Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “Upon my life, Clara,” he observed, “you are really awfully down on a fellow, you know! One would think you never cared two-pence about me!”

  “Too high a figure!” retorted Lady Winsleigh, with a hard little laugh. “I never cared a brass farthing!”

  He stopped short in his walk and stared at her.

  “By Jove! you are cool!” he ejaculated. “Then what did you mean all the time?”

  “What did you mean?” she asked defiantly.

  He was silent. After a slight, uncomfortable pause, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

  “Don’t let us have a scene!” he observed in a bantering tone. “Anything but that!”

  “Scene!” she exclaimed indignantly. “Pray when have you had to complain of me on that score?”

  “Well, don’t let me have to complain now,” he said coolly.

  She surveyed him in silent scorn for a moment, and her full, crimson lips curled contemptuously.

  “What a brute you are!” she muttered suddenly between her set pearly teeth.

  “Thanks, awfully!” he answered, taking out a cigarette and lighting it leisurely. “You are really charmingly candid, Clara! Almost as frank as Lady Errington, only less polite!”

  “I shall not learn politeness from you, at any rate,” she said, — then altering her tone to one of studied indifference, she continued coldly, “What do you want of me? We’ve done with each other, as you know. I believe you wish to become gentleman-lacquey to Bruce-Errington’s wife, and that you find it difficult to obtain the situation. Shall I give you a character?”

  He flushed darkly, and his eyes glittered with an evil lustre.

  “Gently, Clara! Draw it mild!” he said languidly. “Don’t irritate me, or I may turn crusty! You know, if I chose, I could open Bruce-Errington’s eyes rather more widely than you’d like with respect to the devoted affection you entertain for his beautiful wife.” She winced a little at this observation — he saw it and laughed, — then resumed: “At present I’m really in the best of humors. The reason I wanted to speak to you alone for a minute or two was, that I’d something to say which might possibly please you. But perhaps you’d rather not hear it?”

  She was silent. So was he. He watched her closely for a little — noting with complacency the indignant heaving of her breast and the flush on her cheeks, — signs of the strong repression she was putting upon her rising temper.

  “Come, Clara, you may as well be amiable,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that the virtuous Philip is not immaculate after all. Won’t it comfort you to think that he’s nothing but a mortal man like the rest of us? . . . and that with a little patience your charms will most probably prevail with him as easily as they once did with me? Isn’t that worth hearing?”

  “I don’t understand you,” she replied curtly.

  “Then you are very dense, my dear girl,” he remarked smilingly. “Pardon me for saying so! But I’ll put it plainly and in as few words as possible. The moral Bruce-Errington, like a great many other ‘moral’ men I know, has gone in for Violet Vere, — and I dare say you understand what that means. In the simplest language, it means that he’s tired of his domestic bliss and wants a change.”

  Lady Winsleigh stopped in her slow pacing along the gravel-walk, and raised her eyes steadily to her companion’s face.

  “Are you sure of this?” she asked.

  “Positive!” replied Sir Francis, flicking the light ash off his cigarette delicately with his little finger. “When you wrote me that note about the Vere, I confess I had my suspicions. Since then they’ve been confirmed. I know for a fact that Errington has had several private interviews with Vi, and has also written her a good many letters. Some of the fellows in the green-room tease her about her new conquest, and she grins and admits it. Oh, the whole thing’s plain enough! Only last week, when he went up to town to see his man Neville on business he called on Vi at her own apartments in Arundel Street, Strand. She told me so herself — we’re rather intimate, you know, — though of course she refused to mention the object of his visit. Honor among thieves!” and he smiled half mockingly.

  Lady Winsleigh seemed absorbed, and walked on like one in a dream. Just then, a bend in the avenue brought them in full view of the broad terrace in front of the Manor, where Thelma’s graceful figure, in a close-fitting robe of white silk crepe, was outlined clearly against the dazzling blue of the sky. Several people were grouped near her, — she seemed to be in animated conversation with some of them, and her face was radiant with smiles. Lady Winsleigh looked at her, — then said suddenly in a low voice —

  “It will break her heart!”

  Sir Francis assumed an air of polite surprise. “Pardon! Whose heart?”

  She pointed slightly to the white figure on the terrace.

  “Hers! Surely you must know that?”

  He smiled. “Well — isn’t that precisely what you desire Clara? Though, for my part, I don’t believe in the brittleness of hearts — they seem to me to be made of exceptionally tough material. However, if the fair Thelma’s heart cracks ever so widely, I think I can undertake to mend it!”

  Clara shrugged her shoulders. “You!” she exclaimed contemptuously.

  He stroked his moustache with feline care and nicety.

  “Yes — I! If not, I’ve studied women all my life for nothing!”

  She broke into a low peal of mocking laughter — turned, and was about to leave him, when he detained her by a slight touch on her arm.

  “Stop a bit!” he said in an impressive sotto-voce. “A bargain’s a bargain all the world over. If I undertake to keep you cognizant of Bruce-Errington’s little goings-on in London, — information which, I dare say, you can turn to good account, — you must do something for me. I ask very little. Speak of me to Lady Errington — make her think well of me, — flatter me as much as you used to do when we fancied ourselves terrifically in love with each other — (a good joke, wasn’t it!) — and, above all, make her trust me! Do you understand?”

  “As Red Riding-Hood trusted the Wolf and was eaten up for her innocence,” observed Lady Winsleigh. “Very well! I’ll do my best. As I said before, you want a character. I’m sure I hope you’ll obtain the situation you so much desire! I can state that you made yourself fairly useful in your last place, and that you left because your wages were not high enough!”

