Chapter Nine.Love me, Love my Dog.There was gravel to be ground in Hyde Park, but Lady Maude declined to assist in the operation, pleading a bad headache; so Lady Barmouth took her carriage exercise alone, while his lordship watched till the barouche had gone, when he went up and sat by his child in the drawing-room, and talked to her for a time, ending by selecting a comfortable chair and going off fast asleep.He had not been unconscious five minutes before Maude heard a bit of a disturbance, and directly after there was a scratching at the drawing-room door.She started and listened, with the colour coming and going in her cheeks, when the scratching was repeated, and on her opening the door Joby trotted in, looked at her, gave his tail a wag to the right and a wag to the left. When, catching sight of Lord Barmouth, his canine nature got the better of him, and trotting up to the easy-chair, he sniffed two or three times at his lordship’s pocket, ending by laying his massive jowl upon the old man’s knee.Maude trembled as she watched the dog, and her face was flaming, but she dared not move.The old gentleman half woke up, and realised the fact of the dog being there, for he put out his thin white hand, and patted the great head, and rubbed Joby’s ears, muttering softly, “Good dog, then; poor old fellow,” and then went off fast asleep.Joby pushed his head a little farther up, and then had another sniff at the pocket. After this, giving his lordship up for a bad job, or roused to a sense of duty, he trotted over to Maude, laid his head in her lap, and stared up at her with his great eyes.It seemed a shame to be so lavish of such sweet kisses, and on a dog’s forehead; but all the same Maude bestowed them there, and the ugly brute blinked and snuffled and whined softly. Suddenly a thought seemed to strike Maude though, and her little fingers began to busy themselves about the dog’s collar, to tremble visibly, and at last with a faint cry of joy she detached a note folded in a very small compass, and fitted in a little packet of leather the colour of the dog’s skin.Trembling with eagerness she was about to open it, when the door was opened, and Robbins entered to announce—“Sir Grantley Wilters.”Maude turned from crimson to white, and Joby crept slowly under the couch, resenting an offer made by the butler to drive him out by such a display of white teeth that the pompous domestic said to himself that the dog might stay as long as he liked, for it wasn’t his place to interfere.Sir Grantley’s costume was faultless, for he was a fortune to his tradespeople—the tightest of coats and gloves, the shiniest of boots, and the choicest of “button-holes,” displayed in a tiny glass of water pinned in the fold of his coat, as he came in, hat and cane in one hand, and a little toy terrier in the other—one of those unpleasantly diminutive creatures whose legs seem as if they are not safe, and whose foreheads and eyes indicate water on the brain.“Ah, Lady Maude. Delighted to find you alone,” said the baronet, advancing and extinguishing the dog with his hat, so as to leave his tightly-gloved hand free to salute the lady.“I am not alone,” said Maude quietly, and she pointed to his lordship’s chair.“No: to be sure. Asleep! Well, I really thought you were alone, don’t you know.”“Papa often comes and sits with me now,” said Maude, quietly.“Very charming of him, very,” said Sir Grantley. “Quite well?”“Except a headache,” said Maude.“Sorry—very,” said the baronet, hunting for his glass, which was now hanging between his shoulders. “Bad things headaches, very. Should go for a walk.”“I preferred staying at home this afternoon,” said Maude.“Did you, though! Ah!” said Sir Grantley. “Sorry about the headache. Always take brandy and soda for headache I do, don’t you know. By the way, Lady Maude,” he continued, taking his hat off the little dog as if he were performing a conjuring trick, “I bought this beautiful little creechaw in Regent Street just now. Will you accept it from me?”“Oh, thank you, no,” said Maude. “I’m sure mamma would not approve of my accepting such a present.”“Oh, yes, I asked her yesterday, don’t you know, and she said you’d be most happy. Very nice specimen, not often found so small. May I set it down?”“Oh, certainly,” said Maude, colouring with annoyance; and evidently very glad to get rid of the little animal, the baronet set it down and it began to make a tour of the room.“Don’t be nervous about accepting presents from me,” said Sir Grantley, “because I shall bring you a great many.”“I beg you will not, Sir Grantley,” said Maude, flushing. “You must really by now be quite sure that such attentions are distasteful to me.”“Not used to them, you know,” said the baronet smiling; “but I have her ladyship’s full permission, and we shall understand each other in time. Old gentleman sleeps well.”“Papa is getting old, and his health is feeble,” said Maude, rather indignantly.“Yes, very,” said the baronet.—“I don’t want to be a bore, but I’ve said so little to you about our future.”“Our future?”“Yes; it’s all settled. I proposed down at Hurst, and thought it was all over; but her ladyship kindly tells me that I may hope.”“Sir Grantley Wilters,” cried Maude, rising, “I am not of course ignorant of what mamma’s wishes are, but let me tell you as a gentleman that this subject is very distasteful to me, and that I can never, never think otherwise of you than I do now.”“Oh, yes, you will,” said Sir Grantley, in a most unruffled manner. “You are very young, don’t you know. Think differently by and bye. Bad job this about poor Melton.”Maude started, and her eyes dilated slightly.“Thought he was a decent fellow once, but he’s regularly going to the dogs.”“Mr Melton is a friend of mine, Sir Grantley—a very dear friend of mine,” cried Maude, crushing the stiff paper of the note she held in her hand.“Say was, my dear Maude,” said Sir Grantley, making pokes at the pearl buttons on his patent leather boots with his walking cane. “Poor fellow! Was all right once, but he’s hopelessly gone now.”“I will not believe it,” cried Maude indignantly. “It is cruel and ungentlemanly of you to try to blacken Mr Melton thus when he is not present.”“Cruel perhaps, but kind,” said Sir Grantley; “ungentlemanly, no.” He drew himself up slightly, as he spoke. “Poor beggar, can’t help being poor, you know. They say—”“Sir Grantley, I will not believe anything against Mr Melton,” cried Maude with spirit.“Not till you have proved it, my dear child. I don’t want to pain you, but I know that the thoughts of Charles Melton have kept you from listening to me. Now, my dear Maude, if I were out of the race, you could not marry a man who is hopelessly in the hands of the Jews. Couldn’t do it, you know; and they do say.”“Sir Grantley Wilters,” cried Maude, with her head thrown back, “these are cruel calumnies. Mr Charles Melton is a gentleman, and the soul of honour. I shall tell him your words.”“I shall be very glad to retract them, and apologise,” said the baronet calmly; and then he busied himself in fixing his glass, for the little toy terrier had suddenly made a dead set at one end of the couch, where from beneath the chintz cover there peered out one very large prominent and peculiar eye, which kept blinking at the terrier in the calmest manner, its owner never attempting to move in spite of the angry demonstrations of the newcomer.At last its demonstrations became so loud that, not seeing the great eye himself, the baronet rose slowly, drove the terrier into the back drawing-room and closed the door.“A little new to the place, don’t you know,” he said. “There, I’m going now; I did not mean to blacken Mr Melton’s character, but ask your brother to inquire. Sorry for any man to go to the bad. Gone regularly. Good-day.”He took Maude’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers, while she was too much agitated to resist. Then backing to the door, he smiled, kissed his glove, and was gone.“Oh, this is monstrous!” cried Maude in anguished tones, when she remembered the note and opened it hastily, to read a few lines full of manly love and respect; and as she read of her wooer’s determination never to give her up, her heart grew stronger in its faith.“I knew it was false,” she exclaimed, proudly. “How dare he calumniate him like that!”Then going to a writing table, she glanced at her father, saw that he still slept, and, blushing at her duplicity, she wrote a note, folded it so that it would go in the tiny leather pocket, and in a low voice called the dog.Joby came out directly, and laid his great head in her lap, while the note was securely placed in its receptacle.“Now go to your master, good dog,” she cried, kissing him once more, and at the word “master” Joby started to the door and looked back, when Maude followed and opened it. The dog trotted downstairs and settled himself under the porter’s chair in the hall till the door was opened. Then he trotted off to his master’s chambers.Meanwhile, as soon as she had despatched her messenger, Maude seated herself upon the carpet by her father, and laid her cheek against his hand.He opened his eyes directly, saw who it was, and laid his other hand upon her head.“Ah, Maude, my pet,” he said. “I have, been sitting here with my eyes closed.”“Yes, papa. Did you hear what Sir Grantley Wilters said?”“No, my child. Has—has—he been here?”“Yes, dear.”“Then I suppose I must have been quite asleep.”“Yes, papa—for quite an hour.—Papa, dear.”“Yes, my love.”“I cannot rest happy with any secret from you,” said the girl, with averted head, and her cheeks burning for shame at the clandestine correspondence she was carrying on.“That’s right, my darling,” said the old man, patting the soft fair hair and smoothing it over her forehead.“Papa, dear,” she continued, after a long pause, during which she fought hard to nerve herself for what she had to say.“Yes, my child. There, you’re not afraid of me.”“Oh, no, dear,” she cried, drawing his arm around her neck, and holding his hand with both hers to her throbbing bosom. “Papa, I’m afraid—”“Afraid, my dear?”“Afraid that I love Mr Melton very dearly.”She hid her face upon the withered old hand, and the burning blood crimsoned her soft white neck at this avowal.“Well—well—well! He—he—he!” chuckled the old man. “I—I—I don’t see anything so very shocking in that, Maude. Charley Melton is a doosed fine fellow, and I like him very much indeed.”“Oh, papa, papa,” cried Maude joyfully; and she turned, flung her arms round his neck, and hid her face in his bosom.“Yes, Maude,” he continued. “He’s a gentleman, and a man of honour, though he’s poor like the rest of us.”“Thank God—thank God!” murmured Maude, as the words made her heart throb with joy.“His father was a gentleman too and a man of honour, though a bit wild. He was my junior at Eton. I like Charley Melton, and though I should hate the man who tried to rob me of my little pet here, I don’t think I should be very hard on him.”“Yap—yap—yap!” came from the back drawing-room, and the old gentleman looked inquiringly at his child.“It is a pet dog,” she said contemptuously, “that Sir Grantley Wilters has brought as a present for me.”“Don’t have it, my dear,” said the old gentleman, eagerly. “I wouldn’t. He’s a miserable screw of a fellow, that Wilters. I don’t like him, and her ladyship’s always trying to bring him forward. She’ll be wanting to make him marry you next.”“Didn’t you know, papa?” cried Maude.“Know, my darling? Know what?”“He has proposed to mamma for my hand.”“Then—then—then,” cried the old man, indignantly, “he—he—he shan’t have it. If my Maude is to be nurse to any man, she shall be nurse to me. He—he don’t want a wife.”The old man shook his head angrily, and then patted and caressed the fair young girl who clung to him for protection. What his protection was worth he showed when a carriage stopped at the door, and her ladyship’s trumpet tones were heard soon after on the stairs.“Maude, my darling,” he said, “here’s her ladyship. I—I think I’ll slip off this way down to my study.”He went out by one door, timing himself carefully, as her ladyship came in at the other, and began praising the “lovely” little pet dog which Sir Grantley had left, to which the little brute replied by snapping at her fiercely as she approached her hand.All the same though it had to make friends with her ladyship, who adopted it from the next day, Maude stubbornly refusing to have anything to do with the black and tan specimen of the canine race wrought by the “fancy” in filigree.
There was gravel to be ground in Hyde Park, but Lady Maude declined to assist in the operation, pleading a bad headache; so Lady Barmouth took her carriage exercise alone, while his lordship watched till the barouche had gone, when he went up and sat by his child in the drawing-room, and talked to her for a time, ending by selecting a comfortable chair and going off fast asleep.
He had not been unconscious five minutes before Maude heard a bit of a disturbance, and directly after there was a scratching at the drawing-room door.
She started and listened, with the colour coming and going in her cheeks, when the scratching was repeated, and on her opening the door Joby trotted in, looked at her, gave his tail a wag to the right and a wag to the left. When, catching sight of Lord Barmouth, his canine nature got the better of him, and trotting up to the easy-chair, he sniffed two or three times at his lordship’s pocket, ending by laying his massive jowl upon the old man’s knee.
Maude trembled as she watched the dog, and her face was flaming, but she dared not move.
