Lady Maude's Mania Part 19

This was rather unwise of her ladyship, but she was excited, and she excited the little terrier in turn, for he had contented himself up to this time with snapping and barking furiously at the chintz valance hanging from the sofa, but keeping about a yard distant, as he leaped up with all four feet from the carpet at once and came down barking.

Encouraged though by her ladyship he went a little closer, barking and snarling so furiously that Joby could not contain himself any longer but softly pushed his short black nose and one eye beneath the chintz, had a look at the noisy intruder, and then, withdrew once more.

"There! I knew it," cried her ladyship, angrily. "Oh, shame on you, shame, shame! Good little dog, then! Drive him out!"

The terrier barked again furiously, and glanced up at her ladyship, who uttered fresh words of encouragement.

Sir Grantley Wilters gave fifteen guineas for the beast, and another for his morocco and silver collar!

"Drive him out, then, good little dog!" cried her ladyship, and with a fierce rush, the terrier ran under the sofa.

There was a sharp bark, a bit of a scuffle, a worrying noise, a loud yelp cut suddenly in half, and then, frowning severely, Joby crept out from the foot of the sofa, with the hair about his neck erect, his eyes glowering, and the limp corpse of the wretched terrier hanging from his jaws.

It was all plain enough--that invisible tragedy beneath the chintz. The enemy had fastened upon one of Joby's cheeks with his keen little teeth, and made it bleed, when, with a growl, the big dog had shaken his a.s.sailant off, caught him by the back, given him a shake like a rat, and the terrier's head, four legs, and tail hung down together. Sir Grantley Wilters' guineas were represented now by some inanimate skin and bone.

It was all over!

"Oh, this is dreadful!" cried her ladyship, as, with a cry of horror, Maude made for the dog.

But no: Joby was amiability itself at times, and well educated; still, rouse the dog that was in him, and his obstinate breed began to show.

Maude called, but he took no notice, only walked solemnly about the room with his vanquished enemy pendent from his grinning mouth.

"He'll kill it--he'll kill it," cried her ladyship, wildly, but not daring to approach; and just then Tom entered the room. "Oh, Tom, Tom, quick!"

"What's the row?" cried Tom, "eh? Oh, I say! ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! what a jolly lark!" and he slapped his leg and roared with laughter.

"Tom!" shrieked her ladyship.

"That's just about how Charley Melton could serve Wilters," cried Tom, wiping his eyes.

"For shame, sir!" cried her ladyship. "Pray, pray save the poor dog."

"What for?" said Tom, grinning, "to be stuffed?"

"Oh, don't say it's dead!" wailed her ladyship.

"I won't, if you don't wish me to say so," said Tom, "but it is as dead as a door nail. Here, Joby, Joby," he cried, walking up to the dog.

But there was a low growl and Joby hung his head, glowered, and walked to the far end of the drawing-room, seeming to take a pleasure in making his journey as long as he could in and out amongst chairs and tables, giving Tom, who followed him, significant hints that it would not be safe to interfere with him at such a time.

"There, let's open the door, and he'll go," said Tom.

"Oh, no, no, Tom," cried her ladyship. "Sir Grantley's present."

Just then the dog seemed to have satisfied his anger upon his rival, and crossing the room to where Maude sat trembling in her chair, he dropped the defunct terrier at her feet, and stood solemnly wagging his stump of a tail as if asking for praise.

"Ring the bell, Tryphie," cried her ladyship.

"All right," said Tom, forestalling her, and Robbins came up with stately stride.

"Take this down, Robbins," said her ladyship, with a shudder.

The butler looked ineffably disgusted, but he merely turned upon his heel, strode out of the room, and returned at the end of a minute or two with a silver salver and a napkin, picked up the sixteen guineas with the latter, placed it upon the former, covered it with the damask, and bore the dead dog solemnly out, Joby following him closely, as if turning himself into chief mourner, and then seeing the hall door open trotting slowly out.

"That I should have lived to be the mother of such--"

Her ladyship did not finish her sentence but rose with dilating eyes, made a sort of heavy rush and bound across the room, pounced upon something and began eagerly to inspect it, tearing open a little narrow pocket and extracting a note.

Poor Joby! he did not mean to be so faithless to his trust, but the excitement consequent upon the attack had made the muscles of his throat swell to such a degree that his collar fastening had snapped, and the collar with its valuable missive had fallen upon the carpet, while poor Maude had sat wondering where it had gone.

