Lady Maude's Mania

“And really,” said her ladyship, “that ungrateful child Maude does not show the slightest sympathy.”

“Fool if she did,” said Tom, who was in the drawing-room. “What’s that fellow Bellman been here for again?”

“To see Tryphie, of course,” said her ladyship.

Tom was about to make some angry reply, when Maude came in with Lord Barmouth leaning upon her arm, fresh from a walk, and Sir Grantley Wilters, most carefully got up in deep mourning, following behind with Tryphie.

“Now I appeal to your ladyship,” said Sir Grantley, as soon as the door was closed.

“There, there, there,” said Lord Barmouth, “let me tell it to her ladyship. It was all nothing, damme, it was all nothing, and – and – and,” he continued, sitting down to have a rub at his leg, “I won’t have my little girl here troubled about it.”

“For Heaven’s sake, behave like a gentleman if you can,” whispered her ladyship.

“Yes, yes, yes, my dear, I will, I will,” said his lordship, while, evidently greatly agitated, Maude moved towards the door.

“No, ’pon honour, I must beg of you to stop, Lady Maude,” said Sir Grantley. “It concerns you so much, don’t you know. Fact is, Lady Barmouth,” he continued, as Maude stood looking very pale before them – “fact is, we were in the Square walking, when that demmed dog came slowly up and snatched Lady Maude’s handkerchief, and made off before he could be stopped.”

“Well, suppose a dog did,” said Tom coming to his sister’s rescue; “I suppose he was a very decent dog, who preferred cleanliness to honesty, so he stole a pocket handkerchief to wipe his nose.”

“He, he, he!” chuckled his lordship; “that’s not bad, Tom;” while her ladyship looked daggers.

“Doosed good – very doosed good,” said Sir Grantley, ramming his glass tightly in his eye, and standing, holding his hat behind him, to keep up the balance as he bent forward and stared at Tom. “If it had been another dog, it wouldn’t have mattered, but it was – er – er – er – a very particular dog.”

“Just as I said – over his nose,” said Tom.

“It – it – it was Charley Melton’s dog,” said Lord Barmouth, and Maude’s face became crimson.

“Yes, and that’s the dayvle of it,” said Sir Grantley, angrily. “I don’t choose for that fler’s dog to come and take such a liberty. He was – er – hanging about for some time, and smelling at his lordship’s pocket, here, don’t you know, and then he presumed to steal that handkerchief. Lady Barmouth, I feel as if I could poison that dog, I do – damme!”

Just before this Lord Barmouth, who had looked terribly guilty at the mention of the dog smelling his pocket, drew out his handkerchief to hide his confusion, and brought forth with it a very brown and sticky Bath bun, one that his little niece Tryphie had purchased for him. This bun fell with a dab upon a little marqueterie table, behind where Sir Grantley was balancing himself, and, knowing that her ladyship must see it at the next turn of her head, the old man looked piteously across at Tryphie, who was nearest, for he dared not go across to pick it up.

Tryphie saw the direction of his gaze, caught sight of the bun and coloured, when Tom, who was always jealously watching her every look, followed her eyes, saw the bun sticking to the table, and divined at once whence it had come. So nonchalantly crossing the room while Sir Grantley was delivering his speech, he deftly lifted the bun and let it glide down softly into the hat the baronet was balancing behind, he being too excited to notice the difference in weight.

“Really, Sir Grantley, it was very tiresome,” said her ladyship.

“He, he, he!” laughed his lordship, putting his handkerchief to his mouth, and bending down in his chair to laugh with all the enjoyment of a schoolboy at Tom’s monkeyish trick.

“My dear!” exclaimed her ladyship.

“I – I – I was laughing at the con – con – confounded impudence of that dog,” said his lordship, mendaciously; and her ladyship mentally promised him one of her lectures.

“It was an accident that cannot possibly occur again,” continued her ladyship. “Maude, my darling, pray go and take off your things. Sir Grantley, you will stay lunch?”

“Thanks, no,” said the baronet, changing his position, giving his hat a turn, and flourishing out the Bath bun, which fell upon the carpet before him.

Her ladyship put up her eye-glass and stared at the bun; Sir Grantley gave his an extra twist and also stared at the bun, poking at it with his stick; and Maude and Tryphie escaped from the room.

“Didn’t know you were so fond of buns, Wilters,” said Tom. “You should have them put in a paper bag. They make your hat lining sticky.”

