MY LADY SUNDERLAND TAKES TEA
A SMOKING teapot and some cups of India ware adorned a table of
polished mahogany, the very best tea service in the possession of the
landlord of the Lion’s Head. And before it sat Lady Sunderland and
her intimate, Lady Dacres. Opposite, Lady Betty was stirring a cup
of chocolate. There was a little black patch on her white forehead
and another on the tip of her rosy chin, and her gown of gold-colored
paduasoy became her well.
A servant brought in a tray with some glasses and a bottle of
usquebaugh, and served the elder dames, who had been pretending to sip
tea. The two worthies were just from the cockpit and had won forty
pounds between them. Lady Sunderland, in a flowered brocade, with a
painted and patched face, could do nothing but simper, and even old
Lady Dacres grinned placidly, while the younger countess watched them
from under her dark lashes and made no comments.
“La, Betty, there never was such an obliging man as young Savile,” said
Lady Sunderland, sipping her usquebaugh; “he ran about at the cockpit
to wait upon us, and his wit—take my word for it, we’d have lost fifty
pounds but for his judgment of the birds.”
“Oh, he knows whose mamma to wait upon!” said Lady Dacres, with a sly
wink at her friend; “how sweet the young fellows are to the mother of
such a daughter.”
Lady Sunderland tittered. “There was a time when I thought it was the
mamma and not the daughter,” she said, with a simper; “but now it’s,
‘How’s Lady Clancarty?’ and ‘Where’s your ladyship’s daughter?’ and ‘My
compliments to the fair Lady Elizabeth.’ La, how the beaux smirk and
bow!”
“Now’s your chance, Betty, dear,” said Lady Dacres; “don’t make ’em
dance too long, my girl, we can’t be young but once.”
Betty gave her a cold stare. “I’m already married, madam,” she said,
and pushed the bottle nearer to the elbow of the old peeress; “take
another drop, my lady, ’twill sustain you under the blow.”
Lady Sunderland set down her glass and fixed her daughter with an
irate eye, but before she could give voice to her wrath they were
interrupted by the entrance of Lord Spencer. He came in with an air
of cool elegance, faultlessly attired, and bowing gracefully to the
three women, kissed his mother’s hand, and took his place with his back
to the window, overlooking them with an air of superiority that was
peculiarly exasperating to his high-spirited sister.
“La, my dear, what a happy woman you are,” Lady Dacres said, in an
audible aside to Lady Sunderland, “to be the mother of two such
beautiful children. ’Pon my soul, Spencer would have broken my heart at
eighteen!”
“Nay, you would have broken mine, madam,” Lord Spencer replied
gracefully.
She giggled and took another draught of usquebaugh, following Lady
Clancarty’s suggestion.
“Tell us the news, Spencer,” said Lady Betty impatiently, with a
contemptuous glance at the old woman.
“The king is better,” said her brother, with a drawl, “and the Princess
of Denmark did not go out to-day because of a quarrel with Lady
Marlborough.”
“Poor soul, she’s little better than a slave,” remarked Betty
scornfully; “is that all?”
“No; the news of the day is the duel. It has just come out that Sir
Thomas Compton shot and killed his brother-in-law last Tuesday.”
Lady Sunderland gave a little scream of surprise. “What? Shot Lord
Fraunces?”
Spencer nodded gloomily.
“And wherefore?” demanded his sister.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Because he was a traitor,” he said coolly; “he kept his horse saddled
in his stable ready for flight, and two grooms at his beck; this made
Compton suspect him. So he went down to Deptford, on pretence of seeing
his sister, and he found the fellow was in league with the French party
and—There was a quarrel and he shot him. There’s an article about it
in the _Post-Boy_.”
“The cold-hearted brute!” cried Betty; “his poor sister loved her
husband dearly. Where is she?”
“Mad as Bedlam,” replied her brother coolly; “a man must do his duty,
even if it kills his sister.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” said Lady Betty, rising, “he must stab her to the
heart and glory in it—for his party,” she added mockingly; “a fine
spirit, sir, I admire it!”
