ONE morning Lady Flanders, enveloped in a dressing-gown bought at a bazaar in Damascus, which made her look like the Grand Vizier in the Arabian Nights, knocked at the room which her guest, Mrs. Lancaster, was occupying. Marion, who had not yet finished her toilet, opened the door, and Lady Flanders stalked in. She merely nodded a good morning, and did not at once explain the reason of this early visitation. With her hands behind her, she began to pace slowly up and down the room, her head bent and her shaggy brows drawn together: altogether rather an appalling spectacle. At length she halted, felt in the pocket of her caftan for her snuff-box, and not finding it there, sniffed, rubbed her nose, and went up to Marion, who had resumed the combing of her hair which the entrance of her ladyship had interrupted.
“How is your health this morning, my dear?” she demanded, scowling down upon her.
“I thank you; much as usual,” replied Marion apathetically.
“Nonsense! You are not well at all: you’re as pale and peaked as a charity-school girl!” returned the old lady testily. “You haven’t improved at all since you came to my house, Mrs. Lancaster: and yet I’ve paid you every attention. I’m displeased at it!”
“You have been most kind to me, and I—” began Marion; but the other interrupted her with a peremptory gesture.
“You are altogether in the wrong, Mrs. Lancaster,” she exclaimed, “and you should have discernment enough to be aware of it. I have shown you no kindness whatever: ’tis a thing I never do any one; I have simply pleased myself, as I always do: and ’tis as likely as not I have got you and your husband into a precious scrape, only for the gratification of my own antipathies. I have always abominated that little devil of a Marquise Desmoines, and I was determined to let her know it! That is the whole secret of the matter!”
“I shall not alter my opinion, madam,” returned Marion with a smile, “and I can never forget the sympathy and protection you have given me. But I am unhappy: and I feel, now, that I did wrong to come here. I should have stayed at home with my mother.”
“This is assurance, upon my honor! Where are your manners, ma’am? Pray, is my house not good enough for you?” But, having made these inquiries in a haughty and fierce way, the great lady suddenly took Marion in her arms and kissed her on both cheeks.
“I am an old fool, my dear,” said she, sitting down with a disconsolate air, and crossing one leg over the other. “I’m not fit to be trusted alone any more. My likings and my dislikings both get me into trouble. I fell in love with you the minute I set eyes on you. For fifty years, at least, I have been ashamed of being a woman, and tried all I could to act as if I were a man—doing as men do, and thinking men’s thoughts—or, at any rate, talking as if I thought them. And now, since I met you, I only wish I were more a woman than I am! My dear, you are the finest creature that ever stood in petticoats, and nobody is good enough for you. And when I fancied that that Philip of yours didn’t appreciate the prize he had won—which, if he were the best man alive, he couldn’t deserve—it made me so angry that I could have cut that handsome white throat of his from one ear to the other. And as if that wasn’t enough, he must accuse you of improper behavior—”
“It was my own fault, Lady Flanders,” said Marion, interrupting. “I’m sure I behaved very badly, and when I wouldn’t tell him what I had been doing, I think he did quite right to be angry. I would ask him to forgive me, if he were here.”