GLOWING from quite the most luxurious bath it had ever been the lot of
Girlie Cass to enjoy, that little lady presently returned to submit
her sensitiveness to hands of ruthless indelicacy. It had been Pikey’s
pleasing task “to mother” the six small Catkin ladies. Perhaps the
fact may have accounted for much in her present mode of handling the
Deputy. Even after her charges had emerged from the nursery, within
her own sphere, which was now that of lady’s maid, she had always been
a tremendous autocrat. Her methods might lack subtlety, but of their
effectiveness there could be no doubt. In the case of the Family,
however, they were mitigated by the knowledge that they were but the
outward expression of her inordinate pride in and absolute devotion to
them all. No matter what the Catkin ladies suffered at her hands, they
knew in their hearts that Pikey would yield her life cheerfully for any
one of them at a moment’s notice. The luckless Girlie, however, had
not this thought to sustain her. There was no sense of handmaidenly
altruism to soften the present pain and ignominy of the lot of Miss
No-Class.
One thing there was, however, in this hour of trial to nerve Lady
Elfreda’s deputy; it was the exquisite garment of misty blue with a
shimmer of silver and tulle. Would it fit? For a moment her feelings
were harrowed by the fear that it might not. That would be tragedy,
indeed. But the fear was groundless. Nature had molded her so daintily
that even with the thick woolly combinations she had decided to retain
there was room for her small person in that glorious gown.
She looked in the large glass to satisfy herself that such was the
case, carefully tucked in the edges of the obtrusive undergarment which
so tactlessly showed themselves above the proud corsage, and then
turned to confront Pikey with a little air of triumph.
“It fits wonderfully, I think.”
Pikey looked Miss No-Class truculently up and down. Then with a
scorn that in a moment less exalted would have been annihilating,
she deliberately plucked out the concealed edges of the woolly
combinations, sniffed loudly and palpably, plucked at the sleeves of
the gown, pulled them and patted them, and finally lifted up the skirt.
Disdaining comment in mere words, the maid at once produced a wonderful
array of gossamer-like undergarments, stockings ravishing in blue silk,
and slippers that were a glory of silver buckles and blue satin.
“Take off that dress.” The Werewolf look came upon Pikey. “Put on that
dressing gown.” The fierce eyes seemed to threaten murder. “And then
I’ll do your hair.”
Trembling in spirit, Miss Cass brought herself reluctantly to submit to
this grim ordeal. The Ogress took an unholy joy in twisting and pulling
and punching, with alternations of savage brushings and combings, yet
through it all was poor Girlie upheld by the knowledge that not only
was her hair abundant, of a fine color and texture, but it also had
a trick of curling naturally. If it came to a “showdown” she was not
afraid of anybody in the matter of hair. Without wishing to rate it
too highly she had serious doubts whether the head of Lady Elfreda was
so well equipped by nature, no matter what art may have done for it.
And as a final satisfaction, which present circumstances seemed much
to enhance, it was only the previous evening that she had shampooed it
thoroughly.
Pikey was pitiless, yet she was no mean coiffeuse. The happy abundance
and the charming natural waves of Miss Cass’s hair offered scope for
her skill. And when she had worked her final will with cruel fingers
and unsparing brush, and had gathered the silken mass and bound it
artfully with a ribbon of blue and silver threads, the result was a
triumph for her and also for her victim, who had been reduced to the
verge of involuntary tears. As the maid ungraciously surveyed the
fruits of her labors, she had secretly to admit that, owing to some odd
freak on the part of nature, no head of her lawful charges had ever
done her quite so much credit.
Girlie was then at liberty to devote herself to the rest of her
toilet. But she was not permitted to don the gauze-like blue silk
stockings until the Ogress had inspected her feet with ominous care.
“I’ll cut those,” was the curt announcement at the sight of the
toenails of Miss Cass.
The proud spirit of a solicitor’s daughter was inclined to contest the
point. She really did not think her toes were in need of such attention.
“Very well--you don’t put on _them_.” The Werewolf pointed to the blue
silk stockings. “And you don’t put on those neither.” And she pointed
to the enchanting slippers.
Poor Miss Cass had to suffer one more indignity. Pikey assumed a pair
of spectacles, took a pair of scissors, made Girlie sit on a chair and
dealt with her toes with scrupulous efficiency. The operation duly
performed, Pikey turned her attention to the lovely gown. A cunning
needle took in a bit here, let out a bit there, emphasized this,
diminished that, until at last she reluctantly muttered, “You ought to
do now.”
Girlie, ready to weep for relief, turned again to the glass.
The picture she saw was beyond her most extravagant hopes. She
was--yes--she was beautiful! At the sight of a ravishing self her
courage rose. She had not known that mere clothes and that particular
way of doing the hair and that particular ribbon in it could mean so
much. Somehow the picture in the glass was going to help her enormously
in the part she had to play.
