Winsome Winnie and other New Nonsense Novels | Page 4

rank of
marquis. A coachman and two grooms rode in front, while two footmen,
seated in the boot, or box at the rear, contrived, by the immobility of
their attitude and the melancholy of their faces, to inspire the scene
with an exclusive and aristocratic grandeur.
The occupants of the equipage--for we refuse to count the menials as
being such--were two in number, a lady and gentleman, both of
advanced years. Their snow-white hair and benign countenances
indicated that they belonged to that rare class of beings to whom rank
and wealth are but an incentive to nobler things. A gentle philanthropy
played all over their faces, and their eyes sought eagerly in the passing
scene of the humble street for new objects of benefaction.
Those acquainted with the countenances of the aristocracy would have
recognized at once in the occupants of the equipage the Marquis of
Muddlenut and his spouse, the Marchioness.
It was the eye of the Marchioness which first detected the form of
Winnifred Clair upon the doorstep.

"Hold! pause! stop!" she cried, in lively agitation.
The horses were at once pulled in, the brakes applied to the wheels, and
with the aid of a powerful lever, operated by three of the menials, the
carriage was brought to a standstill.
"See! Look!" cried the Marchioness. "She has fainted. Quick, William,
your flask. Let us hasten to her aid."
In another moment the noble lady was bending over the prostrate form
of Winnifred Clair, and pouring brandy between her lips.
Winnifred opened her eyes. "Where am I?" she asked feebly.
"She speaks!" cried the Marchioness. "Give her another flaskful."
After the second flask the girl sat up.
"Tell me," she cried, clasping her hands, "what has happened? Where
am I?"
"With friends!" answered the Marchioness. "But do not essay to speak.
Drink this. You must husband your strength. Meantime, let us drive
you to your home."
Winnifred was lifted tenderly by the menservants into the aristocratic
equipage. The brake was unset, the lever reversed, and the carriage
thrown again into motion.
On the way Winnifred, at the solicitation of the Marchioness, related
her story.
"My poor child!" exclaimed the lady, "how you must have suffered.
Thank Heaven it is over now. To-morrow we shall call for you and
bring you away with us to Muddlenut Chase."
Alas, could she but have known it, before the morrow should dawn,
worse dangers still were in store for our heroine. But what these
dangers were, we must reserve for another chapter.

CHAPTER IV
A GAMBLING PARTY IN ST. JAMES'S CLOSE
We must now ask our readers to shift the scene--if they don't mind
doing this for us--to the apartments of the Earl of Wynchgate in St.
James's Close. The hour is nine o'clock in the evening, and the picture
before us is one of revelry and dissipation so characteristic of the
nobility of England. The atmosphere of the room is thick with blue
Havana smoke such as is used by the nobility, while on the green baize
table a litter of counters and cards, in which aces, kings, and even two
spots are heaped in confusion, proclaim the reckless nature of the play.
Seated about the table are six men, dressed in the height of fashion,
each with collar and white necktie and broad white shirt, their faces
stamped with all, or nearly all, of the baser passions of mankind.
Lord Wynchgate--for he it was who sat at the head of the table--rose
with an oath, and flung his cards upon the table.
All turned and looked at him, with an oath. "Curse it, Dogwood," he
exclaimed, with another oath, to the man who sat beside him. "Take the
money. I play no more to-night. My luck is out."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Lord Dogwood, with a third oath, "your mind is not
on the cards. Who is the latest young beauty, pray, who so absorbs you?
I hear a whisper in town of a certain misadventure of yours----"
"Dogwood," said Wynchgate, clenching his fist, "have a care, man, or
you shall measure the length of my sword."
Both noblemen faced each other, their hands upon their swords.
"My lords, my lords!" pleaded a distinguished-looking man of more
advanced years, who sat at one side of the table, and in whose features
the habitués of diplomatic circles would have recognized the handsome
lineaments of the Marquis of Frogwater, British Ambassador to Siam,
"let us have no quarrelling. Come, Wynchgate, come, Dogwood," he

continued, with a mild oath, "put up your swords. It were a shame to
waste time in private quarrelling. They may be needed all too soon in
Cochin China, or, for the matter of that," he added sadly, "in Cambodia
or in Dutch Guinea."
"Frogwater," said young Lord Dogwood, with a generous flush,