The Curved Blades

Charlier himself was distinctly non-committal. Debonair as always, he made his adieux, no more demonstrative to his hostess than to the others, and went away. Illsley followed, and the household dispersed. The clock struck midnight as the ladies went upstairs.

Following custom, they all three went to Miss Lucy’s boudoir. It was by way of reporting for to-morrow’s orders, and was a duty never neglected.

The exquisite apartment, from which opened the bedroom and bath, was softly lighted and fragrant with flowers.

“How do you like Count Henri Charlier?” Miss Carrington quickly demanded of her satellites.

“Charming,” said the voluble Anita. “Just a typical French nobleman, isn’t he? And how he adores our Lady Lucy!”

The whole speech rang false, but the vanity of the lady addressed swallowed it as truest sincerity. “Yes,” she returned, “he is infatuated, I have reason to think. But – we shall see what we shall see! Curb your impatience, girls! You shall know all in due time.”

“Can I do anything for you, Auntie, to-night or to-morrow?” asked Pauline, and, though she tried to speak with enthusiasm, her tone did sound perfunctory.

“Not if you offer in that manner,” and Miss Carrington looked at her niece coldly. “One would think, Pauline, that it must be an irksome task to do the smallest favor for your aunt and benefactor! Do you feel no pleasure in doing what trifles you can for one who does everything for you?”

“I would feel a pleasure, Aunt Lucy, if you were kinder to me. But – ”

“Kinder!” shrieked her aunt; “kinder! Girl, have you taken leave of your senses? I give you a home, fine dresses, money, everything you can want, and you ask me to be kinder to you! Go! never let me see you again, after that speech!”

“Oh, auntie, don’t! I didn’t mean – ”

“You didn’t mean to exasperate me beyond endurance? No, of course you meant to stop short of that! But you have done it. I mean this, Pauline: to-morrow you go elsewhere to live. No longer will I give a home to such a monster of ingratitude!”

“But, Miss Carrington” – and Anita Frayne’s soft voice implored gently – “don’t be hasty. Pauline didn’t mean – ”

“What!” and Lucy Carrington turned on her, “you take her part? Then you go, too! I want no ingrates here. Leave me, both of you. This night is your last beneath this roof! You are two unworthy girls, to scorn and slight the hand that has fed and clothed you and given you luxury and comfort such as you will never see again! Go, I’ve done with you! Send me Estelle. She, at least, has some small affection for me.”

The two girls left the room. The scene was not without precedent. Before this they had been ordered to leave the house forever, but always forgiveness and reinstatement had followed. This time, however, the Lady Lucy had been rather more in earnest, and the girls looked at each other uncertainly as they turned toward their rooms.

Anita summoned Estelle, the French maid, and then told her to hasten immediately to Miss Carrington.

“Don’t undress me,” said the mistress as the maid appeared; “I’m not retiring at once. Get me out of this gown and give me a negligée and slippers.”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” and Estelle deftly obeyed orders and brought a white boudoir gown edged with swans-down.

“Not that!” cried Miss Carrington. “Bring the gold-embroidered one, – the Oriental.”

“Ah, the green one, from Monsieur Loria?”

“Yes, the one my nephew sent me at Christmas time. My, but it’s handsome, isn’t it, Estelle?”

“Gorgeous!” declared the maid, and she spoke truly. Young Loria knew his aunt’s taste, and he had sent her a typical Egyptian robe, of pale green silk, heavy with gold embroideries. In it Miss Carrington looked like one attired for a masquerade.

“Shall I take down mademoiselle’s hair?” asked Estelle, lingering.

“No. I want to be alone. I will read awhile. You need not return. I will do for myself.”

“There is your glass of milk, ma’mzelle, on the bed-table.”

“Silly! I suppose I can see it for myself.”

“Yes, ma’am. And you will have your tea at eight in the morning?”

“Of course, my tea at eight. As always. You might remember that much yourself. But nobody remembers things for my comfort.”

“Pardon, but sometimes it is eight, and, again, it must be half-past.”

“Eight! Now, will you go? You are most exasperating! Why do you stand there like a gibbering idiot?”

“The jewels, mademoiselle; the pearls? Shall I not put them in safety?”

“No! I will put them in the safe myself. Where is the key?”

“There, mademoiselle, on your dresser. But if I might – ”

“You mayn’t do anything except to get out and stay out! Do you hear? Shall I never be obeyed?”

“Yes, mademoiselle; good-night.”

The soft tone was fully belied by the evil glare of the French girl’s eyes, but that was not seen by Miss Lucy Carrington.

III

THE TRAGEDY

The house faced the east, and, built on an English model, was far wider than deep. A broad hall ran through the centre from front to back, and on either side there were successive rooms whose windows looked out on equally beautiful scenes, both front and back. On the right of the hall, as one entered, was the long living room, and beyond it, the library and music room. The other side of the hall was a reception room, opening into the sun parlor, and on to the conservatory, and back of these, the dining room and smaller breakfast room.

Breakfast was served at nine, and the members of the family were usually all present. Miss Carrington, herself, made a point of being on time partly from habit, and also because it gave her opportunity to chide those who were late.

When she was not in her place, on the morning after the stormy bridge game, Pauline expressed surprise, and Haviland echoed her words.

But Anita said scornfully, “She went to bed in an awful tantrum and probably didn’t sleep well.”

Miss Frayne was looking her prettiest, and her roseleaf face with its fluffy golden halo, was like a Greuze picture. She wore a frivolous little house gown of blue crêpe de chine that just matched her forget-me-not eyes. Not especially appropriate garb for a secretary, but Miss Carrington preferred her household to be well-dressed, and really commanded pretty tints and fabrics for the two girls. Pauline was in white serge, of rather severe cut, but which suited her as no frills and flounces could. Her black hair was smoothly parted and coiled low over her ears, and her clear ivory-tinted skin was flushed faintly pink from the glow of the big, crackling wood fire.

“It’s most unusual,” went on Pauline, after a few moments more had passed, and the Lady Lucy had not appeared. “I’m going up to see if she is ill, – or – ”

“Or merely in a tantrum extraordinary!” said Anita, her blue eyes full of laughing disrespect for her employer.

“’Nita,” said Haviland, as Pauline disappeared, “hold your breakfast napkin up in front of your face, quick!”

“Why?” said the girl, wonderingly, as she did his bidding.

“Because, if you hadn’t, I should have flown at you and kissed you! And I mustn’t now, for Haskins is approaching with muffins.”

Down came the shielding napkin and only the arrival of the muffin-laden Haskins saved the lovely laughing face from Haviland’s impetuous caress.

The old butler fussed about, and several minutes passed, when Pauline called from above stairs, “Gray! Come here, at once!”