A SAD HOME-COMING.
Lord Cecil Neville was a man of his word. He had pledged himself to
remain in Ireland until the mission he had undertaken was completed,
and he meant keeping his word, though his life depended on it. And
it seemed to him that more than his life, his happiness, hung in the
balance. He had written again and again to Doris, and had received no
answer to any one of his letters. That they had reached her was evident
from the fact that none were returned through the post to him. To all
his passionate attempts for an explanation of her silence not one word
came from her!
Life had gone fairly smoothly for Viscount Neville up to this, and
his hot, impetuous nature--inherited from his mother’s side of the
family--found it difficult to endure the suspense. Many men would have
broken their word and returned posthaste to England and Barton, but a
pledge was a solemn thing to Cecil Neville, and like a soldier on duty
he stuck to his post.
It is not necessary to speak in detail of what he accomplished in
Ireland, but this much may be said, that he found the people in the
right and the agent in the wrong, and that that agent had a bad time
of it! It may be added that Lord Neville succeeded in a few short
weeks in winning more hearts among the marquis’ tenants than all the
Stoyles for centuries had been able to do, and that before many days
had passed “the young lord,” as he was called, was regarded as a friend
and protector, and many a faltering voice called down a blessing on his
head, and implored him to remain in “the old country.” The Irish are a
warm-hearted people, quick to resent an injury, but equally quick in
their gratitude for a benefit; this handsome young nobleman who had
relieved them from their oppressor, and done his best to better their
hard lot, received his reward in the shape of an affectionate gratitude
which he should remember and cherish all his life through.
The absentee landlord, the man who screws the last penny from the
tenant, and spends it in Paris or London, has been the curse of the
country; and it was because Lord Neville saw this, and owned it freely,
that the people trusted him.
Often, when he had returned from a day’s inspection of the estate, and
had relieved the oppressed, he wondered what the marquis would say
when he heard what his ambassador had done! Often when, tortured by an
anxiety respecting Doris’ silence, he spent the night pacing up and
down his room, he vowed that when they were married they would come
and live among these people, who had welcomed him so readily, and so
gratefully recognized his efforts on their behalf.
But for the constant hard work, the incessant traveling, Lord Neville
would have suffered more than he did; for, as the days wore on, and no
news of Doris reached him, he began to imagine all sorts of terrible
things. One night he dreamed that she was dead, and woke trembling and
shaking, half-persuaded that he had heard her voice calling to him.
All day her image haunted him, and he found himself pulling up his
horse, and sitting staring vacantly before him, recalling her last
words, her shy, passionate kiss; and then he would dash forward, and
try and persuade himself that his letters had, in some way, miscarried,
and that all would be well.
One morning his servant brought him a letter, and he seized it eagerly,
but his face fell as he saw the Stoyle coat of arms on the envelope.
The letter was from the marquis. It was the first he had written,
though Cecil had sent him a short report of his proceedings each week,
and the contents caused him to spring from his chair. It said:
My dear Cecil, I think you had better come back. It appears that your
course of true love, like other persons, is not running smoothly.
STOYLE.
That was all, but it was enough for Cecil. In less than an hour he
was on his way to the station as fast as the car could carry him. He
was fortunate enough to catch the mail, and, traveling day and night,
arrived at Barton Towers just after dinner. The butler started and
stared at the young viscount’s haggard face and travel-stained clothes,
and in his solemn fashion looked quite shocked.
“Where is the marquis?” demanded Lord Cecil.
“In his room, my lord. I’m sorry to say, dinner is over, but I can
serve you----”
“Will you tell the marquis I have arrived, and ask him to see me,
please?” said Lord Cecil, interrupting his stately periods. “I shall be
ready in ten minutes.”
He was scarcely longer, and still pale and wearied-looking, was
conducted to the library.
The marquis was sitting in his easy-chair, wrapped in his velvet
dressing-gown, and looked up with his usual cold smile, and a slight
elevation of the eyebrow, denoted his recognition of Cecil’s altered
appearance.
