Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.Cloudy.Lord Barmouth was quite right, for the shadow was coming over the sunshiny portion of the young people’s life in the shape of her ladyship, who could in turn assume therôleof Fate or Fury.Amongst the company expected at the Hurst was Sir Grantley Wilters, and for his own reasons he had made a point of coming. He had arrived that morning, and, learning from Robbins the butler that Melton was there, had hastened to obtain a quiet interview with her ladyship.“Nothing like taking time by the forelock, don’t you know,” he said to himself. “Old girl evidently wants me for a son-in-law, and that fellow Melton is a doosed sight too attentive. I can see through it all, though. Old girl keeps him here to make play and draw me on. Artful, doosed artful, don’t you know. But it don’t matter; suits my book. Time I did marry and settle down. Maude Diphoos is a doosed handsome girl, and’ll do me credit. I’ll propose at once.”He mused thus in his bedroom, where he gave a few finishing touches to his morning toilet, and then descending to the drawing-room, he was most affectionately received by her ladyship, who took his arm, and they strolled out through the conservatory into the garden.“Such delightful weather!” said her ladyship, leaning upon his arm more heavily than was pleasant to a man in tight boots, and rather weak upon his legs.“Charming,” said Sir Grantley. “By the way, Lady Barmouth, we are very great friends, you and I, don’t you know.”“Indeed, yes,” said her ladyship. “I always feel disposed to call you by your Christian name—Grantley—”“Do,” said the baronet, having a little struggle with his eye-glass—a new one of rather smaller diameter than the last—which he had lost—and which would not consent to stop in its place—“Do—like it. Fact is, Lady Barmouth, I have made up my mind to be married, don’t you know.”“You have? Really!” cried her ladyship. “I am glad;” and she adroitly turned their steps down the lilac walk in place of going straight to the croquet lawn.“Fact, I assure you,” continued Sir Grantley. “It is only quite lately that I have seen any one whom I should like to make Lady Wilters; and now—”“You are hopelessly in love,” said her ladyship; showing him her hundred guinea set of teeth—patent mineral, and of pearly whiteness, her best set—down to the false gums. “Oh, you young people in the days of your romance. It is too delightful in spite of its regrets for us who are in the sere and yellow leaf.”Her ladyship, by the way, was very little older than Sir Grantley, and art had made her look the younger of the two, especially as, in spite of the allusions to the yellow leaf, her ladyship’s plump skin was powdered into a state of peach bloom.“Thanks, much,” said Sir Grantley, wincing a little from tight boots, and greeting with delight their approach to a garden seat. “Shall we sit down?”“Oh, by all means,” cried her ladyship; and they took their places under the lilac which bloomed profusely over their heads. “And now,” exclaimed Lady Barmouth, with sparkling eyes and another sweet smile to show her hundred guinea teeth, while the plump face was covered with innocent dimples, “tell me, who is the dear girl?”“Yas,” said Sir Grantley, clearing his throat, and feeling decidedly better, “yas.”He paused, and wiped his heated brow with a scented handkerchief.“Now this is too bad,” said her ladyship, playfully. “You are teasing me.”“No, ’pon honour, no,” said Sir Grantley. “Fact is, don’t you know, I feel a kind of nervous shrinking.”“Ah, you young men, you young men,” said her ladyship, shaking her head. “But come: tell me. Do I know her?”“Oh, yas,” said Sir Grantley.“To be sure,” cried her ladyship, clapping her hands together. “It’s Lady Mary Mahon. There, I’ve found you out.”“No,” said Sir Grantley. “Guess again,” and this time he secured the eye-glass with a good ring of circles round it, which did not add to his personal appearance.“Not Lady Mary,” mused her ladyship. “Well, it can’t be the wealthy Miss Parminter?”“No,” said Sir Grantley, calmly; “oh, dear, no.”“Why, of course not; I know, it’s the Honourable Grace Leasome.”“N-no,” said Sir Grantley, with the most gentlemanlyinsouciance. “Try again.”“I give it up,” said her ladyship, smiling.“Now, Maude, it’s your turn,” was heard faintly from the croquet lawn.“Yas,” said Sir Grantley, bowing slightly. “That is the lady. My dear Lady Barmouth, will you allow me humbly and respectfully, don’t you know, to propose for your charming daughter’s hand?”Lady Barmouth sank back in her seat as if struck with horror.“Anything the matter?” said Sir Grantley, looking puzzled.“Did—did I understand you aright, Sir Grantley?” faltered her ladyship.“Aright? Oh, yas. Sorry to be so sudden and upset you, but thought you expected it, don’t you know.”“My dear Sir Grantley; my dear young friend,” exclaimed her ladyship, laying her hand in a sympathising fashion upon his arm. “This is too painful.”“Well, suppose it is,” said Sir Grantley, calmly. “Just lost one daughter too—charming girl, Diana—but it must come, Lady Barmouth. I’ve been a bit free and got rid of some money, but there’s about nine thou a year left, and then I shall have the Mellish estates by and by!—another three thou—might settle that on her, don’t you know.”“Oh, this is dreadful,” panted her ladyship. “My dear young friend, I should have been too happy to give my consent, but dear Maude is as good as engaged to Mr Melton.”“The doose she is,” said Sir Grantley, dropping his glass and looking blankly at his companion.“Oh, yes,” exclaimed her ladyship, applying her scent bottle to her delicate nostrils. “I thought you must have seen it.”“Humph! doosid provoking, don’t you know,” said Sir Grantley, calmly. “Made up my mind at last, and now too late.”“I am so—so—sorry,” sighed her ladyship.“Can’t be helped. I did mean to propose the week before last, but had to see my doctor. Melton, eh? Doosid poor, isn’t he?”“Oh, really, Sir Grantley, I know nothing about Mr Melton’s prospects, but he is a Mowbray Melton, and a wealthy cousin is childless, and not likely to many.”“What, Dick Mowbray? Married last week.”“Mr Melton’s cousin?”“To be sure he did, Lady Barmouth; and besides, Charley Melton is one of the younger branch. Poor as Job.”He made as if to rise, but her ladyship laid her hand upon his arm.“Stop a moment,” she exclaimed. “This is a serious matter, Sir Grantley, and it must be cleared up.”“Don’t say a word about it, please,” he replied, with some trepidation.“I shall not say a word,” replied her ladyship; “but you are under a mistake, Sir Grantley. Mr Melton has a handsome private income.”“Where from?” replied the baronet. “His father has not a rap.”“Then he has magnificent expectations.”“Did he tell you this?” said Sir Grantley, screwing his glass very tightly into his eye.“N-no,” said her ladyship. “There, I will be frank with you, Sir Grantley. You are a gentleman, and I can trust you.”“I hope so,” he replied, stiffly.“The fact is,” said her ladyship, “seeing that there was a growing intimacy between my daughter and Mr Melton, who is the son of an old Eton schoolfellow of Lord Barmouth, I made some inquiries.”“Yas?” said Sir Grantley.“And I understood Lord Barmouth to say that he would be a most eligiblepartifor our dearest child.”“Oh, indeed,” said Sir Grantley, carefully examining the sit of one leg of his trousers.Lady Barmouth stared at the speaker, and then shut her scent bottle with a loud snap.“If she has deceived me—tricked me over this,” thought her ladyship, “I will never forgive her.”“But has Mr Melton professed this to you?” said Sir Grantley, staring at the change which had come over his proposed mother-in-law. For the sweet smile was gone, and her thin lips were drawn tightly over her teeth: not a dimple was to be seen, and a couple of dark marks came beneath her eyes.“No,” she said, shortly; and there was a great deal of acidity in her tone. “I must say he has not. But I must inquire into this. I trusted implicitly in what my husband, who knew his father intimately, had said. Will you join the croquet party, Sir Grantley?” she continued, forcing back her sweetest smile.“Yas, oh yas, with pleasure. Charmed,” said Sir Grantley; and they rose and walked towards the croquet lawn.“Dear Sir Grantley,” said her ladyship, speaking once more with her accustomed sweetness, “this is a private matter between ourselves. You will not let it influence your visit?”“Not at all.”“I mean, you will not let it shorten your stay?”“Oh, no—not at all,” he replied. “Charmed to stay, I’m sure. Shan’t break my heart, don’t you know. Try to bear the disappointment.”Five minutes later her ladyship had left Sir Grantley on the lawn, and gone off in the direction of Lord Barmouth, who saw her coming and beat a retreat, but her ladyship cut him off and met him face to face.“Tryphie,” said Tom to his little cousin, “there’s a row cooking.”“Yes,” she replied, sending her ball with straight aim through a hoop. “I saw it coming. I hope it is nothing about Maude; she seems so happy.”“Hang me if I don’t think it is,” said Tom. “I’m going off directly, for the old girl’s started to wig the governor, I’m certain. I shall go and back him up after giving my mallet to Wilters. Don’t make me madly jealous.”“Why not?” she replied, mischievously.“And be careful not to hit his legs,” said Tom. “They’d break like reeds.—Wilters, will you take my mallet? I want to go.”“Charmed, I’m shaw,” said Sir Grantley, bowing, and being thus introduced to the game, while Tom lit a cigarette and slipped away.Meanwhile Lady Barmouth had captured her husband as he was moving off, followed closely by Charley Melton’s ugly dog, which no sooner saw her than he lowered his tail, dropped his head, and walked under a clump of Portugal laurel out of the way.“Barmouth,” said her ladyship, taking him into custody, like a plump social policeman, “I want to speak to you.”“Certainly, my dear,” he said, mildly. “What is it?”“About this Mr Charles Melton. What income has he?”“Well, my dear,” said the old gentleman, “I don’t believe he has any beyond a little allowance from his father, who is very poor.”“And his expectations,” said her ladyship, sharply. “He has great expectations, has he not?”“I—I—I don’t think he has, my love,” said the old man; “but he’s a doosed fine, manly young fellow, and I like him very much indeed.”“But you told me that he had great prospects.”“No, my dear, you saidyouhad heard that he had. I remember it quite well.”“Don’t be an idiot, Barmouth,” exclaimed her ladyship. “Listen to me.”“Yes, my dear,” he said, looking at her nervously, and then stooping to rub his leg, an act she stopped by giving his hand a smart slap.“How can you be so offensive,” she cried, in a low angry voice; “it is quite disgusting. Listen to me.”“Yes, my dear.”“I went to see Lady Merritty about this matter, and Lady Rigby.”“About my gout, my dear?”“Do you wish to make me angry, Barmouth?”“No, my dear.”“I went to see her about this young man—this Melton, and Lady Merritty told me she believed he had most brilliant expectations. But I’ll be even with her for this. Oh, it was too bad!”“What’s the matter?” said Tom, joining them.“Matter!” cried the irate woman. “Why, evidently to gratify some old spite, that wretched woman, Lady Merritty, has been palming off upon us this Mr Melton as a millionaire, and on the strength of it all I have encouraged him here, and only just now refused an offer made by Sir Grantley Wilters. A beggar! An upstart!”“Bravo, mother!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “So he is, a contemptible, weak-kneed, supercilious beggar. I hate him.”“Hate him?” said her ladyship. “Why, you always made him your greatest friend.”“What, old Wilters?” cried Tom.“Stuff! This Melton,” retorted her ladyship.“Bah!” exclaimed Tom. “I meant that thin weedy humbug, Wilters.”“And I meant that wretched impostor, Melton,” cried her ladyship, angrily.“Look here, mother,” cried Tom. “Charley Melton is my friend, and he is here at your invitation. Let me tell you this: if you insult him, if I don’t go bang out on the croquet lawn and kick Wilters. Damme, that I will.”“He’s a brave dashing young fellow, my son Tom,” said his lordship to himself. “I wish I dared—”“Barmouth,” moaned her ladyship, “help me to the house. My son, to whom I should look for support, turns upon his own mother. Alas, that I should live to see such a day!”“Yes, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth, in a troubled way, as he offered the lady his arm. “Tom, my boy, don’t speak so rudely to your mamma,” he continued, looking back, and they moved slowly towards the open drawing-room window.As her ladyship left the garden, Joby came slowly up from under the laurels, and laid his head on Tom’s knee, for that gentleman had thrown himself on a garden seat.“Hallo, Joby,” he said “you here? I tell you what, old man, if you would go and stick your teeth into Wilters’ calf—Bah! he hasn’t got a calf!—into his leg, and give him hydrophobia, you’d be doing your master a good turn.”From that hour a gloom came over the scene. Lady Barmouth was scrupulously polite, but Charley Melton remarked a change. There were no more rides out with Maude; no more pleasanttête-à-têtes: all was smiles carefully iced, and he turned at last to Tom for an explanation.“I can’t understand it,” he said; “a few days ago my suit seemed to find favour in her eyes; now her ladyship seems to ridicule the very idea of my pretentions.”“Yes,” said Tom savagely; and he bit his cigar right in half.“But why, in heaven’s name?”“Heard you were poor.”“Well, I never pretended otherwise.”“No,” said Tom, snappishly; “but I suppose some one else did.”“Who?” cried Melton, angrily.“Shan’t tell,” cried Tom; “but mind your eye, my boy, or she’ll throw you over.”“She shall not,” cried Melton, firmly, “for though there is no formal engagement, I hold to your sister, whom I love with all my heart.”That evening Charley Melton was called away to see his father, who had been taken seriously ill.“So very sorry,” said her ladyship, icily. “But these calls must be answered. Poor Mr Melton, I am so grieved. Maude, my darling, Sir Grantley is waiting to play that game of chess with you.”The consequence was, that Charley Melton’s farewell to Maude was spoken with eyes alone, and he left the house feeling that he was doomed never to enter it again as a staying guest, while the enemy was in the field ready to sap and mine his dearest hopes.

Lord Barmouth was quite right, for the shadow was coming over the sunshiny portion of the young people’s life in the shape of her ladyship, who could in turn assume therôleof Fate or Fury.

Amongst the company expected at the Hurst was Sir Grantley Wilters, and for his own reasons he had made a point of coming. He had arrived that morning, and, learning from Robbins the butler that Melton was there, had hastened to obtain a quiet interview with her ladyship.

“Nothing like taking time by the forelock, don’t you know,” he said to himself. “Old girl evidently wants me for a son-in-law, and that fellow Melton is a doosed sight too attentive. I can see through it all, though. Old girl keeps him here to make play and draw me on. Artful, doosed artful, don’t you know. But it don’t matter; suits my book. Time I did marry and settle down. Maude Diphoos is a doosed handsome girl, and’ll do me credit. I’ll propose at once.”

He mused thus in his bedroom, where he gave a few finishing touches to his morning toilet, and then descending to the drawing-room, he was most affectionately received by her ladyship, who took his arm, and they strolled out through the conservatory into the garden.

“Such delightful weather!” said her ladyship, leaning upon his arm more heavily than was pleasant to a man in tight boots, and rather weak upon his legs.

“Charming,” said Sir Grantley. “By the way, Lady Barmouth, we are very great friends, you and I, don’t you know.”

“Indeed, yes,” said her ladyship. “I always feel disposed to call you by your Christian name—Grantley—”

“Do,” said the baronet, having a little struggle with his eye-glass—a new one of rather smaller diameter than the last—which he had lost—and which would not consent to stop in its place—“Do—like it. Fact is, Lady Barmouth, I have made up my mind to be married, don’t you know.”