The old gentleman half woke up, and realised the fact of the dog being there, for he put out his thin white hand, and patted the great head, and rubbed Joby’s ears, muttering softly, “Good dog, then; poor old fellow,” and then went off fast asleep.
Joby pushed his head a little farther up, and then had another sniff at the pocket. After this, giving his lordship up for a bad job, or roused to a sense of duty, he trotted over to Maude, laid his head in her lap, and stared up at her with his great eyes.
It seemed a shame to be so lavish of such sweet kisses, and on a dog’s forehead; but all the same Maude bestowed them there, and the ugly brute blinked and snuffled and whined softly. Suddenly a thought seemed to strike Maude though, and her little fingers began to busy themselves about the dog’s collar, to tremble visibly, and at last with a faint cry of joy she detached a note folded in a very small compass, and fitted in a little packet of leather the colour of the dog’s skin.
Trembling with eagerness she was about to open it, when the door was opened, and Robbins entered to announce—
“Sir Grantley Wilters.”
Maude turned from crimson to white, and Joby crept slowly under the couch, resenting an offer made by the butler to drive him out by such a display of white teeth that the pompous domestic said to himself that the dog might stay as long as he liked, for it wasn’t his place to interfere.
Sir Grantley’s costume was faultless, for he was a fortune to his tradespeople—the tightest of coats and gloves, the shiniest of boots, and the choicest of “button-holes,” displayed in a tiny glass of water pinned in the fold of his coat, as he came in, hat and cane in one hand, and a little toy terrier in the other—one of those unpleasantly diminutive creatures whose legs seem as if they are not safe, and whose foreheads and eyes indicate water on the brain.
“Ah, Lady Maude. Delighted to find you alone,” said the baronet, advancing and extinguishing the dog with his hat, so as to leave his tightly-gloved hand free to salute the lady.
“I am not alone,” said Maude quietly, and she pointed to his lordship’s chair.
“No: to be sure. Asleep! Well, I really thought you were alone, don’t you know.”
“Papa often comes and sits with me now,” said Maude, quietly.
“Very charming of him, very,” said Sir Grantley. “Quite well?”
“Except a headache,” said Maude.
“Sorry—very,” said the baronet, hunting for his glass, which was now hanging between his shoulders. “Bad things headaches, very. Should go for a walk.”
“I preferred staying at home this afternoon,” said Maude.
“Did you, though! Ah!” said Sir Grantley. “Sorry about the headache. Always take brandy and soda for headache I do, don’t you know. By the way, Lady Maude,” he continued, taking his hat off the little dog as if he were performing a conjuring trick, “I bought this beautiful little creechaw in Regent Street just now. Will you accept it from me?”
“Oh, thank you, no,” said Maude. “I’m sure mamma would not approve of my accepting such a present.”
“Oh, yes, I asked her yesterday, don’t you know, and she said you’d be most happy. Very nice specimen, not often found so small. May I set it down?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Maude, colouring with annoyance; and evidently very glad to get rid of the little animal, the baronet set it down and it began to make a tour of the room.
“Don’t be nervous about accepting presents from me,” said Sir Grantley, “because I shall bring you a great many.”
“I beg you will not, Sir Grantley,” said Maude, flushing. “You must really by now be quite sure that such attentions are distasteful to me.”
“Not used to them, you know,” said the baronet smiling; “but I have her ladyship’s full permission, and we shall understand each other in time. Old gentleman sleeps well.”
“Papa is getting old, and his health is feeble,” said Maude, rather indignantly.
“Yes, very,” said the baronet.—“I don’t want to be a bore, but I’ve said so little to you about our future.”
“Our future?”
“Yes; it’s all settled. I proposed down at Hurst, and thought it was all over; but her ladyship kindly tells me that I may hope.”
“Sir Grantley Wilters,” cried Maude, rising, “I am not of course ignorant of what mamma’s wishes are, but let me tell you as a gentleman that this subject is very distasteful to me, and that I can never, never think otherwise of you than I do now.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” said Sir Grantley, in a most unruffled manner. “You are very young, don’t you know. Think differently by and bye. Bad job this about poor Melton.”
Maude started, and her eyes dilated slightly.
“Thought he was a decent fellow once, but he’s regularly going to the dogs.”
“Mr Melton is a friend of mine, Sir Grantley—a very dear friend of mine,” cried Maude, crushing the stiff paper of the note she held in her hand.
“Say was, my dear Maude,” said Sir Grantley, making pokes at the pearl buttons on his patent leather boots with his walking cane. “Poor fellow! Was all right once, but he’s hopelessly gone now.”
“I will not believe it,” cried Maude indignantly. “It is cruel and ungentlemanly of you to try to blacken Mr Melton thus when he is not present.”
“Cruel perhaps, but kind,” said Sir Grantley; “ungentlemanly, no.” He drew himself up slightly, as he spoke. “Poor beggar, can’t help being poor, you know. They say—”
“Sir Grantley, I will not believe anything against Mr Melton,” cried Maude with spirit.
“Not till you have proved it, my dear child. I don’t want to pain you, but I know that the thoughts of Charles Melton have kept you from listening to me. Now, my dear Maude, if I were out of the race, you could not marry a man who is hopelessly in the hands of the Jews. Couldn’t do it, you know; and they do say.”
“Sir Grantley Wilters,” cried Maude, with her head thrown back, “these are cruel calumnies. Mr Charles Melton is a gentleman, and the soul of honour. I shall tell him your words.”
“I shall be very glad to retract them, and apologise,” said the baronet calmly; and then he busied himself in fixing his glass, for the little toy terrier had suddenly made a dead set at one end of the couch, where from beneath the chintz cover there peered out one very large prominent and peculiar eye, which kept blinking at the terrier in the calmest manner, its owner never attempting to move in spite of the angry demonstrations of the newcomer.
At last its demonstrations became so loud that, not seeing the great eye himself, the baronet rose slowly, drove the terrier into the back drawing-room and closed the door.
“A little new to the place, don’t you know,” he said. “There, I’m going now; I did not mean to blacken Mr Melton’s character, but ask your brother to inquire. Sorry for any man to go to the bad. Gone regularly. Good-day.”
He took Maude’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers, while she was too much agitated to resist. Then backing to the door, he smiled, kissed his glove, and was gone.
“Oh, this is monstrous!” cried Maude in anguished tones, when she remembered the note and opened it hastily, to read a few lines full of manly love and respect; and as she read of her wooer’s determination never to give her up, her heart grew stronger in its faith.
“I knew it was false,” she exclaimed, proudly. “How dare he calumniate him like that!”
Then going to a writing table, she glanced at her father, saw that he still slept, and, blushing at her duplicity, she wrote a note, folded it so that it would go in the tiny leather pocket, and in a low voice called the dog.
Joby came out directly, and laid his great head in her lap, while the note was securely placed in its receptacle.
“Now go to your master, good dog,” she cried, kissing him once more, and at the word “master” Joby started to the door and looked back, when Maude followed and opened it. The dog trotted downstairs and settled himself under the porter’s chair in the hall till the door was opened. Then he trotted off to his master’s chambers.
Meanwhile, as soon as she had despatched her messenger, Maude seated herself upon the carpet by her father, and laid her cheek against his hand.
He opened his eyes directly, saw who it was, and laid his other hand upon her head.
“Ah, Maude, my pet,” he said. “I have, been sitting here with my eyes closed.”
“Yes, papa. Did you hear what Sir Grantley Wilters said?”
“No, my child. Has—has—he been here?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Then I suppose I must have been quite asleep.”
“Yes, papa—for quite an hour.—Papa, dear.”
“Yes, my love.”
“I cannot rest happy with any secret from you,” said the girl, with averted head, and her cheeks burning for shame at the clandestine correspondence she was carrying on.
“That’s right, my darling,” said the old man, patting the soft fair hair and smoothing it over her forehead.
“Papa, dear,” she continued, after a long pause, during which she fought hard to nerve herself for what she had to say.
“Yes, my child. There, you’re not afraid of me.”
“Oh, no, dear,” she cried, drawing his arm around her neck, and holding his hand with both hers to her throbbing bosom. “Papa, I’m afraid—”
“Afraid, my dear?”
“Afraid that I love Mr Melton very dearly.”
She hid her face upon the withered old hand, and the burning blood crimsoned her soft white neck at this avowal.
“Well—well—well! He—he—he!” chuckled the old man. “I—I—I don’t see anything so very shocking in that, Maude. Charley Melton is a doosed fine fellow, and I like him very much indeed.”
“Oh, papa, papa,” cried Maude joyfully; and she turned, flung her arms round his neck, and hid her face in his bosom.
“Yes, Maude,” he continued. “He’s a gentleman, and a man of honour, though he’s poor like the rest of us.”
“Thank God—thank God!” murmured Maude, as the words made her heart throb with joy.
“His father was a gentleman too and a man of honour, though a bit wild. He was my junior at Eton. I like Charley Melton, and though I should hate the man who tried to rob me of my little pet here, I don’t think I should be very hard on him.”
“Yap—yap—yap!” came from the back drawing-room, and the old gentleman looked inquiringly at his child.
“It is a pet dog,” she said contemptuously, “that Sir Grantley Wilters has brought as a present for me.”
“Don’t have it, my dear,” said the old gentleman, eagerly. “I wouldn’t. He’s a miserable screw of a fellow, that Wilters. I don’t like him, and her ladyship’s always trying to bring him forward. She’ll be wanting to make him marry you next.”
“Didn’t you know, papa?” cried Maude.
“Know, my darling? Know what?”
“He has proposed to mamma for my hand.”
“Then—then—then,” cried the old man, indignantly, “he—he—he shan’t have it. If my Maude is to be nurse to any man, she shall be nurse to me. He—he don’t want a wife.”
The old man shook his head angrily, and then patted and caressed the fair young girl who clung to him for protection. What his protection was worth he showed when a carriage stopped at the door, and her ladyship’s trumpet tones were heard soon after on the stairs.
“Maude, my darling,” he said, “here’s her ladyship. I—I think I’ll slip off this way down to my study.”
He went out by one door, timing himself carefully, as her ladyship came in at the other, and began praising the “lovely” little pet dog which Sir Grantley had left, to which the little brute replied by snapping at her fiercely as she approached her hand.
All the same though it had to make friends with her ladyship, who adopted it from the next day, Maude stubbornly refusing to have anything to do with the black and tan specimen of the canine race wrought by the “fancy” in filigree.
