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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!”