“Yes, to-day!” he murmured. “I will tell her to-day! Why should I be afraid? It will make no difference; she will be my child still; it will make no difference.” He took off his hat and wiped his brow and sighed. “Yes, I’ll tell her to-day. I—I’m not so strong as I was, and one can’t tell what may happen. If I died before I’d told her——”
The muttered words stopped suddenly, and he looked up with a startled air which swiftly changed to one of fierce anger. A dapper, comfortably-rounded figure stood before him, with placidly smiling face and serenely benevolent air.
“Spenser Churchill!” exclaimed Jeffrey hoarsely, his hands closing with a gesture at once threatening and repressive.
“My dear Mr. Flint!” purred Spenser, his head on one side, his hand extended benignantly. “My dear Mr. Flint! What a delightful coincidence! After all, nothing is more true than the rather hackneyed assertion that the world is a small place.”
Jeffrey, glaring at him fiercely, waved his hand.
“Pass on—pass on!” he panted; “I—I will have nothing to say to you!”
“Now really, my dear Jeffrey,” murmured Spenser Churchill remonstratingly, “is it—I put it to you as a sensible man—is it really worth while to nourish these—er—unchristianlike resentments? Look at me——” It was quite an unnecessary request, for the fierce, deeply-sunken eyes had never left the smooth, supple face. “Look at me, my dear Jeffrey. I, too, have had my trials; but—er—I sink them, I let them drop—I bury them, and I make it my principle to forget and forgive.”
“Let me pass, you——!” panted Jeffrey, his whole frame shaking with an effort at self-control.
“To forget and forgive,” repeated the other, as if the words were a sweet morsel he was turning over his tongue. “Believe me, dear Jeffrey, that is far, far the wiser plan.”
“You think so?” said Jeffrey, hoarsely. “You can forget, Spenser Churchill; I cannot, for it was you who wronged, I who suffered! So you have forgotten, and you dared to think that I had done so? That you may see how well I remember, villain——No, stop!” for Spenser Churchill had backed a few steps, and glanced round, as if meditating a retreat. “Stop, Spenser Churchill, while I remind you why, when the devil sends you across my path, that it would be wiser for you to crawl on one side, lest I crush you, you smiling, fawning reptile! You forget! You forget the life you ruined! Look on me and remember! I was young, rich in health and hope, blessed with the love of an honest, tender-hearted girl, when that devil—your master—the Marquis of Stoyle, the beast for whom you jackalled, employed you to entice her from me. You succeeded, Spenser Churchill, and have forgotten her misery, and mine; all, save perhaps the sum your master flung you.”