“You have? Really!” cried her ladyship. “I am glad;” and she adroitly turned their steps down the lilac walk in place of going straight to the croquet lawn.

“Fact, I assure you,” continued Sir Grantley. “It is only quite lately that I have seen any one whom I should like to make Lady Wilters; and now—”

“You are hopelessly in love,” said her ladyship; showing him her hundred guinea set of teeth—patent mineral, and of pearly whiteness, her best set—down to the false gums. “Oh, you young people in the days of your romance. It is too delightful in spite of its regrets for us who are in the sere and yellow leaf.”

Her ladyship, by the way, was very little older than Sir Grantley, and art had made her look the younger of the two, especially as, in spite of the allusions to the yellow leaf, her ladyship’s plump skin was powdered into a state of peach bloom.

“Thanks, much,” said Sir Grantley, wincing a little from tight boots, and greeting with delight their approach to a garden seat. “Shall we sit down?”

“Oh, by all means,” cried her ladyship; and they took their places under the lilac which bloomed profusely over their heads. “And now,” exclaimed Lady Barmouth, with sparkling eyes and another sweet smile to show her hundred guinea teeth, while the plump face was covered with innocent dimples, “tell me, who is the dear girl?”

“Yas,” said Sir Grantley, clearing his throat, and feeling decidedly better, “yas.”

He paused, and wiped his heated brow with a scented handkerchief.

“Now this is too bad,” said her ladyship, playfully. “You are teasing me.”

“No, ’pon honour, no,” said Sir Grantley. “Fact is, don’t you know, I feel a kind of nervous shrinking.”

“Ah, you young men, you young men,” said her ladyship, shaking her head. “But come: tell me. Do I know her?”

“Oh, yas,” said Sir Grantley.

“To be sure,” cried her ladyship, clapping her hands together. “It’s Lady Mary Mahon. There, I’ve found you out.”

“No,” said Sir Grantley. “Guess again,” and this time he secured the eye-glass with a good ring of circles round it, which did not add to his personal appearance.

“Not Lady Mary,” mused her ladyship. “Well, it can’t be the wealthy Miss Parminter?”

“No,” said Sir Grantley, calmly; “oh, dear, no.”

“Why, of course not; I know, it’s the Honourable Grace Leasome.”

“N-no,” said Sir Grantley, with the most gentlemanlyinsouciance. “Try again.”

“I give it up,” said her ladyship, smiling.

“Now, Maude, it’s your turn,” was heard faintly from the croquet lawn.

“Yas,” said Sir Grantley, bowing slightly. “That is the lady. My dear Lady Barmouth, will you allow me humbly and respectfully, don’t you know, to propose for your charming daughter’s hand?”

Lady Barmouth sank back in her seat as if struck with horror.

“Anything the matter?” said Sir Grantley, looking puzzled.

“Did—did I understand you aright, Sir Grantley?” faltered her ladyship.

“Aright? Oh, yas. Sorry to be so sudden and upset you, but thought you expected it, don’t you know.”

“My dear Sir Grantley; my dear young friend,” exclaimed her ladyship, laying her hand in a sympathising fashion upon his arm. “This is too painful.”

“Well, suppose it is,” said Sir Grantley, calmly. “Just lost one daughter too—charming girl, Diana—but it must come, Lady Barmouth. I’ve been a bit free and got rid of some money, but there’s about nine thou a year left, and then I shall have the Mellish estates by and by!—another three thou—might settle that on her, don’t you know.”

“Oh, this is dreadful,” panted her ladyship. “My dear young friend, I should have been too happy to give my consent, but dear Maude is as good as engaged to Mr Melton.”

“The doose she is,” said Sir Grantley, dropping his glass and looking blankly at his companion.

“Oh, yes,” exclaimed her ladyship, applying her scent bottle to her delicate nostrils. “I thought you must have seen it.”

“Humph! doosid provoking, don’t you know,” said Sir Grantley, calmly. “Made up my mind at last, and now too late.”

“I am so—so—sorry,” sighed her ladyship.

“Can’t be helped. I did mean to propose the week before last, but had to see my doctor. Melton, eh? Doosid poor, isn’t he?”

“Oh, really, Sir Grantley, I know nothing about Mr Melton’s prospects, but he is a Mowbray Melton, and a wealthy cousin is childless, and not likely to many.”

“What, Dick Mowbray? Married last week.”

“Mr Melton’s cousin?”

“To be sure he did, Lady Barmouth; and besides, Charley Melton is one of the younger branch. Poor as Job.”

He made as if to rise, but her ladyship laid her hand upon his arm.

“Stop a moment,” she exclaimed. “This is a serious matter, Sir Grantley, and it must be cleared up.”

“Don’t say a word about it, please,” he replied, with some trepidation.

“I shall not say a word,” replied her ladyship; “but you are under a mistake, Sir Grantley. Mr Melton has a handsome private income.”

“Where from?” replied the baronet. “His father has not a rap.”

“Then he has magnificent expectations.”

“Did he tell you this?” said Sir Grantley, screwing his glass very tightly into his eye.

“N-no,” said her ladyship. “There, I will be frank with you, Sir Grantley. You are a gentleman, and I can trust you.”

“I hope so,” he replied, stiffly.

“The fact is,” said her ladyship, “seeing that there was a growing intimacy between my daughter and Mr Melton, who is the son of an old Eton schoolfellow of Lord Barmouth, I made some inquiries.”

“Yas?” said Sir Grantley.

“And I understood Lord Barmouth to say that he would be a most eligiblepartifor our dearest child.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Sir Grantley, carefully examining the sit of one leg of his trousers.

Lady Barmouth stared at the speaker, and then shut her scent bottle with a loud snap.

“If she has deceived me—tricked me over this,” thought her ladyship, “I will never forgive her.”

“But has Mr Melton professed this to you?” said Sir Grantley, staring at the change which had come over his proposed mother-in-law. For the sweet smile was gone, and her thin lips were drawn tightly over her teeth: not a dimple was to be seen, and a couple of dark marks came beneath her eyes.

“No,” she said, shortly; and there was a great deal of acidity in her tone. “I must say he has not. But I must inquire into this. I trusted implicitly in what my husband, who knew his father intimately, had said. Will you join the croquet party, Sir Grantley?” she continued, forcing back her sweetest smile.

“Yas, oh yas, with pleasure. Charmed,” said Sir Grantley; and they rose and walked towards the croquet lawn.

“Dear Sir Grantley,” said her ladyship, speaking once more with her accustomed sweetness, “this is a private matter between ourselves. You will not let it influence your visit?”

“Not at all.”

“I mean, you will not let it shorten your stay?”

“Oh, no—not at all,” he replied. “Charmed to stay, I’m sure. Shan’t break my heart, don’t you know. Try to bear the disappointment.”

Five minutes later her ladyship had left Sir Grantley on the lawn, and gone off in the direction of Lord Barmouth, who saw her coming and beat a retreat, but her ladyship cut him off and met him face to face.

“Tryphie,” said Tom to his little cousin, “there’s a row cooking.”

“Yes,” she replied, sending her ball with straight aim through a hoop. “I saw it coming. I hope it is nothing about Maude; she seems so happy.”

“Hang me if I don’t think it is,” said Tom. “I’m going off directly, for the old girl’s started to wig the governor, I’m certain. I shall go and back him up after giving my mallet to Wilters. Don’t make me madly jealous.”

“Why not?” she replied, mischievously.

“And be careful not to hit his legs,” said Tom. “They’d break like reeds.—Wilters, will you take my mallet? I want to go.”

“Charmed, I’m shaw,” said Sir Grantley, bowing, and being thus introduced to the game, while Tom lit a cigarette and slipped away.

Meanwhile Lady Barmouth had captured her husband as he was moving off, followed closely by Charley Melton’s ugly dog, which no sooner saw her than he lowered his tail, dropped his head, and walked under a clump of Portugal laurel out of the way.

“Barmouth,” said her ladyship, taking him into custody, like a plump social policeman, “I want to speak to you.”

“Certainly, my dear,” he said, mildly. “What is it?”

“About this Mr Charles Melton. What income has he?”

“Well, my dear,” said the old gentleman, “I don’t believe he has any beyond a little allowance from his father, who is very poor.”

“And his expectations,” said her ladyship, sharply. “He has great expectations, has he not?”

“I—I—I don’t think he has, my love,” said the old man; “but he’s a doosed fine, manly young fellow, and I like him very much indeed.”

“But you told me that he had great prospects.”

“No, my dear, you saidyouhad heard that he had. I remember it quite well.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Barmouth,” exclaimed her ladyship. “Listen to me.”

“Yes, my dear,” he said, looking at her nervously, and then stooping to rub his leg, an act she stopped by giving his hand a smart slap.

“How can you be so offensive,” she cried, in a low angry voice; “it is quite disgusting. Listen to me.”

“Yes, my dear.”

“I went to see Lady Merritty about this matter, and Lady Rigby.”

“About my gout, my dear?”

“Do you wish to make me angry, Barmouth?”

“No, my dear.”

“I went to see her about this young man—this Melton, and Lady Merritty told me she believed he had most brilliant expectations. But I’ll be even with her for this. Oh, it was too bad!”

“What’s the matter?” said Tom, joining them.

“Matter!” cried the irate woman. “Why, evidently to gratify some old spite, that wretched woman, Lady Merritty, has been palming off upon us this Mr Melton as a millionaire, and on the strength of it all I have encouraged him here, and only just now refused an offer made by Sir Grantley Wilters. A beggar! An upstart!”

“Bravo, mother!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “So he is, a contemptible, weak-kneed, supercilious beggar. I hate him.”

“Hate him?” said her ladyship. “Why, you always made him your greatest friend.”

“What, old Wilters?” cried Tom.

“Stuff! This Melton,” retorted her ladyship.

“Bah!” exclaimed Tom. “I meant that thin weedy humbug, Wilters.”

“And I meant that wretched impostor, Melton,” cried her ladyship, angrily.

“Look here, mother,” cried Tom. “Charley Melton is my friend, and he is here at your invitation. Let me tell you this: if you insult him, if I don’t go bang out on the croquet lawn and kick Wilters. Damme, that I will.”

“He’s a brave dashing young fellow, my son Tom,” said his lordship to himself. “I wish I dared—”

“Barmouth,” moaned her ladyship, “help me to the house. My son, to whom I should look for support, turns upon his own mother. Alas, that I should live to see such a day!”

“Yes, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth, in a troubled way, as he offered the lady his arm. “Tom, my boy, don’t speak so rudely to your mamma,” he continued, looking back, and they moved slowly towards the open drawing-room window.

As her ladyship left the garden, Joby came slowly up from under the laurels, and laid his head on Tom’s knee, for that gentleman had thrown himself on a garden seat.

“Hallo, Joby,” he said “you here? I tell you what, old man, if you would go and stick your teeth into Wilters’ calf—Bah! he hasn’t got a calf!—into his leg, and give him hydrophobia, you’d be doing your master a good turn.”

From that hour a gloom came over the scene. Lady Barmouth was scrupulously polite, but Charley Melton remarked a change. There were no more rides out with Maude; no more pleasanttête-à-têtes: all was smiles carefully iced, and he turned at last to Tom for an explanation.

“I can’t understand it,” he said; “a few days ago my suit seemed to find favour in her eyes; now her ladyship seems to ridicule the very idea of my pretentions.”

“Yes,” said Tom savagely; and he bit his cigar right in half.

“But why, in heaven’s name?”

“Heard you were poor.”

“Well, I never pretended otherwise.”

“No,” said Tom, snappishly; “but I suppose some one else did.”

“Who?” cried Melton, angrily.

“Shan’t tell,” cried Tom; “but mind your eye, my boy, or she’ll throw you over.”

“She shall not,” cried Melton, firmly, “for though there is no formal engagement, I hold to your sister, whom I love with all my heart.”

That evening Charley Melton was called away to see his father, who had been taken seriously ill.

“So very sorry,” said her ladyship, icily. “But these calls must be answered. Poor Mr Melton, I am so grieved. Maude, my darling, Sir Grantley is waiting to play that game of chess with you.”

The consequence was, that Charley Melton’s farewell to Maude was spoken with eyes alone, and he left the house feeling that he was doomed never to enter it again as a staying guest, while the enemy was in the field ready to sap and mine his dearest hopes.

