A TERRIBLE THREAT.
Half an hour later Jeffrey was making his way along the footpath
through the woods, his thin, bent figure throwing a fantastic shadow
on the tree trunks, as he walked with his head projected and drooping,
his eyes fixed on the ground. Every now and then he raised his head,
looking about him as if he remembered that he had asked Doris to meet
him; but he almost immediately again relapsed into his pre-occupied
manner. Once he stopped and took the papers from the pocket in his
breast and looked at them with a deep and thoughtful frown.
“Yes, to-day!” he murmured. “I will tell her to-day! Why should I be
afraid? It will make no difference; she will be my child still; it will
make no difference.” He took off his hat and wiped his brow and sighed.
“Yes, I’ll tell her to-day. I--I’m not so strong as I was, and one
can’t tell what may happen. If I died before I’d told her----”
The muttered words stopped suddenly, and he looked up with a
startled air which swiftly changed to one of fierce anger. A dapper,
comfortably-rounded figure stood before him, with placidly smiling face
and serenely benevolent air.
“Spenser Churchill!” exclaimed Jeffrey hoarsely, his hands closing with
a gesture at once threatening and repressive.
“My dear Mr. Flint!” purred Spenser, his head on one side, his
hand extended benignantly. “My dear Mr. Flint! What a delightful
coincidence! After all, nothing is more true than the rather hackneyed
assertion that the world is a small place.”
Jeffrey, glaring at him fiercely, waved his hand.
“Pass on--pass on!” he panted; “I--I will have nothing to say to you!”
“Now really, my dear Jeffrey,” murmured Spenser Churchill
remonstratingly, “is it--I put it to you as a sensible man--is it
really worth while to nourish these--er--unchristianlike resentments?
Look at me----” It was quite an unnecessary request, for the fierce,
deeply-sunken eyes had never left the smooth, supple face. “Look at me,
my dear Jeffrey. I, too, have had my trials; but--er--I sink them, I
let them drop--I bury them, and I make it my principle to forget and
forgive.”
“Let me pass, you----!” panted Jeffrey, his whole frame shaking with an
effort at self-control.
“To forget and forgive,” repeated the other, as if the words were a
sweet morsel he was turning over his tongue. “Believe me, dear Jeffrey,
that is far, far the wiser plan.”
“You think so?” said Jeffrey, hoarsely. “You can forget, Spenser
Churchill; I cannot, for it was you who wronged, I who suffered! So you
have forgotten, and you dared to think that I had done so? That you may
see how well I remember, villain----No, stop!” for Spenser Churchill
had backed a few steps, and glanced round, as if meditating a retreat.
“Stop, Spenser Churchill, while I remind you why, when the devil sends
you across my path, that it would be wiser for you to crawl on one
side, lest I crush you, you smiling, fawning reptile! You forget! You
forget the life you ruined! Look on me and remember! I was young, rich
in health and hope, blessed with the love of an honest, tender-hearted
girl, when that devil--your master--the Marquis of Stoyle, the beast
for whom you jackalled, employed you to entice her from me. You
succeeded, Spenser Churchill, and have forgotten her misery, and mine;
all, save perhaps the sum your master flung you.”
His hands were so near the delicate white throat opposite him that
Spenser Churchill drew his head back sharply, and turned pale.
“My dear Jeffrey!” he murmured soothingly. “Now, come, come. Now,
really, you know! If any one were listening--which I am thankful, for
your sake, is not the case--they would gather from your--er--really
extravagant language that I had, like the bad man in a play, contrived
the ruin of the usual virtuous young lady, whereas I must, in justice
to myself, remind you, my dear Jeffrey, that the young lady in question
was only guilty of the remarkably bad taste of jilting you for the
Marquis of Stoyle, who, like an honorable gentleman, made her his
lawful wife and sharer of his exalted rank.”
