perusing it; it is very short and verysimple.”

“And very sweet,” said Percy, and he rapidly ran overthe paper. “I see you have left a blank where the younglady’s name should go.”

“Which I will fill in when you have signed.”

[Pg 192]

“Ah! How long will you give me to consider this extraordinaryproposal of yours?”

“Exactly five minutes,” said Spenser Churchill blandly;“and excuse me, my dear Percy, if I say that that is fourminutes too long! My dear young friend, consider! Ayoung, refined, accomplished lady, with a future fortuneof at least twenty thousand a year—and you hesitate.Are you so fond of Soho, and this rather—excuse me—squalidlife of yours? Think what a vista this opens beforeyou? You are ambitious. I present you with agolden ladder by which you may climb to any height youplease. What are your prospects now, save those of alifelong drudgery with the workhouse at the end? You,whose gifts warrant your taking your place among theflower of the land——”

“Wait, wait!” interrupted Percy. “I can’t think withyour drivel buzzing in my ears! I want to think! Manalive, I can scarcely believe that this is sober earnest, andif it were not for the price you exact, I should find itimpossible to do so; but now I see your game, or partof it——” he wandered to the piano as he spoke, anddropping into his music chair, abstractly let his handsstray over the keys.

“I think more easily to music,” he murmured, dreamily.

Spenser Churchill watched him in silence for a fewminutes, 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 waspale, and his eyes glowing with a strange excitement.

“I cannot resist it!” he said, in a low voice, whose tremorbelied his faint smile. “You are right—more rightthan you guessed—when you said I was ambitious. I amsick and weary of this life of squalid drudgery. I feelas if I would sell my soul—perhaps I am doing it!—toget out of it. Give me the paper and I’ll sign it!”

Spenser Churchill spread it on the table, and PercyLevant snatched up a pen and wrote his name.

“There!” he said, pushing it from him, folding hisarms, and looking down at Spenser Churchill with analmost defiant light in his dark eyes. “And now what[Pg 193]next? I am all attention! Who and where is my futurebride, and when shall I see her?”

“Her name is Doris Marlowe,” said Spenser Churchill,softly, writing the name in the blank left for the purposeas he spoke. “She is at present acting as companion toLady Despard, and you shall see her in a day or two.”

“Doris Marlowe!” repeated Percy Levant. “DorisMarlowe; it sounds pretty, ‘but a rose by any other name,’etc.; and she is acting as companion to Lady Despard, isshe? And has no suspicion of the wealth that will behers? Churchill, are you sure that this is not a fictionborn 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 beadopted? You will, I suppose, introduce me as a princetraveling incog., a millionaire in embryo, a somethingbrilliant enough to dazzle the eyes of the young lady andcarry her fancy captive? Is this to be the line?”

The philanthropist shook his head with an indulgentsmile.

“No, my dear Percy; I’m free to admit that that is thekind of thing most men would do; but I think that youand I are too wise, not to say too honorable, to adoptsuch 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 youdo?”

“I shall tell the truth,” said Spenser Churchill, with avirtuous uplifting of the eyes. “I shall introduce you toLady Despard as a musical genius—you are a genius, youknow, my dear Percy!—struggling against the difficultiesand obstacles insuperable to poverty and—er—that kindof thing. Lady Despard is never so happy as when sheis assisting struggling talent, and she will receive any onewhom I recommend; dear Lady Despard! The rest Ileave to you. If you cannot find a way to Miss Marlowe’sheart, then I will confess that I am very muchmistaken in you.”

“Thanks for your flattering opinion,” said Percy, witha short bow. “I will do my best—or my worst, which isit? Meanwhile, touching that ten pounds!”

[Pg 194]

“You shall have it with pleasure,” said Spenser Churchill,and he took a note from his purse and handed it tohim with a benevolent smile. “Do not spend it——”

“In riotous living! No, father patriarch, I won’t; Iwill buy myself some decent clothes, and get my hair cut,for I’ve noticed that your Lady Despards take a great dealmore interest in struggling genius when it is clean andneatly dressed.”

Spenser Churchill nodded.

“You know the world, I see, my dear Percy. I thinkthat is all we need say. We thoroughly understand eachother——”

“I thoroughly understand you,” returned the youngfellow; “whether you understand me is quite anothermatter.”

“I think I do, I think I do,” murmured Spenser Churchill,blandly. “I think that you will do your best to winthe game which will secure you a charming wife and futureindependence. Good-by, my dear Percy. Don’t letthe new suit of clothes be too resplendent; remember thatyou 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; thereare generally from twenty to thirty children asleep onthem at this hour, and the parents, strange to say, have anunreasonable objection to having them smashed.”

“I will take care,” said the philanthropist, and, with amurmured 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 weresitting at breakfast in a small room, beautifully cool andshady, 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[Pg 195]upon her ladyship, who, in her morning gown of delicatechintz, looked like one of the Dresden shepherdesseswhich stood on the mantel-shelf. Doris, in her whitemorning frock, with its deep black sash, was the onlypatch of decided color—if white can be called a color—inthe room, but, beside Lady Despard’s rather insipid prettiness,her fresh young loveliness looked like one of theroses in the bowl.

She looked up from the coffee cup she was filling fromthe great silver urn with a faint smile of curiosity. Inthree days she had learned all that there was to learn ofLady Despard’s character, and had grown to like her.As for her ladyship, she had already taken to the beautifulgirl and her quaint, graceful ways and soft, musicalvoice, and, twenty times in each of the days, had congratulatedherself and blessed Mr. Spenser Churchill onhaving sent her such a treasure.

“Really very interesting!” she repeated, turning overthe note she was reading, and regarding it with a pensivesmile. “It is from our friend, Mr. Churchill, dear,” shesaid; “one of his charming little letters. The good thatman 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 assistinga young friend of his who has had a great deal oftrouble and all that. He is a great musician—that is, heought 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 artsand musical world that I can do anything. Of coursethat’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 charminglittle composition, as Lady Despard had said, and in thepleasantest way told the story of struggling genius, whichonly needed Lady Despard’s patronage to rise to theheights of success and fame. Might he bring his youngfriend to see dear Lady Despard? Perhaps, if he mightsuggest, and her ladyship was disengaged, she wouldkindly ask them to dinner. He was quite sure she hadonly to know his dear young friend, Percy Levant, to[Pg 196]feel an interest in him for his own sake, and the sake ofthe art of which dear Lady Despard was so distinguisheda patroness.

Charmingly worded as was the epistle, Doris, as sheread it, felt a strange and vaguely indefinite want of faithin it; an incredulity for which she at once took herselfto task, as she reminded herself that Mr. Churchill wasonly doing for the young man that which he had donefor her.

“It is a nice letter,” she said, handing it back. “Shallyou ask him, Lady Despard?”

“Well, yes, dear; I think so,” said her ladyship. “Idon’t know that I can do much for the young man; yousee, we go to Florence in a week’s time. I might give aconcert; and so introduce him to the musical people; butI daresay Mr. Churchill has a plan ready—he is always sosystematic. I wonder what the young man is like?Percy Levant is the name, isn’t it? Sounds Greek, doesn’tit? I hope he isn’t a foreigner; they generally smell soof tobacco, and it’s so dreadfully difficult to understandthem; and they are not always presentable. There was aSignor Something-or-other, an artist they got me to patronize,and he used to swear dreadfully in Spanish, whichno one understood, fortunately.”

“Then it did not so much matter,” said Doris.

“No,” said her ladyship, pensively. “I forget what becameof him; I think he got into debt, and went back toSpain. There is one of his pictures in the saloon. Ihope this young man is presentable. These young geniusesare often so—so gauche, and wear such old clothes.”

Doris could not help laughing at her ladyship’s doubtsand fears.

“But genius covers a multitude of sins, doesn’t it?” shesuggested, and Lady Despard brightened up.

“So it does; and, after all, if he should be a little roughwhy we can point out that all clever people are eccentric.Didn’t Dr. Johnson eat sweet sauce with his fish, and usehis knife when he ought to have used his fork?”

“I think he did,” said Doris.

“Very well, then,” said Lady Despard, as if that settledit. “Just write a line and tell Mr. Churchill to bring[Pg 197]him to dinner to-night! I think”—doubtfully—“thatwe’d better not have anybody!”

“In case this genius should eat with his knife,” saidDoris, with a laugh; and presently she rose and, going toa davenport, wrote the required note.

Lady Despard, with her head on one side, watched herwith pensive admiration.

“How lovely you look in that pose, dear,” she said.“You certainly have the loveliest profile! And howquickly and—and easily you write! It takes me no endof a time to get my sentences together, and the spelling—Isuppose 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 requiredfor this note,” and she handed it for Lady Despard’sinspection, but her ladyship extended both handswith a gesture of refusal.

“No, dear; I don’t want to see it, and won’t! I cantrust to your taste and discretion, and shouldn’t think ofbeing so rude and presuming as to read it! I’m sure it’severything that’s nice!”

Doris laughed again.

“You are not very hard to please, Lady Despard,” shesaid, with a little flush.

“I should be, if I were not pleased with you, you littlesnake charmer,” responded her ladyship, leaning over herand gently pulling the tiny, shell-like ear. “And nowlet’s go for a drive! I want you to get some roses inthose pale cheeks of yours. I think you are looking betteralready, 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 gentlemenare coming to dinner?”

“I declare you think of everything!” exclaimed herladyship. “You must have been wonderfully trained,Doris!”

A faint flush rose to the pale cheeks, and then left itall the paler for the swiftly passing color.

“Poor people learn to be thoughtful. The dear friendto whom I owe everything, Lady Despard, spent all hislife in tender devotion to me!”

“There, I’ve made you nearly cry!” exclaimed her ladyship,[Pg 198]putting her arm round her. “What an awkwardidiot I am! But I’ll be more careful, dear; I will, indeed.And now go and put on that pretty bonnet ofyours, and we’ll go and work havoc with the hearts ofthose foolish young men who hang on the rails in thepark.”

Doris gave the butler the necessary information. Althoughshe had only been three days in the house, LadyDespard had almost handed over the management of itto her, and the servants had commenced to look to herfor their orders. It was a strange change from her oldlife of dependence and excitement, but it was a changewhich Doris found very grateful; the quiet of the magnificently-appointedhouse gave her a sense of reposewhich she needed greatly, and but for the memory of herloss of Jeffrey, but for the dull, aching pain which smoteher heart whenever she thought of the man who hadstolen her heart in Barton meadows, and tossed it almostcontemptuously back to her, she could have been happy.

All day long she strove to put the memory of CecilNeville away from her, but it haunted her sleeping andwaking, and a great dread assailed her that all her lifeshe 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 thelong lines of pedestrians, nearly all of whom plucked offtheir hats to the well-known Lady Despard—let her mindwander back to Barton meadows. She did not observethat she attracted as much attention as pretty Lady Despardherself, and woke with a start when her ladyship,with an arch little laugh, said:

“I never got so much notice before! I wonder whyit is. Can you guess, Doris?”

“I? No,” said Doris, innocently.

“Really no? Well, for a really pretty girl I thinkyou are the most modest I have ever met, my dear.”

Doris laughed and drew farther back.

“There!” exclaimed her ladyship. “I’ve put my footin it again! Never mind, dear, we’ll go home now; I’mtired 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[Pg 199]about the invited guests; but Doris dressed early and arrangedsome flowers in the small dining-room in whichthe meal was to be served; and thinking that it would berequired, arranged as well as she could the music whichlay in a confused heap in the rare Chippendale canterbury.Presently Lady Despard came down, fresh fromthe hands of her maid, in a costume of Worth’s, withwhich she had been entirely satisfied until she saw Doris’simple frock of black lace with a yellow rose nestling inits bosom for her only ornament.

“How nice you look, dear!” she exclaimed, taking herby the shoulders and holding her at arms’ length. “NowI wonder why it is that you always seem just perfectlydressed. That neat little frock of yours is simply exquisite,while mine looks all furbelows and fuss. Wheredid you learn to dress like that?”

Doris could have answered, “At the best of all schools,the theatre;” but instead, she smilingly put the questionby and praised the other’s handsome costume.

They were still talking when a footman announced Mr.Spenser Churchill and Mr. Percy Levant. Lady Despardgave a little start.

“Bless me!” she exclaimed, “I had forgotten them!”and she glided forward to receive them. Doris turnedaside for a moment to pick up a flower which had fallenfrom a vase, then looking round, found Mr. SpenserChurchill waiting with extended hand.

“My dear Miss Marlowe!” he purred, pressing herhand and smiling down upon her with a perfect wealthof benevolence; “I’m so glad, so glad to see you again.Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Percy Levant. MayI?”

He stepped on one side, and Doris, looking up, saw atall, graceful young man, with a face almost perfectlyhandsome; and as she noticed the well-cut and carefullysevere style of his evening dress, she felt surprised andamused. This aristocratic gentleman, with the face of aGreek god, must have startled Lady Despard, with herdoubts and fears.

“Miss Doris Marlowe, Percy,” said Mr. SpenserChurchill, glancing at him sideways and with keenwatchfulness.

[Pg 200]

Percy Levant did not start, but the quick flash of hiseyes 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; notonly plain, but shy and diffident, and—as he would haveput it—bad form; a dark, colorless, governess kind ofcreature; and this vision of perfect grace and youthfulloveliness startled him almost to bewilderment. Hebowed low to hide the faint signs of his discomfiture, andDoris, just inclining her head, at once moved away.

Dinner was announced, and Lady Despard, talking inher languidly-glowing style, gave her arm to SpenserChurchill, leaving Percy to escort Doris.

The dinner was served on the oval table, and the littleparty—which would have seemed cold and formal in thelarger apartment, with its huge table and splendid furniture—wasmade to appear pleasant and homelike.Spenser Churchill and Lady Despard did all the talkingfor some time, and Percy Levant only joined in occasionally;but his silence was perfectly self-possessed, andwithout a touch of the gaucherie or awkwardness andwant of breeding Lady Despard had so much dreaded.

Every now and then he let his splendid eyes wander tothe lovely face beside him, and each time the amazementoverwhelmed him, although he sat apparently so calm.This exquisite creature had been sold to him by SpenserChurchill! This beautiful girl to be his wife! Hecaught himself once or twice looking round the room witha close scrutiny, as if to convince himself that he wasawake and not dreaming. But he could not sit there silentall through the dinner, and at last he forced himself toaddress her.

It was only some trivial remark about the weather, butit seemed to him that his voice trembled with the emotionwith which his heart literally throbbed.

Doris responded in her soft, quiet voice, and the soundof it somehow lulled the storm within him and gave himconfidence. He found himself talking to her more freely,and each moment the spell her unexpected beauty andgrace cast upon him grew stronger. To listen to acommonplace from Doris was delightful enough, but shecould talk something better than commonplace; and Percy[Pg 201]Levant, the adventurer, the man who “knew the world,”was again startled to find that Mr. Spenser Churchill’sward was, young as she looked, well read in subjects ofwhich most women were utterly and sublimely ignorant.And yet she talked so modestly, so diffidently that herknowledge was an added charm.

He started when Lady Despard, rising, said:

“The butler knows the claret you like, Mr. Churchill; Ishall leave you to his tender mercies. Mr. Levant, wewill 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 hischair, let his head fall upon his bosom, his lips tightlycompressed.

Spenser Churchill filled his glass and remained silentuntil the butler had left the room, then he said, with asmile:

“Well, my dear Percy, what do you think of my dearyoung ward?”

Percy Levant raised his head and looked at him with acurious expression.

“Give me some wine,” he said; then, after he haddrank a glass, he demanded, almost sternly: “Why didyou not tell me?”

“Tell you what?” asked Mr. Spenser Churchill, with achuckle. “I told you she was a charming younglady——”

“And you wished me to think that you lied in sayingso,” retorted the other. “Why did you not tell me thatshe was as beautiful as—she is?”

Spenser Churchill chuckled again.

“My dear Percy, I thought that a little surprise wouldnot come amiss. If I had told you that she waspretty——”

“Pretty!”

“Well, beautiful—lovely—you would not have believedme!”

“No, I should not,” he said, curtly. “Don’t say anymore. I want to think! Great Heaven, she is like adream! Stop! Don’t talk, I say; I’m not equal to anyof your smooth platitudes at present. Let me be inpeace!”

[Pg 202]

Mr. Spenser Churchill laughed softly.

“Certainly, certainly, my dear Percy,” he said. “Yes,I can understand your astonishment. This claret is veryfine——”

“No more!” said Percy, rising and taking a step or twoacross the room, with his arms behind him, his head bentupon his breast again. “Let us go to them.”

“I’m quite ready,” said Spenser Churchill, smiling withintense enjoyment.

They went into the drawing-room. Lady Despard wasturning 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 onlysmiled.

“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 fromyour conversation that I shall have a musician for acritic.”

“No,” she said, quietly; “I am not a musician. Youwill have some tea presently?” and she raised her eyes tohis with the calm politeness of perfect self-possession andgood breeding.

CHAPTER XXII.

TWO SONG BIRDS.

Percy Levant bowed and went to the piano, and Mr.Spenser Churchill walked across the drawing-room andtook a seat immediately beside Doris.

“I hope you like my young friend?” he said, in his softestvoice, and glancing affectionately toward him as hestood by the piano talking to Lady Despard.

“I have seen so little of him,” said Doris, “but he isvery agreeable.”

“Yes. Ah, my poor Percy!” he sighed. “Poor boy! Hehas suffered so much—so much! There should be sympathybetween you two, my dear young lady, for he has[Pg 203]known what it is to lose his dearest. I should move yourheart if I were to tell you what sorrow and trouble havefallen to my poor young friend’s lot, and win your admirationand esteem for him if I recounted the manydifficulties he has had to encounter. It has been a hardworld for him, a hard life, poor fellow! I do so hope youand Lady Despard will like him.”

Doris remained silent, but the softly-spoken words hadsomething of the effect their speaker intended, and shelooked toward the young man with increased interest.

“I think, with the exception of myself, he has scarcelya friend in the wide world,” said Spenser Churchill, sippinghis tea and sighing. “I am counting so much onyour and Lady Despard’s sympathy, my dear Miss Marlowe!A word of encouragement from such kind heartsas yours will go far to console him for the cruel disappointmentshe has endured. Ah! he is going to sing, Isee! Now you will see if I spoke too highly of his voiceand abilities.”

Percy Levant was certainly going to sing, but he seemedsomehow loth to begin. For a few minutes his fingersstrayed over the keys irresolutely, then he struck a chordand commenced.

He had chosen not an elaborate specimen of the floweryschool, but a simple Brittany ballad, and he sang itexquisitely. Doris, as she listened to the long-drawnnotes that seemed to float on eider wings through theroom, felt a singular sensation at her heart. It was as ifthis stranger had defined the trouble of her young life,and had put it into music! With tightly compressed lipsshe sat fighting back the tears that threatened to flood hereyes, her hands closely clasped in her lap, her eyes fixedon the ground, unconscious that Mr. Spenser Churchill’seyes were covertly fixed on her with a keen watchfulness.

The last notes of the song died away, and Lady Despard’ssoft, languid voice poured out her praise.

“Oh, but that is very, very beautiful, Mr. Levant; andyou have a lovely voice! How kind of you to come andsing to us! And I am so grateful to Mr. Churchill forbringing you! You must sing again, must he not,Doris?”

[Pg 204]

He had risen and bowed to Lady Despard, but his darkeyes looked beyond her, and sought Doris’ face.

Her lips trembled, but she forced a smile; taking it asa request, he returned to the piano and sang again.

Lady Despard was in raptures, but he prevented herasking for another song by going across to Doris.

“Lady Despard will not play; will you?” he said. “Youare 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 singslike a professional, Mr. Levant.”

Doris rose reluctantly, and he led her to the piano.

Mr. Spenser went and sat beside Lady Despard, and beganto talk to her in an earnest but softly persuasive tone.The two voices at the piano rose and fell in harmony, andseemed to act as an accompaniment to his.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Lady Despard. “Their singingtogether is simply delicious!”

“And if your ladyship assents to my proposal, they cansing 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 ismost interesting, and such a perfect gentleman!”

“Ah! yes,” said Mr. Spenser Churchill; “I would nothave 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 foundhimself outside, his brain in a whirl, his heart beatingwildly.

“Well, may one ask your highness what you think ofmy 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 looklike that?” he asked, in a grave, thoughtful tone.

“Trouble,” said Spenser Churchill. “Poor girl. Yes,[Pg 205]she has been ill, too; but she is better, and the change willcompletely set her up, I hope.”

“Change?”

“Yes,” he purred. “She and Lady Despard go to Italynext week,” and he smiled as he struck the blow and sawPercy wince.

“To Italy next week!” He turned upon him. “Whatare you scheming? What are you doing? Why did youtake me to see her to-night, if——Do you think I ammade of stone; that, like yourself, I’ve no heart! ToItaly!”

“Yes,” murmured Spenser Churchill, “and I have arrangedthat you shall go with them——”

Percy Levant started again, and, stopping, confrontedhim with a pale, eager face.

“What?”

“Yes, exactly! You are to go with them as—whatshall we say?—friendly cavalier, courier, what you will—anythingwill 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 himin a savage grip.

“You—you devil!” he said, fiercely, almost wildly.“You know that I cannot! If I had not seen her I mighthave had the strength; but now——”

He withdrew his hand, and, almost thrusting the otherman away from him, strode on.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A SAD HOME-COMING.

Lord Cecil Neville was a man of his word. He hadpledged himself to remain in Ireland until the missionhe had undertaken was completed, and he meant keepinghis word, though his life depended on it. And it seemedto him that more than his life, his happiness, hung in thebalance. He had written again and again to Doris, andhad received no answer to any one of his letters. Thatthey had reached her was evident from the fact that none[Pg 206]were returned through the post to him. To all his passionateattempts for an explanation of her silence not oneword came from her!

Life had gone fairly smoothly for Viscount Neville upto this, and his hot, impetuous nature—inherited from hismother’s side of the family—found it difficult to endurethe suspense. Many men would have broken their wordand returned posthaste to England and Barton, but apledge was a solemn thing to Cecil Neville, and like asoldier on duty he stuck to his post.

It is not necessary to speak in detail of what he accomplishedin Ireland, but this much may be said, that hefound the people in the right and the agent in the wrong,and that that agent had a bad time of it! It may be addedthat Lord Neville succeeded in a few short weeks in winningmore hearts among the marquis’ tenants than all theStoyles for centuries had been able to do, and that beforemany days had passed “the young lord,” as he wascalled, was regarded as a friend and protector, and manya faltering voice called down a blessing on his head, andimplored him to remain in “the old country.” The Irishare a warm-hearted people, quick to resent an injury, butequally quick in their gratitude for a benefit; this handsomeyoung nobleman who had relieved them from theiroppressor, and done his best to better their hard lot, receivedhis reward in the shape of an affectionate gratitudewhich he should remember and cherish all his lifethrough.

The absentee landlord, the man who screws the lastpenny from the tenant, and spends it in Paris or London,has been the curse of the country; and it was becauseLord Neville saw this, and owned it freely, that the peopletrusted him.

Often, when he had returned from a day’s inspection ofthe estate, and had relieved the oppressed, he wonderedwhat the marquis would say when he heard what his ambassadorhad done! Often when, tortured by an anxietyrespecting Doris’ silence, he spent the night pacing upand down his room, he vowed that when they were marriedthey would come and live among these people, whohad welcomed him so readily, and so gratefully recognizedhis efforts on their behalf.

[Pg 207]

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, hebegan to imagine all sorts of terrible things. One nighthe dreamed that she was dead, and woke trembling andshaking, half-persuaded that he had heard her voice callingto him.

All day her image haunted him, and he found himselfpulling up his horse, and sitting staring vacantly beforehim, recalling her last words, her shy, passionate kiss;and then he would dash forward, and try and persuadehimself that his letters had, in some way, miscarried, andthat all would be well.

One morning his servant brought him a letter, and heseized it eagerly, but his face fell as he saw the Stoylecoat of arms on the envelope.

The letter was from the marquis. It was the first hehad written, though Cecil had sent him a short report ofhis proceedings each week, and the contents caused himto spring from his chair. It said:

That was all, but it was enough for Cecil. In less thanan hour he was on his way to the station as fast as thecar could carry him. He was fortunate enough to catchthe mail, and, traveling day and night, arrived at BartonTowers just after dinner. The butler started and staredat the young viscount’s haggard face and travel-stainedclothes, 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 isover, but I can serve you——”

“Will you tell the marquis I have arrived, and askhim to see me, please?” said Lord Cecil, interrupting hisstately 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 inhis velvet dressing-gown, and looked up with his usual[Pg 208]cold smile, and a slight elevation of the eyebrow, denotedhis recognition of Cecil’s altered appearance.

“How do you do?” he said, giving him the tips of histhin fingers. “I am afraid you have been rather hurriedin your journey——”

“I came back without the loss of a moment,” said LordCecil, gravely. “I should have come before, but I waitedto complete the business, or until I heard from you——”

The marquis shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m afraid you have inconvenienced yourself on myaccount,” he said, coolly and indifferently. “There wasno reason on earth why you should remain there a momentlonger than you liked——”

Lord Cecil’s pale face flushed, and he made a movementof impatience, almost of indignation.

“You must have been bored to death—oh, no; I forgot—youtake an interest in those people. Ah, yes. I gotyour letters—quite reports, weren’t they? I am ashamedto say I didn’t read them.”

Lord Cecil’s eyes flashed, but he restrained himself withan effort.

“My lord,” he said, grimly, more firmly and sternlythan he had ever spoken in his life, “I will not trouble youwith an account of my mission—for it was a mission, carelesslyas you ignore it. I am too full of anxiety on anothermatter. Will you tell me the meaning of the noteyou sent me?”

The marquis stopped again and looked at him with afaint, puzzled confusion, as if he were trying to rememberwhat it was he had written; then he nodded.

“Ah, yes; I remember. I sent you the note because Ithought you would like to hear some information I receivedabout Miss Barlow——”

“Miss Marlowe, do you mean?” said Lord Cecil, bitinghis lips. “What information——”

“Give me time, please,” said the marquis, arranging hisdressing-gown. “Your impetuosity is rather trying.”

“Great heavens!” exclaimed Lord Cecil, clinching hishands; “why do you torture me like this? You forget—ordo you not forget?—is it from sheer malice that youkeep me in this suspense? You know, I see you know,[Pg 209]that I have not heard from Miss Marlowe; that I fearsome 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. Ihave 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 hepaced 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 abreath of relief, and a smile, a very mirthless one, crossedhis lips.

“Disappeared?” he said, almost contemptuously. “Youmean she has left Barton? That accounts for her nothaving received my letters or answered them. Where hasshe gone?”

The marquis shrugged his shoulders.

“I had better tell you what I know; we are gettingrather confused. It appears that Miss Marlowe’s guardiandied 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—fromany one! My poor Doris! When—when did hedie?”

“Some time ago—soon after you left, I believe; andhere 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, Iam reluctant to shake your faith in this young lady, but Iam afraid I must.”

“What!” demanded Lord Cecil, scarcely understanding.“My faith in Doris! Go on, sir!”

“It would seem——Pray take a chair; your constantmoving is harassing.”

Lord Cecil sank into a chair, impatiently.

“It would seem that the young lady was not very serious[Pg 210]in her little love affair with you. I imagine that thatkind of young person seldom is. How can it be expectedof them? They are actresses by profession. I daresayshe was practicing for a love scene when she was exchangingvows of perpetual faith with you. Pray don’ttake my suggestion in bad part!” he put in, for LordCecil leaned forward with crimson face. “I am sorry youshould have regarded the matter so seriously! It is amistake—I speak with experience—a mistake to takeany woman seriously; they are all daughters of Eve,and as unreliable as their first mother. Miss Marlowe islike 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 isperfectly true, but you can ascertain for yourself, ofcourse, that she has jilted you, and gone off with herfirst, and, pardon me if I add, her more suitable youngman.”

Lord Cecil started up, his face pale and working, hiseyes flashing.

“It—it is a lie!” he said, hoarsely.

The marquis regarded him with a mixture of curiosityand contempt, the kind of look with which one might regardthe movements of a strange animal.

“Yes, it may be! I don’t answer for the truth of thestory, as I said.”

“Where has she gone? Who is this—this man? It isfalse! I will stake my existence upon her truth! It is aridiculous lie!”

The marquis smiled.

“A large stake; too large for so paltry a prize as awoman’s faith!” he said, calmly. “I have heard that shehas gone to Australia with a man named—named—excuseme, my memory is very faulty, but, fortunately, Ijotted down the details. I had an idea that you wouldlike to hear them.” He reached for an elegant-boundmemorandum book as he spoke, and consulted it.

“Ah, yes, here it is! ‘Miss Marlowe sailed in theOrion on the fourteenth, in company with Mr. Garland,late of the Barton Theatre Royal; engagement at Melbourne.’[Pg 211]The Orion, the fourteenth! I am glad it occurredto me to jot it down with the particulars.”

Lord Cecil stared at him as if he were in doubtwhether 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 laughto hear.

“Who told you this fable?” he demanded.

“I got it from Spenser Churchill!” said the marquis,promptly.

“Spenser Churchill! Spenser Churchill!” repeatedLord Cecil. “What had he to do with it?”

“Too much,” said the marquis. “Very much againstmy advice, he insisted—you know he is a professionalphilanthropist?”—with a sneer—“he insisted upon pleadingyour cause with the young lady. But it was of noavail; even so distinguished an individual could not persuadea woman to keep her faith.”

Lord Cecil strode up and down, his physical wearinessand exhaustion playing their part in his mental disturbance.

“It is not true!” he asseverated, vehemently. “It isnot true! Why should Spenser Churchill be mixed upin this matter? Why——”

“That is easily answered,” said the marquis. “It appearsthat he discovered that the young lady’s guardianwas an old friend of his. I don’t know his name——”which was true. “I don’t know anything more than I’vetold you; and forgive me for saying so, that, seeing thereception my information has received at your hands, I’mvery sorry I know so much! I hate and detest this kindof business. It was bad enough when I took a personalinterest in it, but now——” he shrugged his shoulders.“It is a pity that the world could not have got on withoutwomen; we men would have been better and happier, believeme.”

“Where is Spenser Churchill?” demanded Lord Cecil,hoarsely.

“Heaven only knows!” said the marquis, shrugging hisshoulders. “In London, possibly, or he may have goneout on a mission to the Jews, or the Turks, or the SandwichIslanders. I neither know nor care, if I may say[Pg 212]so. And now, hadn’t you better go and get something toeat? I fear we have exhausted the subject,” and he leanedback and regarded the opposite wall with an expressionwhich was intended to indicate that, whether they hadexhausted the subject or not, the subject had entirely andcompletely exhausted him.

Lord Cecil regarded him sternly for a moment, as if hewere about to speak, then, with a gesture of farewell,opened the door and went out. Scarcely had he done sothan the curtains over a door behind the marquis’ chairfluttered violently, and Lady Grace glided out.

She was pale, and her under lip was caught in herwhite teeth, in her endeavor to appear calm and self-possessed.

“Has he gone?” she said.

“Oh, yes!” replied the marquis. “You heard our interestingand 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 lovewith her.”

Lady Grace moved a little away, out of reach of thecold, 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 horseswould 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 madenough for anything! This girl must be extremelygood-looking, Grace!”

She bit her lip till the blood came.

“Y—es, she is,” she assented, as if the admission costher an agony. “Oh! yes. And he is going! I thoughthe would have stayed the night!”

“And I didn’t,” said the marquis, grimly. “He is a[Pg 213]Stoyle, and its not our way to take the loss of our mistressesmeekly.”

