The City of Masks Part 23

One sharp twist brought a surprised grunt from the owner of the nose, a second elicited a pained squeak, and the third,--pressed upward as well as both to the right and left,--resulted in a sharp howl of anguish.

The release of his nose was attended by a sudden push that sent Stuyvesant backward two or three steps.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" he gasped, and felt for his nose. There were tears in his eyes. There would have been tears in anybody's eyes after those merciless tweaks.

Finding his nose still attached, he struck out wildly with both fists, a blind fury possessing him. Even a coward will strike if you pull his nose severely enough. As Trotter remained motionless after the distressing act of Lord Temple, Stuyvesant missed him by a good yard and a half, but managed to connect solidly with the corner of the limousine, barking his knuckles, a circ.u.mstance which subsequently provided him with something to substantiate his claim to having planted a "good one"

on the blighter's jaw.

His hat fell off and rolled still farther away from the redoubtable Trotter, luckily in the direction of the Smith-Parvis car. By the time Stuyvesant retrieved it, after making several clutches in his haste, he was, singularly enough, beyond the petrified figure of his mother.

"Call the police! Call the police!" Mrs. Smith-Parvis was whimpering.

"Where are the police?"

Mrs. Millidew, the elder, cried out sharply: "Hush up! Don't be idiotic!

Do you want to attract the police and a crowd and--What do you mean, Trotter, by attacking Mr. Smith-Par--"

"Get out of the way, mother," roared Stuyvesant. "Let me at him! Don't hold me! I'll break his infernal neck--Shut up!" His voice sank to a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "We don't want the police. Shut up, I say! My G.o.d, don't make a scene!"

"Splendid!" cried Mrs. Millidew, the younger, enthusiastically, addressing herself to Trotter. "Perfectly splendid!"

Trotter, himself once more, calmly stepped to the back of the car to see what, if any, damage Stuyvesant had done to the polished surface!

Mrs. Smith-Parvis advanced. Her eyes were blazing.

"You filthy brute!" she exclaimed.

Up to this instant, Miss Emsdale had not moved. She was very white and breathless. Now her eyes flashed ominously.

"Don't you dare call him a brute," she cried out.

Mrs. Smith-Parvis gasped, but was speechless in the face of this amazing defection. Stuyvesant opened his lips to speak, but observing that the traffic policeman at the Fifth Avenue corner was looking with some intensity at the little group, changed his mind and got into the automobile.

"Come on!" he called out. "Get in here, both of you. I'll attend to this fellow later on. Come on, I say!"

"How dare you speak to me in that manner?" flared Mrs. Smith-Parvis, turning from Trotter to the girl. "What do you mean, Miss Emsdale? Are you defending this--"

"Yes, I am defending him," cried Jane, pa.s.sionately. "He--he didn't do half enough to him."

"Good girl!" murmured Trotter, radiant.

"That will do!" said Mrs. Smith-Parvis imperiously. "I shall not require your services after today, Miss Emsdale."

"Oh, good Lord, mother,--don't be a fool," cried Stuyvesant. "Let me straighten this thing out. I--"

"As you please, madam," said Jane, drawing herself up to her full height.

"Drive to Dr. Brodax's, Galpin, as quickly as possible," directed Stuyvesant's mother, and entered the car beside her son.

The footman closed the door and hopped up beside the chauffeur. He was very pink with excitement.

"Oh, for heaven's sake--" began her son furiously, but the closing of the door smothered the rest of the complaint.

"You may also take your notice, Trotter," said Mrs. Millidew the elder.

"I can't put up with such behaviour as this."

"Very good, madam. I'm sorry. I--"

Miss Emsdale was walking away. He did not finish the sentence. His eyes were following her and they were full of concern.

"You may come to me tomorrow, Trotter," said Mrs. Millidew, the younger.

"Now, don't glare at me, mother-in-law," she added peevishly. "You've dismissed him, so don't, for heaven's sake, croak about me stealing him away from you."

Trotter's employer closed her jaws with a snap, then opened them instantly to exclaim:

"No, you don't, my dear. I withdraw the notice, Trotter. You stay on with me. Drop Mrs. Millidew at her place first, and then drive me home.

That's all right, Dolly. I don't care if it is out of our way. I wouldn't leave you alone with him for anything in the world."

Trotter sighed. Miss Emsdale had turned the corner.

CHAPTER XII

IN THE FOG

MISS EMSDALE did not ask Mrs. Smith-Parvis for a "reference." She dreaded the interview that was set for seven o'clock that evening. The butler had informed her on her return to the house shortly after five that Mrs. Smith-Parvis would see her at seven in the library, after all, instead of in her boudoir, and she was to look sharp about being prompt.

The young lady smiled. "It's all one to me, Rogers,--the library or the boudoir."

"First it was the boudoir, Miss, and then it was the library, and then the boudoir again,--and now the library. It seems to be quite settled, however. It's been nearly 'arf an hour since the last change was made.

Shouldn't surprise me if it sticks."

"It gives me an hour and a half to get my things together," said she, much more brightly than he thought possible in one about to be "sacked." "Will you be good enough to order a taxi for me at half-past seven, Rogers?"

Rogers stiffened. This was not the tone or the manner of a governess.

He had a feeling that he ought to resent it, and yet he suddenly found himself powerless to do so. No one had spoken to him in just that way in fifteen years.

"Very good, Miss Emsdale. Seven-thirty." He went away strangely puzzled, and not a little disgusted with himself.

She expected to find that Stuyvesant had carried out his threat to vilify her, and was prepared for a bitter ten minutes with the outraged mistress of the house, who would hardly let her escape without a severe lacing. She would be dismissed without a "character."

She packed her boxes and the two or three hand-bags that had come over from London with her. A heightened colour was in her cheeks, and there was a repelling gleam in her blue eyes. She was wondering whether she could keep herself in hand during the tirade. Her temper was a hot one.

A not distant Irish ancestor occasionally got loose in her blood and played havoc with the strain inherited from a whole regiment of English forebears. On such occasions, she flared up in a fine Celtic rage, and then for days afterwards was in a penitential mood that shamed the poor old Irish ghost into complete and grovelling subjection.

What she saw in the mirror over her dressing-table warned her that if she did not keep a pretty firm grip tonight on the throat of that wild Irishman who had got into the family-tree ages before the twig represented by herself appeared, Mrs. Smith-Parvis was reasonably certain to hear from him. A less captious observer, leaning over her shoulder, would have taken an entirely different view of the reflection. He (obviously he) would have p.r.o.nounced it ravis.h.i.+ng.