A SECRET COMPACT.
“I came because I thought you wanted me, and you do,” said Spenser
Churchill, softly.
Lady Grace looked at him, with an expression of dislike and
fear--actual fear. It displayed itself in every line of the fair,
perfectly-formed face, in the expansion of her clear eyes, in the
tight--almost painful--compression of her slim, white hands.
“Why do you think so?” she demanded, in a low voice.
He smiled, until it seemed as if he meant it for his only reply, then
he said, in a dulcet voice:
“A little bird whispered----”
She made a movement of impatience.
“Is there anything you do not know? Is there anything one does or says
that does not reach you?”
He shrugged his shoulders, not cynically, but still with the amused
gesture with which one meets the petulance of a spoiled child.
“I believe there is no secret in any of the lives of the men and women
who call you friend--friend!--that you have not become possessed of.
How is a mystery!”
“It is a question of sympathy, my dear Lady Grace,” he said. “Nature
bestowed upon me a large and sympathetic heart----”
Again she made a movement of impatience.
“Spare yourself the trouble of trying to delude me!” she said, in a
kind of quiet despair. “There are many who fully believe you to be what
your face, and voice, and manner, and reputation make you appear, but I
am not one of them--I think I have known you from the first.”
“You have such keen penetration,” he murmured, as if she had paid him a
delicate compliment.
“I see you without your mask--that mask which presents the appearance
of a smiling, benevolent goodwill! You cannot impose upon me, Spenser
Churchill!”
“Do me the credit of admitting, dear lady, that I never tried,” he
said, softly.
“No,” she said; “it would have been useless. Others you may deceive; me
you cannot. Therefore, I ask you plainly, why you came here? Of course,
I know that you were aware I was here!”
“Oh, yes, I was aware of it,” he admitted; “but think, dear Lady
Grace, such knowledge does not prove much astuteness on my part. Lady
Grace Peyton’s movements are one of the social events which are duly
reported----”
“None of the papers said that I was at Barton Towers,” she said,
sharply; “you got your information from some other source!”
“What does it matter?” he remarked, soothingly.
“No,” she said; “it does not matter, excepting that it proves what I
say, that there is nothing you do not know. And now, once more, why
have you come? I put a plain question. I expect a plain answer.”
“If we always got what we expected!” he murmured, mockingly.
She colored and bit her lip.
“You do not mean to answer? It was from no love for or goodwill to me.
I know you do not--like me, Spenser Churchill!”
He looked quite shocked, and whispered:
“My dear Lady Grace, you hurt me; you do, indeed! There is no one in
the charming circle to which you belong whom I more ardently admire
and respect! Oh, really, you wound me! Not like you!”--he held out his
soft, plump hands reproachfully--“Lady Grace Peyton possesses the whole
of my esteem; and if I could do her a service----”
“You would do it!” she broke in, abruptly, with a bitter, scornful
laugh.
He sighed and looked up at the sky with an injured air of patience and
long suffering.
“How little you know me! How cruelly you wrong me! Alas! it is always
thus! One’s best effort on behalf of others is always met with scorn
and incredulity----”
“There is the marquis,” she said, as if she had been thinking deeply
and had not heard his pathetic appeal. “What do you know about him? How
have you got him in your power?”
“Got the marquis in my power! My dear Lady Grace----”
“Pshaw!” she said. “Do you think I am blind that I cannot see how
different he treats you to others? Is there any other man who would
come to Barton Towers, and be received as you have been? Is there any
other man who would dare to brave him--yes, and taunt him--as you have
done to-day? You know something about him--you have some hold upon him.
I don’t ask what it is--oh, no,” she added, quietly, as he smiled,
“for I know that you would not tell me or would palm off some smooth
falsehood----”
“Oh, Lady Grace, Lady Grace!” he answered, plaintively; but there was
a flicker of self-jubilation and satisfaction on his smiling face.
“It is so, or why should he, who is civil to no one else, be civil to
you? You know why I am here?” she said, abruptly, as if to throw him
off his guard. But the ruse failed utterly; he turned his smiling face
to her, suavely.
“I can guess,” he said, softly.
Her face flushed, then grew hard and defiant.
“Of course you can! Guess? You know! I am here because I was
‘commanded’ by the marquis; I am here because his mightiness pleases to
wish that I should----”
He glanced over his shoulder warningly.
“Is it wise to speak so loudly, my lady?”
She made a gesture of impatient self-scorn.
“What does it matter? Why should I care who knows it? I am here that I
may learn to regard myself as the future wife of the future marquis!
And you know it.”
He looked at her quietly, with a frank, benevolent regard---just the
look one bestows on an irritable child.
