into this. I trusted implicitly in what my husband, who knew his father intimately, had said. Will you join the croquet party, Sir Grantley?” she continued, forcing back her sweetest smile.
“Yas, oh yas, with pleasure. Charmed,” said Sir Grantley; and they rose and walked towards the croquet lawn.
“Dear Sir Grantley,” said her ladyship, speaking once more with her accustomed sweetness, “this is a private matter between ourselves. You will not let it influence your visit?”
“Not at all.”
“I mean, you will not let it shorten your stay?”
“Oh, no – not at all,” he replied. “Charmed to stay, I’m sure. Shan’t break my heart, don’t you know. Try to bear the disappointment.”
Five minutes later her ladyship had left Sir Grantley on the lawn, and gone off in the direction of Lord Barmouth, who saw her coming and beat a retreat, but her ladyship cut him off and met him face to face.
“Tryphie,” said Tom to his little cousin, “there’s a row cooking.”
“Yes,” she replied, sending her ball with straight aim through a hoop. “I saw it coming. I hope it is nothing about Maude; she seems so happy.”
“Hang me if I don’t think it is,” said Tom. “I’m going off directly, for the old girl’s started to wig the governor, I’m certain. I shall go and back him up after giving my mallet to Wilters. Don’t make me madly jealous.”
“Why not?” she replied, mischievously.
“And be careful not to hit his legs,” said Tom. “They’d break like reeds. – Wilters, will you take my mallet? I want to go.”
“Charmed, I’m shaw,” said Sir Grantley, bowing, and being thus introduced to the game, while Tom lit a cigarette and slipped away.
Meanwhile Lady Barmouth had captured her husband as he was moving off, followed closely by Charley Melton’s ugly dog, which no sooner saw her than he lowered his tail, dropped his head, and walked under a clump of Portugal laurel out of the way.
“Barmouth,” said her ladyship, taking him into custody, like a plump social policeman, “I want to speak to you.”
“Certainly, my dear,” he said, mildly. “What is it?”
“About this Mr Charles Melton. What income has he?”
“Well, my dear,” said the old gentleman, “I don’t believe he has any beyond a little allowance from his father, who is very poor.”
“And his expectations,” said her ladyship, sharply. “He has great expectations, has he not?”
“I – I – I don’t think he has, my love,” said the old man; “but he’s a doosed fine, manly young fellow, and I like him very much indeed.”
“But you told me that he had great prospects.”
“No, my dear, you said you had heard that he had. I remember it quite well.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Barmouth,” exclaimed her ladyship. “Listen to me.”
“Yes, my dear,” he said, looking at her nervously, and then stooping to rub his leg, an act she stopped by giving his hand a smart slap.
“How can you be so offensive,” she cried, in a low angry voice; “it is quite disgusting. Listen to me.”
“Yes, my dear.”
“I went to see Lady Merritty about this matter, and Lady Rigby.”
“About my gout, my dear?”
“Do you wish to make me angry, Barmouth?”
“No, my dear.”
“I went to see her about this young man – this Melton, and Lady Merritty told me she believed he had most brilliant expectations. But I’ll be even with her for this. Oh, it was too bad!”
“What’s the matter?” said Tom, joining them.
“Matter!” cried the irate woman. “Why, evidently to gratify some old spite, that wretched woman, Lady Merritty, has been palming off upon us this Mr Melton as a millionaire, and on the strength of it all I have encouraged him here, and only just now refused an offer made by Sir Grantley Wilters. A beggar! An upstart!”
“Bravo, mother!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “So he is, a contemptible, weak-kneed, supercilious beggar. I hate him.”
“Hate him?” said her ladyship. “Why, you always made him your greatest friend.”
“What, old Wilters?” cried Tom.
“Stuff! This Melton,” retorted her ladyship.
“Bah!” exclaimed Tom. “I meant that thin weedy humbug, Wilters.”
“And I meant that wretched impostor, Melton,” cried her ladyship, angrily.
“Look here, mother,” cried Tom. “Charley Melton is my friend, and he is here at your invitation. Let me tell you this: if you insult him, if I don’t go bang out on the croquet lawn and kick Wilters. Damme, that I will.”
“He’s a brave dashing young fellow, my son Tom,” said his lordship to himself. “I wish I dared – ”
“Barmouth,” moaned her ladyship, “help me to the house. My son, to whom I should look for support, turns upon his own mother. Alas, that I should live to see such a day!”
“Yes, my dear,” said Lord Barmouth, in a troubled way, as he offered the lady his arm. “Tom, my boy, don’t speak so rudely to your mamma,” he continued, looking back, and they moved slowly towards the open drawing-room window.
As her ladyship left the garden, Joby came slowly up from under the laurels, and laid his head on Tom’s knee, for that gentleman had thrown himself on a garden seat.
“Hallo, Joby,” he said “you here? I tell you what, old man, if you would go and stick your teeth into Wilters’ calf – Bah! he hasn’t got a calf! – into his leg, and give him hydrophobia, you’d be doing your master a good turn.”
From that hour a gloom came over the scene. Lady Barmouth was scrupulously polite, but Charley Melton remarked a change. There were no more rides out with Maude; no more pleasant tête-à-têtes: all was smiles carefully iced, and he turned at last to Tom for an explanation.
“I can’t understand it,” he said; “a few days ago my suit seemed to find favour in her eyes; now her ladyship seems to ridicule the very idea of my pretentions.”
“Yes,” said Tom savagely; and he bit his cigar right in half.
“But why, in heaven’s name?”
“Heard you were poor.”
“Well, I never pretended otherwise.”
“No,” said Tom, snappishly; “but I suppose some one else did.”
“Who?”
