OUT OF THE PAST.
“So the illustrious visitor turns out to be the great Marquis of
Stoyle!” exclaimed Lady Despard, with a laugh of surprise. “The Marquis
of Stoyle! And you have been leading him about like a blind beggar? How
I wish I had been there to see you! But it seems to have upset you,
dear,” she added; “you look really pale now, and--why, you haven’t been
crying?” and she drew Doris beside her on to the lounge.
“No, I haven’t been crying,” said Doris, quietly; then, after a
pause, she said, gravely, “I have promised to marry Percy Levant in a
fortnight’s time, Lady Despard.”
Her ladyship started.
“In a--what time did you say? A fortnight! Oh, nonsense! No wonder
you look pale! I think it is a shame you should try to impose upon my
credulity, Doris; for, of course, it is only a joke!”
“It is sober earnest, dear Lady Despard,” said Doris; and then she
told her of the letter of Spenser Churchill containing the offer of an
engagement for Percy Levant.
“And you intend to marry him and go with him! What on earth shall I do
without you? What shall I do? What a wicked girl you must be to entice
me into loving you so, and then to leave me! Why, I didn’t expect this
dreadful marriage to take place for at least two years, and now--! Two
weeks! You must love him very dearly, Doris.”
“I respect him very highly,” said Doris. “He is not like some men--”
she sighed--“he is true and steadfast, and he--he really cares for me,
I think,” in a low voice. “Why should I not make him happy if I can?”
“Really cares for you! Yes, I should think he does; why, child, he
worships every inch of ground those little feet of yours tread on. And
so he might, considering the many others who would be only too happy to
take his place. And why should you make him happy? Well, I don’t know.
But it seems to me, dear, that you are one of those women who consider
that they were only born to make others happy. I only hope that you
will make yourself happy.”
“Oh, yes; I shall be as happy as I deserve,” said Doris with a faint
smile.
“And you have quite made up your mind?” demanded Lady Despard.
“Quite,” said Doris.
“Then the only thing to be done is to grin and bear it, for I know the
stiff-necked, resolute kind of young person you are. Oh, there is one
other thing we must do: we can set about getting your things ready.”
“I shall not want many,” said Doris; “we are both very poor, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said Lady Despard, dryly. “All the same, I suppose you
will go decently clad.”
“And the wedding is to be very quiet,” said Doris, pushing back the
hair from her forehead with a weary little gesture; “quite quiet. I
don’t want any bridesmaids--”
Lady Despard shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, very well; have it all your own way. You shall be married at
midnight, and in darkest secrecy, if you like. And in a fortnight!
Great heavens! Why, it scarcely gives one time to make a couple of
dresses.”
“Which are all I shall require,” said Doris, with a smile. “Dear Lady
Despard, you forget that it is not your sister who is going to be
married, but only your companion.”
Lady Despard moved away with a despairing gesture.
“I only wish you were my sister. I would show you if you should make
ducks and drakes of your future in this way.”
“Don’t let us talk about it any longer,” said Doris, rising and
stretching out her arms as if she were ridding herself of some incubus.
“No, the better thing to do is to act and not talk. Put on your hat,
and let us go down to the shops and see if there is anything decent we
can buy. A fortnight! I rather liked Percy Levant on the whole, but now
I feel as if I hated him. I wish to Heaven, Spenser Churchill had not
sent him with us!”
Apparently the Pescia drapers had something decent on sale, for her
ladyship made purchases so extensive as to alarm Doris, who, when
she remonstrated, was told to mind her own business; and the next
two or three days were occupied in consultation with dressmakers and
milliners; and Lady Despard had quite forgotten the Marquis of Stoyle
and his promised visit.
But Doris had not. And often as she sat, surrounded by “materials” and
bonnet shapes, she thought of the strange meeting with the man who had
stepped in between her and Lord Cecil, and robbed her of her lover.
How surprised he would have been if she had said:
“Yes, I know, my lord. You are the man who has wrecked my whole life,
and broken my heart!”