“And is that so distasteful?” he asked. Her face crimsoned, and her
eyes drooped, and his smile grew broader. “Not distasteful, I should
say,” he murmured; “quite the reverse. Lady Grace, let me return you
a compliment. You praised me for my power of acting; yours is a great
deal higher! You wanted me to believe that the marquis’ idea was
repugnant, whereas----” he chuckled, smoothly.
Her face had grown crimson again, and she turned it from him for a
moment, then faced him again.
“Well!” she said, “and if I do wish it, what then? Is it so unnatural?
Are there many better matches, many better men than Cecil Neville?”
“Few, if any!” he assented, blandly. “He is young, handsome, popular,
brave, and--a future marquis!” She picked at the moss in the crevice of
the stone coping. “A very good match, indeed, and Lady Grace is worthy
of such a partner, truly!”
“And you mean to do your best or your worst for the match?” he said,
swiftly.
He took out a cigarette.
“May I?” he asked, then lit it, and leaning on the railing, surveyed
the beautiful scene as if he were quite absorbed in peaceful
contemplation, and had quite forgotten his companion and the subject
of their conversation. Then he turned his head, and smiled at her.
“No,” he said, slowly and softly, “I mean to do all I can to further
the idea.”
She started slightly, and her lips parted in a faint sigh.
“You do! You--you mean to help me! and why?”
He was silent again, smoking with placid, serene enjoyment for a moment
or two, then he replied:
“If I were to answer that I am prompted solely by a desire for your
happiness----”
She made a movement of impatience.
“You see!” he said, reproachfully. “You would not believe me; so, what
is the use? Suppose that we do not go into my motives. Let us, if it
please you, decide that they are utterly selfish and bad, abandoned and
wicked ones--will that do? Very well! After all, what do my motives
matter? If I can help you, and I think I can, do not seek to go beyond
the mere solid fact of my assistance. Leave the reasons alone. They
can’t matter much, can they?” and he looked into her eyes with the
bland and innocent gaze of a child.
She moved restlessly.
“If I could trust you!” she said, uneasily.
“I thought I had already proved myself worthy of confidence,” he said,
simply; but there must have been some hidden significance in his words,
for they brought the blood to Lady Grace’s face, and then left it pale
and white to the lips.
“I--I----” she faltered.
“Oh, do not say anything of the past,” he murmured, soothingly. “Let us
think of the present. We will speak plainly. It is the dear marquis’
wish that you should marry Lord Cecil Neville; you being gratified by
his choice and willing to fall in with his views, an old and tried
friend offering his services to you do not hesitate to avail yourself
of them: I am the old and tried friend.”
The last words were more softly and cooingly spoken than any that
had preceded them, but Lady Grace started up and looked at him
suspiciously; he, however, met her scrutiny with his bland and innocent
smile.
“If I really thought you would help me,” she said, doubtfully.
“You may think so, for I will,” he answered. “As I said, never mind my
motives--they concern only myself. And how goes the business? Has our
dear friend Cecil--eh?”
She frowned slightly as if the question touched her self-love and
vanity.
“Our dear friend does not at present seem much smitten by your humble
servant’s charms,” she said, with a short laugh, which only barely hid
her vexation.
He smiled and nodded.
“Our young friend is rather spoiled, you see. One cannot be the favored
of the gods in the matter of youth, and strength, and features, without
paying the usual penalty. Cecil is the most popular man in London.
Believe me, there are twenty young ladies--I could give you their
names”--and his lips curled--“who are, if not dying, living in love of
him.”
“I know,” she said, with hardly restrained impatience. “Of course,
there has been a dead-set at him. That is very natural, is it not?
But--but I don’t think----”
“That the sultan has shown any partiality, that he has not yet thrown
the handkerchief,” he finished for her. “No,” thoughtfully; “I don’t
think he has. His lordship has, indeed, been so very impartial, not to
say invulnerable, that I have sometimes wondered whether there was not
some young lady hidden away, eh?” and he looked at her questioningly.
She started, and colored.
“Then there is?” he said at once.
“I--I don’t know,” she replied, musingly. “There may be. Last night I
dined away from the Towers, at the Thurltons, you know?”
“I know,” he murmured, pleasantly. “Thurlton’s grandfather was
transported for forgery; his wife’s sister ran away with young Lengard,
I remember.”
“Of course, you know all about them, every shameful secret in the
family for generations back?” she said, with a sigh.
He laughed.
“I have such a dreadfully good memory, dear lady. Well, you dined
there----”
“Yes; and coming home I passed down the High street, and saw Lord
Cecil. He was standing at the door of a fly, opposite the theatre,
talking to a lady, a girl.”
He nodded, and puffed at his cigarette placidly, with half-closed eyes,
looking, indeed, almost asleep; but his next question proved that he
was very much awake.
