Part 69 (1/2)
By this time it will be perceived that the house is in a secret turmoil. Every one is at daggers drawn with every one else. Molly and Lady Stafford have as yet exchanged no confidences, though keenly desirous of doing so, each having noticed with the liveliest surmisings the depression of the other.
Mr. Potts alone, who is above suspicion (being one of those cheerful people who never see anything--no matter how closely under their noses--until it is brought before them in the broadest language), continues blissfully unconscious of the confusion that reigns around, and savors his conversation throughout the evening with as many embarra.s.sing remarks as he can conveniently put in.
”Eaten bread is soon forgotten,” says he, sententiously, during a pause. ”You all seem strangely oblivious of the fact that last night there was a ball in this house. Why s.h.i.+rk the subject? I like talking,”
says Mr. Potts, superfluously, ”and surely you must all have something to communicate concerning it. Thanks to our own exertions, I think it was as good a one as ever I was at; and the old boy”--(I need scarcely say Mr. Amherst has retired to rest)--was uncommon decent about giving us the best champagne.”
”You took very good care to show him how you appreciated his hospitality,” says Sir Penthony, mildly.
”Well, why shouldn't I do honor to the occasion? A ball at Herst don't come every day. As a rule, an affair of the kind at a country house is a failure, as the guests quarrel dreadfully among themselves next day; but ours has been a brilliant exception.”
”Brilliant indeed,” says Lady Stafford, demurely.
”But what became of Lowry?” demands this wretched young man, who has never yet learned that silence is golden. ”He told me this morning he intended staying on until the end of the week, and off he goes to London by the midday train without a word of warning. Must have heard some unpleasant news, I shouldn't wonder, he looked so awfully cut up.
Did he tell you anything about it?” To Lady Stafford.
”No.” In a freezing tone. ”I see no reason why I, in particular, should be bored by Mr. Lowry's private woes.”
”Well, you were such a friend, you know, for one thing,” says Potts, surprised, but obtuse as ever.
”So I am of yours; but I sincerely trust the fact of my being so will not induce you to come weeping to me whenever you chance to lose your heart or place all your money on the wrong horse.”
”Did he lose his money, then?”
”Plantagenet, dancing has muddled your brain. How should I know whether he lost his money or not? I am merely supposing. You are dull to-night.
Come and play a game at ecarte with me, to see if it may rouse you.”
They part for the night rather earlier than usual, pleading fatigue,--all except Mr. Potts, who declares himself fresh as a daisy, and proposes an impromptu dance in the ball-room. He is instantly snubbed, and retires gracefully, consoling himself with the reflection that he has evidently more ”go” in his little finger than they can boast in their entire bodies.
Sir Penthony having refused to acknowledge his wife's parting salutation,--meant to conciliate,--Cecil retires to her room in a state of indignation and sorrow that reduces her presently to tears.
Her maid, entering just as she has reached the very highest pinnacle of her wrongs, meets with anything but a warm reception.
”How now, Trimmins? Did I ring?” asks she, with unwonted sharpness, being unpleasantly mindful of the redness of her eyes.
”No, my lady; but I thought----”
”Never think,” says Cecil, interrupting her with unreasoning irritation.
”No, my lady. I only thought perhaps you would see Miss Ma.s.sereene,”
persists Trimmins, meekly. ”She wishes to know, with her love, if you can receive her now.”
”Miss Ma.s.sereene? Of course I can. Why did you not say so before?”
”Your ladys.h.i.+p scarcely gave me time,” says Trimmins, demurely, taking an exhaustive survey of her cambric ap.r.o.n.
”True; I was hasty,” Cecil acknowledges, in her impulsive, honest, haughty way. ”Tell Miss Ma.s.sereene I shall be delighted to see her at once.”
Presently Molly enters, her eyelids pink, the corners of her mouth forlornly curved, a general despondency in her whole demeanor.
Cecil, scarcely more composed, advances to meet her.