Kitabı oku: «Lady Maude's Mania», sayfa 2
The said flirtation took place upon the stairs, and Perkins, the bride’s new maid, took interest therein, to the neglect of her packing and the annoyance of Henry, the Resident’s man, with whom she was to ride in the rumble, and then second-class to Paris that day on the honeymoon trip. For Monsieur Hector, with all the gallantry of the fair city from which he hailed, had called Perkins, in Henry’s hearing, une demoiselle charmante.
“Like his furren imperdence,” as Henry said, and then the said Henry had to go in and stand behind his master’s chair. As soon after three parts of a bottle of champagne was passed upstairs with a glass by a kindly disposed waiter, the packing of the newly-married lady went on worse than ever, and several travelling-cases were left unfastened in the bedroom.
“I say,” whispered Tom, going behind her ladyship’s chair, “you are never going to let the gov’nor speak?”
“Yes, certainly. He must,” said her ladyship in a decisive tone; and she turned to the guest on her right.
“But he’ll break down as sure as a gun,” remonstrated the son.
“I have prompted him, and he knows what to say,” replied her ladyship. “Go back to your place.”
“Oh, just as you like,” grumbled Tom; and he returned to his seat, determined in his own mind to stand behind his father’s chair, and to prompt him to the best of his ability.
The breakfast went on amidst the pleasant tinkle of glass and plate, the conversation grew louder, there was the frequent pop of champagne corks, and the various couples grew too much engrossed to notice what took place with their neighbours.
“Maude,” said Charley Melton at last, “if you were put to the test, should you give up any one you loved, and accept a comparative stranger because he could do as that man has done – load you with diamonds?”
She turned her eyes to his with a reproachful look, and the colour suffused her face.
“No one can hear what I say,” he whispered, with his eyes fixed upon his plate. “But listen to me. I feel that it is almost madness, but I love you very, very dearly. You know it – you must know it. Ever since we met, six months since, you have been my sole thought. I ought not to speak, but I cannot keep it back waiting for an opportunity that may never come. And if some day I awoke to the fact that I had made no declaration and another had carried you off, I believe I should go mad. Give me one word of hope. I am very poor – terribly poor, but times may change, and money does not provide all the happiness of life. – Not one word? Have I been deceived? Was I mad to think that you met me these many times with pleasure? Give me one word – one look.”
“I mustn’t,” said Lady Maude, colouring. “Mamma is giving you one.”
Charley Melton gave an unintentional kick under the table, touching his opposite neighbour so hard that he turned reproachfully to the gentleman at his side.
“Oh, Lady Maude!” groaned Charley in tragic tones.
There was a hearty laugh here at some sally made by the doctor, and Maude whispered back in a husky voice —
“I dare not look at you;” and he saw that the colour was mounting to her temples.
“One word then,” he whispered, as the conversation waxed louder, but there was no reply.
“Maude,” he said, in a low deep voice, “I will not believe you to be cold – heartless.”
“Oh no,” she sighed.
“Then give me one word to tell me that I may hope.”
Still no reply, as the lady sat playing with the viands upon her plate; then her face turned slightly towards him; her long lashes lifted softly, her eyes rested for a moment upon his, and he drew a long breath of relief, turning composed and quiet the next moment as he leaned towards her, saying —
“I never felt what it was to be truly happy until now.”
“Nonsense?” said the doctor loudly, after just finishing a very medical story – one he always told after his third glass of champagne, “I can assure you it is perfectly true. Good – isn’t it? She really did elope with her music-master. Fact, – twins.”
Several ladies looked shocked, for Lady Rigby, the stout mamma, an old patient, had laughed loudly, and then wiped her mouth with her lace handkerchief as if to take off the smile of which she felt rather ashamed, for her countenance afterwards looked preternaturally solemn.
The earl had escaped the usual supervision, and he also had partaken of a glass of champagne or two – or three – and he thoroughly enjoyed the doctors story.
“It puts me in mind of one,” he said, with a chuckle. “You know it, doctor. If the ladies will excuse its being a little indelicate. Quite medical though, quite.”
“I am quite sure that Lord Barmouth would not say anything shocking,” said the stout mamma, and she began to utter little dry coughs, suggestive of mittens, and muffins, and tea.
“Of course not – of course not, I – I – I wouldn’t say it – say it on any consideration,” said his lordship, chuckling. “It – it – was about a friend of mine who built a house by Primrose Hill, he – he – he! It’s quite a medical story, doctor, over the railway, you know.”
“The old girl will be down upon him directly,” thought Tom.
