Thelma
altering her tone to one of studied indifference, she continued coldly,
"What do you want of me? We've done with each other, as you know. I
believe you wish to become gentleman-lacquey to Bruce-Errington's wife,
and that you find it difficult to obtain the situation. Shall I give you
a character?"
He flushed darkly, and his eyes glittered with an evil lustre.
"Gently, Clara! Draw it mild!" he said languidly. "Don't irritate me, or
I _may_ turn crusty! You know, if I chose, I could open
Bruce-Errington's eyes rather more widely than you'd like with respect
to the _devoted affection_ you entertain for his beautiful wife." She
winced a little at this observation--he saw it and laughed,--then
resumed: "At present I'm really in the best of humors. The reason I
wanted to speak to you alone for a minute or two was, that I'd something
to say which might possibly please you. But perhaps you'd rather not
hear it?"
She was silent. So was he. He watched her closely for a little--noting
with complacency the indignant heaving of her breast and the flush on
her cheeks,--signs of the strong repression she was putting upon her
rising temper.
"Come, Clara, you may as well be amiable," he said. "I'm sure you'll be
glad to know that the virtuous Philip is not immaculate after all. Won't
it comfort you to think that he's nothing but a mortal man like the rest
of us? . . . and that with a little patience your charms will most
probably prevail with him as easily as they once did with me? Isn't that
worth hearing?"
"I don't understand you," she replied curtly.
"Then you are very dense, my dear girl," he remarked smilingly. "Pardon
me for saying so! But I'll put it plainly and in as few words as
possible. The moral Bruce-Errington, like a great many other 'moral' men
I know, has gone in for Violet Vere,--and I dare say you understand what
_that_ means. In the simplest language, it means that he's tired of his
domestic bliss and wants a change."
Lady Winsleigh stopped in her slow pacing along the gravel-walk, and
raised her eyes steadily to her companion's face.
"Are you sure of this?" she asked.
"Positive!" replied Sir Francis, flicking the light ash off his
cigarette delicately with his little finger. "When you wrote me that
note about the Vere, I confess I had my suspicions. Since then they've
been confirmed. I know for a fact that Errington has had several private
interviews with Vi, and has also written her a good many letters. Some
of the fellows in the green-room tease her about her new conquest, and
she grins and admits it. Oh, the whole thing's plain enough! Only last
week, when he went up to town to see his man Neville on business he
called on Vi at her own apartments in Arundel Street, Strand. She told
me so herself--we're rather intimate, you know,--though of course she
refused to mention the object of his visit. Honor among thieves!" and he
smiled half mockingly.
Lady Winsleigh seemed absorbed, and walked on like one in a dream. Just
then, a bend in the avenue brought them in full view of the broad
terrace in front of the Manor, where Thelma's graceful figure, in a
close-fitting robe of white silk crepe, was outlined clearly against the
dazzling blue of the sky. Several people were grouped near her,--she
seemed to be in animated conversation with some of them, and her face
was radiant with smiles. Lady Winsleigh looked at her,--then said
suddenly in a low voice--
"It will break her heart!"
Sir Francis assumed an air of polite surprise. "Pardon! Whose heart?"
She pointed slightly to the white figure on the terrace.
"Hers! Surely you must know that?"
He smiled. "Well--isn't that precisely what you desire Clara? Though,
for my part, I don't believe in the brittleness of hearts--they seem to
me to be made of exceptionally tough material. However, if the fair
Thelma's heart cracks ever so widely, I think I can undertake to mend
it!"
Clara shrugged her shoulders. "You!" she exclaimed contemptuously.
He stroked his moustache with feline care and nicety.
"Yes--I! If not, I've studied women all my life for nothing!"
She broke into a low peal of mocking laughter--turned, and was about to
leave him, when he detained her by a slight touch on her arm.
"Stop a bit!" he said in an impressive _sotto-voce_. "A bargain's a
bargain all the world over. If I undertake to keep you cognizant of
Bruce-Errington's little goings-on in London,--information which, I dare
say, you can turn to good account,--you must do something for me. I ask
very little. Speak of me to Lady Errington--make her think well of
me,--flatter me as much as you used to do when we fancied ourselves
terrifically in love with each other--(a good joke, wasn't it!)--and,
above all, make her _trust_ me! Do you understand?"
"As Red Riding-Hood trusted the Wolf and was eaten up for her
innocence," observed Lady Winsleigh. "Very well! I'll do my best. As I
said before, you want a character. I'm sure I hope you'll obtain the
situation you so much desire! I can state that you made yourself fairly
useful in your last place, and that you left because your wages were not
high enough!"
And with another sarcastic laugh, she moved forward towards the terrace
where Thelma stood. Sir Francis followed at some little distance with no
very pleasant expression on his features. A stealthy step approaching
him front behind made him start nervously--it was Louise Renaud, who,
carrying a silver tray on which soda-water bottles and glasses made an
agreeable clinking, tripped demurely past him without raising her eyes.
She came directly out of the rose-garden,--and, as she overtook her
mistress on the lawn, that lady seemed surprised, and asked--
"Where have you been, Louise?"
"Miladi was willing that I should assist in the attendance to-day,"
replied Louise discreetly. "I have waited upon Milord Winsleigh, and
other gentlemen in the summer-house at the end of the rose-garden."
And with one furtive glance of her black, bead-like eyes at Lady
Winsleigh's face, she made a respectful sort of half-curtsy and went her
way.
