WICKED LORD STOYLE.
The news spread, as such news will, and in a day or two all London
knew, through the gossip-mongers and the society papers, that Lord
Cecil Neville, the heir to the marquisate of Stoyle, had proposed to
Lady Grace.
“So that there was something in that story of her going to his rooms,
you see!” envious mothers whispered behind their fans.
And the following morning Cecil Neville received a short message from
the marquis, who was staying at the big house in Grosvenor Square,
requesting that Cecil would come and see him.
Cecil went, and found his lordship seated by the window of his own
room, looking at the passers-by as if he were a judge just donning the
black cap. His thin lips drew together with a smile that was more like
a sneer as he gave Cecil a couple of cold fingers.
“So you’ve come to your senses at last?” was his amiable greeting.
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 your message reached me.”
“Ah! Well, I congratulate you, and I wish her every happiness,”
remarked the marquis by way of a blessing, and his tone said quite
plainly: “But I don’t think she’ll get it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lord Cecil.
“Yes, I think you are a confoundedly lucky fellow,” continued the
marquis, “especially as you nearly got into the worst mess a man can
get into. I suppose that affair turned out as I expected? The wench
jilted you--oh, I don’t want to know any particulars, they wouldn’t
interest me; but I may be permitted to express a hope that you have
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 too good 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--that affair is over and done with, and
if Miss Marlowe were to come back, I promise that I will not, as you
delicately suggest, 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 such fools--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, “and now 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’ve an absurd fancy for
seeing her married before I die. Not that I think of dying just yet,
you’ll be sorry to hear. Better get the affair settled speedily. You
can live in one of the places in the country; I don’t care where it
is, as long as you don’t expect me to come and live with you,” and he
smiled sardonically.
Lord Cecil remained silent.
“You’d better take the Barton place. I hate it; but I hate 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 something like a
snarl. “I don’t mean you to be a pauper, or to live with a couple of
servants and on bread and cheese. You have done as I wished you to do,
though not until you were compelled,” and he smiled, significantly,
“and I will do what is requisite in the way of money--for her sake.”
“Thank you, my lord--for her sake,” said Lord Cecil, grimly.
“Yes. Why doesn’t she come and see me? Tell her to do so, if you
please.” He was silent a moment as Lord Cecil bowed, then he added:
“The affair is making some stir, I suppose. I’m thinking whether I can
summon up courage 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 if Cecil had not
spoken. “It is the usual thing, and she will look for it.”
“I don’t think Lady Grace expects----”
“You know very little of what Lady Grace expects,” he interrupted,
with cold contempt. “Tell her to come to me. Wait a moment, please,”
he added, as Lord Cecil was making his escape. “I am going to send her
a present; that is also due to her. I suppose you have been able to
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 one or two of the
jewel cases. I will send her something now. Here are the keys--no, they
are in that drawer,” and he pointed to the small writing cabinet which
always accompanied him, and handed Lord Cecil a small key.
Lord Cecil unlocked the cabinet, got the keys, and was crossing the
room to the safe, when the door opened.
“What the devil do you mean by coming in without knocking, sir?”
exclaimed the marquis; then, as he saw who it was, he said, in a softer
voice: “Oh, it’s you, Spenser, is it? You’ve come in time to hear the
news and congratulate the bridegroom.”
“Which I do with all my heart, my dear Cecil,” murmured Spenser
Churchill, taking Lord Cecil’s hand in both of his and pressing it
affectionately, while he beamed a benedictory smile all over him. “With
all my heart! I can’t tell you, my dear marquis, how rejoiced I was
to hear the news. Dear Lady Grace! So beautiful and so good! You are,
indeed, a happy man, Cecil! May every good 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 told Cecil that I will give a
party to mark my sense of his sense.”
“A party? Excellent! admirable!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, rubbing
his hands, his eyes going from the marquis’ cold, sardonic face to
Lord Cecil’s grave and rather moody one with keen watchfulness. “Now,
how good of you to think of that! Why, how many years is it since you
entertained in this house?”
The marquis compressed his lips.
“The last time was”--he paused a moment, then, as if out of sheer
bravado, went on--“the night before my wife ran away from me! Not a
pleasant omen for ‘dear Cecil,’ 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 party to be?”
“When you like,” replied the marquis, with the most profound
indifference. “I should enjoy it better if you’d wait 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,” said Spenser Churchill.
“I’m sending her a present,” said the marquis, listlessly. “There are
some things in that safe there; get them out and choose something.”
“Now, how delightful,” purred Spenser Churchill. “One of the old family
jewels, eh, dear marquis? A bracelet, or a ring, or something of that
kind, I suppose?”
