The honeymoon--a not uncommon experience--proved more or less of a
disappointment to the wedded pair. The bride, dazed and confounded by
her new status, and the change from a nobody to a personage, was shy
and silent, and felt herself to be a mere lay figure in the hands of
her maid--a sour-faced, phlegmatic person with an inflated idea of her
own importance, and more or less incompetent.
Tucker had been engaged by Mrs. Fenchurch, to whom she was warmly
recommended by an acquaintance; a deceitful lady who was only too
delighted to be rid of her encumbrance.
The trousseau--also selected by Mrs. Fenchurch--was even less
satisfactory than the maid; it was old-fashioned and dowdy; more
suitable to a matron of fifty, than a girl of seventeen.
Unfortunately the weather on the Blue Lakes was wet, and it is pitiful
to relate that after a fortnight his bride had begun to bore Blagdon;
already he was tired of his experiment, Letty was so hopelessly young,
timid, and ignorant; they had hardly any interests in common, and there
was a difference of twenty long years yawning between their ages.
Blagdon’s experience of life being wide and highly illustrated, whilst
the girl had seen nothing of the world, beyond a school-room, and The
Holt.
As for her beauty, here again was a grievance! The bride could not
endure the admiration of her fellow guests; but shrank into corners,
disappeared into lobbies, or slinked away to the seclusion of her
private sitting-room. Her husband’s vast fortune made no appeal to
Letty; lavish outlay of money, gorgeous suites of apartments, reserved
railway carriages, and a retinue of servants, merely filled her with
embarrassment and alarm, and she went in abject terror of her maid;
Mrs. Blagdon was a tame, shrinking, remote sort of creature, who
took nothing on herself, and yielded her husband a sort of childish
and pathetic obedience. Hugo was naturally something of a bully, and
the more the girl submitted to his orders and caprices, the more he
encroached.
The happy pair stayed at Caddenabia on Como, and then moved on to
Baveno on Maggiore; here they boated, went for drives, and enjoyed
their _tête-à-tête_ meals in solitary dignity, and here, alas! the
sole company of his wife palled upon Blagdon. What topics had they
in common? How could he talk to a girl who had never been to a play,
or to a race meeting, had never read a naughty book, or heard even a
whisper of notorious scandals? He soon found his way to the billiard
and smoking-rooms, and during two hopelessly wet days, when there was
a lack of English papers and appreciative society, his bad humour,
undisguised and unashamed, was vented on his valet and Letty. To the
hardened servant, a rating was as the proverbial water running off a
duck’s back! but to the unaccustomed and trembling girl, it proved a
terrible awakening. One evening, the condescending Miss Tucker was
surprised to find her mistress crouched at her bedroom window the
impersonation of misery and despair. “So they had had a falling out
already! Well, it _was_ early days.”
In spite of prolonged bathing of her eyes, and a justifiable amount
of powder, there were still traces of recent trouble when the bride
appeared at dinner. Fortunately the newspapers had arrived, and
during the meal her husband--to the astonishment of polite Italian
waiters--read them at intervals between the courses; whilst his
companion sat opposite, with dry lips, and a deadly sickness at her
heart.
The following morning Blagdon abruptly announced that “he had had
enough of loafing, and it was time to set their faces towards home.”
On their way thither, they stopped in Paris, and put up at the Hôtel
Riche, and here, to Hugo’s joy, he encountered Sir Billy and Lady
Slater, Mrs. Freddy Corbett, and Lord Robbie; a loud-voiced, cheery
quartette, who were returning tardily from Monte Carlo. He presented
them to his wife, and subsequently entertained them at a magnificent
dinner, at which the bride presided.
Poor girl! she was hopelessly out of her element; although she did her
utmost to conceal her embarrassment, and talk and identify herself with
these, her first guests. For their part, the company were dumbfounded
by her youth and simplicity, her shyness, and pathetic ignorance of
Life.
Oh, she was pretty enough, they agreed; there was no mistake about her
looks and air of breeding; but she was not the ‘right sort of wife for
Blag!’ No, he had backed the wrong one this time, “made a bad cast,”
said Lord Robbie to himself, and as he glanced from the host to the
hostess, he seemed already to catch sight of an impending disaster.
Somehow the girl’s clothes were not right, her hair was badly dressed;
what a contrast to Lola Corbett, in her marvellous French frock, with
her glittering ornaments, and shameless shoulders. Lola was in great
form: talking incessantly, gay, provoking, challenging. Of course,
_she_ was made up: but she took the centre of the stage, and beside her
brilliance and vivacity the timid bride looked positively washed out,
and dowdy.
The hostess failed to understand most of the good stories, chaff, and
repartee that circulated with the ’84 champagne. She felt hopelessly
stupid and bewildered, when the company roared with laughter, and
hammered and thumped on the table--for the point of the anecdote, or
saying, had generally eluded her altogether. Once, an unmistakably
plain tale brought a flood of scarlet into her face, and she looked
so startled and so shocked, that a not easily embarrassed party felt
momentarily abashed.