Chapter Five.Back in Town—the Demon.Lady Maude Diphoos sat in her dressing-room in Portland Place with her long brown hair let down and spread all around her like some beautiful garment designed by nature to hide her soft white bust and arms, which were crossed before her as she gazed in the long dressing-glass draped with pink muslin.For the time being that dressing-glass seemed to be a framed picture in which could be seen the sweet face of a beautiful woman, whose blue eyes were pensive and full of trouble. It was the picture of one greatly in deshabille; but then it was the lady’s dressing-room, and there was no one present but the maid.The chamber was charmingly furnished, enough showing in the glass to make an effective background to the picture; and to add to the charm there was a delicious odour of blended scents that seemed to be exhaled by the principal flower in the room—she whose picture shone in the muslin-draped frame.There is nothing very new, it may be presumed, for a handsome woman to be seated before her glass with her long hair down, gazing straight before her into the reflector; but this was an exceptional case, for Maude Diphoos was looking right into her mirror and could not see herself. Sometimes what she saw was Charley Melton, but at the present moment the face of Dolly Preen, her maid, as that body stood half behind her chair, brushing away at her mistress’ long tresses, which crackled and sparkled electrically, and dropping upon them certain moist pearls which she as rapidly brushed away.Dolly Preen was a pretty, plump, dark girl, with a certain rustic beauty of her own such as was found sometimes in the sunny village by the Hurst, from which she had been taken to become young ladies’ maid, a sort of moral pincushion, into which Mademoiselle Justine Framboise, her ladyship’s attendant, stuck venomed verbal pins.But Dolly did not look pretty in the glass just now, for her nose was very red, her eyes were swollen up, and as she sniffed, and choked, and uttered a low sob from time to time, she had more the air of a severely punished school-girl than a prim young ladies’ maid in an aristocratic family.Dolly wept and dropped tears on the beautiful soft tangled hair at which Sir Grantley Wilters had often cast longing glances. Then she brushed them off again, and took out her handkerchief to blow her nose—a nose which took a great deal of blowing, as it was becoming overcharged with tears.“Oh, Dolly, Dolly,” said her mistress at last, “this is very, very sad.”At this moment through the open window, faintly heard, there floated, softened by distance, that delicious, now forgotten, but once popular strain—“I’m a young man from the country, but you don’t get over me.”Dorothy Preen, Sussex yeoman’s daughter, was a young woman from the country, and was it because the air seemedaproposthat the maiden suddenly uttered an ejaculation which sounded likeOw! and dropping the ivory-backed brush, plumped herself down upon the carpet, as if making a nursery cheese, and began to sob as if her heart would break? Was it the appropriate nature of the air? No; it was the air producer.“Oh, Dolly, Dolly, I don’t know what to say,” said Lady Maude gently, as she gave her hair a whisk and sent it all flying to one side. “I don’t want to send you back home.”“No, no, no, my lady, please don’t do that,” blubbered the girl.“But her ladyship is thinking very seriously about it, Dolly, and you see you were found talking to him.”“Ye—ye—yes, my lady.”“But, you foolish girl, don’t you understand that he is little better than a beggar—an Italian mendicant?”“Ye-ye-yes, my lady.”“Then how can you be so foolish?”“I—I—I don’t know, my lady.”“You, a respectable farmer’s daughter, to think of taking up with a low man who goes about the streets turning the handle of an organ. Dolly, Dolly, my poor girl, what does it mean?”“I—I—I don’t know, my lady. Ow! I am so miserable.”“Of course you are, my good girl. There, promise me you’ll forget it all, and I’ll speak to her ladyship, and tell her you’ll be more sensible, and get her to let you stay.”“I—I can’t, my lady.”“Cannot what?”“Forget him, my lady.”“Why not?”“Be-be-because he is so handsome.”“Oh, Dolly, I’ve no patience with you.”“N-n-no, my lady, because you—you ain’t—ain’t in love,” sobbed the girl with angry vehemence, as she covered her face with her hands and rocked herself to and fro.“For shame, Dolly,” cried Maude, with her face flamingly red. “If a woman is in love that is no reason for her degrading herself. I’m shocked at you.”“Ye-ye-yes, my lady, bu-bu-but you don’t know; you—you—you haven’t felt it yet. Wh-wh-when it comes over you some day, you—you—you’ll be as bad as I am. Ow! ow! ow! I’m a wretched, unhappy girl.”“Then rouse yourself and think no more of this fellow. For shame of you!”“I—I can’t, my lady. He—he—he’s so handsome, and I’ve tried ever so to give him up, but he takes hold of you like.”“Takes hold of you, Dolly? Oh, for shame!”“I—I d-d-d-don’t mean with his hands, my lady, b-b-but with his great dark eyes, miss, and—and he fixes you like; and once you’re like I am you’re always seeing them, and they’re looking right into you, and it makes you—you—you feel as if you must go where he tells you to, and—and I can’t help it, and I’m a wretched, unhappy girl.”“You are indeed,” said Maude with spirit. “It is degrading in the extreme. An organ-grinder—pah!”“It—it—it don’t matter what he is, my lady,” sobbed Dolly. “It’s the man does it. And—and some day wh-wh-when you feel as I do, miss, you’ll—”“Silence,” cried Lady Maude. “I’ll hear no more such nonsense. Get up, you foolish girl, and go on brushing my hair. You shall think no more of that wretched creature.”Just at that moment, after a dead silence, an air fromTrovatorerang out from the pavement below, and Dolly, who had picked up the brush, dropped it again, and stood gazing toward the window with so comical an expression of grief and despair upon her face that her mistress rose, and taking her arm gave her a sharp shake.“You silly girl!” she cried.“But—but he’s so handsome, my lady, I—I can’t help it. Do—do please send him away.”“Why, the girl’s fascinated,” thought Maude, whose cheeks were flushed, and whose heart was increasing its speed as she eagerly twisted up her hair and confined it behind by a spring band.“If—if you could send him away, my lady.”“Send him away! Yes: it is disgraceful,” cried Maude, and as if moved by some strange influence she rapidly made herself presentable and looked angrily from the window.There was an indignant look in her eyes, and her lips parted to speak, but at that moment the mechanical music ceased, and the bearer of the green baize draped “kist of whustles” looked up, removed his soft hat, smiled and displayed his teeth as he exclaimed in a rich, mellow voice—“Ah, signora—ah, bella signora.”Maude Diphoos’ head was withdrawn rapidly and her cheeks paled, flushed, and turned pale again, as she stood gazing at her maid, and wondering what had possessed her to attempt to do such a thing as dismiss this man.“Ah, signora! Ah, bella signora!” came again from below; and this seemed to arouse Maude to action, for now she hastily closed the window and seated herself before the glass.“Undo my hair and finish brushing it,” she said austerely; “and, Dolly, there is to be no more of this wicked folly.”“No, my lady.”“It is disgraceful. Mind, I desire that you never look out at this man, nor speak to him again.”“No, my lady.”“I shall ask her ladyship to look over your error, and mind that henceforth you are to be a very good girl.”“Yes, my lady.”“There: I need say no more; you are very sorry, are you not?”“Ye-yes, my lady.”“Then mind, I shall expect you to do credit to my interference, for her ladyship will be exceedingly angry if anything of this kind occurs again. Now, you will try?”“Ye-yes, my lady,” sobbed poor Dolly, “I’ll try; but you don’t know, miss, how hard it is. Some day you may feel as I do, and then you’ll be sorry you scolded me so much.”“Silence, Dolly; I have not scolded you so much. I have only interfered to save you from ruin and disgrace.”“Ruin and disgrace, my lady?”“Yes, you foolish girl. You could not marry such a man as that. There, now go downstairs—no, go to your own room and bathe your eyes before you go down. I feel quite ashamed of you.”“Yes, my lady, so do I,” sobbed Dolly. “I’m afraid I’m a very wicked girl, and father will never forgive me; but I can’t help it, and—Ow—ow—ow!”“Dolly! Dolly! Dolly! There, do go to your room,” cried Maude impatiently, and the poor girl went sobbing away, leaving her mistress to sit thinking pensively of what she had said.Lady Maude Diphoos should have continued dressing, but she sat down by her mirror with her head resting upon her hand thinking very deeply of the weak, love-sick girl who had just left the room. Her thoughts were strange, and it seemed to her that so soon as she began to picture the bluff, manly, Saxon countenance of Charley Melton, the dark-eyed, black-bearded face of the Italian leered at her over his shoulder, and so surely as she made an effort to drive away the illusion, the face disappeared from one side to start out again upon the other.So constant was this to the droning of the organ far below that Maude shivered, and at last started up, feeling more ready now to sympathise with the girl than to blame as she hurriedly dressed, and prepared to go downstairs to join her ladyship in her afternoon drive.“Are you aware, Maude, that I have been waiting for you some time?”“No, mamma. The carriage has not yet come.”“That has nothing whatever to do with it,” said her ladyship. “You have kept me waiting. And by the way, Maude, I must request that you do not return Mr Melton’s very particular bows. I observed that you did yesterday in the Park, while directly afterwards, when Sir Grantley Wilters passed, you turned your head the other way.”“Really, mamma, I—”“That will do, child, I am your mother.”“The carriage is at the door, my lady,” said Robbins, entering the room; and soon afterwards the ladies descended to enter the barouche and enjoy the air, “gravel grinding,” in the regular slow procession by the side of the Serpentine, where it was not long before Maude caught sight of Charley Melton, with his ugly bull-dog by his legs.He bowed, but Lady Barmouth cut him dead. He bowed again—this time to Maude, who cut him alive, for her piteous look cut him to the heart; and as the carriage passed on the remark the young man made concerning her ladyship was certainly neither refined nor in the best of taste.

Lady Maude Diphoos sat in her dressing-room in Portland Place with her long brown hair let down and spread all around her like some beautiful garment designed by nature to hide her soft white bust and arms, which were crossed before her as she gazed in the long dressing-glass draped with pink muslin.

For the time being that dressing-glass seemed to be a framed picture in which could be seen the sweet face of a beautiful woman, whose blue eyes were pensive and full of trouble. It was the picture of one greatly in deshabille; but then it was the lady’s dressing-room, and there was no one present but the maid.

The chamber was charmingly furnished, enough showing in the glass to make an effective background to the picture; and to add to the charm there was a delicious odour of blended scents that seemed to be exhaled by the principal flower in the room—she whose picture shone in the muslin-draped frame.

There is nothing very new, it may be presumed, for a handsome woman to be seated before her glass with her long hair down, gazing straight before her into the reflector; but this was an exceptional case, for Maude Diphoos was looking right into her mirror and could not see herself. Sometimes what she saw was Charley Melton, but at the present moment the face of Dolly Preen, her maid, as that body stood half behind her chair, brushing away at her mistress’ long tresses, which crackled and sparkled electrically, and dropping upon them certain moist pearls which she as rapidly brushed away.

Dolly Preen was a pretty, plump, dark girl, with a certain rustic beauty of her own such as was found sometimes in the sunny village by the Hurst, from which she had been taken to become young ladies’ maid, a sort of moral pincushion, into which Mademoiselle Justine Framboise, her ladyship’s attendant, stuck venomed verbal pins.

But Dolly did not look pretty in the glass just now, for her nose was very red, her eyes were swollen up, and as she sniffed, and choked, and uttered a low sob from time to time, she had more the air of a severely punished school-girl than a prim young ladies’ maid in an aristocratic family.

Dolly wept and dropped tears on the beautiful soft tangled hair at which Sir Grantley Wilters had often cast longing glances. Then she brushed them off again, and took out her handkerchief to blow her nose—a nose which took a great deal of blowing, as it was becoming overcharged with tears.

“Oh, Dolly, Dolly,” said her mistress at last, “this is very, very sad.”

At this moment through the open window, faintly heard, there floated, softened by distance, that delicious, now forgotten, but once popular strain—“I’m a young man from the country, but you don’t get over me.”

Dorothy Preen, Sussex yeoman’s daughter, was a young woman from the country, and was it because the air seemedaproposthat the maiden suddenly uttered an ejaculation which sounded likeOw! and dropping the ivory-backed brush, plumped herself down upon the carpet, as if making a nursery cheese, and began to sob as if her heart would break? Was it the appropriate nature of the air? No; it was the air producer.

“Oh, Dolly, Dolly, I don’t know what to say,” said Lady Maude gently, as she gave her hair a whisk and sent it all flying to one side. “I don’t want to send you back home.”

“No, no, no, my lady, please don’t do that,” blubbered the girl.

“But her ladyship is thinking very seriously about it, Dolly, and you see you were found talking to him.”

“Ye—ye—yes, my lady.”

“But, you foolish girl, don’t you understand that he is little better than a beggar—an Italian mendicant?”

“Ye-ye-yes, my lady.”

“Then how can you be so foolish?”

“I—I—I don’t know, my lady.”

“You, a respectable farmer’s daughter, to think of taking up with a low man who goes about the streets turning the handle of an organ. Dolly, Dolly, my poor girl, what does it mean?”

“I—I—I don’t know, my lady. Ow! I am so miserable.”

“Of course you are, my good girl. There, promise me you’ll forget it all, and I’ll speak to her ladyship, and tell her you’ll be more sensible, and get her to let you stay.”

“I—I can’t, my lady.”

“Cannot what?”

“Forget him, my lady.”

“Why not?”

“Be-be-because he is so handsome.”

“Oh, Dolly, I’ve no patience with you.”

“N-n-no, my lady, because you—you ain’t—ain’t in love,” sobbed the girl with angry vehemence, as she covered her face with her hands and rocked herself to and fro.

“For shame, Dolly,” cried Maude, with her face flamingly red. “If a woman is in love that is no reason for her degrading herself. I’m shocked at you.”

“Ye-ye-yes, my lady, bu-bu-but you don’t know; you—you—you haven’t felt it yet. Wh-wh-when it comes over you some day, you—you—you’ll be as bad as I am. Ow! ow! ow! I’m a wretched, unhappy girl.”

“Then rouse yourself and think no more of this fellow. For shame of you!”

“I—I can’t, my lady. He—he—he’s so handsome, and I’ve tried ever so to give him up, but he takes hold of you like.”

“Takes hold of you, Dolly? Oh, for shame!”

“I—I d-d-d-don’t mean with his hands, my lady, b-b-but with his great dark eyes, miss, and—and he fixes you like; and once you’re like I am you’re always seeing them, and they’re looking right into you, and it makes you—you—you feel as if you must go where he tells you to, and—and I can’t help it, and I’m a wretched, unhappy girl.”

“You are indeed,” said Maude with spirit. “It is degrading in the extreme. An organ-grinder—pah!”

“It—it—it don’t matter what he is, my lady,” sobbed Dolly. “It’s the man does it. And—and some day wh-wh-when you feel as I do, miss, you’ll—”

“Silence,” cried Lady Maude. “I’ll hear no more such nonsense. Get up, you foolish girl, and go on brushing my hair. You shall think no more of that wretched creature.”

Just at that moment, after a dead silence, an air fromTrovatorerang out from the pavement below, and Dolly, who had picked up the brush, dropped it again, and stood gazing toward the window with so comical an expression of grief and despair upon her face that her mistress rose, and taking her arm gave her a sharp shake.

“You silly girl!” she cried.

“But—but he’s so handsome, my lady, I—I can’t help it. Do—do please send him away.”

“Why, the girl’s fascinated,” thought Maude, whose cheeks were flushed, and whose heart was increasing its speed as she eagerly twisted up her hair and confined it behind by a spring band.

“If—if you could send him away, my lady.”

“Send him away! Yes: it is disgraceful,” cried Maude, and as if moved by some strange influence she rapidly made herself presentable and looked angrily from the window.

There was an indignant look in her eyes, and her lips parted to speak, but at that moment the mechanical music ceased, and the bearer of the green baize draped “kist of whustles” looked up, removed his soft hat, smiled and displayed his teeth as he exclaimed in a rich, mellow voice—

“Ah, signora—ah, bella signora.”

Maude Diphoos’ head was withdrawn rapidly and her cheeks paled, flushed, and turned pale again, as she stood gazing at her maid, and wondering what had possessed her to attempt to do such a thing as dismiss this man.

“Ah, signora! Ah, bella signora!” came again from below; and this seemed to arouse Maude to action, for now she hastily closed the window and seated herself before the glass.

“Undo my hair and finish brushing it,” she said austerely; “and, Dolly, there is to be no more of this wicked folly.”

“No, my lady.”

“It is disgraceful. Mind, I desire that you never look out at this man, nor speak to him again.”

“No, my lady.”

“I shall ask her ladyship to look over your error, and mind that henceforth you are to be a very good girl.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“There: I need say no more; you are very sorry, are you not?”

“Ye-yes, my lady.”

“Then mind, I shall expect you to do credit to my interference, for her ladyship will be exceedingly angry if anything of this kind occurs again. Now, you will try?”

“Ye-yes, my lady,” sobbed poor Dolly, “I’ll try; but you don’t know, miss, how hard it is. Some day you may feel as I do, and then you’ll be sorry you scolded me so much.”

“Silence, Dolly; I have not scolded you so much. I have only interfered to save you from ruin and disgrace.”

“Ruin and disgrace, my lady?”

“Yes, you foolish girl. You could not marry such a man as that. There, now go downstairs—no, go to your own room and bathe your eyes before you go down. I feel quite ashamed of you.”

“Yes, my lady, so do I,” sobbed Dolly. “I’m afraid I’m a very wicked girl, and father will never forgive me; but I can’t help it, and—Ow—ow—ow!”

“Dolly! Dolly! Dolly! There, do go to your room,” cried Maude impatiently, and the poor girl went sobbing away, leaving her mistress to sit thinking pensively of what she had said.