By this time Lord Cecil had reached the safe and opened it, and Spenser
Churchill, with a smile of childlike interest and curiosity, went and
stood beside him.
The safe was half-full of papers, and nothing but papers, as it
appeared, and Lord Cecil said so, and waited for instructions.
“The cases are at the back,” said the marquis. “For Heaven’s sake!
don’t bother me over the business, or I shall regret my sudden and
unusual generosity,” he added, with a sneer.
Lord Cecil took some of the documents out, and revealed a couple of
jewel cases, and placing the former on a chair, carried the latter to
the marquis.
“These papers want arranging, dear marquis,” said Spenser Churchill,
and he lingered behind, as if casually; but his eyes flashed over the
litter of parchments with keen and searching scrutiny.
“I dare say,” assented the marquis, indifferently. “There are some
wills of mine there, I think, but it doesn’t matter. I shall live to
make two or three more to add to this collection,” and he glanced at
Lord Neville maliciously.
Spenser Churchill laughed, as if it were an excellent joke, and Lord
Cecil opened the cases and set them on the 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 he overturned 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!” he exclaimed,
apologetically, and he went down on his knees and 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 Spenser Churchill, and
with his back to the other two, he rapidly examined each deed as he
placed it on the chair. “Now, then,” and he came to the table. “Ah!
these are some of the Stoyle jewels! How exquisite they are, and what
a pity they should have been hidden away so long! How nice it is to
reflect that they will soon adorn our beautiful Lady Grace; eh, dear
Cecil?”
Lord Cecil did not answer, but moodily took the jewels from their
respective cases, and held them up for the marquis’ inspection.
He eyed them with his usual cold impassibility, but presently Lord
Cecil held up a suite of pearls. It was an antique and evidently
priceless set, and Cecil was regarding them with a listless interest
when suddenly a strange idea flashed across his mind that he had seen
them before; and yet he knew that he could not have done so. The last
person upon whose neck and wrists that priceless suite of antique gems
had shone was the ill-fated marchioness, whom he had never seen, and
whose end was still a mystery to him. He was convinced that he had
never seen them before, and yet he seemed to remember them.
“Beautiful, beautiful!” murmured Spenser Churchill, but looking at his
companion’s face instead of the jewels with a watchful scrutiny.
“Yes, they are,” said Lord Cecil, and he turned the remaining jewels
over as if searching for something.
“What are you looking for?” demanded the marquis, his eyes fixed with a
strange expression upon the pearls in Lord Cecil’s hands.
“I am looking for the ring. I suppose there ought to be one to make the
set complete? There is everything else here.”
The marquis’ face seemed to grow gray; then he laughed a dry, harsh
laugh.
“The ring is missing,” he said, almost inaudibly. “It went with----”
“No, no,” cut in Spenser Churchill, softly. “I saw it at the bottom
of the box a moment ago; but, really, my dear Cecil,” he continued,
hurriedly, as if to prevent the marquis contradicting him, “I don’t
think they would suit dear 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 diamond and ruby bracelet.
“Now, that is the kind of thing which would please dear Lady Grace.
These pearls will be more suitable when she is married.”
The marquis took the bracelet, and Lord Cecil fancied that the clawlike
hands trembled slightly, and looked at it absently. Then he dropped it
on the table and turned aside with listless indifference.
“The pearl suite will do,” he said, curtly. “Take it and give it to
her. Will you be good enough to send my man to me?” he added, as a hint
that he desired to be rid of their presence.
“Good-day, sir, and thank you,” said Cecil, moving to the door.
“Stop, my dear Cecil--the safe. You must put those jewels away and lock
it, you know.”
“Let him go. You can lock it,” said the marquis, with icy impatience.
“Oh, Cecil will lock it,” murmured Spenser Churchill. “I am going to
get some lunch, marquis,” and with a nod he went to the door, but there
he turned. “Oh, would you like a newspaper, marquis?” he asked, and as
he waited for the reply he watched Cecil lock the safe and deposit the
keys in the cabinet drawer.
“No!” answered the marquis, almost fiercely, and the two men went out.
Spenser Churchill locked his arm in Lord Cecil’s reluctant one.
“Dear marquis!” he murmured, softly. “So generous and--er--thoughtful!
You have made him very happy, my dear Cecil, and be sure that his
happiness will find its reflection in your own heart. Ahem! Did you
notice, my dear Cecil, how--er--unwell and, so to speak, generally
feeble he looked?”
“No,” said Cecil, gravely.