And yet that was what he had done; for in losing Cecil Neville she had
lost all that makes life worth living.
Was there a single night in which, in feverish dreams, she did not hear
his voice, and feel his passionate kisses on her lips? Was there a
single morning on which she did not wake with that dull aching of the
heart which some of us know so well! And she was to marry another man
in a fortnight!
During these two days Percy Levant was absent. He, too, had to make
preparations for the approaching wedding, and, strange to say, Doris
missed him. He had been so like her shadow for months past, always near
her and ready, and promptly ready, to forestall her lightest wish, that
his absence made itself felt.
On the third day Lady Despard and she were sitting in the former’s
boudoir, literally up to their knees in millinery, when a footman
brought in a card.
“Can’t see any one this afternoon,” said Lady Despard. “Unless they
understand and can undertake plain sewing. Who is it, dear?”
Doris took the card.
“The Marquis of Stoyle,” she answered, falteringly.
Lady Despard rose in her usual languid style.
“The marquis! Oh, I think we must see him, dear. He has come to pour
out his gratitude----”
“It isn’t the marquis, my lady, but his valet,” said the footman.
Lady Despard sank back into the midst of the whirlpool of muslin.
“Oh, well, show him in.”
“Here, my lady?”
“Yes; I’m too busy to go to any one short of a marquis.”
The valet, a grave, distinguished-looking man, who might well have been
taken for a marquis, or, for that matter, a duke, entered a moment or
two afterward, and bowed.
“His lordship’s compliments, my lady, and he would be glad to know how
Miss Doris Marlowe is.”
Lady Despard jerked her thumb lightly toward Doris.
“That is Miss Marlowe.”
The valet bowed respectfully--very respectfully--to Doris.
“His lordship is very ill, miss; or he would have done himself the
honor to wait upon you to thank you for your great kindness to him,” he
said.
Doris’ face flushed for an instant.
“I am sorry,” she said, bending over her work; “but I did very little,
as the marquis knows.”
“He is very ill, miss--that is, he is very weak, and----” he hesitated,
“and he requested me to say that he should deem it a very great favor,
indeed, if you would come and see him. He wished me to say that, if he
could have crawled--crawled was his word, my lady”--turning to Lady
Despard, “he would have come himself. But he is quite confined to his
room, and perfectly unable to leave it. The marquis is an old man, you
see, my lady, and has been ill, very ill.”
Lady Despard looked at Doris and seemed to wait her reply; and the
valet crossed his hands and also seemed to wait, respectfully and
patiently.
Doris’ white brow wrinkled painfully, and she laid a tremulous hand
upon Lady Despard’s arm.
“I--I don’t know,” she said, in a troubled voice.
“His lordship has spoken of you several times, miss,” said the valet,
in an earnest tone; “indeed, he has talked of little else since he
came home. He is very old, you see----”
Doris’ gentle heart melted at the repetition of this simple formula.
“What shall I do?” she whispered to Lady Despard.
Her ladyship shrugged her shoulders.
“I suppose you had better go. Of course you will go. Why, you know you
couldn’t resist an appeal of this kind!”
Doris looked before her with wistful, troubled eyes for a moment or
two, then she laid down the work she was engaged on.
“I will come with you,” she said.
When she re-entered the room with her hat and jacket on, she looked
round, and taking some flowers from one of the vases, quickly
rearranged them, and then said:
“I am ready.”
“I will get a carriage, my lady----” said the valet; but Doris shook
her head.
“It is no distance; I would rather walk.”
Lady Despard waved her hand to her with a smile made up of affection
and amusement.
“Another conquest, my dear,” she said. “It’s a pity Percy Levant isn’t
a curate; you would have made such an admirable district visitor.”
On their way through the quiet streets the valet, answering Doris’
questions, gave her some information respecting the marquis’ condition.
“It was the excitement of the grand party, you see, miss,” he said.
