"It's enough to drive a man to do anything," exclaimed Melton, as he
dashed down the fashionable newspaper he had been reading, where in a
short paragraph he had found that which he told himself would make him
wretched for life. The paragraph was as follows--
"We understand that an alliance is on the _tapis_ between Sir Grantley
Wilters, of Morley Hall, Shropshire, and Eaton Place, and Lady Maude
Diphoos, daughter of the Earl of Barmouth."
"I seem to be crushed," exclaimed the young man, rising and walking
hastily up and down the room. "Everything goes wrong with me, and I
believe I am going mad. Perhaps it is fate," he said, gloomily, "and
how to save that poor girl from wretchedness! Heigho! Joby, old
fellow, I wish I could forget the unpleasant things, and then perhaps
there would be some comfort in life.
"Now, what's to be done?" he cried, as his eyes fell again upon the
newspaper. "I cannot bear this. Here's a whole month since I have
heard from or seen poor little Maude, for I haven't the heart to try any
more of those clandestine tricks."
He sat down and thought over the past month and its incidents, taking
out and re-reading a note with Lady Barmouth's crest upon it, in which
her ladyship very curtly requested that Mr Melton would refrain from
calling in Portland Place, for after what had occurred she could only
look upon his visits as an insult. She wrote this at the request of
Lord Barmouth.
"That is a monstrous fib," said Charley Melton, angrily, "for the
amiable little old man was always most friendly. But what shall I do?
I must see her; I must hear from her. They are forcing this on with the
poor girl, and it is like blasting her young life.
"Tom!" he ejaculated, after a pause. "No; he has not answered either of
my last letters. There is something wrong there."
He sat thinking again.
"Confound it all! It is so contemptible. I hate it, but what can I do?
I must send a note through that Frenchman. Pah! how I loathe this
backstairs work, but what can I do? I am debarred the front stairs,
which are open to that confounded _roue_ Wilters."
He stamped up and down the room again till there was a knock at the
door.
"Come in," he cried, and a groom entered.
"Please, sir, master's compliments, and--and--I beg your pardon, sir,
he'd be much obliged if you wouldn't stamp up and down the room so.
He's got a bad headache, and you're just over him."
"Was that the message your master sent?" exclaimed Melton, for the groom
was the servant of an acquaintance who had chambers on the floor below.
"Well, sir--no, sir--not exactly, sir," said the man, suppressing an
inclination to smile.
"What did he say then?"
"Please, sir, he said, `Run up and ask Mr Melton if he's going mad,'
and he shied one of his boots at me."
"Tell him yes, raving mad," said Melton savagely; and the man went down.
"It's fate, I suppose," he said at last: "and it seems as if I am to
give her up."
For from that fatal day when the toy terrier had been slain Joby had
stood in the same category as his master--Lady Maude was not at home to
the canine caller, and after many efforts to obtain access to his
mistress, Charley Melton was nearly in despair.
He had tried the post, and his letters had been returned. He had tried
the servants and mutual friends, but given up both in disgust for
Maude's sake, being unwilling to cause her fresh anxieties and pain.
"It is so confoundedly undignified," he said to himself. "I can't think
of a plan that is safe. But never mind, patience--and something will
turn up. We must wait. I can get a look at my darling now and then,
and that must do till better days arrive."
But human nature has its bounds of endurance, and after seeing Maude one
day in the Park in company with washed-out, overdressed Sir Grantley
Wilters, Charley Melton could bear it no more.
"What's the good of living in this confounded England," he exclaimed,
"where a man cannot wring his rival's neck or knock out his enemy's
brains without there being a row. I must do it, there is no other means
that I can see but I'll have one more try first."
He went off straight to Portland Place, and as he came within sight of
the house, to his great delight he caught sight of Maude in the large
covered space with its huge pots of evergreens over the portico. She
was leaning on the railing and gazing pensively down, and as Charley
Melton drew nearer he found that she was listening to the music of a
loud-toned organ played by a tall, broad-shouldered, swarthy Italian,
who waved his hand and raised his hat, and smiled and bowed till the
lady dropped something white into his extended felt broad brim, in
response to which he kissed his hand, and the lady still looked down.
Charley Melton thought little of it at the moment as he crossed the
road, when just as he was half-way across the broad way Maude raised her
head, saw him, and fled quickly into the house.
"She needn't have been in such a precious hurry," said Melton to
himself; "but never mind, I'll make a big effort to see her this time,
at all events."
He went boldly across the pavement to reach the front door and ring, and
as he did so Luigi Malsano followed him, turning his handle the while.
"Ah, signore!" he whined, as he smiled and showed his white teeth,
"povero Italiano."
"Yes, you handsome scoundrel," said Charley Melton to himself, "I should
like your poverty. Allowed to come here, and rewarded by her in her
gentle love and kindliness. What is the scoundrel glaring at?"
For Luigi's eyes seemed to him to emit a peculiarly sinister or baleful
glare that was not pleasant.
