Lady Maude's Mania

“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 us en famille this 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 the Miserere once more and its following melody from Trovatore, 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 complete misalliance.”

“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 is distrait, 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.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Tom Diphoos stays out Late

“Half thought I should have seen Charley Melton here; perhaps he has started for Italy after all,” said Tom, who had gone straight to Barker’s and engaged in a game of pool. “Might have stirred him up, but he don’t seem to mind it a bit. Well, no wonder, seeing how he was treated.”

“Red upon white; yellow’s your player,” said the marker, and Tom went up to make the stroke required of him; then he turned once more to glance at the table next to him, and watched two or three of the bets made.

“Past ten,” he said to himself, glancing at his watch. “That’s getting back to dinner. Never mind, I’m not the party wanted by her ladyship. Charley must have known she was to be married to-morrow. I liked him too,” he said, gazing at the players. “He’s a big, strong, noble-looking fellow. Ah, well! I suppose that’s because I’m little. One mustn’t go by outside appearances. Perhaps it’s all for the best.”

Just then a friend proposed that they should drop in at one of the theatres and see the new burlesque; and after a little hesitation Tom consented to go. After this a kidney had to be eaten at a tavern; so that it was one o’clock when he reached home, to find the lights burning, and a cluster of servants in the hall.

“Hallo, Robbins, what’s up? House on fire?” he cried, as the butler admitted him, looking very solemn and troubled.

“No, my lord. Oh, dear no.”

“Don’t be an old image. What is it? Sir Grantley had a fit?”

“My young lady, my lord,” said the butler in a solemn, mysterious whisper.

“Not ill – not ill?” cried Tom, excitedly.

“No, my lord,” said the butler, “not ill, but – ”

“Confound you, you great pump. Speak out,” cried Tom, angrily.

“Gone, my lord – been missing hours. Her ladyship has been having fit after fit, and his lordship is ’most beside himself.”

“Bolted!” exclaimed Tom; and, running into the dining-room, he threw himself into a chair and laughed till his sides ached.

“Poor Wilters! oh, Lord, what a game! Cut! – skimmed!”

He got up, and stamped round the room in the very ecstasy of delight, “The little smug hypocrite!” he said. “That’s why she was so sanctified and sad to-day. Well, bless her, I like her pluck. Sold, my lady, sold!”

He suddenly woke up to the fact that he ought to go upstairs, and, turning serious, he walked into the hall.

“Where’s her ladyship, Robbins?” he asked.

“Upstairs, my lord.”

“Where’s Sir Grantley?”

“Went out, my lord, about ten, to find that tail, straight man, sir, as came – Mr Hurkle.”

“And he hasn’t found him?”

“No, my lord, I s’pose not.”

“Good job too,” said Tom, shortly, and running upstairs he entered the drawing-room so suddenly that her ladyship, who was lying upon a sofa, being fanned by Tryphie, began to shriek.

“There, don’t make that row, mother,” said Tom, coarsely. “Hang it all, what a smell of lavender!”

“Is that you, Tom?” sobbed her ladyship, as Justine came in with a bottle of hot water to apply to her mistress’ feet.

“I suppose so, unless I was changed at my birth,” he said, laughing at Tryphie, and then giving his father a free-and-easy nod. “Spirits and water – internal and ex.”

“Oh, my boy, your wicked, wicked sister!” sobbed her ladyship.

“Serve you right,” said Tom.

“Such a wanton disgrace to her family.”

“Of course,” said Tom.

“I shall never get over it.”

“Shouldn’t have tried to make the poor girl marry a man that she did not care a curse for.”

“Oh, but, Tom, Tom!” sobbed Tryphie, “this is too dreadful.”

“Stuff!” cried Tom. “I’ll be bound to say that you were in the secret.”

“Indeed, no,” cried Tryphie, reproachfully. “I did not know a word. I had left her in her room, as I thought, to dress, and when I went to fetch her because dinner was waiting she was gone.”

“Tell him, Justine, for mercy’s sake tell him,” wailed her ladyship.

“Yes, poor milady, I will,” said the Frenchwoman. “Miss Tryphie knocked many time, and I ascend the stairs then, and she say she begin to be alarmed that mademoiselle was ill. We enter then togezzer, and we find – ”

“Nothing,” said Tom, coolly.

“Oh, no, monsieur, all her beautiful dresses, ze trousseau magnifique, lying about the room, but she is not there. Then I recollect that I see somebody pass down ze stair, in a black cloak and veil, but I take no notice then, though I think now it must have been my young lady.”

“But you knew she was going,” said Tom, gazing straight into her eyes, which only shone a little brighter, for they did not shrink.

“I know, monsieur?” she replied. “I know, I come straight to tell milady of ze outrage against ze honour of her family. Parole d’honneur no, I know nozing as ze lil bébé which come not to be born.”

This was said at a tremendous pace, and with a very strong French accent, for, as Mademoiselle Justine grew excited, so did she forget her good English, and began to return towards the language of the land of her birth.

