Kitabı oku: «Lady Maude's Mania», sayfa 13
Chapter Twenty Five.
In Pursuit
“Poor old Wilters,” said Tom, as he heard the door close. “I didn’t think he was such a thorough gentleman. But this won’t do.”
He was so wound up by the excitement, and the feeling that everything now depended upon him that he seemed to forget that there was such a thing as fatigue.
“Now, gov’nor,” he said, hurrying into the library, where the old man had finished his port and cigar, and then laid his head upon his hand to sit and think of the little fair-haired girl who had played about his knees, and who had, as it were, been driven from him, to go – whither? who could tell?
“Eh? yes, Tom,” said the old man.
“Quick as lightning, father. Clean linen and socks, brush and shaving tackle in a small bag, and we’re off – pursuit.”
“Pursuit, Tom, eh? Do you mean me?”
“Yes, you, of course,” said Tom.
“Hadn’t – hadn’t her ladyship better go, Tom?” said his lordship, feebly.
“Hang it, no, father. You and I go together.”
“But – but – but, Tom,” faltered the old man; and there was a lingering look of hope in his pathetic face; “it isn’t so bad as I thought, is it?”
“I don’t know, father, ’pon my soul, I can’t say, really. We’ll see. Poor Maude has been driven to this mad step by her ladyship, and it is possible – mind, I only say possible – that she may have preferred to accompany – no, damn it all, I’m as mad as she is, even Wilters don’t believe it. Father, no! no!! no!!! Wilters is right – my sister would not stoop to take such a step. She is a true lady.”
“Yes, Tom, God bless her, she is,” faltered the old man, “and I shall – shall about break my heart if I’m to lose my darling.”
“Come, father, come, father,” cried the young man huskily. “This is no time for tears, you must act. Yes, and in future too. You see what giving way to her ladyship has done.”
“Yes, yes, my son,” said the old man. “I’ll rebel – I’ll strike for freedom.”
Tom smiled sadly as he gazed at his father; and then he rang the bell, which was responded to promptly by Robbins.
“Send up and ask her ladyship if she can see us. Then put a change of linen in one valise for his lordship and myself.”
The butler bowed, and returned at the end of five minutes to say that her ladyship was sitting up in her dressing-room if they would come.
Her ladyship looked really ill as she sat there, tended by Tryphie and Justine, and the latter moved towards the door.
“You need not go, Justine,” said Tom, quietly, and the Frenchwoman’s eyes sparkled at this token of confidence as she resumed her seat at her ladyship’s side.
Tom marked the change in his mother, and he was ready to condole with her, but she swept his kind intentions to the winds by exclaiming —
“Oh, Tom, I can never show my face in society again. Such a brilliant match too. My heart is broken.”
“Poor old lady!” said Tom, bursting into a sarcastic fit in his rage at her selfishness and utter disregard of the fate of her child. “But we want some money to go in search.”
“Money?” cried her ladyship. “Search? Not a penny. The wicked creature. And to-morrow. Such a brilliant match. Oh, that wicked girl!”
“No, no,” said Tom, “it was to be to-day. But don’t fret, mia cara madre, as we say in Italian. It is only a change. A fine handsome son-in-law, Italian too. You ought to be proud of him.”
“Tom!” cried her ladyship.
“Oh, milord Thomas, it is not so,” cried Justine, shaking her head.
“Oh yes,” cried Tom, sarcastically. “Such a nice change. You adore music, mamma, and the signor can attend your reunions with his instrument.”
“Tom, you are killing me. Oh, that I was ever a mother.”
“It will be grand,” cried Tom, rubbing his hands. “Maude can sing too, and take a turn at the handle when the signor gets tired.”
“Take what money you want, Tom,” sobbed her ladyship, and she handed her keys.
Tom smiled grimly, took the keys, and did take what money he wanted – all there was – from a small cabinet on a side table.
“Where – where are you going?” sighed her ladyship.
“Where!” said Tom, “everywhere. To bring poor Maude home.”
“No, no, Tom, impossible – impossible,” cried her ladyship.
“We’ll see about that,” said Tom. “Now, father, come along;” and the couple descended to the dining-room.
“Here, Robbins,” cried the young man, as the butler came to answer the bell, “what time is it?”
“Harpus four, my lord,” said the butler, who looked haggard and in want of a shave.