“That’s doosed funny, Diphoos,” said Sir Grantley. “Very fond of a joke. By the way, the amateurs are going to get up a pantomime next season. Won’t you join them? I’ll put in a word for you. Make a doosed good clown, don’t you know. – I think I had him there,” said the baronet to himself.

“I will, if you’ll play pantaloon,” said Tom sharply. “You’d look the part to perfection.”

“Yas, doosed good,” said Sir Grantley. “Day, Lady Barmouth; must go. Day, Lord Barmouth;” and with a short nod at Tom, he left the house.

“Tom,” exclaimed her ladyship, “if you insult Sir Grantley any more like that you shall suffer for it. If you behave like that, you will be the means of breaking off a most brilliant match.”

“Thanks,” said Tom, quietly, as her ladyship was sailing out of the room. “You can’t make things worse for me.”

“Tom, my boy,” said his lordship, “you are – are – are – a regular lion, that you are. I don’t know what I should do without you.”

“Fight for yourself, father, I hope,” said the viscount, smiling, “I’m afraid I do more harm than good.”

Meanwhile, Sir Grantley Wilters, who had not the slightest thought of breaking off the match, let Diphoos behave as he would, went to keep a particular engagement that he had with Monsieur Hector Launay, who was singing away to himself about “La – Fran-ce – et – la – guer-re,” and standing before a glass with a pair of scissors cutting his black hair close to his skull.

He was ready on the instant, though, as Sir Grantley entered, showed him into his private room, and upon the baronet stating his case, to wit, his uneasiness about his hair, which he said was getting thin on the crown, gave the most earnest attention to the subject.

“I shouldn’t mind so much,” said Sir Grantley; “but I’m – er – going to be mar’d shortly, and I want to look my best.”

Monsieur Hector took a magnifying glass from a drawer, and gravely inspected the crown before him, ending by assuring the baronet that by the use of certain washes prepared by himself from peculiar and unique receipts he could restore the hairs that made him slightly thin upon the crown.

Sir Grantley, in full faith, resigned himself to the coiffeur’s hands, and was sponged and rubbed and scented during a space of about an hour, when he rose and paid a liberal fee, which made Monsieur Hector smile and bow.

Then he turned to go, but stopped short at the door and came back.

“Oh, Monsieur Launay, I’m told that you are a great friend of Mademoiselle Justine, Lady Barmouth’s maid.”

“I have that honour, monsieur,” said the hairdresser, bowing low.

“Ah, yes,” said Sir Grantley, hesitating. “By the way, I am Sir Grantley Wilters.”

“I have heard mademoiselle mention Sir Vilter,” said the hairdresser, bowing.

“Yes, of course,” said the baronet. “Look here, don’t you know, I’m engaged to Lady Maude Diphoos, and I want to save her from pain. No spying —moucharder– but I should be glad to hear of anything that you think might interest me. Mademoiselle Justine will tell you better what I mean. Good-day.”

“Bah! – Phit! – Pst! Big John Bull, fool!” cried Monsieur Hector as soon as he was alone; and he indulged in a peculiar saltatory exercise, indicative of kicking his client in the chest, and making derisive gestures with pointed fingers. “You think I tell you what I know. Pst! Grand bête. Big thin beast. Cochon. Peeg! Come and be shampooed, and I had you by the nose and tell you noting. Aha! Be your spy? No. Justine tells me all, and I know so much that my head is full. But wait you. Aha! Sir Vilter! wait you. Vive l’amour.”

He folded the cloth that had been spread over Sir Grantley’s shoulders with a jerk, and was in the act of putting it away, when something touched his leg, and looking down, it was to see Joby, and directly after Charley Melton entered the room.

Chapter Fourteen.

Lady Maude’s Hair comes off

It was very singular, and showed weakness, but Maude Diphoos, who had hitherto looked with contempt upon her ladyship’s dealings with Monsieur Hector, laughing at the idea of using washes, powder, and the like, as pure water made her beautiful fair hair cluster about her clear white temples, and hang round a neck whose skin put the most cleverly concocted pearl powder in the shade, now seemed to become somewhat of a convert to his powers.

Justine confided to her mistress that Miladi Maude’s hair was coming off in great patches, horrifying her ladyship so that she gave Lord Barmouth no sleep all one night, and the next morning when she drilled the servants, and inspected them as to smartness of livery, amount of hairpowder used, and the rest, they confided to one another that the old girl’s temper was not to be borne.

“What would dear Sir Grantley say if he knew?” she exclaimed; and hurrying to her secret chamber, she rang for Justine, when a long consultation ensued.

