CHAPTER XXXVI.
CONSPIRATORS.
Mr. Spenser Churchill had been having the very good time which a man might be expected to have who has had a magnificent palace with a host of obsequious servants placed at his disposal, and who is monarch of all he surveys—of another person’s property.
He enjoyed himself most amazingly. He went on pleasant little excursions to the neighboring towns; he ordered the richest and most luxurious dinners; he accepted the best of the numerous invitations which Lady Despard’s neighbors freely accorded him, as a friend of her ladyship left in charge of the Villa Rimini, and wherever he went he was voted a most charming and agreeable companion. Indeed, since Percy Levant’s departure no one had so completely won the hearts of the Florentine ladies as Mr. Spenser Churchill.
And do not for a moment suppose that the good man gave himself up to carnal enjoyment without giving thought to his less fortunate fellowmen. No! The eminent and tender-hearted philanthropist remembered his poor brethren, and gave such touching accounts of the various charitable societies with which he was connected—“The Sweeps’ Orphanage,” “The Indigent Knife Grinders’ Society,” “The Society for the Distribution of Knives and Forks to the South Sea Islanders,” and so on, that he succeeded in collecting a very tidy sum for these eminently deserving and practical charities; and everybody agreed that if ever there was a man too good for this sinful and selfish world, Mr. Spenser Churchill was indeed that individual!
And so the days passed pleasantly—and profitably—and on the morning of the sixteenth Mr. Spenser Churchill was sitting over the second bottle of Lady Despard’s choicest claret, with a cigarette between his lips, and his benevolent eyes half-closed, with that expression of bland peace and serenity which only the truly good can experience, when a servant brought him a letter.
He eyed it with sleepy indifference until he saw the writing, and the man had left the room; then he tore the letter open eagerly.
“Dear Churchill,” it ran, “the marriage takes place to-morrow morning. Come, without fail, to the Villa Vittoria here, at four o’clock to-morrow afternoon.—P. L.”
Mr. Spenser Churchill’s face grew radiant.
“I knew he’d do it! I knew it! What an eye for character I have! I should have made a good general! I know how to pick my men. I was confident Percy would do what I wanted! To-morrow! Oh, yes, I’ll be there. Spenser, my dear friend, you have won the trick; you have——” He stopped, and a shade crossed his benevolent face. “I wish I’d made it twenty thousand, instead of ten,” he muttered, wistfully; “I might just as well have done so—he would not have said anything, and she wouldn’t have missed it. Why, her mother’s portion, of settlement money, will bring her five-and-twenty thousand a year, and that will which the marquis is not capable of altering makes her the mistress of all his money. Yes, I might just as well have had twenty! However”—andthe smile beamed out again—“dear Percy shall make it up to me. He wouldn’t like his wife to know of our little contract, I should think, and I might feel it my duty to tell her, unless—unless he made it worth my while to hold my tongue. Yes, Churchill, my dear friend, you have warmed your nest pretty well; and now”—filling his glass—“now for the enjoyment. No more of these beastly charitable societies; no longer any need for playing the saint. Let me see—I’ll live in Paris, I think, most of my time. A man can enjoy himself in Paris without a parcel of fools interfering or holding him up to censure! In Paris or—yes, Constantinople. That’s not bad! Oh, what a time I will have! And Cecil, dear Cecil, who used to sneer at me and treat me as if I were an impostor; I think, yes, I think, dear Cecil, I shall have the laugh on you this time, you and your beautiful bride! For I’m afraid I shall feel it my duty to tell you how completely you have been fooled. Yes, I think I must do that, really! To-morrow! To-morrow the new life begins. Hem! well, the old one hasn’t been so bad! The charitable business has paid, it certainly has paid; but no more of it; I’m sick of it and the whole cant of it. I’ll enjoy myself in a proper fashion, enjoy myself in my honestly earned wealth. Let me see! Ten thousand pounds, with what I have—ahem!—saved, together with say a thousand or two a year out of dear Percy—how grateful he will be, of course—will make a nice little income. Spenser, my dear boy, you are a genius, and you ought to have been a general. Here’s your health and your future happiness!” and, with a chuckle, he filled his glass till it ran over, and drained it at a draught.
The Italians are not fond of high houses, and the Villa Vittoria, like most of its fellows in Pescia, covered a long space of ground, its rooms being arranged on two stories, with very few stairs and fewer corridors.