“Capital story,” said the doctor, laughing, and glancing sidewise at her ladyship. “There’ll be an eruption directly,” he added to himself.
“He – he – he!” laughed his lordship; “her ladyship never lets me tell this story, does she, my dears?” he continued, smiling at his daughters, “but I assure you, ladies, it’s very innocent. I used to go and see him when he had furnished the place, over the railway, and every now and then there used to be quite a rumble and quiver when the trains went through the tunnel! Why, I said to him, one day – ‘Why, my dear fellow, I – I – I’ eh? – eh? – eh? Bless my heart what was it I said to him, Tom?”
“Pain, father,” said Diphoos, grinning, for he had noticed the look of relief that appeared upon the ladies’ faces when the hope came that the dreadful old gentleman had forgotten the story. There would not have been much Tom left if their looks had been lightning, for his words set the old gentleman off again.
“Yes, to be sure: I said to him, ‘My dear fellow’ – just after one of these rumbling noises made by the train in the tunnel – ‘my dear boy, you must call in the doctor, or lay down some more good port wine.’ – ‘Why?’ he said. – ‘Because,’ I replied, ‘your house always sounds to me as if it had got a pain in its cellar!’ Eh! He – he! devilish good that, wasn’t it?”
No one enjoyed that feeble joke as well as the narrator who used to recollect it about once a year, and try to fire it off; but unless his son was there to prompt him, it rarely made more than a flash in the pan.
It was observable that the conversation became very loud just then, and Charley Melton seized the opportunity to whisper a few words to Lady Maude – words which deepened the colour on her cheeks.
They were interrupted by the clapping of hands, for just then the host rose, and Tom stole gently behind him, taking the seat he had vacated, and preparing himself for the break down he anticipated.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said his lordship, gazing meekly round like a very old Welsh mutton, “I – I – I, believe me, never rose upon such an occasion as this, and – er – and – er.”
He gazed piteously at her ladyship at the other end of the table, and at whose instigation, a message having been sent by Robbins the butler, he had risen.
“I say I have never before risen upon such an occasion as this, but I hope that my darling child who is about to – to – to – to – eh, what did you say, Tom my boy.”
“Hang it, go on, governor. Quit your roof – paternal roof,” whispered Tom.
“Quit your paternal roof, will shine – yes, shine in her new sphere as an ornament to society, as her mother has been before her. A woman all love, all gentleness, and sweetness of disposition.”
“Oh, hang it governor; draw it mild,” whispered Tom.
“Yes, mild,” said his lordship, “mild to a fault. Eh? bless me, what is the matter?”
It was a favourable opportunity for a display of emotion, and her ladyship displayed it beautifully for the assembled company to study and take a lesson in maternal and wifely tenderness. Her beloved child was being handed over to the tender mercies of a man – was about to leave her home – about to be torn away.
Her ladyship burst into an agony of tears – of wild sobbing – for she was a model of all the virtues; but when virtues were made, nature selected another pattern and this one was cast aside.
A sympathetic coo ran round the table, tears were shed, and Tom winked at Charley Melton, who kept his countenance.
Then her ladyship declared that it was “so foolish,” and that she was “quite well now”; and other speeches good and bad were made. And at last the bridegroom’s carriage was at the door; the bride was handed in; there was the usual cheering; white satin slippers and showers of rice were thrown, and the carriage rolled away. For Lady Barmouth had achieved one of the objects of her life – a brilliant match for her elder daughter – leaving her free to execute her plans for Maude.
All had been en règle so far: the hall was filled with company; the sound of wheels was still to be heard rolling down the broad thoroughfare: when “I say, look out,” whispered Tom to his friend. “There she goes.”
It was a coarse way of expressing himself, but “there” “she” did go – to wit her ladyship. Sir Grantley Wilters, whom she hoped some day to call son, was close at hand. It was quite time for her maternal feelings to assert themselves again, and they did, for she sank heavily into the nearest arms.
They were not her husband’s but those of the baronet, most rotten reeds upon which a lady might lean. The result was that as Lady Barmouth gave way, Sir Grantley did the same, and both would have fallen heavily but for Doctor Todd, who seized the baronet in time, and with extraneous help her ladyship was placed in the porter’s great chair.
“Salts, and a little air: she has only fainted,” said the doctor.
By all the rules of family etiquette as observed in the best society, Maude should have run to her mother’s side, and made one in a pathetic group: but just at the same moment she encountered Charley Melton’s eyes, let her own rest upon them as a singular thrill ran through her, till she wrenched them away and encountered Sir Grantley Wilters’ eye-glass, and directly after she recalled a promise she had made to herself.
