LIES.
In pain, wrath, and mortification, Liftore rode home. What would
the men at his club say if they knew that he had been thrashed by a
scoundrel of a groom for kissing his mistress? The fact would soon
be out: he must do his best to have it taken for what it ought to
be--namely, fiction. It was the harder upon him that he knew himself
no coward. He must punish the rascal somehow--he owed it to society
to punish him; but at present he did not see how, and the first thing
was to have the first word with Florimel; he must see her before she
saw the ruffian. He rode as hard as he dared to Curzon Street, sent
his groom to the stables, telling him he should want the horses again
before lunch, had a hot bath, of which he stood in dire need, and some
brandy with his breakfast, and then, all unfit for exercise as he was,
walked to Portland Place.
Mistress and maid rode home together in silence. The moment Florimel
heard Malcolm’s voice she had left the house. Caley following had
heard enough to know that there was a scuffle at least going on in
the study, and her eye witnessed against her heart that Liftore could
have no chance with the detested groom if the respect of the latter
gave way: would MacPhail thrash his lordship? If he did, it would be
well she should know it. In the hoped event of his lordship’s marrying
her mistress, it was desirable, not only that she should be in favour
with both of them, but that she should have some hold upon each of a
more certainly enduring nature: if she held secrets with husband and
wife separately, she would be in clover for the period of her natural
existence. As to Florimel, she was enraged at the liberties Liftore
had taken with her. But alas! was she not in some degree in his power?
He had found her there, and in tears! How did he come to be there? If
Malcolm’s judgment of her was correct, Caley might have told him. Was
she already false? She pondered within herself, and cast no look upon
her maid until she had concluded how best to carry herself towards the
earl. Then glancing at the hooded cobra beside her--
“What an awkward thing that Lord Liftore, of all moments, should appear
just then!” she said. “How could it be?”
“I’m sure I haven’t an idea, my lady,” returned Caley. “My lord has
been always kind to Mr Lenorme, and I suppose he has been in the way of
going to see him at work. Who would have thought my lord had been such
an early riser! There are not many gentlemen like him now-a-days, my
lady! Did your ladyship hear the noise in the studio after you left it?”
“I heard high words,” answered her mistress, “--nothing more. How on
earth did MacPhail come to be there as well?--From you, Caley, I will
not conceal that his lordship behaved indiscreetly; in fact he was
rude; and I can quite imagine that MacPhail thought it his duty to
defend me. It is all very awkward for me. Who could have imagined _him_
there, and sitting behind amongst the pictures! It almost makes me
doubt whether Mr Lenorme be really gone.”
“It seems to me, my lady,” returned Caley, “that the man is always
just where he ought not to be, always meddling with something he has
no business with. I beg your pardon, my lady,” she went on, “but
wouldn’t it be better to get some staid elderly man for a groom, one
who has been properly bred up to his duties and taught his manners in a
gentleman’s stable? It is so odd to have a groom from a rough seafaring
set--one who behaves like the rude fisherman he is, never having had
to obey orders of lord or lady! The worst of it is, your ladyship will
soon be the town’s talk if you have such a groom on such a horse after
you everywhere.”
Florimel’s face flushed. Caley saw she was angry, and held her peace.
Breakfast was hardly over, when Liftore walked in, looking pale, and,
in spite of his faultless _get-up_, somewhat disreputable: for shame,
secret pain, and anger do not favour a good carriage or honest mien.
Florimel threw herself back in her chair--an action characteristic
of the bold-faced countess, and held out her left hand to him in an
expansive, benevolent sort of way.
“How dare you come into my presence, looking so well pleased with
yourself, my lord, after giving me such a fright this morning?” she
said. “You might at least have made sure that there was--that we
were----” She could not bring herself to complete the sentence.
“My dearest girl!” said his lordship, not only delighted to get off so
pleasantly, but profoundly flattered by the implied understanding, “I
found you in tears, and how could I think of anything else? It may have
been stupid, but I trust you will think it pardonable.”
Caley had not fully betrayed her mistress to his lordship, and he had,
entirely to his own satisfaction, explained the liking of Florimel
for the society of the painter as the mere fancy of a girl for the
admiration of one whose employment, although nothing above the
servile, yet gave him a claim something beyond that of a milliner or
hair-dresser, to be considered a judge in matters of appearance. As to
anything more in the affair--and with _him_ in the field--of such a
notion he was simply incapable: he could not have wronged the lady he
meant to honour with his hand, by regarding it as within the bounds of
the possible.
“It was no wonder I was crying,” said Florimel. “A seraph would have
cried to see the state my father’s portrait was in.”
