Great Britain -- History -- James III, 1701-1766 -- Fiction
Her ladyship stood a moment, leaning upon her cane, her head thrown
back, her thin lip curling, and her eyes playing over Mr. Caryll with a
look of dislike that she made no attempt to dissemble.
Mr. Caryll found the situation redolent with comedy. He had a quick
eye for such matters; so quick an eye that he deplored on the present
occasion her ladyship's entire lack of a sense of humor. But for
that lamentable shortcoming, she might have enjoyed with him
the grotesqueness of her having--she, who disliked him so
exceedingly--toiled and anguished, robbed herself of sleep, and hoped
and prayed with more fervor, perhaps, than she had ever yet hoped and
prayed for anything, that his life might be spared.
Her glance shifted presently from him to Hortensia, who had risen and
who stood in deep confusion at having been so found by her ladyship,
and in deep agitation still arising from the things he had said and
from those which he had been hindered from adding by the coming of the
countess.
The explanations that had been interrupted might never be renewed; she
felt they never would be; he would account that he had said enough;
since he was determined to ask for nothing. And unless the matter were
broached again, what chance had she of combatting his foolish scruples;
for foolish she accounted them; they were of no weight with her, unless,
indeed, to heighten the warm feeling that already she had conceived for
him.
Her ladyship moved forward a step or two, her fan going gently to and
fro, stirring the barbs of the white plume that formed part of her tall
head-dress.
“What were you doing here, child?” she inquired, very coldly.
Mistress Winthrop looked up--a sudden, almost scared glance it was.
“I, madam? Why--I was walking in the garden, and seeing Mr. Caryll here,
I came to ask him how he did; to offer to read to him if he would have
me.”
“And the Maidstone matter not yet cold in its grave!” commented her
ladyship sourly. “As I'm a woman, it is monstrous I should be inflicted
with the care of you that have no care for yourself.”
Hortensia bit her lip, controlling herself bravely, a spot of red in
either cheek. Mr. Caryll came promptly to her rescue.
“Your ladyship must confess that Mistress Winthrop has assisted nobly in
the care of me, and so, has placed your ladyship in her debt.”
“In my debt?” shrilled the countess, eyebrows aloft, head-dress nodding.
“And what of yours?”
“In my clumsy way, ma'am, I have already attempted to convey my thanks
to her. It might be graceful in your ladyship to follow my example.”
Mentally Mr. Caryll observed that it is unwise to rouge so heavily as
did Lady Ostermore when prone to anger and to paling under it. The false
color looks so very false on such occasions.
Her ladyship struck the ground with her cane. “For what have I to thank
her, sir? Will you tell me that, you who seem so very well informed.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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