Title: The Serpent's Tooth
Author: Croker, B. M. (Bithia Mary)
Language: English
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THE SERPENT’S TOOTH

by

B. M. CROKER


[Illustration]



New York
Brentano’S
1913

Printed in Great Britain



THE SERPENT’S TOOTH



CHAPTER I


Colonel Fenchurch stood on his own hearthstone--that is to say, the
smoking-room rug--with his back to the fire, and a cup of tea in his
hand. He was a good-looking dapper little man, with a neat white
moustache, a cheery voice, and an unfailing flow of talk.

“I say, Doodie,” turning to a lady in a splashed habit, who was
meditatively consuming buttered toast, “weren’t the roads beastly? Just
look at my boots and leathers!”

Doodie, his wife, nodded, but made no other reply.

“A clinking run,” he continued, “and a lot of those thrusters got
left--you went well--eh?--that was a nasty place out of the round
plantation!--on the whole--a good hard day!”

Once more his better-half inclined her hatted head; evidently her
mind was preoccupied. She was staring fixedly at a certain pattern in
the carpet, with a remote and far-away gaze; a plain weather-beaten
lady whose age--much discussed among her acquaintances--was probably
five-and-forty; her habit displayed a slight square-shouldered figure;
a pot hat pushed to the back of her head disclosed the inevitable red
mark, a long but aristocratic nose, and a clever resolute countenance.

Dorothy Fenchurch was a notable example of the strong-willed active
woman, mated to a weak, easy-going, good-tempered man: and the match
had proved a conspicuous success. In the opinion of Tom Fenchurch,
no wife in the County was fit to hold a candle to his wonderful
Dorothy--what a housekeeper, horsewoman, companion!--and for her
part, his Dorothy was contented. Greedy of influence, social and
domestic, she thoroughly enjoyed the _rôle_ of manager and mentor.
How much more satisfactory to rule in a small establishment, and over
a limited circle, than to languish at home, the insignificant member
of an important house, who kept their women-folk inflexibly in the
background; and so it came to pass that twelve years previously, the
Honourable Dorothy Claremont bestowed her hand and her fortune on
agreeable Colonel Fenchurch, who had little to offer her, besides his
handsome face, his retired pay, and his heart.

The couple had settled down in a ramshackle old house, in a ramshackle
old village in the Midlands, inconveniently remote from the railway,
but within easy reach of the principal Meets of a well-known
sporting pack. The bride’s relations--who had not favoured the
alliance--shrugged their shoulders and commiserated ‘poor Dorothy.’
They little knew that ‘poor Dorothy,’ now thoroughly free and
independent, was as happy as the day was long!

Here, in the sleepy hamlet of Thornby, the Honble. Mrs. Fenchurch soon
made her presence felt. She, so to speak, ‘took hold’ with both hands;
stirred up the villagers, the parson, and the doctor; improved the old
manor out of all recognition--and that at no great expense.

This energetic lady had the good fortune to discover a priceless
treasure in the village carpenter, and he and a journeyman mason, a few
odd men, with Mrs. Fenchurch as architect, threw out a window here,
shut up a door there, and boldly altered the principal staircase. By
and by when visitors arrived to call, and were beholders of these
amazing triumphs, more than one exclaimed:

“Why on earth did _we_ not think of taking The Holt, and doing it up?
It is perfectly delightful--who would have guessed at its capabilities?”

But these envious folk never considered that its present tenant was
endowed with an unusual supply of brains, enterprise, and courage. She
was a born decorator, a skilled upholsteress, and had a positive genius
for gardening. Before long, the attractions of The Holt were famous
within a radius of ten miles--Mrs. Fenchurch seemed to know exactly
where to find the prettiest chintzes, the most unique furniture, the
newest roses; and her cleverness in picking up prizes in old curiosity
shops had become a proverb. It was said, that in a back street of
the county town she had actually bought a wonderful old Chippendale
sideboard for fifteen shillings--but this would appear to be incredible.

For twelve years The Holt was acknowledged to be one of the pleasantest
houses in the County, its inmates the most popular, important, and
influential couple of the neighbourhood, and here Doodie Fenchurch
(with good-natured Tom as her consort) reigned alone and supreme.

But now a change was imminent; a princess was about to enter into this
kingdom--yes, and to enter within half an hour. Possibly this was why
its mistress seemed so unusually silent and _distrait_.

The only sister of Colonel Fenchurch had made a runaway match with
a harum-scarum Irishman, who was killed in India, leaving his widow
almost penniless. She died soon afterwards, and the unnecessary infant
who ought to have accompanied her mother, survived to be supported by
the Fenchurch family--themselves uncomfortably impecunious. Now this
girl was seventeen, and in spite of Mrs. Fenchurch’s lamentations,
protestations, and suggestion that she should remain another year,
Letty Glyn had left school, and was on her way to take up her abode
with darling Uncle Tom, and dearest Aunt Dorothy.

Apparently dearest Aunt Dorothy was not warmly enthusiastic respecting
her niece by marriage; but she was a woman who sedulously studied
appearances. If Tom’s niece were turned out to earn her bread as
companion or governess, what a talk there would be! There was
positively no alternative, the girl must make her home at The Holt, in
the character of _le fâcheux troisième_.

As a child, Letty had promised to be rather pretty, and Mrs. Fenchurch
believed that with her own social advantages, she would marry her off
ere long; but before arriving at this happy period, she resolved to
make the poor relation useful in the house. She should dust china,
arrange flowers, pour out tea, help in the garden, and take over the
Mothers’ Sewing Club. Her own hands were more than full both at home
and abroad (indeed, the influence of Mrs. Fenchurch now radiated far
and wide), she was secretary here, treasurer and chairwoman there,
and was often sorely pressed for time. Oh yes, Letty would have her
uses; but all the same a girl in the house--a girl, who was always _en
evidence_, to whom one must be a sort of model and sheep dog, would
undoubtedly be an intolerable nuisance.

“I say,” began her husband, breaking in upon her reflections. She
looked up at him quickly. “Isn’t Letty due about now? Six-thirty?”

“Oh yes, if the train is pretty punctual; but you know what these cross
lines are.”

“Do you think she will be a little hurt at no one going to meet
her--eh?”

“Hurt! My dear boy, what nonsense!”

“Well, of course, hunting is hunting, and Garfield Cross is our best
meet. By the way, I suppose you sent the brougham? It’s an uncommonly
cold, raw night.”

“The brougham? Certainly not! I sent the governess-car--yes,” in answer
to his exclamation. “You see, dear, Collins has had three horses to
do up--you know you had out two--you extravagant man, and I really
couldn’t ask him to leave them all to James, so the boy took the car
with the garden pony, and her luggage will come up to-morrow by the
market-cart.”

“I say, old girl,” suddenly putting down his cup and going over to her,
“it’s not a very warm reception, eh? The child has not been near us
this five years--and it’s a long journey from Dresden, eh?” Then, in
another and more caressing tone, he added, “You _will_ be good to her,
Doodie darling, won’t you? You can make it so awfully nice, if you like
to, you know!”

“Am I not always what you call ‘good’ to my guests?” she demanded
rather sharply.

“Oh, hang it all, Doodie, but _she_ won’t be a guest! Letty is one of
us, eh--isn’t she, old woman? Of course, I know it’s hard on you, and
she has only her little bit of a pension; but a girl in the house will
be cheery, eh? And you’ll take to her, I know,” and he put his arm
round her neck, and gazed into her shrewd, thin face, and repeated,
“Eh, darling, won’t you?”

Just at this moment the door opened, and a formal voice announced ‘Mrs.
Hesketh.’

Mrs. Hesketh, a middle-aged lady with a stately carriage and the
remains of great beauty, entered just in time to witness the caressing
attitude of Colonel Fenchurch.

“We have had a row, you see!” he explained to the visitor with the
gaiety of a schoolboy; “the old woman and I have had a shake-up, and
been making it up--she _will_ pound me out hunting. I call it deuced
bad form, eh?”

Mrs. Hesketh, a widowed cousin who lived in the only other ‘house’ in
the village, carefully removed her heavy sables before she replied.

“I should think, Tom, that you are used to that by this time. Had you
had a good day?”

“Ripping!”

“Many out?”

“Oh, the usual lot, and Hugo Blagdon. By Jove! he does have wonderful
cattle. I hear he pays as much as five hundred for a hunter. Yes, and
he can ride them too,” he added with unusual generosity.

“But what brings him over to this side?” enquired Mrs. Hesketh with
languid curiosity.

“He’s only staying at the ‘Black Cock’ at Ridgefield for a week or
so--it’s more central than Sharsley. Sharsley is a good bit out of the
way for everything; seven miles from a railway station--monstrous,
isn’t it in these days?”

“Yes, but we need not boast. Sharsley is a lovely old place; I
shouldn’t mind living there myself!”

“No,” he answered with a laugh; “and a heap of other ladies will say
ditto to Mrs. Hesketh, eh, Doodie?” appealing to his wife.

“I can’t think what’s keeping her,” was the irrelevant reply.

Mrs. Hesketh stared at her cousin with grave-eyed interrogation.

“Oh, I mean Letty Glyn, Tom’s niece, you know, Maudie. Didn’t I tell
you that we expect her this evening, by the two o’clock from St.
Pancras?”

“So you did; and she is coming to stay for some time?”

“To live with us altogether,” eagerly amended Colonel Fenchurch. “She
is an orphan, the daughter of my poor sister Kathleen.”

Mrs. Hesketh glanced from him to his wife, but Mrs. Fenchurch’s
expression was blank and noncommittal; she rose, walked to the fire,
and brushed the crumbs from her habit into the fender.

“We are her only relations,” continued Colonel Fenchurch.

“Except her father’s people, who are paupers,” corrected a thin,
high-pitched treble from the fire-place. “Irish paupers--with nothing
to live on but family pride.”

“If she is like my poor sister, she ought to be a beauty,” urged her
uncle, and his tone was anxious and conciliatory.

“She was some way from _that_ when we last saw her,” declared his wife,
turning to face them; “a long-legged creature, with a pair of sunken
eyes and quantities of tousled hair. Of course, she may have improved,”
she added tolerantly; “and,” with a glance at her husband’s chiselled
profile, “I hope she will take after the Fenchurch family. A girl with
a pretty face does get such a splendid start.”

“She does,” agreed Mrs. Hesketh, whose own beautiful face had been
her fortune; “but if she hasn’t something to back it up in the way of
character, or brains, or charm,--it’s not so much of a start, after
all.”

“Hullo--wheels!” announced Colonel Fenchurch. “Here she is!” and he
dashed into the hall.

“I think I ought to go,” murmured the visitor, reaching for her boa;
“this is a family affair,” she added with a smile.

“And you are one of the family, Maudie,” declared Mrs. Fenchurch,
laying a strong detaining hand upon her arm; “so you must stay.” Then,
removing her hat, which she tossed on the sofa, she was about to follow
her husband, when the door was thrown wide, and Colonel Fenchurch
advanced into the room, beaming with pride, and leading a tall girl in
a fur-lined cloak, who looked both timid and tired.

“My dear Letty, how late you are!” exclaimed her aunt, taking both her
hands in hers and pecking her on the cheek; “and how frozen!”

“There was a slight accident which delayed us,” explained the girl
nervously.

“Now, then, give me your cloak, and have some tea, and tell us all
about it,” said her uncle, fussing round her.

“I am afraid the tea is rather cold,” said Mrs. Fenchurch, moving
towards the tea equipage; “but we will have some more at once,” and she
rang the bell violently.

“Maudie, this is my niece Lettice,” said Colonel Fenchurch, presenting
her with ceremony. “Letty, Mrs. Hesketh is our nearest neighbour and
your aunt’s cousin, and I hope you may find a corner in her heart.”

“My dear, you must be perished,” said the lady kindly. “Why, I declare
you are positively shivering!”

“Oh no, no,” she protested, whilst her uncle helped her to remove her
wrap. “This room is delightfully warm.”

“Now, Letty, take off your hat,” he urged eagerly.

“I am afraid my hair is dreadfully untidy,” but she nevertheless
removed a fur cap, and bared a head of beautiful light brown hair,
which exhibited a natural wave.

“So you have had a long journey,” continued Mrs. Hesketh.

“Yes, nearly two days--we all travelled together--I mean the girls at
my school--as far as London.”

“And the crossing?”

“Oh,” with a quick, expressive gesture, “_dreadful_! I’d rather not
think of it! Sometimes the boat stood upright!”

“Come tell us about your railway accident,” said her uncle cheerfully.

“It was really nothing,” she answered; “we ran past another train that
had been shunted, and the end of it caught our carriage doors, or
something--at any rate we were nearly shaken off the line. It gave us a
shock, for we were travelling fast, and were dreadfully mixed up in our
compartment.”

“And who were you mixed up with?” he enquired jocosely.

“The young man in the opposite seat,” and she coloured and laughed. “He
wore an enormously thick ulster, and so I wasn’t a bit hurt.”

“And afterwards?”

“We had all to get out and wait at a tiny station for more than an
hour--such a bare miserable----”

“Do you take sugar?” interrupted Mrs. Fenchurch, with the tongs in her
hand.

“Yes, if you please, aunt--one lump.”

“Then here is your tea at last, and some nice hot toast,” said Colonel
Fenchurch, approaching. As he sat down beside her he said, “And how did
you and the young man continue the acquaintance so violently begun?”

“He asked me if I was hurt--that was all.”

“The least he could do! Why, bless my soul, he might have knocked all
your front teeth down your throat, or put out one of your eyes--and
then he would have had to marry you, eh?”

“I am sure he wouldn’t have agreed to that,” she answered gaily.

“He might go further, and fare worse,” rejoined her uncle, with a proud
and significant glance at his wife, who had now approached the sofa.

“Of course, you left your luggage at Tatton, Letty?”

“Yes, Aunt Dorothy; I only brought up my dressing-bag. The boy gave me
your message.”

“That was right. And now, as soon as you feel a little rested, I will
take you upstairs. Your quarters are at the top of the house, but large
and sunny--with a funny little staircase all to yourself!”

“I am sure it is charming, aunt,” rising as she spoke; “it will be
delightful to have not only a staircase, but a whole room to myself,”
and with a pretty little foreign curtsey to Mrs. Hesketh, the girl
collected her wraps and followed Mrs. Fenchurch into the hall.

“Well, what do you think of her, eh?” enquired Colonel Fenchurch,
retiring to the hearth-rug as to a vantage ground, and sticking his
thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat.

“She is _lovely_,” replied his companion, after a moment’s
deliberation. “When one sees a girl so fresh, so exquisite, and so
unconscious, one cannot help thinking of the quotation, ‘What of the
lovers in the hidden years?’”

“Lovers be hanged!” he exclaimed irritably. “Letty is too young yet--we
shall keep her with us as long as we can. She seems as simple as a
child, doesn’t she?--and rather shy?”

“I fancy she is one of those girls who develop slowly. Her age may be
seventeen, but in experience of life probably she is not more than ten
or twelve.”

“Lots of girls know their way about the world at seventeen, and are one
too many for many a man,” declared Colonel Fenchurch; “but I remember
that my sister, ten years my junior, was extraordinarily young in her
ideas, easily influenced, ready to be ordered about, and as obedient
as if she were a kid. She never knew her own mind--or had any fixed
opinions--except about Glyn. He made up her mind, and ordered her to
run away with him, a handsome, reckless, dare-devil. They went out
to India to his regiment, and he was killed within a year up on the
frontier, some fool-hardy exploit, or he would be alive now.”

“And take his daughter off your hands,” suggested the lady.

“Oh, well, I am happy and proud to adopt his daughter--especially since
I have none of my own.”

He paused, and stared down into the fire; his companion well knew
that this was the one grief of his married life. Tom loved children,
and was ever the most popular and entertaining guest at their dances
and amusements; he longed to hear the patter of quick little feet
up and down The Holt’s uneven passages. Doodie, his wife, had never
shared this craving--the whole County was, so to speak, _her_ child.
Possibly she would not have objected to a fine clever boy, who excelled
at games and was a brilliant success as a prize-winner, but a large
family of daughters--no, thank you! Her husband, on the contrary, had a
particular partiality for girls. Often, as he smoked a solitary pipe in
the fire-light, with half-closed eyes, he seemed to see a golden-haired
darling, the daughter of his dreams, sitting on the hearth-rug, or
standing by the window. And here to-day, had actually come to him, the
realisation of his visions!

“I do hope--I do hope----” he began, then hesitated.

Mrs. Hesketh raised her dark discontented eyes to his, and murmured an
interrogative “Yes?”

After a momentary struggle between inclination and discretion, he
continued, “Between you and me, Maudie,” lowering his voice to a
whisper, “I hope to goodness that Doodie will take to her!”



CHAPTER II


It must be admitted that November is not an auspicious month for a
stranger to make acquaintance with the English country; the trees are
bare and leafless, the fields empty and uninteresting, and what can be
said for monotonous, muddy roads, cold frosty mornings, and long dark
nights?

However, Letty speedily settled into her awarded niche, and endeavoured
to make herself at home. She soon became acquainted with the dogs and
horses, with her uncle’s little fads, and her aunt’s peculiarities,
duly appeared at church, was presented to the parson’s afflicted wife,
and made a state call upon Mrs. Hesketh. Also, she did her utmost to
be useful; but her well-meaning efforts were not always successful.
For instance, with respect to arranging flowers, the schoolgirl had
no experience, her vases looked ragged, or in clumps; she lacked the
‘airy, fairy’ touch of an expert--but that, no doubt, would come. Then
as to dusting the valuable old china; here again she was something of
a failure. In handling a cherished blue plate, it slipped through her
fingers as a thing alive, rolled defiantly along a stone passage, and
subsided in a dozen pieces. Although Mrs. Fenchurch had picked this
up for sevenpence in a village inn, it was a good specimen, and she
showed her displeasure and annoyance plainly--in fact so plainly, that
Letty wept! However, day by day the new-comer improved; she helped her
aunt to feed the fowls, and date and pack the eggs for sale, assisted
in the greenhouse, brushed and exercised the dogs, and took an humble
and subordinate part in Mrs. Fenchurch’s numerous and absorbing
occupations.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Holt was situated at the extremity of a picturesque village,
which consisted of a rambling street of red brick or black and white
houses; half-way down this, perched on a high bank, was a fine old
church, with its surrounding graveyard; and here and there, were little
shops, and quaint signboards, and what had once been a celebrated
posting inn--now used for the storage of grain. At the further end
of Thornby was a grim-faced Georgian mansion, standing back from the
road, its lawn and approach well screened from view by thick laurel
hedges; immediately behind the residence, were large and unexpectedly
delightful grounds. Mrs. Hesketh, who had occupied Oldcourt for ten
years, was a childless widow, with few belongings or intimates; once a
notable leader in society, but latterly indifferent health, and serious
money losses, had swept her out of the social current, and she had come
to Thornby to live near her active cousin, Dolly Fenchurch, possibly in
hopes of catching the contagion of her love for a busy rural life. An
intellectual woman, and an omnivorous reader, Maude Hesketh dwelt to a
great extent within herself; eagerly watching, through the columns of
the Press, the great world as it went rolling by.

Once a year she emerged from her retirement, and went to take the
waters at Aix; but the remainder of the time she occupied herself
with her books, her flowers, and her own thoughts. In spite of her
solitude, Mrs. Hesketh was beautifully dressed, she dressed to please
and satisfy a dainty, fastidious taste. Her house, too, was refined,
and filled with old French furniture, clever impressionist sketches,
_bibelots_, and exquisitely bound books; and although she had lost a
considerable part of her income in a notorious financial failure, she
was comfortably off, and kept a carriage, which she rarely used. The
lady had the reputation of being eccentric, and something of a mystery;
chiefly because she held herself studiously aloof from her neighbours,
and was said to give herself ridiculous airs! This was a mistake.
Mrs. Hesketh did not cultivate local society, simply because it bored
her. She was not interested in parish squabbles, county scandals, or
domestic servants; but she visited in the village, where she was much
beloved by the poor.

To sum her up, Maude Hesketh was a clever, noble-hearted, dissatisfied
woman, bitterly disappointed to find that with all her gifts and
opportunities, she had made so little of her life. And now, as she
would say to herself, “There is no time--it is almost over!”

But to return to The Holt after this digression. The new inmate
was beginning to make her presence felt in the household, she was a
ready learner, being both keen and adaptable; her aunt’s example and
capabilities impressed her enormously; every day, every hour seemed
to have its own particular task. Mrs. Fenchurch had a wonderful sense
of organisation and routine, and never one moment to spare. Her
writing-room was the nucleus of her activities; here on a neat bureau
were ‘the books.’ The house books, the village books, the visitor’s
book, the clothing club book, the letter book, the garden book, and
last but not least--the egg book! A certain amount of this order and
energy was imparted to her niece; the mistress of the house knew how
to make use of capable subordinates--she would have made an efficient,
though not very popular or gracious abbess--was thoroughly practical,
and far-reaching--and particularly prided herself on her sense of
justice!

As it happened to be good hunting weather, and an open winter, she left
Letty at home as often as three days a week, to act as regent, answer
messages, visit the greenhouses, and the poultry-yard, attend the
sewing club, and exercise the dogs.

Colonel Fenchurch had suggested that his niece should learn to ride.
He had even put her up on old Playboy, and taken her round the fields
with a leading-rein, declaring that “the girl really had the riding
flair--it was her Irish blood no doubt; she was not a bit afraid, and
stuck on like a leech,” but his wife had negatived the idea with prompt
decision.

“No, no,” she replied; “if Letty began to ride, she’d be wanting a
hunter next, and this winter has been so frightfully expensive, what
with the new flues in the greenhouse, and the kitchen range, and then I
must get her some frocks for Christmas and the balls. She has nothing
now, but hideous German clothes--her school-room horrors--but next
year,” pursing up her lips, “_perhaps_--we shall see!”

And meanwhile Colonel Fenchurch gave his niece riding lessons on the
sly; he took her out into the fields on off days when his wife was
buried in important letters, and exercised the pony that in summer drew
the garden mower. (The Holt was celebrated for its lawns of beautiful
old turf.) Letty found her gaunt, hard-featured aunt both cold and
unresponsive--the typical English character--but oh, so marvellously
clever! As for her uncle--who was of her own blood--she adored him,
and manifested this affection in many pretty ways; brought him his
pipe and matches, folded up his gloves and mufflers, ran for his cap
or hunting-crop. Tom Fenchurch liked it; it warmed his old heart to
see this charming girl waiting upon him so eagerly; but his wife
contemplated such attentions with a frosty eye. In her opinion, Letty
was too impulsive and gushing; and she gave her sundry sharp hints and
raps, generally accepted in silence and humility--for all her life long
the girl was accustomed to the yoke of obedience. Her mental attitude
was another affair, and though she loved her uncle, sad to relate niece
Letty was now beginning to detest her aunt.

Accepting Letty as a mere child, and no more, Mrs. Fenchurch was
astonished to discover that she was highly accomplished (but why not?
She had been at school since she was five years old). She played music
at sight, was an excellent German scholar, spoke French fluently, and
executed most delicate embroideries--but was deplorably ignorant as
to the cutting out and manufacture of garments, that were desirable
and useful for the clothing club. It was evident that to her, life
outside school and school routine was an absolutely unknown land. She
had never seen a Meet, never been to a ball, or taken part in any
social festivity. However all that would come in good time; meanwhile
the girl was no trouble in the house, and proved surprisingly docile;
never advanced opinions of her own, and did precisely as she was told.
This aspect of her character appealed to Mrs. Fenchurch; there was
nothing she enjoyed so keenly as settling the minds, and arranging
the plans of others; and Letty, so to speak, left her life, her aims,
and her future, entirely at her aunt’s disposal. Her will was really
too flexible, she had no self-confidence, and in the anatomy of her
individuality there was no such article as the proverbial backbone!

Mrs. Hesketh, who had taken one of her rare fancies to her cousin’s
niece, invited her frequently to tea. It amused and interested her to
sound the depths of this transparent young soul--to endeavour to draw
out the ideas of sweet seventeen.

“My dear child, you are charming,” she declared, “and you are
accomplished, but you cannot possibly go through life without a mind
and opinion of your own! When I called to take you for a drive the
other day, you could not positively say yes or no--but shall I? And
then ‘Perhaps I’d better not,’ and then ‘I’m not sure if aunt won’t
want me when she comes in,’ and again, ‘I’d like to go above all
things, but I’m afraid I’ve kept you so long that I won’t have time
to get ready now.’ And at the end, just as I was getting into the
carriage, ‘Oh, how I wish I was going with you!’ Now if you continue
like this--always standing between two forked roads, what will become
of you? At present your aunt decides, but you cannot always be a tender
plant, clinging to a stout support, can you?”

“No,” Letty replied; “I see what you mean, and I feel it myself; but
all my days have been ordered for me; my clothes have been chosen, my
letters read, my books and companions have been the choice of others;
I have always walked in the path that was traced for me, and I seem to
expect a guiding hand. If I ever had any will of my own--I believe it
_died_ years ago.”

“Look here, my good girl,” said Mrs. Hesketh impatiently, “if you have
no will of your own, you must grow one! Now I will plant a little seed.
You are asked to sing in the Parish Room on Saturday at the Penny
Reading. I hear that your answer, since the matter has been left to
you, is undecided.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me honestly, would you like to sing--or are you too nervous?”

“I am not the least nervous. I have been accustomed to sing and play at
school concerts for years. I was quite a star!” and she laughed gaily;
“and I really would like to sing on Saturday if I thought it would give
people pleasure; but I have a sort of suspicion, that Aunt Dorothy
would rather I didn’t!”

“That’s imagination,” protested Mrs. Hesketh. “Dorothy knows we are
badly off for performers, much less stars. It isn’t as if this was
to be a big public performance; there will only be the village folk
that you see every day, the parson, the doctor, and myself. Now,
Letty, look me straight in the face and tell me, do you wish to give
these poor people a little pleasure? Will you sing? There must be no
shilly-shallying--it’s yes or no--now.”

“Then,” lifting her laughing eyes, “yes.”

“That’s right. Just go over to my writing-table and write a note to Mr.
Denton, and tell him that you will sing two songs with pleasure--you
can drop it at the Rectory as you pass by.”

Letty rose and did as she was told, with her usual docile obedience,
and presently returned with a note in her hand.

“Ah-ha!” said Mrs. Hesketh, giving her a sharp look, “thus we have
planted the first seed!”

Saturday evening arrived, the Parish Room was packed to the doors and
window-sills, and there was a good deal of clapping when Miss Glyn,
radiantly pretty in her white school frock, was led upon the platform
by the Rector. Her aunt, sitting in the front row, looked distinctly
grim. Letty’s instinct was correct; it was true that she had been
fiercely if secretly opposed to this exhibition! she did not wish to
see the girl brought forward--at least not yet: Colonel Fenchurch, on
the other hand, was the embodiment of triumphant expectation, and was
prepared to lead the _claque_.

When the prelude on the battered village piano had ceased, Miss Glyn
opened her pretty mouth, and began to sing “The Sands of Dee.”

Her voice was exquisite; honey-sweet, and full of restrained passion.
She gave this most beautiful tragic song, with extraordinary
dramatic expression, and yet in a simple, natural fashion, from the
authoritative--

  “Go, Mary, call the cattle home,”

till where the last words died away in a tremulous, half-stifled sob.

When she ceased, there was an awestruck breathless silence; in fact,
you might have heard the fall of the proverbial pin.

What sort of singing was this? people asked themselves. Something new;
something that gripped your heart-strings, something wonderful! Then
came thunders of applause, shouts and hammerings and stamping with
sticks and feet, such as never had been heard within the walls of the
Parish School-house, yells of ‘Encore!’ to which the singer smilingly
acceded and gave them “Robin Adair.” Again her audience listened with
rapture.

Mrs. Fenchurch was equally astonished, and annoyed, by the composure
and aplomb of a girl who in every-day life was so timid and retiring.
To-night, she presented the confidence and air of a prima donna of
twenty years’ experience; but Letty was for once upon solid ground; she
knew her own capabilities, and the radiant and acclaimed Miss Glyn,
was a totally different individual from the timid, wistful girl, who
suffered herself to be scolded and hustled about The Holt.

In short, that evening Miss Glyn made her name, not only as a
marvellous singer with a voice which the baker’s wife--who had been to
London--compared to Patti’s--but also as a beauty!

Her fame now gradually oozed through the stolid clay surroundings, and
reached villages and market towns that were afar off. These learnt,
that the prettiest girl in the whole country-side was a little slip of
seventeen, who lived in Thornby village.

It was about this period that Mrs. Fenchurch began to feel seriously
jealous of her bright and charming inmate; so popular with the
neighbours, with the household, and last, but not least--her husband.

She hated to see her looking at him, or speaking to him, with eyes at
once innocent and caressing; and as for Tom, he was simply idiotic
about his niece; from time to time, he would come into her bedroom,
dressed, or half-dressed, as the case might be, to rave of Letty’s
perfections and beauty; to descant on her sweet disposition, and to
wind up by declaring, “She’s like sunshine in the house.” The poor
man was undoubtedly bewitched, and his enthusiasm received but a
tepid acknowledgment. (If you really wish to know a woman’s bad
points--praise her to another.)

His wife very solemnly and deliberately, enumerated the girl’s many
failings. She was unpunctual, she was forgetful, she was untidy--and
she was weak. As for him, he was too silly for anything, and was only
making himself absolutely ridiculous, and the laughing-stock of the
whole neighbourhood!

But as it happened few of the Neighbourhood (spelt with a capital N)
had beheld Colonel Fenchurch’s young relative. County folk do not visit
in winter; the great summer gatherings, at cricket matches, tennis,
garden parties, and picnics, were over: friends and acquaintances, for
the most part, met and exchanged news and gossip in the hunting-field,
and for this reason the beautiful flower blooming at The Holt, was so
far blushing unseen.

It was Letty’s daily task to take the dogs out for exercise; Sam, the
apoplectic pug, Jerry, the impetuous Irish setter, and Locky, the
aggressive Aberdeen. One afternoon, as she was plodding along through
a muddy lane accompanied by her usual escort, she heard the horn in
the distance, and presently the trotting of horses, who were evidently
approaching rapidly. And yes, here, coming round a sharp bend, was the
whole red-coated hunt.

She hurried into the field with her precious charges, and snatching up
the snorting and bewildered pug, established herself behind the gate,
from where she could safely watch the cavalcade, as it splashed and
pounded by.

A stout, dark-eyed man on a magnificent horse, glanced at her casually,
then stared hard--finally he looked back. This individual was Mr.
Blagdon, who was enjoying a day’s run, and rather middling sport with
the Brakesby pack. He was struck by the figure at the gate; a girl
with a beautiful eager face, holding in her arms a struggling dog; but
although he made prompt enquiries, not one among his many acquaintances
could tell him the name of the young lady in the blue cloak, whom they
had passed in Rapstone lane.



CHAPTER III


Christmas was approaching, and so far, Miss Glyn’s acquaintance was
confined to the village of Thornby. Now and then her aunt and uncle
went from home for a dine and a shoot, and on these occasions, Mrs.
Hesketh took charge of the young lady, who was delighted to be her
guest. At Oldcourt the atmosphere was reposeful, the surroundings
subdued and luxurious, and life was leisured. Here it was seemingly
‘always afternoon.’ Letty was not sure that she would enjoy it as a
permanence; perhaps there was too much of the hothouse in the air, but
it was an agreeable change from The Holt, where it was figuratively a
perpetual Monday, with a large washing on hand!

Cousin Maudie, an accomplished musician, encouraged her guest to
practise, played her accompaniments, and delighted in her voice. Now
Mrs. Fenchurch hated ‘squalling,’ had no ear, and was actually proud
of the fact, that she only knew “God Save the King” by seeing people
rise to their feet! Mrs. Hesketh also loved books, and the tables at
Oldcourt were loaded with the newest and best publications, whether in
magazine, pamphlet, or book form. Letty laid greedy hands on these,
but her hostess prudently withdrew a certain amount--sociological and
theological works--which were not suitable reading for Sweet Seventeen.

Letty admired--and loved--her beautiful (if rather faded) hostess,
and the love and admiration were mutual. The new-comer had also made
friends with the Vicar and his wife. Mr. Denton, a hale, active man of
fifty, much praised by his own flock, and respected by others. Mrs.
Denton, though she had lost the use of her limbs through sleeping in a
damp bed, was her husband’s helper in the parish, and it was surprising
what an amount of work, correspondence, and interviews centred round
her sofa. She was a frail, delicate Irishwoman, with a sense of humour,
a cheerful disposition, and a warm heart. Both she and her husband had
taken a fancy to the ‘little girl at The Holt,’ as they called her.
She reminded them of their own little girl, who had married and gone
to India; to see Letty flitting about the drawing-room, or seated in
Mabel’s chair, was a sight that gave them sincere pleasure. And the
child was so simple and unaffected, she looked into one’s face with
such sweet candid eyes, and was ever ready and glad to carry a message,
sing, play, or read, to the invalid, keenly interested in little
village events, and the weekly Madras letter--all she asked for in
return, was to be liked!

In a surprisingly short time, this attractive stranger had entirely
wound herself into the affections of the Dentons; her visits were not
frequent, but on hunting days, after she had exercised the dogs, she
would turn into the Rectory drawing-room, and pour out tea.

Immediately before Christmas, Mrs. Fenchurch, who was absorbed in her
correspondence, sent Letty down to the Rectory with a note. When she
arrived there it was still teatime, and she was surprised to find that
Mrs. Denton had a guest, a good-looking young man, who appeared to find
himself completely at home, since he was sitting on the end of the
sofa, nursing the Rectory cat.

“Oh, Letty, so there you are!” said Mrs. Denton. “Let me introduce
my nephew, Lancelot Lumley. He has come to spend Christmas with us.
Lancelot, this is Miss Glyn--you have heard of her?”

“We have met before,” he said eagerly; “a couple of months ago, I
think, in that railway shake-up?”

“Yes,” she assented, for here was the very travelling companion, who
had worn the buffer coat, “in the train.”

“It might have been a bad business,” he continued, and described the
incident to his aunt.

“I suppose it happened when you were on your way home?”

“Yes, I took first leave this year, and I’m sorry to say I have nearly
come to the end of it.”

“And give us only two days, Lance--you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

“The fact is, Frances wouldn’t let me off, and Colonel Kingsnorth lent
me a hunter; we have had some ripping good runs.”

“Ah!” said his aunt, “I think it was the hunter that wouldn’t let you
off.” Then, turning to Letty, she explained, “My brother-in-law,
Lancelot’s father, has a living twenty miles from here, at a place
called Sharsley; but he might as well be in London, for it’s so
dreadfully out of the way. We don’t see one another half a dozen times
in the year. This note,” holding it up to Letty, “is from your aunt;
she says she is so desperately busy, that she can’t help with the
church decorations. You know she has always undertaken the pulpit, she
sends you as her deputy, and will supply the usual pots of palms and
chrysanthemums. Lancelot,” looking over at her nephew, “I intend to
make use of you--you and Miss Glyn must do the pulpit between you.”

“All right,” he answered, “I am agreeable, if Miss Glyn is; but let me
warn you that I have no more idea of decorating than I have of making a
watch.”

“I am afraid I am not much good either,” supplemented the girl; “I’ve
had no practice.”

“Miss Glyn left school two months ago,” explained Mrs. Denton.

“Were you sorry?” enquired the young man, looking over at her.

“Yes,” then with a burst of artless honesty--“I have been to school
nearly all my life.”

“She is coming out at the Hunt Ball early in January,” announced Mrs.
Denton.

“Yes, and I won’t know a single creature at it!”

“Oh, your aunt will find you plenty of partners. You could not be in
better hands. I feel sure she will make a most capable chaperon. It is
miraculous how she manages to get rid of the most hopeless articles at
bazaars. No one can resist her!”

“And you think she will get _me_ off!” Letty laughed, and her laugh was
joyous.

“Not a doubt of it! Sooner than see you sitting out, she’d dance with
you herself. And about her note--so it is all settled, Letty. You will
be down here at eleven o’clock to-morrow; bring a large ball of twine,
and a pair of scissors, and Miss Hoare, the schoolmistress, will start
you. Remember I shall expect you and Lancelot to turn out the most
beautiful pulpit that has ever been seen in Thornby.”

“I can only say that I will do my best,” said Letty, rising.

“What! you are not going yet?”

“I am afraid I must. Aunt Dorothy has quantities of things she wants me
to do this evening--there’s the ticketing for the Christmas Tree.”

“Oh, poor child, I don’t envy you,” said Mrs. Denton with upraised
hands. “Well, in that case, I won’t detain you--Lancelot will escort
you home,” and subsequently he and the young lady left the room
together; she protesting, he assuring her that if she didn’t mind,
he would be glad to make the stroll an excuse for a pipe. Strange to
record, until that evening, Letty had never realised how short was the
distance between the Rectory and The Holt! Here in the entrance hall
she encountered her aunt; Mrs. Fen, who was overwhelmed with affairs,
wore a frowning brow, and carried half a dozen parcels and a Directory.

“Who was that I heard speaking just now?” she enquired sharply; “it
sounded like a man’s voice?”

“It was only Mr. Lumley, Mrs. Denton’s nephew; he walked home with me.”

“Oh, so he is here, is he?” she remarked over her shoulder, as she
swept into the smoking-room.

“Is that Lancelot Lumley you are talking of?” enquired Colonel
Fenchurch, who was reading. “I suppose he bicycled over to spend
Christmas--they find it hatefully dull without Mabel. You’d better ask
him up to lunch, or something.”

“I think at this time of the year, when one has so much to do,” and
Mrs. Fenchurch shot a glance at her husband, and then at Letty, “people
don’t expect to be entertained.”

“Of course not,” agreed the Colonel; “I expect Lumley to entertain
_me_--you forget that he is in my old regiment. I want to hear how the
old corps is getting along. To think that a boy who joined a few years
before I left, is commanding them now!”

“Oh, very well, Tom, then do as you like--ask him up to lunch or
dinner.”

“He is an awfully good sort,” Colonel Fenchurch explained to Letty;
“one of my favourites--none of your ‘haw-haw’ chaps. His father is a
poor parson, and this boy has worked himself on--getting scholarships;
he passed first out of Sandhurst. I believe he scarcely cost old Lumley
a ten-pound note--he’s the hope of the family--such a good----”

“There--there, Tom,” interrupted his wife, “that’s _quite_ enough about
young Lumley! He doesn’t interest Letty, or me. Now, Letty, I can’t
have you standing idle, run away, take off your things, and go out into
the laundry and help Fletcher to ticket the things for the Christmas
Tree.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It is extraordinary the amount of intimacy that can result from a
mutual undertaking, in which two young people are engaged. After Mr.
Lumley and Miss Glyn had finished the pulpit--which to do them justice
was a work of great labour crowned with success--they felt as if they
had been acquainted, not for hours, but for weeks. This impression, was
further strengthened when they met at dinner. Letty, wearing her plain
white school frock, the young man looking handsome and well groomed in
the regulation swallow tail. It transpired, that they had been engaged
in decorating the church, and Mrs. Fenchurch and her husband might have
been a little surprised at finding they already knew one another so
well, had not the Colonel been absorbed in regimental stories, and Mrs.
Fenchurch mentally composing an important letter, that was to go by
that night’s post.

After dinner, when Colonel Fenchurch and his guest had each smoked an
excellent cigar, the former said:

“Now you must come into the drawing-room and hear my niece sing,”
and in spite of her aunt’s protestations that Letty had too much to
do, and she could not possibly spare her, she was led to the piano
and enchanted her listeners with two or three of Schumann’s songs,
and Gounod’s “Ave Maria,” and the extraordinary impression that this
beautiful girl had made upon a susceptible young man, was now complete.

Lancelot Lumley looked and listened in silence, and surrendered his
heart without a further struggle. Although he knew, that it was
absolute madness for him to think of Miss Glyn as anything but a star
that dwelt apart! He had his way to make--she was penniless--her face,
her lovely face, was her fortune.

On Christmas morning as he sat alone in the Rectory pew, his eyes often
wandered across the aisle, in search of Miss Glyn. How her sweet voice
appeared to rise and swell above all others; and to the infatuated
lover it seemed, that the beautiful fair-haired girl, with the rapt,
devotional expression, was the embodiment of a Herald angel! When
the service was over, Lumley met his angel in the porch; here they
exchanged seasonable greetings and received congratulations on their
joint embellishment of the pulpit. Then, very late on Christmas night,
Lumley ran up to The Holt to bid them all good-bye. He was hurrying
home early the next morning, as his leave had nearly expired; but brief
as this visit was, he found an opportunity to say to Letty:

“I hear you are coming out at the Hunt Ball the end of January? Perhaps
I can get leave for it. I generally try to put in an appearance--you
know it’s in my part of the world, and I see all my friends there.”

The real gist of these explanations and excuses was summed up at the
end of the sentence:

“I say, Miss Glyn, if I _do_ manage to turn up--will you keep a couple
of waltzes for me?”

At which request the young lady coloured, and replied:

“Yes, with pleasure.”

       *       *       *       *       *

By and by the little seed planted by Mrs. Hesketh began to peep
above ground, and Letty Glyn’s will came to life. It made its first
appearance on the arrival of certain patterns from London, and the
question of a selection from among these, for a best afternoon, and two
evening dresses. Mrs. Fenchurch was not disposed to allow her niece any
choice in the matter. After looking at them critically, and fingering
the textures, she said:

“The dark green will make you a nice afternoon frock; and you will want
a smart black evening dress, and a ball-gown. Fletcher can make them
all with a little assistance from Mrs. Cope in the village. For the
ball dress, I fancy this white brocade trimmed with apple-green satin.
How do you think that will look?”

“I don’t think I should care about it,” replied Letty.

“What!” exclaimed her aunt, staring at her in glassy amazement, “it
would be charming. I remember I had a ball dress something like it
years ago.”

“But fashions have changed since then,” objected the girl; “don’t you
think a dress for a débutante should be soft, and all white, with
perhaps a little silver?”

“Now, my dear, what _can_ you possibly know about it?”

“Not much, I admit; we were very plainly dressed at school, and our
clothes, I must confess, were dowdy, yet now and then, one had a chance
of seeing what was worn--for instance, at the opera.”

“Do you mean on the stage?”

“Oh no, I mean the lovely elegant Court ladies that were in the boxes.”

“Then what is your own idea?” her aunt enquired sarcastically.

“I should like a soft white _crêpe_ over white satin--with some silver
embroidery on the body.”

“Yes, I daresay you would!” sneered Mrs. Fenchurch; “why the materials
alone of such a dress would cost at least ten pounds.”

“I have ten pounds,” was the unexpected reply; then, colouring a little
in answer to her aunt’s sharp interrogative glance, “uncle gave it to
me for a Christmas box.”

For a moment Mrs. Fenchurch was speechless; she had never heard a word
of this present, and to tell the truth, Uncle Tom when he placed the
ten-pound note in the girl’s hand had said:

“This is just a little secret between you and me.” Now it was a secret
no longer!

Mrs. Fenchurch’s feelings were altogether too much for her. She hastily
collected her patterns, rose, and without a word flounced out of the
room.

It seemed to Mrs. Fenchurch, that this simple schoolgirl was obtaining
an extraordinary and disastrous ascendancy not only in the village,
but in the household. The servants--little country chits, whom she
had herself trained since they went out of pinafores--would do
anything for Miss Glyn. Sam the pug (Mrs. Fenchurch’s own private
dog) had handed over his heart to the girl, and attached himself to
her exclusively--and as for Tom, he was her slave! It was Letty,
Letty, Letty, all day; and when this girl began to make her appearance
in a wider circle, would she, Mrs. Fenchurch--influential Mrs.
Fenchurch--have to take a back seat?

It was also evident to Mrs. Fenchurch, that of late this interloper had
developed in many ways, and was inclined to enter into conversation,
and even to offer opinions! This sort of thing must be nipped without
delay. Once she began to take an inch, it would soon become an ell--the
inch, would be the selection of her ball-gown. It was too ridiculous
that a girl of seventeen who had never been to a dance in her life,
should dare to set up her taste in opposition to her own.

With a stern resolve implanted in her mind, Mrs. Fenchurch sat down
and wrote off to London, ordering materials, which included the white
brocade, and green satin trimming.

In two or three days the order had arrived, and after breakfast, she
summoned Letty into her bedroom--a delightful chamber with large bow
windows and bright chintzes, facing full south, and overlooking the
lawns.

“You want to see me, aunt?” she asked as she entered (inwardly quaking)
and awaited instructions.

In the long glass which faced them from floor to ceiling, Mrs.
Fenchurch beheld the full-length reflections of her niece and herself;
she, in a rough tweed gown, spare, weather-beaten, long-nosed, elderly;
the girl, in a cheap blue serge, slim, erect, beautiful as the
morning--and with all her best days to come! A sharp spasm of anger and
jealousy darted through her mind. Alas! alas! Her own best days had
gone by. She, Dorothy Fenchurch, was entering on the season of the sere
and yellow leaf--and was conscious of an agonising self-pity.

“Oh yes, it’s about your ball dress. Here,” tearing open her parcel,
“are the materials--they came to-day.”

It was undeniably a heavy and matronly brocade that she unfolded, and
as for the green satin ribbon, whatever it might look at night, it was
hideous by day!

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl, “so you got the brocade after all--and I have
sent for the white _crêpe_.”

“You have sent for the white _crêpe_--without consulting _me_!”
repeated Mrs. Fenchurch, speaking as it were in capital letters.

“Well, you see uncle gave me the money to spend as I pleased. The
_crêpe_ has come too, and is really lovely. May I show it to you?”

“No, I don’t want to see it! I am amazed at your daring to do such a
thing as order a dress without my permission. One thing I can promise
you, and that is, that it won’t be made up! You go to the ball--if you
go at all--in a gown of my selection.”

“Then, I think,” and the girl became very red, “that I will stay at
home. Yes--I should look too ridiculous.”

“You will look exactly as _I_ choose!” declared Mrs. Fenchurch,
suddenly losing her self-control; the smouldering resentment which had
been gathering for weeks now bursting into flames; a strange, wild
fury, all the long-pent-up grievances, annoyances, jealousies, finding
outlet at last. It must be confessed that just at the moment, she was
suffering torture from neuralgia in her face--the result of long rides
in piercing cold, or damp evenings, when the day’s sport was over.

“May I ask if you understand your position here? Do you realise that
but for me, you would be now out earning your bread as a nursery
governess--are you aware, that ever since you were born, your father’s
people have never given you a single penny, and that all the burden of
your maintenance has fallen on us--or rather, I should say, on _me_?
And here, instead of being grateful for a happy home, and for every
luxury and indulgence, you are setting yourself up, and saying what
you will wear, and defying me to my face. Go to your room--I hate the
sight of you!”

Letty had listened to this bitter indictment with rapidly changing
colour; she knew that her aunt had never cared for her; but that she
absolutely hated her, and felt her to be a burden and an interloper,
came as a revelation. She left the room in silence, and Mrs. Fenchurch,
who was trembling with passion, snatched up the brocade, carried it
into the maid’s working-room, and commanded her to lose no time about
making it up for Miss Glyn. But afterwards, when she had cooled, Mrs.
Fen began to realise that she had gone too far; for once in her life
she acknowledged to herself, that she had said too much.

Colonel Fenchurch was surprised and concerned when he saw his niece
at lunch with a very white face, and very red eyes. She ate scarcely
a morsel, and seemed to find considerable difficulty in swallowing or
speaking. On his wife’s brow there sat a heavy cloud, and he noticed
the servants glancing significantly at one another--something had
happened--there had been a blow up! But he, being a cautious and
somewhat nervous little gentleman, talked about the weather and a
lame horse, and withdrew as soon as possible into the shelter of his
smoking-room; where he consoled himself with a recent copy of the
_Field_, and a good cigar.

During the afternoon, Mrs. Fenchurch, having fortified herself with a
large glass of port and quinine, climbed up to the top of the house,
to make the _amende_ to her niece.

“Well, Letty,” she began as she entered, “I am sorry we have had a
difference of opinion; but I suppose you will allow that you are little
more than a child, and that _I_ am a woman of experience, and should
know what should be done, and worn, better than yourself?”

Letty stood up, her lips twitched, and her eyes filled with tears as
she answered:

“I am sorry, aunt, that you are displeased with me, and I--I--suppose I
was impertinent. I meant no harm in sending for the _crêpe_ dress, and
indeed I thought it would save you buying my ball-gown.”

This was precisely the attitude of which Mrs. Fenchurch most warmly
approved, and as the girl looked completely cowed, she said:

“I am sorry that I lost my temper--so let us make it up; and as you
have bought the white _crêpe_, you shall wear it. The other will come
in later,” and having offered, what she considered, a most remarkable
concession, Mrs. Fen kissed her niece sharply, and walked downstairs.
After she had departed, Letty stood listening to her descending
footsteps; somehow her aunt’s footsteps, coming or going, invariably
made her heart flutter like that of some terrified animal. When the
last sound had died away, she flung herself down upon her bed. She
didn’t care about the ball, or the _crêpe_ dress--or anything! She was
an interloper; no one wanted her. How bitter it was, to eat bread that
was begrudged. In what shape or form could she ever find release?

It was agonising to reflect, that she might go on living month after
month, and year after year, under the roof of a woman who had called
her a pauper, and a burden.



CHAPTER IV


The great day dawned at last; the day of the Hunt Ball, which took
place annually in the Town Hall of Ridgefield, and was attended by
everybody who was anyone--and many nobodies.

Letty’s white _crêpe_, completed with her assistance, was charming;
soft, girlish, and yet distinguished--for her mental eye had copied it
from one of the trousseau gowns of a young and royal princess.

Mrs. Fenchurch, who was not remarkable for her taste in dress, wore
a ginger-coloured velvet, with opal ornaments; but she carried
herself with dignity and looked a Claremont, and a personage! Colonel
Fenchurch, in his pink coat, black satin breeches, and neat silk
stockings, squeezed himself into the brougham, with many compliments
for his two companions.

The town of Ridgefield was eight miles away, and as the family bowled
along the road at a steady pace, the Colonel dozed, his wife meditated
with closed eyes; but their niece all the time stared out on the
brown hedges and bare ditches, which were illuminated by the flashing
carriage lamps. Of what was she thinking? Was it possible that she was
wondering if Lancelot Lumley would be at the ball?

The Holt party were somewhat late arrivals, and when the carriage drew
up under an awning in front of the Town Hall, the first to step out
and run the gauntlet of many spectators was Colonel Fenchurch. He had
a remarkably well-turned leg, and looked particularly spruce. His wife
followed with impressive deliberation, and last of all came the young
lady in white. Her appearance was greeted with a loud murmur, as she
floated up the steps in the wake of her relations.

As they left the cloak-room, Mrs. Fenchurch, who had received many
greetings, was confronted with a lady in a superb sable cloak; a
handsome woman with flashing black eyes, and wearing in her hair a
magnificent diamond ornament.

“Oh, Mrs. Fen,” she exclaimed, “how are you? Going strong, eh?” Then
her eyes suddenly alighted on Mrs. Fen’s companion, and she gave her a
hard, critical stare.

“Ah, I suppose this little girl is the niece? going to take her
preliminary canter?” and with a patronising nod, she passed on to the
dressing-room.

Letty encountered her aunt’s eye, who, seizing her arm to lead her
forward, said:

“That is Mrs. Flashman, a wonderful rider, but an odious, detestable
creature, who slams gates, jostles you at fences, and swears at her
horses, and her servants.”

Two minutes later, Miss Glyn found herself with a programme in her
hand, standing in the ball-room. This was beautifully decorated, a
military band was established in the gallery, and the sides of the
room and a sort of platform at the upper end were densely crowded
with guests. Others were promenading up and down impatiently awaiting
the next waltz. Many neighbours had brought large house-parties, whose
smart gowns and splendid jewels, gave an air of London society to the
Brakesley Hunt Ball.

Mrs. Fenchurch paced slowly towards the dais. On her way, she
encountered several acquaintances, and introduced her niece to Lord
Seafield--a thin young man with a very prominent nose and no chin--to
Sir Edgar Broome, the M.F.H., and to the Dowager Duchess of Campshire.

Before ascending the platform, she was accosted by Lancelot Lumley, who
came forward eagerly, programme in hand, and said:

“I hope Miss Glyn can spare me a couple of waltzes?”

Miss Glyn promptly produced her programme, and he scribbled his
initials before three. The next, which was just beginning, the one
before supper, and number twelve.

Mrs. Fenchurch looked on with glum disapproval. _Three_ dances to an
impecunious subaltern! But she could not offer any audible objection,
and as the band struck up he said:

“Shall we make a start now before the room gets crammed?” and light as
a feather the young lady was whirled away, and the elder was compelled
to mount to the platform alone. But from this and other coigns of
vantage, the extraordinary beauty of Miss Glyn was soon remarked.
Indeed, her own chaperon, as she surveyed her through her best gold
glasses, assured herself, that she had never until now realised the
girl’s astonishing good looks! Of course dress went a long way, so
did youth--and candle-light; but Letty’s profile was perfect, her
complexion, the shape of her face, the setting on of her head, were
beyond criticism--and then her grace!

As Dorothy Fenchurch watched the white form revolving round and round,
she began to experience an intoxicating sensation; the stimulating
conviction was borne in upon her, that she had a valuable prize to
offer in the marriage market!

Seen just at home, running about in her school frocks and garden
apron, Letty was merely a pretty girl, with lots of hair, and a good
complexion; here, in the midst of the magnates of the land, she was
the beauty of the evening! People--her neighbours--gathered about Mrs.
Fenchurch and began to talk, discussing local news, the recent weather,
the various notable magnates who had honoured the ball.

“I say, Mrs. Fen, have you noticed the lovely nymph in white and
silver?” enquired the Secretary of the Hunt. “I haven’t seen anything
so exquisite for years; _do_ let me show her to you?”

“There is no occasion, thank you, she is my niece, Miss Glyn,”
proclaimed the uplifted aunt.

“What--your niece?” echoed a matron. “Why, my dear lady, where have you
kept her all this time?”

“She has only been with us about two months.”

“And you have defrauded us of two months,” burst in a young man. “Mrs.
Fen, how dared you?”

“No, no,” protested Mrs. Flashman of the bold eyes and a scandalously
_décolleté_ dress. “Mrs. Fenchurch is a clever woman. She understands
the art of an effective surprise!”

By this time the music had ceased, and Miss Glyn, a little breathless
and looking radiantly happy, was brought back to her aunt--now
encompassed by a number of men clamouring for introductions. In the
midst of this triumphant scene, a square-shouldered individual,
perfectly groomed, with the blue of his strong beard showing through
his heavy, clean-shaven face, stepped up on the platform. It was the
psychological moment! Here was the girl he had noticed at the gate,
surrounded by competitive partners, and he said to himself, “No
wonder!” This dazzling vision in white and silver, eclipsed every woman
in the room! He accosted Mrs. Fenchurch with unusual _empressement_,
and then glanced interrogatively at her companion.

“Oh, let me present you to my niece--Mr. Blagdon--Miss Glyn,” she
murmured with effusive haste.

“Got any dances to spare?” he asked with an off-hand air.

“Yes,” she answered; “I have two or three left--but----”

“Are you engaged for the next?” he interrupted brusquely.

As this happened to be a set of Lancers, she breathed a reluctant “No.”

“Oh, then _I_ may have it?” he declared, confronting her with a bold
and confident eye. As she yielded her card, he wrote himself down for
this, as well as two others (which Letty had secretly been keeping
for Lancelot Lumley). “H. Blagdon” was also marked before an extra;
but a man with many thousands a year is granted a liberal margin.
Mrs. Fenchurch was looking on; her eyes glittered, a real colour came
into her thin cheeks. Supposing that he had taken a fancy to Letty?
It would be too wonderful to think of! The most promising suitor she
had allowed herself to expect, was some officer from a neighbouring
depôt; but then, until that evening she had never fully understood the
value of the treasure she had hidden at The Holt. Now, her ambition,
determination, and energy, were stirred, and she was resolved that
Letty should make a _great_ match. Everyone knew that Hugo Blagdon
‘barred girls’: he never noticed them, never danced with them--indeed,
he rarely danced at all--generally he sat in a remote corner with some
notorious married woman--yet here he was, filling up the programme of
her niece, and devouring her shy beauty with his hard, bold eyes.