“Humph! Well, look here, we’ve gone on to Scotland Yard if that policeman returns.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And then – well, never mind about then. Here, go up and ask Miss Wilder to come and speak to me, and send Joseph for a cab. Not gone to bed, has he?”
“No, sir; they’re all having a cup o’ coffee in the kitchen, sir.”
“Trust ’em, just the time when they’d like a feed,” growled Tom. “There: Miss Wilder. Look sharp.”
Five minutes after Tom stood at the door holding Tryphie’s hand, while his father went slowly down to the cab.
“Good-bye, little one,” he said.
“But, Tom, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to bring my sister back, and then – ”
“And then, Tom dear,” whispered Tryphie, throwing her arms about his neck – “There, do you believe I care for you now?”
“My little pet,” he whispered hoarsely, and rushed away just as Mr Hurkle came up undulating, and looking more like a pulled out concertina than ever.
“Sorry I’ve been so long, sir,” he panted; “but I understand I am required to – ”
“Go to the devil,” cried Tom, brushing past him; and as the daylight was growing broader the cab drove into Great Scotland Yard, where there was a certain conversation, and wires were set to work, after which there was an adjournment for breakfast to an hotel at Charing Cross.
“Are – are we going in pursuit, my dear boy?” said his lordship, feebly.
“Yes, certainly, and in earnest.”
“When, my dear Tom?”
“Now directly, father,” said the young man sternly. “The poor girl has been driven mad by her mother’s cruelty; and in a wild fit of infatuation she has preferred to share the fortunes of this handsome foreign vagabond to marrying a worn-out roué.”
“But, my dear Tom, it is impossible.”
“Look here, father,” said the young man, “the poor girl’s future is at stake. She has been cruelly treated. Our behaviour to Charley Melton was simply disgusting – one day he was worshipped, supposed to have money; the next he was forbidden the house, because he was poor. As for Maude’s feelings – of course, poor girl, as a young lady of fashion, she ought to have had none. I hope mamma is satisfied with her new son-in-law.”
“But – but where are we going?”
“Don’t know yet,” said the young man, harshly. “To Paris certain – probably to Italy. Maybe, though,” he said, with a bitter laugh, “only as far as the padrone’s at Saffron Hill.”
By the time father and son had made a very poor breakfast, a sergeant was ushered in by the waiter.
“We’ve got the cabman, sir.”
“Well, where did he take them?”
“Charing Cross station, sir.”
“Of course,” said Tom – “they would just catch the night train for the tidal boat. Come along, father.”
“Too soon for the train yet, sir,” said the sergeant; “but I dare say they’ll have been stopped at Folkestone or Dover, unless it was a dodge, and they haven’t left town.”
“You see to that,” said Tom; “I’ll go on to Folkestone.”
“Right, sir,” and in due time the pair – father and son – were in pursuit, with the wheels of the fast train seeming always to grind out a tune such as is played by an organ whose handle is turned by a dark-eyed, olive-skinned Italian; while when the engine stopped, instead of calling out the name of the station, the men seemed to whine – “Ah, signora – ah, bella signora,” and in his irritation Tom lit a cigar, and yelled forth the word condemnation in its most abbreviated form.
Chapter Twenty Six.
On the Track
Telegram —
“From Barmouth, Folkestone, to Lady Barmouth, 999 Portland Place, London.
“No news as yet.”
This was the first sent during the chase.
“From Barmouth, Beurice’s, Paris, to Lady Barmouth, 999 Portland Place, London.
“No news as yet.”
Fresh messages were despatched at intervals of twelve hours, and in addition Tom sent long letters to “My dearest Tryphie.”
But all the same he was in a state of feverish excitement, while Lord Barmouth was reduced to imbecile helplessness, but ready to obey his son to the very letter, and trotting about after him through Paris like a faithful dog. They had been most unfortunate in their quest: they had succeeded in tracing the fugitives to Paris, and there they had been at fault. Twenty times over Viscount Diphoos had declared that they must have gone on somewhere; but the police said no, it was impossible. And so they went on wearily searching Paris, until his lordship declared his heel to be so sore that he could go no farther.
“They must have left Paris,” vowed Viscount Diphoos in one of the bureaux.
“But, monsieur, it is not possible. Our cordon of spies is too perfect. No, my faith, they are still here. Have patience, monsieur, and you shall see.”
