THERE were very many people who gave a good deal of time to wondering whether Lady Verita Veritas would really ever marry Captain Adair. Many were the opinions on the subject, and some fair-sized bets, one man even proposing to take out the risk at Lloyd’s that she would not. The general view was that marrying Captain Adair was about the only thing that her very original ladyship had not done so far; but on the heels of this undeniable proposition followed the query as to whether her very original ladyship would ever do anything that even the wildest imagination might have accidentally predicted. It was felt that the chances were all against this possibility, and good society was preparing to return to its old favorite topic of how very curiously the young lady treated the young man if she did mean to marry him, and how much more curious was her course of action if she didn’t, when suddenly, one fair May morning, on every news-stall in England appeared a well-known magazine, displaying upon its cover list of contributors the name of our heroine, and upon its pages a terrible tale, entitled, “The Dowager Marchioness doesn’t Think,” which clearly owed its inception and development to the quick wit and ready pen of that same blue-blooded young woman.
Here was a fresh sensation in good earnest, the more pronounced from the fact that there was a very thoughtless dowager marchioness in the Veritas family. It was not many hours before all London was buzzing, and none of the buzzing was louder than that set up by the wheels of the irate aunt’s car as they hummed round and round, spinning her rapidly toward her niece. For the earl’s eldest sister lived near Windsor and was very, very rich, quite rich enough to have a good and legal right to a thoughtless disposition, the latter combined, be it added, with a most uncertain temper.
The marchioness had the magazine with her, but the speed she had commanded was so great and the purchase of her pince-nez so uncertain that she could only glance casually from time to time at the iniquities portrayed therein. It was easy to see, however, that it was a frightful story and calculated to incite to riot and bloodshed, or, at the very least, to upset all discipline in the servants’ hall. The plot seemed to hint at some vague system of retribution (here the marchioness held the page very close), and in one spot there were certain vicious passages about downing—or was it drowning?—all aristocrats; but just at that moment the car struck a stone, and the noble lady lost her place, in fact, both her places. By the time that she had readjusted herself, the leaf had turned over, and her eye fell on another and yet more absorbing horror, for an old villager in the story predicted death to all who had oppressed him, and following immediately upon this bloodthirsty prophecy came a style of invective that quite shocked one, and made Verita’s aunt suspect that her dear niece had been slumming in Limehouse.
“I wonder what her father will—” reflected the ancient lady of ten times more ancient lineage, shutting tight her thin-lipped mouth; but there the car, making ever more and more violent efforts to save time at the expense of every other consideration, skidded, and again the dowager marchioness was forced to give up thinking.
She gave it up for so long a time that the next thing of which she became aware was the pillared entrance to Veritas House and the green-and-silver footman who was brother to her own maid. He took her out with a solicitude that showed that he also was fully aware of the tragic happening which had just shaken the august family.
“The duchess is up-stairs, your Ladyship,” he whispered respectfully, as she clung to his arm, “and Captain Adair, too.”
The dowager marchioness nodded with jelly-like faintness. Then she mounted the staircase in real agitation, and was announced by a second footman, this one being a son of her own cook.
The countess was “laid up with her head,” so Verita was pouring the tea; no one else was present except the duchess and the captain.
“Not a copy to be had,” the captain was saying excitedly; “I tried everywhere. I tried at Paddington and at the club, and then I took a taxi to Gray’s Inn. There’s a news-stall just across the way, don’t you know; but not a beastly one could I find.”
“Too bad,” said the author, going to kiss the new arrival; “but it doesn’t matter so much now, because here’s one.” She took the dowager marchioness’s magazine as she spoke, and gave it to the duchess, who opened it eagerly.