“Did you give him the letter?” she asked.

The marquis uttered an exclamation.

“Phew!” he said, with a laugh. “I knew there wassomething I should forget. I told you and Churchillthat you’d better play the game yourselves, and that Ishould bungle it. You see, I am so unused to intriguesof this description,” and the great intriguer of his generationsmiled grimly.

“Give it to me,” said Lady Grace, as if struck by asudden 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, followedby his valet, with a portmanteau in his hand, andwrap on his arm.

“Lady Grace!” said Lord Cecil.

“Why, where are you going?” she exclaimed. “I haveonly just heard of your return! You are not goingagain?”

“Yes,” he said, trying to speak lightly, and force a conventionalsmile; “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 Ican 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, ascoolly 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 hisarm, looking up at him with her magnificent eyes softenedwith womanly sympathy.

“I am so sorry! Can you not tell me what it is?Stay; where are you going?”

“To London,” he replied.

[Pg 214]

“To London!” She leaned over the balustrade, andlooked at the great clock in the hall. “You have plentyof time. Stay one moment. Lord Cecil, do you rememberthe 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 havespoken to you as I did unless—unless I had liked you?”

“I appreciated your candor, Lady Grace,” he said, inthe same grave tone.

Her hand trembled on his arm.

“Well, then, I am going to be still more candid. I amgoing to ask you to try and fancy that you had askedme to be your wife and that I had refused.”

It was his turn to flush now, and his eyes droppedunder her fixed, earnest gaze.

“Do you know why I say that? It is because youmay not misunderstand me when I ask you—as I do now—tolet me be your friend.”

“I am grateful, Lady Grace——” he began, in a lowvoice, but she stopped him.

“Wait. It is no idle, meaningless offer. I will be areal friend, Lord Cecil, if you will let me. I will provethat a woman and a man can be friends without being—lovers!Now, then, trust me, and show me that youtrust 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 suspenseand doubt, his brain heavy and bewildered by fatigue andharassing anxiety—fell into the net.

“I will trust you, Lady Grace,” he said, and there wasa 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? ForHeaven’s sake tell me everything——”

“I will,” she said. “But I have heard nothing morethan this—that she has gone to Australia with—with aman to whom she was engaged before——”

“And you believe it?” he said, with grave reproach.

[Pg 215]

“No!” she said at once. “I do not believe a word ofit!”

He took her hand and pressed it, all unconsciously, sothat 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 hewas 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! ShallI tell you why I do not believe it? Because I havesomething 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 hestared at her with eager impatience.

“It came while you were away, and I took it. Don’tbe angry.”

“Angry! Has any one seen it but yourself?”

“No one!—no one! I kept it. Of course, I felt thatit* safety was of importance to you. I should have forwardedit 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 displayingitself in his face and voice.

“Yes, that will tell you where she is, and why she hasgone, no doubt,” said Lady Grace; and with an affectationof delicate consideration she turned to the great orielwindow, that he might read it undisturbed.

Suddenly he uttered a cry, and, looking round, she sawhim 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 almostas white as his own.

He looked up with a bewildered stare; then, with aworking 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 bothher hands upon his arms and looked up at him beseechingly,[Pg 216]sympathizingly, as a sister might strive to sootheand encourage a brother.

“Yes,” he said, almost inaudibly, and with a catch inhis voice, “it is true—it is true! Great Heaven! and Iloved—I trusted—I——” He turned his head aside fora second, then faced her, every muscle of his face quiveringunder the effort to appear unmoved. “Lady Grace,the letter proves the marquis’ estimate of women to be atrue one, and mine—Heaven help me!—false! Read it.No, I cannot! It is the only letter she ever wrote me—itis sacred! The first and the last! Great Heaven, tothink that she, she!——” and as he recalled the pure andinnocent face, the truthful, trustful eyes that had lookedup so devotedly, so passionately, with such an infinity oflove into his, his voice broke and he could not utteranother word.

“No, do not show me the letter!” she said. “It shouldbe sacred to you. And I do not believe it yet. Wherewere you going, Cecil?”

Her omission of his formal title escaped him at themoment.

“To London,” he said. “But where”—and he made adespairing gesture—“it doesn’t matter. Nothing mattersnow!” and he forced a rueful smile.

“Yes, but it does matter,” she said. “There may besome mistake—there is, there must be! It is useless toask you to remain here, I feel that. Go to London,Cecil, and go to the offices of the Orion. Go and see ifher name is on the passenger list. I will stake my faithin 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—yourfriend!”

“I shall never forget all you have done, all you havebeen to me this day, Lady Grace,” he said, fervently; andwith a grave solemnity that might well have become oneof the old knightly Stoyles whose pictures looked downon them, he raised her hand to his lips.

A deep red suffused Lady Grace’s face, and she drew aquick, sharp breath.

[Pg 217]

“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 downthe stairs. Lady Grace leaned over the balustrade andlooked at him, her heart beating wildly, her eyes flashingwith suppressed excitement. She looked at thatmoment like one

Then, as the door closed behind her, and she heard theretreating sound of the dogcart, she drew herself upright,and, pressing her hand to her forehead, shethought intently.

“A wrong step now, a false move, and—and I losehim!” she murmured. “Oh, if I were there with him; ifI could be sure that Spenser Churchill had got her out ofthe way! Ah!”

The ejacul*tion was forced from her lips by an ideaworthy of a woman. Without waiting a moment shesprang up the staircase to her own room.

“Find the next train to this,” she said to her astonishedmaid. “Don’t stand staring! There may not be amoment to lose. Pack a bag—a small bag—and order abrougham. Say nothing to anybody but the groom ofthe chambers, and tell him to keep his tongue quiet—givehim 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, lookingup from the portmanteau she had already commenced topack.

Lady Grace’s face fell, then it cleared again.

“Of course! All offices are closed by this time; nonewill be open till to-morrow! No matter. Give me atelegraph 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 followingthat which had borne Lord Cecil to London, and her[Pg 218]telegram lay at the office to be forwarded to Mr. SpenserChurchill at eight the next morning.

Lord Cecil reached his chambers in the gray of thesummer morning, looking like a man who had receivedsentence of death, and yet hoped that by some chance areprieve might save him.

Not until the train started had he remembered thatthe steam packet-office would not be open until teno’clock, and, yielding to the respectful entreaties of hisman, who was deeply attached to him, and saw with dismaythe change which the last few days had made inhim, Lord Cecil threw himself on the bed. But he foundit impossible to rest there, and spent the long hours pacingup and down, vainly trying to draw encouragementfrom a remembrance of Lady Grace’s assertion of faith inDoris.

“She believed in her, and she does not know her; howmuch more should I trust in her, who do know her?And yet this letter!” and he took it out and read it forthe hundredth time.

Long before ten he had a bath, drank a cup of coffeeto appease his valet, and, dressing himself, went downin a cab to the office of the Australian Steamship Company.

He was there before the office opened, and had to waitfor a quarter of an hour. While he was pacing up anddown, smoking a cigar, with fierce impatience, a quietly-dressedman, in a brown pot hat, sauntered up, glancedat him casually, and passed by; then, as if he had rememberedsomething, took out his watch, and returnedat a quick pace, so quickly, indeed, that he almost ranagainst Lord Cecil, and offered profuse apologies.

A few minutes after ten a yawning boy wound up theiron 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, wastold five minutes, ten, perhaps; lit another cigar; was informedby the intelligent lad that he mustn’t smoke inthe office; flung the cigar away, and strode to the door,[Pg 219]nearly knocking over the quiet-looking gentleman in thebrown hat, who was looking in at the door inquiringly.

Ten minutes—a quarter of an hour passed, and at lasta clerk arrived; and Lord Cecil made for him as if hewere going to demand his life.

“Can you tell me whether a lady of the name of Marlowesailed by the Orion, for Melbourne?” he began,with suppressed eagerness.

The clerk eyed him with the charming impassibilityand 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 shedid,” he said at last.

“Then, for Heaven’s sake, give me the passenger list!”said Lord Cecil, with suppressed fury. “I have beenwaiting——” He pulled himself up on the verge of anoutbreak, and the clerk, with a great deal of dignity, gotdown a huge ledger and leisurely found the proper page.Then he proceeded to read off the names; there seemeda million of them to poor Cecil, who leaned against thecounter, 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 theclerk.

Lord Cecil gripped the counter hard, and stared in adazed, blind way at the open page.

“Mr. Garland! Miss Doris Marlowe!” Great Heaven,then the marquis had spoken the truth, and she hadjilted him; had left him for the other man—this actor.In a moment he recalled the young fellow, the handsomeRomeo, who had played so well to her Juliet. And shehad gone with him! She—Doris! Doris, the girl heloved; whose faith, and honor, and truth—-ah, and innocentpurity of mind and soul—he would have sworn by.

The clerk stared at his white face and compressed lipscuriously. It was not the first time anxious inquirieshad been made respecting missing persons at the office,but no one had taken the information given as this handsomeyoung gentleman took it. He seemed, as the clerkput it afterward, when recounting the incident to his[Pg 220]fellow-clerks, “as if he were struck dumb, and deaf, andblind.”

“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 knowingwhat he was saying; and, wishing the clerk good-day, hemade his way out.

At the door he paused and took off his hat in a confusedkind of way, as a man does who has received newswhich is either too good or too bad to be realized all atonce; and as he stood there, he felt a hand upon hisshoulder. Looking round, he saw that it was the persistentpersonage 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 youwant?” 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’ma sheriff’s officer, and I have to arrest you on a debt warrant.”

“Arrest me?” said Lord Cecil, not with the surprisethe man doubtless expected. Lord Cecil would not havebeen surprised that morning if he had been arrested formurder. “I don’t understand——”

“If you’ll step aside for a moment,” said the man,very respectfully, indeed apologetically, “I will showyou. These are the items,” and he took some papersfrom a greasy pocketbook, and read them off.

Lord Cecil recognized them as some old debts, billsand I O U’s, which he had almost forgotten.

“Yes, that is right, I expect,” he said, gravely, andvery wearily. “But I thought,” he said, as the idea occurredto him, “that there was no arrest for debt now?”

The man smiled almost pityingly.

“Nor is there, my lord; it’s called contempt of courtnow! You have been ordered to pay these sums by the[Pg 221]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 haveheard nothing of it.”

The man looked incredulous of so much innocence, fora moment, but, after a long and steady scrutiny of thepale, grave face, with its frank, honest eyes, he lookedpuzzled.

“Hem! I don’t quite see. Ah, yes, I do! Theseprocesses have been served on your lawyers, no doubt,my lord. Haven’t they let you know?”

“No,” said Lord Cecil, quietly. “I have been awayin Ireland. I’ve seen no letters——”

“It’s plain enough, my lord,” said the officer. “Youought to have had your letters forwarded. The courthas been under the impression that you’ve neglected theorder out of sheer contrariness, and so these creditorshave got the warrant. Ah, my lord, no end of mischiefcomes of you swell gentlemen not opening your letters.I’m very sorry, but here’s the warrant, and I’m bound toexecute it.”

Lord Cecil did not by any means fully comprehend theman’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 walkto your lordship’s bank, and you could give me a check.”

“Let me see the paper,” said Lord Cecil; then his faceflushed. “I have not one quarter of this in the bank,” hesaid, quietly.

The man looked rather nonplussed.

“Well, I don’t know what’s to be done,” he said, lookingat the pavement with a frown. “Your lordship hasgot friends—I’ll go anywhere—to your lordship’s rooms,while you communicate with them. Of course, I musthave the money. Duty’s duty. As a soldier, your lordshipknows that.”

Lord Cecil nodded.

“Come to my rooms,” he said.

[Pg 222]

The man called a cab, and they got into it and weredriven to Clarges street.

To attempt to describe the valet’s face when he saw thekind of person whom his master had brought back withhim would be difficult, and quite impossible to picture itwhen 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 lookedup reproachfully.

“Will you send your man, my lord?” he said, significantly,and Lord Cecil started, for he realized that hewas a prisoner. He sent the telegram, requesting themarquis to order his bankers to pay the sum to LordCecil’s order; then went and stood by the window andlooked out on the street; and in a few minutes he hadforgotten the presence of the officer and all pertainingto him.

“Mr. Garland—Miss Marlowe,” rang through his brainto the exclusion of anything else.

A couple of hours passed, and the return telegramarrived. It was short and emphatic:

Sorry. Quite impossible.—Stoyle.

Lord Cecil read it, and, with a grim smile, tossed itacross the table to the officer, who was enjoying himselfwith one of Cecil’s choicest cigars and a glass of whiskyand water. He looked aghast.

“Good gracious, my lord! What’s to be done?”

“I don’t know,” said Lord Cecil, shrugging hisshoulders, 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 mustknow ever so many friends as would only too gladly lendyou the money! Think, my lord!” Lord Cecil shookhis head. “I am afraid it is of no use thinking,” he said;“I cannot pay the money, and——” He leaned againstthe window, and smiled. “But there is no hurry, I suppose?You can finish your drink.”

Before the man could reply, a voice floated throughthe open window.

“Lord Cecil!”

He started, and looked out. A hansom cab was[Pg 223]pulled up opposite his door, and Lady Grace was leaningout and looking up at him.

“Lady Grace!” he cried, in amazement.

“Yes; it is I,” she said. “Will you come down? Iwant 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 tothe 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 heralight, and a moment or two afterward, she stood inthe doorway of his room.

CHAPTER XXIV.

IN THE HOUR OF NEED.

It need scarcely be remarked that it is not usual foryoung ladies unattended to pay gentlemen visits at theirchambers. Scandal is only too ready to seize upon theslightest excuse for the exercise of its malignity, and thefact, if it were known, that Lady Grace Peyton had beenseen in Cecil Neville’s rooms would be quite sufficient toset evil tongues wagging.

All this flashed across Cecil Neville’s mind as shestood in the doorway, a picture of queenly beauty whichseemed to light up the room, and made the sheriff’s officerstare with all his eyes.

Lord Cecil went forward, a slight flush on his facedenoting his embarrassment.

“Lady Grace!” he said.

Then he stopped suddenly, remembering that it wouldbe well not to mention her name before the man.

She bit her lip and looked from one to the other asshe gave him her hand.

“I—I thought you were alone!” she said, in a lowvoice full of confusion and anxiety.

The officer rose and made a slight bow.

[Pg 224]

“I’ll step outside, my lord,” he said, respectfully, andhe did so.

“I—I did not know,” faltered Lady Grace, lookingafter him. “Have I done anything very wrong in coming?I did not stop to think. I was so anxious that Ithought I would come up to town——”

“Will you not sit down?” he said, gravely, and heplaced a chair for her.

She sank into it, and looked up at him.

“What news is there? Have you heard of her? Ican’t tell you how anxious I am! Ah! I see by your facethat something has happened! What is it?”

“Yes; I have had news,” he said, in a low voice. “Myuncle was right, and you and I were wrong, Lady Grace.Miss Marlowe”—his voice grew grim—“has sailed forAustralia.”

“Oh, no, no! But alone?” she breathed.

“No, not alone. She went with this Mr. Garland,” hesaid, sternly.

She held out her hand to him.

“Oh, I am so sorry! What can I say, dear LordNeville, to comfort you?”

He smiled wearily.

“Nothing, I am afraid. There is nothing to be said—ordone; I have got to bear it, that is all! I am not theonly man who has been—jilted.” The cruel word lefthis lips like a note of steel. “Probably my lot is all toocommon. Yes, I have got to bear it!”

“There—there is no doubt about it?” she asked.

“None, whatever,” he replied. “I have been downto the office and seen the list of passengers, and hername 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 hourof his trouble, he could scarcely endure to hear Doristhus spoken of.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can scarcely believe thatshe has done what she has; it seems more like a dreamthan sober reality. But I suppose every man in mycase feels like that.”

“If I could only do something for you!” she murmured,[Pg 225]leaning forward, and looking up into his face withthe sympathy which, coming from a woman, is so preciousto a man, especially when the woman is young andbeautiful.

“Thanks, awfully,” he said, trying to speak in a conventionaltone to hide the acuteness of his suffering,“but, as I said, no one can do anything, except it is ourold friend, Time. I shall ‘get over it,’” and he smiled,as the Spartan may have smiled while the fox was gnawingat his bosom.

“You look very tired,” she said, after a moment’spause. “What will you do with yourself to-day? Willyou—don’t think me obtrusive!—but will you come anddrive with me—come, and do something? I am soafraid that you will sit here and mope.” She glancedround, then started and looked up at him, as if with asudden remembrance of the situation. “But I am forgetting!I—I ought not to be here, ought I? LordNeville, you don’t think ill of me for coming?” and thecolor rose to her face, and she dropped her eloquenteyes as if with a sudden shame.

“Think ill of you, Lady Grace!” he echoed, impetuously.“What, for coming to try and help a poor fellowwith your sympathy? I can’t tell you how grateful Iam! It was a kind action, which not one woman outof a thousand would have done!”

“Ah!” she said, in a low voice; “that is it! Onewoman in a thousand! Tell me, Lord Cecil, and tell methe truth! I have been foolish and—and forward in cominghere to you like this?”

If he had told to her the truth, Lord Cecil would certainlyhave been obliged to admit that she had been foolish;but what man in his position ever does make such anadmission?

“I think you have done a very kind action, LadyGrace,” he said, gravely. “And—shame to him whothinks 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. Youforget the cabman and the man outside.”

Lord Cecil bit his lip.

[Pg 226]

“At any rate, no one else need know,” he said. “Thecabman 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 businessof it.

“Oh! a man I do business with,” he said; “nobody ofany consequence. He does not know you, I’ll answerfor it.”

She drew a long breath.

“Not until this moment have I realized what I havedone,” 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 heseized his hat. “I will come and see Lord Peyton——”

“My father is away, yachting,” she said; “but comeas far as the house, if you will.”

“Yes!” Then he stopped and turned crimson, andstared at her, the picture of a man embarrassed beyondmeasure.

“Oh, what is it now?” she exclaimed, almost claspingher hands.

“Nothing, nothing,” he hastened to reassure her,though his voice was anything but reassuring; “onlythat I have just remembered that I cannot leave the—thehouse just at present. The fact is, I have importantbusiness with this man, and—and—oh, Lady Grace, I amso sorry! Don’t misunderstand! I’d give all I’mworth”—he laughed bitterly, and corrected himself—“tenyears 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, andthere 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 offeringher hand.

[Pg 227]

He sprang forward; then pulled up, and with somethingbetween a groan and an oath, sank into a chair.

She passed out, closing the door after her. On thebottom of the stairs she found the man sitting with hishands in his pockets, his hat on the back of his head; buthe sprang up and removed his hat as she appeared. Shemade a slight gesture with her hand, and he followedher 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 hislordship told you?”

“No matter,” she said. “Do you know who I am?”

His eyes dropped before her steady gaze, and helooked rather uncertain how to answer.

“I see you do!” she said.

“Well, yes, my lady. You see, I get about a gooddeal,” he added, apologetically, “and anybody who isaccustomed to seeing much of the upper ten, knows LadyGrace Peyton.”

She looked round as he spoke her name, and bither lip.

“Yes, I am Lady Grace Peyton,” she said; “and Ihave come to see Lord Cecil Neville because he is introuble. I am a very great friend of his.”

The man nodded appreciatively. He took her wordsas 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 justa bit of a hole at present! It’s not much of a hole, buthe 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 denyingit, my lady, especially if—begging your pardon for theliberty—you are going to help him; and I suppose youare?”

“Yes,” she said, quietly. “What is the amount?”

He handed her the paper.

“Is that all?”

“All I’m concerned with,” he replied, significantly.

[Pg 228]

“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 acertain amount of emphasis.

“Yes, I will! It’s not usual, but I’d trust your ladyshipto the utmost.”

“Walk down the street and beckon the cab to follow,please,” she said. “I do not wish Lord Neville to seeus together. I do not wish him to know anything ofwhat I have done. Can I trust you?”

“You can, my lady,” he said.

They drove in silence to the West End branch of thebank, which was only half-a-mile off, and Lady Gracedrew 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, LadyGrace,” he said. “If ever I’ve had a disagreeable job,this one of Lord Neville’s was one. Most of ’em treatone like dirt, and give a lot of trouble into the bargain.I’ve met with rough usage sometimes, my lady; but LordNeville, though he’s young and full of go, so to speak,has behaved like a gentleman, and treated me as if Ihad the feelings of a man. Yes, he’s a nobleman, everyinch 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 himmyself 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 fromwhom 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’sgloomy “Come in,” entered, and pantingly surveyed himwith a smile.

“Well?” said Lord Cecil, grimly. “You are agreeablysurprised at finding me here still! Most jailbirds wouldhave taken advantage of your absence and flown, wouldthey not?”

“Yes, they would,” assented the man, emphatically.“But I spoke the truth when I said you were a real[Pg 229]nobleman. And I didn’t hurry back because I wasafraid. No!—I knew you’d wait! You are the rightsort, you are, my lord!”

“Thanks,” said Lord Cecil, curtly; “and where haveyou been?”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, that’s a secret; butI’ve been on business, and there it is!” and he laid thedischarge on the table.

Lord Cecil took it up indifferently; then, when he hadrealized its purport, he started and flushed.

“Why!—what does this mean?” he demanded.

“It means that the claim is settled, and that you area free man, my lord,” said the officer, warmly; “and ifyou’ll allow me to offer my respectful congratulationsand a word of warning——”

“A word of warning?” said Lord Cecil, confusedly.

“Yes, my lord. This business—though it’s all rightin a legal way—has had a curious feature or two aboutit. I mean that there’s been some underhand workgoing on: Jews, I expect. You see, though the amountswere owing to several persons originally, they’ve beenbought up by some one—some one who’s got a grudgeagainst you! Can you guess who it is?”

Lord Cecil shook his head.

“I know no one who has any grudge against me,” hesaid, still bewildered.

“Very well, my lord, all the more reason that youshould keep your eyes open. At any rate, you’re clearof ’em now, and I wish you good-day. You won’t besorry 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 thismoney. 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! Whowas it? The marquis?”

The man shook his head again.

“I’m pledged, my lord,” he said. “But it wasn’t themarquis—confound him!” he added, under his breath.

[Pg 230]

“Not the marquis? I know of no one else—stop!”His face went crimson. “The lady who was here”—hesprang forward and seized the man’s arm in a grip likethat 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 theofficer, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded ruefully andwent out.

Lord Cecil paced up and down the room with the dischargein his hand. The excitement of the last twenty-fourhours, the suspense respecting Doris, the arrest, andnow this sudden release, added to his physical exhaustion,told upon him fearfully.

That he owed his escape from the disgrace of imprisonmentto Lady Grace he could not doubt. Doris, onwhose truth he would have staked his life, had jilted him;his uncle, the marquis, had, in his hour of trouble, disdainfullydeserted him and cast him aside and thiswoman, whom he had regarded as a perfect type ofworldliness, had come to his aid and freed him.

She had done more than that, for she had risked herreputation in her desire to show him her sympathy withhim. She had done that which only one woman in athousand would have dared to do: come to his roomalone and unprotected.

A man is never so tender as regards his heart as inthe moment when he has been betrayed by one womanand succored by another; and Lord Cecil’s heartthrobbed with a painful sense of admiration and gratitudetoward this woman of the world, the girl whomhe had always regarded as just a society beauty, whohad, at such fearful risks to her own name, come to hisside in his dark hour.

“May Heaven forget me if ever I forget it!” he saidto himself, not once nor twice only. “What shall I sayto her? What am I to do to show her how I feel aboutit? And where shall I get the money to repay her? Ican’t let her be the loser; I must pay her; but how—buthow?”

Meanwhile, Lady Grace had reached her house in[Pg 231]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’ OrphanHome.

“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 haveseen him, then?”

“Yes, I have seen him,” she said, in a low voice. “Iwas only just in time.”

He smiled with an air of complacency.

“Oh, I think I timed it carefully,” he said. “I knewhe would be at the office the moment they opened it; Icalculated that he would be arrested shortly after, andthat he would go to his rooms and telegraph to themarquis, allowing a little over an hour—say two—forthe 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 notoccur to him to ascertain if she had really sailed; if ithad——” She paused, significantly.

The philanthropist laughed with unctuous enjoyment.

“But he didn’t, you see, my dear young lady. Thatis just the little risk one has to run; but, after all, it isn’tmuch risk. Why should he suspect that any one shouldgo to the trouble and expense of booking a passage forMiss Marlowe? And you found him in bonds—juststarting for prison?” And he rubbed his hands togetherwith renewed enjoyment. “Poor Cecil! Really, it isvery sad that one should be compelled to take suchstrong measures. And yet, after all, will not the lessonbe a salutary one? Pride must have a fall, dear lady;pride must have a fall! And our dear Cecil”—his smalleyes glinted maliciously for a moment—“was very, veryproud! And you paid the money?”

She looked up with a little start.

[Pg 232]

“Yes, I paid the money. In fact, I have carried outyour instructions to the letter.”

“Yes, yes; you are a courageous girl, dear lady. It isnot every one so well known as you who would so farbrave the consequences as to go to a gentleman’s rooms——”

She looked at him, with a flash in her eyes and witha tight compression of the lips, but he pretended not tonotice the warning signs.

“Our dear Cecil ought to be very grateful to you;very! And, if I know his generous nature—and I fancyI do—I think he must be. Oh, yes, he will never forgetit—never! Why, bless me, if it were known—if, forinstance, any acquaintance had seen you going or departing—whatwould not be said?” And he held up hisfat hands.

She sprang to her feet, and stood with her handpressed against the chair, her bosom heaving, her magnificenteyes fixed upon him with suppressed fury.

“A word, a hint, just a whisper, is enough nowadaysfor the scandal-loving world; and I can just fancy howdelighted the society papers would be with such a daintymorsel as the incident of a visit to Lord C——l N——lfrom Lady G——e P——n. They never print the namein full; oh, no; but everybody understands——”

“Take care!” she breathed. “Do not drive me toofar!”

“Oh, yes, yes; we must take care!” he assented, feigningto misunderstand her. “We must not breathe aword of it, of course; must flatly contradict it, if we heara hint dropped. But there, dear Cecil would rather diethan admit it!”

“Yes,” she said, between her teeth; “yes, you speakthe truth there; he would rather die than harm shouldcome to me—to any one—for his sake!”

“Y-e-s, he is so high-minded, isn’t he? And howdoes the dear fellow bear this blow? It isn’t pleasant tobe jilted, is it? Is he resigned? I am curious now tohear how he takes it!”

“Go to him and ask him!” she said, with fine scorn.“Take care, Spenser Churchill! Up to the present yourschemes have succeeded. You know best how far they[Pg 233]will carry you. To me it seems that you—and I arewalking on a volcano. What if he should find this—thisgirl?”

“Miss Marlowe, do you mean?” he said. “My dearlady, you forget; she is in Australia!” he said.

“Is she in London?” she asked, in a lower voice, andlooking 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,” hesaid, seriously. “The young lady in question left Englandnearly a week ago, and there is no chance of ourfriend 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 warmcrimson 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 andsettled down. Don’t you agree with me? Ah, I see it istoo delicate a subject. Well, good-morning, dear lady.Accept my profound homage and admiration for yourcourage and generosity in our dear young friend’s behalf,”and with another chuckle he smiled himself out of theroom.

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’mthere, that I’m living somewhere in Regent’s Park, nearthe canal, you know; and, as for the country in England,you either get burned up by the heat or drowned by therain. But Florence”—she paused, and sighed contentedly—“oh,it’s always delicious!”

She was lying in a hammock, swung between twolaburnums, on the lawn in front of the Villa Rimini, andshe addressed Doris, who sat on the ground, with anopen book in her lap, but with her eyes fixed dreamily[Pg 234]on the exquisite view, which stretched out in an endlessvista of grassy plains, and violet-tinted hills, over whichthe full moon was shedding its silvery light.

The soft evening breeze came to the two women, ladenwith flowers, as with an offering; there were flowerseverywhere; 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; onthe plains, which lay like embroidered cloths beneaththem, and over the hills, to which they lent color andperfume.

It was a land of fairies, a land of beauty, in which everybreath of wind that blew carried with it the memory ofmusic and song, of laughter and joyfulness. In a word,it was Florence in the height of her loveliness, crownedas a bride for her bridegroom the summer, and rejoicingin her splendor.

The Villa Rimini, with its numerous windows twinklingwith the recently-lit candles, was one of the mostbeautiful of the many palatial residences in the “City ofFlowers.” It had been a home of one of the ancientprinces, and when Lady Despard had first seen, fanciedand bought it, was nearly in ruins; but, with the immensewealth at her command, she had restored it, if not toquite its ancient splendor, at least to a semblance whichcame very near the original reality.

Marble corridors, vast saloons, with rare hangingsand costly frescoes, statues which the Louvre wouldgladly have bidden for, antique fountains and pricelessmosaics were all here as in the days when the princelyowners 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, ofwhich the Villa Rimini was, by right of its splendor andthe rank and wealth of Lady Despard, the center.

Her hospitality was limitless, and the Salon of thePrinces, as the vast reception-room was called, was everyafternoon the scene of a gathering which almost resembleda royal levee; while the widely-extending groundswere open to those fortunate individuals who had procuredan introduction to the wealthy owner.

[Pg 235]

To the Villa Rimini came also the Florentine nobility;tall, grave-looking Italians, with their high-bred voicesand polished manners, men whom Doris always picturedas wearing the silken hose and brocaded tunics of theirforefathers in the old Florentine days, when men woreshoes almost as pointed as the swords which were alwaysready to leap from their scabbards with—or without—theslightest provocation.

Amidst these surroundings, Lady Despard held whatmight, with little exaggeration, be termed a court; butit might be said, to her credit, the admiration, the adorationshe received did not turn her head, probably becauseshe recognized the obvious fact that she shared herthrone with the quiet-looking, soft-voiced girl who hadcome to her as a companion, and whom she had grownto regard and love as a friend.

Once, when the reception was over and the twowomen were alone, as they were this evening, she lookedat Doris, laughingly, and said:

“Well, dear, tired of all the adulation and worship, orare 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 wereaddressed to Miss Marlowe, and your bouquets werequite 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. Youare the sun, I am merely the shadow. Some day someone will pluck the sun from its place, and the shadowwill 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, andI confess that I tremble every day lest you should comeand 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, youand I, dear! If girls could only know when they arewell off! But they never do. It’s only when they have[Pg 236]resigned their liberty and given all their heart for abouta quarter of some selfish man’s that they discover what afraud matrimony is!”

And Doris had made no reply beyond the quiet,“mouselike smile,” and a little sigh, which was too lowto reach her companion’s ear.

Not Lady Despard alone, but many another of the frequentersof the Villa Rimini, have wondered that thisbeautiful English girl should be so irresponsive to theadmiration and attentions lavished upon her. Men ofrank and position, for whom the matrons of societyangled unceasingly, paid court to her, needing but asmile or word of encouragement to lay their titles at herfeet; but the smile nor the word were never extended tothem. As the Princess of Carthage, clad in the mysticveil, moved, like an unapproachable spirit, among thesuitors at her father’s court, so Doris Marlowe lived,surrounded by a barrier of reserve which, vague andintangible as it was, served to keep the most ardent atarm’s length.

The past alone was to her reality; the present seemedlike 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 themurmur of the brook in Barton meadows, mingling withthe voice of the man who had won her heart and tossedit aside, shattered and broken forever.

Often she wondered whether he had married the LadyGrace—whose name, when first she had heard it on hislips, had sounded like a knell in her ears.