“The party given in Lady Grace’s honor, the young lady who is to marry
my Lord Cecil, that did it. His lordship isn’t used to excitement,
and it was quite against Lord Cecil’s wish that the party was given,
but the marquis was so delighted at the engagement that he would
insist--I’m afraid I’m walking too fast for you, miss,” he broke off,
as he glanced at Doris’ face, which had grown pale and wan.
“No, no,” she said, quickly. “It--it is rather warm. Lady Grace is very
beautiful, is she not? Yes, I know she is beautiful.”
“Oh, yes, miss; her ladyship is one of the acknowledged beauties, as I
dare say you are aware.”
“Yes,” said Doris, raising her nosegay to her face to hide the quiver
of the lips. “And--and Lord Cecil”--how little the man guessed the
effort it cost her to speak the name!--“he is very much attached----”
she stopped, remembering that it was rather indiscreet to discuss his
master’s affairs with this man.
“Attached to her ladyship, miss?” he said, with perfect respect. “Yes,
oh, yes; how could he be otherwise?” He seemed to hesitate a moment,
then he said, rather reflectively, “Lord Cecil has rather changed of
late.”
“Rather changed?” said Doris, faintly.
“Well, yes, miss. He used to be rather wild, and certainly always in
the best of humors, what would be described as light-hearted. I used to
say that it made one laugh one’s self to hear his laugh, so free and
blithesome it was, so to speak. But he’s got quieter of late, and we
hear him laugh scarcely at all now. But perhaps you know his lordship,
miss?”
A scarlet wave of color rose and passed over Doris’ face, and she shook
her head silently.
“Ah, well, miss, you wouldn’t have known him for the same person.
Perhaps it’s the responsibility of this engagement and the marquis’
illness.”
“He--is not here?--here at Pescia?” she asked, stopping short suddenly,
with a look of alarm.
“Oh, no, miss; or of course he would have brought the marquis’ message
instead of me. Oh, no; it was the marquis’ wish that he should come on
the Continent quite alone, and Lord Cecil remained, very reluctantly,
in England. Of course, I should take upon myself to send for him if the
marquis got seriously worse. This is the house--villa, as they call
it,” and he conducted Doris into the miniature palace which his agents
had succeeded in renting for the marquis.
Doris waited in the--literally--marble hall, while the valet went
upstairs to convey the result of his mission to his master, and she
employed the few minutes before his return in composing herself.
She was going, in obedience to his whim, to sit beside the bed of this
sick old man, who had robbed her of her lover and wrecked all her life,
the Marquis of Stoyle, at whose request or command Lord Cecil had
abandoned her!
“If any one had told me that I should have done this thing,” she
mused, in sad wonderment, “with what scorn I should have repelled the
suggestion; and yet--I am here. And, what is more wonderful still, I
cannot hate him--could not, if I tried. Is it because he is so old, and
ill, and helpless, and looks so unhappy? Only the wretched can feel for
the wretched, they say,” and she sighed as she followed the man up the
stairs into a carefully-shaded room.
The great marquis lay upon a couch wrapped in his velvet dressing-gown,
the brightness of which seemed to heighten the effect of his pallid,
wasted face, with its piercing eyes shining like brilliants in their
hollow, dark-ringed sockets.
He made an effort to rise as she entered, but fell back with an
apologetic wave of his emaciated hand.
“You see how helpless I am, my dear!” he said; “worse than when you
so generously came to my aid the other day. And so you consented to
gratify the sick fancy of an old man, and have come to see me!”
Doris drew near and took the hand he extended to her, and as she bent
over him a strange, mysterious feeling of pity thrilled through her.
“I am so sorry to see you so weak, my lord,” she said, gently; “but you
will be better when the weather is cooler.”
“Yes, yes,” he assented, eagerly. “Oh, yes; I shall get better! It
is only a passing weakness! I have been very ill--I told you? Yes, I
am very strong. We Stoyles have the constitution and”--with a grim
smile--“the temper of Old Nick! Yes, I shall get better.”
“I have brought you some flowers,” said Doris.
The valet came forward with a vase, but the marquis waved him back.