Even Pikey, sunk in savage gloom at the prospect before her, could
not stifle a feeling of half admiration, which to be sure she did not
reveal. It was too much to hope that the preposterous trick would not
be found out, but at least in the matter of looks, the Family might
have been far less worthily represented. In fact so clear was Pikey
on this point that she opened an ancient jewel case and took forth an
article that lifted Girlie to the _n_th degree. It was a necklace of
pearls. This lovely thing had only to clasp a white and slender throat,
of which Girlie had always been secretly vain, for its owner to be made
free of the seventh heaven of delight.
“That belongs to Lady Carabbas.” Such was Pikey’s proud concession to
the light of rapture in the ignorant eyes of Miss No-Class. But she
did not tell the Deputy, whose eyes were sparkling with enchantment,
that the necklace was but a copy of a famous original that was strictly
reserved for state occasions. Beauty, however, is in the eye of the
beholder. Girlie was quite sure that these were the most authentic
pearls of the Orient. When she looked again in the glass she literally
felt their glamour.
Half an hour must pass before Girlie, now slightly delirious, would
have to show herself in the drawing room. Blood was drumming in her
temples already, an odd kind of singing was in her ears, yet in spite
of the sure and clear knowledge that she was poised on the very edge of
a measureless chasm, in that half hour the dominant emotion was not
fear. Girlie’s line of commercial sires were standing by her now; a
certain dour practicality rallied to their daughter’s call.
Moreover, in her way, Girlie Cass was a fighter. Life for her had
never been a bed of roses. And this was her chance. If only she could
control her nerves and fix her will this perilous game might be worth
while. Besides, whatever happened, she must not give her friend and
benefactress away. Looked at rightly this was a perfectly gorgeous
adventure. If only she showed pluck she had really very little to lose
beyond her situation at The Laurels--a heavy penalty no doubt--yet
over against that was set an opportunity for priceless first-hand
experience, such as hardly one girl in a million could hope to acquire.
Let her play up and take Courage for her watchword! Even if she could
not fill the rôle of a marquis’s daughter--and the event had yet to
prove whether she could or she could not--the cheval glass opposite
told her quite clearly that very few girls indeed could have looked the
part better.
X
THE clock on the chimneypiece chimed a quarter past eight, and on
Pikey’s advice the Deputy made her way down to the drawing room. She
was horribly afraid, yet as she caught another view of herself in a
mirror at the top of the stairs, she was not wholly in the grip of
that unworthy emotion. What a necklace! Its value must be fabulous.
As the light caught it and transmitted its spurious rays, her slender
white throat looked slenderer and whiter than ever before. Then,
too, the flush of rose in the center of each cheek and the almost
unnatural brightness in her eyes blended with the wonderful frock quite
remarkably. She could not help lingering a moment in front of the
glass, half astonished by her own beauty.
Hearing a sound behind her she moved on. But she had not gone more than
two steps down the stairs when a very friendly voice said, “Well, Lady
Elfreda, have you begun yet to study your part?”
The author of “The Lady of Laxton,” who was one of the main causes of
the mischief, although both were far from suspecting the fact, came
alongside her in the middle of the stairs.
“No, I haven’t begun yet,” said Girlie in a voice she could not
recognize as belonging to herself.
Sir Toby was rather taken aback by the confession. The time was short
and the part of the little governess was decidedly a long one. Casual
to say the least. So like these amateurs!
“We begin rehearsals to-morrow,” said the author gently.
That was not a moment, however, for the Deputy-daughter of the Marquis
of Carabbas to think of rehearsals. She was within twenty yards of the
drawing room. Would she be able to enter it?
Yes, decidedly casual and inclined to be stand-off, thought Sir Toby.
He hoped the little idiot had not had her head turned already by
success. Sir Toby glanced at her sideways, fully and expertly taking
her in without any suggestion that he was doing so. Nailingly pretty,
by gad! If her acting was up to her looks they would have a _succès
fou_ on Tuesday week. Quite a stepper in her way, but apparently very
shy. No doubt she would improve on acquaintance.
Sir Toby’s survey of the little Puss was so eminently satisfactory
that he had no qualms at all about entering the drawing room with her.
Girlie had many, however, about entering it with him. Still it would be
easier than going in by oneself. She nerved herself for the severest
ordeal of her life. And yet, after all, it proved quite a simple matter.
“Interesting sight,” proclaimed a bold looking woman in pink with a
marble and platinum voice as soon as she appeared in the room with Sir
Toby. “Behold the author and the leading lady.”
In almost the same moment the yellow chrysanthemum lady who was looking
magnificent in black satin swooped upon her. “Now I must make you known
to everybody. The plain but pompous looking, rather overdressed man
standing over there with his hands in his pockets, is my husband. Let
me introduce you.”
