Thelma Part 40

"Who is she?" and in spite of herself, Lady Winsleigh's smile vanished and her lips quivered.

"Lady Bruce-Errington," answered Sir Francis readily. "The loveliest woman in the world, I should say! Phil was beside her--he looks in splendid condition--and that meek old secretary fellow sat opposite--Neville--isn't that his name? Anyhow they seemed as jolly as pipers,--as for that woman, she'll drive everybody out of their wits about her before half the season's over."

"But she's a mere peasant!" said Mrs. Marvelle loftily. "Entirely uneducated--a low, common creature!"

"Ah, indeed!" and Sir Francis again yawned extensively. "Well, I don't know anything about that! She was exquisitely dressed, and she held herself like a queen. As for her hair--I never saw such wonderful hair,--there's every shade of gold in it."

"Dyed!" said Lady Winsleigh, with a sarcastic little laugh. "She's been in Paris,--I dare say a good _coiffeur_ has done it for her there artistically!"

This time Sir Francis's smile was a thoroughly amused one.

"Commend me to a woman for spite!" he said carelessly. "But I'll not presume to contradict you, Clara! You know best, I dare say! Ta-ta! I'll come for you to-night,--you know we're bound for the theatre together.

By-bye, Mrs. Marvelle! You look younger than ever!"

And Sir Francis Lennox sauntered easily away, leaving the ladies to resume their journey through the Park. Lady Winsleigh looked vexed--Mrs.

Marvelle bewildered.

"Do you think," inquired this latter, "she can really be so wonderfully lovely?"

"No, I don't!" answered Clara snappishly. "I dare say she's a plump creature with a high color--men like fat women with brick-tinted complexions--they think it's healthy. Helen of Troy indeed! Pooh! Lennie must be crazy."

The rest of their drive was very silent,-they were both absorbed in their own reflections. On arriving at the Van Clupps', they found no one at home--not even Marcia--so Lady Winsleigh drove her "dearest Mimsey"

back to her own house in Kensington, and there left her with many expressions of tender endearment--then, returning home, proceeded to make an elaborate and brilliant toilette for the enchantment and edification of Sir Francis Lennox that evening. She dined alone, and was ready for her admirer when he called for her in his private hansom, and drove away with him to the theatre, where she was the cynosure of many eyes; meanwhile her husband, Lord Winsleigh, was pressing a good-night kiss on the heated forehead of an excited boy, who, plunging about in his little bed and laughing heartily, was evidently desirous of emulating the gambols of the clown who had delighted him that afternoon at Hengler's.

"Papa! could you stand on your head and shake hands with your foot?"

demanded this young rogue, confronting his father with towzled curls and flushed cheeks.

Lord Winsleigh laughed. "Really, Ernest, I don't think I could!" he answered good-naturedly. "Haven't you talked enough about the circus by this time? I thought you were ready for sleep, otherwise I should not have come up to say good-night."

Ernest studied the patient, kind features of his father for a moment, and then slipped penitently under the bedclothes, settling his restless young head determinedly on the pillow.

"I'm all right now!" he murmured, with a demure, dimpling smile. Then, with a tender upward twinkle of his merry blue eyes, he added, "Good-night, papa dear! G.o.d bless you!"

A sort of wistful pathos softened the grave lines of Lord Winsleigh's countenance as he bent once more over the little bed, and pressed his bearded lips lightly on the boy's fresh cheek, as cool and soft as a rose-leaf.

"G.o.d bless you, little man!" he answered softly, and there was a slight quiver in his calm voice. Then he put out the light and left the room, closing the door after him with careful noiselessness. Descending the broad stairs slowly, his face changed from its late look of tenderness to one of stern and patient coldness, which was evidently its habitual expression. He addressed himself to Briggs, who was lounging aimlessly in the hall.

"Her ladys.h.i.+p is out?"

"Yes, my lord! Gone to the theayter with Sir Francis Lennox."

Lord Winsleigh turned upon him sharply. "I did not ask you, Briggs, _where_ she had gone, or _who_ accompanied her. Have the goodness to answer my questions simply, without adding useless and unnecessary details."

Briggs's mouth opened a little in amazement at his master's peremptory tone, but he answered promptly--

"Very good, my lord!"

Lord Winsleigh paused a moment, and seemed to consider. Then he said--

"See that her ladys.h.i.+p's supper is prepared in the dining-room. She will most probably return rather late. Should she inquire for me, say I am at the Carlton."

Again Briggs responded, "Very good, my lord!" And, like an exemplary servant as he was, he lingered about the pa.s.sage while Lord Winsleigh entered his library, and, after remaining there some ten minutes or so, came out again in hat and great coat. The officious Briggs handed him his cane, and inquired--

"'Ansom, my lord?"

