Chapter Thirty.
Light on the Scene.
First floor only. Dieci otto—a door in a corridor whose rooms looked out upon the tranquil sea.
A lady and gentleman started from their seats as the couple rushed in; and in a moment Viscount Diphoos had seen that they were right—that he was in the presence of his sister and the man with whom she had eloped. He saw too in the same rapid glance why they had been so long off the scent. For there was no black curly hair, no long black beard, but all was brown, and flashed as it were with gold.
This was all seen as the young man literally hurled himself upon the tall, sturdy man, who rose to meet him, and in a twinkling they had one another by the throat.
“Take her away, father, quick, quick,” cried Tom; and the next moment, in choking tones—“No, stop!” as he loosed his hold, staggered back to a chair, and uttered a shriek.
Wounded? Stabbed by the treacherous Italian?
Oh, no; it was a shriek of the laughter with which his frame was convulsed, as he rolled from side to side, while Lord Barmouth stared from one to the other.
“Tom, my son—are you hurt?”
“Hurt!” shrieked Tom, in inarticulate tones. “Sold—sold—sold!”
“But what does it mean?” stammered Lord Barmouth.
“Mean!” shrieked Tom—“why, that that confounded old humbug Charley has stolen a march on us.—Charley, old fellow, God bless you—I never felt so happy in my life. Here, Maudey, give us a kiss.”
Before the young man had commenced hugging his sister, Charley Melton had moved to the door, closed and locked it against the inquiring looks of waiters, and taking Maude’s hand in his he then asked Lord Barmouth in a few manly words to forgive him and his wife their clandestine proceedings.
“Forgive you, Charley,” cried the viscount, “of course he will—won’t you, dad?”
“Well—well—yes, my boy, I think so,” said his lordship feebly, as he shook his new son-in-law’s hand. “I think I’m very glad, for I never liked that Sir Reginald.”
“Grantley, father—Grantley Wilters,” cried Tom.
“To be sure, my boy; yes, of course, Sir Grantley.”
“But why the dickens didn’t you write to us, and let us know?”
“Well, we were going to write every day,” said Charley, with a peculiar look at Maude; “but we could never agree as to whose duty it was. We should have written though.”
“But—but—I think you ought to have written, Charley Melton. You see I’ve been very anxious about my darling Maude.”
“It was very cruel, papa dear; but really I did mean to write, soon.”
“I’m very glad of that,” said Lord Barmouth; “for really, Maude, my darling, you have frightened me so. I shall have a horrible fit of the gout after this.”
“Never mind, dad; stop and have it here, and Maudey and I will nurse you—won’t we, old girl?” cried Tom. “For gout at home just now would be awful. Oh!” he shrieked, once more going off into convulsions, “won’t the old girl be mad!”
“Yes, my dears,” said Lord Barmouth, shaking away very heartily at Charley Melton’s hands, “I’m afraid she’ll be very cross. But do you know, I fancy I’ve caught a bit o’ cold.”
“Never mind, father, we’re going to catch it hot,” said Tom.
“Yes, my boy; but—but I feel a little deaf, and my head is rather thick.”
“Never mind, old fellow, we’ve found her.”
“Yes, my boy, yes, we’ve found her; but do you know I feel rather confused and puzzled. I—I thought our Maude had gone off with that handsome looking scoundrel who played the organ outside our house.”
“Well, so she did,” cried Tom; “I see it all now. Here he is, dad.”
“No, no, my boy; don’t be so foolish. I want to know why it’s Charley Melton, and not that Italian fellow?”
“Why, governor, can’t you see through it?”
“No, my boy. It’s all a puzzle to me.”
“Nonsense, dad, Charley made a postman of that organ-grinder. Now do you twig?”
“And—and a post-office of the organ? I think I am beginning to see.”
“What was I to do?” said the young husband, appealingly. “I had been abroad, and tried to forget her, but it was of no use. I was forbidden the house, and at last I learned that this marriage was to come off. I dared not trust the servants, so I practised this ruse. But there, it’s all over now. You forgive me, sir, do you not?”
“Well, yes, my boy,” said Lord Barmouth, who was sitting fondling his daughter’s hand. “I think you are quite right. I should have done the same, for I was a devil of a—Don’t fidget, Maude, my darling. I’ll talk her ladyship round.”
“She’d rather it had been the organ-grinder,” choked and coughed Viscount Diphoos, while his sister, blushing and happy, kept shaking her finger at his mirthful face.
“But I will talk her round,” said Lord Barmouth, rather pompously, to the infinite risk of sending his son once more off into convulsions.
“But I say, Charley,” cried Tom, who kept showing his delight by slapping his brother-in-law on the back; “I want to know one thing though; did the signore come that night to fetch Maude, and leave his organ in the area?”
