Lady Maude's Mania

“More there isn’t,” cried Tom. “Pretty brother-in-law indeed!”

“Maude,” exclaimed her ladyship, “I think you might have a word to say on behalf of your intended husband.”

The girl glanced at her in a stony way, and turned once more to the window, where she had been looking out with Tryphie, listening with aching heart to the encounter between mother and son.

“Such a brilliant match as I have made,” cried her ladyship, harping on her old string. “And such opposition as I have from the girl who owes me so much.”

“Indeed, mamma, I have yielded everything. You are having your own way entirely,” said Maude passionately.

“Have I not saved you from throwing yourself away upon a disreputable creature?” sobbed her ladyship.

“Tryphie,” whispered Maude, “I cannot bear this. It is dreadful. I feel as if I should go mad.”

“He saw plainly enough,” whined her ladyship, “that it could not be – that it would have been a complete misalliance.”

“This is unbearable,” whispered Maude, clasping her cousin’s hand, which pressed hers warmly and encouragingly, as they stood in the window recess, half screened by the heavy curtains.

“Try not to listen, dear,” whispered Tryphie.

“It nearly maddens me. I feel as if I could do anything wicked and desperate.”

“Oh, hush, hush, dear,” whispered Tryphie; and Lady Barmouth maundered on in tones asking for sympathy, as she set herself up as the suffering ill-used mother whom no one tried to comfort in her distress.

“Saved you as I did from a life of misery,” continued her ladyship, whimpering. “Oh, dear! oh, dear! how children strive to throw themselves away.”

Maude moaned, and held her hand to her side.

“Are you ill, dear?” whispered Tryphie.

“No, no,” was the reply. “It is past now – past.”

“I shall be sorry when you are gone, Maude,” said her father simply.

“Oh, papa, papa,” she cried, running to him and throwing her arms round his neck; for the tenderly-spoken sympathetic words brought the tears to her eyes. Then, unable to bear it, she turned to leave the room, but just then the door opened and the butler announced Sir Grantley Wilters.

“Ah, how do!” he said in a high-pitched voice, saluting all in turn, and bending low over Maude’s hand. “Thought I’d come soon, don’t you know, sans cérémonie, eh, mamma!” he said with a smile to Lady Barmouth, and then gave his glass a screw, and brought it to bear on all present.

“I am so glad,” said her ladyship; “so is Maude; but don’t take any notice,” she whispered. “Poor child, she is distrait, and seems cold. So deeply attached to Lord Barmouth. Ready to break her heart at leaving him.”

“Yas, oh, yas,” said Sir Grantley; and he took his seat beside Maude.

“Tryphie,” said Tom, “I can’t help it. I must be off. This fellow makes me ill. May I go?”

She gave him a nod of intelligence, and he said something about being ready for dinner, and left the room to go out, take a hansom, and bowl down to one of the clubs, where he was soon so busily engaged in a game of pool that he forgot all about the dinner.

Very shortly after, Maude rose, bowed to Sir Grantley, and left the room with Tryphie, when the baronet crossed to Lady Barmouth’s side, and was soon engaged in a most interesting conversation, whose murmur sent Lord Barmouth into a pleasant slumber, out of sight in a lounging chair, where he was quite forgotten, when her ladyship suggested that Sir Grantley should go with her to her boudoir to see the last new presents sent in for Maude.

“And you would like to wash your hands, too, before dinner,” said her ladyship. “We will not trouble about dressing to-night.”

Sir Grantley opened the door, and the old gentleman was left alone to wake up about a quarter of an hour later to find it was dark, and sit up rubbing his leg.

“Oh, damme, my leg,” he said, softly. “Where – where are they all gone? Why it’s – it’s past dinnertime,” he said, looking at his watch by the dim light. “I shall be doosed glad when everybody’s married and – and – and – why the doose doesn’t the dressing-bell ring? Heigh – oh – ha – hum!” he added, yawning. “There’s – there’s – there’s another of those abominable organs. I – I – I wish that all the set of them were at the bottom of the sea, for I lie at night with all their tunes coming back again, and seeming to grind themselves to fit the pains in my leg. Poor girl! she was always encouraging the fellows. Why dear me! Damme, haven’t I got a single sixpence left to give him, to go away. No, that I haven’t,” he continued fumbling, “not a sou. She – she – she does keep me short,” he muttered, opening the French window and looking out. “Oh, he’s done playing now, so I shan’t want the money. Why eh – eh – eh? Why – he – he, he! the fellow’s talking to one of the maids. He – he – he! Hi – hi – hi! They will do it. I – I – I was a devil of a fellow amongst the girls when I was a young man; but now – oh, dear, oh dear! this wind seems to give me tortures, that it does.”

