My Ladys Money | Page 2

stood by the table with her eyes on those lines, and saw but too
plainly the direction in which they pointed--the direction of her
check-book.
Turning towards the fireplace, she rang the bell. "I can do nothing in
this matter," she thought to herself, "until I know whether the report
about Mrs. Tollmidge and her family is to be depended on. Has Moody
come back?" she asked, when the servant appeared at the door.
"Moody" (otherwise her Ladyship's steward) had not come back. Lady
Lydiard dismissed the subject of the artist's widow from further
consideration until the steward returned, and gave her mind to a
question of domestic interest which lay nearer to her heart. Her favorite
dog had been ailing for some time past, and no report of him had
reached her that morning. She opened a door near the fireplace, which
led, through a little corridor hung with rare prints, to her own boudoir.
"Isabel!" she called out, "how is Tommie?"

A fresh young voice answered from behind the curtain which closed the
further end of the corridor, "No better, my Lady."
A low growl followed the fresh young voice, and added (in dog's
language), "Much worse, my Lady--much worse!"
Lady Lydiard closed the door again, with a compassionate sigh for
Tommie, and walked slowly to and fro in her spacious drawing-room,
waiting for the steward's return.
Accurately described, Lord Lydiard's widow was short and fat, and, in
the matter of age, perilously near her sixtieth birthday. But it may be
said, without paying a compliment, that she looked younger than her
age by ten years at least. Her complexion was of that delicate pink tinge
which is sometimes seen in old women with well-preserved
constitutions. Her eyes (equally well preserved) were of that hard light
blue color which wears well, and does not wash out when tried by the
test of tears. Add to this her short nose, her plump cheeks that set
wrinkles at defiance, her white hair dressed in stiff little curls; and, if a
doll could grow old, Lady Lydiard, at sixty, would have been the living
image of that doll, taking life easily on its journey downwards to the
prettiest of tombs, in a burial-ground where the myrtles and roses grew
all the year round.
These being her Ladyship's personal merits, impartial history must
acknowledge, on the list of her defects, a total want of tact and taste in
her attire. The lapse of time since Lord Lydiard's death had left her at
liberty to dress as she pleased. She arrayed her short, clumsy figure in
colors that were far too bright for a woman of her ages. Her dresses,
badly chosen as to their hues, were perhaps not badly made, but were
certainly badly worn. Morally, as well as physically, it must be said of
Lady Lydiard that her outward side was her worst side. The anomalies
of her dress were matched by the anomalies of her character. There
were moments when she felt and spoke as became a lady of rank; and
there were other moments when she felt and spoke as might have
become the cook in the kitchen. Beneath these superficial
inconsistencies, the great heart, the essentially true and generous nature
of the woman, only waited the sufficient occasion to assert themselves.

In the trivial intercourse of society she was open to ridicule on every
side of her. But when a serious emergency tried the metal of which she
was really made, the people who were loudest in laughing at her stood
aghast, and wondered what had become of the familiar companion of
their everyday lives.
Her Ladyship's promenade had lasted but a little while, when a man in
black clothing presented himself noiselessly at the great door which
opened on the staircase. Lady Lydiard signed to him impatiently to
enter the room.
"I have been expecting you for some time, Moody," she said. "You
look tired. Take a chair."
The man in black bowed respectfully, and took his seat.
CHAPTER II.
ROBERT MOODY was at this time nearly forty years of age. He was a
shy, quiet, dark person, with a pale, closely-shaven face, agreeably
animated by large black eyes, set deep in their orbits. His mouth was
perhaps his best feature; he had firm, well-shaped lips, which softened
on rare occasions into a particularly winning smile. The whole look of
the man, in spite of his habitual reserve, declared him to be eminently
trustworthy. His position in Lady Lydiard's household was in no sense
of the menial sort. He acted as her almoner and secretary as well as her
steward--distributed her charities, wrote her letters on business, paid
her bills, engaged her servants, stocked her wine-cellar, was authorized
to borrow books from her library, and was served with his