“How do you do?” he said, giving him the tips of his thin fingers. “I
am afraid you have been rather hurried in your journey----”
“I came back without the loss of a moment,” said Lord Cecil, gravely.
“I should have come before, but I waited to complete the business, or
until I heard from you----”
The marquis shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m afraid you have inconvenienced yourself on my account,” he said,
coolly and indifferently. “There was no reason on earth why you should
remain there a moment longer than you liked----”
Lord Cecil’s pale face flushed, and he made a movement of impatience,
almost of indignation.
“You must have been bored to death--oh, no; I forgot--you take an
interest in those people. Ah, yes. I got your letters--quite reports,
weren’t they? I am ashamed to say I didn’t read them.”
Lord Cecil’s eyes flashed, but he restrained himself with an effort.
“My lord,” he said, grimly, more firmly and sternly than he had ever
spoken in his life, “I will not trouble you with an account of my
mission--for it was a mission, carelessly as you ignore it. I am too
full of anxiety on another matter. Will you tell me the meaning of the
note you sent me?”
The marquis stopped again and looked at him with a faint, puzzled
confusion, as if he were trying to remember what it was he had written;
then he nodded.
“Ah, yes; I remember. I sent you the note because I thought you would
like to hear some information I received about Miss Barlow----”
“Miss Marlowe, do you mean?” said Lord Cecil, biting his lips. “What
information----”
“Give me time, please,” said the marquis, arranging his dressing-gown.
“Your impetuosity is rather trying.”
“Great heavens!” exclaimed Lord Cecil, clinching his hands; “why do
you torture me like this? You forget--or do you not forget?--is it
from sheer malice that you keep me in this suspense? You know, I see
you know, that I have not heard from Miss Marlowe; that I fear some
accident----”
“I know nothing of your not having heard from her,” said the marquis,
with perfect coolness; “and I care less. I wrote to you because I
considered that I should do so, on a point of honor. You were absent
on my business, and it was my duty to let you know what I had heard. I
have always done my duty, and I did it in this case, though the writing
of even a short note is irksome to me.”
“Well, my lord, well?” demanded Lord Cecil, and he paced to and fro,
“what is it? Is she ill?--is she----” He could not force his lips to
utter the word “dead.”
“Ill? Oh, no; I hope not. The fact is, I--I may say ‘No,’ for it is
generally known, I imagine, that Miss Barlow--pardon, Miss Marlowe--has
disappeared.”
Dreadful as the word sounded, Lord Cecil drew a breath of relief, and a
smile, a very mirthless one, crossed his lips.
“Disappeared?” he said, almost contemptuously. “You mean she has
left Barton? That accounts for her not having received my letters or
answered them. Where has she gone?”
The marquis shrugged his shoulders.
“I had better tell you what I know; we are getting rather confused. It
appears that Miss Marlowe’s guardian died suddenly; probably you know
this?”
Lord Cecil uttered an exclamation of dismay and pity.
“No! I did not know it! I have not heard from her--from any one! My
poor Doris! When--when did he die?”
“Some time ago--soon after you left, I believe; and here in Barton. I
know nothing of the particulars.”
“And she did not write! Why not, why not?”
“For reasons best known to herself. My dear Cecil, I am reluctant to
shake your faith in this young lady, but I am afraid I must.”
“What!” demanded Lord Cecil, scarcely understanding. “My faith in
Doris! Go on, sir!”
“It would seem----Pray take a chair; your constant moving is harassing.”
Lord Cecil sank into a chair, impatiently.
“It would seem that the young lady was not very serious in her little
love affair with you. I imagine that that kind of young person seldom
is. How can it be expected of them? They are actresses by profession.
I daresay she was practicing for a love scene when she was exchanging
vows of perpetual faith with you. Pray don’t take my suggestion in
bad part!” he put in, for Lord Cecil leaned forward with crimson
face. “I am sorry you should have regarded the matter so seriously!