“Cer-tainly, milady, if you like,” said the dark Frenchwoman; “but that is the way to make the servants in the hall talk – they are so low – and do tattle so. Then it come to Sir Grantley’s groom’s ears, and Sir Grantley’s groom tell Sir Vilter, and ze mischief is all made.”

“Yes, Justine; but what can I do, my good soul? I would not care if they were married; it would not matter a bit. Now, don’t exaggerate, Justine – great patches do you say?”

Justine tightened her lips and plunged one hand into the pocket of her apron to draw forth a tuft of soft fair hair and hold it up before her ladyship.

“Oh, Justine!” she half shrieked, sighing and heaving billowy, “this is dreadful. Poor child, she will be nearly bald. Oh, Justine, whatever you do, preserve your hair. I know of a case where a lady of title became an old maid when she might have had a great establishment, all through losing her hair.”

“I will take the greatest care, milady.”

“My drops, Justine, my drops. This is really too much for my nerves.”

Justine hurried to a case, and brought out a flaçon of spirits of red lavender, a goodly portion of which her ladyship took upon lumps of sugar, sighed, and felt better.

“What is to be done, my good Justine? It must be a profound secret.”

“What more of ease, milady, than for Miladi Maude to go out for ze health promenade every morning, and call upon Monsieur Hector Launay. I tink he might be trusted if he is well pay.”

“Oh, no, no,” exclaimed her ladyship, sharply. “I could not trust her; she is too weak.”

“Wis her faithful attendant, milady?”

Her ladyship turned sharply round upon the maid, and gazed full into the dark shining eyes that met hers without a wink.

“Can I trust you, Justine?” she exclaimed.

“Who knows better than milady?” retorted the maid. “Is it I who go below to the servants and betrays all miladi’s secrets? Ma foi! no: I sooner die. And,” she added, nodding sharply, “I know two, tre, many secret of her ladyship.”

“Yes, yes, you do, my good Justine. It shall be as you say: Monsieur Launay shall have a very high fee for his pains if he checks it. A silly, weak girl; it is nothing but fretting after that nasty, vulgar wretch and his dog. Ah, Justine, if ever you become a mother, you will know what a mother’s troubles really are.”

Her ladyship rolled in her fauteuil more like the heaving billows than ever, and shed a couple of tears, either the tears or her breath smelling strongly of lavender.

“Poor milady!” said the confidential maid, compassionately. “Then milady trusts me to see that Miladi Maude goes safely to the coiffeur’s?”

“Oh, yes, Justine, my good soul, I will. Justine, I shall not wear that black satin, nor the ruby moiré again. Alas, who would be a mother! I have but one idea, Justine, and that is to see my children settled with good establishments, and they seem to do nothing but rebel against me.”

“It is vairy terrible, poor milady.”

“Yes, it is dreadful, Justine,” said her ladyship who was now shedding tears copiously. “Even my son goes against me.”

“It is vairy shocking of him, milady,” said the sympathetic maid, holding salts to her mistress’ nostrils, and having her hand gratefully pressed in return.

“Ah, me; I am a great martyr,” said her ladyship, sobbing softly, and growing more confiding. “I don’t know what I should do without you, Justine. Every one fights against me.”

“Poor, poor milady,” cried Justine, sympathetically.

“Does Miss Tryphie ever talk to you about Captain Bellman?”

“She said once he was vairy handsome,” said Justine.

“Yes, yes, very, and so well connected, Justine. They say he has been rather wild; but a man of birth may make mistakes, Justine; they are never the serious errors of a plebeian.”

“No, milady, never,” said the maid. “Just a few more drops, milady.”

“Thanks, Justine, thanks,” sighed her ladyship, partaking of some more lavender upon sugar. “That Mr Melton never calls now, I think?”

“No, milady, never. —Ah, quel mensonge!” she added to herself.

“And his dog does not come?”

“No, milady, I have not seen it for a month.”

“Ah,” sighed her ladyship, whose noble bust rose and fell from the excess of her emotions; “mine is far from a happy life; but go, Justine, go now: I feel as if I could sleep. A nap might do me good. I trust you, Justine. You shall have a gold watch and chain the day my daughter becomes Lady Wilters. Let her go at once.”

“Thank you, dear milady; merci beaucoup,” cried the Frenchwoman, bending down and kissing her ladyship’s extremely white and beringed plump hand.

A minute later she was in Maude’s room.

“Go!” faltered the girl, trembling. “No, no, Justine, I cannot – I dare not.”

