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, Letty 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!