Chapter Nineteen.Tom and the Tartar.All the same though, consequent upon thinking so much about his sister, Tom made very little progress with his own love affairs.Tryphie Wilder’s was not a very pleasant life at Lady Barmouth’s. She felt that she had been adopted out of charity, and in her bitterness she would sometimes call herself her ladyship’s abuse block, for that lady would call her “little wretch” in private with as much vigour as there was sweetness in the “my dear” of public life. Her ladyship had before now gone so far as to strike her. That very day Tryphie had her revenge, for, going into the drawing-room, she found Tom fast asleep on the sofa, and snipped off the ends of his moustache, wax and all. Tom awoke, and caught and kissed her, and she flew at him, boxed his ears, and then ran out of the room and upstairs, to strike her hand against the wall for being so cruel.The girl’s bright spirits and unvarying tenderness to his father, for whom she was always buying Bath buns or finding snacks, made Tom desperately in love with her, but he had only received chaff as his amatory food in return. Tryphie meantime went on as a sort of upper servant, with theentréeof the drawing-room; and while Justine was the repository of much that was false in Lady Barmouth, she alone was admitted to the secrets of her aunt’s first and second sets of teeth, which she had to clean in her own room with the door locked, it being supposed that it was her ladyship’s diamond suite then undergoing a renovating brush, while poor Tryphie all the time was operating upon what looked like a ghastly grin without any softening smile given by overhanging lips.“I tell you what it is, Tryphie,” said Tom one day, as he met her on the stairs—“but I say, what’s that?” and he pointed to a little case which she tried to conceal.“Don’t ask impertinent questions, sir,” was the reply. “Now then, what is it?”“Well, I was going to say—oh, I say, how pretty you look this morning.”“You were not going to say anything of the kind, sir.”“Well then, I was going to say if I am worried much more, I shall hook it.”“Slang!” cried Tryphie.“Well, I must slang somebody. I mustn’t swear. I’m half mad, Tryphie.”“Poor fellow! you have been smoking yourself so.”“Nonsense!” he said, “a fellow must do something to keep off the blues.”“Yes; smoke in bed.”“I shouldn’t if I was married. If I had a wife now—”“Married!” said Tryphie, “without any money, sir! What would you do? Keep a billiard table or open a cigar shop? I suppose I might sit behind the counter—”“Go it,” said Tom. “How down you are on a fellow.”“While my little liege lord wore his elegant shawl-pattern smoking trousers, dressing-gown and cap, and showed his prowess to customers at the billiard table.”“Little, eh?” said Tom. “Well, I am little, but you must have some little fellows in the world, to sort up with. We can’t all be great handsome black chaps like Captain Bellman.”“Captain Bellman is not always smoking.”“I don’t care, I’m getting reckless. I own it all: I do go to sleep with a cigar in my mouth. I can smoke as many cigars for my size as any man in London and there are not many men who can beat me at billiards.”“How is the new cue, Tom?” said Tryphie, mockingly.“All right,” he said. “I tried it last night at the rooms, and played a game with an uncommonly gentlemanly Frenchman, who made the most delicious little cigarettes. I thought I’d met him before. Who do you think it was?”“Don’t know, and—”“Don’t care, eh? Well, it was Launay the barber.”“Tom!”“Well, I don’t care; home’s wretched and I’m miserable. Besides, other people enjoy seeing me so. Maude is always going about the house like a ghost, or listening to that organ man. She’s going mad, I fancy. Then Charley Melton has turned out a fool to cave in as he has done, and Tryphie cuts me—”“As you deserve.”“That’s right, go it. The governor’s miserable, and that mummy Wilters is always here. Nice place to stop in. Perhaps I ought to aim higher than billiards, and keeping one’s cue in a japanned case hanging up in a public room. But look at me; hang it, I hardly get a shilling, if I don’t have some fellow at billiards. What have I to look forward to?”Tryphie made a movement to continue her way, but Tom spread his hands so as to stop her descent.“Will you have the goodness to allow me to pass, Lord Diphoos?” she said, demurely.“Lord!” he cried, peevishly.“Very well, then, most spoiled child of the house,” said Tryphie, maliciously, “Master Diphoos.”“You make my life quite miserable, Tryphie, you do, ’pon my honour. You’re the most ungracious—”“There’s pretty language to use to a lady, sir,” cried Tryphie, speaking as if in an angry fit. “Say I’m the most disgraceful at once, sir.”“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” said Tom; “I meant ungracious and unyielding.”“Of course, sir. Pretty words to apply to a lady.”“Bother!” cried Tom. “I never looked upon you as a lady.”“Thank you, sir,” she said, making him a most profound curtsey.“Well, you know what I mean,” grumbled Tom; “I always think of you as Cousin Tryphie, whom I—there,” he whispered, “I will say it—I love with all my heart.”“Bosh!” exclaimed Tryphie.“There’s pretty language to use to a gentleman,” retorted Tom.“I never look upon you as a gentleman,” said Tryphie in her turn; and she darted a mischievous look at him.“Thank you, ma’am,” said Tom, who was now quite out of heart and temper. “And so you go on snub, snub, peck, peck, till a fellow feels as if he would like to make a hole in the water, he’s so sick of his life.”“But he only makes a hole in his manners instead,” cried Tryphie.“I say, Tryphie, you know,” cried Tom, now appealingly. “Don’t be so jolly hard on a fellow who loves you as I do. I can’t bear it when you snub me so. I say, dear,” he continued, taking her hand, “say a kind word to me.”“Let go my hand, sir, and don’t be stupid,” she cried.“Tryphie!”“Well, Tom! Now look here, I’ve got to be so that I can hardly believe in there being such a thing as sincerity in the world, after what I’ve seen in this house: but all the same I do think you mean what you say.”“Thankye, Tryphie; that’s the kindest thing you’ve said to me for months,” said Tom.“Stop a bit, sir, and listen. I was going to say—”“No, don’t say any more, dear,” cried Tom, imploringly. “You’ve said something kind to me, and I shall go and get fat on that for a month.”“Listen to me, sir,” cried Tryphie, unable to repress a smile—“I was going to say—Do you think I am going to promise to marry an idle, thoughtless, selfish man, with only two ideas in his head?”“Two?” said Tom, dolefully. “No, you’re wrong. I’ve only got one.”“I say two, sir—cigars and billiards. Do you think I want to marry a chimney-pot, or an animated cue?”“Chimney-pot! Animated cue!” said Tom, with a groan, as he took off his little scarlet smoking-cap, and wrung it in his hands as if it were wet.“Let me see, sir, that you’ve got some energy in you as well as good sincere feeling, before you speak to me again, if you please.”“I may speak to you again, then?” cried Tom.“Of course you may,” said Tryphie, tartly.“And then?” cried Tom.“Well, then we shall see,” replied the sarcastic little lady.“Energy, eh?” said Tom. “Well, I will: so now to begin again. You know I have been energetic about Maude?”“Ye-es, pretty well,” said Tryphie. “Not half enough.”“Well, now then, dear—may I say dear?”“If you please, Lord Diphoos,” said Tryphie. “I can’t help it.”“Well, I’m going to be energetic now, and see if I can’t do something for Maude.”“What are you going to do?”“See Charley Melton and stir him up. Then I shall stir up the gov’nor and Maude, and if none of these things do any good I shall have a go at Wilters.”“Ah,” said Tryphie, “now I’m beginning to believe in you, and there is some hope that I shall not be forced into a marriage with that odious Captain Bellman.”“Tryphie,” whispered Tom, as he stared, “just say that again.”She shook her head.Tom looked upstairs and then down, saw nobody, and hastily catching the little maiden in his arms, stole a kiss before she fled, when, giving his head a satisfied shake, he went down to the hall, saw that his hat was brushed, and went off to Duke street, in utter ignorance of the fact that his father had been sitting in the curtained recess on the landing, where the flowers dwindled in a kind of conservatory, calmly devouring a piece of Bologna sausage and half a French roll.“He, he, he,” chuckled the old gentleman, “that’s how they make love when they’re young. I was—was—was a devil of a fellow among the ladies when I was Tom’s age; but somehow now I never want to meet her ladyship on the stairs and kiss her. I’d—I’d—I’d a doosed deal rather have a nice piece of chicken, or a bit of tongue.”
All the same though, consequent upon thinking so much about his sister, Tom made very little progress with his own love affairs.
Tryphie Wilder’s was not a very pleasant life at Lady Barmouth’s. She felt that she had been adopted out of charity, and in her bitterness she would sometimes call herself her ladyship’s abuse block, for that lady would call her “little wretch” in private with as much vigour as there was sweetness in the “my dear” of public life. Her ladyship had before now gone so far as to strike her. That very day Tryphie had her revenge, for, going into the drawing-room, she found Tom fast asleep on the sofa, and snipped off the ends of his moustache, wax and all. Tom awoke, and caught and kissed her, and she flew at him, boxed his ears, and then ran out of the room and upstairs, to strike her hand against the wall for being so cruel.
The girl’s bright spirits and unvarying tenderness to his father, for whom she was always buying Bath buns or finding snacks, made Tom desperately in love with her, but he had only received chaff as his amatory food in return. Tryphie meantime went on as a sort of upper servant, with theentréeof the drawing-room; and while Justine was the repository of much that was false in Lady Barmouth, she alone was admitted to the secrets of her aunt’s first and second sets of teeth, which she had to clean in her own room with the door locked, it being supposed that it was her ladyship’s diamond suite then undergoing a renovating brush, while poor Tryphie all the time was operating upon what looked like a ghastly grin without any softening smile given by overhanging lips.
“I tell you what it is, Tryphie,” said Tom one day, as he met her on the stairs—“but I say, what’s that?” and he pointed to a little case which she tried to conceal.
“Don’t ask impertinent questions, sir,” was the reply. “Now then, what is it?”
“Well, I was going to say—oh, I say, how pretty you look this morning.”
“You were not going to say anything of the kind, sir.”
“Well then, I was going to say if I am worried much more, I shall hook it.”
“Slang!” cried Tryphie.
“Well, I must slang somebody. I mustn’t swear. I’m half mad, Tryphie.”
“Poor fellow! you have been smoking yourself so.”
“Nonsense!” he said, “a fellow must do something to keep off the blues.”
“Yes; smoke in bed.”
“I shouldn’t if I was married. If I had a wife now—”
“Married!” said Tryphie, “without any money, sir! What would you do? Keep a billiard table or open a cigar shop? I suppose I might sit behind the counter—”
“Go it,” said Tom. “How down you are on a fellow.”
“While my little liege lord wore his elegant shawl-pattern smoking trousers, dressing-gown and cap, and showed his prowess to customers at the billiard table.”
“Little, eh?” said Tom. “Well, I am little, but you must have some little fellows in the world, to sort up with. We can’t all be great handsome black chaps like Captain Bellman.”
“Captain Bellman is not always smoking.”
“I don’t care, I’m getting reckless. I own it all: I do go to sleep with a cigar in my mouth. I can smoke as many cigars for my size as any man in London and there are not many men who can beat me at billiards.”
“How is the new cue, Tom?” said Tryphie, mockingly.
“All right,” he said. “I tried it last night at the rooms, and played a game with an uncommonly gentlemanly Frenchman, who made the most delicious little cigarettes. I thought I’d met him before. Who do you think it was?”
“Don’t know, and—”
“Don’t care, eh? Well, it was Launay the barber.”
“Tom!”
“Well, I don’t care; home’s wretched and I’m miserable. Besides, other people enjoy seeing me so. Maude is always going about the house like a ghost, or listening to that organ man. She’s going mad, I fancy. Then Charley Melton has turned out a fool to cave in as he has done, and Tryphie cuts me—”
“As you deserve.”
“That’s right, go it. The governor’s miserable, and that mummy Wilters is always here. Nice place to stop in. Perhaps I ought to aim higher than billiards, and keeping one’s cue in a japanned case hanging up in a public room. But look at me; hang it, I hardly get a shilling, if I don’t have some fellow at billiards. What have I to look forward to?”
Tryphie made a movement to continue her way, but Tom spread his hands so as to stop her descent.
“Will you have the goodness to allow me to pass, Lord Diphoos?” she said, demurely.
“Lord!” he cried, peevishly.
“Very well, then, most spoiled child of the house,” said Tryphie, maliciously, “Master Diphoos.”
“You make my life quite miserable, Tryphie, you do, ’pon my honour. You’re the most ungracious—”
“There’s pretty language to use to a lady, sir,” cried Tryphie, speaking as if in an angry fit. “Say I’m the most disgraceful at once, sir.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” said Tom; “I meant ungracious and unyielding.”
