CHAPTER VIII.
SPENSER CHURCHILL.
The new comer was a man apparently of middle age; I say apparently, because opinions on that subject were extremely conflicting. Some persons regarded Spenser Churchill as quite a young man, others declared that he had reached the meridian of life, and there were some who were inclined to think that he was, if anything, on the verge of old age. His appearance was singular. He was of medium height, with a figure that was either naturally youthful, or admirably preserved. He was fair almost to effeminacy, and he wore his hair long and brushed back from his face; and he was close shaven. But it was not the length of the hair that lent him his singularity, but the expression of his face and his manner.
If he was not the most amiable of men, his countenance belied him. There was always a smile, soft and bland, and good-tempered in his eyes, on his lips, and as the Irishman said, “all over him.” The smile, in conjunctionwith the fair face and long hair, gave him as confiding and benevolent an expression that the world had long ago come to the conclusion that Spenser Churchill was the epitome of all the virtues.
Most women were fond of confiding in him; most men—not all—trusted him; he was regarded by crossing-sweepers, waiters and beggars generally as their natural prey, and so effective was his smile, that even when he did not bestow his alms, he always received a blessing from the disappointed ones.
Whenever his name was mentioned, some one was sure to say:
“Oh, Spenser Churchill! Yes! Awfully good-natured fellow, you know. No end of a good soul. Share his last crust with you. Kind of cherub with legs, don’t you know.”
But, if strict inquiry had been made—which it never was—it would have been difficult to bring forward evidence to prove the benevolent Spenser had ever shared anything with anybody, or that he had ever been liberal with anything, excepting always the smile and his soft persuasive voice.
Of his past history, and, indeed, his present mode of life, the persons who were always ready to praise him knew very little—or nothing, and yet he was always spoken of as one of the best known men in society.
You met him everywhere; at the first reception of the season, at the meeting of the Four-in-Hand Club, at the smoking-room of the “Midnight,” sauntering in the foyer at the opera, seated in the stalls of the fashionable theatres, in county houses of the most exclusive kinds, on the shady side of Pall Mall, in the picture galleries, at the big concerts, at dinner parties. His neat figure always most carefully dressed, his countenance always serene and placid, as if the world were the most charming of all possible places, and had been specially created for Spenser Churchill; and with the benedictory smile always shining.
He was rich, it was supposed; he was a bachelor, it was thought; he was connected with half the peerage, so it was stated; and that was all concerning his private life that any one knew. But, if little was known abouthim, Spenser Churchill knew a great deal about other people; some said, too much.
Lord Neville’s surprise at seeing him was quite uncalled for, because Spenser Churchill was in the habit of “turning up” at the most unlikely places, and at the most unlikely times; and whatever surprise you might feel at seeing him, he never expressed any at meeting you.
Now, as Lord Neville stared at him, he blandly and placidly smiled, as if he had parted from Neville only a quarter-of-an-hour ago, and held out his hand as if he were bestowing a bishopric by the action.
“Why, the last time I saw you was at Nice!” said Lord Neville, with a laugh, “and here you are at Barton! What on earth brings you here? Don’t make the usual answer about the two-twenty-five train and your legs——”
“I wasn’t thinking of doing so,” said Spenser Churchill, softly. “What a charming spot!” and he looked round with a soft rapture beaming on his face. “Charming! So rural! That brook—those trees—the clear, spring sky—the songs of the birds—didn’t I hear human voices, by the way?” he asked; and it is to be noticed that he didn’t break off to put the question abruptly, but allowed it to form portions of his softly-gliding sentence, as if it were the most innocent and careless of queries, and he let his eyes fall with a gentle, beaming interrogation on the handsome face.
Lord Neville looked aside for a moment. Cherubimic as Spenser Churchill was, Lord Neville did not quite care to answer the question.
“I daresay,” he said; “but you haven’t answered me yet, Spenser. What brings you here?”
“A deeply-rooted love of the country, my dear Cissy; from a child I have reveled in—er—the green meadows and the purling brook. I always fly from town at every opportunity. And you?”