“Open that door a little,” said the doctor – “ajar. Some fresh air.”
Luigi Malsano was back in the street, and the organ struck up once more, “’Tis hard to give the hand where the heart can never be,” while at the same moment a dismal howl came from the doorstep and a head was thrust in, to be followed by a body rather out of proportion.
It was only Charley Melton’s ugly bull-dog Joby, who had followed his master to the house, and been waiting on step and in area for the said master to come. He had several times made an attempt to enter, but had been driven back by Robbins the butler, and thought of going back to his master’s chambers, but at last the opportunity had come, and he too found his way in, for Luigi’s music nearly drove him mad.
Meanwhile the Resident’s young wife was being carried towards Charing Cross en route for Brindisi – the Suez Canal – India – right away out of the country, and out of this story, leaving the stage clear for her sister’s important scene.
Chapter Three.
Down in the Country – The Angel
“I’m afraid you are not serious, Mr Melton,” said Lady Barmouth; shaking her head at him sadly.
“Serious, Lady Barmouth; indeed I am,” said Charley Melton, who was Viscount Diphoos’ guest down at the Hurst, Lord Barmouth’s seat in Sussex; “and as to personal matters, my income – ”
“Hush, hush! you bad, wicked boy,” exclaimed her ladyship; “what do you take me for? Just as if the union of two young hearts was to be made a question of hard cash and settlements, and such mean, wretched, sordid matters. I beg you will never utter a word to me again about such things. They are shocking to me.”
“I am very glad to hear you say so, Lady Barmouth,” said Melton, smiling frankly in her face, as in a gentle heaving billow style, she leaned, upon his arm, and undulated softly and tapped his fingers with her fan.
“I like to think of my darling Maude as a sweet innocent girl in whose presence such a sordid thing as money ought never to be mentioned. There, there, there, they are calling you from the lawn, Charley Melton; go to them and play and be happy while you have your youth and high spirits. How I envy you all sometimes?”
“Your ladyship has made me very happy,” said Melton, flushing slightly.
“It is my desire to make all belonging to me happy,” replied her ladyship. “I have seen Diana, my sweet child, settled, now it is my desire to see Maude the same. There, there, go away, for my eyes are weak with tears, and I feel half hysterical. Go away, my dear boy, go away.”
“But you will let me see your ladyship to a seat?”
“No, no, no; go away, go away.”
“Yo-hoy!” shouted a familiar voice. “Charley Melton! —are you coming!”
“Yes, yes, coming,” replied Melton, as her ladyship tapped him on the arm very significantly, and shook her head at him, while her eyes plaintively gazed at his. And she said to herself – “Yes, his expectations, Lady Rigby said, were excellent.”
The next moment he was on his way to the croquet lawn, where a gaily dressed party was engaged in preparing for a little match.
“I never expected it,” said the young man to himself; “and either I’m in luck’s way, or her ladyship is not the mercenary creature people say. She is evidently agreeable, and if she is, I have no fear of Lord Barmouth, for the old man likes me.”
“Come, old fellow,” cried Tom, advancing to meet him, with the biggest croquet mallet over his shoulder that could be found in the trade. “What have you and the old lady been chatting over? She hasn’t been dropping any hints about being de trop?”
Melton was silent, for he enjoyed the other’s interest.
“If she has,” cried Tom, “I’ll strike: I won’t stand it. It’s too bad; – it’s – ”
“Gently, gently,” said Melton, smiling. “She has been all that I could desire, and it is evident that she does not look upon my pretensions to your sister’s hand with disfavour.”
“What – disfavour? Do you mean to say in plain English that the old girl has not cut up rough about your spooning after Maude?”
“Is that plain English?”
“Never mind. Go on. What did she say?”
“Called me her dear boy, and said her sole wish was to see her child happy.”
“Gammon!” said Viscount Diphoos. “She’s kidding you.”
“Nonsense! What a miserable sceptic you are!”
“Yes; I know my dear mamma.”
“I merely quote her words,” said Melton, coldly.
“Then the old girl’s going off her chump,” said Tom. “But there, never mind; so much the better. Charley, old man, I give you my consent.”
“Thank you,” said Melton, smiling.
“Ah, you may laugh, but ’pon my soul I should like you to marry Maudey. She’s the dearest and best girl in the world, and I was afraid the old girl meant Wilters to have her. Well, I am glad, old man. Give us your fist. I’m sure Maudey likes you, so go in and win. Make your hay while the sun shines, my boy. Only stow all that now. It’s croquet, so get a mallet. You and Maudey are partners, against Tryphie Wilder and me.”