“Of course, sir. Pretty words to apply to a lady.”
“Bother!” cried Tom. “I never looked upon you as a lady.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, making him a most profound curtsey.
“Well, you know what I mean,” grumbled Tom; “I always think of you as Cousin Tryphie, whom I—there,” he whispered, “I will say it—I love with all my heart.”
“Bosh!” exclaimed Tryphie.
“There’s pretty language to use to a gentleman,” retorted Tom.
“I never look upon you as a gentleman,” said Tryphie in her turn; and she darted a mischievous look at him.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Tom, who was now quite out of heart and temper. “And so you go on snub, snub, peck, peck, till a fellow feels as if he would like to make a hole in the water, he’s so sick of his life.”
“But he only makes a hole in his manners instead,” cried Tryphie.
“I say, Tryphie, you know,” cried Tom, now appealingly. “Don’t be so jolly hard on a fellow who loves you as I do. I can’t bear it when you snub me so. I say, dear,” he continued, taking her hand, “say a kind word to me.”
“Let go my hand, sir, and don’t be stupid,” she cried.
“Tryphie!”
“Well, Tom! Now look here, I’ve got to be so that I can hardly believe in there being such a thing as sincerity in the world, after what I’ve seen in this house: but all the same I do think you mean what you say.”
“Thankye, Tryphie; that’s the kindest thing you’ve said to me for months,” said Tom.
“Stop a bit, sir, and listen. I was going to say—”
“No, don’t say any more, dear,” cried Tom, imploringly. “You’ve said something kind to me, and I shall go and get fat on that for a month.”
“Listen to me, sir,” cried Tryphie, unable to repress a smile—“I was going to say—Do you think I am going to promise to marry an idle, thoughtless, selfish man, with only two ideas in his head?”
“Two?” said Tom, dolefully. “No, you’re wrong. I’ve only got one.”
“I say two, sir—cigars and billiards. Do you think I want to marry a chimney-pot, or an animated cue?”
“Chimney-pot! Animated cue!” said Tom, with a groan, as he took off his little scarlet smoking-cap, and wrung it in his hands as if it were wet.
“Let me see, sir, that you’ve got some energy in you as well as good sincere feeling, before you speak to me again, if you please.”
“I may speak to you again, then?” cried Tom.
“Of course you may,” said Tryphie, tartly.
“And then?” cried Tom.
“Well, then we shall see,” replied the sarcastic little lady.
“Energy, eh?” said Tom. “Well, I will: so now to begin again. You know I have been energetic about Maude?”
“Ye-es, pretty well,” said Tryphie. “Not half enough.”
“Well, now then, dear—may I say dear?”
“If you please, Lord Diphoos,” said Tryphie. “I can’t help it.”
“Well, I’m going to be energetic now, and see if I can’t do something for Maude.”
“What are you going to do?”
“See Charley Melton and stir him up. Then I shall stir up the gov’nor and Maude, and if none of these things do any good I shall have a go at Wilters.”
“Ah,” said Tryphie, “now I’m beginning to believe in you, and there is some hope that I shall not be forced into a marriage with that odious Captain Bellman.”
“Tryphie,” whispered Tom, as he stared, “just say that again.”
She shook her head.
Tom looked upstairs and then down, saw nobody, and hastily catching the little maiden in his arms, stole a kiss before she fled, when, giving his head a satisfied shake, he went down to the hall, saw that his hat was brushed, and went off to Duke street, in utter ignorance of the fact that his father had been sitting in the curtained recess on the landing, where the flowers dwindled in a kind of conservatory, calmly devouring a piece of Bologna sausage and half a French roll.
“He, he, he,” chuckled the old gentleman, “that’s how they make love when they’re young. I was—was—was a devil of a fellow among the ladies when I was Tom’s age; but somehow now I never want to meet her ladyship on the stairs and kiss her. I’d—I’d—I’d a doosed deal rather have a nice piece of chicken, or a bit of tongue.”
Chapter Twenty.Tom Expresses his Opinion.Charley Melton was not at home.Tom went again. Not at home.Three weeks passed before he could meet him, and then it was by accident at one of the clubs, and during all this time Tryphie had grown colder, and the wedding-day was approaching. But at last the two young men encountered, and Tom went straight to the point, “Hit out,” as he termed it.“Charley Melton,” he said, “are you going to let this cursed marriage come off?”“What can I do?” said Charley, lighting a cigar. “I have tried everything, and am forbidden the house.”“Why not coax Maudey to come and meet you somewhere?”“I have tried,” said Melton, quietly, “but it is hopeless now.”“Why?”“Her ladyship never lets your sister go out of her sight.”“Then make a bolt of it, Charley.”“You proposed that before. Oh, undutiful son.”“There, don’t talk like a Turk,” said Tom.“I feel like one, Bismillah! It is Kismet,” said Charley Melton, grimly.“Fate’s what a man makes himself.”“Yes, but you can’t make bricks without straw. O! my Diphoos,” said the other, mockingly, “I have so little golden straw that her ladyship refuses to let me make bricks at all, and—There, let the matter slide, old man.”“By George!” cried Tom, savagely. “And this is my old friend Charley Melton! Where’s your spirit?”“Ah! where indeed.”“I’d shoot Wilters if I were in your case.”“It would be agreeable, but the consequences are so precious unpleasant, Tom. I’ve had one awful drop: I don’t want another.”“You’re a coward, Charley, big as you are.”“I am, Tom, if it comes to being hung for shooting a baronet dead. No, Tom, I love Maude very much, but I am not chivalrous enough to risk the rope.”“Bah!”“Yes, if you like, I am willing for the matrimonial noose, but that prepared for homicides—no: I would rather remain a bachelor.”“Then I cut you henceforth,” said Tom, angrily. “I’ve done with you.”“No, you haven’t, old fellow; some day after Maude is married we shall be quite brothers again.”“Never.”“Nonsense. Have a B. and S.”“With you? No, sir; I have done. Good-day.”“Good-bye, Tom, for I’m going off shortly.”“And pray where?”“Italy, I think,” said Melton, smiling.“Won’t you stop and see Wilters married?”“No; I will not. Have a B. and S., old fellow.”Little Tom looked his friend over from top to toe, and then, with an ejaculation full of contempt, he stalked out of the club, and went straight to Portland Place, where the first person he met was Tryphie alone in the drawing-room.“Well,” she cried, “have you seen Mr Melton?”“Yes.”“And—”“And? Bah! he’s a miserable sneak. I haven’t patience with him. Here, Tryphie, don’t go.”The little maiden made no answer, but sailed out of the room, just as Lord Barmouth came in.“Ah, Tom, my boy, any news?”“Yes, governor—the world’s coming to an end.”“Dear me! Is it, my boy? I was in hopes that it would have lasted my time. But perhaps it’s for the best. Will it stop poor Maudey’s marriage?”“I hope so, gov’nor. Here, come along with me.”“Certainly, my boy, certainly; but, by the way, I’m very hungry. Can we get something to eat?”The old man looked very haggard, for his internal wolf was gnawing.“Come and see, gov’nor.”“Yes, my boy, I will. But, by the way, have you noticed anything particular about Maudey?”“Looks precious miserable.”“Yes, my boy, she does; but I mean about her standing out in the balcony so much of an evening. You don’t think—”“Think what, gov’nor?”“It’s—it’s—it’s a devil of a way down into the area, Tom; and if she were—”“To jump over and kill herself? Pooh! nonsense, old fellow. Here, come up to my room.”“I’m—I’m glad to hear you speak with so much confidence,” said Lord Barmouth. “Yes, certainly, my boy, certainly. Dear me, I feel very faint.”Tom took his father’s arm, and led the way to his bedroom, where he placed an easy-chair for the old man, and then stooping down, drew a case from beneath the bed and a glass or two from a cupboard.“Why, Tom, my boy—wine?”“Yes, gov’nor, wine. Fizz. Pfungst’s dry fruity.”“But up here, Tom!”“Yes, up here, gov’nor. A man must have something to take the taste of this nasty wedding out of his mouth.”“But how came it to be here, Tom?”“I ordered the wine merchant to send it in, and here it is.”“But does her ladyship know?”“Skeercely, gov’nor, as the Yankee said.”“But did—did you pay for it yourself, my boy?”“No; I told ’em to put it down in the bill. Here, tip that off.”Tom filled a couple of small tumblers, and handed one to his father, who took it with trembling fingers.“But really, my boy, this is very reprehensible. I—I—I—I—as your father, I feel bound to say—”“Nothing at all, gov’nor. Tip it off. Do you good.”“No, no, Tom, it’s champagne, and I—I—really, I—Now if it had been port.”“Tip it up, gov’nor.”“I shall investigate the whole matter, Robbins,” said a strident voice outside, and the door-handle began to turn.“Hi! Stop! Dressing!” cried Tom, frantically.“Do not tell untruths, sir,” exclaimed her ladyship, sternly, as she entered without the slightest hesitation. “Ah, as I expected. Wait, till the servants are gone. Robbins, take down that wine.”“Yes, my lady.”“Not this, you don’t,” said Tom, seizing the gold-foiled bottle by the neck.“You knew that Lord Diphoos was having cases of wine up in his bedroom, Robbins?”“No, my lady.”“You brought it up?”“No, my lady—Joseph.”“Then Joseph knew.”“He said it was cases of modelling clay, my lady.”“That’s right,” said Tom, “modelling clay. Try a glass, mamma, to moisten yours.”“Take away that case.”“Yes, my lady.”Robbins stooped with difficulty, picked up the case, and slowly bore it out, her ladyship standing in a studied attitude pointing the while.“Another time,” said her ladyship, turning tragically to her son, and then withering her lord. “I have too much on my mind at present to trouble about this domestic mutiny.”“Domestic grandmother,” cried Tom. “There, you needn’t make so much fuss about it. It was all your fault, mamma.”“My fault, sir?”“Yes, I was driven to drink by trying to obey you, and being civil to Wilters. Hang him, he makes one a regular laughing-stock.”“Explain yourself, sir.”“Well, you gammoned me into going to Hurlingham with your pet poodle.”“My pet poodle!” exclaimed her ladyship.“Bah! yes, your pet baronet; but never any more. Hang him, he came there dressed up like a theatrical super, in grey velvet, and with a soft hat and a rosette. I felt so mad that I could have punched his head, for all the fellows there were sniggering. But you should have seen him shoot.”“Sir Grantley told me that he was a very good shot,” said her ladyship.“Oh, he did, did he?” roared Tom. “Bless his modesty. Well, I’m going to tell Maude that when she’s married she had better look out, and if ever she sees her lovely husband take up a gun she had better bolt—out of town—the seaside—or come home. She won’t be safe if she don’t.”Lord Barmouth tittered at this, but his lady looked round at him so sharply, that he turned it off, and stared stolidly straight before him.“It was a regular case of fireworks,” continued Tom. “His attitudes were grand, and he looked as if he were rehearsing something for a circus. You should have seen the fellows laugh.”“I sincerely hope that you did not laugh,” said her ladyship, sternly.“Oh, dear, no,” said Tom, “not at all. Didn’t even smile.”“I’m very glad of it,” said her ladyship.“Oh, you are? That’s right,” said Tom; “but somehow one of the buttons flew off the front of my coat, and my ribs ached, and I lay back in a chair in a state of convulsion. I nearly had a fit.”“Diphoos!” ejaculated her ladyship.“And when dear Grantley came up he gnashed his teeth at me. He did, ’pon my word, till I roared again. I say, gov’nor, it’s the funniest thing out to see him in a passion.”“It seems to me,” exclaimed her ladyship, hysterically, “as if the whole of my family were leagued against me, and determined to try and break off this match. From what I can gather, it seems to me, Tom, that you have grossly insulted Sir Grantley.”“Bosh!” said Tom. “He made such an ass of himself that I roared with laughter, and served him right.”“Fresh insults,” cried her ladyship; “but I can wait. At present, as I before observed, I shall take no steps to check this domestic mutiny on the part of my husband and my son.”“Mutiny?”“Yes, sir, I said mutiny; but after Maude is married—then!”The door closed behind her, and Lord Barmouth looked piteously up at his little son.“You have got me into a devil of a scrape, Tom, my boy,” he faltered.“Never mind, gov’nor. Tip that up. The old girl left us this.”“But—but itischampagne, Tom.”“All the better, gov’nor. Here’s to you.”Lord Barmouth hesitated for a few moments, and then raised his glass.“Your health, my dear boy,” he said.—“Yes, that’s a very nice glass of wine. I haven’t tasted champagne for a couple of months.”“Then you shall taste it again,” said Tom. “Now, I mean to go it. Gov’nor, you should come and dine with me to-night, and we’d try and forget all about old Maude, only I have no money.”“But I have, my boy—ten pounds.”“You have, gov’nor?—Yes so you have.”“Take—take it, my boy.”“But where did you get it, gov’nor?”“Well—er—never mind that, Tom. I—er—I borrowed it; but I shall pay it again some day.”“But, gov’nor—”“Take the money, Tom, my boy. You need not mind, and if I can get away to-night I should like to dine with you.”“Then you shall, old fellow; I’ll manage that.”“But her ladyship?”“Leave it to me, gov’nor.”“And about Charley Melton, Tom, my boy—is there any hope?”“Not a bit, gov’nor. He’s a poor thing, and not worthy of her.”“Oh, dear, dear, dear,” sighed Lord Barmouth. “But I’m afraid I couldn’t get away.”“You leave it to me, and we’ll dine at nine, gov’nor. Don’t take anything at ours.”“No, Tom, no.”“Now go down.”The old man finished his champagne, thinking of her ladyship’s word—then.After that he went downstairs, and that night, as good as his word, Tom shuffled him out as soon as the ladies had left the dining-room.It was easily done, and the door was just being quietly closed as they stood under the portico, when from just outside and beyond the pillar there came the sudden burst of music from an organ, as the man who had been playing changed the tune, and as the pair hurried away they brushed against the player, who stood by the area railings in his slouched hat and ragged attire.“What the—”“Devil” his lordship was going to say, for something struck him on the top of hisgibushat.“Copper,” said Tom, as the object fell with a pat on the pavement. “Come along.”“Yes, halfpence,” whispered his lordship, nervously, as he tottered on; “but I do wish Maudey wouldn’t be so free with her money to those vagabonds. That scoundrel makes quite an income out of our house.”“Never mind, gov’nor, it won’t last long. Poor girl, the game’s nearly up. Now for what the Yankees call a good square meal.”“With a drop of port, Tom, my boy.”“Yes; you shall have a whole bottle. Barker’s, Jermyn Street,” he cried to the cabman, who drew up; and then as the cab drove off—“There, gov’nor, we’ll forget home troubles for one night.”“Yes, my boy, we will,” said the old man, eagerly.“I do wish Tryphie wouldn’t be so hard again,” sighed Tom, “and just too when she was growing so soft. Sympathy for Maudey, I suppose.”“What say, Tom, my boy?”“Thinking aloud, gov’nor.”“What about, Tom?”“Charley Melton, gov’nor. He’s a regular flat.”
