Thelma
Lennox yawned and examined the handle of his cane attentively. "I
suppose if Helen of Troy came driving full pelt down the Row all of a
sudden, there'd be some slight sensation!"
"Dear me!" said Clara Winsleigh pettishly. "You talk in enigmas to-day.
What on earth do you mean?"
Sir Francis condescended to smile. "Don't be waxy, Clara!" he urged--"I
mean what I say--a new Helen appeared here to-day, and instead of 'tall
Troy' being on fire, as Dante Rossetti puts it, the Row was in a burning
condition of excitement--fellows on horseback galloped the whole length
of the Park to take a last glimpse of her--her carriage dashed off to
Richmond after taking only four turns. She is simply magnificent!"
"Who is she?" and in spite of herself, Lady Winsleigh's smile vanished
and her lips quivered.
"Lady Bruce-Errington," answered Sir Francis readily. "The loveliest
woman in the world, I should say! Phil was beside her--he looks in
splendid condition--and that meek old secretary fellow sat
opposite--Neville--isn't that his name? Anyhow they seemed as jolly as
pipers,--as for that woman, she'll drive everybody out of their wits
about her before half the season's over."
"But she's a mere peasant!" said Mrs. Marvelle loftily. "Entirely
uneducated--a low, common creature!"
"Ah, indeed!" and Sir Francis again yawned extensively. "Well, I don't
know anything about that! She was exquisitely dressed, and she held
herself like a queen. As for her hair--I never saw such wonderful
hair,--there's every shade of gold in it."
"Dyed!" said Lady Winsleigh, with a sarcastic little laugh. "She's been
in Paris,--I dare say a good _coiffeur_ has done it for her there
artistically!"
This time Sir Francis's smile was a thoroughly amused one.
"Commend me to a woman for spite!" he said carelessly. "But I'll not
presume to contradict you, Clara! You know best, I dare say! Ta-ta! I'll
come for you to-night,--you know we're bound for the theatre together.
By-bye, Mrs. Marvelle! You look younger than ever!"
And Sir Francis Lennox sauntered easily away, leaving the ladies to
resume their journey through the Park. Lady Winsleigh looked vexed--Mrs.
Marvelle bewildered.
"Do you think," inquired this latter, "she can really be so wonderfully
lovely?"
"No, I don't!" answered Clara snappishly. "I dare say she's a plump
creature with a high color--men like fat women with brick-tinted
complexions--they think it's healthy. Helen of Troy indeed! Pooh! Lennie
must be crazy."
The rest of their drive was very silent,--they were both absorbed in
their own reflections. On arriving at the Van Clupps', they found no one
at home--not even Marcia--so Lady Winsleigh drove her "dearest Mimsey"
back to her own house in Kensington, and there left her with many
expressions of tender endearment--then, returning home, proceeded to
make an elaborate and brilliant toilette for the enchantment and
edification of Sir Francis Lennox that evening. She dined alone, and was
ready for her admirer when he called for her in his private hansom, and
drove away with him to the theatre, where she was the cynosure of many
eyes; meanwhile her husband, Lord Winsleigh, was pressing a good-night
kiss on the heated forehead of an excited boy, who, plunging about in
his little bed and laughing heartily, was evidently desirous of
emulating the gambols of the clown who had delighted him that afternoon
at Hengler's.
"Papa! could you stand on your head and shake hands with your foot?"
demanded this young rogue, confronting his father with towzled curls and
flushed cheeks.
Lord Winsleigh laughed. "Really, Ernest, I don't think I could!" he
answered good-naturedly. "Haven't you talked enough about the circus by
this time? I thought you were ready for sleep, otherwise I should not
have come up to say good-night."
Ernest studied the patient, kind features of his father for a moment,
and then slipped penitently under the bedclothes, settling his restless
young head determinedly on the pillow.
"I'm all right now!" he murmured, with a demure, dimpling smile. Then,
with a tender upward twinkle of his merry blue eyes, he added,
"Good-night, papa dear! God bless you!"
A sort of wistful pathos softened the grave lines of Lord Winsleigh's
countenance as he bent once more over the little bed, and pressed his
bearded lips lightly on the boy's fresh cheek, as cool and soft as a
rose-leaf.
"God bless you, little man!" he answered softly, and there was a slight
quiver in his calm voice. Then he put out the light and left the room,
closing the door after him with careful noiselessness. Descending the
broad stairs slowly, his face changed from its late look of tenderness
to one of stern and patient coldness, which was evidently its habitual
expression. He addressed himself to Briggs, who was lounging aimlessly
in the hall.
"Her ladyship is out?"
"Yes, my lord! Gone to the theayter with Sir Francis Lennox."
Lord Winsleigh turned upon him sharply. "I did not ask you, Briggs,
_where_ she had gone, or _who_ accompanied her. Have the goodness to
answer my questions simply, without adding useless and unnecessary
details."
Briggs's mouth opened a little in amazement at his master's peremptory
tone, but he answered promptly--
"Very good, my lord!"
Lord Winsleigh paused a moment, and seemed to consider. Then he said--
"See that her ladyship's supper is prepared in the dining-room. She will
most probably return rather late. Should she inquire for me, say I am at
the Carlton."
Again Briggs responded, "Very good, my lord!" And, like an exemplary
servant as he was, he lingered about the passage while Lord Winsleigh
entered his library, and, after remaining there some ten minutes or so,
came out again in hat and great coat. The officious Briggs handed him
his cane, and inquired--
"'Ansom, my lord?"
"Thanks, no. I will walk."
