LADY BETTY’S TOILET
NIGHT and the rain departed together. The wind had swept the sky clear,
not even a white feather curled there; it was blue—blue as English
skies seldom are. Lady Betty, opening her own window shutter, looked
up and smiled, and then looked down into the courtyard of the inn. The
waters were subsiding, and the uneven flagging showed muddy, wet and
glistening in the sunlight. To the left lay the stables, where she
could occasionally hear a horse neigh or stamp an impatient foot. To
the right the court was railed off by an old balustrade of gray stone,
mossy and green with age and opening in the centre with two vases
on either side filled with geraniums and mignonette. Between these,
steps descended into an old garden, laid out in quaint flower-beds,
surrounded with rows of box that hedged in the winding gravel paths and
grew high as a man’s head. It was September, but many flowers bloomed
there besides the roses; though it was but poorly tended at this late
season, it was still a spot of beauty for the guests of the tavern
to look upon, and there was a restful air about it, a fragrance and
quaintness, with the early sunshine on it. It was so early, indeed,
that the garden was deserted, and only the stable-boys were stirring
and the servants running to and fro across the court engaged in
preparations for breakfast. Here and there was a red-coated hostler,
and one of these was leading a black horse up and down. The horse had
just been unsaddled and was heated from hard riding. There was mud on
his flanks, too, which was natural enough after the storm, and there
were flecks of foam upon his breast. Lady Betty looked at him long
and pensively, noting that the bridle was not of English make; the
man, too, who had him, was a stranger, for the other hostlers did not
speak to him, and his broad, humorous face and twinkling black eyes
were quite un-English. He was a short man, with bowed legs and a bulky
frame, plainly dressed as the plainest groom of a gentleman could be,
and yet these two, the horse and man, held Lady Betty’s attention
long—so long, indeed, that she did not notice the soft opening of a
door, or the soft tread on the floor behind her, and started to find
Melissa Thurle at her elbow.
The woman had a smooth face and pale eyes that squinted like those of
a near-sighted person, though she was not short-sighted. She moved,
too, as softly as a cat, and her manners were always apologetic, humbly
ingratiating; she cringed a little now under Lady Betty’s eye.
“Where is Alice?” Lady Clancarty demanded sharply.
“Her ladyship, your mother, sent for her,” Melissa said gently; “her
tirewoman is ill to-day, and Lady Sunderland sent to your rooms for
one.”
“Why did Alice go?” asked Lady Betty imperiously. “You know you cannot
do my hair; besides, you would suit my mother exactly. Why did you stay
here?”
Melissa looked down meekly. “My lady, the countess sent for Alice
Lynn,” she replied.
Lady Betty’s brows went up. “Strange,” she remarked; “we all know that
she will not be up until eleven,—why Alice now? I cannot do without
Alice.”
“I will do my best, my lady,” Melissa said, with a deprecating purr;
“if you will but choose your costume for the races I can surely arrange
everything for you quite as well as Alice, and indeed your ladyship
needs no very skilful tirewoman; where there is so much beauty there is
no need for much skill.”
Betty eyed the woman with a distinct feeling of repugnance and yet
thought herself unjust.
“Go fetch me a dish of tea,” she said languidly, “and I will think
about to-day. Dear me, what a bore it is to wear clothes; if only one
had feathers!”
Melissa stared but went to fetch the tea, a luxury much affected by the
rich, for tea-drinking came into fashion at the East India houses in
the time of Charles the Second.
Lady Betty did not wish the tea; however, she wanted to be rid of
Melissa, and she went back to the window and looked out eagerly. The
black horse and groom were both gone, and she turned away disappointed.
Two hours later, Alice being still with Lady Sunderland, Melissa Thurle
dressed Lady Clancarty for the gala day at the Newmarket races. And
a wonderful work it was to dress a belle in those days of brocaded
farthingales and long, narrow-waisted bodices, and heads covered
with many waves and puffs and ringlets. It was not then the fashion
to powder the hair, and Lady Betty’s beautiful glossy black tresses
curled naturally, so that Melissa’s task was not the most difficult.
The mass of soft, wavy hair was knotted low on the back of the head
and escaped in curls about the brow and cheeks and fell upon the neck,
while one or two black patches on brow and cheek were supposed to
enhance the whiteness of the complexion. Melissa was skilful enough, in
spite of her mistress’ prejudices, and her deft fingers arranged the
curls, letting some escape in coquettish waves and ringlets and binding
others back into the loose knot, which still allowed them to ripple in
a lovely confusion.