Charley Melton was not at home.
Tom went again. Not at home.
Three weeks passed before he could meet him, and then it was by accident at one of the clubs, and during all this time Tryphie had grown colder, and the wedding-day was approaching. But at last the two young men encountered, and Tom went straight to the point, “Hit out,” as he termed it.
“Charley Melton,” he said, “are you going to let this cursed marriage come off?”
“What can I do?” said Charley, lighting a cigar. “I have tried everything, and am forbidden the house.”
“Why not coax Maudey to come and meet you somewhere?”
“I have tried,” said Melton, quietly, “but it is hopeless now.”
“Why?”
“Her ladyship never lets your sister go out of her sight.”
“Then make a bolt of it, Charley.”
“You proposed that before. Oh, undutiful son.”
“There, don’t talk like a Turk,” said Tom.
“I feel like one, Bismillah! It is Kismet,” said Charley Melton, grimly.
“Fate’s what a man makes himself.”
“Yes, but you can’t make bricks without straw. O! my Diphoos,” said the other, mockingly, “I have so little golden straw that her ladyship refuses to let me make bricks at all, and—There, let the matter slide, old man.”
“By George!” cried Tom, savagely. “And this is my old friend Charley Melton! Where’s your spirit?”
“Ah! where indeed.”
“I’d shoot Wilters if I were in your case.”
“It would be agreeable, but the consequences are so precious unpleasant, Tom. I’ve had one awful drop: I don’t want another.”
“You’re a coward, Charley, big as you are.”
“I am, Tom, if it comes to being hung for shooting a baronet dead. No, Tom, I love Maude very much, but I am not chivalrous enough to risk the rope.”
“Bah!”
“Yes, if you like, I am willing for the matrimonial noose, but that prepared for homicides—no: I would rather remain a bachelor.”
“Then I cut you henceforth,” said Tom, angrily. “I’ve done with you.”
“No, you haven’t, old fellow; some day after Maude is married we shall be quite brothers again.”
“Never.”
“Nonsense. Have a B. and S.”
“With you? No, sir; I have done. Good-day.”
“Good-bye, Tom, for I’m going off shortly.”
“And pray where?”
“Italy, I think,” said Melton, smiling.
“Won’t you stop and see Wilters married?”
“No; I will not. Have a B. and S., old fellow.”
Little Tom looked his friend over from top to toe, and then, with an ejaculation full of contempt, he stalked out of the club, and went straight to Portland Place, where the first person he met was Tryphie alone in the drawing-room.
“Well,” she cried, “have you seen Mr Melton?”
“Yes.”
“And—”
“And? Bah! he’s a miserable sneak. I haven’t patience with him. Here, Tryphie, don’t go.”
The little maiden made no answer, but sailed out of the room, just as Lord Barmouth came in.
“Ah, Tom, my boy, any news?”
“Yes, governor—the world’s coming to an end.”
“Dear me! Is it, my boy? I was in hopes that it would have lasted my time. But perhaps it’s for the best. Will it stop poor Maudey’s marriage?”
“I hope so, gov’nor. Here, come along with me.”
“Certainly, my boy, certainly; but, by the way, I’m very hungry. Can we get something to eat?”
The old man looked very haggard, for his internal wolf was gnawing.
“Come and see, gov’nor.”
“Yes, my boy, I will. But, by the way, have you noticed anything particular about Maudey?”
“Looks precious miserable.”
“Yes, my boy, she does; but I mean about her standing out in the balcony so much of an evening. You don’t think—”
“Think what, gov’nor?”
“It’s—it’s—it’s a devil of a way down into the area, Tom; and if she were—”
“To jump over and kill herself? Pooh! nonsense, old fellow. Here, come up to my room.”
“I’m—I’m glad to hear you speak with so much confidence,” said Lord Barmouth. “Yes, certainly, my boy, certainly. Dear me, I feel very faint.”
Tom took his father’s arm, and led the way to his bedroom, where he placed an easy-chair for the old man, and then stooping down, drew a case from beneath the bed and a glass or two from a cupboard.
“Why, Tom, my boy—wine?”
“Yes, gov’nor, wine. Fizz. Pfungst’s dry fruity.”
“But up here, Tom!”
“Yes, up here, gov’nor. A man must have something to take the taste of this nasty wedding out of his mouth.”
“But how came it to be here, Tom?”
“I ordered the wine merchant to send it in, and here it is.”
“But does her ladyship know?”
“Skeercely, gov’nor, as the Yankee said.”
“But did—did you pay for it yourself, my boy?”
“No; I told ’em to put it down in the bill. Here, tip that off.”
Tom filled a couple of small tumblers, and handed one to his father, who took it with trembling fingers.
“But really, my boy, this is very reprehensible. I—I—I—I—as your father, I feel bound to say—”
“Nothing at all, gov’nor. Tip it off. Do you good.”
“No, no, Tom, it’s champagne, and I—I—really, I—Now if it had been port.”
“Tip it up, gov’nor.”
“I shall investigate the whole matter, Robbins,” said a strident voice outside, and the door-handle began to turn.
“Hi! Stop! Dressing!” cried Tom, frantically.
“Do not tell untruths, sir,” exclaimed her ladyship, sternly, as she entered without the slightest hesitation. “Ah, as I expected. Wait, till the servants are gone. Robbins, take down that wine.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Not this, you don’t,” said Tom, seizing the gold-foiled bottle by the neck.
“You knew that Lord Diphoos was having cases of wine up in his bedroom, Robbins?”
“No, my lady.”
“You brought it up?”
“No, my lady—Joseph.”
“Then Joseph knew.”
“He said it was cases of modelling clay, my lady.”
“That’s right,” said Tom, “modelling clay. Try a glass, mamma, to moisten yours.”
“Take away that case.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Robbins stooped with difficulty, picked up the case, and slowly bore it out, her ladyship standing in a studied attitude pointing the while.
“Another time,” said her ladyship, turning tragically to her son, and then withering her lord. “I have too much on my mind at present to trouble about this domestic mutiny.”
“Domestic grandmother,” cried Tom. “There, you needn’t make so much fuss about it. It was all your fault, mamma.”
“My fault, sir?”
“Yes, I was driven to drink by trying to obey you, and being civil to Wilters. Hang him, he makes one a regular laughing-stock.”
“Explain yourself, sir.”
“Well, you gammoned me into going to Hurlingham with your pet poodle.”
“My pet poodle!” exclaimed her ladyship.
“Bah! yes, your pet baronet; but never any more. Hang him, he came there dressed up like a theatrical super, in grey velvet, and with a soft hat and a rosette. I felt so mad that I could have punched his head, for all the fellows there were sniggering. But you should have seen him shoot.”
“Sir Grantley told me that he was a very good shot,” said her ladyship.
“Oh, he did, did he?” roared Tom. “Bless his modesty. Well, I’m going to tell Maude that when she’s married she had better look out, and if ever she sees her lovely husband take up a gun she had better bolt—out of town—the seaside—or come home. She won’t be safe if she don’t.”
Lord Barmouth tittered at this, but his lady looked round at him so sharply, that he turned it off, and stared stolidly straight before him.
“It was a regular case of fireworks,” continued Tom. “His attitudes were grand, and he looked as if he were rehearsing something for a circus. You should have seen the fellows laugh.”
“I sincerely hope that you did not laugh,” said her ladyship, sternly.
“Oh, dear, no,” said Tom, “not at all. Didn’t even smile.”
“I’m very glad of it,” said her ladyship.
“Oh, you are? That’s right,” said Tom; “but somehow one of the buttons flew off the front of my coat, and my ribs ached, and I lay back in a chair in a state of convulsion. I nearly had a fit.”
“Diphoos!” ejaculated her ladyship.
“And when dear Grantley came up he gnashed his teeth at me. He did, ’pon my word, till I roared again. I say, gov’nor, it’s the funniest thing out to see him in a passion.”
“It seems to me,” exclaimed her ladyship, hysterically, “as if the whole of my family were leagued against me, and determined to try and break off this match. From what I can gather, it seems to me, Tom, that you have grossly insulted Sir Grantley.”
“Bosh!” said Tom. “He made such an ass of himself that I roared with laughter, and served him right.”
“Fresh insults,” cried her ladyship; “but I can wait. At present, as I before observed, I shall take no steps to check this domestic mutiny on the part of my husband and my son.”
“Mutiny?”
“Yes, sir, I said mutiny; but after Maude is married—then!”
The door closed behind her, and Lord Barmouth looked piteously up at his little son.
“You have got me into a devil of a scrape, Tom, my boy,” he faltered.
“Never mind, gov’nor. Tip that up. The old girl left us this.”
“But—but itischampagne, Tom.”
“All the better, gov’nor. Here’s to you.”
Lord Barmouth hesitated for a few moments, and then raised his glass.
“Your health, my dear boy,” he said.—“Yes, that’s a very nice glass of wine. I haven’t tasted champagne for a couple of months.”
“Then you shall taste it again,” said Tom. “Now, I mean to go it. Gov’nor, you should come and dine with me to-night, and we’d try and forget all about old Maude, only I have no money.”
“But I have, my boy—ten pounds.”
“You have, gov’nor?—Yes so you have.”
“Take—take it, my boy.”
“But where did you get it, gov’nor?”
“Well—er—never mind that, Tom. I—er—I borrowed it; but I shall pay it again some day.”
“But, gov’nor—”
“Take the money, Tom, my boy. You need not mind, and if I can get away to-night I should like to dine with you.”
“Then you shall, old fellow; I’ll manage that.”
“But her ladyship?”
“Leave it to me, gov’nor.”
“And about Charley Melton, Tom, my boy—is there any hope?”
“Not a bit, gov’nor. He’s a poor thing, and not worthy of her.”
“Oh, dear, dear, dear,” sighed Lord Barmouth. “But I’m afraid I couldn’t get away.”
“You leave it to me, and we’ll dine at nine, gov’nor. Don’t take anything at ours.”
“No, Tom, no.”