If stone walls do not a prison make, a crowd cannotdestroy solitude, and Doris, in the midst of the brilliantthrong which made the Villa Rimini its center, lived ina mental and spiritual solitude, on the threshold of whichonly two persons ever trod. One was Lady Despard,whom she loved, the other was—Percy Levant. Shewould have treated him as coldly as she did all theothers, but it was impossible. He made it impossible bynever giving her a chance of repulsing him. Since theevening he had come to Chester Gardens for the firsttime he had never paid her a single compliment, and[Pg 237]from his lips alone she never received a single “pretty”speech.

Although he slept at the inn, he had a luxurious suiteof apartments in the villa, and they met at almost everymeal, and frequently during the day, but his manner toDoris was one of studious courtesy toned by a reservewhich matched her own.

By the rest he was regarded as the most charming ofmen. The women secretly—some of them openly—adoredhim for his good looks, which were remarkableeven in that land of handsome faces, and for the exquisitevoice, which was always at their service. Themen voted him a “good fellow,” and were warm in hispraises. The reception from which he was absent alwaysseemed lacking in its accustomed brightness, andno dance or outdoor excursion was complete withoutMr. Percy Levant.

Perhaps the air of mystery which surrounded him increasedthe interest he awakened. Nobody knew anythingabout him, except that he was in Florence to studymusic, and, in some vague, unexplained way, to collectmaterials for a magnificent and unique music-roomwhich Lady Despard intended building in one of herhouses, and at some unfixed time in the dim future.

Of himself, and his own affairs and past history, hewas as silent as Doris was of hers; and people who wereat first inclined to be curious accepted his want of a pastand were content to take him for what he was—a light-heartedwaif floating like a bubble on the surface of society.

To the superficial frequenters of the Villa Rimini hedid not seem to have a care and scarcely an object inlife, excepting it were to play and sing at all times andseasons, whenever Lady Despard requested him.

But Doris was something more than a superficial observer,and often when, in the early morning or in thedelicious gloaming, she was wandering dreamily throughthe flower-scented grounds, she would come across himpacing moodily beneath the trees, or lying on a bank,with his head resting on his hands, and his handsomeface darkened by an expression which would have[Pg 238]startled his many friends who thought they knew himquite intimately.

At such times he would spring up, dispelling hismoodiness instantly, and resume his usual manner; butthe impression he had made remained with Doris.

And, having seen him off his guard, as it were, shefound herself, at odd times, thinking of him. Heseemed as alone in the midst of the pleasure-seekingcrowd as herself. From thinking of him in an indifferent,casual kind of way, she grew, all unconsciously, toentertain a vague sort of sympathy for him, which shewould never have been capable of if he had lavished complimentsupon her, as the rest did. She felt convincedthat some shadow lay in his past, and that the ready jestand the fluent laugh only hid a wound which he was tooproud to permit the world to gape at.

This was the first phase of their relation; the secondbegan during the second week of their Florentine life.She became conscious that his presence at the villa contributednot only to the enjoyment of Lady Despard andthe rest, but to hers!

In an indescribable way he seemed to know exactlywhat was wanted at any given moment, and to supply it,and his thoughtfulness, strangely enough, always appearedto save trouble to Doris.

From the first day of her coming to Lady Despard,she had undertaken the arrangement of the flowers inthe various rooms, and she continued to do so in Florenceas in London. The head gardener was accustomedto send up huge baskets of flowers each morning, whichDoris would set out and arrange in the various vasesand bowls. It was a long task, and one morning he hadentered the salon and found her in the midst of it, lookingrather pale and tired, for the room was hot and closewith the almost overpowering perfume.

“That is a serious business,” he said, in his quietfashion.

“Isn’t it?” she assented, with a smile.

He said nothing more, and passed out; but the nextmorning Doris found the flowers spread out on a table,under an awning, in a shady part of the terrace.

[Pg 239]

“Why, how thoughtful of the gardener!” she said toLady 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; hedid it himself, and put the awning up.”

“It was very kind of him,” said Doris, and when hecame in to breakfast she thanked him.

He bowed, slightly.

“It is cooler out there,” he said, simply, and turned tospeak to Lady Despard at once.

A few evenings afterward a discussion arose respectinga book that had suddenly leaped into popular favor.

“What do you think of it, Miss Marlowe?” inquired anold 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 appearedthat no one possessed a copy.

“Oh, you must read it! I’ll send to London for acopy,” said the count.

An hour afterward some one wanted a song fromPercy Levant, but he was nowhere to be found, butpresently one of the young men, of whom there werealways more than a sufficient quantity at the villa, camein 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 inthe hall, wet through; it’s raining cats and dogs, youknow! Can’t make out where on earth he’s been, don’tyou know!”

A little later, Percy Levant sauntered into the room,and Doris saw him laughing and talking with one andanother on his way to the piano, and she thought thelad must have been mistaken; but, when all had gone,and she was going upstairs, he came to her, with somethingin 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,” hereplied.

“Then it was for that you went out and got wet!” she[Pg 240]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 incidentwere done with.

Gradually she began to realize that in any difficulty hewas always at her side. A big picnic was to be arranged,and Lady Despard, who had got accustomed to leavingeverything to Doris, had done so on this occasion, andDoris was up early in the morning to give the necessaryorders. She found that all the preparations had beenmade. Mr. Percy Levant had interviewed the majordomo, and the thing was done.

When Doris thanked him, he smiled, and courteouslycut her short.

“I don’t deserve any thanks,” he said. “You see, myItalian is not so good as yours, and I was anxious topractice it with the major domo, that’s all. We are allmoved by selfish motives, Miss Marlowe.”

“Not all,” said Doris. “Not Mr. Percy Levant.”

He started slightly, and fixed his brilliant eyes on herfor 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 thesame unobtrusiveness, which was almost coldness, butwhich was very welcome to Doris, contrasted with thefervent, accentuated attention of the rest of the men.

This evening, as she sat beside the hammock, lookingat the stars, which were beginning to peep out from themidst of the deep blue of the sky, and thinking of thepast, she was conscious, in a half-troubled way, of recallingone of the innumerable services Percy Levanthad rendered her, and she started when Lady Despardsaid, in her sleepy fashion:

“I wonder where Mr. Levant is? Has he gone to thehotel? I haven’t seen him all the evening. How onemisses him, doesn’t one?”

“Yes,” said Doris. “That is our tribute to his amiability.”

Lady Despard laughed.

[Pg 241]

“He is quite the bright particular star of our group,”she said. “Some of our fair Florentine friends are almostmad about him. I shouldn’t wonder if he werecaught and chained before we leave.”

“Yes?” said Doris.

Lady Despard leaned over the hammock and regardedher with a lazy smile.

“What a cold little ‘yes,’” she said. “I really believeyou 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——” Shestopped and picked up the book, for unnoticed by LadyDespard 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 otherwith his usual smile, but Doris, glancing up at him, saw,or fancied she saw, the shadow of the darkness whichshe, and she alone, had discovered his face could wear.

“Oh, no one you know,” said Lady Despard. “Mayone ask where you have been all this long while?”

“All this long while! A few hours! What a testimonyto one’s worth!” he said, as lightly as before, buthis eyes, as they rested on Doris’ pensive face, weregrave and intent. “I have been wandering in thewoods, listening to the birds.”

“While we have been dying to listen to you,” saidLady Despard, with mock reproach. “We have missedyou terribly, haven’t we, Doris?”

“Miss Marlowe is halting between truth and politeness,”he said, as Doris remained silent. “I will spareher a reply.”

“We’ve had no music to speak of,” said Lady Despard.“Won’t you sing us something now? Shall wego into the house?”

“No, no,” he said, almost abruptly. “Who would exchangethis”—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[Pg 242]scarcely more than a whisper, the melody stirred her toher depths, and brought the tears to her eyes.

“That is beautiful,” said Lady Despard, with a littlesigh. “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-nightnow.”

He did not offer to shake hands, and the two ladiesleft him and went toward the house. As they were ascendingthe steps, Lady Despard stopped, and utteredan 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 beensitting, when, with a start, she saw in the starlight, aman lying full length on the grass, with his face hiddenon his arm. It was Percy Levant. He sprang up atthe sound of her footsteps, and confronted her, andDoris 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 recoveredherself. “I have come back for Lady Despard’sbracelet,” stooping down and looking about her, to givehim time.

“It is here,” he said, picking it up.

“Thanks!” she said. “Good-night!”

“Wait! Will you wait a moment?” he asked, and hisvoice, usually so soft and musical, sounded hoarse andstrained.

Doris stood, silent and downcast, and waited for himto go on.

NOT LOVE, BUT PITY.

Doris’ own face grew a little paler as she looked athim, so haggard was his; and yet his pallor lent an addedcharm to his delicately-cut features and expressive, deeply-coloredeyes bent upon her with a strange, intent look, asshe 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 momentin silence, leaning against one of the trees to whichthe hammock was slung, his arms folded, his head sunkon his breast, and a nightingale in a neighboring tree commencedto sing; all her life afterward Doris never hearda nightingale without recalling this night.

“Miss Marlowe,” he said, at last, and he spoke in avoice so low that it seemed to harmonize with the voice ofthe bird. “If I were wise I should let you go, evennow! But—I cannot, I cannot! Chance is too strongfor me. It sent you back to find me—as you found me,and I must speak to you, and perhaps for the last time. Iam leaving the villa—Italy. I go to England to-morrow.”

Doris glanced up at him; a streak of light from one ofthe brilliant windows fell across his handsome face, andshe saw that, with all his self-command, his lips trembled.

“I am sorry,” she murmured, and a faint thrill of regretstirred her. She knew that he had been her friend, thatwith all his apparent coldness and reserve he had neverlost an opportunity of quietly serving her. “I am afraidyou have heard bad news.”

“No,” he said. “I have heard no bad news, for thebest of reasons; there is no one to send me news of anykind, bad or good. I am a man without a friend in theworld.”

“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,[Pg 244]and shall ever be, grateful—will she remember me afterone week’s absence, excepting as that of the man whosevoice helped to while away an idle half-hour, and amuseher 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 manof no account, a speck of dust dancing in the sunbeamone moment, the next, floating in the gutter. Don’t thinkI say this to excite your pity. No! It is because I wantyou to remember what I am, how worthless and insignificant—justPercy Levant, ‘the man who sings for LadyDespard!’”

He smiled with a bitter self-scorn which lent to his facean air of tragedy that fascinated Doris.

“And now you wonder, seeing that I am basking in thesunshine just at present, that I should wish to leave it, andsink into the mire again. I don’t wish it. If I could Iwould remain at the Villa Rimini, to play the part ofLady Despard’s singing man, till she grew weary, or thevoice which renders me acceptable lost its novelty andbecame valueless. But I cannot stay. A power strongerthan my will is driving me, and if you had not come backto seek for her ladyship’s bracelet, I should have gonewithout a word of farewell to you, who are the cause ofmy flight.”

Doris started and looked up at him.

“I?” she said, her brows drawn together with startledtrouble.

“Yes, you, Miss Marlowe,” he said, quietly, but withsomething 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 patientwith me!” He held out his hand with a sudden gestureof entreaty, then let it fall to his side. “How poor, howfriendless, how completely alone I am, you know; but Iam base enough to be proud as well, and all my life I havebeen prouder of nothing more than my power to repaythe world’s scorn of my poverty and abjectness with myscorn for the world. I prided myself on the fact that Ihad no heart. For other men there might be happiness,a life shared with some one whom they loved, and wholoved them in return; for me, the social outcast, the[Pg 245]pariah, there could be no such thing as love, no hope thatany woman could be found to share my poverty and myhopelessness. So I went through the world, hardeningmy heart, and telling myself that at least I should bespared 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. Youdon’t remember that night, I dare say; I shall never forgetit, for it was the night upon which I first saw you—firstlearned that all my pride was to melt at the sight of awoman’s face, at the sound of a woman’s voice. MissMarlowe, if I had been a wise man, I would have takenmy hat and gone out of your presence never to return; butthe spell was wrought, and I consented to come here inthe train of Lady Despard, as her jester—her singingman. I would have come in the capacity of her footmanor 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 madea movement to depart, but he stretched out his hand againpleadingly.

“Ah! wait! Let me finish. I fought hard against theinfluence 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 littleavail as it would be to try and stem the incoming tide.The iron had entered my soul, and I knew all at once thatmy heart and life were bound up in one sentiment, my intenselove 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 loveits brightest ornament!”

And he laughed with mingled sadness and bitterness.

“I was mad, was I not? I ought to have selected herlady’s maid—any one of the maids about the place. ButMiss Marlowe! The beautiful creature for whose smilelords and princes, men of fame and note, were willing tocontend! Mad! Yes! But all love is madness, so theysay, and—well, that is my only excuse. And now, before[Pg 246]you send me away with one of those gentle smiles ofyours, let me tell you what I have to offer you. Myself—andnothing! I have nothing but my voice to dependupon. I lay it at your feet, knowing well that at a wordfrom you other men would lay their coronets and theirgold 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 along 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 shouldnot be ashamed of the man whose hand you had stoopedto take. Yes!”—he bent forward with outstretchedhands. “With your love to encourage me, with you bymy side to make the struggle worth while, I would wina name which at least might be not unworthy of you!Ah, think a moment!” he pleaded, his voice suddenly quiveringin its intensity. “Think what your answer meansto me! To any of these others it might matter a gooddeal, I grant, whether you said them ‘yes’ or ‘no;’ but theyhave so many other things to live for—rank, wealth, placein the world! But I! I have nothing but this wild madlove of mine, this deep love for you which seems part andparcel of my very being! Miss Marlowe—Doris—it isa beggar who pleads to you for the one chance which willlift him from a life which has never yet known happinessto one of hope and perfect joy! Think and—ah, I loveyou! I love you! Don’t send me away!” and he was onhis knees beside her, his face upturned to hers with anexpression which a man might wear who is indeed pleadingfor his life.

Doris looked down at him speechlessly. His passionateavowal, the wonderful music of every word, the handsomeface and thrilling eyes affected her strangely; butshe was more moved by the confession of his lowlinessand loneliness than by aught else. She, too, was shenot 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 havingto tell him that there was no hope for him smote her[Pg 247]with a keen sense of pain! She dreaded seeing his faceas she dealt the blow. She herself had loved, you see, andcould sympathize with him. Heaven! how hard it wasthat she should have to rob the friendless, solitary manof his one chance of happiness! She faltered and hesitated;and a light of hope—wild, almost maddening hope—burnedin his eyes.

“Doris!” he breathed; “Doris!”

“Hush! hush!” she said. “Ah! why have you told methis? Why didn’t you go without telling me?”

“Forgive me!” he answered. “I was going. If youhad not come back in the moment of my struggle, youwould not have seen me again! And now I have toldyou! You hesitate!”

“I hesitate because——” she paused, and looked downat him with sweet, troubled gravity and tenderness, thetenderness of a woman who is about to deal a man wholoves her the deadliest blow he can receive at her hands.“Because I cannot love you. I”—her voice broke, butshe struggled with it and went on—“I care nothing forrank or wealth; they are nothing to me. I should saywhat I have said if you were a prince. I shall nevermarry 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—thatyou wished me to be your wife; but I knew that you weremy 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 wonderingwhether by some miracle I should win you! Your friend!Well, I played my part well—I hid my heart’s secret whileit was possible.”

“Yes,” she said, gently. “I never guessed it! Andnow we must part—I must lose my friend! But I amgrateful—ah, so grateful. You speak as if I were so farabove you! You forget that I also am alone, and lowlierthan 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. Losingyou I say good-by to any hope of happiness; good-by to[Pg 248]ambition! Percy Levant and the world have done witheach other from to-night!”

“Oh, no! no!” she murmured, pleadingly. “You donot know! If I told you that I am not worthy of yourlove; that I am not only poor and friendless, but”—herface went paler, and her lips quivered—“but nameless!That my life has been wrecked——”

“Wait! wait!” he said, with a strange expression on hisface, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Tell me nothing! Iknow—I know as surely as that these stars are aboveus, that not an ignoble thought, not one unworthy deed,has ever stained your life. What sorrows have come toyou have been undeserved. Nothing could shake myfaith in you, my queen, for you are my heart’s queen.Ah, Doris, give yourself to me from to-night! Let memake a fresh life for you; let me teach you to forget thepast; let me make the future for you! Say yes, for mysake—or your own! Yes, for your own! See how confidentI am that I can make you forget—make you happy!It is my love gives me confidence. I ask for so little—Idon’t ask you to love me! I ask you to confide yourselfand your future to me. I know that I shall win your love—Iam not afraid.” His face lit up as if transfigured bythe hope that had sprung up within his breast. “Withyou 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—forso much love?”

“Content? Yes!” he responded, fervently, with a worldof meaning in his voice. “Yes, I shall be content! I canguess, though you shall tell me nothing now, dearest, thatthere has been some one else, some other man, who provedunworthy the great treasure of your love, that you havenot forgotten him, and the sorrow he caused you! I asknothing! I am content to wait, and win back your heartfor myself, and I shall win it! Now, my queen, give memy sentence,” and he held his hand out to her.

Half-dazed by his passionate pleading, touched by thegenerosity of his faith and belief in her, thinking of himand not of herself, Doris slowly let her hand fall into his.

[Pg 249]

He did not take her in his arms, but his hand closed onhers and held it in a close grasp, then, as he pressed hislips to it, he murmured: “My queen! my queen!” with apassionate reverence that would have moved a harderheart than Doris’.

She drew her hand from his clasp gently, and he did notoffer to retain it, as if he meant to show her that hispromise to be content to wait until he had won her lovewas 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 happinessmeans! Good-night, my love, my queen!”

She looked at him for a moment through a mist of tears—tearsthat fell upon the grave of her old love—and thenglided from his side.

He stood, where she had left him, watching her till theglimmer of her white dress faded from his sight; then hethrew himself on the ground and covered his eyes with hishands.

“Great Heaven!” he murmured, “am I mad or dreaming?Is she mine, mine, mine? Oh, my darling, mybeautiful! 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 suddenhorror, for there in front of him stood Mr. SpenserChurchill. He stood with his pale, smooth face smilingunctuously down upon him, a half-mocking smile curvingthe sleek lips.

“Ah, my dear Percy!” he murmured, smoothly. “Howdo you do? How do you do? Surprised to see me.Yes. You look rather startled. Almost as if you hadforgotten me!”

Percy Levant rose to his feet, his eyes still fixed onthe smiling face.

“By Heaven;” he breathed, almost with a groan. “Ihad forgotten you!”

“Really? Now wasn’t that a little ungrateful, eh?To forget your best friend—one who has always hadyour best and truest interests at heart! Tut, tut, my dearPercy.”

[Pg 250]

“When—when did you come?” demanded the other, ina low voice.

“Almost this moment. I have just looked in at thevilla, and greeted our fair hostess. Hearing that mydear young friend, Miss Marlowe, was in the garden, Iasked permission to come in search of her, and—er—foundher so deeply engaged that I did not venture to intrudemyself.”

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’sconversation, I took a little stroll, and waited until theinterview had come to a close.”

Percy Levant leaned against the tree with his armsfolded, his head bent upon his breast, but his eyes stillfixed upon the other man’s. His face was pale, and therewere great drops of sweat upon his brow.

“And how goes our little arrangement, my dearPercy? Am I to congratulate you? Though I didn’tlisten, as you so cruelly suggested, I gathered that yoursuit was meeting with a favorable reception. Did myjudgment play me false, or has Miss Marlowe acceptedyou?”

The younger man remained silent for a moment; thenhe 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 PercyLevant had seized the speaker by the shoulder, and heldhim in a grasp of steel.

“Silence!” he groaned out between his teeth. “Whatdevil 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 knewthat that handsome face and lovely voice of yours wouldprove irresistible; but I wanted to see for myself how ourlittle scheme was going on——”

[Pg 251]

“And I had forgotten you!” dropped from Percy Levant’slips. “Yes, I swear it! I remembered nothing butthat I loved her——”

Mr. Spenser Churchill’s lips wreathed in a rather painfulsmile, for the grasp of the strong hand made himshudder.

“You—you fiend, you cannot believe it, cannot understand!How should such as you believe that I had forgottenour devilish contract, that I should love her forherself alone——” He broke off and his head dropped.

“Come, come, my dear Percy, the delicate sentiment youhave expressed does you credit. Of course you love MissMarlowe for herself, and the fact that you happen toknow that she is not so poor as she thinks herself—in fact,that in marrying her you make a rich man of yourself—goesfor nothing. Of course, of course! Very nice and—er—proper.But—would you mind taking your handfrom my shoulder; you have remarkably strong fingers,my dear Percy! But I trust you will not forget that Ihave a curious document in my possession——”

Percy Levant withdrew his hand with a sudden andviolent thrust that caused the philanthropist to spin roundlike a teetotum.

“Remember? Yes, I remember!” he said, hoarsely.“It would be as well for you if I had continued to forgetit! Keep out of my sight while you are here, or I willnot answer for myself!”

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE GLASS OF FASHION.

Doris went back to the house scarcely knowing whethershe was awake or dreaming. Could it be possible thatshe had promised to be Percy Levant’s wife? She stoodfor a moment outside the door of Lady Despard’s boudoir,trying to realize all that had passed, and the step she hadtaken so strangely, so suddenly, and when Lady Despardcalled out, “Is that you, Doris?” she started like oneawakening from sleep.

“Yes, it is I,” she said. “There is your bracelet.”

[Pg 252]

“Oh, thank you, dear. I am afraid you have had ahard search! Why—what is the matter?” she broke offto exclaim as Doris turned her face to the light. “Why,dear, you are as white as a ghost, and your hands”—takingthem anxiously—“are burning. Doris, you havetaken a chill! You foolish child, to stay out so long, andon account of this stupid bracelet. Why, it isn’t of theslightest 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 theleopard skin at Lady Despard’s feet. “I have somethingto tell you, Lady Despard. It was not your bracelet thatkept me so long; I—I have been talking to Mr. Levant.”

“To Percy Levant! He was there still? What couldhe have to say? Ah! You don’t mean to tell me, Doris,that he has proposed to you?” exclaimed her ladyship, ina tone of suppressed excitement.

“Yes,” said Doris, in a low voice; “he has asked meto be his wife.”

“And—and you said ‘No,’ of course?”

“I said ‘Yes,’” replied Doris.

Her ladyship sank back, and stared at the pale, lovelyface.

“You—said—‘yes’! But, good heavens, my dearDoris, have you thought? Percy Levant! Why, child,there are half-a-dozen of the best of the men here madlyin love with you. I know—I know—that the PrinceRomanis is only waiting an opportunity to propose toyou! He hinted as much to me yesterday! And PercyLevant! Of course, I’m not surprised that he should askyou; I’ve seen that he was over head in love with you.Of course, we’ve all seen it, but never thought he wouldventure to tell you, least of all that he should ask you tobe his wife. Why—why, he hasn’t a penny; he is aspoor 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 oftalking; it’s his face and his voice, of course. And howlong have you cared for him? Are you sure you lovehim?”

Doris’ face grew scarlet for a moment, then went paleagain.

[Pg 253]

“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 thatyou love him!”

Doris leaned her head upon her hand so that her facewas hidden from Lady Despard’s anxiously searchingeyes.

“I respect him; I think him worthy——”

Lady Despard broke in impatiently:

“My dear, dear child, how can you tell? What experiencehave 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 knowsthat I do not, and he is content. Lady Despard, I havehad two great sorrows in my life—the loss of him whostood as a father to me was one; the other was the discoverythat 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 tendersympathy.

“My poor Doris!” she said, gently and pityingly. “Andthat is why you are so cold to them all? I might haveknown there was something. I am so sorry, dear! But—butwhy consent to marry Percy Levant?”

Doris smiled wearily.

“I—don’t be angry with me—I don’t think I can answerin set terms. Perhaps it is because I think I can makehim happy; perhaps it is because he is as lonely as I am,or should be but for you, dear Lady Despard. Whyshould I not marry him and make his life happier andbrighter? Perhaps”—her lips quivered—“I shall learnto forget the past now that I have buried it forever!”

Lady Despard looked at her with troubled apprehension.

[Pg 254]

“My dear——” she commenced, but Doris stopped heralmost excitedly.

“If you are going to tell me that that is hopeless, thatI shall never forget, don’t go on,” she said, in a low, hurriedvoice. “Right or wrong, I have given my word, and—andfor the future it is of him I shall think and not ofmyself. I am a woman—and shall not break my promise,”she added, almost to herself, and with a touch of bitternessas she thought of the man who had broken his promiseto her. “Dear Lady Despard, I have told you becauseI thought it right you should know, because,” with a littlewince, “I will never again conceal anything—anythingthat should be told. And now you will accept it as somethingfixed and irrevocable, will you not? And you willwish me happiness?” she added, looking up at her with asmile shining through a veil of tears.

Lady Despard stooped and put her arm round the slenderneck and kissed her.

“Wish you happiness? With all my heart, dear!” shesaid, warmly. “And now you must forgive all I havesaid. I was a little surprised and—yes, just a little disappointed.I was thinking of the poor prince, you mustremember. But, after all, you have chosen the handsomestand nicest man of them all; and I’m sure all thewomen will be fit to die with envy.” Doris smiled at thischaracteristic touch. “And as to his being poor—why,we will see about that, my dear. They tell me I’ve no endof influence, and it will be a very hard case if we can’tfind some nice place for him. Oh, you needn’t blush,dear; I know he is proud, and you, too, but it’s the dutyof practical folks like me to look after such romanticyoung couples as you! Oh, you will see! And now I’vegot 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 conundrumto-night,” she said.

“I dare say not. Well, Mr. Spenser Churchill—yourguardian, as I call him—is here.”

Doris started.

“He!” she said, in a low voice, as the old feeling ofmingled fear and repugnance rose within her.

“Yes! I was as surprised as you are, for he had not[Pg 255]written, as you know. He is out in the grounds lookingfor you——”

Doris rose almost hastily.

“I—I think I will go to bed,” she said. “I am verytired, 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 andhide yourself to-night. And, am I to tell him, dear?”

Doris turned at the door.

“You may tell every one,” she said, quietly. “All theworld may know it. It is quite fixed and certain, LadyDespard.”

Doris lay awake all through that night trying to realizethe fact that she was betrothed to Percy Levant, and bythe morning she had succeeded. She would begin a newchapter of her life from this date. The past, which wasilluminated by the memory of those happy days in Bartonmeadows, when she loved and thought herself beloved byLord Cecil Neville, must be buried forever. In the futureshe must set her heart upon one task, that of learning tolove the man who loved her so truly and devotedly, andwhom she had promised to marry.

She went down to breakfast a little paler than usual,but very calm and self-possessed, looking, as Lady Despardthought, as she greeted her with a loving kiss, like alily, in her simple white frock.

“Well, dear!” she said, “you have come down, then! Itold Mr. Churchill that you were so tired last night thatyou 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 windowas she spoke, and advanced to Doris with his sweetest andmost benevolent smile.

“My dear Miss Marlowe!” he murmured. “How doyou do? I am so glad to see you, and looking the pictureof health and happiness”—there were dark marks underDoris’ eyes, which wore the look a sleepless night alwaysproduces—“the very picture of health and happiness!And with good reason—good reason! You see, a littlebird has told me the news,” and he wagged his headplayfully.

[Pg 256]

“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, spreadinghis napkin over his knee and smiling upon them both.“And I hasten to express my best and most heartfeltwishes. Lucky Percy! I must confess that I envy him!He is such a dear fellow! I have known him since hewas, oh, quite a boy, and he was always, oh, quite toocharming! But I never dreamed he would be so fortunateas to win so great a prize as the beautiful MissDoris!”

Doris took her place in silence. Lady Despard laughed.

“That’s a very nice speech and hits them both,” shesaid.

“And it is such a strange coincidence,” he went on.“They say that good luck always comes in showers! Doyou know I am the bearer of a very good offer for ourdear Percy? I won’t give you the particulars, but willonly 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. Hebowed to Lady Despard, and to Spenser Churchill, thenwent 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 otheragainst Doris’.

“Oh, thanks,” said Lady Despard, talking quickly tocover the little embarrassment. “You have been flower-gatheringthis morning? And you met Mr. SpenserChurchill last night? I am so glad he has come, for Iwant 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 shouldersamusedly.

“One comes here to learn the news,” he said, with asignificant smile at Doris and Percy Levant.

Doris’ face flushed, but Percy Levant’s remainedgrave.

“As Mr. Churchill has no gossip to relate, perhaps thiswill be acceptable,” he said. “I have just got it by this[Pg 257]post,” and he took a society journal from his pocket andhanded 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 openedit with a little flush of satisfaction. “I always enjoy TheGlass; it is always so charmingly spiteful. It ought to becalled The Cup of Poison, for it destroys a reputationevery week.”

She began turning over the pages of this, the latestproduct in society journalism, and Spenser Churchill invain endeavored to engage Percy Levant in conversation,then suddenly Lady Despard uttered an exclamation.

“What is the matter, dear Lady Despard?” askedSpenser Churchill. “Has The Glass attacked one of yourbosom friends?”

“Oh, no; it’s this!” replied Lady Despard. “Justlisten:

“‘Rumor, which is not always untruthful, hinted sometime ago at the engagement of one of our principalbeauties to the heir of the oldest marquisate in England;and we are now authorized to formally announce thatLady Grace Peyton is engaged to Lord Cecil Neville, theheir and nephew of the Marquis of Stoyle. The marriagewill take place as soon as the marquis has recovered fromhis 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 hadfallen back in a dead faint.

Mr. Spenser Churchill, with a cry of alarm, sprangfrom his chair and hastened round the table; but PercyLevant had raised her in his arms, and, as he supportedher lifeless form on his breast, stretched out one hand toward Spenser Churchill off.

“Stand back!” he said, hoarsely, his white face set hardand stern. “You shall not touch her!” and, lifting herbodily, he carried her into the hall.

ENGAGED.

On this occasion, at least, the society papers did notlie! Lord Cecil Neville and Lady Grace Peyton wereengaged! If some marriages are made in Heaven, certainlysome 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 shortmonths he would, though having lost Doris, have proposedto Lady Grace, he would have laughed the prophetto scorn; and yet propose to her he did.

From that eventful morning when he had received, ashe thought, irrefutable proof of Doris’ faithlessness andtreachery, and been rescued from imprisonment by LadyGrace, a great change had fallen upon Cecil Neville. Lifehad lost its savor, and the days that used to pass soswiftly, with pleasure at the helm and youth at the prow,hung like lead upon his hands. Time, which most of usfind all too short, dragged terribly with him. Do whathe would, he could not drown the memory of the beautifulgirl whom he had loved so passionately, and whoseimage seemed engraven upon his heart. Morning, noon,and night her presence seemed to haunt him. He wentabout as usual for a day or two, but the old amusem*nts;the clubs, where he was always so warmly greeted; thedances, which never seemed complete successes without“Cissy” Neville; the river parties, and four-in-hand excursions,in which he was always the leading spirit, allseemed tame and spiritless, and though he laughed asusual, and tried to hide the wound which he had received,his friends noticed that he seemed preoccupied andgloomy; and when he found that they observed it, andthat he was sitting silent in the midst of the carnival ofpleasure, like the ghost-haunted man in the ballad, hesuddenly took his fishing-rod and went off to Norway.

He had met Lady Grace frequently since the morningshe had come to his rescue, but they had only exchangeda few words at meeting and parting, as he felt that he[Pg 259]could not talk as if nothing had happened, and he wouldnot talk of what had happened, and on the night beforehis sudden departure he had only said a few concisewords 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 givenhim her hand, and let her magnificent eyes rest on hisfor a second or two with a look that would have impressedhim and set him thinking, if he had ever giventhought to any other subject but the faithless girl whohad jilted him.

