The City of Masks Part 48

"You may take my word for it, Mrs. Millidew, good old Trotter went to a great deal of pains to arrange a very suitable match for me," said he airily. "He was a most discriminating chap."

"How interesting," said she, stiffening slightly. "Am I permitted to inquire just what opportunities Thomas Trotter has had to select a suitable companion for the rather exotic Mr. Temple?"

"Fortunately," said he, "the rather exotic Mr. Temple approves entirely of the choice made by Thomas Trotter."

"I wouldn't trust a chauffeur too far, if I were you," said she, a little maliciously.

"Just how far _would_ you trust one?" he inquired, lifting his eyebrows.

She smiled. "Well,--the length of Long Island," she said, with the utmost composure.

"Mr. Trotter's late employer would not, it appears, share your faith in the rascal," said he.

"She is a rather evil-minded old party," said Mrs. Millidew, the younger, bowing to the occupants of an automobile which was moving slowly in the same direction down the Avenue.

A lady in the rear seat of the limousine leaned forward to peer at the widow's companion, who raised his hat,--but not in greeting. The man who slumped down in the seat beside her, barely lifted his hat. A second later he sat up somewhat hastily and stared.

The occupants of the car were Mrs. Smith-Parvis,--a trifle haggard about the eyes,--and her son Stuyvesant.

Young Mrs. Millidew laughed. "Evidently they recognize you, Mr. Temple, in spite of your spats and stick."

"I thought I was completely disguised," said he, twirling his stick.

"Good-bye," said she, at the corner. She held out her hand. "It is very nice to have known you, Mr. Eric Temple. Our mutual acquaintance, the impeccable Trotter, has my address if you should care to avail yourself of it. After the end of June, I shall be on Long Island."

"It is very good of you, Mrs. Millidew," he said, clasping her hand. His hat was off. The warm spring sun gleamed in his curly brown hair. "I hope to be in England before the end of June." He hesitated a moment, and then said: "Lady Temple and I will be happy to welcome you at Fenlew Hall when you next visit England. Good-bye."

She watched him stride off down the Avenue. She was still looking after him with slightly disturbed eyes when the butler opened the door.

"Any fool should have known," she said, to herself and not to the servant. A queer little light danced in her eyes. "As a matter of fact, I suppose I did know without realizing it. Is Mrs. Hemleigh at home, Brooks?"

"She is expecting you, Mrs. Millidew."

"By the way, Brooks, do you happen to know anything about Fenlew Hall?"

Brooks was as good a liar as any one. He had come, highly recommended, from a Fifth Avenue intelligence office. He did not hesitate an instant.

"The Duke of Aberdeen's county seat, ma'am? I know it quite well. I cawn't tell you 'ow many times I've been in the plice, ma'am, while I was valeting his Grice, the Duke of Manchester."

CHAPTER XXI

THE BRIDE-ELECT

Four persons, a woman and three men, a.s.sembled in the insignificant hallway at the top of the steps reaching to the fifth floor of the building occupied by Deborah, Limited. To be precise, they were the butler, the parlour-maid and two austere footmen. Cricklewick was speaking.

"Marriage is a most venturesome undertaking, my dear." He addressed himself to Julia, the parlour-maid. "So don't go saying it isn't."

"I didn't say it wasn't," said Julia stoutly. "What I said was, if ever any two people were made for each other it's him and her."

"In my time," said Cricklewick, "I've seen what looked to be the most excellent matches turn out to be nothing but fizzles."

"Well, this one won't," said she.

"As I was saying to McFaddan in the back 'all a minute ago, Mr.

Cricklewick, the larst weddin' of any consequence I can remember hattending was when Lady Jane's mother was married to the Earl of Wexham. I sat on the box with old 'Oppins and we ran hover a dog drivin'

away from St. George's in 'Anover Square." It was Moody who spoke. He seemed to relish the memory. "It was such a pretty little dog, too. I shall never forget it." He winked at Julia.