“Now go down.”
The old man finished his champagne, thinking of her ladyship’s word—then.
After that he went downstairs, and that night, as good as his word, Tom shuffled him out as soon as the ladies had left the dining-room.
It was easily done, and the door was just being quietly closed as they stood under the portico, when from just outside and beyond the pillar there came the sudden burst of music from an organ, as the man who had been playing changed the tune, and as the pair hurried away they brushed against the player, who stood by the area railings in his slouched hat and ragged attire.
“What the—”
“Devil” his lordship was going to say, for something struck him on the top of hisgibushat.
“Copper,” said Tom, as the object fell with a pat on the pavement. “Come along.”
“Yes, halfpence,” whispered his lordship, nervously, as he tottered on; “but I do wish Maudey wouldn’t be so free with her money to those vagabonds. That scoundrel makes quite an income out of our house.”
“Never mind, gov’nor, it won’t last long. Poor girl, the game’s nearly up. Now for what the Yankees call a good square meal.”
“With a drop of port, Tom, my boy.”
“Yes; you shall have a whole bottle. Barker’s, Jermyn Street,” he cried to the cabman, who drew up; and then as the cab drove off—“There, gov’nor, we’ll forget home troubles for one night.”
“Yes, my boy, we will,” said the old man, eagerly.
“I do wish Tryphie wouldn’t be so hard again,” sighed Tom, “and just too when she was growing so soft. Sympathy for Maudey, I suppose.”
“What say, Tom, my boy?”
“Thinking aloud, gov’nor.”
“What about, Tom?”
“Charley Melton, gov’nor. He’s a regular flat.”
Chapter Twenty One.Sad Proceedings.All the servants remarked that “the poor dear” from the very first bore up like a suffering martyr, and then discoursed upon the vanity of human hopes; and Mrs Downes, who was of a pious turn of mind, and went miles “per ’bus” on Sundays to be present at religious services in theatres, said that it was a “vale of tears,” and wiped one tear out of her eye, looked at it, wrapped it up very carefully in her handkerchief, and put it in her pocket, as if fully aware of the fact that it was a sympathetic pearl.“They might well call it the last day,” sighed the same lady, for to her mind it was as if heaven and earth had come together.“She isbête, this woman,” said Mademoiselle Justine, who had descended for hot water; and she stood and purred softly to herself, and looked so like a cat that she only needed to have squatted down upon a chair, and begun licking her trim dress, to have completed the likeness.It was the last day of Maude’s girlhood; the next was to see her what the fashionable gossips would call a happy wife. The previous fortnight had been spent in a whirl of busy doings. Dressmakers had been to and fro, milliners consulted, Justine and Dolly had been kept up late at night to see to packing, and so anxious was her ladyship that her child should look her best that she insisted upon Maude visiting her dentist, and seeing Dr Todd again and again. Maude tried to expostulate, but her ladyship was inexorable, and spared herself no pains. The consumption of spirits of red lavender was startling, but she bore up wonderfully; went with that dear Sir Grantley to the coachmaker’s in Long Acre, and herself selected the new brougham that was one of the baronet’s wedding presents, and declared the horses which she twice over went into the stable to see were “loves.”Then, too, she aided in the re-decorating of her daughter’s new home; in fact, spared herself in no way to bring about the happy event, while “that wretched Lord Barmouth prowled about the house doing nothing but thinking of gluttony.” In fact, she found him one day sitting behind the curtains in the drawing-room spreading potted tongue upon an Abernethy biscuit, with a pearl paper-knife, when he ought to have been helping her, for in these days his lordship’s wolf, which constantly bade him feed, was unusually active.Perhaps it was a natural instinct similar to that which directs wild animals to seek certain places at times to lick salt. At all events, tongue had a wonderfully attractive effect upon Lord Barmouth: he would steal or buy tongue in any shape to eat surreptitiously, and evidently from a natural effort to provide homoeopathically against that from which he suffered so much.Tom gave her ladyship a great deal of trouble by his opposition to the very last, but his efforts were in vain.“I might perhaps have done more, Maude,” he said, “but, hang it all, what more can I do? A fellow can’t hardly say his soul’s his own in this house. I’ve tried all I can to get the governor to take the lead, but the old woman sits upon him so heavily that he hasn’t a chance.”Maude only wept silently and laid her head upon his shoulder.“There, there, little girl,” he said, “cheer up. It’s fashion, and you mustn’t mind. Old Wilters is very soft after all, and you must take a leaf out of the old girl’s book, and serve him out for it all. Hang me, if I were you, if I wouldn’t make him pay dearly for all this.”“Hush, Tom, dear Tom. Pray, pray don’t talk about it. Tom, dear, when I am gone—”“There, I say, hang it all, don’t talk as if you were going to pop off.”“Listen to me, Tom dear,” said Maude, firmly. “I say when I am gone, be as kind as you can to poor papa. I may not be able to speak to you again.”“All right,” said Tom; “but I say, you will try and hold up.”“Yes, Tom dear, yes.”“That’s right, old girl, make the best of a bad bargain. You won’t be much worse off than Diana. Fashionable martyrs both of you.”“Yes, Tom dear.”“And you will try to be happy?”“Yes, dear, I’m going to be happy. But you’ll think the best of me, dear, and take care of poor papa?”“Of course I will. The old man will be better off when you are gone. Her majesty won’t be so stingy when she has got you both off her hands, and married to rich men.”“No, dear. I will try and cheer up.”“That’s right, old girl. I wish some one would make me happy.” This was accompanied by a look at Tryphie, who was in the room.“I don’t see how you can expect any lady to make you happy, Tom,” said the little girl, sharply. “A gentleman who worships two idols, cigars and billiards, cannot have room for a third love.”“There she goes,” said Tom, disconsolately. “Maude, I’ve told her I loved her a score of times, and she pooh-poohs me, and looks down upon me.”“Of course,” said Tryphie, pertly. “Is it not settled that I am to be Mrs Captain Bellman?”“Mrs Captain Bellman!” cried Tom, savagely. “Look here, Tryphie, I thought we had settled him, and now you bring him up again like an evil spirit in a play. I tell you what it is, if somebody does not shoot that great moustached scoundrel, I will.”“What, such a handsome, gentlemanly man?” said Tryphie, sarcastically.“Handsome? Gentlemanly? The narrow-minded scoundrel! Look here, Tryphie, a man may do worse things than smoke cigars and play billiards. Damme, I can say I never caused a woman the heartache, or deceived my friend.”“Are you sure, Tom?” said Tryphie, looking up at him with a melancholy droll expression upon her countenance.“Tryphie!” he cried, running to her, and catching her hand.“Get along, you silly boy,” she cried, laughing; and he turned away with a look of annoyance, but Maude caught his arm.“Tom, dear,” she said, laying her head upon his shoulder, “come what may, you will always think kindly of me.”“Why of course, my dear,” he said, “always. I shall think of you as the dearest and best of sisters, who always stuck up for me, and kept herself poor by lending me—no, hang it, I won’t be a humbug—giving me nearly all her allowance. Maude, old girl: I’m afraid we young fellows are terribly selfish beasts. Look here,” he cried, excitedly, to hide the tears that would come into his eyes, “I tell you what; I can get half a dozen fellows together who’ll help me burke old Wilters if you’ll say the word.”“Don’t be foolish, Tom dear,” sighed Maude. “I must go now to papa. I want to stay with him all day. Thank you, dear Tom; be kind to him when I’m gone.”“That I will, dear,” he said; and, embracing him fondly, Maude hurried away out of the room.“Tom,” said Tryphie, coming behind him as he stood, rather moist of eye, gazing after her.“Tryphie,” he cried excitedly, facing round, “I feel such a scoundrel; and as if I ought to put a stop to this cursed marriage. Here’s a set out: she detests him, that’s evident; and if Charley Melton had been a trump, hang me if he shouldn’t have had her. Curse it all! her ladyship’s too bad. There, I can’t stand it, and must be off. This place chokes me—What were you going to say!”“I was only going to say, Tom,” she said, softly, “that I’m very sorry I’ve behaved so unkindly to you sometimes, and snubbed you, and been so spiteful.”“Don’t say any more about it, Tryphie,” said the little fellow, sadly. “I’d forgive you a hundred times as much for being so good to the old man. Good-bye, Tryphie, I’m off.”“But you’ll come back for the wedding, Tom!”“I’ll be there, somethinged if I do,” he said.“What! See a second sister sold by auction?—Knocked down by my lady to the highest bidder? No, that I won’t. I can’t, I tell you. Hang it all, Tryphie, you chaff me till I feel sore right through sometimes. I’m a little humbug of a fellow, but I’ve got some feeling.”“Yes, Tom,” said Tryphie, looking at him strangely, though he did not see it. “But I was going to say something else to you.”“Well, look sharp then,” he said. “What is it!”“Only, Tom, that I don’t think I ever quite knew you before; and you have pleased me so by what you said to poor Maude.”“Tryphie!” he cried, with his eyes sparkling.“Yes, Tom, dear,” she said, looking up in his face. “Don’t let aunt marry me to any one.”“If I do!” he cried, clasping her in his arms, and her pretty little rosebud of a mouth was turned up to his for the kiss that was placed there, just as the drawing-room door opened, and her ladyship sailed in to stand as if petrified.“Lord Diphoos! Tryphie!” she cried in a deep contralto. “What are you doing?”“Kissing,” said Tom. “It’s done this way,” and he imprinted half a dozen more kisses upon Tryphie’s frightened little face before she struggled from him, and ran out by another door.“Have the goodness, sir, to ring that bell,” said her ladyship, laying her hand upon her side, and tottering to an easy-chair. “I cannot talk to you about your conduct now—your wickedness—your riot and debauchery—my mind is too full of what is about to take place; but as you are going away to-day, I must tell you that you can return here no more until Tryphie is married. I will not have her head filled full of wicked nonsense by so unprincipled a young man.”“Yes, I am a very bad one, mother,” said Tom, quietly; “but don’t make yourself uncomfortable. I am not going away.”“Not going away?” shrieked her ladyship. “Ah, who is that?” she continued, without turning her head.“Robbins, my lady.”“Oh, Robbins, send Justine to me.”“Yes, my lady,” said the butler, retiring.“I’m going to stop and see Maude turned off, if old Wilters don’t have a paralytic stroke on his way to church.”“Tom!”“Well, it’s likely enough. He’s only about forty, but he has lived twice as fast as most fellows ever since he was fifteen, so that he’s quite sixty-five.”“I will not listen to your insults, sir. As your mother, I should at least be spared.”“Oh, ah, of course,” said Tom, “duty to grey hairs and that sort of thing—Beg pardon though; I see they are not grey. I’m going to stop it all out now, and I shan’t go—and what’s more, mamma,” he cried, nursing one of his little patent leather shoes as he lolled back, “if you are cantankerous, hang me if I don’t contrive that the governor has the full run of the wine at the wedding breakfast, there.”“If you dare, Tom!” cried her ladyship. “Oh, Justine, my drops.”“Yes, milady,” said that damsel. “Ah! bold, bad lil man,” she added to herself, as she glanced at Tom, who very rudely winked at her when she closed the door after Lord Barmouth, who crept in and went timidly to an easy-chair.“Your drops!” said Tom. “Ha—ha—ha! why don’t you take a liqueur of brandy like a woman, and not drink that stuff.”“Tom,” said her ladyship, “you are too coarse. You will break my heart before you have done. Only to think of your conduct,” she cried, glancing at the chair in the farther room, where Lord Barmouth lay apparently asleep, as being his safest course when there was trouble on the way, “that too of your dozy, dilatory father, when one of you might make a position in Parliament, the other a most brilliant match.”“Why, you don’t want the old man to take another wife, do you?” said Tom. “I say, dad! Here, I say: wake up.”“Silence, sir, how dare you!” exclaimed his mother. “You wicked, offensive boy. I was, for your benefit, trying to point out to you how you might gain for yourself a first-rate establishment, when you interrupted me with your ribald jests.”“Hang the establishment!” said Tom; “any one would think you were always getting your children into trade. I shall marry little Tryphie, if she’ll have me. I’m not going to marry for money. Pretty sort of a fellow I look for making a brilliant match, don’t I?”“Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom,” said her ladyship, bursting into tears, “you will break your poor mother’s heart.”“Not I,” said Tom, cynically; “it’s not one of the heart-breaking sort. But I say, you’ve made Diana miserable, and Maude half crazy, and now I hope you are happy. Tell you what, I shouldn’t be at all surprised now if it’s through you that Charley Melton is going to the bad. If so, you’ve done it and no mistake.”