Chapter Fifteen.
Lady Barmouth receives Information.
“Maude, I will not allow it,” cried Lady Barmouth, one morning. “That wretched organ man is always haunting this house, and you are constantly giving him money.”
“The poor fellow is a foreigner and in distress, and he does no harm,” said Maude.
“No harm? He distracts me with his dreadful noise.”
“Plays that tune from Trovatore where the fellow’s shut up rather nicely,” said his lordship, rubbing his leg.
“Barmouth!”
“Yes, my dear.”
“Be quiet. And mind this, Maude, I have given instructions to the servants that this dreadful Italian is to be sent away.”
“Very well, mamma,” said Maude, coldly, “only be fair—send every man away who comes to the house. Be consistent in what you do.”
“Is the girl mad?” exclaimed Lady Barmouth. “What does she mean?”
“I mean, mamma,” cried Maude, with spirit, “that I will not—I cannot marry Sir Grantley Wilters.”
“Maude, you’ll break my heart,” cried her ladyship.
“Tom, this is your fault for bringing that wicked young man to the house.”
“What—Wilters?”
“No, no, no, my boy,” said his lordship, rubbing his leg. “Your mamma means Charley Melton, and I—I—I—damme, I can’t understand it all about him. I’m sure I—I—I—don’t think he’s so bad as he’s being painted.”
Maude darted a look of gratitude towards him, and then one of reproach at her brother, who stood biting his nails.
“Barmouth, will you leave that leg alone,” cried her ladyship. “You give me the creeps; and if you cannot talk sensibly, hold your tongue. Everybody knows, even Tom, if he would only speak, that this man—pah! I cannot utter his name—is degraded to the utmost degree; but he has managed to play upon a foolish girl’os heart, and she is blind to his wickedness.”
“Mamma,” cried Maude, “I am not blind; and I will not believe these calumnies. Mr Melton never professed to be rich, and I do not believe he either gambles or drinks.”
“Believe them or not, Maude, my word and your papa’s are passed to Sir Grantley Wilters, and you will be his wife. So no more folly, please.”
Maude turned pale, and glanced at Tom, who stood biting his nails, and then at her father, who grew more wrinkled, and rubbed his leg. She then turned to Tryphie, whose look was sympathising, but meant no help. For poor dependent Tryphie hardly dare say that her soul was her own. Maude felt that she was alone, and, even in these nineteenth century times, being as helplessly driven into marriage with a man she detested as if in the days of old chivalry, when knights and barons patronised ironmongery for costume, and carried off captive maidens to their castles to espouse them before shaven friar, or else dispense with his services.
“Maude,” said her ladyship then, “I wished to spare your feelings, and if you had been less recalcitrant”—that was a word that her ladyship had been hoarding up for the occasion, and it rather jarred against her second best set of teeth as she used it; it was such a hard, stony word, and so threatening to the enamel—“I should have kept this back, but now I must tell you that for your papa’s and my own satisfaction, we have had inquiries made as to this—this—Mr Melton’s character, by an impartial person, and you shall hear from his lips how misguided you have been.”
Maude turned pale, but, setting her teeth, she threw up her head and remained defiant and proud.
“After hearing this, I trust that your sense of duty to your parents will teach you to behave to Sir Grantley Wilters more in accordance with your relative positions. He does not complain, but I can often see that he is wounded by your studied coldness.”
“Not he; damned sight too hard.”
“Diphoos,” said her ladyship, “I had hoped that your visit to purer atmospheres taken at the expense of your papa would have had a more refining influence upon you.”
“So it has,” said Tom, sharply; “but if you keep on making use of that worn-out cad’s name, I must swear, so there.”
Her ladyship did not reply, but pointed to the bell, and Lord Barmouth dropped the hand with which he was about to caress his leg, toddled across the room and rang, surreptitiously feeling in one of his pockets directly after to see if something was safe.
Tryphie Wilders crossed to her cousin and took her hand, whispering a few consolatory words, while her ladyship played the heaving billow a little as she settled herself in her chair in a most magisterial manner.