Lady Maude Diphoos should have continued dressing, but she sat down by her mirror with her head resting upon her hand thinking very deeply of the weak, love-sick girl who had just left the room. Her thoughts were strange, and it seemed to her that so soon as she began to picture the bluff, manly, Saxon countenance of Charley Melton, the dark-eyed, black-bearded face of the Italian leered at her over his shoulder, and so surely as she made an effort to drive away the illusion, the face disappeared from one side to start out again upon the other.

So constant was this to the droning of the organ far below that Maude shivered, and at last started up, feeling more ready now to sympathise with the girl than to blame as she hurriedly dressed, and prepared to go downstairs to join her ladyship in her afternoon drive.

“Are you aware, Maude, that I have been waiting for you some time?”

“No, mamma. The carriage has not yet come.”

“That has nothing whatever to do with it,” said her ladyship. “You have kept me waiting. And by the way, Maude, I must request that you do not return Mr Melton’s very particular bows. I observed that you did yesterday in the Park, while directly afterwards, when Sir Grantley Wilters passed, you turned your head the other way.”

“Really, mamma, I—”

“That will do, child, I am your mother.”

“The carriage is at the door, my lady,” said Robbins, entering the room; and soon afterwards the ladies descended to enter the barouche and enjoy the air, “gravel grinding,” in the regular slow procession by the side of the Serpentine, where it was not long before Maude caught sight of Charley Melton, with his ugly bull-dog by his legs.

He bowed, but Lady Barmouth cut him dead. He bowed again—this time to Maude, who cut him alive, for her piteous look cut him to the heart; and as the carriage passed on the remark the young man made concerning her ladyship was certainly neither refined nor in the best of taste.

Chapter Six.Not at Home.For Charley Melton’s father was better, hence his presence in town, where he had sped as soon as he found that the Diphoos family had left the Hurst, where Lady Barmouth hatched matrimony.That cut in the Park was unpleasant, but nothing daunted in his determination not to be thrown over, the young man made his way next day to Portland Place, eager, anxious, and wondering whether Maude would be firm, or allow herself to be influenced by her ladyship to his downfall.Robbins unclosed the door at the great family mansion looking very severe and uncompromising. So stern was his countenance, and so stiff the bristles on his head, that any one with bribery in his heart would have felt that silver would be an insult.“Not at home.”He left his card, and called next day.“Not at home.”He waited two days, and called again.“Not at home.”Another two days, and another call. The same answer.“Not at home.”Charley Melton turned away with his brow knit, and then thought over the past, and determined that, come what might, he would not be beaten.The next day he went again, with his dog trotting closely at his heels. He knocked; the door was opened by Robbins the butler, and to the usual inquiry, that individual responded as before—“Not at home, sir.”As Melton left his card and turned to go away, Joby quietly walked in, crossed the hall, and went upstairs, while his master, who was biting his lips, turned sharply back and slipped half a sovereign into the butler’s hand.“Look here, Robbins,” he said; “you may trust me; what does this mean?”The butler glanced behind him, and let the door swing nearly to as he stood upon the step.“Fact is, sir, her ladyship said they was never to be at home to you.”A curious smile crossed Melton’s lip as he nodded shortly and turned away, going straight back to his chambers in Duke Street, Saint James’s, and walking impatiently up and down till he was fain to cease from utter exhaustion, when he flung himself impatiently in his chair, and sat trying to make plans for the future.Meanwhile Joby, feeling himself quite at home in the Portland Place mansion, had walked straight into the dining-room, where the luncheon was not yet cleared away. The dog settled himself under the table, till, hearing a halting step, he had come slowly out to stand watching Lord Barmouth, who toddled in hastily, and helped himself to three or four slices of cold ham, which he was in the act of placing in his pocket as the dog touched him on the leg.“Eh! I’m very sorry, Robbins—I—eh? Oh dear, how you frightened me, my good dog,” he said; “I thought it was the butler.”He was hurrying out when, thinking that perhaps the visitor might also like a little extra refreshment, he hastily took up a couple of cutlets and threw them one by one to the dog, who caught them, and seemed to swallow them with one and the same movement, pill-fashion, for they disappeared, and Joby waited for more.“I dare not take any more, my good dog,” said his lordship, stooping down and patting him; and then, feeling that there was nothing more to be done here, Joby quietly trotted upstairs into the drawing-room, where Maude was seated alone, with her head resting upon her hand, and the tears silently stealing down her cheeks.She uttered a faint cry, for the dog’s great blunt muzzle was laid upon her soft white hand, when, seeing who it was, the poor girl, with a hysterical sob, threw herself down upon her knees beside the great ugly brute, flung her arms round his neck, and hugged him to her breast. “Oh Joby, Joby, Joby, you dear good dog,” she sobbed, “how did you come here?” and then, with flushed cheeks, and a faint hope in her breast that the dog’s master might be at hand, she paused with her head thrown back, listening intently.But there was not a sound to be heard, and she once more caressed the dog, who, with his head resting upon her shoulder, blinked his great eyes and licked his black muzzle as if he liked it all amazingly.Maude sobbed bitterly as she knelt by the dog, and then a thought seemed to strike her, for she felt its collar, and hesitated; then going to the table she opened a blotter, seized a sheet of note paper, and began to write.At the end of a few moments she stopped though.“I dare not—I dare not,” she sighed. “It would certainly be found out, and what would he think of me? What does he think of me?” she wailed. “He must believe me not worth a thought. I will send—just a line.”She wrote a few words, folded the paper up small, and was taking some silk from her work-basket, when a cough on the stairs made her start and return to her chair.“She will see the dog and be so angry,” thought Maude, as the rustling of silk proclaimed the coming of her ladyship, when, to her great joy Joby uttered a low growl and dived at once beneath the couch, where he curled himself up completely out of sight.“Maude,” said her ladyship, in an ill-used tone, “you are not looking so well as you should.”“Indeed, mamma?”“By no means, child; and as I am speaking to you, I may as well say that I could not help noticing last night that you were almost rude to Sir Grantley Wilters. I must beg that it does not occur again.”“Mamma!”“There, there, there, that will do,” said her ladyship, “not a word. I am going out, and I cannot be made nervous by your silly nonsense.”“Indeed, mamma, I—”“I will not hear excuses,” cried her ladyship. “I tell you I am going out. If Sir Grantley Wilters calls, I insist upon your treating him with proper consideration. As I have told you, and I repeat it once for all, that silly flirtation with Mr Melton is quite at an end, and now we must be serious.”“Serious, mamma!” cried Maude, rising; “I assure you—”“That will do, child, that will do. You must let older people think for you, if you please. Be silent.”Lady Barmouth sailed out of the room, and with a flush upon her countenance Maude returned to her work-basket for the silk, starting as she did so, for something touched her, and there was Joby’s great head with the prominent eyes staring up at her, as if to say, “Are you ready?”Folding her note very small, she tied it securely to the inside of the dog’s collar, and then, laying her hands upon his ears, kissed his great ugly forehead.“There, good dog, take that to your master,” she said. “Go home.”The dog started up, uttered a low bark, and, as if he understood her words, made for the door.“No, no,” cried Maude, who repented now that she had gone so far; “come back, good dog, come back. What will he think of me? What shall I do!”She ran to the door, but the dog had disappeared, and to her horror she heard the front door open as the carriage wheels stopped at the door. Trembling with dread she ran to the window and saw that the carriage was waiting for Lady Barmouth; but what interested her far more was the sight of Joby trotting across the wide thoroughfare, and evidently making his way straight off home, where he arrived in due course, and set to scratching at the door till Charley Melton got up impatiently and let him in.“Ah, Joby,” he said, carelessly; and then, heedless of the dog—“But I’ll never give her up,” he said sharply, as he rose and took an old pipe from the chimney-piece, which he filled and then sat down.As he did so, according to custom, Joby laid his head in his master’s hand, Melton pulling the dog’s ears, and patting him with one hand, thinking of something else the while. His thoughts did not come back, even when his hand came in contact with the paper which now came off easily at his touch.Melton’s thoughts were with the writer, and he had a pipe in the other hand; but his brain suggested to him that he might just as well light the pipe, incited probably thereto by the touch of the paper which he began to open out, after putting his meerschaum in his mouth; and he was then dreamily doubling the note, when his eyes fell upon the characters, his pipe dropped from his lips and broke upon the floor, as he read with increasing excitement—“I am driven to communicate with you like this, for I dare not try to post a note. Pray do not think ill of me; I cannot do as I would, and I am very, very unhappy.”That was all; and Charley Melton read it through again, and then stood looking puzzled, as if he could not comprehend how he came by the letter.“Why, Joby must have stayed behind to-day,” he cried, “and—yes—no—of course—here are the silken threads attached to his collar, and—and—oh, you jolly old brute! I’ll never repent of giving twenty pounds for you again.”He patted Joby until the caresses grew too forcible to be pleasant, and the dog slipped under his master’s chair, while the note was read over and over again, and then carefully placed in a pocket-book and transferred to the owner’s breast—a serious proceeding with a comic side.“No, my darling,” he said, “I won’t think ill of you; and as for you, my dear Lady Barmouth, all stratagems are good in love and war. You have thrown down the glove in casting me off in this cool and insolent manner; I have taken it up. If I cannot win her by fair means, I must by foul.”He walked up and down the room for a few minutes in a state of intense excitement.“I can’t help the past,” he said, half aloud. “I cannot help what I am, but win her I must. I feel now as if I can stop at nothing to gain my ends, and here is the way open at all events for a time. Joby, you are going to prove your master’s best friend.”

For Charley Melton’s father was better, hence his presence in town, where he had sped as soon as he found that the Diphoos family had left the Hurst, where Lady Barmouth hatched matrimony.

That cut in the Park was unpleasant, but nothing daunted in his determination not to be thrown over, the young man made his way next day to Portland Place, eager, anxious, and wondering whether Maude would be firm, or allow herself to be influenced by her ladyship to his downfall.

Robbins unclosed the door at the great family mansion looking very severe and uncompromising. So stern was his countenance, and so stiff the bristles on his head, that any one with bribery in his heart would have felt that silver would be an insult.

“Not at home.”

He left his card, and called next day.

“Not at home.”

He waited two days, and called again.

“Not at home.”

Another two days, and another call. The same answer.

“Not at home.”

Charley Melton turned away with his brow knit, and then thought over the past, and determined that, come what might, he would not be beaten.

The next day he went again, with his dog trotting closely at his heels. He knocked; the door was opened by Robbins the butler, and to the usual inquiry, that individual responded as before—

“Not at home, sir.”

As Melton left his card and turned to go away, Joby quietly walked in, crossed the hall, and went upstairs, while his master, who was biting his lips, turned sharply back and slipped half a sovereign into the butler’s hand.

“Look here, Robbins,” he said; “you may trust me; what does this mean?”

The butler glanced behind him, and let the door swing nearly to as he stood upon the step.

“Fact is, sir, her ladyship said they was never to be at home to you.”

A curious smile crossed Melton’s lip as he nodded shortly and turned away, going straight back to his chambers in Duke Street, Saint James’s, and walking impatiently up and down till he was fain to cease from utter exhaustion, when he flung himself impatiently in his chair, and sat trying to make plans for the future.

Meanwhile Joby, feeling himself quite at home in the Portland Place mansion, had walked straight into the dining-room, where the luncheon was not yet cleared away. The dog settled himself under the table, till, hearing a halting step, he had come slowly out to stand watching Lord Barmouth, who toddled in hastily, and helped himself to three or four slices of cold ham, which he was in the act of placing in his pocket as the dog touched him on the leg.

“Eh! I’m very sorry, Robbins—I—eh? Oh dear, how you frightened me, my good dog,” he said; “I thought it was the butler.”

He was hurrying out when, thinking that perhaps the visitor might also like a little extra refreshment, he hastily took up a couple of cutlets and threw them one by one to the dog, who caught them, and seemed to swallow them with one and the same movement, pill-fashion, for they disappeared, and Joby waited for more.

“I dare not take any more, my good dog,” said his lordship, stooping down and patting him; and then, feeling that there was nothing more to be done here, Joby quietly trotted upstairs into the drawing-room, where Maude was seated alone, with her head resting upon her hand, and the tears silently stealing down her cheeks.

She uttered a faint cry, for the dog’s great blunt muzzle was laid upon her soft white hand, when, seeing who it was, the poor girl, with a hysterical sob, threw herself down upon her knees beside the great ugly brute, flung her arms round his neck, and hugged him to her breast. “Oh Joby, Joby, Joby, you dear good dog,” she sobbed, “how did you come here?” and then, with flushed cheeks, and a faint hope in her breast that the dog’s master might be at hand, she paused with her head thrown back, listening intently.

But there was not a sound to be heard, and she once more caressed the dog, who, with his head resting upon her shoulder, blinked his great eyes and licked his black muzzle as if he liked it all amazingly.

Maude sobbed bitterly as she knelt by the dog, and then a thought seemed to strike her, for she felt its collar, and hesitated; then going to the table she opened a blotter, seized a sheet of note paper, and began to write.

At the end of a few moments she stopped though.

“I dare not—I dare not,” she sighed. “It would certainly be found out, and what would he think of me? What does he think of me?” she wailed. “He must believe me not worth a thought. I will send—just a line.”

She wrote a few words, folded the paper up small, and was taking some silk from her work-basket, when a cough on the stairs made her start and return to her chair.

“She will see the dog and be so angry,” thought Maude, as the rustling of silk proclaimed the coming of her ladyship, when, to her great joy Joby uttered a low growl and dived at once beneath the couch, where he curled himself up completely out of sight.

“Maude,” said her ladyship, in an ill-used tone, “you are not looking so well as you should.”

“Indeed, mamma?”

“By no means, child; and as I am speaking to you, I may as well say that I could not help noticing last night that you were almost rude to Sir Grantley Wilters. I must beg that it does not occur again.”

“Mamma!”

“There, there, there, that will do,” said her ladyship, “not a word. I am going out, and I cannot be made nervous by your silly nonsense.”

“Indeed, mamma, I—”

“I will not hear excuses,” cried her ladyship. “I tell you I am going out. If Sir Grantley Wilters calls, I insist upon your treating him with proper consideration. As I have told you, and I repeat it once for all, that silly flirtation with Mr Melton is quite at an end, and now we must be serious.”

“Serious, mamma!” cried Maude, rising; “I assure you—”

“That will do, child, that will do. You must let older people think for you, if you please. Be silent.”

Lady Barmouth sailed out of the room, and with a flush upon her countenance Maude returned to her work-basket for the silk, starting as she did so, for something touched her, and there was Joby’s great head with the prominent eyes staring up at her, as if to say, “Are you ready?”

Folding her note very small, she tied it securely to the inside of the dog’s collar, and then, laying her hands upon his ears, kissed his great ugly forehead.

“There, good dog, take that to your master,” she said. “Go home.”

The dog started up, uttered a low bark, and, as if he understood her words, made for the door.

“No, no,” cried Maude, who repented now that she had gone so far; “come back, good dog, come back. What will he think of me? What shall I do!”

She ran to the door, but the dog had disappeared, and to her horror she heard the front door open as the carriage wheels stopped at the door. Trembling with dread she ran to the window and saw that the carriage was waiting for Lady Barmouth; but what interested her far more was the sight of Joby trotting across the wide thoroughfare, and evidently making his way straight off home, where he arrived in due course, and set to scratching at the door till Charley Melton got up impatiently and let him in.