  And with another sarcastic laugh, she moved forward towards the terrace where Thelma stood. Sir Francis followed at some little distance with no very pleasant expression on his features. A stealthy step approaching him front behind made him start nervously — it was Louise Rénaud, who, carrying a silver tray on which soda-water bottles and glasses made an agreeable clinking, tripped demurely past him without raising her eyes. She came directly out of the rose-garden, — and, as she overtook her mistress on the lawn, that lady seemed surprised, and asked —

  “Where have you been, Louise?”

  “Miladi was willing that I should assist in the attendance to-day,” replied Louise discreetly. “I have waited upon Milord Winsleigh, and other gentlemen in the summer-house at the end of the rose-garden.”

  And with one furtive glance of her black, bead-like eyes at Lady Winsleigh’s face, she made a respectful sort of half-curtsy and went her way.

  Later on in the afternoon, when it was nearing sunset, and all other amusements had given way to the delight of dancing on the springy green turf to the swinging music of the band, — Briggs, released for a time from the duties of assisting the waiters at the splendid refreshment-table (duties which were pleasantly lightened by the drinking of a bottle of champagne which he was careful to reserve for his own consumption), sauntered leisurely through the winding alleys and fragrant shrubberies which led to the most unromantic portion of the Manor grounds, — namely, the vegetable-garden. Here none of the butterflies of fashion found their way, — the suggestions offered by growing cabbages, turnips, beans, and plump, yellow-skinned marrows were t
oo prosaic for society bantams who require refined surroundings in which to crow their assertive platitudes. Yet it was a peaceful nook — and there were household odors of mint and thyme and sweet marjoram, which were pleasant to the soul of Briggs, and reminded him of roast goose on Christmas Day, with all its attendant succulent delicacies. He paced the path slowly, — the light of the sinking sun blazing gloriously on his plush breeches, silver cordons and tassels, — for he was in full-dress livery in honor of the fête, and looked exceedingly imposing. Now and then he glanced down at his calves with mild approval, — his silk stockings fitted them well, and they had a very neat and shapely appearance.

  “I’ve developed,” he murmured to himself. “There ain’t a doubt about it! One week of Country air, and I’m a different man; — the effecks of overwork ‘ave disappeared. Flopsie won’t know these legs of mine when I get back, — they’ve improved surprisingly.” He stopped to survey a bed of carrots. “Plenty of Cressy there,” he mused. “Cressy’s a noble soup, and Flopsie makes it well, — a man might do wuss than marry Flopsie. She’s a widder, and a leetle old — just a leetle old for me — but—” Here he sniffed delicately at a sprig of thyme he had gathered, and smiled consciously. Presently he perceived a small, plump, pretty figure approaching him, no other than Britta, looking particularly charming in a very smart cap, adorned with pink-ribbon bows, and a very elaborately frilled muslin apron. Briggs at once assumed his most elegant and conquering air, straightened himself to his full height and kissed his hand to her with much condescension. She laughed as she came up to him, and the dimples in her round cheeks appeared in full force.

  “Well, Mr. Briggs,” she said, “are you enjoying yourself?”

  Briggs smiled down upon her benevolently. “I am!” he responded graciously. “I find the hair refreshing. And you, Miss Britta?”

  “Oh, I’m very comfortable, thank you!” responded Britta demurely, edging a little away from his arm, which showed an unmistakable tendency to encircle her waist, — then glancing at a basket she held full of grapes, just cut from the hot house, she continued, “These are for the supper-table. I must be quick, and take them to Mrs. Parton.”

  “Must you?” and Briggs asked this question with quite an unnecessary amount of tenderness, then resuming his dignity, he observed, “Mrs. Parton is a very worthy woman — an excellent ‘ousekeeper. But she’ll no doubt excuse you for lingering a little, Miss Britta — especially in my company.”

  Britta laughed again, showing her pretty little white teeth to the best advantage. “Do you think she will?” she said merrily. “Then I’ll stop a minute, and if she scolds me I’ll put the blame on you!”

  Briggs played with his silver tassels and, leaning gracefully against a plum-tree, surveyed her with a critical eye.

  “I was not able,” he observed, “to see much of you in town. Our people were always a’ visitin’ each other, and yet our meetings were, as the poet says, ‘few and far between.’”

  Britta nodded indifferently, and perceiving a particularly ripe gooseberry on one of the bushes close to her, gathered it quickly and popped it between her rosy lips. Seeing another equally ripe, she offered it to Briggs, who accepted it and ate it slowly, though he had a misgiving that by so doing he was seriously compromising his dignity. He resumed his conversation.

  “Since I’ve been down ’ere, I’ve ‘ad more opportunity to observe you. I ‘ope you will allow me to say I think very highly of you.” He waved his hand with the elegance of a Sir Charles Grandison. “Very ‘ighly indeed! Your youth is most becoming to you! If you only ‘ad a little more chick, there’d be nothing left to desire!”

  “A little more — what?” asked Britta, opening her blue eyes very wide in puzzled amusement.

  “Chick!” replied Briggs, with persistent persuasiveness. “Chick, Miss Britta, is a French word much used by the aristocracy. Coming from Norway, an ‘avin’ perhaps a very limited experience, you mayn’t ‘ave ‘erd it — but eddicated people ’ere find it very convenient and expressive. Chick means style, — the thing, the go, the fashion. For example, everything your lady wears is chick!”

  “Really!” said Britta, with a wandering and innocent air. “How funny! It doesn’t sound like French, at all, Mr. Briggs, — it’s more like English.”

  “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 Duchess 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 a
t her feet, and near her stood her husband, together with Beau Lovelace and Lord Winsleigh. At a little distance, under the shadow of a noble 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 fête, 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.