“No? Then perhaps--indeed, I fervently hope--that it was only my fancy;
but I certainly did think that I saw a change in him since last I was
here. I do hope it was only fancy! The world could ill afford to lose
so great and kind-hearted a man as our dear marquis! And so you are
going to marry the beautiful and charming Lady Grace! Ah, youth, youth!
what a blessed possession it is! How I envy you, my dear Cecil!”
“Thanks!” said Lord Cecil, curtly. “I’ll tell Lady Grace, 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 watched Cecil go down the hall and out
at the door.
Then his face changed to one of keen reflection, and, as he went into
the dining-room to the little lunch he had ordered, he muttered:
“Yes, the one I want is there! and the keys are in that drawer, which
he always keeps locked. I must have that will--but how?”
When the invitations to an evening party at the Stoyle House were
issued, they caused as much astonishment to the recipients and the
world at large as if the trustees of the British Museum had announced
their intention of giving a dance at that revered institution.
Only a very few of the last generation remembered any entertainment at
Stoyle House, and they declared that the rumor must either be false, or
that the marquis had at last, and very appropriately, gone out of his
mind; and it was not until signs of the vast preparations for the event
made themselves felt that the world began to realize the truth.
Then arose such a struggle and scramble for tickets as occurs in
connection with one of the events of the season, and Lady Grace was
worried and pestered for an invitation as if it were a permit to
Paradise itself.
For a couple of seasons she had been the acknowledged belle, but now
it seemed as if suddenly she had become one of the veritable queens of
society. Wherever she went, she was surrounded by a crowd, eager to
lay their tribute of adulation at the feet of the beautiful girl who
had succeeded, where so many had failed, in securing handsome Cecil
Neville, the future Marquis of Stoyle. Women who envied and hated
her approached her with faces wreathed in smiles and voices soft and
affectionate. Her carriage, or her horse, in the Park was surrounded by
men eager to claim acquaintance with the future marchioness, who could
give them invitations to so many shooting and hunting parties “when the
old marquis died!”
And Lady Grace bore herself through it all with charming moderation.
She delighted in all this worship, but it may be truly said, that she
was never happier than when Lord Cecil was by her side. Some of us tire
of the prize we scheme and toil so eagerly for; but in Lady Grace’s
eyes the prize she had so basely won increased in value day by day.
She had loved him the first night they had met at Barton Towers, and
her love, perhaps by opposition and the struggle she had made to win
him, had grown into an absorbing passion. She was restless and nervous
when he was absent, and those who knew her well could tell when he was
in the room or near at hand, by the joyous smile on her lips and the
soft glow in her eyes.
“Always thought that girl had no heart,” remarked one keen observer.
“Only shows how a fellow can be mistaken in a woman. She’s as clean
gone upon Cissy as a girl 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 his mind, and couldn’t
get it off. Never saw a man so changed in all my life; perhaps his
happiness is rather too much for him.”
And yet Lord Cecil’s conduct gave no cause for evil comment. No man
could be more attentive to his _fiancée_. He was with her every day,
was by her side at nearly all the “at homes,” was seen at the crushes
at concerts and balls, her shawl upon his arm, the arm itself always at
her command; and yet the old “Cissy” had gone, and in its place was the
tall, grave-faced man, with the look as if he had something on his mind.
The night of the party arrived. Some preparations had been necessary,
and they had been made with a lavish hand. The big house, which had
sheltered so many generations of the Stoyles through so many London
seasons, was ablaze with lights, which shone upon the handsome
decorations of the great saloon and the magnificent dresses of the
women.
Only at one of the state balls could have been seen such a display of
diamonds, and very soon after the ball commenced it was declared by the
experienced that it would prove the event of the season.
It was not until the fourth dance on the list had been reached that the
marquis put in an appearance. Lady Grace, magnificently dressed--robed,
one might almost say--had been questioned concerning his absence by the
throng that surrounded her, but had shaken her head with a charming
smile as she answered:
“He has promised to come into the room, if only for a few minutes, but
I don’t know when he will come.”
She was, by right of her beauty and position, the queen of the
brilliant assemblage, and she reigned in truly queenly fashion. Lord
Cecil, moving about as host during his 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 splendid one.
But he sighed as he made the admission, and there rose before him the
vision of Doris’ ivory-pale face, with its wealth of dark hair and
witching blue eyes; and he would have given half that remained of his
life to be sitting at her feet once more--only once more!
He was roused from one of these fits of reverie by a subdued murmur
of interest and curiosity, and, looking up, saw the tall, thin figure
of the marquis entering the room at one of the doors leading from his
private apartments.
