A woman's soul

by Charles Garvice

The new comer was a man apparently of middle age; I say apparently, because opinions on that subject were extremely conflicting. Some persons regarded Spenser Churchill as quite a young man, others declared that he had reached the meridian of life, and there were some who were inclined to think that he was, if anything, on the verge of old age. His appearance was singular. He was of medium height, with a figure that was either naturally youthful, or admirably preserved. He was fair almost to effeminacy, and he wore his hair long and brushed back from his face; and he was close shaven. But it was not the length of the hair that lent him his singularity, but the expression of his face and his manner.

If he was not the most amiable of men, his countenance belied him. There was always a smile, soft and bland, and good-tempered in his eyes, on his lips, and as the Irishman said, “all over him.” The smile, in conjunction with the fair face and long hair, gave him as confiding and benevolent an expression that the world had long ago come to the conclusion that Spenser Churchill was the epitome of all the virtues.

Most women were fond of confiding in him; most men—not all—trusted him; he was regarded by crossing-sweepers, waiters and beggars generally as their natural prey, and so effective was his smile, that even when he did not bestow his alms, he always received a blessing from the disappointed ones.

Whenever his name was mentioned, some one was sure to say:

“Oh, Spenser Churchill! Yes! Awfully good-natured fellow, you know. No end of a good soul. Share his last crust with you. Kind of cherub with legs, don’t you know.”

But, if strict inquiry had been made—which it never was—it would have been difficult to bring forward evidence to prove the benevolent Spenser had ever shared anything with anybody, or that he had ever been liberal with anything, excepting always the smile and his soft persuasive voice.

Of his past history, and, indeed, his present mode of life, the persons who were always ready to praise him knew very little—or nothing, and yet he was always spoken of as one of the best known men in society.

You met him everywhere; at the first reception of the season, at the meeting of the Four-in-Hand Club, at the smoking-room of the “Midnight,” sauntering in the foyer at the opera, seated in the stalls of the fashionable theatres, in county houses of the most exclusive kinds, on the shady side of Pall Mall, in the picture galleries, at the big concerts, at dinner parties. His neat figure always most carefully dressed, his countenance always serene and placid, as if the world were the most charming of all possible places, and had been specially created for Spenser Churchill; and with the benedictory smile always shining.

He was rich, it was supposed; he was a bachelor, it was thought; he was connected with half the peerage, so it was stated; and that was all concerning his private life that any one knew. But, if little was known about him, Spenser Churchill knew a great deal about other people; some said, too much.

Lord Neville’s surprise at seeing him was quite uncalled for, because Spenser Churchill was in the habit of “turning up” at the most unlikely places, and at the most unlikely times; and whatever surprise you might feel at seeing him, he never expressed any at meeting you.