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!”
CHAPTER XXX.
IN THE TOILS.
The great marquis recovered consciousness by midday, but he lay very weak and silent, the keen, hard face looking like a mask carved in old ivory. Cecil Neville scarcely left his side, and, though the marquis did not attempt to speak, he turned his eyes upon him now and again with a curious expression in them. Mr. Spenser Churchill was, as became so well-known and tender-hearted a philanthropist, most attentive and sympathetic, and he hovered about the bedside, and shed the light of his benevolent countenance upon the patient, as if he were the marquis’ brother. And him, too, the sick man regarded with an expression of thoughtful watchfulness.
Mr. Spenser Churchill waited four days, then, hearing from the doctors that the marquis might possibly remain in his present condition for weeks, or even months, he thought that he had better attend to the other threads of his plot. It was time that Percy Levant secured Doris.
Everything in England was working wonderfully well for Mr. Spenser Churchill, and, in anticipation, he could almost see the accomplishment of his object and the reward of all his scheming and toiling.
“It cuts me to the heart to leave the dear patient, Cecil,” he said; “but I have most urgent business on the Continent, connected with one of our great charitable societies, and I really must go. I have the consolation, however, of reflecting that I leave my dear old friend in such loving hands as yours and dear Lady Grace’s. He will, I know, receive every attention that affectionate hearts can suggest.”
“Yes,” said Cecil, rather grimly. “We shall neither starve nor neglect him; don’t remain a moment longer than you like. You had better leave your address.”
“Y—es,” said Spenser Churchill. “Dear me, I scarcely know what address to give you. I shall be moving about so much for the first few weeks; but perhaps you had better write to Meuriguy’s, at Paris. You will telegraph to me, of course. I shall be back as soon as possible. And when I come,” he added, mentally, as he wrung Cecil’s hand, “perhaps I may have the satisfaction of dealing you a slight shock, my self-sufficient young friend!”