Lady Maude's Mania

“What do you propose doing then?” said Melton, hoarsely.

“Seeing her, and letting her know that when she likes to return home there is a place for her, either there or with me. That’s all.”

“And you mean to let her stay with this – this scoundrel.”

“Yes, Charley; I suppose he is her husband. We can do nothing.”

“Have you any suspicion of where she is?”

“Yes, old man. In this town, and I have set a waiter to work to bring me news. They’re ten times better than detectives. But it’s very good of you, Charley, and I’m sorry I abused you so.”

“You have been abusing me, then?” said Melton with an amused look.

“Yes, for giving up so easily,” said Tom. “Oh, here’s my man. I suppose,” he added hastily, as the hotel waiter entered, “some one for me.”

“Yes, milor, the head waiter from the Vesuvio.”

“Show him in. Now, Charley, there’ll be news.”

“All right, get it then,” said Melton, and he walked to the window, while Tom turned to face a little dark Italian, with a face suggestive of his being developed from a shaven rat.

The interview was short and decisive, and accompanied by much gesticulation, terminating in a chinking of coin as the man left.

“There, old fellow,” cried Tom, excitedly, “I’ve done more than you have. I’ve run them to earth.”

“You have? They are in Naples?”

“They are here!” cried Tom, excitedly. “In this very hotel, where I’ve been drawn by a sort of filial – no, that’s not it – fraternal magnetic attraction, and now.”

“Stop,” cried Melton. “I thought you were not going to interfere.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Tom, “a little while ago; but hang it all, now I am under the same roof with the scoundrel who deluded my poor sister away, curse his Italian blood, I’ll strangle him.”

“But you must be wrong, Tom; such a man as you suspect would not stay in an hotel like this. What do you say, Miss Wilder?”

“I say,” cried Tryphie, with a malicious look, “that there seems to be some mistake.”

“Tryphie – Tryphie, my child!” came from without.

“Coming, aunt,” said the girl, rising.

“Not a word to the old girl, Tryphie,” cried Tom.

“Not tell her?”

“Not a word. There, I beg of you.”

“Very well,” she said with another peculiar look and tripped out of the room.

“That’s better,” cried Tom. “Now come along.”

“Where are you going?”

“To dieci otto. That’s where the man said they were – not they, he said she was alone now. Come on: I’ll get her away, and if he comes to claim her, why then, damn him!”

“No violence, Tom, for your sister’s sake. He may be there. Let me go and see her.”

“You? Not me, my boy. Why, I might mark the scoundrel, but you would kill him.”

“No,” said Melton, thoughtfully, “I don’t think I should do that to the man she loved.”

“You’re a good fellow, Charley. There, I’ll go. I haven’t hunted them all this time to give up at the last. Don’t hinder me, old chap.”

“But look here, there has been exposé enough. Had it not all better be settled quietly?”

“But you can’t settle matters quietly with an organ-grinder, Charley. Look here, my plan is simple. I’ll get Maude away, then it’s a question of pounds, shillings, and pence.”

“In any case then, from respect to your sister, let the affair be arranged quietly.”

“Very well,” said Tom, sulkily.

“You will let me go first – say, to prepare her for your coming?”

“No. I’ll go.”

“You do not wish to inflict pain upon the poor girl?”

“No. I want her home again, and free from this degrading tie.”

“But suppose – ”

“No, no – don’t say that, Charley, old fellow. You couldn’t look over it. Impossible now, old chap. Poor Maudey, she’ll have to be like a widow to her very end. There: we shall have the old woman here directly.”

“Then you’ll let me go and prepare your sister?”

“No; it’s my business, sir. I’ll do it myself.”

“But you’ll forgive her, Tom?”

“Perhaps. Now leave me alone. Stop, where’s dieci otto?”

“Ask the waiter,” said Melton, coldly, and he left the room.

“He needn’t have turned rusty,” grumbled Tom, crossing to reach the bell: but at that moment her ladyship came in, hurriedly followed by Tryphie and Lord Barmouth.

“No, no, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth, who seemed to have been strung up to resistance by some stirring news, and at a glance Tom saw that her ladyship knew as much as he.

“Silence, Barmouth. Tryphie, ring the bell. I suppose there are police of some kind in a benighted place like this. What number did he say, Tryphie, dieci otto?”