Undoubtedly most people liked to look at Letty. Was there ever such a
perfect little nose, such a short upper lip, delicately cut mouth, or
sweeping black lashes?

Presently the Lancers struck up, and Blagdon, offering his arm,
conducted his partner down the room, as it were in triumph; undoubtedly
she was the star of the evening! As he passed along, he noticed that
the eyes of everyone were fixed upon his companion. This was just the
sort of girl that would suit him for a wife! a girl so remarkable, so
absolutely perfect in appearance, that all the jealous world would
stare at her open-mouthed.

Having invited an aristocratic _vis-à-vis_, they took their places in
a set and danced. Blagdon found Miss Glyn shy--she had not much to say
for herself. With difficulty he gathered that she didn’t hunt, had
only lately left school, and was seventeen last birthday; but it was
sufficiently agreeable for him to feel that she was the cynosure of all
eyes, and that he was the envy of every man in the room!

Mrs. Flashman, who was in the same set, swam hither and thither in her
gorgeous French gown, and now and then darted glances of sarcastic
amusement at her friend Hugo and the little baby; and whispered _en
passant_ in the Grand Chain:

“_Where_ is the bread and butter?”

The remainder of that evening was, from her aunt’s point of view, an
uninterrupted triumph for Letty: a number of influential people had
begged to make her acquaintance; envious and rancorous rivals--mothers
of large families, had uttered spiteful things about Hugo Blagdon. He
had taken her niece to supper, had only danced with her that night,
and when not dancing, had posted himself where he could keep her in
view--all of which signs and tokens even the most comatose chaperon
could not fail to note! Oh, it was undoubtedly a case.

Had Letty enjoyed her first ball? She was not sure. She enjoyed dancing
with Mr. Lumley and with various other young men; she enjoyed the band,
and the ices, and loved dancing for dancing’s sake, but somehow there
seemed to be between Mr. Lumley and Mr. Blagdon a sharp but secret
conflict for her company. When she was swinging round in the arms of
Mr. Lumley, she was aware that the other was watching them closely; and
when it was Blagdon’s dance he stalked up and claimed her with an air
of appropriation, that she found both disagreeable and disconcerting.

However she danced the last waltz that evening with the soldier--who
informed her that he had come all the way from Aldershot on purpose to
claim her promise! He was so good-looking, he had a charming voice and
such nice eyes; little Letty’s heart beat quickly, and the colour came
into her cheeks.

“Give my love to Aunt Harriet,” he said; “and tell her that I will run
over and see her before very long, and stay three or four days.”

For a moment the girl felt ecstatically happy, inspired by an
unreasoning joy and strangely moved and uplifted; but it was Mr.
Blagdon who escorted her to have a cup of soup at the buffet before she
departed, who stared at her with an expression that frightened her,
and who conducted her down to the entrance hall through a long line of
spectators. And never had Letty known her aunt to be so gracious, so
affectionate, or in such talkative good-humour; she had actually called
her ‘darling!’

“I hope you are well wrapped up,” she urged; “take care of your dress,
darling.”

“And mind _you_ take great care of her,” supplemented Blagdon at
the carriage window. He held out his hand to Letty, kept hers an
unnecessary length of time, and squeezed it painfully ere he closed the
door of the brougham and they drove off. The last object she beheld,
thrown into sharp relief by the glaring lamps and red carpet, was his
hard, staring brown eyes, his stolid, complacent face, and she sank
into her corner with a sigh of relief. Thank goodness she would never
see him again!

She was to hear of him, however! On the way home her aunt loudly sang
the praises of Hugo Blagdon, the richest man in the county. He had the
most lovely place, and was so popular; he had travelled a great deal,
and owned a yacht and a coach, indeed everything--just like a prince
in a fairy tale. During all these eulogiums and dazzling descriptions
Colonel Fenchurch maintained an unusual silence.

“What do you think of him, Letty?” he enquired at last.

“He dances well,” she answered carelessly, “though he soon gets out of
breath, and has rather an old-fashioned step.”

“Well, there is not a woman in this part of the world that isn’t
delighted to have him for a partner,” said her aunt, with an air of
finality; then, changing the subject, she proceeded to discuss the
ball in detail, from the decorations to the soup. Her remarks about
the guests--especially girls--were not altogether generous; now that
she had, so to speak, her own goods to offer, Mrs. Fenchurch was a
merciless critic of the wares of others.

“Did you notice Lady Vera, Tom? She’s supposed to be a beauty, a tall,
scraggy, spotty creature, with a wreath over her nose?” A pause. “And
how _can_ Mrs. Reed allow her daughters to be seen in such filthy
frocks!--anything good enough for the country. Those poor Bradfields
hardly left their seats--_so_ humiliating for a chaperon to have her
charges on hand all the time--what do you say, Tom?”

But Tom’s sole reply was a gentle snore.

Then, turning to Letty and stroking her arm, her aunt said:

“My dear child, you were perfectly right about the white _crêpe_, you
looked charming--charming! I was proud of you!” and as she pinched her
wrist, playfully, the girl, with the quick insight of youth, divined
that here was an entirely different relative to the one who had told
her she was a ‘pauper, and a burden.’ She now addressed her, as if she
were an equal--and indeed there was actually a tinge of deference in
her remarks. What did it mean?

The Belle of the Hunt Ball toiled up to bed tired and footsore at five
o’clock in the morning. She had enjoyed the evening immensely, and
yet she had not enjoyed it! On the one hand, there was the dancing,
the good partners, the charming things people had said to her, and
the agreeable inward conviction of having been whispered about, and
admired; on the other, there was the rich man, with his staring eyes
and brusque, imperious manner--and the inexplicable rise in the
temperature of her aunt’s affection. What did it mean?

And still wondering, Letty tumbled into bed, and presently entered the
land of dreams.



CHAPTER V


The morning after the ball, Letty was aroused from the profound sleep
of youth and exhaustion by a stealthy, grating sound, and opening her
eyes, to her amazement she beheld Jones, the under-housemaid, kneeling
on the hearth-rug, intent on kindling a particularly sulky fire.

As she raised herself on her elbow, blinking and bewildered, the maid
sat up on her heels and proceeded to explain the situation with glib
volubility.

“Oh, miss, I’m sorry; the mistress gave orders you were not to be
disturbed, and I was to light your fire; but there ain’t been one in
the grate this forty year, and it’s a sore job. Hawkins is bringing up
your breakfast.”

As she spoke, the door-handle turned and Hawkins entered, bearing
with unusual pomp and circumstance a heavily laden tray. Letty rubbed
her eyes. Was she still dreaming? Why were the two maids in waiting
upon _her_? She was well aware that her aunt considered bedroom fires
unnecessary, and breakfast in bed a slothful indulgence. She, however,
dissembled her surprise, and accepted these unexpected favours with
commendable composure.

Having nibbled at some buttered toast and swallowed a cup of tea, she
sprang out of bed to search for her programme, and survey herself in
the glass. In the glass she beheld an oval face, a pair of drowsy blue
eyes, a pair of soft pink cheeks, and a mass of tumbled brown hair. Was
she beautiful? she wondered. Mr. Blagdon had implied as much--indeed,
more than implied. What bad manners to make blunt personal remarks!
Well, _his_ opinion was of no consequence; but did other people think
her pretty? (Other people naturally included Lancelot Lumley. She
confessed to herself that she would like him to admire her.)

Oh, how cold it was! She curled up her delicate little toes, and,
programme in hand, plunged once more into her comfortable nest.
Here she prepared to study at leisure the exciting contents of her
precious card--no easy task. The card was covered with scribbled names,
sketches, initials, stars, hieroglyphics, corrections--and yet, on the
whole, it made agreeable reading.

In the midst of this interesting occupation the door opened very
gently--the programme disappeared as if in the hands of a conjurer--and
Mrs. Fenchurch advanced into the room showing all her upper teeth, a
sure signal of unusual amiability.

“Well, my dear girl,” she began, “how are you to-day? _Dead?_”

“Oh no,” sitting erect; “I’m all right, thank you, Aunt Dorothy.”

“I thought you’d better have a good sleep after your first ball. My!”
as her glance fell upon a tattered garment, “look at your poor frock!”

Yes, indeed, there was a large obtrusive rent in the skirt, and a
streamer of ragged _crêpe_ made no attempt at concealment. Yet instead
of the expected sharp scolding, Mrs. Fenchurch merely remarked:

“_How_ you danced! You could have filled your card ten times over. By
the way, may I look at your programme? I see the blue tassel sticking
out under your pillow.”

With much reluctance, and deep and guilty blushes, Letty produced
the desired treasure and yielded it to her visitor, who was now
staring at her so fixedly, that one would almost suppose that she
beheld her for the first time! In her mind’s eye, Mrs. Fenchurch
really was contemplating an absolutely strange niece! So this simple,
timid, obedient, little schoolgirl, unconsciously possessed the fatal
endowment, the wonderful, invincible power, that has moved armies
and fleets. Unquestionably, Letty had the gift; and her relative was
determined to turn it to the utmost advantage.

With the record of her niece’s partners in her hand, Mrs. Fenchurch
seated herself, squarely, comfortably, and sociably on the bed, and
proceeded to discuss the ball, and its incidents, with all the zest and
vivacity of one of the girl’s own contemporaries.

“How well I remember _my_ first ball,” she said meditatively; “I was so
frightened my teeth actually chattered as we drove to it, and, after
all, I enjoyed myself enormously. I wore white, of course, looped
up with water lilies, and I remember a spiteful cousin asking me if
they were not spinach and eggs! Girls are so jealous! Now let me see
who you danced with--um--um--um----” nodding her head as her eyes
travelled over the card. “Lord Deloraine twice--but, of course, _he_ is
married--and what about the Duke?” looking up quickly.

“I had not a dance left.”

“Who is V. K.? Oh yes, I know--the Austrian Attaché staying with the
Beauvoirs. H. B., H. B., H. B. Oh, _Letty_! How often did you dance
with Hugo Blagdon?”

“Two or three times,” she answered stiffly, having made up her mind to
give her aunt no satisfaction with respect to this overbearing odious
partner.

“He took you in to supper, dear, too,” continued Mrs. Fenchurch; “and,
oh yes,” nodding her head and trying to look arch, “_I_ saw you sitting
together in the long corridor. Tell me, what did you talk about?” and
she gazed into the girl’s face with a pair of penetrating _asking_ eyes.

How Letty wished she would not stare at her in this fashion, and
breathe through her nose. Positively her aunt filled her with sheer
physical terror--yes, and repulsion.

“I really can’t remember, Aunt Dorothy. I think he said the supper was
bad.”

“But surely he paid you some pretty compliment?” persisted her
tormentor. “Come now?” she urged coaxingly.

“I daresay he did--I--I forget.”

“Did he say anything about coming over here to call?” and her tone was
anxious.

“I--I’m not sure,” murmured the girl, who mentally writhed under this
inquisition. Never in her life had she felt so mortally shamefaced and
shrinking. She longed to pull the bedclothes over her head and hide
herself away, from that inflexibly soliciting countenance.

Her reluctant replies were so vague and unsatisfactory, that at last
her chaperon realised she could not get much out of Letty as yet--all
in good time! Again she gazed at her niece long and thoughtfully, as
though seeing in her a multitude of new possibilities; then, rising,
she said in her brisk, every-day manner:

“I’ll tell Jones to bring up your bath water--it is nearly twelve
o’clock,” and Mrs. Fen took her departure, leaving the girl with a
grateful sense of pressure removed, and a happy consciousness of relief.

When, an hour later, the beauty of the Hunt Ball descended to the
morning-room, she found herself still surrounded by an atmosphere of
indulgence and affection. Her aunt handed her a novel to read; as a
rule light literature was tabooed till nightfall--and at lunch Mrs. Fen
helped her poor relation to the liver wing, and commanded Hawkins to
give Miss Glyn a glass of claret.

When Hawkins had withdrawn, after serving the coffee, Mrs. Fenchurch
cleared her throat and said:

“The Bonhams are having a young people’s dance this day week, and Lady
Bonham has asked me to go over and take you, Letty, and stay all night.
How would you like that?”

“It would be delightful--another dance!” and her eyes sparkled.

“I’ve been talking to Fletcher this morning, and she thinks that if I
have Mrs. Cope up from the village she may be able to make the white
brocade and the green cloth. I daresay you won’t mind giving a little
assistance yourself?”

“No, indeed, Aunt Dorothy. I shall be delighted. I’m rather good at
sewing.”

“Oh, here comes Cousin Maude.”

“Well, Letty, here I am,” said Mrs. Hesketh, as she entered. “I’ve come
to hear about the ball, how everyone looked and behaved, what they
wore, who sat out as wallflowers, or otherwise? and I particularly wish
to see your programme. I haven’t had one in my hand for ten years.
Where is it?”

“How tiresome,” thought the girl; one would suppose that her wretched
little card, was something remarkable.

The programme happened to be at the top of the house, and when Letty
returned with it in her hand she found her aunt talking to Cousin Maude
with unusual _empressement_. She was sitting close beside her on the
sofa, pouring some important statement into her ear.

Whatever she was saying was interrupted by the entrance of her niece,
who caught the words:

“Eyes for no one else!” Mrs. Fenchurch paused and nodded significantly
at her companion, as much as to say:

“Of this--more later.”

“And so I hear your dress looked lovely, Letty, and that you had a
great success. Now hand me over that programme,” said Mrs. Hesketh
with a smile. “Ah, yes, I see every dance, and all manner of strange
autographs and initials. I declare you ought to have this photographed!
And so you enjoyed yourself very much, dear child?”

“Oh, immensely,” she answered, with a happy sigh; the little drawbacks
were now fading, the strains of a delicious waltz were ringing in her
ears, and she was floating round the room in the arms of Lancelot
Lumley.

“And you are going to a dinner and dance this day week--why, you are
getting quite gay!”

“Well, you see, Cousin Maude, I am ‘out’ now.”

“Yes, you have stretched your little wings and flown beyond the village
into what is called the world. I wonder how you will like it?”

“Very much, I think, as far as I have seen.”

“And that amounts to one ball. What experience!”

“Letty has not seen much,” admitted Mrs. Fenchurch; “but our little
world has now seen _her_,” and she smiled complacently. “Ah, there is
Wilson, of course, somebody wants me. Oh, I really never have five
minutes to myself. I expect it is about the carpenter. Don’t go away
before I come back, Maudie,” and she bustled out of the room.

“Now, my dear child,” said Mrs. Hesketh, dragging her down beside her
on the sofa, “tell me really and truly, all about last evening. Was it
as nice as you expected?”

“Yes--every bit.”

“And which of your partners did you like the best? Come, honour bright.”

Letty reflected for a moment.

“As far as dancing went, there was an Austrian Attaché who danced like
a dream--but, of course, I knew Mr. Lumley before.”

“And what of Mr. Blagdon?” enquired her friend with a searching look.

“Oh, he was rather heavy, and easily tired and out of breath--of
course, he is old.”

“Old! Why, I don’t believe he is a day more than six or seven and
thirty, the prime of life! Apparently Lancelot Lumley and Mr. Blagdon
were your two most favoured partners--but, my dear girl, I cannot allow
you to have anything to say to either of them.”

Letty burst into a ringing laugh: her laugh was spontaneous and
delightful.

“Why not?” she demanded.

“One is too poor, and the other is too rich.”

“But, Cousin Maudie, surely one doesn’t think of such things as future
husbands--just at a dance?”

“Oh, well, I don’t suppose that _you_ do,” and she turned away and
stared into the fire. For several minutes she did not speak, then at
last she said:

“You must promise never to take a fancy to anybody without giving me
due notice, and the next time you go to a dance you are to leave your
heart with me. You shall have it back with interest.”

“I don’t think I have that kind of heart. I’m afraid my heart is hard;
I don’t care for many people; but I am very very fond of uncle and of
you--and of Sam.”

“And where does your aunt come in?”

“Well, you see, Aunt Dorothy is not--er--my own aunt. I don’t fancy
that she has much sympathy with girls--her mind is taken up with other
things.”

“Yes, she is a born administrator and manager; not merely of her own
affairs; she has a wide horizon. I believe one of her ancestors must
have been a Prime Minister. Doodie is ready to take a hand in anyone’s
life, and at a moment’s notice. Supposing a stranger were to fall ill
in the village, she would come forward at once, find them a nurse and
doctor; if they died, wire to their friends, arrange for the funeral,
buy the grave, and see that they were laid in it! In your case, she is
not contemplating a funeral--but a wedding!”

“I--I--don’t understand,” stammered the girl.

“Don’t you, my simple darling? Well, there is one fact that you may
possibly grasp--your aunt is monstrously proud of you; the Chippendale
sideboard, and the three-year-old thoroughbred are for the present
languishing in the cold shade. Ah, here she comes!”

       *       *       *       *       *

The white brocade (trimmed with lace instead of the despised green
ribbon) was completed in good time, and Letty and her aunt, with their
luggage on the carriage, drove off to Bonham Court in high spirits. It
was a large, rambling old place, occupied by a childless couple who
had a passion for the society of young people. First of all, there
was a merry gathering at tea in the big hall. Here Mrs. Fenchurch was
agreeably surprised to recognise Mr. Blagdon, who welcomed her and her
niece with flattering cordiality.

At dinner pretty Miss Glyn was his _vis-à-vis_; she was placed
between two boys--an Etonian and a young fellow lately gazetted to
the Guards--and they appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely.
He had every opportunity of studying her at his leisure, ignoring
his partner--who noticed, with smouldering resentment, that his
whole attention was devoted to the little girl opposite--a Miss
Glyn that everyone was talking about. She certainly had a wonderful
complexion--if it was her own!--and a profile, clear cut as a
cameo--yes--and youth! The neglected lady asked herself if it could
be possible, that this hopelessly dull _parti_, who sat beside her
drinking glass after glass of champagne, was thinking seriously of that
simple and innocent child?

After dinner there was dancing in the great hall. Mr. Blagdon danced
several times with Letty, and she found him less formidable than on the
former occasion, not so grand, detached, or condescending. She liked
him better, or to put it more correctly, disliked him less. He now
talked as an ordinary partner, and not as a far-removed magnificent
potentate; spoke of his dogs and horses and gardens, and hoped that she
might one day see them!

Subsequently he made himself conspicuously attentive to Mrs. Fenchurch,
sat out with her, and engaged her in a long conversation in the
drawing-room, promenaded by her side in the picture gallery, and
finally conducted her to supper. This, to the experienced, was a
registered symptom that the great Blagdon had intentions respecting
the lady’s niece! and the same happy matron, as she sat beside him at
table, had much ado to quench the exultation in her face.

The following afternoon the party broke up, and the gay and cheery
company that sped Letty and her aunt, little guessed how the girl
shrank from the impending and enforced _tête-à-tête_ in the family
brougham. She dreaded the ordeal as if she were about to undergo some
painful physical operation; with all her muscles tense, and leaning
far back in her corner, she submitted, whilst her companion, in her
most insinuating voice, so to speak, put the question or questions, in
return receiving, it must be confessed, very brief, and crooked answers.

The hall door stood wide as they drove up to The Holt. Standing on the
steps in the full light, Colonel Fenchurch shouted a hearty welcome.

He backed into the hall in front of the arrivals, talking all the time.

“Missed you both desperately--no piquet--no music--ready to hang myself
last night. I say, I’ve kept the toast and scones warm inside the
fender--tea will be ready in a jiff. Lots of letters for you, Doodie.”

As they entered the warm, well-lighted drawing-room, he turned about to
face the ladies, and noticed that his little girl looked brilliantly
pretty, as she laid her cold cheek against his, and said:

“Such a delightful party, Uncle Tom, and one of the Barrons--Sophy--was
at my school.”

Yes, he said to himself, it was nice for the child to mix with young
people of her own age--it did her good.

When tea was over and uncle and niece found themselves alone, she came
and sat on the arm of his chair, and rattled off an amusing description
of her visit, and repeated for his entertainment many of the jokes and
anecdotes that had been bandied about among the company: enumerated the
names of the guests, and even of the Bonham house dogs, but made no
mention whatever of the great Hugo Blagdon.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Fenchurch felt unusually elated: being firmly persuaded that she
was about to have the glory and gratification of setting in motion
a triumphal drama of real life; and the morning after her return she
sought her husband in the smoking-room, generously resolved, that he,
too, should have a share in her glorious expectations.

Having carefully closed the door, she came and stood by the fire, and
said in a low and almost awestruck voice:

“_Hugo Blagdon was there, Tom._ I was so surprised!”

Her husband put down his pipe, and stared at her stupidly.

“Why, what is surprising about him?”

“Oh, nothing, except that he is immensely struck with Letty; he as much
as told me so.”

“Did he, indeed!” sitting erect. “I don’t think my little Letty would
suit him at all.”

“You will allow, Tom, that he knows best; a man of his age has some
idea of the sort of girl he admires by this time!”

“Humph!” he grunted, “I have never known him admire a _girl_ yet--it’s
always been the married women he runs after.”

“That run after him, you mean,” she corrected. “Well, I think he has
made up his mind to settle at last.”

“I hope to goodness he hasn’t made up his mind to settle on my niece.
For one thing, he is twenty years older than she is--if not more--a
blasé fellow who has knocked about the world and been his own master
(and, by all accounts, a bad one) since he was sixteen. Why the
stories about him and Mrs. Corbett--scandalous stories--are common
property.”

“He is a very good sort--if no saint,” declared his wife. “I know you
have a prejudice against him--because the Lumleys don’t like him, and
you like the Lumleys; but you cannot deny that he is popular?”

“A man with forty thousand a year is bound to be that,” growled her
husband.

“He is extremely liberal, and subscribes to everything,” continued
Mrs. Fenchurch. “I believe Letty would be the most fortunate girl
in England, if she was Mrs. Blagdon. He is certainly thinking of
marrying--for the place is entailed, and if anything were to happen to
him, every acre of the property would go to a cousin in New Zealand,
whom he loathes.”

“And you think he is going to take a wife, if it is only to spite his
cousin, eh, Doodie?”

“I think, my dear Tom, that you are in one of your funny tempers this
morning--you smoke too much, or you have got a chill on your liver,”
and she patted him lightly on the head. “Why, you ought to be enchanted
at your niece’s prospects! She is just the sort of little thing that
will take to wealth and luxury, like a duck to water.”

“Since you go to the poultry-yard for your similes, it’s my opinion,
that you are counting your chickens before they are hatched. What has
put this ridiculous idea into your head? Has he _said_ anything?”

“No--not in so many words--but he is coming over here to lunch on
Friday.”

“To lunch----for what?” he demanded, and his tone was sharp and
inhospitable.

“He says,” she hesitated for a moment, “he says, he has heard a great
deal of our--chrysanthemums.”

“Twenty miles’ drive to look at half a dozen pots of chrysanthemums!
_Bah!_” and Colonel Fenchurch sprang to his feet, snatched up his cap,
and went out of the room.



CHAPTER VI


For one whole week the post-bag carried to Mrs. Fen a sharp
disappointment, instead of an expected letter. In the course of certain
promenades and _tête-à-têtes_ at Bonham Court, Blagdon had accepted the
lady’s warm invitation to come and see them, and promised to fix his
own day; indeed the last words he uttered, as he pressed her hand in a
significant farewell, were:

“_I will write._”

This encouraging pledge had maintained certain buoyant hopes, but now
these hopes began to sink, and fears to rise.

By most exasperating ill-luck, Mrs. Fenchurch was engaged to attend a
function in London--the wedding of a niece, who was making a marriage
that reflected credit on the whole connection. She had forwarded a
handsome gift (one of her bargains), and angled for an invitation to
spend a week with a relative in Portland Place, in order, she declared,
“to help dearest sister Cecilia and see the whole ‘thing through.’”

Carefully matured plans, laid weeks ahead, were on this occasion too
previous; but how was the unhappy woman to know that by her absence
from home at the critical moment, she was risking the prospects of an
alliance that would throw Cecilia’s paltry triumph into the cold, cold
shade. The baffled chaperon looked worn and worried; her condition
communicated itself to others. She complained of neuralgia--Mrs.
Fenchurch’s neuralgia was an ailment to be feared--these were
uncomfortable days for her household: everything seemed to go wrong:
servants, dogs, appointments, and clocks.

But in her aunt’s anxieties respecting Hugo Blagdon, Miss Glyn had no
share; indeed, she scarcely cast a thought to that important personage.
On the other hand, it must be frankly admitted that her mind was too
frequently occupied by Lancelot Lumley.

Although the school at Dresden was notably strict _et bien surveillé_,
nevertheless the Teuton atmosphere breathes romance and sentiment,
and a certain amount of this had penetrated through the secluded
walls of Madam Franck’s establishment; girls whispered to one another
of love’s young dream, yes, and of--lovers. Also, in the vacation
spent in Dresden, Letty had read not a few selected novels, including
those by Sir Walter Scott, Mrs. Gaskell, and Miss Young. As for her
favourite heroes, she was divided between Sir Guy Morville and Wilfred
of Ivanhoe. Since she had made Mr. Lumley’s acquaintance, Wilfred the
Palmer bore away the palm. The fresh imagination of Sweet Seventeen
discovered a remarkable resemblance between the twelfth-century
crusader, and the smart young officer of the present day--both had
grey eyes, and crisp light hair, both were soldiers and bold horsemen.
Besides certain attributes shared with the disinherited knight,
Lancelot Lumley danced admirably, had an infectious laugh, and a
delightful personality, that set one immediately at ease.

As she compared his light, active figure and clean-cut, tanned face,
to her aunt’s beau-ideal, Mr. Blagdon, with his ponderous form,
brick-coloured countenance, and heavily scented person, the young
lady threw up her chin with a gesture of scornful disparagement. She
recalled Lumley’s glance of profound interest and respectful homage,
and then thought, with a shudder, of Blagdon’s insatiable black
eyes--these looked as if their owner, like some fabled monster, was
prepared to devour her alive! Miss Glyn had only met Mr. Lumley on
five occasions, and yet she remembered almost every sentence they had
exchanged--especially what _he_ had said--oh fatal, fatal symptom in
the case of a maiden, who has never yet encountered an object on which
to lavish the overflowing tenderness of a warm and innocent heart.
Secretly, she looked forward to their next meeting; she liked to hear
of him (already ‘Him’ with a capital). His name casually mentioned,
caused her pulse to flutter and her colour to rise. At the Rectory,
she listened thirstily to tales of Lance’s boyish scrapes, and Lance’s
successes; anecdotes of his generosity, unselfishness, and courage,
were poured into the girl’s enchanted ears--for next to Mabel the boy
was a favourite topic,--and to talk long and copiously to a sympathetic
companion, was one of the invalid’s few remaining pleasures.
Meanwhile, the girl mended lace, or made neat covers for books in the
parish library, and absorbed many intoxicating impressions.

       *       *       *       *       *

By a curious coincidence, the day and hour of Mr. Lumley’s arrival
and Mrs. Fen’s departure were simultaneous; indeed, they actually met
on the little platform at Tatton, the lady, encumbered with a goodly
quantity of luggage, queer-shaped domestic parcels, and even returned
empties. All these were, however, the care of Tom, and she hurried
off to take her ticket; as she turned away from the window she was
accosted by, of all people, young Lumley! How good-looking he was, she
noted fretfully, and what on earth was bringing him to Thornby again?
Could it be Letty? She must have a word with Tom at once; he was on no
account to invite Lancelot to The Holt, not on any pretext whatever.
Meanwhile, she extended a stiff hand, and said:

“What, back already! How do you manage to get all this leave? It looks
as if they were able to _spare_ you!” and she smiled disagreeably.

What the deuce was the matter with Mrs. Fen? Lumley wondered; and they
had always been such pals--why had she her knife into him? (Mrs. Fen
confessed to a weakness for young men, and even allowed herself to be
chaffed about ‘her boys.’ She liked them to hail her at Meets, jog
beside her from cover to cover, could make herself agreeable at a ball
supper, and had been known to sit out. Young fellows looked on Mrs.
“Fen” as a good sporting sort, with no nonsense about her, she had even
been consulted on delicate affairs; and more than once, her unsuspected
finger had been busy in other people’s pies!)

“I’ve only got a few days,” he began. “Hullo, here’s your train! Why,
it’s gone mad, it’s punctual! I’ll look after you all right--let me
have your dressing-case and traps. Come on,” and before the unfortunate
lady could protest he had seized upon her bag and was running along the
platform.

“Where’s Tom?” she screamed as she hurried in his wake. “I particularly
want to speak to him--I _must_ see him. There he is on the bridge
talking to Major Bassett! Oh, he is _never_ in the way, when he is
wanted.”

“Here you are,” cried Lumley, wrenching open a door, and bundling her
wraps and parcels into an empty carriage. “Got it all to yourself.
Great luck!”

He was really _too_ officious: Mrs. Fen’s sharp eye had detected the
Countess of Hopeland in another compartment, and they could have
travelled up together so sociably and comfortably.

“Hurry up! Hurry up!” shouted the guard sharply: the traffic at Tatton,
was insignificant, no need to delay.

“I see you have a foot-warmer,” said the irrepressible Lumley. “Can I
get you anything?”

“If you could get hold of Tom,” standing up as she spoke; “it’s most
important!”

Tom by this time was approaching at the double, but the train was
moving too.

“I say, can’t I give him your message?” asked Lumley as he kept pace
beside the carriage door.

“No, no, no!” snapped the lady with irritable impatience, and it seemed
to the good-natured and bewildered young man, that the last look he
received from Mrs. Fen, had been positively malignant and menacing!

       *       *       *       *       *

Colonel Fenchurch was delighted to meet Lancelot Lumley, whom he had
known from boyhood and helped into his own corps. He gave him a lift to
Thornby, enjoying _en route_ a full budget of regimental news; and when
he deposited his passenger and portmanteau at the Rectory, invited him
to The Holt that same evening to take pot luck.

It was a memorable occasion. Miss Glyn in white and blushes, occupied
her aunt’s place--a lovely _vice-reine_. The menu was excellent--Letty
had taken particular pains with the flowers, and candle-shades, as well
as her own toilet,--though her fingers shook unaccountably as she did
her hair, and endeavoured to fasten maddening hooks,--that attached
themselves to everything but their corresponding eyes, as if they were
alive and possessed! However, the result of the toilet was all that
could be desired, and the timid hostess descended to the drawing-room.
With the first laugh her tremors vanished, and somehow the absence of
the Lady of The Holt, contributed to the ease and gaiety of the little
gathering. Conversation flowed uninterruptedly, laughter was frequent
and hearty, and the rose-shaded candles illuminated a thoroughly
congenial trio. The Colonel related old stories,--now undismayed by
his Dorothy’s frowns,--and drank two glasses of port; the pug was made
happy with a bone, Letty put her elbows on the table and chattered like
a schoolgirl, remained whilst the men smoked, and subsequently in the
drawing-room delighted them with her songs. Lancelot Lumley hung over
the piano (and the Colonel dozed by the fire, with Sammy the pug, also
dozing, on his knee) absorbing music and love--it was without exception
the most glorious evening he had ever spent!

Before the guest took his departure, various agreeable plans were laid
for future meetings.

“Mind, you must drop in whenever you like, Lance,” said his host as
he accompanied him to the hall door. “You know your way here--come up
to lunch to-morrow at one sharp, and we will all go skating on Barnby
Mere. I hear the ice is first-rate.”

The next afternoon’s post brought the Colonel a letter from his wife;
it was short, urgent, and very much to the point. When he had read it,
he tore it up thoughtfully and placed it in the fire; only to Mrs.
Hesketh, when she dropped in to tea, did he divulge the contents. In
reply to her question, “Heard from Doodie?” he answered:

“No--er--yes--just a line--I say, Maudie, it’s a bit awkward--she bars
young Lumley, and I’ve been asking him to look in whenever he pleases.
Now I’m not to let him put his nose inside the door!”

In reply to the lady’s elevated brows, he added:

“The fact of the matter is, Doodie’s afraid the boy might take a fancy
to Letty.”

“And, of course, no subalterns need apply! I see; well, I believe that
you are locking the door, when the steed is stolen.”

“What, you don’t mean that--it’s one of your jokes?”

“No, indeed, I’m in deadly earnest; but you must do as Doodie wishes.”

“He’s a nice young fellow, as keen as mustard, and straight as a die;
and I’m fond of Lance.”

“So am I,” assented Mrs. Hesketh. “Wouldn’t they make an ideal
couple!--so young and honest, and good-looking--but naturally we must
not think of it. Where are they now? Together?” and she glanced at her
companion with whimsical dismay.

“Yes, they went off to the skating after lunch. I intended going too,
but I’ve a touch of gout.”

“What, all the way to Barnby Mere--_alone_? If Doodie knew, she’d have
fit after fit.”

“No, no; I believe they were to call for Denton. But I say, Maudie,
I’m rather in a hole, I’ve asked the fellow to shoot to-morrow, and to
dine.”

“I’ll take him off your hands for dinner,” she answered with short
decision, “the shoot can stand over. We must manage somehow.”

As Mrs. Hesketh walked through the village in the frosty January night,
she heard two voices approaching; and presently Letty and her escort
came into view.--They had deposited the Rector at home, and were _en
route_ to The Holt, unaware that its door was now, figuratively, barred
against this undesirable Guest.

Moved by a sudden impulse, she resolved that her own house should stand
wide for him, and for Letty. Yes, in spite of Doodie and Prudence!
These two young people should have just _one_ glimpse of Paradise,
before the dust and tumult of the world overtook them.

Maude Hesketh was a clever woman, and it was marvellous how she
contrived to arrange meetings without apparent effort, or giving cause
for remark, much less gossip. She had a taste for psychology, for the
study of character, and a charming romance unfolded under her own eyes
was ten times more absorbing than any novel. She watched the swift and
silent approaches of spirit to spirit, listened to the light raillery
and random talk, that disguised much greater things,--which so far
remained unspoken. Letty and Lancelot were unaware, that they were in
the thrall of the all-compelling power, which insensibly draws youth
to youth. But their hostess noted their happy faces, their tireless
sociability, their frequent, and uncalled-for smiles.

To do Mrs. Hesketh justice, her friends were not altogether the mere
victims of a cynical interest; in the core of a withered heart,
long-forgotten emotions and sympathies, were stirring. In the days
of her exquisite youth, Maude Charlton, too, had a gallant, handsome,
penniless lover; but when love had extended imploring arms she suffered
ambition to restrain her, and accepted instead of a heart’s devotion,
middle age, position, and wealth. He, the abandoned, had gone to India
and there shortly afterwards died. Often now, in the barren autumn of
her life, did her thoughts turn to Lawrence Ormond--her heart ached
and ached, as she thought with wet eyes, of his neglected grave in
some sun-scorched up-country cemetery. Thirty years had elapsed since
three volleys had been fired over that shrunken mound, and he was now
forgotten by all. Mrs. Hesketh had a habit of whispering to herself,
scraps of poetry, lines that she admired, and that dwelt in her
memory, and as she recalled her young dead lover, she would murmur the
appropriate quotation:

  “Forget not Earth thy disappointed ones,
  Forget not the forgotten.”

Then would brush away a tear that trickled down her cheek, and exclaim:

“You silly old woman; your mind is wandering--don’t drivel!”

Nevertheless, the spell of the past held her; and her cynicism was
but skin deep. As an officer’s wife, knocking about the world with
Lawrence, fighting its battles by his side, making the best of things,
and seeing life in its wider aspect, she might have been a happy
woman--and he still living. She had seen a letter from an army surgeon,
in which the writer declared that Ormond had a splendid constitution,
but made no fight. He seemed to have lost all interest in life, and
to be glad to go out of it, and therefore fell an easy prey to the
pestilence that walketh in darkness, and whose name is Cholera.

As Maude Hesketh crouched over her fire, dreaming of her youth,
she asked herself why should not Lance and Letty benefit by _her_
experience, and have their chance? This girl had no ambition, no
extravagant tastes. Lancelot was clever and steady, and by all accounts
bound to get on. If he only had his company, once in India, with a
little help they could manage to scrape along. She would contribute a
canteen of plate, all the house-linen, and a cheque.

And what about Doodie Fenchurch? demanded a sharp, inward voice,
Doodie, whose head was filled with dazzling plans. Was she strong
enough to withstand her masterful cousin and uphold the girl for
the sake of sentimental memories and the ashes of her own long-dead
romance? Alas! to this question, her mental reply was a prompt and
unqualified ‘No.’

Her conscience now took Maude Hesketh in hand. She had indulged
herself unwarrantably, she had enjoyed bringing the two children
together in order to contemplate their happiness for her own
gratification, and _they_ would ultimately be called upon to pay for
her entertainment--because she was a coward.

The few days’ leave had gone like a flash, and the end of the week
found Mrs. Fenchurch at home, where, to borrow a military expression,
‘all were present and correct,’ although Tom was a little gouty and
Letty looked pale--she must get her a tonic. Young Lumley had departed,
Mr. Blagdon had not yet appeared--so far the coast was clear, and all
was well!

Perhaps if Mrs. Fen had been behind the scenes she might have modified
her opinion; but she did not know of those delightful skating parties
on Barnby Mere. Letty and Lancelot skated admirably, better than any
other couple; and skimmed round together at a racing pace, with the
frosty air stinging their faces, the bright red sunset giving a colour
to the cold, wintry scene. How was she to know of that evening at
Oldcourt, when Letty sang Tosti’s “Good-bye,” with thrilling pathos,
and Lumley, sitting in the shadow, had listened with folded arms, and a
face of rigid pallor? How could she dream of their last walk with the
Rector and Mrs. Hesketh, when they two lagged behind, at the crooked
bridge in order to watch the gorgeous sunset, and Lumley said in a
strange, husky voice:

“I’m off to-night--God knows when we shall meet again--but you know,
Letty; you _know_----”

Letty’s heart leaped at the sound of her Christian name. She looked
away, fixing her gaze on a great clump of snow-bound rushes, and
awaited the end of the sentence with a thumping pulse. He was about to
tell her what she longed to hear; but Lumley hesitated and controlled
himself,--biting back words that crowded to his lips. He had all but
succumbed to a fierce temptation to assure this little girl that he
adored her.

Then came the voice of the Rector through the thin, frosty air, calling
in a high, clerical monotone:

“Come on, come on, Lance; you have no time to spare! come on--come on.”

And they turned to obey this summons without a second’s hesitation, for
though no word--no word of love--was uttered, the silence had spoken;
the long self-conscious silence between these two young people--and
silence can be eloquent!



CHAPTER VII


The afternoon after her return from London, energetic Mrs. Fen,
descended on the Rectory, in order, she declared, “to tell poor
dear Amy Denton all her news,” but in reality to establish a plain
understanding with respect to young Lumley. If he were to be
continually running to and fro and hanging about Thornby, he might put
foolish ideas into Letty’s silly little head. She therefore determined
to take time by the forelock, and oust him, not merely from her own
abode, but also from the village!

Pale Mrs. Denton, blissfully unconscious of her errand, welcomed her
neighbour with her usual sunny smiles.

After a gorgeous description of the trousseau, presents, the wedding
gown, and the wedding guests, Mrs. Fen suddenly paused, and taking, so
to speak, a long breath, resumed in her most trenchant and impressive
manner:

“And now, dearest Amy, I have something very important to say to you;
it’s about your nephew--and my niece.”

As a rule, Letty was ‘my husband’s niece,’ but now Mrs. Fen saw the
bright day approaching when she could claim her not only as niece, but
adopted daughter!

“You mean Lancelot and Letty?” said Mrs. Denton in a constrained voice.

“Yes; a stitch in time saves nine, and I want you, dearest Amy, to
grant me a favour, and not invite Lancelot here for some months.
When idle young people are together, they have little to do but
flirt, imagine themselves in love, and get into mischief. They are so
tiresome, and often bring no end of misery on themselves and others.”

She paused for a moment, but Mrs. Denton merely nodded her head in
feeble assent.

“You see,” pursued the visitor, “Letty is quite remarkable in the way
of good looks--her face is, and must be, her fortune. We hope she
may make a suitable match--in fact, to you, Amy, I know I may say in
confidence, that one is already on the _tapis_.”

(Recently the frost had driven Blagdon to London; he had met Mrs.
Fenchurch in Piccadilly and spoken to her for a moment--but in that
moment he enquired for her niece.)

“As for Lancelot, he is on the threshold of what will, no doubt, be a
brilliant career. By all accounts he is so clever, and well thought
of in his profession. To hurl himself into matrimony and misery--for
marriage without money is misery--to hamper himself with a wife--and
family--would----” and her tone became solemnly prophetic--“be his
_ruin_!”

“Yes, I suppose so,” meekly assented his aunt.

“You may be sure of it, Amy,” urged her friend forcibly. “You and I
must be wise for these young people, and before matters take any form,
let us keep them apart, for Lancelot’s sake. I know I can rely on
_your_ assistance. They are so ridiculously young--barely forty years
between them.”

“That’s true, they are young,” admitted the invalid. “Too young, but
surely they could wait? I know that the boy is the soul of honour, and
nothing has been _said_.”

“I should hope not!” interrupted the ruler of Thornby, and her voice
was sharp.

“But I believe he is deeply in love, that he almost worships Letty.
Such an attachment keeps a young man so straight, and gives him a
wonderful incentive to strive for success. Lancelot has done splendidly
so far; he is well thought of in his regiment, he is studying hard,
getting up Hindustani and Pushtoo----”

“Hindustani--Pushtoo!” broke in Mrs. Fenchurch impatiently, “he may get
up what he likes, but he will never get my niece. She is the last sort
of girl to follow the baggage wagon! Now,” laying a firm, detaining
hand on the invalid’s shrunken arm, “please, don’t be romantic and
impulsive, dearest Amy--you know your Irish heart is always too tender,
and you are such an easy prey to beggars and impostors. I ask you
to give me your help in working for the good of these two foolish
children, and when I say good, I honestly mean it. As for years of
indefinite waiting, letter-writing, and constancy, I set my face
against that _absolutely_. I’ve known engagements--particularly where
the man is in India--to drag on for years and years, and I certainly
would not undertake to give Letty a home for such a time, especially
if she was expecting to make a marriage of which I disapproved--yes”
(second thought), “and her uncle too. And even if she were engaged to
Lancelot for years, supposing he were to die? Such things do happen.
Where should I be, then, with a disconsolate old maid on my hands?”

“Then what do you propose to do?” asked a querulous voice from the sofa.

“It is _you_, dearest Amy, not I, who will move in the affair.”

“Oh, impossible--out of the question,” she protested with waving hands.

“Yes, it is the most sensible and easiest solution. Were _I_ to
interfere, it would add fuel to the flame--if flame there be--and Letty
is so devoted to you that she will listen to whatever _you_ say, with
patience and attention. You can tell her that your nephew’s regiment is
next on the Roster for foreign service, and will not return for years
and years.”

“But he is only going to Gibraltar and Egypt,” objected Mrs. Denton.

“And India,” amended the visitor in her most trenchant and
matter-of-fact manner. “Assure her that his prospects are excellent,
but that marriage would destroy them; that he has no money, and no
thought of taking a wife----”

“I’m afraid that last would not be true.”

“Well, please say whatever you think best,” said Mrs. Fen irritably;
“but do not leave one little chink of hope. Believe me it will be the
truest kindness! When you reflect over what I have said, I know you
will see that I am right.”

“Yes, Dorothy,” assented Mrs. Denton; “I am aware that you have more
practical common sense than all the rest of us put together--but--there
is something beside common sense, isn’t there?--love--constancy?”

“Oh, my dearest friend, the real name for your something is
‘_Nonsense_.’” Then, standing up and arranging her boa, she added
impressively, “Surely, Amy, you have your boy’s interest at heart, and
is it to his interest, that he should marry a girl who has not a penny
piece, and comes of a notoriously consumptive family?”

She paused to allow this shaft to go home, and then continued:

“I’ll send Letty up to-morrow afternoon with that new book on
gardening, and you might take the opportunity of having a nice little
talk with her. Now good-bye, dearest friend,” and she stooped over the
couch, kissed the lady with tender affection, and so departed. _That_
was done!

For hours the same night Mrs. Denton lay awake miserable and restless,
wondering what she could say to Letty, and how she was to say it;
for it is a delicate task to tell a girl that she must put away all
thoughts of your own nephew; and oh, how the poor cat’s-paw hated and
dreaded the ordeal. And yet it must be faced--it would be, as Dorothy
the wise had pointed out, a fatal mistake for Lancelot to marry before
he got his company; and even then a girl without a penny would hamper
his future. She must put sentiment from her, and think of Lancelot’s
career.

Letty duly arrived with the book on gardens, and remained to make tea.
After a little desultory talk about the bulbs, her terrified hostess
broke the ice.

“I had a few lines from Lancelot this morning--he is back at Aldershot.”

At his name the girl coloured up, and looked expectant.

“I don’t think we shall see him here for a long time.”

“No.”

“From Gibraltar his regiment goes on to Egypt, and India.”

“So he told me,” rejoined Letty with disconcerting promptness. “How I
envy them; I would give anything to go to India, you know, I was born
there!”

“Yes; it’s a wonderfully interesting country. My brother-in-law was in
the Punjaub for years. I hope Lance will get some staff appointment;
he is working hard, and in some ways foreign service has its
advantages--at home, there are so many distractions--and temptations.”

“Temptations!” echoed Letty with a blank face.

“Yes, my dear, in the shape of pretty faces, and the danger of falling
in love. But Lancelot is poor; he has only himself to rely on--he
cannot afford to think of love--much less marriage. You see he is but
twenty-three, and a subaltern; so it is best for him, as I say, to go
to India--and”--suddenly dropping her voice--“_forget_.”

To this long speech there was no reply; the slender figure sitting with
her back to the window never moved.

Stirred by some rash impulse the kind woman added:

“I believe he was growing fond of _you_, Letty.” The girl caught her
breath. “But it would never, never do, and the less he sees and thinks
of you the better. Poor fellow!” and she heaved a long sigh.

And what of poor Letty?

She struggled desperately to restrain her tears, to swallow an enormous
lump in her throat, and to steady and clench her trembling hands;
fortunately the light was growing dim and she wore a shady hat. At last
she said in a clear, rather sharp key:

“Of course, Mrs. Denton, you know best;” and now came a great big lie:
“Mr. Lumley and I were only friends--he never thought of me in--in--the
way you mean.”

“I’m truly thankful to hear you say so, my dear,” replied the lady, who
was intensely relieved. “Now, will you give me another cup of tea, and
let us talk of something else?”

It was not easy for Letty’s shaking hands to pour out tea, and even
more difficult to ‘talk of’ something else. The fragile invalid had
just dealt her a shattering blow, and all the exquisite whisperings
of her young hopes were crushed and silenced. Pride, the legacy of
generations, now came to her assistance, and she discoursed of trifling
village matters and the Ridgefield bazaar with true Spartan fortitude,
whilst all the time a cruel, sharp-toothed fox, was rending her tender
heart.

When at last she rose to go, Mrs. Denton drew her down and embraced
her with unusual warmth and significance. It was such a comfort that
the dear child had taken her talk in good part; and that night to her
prayers she added a few words of devout thankfulness, and asked for a
special blessing on Letty Glyn. “The girl was too young to realise or
reciprocate Lancelot’s attachment; she was just a child, a dear, dear
child,” and with this consoling reflection, Mrs. Denton closed her
eyes, and slept the sleep of the just, and the justified.

But Letty, as she walked up the village that star-lit January evening,
felt as if a door had been closed upon her, and that darkness had
descended on the world.



CHAPTER VIII


Although she searchingly scrutinised her niece’s appearance, Mrs.
Fenchurch failed to discover any trace of actual misery in face or
attitude. Certainly Letty was pale; but the weather was exceptionally
trying, and Mrs. Denton, who had been as good as her word, assured
her that the child had taken her ‘little talk’ in the best part, and
behaved beautifully!

Yet Letty, for all her outward composure, was absolutely wretched; her
little glimpse into Paradise had been speedily eclipsed. So she must
never think of Lancelot Lumley, nor he of her, and she now seemed to
sit in a prison behind bars, and in outer darkness. Her only comforts
were her uncle, with his cheery nature and his warm affection, and
Sam the pug. Lancelot had liked Sam, and said he was ‘a good sort,’
and up in her own room she confided many sorrows to Sam, and laid
her wet cheek against his velvet jowl, and dropped tears over his
fawn head, whilst he snorted, goggled, and sympathised dog-fashion.
Among her little circle, it was surprising how reserved and secretive
Letty could be; the only one who divined her trouble, was eagle-eyed
Mrs. Hesketh--who understood and marvelled at the little girl’s pride
and fortitude. The lady also experienced some sharp twinges from a
rather drowsy conscience. She had been wrong to bring the young people
together, and now, as she half feared, _they_ were paying. As a sop to
her remorse, she presented Letty with a superb sable boa; but even this
had no effect--positively it might as well have been rabbit skin! for
all the girl seemed to care.

One evening Letty was returning from Oldcourt. Something its mistress
had said, a little word and a sympathetic look, had touched her. She
refrained herself until she was alone in the dusk, and then gave way to
an outburst of tears--tears usually reserved for the night, and her own
apartment. But now she wept openly and without restraint.

Fortunately there was no one to be seen, as she walked on past The
Holt to the Crooked Bridge, and there sat down on the parapet, and
had her cry out. Here on this very bridge he had called her ‘Letty,’
here on the same spot, she must make up her mind to thrust him out of
her heart, and strangle her folly. Oh, it was folly; cruel, painful,
_aching_ folly! After a while she dried her eyes and proceeded to make
her way slowly homewards--earnestly hoping that she might steal up to
her own room unobserved; but Fortune, as usual, failed to befriend her!

As she crept past the drawing-room door it stood half open, and she
caught a glimpse of her aunt sitting at the fire in a ruminative
attitude.

“Is that you, Letty?” she called out. “What makes you so late? Come
here, my dear!”

Aunt Dorothy was apparently in a good-humour--possibly the Duchess had
called. Letty hastily glanced into the hall glass, straightened her
hat, and rubbed her swollen eyes.

When she presented herself, Mrs. Fenchurch turned half round in her
chair, and stared as if she could not believe her senses.

“Good God!” she exclaimed at last--in moments of violent excitement she
borrowed the forcible language of her hard-riding brothers--“Where have
you been? and what has happened?”

“Happened?” repeated the girl in a dull voice. “Nothing.”

“Come, there’s no use in telling me a lie--your eyes look as if they
were set in red flannel, and your face is in dirty streaks!”

“I--I--I’m afraid I’m getting a bad cold in my head, Aunt Dorothy.”

“How sickening! Friday--and this is Wednesday. Well, you must go to
bed at once, and take a large dose of ammoniated quinine. As for your
dinner, it shall be gruel.”

“But really, Aunt Dorothy----” protested the miserable victim.

“But really, Letty, you are a hideous object,” interrupted Mrs.
Fenchurch in her most inflexible manner. “Your nose is swelled to the
size of a turnip. I’ve just had a note from Mr. Blagdon,” touching an
envelope in her lap. “He is back at Ridgefield, now the thaw has come,
and invites himself to lunch here on Friday, so I’ve barely two days
to patch you up and make you fit to be seen. Now, my dear child, go off
at once and bundle into bed as quickly as you can; I’ll bring you the
gruel with lots of sulphur in it, within half an hour.”



CHAPTER IX


Friday morning was a busy bustling time at The Holt, where elaborate
preparations were on foot for the reception of an important guest.

Mrs. Fenchurch prided herself on her housekeeping, and boasted that she
was always prepared for any emergency or visitor--were it the King!
Nevertheless she now brought out the best dessert and coffee sets, the
precious old family silver, and spent half an hour conferring with the
cook. She had set Letty to arrange flowers, put on fresh chintz covers,
and feed and incarcerate the dogs. Having issued orders to her husband
with respect to the cellar, warned the stable-yard with regard to
horses, she changed into her Sunday gown and best rings, saw that Letty
wore the new green cloth--and behold all was in readiness.

Half-past one o’clock--two--half-past two--and yet Mr. Blagdon never
appeared. Mrs. Fenchurch had ceased to cast surreptitious glances at
the window, and her husband’s patience was exhausted. Without a word to
his wife he rose and boldly dragged at the bell, and to the answering
servant uttered one stentorian word, “_Lunch!_”

“I’m hanged if I’m going to wait for that fellow any longer,”
he announced with the courage of a hungry man. “Just like
Blagdon--inviting himself to honour us--you and Letty work like blacks,
and he never turns up after all!”

“That will do, dear--that will do--don’t get excited,” said his wife,
patting his arm. She was secretly furious with Blagdon. “He has made
some mistake; however, there is capital mulligatawny, and now we will
go and enjoy it ourselves.”

The housekeeper’s boast was well founded; her husband and
niece thoroughly appreciated the good things intended for a
non-arrival--indeed, Letty’s appetite was whetted by a sense of intense
relief, but Mrs. Fen scarcely touched a morsel, being herself devoured
by cruel misgivings.

The following afternoon as they sat at table, a smart yellow-wheeled
Stanhope dashed up to the door with much crunching and spattering of
gravel. It was driven by the belated Blagdon!

Colonel Fenchurch with a muttered oath, cast his serviette on the
floor, and hurried into the hall to welcome the unexpected guest.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Fenchurch rang the bell distractedly, gave orders for
the ham (luckily uncut), grapes, Burgundy, and to make coffee at once;
then, turning to Letty, she surveyed her with dismay.

“And you in your old school frock! Oh, it’s simply maddening, and I
believe the drawing-room fire is out. Here, get up quickly, and sit at
this side with your back to the light, and perhaps your old serge won’t
show.”

Blagdon now entered, suave and well groomed, full of apologies and
easy talk. To himself he remarked, that Fenchurch was a stiff-necked
ceremonious old beggar, but he knew that Mrs. Fen was _his_ friend!
He had proposed himself as a visitor, partly to discover what sort of
people the Fenchurchs were when at home, and also to see how the land
lay, and if the girl was really as pretty as his memory had painted.

The lunch, although shorn of yesterday’s splendour, proved excellent;
the wine first-class, the appointments, furniture, and old portraits,
intimated that the Fenchurch family had handsome ancestors of taste
and fortune. The topics discussed were chiefly hunting, the local
pack and followers, other packs, and Mr. Blagdon, a hard rider (who,
when he could not get over a country, went _through_ it), gave vivid
descriptions of runs with the Pytchley, and the Quorn.

After cigars and coffee the guest was conducted with much pomp and
ceremony to inspect the chrysanthemums. Unfortunately the celebrated
Holt gardens were now looking their worst; these were lovely in spring
and summer, but at present, all the blooms were in the greenhouses,
where, although not specially remarkable, the Japanese specimens made a
respectable show. Personally Blagdon knew as little of a chrysanthemum
as he did of a cauliflower--but he assumed a knowledge he did not
possess; in his own bluff fashion he made himself agreeable to his
hostess, and she (an able chaperon) arranged that he and Letty should
have a few moments in the conservatory alone, whilst she ‘ran’ to give
an important message to the head-gardener.

Alas, of these precious moments the great _parti_ failed to avail
himself. It was a bitterly cold, raw day, Letty had been all the
morning indoors assisting to wash the china (and her aunt had been
unusually snappy and unreasonable), the walk across the lawn had given
her beautiful nose a tinge of pink, the girl’s gown was a shapeless,
ill-made blue serge; her shoes were worn white at the toes, and she
hadn’t a word to throw to a dog! The aunt did all the talking. If
Hugo Blagdon had cherished any intention of taking the irrevocable
step, this intention now died the death. He was sensitive and easily
influenced by his environment, and the impression made on him by Miss
Glyn at home, was distinctly the reverse of that made by Miss Glyn
abroad. There, she was a well-dressed radiant beauty; here, a poor,
shabby Cinderella, with timid eyes, and cold, red hands.

