“I wish to Heaven I were anything but what I am,” he said to himself, with a sigh. “If I were only capable of earning my own living, a barrister, or a doctor, or an artist, or something, I could make a home for my darling then, but I am simply a useless, worthless being, who happens, unfortunately, to be the next-of-kin to the Marquis of Stoyle!”
What should he do, if the marquis turned him adrift? His allowance would cease, his creditors would become pressing—he would be ruined; and he would have to wait until the marquis died before he could make Doris his wife.
The thought was gall and wormwood. Much as he disliked his uncle, Cecil Neville was not the man to wish for his death. The marquis might live forever, if only Cecil could marry his darling.
“If he only had a heart in his bosom, instead of a flint, and could see her!” he thought, as he rode on; “or if I were only a barrister or an artist, or anything that earns money enough to make my darling my wife!”
He was in no hurry to reach the Towers; it was far pleasanter to be alone, to think over his happiness, and he made a wide circuit, bringing Polly into the stable-yard just before the dressing-bell rang.
And, after all his thinking, this was the result: That he must try somehow to win the marquis’ consent to the marriage.
He had intended going to the theatre; to feast his eyes and ears upon his beautiful love, but—with a pang—he resolved to dine and spend the evening at the Towers, and after dinner he would tell the marquis. Perhaps the old port would soften the old man’s heart! Anyhow, he would tell him.
As he passed through the hall he almost ran against Spenser Churchill, who was coming out of the marquis’ apartments.
“Ah, my dear Cecil!” he murmured, with a benevolent smile, “just got back? What a lovely evening! Have you enjoyed your ride? Did you notice the sunset? Quite a Leader! You know those beautiful pictures Leader paints, all crimson and mauve?”
Lord Cecil nodded and strode up the stairs to his rooms.