The apartments which the marquis occupied for his own personal use consisted of a sitting-room, and a dressing-room and bedroom adjoining, the latter divided from the sitting-room by heavy curtains. On the other side of the center room was a small anteroom which the marquis had not used; it was intended as a reception-room for tradespeople or persons who paid visits of business.
Percy Levant on the occasion of his interview with the marquis had noticed—very few things escaped his quick eyes—the arrangement of the rooms, and at half-past three on the afternoon of the sixteenth, the valet, who had received his instructions from Percy, ushered that gentleman, Lady Despard and Doris—who were closely veiled—into the anteroom, and softly closed the door.
Lady Despard raised her veil and shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly.
“Well, here we are, my dear Percy,” she said, in a low voice; “but I don’t think any one else in this world but you would have induced me to have come; and do you mean to say that you still decline to give us any explanation of these extraordinary proceedings?”
He shook his head as he drew Doris to a chair, into which she sank with a weary but resigned gesture.
“And you think that you are treating us properly by all this mystery; and on the dear child’s wedding day; for I suppose you two mean to be married this evening? Or is this but a preliminary to the breaking-off of the match; for, of course, I can see something is the matter between you two?” and she dropped into the chair with a movement of impatience.
“I shall be ready to marry Doris this evening,” said Percy Levant, holding Doris’ hand. “It rests with her to decide, dear Lady Despard,” and he crossed the room and bent over her appealingly. “When you consented to come here with her this afternoon, you did so knowing that I should have to keep you in ignorance of my motives; do you think I am not grateful for your confidence in me? Do you think I would inflict unnecessary pain on dear Doris?”
“N-o—I don’t!” she said, with languid irritability; “I’m quite ready to admit that you love her to distraction, but it certainly is enough to drive one out of one’s senses, these mysterious proceedings of yours; and Doris tells me nothing lately,” she added.
Doris raised her lovely eyes pleadingly, but remained silent.
“Don’t blame her,” said Percy Levant, gravely. “She, too, is in ignorance of this, which I am about to do, andmy motives! She trusts me; will not you, Lady Despard?”
“Well, I suppose I must,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “But why have we come here? My acquaintance with the marquis is too slight to excuse this intrusion.”
“If it is an intrusion, that which will result from it will excuse it,” he said. “The fact is,” and he smiled rather sadly, “I have arranged a little comedy for your ladyship’s amusement! Comedy and tragedy, alas, are very thinly divided; there is but a step between them. All I ask of you is that you will remain quiet and silent, whatever you may hear; and I intend you to hear all. Doris I can rely on,” and he laid his hand upon her arm with a reverent, gentle touch.
“Oh, I’m not hysterical or nervous,” said Lady Despard. “I shan’t shriek, however sensational your conjuring trick—or whatever it is—may be. Come and sit beside me, dear, will you! and, Percy, remember, if the marquis should hear of our visit here, and want to know why on earth we came, I shall refer him to you.”
“I abide by that,” he said, gravely. “And now I am going to leave you——” he added, as they heard the valet speaking to some one in the hall. “Doris,” and he bent over her, “you will be patient and brave?”
She looked at him trustingly.
“I will be silent, at least. I can promise that,” she said, in a low voice.
“I am content with that,” he said. “And—and if you should hear that which might shake your faith in me——” he asked, his face pale and his lips quivering.
“Nothing can do that,” she responded.
“We shall see,” he said, almost inaudibly, and left them, closing the door behind him.
Lady Despard took Doris’ hand and caressed it.
“For all my bravado, I feel rather nervous, dear,” she said, with a forced laugh. “His manner has been so strange of late, and you—you have had something on your mind, Doris. Oh, of course I have seen that, though I would rather have died than asked you to tell me!”
“And I think I would rather have died than tell you!” said Doris, with something like a sob.
“Has there been a quarrel between you? Do you want the match broken off? For heaven’s sake, speak while there’s time if you want it broken off!”
Doris shook her head sadly.
“No; I shall marry him this evening, if he wishes it!” she murmured.
“If he wishes it! Why, of course—ah!” she broke off, her hand closing nervously upon Doris’ burning fingers; “that is Spenser Churchill’s voice!”
It was Mr. Spenser Churchill’s voice, and as he was ushered into the center room he held out both hands to Percy Levant and smiled his sweetest smile.
“My dear Percy, may I congratulate you? May I?”
“You may,” said Percy Levant, giving him a hand.