Mrs. Blagdon did not care for champagne, she preferred lemonade! had
never been to a music-hall, or smoked in her life. This much Lord
Robbie gathered, as they rose and led the way into the grand lounge,
with its dazzling illuminations, mighty palms, and seductive seats; its
admirable orchestra and festive company.
Here, the party soon discovered a comfortable corner, and whilst the
men selected cigars and liqueurs and discussed an important handicap,
the two lady guests sank into deep fauteuils--one on either side of
their hostess, and began, with clever probing questions, to examine
her respecting her tour, her plans, her tastes, whilst all the time
they surveyed her with hard and critical eyes. Nothing escaped their
inspection, from the little mean aigrette in her ill-dressed hair, to
the tip of her satin shoe.
Round her slender throat was a diamond collet, its emerald pendants
presenting a charming contrast with a snow-white neck. Mrs. Corbett
instantly recognised her long and vainly coveted ornament, and her
glance gleamed. So here, was the Monte Carlo necklace, by rights her
possession, bestowed on this little milk-and-water school miss! and she
instantly made up her mind to retrieve the treasure, on an appropriate
opportunity.
And if her husband’s friends were disappointed in his bride, it was
no less true, that they had made an unpleasant impression on her. She
shrank in secret consternation from the men’s bold glances, questioning
eyes, and reckless talk; and from these two painted women--with their
insufferable patronage, and familiarity.
“Of course, we must call you Letty,” had been one of Lady Slater’s
first announcements. “I am Tatty, Mrs. Corbett is Lola. You see we are
such _very_ old pals of your husband’s, we couldn’t call him Hugo, and
you Mrs. Blagdon, could we?”
What strange eyes they had! blacked all round, and so piercing and
defiant; and how they reeked of some heavy Oriental perfume. As for
their splendid gowns, it made Letty nervous to contemplate the fragile
shoulder straps, that held the corsage from slipping into space.
Mrs. Corbett wore a wonderful flame-coloured garment, touched with
glimpses of gold tissue, and pale blue chiffon; a diamond bow sparkled
in her dark hair, and a long chain of pearls dangled to her waist. Lady
Slater affected a more massive style; lounging in a Bergére, with a
cigarette between her lips and her knees crossed, she gave a generous
exhibition of pink silk stocking, with black ‘clocks’ and a pair of
fairly large gold shoes. There had been a good deal of chaff about Lady
Slater’s stockings; it appeared that she had recently won a dozen pair,
in a bet with Lord Robbie.
Turning to Letty she explained:
“The bet was about you, my dear! though I’m not going to tell you what
it _was_,” and she gave a loud and disconcerting ‘Ha! ha! ha!’
“But of course you’ll tell _me_, Tatty,” began Mrs. Corbett. “Good
Lord! what’s this?” and she sat erect. “Upon my word! Do you see?”
They looked; a tall, bold, amazingly handsome woman had entered,
accompanied by two men; and paused in dramatic prominence as if to
challenge attention. The effect was arresting. This new arrival was
ablaze with diamonds--an audacious nudity but partly concealed by
ropes of pearls. Her dress was exactly similar to the one worn by Mrs.
Corbett.
“My hat!” exclaimed Lord Robbie.
“Who is she?” whispered Letty.
“Amora, the actress, the most notorious woman in Paris. I say, Lola,”
turning to her with a grin, “here’s your _twin_!”
At this moment, Amora, impersonation of wealth and wickedness, swept
by, casting as she passed, a glance of withering scorn upon her
duplicate; their eyes met with a shock, and blazed as two flames.
“Tartare told me on her oath that mine was the exclusive model,” began
Mrs. Corbett, a little breathlessly, as soon as she had recovered
her composure. She still looked alarmingly furious as she added, “I
paid her three thousand francs for this rag, and she has gone and
made a copy for that devil!” In her excitement she had raised her
voice--people were staring; as Blagdon and Sir Billy turned about, she
paused, and muttered to herself in a manner that boded ill for Madame
Tartare!
Lady Slater now rose and beckoned to Hugo.
“Come over to this settee,” she said; “there is just room for two
little people--and have a flirtation with _me_.”
Blagdon assented obediently, and as she seated herself she continued:
“It was only an excuse to tell you that I think your little girl is
just too sweet for anything!”
He nodded with stolid complacency.
“But she wants a lot of what we sporting folk call ‘handling.’ She’s a
bit nervous at the post--and a shocking bad starter.”
Again Blagdon nodded, but on this occasion without complacence.
“The child has lovely eyes--eyes like some beautiful wild filly, that
is ready to bolt. She is as pretty as a picture, but she is too young!
My dear man, why doesn’t she get a woman who can do her hair? And where
_did_ she pick up those early Victorian garments? She doesn’t give
herself half a chance!”
Blagdon glared into the artistically painted face of his companion.