If any one had told him that Lady Grace had gonehome a few minutes after parting from him, and shutherself up for a couple of days, reappearing, looking paleand weary, it would never have occurred to him that hersudden disappearance had been on his account.

He went to Norway, and though he thought of hernow and again with a gratitude which made him miserable—forhe could not see how on earth he was goingto repay her the money she had so generously paid forhim—he was too much occupied with recalling Doris tothink much of this other beautiful woman. He oughtto have been happy in Norway, for the fishing wasgood, and he was lucky, but the big salmon did notbring him the satisfaction they used to do; and he wassitting one evening in the room of the rather rough innat which he was staying, wondering what he shoulddo with himself next, and whether it wouldn’t be betterto go and bury himself in South Africa, or volunteer forthe next of our little wars, when he heard his name mentioned.There was a party of young men staying at theinn, and they occupied the room next to his and dividedfrom it by the thinnest of partitions, through which theirconstant chatter and laughter filtered day and night toworry him.

When he heard his name, he woke up from a reverie inwhich he was wondering whether Doris was happy, andwhether she ever thought of him and those days in theBarton meadows; and, remembering that listeners seldomhear any good of themselves, he took up his pipe, and[Pg 260]was walking out to smoke in the open air, when itseemed to him that he heard Lady Grace’s name also.

Thinking that the speakers might be friends of hisand hers, he waited a moment, then sunk back into hischair, his face scarlet, his brow dark with a heavy frown—forthis is what he heard:

“I tell you, it’s an absolute truth,” said one of theyoung fellows. “I had it from a most reliable source.The lady in question was seen leaving Lord Cecil Neville’srooms alone and unattended——”

“Nonsense! Lady Grace—Lady Grace, of all womenin the world!—go alone to Lord Neville’s chambers!You must be mad, old fellow!”

“I’m not mad!” retorted the first speaker, “and Iwish to goodness you wouldn’t bellow out her name; Icarefully avoided mentioning it; these walls are nothicker than paper, and you can’t tell who may be onthe other side.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” said the other; “but, come, youknow, the story is as thin as the partition! Why, nowoman would do such a thing, unless she were utterlyreckless of her good name.”

“I daresay not,” said the first, still as coolly; “but perhapsthe lady in question happens to be reckless wherethis gentleman is concerned. Anyhow, I had it on goodauthority, and I happen to know it is an undisputablefact. 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 itworse. If she was guilty of such an indiscretion, all Ican say is she must be very much in love! LadyGrace——”

“Do shut up!” cried the first speaker. “No names, remember!”

“Well, well, the lady in question is one of the bestknown women in society, and such a report would meansocial ruin to her. Where did you hear it? Give meyour authority.”

The first man seemed to pause a moment, then in avoice too low for Cecil to hear, said:

“I don’t mind giving it to you; I heard it from SpenserChurchill!”

[Pg 261]

“Then you may swear to its truth; that man nevermakes a mistake!” responded one of the young fellows.“Well, I’m awfully sorry. Lady—the lady is always verykind and pleasant to me, and I think her one of theloveliest creatures in the world. As for Lord Neville—well,if he can remain quiescent while this story is goingabout, and does nothing to contradict it or set it right—allI can say, he is a very different man from what Ihave 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 downon his luck.”

“Oh, he’s gone abroad, I believe,” replied the other.

Lord Cecil sat perfectly still for a minute, his brainsurging, his heart beating with mingled fury and consternation;then, with his pipe still in his hand, he gotup 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, whostared at his now grave, pale face inquiringly.

“I am sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,” he said; “butit is only right I should tell you that I am the occupantof the next room, and that I have heard every wordyou said.”

“There!” exclaimed the young fellow who had startedthe conversation, in a tone of vexation and reproach; “Itold you so! I said the partition was like paper, and thatsome one might be on the other side, and you fellowswouldn’t believe me!”

“Yes; I have heard every word,” said Lord Neville,sternly; “and as I have the honor to be a friend of thelady of whom you were speaking, it is my duty to tellyou that the man who whispers a word against the reputationof that lady is a liar!”

They sprang to their feet as a body, and stared at himwith angry surprise; but Lord Cecil put up his hand tocommand silence.

“Hear me out, please. You may, not unnaturally,demand to know why I should take upon myself tochampion this lady’s cause. I do so because I hope tohave the honor of being that lady’s husband. My nameis Cecil Neville; there is my card.” He did not toss it[Pg 262]melodramatically, but courteously placed it on the tablebefore them. “If any of you consider that he is affrontedby what I have said, I shall be happy to afford him anysatisfaction he may think necessary.”

With a slight bow he was leaving the room, when theyoung fellow who had been the first speaker, said:

“One moment, Lord Neville, if you please.” LordCecil stopped, and stood facing them, with a stern countenance.“If any one is to blame in this matter, it ismyself; and I am ready to give you any satisfaction youmay require; but I think it right to state, frankly andfreely, that I did not mention the lady’s name, nor wasI aware that she was engaged to you. I will say, also,that I deeply regret that I should have mentioned thesubject at all. But I spoke the simple truth when I saidthat it was a topic of common rumor; and I may addthat it will give me great pleasure and satisfaction to contradictthe report whenever and wherever I may hear itrepeated.”

“I thank you,” said Lord Cecil, simply, and with agrave bow that took in all of them, he turned and left theroom.

An hour later he was on his way to England.

By whomsoever spread, this report was in circulation—andhe could not contradict it! Lady Grace had beento his rooms alone and unattended, and it was his dutyas a gentleman and a man of honor to protect her.

He had heard, with a scarlet face, the words of theyoung fellow, who had said that Lady Grace was in lovewith him, and though he did not believe it—for had shenot herself said that it was not so?—it was his duty topropose to her.

What did it matter what became of him, or whom hemarried? He must marry some one, and some day. Theheir to the marquisate of Stoyle could not remain single.Rank has its duties as well as its privileges, and it is theduty of the head of a noble house to carry on the directline. He would have to marry sooner or later, thoughhis heart throbbed and ached every time he thought ofDoris Marlowe; and why not marry Lady Grace?

He thought of her beauty; he recalled her noble generosityto him. Why, she had not only come to his aid[Pg 263]when he was in mortal straits, but she had done so atthe risk of her social reputation! Surely, if he mustmarry some one, it must be Lady Grace.

He might also have reminded himself that by so doinghe would win his uncle’s—the marquis’—favor; but, to doLord Cecil credit, he did not think of that; he only rememberedLady Grace’s goodness to him.

He reached London at noon, had a bath, and allowedhis 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, ridingin the park.

“I’ll wait,” said Lord Cecil, and he went into thedrawing-room.

He paced up and down the Turkey carpet, lookingout of the window, and staring at the ornaments on themantel-shelf. Among them was one of the fashionablecabinet photograph frames, with the portrait covered bya curtain. In absence of mind he drew the curtain asideand 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 setoff her perfectly graceful figure to its very best advantage.

As she entered, her mature and majestic lovelinessstruck him fully for the first time, and he rememberedwith a sudden vividness the words of one of the youngfellows at the Norwegian inn. Yes, she was one of theloveliest of society women!

She started perceptibly at sight of him, so much sothat she dropped her whip. He sprang forward andpicked it up for her, and by the time he had given ither—few moments though the action required—she hadrecovered herself.

“Back so soon!” she said, giving him her hand, small,and white, and warm. “This is a surprise! Don’t thesalmon bite, or rise, or whatever you call it? Or has itrained all the time, and have you been bored to death?I’m afraid you’ll be bored just as much in London, forevery one is leaving.”

[Pg 264]

“The salmon were all right,” he said, still holding herhand. “I came back because I wanted to see you!”

“To see me?” she said, her eyes flashing into his for amoment, and then drooping. “Well, you were just intime, 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, andgently tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly.

“Never mind the tea, Lady Grace,” he said, with somethingof his old light-heartedness. “You shall give me—orrefuse me—a cup after you have heard what I haveto say.”

“And what have you to say that is more importantthan tea?” she retorted, in a light tone, which was beliedby 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 beautifuleyes dilated. If joy always killed, then Lady Gracewould have fallen dead at Cecil Neville’s feet that moment;but it is sorrow, not joy, that kills, and instead offalling, she leaned towards him with a tremulous sigh.It was almost too good to be believed! Spenser Churchillhad told her that it would come, but she had alwaysdoubted it; and now—it had come! He was hers. Hers!—he,whom she had grown to love—the man for whomshe had plotted and risked so much, even her social goodname—was hers!

It was a proud, an ecstatic moment; no wonder sheprolonged it.

“What do you say?” he asked, still holding her hand,his grave voice as much unlike an ardent lover’s as it ispossible to imagine; and yet it was like music to her!“I know I am not worthy to win so great a prize, butI 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 womanloves to hear from the lips of the man she loves.

He paused imperceptibly.

“Who could do anything but love you, dear Grace!”[Pg 265]he replied. “Will you be my wife? I will try and makeyou happy, indeed I will! What do you say?”

Her soft, warm fingers closed on his, and she leanedtowards him involuntarily.

“If you are sure”—she murmured—“if you are sureyou want me to say ‘yes’——”

“Indeed I do!” he responded. “I have come all theway from Norway in the hope that you would.”

“Then I will say—‘yes!’” she breathed, and her headsank upon his breast. “You will be good to me—Cecil?”

“I will be good to you,” he responded, and he put hisarm round her and kissed her in lover-wise, but not—ah,not!—with the passionate kisses which he had rainedupon 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 ortwo all London knew, through the gossip-mongers andthe society papers, that Lord Cecil Neville, the heir tothe marquisate of Stoyle, had proposed to Lady Grace.

“So that there was something in that story of her goingto his rooms, you see!” envious mothers whispered behindtheir fans.

And the following morning Cecil Neville received ashort message from the marquis, who was staying at thebig house in Grosvenor Square, requesting that Cecilwould come and see him.

Cecil went, and found his lordship seated by the windowof his own room, looking at the passers-by as if hewere a judge just donning the black cap. His thin lipsdrew together with a smile that was more like a sneer ashe gave Cecil a couple of cold fingers.

“So you’ve come to your senses at last?” was his amiablegreeting.

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 yourmessage reached me.”

[Pg 266]

“Ah! Well, I congratulate you, and I wish her everyhappiness,” remarked the marquis by way of a blessing,and his tone said quite plainly: “But I don’t think she’llget it.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Lord Cecil.

“Yes, I think you are a confoundedly lucky fellow,”continued the marquis, “especially as you nearly got intothe worst mess a man can get into. I suppose that affairturned out as I expected? The wench jilted you—oh, Idon’t want to know any particulars, they wouldn’t interestme; but I may be permitted to express a hope that youhave 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 toogood 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—thataffair is over and done with, and if Miss Marlowewere to come back, I promise that I will not, as you delicatelysuggest, 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 suchfools—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, “andnow 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’vean absurd fancy for seeing her married before I die. Notthat I think of dying just yet, you’ll be sorry to hear. Betterget the affair settled speedily. You can live in one ofthe places in the country; I don’t care where it is, as longas you don’t expect me to come and live with you,” andhe smiled sardonically.

Lord Cecil remained silent.

“You’d better take the Barton place. I hate it; but Ihate 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 somethinglike a snarl. “I don’t mean you to be a pauper, or[Pg 267]to live with a couple of servants and on bread and cheese.You have done as I wished you to do, though not untilyou were compelled,” and he smiled, significantly, “andI will do what is requisite in the way of money—for hersake.”

“Thank you, my lord—for her sake,” said Lord Cecil,grimly.

“Yes. Why doesn’t she come and see me? Tell herto do so, if you please.” He was silent a moment as LordCecil bowed, then he added: “The affair is making somestir, I suppose. I’m thinking whether I can summon upcourage 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 ifCecil had not spoken. “It is the usual thing, and shewill look for it.”

“I don’t think Lady Grace expects——”

“You know very little of what Lady Grace expects,” heinterrupted, with cold contempt. “Tell her to come tome. Wait a moment, please,” he added, as Lord Cecilwas making his escape. “I am going to send her a present;that is also due to her. I suppose you have been ableto 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 oneor two of the jewel cases. I will send her somethingnow. Here are the keys—no, they are in that drawer,”and he pointed to the small writing cabinet which alwaysaccompanied him, and handed Lord Cecil a small key.

Lord Cecil unlocked the cabinet, got the keys, and wascrossing the room to the safe, when the door opened.

“What the devil do you mean by coming in withoutknocking, sir?” exclaimed the marquis; then, as he sawwho it was, he said, in a softer voice: “Oh, it’s you,Spenser, is it? You’ve come in time to hear the newsand congratulate the bridegroom.”

“Which I do with all my heart, my dear Cecil,” murmuredSpenser Churchill, taking Lord Cecil’s hand inboth of his and pressing it affectionately, while he beameda benedictory smile all over him. “With all my heart!I can’t tell you, my dear marquis, how rejoiced I was to[Pg 268]hear the news. Dear Lady Grace! So beautiful and sogood! You are, indeed, a happy man, Cecil! May everygood 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 toldCecil that I will give a party to mark my sense of hissense.”

“A party? Excellent! admirable!” exclaimed SpenserChurchill, rubbing his hands, his eyes going from the marquis’cold, sardonic face to Lord Cecil’s grave and rathermoody one with keen watchfulness. “Now, how good ofyou to think of that! Why, how many years is it sinceyou entertained in this house?”

The marquis compressed his lips.

“The last time was”—he paused a moment, then, as ifout of sheer bravado, went on—“the night before mywife ran away from me! Not a pleasant omen for ‘dearCecil,’ 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 partyto be?”

“When you like,” replied the marquis, with the mostprofound indifference. “I should enjoy it better if you’dwait 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,” saidSpenser Churchill.

“I’m sending her a present,” said the marquis, listlessly.“There are some things in that safe there; get them outand choose something.”

“Now, how delightful,” purred Spenser Churchill.“One of the old family jewels, eh, dear marquis? Abracelet, or a ring, or something of that kind, I suppose?”

By this time Lord Cecil had reached the safe and openedit, and Spenser Churchill, with a smile of childlike interestand curiosity, went and stood beside him.

The safe was half-full of papers, and nothing butpapers, as it appeared, and Lord Cecil said so, and waitedfor instructions.

“The cases are at the back,” said the marquis. “ForHeaven’s sake! don’t bother me over the business, or I[Pg 269]shall regret my sudden and unusual generosity,” he added,with a sneer.

Lord Cecil took some of the documents out, and revealeda couple of jewel cases, and placing the former ona chair, carried the latter to the marquis.

“These papers want arranging, dear marquis,” saidSpenser Churchill, and he lingered behind, as if casually;but his eyes flashed over the litter of parchments withkeen and searching scrutiny.

“I dare say,” assented the marquis, indifferently.“There are some wills of mine there, I think, but it doesn’tmatter. I shall live to make two or three more to add tothis collection,” and he glanced at Lord Neville maliciously.

Spenser Churchill laughed, as if it were an excellentjoke, and Lord Cecil opened the cases and set them onthe 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 heoverturned 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!” heexclaimed, apologetically, and he went down on his kneesand 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 SpenserChurchill, and with his back to the other two, he rapidlyexamined each deed as he placed it on the chair. “Now,then,” and he came to the table. “Ah! these are someof the Stoyle jewels! How exquisite they are, and whata pity they should have been hidden away so long! Hownice it is to reflect that they will soon adorn our beautifulLady Grace; eh, dear Cecil?”

Lord Cecil did not answer, but moodily took the jewelsfrom their respective cases, and held them up for themarquis’ inspection.

He eyed them with his usual cold impassibility, butpresently Lord Cecil held up a suite of pearls. It was an[Pg 270]antique and evidently priceless set, and Cecil was regardingthem with a listless interest when suddenly a strangeidea flashed across his mind that he had seen them before;and yet he knew that he could not have done so. The lastperson upon whose neck and wrists that priceless suite ofantique gems had shone was the ill-fated marchioness,whom he had never seen, and whose end was still a mysteryto him. He was convinced that he had never seenthem before, and yet he seemed to remember them.

“Beautiful, beautiful!” murmured Spenser Churchill,but looking at his companion’s face instead of the jewelswith a watchful scrutiny.

“Yes, they are,” said Lord Cecil, and he turned the remainingjewels over as if searching for something.

“What are you looking for?” demanded the marquis,his eyes fixed with a strange expression upon the pearls inLord Cecil’s hands.

“I am looking for the ring. I suppose there ought to beone to make the set complete? There is everything elsehere.”

The marquis’ face seemed to grow gray; then helaughed a dry, harsh laugh.

“The ring is missing,” he said, almost inaudibly. “Itwent with——”

“No, no,” cut in Spenser Churchill, softly. “I saw itat the bottom of the box a moment ago; but, really, mydear Cecil,” he continued, hurriedly, as if to prevent themarquis contradicting him, “I don’t think they would suitdear 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 diamondand ruby bracelet. “Now, that is the kind of thing whichwould please dear Lady Grace. These pearls will bemore suitable when she is married.”

The marquis took the bracelet, and Lord Cecil fanciedthat the clawlike hands trembled slightly, and looked at itabsently. Then he dropped it on the table and turnedaside with listless indifference.

“The pearl suite will do,” he said, curtly. “Take itand give it to her. Will you be good enough to send myman to me?” he added, as a hint that he desired to be ridof their presence.

[Pg 271]

“Good-day, sir, and thank you,” said Cecil, moving tothe door.

“Stop, my dear Cecil—the safe. You must put thosejewels away and lock it, you know.”

“Let him go. You can lock it,” said the marquis, withicy impatience.

“Oh, Cecil will lock it,” murmured Spenser Churchill.“I am going to get some lunch, marquis,” and with a nodhe went to the door, but there he turned. “Oh, would youlike a newspaper, marquis?” he asked, and as he waitedfor the reply he watched Cecil lock the safe and depositthe keys in the cabinet drawer.

“No!” answered the marquis, almost fiercely, and thetwo men went out.

Spenser Churchill locked his arm in Lord Cecil’s reluctantone.

“Dear marquis!” he murmured, softly. “So generousand—er—thoughtful! You have made him very happy,my dear Cecil, and be sure that his happiness will findits reflection in your own heart. Ahem! Did you notice,my dear Cecil, how—er—unwell and, so to speak, generallyfeeble he looked?”

“No,” said Cecil, gravely.

“No? Then perhaps—indeed, I fervently hope—thatit was only my fancy; but I certainly did think that I sawa change in him since last I was here. I do hope it wasonly fancy! The world could ill afford to lose so greatand kind-hearted a man as our dear marquis! And soyou are going to marry the beautiful and charming LadyGrace! Ah, youth, youth! what a blessed possession itis! How I envy you, my dear Cecil!”

“Thanks!” said Lord Cecil, curtly. “I’ll tell LadyGrace, 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 watchedCecil go down the hall and out at the door.

Then his face changed to one of keen reflection, and, ashe went into the dining-room to the little lunch he hadordered, he muttered:

“Yes, the one I want is there! and the keys are in thatdrawer, which he always keeps locked. I must have thatwill—but how?”

[Pg 272]

When the invitations to an evening party at the StoyleHouse were issued, they caused as much astonishment tothe recipients and the world at large as if the trustees ofthe British Museum had announced their intention of givinga dance at that revered institution.

Only a very few of the last generation remembered anyentertainment at Stoyle House, and they declared that therumor must either be false, or that the marquis had at last,and very appropriately, gone out of his mind; and it wasnot until signs of the vast preparations for the event madethemselves felt that the world began to realize the truth.

Then arose such a struggle and scramble for tickets asoccurs in connection with one of the events of the season,and Lady Grace was worried and pestered for an invitationas if it were a permit to Paradise itself.

For a couple of seasons she had been the acknowledgedbelle, but now it seemed as if suddenly she had becomeone of the veritable queens of society. Wherever shewent, she was surrounded by a crowd, eager to lay theirtribute of adulation at the feet of the beautiful girl whohad succeeded, where so many had failed, in securinghandsome Cecil Neville, the future Marquis of Stoyle.Women who envied and hated her approached her withfaces wreathed in smiles and voices soft and affectionate.Her carriage, or her horse, in the Park was surroundedby men eager to claim acquaintance with the future marchioness,who could give them invitations to so manyshooting and hunting parties “when the old marquisdied!”

And Lady Grace bore herself through it all with charmingmoderation. She delighted in all this worship, butit may be truly said, that she was never happier thanwhen Lord Cecil was by her side. Some of us tire of theprize we scheme and toil so eagerly for; but in LadyGrace’s eyes the prize she had so basely won increased invalue day by day.

She had loved him the first night they had met atBarton Towers, and her love, perhaps by opposition andthe struggle she had made to win him, had grown into anabsorbing passion. She was restless and nervous whenhe was absent, and those who knew her well could tell[Pg 273]when he was in the room or near at hand, by the joyoussmile on her lips and the soft glow in her eyes.

“Always thought that girl had no heart,” remarked onekeen observer. “Only shows how a fellow can be mistakenin a woman. She’s as clean gone upon Cissy as agirl 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 hismind, and couldn’t get it off. Never saw a man sochanged in all my life; perhaps his happiness is rather toomuch for him.”

And yet Lord Cecil’s conduct gave no cause for evilcomment. No man could be more attentive to his fiancée.He was with her every day, was by her side at nearly allthe “at homes,” was seen at the crushes at concerts andballs, her shawl upon his arm, the arm itself always at hercommand; and yet the old “Cissy” had gone, and in itsplace was the tall, grave-faced man, with the look as if hehad something on his mind.

The night of the party arrived. Some preparationshad been necessary, and they had been made with a lavishhand. The big house, which had sheltered so many generationsof the Stoyles through so many London seasons,was ablaze with lights, which shone upon the handsomedecorations of the great saloon and the magnificentdresses of the women.

Only at one of the state balls could have been seen sucha display of diamonds, and very soon after the ball commencedit was declared by the experienced that it wouldprove the event of the season.

It was not until the fourth dance on the list had beenreached that the marquis put in an appearance. LadyGrace, magnificently dressed—robed, one might almostsay—had been questioned concerning his absence by thethrong that surrounded her, but had shaken her headwith a charming smile as she answered:

“He has promised to come into the room, if only for afew minutes, but I don’t know when he will come.”

[Pg 274]

She was, by right of her beauty and position, the queenof the brilliant assemblage, and she reigned in trulyqueenly fashion. Lord Cecil, moving about as host duringhis 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 splendidone. But he sighed as he made the admission, andthere rose before him the vision of Doris’ ivory-pale face,with its wealth of dark hair and witching blue eyes; andhe would have given half that remained of his life to besitting at her feet once more—only once more!

He was roused from one of these fits of reverie by asubdued murmur of interest and curiosity, and, lookingup, saw the tall, thin figure of the marquis entering theroom at one of the doors leading from his private apartments.

The clean-cut face was deadly pale, but the dark eyesshone with a hard, steel-like brilliance, and the thin, cruellips wore a reflection of a smile as he came forward andgreeted those near to him.

There was no vulgar pushing and crowding, but somehow,in an impalpable kind of way, a circle gathered roundhim, and then the marquis of old, or a shadow and semblanceof him, shone forth. The polished wit, like a rapierlong disused, leaped from its scabbard and set thegroup admiring and laughing as of yore. As he movedfrom one to the other, addressing his courtly flattery tothe women and his biting cynicisms to the men, a feelingof wonder ran through the room.

“By Heaven!” exclaimed an old man, who rememberedhim in years gone by, “it is like a resurrection! It is likegoing back a quarter of a century! That is the kind ofwit we were accustomed to, sir! Look at him, and comparehim with the young fellows of the present day! Anddon’t tell me that we haven’t degenerated!”

Lord Cecil stood a little apart, looking on at the successwhich the marquis was making, the enthusiasm whichhe 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![Pg 275]Remarkable man. Really, it fills me with admiration and—er—astonishment.Did you hear that brilliant reparteeof his at which they are all laughing?”

“No,” said Cecil, gravely.

“Astonishing! Ah, my dear Cecil he is a marvelousman. They were saying that he was going to dance—asquare dance, of course, just a walk through a quadrille,but I shouldn’t think—eh? Why, yes, he is—” he brokeoff, smoothly, “actually is!” and followed by Cecil hemade his way toward a circle that surrounded the marquiswho 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. “Willyou dare to brave their ridicule by giving your hand to anold man? Or perhaps you would prefer a more suitablepartner?” and he shot a sarcastic glance at Cecil, who hadnow reached his side.

She bent toward him with perfect grace, and placed herhand upon his arm.

A thrill of amazement and curiosity ran through theroom, and those near the two fell back. The set wasformed, and Lord Cecil found himself standing at one ofthe 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 thethin, white face.

The music commenced, the dance began, and the marquis,with a grace which reminded those of his old friendsof the days when “Wicked Lord Stoyle” was in the primeof his youth—and his wickedness—led Lady Grace to thecenter. A crowd had collected round the set; all eyeswere fixed upon him and the lovely woman who bore hertriumph with such queenly self-possession, when suddenlya cry—a shudder, rather—of alarm ran from lip tolip; for the erect, stately figure was seen to swerve androck, and then stand still, as if rooted to the spot, withits arms held above its head, and its starting eyes fixedstrangely on vacancy.

“Great Heaven! It’s a fit! He’s dying!” said someone.

[Pg 276]

Cecil sprang forward, and, just in time, caught him inhis arms.

Some one silenced the band, and the whole assemblagebecame instantly mute.

Lord Cecil raised the motionless form in his arms—itseemed to weigh nothing to him, so thin and emaciatedwas it—and, through a lane of horrified spectators, carriedhim up the broad stairs, and into his bedroom.

Three persons followed him—Lady Grace, SpenserChurchill and the marquis’ valet—and entered the roomwith him.

Lord Cecil laid his frail burden on the bed, and thevalet quickly unfastened the old-fashioned cravat.

“It is a fit, my lord!” he murmured, agitatedly. “I expectedit! I have been watching him from one of thedoorways. 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—Ishall break down!”

“Yes, go with her,” said Spenser Churchill. “You neednot be more than a few minutes, and I’ll stay here withhim.”

Reluctantly, Cecil drew his arm within hers, and leftSpenser Churchill alone with the unconscious man.

Alone with him!

He waited until Lady Grace and Lord Cecil had leftthe room; then, scarcely looking at the white, distortedface, he searched the pockets of the helpless man, andwith a suppressed cry of satisfaction, darted to the cabinet,got the keys and opened the safe.

Taking out two deeds engrossed, “The last will andtestament of the Marquis of Stoyle,” he thrust one inthe breast pocket of his coat and replaced the other inthe safe, and locked it, and returned the keys to the cabinet.

Scarcely had he done so, and taken his place at thebedside, than Lord Cecil and the valet hurried in with adoctor, who had been one of the guests.

He bent over the unconscious marquis and made hisexamination.

[Pg 277]

“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!” saidthe 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, andlooked at Lord Cecil. “It is a very serious case, my lord;a sudden collapse. The unusual excitement has beentoo much for his lordship. He may recover, but if heshould”—he stopped, and touched his forehead—“I fearit will be a bodily and not mental recovery.”

Spenser Churchill drew back, and covered his face withhis hands.

“My poor friend!” he sobbed; and if he gave expressionto his thoughts, he would have added: “will not beable 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 lookinglike a mask carved in old ivory. Cecil Neville scarcelyleft his side, and, though the marquis did not attempt tospeak, he turned his eyes upon him now and again with acurious expression in them. Mr. Spenser Churchill was,as became so well-known and tender-hearted a philanthropist,most attentive and sympathetic, and he hoveredabout the bedside, and shed the light of his benevolentcountenance upon the patient, as if he were the marquis’brother. And him, too, the sick man regarded with anexpression of thoughtful watchfulness.

Mr. Spenser Churchill waited four days, then, hearingfrom the doctors that the marquis might possibly remainin his present condition for weeks, or even months, hethought that he had better attend to the other threads ofhis plot. It was time that Percy Levant secured Doris.

[Pg 278]

Everything in England was working wonderfully well forMr. Spenser Churchill, and, in anticipation, he could almostsee the accomplishment of his object and the rewardof 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 insuch loving hands as yours and dear Lady Grace’s. Hewill, I know, receive every attention that affectionatehearts can suggest.”

“Yes,” said Cecil, rather grimly. “We shall neitherstarve nor neglect him; don’t remain a moment longerthan you like. You had better leave your address.”

“Y—es,” said Spenser Churchill. “Dear me, I scarcelyknow what address to give you. I shall be moving aboutso much for the first few weeks; but perhaps you had betterwrite to Meuriguy’s, at Paris. You will telegraphto me, of course. I shall be back as soon as possible.And when I come,” he added, mentally, as he wrungCecil’s hand, “perhaps I may have the satisfaction of dealingyou a slight shock, my self-sufficient young friend!”

He started for Italy that same evening, and three dayslater appeared in the garden of the Villa Rimini to findthat Doris had consented to be Percy Levant’s wife.

There was something so complete in the success of hisplans that Mr. Spenser Churchill was almost startled.The marquis lying bereft of reason and helpless away inEngland, 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, andblinking placidly up at the blue sky; “if I could only seethem married, and the dear marquis would kindly removehimself from this troublous world, I should be tenthousand pounds richer in pocket, and be able to repaymy dear Lord Cecil for the many, the very many snubshe has bestowed upon me. Ah, here comes Percy. Howthe young man hates me! And yet I have been the meansof giving him a beautiful wife and a large fortune.Strange how deeply ingratitude is engrained in the human[Pg 279]heart! Well, Percy,” he purred, “and how is dear MissMarlowe now? It was nothing serious, I trust? Onlythe heat, my dear Percy? I noticed that the room washot, and the air quite heavy with flowers. I’m not surethat too many flowers are wholesome; to some ultra-refinedsensibilities, like those of our dear Miss Doris, forinstance, their perfume is overwhelming. How is she?”

Percy Levant stood with folded arms looking thoughtfullyinto 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 thescent of the flowers.” As he spoke, he took the societyjournal from his pocket and opened it. “What was itLady Despard was reading when—when Miss Marlowefainted, Churchill?” and he bent his dark eyes keenlyupon the placid face.

Spenser Churchill touched his white, smooth foreheadwith his forefinger.

“Really, my dear Percy, I forget! Wasn’t it somethingabout that floral fete to the Amalgamated CharityChildren? Or was it the account of Lady Brabazon’sball? Miss Marlowe’s sudden and alarming indispositionso startled me that it drove the matter out of my head.”

Percy Levant looked at him fixedly, then opened thepaper and scanned it carefully; then his eyes flashed as hecame 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. Totell you the truth I wasn’t paying much attention. Yousee, I’d read the paper coming across.”

“It was this, and you know it,” said Percy Levant, in alow voice.

“Was it? I daresay. But what has that to do withMiss Marlowe’s swoon?” inquired Spenser Churchill,with a patient smile.

Percy Levant paced up and down, his head sunk uponhis breast.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, inaudibly; “but I willknow!”

“Don’t look so distressed, my dear Percy!” purredSpenser Churchill, leaning his head on his elbow, and[Pg 280]watching him through half-closed eyes. “I trust there isnothing to be really anxious about. Miss Doris will bewell 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 comeand 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,” saidSpenser Churchill.

“What marriage?” demanded Percy Levant, with afrown.

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 agreewith me, but I am, on principle, strongly opposed to longengagements. When two young hearts are yearning foreach other——Percy, this marriage must take place atonce,” he broke off with a sharp and sudden change ofvoice.

Percy Levant watched him closely and in silence for amoment.

“Why?” he asked.

Spenser Churchill smiled blandly.