“What’s been done?” said Tom, shortly.

“Aunt sent directly for Mr Hurkle, and then Sir Grantley went after him as well.”

“Curse Mr Hurkle,” cried Tom, and he hurried out of the room, and dashed, two steps at a time, downstairs, and nearly tumbled over one of the footmen, who looked quite scared.

“You’re always in the way,” cried Tom, savagely, and he dashed into the library, where he found Lord Barmouth busy with trembling hands examining a very old pair of flintlock duelling pistols.

“Hallo, dad!” cried Tom, “none of that. You’re not tired of life?”

“No, no, my son,” said the old gentleman; “damme, no, Tom, though it does get very hard sometimes. Tom, my boy, I’m going to find him out and shoot him.”

Tom slammed down the lid of the case, and pushed the old gentleman unresistingly back into an easy-chair.

“Now, look here, gov’nor, let’s talk sense,” he cried.

“Yes, my dear boy, I – I – I’m doosed glad you’ve come. We will – we will.”

“It’s true then, gov’nor, that poor Maude has bolted?”

“Well, yes, my boy, I don’t think there’s a doubt about it.”

“Then that’s all your fault, gov’nor,” said Tom.

“My dear boy, don’t you turn upon me and bully me too. I – I – I’ve lost my poor little girl, and I – I – I can’t bear much. It’s such a disgrace. I know I ought to have stood up for her more, Tom, my boy, but her ladyship is so very strong-minded, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Tom. “She was too much for both of us, gov’nor. Well, it’s no use to fret about it that I see. The little filly’s taken the bit in her teeth, topped the hedge, and away she’s gone. And she so sly over it too!”

“She was very sorry to go, Tom, I’m sure. She was in such trouble to-day.”

“Yes,” said Tom, quietly, “we ought to have suspected something. How about old Wilters?”

“He’s nearly mad, my boy. He has – has – has been running round – round the drawing-room like – like – like – ”

“A cat on hot bricks, father.”

“Yes, my son. He’s furious – he’s going to kill him.”

“Yes, of course,” said Tom, grinning. “I should like to see him do it.”

“But – but – but, Tom, my boy, don’t take it quite so coolly.”

“Why not, father? Hallo? who’s this, eh? Oh, of course,” he said, “here are the women now.”

For her ladyship came in leaning upon Tryphie’s arm, to immediately shriek and fall back in a chair.

“Oh, Tom! oh, Tom,” she cried, “I shall never survive. The disgrace – the disgrace.”

“Nonsense. Here, father, Tryphie, Maude has gone off with Charley Melton, I suppose?”

“No, no, no!” shrieked her ladyship. “Oh, horror, horror, horror!”

“Tryphie, cork her mouth with a handkerchief, or they’ll hear her across the street. Here, father, what’s the row. Charley Melton, eh?”

“No – no – no, my dear boy,” stammered Lord Barmouth, “I – I – I – damme, though her ladyship’s here, I say it in her presence, I wish she had. It’s too dreadful to tell.”

“My God, father!” cried Tom, excitedly, as he turned pale, and the cold sweat stood upon his forehead, for like a flash came upon him the recollection of his sister’s words that day, and brought up such a picture of horror before his eyes, that he trembled like a leaf. “Don’t say – don’t tell me – ”

He could not finish, but stood panting, and gazing at the horror-stricken face of his mother.

“No, my boy, I won’t if you don’t want me to,” said the old man, feebly; “but it’s – it’s – such a terrible disgrace.”

“Father,” faltered Tom, in a hoarse whisper, “has she – has she drowned herself?”

“Oh, no, my boy, no – no – no,” cried the old man, with the tears streaming down his cheeks. “She has eloped under disgraceful circumstances.”

“Not with one of the servants, father?” cried Tom.

“No, no, my boy, worse than that.”

“Hang it, father,” cried Tom, savagely, “there is no worse, without she has gone off with a sweep.”

“Yes, yes, my boy,” cried the old man. “She has gone off with an organ-grinder and a monkey!”

“Which?” roared Tom, seizing the poker; “it isn’t murder to kill an ape.”

“No, no, my boy, it’s the organ man. I saw him from the window to-night. I don’t think there was a monkey.”

Tom threw the poker into the fire-place with a crash, and stared blankly at his mother.

“Oh, Tom! oh, Tom!” she cried, hysterically, “the disgrace! – the disgrace! – the disgrace!”

“I – I – I don’t know what to do,” cried Lord Barmouth. “I can never stand it. It will be all the talk of the clubs. It’s – it’s – it’s – ”

“It’s all damned nonsense, father!” cried Tom; “my sister isn’t such a fool.”

Chapter Twenty Four.

Tom assumes Command

Ten minutes after Tom was busy trying to obtain some further information, after seeing his father comfortably settled down in the study with a good cigar and a pint bottle of port.

“May – may I have ’em, Tom, my boy?” he asked.