Lady Maude's Mania

Chapter Four.

Cloudy

Lord Barmouth was quite right, for the shadow was coming over the sunshiny portion of the young people’s life in the shape of her ladyship, who could in turn assume the rôle of Fate or Fury.

Amongst the company expected at the Hurst was Sir Grantley Wilters, and for his own reasons he had made a point of coming. He had arrived that morning, and, learning from Robbins the butler that Melton was there, had hastened to obtain a quiet interview with her ladyship.

“Nothing like taking time by the forelock, don’t you know,” he said to himself. “Old girl evidently wants me for a son-in-law, and that fellow Melton is a doosed sight too attentive. I can see through it all, though. Old girl keeps him here to make play and draw me on. Artful, doosed artful, don’t you know. But it don’t matter; suits my book. Time I did marry and settle down. Maude Diphoos is a doosed handsome girl, and’ll do me credit. I’ll propose at once.”

He mused thus in his bedroom, where he gave a few finishing touches to his morning toilet, and then descending to the drawing-room, he was most affectionately received by her ladyship, who took his arm, and they strolled out through the conservatory into the garden.

“Such delightful weather!” said her ladyship, leaning upon his arm more heavily than was pleasant to a man in tight boots, and rather weak upon his legs.

“Charming,” said Sir Grantley. “By the way, Lady Barmouth, we are very great friends, you and I, don’t you know.”

“Indeed, yes,” said her ladyship. “I always feel disposed to call you by your Christian name – Grantley – ”

“Do,” said the baronet, having a little struggle with his eye-glass – a new one of rather smaller diameter than the last – which he had lost – and which would not consent to stop in its place – “Do – like it. Fact is, Lady Barmouth, I have made up my mind to be married, don’t you know.”

“You have? Really!” cried her ladyship. “I am glad;” and she adroitly turned their steps down the lilac walk in place of going straight to the croquet lawn.

“Fact, I assure you,” continued Sir Grantley. “It is only quite lately that I have seen any one whom I should like to make Lady Wilters; and now – ”

“You are hopelessly in love,” said her ladyship; showing him her hundred guinea set of teeth – patent mineral, and of pearly whiteness, her best set – down to the false gums. “Oh, you young people in the days of your romance. It is too delightful in spite of its regrets for us who are in the sere and yellow leaf.”

Her ladyship, by the way, was very little older than Sir Grantley, and art had made her look the younger of the two, especially as, in spite of the allusions to the yellow leaf, her ladyship’s plump skin was powdered into a state of peach bloom.

“Thanks, much,” said Sir Grantley, wincing a little from tight boots, and greeting with delight their approach to a garden seat. “Shall we sit down?”

“Oh, by all means,” cried her ladyship; and they took their places under the lilac which bloomed profusely over their heads. “And now,” exclaimed Lady Barmouth, with sparkling eyes and another sweet smile to show her hundred guinea teeth, while the plump face was covered with innocent dimples, “tell me, who is the dear girl?”

“Yas,” said Sir Grantley, clearing his throat, and feeling decidedly better, “yas.”

He paused, and wiped his heated brow with a scented handkerchief.

“Now this is too bad,” said her ladyship, playfully. “You are teasing me.”

“No, ’pon honour, no,” said Sir Grantley. “Fact is, don’t you know, I feel a kind of nervous shrinking.”

“Ah, you young men, you young men,” said her ladyship, shaking her head. “But come: tell me. Do I know her?”

“Oh, yas,” said Sir Grantley.

“To be sure,” cried her ladyship, clapping her hands together. “It’s Lady Mary Mahon. There, I’ve found you out.”

“No,” said Sir Grantley. “Guess again,” and this time he secured the eye-glass with a good ring of circles round it, which did not add to his personal appearance.

“Not Lady Mary,” mused her ladyship. “Well, it can’t be the wealthy Miss Parminter?”

“No,” said Sir Grantley, calmly; “oh, dear, no.”

“Why, of course not; I know, it’s the Honourable Grace Leasome.”

“N-no,” said Sir Grantley, with the most gentlemanly insouciance. “Try again.”