“Ah, Joby,” he said, carelessly; and then, heedless of the dog—“But I’ll never give her up,” he said sharply, as he rose and took an old pipe from the chimney-piece, which he filled and then sat down.

As he did so, according to custom, Joby laid his head in his master’s hand, Melton pulling the dog’s ears, and patting him with one hand, thinking of something else the while. His thoughts did not come back, even when his hand came in contact with the paper which now came off easily at his touch.

Melton’s thoughts were with the writer, and he had a pipe in the other hand; but his brain suggested to him that he might just as well light the pipe, incited probably thereto by the touch of the paper which he began to open out, after putting his meerschaum in his mouth; and he was then dreamily doubling the note, when his eyes fell upon the characters, his pipe dropped from his lips and broke upon the floor, as he read with increasing excitement—

“I am driven to communicate with you like this, for I dare not try to post a note. Pray do not think ill of me; I cannot do as I would, and I am very, very unhappy.”

That was all; and Charley Melton read it through again, and then stood looking puzzled, as if he could not comprehend how he came by the letter.

“Why, Joby must have stayed behind to-day,” he cried, “and—yes—no—of course—here are the silken threads attached to his collar, and—and—oh, you jolly old brute! I’ll never repent of giving twenty pounds for you again.”

He patted Joby until the caresses grew too forcible to be pleasant, and the dog slipped under his master’s chair, while the note was read over and over again, and then carefully placed in a pocket-book and transferred to the owner’s breast—a serious proceeding with a comic side.

“No, my darling,” he said, “I won’t think ill of you; and as for you, my dear Lady Barmouth, all stratagems are good in love and war. You have thrown down the glove in casting me off in this cool and insolent manner; I have taken it up. If I cannot win her by fair means, I must by foul.”

He walked up and down the room for a few minutes in a state of intense excitement.

“I can’t help the past,” he said, half aloud. “I cannot help what I am, but win her I must. I feel now as if I can stop at nothing to gain my ends, and here is the way open at all events for a time. Joby, you are going to prove your master’s best friend.”

Chapter Seven.Down Below.“If I had my way,” said Mr Robbins, “I’d give orders to the poliss, and every one of ’em should be took up. They’re so fond of turning handles that I’d put ’em on the crank. I’d make ’em grind.”“You have not the taste for the music, M’sieur Robbins,” said Mademoiselle Justine, looking up from her plate at dinner in the servants’ hall, and then glancing side wise at Dolly Preen, who was cutting her waxy potato up very small and soaking it in gravy, as she bent down so as not to show her burning face.“Haven’t I, ma’amselle? P’r’aps not; but I had a brother who could a’most make a fiddle speak. I don’t call organs music, and I object on principle to a set of lazy ronies being encouraged about our house.”Dolly’s face grew more scarlet, and Mademoiselle Justine’s mouth more tight as a couple of curious little curves played about the corners of her lips.“Well, all I can say,” said the cook, “is, that he’s a very handsome man.”“Handsome!” exclaimed Robbins, “I don’t call a man handsome as can’t shave, and never cuts his greasy hair. Handsome! Yah, a low, macaroni-eating, lazy rony, that’s what he is. There’s heaps of ’em always walking about outside the furren church doors, I’ve seen ’em myself.”“But some of ’em’s exiles, Mr Robbins,” said the stout, amiable-looking cook. “I have ’eared as some on ’em’s princes in disguise.”“My faith!” ejaculated Mademoiselle Justine, sardonically.“Yes, ma’amselle, I ayve,” said cook, defiantly, “I don’t mean Frenchy exiles, with their coats buttoned up to their chins in Leicester Square, because they ain’t got no washing to put out, but Hightalian exiles.”“Bah!” ejaculated Mademoiselle Justine, “that for you! What know you?” and she snapped her fingers.“Pr’aps a deal more than some people thinks, and I don’t like to sit still and hear poor people sneered at because they are reduced to music.”“But I don’t call that music,” said Robbins, contemptuously.“Don’t you, Mr Robbins?—then I do.”At this stage of the proceedings Dolly could bear her feelings no more, but got up and left the hall to ascend the back stairs to her own room, and sit down in a corner, and cover her face with her natty apron.“Pore gell,” exclaimed the cook. “It’s too bad.”“What is too bad, Madame Downes?” said Mademoiselle Framboise.“To go on like that before the pore thing. She can’t help it.”“Bah!” ejaculated the French maid, “it is disgust. An organ man! The child isaffreusement stupide.”“I have a heart of my own,” sighed the cook.“Yais, but you do not go to throw it to a man like that, Madame Downes.”“Hear, hear!” said the butler, and there was a chorus of approval.“I say it is disgust—disgrace,” continued Mademoiselle Justine. “The girl is mad, and should be sent home to thebonpapa down in the country.”“I have a heart of my own,” said Mrs Downes again. “Ah, you needn’t laugh, Mary Ann. Some people likes footmen next door.”The housemaid addressed tossed her head and exclaimed, “Well, I’m sure!”“And so am I,” replied the cook, regardless of the sneers and smiles of the rest of the domestics at the table. “As I said before, I have a heart of my own, and if some people follow the example of their betters,”—here Mrs Downes stared very hard at the contemptuous countenance of the French maid,—“and like the furren element, it’s no business of nobody’s.”Madame Justine’s eyes flashed.“Did you make that saying for me, Madame Downes?” she flashed out viciously.“Sayings ain’t puddens,” retorted cook.“I say, make you that vairy witty jeer for me?” cried Mademoiselle Justine viciously.“What I say is,” continued the cook, who, having a blunter tongue, stood on her defence, but heaping up dull verbiage round her position as a guard against the Frenchwoman’s sharp attack, “that a man’s a man, and if he’s a furrener it ain’t no fault of his. I should say he’s a count at least, and he’s very handsome.”“Counts don’t count in this country,” said Robbins smiling, and waiting for the applause of the table.“Count indeed!” cried Mademoiselle Justine. “Count you the fork and spoons, Mr Robbins, and see that these canaille music men come not down the air—ree. As for that green-goose girl Preen—Bah! she is a little shild for her mamma to vip and send to bed wizout her soop—paire. Madame Downes, you are a vairy foolish woman.”Mademoiselle Justine rose from her seat, and made a movement as if to push back a chair; but she had been seated upon a form which accommodated half a dozen more domestics, and in consequence she had to climb out and glide toward the door, through which she passed with a rustle like that of a cloud of dead leaves swept into a barn.“You’ve put ma’amselle out, Mrs Downes,” said Robbins with condescension.“That’s easy enough done, Mr Robbins. It’s her furren blood. I don’t like young people to be sneered at if they’re a bit tender. I’ve got a heart of my own.”“And a very good heart too, Mrs Downes,” said the butler.“Hear, hear,” said Joseph the footman.“Hear, hear, hear, hear, hear!” cried the page-boy, a young gentleman who lived in a constant state of suppression, and consequently in his youthful vivacity was always seeking an opportunity to come to the surface. This appeared to him to be one. His chief had paid a compliment which had been cheered by the said chief’s first-lieutenant Joseph, so Henry, the bearer of three rows of buttons, every one of which he longed to annex for purposes of play, cried “hear, hear, hear,” as the footman’s echo, and rapped loudly upon the table with the haft of his knife.A dead silence fell upon the occupants of the servants’ hall, and Henry longed to take flight; but the butler fixed him as the Ancient Mariner did the wedding guest, and held him with his glittering eye.“There, I knowed you’d do it,” whispered the footman. “You’re always up to some of your manoeuvres.”“Henry,” said the butler in his most severe tones, and with the look upon his countenance that he generally reserved for Lord Barmouth, “I don’t know where you were brought up, my good boy, and I don’t want to know, but have the goodness to recollect that you are now in a nobleman’s service, where, as there is no regular steward’s room for the upper servants, you are allowed to take your meals with your superiors. I have before had occasion to complain of your behaviour, eating with your knife, breathing all over your plate, and sniffing at the table in a most disgusting way.”“Hear, hear,” said Joseph in a low voice, and the boy thought it additionally hard that he was to be chidden while his fellow-servant in livery went free.Mr Robbins bowed his head graciously to his underling’s softly-breathed piece of adulation, and continued—“Once for all, my good boy, I must request that if you do not wish to be sent into the knife place to partake of your meals, you will cease your low pothouse conduct, and behave yourself properly.”The butler turned away with a dignified air, while Henry screwed up his face as if about to cry, bent down his head, and began to kick the footman’s legs under the table—a playful piece of impudence that the lofty servitor did not resent, Master Henry the buttons knowing too much of things in general appertaining to the pantry; sundry stealings out at night when other people were in bed, and when returns were made through the area door, and from good fellowship, for though there was a vast difference in years and size, Joseph’s brain was of much the same calibre as that of the boy.“Mrs Downes,” said the butler, after clearing his voice with a good cough, “your sentiments do you credit. You have a heart of your own, and what is more, you are English.”“I am, Mr Robbins, I am,” said the lady addressed, and she wiped her eyes.“Furreners are furreners,” continued the butler didactically; “but what I always will maintain is, that the English are so thoroughly English.”There was a murmur of applause here which warmed the imposing-looking butler’s heart, and he continued—“Your sentiments do you the greatest of credit, Mrs Downes; but you are too tender.”“I can’t help it, Mr Robbins,” said the lady pathetically.“And I’m sure no one wishes that you should, Mrs Downes, for I say it boldly so that all may hear,—except the two lady’s maids who have left the hall,—that a better cook, and a kinder fellow-servant never came into a house.”Another murmur of applause, and the cook sighed, shed two more tears, and felt, to use her own words, afterward expressed, “all of a fluster.”“Mr Robbins,” she began.“I beg your pardon, madam, I have not finished,” said the butler, smiling. “I only wished to observe, and I must say it even if I give offence to your delicate susceptibilities, madam, that that furren papist fellow with the organ haunts Portland Place like a regular demon, smiling at weak woman, and taking of her captive, when it’s well known what lives the poor creatures live out Saffron Hill way. I should feel as I was not doing my duty toward my fellow creatures if I didn’t protest against such a man having any encouragement here.”“Hear, hear,” said the footman again.“Some impudent person once observed,” continued the butler, “that when a footman married he took a room in a mews for his wife, and furnished it with a tub and a looking-glass.”“Haw, haw, haw!” laughed the buttons.“Henry, be silent, or you will have to leave the room,” said the butler, sternly. “A tub and a looking-glass, I repeat,” he added, as he looked round, “so that his wife might try to get her living by washing, and see herself starve.”A murmur of approval rose here from every one but the footman, who looked aggrieved, and kicked Henry beneath the table.“But what I say is this,” continued the butler, “the pore girl who lets herself be deluded into marrying one of those lazy rony organ men may have the looking-glass, for Italians is a vain nation; but from what I know of ’em, the pore wives will never have the tub, let alone the soap.”The butler smiled, and there was a burst of laughter, which ceased as the cook took up the defence.“Maybe,” she said, “but what I say is this, as I’ve said before, I can feel for a woman in love, for I have a heart of my own.”It was self-evident, for that heart was thoroughly doing its work of pumping the vital current so energetically, that the blood flushed the lady’s cheeks, rose into her forehead, and was beginning to suffuse her eyes, which looked angry, when a loud peal at the front door bell acted as a check to the discussion, Joseph going off to answer the summons as all arose, and the butler, to finish the debate, exclaimed—“Mark my words, no good won’t come of it if that man’s allowed to haunt this house, and—Well, of all the impudence! there he is again. I shall have to call her ladyship’s attention to the fact.”For Luigi was slowly grinding out the last new waltz, and it had such an effect on the more frivolous of the hired servants, that as soon as their elders had quitted the underground banquetting hall, two of them clasped each other, and began to spin round the place, proving that music had charms as well as the man.

“If I had my way,” said Mr Robbins, “I’d give orders to the poliss, and every one of ’em should be took up. They’re so fond of turning handles that I’d put ’em on the crank. I’d make ’em grind.”

“You have not the taste for the music, M’sieur Robbins,” said Mademoiselle Justine, looking up from her plate at dinner in the servants’ hall, and then glancing side wise at Dolly Preen, who was cutting her waxy potato up very small and soaking it in gravy, as she bent down so as not to show her burning face.

“Haven’t I, ma’amselle? P’r’aps not; but I had a brother who could a’most make a fiddle speak. I don’t call organs music, and I object on principle to a set of lazy ronies being encouraged about our house.”

Dolly’s face grew more scarlet, and Mademoiselle Justine’s mouth more tight as a couple of curious little curves played about the corners of her lips.

“Well, all I can say,” said the cook, “is, that he’s a very handsome man.”

“Handsome!” exclaimed Robbins, “I don’t call a man handsome as can’t shave, and never cuts his greasy hair. Handsome! Yah, a low, macaroni-eating, lazy rony, that’s what he is. There’s heaps of ’em always walking about outside the furren church doors, I’ve seen ’em myself.”

“But some of ’em’s exiles, Mr Robbins,” said the stout, amiable-looking cook. “I have ’eared as some on ’em’s princes in disguise.”

“My faith!” ejaculated Mademoiselle Justine, sardonically.

“Yes, ma’amselle, I ayve,” said cook, defiantly, “I don’t mean Frenchy exiles, with their coats buttoned up to their chins in Leicester Square, because they ain’t got no washing to put out, but Hightalian exiles.”

“Bah!” ejaculated Mademoiselle Justine, “that for you! What know you?” and she snapped her fingers.

“Pr’aps a deal more than some people thinks, and I don’t like to sit still and hear poor people sneered at because they are reduced to music.”

“But I don’t call that music,” said Robbins, contemptuously.

“Don’t you, Mr Robbins?—then I do.”

At this stage of the proceedings Dolly could bear her feelings no more, but got up and left the hall to ascend the back stairs to her own room, and sit down in a corner, and cover her face with her natty apron.

“Pore gell,” exclaimed the cook. “It’s too bad.”

“What is too bad, Madame Downes?” said Mademoiselle Framboise.

“To go on like that before the pore thing. She can’t help it.”

“Bah!” ejaculated the French maid, “it is disgust. An organ man! The child isaffreusement stupide.”

“I have a heart of my own,” sighed the cook.

“Yais, but you do not go to throw it to a man like that, Madame Downes.”

“Hear, hear!” said the butler, and there was a chorus of approval.

“I say it is disgust—disgrace,” continued Mademoiselle Justine. “The girl is mad, and should be sent home to thebonpapa down in the country.”

“I have a heart of my own,” said Mrs Downes again. “Ah, you needn’t laugh, Mary Ann. Some people likes footmen next door.”

The housemaid addressed tossed her head and exclaimed, “Well, I’m sure!”

“And so am I,” replied the cook, regardless of the sneers and smiles of the rest of the domestics at the table. “As I said before, I have a heart of my own, and if some people follow the example of their betters,”—here Mrs Downes stared very hard at the contemptuous countenance of the French maid,—“and like the furren element, it’s no business of nobody’s.”

Madame Justine’s eyes flashed.

“Did you make that saying for me, Madame Downes?” she flashed out viciously.