“I am staying at Barton,” said Cecil Neville, rather shortly.
Spenser Churchill raised his pale eyebrows with a faint surprise.
“With the marquis—with the uncle?” he said, softly.
“Exactly. You are surprised; so was I when I got the invitation.”
“No, really? Ah, I am so glad! It is so nice to see relations living together in harmony——”
“But we don’t live in harmony!” broke in Neville, in his impetuous fashion. “We have only met once or twice and have nearly quarreled on each occasion.”
“Oh, come, I don’t think the dear marquis could quarrel with you, his nephew.”
“No, you’re right,” said Neville, with a rather grim laugh. “The dear marquis doesn’t quarrel, he’s too highly polished to do anything so vulgar; he only carries on until one is driven half mad by the longing to pitch him out of the window——”
“My dear Neville! Always the same wild recklessness. Pitch the marquis out of the window!” and Spenser Churchill laughed—a kind of dove-like coo. “Now, that is strange! I always find the marquis so delightfully charming——”
“But so you do everybody,” retorted Lord Neville, laughing.
“Well, most people are, aren’t they?” said Spenser Churchill, blandly.
“I don’t know,” replied Lord Neville. “I’m afraid I must be getting back. I’m due at lunch.” He pulled out his watch, but instead of looking at it, glanced in the direction Doris had taken.
“Looking for any one?” inquired Spenser, softly.
Lord Neville started rather impatiently.
“No,” he said, “oh, no. Where are you staying? I’ll look you up——”
“I’ll come with you,” said Spenser. “The walk will be delightful, and I am glad to see you.”
“All right, come on then,” said Lord Neville, and the two started in the direction of the Towers.
Spenser Churchill did most of the talking—it was almost like singing, so soft and bland and unobtrusive was the voice; Lord Neville listening rather absently, and making answers rather wide of the mark at times—for he was thinking of Doris—and when they reached the entrance to the avenue he stopped.
“I’m sorry I can’t take upon myself to ask you into lunch, Spenser,” he said, with a laugh; “but my uncle might—and probably would—consider it a liberty, and have you, possibly both of us, chucked out; and, though I shouldn’t mind it, you mightn’t like it, you know.”
“I really think I’ll take the risk” said Spenser. “The marquis and I are such old friends, that I—yes, I’ll chance being expelled.”
“All right,” assented Lord Neville, as before. “Come on, then; and don’t blame me if the consequences are as I suggested.”
“No, I won’t blame you,” said Spenser Churchill.
They made their way to the hall, and the groom of the chambers and the footmen received them as if they were royal visitors.
Lord Neville said:
“Tell the marquis that Mr. Spenser Churchill has arrived, please.”
The groom did not look surprised, but merely bowed as he departed.
The drawing-room was empty, and the two men stood talking for a minute; then the groom came and led Mr. Spenser Churchill to wash his hands, and Lord Neville went up to his room. As he came down the luncheon bell rang, and he led Spenser Churchill into the dining-room.
The marquis was already seated, and Lord Neville was about to explain Spenser’s presence, when he saw the marquis give a start, and as he rose and extended his hand, Neville fancied that he noticed a peculiar twitch of the thin, colorless lips.
“Ah! Spenser,” said his lordship, and he spoke, Lord Neville thought, with something less than his usual cold and biting hauteur, “this is a surprise! Pray be seated,” and he himself sank into his chair, with no trace of the mental disturbance in his face or manner, if there had, indeed, been any.
“Yes, it is a surprise,” said Spenser Churchill, softly, taking his seat, and unfolding his napkin, as if he had been lunching at the same table for months past; “I was so fortunate as to meet our dear Neville in the—er—fields, I may say, where he was roaming in happy andpoetic solitude, and he was kind enough to assure me of a welcome if I came on with him.”
“His assurance was—on this occasion—justified,” said the marquis, with a cold glance at the young man.
Spenser Churchill smiled, as if the taunting and exasperating speech were one of the most amiable.