“I give it up,” said her ladyship, smiling.

“Now, Maude, it’s your turn,” was heard faintly from the croquet lawn.

“Yas,” said Sir Grantley, bowing slightly. “That is the lady. My dear Lady Barmouth, will you allow me humbly and respectfully, don’t you know, to propose for your charming daughter’s hand?”

Lady Barmouth sank back in her seat as if struck with horror.

“Anything the matter?” said Sir Grantley, looking puzzled.

“Did – did I understand you aright, Sir Grantley?” faltered her ladyship.

“Aright? Oh, yas. Sorry to be so sudden and upset you, but thought you expected it, don’t you know.”

“My dear Sir Grantley; my dear young friend,” exclaimed her ladyship, laying her hand in a sympathising fashion upon his arm. “This is too painful.”

“Well, suppose it is,” said Sir Grantley, calmly. “Just lost one daughter too – charming girl, Diana – but it must come, Lady Barmouth. I’ve been a bit free and got rid of some money, but there’s about nine thou a year left, and then I shall have the Mellish estates by and by! – another three thou – might settle that on her, don’t you know.”

“Oh, this is dreadful,” panted her ladyship. “My dear young friend, I should have been too happy to give my consent, but dear Maude is as good as engaged to Mr Melton.”

“The doose she is,” said Sir Grantley, dropping his glass and looking blankly at his companion.

“Oh, yes,” exclaimed her ladyship, applying her scent bottle to her delicate nostrils. “I thought you must have seen it.”

“Humph! doosid provoking, don’t you know,” said Sir Grantley, calmly. “Made up my mind at last, and now too late.”

“I am so – so – sorry,” sighed her ladyship.

“Can’t be helped. I did mean to propose the week before last, but had to see my doctor. Melton, eh? Doosid poor, isn’t he?”

“Oh, really, Sir Grantley, I know nothing about Mr Melton’s prospects, but he is a Mowbray Melton, and a wealthy cousin is childless, and not likely to many.”

“What, Dick Mowbray? Married last week.”

“Mr Melton’s cousin?”

“To be sure he did, Lady Barmouth; and besides, Charley Melton is one of the younger branch. Poor as Job.”

He made as if to rise, but her ladyship laid her hand upon his arm.

“Stop a moment,” she exclaimed. “This is a serious matter, Sir Grantley, and it must be cleared up.”

“Don’t say a word about it, please,” he replied, with some trepidation.

“I shall not say a word,” replied her ladyship; “but you are under a mistake, Sir Grantley. Mr Melton has a handsome private income.”

“Where from?” replied the baronet. “His father has not a rap.”

“Then he has magnificent expectations.”

“Did he tell you this?” said Sir Grantley, screwing his glass very tightly into his eye.

“N-no,” said her ladyship. “There, I will be frank with you, Sir Grantley. You are a gentleman, and I can trust you.”

“I hope so,” he replied, stiffly.

“The fact is,” said her ladyship, “seeing that there was a growing intimacy between my daughter and Mr Melton, who is the son of an old Eton schoolfellow of Lord Barmouth, I made some inquiries.”

“Yas?” said Sir Grantley.

“And I understood Lord Barmouth to say that he would be a most eligible parti for our dearest child.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Sir Grantley, carefully examining the sit of one leg of his trousers.

Lady Barmouth stared at the speaker, and then shut her scent bottle with a loud snap.

“If she has deceived me – tricked me over this,” thought her ladyship, “I will never forgive her.”

“But has Mr Melton professed this to you?” said Sir Grantley, staring at the change which had come over his proposed mother-in-law. For the sweet smile was gone, and her thin lips were drawn tightly over her teeth: not a dimple was to be seen, and a couple of dark marks came beneath her eyes.

“No,” she said, shortly; and there was a great deal of acidity in her tone. “I must say he has not. But I must inquire into this. I trusted implicitly in what my husband, who knew his father intimately, had said. Will you join the croquet party, Sir Grantley?” she continued, forcing back her sweetest smile.

“Yas, oh yas, with pleasure. Charmed,” said Sir Grantley; and they rose and walked towards the croquet lawn.