It is a mistake--I speak with experience--a mistake to take any woman
seriously; they are all daughters of Eve, and as unreliable as their
first mother. Miss Marlowe is like the rest, that is all!”
“Will you tell me, my lord, what it is you insinuate?” said Lord Cecil,
in despair.
“I insinuate nothing! Why should I? I believe it is perfectly true, but
you can ascertain for yourself, of course, that she has jilted you, and
gone off with her first, and, pardon me if I add, her more suitable
young man.”
Lord Cecil started up, his face pale and working, his eyes flashing.
“It--it is a lie!” he said, hoarsely.
The marquis regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt, the
kind of look with which one might regard the movements of a strange
animal.
“Yes, it may be! I don’t answer for the truth of the story, as I said.”
“Where has she gone? Who is this--this man? It is false! I will stake
my existence upon her truth! It is a ridiculous lie!”
The marquis smiled.
“A large stake; too large for so paltry a prize as a woman’s faith!” he
said, calmly. “I have heard that she has gone to Australia with a man
named--named--excuse me, my memory is very faulty, but, fortunately,
I jotted down the details. I had an idea that you would like to hear
them.” He reached for an elegant-bound memorandum book as he spoke, and
consulted it.
“Ah, yes, here it is! ‘Miss Marlowe sailed in the _Orion_ on the
fourteenth, in company with Mr. Garland, late of the Barton Theatre
Royal; engagement at Melbourne.’ The _Orion_, the fourteenth! I am glad
it occurred to me to jot it down with the particulars.”
Lord Cecil stared at him as if he were in doubt whether he or the
marquis was mad, and the marquis, closing the book, regarded him with a
calm, set placidity.
Then Lord Cecil laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh to hear.
“Who told you this fable?” he demanded.
“I got it from Spenser Churchill!” said the marquis, promptly.
“Spenser Churchill! Spenser Churchill!” repeated Lord Cecil. “What had
he to do with it?”
“Too much,” said the marquis. “Very much against my advice, he
insisted--you know he is a professional philanthropist?”--with a
sneer--“he insisted upon pleading your cause with the young lady. But
it was of no avail; even so distinguished an individual could not
persuade a woman to keep her faith.”
Lord Cecil strode up and down, his physical weariness and exhaustion
playing their part in his mental disturbance.
“It is not true!” he asseverated, vehemently. “It is not true! Why
should Spenser Churchill be mixed up in this matter? Why----”
“That is easily answered,” said the marquis. “It appears that he
discovered that the young lady’s guardian was an old friend of his. I
don’t know his name----” which was true. “I don’t know anything more
than I’ve told you; and forgive me for saying so, that, seeing the
reception my information has received at your hands, I’m very sorry
I know so much! I hate and detest this kind of business. It was bad
enough when I took a personal interest in it, but now----” he shrugged
his shoulders. “It is a pity that the world could not have got on
without women; we men would have been better and happier, believe me.”
“Where is Spenser Churchill?” demanded Lord Cecil, hoarsely.
“Heaven only knows!” said the marquis, shrugging his shoulders. “In
London, possibly, or he may have gone out on a mission to the Jews, or
the Turks, or the Sandwich Islanders. I neither know nor care, if I may
say so. And now, hadn’t you better go and get something to eat? I fear
we have exhausted the subject,” and he leaned back and regarded the
opposite wall with an expression which was intended to indicate that,
whether they had exhausted the subject or not, the subject had entirely
and completely exhausted him.
Lord Cecil regarded him sternly for a moment, as if he were about to
speak, then, with a gesture of farewell, opened the door and went
out. Scarcely had he done so than the curtains over a door behind the
marquis’ chair fluttered violently, and Lady Grace glided out.
She was pale, and her under lip was caught in her white teeth, in her
endeavor to appear calm and self-possessed.