“Robbins,” said her ladyship, as the butler entered, “has that gentleman arrived?”
“Been here five minutes, my lady. He is in his lordship’s study.”
“Show him up, Robbins, and we are at home to no one until he is gone.”
The butler bowed, went out, and returned with a tall, rather ungainly man in black, who had something of the appearance of a country carpenter who had taken to preaching. He had a habit of buttoning his black coat up tightly, with the consequence that it made a great many wrinkles round his body, and though he was fully six feet high, you felt that these wrinkles were caused by a kind of contraction, his body being of the nature of concertina bellows, and that you might pull him out to a most amazing extent.
He favoured this conceit, too, by being very cartilaginous in the spine, and softly pressing his hands to his breast, and bowing and undulating gently in different directions to the party assembled in the room.
“Hang him!” muttered Tom, scowling at the new comer. “He looks, as if he were in training for a spiral spring. Who the deuce is he?”
“Tom,” whispered his lordship, “that man makes me feel queer; get some brandy and soda in your room after he has gone.”
Tom favoured his father with a peculiar wink, and the old gentleman felt in his pockets once more, to be sure that he had not flung something out with his handkerchief.
“Mr Irkle, I think?” said her ladyship, blandly.
“Hurkle, my lady,” said the new arrival, bowing. “Hurkle and Slant, Murley Court, Obun.”
“Oban?” said her ladyship; “I thought your place of business was in town.”
“Yes, my lady, Obun, W.C., near top o’ Charn-shery Lane.”
“Go it, old chap,” said Tom; “never mind the H’s.”
“Tom, be silent.”
“All right!”
“I think we need no preliminaries, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship. “Perhaps you will favour me by reading a few notes from your diary.”
“Thank you, my lady, yes, certainly,” said the new arrival, taking out a large flat pocket-book, and then getting into difficulties with his gloves and hat, setting the latter down upon a chair and putting the former in his pocket, then altering his mind, and taking the gloves out of his pocket, dropping one, and putting the other in his hat, which he took up and placed under the chair instead of upon it. Then he had to pick up the stray glove and put it in his pocket, evidently feeling uneasy directly after because he had not put it in his hat, but not liking to make a fresh alteration.
He now coughed behind the pocket-book very respectfully, opened it, turned over a few leaves, drew out a pencil, and laid it across, so as not to lose the place, coughed again, and said—
“Your ladyship would like me to begin at the beginning?”
“Certainly, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship with dignity; and then with Maude sitting with her eyes half-closed, Tom walking up and down the room, and Lord Barmouth looking very much troubled and caressing his leg, the visitor coughed again, and began in a low subdued tone indicative of the secrecy of his mission.
“‘Thursday, twelft. Called into Lady Barmouth’s’”—no mention was made of Lord Barmouth whatever—“‘Portland Place. Private inquiry. No expense to be spared.’”
“I think you may omit all that part, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship, graciously.
“Thank you, my lady. Hem!” said the visitor, going on reading. “‘Decided to take up case myself, Mr Slant being in Paris’—That is the end of that entry, my lady.”
“Thank you,” said her ladyship, bowing, and Tom began to whistle softly, and to wonder what the man would say if he kicked his hat across the room like a football.
“‘Friday, thirteent,’” continued the visitor, turning over a leaf. “Hem!” His cough seemed to be brought on by the fact that he was in the presence of the nobility, and it troubled him slightly as he went on—“‘Melton, Charles, Esquire, 150 Duke Street, Saint James. Went out with bull-dog, 10:50, Burlington Arcade, Gardens, Vigo Street, Regent Street, Portland Place, Upper Gimp Street. Must have got into house there. Missed. Took up clue in Duke Street 2:30. Came back. Admiration Club. Back home at 11:30,’—That is the second entry, my lady.”
“Thank you, Mr Hurkle—proceed,” said her ladyship; and Lord Barmouth yawned so loudly that her ladyship turned upon him with a portentous frown.
“‘Saturday, fourteent,’ Hem!” said Mr Hurkle. “‘Met C.M. in Strand. Followed to hosier’s shop; stayed ten minutes—gloves. Went west. Cosmo Club. Stayed an hour. Came out. Walked to Barker’s, Jermyn Street,’ Hem!”