“How – miladi is timide,” said the Frenchwoman, laying her hand upon the girl’s soft tresses. “Would she have all this fall, so that when Sir Wilter, your dear husband, would pass his hand through and say, ‘Ah, ma belle ange, your fair tresses are adorable,’ and kiss them, and become fou with delight as he pass them over his face, would you have them thin and come out in his fingaire?”

Maude’s face was a study as she gazed at the maid while she spoke. She shuddered, and her features assumed a look of unutterable loathing.

“Quick, give me my hat and scarf. I will have a veil.”

“You shall, my sweet young lady. Her ladyship wills that you go often to save your beautiful hair. Ah, I would that Monsieur Hector could attend you himself, but he will be busy. You must be content wis ze assistant.”

“Justine,” said Maude quietly, “do not forget our positions.”

“Ma chère young lady, I will not,” said the French woman. “Pardon, I was foolish. I do not forrgette. Miladi will let me put on the tick veil.”

Full of respectful solicitude now, Justine helped her young mistress to dress, when she again began to tremble.

“Justine, I dare not,” she faltered.

“Would miladi prefer to be accompany by her own maid Preen?”

“No, no, Justine,” cried Maude, hastily, “I dare not trust her.”

“Ma foi, non! miladi is right. She will trust Justine, her ladyship’s confidential maid, who keep her ladyship’s secret, and will be so silent and secret as never was for cette chère young mistress in her big trouble.”

“I will trust you, Justine; I am obliged,” sobbed Maude.

“And not trust, ze foolish girl goose who fall in love wis ze mis-er-rable organ grind. My faith, it is so foolish, though ze man is beau.”

“Yes, very handsome,” sighed Maude, thoughtfully.

“Ah, Justine, I cannot be angry with the poor girl for being in love.”

“Ma foi, non, miladi, it is our nature to have our weakness there. I too, I confess to it all. Yais.”

“You, Justine! you?” cried Maude, staring hard at the dark shining eyes of the Frenchwoman, who looked too hard to have had a soft sensation in her life.

“Oui, miladi. It is my secret, and I hide him. But I too love with a grand ardour that cannot be what you call him in your tongue.”

“Appeased, Justine,” sighed Maude.

“Non, non, miladi. Ah, yais, I have him, squench, which can nevaire be squench.”

“Poor Justine!” sighed Maude; and then recovering herself, and shrinking from being so intimate with her mother’s maid. “But no, no, I could not go.”

“Why not, miladi?” said the wily Frenchwoman. “Monsieur Hector is a gentleman that an empress might trust.”

“Yes, yes; but – oh, this is dreadful.”

“Her ladyship does not think of Sir Wilters’ great sorrow if he find my young lady has lose all her hair,” said Justine, smiling as she watched the effect of her words; and a few minutes after she was attending Maude on her way to Upper Gimp Street.

The waxen lady had her head turned in the opposite direction, but the waxen gentleman watched her coming, and looked a combination of the mysterious and admiring as, closely veiled, Maude walked swiftly by Justine’s side, trembling the while, and feeling certain that every one she passed knew her errand and was watching her.

Dreading the visit as she did, it was with something like relief that she stood within the curtained door, face to face with bland, chivalrous Monsieur Hector, who rose, laid down his three days’ old copy of the Petit Journal, and bowed profoundly.

“Miladi will excuse that I do not attend her myself?” he said, respectfully. “Monsieur my assistant is at miladi’s service.”

As Maude bowed, he opened the inner door that led to his private consulting room, and returned to the front, to indulge for the next two hours in pleasant converse with Justine.

At last Justine rose to go.

“One instant, my beautiful,” whispered Monsieur Hector. “When do I come to see La Grande Chouette?”

“Oh, I had forgotten, – to-morrow,” said Justine.

“Cette chère picture!” said Hector, taking a photograph from over the little stove and kissing it, “remains with me for ever. But stay,” he said, addressing the real instead of the image. “Behold a little packet which I prepare for my beautiful – tooth-powder for her beauteous teeth; scent of the best, but not so sweet as her gentle breath; soap for her soft skin. Ah, sweet soap, sweet soap! if I were only you to be pressed in her hands,” he added, kissing it, and then presenting his offerings to his goddess, who received them like a deity, and held out one hand for him to kiss, with which he was apparently quite content.

Then he struck a table gong, and evidently conveyed by it due notice to his assistant that he had devoted sufficient time to the new client, who shortly after came out, closely veiled, took Justine’s arm, and the waxen lady had one glance at her, while the waxen gentleman looked more mysterious than ever, as he watched her till she was out of sight.

Chapter Fifteen.