“Has he gone?” she said.
“Oh, yes!” replied the marquis. “You heard our interesting and dramatic
dialogue?”
She nodded.
“Do you think----” She paused and turned aside. “Do you think that he
cared for her very much?”
His lordship smiled sardonically.
“I should say he was what is termed madly in love with her.”
Lady Grace moved a little away, out of reach of the cold, piercing
eyes, and a quiver shot over her face.
“Has he left the house, do you think?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I should imagine so. I should fancy that wild horses would not hold
him!”
“Where’s he going?”
The marquis smiled indifferently.
“I haven’t the least idea--to Australia, probably.”
She started.
“He would not be so mad!”
“If my opinion is worth anything, I think he is mad enough for
anything! This girl must be extremely good-looking, Grace!”
She bit her lip till the blood came.
“Y--es, she is,” she assented, as if the admission cost her an agony.
“Oh! yes. And he is going! I thought he would have stayed the night!”
“And I didn’t,” said the marquis, grimly. “He is a Stoyle, and its not
our way to take the loss of our mistresses meekly.”
“Did you give him the letter?” she asked.
The marquis uttered an exclamation.
“Phew!” he said, with a laugh. “I knew there was something I should
forget. I told you and Churchill that you’d better play the game
yourselves, and that I should bungle it. You see, I am so unused
to intrigues of this description,” and the great intriguer of his
generation smiled grimly.
“Give it to me,” said Lady Grace, as if struck by a sudden idea.
The marquis pointed to a cabinet.
“It’s there somewhere,” he said, indolently.
Lady Grace opened the door sharply.
“Take care, please,” he said, with a smothered yawn. “That cabinet is
unique, and I have left it to you.”
She made an impatient gesture, caught up poor Doris’ letter, and glided
from the room and up the corridor.
As she did so Lord Cecil came out of his room, followed by his valet,
with a portmanteau in his hand, and wrap on his arm.
“Lady Grace!” said Lord Cecil.
“Why, where are you going?” she exclaimed. “I have only just heard of
your return! You are not going again?”
“Yes,” he said, trying to speak lightly, and force a conventional
smile; “I am as bad as a queen’s messenger.”
She laid her hand lightly on his arm.
“Something’s the matter,” she said, in a low voice. “What is it? Is it
anything you can tell me--anything I can help you in?”
He shook his head as he signed to his man to go on.
“I have learned bad news, Lady Grace,” he said, as coolly as he could,
but his voice shook as he added, “No, you cannot help me, and, I fear,
no one can!”
She came closer to him, and laid her hand upon his arm, looking up at
him with her magnificent eyes softened with womanly sympathy.
“I am so sorry! Can you not tell me what it is? Stay; where are you
going?”
“To London,” he replied.
“To London!” She leaned over the balustrade, and looked at the great
clock in the hall. “You have plenty of time. Stay one moment. Lord
Cecil, do you remember the first night you came?”
“Yes,” he said, gravely.
A faint flush rose to her face.
“And all I said to you? Do you think I should have spoken to you as I
did unless--unless I had liked you?”
“I appreciated your candor, Lady Grace,” he said, in the same grave
tone.
Her hand trembled on his arm.
“Well, then, I am going to be still more candid. I am going to ask you
to try and fancy that you had asked me to be your wife and that I had
refused.”
It was his turn to flush now, and his eyes dropped under her fixed,
earnest gaze.
“Do you know why I say that? It is because you may not misunderstand me
when I ask you--as I do now--to let me be your friend.”
“I am grateful, Lady Grace----” he began, in a low voice, but she
stopped him.
“Wait. It is no idle, meaningless offer. I will be a real friend, Lord
Cecil, if you will let me. I will prove that a woman and a man can be
friends without being--lovers! Now, then, trust me, and show me that
you trust me by telling me what this trouble is.”
Her eyes looked so honest, so eager, so trustworthy, that Cecil--his
heart wrung with the misery of suspense and doubt, his brain heavy and
bewildered by fatigue and harassing anxiety--fell into the net.