"You needn't wink at me, Moody," said Julia. "I didn't like the little beast any more than you did."

"Wot I've always wanted to know is how the blinkin' dog got loose in the street that day," mused McFaddan. "He was the most obstinate dog I ever saw. It was absolutely impossible to coax 'im into the stable-yard when Higgins's bull terrier was avisitin' us, and you couldn't get him into the stall with Dandy Boy,--not to save your life. He seemed to know that hoss would kick his bloomin' gizzard out. I used to throw little hunks of meat into the stall for him, too,--nice little morsels that any other dog in the world would have been proud to risk anything for. But him?

Not a bit of it. He was the most disappointin', bull-headed animal I ever saw. I've always meant to ask how did it happen, Julia?"

"I had him out for his stroll," said Julia, with a faraway, pleased expression in her eyes. "I thought as how he might be interested in seeing the bride and groom, and all that, when they came out of the church, so I took him around past Claridge's, and would you believe it he got away from me right in the thick of the carriages. He was that kind of a dog. He would always have his own way. I was terribly upset, McFaddan. You must remember how I carried on, crying and moaning and all that till her ladys.h.i.+p had to send for the doctor. It seemed to sort of get her mind off her bereavement, my hysterics did."

"You made a puff.e.c.k nuisance of yourself," said Cricklewick.

"I took notice, however, Mr. Cricklewick, that _you_ didn't shed any tears," said she coldly.

"Certainly not," said the butler. "I admit I should have cried as much as anybody. You've no idea how fond the little darling was of me. There was hardly a day he didn't take a bite out of me, he liked me so much.

He used to go without his regular meals, he had such a preference for my calves. I've got marks on me to this day."

"And just to think, it was twenty-six years ago," sighed Moody. "'Ow times 'ave changed."

"Not as much as you'd think," said Julia, a worried look in her eyes.

"My mistress is talking of getting another dog,--after all these years.

She swore she'd never have another one to take 'is place."

"Thank 'eavings," said Moody devoutly, "I am in another situation." He winked and chuckled loudly.

"As 'andsome a pair as you'll see in a twelve-month," said McFaddan. "He is a--"

"Ahem!" coughed the butler. "There is some one on the stairs, Julia."

Silently, swiftly, the group dissolved. Cricklewick took his place in the foyer, Julia clattered down the stairs to the barred gate, Moody went into the big drawing-room where sat the Marchioness, resplendent,--the Marchioness, who, twenty-six years before, had owned a pet that came to a sad and inglorious end on a happy wedding-day, and she alone of a large and imposing household had been the solitary mourner. She was the Marchioness of Camelford in those days.

The n.o.bility of New York,--or such of it as existed for the purpose of dignifying the salon,--was congregating on the eve of the marriage of Lady Jane Thorne and Lord Temple. Three o'clock the next afternoon was the hour set for the wedding, the place a modest little church, somewhat despised by its lordlier companions because it happened to be off in a somewhat obscure cross-town street and encouraged the unconventional.

The bride-elect was not so proud or so self-absorbed that she could desert the Marchioness in the preparation of what promised to be the largest, the sprightliest and the most imposing salon of the year. She had put on an old gingham gown, had rolled up the sleeves, and had lent a hand with a will and an energy that distressed, yet pleased the older woman. She dusted and polished and scrubbed, and she laughed joyously and sang little s.n.a.t.c.hes of song as she toiled. And then, when the work was done, she sat down to her last dinner with the delighted Marchioness and said she envied all the charwomen in the world if they felt as she did after an honest day's toil.

"I daresay I ought to pay you a bit extra for the work you've done today," the Marchioness had said, a sly glint in her eyes. "Would a s.h.i.+lling be satisfactory, my good girl?"

"Quite, ma'am," said Jane, radiant. "I've always wanted a lucky s.h.i.+llin', ma'am. I haven't one to me name."

"You'll be having sovereigns after tomorrow, G.o.d bless you," said the other, a little catch in her voice,--and Jane got up from the table instantly and kissed her.