“Yes, aunt dear, eighteen,” said Tryphie, whose face was working and eyes twinkling in a peculiarly malicious manner.

“Eighteen! That will do,” cried Tom. “Here, governor, come with me.”

“Tom! stop! Barmouth, I forbid – ”

Her ladyship did not finish her speech, but hurried to the door, followed by her niece – the door through which her husband had passed, followed by her son.

Chapter Thirty.

Light on the Scene

First floor only. Dieci otto– a door in a corridor whose rooms looked out upon the tranquil sea.

A lady and gentleman started from their seats as the couple rushed in; and in a moment Viscount Diphoos had seen that they were right – that he was in the presence of his sister and the man with whom she had eloped. He saw too in the same rapid glance why they had been so long off the scent. For there was no black curly hair, no long black beard, but all was brown, and flashed as it were with gold.

This was all seen as the young man literally hurled himself upon the tall, sturdy man, who rose to meet him, and in a twinkling they had one another by the throat.

“Take her away, father, quick, quick,” cried Tom; and the next moment, in choking tones – “No, stop!” as he loosed his hold, staggered back to a chair, and uttered a shriek.

Wounded? Stabbed by the treacherous Italian?

Oh, no; it was a shriek of the laughter with which his frame was convulsed, as he rolled from side to side, while Lord Barmouth stared from one to the other.

“Tom, my son – are you hurt?”

“Hurt!” shrieked Tom, in inarticulate tones. “Sold – sold – sold!”

“But what does it mean?” stammered Lord Barmouth.

“Mean!” shrieked Tom – “why, that that confounded old humbug Charley has stolen a march on us. – Charley, old fellow, God bless you – I never felt so happy in my life. Here, Maudey, give us a kiss.”

Before the young man had commenced hugging his sister, Charley Melton had moved to the door, closed and locked it against the inquiring looks of waiters, and taking Maude’s hand in his he then asked Lord Barmouth in a few manly words to forgive him and his wife their clandestine proceedings.

“Forgive you, Charley,” cried the viscount, “of course he will – won’t you, dad?”

“Well – well – yes, my boy, I think so,” said his lordship feebly, as he shook his new son-in-law’s hand. “I think I’m very glad, for I never liked that Sir Reginald.”

“Grantley, father – Grantley Wilters,” cried Tom.

“To be sure, my boy; yes, of course, Sir Grantley.”

“But why the dickens didn’t you write to us, and let us know?”

“Well, we were going to write every day,” said Charley, with a peculiar look at Maude; “but we could never agree as to whose duty it was. We should have written though.”

“But – but – I think you ought to have written, Charley Melton. You see I’ve been very anxious about my darling Maude.”

“It was very cruel, papa dear; but really I did mean to write, soon.”

“I’m very glad of that,” said Lord Barmouth; “for really, Maude, my darling, you have frightened me so. I shall have a horrible fit of the gout after this.”

“Never mind, dad; stop and have it here, and Maudey and I will nurse you – won’t we, old girl?” cried Tom. “For gout at home just now would be awful. Oh!” he shrieked, once more going off into convulsions, “won’t the old girl be mad!”

“Yes, my dears,” said Lord Barmouth, shaking away very heartily at Charley Melton’s hands, “I’m afraid she’ll be very cross. But do you know, I fancy I’ve caught a bit o’ cold.”

“Never mind, father, we’re going to catch it hot,” said Tom.

“Yes, my boy; but – but I feel a little deaf, and my head is rather thick.”

“Never mind, old fellow, we’ve found her.”

“Yes, my boy, yes, we’ve found her; but do you know I feel rather confused and puzzled. I – I thought our Maude had gone off with that handsome looking scoundrel who played the organ outside our house.”

“Well, so she did,” cried Tom; “I see it all now. Here he is, dad.”

“No, no, my boy; don’t be so foolish. I want to know why it’s Charley Melton, and not that Italian fellow?”

“Why, governor, can’t you see through it?”

“No, my boy. It’s all a puzzle to me.”

“Nonsense, dad, Charley made a postman of that organ-grinder. Now do you twig?”

“And – and a post-office of the organ? I think I am beginning to see.”

“What was I to do?” said the young husband, appealingly. “I had been abroad, and tried to forget her, but it was of no use. I was forbidden the house, and at last I learned that this marriage was to come off. I dared not trust the servants, so I practised this ruse. But there, it’s all over now. You forgive me, sir, do you not?”