Chapter Ten.Love’s Messengers.“How a young lady as calls herself a young lady can bemean herself by making a pet of a low-bred, ill-looking dog like that, I can’t think,” said Mr Robbins, laying himself out for a speech in the servants’ hall. “That’s a nice enough little tarrier as Sir Grantley Wilters brought, and she won’t have none of it, but leaves it to her ladyship.”“Yes,” said the footman, “and a nice mess is made, with sops and milk and cutlets all over the carpet.”“Joseph,” said the butler with dignity, “it is not the place of a young man like you in livery to find fault with the acts of your superiors. Servants as do such things never rises to be out of livery.”“Thanky, sir,” said Joseph, who, being a young man of a lively imaginationandmuch whiskers, turned his head, squinted horribly at an under housemaid, and made her giggle.“Such a dog as that ugly brute as comes brushing into the house every time the door is opened is only fit to go with a costermonger or a butcher.”“Well, I’m sure, Mr Robbins,” said the cook, who for reasons of her own had a weakness for tradesmen in the latter line, “butchers are as good as butlers any day.”“Perhaps they are, Mrs Downes—perhaps they are not,” said the butler with dignity; “but what I say is, Mr Melton ought to have known better than ever to have brought such a beast into a gentleman’s house.”“That for your opinion, Mr Robbins,” said Mademoiselle Justine, colouring up and snapping her fingers. “I know what you think,” she said, speaking in a high-pitched, excited voice. “You think that a lady should admire scented men in fine tailor’s clothes and flowers, and wiz zere leetle wretched dogs. Bah! Tish! A woman loves the big and ugly and ster-r-r-rong. She can be weak and beautiful herself. Is it not so, my friends? Yes.”Mademoiselle Justine shook her head, tightened her lips, and with sparkling eyes looked round the table, ending with heightened colour and patting her littlebottineupon the floor.“Well, that dog’s ugly enough anyhow,” said Robbins, smiling faintly, and making a second chin above his cravat. “As for that Mr Melton—”“Ah, bah! stop you there,” cried Mademoiselle Justine. “I do not say he is ugly, but he is big and sterong and has broad shouldaire. He is all a man—tout-à-faitall a—quite a man.”There was another sharp burst of nods and jerks at this.“You think, you, that my young lady will marry this Sir Wilters? That for him! He is a man for theMaison Dieuor theInvalides. He marry! ha, ha, ha! I could blow him out myself. Poof! He is gone.”Mademoiselle Justine blew some imaginary bit of fluff from her fingers as she spoke, apparently shook her head into a kind of notch or catch in the spine, and then sat very upright and very rigid, while the butler said grace and the party broke up.Lunch had been over in the dining-room some time, and her ladyship was going out for a drive. Maude had again declined, and her ladyship had smiled, knowing that Sir Grantley Wilters would probably call. Her ladyship was wonderfully made up, and looked her best, for Monsieur Hector Launay from Upper Gimp Street had had an interview with her that morning. There had been a consultation on freckles, and a large mole which troubled her ladyship’s chin had been condemned to death, executed with some peculiar acid, and its funeral performed and mourning arranged with a piece of black court plaster, which now looked like a beauty spot upon the lady’s chin.Her gloves, of the sweetest pearl grey, fitted her plump hands to perfection, and she was quite ready to go out.“Where is your papa, dear Maude,” said her ladyship, stopping to smell a bouquet. “Ah me, how sweet! How kind Sir Grantley is, and what taste he has in flowers.”“Papa is in the library,” said Maude, quietly, and she glanced nervously towards the door.“Come then, a sweet,” cried her ladyship; “and he shall go and have a nice ride in the carriage, he shall, and look down and bark at all the dirty dogs in the road.”As she showed her second best teeth in a large smile, the little terrier took it to be a challenge of war, and displayed his own pigmy set; but after a due amount of coaxing, and the gift of a lump of sugar, he permitted himself to be caught and placed beneath her ladyship’s plump arm, presenting to a spectator who had a side view a little head cocking out in front, and a little tail cocking out behind—nothing more.“I shall be back by five, I dare say, Maude. Where is Tryphie?”“I am here, aunt, quite ready,” said a cheerful voice, and the bright little girl appeared at the door.“You are not quite ready: you have only one glove on. Tryphie, you might pay some respect to those who find you a home and protection.”The girl coloured slightly but made no answer, only exchanged glances with Maude, and kissed her hand to her.“Dear me!” exclaimed her ladyship, “where did I put myflaçon? Oh, I remember.”She marched in a stately manner with the roll of a female beadle, or an alderman in his gold chain of office, to an Indian cabinet, opened a drawer and inserted her hand.“Why, what is this?” she exclaimed, drawing out something whitey brown and throwing it down with an ejaculation of annoyance. “Disgusting!”The toy terrier uttered a sharp yelp of excitement, leaped from her ladyship’s arms on to a table, upsetting a china cup and saucer, bounded on to the floor and seized that which her ladyship had rejected—to wit, a savoury-looking chicken bone, and proceeded to denude it of its flesh.“I declare your papa grows insufferable,” cried her ladyship. “His brain must be softening. I shall consult the doctor about him.”Certainly it was very annoying, for her ladyship’s pearly grey Parisian glove had a broad brown smear of osmazome across it, and all due to Lord Barmouth’s magpie-like trick of hiding scraps of food away for future consumption, in Indian cabinets and china jars, and then forgetting thecachéhe had made.Mademoiselle Justine was summoned, a fresh pair of gloves obtained and put on with the maid’s assistance, by which time the dog had polished the bone, and probably in his own tongue, being a well-bred animal, said a grace and blessed Lord Barmouth. Then he was once more taken up, his mouth and paws wiped by Justine on one of her ladyship’s clean handkerchiefs; Tryphie nodded a good-bye to her cousin, to whom she had hardly dared to speak, and then followed her ladyship downstairs.Maude rose, trembling and in dread lest something she feared should occur, for her ladyship was later than usual in going out, and this was a Wednesday, which day was sacred to the canine post.In fact, as Maude heard the steps of the carriage rattled down with a great deal of noise—her ladyship encouraged her servants to bang them down well, for it let the neighbours know she kept a carriage and was going out—there was a pattering of feet, and as she opened the door, Joby came trotting in, with his great eyes full of animation, and the grinning smile in which he indulged a little more broad, for he had rushed in between the footman’s legs nearly upsetting him as the door was opened, in his eagerness to play postman for his master.“Good dog, then!” whispered Maude, and then her heart seemed to stand still, for the carriage did not drive off, there was a rustling of silks on the stairs, and her ladyship came panting up.Maude threw herself, colouring vividly, into abergèrechair, and Joby dived under the couch, not leaving so much as the point of his tail visible as her ladyship sailed into the room and looked hastily round.“Maude,” she cried, “there is some mystery here. I insist on knowing what this means.”There was no reply, but Tryphie came in, and darted a sympathetic glance at the poor girl, mentally wishing that Tom were at home.“I—insist upon knowing what this means.”“What, mamma?” said Maude, huskily.“That dog; where is he? Mr Melton’s hideous wretch. Here: dog, dog, dog!” she cried.She might have called till she was speechless, for Joby would not have moved. All the same, though, he was to be stirred, for her ladyship, now in a towering passion, set down the toy terrier upon a chair, when it immediately leaped to the carpet, barking furiously, and made a dead set at the sofa.“It is yonder! You have hidden the wretch there!” cried her ladyship, “and I am certain that that dog has been made the bearer of clandestine correspondence. I have read of such things. But there’s an end to it now, and it is only just and fit—false, abandoned girl!—that it should be discovered by the faithful little dog of the gentleman who is to-be your husband. Good little pet, then, to protect your master’s interests. Fetch him out, then.”This was rather unwise of her ladyship, but she was excited, and she excited the little terrier in turn, for he had contented himself up to this time with snapping and barking furiously at the chintz valance hanging from the sofa, but keeping about a yard distant, as he leaped up with all four feet from the carpet at once and came down barking.Encouraged though by her ladyship he went a little closer, barking and snarling so furiously that Joby could not contain himself any longer but softly pushed his short black nose and one eye beneath the chintz, had a look at the noisy intruder, and then, withdrew once more.“There! I knew it,” cried her ladyship, angrily. “Oh, shame on you, shame, shame! Good little dog, then! Drive him out!”The terrier barked again furiously, and glanced up at her ladyship, who uttered fresh words of encouragement.Sir Grantley Wilters gave fifteen guineas for the beast, and another for his morocco and silver collar!“Drive him out, then, good little dog!” cried her ladyship, and with a fierce rush, the terrier ran under the sofa.There was a sharp bark, a bit of a scuffle, a worrying noise, a loud yelp cut suddenly in half, and then, frowning severely, Joby crept out from the foot of the sofa, with the hair about his neck erect, his eyes glowering, and the limp corpse of the wretched terrier hanging from his jaws.It was all plain enough—that invisible tragedy beneath the chintz. The enemy had fastened upon one of Joby’s cheeks with his keen little teeth, and made it bleed, when, with a growl, the big dog had shaken his assailant off, caught him by the back, given him a shake like a rat, and the terrier’s head, four legs, and tail hung down together. Sir Grantley Wilters’ guineas were represented now by some inanimate skin and bone.It was all over!“Oh, this is dreadful!” cried her ladyship, as, with a cry of horror, Maude made for the dog.But no: Joby was amiability itself at times, and well educated; still, rouse the dog that was in him, and his obstinate breed began to show. Maude called, but he took no notice, only walked solemnly about the room with his vanquished enemy pendent from his grinning mouth.“He’ll kill it—he’ll kill it,” cried her ladyship, wildly, but not daring to approach; and just then Tom entered the room. “Oh, Tom, Tom, quick!”“What’s the row?” cried Tom, “eh? Oh, I say! ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! what a jolly lark!” and he slapped his leg and roared with laughter.“Tom!” shrieked her ladyship.“That’s just about how Charley Melton could serve Wilters,” cried Tom, wiping his eyes.“For shame, sir!” cried her ladyship. “Pray, pray save the poor dog.”“What for?” said Tom, grinning, “to be stuffed?”“Oh, don’t say it’s dead!” wailed her ladyship.“I won’t, if you don’t wish me to say so,” said Tom, “but it is as dead as a door nail. Here, Joby, Joby,” he cried, walking up to the dog.But there was a low growl and Joby hung his head, glowered, and walked to the far end of the drawing-room, seeming to take a pleasure in making his journey as long as he could in and out amongst chairs and tables, giving Tom, who followed him, significant hints that it would not be safe to interfere with him at such a time.“There, let’s open the door, and he’ll go,” said Tom.“Oh, no, no, Tom,” cried her ladyship. “Sir Grantley’s present.”Just then the dog seemed to have satisfied his anger upon his rival, and crossing the room to where Maude sat trembling in her chair, he dropped the defunct terrier at her feet, and stood solemnly wagging his stump of a tail as if asking for praise.“Ring the bell, Tryphie,” cried her ladyship.“All right,” said Tom, forestalling her, and Robbins came up with stately stride.“Take this down, Robbins,” said her ladyship, with a shudder.The butler looked ineffably disgusted, but he merely turned upon his heel, strode out of the room, and returned at the end of a minute or two with a silver salver and a napkin, picked up the sixteen guineas with the latter, placed it upon the former, covered it with the damask, and bore the dead dog solemnly out, Joby following him closely, as if turning himself into chief mourner, and then seeing the hall door open trotting slowly out.“That I should have lived to be the mother of such—”Her ladyship did not finish her sentence but rose with dilating eyes, made a sort of heavy rush and bound across the room, pounced upon something and began eagerly to inspect it, tearing open a little narrow pocket and extracting a note.Poor Joby! he did not mean to be so faithless to his trust, but the excitement consequent upon the attack had made the muscles of his throat swell to such a degree that his collar fastening had snapped, and the collar with its valuable missive had fallen upon the carpet, while poor Maude had sat wondering where it had gone.“Yes, of course,” said her ladyship, sarcastically. “Well: that trick is detected,” she cried, viciously tearing up the note. “Letters sent by a dog, by one of the vilest of the vile; and this, Diphoos, is the man you called your friend.”“Oh, aunt, pray be silent,” cried Tryphie, running to her cousin’s side. “Maude has fainted.”
“How a young lady as calls herself a young lady can bemean herself by making a pet of a low-bred, ill-looking dog like that, I can’t think,” said Mr Robbins, laying himself out for a speech in the servants’ hall. “That’s a nice enough little tarrier as Sir Grantley Wilters brought, and she won’t have none of it, but leaves it to her ladyship.”
“Yes,” said the footman, “and a nice mess is made, with sops and milk and cutlets all over the carpet.”
“Joseph,” said the butler with dignity, “it is not the place of a young man like you in livery to find fault with the acts of your superiors. Servants as do such things never rises to be out of livery.”
“Thanky, sir,” said Joseph, who, being a young man of a lively imaginationandmuch whiskers, turned his head, squinted horribly at an under housemaid, and made her giggle.
“Such a dog as that ugly brute as comes brushing into the house every time the door is opened is only fit to go with a costermonger or a butcher.”
“Well, I’m sure, Mr Robbins,” said the cook, who for reasons of her own had a weakness for tradesmen in the latter line, “butchers are as good as butlers any day.”
“Perhaps they are, Mrs Downes—perhaps they are not,” said the butler with dignity; “but what I say is, Mr Melton ought to have known better than ever to have brought such a beast into a gentleman’s house.”
“That for your opinion, Mr Robbins,” said Mademoiselle Justine, colouring up and snapping her fingers. “I know what you think,” she said, speaking in a high-pitched, excited voice. “You think that a lady should admire scented men in fine tailor’s clothes and flowers, and wiz zere leetle wretched dogs. Bah! Tish! A woman loves the big and ugly and ster-r-r-rong. She can be weak and beautiful herself. Is it not so, my friends? Yes.”