The clean-cut face was deadly pale, but the dark eyes shone with a
hard, steel-like brilliance, and the thin, cruel lips wore a reflection
of a smile as he came forward and greeted those near to him.
There was no vulgar pushing and crowding, but somehow, in an impalpable
kind of way, a circle gathered round him, and then the marquis of old,
or a shadow and semblance of him, shone forth. The polished wit, like
a rapier long disused, leaped from its scabbard and set the group
admiring and laughing as of yore. As he moved from one to the other,
addressing his courtly flattery to the women and his biting cynicisms
to the men, a feeling of wonder ran through the room.
“By Heaven!” exclaimed an old man, who remembered him in years gone
by, “it is like a resurrection! It is like going back a quarter of a
century! That is the kind of wit we were accustomed to, sir! Look at
him, and compare him with the young fellows of the present day! And
don’t tell me that we haven’t degenerated!”
Lord Cecil stood a little apart, looking on at the success which the
marquis was making, the enthusiasm which he 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! Remarkable man. Really, it fills
me with admiration and--er--astonishment. Did you hear that brilliant
repartee of his at which they are all laughing?”
“No,” said Cecil, gravely.
“Astonishing! Ah, my dear Cecil he is a marvelous man. They were saying
that he was going to dance--a square dance, of course, just a walk
through a quadrille, but I shouldn’t think--eh? Why, yes, he is--” he
broke off, smoothly, “actually is!” and followed by Cecil he made his
way toward a circle that surrounded the marquis who 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. “Will you dare to brave their
ridicule by giving your hand to an old man? Or perhaps you would prefer
a more suitable partner?” and he shot a sarcastic glance at Cecil, who
had now reached his side.
She bent toward him with perfect grace, and placed her hand upon his
arm.
A thrill of amazement and curiosity ran through the room, and those
near the two fell back. The set was formed, and Lord Cecil found
himself standing at one of the 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 the thin, white
face.
The music commenced, the dance began, and the marquis, with a grace
which reminded those of his old friends of the days when “Wicked Lord
Stoyle” was in the prime of his youth--and his wickedness--led Lady
Grace to the center. A crowd had collected round the set; all eyes were
fixed upon him and the lovely woman who bore her triumph with such
queenly self-possession, when suddenly a cry--a shudder, rather--of
alarm ran from lip to lip; for the erect, stately figure was seen to
swerve and rock, and then stand still, as if rooted to the spot, with
its arms held above its head, and its starting eyes fixed strangely on
vacancy.
“Great Heaven! It’s a fit! He’s dying!” said some one.
Cecil sprang forward, and, just in time, caught him in his arms.
Some one silenced the band, and the whole assemblage became instantly
mute.
Lord Cecil raised the motionless form in his arms--it seemed to weigh
nothing to him, so thin and emaciated was it--and, through a lane of
horrified spectators, carried him up the broad stairs, and into his
bedroom.
Three persons followed him--Lady Grace, Spenser Churchill and the
marquis’ valet--and entered the room with him.
Lord Cecil laid his frail burden on the bed, and the valet quickly
unfastened the old-fashioned cravat.
“It is a fit, my lord!” he murmured, agitatedly. “I expected it! I have
been watching him from one of the doorways. 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--I shall break down!”
“Yes, go with her,” said Spenser Churchill. “You need not be more than
a few minutes, and I’ll stay here with him.”
Reluctantly, Cecil drew his arm within hers, and left Spenser Churchill
alone with the unconscious man.
Alone with him!
He waited until Lady Grace and Lord Cecil had left the room; then,
scarcely looking at the white, distorted face, he searched the pockets
of the helpless man, and with a suppressed cry of satisfaction, darted
to the cabinet, got the keys and opened the safe.
Taking out two deeds engrossed, “The last will and testament of the
Marquis of Stoyle,” he thrust one in the breast pocket of his coat and
replaced the other in the safe, and locked it, and returned the keys to
the cabinet.
Scarcely had he done so, and taken his place at the bedside, than Lord
Cecil and the valet hurried in with a doctor, who had been one of the
guests.
He bent over the unconscious marquis and made his examination.
“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!” said the 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, and looked at Lord
Cecil. “It is a very serious case, my lord; a sudden collapse. The
unusual excitement has been too much for his lordship. He may recover,
but if he should”--he stopped, and touched his forehead--“I fear it
will be a bodily and not mental recovery.”
Spenser Churchill drew back, and covered his face with his hands.
“My poor friend!” he sobbed; and if he gave expression to his thoughts,
he would have added: “will not be able to make a fresh will!”