“The marquis’ condition is unaltered. Cecil Neville,” it ran.
He tore it into minute fragments.
“A request that I will speak at the annual meeting of the Washerwomen’s Burial Fund next week. You see what sacrifices I am making in your behalf, my dear Percy,” he said, shaking his head. “I think I am rather thirsty; it is this peculiar air, I suppose. A small brandy-and-soda, now—will you join me, my dear Percy? No?” and with a gentle sigh he ambled toward the house.
Percy Levant dropped down on the grass and smoked furiously for some minutes, then he flung the cigar from him as if he were too agitated to smoke.
“Yes, I’ll do it!—I’ll do it!” he muttered. “Oh, my beautiful angel, for your sake—it is for your sake.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
A POSTPONEMENT.
Some men take a great deal of killing; the Marquis of Stoyle ought, according to medical rules and poetical justice, to have died out of hand; but he clung to life tenaciously, and not only refused to die, but got better!
In ten days from Spenser Churchill’s departure, his lordship rallied, and, to the surprise of every one, including the doctors, regained sufficient strength to enable him to leave his bed.
But a great change had taken place; one of those extraordinary changes which baffle medical science and set all its knowledge at naught. The marquis had not lost his reason, but his memory.