He closed the window, but stood looking out.

“You’d better take care, you two, that my lady don’t catch you, or there’ll be such a devil of a row. He’s – he’s going down into the area. Well, well, well, I shan’t tell tales. He – he – he! Hi – hi – hi!” he chuckled, sitting down and nursing his leg. “I remember when I was about twenty, and Dick Jerrard and I – he’s Lord Marrowby now, and a sober judge! – when we got over the wall at a boarding-school to see pretty Miss Vulliamy. Oh, dear, dear, dear, those were days. They preach and talk a deal now about being wicked, but it was very nice. I used to be a devil of a wicked fellow when I was young, and – and flirted terribly, while lately I’ve been as good as gold, and, damme, I haven’t been half so happy.”

He stopped rubbing his leg for a while.

“Everything’s at sixes and sevens, damme, that it is. I’m nearly famished, that I am. If it hadn’t been for that bit of chicken I should have been quite starved. Her ladyship’s too bad, that she is. Cold boiled sole, rice pudding, and half a glass of hock in a tumbler of water. I can’t stand it, that I can’t. Damme, I’ll make a good dinner to-night, that I will, if I die for it. I’ll – I’ll – I’ll, damme, I’ll kick over the traces for once in a way. Tom will help me, I know. He’s a good boy, Tom is, and he’ll see that I have a glass of port, and – damme, where’s Maude and her ladyship, and why isn’t dinner ready? and – eh – what? – what the devil’s that. There’s something wrong.”

For at that moment a piercing shriek rang through the house, and there was the sound of a heavy fall upon the floor.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Tom Diphoos stays out Late

“Half thought I should have seen Charley Melton here; perhaps he has started for Italy after all,” said Tom, who had gone straight to Barker’s and engaged in a game of pool. “Might have stirred him up, but he don’t seem to mind it a bit. Well, no wonder, seeing how he was treated.”

“Red upon white; yellow’s your player,” said the marker, and Tom went up to make the stroke required of him; then he turned once more to glance at the table next to him, and watched two or three of the bets made.

“Past ten,” he said to himself, glancing at his watch. “That’s getting back to dinner. Never mind, I’m not the party wanted by her ladyship. Charley must have known she was to be married to-morrow. I liked him too,” he said, gazing at the players. “He’s a big, strong, noble-looking fellow. Ah, well! I suppose that’s because I’m little. One mustn’t go by outside appearances. Perhaps it’s all for the best.”

Just then a friend proposed that they should drop in at one of the theatres and see the new burlesque; and after a little hesitation Tom consented to go. After this a kidney had to be eaten at a tavern; so that it was one o’clock when he reached home, to find the lights burning, and a cluster of servants in the hall.

“Hallo, Robbins, what’s up? House on fire?” he cried, as the butler admitted him, looking very solemn and troubled.

“No, my lord. Oh, dear no.”

“Don’t be an old image. What is it? Sir Grantley had a fit?”

“My young lady, my lord,” said the butler in a solemn, mysterious whisper.

“Not ill – not ill?” cried Tom, excitedly.

“No, my lord,” said the butler, “not ill, but – ”

“Confound you, you great pump. Speak out,” cried Tom, angrily.

“Gone, my lord – been missing hours. Her ladyship has been having fit after fit, and his lordship is ’most beside himself.”

“Bolted!” exclaimed Tom; and, running into the dining-room, he threw himself into a chair and laughed till his sides ached.

“Poor Wilters! oh, Lord, what a game! Cut! – skimmed!”

He got up, and stamped round the room in the very ecstasy of delight, “The little smug hypocrite!” he said. “That’s why she was so sanctified and sad to-day. Well, bless her, I like her pluck. Sold, my lady, sold!”

He suddenly woke up to the fact that he ought to go upstairs, and, turning serious, he walked into the hall.