“Was she pretty, Lady Grace?”
“I only saw her for a moment. Yes,” she admitted, reluctantly.
“You did not know her?”
She shook her head.
“No. She was not one of the daughters of any of the county people;
besides, it was a fly. It was opposite the side entrance----”
“She was an actress,” he interrupted, quietly.
“How do you know?”
“My dear lady! It is so simple! The fly was the only one there, or you
would not have seen her so plainly; it was at the side entrance; she
was unknown to you. Oh, plainly it was an actress. And it was she who
was with Lord Cecil this morning.”
“Then you have seen her?” she exclaimed, eagerly.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said, “only heard her. I met our dear Cecil in the woods. As
I approached, I heard two voices, though he, of course, denied it.
One was a woman’s, and, though I am not in the habit of laying wagers
with ladies--for they never pay when they lose--I would bet something
considerable that the voice belonged to the young lady whom you saw
talking to Lord Cecil outside the theatre last night!”
She bit her lip, and the look came into her eyes which indicates the
first approach of the green-eyed monster--jealousy.
“Some worthless actress, painted and powdered. Some woman old enough to
be his mother, though made up as a girl----”
He shook his head and laughed with serene enjoyment.
“No, no; such an experienced bird as Lord Cecil is not to be caught
with such chaff, my dear lady! Depend upon it, this girl is young and
pretty.”
She twisted her handkerchief in her hands, then smiled contemptuously.
“It must be the Juliet of last night!” she said.
“Perhaps.”
“Well”--she drew a long breath--“I think I am a match for a common
actress, though she be young and pretty!” and she raised her head and
turned to him defiantly.
He looked at her with the calm eyes of a _connoisseur_.
“Yes, I should think so,” he said, blandly. “Certainly, I should think
so. A match for half-a-dozen of them. Forgive me if I say that I don’t
think there is a more beautiful woman in England than Lady Grace
Peyton, or a more charming one!”
She took no notice of the compliment; to her ears there rang a tone of
mockery behind the smooth phrases.
“What--what is to be done? What do you advise?” she asked, after a
moment’s pause, and with an affected indifference which made him smile.
He puffed a thin line of smoke from his sleek lips and watched it with
half-closed eyes.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing?” she repeated.
“No,” he said. “Nothing, so far as you are concerned. Just go on being
beautiful and charming--as you cannot help being--and leave it to me
to do the rest. If this is not a serious business, if his lordship
is really only scratched, why----” He laughed lazily. “If, on the
contrary, he is badly hit, and means business, means to make her the
future Marchioness of Stoyle, why we must deal with the young lady
herself.”
“Deal with her?” she asked, with an eager interest she did not attempt
to conceal.
He nodded at the scenery.
“Yes. There are two ways of going to work, each suited to the subject
we are speaking on. Money and moral suasion. It may be money in this
case; if so----”
“I am rich,” she said, in a quiet undertone. “If the creature requires
to be bought; if----”
“You will do it? Exactly. But the moral suasion?”
“I will leave to you, who have so much of it,” she said, with a
half-sneer.
He laughed softly.
“So they all say, dear lady, but, alas! I am so tender-hearted that I
can never bring myself to use it! I am all heart, all heart!” and he
laid his hand on the spot in which the organ is situated, and beamed
at her. Then, without moving a muscle, he went on: “And so, dear Lady
Grace, we had the poor children to an evening party, and gave them tea
and buns, and I am sure you would have been melted to tears at the
sight of their overbrimming happiness.”
Lady Grace looked round in astonishment, and saw that Lord Cecil had
stepped from one of the windows. Spenser Churchill’s quick ear had
heard him, and hence the swift change in the topic of conversation.
“Mr. Churchill begging again, Lady Grace?” said Lord Cecil. “Beware
of him; he never comes near you without an attempt on your purse.
What’s it for now, Spenser; the ‘Indigent Washerwomen,’ or the
‘Chimney Sweeps’ Orphans?’ He’s chairman or secretary of half-a-dozen
charities--aren’t you, Spenser?--and he won’t let you rest until you’ve
put yourself down for lady patroness for half of ’em!” and he laughed
the short, frank laugh which was so refreshing a contrast to Spenser
Churchill’s oily one, that Lady Grace felt as if it washed the other
away.
“It’s the ‘Indigent Basketmakers’ Children,’ my dear Cecil,” said
Spenser Churchill, smoothly. “Dear Lady Grace has consented to become
one of our lady patronesses, have you not, Lady Grace?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, indifferently; “and now having hooked me, I’ll
leave you to go for Lord Cecil,” and with a nod and a smile to the
latter, she turned and entered the house.
Spenser Churchill looked after her with a rapt gaze of benevolent
admiration.