“No, of course not,” cried Charley, eagerly; “I bought the organ, and came myself.”
“With the organ?”
“For this time only on any stage.”
“As they say in the play-bills,” cried Tom. “Hooray!”
At that moment the door was tried, and then shaken by her ladyship, who had been waiting till the first part of the storm was over, after which she ascended with Tryphie, whose face wore a peculiarly mocking look as she stood behind her aunt.
“Open this door,” cried Lady Barmouth.
A dead silence fell upon the group.
“Oh, papa!” cried Maude.
“Yes, my dear,” said his lordship, looking round for a way of escape. “I—I—I think it is her ladyship.”
“Not much doubt about it,” said Tom. “Now, Charley, old chap, take your header and get out of your misery.”
“Yes,” said Charley, “I suppose I must get it over.”
“Open this door!” cried Lady Barmouth, shaking it furiously.
“It isn’t a hanging matter,” said Tom, laughing.
“No,” said Charley, rather uneasily, “it isn’t a hanging matter.”
“And her ladyship can’t undo it.”
“No,” said Charley firmly, as he crossed the room to where the door was being shaken violently, “her ladyship cannot undo it.”
“Would—would you like to take hold of my hand, Maudey, my dear?” said Lord Barmouth in a faltering voice.
“Yes, papa, dear; and you will intercede for my dear husband,” said the young wife, clinging to him affectionately.
“I will, my dear, I will. I feel as brave as a lion now. I—I—oh, here she is.”
“What is the meaning of all this?” cried her ladyship, staring round at the scene, as Tryphie rushed at Maude, kissed her, and then at Charley Melton, and jumped up and kissed him.
“I always fancied that’s how it was,” she whispered.
“What’s the meaning of it?” cried Tom. “Why, we’ve found them. Here, allow me to take round the hat for the coppers; or will you do it now, Maude?”
“I repeat,” cried Lady Barmouth, “what is the meaning of this? Mr Melton, what are you doing here?”
“Asking your ladyship’s pardon for myself and my dear wife,” said Charley, taking Maude’s hand.
“Wife? Then! You! Oh, Maude, you wicked, wicked girl!”
“But, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth.
“Silence!” cried her ladyship, “Maude, you have utterly broken my heart, and—”
“Don’t you believe it, Maudey,” said Tom, grinning. “She’s only saying that to keep up appearances.”
“Tom!”
“All right! but you know you are. There, Charley, old boy, kiss your dear mother. Come, gov’nor, say Bless you, my children!”
“Certainly, my dear boy,” said the old man, earnestly. “Bless you indeed, my dear children. Charley Melton, you can’t tell how glad I am, my boy.”
“Barmouth!”
“Yes, my love, but I can’t help it. I do feel very glad; but oh, you young dog, to come playing us a trick like that!”
“Barmouth!”
“There, hang it all, mother,” cried Tom, “what’s the good of holding out. You’ve behaved very nicely, but, as we say in refined circles—I mean rings—it’s quite time you threw up the sponge.”
“Mamma, dear, I would sooner have died than marry Sir Grantley.”
“Such a cruel ruse,” sobbed her ladyship, in hystero-tragic tones. “Maude! Maude!”
“Don’t blame her, dearest mother,” said Tom, in mock-heroic style, “it was the troubadour. Il trovatore! and his playing was magnificent. It would have won the heart of a female saint, or charmed a nun from her cell, let alone our Maude.”
“Justine, my drops, my drops.”
“She caves in! Charley, old chap, you may kiss her now,” cried Tom, “she won’t bite. There, take him to your heart, old lady; and I say, mamma, some day if you do faint, Charley could carry you to a sofa: Grantley Wilters would have doubled up like a two-foot rule.”
“I can never show my face in society again,” said her ladyship, “never, Mr Melton.”
“What!” cried Tom, who grinned with delight as he saw his mother seated upon a couch between Charley and Maude. “What? why, it’ll be no end of a game. It’s all right, Maudey; you’ve won.”
“Ah,” sighed her ladyship, “let Justine bring my drops.”
“Drops be hanged! Champagne,” cried Tom. “Here, ring the bell, gov’nor; no table-d’hôte to-day, mamma’s going to order a wedding dinner—a screamer.”
“No, no, Tom!”
“Yes, yes, my dear mother.”
Her ladyship sighed, smiled, ordered the dinner, and Lord Barmouth rubbed his leg.
“Tom, my boy,” he whispered, “you really are a wonder.”
“Am I, gov’nor? Then you tell Tryphie so, and back me up, for I mean, as the old song says, ‘to marry she.’”
“Do you, my boy?”
“Yes, gov’nor. Do you consent?”
“Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. When is it to be?”
“Barmouth,” said her ladyship in her deep contralto, “would you be kind enough to ring for Justine?”