ENGAGED.
On this occasion, at least, the society papers did not lie! Lord Cecil
Neville and Lady Grace Peyton were engaged! If some marriages are made
in Heaven, certainly some other matches are made by the gossip-mongers,
and this was one of them.
If any one had told Cecil Neville that in a few short months he would,
though having lost Doris, have proposed to Lady Grace, he would have
laughed the prophet to scorn; and yet propose to her he did.
From that eventful morning when he had received, as he thought,
irrefutable proof of Doris’ faithlessness and treachery, and been
rescued from imprisonment by Lady Grace, a great change had fallen upon
Cecil Neville. Life had lost its savor, and the days that used to pass
so swiftly, with pleasure at the helm and youth at the prow, hung like
lead upon his hands. Time, which most of us find all too short, dragged
terribly with him. Do what he would, he could not drown the memory of
the beautiful girl whom he had loved so passionately, and whose image
seemed engraven upon his heart. Morning, noon, and night her presence
seemed to haunt him. He went about as usual for a day or two, but the
old amusements; the clubs, where he was always so warmly greeted; the
dances, which never seemed complete successes without “Cissy” Neville;
the river parties, and four-in-hand excursions, in which he was always
the leading spirit, all seemed tame and spiritless, and though he
laughed as usual, and tried to hide the wound which he had received,
his friends noticed that he seemed preoccupied and gloomy; and when
he found that they observed it, and that he was sitting silent in the
midst of the carnival of pleasure, like the ghost-haunted man in the
ballad, he suddenly took his fishing-rod and went off to Norway.
He had met Lady Grace frequently since the morning she had come to his
rescue, but they had only exchanged a few words at meeting and parting,
as he felt that he could not talk as if nothing had happened, and he
would not talk of what had happened, and on the night before his sudden
departure he had only said a few concise words of farewell.
“Going to Norway?” she said, in a constrained voice. “Yes?--well, I
think that is the best thing you can do; it is all very stupid here in
London!” and she had given him her hand, and let her magnificent eyes
rest on his for a second or two with a look that would have impressed
him and set him thinking, if he had ever given thought to any other
subject but the faithless girl who had jilted him.
If any one had told him that Lady Grace had gone home a few minutes
after parting from him, and shut herself up for a couple of days,
reappearing, looking pale and weary, it would never have occurred to
him that her sudden disappearance had been on his account.
He went to Norway, and though he thought of her now and again with a
gratitude which made him miserable--for he could not see how on earth
he was going to repay her the money she had so generously paid for
him--he was too much occupied with recalling Doris to think much of
this other beautiful woman. He ought to have been happy in Norway, for
the fishing was good, and he was lucky, but the big salmon did not
bring him the satisfaction they used to do; and he was sitting one
evening in the room of the rather rough inn at which he was staying,
wondering what he should do with himself next, and whether it wouldn’t
be better to go and bury himself in South Africa, or volunteer for the
next of our little wars, when he heard his name mentioned. There was a
party of young men staying at the inn, and they occupied the room next
to his and divided from it by the thinnest of partitions, through which
their constant chatter and laughter filtered day and night to worry him.
When he heard his name, he woke up from a reverie in which he was
wondering whether Doris was happy, and whether she ever thought of him
and those days in the Barton meadows; and, remembering that listeners
seldom hear any good of themselves, he took up his pipe, and was
walking out to smoke in the open air, when it seemed to him that he
heard Lady Grace’s name also.
Thinking that the speakers might be friends of his and hers, he waited
a moment, then sunk back into his chair, his face scarlet, his brow
dark with a heavy frown--for this is what he heard:
“I tell you, it’s an absolute truth,” said one of the young fellows.
“I had it from a most reliable source. The lady in question was seen
leaving Lord Cecil Neville’s rooms alone and unattended----”
“Nonsense! Lady Grace--Lady Grace, of all women in the world!--go alone
to Lord Neville’s chambers! You must be mad, old fellow!”
“I’m not mad!” retorted the first speaker, “and I wish to goodness you
wouldn’t bellow out her name; I carefully avoided mentioning it; these
walls are no thicker than paper, and you can’t tell who may be on the
other side.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said the other; “but, come, you know, the story
is as thin as the partition! Why, no woman would do such a thing,
unless she were utterly reckless of her good name.”