“For several reasons; one, and not the least, being myanxiety to see two young people in whom I am deeplyinterested, made happy; another, if I may be candid, isbecause I am anxious to complete our contract and destroythe 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 areof one mind, my dear Percy.”

“And what if I say I will go no further in this vilebusiness; if I say that I will no longer be a party in thisconspiracy against a helpless girl!” said Percy Levant ina 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[Pg 281]his complacent lips; “and it would be nonsense, sheernonsense, for you couldn’t draw back if you would, because,my dear Percy, you are so completely and madlyin 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 toquarrel with the person who has been your best friend.What, give up charming Doris Marlowe! Tut, tut, youcouldn’t do it; now, could you?”

Percy Levant turned his head aside, and something likea groan escaped his compressed lips.

“No, you couldn’t. And therefore I say that thesooner the marriage takes place, and you have got foryour bride the beautiful young creature with whom youare 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 marriageover, my dear Percy!”

“You speak of a marriage, and we were engaged onlylast night!” he said, after a pause. “Do you think shewould consent? How little you know her. Perhaps youthink”—with a bitter smile—“that she is as madly in lovewith me as I am with her!”

Spenser Churchill shook his head.

“No, my dear fellow, I don’t think anything of thekind. I think I can understand why Miss Doris has promisedto marry you. But if she doesn’t love you now, shewill do so. Oh, yes, believe me, with most women lovecomes after marriage!”

A light shone in the dark eyes for a moment, then fadedout 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 ensuingwords insidiously: “She must be made to!”

“Made to?”

“Yes. Tut, tut, don’t look so black. Moral force, notphysical, my dear Percy, is what I mean. Listen to me.[Pg 282]I think you will admit that, up to now, my judgment hasbeen pretty correct, and that I didn’t start you on a wild-goosechase that morning in Soho, when I offered to giveyou a beautiful wife, and make your fortune. Eh, mydear Percy? Well, I’ll finish what I began, and here ismy little plan. Do you know Pescia?”

Percy Levant nodded.

“A charming little place, my dear Percy. So quiet andsecluded, and so much healthier than Florence. Now, ifI were a medical man I should say that Miss Doris wanteda change, and that no place, within even easy distance,could be more suitable than Pescia. Though I am not adoctor, I think I shall venture to suggest to Lady Despardthat she and Doris go there for a few weeks.”

Percy Levant listened intently, his brilliant eyes coveredby their long, dark lashes, so that Spenser Churchillcould not see the expression that gleamed in them.

“Well, they go to Pescia, and you, of course, withthem. You are there, say, a fortnight or three weeks,when I write to offer you an engagement at a largesalary, in Australia.”

Percy Levant did not move a muscle.

“It is a most tempting offer, but, alas! poor as youare, you cannot bring yourself to leave your ladylove foryears, perhaps forever, as the song says. And what sonatural and reasonable as the suggestion that you shouldmarry her, and take her out with you? At first, she willhesitate—oh! yes, certainly she will hesitate—but Ithink—” with a smile, “I think I do not over-estimateyour powers of persuasion when I say that I am convincedyou will overcome her reluctance to so hasty amarriage. There is a charming little English church inPescia—most charming!—the very church for a quietwedding. A quiet wedding, mark me, my dear Percy!You see! Come admit that I am as thoughtful on yourbehalf 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 toAustralia? On the day after the wedding you and I willhave a little explanation. I shall have the happiness of[Pg 283]telling you whom you have married, and the extent ofyour good fortune; of putting you in the way of payingme that little bonus we agreed upon—and then you maygo 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 wayof 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, SpenserChurchill.”

“I! Spoil it!” he echoed with reproachful indignation.

“Yes, I think so. Do you think Lady Despard willnot suspect that there is something wrong when you dogour 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 permissionto remain here at the villa, in charge, as it were,during her absence. You see? So that there will benothing to be suspicious about.”

A curious expression, almost one of satisfaction, shonefor a moment in Percy Levant’s dark eyes.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “Though not with usyou will be near at hand? And I am to come here theday 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 inearly life to possess such a friend as I have proved myselfto you, where should I be now, I wonder?” and he sighedunctuously.

“In gaol, I should say,” retorted Percy, grimly. Thenhe added, quickly, “But I like your plan, and I shall domy best to carry it out. As you say, it is too late to drawback now——”

“Much too late,” laughed the philanthropist, “even ifyou wished to, which you do not, my dear boy.”

“No, I do not,” he assented, and he took a cigar from[Pg 284]his case and lit it, his white, shapely hands tremblingslightly. “I am willing to follow your instruction; and allI ask is that which you have consented to: that you keepaway from Pescia.”

Spenser Churchill nodded acquiescingly.

“Certainly. I agree with you, that the less I am inevidence the better.”

As he spoke, a footman came across the lawn with atelegram.

It was from Lord Cecil, and had been forwarded fromMeuriguy’s. Mr. Spenser Churchill took it and openedit.

“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 ofthe Washerwomen’s Burial Fund next week. You seewhat sacrifices I am making in your behalf, my dearPercy,” he said, shaking his head. “I think I am ratherthirsty; 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 smokedfuriously for some minutes, then he flung the cigar fromhim as if he were too agitated to smoke.

“Yes, I’ll do it!—I’ll do it!” he muttered. “Oh, mybeautiful angel, for your sake—it is for your sake.”

CHAPTER XXXI.

A POSTPONEMENT.

Some men take a great deal of killing; the Marquisof Stoyle ought, according to medical rules and poeticaljustice, to have died out of hand; but he clung to lifetenaciously, and not only refused to die, but got better!

In ten days from Spenser Churchill’s departure, hislordship rallied, and, to the surprise of every one, includingthe doctors, regained sufficient strength to enablehim to leave his bed.

But a great change had taken place; one of those extraordinary[Pg 285]changes which baffle medical science and setall its knowledge at naught. The marquis had not losthis reason, but his memory.

He was perfectly sane, understood every word thatwas said to him, and could converse with all his wontedacuteness and sardonic cynicism, but he had forgotteneverything excepting those things which had occurred inyears long back. It was exactly as if the later years ofhis life, with all their experience, had been wiped cleanfrom the tablets of his mind, and, as he sat in his easychair looking out of the window, he was under the impressionthat his wife had just left him, and that Timehad put back the hands on life’s dial twenty years.

The doctors were both startled and puzzled. If hehad become actually insane and idiotic, they could haveunderstood it; but that a man should lose all hold upontwenty years of his life, and yet be able to understandwhat was said to him and converse rationally, was littleshort of phenomenal.

They sent for Lord Cecil, who came hurriedly, andwas 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 altereda great deal since I saw you last; you have grown,grown very much. I suppose you think of entering thearmy? Well, I will consider the matter. I imagine youwould do as much mischief as a civilian as you will doas a soldier. Tell your father, my brother, that, thoughI bear him no good will, I will do my duty by you. Askthe steward to give you a five-pound note, and—youmay go now, please,” and Lord Cecil, dismissed like aschoolboy, left the room, too embarrassed and confoundedto utter a word.

“What is to be done?” he said to the doctors. “Willhe remain like this? It is terrible, terrible!”

Sir Andrew shook his head.

“It is very extraordinary, very; but I must remindyou, Lord Cecil, that it might be worse. His lordshipis in possession of all his faculties, and, excepting thisremarkable loss of memory, is as sane as you and I. Ihave had a long, and, I must add most interesting, conversation[Pg 286]with him this morning, and he talked with allhis old brilliance——”

“And bitterness,” said the other famous doctor, underhis breath.

“As to how long this singular lapse of memory willaffect him, I really cannot say. It is an altogether unusualcase. It is very bad, my lord, I admit,” for LordCecil was much moved by the old man’s condition; “but,as I say, it might be worse. His lordship’s physicalstrength 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? Perhapsif 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 LadyGrace, whom he took up to the marquis’ chair.

“Here is Grace, sir,” he said.

“Grace? Grace? What Grace?” demanded the oldman, with a hard, keen glance at the beautiful face heused to know so well. “I have not the honor and pleasureof the young lady’s acquaintance. Do me the favorto introduce me, if you please.”

“Surely you know me, dear marquis!” said LadyGrace, 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 girlof his Grace, doesn’t he? Are you Peyton’s daughter?”

“You know I am, my lord!” she said. “You remembermy father, your oldest friend!”

“Jack Peyton! Oh, yes!” he said, with his old, causticsmile. “My oldest and best friend; he proved himselfso by running off with the girl I was going to marry.And then I married Lucy——” His lips tightened, andseemed to grow stiff and hard—“and she ran away, too.I dare say she had reason. The child was a girl; it oughtto have been a boy, and I hated it because it was notone. Yes, it ought to have been a boy, and cut outCecil. And now Cecil will be the heir. I beg your pardon,Cecil,” he broke off with his sardonic smile, “I forgot[Pg 287]you were present. Yes, it was a girl. Some onetold me that it was dead, and Lucy, too. No, I don’twear mourning; why should I?” with a hard, haughtystare. “Let the man who went with her wear mourning;I dare say he regrets her, the fool. He was an oldflame of hers. Spenser Churchill can tell you all abouthim, 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?” hebroke off to inquire.

“He is on the Continent, sir,” said Lord Cecil.

“Oh, what a Pecksniff the fellow is! The biggesthypocrite on the face of the earth, but useful—oh, yes,useful! And so you are Grace Peyton, are you?” turninghis glittering eyes upon Lady Grace, who shrank back,half-frightened. “Hem! I should think you’d make agood match with Cecil.”

“Have you forgotten that we are engaged, Cecil andI, 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! TheStoyles are the worst husbands in the world, so theysay, and I think it’s true. He’ll make you wish you weredead before you have been married twelve months!”

“Come away, Grace,” said Cecil, pale and stern, andhe led her out of the room.

“Oh! Cecil, I am sorry!” she murmured, clinging tohis arm, and looking up into his face. “And we wereto be married soon, too!”

“Yes,” he said, “I am afraid the wedding must be putoff, Grace!” and, though he spoke in accents of regret,a guilty thrill of relief shot through him. “Poor oldman! Poor old man! We were never on very affectionateterms, but it hurts me to see him like this!”

“And he may remain like it for ever so long!” shesaid, raising her eyes, as her head lay on his breast.“For months, perhaps. Do—do you think it wouldmatter if we had a quiet, a very quiet, wedding, Cecil?”

He frowned.

“I am afraid it isn’t possible, Grace,” he replied, and[Pg 288]again he was conscious of the same guilty thrill of relief.

She drew a long breath, and pulled irritably at the laceon 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; butit is terribly awkward, all the same, and people are talkingso.”

“Let them talk!” he said, almost sternly. “What doI—or what should you—care what they say?”

A week passed, and the marquis still remained in thesame condition mentally, but physically he progressedin a remarkable manner.

To all intents and purposes he was as well and strongas he was before his sudden attack, and one morninghe rang for his valet, and said, in his old, haughty, listlessmanner:

“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 amcold,” 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 ofsurprise.

“Yes, my lord,” he said, quietly. “Lord Cecil will accompanyus, I presume?”

“You do presume!” retorted the marquis. “LordCecil will not accompany us! Great heaven, do youthink I want a schoolboy hanging to my coat tails? Certainlynot—we go alone! Let me see, it will be verypleasant in Italy! Rome! No; not Rome, it will be toocrowded; and Florence is full of tourists at this time!We will go to Pescia.”

“Very good, my lord,” said the man, and he left theroom and went straight to the doctors.

“Italy?” said Sir Andrew. “Well, yes, it will do his[Pg 289]lordship no harm and may do him good. Pescia is aquiet place and will suit the marquis. I will write to thedoctor over there and ask him to watch his lordship.And he wants to go alone, does he? Well, I supposeyou 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 sickman’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 Ishould be to have you as my companion,” with a bow, “Imust not forget that your military duties have a priorclaim upon you. No, I shall go alone. I am aware thatyou all think I am dying, but I can assure you, withsome regret, that you are very much mistaken. You willhave 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 wasable in securing the comfort and safety of the old man,who even in his weakness possessed a fiercer self-will thanmost men can boast of in the prime of their strength?They wrote to the English doctor at Pescia, engaged avilla in the best part of the town, and sent over his lordship’straveling chariot and those servants whom he wasaccustomed to have about him. And Cecil himself accompaniedthe party across the channel, though even tothis short escortage the marquis was opposed.

“Great heaven!” he exclaimed, irritably. “I havetraveled half round the globe several times without yourassistance, and I cannot conceive why you should considerit necessary to bore yourself, and me, too, by comingacross the channel.”

“You forget that you have been ill, sir,” said Cecil,quietly, “and that it is my duty to see that your journeyis made as comfortably as possible.”

“Thanks,” retorted the marquis. “It’s a pity youcouldn’t have arranged a calm passage; but you couldn’tdo that, and for the life of me I can’t think of anythingelse you can do. Good-by. Don’t trouble to write, Ihate reading letters when I am abroad.”

[Pg 290]

And this, with a cold touch of his thin hand, comprisedhis adieu to his nephew and heir!

CHAPTER XXXII.

“I LOVE HIM STILL.”

“Really, that was a very good idea of Mr. SpenserChurchill’s,” said Lady Despard, looking round her, asshe leaned over the bridge which spans the river runningsleepily down to the sea. “I should never havethought of coming to Pescia, but, then, I never have anyideas of any sort, and Mr. Spenser Churchill is so clever,isn’t he, Mr. Levant?” she added, turning her head lazilyto where Percy Levant sat upon the stone coping of thebridge, looking down at the river, and now and againglancing at the face of Doris, who stood with her eyesfixed 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 ivorypale face and dark blue eyes; “I think she is better.Not much to boast of in the way of color, perhaps, but wehave only been here ten days, and you never do run tocolor, do you, Doris?”

Doris started.

“I—I beg your pardon,” she said. “I am afraid I wasnot listening——”

Lady Despard laughed.

“What a dreamer you are, dear,” she said, banteringly.“I often wish you would sell me your thoughtsfor the proverbial penny; they should be worth it, judgingby your face. Does she sell them—or give them toyou, Mr. Levant?”

He shrugged his shoulders, and pushed a loose pebblefrom 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 thinkingof, Doris?” he added, in a low voice.

A dash of color came into the pale face.

[Pg 291]

“They were not worth telling,” she said, with a littletwinge in her voice. “I—I scarcely know what I wasthinking about!”

“Just dreaming, dreaming,” said her ladyship.

“Well, you couldn’t have come to a more suitable placethan sleepy, old Pescia, where nothing happens, or hashappened since the Ghibellines and the Florentines usedto squabble and fight,” said Percy Levant. “By theway, though, something has happened; there has been anew arrival lately. I met a handsome carriage in theVia Grandia, and was told that it belonged to some greatEnglish milord, who had come for the benefit of hishealth.”

Lady Despard yawned.

“I do hope it’s no one we know, and that we sha’n’tbe compelled to call,” she said. “Did they tell you hisname?”

“No,” replied Percy Levant, “for a very good reason—nonative of Pescia could possibly pronounce an Englishname. They make something awful out of Smith,even.”

Lady Despard laughed.

“I think I shall go in,” she said. “This sun is makingme feel drowsy, and, as when I dream I fall asleep, itwould be awkward tumbling into the water. You neednot come, Doris,” she added, as Doris made a movementto 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 herwas as full of respect, almost as full, indeed, of reserve,as it had been before the night she had promised to behis wife. Not once had he ventured to kiss her, andwhen his lips touched her hand it was with a reverencewhich was almost that of a subject for a monarch. Andcertainly 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 wishthat he had proposed to her instead of Doris.

“I wish he had,” Doris had retorted, with a smile thatwas rather too grave to accompany a jest.

[Pg 292]

They stood now in silence for a moment or two, thenhe turned his head and looked at her.

“I am glad you stayed, Doris,” he said. “I havesomething to tell you, to show you.”

“Yes?” she said, leaning on the bridge, and shadingher eyes with her hands, that she might the more easilywatch the upward flight of a hawk which had been hoveringover the plain.

“It is some news I have had,” he said, and he drew aletter from his pocket and held it out to her, but kepthis fingers closed on it, as he added, quietly: “Beforeyou read it, let me tell you that I shall accept the offerit contains. Now will you read it, Doris?”

She took it.

“It is from Mr. Churchill,” she said; “I know thewriting.”

He nodded, and she read the letter, and as she readher face grew pale.

“To Australia?” she said, in a low voice; “and you aregoing?”

“Yes,” he said. “And now the question I am goingto ask you, Doris, is—am I to go alone?”

“Are you to go alone?” she repeated, as if she did notunderstand him; then, reading his meaning in his eyes,she shrank back a little, and her face grew crimson, andthen white. “You mean that—that——”

“That you should come with me,” he said, in a gravevoice.

“But—but——” she glanced at the letter again, “hesays that you must start in a fortnight!”

“We could be married in less than that, Doris,” hesaid, gently.

She clasped her hands tightly, as they rested on thebridge.

“In a fortnight—in two weeks!” she said, with a littlecatch in her breath.

“Is the idea terrible?” he murmured, with a touch ofsadness in his voice.

“No—oh, no!” she made haste to answer. “But it isso—so sudden! Two weeks——!”

He watched her anxiously, with a strange and curiouswatchfulness.

[Pg 293]

“Yes, it is a short notice, but, you see, it is Hobson’schoice with me. Poor men must take what is offeredthem, 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 seemsbound up and connected in some way or other with mylife!” and she sighed.

He leaned forward and averted his face, as she turnedher eyes toward him.

“It—it is strange, coincidental,” he said, in a dryvoice. “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 beenbathing it in the river beneath them—and pressed it tohis lips.

“Thanks, dearest,” he said, and his voice trembled.“You shall never regret your choice—never. I will sayno more,” and he let her hand fall, and moved away, asif he could not trust himself to speak further.

A moment or two after he came close to her, and laidhis hand, with an almost imploring gesture, upon herarm.

“Doris,” he said, and his voice rang solemnly, “youthink me selfish and exacting, I know——”

“You are always all that is good and kind to me!” shebroke in, her lips quivering, her eyes growing moist withtears. “Am I to do nothing—give nothing—in return?”

“Oh, yes, I understand!” he said. “I understandmore clearly than you guess, dearest. Try not to thinktoo hardly of me. Some day—before long, perhaps—youwill know how deeply and truly I love you!” andhe turned and left her.

[Pg 294]

Doris remained standing on the bridge, looking at thesleepy river, with a dull pain in her heart and her eyeshalf-blinded with the rush of emotion that seemed tooverwhelm her.

In a fortnight! In two short weeks! Not until thismoment had she fully realized what she had done inpromising to be Percy Levant’s wife; but now——! Sheleaned her head upon her hands, and tried to crush downthe rebellious thoughts that rose within her. Tried towipe out, as it were, the remembrance of Cecil Neville,which haunted and tortured her.

“I love him still!” she moaned. “I love him still, andI am to be another man’s wife in a fortnight! Oh, if Iwere only dead—if I were only lying at rest at the bottomof the river here! In a fortnight! Oh, what haveI done, what have I done?” and she wrung her hands,wildly.

Then suddenly, with an effort, she fought down themad remorse and misery, and, in a dull despair, murmured:

“What does it matter? Why should I not marry him—orany one else? What can Cecil Neville ever be tome, even if I were free? He will be the husband ofLady Grace; he has forgotten that such a person asDoris Marlowe ever existed; or, if he remembers me, recallsme as the girl who served to amuse him for a fewdays in the country. What a shame it is that I shouldgive a thought to him who has been so base and mean,while this other, to whom I have pledged my word, is allthat is good and true! Marry Percy Levant! Yes, Iwould marry him to-morrow if he asked me!” and, settingher teeth hard, she turned to leave the bridge.

As she did so, a tall, thin old man, with a white, wastedface, from which a pair of sharp gray eyes gleamed likecold steel, came onto the bridge, and she made way forhim.

He was leaning on a stick, and, as he raised his hat incourtly acknowledgment, he let the stick slip from histhin, clawlike hands.

Doris stooped and picked it up, and, as she gave it tohim and he was thanking her in Italian, his piercing eyesscanned her face with a cold earnestness.

[Pg 295]

Doris bowed and went on, but some impulse movedher to look back after she had gone a few yards, andshe saw him leaning against the bridge, with his handspressed to his heart, and his face deathly white.

She was at his side in an instant, and had drawn hiswasted arm within her firm, strong one almost beforehe knew of it.

“I am afraid you are ill,” she said.

He started as her sweet, musical voice sounded in hisears, and raised his eyes to her face.

“No, no,” he said, evidently with an effort. “But Ihave been ill, and—and I am a little weak, which,” headded, with all the old courtesy, “is my good fortune,seeing that it has procured me the—the happiness ofyour assistance. You are English. I took you for anItalian. My eyes are not so strong”—he stopped, fromsheer weakness, and leaned upon her arm heavily, if theword can be used in connection with the lightness ofhis frail form—“not so strong as they were. I have themisfortune 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 oftroubling a lady——”

Disregarding his apologies, she led him carefully tothe seat, into which he sank with a sigh of weary relief.Doris looked at him anxiously. It was a striking face, anda vague kind of idea crossed her mind that she had seenit somewhere before to-day, but she could not fix thetime or place, and presently she found the keen, glitteringeyes fixed in a meditative scrutiny upon herself.

“You have been very kind to me, my dear younglady,” he said, in a voice that still trembled a little; “verykind. And you are English? Will you tell me yourname? I am an old man, and claim an old man’s privilege—inquisitiveness—yousee.”

“My name is Doris—Doris Marlowe,” said Doris,seating herself beside him, and looking down the roadin the hope that a carriage might come up in which shecould place him.

“Doris Marlowe? No,” he shook his head; “I neverheard it before; and yet I fancied your face awakened[Pg 296]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 faintlycynical smile; “I mean that I am not worth knowing.And are you living here, Miss Marlowe? Your mothermust 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, andwith a strange pang shooting through her heart.“There was one who was father and mother to me, but—heis dead, too,” and her voice quivered.

“You are young to have seen so much trouble,” hesaid, pityingly. “But you are living here with somerelative, is it not so?”

Doris shook her head.

“I have not a relative in the world,” she replied. “Iam 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 areliving with her? I envy her her companion, my dear.I will do myself the honor of calling upon her. Tell meyour name again. I—I forget, sometimes. I am veryold, older than you think, because you see I am sostrong still. You smile?” sharply.

“No, no, I did not smile, indeed!” said Doris, quickly.“But I do not think you are strong enough—you havetold me that you have been ill, you know—to walk aboutalone.”

He sighed, and shrugged his shoulders, with a mirthlesssmile.

“Alone. I have only a valet, and I hate to have himwith me. I had a wife once”—he stopped, and lookeddarkly before him—“she left me—she died, I mean, ofcourse and I’ve no one else. I had a child, a little girl,but she died, too. You see, I am like you somewhat,[Pg 297]though I have other relations who, doubtless, wish that Iwould die also,” and he smiled, cynically.

Doris shrank a little, then, ashamed of the momentaryrepugnance, said, gently:

“That is not true, I am sure. And now, will you tellme where you live? I will come with you if you will letme. Or will you come with me to Lady Despard’s, andhave 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 LadyDespard’s, the handsomest in Pescia.

“Yes, I know it,” she said. “It is too far for you togo 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 herwith a gentleness which assuredly was an unfamiliar expressionon that cold, haughty face. “Very! I will resta little longer, if I may.”

He sat silent for a short time, and Doris heard himmurmuring her name several times, and then he lookedup and sighed.

“No, I don’t remember, and yet——” he passed hishand over his forehead with a wistful, puzzled look inhis 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 myarm; now the order is changed. One gets old suddenly!”he added, with a grim smile. “And I have beenill. I think I told you. Yes, very ill. They thought Iwas dead; but”—with a gesture of defiance—“my racedie 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 amoment. “If she had lived and stayed with me, I shouldhave had her arm to lean upon. By Heaven, I neverthought of that before!” he exclaimed, in a suppressedvoice, and his head sank lower.

They crossed the bridge in silence, and reached theVia Grandia, where Doris saw a man, whom she took[Pg 298]for a servant, hurriedly cross the road and approachthem.

“I am afraid you are ill, my lord,” he said, touchinghis 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 shallnot need to tax your kindness and patience any longer.How deeply grateful I am for that kindness and patienceI cannot tell you. But for you——” He stopped expressively.“Will you tell Lady Despard that I shallhave the honor of calling upon her to-morrow, to congratulateher upon having so sweet and beautiful afriend?”

“Yes,” replied Doris, allowing her soft, warm hand toremain 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 suddenlythat his thin, feeble one fell abruptly to his side.

“The Marquis of Stoyle!” she echoed, every vestige ofcolor 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—lookedso long that the valet gently pressed his arm as areminder.

“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 kindto me—very!”

“No, my lord, she is a stranger to me,” replied theman.

“A stranger. Yes, yes. And yet——”

And, with knitted brows and troubled look in his eyeshe permitted his man to lead him away.

OUT OF THE PAST.

“So the illustrious visitor turns out to be the greatMarquis of Stoyle!” exclaimed Lady Despard, with alaugh of surprise. “The Marquis of Stoyle! And youhave been leading him about like a blind beggar? HowI wish I had been there to see you! But it seems tohave upset you, dear,” she added; “you look really palenow, and—why, you haven’t been crying?” and she drewDoris 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 tomarry 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 ashame 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 Churchillcontaining 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 Ido? What a wicked girl you must be to entice me intoloving you so, and then to leave me! Why, I didn’t expectthis dreadful marriage to take place for at least twoyears, and now—! Two weeks! You must love himvery dearly, Doris.”

“I respect him very highly,” said Doris. “He is notlike 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 littlefeet of yours tread on. And so he might, consideringthe many others who would be only too happy to takehis place. And why should you make him happy?[Pg 300]Well, I don’t know. But it seems to me, dear, that youare one of those women who consider that they wereonly born to make others happy. I only hope that youwill make yourself happy.”

“Oh, yes; I shall be as happy as I deserve,” said Doriswith a faint smile.

“And you have quite made up your mind?” demandedLady Despard.

“Quite,” said Doris.

“Then the only thing to be done is to grin and bearit, for I know the stiff-necked, resolute kind of youngperson you are. Oh, there is one other thing we mustdo: we can set about getting your things ready.”

“I shall not want many,” said Doris; “we are bothvery poor, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Lady Despard, dryly. “All thesame, 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 wearylittle gesture; “quite quiet. I don’t want any bridesmaids—”

Lady Despard shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, very well; have it all your own way. You shallbe married at midnight, and in darkest secrecy, if youlike. And in a fortnight! Great heavens! Why, itscarcely gives one time to make a couple of dresses.”

“Which are all I shall require,” said Doris, with asmile. “Dear Lady Despard, you forget that it is notyour sister who is going to be married, but only yourcompanion.”

Lady Despard moved away with a despairing gesture.

“I only wish you were my sister. I would show you ifyou should make ducks and drakes of your future in thisway.”

“Don’t let us talk about it any longer,” said Doris, risingand stretching out her arms as if she were riddingherself 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 andsee if there is anything decent we can buy. A fortnight!I rather liked Percy Levant on the whole, but now I feel[Pg 301]as if I hated him. I wish to Heaven, Spenser Churchillhad not sent him with us!”

Apparently the Pescia drapers had something decenton sale, for her ladyship made purchases so extensive asto alarm Doris, who, when she remonstrated, was told tomind her own business; and the next two or three dayswere occupied in consultation with dressmakers andmilliners; and Lady Despard had quite forgotten theMarquis of Stoyle and his promised visit.

But Doris had not. And often as she sat, surroundedby “materials” and bonnet shapes, she thought of thestrange meeting with the man who had stepped in betweenher 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 haswrecked my whole life, and broken my heart!”

And yet that was what he had done; for in losing CecilNeville 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 onher lips? Was there a single morning on which she didnot wake with that dull aching of the heart which someof us know so well! And she was to marry anotherman 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 hadbeen so like her shadow for months past, always nearher and ready, and promptly ready, to forestall her lightestwish, that his absence made itself felt.

On the third day Lady Despard and she were sitting inthe 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 plainsewing. 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——”

[Pg 302]

“It isn’t the marquis, my lady, but his valet,” said thefootman.

Lady Despard sank back into the midst of the whirlpoolof muslin.

“Oh, well, show him in.”

“Here, my lady?”

“Yes; I’m too busy to go to any one short of amarquis.”

The valet, a grave, distinguished-looking man, whomight well have been taken for a marquis, or, for thatmatter, a duke, entered a moment or two afterward, andbowed.

“His lordship’s compliments, my lady, and he wouldbe 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—toDoris.

“His lordship is very ill, miss; or he would have donehimself the honor to wait upon you to thank you foryour great kindness to him,” he said.

Doris’ face flushed for an instant.

“I am sorry,” she said, bending over her work; “but Idid 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 thathe should deem it a very great favor, indeed, if youwould come and see him. He wished me to say that, ifhe could have crawled—crawled was his word, my lady”—turningto Lady Despard, “he would have come himself.But he is quite confined to his room, and perfectlyunable 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 herreply; and the valet crossed his hands and also seemedto wait, respectfully and patiently.

Doris’ white brow wrinkled painfully, and she laid atremulous 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[Pg 303]of little else since he came home. He is very old, yousee——”

Doris’ gentle heart melted at the repetition of thissimple 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 thiskind!”

Doris looked before her with wistful, troubled eyes fora moment or two, then she laid down the work she wasengaged on.

“I will come with you,” she said.

When she re-entered the room with her hat and jacketon, she looked round, and taking some flowers from oneof the vases, quickly rearranged them, and then said:

“I am ready.”

“I will get a carriage, my lady——” said the valet; butDoris shook her head.

“It is no distance; I would rather walk.”

Lady Despard waved her hand to her with a smilemade up of affection and amusem*nt.

“Another conquest, my dear,” she said. “It’s a pityPercy Levant isn’t a curate; you would have made suchan admirable district visitor.”

On their way through the quiet streets the valet, answeringDoris’ questions, gave her some information respectingthe marquis’ condition.

“It was the excitement of the grand party, you see,miss,” he said. “The party given in Lady Grace’shonor, the young lady who is to marry my Lord Cecil,that did it. His lordship isn’t used to excitement, and itwas quite against Lord Cecil’s wish that the party wasgiven, but the marquis was so delighted at the engagementthat he would insist—I’m afraid I’m walking toofast 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 knowshe is beautiful.”

“Oh, yes, miss; her ladyship is one of the acknowledgedbeauties, as I dare say you are aware.”

[Pg 304]

“Yes,” said Doris, raising her nosegay to her face tohide the quiver of the lips. “And—and Lord Cecil”—howlittle the man guessed the effort it cost her to speakthe name!—“he is very much attached——” she stopped,remembering that it was rather indiscreet to discuss hismaster’s affairs with this man.

“Attached to her ladyship, miss?” he said, with perfectrespect. “Yes, oh, yes; how could he be otherwise?”He seemed to hesitate a moment, then he said, ratherreflectively, “Lord Cecil has rather changed of late.”

“Rather changed?” said Doris, faintly.

“Well, yes, miss. He used to be rather wild, and certainlyalways in the best of humors, what would be describedas light-hearted. I used to say that it made onelaugh one’s self to hear his laugh, so free and blithesomeit was, so to speak. But he’s got quieter of late, and wehear him laugh scarcely at all now. But perhaps youknow 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 thesame person. Perhaps it’s the responsibility of this engagementand the marquis’ illness.”

“He—is not here?—here at Pescia?” she asked, stoppingshort suddenly, with a look of alarm.