“As you say, she is too young,” he growled savagely; “give her time--in
twenty years she’ll be up to all the tricks of the trade!”
Hugo was secretly furious with his old associates; they had not shown
half enough enthusiasm; with regard to his bride, their congratulations
had been tepid. He had expected them to figuratively prostrate
themselves, and worship the girl he had delighted to honour; and as for
the outer world, he anticipated that they would crane their necks, or
even mount on chairs (as in the case of a renowned beauty) in order to
catch sight of the famous Mrs. Blagdon!
He stared over at Letty, seated a little aloof from Lola and Lord
Robbie,--who had now been joined by two vivacious ladies, and a man
resembling a brigand chief. Yes, she certainly _was_ a bit out of the
picture, among these well-dressed, well-corseted, animated women;
there was no liqueur glass by her, no cigarette between her lips, her
hands were tightly clasped in her lap, and she looked for all her
lovely face, forlorn and badly dressed,--the picture of conscious
insignificance. Her attitude, too, not lounging in careless ease, but
cramped up, with her feet tucked under her chair, suggested a fear
of mice. There were no mice in this magnificent lounge. The truth he
could divine. Letty was afraid of her guests--a pretty condition for a
hostess!
Lady Slater’s criticisms were not thrown away; for the following day,
the amazed and indignant Tucker received her wages and her _congé_.
Mrs. Corbett had, for her part, kindly undertaken to find a good French
maid, also to help Letty to select several really fashionable hats and
gowns.
“For goodness’ sake get her something she can be seen in,” urged
Blagdon; “frocks that will make all the neighbours open their eyes--_le
dernier cri_--and that sort of thing, real smart. Money no object!”
As the atelier of Madame Tartare was close to their hotel, the two
ladies proceeded thither on foot. They were received by a dignified
man-servant, and conducted up a great staircase into a lofty suite of
rooms, carpeted with moss-green Axminster, and lined with long mirrors
and presses. After a moment’s delay, Madame appeared, a middle-aged
woman with a clever face and a marvellously fitting gown: all gracious
exclamations and gestures of welcome, until she realised that her chère
Madame Corbett had come not in peace, but in war!
As Letty listened to her companion’s denunciations, she felt terrified;
never had she assisted at such a scene, or beheld anyone make such an
absolute surrender to fury. What a frantic temper, who could withstand
it? How could anyone cope with such violent vituperation, such frenzied
threats? She felt half inclined to creep out of sight, and hide herself
in one of the great wardrobes.
Meanwhile Mrs. Corbett figuratively brandishing the copied gown, raged
and stormed: in voluble French she rent the discomfited dressmaker, who
presently finding spirit and speech, in ten times more fluent language,
poured forth her plausible apologies. The uproar was such, that
milliners and _mannequins_ assembled at a discreet distance, in order
to hear and to see.
“_Tiens! c’était Madame Cor--bett--quelle femme!_”
After a time the battle waned, the fury of the customer abated. She had
gained her point, the _gown was to be taken back_!
Deceitful Tartare, believing Madame had departed for England, had
ventured to make several copies of what was termed “La Robe Odalisque.”
When peace was proclaimed, having recovered breath and composure,
the victor commanded a display of hats and gowns; these were promptly
and politely exhibited, and three costumes were selected by Mrs.
Corbett--whose taste was for the flamboyant and bizarre. She also set
aside several hats and a tea-gown; and before Letty could protest,
or interfere, she found herself fitted out in what ecstatic Madame
declared to be ‘_tous ce qu’il y a de plus ravissante et plus chic!_’
and added that as the young lady had ‘a stock figure,’ all the robes
would be ready in a few hours.
Now that his wife was provided with a suitable maid, and smart outfit,
Blagdon saw no reason to postpone his journey, and he and Letty
(wearing a most amazing toque) took their departure for London.
As the train moved away from the platform of ‘Le Nord,’ Lady Slater
turned to her companion, and repeated:
“See us at Sharsley for the hunting--you _bet_ he will! My dear Lola,
you have made the poor child a figure of fun--that toque is the sort of
thing a lunatic would make--and wear!”
“Well, yes, it’s a little _outré_--one of Tartare’s latest,” and she
laughed maliciously.
“I wonder Letty did not kick!”
“Oh, she’s only a child--a simpleton!”
“And looks pretty in anything--that’s the _worst_ of her, eh?”
“Her looks are a matter of opinion,” declared Mrs. Corbett stiffly.
“I can’t say that _I_ admire chocolate-box profiles; and I can tell
you one thing--though you may have seen it for yourself, my clever
Tatty--our beloved Blag is _deadly_ sick of the girl already.”
“Ah, well, poor thing, I can’t help feeling sorry for her; she’s too
heavily handicapped.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Mrs. Corbett, “she’s out of her place altogether. She
ought to have married an evangelical curate.”
“Not up to form, eh?” suggested her ladyship, then muttered, “and
anyway, _you_ intend to ride her off the course,” and with this
prudently suppressed opinion, she led the way out of the station.