So the chief at each bureau; and so the days passed on, till the young man felt almost maddened and rabid with despair. These were the descriptions – “Young lady, fair, brown hair, blue eyes, pale, rather thin face, tall and graceful; her companion, a tall, swarthy Italian, with black curly hair and beard.” But descriptions were all in vain, and when, regularly fagged out, Viscount Diphoos sat at his hotel, smoking his cigar, he would let it go out, and then heedless sit on, nibbling and gnawing at the end till he had bitten it to pieces, and still no ideas came.
“I’ll shoot the scoundrel, that I will,” he muttered aloud one evening.
“No, don’t do that, Tom,” said Lord Barmouth, feebly. “But don’t you think we had better go home?”
“No,” said Tom, snappishly; “I don’t, sir. Let’s see what to-morrow brings forth.”
“Letters for messieurs,” said a waiter, handing some correspondence from London; but there was no news worthy of note.
“Here, stop a minute, garçon,” said Tom, drawing a note and his sister’s photograph from his pocket-book. “Look here, this is an English five-pound note.”
“Oh, yais, monsieur, I know —billet de banc?”
“And this is the carte of a lady we wish to find in Paris, you understand?”
The man nodded his closely cropped head, smiled, and, after a long look at the carte, left the room.
“You seem to pin a good deal of faith to five-pound notes, Tom,” said Lord Barmouth.
“Yes,” said his son, shortly. “Like ’em here.”
The next day he sent for the waiter, but was informed that the man had gone out for a holiday.
“I thought so,” said Tom, enthusiastically, as soon as they were alone. “That fellow will go and see all the waiters he knows at the different hotels, and find out what we want.”
Viscount Diphoos was quite right. About ten o’clock that evening the waiter entered, and beckoned to them, mysteriously —
“Alaright,” he said, “ze leddee is trouvée. I have ze fiacre at ze door.”
Tom leaped from his chair, and was going alone, but Lord Barmouth persisted in accompanying him, and together they were driven to a quiet hotel in the Rue de l’Arcade, near the Madeleine.
“You think you have found the lady?” queried Tom.
“Oh, yais m’sieu; and ze milord vis she.”
“Bravo!” cried Tom, “a big black-bearded, Italian scoundrel!”
“Scoundrail, vot is you call scoundrail, sare?”
“There, there, never mind,” said Viscount Diphoos – “a big, black-bearded Italian!”
The waiter shrugged his shoulders.
“Zere is no beard, m’sieu, and ye zhentlemans is not black. He is vite; oh, oui, yais, he is vite.”
“Another disappointment,” growled Tom.
“M’sieu say, ze billet de banc if I find ze lady. I not know noting at all of the black shentailman.”
They were already in the hall, where they were encountered by one of the garçons of the establishment, whose scruples about introducing them to the private rooms of the gentleman and lady staying there were hushed with a sovereign.
“Pray take care, my dear boy,” said Lord Barmouth; “don’t be violent.”
“We must get her away, father, at any cost,” said Viscount Diphoos, sternly. “What I want you to do is this – take charge of Maude, and get her to our hotel. Never mind me. I shall have the police to back me if the Italian scoundrel proves nasty.”
“But mind that he has no knife, my dear boy. Foreigners are dangerous.”
“If he attempts such a thing, dad, I’ll shoot him like a dog,” exclaimed the young man, hotly.
And then the door was thrown open, and they entered.
The room was empty, and upon the proprietor being consulted, it was announced that the gentleman and lady had left that evening by the Lyons mail.
Telegraph communication failed.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
An Encounter
Sunny Italy, the home of music.
The sun was shining as it can shine in Naples, but the courtyard of the Hotel di Sevril was pleasantly shady, for there was a piazza all round, and in the centre a cool and sparkling fountain played in its marble basin, while evergreen trees spread dark tracery on the white pavement.
In one of the shadiest and coolest spots sat Maude, daughter of The Earl of Barmouth, looking exceedingly pretty, though there was a certain languid air, undoubtedly caused by the warmth of the climate, which seemed to make her listless and disposed to neglect the work which lay in her lap, and lean back in the lounging chair, which creaked sharply at every movement.
“I do wish he would come back,” she said softly, and as she spoke her eyes lit up with an intense look of happiness, and a sweet smile played about her lips. “But he will not leave me alone long.”
Here she made a pretence of working, but ceased directly.
“I wonder what they are all doing at home. How dear Tryphie is, and papa, and darling Tom. Will Tom marry Tryphie? Yes, he is so determined, he will be sure to. Heigho! I shall be so glad when we are forgiven, and Tom and he are friends. I can feel sure about papa, but Tom can be so stern and sharp.”