Spenser Churchill drew a long breath and laughed, an oily laugh of vast contentment.
“Happy bridegroom! Lucky fellow!” he murmured. “This is the marriage day, eh?”
“This is the happy day, yes,” said Percy Levant. “Sit down, won’t you? I’m afraid you are tired. Let me offer you some wine?” He went to the sideboard. “I’m sorry there’s nothing but brandy here. I’ll ring for some——”
“Pray don’t trouble, my dear Percy,” said Spenser Churchill, blandly; “a little brandy is an excellent thing, if taken in moderation.”
Percy Levant mixed a stiff glass, and placed it before him.
“You can understand why I sent for you,” he said, seating himself opposite to Spenser Churchill, whose back was turned to the curtains which divided this room from the marquis’ dressing-room. “My part of the contract being fulfilled, I want to know what my position really is, and whether this nonsense of yours has any particle of truth in it?”
Spenser Churchill stared indignantly.
“Young man!” he exclaimed, solemnly; “this is the first time I have ever been accused—to my face—of falsehood! This nonsense! If you allude to the agreement—the perfectly legal agreement, which you signed, and which I hold—you will discover that it is anything but nonsense.”
“I’m delighted to hear it, of course,” said Percy Levant; “don’t be angry! Well, then, seeing that I am togive you ten thousand pounds as a fee for your assistance in procuring me a wife, I should like to know exactly how I am to manage it—I should like to know all about my wife’s property.”
“Your wife! How well it sounds!” chuckled Spenser Churchill; then his face grew suddenly suspicious. “By the way, my dear Percy, have you the marriage certificate? I am not of a suspicious nature. Heaven forbid! I am, indeed, too trustful and confiding; but I should like to see the certificate, my dear boy.”
“Certainly,” assented Percy Levant, cheerfully; “I’ll go and ask my wife for it. Indeed, she may as well be present——”
“No, no,” interrupted Spenser Churchill, putting out his hand. “Never mind; don’t trouble. The fact is—ahem!—there are some things which Mrs. Levant—Mrs. Levant!—had better not hear. And to tell you the truth, my dear fellow, your wife is a young lady I’m not over-anxious to meet. There’s something about her which makes me uncomfortable. I’ll—I’ll take a little more brandy, my dear Percy—a capital and useful spirit, if used in moderation. I have been recommended to take it by my medical man.”
Percy Levant rose to get the decanter. As he did so, the curtain parted and Lord Cecil Neville stood in the opening.
Percy Levant made a circuit so as to approach him.
“Remember our understanding, my lord, and wait!” he said, in a whisper.
Lord Cecil seemed to hesitate, his eyes fixed on Spenser Churchill suspiciously; then he dropped the curtain, which again concealed him.
“There you are! And now to business, Churchill.”
“Yes, to business,” said Spenser Churchill unctuously. “I dare say, my dear Percy, you think I have earned that ten thousand pounds very easily—by the way, it ought to have been twenty, it ought, indeed!” and he shook his head solemnly.
“I’d as soon pay you twenty as ten,” said Percy Levant, carelessly.
“You would? Give me your hand, my dear boy!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, with blind enthusiasm. “Youare just what I always thought you—a noble youth, a truly noble and unselfish young man! You would just as soon give me twenty!”
“Yes, or thirty! I’m as unselfish as you are,” said Percy.
Spenser Churchill’s emotion was so great at this fresh proof of his dear young friend’s unselfish generosity that he was constrained to turn his head aside and wipe his eyes.
“You are an honorable, a noble young man, my dear boy!” he murmured. “And now I will lay the whole story before you. But, as I said, don’t think I have not earned the money! My dear Percy, are you aware that your wife was once engaged to Lord Cecil Neville, the marquis’ nephew, the heir to the title? Eh?” and he chuckled.
“Really!”
“Yes, yes! Oh, it’s true, and I assure you that they would have made a marriage of it but for me. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Bless my soul, if I am not a match for a simple and confiding couple like those, why——” He raised his hand. “But it was a troublesome affair, my dear Percy, and cost me a deal of thought. And ra—ther risky, too!” he added, thoughtfully. “Forged letters—ahem!—that is fictitious correspondence, though rendered inevitable by the circumstances of the case, is dangerous.”
“I see,” said Percy Levant, distinctly. “You forged letters from Lord Cecil Neville to Miss Marlowe——”
“Yes. But, quietly, my dear Percy. Bless my soul, you and I don’t want to publish our little mutual confidences on the housetops; and—er—this room is rather, I say, rather, public, isn’t it? What’s behind those curtains? Good gracious!” and he half rose.