“No,” he said. “Give them to me! Give them to me,” and he took them
from her with a courtly eagerness. “Ah, beautiful; and you were so
gracious as to think of them! They are almost as beautiful as yourself;
but not more pure, not more innocent or pure,” he added to himself,
with a strange, wistful gravity, as his eyes rested on her sweet face,
“whose goodness lay open to all men’s eyes,” as the poet says.
The valet came forward again to arrange the pillows, which had slipped
down, and the marquis’ face flashed angrily.
“Go, go!” he said, irritably.
The man drew back with unmoved countenance, and Doris leaned forward.
“Let me put them more comfortably for you, my lord,” she said.
He allowed her to do it, without a word or sign of protest or
resentment, and sank back with a sigh.
Oh, woman, in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou.
“Scott! Walter Scott! I can understand that now--now you are here! Yes,
a ministering angel!”
He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he turned his keen eyes
upon her inquiringly.
“You look pale and sad. Have you been in trouble? I have no right to
ask, you will say; but curiosity is an old man’s privilege, remember,
my dear.”
“‘Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward,’ my lord,” said
Doris, in a low voice.
“Aye,” he said, knitting his brows “Yes. Trouble we make for ourselves;
but sorrow must have been unmerited in your case, child. Tell me----”
he stopped short and sighed. “I am forgetting,” he said. “Why should
you tell me? I am not your father----” he stopped again. “Did I tell
you that I had a daughter once? She is dead. If she had lived she would
have been about your age, I think. I wish----” again he stopped, and
the proud lips quivered slightly. “I have neither son nor daughter;
only a nephew, who, doubtless, thinks I am an unconscionable time
dying; and he is right. It is time that there was a new Marquis of
Stoyle.”
Doris looked down.
“I--I think you do him an injustice, my lord,” she said.
He laughed the old cynical laugh.
“If he doesn’t, I’ve no doubt Grace does. Lady Grace Peyton, the girl
he is going to marry,” he explained, “is a clever girl; too clever for
Cecil,” and he smiled half-scornfully. “She will have all the brains,
and, perhaps, he will have all the honesty. Yes, I’ll say that for him;
he may be a fool, but he’s no knave. A knave would have been too sharp
for us----” He put his hand to his brow as if his memory were slipping
from him and he was endeavoring to keep a hold upon it. “Did I tell you
about him and Lady Grace? I think I told you.”
Doris shook her head.
“No, my lord,” she replied, almost inaudibly.
“No? I thought----” He paused, and looked round with a helpless
sigh. “I have forgotten it now. Spenser Churchill could tell you.
It will amuse you.” He smiled with childish enjoyment. “I wish I
could remember, but I can’t. My memory is worse, much worse since my
illness;” and he sighed again.
“Do not distress yourself, my lord,” said Doris. “You shall tell me
when you remember it, if you like.”
He inclined his head.
“One time, not so long ago, I could remember everything,” he said,
with a forced smile which was infinitely pitiable. “Not a face or a
story but I could carry it in my mind, and now”--he looked at her
apologetically--“I have actually forgotten your name, who have been so
kind to a feeble old man, my dear.”
“Doris Marlowe,” said Doris.
He repeated it twice or thrice; then shook his head.
“Yes, a pretty name. I don’t think I ever heard it before. My little
girl’s name was Mary. They wanted to call it Lucy, after her mother;
but there has always been a Mary Neville--until now. I told you she
died, did I not?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Doris, soothingly.
“Y--es,” he repeated, musingly. “If she had lived I should have had
some one, like yourself, to see me through the last mile of life’s
race--the last mile. I kept race horses once. I’ve done and seen
everything in my time. Wicked Lord Stoyle they called me. But through
it all I was never so bad as some. Spenser Churchill, for instance----”
“Mr. Spenser Churchill has been very good to me, my lord,” said Doris,
gently.
The keen, piercing eyes opened upon her with amazement.
“Good to you!--Spenser Churchill? You are jesting, child. He was never
good to any one, man or woman!” he laughed. “Spenser Churchill. Why, it
was he who----” He stopped, with a troubled look on his face. “No--I’ve
forgotten--it has slipped me again. It is something Grace was in, too.