“I will trust you, Lady Grace,” he said, and there was a quiver in his
voice which was no discredit to his manliness. “In a word, I have lost
the girl I love.”
“Lost her!” she said, with wide-open eyes. “Ah, yes! I know! Miss
Marlowe, is it not?”
“Yes,” he said. “Do you know anything? For Heaven’s sake tell me
everything----”
“I will,” she said. “But I have heard nothing more than this--that
she has gone to Australia with--with a man to whom she was engaged
before----”
“And you believe it?” he said, with grave reproach.
“No!” she said at once. “I do not believe a word of it!”
He took her hand and pressed it, all unconsciously, so that the rings
almost cut into her delicate fingers.
“How shall I thank you for saying that?” he exclaimed, in a low voice,
which showed how deeply he was moved. “They are the first words of
comfort, of encouragement! You do not believe it?”
“No, I am certain it is not true. She has left Barton, I know, but
as to the rest--why, it is too absurd! Shall I tell you why I do not
believe it? Because I have something for you which will explain all,
I’ve no doubt,” and she held out the letter.
He almost snatched it from her.
“A letter! Why--where--when--how----” And he stared at her with eager
impatience.
“It came while you were away, and I took it. Don’t be angry.”
“Angry! Has any one seen it but yourself?”
“No one!--no one! I kept it. Of course, I felt that its safety was of
importance to you. I should have forwarded it to you, but I knew you
were moving about, and I feared it might be lost.”
“I see, I see!” he said, and already hope was displaying itself in his
face and voice.
“Yes, that will tell you where she is, and why she has gone, no doubt,”
said Lady Grace; and with an affectation of delicate consideration she
turned to the great oriel window, that he might read it undisturbed.
Suddenly he uttered a cry, and, looking round, she saw him leaning
against the balustrade staring at the letter, which shook like an aspen
leaf in his hands.
“Oh, what is it?” she breathed, and her face went almost as white as
his own.
He looked up with a bewildered stare; then, with a working face, seemed
to struggle for composure.
“You--I--we were both wrong!” he said, hoarsely; “she--she has gone!”
“Oh, no, no!” murmured Lady Grace; “don’t say that! Do not believe it!
Oh, Lord Cecil!” and she laid both her hands upon his arms and looked
up at him beseechingly, sympathizingly, as a sister might strive to
soothe and encourage a brother.
“Yes,” he said, almost inaudibly, and with a catch in his voice, “it
is true--it is true! Great Heaven! and I loved--I trusted--I----” He
turned his head aside for a second, then faced her, every muscle of
his face quivering under the effort to appear unmoved. “Lady Grace,
the letter proves the marquis’ estimate of women to be a true one,
and mine--Heaven help me!--false! Read it. No, I cannot! It is the
only letter she ever wrote me--it is sacred! The first and the last!
Great Heaven, to think that she, she!----” and as he recalled the pure
and innocent face, the truthful, trustful eyes that had looked up so
devotedly, so passionately, with such an infinity of love into his, his
voice broke and he could not utter another word.
“No, do not show me the letter!” she said. “It should be sacred to you.
And I do not believe it yet. Where were you going, Cecil?”
Her omission of his formal title escaped him at the moment.
“To London,” he said. “But where”--and he made a despairing
gesture--“it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now!” and he forced a
rueful smile.
“Yes, but it does matter,” she said. “There may be some mistake--there
is, there must be! It is useless to ask you to remain here, I feel
that. Go to London, Cecil, and go to the offices of the _Orion_. Go and
see if her name is on the passenger list. I will stake my faith in the
honor and truth of my sex that it is not!”
He seized her hand and pressed it again.
“How can I thank you?” he breathed. “Yes! Ah, what woman’s wit will do!
I will go to the office!”
“And you will let me know? You will not forget--your friend!”