Mademoiselle Justine shook her head, tightened her lips, and with sparkling eyes looked round the table, ending with heightened colour and patting her littlebottineupon the floor.
“Well, that dog’s ugly enough anyhow,” said Robbins, smiling faintly, and making a second chin above his cravat. “As for that Mr Melton—”
“Ah, bah! stop you there,” cried Mademoiselle Justine. “I do not say he is ugly, but he is big and sterong and has broad shouldaire. He is all a man—tout-à-faitall a—quite a man.”
There was another sharp burst of nods and jerks at this.
“You think, you, that my young lady will marry this Sir Wilters? That for him! He is a man for theMaison Dieuor theInvalides. He marry! ha, ha, ha! I could blow him out myself. Poof! He is gone.”
Mademoiselle Justine blew some imaginary bit of fluff from her fingers as she spoke, apparently shook her head into a kind of notch or catch in the spine, and then sat very upright and very rigid, while the butler said grace and the party broke up.
Lunch had been over in the dining-room some time, and her ladyship was going out for a drive. Maude had again declined, and her ladyship had smiled, knowing that Sir Grantley Wilters would probably call. Her ladyship was wonderfully made up, and looked her best, for Monsieur Hector Launay from Upper Gimp Street had had an interview with her that morning. There had been a consultation on freckles, and a large mole which troubled her ladyship’s chin had been condemned to death, executed with some peculiar acid, and its funeral performed and mourning arranged with a piece of black court plaster, which now looked like a beauty spot upon the lady’s chin.
Her gloves, of the sweetest pearl grey, fitted her plump hands to perfection, and she was quite ready to go out.
“Where is your papa, dear Maude,” said her ladyship, stopping to smell a bouquet. “Ah me, how sweet! How kind Sir Grantley is, and what taste he has in flowers.”
“Papa is in the library,” said Maude, quietly, and she glanced nervously towards the door.
“Come then, a sweet,” cried her ladyship; “and he shall go and have a nice ride in the carriage, he shall, and look down and bark at all the dirty dogs in the road.”
As she showed her second best teeth in a large smile, the little terrier took it to be a challenge of war, and displayed his own pigmy set; but after a due amount of coaxing, and the gift of a lump of sugar, he permitted himself to be caught and placed beneath her ladyship’s plump arm, presenting to a spectator who had a side view a little head cocking out in front, and a little tail cocking out behind—nothing more.
“I shall be back by five, I dare say, Maude. Where is Tryphie?”
“I am here, aunt, quite ready,” said a cheerful voice, and the bright little girl appeared at the door.
“You are not quite ready: you have only one glove on. Tryphie, you might pay some respect to those who find you a home and protection.”
The girl coloured slightly but made no answer, only exchanged glances with Maude, and kissed her hand to her.
“Dear me!” exclaimed her ladyship, “where did I put myflaçon? Oh, I remember.”
She marched in a stately manner with the roll of a female beadle, or an alderman in his gold chain of office, to an Indian cabinet, opened a drawer and inserted her hand.
“Why, what is this?” she exclaimed, drawing out something whitey brown and throwing it down with an ejaculation of annoyance. “Disgusting!”
The toy terrier uttered a sharp yelp of excitement, leaped from her ladyship’s arms on to a table, upsetting a china cup and saucer, bounded on to the floor and seized that which her ladyship had rejected—to wit, a savoury-looking chicken bone, and proceeded to denude it of its flesh.
“I declare your papa grows insufferable,” cried her ladyship. “His brain must be softening. I shall consult the doctor about him.”
Certainly it was very annoying, for her ladyship’s pearly grey Parisian glove had a broad brown smear of osmazome across it, and all due to Lord Barmouth’s magpie-like trick of hiding scraps of food away for future consumption, in Indian cabinets and china jars, and then forgetting thecachéhe had made.
Mademoiselle Justine was summoned, a fresh pair of gloves obtained and put on with the maid’s assistance, by which time the dog had polished the bone, and probably in his own tongue, being a well-bred animal, said a grace and blessed Lord Barmouth. Then he was once more taken up, his mouth and paws wiped by Justine on one of her ladyship’s clean handkerchiefs; Tryphie nodded a good-bye to her cousin, to whom she had hardly dared to speak, and then followed her ladyship downstairs.
Maude rose, trembling and in dread lest something she feared should occur, for her ladyship was later than usual in going out, and this was a Wednesday, which day was sacred to the canine post.
In fact, as Maude heard the steps of the carriage rattled down with a great deal of noise—her ladyship encouraged her servants to bang them down well, for it let the neighbours know she kept a carriage and was going out—there was a pattering of feet, and as she opened the door, Joby came trotting in, with his great eyes full of animation, and the grinning smile in which he indulged a little more broad, for he had rushed in between the footman’s legs nearly upsetting him as the door was opened, in his eagerness to play postman for his master.
“Good dog, then!” whispered Maude, and then her heart seemed to stand still, for the carriage did not drive off, there was a rustling of silks on the stairs, and her ladyship came panting up.
Maude threw herself, colouring vividly, into abergèrechair, and Joby dived under the couch, not leaving so much as the point of his tail visible as her ladyship sailed into the room and looked hastily round.
“Maude,” she cried, “there is some mystery here. I insist on knowing what this means.”
There was no reply, but Tryphie came in, and darted a sympathetic glance at the poor girl, mentally wishing that Tom were at home.
“I—insist upon knowing what this means.”
“What, mamma?” said Maude, huskily.
“That dog; where is he? Mr Melton’s hideous wretch. Here: dog, dog, dog!” she cried.
She might have called till she was speechless, for Joby would not have moved. All the same, though, he was to be stirred, for her ladyship, now in a towering passion, set down the toy terrier upon a chair, when it immediately leaped to the carpet, barking furiously, and made a dead set at the sofa.
“It is yonder! You have hidden the wretch there!” cried her ladyship, “and I am certain that that dog has been made the bearer of clandestine correspondence. I have read of such things. But there’s an end to it now, and it is only just and fit—false, abandoned girl!—that it should be discovered by the faithful little dog of the gentleman who is to-be your husband. Good little pet, then, to protect your master’s interests. Fetch him out, then.”
This was rather unwise of her ladyship, but she was excited, and she excited the little terrier in turn, for he had contented himself up to this time with snapping and barking furiously at the chintz valance hanging from the sofa, but keeping about a yard distant, as he leaped up with all four feet from the carpet at once and came down barking.
Encouraged though by her ladyship he went a little closer, barking and snarling so furiously that Joby could not contain himself any longer but softly pushed his short black nose and one eye beneath the chintz, had a look at the noisy intruder, and then, withdrew once more.
“There! I knew it,” cried her ladyship, angrily. “Oh, shame on you, shame, shame! Good little dog, then! Drive him out!”
The terrier barked again furiously, and glanced up at her ladyship, who uttered fresh words of encouragement.
Sir Grantley Wilters gave fifteen guineas for the beast, and another for his morocco and silver collar!
“Drive him out, then, good little dog!” cried her ladyship, and with a fierce rush, the terrier ran under the sofa.
There was a sharp bark, a bit of a scuffle, a worrying noise, a loud yelp cut suddenly in half, and then, frowning severely, Joby crept out from the foot of the sofa, with the hair about his neck erect, his eyes glowering, and the limp corpse of the wretched terrier hanging from his jaws.
It was all plain enough—that invisible tragedy beneath the chintz. The enemy had fastened upon one of Joby’s cheeks with his keen little teeth, and made it bleed, when, with a growl, the big dog had shaken his assailant off, caught him by the back, given him a shake like a rat, and the terrier’s head, four legs, and tail hung down together. Sir Grantley Wilters’ guineas were represented now by some inanimate skin and bone.
It was all over!
“Oh, this is dreadful!” cried her ladyship, as, with a cry of horror, Maude made for the dog.
But no: Joby was amiability itself at times, and well educated; still, rouse the dog that was in him, and his obstinate breed began to show. Maude called, but he took no notice, only walked solemnly about the room with his vanquished enemy pendent from his grinning mouth.
“He’ll kill it—he’ll kill it,” cried her ladyship, wildly, but not daring to approach; and just then Tom entered the room. “Oh, Tom, Tom, quick!”
“What’s the row?” cried Tom, “eh? Oh, I say! ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! what a jolly lark!” and he slapped his leg and roared with laughter.
“Tom!” shrieked her ladyship.
“That’s just about how Charley Melton could serve Wilters,” cried Tom, wiping his eyes.
“For shame, sir!” cried her ladyship. “Pray, pray save the poor dog.”
“What for?” said Tom, grinning, “to be stuffed?”
“Oh, don’t say it’s dead!” wailed her ladyship.
“I won’t, if you don’t wish me to say so,” said Tom, “but it is as dead as a door nail. Here, Joby, Joby,” he cried, walking up to the dog.
But there was a low growl and Joby hung his head, glowered, and walked to the far end of the drawing-room, seeming to take a pleasure in making his journey as long as he could in and out amongst chairs and tables, giving Tom, who followed him, significant hints that it would not be safe to interfere with him at such a time.
“There, let’s open the door, and he’ll go,” said Tom.
“Oh, no, no, Tom,” cried her ladyship. “Sir Grantley’s present.”
Just then the dog seemed to have satisfied his anger upon his rival, and crossing the room to where Maude sat trembling in her chair, he dropped the defunct terrier at her feet, and stood solemnly wagging his stump of a tail as if asking for praise.
“Ring the bell, Tryphie,” cried her ladyship.
“All right,” said Tom, forestalling her, and Robbins came up with stately stride.
“Take this down, Robbins,” said her ladyship, with a shudder.
The butler looked ineffably disgusted, but he merely turned upon his heel, strode out of the room, and returned at the end of a minute or two with a silver salver and a napkin, picked up the sixteen guineas with the latter, placed it upon the former, covered it with the damask, and bore the dead dog solemnly out, Joby following him closely, as if turning himself into chief mourner, and then seeing the hall door open trotting slowly out.
“That I should have lived to be the mother of such—”
Her ladyship did not finish her sentence but rose with dilating eyes, made a sort of heavy rush and bound across the room, pounced upon something and began eagerly to inspect it, tearing open a little narrow pocket and extracting a note.
Poor Joby! he did not mean to be so faithless to his trust, but the excitement consequent upon the attack had made the muscles of his throat swell to such a degree that his collar fastening had snapped, and the collar with its valuable missive had fallen upon the carpet, while poor Maude had sat wondering where it had gone.
“Yes, of course,” said her ladyship, sarcastically. “Well: that trick is detected,” she cried, viciously tearing up the note. “Letters sent by a dog, by one of the vilest of the vile; and this, Diphoos, is the man you called your friend.”
“Oh, aunt, pray be silent,” cried Tryphie, running to her cousin’s side. “Maude has fainted.”