He shook hands warmly with his friend, and they went down the path together.
“I say, old man, Wilters is coming down to-day. He’s been in a fine taking. Saw him in London. Day before yesterday. Said he’d lost his diamond locket. Just as if it mattered to him with all his thousands. But he’s as mean as mean. I should like to get him in a line at billiards, and win a lot of money off him. I will, too, some day. Now girls! Ready?”
They were crossing the closely shaven lawn now to where Maude, looking very sweet and innocent, stood talking to Tryphie Wilder, and she coloured with pleasure as the young men advanced.
Soon after the match began, and for ten minutes the two couples played vigorously and well. Then the game languished, and the various players missed their turns, and were soon in a terrible tangle, forgetting their hoops, so that at last, Tom, who was standing under a hawthorn that was one blush of pink, was heard by a knowing old thrush, sitting closely over four blue speckled eggs, to whisper in a low tone —
“Don’t be hard on a fellow, Tryphie dear, when you know how fond he is of you.”
The thrush laughed thrushly, and blinked her eyes as she recalled the troubles of matrimony: how long eggs were hatching, and what a deal of trouble the little ones were to feed when the weather was dry and worms were scarce.
Just at the same time too Charley Melton and Maude had come to a stand-still where a great laburnum poured down a shower of rich golden drops, through which rained the rays of the sun, broken up into silvery arrows of light which forced themselves through the girl’s fair hair, as she stood trembling and palpitating that happy June day, while Charley Melton’s words grew deeper and more thrilling in their meaning.
For their theme was love, one that has never seemed tiring to young and willing ears, though it must be owned that folks do talk, have talked, and always will talk a great deal of nonsense.
This was in the calm and peaceful days of croquet, before people had learned to perspire profusely over lawn-tennis as they flew into wild attitudes and dressed for the popular work. This was croquet à la Watteau, and in the midst of the absence of play, Lord Barmouth came slowly down the path, stepped upon the soft lawn as soon as possible, and, choosing a garden seat in a comfortably shady nook, he sat down and began to tenderly rub his leg.
“Heigho!” he sighed; “they, they – they say an Englishman’s house is his castle. If it is, his wife’s the elephant – white elephant. Why – why don’t they go on playing? Ha, there’s Tom starting,” he continued, putting up his glasses. “I’d give five hundred pounds to be able to stoop and pick up a ball like that young Charley Melton – a strong, straight-backed young villain. And there’s my son Tom, too. How he can run! I’d give another five hundred pounds, if I’d got it, to be able to run across the grass like my son Tom. It strikes me, yes, damme, it strikes me that my son Tom’s making up to little Tryphie. Well, and he’s no fool if he does.”
The game went on now for a few minutes, and then there was another halt.
“I said so to Tom on the morning of Di’s wedding,” said the old gentleman, caressing his leg; “and that Charley Melton is making up to Maudey, damme that he is, and – and – and – damme, she’s smiling at him, bless her, as sure as I’m a martyr to the gout.”
There were a few more strokes, and as many pauses, during which the old gentleman watched the players in their laurel-sheltered ground with his double glasses to his eye.
“Let me see, her ladyship said he was one of the Mowbray Meltons, but he isn’t. He belongs to the poor branch, but I didn’t contradict her ladyship; it makes her angry. He, he, he, he! It’s – its – it’s very fine to be young and good-looking, and – and – damme, Tom, you young dog,” he continued, chuckling, “I can see through your tricks. He’s – he’s – he’s always knocking Tryphie’s ball in amongst the bushes, and then they have to go out of sight to find it.”
The old man chuckled and shook his head till a twinge of the gout made him wince, when he stooped down and had another rub.
“Why – why – why,” he chuckled again directly after, “damme, damme, if young Charley Melton isn’t doing the same. He has knocked Maudey’s ball in amongst the laurels, and – oh – oh – oh – you wicked young rogues – they’re coming to look for it.”
He got up and toddled towards the young couple, patting Maude on the cheek, and giving Charley Melton a poke in the side.
“I – I – I – see through you both,” he said, laughing. “Won’t do – won’t do. Both as transparent as glass, and I can see your hearts playing such a tune.”
He crossed to another garden seat, and sat down, putting his leg up in a comfortable position.
“There,” said Melton, earnestly. “You see we have both in our favour. Your father would not refuse.”
“Pray say no more now,” said the girl, gazing up in his face. “It is so new, it troubles me. Let us go on playing. Tom and Tryphie must be waiting.”
