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.