Chapter Eleven.The Exile.That morning Monsieur Hector Launay was happy. He had been to Portland Place, acted as executioner to the mole upon her ladyship’s chin, buried it beneath the court plaster, been paid his bill, and in going out squeezed Justine’s hand, and—Ah, oui mes amis—she had squeezed it again.“Yes, yes,” he had cried, joyously, as he returned, with the recollection of Justine’s bright eyes making his own sparkle, “encore a little more of this isle of fogs and rheums and spleen, encore a little more of the hard cash to be made here, encore a little too much more wait, and thencette chèreJustine and la France—la France—Tralla-la—Tralla-la—Tralla-la.”From this it will be seen that Monsieur Hector Launay was joyous. It was his nature to be joyous, but he suppressed it beneath a solemn mask as of wax. He was as immovable as a rule as his own gentleman; that is to say, the waxen image of his craft which looked down Upper Gimp Street from the shop window—the gentleman who was married to the handsome lady with the graceful turn to her neck, who always looked up Upper Gimp Street from morning till night, saving at such times as Monsieur Hector Launay hung old copies of theFigaroorPetit Journalbefore them, lest the heat of the summer sun should visit their cheeks too roughly. In fact, a neglect of this on one occasion had resulted in the wax “giving” a little, and the lady having a slight attack of mumps.These dwellers in a happy atmosphere behind glass were the acmé of perfection in the dressing of their hair, the lady’s being the longest and the gentleman’s the shortest possible to conceive. So short was the latter’s, in fact, that it might have been used to brush that of the former; and so occupied were they in gazing up and down the street that they might have been the spies who furnished Monsieur Hector Launay with the abundant information he possessed respecting theélitewho lived in a wide circle round his dwelling in that most strange of London regions—mysterious Marylebone.He was a slim, genteel, sallow gentleman, polite in the extreme, always the perfection of cleanliness, and, as Lord Barmouth said, smelling as if made of scented soap. His eyes were of the darkest, so was his hair, which was cut to the pattern in the window. He had a carefully-waxed and pointed moustache, but shaved the rest of his face as religiously as he did that of Lord Barmouth, every morning, passing his hand over the skin and seeming to be always hunting for one particular bristle, which evaded him.It has been said that he might be supposed to have gained his information about the various people around by means of his two wax figures, who afterwards communicated their knowledge to him in some occult way, though the theory might hold water that the thoughts of people’s brains radiated to the ends of their hairs which were often cut off and remained in the possession of the barber for distillation, sale, or the fire.Monsieur Hector Launay, it must be owned, was, though a lover of his country, not patriotic from a Communist, Imperialist, Royalist, or Republican point of view. Friends and compatriots often wanted him to join in this or that conspiracy.“No,” he would say, “it is ignoble, nor is it pleasant to live here, and shave and cut and dress, but it is safe.Ma foi, no,” he would say, “I should not like to be guillotined and find myself a head short some morning; neither should I like to be sent to New Caledonia, to be cooked by the cannibals of that happy land.”Certainly he had periodic longings sometimes, but they took the form ofeau sucréeor a little cup of coffee with Justine at Versailles, on the Bois de Boulogne: so he waited, stored up knowledge, sangchansons, and invented wonderful washes for the skin or hair.“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “I know what is immense. Ladies place themselves in my hands, and would I betray their confidence? Never, never. Acoiffeurin a good district is the repository of the grandest secrets of life. I could write a book, but,ma foi, no, I never betray. I am a man of trust.”Charley Melton came into his shop that morning for a periodical cut and shampoo, after sending Joby on his regular mission, and Monsieur Hector smiled softly to himself as he played with the young man’s hair.“That good dog, monsieur, will he find his way-back?”“What do you mean?” said Melton sharply.“Pardon, monsieur, a mere nothing; but I should not trust a dog. They suspect yonder.”Melton turned and gazed at him angrily.“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “it is a tender subject, but I go so much that I come to know nearly all.”“What the deuce do you mean?”“Monsieur forgets that I dress Lady Barmouth’s hair; that the Miladi Maude often goes to the opera with her beautiful fair tresses arranged in designs of my invention. But, monsieur, they talk about the dog.”Something very like an imprecation came from the young man’s lips, but he restrained it.“Monsieur may trust me,” said the hairdresser. “Mademoiselle Justine is a great friend of mine. Have you not remarked her likeness to my lady of wax? She is exact. It is she—encore.”“Oh, indeed,” said Melton, drily.“Yes, monsieur; some day we shall return to la France together, to pass our days in simple happy joys.”“Look here,” said Melton, bluntly, “I am an Englishman, and always speak plainly. You know all about me—about the house in Portland Place?”“Everything, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, with a smile and a bow. “Mademoiselle Justine isdésoléeabout the course that affairs have taken; she speaks to me of Sir Wilter as the enemy. Pah! she say he is old,bête, he is not at all a man. We discourse of you, monsieur—we lovers—and we talk of your love. We agree ourselves that it is foolish to trust a dog.”“How the devil did you know that I trusted a dog?” said Melton furiously.“Ma foi, monsieur is angry. Why so, with one who would serve him? Justine loves you—I then love you. How do I know?”—a shrug here—“monsieur isindiscrét. Justine could not fail to see.”“Confusion!” ejaculated Melton.“And yet it is so easy, monsieur—a note—a cake of soap—a packet of bloom—a bottle of scent—it is wrapped up—for Miladi Maude with my printed card outside—Voilà! who could suspect?”“Look here,” said Melton, turning sharply round.“Pardon, monsieur, I use the scissor; there is a little fresh growth here.”“What do you expect to be paid for this, if I trust you?—and perhaps I shall not, for it is confoundedly dirty work.”“Pardon, monsieur,” cried the Frenchman, laying his hand upon his breast, “I am a gentleman. Pay? Noting. Have I not told you that Justine, whom I have the honour to love, adores her young mistress. She adores monsieur, and would serve him. I in my turn adore Mademoiselle Justine. I am her slave—I am yours.”“Let’s see—Justine? That is her ladyship’s maid?”“True, monsieur. But this morning she say to me—‘Hector,mon enfant, I’mdésoléeon the subject of those two children. Help them,mon garçon, and I will be benefactor.’”“It is good, I say to her, and I place myself at monsieur’s disposition.”Charles Melton frowned, and Monsieur Hector went on with his shampooing, till the head between his hands was dried, polished, and finished, when the hairdresser took up a little ivory brush, and anointed it with some fragrant preparation to be applied in its turn to the patient’s beard, till the fair hair glistened like gold, and Monsieur Hector fell back and looked at him in admiration.“But monsieur is fit now for the arms of a goddess,” he exclaimed. “Does he accept my assistance?”Melton looked at him for a moment, as he paid the fee usual upon such occasions, and then said bluntly—“Monsieur Launay, I am obliged to you, and you mean well. Doubtless Mademoiselle Justine means well, and she has my thanks, but I cannot accept your assistance. Good mom—Ah, Joby, old fellow.”He drew back into the little room as the dog came hastily in, and placed his head against his master’s leg.“Why, Joby,” exclaimed Melton, in a low excited tone, “where is your collar? Blood too! You have been fighting. Good heavens! what shall I do!—If that note is found!—Oh, my poor darling!” he muttered, and he hurried from the place.
That morning Monsieur Hector Launay was happy. He had been to Portland Place, acted as executioner to the mole upon her ladyship’s chin, buried it beneath the court plaster, been paid his bill, and in going out squeezed Justine’s hand, and—Ah, oui mes amis—she had squeezed it again.
“Yes, yes,” he had cried, joyously, as he returned, with the recollection of Justine’s bright eyes making his own sparkle, “encore a little more of this isle of fogs and rheums and spleen, encore a little more of the hard cash to be made here, encore a little too much more wait, and thencette chèreJustine and la France—la France—Tralla-la—Tralla-la—Tralla-la.”
From this it will be seen that Monsieur Hector Launay was joyous. It was his nature to be joyous, but he suppressed it beneath a solemn mask as of wax. He was as immovable as a rule as his own gentleman; that is to say, the waxen image of his craft which looked down Upper Gimp Street from the shop window—the gentleman who was married to the handsome lady with the graceful turn to her neck, who always looked up Upper Gimp Street from morning till night, saving at such times as Monsieur Hector Launay hung old copies of theFigaroorPetit Journalbefore them, lest the heat of the summer sun should visit their cheeks too roughly. In fact, a neglect of this on one occasion had resulted in the wax “giving” a little, and the lady having a slight attack of mumps.
These dwellers in a happy atmosphere behind glass were the acmé of perfection in the dressing of their hair, the lady’s being the longest and the gentleman’s the shortest possible to conceive. So short was the latter’s, in fact, that it might have been used to brush that of the former; and so occupied were they in gazing up and down the street that they might have been the spies who furnished Monsieur Hector Launay with the abundant information he possessed respecting theélitewho lived in a wide circle round his dwelling in that most strange of London regions—mysterious Marylebone.
He was a slim, genteel, sallow gentleman, polite in the extreme, always the perfection of cleanliness, and, as Lord Barmouth said, smelling as if made of scented soap. His eyes were of the darkest, so was his hair, which was cut to the pattern in the window. He had a carefully-waxed and pointed moustache, but shaved the rest of his face as religiously as he did that of Lord Barmouth, every morning, passing his hand over the skin and seeming to be always hunting for one particular bristle, which evaded him.
It has been said that he might be supposed to have gained his information about the various people around by means of his two wax figures, who afterwards communicated their knowledge to him in some occult way, though the theory might hold water that the thoughts of people’s brains radiated to the ends of their hairs which were often cut off and remained in the possession of the barber for distillation, sale, or the fire.
Monsieur Hector Launay, it must be owned, was, though a lover of his country, not patriotic from a Communist, Imperialist, Royalist, or Republican point of view. Friends and compatriots often wanted him to join in this or that conspiracy.
“No,” he would say, “it is ignoble, nor is it pleasant to live here, and shave and cut and dress, but it is safe.Ma foi, no,” he would say, “I should not like to be guillotined and find myself a head short some morning; neither should I like to be sent to New Caledonia, to be cooked by the cannibals of that happy land.”
Certainly he had periodic longings sometimes, but they took the form ofeau sucréeor a little cup of coffee with Justine at Versailles, on the Bois de Boulogne: so he waited, stored up knowledge, sangchansons, and invented wonderful washes for the skin or hair.
“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “I know what is immense. Ladies place themselves in my hands, and would I betray their confidence? Never, never. Acoiffeurin a good district is the repository of the grandest secrets of life. I could write a book, but,ma foi, no, I never betray. I am a man of trust.”
Charley Melton came into his shop that morning for a periodical cut and shampoo, after sending Joby on his regular mission, and Monsieur Hector smiled softly to himself as he played with the young man’s hair.
“That good dog, monsieur, will he find his way-back?”
“What do you mean?” said Melton sharply.
“Pardon, monsieur, a mere nothing; but I should not trust a dog. They suspect yonder.”
Melton turned and gazed at him angrily.
“Yes,” said Monsieur Hector, “it is a tender subject, but I go so much that I come to know nearly all.”
“What the deuce do you mean?”
“Monsieur forgets that I dress Lady Barmouth’s hair; that the Miladi Maude often goes to the opera with her beautiful fair tresses arranged in designs of my invention. But, monsieur, they talk about the dog.”
Something very like an imprecation came from the young man’s lips, but he restrained it.
“Monsieur may trust me,” said the hairdresser. “Mademoiselle Justine is a great friend of mine. Have you not remarked her likeness to my lady of wax? She is exact. It is she—encore.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Melton, drily.
“Yes, monsieur; some day we shall return to la France together, to pass our days in simple happy joys.”
“Look here,” said Melton, bluntly, “I am an Englishman, and always speak plainly. You know all about me—about the house in Portland Place?”
“Everything, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, with a smile and a bow. “Mademoiselle Justine isdésoléeabout the course that affairs have taken; she speaks to me of Sir Wilter as the enemy. Pah! she say he is old,bête, he is not at all a man. We discourse of you, monsieur—we lovers—and we talk of your love. We agree ourselves that it is foolish to trust a dog.”
“How the devil did you know that I trusted a dog?” said Melton furiously.
“Ma foi, monsieur is angry. Why so, with one who would serve him? Justine loves you—I then love you. How do I know?”—a shrug here—“monsieur isindiscrét. Justine could not fail to see.”
“Confusion!” ejaculated Melton.
“And yet it is so easy, monsieur—a note—a cake of soap—a packet of bloom—a bottle of scent—it is wrapped up—for Miladi Maude with my printed card outside—Voilà! who could suspect?”
“Look here,” said Melton, turning sharply round.
“Pardon, monsieur, I use the scissor; there is a little fresh growth here.”
“What do you expect to be paid for this, if I trust you?—and perhaps I shall not, for it is confoundedly dirty work.”
“Pardon, monsieur,” cried the Frenchman, laying his hand upon his breast, “I am a gentleman. Pay? Noting. Have I not told you that Justine, whom I have the honour to love, adores her young mistress. She adores monsieur, and would serve him. I in my turn adore Mademoiselle Justine. I am her slave—I am yours.”
“Let’s see—Justine? That is her ladyship’s maid?”
“True, monsieur. But this morning she say to me—‘Hector,mon enfant, I’mdésoléeon the subject of those two children. Help them,mon garçon, and I will be benefactor.’”