“I am surprised that your father allows you to talk to me like this,” said her ladyship. “I never knew a son so wanting in respect.”“Dad’s asleep; don’t wake him,” said Tom; “the old man’s about tired out.”A snore from the easy-chair endorsed Tom’s words, and he sat smiling at his mother, knowing from old experience that she would not go away till he had done criticising her conduct in his rough and ready style.“I shudder when I think of poor Maude’s escape,” said her ladyship. “Nothing could be more disgraceful than that young man’s conduct. He sees at last though that he cannot marry Maude, and that it would be little short of a crime, so he—”“Stands out of it,” said Tom. “Hang me if I would, if any one was to try to cut in after Tryphie.”“Once for all, Tom,” said her ladyship, “I desire that you cease that nonsensical talk about your cousin. Tryphie will marry when I select a husband for her.”“Oh, of course!” said Tom; “but look here—two can play at that game.”“Will you have the goodness to explain what you mean, sir?”“Yes,” said Tom, taking out and counting his money. “Let me see,—about two pounds ten, I should say. I dare say old Wilters would lend me a fiver, if I asked him.”“Tom,” cried her ladyship, excitedly, “if you dared to do such a thing I should never survive the disgrace. For my sake don’t ask him—at all events not yet. There, there,” she cried hastily, “there’s a five-pound note. Now, my dear boy, for your mother’s and sister’s sake, do not do anything foolish for twenty-four hours. Only twenty-four hours, I implore you.”“Thankye,” said Tom, taking the note and crumpling it up, as he stuffed it into his trousers pocket. “All right, then: I’ll wait twenty-four hours.”“What—what do you want the money for?” said her ladyship, adopting now thetremolostop to play her son, as thefuriosohad proved so futile.“I’m going to buy a revolver,” said Tom, kicking up one leg as if he were dancing a child upon it.“A revolver, Tom? You are not going to do anything rash—anything foolish?”“What! Operate on myself? Not such a fool. I’d sweep a crossing to live, not blow my brains out if I were what people call ruined. I’m philosopher enough, mother, to know the value of life. Do you wish to know what I want that revolver for?”“Yes,” said her ladyship, faintly; “but pray mind that your poor papa does not get hold of it.”“Oh, yes,” said Tom. “Well, mother, I’m going to stick up a lot of playing cards in my bedroom, and practice at the spots till I’m a dead shot.”“Great Heavens, Tom! what for?”“So as to be able to make it warm for the man who comes after Tryphie. Ah, Justine, got the drops? Why, you grow handsomer than ever.”“Go, impudent little man,” said Justine, shaking her head at him, and then running to her ladyship, who was lying back with closed eyes. “Ah, poor, dear milady, you are ill.”“My drops, Justine, my drops,” sighed her ladyship. “Ah, Justine, what comfort you are to me in my sorrows. My good Justine, never pray to be a mother;” and she showed her best teeth in a pensive smile of sadness by way of recompense for the attention.“Ma foi! no, milady, I never will,” said Justine, turning very French for the moment, and her ladyship’s drops produced more tears.Tom “made a face” at the maid while her ladyship’s eyes were buried in her scented handkerchief, and Justine gave him a Parisian smile as he rose, winked once more, and left the room.Then Lady Barmouth took up her lament once more.“Ah! Justine, when the gangrene of the wounds in my poor heart has been cicatrised over, I may perhaps breathe forgiveness into the ears of my children; but now—oh now—”“Ah, poor milady! what you do suffer,” said the sympathising Justine; “you make me so much to think of that poor Job, only he was a great lord and not a lady, and you have not the boil.”“My poor Justine,” sighed her ladyship, as she smiled patronisingly at the innocence of her handmaiden, “there are moral and social boils as well as those external, and when I sit here alone, forsaken by my children—by my husband—by all who should be dear, left alone to the tender sympathies of an alien who is all probity and truth—”“Yes, poor milady, I suffer for you,” said Justine.“Thanks, good Justine, you faithful creature,” said her ladyship, sighing; “I could not exist if it were not for you.”And Justine said to herself maliciously, “I am what that wicked young man calls a hom-bogues.”
All the servants remarked that “the poor dear” from the very first bore up like a suffering martyr, and then discoursed upon the vanity of human hopes; and Mrs Downes, who was of a pious turn of mind, and went miles “per ’bus” on Sundays to be present at religious services in theatres, said that it was a “vale of tears,” and wiped one tear out of her eye, looked at it, wrapped it up very carefully in her handkerchief, and put it in her pocket, as if fully aware of the fact that it was a sympathetic pearl.
“They might well call it the last day,” sighed the same lady, for to her mind it was as if heaven and earth had come together.
“She isbête, this woman,” said Mademoiselle Justine, who had descended for hot water; and she stood and purred softly to herself, and looked so like a cat that she only needed to have squatted down upon a chair, and begun licking her trim dress, to have completed the likeness.
It was the last day of Maude’s girlhood; the next was to see her what the fashionable gossips would call a happy wife. The previous fortnight had been spent in a whirl of busy doings. Dressmakers had been to and fro, milliners consulted, Justine and Dolly had been kept up late at night to see to packing, and so anxious was her ladyship that her child should look her best that she insisted upon Maude visiting her dentist, and seeing Dr Todd again and again. Maude tried to expostulate, but her ladyship was inexorable, and spared herself no pains. The consumption of spirits of red lavender was startling, but she bore up wonderfully; went with that dear Sir Grantley to the coachmaker’s in Long Acre, and herself selected the new brougham that was one of the baronet’s wedding presents, and declared the horses which she twice over went into the stable to see were “loves.”
Then, too, she aided in the re-decorating of her daughter’s new home; in fact, spared herself in no way to bring about the happy event, while “that wretched Lord Barmouth prowled about the house doing nothing but thinking of gluttony.” In fact, she found him one day sitting behind the curtains in the drawing-room spreading potted tongue upon an Abernethy biscuit, with a pearl paper-knife, when he ought to have been helping her, for in these days his lordship’s wolf, which constantly bade him feed, was unusually active.
Perhaps it was a natural instinct similar to that which directs wild animals to seek certain places at times to lick salt. At all events, tongue had a wonderfully attractive effect upon Lord Barmouth: he would steal or buy tongue in any shape to eat surreptitiously, and evidently from a natural effort to provide homoeopathically against that from which he suffered so much.
Tom gave her ladyship a great deal of trouble by his opposition to the very last, but his efforts were in vain.
“I might perhaps have done more, Maude,” he said, “but, hang it all, what more can I do? A fellow can’t hardly say his soul’s his own in this house. I’ve tried all I can to get the governor to take the lead, but the old woman sits upon him so heavily that he hasn’t a chance.”
Maude only wept silently and laid her head upon his shoulder.
“There, there, little girl,” he said, “cheer up. It’s fashion, and you mustn’t mind. Old Wilters is very soft after all, and you must take a leaf out of the old girl’s book, and serve him out for it all. Hang me, if I were you, if I wouldn’t make him pay dearly for all this.”
“Hush, Tom, dear Tom. Pray, pray don’t talk about it. Tom, dear, when I am gone—”
“There, I say, hang it all, don’t talk as if you were going to pop off.”
“Listen to me, Tom dear,” said Maude, firmly. “I say when I am gone, be as kind as you can to poor papa. I may not be able to speak to you again.”
“All right,” said Tom; “but I say, you will try and hold up.”
“Yes, Tom dear, yes.”
“That’s right, old girl, make the best of a bad bargain. You won’t be much worse off than Diana. Fashionable martyrs both of you.”
“Yes, Tom dear.”
“And you will try to be happy?”
“Yes, dear, I’m going to be happy. But you’ll think the best of me, dear, and take care of poor papa?”
“Of course I will. The old man will be better off when you are gone. Her majesty won’t be so stingy when she has got you both off her hands, and married to rich men.”
“No, dear. I will try and cheer up.”
“That’s right, old girl. I wish some one would make me happy.” This was accompanied by a look at Tryphie, who was in the room.
“I don’t see how you can expect any lady to make you happy, Tom,” said the little girl, sharply. “A gentleman who worships two idols, cigars and billiards, cannot have room for a third love.”
“There she goes,” said Tom, disconsolately. “Maude, I’ve told her I loved her a score of times, and she pooh-poohs me, and looks down upon me.”
“Of course,” said Tryphie, pertly. “Is it not settled that I am to be Mrs Captain Bellman?”
“Mrs Captain Bellman!” cried Tom, savagely. “Look here, Tryphie, I thought we had settled him, and now you bring him up again like an evil spirit in a play. I tell you what it is, if somebody does not shoot that great moustached scoundrel, I will.”
“What, such a handsome, gentlemanly man?” said Tryphie, sarcastically.
“Handsome? Gentlemanly? The narrow-minded scoundrel! Look here, Tryphie, a man may do worse things than smoke cigars and play billiards. Damme, I can say I never caused a woman the heartache, or deceived my friend.”
“Are you sure, Tom?” said Tryphie, looking up at him with a melancholy droll expression upon her countenance.
“Tryphie!” he cried, running to her, and catching her hand.
“Get along, you silly boy,” she cried, laughing; and he turned away with a look of annoyance, but Maude caught his arm.
“Tom, dear,” she said, laying her head upon his shoulder, “come what may, you will always think kindly of me.”
“Why of course, my dear,” he said, “always. I shall think of you as the dearest and best of sisters, who always stuck up for me, and kept herself poor by lending me—no, hang it, I won’t be a humbug—giving me nearly all her allowance. Maude, old girl: I’m afraid we young fellows are terribly selfish beasts. Look here,” he cried, excitedly, to hide the tears that would come into his eyes, “I tell you what; I can get half a dozen fellows together who’ll help me burke old Wilters if you’ll say the word.”
“Don’t be foolish, Tom dear,” sighed Maude. “I must go now to papa. I want to stay with him all day. Thank you, dear Tom; be kind to him when I’m gone.”
“That I will, dear,” he said; and, embracing him fondly, Maude hurried away out of the room.
“Tom,” said Tryphie, coming behind him as he stood, rather moist of eye, gazing after her.
“Tryphie,” he cried excitedly, facing round, “I feel such a scoundrel; and as if I ought to put a stop to this cursed marriage. Here’s a set out: she detests him, that’s evident; and if Charley Melton had been a trump, hang me if he shouldn’t have had her. Curse it all! her ladyship’s too bad. There, I can’t stand it, and must be off. This place chokes me—What were you going to say!”
“I was only going to say, Tom,” she said, softly, “that I’m very sorry I’ve behaved so unkindly to you sometimes, and snubbed you, and been so spiteful.”
“Don’t say any more about it, Tryphie,” said the little fellow, sadly. “I’d forgive you a hundred times as much for being so good to the old man. Good-bye, Tryphie, I’m off.”
“But you’ll come back for the wedding, Tom!”
“I’ll be there, somethinged if I do,” he said.
“What! See a second sister sold by auction?—Knocked down by my lady to the highest bidder? No, that I won’t. I can’t, I tell you. Hang it all, Tryphie, you chaff me till I feel sore right through sometimes. I’m a little humbug of a fellow, but I’ve got some feeling.”
“Yes, Tom,” said Tryphie, looking at him strangely, though he did not see it. “But I was going to say something else to you.”
“Well, look sharp then,” he said. “What is it!”
“Only, Tom, that I don’t think I ever quite knew you before; and you have pleased me so by what you said to poor Maude.”
“Tryphie!” he cried, with his eyes sparkling.
“Yes, Tom, dear,” she said, looking up in his face. “Don’t let aunt marry me to any one.”
“If I do!” he cried, clasping her in his arms, and her pretty little rosebud of a mouth was turned up to his for the kiss that was placed there, just as the drawing-room door opened, and her ladyship sailed in to stand as if petrified.
“Lord Diphoos! Tryphie!” she cried in a deep contralto. “What are you doing?”
“Kissing,” said Tom. “It’s done this way,” and he imprinted half a dozen more kisses upon Tryphie’s frightened little face before she struggled from him, and ran out by another door.
“Have the goodness, sir, to ring that bell,” said her ladyship, laying her hand upon her side, and tottering to an easy-chair. “I cannot talk to you about your conduct now—your wickedness—your riot and debauchery—my mind is too full of what is about to take place; but as you are going away to-day, I must tell you that you can return here no more until Tryphie is married. I will not have her head filled full of wicked nonsense by so unprincipled a young man.”
“Yes, I am a very bad one, mother,” said Tom, quietly; “but don’t make yourself uncomfortable. I am not going away.”