“I shall never forget all you have done, all you have been to me this
day, Lady Grace,” he said, fervently; and with a grave solemnity that
might well have become one of the old knightly Stoyles whose pictures
looked down on them, he raised her hand to his lips.
A deep red suffused Lady Grace’s face, and she drew a quick, sharp
breath.
“Go, then!” she said, her hand resting on his clingingly, “and come
back with good news!”
He nodded, and with the letter in his hand, ran down the stairs. Lady
Grace leaned over the balustrade and looked at him, her heart beating
wildly, her eyes flashing with suppressed excitement. She looked at
that moment like one
Whose soul and brain with keen desire,
Burnt in a flame of all-consuming fire.
Then, as the door closed behind her, and she heard the retreating sound
of the dogcart, she drew herself upright, and, pressing her hand to her
forehead, she thought intently.
“A wrong step now, a false move, and--and I lose him!” she murmured.
“Oh, if I were there with him; if I could be sure that Spenser
Churchill had got her out of the way! Ah!”
The ejaculation was forced from her lips by an idea worthy of a woman.
Without waiting a moment she sprang up the staircase to her own room.
“Find the next train to this,” she said to her astonished maid. “Don’t
stand staring! There may not be a moment to lose. Pack a bag--a small
bag--and order a brougham. Say nothing to anybody but the groom of the
chambers, and tell him to keep his tongue quiet--give him this!” She
handed her a couple of sovereigns. “Wait! I want this to go to the
telegraph office. Stay! No! I will take it myself as I go!”
“The office is closed, my lady,” said the maid, looking up from the
portmanteau she had already commenced to pack.
Lady Grace’s face fell, then it cleared again.
“Of course! All offices are closed by this time; none will be open till
to-morrow! No matter. Give me a telegraph form.”
She sat down and wrote quickly:
He will be at the _Orion_ packet office the first thing to-morrow.
Act. Meet me at the square at ten.
Two hours later she was seated in the train following that which had
borne Lord Cecil to London, and her telegram lay at the office to be
forwarded to Mr. Spenser Churchill at eight the next morning.
Lord Cecil reached his chambers in the gray of the summer morning,
looking like a man who had received sentence of death, and yet hoped
that by some chance a reprieve might save him.
Not until the train started had he remembered that the steam
packet-office would not be open until ten o’clock, and, yielding to the
respectful entreaties of his man, who was deeply attached to him, and
saw with dismay the change which the last few days had made in him,
Lord Cecil threw himself on the bed. But he found it impossible to
rest there, and spent the long hours pacing up and down, vainly trying
to draw encouragement from a remembrance of Lady Grace’s assertion of
faith in Doris.
“She believed in her, and she does not know her; how much more should I
trust in her, who do know her? And yet this letter!” and he took it out
and read it for the hundredth time.
Long before ten he had a bath, drank a cup of coffee to appease his
valet, and, dressing himself, went down in a cab to the office of the
Australian Steamship Company.
He was there before the office opened, and had to wait for a quarter of
an hour. While he was pacing up and down, smoking a cigar, with fierce
impatience, a quietly-dressed man, in a brown pot hat, sauntered up,
glanced at him casually, and passed by; then, as if he had remembered
something, took out his watch, and returned at a quick pace, so
quickly, indeed, that he almost ran against Lord Cecil, and offered
profuse apologies.
A few minutes after ten a yawning boy wound up the iron shutters, and
Lord Cecil went into the office.
“I want to know----” he commenced; but the boy, struggling with a yawn
which threatened to bisect his face, said, languidly:
“Clerks not here yet; don’t know nothing myself.”
Lord Cecil inquired when they would be there, was told five minutes,
ten, perhaps; lit another cigar; was informed by the intelligent lad
that he mustn’t smoke in the office; flung the cigar away, and strode
to the door, nearly knocking over the quiet-looking gentleman in the
brown hat, who was looking in at the door inquiringly.