“It is good, I say to her, and I place myself at monsieur’s disposition.”
Charles Melton frowned, and Monsieur Hector went on with his shampooing, till the head between his hands was dried, polished, and finished, when the hairdresser took up a little ivory brush, and anointed it with some fragrant preparation to be applied in its turn to the patient’s beard, till the fair hair glistened like gold, and Monsieur Hector fell back and looked at him in admiration.
“But monsieur is fit now for the arms of a goddess,” he exclaimed. “Does he accept my assistance?”
Melton looked at him for a moment, as he paid the fee usual upon such occasions, and then said bluntly—
“Monsieur Launay, I am obliged to you, and you mean well. Doubtless Mademoiselle Justine means well, and she has my thanks, but I cannot accept your assistance. Good mom—Ah, Joby, old fellow.”
He drew back into the little room as the dog came hastily in, and placed his head against his master’s leg.
“Why, Joby,” exclaimed Melton, in a low excited tone, “where is your collar? Blood too! You have been fighting. Good heavens! what shall I do!—If that note is found!—Oh, my poor darling!” he muttered, and he hurried from the place.
Chapter Twelve.La Belle Alliance.“It’s enough to drive a man to do anything,” exclaimed Melton, as he dashed down the fashionable newspaper he had been reading, where in a short paragraph he had found that which he told himself would make him wretched for life. The paragraph was as follows—“We understand that an alliance is on thetapisbetween Sir Grantley Wilters, of Morley Hall, Shropshire, and Eaton Place, and Lady Maude Diphoos, daughter of the Earl of Barmouth.”“I seem to be crushed,” exclaimed the young man, rising and walking hastily up and down the room. “Everything goes wrong with me, and I believe I am going mad. Perhaps it is fate,” he said, gloomily, “and how to save that poor girl from wretchedness! Heigho! Joby, old fellow, I wish I could forget the unpleasant things, and then perhaps there would be some comfort in life.“Now, what’s to be done?” he cried, as his eyes fell again upon the newspaper. “I cannot bear this. Here’s a whole month since I have heard from or seen poor little Maude, for I haven’t the heart to try any more of those clandestine tricks.”He sat down and thought over the past month and its incidents, taking out and re-reading a note with Lady Barmouth’s crest upon it, in which her ladyship very curtly requested that Mr Melton would refrain from calling in Portland Place, for after what had occurred she could only look upon his visits as an insult. She wrote this at the request of Lord Barmouth.“That is a monstrous fib,” said Charley Melton, angrily, “for the amiable little old man was always most friendly. But what shall I do? I must see her; I must hear from her. They are forcing this on with the poor girl, and it is like blasting her young life.“Tom!” he ejaculated, after a pause. “No; he has not answered either of my last letters. There is something wrong there.”He sat thinking again.“Confound it all! It is so contemptible. I hate it, but what can I do? I must send a note through that Frenchman. Pah! how I loathe this backstairs work, but what can I do? I am debarred the front stairs, which are open to that confoundedrouéWilters.”He stamped up and down the room again till there was a knock at the door.“Come in,” he cried, and a groom entered.“Please, sir, master’s compliments, and—and—I beg your pardon, sir, he’d be much obliged if you wouldn’t stamp up and down the room so. He’s got a bad headache, and you’re just over him.”“Was that the message your master sent?” exclaimed Melton, for the groom was the servant of an acquaintance who had chambers on the floor below.“Well, sir—no, sir—not exactly, sir,” said the man, suppressing an inclination to smile.“What did he say then?”“Please, sir, he said, ‘Run up and ask Mr Melton if he’s going mad,’ and he shied one of his boots at me.”“Tell him yes, raving mad,” said Melton savagely; and the man went down.“It’s fate, I suppose,” he said at last: “and it seems as if I am to give her up.”For from that fatal day when the toy terrier had been slain Joby had stood in the same category as his master—Lady Maude was not at home to the canine caller, and after many efforts to obtain access to his mistress, Charley Melton was nearly in despair.He had tried the post, and his letters had been returned. He had tried the servants and mutual friends, but given up both in disgust for Maude’s sake, being unwilling to cause her fresh anxieties and pain.“It is so confoundedly undignified,” he said to himself. “I can’t think of a plan that is safe. But never mind, patience—and something will turn up. We must wait. I can get a look at my darling now and then, and that must do till better days arrive.”But human nature has its bounds of endurance, and after seeing Maude one day in the Park in company with washed-out, overdressed Sir Grantley Wilters, Charley Melton could bear it no more.“What’s the good of living in this confounded England,” he exclaimed, “where a man cannot wring his rival’s neck or knock out his enemy’s brains without there being a row. I must do it, there is no other means that I can see but I’ll have one more try first.”He went off straight to Portland Place, and as he came within sight of the house, to his great delight he caught sight of Maude in the large covered space with its huge pots of evergreens over the portico. She was leaning on the railing and gazing pensively down, and as Charley Melton drew nearer he found that she was listening to the music of a loud-toned organ played by a tall, broad-shouldered, swarthy Italian, who waved his hand and raised his hat, and smiled and bowed till the lady dropped something white into his extended felt broad brim, in response to which he kissed his hand, and the lady still looked down.Charley Melton thought little of it at the moment as he crossed the road, when just as he was half-way across the broad way Maude raised her head, saw him, and fled quickly into the house.“She needn’t have been in such a precious hurry,” said Melton to himself; “but never mind, I’ll make a big effort to see her this time, at all events.”He went boldly across the pavement to reach the front door and ring, and as he did so Luigi Malsano followed him, turning his handle the while.“Ah, signore!” he whined, as he smiled and showed his white teeth, “povero Italiano.”“Yes, you handsome scoundrel,” said Charley Melton to himself, “I should like your poverty. Allowed to come here, and rewarded by her in her gentle love and kindliness. What is the scoundrel glaring at?”For Luigi’s eyes seemed to him to emit a peculiarly sinister or baleful glare that was not pleasant.“No, no, go away!” said Melton impatiently.Just then the door opened, and Robbins the pompous appeared.“Not at home, sir,” he said, before he was asked.“Take my card, Robbins, and ask Lord Barmouth to see me.”“I dursen’t, sir; I dursen’t indeed,” said the butler in a whisper. “It’s more than my place is worth, sir, and his lordship couldn’t see you, he couldn’t indeed.”“Why not?”Robbins “made a face” which was quite expressive enough, for Charley Melton read it to mean “the dragon wouldn’t let him,” and with a feeling of bitterness and rage which nearly tempted him to kick the organ-grinder into the gutter, he turned and walked away, to go straight from thence to Upper Gimp Street, where he found the handsome hairdresser rearranging the costume of his waxen lady dummy.“Ah, m’sieu; yes, I am quite at liberty.Entrez, m’sieu.”Charley Melton confounded his “Ah, monsieur” with the Italian’s “Ah, signore,” and he walked into the saloon, and stood for a few minutes in silence thinking, while Monsieur Hector suggested hair-cutting, shampooing, scent, singeing, and other matters connected with his profession.“Look here, Mr Launay,” he said at last.“M’sieu,s’il vous plait, m’sieu, it is the only pleasant reminder of my own clime.”“Monsieur Launay then—”“I am at your service, m’sieu.”“Some time back, when I was here, you were good enough to make me the offer of your services.”“Certainement, m’sieu.”“Monsieur Launay, what you have said is a profound secret between us? As a French gentleman, I trust to your honour.”“Sare, I am the repository of the secrets of the aristocratic classes.”“Then perhaps I shall trust you.”“And monsieur accepts the offer of my services?”“I cannot say yet—I will call again.”Charley Melton left the place and went along the street, for he could get no farther that day. He felt degraded, and the words choked him; but Monsieur Launay snatched a copy ofLe Petit Journalfrom over the head of his gentleman, whose fixed eyes followed the young man as he went slowly along the pavement with Joby close at his heels.“C’est fait?” exclaimed Monsieur Launay. “Justine,mon ange, I shall obey you and save Monsieur Melton—Ma foi! what a name! They will be happy, and then I—Ah, la France—la bel-le,” he sang, “at last I shall return to you a rich man. Oh, but it was quite plain: he had sent a note by the dogue, and the boule-dogue had lost it and his collar. But what it is to be ingenious—to have of the spirit! If I rase and cut hair, I starve myself, but if I make myself of great use to all around, I grow rich. Live the secrets! Justine, you will be mine at last.“Aha!—it is good,” he continued, “I have another secret to keep... This is the bureau aux secrets. He had not remarked the likeness to my adorable. It is beautiful, and she wasjalousewhen I say I love my lady of wax.Cette chérie. But,ma foi! I must be busy over my other affairs; there is the coiffure of the Grande Barmouth to prepare. Aha, Milady La Grande, you will callma chérie bête, chouette, stupide, and trouble her poor sweet soul. Now I shall have my revenge, and be on ze best of terms as you say all ze time. La—la—la—la—la—la. Par-tir pour la guer-re—la guer-re. Ces braves soldats.”He sang on in a low tone, and began to comb some of Lady Barmouth’s falsities, and while he combed he smiled, and when Monsieur Hector smiled he was making plans.“Vive les conspirateurs!” he cried; and then prepared for his primitive repast.Being a bachelor at present, he cooked for himself behind a little screen over a gas-stove; sometimes it was food, sometimes strange cosmetiques and chemical preparations for beautifying his clients. This day it was food preparation, and, manipulated by Monsieur Hector, one kidney became a wonderful dish, swimming in gravy. Tiny bits of meat reappeared brown and appetising: and he was great upon soup, which he made with half a pint of water, some vegetables, and a disc cut off what seemed to be so much glue in a sausage skin.But he lived well upon a small income, and partook of grand salads, watersouchéesmade of one herring,biftek-aux-pommes, café, eau sucrée, and cigarette.One gas-burner cooked, boiled, and stewed, and his cleanliness and saving ways enabled him to afford his game at billiards; and to pass for a Parisian of the first water under a political cloud.“Ah!” he said, as he smoked his one cigarette, “when will he return with a letter for his beloafed? Soon. But stop—what is a letter to a meeting? Ha, ha! I have a plan. Wait till he come once more, and then—ha, ha! how la Justine will laugh!Vive l’amour.“Yes, the ruse, one that your foggy head, ros-bif Anglais could never devise, but which I, Hector of the sunny France, threw off at once. Oorai, as we say in thees deesmal country.Vive l’amour. One—two—three days; when will he come? Any veek, and then—vive l’amour.”
“It’s enough to drive a man to do anything,” exclaimed Melton, as he dashed down the fashionable newspaper he had been reading, where in a short paragraph he had found that which he told himself would make him wretched for life. The paragraph was as follows—
“We understand that an alliance is on thetapisbetween Sir Grantley Wilters, of Morley Hall, Shropshire, and Eaton Place, and Lady Maude Diphoos, daughter of the Earl of Barmouth.”
“I seem to be crushed,” exclaimed the young man, rising and walking hastily up and down the room. “Everything goes wrong with me, and I believe I am going mad. Perhaps it is fate,” he said, gloomily, “and how to save that poor girl from wretchedness! Heigho! Joby, old fellow, I wish I could forget the unpleasant things, and then perhaps there would be some comfort in life.
“Now, what’s to be done?” he cried, as his eyes fell again upon the newspaper. “I cannot bear this. Here’s a whole month since I have heard from or seen poor little Maude, for I haven’t the heart to try any more of those clandestine tricks.”
He sat down and thought over the past month and its incidents, taking out and re-reading a note with Lady Barmouth’s crest upon it, in which her ladyship very curtly requested that Mr Melton would refrain from calling in Portland Place, for after what had occurred she could only look upon his visits as an insult. She wrote this at the request of Lord Barmouth.
“That is a monstrous fib,” said Charley Melton, angrily, “for the amiable little old man was always most friendly. But what shall I do? I must see her; I must hear from her. They are forcing this on with the poor girl, and it is like blasting her young life.
“Tom!” he ejaculated, after a pause. “No; he has not answered either of my last letters. There is something wrong there.”
He sat thinking again.
