CHAPTER XXIII.
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 nonewere 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.
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 usualcold 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 seriousin 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 theOrionon the fourteenth, in company with Mr. Garland, late of the Barton Theatre Royal; engagement at Melbourne.’TheOrion, 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 sayso. 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 aStoyle, 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 theOrion. 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.
Whose soul and brain with keen desire,Burnt in a flame of all-consuming fire.
Whose soul and brain with keen desire,Burnt in a flame of all-consuming fire.
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 theOrionpacket office the first thing to-morrow. Act. Meet me at the square at ten.
He will be at theOrionpacket 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 hertelegram 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 theOrion, 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 hisfellow-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 theOrionarrive?”
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 thecourt, 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.
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 waspulled 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.