“Oh, no, miss; or of course he would have brought themarquis’ message instead of me. Oh, no; it was themarquis’ wish that he should come on the Continentquite alone, and Lord Cecil remained, very reluctantly,in England. Of course, I should take upon myself tosend for him if the marquis got seriously worse. Thisis the house—villa, as they call it,” and he conductedDoris into the miniature palace which his agents had succeededin renting for the marquis.

Doris waited in the—literally—marble hall, while thevalet went upstairs to convey the result of his mission tohis master, and she employed the few minutes before hisreturn in composing herself.

She was going, in obedience to his whim, to sit besidethe bed of this sick old man, who had robbed her of herlover and wrecked all her life, the Marquis of Stoyle, at[Pg 305]whose request or command Lord Cecil had abandonedher!

“If any one had told me that I should have done thisthing,” she mused, in sad wonderment, “with what scornI should have repelled the suggestion; and yet—I amhere. And, what is more wonderful still, I cannot hatehim—could not, if I tried. Is it because he is so old,and ill, and helpless, and looks so unhappy? Only thewretched can feel for the wretched, they say,” and shesighed as she followed the man up the stairs into a carefully-shadedroom.

The great marquis lay upon a couch wrapped in hisvelvet dressing-gown, the brightness of which seemed toheighten the effect of his pallid, wasted face, with itspiercing eyes shining like brilliants in their hollow, dark-ringedsockets.

He made an effort to rise as she entered, but fell backwith 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 theother day. And so you consented to gratify the sickfancy 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 ofpity 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 iscooler.”

“Yes, yes,” he assented, eagerly. “Oh, yes; I shallget better! It is only a passing weakness! I have beenvery ill—I told you? Yes, I am very strong. WeStoyles have the constitution and”—with a grim smile—“thetemper 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 marquiswaved him back.

“No,” he said. “Give them to me! Give them tome,” and he took them from her with a courtly eagerness.“Ah, beautiful; and you were so gracious as tothink of them! They are almost as beautiful as yourself;but not more pure, not more innocent or pure,” headded to himself, with a strange, wistful gravity, as his[Pg 306]eyes rested on her sweet face, “whose goodness lay opento 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 flashedangrily.

“Go, go!” he said, irritably.

The man drew back with unmoved countenance, andDoris 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 protestor resentment, and sank back with a sigh.

“Scott! Walter Scott! I can understand that now—nowyou are here! Yes, a ministering angel!”

He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then heturned 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 anold 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 wemake for ourselves; but sorrow must have been unmeritedin your case, child. Tell me——” he stopped short andsighed. “I am forgetting,” he said. “Why should youtell 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, Ithink. I wish——” again he stopped, and the proud lipsquivered slightly. “I have neither son nor daughter;only a nephew, who, doubtless, thinks I am an unconscionabletime dying; and he is right. It is time thatthere was a new Marquis of Stoyle.”

Doris looked down.

“I—I think you do him an injustice, my lord,” shesaid.

He laughed the old cynical laugh.

“If he doesn’t, I’ve no doubt Grace does. Lady Grace[Pg 307]Peyton, the girl he is going to marry,” he explained, “isa clever girl; too clever for Cecil,” and he smiled half-scornfully.“She will have all the brains, and, perhaps, hewill have all the honesty. Yes, I’ll say that for him; hemay be a fool, but he’s no knave. A knave would havebeen too sharp for us——” He put his hand to his browas if his memory were slipping from him and he was endeavoringto keep a hold upon it. “Did I tell you abouthim 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 roundwith a helpless sigh. “I have forgotten it now. SpenserChurchill could tell you. It will amuse you.” He smiledwith childish enjoyment. “I wish I could remember, butI can’t. My memory is worse, much worse since my illness;”and he sighed again.

“Do not distress yourself, my lord,” said Doris. “Youshall 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 infinitelypitiable. “Not a face or a story but I could carry it in mymind, and now”—he looked at her apologetically—“I haveactually forgotten your name, who have been so kind to afeeble 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 tocall it Lucy, after her mother; but there has always beena Mary Neville—until now. I told you she died, did Inot?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Doris, soothingly.

“Y—es,” he repeated, musingly. “If she had lived Ishould have had some one, like yourself, to see methrough the last mile of life’s race—the last mile. I keptrace horses once. I’ve done and seen everything in mytime. Wicked Lord Stoyle they called me. But throughit all I was never so bad as some. Spenser Churchill, forinstance——”

[Pg 308]

“Mr. Spenser Churchill has been very good to me, mylord,” 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 hewho——” He stopped, with a troubled look on his face.“No—I’ve forgotten—it has slipped me again. It is somethingGrace was in, too. Clever woman, Grace; too cleverfor 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 wasvery 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 wouldhave looked like you. He will be a happy man who winsthat beautiful face and gentle heart!”

Doris’ face flushed, and her eyes dropped, and his keenones noted her embarrassment.

“Ah,” he said; “there is some one already, is therenot?”

“Yes, my lord,” said poor Doris, in a low voice.

He nodded.

“Yes, yes! Who is he? What is his name? But it’sno use telling me; I can’t remember, you see! I shouldlike 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 menstill,” and he raised himself, and glared at the oppositewall with a proud, cold hauteur, which made Dorisshrink, for suddenly there flashed upon her mind the nightJeffrey had taken her to Drury Lane, and she had seen theold, stern-looking man in the box; and this was he! Sheremembered 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 Ishall esteem it a favor if he will bring you to see me again.[Pg 309]I should like to congratulate him upon the treasure he hasgot.”

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 adead, 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 sympatheticcuriosity. “Was he a very irritable old man? I’veheard all sorts of stories about him.”

Doris sighed.

“He is very ill and old,” she said. “He—he was verykind and gentle to me,” and, though she could scarcelyhave told why, her eyes grew moist.

“Well, he would have to be a perfect monster, with aheart of stone, if he had been anything else than kind andgentle to you. And now I have some good news for you.Percy Levant has come back. All his preparations arecomplete, he says, for the happy event——”

Doris started. She had almost forgotten Percy Levantin the excitement of the interview with the marquis, andthe memories and emotions he had evoked.

“I should think he had been working pretty hard orworrying about something,” continued Lady Despard,“for he looks as grave as a judge, and hadn’t a laugh inhim. Oh, here he comes.”

Percy Levant entered the room as she spoke, and LadyDespard, murmuring some excuse, left the two youngpeople alone.

He took Doris’ hands, and looked down at her with agrave tenderness that, if she had met his gaze, would havestartled her by its sadness.

“Well, Doris,” he said, “I have come back, and all isready.”

“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 fora moment. “Yes, I have missed you. I have not so manyfriends that I can afford to lose one without missing him.”

“Friend!” he said, almost inaudibly. “Well, yes, I am[Pg 310]truly your friend. And you don’t regret—you have nomisgivings as to the future, Doris?”

She paused, almost perceptibly, then, in a still lowervoice, replied:

“No, I have no regrets, no misgivings. I—I trust youentirely.”

“Yes, dearest,” he said, and he bent and kissed herhands, “and you may do so, I think, entirely. I must goand dress now.”

“Wait a moment,” she said, falteringly. “I have somethingto tell you,” and she told him of her meeting withthe marquis and her visit to him.

“The Marquis of Stoyle!” he said, as she mentioned hisname, and he let her hands drop suddenly. “The Marquisof Stoyle!” and his eyes rested upon her face with acurious expression.

“Yes,” she said, her heart beating. “Do—do you knowhim?”

“No; but I have heard of him,” he replied. “Who hasnot? He is the uncle of Lord Cecil Neville;” and hewatched her closely.

Her face flushed for an instant, then grew pale again.

“Yes,” she said, simply. “And will you come with meto see him? He is very ill, worse than he thinks, and—andnearer death than he would believe.”

“I will come with you if you wish it,” he said. “I willdo anything you wish, now and always, Doris.”

“Well, I do wish it. I don’t know why,” she said, witha smile that was rather troubled, “but I do wish it.”

“Then we will go,” he said, as a matter of course. “Andnow I’ll go and make myself presentable.”

With his change of clothes he seemed to have got ridof the gravity and melancholy which Lady Despard hadremarked upon; and that evening he was the Percy Levantof old, causing Lady Despard to laugh until she declaredthat she was tired, and bringing a smile even toDoris’ quietly brooding face.

Once or twice Lady Despard referred to the now rapidly-approachingmarriage day, but when she did so heevaded the subject and changed it, as if it were too closeto his heart to be spoken of lightly.

“After all, dear,” said Lady Despard, as she came into[Pg 311]Doris’ dressing-room for a few minutes’ chat before goingto bed, “I don’t know that you could have done better.He loves you to distraction, and he’s awfully cleverand light-hearted. You’ll never know what it is to bebored for a single moment,” and her ladyship, recallingthe many wearisome hours she had endured in the societyof her dear departed, sighed; “and he is really the handsomestman I have ever met. Yes, I don’t know, dear,that you haven’t done wisely in choosing him. But Iwish he had some money and a title. I have a fancy thatyou ought to be called ‘my lady.’ There is somethingabout you—a certain dignity——”

Doris swung her thick hair over her shoulders, andlooked 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 betterthan anything grander, I think.”

“I don’t agree with you,” said Lady Despard; “but itcan’t be helped now, and, after all, one is none the happierfor a title; and I do hope you will be happy, dear!You deserve it so very much,” and she put her arm roundthe slim waist and kissed her.

Doris slept little that night. The white, haggard faceof the old man haunted her, and, strangely enough, thefrank, handsome one of Lord Cecil, in all its bravery ofyouth and strength, mingled with it in an inextricablefashion.

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 adistrict visitor of me! What part do I take now? AmI to carry the basket with the tea and tracts, or what?Perhaps, when you get there, the marquis will have forgottenyour existence.”

“I am quite sure he is too gallant to do that,” interruptedLady 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 yourthings, Doris, and let us get it over.”

[Pg 312]

Doris filled a basket with some flowers, and a bunch ofgrapes—“just to keep up the character,” Percy Levantremarked—and the valet received them in the villa withan 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 achange had taken place even in the few hours since shehad last seen him; and his voice sounded to her weaker,as, raising himself on his elbow, he stretched out his handtoward her with feeble eagerness.

“Thank you, thank you, my dear!” he said, his thin,wasted fingers closing over her soft, warm ones. “This isvery 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 yousir, for granting my request,” and he inclined his head toPercy Levant with stately courtesy. “I wished to see you,wished to see you very much. This young lady has beenvery kind to the old and feeble man you see before you.She has a gentle and a good heart, sir. And you are thefortunate man who has won her, it would seem.”

“I deem myself very fortunate, my lord,” said PercyLevant.

The keen, piercing eyes seemed to dart through him.

“That is the truth, if you never spoke it before,” heretorted, in his old, cynical way. “Have I had the honorof 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 notlikely to have forgotten it.”

“Ah,” said the old man, still eying him as if he weretrying to gain some glimpse of his character. “You areready with a repartee, I observe.”

“One need be who would hope to be worthy of crossingswords 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:[Pg 313]“You will have a clever man for a husband, my dear, andthat is better than having a fool.”

Doris hung her head.

“And you, sir, will have such a treasure as falls to thelot of few mortals.”

Percy Levant, as he stood with folded arms, bowedgravely.

“I am fully sensible of that, my lord.”

“You should be,” said the marquis.

There was a moment’s silence, during which his eyeslost 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, CecilNeville?”

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 aclever girl! Yes, Grace is clever,” and a smile curved histhin lips. “Cecil gave us some trouble, but we were toosharp for him. I think I told you, my dear?” he brokeoff to ask of Doris.

She shook her head and tried to speak, to lead himaway from further mention of the name which struck herheart, but with the persistence of old age he went on:

“It’s a curious story, Mr.——forgive me, sir, but Ihave forgotten your name.”

“Percy Levant; but it is of no consequence, my lord.”

“Thank you, Mr. Levant. A curious story. Mynephew, Cecil Neville, is the next in succession. He willbe 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. Yousee, Peyton and I were old friends, and Grace had a claimupon me. I thought she would make a very good marchioness,and a capital match for Cecil. I’m afraid Iweary you, sir,” he broke off.

“On the contrary,” said Percy Levant, in a constrainedvoice, and carefully avoiding looking in Doris’ direction.

“No? You are very good. Well, I wanted Cecil tomarry her. I expected some opposition, but, by gad, I[Pg 314]didn’t expect that he would thwart me to the extent offalling 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 tomurmur.

“No, no,” he said. “I want to tell you, my dear. It isa 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 youngperson by the name of——” He stopped and knit hisbrows. “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 withdrooping head.

“I can’t remember her name. She was an actress. Anactress! Imagine it, my dear!” and he turned to Doriswith a smile. “A common actress to be the Marchionessof Stoyle! I thought Cecil had gone out of his mind,and that I could laugh him, or argue him out of his absurdfancy; but sarcasm and logic were thrown awayupon 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; andDoris, with an effort, rose and gave him some water.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, gratefully, his eyes restingon her pale face with an affectionate smile.

“Spenser Churchill——” Doris nearly let the glassfall and sank back into her chair.

“Mr. Spenser Churchill, the great philanthropist, mylord?” asked Percy Levant, in a dry voice.

The marquis laughed a sardonic laugh.

“Yes, the great philanthropist! The man who takesthe chair at the great annual meetings; the man whochampions 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 somememory connected with the name. “That is the man.You know him?”

Percy Levant nodded.

“Every one knows him, my lord.”

[Pg 315]

“And believes in him! That’s an admirable joke!Well, he came to my assistance. My nephew, Cecil, hadarranged to meet his ‘ladye love,’ this actress girl, or toput a letter to her underneath a stone or in a hollow tree—theusual thing, Mr.—Mr.——”

“Levant, my lord,” said Percy.

“Thank you, thank you! Yes, Mr. Levant. And myfriend, Spenser Churchill, the great philanthropist, suggestedthat I should send Cecil out of the way, and thathe, Spenser Churchill, should forge a letter from Cecildissolving 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 claspedin her lap. Percy Levant bent over him and gave himsome water.

“It—it was dangerous work, for Cecil had not left forIreland, and—and if he had caught Spenser Churchill——”He stopped and smiled significantly. “But I’llgive Churchill his due. He risked the thing, and exchangedthe real letter for the forgery, and—heigh,presto!—the engagement to this actress girl was doneaway with. The simple girl fell into the pit SpenserChurchill 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 fixedon the white, wrinkled face; “and Lord Cecil, what ofhim?”

“Oh, he’ll get over it in time,” said the marquis. “Ithink he was hard hit. I remember when he came backfrom Ireland he was rather cut up. I think so. My memoryis very bad. But he could not have felt it much, forhe proposed to Grace.”

“And Mr. Spenser Churchill—did he have anything todo with this engagement, my lord?”

The marquis thought for a moment.

“I don’t know; but I expect he had. Oh, yes, he musthave had, for I promised to give him a couple of thousandpounds the day Cecil and Grace were married and I daresayhe did his best to earn it. Trust Spenser Churchillfor that!”

[Pg 316]

“Yes. And Lord Cecil and Lady Grace Peyton—arethey married yet?” asked Percy Levant.

The marquis shook his head.

“No; they are waiting until I get better, and I am gettingbetter! I shall be quite well directly; and, my dear,an idea has just struck me. You shall be one of Grace’sbridesmaids!”

Doris started, and shrank back speechlessly. Suddenlyshe 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 inhis, and held it for a moment.

“I understand,” he said, and dropped it gently. “Yourlordship is very kind,” he said; “but Miss Marlowe is goingto be married very soon, and, probably, before LordCecil. You have not told us the name of the young ladywhose engagement to Lord Cecil was so cleverly brokenoff by Mr. Spenser Churchill. What was it?”

Doris rose, pale as a ghost, and caught Percy Levant’sarm.

“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 bewilderedair. “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 toPercy 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 voiceinaudible to the marquis. “I know!”

Doris sank back into her chair and covered her face[Pg 317]with her hands. The marquis leaned forward, regardingher with alarm.

“What is it? What is the matter?” he inquired,agitatedly. “What have I said——” He broke downand began to cough and tremble, and the valet hurriedto his side; but the old man waved him away with feeblesavageness.

“What is the matter with her?” he demanded of PercyLevant as imperiously as his weak voice would let him.

“Miss Marlowe is not strong, and the heat of theroom——Come, Doris,” he broke off more gently, andhe drew her hand through his arm.

She was going with a glance—a glance of reproach—atthe 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, withinfinite sadness, and allowed Percy Levant to lead heraway.

The marquis almost rose in his alarm and anxiety.

“Where are you going? What have I said? Comeback——” Then he fell on his side gasping for breath,and the terrified valet sprang to the bell and sent forthe doctor.

Doris walked home in a state of mind easy enough toimagine but very difficult to describe. Imagine the emotionof a tender-hearted woman who for many wearymonths has deemed the man she loved with all her pure,ardent nature false, and then suddenly discovering thatshe has misjudged and wrongfully condemned him!

The sudden shock of joy that ran through her almostseemed to deprive her of her senses, and it was with thegreatest difficulty that she could refrain from cryingaloud, “Oh, my love! my love! forgive me! forgive me!”And if she did not say it aloud, the prayer rose from herheart. The cruel letter, which she read and re-read dailyin the hope that its perusal would crush out her love forhim, was false! A fiend in the form of a man had betrayedthem both, and Cecil was true! He had lovedher—loved her, Doris, until he had received that letterwhich she had given to Spenser Churchill—had loved herand deemed her as false as she had thought him!

For a time her mind failed to realize the web and[Pg 318]woof of the plot which the “philanthropist” had wovenwith such devilish cunning; but though she did not knowall the threads and lines of the scheme, she graduallybegan to understand how completely she and Cecil hadbeen deceived. But why? What was the motive? Sheput the question away from her, and returned to thedelicious thought that, after all, he, Cecil, had not desertedher; that the wicked letter was a forgery; andthat her faith in him was restored to her.

And Percy Levant watched by her side, tenderly supportingher trembling arm in silence. Love bestows akeen insight into the feelings of the one beloved, and heknew all that was passing through her mind, and read itas 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 forgottenhis presence. “Yes, I—I am tired—very, verytired!” and she pressed her hand over her heart.

“Rest,” he repeated. “I shall remain in the housein 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 receivedsentence of death, and to whom all mundane matterscan be of no consequence whatever.

Doris went upstairs to her own room slowly, and sankinto a chair.

“Cecil was true! Cecil was true! Cecil loved me!”she repeated to herself a hundred times; then suddenlyshe started, for on a chair opposite her she caught sightof her wedding dress.

It was as if a ghost had suddenly risen to dispel hernewly recovered joy and happiness with a word, abreath.

Cecil had been true, yes, but he was engaged to LadyGrace, and she, Doris, was within a few days of her marriagewith Percy Levant.

The sudden revulsion of feeling sent the blood fromher cheeks, and made her blind and dizzy, and shestretched out her hands as if to push some terrible phantomfrom her.

[Pg 319]

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 toolate to save her! After all, Spenser Churchill hadeffected his purpose, whatever it was, for Lord CecilNeville was almost wedded to Lady Grace, and she——!She uttered a cry, almost a sob, as she thought of theman who was waiting for her downstairs.

If Lord Cecil had loved her, so had Percy Levant, andwith a love as strong, and as true! Could she deserthim? If so, then she would prove herself as false asshe had deemed Cecil Neville, who could be nothing toher now, for was he not to marry Lady Grace? He hadforgotten her, Doris, by this time, and even if he hadnot, her word was pledged to the other man who lovedher so devotedly! What should she do? She fell onher knees and hid her face in her hands, and in that attitudeof despairing supplication remained for half-an-hour.

Then she rose, and, bathing her burning eyes, wentslowly downstairs. He was there, standing at the window,and he came to meet her with a haggard face, whichtold of the agony the intense suffering of waiting had costhim.

“Are you—are you rested?” he said, in a low voice,and he took her hand and led her to a couch. “I waitedbecause I thought you would like to say ‘good-by.’”

She just raised her heavy lids, then clasped her handsin her lap and waited for him to go on.

“I am going. Of course, you know that. My love foryou has not yet robbed me of all manliness, Doris, and—Iam going. This discovery which you made this afternoonwas half-suspected by me. The eyes of a man wholoves are keen in all matters pertaining to the womanhe loves, and from certain signs I suspected that LordCecil Neville was bound up in your past life; but it wassuspicion only. The marquis’ innocent exposure hasturned it into certainty. And so—I have waited to bidyou good-by.”

She sat perfectly motionless for a moment. Then shelooked up at him, with a piteous entreaty.

“What shall I say?” she murmured.

“Say nothing,” he replied, huskily. “I give you your[Pg 320]freedom, Miss Marlowe. Knowing, as I do, how cruellyyou have been deceived—you and Lord Cecil,” he putin, 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 pleadsfor you against myself! And so I give you back allyour 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 paleface 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 whatthe word means to me, Doris!”

“I—I have thought!” she breathed.

“It means—ah, you cannot imagine all it means tome! 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 LordCecil; 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—andI must be content.”

He let her hand fall, and walked to the window, turninghis back to her. Then he returned, and kneelingbeside her, said, in a low voice:

“Doris, I asked you to trust me. I ask it still. Rememberthat no man, not even Lord Cecil”—with atouch of bitterness—“could love you more dearly than Ilove 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.

[Pg 321]

“We will be married on the sixteenth!” he said, almostsolemnly. He raised her hand to his lips. “Don’t lookso scared, Doris,” he said, with a curious smile. “I—Iam a better man than you think me!” and, dropping herhand, he left the room.

Doris had burned her boats. There was no returningacross the river. She had pledged herself now irrevocably.

The next morning at breakfast the marquis’ valetcalled to inquire after Miss Marlowe.

“His lordship has been in a terrible state, miss,” hesaid, gravely. “He was afraid that something he hadsaid had offended or alarmed you, and although he wasput at a loss to remember what it was, the idea distressedhim very much, and seems to be preying on his mind.He was very ill, indeed, last night, quite wandering, soto speak, and the doctor did not leave him for a moment.”

“Please tell the marquis that I—I have forgiven allthat he said, that I know he was not aware there wasanything to offend me in—in the incident he related,”said Doris, painfully. “Yes; tell him that whatever itwas, 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 Imay be so bold, to be wrapped up in you. He wastalking about her ladyship, the marchioness, last night,her ladyship and the little girl, and he kept repeatingyour name, as if you reminded him of her.”

Doris sighed. Percy Levant stood gravely regardingthe tablecloth, saying not a word.

“I suppose you have sent for Lord Cecil as the marquisis so much worse?” said Lady Despard.

The valet shrugged his shoulders.

“I certainly intended doing so as soon as the telegraphoffice was open this morning, my lady; but directly themarquis became conscious he distinctly forbade me doingso. Of course, I should not disobey him while he wassensible, and there was no immediate danger. The marquisdemands implicit obedience from his household, mylady.”

“Perhaps Miss Marlowe will be able to call and see[Pg 322]him this morning,” said Lady Despard, glancing inquiringlyat Doris; but Doris grew pale, and shook her head.

“Not to-day,” she said, in a low voice, and almostpleadingly. “To-morrow—perhaps.”

The valet bowed.

“Thank you, miss,” he said, gratefully, and as he withdrewhe added, respectfully, “a sight of you will do himmore good than all the doctors in Italy, I am sure, miss.”

If Doris had promised to pay the sick man a visit shecould not have done so, for Percy Levant, without consultingeither of the ladies, ordered the phaeton and pairand calmly requested them to get their things on.

“I am going to take you ladies for a long drive,” hesaid, with that air of resolution which all women admirein a man. “You, Doris, because you need it for yourhealth’s sake, and you, Lady Despard, because you arein danger of becoming a monomaniac!”

“Oh, indeed!” retorted Lady Despard, languidly; “andwhat’s my mania, pray?”

“Wedding millinery,” he replied, pointing to the confusedmass of lace and muslin amid which Lady Despardseemed to exist.

“Well, there’s some truth in that,” she said, with asmile; “and, anyway, I suppose we shall have to go, eh,Doris? And this is the man whom we thought all milkand honey, so meek and docile as scarcely to have awill of his own!” she added, pouting. “You see whatyou have done, my dear; you have completely spoiledhim by being foolish enough to promise to marry him!”

She went for the drive, Percy Levant taking the reinsand Doris seated beside him, and in after years she remembered,with a singular vividness, every incident ofthe day, almost every word he spoke. Never had hebeen in lighter humor, or in better “form;” and if hisobject was to drive, for the time at least, all remembranceof the marquis and his story of Spenser Churchill’s villainyfrom her mind, he almost succeeded, and as thehours sped by, the exquisite scenery, the keen, fresh air,and the unflagging wit and humor of her companionbrought the color to Doris’ pale cheeks, and drove thelines of care and trouble from her brow.

And through it all he permitted no sign of his own[Pg 323]suffering to become visible. The handsome face wasserenely 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 anddisposition of yours, Percy. I would give you morethan half my kingdom.”

“Would you?” he said, turning on the box and glancingat Doris as he did so. “Would you?” and a curiousexpression flashed across his face for a moment. “I’mafraid you would be like the man who thought he wasdoing a clever thing in buying a sovereign for nineteenshillings and sixpence until he tried to change the coinand discovered that it was—a counterfeit!”

They went to a country inn, at which he had ordereddinner by a servant sent on before, and Lady Despardwas enchanted by the dainty simplicity of the menu andthe manner in which he played the host, and when hestrolled off to smoke his cigar and leave them to triflewith the grapes and the ripe figs which nestled in thecenter of a huge repousse dish of such flowers as onlyItaly can produce, Lady Despard patted Doris on thecheek, causing her to start from a reverie, and said:

“Yes, my dear, I will say it again: You have done verywell! He will be simply a treasure of a husband. Iassure you, I don’t know another man in all my extensivelist of friends and acquaintances who could have behavedso perfectly. Fancy taking two women out for the day,keeping them amused every minute, and then givingthem all the nice things women love, not ugly chops andsteaks, but all these delicate things for dinner. And he’llbe just as fresh and bright all the way home, of course!Yes, I must repeat it, my dear. I think you have madean excellent choice, and if I hadn’t registered a vownever to marry again, why—oh, there’s time to cut youout yet if I tried very hard, so don’t look so exasperatinglyself-confident! And now the best thing you cando,” she went on, as Doris smiled and sighed, “is to goand find him, and repay him for all his trouble with oneof those sweet, little speeches of yours, and several ofthose upward glances of those blue eyes which seem soinnocent and commonplace, and yet, as I have been told,[Pg 324]drive poor men to thoughts of suicide. Go and find him,my dear; he hasn’t gone far, and is, of course, waitingfor you to join him. I shall be quite happy and contentfor an hour, I assure you. Come back when the moon isup above those trees, and then we will start.”

“Which means that you want to go to sleep,” saidDoris, smiling as she rose.

“Quite right, dear,” assented Lady Despard, serenely.“I want to go to sleep for a few minutes, and dreamthat I, too, have got a handsome young man who is fortunatelypoor enough to have to work for me, and whoworships the ground I tread on. Go and find him, and—begood to him, for he deserves it!”

Doris went slowly in the direction Percy Levant hadtaken, but she did not see him, and presently, losing herselfin her thoughts, she wandered across the lawn whichstretched between the inn and the high road, and, leaningagainst the low wall, gave herself to brooding over theconfession which the marquis had made—if confession itcould be called!

Presently she was startled by the sound of wheels comingdown the steep road to her right, and a few minutesafterward she saw a traveling carriage pull up at thedoor of the inn, amidst a great bustle and confusion, thestamping 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, beggingsome one—the travelers, presumably—to enter and restthemselves while the horses were fed.

Doris listened in an absent kind of fashion, in whichthe noises and voices came to her like those in a dream,until, suddenly looking up, she saw the moon had risenabove the tree tops, and she turned to go back to the arborin which Lady Despard was doubtless sleeping thesleep of the just. As she did so, she heard a slow step ather side, and glancing in its direction, saw a tall figurecoming toward her with a slow and listless step. Shewas drawing back into the shadow of the shrubs to lethim pass without seeing her, when suddenly the moonsmiled from behind a cloud, and poured its light full onhis face, and she saw that it was Lord Cecil Neville!

[Pg 325]

Yes, it was his face, but how altered! Pale and haggardit looked, as if as many years as minutes had passedover it since she saw it last in all its bright, fresh youthfulness,and it was the shock caused by this change in thebeloved face, as much as the sudden appearance whichkept her rooted to the spot.

She could not have moved if her life had depended onit, and he was almost upon her before he noticed her.Then, raising his hat, he murmured:

“Pardon, senorita,” and was going on, when, lookingmore closely at her, he uttered an exclamation, and stoodlike herself, stock-still.

For a space in which one could count twenty, these twostood looking into each other’s eyes speechless, then hesaid:

“Doris!” and stretching out his arms, made a steptoward 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 hername died away at her gesture of repudiation, and lettinghis 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 heartbeating so loudly in her ears as almost to drown hervoice.

“You! You!” he repeated, looking round as if he couldnot 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?” hebroke off as if he scarcely knew what he was saying; hiseyes devouring her face with the expression in themwhich might shine in the eyes of a man who, dying ofthirst, 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 hishand to his head and pushing the hair from his forehead;a trick which Doris remembered with a vividness whichwas like a stab.

“Why, how could that be? You could not get backfrom Australia—and yet, yes, I suppose so!”

[Pg 326]

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, rememberingthe 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 thedull accents of pain in his voice.

“Few mortals are happy, my lord,” she replied, in alow voice.

He waved his hand impatiently.

“For Heaven’s sake don’t address me as if we werestrangers!” he broke out. “It is a farce in which I find itimpossible to play! Doris——” he stopped and drewnearer to her—“are you so hard of heart, or so light ofmemory, that you can forget, absolutely forget, all thatpassed between us—you and I? Have you forgottenBarton meadows? The day I fell off the horse at yourfeet? the day I told you that I loved you, and asked youto be my wife? the day you promised to be my wife?”

She shrank back against the wall, and put her handsagainst 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 womenare gentle and merciful! You tried to forget; and, ofcourse, you succeeded! While I——” he drew near toher and looked longingly at her pale face, all the lovelierfor its pallor and the intense light shining in the beautifuleyes, the tremor on the perfectly curved lips; “while Ihave thought of you day by day, night by night! I swearthat there is not a night in which I have not dreamed ofyou, in which you have not stood beside me to mock mewith those eyes of yours, to murmur the vows which fellso readily from those sweet lips. Great Heavens, howcruel, how merciless even the best of you can be!”

In the fury of his agony it almost seemed as if he wereabout to strike her with his upraised hand, and Doris felta wild thrill run through her as the conviction that hestill loved her forced itself upon her.

[Pg 327]

“He loves me still! He loves me still!” she almostcried aloud.

“Yes, the best of you,” he repeated, dully, like a manwhose senses are half numbed with pain. “For I countedyou 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 didyou deceive me? I have lain awake at nights trying toanswer that question. I ask you to tell me now, now thatall is over between us——” and he bit his lips till theblood came as he gazed at the lovely, downcast face. “Allis over, and we are miles apart, worlds apart,” and hestifled a groan, “and you can tell me safely. Why didyou treat me as you did? Was it simply deviltry, coquetry,what? What fun, amusem*nt, was there in it?They said you were practising your profession upon me;that I was a mere block, which you were acting—alwaysacting—up to. Was that true?”

She made no reply, but stood statue-like, her handspressed 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, thecruelest woman God ever made!” he said, fiercely.“There are some women whose trade it is—professedflirts—to fool and betray men; but they carry the sign oftheir trade on faces and voices, and we men are aware ofthem. But you—you, with that innocent face of yours,with that sweet, girlish voice of yours, with those eyeswhose truth a man might stake his soul upon——” hestopped and gazed at her as if his soul were slipping fromhim. “Why don’t you answer me?” he broke off, almostsavagely.