After a depressing round of the damp, wintry gardens, and a brief stay
in the charming drawing-room, full of old cabinets, pastel portraits,
Chippendale furniture, and other treasures, Mr. Blagdon offered a few
vague and agreeable remarks, and begged leave to order his carriage.

When the bay steppers came prancing to the hall door, the visitor made
a genial and general farewell, and so drove away. As the last rumble
of his wheels was heard in the distance Mrs. Fenchurch turned and
looked searchingly at Letty, as if she wished to ask her something.
She fidgeted about the drawing-room, dusting little things with her
handkerchief, taking up and laying down books; but before she could
put her questions into words, her terrified niece had effected her
escape. Mrs. Fen was well aware, that Letty had her reserves, and for
the remainder of the afternoon she sat alone over the fire, with a book
in her lap, but instead of reading, her eyes were fixed upon the coals,
her active mind was elsewhere; she was lost in speculations. Had he
said anything--or not?

If her niece Letty were to marry the great catch--despair of many
mothers--_how_ she would score! Already she was anticipating her
triumphs. The dining-room would seat seventy with a squeeze; she would
get the cake at Buzzards’; cards of invitation at the stores; and
borrow a veil from Cecilia.

A few days later, in glancing over _The Morning Post_, she came upon
this paragraph:

“Mr. H. Blagdon and party arrived at the Hôtel de Paris, Monte Carlo,
on the 7th inst., for the season.”

Alas, alas, alas! A castle in the air had toppled down, and great was
the fall thereof!

Mrs. Fenchurch’s first sensation was insensate fury with the girl; her
second, a devout thankfulness that beyond her own household--that is
to say, her husband and Cousin Maude--she had not trumpeted forth her
hopes--since they had come to nothing.

Her manner to her niece now underwent an abrupt change; the wind
instead of blowing from the south had set steadily into the east, and
there remained. Fires in Letty’s bedroom and other small indulgences
came to an end, and this particular month of February was, for several
reasons, the most miserable the girl had ever known. Nothing that she
did, or said, or wore, seemed to please Aunt Dorothy, and one day,
after an undeserved scolding, the poor worm turned at last and said:

“I know, Aunt Dorothy, that I am one too many here.”

“How dare you say such a thing, you impertinent minx!” stormed her
relative.

“But it is the truth,” argued Letty, plucking up some courage. “I am
not happy, and you are not happy, and we really cannot go on in this
way. I should like to return to Dresden; they will find me a place in
the school as music teacher.”

“I never heard such insolence and nonsense!” cried Mrs. Fenchurch, her
face red with temper. “Do you suppose your uncle would allow his niece
to go out as a governess--earn her bread--and have everyone talking?”

“Well, many girls who are as good, or probably far better than I am,
do it,” declared Letty, controlling her tears with difficulty; “and my
master said that, with practice, I would make a professional singer.”

“Worse and worse. Why, you will be clamouring to go upon the stage
next! Be so good as to understand, that you remain here, and do exactly
as _I_ wish, until you are one-and-twenty. Of course, someone may
marry you, but penniless girls haven’t much chance of that in these
times.”

Mrs. Fenchurch on every other subject was perfectly sane and
reasonable; the exception was her husband’s niece. She was pretty,
she was young, she was _de trop_, and her aunt sincerely hated her.
Undoubtedly the unhappy young woman had got upon her nerves--the bitter
disappointment after such exalted hopes, worked in her mind like a
deadly poison. It was true that Letty had made an unexpected sensation
at the ball, and at the Bonhams’ dance, but so far her triumph had
borne no fruit. The weather had been dreadful, going about the country
was out of the question, the roads were impassable with rain or snow,
so Mrs. Fenchurch had been thrown back upon herself--there was no
hunting, no gardening; Mothers’ Meetings and Village Choral Society
failed to content her, and her sole outlet was Cousin Maude. To
Oldcourt she carried her grievances, but Cousin Maude refused to see
eye to eye with her, and generally took the part of Letty. If the girl
was forgetful, if she had given a short answer, if she had slammed a
door, after all, she was young; her life was not very exciting--and who
is perfect?

As for Letty herself, maddened by gibes, reproaches, and a lacerating
tongue, at night she would wander round her room like a prisoner,
wondering how she was to escape, wondering who could help her. Cousin
Maude was her friend, but powerless; intercourse with Oldcourt was
now strictly curtailed. Uncle Tom was attached to her, but entirely
dominated by his wife.

Colonel Fenchurch had not been insensible to the suppressed antagonism
and strained relations between aunt and niece; inwardly and with all
his sore heart, he sided with Letty; but though physically bold as a
lion, the little man lacked moral courage; he could face the biggest
fence without flinching, but he dared not face Doodie and stand
between her and her unreasonable treatment of his sister’s orphan;
the situation filled him with secret bitterness and self-contempt.
Hitherto, he had been absolutely content with his comfortable,
well-ordered home, his well-bred hunters, and his masterful invaluable
Doodie, till the girl had come to make a third at The Holt; and now in
his eyes, his watchful consort frequently read questions, protests, and
reproach.

And all on account of this detestable interloper!

In spite of his breezy, jaunty manner, it was no secret in the house or
village, that the Colonel had a fine grey mare in his stable, and it
was whispered that lately there had been rows; loud talking and angry
voices overheard in the drawing-room long after Miss Glyn had gone to
bed--but vain was the effort to dislodge the yoke of years!

The east wind had been particularly trying to Mrs. Fenchurch’s
neuralgia, she had received a disappointing post, and carried away by
this combination of circumstances, she vented her feelings on Letty,
who had been so unfortunate as to upset a bottle of ink.

“Oh, what a mess! my good cover ruined!” she cried. “You never _can_ do
anything right or like other people. If only someone would marry you,
and take you out of my house and out of my sight, I’d give a thousand
pounds!”

Pacing up and down her room that same afternoon, her thoughts darting
in all directions like some frantic sorely pressed fugitive, Lefty came
to a momentous decision. Escape for her life she must, and somehow! She
had no money, no home to receive her; there was but one alternative,
and as she stood in the window looking out on the bleak prospect, she
vowed to herself that she would marry the very first man who asked
her--yes, she _would_. Having made this desperate resolution, she broke
down, burst into tears, and ran and buried her face in her pillow,
in case her next-door neighbour (a housemaid) might overhear her too
audible, and convulsive sobs.

Shortly after this scene, the unfortunate girl ‘brought home,’ as Mrs.
Fenchurch expressed it, influenza from a cottage in the village, and
was _hors de combat_ for three weeks--entailing extra trouble to the
servants, a visit from the local doctor, and a chemist’s bill.

Then one afternoon towards the end of March, Mrs. Fenchurch herself
climbed up to visit the patient; her presence always made the girl’s
heart flutter--beyond words to express she dreaded being alone
with Aunt Dorothy; but on this occasion Aunt Dorothy looked almost
agreeable, and was carrying in her hand a box which was addressed to
‘Miss Glyn, The Holt, Thornby,’ and had been despatched from the south
of France.

“This has just come for you, Letty, and I have brought it up myself,”
said Mrs. Fenchurch breathlessly. “Here are a pair of scissors--now let
us see what is inside.”

To Letty’s amazement the box contained a quantity of exquisite exotic
flowers despatched by a well-known florist in Monte Carlo. On the top
of these, lay a card on which was inscribed, “From H. Blagdon, with all
good wishes.”

And once more, hope whispered a flattering tale to the matchmaker. Was
she to have her own way with the world, after all?

“Oh, they are from Mr. Blagdon!” exclaimed the girl. “Surely there must
be some mistake--how very funny!”

“How very kind, you should say,” corrected her aunt. “I am positive
they couldn’t have cost a penny less than fifty francs--just look at
these carnations and orchids! We will have some vases and put them
about the room.”

“No, no, no,” protested Letty; “please not! I don’t like hothouse
flowers in a bedroom; but do you take them; they will look beautiful
below stairs.”

“Oh, very well, _I_ never refuse a good offer,” declared her visitor,
collecting them into the box. “I suppose you will write and thank him?”

“Must I?” asked the invalid with flickering colour.

“Well, perhaps as you are not feeling very well I had better do it for
you; the post goes out in ten minutes,” and carrying the flowers in one
hand, with the precious card in the other, Mrs. Fenchurch effected a
precipitate departure.

Whatever Mrs. Fenchurch had said in her letter, the result was, that
boxes of flowers now arrived at The Holt about twice a week; and once
more the atmosphere within, thawed with the atmosphere without!



CHAPTER X


Hugo Blagdon was a well-known habitué of Monte Carlo, and he fled
thither early in February to avoid an English spring, and escape from
a personality that threatened to lure him into the noose of matrimony!
His grandfather had been overseer in a coal mine, and his father,
Laban, a clever man of ceaseless energy and enterprise, had, by his
own efforts, risen to vast wealth. He was a typical Yorkshire tyke;
hard-headed, hard-bitten, and plain of speech, standing squarely on
his feet and his principles. When over fifty, he had disposed of his
collieries to a syndicate, and looked about him for a country estate,
and a suitable consort. At this time Sharsley, the ancient seat of
the Scropes, happened to be in the market; the family had fallen on
evil days, and the last representative was a thin, dignified old
gentleman, with an empty purse and many spinster daughters. During
tedious negotiations, the would-be purchaser made acquaintance with the
Squire’s family, and when he took over the property, he also received
the taper hand of the stateliest and slenderest of the Scrope sisters.
Ill-natured gossips declared that in consequence of this arrangement,
the canny Yorkshire-man had obtained an abatement of ten thousand
pounds on the price of the property--but envious people will say
anything! Mrs. Blagdon’s aristocratic relations agreed that dearest
Carrie, who was ‘getting on,’ had done remarkably well for herself;
the bride was perfectly satisfied with her honest, stolid husband,
and he for his part felt proud of his Carrie; she matched Sharsley,
and naturally was far more at home there than himself. Mrs. Blagdon
fulfilled her duties to admiration; an elegant, dignified figure, she
sat at the head of his table, glorious and dazzling in the new Blagdon
diamonds, entertaining her neighbours with gracious distinction.
Moreover, she was most kind and thoughtful to her husband’s family,
especially to his old aunt, Fanny Jane, who spoke broad Yorkshire, had
not marched with the times, and preferred to dine at one o’clock--and
in her bonnet.

Having figuratively emerged from coal to the surface, Laban Blagdon
entered into country life with enthusiasm; he farmed, he supported
the hounds and the Yeomanry, and sat on the Bench with commendable
punctuality. His first-born was a girl. Four years later her brother
arrived on this planet, amidst great rejoicings. Blagdon of Sharsley
was immensely proud of his children; he had none of his father’s ideas
of stern discipline, and was an extravagantly indulgent parent. In his
opinion, nothing was too good for Connie and Hugo--the pair could do no
wrong.

Possibly his partiality was due to the fact that they were true
Blagdons; large-boned, and loud of voice, exhibiting no traces whatever
of their mother’s ancestry. This poor lady did her utmost to influence
them, exerting herself surprisingly for a Scrope, but somehow she never
became familiar with her boy and girl, who emancipated themselves
as soon as they had quitted the nursery. And their mother found it
difficult to believe, that this rough, boisterous, undisciplined
couple, were actually her own offspring. Had they been those of other
people, she would have lifted her delicate hands, and declared them to
be young savages!

Hugo was sent to a preparatory school, and then to Eton; he rode well,
knew the points of a horse, was thoroughly at home in the stables,
had a hearty laugh, a huge appetite, and his father thought him
an uncommonly fine lad! As for Connie, she was the apple of Laban
Blagdon’s eye; a bit of a hoyden, and no great beauty, but a girl who
could stick on a horse, sing a good song, hold her own in talk, and
what more did you want?

The year that Connie was presented to her sovereign her father died
suddenly of apoplexy, and was widely and sincerely regretted; sound to
the core, a just landlord and employer, a good friend, and a generous
foe. His heir was at sixteen a well-grown youth, with a thick-set
figure, a strong will, rather surly manners, and an exaggerated sense
of his own importance. From Eton, he went (with great reluctance) to
Oxford, and there his idleness and scrapes gained him a certain amount
of notoriety.

As for his sister, she was launched in London Society, with
considerable éclat by her mother’s aristocratic connections; Connie
had no taste for balls or the usual round of gaiety, but developed
an unexpected passion for racing! At Newmarket she encountered her
affinity; a good-looking, graceless baronet, who had run through
his patrimony on the turf, and did not bear an enviable reputation.
However, in spite of all that her mother, relations, and trustees,
could urge or threaten, Connie Blagdon insisted on marrying Teddy
Rashleigh. She was, as her father had often declared, “a fine,
strapping girl, who knew her own mind, with a handsome fortune pinned
on to her skirts”; and Sir Teddy was not indifferent to this agreeable
fact.

At first, the happy pair travelled about from one race meeting
to another, enjoying an atmosphere of continual and stimulating
excitement. In winter, they went abroad, returning in time for
the first Spring Meeting. After a few years of a gay and rambling
existence, came much harassing anxiety, rumours of serious troubles
about racing and gambling debts; these rumours were followed by the
sudden death of Sir Teddy Rashleigh. An overdose of sulphonal, taken by
mistake (his creditors had their own opinions as to the ‘mistake’), and
his widow found herself at the age of twenty-eight, with the miserable
remains of a large fortune, and alienated from all her friends. During
her married life, she had acquired extravagant and reckless tastes,
gambled, betted, and plunged--and oh, how she hated poverty!

Fortunately, she and her brother had always been chums, and he now
came so generously to her assistance, that most of her world believed
Lady Rashleigh to be not only a gay, but wealthy widow. She was loud,
good-natured, and plain; a big woman, with high, square shoulders,
quantities of coarse brown hair (dyed red), a broad, shrewd face,
redeemed by a set of flashing white teeth. Men called her “a rare good
sort, and as clever as they make them,” meaning that Lady Rashleigh,
knew her world thoroughly, and contrived, whilst keeping on bowing
terms with Mrs. Grundy, to enjoy a remarkably festive time.

Meanwhile Hugo, his own master for many years, had been engaged in
sowing wild oats, and seeing life. His mother had taken her departure
from Sharsley; this severance had been a heart-breaking business, but
Hugo’s manners and customs, and Hugo’s associates, were altogether too
much for that delicate, decorous, and mid-Victorian matron. Instead
of family prayers, and breakfast at nine o’clock, Hugo’s lady guests
appeared at midday. They smoked, talked slang, discussed the latest
odds, the latest scandals, and more or less ignored their old-fashioned
hostess; the men were even worse: a gambling, hard-drinking, horsy
crew; so Mrs. Blagdon went away to Cannes, and established herself
in a splendid villa, far aloof from her unsatisfactory and unfilial
children.

Sharsley, thus abandoned, was consigned to the care of a tall, dashing
housekeeper, known as Mrs. Bates, who wore rich silk gowns, expensive
jewellery, rouged heavily, and knew all about the best brands of
champagne. To do her justice, she was a capable and active person,
thoroughly experienced in the management of servants, had a tongue
like a whip-lash, and understood the art of getting work out of her
subordinates--whilst she looked on. Two or three times a year there
were house-parties for shooting and hunting, and on these occasions
Lady Rashleigh, who, needless to add, had always kept on the best of
terms with her brother, was the jolly, easy-going hostess; a totally
different châtelaine to her frigid mother, and not easily surprised,
daunted, or shocked. Few were aware that Connie had a very small
income, (though her extravagant tastes were well-known,) and it was
important that she should stand well with Hugo. He paid the rent of
her London flat, her hotel bills when she accompanied him abroad, made
her presents of frocks and furs, and was altogether a really generous
brother. For her part, she listened to his grievances with sympathetic
interest, cultivated his particular friends, gave charming little
dinners and suppers, and was ever ready to play chaperon, buffer, or
confidante.

Blagdon had naturally a wide circle of acquaintances, and was a
good deal spoiled by the flattery which is habitually offered to an
open-handed bachelor with the income of a prince. He had a special
coterie of associates, known to envious scoffers as the ‘pack.’ Chief
in importance was Lord Robert Cheyne (first cousin to Blagdon on the
Scrope side); this hard-riding, round-backed little gentleman, had
bright, twinkling brown eyes, and a forehead so lofty that it seemed to
stretch half-way across his poll--and imparted a worshipful, sedate,
and middle-aged appearance,--flatly contradicted by his lordship’s
character and years. He had a kind heart, a dull brain, and a lean
purse, and believed Cousin Hugo, “who gave him lots of shootin’ and
huntin’,” to be a rare good sportin’ sort, and one of the best!

Next, the Baron Van Krab, a fair, well-set-up man of forty, a Britisher
of Dutch extraction, and not unknown in the City. Captain Herdby,
a retired cavalryman, handsome, well bred, well groomed, somewhat
mysterious as to his antecedents, but knowing (or pretending to know)
the great world, and ready to ride, dine, shoot, dance, or fill any gap
at a moment’s notice. Sir Thomas and Lady Slater, ‘Foxy and Shocky’
as they were nicknamed; he being a little man with a bright, cunning
eye, a bushy red moustache, and the legs of a jockey; a conspicuous
patron of the turf; his wife, also devoted to racing, was a tall,
showy-looking woman, with a large mouth, magnificent teeth, and an
ever-ready laugh. She made an imposing figure in evening dress, told
the most outrageous stories, and had an insatiable appetite for gossip
and presents. But Mr. Blagdon’s most particular friend was Mrs.
Fred Corbett, an attractive free-lance, with a willowy form, and a
pair of wonderful amber eyes; a glittering creature, all frivolity,
extravagance, and selfishness, separated from her husband, (who, it
was said, had some vague occupation in the Argentine,) and Connie
Rashleigh’s _chère amie_.

When Hugo arrived at Monte Carlo, he found the two ladies already
installed at the Hermitage, the Baron and the Slaters were at the Paris.

The great man was naturally hailed with sincere and fervent joy,
and, for his part, he was not indifferent to the adulation of his
little court; he enjoyed listening to their spicy gossip, delicate
and highly seasoned flatteries, whilst he steeped himself in sunshine
and luxury. He gave his circle dinners and luncheons, yes and loans;
lavished flowers and attentions on his sister and Lola Corbett, and was
altogether in unusual good-humour, and as the guests put it, ‘great
form.’

By the end of a fortnight, Monte and his associates had begun to pall
on Blagdon; even the rooms had lost their fascination. The Baron had
bet him a hundred pounds on pigeon-shooting--and won. Foxy Slater had
put him on an outsider and let him in heavily, and the Slaters and
Connie talked racing or roulette by the hour, and bored him to death.

As for Lola, she made awful play with her eyes, said poisonous things
of other women, and was losing her looks! It was just at this critical
period, that Letty Glyn was once more introduced to his attention.
A casual remark from an utter stranger, threw, so to speak, this
beautiful, innocent, unhappy girl, into Blagdon’s arms.

The gay season at Monte had reached high water, and he daily came
across acquaintances. Lounging one morning against the parapet below
the Casino with Colonel Roland--a man who belonged to his club--they
idly watched the gay world go by. Here were men and women of all
nations, and reputations; the most famous names in Europe were pacing
that sunny promenade. The two noted and remarked on various familiar
faces--princesses, duchesses, dancers, statesmen, actors, authors, and
flocks of ordinary, and extraordinary, birds of passage.

“Full-dress parade,” said Roland, chucking away the end of an excellent
cigar. “They are all very well--fine feathers make fine birds!--but
if you ask _me_, there isn’t a woman here can touch that little Miss
What’s-her-name that was at the Brakesby Hunt Ball; she could give
every one of ’em a stone and a beating. Yes”--with a nudge--“and I saw
_you_ dancing with her, you dog! Oh, you have an eye in your head, and
know what’s what. Of course, she is very young, and does not realise
her own value, yet--but if she had half a chance, her beauty would
be--be--” casting about for a simile, “famous, the talk of England!”

Blagdon looked hard at his friend, and drawled indifferently--

“Think so?”

“_Sure_; and now I’m off to golf. Ta, ta; see you at dinner!” and he
walked away. Blagdon remained; he selected and lit another cigar, and
settled himself to meditate. Roland was a good judge; he had knocked
about a bit. But the girl as he had last seen her!

“That,” argued common sense, “was merely the shabby dress and shoes
that had choked him off. Yes, and her cold red hands. All her aunt’s
fault--stingy old devil! At the ball, she was well turned out--and
what a difference! And, by George! he could afford to dress his wife
properly. A beauty that would be famous, Mrs. Hugo Blagdon--!”

Once more his thoughts were concentrated on Thornby--thoughts which
subsequently simmered in his brain for days. Little did Mrs. Corbett
suspect them. Her extravagance was increasing, she was a true daughter
of the horse leech, and her ceaseless cry was “Give, give!” Every
morning before they went into the Rooms, she would take a little
turn with Blagdon, conduct him to the shops, and gaze pathetically
into a milliner’s, go into raptures over a fifty-pound cloak or
gown, then pilot her companion to the _Galerie_ Charles III, and a
certain jeweller’s, where she gloated over one particular necklace.
She would gaze at this, and then at her escort, and sigh, and sigh;
but in spite of these seductive arts, for once in his life Blagdon
proved invulnerable. Little did his companion guess, when he strolled
about looking into windows, and criticising their contents, that all
the time he was thinking how well such an ornament, or hat or frock,
would become someone else!--a little girl in a remote old village, in
far-away England. If Letty Glyn had frocks and jewels, she would cut
them all out. He had given tons of pretty things to the greedy woman
beside him, and paid tribute in not a few staggering dressmaker’s
bills. Yes, he was aware that Lola was dying for the emerald
necklace--but he was not to be drawn!



CHAPTER XI


Sauntering along the Casino terrace enjoying a morning cigar, attended
by the Baron and Mrs. Corbett, Blagdon was unaffectedly disgusted when
a gigantic and majestic Grand Duke accosted the latter, and after a
brief parley annexed the lady, to accompany and amuse _him_--leaving
the great man, deserted and despoiled. At _déjeuner_ Lola reappeared
in radiant spirits, cajoling, irresistible, and full of stories about
the Duke. She had met him in Paris, Vienna, and Marienbad, they were
old _old_ friends. The Duke was so enormously interested in Hugo and
anxious to make his acquaintance, had heard of his lovely place, his
splendid hunters, his first-rate shooting. She was dining with the
Duke that night, and would bring off the introduction later; Hugo was
both mollified and flattered. He considered himself the equal of any
potentate, but by all accounts this particular Russian Prince, with
versts of shooting and millions of roubles, might prove a satisfactory
acquaintance. After _déjeuner_ he went into the Rooms, and was so
successful at the tables, and so pleased with himself and the world
in general, that he subsequently strolled over to the _galerie_, and
purchased the coveted necklace on which Mrs. Corbett had long set
envious eyes. Well, after all, it cost _him_ nothing--it came out of
the pockets of the Administration and really was a remarkably neat
thing--a diamond collar, with large drops of cabochon emeralds.

In the evening, the Rooms were crowded. Blagdon played again, but was
out of luck, and also a little out of humour. He had seen the Countess
of Boncaster stare fixedly at his sister, and cut her dead. Connie had
too much rouge on; she looked dishevelled and excited, and was gambling
recklessly--yet it was only the other day that he had squared up her
betting book, and she had sworn to economise and reform.

Wandering through the rooms, in a doorway he suddenly encountered Mrs.
Corbett and the gigantic Grand Duke; he was about to halt, but amazing
to relate, the lady glanced over his head with cold, unseeing eyes, and
so passed on. He paused transfixed, and stared after the pair. Lola was
chattering French, and gazing up at the great hulking Tartar, with her
most alluring expression. How well he knew it! He watched them as they
circled a table, and melted away into the crowd. The burly Russian,
and his graceful companion, who was actually wearing diamonds that he,
Blagdon, had paid for--yes, and the very gown on her back! As he stood
motionless and bewildered, for once experiencing the sting of smarting
vanity, and dwelling on the late decisive incident, the Baron accosted
him, with a scared white face.

“I have been looking for you all over the shop,” he began. “I say, old
chap, I’m cleared out. Can you let me have a couple of _mille_ notes,
just to go on with? I’ll pay you back of course.”

“I have only one left,” rejoined Blagdon in a sulky voice, as he
reluctantly produced and handed over a note, then before the Baron
could thank him he had turned away, and abandoned the Casino for the
cool, moonlit gardens. Here he lit a cigar, sat down alone under a
clump of Bamboos, and said to himself, he was going to have a good
solid think. Blagdon had inherited a certain amount of his father’s
shrewdness, and this on rare occasions struggled to the surface, and
he beheld his associates by the light of common sense. Connie and
her racing debts; the penniless Baron and his borrowings; Lola, her
bills and jewellery--a greedy pack, all for themselves! If he were a
pauper, not one of them would come near him. Then a beautiful innocent
face rose before his mental vision. What a contrast to the painted,
powdered, artificial women of his acquaintance! _She_ was the genuine
article: her lovely hair and complexion were her own. And yet he was
not in love with her, but with an idea, that if he were to marry Letty
Glyn, his wife, as Roland said, would be one of the most beautiful
women in England. Wherever she was seen, she would make a tremendous
sensation. At the Ball, and at the Bonhams’ how she had eclipsed
everyone. The resolve sprang up suddenly in his mind, Miss Glyn was the
right sort of wife for him. He was a man who desired to possess the
best of everything--chiefly in order to excite the envy of others--and
as he sat smoking and musing, the image of Letty gathered shape and
distinctness. Finally he rose, threw the stump of his cigar among the
bushes, and muttered under his breath:

“By Jove, I’ll do it!”

Next morning, with a touch of unusual restraint, Blagdon dissembled his
wrath with Lola Corbett, and accepted her playful enquiry as to “why he
had never come near her in the Casino?” with commendable indifference.

“The Duke was longing to meet you,” she lied. “We searched for you
everywhere. Now he has gone off to Paris. He left by the morning train.”

To which Hugo (also lying) replied with complete _sang-froid_:

“All right, better luck next time--express my profound regrets when you
write!”

Mrs. Corbett surveyed him under her thick black lashes. So Hugo could
joke; he had not noticed--what a relief!

“Oh, Hugo,” she resumed, with well-simulated animation, “what _do_ you
think, some dreadful person has bought my adorable pet necklace--wasn’t
it wicked of them? When I went to pay it my daily visit, it was gone.
Who can have bought it?” and she looked at him sharply, but Hugo merely
struck a match, and shook his head.

“He probably has it in his pocket the whole time,” the lady assured
herself, for she had entered the shop full of anxious enquiries, and
received a most particular description of the purchaser, and his
name--since Blagdon was a well-known figure, and a generous customer to
many of the establishments in the principality.

No later than the next morning it was Mrs. Corbett’s turn to be the
victim of a disagreeable surprise. She discovered Hugo in the principal
florist’s, in the act of despatching his offering to The Holt. “Miss
Glyn,” she read aloud over his shoulder. “Oh, you sly, sly Hugo! If
you send these floral tributes to that pretty little schoolgirl, her
aunt will snap you up before you know where you are; and she will be
a thousand times worse than any mother-in-law--a hateful, managing,
dangerous woman.”

“I know how to take care of myself,” he answered sullenly; “and flowers
are only flowers--just a little civility and nothing more.”

Mrs. Corbett’s shot about the aunt had gone home; and Blagdon actually
began to waver with respect to the resolution he had made in the
garden. He had a horror of being what is called ‘managed’--he who was
so successfully exploited by his sister and his friends--and if only
Lola could have let well alone, his idea of Letty Glyn might possibly
have faded; but as it was, she was continually chaffing about ‘his
little village maid,’ ‘his pretty schoolgirl, and her pinafores,’ and
Hugo Blagdon, was a man who could not stand being laughed at,--although
he keenly enjoyed seeing others turned into ridicule; so one evening at
supper, surrounded by a gay and mixed company, when Mrs. Corbett threw
her gibe across at him, stung to revolt and indiscretion, his temper
suddenly boiled over, and he exclaimed:

“Now look here, Lola, I’m just a bit tired of your chaff--this joke
is about played out. Miss Glyn,” and he glared round the circle, “is
the prettiest girl I have ever seen--bar none--and I am going to marry
her! Here,” he added, “fill your glasses--I call upon you to drink the
health of the future Mrs. Blagdon!”

Sensation. To borrow an expression from legal cases of a dramatic
character.

Mrs. Corbett was speechless; leaving her champagne untasted she
exclaimed:

“But, Hugo, of course you are joking--why she is only a child of
seventeen--twenty years younger than yourself! You must be out of your
senses. You,” and there was a challenge in her eye, “never _could_ be
such a fool!”

“Wait till you see,” he growled.

“Perhaps the lady won’t have you?” suggested one of his fair friends
with a malicious laugh.

“I don’t think there’s much doubt about _that_,” declared the Baron,
who was, however, consumed with alarm by this sudden announcement;
a bachelor Blagdon was one thing, a married man with a very pretty,
and no doubt influential wife, was another--his day was done! No more
hundred-pound cheques for him--no more big dressmaker’s bills for Mrs.
Corbett, no more long-tailed hunters for Lord Robbie; all the same,
there was no harm in hedging a bit. The day after the supper party
Blagdon abruptly announced that he was going home. He had taken a final
turn along the terrace alone under the stars, and assured himself, that
these harpies were getting a bit too much for him. They looked upon
him as their paymaster, and Lola was beyond all bounds--her bills were
really outrageous; she was too fond of cigarettes and champagne; he had
about enough of Monte Carlo, and decided to cut the whole blooming show.

Before leaving for England he went over to Cannes in order to interview
his mother, and inform her that he was about to get married.

“Married!” she exclaimed; “and to whom?” She stiffened all over as she
added, “I trust she is a reputable person?”

“_Rather._”

“Is it one of Lady Barron’s nieces?”

“No, no,” with a gesture of indignant scorn; “someone much younger and
prettier. You know Mrs. Fenchurch?”

“Very slightly,” she answered loftily.

“Well, it’s her niece.”

“What--that little Miss Glyn?”

“Ye-es; but she’s not so little, a good five foot seven.”

“But, my dear Hugo, I understand she’s only a schoolgirl.”

“She’s past seventeen--everyone doesn’t marry when they are
middle-aged” (an unfilial rap at his mother). “She is awfully pretty;
extraordinarily good-looking, I may say, and accomplished. I heard
her playing and singing at the Bonhams’, and I tell you she astonished
them.”

“And you astonish me! She is far too young. What you want, Hugo, is a
handsome, clever, well-bred girl, who has been about the world a bit,
who will be able to manage a big establishment, and take her proper
place in the County.”

“Thank you, I know that sort! but they wouldn’t suit me. I’m not
looking for a manageress, or a housekeeper, what I want is a beauty who
makes everyone turn round, and stare at her.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Blagdon, and she relapsed into silence. Hugo’s
choice might have been much worse. To tell the truth, she had always
anticipated that a lady from the boards of the Jollity Theatre would be
her future daughter-in-law.

“And when is it to be?” she asked at last.

“I am going straight home now to propose for her. I’ll get it fixed
up as soon as the trousseau is in hand. I’d like to spend May on the
Italian lakes.”

“You seem pretty sure of her, my dear Hugo.”

“I’m sure of her aunt, and that comes to the same thing; the girl has
never been allowed to have a will of her own, and wouldn’t say boo to a
goose.”

“I shouldn’t have thought that was your style. However, I am thankful
that your future wife will be a _lady_. She has good blood in her
veins, and no doubt will develop; the one great drawback in my opinion
is, that she is too young.”

“Well, there’s something in that, you know,” he replied. “She has no
past--hasn’t had time to have one.”

“No, and most of your lady friends have not one--but half a dozen.”

“I suppose you won’t be home before June?” ignoring this thrust.

“Oh, I will return for the wedding, of course. A daughter-in-law is an
important interest. You will let me hear how things go, won’t you?”

“Yes, and I must be off now, as I’m leaving by the evening train.
Good-bye, old lady,” and he touched her forehead with his lips, stepped
out into the verandah, and so disappeared.

Precisely a fortnight later, Mrs. Blagdon received the following
telegram:

“All settled, date May 20th, Hugo.”



CHAPTER XII


The news in the telegram was authentic. Blagdon’s determination and her
aunt’s strong support, had overborne Letty’s reluctance, and almost
in spite of herself, she was about to make what is called ‘a great
match.’ When the suitor appeared at The Holt, and laid his intentions
and hopes before Mrs. Fenchurch, it was with difficulty that the lady
could conceal her satisfaction. With suppressed emotion, she assured
her would-be nephew, that he had her own and her husband’s warmest
goodwill: to which he rejoined with a nonchalant laugh:

“Oh yes--of course--that’s all right; but what about Miss Glyn?”

“Letty is in absolute ignorance of her conquest,” replied the lady with
measured emphasis. “She is only seventeen, very, very shy and innocent;
if you startle or frighten her, nothing on earth would induce her to
marry you. She is not worldly in any sense, and all the splendid fairy
tale things you can bestow, will not appeal to her, as they would to
other girls.”

Blagdon made no reply; he was standing with his back to the fire,
looking down thoughtfully on his irreproachable boots. Suddenly he
raised his eyes and fixed them on his companion, with an expression of
insolent incredulity.

“I think with a horse and a dog of her own, some pretty frocks and a
few young friends, Letty would be contented and happy,” she continued
with composure. “Be very quiet with her at first, and allow the idea to
dawn upon her by degrees. I mean, the idea of becoming your wife.”

“How do you mean, dawn?”

“Well, if I may make a suggestion, suppose you put up at Ridgefield
and ride over to lunch occasionally; I have a quiet mare I can lend
Letty--my husband will do gooseberry--do you see?”

“I _see_,” he nodded, “all right. Yes I’ll take your tip. But look
here, Mrs. Fenchurch, don’t let us have a long engagement, and all that
sort of tomfoolery!”

“No, no, certainly not; happy is the wooing that’s not long a-doing,”
she quoted. “And now I’ll send Letty to talk to you, and go and see if
they are bringing in tea.”

Blagdon accepted the chaperon’s advice, assuring himself that Mrs.
Fen was a clever woman, she should run _this_ part of the show; and
accordingly, on various pretexts, he was to be seen at The Holt, two or
three times a week.

He was really fond of the little girl. What colouring! what hair! what
lovely, innocent eyes! The magic quality of her youth and freshness was
indescribably piquant to his jaded taste.

It was a fact that Letty--ever sensitive to her surroundings--had in
the present genial atmosphere unfolded like an exquisite flower. Her
aunt was a puzzle, she was changed, and had become so thoughtful and
indulgent, and had actually lent her a beautiful mare called ‘Mouse,’
and every day, wet or fine, she and her uncle openly and happily
enjoyed long rides and long, confidential conversations. Occasionally
these rides and conversations were shared by Mr. Blagdon, who would
drop in to lunch and join the party. Exercise and April sunshine,
brought smiles and radiance into the girl’s face, and Blagdon was
astonished to discover how animated and gay Miss Glyn could be. How
she and her uncle chaffed one another; how many jokes they shared.
With respect to himself, her manner was guarded--not to say distant; a
supreme indifference to his wealth and importance, enhanced her value
tenfold. Supposing--chilling thought--that in spite of his boastful
confidence, sweet seventeen were to refuse him?

Pricked by this apprehension, Blagdon took, for him, infinite pains
to please, and tuned his personality in a lower key, more in harmony
with that of his companion; and exhibited the best side of his
character--generosity, a love of animals, a certain brusque sincerity.
He looked his best in the saddle, was a bold and admirable horseman,
and Miss Glyn began to like him. He had made her a present of a fox
terrier, and was so good-natured, and not at all grand _now_.

By sundry subtle indications, half a word, a quick glance,
Letty gathered that her new friend was _not_ one of her aunt’s
disciples--indeed, rather the reverse! Here was one strong, if secret,
bond between them, a rooted dislike of the same individual: and on this
slender foundation, did Letty Glyn venture to build her home!

At first, when ‘the idea’ presented itself to her mind--the idea, that
Mr. Blagdon wished to marry her--she thrust it from her in dismay. This
was not the husband she looked for, when, with her face buried in the
counterpane, she had made to herself a sobbing, smothered, vow. And
yet, whispered the persistent ‘idea,’ he was kind, and he was strong;
he would give her a home of her own, and protect her from Aunt Dorothy!
And Aunt Dorothy was so bent upon this marriage. The girl shivered as
she thought of her future, if her tyrant were disappointed! Poor Uncle
Tom did not count; truth held before her, the remorseless fact, that
she had to choose between her aunt, and Mr. Blagdon--Which was it to be?

Naturally Mrs. Fenchurch had enlarged upon Blagdon’s position and
wealth; when she spoke of Sharsley and its splendours she became
positively eloquent.

“The Scrope heirlooms, my dear child, are worth a fortune, and beyond
the reach of American dollars. Old Scrope made them over with the
place; the miniatures are marvellous, and there are two Nankin jars
there that a Chinaman would worship on his knees! If Hugo asks you to
marry him, Letty, you will be the luckiest girl in England! Has he
said anything?” she enquired after a moment’s silence.

“No,” faltered the victim, with scarlet cheeks. “Nothing.”

“_What?_” The question was like a bullet.

“But I--I--I think he wishes to, Aunt Dorothy.”

“Then let him speak, for Heaven’s sake!” urged Mrs. Fenchurch with
authoritative emphasis.

“Do remember, my dear, that you have only your little pension, and
if anything were to happen to your uncle,” she paused expressively,
leaving the question to be answered by the imagination of her companion.

One morning shortly after this conversation, Letty found herself in the
drawing-room alone with Blagdon, and he spoke.

“Look here, Miss Glyn,” he began abruptly, “I’m no good at beating
about the bush.”

Letty glanced up at him interrogatively. She was sitting in the window,
knitting golf stockings for her uncle.

“You can bet it’s not to see your aunt I’ve been coming over here, eh?
It’s to see _you_!”

Letty looked down: her fingers were shaking visibly.

“I am older than you, and all that sort of thing,” he continued airily;
“but I’m not a bad sort, as my sister can tell you, and I want to know
if you will marry me. Come now, don’t turn away like that, if it’s
going to be ‘yes.’ Give me your hand.”

Suddenly she heard her aunt’s voice in the hall; it sounded unusually
sharp, and dictatorial, and in a panic of terror, Letty extended
a cold, limp little hand, on which Blagdon instantly imprinted a
lingering, and burning kiss.

Then the door-handle turned noisily to admit Mrs. Fenchurch, and her
newly pledged niece rose hastily to her feet, and all but ran out of
the room.

Dorothy Fenchurch sat late that night, writing her great news on her
best crested paper, to all her most important correspondents. She
and Hugo, as she now called him, had had a talk: the wedding could
take place soon--there was really nothing to wait for. Tom Fenchurch
was, of course, brought into the consultation: he had lately begun
to think that Blagdon was not such a bad sort, and that Letty might
make something of him, after all--though down in his heart he did not
approve of the match; but who could withstand Dorothy? Now, as he took
part in and listened to this discussion, his contribution consisted of
the words, repeated over and over again:

“Too young, too young; the child is too young; much too young.” But it
was as the voice of one crying in a wilderness, Tom Fenchurch was in
the minority, the vote for an early wedding was easily carried, and a
notice to _The Morning Post_ to that effect, clinched the business.

Telegrams and letters poured in upon clever Mrs. Fen: congratulating
her upon this, her most glorious achievement; not only was she the best
housekeeper, the best gardener, the best judge of old furniture in the
land, she had now crowned all her successes by marrying her niece to
the greatest _parti_ in the County!

Naturally there were some spiteful and envious detractors, and one
or two disappointed matrons shook their heads, and confided to their
friends that, “They were _sorry_ for the poor little girl.”

The trousseau engrossed a good deal of time. Mrs. Fenchurch and her
niece made many trips to London for shopping and fittings--fashionable
frocks, far, far beyond the ability, but not the ambition, of Mrs. Cope.

Owing to these absences, and Blagdon’s own engagements, the happy
pair did not see much of one another. Once or twice he came over and
stayed at The Holt for a week-end, bringing wonderful offerings for his
fiancée. He was absurdly proud of Letty, but surprisingly discreet and
thoughtful. Colonel Tom assured his quaking heart, that the match might
turn out all right after all! His wife had no fears.

Letty noticed, with grateful surprise, how extremely kind and friendly
everyone had become; people to whom she was almost a stranger, and
various far-away and important visitors, came to The Holt, talked to
her with unaffected interest, and gazed at her curiously. One and all,
offered their warmest congratulations, and declared that they would
call as soon as ever she was settled at Sharsley.

But Mrs. Hesketh was discontented--her normal attitude--she refused to
be reasoned with, overpowered with grandeur or talked down. Her own
married life had not been happy, and the first time she was alone with
Letty she said:

“My dear child, of course I congratulate you, and I wish you all
happiness; but have you thoroughly made up your mind? You do not know
the world yet; you have no idea what marriage means; and you are so
diffident, and unassertive. I think that the post of wife to Mr.
Blagdon is too _big_ for you!”

“I’m afraid in some ways it is,” she assented. “I am not accustomed to
money. The most I have ever had to spend as I chose, was the ten pounds
Uncle Tom gave me last Christmas. Still, I think Mr. Blagdon and I will
get on together; he is so kind, he brings me the most lovely flowers
and jewels, and says that once I am married to him, I shall do exactly
as I please.”

“I wonder what you will please to do?”

“I will try to please _him_, and set about learning ever so many
things--to ride well--to talk amusingly--and----”

“It is not so easy to ride well, and talk amusingly,” Mrs. Hesketh
quickly interposed. “Such things come by nature. Now shall I give you
a little advice? Do not make confidantes of anyone in a hurry--be
yourself, and keep to yourself till you know a little more of life and
do not expect too much; remember that marriage is a blessing to few, a
curse to many, and a great uncertainty to all.”

Letty broke into a merry laugh.

“Well, you _are_ a Job’s comforter!”

“Never _over_-exert yourself to please; your husband’s imagination may
endow you with great gifts.”

“And when I am found to be merely a silly, inexperienced little chit of
seventeen?”

“Oh, experience will come fast enough. I want you to promise me one
thing.”

“I will promise you anything you like,” said Letty recklessly.

“Then if you are in any trouble or difficulty come to _me_--whatever
you tell me, will be sacred, and as an old stager, if I may call myself
so, I can advise you what to do, and what not to do.”

“I can promise you this with all my heart, and I would a thousand
times rather come to you than to Aunt Dorothy,” and her delicate lips
trembled. “She has always been so cold to me.”

“Well, at any rate, she is immensely proud of you now, my dear. You
know she is a typical, strong-willed sort of person, who lies awake at
night thinking of what is for everyone’s good. She cannot concentrate
on _one_ individual.”

“Yes, and at present she is thinking day and night about the wedding
preparations: Uncle has given two hundred pounds to spend on my
trousseau, and aunt is choosing it; but I have been allowed to have a
say in my wedding dress. I’m sure I don’t know how we shall squeeze all
the congregation into the church.”

“You have seen your mother-in-law, have you not?”

“I spent a day with her in London--she is rather a formidable old
lady with a long, white face, a straight back, and beautiful hands.
I cannot imagine her being Hugo’s mother--she is so unlike him, but I
feel sure that she means to be kind: she gave me a most beautiful lace
veil, and a set of opals and diamonds, and by and by, when we return
from the honeymoon, she is coming down to stay with us. Hugo says that
I’m bound to like her in time--and that her bark is worse than her
bite.”

On her way from Oldcourt, Letty called to see her friend, the Rector’s
wife. Mrs. Denton had received that morning a letter from her nephew
Lancelot--who was still stationed at Aldershot--which said:

  “What is this that I hear about Miss Glyn and Blagdon? Is it true
  that they are _engaged_? Oh, my dear aunt, I believe that Miss Glyn
  is fond of you, and if you could possibly give her a word of warning,
  it would save her from the most frightful leap in the dark a girl has
  ever taken. Blagdon will tire of her within six months, and bully
  her for the rest of his days. People at home don’t know the sort of
  fellow he is elsewhere, and it is shameful for the Fenchurchs to
  allow him to marry their niece. I know Mrs. Fen; she will enjoy the
  glory of a great match, and that poor little girl will be led like a
  lamb to the slaughter. Can’t _you_ do something? You will think I’m
  gone off my chump, and am writing like a raving idiot, but I feel
  crazy, and it is no secret to you, dear, clear-sighted auntie, that
  I’m awfully fond of Letty myself. It’s bad enough that she should
  marry at all--a regular facer for me--but that she should marry this
  ruffian, is too awful!”

When the bride-elect, all smiles and blushes, ran in to tell Mrs.
Denton about the kind letters, and the lovely presents, she had
received, and how her train was to be of white satin, and she was to
have two pages, the poor lady had this explosive missive under her
pillow. Yet she dare not allude to it; her courage failed her, she
could not utter the necessary word. Already she had thrown cold water
on one love affair, and how was she to defy Mrs. Fenchurch, and dash
her splendid project to the ground? She only said:

“Dear Letty, you are so young to marry! I do wish you could have waited
a year, and seen a little more of the world.” There were tears in her
eyes, as she added: “The great thing that is necessary, at any rate
during the first year of married life, is forbearance. Everyone is
on their best behaviour during their engagement, and afterwards--so
many little things come out--things that surprise one. I wonder if you
realise the solemn vow, ‘Till death us do part,’ marriage is such a
serious step.”

“But it cannot be anything so very dreadful,” objected Letty. “I know
so many married people, and they don’t look a bit different to the rest
of the world.”

“Well, dear child, I pray that you may be truly happy in your new home,
and remember, you will always have a loving friend in me.”

What did these two ladies, Mrs. Denton and Mrs. Hesketh, mean by
impressing upon her the fact, that they were her friends? Why did
Mrs. Denton cry? What could happen? Once or twice a certain trembling
shook the bride-elect; a nervousness, in the face of the unknown; but
this was a mere passing tremor: and crafty and vigilant Mrs. Fenchurch
contrived, that Letty was left little time for solitude or reflection.

Three weeks later the wedding took place. It was a beautiful May day,
the whole village was _en fête_, the bride looked lovely--this was
the truth, no mere conventional statement; the bride’s aunt wore blue
velvet, bird of paradise plumes, and an expression of radiant triumph.
Everything went off with great éclat, and a carriage with four horses
whirled away the happy pair, upon the first stage of their honeymoon.



CHAPTER XIII


The honeymoon--a not uncommon experience--proved more or less of a
disappointment to the wedded pair. The bride, dazed and confounded by
her new status, and the change from a nobody to a personage, was shy
and silent, and felt herself to be a mere lay figure in the hands of
her maid--a sour-faced, phlegmatic person with an inflated idea of her
own importance, and more or less incompetent.

Tucker had been engaged by Mrs. Fenchurch, to whom she was warmly
recommended by an acquaintance; a deceitful lady who was only too
delighted to be rid of her encumbrance.

The trousseau--also selected by Mrs. Fenchurch--was even less
satisfactory than the maid; it was old-fashioned and dowdy; more
suitable to a matron of fifty, than a girl of seventeen.

Unfortunately the weather on the Blue Lakes was wet, and it is pitiful
to relate that after a fortnight his bride had begun to bore Blagdon;
already he was tired of his experiment, Letty was so hopelessly young,
timid, and ignorant; they had hardly any interests in common, and there
was a difference of twenty long years yawning between their ages.
Blagdon’s experience of life being wide and highly illustrated, whilst
the girl had seen nothing of the world, beyond a school-room, and The
Holt.

As for her beauty, here again was a grievance! The bride could not
endure the admiration of her fellow guests; but shrank into corners,
disappeared into lobbies, or slinked away to the seclusion of her
private sitting-room. Her husband’s vast fortune made no appeal to
Letty; lavish outlay of money, gorgeous suites of apartments, reserved
railway carriages, and a retinue of servants, merely filled her with
embarrassment and alarm, and she went in abject terror of her maid;
Mrs. Blagdon was a tame, shrinking, remote sort of creature, who
took nothing on herself, and yielded her husband a sort of childish
and pathetic obedience. Hugo was naturally something of a bully, and
the more the girl submitted to his orders and caprices, the more he
encroached.

The happy pair stayed at Caddenabia on Como, and then moved on to
Baveno on Maggiore; here they boated, went for drives, and enjoyed
their _tête-à-tête_ meals in solitary dignity, and here, alas! the
sole company of his wife palled upon Blagdon. What topics had they
in common? How could he talk to a girl who had never been to a play,
or to a race meeting, had never read a naughty book, or heard even a
whisper of notorious scandals? He soon found his way to the billiard
and smoking-rooms, and during two hopelessly wet days, when there was
a lack of English papers and appreciative society, his bad humour,
undisguised and unashamed, was vented on his valet and Letty. To the
hardened servant, a rating was as the proverbial water running off a
duck’s back! but to the unaccustomed and trembling girl, it proved a
terrible awakening. One evening, the condescending Miss Tucker was
surprised to find her mistress crouched at her bedroom window the
impersonation of misery and despair. “So they had had a falling out
already! Well, it _was_ early days.”

In spite of prolonged bathing of her eyes, and a justifiable amount
of powder, there were still traces of recent trouble when the bride
appeared at dinner. Fortunately the newspapers had arrived, and
during the meal her husband--to the astonishment of polite Italian
waiters--read them at intervals between the courses; whilst his
companion sat opposite, with dry lips, and a deadly sickness at her
heart.

The following morning Blagdon abruptly announced that “he had had
enough of loafing, and it was time to set their faces towards home.”
On their way thither, they stopped in Paris, and put up at the Hôtel
Riche, and here, to Hugo’s joy, he encountered Sir Billy and Lady
Slater, Mrs. Freddy Corbett, and Lord Robbie; a loud-voiced, cheery
quartette, who were returning tardily from Monte Carlo. He presented
them to his wife, and subsequently entertained them at a magnificent
dinner, at which the bride presided.

Poor girl! she was hopelessly out of her element; although she did her
utmost to conceal her embarrassment, and talk and identify herself with
these, her first guests. For their part, the company were dumbfounded
by her youth and simplicity, her shyness, and pathetic ignorance of
Life.

Oh, she was pretty enough, they agreed; there was no mistake about her
looks and air of breeding; but she was not the ‘right sort of wife for
Blag!’ No, he had backed the wrong one this time, “made a bad cast,”
said Lord Robbie to himself, and as he glanced from the host to the
hostess, he seemed already to catch sight of an impending disaster.

Somehow the girl’s clothes were not right, her hair was badly dressed;
what a contrast to Lola Corbett, in her marvellous French frock, with
her glittering ornaments, and shameless shoulders. Lola was in great
form: talking incessantly, gay, provoking, challenging. Of course,
_she_ was made up: but she took the centre of the stage, and beside her
brilliance and vivacity the timid bride looked positively washed out,
and dowdy.

The hostess failed to understand most of the good stories, chaff, and
repartee that circulated with the ’84 champagne. She felt hopelessly
stupid and bewildered, when the company roared with laughter, and
hammered and thumped on the table--for the point of the anecdote, or
saying, had generally eluded her altogether. Once, an unmistakably
plain tale brought a flood of scarlet into her face, and she looked
so startled and so shocked, that a not easily embarrassed party felt
momentarily abashed.

Mrs. Blagdon did not care for champagne, she preferred lemonade! had
never been to a music-hall, or smoked in her life. This much Lord
Robbie gathered, as they rose and led the way into the grand lounge,
with its dazzling illuminations, mighty palms, and seductive seats; its
admirable orchestra and festive company.

Here, the party soon discovered a comfortable corner, and whilst the
men selected cigars and liqueurs and discussed an important handicap,
the two lady guests sank into deep fauteuils--one on either side of
their hostess, and began, with clever probing questions, to examine
her respecting her tour, her plans, her tastes, whilst all the time
they surveyed her with hard and critical eyes. Nothing escaped their
inspection, from the little mean aigrette in her ill-dressed hair, to
the tip of her satin shoe.

Round her slender throat was a diamond collet, its emerald pendants
presenting a charming contrast with a snow-white neck. Mrs. Corbett
instantly recognised her long and vainly coveted ornament, and her
glance gleamed. So here, was the Monte Carlo necklace, by rights her
possession, bestowed on this little milk-and-water school miss! and she
instantly made up her mind to retrieve the treasure, on an appropriate
opportunity.

And if her husband’s friends were disappointed in his bride, it was
no less true, that they had made an unpleasant impression on her. She
shrank in secret consternation from the men’s bold glances, questioning
eyes, and reckless talk; and from these two painted women--with their
insufferable patronage, and familiarity.

“Of course, we must call you Letty,” had been one of Lady Slater’s
first announcements. “I am Tatty, Mrs. Corbett is Lola. You see we are
such _very_ old pals of your husband’s, we couldn’t call him Hugo, and
you Mrs. Blagdon, could we?”

What strange eyes they had! blacked all round, and so piercing and
defiant; and how they reeked of some heavy Oriental perfume. As for
their splendid gowns, it made Letty nervous to contemplate the fragile
shoulder straps, that held the corsage from slipping into space.

Mrs. Corbett wore a wonderful flame-coloured garment, touched with
glimpses of gold tissue, and pale blue chiffon; a diamond bow sparkled
in her dark hair, and a long chain of pearls dangled to her waist. Lady
Slater affected a more massive style; lounging in a Bergére, with a
cigarette between her lips and her knees crossed, she gave a generous
exhibition of pink silk stocking, with black ‘clocks’ and a pair of
fairly large gold shoes. There had been a good deal of chaff about Lady
Slater’s stockings; it appeared that she had recently won a dozen pair,
in a bet with Lord Robbie.

Turning to Letty she explained:

“The bet was about you, my dear! though I’m not going to tell you what
it _was_,” and she gave a loud and disconcerting ‘Ha! ha! ha!’

“But of course you’ll tell _me_, Tatty,” began Mrs. Corbett. “Good
Lord! what’s this?” and she sat erect. “Upon my word! Do you see?”

They looked; a tall, bold, amazingly handsome woman had entered,
accompanied by two men; and paused in dramatic prominence as if to
challenge attention. The effect was arresting. This new arrival was
ablaze with diamonds--an audacious nudity but partly concealed by
ropes of pearls. Her dress was exactly similar to the one worn by Mrs.
Corbett.

“My hat!” exclaimed Lord Robbie.

“Who is she?” whispered Letty.

“Amora, the actress, the most notorious woman in Paris. I say, Lola,”
turning to her with a grin, “here’s your _twin_!”

At this moment, Amora, impersonation of wealth and wickedness, swept
by, casting as she passed, a glance of withering scorn upon her
duplicate; their eyes met with a shock, and blazed as two flames.

“Tartare told me on her oath that mine was the exclusive model,” began
Mrs. Corbett, a little breathlessly, as soon as she had recovered
her composure. She still looked alarmingly furious as she added, “I
paid her three thousand francs for this rag, and she has gone and
made a copy for that devil!” In her excitement she had raised her
voice--people were staring; as Blagdon and Sir Billy turned about, she
paused, and muttered to herself in a manner that boded ill for Madame
Tartare!

Lady Slater now rose and beckoned to Hugo.

“Come over to this settee,” she said; “there is just room for two
little people--and have a flirtation with _me_.”

Blagdon assented obediently, and as she seated herself she continued:

“It was only an excuse to tell you that I think your little girl is
just too sweet for anything!”

He nodded with stolid complacency.

“But she wants a lot of what we sporting folk call ‘handling.’ She’s a
bit nervous at the post--and a shocking bad starter.”

Again Blagdon nodded, but on this occasion without complacence.

“The child has lovely eyes--eyes like some beautiful wild filly, that
is ready to bolt. She is as pretty as a picture, but she is too young!
My dear man, why doesn’t she get a woman who can do her hair? And where
_did_ she pick up those early Victorian garments? She doesn’t give
herself half a chance!”

Blagdon glared into the artistically painted face of his companion.

“As you say, she is too young,” he growled savagely; “give her time--in
twenty years she’ll be up to all the tricks of the trade!”

Hugo was secretly furious with his old associates; they had not shown
half enough enthusiasm; with regard to his bride, their congratulations
had been tepid. He had expected them to figuratively prostrate
themselves, and worship the girl he had delighted to honour; and as for
the outer world, he anticipated that they would crane their necks, or
even mount on chairs (as in the case of a renowned beauty) in order to
catch sight of the famous Mrs. Blagdon!

