Thelma
twinkled with repressed fun. "It can't be good for you. And, oh! I'm so
sorry, Mr. Briggs, to think that _you_ are ever wicked!" And she
laughed.
"It's not for long," explained Briggs, with a comically satisfied, yet
penitent, look. "It is only a sort of breaking out,--a fit of 'igh
spirits. Hall men are so at times! It's _chick_ to run a little wild in
Paris. But Miss Britta, if _you_ were with me I should never run wild!"
Here his arm made another attempt to get round her waist--and again she
skillfully, and with some show of anger, avoided it.
"Ah, you're very 'ard upon me," he then observed, "Very, very, 'ard! But
I won't complain, my--my dear gal--one day you'll know me better!" He
stopped and looked at her very intently. "Miss Britta," he said
abruptly, "you've a great affection for your lady, 'aven't you?"
Instantly Britta's face flushed, and she was all attention.
"Yes, indeed!" she answered quickly. "Why do you ask, Mr. Briggs?"
Briggs rubbed his nose perplexedly. "It is not easy to explain," he
said. "To run down my own employers wouldn't be in my line. But I've an
idea that Clara--by which name I allude to my Lord Winsleigh's lady,--is
up to mischief. She 'ates _your_ lady, Miss Britta--'ates 'er like
poison!"
"Hates her!" cried Britta in astonishment. "Oh, you must be mistaken,
Mr. Briggs! She is as fond of her as she can be--almost like a sister to
her!"
"Clara's a fine actress," murmured Briggs, more to himself than to his
companion. "She'd beat Violet Vere on 'er own ground." Raising his voice
a little, he turned gallantly to Britta and relieved her of the basket
she held.
"Hallow me!" he said. "We'll walk to the 'ouse together. On the way I'll
explain--and you'll judge for yourself. The words of the immortal bard,
whose county we are in, occur to me as _aprerpo_,--'There are more
things in 'evin and 'erth, 'Oratio,--than even the most devoted domestic
can sometimes be aweer of.'"
And gently sauntering by Britta's side, Briggs began to converse in low
and confidential tones,--she listened with strained and eager
attention,--and she was soon receiving information that startled her and
set her on the alert.
Talk of private detectives and secret service! Do private detectives
ever discover so much as the servants of a man's own household?--servants
who are aware of the smallest trifles,--who know the name and position
of every visitor that comes and goes,--who easily learn to recognize the
handwriting on every letter that arrives--who laugh and talk in their
kitchens over things that their credulous masters and mistresses imagine
are unknown to all the world save themselves,--who will judge the morals
of a Duke, and tear the reputation of a Duchess to shreds, for the
least, the most trifling error of conduct! If you can stand well with
your servants, you can stand well with the whole world--if not--carry
yourself as haughtily as you may--your pride will not last long, depend
upon it!
Meanwhile, as Briggs and Britta strolled in the side paths of the
shrubbery, the gay guests of the Manor were dancing on the lawn. Thelma
did not dance,--she reclined in a low basket-chair, fanning herself.
George Lorimer lay stretched in lazy length at her feet, and near her
stood her husband, together with Beau Lovelace and Lord Winsleigh. At a
little distance, under the shadow of a noble beech, sat Mrs.
Rush-Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp in earnest conversation. It was to Mrs.
Marvelle that the Van Clupps owed their invitation for this one day down
to Errington Manor,--for Thelma herself was not partial to them. But she
did not like to refuse Mrs. Marvelle's earnest entreaty that they should
be asked,--and that good-natured, scheming lady having gained her point,
straightway said to Marcia Van Clupp somewhat severely--
"Now, Marcia, this is your last chance. If you don't hook Masherville at
the Carringten fete, you'll lose him! You mark my words!"
Marcia had dutifully promised to do her best, and she was not having
what she herself called "a good hard time of it." Lord Algy was in one
of his most provokingly vacillating moods--moreover, he had a headache,
and felt bilious. Therefore he would not dance--he would not play
tennis--he did not understand archery--he was disinclined to sit in
romantic shrubberies or summer-houses, as he had a nervous dread of
spiders--so he rambled aimlessly about the grounds with his hands in his
pockets, and perforce Marcia was compelled to ramble too. Once she tried
what effect an opposite flirtation would have on his mind, so she
coquetted desperately with a young country squire, whose breed of pigs
was considered the finest in England--but Masherville did not seem to
mind it in the least. Nay, he looked rather relieved than otherwise, and
Marcia, seeing this, grew more resolute than ever.
"I guess I'll pay him out for this!" she thought as she watched him
feebly drinking soda-water for his headache. "He's a man that wants
ruling, and ruled he shall be!"
And Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp observed her manoeuvres with
maternal interest, while the cunning-faced, white-headed Van Clupp
conversed condescendingly with Mr. Rush-Marvelle, as being a nonentity
of a man whom he could safely patronize.