Ten minutes--a quarter of an hour passed, and at last a clerk arrived;
and Lord Cecil made for him as if he were going to demand his life.
“Can you tell me whether a lady of the name of Marlowe sailed by the
_Orion_, for Melbourne?” he began, with suppressed eagerness.
The clerk eyed him with the charming impassibility and indifference
which distinguishes some of his class, and read a letter which lay
before him before answering.
“You will find her name in the passenger list if she did,” he said at
last.
“Then, for Heaven’s sake, give me the passenger list!” said Lord Cecil,
with suppressed fury. “I have been waiting----” He pulled himself up on
the verge of an outbreak, and the clerk, with a great deal of dignity,
got down a huge ledger and leisurely found the proper page. Then he
proceeded to read off the names; there seemed a million of them to poor
Cecil, who leaned against the counter, his eyes fixed on the book, his
lips tightly compressed.
“Mr. and Mrs. Browne, Mr. and Miss Tompkins, Mr. Garland, Miss Doris
Marlowe. Yes, she sailed,” said the clerk.
Lord Cecil gripped the counter hard, and stared in a dazed, blind way
at the open page.
“Mr. Garland! Miss Doris Marlowe!” Great Heaven, then the marquis had
spoken the truth, and she had jilted him; had left him for the other
man--this actor. In a moment he recalled the young fellow, the handsome
Romeo, who had played so well to her Juliet. And she had gone with
him! She--Doris! Doris, the girl he loved; whose faith, and honor, and
truth---ah, and innocent purity of mind and soul--he would have sworn
by.
The clerk stared at his white face and compressed lips curiously. It
was not the first time anxious inquiries had been made respecting
missing persons at the office, but no one had taken the information
given as this handsome young gentleman took it. He seemed, as the clerk
put it afterward, when recounting the incident to his fellow-clerks,
“as if he were struck dumb, and deaf, and blind.”
“Is there anything else I can tell you, sir?” he asked.
Lord Cecil raised his head and regarded him vacantly.
“Anything else? No,” he said, with a grim smile. “That will do, thanks.
When will the _Orion_ arrive?”
The man referred him to a calendar and told him.
“There or thereabouts,” he said. “She’s a fine vessel.”
“Ah, so I’ve heard,” said poor Cecil, not knowing what he was saying;
and, wishing the clerk good-day, he made his way out.
At the door he paused and took off his hat in a confused kind of way,
as a man does who has received news which is either too good or too
bad to be realized all at once; and as he stood there, he felt a hand
upon his shoulder. Looking round, he saw that it was the persistent
personage in the brown hat.
“Lord Cecil, Viscount Neville, I believe?” he said, quietly and
respectfully enough.
“Yes, I am Lord Neville,” said Cecil. “What do you want?” he added,
with weary surprise.
The man took a paper from his breast pocket.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, my lord,” he said, “but I’m a sheriff’s
officer, and I have to arrest you on a debt warrant.”
“Arrest me?” said Lord Cecil, not with the surprise the man doubtless
expected. Lord Cecil would not have been surprised that morning if he
had been arrested for murder. “I don’t understand----”
“If you’ll step aside for a moment,” said the man, very respectfully,
indeed apologetically, “I will show you. These are the items,” and he
took some papers from a greasy pocketbook, and read them off.
Lord Cecil recognized them as some old debts, bills and I O U’s, which
he had almost forgotten.
“Yes, that is right, I expect,” he said, gravely, and very wearily.
“But I thought,” he said, as the idea occurred to him, “that there was
no arrest for debt now?”
The man smiled almost pityingly.
“Nor is there, my lord; it’s called contempt of court now! You have
been ordered to pay these sums by the court, and you haven’t done it,
therefore it’s contempt, and they take you on that.”
“Ordered to pay them?” said Cecil. “When? I have heard nothing of it.”
The man looked incredulous of so much innocence, for a moment, but,
after a long and steady scrutiny of the pale, grave face, with its
frank, honest eyes, he looked puzzled.