He stared over at Letty, seated a little aloof from Lola and Lord
Robbie,--who had now been joined by two vivacious ladies, and a man
resembling a brigand chief. Yes, she certainly _was_ a bit out of the
picture, among these well-dressed, well-corseted, animated women;
there was no liqueur glass by her, no cigarette between her lips, her
hands were tightly clasped in her lap, and she looked for all her
lovely face, forlorn and badly dressed,--the picture of conscious
insignificance. Her attitude, too, not lounging in careless ease, but
cramped up, with her feet tucked under her chair, suggested a fear
of mice. There were no mice in this magnificent lounge. The truth he
could divine. Letty was afraid of her guests--a pretty condition for a
hostess!

Lady Slater’s criticisms were not thrown away; for the following day,
the amazed and indignant Tucker received her wages and her _congé_.
Mrs. Corbett had, for her part, kindly undertaken to find a good French
maid, also to help Letty to select several really fashionable hats and
gowns.

“For goodness’ sake get her something she can be seen in,” urged
Blagdon; “frocks that will make all the neighbours open their eyes--_le
dernier cri_--and that sort of thing, real smart. Money no object!”

As the atelier of Madame Tartare was close to their hotel, the two
ladies proceeded thither on foot. They were received by a dignified
man-servant, and conducted up a great staircase into a lofty suite of
rooms, carpeted with moss-green Axminster, and lined with long mirrors
and presses. After a moment’s delay, Madame appeared, a middle-aged
woman with a clever face and a marvellously fitting gown: all gracious
exclamations and gestures of welcome, until she realised that her chère
Madame Corbett had come not in peace, but in war!

As Letty listened to her companion’s denunciations, she felt terrified;
never had she assisted at such a scene, or beheld anyone make such an
absolute surrender to fury. What a frantic temper, who could withstand
it? How could anyone cope with such violent vituperation, such frenzied
threats? She felt half inclined to creep out of sight, and hide herself
in one of the great wardrobes.

Meanwhile Mrs. Corbett figuratively brandishing the copied gown, raged
and stormed: in voluble French she rent the discomfited dressmaker, who
presently finding spirit and speech, in ten times more fluent language,
poured forth her plausible apologies. The uproar was such, that
milliners and _mannequins_ assembled at a discreet distance, in order
to hear and to see.

“_Tiens! c’était Madame Cor--bett--quelle femme!_”

After a time the battle waned, the fury of the customer abated. She had
gained her point, the _gown was to be taken back_!

Deceitful Tartare, believing Madame had departed for England, had
ventured to make several copies of what was termed “La Robe Odalisque.”

When peace was proclaimed, having recovered breath and composure,
the victor commanded a display of hats and gowns; these were promptly
and politely exhibited, and three costumes were selected by Mrs.
Corbett--whose taste was for the flamboyant and bizarre. She also set
aside several hats and a tea-gown; and before Letty could protest,
or interfere, she found herself fitted out in what ecstatic Madame
declared to be ‘_tous ce qu’il y a de plus ravissante et plus chic!_’
and added that as the young lady had ‘a stock figure,’ all the robes
would be ready in a few hours.

Now that his wife was provided with a suitable maid, and smart outfit,
Blagdon saw no reason to postpone his journey, and he and Letty
(wearing a most amazing toque) took their departure for London.

As the train moved away from the platform of ‘Le Nord,’ Lady Slater
turned to her companion, and repeated:

“See us at Sharsley for the hunting--you _bet_ he will! My dear Lola,
you have made the poor child a figure of fun--that toque is the sort of
thing a lunatic would make--and wear!”

“Well, yes, it’s a little _outré_--one of Tartare’s latest,” and she
laughed maliciously.

“I wonder Letty did not kick!”

“Oh, she’s only a child--a simpleton!”

“And looks pretty in anything--that’s the _worst_ of her, eh?”

“Her looks are a matter of opinion,” declared Mrs. Corbett stiffly.
“I can’t say that _I_ admire chocolate-box profiles; and I can tell
you one thing--though you may have seen it for yourself, my clever
Tatty--our beloved Blag is _deadly_ sick of the girl already.”

“Ah, well, poor thing, I can’t help feeling sorry for her; she’s too
heavily handicapped.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Mrs. Corbett, “she’s out of her place altogether. She
ought to have married an evangelical curate.”

“Not up to form, eh?” suggested her ladyship, then muttered, “and
anyway, _you_ intend to ride her off the course,” and with this
prudently suppressed opinion, she led the way out of the station.



CHAPTER XIV


On arrival in London the newly married couple established themselves
at Claridge’s; Blagdon accompanied his wife to the Opera and to
Hurlingham, gave smart dinners, and introduced her to his friends; many
of his mother’s connections called upon her, and prepared to entertain
them; but the bride suddenly became indisposed, was confined to her
room, and totally unpresentable. The unfortunate victim had been seized
upon by that contemptible ailment known as the mumps.

At last Mr. and Mrs. Blagdon appeared at Sharsley, and met with a
flattering reception. There were speeches, a deputation, arches in
the village, and a troop of the local yeomanry escorted them from the
station. Sharsley Court, the ancestral home of the Scropes (who with
various family vicissitudes had lived there since the reign of Henry
VIII), was a noble Tudor mansion, wisely enlarged by various owners,
who were proud of its fame. Sharsley village lay just outside its
beautiful old iron gates; the ancient, irregular houses collected at
either side of a wide street, or square, were of rusty red brick, or
black and white. A venerable inn, furnished with wonderful treasures,
attracted no attention,--as the curio-collecting age had not yet
dawned, and many valuable bits to be found in the village and
neighbourhood were not merely neglected, but actually despised. At
the opposite end, facing the gates of the Court, stood the church, a
late Norman, and near it, sheltered by giant elm trees, was a fine old
Jacobean Rectory.

Sharsley was four miles from a market town, seven from a railway, and
in those pro-motor days, a good deal isolated and out of touch with the
busy roaring world. The Court itself had been built, as was the fashion
in old times, within a few hundred yards from the entrance,--similar
to Hatfield and Harwicke,--instead of being situated in the midst of a
vast park; but the park existed, stretching far away on three sides,
and surrounded by a high wall.

Here and there this wall was broken by a space filled in with iron
railings, in order to give the residents a more extended prospect,
and envious passers-by could, if they so pleased, from some of these
openings, enjoy an uninterrupted view of the mansion, with its great
terraced front. Later on, many wayfarers would pause to stare at a
small, solitary figure slowly pacing to and fro, to and fro, to and
fro, for all the world like a wild thing in a cage. It was the young
wife.

       *       *       *       *       *

But we are travelling too fast; the young wife has barely crossed the
threshold of her new home. To her, it looked almost formidable, so
cold and forbidding, the great suite of reception rooms, the palatial
staircase, the circle of silent, impassive servants, all struck terror
into her youthful heart.

However it was midsummer, and the gardens and grounds--recently put
in order--were at their best, the sun was shining, and she was not
yet eighteen. By degrees, the new mistress found her way through her
dominions. She had an interview with Mrs. Bates, the housekeeper, gave
a few orders respecting the arrangement of her own boudoir, unpacked
the wedding presents, the little odds and ends they had collected
abroad, and arranged flowers and plants with such notable success, that
her lord and master grudgingly exclaimed:

“Well, anyway, there is _one_ thing you can do, Letty--you can make a
room look all right. I wish you could do the same for yourself. Can’t
you get that woman to fix you up like other people? And for God’s sake
don’t let me ever see that blue garment again!”

The blue dress was one of the trousseau selected by Mrs.
Fenchurch,--who liked bright colours, heavy materials, and lots of
trimming.

“Would you rather that I wore white, Hugo?” she asked with a pale
propitiatory smile.

“Oh, well--wear what you like,” he rejoined impatiently, “only don’t
look a hideous dowdy--and don’t bother _me_.”

And they had only been married six weeks.

“My mother is coming down, and she,” producing a letter, “suggests
a family house-party. These Scropes are all for family and
connections--such rot! Here’s what she says--um--um--um: ‘Give Letty a
good start.’ Ha! ha! ‘My cousin Louisa Calthorpe and Calthorpe’--he’s
an old stick-in-the-mud, and lives the other end of the County--‘Lord
and Lady Belford if at home; I’m sure they’d go for a couple of nights;
the Bishop, and your cousin Agatha Mostyn.’ The Bishop is as starched
as they make ’em, and rampant on divorce and gambling, for all his
cordial manner. ‘Cyril Vernon and Lady Hilda.’ He’s our M.F.H.--not a
bad sort--but the hunt horses are a scandal; he buys all sorts of old
crocks only fit for the kennel. ‘Harding Grant, the County Member, and
his wife.’ He’s a dull dog, always talking of the ‘House.’ That’s the
lot--they are mostly connections. How many--ten, eh? My mother and her
companion, Miss Hope, twelve. The house has forty-five bedrooms, and
we may as well fill some more. I suppose I must ask the Fenchurchs,
eh? From Friday till Monday, so that they can’t stay on. By George, I
bar your aunt! I’ll never forget her on the wedding day. You’d think
she was going to be married herself. The Calthorpe’s son, a naval man,
is at home, and I believe the Bishop has a daughter. We’d better stick
them in, and as for neighbours, the Rectory can come.”

“And your sister?” suggested Letty.

“Oh Lord, no! This sort of party would not be her form. Con would give
them fits, and they would bore her stiff! This is the duty lot, that’s
to give you a start, eh! Most of them have family prayers, and go to
bed at ten o’clock. Later, I’ll have my own pals down, and they will
keep the place lively. My mother’s set are infernally dull.”

This was not an auspicious preparation, for a nervous bride, and her
first house-party.

“Now look here, don’t _you_ attempt to do anything,” he continued
authoritatively; “leave all to Bates, the housekeeper. She’s got to
run the establishment, that’s her job and what she’s paid for--she
manages the servants, and engages and dismisses them, orders the meals,
pays the tradespeople--so you have absolutely nothing to do but to sit
tight, and make yourself agreeable.”

The guests duly arrived; arrangements for their reception were
complete, the best state bedrooms were open, the choicest greenhouse
flowers were brought into the house, the silver service was displayed,
everything was perfectly done, there was no hitch.

Mrs. Fenchurch, brimming over with importance and curiosity, embraced
her dearest Letty with well-assumed effusion. The Dowager Mrs. Blagdon
merely gave her daughter-in-law a frozen kiss, and requested to be
conducted to her room.

The company assembled that night in the white drawing-room, was
composed of the ‘dull’ people, with reposeful manners, who knew one
another more or less intimately; several were closely related, and the
women called one another by their Christian names. There was no loud,
hilarious laughing, no rouge, no cigarette cases; the Dowager Mrs.
Blagdon was majestic in velvet and old lace, Mrs. Fenchurch wore a
hideous green costume, Lady Gaythorne, a too well-known black brocade.
The most conspicuous figure on the occasion was the hostess; by her
husband’s commands she was magnificent, amazing, in one of Tartare’s
most startling gowns; a vivid sulphur, shaded to orange, half veiled
in silver gauze, and here and there deepened with black. It had the
effect that Blagdon desired and made everyone in the room open their
eyes. There was no question of its expense and execution--but it was
theatrical. Yes, that was how the guests spoke of it, ‘theatrical!’--a
robe more suitable to the emancipated wife in a big society play, a
_divorcée’s_ robe, in which to trail the stage, and storm and scoff,
and vow and weep, than to a young girl-bride in her own drawing-room.

Letty wore, also, the splendid Blagdon diamonds, and these, that would
have been proper enough with her wedding gown, added just the required
touch of lawless extravagance to her appearance.

Beside the house-party, and a smart young Guardsman, there were three
guests from the village: the Reverend Adrian Lumley, Frances his
daughter and Lancelot his son. The Rector was a white-haired man of
sixty, handsome, erect, and dignified. For years he had been an army
chaplain in India, now he shepherded a country flock. He and Lord
Gaythorne were old Harrovians, and had a good deal to say to one
another; the Bishop and the Dowager Mrs. Blagdon, discussed a London
Mission, and the M.F.H. a May fox.

The dinner was excellent, and went off with great decorum, but it
was prodigiously dull. There was a little talk of golf, of a local
engagement, the prospects of grouse, a recent by-election, and a
threatened bazaar.

Mrs. Fenchurch glanced up and down the table with unconcealed pride.
The guests were all the ‘best people,’ no small fry; the silver
candelabra and cups were superb, the flowers exquisite, the ménu
everything a ménu should be. Round about her, waited many silent and
efficient servants, and there at the head of the table in gorgeous
apparel, and blazing jewels, sat little Letty, her niece by marriage.

This dazzling vision established the lady more firmly than ever in
the belief in her own infallibility; for this position, and all her
other mercies, Letty had to thank _her_; and she drank off a glass of
champagne to her own good health.

It struck young Lumley that the bride, for all her magnificence, did
not appear to be in particularly radiant spirits--that from time to
time she cast timid and deprecating glances towards the master of the
house; her smiles were rare, and her face wore a curious blighted look,
and had lost something of the round, fresh touch of happy youth.

She talked, yet appeared afraid to utter a word; once he had
intercepted a scowl that Mr. Blagdon had cast at the lower end of the
table, and during a pause he had called out in a harsh, dominating
voice:

“I say, what a noise you are all making down there. What a jovial,
merry party! I’m glad my wife is so amusin’.”

His wife became pink, and then in halting sentences, began to tell Lord
Gaythorne and the Bishop, her immediate neighbours, some little tales
respecting their recent excursions and experiences. Having secured the
attention of the company, and during a dead silence, in her clear,
girlish voice, she proceeded to relate how they had made a delightful
trip with Sir Algy and Lady Vickery, and had all dined together at an
old inn in the mountains and driven back by moonlight. This story was
listened to in horrified amazement, as it was a well-known fact that
Sir Algy Vickery was _not_ a married man. Kind Lady Gaythorne burst in
upon the pause, with jerky recollections of her own honeymoon,--now a
matter of somewhat ancient history,--but once again the little bride,
anxiously striving to entertain, brought forward in all innocence, one
of the stories which she had heard in Paris. The unhappy girl had not
the remotest idea that she was retailing a hideously improper _double
entendre_ (a recent _succès_ of the Boulevards). She only remembered
that when told by Lady Slater it had been received--why she could
not say--with yells of laughter and applause. When she concluded,
there ensued a grim and petrifying silence. To the ladies, the tale
was cryptic; to most of the men it was as if a bomb had exploded on
the mahogany! Lord Gaythorne gasped, the Master of Hounds choked
convulsively in his serviette. As for the Bishop, he had been changed
into an image of stone. The guests stared blankly at their girlish
hostess, dressed in the most _outré_ French style, and calmly relating
the Frenchiest of stories! But she turned on them a face of beautiful,
child-like innocence, and actually seemed to appeal for their approval,
and applause.

This pitiful incident had far-reaching results. By gradual degrees, the
intelligence filtered through the County, that Blagdon’s pretty young
wife was a simpleton--just one degree removed from a mere imbecile.
What a pity! Unconscious of her enormity, the bride made a timid sign
to Lady Gaythorne, and rose from her place. She was presently made
aware that her first dinner-party had been a failure, for as her
husband held the door open for the ladies to pass forth, the glance he
threw at her, was charged with fury.



CHAPTER XV


Once in the vast drawing-room, most of the ladies scattered about or
assembled in congenial groups. Mrs. Fenchurch wandered round, eyeglass
in hand, examining the miniatures and old china, with the air of a
connoisseur, and possible purchaser! Lady Gaythorne and Lady Belford
conferred together over the character of a housekeeper, the Bishop’s
helpmate whispered of family troubles to her cousin, the wife of the
County Member, and Frances Lumley and the girl hostess made advances to
one another; they were likely to be friends as well as neighbours, and
Letty felt drawn to this charming, light-hearted girl, who, although
unmarried at the great age of twenty-six, had evidently far more
experience and decision than herself.

Meanwhile the rheumatic dowager, enthroned on a sofa, presented a
picture of frozen dignity; to her the coffee had tasted as gall and
wormwood, her mind being embittered by the outrageous behaviour of
Mrs. Fenchurch, who was playing the part of hostess with considerable
effect. Positively her attitude was that of triumphant hospitality!

Numerous good works, and far-reaching activities, had brought Mrs.
Fen into contact with many of the ‘best people.’ An alert woman
of the world, she had interests in common with most of the matrons
present; she exchanged a word or two with Mrs. Mostyn, the Bishop’s
wife, respecting a certain charity; then she flitted over to the
Master’s lady to enquire about the new Kennels, told Lady Belford of
a marvellous cure for Flue, and assured Lady Gaythorne that she could
give her two tickets for the Idiots’ Home.

“She had much better keep one for her niece!” muttered Lady Belford,
who had three unmarried daughters, and a sharp tongue.

In short, Mrs. Fenchurch was, so to speak, the presiding personality,
the chairwoman of this drawing-room meeting; whilst the mistress of the
house sat in a corner talking eagerly to the girl from the Rectory.

From the sofa, the Dowager’s soul went forth in arms. How dared this
pushing, notoriously managing woman, ignore and eclipse two Mrs.
Blagdons under their own roof--the home of _her_ ancestors? There she
was, actually exhibiting, and with pride, the Scrope Nankin Vases, that
had been in the family for centuries, and drawing Lady Calthorpe’s
special attention to a Cosway miniature of Angelina Scrope, her _own_
grandmother. Oh, it was insufferable! Such manners should be dealt with
by the penal laws.

Presently Mrs. Fen, in blissful ignorance of these smouldering fires,
sailed across the room and sat down on the sofa in order to pay a
little attention to old Mrs. Blagdon, “who seemed rather out of it”;
but her polite advances were not welcomed. The Dowager declined to go
into raptures over Jade, and pictures, to enlarge on objects familiar
to Caroline Scrope since she could toddle; treasures which had been her
own exclusive possessions for many years.

“Oh yes,” she assented icily, “no doubt these things in our collection
impress an outsider. I was amused in watching you, as you went round
exhibiting her relatives to Lady Calthorpe, who, however, has been here
hundreds of times--and I could not help thinking what a capital person
you would be as show-woman, in some historical house, such as Knole or
Penshurst!”

This was a nasty speech, and entirely beneath the dignity of a Scrope;
but the old lady was on fire; she was particularly sensitive with
respect to Sharsley,--every bush and tree, every old book, and chair
of which, were sacred to her; and to behold an absolute stranger,
vaunting its treasures and doing the honours, was an exasperating and
distracting experience.

Presently, she and her companion were engaged in a lady-like sparring
match; and (the shameful confession must be made) occasionally dealt
one another what is known as ‘blows below the belt.’ The Dowager,
conveyed by looks and implication, more than actual speech, that her
opponent had been undeservedly fortunate in placing her penniless niece
in what had once been her own shoes! Mrs. Fenchurch, her blue blood
boiling in her veins, had no hesitation in conveying to the Dowager,
that she considered that her son was exceptionally favoured in marrying
a girl who had well-born relations on _both_ sides--and here she
distinctly scored.

The attitude of these two matrons did not tend to promote conviviality;
there was a vague impression of outstretched claws and flying fur, and
the long-looked-for entrance of the men effected a happy diversion.
The grand piano stood open, and the word ‘music’ was breathed by
someone--possibly Mrs. Fenchurch.

“Come along, Letty, and let us have some of your parlour tricks,” said
her husband, to whom a generous quantity of generous wine, had brought
a certain amount of suavity.

The bride, silent and pale, rose immediately and went to the
instrument, and although her voice and fingers seemed a little
tremulous, gained confidence as soon as her uncle came and stood
beside her. Her singing was voted delightful, and made a remarkable
impression; the Rector’s thoughts flew to his choir; Lady Calthorpe’s
to a charity concert. The voice was so fresh, so sweet, so flexible,
and well trained; but to Lumley, mechanically turning over the leaves
of an album, it was something more--to him it seemed to carry a note of
hopelessness and despair.

Meanwhile Blagdon lay back in an arm-chair with one solid leg crossed
over the other, and an expression on his flushed face which seemed to
say:

“That’s _my_ property--my musical-box!”

Young Lumley could hardly restrain his fury; he felt a savage
inclination, to rise and kick the complacent host, round his own
drawing-room. Several ladies succeeded one another at the piano, and
Miss Lumley gave a notable performance of Grieg and Chopin, during
which, general conversation waxed both loud and animated.

By and by card-tables were produced, and people sat down to the good
old game of whist. Mrs. Fenchurch, who was not a card-player, came over
and seated herself beside her niece, armed with many sharp questions.

“Now tell me, dear,” she began, “how do you like your housekeeper? I
suppose she has been here for years?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“And manages everything?” she demanded.

“Yes, Aunt Dorothy.”

“Well, mind you don’t let her manage _you_,” she urged with dictatorial
emphasis. “Take everything into your own hands. Of course, you have
gone over the silver?”

“No, not yet.”

“Oh, my dear! Nor the house-linen?”

“No.”

“But, dearest child, you mustn’t get into slack ways, but begin as you
intend to go on. Oh, by the way, Tucker came to me _so_ injured, and
affronted. Why did you dismiss her?”

“Because Hugo didn’t think she was a good maid.”

“Good gracious--what can _he_ know about it?”

“He knows a good deal, and is very particular. He can’t bear some of my
trousseau dresses.”

(She might have added, that he had told her to burn them!)

“Oh, my dear, what rubbish! You know, I got them at Stile’s, where my
mother bought mine--everything _they_ have is always of the very best.
Look at this,” indicating her own hideous garment. “If you begin by
allowing Hugo to dismiss your maid, and worry about your dresses, I’m
sure I don’t know where you will end! You really _must_ learn to assert
yourself.” Then she went on to enquire about the neighbours, and who
Letty had seen in London? and who had called? and who hadn’t called?
and many other tiresome questions.

Letty’s pleasantest moments were snatched with her uncle. In his
company, her depressed spirits seemed to bubble up to the surface, and
she actually laughed. Her husband, who was playing whist, paused to
stare at her; it was such an unusual occurrence, and her laugh sounded
so merry and girlish. She never laughed like that when she was with
_him_!

Before Mrs. Fenchurch concluded her visit, she had taken certain
observations; perhaps, after all, like the princess with a pea in the
feather bed, little Letty had some drawbacks in her fine home--an
odious, arrogant, formidable mother-in-law, cold as ice; and a selfish,
egotistical, self-indulgent husband, who snubbed her already--yes, and
openly!

“I must give you just one little word, dearest Letty,” she whispered to
her, before they separated. “I want you to assert yourself, and talk,
and offer your opinion, and take your proper place as the mistress of
this splendid establishment. Why, my dear child, you look every moment
as if you were a naughty little girl who expected to be put in the
corner.”

“I have only been here two weeks,” stammered the poor bride; “and of
course I am not accustomed to all this grandeur _yet_. I shall get on
all right by and by.”

But Mrs. Fenchurch had her doubts. How the agreeable, genial Blagdon
seemed to have altered! He now treated her with marked coolness, rarely
addressed her, and when she praised Letty, received her encomiums
in gloomy silence. After all, he might prove a most unsatisfactory
husband--he looked ill-tempered.

Mrs. Blagdon, for her part, had a few words to say to her son before
she flitted south.

“Hugo, I hope you and Letty will pull well together,” to which he
merely grunted a reply. “You must make allowances for her. I think she
is trying hard to please you. She is a simple little thing--and so
young--not yet full grown--and her mind only half developed.”

“Half baked, you mean!” he corrected angrily.

“No, no; she has plenty of brains. What she wants, is worldly wisdom;
her French is perfect, and her singing and playing astonishing for her
age.”

“Just school accomplishments!”

“The others will come; but Letty really won’t be fit to be mistress of
this great place, to look the part, and to hold her own, for a couple
of years.”

“If ever!”

“Now, suppose you were to close Sharsley for a little, and travel, and
let her see the world, and mix in society?”

“No, thank you,” he rejoined with laboured emphasis. “I’ve had enough
of travel with _Letty_. She is all for sights and sunsets, and hideous
old pictures and damp churches. She has no fun or go, no what you call
_joie de vivre_. As for mixing in society, she is a fish out of water,
and without tact or sense. Why you yourself heard the story she related
at dinner,--one of Lady Slater’s _worst_--and that without turning a
hair!”

“It showed the poor child’s innocence,” rejoined his mother, “and the
sort of people with whom you allowed her to associate.”

“Any way--it will be talked of for the next ten years! and I’ll tell
you what, mum,” he added, nodding his head and looking down at her with
his hard, sullen eyes. “I find I’ve made a most infernal mistake!”

“Well, Hugo, remember that I warned you; the wife to have suited you,
would have been a smart young widow, who knew her way about, who was
clever and ambitious, and could hold her own. I must confess I am sorry
for Letty!”

“Bah! she’s just a little shivering idiot.”

“I expect her aunt drove her into the marriage. Oh, Hugo, what an awful
woman; so thrusting, managing, and overbearing. For all her good
birth, and being first cousin to the Marquis of Camberwell, she is not
a lady.” She had not forgotten their passage-at-arms, and repeated with
conviction, “No, she is _not_!”

“But a regular old campaigner! I believe poor Fenchurch can’t call his
soul his own. She’d sell the hunters under him without winking, and
allows him a shilling a week for baccy. I won’t have her over here
prying and picking. I’m not a mean chap, nor stingy, but when I put
her in the brougham, I saw that she had a hamper of plants from the
hothouse, the best of the spaniel pups, and a china jar. She told me,
with a grin, she begged it of dearest Letty, who had two. She won’t
come here again, I bet a thousand pounds!”

But an experienced acquaintance would have backed Mrs. Fenchurch,--and
won!



CHAPTER XVI


Sharsley, its spreading park, and somewhat neglected gardens, had been
partly closed for years; the owner merely visiting it spasmodically,
with lively parties for shooting or hunting. The situation was isolated
with regard to other seats: it being the one great house of a poor and
insignificant neighbourhood. When Blagdon married, people hoped that a
new era was about to dawn; a pretty girl of good family would be warmly
welcomed as the social queen, and the immediate residents hastened to
wait upon the bride.

First, came those known as ‘the small fry’ or the village; these
included the two Miss Jessops--maiden ladies of gentle birth, churchy,
poor, and kindly; Captain and Mrs. Howard, retired Army people,
agreeable and middle-aged--who had seen the world; Mr. Byng, an Indian
Civilian and keen politician, with two pretty daughters who bicycled
after the hounds and kept prize poultry, and others of the same
standing. But these were not the class of visitors that Blagdon desired
to entertain, and his rudeness was insufferable and undisguised.

When the Jessops, in their best bonnets, arrived to make a first and
formal call, and were ceremoniously conducted into the grounds, where
tea was laid in the shade, the instant Blagdon beheld these ladies
approaching, he sprang to his feet and hastily departed in the opposite
direction. Truly this was a bad moment for the bride! However, with
many blushes and in halting sentences, she assured the Misses Jessop
that her husband had suddenly remembered an important engagement;
but Letty was a very poor liar, and her embarrassment, and her
explanations, merely aggravated the situation.

With a lofty air the ladies declined tea. Blagdon’s snub had been too
gross, and what, after all, was _he_? The grandson of a collier, and
they the granddaughters of an Archbishop! They were sorry for the poor
child, his wife, talked to her condescendingly of flowers and the
weather, and presently effected a stately departure.

When Captain Howard drove up with his wife to make their first call
at Sharsley, the windows being open, they heard a beautiful soprano
singing ‘Love Not.’

“Ah, she’s in,” said Mrs. Howard. “I’m _so_ glad!”

But an impassive footman who received their cards uttered a sonorous
and decisive ‘Not at home,’ and they drove away, deeply mortified--the
fate of many.

Later, as Blagdon stood turning over the card-tray one afternoon, Letty
adventured a timid expostulation.

“Now look here,” he said impatiently, “I’m not going to have gossiping
women, and sponging old men, running in and out of this house,
sniffing about for what they can get--amusement, shootin’, and good
dinners. I have my own friends, and I don’t want their society. You
can just send round your cards by a footman,--and let that end it. Of
course, the County is another affair,” still examining the cards as
he spoke. “Viscount and Viscountess Lyndham, Sir Cosmo and Lady Alice
Danvers--yes, these sort of people are all right. By the way, I see the
Duchess hasn’t honoured you yet--she’s taking her time. The old girl
wanted to saddle _me_ with one of her ugly daughters, so she won’t be
very keen upon you, Mrs. Blagdon!”

The expected ‘County’ now came day after day rolling up the Avenue to
visit Sharsley; and the shy bride, seated alone in a magnificent new
landau, drove about the country, returning calls, and inwardly praying
that her hostesses might be out! being secretly afraid of the solid,
important matrons, among whom she now took rank--as Mrs. Blagdon of
Sharsley. She noted the merry bicyclists who sped by in couples, the
happy good-looking pair, evidently lately married, driving in a high
tax-cart, he with his arm round the girl’s waist, their faces radiant
with smiles,--a sheep their fellow-passenger.

They stared with wide-eyed admiration at the lovely young lady
in a beautiful dress, sitting so erect behind a pair of slashing
steppers,--and little dreamt how she envied them!

Her husband made no secret of his disgust, and disillusion; scenes were
frequent--when he scolded, blustered, and stormed, she wept; when they
were alone, conversation was nil; to her timid questions, the answers
were generally a grunt; and the miserable girl began to feel that her
youth was paralysed and petrified. Often and often, she wished herself
back once more in the little top-room at The Holt--could more be said?
There, she was partly free; here, she was an abject slave; and at the
beck and call of a man whom she heartily feared.

The newly married couple, were invited to formal dinners or to dine,
and sleep, at various important places, and the general verdict on the
bride was, that she was a pretty nonentity, dull as a kitchen-garden on
a winter’s day, who looked positively ashamed of her French gowns and
her superb diamonds; and it was no love match.

Hugo contradicted his wife flatly; he had been overheard to assure her
that her hat was hideous, and she--worse still--“was a wooden-headed
little fool.”

Part of August and September found the Blagdons in Scotland; by the
time they had returned home, they had drifted almost entirely apart.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was true, that Blagdon had his own friends and was superbly
independent of his neighbours; numerous guests came from London for
pheasant-shooting and hunting, at Sharsley they were all thoroughly
at home--indeed, considerably more so than the hostess herself! Lady
Rashleigh, had her particular bedroom--this was natural--but why Mrs.
Corbett should claim, and occupy, the best of all the state apartments
was another affair. Sir Tom and Lady Slater, Lord Robbie and the Baron,
and a Colonel Shaddock, who knew everyone, went everywhere, and was a
notorious gossip and an irresistible horse-dealer, and various others.
There was no doubt, that the party stirred up sleepy old Sharsley, and
made it lively, with early starts for cubbing, and late hours for nap
and poker; the guests were well acquainted with the resources of the
stable and the cellar, the best stands in the woods and coverts, even
wise and self-seeking with respect to the most comfortable chairs, and
told the bride many things about her home that she now learnt for the
first time.

The new mistress made a rather scared and silent hostess; indeed, she
was a mere figure-head and nonentity. Lady Rashleigh and Lola Corbett
rode Hugo’s best horses, smoked his best cigarettes, lounged about on
sofas, issued orders, and did what seemed good in their own eyes.

The great rooms rang with loud voices, and boisterous laughter, and the
company talked incessantly of horses, racing, and scandal. Several of
the party had brought their hunters; others were mounted by their host.
Mrs. Corbett, who for all her langourous grace, rode admirably; she had
nerves and muscles of iron--no day too long for her, provided she had a
second horse. Lady Rashleigh rode a solid fourteen stone, and gave sore
backs to some of her brother’s weight-carriers; whilst Lady Slater came
out on wheels, and made no secret of the fact that she funked riding.

Letty, in a smart habit and mounted on a quiet cob, looked well in the
saddle; nevertheless at the meets she was left a good deal to herself;
as she was not acquainted with the hard-riding set, the intimates of
her husband, and his friends, and the neighbours on horseback, or in
governess cars, stared over her head with glassy eyes. Her husband’s
‘ukase’ had placed her in the middle of a social desert,--where her
only associates were the Lumley family. Lancelot Lumley was home on
leave, and when he was out--about once a week--Mrs. Blagdon had someone
to ride with and talk to. Her husband’s sporting friends, granted her
pretty face and frightened-looking blue eyes; but, as one of them
declared, “She could not say boo to a gosling!”

In some ways, Letty enjoyed the hunting: the eager crowd of yokels at
the meets, the splendid horses, the odd turns-out, and the general
spirit of _camaraderie_ and enjoyment. It was not bad fun galloping
along grassy lanes, darting through convenient open gates, now and then
getting over a small fence, and feeling absurdly proud and brave! Her
prowess and improvement were remarked, and Lady Rashleigh said one day
at dinner:

“Look here, Letty, we must promote you, especially as the cob is
lame--he has a seedy toe. We cannot any longer allow you to go
skirmishing about the roads, trying to see all you can,--and save your
neck! You are to ride The Goat; he will carry you splendidly. I rode
him last season.”

“The Goat, would be too much for you, Mrs. Blag,” volunteered Lord
Robbie. “Take my tip, and don’t you ride him; he has only one side to
his mouth.”

“Shut up, Robbie!” said Lady Rashleigh. “Letty can stick on all right,
she’s got to learn. We shall see her in the first flight yet. By the
way, what happened to _you_ in the second run? I saw old Sarsfield
pirouetting on his head!”

“Only a rabbit hole; we both bit the earth--no harm done. If the cob is
lame, Sarsfield would be a safe conveyance for Mrs. Blag much steadier
than The Goat.”

Nevertheless it was The Goat, a raking chestnut 16·2 in hard condition,
who proved to be Letty’s fate; in spite of her piteous, even agonised,
protestations. Her husband, accustomed to such hard-riding women as his
sister and friends, could not understand her nervousness; he set it
down to affectation, assured her that “The Goat was as quiet as a lamb.
All he wanted was to go; all she had to do, was to sit tight.”

Mounted on this tall, headstrong animal, a first-class hunter and mount
for a muscular and resolute man, Letty looked as she felt, abjectly
miserable,--whilst her sister-in-law and Lola, unkindly derided her
fears. The Goat was so different to the nice, sedate, well-mannered
cob; he fretted and shied, threw his head about, dragging the reins
through her cold, stiff fingers; and became frightfully excited when
the hounds, and the whips, streamed pleasantly through the village
street; her futile efforts to quiet him were ridiculed by Blagdon, who
audibly called her “a chicken-hearted little fool.” All she had to do
was to let the brute alone; he couldn’t give her a fall if he tried!

As the mass of riders and drivers jogged off in the wake of the hounds,
Lumley, filled with burning indignation and compassion, joined the
white-faced victim. To mount a nervous, inexperienced girl on this
hard-mouthed, powerful brute, was, in his opinion, not far from a bold
attempt at murder.

He, however, gave her confidence, and encouragement, and when the
hounds were put into cover, piloted her away down a by-road, where he
dismounted, and altered The Goat’s bit. Lumley was at home in this
part of the world, he knew every fence and field like his A B C, and
by merely sticking to roads and gates Letty and her escort, got over a
respectable amount of the country, and actually made their appearance
soon after the fox (a well-known veteran) was run to ground in a quarry
pit.

Blagdon and his friends hailed the lady’s arrival, with boisterous
shouts, and, after some hesitation and an anxious five minutes, her
husband assented to her timid suggestion, ‘that _now_ she might go
home.’

Unfortunately Lumley did not happen to be out on the memorable day when
Mrs. Blagdon was overpowered by her mount, and The Goat, after plunging
and rearing,--frantic at being held in, and stimulated by galloping
horses, let himself go,--and, with a light weight on his back, carried
his reluctant rider in the very first flight, for two triumphant
miles. It was true she was frozen with fear, her heart thumped like
a turbine engine; but she passed Connie Rashleigh as an arrow from a
bow, and cut down the Baron and the redoubtable Lola. Such was The
Goat’s enthusiasm, such his passion for the chase, that he followed
hard upon the hounds; vainly did the huntsman yell and swear, the
lady was helpless--this was The Goat’s day out! It was also his last
day. In negotiating a yawning fence (wired) he came down badly, and a
thrill went through the spectators--Mrs. Blagdon was done for--she was
killed! No, The Goat had broken his back, but the lady escaped with a
fractured arm, and some bad bruises. Presently a carriage and a gun
were borrowed, the former for the lady; and she was taken home by her
husband, who, far from being concerned and sympathetic, was furious at
the loss of a valuable hunter, and angrily assured her that “she was a
little idiot to let the brute get away with her. Why, Connie could ride
him on a thread!”

Letty was a good deal shaken, her fracture was excessively painful, and
the doctor ordered her to keep her room for at least a fortnight, which
command she was only too thankful to obey. Her nerves were completely
shattered; she was visited by horrid dreams; dreams of flying over
great ragged brown hedges, with the wind whistling past her ears, a
fierce, implacable demon pulling her arms out of their sockets, whilst
she and the runaway were pursued by frenzied shouts.

During these days of seclusion, the invalid saw but little of her
guests--by whom the absence of the hostess was not deplored. Now and
then, Connie Rashleigh and Lola came to see her, and Hugo paid her a
daily visit of a few minutes. One evening he stayed longer than usual,
and strode up and down the room--a sure sign that he had something on
his mind. His restlessness was accounted for by his suddenly asking her
to “let him have a look at the necklace with the emeralds.”

“Tell your maid to get it,” he said. “The fact is, I bought that
necklace for Lola Corbett, but we had a row, or rather she annoyed me,
and so I gave it to you. All the same, she’s always looked upon the
article as hers, and it has rankled in her mind, and she is so cracked
about jewellery, and has ragged and nagged so much about this damned
necklace, that I feel bound to give it to her. You’ll let me have it,
won’t you, Letty?”

His manner was almost persuasive. He was saying to himself that if he
had made a similar proposition to Lola she would have flown into a
rage, that would have scared even him; but all his wife said was:

“Oh, of course! Desirée shall get it out at once, and I will send it to
your room.”

“That’s a good little girl,” he remarked approvingly. (To himself, ‘She
hadn’t the spirit of a mouse! He would really have enjoyed a little bit
of a scrap!’) “All right,” he continued, “I will get you another, and
just as good, the very next time I am in Paris.”

“No, no, Hugo,” she protested. “I really have more diamonds and things
than I can wear. But there is something else--I--I--I wish you would
give me.”

Blagdon, who was half-way to the door, halted.

“What’s that?” he demanded, turning sharply round.

“A little--a little----” She was about to say ‘love,’ but, with an
effort, faltered the word “affection.”

“What _rot_!” he exclaimed, and looking her over from head to foot,
with a derisive laugh, he went out of the room.



CHAPTER XVII


The expected heir, for whom conspicuous preparations had been
made--bonfires laid ready for the torch, name and sponsors solemnly
selected--turned out to be a girl. This was a severe and unconcealed
disappointment to Blagdon, and he allowed his wife to feel the full
brunt of his indignation, and displeasure. The estate and all the
property was strictly entailed, and, after Hugo, it passed to a distant
cousin (naturally detested), a man who farmed a small sheep ranch in
New Zealand, and was reported to be barely able to write his name.

Old Mrs. Blagdon who had come to Sharsley for the auspicious event,
dissembled her dissatisfaction with well-bred dignity, and took a
certain amount of notice of the unwelcome infant (her namesake), a fair
little waxen creature, adored by her mother from the moment she was
laid in her arms.

The great bonfires remained unlit, the charitable doles were withheld,
the grand dinner to the tenantry was cancelled; and Blagdon, like a
sulky schoolboy, left home to be consoled by his usual associates.

       *       *       *       *       *

Three years had slipped by since the sensational and still-talked-of
wedding at Thornby, and although a good deal of water had flowed under
the bridge, it had brought no pleasant flotsam to the feet of Letty
Blagdon. Her husband deserted her for months at a time; he had taken
to racing, owned a stable and rented rooms at Newmarket, as well as
a hunting-box in the shires, declaring that Sharsley, as a hunting
centre, was obsolete. He frequently went abroad _en garçon_, assuring
inquisitive friends, that “his wife loathed the Continent, and that
nothing would induce her to leave the child.”

During the first months of Letty’s married life the Court had opened
its long-closed doors, and maintained something of its ancient state;
there had been dinners, shoots, and visitors; more than once Aunt
Dorothy had adventured over from Thornby, put up her horses, and
accorded to her miserable niece, a critical and inquisitive ‘day’;
but a twenty-mile drive is a serious undertaking, and Mrs. Fenchurch
contented herself with boasting to her friends of Mrs. Blagdon’s
enviable happiness, and the beauties, and luxuries, of her home.

Not so Uncle Tom! He missed--sorely missed--the light of his eyes, the
joy of his heart, and felt guiltily anxious with regard to her future.
Mounted on Kitty, a notable Irish mare, he rode over to Sharsley every
few weeks; when the master of the house happened to be at home these
excursions had the effect of emphasising his apprehensions. The tone in
which Blagdon addressed his wife, his rudeness, and the ferocity of
his sarcasms made the thin blood of the old soldier mount to his face;
and yet the host mended his manners when Letty’s uncle was present.
Fenchurch was such a starched-up old cock;--and that a man of his age
would ride forty miles just to see a relative, awakened Blagdon’s
amusement and surprise.

“The old boy looks bad--he’s breaking!” he abruptly remarked to his
wife one afternoon after her uncle had ridden away.

Letty had observed a change; the hale little officer now looked worn
and grey; he had grown thin, and lost his cheery manner; when Hugo
noticed anything of that sort, it must be woefully apparent! However,
she made no answer, and winked back her tears, and her husband resumed:

“I’m surprised Mrs. Fen has not done for him long ago, with her jaw and
her managing, and her damned hatchet face. Thank God she doesn’t show
it here!” and with this congratulation on his lips, Blagdon departed.

By and by the forty-mile ride proved too much for Kitty; so said her
master; he sent her a night before to a half-way village inn (where,
according to the landlady, Queen Elizabeth had slept the night before
her head was cut off!), drove there himself next day, and rode her on
to Sharsley.

These visits seemed to afford him the greatest pleasure, though it was
evident to Letty that they entailed an extraordinary effort. Each time
she saw her uncle, she noted, with a sinking heart, a waning of his
spirits and a wasting of his frame. He would never admit that he was
ailing--and in this make-believe he was nobly supported by his wife.
He had a horror of not being able to do what he had always done, and
the iron will of his Dorothy, and his own frantic clinging to activity,
compelled the poor, frail body to shoot and hunt as usual. The few
hours he spent with Letty when he found her alone, were truly a joy
and comfort to both. On these occasions, they never spoke of Hugo; but
Cara the baby was exhibited, praised, and played with, and her mother
made amazing efforts to seem gay. She realised, that Uncle Tom believed
her to be unhappily married, and that this conviction was breaking his
heart; and she strove very anxiously to play the part of a gay and
contented young woman, who does not object to being a grass widow, or
to be left by herself for months (to him she spoke of weeks), but the
farce was a failure; the unsuccessful actress read this in her uncle’s
haggard eyes, and in the long, significant pressure of his hand, ere he
wished her good-bye, and sadly rode away.

And one June afternoon Kitty and the Colonel rode away, never to
return, for a week later Colonel Fenchurch was found sitting in his
chair in the smoking-room, with Letty’s last letter in his stiffening
hand, quite dead. The poor little Colonel had not much to bequeath,
but by a recent will he left forty pounds a year to his beloved niece
Lettice Blagdon--and not all the Fenchurch pictures, diamonds, and
heirlooms, could console his bereaved widow for this unnecessary
legacy.

“So cruel to _me_!” she imparted in confidence to her intimates; “and
so preposterous--as if Letty had not more money than she can spend!”

But possibly the dead man had his reasons; perhaps he had been granted
the far-sighted vision which is given to those who are nearing the
border-land.

His relict affected not only overwhelming grief, but the direst
poverty. After the funeral, and when matters were being wound up, she
endeavoured to sell a couple of hunters to Hugo.

“No, by Jove!” he exclaimed, as he tossed down the letter; “I think I
see myself--the bay has a spavin, the black is touched in the wind.
Your aunt did me _once_,” glaring over at Letty with unpleasant
significance; “but never again--once bitten, twice shy!”

The thrifty lady was more successful in her transactions with her
niece; to whom she submitted two tea-gowns, a driving-coat, and an
opera mantle; the lot one hundred pounds.

“You see,” she wrote, “I shall be in black for such an age, and I’m
frightfully hard up” (she had eighteen hundred a year and expectations)
“so, Letty, you really must take them off my hands. Think of all I’ve
done for _you_!” and Letty was, as usual, obedient.

She felt her uncle’s death acutely; he and the baby were all she had to
love and to love her--for Hugo had told her a thousand times that he
hated the sight of her--and except Maude Hesketh and Frances Lumley,
she had no friends.

Frances Lumley was a clever, bright, energetic young woman, whose
brother, she declared, had stolen her good looks. “By rights the boy
should be the plain one of the family--and it is _I_ who am ugly.”

But this was an extreme statement; Miss Lumley’s figure was the
embodiment of slim grace, her hair soft and beautiful; her eyes,
though sparkling and intelligent, were too small; her mouth, on the
other hand, was too large; perhaps had their dimensions been reversed,
Blagdon, who found her amusing and outspoken, might have asked her
to marry him! The Rector’s daughter was popular with all degrees of
society; a first-rate musician, an entertaining companion, and a
capable nurse. The cottagers adored her, “Miss Frances was so funny,
and told them such queer tales, all the while she was working over a
case, you scarcely could tell you had a sore leg or a boil, or a burn,
she was that clever with her fingers, and her tongue.” She was also her
father’s right hand, copied out his sermons, wrote his letters, read to
him, and cared for him like a guardian angel.

Miss Lumley was pathetically anxious to extend her sheltering wing over
the poor lonely girl at the big house, and did her utmost to entice her
to the Rectory, to tea, to tennis, to visit among the cottagers--in
short, to make some break in that solitary monotonous existence.

“When Aunt Denton used to fill her letters with _you_,” she said, “I
little expected that her Letty would be the great lady here, that she
would go on my errands, and mend my gloves, and that I should see so
much of her.”

“Too much, I’m afraid--this is the third time I am here in a week!”

“Can’t have too much of a good thing! and you come to be useful--you
are always ornamental--and help me with the Sewing Club, you know you
have nothing to do in that big rambling place. Fraser won’t let you
touch the garden, the rouged and rustling Bates runs the house--all you
may do is to practise your singing and play patience.”

“But I never play cards,” protested Letty.

“There are other games of patience, my dear--_pied de la lettre_! Your
husband has old-fashioned ideas about his partner’s duties, but is up
to date about his own.”

“I don’t understand you, Francie.”

“No? well then I’ll explain. The wife creed is in his blood, and
belongs to the prehistoric race that treated women as beasts of burden,
and beat them with clubs; later on, women were domestic slaves, and
more recently--say a hundred years ago--mere nurses and upper servants,
kept at home all the year round making samplers and pickles, and
shirts, and jam--and having babies!”

“Frances!”

“Am I raising the standard of revolt? I declare you are looking quite
scared. Lady Rashleigh holds _my_ views--modern and emancipated--no
shirts or pickles for _her_--only jam, and lots of the best! When
I was in Town the other day I saw her at the theatre; she has grown
enormous, and was simply bulging out of her box. Lord Robbie was with
her--displaying a wonderful expanse of shirt front, and a dazzling
diamond stud that hit you in the eye--he looked _such_ a dog! He is
rather fond of me, and runs down here after tea; when you think he is
snug in the smoking-room, he is sitting, figuratively, at my feet.
I wouldn’t marry him for--let me see--three millions! There, I’ve
finished the last, and _my_ herring-boning, is a work of art.”

During her frequent visits to the Rectory, Mrs. Blagdon was liable to
encounter the ‘small fry’; at first they stiffened, and looked at the
lady with cold, unrecognising eyes; but when they discovered that this
pretty, shy girl was guiltless of airs, and rather afraid of _them_,
they suffered her acquaintance, and although they never entered one
another’s houses, spoke to her when they met, offered the names of new
books and new roses, and gave her, in the immediate neighbourhood, an
excellent character, as an inoffensive nonentity.

By this time the County had almost forgotten the existence of Mrs.
Blagdon. She did not hunt or go to balls, seemed to be perpetually
in mourning, and was said to suffer from ‘nerves,’--and nerves in
this century stand for so _much_! Occasionally she was to be met on
the roads, driving her baby in a little governess-car, and looking
ridiculously like some shy animal, that hoped to escape the notice of
mankind!

Letty was lonely. She had never felt at home at Sharsley, but as if she
were on a visit to some stiff, country house; it still seemed to hold
the spirits of the dead and gone Scropes, and the great drawing-room,
with its portraits of staring ancestors (long-waisted, long-faced, and
long-fingered), black Indian cabinets, and book-cases of neglected
books, gave her a chill.

At distant intervals Mrs. Hesketh came over to Sharsley (craftily and
stealthily in the master’s absence), to dine and sleep, and her brief
visits were Letty’s greatest pleasure. On the last of these occasions,
Blagdon returned unexpectedly, and in a black humour--one of his most
promising two-year-olds, had gone wrong.

The afternoon before his arrival, Letty and her friend had wandered
about the grounds, talking of everything but what was uppermost in
their hearts--the misery of one, the sympathy of the other. As they
paced along the elder understood how empty the life of her companion
was; she might not garden--the gardens were let; she had not even a
dog--the nursery and the piano were her sole resources.

At tea Mrs. Hesketh realised that she was not a welcome guest. Her host
did not find it necessary to conceal his sentiments; nor did she fail
to remark, the abominable way in which he addressed his wife, and how
he ordered her about, and pushed out of the room before her.

Dinner was a truly sombre meal: the fish was cold, and Mr. Blagdon had
one of his worst attacks of temper. Vainly did the visitor endeavour to
make light and airy conversation; he was so violent and abusive after
the servants had withdrawn, that Letty, unable to restrain her tears,
fled out of the room; but brave Mrs. Hesketh remained to remonstrate
and do battle with the tyrant.

“If no one else is going to speak to you, Mr. Blagdon, I will,” she
began intrepidly. “Everyone is crying shame on you for the way you
neglect your young wife.”

“I don’t care a damn what they say!” he roared. “Let everyone mind
their own business. She is jolly well treated--too well.”

“Is it too well, that she should be shut up here alone for months at a
time? That she is cut off from all associates of her own class--that
she is never taken into society?”

“She has everything she wants,” he blustered; “a fine house, and
servants--and a baby. Why, my mother’s mother who lived here, and never
stirred beyond the village, and was a woman of family--hadn’t half such
a good time!”

“That must have been more than a hundred years ago, and the world has
improved, and become enlightened since then. Letty is a girl who has
been educated.”

“And you mean to say my mother’s mother wasn’t? Thank you!”

“You know very well what I mean.”

“I’m damned if I know what you mean, by taking me to task in this way,
and calling me over the coals in my own house,” and his expression was
murderous.

“I am Letty’s friend.”

“Yes, and no doubt she has been whining to you, and telling you fine
tales?” he demanded with blazing eyes, “and posing as a martyr.”

“She has never breathed a word of her troubles to me; but anyone can
see that she is unhappy. I can’t think why in the world you married
her?”

“I can’t think why I did, either! I was deadly sick of her at the end
of a week. Upon my soul, I was! Marriage is like a trap--you can’t have
a wife on approval--when you are in, there’s no way of getting out!
By Jove, I envy the Americans their divorce laws--then she could go
her way--and I mine. If some smart young fellow would take a fancy to
Letty, and run off with her I should say ‘Wah-wah!’”

Mrs. Hesketh looked as she was--horrified.

“There are no smart young men about here,” he added; “so Letty is all
right--virtue is the absence of temptation.”

Mrs. Hesketh rose slowly, turned her back upon her host, walked to the
door very quietly, opened it and went out, leaving it wide. She found
Letty in her own room, sitting with her face in her hands,--a frequent
attitude.

“My child,” she began, “I have been talking to the dreadful man
downstairs that ill-fortune has given you for a husband. He is--well, I
won’t say any more, but this--that I wish I could take you away with
me, and let you make a home with me--you and the baby!”

“How I wish you could!” said Letty, pushing back her hair as she spoke.
“But there is no use in wishing. I often wish I was dead--and it’s no
good.”

“Well, remember, my dear, if ever you are at the end of your tether,
you must come to me.”

Letty gave her a glance of despair, then she rose and said:

“I shall have to go down at once, for Hugo always expects me to be in
the drawing-room when he is there--he likes me to sing the new musical
comedies. He says my voice sends him to sleep.”

“My dear, if I were you, for once I would disappoint your Saul! _I_
do not intend to go downstairs again to-night, and I shall leave you
immediately after breakfast to-morrow. Mr. Blagdon was outrageously
rude to you at dinner--apparently he imagined that he can make you
miserable with impunity, that you will ignore his insults, and
entertain him in the drawing-room all smiles and songs. Believe me, you
are making a fatal mistake; possibly if you had resisted in the first
instance, things would never have come to such a pass. You are not his
wife, but his doormat!”

Again Mrs. Hesketh had sown a little seed. Letty for once did resist,
and the two friends remained together talking until bed-time. Blagdon,
finding the drawing-room empty, glared round it, then stalked into the
smoking-room, where he smoked cigars and drank whiskies and sodas in
solitary state, and a condition of volcanic indignation.

“Of course, the old woman was at the bottom of Letty’s sulks--a damned
meddlesome hag!” He rang the bell and said to the footman:

“Tell Mrs. Hesketh’s maid to let her mistress know, that her carriage
is ordered to take her home at nine o’clock to-morrow morning.”



CHAPTER XVIII


The Rev. Adrian Lumley had been ailing for a considerable time; he
was no longer able to undertake his parish duties, and compelled to
employ a curate. Lately his health had suddenly become so uncertain
that his son took three months’ leave, and returned from Egypt. Captain
Lumley arrived looking handsome, sunburnt, and cheery, and his sister
Frances realised that he was no longer the boy that, as her younger
brother, she had always managed, patronised, and coerced. Lancelot
had been adjutant of his regiment, and acquired a manner of decision
and brevity that was new. He found his father frail, broken-down, and
evidently failing fast. For months, the Rector had confined himself
to his books and his garden, and now he was a prisoner in his room.
Perhaps if the reverend gentleman had not been so completely laid
upon the shelf, matters at Sharsley might have been smoothed over,
and improved; but, as it was, Blagdon had no one to withstand him; he
had parted with any scruples he might possess, and affairs had gone
from bad to worse. Except for a few days in the shooting season, he
had ceased to live at home. Most of the rooms were closed, servants
dismissed, the gardens let, the horses sold. He had heavy expenses
elsewhere, and was not disposed to burn the candle at both ends. He had
allowed it to be whispered into the ear of society, that his wife was
‘not quite all there.’ Magnified descriptions of her first disastrous
dinner-party, her bizarre gowns, her silence and shyness, gave colour
to this suggestion,--so said his interested friends; and other people
declared that Blagdon was bad,--some even added, mad! Altogether
Sharsley was given a wide berth; it was out of the way, more recent
topics, quarrels, and scandals arose, and poor young Mrs. Blagdon was
comparatively forgotten.

Frances had always divined that her brother had cared for Letty Glyn.
Of course, now that she was married, she was out of his reach; still,
in talking over the country-side news, she studiously omitted any
particular reference to the Blagdons.

“What about the Court? How did they get on?” her brother asked at last.

“Not very well,” she was obliged to confess; “he is a strange sort of a
man, and is but little at home. He has a shocking temper.”

“A nice sort of husband for her! Mrs. Fenchurch should be proud of
herself! Look here, Francis, you must take me to call to-morrow.”

Lumley carried out his suggestion, but, as it happened, unaccompanied
by his sister, for at the last moment, a dying parishioner had summoned
her, and he walked up to Sharsley alone.