“Confound it all! It is so contemptible. I hate it, but what can I do? I must send a note through that Frenchman. Pah! how I loathe this backstairs work, but what can I do? I am debarred the front stairs, which are open to that confoundedrouéWilters.”
He stamped up and down the room again till there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he cried, and a groom entered.
“Please, sir, master’s compliments, and—and—I beg your pardon, sir, he’d be much obliged if you wouldn’t stamp up and down the room so. He’s got a bad headache, and you’re just over him.”
“Was that the message your master sent?” exclaimed Melton, for the groom was the servant of an acquaintance who had chambers on the floor below.
“Well, sir—no, sir—not exactly, sir,” said the man, suppressing an inclination to smile.
“What did he say then?”
“Please, sir, he said, ‘Run up and ask Mr Melton if he’s going mad,’ and he shied one of his boots at me.”
“Tell him yes, raving mad,” said Melton savagely; and the man went down.
“It’s fate, I suppose,” he said at last: “and it seems as if I am to give her up.”
For from that fatal day when the toy terrier had been slain Joby had stood in the same category as his master—Lady Maude was not at home to the canine caller, and after many efforts to obtain access to his mistress, Charley Melton was nearly in despair.
He had tried the post, and his letters had been returned. He had tried the servants and mutual friends, but given up both in disgust for Maude’s sake, being unwilling to cause her fresh anxieties and pain.
“It is so confoundedly undignified,” he said to himself. “I can’t think of a plan that is safe. But never mind, patience—and something will turn up. We must wait. I can get a look at my darling now and then, and that must do till better days arrive.”
But human nature has its bounds of endurance, and after seeing Maude one day in the Park in company with washed-out, overdressed Sir Grantley Wilters, Charley Melton could bear it no more.
“What’s the good of living in this confounded England,” he exclaimed, “where a man cannot wring his rival’s neck or knock out his enemy’s brains without there being a row. I must do it, there is no other means that I can see but I’ll have one more try first.”
He went off straight to Portland Place, and as he came within sight of the house, to his great delight he caught sight of Maude in the large covered space with its huge pots of evergreens over the portico. She was leaning on the railing and gazing pensively down, and as Charley Melton drew nearer he found that she was listening to the music of a loud-toned organ played by a tall, broad-shouldered, swarthy Italian, who waved his hand and raised his hat, and smiled and bowed till the lady dropped something white into his extended felt broad brim, in response to which he kissed his hand, and the lady still looked down.
Charley Melton thought little of it at the moment as he crossed the road, when just as he was half-way across the broad way Maude raised her head, saw him, and fled quickly into the house.
“She needn’t have been in such a precious hurry,” said Melton to himself; “but never mind, I’ll make a big effort to see her this time, at all events.”
He went boldly across the pavement to reach the front door and ring, and as he did so Luigi Malsano followed him, turning his handle the while.
“Ah, signore!” he whined, as he smiled and showed his white teeth, “povero Italiano.”
“Yes, you handsome scoundrel,” said Charley Melton to himself, “I should like your poverty. Allowed to come here, and rewarded by her in her gentle love and kindliness. What is the scoundrel glaring at?”
For Luigi’s eyes seemed to him to emit a peculiarly sinister or baleful glare that was not pleasant.
“No, no, go away!” said Melton impatiently.
Just then the door opened, and Robbins the pompous appeared.
“Not at home, sir,” he said, before he was asked.
“Take my card, Robbins, and ask Lord Barmouth to see me.”
“I dursen’t, sir; I dursen’t indeed,” said the butler in a whisper. “It’s more than my place is worth, sir, and his lordship couldn’t see you, he couldn’t indeed.”
“Why not?”
Robbins “made a face” which was quite expressive enough, for Charley Melton read it to mean “the dragon wouldn’t let him,” and with a feeling of bitterness and rage which nearly tempted him to kick the organ-grinder into the gutter, he turned and walked away, to go straight from thence to Upper Gimp Street, where he found the handsome hairdresser rearranging the costume of his waxen lady dummy.
“Ah, m’sieu; yes, I am quite at liberty.Entrez, m’sieu.”
Charley Melton confounded his “Ah, monsieur” with the Italian’s “Ah, signore,” and he walked into the saloon, and stood for a few minutes in silence thinking, while Monsieur Hector suggested hair-cutting, shampooing, scent, singeing, and other matters connected with his profession.
“Look here, Mr Launay,” he said at last.
“M’sieu,s’il vous plait, m’sieu, it is the only pleasant reminder of my own clime.”
“Monsieur Launay then—”
“I am at your service, m’sieu.”
“Some time back, when I was here, you were good enough to make me the offer of your services.”
“Certainement, m’sieu.”
“Monsieur Launay, what you have said is a profound secret between us? As a French gentleman, I trust to your honour.”
“Sare, I am the repository of the secrets of the aristocratic classes.”
“Then perhaps I shall trust you.”
“And monsieur accepts the offer of my services?”
“I cannot say yet—I will call again.”
Charley Melton left the place and went along the street, for he could get no farther that day. He felt degraded, and the words choked him; but Monsieur Launay snatched a copy ofLe Petit Journalfrom over the head of his gentleman, whose fixed eyes followed the young man as he went slowly along the pavement with Joby close at his heels.
“C’est fait?” exclaimed Monsieur Launay. “Justine,mon ange, I shall obey you and save Monsieur Melton—Ma foi! what a name! They will be happy, and then I—Ah, la France—la bel-le,” he sang, “at last I shall return to you a rich man. Oh, but it was quite plain: he had sent a note by the dogue, and the boule-dogue had lost it and his collar. But what it is to be ingenious—to have of the spirit! If I rase and cut hair, I starve myself, but if I make myself of great use to all around, I grow rich. Live the secrets! Justine, you will be mine at last.
“Aha!—it is good,” he continued, “I have another secret to keep... This is the bureau aux secrets. He had not remarked the likeness to my adorable. It is beautiful, and she wasjalousewhen I say I love my lady of wax.Cette chérie. But,ma foi! I must be busy over my other affairs; there is the coiffure of the Grande Barmouth to prepare. Aha, Milady La Grande, you will callma chérie bête, chouette, stupide, and trouble her poor sweet soul. Now I shall have my revenge, and be on ze best of terms as you say all ze time. La—la—la—la—la—la. Par-tir pour la guer-re—la guer-re. Ces braves soldats.”
He sang on in a low tone, and began to comb some of Lady Barmouth’s falsities, and while he combed he smiled, and when Monsieur Hector smiled he was making plans.
“Vive les conspirateurs!” he cried; and then prepared for his primitive repast.
Being a bachelor at present, he cooked for himself behind a little screen over a gas-stove; sometimes it was food, sometimes strange cosmetiques and chemical preparations for beautifying his clients. This day it was food preparation, and, manipulated by Monsieur Hector, one kidney became a wonderful dish, swimming in gravy. Tiny bits of meat reappeared brown and appetising: and he was great upon soup, which he made with half a pint of water, some vegetables, and a disc cut off what seemed to be so much glue in a sausage skin.
But he lived well upon a small income, and partook of grand salads, watersouchéesmade of one herring,biftek-aux-pommes, café, eau sucrée, and cigarette.
One gas-burner cooked, boiled, and stewed, and his cleanliness and saving ways enabled him to afford his game at billiards; and to pass for a Parisian of the first water under a political cloud.
“Ah!” he said, as he smoked his one cigarette, “when will he return with a letter for his beloafed? Soon. But stop—what is a letter to a meeting? Ha, ha! I have a plan. Wait till he come once more, and then—ha, ha! how la Justine will laugh!Vive l’amour.
“Yes, the ruse, one that your foggy head, ros-bif Anglais could never devise, but which I, Hector of the sunny France, threw off at once. Oorai, as we say in thees deesmal country.Vive l’amour. One—two—three days; when will he come? Any veek, and then—vive l’amour.”
Chapter Thirteen.Sir Grantley is Agitated.Lady Barmouth was in great trouble, and resembled more strongly than ever the heaving billows. She had been so agitated several times lately that she had found it necessary to take medicinally red lavender drops, or else eau de Cologne, the latter by preference for its fragrance.She was terribly troubled, for matters had not gone so satisfactorily as she could wish. There had been a death in Sir Grantley Wilters’ family, and that gentleman had been unwell too, thanks to a fresh medicine man he had tried.“And really,” said her ladyship, “that ungrateful child Maude does not show the slightest sympathy.”“Fool if she did,” said Tom, who was in the drawing-room. “What’s that fellow Bellman been here for again?”“To see Tryphie, of course,” said her ladyship.Tom was about to make some angry reply, when Maude came in with Lord Barmouth leaning upon her arm, fresh from a walk, and Sir Grantley Wilters, most carefully got up in deep mourning, following behind with Tryphie.“Now I appeal to your ladyship,” said Sir Grantley, as soon as the door was closed.“There, there, there,” said Lord Barmouth, “let me tell it to her ladyship. It was all nothing, damme, it was all nothing, and—and—and,” he continued, sitting down to have a rub at his leg, “I won’t have my little girl here troubled about it.”“For Heaven’s sake, behave like a gentleman if you can,” whispered her ladyship.“Yes, yes, yes, my dear, I will, I will,” said his lordship, while, evidently greatly agitated, Maude moved towards the door.“No, ’pon honour, I must beg of you to stop, Lady Maude,” said Sir Grantley. “It concerns you so much, don’t you know. Fact is, Lady Barmouth,” he continued, as Maude stood looking very pale before them—“fact is, we were in the Square walking, when that demmed dog came slowly up and snatched Lady Maude’s handkerchief, and made off before he could be stopped.”“Well, suppose a dog did,” said Tom coming to his sister’s rescue; “I suppose he was a very decent dog, who preferred cleanliness to honesty, so he stole a pocket handkerchief to wipe his nose.”“He, he, he!” chuckled his lordship; “that’s not bad, Tom;” while her ladyship looked daggers.“Doosed good—very doosed good,” said Sir Grantley, ramming his glass tightly in his eye, and standing, holding his hat behind him, to keep up the balance as he bent forward and stared at Tom. “If it had been another dog, it wouldn’t have mattered, but it was—er—er—er—a very particular dog.”“Just as I said—over his nose,” said Tom.“It—it—it was Charley Melton’s dog,” said Lord Barmouth, and Maude’s face became crimson.“Yes, and that’s the dayvle of it,” said Sir Grantley, angrily. “I don’t choose for that fler’s dog to come and take such a liberty. He was—er—hanging about for some time, and smelling at his lordship’s pocket, here, don’t you know, and then he presumed to steal that handkerchief. Lady Barmouth, I feel as if I could poison that dog, I do—damme!”Just before this Lord Barmouth, who had looked terribly guilty at the mention of the dog smelling his pocket, drew out his handkerchief to hide his confusion, and brought forth with it a very brown and sticky Bath bun, one that his little niece Tryphie had purchased for him. This bun fell with a dab upon a little marqueterie table, behind where Sir Grantley was balancing himself, and, knowing that her ladyship must see it at the next turn of her head, the old man looked piteously across at Tryphie, who was nearest, for he dared not go across to pick it up.Tryphie saw the direction of his gaze, caught sight of the bun and coloured, when Tom, who was always jealously watching her every look, followed her eyes, saw the bun sticking to the table, and divined at once whence it had come. So nonchalantly crossing the room while Sir Grantley was delivering his speech, he deftly lifted the bun and let it glide down softly into the hat the baronet was balancing behind, he being too excited to notice the difference in weight.“Really, Sir Grantley, it was very tiresome,” said her ladyship.“He, he, he!” laughed his lordship, putting his handkerchief to his mouth, and bending down in his chair to laugh with all the enjoyment of a schoolboy at Tom’s monkeyish trick.“My dear!” exclaimed her ladyship.“I—I—I was laughing at the con—con—confounded impudence of that dog,” said his lordship, mendaciously; and her ladyship mentally promised him one of her lectures.“It was an accident that cannot possibly occur again,” continued her ladyship. “Maude, my darling, pray go and take off your things. Sir Grantley, you will stay lunch?”