Lady Betty sat, meanwhile, before a dressing-table, furnished with a
small oval glass in which she could not only watch Melissa, but could
observe, also, every curve and dimple of her own charming face. Whether
its reflection really satisfied her, or she had other and more fruitful
sources of content, can only be conjectured, but certain it is that she
smiled a little and bore the tirewoman’s deft touches with apparent
complacence. Melissa, encouraged by her expression, began to talk to
her in a soft purring fashion as she worked.
“The house is full, my lady,” she said, “’tis all agog below stairs
now, and ’tis said there are two dukes, an earl, and five baronets
under this roof, besides the countess and your ladyship.”
“Dear me,” said Lady Betty, “who are all these great people, and when
did they come?”
“The Duke of Bedford has been here two days, my lady,” replied the
newscarrier, “and the Duke of Ormond came yesterday; Mr. Godolphin,
too, and Lord Wharton,—the others?—I know not when they came.”
“Who came this morning?” asked her mistress carelessly, at the same
moment turning her head to admire a new knot that Melissa had made of
her hair.
The tirewoman stopped, comb in hand, and admired too, her narrow eyes
more narrow than usual.
“This morning?” she repeated thoughtfully, “I cannot think,—oh, yes,
one of the housemaids told me that a stranger came late, on a black
horse that he had ridden hard.”
Lady Clancarty listened attentively, forgetting to appear indifferent,
and unconscious of the peculiar vigilance of Melissa’s pale eyes.
“The horse was in the yard this morning and showed hard riding,” she
said thoughtfully. “Who was the stranger, Melissa?”
“’Tis said he is a horse jockey from London,” purred the tirewoman.
Her mistress darted a searching look at her but read nothing in that
smooth face that was by nature as placid as a platter.
“Bring me my pale blue paduasoy petticoat, Thurle,” Lady Betty said,
sharply imperious, “and my white and silver brocaded gown, and the
mantle of silver lace, and my hat with the white plumes. Do you not
know how to fasten a petticoat?—there—so!—and, stupid, my white
silk stockings with the blue clocks, and the French slippers with blue
enamel buckles,” and she made the woman fetch garment after garment
with alacrity, and the glow in her cheeks would have warned even a less
observant person than Melissa that Lady Clancarty was out of temper.
But the woman’s smooth manner remained unruffled, and not even angry
words made her fingers quiver. She arrayed Lady Clancarty from head
to foot, deftly and swiftly, and when the task was completed, and the
beauty looked at her own reflection, a smile was forced to play about
her lips, for never had a mirror reflected a vision more charming.
Lady Betty, with her rich coloring, her full white throat, her perfect
form, clad in a marvellous gown of white and silver, ruffled and
ruffled with lace, and looped up at one side a little to show the blue
petticoat; open, too, to show a neck as white as snow,—and arms to
match were half revealed by the elbow sleeves, while her hat cast a
shadow on those sparkling eyes. She gave the vision a look and then
turned and motioned Melissa away.
“You have done very well, Thurle,” she said calmly, “and now you may
go—ah, here is Alice!” and she relented at the sight of her favorite
attendant.
Melissa, meanwhile, humble as usual, courtesied and withdrew, but not
without casting a lingering look behind her.
When the door closed, Lady Betty gave her gown a few touches, turning
around before the mirror again.
“Will I do, Alice?” she asked.
“Supremely well, madam,” Alice replied soberly, standing off to view
her with a critical eye.
Lady Betty turned suddenly and laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Hast said thy catechism, Alice?” she asked.
The handmaid looked up at her blankly, her slower mind struggling to
understand.
“What, my lady?”
“Your catechism, goosie,” repeated Lady Clancarty laughing; “did not my
mother question you close of me?”
“She did, madam,” retorted Alice bluntly, with an ingenuous blush, “she
asked me many questions.”
“And what answer did you give?” asked her mistress smiling.
“Truthful answers, dear Lady Betty,” Alice replied earnestly,
apparently much troubled, “save when I answered not at all.”
“You did not answer!” exclaimed her mistress, in surprise, “and
wherefore?”
“Because she asked me what you said to me of—of my Lord Clancarty,”
stammered Alice, “and, madam, that I will not tell!”
Betty laughed and blushed, and suddenly she kissed the girl.