“My dear fellow, all the servants speak Italian,” said Percy Levant, leaning back in his chair with a careless and indifferent air. “While you speak English you are quite safe!”
Spencer Churchill fell back.
“Oh, all right!” he said. “I rely on your discretion. Well, it didn’t suit me that Cecil should marry Miss Marlowe for several reasons. One being that I could not drive a bargain with him as I could——” he stopped.
“As you could with a penniless adventurer like me,” finished Percy Levant. “I understand. And so you succeeded in separating them and—selling her to me. That’s quite clear. I’ve no doubt you managed it very cleverly; I should think forgery and that kind of thing would come easy to you, my dear Churchill.”
“Sir! Mr. Levant!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, pugnaciously, and half rising from his chair; then, as he met the steady gaze of the dark eyes, he subsided again, and waved his hand pityingly.
“My dear Percy, you wrong me. What I did, I did as much in the interest of my dear friend, the Marquis of Stoyle, and the young man himself. It was the marquis who assisted me, I assure you. Packed dear Cecil off to Ireland, and kept him there—kept him there—till I’d got his ladylove away.”
The curtain stirred behind the self-satisfied, triumphant plotter, but Percy Levant, unseen by his companion, held up his hand warningly.
“Really! And the marquis is gratified, no doubt. But, after all, this is not my business. I want to know——”
Spenser Churchill leaned forward and dropped his voice, but not to so low a pitch but that the listeners on either side of the room could hear distinctly.
“You want to know whom it is you have married. I’ll tell you. Wait, you don’t know the Marquis of Stoyle?”
“I’ve seen him,” said Percy. “Speak louder; what are you afraid of, man? We are not two conspirators on the stage!”
“Quite right, my dear Percy. Conspirators! Certainly not! We are two men bound by a common impulse to—to—relieve—benefit our fellow creatures, and—ourselves!”
“Exactly,” said Percy Levant. “But go on. Remember that you have just congratulated me on my marriage, and that I am anxious to join my bride.”
“Yes, yes. Well, then, are you aware, my dear Percy, that my friend the marquis was once married?”
“I know nothing about the Marquis of Stoyle.”
“That he was married——” he stopped and laughed with unctuous enjoyment. “When I think of it, my dearboy, I’m always tickled by the desire to laugh. You must know that the young lady had three lovers—the marquis, a certain Jeffrey Flint, and—myself!” and he laid his hand upon his heart and bowed.
As he did so, the curtains opened and three figures stood in the opening. They were those of Cecil, Lady Grace—and the trembling, emaciated form of the marquis himself. White, deathly white, the old man stood, clinging to Cecil’s arm, his piercing eyes fixed on the smooth, long-haired head of Spenser Churchill, with an expression that baffles all description.
Percy Levant rose, and, under the pretense of filling Spenser Churchill’s glass, made a warning gesture to them. Lady Grace seemed about to speak, but the marquis turned upon her with an awful ferocity, which seemed to deprive her of the power to speak or move.
Percy Levant sank back in his seat.
“Well?” he said.
Spenser Churchill sipped his brandy and water.
“Well, the case stood thus: The girl was engaged to the fellow Jeffrey. Consequently there was no chance for me. So, my dear Percy, I decided, as most men of common sense would have decided, to—ahem!—assist the marquis. I did so, and, bewildered and fascinated by the offer of a marchioness’ coronet, Lucy accepted and married the marquis. The result was—er—rather disastrous. With all respect to my dear friend, the marquis, I must say, my dear Percy, that if ever there was a fiend incarnate he was one! I don’t wish to be hard upon a fellow mortal—Heaven forbid!—but if there is anything worse, more cruel and selfish and altogether unscrupulous than a fiend, then that being may yield the palm to the Most Honorable the Marquis of Stoyle!”
The marquis, shaking in every limb with fury, clutched Cecil’s arm, who, with some difficulty restrained him from rushing upon the oily-voiced speaker.
“Well, the natural result followed. The marchioness fled. Where, and to whom? Why, to her former lover, Jeffrey Flint. No, my dear Percy, her conduct was blameless. She died within a few hours after reaching him. She died, but she left a child, a girl, behind. That girlJeffrey Flint adopted and called—can you guess her name?”