“Yes,” said Jeffrey, hoarsely. “Because, by no other means could he get
her in his power! Made her his wife! Yes, that he might crush her the
more easily! Enough, Spenser Churchill!”
“Pardon me! One word more! You appear to have forgotten that the
lady, marchioness as she was, preferred to return to her first
admirer----There, there!” he broke off, putting up his hand to ward off
the threatened blow; “as you say, it is not worth talking about, and,
as I say, it is as much wiser to forget. The poor lady is dead, and the
child----”
“Is dead, too!” said Jeffrey.
“Is playing ‘Juliet’ at the Theatre Royal, Barton,” put in Spenser
Churchill, smoothly. “Miss Doris Marlowe, otherwise Lady Mary, daughter
of the Most Honorable the Marquis of Stoyle----”
Jeffrey staggered, and sank trembling on a fallen tree, great drops of
sweat trickling down his white, wrinkled face.
Spenser Churchill took out a cigarette and lit it, smiling blandly down
upon the stricken figure.
“Upon my word, my dear Jeffrey,” he said, pleasantly, “I am almost
inclined to cry, ‘Fie, for shame!’ and to retort one of the ugly words
which you so liberally applied to me. To afford shelter to the wife of
the dear marquis is one thing, but to steal his child----”
“She--she died!” gasped Jeffrey, hoarsely.
“So it was stated, and so it was believed by all excepting the
gentleman who has the honor to stand before you.” He laughed
unctuously. “I had my suspicions from the first, and I found them
justified when I saw Miss Doris Marlowe in her charming performance the
other evening, and, on inquiry, found that she was the daughter of Mr.
Jeffrey Flint!”
Jeffrey wiped the sweat from his forehead and opened his lips, but he
seemed deprived of the power of speech.
“You must permit me,” continued the softly mocking voice, “to
congratulate you upon the result of your excellent training. The young
lady is a most talented actress--most charming! But, my dear Jeffrey,
does it not occur to you sometimes that it is, to use the vulgar slang
of the day, rather rough upon her? To deprive a young and helpless girl
of her rank and position----”
Jeffrey extended his trembling hands entreatingly.
“Stop--stop!” he panted. “I--I did it for the best--I did it for her
good----”
Spenser Churchill laughed mockingly.
“Yes!” cried Jeffrey, rising with sudden despair. “For her good! You
saw her--you saw how happy, how innocent she is! All her life has been
happy and free from care. What would it have been if I had yielded her
back to the man who broke her mother’s heart, the man who would have
hated her for that mother’s sake? Man, man, don’t torture me with your
devilish smile! I did it for the best!”
Spenser Churchill laughed again.
“Dear, dear!” he murmured, “how dreadfully easy it is to deceive
oneself! Now, here are you, a most excellent man, I have no doubt, my
dear Jeffrey, actually persuading yourself that in robbing another
man of his only child and depriving her of her rights, you have been
committing a noble and virtuous action! Now I am sorry to say that I
don’t agree with you! I’ve no doubt you have become attached to the
girl----”
Jeffrey put up his hand.
“Silence!” he said, hoarsely. “It is not for such as you to understand
the love I bear her--my child, my child!”
“Pardon me, the Marquis of Stoyle’s child!” said the sneering voice.
Jeffrey raised his head and confronted the smiling, mocking face.
“Enough. You know my secret, and you alone----”
“Are you sure of that?” said Spenser Churchill, smoothly. “Are you sure
that no one else shares it?”
Jeffrey made a gesture of assent.
“No one else. Not even she. To-day I had resolved to tell her.”
A flash came into the watchful eyes.
“To-day--ah, yes!”
“Yes,” said Jeffrey, with a deep sigh that was almost a groan, “I have
brought myself to it at last, after much a struggle as you cannot
understand. To-day she was to be told, was to take her future into her
own hands; to choose--” his voice broke--“between one who has loved
her like a father, and the man who drove her mother from his house and
broke her heart!”
