The City of Masks Part 22

"It is a waste of time, don't you think?"

"Quate--oh, yes, quate," drawled Mr. Moody, in a roving sort of way.

That is to say, his interest seemed to be utterly detached, as if nothing that Mrs. Smith-Parvis said really mattered.

"Naturally we try to find things in the cheaper places before we come here," went on the lady boldly.

"More int'resting," said Mr. Moody, indulgently eyeing a great bra.s.s lanthorn that hung suspended over Mrs. Millidew's bonnet,--but safely to the left of it, he decided.

"I've been looking for something odd and quaint and--and--you know,--of the Queen Anne period,--trinkets, you might say, Mr. Moody. What have you in that--"

"Queen Anne? Oh, ah, yes, to be sure,--Queen Anne. Yes, yes. I see. 'Pon my soul, Mrs. Smith-Parvis, I fear we haven't anything at all. Most uncommon dearth of Queen Anne material nowadays. We cawn't get a thing.

Snapped up in England, of course. I know of some extremely rare pieces to be had in New York, however, and, while I cannot procure them for you myself, I should be charmed to give you a letter to the dealer who has them."

"Oh, how kind of you. That is really most gracious of you."

"Mr. Juneo, of Juneo & Co., has quite a stock," interrupted Mr. Moody tolerantly,--"quite a remarkable collection, I may say. Indeed, nothing finer has been brought to New York in--in--in--"

Mr. Moody faltered. His whole manner underwent a swift and peculiar change. His eyes were riveted upon the approaching figure of a young lady. Casually, from time to time, his roving, detached gaze had rested upon her back as she stood near the window. As a back, it did not mean anything to him.

But now she was approaching,--and a queer, cold little something ran swiftly down his spine. It was Lady Jane Thorne!

Smash went his house of cards into a jumbled heap. It collapsed from a lofty height. Lady Jane Thorne!

No use trying to lord it over her! She was the real thing! Couldn't put on "lugs" with her,--not a bit of it! She knew!

His monocle dropped. He tried to catch it. Missed!

"My word!" he mumbled, as he stooped over to retrieve it from the rug at his feet. The exertion sent a ruddy glow to his neck and ears and brow.

"Did you break it?" cried Mrs. Millidew.

He stuck it in his waist-coat pocket without examination.

"This is Miss Emsdale, our governess," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis. "She's an English girl, Mr. Moody."

"Glad to meet you," stammered Mr. Moody, desperately.

"How do you do, Mr. Moody," said Jane, in the most matter-of-fact way.

Mr. Moody knew that she was a paid governess. He had known it for many months. But that didn't alter the case. She was the "real thing." He couldn't put on any "side" with her. He couldn't bring himself to it, not if his life depended on it. Not even if she had been a scullery-maid and appeared before him in greasy ginghams. All very well to "stick it on" with these fas.h.i.+onable New Yorkers, but when it came to the daughter of the Earl of Wexham,--well, it didn't matter _what_ she was as long as he knew _who_ she was.

His mask was off.

The change in his manner was so abrupt, so complete, that his august customers could not fail to notice it. Something was wrong with the poor man! Certainly he was not himself. He looked ill,--at any rate, he did not look as well as usual. Heart, that's what it was, flashed through Mrs. Millidew's brain. Mrs. Smith-Parvis took it to be vertigo.

Sometimes her husband looked like that when--

"Will you please excuse me, ladies,--just for a moment or two?" he mumbled, in a most extraordinary voice. "I will go at once and write a note to Mr. Juneo. Make yourselves at 'ome. And--and--" He shot an appealing glance at Miss Emsdale,--"and you too, Miss."

In a very few minutes a stenographer came out of the office into which Mr. Moody had disappeared, with a typewritten letter to Mr. Juneo, and the word that Mr. Moody had been taken suddenly ill and begged to be excused. He hoped that they would be so gracious as to allow Mr. Paddock to show them everything they had in stock,--and so on.

"It was so sudden," said Mrs. Millidew. "I never saw such a change in a man in all my life. Heart, of course. High living, you may be sure. It gets them every time."

