MISS ARTHUR'S FRENCH MAID.
After this the days flew by very much alike.
Miss Arthur's maid arrived, and proved indeed a treasure, nor was she
as obnoxious to Mr. John Arthur as he had evidently intended to find
her. Perhaps Celine Leroque knew by instinct that the master of Oakley
cherished an aversion to French maids in particular; or perhaps she
was an exceptional French maid, and craved neither the smiles nor
slyly administered caresses, that fell to the lot of pretty _femmes de
chambre_, at least in novels. At any rate, certain it is that Miss
Arthur's maid manifested no desire to be seen by the inmates of the
household, and she had been domiciled for some weeks without having
vouchsafed to either John Arthur or Lucian Davlin more than a fleeting
glimpse of her maidship.
Things were becoming very monotonous to some of the occupants of the
Oakley manor; very, very dull and flavorless.
Cora was growing restless. Not that the astute lady permitted signs of
discontent to become manifest to the uninitiated, but Lucian Davlin
saw, with a mingled feeling of satisfaction and dismay, that the
_role_ of devoted wife had ceased to interest his blonde comrade in
iniquity.
The fact gave him a malicious pleasure because, as fate had dared to
play against him, he would have felt especially aggrieved if a few
thorns had not been introduced into the eider down that seemingly
enveloped his fair accomplice.
But he felt some dismay, for he knew by the swift flash of azure eyes
under golden lashes, by the sway of her shoulders as she paced the
terrace, by the nervous tapping of her slippered foot at certain times
in the intervals of table chat--that Cora was _thinking_. And when
Cora thought, something was about to happen.
It was in obedience to one of those swift side glances, that he
followed her from the morning room, one forenoon about three weeks
after the news of Madeline's death had come to them. The day was
bright but chill, and the woman had wrapped herself in a shawl of
vivid crimson, but stood with bared head in the sunlight waiting the
approach of her counterfeit brother.
"Cover your head, you very thoughtless woman," was his brotherly
salutation as he approached, plunging about in his pockets in search
of a cigar the while.
"Bother!" she ejaculated, tossing her golden locks; "my hair needs a
sunbath. I only wish I dare indulge myself further! If you had any
heart you wouldn't torture me so constantly with the odor of those
magnificent Havanas, when you know how my very soul longs for a weed!"
"Poor little woman," laughing maliciously; "fancy Mrs. John Arthur of
Oakley smoking a _Perique_! Isn't it prime, Co.?" puffing out a cloud
of perfumed smoke.
"Prime! bah! I'd like to strangle you, or--"
"Or?--" inquiringly.
"Somebody," laughing nervously.
"Just so; Miss Arthur would be a good subject and that would confer a
favor on me, too, by Jove!"
"I don't want to confer a favor on you. You had much better try and do
me one, I think."
"With all my heart, taking my ability for granted, of course; only
tell me how."
Cora shrugged her crimson-clad shoulders, and they paced forward in
silence for a time. Then as if his stillness had been speech of a
distasteful kind, she ejaculated, crossly, and without turning her
head: "Stuff! you talk too much!"
Lucian smiled maliciously, removed his cigar from between his lips,
described a smoke wreath in mid-air, replaced his weed, and said: "Do
I? then mum's the word;" and he relapsed into silence.
He seemed bent on annoying her, for there was a laughing glimmer in
his eye, and he obstinately refused to attempt to draw her out, and so
make easier whatever she might have to say, for he knew that she had
signaled him out to-day for a purpose.
Mutely he walked by her side, and contentedly puffed at his cigar
until, at length, she turned upon him, and struck petulantly at the
hand that had just removed it from his lips. The weed fell from his
fingers to the ground, and Cora set her slippered heel upon it, as if
it were an enemy, and laughed triumphantly.
"Now we are on a level," she cried. "Do you suppose I intend to give
you that advantage over me?"
"It seems not," with a shrug expressive of resignation and a smile
hidden by his mustache.
He was not the man to be angered, or even ruffled, by these little
feminine onslaughts. In fact, they rather pleased and amused him, and
he had become well accustomed to Cora's "little ways," as he called
them. Deprived of his cigar, he thrust his hands into his pockets and
whistled softly.
"Lucian, if you don't stop looking so comfortable, and content, and
altogether don't-care-ish, I shall do something very desperate," she
exclaimed, pettishly.
"No?" raising his eyebrows in mock incredulity; "you don't tell me. I
thought you were in a little heaven of your own, Mrs. Arthur."
