Part 37 (1/2)
”And what does Caroline Chambray say to that?”
And so on they chatted, till his call was ended, and Mr. Longcluse walked down the steps with his head pretty busy.
At the corner of a street he took a cab; and as he drove to Lady May's, those fragments of his short talk with Grace Maubray that most interested him were tumbling over and over in his mind. ”So they are angry, very angry; and very proud and haughty people. I had no business dreaming of an alliance with Mr. Richard Arden. Angry, he may be--he may affect to be--but I don't believe she is. And proud, is he? Proud of her he might be, but what else has he to boast of? Proud and angry--ha, ha!
Angry and proud. We shall see. Such people sometimes grow suddenly mild and meek. And she has accepted Lord Wynderbroke. I doubt it. Miss Maubray, you are such a good-natured girl that, if you suspected the torture your story inflicted, you would invent it, rather than spare a fellow-mortal that pang.”
In this we know he was a little unjust.
”Well, Miss Arden, I understand your brother; I shall soon understand _you_. At present I hesitate. Alas! must I place you, too, in the schedule of my lost friends? Is it come to this?--
'Once I held thee dear as pearl, Now I do abhor thee.'”
Mr. Longcluse's chin rests on his breast as, with a faint smile, he thus ruminates.
The cab stops. The light frown that had contracted his eyebrows disappears, he glances quickly up at the drawing-room windows, mounts the steps, and knocks at the hall door.
”Is Lady May Penrose at home?” he asked.
”I'll inquire, Sir.”
Was it fancy, or was there in his reception something a little unusual, and ominous of exclusion?
He was, notwithstanding, shown up-stairs. Mr. Longcluse enters the drawing-room: Lady May will see him in a few minutes. He is alone. At the further end of this room is a smaller one, furnished like the drawing-room, the same curtains, carpet, and style, but much more minute and elaborate in ornamentation--an extremely pretty boudoir. He just peeps in. No, no one there. Then slowly he saunters into the other drawing-room, picks up a book, lays it down, and looks round. Quite solitary is this room also. His countenance changes a little. With a swift, noiseless step, he returns to the room he first entered. There is a little marqueterie table, to which he directs his steps, just behind the door from the staircase, under the pretty old buhl clock that ticks so merrily with its old wheels and lever, exciting the reverential curiosity of Monsieur Racine, who keeps it in order, and comments on its antique works with a mysterious smile every time he comes, to any one who will listen to him. The door is a little bit open. All the better, Mr. Longcluse will hear any step that approaches. On this little table lies an open note, hastily thrown there, and the pretty handwriting he has recognised. He knows it is Alice Arden's. Without the slightest scruple, this odd gentleman takes it up and reads a bit, and looks toward the door; reads a little more, and looks again, and so on to the end.
On the principle that listeners seldom hear good of themselves, Mr.
Longcluse's cautious perusal of another person's letter did not tell him a pleasant tale.
CHAPTER x.x.xVII.
WHAT ALICE COULD SAY.
The letter which Mr. Longcluse held before his eyes was destined to throw a strong light upon the character of Alice Arden's feelings respecting himself. After a few lines, it went on to say:--”And, darling, about going to you this evening, I hardly know what to say, or, I mean, I hardly know how to say it. Mr. Longcluse, you know, may come in at any moment, and I have quite made up my mind that I cannot know him. I told you all about the incredible scene in the garden at Mortlake, and I showed you the very cool letter with which he saw fit to follow it--and yesterday the scene at the races, by which he contrived to make everything so uncomfortable--so, my dear creature, I mean to be cruel, and cut him. I am quite serious. He has not an idea how to behave himself; and the only way to repair the folly of having made the acquaintance of such an ill-bred person is, as I said, to cut him--you must not be angry--and Richard thinks exactly as I do. So, as I long to see you, and, in fact, can't live away from you very long, we must contrive some way of meeting now and then, without the risk of being disturbed by him. In the meantime, you must come more to Mortlake. It is too bad that an impertinent, conceited man should have caused me all this very real vexation.”
There was but little more, and it did not refer to the only subject that interested Longcluse just then. He would have liked to read it through once more, but he thought he heard a step. He let it fall where he had found it, and walked to the window. Perhaps, if he had read it again, it would have lost some of the force which a first impression gives to sentences so terrible; as it was, they glared upon his retina, through the same exaggerating medium through which his excited imagination and feelings had scanned them at first.
Lady May entered, and Mr. Longcluse paid his respects, just as usual.
You would not have supposed that anything had occurred to ruffle him.
Lady May was just as affable as usual, but very much graver. She seemed to have something on her mind, and not to know how to begin.
At length, after some little conversation, which flagged once or twice--
”I have been thinking, Mr. Longcluse, I must have appeared very stupid,”
says Lady May. ”I did not ask you to be one of our party to the Derby: and I think it is always best to be quite frank, and I know you like it best. I'm afraid there has been some little misunderstanding. I hope in a short time it will be all got over, and everything quite pleasant again. But some of our friends--you, no doubt, know more about it than I do, for I must confess, I don't very well understand it--are vexed at something that has occurred, and----”
Poor Lady May was obviously struggling with the difficulties of her explanation, and Mr. Longcluse relieved her.