“Sayings ain’t puddens,” retorted cook.

“I say, make you that vairy witty jeer for me?” cried Mademoiselle Justine viciously.

“What I say is,” continued the cook, who, having a blunter tongue, stood on her defence, but heaping up dull verbiage round her position as a guard against the Frenchwoman’s sharp attack, “that a man’s a man, and if he’s a furrener it ain’t no fault of his. I should say he’s a count at least, and he’s very handsome.”

“Counts don’t count in this country,” said Robbins smiling, and waiting for the applause of the table.

“Count indeed!” cried Mademoiselle Justine. “Count you the fork and spoons, Mr Robbins, and see that these canaille music men come not down the air—ree. As for that green-goose girl Preen—Bah! she is a little shild for her mamma to vip and send to bed wizout her soop—paire. Madame Downes, you are a vairy foolish woman.”

Mademoiselle Justine rose from her seat, and made a movement as if to push back a chair; but she had been seated upon a form which accommodated half a dozen more domestics, and in consequence she had to climb out and glide toward the door, through which she passed with a rustle like that of a cloud of dead leaves swept into a barn.

“You’ve put ma’amselle out, Mrs Downes,” said Robbins with condescension.

“That’s easy enough done, Mr Robbins. It’s her furren blood. I don’t like young people to be sneered at if they’re a bit tender. I’ve got a heart of my own.”

“And a very good heart too, Mrs Downes,” said the butler.

“Hear, hear,” said Joseph the footman.

“Hear, hear, hear, hear, hear!” cried the page-boy, a young gentleman who lived in a constant state of suppression, and consequently in his youthful vivacity was always seeking an opportunity to come to the surface. This appeared to him to be one. His chief had paid a compliment which had been cheered by the said chief’s first-lieutenant Joseph, so Henry, the bearer of three rows of buttons, every one of which he longed to annex for purposes of play, cried “hear, hear, hear,” as the footman’s echo, and rapped loudly upon the table with the haft of his knife.

A dead silence fell upon the occupants of the servants’ hall, and Henry longed to take flight; but the butler fixed him as the Ancient Mariner did the wedding guest, and held him with his glittering eye.

“There, I knowed you’d do it,” whispered the footman. “You’re always up to some of your manoeuvres.”

“Henry,” said the butler in his most severe tones, and with the look upon his countenance that he generally reserved for Lord Barmouth, “I don’t know where you were brought up, my good boy, and I don’t want to know, but have the goodness to recollect that you are now in a nobleman’s service, where, as there is no regular steward’s room for the upper servants, you are allowed to take your meals with your superiors. I have before had occasion to complain of your behaviour, eating with your knife, breathing all over your plate, and sniffing at the table in a most disgusting way.”

“Hear, hear,” said Joseph in a low voice, and the boy thought it additionally hard that he was to be chidden while his fellow-servant in livery went free.

Mr Robbins bowed his head graciously to his underling’s softly-breathed piece of adulation, and continued—

“Once for all, my good boy, I must request that if you do not wish to be sent into the knife place to partake of your meals, you will cease your low pothouse conduct, and behave yourself properly.”

The butler turned away with a dignified air, while Henry screwed up his face as if about to cry, bent down his head, and began to kick the footman’s legs under the table—a playful piece of impudence that the lofty servitor did not resent, Master Henry the buttons knowing too much of things in general appertaining to the pantry; sundry stealings out at night when other people were in bed, and when returns were made through the area door, and from good fellowship, for though there was a vast difference in years and size, Joseph’s brain was of much the same calibre as that of the boy.

“Mrs Downes,” said the butler, after clearing his voice with a good cough, “your sentiments do you credit. You have a heart of your own, and what is more, you are English.”

“I am, Mr Robbins, I am,” said the lady addressed, and she wiped her eyes.

“Furreners are furreners,” continued the butler didactically; “but what I always will maintain is, that the English are so thoroughly English.”

There was a murmur of applause here which warmed the imposing-looking butler’s heart, and he continued—

“Your sentiments do you the greatest of credit, Mrs Downes; but you are too tender.”

“I can’t help it, Mr Robbins,” said the lady pathetically.

“And I’m sure no one wishes that you should, Mrs Downes, for I say it boldly so that all may hear,—except the two lady’s maids who have left the hall,—that a better cook, and a kinder fellow-servant never came into a house.”

Another murmur of applause, and the cook sighed, shed two more tears, and felt, to use her own words, afterward expressed, “all of a fluster.”

“Mr Robbins,” she began.

“I beg your pardon, madam, I have not finished,” said the butler, smiling. “I only wished to observe, and I must say it even if I give offence to your delicate susceptibilities, madam, that that furren papist fellow with the organ haunts Portland Place like a regular demon, smiling at weak woman, and taking of her captive, when it’s well known what lives the poor creatures live out Saffron Hill way. I should feel as I was not doing my duty toward my fellow creatures if I didn’t protest against such a man having any encouragement here.”

“Hear, hear,” said the footman again.

“Some impudent person once observed,” continued the butler, “that when a footman married he took a room in a mews for his wife, and furnished it with a tub and a looking-glass.”

“Haw, haw, haw!” laughed the buttons.

“Henry, be silent, or you will have to leave the room,” said the butler, sternly. “A tub and a looking-glass, I repeat,” he added, as he looked round, “so that his wife might try to get her living by washing, and see herself starve.”

A murmur of approval rose here from every one but the footman, who looked aggrieved, and kicked Henry beneath the table.

“But what I say is this,” continued the butler, “the pore girl who lets herself be deluded into marrying one of those lazy rony organ men may have the looking-glass, for Italians is a vain nation; but from what I know of ’em, the pore wives will never have the tub, let alone the soap.”

The butler smiled, and there was a burst of laughter, which ceased as the cook took up the defence.

“Maybe,” she said, “but what I say is this, as I’ve said before, I can feel for a woman in love, for I have a heart of my own.”

It was self-evident, for that heart was thoroughly doing its work of pumping the vital current so energetically, that the blood flushed the lady’s cheeks, rose into her forehead, and was beginning to suffuse her eyes, which looked angry, when a loud peal at the front door bell acted as a check to the discussion, Joseph going off to answer the summons as all arose, and the butler, to finish the debate, exclaimed—

“Mark my words, no good won’t come of it if that man’s allowed to haunt this house, and—Well, of all the impudence! there he is again. I shall have to call her ladyship’s attention to the fact.”

For Luigi was slowly grinding out the last new waltz, and it had such an effect on the more frivolous of the hired servants, that as soon as their elders had quitted the underground banquetting hall, two of them clasped each other, and began to spin round the place, proving that music had charms as well as the man.

