Part 51 (1/2)
He stroked his moustache with feline care and nicety.
”Yes--I! If not, I've studied women all my life for nothing!”
She broke into a low peal of mocking laughter--turned, and was about to leave him, when he detained her by a slight touch on her arm.
”Stop a bit!” he said in an impressive _sotto-voce_. ”A bargain's a bargain all the world over. If I undertake to keep you cognizant of Bruce-Errington's little goings-on in London,--information which, I dare say, you can turn to good account,--you must do something for me. I ask very little. Speak of me to Lady Errington--make her think well of me,--flatter me as much as you used to do when we fancied ourselves terrifically in love with each other--(a good joke, wasn't it!)--and, above all, make her _trust_ me! Do you understand?”
”As Red Riding-Hood trusted the Wolf and was eaten up for her innocence,” observed Lady Winsleigh. ”Very well! I'll do my best. As I said before, you want a character. I'm sure I hope you'll obtain the situation you so much desire! I can state that you made yourself fairly useful in your last place, and that you left because your wages were not high enough!”
And with another sarcastic laugh, she moved forward towards the terrace where Thelma stood. Sir Francis followed at some little distance with no very pleasant expression on his features. A stealthy step approaching him front behind made him start nervously--it was Louise Renaud, who, carrying a silver tray on which soda-water bottles and gla.s.ses made an agreeable clinking, tripped demurely past him without raising her eyes.
She came directly out of the rose-garden,--and, as she overtook her mistress on the lawn, that lady seemed surprised, and asked--
”Where have you been, Louise?”
”Miladi was willing that I should a.s.sist in the attendance to-day,”
replied Louise discreetly. ”I have waited upon Milord Winsleigh, and other gentlemen in the summer-house at the end of the rose-garden.”
And with one furtive glance of her black, bead-like eyes at Lady Winsleigh's face, she made a respectful sort of half-curtsy and went her way.
Later on in the afternoon, when it was nearing sunset, and all other amus.e.m.e.nts had given way to the delight of dancing on the springy green turf to the swinging music of the band,--Briggs, released for a time from the duties of a.s.sisting the waiters at the splendid refreshment-table (duties which were pleasantly lightened by the drinking of a bottle of champagne which he was careful to reserve for his own consumption), sauntered leisurely through the winding alleys and fragrant shrubberies which led to the most unromantic portion of the Manor grounds,--namely, the vegetable-garden. Here none of the b.u.t.terflies of fas.h.i.+on found their way,--the suggestions offered by growing cabbages, turnips, beans, and plump, yellow-skinned marrows were too prosaic for society bantams who require refined surroundings in which to crow their a.s.sertive plat.i.tudes. Yet it was a peaceful nook--and there were household odors of mint and thyme and sweet marjoram, which were pleasant to the soul of Briggs, and reminded him of roast goose on Christmas Day, with all its attendant succulent delicacies. He paced the path slowly,--the light of the sinking sun blazing gloriously on his plush breeches, silver cordons and ta.s.sels,--for he was in full-dress livery in honor of the fete, and looked exceedingly imposing. Now and then he glanced down at his calves with mild approval,--his silk stockings fitted them well, and they had a very neat and shapely appearance.
”I've developed,” he murmured to himself. ”There ain't a doubt about it! One week of Country air, and I'm a different man;--the eff.e.c.ks of overwork 'ave disappeared. Flopsie won't know these legs of mine when I get back,--they've improved surprisingly.” He stopped to survey a bed of carrots. ”Plenty of Cressy there,” he mused. ”Cressy's a n.o.ble soup, and Flopsie makes it well,--a man might do wuss than marry Flopsie. She's a widder, and a _leetle_ old--just a leetle old for me--but--” Here he sniffed delicately at a sprig of thyme he had gathered, and smiled consciously. Presently he perceived a small, plump, pretty figure approaching him, no other than Britta, looking particularly charming in a very smart cap, adorned with pink-ribbon bows, and a very elaborately frilled muslin ap.r.o.n. Briggs at once a.s.sumed his most elegant and conquering air, straightened himself to his full height and kissed his hand to her with much condescension. She laughed as she came up to him, and the dimples in her round cheeks appeared in full force.
”Well, Mr. Briggs,” she said, ”are you enjoying yourself?”
Briggs smiled down upon her benevolently. ”I am!” he responded graciously. ”I find the hair refres.h.i.+ng. And you, Miss Britta?”
”Oh, I'm very comfortable, thank you!” responded Britta demurely, edging a little away from his arm, which showed an unmistakable tendency to encircle her waist,--then glancing at a basket she held full of grapes, just cut from the hot house, she continued, ”These are for the supper-table. I must be quick, and take them to Mrs. Parton.”
”Must you?” and Briggs asked this question with quite an unnecessary amount of tenderness, then resuming his dignity, he observed, ”Mrs.
Parton is a very worthy woman--an excellent 'ousekeeper. But she'll no doubt excuse you for lingering a little, Miss Britta--especially in _my_ company.”
Britta laughed again, showing her pretty little white teeth to the best advantage. ”Do you think she will?” she said merrily. ”Then I'll stop a minute, and if she scolds me I'll put the blame on you!”
Briggs played with his silver ta.s.sels and, leaning gracefully against a plum-tree, surveyed her with a critical eye.
”I was not able,” he observed, ”to see much of you in town. Our people were always a' visitin' each other, and yet our meetings were, as the poet says, 'few and far between.'”
Britta nodded indifferently, and perceiving a particularly ripe gooseberry on one of the bushes close to her, gathered it quickly and popped it between her rosy lips. Seeing another equally ripe, she offered it to Briggs, who accepted it and ate it slowly, though he had a misgiving that by so doing he was seriously compromising his dignity. He resumed his conversation.
”Since I've been down 'ere, I've 'ad more opportunity to observe you. I 'ope you will allow me to say I think very highly of you.” He waved his hand with the elegance of a Sir Charles Grandison. ”Very 'ighly indeed!
Your youth is most becoming to you! If you only 'ad a little more _chick_, there'd be nothing left to desire!”
”A little more--_what_?” asked Britta, opening her blue eyes very wide in puzzled amus.e.m.e.nt.
”_Chick_!” replied Briggs, with persistent persuasiveness. ”_Chick_, Miss Britta, is a French word much used by the aristocracy. Coming from Norway, an 'avin' perhaps a very limited experience, you mayn't 'ave 'erd it--but eddicated people 'ere find it very convenient and expressive. _Chick_ means style,--_the_ thing, _the_ go, _the_ fas.h.i.+on.
For example, everything your lady wears is _chick_!”
”Really!” said Britta, with a wandering and innocent air. ”How funny! It doesn't sound like French, at all, Mr. Briggs,--it's more like English.”