On arrival in London the newly married couple established themselves
at Claridge’s; Blagdon accompanied his wife to the Opera and to
Hurlingham, gave smart dinners, and introduced her to his friends; many
of his mother’s connections called upon her, and prepared to entertain
them; but the bride suddenly became indisposed, was confined to her
room, and totally unpresentable. The unfortunate victim had been seized
upon by that contemptible ailment known as the mumps.
At last Mr. and Mrs. Blagdon appeared at Sharsley, and met with a
flattering reception. There were speeches, a deputation, arches in
the village, and a troop of the local yeomanry escorted them from the
station. Sharsley Court, the ancestral home of the Scropes (who with
various family vicissitudes had lived there since the reign of Henry
VIII), was a noble Tudor mansion, wisely enlarged by various owners,
who were proud of its fame. Sharsley village lay just outside its
beautiful old iron gates; the ancient, irregular houses collected at
either side of a wide street, or square, were of rusty red brick, or
black and white. A venerable inn, furnished with wonderful treasures,
attracted no attention,--as the curio-collecting age had not yet
dawned, and many valuable bits to be found in the village and
neighbourhood were not merely neglected, but actually despised. At
the opposite end, facing the gates of the Court, stood the church, a
late Norman, and near it, sheltered by giant elm trees, was a fine old
Jacobean Rectory.
Sharsley was four miles from a market town, seven from a railway, and
in those pre-motor days, a good deal isolated and out of touch with the
busy roaring world. The Court itself had been built, as was the fashion
in old times, within a few hundred yards from the entrance,--similar
to Hatfield and Harwicke,--instead of being situated in the midst of a
vast park; but the park existed, stretching far away on three sides,
and surrounded by a high wall.
Here and there this wall was broken by a space filled in with iron
railings, in order to give the residents a more extended prospect,
and envious passers-by could, if they so pleased, from some of these
openings, enjoy an uninterrupted view of the mansion, with its great
terraced front. Later on, many wayfarers would pause to stare at a
small, solitary figure slowly pacing to and fro, to and fro, to and
fro, for all the world like a wild thing in a cage. It was the young
wife.
* * * * *
But we are travelling too fast; the young wife has barely crossed the
threshold of her new home. To her, it looked almost formidable, so
cold and forbidding, the great suite of reception rooms, the palatial
staircase, the circle of silent, impassive servants, all struck terror
into her youthful heart.
However it was midsummer, and the gardens and grounds--recently put
in order--were at their best, the sun was shining, and she was not
yet eighteen. By degrees, the new mistress found her way through her
dominions. She had an interview with Mrs. Bates, the housekeeper, gave
a few orders respecting the arrangement of her own boudoir, unpacked
the wedding presents, the little odds and ends they had collected
abroad, and arranged flowers and plants with such notable success, that
her lord and master grudgingly exclaimed:
“Well, anyway, there is _one_ thing you can do, Letty--you can make a
room look all right. I wish you could do the same for yourself. Can’t
you get that woman to fix you up like other people? And for God’s sake
don’t let me ever see that blue garment again!”
The blue dress was one of the trousseau selected by Mrs.
Fenchurch,--who liked bright colours, heavy materials, and lots of
trimming.
“Would you rather that I wore white, Hugo?” she asked with a pale
propitiatory smile.
“Oh, well--wear what you like,” he rejoined impatiently, “only don’t
look a hideous dowdy--and don’t bother _me_.”
And they had only been married six weeks.
“My mother is coming down, and she,” producing a letter, “suggests
a family house-party. These Scropes are all for family and
connections--such rot! Here’s what she says--um--um--um: ‘Give Letty a
good start.’ Ha! ha! ‘My cousin Louisa Calthorpe and Calthorpe’--he’s
an old stick-in-the-mud, and lives the other end of the County--‘Lord
and Lady Belford if at home; I’m sure they’d go for a couple of nights;
the Bishop, and your cousin Agatha Mostyn.’ The Bishop is as starched
as they make ’em, and rampant on divorce and gambling, for all his
cordial manner. ‘Cyril Vernon and Lady Hilda.’ He’s our M.F.H.--not a
bad sort--but the hunt horses are a scandal; he buys all sorts of old
crocks only fit for the kennel. ‘Harding Grant, the County Member, and
his wife.’ He’s a dull dog, always talking of the ‘House.’ That’s the
lot--they are mostly connections. How many--ten, eh? My mother and her
companion, Miss Hope, twelve. The house has forty-five bedrooms, and
we may as well fill some more. I suppose I must ask the Fenchurchs,
eh? From Friday till Monday, so that they can’t stay on. By George, I
bar your aunt! I’ll never forget her on the wedding day. You’d think
she was going to be married herself. The Calthorpe’s son, a naval man,
is at home, and I believe the Bishop has a daughter. We’d better stick
them in, and as for neighbours, the Rectory can come.”
“And your sister?” suggested Letty.
“Oh Lord, no! This sort of party would not be her form. Con would give
them fits, and they would bore her stiff! This is the duty lot, that’s
to give you a start, eh! Most of them have family prayers, and go to
bed at ten o’clock. Later, I’ll have my own pals down, and they will
keep the place lively. My mother’s set are infernally dull.”
This was not an auspicious preparation, for a nervous bride, and her
first house-party.
“Now look here, don’t _you_ attempt to do anything,” he continued
authoritatively; “leave all to Bates, the housekeeper. She’s got to
run the establishment, that’s her job and what she’s paid for--she
manages the servants, and engages and dismisses them, orders the meals,
pays the tradespeople--so you have absolutely nothing to do but to sit
tight, and make yourself agreeable.”