“Your father’s portrait!”
“Yes. Did you not know? Mr Lenorme has been painting one from a
miniature I lent him--under my supervision, of course; and just because
I let fall a word that showed I was not altogether satisfied with the
likeness, what should the wretched man do but catch up a brush full of
filthy black paint, and smudge the face all over!”
“Oh, Lenorme will soon set it to rights again. He’s not a bad fellow
though he does belong to the _genus irritabile_. I will go about it
this very day.”
“You’ll not find him, I’m sorry to say. There’s a note I had from him
yesterday. And the picture’s quite unfit to be seen--utterly ruined.
But I _can’t_ think how you could miss it!”
“To tell you the truth, Florimel, I had a bit of a scrimmage after
you left me in the studio.” Here his lordship did his best to imitate
a laugh. “Who should come rushing upon me out of the back regions of
paint and canvas but that mad groom of yours! I don’t suppose you knew
he was there?”
“Not I. I saw a man’s feet--that was all.”
“Well, there he was, for what reason the devil knows, perdu amongst
the painter’s litter; and when he heard your little startled cry
--most musical, most melancholy--what should he fancy but that you
were frightened, and he must rush to the rescue! And so he did with a
vengeance: I don’t know when I shall quite forget the blow he gave me.”
And again Liftore laughed, or thought he did.
“He struck you!” exclaimed Florimel, rather astonished, but hardly able
for inward satisfaction to put enough of indignation into her tone.
“He did, the fellow!--But don’t say a word about it, for I thrashed him
so unmercifully that, to tell the truth, I had to stop because I grew
sorry for him. I am sorry now. So I hope you will take no notice of it.
In fact, I begin to like the rascal: you know I was never favourably
impressed with him. By Jove! it is not every mistress that can have
such a devoted attendant. I only hope his over-zeal in your service may
never get you into some compromising position. He is hardly, with all
his virtues, the proper servant for a young lady to have about her;
he has had no training--no _proper_ training at all, you see. But you
must let the villain nurse himself for a day or two anyhow. It would be
torture to make him ride, after what I gave him.”
His lordship spoke feelingly, with heroic endurance indeed; and if
Malcolm should dare give _his_ account of the fracas, he trusted to the
word of a gentleman to outweigh that of a groom.
Not all to whom it may seem incredible that a nobleman should thus lie,
are themselves incapable of doing likewise. Any man may put himself in
training for a liar by doing things he would be ashamed to have known.
The art is easily learned, and to practise it well is a great advantage
to people with _designs_. Men of ability, indeed, if they take care
not to try hard to speak the truth, will soon become able to lie as
truthfully as any sneak that sells grease for butter to the poverty of
the New Cut.
It is worth remarking to him who can from the lie factual carry his
thought deeper to the lie essential, that all the power of a lie comes
from the truth; it has none in itself. So strong is the truth that a
mere resemblance to it is the source of strength to its opposite--until
it be found that _like_ is not _the same_.
Florimel had already made considerable progress in the art, but
proficiency in lying does not always develop the power of detecting it.
She knew that her father had on one occasion struck Malcolm, and that
he had taken it with the utmost gentleness, confessing himself in the
wrong. Also she had the impression that for a menial to lift his hand
against a gentleman, even in self-defence, was a thing unheard of. The
blow Malcolm had struck Liftore was for her, not himself. Therefore,
while her confidence in Malcolm’s courage and prowess remained
unshaken, she was yet able to believe that Liftore had done as he
said, and supposed that Malcolm had submitted. In her heart she pitied
without despising him.
Caley herself took him the message that he would not be wanted. As she
delivered it, she smiled an evil smile and dropped a mocking courtesy,
with her gaze well fixed on his two black eyes and the great bruise
between them.
When Liftore mounted to accompany Lady Lossie, it took all the pluck
that belonged to his high breed to enable him to smile and smile, with
twenty counsellors in different parts of his body feelingly persuading
him that he was at least a liar. As they rode, Florimel asked him how
he came to be at the studio that morning. He told her that he had
wanted very much to see her portrait before the final touches were
given it. He could have made certain suggestions, he believed, that
no one else could. He had indeed, he confessed-- and felt absolutely
virtuous in doing so, because here he spoke a fact--heard from his
aunt that Florimel was to be there that morning for the last time: it
was therefore his only chance; but he had expected to be there hours
before she was out of bed. For the rest, be hoped he had been punished
enough, seeing her rascally groom--and once more his lordship laughed
peculiarly--had but just failed of breaking his arm; it was all he
could do to hold the reins.