“Well, yes, my boy,” said Lord Barmouth, who was sitting fondling his daughter’s hand. “I think you are quite right. I should have done the same, for I was a devil of a – Don’t fidget, Maude, my darling. I’ll talk her ladyship round.”

“She’d rather it had been the organ-grinder,” choked and coughed Viscount Diphoos, while his sister, blushing and happy, kept shaking her finger at his mirthful face.

“But I will talk her round,” said Lord Barmouth, rather pompously, to the infinite risk of sending his son once more off into convulsions.

“But I say, Charley,” cried Tom, who kept showing his delight by slapping his brother-in-law on the back; “I want to know one thing though; did the signore come that night to fetch Maude, and leave his organ in the area?”

“No, of course not,” cried Charley, eagerly; “I bought the organ, and came myself.”

“With the organ?”

“For this time only on any stage.”

“As they say in the play-bills,” cried Tom. “Hooray!”

At that moment the door was tried, and then shaken by her ladyship, who had been waiting till the first part of the storm was over, after which she ascended with Tryphie, whose face wore a peculiarly mocking look as she stood behind her aunt.

“Open this door,” cried Lady Barmouth.

A dead silence fell upon the group.

“Oh, papa!” cried Maude.

“Yes, my dear,” said his lordship, looking round for a way of escape. “I – I – I think it is her ladyship.”

“Not much doubt about it,” said Tom. “Now, Charley, old chap, take your header and get out of your misery.”

“Yes,” said Charley, “I suppose I must get it over.”

“Open this door!” cried Lady Barmouth, shaking it furiously.

“It isn’t a hanging matter,” said Tom, laughing.

“No,” said Charley, rather uneasily, “it isn’t a hanging matter.”

“And her ladyship can’t undo it.”

“No,” said Charley firmly, as he crossed the room to where the door was being shaken violently, “her ladyship cannot undo it.”

“Would – would you like to take hold of my hand, Maudey, my dear?” said Lord Barmouth in a faltering voice.

“Yes, papa, dear; and you will intercede for my dear husband,” said the young wife, clinging to him affectionately.

“I will, my dear, I will. I feel as brave as a lion now. I – I – oh, here she is.”

“What is the meaning of all this?” cried her ladyship, staring round at the scene, as Tryphie rushed at Maude, kissed her, and then at Charley Melton, and jumped up and kissed him.

“I always fancied that’s how it was,” she whispered.

“What’s the meaning of it?” cried Tom. “Why, we’ve found them. Here, allow me to take round the hat for the coppers; or will you do it now, Maude?”

“I repeat,” cried Lady Barmouth, “what is the meaning of this? Mr Melton, what are you doing here?”

“Asking your ladyship’s pardon for myself and my dear wife,” said Charley, taking Maude’s hand.

“Wife? Then! You! Oh, Maude, you wicked, wicked girl!”

“But, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth.

“Silence!” cried her ladyship, “Maude, you have utterly broken my heart, and – ”

“Don’t you believe it, Maudey,” said Tom, grinning. “She’s only saying that to keep up appearances.”

“Tom!”

“All right! but you know you are. There, Charley, old boy, kiss your dear mother. Come, gov’nor, say Bless you, my children!”

“Certainly, my dear boy,” said the old man, earnestly. “Bless you indeed, my dear children. Charley Melton, you can’t tell how glad I am, my boy.”

“Barmouth!”

“Yes, my love, but I can’t help it. I do feel very glad; but oh, you young dog, to come playing us a trick like that!”

“Barmouth!”

“There, hang it all, mother,” cried Tom, “what’s the good of holding out. You’ve behaved very nicely, but, as we say in refined circles – I mean rings – it’s quite time you threw up the sponge.”

“Mamma, dear, I would sooner have died than marry Sir Grantley.”

“Such a cruel ruse,” sobbed her ladyship, in hystero-tragic tones. “Maude! Maude!”

“Don’t blame her, dearest mother,” said Tom, in mock-heroic style, “it was the troubadour. Il trovatore! and his playing was magnificent. It would have won the heart of a female saint, or charmed a nun from her cell, let alone our Maude.”

“Justine, my drops, my drops.”

