Lady Maude's Mania. Fenn George Manville

when it comes to my old father being made the laughing-stock of every body in the house, I – I – there, damme, sir, I rebel against it.”

      As Tom seized the bell again, and dragged at it savagely, the old man seemed deeply moved. He tried to speak, but no words would come, and rising hastily he limped to the window, and stood looking out with blurred eyes, trying to master his emotion.

      “Thank you, Tom,” he said, speaking as he looked out of the window. “But after the doctor’s last visit her ladyship told all the servants – Todd’s very particular, you know.”

      Tom said something about Doctor Todd that sounded condemnatory.

      “Yes, my dear boy,” said the earl, “but – ”

      Just then the door opened, and a ponderous-looking butler, carefully dressed, with his hair brushed up into a brutus on the top of his head, and every bristle closely scraped from a fat double-chin which reposed in folds over his stiff white cravat, slowly entered the room.

      “Why the devil isn’t this bell answered, Robbins?” cried Tom.

      “Very sorry, my lord, but I thought – ”

      “Confound you! how dare you think? You thought my father rang, and that you might be as long as you liked.”

      “Ye-yes, my lord. I thought his lordship rang.”

      “Yes, you thought right,” cried Tom. “His lordship rang for some brandy and seltzer. Look sharp and get it.”

      “Yes, my lord, but – ”

      “Only a very little of the pale brandy in it, Robbins – about a dessert-spoonful,” said the earl, apologetically.

      “Fetch the spirit-stand and two bottles of seltzer, Robbins,” roared the young man. “And look sharp,” he added in a tone of voice which sent the butler off in post-haste.

      “That’s a flea in his fat old ear,” cried the young man, laying his hand on his father’s shoulder. “And now look here, gov’nor, you would please me very much if you would stand up for your rights. You know I’d back you up.”

      “Would it please you, Tom?” said the old man, gazing in his son’s face, and patting his shoulder, “Well, I’ll – I’ll try, Tom, I’ll try; but – but – I’m afraid it’s too late.”

      “Nonsense, gov’nor. Come, it will make things more comfortable. Keep an eye, too, on Maude. I don’t want her to be married off to a millionaire whether she likes him or no.”

      “I’ll try, my boy, I’ll try,” said the old man, in a hopeless tone of voice. “Her ladyship said – ”

      “Who’s that for, Robbins?” cried a deep masculine-feminine voice outside the door, just as the jingle of glasses on a silver waiter was heard.

      “For Lord Diphoos, my lady,” was the reply, in a voice that seemed to come through a layer of eider down, and the door was thrown open; there was a tremendous rustling of silk, and Lady Barmouth, a stout, florid, well-preserved woman of forty-eight, swept into the room.

      “Ah, my dear child,” she exclaimed in a pensive, theatrical tone of voice, as she spread her skirts carefully around her, and exhaled a peculiarly strong scent of eau-de-cologne, “this is a terribly trying time.”

      “Awfully,” said Tom, shortly. “That will do, Robbins; I’ll open the seltzer.” Then, as the butler left the room – “Awfully trying – quite a martyrdom for you, mamma. Have a brandy and seltzer?”

      “My dear child!” exclaimed her ladyship, in a tone of remonstrance, and leaning one hand upon a chair so as not to disarrange the folds of her costly moiré antique, she tenderly applied the corner of her lace handkerchief to her lips, and after gazing at it furtively to note a soft pink stain, she watched her son as he poured a liberal allowance of pale brandy into a tall engraved glass, skilfully sent the cork flying from a seltzer bottle, filled up the glass with the sparkling mineral water, before handing it to his father.

      “There, gov’nor,” he exclaimed; “try that.”

      “Tom, my dear child, no, no,” cried her ladyship. “Anthony! No! Certainly not.”

      “Yes, there is too much brandy, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman, hesitating.

      “Nonsense! Rubbish! You drink that up, gov’nor, like medicine. You’re unstrung and ready to break down. Come: have one, mamma.”

      “My dear child!” began her ladyship, as she darted a severe look at her husband – “Ah, my darling.”

      This last was in the most pathetic of tones, for the library door once more opened, and a very sweet-faced fair-haired girl, in her bridesmaid’s robe of palest blue, and looking flushed of cheek and red of eye with weeping, led in the bride in her diaphanous veil, just as she had issued from the hands of Justine Framboise, her ladyship’s Parisian maid, through which veil, and beneath the traditional wreath of orange-blossoms, shone as charming a face as bridegroom need wish to see.

      “There,” exclaimed the bridesmaid in a tone of forced gaiety, “as Justine says, ne touches pas. You are only to have a peep.”

      “Maude, you ridiculous child,” cried her ladyship, “you have been crying, and look dreadful, and – there, I declare it is too bad. You have been making your sister weep too.”

      “I couldn’t help it, mamma,” cried the girl, passionately; and the tears that had been waiting ready burst out afresh.

      “This is too absurd,” exclaimed her ladyship, impatiently. “Maude, you ridiculous girl: you are destroying that costly dress, and the flowers will be all rags.”

      “Yes, why don’t you leave off – you two,” cried the brother, cynically, “playing at being fond of one another,” while the old man looked piteously on.

      “Oh, Diana, Diana,” continued her ladyship, “here have I made for you the most brilliant match of the season – an enormously wealthy husband, who literally worships you – ”

      “I don’t believe he cares for her a bit,” cried Maude, flushing up, speaking passionately, and giving a stamp with her little white kid boot. “And if I were Di, I wouldn’t marry a snuffy old man like that for anybody. I’d sooner die.”

      “Die game, eh?” cried Tom. “Do you hear, Di?”

      “Silence!” exclaimed her ladyship in a tone of authority that seemed to quell the girl’s burst of passion. “How dare you!”

      “Pray don’t be cross, mamma,” said the bride, quietly. “She could not help crying. The marks will soon pass away.”

      “They will not,” cried her ladyship, angrily. “Sir Grantley Wilters is coming, and her nose is as red as a servant girl’s, while your eyes are half swollen up. After all my pains – after all my anxiety – never was mother troubled with such thankless children.”

      “Poor old girl!” said Tom, taking a good sip of brandy-and-seltzer.

      “Anthony!” cried her ladyship, “you must not touch her. You are crushing her veil and those flowers. Oh, this is madness.”

      Madness or not, before she could check the natural action, the earl had taken his elder daughter in his arms, and kissed her lovingly, patting and stroking her sweet face, as, regardless of wreath and veil, she flung her arms round his neck and nestled closely to him.

      “Bless you, my darling. I hope you will like India,” he said, “Rather warm, but they make delicious curries there. I hope you will be very very happy;” and the tears trickled down his furrowed countenance as he spoke.

      “I’ll try to be, papa dear,” she whispered, making an effort to speak firmly.

      “That’s right, my dear. The trains are very comfortable to Brindisi, and Tom says that Goole isn’t such a very bad fellow.”

      “Anthony, are you quite mad!” cried her ladyship, wringing her hands till her diamonds crackled. “Are