“You shall not see her!” she cried, her face blazing with honest anger, “you shall not worry her. I am stronger than you, and you will never get past me—never!” and she swung Melissa bodily back to the lower step.
At the moment, while the two eyed each other furiously, both heard a man’s voice behind the closed door of Lady Clancarty’s room. Alice turned white, and Melissa laughed.
She said not a word more. She laughed and shrugged her shoulders, and Alice’s face burned with shame and anger. “The hateful wretch, the insulting, crawling creature,” the girl thought; yet she was relieved to see her turn and walk quietly away. At the landing, however, she stopped and laughed.
“I beg your pardon,” she said sweetly, “I’ll not interrupt you again, Miss Prude.”
And she went on, while Alice burned to run after her and box her ears. But she kept her post, not daring to leave the door unguarded, and after awhile, she called to Lady Betty and warned her, but in vain; the lovers could not part so soon. Clancarty lingered—lingered while the precious minutes flew and fate travelled nearer and yet nearer.
Once out of Alice’s sight, Melissa crept, with her soft, catlike tread, along the lower gallery, felt her way down a narrow stair, the same by which Clancarty had ascended, and looking over her shoulder occasionally to see if the girl followed her, she opened another door noiselessly, crept on down a long room and through a hall. About her was every sign of luxury and magnificence, rich soft rugs upon the floors, long mirrors, beautiful statuary, rare bric-a-brac from the India houses, every evidence of culture and extravagance, and she crept like a panther ready to spring. Her face was like a white patch in the dusk of the candle-light, her green eyes shone, too, like a cat’s. On, on she crept, stealthy, determined, venomous; a dangerous creature bent on a miserable errand. Again, looking back for Alice, another flight of stairs, and then a pause before a pair of closed folding-doors. She drew her breath and pressed her hand to her heart. It took courage, but she had it, of an evil sort, the courage that crawls in secret places and strikes a man behind the back. She opened the door gently and stood in a sudden flood of light, looking at Lord Spencer.
He sat by a great candelabrum, reading some pages of manuscript, and he did not hear her. But having come so far, she would not be balked; she glided nearer and began to purr at him. The sound was scarcely human, but he looked up quickly and bent his eyes sternly upon her. He was so cold a man, so pompous and important, that even this creeping creature recoiled a little. But it was too late now; his very glance was a command.
“I beg pardon, my lord,” she murmured, soft as oil, “but my love for the family—my duty drove me here!”
“What for?” he demanded coolly, viewing her from head to foot.
She was a little frightened.