The next day dawned as fair and lovely as any picnic-party could
desire. The party from Lancaster set out as early as twelve o'clock,
and left the coast clear for Leonora's explorations of the great house.
Mrs. West, with her basket full of keys upon her arm, undertook
the office of guide. We do not propose to accompany them, you and
I, reader. Descriptions of rooms are wearisome alike to reader and
writer. Most people skip over these prolix inventories of furniture and
bric-a-brac, and hasten on to more interesting matters. We will too,
reader.
Mrs. West had "reckoned without her host" when she supposed that the
house was empty, and that the lady of Lancaster Park as well as the
rest of the guests had gone to the Abbey ruins on fun and frolic
intent. It was quite true that she had intended doing so, but there is
a quaint old adage to the effect that "man proposes, but God disposes."
That prosaic affliction, rheumatism, which is no respecter of persons,
and to which old age is peculiarly liable, laid its grim hand upon
the great lady that morning, and reminded her of a fact that she was
sometimes prone to forget, in the arrogance of her greatness and
worldly prosperity--namely that, in spite of her wealth and power, she
was but mortal, after all, and that although she could order other
things, she had no control over her own frail body and soul.
So, groaning under the hand of her relentless enemy, Lady Lancaster was
fain to relinquish her design of superintending the loves of her nephew
and the earl's daughter for that day at least. She made arrangements
for the party to proceed without her, and surrendered herself to the
good offices of her maid for the day.
And a doleful day Mlle. Elise had of it, too, for her lady's temper,
never sweet, was sharp as vinegar under the stress of her affliction.
In vain did Elise apply the hot fomentations and the vaunted liniments,
in vain darken the room, and with kindest ministrations endeavor to woo
quiet and repose to the couch of the afflicted one. Lady Lancaster
being full of selfishness and venom always, vented it with even more
than usual rigor upon the head of her unoffending handmaid, and keeping
up a series of groans, hysterics, and revilings, made hideous the gloom
of her curtained chamber.
So, groaning and lamenting and scolding, Lady Lancaster passed the
hours of her penance, and toward high noon the devoted maid had the
satisfaction of hearing her acknowledge that she felt a little better,
and that if the sharp twinges of pain did not come back into her
shoulder, she might perhaps fall into a little doze.
"Thank God," said Elise, devoutly, to herself, and she smoothed and
patted the lace-fringed pillows, and sat down to watch her mistress's
slumbers, feeling intensely relieved, and praying within herself that
the shrewish dowager might not open her keen black eyes again for at
least twenty-four hours.
"For I do not believe that her shoulder can hurt any worse than mine,
with the rubbing I have given her," said the French woman, ruefully, to
herself; and she was afraid to breathe lest those wrinkled lids should
open again, and the querulous voice demand some further service from
her weary and impatient handmaiden.
"And if the pay wasn't so good, I would not stay in her service another
day," said the woman to herself. "She grows harder and more vixenish
every day of her life. As old as she is, she does not seem to be making
any preparations for dying. I dare say she expects to live forever.
Ugh! how yellow, and wrinkled, and ugly she is, with the paint and
powder off, and her wig of gray curls in the box; I should want to die
if I were as ugly and witchy-looking as she is."
And the maid settled her coquettish little cap a little more rakishly
upon her befrizzled hair, and made a grimace expressive of intense
satisfaction with her own young and pretty face. For Elise, in common
with many of her sex, believed that beauty was a great power in the
world, and had vague dreams of making capital out of hers as soon as
she had saved up a little pile of money, enough to start a thread and
needle and ribbon shop for herself in London, where she expected to
captivate some handsome and flourishing young tradesman with her pretty
face and gay attire.
But while Elise, gazing into the long mirror opposite, indulged in
these Alnaschar visions of the future, the beady black orbs of her
mistress had flared wide open again, and she exclaimed, in such sharp,
sudden accents that the maid gave a start of terror:
"Elise, who is that playing upon the drawing-room piano?"
"Oh, my lady, I thought you were asleep!" cried poor Elise, ruefully.
"So I should have been if some fool had not commenced to play on the
grand piano in the drawing-room. Who is it, I say?" demanded Lady
Lancaster, irascibly.
"Oh, my lady, you must be mistaken!" Elise began to say; but then she
stopped in confusion. Some one _was_ playing the piano, and the strong,
full, melodious notes, struck by a practiced hand, echoed melodiously
through the house.
"I'm not deaf, Mam'selle Elise," said her mistress, scornfully. "Some
one is playing the piano. Hark, it is the grand march from 'Norma!' I
thought all of the people had gone to the picnic."
"So they have, my lady--every soul of them."
"Then who is that playing in the drawing-room?--tell me that!" snapped
the peevish old lady.
"Indeed I don't know, Lady Lancaster," answered the maid, truthfully.
"Then make it your business to find out--go and see," was the
peremptory command; and Elise without any more ado obeyed it.
"I did not know that there was a woman in the house who could wake the
soul in the piano like that," said Lady Lancaster to herself, when the
girl was gone. "What a touch! What grand notes! Who is it that has been
hiding her talents in a napkin? Not Lady Adela! She is fast enough to
show all the accomplishments she possesses. So are all the other women,
for that matter. Modesty is not one of their failings."
And she waited most impatiently for Elise to return. She was both
curious and angry. She was angry because her nap had been brought to an
untimely end, and she was curious to know who had done it.
It seemed to her that the maid stayed a long time. The march from
"Norma" was finished, and the unknown musician had struck into another
piece--a melancholy fugue--before the girl came flying back with
upraised hands and dilated eyes, exclaiming:
"Oh, my lady, I never was so astonished in all my life!"