“She caves in! Charley, old chap, you may kiss her now,” cried Tom, “she won’t bite. There, take him to your heart, old lady; and I say, mamma, some day if you do faint, Charley could carry you to a sofa: Grantley Wilters would have doubled up like a two-foot rule.”

“I can never show my face in society again,” said her ladyship, “never, Mr Melton.”

“What!” cried Tom, who grinned with delight as he saw his mother seated upon a couch between Charley and Maude. “What? why, it’ll be no end of a game. It’s all right, Maudey; you’ve won.”

“Ah,” sighed her ladyship, “let Justine bring my drops.”

“Drops be hanged! Champagne,” cried Tom. “Here, ring the bell, gov’nor; no table-d’hôte to-day, mamma’s going to order a wedding dinner – a screamer.”

“No, no, Tom!”

“Yes, yes, my dear mother.”

Her ladyship sighed, smiled, ordered the dinner, and Lord Barmouth rubbed his leg.

“Tom, my boy,” he whispered, “you really are a wonder.”

“Am I, gov’nor? Then you tell Tryphie so, and back me up, for I mean, as the old song says, ‘to marry she.’”

“Do you, my boy?”

“Yes, gov’nor. Do you consent?”

“Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. When is it to be?”

“Barmouth,” said her ladyship in her deep contralto, “would you be kind enough to ring for Justine?”

Chapter Thirty One.

Tom picks a Bone

“Stop a moment,” said Tom, who had slipped out and intercepted the French maid in the corridor. “Here, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

“No, no, Milor Thomas, nevaire now,” cried Justine, “pas de petites soupers. I am engage.”

“Engaged, are you? What, to be married?”

“Yes, milor, to be married.”

“Then good luck to you, ma’amselle. But I say, you are a nice one, you are.”

“I do you not understand, sir.”

“Not understand?” cried Tom, catching her by the wrist. “None of your nonsense. Come now, you were in the secret.”

“Sir, I will never divulge the secret of her ladyship; no, not even to milor.”

“Get out!”

“You loose my arm, milor. Her ladyship wait for me.”

“So do I,” said Tom. “Hang her ladyship’s hair-dye and all her other secrets; I mean about the organ – Mr Melton. Ah, you’re a nice one, Justine.”

“Milor, you think I know about that tair-rible affaire?” cried Justine very Frenchly.

“Yes, and so you did.”

“Faith of a woman, sir; it is not ter-r-rue,” cried Justine, excitedly.

“Gammon! Come, Justine, the game’s up, and I know you were at the bottom of it all.”

“Non – non – non – non – non – non,” cried Justine, shaking her head quite dangerously.

“Oui – oui – oui – oui – oui,” said Tom. “Now come, confess.”

“And you go tell her ladyship, you bad, weeked lil man.”

“Not I. I’m only too glad things have turned out so right.”

“You deed not like Sir Viltaire?”

“Like him!”

“You will not tell her ladyship, I confess,” said Justine in a mysterious, whisper. “You will not what you English call ze peach.”

“Peach? not I, old girl. Come, you did know?”

Justine screwed up her eyes, and made her mouth a tight line as she laughed silently.

“Then you put Mr Melton up to the dodge?”

“Parole d’honneur, no, Milor Tom. Ze plot was hatch by Monsieur Shairlie himself. I say noding about ze hair come out,” she added to herself.

“Well, all I can say is, that Charley Melton was a plucky one. And you knew this all the time?”

“Yes, milor.”

“You’re a deep one, Justine.”

“I love ze secret, monsieur, and I cannot bear to see Miladi Maude soffaire.”

“So you helped, eh?”

“Faith of a woman, no, sare; I only look on, and see and say noding at all.”

“By George, Justine, you’ve been a trump! and I’ll give you a ring for this.”

“Then give me dat one now, sare,” said Justine, sharply, as she pointed to the signet on Tom’s finger.

“But that’s too big and ugly for you, my girl. It is a gentleman’s ring.”

“Ma foi, Milor Thomas, do I not tell you I have a gentleman?”

“Then you’re going to marry old waxworks.”

“No, no, sare, I go to be Madame Launay when we return; and if Milor Tom do require my help – a thank you, ze ring is charmant– you shall say to me, ‘Justine, her ladyship go to marry la belle Ma’amselle Tryphie to Sir Viltaire,’ I am at your sairvice, for I am the guardian of her ladyship’s secret, but vive l’amour.”

