BROTHER AND SISTER

LORD CHARLES SPENCER paused in the centre of the triangle.

“A very pretty performance,” he said with a sneer, “a very proper performance—to sing Jacobite ballads here!”

“I trow they are not the first that have been sung here, brother,” retorted Lady Betty pertly.

“You have a saucy tongue, Elizabeth,” replied her brother rudely, turning white rather than red, for in this young man’s disposition anger went white, not red. “’Twould go hard with you if my father heard that.”

“’Twould go hard with you if my father heard that!” mocked Lady Betty incorrigible. “Come, come, Charles, talk of something agreeable. What is the volume under your arm? Noah’s observations on droughts? or Adam’s reflections on mothers-in-law? or Cain’s on brotherly love? Faith, I always expect something profound from the most erudite ornament of the Whig party.”

“I wish I might look as certainly for discretion in Elizabeth Spencer,” he replied with acrimony.

“In Elizabeth Clancarty,” corrected the countess, flashing an indignant glance at him.

“You are marvellously proud of that beggar’s name,” retorted her brother, with cutting irony.

Lady Clancarty’s face crimsoned with anger.

“You are a hypocrite, Spencer!” she said, stamping her foot.

“Family insults in public are always becoming,” said Lord Spencer, controlling himself with an effort, but white to the lips.

“Forsooth, who began it?” recriminated his high-spirited sister; “you might better indeed talk of other things. Of your fine clothes, for instance; you are truly ‘the glass of fashion,’ my lord, pink satin waistcoat and breeches, gray plush coat, point of Venice ruffles, white silk stockings, clocked, too, with pink, French shoes and buckles,—mercy on us, sir! what splendor for beggarly Lady Clancarty and quiet Althorpe!”

Lord Spencer, who was indeed dressed in the extreme of fashion, bit his lip, scowling darkly at Lady Betty and Alice, who remained discreetly in the background.

“You do well to boast of your dishonored name, madam,” he said coldly, “but my Lord Sunderland intends that you shall be divorced from that disreputable Irish rebel.”

“And what if I will not, my lord?” asked the countess, her face blazing with defiance.

“You are a fool,” said Spencer sharply; “happy you would be—dragged into exile by a rake and a scapegrace—but, pshaw! what nonsense I talk—”

“You do, sir!” interrupted his sister defiantly.

“Nonsense because Clancarty does not want you.” He continued, with a provoking drawl, “Where is your husband, my lady? Forsooth you do not know—but I do! At Saint Germain and at Paris; a gambler, a rake, a cutpurse, with half a dozen lady-loves to—”

“Silence!” cried Lady Betty furiously, rising in her indignation. “Shame on you, sir, to insult a woman and she your sister, and to blacken a gallant gentleman behind his back. Is that your virtue? Faith, I believe a witty rogue would be a happier companion than a virtuous bore!”“Your tongue will cut your throat yet, madam,” said Spencer harshly; “you have worked yourself into this passion; you have never seen your husband since childhood, and you do not know him. It is my duty as your brother, a painful duty, I admit,” he said pompously, “to tell you the truth. Lord Clancarty is a notorious scamp, a dissolute fellow, a murderer and oppressor; and, as for you, what does he care for you? You little fool, he has never sought you—and never will!” and with this taunt my lord turned on his heel and walked decorously but swiftly away, wise enough to fly before his sister could retaliate.

Lady Betty stood as he had left her for a moment, her little hands clenched and her face crimson.

“The mean hypocrite!” she cried, “to fling it in my teeth. I vow I sometimes almost hate Spencer—and yet he is my brother. I’m a beast, Alice, a wretch! but oh!” and suddenly her mood changed; she threw herself on the garden-seat, trembling with emotion, tears on her dark lashes. “Oh, why must I be so cruelly insulted? ’Tis true, Alice, ’tis true; Clancarty has never even cared to claim his wife! Think of it, I—I—Betty Spencer, scorned by an Irish Jacobite!” and she burst into tears.

“My lady,” purred a smooth voice, as the other attendant suddenly and softly stepped into view, from the friendly shadow of an elm; “be consoled, ’tis even as Lord Spencer—”

“Go!” cried the countess furiously, dashing away her tears and stamping her foot at Melissa. “Go! What do I want of your consolation, you eavesdropper!”

“My lady, I beg pardon,” stammered the confused waiting-woman, “I—”

“Go!” repeated the countess imperiously, with a gesture of disdain. “When I want you, I will summon you.”

With a look of ill-disguised anger on her smooth face, but with an attempted air of humility, the attendant withdrew as softly as she had approached, and Lady Betty recalled her dignity.

“Pshaw!” she said, “what a creature I am, Alice, so to betray myself, and to stoop to quarrel with that worm, Melissa! I did not think, I never think; but, oh, my girl, my lot has many thorns! Alas, and alas!

and a widow by desertion. Ah, how I hate the taunt!” and she stamped her foot.

“Heed it not, dear Lady Betty,” murmured Alice, “’tis not true.”

“Ah, but it is, girl, it is,” cried Lady Clancarty, with an impatient gesture, “and I despise myself for caring.”

“Are you sure, madam, that Lord Clancarty has made no effort to claim his bride, or to see you?” Alice asked soberly, standing alone in the triangle opposite Lady Betty, the sun shining in a friendly fashion on her comely, honest face.

“Am I sure?” repeated the countess in surprise, and her expression changed swiftly; “do you think he may have tried to communicate with me and failed?”

“Why not, my lady?” replied the handmaid simply; “we know how my Lord Spencer feels; and your father, the earl, madam, is, perhaps, as little inclined toward your husband.”

Lady Betty sat looking down reflectively, tapping her foot on the gravel path.

“It may be so,” she said thoughtfully; “your brain is growing keen, Alice, from crossing swords with mine!” and she laughed, for she was an April creature with swift-changing moods. She rose, throwing out her hands with a pretty gesture, as though she threw care to the winds.

“O Donough Macarthy, Earl of Clancarty, art worthy all these heart beats of mine?” she cried, and laughed as gayly as a child. “I tell thee, Alice, he has not seen me for years, not since I was eleven, and he pictures me with a turned-up nose and freckles and red hair, and is half frightened to death at the thought of his English bride.”

“Your hair was never red, my lady,” said Alice soberly.

“Pshaw, child, he has forgotten, poor lad!” laughed Lady Betty, herself again; “he may think my nose red, too!”