Lady Maude's Mania

“Get up, and you shall have a feed, and a glass of good honest wine. That’s the thing to brace you up, dad.”

“Yes – yes, my son. I – I feel – feel as if I’d give anything for a glass of good wine.”

“Come along.”

“I know he’ll find me out,” said his lordship to himself.

“I say, gov’nor,” cried Tom, “here’s a go.”

“Have – have you found them,” said the old man, starting.

“Wait a bit. Perhaps I have. But I say, I’ve found telegrams waiting to say that the old lady is on the way to meet us here.”

“Here, Tom, my boy?”

“Yes, gov’nor, here, in Naples.”

“But – but don’t you think we had better go on at once?”

“What with you so tired?” said Tom with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I – I don’t think I’m quite so tired as I was, Tom, my boy,” said the old man nervously. “After a glass of wine or two, I – I think I could manage to go on again.”

“But don’t you understand? The mater is coming here with Tryphie and Justine.”

“Then – then I think we had better get on, Tom, my boy – away from here. Her ladyship would hinder us, and stop us from finding Maude. Let’s go on to Rome or Constantinople, only let’s be off at once.”

Tom laughed silently.

“No, father,” he said, “I think we’ll go no further. I’m going to have a thorough good look round, and from hints I have heard, I think we are once more on their track; but if they are not here we’ll go back home, for I’m sick of all this journeying. Poor girl, she has chosen her lot.”

“Yes – yes, Tom, my boy,” said the old man dolefully.

“And I’ve done my duty as a brother to try and find her.”

“Yes, Tom, my boy, you have – you have.”

“Some day she’ll wake up out of her mad dream, and come back to us, and then, no matter what is said, she must find a home.”

“Of course, my boy, of course.”

“Poor girl! It’s all our fault, governor. If we had been firm she might have married Charley Melton.”

“Eh,” said Lord Barmouth, “Charley Melton? Yes, my boy, I wish she had. I – I wonder whether she has gone,” thought the old man. “Oh dear me, I’m very tired.”

“Did you speak, gov’nor?” said Tom.

“Yes, my boy, I said I was very tired.”

“Then come along and let’s feed. We’ll have a bottle of that red wine, and enjoy ourselves till the old lady comes, and then, governor – ”

“You think we shan’t enjoy ourselves any more, Tom?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, my boy, I hardly know what to say. Her ladyship is very particular, but then, you see, my boy, she studies my health more than I do and I’ve no doubt it is quite right.”

“I dare say it is, dad, but come along.”

“Yes, my boy, yes,” said Lord Barmouth, taking his son’s arm; “but really, Tom, I begin to wish I was back within reach of my club.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” he added sotto voce, “I wonder whether they have gone.”

“What say, governor?”

“Nothing, my boy, nothing. Talking to myself.”

“Bad habit, gov’nor.”

“Yes, my boy, yes,” he said in acquiescence. But bad as was the habit, he kept on, as he told himself that he hoped Maudey had gone, and yet he hoped she had not; and he kept on getting deeper and deeper into a bog of bewilderment, till he found himself seated at a little table opposite his son, listening to the gurgling of wine in a glass, and that brought him back from his maze of troubled thought at once.

“What – what could have induced her ladyship to come out here?” he said, with a piteous expression upon his countenance.

“Old game,” said Tom gruffly – “to look after us.”

“I – I – I should be sorry to speak disrespectfully of her ladyship,” said Lord Barmouth, now under the influence of his third glass of wine, “but – but I’m afraid there’ll be no more peace now, Tom, my boy.”

At that moment a waiter entered.

“Visitors for milor,” he said.

“Here they are, governor. Now comes the tug of war.”

For at that moment her ladyship entered and tottered to a seat, wiping her brow, and making signs to Tryphie, who half supported her, for her salts. That young lady had to turn to Justine, who was supposed to be carrying the bag, but who in turn had to take it from Robbins, who looked as if he had been in a bath, and had dressed himself without a prior reference to a towel. For his fat face was covered with drops and runlets, and his grey hair hung wetly upon his brow. The smelling-bottle was, however, found, and her ladyship took a long inhalation, and said, “Hah!”

Chapter Twenty Nine.

On the Brink

“I’ve found you then at last,” said her ladyship, recovering fast. “Robbins, go and tell that wretched Italian porter creature I will not pay him another penny. No, say soldi, or scudi, which you like. It’s a gross imposition.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Justine,” continued her ladyship, “you understand the language?”

“No, my lady, not Italian.”

“Then speak to him in French, it will impress the man. Go and see that Robbins is not imposed upon. Now, Robbins, mind and be firm. This is not London.”