The Rev. Adrian Lumley had been ailing for a considerable time; he
was no longer able to undertake his parish duties, and compelled to
employ a curate. Lately his health had suddenly become so uncertain
that his son took three months’ leave, and returned from Egypt. Captain
Lumley arrived looking handsome, sunburnt, and cheery, and his sister
Frances realised that he was no longer the boy that, as her younger
brother, she had always managed, patronised, and coerced. Lancelot
had been adjutant of his regiment, and acquired a manner of decision
and brevity that was new. He found his father frail, broken-down, and
evidently failing fast. For months, the Rector had confined himself
to his books and his garden, and now he was a prisoner in his room.
Perhaps if the reverend gentleman had not been so completely laid
upon the shelf, matters at Sharsley might have been smoothed over,
and improved; but, as it was, Blagdon had no one to withstand him; he
had parted with any scruples he might possess, and affairs had gone
from bad to worse. Except for a few days in the shooting season, he
had ceased to live at home. Most of the rooms were closed, servants
dismissed, the gardens let, the horses sold. He had heavy expenses
elsewhere, and was not disposed to burn the candle at both ends. He had
allowed it to be whispered into the ear of society, that his wife was
‘not quite all there.’ Magnified descriptions of her first disastrous
dinner-party, her bizarre gowns, her silence and shyness, gave colour
to this suggestion,--so said his interested friends; and other people
declared that Blagdon was bad,--some even added, mad! Altogether
Sharsley was given a wide berth; it was out of the way, more recent
topics, quarrels, and scandals arose, and poor young Mrs. Blagdon was
comparatively forgotten.
Frances had always divined that her brother had cared for Letty Glyn.
Of course, now that she was married, she was out of his reach; still,
in talking over the country-side news, she studiously omitted any
particular reference to the Blagdons.
“What about the Court? How did they get on?” her brother asked at last.
“Not very well,” she was obliged to confess; “he is a strange sort of a
man, and is but little at home. He has a shocking temper.”
“A nice sort of husband for her! Mrs. Fenchurch should be proud of
herself! Look here, Francis, you must take me to call to-morrow.”
Lumley carried out his suggestion, but, as it happened, unaccompanied
by his sister, for at the last moment, a dying parishioner had summoned
her, and he walked up to Sharsley alone.
It was summer, and in one respect Sharsley was at its best; but, on
the other hand, the neat trimness, and the closely mown lawns appeared
to be things of the past. The place now wore a desolate, neglected
appearance, and as he approached, the visitor noticed that the shutters
of most of the rooms were closed, and the avenue and gravel paths
were full of weeds. On enquiry at the door, he was informed that Mrs.
Blagdon was somewhere in the grounds, and after a search he found her
playing with her child--a beautiful little golden-haired creature, now
able to walk, attended by a somewhat grim-looking nurse. Her mother,
sitting upon the grass making daisy-chains for her, sprang up when
she saw Lumley approaching, and greeted him with smiles. But how she
was changed! He felt shocked. The roundness of Letty’s face was gone;
her beautiful blue eyes looked sunken, their expression was strained
and anxious; she might be seven or eight years older than her real
age--which was little more than twenty. Evidently she had passed
through a devastating storm which had ravaged her looks and broken
her heart. It was as if he and her husband had both coveted the same
beautiful flower, and Blagdon had plucked it, and thrown it away to
wither and die.
But there was no sign of depression in Mrs. Blagdon’s manner or
conversation; she asked many questions about his regiment and Egypt;
she talked of his father and sister and Mrs. Hesketh. No, she had not
been over to Thornby for nearly a year. In answer to his exclamation of
astonishment, she coloured and said:
“You see, I can’t very well leave baby.”
“Then I suppose they come over and see you fairly often?”
“Not very often,” she answered, with a trembling lip. She was not
disposed to inform him, that her husband had quarrelled with Mrs.
Fenchurch, and practically turned Mrs. Hesketh out of the house, and
hastily changed the subject.
Presently the grim-looking nurse picked up the child, and said:
“It’s time for Miss Cara’s tea,” and was about to carry her off when
Lumley interposed.
“She is a darling!” he said, taking her little hand in his as it hung
over the nurse’s shoulder. “I don’t know much about children, but she
seems to be perfect--and very like you,” and he raised the little
chubby fingers to his lips. Subsequently it was mooted in the servants’
hall, that that “’ere young Lumley the officer, who had been strolling
about the grounds with the missus for the best part of an hour, had
told her to her face that she was perfect and a darling, and that nurse
had heard him say so, with her own two ears!”
No doubt it was from this source that the first faint whisper of gossip
rose, and was wafted into the village; and possibly it was not very
discreet of young Lumley to come up to Sharsley alone,--or even with
his sister, two or three times a week. Passers-by peering through the
railings in the park walls, had paused and stared; sometimes they could
see _two_ figures, pacing up and down the long terrace!
There was not the smallest harm in these walks and visits. Lumley
brought errands and notes from Frances, and carried to her messages and
books, for just at this time their father was very ill, and Frances was
in close attendance, and never left the Rectory.
