CHAPTER XXIX.
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, orto 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 tohear 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 Ishall 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 anantique 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 tellwhen 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 hisfiancée. 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!”