"Yes, of course," said her ladyship, sarcastically. "Well: that trick is detected," she cried, viciously tearing up the note. "Letters sent by a dog, by one of the vilest of the vile; and this, Diphoos, is the man you called your friend."

"Oh, aunt, pray be silent," cried Tryphie, running to her cousin's side.

"Maude has fainted."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE EXILE.

That morning Monsieur Hector Launay was happy. He had been to Portland Place, acted as executioner to the mole upon her ladyship's chin, buried it beneath the court plaster, been paid his bill, and in going out squeezed Justine's hand, and--_Ah, oui mes amis_--she had squeezed it again.

"Yes, yes," he had cried, joyously, as he returned, with the recollection of Justine's bright eyes making his own sparkle, "encore a little more of this isle of fogs and rheums and spleen, encore a little more of the hard cash to be made here, encore a little too much more wait, and then _cette chere_ Justine and la France--la France-- Tralla-la--Tralla-la--Tralla-la."

From this it will be seen that Monsieur Hector Launay was joyous. It was his nature to be joyous, but he suppressed it beneath a solemn mask as of wax. He was as immovable as a rule as his own gentleman; that is to say, the waxen image of his craft which looked down Upper Gimp Street from the shop window--the gentleman who was married to the handsome lady with the graceful turn to her neck, who always looked up Upper Gimp Street from morning till night, saving at such times as Monsieur Hector Launay hung old copies of the _Figaro_ or _Pet.i.t Journal_ before them, lest the heat of the summer sun should visit their cheeks too roughly.

In fact, a neglect of this on one occasion had resulted in the wax "giving" a little, and the lady having a slight attack of mumps.

These dwellers in a happy atmosphere behind gla.s.s were the acme of perfection in the dressing of their hair, the lady's being the longest and the gentleman's the shortest possible to conceive. So short was the latter's, in fact, that it might have been used to brush that of the former; and so occupied were they in gazing up and down the street that they might have been the spies who furnished Monsieur Hector Launay with the abundant information he possessed respecting the _elite_ who lived in a wide circle round his dwelling in that most strange of London regions--mysterious Marylebone.

He was a slim, genteel, sallow gentleman, polite in the extreme, always the perfection of cleanliness, and, as Lord Barmouth said, smelling as if made of scented soap. His eyes were of the darkest, so was his hair, which was cut to the pattern in the window. He had a carefully-waxed and pointed moustache, but shaved the rest of his face as religiously as he did that of Lord Barmouth, every morning, pa.s.sing his hand over the skin and seeming to be always hunting for one particular bristle, which evaded him.

It has been said that he might be supposed to have gained his information about the various people around by means of his two wax figures, who afterwards communicated their knowledge to him in some occult way, though the theory might hold water that the thoughts of people's brains radiated to the ends of their hairs which were often cut off and remained in the possession of the barber for distillation, sale, or the fire.

Monsieur Hector Launay, it must be owned, was, though a lover of his country, not patriotic from a Communist, Imperialist, Royalist, or Republican point of view. Friends and compatriots often wanted him to join in this or that conspiracy.

"No," he would say, "it is ign.o.ble, nor is it pleasant to live here, and shave and cut and dress, but it is safe. _Ma foi_, no," he would say, "I should not like to be guillotined and find myself a head short some morning; neither should I like to be sent to New Caledonia, to be cooked by the cannibals of that happy land."

Certainly he had periodic longings sometimes, but they took the form of _eau sucree_ or a little cup of coffee with Justine at Versailles, on the Bois de Boulogne: so he waited, stored up knowledge, sang _chansons_, and invented wonderful washes for the skin or hair.

"Yes," said Monsieur Hector, "I know what is immense. Ladies place themselves in my hands, and would I betray their confidence? Never, never. A _coiffeur_ in a good district is the repository of the grandest secrets of life. I could write a book, but, _ma foi_, no, I never betray. I am a man of trust."

Charley Melton came into his shop that morning for a periodical cut and shampoo, after sending Joby on his regular mission, and Monsieur Hector smiled softly to himself as he played with the young man's hair.

"That good dog, monsieur, will he find his way-back?"

"What do you mean?" said Melton sharply.

"Pardon, monsieur, a mere nothing; but I should not trust a dog. They suspect yonder."