“Not going away?” shrieked her ladyship. “Ah, who is that?” she continued, without turning her head.
“Robbins, my lady.”
“Oh, Robbins, send Justine to me.”
“Yes, my lady,” said the butler, retiring.
“I’m going to stop and see Maude turned off, if old Wilters don’t have a paralytic stroke on his way to church.”
“Tom!”
“Well, it’s likely enough. He’s only about forty, but he has lived twice as fast as most fellows ever since he was fifteen, so that he’s quite sixty-five.”
“I will not listen to your insults, sir. As your mother, I should at least be spared.”
“Oh, ah, of course,” said Tom, “duty to grey hairs and that sort of thing—Beg pardon though; I see they are not grey. I’m going to stop it all out now, and I shan’t go—and what’s more, mamma,” he cried, nursing one of his little patent leather shoes as he lolled back, “if you are cantankerous, hang me if I don’t contrive that the governor has the full run of the wine at the wedding breakfast, there.”
“If you dare, Tom!” cried her ladyship. “Oh, Justine, my drops.”
“Yes, milady,” said that damsel. “Ah! bold, bad lil man,” she added to herself, as she glanced at Tom, who very rudely winked at her when she closed the door after Lord Barmouth, who crept in and went timidly to an easy-chair.
“Your drops!” said Tom. “Ha—ha—ha! why don’t you take a liqueur of brandy like a woman, and not drink that stuff.”
“Tom,” said her ladyship, “you are too coarse. You will break my heart before you have done. Only to think of your conduct,” she cried, glancing at the chair in the farther room, where Lord Barmouth lay apparently asleep, as being his safest course when there was trouble on the way, “that too of your dozy, dilatory father, when one of you might make a position in Parliament, the other a most brilliant match.”
“Why, you don’t want the old man to take another wife, do you?” said Tom. “I say, dad! Here, I say: wake up.”
“Silence, sir, how dare you!” exclaimed his mother. “You wicked, offensive boy. I was, for your benefit, trying to point out to you how you might gain for yourself a first-rate establishment, when you interrupted me with your ribald jests.”
“Hang the establishment!” said Tom; “any one would think you were always getting your children into trade. I shall marry little Tryphie, if she’ll have me. I’m not going to marry for money. Pretty sort of a fellow I look for making a brilliant match, don’t I?”
“Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom,” said her ladyship, bursting into tears, “you will break your poor mother’s heart.”
“Not I,” said Tom, cynically; “it’s not one of the heart-breaking sort. But I say, you’ve made Diana miserable, and Maude half crazy, and now I hope you are happy. Tell you what, I shouldn’t be at all surprised now if it’s through you that Charley Melton is going to the bad. If so, you’ve done it and no mistake.”
“I am surprised that your father allows you to talk to me like this,” said her ladyship. “I never knew a son so wanting in respect.”
“Dad’s asleep; don’t wake him,” said Tom; “the old man’s about tired out.”
A snore from the easy-chair endorsed Tom’s words, and he sat smiling at his mother, knowing from old experience that she would not go away till he had done criticising her conduct in his rough and ready style.
“I shudder when I think of poor Maude’s escape,” said her ladyship. “Nothing could be more disgraceful than that young man’s conduct. He sees at last though that he cannot marry Maude, and that it would be little short of a crime, so he—”
“Stands out of it,” said Tom. “Hang me if I would, if any one was to try to cut in after Tryphie.”
“Once for all, Tom,” said her ladyship, “I desire that you cease that nonsensical talk about your cousin. Tryphie will marry when I select a husband for her.”
“Oh, of course!” said Tom; “but look here—two can play at that game.”
“Will you have the goodness to explain what you mean, sir?”
“Yes,” said Tom, taking out and counting his money. “Let me see,—about two pounds ten, I should say. I dare say old Wilters would lend me a fiver, if I asked him.”
“Tom,” cried her ladyship, excitedly, “if you dared to do such a thing I should never survive the disgrace. For my sake don’t ask him—at all events not yet. There, there,” she cried hastily, “there’s a five-pound note. Now, my dear boy, for your mother’s and sister’s sake, do not do anything foolish for twenty-four hours. Only twenty-four hours, I implore you.”
“Thankye,” said Tom, taking the note and crumpling it up, as he stuffed it into his trousers pocket. “All right, then: I’ll wait twenty-four hours.”
“What—what do you want the money for?” said her ladyship, adopting now thetremolostop to play her son, as thefuriosohad proved so futile.
“I’m going to buy a revolver,” said Tom, kicking up one leg as if he were dancing a child upon it.
“A revolver, Tom? You are not going to do anything rash—anything foolish?”
“What! Operate on myself? Not such a fool. I’d sweep a crossing to live, not blow my brains out if I were what people call ruined. I’m philosopher enough, mother, to know the value of life. Do you wish to know what I want that revolver for?”
“Yes,” said her ladyship, faintly; “but pray mind that your poor papa does not get hold of it.”
“Oh, yes,” said Tom. “Well, mother, I’m going to stick up a lot of playing cards in my bedroom, and practice at the spots till I’m a dead shot.”
“Great Heavens, Tom! what for?”
“So as to be able to make it warm for the man who comes after Tryphie. Ah, Justine, got the drops? Why, you grow handsomer than ever.”
“Go, impudent little man,” said Justine, shaking her head at him, and then running to her ladyship, who was lying back with closed eyes. “Ah, poor, dear milady, you are ill.”
“My drops, Justine, my drops,” sighed her ladyship. “Ah, Justine, what comfort you are to me in my sorrows. My good Justine, never pray to be a mother;” and she showed her best teeth in a pensive smile of sadness by way of recompense for the attention.
“Ma foi! no, milady, I never will,” said Justine, turning very French for the moment, and her ladyship’s drops produced more tears.
Tom “made a face” at the maid while her ladyship’s eyes were buried in her scented handkerchief, and Justine gave him a Parisian smile as he rose, winked once more, and left the room.
Then Lady Barmouth took up her lament once more.
“Ah! Justine, when the gangrene of the wounds in my poor heart has been cicatrised over, I may perhaps breathe forgiveness into the ears of my children; but now—oh now—”
“Ah, poor milady! what you do suffer,” said the sympathising Justine; “you make me so much to think of that poor Job, only he was a great lord and not a lady, and you have not the boil.”
“My poor Justine,” sighed her ladyship, as she smiled patronisingly at the innocence of her handmaiden, “there are moral and social boils as well as those external, and when I sit here alone, forsaken by my children—by my husband—by all who should be dear, left alone to the tender sympathies of an alien who is all probity and truth—”
“Yes, poor milady, I suffer for you,” said Justine.
“Thanks, good Justine, you faithful creature,” said her ladyship, sighing; “I could not exist if it were not for you.”
And Justine said to herself maliciously, “I am what that wicked young man calls a hom-bogues.”
Chapter Twenty Two.Lady Maude goes Mad.Meanwhile Maude had sought Lord Barmouth, whom she surprised in a corner of the library, feeding his wolf and studying the wing of a chicken, which he was picking with great gusto. He did not hear her entry, and he was talking to himself as he lifted up and smelt his pocket-handkerchief.“Yes,” he muttered; “damme, that’s what it is. I could not make out what made the chicken taste so queer. He—he—he! it’s eau de Cologne. He—he—he—Poulet à la Jean Marie Farina. Damme, that’ll be a good thing to say at the next dinner-party, or to-morrow morning. No,” he said sadly, “not then. Oh, dear, it’s very hard to see them taken away from me like this, and I must get my strength up a bit. Who’s that?”“It is only I, papa,” said Maude, seating herself on the hearthrug by his side, as the old man hastily popped the chicken bone out of sight.“I’m glad to see you, my dear, glad to see you,” said Lord Barmouth, patting her soft glossy head. “Maude, my pet, I can hardly believe that you are going away from me to-morrow.”“Pray, pray don’t talk of it, dear papa,” she faltered. “I’ve come to stay with you and talk to you; and you must tell me what to do, papa.”“Yes, yes, yes, my dear,” he said, “I will; and you must be strong, and brave, and courageous, and not break down. Her ladyship would be so upset, you see. Maudey, my darling, matrimony’s a very different sort of thing to what we used to be taught, and read of in books. It isn’t sentimental at all, my dear, it’s real—all real—doosed real. There’s a deal of trouble in this world, my darling, especially gout, which you women escape. It’s very bad, my dear, very bad indeed, sometimes.”Maude’s forehead wrinkled as she gazed piteously at her father, for her heart was full to overflowing, and she longed to confide in him, to lay bare the secrets of her laden breast; but his feeble ways—his wanderings—chilled the current that was beating at the flood-gates, and they remained closed.“What can I do—what can I do?” she moaned to herself, and laying her head upon the old man’s knee, she drew his arm round her neck, and wept silently as he chatted on.“I—I—I remember, my dear, when Lady Susan Spofforth was married, she was the thinnest girl I ever saw, and they said she hated the match—it was Lord Barleywood she married—Buck Wood we used to call him at the club. Well, next time I saw her, about three years after, I hardly knew her, she had grown so plump and round. It’s—it’s—it’s an astonishing thing, Maudey, how plump some women do get after marriage. Look at her ladyship. Doosed fine woman. Don’t look her age. Very curious, damme, yes, it is curious, I’ve never got fat since I was married. Do you know, Maudey, I think I’m thinner than I used to be.”“Do you, papa?” she said, smiling up at him.“Yes, my dear, I do indeed; but it don’t matter much, and I don’t think her ladyship minds. Let me see, Sir Grantley’s coming to dinner to-day, isn’t he, my dear?”“Yes, papa.”“Ha! yes! A good dinner’s a nice thing when you can enjoy it free and unfettered, but it’s like matrimony, my dear, full of restrictions, and very disappointing when you come to taste it. Well, there, there, there, now we have had our little talk and confidences, we will go upstairs to the drawing-room. It will be more cheerful for you.”He rose, taking his child’s hand, kissing it tenderly, and holding it before he drew it through his arm, while Maude sighed gently, and suffered herself to be led upstairs.Her ladyship was better, and she smiled with a sweetly pathetic expression in her countenance as Maude entered with her father, rising, and crossing to meet them, and kissing her child upon her forehead.“Bless you, my darling!” she said; “pray be happy in the knowledge that you are doing your duty. Go now, Justine.”“Yes, my lady,” said that sphinx; and as soon as they were alone her ladyship continued—“Yes, in the thought that you are doing your duty. At your age I too had my little love romance, but I was forced to marry your poor papa.”“Oh, damn it, my dear!” cried his lordship, looking at his wife aghast; “I was forced to marry you.”“Barmouth! That will do! Maude, my child, I begged Sir Grantley to come and dine with usen famillethis evening.”“Oh, mamma!” cried Maude, “was that wise?”“Trust me, my dear, for doing what is best,” said her ladyship.There was a great bouquet of flowers on the table, which was littered with presents from the bridegroom elect, and family friends; but Maude did not seem to heed them, only the flowers, which she picked up, and as Lady Barmouth smiled and shook her head at her husband, Maude went and sat down by the open window, to begin picking the petals to pieces and shower them down. Some fell fluttering out into the area; some littered her dress and the carpet; and some were wafted by the wind to a distance; but Maude’s mind seemed far away, and her little white fingers performed their task of destroying her present, as her head sank down lower and lower, bowed down by its weight of care.It was autumn, and the shades of evening were falling, and so were Maude’s spirits; hence a tear fell from time to time upon the flowers, to lie amidst the petals like a dew-drop; but they fell faster as her ladyship uttered an impatient cry, for just then the black-bearded Italian stopped beneath the window, swung round his organ, and began to grind out dolefully theMiserereonce more and its following melody fromTrovatore, the whole performance sounding so depressing in her nervous state that the poor girl’s first inclination was to bury her face in her hands, and sob as if her heart would break. She set her teeth though firmly, glanced back in the room, and then, smiling down at the handsome simple face beneath her, she threw a sixpence which the man caught in his soft hat.“Grazie, signora,” said the Italian, smiling and showing his white teeth.“Maude, how can you be so foolish?” cried her ladyship. “You have encouraged those men about till it’s quite dreadful: we never have any peace.”“Poor fellows!” said Maude, “they seem very glad of a few pence, and they are far away from home.”“Yes,” said her ladyship, “where they ought to be sent back.”“I remember once,” said Lord Barmouth, “in the old days when they used to have moving figures dancing in front of their organs, one of Lady Betty Lorimer’s daughters actually got—he, he, he! carrying on a clandestine correspondence with one of those handsome vagabonds.”Maude looked at her father in a startled way.