The gentleman in question bowed to Lady Elfreda who found the presence
of mind to offer her hand. And then as the host, one Richard Minever by
name, a rich and rollicking M. P., took the hand of the little lady, he
grinned at his wife and said, “Confound your impudence, Kate.”
“This is he with whom you will have to go in,” said the hostess coolly.
“I am very sorry for you but I am afraid it can’t be helped. But you
will have some one really nice the other side of you. Let me introduce
Lord Duckingfield.”
Lord Duckingfield was a large man of forty-five with a face that was by
no means unattractive. He was full of geniality and charmingly simple
and natural; his air as he heartily shook Girlie’s hand was that of a
father towards her.
“I often see your papa at our Board meetings,” said Lord Duckingfield.
“He says you are quite the clever one of the family.” And as his
lordship caught little Miss Grey Eyes broadside on, he felt tempted to
add although he refrained from doing so, “He might also have said you
were the pretty one.”
They went in to dinner almost at once, the host offering a paternal arm
to Lady Elfreda and showing the way. The party was not uncomfortably
large. Mr. and Mrs. Minever, two tall and cheerful daughters, and
half a dozen guests who were staying in the house. But there was an
atmosphere of noisy good humor about it which was very welcome to
Girlie. The banter and the repartee and the jovial give and take, which
if not always in the best of taste, seemed vastly entertaining to every
one concerned, all helped to provide a most fortunate cloak for the
little lady who sat between the host and Lord Duckingfield.
She was really required to do very little beyond getting on with an
excellent dinner. True, her private emotions hardly allowed her to
do justice to the menu, but such slight attention was paid to her
personally amid the general clamor that she was almost able to enjoy
herself. All the same she was resolutely careful not to exceed one
glass of champagne. The shrewd northern forebears simply would not
hear of more than one glass. But in the one she had, there was magic.
It seemed to open her heart to the luxurious play of civilized life
around her. She knew it was a chimera that could not possibly last, at
any moment the game might be up, but no matter what happened later, she
would be a connoisseur in human experience who had lived one glorious
hour.
Hoisted upon that high thought, Girlie removed her lips from the rim of
her glass and sat up very straight. Yes, for that evening at any rate,
she would live her hour; she really would be the daughter of a marquis
even if she had to go to prison for it afterwards. Her late father, who
had been a lawyer himself, always maintained that the law was the most
uncertain thing in the world; so there really was a prospect of its
coming to that. In the meantime, however, she would play up for all she
was worth if only for the sake of the amazing new friend who had gone
to The Laurels in her place, and who at this moment must be bitterly
rueing the freak that had led her to forego this delightful meal.
Not only did Girlie sit up physically, she sat up mentally. Keeping
her eyes and ears open, she began to take grave and particular
notice! Somewhere in her mind floated vague fragments from _Hints on
Etiquette by a Member of the Aristocracy_, and for that reason she
boldly discarded her fish-knife, as she seemed to remember that the
best people relied exclusively on forks for their fish whenever it was
possible to do so. She noted, however, that neither of her neighbors
seemed aware of that fact, and Mr. Minever and Lord Duckingfield
went down a little in her esteem. But, after all, it merely cast one
romantic light the more on the general situation. These people might be
very amusing and very jolly and very rich, but even with their titles
to help them they could hardly be considered real Aristocrats. And it
was because Lady Elfreda Catkin was an aristocrat to her finger tips
that she chose darkness and eclipse rather than sully her proud soul by
mixing with people who needed fish-knives to grapple with boiled turbot.
“We are expectin’ great things of you, Lady Elfreda.” The loud voiced
little man opposite was addressing her personally. “They say you
absolutely knocked ’em in Yorkshire. I hope you’ll like your part. It
was written for you specially.”
“Why, Philpot, you’ve not seen Lady Elfreda act,” said the host in his
rich, rollicking tactless way.
“’Tisn’t always necessary,” said the author of “The Lady of Laxton”
stoutly, “to see a woman act in order to write a part for her. Sardou
did it over and over again. So did Scribe. So has Pin I’m sure--and all
of ’um.”
“Doesn’t sound very convincing, Sir Toby,” said the voice of the yellow
chrysanthemum lady from the other end of the table, who like her
husband could not claim that tact was her long suit. “But it’ll be all
right on the night no doubt. By the way _is_ there any one here who
_has_ seen Lady Elfreda act?”
Girlie held her breath. The pause which followed Mrs. Minever’s words
seemed so painfully long, so intensely dramatic. Would it never end? A
shiver crept along the spine of the Deputy. Beneath the eyes of the
entire table she felt herself to be turning green.
“What?--No one!” said the hostess.
No one had apparently.
“That’s a bit of luck for you, Lady Elfreda,” said the host with his
jovial air.
The whole table laughed. Girlie began to breathe again.
“But Lady Elfreda’s escape is only temporary,” the hostess announced.
“To-morrow Mr. Montagu Jupp is coming. And he claims to have taught
Lady Elfreda all the acting she knows.”