Dime novels; Romances; Social classes -- Fiction; Young women -- Conduct of life -- Fiction
“Confound the girl! I had a wrangle with her myself just a little while
before,” Isabel exclaimed, angrily.
“Don’t, dear, use such language; you will forget yourself to your sorrow
some day. What if Sir Charles or Lady Randal should hear you!”
“I can’t help it, mamma; it does try my patience so to have her turn up
just now, when everything is going so lovely.”
“How do you suppose she happened to be here?” asked Mrs. Coolidge, to
whom the matter was still a mystery.
“Oh, she is that Miss Dundas, who is companion to Lady Ruxley. Since I
met her, a couple of hours ago, I have been making some judicious
inquiries, and it seems that, instead of going to the Washington Hotel
after leaving us, as she told Wilbur she intended to do, she got tipped
over in front of Lady Randal’s town house, broke her arm, and made such
an impression upon Lady Ruxley that she insisted upon taking care of
her; and finally nothing would do but she must have her for a companion.
You know I told you that I saw some one at the villa when we first came
here who looked like Miss Douglas, and I got quite a fright over it
until Lady Randal told me her name was Mabel Dundas, and that deceived
me.”
“It is very unfortunate just now, to say the least, when we are so
anxious to have everything go smooth,” complained her mother, wearily.
“That is so,” returned Isabel, with scowling brow. “You say she still
has the casket in there with her?”
“Yes.”
“Why under the sun didn’t you take it away from her by main force?”
“Because she was so haughty and defiant I did not dare touch her,” Mrs.
Coolidge admitted, with rather a crestfallen air. “Besides, she told me
she should appeal to Lord Dunforth if I did not let her go quietly; and
I knew, after what you had told me, that that would never do.”
“No, indeed; it is very evident that he knows too much about the jewels,
while we know too little. But how are we going to get out of this
abominable muss, anyhow?” and Isabel looked miserably anxious.
“Keep her in there until she gives up the box and promises secrecy,”
returned her mother, with a significant nod at the veiled door.
“Well, suppose she will not yield at all?”
“She must sleep, at all events; and, if we cannot catch her in a natural
sleep, there are things that will make her unconscious, and then we can
take the jewels away from her,” was the whispered reply.
“But she will be missed, meanwhile.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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