“Barmouth, be silent,” cried her ladyship, as the butler entered the room with a fresh present upon a tray. “Robbins,” she said, “go downstairs and tell that man that he will be given into custody if he does not go away directly. Tell him some one is ill,”—for just then a fresh strain was ground out in a most doleful fashion, and Maude began softly humming the air to herself as she gazed down, still in the man’s handsome face.“Some one ill, my lady?”“Yes; I am ill. You should have sent him away without orders.”“I did try to dismiss him, my lady, when he came,” said the butler.“Well, and what did he say?”“Only smiled, my lady.”“But did you say that the police should be sent to him?”“Yes, my lady, but he only smiled the more; and then,” continued the butler, lowering his voice as he glanced at where Maude stood outside, “he pointed up to the drawing-room window here, and wouldn’t go. If you please, my lady,” he continued in an undertone, “he never will go while Lady Maude gives him money.”“That will do: go away,” said her ladyship, sighing; and Lord Barmouth got up and toddled towards the window to look down and elicit a fresh series of bows from the Italian, who kept on playing till the window was closed, when he directed his attention to the area, where a couple of the maids were looking up at him, ready to giggle and make signs to him to alter the tune.Tom came back into the drawing-room just as her ladyship had closed the window and sent Lord Barmouth back to a chair, where he sat down to rub his leg. Tryphie came back a few minutes later to glance timidly at her aunt, who, however, thought it better to ignore the past for the time being, fully meaning, though, to take up poor Tryphie’s case when her mind was more free.“Will you come and see the dress that has just come in?” said Tryphie to Maude, who was sitting gazing dreamily out of the window.“No,” she said, “no.”“My dear child,” cried her ladyship, “pray, pray take a little interest in your dresses.”“I cannot, mamma,” cried Maude, passionately. “I have not the heart.”“Bah, Maude!” cried Tom, “be a trump, I say. When you are married and have got your establishment, I’d jolly soon let some one know who was mistress then.”“Tom, your language is disgraceful,” cried her ladyship. “It is as low and disrespectful as that of the people in the street.”“I wish your treatment of your children were half as good. Here’s every shilling a fellow wants screwed out, till I feel as if I should like to enlist; and as for Maudey here, you’ve treated her as if she were a piece of sculpture, to be sold to the highest bidder. I suppose she has not got a heart.”“Lord Barmouth!” exclaimed her ladyship, faintly, as she lay back in her chair, and lavishly used her smelling-salts, “if one of my brothers had spoken to dear mamma as that boy speaks to me, dear papa would have felled him to the earth.”“There you are, gov’nor, there’s your chance,” said Tom, grinning. “Come and knock me down, but don’t bruise your knuckles, for my head’s as hard as iron.”Lord Barmouth took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his hands upon it, not noticing that it was stained with gravy, gazing in a troubled way from wife to son, and back, and then crossed to the former to say something in a whisper, to which her ladyship replied—“Pshaw.”“Thank you, Tom,” whispered Tryphie, as he went to the window where she stood. “I did not think you could stand up so bravely for your sister, and be so true.”“Didn’t you?” said Tom, sulkily. “It’s a good job I can be true, for I don’t believe there’s a spark of truth anywhere else in the world. If Charley had had the spirit of a fly, he’d have come and walked her off. Hang it all! I’m mad and savage. Pretty sort of a husband you’ve got for her. Pretty sort of a brother-in-law to have! I’m ashamed of him. I’m only a little one, and nothing to boast of, but he’s no better than a pantaloon. Truth indeed! There isn’t such a thing in the world.”“Oh, Tom!” whispered Tryphie.“More there isn’t,” cried Tom. “Pretty brother-in-law indeed!”“Maude,” exclaimed her ladyship, “I think you might have a word to say on behalf of your intended husband.”The girl glanced at her in a stony way, and turned once more to the window, where she had been looking out with Tryphie, listening with aching heart to the encounter between mother and son.“Such a brilliant match as I have made,” cried her ladyship, harping on her old string. “And such opposition as I have from the girl who owes me so much.”“Indeed, mamma, I have yielded everything. You are having your own way entirely,” said Maude passionately.“Have I not saved you from throwing yourself away upon a disreputable creature?” sobbed her ladyship.“Tryphie,” whispered Maude, “I cannot bear this. It is dreadful. I feel as if I should go mad.”“He saw plainly enough,” whined her ladyship, “that it could not be—that it would have been a completemisalliance.”“This is unbearable,” whispered Maude, clasping her cousin’s hand, which pressed hers warmly and encouragingly, as they stood in the window recess, half screened by the heavy curtains.“Try not to listen, dear,” whispered Tryphie.“It nearly maddens me. I feel as if I could do anything wicked and desperate.”“Oh, hush, hush, dear,” whispered Tryphie; and Lady Barmouth maundered on in tones asking for sympathy, as she set herself up as the suffering ill-used mother whom no one tried to comfort in her distress.“Saved you as I did from a life of misery,” continued her ladyship, whimpering. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! how children strive to throw themselves away.”Maude moaned, and held her hand to her side.“Are you ill, dear?” whispered Tryphie.“No, no,” was the reply. “It is past now—past.”“I shall be sorry when you are gone, Maude,” said her father simply.“Oh, papa, papa,” she cried, running to him and throwing her arms round his neck; for the tenderly-spoken sympathetic words brought the tears to her eyes. Then, unable to bear it, she turned to leave the room, but just then the door opened and the butler announced Sir Grantley Wilters.“Ah, how do!” he said in a high-pitched voice, saluting all in turn, and bending low over Maude’s hand. “Thought I’d come soon, don’t you know,sans cérémonie, eh, mamma!” he said with a smile to Lady Barmouth, and then gave his glass a screw, and brought it to bear on all present.“I am so glad,” said her ladyship; “so is Maude; but don’t take any notice,” she whispered. “Poor child, she isdistrait, and seems cold. So deeply attached to Lord Barmouth. Ready to break her heart at leaving him.”“Yas, oh, yas,” said Sir Grantley; and he took his seat beside Maude.“Tryphie,” said Tom, “I can’t help it. I must be off. This fellow makes me ill. May I go?”She gave him a nod of intelligence, and he said something about being ready for dinner, and left the room to go out, take a hansom, and bowl down to one of the clubs, where he was soon so busily engaged in a game of pool that he forgot all about the dinner.Very shortly after, Maude rose, bowed to Sir Grantley, and left the room with Tryphie, when the baronet crossed to Lady Barmouth’s side, and was soon engaged in a most interesting conversation, whose murmur sent Lord Barmouth into a pleasant slumber, out of sight in a lounging chair, where he was quite forgotten, when her ladyship suggested that Sir Grantley should go with her to her boudoir to see the last new presents sent in for Maude.“And you would like to wash your hands, too, before dinner,” said her ladyship. “We will not trouble about dressing to-night.”Sir Grantley opened the door, and the old gentleman was left alone to wake up about a quarter of an hour later to find it was dark, and sit up rubbing his leg.“Oh, damme, my leg,” he said, softly. “Where—where are they all gone? Why it’s—it’s past dinnertime,” he said, looking at his watch by the dim light. “I shall be doosed glad when everybody’s married and—and—and—why the doose doesn’t the dressing-bell ring? Heigh—oh—ha—hum!” he added, yawning. “There’s—there’s—there’s another of those abominable organs. I—I—I wish that all the set of them were at the bottom of the sea, for I lie at night with all their tunes coming back again, and seeming to grind themselves to fit the pains in my leg. Poor girl! she was always encouraging the fellows. Why dear me! Damme, haven’t I got a single sixpence left to give him, to go away. No, that I haven’t,” he continued fumbling, “not a sou. She—she—she does keep me short,” he muttered, opening the French window and looking out. “Oh, he’s done playing now, so I shan’t want the money. Why eh—eh—eh? Why—he—he, he! the fellow’s talking to one of the maids. He—he—he! Hi—hi—hi! They will do it. I—I—I was a devil of a fellow amongst the girls when I was a young man; but now—oh, dear, oh dear! this wind seems to give me tortures, that it does.”He closed the window, but stood looking out.“You’d better take care, you two, that my lady don’t catch you, or there’ll be such a devil of a row. He’s—he’s going down into the area. Well, well, well, I shan’t tell tales. He—he—he! Hi—hi—hi!” he chuckled, sitting down and nursing his leg. “I remember when I was about twenty, and Dick Jerrard and I—he’s Lord Marrowby now, and a sober judge!—when we got over the wall at a boarding-school to see pretty Miss Vulliamy. Oh, dear, dear, dear, those were days. They preach and talk a deal now about being wicked, but it was very nice. I used to be a devil of a wicked fellow when I was young, and—and flirted terribly, while lately I’ve been as good as gold, and, damme, I haven’t been half so happy.”He stopped rubbing his leg for a while.“Everything’s at sixes and sevens, damme, that it is. I’m nearly famished, that I am. If it hadn’t been for that bit of chicken I should have been quite starved. Her ladyship’s too bad, that she is. Cold boiled sole, rice pudding, and half a glass of hock in a tumbler of water. I can’t stand it, that I can’t. Damme, I’ll make a good dinner to-night, that I will, if I die for it. I’ll—I’ll—I’ll, damme, I’ll kick over the traces for once in a way. Tom will help me, I know. He’s a good boy, Tom is, and he’ll see that I have a glass of port, and—damme, where’s Maude and her ladyship, and why isn’t dinner ready? and—eh—what?—what the devil’s that. There’s something wrong.”For at that moment a piercing shriek rang through the house, and there was the sound of a heavy fall upon the floor.
Meanwhile Maude had sought Lord Barmouth, whom she surprised in a corner of the library, feeding his wolf and studying the wing of a chicken, which he was picking with great gusto. He did not hear her entry, and he was talking to himself as he lifted up and smelt his pocket-handkerchief.
“Yes,” he muttered; “damme, that’s what it is. I could not make out what made the chicken taste so queer. He—he—he! it’s eau de Cologne. He—he—he—Poulet à la Jean Marie Farina. Damme, that’ll be a good thing to say at the next dinner-party, or to-morrow morning. No,” he said sadly, “not then. Oh, dear, it’s very hard to see them taken away from me like this, and I must get my strength up a bit. Who’s that?”
“It is only I, papa,” said Maude, seating herself on the hearthrug by his side, as the old man hastily popped the chicken bone out of sight.
“I’m glad to see you, my dear, glad to see you,” said Lord Barmouth, patting her soft glossy head. “Maude, my pet, I can hardly believe that you are going away from me to-morrow.”
“Pray, pray don’t talk of it, dear papa,” she faltered. “I’ve come to stay with you and talk to you; and you must tell me what to do, papa.”
“Yes, yes, yes, my dear,” he said, “I will; and you must be strong, and brave, and courageous, and not break down. Her ladyship would be so upset, you see. Maudey, my darling, matrimony’s a very different sort of thing to what we used to be taught, and read of in books. It isn’t sentimental at all, my dear, it’s real—all real—doosed real. There’s a deal of trouble in this world, my darling, especially gout, which you women escape. It’s very bad, my dear, very bad indeed, sometimes.”
Maude’s forehead wrinkled as she gazed piteously at her father, for her heart was full to overflowing, and she longed to confide in him, to lay bare the secrets of her laden breast; but his feeble ways—his wanderings—chilled the current that was beating at the flood-gates, and they remained closed.
“What can I do—what can I do?” she moaned to herself, and laying her head upon the old man’s knee, she drew his arm round her neck, and wept silently as he chatted on.
“I—I—I remember, my dear, when Lady Susan Spofforth was married, she was the thinnest girl I ever saw, and they said she hated the match—it was Lord Barleywood she married—Buck Wood we used to call him at the club. Well, next time I saw her, about three years after, I hardly knew her, she had grown so plump and round. It’s—it’s—it’s an astonishing thing, Maudey, how plump some women do get after marriage. Look at her ladyship. Doosed fine woman. Don’t look her age. Very curious, damme, yes, it is curious, I’ve never got fat since I was married. Do you know, Maudey, I think I’m thinner than I used to be.”
“Do you, papa?” she said, smiling up at him.
“Yes, my dear, I do indeed; but it don’t matter much, and I don’t think her ladyship minds. Let me see, Sir Grantley’s coming to dinner to-day, isn’t he, my dear?”
“Yes, papa.”
“Ha! yes! A good dinner’s a nice thing when you can enjoy it free and unfettered, but it’s like matrimony, my dear, full of restrictions, and very disappointing when you come to taste it. Well, there, there, there, now we have had our little talk and confidences, we will go upstairs to the drawing-room. It will be more cheerful for you.”