“Thanks,” he murmured; “and you are well, I hope, marquis?”
“I am never ill,” replied his lordship, as if he were quite incapable of such vulgarity.
“Ah, no, that is always so delightful of you!” said Spenser. “Our dear Neville enjoys the famous Stoyle constitution also; he is never ill, are you, Neville?”
“No,” said Neville, grimly, and without lifting his eyes from his plate.
“I have always been given to understand that the possession of rude health is the privilege of the fool,” remarked the marquis. “Of course, we are the exceptions from the rule.”
“Exactly,” murmured Spenser again, as if this were the most charming of compliments. “Some of us, alas, have become convinced that we have hearts and livers!”
“Not all of us—so far as the hearts are concerned,” said Neville, curtly.
The marquis almost smiled; to goad any one into a retort made him as nearly happy as it was possible for him to be.
“Where are you staying? You will come on here, of course?” he said.
“I am staying at the hotel at Barton. I think they call it the ‘Royal.’ It would be quite too charming if it did not smell so strongly of stale tobacco and coffee. Thanks, yes, I shall be very glad.”
The marquis looked at the butler, the look meaning: “Send for Mr. Spenser Churchill’s luggage.” The butler glided from the room.
“You find us quite a merry party,” said the marquis. “We have another visitor besides Neville——”
“Who can scarcely be counted a visitor,” murmured Spenser.
“Really, that is scarcely fair,” said the marquis, blandly.“Neville has his faults, but he is not quite the nonentity you would represent him.”
Neville raised his head, stung to a retort, when the door opposite him opened and Lady Grace entered.
She was charming, perfectly dressed, looking like a vision of one of Lippo Lippi’s angels.
“I’m afraid I’m late——” she began, lightly, then her eyes fell upon Spenser’s smiling face, and her own paled. For a second she stood still and put out her hand as if seeking something to support her, then her face resumed its usual serenity, and with a smile she came forward.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill! Really! What a nice surprise!”
“How good, how kind of you to say so!” he sang, as he bent over her hand.
“I am always good and kind; I can’t help it. Well, Lord Neville, how have you been amusing yourself?” she went on, as he rose and arranged her chair for her.
“Under melancholy boughs in the woods, musing in moody meditation, mentally morbid!” said Spenser Churchill. “I found him beside a purling brook, composing sonnets, Lady Grace.”
“Or dreaming of last night’s Juliet?” she said, smiling.
He looked up quickly, but her eyes seemed full of unconsciousness and innocence.
“You did go to the theatre last night, didn’t you?” she asked. “They told me so.”
“Yes, I went,” he replied.
“And it was ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ wasn’t it?”
He nodded.
She made a little grimace.
“Fancy ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at a country theatre, Mr. Churchill!—the Romeo striding about, all gasps and sighs, the Juliet fat, fair and forty! Poor Lord Neville!” and her silvery laugh rang softly through the room.
Lord Neville knew it would be the better, wiser course to smile and shrug his shoulders, but he could not.
“It was quite the reverse,” he said, and his voice sounded short and almost grim. “The play was well cast, and admirably staged. The Romeo didn’t gasp or strut, and the Juliet——” he stopped, feeling that hisvoice had grown more enthusiastic, and was betraying his. “Oh! she played very well,” he said.
“Indeed! Really!” exclaimed Lady Grace. “Oughtn’t we to patronize the local talent, marquis?”
He raised his cold eyes to her lovely face.
“I am too old to commit mental suicide,” he said; “take Neville’s recommendation, and go, if you like, and be sorry for it.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“After all, I don’t think I could venture on it; it would be—forgive me, Lord Neville—too awful. And so you have come to Barton, Mr. Churchill. And from whence, pray?”
They talked together in this light, careless, half-indifferentblasémanner which is now—Heaven help us!—the fashion; and Lord Neville finished his lunch in silence.