It was summer, and in one respect Sharsley was at its best; but, on
the other hand, the neat trimness, and the closely mown lawns appeared
to be things of the past. The place now wore a desolate, neglected
appearance, and as he approached, the visitor noticed that the shutters
of most of the rooms were closed, and the avenue and gravel paths
were full of weeds. On enquiry at the door, he was informed that Mrs.
Blagdon was somewhere in the grounds, and after a search he found her
playing with her child--a beautiful little golden-haired creature, now
able to walk, attended by a somewhat grim-looking nurse. Her mother,
sitting upon the grass making daisy-chains for her, sprang up when
she saw Lumley approaching, and greeted him with smiles. But how she
was changed! He felt shocked. The roundness of Letty’s face was gone;
her beautiful blue eyes looked sunken, their expression was strained
and anxious; she might be seven or eight years older than her real
age--which was little more than twenty. Evidently she had passed
through a devastating storm which had ravaged her looks and broken
her heart. It was as if he and her husband had both coveted the same
beautiful flower, and Blagdon had plucked it, and thrown it away to
wither and die.

But there was no sign of depression in Mrs. Blagdon’s manner or
conversation; she asked many questions about his regiment and Egypt;
she talked of his father and sister and Mrs. Hesketh. No, she had not
been over to Thornby for nearly a year. In answer to his exclamation of
astonishment, she coloured and said:

“You see, I can’t very well leave baby.”

“Then I suppose they come over and see you fairly often?”

“Not very often,” she answered, with a trembling lip. She was not
disposed to inform him, that her husband had quarrelled with Mrs.
Fenchurch, and practically turned Mrs. Hesketh out of the house, and
hastily changed the subject.

Presently the grim-looking nurse picked up the child, and said:

“It’s time for Miss Cara’s tea,” and was about to carry her off when
Lumley interposed.

“She is a darling!” he said, taking her little hand in his as it hung
over the nurse’s shoulder. “I don’t know much about children, but she
seems to be perfect--and very like you,” and he raised the little
chubby fingers to his lips. Subsequently it was mooted in the servants’
hall, that that “’ere young Lumley the officer, who had been strolling
about the grounds with the missus for the best part of an hour, had
told her to her face that she was perfect and a darling, and that nurse
had heard him say so, with her own two ears!”

No doubt it was from this source that the first faint whisper of gossip
rose, and was wafted into the village; and possibly it was not very
discreet of young Lumley to come up to Sharsley alone,--or even with
his sister, two or three times a week. Passers-by peering through the
railings in the park walls, had paused and stared; sometimes they could
see _two_ figures, pacing up and down the long terrace!

There was not the smallest harm in these walks and visits. Lumley
brought errands and notes from Frances, and carried to her messages and
books, for just at this time their father was very ill, and Frances was
in close attendance, and never left the Rectory.

Letty enjoyed one luxury, and that was a liberal supply of books; no
need for _her_ to spend her allowance on frocks, and the quarterly
payments went in relieving charities, subscribing to periodicals, and
buying literature. Sometimes, she told herself that without these
friends, that carried her out of her gloomy, isolated life, she would
have gone melancholy mad. True, there was the child; but a baby aged
two and a half, cannot altogether fill the life of an educated girl
of twenty, and, besides this, the baby had a nurse who stood on her
dignity, and required her nursery to herself.

Oh, the long, long hours that Letty spent alone, the only breaks being
a hurried visit to the Rectory. How the pensive melancholy of the
autumn woods oppressed her! the low, grey fog, lying in the hollows of
the park, took the shape of shadowy spectres rising from their graves;
bare brown trees, rooted in carpets of ruddy leaves, seemed to mock
her with their crooked branches, and the staring sun, sinking into the
west, to cast on her rays of pity and derision.

Yes, she had sold herself to escape immediate discomfort, and this
was her punishment: an existence of loveless degradation. In winter,
her solitude and misery pressed on her still more cruelly; she could
relieve the villagers with blankets and coal, but what could she do for
the thousands of perishing birds, the starving hares, the shivering
cattle? The nights were the worst, when the wind came sobbing to the
windows, shook the doors of the empty rooms, and moaned among the
trees, with the despairing cries of a lost soul; rats in the old
walls--and strange unaccountable noises--made sleep--broken--and waking
a terror.

But here at last was summer! and she could spend most of her time out
of doors. At the moment, she realised that it was an exhilarating
change, to have a companion near her own age to stroll with through
the woods, and talk to. Oh, if she had only been married to Lancelot
Lumley! Into the emptiness of her heart, there stole the inevitable
temptations of memory; but it was sinful to harbour such thoughts.
Well, at any rate, Lancelot had never actually asked her to marry
him--Hugo had--and so there it was. And here she was--the most
miserable young woman within the four seas.

When Lumley had been at home for about a fortnight, and his father’s
health had somewhat improved, he went over to see his relations the
Dentons, and stayed with them for two days. From them, Mrs. Hesketh and
Mrs. Fenchurch, he heard the real truth, which had been so carefully
withheld when he had been on the spot: how Hugo Blagdon neglected his
wife, cut her off from all society, and spent most of his time in
London or Paris,--his excuse being that she was but one degree removed
from imbecility.

Perhaps it was indiscreet of Maude Hesketh to relate the wrongs of her
friend with such passionate eloquence, for she fired the young man’s
blood, and he returned to the Rectory carrying with him a smouldering
heart. Why should not he pick up this pearl that was trampled on by a
swine?

Just at the time, that he returned, Hugo Blagdon made one of his
rare appearances. He entered the drawing-room to discover Lumley
and his wife at tea. Lumley had come to tell her about his visit,
and bring messages and all the latest news from Thornby. Amazing
to relate Blagdon’s manner to the silent young man, was cordial,
and even effusive!--he talked about mutual friends, sport, and the
service--undaunted by his guest’s frigidity--and said:

“I am not much here myself--the place doesn’t agree with me.” (This was
a new excuse invented on the spot.) “But if you like to come up at any
time and shoot, I shall be glad. The rabbits want thinning, and by and
by there will be the partridges.”

He also invited Lumley to dine, but this he curtly declined. Nothing
would induce him to eat Blagdon’s salt! The way in which he spoke to,
and looked at his wife, made him feel beside himself.

For two or three days Captain Lumley failed to appear; then Mr.
Blagdon’s head keeper went down to the Rectory to see him, and
announced his master had gone away, and left orders that he was to
have as much shooting as he liked, and to make use of the guns in the
gun-room; and, in fact, that it would be a favour more than otherwise
to keep the game down. All this was also mentioned in a civil note.

But Lancelot Lumley did not wish to shoot; he wanted to see Blagdon’s
wife, and walked up to Sharsley that same afternoon. Mrs. Blagdon was
in her room, and sent a message to say that she had a headache and was
sorry she could not receive anyone. He felt unreasonably disappointed,
and wandered about the place for hours--making use of his liberty to
explore the woods; and there, to his astonishment and hers--for she
supposed he had gone home--Letty met him face to face in a walk in
one of the plantations. She started and exclaimed, as they came upon
one another; and now he understood _why_ she had denied herself! Mrs.
Blagdon had a black eye, and her lip was cut and swollen.

“I did not want you to see me,” she began nervously. “I fell over a
chair last night in the dark, and I’m rather an object.”

“What is the use of telling me that?” he answered roughly; pity, deep
concern for her, and blind fury against Blagdon getting the better of
him--“when I know as well as _you_ do, that your husband struck you?
Does he often do it?”

“Oh, don’t, don’t ask me,” she faltered; “let us talk of other
things--please never allude to this again. Hugo has a temper--and
I--I--irritate him.”

“He is a brute!” declared Lumley, whose face had grown white and
stern. “The way he treats you is notorious. _Why_ do you stay with him?”

“What else am I to do?” she asked piteously. “I have no other home; I
could not go to The Holt now. Of course there is Hugo’s sister; but
although she is angry with him, and tells me I am a little fool, yet
she would never openly take my part against her brother. No, there is
no escape for me, I must just live my life. Hugo hates me; over and
over again, he has told me that he wishes I were dead!”

She sat down as she spoke, on a rustic seat, overcome by her emotions,
and losing her self-control, buried her disfigured face in her hands.
As Lumley stood looking at her, he felt ready to offer his life on the
instant, and to fling his own plans and all fortune’s chances to the
winds; but he did not attempt to soothe or console her; and she wept
uninterruptedly for some little time; then, as her sobs ceased, and she
became calmer, he said quietly,--though inwardly shaken with agitation:

“Listen to me, Letty. There is an escape for you. I have always loved
you--yes--ever since the day that you came to Thornby, and I first
saw you; you remember how we did the pulpit together, how you gave
your very first dance to _me_--you are the only girl I ever cared
about. I know this is a hackneyed saying, but it is absolutely true.
I had nothing to marry on, nothing to offer you, but you were so
young--barely seventeen, and I thought I would _wait_. I talked it
over with my uncle, and asked if I might say a word to you. He said
it would be madness; that you had no thought of--of--lovers, being
a mere child, and that the Fenchurchs would never consent to a long
engagement; then Blagdon saw you, and he came and snatched away my
treasure. If he had made you happy, I could have forgiven him; but even
when you were a bride, I seemed to see clouds. I return home, and I
find that he treats you like a brute! The coward knows, that you have
no man to protect you; no father or brother. Now what I want to say is,
will you come away with me?--I know it sounds awful!”

She looked up at him with an expression of dismay, and uttered an
inarticulate gasp.

“But let me explain.” As he went on steadily, the man’s self-reliance,
instinct of possession and authority, became evident. “You will travel
up to London and meet me there--only as a friend--leaving a letter for
Blagdon. Tell him the truth. Tell him, you have gone away with _me_.
I will not attempt to defend the suit. I shall leave England for six
months, and at the end of that time return, and marry you.”

“And what about Cara?” she asked abruptly.

“You must leave the child here. I suppose Blagdon would hardly
ill-treat an infant of that age; and no doubt his sister would receive
her. Perhaps you might be allowed to keep her? I don’t know much about
these sort of things. I only know, that I want you to break your bonds,
and get a new start in life. Why you are barely twenty!--think of the
fifty years that lie before you,--and have pity upon yourself!”

“To escape from Hugo--never to see him again--never to hear his voice,
to meet his eyes, would be, oh, such overwhelming joy--such a relief!
You cannot think how much I am afraid of him; sometimes he is like a
lunatic, and I am terrified to be with him alone; and yet what can I
do? How can _anyone_ come between us--I am his wife.”

“_I_ will come between you,” said the young man resolutely, “that is,
if you care for me, Letty?”

“Yes I do; I’ve always cared,” she answered, in a tremulous voice.
“But think of your father and Frances, my greatest friend, and Maudie
Hesketh, and little Cara, to have a mother who ran away--and oh,
imagine what all the people around would say!”

“The people around would say, that they were astonished that you didn’t
make your escape years ago. Cara is but an infant, she will have her
_own_ life, she is the daughter of a rich man; you are not called upon
to sacrifice the whole of your existence to her; _you_ have a right
to live, as much as she has! Mrs. Fenchurch will be shocked--that I
grant you--but that Maudie Hesketh and my sister will forgive you--I
guarantee.”

“No, no, no, I never could do it--I beseech you not to tempt me!”
then without another word, she suddenly turned into a side path, and
actually ran away. But although Letty had evaded him on this occasion
Lancelot Lumley would not relinquish his intention; he knew what
he was doing; he took into consideration all the scandal, the talk,
and the injury that it would cause him in his profession. On the
other hand, he thought of Letty: they would be so happy together, and
ultimately they would live it down!

He wrote her a clear, urgent, and impassioned letter, putting
everything plainly before her, and imploring her to leave home.

“For six months after the divorce you could live in some quiet seaside
or country place, or in Switzerland. I have ample money to provide for
this. I will of course not see you, and I shall apply for an exchange
to a battalion in India; when the decree nisi is pronounced, all our
troubles will be over, and like the people in the fairy tale, we shall
live happy ever after.”

Before the end of the week, they had met again; and the force of fear
and love, and Lumley’s eloquent persuasion ultimately carried the
day; but during this week, Letty had lived in a palsy of indecision,
painfully conscious of the debility of her own will. One moment,
she had made up her mind, the next she changed it; however, after
a decisive interview, in which Lumley said, “It must be yes or
no--_now_--for I am going away,” with a white face and trembling lips,
Letty had breathed the syllable ‘Yes.’



CHAPTER XIX


It had been arranged by Captain Lumley that he was to go to London,
where, by a certain train and on a certain day, he would be joined by
Mrs. Blagdon. In this short breathing-space Letty had much to think
of, and accomplish. She collected, sorted, and packed some clothes,
and a few treasured personal belongings; but abandoned all her
jewellery, except one or two trifling ornaments, a string of pearls,
and her uncle’s diamond heart, destroyed the whole of her innocent
correspondence, put the photograph of her wedding group into the
waste-paper basket in four pieces, and, heaviest task of all, set about
writing letters to her aunt, to Frances, and to Maude Hesketh. To her
she said:

“I know that you alone realise the awful life I have led since my
marriage, and will pity and forgive me. I never see you now, and I am
shut away from all the world--not a wife, but a prisoner. Sometimes
last winter when Frances and her father were at Bournemouth, I was
afraid that my mind would have given way; the loneliness and monotony
seemed to deaden my brain. Dear Cousin Maudie, do not think too badly
of me, and love me still.”

The leave-taking epistle destined for her husband, was a more
difficult task; how many sheets of paper were destroyed, before she had
succeeded to her satisfaction!

Waggett the nurse had an inarticulate understanding with her master,
and all this packing, letter-writing, and hours of weeping in the
nursery, excited her suspicions,--and could mean but one thing. When
Cara was asleep, Miss Waggett slipped down to the village post office
and sent a telegram to Mr. Blagdon’s London address, which said, ‘Your
presence required urgently.’

Blagdon, who was on the eve of a trip to Paris, returned by the first
train--actually passing his wife on her flight to London. When, in a
ferocious temper, he arrived at Sharsley, he was informed that Mrs.
Blagdon was not at home, had left at twelve o’clock in the village fly,
taking luggage with her. Then a letter addressed to him was produced;
it had been placed in a conspicuous position on the smoking-room
chimney-piece.

He snatched this from the old man-servant’s hand, tearing it open as
he walked away; then, glancing over it, he slapped his great thigh and
exclaimed exultantly:

“By Gad, she’s done it! She’s done it!”

The letter began:

  “HUGO,

  “I am to-day leaving this house for ever. To me it has been a
  miserable home. I can no longer endure your neglect and cruelty. I
  am going to Lancelot Lumley, and you are free to take any steps
  you please. I shall be thankful to be released from you, and you, I
  know, will be glad to be rid of me, since you have so often told me
  that you wished I were dead. Well, in future we shall be dead to one
  another. I need not ask you to be good to Cara; it breaks my heart to
  leave her, but it breaks my heart to stay.

                                                                “LETTY.”

“By Gad!” he repeated, “this is great news! Dead to me--I should say
so, the little puling fool!”

In a condition of supreme satisfaction he went to his writing-table and
filled a number of telegraph forms: one of these was a long one to his
lawyer, others were addressed to his mother, his sister, and to several
of his chief friends. In short, a dozen wires carrying the startling
news were promptly despatched from Sharsley Post Office.

(The intelligence was received in various fashions. Mrs. Blagdon wept
and kept her room: she was growing old and feeble; Lady Rashleigh said,
“Hullo! here is a nice business! Letty has bolted with Captain Lumley.
I wouldn’t have believed she had it in her!” and Lord Robert who was
present, shouted his usual ejaculation, ‘My hat!’)

When this task had been accomplished, Mr. Blagdon drained a four-finger
whisky and soda, and summoned the housekeeper to his presence.

Bates appeared, was much on the _qui vive_, the impression that
something had happened was obvious to the whole household.

“Bates,” he began, “Mrs. Blagdon has--er--left here, and is never to be
admitted to this house again. I shall probably close it before long.
You can put away all the linen and china and that sort of thing, and
pack off the cook.”

“Yes, sir, excuse me, but it’s not a cook we have, but a kitchenmaid.
We are terribly short-handed, only old Jenkins for man-servant, a boy
for the knives, and one housemaid. The big rooms are all in an awful
state of dust, and with them old tapestries and pictures, and moth and
damp, I expect there’s a lot of damage already. We had no fires last
winter--and----”

At this point, the voice of her complaint was interrupted by a
succession of piercing screams immediately on the other side of the
door.

“It’s only Miss Cara,” explained Bates reassuringly; “she is just in
from her walk.”

Miss Cara’s papa rose from his chair and hastily entered the hall,
where he beheld Waggett, struggling with an animated bundle of white
embroidery and bare legs, which had cast itself down upon the marble
flags, and was rending the air with uncontrolled shrieks, and even
squeals of passion.

“What’s all this?” he demanded peremptorily.

The child ceased her cries, raised her tearless face, and stared at him
threateningly.

“I want my mummy!” she shouted. “I want my own mummy!”

“Your mummy isn’t here--be quiet this moment.”

A defiant yell was Cara’s sole answer.

“Shut up--shut up at once, you little devil! Do you hear me?” and her
father reached down, and shook her roughly by the arm.

Cara surveyed him with a pair of rebellious blue eyes, then drew in her
breath and screamed with a deafening increase of shrill and reckless
fury. Such were her efforts, that her little face was actually purple
and congested, as she drummed on the marble pavement with the heels of
her best shoes.

“Go ’way!” she panted. “Go ’way--ugly man--I want my mummy!”

“_I_ know what you want, and what you’ll get!” cried her father, beside
himself with anger, and snatching her up, he proceeded to administer
to the astonished Cara, a first and ruthless chastisement: carrying
out the punishment with the broad palm of a powerful hand in loud and
resounding smacks.

The subject was so completely dazed by the experience she had almost
ceased to cry, merely ejaculating:

“Bad man! Bad man! Bad man!”

Meanwhile Nurse Waggett stood by, the embodiment of complacent
satisfaction, till, at a sign from the executioner, she took over her
gasping, sobbing, bewildered charge, and carried her off to her own
apartments. Subsequently the threat, “I’ll bring your _father_!” had a
magical effect upon Miss Caroline Blagdon: he remained an ineffaceable
impression of awe and terror, for many and many a day.

The news of ‘the break-up at the Court,’ as it was called, was all
over the village by eight o’clock that night; women ran into one
another’s houses with ‘Have you heard?’ Men discussed the matter over
their half-pints at the ‘New Plough,’ and the general verdict was, that
“the poor young lady had led a worse than dog’s life, and _he_ had been
rightly served.”



CHAPTER XX


And now to accompany the fugitive to London. At first, the mere novelty
of a drive to the station that delicious June day, and the unaccustomed
journey in the train filled her with a sense of overpowering freedom;
but as the heavy express thundered along, her mind, as usual, began
to be uneasy and undecided; her thoughts turned insistently to her
deserted baby girl, and the more she reflected, the more she felt drawn
to Cara--and by her very heart-strings!

When Mrs. Blagdon stepped out on the London platform, it was a
woebegone young woman, with a white and frightened face, that
encountered the glad eyes of her awaiting lover,--who instantly
recognised that his beloved had recently passed through some great
emotional storm, and that her courage had been sorely shaken by this,
the most daring venture of her existence. Here was a different Letty
to the one who had danced with him so gaily at the Brakesby Ball, and
skimmed over the ice on Batley Mere; _she_ was a girl radiant with
youth and expectant happiness, looking out on the future with brave and
shining eyes. This Letty, with her pathetic expression and tremulous
lips, recalled some poor wild bird with a broken wing, and he realised
that he must treat her with extraordinary tact and tenderness.

They went together in search of her luggage, which turned out to be
of surprisingly modest dimensions, and in keeping with its owner’s
costume. Wearing a simple white linen and a plain shady hat, Letty
might be the daughter of a curate, or a clerk, instead of the wife of
a fabulously wealthy man; but her companion understood; she wished to
leave Blagdon as she had gone to him--empty handed. With a lover’s
memory, he recognised her little turquoise brooch, and a certain thin,
old-fashioned locket.

In a few minutes the pair were in a hansom threading their way to the
Cosmopolitan. Letty, sitting very far back in her corner, with a rigid
profile and tightly clasped hands. It was more than two years since she
had been in London, and the noise, the traffic, the varied sights, and
the jostling crowds, struck her in forcible contrast to the silence and
emptiness of the country.

After a long and sensitive silence, Lumley said:

“Letty, you look terribly pale and tired. I am afraid you feel knocked
up?”

“No, no, I’m not tired,” she answered; “but so thirsty, I can scarcely
speak.”

“We will have tea the moment we get to the hotel. It’s just half-past
five now. I’ve taken rooms there.”

“Rooms,” she repeated, looking at him with a vacant gaze.

“Yes; in my name, and what will one day be yours,” and he lifted one
of her hands and kissed it. “Rooms for Captain and Mrs. Lumley.”

The future Mrs. Lumley dragged away her hand, and made no reply; her
face flamed, no one could call her pale now.

“Letty Lumley goes rather well,” continued her companion, unabashed;
“and here we are--come along!” helping her out; then proceeding up
the steps he ushered her into the entrance of the hotel. They passed
through a great hall, entered a spacious lift, and were whirled
to the first floor, where they were evidently expected. A ready
man-servant came forward with (as it seemed to the lady) significant
_empressement_, and threw open the door of a lofty sitting-room,
furnished with heavy silk curtains, tall mirrors between the windows,
a soft dark carpet, Oriental vases, cabinets, lounges, and luxurious
chairs. A formal, expensive apartment, somewhat stiff and gloomy, but
made beautiful with flowers.

“All the flowers you like best, Letty,” explained Lumley, as the man
departed with an order for tea, “every one of your favourites, to bid
you welcome.”

“Yes, lovely,” she faltered. “How--thoughtful of you!” and she buried
her face in a great bowl of roses and carnations. How, she asked
herself, was she, the coward of cowards, to tell Lancelot the truth?
She raised her eyes, and was confronted by a Chinese incense burner; a
monster in bronze, a sort of demon dog, with a high spiral tail, and a
flat, diabolical head, which confronted her on an opposite cabinet,
with a hideous grin.

The bronze demon, as if alive and malignant, appeared to mock her, and
say:

“You know you cannot do it, you little born fool!”

She turned away, and looked out of the window, with misty eyes and a
fluttering heart--aware that, her life had reached a desperate climax!

How could she tell Lancelot, so loyal, so chivalrous, and devoted, that
she had changed her mind in the train, and was determined to return to
Cara by the half-past eight express?

In spite of her most determined efforts, tears dropped on her blouse,
and Lancelot, who had been anxiously watching her, drew her tenderly
towards him, and as she sobbed on his shoulder said, ‘There, there,
there!’ as if he were comforting a child. Steel herself against her
lover as she might, his presence affected her deeply.

“I understand _all_ about it--this has been an awful wrench for you, a
terrible day; but now you must look forward, not backwards any more.
The future is ours, and I have ever so much to say to you.”

“And I to you,” she murmured, drawing away from him, and drying her
eyes as she spoke. She glanced nervously about the room--a room to be
imprinted on her memory as long as memory existed: for here she must
part with Lancelot, and for ever. It would be, so to speak, a chamber
of death, and at the thought she shuddered. How morbid she was growing,
or was she a little mad? There was that grinning devil confronting
her, with wide-open jaws, flattened ears, and staring eyes, and the
background of this lofty, heavily furnished apartment seemed to weigh
upon her senses; the perfume of the roses to stifle her.

“Here is tea,” announced Captain Lumley. “Shall I pour it out and bring
it over to you?”

“No, no, thank you,” rising and taking off her gloves; “but if you
would open the windows?”

“Won’t you take your hat off?”

She hesitated for a moment and murmured:

“My hair is so untidy.”

But ultimately unpinned her hat, and threw it on a sofa; it would not
take long to put on again.

Then she sat down and began to busy herself with the cups and saucers,
and her companion noticed how her hand was shaking. The buoyancy of his
spirits was by this time somewhat crushed. Letty was taking it hardly;
she was so sensitive. But after she had had tea, and was a little
refreshed, they would discuss their plans; meanwhile he would talk any
nonsense to amuse and distract her.

“This is a fine room,” he said, looking about, “and an A1 hotel. Did
Frances ever tell you about Cousin Toby and his bride? No? Well, he
and Rosa funked the honeymoon abroad; it was winter, and they wanted
to stay in town and do theatres and have a good time; but, of course,
their relations, who were in London, barred it--said they must do the
orthodox thing. However, the two laid their plans, were seen off at
Victoria with due pomp, got out at Cannon Street, and sneaked back
here in great glee, and would never have been found out but for Rosa’s
umbrella; it was full of rice and dripped grains all over the stairs
and place. The poor innocents never knew, till they saw themselves
among the fashionable arrivals; but, I say, Letty, you’ve eaten
nothing! Do have some of these strawberries?”

“No, no, thank you.”

“Feel better after your tea?”

“Yes; I was so thirsty, and my head ached; but now I’m all right.” She
put up her hands to her beautiful hair, and he noticed that she was
still wearing her wedding ring.

“Well, now shall I explain things a little, or will you talk first?”

“Do you please begin.” (Anything for a respite.)

“Then may I have a cigarette?”

“Of course you may.”

Lumley rose and took out his case, and began to walk restlessly about
the room; he was one of those men who rarely sit down.

“I’ve arranged matters all right; seen our man of business, Ross, and
had a tremendous jaw with him.” (He did not mention what a strenuous
interview it had been, and how the old family lawyer had exhausted his
wit, his eloquence, and his temper, in endeavouring, as he hoped, to
turn the young idiot from his folly; from rushing headlong into social
and professional extinction.

The idea of young Lumley, whom he had known as a remarkably bright,
clever, steady boy, running off with a married woman,--the wife, too,
of such a well-known character as Hugo Blagdon! What, he asked him,
would his father and sister say? And how could he take a divorced wife
into his regiment?

But it had all been a useless waste of brain tissue, breath, and
temper.)

“It will be plain-sailing, Letty, now we have burned our boats; perhaps
we had better dine downstairs, so as to be _seen_ together on account
of the case.”

“No, no, no,” half rising, and looking at him with a startled
expression.

“But, my darling Letty, unless you are divorced, how can you marry me?
We must give some just cause, for them to go on; I’m not sure that
it’s cricket--a faked elopement--but I see nothing else for it; and I
understand there is no getting over the fact of a private sitting-room:
so I’ve taken this,” nodding at himself in one of the long mirrors
between the windows. “To-night, I shall return to my own diggings, and
you will have the suite to yourself. To-morrow, we will go down to
Broadstairs, I’ve secured rooms for you there. I’m afraid we won’t see
much of one another till the decree nisi is out; the case, of course,
will be undefended; our lawyers will arrange matters very quietly and
try and keep the business out of the papers. We shall have to wait six
months, and then, Letty,” and his voice had a ring of irrepressible
joy, “we will be married!”

Letty attempted to speak, but he put up his hand.

“Of course, it’s a maddening wait, but can’t be helped. I’m going to
Moscow to study Russian all the time, and I’ll write to you every day,
and you to me. You might go abroad if you liked. Mrs. Hesketh has
promised me to befriend you. I’ve been down to see her; she blames
herself for _this_, says she brought us together--not much bringing
wanted on my part, eh, Letty?” And he paused and laughed, a short
excited laugh.

“And what about----” she was beginning.

“Just wait one second, till I finish my innings; I’m wound up like a
clock. Oh, yes, I know--the regiment. I’ve arranged for an exchange to
another in India--that’s settled, and it is all right about money, too.
Did you hear that I came in for a legacy this spring. I have enough for
us both; to-morrow, I’ll open an account for you at Cox’s. This is only
the bald, commonplace outline--and now,” coming to a standstill before
her, “I’ve finished at last, and it’s your turn. What,” he asked with a
smile, “have _you_ got to say?”

“I’ve got to say,” and she rose and faced him with a face white as
death, “that--that--I cannot--do it! No,” speaking with dry lips, “it’s
no use--my heart has failed me, and _I am--going back_.”

Lumley’s amazement was such, that he was dumb; twice he opened his
mouth to speak, but only his breathing could be heard. At last he
stammered out:

“Letty, you are not in earnest,--you cannot return; the worst is over,
and I shall never let you go--never; consider that settled.”

“Oh, but you must--you must!” she cried, twisting her hands together.
“I screwed up my courage--I wrote those farewell letters--I wrote to
him, and I left home--it seems years ago; but before I was half-way to
town I had repented. Yes,” speaking between short dry sobs, “you know
my besetting failing; always standing at the cross roads. This time, I
have made up my mind--I am,” and she gave a great sob, “sure of myself.
I love you, dear, dear Lancelot, but if we carried out your plans, we
should be miserable.”

“No we shouldn’t,” he broke in with hasty emphasis; “on the contrary,
for the first time for years, you will know what it is to be free and
young and happy; you will live like others of your own age, and enjoy a
little sunshine.”

Looking at Letty as she stood with her back to the window, it seemed
incredible that this slim young girl, was already a wife and mother.

“The sun, you mean, would never shine on _me_,” she replied. “All the
time I would be thinking of Cara, wearying to see her, and feeling the
most terrible remorse. Is there anything in the whole world, that can
hurt like that?”

Lumley made no reply, he was struggling hard to keep his emotion well
under control, and she continued tremulously:

“No one will ever know of this madness of mine--no one but you. Hugo
does not come to Sharsley for months and months; as soon as I get
back, I’ll destroy my letter to him, the others as well--they were to
be posted to-morrow. There’s the mail-train at half-past eight, and I
shall easily catch it.”

As she concluded, she picked up her hat, and put it on mechanically.

Meanwhile Lumley stood listening to her, watching her keenly, and
assuring himself that in the coming struggle between two wills, the
victory _must_ go to the strong.

“I am pleading as much for your sake as mine,” she resumed, looking at
him with wistful dignity, and not a little daunted by his continued
silence.

“Think of your poor father, who is so proud of you; think of Frances,
who is devoted to you--and to me. Think of my poor little Cara, that I
would be deserting for ever.”

“It is too late to talk of these things now, Letty,” he answered
inflexibly. “How can you suggest returning to a fellow that deserts
you, and treats you brutally and cruelly; a man that you regard with
shuddering repulsion?” He was resolved to hit hard.

“Oh, Lancelot, don’t!” wincing and turning away; “if you only knew.
I’d go with you to the world’s end--I would--but for the child. Yes;
in spite of your father’s grey hairs, and your sister’s confidence and
affection; but there is something that I cannot explain, and that you
would not understand; it is the _mother_ in me, that is drawing me
back--yes, and I am going.”

“No!” said Lumley suddenly, walking across the room, and placing his
back against the door. “You don’t leave London to-night--talk of
madness--that would be madness indeed!”

His face looked stern and very pale; he had braced himself as for a
life and death struggle.

“Yes, I will prevent you, and by all means in my power, short of force.
_I_ know what is best for you; I am not thinking of myself,--but of
you, now. You know I love you too well, Letty, to do anything that
would harm you--but to allow you to escape to that life of misery,
would be a crime. A crime, against your youth and your happiness;
you talk of Cara, what is she but a baby of three, and you are
one-and-twenty? Why is she to devour the whole of your future? She is
pretty, she is a rich man’s daughter, as far as I could judge, has a
strong will; the world will go well with _her_. Suppose you sacrifice
yourself, will she give up her best years to you, and are _you_ to have
no life of your own? As it is, you are like some beautiful flower that
has been kept in a dark room till its colour has been bleached, and its
vitality is perishing. If this existence continues, what will you be in
twenty years?”

“_Dead_, I hope,” she answered sharply, then with a flash of unexpected
passion, “but dead or alive, I am going to stick to Cara.”

“No you are not,” he rejoined with gathering excitement. “You are going
to stick to _me_, and till death us do part.” Visibly shaken by the
force of his own speech, he added hoarsely: “Letty, you have escaped
from bondage, be thankful for your freedom!”

“It is for you, Lancelot, to release me,” she declared, “and help me to
escape from here; from a situation that will bring disgrace on me--and
mine.”

“Do you mean that?” he demanded fiercely, leaving his post, and coming
a step nearer.

“Yes, I do,” she assented with a set wooden face,--the face of a woman
of double her age. “Lancelot, let me pass. If you stand in my way, and
prevent my returning home I--I--swear I will never forgive you.”

“If I had stood in your way four years ago, as I ought to have done--my
home would be yours. If I let you pass _now_, I know, that I shall
never set eyes on you again.”

His handsome tanned face had taken a curious clay-coloured shade;
little drops of sweat stood on his forehead.

“Think again, for God’s sake!” His voice rose, vibrating with passion.
“Have mercy on yourself.”

“Myself! No; _I_ don’t count!”

“Nor I? Letty, has it occurred to you, what an awful fool you have made
of me?”

It was true; she had sacrificed him as pitilessly as herself--this only
struck her now. For her sake Lancelot had given up his regiment, thrown
his prospects to the winds, risked the loss of his friends.

“I know,” she stammered at last, “I have cost you a great deal--far,
far, too much. Lancelot, I’m not _worth_ it! I am a miserable,
cowardly, half-hearted creature--and now--let me go--oh _do_--I implore
you, let me go!”

As they stood staring into one another’s eyes, a languid gilt clock on
the mantel-piece, struck eight.

Lumley started, their discussion had absorbed more time than seemed
possible--he moved aside and said in a muffled tone, “Well--if you
must--you must!”

Letty came closer to him--his drawn stricken face affected her
profoundly. She seized his hand in both of hers, and suddenly broke
down.

“Good-bye, Lancelot; good-bye,” she sobbed hysterically. “I know you
will despise me, and forget me; but as long as I live I shall love you,
better than anyone in the whole world--better than Cara. But my duty is
to her; if I went with you, I should always, always, be looking back.”

“Poor Letty, I’ll try, and forgive you,” he answered huskily; “but from
the bottom of my heart, I believe you are spoiling two lives; and the
day may come, when you will find it hard to forgive yourself,” and with
a violent wrench he opened the door.

It was a strangely pale and agitated couple who descended into the
great hall, and a few minutes later drove away to the station: a waiter
going into the empty room, found too late, that the lady had forgotten
a very damp pocket-handkerchief, and a handsome umbrella with a gold
handle, on which was inscribed, “Mrs. Blagdon, Sharsley Court.”

On their way down Piccadilly Captain Lumley and his companion
encountered a steady stream of hansoms carrying their gay fares to
dinners or the theatres. The two, who held one another’s hands in
agonised silence, seemed to be journeying away from life, and all its
joys, and facing together--a dark and hopeless future.

As soon as Letty had secured her ticket she said:

“We will say good-bye now, Lancelot--please don’t come on the platform.
You know this is the fast train--and I may meet neighbours.”

And there, under the flaming lamps, in the ugly, bare booking-office,
came to these, who were so much to one another, that transcendent
moment of a miserable and silent farewell. As Letty looked up into her
lover’s face, her heart felt a piercing stab; she had once encountered
a poor lost dog, with the self-same expression in its eyes.

A moment later, she was hurrying along the platform, asking for the
train to Ridgefield.

“Sorry, miss,” replied an official, “but you’ve just missed her,”
indicating a round red light that was vanishing into a tunnel; and the
runaway had lost her only opportunity of returning home that night!
This discovery was a shock: she felt vanquished--and half distracted,
but recovering her courage, and summoning her wits to her assistance,
she made over her luggage to a porter, and departed in quest of a
bedroom in the Terminus Hotel.



CHAPTER XXI


Mr. Blagdon was a late riser; on this particular morning it was eleven
o’clock as he stood lathering his great sensual face, in front of a
shaving-glass. The operation was but half completed, when his valet
entered, and, clearing his throat, said:

“Beg pardon, sir, but Mrs. Blagdon has just arrived and is asking to
see you.”

Blagdon’s somewhat shaky hand slipped, and gave his chin a gash.
When he had carefully plastered it up, he turned to the man, with an
alarming scowl.

“Jenkins didn’t let her in, did he?”

“Yes, sir, he did. She’s in the morning-room.”

“That’ll do!” said his master in a voice of thunder, and he continued
his toilet with a determination that he would sack Jenkins instantly,
and turn his wife out of the house. But before taking these drastic
steps, he must breakfast. He went heavily downstairs, unfolding a
large scented pocket-handkerchief, and stalked into the dining-room;
here he was served with devilled kidneys, dry toast, and two strong
whiskies and sodas. Thus fortified, he approached with loud, resonant
footsteps, the morning-room, where the culprit awaited him in shivering
expectation: and flinging the door wide, entered like an avenging fate.

“Well, ma’am, I shall be glad to know what the devil brings _you_
here?” he demanded. “The servants had orders not to admit you. Old
Jenkins shall be kicked out to-morrow!”

“Hugo,” she said, rising, and vainly endeavouring to steady her voice,
“of course, I know that after the letter, which no doubt you have read,
my coming back like this must seem astonishing.”

“Outrageous! Scandalous!” he burst in. “Why, it’s absolutely
_shameless_!”

“But the truth is, before I got half-way to London I had changed my
mind. I found that I couldn’t leave Cara, and so when I met Captain
Lumley I told him this, and in spite of all he could urge, I refused
to take the final step. We remained talking together too long, and I
just missed the last train--the mail. I had said good-bye to him before
that, and I went to the station hotel and spent the night there, and
came on the first thing this morning. Hugo, I swear to you that I am
speaking the truth.”

“What a fine cock-and-bull story!” he answered, with a sneer. “We have
heard of people missing their trains before. I’m surprised that you and
Lumley between you, couldn’t think of something a little _fresher_!”

“But you believe me, Hugo?” she implored, “and I may come back?”

“No, I’m damned if you shall! Come back, indeed! I got your letter
yesterday, and telegraphed at once to my lawyer. You shall be, as you
said yourself, dead to me,--and I shall be dead to you. I am not
likely to put up with a woman who informs me she is going off with
a lover--and no doubt has a row with him, finds she hasn’t bettered
herself,--and turns up at home the next day. By Jove, no!”

“But where am I to go?” she asked piteously. “What am I to do? I swear
to you, that I am as innocent as Cara herself--at least, you will let
me see her?”

“Not I! And now, madam, we have had enough of this,” and, taking her
roughly by the arm, he led her from the anteroom, out into the great
hall,--the door of which happened to be open. Without a word he pushed
her violently across the threshold, and slammed the door upon her.

The fly and luggage had disappeared, there was no one in sight, as the
ejected wife went slowly down the steps, and slowly down the avenue,
as if she were walking in her sleep; this unexpected blow had been so
staggering, that it momentarily stunned her.

Meanwhile Blagdon, with his hands in his pockets, stood in the window
of the hall, which commanded a full view of the short entrance drive,
his eyes fixed on the receding figure. When he saw her approach and
pass through the great gates, making her final and ignominious exit, he
muttered under his breath, “She’s _gone_!” and then he went back to the
smoking-room, selected one of his best cigars, and sat down to meditate
upon his future plans.

Frances Lumley, who happened to be crossing the village square, halted
when she beheld her friend. What had happened? Why this white, stricken
face? She held out her hand, and enquired:

“Is anything the matter?”

For a moment the unhappy girl seemed to choke; then--she stammered:
“Yes--Hugo has just turned me out of the house.”

“Turned you out! Oh, my poor Letty! Then you will come home with me, of
course?” And as she spoke, she took her arm.

It was but a few yards to the Rectory, and as they walked up the
avenue, Letty halted abruptly, and said:

“I don’t think I should come _here_,” releasing her friend, and
supporting herself by a railing that bordered the drive.

“Nonsense!”

“But, Frances, you don’t know. It was because of your brother
that--that--Hugo has cast me off.”

“Because of _Lancelot_!” exclaimed Miss Lumley, suddenly disconcerted;
her colour rose, her eyes dilated.

“Yes,” said Letty, and then--she added, in short, gasping sentences:
“I ran away to him yesterday to London--but I changed my mind. I could
not desert Cara.--I came back. Hugo had returned suddenly, and read my
letter, and took me by the shoulders, thrust me out, and slammed the
door on me. I feel sure he will try and divorce me!”

Frances’ clear mind grasped a subject quickly. What a disastrous
affair for Lancelot! What was to be done? Obviously the first step was
to take Letty into the house--she looked ghastly.

“Brother or no brother,” she said--stifling her own dismay--“you must
come and stay with us, and pull yourself together. Matters may not be
as bad as you think.”

“They are--and it’s all my fault. I have ruined your brother, and
disgraced myself, and Cara!”

This speech brought her into the Rectory door, which stood wide, and
she tottered into a chair in the hall, and fainted away.

As soon as the refugee had been restored and put to bed in the spare
room, Frances, a woman of action, wrote off to Mrs. Hesketh and to her
brother, and despatched a note to Bates at the Court with a request for
Mrs. Blagdon’s luggage. Then she proceeded to explain matters to her
invalid father, who was enchanted to hear that Mrs. Blagdon was staying
with them--though he could not quite understand how it was, that she
should be in his house and not her own; but his resourceful daughter
satisfied his curiosity, and told a lie, with the one simple word
‘Drains!’

Exhausted by bodily fatigue and mental emotion, Letty slept soundly
till the church clock, striking nine, roused her from a sleep, that had
bordered upon stupor. Where was she? asked recovering consciousness.
The scene was strange, and beautiful--a wide-open window, the perfume
of flowers, above, in the summer sky, a slim young moon. Was she dead,
and was this house Heaven? Suddenly, with a torrential rush, black
memory overwhelmed her.

During the next twenty-four hours, Frances Lumley was all that a
sister, and more than some sisters would be, to the unhappy refugee.
She consoled, soothed, cheered her,--keeping her own tremors respecting
Lancelot entirely out of sight. Then Mrs. Hesketh appeared upon the
scene, and carried her friend away to Oldcourt. Francie Lumley was
a dear girl, with a heart of gold, but it was not seemly that Mrs.
Blagdon should be her guest, with the case of Blagdon _v._ Blagdon and
Lumley, imminent in the Law Courts.

It soon became noised abroad that Blagdon was about to divorce his
wife, and mothers with daughters, once more began to cast expectant
eyes on Sharsley.



CHAPTER XXII


The case of Blagdon _v._ Blagdon and Lumley divided the County into
factions and separated chief friends. Some said, that _now_ they
thoroughly understood why Blagdon was reluctant to produce his wife in
Society; obviously she was mentally unsound--a woman who ran away, and
returned to him the next day! She had been a shy, odd creature from
the first. The opposition were violent partisans, and declared that a
girl so young, pretty, and innocent, had been driven to desperation by
the brutality of her monster of a husband. It was a curious but not
uncommon circumstance, that most of the women took the part of the man;
whilst the men-folk, and in great numbers, were solid for the lady.

Letty’s few relatives lived in Ireland, and were not a little shocked
to learn of her being mixed up in a scandal. They hid the paper from
their friends, and discussed their black sheep in horrified whispers.
The character of Mr. Blagdon had not been wafted across the Irish sea.

When the newly married couple were in London, one or two of the Irish
clan had attempted to make their cousin’s acquaintance--not because she
had made a great match, but that it was an opportunity of seeing poor
Dermot’s daughter, and blood is thicker than water. However, their
civil advances were rudely repulsed by Hugo (who hated the Irish as
a nation) and did not want to be bothered with a pack of his wife’s
relatives; and they merely saw a heavy-browed, formidable personage,
and a pretty, shy girl with stiff manners. And now this pretty, shy
girl had come to grief--wealth and importance had turned her silly
little head. It was a pity!

The Blagdon-Lumley case, was entirely circumstantial, and the chain of
evidence complete; the petitioner, a wealthy man; no enterprising legal
firm came forward as a speculation to take up the co-respondent’s side,
and the suit was undefended. Lumley had again repaired to Mr. Ross
(Ross, Carbery & Co.), and told a plain, unvarnished tale, assuring
them of the lady’s innocence on his solemn word of honour. The firm
listened with agreeable sympathy, but declared, that there was nothing
to be done, but face the consequences of an act of folly. Mrs. Blagdon
had run away from her husband, leaving a letter of confession; she
had joined their client in London openly, and left the hotel in his
company. It was true, that she had repented, and next day presented
herself at home in the character of a reformed wife; but it wouldn’t
do--no, it would _not_ do.

“I understand, that she is extraordinarily good-looking,” added Mr.
Ross, “and that might give her a chance with the jury; but if you will
take my advice, Captain Lumley, and speaking in the character of a
friend, you will not attempt to defend the case. The less mud-throwing
the better--all can be arranged between Mr. Blagdon’s lawyers and
ourselves; at the end of six months there will be the usual decree, and
I take it for granted, that you will marry the lady?”

But, as it happened, the lady absolutely refused to marry Lumley. For
some time she had been in a state of collapse, under the roof and the
care of her friend at Oldcourt. She seemed to be in a dazed condition,
her recent experience appeared to have exercised an almost paralysing
effect on her thinking faculties, and when she recovered, and was
informed that the trial was over, that Hugo had generously settled five
hundred a year upon her, and she was free to marry again; she assured
Maude Hesketh and Mrs. Denton that nothing in the world would induce
her to do so. No arguments affected her, and she positively declined to
see Lancelot Lumley.

“I have done him enough harm as it is,” she pleaded, “and I only hope
he may forget me.”

So Captain Lumley went out to his new regiment, which was quartered in
Peshawur, with an empty pocket, a sore heart, and a somewhat damaged
reputation.

It is perhaps needless to mention, that Mrs. Fenchurch did not spare
the culprit when she came to Oldcourt to visit and upbraid her. Letty
sat listening and gazing in helpless silence, whilst her aunt had her
‘_say_.’ After a vigorous arraignment of her conduct, and her shameful
abandonment of a splendid position, she concluded:

“I merely came to tell you, that I wash my hands of you, Letty, and I
am thankful that my poor dear husband did not live to see this day.
I have one piece of advice to give you, and that is, that you marry
Captain Lumley. I believe he is ready to make you his wife--go out to
him in India, and remain there. I understand that as Society in the
East is only _too_ well accustomed to scandals and divorces, you will
probably be received, and enabled to make a fresh start. Thanks to
Hugo’s generosity, and with a captain’s Indian pay, you will be quite
comfortably off.”

To all this advice the inquisitor received no reply, and rising
red-faced from her seat, she added angrily:

“I see it’s no use talking to you for your good. You are in one of your
tempers. I _had_ intended offering you your uncle’s P. & O. trunks; but
I shall do _nothing_ further--good-bye!”

To the friendless divorcée, Cousin Maude played the part of a good and
rich Samaritan. As it was winter time she took her to the Riviera,
but Letty still exhibited a lack of energy and indifference to her
surroundings, which was disheartening to her companion; however, by
degrees, sunshine, peace, and youth had their effect, and, as a crushed
flower in water, she revived. Her beauty and grace were remarkable. She
had at last ‘come into her own,’ and was now a lovely girl--no longer
the pallid, cowed bride of four years previously. Since then, she had
experienced matrimony, misery, love--real love--and disgrace; also the
tardy realisation of her own endowment.

If in former days, Blagdon was bitterly disappointed by his wife’s
insignificance, Mrs. Hesketh was now proportionately amazed at her
success; by the many staring eyes that followed her companion, the
éclat, the sensation she created was quite remarkable--the girl was
much too conspicuous for a divorcée in retreat.

Kind, generous Maude Hesketh, though sincerely attached to her
protégée, was not without certain human weaknesses. She was inclined to
be pessimistic, analytical, inquisitive, and occasionally a _little_
irritable. In her secret heart she felt both sore and envious; she
had been a notable beauty in her time, and although she had never
encouraged admirers, yet was keenly alive to the homage of their eyes.
To-day, all these looks and whispers were for another; whilst she was
merely a well-preserved, elderly woman, to whom no one threw a second
glance. She had accepted admiration as her right, and she now felt as
if she had lost her youth for a second time!

For good and sundry reasons, the two ladies kept themselves in strict
seclusion; they occupied a private sitting-room, and went out in a
private carriage with a pair of capital horses. Now and then Mrs.
Hesketh came across acquaintances, who glanced interrogatively at her
graceful companion. As a rule she made no introductions, but when these
could not possibly be avoided, she murmured the name of “Mrs. Glyn.”

Among the other guests at the “Calafornie,” Cannes, was a certain
needy, worldly widow, Mrs. Plassy--Mrs. Bolingbroke-Plassy with a
lively daughter of two-and-twenty.

This widow, made valiant attempts to attach herself to Mrs.
Hesketh,--who was notoriously rich, had the air of a duchess, and a
charming landau at her disposal; it was also known to her, that the
most distinguished people in Cannes had left cards upon this lady.
But Mrs. Hesketh--who could play the _grande dame_ to perfection,
had ‘no use’ for Mrs. Plassy, mistrusted her worming civilities, her
subdued flatteries, and kept her inflexibly at arm’s length. The pretty
companion was more approachable (Letty could never repulse a dog, much
less a fellow-creature), and she and Miss Plassy, drawn together by
their youth, and tastes, played tennis, and sang duets. The innocent
soprano little suspected how deeply and sincerely she was hated by
the contralto; she thought Lydia a pleasant, lively, unaffected girl,
and if her mother _was_, as Cousin Maude declared, an inquisitive,
marauding ‘old soldier,’ what harm did it do to anyone?

‘The old soldier’ had deeply resented Mrs. Hesketh’s uncompromising
repulse; her animosity was kindled, and she instituted searching
enquiries into the lady’s career,--which proved to be blameless; but,
to her amazement, pretty, shrinking Mrs. Glyn, had a very black record!
The fact leaked out--through a treacherous lady’s-maid--that this
pretty girl was no less a person than the notorious and divorced Mrs.
Blagdon! Fortunately the friends, were on the point of departure for
San Remo, for Mrs. Plassy mentioned the discovery, as a dead secret,
to every woman of her acquaintance in the hotel,--and they all held up
their hands in speechless horror.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the end of six months Mrs. Hesketh returned home, and by that time
the great local scandal had been succeeded by others, and was more or
less forgotten. Mr. Blagdon was said to be in America; Captain Lumley
was in India; no one knew the whereabouts of the lady. She was living
quietly in a country town thirty miles south of London, occasionally
spending a few days at Oldcourt, but, on the whole, alone. To occupy
her time she had taken up music, and worked hard; practising with a
view to becoming a professional singer. As Mrs. Glyn, a solitary,
pretty young woman, she made no acquaintances, with the exception of
two or three elderly women in the same hotel, who regarded her as an
interesting mystery; she could not be a widow, since she wore no scrap
of mourning--presumably she had a husband,--but where? She kept herself
conspicuously aloof from other people,--and why?

All the time, this much-discussed, unhappy stranger, was filled with a
simple human craving to see her child again--to hold her in her arms.
To have her with her, had become a sort of obsession. At night as she
lay awake and weeping, she seemed to hear her forsaken baby, forlorn
and helpless, crying to her across the darkness. She had sacrificed
_all_ for Cara--and lost her!



CHAPTER XXIII


‘Maythorne,’ where Mrs. Glyn--formerly Blagdon--had hidden her
diminished head, was a fine old red-brick mansion standing in its own
grounds and meadows, and within thirty miles of London. Once the family
seat of a well-known banker, it was now the successful investment of
a syndicate, and a more or less glorified hotel, boasting (in a not
untruthful advertisement) of its splendid situation, salubrious air,
far-famed gardens, comforts, and cows.

When Letty, fearing that her company was beginning to irk her friend,
and reluctant to return to Thornby, had implored Mrs. Hesketh to find
her a quiet haven, Mrs. Hesketh’s friends, had recommended her to
Maythorne. In late spring and early summer, the Maythorne guests were
dull and commonplace: various invalids, lame, blind, and halt, with
their nurses; girls or boys brought for change after the usual measles
or whooping cough; old maids and widows; who knitted and gossiped and
paced the broad walks in couples, took tea in little coteries, and
devoted their evenings to cribbage, and patience.

To these, the arrival of a strikingly beautiful girl, a married woman,
alone, without even a maid, offered a nice fresh topic for discussion.
‘Mrs. Glyn’ looked about nineteen, had a private sitting-room, and was
very reserved--but when addressed, discovered a sweet, low voice, and
timid manners. She had no visitors, and there was rarely a letter for
her in the hall rack. Mrs. Glyn sang delightfully, and went twice to
church on Sundays; and this was all that could be found out.

By degrees, the stranger came to know various other women, especially
two of them--the oldest residents, who made a point of speaking to
everyone,--these were friendly, and invited her to tea, and taught her
‘demon’ patience, and borrowed her _Spectator_; but Sister Sophy and
Sister Mary, were painfully inquisitive, and she was not sufficiently
subtle to evade their polite and insidious enquiries,--or to avoid
disaster in the cunning pitfalls they so skilfully laid with regard
to her ‘home.’ Letty instinctively felt, that her answers were
unsatisfactory, and withdrew from their society as imperceptibly as
she dared, contenting herself with the company of the hotel dog,
who attended her in her country walks, and took tea with her most
afternoons.

Maythorne was an irregular old house, renovated; with white paint,
modern furniture, and pretty chintz; its ceilings were low, its stairs
shallow, and in the long passages were unexpected steps. Letty’s
apartments were detached, she had selected them on purpose, that she
might play and sing without disturbing her neighbours.

Around the house were smooth lawns of turf, winding paths and alleys
among laurels and rhododendrons; here and there a noble forest tree,
and clumps of rose-trees, and high delphiniums of a royal and dazzling
blue, and here Letty spent many an hour with a book, her own thoughts,
and the infatuated Toby. As June melted into an unusually warm July,
the number of guests increased; day by day one noted new faces; large
family parties, father, mother, boys and girls, who preferred the
country, with golf, tennis, picnics, and bicycling, to the seductions
of the seaside. The term of ‘week-end’ had not yet been coined, but
the actual thing existed; and many city men ran down from town from
Friday to Monday for golf, fresh air, and good country food. Maythorne
had also a reputation for ‘pretty girls.’ By all accounts, there was
a wonderful beauty staying there now; she sat in a niche near the far
door and was alone. Also it was a case of ‘paws off!’ and the lady
always got out of the room before the dessert, and disappeared.

It was true Mrs. Glyn got out of the room ‘before the dessert,’
those staring eyes frightened her, and she slipped away to a certain
remote seat in the ground,--as yet undiscovered by others,--and there
contemplated the undulating country, whose fresh green pastures, dark
woods, and delicate blue distances, seemed to act as balm upon an open
wound.

“But what _is_ the good of it all?” she would murmur (a phrase caught
from Cousin Maude). Why had she been born? where was her place in the
world? No wife, and no widow; her child taken from her; no home, and
but two friends, Frances and Cousin Maudie--an encumbrance to both!
Frances, the sister of Lancelot, must know how she had spoiled her
brother’s life; how _could_ she endure her? Cousin Maude, with her
self-centred existence (out of which her divorce had figuratively torn
her), had once more retreated into her shell. School-fellows, Irish
cousins, which of these would venture to know her,--a divorcée? And who
could blame them? She thought of the other girls here: happy girls of
her own age; from her nook, she could hear gay voices and laughter on
the croquet ground, but she might not mix with them; the old ladies had
spoken--_they_ could associate with her--not so the young people.

Two girls, who happened to hear her singing, were entranced; and
eagerly made friends with the performer; but when their portly mothers
noticed them strolling in the grounds, with Letty in the middle,
animated, and discoursing of music,--in answer to an imperative signal,
she found herself suddenly deserted. Mrs. Glyn was not to be ‘known,’
that was too painfully evident; and the ‘mystery’ walked on alone,
holding her head unusually high, acutely conscious that she was taboo!
and filled with an angry, straining against circumstances, and against
fate.

“She does look so pretty, and so innocent!” admitted a wealthy matron,
“and I admire her enormously as a picture--not otherwise. These
‘butter-would-not-melt-in-my-mouth’ class are notoriously dangerous!”

To some of the men, Mrs. Glyn was naturally all the more attractive,
because of the ladies’ veto; these were only too anxious to cultivate
her acquaintance, but she shrank from their neighbourhood, and treated
their anxious overtures, with discouraging hauteur. Although she
had youth, beauty, health, and five hundred a year, what, she asked
herself, did it avail, a woman with a past, and without hope, or
future? If she only had the necessary courage, she might follow the
example of a recent suicide, and scribble on a card, ‘No home, no
friends--Exit,’ and then go and drown herself; it would be a simple
ending to all her troubles, and her hopeless yearnings for Cara, and
for Lancelot. Her thoughts of him, were inexpressibly painful, and
tinged with acute remorse. Over and over again, she recalled his
stricken face, and stern accusation, “Letty, you have made a fool of
me,” and this was true--a pitiless and unanswerable fact.