Letty enjoyed one luxury, and that was a liberal supply of books; no
need for _her_ to spend her allowance on frocks, and the quarterly
payments went in relieving charities, subscribing to periodicals, and
buying literature. Sometimes, she told herself that without these
friends, that carried her out of her gloomy, isolated life, she would
have gone melancholy mad. True, there was the child; but a baby aged
two and a half, cannot altogether fill the life of an educated girl
of twenty, and, besides this, the baby had a nurse who stood on her
dignity, and required her nursery to herself.
Oh, the long, long hours that Letty spent alone, the only breaks being
a hurried visit to the Rectory. How the pensive melancholy of the
autumn woods oppressed her! the low, grey fog, lying in the hollows of
the park, took the shape of shadowy spectres rising from their graves;
bare brown trees, rooted in carpets of ruddy leaves, seemed to mock
her with their crooked branches, and the staring sun, sinking into the
west, to cast on her rays of pity and derision.
Yes, she had sold herself to escape immediate discomfort, and this
was her punishment: an existence of loveless degradation. In winter,
her solitude and misery pressed on her still more cruelly; she could
relieve the villagers with blankets and coal, but what could she do for
the thousands of perishing birds, the starving hares, the shivering
cattle? The nights were the worst, when the wind came sobbing to the
windows, shook the doors of the empty rooms, and moaned among the
trees, with the despairing cries of a lost soul; rats in the old
walls--and strange unaccountable noises--made sleep--broken--and waking
a terror.
But here at last was summer! and she could spend most of her time out
of doors. At the moment, she realised that it was an exhilarating
change, to have a companion near her own age to stroll with through
the woods, and talk to. Oh, if she had only been married to Lancelot
Lumley! Into the emptiness of her heart, there stole the inevitable
temptations of memory; but it was sinful to harbour such thoughts.
Well, at any rate, Lancelot had never actually asked her to marry
him--Hugo had--and so there it was. And here she was--the most
miserable young woman within the four seas.
When Lumley had been at home for about a fortnight, and his father’s
health had somewhat improved, he went over to see his relations the
Dentons, and stayed with them for two days. From them, Mrs. Hesketh and
Mrs. Fenchurch, he heard the real truth, which had been so carefully
withheld when he had been on the spot: how Hugo Blagdon neglected his
wife, cut her off from all society, and spent most of his time in
London or Paris,--his excuse being that she was but one degree removed
from imbecility.
Perhaps it was indiscreet of Maude Hesketh to relate the wrongs of her
friend with such passionate eloquence, for she fired the young man’s
blood, and he returned to the Rectory carrying with him a smouldering
heart. Why should not he pick up this pearl that was trampled on by a
swine?
Just at the time, that he returned, Hugo Blagdon made one of his
rare appearances. He entered the drawing-room to discover Lumley
and his wife at tea. Lumley had come to tell her about his visit,
and bring messages and all the latest news from Thornby. Amazing
to relate Blagdon’s manner to the silent young man, was cordial,
and even effusive!--he talked about mutual friends, sport, and the
service--undaunted by his guest’s frigidity--and said:
“I am not much here myself--the place doesn’t agree with me.” (This was
a new excuse invented on the spot.) “But if you like to come up at any
time and shoot, I shall be glad. The rabbits want thinning, and by and
by there will be the partridges.”
He also invited Lumley to dine, but this he curtly declined. Nothing
would induce him to eat Blagdon’s salt! The way in which he spoke to,
and looked at his wife, made him feel beside himself.
For two or three days Captain Lumley failed to appear; then Mr.
Blagdon’s head keeper went down to the Rectory to see him, and
announced his master had gone away, and left orders that he was to
have as much shooting as he liked, and to make use of the guns in the
gun-room; and, in fact, that it would be a favour more than otherwise
to keep the game down. All this was also mentioned in a civil note.
But Lancelot Lumley did not wish to shoot; he wanted to see Blagdon’s
wife, and walked up to Sharsley that same afternoon. Mrs. Blagdon was
in her room, and sent a message to say that she had a headache and was
sorry she could not receive anyone. He felt unreasonably disappointed,
and wandered about the place for hours--making use of his liberty to
explore the woods; and there, to his astonishment and hers--for she
supposed he had gone home--Letty met him face to face in a walk in
one of the plantations. She started and exclaimed, as they came upon
one another; and now he understood _why_ she had denied herself! Mrs.
Blagdon had a black eye, and her lip was cut and swollen.
“I did not want you to see me,” she began nervously. “I fell over a
chair last night in the dark, and I’m rather an object.”
“What is the use of telling me that?” he answered roughly; pity, deep
concern for her, and blind fury against Blagdon getting the better of
him--“when I know as well as _you_ do, that your husband struck you?
Does he often do it?”
“Oh, don’t, don’t ask me,” she faltered; “let us talk of other
things--please never allude to this again. Hugo has a temper--and
I--I--irritate him.”