“What a beautiful young creature!” he murmured softly; “and as good as
she is beautiful!”
“Eh?” said Cecil, seating himself on the balcony, lighting an immense
cigar, and offering his case to Spenser Churchill, who shrank back and
put up his hands with a gesture of alarm.
“I never smoke anything so--er--huge and strong. But is she not as good
as she is beautiful, now?”
“She is beautiful enough, certainly,” said Lord Cecil, carelessly; “as
to her goodness, why, yes, I suppose she is good enough. All women are
good, especially pretty ones.”
“I--see,” murmured Churchill, with his head on one side; “you’d say
that--er--there was a faint sign of, shall we say, temper in dear Lady
Grace? Well, perhaps--but--oh, really you must be mistaken, my dear
Cecil; so charming a creature!”
“Why, I didn’t accuse her of temper!” said Lord Cecil, with some
astonishment and an amused laugh; “it was you yourself!”
“No, really? Did I? I’m sure I had no such intention. But I see you
think--eh?--perhaps a little inclined to jealousy? Well, there may be a
touch of that in her composition, now you speak of it.”
Lord Cecil stared at him with a half-amused smile.
“Terrible thing, jealousy, Cecil! My poor father--I don’t think you
knew him?”
Lord Cecil shook his head, as he thought, “And no one else that I ever
heard of!”
“My poor dear father,” continued Spenser Churchill, with a plaintive
air of reflection, “had warned me against that peculiar temperament.
‘Never, my dear Spenser,’ he would say, ‘never marry a jealous-natured
woman. You had better throw yourself into the first horsepond!’”
“And you never have done either?” said Lord Cecil, knocking the ash off
his cigar.
“N--o,” said Spenser Churchill; “and do you really think that dear Lady
Grace has a jealous disposition? Now, really, Cecil, I think you must
be mistaken----”
“Confound it!” said Lord Cecil, “I never said anything of the kind!
Don’t put words I never used into my mouth, please, Churchill!”
“Didn’t you? Then how did I get the idea, I wonder?” responded the
other, looking gravely troubled. “Surely not from Lady Grace herself?
Oh! no--no!” and he looked extremely pained. “I should very much regret
giving you a wrong impression of my opinion of that charming young
creature, my dear Cecil! Most charming! Ah! what a wife she will make!
You don’t agree with me--no? Well, perhaps--er--yes, I understand
you. Beauty, however charming it may be, is not the best possession
a woman can boast. No! after all, perhaps, as you think, a young,
unsophisticated girl, unaccustomed to the intoxication of constant
admiration, would prove a more valuable companion for one’s life.
These London belles are--er--like the well-known Oriental fruit, more
beautiful to the eye than the touch, and----”
Lord Cecil broke into a laugh.
“What on earth are you driving at?” he demanded.
“I driving at!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, opening his eyes with an
innocent stare. “What do you mean, my dear Cecil? What on earth do you
mean?”
Lord Cecil clasped his hands round his knees, and looked at the round,
smooth face and extended eyes with faint amusement.
“You’d make an excellent Chinese puzzle, Churchill,” he said. “If what
you mean is to warn me against marrying Lady Grace----”
“My dear Cecil,” broke in the soft voice, pitched in a tone of strained
horror.
“You can spare yourself the trouble, for I haven’t the least intention
of doing so--at present.”
Spenser Churchill’s thick eyelids quivered almost imperceptibly; but
beyond this faint sign, no other trace of any emotion was visible at
this frank announcement.
“Really?” he said; “I thought---- But, my dear Cecil, don’t you
consider her a most beautiful and charming woman? and--er--come now,
after all, you would find it difficult to discover a more suitable
partner, eh?”
Lord Cecil frowned.
“Let us change the subject,” he said, curtly.
“Well, perhaps you’re right, after all,” said the other, with bland
promptitude. “Yes, no doubt, you are right! That sort of woman is
better in a picture, eh? Yes, we’ll change the subject! What time do
you dine here?”
“Eight,” said Lord Cecil. “I don’t dine at home to-night--at the
Towers,” he corrected himself. “I have an engagement.”
“Really? I am so sorry! Can’t you put it off--for my sake? Write and
tell the people that you are too good-natured to dine out when an old
friend turns up.”
“I’m not going to dine out,” said Lord Cecil, absently.
“No; really? Now, where can you be going?”
“I think the marquis was inquiring for you,” said Lord Neville curtly;
“I’ll tell him you are here,” and dropping from his perch, he sauntered
into the house.
Spenser Churchill leaned over the balcony and smiled.
“Going to the theatre again!” he murmured, “Yes; I haven’t been to a
country theatre for some time; I really think I should like to go and
see what it is like!”