Clever woman, Grace; too clever for Cecil. But I had my way. Yes! I had
my way.”
Doris rose.
“I must go now, my lord,” she said, faintly.
“Yes?” he said, wistfully. “Yes, I suppose so. It was very good of you,
my dear, to humor an old man’s whim. Let me look at you,” and he raised
himself on his elbow. “You are very pretty. Did I tell you I had a
daughter? Yes, yes. I think--it is only a fancy, this--that she would
have looked like you. He will be a happy man who wins that beautiful
face and gentle heart!”
Doris’ face flushed, and her eyes dropped, and his keen ones noted her
embarrassment.
“Ah,” he said; “there is some one already, is there not?”
“Yes, my lord,” said poor Doris, in a low voice.
He nodded.
“Yes, yes! Who is he? What is his name? But it’s no use telling me; I
can’t remember, you see! I should like to see him. Will you ask him
to come and see me, an old man on the verge of the grave? You can say
that, though it isn’t true! No, I’m worth twenty dead men still,” and
he raised himself, and glared at the opposite wall with a proud, cold
hauteur, which made Doris shrink, for suddenly there flashed upon her
mind the night Jeffrey had taken her to Drury Lane, and she had seen
the old, stern-looking man in the box; and this was he! She remembered
and recognized him now.
She rose trembling, and filled with a vague fear.
“Must you go? Thank you for coming to me! Remember, tell the fortunate
man who has won you that I shall esteem it a favor if he will bring you
to see me again. I should like to congratulate him upon the treasure
he has got.”
His shaking hand rested in her soft palm for a moment, then he fell
back with a sigh; but immediately afterward, as she left the room, she
heard him address his valet in a dead, cold voice.
Doris went home greatly agitated.
“Your visit has been a trying one, I am afraid, dear,” said Lady
Despard, regarding her pale face with sympathetic curiosity. “Was he a
very irritable old man? I’ve heard all sorts of stories about him.”
Doris sighed.
“He is very ill and old,” she said. “He--he was very kind and gentle to
me,” and, though she could scarcely have told why, her eyes grew moist.
“Well, he would have to be a perfect monster, with a heart of stone,
if he had been anything else than kind and gentle to you. And now
I have some good news for you. Percy Levant has come back. All his
preparations are complete, he says, for the happy event----”
Doris started. She had almost forgotten Percy Levant in the excitement
of the interview with the marquis, and the memories and emotions he had
evoked.
“I should think he had been working pretty hard or worrying about
something,” continued Lady Despard, “for he looks as grave as a judge,
and hadn’t a laugh in him. Oh, here he comes.”
Percy Levant entered the room as she spoke, and Lady Despard, murmuring
some excuse, left the two young people alone.
He took Doris’ hands, and looked down at her with a grave tenderness
that, if she had met his gaze, would have startled her by its sadness.
“Well, Doris,” he said, “I have come back, and all is ready.”
“I am glad you have come back,” she said, in her low, sweet voice.
“Lady Despard has missed you terribly.”
“And you?” he asked.
“And I!” she answered, lifting her eyes to his face for a moment. “Yes,
I have missed you. I have not so many friends that I can afford to lose
one without missing him.”
“Friend!” he said, almost inaudibly. “Well, yes, I am truly your
friend. And you don’t regret--you have no misgivings as to the future,
Doris?”
She paused, almost perceptibly, then, in a still lower voice, replied:
“No, I have no regrets, no misgivings. I--I trust you entirely.”
“Yes, dearest,” he said, and he bent and kissed her hands, “and you may
do so, I think, entirely. I must go and dress now.”
“Wait a moment,” she said, falteringly. “I have something to tell you,”
and she told him of her meeting with the marquis and her visit to him.
“The Marquis of Stoyle!” he said, as she mentioned his name, and he let
her hands drop suddenly. “The Marquis of Stoyle!” and his eyes rested
upon her face with a curious expression.