“I daresay not,” said the first, still as coolly; “but perhaps the lady
in question happens to be reckless where this gentleman is concerned.
Anyhow, I had it on good authority, and I happen to know it is an
undisputable fact. Why, man, it was all the talk when I left London. It
is said that she is head over ears in love with him----”
“Phew!” exclaimed one of the others, “that makes it worse. If she was
guilty of such an indiscretion, all I can say is she must be very much
in love! Lady Grace----”
“Do shut up!” cried the first speaker. “No names, remember!”
“Well, well, the lady in question is one of the best known women in
society, and such a report would mean social ruin to her. Where did you
hear it? Give me your authority.”
The first man seemed to pause a moment, then in a voice too low for
Cecil to hear, said:
“I don’t mind giving it to you; I heard it from Spenser Churchill!”
“Then you may swear to its truth; that man never makes a mistake!”
responded one of the young fellows. “Well, I’m awfully sorry. Lady--the
lady is always very kind and pleasant to me, and I think her one of the
loveliest creatures in the world. As for Lord Neville--well, if he can
remain quiescent while this story is going about, and does nothing to
contradict it or set it right--all I can say, he is a very different
man from what I have always understood him to be. Where is he now? I
hear he has come a regular cropper in money matters. I saw him a little
while ago, and he looked awfully down on his luck.”
“Oh, he’s gone abroad, I believe,” replied the other.
Lord Cecil sat perfectly still for a minute, his brain surging, his
heart beating with mingled fury and consternation; then, with his pipe
still in his hand, he got up and knocked at the door of the adjoining
room.
Some one opened it, and Lord Cecil, with a slight bow, stepped in and
stood before the group of young men, who stared at his now grave, pale
face inquiringly.
“I am sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,” he said; “but it is only right
I should tell you that I am the occupant of the next room, and that I
have heard every word you said.”
“There!” exclaimed the young fellow who had started the conversation,
in a tone of vexation and reproach; “I told you so! I said the
partition was like paper, and that some one might be on the other side,
and you fellows wouldn’t believe me!”
“Yes; I have heard every word,” said Lord Neville, sternly; “and as I
have the honor to be a friend of the lady of whom you were speaking,
it is my duty to tell you that the man who whispers a word against the
reputation of that lady is a liar!”
They sprang to their feet as a body, and stared at him with angry
surprise; but Lord Cecil put up his hand to command silence.
“Hear me out, please. You may, not unnaturally, demand to know why I
should take upon myself to champion this lady’s cause. I do so because
I hope to have the honor of being that lady’s husband. My name is Cecil
Neville; there is my card.” He did not toss it melodramatically, but
courteously placed it on the table before them. “If any of you consider
that he is affronted by what I have said, I shall be happy to afford
him any satisfaction he may think necessary.”
With a slight bow he was leaving the room, when the young fellow who
had been the first speaker, said:
“One moment, Lord Neville, if you please.” Lord Cecil stopped, and
stood facing them, with a stern countenance. “If any one is to blame in
this matter, it is myself; and I am ready to give you any satisfaction
you may require; but I think it right to state, frankly and freely,
that I did not mention the lady’s name, nor was I aware that she was
engaged to you. I will say, also, that I deeply regret that I should
have mentioned the subject at all. But I spoke the simple truth when
I said that it was a topic of common rumor; and I may add that it
will give me great pleasure and satisfaction to contradict the report
whenever and wherever I may hear it repeated.”
“I thank you,” said Lord Cecil, simply, and with a grave bow that took
in all of them, he turned and left the room.
An hour later he was on his way to England.
By whomsoever spread, this report was in circulation--and he could not
contradict it! Lady Grace had been to his rooms alone and unattended,
and it was his duty as a gentleman and a man of honor to protect her.
He had heard, with a scarlet face, the words of the young fellow, who
had said that Lady Grace was in love with him, and though he did not
believe it--for had she not herself said that it was not so?--it was
his duty to propose to her.
What did it matter what became of him, or whom he married? He must
marry some one, and some day. The heir to the marquisate of Stoyle
could not remain single. Rank has its duties as well as its privileges,
and it is the duty of the head of a noble house to carry on the direct
line. He would have to marry sooner or later, though his heart throbbed
and ached every time he thought of Doris Marlowe; and why not marry
Lady Grace?