“Dear Sir Grantley,” said her ladyship, speaking once more with her accustomed sweetness, “this is a private matter between ourselves. You will not let it influence your visit?”

“Not at all.”

“I mean, you will not let it shorten your stay?”

“Oh, no – not at all,” he replied. “Charmed to stay, I’m sure. Shan’t break my heart, don’t you know. Try to bear the disappointment.”

Five minutes later her ladyship had left Sir Grantley on the lawn, and gone off in the direction of Lord Barmouth, who saw her coming and beat a retreat, but her ladyship cut him off and met him face to face.

“Tryphie,” said Tom to his little cousin, “there’s a row cooking.”

“Yes,” she replied, sending her ball with straight aim through a hoop. “I saw it coming. I hope it is nothing about Maude; she seems so happy.”

“Hang me if I don’t think it is,” said Tom. “I’m going off directly, for the old girl’s started to wig the governor, I’m certain. I shall go and back him up after giving my mallet to Wilters. Don’t make me madly jealous.”

“Why not?” she replied, mischievously.

“And be careful not to hit his legs,” said Tom. “They’d break like reeds. – Wilters, will you take my mallet? I want to go.”

“Charmed, I’m shaw,” said Sir Grantley, bowing, and being thus introduced to the game, while Tom lit a cigarette and slipped away.

Meanwhile Lady Barmouth had captured her husband as he was moving off, followed closely by Charley Melton’s ugly dog, which no sooner saw her than he lowered his tail, dropped his head, and walked under a clump of Portugal laurel out of the way.

“Barmouth,” said her ladyship, taking him into custody, like a plump social policeman, “I want to speak to you.”

“Certainly, my dear,” he said, mildly. “What is it?”

“About this Mr Charles Melton. What income has he?”

“Well, my dear,” said the old gentleman, “I don’t believe he has any beyond a little allowance from his father, who is very poor.”

“And his expectations,” said her ladyship, sharply. “He has great expectations, has he not?”

“I – I – I don’t think he has, my love,” said the old man; “but he’s a doosed fine, manly young fellow, and I like him very much indeed.”

“But you told me that he had great prospects.”

“No, my dear, you said you had heard that he had. I remember it quite well.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Barmouth,” exclaimed her ladyship. “Listen to me.”

“Yes, my dear,” he said, looking at her nervously, and then stooping to rub his leg, an act she stopped by giving his hand a smart slap.

“How can you be so offensive,” she cried, in a low angry voice; “it is quite disgusting. Listen to me.”

“Yes, my dear.”

“I went to see Lady Merritty about this matter, and Lady Rigby.”

“About my gout, my dear?”

“Do you wish to make me angry, Barmouth?”

“No, my dear.”

“I went to see her about this young man – this Melton, and Lady Merritty told me she believed he had most brilliant expectations. But I’ll be even with her for this. Oh, it was too bad!”

“What’s the matter?” said Tom, joining them.

“Matter!” cried the irate woman. “Why, evidently to gratify some old spite, that wretched woman, Lady Merritty, has been palming off upon us this Mr Melton as a millionaire, and on the strength of it all I have encouraged him here, and only just now refused an offer made by Sir Grantley Wilters. A beggar! An upstart!”

“Bravo, mother!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “So he is, a contemptible, weak-kneed, supercilious beggar. I hate him.”

“Hate him?” said her ladyship. “Why, you always made him your greatest friend.”

“What, old Wilters?” cried Tom.

“Stuff! This Melton,” retorted her ladyship.

“Bah!” exclaimed Tom. “I meant that thin weedy humbug, Wilters.”

“And I meant that wretched impostor, Melton,” cried her ladyship, angrily.

“Look here, mother,” cried Tom. “Charley Melton is my friend, and he is here at your invitation. Let me tell you this: if you insult him, if I don’t go bang out on the croquet lawn and kick Wilters. Damme, that I will.”

“He’s a brave dashing young fellow, my son Tom,” said his lordship to himself. “I wish I dared – ”

“Barmouth,” moaned her ladyship, “help me to the house. My son, to whom I should look for support, turns upon his own mother. Alas, that I should live to see such a day!”