“Vive l’amour, Justine,” cried Tom, giving her a kiss.

“Bad, weeked lil mans. But I forgive you. I go to her ladyship. Au revoir.”

“Charley, old fellow,” said Viscount Diphoos before they parted for the night, “hang me if I don’t stick to that organ, and have it on a stand in my room; and so long as I am at home, every time the old girl gets in one of her tantrums, I’ll go and turn the handle till she comes and makes a truce.”

Viscount Diphoos did not kep his word about that organ, being at the time in profound ignorance of the fact, that two days after he left town, and while the house was still in a state of turmoil, an Italian gentleman with very dark eyes, very black beard, and a smile that reached from one ear-ring to the other, called for the organ that had been left in the area; slinking down to the kitchen door, and wheedling the page a little. That young gentleman thought it rather fun to put the strap over his shoulder, and carry the instrument to the door, when it was borne off, and, in truth, entirely forgotten by all concerned.

But on the return to town her ladyship seemed to recover her elasticity somewhat, and Tom began to find that he was to have a fight yet to win his game.

“Seems precious hard,” he said, “and perhaps I shall have to make my plans, but no organ, thank you – the accordion, white mice, or guinea pigs would be more in my line.”

Just in the worst time of his trouble he called upon Monsieur Hector one morning, to have his weary brain relieved by a course of hair-cutting, and the refreshing shampoo.

Monsieur Hector was delicacy itself in his manipulations, and as delicate in his diplomacy.

“Ah bah!” he said, “what is cutting and shaving and dressing the hair? It is not by them that I must live and save for ma chère Justine. Why was I not in the bureau of the police? I am a great student of life – a very receptacle for the secrets of the aristocracy.”

“Monsieur suffers,” he said, softly, as he held Tom’s head, lathered all over with soap; “I am troubled to see monsieur look in such bad health.”

“Bother!” said Tom.

Monsieur Hector waited a few moments until the shampooing should begin to soften down some of the hard crystals of brain trouble from which Tom was suffering, and then he tried again.

“I trust milady recovers herself from the dreadful shock.”

Tom screwed his soapy head round, to stare in the bland, unruffled countenance of Monsieur Hector, who bowed, and gently returned his client’s head to its proper position.

“What the deuce do you know about my lady’s shock?” growled Tom.

“Monsieur forgets that I am the confidential attendant of the family,” said Monsieur Hector with dignity.

“So I did, and of Mademoiselle Justine too. But I smell a rat. You hatch plots here.”

“Aha, monsieur knows?”

“Yes,” said Tom, “I know. Could you manage me an organ if I wanted to go to play to a lady – say in Portland Place?”

Monsieur Hector smiled and tripped to a drawer, out of which he took a black wig and full beard to match.

“If monsieur will entrust himself to my care, I will in ten minutes change his complexion and his appearance so that her ladyship should not know him.”

“And find me an organ?”

“A thousand, if monsieur wishes,” said the Frenchman. “I am at his service when he say.”

“Then give me a clean towel;” said Tom, “my left ear is bunged up with soap.

“I’ll come if ever I want your help,” he added as he ran a covered finger through the intricate mazes of his ear.

“I am to monsieur,” said the Frenchman, bowing.

But Tom had no occasion to proceed to musical extremities, for as time went on, and no suitable match offered itself for Tryphie, her ladyship gave way.

“I never could have believed it, Tom, my boy,” said his lordship one night at the club, “you always do get the better of her ladyship. This is a doosed nice glass of port.”

“Yes, gov’nor, have another.”

“Eh? Well, I will just one, Tom, in honour of your wedding, Tom, and – damn the gout, eh?”

“To be sure, gov’nor.”

“Bless little Tryphie,” continued the old man; “she never had much money, but she lent me all she had when I was short, and she’s down for a thousand times as much in my will. Her ladyship can’t touch that; and – ”

Just then an organ sounded in the square, and his lordship stopped his ears.

“No, no, gov’nor, it’s only music, and I like that. Here’s Maude,” he said, filling his glass, “and may she never be more mad.”

“Yes, my dear boy, our darling Maude!”

“And never,” continued the viscount, “find a worse strait waistcoat than her husband’s arms.”