He thought of her beauty; he recalled her noble generosity to him. Why,
she had not only come to his aid when he was in mortal straits, but
she had done so at the risk of her social reputation! Surely, if he
must marry some one, it must be Lady Grace.
He might also have reminded himself that by so doing he would win his
uncle’s--the marquis’--favor; but, to do Lord Cecil credit, he did not
think of that; he only remembered Lady Grace’s goodness to him.
He reached London at noon, had a bath, and allowed his valet to clothe
him in the regulation morning attire, and went straight to the Peytons’
house.
The footman told him that Lady Grace was out, riding in the park.
“I’ll wait,” said Lord Cecil, and he went into the drawing-room.
He paced up and down the Turkey carpet, looking out of the window, and
staring at the ornaments on the mantel-shelf. Among them was one of
the fashionable cabinet photograph frames, with the portrait covered
by a curtain. In absence of mind he drew the curtain aside and saw a
portrait of himself.
With a sudden flush he let it fall, as the door opened, and Lady Grace
entered.
She was in her riding-habit--in the garb which set off her perfectly
graceful figure to its very best advantage.
As she entered, her mature and majestic loveliness struck him fully for
the first time, and he remembered with a sudden vividness the words of
one of the young fellows at the Norwegian inn. Yes, she was one of the
loveliest of society women!
She started perceptibly at sight of him, so much so that she dropped
her whip. He sprang forward and picked it up for her, and by the time
he had given it her--few moments though the action required--she had
recovered herself.
“Back so soon!” she said, giving him her hand, small, and white, and
warm. “This is a surprise! Don’t the salmon bite, or rise, or whatever
you call it? Or has it rained all the time, and have you been bored to
death? I’m afraid you’ll be bored just as much in London, for every one
is leaving.”
“The salmon were all right,” he said, still holding her hand. “I came
back because I wanted to see you!”
“To see me?” she said, her eyes flashing into his for a moment, and
then drooping. “Well, you were just in time, for papa and I were off to
the Continent.”
“Then I have just come in time,” he said.
“Let me give you some tea; sit down,” she said, and gently tried to
withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly.
“Never mind the tea, Lady Grace,” he said, with something of his old
light-heartedness. “You shall give me--or refuse me--a cup after you
have heard what I have to say.”
“And what have you to say that is more important than tea?” she
retorted, in a light tone, which was belied by the quiver on her lips.
“I have come to ask you to be my wife,” he said, quietly.
She put her left hand to her bosom, and her beautiful eyes dilated.
If joy always killed, then Lady Grace would have fallen dead at Cecil
Neville’s feet that moment; but it is sorrow, not joy, that kills, and
instead of falling, she leaned towards him with a tremulous sigh. It
was almost too good to be believed! Spenser Churchill had told her that
it would come, but she had always doubted it; and now--it had come! He
was hers. Hers!--he, whom she had grown to love--the man for whom she
had plotted and risked so much, even her social good name--was hers!
It was a proud, an ecstatic moment; no wonder she prolonged it.
“What do you say?” he asked, still holding her hand, his grave voice as
much unlike an ardent lover’s as it is possible to imagine; and yet it
was like music to her! “I know I am not worthy to win so great a prize,
but I will do my best to make you happy.”
“And--and you love me?” she asked.
It was a dangerous question, but she was a woman, and longed to hear
the magic words which every woman loves to hear from the lips of the
man she loves.
He paused imperceptibly.
“Who could do anything but love you, dear Grace!” he replied. “Will
you be my wife? I will try and make you happy, indeed I will! What do
you say?”
Her soft, warm fingers closed on his, and she leaned towards him
involuntarily.
“If you are sure”--she murmured--“if you are sure you want me to say
‘yes’----”
“Indeed I do!” he responded. “I have come all the way from Norway in
the hope that you would.”
“Then I will say--‘yes!’” she breathed, and her head sank upon his
breast. “You will be good to me--Cecil?”
“I will be good to you,” he responded, and he put his arm round her and
kissed her in lover-wise, but not--ah, not!--with the passionate kisses
which he had rained upon the lips, and eyes, and hair of Doris Marlowe!