There was no allusion made to Lady Barmouth, for she seemed to have dropped out of her daughter’s thoughts, but Sir Grantley Wilters was remembered with a shudder, which was cleared away by the coming of a smiling waiter.
“Would the signore and signora dine at the table-d’hôte?”
Maude hesitated for a few moments, moved by monetary considerations, and then said – “Yes. Has the signore returned?”
“No, signora,” said the waiter, and he bowed and went back into the old palazzo.
“I wanted to go to a cheap hotel,” said Maude, dreamily, and with a happy smile upon her face – somewhat inane, it is true, for it was the young married lady’s smile – “but he said his cara bella sposa must have everything of the best. Oh, my darling! my darling! how he loves me. Poor? What is poverty? I grow more proud of him every day. What do we want with society? Ah, how I hate it. Give me poverty and love. Oh, come back, my darling, come back. That’s what my heart keeps beating whenever he is away.”
It was certainly a very pleasant kind of poverty, in a sunny land with a delicious view of the bay, and a good table-d’hôte; and a loving husband; and as Maude, the young wife, dreamed and adored her husband in his absence, she smiled and showed her white teeth till a sound of voices made her start and listen.
“Oh, how I do tremble every time any one fresh comes to the hotel. I always fancy it is Sir Grantley Wilters come to fetch me back. But he dare not try to claim me now, for I am another’s. But what are we to do when the money is all gone?”
She thought dreamily, but in a most untroubled fashion.
“I can sing,” she said at last, “so can he, and he plays admirably. Ah, well, there’s time enough to think of that when the money is all gone. Let me be happy now after all that weary misery, but I must write home. There, I’ll go and do it now before he returns. – Oh!”
She had risen to go, but sank back trembling and half-fainting in her seat as a pallid, weary-looking, washed-out elderly gentleman tottered out of the house into the piazza, and dropped into a chair just in front of the door.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” he sighed, as he let his walking-stick fall clattering down. “How tired out I do feel.”
“Oh!” sighed Maude, as she saw that her only means of exit was barred.
“I with – I wish – damme, I wish I was back at home with my legs under my own table, and – and – and a good glass of port before me. Hang that Robbins, a confounded scoundrel; I – I – I know I shall finish by breaking his head. Four days before I left England I asked him to put one single bottle of the ’20 port in my dressing-room with the cork drawn, and he threw her ladyship at my head, and, damme, I didn’t get a drop. And my own port – a whole bin of it – my own port – my own port. Hah! how comfortable a chair is when you’re tired. He was a good fellow who first invented chairs.”
He shuffled himself down, and lay right back.
“Shall I never find my little girl?” he sighed.
“What shall I do?” murmured Maude. “Why isn’t he here?”
“I’m not fit to come hunting organ men all over the continent,” continued the old gentleman; “but Tom insisted, you see. Oh, my poor leg! It’s worse here than it was in town.”
He rubbed his leg slowly, and Maude made a movement as if to go to his side, but something seemed to hold her back.
“Tom is sure to be near,” she thought, “and they must not meet yet. Tom would not forgive him. If I could only get away and warn him.”
“Why don’t Tom come and order something to eat? I’m starving. Oh, dear: London to Paris – Paris to Baden – Baden to Nice – Nice to Genoa, and now on here to Naples. Poor Tom, he seems to grow more furious the more we don’t find them. Oh, hang the girl!” he added aloud.
Maude started, and had hard work to suppress a sob.
“They’ll separate us; they’ll drag me away,” she sighed.
“No, no, no, I will not say that,” cried Lord Barmouth, aloud. “I am hungry, and it makes me cross. My poor leg! I should like to find my poor darling,” he said, piteously. “Bless her! bless her! she was a good girl to me.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” sobbed Maude, hysterically, for she could contain herself no longer.
“Eh! eh! eh!” ejaculated Lord Barmouth. “What the deuce! A lady in distress. Doosed fine woman too,” he added, raising his glass as he tottered to his feet. “I was a devil of a fellow among the ladies when I was a youngster. Can I, madam – suppose she don’t understand English – can I, madam, be of any service? What, Maudey, my darling? Is it you at last?”
“Oh, papa! papa!”
There was a burst of sobbing and embracing, ended by the old man seating himself in Maude’s chair, and the girl sinking at his feet.