“Doris Marlowe,” said Percy Levant, hoarsely, and with white lips—for this was a revelation to him.
Spenser Churchill lolled back in his chair with an unctuous smile of enjoyment.
“Right! Quite right, my dear Percy! Doris Marlowe! That is—ah, ah!—Mrs. Percy Levant!”
The marquis staggered, and clutched at Lord Cecil, and Lady Grace was rushing forward, but Cecil raised his hand, and, holding her face in her hands, she sank back.
“So Doris Marlowe is the daughter of the Marquis of Stoyle?” said Percy Levant.
“Just so,” assented Spenser Churchill. “And now, my dear Percy, that cat is out of the bag; the daughter of the Marquis of Stoyle—in other words, Lady Mary Neville! And the money! Well, I think you won’t regret your liberal offer when I tell you that her mother’s portion amounts to five-and-twenty thousand a year, and that her father has made a will which will leave all he can leave to her.”
“Which he can unmake!” said Percy Levant.
“I think not,” murmured Spenser Churchill, blandly. “There have been later wills, I think, but—ahem!—I have taken charge of them——”
“You are a clever fellow, Churchill.”
“Y—es, I think I am! I honestly, and modestly, think I am! I ought to have been a great statesman, or a general, my dear Percy.”
“You ought, indeed!” said Percy Levant. “But—pardon me!—although I believe every word you say most implicitly, I am afraid the world, including the marquis, will want some proofs. It is all very well to say that Miss Marlowe—that is, my wife,” he put in, hurriedly—“is Lord Stoyle’s daughter; but proof, proof, my dear fellow!”
“You’re no fool, either, Percy,” said Spenser Churchill. “Of course, we want proofs, and here they are!” and he took some papers from his pocket. “Here is the certificate of marriage of Lucy—Miss Marlowe’s mother—to the marquis; the certificate of Miss Marlowe’s otherwise Lady Mary Neville’s, birth, a full and exhaustive statementof Lady Stoyle on her deathbed, duly attested; and a statement of Jeffrey Flint. Pretty complete, I think.”
“Complete, indeed! And how did you get them, Churchill? Upon my word, you are a cleverer man even than I thought you.”
“How did I get them?” he repeated, lowering his voice; “I got them from Jeffrey Flint.”
“He gave them to you?”
“Not exactly! My dear Percy, I took them. What use are papers to a dead man?” He stopped and turned pale, as the scene of Jeffrey’s death rose before him. “But don’t let us talk of it; it—it was a most unpleasant affair, I assure you, my dear Percy. But you will, with your quick intelligence, soon understand how, once having those papers in my possession, I saw my way to making, with your assistance and Lady Grace’s, agrande coup!”
“Lady Grace’s, eh?” said Percy.
Spenser Churchill laughed softly.
“My dear Percy, never despise women. They may be fools—I fear they generally are—but they are, oh, they are so useful! Without Lady Grace I could have done little or nothing; but she was really invaluable. Cecil—dear Cecil—was always suspicious of me; but, of course, he trusted Lady Grace, and she and I between us caught him. ‘Caught him’ is the only expression applicable! To this day he considers himself under an obligation to her which only marriage can repay.” He laughed. “Poor Cecil; I can’t help pitying him; for between you and me, my dear Percy, I’d rather marry a tigress than beautiful Lady Grace! But don’t let us talk of him or her. Let us talk of ourselves. The whole thing has gone splendidly, though I say it. Providence, my dear Percy,” and he turned up his eyes, “has been on our side. The dear marquis—how surprised he would be if he knew this true story I have revealed to you!—is lying in a senseless and utterly incapable condition in London; Cecil and Lady Grace are going to be, if they are not already, married; and you—you, my dear Percy, are the happy husband of Lady Mary, the daughter of the Marquis of Stoyle! Think of it! Realize it, and oh, my dear Percy, make it twenty instead of the ten thousand you agreed upon!Here are the papers. They are at your service; indeed, I consider that they belong to you——”
He pushed the papers across the table, smiling with oily triumph and satisfaction, and Percy Levant leaned forward to take them, when a thin, wasted hand clutched them clawlike and a harsh, strained voice said:
“No! They are mine!”
Percy Levant sank back into his chair, and wiped the perspiration from his brow; but Spenser Churchill sprang from his seat, and grabbed at the papers mechanically. Then, as he encountered the piercing eyes fixed upon him, he, too, sank back, and, in a terrified voice, gasped:
“The marquis!”