Once in the vast drawing-room, most of the ladies scattered about or
assembled in congenial groups. Mrs. Fenchurch wandered round, eyeglass
in hand, examining the miniatures and old china, with the air of a
connoisseur, and possible purchaser! Lady Gaythorne and Lady Belford
conferred together over the character of a housekeeper, the Bishop’s
helpmate whispered of family troubles to her cousin, the wife of the
County Member, and Frances Lumley and the girl hostess made advances to
one another; they were likely to be friends as well as neighbours, and
Letty felt drawn to this charming, light-hearted girl, who, although
unmarried at the great age of twenty-six, had evidently far more
experience and decision than herself.
Meanwhile the rheumatic dowager, enthroned on a sofa, presented a
picture of frozen dignity; to her the coffee had tasted as gall and
wormwood, her mind being embittered by the outrageous behaviour of
Mrs. Fenchurch, who was playing the part of hostess with considerable
effect. Positively her attitude was that of triumphant hospitality!
Numerous good works, and far-reaching activities, had brought Mrs.
Fen into contact with many of the ‘best people.’ An alert woman
of the world, she had interests in common with most of the matrons
present; she exchanged a word or two with Mrs. Mostyn, the Bishop’s
wife, respecting a certain charity; then she flitted over to the
Master’s lady to enquire about the new Kennels, told Lady Belford of
a marvellous cure for Flue, and assured Lady Gaythorne that she could
give her two tickets for the Idiots’ Home.
“She had much better keep one for her niece!” muttered Lady Belford,
who had three unmarried daughters, and a sharp tongue.
In short, Mrs. Fenchurch was, so to speak, the presiding personality,
the chairwoman of this drawing-room meeting; whilst the mistress of the
house sat in a corner talking eagerly to the girl from the Rectory.
From the sofa, the Dowager’s soul went forth in arms. How dared this
pushing, notoriously managing woman, ignore and eclipse two Mrs.
Blagdons under their own roof--the home of _her_ ancestors? There she
was, actually exhibiting, and with pride, the Scrope Nankin Vases, that
had been in the family for centuries, and drawing Lady Calthorpe’s
special attention to a Cosway miniature of Angelina Scrope, her _own_
grandmother. Oh, it was insufferable! Such manners should be dealt with
by the penal laws.
Presently Mrs. Fen, in blissful ignorance of these smouldering fires,
sailed across the room and sat down on the sofa in order to pay a
little attention to old Mrs. Blagdon, “who seemed rather out of it”;
but her polite advances were not welcomed. The Dowager declined to go
into raptures over Jade, and pictures, to enlarge on objects familiar
to Caroline Scrope since she could toddle; treasures which had been her
own exclusive possessions for many years.
“Oh yes,” she assented icily, “no doubt these things in our collection
impress an outsider. I was amused in watching you, as you went round
exhibiting her relatives to Lady Calthorpe, who, however, has been here
hundreds of times--and I could not help thinking what a capital person
you would be as show-woman, in some historical house, such as Knole or
Penshurst!”
This was a nasty speech, and entirely beneath the dignity of a Scrope;
but the old lady was on fire; she was particularly sensitive with
respect to Sharsley,--every bush and tree, every old book, and chair
of which, were sacred to her; and to behold an absolute stranger,
vaunting its treasures and doing the honours, was an exasperating and
distracting experience.
Presently, she and her companion were engaged in a lady-like sparring
match; and (the shameful confession must be made) occasionally dealt
one another what is known as ‘blows below the belt.’ The Dowager,
conveyed by looks and implication, more than actual speech, that her
opponent had been undeservedly fortunate in placing her penniless niece
in what had once been her own shoes! Mrs. Fenchurch, her blue blood
boiling in her veins, had no hesitation in conveying to the Dowager,
that she considered that her son was exceptionally favoured in marrying
a girl who had well-born relations on _both_ sides--and here she
distinctly scored.
The attitude of these two matrons did not tend to promote conviviality;
there was a vague impression of outstretched claws and flying fur, and
the long-looked-for entrance of the men effected a happy diversion.
The grand piano stood open, and the word ‘music’ was breathed by
someone--possibly Mrs. Fenchurch.
“Come along, Letty, and let us have some of your parlour tricks,” said
her husband, to whom a generous quantity of generous wine, had brought
a certain amount of suavity.
The bride, silent and pale, rose immediately and went to the
instrument, and although her voice and fingers seemed a little
tremulous, gained confidence as soon as her uncle came and stood
beside her. Her singing was voted delightful, and made a remarkable
impression; the Rector’s thoughts flew to his choir; Lady Calthorpe’s
to a charity concert. The voice was so fresh, so sweet, so flexible,
and well trained; but to Lumley, mechanically turning over the leaves
of an album, it was something more--to him it seemed to carry a note of
hopelessness and despair.
Meanwhile Blagdon lay back in an arm-chair with one solid leg crossed
over the other, and an expression on his flushed face which seemed to
say:
“That’s _my_ property--my musical-box!”
Young Lumley could hardly restrain his fury; he felt a savage
inclination, to rise and kick the complacent host, round his own
drawing-room. Several ladies succeeded one another at the piano, and
Miss Lumley gave a notable performance of Grieg and Chopin, during
which, general conversation waxed both loud and animated.
By and by card-tables were produced, and people sat down to the good
old game of whist. Mrs. Fenchurch, who was not a card-player, came over
and seated herself beside her niece, armed with many sharp questions.