He rose, taking his child’s hand, kissing it tenderly, and holding it before he drew it through his arm, while Maude sighed gently, and suffered herself to be led upstairs.
Her ladyship was better, and she smiled with a sweetly pathetic expression in her countenance as Maude entered with her father, rising, and crossing to meet them, and kissing her child upon her forehead.
“Bless you, my darling!” she said; “pray be happy in the knowledge that you are doing your duty. Go now, Justine.”
“Yes, my lady,” said that sphinx; and as soon as they were alone her ladyship continued—
“Yes, in the thought that you are doing your duty. At your age I too had my little love romance, but I was forced to marry your poor papa.”
“Oh, damn it, my dear!” cried his lordship, looking at his wife aghast; “I was forced to marry you.”
“Barmouth! That will do! Maude, my child, I begged Sir Grantley to come and dine with usen famillethis evening.”
“Oh, mamma!” cried Maude, “was that wise?”
“Trust me, my dear, for doing what is best,” said her ladyship.
There was a great bouquet of flowers on the table, which was littered with presents from the bridegroom elect, and family friends; but Maude did not seem to heed them, only the flowers, which she picked up, and as Lady Barmouth smiled and shook her head at her husband, Maude went and sat down by the open window, to begin picking the petals to pieces and shower them down. Some fell fluttering out into the area; some littered her dress and the carpet; and some were wafted by the wind to a distance; but Maude’s mind seemed far away, and her little white fingers performed their task of destroying her present, as her head sank down lower and lower, bowed down by its weight of care.
It was autumn, and the shades of evening were falling, and so were Maude’s spirits; hence a tear fell from time to time upon the flowers, to lie amidst the petals like a dew-drop; but they fell faster as her ladyship uttered an impatient cry, for just then the black-bearded Italian stopped beneath the window, swung round his organ, and began to grind out dolefully theMiserereonce more and its following melody fromTrovatore, the whole performance sounding so depressing in her nervous state that the poor girl’s first inclination was to bury her face in her hands, and sob as if her heart would break. She set her teeth though firmly, glanced back in the room, and then, smiling down at the handsome simple face beneath her, she threw a sixpence which the man caught in his soft hat.
“Grazie, signora,” said the Italian, smiling and showing his white teeth.
“Maude, how can you be so foolish?” cried her ladyship. “You have encouraged those men about till it’s quite dreadful: we never have any peace.”
“Poor fellows!” said Maude, “they seem very glad of a few pence, and they are far away from home.”
“Yes,” said her ladyship, “where they ought to be sent back.”
“I remember once,” said Lord Barmouth, “in the old days when they used to have moving figures dancing in front of their organs, one of Lady Betty Lorimer’s daughters actually got—he, he, he! carrying on a clandestine correspondence with one of those handsome vagabonds.”
Maude looked at her father in a startled way.
“Barmouth, be silent,” cried her ladyship, as the butler entered the room with a fresh present upon a tray. “Robbins,” she said, “go downstairs and tell that man that he will be given into custody if he does not go away directly. Tell him some one is ill,”—for just then a fresh strain was ground out in a most doleful fashion, and Maude began softly humming the air to herself as she gazed down, still in the man’s handsome face.
“Some one ill, my lady?”
“Yes; I am ill. You should have sent him away without orders.”
“I did try to dismiss him, my lady, when he came,” said the butler.
“Well, and what did he say?”
“Only smiled, my lady.”
“But did you say that the police should be sent to him?”
“Yes, my lady, but he only smiled the more; and then,” continued the butler, lowering his voice as he glanced at where Maude stood outside, “he pointed up to the drawing-room window here, and wouldn’t go. If you please, my lady,” he continued in an undertone, “he never will go while Lady Maude gives him money.”
“That will do: go away,” said her ladyship, sighing; and Lord Barmouth got up and toddled towards the window to look down and elicit a fresh series of bows from the Italian, who kept on playing till the window was closed, when he directed his attention to the area, where a couple of the maids were looking up at him, ready to giggle and make signs to him to alter the tune.
Tom came back into the drawing-room just as her ladyship had closed the window and sent Lord Barmouth back to a chair, where he sat down to rub his leg. Tryphie came back a few minutes later to glance timidly at her aunt, who, however, thought it better to ignore the past for the time being, fully meaning, though, to take up poor Tryphie’s case when her mind was more free.
“Will you come and see the dress that has just come in?” said Tryphie to Maude, who was sitting gazing dreamily out of the window.
“No,” she said, “no.”
“My dear child,” cried her ladyship, “pray, pray take a little interest in your dresses.”
“I cannot, mamma,” cried Maude, passionately. “I have not the heart.”
“Bah, Maude!” cried Tom, “be a trump, I say. When you are married and have got your establishment, I’d jolly soon let some one know who was mistress then.”
“Tom, your language is disgraceful,” cried her ladyship. “It is as low and disrespectful as that of the people in the street.”
“I wish your treatment of your children were half as good. Here’s every shilling a fellow wants screwed out, till I feel as if I should like to enlist; and as for Maudey here, you’ve treated her as if she were a piece of sculpture, to be sold to the highest bidder. I suppose she has not got a heart.”
“Lord Barmouth!” exclaimed her ladyship, faintly, as she lay back in her chair, and lavishly used her smelling-salts, “if one of my brothers had spoken to dear mamma as that boy speaks to me, dear papa would have felled him to the earth.”
“There you are, gov’nor, there’s your chance,” said Tom, grinning. “Come and knock me down, but don’t bruise your knuckles, for my head’s as hard as iron.”
Lord Barmouth took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his hands upon it, not noticing that it was stained with gravy, gazing in a troubled way from wife to son, and back, and then crossed to the former to say something in a whisper, to which her ladyship replied—
“Pshaw.”
“Thank you, Tom,” whispered Tryphie, as he went to the window where she stood. “I did not think you could stand up so bravely for your sister, and be so true.”
“Didn’t you?” said Tom, sulkily. “It’s a good job I can be true, for I don’t believe there’s a spark of truth anywhere else in the world. If Charley had had the spirit of a fly, he’d have come and walked her off. Hang it all! I’m mad and savage. Pretty sort of a husband you’ve got for her. Pretty sort of a brother-in-law to have! I’m ashamed of him. I’m only a little one, and nothing to boast of, but he’s no better than a pantaloon. Truth indeed! There isn’t such a thing in the world.”
“Oh, Tom!” whispered Tryphie.
“More there isn’t,” cried Tom. “Pretty brother-in-law indeed!”
“Maude,” exclaimed her ladyship, “I think you might have a word to say on behalf of your intended husband.”
The girl glanced at her in a stony way, and turned once more to the window, where she had been looking out with Tryphie, listening with aching heart to the encounter between mother and son.
“Such a brilliant match as I have made,” cried her ladyship, harping on her old string. “And such opposition as I have from the girl who owes me so much.”
“Indeed, mamma, I have yielded everything. You are having your own way entirely,” said Maude passionately.
“Have I not saved you from throwing yourself away upon a disreputable creature?” sobbed her ladyship.
“Tryphie,” whispered Maude, “I cannot bear this. It is dreadful. I feel as if I should go mad.”
“He saw plainly enough,” whined her ladyship, “that it could not be—that it would have been a completemisalliance.”
“This is unbearable,” whispered Maude, clasping her cousin’s hand, which pressed hers warmly and encouragingly, as they stood in the window recess, half screened by the heavy curtains.
“Try not to listen, dear,” whispered Tryphie.
“It nearly maddens me. I feel as if I could do anything wicked and desperate.”
“Oh, hush, hush, dear,” whispered Tryphie; and Lady Barmouth maundered on in tones asking for sympathy, as she set herself up as the suffering ill-used mother whom no one tried to comfort in her distress.
“Saved you as I did from a life of misery,” continued her ladyship, whimpering. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! how children strive to throw themselves away.”
Maude moaned, and held her hand to her side.
“Are you ill, dear?” whispered Tryphie.
“No, no,” was the reply. “It is past now—past.”
“I shall be sorry when you are gone, Maude,” said her father simply.
“Oh, papa, papa,” she cried, running to him and throwing her arms round his neck; for the tenderly-spoken sympathetic words brought the tears to her eyes. Then, unable to bear it, she turned to leave the room, but just then the door opened and the butler announced Sir Grantley Wilters.
“Ah, how do!” he said in a high-pitched voice, saluting all in turn, and bending low over Maude’s hand. “Thought I’d come soon, don’t you know,sans cérémonie, eh, mamma!” he said with a smile to Lady Barmouth, and then gave his glass a screw, and brought it to bear on all present.
“I am so glad,” said her ladyship; “so is Maude; but don’t take any notice,” she whispered. “Poor child, she isdistrait, and seems cold. So deeply attached to Lord Barmouth. Ready to break her heart at leaving him.”
“Yas, oh, yas,” said Sir Grantley; and he took his seat beside Maude.
“Tryphie,” said Tom, “I can’t help it. I must be off. This fellow makes me ill. May I go?”
She gave him a nod of intelligence, and he said something about being ready for dinner, and left the room to go out, take a hansom, and bowl down to one of the clubs, where he was soon so busily engaged in a game of pool that he forgot all about the dinner.
Very shortly after, Maude rose, bowed to Sir Grantley, and left the room with Tryphie, when the baronet crossed to Lady Barmouth’s side, and was soon engaged in a most interesting conversation, whose murmur sent Lord Barmouth into a pleasant slumber, out of sight in a lounging chair, where he was quite forgotten, when her ladyship suggested that Sir Grantley should go with her to her boudoir to see the last new presents sent in for Maude.
“And you would like to wash your hands, too, before dinner,” said her ladyship. “We will not trouble about dressing to-night.”
Sir Grantley opened the door, and the old gentleman was left alone to wake up about a quarter of an hour later to find it was dark, and sit up rubbing his leg.
“Oh, damme, my leg,” he said, softly. “Where—where are they all gone? Why it’s—it’s past dinnertime,” he said, looking at his watch by the dim light. “I shall be doosed glad when everybody’s married and—and—and—why the doose doesn’t the dressing-bell ring? Heigh—oh—ha—hum!” he added, yawning. “There’s—there’s—there’s another of those abominable organs. I—I—I wish that all the set of them were at the bottom of the sea, for I lie at night with all their tunes coming back again, and seeming to grind themselves to fit the pains in my leg. Poor girl! she was always encouraging the fellows. Why dear me! Damme, haven’t I got a single sixpence left to give him, to go away. No, that I haven’t,” he continued fumbling, “not a sou. She—she—she does keep me short,” he muttered, opening the French window and looking out. “Oh, he’s done playing now, so I shan’t want the money. Why eh—eh—eh? Why—he—he, he! the fellow’s talking to one of the maids. He—he—he! Hi—hi—hi! They will do it. I—I—I was a devil of a fellow amongst the girls when I was a young man; but now—oh, dear, oh dear! this wind seems to give me tortures, that it does.”
He closed the window, but stood looking out.
“You’d better take care, you two, that my lady don’t catch you, or there’ll be such a devil of a row. He’s—he’s going down into the area. Well, well, well, I shan’t tell tales. He—he—he! Hi—hi—hi!” he chuckled, sitting down and nursing his leg. “I remember when I was about twenty, and Dick Jerrard and I—he’s Lord Marrowby now, and a sober judge!—when we got over the wall at a boarding-school to see pretty Miss Vulliamy. Oh, dear, dear, dear, those were days. They preach and talk a deal now about being wicked, but it was very nice. I used to be a devil of a wicked fellow when I was young, and—and flirted terribly, while lately I’ve been as good as gold, and, damme, I haven’t been half so happy.”
He stopped rubbing his leg for a while.
“Everything’s at sixes and sevens, damme, that it is. I’m nearly famished, that I am. If it hadn’t been for that bit of chicken I should have been quite starved. Her ladyship’s too bad, that she is. Cold boiled sole, rice pudding, and half a glass of hock in a tumbler of water. I can’t stand it, that I can’t. Damme, I’ll make a good dinner to-night, that I will, if I die for it. I’ll—I’ll—I’ll, damme, I’ll kick over the traces for once in a way. Tom will help me, I know. He’s a good boy, Tom is, and he’ll see that I have a glass of port, and—damme, where’s Maude and her ladyship, and why isn’t dinner ready? and—eh—what?—what the devil’s that. There’s something wrong.”
For at that moment a piercing shriek rang through the house, and there was the sound of a heavy fall upon the floor.