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!”