‘Maythorne,’ where Mrs. Glyn--formerly Blagdon--had hidden her
diminished head, was a fine old red-brick mansion standing in its own
grounds and meadows, and within thirty miles of London. Once the family
seat of a well-known banker, it was now the successful investment of
a syndicate, and a more or less glorified hotel, boasting (in a not
untruthful advertisement) of its splendid situation, salubrious air,
far-famed gardens, comforts, and cows.
When Letty, fearing that her company was beginning to irk her friend,
and reluctant to return to Thornby, had implored Mrs. Hesketh to find
her a quiet haven, Mrs. Hesketh’s friends, had recommended her to
Maythorne. In late spring and early summer, the Maythorne guests were
dull and commonplace: various invalids, lame, blind, and halt, with
their nurses; girls or boys brought for change after the usual measles
or whooping cough; old maids and widows; who knitted and gossiped and
paced the broad walks in couples, took tea in little coteries, and
devoted their evenings to cribbage, and patience.
To these, the arrival of a strikingly beautiful girl, a married woman,
alone, without even a maid, offered a nice fresh topic for discussion.
‘Mrs. Glyn’ looked about nineteen, had a private sitting-room, and was
very reserved--but when addressed, discovered a sweet, low voice, and
timid manners. She had no visitors, and there was rarely a letter for
her in the hall rack. Mrs. Glyn sang delightfully, and went twice to
church on Sundays; and this was all that could be found out.
By degrees, the stranger came to know various other women, especially
two of them--the oldest residents, who made a point of speaking to
everyone,--these were friendly, and invited her to tea, and taught her
‘demon’ patience, and borrowed her _Spectator_; but Sister Sophy and
Sister Mary, were painfully inquisitive, and she was not sufficiently
subtle to evade their polite and insidious enquiries,--or to avoid
disaster in the cunning pitfalls they so skilfully laid with regard
to her ‘home.’ Letty instinctively felt, that her answers were
unsatisfactory, and withdrew from their society as imperceptibly as
she dared, contenting herself with the company of the hotel dog,
who attended her in her country walks, and took tea with her most
afternoons.
Maythorne was an irregular old house, renovated; with white paint,
modern furniture, and pretty chintz; its ceilings were low, its stairs
shallow, and in the long passages were unexpected steps. Letty’s
apartments were detached, she had selected them on purpose, that she
might play and sing without disturbing her neighbours.
Around the house were smooth lawns of turf, winding paths and alleys
among laurels and rhododendrons; here and there a noble forest tree,
and clumps of rose-trees, and high delphiniums of a royal and dazzling
blue, and here Letty spent many an hour with a book, her own thoughts,
and the infatuated Toby. As June melted into an unusually warm July,
the number of guests increased; day by day one noted new faces; large
family parties, father, mother, boys and girls, who preferred the
country, with golf, tennis, picnics, and bicycling, to the seductions
of the seaside. The term of ‘week-end’ had not yet been coined, but
the actual thing existed; and many city men ran down from town from
Friday to Monday for golf, fresh air, and good country food. Maythorne
had also a reputation for ‘pretty girls.’ By all accounts, there was
a wonderful beauty staying there now; she sat in a niche near the far
door and was alone. Also it was a case of ‘paws off!’ and the lady
always got out of the room before the dessert, and disappeared.
It was true Mrs. Glyn got out of the room ‘before the dessert,’
those staring eyes frightened her, and she slipped away to a certain
remote seat in the ground,--as yet undiscovered by others,--and there
contemplated the undulating country, whose fresh green pastures, dark
woods, and delicate blue distances, seemed to act as balm upon an open
wound.
“But what _is_ the good of it all?” she would murmur (a phrase caught
from Cousin Maude). Why had she been born? where was her place in the
world? No wife, and no widow; her child taken from her; no home, and
but two friends, Frances and Cousin Maudie--an encumbrance to both!
Frances, the sister of Lancelot, must know how she had spoiled her
brother’s life; how _could_ she endure her? Cousin Maude, with her
self-centred existence (out of which her divorce had figuratively torn
her), had once more retreated into her shell. School-fellows, Irish
cousins, which of these would venture to know her,--a divorcée? And who
could blame them? She thought of the other girls here: happy girls of
her own age; from her nook, she could hear gay voices and laughter on
the croquet ground, but she might not mix with them; the old ladies had
spoken--_they_ could associate with her--not so the young people.