“Hem--yes!” murmured Spenser Churchill; “and you flatter yourself she
will remain with you, of course?”
“You do not know her,” was the tremulous reply. “You do not know her!
My child, my child!”
Spenser Churchill watched him in silence from under his white, smooth
lids.
“By the way, my dear Jeffrey,” he said softly, “did it ever strike you,
that supposing Lady Mary decided to return to her father”--Jeffrey
winced--“her father--that the marquis might refuse to acknowledge her?”
Jeffrey looked at him as if he scarcely understood.
“You see,” continued Spenser Churchill, resting his foot on the tree,
and leaning forward with a subtle smile; “it is such an extraordinary
story; the marquis might be inclined to remark that he would require
some proofs! I need scarcely remind you that he is not the most
credulous of men; in fact, that he is rather inclined to be suspicious.”
Jeffrey nodded grimly.
“I know him,” he said, almost as if to himself. “I have thought of
that, and am prepared with proofs.” He put his hand to his breast
pocket mechanically, and drew out the papers, and Spenser Churchill’s
eyes darted to them with a swift eagerness. “If--if Doris chooses
to--to go to him, and leave me, it will not be in his power to
repudiate her! These,” and he touched the papers with his forefinger,
and then put them in his pocket again; “these will establish her birth
beyond dispute.”
“I am delighted to hear it. That is quite satisfactory, quite. And so,
my dear Jeffrey, you expect the young lady to renounce her father, the
marquis--her rank and title, and all that would become hers--think of
it--and remain with you; all will go on as before, and the father and
his adopted child will be happy ever afterward, like the people in the
fairy story?”
Jeffrey nodded, and the deep lines in his face grew lighter.
“Yes,” he said in a low voice again, as if he were communing with
himself rather than answering the other man’s question; “yes, we
shall take up our lives as before, my child, my Doris and I! She will
be my Doris still, mine to love, and guard, and watch over! You saw
her----” he went on with suppressed eagerness. “There was truth in
what you said, though you meant it insultingly; she will be a great
actress--great! And it is I who have taught her--I, who loved her
mother! You taunted me, Spenser Churchill, with selfish aims in keeping
from her the knowledge of her birth. It was unjust. ‘Hide my child from
him always--always, Jeffrey!’ she said. They were her last words. Poor
Lucy!”
His head drooped, and he covered his eyes with his thin, gaunt hands
for a moment; then, as if remembering the presence of the other man,
turned to him.
“You are here still? Why are you waiting? Go your way, and let me go
mine. You know my secret--it is no concern of yours. Forget it, as you
forget the wrong you did me. Go!” and he pointed down the path.
Spenser Churchill smiled blandly.
“My dear Jeffrey, doesn’t it occur to you that perhaps this little
secret of yours does concern me?”
The haggard eyes were raised to the smooth, mocking face.
“Doesn’t it occur to you that, though you don’t appear to have any
conscience to speak of, that I may not be so hardened. Oh, fie,
Jeffrey! You know, you really must know, what it is my duty to do!”
“Your duty?” repeated Jeffrey, in a low voice. “What do you mean?”
“Why, my dear sir, of course it is my duty to go to the marquis, and
inform him of the existence of his child. Oh! and how sweet a duty,” he
murmured, “to restore a long lost child to its father’s loving arms!”
Jeffrey sprang to his feet, and stood, breathing hard, his hand
clinched tightly at his side.
Spenser Churchill looked at him with an air of gentle reproach.
“I cannot think how it is you haven’t seen that from the first, dear
Jeffrey. You may be so lost to all sense of right as to conceal the
fact of Lady Mary’s existence, but I--oh, my dear Jeffrey--I am a man
of honor and must act as my conscience dictates. And how great a reward
will be mine! To restore to a father the child he has mourned as dead!
The dear marquis, I can picture his delight--” the smile grew sardonic
for a moment--“his delight at recovering her, and his gratitude to
you----”
Jeffrey drew nearer.