It was a fine moonlight night, and Briggs stood for some minutes on the
steps, airing his shapely calves and watching the tall, dignified figure
of his master walking, with the upright, stately bearing which always
distinguished him, in the direction of Pall Mall. Park Lane was full of
crowding carriages with twinkling lights, all bound to the different
sources of so-called "pleasure" by which the opening of the season is
distinguished. Briggs surveyed the scene with lofty indifference,
sniffed the cool breeze, and, finding it somewhat chilly, re-entered the
house and descended to the servant's hall. Here all the domestics of the
Winsleigh household were seated at a large table loaded with hot and
savory viands,--a table presided over by a robust and perspiring lady,
with a very red face and sturdy arms bare to the elbow.
"Lor', Mr. Briggs!" cried this personage, rising respectfully as he
approached, "'ow late you are! Wot 'ave you been a-doin' on? 'Ere I've
been a-keepin' your lamb-chops and truffles 'ot all this time, and if
they's dried up 'taint my fault, nor that of the hoven, which is as good
a hoven as you can wish to bake in. . . ."
She paused breathless, and Briggs smiled blandly.
"Now, Flopsie!" he said in a tone of gentle severity. "Excited again--as
usual! It's bad for your 'elth--very bad! _Hif_ the chops is dried, your
course is plain--cook some more! Not that I am enny ways particular--but
chippy meat is bad for a delicate digestion. And you would not make me
hill, my Flopsie, would you?"
Whereupon he seated himself, and looked condescendingly round the table.
He was too great a personage to be familiar with such inferior creatures
as housemaids, scullery-girls, and menials of that class,--he was only
on intimate terms with the cook, Mrs. Flopper, or, as he called her,
"Flopsie,"--the coachman, and Lady Winsleigh's own maid, Louise Renaud,
a prim, sallow-faced Frenchwoman, who, by reason of her nationality, was
called by all the inhabitants of the kitchen, "mamzelle," as being a
name both short, appropriate, and convenient.
On careful examination, the lamb-chops turned out
satisfactorily--"chippiness" was an epithet that could not justly be
applied to them,--and Mr. Briggs began to eat them leisurely, flavoring
them with a glass or two of fine port out of a decanter which he had
taken the precaution to bring down from the dining-room sideboard.
"I _ham_, late," he then graciously explained--"not that I was detained
in enny way by the people upstairs. The gay Clara went out early, but I
was absorbed in the evenin' papers--Winsleigh forgot to ask me for them.
But he'll see them at his club. He's gone there now on foot--poor
fellah!"
"I suppose _she's_ with the same party?" grinned the fat Flopsie, as she
held a large piece of bacon dipped in vinegar on her fork, preparatory
to swallowing it with a gulp.
Briggs nodded gravely, "The same! Not a fine man at all, you know--no
leg to speak of, and therefore no form. Legs--_good_ legs--are beauty.
Now, Winsleigh's not bad in that particular,--and I dare say Clara can
hold her own,--but I wouldn't bet on little Francis."
Flopsie shrieked with laughter till she had a "stitch in her side," and
was compelled to restrain her mirth.
"Lor', Mr. Briggs!" she gasped, wiping the moisture from her eyes, "you
are a regular one, aren't you! Mussy on us, you ought to put all wot you
say in the papers--you'd make your fortin!"
"Maybe, maybe, Flopsie," returned Briggs with due dignity. "I will not
deny that there may be wot is called 'sparkle' in my natur. And
'sparkle' is wot is rekwired in polite literatoor. Look at 'Hedmund' and
''Enery!' Sparkle again,--read their magnificent productions, the
_World_ and _Truth_,--all sparkle, every line! It is the secret of
success, Flopsie--be a sparkler and you've got everything before you."
Louise Renaud looked across at him half-defiantly. Her prim, cruel mouth
hardened into a tight line.
"To spark-el?" she said--"that is what we call _etinceler_--_eclater_.
Yes, I comprehend! Miladi is one spark-el! But one must be a very good
jewel to spark-el always--yes--yes--not a sham!"
And she nodded a great many times, and ate her salad very fast. Briggs
surveyed her with much complacency.
"You are a talented woman, Mamzelle," he said, "very talented! I admire
your ways--I really do!"
Mamzelle smiled with a gratified air, and Briggs settled his wig, eyeing
her anew with fresh interest.
"_Wot_ a witness you would be in a divorce case!" he continued
enthusiastically. "You'd be in your helement!"
"I should--I should indeed!" exclaimed Mamzelle, with sudden
excitement,--then as suddenly growing calm, she made a rapid gesture
with her hands--"But there will be no divorce. Milord Winsleigh is a
fool!"
Briggs appeared doubtful about this, and meditated for a long time over
his third glass of port with the profound gravity of a philosopher.
"No, Mamzelle," he said at last, when he rose from the table to return
to his duties upstairs--"No! there I must differ from you. I am a close
observer. Wotever Winsleigh's faults,--and I do not deny that they are
many,--he is a gentleman--that I _must_ admit--and with _hevery_ respect
for you, Mamzelle--I can assure you he's no fool!"
And with these words Briggs betook himself to the library to arrange the
reading-lamp and put the room in order for his master's return, and as
he did so, he paused to look at a fine photograph of Lady Winsleigh that
stood on the oak escritoire, opposite her husband's arm-chair.
"No," he muttered to himself. "Wotever he thinks of some goings-on, he
ain't blind nor deaf--that's certain. And I'd stake my character and
purfessional reputation on it--wotever he is, he's no fool!"
For once in his life, Briggs was right. He was generally wrong in his
estimate of both persons and things--but it so happened on this