Her dry lips quivered, a longing so intense as to bealmost irresistible assailed her; the desire to exclaim: “Idid not deceive you; I did love you; I still love you. Notreachery of mine parted us!” but she remembered thepromise she had made to Percy Levant, the promise renewedonly that morning; remembered that he, Lord Cecil,was either already married, or pledged to marry LadyGrace, and she remained silent.

He drew a long breath and shrugged his shoulders.

“You can’t answer. I suppose it was merely for amusem*nt[Pg 328]that you led me on to loving you, merely for amusem*ntthat you got the heart out of my bosom, merely foramusem*nt that you promised to be my wife, and stillmerely for amusem*nt—broke my heart!”

She turned. They say the worm will turn if troddenon too persistently.

“Was it only a broken heart you offered to Lady Grace,my lord?” she said. The moment after she had spokenthe words she would have recalled them, for she sawby 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 excuseyourself of unfaithfulness by accusing me!”

“No, no,” she breathed; but he went on, disregardingher.

“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 useit as a jest. But you did not jilt, you deserted and betrayedme!”

“I—I!” she panted.

“Yes!” he said, passionately. “You waited until I hadleft England—left England to please and conciliate myuncle—and then, disregarding my letters, my appeals toyour love and your honor, you coldly—like a finished coquette!—castme off with a few cold words. GoodHeavens, I cannot recall it without feeling the old pain,the old madness!” he broke off. “Oh, Doris, you havebroken other hearts than mine, I dare say, but you neverbroke one that loved you half as dearly, half as truly, asmine did! I would have staked my life, my honor, onyour truthfulness. I would have upheld it in the face ofthe whole world, and,” with a bitter smile, “should havebeen rightly laughed at for my pains! Doris, the treacherythat was sport to you, was death to me! Look atme!” he drew nearer to her, and folded his arms. “Thatday 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 youngman’s keen desire for life and belief in happiness! I feellike an old man now, bereft of all hope, haunted by the[Pg 329]memory of your deceit. This is your work! Be proudof it, if you can!”

She hid her face in her hands, lest it should tell himtoo much, and he mistook the gesture and attitude for aconfession of her guilt, and it moved him to a softermood.

“I—I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “Don’t—forHeaven’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 notaudible.

“No!” he exclaimed, and the blood rushed to his face.“Not married! Then you are still Doris Marlowe, stillDoris—the Doris I think and dream of——” He laid hishand on the wall and bent over her, trembling visibly.“Not married! Why—why—I don’t understand! Ithought—that is—Doris——” a strange change in hisvoice smote upon her ears suddenly, a tone of wild, madhope. “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 onhis face, and his eyes flashed.

“Why, Doris? You must answer me! Is it because—ah,no! you can’t have remembered—and yet——Youare still Doris Marlowe! The dear, sweet Doris who wonmy heart in Barton meadows! Doris—you—you—driveme almost mad! The mere sight of you wipes out all theweary 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 entertainthe hope that dawns upon him. “Not married! Doris,do you remember? Let me look at your face! Whydo you turn away from me? Are you playing with mestill? 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 allthe world for your sake! Doris, listen to me! It maynot be—it may not be too late!”

He was bending over her so closely now that she couldfeel his breath upon her cheek; an awful, a terrible languor[Pg 330]was creeping over her; if he had caught her in hisarms, and touched her lips with his, she could not haveresisted. Love, the all-powerful god, was pleading withher for this, the only man she had ever loved, and she wasconscious 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, mylove, 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 herselfdrawn 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 withinhis.

“So I imagined, my lord,” he said, not sternly norhaughtily, but with a calm—almost judicial—gravity. “Icould have wished that our meeting could have been underfreer circ*mstances,” and he nodded significantly; “but asit is, allow me to introduce myself! My name is Levant—PercyLevant!”

Lord Cecil gave the short, military bow which is halfa nod and half an obeisance, and glanced at Doris, wholeaned upon Percy Levant’s arm, and hung her head; herquivering lips and pallid face bearing evidence to theemotions which wrung her heart.

“Yes, I am Cecil Neville,” said Lord Cecil. “I am anold—” 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 gazeof the dark Stoyle eyes. “But I hope to be. I have thehappiness and honor to be Miss Marlowe’s affianced husband.”

Cecil Neville drew back a step, and his face grewwhite.

“I—I beg your pardon,” he said, stiffly. “I—I did not[Pg 331]know. Why did you not tell me?” he asked, turning toDoris with white lips and reproachful eyes.

She tried to speak, had opened her lips, indeed, when avoice, impatient and querulous, broke the silence. It wasthe 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 beable to find me at the hotel, if you should require me,” headded, 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 andleft them; but as he passed out of the walk, illumined bythe bright rays of the moon, he stopped, and looked back,as Adam might have looked back upon the Paradise hehad left forever, as one might have looked for the lasttime upon a treasure utterly and entirely lost.

Lord Cecil walked toward the carriage, in which LadyGrace and the marquis’ lady housekeeper were sitting,and Lady Grace, leaning through the window, greetedhim with a smiling, but scarcely concealed impatience.She was dressed in a traveling costume of Redfern’s,which must have astonished the intelligent foreignerpretty 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 voicesounded hoarse and strained. “I have only been a fewyards 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 thecarriage, 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;[Pg 332]“they are living skeletons. I am so tired of sittinghere!”

“Will you come inside the inn?” he asked, with a barelyconcealed weariness.

“Oh, no, thanks. I know what that means. Theseinns are a disgrace to any civilized country. What withthe smell of garlic and the dreadful men hanging aboutthem, they are too awful. If you could get me a glass ofwine, of decent wine, dear——”

“All right,” he said, and went into the inn. “Give mea bottle of the best wine you have got, and a glass ofbrandy,” he said to the landlord, and he drank the latteralmost at a draught, his hand shaking as he carried theglass to his lips. If he had seen a ghost instead of sweetDoris Marlowe, he could not have been more completelyunmanned and upset. Indeed, he had seen a ghost; theghost of his lost happiness and wrecked life, and she wasto marry this stranger, this Percy Levant; what had becomeof the Mr. Garland, with whom she had sailed toAustralia, then? He was so lost in troubled reverie thathe had quite forgotten Lady Grace, until the familiar, toofamiliar, “Ce—cil,” issuing from the carriage, recalled hiswandering mind.

He caught up the wine bottle and a glass and strodeback to the carriage, filled with that weariness and despairwhich renders every moment of existence almost unendurableto the galley slave and convict. At that momenthe would have given half a continent, had he possessedit, to be alone and free to indulge in his sad andbitter reflections.

Unknown to the valet, the Pescia doctor had telegraphedto him a few days ago, and he had told LadyGrace that he must start for Italy, and at once. Much tohis surprise, to his embarrassment, also, she had declaredher intention of accompanying him. The fact must bestated, alas! that Lady Grace could not endure her lover’sabsence from her side, even for a few days. Her lovefor him—her passion, as it must be called—had becomethe absorbing sentiment of her life, and, like all absorbingemotions, it tortured her. She knew, knew for a certainty,that he did not love her, and all her days andnights were filled by a devouring jealousy and discontent.[Pg 333]She was rendered wretched if he spoke to or danced witha young and pretty girl. She was jealous of his past as awhole, but madly, fiercely jealous of the girl Doris Marlowe,from whom she had, by the assistance of SpenserChurchill, succeeded in separating him.

She knew he did not love her; that she had entrappedhim into the engagement, and she dreaded with an agonyof apprehension lest anything should occur to separatethem. It is not too much to say that she hated the marquisfor being ill and causing the postponement of hermarriage. 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 distrustand suspicion, doubt, and fear. She was never happy,nor at ease, unless he was in her sight, and she found itsimply impossible to allow him to go to Italy without her.Sometimes, in the dead of night, she would awake with astart and a cry of terror from a nightmare in which shehad dreamed that he had discovered her share in the plotwhich had robbed him of Doris and bound him to herself,and by day she lived in a constant dread that some accidentwould reveal the conspiracy and deprive her of him.

So intense an anxiety began to tell upon her, and alreadythere were lines and wrinkles on the face whichartists had painted and of which poets had sung.

To put it briefly, Lady Grace’s punishment had commencedeven in the first hour of her triumph! Black caresits behind every sorrow, but he is never more safelyseated than when he rides behind the man or womanwhose success depends upon a lie.

She knew that the world would talk and shrug itsshoulders if she accompanied Lord Cecil to Italy, althoughshe took the elderly lady as a chaperone; but sheset the world’s opinion at naught, just as she had donewhen, in obedience to Spenser Churchill’s prompting, shewent down to Lord Cecil’s chambers. She could not lethim out of her sight, and that was the long and short ofit.

Lord Cecil took the wine to the carriage, and pouredsome out for her, but she only put her lips to it.

“It is too awful!” she said, irritably. “Pray hurry themon, Cecil. I am sure those horses must be rested by now.[Pg 334]It is sheer laziness. Who was that you were talking towhen I called you?” she asked, abruptly, her keen eyesfixed on his face.

He felt himself growing white.

“Nobody you know,” he said, abruptly. “Try anddrink some wine, it is not so bad.”

“Are you sure I don’t know them? I thought I heardEnglish voices.”

“You don’t know them,” he said, almost curtly.

“Let me out and let me see,” she said, querulously. “Iam 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 arejust being put to.”

As he spoke, the postilion led the weary animals intothe 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’llbe dead!”

“I trust not,” he responded, grimly. “I’ll ride outsideand smoke a cigar,” he added, as the postboy smacked hiswhip.

She flung herself back among the cushions.

“Oh, very well,” she said, petulantly.

Lord Cecil got on the box, and the carriage rolled onwardto Pescia and the Fate awaiting them.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE APPROACH OF THE SHADOW.

Heaven only knows what complexion Cecil’s thoughtstook during the journey, but he was graver and grimmerthan ever when he got down at the door of the villa tohelp his affianced bride to alight.

The marquis’ valet received them with surprise, temperedby satisfaction.

“I am glad you have come, my lord, though I did notlike to take the responsibility of wiring for you. Themarquis is much worse. Oh, yes, decidedly much worse.[Pg 335]He is asleep just now, but it is quite as well that youcame.”

“I will see him at once,” said Lord Cecil.

“And I, too,” said Lady Grace, slipping her arm withinhis.

The valet led the way upstairs.

The old man was lying apparently asleep, but as LordCecil bent over him he opened his eyes, and after a fewseconds said, in a feeble voice and with the old cynicalsmile:

“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 wasshe.”

“She? Who, dear marquis?” she demanded.

He smiled.

“No matter. And so they have sent for you, havethey? They think I am in danger. You have come on afool’s errand, both of you. I”—grimly—“I don’t meanto die yet, Grace.”

“Oh, I hope not! Pray, don’t talk of anything sodreadful,” she responded with a false smile. “Why, youknow,” 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 enthusiasmshe had expected. “Yes, yes, of course. Youare going to be married; you and Cecil. Yes, I remember.I’ll make haste and get better. In a day or two——” hiseyes 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 witha scarcely concealed impatience. “Marvelous constitution,you see, and with care——” and he waved his handsdeferentially.

The days passed in what her ladyship declared to be atediousness almost insupportable. She had the best roomsof the best hotel, but they were not grand enough for herfine London taste, and, as for the scenery, Lady Gracewould have exchanged the whole Alpine range for a[Pg 336]quarter of a mile of Hyde Park. She would have beenhappy enough if Cecil could have spent every minute ofhis time with her, but this Cecil could not do. In hispresent condition of mind, the society of his engaged wifenearly drove him mad, and he spent most of his timeeither beside the marquis’ bed or at the villa.

“Surely you do not intend to play the part of sicknurse, my dear Cecil!” Lady Grace remonstrated when,on the third morning after their arrival, he told her thathe could not go out riding with her, because he had promisedto sit with the marquis.

“Not exactly that, Grace,” he replied, quietly. “But Iam naturally anxious about him and wish to be with him,more especially as, strange to say, he seems to desire mypresence.”

“He must have changed to an extraordinary extent!”she retorted, with something like a sneer on her exquisitelycarved lips.

Cecil nodded.

“Yes,” he assented, simply. “He has changed—for thebetter. I suppose we shall all feel the approach of theGreat Shadow! Poor old man!”

She stared at him, then laughed, a cold laugh of amusem*nt,almost of mockery.

“Really, you are the most forgiving of men, Cecil!”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, stifling a sigh. “I’m sorry Ican’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 arrangeher riding hat. “I only hope and trust that the marquiswill soon get better, and allow us to leave this place. Iwas never in a duller hole in my life.”

“They call Pescia pretty, too,” he replied, absently, ashe 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 Levantstopped in front of him and raised his hat.

Cecil’s face reddened for an instant; then, as he respondedto the greeting, he said:

“I had expected to see you before this, Mr. Levant.Will you walk upstairs?”

Percy Levant declined the offer.

[Pg 337]

“What I have to say will take but a few minutes,” hesaid, gravely. “We neither of us desire a prolonged interview.”

“I am at your service,” returned Lord Cecil, with aslight 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 demandfrom, or offer, you the satisfaction which an appealto arms would afford both of us—both of us!” he added,grimly.

“I can only say that I am prepared to accept any proposalyou may have to make, Mr. Levant,” said LordCecil. “But I am obliged, in honor, to say this: I don’twant you to take it as an apology; great Heavens, no!But I’m bound to say that the words you heard me addressto Miss Marlowe the other evening were uttered incomplete ignorance that her word was plighted to you orany other gentleman.”

Percy Levant bowed.

“Were you in ignorance that your word was plightedto another lady?” he said, in a low voice.

Lord Cecil’s face flamed, then grew pale, and he sprangfrom his lounging attitude against the mantel-shelf to anupright position; but, with a palpable effort, he restrainedhimself.

“That is a rebuke which I have deserved and must submitto, Mr. Levant,” he said, grimly. “It is true that Iam engaged to Lady Grace Peyton, and that I had noright to address Miss Marlowe as I did, but”—he turnedhis face away for a moment—“but I think if you knew allthe circ*mstances of the case, you, even you, would feelmore inclined to pity than to condemn me. But I don’tappeal to your consideration. As I said”—with a touchof hauteur—“I am at your disposal, in any way, and atany time.”

“You mean, of course, that you are ready to fight, mylord?”

“You interpret my meaning,” replied Lord Cecil,calmly. “I have no doubt you feel aggrieved. I should[Pg 338]if I stood in your place. I have no doubt Miss Marlowe”—hislips quivered—“has told you of our past—our pastrelationship——”

“Miss Marlowe has told me nothing, but I have drawnmy own conclusions. I have been content to accept MissMarlowe’s silence—complete silence—respecting thepast.”

“Ah, yes,” said Cecil, with a repressed sigh. “Whatdoes it matter to you, who have the priceless boon of herpresent and future love?”

The words were wrung from him, and he would haverecalled them if he could have done so, when he saw theeffect they produced upon Percy Levant, whose face grewwhite, 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, whydo 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 challengeuntil the sixteenth?”

Lord Cecil stared at him.

“Till the day of your marriage?” he exclaimed.

“Exactly,” returned Percy Levant. “Such a requestastonishes you, no doubt. It is only natural that youshould demand my reasons for this delay, but I shall ask,as a favor, that you permit me to keep them to myselfuntil the sixteenth! I have another request to make,which, I fear, you will deem as strange as those whichhave preceded it.”

“Go on!” said Cecil, knitting his brows.

“I shall be glad if your lordship will permit me to callat the Villa Vittoria, Lord Stoyle’s residence, at fouro’clock on the sixteenth. I shall have an explanation tomake, which you may consider an ample excuse for acceptingany challenge I may offer.”

[Pg 339]

Cecil, after a moment’s perplexed consideration, turnedto him.

“I haven’t the least idea of your motives in these requests,Mr. Levant,” he said, with a quiet dignity, “but Idon’t think I can do anything else than grant them.After all, I have no claim for satisfaction from you; theoffense lies with me.”

“Just so, my lord,” said Percy Levant, taking his hat.“I wish you good-morning. On the sixteenth you andI shall understand each other more easily.”

“I hope so,” said Cecil, grimly. “One moment,” headded, hesitatingly, as Percy Levant turned to leave theroom. “Is—is Miss Marlowe in Pescia?” he asked, in alow voice.

“Miss Marlowe is in Pescia, my lord,” replied PercyLevant, 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,” saidPercy Levant, and with another bow he went.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

CONSPIRATORS.

Mr. Spenser Churchill had been having the very goodtime which a man might be expected to have who has hada magnificent palace with a host of obsequious servantsplaced at his disposal, and who is monarch of all he surveys—ofanother person’s property.

He enjoyed himself most amazingly. He went onpleasant little excursions to the neighboring towns; he orderedthe richest and most luxurious dinners; he acceptedthe best of the numerous invitations which Lady Despard’sneighbors freely accorded him, as a friend of herladyship left in charge of the Villa Rimini, and whereverhe went he was voted a most charming and agreeablecompanion. Indeed, since Percy Levant’s departure noone had so completely won the hearts of the Florentineladies as Mr. Spenser Churchill.

[Pg 340]

And do not for a moment suppose that the good mangave himself up to carnal enjoyment without givingthought to his less fortunate fellowmen. No! The eminentand tender-hearted philanthropist remembered hispoor brethren, and gave such touching accounts of thevarious charitable societies with which he was connected—“TheSweeps’ Orphanage,” “The Indigent KnifeGrinders’ Society,” “The Society for the Distribution ofKnives and Forks to the South Sea Islanders,” and so on,that he succeeded in collecting a very tidy sum for theseeminently deserving and practical charities; and everybodyagreed that if ever there was a man too good for thissinful and selfish world, Mr. Spenser Churchill was indeedthat individual!

And so the days passed pleasantly—and profitably—andon the morning of the sixteenth Mr. Spenser Churchillwas sitting over the second bottle of Lady Despard’schoicest claret, with a cigarette between his lips, and hisbenevolent eyes half-closed, with that expression of blandpeace 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 thewriting, and the man had left the room; then he tore theletter open eagerly.

“Dear Churchill,” it ran, “the marriage takes place to-morrowmorning. Come, without fail, to the Villa Vittoriahere, 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 forcharacter I have! I should have made a good general!I know how to pick my men. I was confident Percywould do what I wanted! To-morrow! Oh, yes, I’llbe there. Spenser, my dear friend, you have won thetrick; you have——” He stopped, and a shade crossedhis benevolent face. “I wish I’d made it twenty thousand,instead of ten,” he muttered, wistfully; “I might just aswell have done so—he would not have said anything, andshe wouldn’t have missed it. Why, her mother’s portion,of settlement money, will bring her five-and-twenty thousanda year, and that will which the marquis is not capableof altering makes her the mistress of all his money. Yes,I might just as well have had twenty! However”—and[Pg 341]the smile beamed out again—“dear Percy shall make it upto me. He wouldn’t like his wife to know of our littlecontract, I should think, and I might feel it my duty totell her, unless—unless he made it worth my while tohold my tongue. Yes, Churchill, my dear friend, youhave warmed your nest pretty well; and now”—filling hisglass—“now for the enjoyment. No more of thesebeastly charitable societies; no longer any need for playingthe saint. Let me see—I’ll live in Paris, I think, mostof my time. A man can enjoy himself in Paris without aparcel 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 usedto sneer at me and treat me as if I were an impostor; Ithink, yes, I think, dear Cecil, I shall have the laugh onyou this time, you and your beautiful bride! For I’mafraid I shall feel it my duty to tell you how completelyyou 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 charitablebusiness 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 myselfin a proper fashion, enjoy myself in my honestly earnedwealth. Let me see! Ten thousand pounds, with whatI have—ahem!—saved, together with say a thousand ortwo a year out of dear Percy—how grateful he will be,of course—will make a nice little income. Spenser, mydear boy, you are a genius, and you ought to have been ageneral. Here’s your health and your future happiness!”and, with a chuckle, he filled his glass till it ran over, anddrained it at a draught.

The Italians are not fond of high houses, and the VillaVittoria, like most of its fellows in Pescia, covered a longspace of ground, its rooms being arranged on two stories,with very few stairs and fewer corridors.

The apartments which the marquis occupied for hisown personal use consisted of a sitting-room, and a dressing-roomand bedroom adjoining, the latter divided fromthe sitting-room by heavy curtains. On the other side ofthe center room was a small anteroom which the marquishad not used; it was intended as a reception-room fortradespeople or persons who paid visits of business.

[Pg 342]

Percy Levant on the occasion of his interview with themarquis had noticed—very few things escaped his quickeyes—the arrangement of the rooms, and at half-pastthree on the afternoon of the sixteenth, the valet, whohad received his instructions from Percy, ushered thatgentleman, Lady Despard and Doris—who were closelyveiled—into the anteroom, and softly closed the door.

Lady Despard raised her veil and shrugged her shouldersdeprecatingly.

“Well, here we are, my dear Percy,” she said, in a lowvoice; “but I don’t think any one else in this world butyou would have induced me to have come; and do youmean to say that you still decline to give us any explanationof these extraordinary proceedings?”

He shook his head as he drew Doris to a chair, intowhich she sank with a weary but resigned gesture.

“And you think that you are treating us properly by allthis mystery; and on the dear child’s wedding day; for Isuppose you two mean to be married this evening? Or isthis but a preliminary to the breaking-off of the match;for, of course, I can see something is the matter betweenyou two?” and she dropped into the chair with a movementof impatience.

“I shall be ready to marry Doris this evening,” saidPercy Levant, holding Doris’ hand. “It rests with her todecide, dear Lady Despard,” and he crossed the room andbent over her appealingly. “When you consented to comehere with her this afternoon, you did so knowing that Ishould have to keep you in ignorance of my motives; doyou think I am not grateful for your confidence in me?Do you think I would inflict unnecessary pain on dearDoris?”

“N-o—I don’t!” she said, with languid irritability; “I’mquite ready to admit that you love her to distraction, but itcertainly is enough to drive one out of one’s senses, thesemysterious proceedings of yours; and Doris tells menothing lately,” she added.

Doris raised her lovely eyes pleadingly, but remainedsilent.

“Don’t blame her,” said Percy Levant, gravely. “She,too, is in ignorance of this, which I am about to do, and[Pg 343]my motives! She trusts me; will not you, Lady Despard?”

“Well, I suppose I must,” she said, shrugging hershoulders. “But why have we come here? My acquaintancewith the marquis is too slight to excuse thisintrusion.”

“If it is an intrusion, that which will result from it willexcuse it,” he said. “The fact is,” and he smiled rathersadly, “I have arranged a little comedy for your ladyship’samusem*nt! Comedy and tragedy, alas, are verythinly divided; there is but a step between them. All Iask of you is that you will remain quiet and silent, whateveryou may hear; and I intend you to hear all. DorisI can rely on,” and he laid his hand upon her arm with areverent, gentle touch.

“Oh, I’m not hysterical or nervous,” said Lady Despard.“I shan’t shriek, however sensational your conjuringtrick—or whatever it is—may be. Come and sitbeside me, dear, will you! and, Percy, remember, if themarquis should hear of our visit here, and want to knowwhy on earth we came, I shall refer him to you.”

“I abide by that,” he said, gravely. “And now I amgoing to leave you——” he added, as they heard the valetspeaking to some one in the hall. “Doris,” and he bentover her, “you will be patient and brave?”

She looked at him trustingly.

“I will be silent, at least. I can promise that,” shesaid, in a low voice.

“I am content with that,” he said. “And—and if youshould 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,” shesaid, with a forced laugh. “His manner has been sostrange of late, and you—you have had something on yourmind, Doris. Oh, of course I have seen that, though Iwould 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.

[Pg 344]

“Has there been a quarrel between you? Do you wantthe match broken off? For heaven’s sake, speak whilethere’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 wasushered into the center room he held out both hands toPercy 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, anoily 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. “Sitdown, won’t you? I’m afraid you are tired. Let me offeryou some wine?” He went to the sideboard. “I’m sorrythere’s nothing but brandy here. I’ll ring for some——”

“Pray don’t trouble, my dear Percy,” said SpenserChurchill, blandly; “a little brandy is an excellent thing,if taken in moderation.”

Percy Levant mixed a stiff glass, and placed it beforehim.

“You can understand why I sent for you,” he said, seatinghimself opposite to Spenser Churchill, whose back wasturned to the curtains which divided this room from themarquis’ dressing-room. “My part of the contract beingfulfilled, I want to know what my position really is, andwhether this nonsense of yours has any particle of truthin it?”

Spenser Churchill stared indignantly.

“Young man!” he exclaimed, solemnly; “this is the firsttime I have ever been accused—to my face—of falsehood!This nonsense! If you allude to the agreement—the perfectlylegal agreement, which you signed, and which Ihold—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[Pg 345]give you ten thousand pounds as a fee for your assistancein procuring me a wife, I should like to know exactlyhow I am to manage it—I should like to know allabout my wife’s property.”

“Your wife! How well it sounds!” chuckled SpenserChurchill; then his face grew suddenly suspicious. “Bythe 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 seethe certificate, my dear boy.”

“Certainly,” assented Percy Levant, cheerfully; “I’ll goand ask my wife for it. Indeed, she may as well be present——”

“No, no,” interrupted Spenser Churchill, putting out hishand. “Never mind; don’t trouble. The fact is—ahem!—thereare 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-anxiousto meet. There’s something about her whichmakes me uncomfortable. I’ll—I’ll take a little morebrandy, my dear Percy—a capital and useful spirit, if usedin moderation. I have been recommended to take it by mymedical man.”

Percy Levant rose to get the decanter. As he did so,the curtain parted and Lord Cecil Neville stood in theopening.

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 SpenserChurchill suspiciously; then he dropped the curtain, whichagain 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 thatten thousand pounds very easily—by the way, it oughtto have been twenty, it ought, indeed!” and he shook hishead solemnly.

“I’d as soon pay you twenty as ten,” said Percy Levant,carelessly.

“You would? Give me your hand, my dear boy!” exclaimedSpenser Churchill, with blind enthusiasm. “You[Pg 346]are just what I always thought you—a noble youth, atruly noble and unselfish young man! You would just assoon give me twenty!”

“Yes, or thirty! I’m as unselfish as you are,” saidPercy.

Spenser Churchill’s emotion was so great at this freshproof of his dear young friend’s unselfish generosity thathe was constrained to turn his head aside and wipe hiseyes.

“You are an honorable, a noble young man, my dearboy!” he murmured. “And now I will lay the wholestory before you. But, as I said, don’t think I have notearned the money! My dear Percy, are you aware thatyour wife was once engaged to Lord Cecil Neville, themarquis’ nephew, the heir to the title? Eh?” and hechuckled.

“Really!”

“Yes, yes! Oh, it’s true, and I assure you that theywould have made a marriage of it but for me. Oh, don’tlook so surprised. Bless my soul, if I am not a match fora simple and confiding couple like those, why——” Heraised his hand. “But it was a troublesome affair, mydear Percy, and cost me a deal of thought. And ra—therrisky, too!” he added, thoughtfully. “Forged letters—ahem!—thatis fictitious correspondence, though renderedinevitable by the circ*mstances of the case, is dangerous.”

“I see,” said Percy Levant, distinctly. “You forgedletters 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 confidenceson the housetops; and—er—this room is rather, Isay, rather, public, isn’t it? What’s behind those curtains?Good gracious!” and he half rose.

“My dear fellow, all the servants speak Italian,” saidPercy Levant, leaning back in his chair with a carelessand indifferent air. “While you speak English you arequite 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 Marlowefor several reasons. One being that I could not drivea bargain with him as I could——” he stopped.

[Pg 347]

“As you could with a penniless adventurer like me,”finished Percy Levant. “I understand. And so you succeededin separating them and—selling her to me. That’squite clear. I’ve no doubt you managed it very cleverly;I should think forgery and that kind of thing would comeeasy to you, my dear Churchill.”

“Sir! Mr. Levant!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill,pugnaciously, and half rising from his chair; then, as hemet 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 asmuch in the interest of my dear friend, the Marquis ofStoyle, and the young man himself. It was the marquiswho assisted me, I assure you. Packed dear Cecil off toIreland, and kept him there—kept him there—till I’d gothis ladylove away.”

The curtain stirred behind the self-satisfied, triumphantplotter, but Percy Levant, unseen by his companion, heldup his hand warningly.

“Really! And the marquis is gratified, no doubt.But, after all, this is not my business. I want toknow——”

Spenser Churchill leaned forward and dropped hisvoice, but not to so low a pitch but that the listeners oneither side of the room could hear distinctly.

“You want to know whom it is you have married. I’lltell you. Wait, you don’t know the Marquis of Stoyle?”

“I’ve seen him,” said Percy. “Speak louder; what areyou afraid of, man? We are not two conspirators on thestage!”

“Quite right, my dear Percy. Conspirators! Certainlynot! We are two men bound by a common impulseto—to—relieve—benefit our fellow creatures, and—ourselves!”

“Exactly,” said Percy Levant. “But go on. Rememberthat 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 laughedwith unctuous enjoyment. “When I think of it, my dear[Pg 348]boy, I’m always tickled by the desire to laugh. You mustknow that the young lady had three lovers—the marquis,a certain Jeffrey Flint, and—myself!” and he laid his handupon his heart and bowed.

As he did so, the curtains opened and three figuresstood in the opening. They were those of Cecil, LadyGrace—and the trembling, emaciated form of the marquishimself. White, deathly white, the old man stood, clingingto Cecil’s arm, his piercing eyes fixed on the smooth,long-haired head of Spenser Churchill, with an expressionthat baffles all description.

Percy Levant rose, and, under the pretense of fillingSpenser Churchill’s glass, made a warning gesture tothem. Lady Grace seemed about to speak, but the marquisturned upon her with an awful ferocity, which seemedto 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 tothe fellow Jeffrey. Consequently there was no chancefor me. So, my dear Percy, I decided, as most men ofcommon sense would have decided, to—ahem!—assist themarquis. I did so, and, bewildered and fascinated by theoffer of a marchioness’ coronet, Lucy accepted and marriedthe marquis. The result was—er—rather disastrous.With all respect to my dear friend, the marquis, I mustsay, my dear Percy, that if ever there was a fiend incarnatehe was one! I don’t wish to be hard upon a fellow mortal—Heavenforbid!—but if there is anything worse, morecruel and selfish and altogether unscrupulous than a fiend,then that being may yield the palm to the Most Honorablethe Marquis of Stoyle!”

The marquis, shaking in every limb with fury, clutchedCecil’s arm, who, with some difficulty restrained him fromrushing upon the oily-voiced speaker.

“Well, the natural result followed. The marchionessfled. 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[Pg 349]Jeffrey Flint adopted and called—can you guess hername?”

“Doris Marlowe,” said Percy Levant, hoarsely, andwith white lips—for this was a revelation to him.

Spenser Churchill lolled back in his chair with an unctuoussmile 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 hishand, and, holding her face in her hands, she sank back.

“So Doris Marlowe is the daughter of the Marquis ofStoyle?” said Percy Levant.

“Just so,” assented Spenser Churchill. “And now, mydear Percy, that cat is out of the bag; the daughter ofthe Marquis of Stoyle—in other words, Lady MaryNeville! And the money! Well, I think you won’t regretyour liberal offer when I tell you that her mother’sportion amounts to five-and-twenty thousand a year, andthat her father has made a will which will leave all he canleave 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 havetaken charge of them——”

“You are a clever fellow, Churchill.”

“Y—es, I think I am! I honestly, and modestly, thinkI am! I ought to have been a great statesman, or a general,my dear Percy.”