“Yes,” she said, her heart beating. “Do--do you know him?”
“No; but I have heard of him,” he replied. “Who has not? He is the
uncle of Lord Cecil Neville;” and he watched her closely.
Her face flushed for an instant, then grew pale again.
“Yes,” she said, simply. “And will you come with me to see him? He is
very ill, worse than he thinks, and--and nearer death than he would
believe.”
“I will come with you if you wish it,” he said. “I will do anything you
wish, now and always, Doris.”
“Well, I do wish it. I don’t know why,” she said, with a smile that was
rather troubled, “but I do wish it.”
“Then we will go,” he said, as a matter of course. “And now I’ll go and
make myself presentable.”
With his change of clothes he seemed to have got rid of the gravity
and melancholy which Lady Despard had remarked upon; and that evening
he was the Percy Levant of old, causing Lady Despard to laugh until
she declared that she was tired, and bringing a smile even to Doris’
quietly brooding face.
Once or twice Lady Despard referred to the now rapidly-approaching
marriage day, but when she did so he evaded the subject and changed it,
as if it were too close to his heart to be spoken of lightly.
“After all, dear,” said Lady Despard, as she came into Doris’
dressing-room for a few minutes’ chat before going to bed, “I don’t
know that you could have done better. He loves you to distraction, and
he’s awfully clever and light-hearted. You’ll never know what it is to
be bored for a single moment,” and her ladyship, recalling the many
wearisome hours she had endured in the society of her dear departed,
sighed; “and he is really the handsomest man I have ever met. Yes, I
don’t know, dear, that you haven’t done wisely in choosing him. But I
wish he had some money and a title. I have a fancy that you ought to be
called ‘my lady.’ There is something about you--a certain dignity----”
Doris swung her thick hair over her shoulders, and looked down at Lady
Despard’s pensive face with a smile.
“That’s ‘spoke sarcastic,’ as Artemus Ward would say,” she said. “I ‘my
lady’! Plain ‘Mrs.’ will suit me better than anything grander, I think.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Lady Despard; “but it can’t be helped
now, and, after all, one is none the happier for a title; and I do hope
you will be happy, dear! You deserve it so very much,” and she put her
arm round the slim waist and kissed her.
Doris slept little that night. The white, haggard face of the old man
haunted her, and, strangely enough, the frank, handsome one of Lord
Cecil, in all its bravery of youth and strength, mingled with it in an
inextricable fashion.
At breakfast Percy Levant was still in a bright humor, and jested even
about their visit to the marquis.
“Not content with playing the Lady Charitable herself, you see, Lady
Despard, Doris must needs make a district visitor of me! What part do
I take now? Am I to carry the basket with the tea and tracts, or what?
Perhaps, when you get there, the marquis will have forgotten your
existence.”
“I am quite sure he is too gallant to do that,” interrupted Lady
Despard.
“Or perhaps he will regard my presence as an intrusion, and order me
to be cast into the deepest dungeon. Anyway, I suppose we have got to
chance it, so put on your things, Doris, and let us get it over.”
Doris filled a basket with some flowers, and a bunch of grapes--“just
to keep up the character,” Percy Levant remarked--and the valet
received them in the villa with an air of respectful gratitude.
“His lordship has been inquiring for you all the morning, miss,” he
said. “He has spoken of nothing else, scarcely,” he said, as he led
them upstairs.
As Doris entered she saw, or fancied she saw, that a change had taken
place even in the few hours since she had last seen him; and his voice
sounded to her weaker, as, raising himself on his elbow, he stretched
out his hand toward her with feeble eagerness.
“Thank you, thank you, my dear!” he said, his thin, wasted fingers
closing over her soft, warm ones. “This is very good of you, very! And
this, who is this?”
“This is Mr. Levant,” said Doris, in a low voice.
“Mr. Levant,” he repeated, in quite a different voice. “And who
is----Ah, yes, I remember. I thank you sir, for granting my request,”
and he inclined his head to Percy Levant with stately courtesy. “I
wished to see you, wished to see you very much. This young lady has
been very kind to the old and feeble man you see before you. She has a
gentle and a good heart, sir. And you are the fortunate man who has won
her, it would seem.”