Mr Hurkle looked up after coughing apologetically.
“Barker’s—notorious gambling house, my lady.”
“Bosh!” said Tom. “Fellows play a friendly game of pool sometimes.”
“I must request that you will not interrupt, Lord Diphoos,” said her ladyship, sternly.
“Time to interrupt when I’m called upon to listen to a cock-and-bull story like this,” cried Tom. “Barker’s isn’t a notorious gambling house.”
Mr Hurkle raised his eyebrows and then his hand to his lips, and said “Hem!”
“May I ask how you know?” said her ladyship.
“Been there myself, hundreds of times,” said Tom, sturdily.
“Oh!” ejaculated her ladyship; and that “Oh!” was wonderful in the meaning it expressed. For it seemed to say, “I thought as much! That accounts for the amount of money squandered away!” and her ladyship gazed at her son from between her half-closed lids as she said aloud, “Go on, Mr Hurkle, if you please.”
“Hem! ‘Left Barker’s at eleven Pee Hem. Returned to Duke Street.’ That is the whole of the third entry, my lady.”
“Thank you. Proceed.”
“Eleven o’clock, eh?” said Tom. “Well, very respectable time.”
“Be silent, if you please, sir. Continue, Mr Hurkle.”
“‘Sunday, fifteent. Went out at three. To Barker’s, Jermyn Street.’”
“Hum! Gambling house on a Sunday,” said her ladyship, sarcastically. “Continue, Mr Hurkle.”
“Here, shall I finish for you?” cried Tom. “Went to Barker’s, and had a chop for lunch, read the papers till dinnertime—a wicked wretch, on a Sunday too; then dined—soup, fish, cutlet, cut, off the joint, pint o’ claret, and on a Sunday. Is that right, my hawk-eyed detective?”
“No, my lord. Hem!”
“Will you be silent, Lord Diphoos?” cried her ladyship.
“That is the whole of the fourt entry, my lady.”
“And cheap at the money, whatever it is,” cried Tom. “I say,” he added, scornfully, “do you know where I was on Sunday, you sir?”
“Beg pardon, my lord,” said Mr Hurkle, undulating. “You are not on my list, and I have no client making inquiries about you.”
“That’s a blessing,” said Tom, “for them and for you.”
“Pray go on, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship. “Lord Diphoos, I must beg that you do not interrupt.”
To address her son as “Lord Diphoos” was in her ladyship’s estimation crushing, but Tom did not seem crushed.
“‘Monday, sixteenth Hem!’” said Mr Hurkle. “‘Saw Mr Melton come out, followed by large-headed bull-dog, short tail, closely-cut ears, one white leg, and—’”
“Left canine tooth in lower jaw knocked out, and lip torn in a fight,” cried Tom. “Enter that, please.”
“Lord Diphoos.”
“Oh, all right,” cried Tom, savagely. “Here, I say, you sir, get on and finish. This grows interesting.”
He glanced across to his sister, who was holding Tryphie’s hand, her head erect, lip curling, and a warm flush in her cheeks as she listened to this diary of her lover’s doings.
“That is the fift entry,” said Mr Hurkle, glancing from one to the other; and then, as a dead silence reigned, he went on—
“‘Tuesday, seventeent. Blank. C.M. did not go out,’—That is the sixt entry, my lady.
“‘Wednesday, eighteent. Blank. C.M. did not go out.’—That is the sevent entry, my lady.
“‘Thursday, ninetent. Watched at Duke Street. Found C.M. was out. Waited. C.M. returned by north of street and met Lord Barmouth.’”
“Eh, what?” exclaimed her ladyship.
“‘His lordship entered Duke Street from the south, after stopping some time to look in picture-dealer’s at full-length portrait of a goddess.’”
“Why, governor!” cried Tom.
“Go on, Mr Hurkle, please. Lord Barmouth, I beg you will not leave the room.”
“Certainly not, my dear,” said his lordship, rubbing his leg.
