Part 49 (1/2)
”Philip,” said Thelma suddenly. ”Did you really go behind the scenes to-night?”
”Yes, I did,” he answered readily. ”I was obliged to go on a matter of business--a very disagreeable and unpleasant matter too.”
”And what was it?” she asked timidly, yet hopefully.
”My pet, I can't tell you! I wish I could! It's a secret I'm bound not to betray--a secret which involves the name of another person who'd be wretched if I were to mention it to you. There,--don't let us talk about it any more!”
”Very well, Philip,” said Thelma resignedly,--but though she smiled, a sudden presentiment of evil depressed her. The figure of the vulgar, half-clothed, painted creature known as Violet Vere rose up mockingly before her eyes,--and the half-scornful, half-jesting words of Lady Winsleigh rang persistently in her ears.
On reaching home, Philip went straight to Neville's little study and remained with him in earnest conversation for a long time--while Thelma went to bed, and lay restless among her pillows, puzzling her brain with strange forebodings and new and perplexing ideas, till fatigue overpowered her, and she fell asleep with a few tear-drops wet on her lashes. And that night Philip wondered why his sweet wife talked so plaintively in her sleep,--though he smiled as he listened to the drift of those dove-like murmurings.
”No one knows how my boy loves me,” sighed the dreaming voice. ”No one in all the world! How should he tire? Love can never tire!”
Meanwhile, Lady Winsleigh, in the seclusion of her own boudoir, penned a brief note to Sir Francis Lennox as follows--
”DEAR OLD LENNIE,”
”I saw you in the stalls at the theatre this evening, though you pretended not to see me. What a fickle creature you are! not that I mind in the very least. The virtuous Bruce-Errington left his saintly wife and me to talk little plat.i.tudes together, while he, decorously accompanied by his secretary, went down to pay court to Violet Vere. How stout she is getting! Why don't you men advise her to diet herself? I know you also went behind the scenes--of course, you _are_ an _ami intime_--promising boy you are, to be sure! Come and lunch with me to-morrow, if you're not too lazy.”
”Yours ever, CLARA.”
She gave this missive to her maid, Louise Renaud, to post,--that faithful attendant took it first to her own apartment where she ungummed the envelope neatly by the aid of hot water, and read every word of it.
This was not an exceptional action of hers,--all the letters received and sent by her mistress were subjected to the same process,--even those that were sealed with wax she had a means of opening in such a manner that it was impossible to detect that they had been tampered with.
She was a very clever French maid was Louise,--one of the cleverest of her cla.s.s. Fond of mischief, ever suspicious, always on the alert for evil, utterly unscrupulous and malicious, she was an altogether admirable attendant for a lady of rank and fas.h.i.+on, her skill as a _coiffeur_ and needle-woman always obtaining for her the wages she so justly deserved. When will wealthy women reared in idleness and luxury learn the folly of keeping a trained spy attached to their persons?--a spy whose pretended calling is merely to arrange dresses and fripperies (half of which she invariably steals), but whose real delight is to take note of all her mistress's incomings and outgoings, tempers and tears--to watch her looks, her smiles and frowns,--and to start scandalous gossip concerning her in the servants' hall, from whence it gradually spreads to the society newspapers--for do you think these estimable and popular journals are never indebted for their ”reliable”
information to the ”honest” statements of discharged footman or valet?
Briggs, for instance, had tried his hand at a paragraph or two concerning the ”Upper Ten,” and with the aid of a dictionary, had succeeded in expressing himself quite smartly, though in ordinary conversation his h's were often lacking or superfluous, and his grammar doubtful. Whether he persuaded any editor to accept his literary efforts is quite another matter--a question to which the answer must remain for ever enveloped in mystery,--but if he _did_ appear in print (it is only an if!) he must have been immensely gratified to consider that his statements were received with gus...o...b.. at least half aristocratic London, and implicitly believed as having emanated from the ”best authorities.” And Louise Renaud having posted her mistress's letter at last, went down to visit Briggs in his private pantry, and to ask him a question.
”Tell me,” she said rapidly, with her tight, prim smile. ”You read the papers--you will know. What lady is that of the theatres--Violet Vere?”
Briggs laid down the paper he was perusing and surveyed her with a superior air.
”What, Vi?” he exclaimed with a lazy wink. ”Vi, of the Hopperer-Buff?
You've 'erd of 'er surely, Mamzelle? No? There's not a man (as is worth calling a man) about town, as don't know _'er_! Dukes, Lords, an' Royal 'Ighnesses--she's the style for 'em! Mag-ni-ficent creetur! all legs and arms! I won't deny but wot I 'ave an admiration for 'er myself--I bought a 'arf-crown portrait of 'er quite recently.” And Briggs rose slowly and searched in a mysterious drawer which he invariably kept locked.
”'Ere she is, as large as life, Mamzelle,” he continued, exhibiting a ”promenade” photograph of the actress in question. ”There's a neck for you! There's form! Vi, my dear, I saloot you!” and he pressed a sounding kiss on the picture--”you're one in a million! Smokes and drinks like a trooper, Mamzelle!” he added admiringly, as Louise Renaud studied the portrait attentively. ”But with all 'er advantages, you would not call 'er a lady. No--that term would be out of the question. She is wot we men would call an enchantin' female!” And Briggs kissed the tips of his fingers and waved them in the air as he had seen certain foreign gentlemen do when enthusiastic.
”I comprehend,” said the French maid, nodding emphatically. ”Then, if she is so, what makes that proud Seigneur Bruce-Errington visit her?”
Here she shook her finger at Briggs. ”And leave his beautiful lady wife, to go and see her?” Another shake. ”And that _miserable_ Sieur Lennox to go also? Tell me that!” She folded her arms, like Napoleon at St.
Helena, and smiled again that smile which was nothing but a sneer.
Briggs rubbed his nose contemplatively.
”Little Francis can go ennywheres,” he said at last. ”He's laid out a good deal of tin on Vi and others of 'er purfession. You cannot make enny-think of that young feller but a cad. I would not accept 'im for my pussonal attendant. No! But Sir Philip Bruce-Errington--” He paused, then continued, ”Air you sure of your facts, Mamzelle?”
Mamzelle was so sure, that the bow on her cap threatened to come off with the determined wagging of her head.
”Well,” resumed Briggs, ”Sir Philip may, like hothers, consider it 'the thing' you know, to 'ang on as it were to Vi. But I _'ad_ thought 'im superior to it. Ah! poor 'uman natur, as 'Uxley says!” and Briggs sighed. ”Lady Errington is a sweet creetur, Mamzelle--a _very_ sweet creetur! _Has_ a rule I find the merest nod of my 'ed a sufficient saloot to a woman of the aristocracy--but for _'er_, Mamzelle, I never fail to show 'er up with a court bow!” And involuntarily Briggs bowed then and there in his most elegant manner. Mamzelle tightened her thin lips a little and waved her hand expressively.