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.