Part 53 (2/2)

Poor Lord Algy. He certainly thought there could be no question about Marcia's affection for him. He little dreamed that it was to his t.i.tle and position she had become so deeply attached,--he could not guess that after he had married her there would be no more Lord Masherville worth mentioning--that that individual, once independent, would be entirely swallowed up and lost in the das.h.i.+ng personality of Lady Masherville, who would rule her husband as with a rod of iron.

He was happily ignorant of his future, and he walked in the gardens for some time with his arm round Marcia's waist, in a very placid and romantic frame of mind. By-and-by he escorted her into the house, where the dancing was in full swing--and she, with a sweet smile, bidding him wait for her in the refreshment-room, sought for and found her mother, who as usual, was seated in a quiet corner with Mrs. Rush-Marvelle, talking scandal.

”Well?” exclaimed these two ladies, simultaneously and breathlessly.

Marcia's eyes twinkled. ”Guess he came in as gently as a lamb!” she said.

They understood her. Mrs. Rush-Marvelle rose from her chair in her usual stately and expensive manner.

”I congratulate you, my dear!” kissing Marcia affectionately on both cheeks. ”Bruce Errington would have been a better match,--but, under the circ.u.mstances, Masherville is really about the best thing you could do.

You'll find him quite easy to manage!” This with an air as though she were recommending a quiet pony.

”That's so!” said Marcia carelessly, ”I guess we'll pull together somehow. Mar-ma,” to her mother--”yew kin turn on the news to all the folks yew meet--the more talk the better! I'm not partial to secrets!”

And with a laugh, she turned away.

Then Mrs. Van Clupp laid her plump, diamond-ringed hand on that of her dear friend, Mrs. Marvelle.

”You have managed the whole thing beautifully,” she said, with a grateful heave of her ample bosom. ”Such a clever creature as you are!”

She dropped her voice to a mysterious whisper. ”You shall have that cheque to-morrow, my love!”

Mrs. Rush-Marvelle pressed her fingers cordially.

”Don't hurry yourself about it!”--she returned in the same confidential tone. ”I dare say you'll want me to arrange the wedding and the 'crush'

afterwards. I can wait till then.”

”No, no! that's a separate affair,” declared Mrs. Van Clupp. ”I must insist on your taking the promised two hundred. You've been really so _very_ energetic!”

”Well, I _have_ worked rather hard,” said Mrs. Marvelle, with modest self-consciousness. ”You see nowadays it's so difficult to secure suitable husbands for the girls who ought to have them. Men _are_ such slippery creatures!”

She sighed--and Mrs. Van Clupp echoed the sigh,--and then these two ladies,--the nature of whose intimacy may now be understood by the discriminating reader,--went together to search out those of their friends and acquaintances who were among the guests that night, and to announce to them (in the strictest confidence, of course!) the delightful news of ”dear Marcia's engagement.” Thelma heard of it, and went at once to proffer her congratulations to Marcia in person.

”I hope you will be very, very happy!” she said simply, yet with such grave earnestness in her look and voice that the ”Yankee gel” was touched to a certain softness and seriousness not at all usual with her, and became so winning and gentle to Lord Algy that he felt in the seventh heaven of delight with his new position as affianced lover to so charming a creature.

Meanwhile George Lorimer and Pierre Duprez were chatting together in the library. It was very quiet there,--the goodly rows of books, the busts of poets and philosophers,--the large, placid features of the Pallas Athene crowning an antique pedestal,--the golden pipes of the organ gleaming through the shadows,--all these gave a solemn, almost sacred aspect to the room. The noise of the dancing and festivity in the distant picture-gallery did not penetrate here, and Lorimer sat at the organ, drawing out a few plaintive strains from its keys as he talked.

”It's your fancy, Pierre,” he said slowly. ”Thelma may be a little tired to-day, perhaps--but I know she's perfectly happy.”

”I think not so,” returned Duprez. ”She has not the brightness--the angel look--_les yeux d'enfant_,--that we beheld in her at that far Norwegian Fjord. Britta is anxious for her.”

Lorimer looked up, and smiled a little.

”Britta? It's always Britta with you, _mon cher_! One would think--” he paused and laughed.

”Think what you please!” exclaimed Duprez, with a defiant snap of his fingers. ”I would not give that little person for all the _grandes dames_ here to-day! She is charming--and she is _true_!--_Ma foi!_ to be true to any one is a virtue in this age! I tell you, my good boy, there is something sorrowful--heavy--on _la belle_ Thelma's mind--and Britta, who sees her always, feels it--but she cannot speak. One thing I will tell you--it is a pity she is so fond of Miladi Winsleigh.”

”Why?” asked Lorimer, with some eagerness.

”Because--” he stopped abruptly as a white figure suddenly appeared at the doorway, and a musical voice addressed them--

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