“Hem! I don’t quite see. Ah, yes, I do! These processes have been
served on your lawyers, no doubt, my lord. Haven’t they let you know?”
“No,” said Lord Cecil, quietly. “I have been away in Ireland. I’ve seen
no letters----”
“It’s plain enough, my lord,” said the officer. “You ought to have had
your letters forwarded. The court has been under the impression that
you’ve neglected the order out of sheer contrariness, and so these
creditors have got the warrant. Ah, my lord, no end of mischief comes
of you swell gentlemen not opening your letters. I’m very sorry, but
here’s the warrant, and I’m bound to execute it.”
Lord Cecil did not by any means fully comprehend the man’s meaning even
yet.
“What do you want me to do?” he said, gravely. “Ah, I see, you want to
take me to prison!”
“Oh, no, no; my lord, certainly not,” said the officer, respectfully.
“If your lordship will settle the amounts; the banks are open, and
close at hand. We might walk to your lordship’s bank, and you could
give me a check.”
“Let me see the paper,” said Lord Cecil; then his face flushed. “I have
not one quarter of this in the bank,” he said, quietly.
The man looked rather nonplussed.
“Well, I don’t know what’s to be done,” he said, looking at the
pavement with a frown. “Your lordship has got friends--I’ll go
anywhere--to your lordship’s rooms, while you communicate with them. Of
course, I must have the money. Duty’s duty. As a soldier, your lordship
knows that.”
Lord Cecil nodded.
“Come to my rooms,” he said.
The man called a cab, and they got into it and were driven to Clarges
street.
To attempt to describe the valet’s face when he saw the kind of person
whom his master had brought back with him would be difficult, and quite
impossible to picture it when Lord Cecil requested him to get this
person breakfast.
“I will telegraph to my uncle, the Marquis of Stoyle, while you are
eating it,” he said; but the man looked up reproachfully.
“Will you send your man, my lord?” he said, significantly, and Lord
Cecil started, for he realized that he was a prisoner. He sent the
telegram, requesting the marquis to order his bankers to pay the sum to
Lord Cecil’s order; then went and stood by the window and looked out on
the street; and in a few minutes he had forgotten the presence of the
officer and all pertaining to him.
“Mr. Garland--Miss Marlowe,” rang through his brain to the exclusion of
anything else.
A couple of hours passed, and the return telegram arrived. It was short
and emphatic:
Sorry. Quite impossible.--STOYLE.
Lord Cecil read it, and, with a grim smile, tossed it across the table
to the officer, who was enjoying himself with one of Cecil’s choicest
cigars and a glass of whisky and water. He looked aghast.
“Good gracious, my lord! What’s to be done?”
“I don’t know,” said Lord Cecil, shrugging his shoulders, very much as
the marquis might have done.
“But--look here, my lord, this is getting serious! Isn’t there any
other friend? Surely, your lordship must know ever so many friends
as would only too gladly lend you the money! Think, my lord!” Lord
Cecil shook his head. “I am afraid it is of no use thinking,” he said;
“I cannot pay the money, and----” He leaned against the window, and
smiled. “But there is no hurry, I suppose? You can finish your drink.”
Before the man could reply, a voice floated through the open window.
“Lord Cecil!”
He started, and looked out. A hansom cab was pulled up opposite his
door, and Lady Grace was leaning out and looking up at him.
“Lady Grace!” he cried, in amazement.
“Yes; it is I,” she said. “Will you come down? I want to speak to you.
I could not wait.”
He made for the door, but the man rose.
“My lord! my lord!” he said, reproachfully.
Lord Cecil turned pale; then he laughed, and going to the window, said,
grimly:
“Lady Grace, I cannot come down to you. Please go. I will see
you--to-morrow.”
She seemed to hesitate for a moment; then he saw her alight, and a
moment or two afterward, she stood in the doorway of his room.