“So do I,” he replied pompously, staring at her with hard eyes; “a man
must do his duty, like a Spartan, to his king, his conscience, and his
party. There are examples enough in the history of Greece and of Rome,
lofty—”
“Nonsense!” cried Lady Betty vigorously, “to the wind with your
examples. Give me a noble heart, a Christian life, a brotherly love, a
willingness to live and die for high purposes. Poor Lady Fraunces!”
“Oh, never you mind, my dear,” put in old Lady Dacres, with a titter,
“she’ll get over it. Grief doesn’t kill; her mother had three husbands
and—” she whispered a scandal behind her fan to Lady Sunderland, who
was so overcome with her wit that she rocked with laughter, wiping the
tears from her eyes.
“Your sympathy is quite absurd,” said Spencer, looking straight into
Betty’s eyes. “Sir Thomas did his duty. I would have sent a traitor
brother-in-law to the block, madam, quite as cheerfully.”
“And your sister also, I presume,” she replied, courtesying
profoundly; “from my heart I thank you, my lord.”
“Oh, la, Betty, drink your chocolate and don’t be a fool,” said her
mother petulantly.
Betty smiled sweetly.
“I thank you,” she said, “I have quite finished it. I will send some
more to my Lord Spencer,” and she walked out of the room with her head
in the air.
Half way across the hall she met a servant, the Irishman Denis. He
stopped her with a bow, one hand on his heart and an air of great
secrecy and gallantry, and he handed her a letter. She took it as
silently, and when she reached her own door she hid it in her bosom for
she knew that Alice Lynn was there. The girl had been folding up her
ladyship’s finery and looked up at her entrance.
“Everything is ready now, my lady,” she said, “and if it pleases you, I
will go into town a little way to buy that ribbon for you.”
“Certainly, Alice,” Betty assented with alacrity, “and here is the
money; and stop, too, at the haberdasher’s and buy some more of that
silk; and here, my girl, get some pink ribbon for that Sunday frock of
yours, I will have you look your best.”
Alice courtesied and thanked her, blushing with pleasure.
“You are so dear a mistress to me, madam,” she said tenderly, “I am not
half worthy of it.”
Lady Clancarty patted her cheek.
“Do you love me, Alice?” she asked pensively.
“Dearly, madam,” said the girl, simply, “and I would serve you—as my
family served yours—faithfully forever.”
Lady Betty sighed.
“I may need it,” she said, and busied herself examining some lace and
ribbons that Alice had just laid aside.
“I trust you may need nothing but my love and service, madam,”
Alice said; “may happiness and love and honor ever attend my dear,
dear lady,” and she went on talking cheerfully of the fair day, the
sunshine, and the gay scene without, for she saw a shadow on the
countess’ face and it troubled her loyal heart.
But Lady Clancarty said not a word. Instead, her eyes avoided the
girl’s honest glance; she blushed and paled like a guilty thing, but
an adorable smile trembled on her lips. Not until Alice went out,
closing the door behind her, did Betty move. Then she shot the bolts
and drew forth the paper from her bosom; she looked over her shoulder,
smiled, carried it half way to her face, started, and held it off
again, opening it, at last, under the window. The sheet was closely
covered with writing and she read it eagerly, and her hands quivered so
that the paper shook, and she fell on her knees beside the window and
leaning her arms upon the sill, buried her face upon them. She knelt
there a long time, the sunlight touching her hair and the beautiful
curves of her shoulders. After a while she rose, and going slowly to
the mirror stood looking at herself, the crumpled paper in her hand.
Her face was white as snow but beautiful, with quite a new and tender
beauty. She scarcely knew herself, even when she smiled, nodding at her
own reflection.
“’Tis he!” Lady Betty murmured to the mirror, laughing softly, “’tis
he! Oh, my prophetic heart—I knew it!”