“Yes, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth, in a troubled way, as he offered the lady his arm. “Tom, my boy, don’t speak so rudely to your mamma,” he continued, looking back, and they moved slowly towards the open drawing-room window.

As her ladyship left the garden, Joby came slowly up from under the laurels, and laid his head on Tom’s knee, for that gentleman had thrown himself on a garden seat.

“Hallo, Joby,” he said “you here? I tell you what, old man, if you would go and stick your teeth into Wilters’ calf – Bah! he hasn’t got a calf! – into his leg, and give him hydrophobia, you’d be doing your master a good turn.”

From that hour a gloom came over the scene. Lady Barmouth was scrupulously polite, but Charley Melton remarked a change. There were no more rides out with Maude; no more pleasant tête-à-têtes: all was smiles carefully iced, and he turned at last to Tom for an explanation.

“I can’t understand it,” he said; “a few days ago my suit seemed to find favour in her eyes; now her ladyship seems to ridicule the very idea of my pretentions.”

“Yes,” said Tom savagely; and he bit his cigar right in half.

“But why, in heaven’s name?”

“Heard you were poor.”

“Well, I never pretended otherwise.”

“No,” said Tom, snappishly; “but I suppose some one else did.”

“Who?” cried Melton, angrily.

“Shan’t tell,” cried Tom; “but mind your eye, my boy, or she’ll throw you over.”

“She shall not,” cried Melton, firmly, “for though there is no formal engagement, I hold to your sister, whom I love with all my heart.”

That evening Charley Melton was called away to see his father, who had been taken seriously ill.

“So very sorry,” said her ladyship, icily. “But these calls must be answered. Poor Mr Melton, I am so grieved. Maude, my darling, Sir Grantley is waiting to play that game of chess with you.”

The consequence was, that Charley Melton’s farewell to Maude was spoken with eyes alone, and he left the house feeling that he was doomed never to enter it again as a staying guest, while the enemy was in the field ready to sap and mine his dearest hopes.

Chapter Five.

Back in Town – the Demon

Lady Maude Diphoos sat in her dressing-room in Portland Place with her long brown hair let down and spread all around her like some beautiful garment designed by nature to hide her soft white bust and arms, which were crossed before her as she gazed in the long dressing-glass draped with pink muslin.

For the time being that dressing-glass seemed to be a framed picture in which could be seen the sweet face of a beautiful woman, whose blue eyes were pensive and full of trouble. It was the picture of one greatly in deshabille; but then it was the lady’s dressing-room, and there was no one present but the maid.

The chamber was charmingly furnished, enough showing in the glass to make an effective background to the picture; and to add to the charm there was a delicious odour of blended scents that seemed to be exhaled by the principal flower in the room – she whose picture shone in the muslin-draped frame.

There is nothing very new, it may be presumed, for a handsome woman to be seated before her glass with her long hair down, gazing straight before her into the reflector; but this was an exceptional case, for Maude Diphoos was looking right into her mirror and could not see herself. Sometimes what she saw was Charley Melton, but at the present moment the face of Dolly Preen, her maid, as that body stood half behind her chair, brushing away at her mistress’ long tresses, which crackled and sparkled electrically, and dropping upon them certain moist pearls which she as rapidly brushed away.

Dolly Preen was a pretty, plump, dark girl, with a certain rustic beauty of her own such as was found sometimes in the sunny village by the Hurst, from which she had been taken to become young ladies’ maid, a sort of moral pincushion, into which Mademoiselle Justine Framboise, her ladyship’s attendant, stuck venomed verbal pins.

But Dolly did not look pretty in the glass just now, for her nose was very red, her eyes were swollen up, and as she sniffed, and choked, and uttered a low sob from time to time, she had more the air of a severely punished school-girl than a prim young ladies’ maid in an aristocratic family.

Dolly wept and dropped tears on the beautiful soft tangled hair at which Sir Grantley Wilters had often cast longing glances. Then she brushed them off again, and took out her handkerchief to blow her nose – a nose which took a great deal of blowing, as it was becoming overcharged with tears.