"I shall run in tomorrow and tell him about Dr. Brodax," said Mrs.

Smith-Parvis firmly. "He ought to see the best man in the city, of course, and no one--"

"For the Lord's sake, don't let him get into the clutches of that man Brodax," interrupted Mrs. Millidew. "He is--"

"No, thank you, Mr. Paddock,--I sha'n't wait. Another day will do just as well. Come, Miss Emsdale. Good-bye, my dear. Come and see me."

"Dr. Brown stands at the very top of the profession as a heart specialist. He--"

"I've never heard of him," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis icily, and led the way to the sidewalk, her head very high. You could say almost anything you pleased to Mrs. Smith-Parvis about her husband, or her family, or her religion, or even her figure, but you couldn't belittle her doctor. That was lese-majesty. She wouldn't have it.

A more or less peaceful expedition came to grief within sixty seconds after its members reached the sidewalk,--and in a most astonis.h.i.+ng manner.

Stuyvesant was in a nasty humour. He had not noticed Thomas Trotter before. Coming upon the tall young man suddenly, after turning the corner of the building, he was startled into an expression of disgust.

Trotter was holding open the limousine door for Mrs. Millidew, the elder.

Young Mr. Smith-Parvis stopped short and stared in a most offensive manner at Mrs. Millidew's chauffeur.

"By gad, you weren't long in getting a job after Carpenter fired you, were you? Fis.h.!.+"

Now, there is no way in the world to recall the word "fish" after it has been uttered in the tone employed by Stuyvesant. Ordinarily it is a most inoffensive word, and signifies something delectable. In French it is _poisson_, and we who know how to p.r.o.nounce it say it with pleasure and gusto, quite as we say _pomme de terre_ when we mean potato. If Stuyvesant had said _poisson_, the chances are that nothing would have happened. But he didn't. He said fish.

No doubt Thomas Trotter was in a bad humour also. He was a very sensible young man, and there was no reason why he should be jealous of Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. He had it from Miss Emsdale herself that she loathed and despised the fellow. And yet he saw red when she pa.s.sed him a quarter of an hour before with Stuyvesant at her side. For some time he had been hara.s.sed by the thought that if she had not caught sight of him as she left the car, the young man's offer of a.s.sistance might not have been spurned. In any event, there certainly was something queer afoot. Why was she driving about with Mrs. Smith-Parvis,--_and_ Stuyvesant,--as if she were one of the family and not a paid employe?

In the twinkling of an eye, Thomas Trotter forgot that he was a chauffeur. He remembered only that he was Lord Eric Carruthers Ethelbert Temple, the grandson of a soldier, the great-grandson of a soldier, and the great-great grandson of a soldier whose father and grandfather had been soldiers before him.

Thomas Trotter would have said,--and quite properly, too, considering his position:--"Quite so, sir."

Lord Temple merely put his face a little closer to Stuyvesant's and said, very audibly, very distinctly: "You go to h.e.l.l!"

Stuyvesant fell back a step. He could not believe his ears. The fellow couldn't have said--and yet, there was no possible way of making anything else out of it. He _had_ said "You go to h.e.l.l."

Fortunately he had said it in the presence of ladies. Made bold by the continued presence of at least three ladies, Stuyvesant, a.s.suming that a chauffeur would not dare go so far as a physical retort, snapped his fingers under Trotter's nose and said:

"For two cents I'd kick you all over town for that."

Miss Emsdale erred slightly in her agitation. She grasped Stuyvesant's arm. Trotter also erred. He thought she was trying to keep Smith-Parvis from carrying out the threat.

Mrs. Millidew, the elder, cried out sharply: "What's all this? Trotter, get up on the seat at once. I--"

Mrs. Millidew, the younger, leaned from the window and patted Trotter on the shoulder. Her eyes were sparkling.

"Give it to him, Trotter. Don't mind me!" she cried.

Stuyvesant turned to Miss Emsdale. "Don't be alarmed, my dear. I sha'n't do it, you know. Pray compose yourself. I--"

At that juncture Lord Eric Temple reached out and, with remarkable precision, grasped Stuyvesant's nose between his thumb and forefinger.