"Thanks, no. I will walk."

It was a fine moonlight night, and Briggs stood for some minutes on the steps, airing his shapely calves and watching the tall, dignified figure of his master walking, with the upright, stately bearing which always distinguished him, in the direction of Pall Mall. Park Lane was full of crowding carriages with twinkling lights, all bound to the different sources of so-called "pleasure" by which the opening of the season is distinguished. Briggs surveyed the scene with lofty indifference, sniffed the cool breeze, and, finding it somewhat chilly, re-entered the house and descended to the servant's hall. Here all the domestics of the Winsleigh household were seated at a large table loaded with hot and savory viands,--a table presided over by a robust and perspiring lady, with a very red face and st.u.r.dy arms bare to the elbow.

"Lor', Mr. Briggs!" cried this personage, rising respectfully as he approached, "'ow late you are! Wot 'ave you been a-doin' on? 'Ere I've been a-keepin' your lamb-chops and truffles 'ot all this time, and if they's dried up 'taint my fault, nor that of the hoven, which is as good a hoven as you can wish to bake in. . . ."

She paused breathless, and Briggs smiled blandly.

"Now, Flopsie!" he said in a tone of gentle severity. "Excited again--as usual! It's bad for your 'elth--very bad! _Hif_ the chops is dried, your course is plain--cook some more! Not that I am enny ways particular--but chippy meat is bad for a delicate digestion. And you would not make me hill, my Flopsie, would you?"

Whereupon he seated himself, and looked condescendingly round the table.

He was too great a personage to be familiar with such inferior creatures as housemaids, scullery-girls, and menials of that cla.s.s,--he was only on intimate terms with the cook, Mrs. Flopper, or, as he called her, "Flopsie,"--the coachman, and Lady Winsleigh's own maid, Louise Renaud, a prim, sallow-faced Frenchwoman, who, by reason of her nationality, was called by all the inhabitants of the kitchen, "mamzelle," as being a name both short, appropriate, and convenient.

On careful examination, the lamb-chops turned out satisfactorily--"chippiness" was an epithet that could not justly be applied to them,--and Mr. Briggs began to eat them leisurely, flavoring them with a gla.s.s or two of fine port out of a decanter which he had taken the precaution to bring down from the dining-room sideboard.

"I _ham_, late," he then graciously explained--"not that I was detained in enny way by the people upstairs. The gay Clara went out early, but I was absorbed in the evenin' papers--Winsleigh forgot to ask me for them.

But he'll see them at his club. He's gone there now on foot-poor fellah!"

"I suppose _she's_ with the same party?" grinned the fat Flopsie, as she held a large piece of bacon dipped in vinegar on her fork, preparatory to swallowing it with a gulp.

Briggs nodded gravely, "The same! Not a fine man at all, you know--no leg to speak of, and therefore no form. Legs--_good_ legs--are beauty.

Now, Winsleigh's not bad in that particular,--and I dare say Clara can hold her own,--but I wouldn't bet on little Francis."

Flopsie shrieked with laughter till she had a "st.i.tch in her side," and was compelled to restrain her mirth.

"Lor', Mr. Briggs!" she gasped, wiping the moisture from her eyes, "you are a regular one, aren't you! Mussy on us, you ought to put all wot you say in the papers--you'd make your fortin!"

"Maybe, maybe, Flopsie," returned Briggs with due dignity. "I will not deny that there may be wot is called 'sparkle' in my natur. And 'sparkle' is wot is rekwired in polite literatoor. Look at 'Hedmund' and ''Enery!' Sparkle again,--read their magnificent productions, the _World_ and _Truth_,--all sparkle, every line! It is the secret of success, Flopsie--be a sparkler and you've got everything before you."

Louise Renaud looked across at him half-defiantly. Her prim, cruel mouth hardened into a tight line.

"To spark-el?" she said--"that is what we call _etinceler_--_eclater_.

Yes, I comprehend! Miladi is one spark-el! But one must be a very good jewel to spark-el always--yes--yes--not a sham!"

And she nodded a great many times, and ate her salad very fast. Briggs surveyed her with much complacency.

"You are a talented woman, Mamzelle," he said, "very talented! I admire your ways--I really do!"

Mamzelle smiled with a gratified air, and Briggs settled his wig, eyeing her anew with fresh interest.

"_Wot_ a witness you would be in a divorce case!" he continued enthusiastically. "You'd be in your helement!"

"I should--I should indeed!" exclaimed Mamzelle, with sudden excitement,--then as suddenly growing calm, she made a rapid gesture with her hands--"But there will be no divorce. Milord Winsleigh is a fool!"