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!