Two girls, who happened to hear her singing, were entranced; and
eagerly made friends with the performer; but when their portly mothers
noticed them strolling in the grounds, with Letty in the middle,
animated, and discoursing of music,--in answer to an imperative signal,
she found herself suddenly deserted. Mrs. Glyn was not to be ‘known,’
that was too painfully evident; and the ‘mystery’ walked on alone,
holding her head unusually high, acutely conscious that she was taboo!
and filled with an angry, straining against circumstances, and against
fate.
“She does look so pretty, and so innocent!” admitted a wealthy matron,
“and I admire her enormously as a picture--not otherwise. These
‘butter-would-not-melt-in-my-mouth’ class are notoriously dangerous!”
To some of the men, Mrs. Glyn was naturally all the more attractive,
because of the ladies’ veto; these were only too anxious to cultivate
her acquaintance, but she shrank from their neighbourhood, and treated
their anxious overtures, with discouraging hauteur. Although she
had youth, beauty, health, and five hundred a year, what, she asked
herself, did it avail, a woman with a past, and without hope, or
future? If she only had the necessary courage, she might follow the
example of a recent suicide, and scribble on a card, ‘No home, no
friends--Exit,’ and then go and drown herself; it would be a simple
ending to all her troubles, and her hopeless yearnings for Cara, and
for Lancelot. Her thoughts of him, were inexpressibly painful, and
tinged with acute remorse. Over and over again, she recalled his
stricken face, and stern accusation, “Letty, you have made a fool of
me,” and this was true--a pitiless and unanswerable fact.
When the moon arose, and the bats began to flit about the garden,
the mysterious beauty would repair to her own quarters, and there
seek for sympathy in her piano. She sang not only well-known songs,
but verses she had set to music. The air of one composition was
peculiarly sad and haunting, and two City men who were strolling
about together--discussing the market prices--halted, attracted by a
beautiful voice which floated from an open window. As they stood, and
listened, this is what fell on their ears.
“Où vivre? Dans quelle ombre
Étouffer mon ennui?
Ma tristesse est plus sombre
Que la nuit.
“Où mourir? Sous quelle onde
Noyer mon deuil amer?
Ma peine est plus profonde
Que la mer.
“Où fuir? De quelle sorte
Égorger mon remord?
Ma douleur est plus forte
Que la mort.”
As the last words died away, one of the audience gave himself a
vigorous shake, carefully examined his half-finished cigar, and
exclaimed:
“By George! that young woman must be in a bad way--eh? I wonder who
she is? She is singing like one of those sirens that bothered old
what’s-his-name. Shall we clap--eh?”
“No,” with prompt emphasis, “the girl is singing--and her voice is
exquisite--like some unhappy soul who has lost everything in the world.”
“Oh, Bosh! you and your romantic fancies! Come along indoors and have
a game of billiards. I’ll give you twenty up! There will be no more
songs,--see, she has turned down the light.”
“All right, I see,” agreed the man of sentiment, as he reluctantly
followed his challenger.
The morning after this incident, a letter from Frances Lumley not only
distracted Letty’s thoughts, but carried her away from Maythorne. The
stimulating news, which was in the postscript, said:
“I have just heard that little Cara and her new nurse have gone to
Folkestone. The child had measles, but is now quite well; however,
Doctor Griffen ordered sea air and change. Last time I saw her she
was prettier than ever, and looked like a _little angel_.”
Within five minutes Cara’s mother was whirling over the pages of an A
B C. She too would go to Folkestone and see her baby at all hazards.
A new nurse--what a chance! She wired for rooms at one of the hotels,
packed up her boxes, paid her bill, and the following day effected
an early departure, arriving at Folkestone the same evening. Here at
least, she would be breathing the same air as her darling.
An early hour the next morning found Mrs. Glyn on the Leas, and as
the month happened to be July these were crowded. For two whole days,
among nurses and perambulators, she sought in vain for Cara. At last,
in a block near the band shelter, she descried her treasure--attended
by a buxom nurse, with a gaudy magazine tucked under her arm; Letty
hovered around, or paced to and fro, till at last nurse and pram moved
slowly away, and she, following at a discreet distance, discovered that
they lodged in rooms not far from her own hotel. Her next move was to
endeavour to make the nurse’s acquaintance, and this she accomplished
by sitting beside her on a bench overlooking the sea, and offering
timid remarks about the weather, and admiration of the sleeping child.
