Part 35 (2/2)
”As her maid?”
”Not exactly.”
”Another sort of servant, I suppose?”
As her ladys.h.i.+p stated this as a fact, rather than asked it as a question, I ventured to refrain from answering. Fortunately she didn't notice the omission, as her thoughts had jumped to another subject. But mine were not so readily displaced. They remained fastened to the d.u.c.h.esse de Melun; and while Lady Turnour talked, I was wondering whether I could successfully contrive to keep out of the d.u.c.h.ess's way.
She is quite intimate with Cousin Catherine; and I told myself that she was pretty sure already to have heard the truth about my disappearance.
Or, if even with her friends, Cousin Catherine clings to conventionalities, and pretends that I'm visiting somewhere by her consent, people are almost certain to scent a mystery, for mysteries are popular. ”If that d.u.c.h.ess woman sees me, she'll write to Cousin Catherine at once,” I thought. ”Or I wouldn't put it _past_ her to telegraph!”
(”Put it past” is an expression of Cousin Catherine's own, which I always disliked; but it came in handy now.)
I tried to console myself, though, by reflecting that, if I were careful, I ought to be able to avoid the d.u.c.h.ess. The ways of great ladies and little maids lie far apart in grand houses and--
”There is going to be a servants' ball to-morrow night,” announced Lady Turnour, while my thoughts struggled out of the slough of despond. ”And I want you to be the best dressed one there, for _my_ credit. We're all going to look on, and some of the young gentlemen may dance. The marquise and Miss Nelson say they mean to, too, but I should think they are joking. _I_ may not be a French princess nor yet a marquise, but I _am_ an English lady, and I must say I shouldn't care to dance with my cook, or my chauffeur.”
Her chauffeur would be at one with her there! But I could think of nothing save myself in this crisis. ”Oh, miladi, I _can't_ go to a servants' ball!” I exclaimed.
She bridled. ”Why not, I should like to know? Do you consider yourself above it?”
”It isn't that,” I faltered. (And it wasn't; it was that d.u.c.h.ess!) ”But--but--” I searched for an excuse. ”I haven't anything to wear.”
”I will see to that,” said my mistress, with relentless generosity. ”I intend to give you a dress, and as you have next to nothing to do to-morrow, you can alter it in time. If you had any grat.i.tude in you, Elise, you'd be out of yourself with joy at the idea.”
”Oh, I am out of myself, miladi,” I moaned.
”Well, you might say 'Thank your ladys.h.i.+p,' then.”
I said it.
”When you have unpacked the big luggage in the morning, I will give you the dress. I have decided on it already. Sir Samuel doesn't like it on me, so I don't mind parting with it; but it's very handsome, and cost me a great deal of money when I was getting my trousseau. It is scarlet satin trimmed with green beetle-wing pa.s.s.e.m.e.nterie, and gold fringe.”
My one comfort, as I gasped out spasmodic thanks, was this: I would look such a vulgar horror in the scarlet satin trimmed with green beetle-wings and gold fringe, that the d.u.c.h.esse de Melun might fail to recognize Lys d'Angely.
CHAPTER XXVII
I dusted and shook out every cell in my brain, during the night, in the hope of finding any inspiration which might save me from the servants'
ball; but I could think of nothing, except that I might suddenly come down with a contagious disease. The objection to this scheme was that a doctor would no doubt be sent for, and would read my secret in my lack of temperature.
When morning came, I was sullenly resigned to the worst. ”Kismet!” said I, as I unfolded her ladys.h.i.+p's dresses, and was blinded by the glare of the scarlet satin.
”Try it on,” commanded my mistress. ”I want to get an idea how you will look.”
Naturally, the red thing was a Directoire thing; and putting it on over my snug little black frock, I was like a cricket crawling into an empty lobster-sh.e.l.l. But to my surprise and annoyance, the lobster-sh.e.l.l was actually becoming to the cricket.
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