“You ought, indeed!” said Percy Levant. “But—pardonme!—although I believe every word you say most implicitly,I am afraid the world, including the marquis, willwant some proofs. It is all very well to say that MissMarlowe—that is, my wife,” he put in, hurriedly—“isLord 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 hetook some papers from his pocket. “Here is the certificateof marriage of Lucy—Miss Marlowe’s mother—tothe marquis; the certificate of Miss Marlowe’s otherwiseLady Mary Neville’s, birth, a full and exhaustive statement[Pg 350]of Lady Stoyle on her deathbed, duly attested; and astatement of Jeffrey Flint. Pretty complete, I think.”

“Complete, indeed! And how did you get them,Churchill? Upon my word, you are a cleverer man eventhan 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. Whatuse are papers to a dead man?” He stopped and turnedpale, as the scene of Jeffrey’s death rose before him. “Butdon’t let us talk of it; it—it was a most unpleasant affair,I assure you, my dear Percy. But you will, with yourquick intelligence, soon understand how, once havingthose 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 befools—I fear they generally are—but they are, oh, theyare so useful! Without Lady Grace I could have donelittle or nothing; but she was really invaluable. Cecil—dearCecil—was always suspicious of me; but, of course,he trusted Lady Grace, and she and I between us caughthim. ‘Caught him’ is the only expression applicable! Tothis day he considers himself under an obligation to herwhich only marriage can repay.” He laughed. “PoorCecil; I can’t help pitying him; for between you and me,my dear Percy, I’d rather marry a tigress than beautifulLady Grace! But don’t let us talk of him or her. Let ustalk of ourselves. The whole thing has gone splendidly,though I say it. Providence, my dear Percy,” and heturned up his eyes, “has been on our side. The dearmarquis—how surprised he would be if he knew this truestory I have revealed to you!—is lying in a senseless andutterly incapable condition in London; Cecil and LadyGrace are going to be, if they are not already, married;and you—you, my dear Percy, are the happy husband ofLady Mary, the daughter of the Marquis of Stoyle!Think of it! Realize it, and oh, my dear Percy, make ittwenty instead of the ten thousand you agreed upon![Pg 351]Here are the papers. They are at your service; indeed, Iconsider that they belong to you——”

He pushed the papers across the table, smiling with oilytriumph and satisfaction, and Percy Levant leaned forwardto take them, when a thin, wasted hand clutchedthem clawlike and a harsh, strained voice said:

“No! They are mine!”

Percy Levant sank back into his chair, and wiped theperspiration from his brow; but Spenser Churchill sprangfrom 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 sankback, still staring at the haggard and wasted face, fromwhich the piercing eyes glared down at him like ardentcoals, with a fearful, horrified gaze.

Then he half-rose, and, with a grotesque attempt ata smile, wagged his head at Percy Levant, who stooderect and alert.

“This—this—is a very pretty little plot, my dearPercy,” he said; “but you don’t imagine that the dearmarquis will take your word against mine? Marquis,”and he managed to raise his eyes to the fierce face witha ghastly attempt at a smile, “I am sorry that you shouldhave been deceived by what was palpably an attempton my part to lure this gentleman into a trap. He is—youdon’t know him, but I do, and I must introduce him.This man is an adventurer, a scamp who would sell hissoul for a ten-pound note. You won’t let his word weighagainst mine—against Spenser Churchill’s!”

“It is quite true, my lord,” said Percy Levant. “Asthis man says—I am an adventurer. I have been willingto sell my soul for a ten-pound note; I am utterly unworthyof belief,” his voice grew hoarse and broken,“and it is only the influence of a woman’s pure and spotlessnature that has, at the eleventh hour, induced me[Pg 352]to stop short in the villainous work to which this mantempted me. I am as bad as he—up to this point. Iask for no mercy, no indulgence, no credit; from his ownlips you shall judge him, and from the papers you havein your hand.”

The marquis just glanced at him—no more, thenturned his fierce eyes upon Spenser Churchill again.

“Very good,” said Spenser Churchill, shrugging hisshoulders, and stretching a trembling hand toward hishat. “I—I leave the whole business to you, my dearmarquis. I will not condescend to—to answer the accusationswhich—which——” He shuffled nearer to thedoor, and his heart rose as he saw that neither PercyLevant nor the marquis made any attempt to stop him—“whichmy character will enable me to—to repel. I wishyou success, Mr. Percy Levant, and—and good-morning.”

He made an ironical bow as he backed toward thedoor, and was turning to make a rush for it, when LordCecil 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 expectedblow; but Lord Cecil scarcely looked at him, and passedto the marquis’ side.

“Is—is this true, my lord?” he demanded, hoarsely.

The marquis dropped into a chair, and, still clutchingthe papers, gazed up at him with a wild despair whichwould have touched even Lord Cecil if he had not lovedDoris too well to think of any one but her.

“It is true, my lord!” said Percy Levant, solemnlyand sorrowfully. “Would to Heaven that both he andI had lied! It is true, every word of it! The separationbetween Miss Marlowe and yourself was worked bySpenser Churchill. He did, by word and deed, sell herto me.”

Lord Cecil made a movement as if to strike him, butPercy Levant stood patient and unresisting.

“And yet more, my lord! It was he who set the trapwhich caught you and handed you, fettered and bound,to his accomplice.”

“Grace! It is—it must be—a lie!” broke from Cecil’swhite lips.

[Pg 353]

A hollow laugh rang out behind him, and Lady Graceglided from her dressing-room. All eyes were fixedupon her as she stood, her exquisitely-clad form posedin an attitude of contemptuous defiance. A hectic flushburned on her cheeks, and she swept the group with adisdainful glance, as she fanned herself.

“Permit me to bear my testimony to this gentleman’sveracity,” she said. Spenser’s face, which had clearedsuddenly at her appearance, fell again, and he shrankback and leaned against the wall, where he stood, nervouslypassing his hands over each other. “What hestates is quite correct. I don’t know how he discoveredit, but he seems to have made a tool of ‘dear’ Mr.Churchill, while ‘dear’ Mr. Churchill was under the pleasingdelusion that he had got a submissive and willingdupe in him. It is probable that he knows the wholescheme. For it was a scheme, Cecil, and,” with a disdainfulsmile, “a very good one. Any but the mosttrustful of men would have seen through it. I complimentyou, my dear Cecil—I suppose I must say LordCecil now!—upon your credulity.”

Cecil looked at her; then hung his head with shame—forher, 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—butI understand it all now!”

Cecil turned his back upon her, and, leaning his elbowon the mantel-shelf, covered his eyes with his hand.

“Mr. Spenser Churchill is really and truly a remarkablyclever man; but, like some other clever men, he haschosen his tools badly. I can’t understand why heshould have confided in a person of Mr. Levant’s character!”and she shot a contemptuous glance from underher half-closed lids at his pale face. “But having doneso, he has, of course, been betrayed. ‘Put not your trustin—adventurers’ will for the future be an excellent mottofor him!” She laughed, and the fan moved a little morequickly. “And now, having borne my testimony to thetruth of Mr. Levant’s assertions, I have only to expressmy sympathy for ‘dear’ Mr. Churchill’s discomfiture, andyour disappointment, my dear Cecil”—her face grew red,[Pg 354]and her delicately-molded nostrils expanded with amalignant 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 onwith the old! But as it is, Mr. Levant, with all hisnewly-born penitence, has been clever enough to secureMiss Marlowe, otherwise the marquis’ daughter, for hiswife, and you are tricked. It is a vulgar word, LordCecil, but it is the only suitable one.” She laughedagain, and her fan moved rapidly. “Won’t you see—ordo you?—this penitent and remorse-stricken gentleman’sgame? You don’t! Why, you observe that he has marriedthe lady he wanted, and by his betrayal of his accomplicesaved his ten thousand pounds. Mr. Levant, I congratulateyou upon your dexterity,” and she made him asweeping curtsey. “Mr. Spenser Churchill is clever, Iadmit. I, too, always had an idea that I possessed aturn for intrigue; but you—oh, you are a genius, and thehonors remain in your deserving hands.”

Percy Levant remained as silent, as impressive, as astatue; but Spenser Churchill, whose face had reflectedevery word Lady Grace had uttered, began to draw himselfupright, 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; butI think—I really do think that dear Lord Cecil is in thesame boat! Yes, Mr. Levant has been one too many forus all. All! My dear Cecil, you have my profoundsympathy in the loss of the young lady you had set yourheart on. My dear marquis, if I may be permitted tooffer a word of humble advice, I should recommend youto forgive your newly found daughter, the ballet girl—no!pardon, the actress; and welcome as a son-in-law thegentleman upon whom she has bestowed her hand. It istrue that he is an adventurer; that he sprang from thegutter; that he bought her and captured her by a plot;but he is her husband after all, and, really, he is no worsethan the stock from which she sprang. He will be aworthy addition to the house of Stoyle! Forgive theyoung couple—the adventurer and the actress—andmake them happy with your blessing. Do! my dearmarquis.”

[Pg 355]

Lord Cecil’s hand closed spasmodically, but he keptit at his side; Percy Levant stood silent and impassive,and the marquis merely raised his eyes from the paperupon which they had been fixed.

“I—I really don’t think we need remain any longer,dear Lady Grace,” murmured Spenser Churchill. “Ireally don’t think we have any right to intrude upon thishappy family party. We must leave them to settle theirlittle differences, eh? Allow me to escort you to yourhotel. I have to preside at a charitable meeting in Londonthe day after to-morrow, alas! or I should like toremain 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 witha quick movement threw it open.

“You mean to threaten me, detain me, offer me violence,my dear Percy,” he said, with a leer. “I thinknot. If any person—any person,” and he glanced atLord Cecil, “presumes to prevent my departure, I shallcall for assistance. There are police in the street, whowill protect me, an English gentleman of unblemishedcharacter and honorable repute. There are police, Isay.”

“There are,” said Percy Levant, quietly and incisively.“There is an English detective at the door ready to arrestyou.”

Spenser Churchill shrank back from the window.

“Indeed! On what charge, pray?”

“Conspiracy, and robbery from the dead!” and hepointed to the papers which had been stolen from JeffreyFlint’s body.

Spenser Churchill’s face grew white, but he forced alaugh.

“Conspiracy, eh? The other is nonsense, utter nonsense![Pg 356]Who’s to prove—ahem! But, conspiracy? Withwhom? 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 detectiveis waiting outside. It rests with you; it is for you todecide whether you will charge us. One thing remainsfor 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 andbroke 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 headas her name smote upon his ear, made an effort to rise;then sank back with outstretched hands and piteouslypleading face.

“My child, my child!” he cried, hoarsely.

It would have required a harder heart than Doris’ toresist such an appeal, an appeal for forgiveness, a cry ofpenitence and remorse. She hesitated a moment, whileone could count twenty. Then she was at his knee, andhis weak, quivering hands were upon her head.

Lady Grace, panting with the suppressed fury of jealousy,glanced at the picture which nearly moved two ofthe spectators to tears.

“How—how charming!” she said in a harsh voice.“Father and daughter. You have only to extend yourblessing to the husband, my lord!” and she swept a contemptuouscourtesy on Percy Levant.

“Yes, don’t forget the wily adventurer, the musicteacher of Soho, your son-in-law, dear marquis!” pursuedSpenser Churchill, sardonically.

The marquis started, and looked up at Percy Levantpiteously.

“Are you—are you her husband?” he managed toarticulate.

Percy Levant turned his haggard face toward him.[Pg 357]“No, my lord,” he said, hoarsely, “we are not, and nevershall be, married.”

The marquis drew a long breath. “No!”

“No,” said Percy Levant, almost inaudibly. “If I hadloved her less——” he stopped. “My love for her hassaved her, my lord. Miss Marlowe—Lady Mary—is freefrom any claims from me.”

Lady Grace’s fan came to a sudden stoppage.

“Not married!” she gasped.

“Not married!” echoed Spenser Churchill, in accentsof malignant disappointment.

Percy Levant looked at them both with a steady gaze.“Not married,” he said. “You may go now, SpenserChurchill.”

“No!” cried a grave voice. It was Lord Cecil’s; andhe sprang to the window. “Not till justice——”

Percy Levant folded his arms and stood resigned andpatient.

“Not till justice has been satisfied. I charge you,Spenser Churchill, with conspiracy——”

“And—and—Levant, and Lady Grace!” said SpenserChurchill, with a leer.

“I am ready,” said Percy Levant, quietly.

But as he spoke Doris sprang to her feet, and, gentlyputting her father’s arm aside, stood in front of PercyLevant.

“No!” she cried, panting; “I say no!”

Percy Levant drew a long breath. “Let the law takeits course, Lady Mary!” he said, in a low voice. But shestill stood in front of him as if to shield and protect him.

The marquis held out his hand to her as if he could notbear 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 SpenserChurchill.

The latter did not wait for the permission to be repeated.With an air of long-suffering patience andsaintly resignation, he shook his head reproachfully atPercy Levant.

“Judas!” he murmured, “we shall have a day of reckoning,we two, Judas!”

Percy Levant scarcely glanced at him; and Spenser[Pg 358]Churchill as he moved slowly to the door, smiled a ghastlysmile at Lady Grace. “Let me escort you from this exclusivelyfamily party, dear Lady Grace,” he said, sardonically.But, like most conspirators when the plot hasfailed, she drew back and eyed him scornfully.

“Thanks, Mr. Churchill; but I have no further use foryou.”

At this turning of the tables, at this repudiation by thewoman he had regarded and used as a tool and dupe,Spenser Churchill was almost overcome, and his light eyesflashed viciously; then, with an effort that must havecaused him a great deal of self-restraint, he checked himself,and stretching out his hand and casting up his eyesto the ceiling, said decorously, and proudly:

“I forgive you, Lady Grace. I pity you, and I shallnot forget to remember you in my prayers. Poorwoman!”

Now, Lady Grace ought to have turned her back uponhim in silent contempt, but she had been sorely strained,and this, the hypocritical taunting of the worm who hada few moments ago been ready to crawl at the feet of hisaccusers, was the last straw which broke the back of herself-restraint, and as Mr. Spenser Churchill passed her, Iregret to say that she closed her fan sharply and struckhim across the face with it. Lady Grace possessed amagnificent arm; the fan was a large one, of carved ivory,with many sharp corners. Mr. Spenser Churchill uttereda howl of pain, and fled.

Lord Cecil approached her and offered her his arm.She had merely, if not quite, wrecked his life, she hadcaused pain and suffering to the girl he loved, she wasunworthy of one moment’s pity, but he remembered thatshe was a woman, and that she would have been his wife,and he offered her his arm in silence. She looked up athis face with a quick, almost agonized, questioning, thenturned from him, her face white, her lips quivering.

“No!” she said, almost inaudibly, “there can be no halfway for us. Friend or foe, Cecil! Will you keep yourpromise to me?” She had no need to go further; hisface, grave and grim, answered for him. With a swiftcompression of her lips she caught up a shawl that hung[Pg 359]on a chair, and without lifting her eyes to his face, againslowly 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,” andhe glanced significantly at the white face of the old manat whose knees Doris knelt.

She nodded silently, and Percy Levant, as he passedLord Cecil, said in a low voice:

“I hold myself at your disposal, my lord, completely,entirely, without any reservation.” Then he stopped andlooked at Doris—a look impossible to describe, easyenough to imagine—and seemed about to speak, butwith a sigh he turned and walked out, and Doris scarcelyknew that he had gone.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

RETRIBUTION.

Lady Despard and Lord Cecil stood beside themarquis’ bed, at which, still holding the hand now slowlygrowing cold, Doris knelt. Death, whom the old man,with the stubborn obstinacy of the Stoyle race, hadhitherto kept at bay, was drawing near, very near. Theyhad carried him from the adjoining room, speechless andsightless, and so he had remained through the long hoursof the night. It was morning now, and white and wearywith all she had undergone, Doris saw the rosy streaksfaintly penetrating the window shutters.

Now and again the valet or the doctor, or perhapsCecil, moistened the old man’s lips; and now and againDoris smoothed the pillow, which might have been ofstone for all it mattered to the head that rested on it.On the bed, and clasped tightly between the rigidfingers, were the papers which proved her right to thetitle of a peer’s daughter, and beside them the will whichmight make her the mistress of the Stoyle wealth. Suddenly,quite suddenly, as if, though appearing so incapableof effort, the old man had been battling in the darkness[Pg 360]for consciousness and strength, the marquis openedhis 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 arehere!” They drew closer to him, and he flashed his dimeyes upon them. “Listen to me. These are my lastwords. I—I acknowledge this lady to be my—mydaughter—the child of my wife, Lucy!” A spasm shotacross his face. “My will—the will which leaves all toher—is my last. Remember—remember! My daughter—mychild!” His eyes closed, and they thought hewas dead, but his lips opened again, and Doris, if noother, heard the words that struggled from them.“Lucy! Lucy! forgive! I am punished—punished!”

These were the last words of the great Marquis ofStoyle, who had all his life boasted that he had earnedthe title of “wicked,” whose heart had never once melteduntil death came to turn it into the dust to which evenpenitence and remorse are impossible!

The wicked flourish as the bay-tree, and the truly goodare unable to live through persecution. If any one imaginesthat Mr. Spenser Churchill was utterly annihilatedby the disclosure of his pretty plot, that person is verylittle acquainted with the peculiar character of which Mr.Spenser Churchill was a prominent type. For a week ortwo the good man betook himself to Paris, and there, inthat quiet and peaceful spot, soothed his troubled spiritswith, doubtless, pious reflections; but shortly afterwardhe emerged from his retreat, and the papers of Londonannounced that the great philanthropist would deliver alecture at Exeter Hall to aid the funds of the Broken-windedHorses’ Society. The subject of the lecture wasto be a glorious and inspiring one: “Truth.”

Punctually at the hour announced the eminent man,with placidly serene face, and softly, tenderly meltingeyes, stepped on to the platform, amidst the cheering ofthe audience, the majority of whom were ladies, whowaved their pocket handkerchiefs, which they well knewthey should presently require. Mr. Spenser Churchill[Pg 361]began his address. It was eloquent, touching, impressive;the handkerchiefs grew quite moist long before itwas concluded, and when at last his soft and tearfullysympathetic voice died away in his final words, many asoft-hearted woman—and dare I say soft-headed man?—feltperfectly convinced that Mr. Spenser Churchill wasfar, far too good for this wicked world!

I am surely convinced that the hour will come inwhich the world will see him without his mask, and beready to stone the hypocritical villain whom they almostworshiped 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 soloves to talk about shall prevail, and the ax lays the accomplishedhypocrite low! May we be there to see!

A year passed away, and the sun, which goes on shining,though marquises die and hypocrites continue toflourish, shone through Lady Despard’s beautiful boudoirin Chester Gardens.

In her favorite attitude—half-reclining, half-sitting—herladyship nestled among the soft cushions of her favoritecouch. Near her sat Doris—who, though knownto the world as Lady Mary Stoyle, shall be Doris to ustill the end of this eventful history. She was sitting ata writing-table, spread with letters and volumes, someof them fearfully like pages of account books, and herbeautiful face was puckered up with a charming frown.

Every now and then she consulted one of the appallingvolumes, and then wrote for a few moments, after whichoperation she would grow more puckered and draw aseries 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—weeksago. Happy! I am almost driven to distraction. Iwish—oh, I do wish, there were no such things as accounts!or, at any rate, that I had nothing to do withthem.”

Lady Despard laughed.

“‘Muckle coin, muckle care,’ my dear. Though Isympathize with your misery, I must confess I rather enjoy[Pg 362]the sight of it. I suffered so much when I cameinto my own property. Oh, the weary, weary hours Iplodded through heavy columns of figures and dreary‘statements.’ But I’ve got used to it, and that’s whatyou will do, in time.”

“In time! Yes, when I have grown prematurely oldand gray,” said Doris, with a vexed smile. “I never understoodwhat 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—“Iwonder how a certain marquis likes poverty?”

Doris bent lower over her blundering and utterly futilearithmetic. “I don’t know,” she said, stiffly.

Lady Despard smiled. “Any one would know youwere 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 deargirl, you may not know it, but you are as proud a minxas ever lived, and the most unforgiving.”

Doris looked over her shoulder for a moment, thenturned her head away.

“I think you are unjust,” she said, in a low voice.

“Oh, no, I’m not. For instance, here are you suddenlybecome possessed of a grand title, large estates,and heaps of money. The title you can’t help taking, ifpeople choose to call you by it, and the money. Well,you take as little of that as possible; but not once haveyou set your foot in any one of the houses that areyours, or upon a spot of the many acres which yourfather left you. That’s pride, though of course you’llsay it isn’t.”

“I——”

“I haven’t finished yet. Counsel for the prosecutionfirst, if you please; afterward we shall be happy to hearwhat you have to say in defense——”

“And find me guilty, whatever that may be,” saidDoris.

“Here, too, is a young woman with two lovers——”

“Oh, don’t,” muttered Doris, wincing; but Lady Desparddeclined to show mercy.

“My dear, I am going to continue. It is well that[Pg 363]you should hear the truth from some one, and, as I amthe only person who dares tell it to your royal highness,why, I’ll do my duty. Two lovers. One was utterlyunworthy of you, poor fellow, an adventurer, who—butnever mind. He repented in time, and I am not thewoman to be hard upon him. The other is a young manwho loved you devotedly, and is all that is honorableand lovable—and miserable! He never wronged you inany way, and, though I can understand your sending thepenitent adventurer about his business, I cannot understandhow you could let poor Cecil go to this beastlylittle war, where, as likely as not, he will either be killedby some dirty, half-naked savage, or die of the yellow, orblue, 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,” murmuredDoris, her face and neck a vivid crimson.

Lady Despard sank back onto the cushions andlaughed with evident enjoyment.

“You little goose, I was leading you on to showingyour hand. And you didn’t see it! Of course, that ishis offense. We could forgive the adventurer-lover whowould have sold us for filthy lucre, and who only repentedand drew back at the last moment; oh, yes, wecan forgive him; but the other—he must be sentenced tolifelong disappointment, because possibly he was caught,lured into the net of the cleverest and most unscrupulouswoman in England, and the cleverest and most unscrupulousman to back her. And we are not proud, weare not unforgiving! Oh, no, certainly not!” shesummed up, ironically.

Doris screened her face with her hands.

“Why does not he——?” she stopped.

“Why doesn’t he come forward and beg for forgivenessand ask you to become his own little Doris againand Mrs. Marquis?” cried Lady Despard, dryly. “Becausehe is as proud as you are, my dear. What! Aska girl as rich as a female Crœsus to be his wife when hehas only a few paltry thousands a year; ask the girl whowould scarcely speak a word to him when he came towish her good-by, perhaps for the last time. Why, isn’t[Pg 364]he a Stoyle, too, and haven’t all of you got, and haven’tall of you always had, the pride and stiff-neckedness ofthe dev—ahem! the evil one? My dear, I am the laziestsoul in London, and I’ve registered a vow that I’ll neverget excited and warm over anything; but really when Ithink of you spending your days and nights in hungeringfor him——”

“Oh!” murmured Doris, and she glided to her and hidher face on her shoulder.

“So you do! Do you think I can’t hear you sighinglong after you ought to be asleep, you obstinate andabandoned girl,” retorted Lady Despard. “Doris, mydear, if I were only old enough, or you were youngenough, it would be my pleasing duty to shut you up inyour room on bread and water till you came to yoursenses and consented to hide your silly little head againsthis shirt front, spoiling his clothes instead of mine. Mydear, would you mind covering my dress with yourpocket-handkerchief if you are crying.”

“I’m not crying,” said Doris, indignantly, and givingher a little push, but still hiding her face. “When—whendid you hear from him last?” she asked, in a whisper.

“Just two months ago,” replied Lady Despard, hervoice growing suddenly serious. “You were too proudto ask for the news, or I would have told you. He waswell then, but was going up the country after those miserableDecoys—Dacoits, or whatever they’re called, andfrom 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’dhave married either of the two men you sent to Jericho;but that’s the way with the gods, they always showertheir gifts on the unworthy and ungrateful, and deservingpeople can go starving.”

“I wish he had,” murmured Doris; “you would bothhave been happy then.”

“No, you don’t wish anything of the kind,” retortedLady Despard, indolently. “You would be ready to tearmy eyes out if there had ever been the slightest chanceof such a thing. Oh, you can’t delude me into thinking[Pg 365]you the gentle dove most people imagine you, you littlescorpion.”

“And that is all you know about—about him?” saidDoris, timidly.

“Nearly all. I wish I knew more. I did mentionthe matter to his grace at the reception the other night,and he looked rather grim and solemn, as if the wholeexpedition was sentenced——No, no, Doris, I don’tmean that!” she added, hastily, as Doris’ hand relaxed itshold, 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 myfault; if—if he had said—if he had asked——”

“Give me no ifs!” retorted Lady Despard. “My dearchild, no man could have asked you anything while youtreated him as you treated Lord Cecil after the marquis’death. You were not a live, breathing woman, but amarble effigy, a block of ice, and you froze him—youfroze him—and sent him to Burmah to thaw himself.Now, I’m not going to talk any more about him. Geton 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 shespoke, 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 leftthe room, went back to her swiftly.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

Lady Despard closed the paper. “I—thought youhad gone,” she said. “Matters?—nothing. The pinsand needles in my feet——”

“There is something in that paper,” said Doris, in herlow voice, her eyes fixed on it. “Tell me what it is!”

Lady Despard hesitated a moment, then she shruggedher shoulders.

“Well, you’d buy one and see for yourself, so I mayas well show it to you; but—but don’t imagine the worstat once.”

She handed her the paper, and pointed to a letter fromthe seat of war.

In a few—but, alas, how pregnant! words the correspondent[Pg 366]told the story of the disaster which had befallena detachment sent into the interior. Surroundedand outnumbered by the enemy, savages in nothingmore than their mode of conducting warfare, the handfulof English soldiers had fallen, as so many thousands oftheir fellows in the glorious years of the past have done,fighting to the last. There were only the few detailswhich 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 ofStoyle, better known as Lord Cecil, accompanied thedetachment. Throughout the campaign Lord Cecil hasdistinguished himself by his bravery and devotion to duty,and by his genial and modest disposition had won thehearts of both officers and men. If, as there is too muchreason to fear, his lordship has fallen with his ill-fatedcomrades, his loss will be sorely felt, and he can never bereplaced. It will be remembered that he succeeded to thehistoric title just twelve months ago, and very shortly beforejoining the regiment.”

Doris said not a word, but stood staring at the paper,with dry eyes, and that awful feeling of benumbing anguishwhich crushes pain for a time but to lend it additionalforce 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; wecan’t tell what may have happened; I have reason to hope,to think——” She stopped and sprang—actually sprang—tothe door, and throwing it open, said, hurriedly,“Come in; oh, come in!”

The next moment a tall figure, with a sunburned faceand one arm in a sling, entered, and after a glance, oneanxious glance, at the white face, rushed forward andcaught Doris to him with his sound arm. Lady Despardwaited until this happened, then glided out.

They sat up very late that night, and Lady Despard’sboudoir was so dimly lighted that as she reclined on hercouch she could not see, or pretended not to see, thatDoris, as she sat at the marquis’ feet, had got his hand[Pg 367]fast locked in hers, almost as if she dreaded lest heshould vanish as suddenly as he had come. And everynow and then she, glancing fearfully at Lady Despard,laid the brown hand against her cheeks, and near, verynear, to her lips.

There was not much talking, for Lady Despard wasmerciful, but at last she looked up.

“And now, my dear Othello, if you can and will deignto recount some of your adventures, Desdemona andyour humble servant will be gratified. Though I haveknown since yesterday that you had escaped, I haven’tany of the details, and I will confess to a faint and lazykind of curiosity. Touching that interesting woundnow, which I do trust will soon be all right, for it mustbe 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—lookedsuddenly grave, and hesitated.

“Yes, I want to tell you, and I must,” he said. “Notabout myself so much as——” He stopped. “Did yousee the list of the killed? Did they give a list ofnames?”

“No,” said Lady Despard, “it was all surmise. Whydo you ask that?”

“Because——” he stopped again. “Doris,” and helaid his hand on her head, soothingly, “there was anotherperson whom you know in this awful business, besidesmyself. Cam you guess his name?”

Doris shook her head apprehensively. Lady Despardleaned forward.

“He was—he became a fast and devoted friend ofmine, Doris. But for him I should not be here, dearest.He came out with the hospital, and I saw him firstbeside my bed. He pulled me through the fever.” Hestopped again, and Doris held her face low down, out ofthe lamplight. “We were great friends after that, andwhen our detachment was ordered to the interior he volunteered.I tried to dissuade him. There was no reasonthat he should go, but he insisted, and——On theevening of the fight he stood by the guns with the rest,and with the rest fought like a lion. Once or twice I[Pg 368]found a moment to speak to him, for he was always nearme. When the fast struggle came, I joined in the rush—that’sthe only word for it—and saw a couple of theDacoits making for me. One I cut down, the othergave me this,” he pointed to his arm, “and would havesettled me—hush, dearest, don’t cry—but this friend wasnear me still, and he threw himself between us.”

He stopped and drew a long breath. “I don’t rememberany more till I came to, and, crawling about, cameupon him. He was alive, just alive, but he knew me. I—Itook his head on my knee, and bent down. Doris,my darling, Doris, my dearest. Hush, hush! ‘Tell herthat her love saved me from worse than this, Cecil,’ hesaid. ‘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,” saidCecil, in a low voice. “It was Percy Levant.” And hedrew her head upon his breast, and kissed her with protectingtenderness, as if he were responding to the deadman’s solemn injunction.

When the marquis and marchioness returned fromtheir long—but for them not too long—honeymoon, society,deeming it incumbent upon itself to bestow an impressivewelcome on two of its most distinguished members,gave a ball in honor of the young, and, as the journalsput it, “romantic couple.”

It was a very grand affair, and the Morning Post nextmorning devoted a column and a half to its descriptionand a list of the high and mighty and famous guests, andstated, rather emphatically, that the most beautifulwoman in the room was the young lady in whose honorthe entertainment was given. It went into newspaperraptures over her manner, her smile, her dress, and,lastly, her jewels, which, as it said, consisted of a suiteof magnificent diamonds—the Stoyle diamonds—andpoetically declared that their brilliance was only outshoneby the wearer’s eyes.

They were very beautiful, as a matter of fact, and noother jewels in the magnificent assemblage could compare[Pg 369]with them, excepting, perhaps, a suite of pearls setin antique silver, which was worn by—Lady GracePeyton.

Twice in the course of the evening Doris and she meteach other, and on both occasions, while Doris, withthe meekness which, somehow, always distinguishes theinjured innocents, turned her head aside, Lady Gracestared at her rival with a bold, defiant flash of her handsomeeyes.

“I think,” said Lady Despard, as she stood for a momentin a corner with Doris, “I think that for cool, unbrazenimpudence, Grace Peyton excels all the world. Mostwomen, all other women—having done what she has done,and knowing that we know what she has done—wouldhave buried themselves in some German watering-placefor the rest of their lives. But, oh no! she not only thinksfit to put in an appearance here to-night, but actually—actuallyflaunts that set of pearls which she got by fraud—stole,if any one ever stole anything in this world—fromyour husband. The whole set!”

“No, not the whole set,” murmured Doris, softly, as shelooked at Lady Grace gliding through a waltz. “I havethe ring.”

“You have! Why, I have never seen it. The ‘ring!’”

“No, you never saw it,” said Doris, a warm flush risingto her lovely face. “I don’t wear it on my finger, dear,but—here,” and she touched her heart. “She is welcometo all the rest while I have that and—him!” she added,turning to her husband as he came up to them.

THE END.

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