“I think not,” said Melton, with a quiet smile. “Maude, love, to-day I am so happy that it all seems too delightful to be real. Does it seem so to you?”
“I hardly know,” she replied, turning her eyes to his for a few moments, and then lowering them; “but somehow I feel sad with it and as if I were too happy for it to last.”
“Then you are happy?” he said, eagerly.
For answer she raised her eyes to his, and the game was resumed, for Tom and Tryphie came out of the shrubbery with the lost ball.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed his lordship. “Tom’s a sad dog – a sad dog. I was just like him when I was young.”
He glanced to the right and left, and, seeing that he was unobserved, drew out a d’oyley from his coat-tail pocket, and from within picked out a slice of tongue and a piece of bread and butter, which he ate with great gusto, but not without turning his head from side to side like some ancient sparrow on the look-out for danger.
He wiped his fingers carefully upon his handkerchief, put away the d’oyley, and smiled to himself.
“That was nice – and refreshing,” he said. “I don’t suppose Robbins would miss it, and mention the fact to her ladyship. Ah,” he continued, raising his glass once more to his eye, “they are having a nice game there. Why, damme, they’re all courting like birds in spring-time. But Tom’s a sad dog. He, he, he! I was just like him. I was a sad dog too when I was young. I remember once when I was at Chiswick, at the Duke’s – he – he – he! with Lady Ann Gowerby, I told her there was not a flower in the whole show to compare with her two lips, and I kissed her behind the laurestinus – damme, that I did, and – and – he, he, he! the old woman – the countess – came and caught us.”
The old man chuckled over this recollection till he had to wipe the tears out of his eyes, and then he had a fresh look at the croquet players.
“Tom, you dog,” he said, “the old lady will come and catch you, and then, he, he, he! there’ll be a devil of a row, for she means my little Tryphie for some one else. Eh – eh – eh? What! Look there now, Maudey dropped her mallet, and Charley Melton picked it up and kissed her hand. Well, it’s nice,” he said, smacking his lips, “I was a devil of a fellow to squeeze and kiss the little girls’ hands when I was a youngster, but now – ”
He bent down to rub his gouty leg, and uttered a low groan as he continued —
“But they’re all going wrong, the silly young lambs; I wish Charley Melton was well off. Her ladyship will come over it all like a cloud directly, for I know – she said so – she means Tryphie for old Bellman, and Maudey for that Sir Grantley Wilter. Well, well, well, little gnats, enjoy your bit of sunshine while you can.”
“Now, Charley, are you going on?” shouted Tom in indignant tones, “two blue plays – two blue plays.”
“There’s a dog for you,” chuckled Lord Barmouth, “any one would think he had been busy over the game all the time instead of courting Tryphie.”
“Coming, Tom,” cried Melton; then turning to Maude he whispered, “Darling, you are mine, come what may – Maude, my love – my love!”
Their eyes met for a few moments, and from that look it was evident that the work so nearly completed on the morning of the wedding party had now received the finishing strokes, that the fresh young heart had placed itself in another’s keeping, and that henceforth Charley Melton was lord of someone’s will, and her duty only to obey.
“I ought to go and stop them,” said his lordship, sadly, “but making love without thinking of money used to be nice; but – hallo!” he exclaimed, as a cold nose touched his hand; and looking down there was the ugly massive face of a bull-dog gazing up into his. “Charley Melton’s dog, eh! Well, you’re a very ugly dog, but you seem to like me. Eh, eh!” he added, as, after a quiet wag of his tail, Joby smelt at his lordship’s tail pocket. “So you knew there was a little bit of game pie in there, did you!”
Joby uttered a low whine.
“Well, so there is, good dog,” said his lordship, chuckling as he felt in his other pocket, and brought out something very unpleasant-looking crushed up as it was in a piece of paper.
“I’m afraid I have been sitting upon it, my dog,” said his lordship, ruefully, “and the jelly and cold gravy have got into the crust. But you will not mind, will you?”
The dog gave a short bark, and evidently did not mind, for he and Lord Barmouth finished the last morsel of the game pie, and Joby ate the jelly-smeared paper afterwards as a kind of digestive pill.
“Ah,” said his lordship, patting the dog’s head. “I’m glad of that – good dog then – for I did not know what to do with that piece of paper. Eh, eh? whom have we here?” he continued, putting up his glasses. “Her ladyship and Sir Grantley Wilters. There, I told you young people that you were to enjoy your game as you could, for here comes the shadow.”
He alluded to Lady Barmouth, who, like the good general she was, had made her plans, which were rapidly approaching fruition.