“I deem myself very fortunate, my lord,” said Percy Levant.
The keen, piercing eyes seemed to dart through him.
“That is the truth, if you never spoke it before,” he retorted, in his
old, cynical way. “Have I had the honor of meeting you before, Mr.
Levant?”
“Never that I am aware of, my lord,” said Percy Levant; “and my
acquaintances are so few that I am not likely to have forgotten it.”
“Ah,” said the old man, still eying him as if he were trying to gain
some glimpse of his character. “You are ready with a repartee, I
observe.”
“One need be who would hope to be worthy of crossing swords with the
Marquis of Stoyle.”
The old man’s eyes glittered.
“Good, good!” he said, in a low voice; then, to Doris, whose hand he
still held as she sat beside the couch: “You will have a clever man
for a husband, my dear, and that is better than having a fool.”
Doris hung her head.
“And you, sir, will have such a treasure as falls to the lot of few
mortals.”
Percy Levant, as he stood with folded arms, bowed gravely.
“I am fully sensible of that, my lord.”
“You should be,” said the marquis.
There was a moment’s silence, during which his eyes lost their keen
expression and grew absent and dreamy.
“Marriages are made in heaven,” he said, as if to himself. “Yes, in
heaven. Do you know my nephew, Cecil Neville?”
Doris sank lower into her chair, and averted her face.
“I have heard of him, my lord,” replied Percy Levant.
“Ah, no doubt! He is not clever, but he marries a clever girl! Yes,
Grace is clever,” and a smile curved his thin lips. “Cecil gave us some
trouble, but we were too sharp for him. I think I told you, my dear?”
he broke off to ask of Doris.
She shook her head and tried to speak, to lead him away from further
mention of the name which struck her heart, but with the persistence of
old age he went on:
“It’s a curious story, Mr.----forgive me, sir, but I have forgotten
your name.”
“Percy Levant; but it is of no consequence, my lord.”
“Thank you, Mr. Levant. A curious story. My nephew, Cecil Neville, is
the next in succession. He will be the Marquis of Stoyle. We were never
very friendly. My fault, no doubt; I plead guilty, my dear,” to Doris.
“All old men in my position have plans, and I have one. I wanted him to
marry Peyton’s daughter Grace. You see, Peyton and I were old friends,
and Grace had a claim upon me. I thought she would make a very good
marchioness, and a capital match for Cecil. I’m afraid I weary you,
sir,” he broke off.
“On the contrary,” said Percy Levant, in a constrained voice, and
carefully avoiding looking in Doris’ direction.
“No? You are very good. Well, I wanted Cecil to marry her. I expected
some opposition, but, by gad, I didn’t expect that he would thwart me
to the extent of falling in love--engaging himself to another girl!”
Doris, white and trembling, laid her hand upon his arm.
“You--you will tire yourself, my lord,” she managed to murmur.
“No, no,” he said. “I want to tell you, my dear. It is a very good
story. Where was I----”
“Lord Cecil was in love with another lady, I believe, my lord,” said
Percy Levant, in a dry voice.
“Yes, yes,” murmured the marquis, feebly, “a young person by the name
of----” He stopped and knit his brows. “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember
her name!”
“It is of no consequence, my lord,” said Percy Levant, still averting
his eyes from the spot where Doris sat with drooping head.
“I can’t remember her name. She was an actress. An actress! Imagine it,
my dear!” and he turned to Doris with a smile. “A common actress to be
the Marchioness of Stoyle! I thought Cecil had gone out of his mind,
and that I could laugh him, or argue him out of his absurd fancy; but
sarcasm and logic were thrown away upon him, and I admit that I should
have been beaten, yes, beaten!--I, who had never been thwarted in my
life!--but, fortunately, some one came to my aid.”
He stopped and dropped back upon the cushions; and Doris, with an
effort, rose and gave him some water.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, gratefully, his eyes resting on her pale
face with an affectionate smile.