When the moon arose, and the bats began to flit about the garden,
the mysterious beauty would repair to her own quarters, and there
seek for sympathy in her piano. She sang not only well-known songs,
but verses she had set to music. The air of one composition was
peculiarly sad and haunting, and two City men who were strolling
about together--discussing the market prices--halted, attracted by a
beautiful voice which floated from an open window. As they stood, and
listened, this is what fell on their ears.

  “Où vivre? Dans quelle ombre
    Étouffer mon ennui?
  Ma tristesse est plus sombre
    Que la nuit.

  “Où mourir? Sous quelle onde
    Noyer mon deuil amer?
  Ma peine est plus profonde
    Que la mer.

  “Où fuir? De quelle sorte
    Égorger mon remord?
  Ma douleur est plus forte
    Que la mort.”

As the last words died away, one of the audience gave himself a
vigorous shake, carefully examined his half-finished cigar, and
exclaimed:

“By George! that young woman must be in a bad way--eh? I wonder who
she is? She is singing like one of those sirens that bothered old
what’s-his-name. Shall we clap--eh?”

“No,” with prompt emphasis, “the girl is singing--and her voice is
exquisite--like some unhappy soul who has lost everything in the world.”

“Oh, Bosh! you and your romantic fancies! Come along indoors and have
a game of billiards. I’ll give you twenty up! There will be no more
songs,--see, she has turned down the light.”

“All right, I see,” agreed the man of sentiment, as he reluctantly
followed his challenger.

The morning after this incident, a letter from Frances Lumley not only
distracted Letty’s thoughts, but carried her away from Maythorne. The
stimulating news, which was in the postscript, said:

  “I have just heard that little Cara and her new nurse have gone to
  Folkestone. The child had measles, but is now quite well; however,
  Doctor Griffen ordered sea air and change. Last time I saw her she
  was prettier than ever, and looked like a _little angel_.”

Within five minutes Cara’s mother was whirling over the pages of an A
B C. She too would go to Folkestone and see her baby at all hazards.
A new nurse--what a chance! She wired for rooms at one of the hotels,
packed up her boxes, paid her bill, and the following day effected
an early departure, arriving at Folkestone the same evening. Here at
least, she would be breathing the same air as her darling.

An early hour the next morning found Mrs. Glyn on the Leas, and as
the month happened to be July these were crowded. For two whole days,
among nurses and perambulators, she sought in vain for Cara. At last,
in a block near the band shelter, she descried her treasure--attended
by a buxom nurse, with a gaudy magazine tucked under her arm; Letty
hovered around, or paced to and fro, till at last nurse and pram moved
slowly away, and she, following at a discreet distance, discovered that
they lodged in rooms not far from her own hotel. Her next move was to
endeavour to make the nurse’s acquaintance, and this she accomplished
by sitting beside her on a bench overlooking the sea, and offering
timid remarks about the weather, and admiration of the sleeping child.

The nurse (with visions of Sharsley to support her) was inclined to be
haughty and stand-off, but when she had scrutinised the young lady, and
her well-cut costume, her pretty hat, and good new gloves, she thawed
so far as to admit that the ‘weather was a treat,’ and to accept the
loan of an illustrated paper.

Letty, as she gazed at her sleeping child, was so overcome with
emotion, that she was impelled to get up suddenly, and walk away; but
presently returned as the moth to the candle, and with a steady voice
informed the nurse, that “she was fond of children, and that the little
girl reminded her of someone.”

“There is one o’clock striking,” said nurse, “and that reminds _me_
that it’s time for our dinner! Here’s your paper, miss, and thank you.”

“Oh, please keep it, I don’t want it back! I have any quantity of
magazines, and books.”

“I do love reading, and specially magazines; but I can’t well leave
this child to go and buy things--you see, I’m single-handed.”

“I will lend you magazines with pleasure,” volunteered this kind
stranger. “Shall you be on the front to-morrow?”

“Yes, miss, at eleven, and if you can spare me something lively--I love
murders--I’ll be obliged to you. I am a bit lonely now; a nurse, my
friend, went yesterday. The family’s gone over to Boulogne, and I don’t
have any talk with them boarding-house servants--they’re no class; I
won’t deny that I’m sociable, but I’m suspicious of strangers, and as
to who I know.”

“Of course,” assented Letty, “so am I--especially as I am here by
myself.”

“Oh, indeed!” with a quick inquisitive glance, and then this pretty
nameless young lady proceeded to inform her, that she was waiting to be
joined by a relative, with whom she was going on the Continent; for, as
she sat beside this unsuspicious woman, Letty had made up her mind to
run away with the child! and was already maturing her plans.

Presently Cara awoke. She was a beautiful little girl of four, and as
she opened her eyes, and stared up at the face bending over her, to
that lady’s horror, and yet also to her joy, she ejaculated “Ma-ma!”

Her mother felt inclined to burst into tears, but struggled to subdue
her feelings, which found relief in a wild, hysterical laugh.

“Aye, she takes you for her mamma,” explained the nurse. “Every
nice-looking, fair young lady, is ‘_mamma_.’ The poor little thing has
no mother,” she added in a low aside. “Could you believe that any woman
with a heart in her body, could desert _that_?”

‘That’ was still drowsy, and, lulled by the soft air and the distant
band, had once more closed her forget-me-not blue eyes, and fallen
asleep.

Letty realised that her self-control was slipping from her altogether,
and with a hurried excuse of ‘letters,’ rose, and returned to her
hotel. Each morning and afternoon, she sought out the ruddy-faced,
brown-eyed nurse, with the smart white perambulator, and her efforts to
ingratiate herself with an uneducated, chattering, kind-hearted woman,
were almost those of a timid lover, seeking to propitiate his mistress.
She was compelled to listen with averted face, whilst Smithson volubly
related to her her own history--as reported and edited in the servants’
hall.

“The child is like her mother, they do say; anyway, in face. I never
saw her--I’m a new-comer. _He_ is very ordinary: an ugly blue-and-red
sort of colour, and twenty years older than his wife. She was just
a slip of a schoolgirl, and by all accounts it was not so much her
fault--left alone for months in that great lonely barrack of a place.
They say the day after she ran off, she repented and came back, and he
just threw her out! No one knows the rights of the story,--or where she
is now.”

Naturally these confidences were agonising to the shrinking listener,
who stared out on the shining sea, and faint French coast-line, with a
rigid profile; or bent down her head, to finger the flounces of Cara’s
doll.

It was an indescribable relief when Nurse Smithson selected another
topic, and disclosed to her companion in glowing terms, the glories of
Sharsley, and the wealth of its master. She gave luxuriant descriptions
of the park, the size of the grounds, the fame of the pictures,--but
kept back the fact, that the house was almost closed, and that the
shooting had been let. Then she interrupted her tale to exclaim:

“Well, I never _did_ see a young lady so fond of children as you
are,--miss, and the child has taken to you too! Some day, you will be
having one of your own, I hope, and you will make a fine fuss with her,
or _I’m_ mistaken.”

Letty looked at her through blinding tears, then, startled by her
companion’s gaze of speechless amazement, she hastily explained that
“the glare of the sun on the sea was so dazzling, that it always made
her eyes water!”



CHAPTER XXIV


For more than a fortnight, every morning and every afternoon, Cara’s
mother and nurse foregathered by appointment: sometimes at the band on
the Leas, sometimes along the shady Lower Road; and here Letty would
wheel the perambulator. Her admiration for the child was mutual, and
she was terrified, lest the nurse should wonder why the little thing
was always so ready to come to her, and why she invariably called her
‘Mamma.’

“I am sure, you must be like her mother,” said Smithson, “and that
is why little Cara takes to you. Aye, and they do say, that she was
wrapped up in her. Mr. Blagdon, he don’t care a brass farthing about
the child, and was main angry, that miss Cara wasn’t a boy. He never
comes to Sharsley, and the place was that dreary, the old nurse give
notice--_she_ was a vinegar-faced one, if you like, and they do say was
a spy on the lady. It was Lady Rashleigh--Mr. Blagdon’s sister--that
engaged me. She’s a funny one, with a big face and a loud voice; it
was her notion sending the child down here, and later on, maybe,
she’s coming herself. She don’t care for Miss Cara--says we have her
spoiled. What do you say to that, missy? Sometimes, you are a very
naughty little girl, you know” (missy, drowsy and indifferent, closed
her big blue eyes). Then the nurse lowering her voice, proceeded:
“Sometimes she looks like a little angel, doesn’t she? But other times,
I tell you, you’d think it was a little devil you had to deal with! Of
course, there being no lady, it’s a responsible situation, and I’ve no
nursemaid, as you see; it’s a good place, and the wages is first-class.
_Sixty_--only for that, I never would stand the loneliness--and the
child.”

Horrified and indignant, Letty took the part of her offspring, and
replied:

“I have no doubt it _is_ lonely living in the corner of a great big
house, with only Cara for your constant companion: but then the child
is such a darling!”

“Eh, miss, you’ve heard the saying, ‘All is not gold that glitters’?
This one, will give somebody a rare time yet; the best of her is all on
the outside; inside, she is just a greedy, selfish, treacherous, little
monkey!”

“Oh, nurse, how can you say such dreadful things of a poor innocent
baby? I expect, that in your heart you really don’t _care_ about
children. Now do you?”

“Well, of course, miss, it’s only to you, a stranger, I would say
what I do; it’s not likely, I’d tell this to one of her relations,
and her auntie is down enough on her as it is. _She_ sees through her
arts, when we stay with her in Town, and has given her some rare good
smackings, I can tell you! To you, as I say, being a stranger, she
is the most beautiful child in Folkestone--there is not another on
the Leas to touch her; all the nurses envies me, and people crowds
round her, as if she was a show: and she smiles and carries on like
anything--especially to the gentlemen. How she’s learnt such an awful
amount of deceit, in such a short time, puzzles _me_; she’s as sly as
sly, and you’d never think there was so strong a will in that little
bit of a body, and what she’ll be like, when she grows up, I’d be
frightened to say! She’ll grow up soon, I expect; but there’s one thing
I’m sure of, and that is, that, wherever she is, she’ll give trouble!”

These alarming prophecies on the part of nurse held no terrors for
Letty, but only made her all the more determined to snatch her darling
from a woman who did not appreciate her--who was not worthy to wheel
her perambulator. Smithson was a tremendous talker, and, strange to
say, exhibited no curiosity, with respect to her companion. Contented
with the fact that she was a young lady who was rather delicate and
was waiting at the ‘Grand’ for the arrival of a relative. Sometimes,
she vaguely wondered why she seemed to know no one, and seemed so
silent and downcast. However, this sociable stranger was an acceptable
acquaintance, who often relieved her of her duties with Miss Cara;
playing with the child on the beach for hours, wheeling her in the
perambulator, making her daisy-chains, whilst Mrs. Smithson skipped
through library novels, talked incessantly, and, occasionally leaving
the lady in charge, took the opportunity to do a little shopping.

Mrs. Smithson had confided to Letty, that she had a cousin up at
Shorncliffe: a sergeant-major with his wife, and having no nursemaid
had its drawbacks--for she could never leave the child, and have an
afternoon off.

“Now there’s a play on at the theatre I’d give my two eyes to see, and
go to the _matinée_ next Saturday with Carson and his wife; but I ask
you, how can I?”

“You can manage it perfectly well,” rejoined Letty promptly. “I have
nothing to do, and I shall be delighted to take charge of Cara.”

“Oh, miss, you are really too kind! But I couldn’t allow you to do such
a thing.”

“I assure you I should really like it,” responded the arch-deceiver. “I
am fond of Cara, and I think she is fond of me; so if you care to make
your arrangements, there is nothing whatever to prevent you going to
the _matinée_.”

After some half-hearted expostulations, and protestations, the whole
thing was settled. Nurse Smithson was to have Saturday afternoon all
to herself, from two till seven--so as to have ample time to go up to
the camp to tea with her cousin--and as Letty walked back to lunch, she
felt as if she was treading on air!

Saturday, and this was Tuesday! She had written to Mrs. Hesketh,
who vehemently opposed her scheme; but seeing that Letty was fully
determined to kidnap Cara, reluctantly agreed to assist her.

On Wednesday afternoon, she came down to Folkestone, in the hope of
talking over her friend,--but this expectation was fruitless. The boot
was on the other foot; it was Letty who talked _her_ over! She seemed
changed: to have acquired a consciousness of power, an air of graceful
assurance, and the faculty of making up her mind!

At dinner, there was a truce between their wrestling personalities,
but the new-comer resolved to have it out with her young friend, as
subsequently they walked to the band on the lower Leas.

“Remember, Letty, you lose five hundred a year,” she began, _à propos
de rien_, as they approached the rendezvous of hundreds of crowded
chairs, the brilliantly lit bandstand, and caught the flashes from Cape
Grisnez--illuminating a glassy Channel--starred with the fishing fleet.

“That is true,” assented her companion; “but then, I gain Cara, and, to
_me_, she is worth ten times that sum.”

“Then, my dear, perhaps you will also tell me how you propose to live?”
was the dry enquiry.

“I have saved two hundred pounds. Here are seats--what a crowd! I’ll
pay the collector--it’s only coppers.”

Mrs. Hesketh, not a whit propitiated, went on to state that two hundred
pounds in the hands of a girl who knew nothing of money, would not go
far.

“Though,” she added, “of course _I_ will help you.”

“No, no indeed,” protested Letty, putting down a strange dog that had
sprung into her lap. “By and by I hope to earn my living, and I will
ask you to draw, and to forward the interest on my legacy, and also to
sell my pearls, my mother’s necklace. They are valuable; an Indian
Rajah gave them to my father for something he had done--saved him from
an assassin, I believe.”

“Nonsense! No, I don’t mean about your father,” said her companion
impatiently. “I have a plan; that is to say, if you are bent on
carrying out this act of lunacy?”

“I am--oh, dearest cousin Maudie, I _must_! You are strong and
all-sufficient for yourself. I am a weak, invertebrate creature.”

“Invertebrate--good word!” interrupted her friend.

“And I must have something to live for--something to _love_.”

“You had Lancelot Lumley.”

“That’s different! I would only bring _him_ shame and trouble; but
Cara is mine. I will rescue her, form her character as well as ever I
can,--and make her happy.”

“I wonder if she will make _you_ happy?”

“Of course she will. And now, what is your plan?”

“You can leave your pearls with me in pawn, and I will pay you thirty
pounds a year on them, till you return home, and claim them.”

For a long time Letty combated this suggestion: in fact, all through
the valse ‘Mes Rêves,’ played so seductively by the band.

But Mrs. Hesketh, a practical woman, was determined that her foolish
friend should not fare forth into the cold world, quite penniless, with
the exception of her hoarded two hundred pounds.

“And another thing, I must say, Letty, and that is about the nurse.
Have you thought of the frightful trouble she will get into; and her
state of mind when she returns and finds that you have stolen her
charge?”

“Yes: I am leaving a present, and a letter to clear her entirely. I
fancy she will be surprised when she discovers that, of all people, I
am Cara’s _mother_!”

“She won’t make friends again in a hurry, with pretty strange ladies!
You are a child in the ways of the world; you have never in all
your life had to depend upon yourself, you don’t know the value of
money,--or how far it goes. As to earning it, I’m afraid you will
not have much chance of that in Switzerland, among an untiring, and
industrious people. Seventy pounds a year, will at least keep you from
starvation: for Switzerland is a cheap country to live in--once you
leave the radius of the big hotels--so you will give me your address,
and four times a year I will send you seventeen pounds. And perhaps, if
my health permits, I will go out, and settle myself down somewhere near
you, for a little while.”

“That will be good of you. Oh, if you only _would_!”

“If it were suspected, that I was here with you, abetting and aiding
your criminal act, and arranging for your departure, I should get into
a nice scrape, but you know, my dear, I have always liked you, and I’m
sorry you have made such an awful hash of your life.”

“So am I,” agreed Letty, with profound sincerity.

“My own marriage was not a success; my husband and I were never
sympathetic, we were always like two goats chained to a log; but we
kept it to ourselves, and I am not sure, after all, that I am a very
easy woman to live with. I am restless and discontented, I expect too
much of life.”

“I should think you were excessively easy to live with, Cousin Maude;
you and I got on together splendidly when we were abroad.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but then I am growing old, and the fires of life
have died down. I must tell you, Letty, that I do not think, and
never will think, that this step you are taking is a _wise_ one. Of
course, your motherly heart is empty without the child; but you are
expatriating yourself on her account, you have relinquished almost
every shilling in the world on her behalf, you have given up your
friends, and you have given up Lancelot Lumley. I hope, as the years
advance, that you will find that Cara has been worth this sacrifice,
and that when old enough to be a companion, she will return your
devotion four-fold.”

“But, Cousin Maude, I cannot see _why_ you think I am making a mistake?”

“I have longer sight than you: it is unnatural for a girl of
one-and-twenty to cut herself adrift from the world, and devote her
life absolutely to a baby of four. As I said to Blagdon, I have no
doubt these things were done in years gone by,--when a wife’s whole
existence was concentrated on her kitchen, and her nursery; but now we
live in more advanced times; every woman has her place in the world,
her individual life--and, so to speak, her hand to play, and you are
sitting down to take the part of Dummy!”

“Oh, Cousin Maude,” she protested, “how can you say so? I have this
darling child, she will be all in all to me; it will be my pleasure
to devote myself to her, to work for her, and to bring her up to be
_good_. Think if I had left her with Hugo, or Hugo’s sister, to be
educated under their influence. How soon her mind would be corrupted;
what examples she would see before her! I daresay by the time she was
sixteen she would be as bold and boisterous and evil-minded as the
worst--at least, I shall save her from _that_.”

“I hope so, my dear, and I agree with you, that the society of Hugo
Blagdon, his sister, and his friends, would be a deplorable education
for any girl.”

After a pause she continued:

“You are getting back your looks, Letty, and your youth, and are no
longer a stricken, haggard creature of thirty, but once more a girl in
your springtime--you are divorced, and free. Supposing you were to come
across somebody you really love, and were to marry again?”

“Oh, never, never! Besides, I don’t think a woman who has been
divorced, should marry.”

“That is a much-debated question. And what if Lancelot Lumley were to
return, and claim you? He has gone through the furnace for your sake.
His poor old father has entirely lost his memory, and fortunately has
never heard of the great Blagdon scandal. The last time I saw Frances,
it seemed to me that she was changed; there were lines in her face,
and she looked out of spirits, and down on her luck.”

“Poor Frances, I have indeed returned her evil for good. I cannot tell
you what a support she was to me in those days when I was alone at
Sharsley. I was so silly and nervous in that big house; always afraid
to go to bed. My room was by itself in the west wing, and the rats
in the wall, gave me palpitation of the heart, and I used to think
of ghosts too--the blind Scrope lady, who gropes and fumbles outside
doors--but Frances would come up with books and jokes, and insist on my
going for walks with her, and talking me out of my fears. She and you,
are my best, and only, friends.”

“Your best friend should be yourself, Letty--I can only offer you money
and advice--you accept neither. How I wish I could give you what you
want most--a will; a will to keep upon a certain steady path.”

“I am on the right path now,” she answered, “and, to follow your
simile, hand in hand with Cara, I intend to stick to a road that leads
to happiness.”

Mrs. Hesketh muttered something under her breath about a hedonist; then
as the band played ‘God Save the King,’ they rose side by side, and
presently were swallowed up in the streaming crowds returning to their
several hotels; Letty expatiating on the beauty of the moonlit night,
her companion dumb and distrait, in the face of the inevitable.

When the critical Saturday arrived, Nurse Smithson, dressed in her
best, what she called ‘private’ clothes, and a superb hat, went off in
high spirits to the theatre, attended by her friends. Letty collected
the child’s belongings, packed them in a trunk, and took her away in
a cab to the Pavilion Hotel, where she met Mrs. Hesketh, and her own
luggage. By the four o’clock afternoon boat, among hordes of holiday
passengers, was a remarkably pretty girl in blue serge, with a small
fractious child in her charge. The two were sped by a distinguished
lady friend, who waved to them from the end of the pier, as long as a
handkerchief was visible.



CHAPTER XXV


As it happened, the kidnapper was not an experienced nurse, or
accustomed to the sole charge of a fractious child, and little Cara
proved unexpectedly peevish and obstreperous. The trip across to
Boulogne was well enough, but once in the railway carriage, nothing
seemed to please or pacify her; fruit, pictures, chocolates, were
but temporary alleviations; her one shrill continuous cry, repeated
a ‘crescendo,’ was, “I want my Ninny--I want my Ninny! I want my
_Ninny_!” and the more her mother soothed and coaxed, the louder
and more passionate became her screams. The miserable passengers
in her compartment had no peace or rest, and thankfully parted at
Bâle Station, with what a sleepless individual apostrophised, as,
‘that accursed brat.’ It was also with a sigh of profound relief
that her worn-out and haggard mother, with the treasure in her arms,
climbed down into the airy, spacious station of Lucerne. As soon as
she had claimed her luggage, she drove off in a little open trap to
a well-known and well-recommended hotel in the old town. Here, the
fugitive remained sequestered for several days, gathering herself
together before she made the next plunge.

She engaged a Swiss girl to help with Cara--a young lady that never
could be left alone, and demanded incessant attention, and amusement.
As she was carried through the streets, or walked on the Quai, her
yellow hair and large blue eyes, attracted notice; people would exclaim
and admire her, and so, early in her career, Miss Caroline Blagdon
learned that she was a beauty, and ideas thus prematurely absorbed,
remain firmly fixed throughout the remainder of a lifetime.

It was mid-August, and lovely Lucerne was at its brightest and busiest;
the promenade under the trees on the Quai was almost impassable, the
steamers plying on the lake were black with crowds, and every hotel and
pension was crammed to the roof.

As Letty moved among the throng, and listened to the sounds of gay
voices, to the well-known Milanese Orchestra, and felt the whirl of
life about her: she seemed to be a new creature in a new world. Once
she ventured into a tea-shop, but before she had been there five
minutes, she recognised the prim faces and clear high bred treble of
the two Miss Jessops,--who, plates in hand, were cautiously selecting
cakes, and instantly abandoned her tea and fled.

On another occasion, she narrowly escaped recognition in an embroidery
shop, where she was launching into a piece of wild extravagance on
behalf of Cara, and felt convinced, that Lucerne in the high season was
no place for a young woman who had recently stolen her child!

She therefore began to set about making enquiries concerning pensions,
and farm-house apartments. Her little nursemaid Magda, was able to
tell her of one that might suit; a farm on the left side of the lake,
where her sister worked, and she knew that Frau Hurter’s boarder, a
professor who wrote books, had recently left for Berlin, and the Frau
was looking for another to replace him.

“Frau Hurter was a well-to-do widow with one son: she kept ten cows;
there would at least be no harm if Madame were to make enquiries.”

No time like the present, and Madame, taking Magda as her guide, went
down by the two o’clock boat--but fearful of being recognised, she
remained below in the stifling cabin, instead of on deck enjoying all
the glories of a superb afternoon. When the trio landed, Magda led the
way, carrying the child by turns with her mistress.

After walking a mile, and passing an imposing hotel, they left the
road for a rough cart-track, which wound up the hill-side amid laden
orchards and prosperous chalets, till they arrived (in a somewhat
breathless condition) at a faded signboard on which was inscribed ‘Les
Plans, Pension.’ The pension, was a substantial residence of dark
weather-beaten wood, it had a heavy peaked roof, bright green shutters,
and a verandah. The approach by a flagged path, led through a garden
which was at present a blaze of flowers: a mass of standard roses,
lilies, hydrangeas, and clove pinks; further from the flagged path were
apple and pear trees, standard gooseberry bushes, and plots of lettuce.

On the doorstep of the entrance lay stretched out a brown and white
half-grown St. Bernard, and above the lintel was the date 1780. Thanks
to the indulgence of the dog--an acquaintance of Magda’s--the trio
entered. The interior of Les Plans appeared more ancient than the
outside, with its green shutters and modern windows; there was a long,
and heavily beamed passage, off which opened several rooms.

From one of these, a stout, middle-aged woman, wearing a particularly
firm expression, and a large blue apron, advanced to enquire the lady’s
pleasure.

The lady’s fluent German now came into exercise, and she informed Frau
Hurter that she was in search of a comfortable farm-house, where she
could have two airy, sunny rooms, and plenty of milk for the child.

“Your own little girl?” enquired the proprietor, with an air of
surprise. _She_ had not wedded till close on forty.

“I think I have what may suit. The Herr Professor occupied my rooms for
four summers; now he has been called to a post in Berlin, and they are
free.”

Then she led the way up very steep stairs to a landing corresponding to
the hall below, ushered her visitor into two exquisitely clean rooms,
one overlooking the lake, the other the slopes of the Rigi. The boards
were bare, except for two or three home-made rugs; the beds were of the
usual comfortable German pattern; tables covered with white cloths, two
or three chairs and washstands, and that was all.

As Letty surveyed the apartments, and their square-faced upright
owner, she assured herself that with a few little extras she could make
her home here; there was always the matchless lake, with its changing
colours and incessant traffic, the beautiful mountains, and no doubt
there were appropriate and exhilarating walks. The whole place smelt of
roses, the air was delicious; where could she find a better, or more
secure retreat?

Frau Hurter now conducted her visitor down the break-neck stairs, in
order that the English lady might view her surroundings, for this
shrewd woman, thoroughly understood their marketable effect.

Before their eyes lay the flower garden, the spreading meadows, laden
orchards, and the glittering lake. At the rear of Les Plans, rose a
vast top-heavy structure, the cow-house--(that chief feature on a
Swiss farm). The brown, weather-stained walls were almost concealed by
venerable pear trees, whose yellow fruit hung in tempting profusion.
The upper part of the building, was evidently occupied by human beings;
from beneath came the incessant grunting of discontented pigs. Just
at present, the great cow stalls stood empty, and high on the grassy
hill-side, the ten dun cows were grazing under laden apple trees--for
Les Plans was a combination of fruit orchard and dairy farm--their
sturdy calves were learning life and independence, and a yearling bull,
impeded by a log, swaggered about, with an air of grotesque importance.
Each animal wore its bell, and the musical clanging of these, the
hint of clear mountain air, and the verdure of the exquisite green
background, made an impression on Letty that she never forgot.

And now came the question of terms! The would-be boarder was helplessly
ignorant of money matters; with Frau Hurter it was otherwise: she had
learnt the art of barter as a child, had a solid balance in the bank of
Lucerne, and was a capable and close-fisted widow, who had managed her
own affairs for years. Needless to say she made a capital bargain.

“Would Madame be likely to stay long?” she enquired, expecting the
reply to be a month or six weeks. She was amazed when Madame replied:

“If I am comfortable here, I shall remain possibly for years.”

“And Madame’s name?”

“My name,” she replied, “is Mrs. Glyn.”

“Is Madame a widow?” and the inquisitor searched her face with a stare
of hard scrutiny.

To this question she replied:

“I am married--this little girl is my child. I will pay you a week in
advance, and I must ask you to consider this information sufficient.”

Frau Hurter almost felt as if a dove had flown in her face! This
beautiful English girl, who looked so young and simple, and was so easy
about money, was not altogether as mild as she had supposed.

“Oh, very well,” she answered; “Madame’s affairs are her affairs.”

“We will come to-morrow,” announced Letty, “if you will send someone
to meet the two o’clock boat, and bring our luggage.”

Thus the bargain was concluded, and sealed.

Before departure Frau Hurter conducted her future lodger around the
luxuriant garden; she gave the child a cup of fresh milk, her mother
a bunch of roses, and Letty walked down the rugged cart-track feeling
more happy and elated than she had done for years. She would live in
this lovely and secluded spot, where none of the troubles of the world
could possibly overtake her.--Would they not?

Within two or three days of her installation at Les Plans, Letty found
herself comfortably settled and at home. The family consisted of Frau
Hurter, the hard-featured widow; her son Fritz, a handsome dark-eyed
schoolboy; Magda’s sister Freda, a squat, rosy-cheeked young woman
who laboured incessantly in house and dairy, whilst over the cows and
pigs resided Hans Jost, and his consort. These were relatives of Frau
Hurter, who looked after the cattle and the farm--a large one--and took
the milk daily to a Laiterie or Molkerei, which supplied some of the
Lucerne hotels. The heavy crops of apples and pears received attention,
and cartloads of the latter were despatched to the great manufactory,
to be converted into honey!

Little Cara, with her pretty face and caressing manners, soon became
the idol of Les Plans: the petting and admiration hitherto conferred
on Karo, the big, long-legged St. Bernard, were now transferred to
‘Mitli,’ as she was called,--a German-Swiss pet name for a small
child,--and Mitli soon became familiar with her court and its many
resources, from the great tree of sweet yellow plums in the corner of
the garden, to the boat which lay chained by the lake shore.

Her mother, too, made agreeable discoveries. There were lovely walks
in the vicinity; her surroundings were soothing and reposeful, and she
seemed to stand aside in a beautiful sheltered retreat, whilst all the
world hurried by. The world, as typified in the white steamers, crowded
with passengers, that passed continually up and down the lake; and
within half a mile was situated a popular hotel, which in the season
was always overflowing with fashionable guests. These, she occasionally
encountered in walks, which she took accompanied by the deposed
favourite, and more than one halted to look after the solitary beauty,
and her attendant dog.

For once in her life, Letty was enjoying freedom and a certain
amount of happiness; but here again, when memory drifted into
deeper currents, she was constantly tormented by the remembrance of
Lancelot--high-minded, generous, forbearing Lancelot, whom she loved,
would always love, and yet had forsaken and lost.

Her good resolutions with respect to money were soon broken; she
purchased some extra furniture for her two rooms, a reliable lamp,
a tea-set, baths, and actually invested in a piano which cost,
second-hand, thirty pounds--but her love for music almost amounted to
a passion; the instrument was installed in Frau Hurter’s quaint and
low-pitched sitting-room, and here, when Cara was asleep, her mother
enjoyed an hour or two of undiluted pleasure.

Frequent letters from Mrs. Hesketh were delivered at the farm, and
Letty heard of the sensation created by her abduction, and how there
had been flaring paragraphs in the papers, in which her name had
figured; but soon interest had slackened--it was less than a nine days’
wonder.

“You will be left in peace with Cara,” wrote Letty’s friend, “Hugo will
not set the detective after you; if your theft had been a son and heir,
by this time you would be languishing in gaol.”

The season waned by degrees; many of the steamers were laid up, the
great hotels closed, and winter descended from the mountains. By and
by came grey short days, and Les Plans was swallowed up in snow. Letty
had her piano and sewing, her books and her child: Frau Hurter and
Freda were busy with knitting and spinning, Fritz with his lessons and
outdoor games--and he sometimes condescended to play with Cara. His
father had been Italian, and from him, he had inherited his dark eyes,
and his gay temperament.

The climate proved trying to an unaccustomed foreigner, and the food
was not appetising. In October, three of the dissatisfied pigs were
slain, and made into ham and sausages, as provisions for the winter. As
a menu of sausages, bread, coffee, and cheese palled after a time, the
boarder supplemented the fare from her own purse, and secretly resolved
to spend the next winter in Lucerne itself, returning to Les Plans
with the spring. By the end of the second year Mrs. Glyn found herself
seriously embarrassed for money. Alas! the two hundred pounds had
dissolved like snowflakes in the sun; she had been obliged to dismiss
Magda, and was now nurse--a somewhat onerous post; she had wasted far
too much on follies: such as embroideries and pretty shoes and hats for
Cara, but whatever happened, and whoever was pinched, it should _never_
be the child.

The pretty Englishwoman had made a few friends in the commercial world,
who were impressed by her air, her beauty, her voice, and maternal
devotion. Thanks to these kind friends in the Weggisgasse, she found
music pupils, and had learnt to execute embroidery and lace, for which
the town is famous, and was fortunate enough to find regular customers
in one of the big shops; so that by working industriously, she became
self-supporting, and was moderately content.

By the time Cara was a tall girl of eight, her mother felt that her
home for life was on the Lake of Lucerne, and had accommodated herself
to this conviction. On holidays, she and Cara went boating with Fritz,
or made excursions up the mountains, whither Cara pleased--everything
was done with the view of pleasing the child, who, well cared for, well
dressed, and well amused, was an amazingly pretty, headstrong, and
unmanageable girl.--Only as far as her mother was concerned--she was
still a little in awe of Frau Hurter, and of Jost’s grim wife.

Cara had suffered herself to be taught her letters, and even mastered
‘Reading Without Tears’; but there she struck. History stories, and
pretty maps were flouted, and flung on the floor, and to her teacher’s
soft pleading--and even bribes--she interposed a will as hard and
solid as a wall of rock. Cara persistently begged and teased to go to
school in Mitzau; as usual she gained her point, and accompanied by her
mother or Freda, went daily to an excellent seminary within a mile of
Les Plans, where she associated with the children of the neighbouring
farms. Among these, she soon became a prominent leader, and absorbed
many facts and fancies, in addition to German Grammar, and the history
of the Swiss Republic.



CHAPTER XXVI


Five times had the hill orchards blazed into blossom, the Alpine wild
flowers spread their radiance over the slopes, and the white stillness
of winter descended on the scene, and yet the English lady remained
faithful to Les Plans. She had become a part of the household, but
Cara, who adventured her young tendrils further than the farm, had many
resources and associates in the neighbourhood--though her pretty mother
contented herself with the company of Frau Hurter, her books, and her
needle. Owing to an acute financial crisis, the piano had been sold.
Letty had a horror of debt, and when she made reckless purchases, paid
for her generosity by hours and weeks of close and incessant labour,
the result being a wan face and agonising headaches. Then Frau Hurter,
with downright speech, would drive her forth for walks, and clamour
fiercely for half holidays.

“_Mein Frau_, you will have an illness, and a bad one,” she would say;
“and the doctors, they eat up money. Ach ye! you sit all day stitch,
stitch. You must have our good fresh air and exercise, or you may
die--and then where would Mitli be, and I?”

So Letty, with Karo as her companion, took the holidays and long walks
and roamed over the mountains along goat-paths, and by quaint old
farms, and weather-worn brown chalets. Her thoughts were not _always_
happy; sometimes she felt a touch of soul-ache; for the warm blood of
youth still throbbed in her veins. It was true, that she had Cara, and
Cara’s love was hers; but then she was but nine years old, and her
natural disposition was unresponsive. How she longed for a companion
of her own country, and her own age--someone whose ideas soared beyond
school-fellows and sweets--and it struck her painfully at times, that
Cara avoided her! Often, when she descended to fetch her darling home,
the child would slip from her side, and attach herself to a class-mate,
and whisper eager confidences,--leaving her deserted parent to walk
alone; or when of an evening she was ready to help with lessons, dress
dolls, and play games, Cara would suddenly jump up, and exclaim:

“Oh, this is stupid! stupid! I am going to look for Fritz.”

But if subsequently a warm arm stole round Letty’s neck, and a soft
cheek were laid on hers, certain dark misgivings were scattered to the
winds, and the spirit of patient confidence resumed its sovereignty.
Occasionally she went to Lucerne--commercial excursions, connected
with the sale of her work--and would treat herself to a concert at
the Casino, an organ recital at the Hof Kirche, or visit friends in
the Wienplatz and the Weggisgasse. Her beauty, though unadorned, was
far too striking to be overlooked. This lovely and lonely young lady,
was stared at, followed, accosted. Strangers--dealt with by Frau
Hurter--and letters, came to Les Plans--offers of marriage were not
unknown! A wealthy merchant from Milan; a dark handsome Spaniard,
presented himself as an anxious suitor for the hand of the exquisite
young widow--a lady to whom he had never spoken, but whose dazzling
beauty and air of breeding, had captured his heart. A clever engineer
from Berne, also wrote impassioned and insistent love-letters.

“Tell them, Frau Hurter, that I have a husband in England,” said Letty
with tremulous energy.

“A husband! and I thought Madame a widow.”

“No; but we shall never meet again. I was very, very unhappy, and I ran
away with Cara.”

“Jesus Maria! and now I see why Madame has no correspondence--no
English visitors.”

“Yes, Frau Hurter, and if more Suisse visitors and Suisse letters
persecute me, I shall go to another place, and find accommodation in a
convent, where Cara can learn, and I can work, unmolested.”

Naturally such a move was the last thing Frau Hurter desired. She loved
money, and could not endure to part with a lodger, who gave no trouble,
paid extravagantly, ‘as per agreement,’ and to the day.

“Madame does not wish to be found nor disturbed? _I_ will see to that,”
declared Frau Hurter, looking forbiddingly, grim, “and let people know
that she is not as they suppose, a widow. Yet Madame is too young to
lead the life of a nun--all work, no companions, no pleasure.”

“I only ask to be left alone. I am much happier here than in England.
My husband was not kind to me.”

Frau Hurter’s thoughts turned to her own mate; the dark-eyed Italian
mason, whom the cruel cold had put to death, and alas! she realised,
that she too had been cold, to that warm-hearted child of the sun.
Well, she was making up for her neglect by a double devotion to their
boy.

And now at last behold an English visitor for Mrs. Glyn! After many
delays, broken promises, and lengthy telegrams, Mrs. Hesketh came out
to Switzerland and engaged rooms at the Hôtel de Paradis--just half
a mile below Les Plans. She was welcomed at Lucerne Station by Letty
and her daughter; the former, unexpectedly young and unchanged,--but
a little behind the fashion as to hat and costume. Cara, a well-grown
girl of ten, with bright pink cheeks, and eyes the colour of a
turquoise, wearing a smart embroidered frock and sash, with an air of
overwhelming self-consciousness.

They lunched at the ‘Schweizerhof,’ the guests of the traveller, and to
the unconcealed delight of Cara,--who had never been inside the hotel
till then. She stared at everything and everyone, with sharp, observant
glances, and her godmother noted her appetite for piquante sauces, and
the richest sweets; also that her blue eyes were hard, with a will and
definite purpose, and cast sly quick glances on herself,--as if curious
to know the effect she was producing.

Naturally with this little ‘pitcher’ present, there was no opportunity
for any confidential talk between the grown-ups. Mrs. Hesketh
discoursed of home, her journey, and other ordinary topics, and in the
lounge after _déjeuner_, Cara stuck to the ladies like the proverbial
leech, and was sublimely indifferent to her mother’s timid hint, that
‘she might care to look at the new illustrated papers.’ No, indeed,
Cara preferred to listen to this interesting new arrival; her talk was
a novelty, she liked to stare at her expensive travelling-dress, her
splendid rings, and little jewelled watch. She had nice luggage too,
and a maid, and must be rich. Mrs. Hesketh was her godmother, and it
was the well-known duty, and the _raison d’être_ of a godmother, to
give expensive presents.

After the trip down the lake, Mrs. Hesketh received Letty in her
charming sitting-room at the ‘Paradis,’ and said, as she closed the
door:

“_Now_ we can talk a little, my dear. But where is Cara?”

“She has gone out on the water with Fritz.”

“Do you mean that handsome lad who met us at the boat?”

“Yes. They are old playmates. Please tell me, what you think of Cara,”
she asked eagerly.

“Her appearance, I suppose you mean? Cara does you credit, a fine girl,
who will develop into a fine woman. She has your colouring, with her
aunt’s physique.”

“Oh, no, no--how can you say so!”

“You have done your utmost; the child is well nourished, well dressed,
well drilled, and has been given a good conceit of herself--anyone can
see that _she_ has walked on the sunny side of the road!”

“I have done my best, Cousin Maude.”

“That is evident; and now, my dear, I have a question to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“Was it worth it? Come, Letty, give me a straight answer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean running off with the child, forfeiting your income, your
country, your friends--yes--and your lover--all to come out here, have
Cara to yourself, and work hard for her support.”

She paused for a moment. Then, as Letty was preparing to answer,
resumed:

“Is she your real treasure? Does she adore her mother? In short, Letty,
is this girl your _compensation_?”

Here was a direct, startling, and unexpected question. For a moment
Letty hesitated; as in a flash, memory brought to her, Cara’s tempers,
her tyranny of Les Plans, her iron will, her secrecy--but oh, what
cruel, cruel, disloyal thoughts! How could a _mother_ harbour them?
Looking up straight into her confessor’s eyes, she replied:

“I have no regrets, and I would do it again!”

“Ah--would you!” the tone was dubious. “Lately it has seemed to me,
my dear, that your letters were terribly depressed--that is to say,
reading between the lines.”

“Well, of course, sometimes one is lonely, and longs to do things, and
to see people.”

“If you had only played your cards properly, Blagdon would have made
the girl over to you--and with a respectable allowance. He did not know
what to do with her; Lady Rashleigh couldn’t endure her, and his mother
is too infirm to undertake a lively grandchild.”

“I don’t agree with you. If Hugo thought I wanted Cara, he would have
kept her, for that very reason.”

“I hear he has gone in more than ever for racing, with Sir Tom as his
guide, and has burnt his fingers rather badly. It is said he wishes to
marry again, an heiress or a rich widow; meanwhile Connie Rashleigh
lives with him most of the year.”

“And Mrs. Corbett?”

“No--as soon as she heard that her husband had made a huge fortune in
the Argentine, she patched up a truce, and went out to spend it.”

“And the Dentons--how are they?”

“Much as usual--getting a little older and greyer, By the way, do you
ever hear from Lancelot?”

“No,” colouring; “of course not--never.”

“He is rising rapidly in his profession----” She paused. No need to
tell Letty that he was at present on leave in England. “Frances, as you
know, is still Miss Lumley. How is it, that all the minxes get snapped
up, and the treasures are left?”

To this question, her companion made no reply. Had not she herself,
been, so to speak, ‘snapped up’?

       *       *       *       *       *

Every day Mrs. Hesketh and her friend spent many hours in each other’s
company; either Letty descended to the hotel, or Mrs. Hesketh climbed
to Les Plans. Many an afternoon she sat out in the garden or the
orchard, enjoying the view, and Frau Hurter’s incomparable coffee,
and she rubbed up her rusty German in order to converse with this
stern-looking, industrious widow, who owned and worked the prosperous
farm; rising at daybreak to see to the poultry and milking, her
knitting rarely out of her capable hands, and knitting furiously all
the while she talked.--It was her boast, that never in her life had
she bought a stocking or a sock! The new-comer could see, that in her
downright phlegmatic fashion, Freda Hurter was fond of her English
inmate, and very proud of her appearance--such a contrast to her own
deeply lined, hard-featured visage! But how it changed, and brightened
when she spoke of Fritz. Yes, he was a clever fellow, and was to be
educated in Zurich; afterwards he would come home to the farm, and take
some day a wife, and she--her work done--would sit in the sun, and read
her Bible.

Letty conducted her visitor to all her favourite haunts, and walks,
exhibited the _Ku Stal_, and ‘Mogli,’ her tame pet cow, who knew her
so well--a famous dun giving, when in full milk, twenty-four litres
a day. Mrs. Hesketh took stock of Les Plans and its surroundings,
her quick eyes made notes of the Josts; brown and rugged as two old
leafless trees, determination, avarice, and honesty, engraved upon
their faces. Nor did she fail to observe handsome Fritz, with his dark,
expressive eyes, and beaming Cara, his constant attendant; the girl was
a born hoyden--could row, skate, climb, and yodel. No doubt healthy
outdoor life was an excellent outlet for her overpowering spirits, and
activity. She was evidently a favourite among the farm-folk, with the
exception of Jost’s wife, and the dog Karo,--who slunk away when Cara
approached, and growled if she teased him.

It seemed to the onlooker, that the girl was something of a tyrant, who
accepted all favours as her unquestionable right. Her mother’s love,
and devotion, the indulgence of her companions--over whom she governed
as a despotic monarch. Whatever Mitli said or wished was law: for _she_
ruled Fritz, who ruled his mother, who ruled Les Plans.

One afternoon her mother and godmother sat together under a shady
plane tree on the hill-side, Karo extended at their feet, occasionally
snapping at flies, or, laying his head in Letty’s lap, adoring her with
his deep, soft eyes.

“So you say, that Cara wants to go to the Convent at Lucerne after next
term?” said Mrs. Hesketh.

“Yes, with two or three of her friends. I hear it highly recommended.
She would be a daily boarder.”

“And after the Convent--when the girl considers herself educated--what
then?”

“I have not thought of that yet.”

“Then my dear, the sooner you begin to think of it the better; you
cannot keep Cara on a Swiss farm all her days; she is not that type.
Cara is for towns, and cities.”

“Oh, well, after all she is only ten,” protested her mother. “No need
to worry about _her_ future yet. Isn’t it a perfect afternoon, Cousin
Maude?”

It was, indeed; there was magic in the air. Across the lake, the wooded
slopes dipped into emerald and silver; high up beyond woods and crags,
outlined against a blue, blue sky, was the snowy range; every ridge and
peak bathed in delicate rose-colour--truly these were the mountains of
Fairyland: close by the friends, an urgent stream sang on its way to
the lake, and all around was green luxuriance, tinkling cow-bells, and
the faint perfume of fruit, and flowers.

Mrs. Hesketh withdrew her gaze from the prospect, to fix them on her
companion. Here was a face and figure in complete harmony with the
exquisite scene; she studied Letty’s slender grace, her clouds of soft
hair (darker than formerly), the perfect outlines of cheek and feature,
and the long lashes sweeping the flawless skin. Truly a haunting
picture! If the view was one to lure the hurried traveller,--here was a
beauty to lure mankind.

“Yes, Cara is only ten,” began Mrs. Hesketh suddenly. “As for you,
Letty, who are young--without youth.”

“What about me?” she asked with a smile. “I am getting on for _three_
times ten!”

“You are, and you are wasting your life here--youth--beautiful
youth--is passing, and why, oh, why don’t you value it? This I know is
the cry of age and regret: I am an old woman, I am satisfied to sit
still, and be a spectator; but you, who are twenty-eight, and have
golden years awaiting you, oh, how _can_ you endure this existence of
passionless monotony?”

Amazed by such an unusual outburst, Letty replied:

“I have Cara, plenty of occupation, and no cares.”

“No cares!” echoed her companion, and she gave a shrill laugh. “Even
at Les Plans, Care may put his head in at the door. Voyaging in smooth
waters--has its risks. Another thing, it is not good for Cara to lead
this wild, independent life; she ought to be at home associating with
girls of her own class. Listen to me, Letty,” laying as she spoke an
impressive hand on her knee, “I am a lonely woman; I am fond of you.
Suppose you and your girl come over to England, and make your home with
_me_?”

But in spite of a loving, eloquent, and insistent invitation Letty
could not be induced to abandon Les Plans.

“I love you, and I am grateful, dearest Cousin Maude, my friend from
the first; but here I am at home, and here I feel _safe_.”

“What is there to fear now?” demanded Mrs. Hesketh. “Blagdon will never
trouble you; but should he do so, I will deal with him--leave him to
me.”

“He would take Cara from me, and just at the critical age, when her
character is forming.”

“Her character _is_ formed,” rejoined the other, with conviction. As
she spoke, her eyes were fixed upon a neighbouring apple tree, with
Fritz among its shaking branches; immediately below, stood an expectant
figure with an imperious voice, and outstretched skirts.

“I have a terrible presentiment,” continued Letty, “so keen, that it
actually hurts me.”

“Bah,” scoffed Mrs. Hesketh, “I don’t believe in such things,--in
absolutely nothing beyond the range of sense. Why go to meet trouble
half way? What is your bug-a-boo?”

“That Hugo will find us yet--and take Cara from me.”

“My dear, I can assure you, that if Cara is taken--against her will--as
I believe would be the case--she will make her father rue the day, and
bitterly repent of his folly in sackcloth and ashes. For my part,” she
went on courageously, “I wish to goodness, he _would_--steal her!”

“Oh, Cousin Maude!” cried Letty, turning to her a glowing face, “what a
cruel, cruel thing to wish!”

“Possibly it was; but honestly I feel, as they say in Norfolk, ‘as if
I’d like to do someone an injury,’ when I think of the years that your
locust has eaten.”

This announcement, transfixing and incredible, had the effect of
reducing Letty to absolute silence. Sometimes Cousin Maude had odd
moods and made wild and extraordinary statements; on such occasions it
was prudent to be mute.

Presently they rose, and wandered back to the farm, and were greeted by
Cara, who came bounding to meet them, screaming at the top of her voice:

“Tea is ready, and I’m so hungry--there’s hot cakes and cherry jam!”

A few days later, Mrs. Hesketh ordered a sleeping-berth, and prepared
to return to Thornby, where important law business awaited her.

“How I shall miss you,” said Letty, as they took their last walk
together by the lake-side, and watched the lights begin to twinkle in
far-away Lucerne. “It will be worse for me, than if you had never come.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” rejoined her friend; “it is only in story-books
that people are missed. As for you,--you have the remedy in your own
hands.”

But Letty’s determination was unshaken, and, as her companion angrily
declared:

“You are always strong and obstinate, where you ought to be yielding;
and yielding, where you should be firm.”

Mrs. Hesketh departed, and left behind her such an aching void, that
more than once Letty, the obstinate, found her resolve sorely shaken,
and felt half inclined to take all risks, and follow her friend to
England.



CHAPTER XXVII


One lovely September afternoon, when the _Schiller_ touched at the pier
at Mitzau, among the passengers who boarded her, were Cara, her mother,
and Fritz. The boat was crowded with trippers and tourists, and when
Letty had with difficulty arrived on the first-class upper deck, there
was not a seat to be found. As she glanced about her vaguely, a tall,
bronzed Englishman in grey tweed, got up and offered her his place.
When she looked round to thank him and discovered no stranger’s face,
but that of Lancelot Lumley, her amazement was such, that for a moment
she felt dizzy; for his part, it was fully half a minute before Major
Lumley realised, that this remarkably pretty girl in a summer gown and
shady hat, was his lost love, Letty Blagdon!--Letty, who had befooled
him, made him the prey of her indecision, and the laughing-stock of his
acquaintance.

How often in camp and cantonment, had he sworn to himself to put her
out of his head and his heart; he had even embarked on other love
affairs; many ladies had smiled on Major Lumley, who was handsome,
popular, and likely to have a distinguished career. But somehow his
flirtations had never advanced; at the back of his mind, his heart,
his vision, rose the figure of Letty. Now here she stood before him in
real life, and as she looked up with her earnest Irish eyes, he knew
that her hold upon him was stronger than ever. How young she seemed!
like the sister of the tall girl, who had joined her.

“_Letty!_” he said at last; he had grown pale under his tan.
“And--and”--holding out his hand--“I suppose--this must be Cara?”

Cara, agreeably conscious of her own appearance, was delighted to be
accosted by this distinguished-looking Englishman. Her mother appeared
to have no friends, except hateful Mrs. Hesketh--here, however, was
another of a very different stamp!

At first it seemed to be he and Cara, who were so well acquainted, and
carrying on a brisk conversation. Presently, she was summoned by Fritz
to interview a monkey, and her mother and Lumley were alone.

“And so all these years you have hidden yourself in Switzerland,” he
said, as together they moved to the side. “Frances would never divulge
your address. What an amazing, miraculous, chance, this meeting. I
just missed the earlier boat by one minute. I am not superstitious,
but there is something uncannily significant in our coming across one
another in this way.”

The couple, leaning over the bulwarks, indifferent to their
surroundings, had much to say to one another as the _Schiller_ forged
along through water of a deep peacock blue, shaded in the distance to a
silvered surface. By degrees, as Letty’s tongue became loosened, she
gave her companion a rapid account of her life during the past seven
years, and it was evident to her listener (though not to herself) that
her existence had been one of entire self-sacrifice for the child. He
on his part, talked of the death of his father, of Frances, of his
brother officers, his work, and his prospects.

“I’ve just got a shove up,” he said, “and been posted to a good job.
I’m on my way back from leave, and taking the Italian lakes _en route_,
as I have a week to spare. I saw Mrs. Hesketh at home; she had lately
come back from Switzerland. She never told me that she had seen _you_.”

“No, and when she was out here, she never told me that you were at home
on leave.”

“I suppose she thinks silence is best--and that all is over.” Seeing
Letty’s bare hand lying on the rail, he took it up, and said:

“I say, you don’t mean that you are still wearing that fellow’s ring!”

In another second, it was removed from her finger, the next, it
glittered through the sunshine, and fell into the blue water, with a
faint splash.

“Oh!” she stammered, “how dared you? how could you?”

“How could _you_, Letty?”

“Well, I shall have to replace it at once.--I wonder if Cara will miss
it?”

“What harm if she does! Look here, Letty, I believe good fortune
deliberately arranged this meeting, and now I intend to make hay
whilst the sun shines. Will you marry me, and come with me to India?”

“Lancelot!” she exclaimed, raising a scared face to his. “You take my
breath away. Are you crazy?”

“Never more absolutely sane, or sensible, in my life. We have lived
down scandal, I hope and believe, and what is there now to stand
between us? Blagdon is by all accounts consoled--I say no more--and
you are free. Do you return to the farm by the next boat, make all
arrangements, pack, and order what you require in the way of outfit in
Lucerne. For my part, I shall look up the Consul, and the chaplain,
wire for another passage, and as Mrs. Lumley, you will sail from Genoa
this day week.”

“No, no!” she insisted, “don’t go on.”

“But I haven’t half done yet! You will like India; you were born out
there, and have often heard the East a-calling. You know you have
always wished to see it, and India will like you. After making a bad
start at seventeen, you begin life over again at twenty-nine, and I
declare to you, Letty, you don’t look a day older than twenty-four--you
and Cara might be sisters. Now what do you say?” and his eyes held hers
with an intentness remarkable in human gaze.

After a pause she faltered:

“And what about Cara?”

“Cara!” he echoed. “Why, you will leave her at home, to be sure.
You have done your share for her nobly, and it’s time she went to
school--she is a big girl for her age.”

“Oh, but I could not part with her. If I were to desert her, and send
her to England, her father would claim her at once. Couldn’t we take
her out with us?”

“I’m afraid,” and he hesitated, “that Burmah--where I shall be for the
next year--would be terribly trying for a girl of her age--in fact, to
make no bones about it, if we took Cara out, she would be running a
serious risk.”

“Then that settles it,” said her mother, with decision. “Lancelot, I am
very, very sorry, unspeakably sorry--but you must return alone.”

It was in vain, that Major Lumley, like Mrs. Hesketh, argued and urged;
his eloquence was wasted.

“I would go with you with joy and thankfulness to the end of the
earth--but my first duty is to Cara.”

Lumley glanced at the tall, well-grown girl, with her rosy cheeks,
and quick, bold eyes; and it seemed to him, that she was already well
advanced in the wiles of a coquette as she laughed at, and teased the
handsome youth, her companion.

“After all, Letty, your girl is perfectly safe in England,” he
urged. “Frances will find her a good school, and I shall pay for her
education. I feel positively certain, that Blagdon will never trouble
his head about her. He and his sister are mixed up with racing sets,
and have no thoughts for anything else--and then, reflect--we are not
old, you and I. We have known one another for years. Time is passing;
here is the chance of our lives, and you want to throw it away. If we
part now, we may never meet again.”

Letty made no audible reply. She shook her head sadly and hopelessly,
and tears ran down her face and dripped on the side of the steamer.

Just at this unpropitious moment Cara rushed up, and unceremoniously
thrusting herself between her mother, and her companion, said:

“Mummy, I want a franc to buy some fruit! Why, Mummy,” she exclaimed,
“you are crying! How funny!”

“Do you think crying funny?” demanded Lumley, and his voice was sharp.

“Yes--for Mummy,” she answered, unabashed; “she never cries except at
nights--when she thinks no one knows. I cry often.”

“You speak as if you enjoyed it,” he continued, giving Letty time to
recover her composure. “What makes you cry?”

“If I want things and Mummy says no; but when I cry, she always gives
in.” A pause, and staring steadily at him, she continued, “What a long
talk you and the Mum have had--all the way from Gersau, to Tell’s
Chapel--and we are close to Fluellen.”