Chapter Eight.Family Matters.Charley Melton made up his mind that he would behave honourably, and he called several times more at Portland Place, till it became evident that there was no prospect of his being admitted. He saw the carriage twice in the Park, and bowed, to obtain a cold recognition from her ladyship the first time, the cut direct from her the second time, and an agonised look from Maude.“That’s the second time this week,” he muttered angrily; “I must end this.” He stopped short, leaning over the rails and watching the carriage as it was pulled up, and a fashionably-dressed gentleman went to the door and stood talking for some considerable time.“My rival, I suppose. Sir Grantley Wilters, then, is to be the happy man? Here, come along, Joby, it is time to take to stratagem. I wonder what has become of Tom?”The next day a special message was sent to that medical attendant, Doctor Todd, Lady Barmouth imploring him to come directly, as Maude was so ill that she was growing uneasy.“Humph!” said the doctor, “poor girl. But she must wait her turn.”He hurried through his interviews with his regular patients, and reached Portland Place just as lunch was going in; but it was put back while Lady Barmouth took him into the drawing-room, where Maude was seated.“Ah, my dear!” he exclaimed, in his cheery way. “Why, I say, what’s the matter?”He sat talking to her for some little time, wrote a prescription, and then rose.“There, Lady Barmouth,” he said; “that is all I can do. Give her changeandpeace of mind, and she will soon be well.”“Indeed, doctor,” cried her ladyship, “she shall have everything she can wish for. As to peace of mind, why what is there to disturb it? It is our peace of mind that suffers. Poor Sir Grantley Wilters is half distracted about her.”“Is he?” said the doctor, bluntly. “Why, what has it got to do with him?”“Hush, doctor! Fie!” exclaimed her ladyship, smiling. “There, you are making somebody blush. It is too bad.”Maude darted an indignant glance at her mother, and with flaming cheeks and eyes full of tears left the room.“Poor girl, she is so hysterical,” said her ladyship. “Ah, these young girls, these young girls! Of course you will stay lunch, doctor?”“Yes,” he said shortly, “I intended to. I’m precious hungry, and you’ve put me out of my usual course.”“I’m so sorry,” said her ladyship; “but it was very good of you to come,” as the door opened and the earl came toddling into the room.“Ah, doctor,” he said, “doosed glad to see you. Did you hear my leg was threatening again?”“No,” said the doctor, shaking hands. “We must have a consultation.”“And forbid so many good things, doctor,” said her ladyship, with asperity.“But, my dear, I—I—I’m pretty nearly starved; it’s poverty of blood, I’m sure.”“Well, come and have a good lunch,” said the doctor. “I’ll see that you have nothing to disagree with you.”“Thank you, doctor, thank you,” said the old gentleman, as the gong began to sound and they went down, Tryphie and Tom coming out of another room—Maude joining them, looking now quite composed.“I remember when I was a boy,” said Lord Barmouth, suddenly.“Yes, my love,” said her ladyship, stiffly; “but you’ve told us that before.”“Have I, my dear?” said his lordship, looking troubled, and then there was a little pause.“I may have a glass of hock, may I not, doctor?” said the old man, as the luncheon went on.“Eh? Yes.—I say, what’s your name, bring me the hock, some seltzer and a glass,” said the doctor to Robbins. “Yes, my dear,” he continued to Tryphie, “I would rather any day go to the Tyrol than along the beaten track through the Alps.”The butler brought the hock and seltzer, and a large tumbler, into which such a liberal portion of wine was poured that Lady Barmouth looked horrified, and the old gentleman chuckled and squeezed Maude’s hand under the table.“Is not that too much, doctor?” whispered her ladyship.“Eh? Much? oh no. Do him good,” said the doctor, filling up the glass with seltzer. “There, take that to his lordship.”“I say, father,” said Tom, giving her ladyship a mocking smile, “I watched the quantities. I’ll mix your hock for you in future.”The luncheon went on, the doctor chatting merrily, while his lordship became, under the influence of so strong a dose of medicine, quite garrulous.“I say, doctor,” he said, chuckling, “did—did you hear that deuced good story about Lady Grace Moray?”“No,” said the doctor; “what was it?”“Capital story, and quite true—he he, he!” chuckled the old gentleman. “She—she—she—begad, she was disappointed of one fellow, and—and—and, damme if she didn’t run off with the butler.”“Barmouth!” exclaimed her ladyship, austerely, “I am glad that the servants are not in the room.”“It’s—it’s—it’s a fact, my dear,” said the old gentleman, wiping his eyes. “Bolted with him, she did, and—and—and, damme, I forget how it all ended. I say, Tom, my boy, how—how—how the doose did that affair end?”“Got married and made a fool of herself,” said Tom sharply.“Do people always make fools of themselves who marry, Tom?” said Tryphie in a low voice.“Always,” he whispered back, “if they marry people chosen for them in place of those they love.”“I must request, Barmouth, my dear, that you do not tell such stories as that. They are loathsome and repulsive. Lady Grace Moray comes of a very low type of family. Her grandfather married a butterman’s daughter, or something of that kind. They have no breeding.”“I—I—I think I left my handkerchief in the drawing-room,” said his lordship, rising.“Why not ring, my love?” said her ladyship.“No, no, no, I would rather fetch it myself,” said his lordship, who left the room, went up two or three stairs, stopped, listened, and then toddled back to where, on a tray, the remains of a tongue stood in company with an empty vegetable dish or two.There was a great piece, too, of the point quite six inches long lying detached, for the doctor’s arm was vigorous, and he had cut the tongue quite through. Such a chance was not offered every day, and it would not only make a couple or three pleasant snacks when his lordship was hungry, but it would keep.He listened: all was still, and, cautiously advancing, he secured the piece of dry firm tongue. Then he started as if electrified. Robbins’ cough was heard on the stairs, and his lordship dabbed the delicacy away in the handiest place, and turned towards the door as the butler appeared in the hall.“What game’s he up to now?” said Robbins to himself, as, with his memory reminding him of the trouble he had had to sponge and brush the tails of the old gentleman’s dress coats, which used to be found matted with gummy gravies and sauces, so that the pocket linings had had to be several times replaced, he opened the dining-room door.“I—I—I think I left my handkerchief upstairs Robbins,” said his lordship humbly; and he toddled in again and retook his place.The luncheon ended, the party rose and stood chatting about the room, while the doctor was in earnest conversation with Maude and her ladyship.“Nothing at all,” he said firmly, “but low spirits from mental causes, and these are matters for which mothers and fathers must prescribe.”“It’s—it’s—doosed hard to be so short of money,” said his lordship to himself as he was left alone; and then thinking of the tongue, he tried to get to the door, but a look from her ladyship sent him back. “It’s—it’s—doosed hard. I shall have to go to little Tryphie again. He, he, he! her ladyship don’t know,” he chuckled, “I’ve—I’ve left her five thousand in my will, bless her. I wish she’d buy me some more Bath buns.”He crossed to where the bright little girl was standing, and she advanced to him directly.“Can you lend me another five shillings, Tryphie?” he whispered.“Yes, uncle,” she replied, nodding and smiling. “I’ll get it and put it under the china dog on the right hand cabinet.”“That’s right, my dear; it’s—it’s—it’s so doosed awkward to be so short, and I don’t like to ask her ladyship.”“Well, I must go,” said the doctor loudly. “Good-bye all. Good-bye, my dear,” he continued to Maude. Then he pinched Tryphie’s cheek, shook hands with the old man and was gone.“So clever,” sighed her ladyship, “that we look over his rough, eccentric ways. I believe that I should not have been here now if it had not been for his skill.”“Then damn the doctor,” said Tom to himself, for he was in a very unfilial mood.“Oh, by the way,” said the gentleman spoken of, as he came hurriedly back, sending the door open so that it banged upon a chair, “Lady Maude, my dear, you are only to take that medicine when you feel low.”As he spoke he hitched on his light overcoat that he had partly donned in the hall, and then, fishing in one of the pockets for his gloves, he brought out a piece of tongue.“Oh, bless my soul!” muttered his lordship; and he toddled towards the window.“What the dickens is this?” cried the doctor, holding out his find, and putting up his double eye-glass. “Tongue, by jingo! Is this one of your tricks, my Lord Tom?”“No,” roared Tom, as he burst out laughing, and followed his father to the window, where the old gentleman was nervously gazing forth.“I’m so sorry,” said her ladyship, quivering with indignation. “It must have been one of the servants, or the cat.”“Well,” said the doctor, solemnly, “I’ll swear I didn’t steal it. I might perhaps have pocketed something good, but I hadn’t got this coat on.”“Pray say no more, doctor,” said her ladyship. “Robbins, bring a plate and take this away.”“Yes, my lady,” said the butler, who was waiting in the hall to show the doctor out; and he made matters worse by advancing with a stately march, taking a plate and silver fork from the sideboard, removed the piece of tongue from the doctor’s fingers with the fork; and then deftly thrusting it off with his thumb on to the plate, he marched out with it, the ladies all bursting into busy conversation to cover his retreat.Then the doctor went, and a general ascent towards the drawing-room was commenced, his lordship hanging back, and Tom stopping to try and avert the storm.“Such idiotic—such disgraceful proceedings, Barmouth,” exclaimed her ladyship, closing the dining-room door.“There, that will do, mother,” said Tom, quietly. “Lookers-on see most of the game.”“What do you mean, sir?” said her ladyship.“Why this,” said Tom, savagely. “There, don’t faint; because if you do I shan’t stop and attend you.”“If I only dared to face her like my son Tom,” said his lordship to himself; “damme, he’s as brave as a little lion, my son Tom.”“Sir, your language is most disgraceful,” said her ladyship, haughtily.“That’s what all people think when something is said that they don’t like. Now look here, mother; I don’t mean to stand by any more and see the old man bullied.”“Bless him, I am proud of that boy,” thought his lordship. “Damme, he’s little, but he’s a man.”“Diphoos!” cried her ladyship.“I don’t say it was not stupid of the gov’nor to go and take that piece of tongue, and put it in the wrong pocket.”“But, my dear boy, I—”“Hold your tongue, gov’nor,” cried Tom. “It was stupid and idiotic of him perhaps, but not one half so stupid and idiotic as some things I see done here.”“Tom, I do not know what you mean,” cried her ladyship.“Well, I mean this. It was idiotic to marry Di to liver-pill Goole, as they call him; and ten times more idiotic to encourage that racing cad, Captain Bellman, here; while it was madness to cut Charley Melton adrift, and try to bring things to an understanding between Maude and that hospital dummy, Wilters.”“Your language, sir, is frightful,” cried her ladyship, whose voice was rising in spite of herself. “Hospital dummy!”“So he is; I could drive my fist right through his tottering carcase. He’s only fit to stuff and put in a glass case as a warning to young men.”“I wish—I wish—I wish I could pat him on the back,” muttered Lord Barmouth. “He’s brave as a lion.”“Sir Grantley Wilters has my consent to pay his addresses to your sister,” said her ladyship with dignity; “and as for your disgusting remarks about Captain Bellman, he comes here with my consent to see your cousin Tryphie, for whom he will be an excellentparti.”“Parti—funeral party. An excellent corpse,” cried Tom in a rage, “for, damme, I’ll shoot him on his wedding morning before he shall have her.”“You will have to leave home, sir, and live in chambers,” said her ladyship. “You grow too low for society.”“What, and let you have your own way here, mother! No, hang it, that you shan’t. You may stop my allowance, but I stop here; so don’t look blank, dad.”“Don’t speak angrily to your mamma, my dear boy,” said Lord Barmouth.“All right, gov’nor.”“As to your friend and companion, whom you brought to this house, and who pretended, like an impostor as he is, to have good expectations—”“He never did anything of the kind,” said Tom. “He always said he hadn’t a rap.”“Such a person ought never to have been brought near your sweet, pure-minded sisters,” continued her ladyship; “I found out that he was an impostor, and now I hear that he gambles and is in debt.”“Who told you that?” roared Tom.“Never mind.”“But I insist on knowing.”“Hush, hush, my boy,” said his lordship, twitching Tom’s coat.“Be quiet, gov’nor. Who told you that, mamma?” cried Tom.“I heard it from good authority,” said her ladyship as Lord Barmouth beat a retreat.“Then good authority is a confounded liar,” cried Tom, as her ladyship sailed out of the room, and after he had cooled down a little and looked round, he found his lordship had gone.Tom went into the cloak-room, where he came upon his father sitting on a box, busily spreading a biscuit with some mysterious condiment which he dug out of a pot with a paper-knife.“Poor old Charley,” said Tom, not heeding his father’s occupation, “he’s the soul of honour—a regular trump. Look here, gov’nor,” he cried, turning sharply on the old gentleman and making him jump.“Don’t you bully me too, my dear boy,” said the old man, trembling. “I can’t bear it!”“I’m not going to bully you, gov’nor,” cried Tom, laying his hands on the old man’s shoulders affectionately; “but are you going to stand up for your rights or are you not? Look here—that tongue!”“Yes, my boy, I did take it—I own it. I thought I might be hungry to-morrow, I have such a dreadful appetite, my boy.”“Then why not ring and order that pompous old fizzle Robbins to bring you up something to eat?”“I daren’t, my dear boy, I daren’t. Her ladyship has given such strict orders to the servants, and I feel so humiliated when they refuse me.”“Of course you do, gov’nor. Then why don’t you go down to the club?”“I can’t Tom, my boy. There’s no credit there, and her ladyship keeps me so horribly short of money.”“It’s too bad; but come, gov’nor. I’m not afraid of mamma, and I’m not nearly so big as you are.”“But, my boy,” whimpered the old man? with a piteous look upon his face, “I look bigger than I am, but it isn’t all real: there’s a deal of padding, Tom, and that’s no good. That tailor fellow said I must have a lot of filling out.”He drew out his pocket-handkerchief to wipe away a weak tear, while Tom looked at him, half sorry, half amused, laughing at length outright as the poor old man smeared something brown and sticky across his face.“Why, gov’nor!” he cried reproachfully, as something round and brown and flat fell upon the carpet.“It’s only a veal cutlet, my son,” said the old man, piteously, as he stooped and picked it up before wiping his face. “You see I didn’t know then that I should get the piece of tongue.”“Oh, gov’nor, gov’nor!” cried Tom.“Don’t scold me, my dear boy,” pleaded the old man. “I am so padded out. There’s much less of me when my coat’s off. But I’m nothing to what your dear mamma is. Really the way she makes up is a gross imposture. If you only knew what I know, Tom, you’d be astonished.”“I know quite enough,” growled Tom, “and wouldn’t care if she were not so false inside.”“Don’t say that, Tom, my boy. She’s a wonderful woman, and means all for the best.”“But, my dear old gov’nor,” said Tom, “this is all so very weak of you.”“Well, it is, my boy.”“You must pluck up, or we shall be ruined,” continued Tom, taking up a napkin and removing a little tomato sauce from his parent’s brow.“No, my boy—no, my boy, don’t say that; but I can’t bear to ask her ladyship for money. It does make her so cross.”“It isn’t pleasant,” said Tom; “but there, you go up in the drawing-room, and watch over Maude like a lion; I don’t want to see her made miserable.”“I will, Tom, my boy, I will.”“And I say, gov’nor, you will stick up?”“Yes, Tom, my boy, yes,” said the old man. “There, you shall see. Going out?”“Yes, gov’nor, I want to hunt out Charley Melton. I haven’t see him for an age. He’s always away somewhere.”“Give my kind regards, Tom. He’s a fine fellow—Damme, I like Charley. But I’m afraid he thinks me very weak.”“Nonsense, dad,” cried Tom; “but, I say, what’s that in your pocket?”“Oh, nothing, my son, nothing,” said the old man, in a confused way, as Tom pounced upon his pocket and dragged out something in a handkerchief. “Why bless my soul,” he cried, in a surprised tone of voice, as he raised his glasses to his eyes, “if it isn’t a patty.”“Yes, gov’nor, and you’ve been sitting on it. Now, I say, old fellow, that is weak. Pah! why it smells of eau-de-Cologne from your handkerchief. You couldn’t eat that.”“I’m afraid I couldn’t, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman, wrinkling up his forehead.“Gov’nor, you’re incorrigible,” cried Tom. “Only this morning Joseph told me in confidence that you had borrowed five shillings of him, and I had to give it him back, leaving myself without a shilling. Hang me, if you do such things as this again, if I don’t tell the old lady.”“No, no, my boy, pray don’t,” said the old gentleman, anxiously, “and I’ll never do so any more.”“Till the very next time,” said Tom, sharply. “Gov’nor, you’re afraid of the servants, and you are always stealing something.”“I—I—I am a little afraid of Robbins,” faltered the old man gently; “and that big footman Joseph rather looks at me; but, Tom, my boy, it ought not to be stealing for me to take my own things.”“Well, I suppose not, gov’nor; but it really is absurd to see you send a chicken bone flying across a drawing-room when you take out your handkerchief and your coat-tails stiff with gravy.”“It is, my son,” said the old man, hastily; “but about Charley Melton. I like him, Tom.”“And so do I, father.—He’s my friend, and I’ll stick to him too.”He said the latter words in the hall, as he put on his hat and took his cane, paused to light a very strong cigar of the kind her ladyship detested to smell in the house, and then, with his hat cocked defiantly on one side, sallied out, looking so small in Great Portland Place that he seemed lost.As the door closed upon him, Lord Barmouth came out of the lavatory, and met Robbins the butler and a footman coming to clear away the lunch things.Lord Barmouth looked up and down, and then took the pompous butler by the button.“Robbins,” he said, “if her ladyship does not object, I shall not wear my second dress suit any more.”“Thank you, my lord,” said the butler with solemn dignity.“And, Robbins,” added his lordship, in a hurried whisper, “what did you do with that piece of tongue?”“Took it down into the kitchen, my lord.”“Ask Mrs Downes to give it back to you, Robbins—for me.”“Yes, my lord.”“Wrap it up in paper, Robbins.”“Yes, my lord.”“And by the way, Robbins,” continued the old gentleman, after a sharp look round, like a sparrow in fear of cats, “could you oblige me with five pounds?”“Well really, my lord—you see you owe me—”“Sixty-five, Robbins.”“And interest, my lord.”“Of course, Robbins, of course; and you shall have it all back; but you see, Robbins, it is not always easy to lay one’s hands on a few pounds to give to my son. You know it is quite safe.”“Oh, of course, my lord.”“I don’t like to be so situated that I cannot oblige him with a sovereign now and then.”“Of course not, my lord. Will your lordship be good enough to write me an I.O.U.?”“Certainly, Robbins, certainly. There—there—that’s it. I.O.U. five pounds—Barmouth. Thank you, Robbins; you are a most valuable servant.”“Thank you, my lord.”“I’ve put you down for something handsome in my will, Robbins, so that if I should die some day, as I probably shall, you’ll burn these I.O.U.s, Robbins, and pay yourself out of what I’ve left.”“Certainly, my lord; but suppose—”“The will is disputed? Oh no, Robbins, I can do what I like with my money then, and I shall not be ungrateful.”The old man took the five pounds and went off, chuckling with delight at being able to supply Tom with a little hard cash next time that gentleman was short, which would be next day; while the butler said something to himself which sounded like—“Poor old magpie. Well, he ain’t a bad sort, and that’s more than you can say of the dragon.”

Charley Melton made up his mind that he would behave honourably, and he called several times more at Portland Place, till it became evident that there was no prospect of his being admitted. He saw the carriage twice in the Park, and bowed, to obtain a cold recognition from her ladyship the first time, the cut direct from her the second time, and an agonised look from Maude.

“That’s the second time this week,” he muttered angrily; “I must end this.” He stopped short, leaning over the rails and watching the carriage as it was pulled up, and a fashionably-dressed gentleman went to the door and stood talking for some considerable time.

“My rival, I suppose. Sir Grantley Wilters, then, is to be the happy man? Here, come along, Joby, it is time to take to stratagem. I wonder what has become of Tom?”

The next day a special message was sent to that medical attendant, Doctor Todd, Lady Barmouth imploring him to come directly, as Maude was so ill that she was growing uneasy.

“Humph!” said the doctor, “poor girl. But she must wait her turn.”

He hurried through his interviews with his regular patients, and reached Portland Place just as lunch was going in; but it was put back while Lady Barmouth took him into the drawing-room, where Maude was seated.

“Ah, my dear!” he exclaimed, in his cheery way. “Why, I say, what’s the matter?”

He sat talking to her for some little time, wrote a prescription, and then rose.

“There, Lady Barmouth,” he said; “that is all I can do. Give her changeandpeace of mind, and she will soon be well.”

“Indeed, doctor,” cried her ladyship, “she shall have everything she can wish for. As to peace of mind, why what is there to disturb it? It is our peace of mind that suffers. Poor Sir Grantley Wilters is half distracted about her.”

“Is he?” said the doctor, bluntly. “Why, what has it got to do with him?”

“Hush, doctor! Fie!” exclaimed her ladyship, smiling. “There, you are making somebody blush. It is too bad.”

Maude darted an indignant glance at her mother, and with flaming cheeks and eyes full of tears left the room.

“Poor girl, she is so hysterical,” said her ladyship. “Ah, these young girls, these young girls! Of course you will stay lunch, doctor?”

“Yes,” he said shortly, “I intended to. I’m precious hungry, and you’ve put me out of my usual course.”

“I’m so sorry,” said her ladyship; “but it was very good of you to come,” as the door opened and the earl came toddling into the room.

“Ah, doctor,” he said, “doosed glad to see you. Did you hear my leg was threatening again?”

“No,” said the doctor, shaking hands. “We must have a consultation.”

“And forbid so many good things, doctor,” said her ladyship, with asperity.

“But, my dear, I—I—I’m pretty nearly starved; it’s poverty of blood, I’m sure.”

“Well, come and have a good lunch,” said the doctor. “I’ll see that you have nothing to disagree with you.”

“Thank you, doctor, thank you,” said the old gentleman, as the gong began to sound and they went down, Tryphie and Tom coming out of another room—Maude joining them, looking now quite composed.

“I remember when I was a boy,” said Lord Barmouth, suddenly.

“Yes, my love,” said her ladyship, stiffly; “but you’ve told us that before.”

“Have I, my dear?” said his lordship, looking troubled, and then there was a little pause.

“I may have a glass of hock, may I not, doctor?” said the old man, as the luncheon went on.

“Eh? Yes.—I say, what’s your name, bring me the hock, some seltzer and a glass,” said the doctor to Robbins. “Yes, my dear,” he continued to Tryphie, “I would rather any day go to the Tyrol than along the beaten track through the Alps.”

The butler brought the hock and seltzer, and a large tumbler, into which such a liberal portion of wine was poured that Lady Barmouth looked horrified, and the old gentleman chuckled and squeezed Maude’s hand under the table.

“Is not that too much, doctor?” whispered her ladyship.

“Eh? Much? oh no. Do him good,” said the doctor, filling up the glass with seltzer. “There, take that to his lordship.”

“I say, father,” said Tom, giving her ladyship a mocking smile, “I watched the quantities. I’ll mix your hock for you in future.”

The luncheon went on, the doctor chatting merrily, while his lordship became, under the influence of so strong a dose of medicine, quite garrulous.

“I say, doctor,” he said, chuckling, “did—did you hear that deuced good story about Lady Grace Moray?”

“No,” said the doctor; “what was it?”

“Capital story, and quite true—he he, he!” chuckled the old gentleman. “She—she—she—begad, she was disappointed of one fellow, and—and—and, damme if she didn’t run off with the butler.”

“Barmouth!” exclaimed her ladyship, austerely, “I am glad that the servants are not in the room.”