Lady Barmouth receives Information

“Maude, I will not allow it,” cried Lady Barmouth, one morning. “That wretched organ man is always haunting this house, and you are constantly giving him money.”

“The poor fellow is a foreigner and in distress, and he does no harm,” said Maude.

“No harm? He distracts me with his dreadful noise.”

“Plays that tune from Trovatore where the fellow’s shut up rather nicely,” said his lordship, rubbing his leg.

“Barmouth!”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Be quiet. And mind this, Maude, I have given instructions to the servants that this dreadful Italian is to be sent away.”

“Very well, mamma,” said Maude, coldly, “only be fair – send every man away who comes to the house. Be consistent in what you do.”

“Is the girl mad?” exclaimed Lady Barmouth. “What does she mean?”

“I mean, mamma,” cried Maude, with spirit, “that I will not – I cannot marry Sir Grantley Wilters.”

“Maude, you’ll break my heart,” cried her ladyship.

“Tom, this is your fault for bringing that wicked young man to the house.”

“What – Wilters?”

“No, no, no, my boy,” said his lordship, rubbing his leg. “Your mamma means Charley Melton, and I – I – I – damme, I can’t understand it all about him. I’m sure I – I – I – don’t think he’s so bad as he’s being painted.”

Maude darted a look of gratitude towards him, and then one of reproach at her brother, who stood biting his nails.

“Barmouth, will you leave that leg alone,” cried her ladyship. “You give me the creeps; and if you cannot talk sensibly, hold your tongue. Everybody knows, even Tom, if he would only speak, that this man – pah! I cannot utter his name – is degraded to the utmost degree; but he has managed to play upon a foolish girl’os heart, and she is blind to his wickedness.”

“Mamma,” cried Maude, “I am not blind; and I will not believe these calumnies. Mr Melton never professed to be rich, and I do not believe he either gambles or drinks.”

“Believe them or not, Maude, my word and your papa’s are passed to Sir Grantley Wilters, and you will be his wife. So no more folly, please.”

Maude turned pale, and glanced at Tom, who stood biting his nails, and then at her father, who grew more wrinkled, and rubbed his leg. She then turned to Tryphie, whose look was sympathising, but meant no help. For poor dependent Tryphie hardly dare say that her soul was her own. Maude felt that she was alone, and, even in these nineteenth century times, being as helplessly driven into marriage with a man she detested as if in the days of old chivalry, when knights and barons patronised ironmongery for costume, and carried off captive maidens to their castles to espouse them before shaven friar, or else dispense with his services.

“Maude,” said her ladyship then, “I wished to spare your feelings, and if you had been less recalcitrant” – that was a word that her ladyship had been hoarding up for the occasion, and it rather jarred against her second best set of teeth as she used it; it was such a hard, stony word, and so threatening to the enamel – “I should have kept this back, but now I must tell you that for your papa’s and my own satisfaction, we have had inquiries made as to this – this – Mr Melton’s character, by an impartial person, and you shall hear from his lips how misguided you have been.”

Maude turned pale, but, setting her teeth, she threw up her head and remained defiant and proud.

“After hearing this, I trust that your sense of duty to your parents will teach you to behave to Sir Grantley Wilters more in accordance with your relative positions. He does not complain, but I can often see that he is wounded by your studied coldness.”

“Not he; damned sight too hard.”

“Diphoos,” said her ladyship, “I had hoped that your visit to purer atmospheres taken at the expense of your papa would have had a more refining influence upon you.”

“So it has,” said Tom, sharply; “but if you keep on making use of that worn-out cad’s name, I must swear, so there.”

Her ladyship did not reply, but pointed to the bell, and Lord Barmouth dropped the hand with which he was about to caress his leg, toddled across the room and rang, surreptitiously feeling in one of his pockets directly after to see if something was safe.

Tryphie Wilders crossed to her cousin and took her hand, whispering a few consolatory words, while her ladyship played the heaving billow a little as she settled herself in her chair in a most magisterial manner.

“Robbins,” said her ladyship, as the butler entered, “has that gentleman arrived?”

“Been here five minutes, my lady. He is in his lordship’s study.”

“Show him up, Robbins, and we are at home to no one until he is gone.”

The butler bowed, went out, and returned with a tall, rather ungainly man in black, who had something of the appearance of a country carpenter who had taken to preaching. He had a habit of buttoning his black coat up tightly, with the consequence that it made a great many wrinkles round his body, and though he was fully six feet high, you felt that these wrinkles were caused by a kind of contraction, his body being of the nature of concertina bellows, and that you might pull him out to a most amazing extent.