“You--you will do this?” he panted, almost inaudibly.
“Yes,” said Spenser Churchill; then with a rapid change of voice, and
laying his hand on the quivering shoulder of the man he was torturing,
he added, “unless you come to my terms, my dear Jeffrey.”
“Your terms?” echoed Jeffrey, his face working, his hands clasping and
unclasping each other.
Spenser Churchill nodded blandly.
“Y--es. I take an interest in this charming young lady; I knew her
mother, you see----”
“Beware!” broke from Jeffrey’s parched lips. “Don’t--don’t try me too
hard!”
“And I should like to have a hand in restoring her to her proper place,
or permitting her to remain under your care.”
“You mean that her fate is to be in your hands?”
“Yes, exactly; and that it may do so most completely and
satisfactorily, I think I will take charge of those interesting papers
which you referred to, my dear Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey’s hand flew to his breast.
“The papers!” he articulated, hoarsely.
Spenser Churchill nodded.
“Yes. Don’t say you will not, my dear fellow, because if you do you
will compel me to go straight to the marquis--who is at Barton Towers,
by the way----”
“Barton Towers--the marquis--Doris!” muttered Jeffrey wildly and with a
vacant stare.
“Yes, Doris, who will not be your Doris any longer, but will have to
remain with her father, the marquis, whether she likes it or not----”
He had gone too far. With a spring, the tortured man was upon him, the
long, thin fingers fastened tightly in the soft, white throat, the
gaunt face was close upon the smooth, false one.
Spenser Churchill reeled, and went down on one knee.
“Take your hands off!” he croaked, suffocatingly, as he struggled
to release himself; but Jeffrey, though the older man of the two,
seemed possessed of the strength of an athlete, and, after a desperate
struggle, Spenser Churchill lay on his back, with Jeffrey’s knee on his
chest, and Jeffrey’s fingers still choking him.
“Are--are you going to murder me?” he managed to gasp out.
“I am going to kill you!” was the grim reply, a wild, fierce light
burning in the hollow eyes. “One kills a snake, not murders it. I kill
you as I would any other vermin!”
“Jeffrey--let me go! Let me go, and I swear to keep your secret. I
swear--my honor----”
An awful smile lit up the face above him.
“Trust her happiness to your oath!” he said, hoarsely. “Trust her to
your honor!” the hands tightened, the sky grew black, the trees danced
a mad carnival in Spenser Churchill’s eyes, and they were closing for
the last time, when suddenly the steel-like fingers relaxed their hold;
Jeffrey reeled back, and, throwing up his arms, screamed:
“Doris, Doris!” and fell across the man who, only a moment ago, was at
his mercy.
Dazed, sick with terror, and half-suffocated, Spenser Churchill
struggled to his feet and staggered to a tree. He leaned against it
for a moment or two, panting and gasping, tugging at the collar of his
shirt, and regaining his breath, and at last he looked shudderingly at
the still form upon the ground.
Still shuddering, he went toward and knelt over it.
“Fainted!” he exclaimed, hoarsely. “Another moment!” a shiver ran over
his sleek, white face. “Another moment and I should have been lying
like that. The madman!”
He spurned the body with his foot.
“Lie there and cool yourself!” he snarled, and was turning away, when
suddenly he started and put his hand to his brow.
“The beast has driven my senses out of me! The papers! Of course! Ha,
ha, Master Jeffrey!” and, kneeling down again, he hurriedly turned the
still figure over, and, unbuttoning the waistcoat, snatched out the
papers.
As he did so, something--was it the nameless terror of death, to which
mortal humanity is and ever will be thrall?--something made him wince
and shrink back.
He stared for a moment or two at the white face, then, slowly, slowly,
extended his hand, and trembling, laid it over the heart. The next
instant he started back, and, white as the face beneath him, cried:
“Great Heaven! He’s dead!”