“He is a brute!” declared Lumley, whose face had grown white and
stern. “The way he treats you is notorious. _Why_ do you stay with him?”
“What else am I to do?” she asked piteously. “I have no other home; I
could not go to The Holt now. Of course there is Hugo’s sister; but
although she is angry with him, and tells me I am a little fool, yet
she would never openly take my part against her brother. No, there is
no escape for me, I must just live my life. Hugo hates me; over and
over again, he has told me that he wishes I were dead!”
She sat down as she spoke, on a rustic seat, overcome by her emotions,
and losing her self-control, buried her disfigured face in her hands.
As Lumley stood looking at her, he felt ready to offer his life on the
instant, and to fling his own plans and all fortune’s chances to the
winds; but he did not attempt to soothe or console her; and she wept
uninterruptedly for some little time; then, as her sobs ceased, and she
became calmer, he said quietly,--though inwardly shaken with agitation:
“Listen to me, Letty. There is an escape for you. I have always loved
you--yes--ever since the day that you came to Thornby, and I first
saw you; you remember how we did the pulpit together, how you gave
your very first dance to _me_--you are the only girl I ever cared
about. I know this is a hackneyed saying, but it is absolutely true.
I had nothing to marry on, nothing to offer you, but you were so
young--barely seventeen, and I thought I would _wait_. I talked it
over with my uncle, and asked if I might say a word to you. He said
it would be madness; that you had no thought of--of--lovers, being
a mere child, and that the Fenchurchs would never consent to a long
engagement; then Blagdon saw you, and he came and snatched away my
treasure. If he had made you happy, I could have forgiven him; but even
when you were a bride, I seemed to see clouds. I return home, and I
find that he treats you like a brute! The coward knows, that you have
no man to protect you; no father or brother. Now what I want to say is,
will you come away with me?--I know it sounds awful!”
She looked up at him with an expression of dismay, and uttered an
inarticulate gasp.
“But let me explain.” As he went on steadily, the man’s self-reliance,
instinct of possession and authority, became evident. “You will travel
up to London and meet me there--only as a friend--leaving a letter for
Blagdon. Tell him the truth. Tell him, you have gone away with _me_.
I will not attempt to defend the suit. I shall leave England for six
months, and at the end of that time return, and marry you.”
“And what about Cara?” she asked abruptly.
“You must leave the child here. I suppose Blagdon would hardly
ill-treat an infant of that age; and no doubt his sister would receive
her. Perhaps you might be allowed to keep her? I don’t know much about
these sort of things. I only know, that I want you to break your bonds,
and get a new start in life. Why you are barely twenty!--think of the
fifty years that lie before you,--and have pity upon yourself!”
“To escape from Hugo--never to see him again--never to hear his voice,
to meet his eyes, would be, oh, such overwhelming joy--such a relief!
You cannot think how much I am afraid of him; sometimes he is like a
lunatic, and I am terrified to be with him alone; and yet what can I
do? How can _anyone_ come between us--I am his wife.”
“_I_ will come between you,” said the young man resolutely, “that is,
if you care for me, Letty?”
“Yes I do; I’ve always cared,” she answered, in a tremulous voice.
“But think of your father and Frances, my greatest friend, and Maudie
Hesketh, and little Cara, to have a mother who ran away--and oh,
imagine what all the people around would say!”
“The people around would say, that they were astonished that you didn’t
make your escape years ago. Cara is but an infant, she will have her
_own_ life, she is the daughter of a rich man; you are not called upon
to sacrifice the whole of your existence to her; _you_ have a right
to live, as much as she has! Mrs. Fenchurch will be shocked--that I
grant you--but that Maudie Hesketh and my sister will forgive you--I
guarantee.”
“No, no, no, I never could do it--I beseech you not to tempt me!”
then without another word, she suddenly turned into a side path, and
actually ran away. But although Letty had evaded him on this occasion
Lancelot Lumley would not relinquish his intention; he knew what
he was doing; he took into consideration all the scandal, the talk,
and the injury that it would cause him in his profession. On the
other hand, he thought of Letty: they would be so happy together, and
ultimately they would live it down!
He wrote her a clear, urgent, and impassioned letter, putting
everything plainly before her, and imploring her to leave home.
“For six months after the divorce you could live in some quiet seaside
or country place, or in Switzerland. I have ample money to provide for
this. I will of course not see you, and I shall apply for an exchange
to a battalion in India; when the decree nisi is pronounced, all our
troubles will be over, and like the people in the fairy tale, we shall
live happy ever after.”
Before the end of the week, they had met again; and the force of fear
and love, and Lumley’s eloquent persuasion ultimately carried the
day; but during this week, Letty had lived in a palsy of indecision,
painfully conscious of the debility of her own will. One moment,
she had made up her mind, the next she changed it; however, after
a decisive interview, in which Lumley said, “It must be yes or
no--_now_--for I am going away,” with a white face and trembling lips,
Letty had breathed the syllable ‘Yes.’