"No, no, go away!" said Melton impatiently.
Just then the door opened, and Robbins the pompous appeared.
"Not at home, sir," he said, before he was asked.
"Take my card, Robbins, and ask Lord Barmouth to see me."
"I dursen't, sir; I dursen't indeed," said the butler in a whisper.
"It's more than my place is worth, sir, and his lordship couldn't see
you, he couldn't indeed."
"Why not?"
Robbins "made a face" which was quite expressive enough, for Charley
Melton read it to mean "the dragon wouldn't let him," and with a feeling
of bitterness and rage which nearly tempted him to kick the
organ-grinder into the gutter, he turned and walked away, to go straight
from thence to Upper Gimp Street, where he found the handsome
hairdresser rearranging the costume of his waxen lady dummy.
"Ah, m'sieu; yes, I am quite at liberty. _Entrez_, m'sieu."
Charley Melton confounded his "Ah, monsieur" with the Italian's "Ah,
signore," and he walked into the saloon, and stood for a few minutes in
silence thinking, while Monsieur Hector suggested hair-cutting,
shampooing, scent, singeing, and other matters connected with his
profession.
"Look here, Mr Launay," he said at last.
"M'sieu, _s'il vous plait_, m'sieu, it is the only pleasant reminder of
my own clime."
"Monsieur Launay then--"
"I am at your service, m'sieu."
"Some time back, when I was here, you were good enough to make me the
offer of your services."
"_Certainement_, m'sieu."
"Monsieur Launay, what you have said is a profound secret between us?
As a French gentleman, I trust to your honour."
"Sare, I am the repository of the secrets of the aristocratic classes."
"Then perhaps I shall trust you."
"And monsieur accepts the offer of my services?"
"I cannot say yet--I will call again."
Charley Melton left the place and went along the street, for he could
get no farther that day. He felt degraded, and the words choked him;
but Monsieur Launay snatched a copy of _Le Petit Journal_ from over the
head of his gentleman, whose fixed eyes followed the young man as he
went slowly along the pavement with Joby close at his heels.
"_C'est fait_?" exclaimed Monsieur Launay. "Justine, _mon ange_, I
shall obey you and save Monsieur Melton--_Ma foi_! what a name! They
will be happy, and then I--Ah, la France--la bel-le," he sang, "at last
I shall return to you a rich man. Oh, but it was quite plain: he had
sent a note by the dogue, and the boule-dogue had lost it and his
collar. But what it is to be ingenious--to have of the spirit! If I
rase and cut hair, I starve myself, but if I make myself of great use to
all around, I grow rich. Live the secrets! Justine, you will be mine
at last.
"Aha!--it is good," he continued, "I have another secret to keep...
This is the bureau aux secrets. He had not remarked the likeness to my
adorable. It is beautiful, and she was _jalouse_ when I say I love my
lady of wax. _Cette cherie_. But, _ma foi_! I must be busy over my
other affairs; there is the coiffure of the Grande Barmouth to prepare.
Aha, Milady La Grande, you will call _ma cherie bete, chouette_,
stupide, and trouble her poor sweet soul. Now I shall have my revenge,
and be on ze best of terms as you say all ze time. La--la--la--la--la--
la. Par-tir pour la guer-re--la guer-re. Ces braves soldats."
He sang on in a low tone, and began to comb some of Lady Barmouth's
falsities, and while he combed he smiled, and when Monsieur Hector
smiled he was making plans.
"_Vive les conspirateurs_!" he cried; and then prepared for his
primitive repast.
Being a bachelor at present, he cooked for himself behind a little
screen over a gas-stove; sometimes it was food, sometimes strange
cosmetiques and chemical preparations for beautifying his clients. This
day it was food preparation, and, manipulated by Monsieur Hector, one
kidney became a wonderful dish, swimming in gravy. Tiny bits of meat
reappeared brown and appetising: and he was great upon soup, which he
made with half a pint of water, some vegetables, and a disc cut off what
seemed to be so much glue in a sausage skin.
But he lived well upon a small income, and partook of grand salads,
water _souchees_ made of one herring, _biftek-aux-pommes, cafe, eau
sucree_, and cigarette.
One gas-burner cooked, boiled, and stewed, and his cleanliness and
saving ways enabled him to afford his game at billiards; and to pass for
a Parisian of the first water under a political cloud.
"Ah!" he said, as he smoked his one cigarette, "when will he return with
a letter for his beloafed? Soon. But stop--what is a letter to a
meeting? Ha, ha! I have a plan. Wait till he come once more, and
then--ha, ha! how la Justine will laugh! _Vive l'amour_.
"Yes, the ruse, one that your foggy head, ros-bif Anglais could never
devise, but which I, Hector of the sunny France, threw off at once.
Oorai, as we say in thees deesmal country. _Vive l'amour_. One--two--
three days; when will he come? Any veek, and then--_vive l'amour_."