Part 51 (2/2)
”Perhaps the Paris accent isn't familiar to you yet,” remarked Briggs majestically. ”Your stay in the gay metropolis was probably short. Now, I 'ave been there many times--ah, Paris, Paris!” he paused in a sort of ecstacy, then, with a side leer, continued--”You'd 'ardly believe 'ow wicked I am in Paris, Miss Britta! I am, indeed! It is something in the hair of the Bollyvards, I suppose! And the caffy life excites my nerves.”
”Then you shouldn't go there,” said Britta gravely, though her eyes twinkled with repressed fun. ”It can't be good for you. And, oh! I'm so sorry, Mr. Briggs, to think that _you_ are ever wicked!” And she laughed.
”It's not for long,” explained Briggs, with a comically satisfied, yet penitent, look. ”It is only a sort of breaking out,--a fit of 'igh spirits. Hall men are so at times! It's _chick_ to run a little wild in Paris. But Miss Britta, if _you_ were with me I should never run wild!”
Here his arm made another attempt to get round her waist--and again she skillfully, and with some show of anger, avoided it.
”Ah, you're very 'ard upon me,” he then observed, ”Very, very, 'ard! But I won't complain, my--my dear gal--one day you'll know me better!” He stopped and looked at her very intently. ”Miss Britta,” he said abruptly, ”you've a great affection for your lady, 'aven't you?”
Instantly Britta's face flushed, and she was all attention.
”Yes, indeed!” she answered quickly. ”Why do you ask, Mr. Briggs?”
Briggs rubbed his nose perplexedly. ”It is not easy to explain,” he said. ”To run down my own employers wouldn't be in my line. But I've an idea that Clara--by which name I allude to my Lord Winsleigh's lady,--is up to mischief. She 'ates _your_ lady, Miss Britta--'ates 'er like poison!”
”Hates her!” cried Britta in astonishment. ”Oh, you must be mistaken, Mr. Briggs! She is as fond of her as she can be--almost like a sister to her!”
”Clara's a fine actress,” murmured Briggs, more to himself than to his companion. ”She'd beat Violet Vere on 'er own ground.” Raising his voice a little, he turned gallantly to Britta and relieved her of the basket she held.
”Hallow me!” he said. ”We'll walk to the 'ouse together. On the way I'll explain--and you'll judge for yourself. The words of the immortal bard, whose county we are in, occur to me as _aprerpo_,--'There are more things in 'evin and 'erth, 'Oratio,--than even the most devoted domestic can sometimes be aweer of.'”
And gently sauntering by Britta's side, Briggs began to converse in low and confidential tones,--she listened with strained and eager attention,--and she was soon receiving information that startled her and set her on the alert.
Talk of private detectives and secret service! Do private detectives ever discover so much as the servants of a man's own household?--servants who are aware of the smallest trifles,--who know the name and position of every visitor that comes and goes,--who easily learn to recognize the handwriting on every letter that arrives--who laugh and talk in their kitchens over things that their credulous masters and mistresses imagine are unknown to all the world save themselves,--who will judge the morals of a Duke, and tear the reputation of a d.u.c.h.ess to shreds, for the least, the most trifling error of conduct! If you can stand well with your servants, you can stand well with the whole world--if not--carry yourself as haughtily as you may--your pride will not last long, depend upon it!
Meanwhile, as Briggs and Britta strolled in the side paths of the shrubbery, the gay guests of the Manor were dancing on the lawn. Thelma did not dance,--she reclined in a low basket-chair, fanning herself.
George Lorimer lay stretched in lazy length at her feet, and near her stood her husband, together with Beau Lovelace and Lord Winsleigh. At a little distance, under the shadow of a n.o.ble beech, sat Mrs.
Rush-Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp in earnest conversation. It was to Mrs.
Marvelle that the Van Clupps owed their invitation for this one day down to Errington Manor,--for Thelma herself was not partial to them. But she did not like to refuse Mrs. Marvelle's earnest entreaty that they should be asked,--and that good-natured, scheming lady having gained her point, straightway said to Marcia Van Clupp somewhat severely--
”Now, Marcia, this is your last chance. If you don't hook Masherville at the Carringten fete, you'll lose him! You mark my words!”
Marcia had dutifully promised to do her best, and she was not having what she herself called ”a good hard time of it.” Lord Algy was in one of his most provokingly vacillating moods--moreover, he had a headache, and felt bilious. Therefore he would not dance--he would not play tennis--he did not understand archery--he was disinclined to sit in romantic shrubberies or summer-houses, as he had a nervous dread of spiders--so he rambled aimlessly about the grounds with his hands in his pockets, and perforce Marcia was compelled to ramble too. Once she tried what effect an opposite flirtation would have on his mind, so she coquetted desperately with a young country squire, whose breed of pigs was considered the finest in England--but Masherville did not seem to mind it in the least. Nay, he looked rather relieved than otherwise, and Marcia, seeing this, grew more resolute than ever.
”I guess I'll pay him out for this!” she thought as she watched him feebly drinking soda-water for his headache. ”He's a man that wants ruling, and ruled he shall be!”
And Mrs. Rush-Marvelle and Mrs. Van Clupp observed her manoeuvres with maternal interest, while the cunning-faced, white-headed Van Clupp conversed condescendingly with Mr. Rush-Marvelle, as being a nonent.i.ty of a man whom he could safely patronize.
As the glory of the sunset paled, and the delicate, warm hues of the summer twilight softened the landscape, the merriment of the brilliant a.s.sembly seemed to increase. As soon as it was dark, the grounds were to be illuminated by electricity, and dancing was to be continued indoors--the fine old picture-gallery being the place chosen for the purpose. Nothing that could add to the utmost entertainment of the guests had been forgotten, and Thelma, the fair mistress of these pleasant revels, noting with quiet eyes the evident enjoyment of all present, felt very happy and tranquil. She had exerted herself a good deal, and was now a little tired. Her eyes had a dreamy, far-off look, and she found her thoughts wandering, now and then, away to the Altenfjord--she almost fancied she could hear the sigh of the pines and the dash of the waves mingling in unison as they used to do when she sat at the old farm-house window and span, little dreaming then how her life would change--how all those familiar things would be swept away as though they had never been. She roused herself from this momentary reverie, and glancing down at the rec.u.mbent gentleman at her feet, touched his shoulder lightly with the edge of her fan.
”Why do you not dance, you very lazy Mr. Lorimer?” she asked, with a smile.
He turned up his fair, half-boyish face to hers and laughed.
”Dance! I! Good gracious! Such an exertion would kill me, Lady Errington--don't you know that? I am of a Sultan-like disposition--I shouldn't mind having slaves to dance for me if they did it well--but I should look on from the throne whereon I sat cross-legged,--and smoke my pipe in peace.”
”Always the same!” she said lightly. ”Are you never serious?”
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