"Oh! you did? Very clever of you. Well, Mr. Davlin, has it occurred to
you that heaven might not be a congenial climate for me?"
"Not while your wings are so fresh, surely? You have scarcely entered
your paradise, fair peri."
"Haven't I?" ironically. "Well, I am tired of manna, anyhow." Cora was
not always strictly elegant in her choice of expressions. "Now,
Lucian, stop parleying, and tell me, when is this going to end?"
"When?"
He stopped and looked down at her intently. Twice they had traversed
the terrace, and now they paused at the termination furthest from the
house. Just before them a diminutive flight of stone steps led down to
a narrow graveled walk, that skirted a velvety bit of lawn, and was in
its turn hedged by some close and high-growing shrubs from the
"Bellair woods," as they were called. Beyond the steps was a gap in
the hedge, and this, cut and trimmed until it formed a compact and
beautiful arch, was spanned by a stile, built for the convenience of
those who desired to reach the village by the shortest route, the
Bellair woods.
"Don't repeat like a parrot, Lucian." Cora raised her voice angrily.
"I say, when is this to end? and how?"
They were just opposite the gap in the hedge and Lucian, looking down
upon Cora, stood facing the opening. As the words crossed her lips,
his eyes fell upon a figure just behind her, and he checked the
conversation by an involuntary motion of the hand.
The figure came toward them. It was Miss Arthur's French maid, and she
carried in her hand a small parcel. Evidently she was returning from
some errand to the village. Miss Arthur's maid had black hair, dressed
very low on the forehead; eyes of some sort, it is to be presumed, but
they were effectually concealed by blue glasses; a rather pasty
complexion; a form that might have been good, but if so, its beauties
were hidden by the loose and, as Cora expressed it, "floppy," style of
jacket which she habitually wore. She passed them with a low "_Bon
jour, madame_," and hurried up the terrace. At least she was walking
swiftly, but not very smoothly, up the terrace when Lucian cast after
her a last disapproving glance.
"Your lady's maid is not a swan nor a beauty," he said, as they by
mutual consent went down the steps.
Cora made no reply to this, seeming lost in thought. They walked on
for a moment in silence.
But Celine Leroque did not walk on. She dropped her package and,
stooping to recover it, cast a swift glance after the pair. They were
sauntering slowly down the hedgerow walk, their backs toward her.
Probably the falling parcel had reminded the French maid of something
forgotten, for she turned swiftly, silently, and without any of her
previous awkwardness retraced her steps and disappeared beyond the
stile.
"What's the row, Co.?" asked Lucian, kicking a pebble with his boot
toe. "You are getting restive early in the game. Can't you keep to
the track for another two months?"
"No."
"What then?"
"This. We must get that fool out of the way."
"Meaning who?"
"She, of course--Ellen Arthur. The woman will make a raving maniac of
me in two months more."
"By Jove! and of me, too, if I don't get out of this."
"We must get rid of her."
"How?"
"I don't know--somehow, anyhow."
"And then?"
"And then--" she gave him a side glance, and laughed unpleasantly.
"And then? You have a plan, my blonde. Out with it; I am a listener."
And he did listen.
Slowly down the hedgerow path they paced, and at the end, halted and
stood for a time in earnest consultation. There was some difference of
opinion, but the difference became adjusted. And they turned toward
the house, evidently satisfied with the result of the morning's
consultation.
Not long after, Miss Arthur's maid returned also.
"I see by the papers that Dr. LeGuise has come back from Europe,
Cora," announced Mr. Davlin from his seat at the lunch table that day.
"Dr. LeGuise! how delightful! Now one will not be afraid to be
sick--our old family physician, you know," to Miss Arthur; "and _so_
skillful. He has been in Europe a year. The dear man, how I long to
see him!"
"Well!" laughed Lucian, "I will carry him any amount of affection,
providing it is not too bulky. I find that I must run up to the city
to-morrow, and of course will look him up."
"Oh!" eagerly, "and find out if he saw the D'Arcys in Paris; and those
delightful Trevanions!" Then, regretfully, "can't you stay another
week, dear?"
"Out of the question, Co., much as I regret it," glancing expressively
at Miss Arthur. "But I shan't forget you all."
"Pray do not," simpered the spinster. "And when do you return?"
"Not for two or three weeks, I fear. But rest assured I shall lose no
time, when once I am at liberty."
During his lazy, good-humored moments, Mr. Davlin had made most
ridiculous love to Miss Arthur, and that lady had not been behind in
doing her part. Now, strange to say, the face which she bent over her
napkin wore upon it a look, not of sorrow, but of relief. And why?