“I promise nothing!” rang in his ears; “I promise nothing!” It was a strange answer. Most girls would have said: “Yes,” or glanced at him, so to speak, indignantly; but, “I promise nothing!” she had said, in her sweet, grave, penetrating voice. Would she come? And if she did, how much the happier would it be? What on earth had come to him, that he should be unable to think of anything but this lovely, bewitching girl, so beautiful in face and great in genius?
He woke with a start as the marquis rose, and bowed to Lady Grace, who was quitting the room.
“Come with me and smoke a cigar,” said Lord Neville to Spenser Churchill.
“Mr. Churchill will do nothing of the kind,” exclaimed Lady Grace, stopping and looking over her shoulder, not at his smiling face, but at the opposite wall. “How inconsiderate you are, Lord Neville; you forget that I am dying to hear all the latest news.”
“I thought you’d heard it all,” he said, with a smile.
“Not half!” she retorted. “I shall be on the terrace, Mr. Churchill.”
He bowed and smiled; then he turned to the marquis.
“There used to be a very fine old port, marquis,” he said.
The marquis glanced at the butler, who went out, andreturned presently, carefully carrying a bottle in a wicker frame, and Mr. Spenser Churchill sipped the famous wine with angelic enjoyment.
“There is nothing like port,” he murmured. “Nothing. Yes, marquis, you look the picture of health. Ah, my dear Neville, depend upon it, that the moralists are right after all, and that, if one would enjoy life at its fullest, the thing is to be good!” and he smiled beamingly at the marquis, who had, for a generation, been called: “Wicked Lord Stoyle.”
Lord Neville glanced at the pale, cold face of his uncle, expecting some cutting retort, but the marquis only smiled.
“You were always a moralist, Churchill,” he said. “But your advice comes rather late for Neville, who has, I’m afraid, made acquaintance with the prodigal’s husks pretty often.”
“And now comes back to find the fatted calf killed for him,” sang Mr. Spenser Churchill, sweetly.
The marquis rose.
“Don’t let me interfere with your port,” he said.
Neville looked after him.
“I think I can stand about another day of this,” he said, quietly.
“After that you would really not be able to resist the temptation to throw him out of the window, eh? Fie, fie, my dear Neville!” murmured Spenser Churchill, with a smile. “Shall we go and join Lady Grace? She won’t object to a cigarette, I suppose?”
“I don’t know; I never asked her,” he said. “I’ll go and get some cigars,” and he sprang up and left the room.
Spenser Churchill’s bland smile followed him for a moment or two, then the expression of his face wholly changed. His lips seemed to grow rigid, his soft, sleepy eyes acute, his very cheeks, usually so soft and rotund, hard and angular; and he sat with his glass held firmly in his hand, peering thoughtfully at the tablecloth.
Then he rose, and, carefully examining the bottle, poured the remains of it into his glass, and drank it slowly and appreciatively, and then stepped through the open window on to the terrace.
A slim and graceful figure leaned against the balustrade. It was Lady Grace; her hands, clasped together, were pressed hard against the stone coping, as if they were trying to force their way through it, and the face she turned towards him was pale and anxious, the face of one waiting for the verdict; of one expecting the dread fiat of a judge.
With a benign smile, more marked than ever, perhaps intensified by the famous port, he slowly approached her.
“What an exquisite view,” he said, softly, and extending his hands as if he were pronouncing a benediction on the scenery; “now that nature is in her spring-time. How refreshing, how inspiring, how vernal! I cannot express to you, Lady Grace, how deeply this beauteous prospect moves me! One must have a hard and unimpressionable heart, indeed, who is not moved by such a landscape as this; so soft, so—er—green——”
Her clasped hands grew together more tightly.
“Why have you come here?” she said, suddenly, in a strained voice.
He raised his pale eyebrows.
“Here—on the terrace, do you mean, Lady Grace?” he said, in a voice of an innocent, unsophisticated child; “surely you forget. You, yourself, asked me!”
“Why have you come here?” she repeated.
Without changing his expression or his attitude of bland, serene enjoyment, he murmured:
“I came because I thought you wanted me—and you do!”