Part 13 (1/2)
”My dear,” the baronet said to his wife, ”Lluellyn's death has been a great blow to you, and, indeed, it has to me also, for you know that I share your enthusiasm for your family and your hopes for it. But Mary is still with us. She is young and beautiful. We can give her a dowry that will attract a duke. As soon as I am well again I shall put my foot down in no uncertain way. This time, whatever Mary may say, I shall compel her to leave this ridiculous slum-hospital work and take her proper place in society.”
Sir Augustus spoke of his illness. He was a man by no means indifferent to the pleasures of the table. As he himself would have expressed it, he ”did himself well” in every particular.
But people who like white truffles from Piedmont, caviare from the Volga, comet year port, and liqueurs of brandy at seven pounds a bottle, must expect a Nemesis.
Two days before the news of Lluellyn's death arrived Sir Augustus was seized with a bad attack of gout.
When Mary Lys, in uncontrollable grief, had hastened to her aunt's house in Berkeley Square, carrying the sad message from Joseph Bethune which told her of her beloved brother's death, the banker had been quite unable to move.
Had it been in any way possible, the worthy man would have hastened to Wales to be present at the funeral of his nephew by marriage. But the physicians had absolutely forbidden him the journey. He would not, however, allow Mary to travel to the princ.i.p.ality by herself. In the first place he had the not uncommon dislike of men to their womenkind attending funerals. Mary would not hear of this.
”Uncle,” she said, ”shall I not go to see my dear and saintly brother's body put into the earth from which he will rise again when the trumpet of the Resurrection Day sounds?”
This was rather above Sir Augustus.
”Tut, tut, my dear,” he said; ”the--er--Resurrection trumpet is not very near to the nineteenth century. But still, if you must go, I shall insist on your having a proper escort.”
Accordingly Mary had been sent to Wales in the charge of the Kirwans'
family solicitor, who was instructed to see that everything was done decently and in order, as befitted the obsequies of the last male member of the House of Lys.
For her part, Mary did not in the least want the company of Mr. Owen, the solicitor. She would have infinitely preferred to be left alone with her grief. Nevertheless she recognized the kindly feeling and family instinct that prompted Sir Augustus' action, and submitted with the best grace possible.
Lluellyn Lys had been dead for seven days, and it was now two days after the funeral.
Sir Augustus was not yet able to leave the house, but his gout was better. After the simple dinner--which was all that the doctor allowed him--he sat in his library reading the newspaper of that morning.
The first thing that caught his eye was a review of a new play which had just been produced under the t.i.tle of ”The Golden Maiden.” Sir Augustus was an occasional patron of the burlesque stage. The sort of entertainments provided by the theatres that produce ”musical comedy”
were quite to his taste. Kindly and generous as he was, he was a man without any religious belief whatever and with no ideals. To such a mind, the indelicacy and lubricity of these plays appealed intensely, and afforded him great amus.e.m.e.nt. Nor had he the slightest idea that any blame whatever could attach to him. These places were crowded night after night by all sections of society--who was he to stay away?
Sir Augustus chuckled over the criticism. The writer first gave a detailed synopsis of the plot--such as it was--and recorded his general impressions of the performance. The critic was obviously a man of taste and decent feeling, for he spoke in no measured terms of the gross indecency of the play, which was, to put it plainly, little more nor less than a glorification of adultery.
”And the pity of it is,” the writer concluded, ”that all London will flock to see this immoral nonsense. If the drama is to be thus degraded--and no other form of entertainment has an equal popularity with the one under discussion--then decent English men and women will begin to long for the return of the Commonwealth, with its stern and self-sacrificing simplicity.”
Sir Augustus put the paper down.
”Silly fool,” he muttered. ”I wonder he is allowed to write such hypocritical twaddle. Certainly, from what he says, they do seem to have gone a little too far this time.”
Nevertheless, Sir Augustus made a mental resolve to look in at the Frivolity for an hour or two as soon as ever his leg would let him.
He put down the paper and lit a cigar. All round him were the evidences of enormous wealth. The library was a large and beautiful room. A fire of cedar logs glowed in the open hearth, and threw flickering lights--rose-pink and amethyst--upon the gold and crimson books standing in their carved-oak shelves.
The parquet floor was almost hidden by priceless rugs from Teheran--white, brick-dust color, and peac.o.c.k-blue. There was a marvellous _console_ which had belonged to Marie Antoinette, a buhl clock which had stood in the palace of Sans Souci, and was a gift to Frederick The Great from Voltaire. As Sir Augustus looked round he forgot ”The Golden Maiden,” and sighed. He was thinking of his dead nephew, Lluellyn Lys, and wis.h.i.+ng that he had a son to succeed to all these splendors.
The door opened, and Lady Kirwan entered, tall, stately, and beautiful still, in her flowing black dinner-gown and the heavy ropes of pearls around the white column of her neck.
She sat down on the opposite side of the fire to her husband.
”My dear,” she said, and there was distress in her voice, ”I am so worried about Mary.”
”About Mary?” Sir Augustus replied, with some little surprise. ”Oh, you need not worry about Mary, Julia. Of course, this has been a great blow to her. But she is young and level-headed in many ways. Time will heal her wounds.”