“And – and – and I’ve – I’ve found you at last then, my dear, or have you found me? Is – is it really you?”
“Yes, yes, yes, my own dear darling father,” sobbed Maude.
“Yes, it is – it is,” he cried, fondling her and drawing her to his breast, till he seemed to recollect something.
“But, damme – damme – damme – ”
“Oh, don’t – don’t swear at me, papa darling!”
“But – but I must, my dear. Here have I been searching all over Europe for you, and now I have found you.”
“Kiss me, papa dear,” sobbed Maude.
“Yes, yes, my darling, and I am so glad to see you again; but what a devil of a wicked girl you have been to bolt.”
“Oh, but, papa darling, I couldn’t – I couldn’t marry that man.”
“Well, well, well,” chuckled Lord Barmouth, “he was a miserable screw for a girl like you. But I – I hear that he’s going to shoot him first time he sees him.”
“Oh, papa! Then they must never meet.”
“But – but I’m not saying what I meant to say – all I’d got ready for you, Maudey. How dare you disgrace your family like that?”
“Don’t – don’t blame me, papa darling. You don’t know what I suffered before I consented to go.”
“But, you know – ”
“Oh, papa, don’t blame your poor girl, who loves you so very dearly.”
“But – but it’s such a doose of a come down, my darling. It’s – it’s – it’s ten times worse than any case I know.”
“Papa, for shame!” cried Maude, indignantly.
“Now – now – now, don’t you begin to bully me, Maudey my dear. I get so much of that at home.”
“Then you will forgive me, dear?” said Maude, nestling up to the poor weak old man.
“But – but I oughtn’t, Maudey, I oughtn’t, you know,” he said, caressing her.
“But you will, dear, and you’ll come and stay with us often. We are so happy.”
“Are so – so happy!” said the old man, with a look of perplexity on his countenance.
“Yes, dear. He loves me so, and – oh, papa, I do love him. You will come? Never mind what mamma and Tom say.”
“But Tom is like a madman about it, Maudey. He says he’ll have you back if he dies for it.”
“Oh, papa!”
“Yes, my pet, he’s in a devil of a rage, and it comes out dreadfully every time he grows tired.”
“Then they must not meet either.”
“No, my dear, I suppose it would be best not,” said the old man; “but – but do you know, Maudey, I feel as if I was between those two confounded stools in the proverb, and – and I know I shall come to the ground. But – but where – where did you get married?”
“At a little church, papa dear, close to Holborn.”
“Of course,” groaned the old man to himself. “Close to Saffron Hill, I suppose.”
“I don’t know the street, papa dear.”
“That’s right, my pet. I mean that’s wrong. I – I – really, Maudey my pet, I’m so upset with the travelling, and now with finding you, that I – I hardly know what I ought to say.”
“Say you forgive your own little girl, dear, and that you will love my own darling husband as if he were your son.”
“But – but, Maudey, my dear, I don’t feel as if I could. You see when a poor man like that – I wish Tom would come.”
“Tom!” cried Maude, springing up and turning pale.
“Yes, yes, he’s coming to join me, my pet. Would you like to see him now, or – or – or wait a bit till he isn’t so furious?”
“Oh, papa dear, I dare not meet him. They would quarrel, and what shall I do? We must escape – ”
“But are you staying in this hotel?”
“Yes, papa dear.”
“That’s – that’s doosed awkward, my pet, for I shouldn’t like there to be a row.”
“No, no, pa dear. Don’t say a word to Tom, or there will be a horrible scene.”
“But, my pet, we’ve come on purpose to find you, and now you’re going away.”
“Only for a time, dear,” cried Maude, embracing the old man frantically. “Don’t, don’t tell Tom.”
“But I feel as if I must, my darling. Tom is so angry, and we’ve spent such a lot of money trying to find you. It would have paid for no end of good dinners at the club.”
“Yes, yes, but we will escape directly, and Tom will never know.”
“But what’s the good of my finding you, my darling, if you are going to bolt again directly?”
“Only to wait till Tom has cooled down, dear.”
“Well, well, I suppose I must promise.”
“My own darling papa,” cried Maude, kissing him. “I’ll write to you soon, dear; and as soon as Tom is quiet and has forgiven us, we shall all be as happy as the day is long.”
She kissed him again quickly on either cheek, and then, before he could even make up his mind to stay her, she had hurried into the hotel, leaving her father scratching his head and setting his dark wig all awry.