“Spenser Churchill----” Doris nearly let the glass fall and sank back
into her chair.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill, the great philanthropist, my lord?” asked Percy
Levant, in a dry voice.
The marquis laughed a sardonic laugh.
“Yes, the great philanthropist! The man who takes the chair at the
great annual meetings; the man who champions the cause of the widow and
the orphans. Yes, that is the man. Everybody knows Spenser Churchill.”
He stopped and smiled, as if he were reveling in some memory connected
with the name. “That is the man. You know him?”
Percy Levant nodded.
“Every one knows him, my lord.”
“And believes in him! That’s an admirable joke! Well, he came to my
assistance. My nephew, Cecil, had arranged to meet his ‘ladye love,’
this actress girl, or to put a letter to her underneath a stone or in a
hollow tree--the usual thing, Mr.--Mr.----”
“Levant, my lord,” said Percy.
“Thank you, thank you! Yes, Mr. Levant. And my friend, Spenser
Churchill, the great philanthropist, suggested that I should send Cecil
out of the way, and that he, Spenser Churchill, should forge a letter
from Cecil dissolving the engagement, and place it in the hollow tree,
or whatever it was. I forget----” and he fell back, struggling for
breath.
Doris sat motionless as a statue, with her hands clasped in her lap.
Percy Levant bent over him and gave him some water.
“It--it was dangerous work, for Cecil had not left for Ireland,
and--and if he had caught Spenser Churchill----” He stopped and
smiled significantly. “But I’ll give Churchill his due. He risked the
thing, and exchanged the real letter for the forgery, and--_heigh,
presto!_--the engagement to this actress girl was done away with.
The simple girl fell into the pit Spenser Churchill had dug for her,
and”--he waved his thin, white hand--“there was an end of her, thank
Heaven!”
“Yes,” said Percy Levant, grimly, his eyes still fixed on the white,
wrinkled face; “and Lord Cecil, what of him?”
“Oh, he’ll get over it in time,” said the marquis. “I think he was hard
hit. I remember when he came back from Ireland he was rather cut up. I
think so. My memory is very bad. But he could not have felt it much,
for he proposed to Grace.”
“And Mr. Spenser Churchill--did he have anything to do with this
engagement, my lord?”
The marquis thought for a moment.
“I don’t know; but I expect he had. Oh, yes, he must have had, for I
promised to give him a couple of thousand pounds the day Cecil and
Grace were married and I daresay he did his best to earn it. Trust
Spenser Churchill for that!”
“Yes. And Lord Cecil and Lady Grace Peyton--are they married yet?”
asked Percy Levant.
The marquis shook his head.
“No; they are waiting until I get better, and I am getting better! I
shall be quite well directly; and, my dear, an idea has just struck me.
You shall be one of Grace’s bridesmaids!”
Doris started, and shrank back speechlessly. Suddenly she felt Percy
Levant’s hand upon her arm.
“Say ‘Yes,’” he said, hoarsely.
“I--I cannot!” she almost moaned.
Percy Levant looked at her; then he took her hand in his, and held it
for a moment.
“I understand,” he said, and dropped it gently. “Your lordship is very
kind,” he said; “but Miss Marlowe is going to be married very soon,
and, probably, before Lord Cecil. You have not told us the name of the
young lady whose engagement to Lord Cecil was so cleverly broken off by
Mr. Spenser Churchill. What was it?”
Doris rose, pale as a ghost, and caught Percy Levant’s arm.
“No, no!” she breathed. “No! Do not ask him that!”
The marquis knit his brows.
“Her name?” he said, in a low voice and with a bewildered air. “I--I
can’t remember. I am an old man, you see, sir, and--and--her name? What
was it?”
Doris, drooping like a lily bent by the storm, clung to Percy Levant’s
arm.
“No, you shall not ask him,” she panted.
Slowly, painfully, he removed her fingers from his arm.
“There is no need,” he said, inaudibly to the marquis; “you have told
me already. Her name was Doris Marlowe!”