Yes, so they were, and at Fluellen he joined the mail-train, which bore
him south. It was the end of his journey; it was also the close of his
brief dream of hope.

“Here,” he said to Cara, handing her a little bit of gold, “run and buy
fruit, and don’t bother your mother.”

“Ah-ha!” she answered, with a knowing nod, her eyes bright with
incipient coquetry, “want to get rid of me, don’t you? but thank you a
million times all the same,” and kissing her hand, she ran off to join
Fritz and exhibit her prize.

“You must give me your address,” said Major Lumley, turning to Letty,
“and we will write to one another.” As he spoke, he produced a
notebook. “I hope you will never repent of your answer; but I believe
in my heart, that some day you will be sorry for yourself--yes, and
for me. One word more: Cara will be a beauty--in a year or two--and
rule you, and be in that respect, her father’s daughter. You are always
a slave to someone; first it was your aunt, then Blagdon, now the
girl--and _I_ would give you freedom.”

For the moment Letty was unable to speak or control her trembling lips.
The boat was alongside; already the passengers were crowding ashore and
streaming towards the station. As the luggage was being carried away,
she found her voice at last, and faltered:

“No doubt, once you are gone I’ll wish I had said yes, and if I said
yes, I would be wishing I’d said no. You must think me obstinate,
heartless, and weak; but I have never cared for anyone as much as for
you--and never will. I’ve thought of you every day, during these long,
lonely years--but I must put duty first.”

“That is to say, Cara,” he broke in angrily, “apparently you have
no personality, no identity of your own. Well, Letty, let us hope
that Cara will reward you. Here we are! I see the fellow has got me
an empty carriage,” and he halted. “If ever you are in trouble--bad
trouble--cable for me, and I’ll come back, and see you through. Now
good-bye.” He wrung her hand, and without another glance climbed into
the compartment. As the heavy St. Gothard express dragged itself out of
the station, he never looked out of the window or waved a signal to the
stricken figure on the platform. Lancelot had gone, he had departed in
disappointment, and displeasure.

Meanwhile Cara (who had been occupied at a fruit stall, and
subsequently sought a restaurant, there to indulge Fritz and herself
with coffee and cakes) appeared to have totally forgotten her parent.
On the return journey, Letty descended into the empty fore cabin--the
emotion of the recent scene was still thrilling all her pulses--and
there she wept unobserved, and unrestrained, the whole way back to
their own particular landing-stage,--mercilessly tortured by the
clamouring questions, had she done right? had she done wrong?

The problem was unsolved, when the steamer touched at Mitzau; it
remained unanswered, for years.



CHAPTER XXVIII


Several summers had passed since that dramatic meeting on the
_Schiller_, and these swiftly flying, monotonous years, had left their
mark upon Les Plans and its belongings. One fine spring morning Mordi,
the queen of cows, had been driven from the orchard by a strange
man,--a butcher from Lucerne. In his company, Mordi took her first and
last trip upon the familiar lake, and her comrades knew her no more.
Karo, the farm’s brown and white guardian, had recently died, suddenly
and mysteriously. He was found at his post, the entrance door, stiff
and stark. Jan Jost was more bent and rheumatic than formerly; his
wife more wrinkled and shrewish; but naturally the most remarkable
change was to be seen in the two young people, Fritz and Mitli. Fritz
at twenty-three was well educated, and well thought of,--especially by
farmers with daughters, on account of his prospects; by the daughters,
because of his celebrated prowess in sports, his handsome face, and
lithe activity.

Since his course at Zurich was finished, Fritz had lived at home,
helping somewhat fitfully to work Les Plans. His mother seemed a
little grimmer and more taciturn,--indeed, her manner was occasionally
forbidding,--always working--or always knitting, with unceasing fury,
and always keeping her thoughts to herself;--these, were chiefly
occupied by her son, and Mitli.

Mitli, in her seventeenth year, was tall and fully developed; she
looked older than her age, and beyond a flawless complexion, ropes of
yellow hair, and a pair of gay blue eyes, was not endowed with the
usual attributes of ‘sweet seventeen.’ She took after the Blagdons in
figure and character, and was of a determined, masterful, and restless
disposition. Her intellectual faculties were dull; she evinced no taste
for literature or reading, beyond the daily paper, _Le Monde Amusant_,
and sundry and various French novels. As for her mother’s pursuits,
needlework, music, and gardening, she hated them impartially; sewing
tried her eyes, gardening gave her a backache, music was a bore.
Tennis, dancing, skating were more to her taste. She rowed on the lake,
and climbed the hills with Fritz, and accepted his love, his homage,
and his gifts, with radiant complacency. Such was Cara!

Of late, she had spent most of the year in Lucerne, not merely in
winter with her mother in the Weggisgasse, but in summer too. There
was such difficulty about coming and going from Les Plans; the hours
of the steamers, did not suit; the child’s education must not be
neglected, and after considerable demur, and pressure, it had been
arranged for Cara to board with the family of one of her friends, and
attend the convent as an _externe_, returning home for week-ends, and
all holidays. Her godmother had insisted on paying for her education,
and her mother reluctantly submitted; for in spite of good prices for
lace, the work was tedious, and Cara’s expenses for dress and amusement
had become surprisingly heavy. She displayed an extravagant fancy for
expensive hats and frocks and shoes,--and when she wanted money--an
overpowering seductiveness, that her mother was totally unable to
resist. Cara’s sweet kisses, caresses, and endearing epithets, were as
balm to a heart that was starving for love, and she plied her needle
bravely in order that the child should look nice, and--as a natural
sequence--be happy.

The ‘child’ ran accounts in her mother’s name at Schweizer’s and other
shops, and when the bills presented themselves in the shape of so many
shocks, Cara would excuse herself by saying, in an airy way:

“Well, darling Mum, it’s all your own fault! Ever since I was a baby
you have made a fuss about dressing me, and don’t I do you credit?”

She did; there was no denying the fact. In a beautifully cut
embroidered linen, and a simple French hat, Cara might be remarked at
Hurlingham or Ranelagh, but she was a little out of keeping with her
background in a farm kitchen--where, being in a hurry to catch the
boat, she gobbled her hasty _déjeuner_ of rice and stewed veal.

Cara’s independence and air of breezy emancipation, had come by
degrees, ever since she had gone to live with her friend Berthe Baer on
the slopes of the Drei Linden. This change of abode and surroundings
had given her an air of freedom and self-sufficiency, and she now
ruled her mother with an absolute sway. Grown up, her own mistress,
and on the threshold of life, she was resolved to make the best of
her youth and have a really good time; since hers was a hard, shrewd,
and absolutely pleasure-loving character. Cara was fond in a way of
her pretty girlish Mum,--who was so often and so annoyingly mistaken
for her sister--but the Mum was so tame, unenterprising, and easily
contented; her books and work and walks, were all _she_ asked for; but
Cara, notwithstanding her sharp sight, was mistaken. Her mother was far
from being contented. As she rambled alone, or sat at her lace cushion,
her thoughts, though inarticulate, were many and rebellious; they spoke
a plain language, and put many crucial questions to her heart, and
brain. In her life of thirty-five years, she humbly confessed to many
fatal errors. Her first mistake, was in marrying Hugo Blagdon--that was
an act of sheer cowardice. The second, her muddled runaway; the third,
in refusing Lancelot Lumley’s appeal made six years previously.

Cara, she now realised, was capable of standing alone, and successfully
fighting her own battles. Her determination to live in Lucerne, had
proved this most decisively; and now she and her girl were no longer so
much to one another. Cara demanded a separate bedroom. “Two in a room
was so stuffy,” and there were no nightly talks and confidences, and
any hold she ever had on her child, was imperceptibly slipping away;
the girl had her own friends, Luisa Maas, Hilda Vorgen, and the Baers,
with whom she boarded.

She and Berthe were inseparable, and Berthe, a simple-minded,
giggling, good-tempered girl of eighteen, could do her darling no
harm. One question repeatedly thrust itself forward with irrepressible
pertinacity:

“Had she brought Cara up wisely? Had she not been _too_ indulgent?”

In the most serious contentions between them, she had frequently given
way. Now Cara was full grown and talked as a woman--a woman with
weighty authority. Where had she acquired her experience?--from books?
Since Mrs. Hesketh’s visit, witnessing the nakedness of the land, she
had kept Letty well supplied with literature, English papers, and
various small matters, that made life more easy and refined. Each year
she most solemnly pledged herself to pay a visit to Lucerne, and each
year, the promised visit was postponed; but now an event had occurred
that made her presence absolutely essential. The two young people at
Les Plans had grown up under the same roof, and their mothers were
secretly anxious respecting their future; Frau Hurter was particularly
perturbed; gloomier, and more silent than ever; since she did not fail
to note how slyly the beautiful Mitli played with, and fascinated her
distracted boy. Oh, it was a cat-and-mouse affair! Fritz was crazy, he
was under a witch’s spell, he could settle to nothing. If Mitli was in
Lucerne, so was he; if she was at home, he hung about aimlessly, or
took the girl on the lake. He had become unmanageable, idle, unfilial,
ill-tempered. What would the end be,--and when?

Of late Mitli’s popularity had cooled. Jost’s wife openly hated her,
and even Freda admitted that the ‘kindli’ never cared how much work she
gave anyone.

One afternoon, as Frau Hurter stood in the doorway watching the young
couple descending the well-beaten track, she suddenly made up her mind
to speak; and walking over to where Frau Glyn sat in the shade absorbed
in her lace pillow, she began:

“You see those two, _meine Frau_?” indicating the rapidly disappearing
pair. “Your girl and my boy.”

Letty looked up, followed the direction of the speaker’s hand, and
nodded and smiled--yet the air and expression of Frau Hurter was
portentous.

“They have grown up together in thirteen years under the same roof--and
now”--she paused, and added with a dramatic gesture--“one of them must
go--and it cannot be my son.”

“Of course not,” agreed Letty, raising a bewildered face to the stern
and iron-willed Frau. “But I don’t think I understand.”

“Have you then no eyes?” demanded the other in a voice vibrating with
passion, “not even the mother’s eyes! My Fritz is madly--wickedly--in
love with your Mitli!”

Letty gave a stifled exclamation, hastily put aside her work, and rose
to her feet.

“Yes, he is; and more and more, and worse and worse every time
he comes home,” continued his mother hoarsely; “and no wonder. Is
there another such face in the Four Cantons? But they are not for
one another--no, _never_!” and she stamped her heavy foot upon the
gravel. “She does not care for him,” stooping to pick up an apple, “no,
not this!” flinging it away with a vicious jerk. “She does not care
for anyone. My tongue is quiet--but I use my eyes. As for Fritz, he
shall marry one of his own country, a girl of his own class, strong,
hard-working, with a fortune--such there are. His cousin Gertrud, in
the Oberland, will suit me--and it has been arranged. Meanwhile Mitli,
whom he sees daily, goes to his head like new beer, and the boy is
as one drunken, and mad! and so, _mein liebe Frau_, after many years
together, and I may say friendship, I must give you notice to leave.”

For a moment or two Letty made no answer. Her little world had been
suddenly dissolved and was whirling about her. She looked across the
garden, and its tall, white lilies and standard roses, to the familiar
brown house, with green shutters, then up at her own open window--with
its accustomed sponge,--her haven for so long.

At last she said:

“Very well, I see your point of view, and I am afraid Cara is inclined
to be a flirt. The child likes to make herself pleasant to everyone.”

“No, not to everyone,” corrected the other bitterly.

“I am really very, very sorry if Fritz is attracted. I honestly
believed it was just the old boy-and-girl liking.”

“Boy-and-girl liking, _Jesu Maria_! I’ve seen Fritz kiss her empty
shoes, I’ve known him watch her window till dawn; these are the follies
of his Italian blood. I hoped Zurich would end them, but he is worse.
_Ach ye!_ he is ten times worse! So now I send him to a relative near
Adelboden for some time; there he will learn farming and good sense.
When he returns----” She paused expressively.

“We shall have left, and to tell you the truth, Frau Hurter, this move
has been in my mind; but I love Les Plans, and hate the idea of a
change. I have lately come into a legacy which brings me in one hundred
and fifty pounds a year, and as Cara believes herself grown up, it is
time that we go to where she can mix with her own country-people. I am
undecided where to live, or what to do. I have been rooted here for so
long, that Les Plans seems like my home.”

“Dear lady, it would, and gladly, be your home for always--but for our
two children. Young people, will be young!”

“Well, to-day I shall write to Mrs. Hesketh and ask her advice,” said
Letty, collecting her work. “How soon must we move--in a week?”

“Oh, no; this is July--the end of September would suit. Fritz will be
away helping with the harvest.” After a moment’s silence she added,
“In my mind I’ve long had this to say to you, _liebe Frau_, and now,
thanks be to God, it’s said,” and she turned about, and went slowly
indoors.

Letty followed her and ascended to her room,--there to collect her
ideas and make plans. She would be glad to go, and yet here was the
old weakness--sorry. At Les Plans she had outward peace, occupation,
her walks, her books, and her letters from Lancelot. These were mere
pleasant epistles, such as a man would send to a woman-friend, aunt,
or sister-in-law, yet how she treasured them. Accounts of balls and
race meetings, she read them over and over again, jealously searching
for a clue to some girl, the happy, happy, fortunate girl, who would
one day, take her place.--Then she loved Switzerland and its beautiful
scenery--with the affection of a native. Cara, on the contrary, hated
the country and expressed herself to her mother with scornful vehemence.

“I loathe these blue skies, blue mountains, blue lake,” she announced.
“They give me the blues! As for the wonderful view, you rave about, I’d
sooner look at a picture postcard--_much_ less fag!”

Letty presently sat down at her deal table, and wrote to Mrs. Hesketh.

  “Do try and come at once, best of friends, for I want you urgently;
  and you know you promised to be here this month, _sans faute_. Frau
  Hurter has just given me notice to leave in September. Cara is now a
  young lady, and full of ideas and ambitions. I implore you to advise
  me, as to what will be best for her? where we are to live? and what
  we are to do?”

Meanwhile Cara and Fritz had gone upon the lake in a superior new
boat--a recent purchase. As he rowed towards the Nasen, and she
reclined luxuriously in the stern, he told her of his mother’s plans
respecting himself and Gertrud, to which news Cara listened with loud,
derisive laughter, and a beaming face. He also related how he was to
lead a pastoral life on the farm of a patriarchal relative--in order to
learn all the new methods.

“But when I come back in September you will be here, Mitli, won’t you?”

“Why, of course,” she answered impatiently. “Am I not always here?”

“And you will write often--often--as before? Swear it!”

“Yes--often.”

“If I thought you would ever care for anyone else,”--and here the
passion of jealousy flamed in his Italian eyes--“I’d kill myself--if
I had the least doubt of _you_--I’d”--and he paused and leant on his
oars, and stared at Cara fiercely--“I’d upset the boat, and drown us
both, yes, in five minutes!”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Fritz! You know I am fond of you. As to the
drowning--you forget that I can swim!”

“Not if you are out here in the middle,--and in your clothes--the
water is too cold, and as to the depth, the lake is bottomless.”

“Don’t talk like this, it bores me!” said Cara,--secretly uneasy for
all her sang-froid. She was aware that Fritz was capable of mad, rash
actions, carried out on the impulse of the moment. To-day he looked
strange, very strange! The veins on his forehead stood out like cord,
and there was an odd light in his eyes.

“Come,” she continued authoritatively, “it is time we are getting back;
the sun is slipping behind Pilatus. Keep out of this steamer’s wash,
and row to the landing,” and without another word he obeyed.

As the two slowly mounted the hill hand in hand, half-way in the
ascent, they halted on a little plateau where, under some ancient pine
trees, there was a rough wooden bench,--a thoughtful provision not
uncommon in a land of views. Here Fritz said:

“My mother is all eyes, like the dog in the fairy tale. She sees
everything; but she will see me, my own master before long. In a week
I go,--and the sooner I depart, the sooner I return to you, my Mitli,
and for always,” and he snatched her into his arms, and kissed her
passionately.

“Well, it pleased him, poor boy,” said Cara to herself; “he was
certainly extraordinarily handsome, and what, after all, were a few
kisses?”



CHAPTER XXIX


“Mrs. Hesketh comes to-morrow,” her mother announced to Cara, as she
folded up a letter. “I’m so glad, aren’t you?”

“_Comme ca!_” she rejoined with a shrug. “_Moi je n’aime pas les
antiquities!_”

“Oh, Cara! and she has always been so kind, and generous to you.”

“And why not? I am her goddaughter, the child of her greatest friend.
She has no one belonging to her, and heaps of money. If she is so
rich and so fond of you, Mum, why does she let you board in a Swiss
farm-house, with barely enough money to pay for _pension_, and work
hard to make up the rest? She ought to have us to live with her!”

“She would gladly--she has often invited us, but I’ve refused. I cannot
live on anyone, I must be independent.”

“Then you and I differ, Mum. I am ready to live on anyone who will give
me a good time!”

“Dear child, you are only joking, but for goodness’ sake don’t say such
things before Mrs. Hesketh. She might think you were serious.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Hesketh was visibly changed and aged; her hair was grey, her step
languid, her eyes, however, still held their old fire.

The evening after her arrival, she and Letty sat in the window of her
sitting-room at the Paradis, which overlooked the lake.

“I came at once, you see, my dear. If I had not roused myself, I’d
never have done it. As soon as I’d read your letter I rang for Tomlin,
told her to pack and wire for places, and behold, me!”

“You look completely done up and frightfully tired.”

“I’m always done up and tired now; the fact is, Letty, I’m an old
woman.”

“Oh, don’t! You are _not_,” protested Letty with unusual warmth.

“Yes, I am; my heart and brain may feel young, but my body is aged. Age
is a strange thing; it creeps after us for years, and we go marching
on, imagining our youth or middle life will last. All at once, as in
a night, age springs out and seizes you--you look at yourself in the
glass, and it’s there,--or you hear it. And I can assure you it is a
shock! Some years ago I was waiting to be served in a hairdresser’s,
and I overheard a man say to another:

“‘You go--take the old lady first.’

“Until then I’d always thought myself merely middle-aged; but I looked
in the glass as the man dressed my hair, and I said to myself, ‘He is
right. You _are_ an old lady.’ Once people used to stand up and give me
their seats, because I was lovely; now, when they do this, it is merely
because I am venerable,” and she sighed profoundly. “And you, Letty,
have the gift of perpetual youth!”

“No, indeed; but I must say when I’m with you I feel almost a girl, and
when with Cara, I’m an elderly woman.”

“You are close on thirty-five and yet you look seven-and-twenty--even
in broad daylight. Your calm, healthful, uneventful life, has preserved
your beauty. Such an existence would have driven _me_ mad. One day my
body would have been fished out of the lake.”

“No, they are never found; the lake is pitiless.”

“Oh, well, before we begin to discuss your plans and Cara--by the way,
a handsome young woman!--let me tell you all my news. The Dentons are
pretty much as usual, and send you kind messages. You know that Frances
is going to be married? I motored over to Sharsley to lunch, and
inspect the presents,--including yours, and afterwards we walked up to
the Court. My dear, it’s like a dead place! Positively, I expected to
see a hearse at the door. The shutters closed, the avenue grass-grown,
not a soul to be met or seen. I believe some of the best pictures and
furniture have been carted away, and sold. Old Scrope heirlooms,--and
the Scropes are frantic. Hugo’s racing comes expensive. He and Tom
Slater have a string of useless animals, who, by all accounts, eat up
thousands and thousands.”

“And where does he live?”

“He has the same rooms in Newmarket, and the house in town. Connie
Rashleigh is often there, though she still holds on to her own flat,
as, of course, she never knows when, and by whom, she may be deposed!
Cara inherits your colouring and teeth, but she has her aunt’s figure,
and her aunt’s laugh--yes, and her father’s jaw.”

As Letty was about to protest:

“Yes, my dear, and her aunt’s air of buoyant confidence. There is
nothing undecided about Cara, and I can grasp the fact, that she has
her mother under her thumb! Alas, poor Letty, you have merely changed
your yoke!”

“Oh, dear Cousin Maude, you surely cannot judge _already_!”

Mrs. Hesketh gave a quick nod; she had been in the company of mother
and daughter for several hours, and had made copious notes.

“Do you think Cara is going to be a comfort to you? and a compensation
for all you have relinquished for her sake?”

“Yes, of course I do,” replied Letty; but her colour had risen, and her
eyes no longer rested on her companion, but on the moonlit lake, and a
cargo-barge that went drowsily by.

“Ah, that is good news!” said Mrs. Hesketh, but her sardonic tone
belied her speech. “And so you are about to shift your sky at last--but
why?”

In faltering and apologetic terms, Letty related her interview with
Frau Hurter, and the woman’s ultimatum.

“So Cara has been flirting, has she, and foolishly encouraging the
good-looking Fritz?”

“Not exactly that; but, you see, they grew up together, and she is so
gay, and unconventional, and pretty.”

“Ah, well, of course, you must go--but where?”

“I am sure I don’t know. What do you advise?”

“I advise England.”

“On two hundred pounds a year--impossible! And now Cara is grown up she
must be well dressed.”

“So I see,” agreed Mrs. Hesketh, with significance. “That embroidered
linen never cost a sou less than one hundred and fifty francs. Now,
my advice is the same as ever, come and live at Oldcourt. I want your
company badly; I’ve made a will, and left you every penny, so you
really _ought_ to do something for me! As for Cara, she shall go to a
good finishing school in Brighton for the next twelve months. I will,
of course, pay all her expenses. Seventeen is much too young for a
girl to come out into the world. You know that, Letty, from your own
experience--don’t you?”

“Yes, but Cara is different; she has decided views--no one could talk
or coerce her into anything she did not wish to do.”

“Ah!”

“And she would laugh in your face, if you suggested sending her to
school.”

“Would she, indeed?”

“You see, she has been at school at Mitzau, and Lucerne, ever since she
was eight.”

“And what has she learnt, besides the art of holding herself well,
putting on her clothes, and offering her crude opinions?”

“She speaks French and German, she plays and sings moderately, dances
beautifully, and has won several tennis, and swimming prizes.”

“And considers her education complete. I see. Well, we must take a
little time, and talk things over; when I know more of Cara, I may
be better able to help you to make up your mind. It is to give you
this assistance, I’ve come all the way to Lucerne.” Then, speaking in
another key, “Well, we shall meet to-morrow, and if you will fetch me,
I’ll toil up to the farm, see how the land lies for myself, and have a
look at Fritz. Now, as I am feeling extra old and tired, I must send
you back to Les Plans,--for I am going to my dear bed.”



CHAPTER XXX


Mrs. Hesketh and her goddaughter had always been secretly antagonistic
to one another, and as days went by, this feeling increased--especially
on the side of the girl, who, from a reluctant parent, had extracted
the fact that the meddling old woman suggested sending her for one year
to an English school! Nevertheless she dissembled her sentiments,--for
the old hag was rich and had it in her power to offer motor trips by
land and water, and to give delightful _déjeuners_ and dinners at the
various fashionable hotels. Naturally all these pleasures were for
the sake of the Mum--but she participated! At this season (early in
July) Lucerne was already full, and Cara, erect, well dressed, and
self-conscious, was sensible of being the admired of many eyes, as she
accompanied her two chaperons. Occasionally she left them, and escaped
to join her own friends, Colette Vadier, Freda Muller, and Berthe Baer,
in picnics and teas. Her society was not missed, as her mother and
godmother had many matters to discuss, that were not intended for her
ears.

How and where the Glyns were to live? was a question seriously debated.
Letty still figuratively clung to the Continent, and Mrs. Hesketh
and Cara--for once in accord--were strongly in favour of a home in
England. On this subject, the girl and her godmother, had some talks,
and on one of these rare occasions, Cara posed as the poor exile,
craving to see her native land, and to live like other young women of
her age and nation.

“Dear godmother,” she said effusively, “how I wish you would use your
influence with the Mum!” Then, leaning her elbows on her knees, locking
her hands, and assuming a confidential attitude, she added, “To me, it
always seems so strange that we have no English belongings, no letters
except yours, and we have lived at Les Plans for thirteen years! It
almost looks”--she spoke with bated breath, staring into her listener’s
face with eyes as hard as two blue glass marbles--“as if--of course,
only to you would I breathe it----”

“Well, breathe it!” urged Mrs. Hesketh impatiently.

“As if,” and Cara’s voice fell to an awed whisper, “Mummy had--_done_
something!”

Her godmother examined the girl from under her beautifully marked
brows, with a cold and critical scrutiny. Was it for this disloyal
wretch, that poor Letty had sacrificed youth, and love, and country?
Her face was rigid as she answered:

“Your mother has her own excellent reasons for living abroad. This life
of labour and self-denial has been for your sake; for you, she has made
great sacrifices. I hope you are grateful, Cara?”

“Oh, yes,” with a shrug; “_cela va sans dire_; but I’m her only child,
and it’s her business to look after me. Of course, she can’t help
being poor, or afford to give me a good time, but I’m sure we could
struggle along somehow in London. I’ve heard that it’s the cheapest
place in the world, and I am so deadly sick of that odious Les Plans,
with its horrible smell of cows and cheese; when there is a hitch about
supplies, we have sausages, and smoked meat, and nasty Swiss messes.
And, oh, I’m so tired of looking out on the opposite shore of the lake,
with its black woods, grey mountains, and skim-milk sky. Give _me_ a
good street!”

“But, after all, Cara, you are not much at home; latterly you have
lived chiefly in Lucerne, and I know you have visited Berne, Zurich,
Interlaken, and Lugano.”

“Yes--Switzerland--_toujours Suisse_! I am crazy to get out of this
corner, and to see the world.”

“You cannot expect to see much of the world on two hundred a year, can
you? and you should think of your mother.”

“Of course, but the Mum--well, she is no longer young, and she has had
_her_ day--now I want to have mine!”

So poor Letty’s attempts to satisfy the girl had been a failure; the
influence of devotion, self-sacrifice, and example, was powerless
against the giant Heredity.

In mid-July there was a grand fête in Lucerne, and Mrs. Hesketh invited
Letty and her encumbrance to a concert at the Casino, dinner at the
National, and subsequently to see the illuminations, and return home by
motor-boat.

This programme was faithfully accomplished; at dinner in the
restaurant of the hotel, Letty and her girl, were distinguished among a
vast cosmopolitan crowd. When their coffee-cups had been emptied, Cara,
in her most persuasive manner, asked leave to run away.

“I want,” she said, “to go up to the Drei Linden and sit with Berthe,
who is ill in bed with an abscess in her face. I’ll be back before you
know I’m gone; I’ve seen the fireworks, and the lighting up of the old
bridge, a thousand times, so if I’m late, please don’t worry. I shall
probably stay and try to cheer up poor old Berthe.”

“But, my dear Cara, should you be going about _alone_ at this hour?”
asked Mrs. Hesketh in a tone of alarm.

“What--in Lucerne! I should hope so. I know it from end to end, and I
shall be perfectly _safe_, if that is why you are anxious.”

When Cara had resumed her hat and scarf, the two ladies walked with
her to the entrance of the hotel, and watched her trip across the
tram-line, and vanish by the corner of the English church.

“You see, the child has a kind heart,” said Letty, “and is ready to
give up a gay evening, to go and sit with her sick friend.”

“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Hesketh; “I own I am----” she was about to say
‘surprised,’ but hastily substituted the word ‘impressed.’ “Now, we may
as well go on the Quai, and see what is to be seen.”

As it happened there was a good deal to be seen, not merely the
fiery outline of the bridge and towers, the lights on Pilatus and
Stanserhorn, but numbers of lively little boats carrying Chinese
lanterns; they looked like swarms of fire-flies. The Quai was almost
impassable, so thronged was it with a gay, gaily dressed, chattering
crowd; sightseers, townsfolk, and the contents of various hotels, were
all enjoying the brilliant scene, and the delicious evening.

The two friends were interested and amused: time passed quickly, the
Hof Kirche clock struck ten, and yet there was no sign of Cara. She had
been gone considerably more than an hour,--an hour and a half.

“At what time did you order the motor-boat?” asked Letty, who began to
be uneasy. As Mrs. Hesketh uttered the word ‘eleven’ a sudden flood
of rose-coloured light illuminated the entire scene. For a moment,
every object was visible with the clearest distinctness, the ruddy
glow recalled a transformation spectacle. By its assistance, the
ladies beheld, close at hand, a small skiff carrying a jaunty orange
lantern, and in the boat were a young couple; a man, who was twanging
a mandoline, whilst a laughing girl managed the oars with practised
dexterity. All at once the man bent towards her--and then the light
failed.

Letty gave an audible gasp.

“I--could I be mistaken?” She turned on her companion a face of horror.

“No, I’m afraid not. Four eyes are better than two--that was Cara
rowing about with--Berthe Baer! From what I have gathered in the few
days I’ve been at the Paradis, Cara has been throwing dust in your
eyes for years.”

“Oh, Cousin Maude--you--you--talk to Tomlin!” cried Letty with
indignation.

“No, my dear, but Frau Hurter has been talking to _me_. Her son’s
raging jealousy aroused her suspicions, and she has kept her eyes open.”

“But Cara is only a foolish, wild, headstrong child!”

“Child no longer, Letty, but a young woman who is not to be trusted.”

“What am I to do?” faltered her friend helplessly.

“At present, nothing; you must take a leaf out of Cara’s book, and
pretend we have not seen her--remember that.”

And in accordance with this advice, no remark was made when twenty
minutes later, a breathless Cara scrambled into the motor-boat, full of
voluble excuses and soft caresses for her sweet Mum. “Berthe had been
so ill and miserable--she had not dared to leave her till she slept.
She knew her darling Mum would forgive her, and she had run every step
of the way down the Drei Linden, and nearly broken her neck!”

As the motor-boat squattered off from the stage, a figure stepped out
from under the trees, waving a handkerchief, and a manly voice shouted
a hearty “_Auf wiedersehen!_”

“What a funny man! Who is he shouting to? Were the illuminations good?”
enquired the still breathless Cara with an air of innocent curiosity.

“Yes, I think so,” replied Mrs. Hesketh.

“And were there the usual little boats with lanterns?”

Here indeed was audacity!

“Oh, yes, the usual little boats.”

“I’ve not missed much--nothing strange or uncommon?”

“Oh, yes, there was,” began Mrs. Hesketh, speaking with rash
significance; but a pressure from her friend’s hand restrained further
explanation, and she muttered, “Of course, it was _all_ a novelty to
me.”

Had Cara not been so intensely absorbed in her own amusing reflections,
she might have marvelled at the unusual silence of her two companions.
Scarcely a word was exchanged, as the boat raced across the
moon-flooded lake in the direction of their distant destination.



CHAPTER XXXI


Two days before the fête, Mrs. Hesketh had made the unwelcome
discovery, that Mrs. and Miss Plassy were again her fellow guests. Many
years had elapsed since they met at the Californie, Cannes; but her
memory was only too retentive. There was no forgetting the tall, faded
woman with a stoop, and the agreeable, gushing daughter. From her shady
seat in the grounds, she had witnessed their arrival; and as one after
the other, the ladies descended from the hotel bus, she was sensible of
a distinct, and disagreeable shock. Supposing the Plassys were to meet
and recognise Letty?--Letty, so little changed!

Undoubtedly Mrs. Plassy was a conscientious student of the daily press;
would she proclaim to all and sundry that here in seclusion and sheep’s
clothing was the notorious divorcée, who had kidnapped her child? And
if so, what then?

As regarded herself, she would infinitely prefer to ignore these birds
of Passage and of Prey; but for her friend’s sake, it behoved her to
walk warily, conceal their arrival from her, and at all hazards keep
them in ignorance of Letty’s vicinity.

As might be expected, Mrs. Plassy’s first duty on arriving at an hotel,
was to scrutinise the list of guests. As her eye travelled over an
open page in the Visitors’ Book of the Paradis, her attention was
arrested by the name of ‘Hesketh.’ ‘Mrs. Carlton Hesketh and maid.
England.’ Yes, it must be the same; a hateful, supercilious woman, whom
it had been impossible to placate; a woman who declined to approach
when a vacant seat near Mrs. Plassy was patted invitingly, and when
endowed with a card, and address, made no appropriate return. Such a
creature was altogether insupportable, and she decided to ignore her
existence. However, this amiable intention was frustrated by Mrs.
Hesketh coming up to her in the lounge, and claiming her acquaintance.
She was actually quite gracious and friendly, and made flattering
enquiries respecting her health, and her plans. (It was good news to
the hypocritical widow, that the Plassys were moving on to Lucerne in
a day or two; they were merely stopping at the Paradis awaiting the
arrival of a friend.)

Thirteen years had passed over the heads of this roving couple, and
had treated them with callous cruelty. Time had not brought a suitor
to the feet of Miss Lydia, and on the other hand he had robbed her of
her lively spirits, and a certain amount of colour and hair. Lydia was
a discontented, embittered woman who had missed her way in life, and
was nearing the lamentable frontier of forty. She had a good figure,
an acid tongue (but could make herself agreeable), and a positive
genius for dress. Lydia and her mother were sincerely devoted to one
another. Proud, poor, ambitious, they contrived to make a brave show
on an income that would seem incredibly small in proportion to their
pretensions, and manner of living. Their appearance and dress were
ultra-fashionable, they proclaimed to envious listeners, that they had
discovered a secret treasure of a ‘little’ dressmaker--but the truth
was, their smart gowns were second, and even third hand--and as a rule,
their choice of hotels and acquaintances were fastidious and select.
Lydia announced that they were obliged to live abroad on account of
her mother’s health; whilst the supposed invalid exerted her failing
strength in order to get her dear girl settled. She frequented Alpine
resorts, famous for winter sports, popular cures, or the Riviera, and,
in short, any hunting-ground favoured by the eligible British bachelor.

In order to effect these costly adventures, the Plassys were at times
obliged to exercise the most rigid economies. They haunted cheap
_pensions_, where they shared a room for eight francs a day--food and
light, _tout compris_. Here they made their own tea with an Etna, here
they washed their handkerchiefs and stockings, here they wore out
their old clothes, and, so to speak, girded themselves for their next
encounter with Fortune.

The ladies had come to the too-expensive Paradis, in pursuit of a very
distant connection, a valetudinarian old bachelor of enormous wealth
and many whims and fancies--in the hope, that Lydia might prove to be
one of them!

The afternoon succeeding the fête, Letty, unaware of any lurking
pitfalls, descended to the Paradis, accompanied by Cara, and Mrs.
Hesketh, with a tremor in her heart, invited them to tea in a retired
summer-house in the grounds. Here they would be safe. As she sipped
weak tea, she noticed Letty’s haggard white face, testifying to
a sleepless night, the girl’s feverish restlessness, and roving,
dissatisfied eyes. It had long been planned that Tomlin was to have ‘an
afternoon in Lucerne,’ accompanied by Cara as companion and courier,
since the British maid could not speak a word of any language but her
own. They were to visit the panoramas, the museum, and the shops, and
details of the expedition were being finally discussed, when Mrs.
Plassy and her daughter strolled by arm in arm. For a moment Mrs.
Hesketh’s heart stood still, then throbbed on--the danger had passed!
No--by bad luck Cara gave one of her loud, somewhat foolish laughs--her
mother had spilt her tea.

Mrs. Plassy deliberately halted, turned about, and approached.

“Oh, dear Mrs. Hesketh,” she exclaimed, with lifted hands, “how
charming you all look! How much pleasanter to have tea out of doors.”
Then, glancing at Letty, she paused, and in a different key added, “I
think I have met--Mrs.--er--Mrs.----”

“Glyn,” added Mrs. Hesketh precipitately.

“Oh, yes,” with a slight bow, and steadily regarding her she added,
with deadly significance:

“_I know!_”

Then, turning to her daughter, “Lyddy, you have met Mrs. Glyn at
Cannes.”

Lyddy smiled and stared--her expression implied that she, too, knew all.

“And this young lady?” she asked, turning to Cara.

“My daughter,” replied Letty in a faint voice.

“Are you staying here, Mrs. Glyn?” enquired Mrs. Plassy, and her tone
was frigid and judicial. “I did not see your name in the hotel list.”

“Oh, no,” broke in Cara, attracted by these fashionable strangers, “we
live in a farm up the hill, called Les Plans.”

“How absolutely delightful!” murmured Miss Plassy. “It must be so
healthy--and so secluded,” and she threw Letty a significant glance.

“No, it’s horrid!” declared Cara rebelliously.

“Won’t you sit down, and have some tea?” urged Mrs. Hesketh (who
appreciated the crisis at its full value). “There is plenty of room,
and I’ll send for more cups.”

“I’ve finished,” announced Cara, rising as she spoke and offering her
seat to Mrs. Plassy, who sank into it with an air of satisfaction,
saying to herself as she drew off her gloves, “This will save me three
francs!”

“I don’t want any tea, thank you,” said Lydia Plassy, “so Miss Glyn and
I will stroll about, and make one another’s acquaintance.”

“Yes, a capital idea!” assented her parent. “Do you two girls go off
and amuse one another, and we old people will talk of old times.”

Thus dismissed, the girl of seventeen and the girl of thirty-seven,
walked away laughing and chattering. Their dress was almost
identical--white gowns, large hats wreathed with flowers; the sole
difference being that Cara wore roses, and her companion a wreath of
daisies.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Hesketh and her friend proved poor enough company for a
guest who was filled with a burning curiosity,--and they with a sense
of icy terror.

Mrs. Plassy knew everything; was her daughter in the secret? If so,
would she tell _Cara_?

The bare idea caused Letty to feel faint! the child had always been led
to suppose that her father was dead; this fact, never actually stated,
was nevertheless implied. She followed the two white figures with
straining eyes, and a wildly beating heart, whilst her friend and Mrs.
Plassy discoursed of hotels, and society. The latter lady pointedly
excluded Mrs. Glyn from the conversation; her attitude was rigid, her
glance expressed hostility, and disdain.

The miserable culprit realised, that she was meeting the eyes of a
world, who was still crying shame upon her, and measured the amount of
condemnation that awaited her in circles where her story was known. Of
late years this fact had slumbered.--At last the tension and situation
became unendurable, and with a murmured excuse she rose, and moved away
in search of the two girls.

“How young she looks!” exclaimed Mrs. Plassy. Then, in reply to a
glance, “I mean Mrs. Blagdon.”

“Hush!” with a horrified gesture; “I’ve not heard that name for years.”

“I suppose,” resumed the other, and her manner was aggressive, “she has
buried herself at the farm, on account of the child?”

Mrs. Hesketh nodded.

“Does the girl know?” she asked abruptly.

“Not yet.”

“Ah; when she finds out that she is the only child of a very rich man,
I don’t think _I_ should care to be in her mother’s shoes!”

“Don’t you?” retorted Mrs. Hesketh. “Her mother has forfeited her
income, her country, her friends, and devoted her life to her--is that
to count for nothing?”

“I’m afraid that young people are shockingly selfish and
ungrateful--especially when they are the objects of schemes for their
good,” replied Mrs. Plassy, who was thoroughly enjoying herself, and
determined that this detestable enemy should be remorselessly tortured.
“She looks to me like a girl who had expensive tastes, and would
appreciate luxury!”

“You don’t know Hugo Blagdon,” declared Mrs. Hesketh, with a note of
passion in her voice, “nor the bringing up that he would have given his
daughter!”

“Yes, by all accounts he is a _viveur!_ and he looks dissipated. I’ve
seen him at Monte Carlo. Yet, after all, the girl is legally his; he is
her father.” A sharpness came into her speech, as she added, “Who would
believe that that quiet young woman, had it _in_ her to run off, first
with an officer, and then with her own child? Still waters run deep!”

So this was how people talked of her friend!

Mrs. Hesketh’s temper was simmering to boiling-point; she began to
realise that her adversary had set her heavy heel upon her neck, and
intended to keep it there.

“I must say that it has been a great thing for Mrs. Blagdon--I mean
Glyn--to have had your support,” continued Mrs. Plassy condescendingly.

“She is my friend--the best, most unselfish, and pure-minded woman, I
have ever known.”

“Yes, yes--how splendid of you to say so! I daresay Mrs. Glyn was not
_quite_ as much to blame as people made out.” (But in Mrs. Plassy’s
tone there lurked a reservation.) “And you, dear lady, are so unusually
broad-minded--I have always maintained this.”

Mrs. Hesketh swallowed her fury, and steadied her voice, resolved to
come to an understanding with this odious woman at all costs.

“Cara knows nothing of the past as yet, and it is her mother’s wish and
mine, that she remains in ignorance of it--for the present.”

“Your wishes are natural. If her mother’s story leaked out here, it
would be so awkward for the poor girl; and no doubt the farm people
might make difficulties. I suppose, according to our English law,
Mrs.--Glyn--is still liable to criminal prosecution?”

“There is no fear of that,” replied Mrs. Hesketh, speaking with sharp
irritation; “_no_ effort was made to recover Cara. Her father was
thankful to be rid of her.”

“She is a fine-looking young woman, on a rather large scale. I daresay
as she grows older, she will become like her aunt--too fleshy!”

“May be so; at present, the important matter is, that she should not
hear that she has an aunt--or a father.”

The two women gazed at one another in silence. Then Mrs. Hesketh,
mentally shuddering, prostrated herself in the dust. “Mrs. Plassy, you
are the only acquaintance who knows our secret, and if you will keep
it--I shall look upon it as the greatest _personal_ favour.”

“Of course you may rely upon us, dear Mrs. Hesketh,” replied the other
coldly. “Not a breath shall the child hear; as a matter of fact, we are
leaving early to-morrow for Lucerne. Our cousin finds the hotel too
near the lake, and insists on our accompanying him.”

“Your promise is extremely kind,” said Mrs. Hesketh, “for we do not
wish to disturb the present position until matters are settled in
England. And if I, in any way, can do _you_ a good turn, you have
only to name it--now or later; you will find that I can show,” here
she looked into her opponent’s faded eyes with peculiar significance,
“_substantial_ gratitude for a friendly silence.”

In that exchange of glances, how much had been said and answered!
Mrs. Plassy, a faithful interpreter, felt a warm glow of satisfaction.
That expressive gaze conveyed a promise to pay, and an I.O.U. of
considerable value--it implied, and was good for, introductions,
entertainments, prestige, and--loans.

“I am sure I shall be glad of any kindness,” she murmured with lowered
eyelids; “and you have so _much_ in your power.”

“At any rate, you may reckon on me,” declared Mrs. Hesketh, rising from
her chair. “I have a number of letters that I really must write for
this post,--and I am sure you will excuse me?”

“Of course, of course--with pleasure.” Which was not precisely the
right rejoinder. Then Mrs. Hesketh walked away across the grass,
carrying her still slender figure with unusual dignity, though her
hands were shaking, and her face was chalk-white. She felt utterly
shattered, prostrated, and disgraced, by the recent humiliating
interview.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two days later Cara and Tomlin proceeded to Lucerne for the promised
outing. They accomplished a good deal of shopping and sight-seeing,
and Tomlin proved wildly extravagant with respect to chocolate,
picture postcards, and cheap brooches; but at the end of two hours,
the girl’s patience was threadbare; she was bored to death. She hated
interpreting, bargaining, and standing before shop-windows,--the
contents of which she knew by heart,--and hailed with joy the approach
of Lydia Plassy, who halted, and accosted her.

“What are you doing in Lucerne?”

“Nothing; we have been shopping, and looking at panoramas, and the old
bridge, and the museum.”

“How _very_ exciting!” She glanced at Tomlin, who stood transfixed
before some exquisite embroideries. “It is getting on for four. Do come
along and have tea with me at Huguenin’s? She,” nodding at the maid,
“can easily amuse herself, and meet you at the boat.”

“I should love it,” said Cara eagerly, then added in French, “She’s my
policeman--and I’ll only be too thankful to be rid of her. She’s just
an old spy.”

Miss Plassy graciously explained the situation to Tomlin--who
recognising the lady as an hotel acquaintance of her mistress, agreed;
by no means reluctant, to have an hour to spend as she pleased, and to
be left to enjoy the shop-windows to her heart’s content.

Her mother had told Lydia,--from whom she had no secrets,--of her
conversation with Mrs. Hesketh, and the promise and understanding which
now existed between them.

“Hateful old woman, so disgustingly stuck up! Have you forgotten her
airs and snubs at Cannes?” said Lydia spitefully. “Now she wants
something badly she is as sweet as honey--bah! such people make me ill.
She asks you a great favour--yes--but what can she do for _us_?”

“My dear,” replied her mother, with impressive solemnity, “you know
very well, that she has it in her power, to be a _very_ helpful friend.”

But it was not merely the snubs that still rankled in Lydia’s mind--she
was accustomed to these; it was the never-forgotten fact, that a
charming young man, who was her devoted adherent, had been drawn from
his allegiance by the arrival of the mysterious beauty, Mrs. Hesketh’s
companion; and though the beauty never vouchsafed him a crumb of
encouragement, the capricious swain had failed to return to Lydia’s
lure; Mrs. Glyn had unintentionally cost Miss Plassy her lover.

“_I’ve_ made no promises,” said this lady to herself, “and if I get
a chance, I shall pay them both out--Mrs. Nose-in-the-Air, and the
divorcée.”

Now here was the ‘chance’ looking so beaming and pleased with herself,
as she tripped beside her hostess, along the Liongasse; and with this
girl as the instrument, Miss Plassy felt certain she could inflict
satisfactory punishment upon her mother. How she talked! chattering all
the time, and bubbling over with the _joie de vivre_.

“Yes, thank you,” said Cara, as they seated themselves, “a Pêche
Melba--I adore ices!” She removed her gloves, and settled her hat
with swift instinctive touches; and presently the two were exchanging
confidences as they sat _vis-à-vis_ across the marble-topped table,
awaiting their order.

“We are going on to St. Moritz next week,” announced Miss Plassy.

“Are you? How I envy you! We never go on.”

“No? But why not?”

“Because we are so poor.”

“We are poor too--church mice aren’t in it!”

“But not like us; we have not enough money to travel, or to live in
England.”

“Come, come, my dear girl,” protested Lyddy, suddenly planting her
elbows on the table, and staring into her face, “don’t be a little
ostrich! Surely you know--ah, here come our Pêche Melbas at last!”

“About what?” enquired Cara, plunging in her ready spoon.

“About your _mother_, my dear.”

“My mother! What about her?” The girl’s face was expressive of profound
indifference.

“Can’t you guess? Well, look here, promise me you won’t ever give me
away?”

“All right,” agreed Cara with a nod. “I can keep a secret--I know lots!”

“Tell me, have you never wondered, why you live out here?”

“Yes, but I’ve told you the reason.--We are so disgustingly poor.”

“Not really poor; your father is enormously rich, actually rolling in
money.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” protested Cara querulously.
“You are thinking of other people--_my_ father is dead,” and she took
another spoonful of ice.

“Well, yes, in a way. He _is_ dead to your mother.”

Cara gazed at the speaker blankly, her eyes became round, the pupils
looked like two small spots.

“Listen to me,” and as Miss Plassy leant across the table, spoon in
hand, her voice was emphatic, and her manner forcible. “You must know
some time, and I may as well tell you--_they_ never will!”

“Tell me what?”

“Why, about your father and mother,” a pause, followed by a dramatic
whisper, “_he divorced her_.”

“Miss Plassy, how dare you!” Cara’s face was crimson. “I don’t believe
you,” she added hysterically.

“Oh, very well, please yourself, my dear,” she replied with a mixture
of malice and gaiety. “The case was in all the papers, fourteen years
ago. People in England knew all about it,--and my mother remembers it
perfectly.”

Cara suddenly pushed away her plate, she was trembling violently, her
lips quivered. Was she going to cry?

“I’m so sorry you are upset,” continued the informer; “but to open your
eyes is the truest kindness. I can’t imagine how they have kept it from
you, all these years.”

“Kept what from me?” demanded the girl in a choking voice. “I can’t
think why you are telling me these awful things. I believe you are
inventing them.”

“Your father’s name is Blagdon--so is yours,” announced Miss Plassy
with bland composure. “Hugo Blagdon of Sharsley Court, a magnificent
place in Yorkshire. He is enormously rich; they say he has forty
thousand a year--pounds--not _francs_!”

“Oh!”

“And you are his only child, and heiress.”

Cara’s amazement was such, that she was unable to utter a word, but her
face worked convulsively. At last she stammered:

“This is a joke!”

“Not at all; I only wish it were my joke! When you were about three
years old, your mother ran away with a good-looking officer, I forget
his name; he did not marry her, and went to India. Afterwards, she and
Mrs. Hesketh travelled about together, and we met them at Cannes. Later
on, we saw in the papers that your mother had kidnapped you, from your
nurse, and disappeared,--and here you are! What a funny chance coming
across you at the Paradis!”

“So that’s the story--and it’s all true?”

Cara’s eyes glittered with excitement, her soft pink cheeks, were paler
than usual.

“True as gospel,” replied her companion emphatically; “as true as I
am sitting here. If your father knew of your whereabouts, he would
certainly claim you, and give you a ripping time. You might ask me to
stay?” she added playfully. “You would have motors, balls, racing, a
town house, a country house. I only wish _I_ had a chance of standing
in your shoes!”

“I declare you have made me feel quite giddy,” and Cara put her hand to
her head; “but I understand a lot of things--_now_.”

“Yes, I suppose you do.--You look pretty wide-awake.”

“I see why we have no English friends, except Mrs. Hesketh--whom I
hate, and who never ceases asking bothering questions, and making nasty
speeches, and tells me, that I can never repay the Mum for all she has
done for me.”

“Done you out of, she means!” briskly corrected Miss Plassy.

“And I remember a man we met ages ago on the Fluellen boat; awfully
good-looking; he and mother seemed so amazed to see one another. He was
going to India, and they had such a talk. After he left, the Mum cried
a lot. I think his name was Lumley.”

“That’s the man she ran away with!” declared Miss Plassy triumphantly.

“And now after hearing all this, I’ve got to go home to the Mum and
face her! I don’t see how I can ever forgive her; she has spoiled my
life. Oh,” and her voice was broken with emotion, “when I think of all
I have missed, since I was a kid, it’s too, too, awful!” and large
tears welled from Cara’s hard blue eyes.

“It will all come right some day,” said the other soothingly. “Why, you
are only seventeen, and not even out yet. Your mother just wanted you
all to herself, you see. _Do_ finish your ice.”

Cara felt that under the circumstances, it would be more dignified to
leave the ice untouched,--but it was characteristic of her, that she
gobbled down the remainder of the Pêche Melba, and left an empty plate.

“Of course, I know that I may rely on you to keep what you have heard
to yourself?” continued her companion,--Miss Plassy had thoroughly
enjoyed this interview;--a most pernicious satisfaction! but were
the details to reach the ear of Mrs. Hesketh, the result might prove
unpleasant, and a hinted-at reward be inflexibly withheld.

“Yes, you may be sure I shall hold my tongue and lie low for the
present. It was awfully kind of you to tell me, and if--if--what you
say ever comes true, you must stay with me and have a ripping time.”

“All right, I’ll remind you!” responded Lydia gaily.--(How delightful
to kill two birds with one stone, and receive grateful acknowledgments
from two quarters.) “There’s five o’clock striking now,” she added,
rising as she spoke; “if you want to catch the boat, you must run for
your life; here is your parasol--here are your gloves--fly!”



CHAPTER XXXII


It was at a late hour for Les Plans, when Letty, seeing a light,
timidly pushed open the kitchen door, and beheld Frau Hurter bending
over the table, iron in hand, and oh, happy opportunity, alone! She was
nervously anxious to have a little private talk about Cara--but how to
begin?

“I wonder if you would mind pressing this?” she enquired, exhibiting a
strip of delicate embroidery. “See, it is finished at last.”

“Yes,” assented Frau Hurter, straightening herself, taking it from her,
and examining it carefully. “Beautiful work,--and should fetch a good
price.”

(‘A good price’ was her _ne plus ultra_ of attainment.)

“It is for a blouse for Mitli.”

“Ah--true--everything is for Mitli.”

“I’m afraid she is out of favour with you?” ventured her mother timidly.

“Ach ye! She is indeed changed. It is another Mitli, _Mein Frau_.
I have eyes and ears, and I hear tales--half of them I do not
believe--for I still love the _kindli_--I cannot help myself.”

“What have you heard? I implore you to tell me. Who has been talking?”

“Elizabeth Baer for one. I met her a few days ago at market, and she
came over and spoke, and said that Mitli is a Wustus Madel, and had a
bad influence on her girl Berthe--she had forbidden her the house!”

“No!” ejaculated Letty in a tone of angry astonishment. “Impossible!”

“Yes; Mitli puts ideas into Berthe’s head, ideas about money, dress,
and young men, and she makes the girl her tool, and has, Jesus Maria!
corrupted her mind.”

“My child corrupt anyone! How dared she say such things!”

“At least she makes trouble,--and now she no longer is received--no,
not these two months.”

“Oh, surely you must be mistaken,” but the remonstrance was
half-hearted; “she was there last week.”

“No doubt Mitli pretends she still goes to Les Lilacs--it has its
conveniences.”

“But if not at the Baers,--_where_ is she?”

“Ah,” putting down the iron, and lifting her hard brown hands, “it is
not for me to say; but this I know; she deceives us. Many an hour when
the girl is supposed to be at classes, or with her school mates, Mitli
is elsewhere. She has been given too much love, and liberty, and too
much trust.”

And with this pronouncement, Frau Hurter turned to the stove to fetch
another iron.

Cara’s mother ascended to her room, filled with anxiety and
far-reaching fears. As she stood at the open window, looking out on
the lake and the stars, inhaling air honey-sweet, with the breath
of flowers,--a singular desolation, a sense of homelessness, and
loneliness, came upon her. Something had overtaken her, from which
there was no escape; something had died in her heart--the belief in
Cara’s truth, and innocence. She opened the communicating door very
gently, and peeped into the next room. Cara was asleep, with a candle
guttering beside the bed. An open book lay on the floor. Letty picked
it up and glanced at the title. _Bel Ami_, Guy de Maupassant. Then
she blew out the light, returned to her own room, undressed, and went
to bed, where she lay awake for hours; blaming herself for blunders
and failures, making good resolutions, now and then bursting into
stifled sobs, till the sparrows in the pear tree began to twitter,
and an exquisite new day came stealing down the mountains. Now that
she had an assured income of two hundred a year, Letty had ceased to
work incessantly for daily bread, and had spare time, to spend with
her girl, to share her walks, and excursions, and amusements; but her
proffered companionship appeared to be unwelcome. When she suggested
a row on the lake, a tea picnic, a steamer trip, she was generally
assured that such outings were impossible, Cara’s engagements were so
numerous; she was playing tennis with the Maas girls, or spending the
day at Engelberg with her drawing-mistress, or going to the swimming
baths with their friends of the Weggisgasse, and much-sought-for Mitli
seemed to have no desire and no leisure, for the society of her mother.

During the last fortnight, a sudden and strange change had come over
the girl; looking back, Letty dated it from the day of the fête, or a
little later. She had become silent, moody, and almost morose--as if
she cherished a mortal grievance and was offended with everyone; and
sometimes when she looked up her mother found Cara’s eyes fixed upon
her with a sullen, almost hostile expression. What did it mean? Cara no
longer cared to visit the Paradis, to tea or _déjeuner_--once hailed
as a welcome treat. She shut herself up in her room, writing letters,
and every morning walked down to Mitzau to the post office,--instead of
awaiting the leisurely arrival of the facteur.

She was restless, irritable, strange; undoubtedly her condition had
something to do with her correspondence, and her mother, acting upon
her newly formed resolutions, made bold enquiries.

One afternoon as they were walking down the hill together, she screwed
up her courage and said:

“Who is it you are writing to so constantly, Cara?”

“No one in particular,” answered the girl, with a toss of her head.

“But what a waste of time and energy!” Again she braced herself,
determined to exercise an authority too long relaxed.

“I think, dear, that I ought to know who is your correspondent.”

“Why, Mum,” and Cara came to a standstill, “this is something _quite_
new! You’ve never asked such a thing before.”