“It’s—it’s—it’s a fact, my dear,” said the old gentleman, wiping his eyes. “Bolted with him, she did, and—and—and, damme, I forget how it all ended. I say, Tom, my boy, how—how—how the doose did that affair end?”

“Got married and made a fool of herself,” said Tom sharply.

“Do people always make fools of themselves who marry, Tom?” said Tryphie in a low voice.

“Always,” he whispered back, “if they marry people chosen for them in place of those they love.”

“I must request, Barmouth, my dear, that you do not tell such stories as that. They are loathsome and repulsive. Lady Grace Moray comes of a very low type of family. Her grandfather married a butterman’s daughter, or something of that kind. They have no breeding.”

“I—I—I think I left my handkerchief in the drawing-room,” said his lordship, rising.

“Why not ring, my love?” said her ladyship.

“No, no, no, I would rather fetch it myself,” said his lordship, who left the room, went up two or three stairs, stopped, listened, and then toddled back to where, on a tray, the remains of a tongue stood in company with an empty vegetable dish or two.

There was a great piece, too, of the point quite six inches long lying detached, for the doctor’s arm was vigorous, and he had cut the tongue quite through. Such a chance was not offered every day, and it would not only make a couple or three pleasant snacks when his lordship was hungry, but it would keep.

He listened: all was still, and, cautiously advancing, he secured the piece of dry firm tongue. Then he started as if electrified. Robbins’ cough was heard on the stairs, and his lordship dabbed the delicacy away in the handiest place, and turned towards the door as the butler appeared in the hall.

“What game’s he up to now?” said Robbins to himself, as, with his memory reminding him of the trouble he had had to sponge and brush the tails of the old gentleman’s dress coats, which used to be found matted with gummy gravies and sauces, so that the pocket linings had had to be several times replaced, he opened the dining-room door.

“I—I—I think I left my handkerchief upstairs Robbins,” said his lordship humbly; and he toddled in again and retook his place.

The luncheon ended, the party rose and stood chatting about the room, while the doctor was in earnest conversation with Maude and her ladyship.

“Nothing at all,” he said firmly, “but low spirits from mental causes, and these are matters for which mothers and fathers must prescribe.”

“It’s—it’s—doosed hard to be so short of money,” said his lordship to himself as he was left alone; and then thinking of the tongue, he tried to get to the door, but a look from her ladyship sent him back. “It’s—it’s—doosed hard. I shall have to go to little Tryphie again. He, he, he! her ladyship don’t know,” he chuckled, “I’ve—I’ve left her five thousand in my will, bless her. I wish she’d buy me some more Bath buns.”

He crossed to where the bright little girl was standing, and she advanced to him directly.

“Can you lend me another five shillings, Tryphie?” he whispered.

“Yes, uncle,” she replied, nodding and smiling. “I’ll get it and put it under the china dog on the right hand cabinet.”

“That’s right, my dear; it’s—it’s—it’s so doosed awkward to be so short, and I don’t like to ask her ladyship.”

“Well, I must go,” said the doctor loudly. “Good-bye all. Good-bye, my dear,” he continued to Maude. Then he pinched Tryphie’s cheek, shook hands with the old man and was gone.

“So clever,” sighed her ladyship, “that we look over his rough, eccentric ways. I believe that I should not have been here now if it had not been for his skill.”

“Then damn the doctor,” said Tom to himself, for he was in a very unfilial mood.

“Oh, by the way,” said the gentleman spoken of, as he came hurriedly back, sending the door open so that it banged upon a chair, “Lady Maude, my dear, you are only to take that medicine when you feel low.”

As he spoke he hitched on his light overcoat that he had partly donned in the hall, and then, fishing in one of the pockets for his gloves, he brought out a piece of tongue.

“Oh, bless my soul!” muttered his lordship; and he toddled towards the window.

“What the dickens is this?” cried the doctor, holding out his find, and putting up his double eye-glass. “Tongue, by jingo! Is this one of your tricks, my Lord Tom?”

“No,” roared Tom, as he burst out laughing, and followed his father to the window, where the old gentleman was nervously gazing forth.

“I’m so sorry,” said her ladyship, quivering with indignation. “It must have been one of the servants, or the cat.”

“Well,” said the doctor, solemnly, “I’ll swear I didn’t steal it. I might perhaps have pocketed something good, but I hadn’t got this coat on.”

“Pray say no more, doctor,” said her ladyship. “Robbins, bring a plate and take this away.”

“Yes, my lady,” said the butler, who was waiting in the hall to show the doctor out; and he made matters worse by advancing with a stately march, taking a plate and silver fork from the sideboard, removed the piece of tongue from the doctor’s fingers with the fork; and then deftly thrusting it off with his thumb on to the plate, he marched out with it, the ladies all bursting into busy conversation to cover his retreat.

Then the doctor went, and a general ascent towards the drawing-room was commenced, his lordship hanging back, and Tom stopping to try and avert the storm.

“Such idiotic—such disgraceful proceedings, Barmouth,” exclaimed her ladyship, closing the dining-room door.

“There, that will do, mother,” said Tom, quietly. “Lookers-on see most of the game.”

“What do you mean, sir?” said her ladyship.

“Why this,” said Tom, savagely. “There, don’t faint; because if you do I shan’t stop and attend you.”

“If I only dared to face her like my son Tom,” said his lordship to himself; “damme, he’s as brave as a little lion, my son Tom.”

“Sir, your language is most disgraceful,” said her ladyship, haughtily.

“That’s what all people think when something is said that they don’t like. Now look here, mother; I don’t mean to stand by any more and see the old man bullied.”

“Bless him, I am proud of that boy,” thought his lordship. “Damme, he’s little, but he’s a man.”

“Diphoos!” cried her ladyship.

“I don’t say it was not stupid of the gov’nor to go and take that piece of tongue, and put it in the wrong pocket.”

“But, my dear boy, I—”

“Hold your tongue, gov’nor,” cried Tom. “It was stupid and idiotic of him perhaps, but not one half so stupid and idiotic as some things I see done here.”

“Tom, I do not know what you mean,” cried her ladyship.

“Well, I mean this. It was idiotic to marry Di to liver-pill Goole, as they call him; and ten times more idiotic to encourage that racing cad, Captain Bellman, here; while it was madness to cut Charley Melton adrift, and try to bring things to an understanding between Maude and that hospital dummy, Wilters.”

“Your language, sir, is frightful,” cried her ladyship, whose voice was rising in spite of herself. “Hospital dummy!”

“So he is; I could drive my fist right through his tottering carcase. He’s only fit to stuff and put in a glass case as a warning to young men.”

“I wish—I wish—I wish I could pat him on the back,” muttered Lord Barmouth. “He’s brave as a lion.”

“Sir Grantley Wilters has my consent to pay his addresses to your sister,” said her ladyship with dignity; “and as for your disgusting remarks about Captain Bellman, he comes here with my consent to see your cousin Tryphie, for whom he will be an excellentparti.”

“Parti—funeral party. An excellent corpse,” cried Tom in a rage, “for, damme, I’ll shoot him on his wedding morning before he shall have her.”

“You will have to leave home, sir, and live in chambers,” said her ladyship. “You grow too low for society.”

“What, and let you have your own way here, mother! No, hang it, that you shan’t. You may stop my allowance, but I stop here; so don’t look blank, dad.”

“Don’t speak angrily to your mamma, my dear boy,” said Lord Barmouth.

“All right, gov’nor.”

“As to your friend and companion, whom you brought to this house, and who pretended, like an impostor as he is, to have good expectations—”

“He never did anything of the kind,” said Tom. “He always said he hadn’t a rap.”

“Such a person ought never to have been brought near your sweet, pure-minded sisters,” continued her ladyship; “I found out that he was an impostor, and now I hear that he gambles and is in debt.”

“Who told you that?” roared Tom.

“Never mind.”

“But I insist on knowing.”

“Hush, hush, my boy,” said his lordship, twitching Tom’s coat.

“Be quiet, gov’nor. Who told you that, mamma?” cried Tom.

“I heard it from good authority,” said her ladyship as Lord Barmouth beat a retreat.

“Then good authority is a confounded liar,” cried Tom, as her ladyship sailed out of the room, and after he had cooled down a little and looked round, he found his lordship had gone.

Tom went into the cloak-room, where he came upon his father sitting on a box, busily spreading a biscuit with some mysterious condiment which he dug out of a pot with a paper-knife.

“Poor old Charley,” said Tom, not heeding his father’s occupation, “he’s the soul of honour—a regular trump. Look here, gov’nor,” he cried, turning sharply on the old gentleman and making him jump.

“Don’t you bully me too, my dear boy,” said the old man, trembling. “I can’t bear it!”

“I’m not going to bully you, gov’nor,” cried Tom, laying his hands on the old man’s shoulders affectionately; “but are you going to stand up for your rights or are you not? Look here—that tongue!”

“Yes, my boy, I did take it—I own it. I thought I might be hungry to-morrow, I have such a dreadful appetite, my boy.”

“Then why not ring and order that pompous old fizzle Robbins to bring you up something to eat?”

“I daren’t, my dear boy, I daren’t. Her ladyship has given such strict orders to the servants, and I feel so humiliated when they refuse me.”

“Of course you do, gov’nor. Then why don’t you go down to the club?”

“I can’t Tom, my boy. There’s no credit there, and her ladyship keeps me so horribly short of money.”

“It’s too bad; but come, gov’nor. I’m not afraid of mamma, and I’m not nearly so big as you are.”

“But, my boy,” whimpered the old man? with a piteous look upon his face, “I look bigger than I am, but it isn’t all real: there’s a deal of padding, Tom, and that’s no good. That tailor fellow said I must have a lot of filling out.”

He drew out his pocket-handkerchief to wipe away a weak tear, while Tom looked at him, half sorry, half amused, laughing at length outright as the poor old man smeared something brown and sticky across his face.

“Why, gov’nor!” he cried reproachfully, as something round and brown and flat fell upon the carpet.

“It’s only a veal cutlet, my son,” said the old man, piteously, as he stooped and picked it up before wiping his face. “You see I didn’t know then that I should get the piece of tongue.”

“Oh, gov’nor, gov’nor!” cried Tom.

“Don’t scold me, my dear boy,” pleaded the old man. “I am so padded out. There’s much less of me when my coat’s off. But I’m nothing to what your dear mamma is. Really the way she makes up is a gross imposture. If you only knew what I know, Tom, you’d be astonished.”

“I know quite enough,” growled Tom, “and wouldn’t care if she were not so false inside.”

“Don’t say that, Tom, my boy. She’s a wonderful woman, and means all for the best.”

“But, my dear old gov’nor,” said Tom, “this is all so very weak of you.”

“Well, it is, my boy.”

“You must pluck up, or we shall be ruined,” continued Tom, taking up a napkin and removing a little tomato sauce from his parent’s brow.

“No, my boy—no, my boy, don’t say that; but I can’t bear to ask her ladyship for money. It does make her so cross.”

“It isn’t pleasant,” said Tom; “but there, you go up in the drawing-room, and watch over Maude like a lion; I don’t want to see her made miserable.”

“I will, Tom, my boy, I will.”

“And I say, gov’nor, you will stick up?”

“Yes, Tom, my boy, yes,” said the old man. “There, you shall see. Going out?”

“Yes, gov’nor, I want to hunt out Charley Melton. I haven’t see him for an age. He’s always away somewhere.”

“Give my kind regards, Tom. He’s a fine fellow—Damme, I like Charley. But I’m afraid he thinks me very weak.”

“Nonsense, dad,” cried Tom; “but, I say, what’s that in your pocket?”

“Oh, nothing, my son, nothing,” said the old man, in a confused way, as Tom pounced upon his pocket and dragged out something in a handkerchief. “Why bless my soul,” he cried, in a surprised tone of voice, as he raised his glasses to his eyes, “if it isn’t a patty.”

“Yes, gov’nor, and you’ve been sitting on it. Now, I say, old fellow, that is weak. Pah! why it smells of eau-de-Cologne from your handkerchief. You couldn’t eat that.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman, wrinkling up his forehead.

“Gov’nor, you’re incorrigible,” cried Tom. “Only this morning Joseph told me in confidence that you had borrowed five shillings of him, and I had to give it him back, leaving myself without a shilling. Hang me, if you do such things as this again, if I don’t tell the old lady.”

“No, no, my boy, pray don’t,” said the old gentleman, anxiously, “and I’ll never do so any more.”

“Till the very next time,” said Tom, sharply. “Gov’nor, you’re afraid of the servants, and you are always stealing something.”

“I—I—I am a little afraid of Robbins,” faltered the old man gently; “and that big footman Joseph rather looks at me; but, Tom, my boy, it ought not to be stealing for me to take my own things.”

“Well, I suppose not, gov’nor; but it really is absurd to see you send a chicken bone flying across a drawing-room when you take out your handkerchief and your coat-tails stiff with gravy.”

“It is, my son,” said the old man, hastily; “but about Charley Melton. I like him, Tom.”

“And so do I, father.—He’s my friend, and I’ll stick to him too.”

He said the latter words in the hall, as he put on his hat and took his cane, paused to light a very strong cigar of the kind her ladyship detested to smell in the house, and then, with his hat cocked defiantly on one side, sallied out, looking so small in Great Portland Place that he seemed lost.

As the door closed upon him, Lord Barmouth came out of the lavatory, and met Robbins the butler and a footman coming to clear away the lunch things.

Lord Barmouth looked up and down, and then took the pompous butler by the button.

“Robbins,” he said, “if her ladyship does not object, I shall not wear my second dress suit any more.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the butler with solemn dignity.

“And, Robbins,” added his lordship, in a hurried whisper, “what did you do with that piece of tongue?”

“Took it down into the kitchen, my lord.”

“Ask Mrs Downes to give it back to you, Robbins—for me.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Wrap it up in paper, Robbins.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And by the way, Robbins,” continued the old gentleman, after a sharp look round, like a sparrow in fear of cats, “could you oblige me with five pounds?”

“Well really, my lord—you see you owe me—”

“Sixty-five, Robbins.”

“And interest, my lord.”

“Of course, Robbins, of course; and you shall have it all back; but you see, Robbins, it is not always easy to lay one’s hands on a few pounds to give to my son. You know it is quite safe.”

“Oh, of course, my lord.”

“I don’t like to be so situated that I cannot oblige him with a sovereign now and then.”

“Of course not, my lord. Will your lordship be good enough to write me an I.O.U.?”

“Certainly, Robbins, certainly. There—there—that’s it. I.O.U. five pounds—Barmouth. Thank you, Robbins; you are a most valuable servant.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“I’ve put you down for something handsome in my will, Robbins, so that if I should die some day, as I probably shall, you’ll burn these I.O.U.s, Robbins, and pay yourself out of what I’ve left.”

“Certainly, my lord; but suppose—”

“The will is disputed? Oh no, Robbins, I can do what I like with my money then, and I shall not be ungrateful.”

The old man took the five pounds and went off, chuckling with delight at being able to supply Tom with a little hard cash next time that gentleman was short, which would be next day; while the butler said something to himself which sounded like—

“Poor old magpie. Well, he ain’t a bad sort, and that’s more than you can say of the dragon.”

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