The nurse (with visions of Sharsley to support her) was inclined to be
haughty and stand-off, but when she had scrutinised the young lady, and
her well-cut costume, her pretty hat, and good new gloves, she thawed
so far as to admit that the ‘weather was a treat,’ and to accept the
loan of an illustrated paper.
Letty, as she gazed at her sleeping child, was so overcome with
emotion, that she was impelled to get up suddenly, and walk away; but
presently returned as the moth to the candle, and with a steady voice
informed the nurse, that “she was fond of children, and that the little
girl reminded her of someone.”
“There is one o’clock striking,” said nurse, “and that reminds _me_
that it’s time for our dinner! Here’s your paper, miss, and thank you.”
“Oh, please keep it, I don’t want it back! I have any quantity of
magazines, and books.”
“I do love reading, and specially magazines; but I can’t well leave
this child to go and buy things--you see, I’m single-handed.”
“I will lend you magazines with pleasure,” volunteered this kind
stranger. “Shall you be on the front to-morrow?”
“Yes, miss, at eleven, and if you can spare me something lively--I love
murders--I’ll be obliged to you. I am a bit lonely now; a nurse, my
friend, went yesterday. The family’s gone over to Boulogne, and I don’t
have any talk with them boarding-house servants--they’re no class; I
won’t deny that I’m sociable, but I’m suspicious of strangers, and as
to who I know.”
“Of course,” assented Letty, “so am I--especially as I am here by
myself.”
“Oh, indeed!” with a quick inquisitive glance, and then this pretty
nameless young lady proceeded to inform her, that she was waiting to be
joined by a relative, with whom she was going on the Continent; for, as
she sat beside this unsuspicious woman, Letty had made up her mind to
run away with the child! and was already maturing her plans.
Presently Cara awoke. She was a beautiful little girl of four, and as
she opened her eyes, and stared up at the face bending over her, to
that lady’s horror, and yet also to her joy, she ejaculated “Ma-ma!”
Her mother felt inclined to burst into tears, but struggled to subdue
her feelings, which found relief in a wild, hysterical laugh.
“Aye, she takes you for her mamma,” explained the nurse. “Every
nice-looking, fair young lady, is ‘_mamma_.’ The poor little thing has
no mother,” she added in a low aside. “Could you believe that any woman
with a heart in her body, could desert _that_?”
‘That’ was still drowsy, and, lulled by the soft air and the distant
band, had once more closed her forget-me-not blue eyes, and fallen
asleep.
Letty realised that her self-control was slipping from her altogether,
and with a hurried excuse of ‘letters,’ rose, and returned to her
hotel. Each morning and afternoon, she sought out the ruddy-faced,
brown-eyed nurse, with the smart white perambulator, and her efforts to
ingratiate herself with an uneducated, chattering, kind-hearted woman,
were almost those of a timid lover, seeking to propitiate his mistress.
She was compelled to listen with averted face, whilst Smithson volubly
related to her her own history--as reported and edited in the servants’
hall.
“The child is like her mother, they do say; anyway, in face. I never
saw her--I’m a new-comer. _He_ is very ordinary: an ugly blue-and-red
sort of colour, and twenty years older than his wife. She was just
a slip of a schoolgirl, and by all accounts it was not so much her
fault--left alone for months in that great lonely barrack of a place.
They say the day after she ran off, she repented and came back, and he
just threw her out! No one knows the rights of the story,--or where she
is now.”
Naturally these confidences were agonising to the shrinking listener,
who stared out on the shining sea, and faint French coast-line, with a
rigid profile; or bent down her head, to finger the flounces of Cara’s
doll.
It was an indescribable relief when Nurse Smithson selected another
topic, and disclosed to her companion in glowing terms, the glories of
Sharsley, and the wealth of its master. She gave luxuriant descriptions
of the park, the size of the grounds, the fame of the pictures,--but
kept back the fact, that the house was almost closed, and that the
shooting had been let. Then she interrupted her tale to exclaim:
“Well, I never _did_ see a young lady so fond of children as you
are,--miss, and the child has taken to you too! Some day, you will be
having one of your own, I hope, and you will make a fine fuss with her,
or _I’m_ mistaken.”
Letty looked at her through blinding tears, then, startled by her
companion’s gaze of speechless amazement, she hastily explained that
“the glare of the sun on the sea was so dazzling, that it always made
her eyes water!”