“Now tell me, dear,” she began, “how do you like your housekeeper? I
suppose she has been here for years?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“And manages everything?” she demanded.
“Yes, Aunt Dorothy.”
“Well, mind you don’t let her manage _you_,” she urged with dictatorial
emphasis. “Take everything into your own hands. Of course, you have
gone over the silver?”
“No, not yet.”
“Oh, my dear! Nor the house-linen?”
“No.”
“But, dearest child, you mustn’t get into slack ways, but begin as you
intend to go on. Oh, by the way, Tucker came to me _so_ injured, and
affronted. Why did you dismiss her?”
“Because Hugo didn’t think she was a good maid.”
“Good gracious--what can _he_ know about it?”
“He knows a good deal, and is very particular. He can’t bear some of my
trousseau dresses.”
(She might have added, that he had told her to burn them!)
“Oh, my dear, what rubbish! You know, I got them at Stile’s, where my
mother bought mine--everything _they_ have is always of the very best.
Look at this,” indicating her own hideous garment. “If you begin by
allowing Hugo to dismiss your maid, and worry about your dresses, I’m
sure I don’t know where you will end! You really _must_ learn to assert
yourself.” Then she went on to enquire about the neighbours, and who
Letty had seen in London? and who had called? and who hadn’t called?
and many other tiresome questions.
Letty’s pleasantest moments were snatched with her uncle. In his
company, her depressed spirits seemed to bubble up to the surface, and
she actually laughed. Her husband, who was playing whist, paused to
stare at her; it was such an unusual occurrence, and her laugh sounded
so merry and girlish. She never laughed like that when she was with
_him_!
Before Mrs. Fenchurch concluded her visit, she had taken certain
observations; perhaps, after all, like the princess with a pea in the
feather bed, little Letty had some drawbacks in her fine home--an
odious, arrogant, formidable mother-in-law, cold as ice; and a selfish,
egotistical, self-indulgent husband, who snubbed her already--yes, and
openly!
“I must give you just one little word, dearest Letty,” she whispered to
her, before they separated. “I want you to assert yourself, and talk,
and offer your opinion, and take your proper place as the mistress of
this splendid establishment. Why, my dear child, you look every moment
as if you were a naughty little girl who expected to be put in the
corner.”
“I have only been here two weeks,” stammered the poor bride; “and of
course I am not accustomed to all this grandeur _yet_. I shall get on
all right by and by.”
But Mrs. Fenchurch had her doubts. How the agreeable, genial Blagdon
seemed to have altered! He now treated her with marked coolness, rarely
addressed her, and when she praised Letty, received her encomiums
in gloomy silence. After all, he might prove a most unsatisfactory
husband--he looked ill-tempered.
Mrs. Blagdon, for her part, had a few words to say to her son before
she flitted south.
“Hugo, I hope you and Letty will pull well together,” to which he
merely grunted a reply. “You must make allowances for her. I think she
is trying hard to please you. She is a simple little thing--and so
young--not yet full grown--and her mind only half developed.”
“Half baked, you mean!” he corrected angrily.
“No, no; she has plenty of brains. What she wants, is worldly wisdom;
her French is perfect, and her singing and playing astonishing for her
age.”
“Just school accomplishments!”
“The others will come; but Letty really won’t be fit to be mistress of
this great place, to look the part, and to hold her own, for a couple
of years.”
“If ever!”
“Now, suppose you were to close Sharsley for a little, and travel, and
let her see the world, and mix in society?”
“No, thank you,” he rejoined with laboured emphasis. “I’ve had enough
of travel with _Letty_. She is all for sights and sunsets, and hideous
old pictures and damp churches. She has no fun or go, no what you call
_joie de vivre_. As for mixing in society, she is a fish out of water,
and without tact or sense. Why you yourself heard the story she related
at dinner,--one of Lady Slater’s _worst_--and that without turning a
hair!”
“It showed the poor child’s innocence,” rejoined his mother, “and the
sort of people with whom you allowed her to associate.”
“Any way--it will be talked of for the next ten years! and I’ll tell
you what, mum,” he added, nodding his head and looking down at her with
his hard, sullen eyes. “I find I’ve made a most infernal mistake!”
“Well, Hugo, remember that I warned you; the wife to have suited you,
would have been a smart young widow, who knew her way about, who was
clever and ambitious, and could hold her own. I must confess I am sorry
for Letty!”
“Bah! she’s just a little shivering idiot.”
“I expect her aunt drove her into the marriage. Oh, Hugo, what an awful
woman; so thrusting, managing, and overbearing. For all her good
birth, and being first cousin to the Marquis of Camberwell, she is not
a lady.” She had not forgotten their passage-at-arms, and repeated with
conviction, “No, she is _not_!”
“But a regular old campaigner! I believe poor Fenchurch can’t call his
soul his own. She’d sell the hunters under him without winking, and
allows him a shilling a week for baccy. I won’t have her over here
prying and picking. I’m not a mean chap, nor stingy, but when I put
her in the brougham, I saw that she had a hamper of plants from the
hothouse, the best of the spaniel pups, and a china jar. She told me,
with a grin, she begged it of dearest Letty, who had two. She won’t
come here again, I bet a thousand pounds!”
But an experienced acquaintance would have backed Mrs. Fenchurch,--and
won!