“But I believe I should have done so, Cara. Better late than never. I’m
afraid, dear child, that I have been hitherto too slack, too busy with
my work, to take a proper interest in your affairs.”

“This is too funny!” cried Cara angrily; “that old Hesketh spy, has put
you up to this.”

“No--and that is no way to speak of her,” reproved Letty with
surprising spirit; “and now I must insist on knowing who it is, that
you have been writing to to-day?”

“Oh, then, since you _insist_,” said Cara, putting her hand in the
pocket of her coat, “here is my correspondence,” and she exhibited a
letter addressed to, ‘Peter Robinson, Regent Street, London, W.’

“A man certainly, but a stranger to me.”

(There was another letter remaining in her pocket, and this was
inscribed to, ‘Hugo Blagdon, Esq., Sharsley Court, Yorks.’)

Letty, as she received Peter Robinson’s letter, felt a little abashed.
Could all the other suspicions have the same ending? Oh, could
they?--if so what a heavy load would be lifted from her mind!

“Yes, I see,” she assented, “you are sending for patterns; but surely
you are not continually writing to shops?”

“Why not? _You_ know best, why I have no English correspondence. The
July sales are on, and one gets things for half of nothing, trimmings,
stockings, gloves, scarves. Tomlin gave me the tip.”

“Oh, did she?” murmured Letty, not a little daunted by Cara’s manner;
then she resumed with an effort, “Cara, my dear, why will you not be
more open with me, and confide in me, and tell me things? No one in
the world, takes as much interest in you, or is as anxious for your
happiness, as _I_ am.”

The girl glanced slyly at the pretty, incredibly young-looking woman
who was her mother; with her clear complexion, abundant hair, and slim
figure, she might almost be a contemporary of her own!

“What sort of things?”

“Just the sort of things you tell your girl friends.” Cara broke out
into an irrepressible shout of laughter,--laughter, in which there
sounded a note of mockery or derision,--and Letty, with a heightened
colour, added:

“Frau Hurter has informed me, that you no longer go to the Baers--is
this the case?”

“Yes, I’ve had a terrific row with Berthe and her mother--horrible,
bourgeois brutes!”

“But you used to be so fond of Berthe--you’ve known one another nearly
all your lives.”

“I never knew her, or found her out, until lately. I’ll tell you all
about it another time. Here is the Paradis. I’m not going in. Give my
_hate_ to Mrs. Hesketh. Oh, well, darling Mum, don’t look so shocked,”
patting her lightly on the arm; “you know, I never mean the quarter of
what I say, and you also know, that she can’t endure the sight of me!”
Then Miss Glyn embraced her mother, and turned quickly about to walk to
Mitzau, and post her letter.

Mrs. Hesketh, who was awaiting her friend in the lounge, looked
unusually solemn as she asked, “What have you done with the girl?”

“She has gone to the post. I think, dear Cousin Maude, she has a sort
of instinct that you don’t care for her.”

“Let us have tea at once,” said her friend, brusquely ignoring the
question; “afterwards, we will go up to my room and hold a meeting.”

As the tea proceeded, Letty was conscious that there was thunder in the
atmosphere; the symptoms were as clear as when a storm was collecting
in the neighbouring mountains, and rugged old Pilatus arrayed himself
as a preliminary, in a series of scarf-like clouds. Although Mrs.
Hesketh talked spasmodically of home news, and exchanged civil
greetings with acquaintances, her manner was abstracted. Undoubtedly
some subject lay heavily on her mind, and Letty hurried over her tea,
declining a second cup, and said:

“Do let us go upstairs, I cannot bear suspense--anything is better than
_that_.”

“So, then, you guess?” said her friend, leading the way to the
sitting-room, and drawing forward two chairs on her balcony.

“I cannot guess what you may have to say,--only that I’m sure it is
something to do with the child.”

“It has. Hitherto, excepting that night at the fête--and we might have
been mistaken--we have had nothing to support suspicion, beyond Frau
Hurter’s natural animosity towards a girl who has bewitched her son.”

“Yes,” agreed Letty breathlessly.

“And now, I have got hold of facts.”

“How? Facts!”

“By the means of unintentional eavesdropping in this very verandah.”

“Eavesdropping?”

“Yes, you know how sounds ascend. I was sitting up here last night
alone, enjoying the glorious view, and moonlight--vaguely aware that
some men were talking and smoking just below, and one of them who had
a loud, resonant voice, was describing someone who was splendid sport.
When he said ‘a flapper of seventeen,’ I pricked up my ears at once.

“‘Knows her way about,’ he went on, ‘uncommonly handsome--and up to all
sorts of games.’

“Letty, I leant nearer, and listened shamelessly, and another voice
asked:

“‘Where does she hang out?’

“‘At a farm up the hill here, a place called Les Plans.’

“‘Oh,’ said the other, ‘a native?’

“‘No--English--and by way of being a lady. She has lived here with her
mother since she was a kid; the mother is a damned pretty woman----’

“I am repeating what I heard verbatim--

“‘--but a fool. She lets the girl go marauding all over the place
alone. Ahem! Well, not exactly _alone_--because she trusts her
absolutely!’

“At this they all roared.” Here Mrs. Hesketh paused. Letty was now
sobbing audibly, her face buried in her hands.

“Then a man asked, ‘How did you find her?’” pursued Mrs. Hesketh.

“‘Angus McKenzie gave me the tip; he was here last year--met her on
the boat, and they got tremendously chummy. He used to take her about,
and give her treats, when she was supposed to be having lessons in
Lucerne--ha! ha! But, mind you, she knows how to take rattling good
care of herself. She was capital company, with a lot of “go,” and
wonderfully advanced ideas for her age--especially with regard to
spending money!’”

Here Mrs. Hesketh paused, and looked at her companion, who was still
sobbing hysterically.

“Letty, are you listening to me? Do please pull yourself together!”

“I am, of course, listening,” she gasped. “I am--oh, it is all my
fault. Oh, Cousin Maude, do not blame the child! I’ve been a bad mother
after all! I allowed her to slip out of my hands, and gave her her own
way, and was too, too indulgent; but I myself was so strictly brought
up, and had so little love, and sympathy, and freedom, I was resolved
that Cara should _never_ suffer in the same way.”

“Letty, be quiet!” interposed her friend angrily. “I won’t sit here,
and listen to you abusing yourself. You have been too self-sacrificing,
and, I’m afraid, weak. But how could you oppose your will to Cara’s?
Hers is of iron,--and you know your own failing. You sent her to
excellent schools, you believed she had good companions; you could
not conduct her to and from school, or be always with her like a
keeper--you had to work hard, to maintain yourself and her, and, when
possible, you shared her pleasures and made yourself her companion--you
could have done no more.”

“And I could not well do less,” said Letty as she dried her eyes. “Was
that all the men said?”

“No. It seems that Cara used to climb out of her bedroom window, and
descend by the pear tree into the garden, and sit in the summer-house,
smoking cigarettes with visitors from the Paradis; and for this reason,
the old watch-dog was put out of the way.”

“Oh, poor, poor Karo! I was sure he had been poisoned!”

“And it appears, that when you supposed Cara to be spending the day
with Berthe, she was really lunching and carousing with one or other
of these festive strangers! This accounts, for her craze for pretty
restaurant frocks, smart beflowered hats, and all the reckless bills. I
gathered that she did not accept presents, beyond chocolates, flowers,
entertainments, and motor rides. Sometimes she motored home after the
last boat had gone, and had what they called uncommonly narrow shaves
of being spotted! Now, Letty, you positively _must_ assume another
attitude, and be firm, and absolute. There would be no use in my
talking to Cara--she abhors me. We will arrange to go to England as
soon as possible, and place the young woman in a school; this will no
doubt have a sobering effect and be a change that will do her good. I
know of a capital finishing establishment in Brighton, and with your
leave or without, I’ll write to-morrow.”

“Yes, as you like; but I feel bewildered, dazed----”

“You had better have an interview with Cara to-night, and tell her
you know all, and that in future you will never trust her out of your
sight. She shall not stir without you, or me, or Tomlin at her heels,
and in ten days we start for England. Settle up with Frau Hurter, and
leave all other arrangements to me. My poor Letty, I am sorry for you,
but I will stand by you shoulder to shoulder, and see you through this
crisis.”

“But it’s so easy for us to wonder, and blame, and plan. When Cara
comes on the scene, somehow I am always put in the wrong and defeated.”

“You cannot possibly be defeated on this occasion,” declared her
friend, with confidence. “All the right and might is on your side: the
right of a good and too unselfish mother, and the might of the purse.
Cara has no money.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Cara,” said her mother, coming into her room that evening, “I wish to
speak to you very seriously.”

Cara, who was in her petticoats, and in the act of unpinning her
abundant hair, turned about sharply and said:

“Oh, yes, let’s have it out, then! I’ve felt there was something in
the air. What has Frau Hurter been telling you _now_? She went for me
this morning like any old fish-fag, and said I had ruined Fritz, and
broken his heart, and he was no good for anything!” And she tossed back
a mane of hair, and glared a challenge.

“It is not Fritz, Cara. It is about the strangers--the Englishmen,
whom you meet clandestinely and go about with, motoring and amusing
yourself, when all the time I’ve been trusting you, and thinking you
were taking lessons in Lucerne.”

“Oh!” dropping her arms, “so it has leaked out at last! Well, it had
to some day. I’ve had a ripping time, and I’m not sorry.” And this
handsome young woman, with her bare arms and neck, and flowing hair,
faced her accuser unabashed, and unrepentant, assuring herself, she had
no reason to be afraid; she was always able to cow, and browbeat the
Mum.

“Oh, Cara, Cara! How _could_ you?” murmured her parent, with uplifted
hands.

“Well, I believe most people know I’ve friends--men friends. Fritz was
crazy, when he saw me speaking to Captain Seymour; but think of the
awful, awful life I lead here, and other English girls have such good
times! I’ve done no harm whatever--I’ve only amused myself. And why
not?”

“Getting out of your bedroom window at night, and sitting in the garden
with strange men from the Paradis!”

“Now, who can have told you that?” she asked sharply. “_Jost?_ though
for ten francs he swore he’d hold his tongue; treacherous old devil!”

“Never mind who told--I know everything.”

“Do you, Mum? I doubt it. I’ve had lots of affairs since I was
fifteen,” and she eyed her mother with amusement. “Yes, it’s in my
blood. You asked me to tell you things--and I _will_.”

Now that the ice was broken, Cara felt tempted to shock her mother; she
would enjoy the sensation.

“Since you were fifteen?” repeated Letty in an incredulous whisper.

Cara nodded, with smiling complacence.

“Yes, first, there was the violinist, an Italian, who said he was a
Count. He gave me chocolates and flowers,--till I spotted him in the
orchestra; but even then I was gone on Pablo. After Pablo, the nice
German boy from Heidelberg; he wrote me verses, and gave me a ring.
There was also Anton Baer, who took me up Pilatus when you thought I
was in bed at the Baers, with a sprained ankle; and Major McKenzie, who
spoke to me on the boat; and Captain Seymour--and always, always Fritz.”

As Letty stood pale and rigid, as if turned to stone, Cara concluded:

“After all, I’ve done no harm; one is young but once!”

“No harm, Cara? I think you have broken my heart! A girl of seventeen
making herself notorious. Do you know that you are the laughing-stock
of men at the Paradis; who discuss you, and hold you very cheap?--no
harm in losing your good name!”

“As to broken hearts,” retorted Cara, who was now plaiting her hair
vigorously, “I don’t believe in them; and I’ve heard enough of that
rubbish from Fritz to last a lifetime.” The term ‘laughing-stock’ had
stirred her keenly, and she went on, her temper at white heat: “As for
my good name, I can take care of that; and, my darling Mum,” and she
drew herself up, and tossed back a plait, “_you_ are the last person to
talk of ‘a good name.’”

“What do you mean, Cara?” Letty asked faintly.

“I mean,” speaking with deliberate emphasis, “that I _know_.”

Her mother took two steps backwards, staggered blindly, and sat down on
the side of the bed,--her face as colourless as the counterpane.

“Yes, I must say, I think you should not have kept it from me, Mum. Of
course, I don’t think any the worse of you, dear.” She would have taken
her mother’s hand, but Letty pushed her from her, with impatience, and
her trembling lips put the question:

“Who told you?”

“Miss Plassy--she said I _ought_ to know.”

“Yes, go on,” urged her mother in a stifled voice; “be quick and tell
me.”

“She told me that my name is Blagdon. My father is enormously rich, and
that you ran away with an officer when I was a kid, and were divorced,
and a year later, you came and stole me from my nurse, and brought me
off here. That’s the story!--it sounds crude, but she swore it was true
and in all the papers. I can get over the divorce all right,” continued
Cara, with an air of superb generosity, “but really and truly, Mum, I
cannot forgive you for kidnapping me, and bringing me off abroad, to
lead this wretched, poverty-stricken life.”

“Cara,” cried her mother, rising to her feet, and speaking with
unexpected violence, “you have heard a garbled tale--only one side. Now
you shall hear mine,” and standing erect, confronting her daughter, she
poured forth the story of her wrongs, her misery, and her married life.

Her eloquence--the eloquence of a bursting heart--was such, that
even Cara for a moment felt moved, ashamed, yes, and repentant. So
overwhelming was the effect of her mother’s picture of a blighted
youth, a life of solitude, and her passionate attachment to herself,
that Cara for once betrayed into real personal feeling, fell into her
mother’s arms, overcome by a storm of unparalleled emotion.

At last, with sobs and caresses from Letty, murmurs of penitence and
adoration from Cara, mother and daughter, exhausted by this violent
strain, separated at last, to seek what rest they might.

For hours Cara lay watching the window with hard restless eyes, turning
over her mother’s story in her mind, and weighing it remorselessly. As
time passed, her feelings had subsided; it was one thing to be touched
by a beautiful face, an impassioned pleading, and unfortunate history;
it was another, in the dim, pale dawn, to recall facts--remorseless
facts. The fact of the divorce--the fact that her mother had stolen
her--the fact that she was an heiress--the fact that she, Cara, with
all her beauty, good birth, and cravings, was poor and insignificant,
and living on a few francs a week at a detestable old Swiss farm. Of
course, she was fond of the Mum; certainly she was fond of her; and she
had had a horrid life,--but probably she had not known how to manage
people. Probably?--why, of course not--she never could manage anyone!
She, Cara, had her own life to lead, and must strike out for herself.
Meanwhile she resolved to be very kind and good to the Mum,--and to
keep no more trysts. What brutes of men to talk! For the future, she
resolved to remain under her mother’s wing; it would be too ridiculous
for a great heiress to make herself cheap!

Letty as she lay also watching her window, never slept at all; her
thoughts were too active. She recalled Cara’s manner, her callous
admissions, her bombshell, and subsequently her surprising breakdown.
This, she knew from experience, to be but a temporary affair--there had
been former scenes and reconciliations, from which Cara had, as on the
present occasion, emerged victorious!



CHAPTER XXXIII


“So she has known for a whole fortnight and kept it to herself,” said
Mrs. Hesketh with luminous eyes. “I had no idea that Cara was capable
of such amazing self-control. This accounts for her inexplicable
silence, sullenness, and studied insolence to _me_.”

“Of course, the information was startling,” pleaded Letty. “Her whole
little world turned upside down; the child has taken the news amazingly
well, and is so sweet and affectionate. This morning she asked me to
tell you that she is very sorry and ashamed of her rudeness to you, and
intends to turn over a new leaf.”

“I am not sure that I have much faith in these new leaves,” rejoined
Mrs. Hesketh ungraciously; “but I am prepared to accept the olive
branch. You say the girl is sitting at home sewing, whilst you are
abroad? You appear to have changed places.”

“Only for once. It was so important that I should see you. Now Cara has
been enlightened, perhaps it is for the best--it _had_ to come some
day.”

“And malicious Miss Plassy has spared no details--you have no _further_
disclosures to fear. Bring Cara to dinner to-night, I should like to
have a talk with her, and we will smoke the pipe of peace.”

For the next ten days all went smoothly. Cara no longer yearned for
solitary excursions into Lucerne; on the contrary, she appeared to
be glad of her mother’s companionship, and had figuratively attached
herself to her apron string!

Meanwhile, arrangements for a move were in progress. Mrs. Hesketh
had written home, announcing the arrival of two friends, ordering
alterations in the house, and entering into treaty for a new motor.

A whole month had passed, and there had been no reply to Cara’s filial
appeal--an appeal which had cost hours of thought, and been written
and rewritten again and again. Her heart and her hopes sank; this
condition was salutary, the girl--like all bullies--was absurdly
elated by success, whilst failure bowed her to the earth. In despair
of her father’s favour and rescue, she now turned to her mother, whom
she contemplated by the light of her illuminating story. She dwelt on
that passionately pleading figure, that ringing voice, those piteous
eyes, and appealing hands; and could not but believe that every word
she uttered was _true_. Her father’s silence was ample proof of his
unnatural character; he must be a brute! And she herself had witnessed
one of the principal scenes in her mother’s history. That afternoon
on the _Schiller_, when they had met the handsome English officer,
who implored her mother to agree to something, and her mother had not
consented; now she learnt that he had asked her to marry him, and
leave her, Cara, at school--and the Mum had refused. She recalled his
urgent air, and her mother’s tears. It was evident that she cared for
him--and no wonder! Had she been in her mother’s place, his offer
would have been accepted--_bien sur!_ And the Mum was so pretty--no
matter how shabby or simple her clothes, she always looked well-born--a
lady to the tips of her fingers. Everything she accomplished was so
neat, so finished: her room and belongings so orderly; such a contrast
to her own apartment, which was always untidy; she never could find
anything, and flung away hats, stepped out of skirts, kicked off
shoes, and left the Mum to clear up, and put her things straight. She
seemed at last to realise, what her mother stood for in her life, and
became thoughtful, helpful, and affectionate. She ran errands, carried
parcels, and was altogether another and softer Cara. These were indeed
halcyon days for Letty! She brought her good news to the bedside of her
friend, who was confined to her room with a serious bronchial attack.

“The child is so changed,” she said, “so warm-hearted, loving, and
confidential. She has confessed _everything_ to me; all about those
odious men, and how they taught her to smoke, and supplied her
with cigarettes and chocolates, and took her trips in motor-boats.
She declares she only went with them for the fun of the thing, the
thrilling excitement of adventure, and possible discovery! She will
never deceive me again as long as she lives--we are to have _no_
secrets from one another.”

Here Mrs. Hesketh murmured something inarticulate into the down quilt,
and her visitor continued:

“And she is so interested in Sharsley, and asks me to tell her all
about the place, and about Thornby and Oldcourt. Oh, Cousin Maude,” and
she sank on her knees by the bed, and took her hand in hers, “I am so
happy at last! I am well repaid for my strivings. Cara and I are now
all in all to one another.”

During this interview, Cara had been waiting for her mother in the
lounge--she was now full of these touching little attentions. As she
waited one of her English acquaintances happened to enter, paused, and
bowed with ironical ceremony. Then he approached, and said in a jocular
key:

“Hullo, Goldylocks! what are you doing here? Why so proud?”

Goldylocks raised her eyes, stared at him fiercely, and resumed her
study of a picture paper; and after a momentary hesitation, Captain
Seymour felt compelled to pass on. Cara had done with these odious
free-and-easy men, who joked with her, flattered her, and then talked
her over, and laughed at her behind her back. That thought acted as a
lash, and kept Miss Blagdon’s exuberant impulses in check.

Presently her mother reappeared, and as they climbed the hill together,
arm in arm, she said:

“Cousin Maude is so much better, the doctor thinks she may move in ten
days, and we will travel with her. You know the school idea has been
abandoned, and you can easily keep up your music, and French with me. I
do hope you won’t find Thornby too dull; there is no one in the village
now, except the Dentons.”

“And your aunt--the hunting lady?”

“No; she lives in Brighton, I am thankful to say, but the poor old Holt
is closed. Cara,” and her mother halted on the little plateau, “Mrs.
Hesketh has been frightening me. She asks, if your father claimed you,
what would you do?”

“Why _you_ know, Mummy,” throwing her arm round her waist, “I’ll never,
never leave you!” and she covered her face with kisses.

“If you had been a boy, darling, of course I’d never, never have dared
to carry you off; but I wanted you so badly, and he did not; you were
left alone with your nurse in a corner of that great big house, your
father ignored you; he dislikes girls--even grown-up girls.”

“Yet he married a girl, Mummy. Why you were only my age--seventeen!”

“Yes, dear, but your father soon got tired of me. At seventeen, I
was years younger than you are; I was painfully timid, silly, and
undecided--and----”

“You are undecided still; but there is no one in all the whole world,
as clever and good, as my own beautiful Mum,” and Cara bent her fair
head, and kissed her mother on the lips.

       *       *       *       *       *

Hugo Blagdon was now a stout, irascible, red-faced man of fifty-seven,
who for the sake of his health was every year compelled to take ‘a
cure’ at Carlsbad, and here Cara’s letters followed, and found him.
As he casually opened number one, then glanced at the signature, his
complexion changed from red to purple.

“What the devil does this mean?” he muttered.

He was soon in possession of full information. In Cara’s fine bold
hand, she assured him that only within the last twenty-four hours she
had learnt her own and her mother’s story, and that her father was
still living. She went on to say, that she was weary of exile, had a
craving to see her native land, and _him_; described herself as tall
and fair, very fond of outdoor sports, and games, and hoped that he
would soon write to her, send for her, and allow her to know him, and
remained his affectionate daughter, Caroline Blagdon. ‘P.S.--Please
address Miss Glyn, Poste Restante, Mitzau. I am sending you my
photograph.’

“By George!” he exclaimed when he came to the end of her epistle, “a
grown-up daughter, and she writes with spirit; no milk and water about
_her_!” Yes, and here was her photograph. It was many years since
he had experienced such a thrill of expectation, as when he cut the
string, and uncovered a cabinet-sized photograph which displayed a
handsome girl, with a resolute jaw, broad shoulders, and large hands.
It must be confessed, that the likeness did not do justice to the
sitter’s best points--her hair, complexion, and teeth.

“Not bad-looking,” was her father’s verdict. After gazing at it for a
long time, studying the dress and details, he put both letter and photo
into his breast coat pocket, and went off to his bath.

No need to do anything in a hurry; letter-writing was the mischief,
and dangerous. He would take his time,--and he did. Several anxious
epistles from Les Plans remained unnoticed, and hence his daughter’s
despair. It was evident that there was nothing before her, but the
prospect of a dull life in an English village, and she decided to make
the best of circumstances.

Her father, meanwhile, had resolved to motor to Lucerne for his ‘after
cure,’ but not commit himself in any way. He would first look round
cautiously, and see how the land lay.

Hugo Blagdon in his magnificent car arrived early in September, and put
up at the National. After an excellent lunch--concluded with coffee
and liqueur--he strolled forth on the Quai, and stared frowningly on
the lovely scene; the mountains and hills of all shades of blue, the
lake gay with traffic; finally he went into the Casino gardens and
bestowed his heavy form upon a seat. The band was playing, and the
place was crowded. He debated with himself the question of a bock--yes
or no--the verdict was ‘no’: he had recently lost ten pounds in weight
and must keep himself down. Bye and by, among the crowd, he was glad to
recognise a racing acquaintance, and signalled to him to join him at
his little table.

As they sat, discussing jockeys, weights, and other matters, the man
said:

“This is a great season, I have never seen the place so full, nor so
many pretty frocks, and faces. Hullo--look there!”

Two ladies were crossing the gardens, both tall and both wearing summer
hats, and white gowns; their air and good looks distinguished them from
the crowd.

For a moment Blagdon stared with stolid incredulity, then he hastily
put down his cigar, for he had recognised Letty! A beautiful,
self-possessed Letty, with an air of fragile grace, who, although
laden with several parcels, carried herself like a queen; the girl, of
bigger build, with clouds of hair and marvellous colouring, was his
correspondent Cara,--she looked every day of twenty!

He was actually gazing at his own wife and daughter--so were others;
the pair had been accosted by friends, and stopped to talk, and this
afforded the spectators an opportunity to admire.

“By Jove, Englishwomen are hard to beat! I bet those two are English,”
said his companion. “The elder is the best looking--a handsome woman.
The young one seems full of go, and what teeth and colouring! But she
hasn’t her sister’s figure.”

Here indeed was an entirely different individual to the cowering
Letty of fourteen years previously, and how well she had worn! Now
she would shine in any company--his wife--yes, and his daughter. She,
too, was ripping: so sure of herself; he watched her gay gestures and
broad smiles, her well-cut frock, and neat figure--rather on the heavy
side. What a complexion! By George, she’d make ’em all sit up! Yes,
he decided to claim her--a handsome wife was one thing: a handsome
daughter, reflected still more credit on a fellow.

Cara was a Blagdon--his own flesh and blood, and he was sick of his old
associates.

“I say, Blagdon, you are not very gay; the after cure depressing? Eh?”

“No, I’m all right,” with a shake of his great shoulders. “I’m just
thinking of a good thing I’ve come in for.”

Repton stared. Was old Blag off his chump? had he been drinking?

“Oh, it’s only a filly of mine, a rare one, that will show ’em all the
way,” and he chuckled to himself.

“Ah, then, I’ll look to you for a tip!”

Blagdon noted the break-up of the party, which concluded with cordial
hand-shaking, and adieux. Subsequently mother and daughter walked
away talking together eagerly--evidently the best of pals. He rose
instantly, followed, and kept them in view. In the Swan Platz, opposite
Cook’s, the two separated; Letty to cross the bridge, the girl to
enter the Arcade: here he saw her disappear into a shop, and waited.
As he waited, he meditated; he was full of impatience to claim this
creditable daughter; in face her mother, in manner and figure a
Blagdon. What--cold thought--would Connie say?--Con, more or less lived
with, as well as on him. She had the Blagdon will, tongue, and temper.
Well, from the girl’s air and off-hand manner, he expected she could
hold her own; and by George, he had done a lot for Con, from first to
last, and paid her debts over and over. It was time he did something
for his only daughter,--who had not cost him a farthing since she cut
her first teeth. As he conferred with himself, the girl came briskly
out of the shop. He had been pretending to be looking into the window,
and at once accosted her.

“I say,” he began, staring hard into her face, “aren’t
you--er--Caroline--Blagdon?”

She stood stock still, and surveyed him with startled eyes, and a
heightened colour.

Could this heavy, elderly man, with a large, reddish face, be her
father? Why Kaspar at the landing-stage looked more distinguished. Of
course his clothes and voice were all right--but----

She nodded curtly.

“I got your letters,” he resumed, “and as I was in Germany motoring, I
thought I’d come on here and look you up. Seeing is believing. I’m your
father, you know.”

“Yes--are you?”

“I say, let’s walk about a bit, where we can talk. Where’s your mother?
I bar meeting her.”

“She has gone across the bridge to say good-bye to some friends; we are
leaving next week. She won’t be back for an hour. I’m to meet her at
the five o’clock boat.”

“Oh, so then we have a clear hour! Come along to the National.”

For a perceptible pause Cara’s hesitation was obvious: she neither
spoke nor stirred--and her reluctance enormously enhanced her value in
her father’s eyes.--However, as she said to herself, she might as well
hear, what he had to propose--no harm--in that!

As they strolled together past the shops, Blagdon was gratified to note
how many eyes were bent on his companion. This was the sort of girl
that appealed to him; she was well turned out, too, and walked as if
the whole earth belonged to her.

“Lived here always?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes, since I was four. Now I’m seventeen.”

“And look every day of twenty or more,” he exclaimed with habitual
brusquerie.

“Do I? And you,” considering him with cold, undaunted eyes, “I suppose
are sixty--or more?”

Blagdon’s face assumed a deeper hue. His neck appeared to swell, an
apoplectic seizure seemed imminent; he was not accustomed to be thus
bearded.

However, for once, with a violent effort, he restrained himself, and
answered:

“A fellow’s the age he feels--a woman the age she looks.”

“That’s rubbish!” declared his bold companion, “and was certainly
invented by a _man_!”

“I say, young lady, you seem to have a fairly sharp tongue!”

“A sharp tongue and a sweet temper,” she retorted.

It was evident to her electrified and humbled parent, that the girl
did not care a brass farthing whether he reinstated her or not! The
saucy young woman was entirely independent, and made no secret of her
attitude. The chances were, that if she had been appealing, eager, and
slavish, he would not have been so anxious to claim her--but Cara had
taken her father’s measure, with a very sure eye.

“Well, here we are,” he continued, leading the way up the steps; “come
into the lounge, and let’s get to know one another. I saw you and your
mother together just now--you seem to be tremendous pals.”

“So we are,” said Cara, as she threw herself carelessly into a
comfortable chair. “My mother has been awfully good to me.”

“Eh? Well, at any rate, she ran away with you, and now,” coming and
standing directly before her, “what do you say to giving _me_ a turn?”

“What do you call a turn?” she enquired, looking back into his eyes,
with a true family stare; the girl had a spice of the devil in her,
that was certain.

“You will live with me in Hill Street,” he announced pompously; and
seeing that this fact made no impression, “have a motor, and a maid.”

“Yes?” The ‘yes’ was cool and indifferent.

“As many frocks and gewgaws as you want, and theatres and dances--those
are not in _my_ line. I’ll take you racing; I’ve a string of horses in
training.”

“I love racing,” she admitted. “I’ve only seen races once, and that was
here.”

“Bah!” with a gesture of contempt, “a set of platers! And so you are on
the move at last?”

“Yes; we are going to live with Mrs. Hesketh.”

“That old beldame! Well, you can choose between Thornby and Sharsley.
I won’t have any half measures--you understand that?”

“Am I to be mistress of the house?” she asked hardily. “I have an aunt,
I believe?”

“You have very much an aunt--she’d make _two_--but she will move into
her own flat. You look as if you could hold your own, and sit at the
head of a table, and square on a horse.”

“I daresay I can soon learn English ways, and I’m sure I could
ride--but I don’t like leaving mother.”

“I daresay not! You don’t know what is good for you--and you can’t well
bring her along, can you? It must be one of us, or the other--Glyn or
Blagdon!”

“Yes, I know,” and Cara rose, and walked slowly over to the window, and
looked out. She was weighing the vital question, ‘father or mother’?
As she stood irresolute, her eyes fell upon a splendid motor drawn up
below the hotel--_le dernier mot_ of luxury, and extravagance.

“That’s my car,” announced her father, who had followed, and was now
looking over her shoulder. “If you decide on _me_, we will go off this
evening, and I must give the chauffeur instructions about getting to
Dover. You and I will go straight to Paris, and there you can rig
yourself out before we go home--and the sooner we make a start the
better.”

“Do you really mean, that we are to leave here to-day?” stammered Cara;
who had been thinking of debating the matter, and making up her mind,
at leisure.

“Oh, yes--it’s now or never.”

Cara turned pale and then red.

“I want to get back for the Leger; you can settle into Hill Street.”
Noticing her change of colour, he became more urgent. “Your
grandmother’s lot will take you up--the old Scropes are tremendous
swells, and your cousins the Calthorpes and Montfords will trot you out
and present you at Court, and all that sort of thing--balls, and so on.
Of course, you are a bit young; but, as I tell you, you _look_ old--old
enough to sport the Blagdon diamonds; and the family diamonds are quite
top-hole! There isn’t a finer show in any opera-house.”

Presentations at Court, diamonds, French frocks, balls, races, the
command of a large establishment--Cara felt that her head was swimming!
What were her mother and Oldcourt in comparison to such dazzling
temptations? Of course, she was behaving badly; but in this world
everyone must play for their own hand. The Mum had made terrible
mistakes, and ‘revoked,’ so to speak. Because she had spoiled her life,
why should she, Cara, do likewise? She felt confident, that she could
get on all right with this burly, rough sort of father, and was not the
least afraid of him.

“Yes, by Jove, you and I will make a bolt; give your mother the slip,
and pay her out in her own coin, ha! ha! She’s given to running away.”

“If I come to live with you, you must never say a word against the
Mum.”

“The word ‘_must_’ is never to be used to me,” he answered savagely.

“But why not?” demanded Cara, looking up at him with twinkling eyes,
and an enchanting smile.

What cheek she had! and what teeth! Absolutely perfect. Slightly
mollified, he resumed:

“If you are a good girl, I think we shall pull along together
all right, and I’ll say this for your mother, she had a snaffle
mouth,--though she _did_ bolt. Of course, you are inexperienced in
English customs and housekeeping, but you have the cut of a girl who
will soon know the ropes.”

“If I go with you to-day, what am I to do for clothes? All my things
are up at Les Plans.”

“I can lend you a motor-coat to travel in, and you will be in Paris in
the early morning. We’ll start at six, and dine on the train.”

“Very well,” she said gravely; “so be it.”

“All right, that’s settled, Cara,” and he gripped her hand with a
gesture of possession. “Give me a kiss on the bargain!”

She glanced round apprehensively--they were alone in the lounge, then
offered her square jaw, to his lips.

“By Jove, I’m glad to have you, my girl!” he said with hearty
satisfaction. “When a man is getting on a bit, he feels the want of
someone about him--someone _belonging_ to him--and that he--er--can be
proud of.”

As Cara and her father stood side by side, the five o’clock boat moved
slowly from her moorings, and came out into the lake, exactly opposite
to where they were stationed.

“It’s the _Stadthof_. There goes mother!” said Cara with a slight catch
in her breath, “wondering what has become of me; that is her I am
sure--the figure at the end. She expects to see me tearing along the
Quai. Don’t you see the lady with the blue sunshade--looking back?”

“No, my sight is not as young as yours,” he answered gruffly. “She may
look and look, but you have done with her, you know, and have, what is
called, burned your boats! Now, come along with me, and I’ll buy you a
little souvenir of the occasion!”

The souvenir, took the form of a superb diamond ring, which Cara placed
with ecstasy upon her third finger. The purchase had been speedy--since
Blagdon, a moneyed man, always knew exactly what he wanted--and as they
emerged to the water-side, Cara gazed nervously down the lake. Yes,
the steamer, bearing her mother out of her life, was still in sight.
Her eyes, as she watched it rounding the promontory, were blinded with
tears; when she had brushed these away, she looked once more, but the
_Stadthof_ and her pretty Mum, had disappeared, as far as she was
concerned, for ever.

       *       *       *       *       *

Having accomplished her errands and visits, Letty arrived punctually at
the Bahnhof Pier, and looked eagerly around for Cara and her parcels;
but no Cara appeared--she was not even in sight as the boat cast off.
Letty and her daughter were dining that evening with Mrs. Hesketh, and
at the Paradis she anxiously awaited her. Cara had missed a boat on
several occasions, and come by the next; and now every time the great
revolving door swung, she expected to see her enter. Time went on,
dinner was over, the nine o’clock steamer had passed by, brilliantly
illuminated.

“What _can_ have become of Cara?” said her mother. “I know she was
going to the Convent--it is not like _them_ to keep the child so late.
Shall we go and wait in the lounge?”

When the ladies entered, the hall, the concierge came forward with a
thin blue telegram, addressed to ‘Mrs. Glyn,’ and handed it to Letty,
who tore it open with shaking fingers. As her eyes glanced over the
contents, she gave a faint exclamation and dropped the paper. Mrs.
Hesketh picked it up instantly, and read:

“Leaving for Paris with father. Good-bye. C. Blagdon.”



CHAPTER XXXIV


The shock of Cara’s desertion prostrated her mother, and for many
days she remained at the Paradis, blanched and shaken, a stricken,
ghost-like guest. Her friend (now completely restored) had taken the
helm of her life in her hands, and was making rapid preparations for
their departure to England.

“My poor dear child,” she said, “I am desperately sorry for you. That
your wound is deep, I know. ‘How sharper than the serpent’s tooth it is
to have a thankless child,’ so said old King Lear; all the same, you
will get over it.”

“No, never, never!” replied Letty with energetic emphasis; and her
voice and face were unrecognisably hard.

“Certainly you will. I speak from experience. When my little boy
died----”

“Your boy!” interrupted Letty, lifting her head; “I never knew you had
a child!”

“I do not speak of him, but he was my treasure: a darling. When he was
three years old he fell out of a window, and was killed before my very
eyes. Then, indeed, I would gladly have laid me down and _died_--but
here I am! trying to encourage you to rise again and plod along the
highway known as Life. If Harry had lived, he would be your age; it
is thirty-five years since they closed the coffin-lid upon his little
angel face. To add to my agony, my husband declared that the accident
was _my_ fault; the child was watching me mounting my horse, he
overbalanced, the nurse grabbed at him, but only his sash, remained in
her hand.”

“How dreadful!” cried her listener with streaming tears.

“Yes, dear, you may weep a little for me; but as for yourself, you must
dry your tears, and enter upon another life.”

It had been mooted on the mountain-side, in farm-houses and cow-houses,
that the rosy-cheeked English girl, claimed by a rich father, had
forsaken the pretty mother who for thirteen years had toiled for her
support. Ah, a _wustus maden_!--(a bad girl).

A surprising amount of kindly sympathy was felt and shown; many little
farewell gifts were left at the Paradis, addressed to ‘Frau Glyn,’ and
one afternoon Letty nerved herself to ascend to Les Plans, for the
last time, in order to take leave of its inmates. There they were, all
ready to welcome her! the Josts, Freda, the Frau herself, and a new
dog--another Karo. In the low-roofed sitting-room, when Letty and Frau
Hurter were alone, she said:

“All my little things here, my chair, and lace pillow, work-basket,
harmonium, and tea-service I hope you will accept.”

“But, _mein liebe Frau_, I never sew or play tunes. I am old, and my
fingers are like wood.”

“Fritz’s wife will be young?”

“Fritz--_ach ye!_ He _knows_. My cousin writes he is as mad, and
off his head; he says he goes to America, he cannot live here,
ever--without _her_. The boy comes to say good-bye in two days, and
then we are forsaken--you and I, by those for whom we would give the
life’s blood.”

“He will get over it, dear Frau. Fritz is so young. Ask him to come and
talk to me, and I will do my best, to persuade him to stay.”

“Yes, it may do good, since he loves you--we can but try,” she paused
to wipe her eyes on her apron; “but as for you, dear lady, my heart
aches. It seems but yesterday, when you stood out there in the garden
in the sunshine a _girl_, with Mitli in your arms. What you have
been to her ever since, the good God, and I, alone know. Now she has
deserted you; try and put her away from your thoughts.--You are still
young, you have your own life.”

“I am going to make another home; but what can replace a _child_?”
cried Letty, rising as she spoke. “I want to see her room, and settle
about her things.”

“Her room is dusted and in order, otherwise as she left it. We will go
there now,” and Frau Hurter climbed the stairs, and threw open the door
into an empty chamber.

There were Cara’s familiar frocks hanging on familiar hooks; her
silver-backed hair-brushes (a birthday gift) on the dressing-table;
a hat with the pins still sticking in it, as it had been cast down,
lay on the bed. There was a little writing-table and blotter--both
spattered with ink--and peeping in at the window that hoary old pear
tree--the accomplice of the girl in her midnight flights.

“_Ach ye!_” exclaimed Frau Hurter in a lachrymose key, “there is
the blouse you made her; the skirt you embroidered, the little
slippers.--Freda and I will pack everything, and send them down by
Jost.”

“No, no; I could not bear to see them again,” protested Letty, making
an effort to choke back her tears. “Please _keep_ all, except the books
and writing materials, and personal treasures,” gathering them together
in feverish haste.

“Here are dozens and dozens of letters,” announced Frau Hurter, who was
diving into a deep drawer.

“What of them, _meine Frau_?”

“Let them go too.”

“To England! Why not burn them?”

“No, no, we will stuff them into this silk work-bag, and tie them
securely--let the child have all she _values_. I will send a maid
to-morrow to pack, and forward everything to London.” After a pause,
and a last look round, she added, “I have been very, very happy here,
dear Frau, and I love your country--but I am leaving it in a few
days,--never to return.”

The two women clasped hands, and Frau Hurter, the stony-faced, suddenly
drew her fellow-sufferer into her bony embrace, and kissed her with a
sort of dry and concentrated passion.

As Letty walked down the hill that lovely September evening, she halted
for a farewell look at the gleaming lake and range of mountains--a
scene beloved and familiar as the face of a dear friend. How many
hundred times had she climbed this well-worn path--since the day she
had first carried Cara to the farm! Here on this very spot, the little
plateau under the pear trees, had Cara thrown her arms about her,
assuring her with warm kisses that “she would never, never, _never_
leave her own darling Mum!”

As a pair of sad eyes, rested on the matchless prospect, the sun was
setting behind Pilatus,--who stood forth grim and rugged, against
a flaming background of red and gold--a glorious afterglow spread
itself over the slopes of the Rigi, changing its strata of granite
to rose-colour, the intervening pastures to a cloudy blue. Then very
gradually, as if by the touch of a magic wand, a delicate ethereal haze
dissolved the entire scene into an exquisite shade of amethyst,--the
curtain had fallen, and a glorious September day, was numbered with the
past.

The air was still: the sleepy tinkling of a little stream, a far-away
hoot of some steamer approaching a landing-stage, the faint sound of a
chapel bell were the only sounds that broke a curiously reverent, and
impressive silence.

Presently beautiful Hesperus, wrapped in her misty mantle, came
gliding along the mountain-tops, and hung her bright star in the sky,
and Letty continued her way.

       *       *       *       *       *

Blagdon’s arrivals and departures were notoriously abrupt, and after a
busy and exciting three days in Paris, he appeared in Hill Street with
his unheralded companion; looking forward with a sort of brutal glee to
‘taking a splendid rise out of old Connie.’ He had merely announced his
immediate return, ‘bringing a friend.’

It was eight o’clock when he entered his smoking-room, closely
attended by Cara (who had been not a little impressed by her father’s
wealth, the appearance of the home, and its group of silent, dignified
men-servants--a home where _she_ was to reign as mistress). Here,
sunken in an arm-chair, with a dog on her lap, a cigarette in her
mouth, a sporting paper in her hand, they discovered Lady Rashleigh.
She was greatly changed; her figure was shapeless, her hair a foxy
grey, her skin coarse, and deeply lined--altogether, especially in a
shabby deshabille, she deservedly earned the adjective ‘Blowsy.’ Yet
at race meetings, in a well-cut coat and handsome furs, Con Rashleigh
was still regarded as a wonderful woman for sixty--pity she had let her
figure go!

“Hullo, Blag!” she exclaimed, as she removed her cigarette, “so here
you are! Have you seen this Handicap--why--who’s this?” surveying her
niece with an aggressive stare. Hugo occasionally introduced startling
acquaintances. “Who have we here?” throwing down the Pom, and rising
heavily to her feet.

The stranger was a tall, handsome girl with a vague resemblance to
someone--why, to Letty, to be sure! In an illuminating flash she saw
it all! Blag had sprung one of his jokes on her, and brought home the
daughter!

“It’s only my little girl,” he announced with indescribable pride;
“five-foot-six in her stockings. She has chucked Switzerland, and come
to live with me.”

“Ah, so this is Cara,” drawing her towards her as she spoke.

_Ciel!_ How her aunt smelt of whisky, and tobacco;--just like a man,
thought the girl as she passively submitted to her kisses.

“Why did you not prepare me? Why keep this pleasure to yourself?”
continued Lady Rashleigh with ostentatious composure.--In that brief
moment she had decided to be civil to the new-comer, and make no
_scene_. Hugo was undoubtedly struck, but his fancies never lasted; he
would tire of his novelty before the month was out, and she resolved to
sit tight in Hill Street--the flat was let. This well-grown interloper
knew nothing of English society, and she determined to keep her in the
background, and rule her, as she had done the pink-cheeked little fool,
her mother.

But it was not long--in fact, less than five minutes--before Connie
Rashleigh discovered her mistake. Cara was a true chip of the old
block, as hard and ruthless as herself, and with all the cocksureness
and cruelty of youth. The girl’s manner was self-possessed, she talked
glibly of Paris and their journey, and became surprisingly animated
as she volubly described her new gowns. Meanwhile, her father looked
on with swelling pride. His eyes seemed to ask, Was there ever such a
complexion? such hair? such teeth? Connie Rashleigh stared and listened
with a feeling of dismal apprehension--which apprehension proved to
be but too well founded, when at a hint from her father, Cara, in a
trailing tea-gown, sailed into the dining-room before her aunt, and
sank into a chair at the head of the table.

“Cara is beginning as she is to go on,” explained Hugo. “She is
installed as the mistress of the house--the robes, and the keys--eh,
Cara?”

His methods were ever blunt: his idea of diplomacy a bludgeon!

And Lady Rashleigh, choking with impotent fury, was compelled to
subside into a place at the side of the board, with what appetite and
grace she could assume.

“Champagne, Carter--the ’94,” commanded his master; “we will drink Miss
Blagdon’s health and welcome.”

From this hour war--internecine, secret, and deadly--was declared
between aunt and niece; but the victory was ever to the young. Cara
ruled her father, dominated the household, and openly despised her
predecessor.

Cara was a ‘female bounder,’ in the opinion of that lady, and
brutally selfish. She ‘grabbed’ everything: the best room, the use
of the motor, the carriage, the pick of Mudie’s books, and the most
comfortable chairs. She poured out tea, did the honours with amazing
self-possession, and left her aunt to enjoy the agreeable sensation of
being the odd one out,--and that, in the house in which she had been
born!

Hugo had a few words to say to his sister with respect to the new
mistress.

“Look here, old girl, you must make it all right for Cara. Take her
round the Scrope lot, and write to those in the country, and tell them
she is with me. I want her to get a flying start; and you know on
which side your bread is buttered,” he added with blunt significance
and doubtful taste. “After Christmas we are going to Monte Carlo, and
you must trot back to your own flat; the girl says this house wants
doing up, and that the curtains and paper in the drawing-room, make her
sea-sick.”

The curtains and paper, Lady Rashleigh’s joy and delight, had been her
own selection!

Mr. Blagdon did not (as his sister had hopefully anticipated) tire
of his new discovery; on the contrary, he was blatantly proud of his
daughter, of her youth, good looks, and animal spirits. She was not
a success among her grandmother’s set (and a little cowed by that
old lady), but for the sake of the family, they accepted this loud,
bouncing young person--they shrank from further scandal. The girl
carried herself well, knew how to dress, spoke French fluently, and
danced admirably. She might have been _worse_! Who could believe, that
she had been brought up on a Swiss farm? but then, these dear ladies
had no experience of the modern education which is afforded in Swiss
schools.

This quick-witted, adaptable damsel, soon picked up society and racing
jargon; she had the aplomb of a woman of thirty, ruled her adoring
father, banished her unruly aunt, patronised--yes, patronised, the
Slaters, and overawed Lord Robby--in short, a domestic Queen Elizabeth!

It was a cruel blow to poor Lady Rashleigh to be compelled to abandon
her luxurious home, the use of a motor, gifts of money, and the loan of
jewels, in order to make way for a bold, aggressive young woman, who
was said to bear a resemblance to herself! She retired in deplorably
low spirits to what she was pleased to call ‘her lair.’ A six-roomed
flat, with two good sitting-rooms, two small bedrooms, and the usual
black hole for the accommodation of servants. Cara paid her aunt a
prompt visit--inspired by curiosity, not affection. The suite, shabby
and dusty, commanded an extensive view of a garage; the drawing-room
was well furnished, but had the rakish air of a _passée_ beauty; and
sofas and cabinets, (evident spoil from Sharsley,) blocked up too much
space. The bedroom,--also encumbered by Sharsley furniture, seemed to
be half filled with piles of shabby cardboard boxes of all sizes; here
too were dozens of dusty medicine bottles, ragged novels, old shoes,
and on the dressing-table, a coil of false hair, cigarette ashes, a
syphon, and the latest edition of _Ruff_. Two little barking Poms ran
in and out; and a gloomy cook, with arms akimbo, stood in the kitchen
doorway staring with lowering eyes. Everything was untidy, neglected,
and squalid. No wonder Aunt Con preferred to hang on in Hill Street!

And so the months passed, and Cara tasted intoxicating delights of
which she had merely dreamt. Among her father’s associates, Miss
Blagdon enjoyed _un grand succès_. Here was no shrinking, awkward
hostess, but one whose dancing, skating, riding, and repartee found
many admirers,--whilst her influence over an adoring parent was paraded
with noisy ostentation. As for her mother--she stored her comfortably
away in the remotest garret of her mind. They had met once; it happened
in a block in Piccadilly. Cara, queening it in a huge open motor,
with furs and rug of sable; her mother and Mrs. Hesketh in a station
omnibus, with luggage on top. She had stared at her Mum, and the Mum
had bowed, but Cara was so taken aback by the unexpected encounter,
that she forgot to return the salute; then there was a violent jerk,
the policeman had given a signal, and the omnibus passed on.

What a thing to have happened--she had actually cut her own mother. How
funny!



CHAPTER XXXV


As for Letty Glyn, she returned to Thornby bearing her maiden name;
a disgraced wife, who eighteen years previously had left the village
in such a blaze of triumph, that its reflection had illuminated three
parishes. The knowledge of her altered circumstances had long been
public property, and mothers whispered to their daughters as she
passed, the story of pretty Miss Letty, sometimes adding: “Aye, she was
a rare beauty, and carries her looks still!”

A paragraph in a society paper which penetrated to the Indian frontier,
informed Colonel Lumley that ‘Hugo Blagdon and his daughter Miss
Blagdon had returned to Hill Street from the Riviera.’

So Cara, the blue-eyed, had deserted her mother, and gone over to the
enemy! And now Letty was free, since ‘the cause and impediment’ had
abandoned her. He determined to go home at once; but leave, what about
leave? Camps and manœuvres were on foot--he must bide his time until
the autumn. Meanwhile, he wrote and announced his plans and intentions
to Mrs. Glyn, Oldcourt, and she showed her friend part of a letter
which said:

“I shall take three months’ ‘privilege leave’ to England, and I do not
intend on this, the third, occasion, to return _alone_.”

It was early in September when Colonel Lumley landed at Dover. As
he glanced through the day’s papers in the London train, his eye
was arrested by this paragraph: “Sudden death of Hugo Blagdon, the
well-known sportsman.”

It appeared that Mr. Blagdon had had a seizure on a race-course, been
conveyed to his hotel in an unconscious condition, and there died.
Here, indeed, was news!

That same evening Colonel Lumley went down to Thornby, where he was
warmly welcomed by his relatives. He dined at Oldcourt, and as he and
Letty sat once more at the table of a hostess who had once rashly
attempted to lend a hand to Fate--they were a striking pair--though
eighteen years had elapsed since their last meeting in that very room.
In spite of the cruel shocks of fortune, Letty was still a beautiful
woman; the line of her features, the delicacy of her skin, the shine
on her glorious hair, had not been tarnished. She looked radiant in
mauve chiffon, and wearing her mother’s Indian pearls. Her fiancé,
bronzed and in a way storm-beaten, was handsome; the wearer of three
well-deserved medals, and a leader of men--but the simple girl of
seventeen, and young, eager, and impassioned Lancelot, were no more.

The following afternoon they walked together to the crooked bridge,
so well remembered by both; they recalled that winter sunset, the
spasmodic talk, the expressive silence of many years ago; between then
and now, what a stretch of wide experience!

“If I had only spoken out the last time I was here,” said Lumley, “what
a lot it would have saved us! I daresay we would have been married in
a couple of years, and when our hearts were younger--though for you,
Letty, mine has never changed!”

“Aunt Dorothy would never have allowed it,” replied Letty with
decision; “never. And you know how she persuaded your aunt to tell me,
that an engagement between us, would be your _ruin_.”

“Good Lord, what a woman!”

“I really married Hugo because I was terrified of her.”

“Yes, unfortunate child, and went straight out of the frying-pan, into
the fire.”

“But, Lancelot, I was the last sort of wife for Hugo. I always seemed
to do the wrong thing. I believe, he would have been quite happy with
a woman of his own world. I was an experiment; a mistake,” and her lip
quivered.

“A costly mistake for you! Poor Letty,” and he looked at her with
peculiar tenderness. Now at last she should have someone to protect
her; someone to stand between her, and the buffetings of Fate. “Where
is your aunt?” he enquired, “dead?” the tone was positively hopeful.

“No, indeed, she is married again to a man ten years younger than
herself. They live at Brighton on her money; and I’m told,--though this
is dreadful gossip,--that he gambles and flirts, and leads her rather a
life; but he is _very_ good-looking, and she adores him.”

“Impossible! She never adored anything in her life but a blue plate!
Letty, to turn to another much more interesting subject--you will marry
me soon, won’t you--in a week?”

“Oh, no, Lancelot--he was only buried at Sharsley on Friday. Let us
wait a month, since”--and she swallowed a lump in her throat--“we have
waited so long.”

“Well, all right, a month, so be it; a month from to-day.”

Later, as they strolled towards the village, Lumley said:

“When I passed through town yesterday, I lunched at the Rag, and heard
some fellows talking. They said Blagdon had been frightfully hard hit
over the Leger, and indeed lately all round. When the numbers went up
he dropped his glasses, turned purple, and collapsed. The doctors and
the girl got him home. I’m afraid it will be a tremendous change for
_her_.”

“Yes, poor child, it must have been a dreadful shock; but she will be
rich--Cara is well provided for.”

“I am not so sure; you know the property is entailed. Old Laban Blagdon
never dreamt that the place he was so proud of, would pass to a New
Zealand squatter.”

“He will sell it, of course.”

“Impossible; it’s strictly tied up; miserable man, it will be his
white elephant. Frances says the house is tumbling to pieces, and that
rabbits swarm in the grounds.”

Later that same afternoon, the Blagdon affairs were discussed in
the Rectory drawing-room by Mrs. Denton, her nephew, and Mrs.
Hesketh,--whilst the Rector took his friend Letty into the garden in
order to advise her respecting some important improvements.

“I had a long letter this morning from Doodie,” announced her cousin.
“You know she is always so _deeply_ interested in legacies, and wills.
She tells me that Hugo Blagdon’s debts to money-lenders are enormous;
and the Hill Street house is mortgaged to the roof, and must be sold as
it stands--and if there is three or four hundred a year for Cara, she
may think herself lucky. She and her aunt are to live together in the
flat.”

“I wonder how that arrangement will work out?” said Colonel Lumley,
“and how Cara and her aunt will agree?”

“They will fight like the Kilkenny cats,” rejoined Mrs. Hesketh with
prompt decision. “Let us hope they will come to the same historical
end.”

“My dear friend,” protested Mrs. Denton, “I know you don’t mean that!
As for Cara, of course she is headstrong, but she is young, and
perhaps----”

At this moment the door opened to admit a maid carrying the tea-tray.
As she was immediately followed by Cara’s mother, and the Rector, Mrs.
Denton’s sentence remained for ever incomplete.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a quiet wedding at Thornby when, for the second time,
‘Lettice Kathleen’ was married by Mr. Denton. On this occasion, it
was quite a humble affair; there were no arches, no rice-throwing,
no champing grey horses, or gaping crowds; the newly wedded couple,
motored away from the church, and spent the honeymoon in Devonshire.

Shortly before Colonel and Mrs. Lumley took their departure for
Lucknow, the latter received a long letter from her daughter. It
was urgent, incoherent, and self-excusing (the immediate result of
a terrific encounter with her companion in the lair). She implored
her own sweet darling Mum, to take her with her to India. Unlike the
application to her father, this effusion was not rewritten, altered,
and recast: but inscribed with many dashes, a flowing pen and assured
confidence. Cara told herself, that the Mum who had never said no to
her in all her life, or turned a deaf ear to her most daring petitions,
would be thankful to have her back; her mental eye already beheld
dazzling visions of triumphs at the viceregal Court, the flower of
the Indian Army at her feet, her mother once more her unselfish, and
devoted slave.

But to Cara’s surprise her gushing despatch was promptly answered by
her stepfather; who in a firm, clear hand, and a few terse sentences,
conveyed to her, her mother’s good wishes, forgiveness, and farewell.

A week later, Colonel and Mrs. Lumley sailed alone.


WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH



      *      *      *      *      *      *



Transcriber’s note:

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and
  is entered into the public domain.





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