“Proceed, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship, sternly.
“Hem! Yes, my lady. ‘C.M. and his lordship went together to Regal Café, Regal Street. Dined there.’”
“Oh!” ejaculated her ladyship, with eyes growing very tight. “Proceed.”
“But I say, you sir,” cried Tom, “wasn’t I there?”
“No, my lord. Hem!”
“Wish I had been. I say, gov’nor, it was shabby of you.”
Lord Barmouth squirmed—to use his son’s words.
“Go on, Mr Hurkle,” said her ladyship, patting the carpet with her boot, while his lordship rubbed his leg.
“‘Long dinner of many courses. Several kinds of wine, sodas, brandies, and cigars. Gentlemen returned to chambers in Duke Street, smoked cigars till ten; then to Barker’s.’”
“Let me see, Lord Barmouth, you said you were unwell last evening?”
“And I was not there,” cried Tom.
“That, my lady—hem!” said Mr Hurkle, undulating and threatening to draw himself out—“carries us up to midnight.”
“Yes—yes—yes,” cried his lordship, rising in great excitement; “and—and—and it’s, damme, it’s too much. Tom, Tom, my son, if you don’t kick that fellow out of the house, damme, I will, for it’s all a piece of—of confounded humbug. I won’t have it—I didn’t order this to be done—it’s—it’s—a confounded, damme, it’s a cruel insult to me and my family, and I won’t—I won’t—Tom, my boy, send that fellow away, or I shall—damme, I shall kill him.”
“Yes, yes, go now,” moaned her ladyship. “I will send to you, Mr Hurkle.”
The private inquirer bowed very low, took up his hat and gloves, and, replacing his pocket-book without unbuttoning himself, backed out of the room, as Tom stood with his hands in his pockets, his little waxed moustache sticking out in two sharp points, and grinding his teeth, while poor Lord Barmouth limped about the room trembling with excitement.
“Oh!” moaned her ladyship. “My salts—my drops, Tryphie; this will be the death of me.”
“Serve you right,” said Tom, savagely. “You brought it on yourself.”
“It’s—it’s too bad. Little innocent amusement. Bit o’ dinner and glass o’ wine. Charley Melton is all right.”
“Yes,” said Lady Barmouth, “a gambler, a roué. But what wonder. Ah, me! Oh, my poor children. That Melton debauching my husband!”
“And—and—and devilish nice fellow too. I—I—I—I liked it, and—and—and I wished that you had been there, Tom.”
“Thanke, governor.”
“Oh, that I should live to hear all this!”
“You—you ought to have kicked that fellow out, Tom.”
“Be silent, Barmouth, be silent. Tryphie, ring for Justine to help me to my room. My heart is nearly broken now,” she added, in a tone of voice that seemed to indicate that it was only holding together by a little bit of ligament which was ready to go at any moment. “Maude, ungrateful girl, you have heard all. The horrible, dissipated gambler who is dragging my son into his dreadful vortex, and even spreading his meshes around your weak father.”
“Weak!” cried Lord Barmouth; “not at all.”
“I have heard no harm of Mr Melton, mamma,” said Maude. “He—” She checked herself on the point of saying, “He told me he was going.”
“But a gambler, my child—a gambler.”
“Who pockets sixpenny lives at pool when he isn’t losing,” said Tom—“a wretch, a demon. Vot a larks!”
“Good game, pool, when your hand is steady. Yes, my boy, yes,” said his lordship, who was now rapidly calming down, and looking frightened.
“Thank heaven,” cried her ladyship, in tragic tones, “civilisation has introduced the private inquirer. I know all now, and my course is clear.”
“Know all, eh?” said Tom, “Why, mamma, you’ve had a splendid pen’orth. All that about Charley Melton, and the private information about the governor chucked in.”
“‘Chucked!’” ejaculated her ladyship, in tones which sounded as if she were forming an enormous “poster” for a hoarding. “‘Chucked!’ And this is my expensively-educated son. Justine, help me to my room.”
“Funnee lil mans,” said Justine to herself as Tom gave her a peculiar look.