“Thanks, no,” said the baronet, changing his position, giving his hat a turn, and flourishing out the Bath bun, which fell upon the carpet before him.Her ladyship put up her eye-glass and stared at the bun; Sir Grantley gave his an extra twist and also stared at the bun, poking at it with his stick; and Maude and Tryphie escaped from the room.“Didn’t know you were so fond of buns, Wilters,” said Tom. “You should have them put in a paper bag. They make your hat lining sticky.”“That’s doosed funny, Diphoos,” said Sir Grantley. “Very fond of a joke. By the way, the amateurs are going to get up a pantomime next season. Won’t you join them? I’ll put in a word for you. Make a doosed good clown, don’t you know.—I think I had him there,” said the baronet to himself.“I will, if you’ll play pantaloon,” said Tom sharply. “You’d look the part to perfection.”“Yas, doosed good,” said Sir Grantley. “Day, Lady Barmouth; must go. Day, Lord Barmouth;” and with a short nod at Tom, he left the house.“Tom,” exclaimed her ladyship, “if you insult Sir Grantley any more like that you shall suffer for it. If you behave like that, you will be the means of breaking off a most brilliant match.”“Thanks,” said Tom, quietly, as her ladyship was sailing out of the room. “You can’t make things worse for me.”“Tom, my boy,” said his lordship, “you are—are—are—a regular lion, that you are. I don’t know what I should do without you.”“Fight for yourself, father, I hope,” said the viscount, smiling, “I’m afraid I do more harm than good.”Meanwhile, Sir Grantley Wilters, who had not the slightest thought of breaking off the match, let Diphoos behave as he would, went to keep a particular engagement that he had with Monsieur Hector Launay, who was singing away to himself about “La—Fran-ce—et—la—guer-re,” and standing before a glass with a pair of scissors cutting his black hair close to his skull.He was ready on the instant, though, as Sir Grantley entered, showed him into his private room, and upon the baronet stating his case, to wit, his uneasiness about his hair, which he said was getting thin on the crown, gave the most earnest attention to the subject.“I shouldn’t mind so much,” said Sir Grantley; “but I’m—er—going to be mar’d shortly, and I want to look my best.”Monsieur Hector took a magnifying glass from a drawer, and gravely inspected the crown before him, ending by assuring the baronet that by the use of certain washes prepared by himself from peculiar and unique receipts he could restore the hairs that made him slightly thin upon the crown.Sir Grantley, in full faith, resigned himself to the coiffeur’s hands, and was sponged and rubbed and scented during a space of about an hour, when he rose and paid a liberal fee, which made Monsieur Hector smile and bow.Then he turned to go, but stopped short at the door and came back.“Oh, Monsieur Launay, I’m told that you are a great friend of Mademoiselle Justine, Lady Barmouth’s maid.”“I have that honour, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, bowing low.“Ah, yes,” said Sir Grantley, hesitating. “By the way, I am Sir Grantley Wilters.”“I have heard mademoiselle mention Sir Vilter,” said the hairdresser, bowing.“Yes, of course,” said the baronet. “Look here, don’t you know, I’m engaged to Lady Maude Diphoos, and I want to save her from pain. No spying—moucharder—but I should be glad to hear of anything that you think might interest me. Mademoiselle Justine will tell you better what I mean. Good-day.”“Bah!—Phit!—Pst! Big John Bull, fool!” cried Monsieur Hector as soon as he was alone; and he indulged in a peculiar saltatory exercise, indicative of kicking his client in the chest, and making derisive gestures with pointed fingers. “You think I tell you what I know. Pst! Grand bête. Big thin beast. Cochon. Peeg! Come and be shampooed, and I had you by the nose and tell you noting. Aha! Be your spy? No. Justine tells me all, and I know so much that my head is full. But wait you. Aha! Sir Vilter! wait you.Vive l’amour.”He folded the cloth that had been spread over Sir Grantley’s shoulders with a jerk, and was in the act of putting it away, when something touched his leg, and looking down, it was to see Joby, and directly after Charley Melton entered the room.
Lady Barmouth was in great trouble, and resembled more strongly than ever the heaving billows. She had been so agitated several times lately that she had found it necessary to take medicinally red lavender drops, or else eau de Cologne, the latter by preference for its fragrance.
She was terribly troubled, for matters had not gone so satisfactorily as she could wish. There had been a death in Sir Grantley Wilters’ family, and that gentleman had been unwell too, thanks to a fresh medicine man he had tried.
“And really,” said her ladyship, “that ungrateful child Maude does not show the slightest sympathy.”
“Fool if she did,” said Tom, who was in the drawing-room. “What’s that fellow Bellman been here for again?”
“To see Tryphie, of course,” said her ladyship.
Tom was about to make some angry reply, when Maude came in with Lord Barmouth leaning upon her arm, fresh from a walk, and Sir Grantley Wilters, most carefully got up in deep mourning, following behind with Tryphie.
“Now I appeal to your ladyship,” said Sir Grantley, as soon as the door was closed.
“There, there, there,” said Lord Barmouth, “let me tell it to her ladyship. It was all nothing, damme, it was all nothing, and—and—and,” he continued, sitting down to have a rub at his leg, “I won’t have my little girl here troubled about it.”
“For Heaven’s sake, behave like a gentleman if you can,” whispered her ladyship.
“Yes, yes, yes, my dear, I will, I will,” said his lordship, while, evidently greatly agitated, Maude moved towards the door.
“No, ’pon honour, I must beg of you to stop, Lady Maude,” said Sir Grantley. “It concerns you so much, don’t you know. Fact is, Lady Barmouth,” he continued, as Maude stood looking very pale before them—“fact is, we were in the Square walking, when that demmed dog came slowly up and snatched Lady Maude’s handkerchief, and made off before he could be stopped.”
“Well, suppose a dog did,” said Tom coming to his sister’s rescue; “I suppose he was a very decent dog, who preferred cleanliness to honesty, so he stole a pocket handkerchief to wipe his nose.”
“He, he, he!” chuckled his lordship; “that’s not bad, Tom;” while her ladyship looked daggers.
“Doosed good—very doosed good,” said Sir Grantley, ramming his glass tightly in his eye, and standing, holding his hat behind him, to keep up the balance as he bent forward and stared at Tom. “If it had been another dog, it wouldn’t have mattered, but it was—er—er—er—a very particular dog.”
“Just as I said—over his nose,” said Tom.
“It—it—it was Charley Melton’s dog,” said Lord Barmouth, and Maude’s face became crimson.
“Yes, and that’s the dayvle of it,” said Sir Grantley, angrily. “I don’t choose for that fler’s dog to come and take such a liberty. He was—er—hanging about for some time, and smelling at his lordship’s pocket, here, don’t you know, and then he presumed to steal that handkerchief. Lady Barmouth, I feel as if I could poison that dog, I do—damme!”
Just before this Lord Barmouth, who had looked terribly guilty at the mention of the dog smelling his pocket, drew out his handkerchief to hide his confusion, and brought forth with it a very brown and sticky Bath bun, one that his little niece Tryphie had purchased for him. This bun fell with a dab upon a little marqueterie table, behind where Sir Grantley was balancing himself, and, knowing that her ladyship must see it at the next turn of her head, the old man looked piteously across at Tryphie, who was nearest, for he dared not go across to pick it up.
Tryphie saw the direction of his gaze, caught sight of the bun and coloured, when Tom, who was always jealously watching her every look, followed her eyes, saw the bun sticking to the table, and divined at once whence it had come. So nonchalantly crossing the room while Sir Grantley was delivering his speech, he deftly lifted the bun and let it glide down softly into the hat the baronet was balancing behind, he being too excited to notice the difference in weight.
“Really, Sir Grantley, it was very tiresome,” said her ladyship.
“He, he, he!” laughed his lordship, putting his handkerchief to his mouth, and bending down in his chair to laugh with all the enjoyment of a schoolboy at Tom’s monkeyish trick.
“My dear!” exclaimed her ladyship.
“I—I—I was laughing at the con—con—confounded impudence of that dog,” said his lordship, mendaciously; and her ladyship mentally promised him one of her lectures.
“It was an accident that cannot possibly occur again,” continued her ladyship. “Maude, my darling, pray go and take off your things. Sir Grantley, you will stay lunch?”
“Thanks, no,” said the baronet, changing his position, giving his hat a turn, and flourishing out the Bath bun, which fell upon the carpet before him.
Her ladyship put up her eye-glass and stared at the bun; Sir Grantley gave his an extra twist and also stared at the bun, poking at it with his stick; and Maude and Tryphie escaped from the room.
“Didn’t know you were so fond of buns, Wilters,” said Tom. “You should have them put in a paper bag. They make your hat lining sticky.”
“That’s doosed funny, Diphoos,” said Sir Grantley. “Very fond of a joke. By the way, the amateurs are going to get up a pantomime next season. Won’t you join them? I’ll put in a word for you. Make a doosed good clown, don’t you know.—I think I had him there,” said the baronet to himself.
“I will, if you’ll play pantaloon,” said Tom sharply. “You’d look the part to perfection.”
“Yas, doosed good,” said Sir Grantley. “Day, Lady Barmouth; must go. Day, Lord Barmouth;” and with a short nod at Tom, he left the house.
“Tom,” exclaimed her ladyship, “if you insult Sir Grantley any more like that you shall suffer for it. If you behave like that, you will be the means of breaking off a most brilliant match.”
“Thanks,” said Tom, quietly, as her ladyship was sailing out of the room. “You can’t make things worse for me.”
“Tom, my boy,” said his lordship, “you are—are—are—a regular lion, that you are. I don’t know what I should do without you.”
“Fight for yourself, father, I hope,” said the viscount, smiling, “I’m afraid I do more harm than good.”
Meanwhile, Sir Grantley Wilters, who had not the slightest thought of breaking off the match, let Diphoos behave as he would, went to keep a particular engagement that he had with Monsieur Hector Launay, who was singing away to himself about “La—Fran-ce—et—la—guer-re,” and standing before a glass with a pair of scissors cutting his black hair close to his skull.
He was ready on the instant, though, as Sir Grantley entered, showed him into his private room, and upon the baronet stating his case, to wit, his uneasiness about his hair, which he said was getting thin on the crown, gave the most earnest attention to the subject.
“I shouldn’t mind so much,” said Sir Grantley; “but I’m—er—going to be mar’d shortly, and I want to look my best.”
Monsieur Hector took a magnifying glass from a drawer, and gravely inspected the crown before him, ending by assuring the baronet that by the use of certain washes prepared by himself from peculiar and unique receipts he could restore the hairs that made him slightly thin upon the crown.
Sir Grantley, in full faith, resigned himself to the coiffeur’s hands, and was sponged and rubbed and scented during a space of about an hour, when he rose and paid a liberal fee, which made Monsieur Hector smile and bow.
Then he turned to go, but stopped short at the door and came back.
“Oh, Monsieur Launay, I’m told that you are a great friend of Mademoiselle Justine, Lady Barmouth’s maid.”
“I have that honour, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, bowing low.
“Ah, yes,” said Sir Grantley, hesitating. “By the way, I am Sir Grantley Wilters.”
“I have heard mademoiselle mention Sir Vilter,” said the hairdresser, bowing.
“Yes, of course,” said the baronet. “Look here, don’t you know, I’m engaged to Lady Maude Diphoos, and I want to save her from pain. No spying—moucharder—but I should be glad to hear of anything that you think might interest me. Mademoiselle Justine will tell you better what I mean. Good-day.”
“Bah!—Phit!—Pst! Big John Bull, fool!” cried Monsieur Hector as soon as he was alone; and he indulged in a peculiar saltatory exercise, indicative of kicking his client in the chest, and making derisive gestures with pointed fingers. “You think I tell you what I know. Pst! Grand bête. Big thin beast. Cochon. Peeg! Come and be shampooed, and I had you by the nose and tell you noting. Aha! Be your spy? No. Justine tells me all, and I know so much that my head is full. But wait you. Aha! Sir Vilter! wait you.Vive l’amour.”
He folded the cloth that had been spread over Sir Grantley’s shoulders with a jerk, and was in the act of putting it away, when something touched his leg, and looking down, it was to see Joby, and directly after Charley Melton entered the room.