Lady Maude's Mania

“Open this door,” cried Lady Barmouth.

A dead silence fell upon the group.

“Oh, papa!” cried Maude.

“Yes, my dear,” said his lordship, looking round for a way of escape. “I – I – I think it is her ladyship.”

“Not much doubt about it,” said Tom. “Now, Charley, old chap, take your header and get out of your misery.”

“Yes,” said Charley, “I suppose I must get it over.”

“Open this door!” cried Lady Barmouth, shaking it furiously.

“It isn’t a hanging matter,” said Tom, laughing.

“No,” said Charley, rather uneasily, “it isn’t a hanging matter.”

“And her ladyship can’t undo it.”

“No,” said Charley firmly, as he crossed the room to where the door was being shaken violently, “her ladyship cannot undo it.”

“Would – would you like to take hold of my hand, Maudey, my dear?” said Lord Barmouth in a faltering voice.

“Yes, papa, dear; and you will intercede for my dear husband,” said the young wife, clinging to him affectionately.

“I will, my dear, I will. I feel as brave as a lion now. I – I – oh, here she is.”

“What is the meaning of all this?” cried her ladyship, staring round at the scene, as Tryphie rushed at Maude, kissed her, and then at Charley Melton, and jumped up and kissed him.

“I always fancied that’s how it was,” she whispered.

“What’s the meaning of it?” cried Tom. “Why, we’ve found them. Here, allow me to take round the hat for the coppers; or will you do it now, Maude?”

“I repeat,” cried Lady Barmouth, “what is the meaning of this? Mr Melton, what are you doing here?”

“Asking your ladyship’s pardon for myself and my dear wife,” said Charley, taking Maude’s hand.

“Wife? Then! You! Oh, Maude, you wicked, wicked girl!”

“But, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth.

“Silence!” cried her ladyship, “Maude, you have utterly broken my heart, and – ”

“Don’t you believe it, Maudey,” said Tom, grinning. “She’s only saying that to keep up appearances.”

“Tom!”

“All right! but you know you are. There, Charley, old boy, kiss your dear mother. Come, gov’nor, say Bless you, my children!”

“Certainly, my dear boy,” said the old man, earnestly. “Bless you indeed, my dear children. Charley Melton, you can’t tell how glad I am, my boy.”

“Barmouth!”

“Yes, my love, but I can’t help it. I do feel very glad; but oh, you young dog, to come playing us a trick like that!”

“Barmouth!”

“There, hang it all, mother,” cried Tom, “what’s the good of holding out. You’ve behaved very nicely, but, as we say in refined circles – I mean rings – it’s quite time you threw up the sponge.”

“Mamma, dear, I would sooner have died than marry Sir Grantley.”

“Such a cruel ruse,” sobbed her ladyship, in hystero-tragic tones. “Maude! Maude!”

“Don’t blame her, dearest mother,” said Tom, in mock-heroic style, “it was the troubadour. Il trovatore! and his playing was magnificent. It would have won the heart of a female saint, or charmed a nun from her cell, let alone our Maude.”

“Justine, my drops, my drops.”

“She caves in! Charley, old chap, you may kiss her now,” cried Tom, “she won’t bite. There, take him to your heart, old lady; and I say, mamma, some day if you do faint, Charley could carry you to a sofa: Grantley Wilters would have doubled up like a two-foot rule.”

“I can never show my face in society again,” said her ladyship, “never, Mr Melton.”

“What!” cried Tom, who grinned with delight as he saw his mother seated upon a couch between Charley and Maude. “What? why, it’ll be no end of a game. It’s all right, Maudey; you’ve won.”

“Ah,” sighed her ladyship, “let Justine bring my drops.”

“Drops be hanged! Champagne,” cried Tom. “Here, ring the bell, gov’nor; no table-d’hôte to-day, mamma’s going to order a wedding dinner – a screamer.”

“No, no, Tom!”

“Yes, yes, my dear mother.”

Her ladyship sighed, smiled, ordered the dinner, and Lord Barmouth rubbed his leg.

“Tom, my boy,” he whispered, “you really are a wonder.”

“Am I, gov’nor? Then you tell Tryphie so, and back me up, for I mean, as the old song says, ‘to marry she.’”

“Do you, my boy?”

“Yes, gov’nor. Do you consent?”

“Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. When is it to be?”

“Barmouth,” said her ladyship in her deep contralto, “would you be kind enough to ring for Justine?”

Chapter Thirty One.

Tom picks a Bone