Later on in the afternoon, when it was nearing sunset, and all other
amusements had given way to the delight of dancing on the springy green
turf to the swinging music of the band,--Briggs, released for a time
from the duties of assisting the waiters at the splendid
refreshment-table (duties which were pleasantly lightened by the
drinking of a bottle of champagne which he was careful to reserve for
his own consumption), sauntered leisurely through the winding alleys and
fragrant shrubberies which led to the most unromantic portion of the
Manor grounds,--namely, the vegetable-garden. Here none of the
butterflies of fashion found their way,--the suggestions offered by
growing cabbages, turnips, beans, and plump, yellow-skinned marrows were
too prosaic for society bantams who require refined surroundings in
which to crow their assertive platitudes. Yet it was a peaceful
nook--and there were household odors of mint and thyme and sweet
marjoram, which were pleasant to the soul of Briggs, and reminded him of
roast goose on Christmas Day, with all its attendant succulent
delicacies. He paced the path slowly,--the light of the sinking sun
blazing gloriously on his plush breeches, silver cordons and
tassels,--for he was in full-dress livery in honor of the fete, and
looked exceedingly imposing. Now and then he glanced down at his calves
with mild approval,--his silk stockings fitted them well, and they had a
very neat and shapely appearance.
"I've developed," he murmured to himself. "There ain't a doubt about
it! One week of Country air, and I'm a different man;--the effecks of
overwork 'ave disappeared. Flopsie won't know these legs of mine when I
get back,--they've improved surprisingly." He stopped to survey a bed of
carrots. "Plenty of Cressy there," he mused. "Cressy's a noble soup, and
Flopsie makes it well,--a man might do wuss than marry Flopsie. She's a
widder, and a _leetle_ old--just a leetle old for me--but--" Here he
sniffed delicately at a sprig of thyme he had gathered, and smiled
consciously. Presently he perceived a small, plump, pretty figure
approaching him, no other than Britta, looking particularly charming in
a very smart cap, adorned with pink-ribbon bows, and a very elaborately
frilled muslin apron. Briggs at once assumed his most elegant and
conquering air, straightened himself to his full height and kissed his
hand to her with much condescension. She laughed as she came up to him,
and the dimples in her round cheeks appeared in full force.
"Well, Mr. Briggs," she said, "are you enjoying yourself?"
Briggs smiled down upon her benevolently. "I am!" he responded
graciously. "I find the hair refreshing. And you, Miss Britta?"
"Oh, I'm very comfortable, thank you!" responded Britta demurely, edging
a little away from his arm, which showed an unmistakable tendency to
encircle her waist,--then glancing at a basket she held full of grapes,
just cut from the hot house, she continued, "These are for the
supper-table. I must be quick, and take them to Mrs. Parton."
"Must you?" and Briggs asked this question with quite an unnecessary
amount of tenderness, then resuming his dignity, he observed, "Mrs.
Parton is a very worthy woman--an excellent 'ousekeeper. But she'll no
doubt excuse you for lingering a little, Miss Britta--especially in _my_
company."
Britta laughed again, showing her pretty little white teeth to the best
advantage. "Do you think she will?" she said merrily. "Then I'll stop a
minute, and if she scolds me I'll put the blame on you!"
Briggs played with his silver tassels and, leaning gracefully against a
plum-tree, surveyed her with a critical eye.
"I was not able," he observed, "to see much of you in town. Our people
were always a' visitin' each other, and yet our meetings were, as the
poet says, 'few and far between.'"
Britta nodded indifferently, and perceiving a particularly ripe
gooseberry on one of the bushes close to her, gathered it quickly and
popped it between her rosy lips. Seeing another equally ripe, she
offered it to Briggs, who accepted it and ate it slowly, though he had a
misgiving that by so doing he was seriously compromising his dignity. He
resumed his conversation.
"Since I've been down 'ere, I've 'ad more opportunity to observe you. I
'ope you will allow me to say I think very highly of you." He waved his
hand with the elegance of a Sir Charles Grandison. "Very 'ighly indeed!
Your youth is most becoming to you! If you only 'ad a little more
_chick_, there'd be nothing left to desire!"
"A little more--_what_?" asked Britta, opening her blue eyes very wide
in puzzled amusement.
"_Chick_!" replied Briggs, with persistent persuasiveness. "_Chick_,
Miss Britta, is a French word much used by the aristocracy. Coming from
Norway, an 'avin' perhaps a very limited experience, you mayn't 'ave
'erd it--but eddicated people 'ere find it very convenient and
expressive. _Chick_ means style,--_the_ thing, _the_ go, _the_ fashion.
For example, everything your lady wears is _chick_!"
"Really!" said Britta, with a wandering and innocent air. "How funny! It
doesn't sound like French, at all, Mr. Briggs,--it's more like English."
"Perhaps the Paris accent isn't familiar to you yet," remarked Briggs
majestically. "Your stay in the gay metropolis was probably short. Now,
I 'ave been there many times--ah, Paris, Paris!" he paused in a sort of
ecstacy, then, with a side leer, continued--"You'd 'ardly believe 'ow
wicked I am in Paris, Miss Britta! I am, indeed! It is something in the
hair of the Bollyvards, I suppose! And the caffy life excites my
nerves."
"Then you shouldn't go there," said Britta gravely, though her eyes