The guests duly arrived; arrangements for their reception were
complete, the best state bedrooms were open, the choicest greenhouse
flowers were brought into the house, the silver service was displayed,
everything was perfectly done, there was no hitch.
Mrs. Fenchurch, brimming over with importance and curiosity, embraced
her dearest Letty with well-assumed effusion. The Dowager Mrs. Blagdon
merely gave her daughter-in-law a frozen kiss, and requested to be
conducted to her room.
The company assembled that night in the white drawing-room, was
composed of the ‘dull’ people, with reposeful manners, who knew one
another more or less intimately; several were closely related, and the
women called one another by their Christian names. There was no loud,
hilarious laughing, no rouge, no cigarette cases; the Dowager Mrs.
Blagdon was majestic in velvet and old lace, Mrs. Fenchurch wore a
hideous green costume, Lady Gaythorne, a too well-known black brocade.
The most conspicuous figure on the occasion was the hostess; by her
husband’s commands she was magnificent, amazing, in one of Tartare’s
most startling gowns; a vivid sulphur, shaded to orange, half veiled
in silver gauze, and here and there deepened with black. It had the
effect that Blagdon desired and made everyone in the room open their
eyes. There was no question of its expense and execution--but it was
theatrical. Yes, that was how the guests spoke of it, ‘theatrical!’--a
robe more suitable to the emancipated wife in a big society play, a
_divorcée’s_ robe, in which to trail the stage, and storm and scoff,
and vow and weep, than to a young girl-bride in her own drawing-room.
Letty wore, also, the splendid Blagdon diamonds, and these, that would
have been proper enough with her wedding gown, added just the required
touch of lawless extravagance to her appearance.
Beside the house-party, and a smart young Guardsman, there were three
guests from the village: the Reverend Adrian Lumley, Frances his
daughter and Lancelot his son. The Rector was a white-haired man of
sixty, handsome, erect, and dignified. For years he had been an army
chaplain in India, now he shepherded a country flock. He and Lord
Gaythorne were old Harrovians, and had a good deal to say to one
another; the Bishop and the Dowager Mrs. Blagdon, discussed a London
Mission, and the M.F.H. a May fox.
The dinner was excellent, and went off with great decorum, but it
was prodigiously dull. There was a little talk of golf, of a local
engagement, the prospects of grouse, a recent by-election, and a
threatened bazaar.
Mrs. Fenchurch glanced up and down the table with unconcealed pride.
The guests were all the ‘best people,’ no small fry; the silver
candelabra and cups were superb, the flowers exquisite, the ménu
everything a ménu should be. Round about her, waited many silent and
efficient servants, and there at the head of the table in gorgeous
apparel, and blazing jewels, sat little Letty, her niece by marriage.
This dazzling vision established the lady more firmly than ever in
the belief in her own infallibility; for this position, and all her
other mercies, Letty had to thank _her_; and she drank off a glass of
champagne to her own good health.
It struck young Lumley that the bride, for all her magnificence, did
not appear to be in particularly radiant spirits--that from time to
time she cast timid and deprecating glances towards the master of the
house; her smiles were rare, and her face wore a curious blighted look,
and had lost something of the round, fresh touch of happy youth.
She talked, yet appeared afraid to utter a word; once he had
intercepted a scowl that Mr. Blagdon had cast at the lower end of the
table, and during a pause he had called out in a harsh, dominating
voice:
“I say, what a noise you are all making down there. What a jovial,
merry party! I’m glad my wife is so amusin’.”
His wife became pink, and then in halting sentences, began to tell Lord
Gaythorne and the Bishop, her immediate neighbours, some little tales
respecting their recent excursions and experiences. Having secured the
attention of the company, and during a dead silence, in her clear,
girlish voice, she proceeded to relate how they had made a delightful
trip with Sir Algy and Lady Vickery, and had all dined together at an
old inn in the mountains and driven back by moonlight. This story was
listened to in horrified amazement, as it was a well-known fact that
Sir Algy Vickery was _not_ a married man. Kind Lady Gaythorne burst in
upon the pause, with jerky recollections of her own honeymoon,--now a
matter of somewhat ancient history,--but once again the little bride,
anxiously striving to entertain, brought forward in all innocence, one
of the stories which she had heard in Paris. The unhappy girl had not
the remotest idea that she was retailing a hideously improper _double
entendre_ (a recent _succès_ of the Boulevards). She only remembered
that when told by Lady Slater it had been received--why she could
not say--with yells of laughter and applause. When she concluded,
there ensued a grim and petrifying silence. To the ladies, the tale
was cryptic; to most of the men it was as if a bomb had exploded on
the mahogany! Lord Gaythorne gasped, the Master of Hounds choked
convulsively in his serviette. As for the Bishop, he had been changed
into an image of stone. The guests stared blankly at their girlish
hostess, dressed in the most _outré_ French style, and calmly relating
the Frenchiest of stories! But she turned on them a face of beautiful,
child-like innocence, and actually seemed to appeal for their approval,
and applause.
This pitiful incident had far-reaching results. By gradual degrees, the
intelligence filtered through the County, that Blagdon’s pretty young
wife was a simpleton--just one degree removed from a mere imbecile.
What a pity! Unconscious of her enormity, the bride made a timid sign
to Lady Gaythorne, and rose from her place. She was presently made
aware that her first dinner-party had been a failure, for as her
husband held the door open for the ladies to pass forth, the glance he
threw at her, was charged with fury.