As the glory of the sunset paled, and the delicate, warm hues of the
summer twilight softened the landscape, the merriment of the brilliant
assembly seemed to increase. As soon as it was dark, the grounds were to
be illuminated by electricity, and dancing was to be continued
indoors--the fine old picture-gallery being the place chosen for the
purpose. Nothing that could add to the utmost entertainment of the
guests had been forgotten, and Thelma, the fair mistress of these
pleasant revels, noting with quiet eyes the evident enjoyment of all
present, felt very happy and tranquil. She had exerted herself a good
deal, and was now a little tired. Her eyes had a dreamy, far-off look,
and she found her thoughts wandering, now and then, away to the
Altenfjord--she almost fancied she could hear the sigh of the pines and
the dash of the waves mingling in unison as they used to do when she sat
at the old farm-house window and span, little dreaming then how her life
would change--how all those familiar things would be swept away as
though they had never been. She roused herself from this momentary
reverie, and glancing down at the recumbent gentleman at her feet,
touched his shoulder lightly with the edge of her fan.
"Why do you not dance, you very lazy Mr. Lorimer?" she asked, with a
smile.
He turned up his fair, half-boyish face to hers and laughed.
"Dance! I! Good gracious! Such an exertion would kill me, Lady
Errington--don't you know that? I am of a Sultan-like disposition--I
shouldn't mind having slaves to dance for me if they did it well--but I
should look on from the throne whereon I sat cross-legged,--and smoke my
pipe in peace."
"Always the same!" she said lightly. "Are you never serious?"
His eyes darkened suddenly. "Sometimes. Awfully so! And in that
condition I become a burden to myself and my friends."
"Never be serious!" interposed Beau Lovelace, "it really isn't worth
while! Cultivate the humor of a Socrates, and reduce everything by means
of close argument to its smallest standpoint, and the world, life, and
time are no more than a pinch of snuff for some great Titantic god to
please his giant nose withal!"
"Your fame isn't worth much then, Beau, if we're to go by that line of
argument," remarked Errington, with a laugh.
"Fame! By Jove! You don't suppose I'm such an arrant donkey as to set
any store by fame!" cried Lovelace, a broad smile lighting up his face
and eyes. "Why, because a few people read my books and are amused
thereby,--and because the Press pats me graciously on the back, and says
metaphorically, 'Well done, little 'un!' or words to that effect, am I
to go crowing about the world as if I were the only literary
chanticleer? My dear friend, have you read 'Esdras'? You will find there
that a certain king of Persia wrote to one 'Rathumus, a story-writer.'
No doubt he was famous in his day, but,--to travesty _hamlet_, 'where be
his stories now?' Learn, from the deep oblivion into which poor
Rathumus's literary efforts have fallen, the utter mockery and
uselessness of so-called _fame_!"
"But there must be a certain pleasure in it while you're alive to enjoy
it," said Lord Winsleigh. "Surely you derive some little satisfaction
from your celebrity, Mr. Lovelace?"
Beau broke into a laugh, mellow, musical, and hearty.
"A satisfaction shared with murderers, thieves, divorced women,
dynamiters, and other notorious people in general," he said. "They're
all talked about--so am I. They all get written about--so do I. My
biography is always being carefully compiled by newspaper authorities,
to the delight of the reading public. Only the other day I learned for
the first time that my father was a greengrocer, who went in for selling
coals by the half-hundred and thereby made his fortune--my mother was an
unsuccessful oyster-woman who failed ignominiously at Margate--moreover,
I've a great many brothers and sisters of tender age whom I absolutely
refuse to assist. I've got a wife somewhere, whom my literary success
causes me to despise--and I have deserted children. I'm charmed with
the accuracy of the newspapers--and I wouldn't contradict them for the
world,--I find my biographies so original! They are the result of that
celebrity which Winsleigh thinks enjoyable."
"But assertions of that kind are libels," said Errington, "You could
prosecute."
"Too much trouble!" declared Beau. "Besides, five journals have
disclosed the name of the town where I was born, and as they all
contradict each other, and none of them are right, any contradiction on
_my_ part would be superfluous!"
They laughed,--and at that moment Lady Winsleigh joined them.
"Are you not catching cold, Thelma?" she inquired sweetly. "Sir Philip,
you ought to make her put on something warm,--I find the air growing
chilly."
At that moment the ever-ready Sir Francis Lennox approached with a light
woolen wrap he had found in the hall.
"Permit me!" he said gently, at the same time adroitly throwing it over
Thelma's shoulders.
She colored a little,--she did not care for his attention, but she could
not very well ignore it without seeming to be discourteous. So she
murmured, "Thank you!" and, rising from her chair, addressed Lady
Winsleigh.
"If you feel cold, Clara, you will like some tea," she said. "Shall we
go indoors, where it is ready?"
Lady Winsleigh assented with some eagerness,--and the two, beautiful
women--the one dark, the other fair--walked side by side across the lawn
into the house, their arms round each other's waists as they went.
"Two queens--and yet not rivals?" half queried Lovelace, as he watched
them disappearing.
"Their thrones are secure!" returned Sir Philip gaily.
The others were silent. Lord Winsleigh's thoughts, whatever they were,
deepened the lines of gravity on his face; and George Lorimer, as he got
up from his couch on the grass, caught a fleeting expression in the
brown eyes of Sir Francis Lennox that struck him with a sense of
unpleasantness. But he quickly dismissed the impression from his mind,
and went to have a quiet smoke in the shrubbery.
CHAPTER XXIII.
"La rose du jardin, comme tu sais, dure peu, et la saison des roses est
bien vite ecoulee!"--SAADI.
Thelma took her friend Lady Winsleigh to her own boudoir, a room which
had been the particular pride of Sir Philip's mother. The walls were
decorated with panels of blue silk in which were woven flowers of gold
and silver thread,--and the furniture, bought from an old palace in