Two days before the fête, Mrs. Hesketh had made the unwelcome
discovery, that Mrs. and Miss Plassy were again her fellow guests. Many
years had elapsed since they met at the Californie, Cannes; but her
memory was only too retentive. There was no forgetting the tall, faded
woman with a stoop, and the agreeable, gushing daughter. From her shady
seat in the grounds, she had witnessed their arrival; and as one after
the other, the ladies descended from the hotel bus, she was sensible of
a distinct, and disagreeable shock. Supposing the Plassys were to meet
and recognise Letty?--Letty, so little changed!
Undoubtedly Mrs. Plassy was a conscientious student of the daily press;
would she proclaim to all and sundry that here in seclusion and sheep’s
clothing was the notorious divorcée, who had kidnapped her child? And
if so, what then?
As regarded herself, she would infinitely prefer to ignore these birds
of Passage and of Prey; but for her friend’s sake, it behoved her to
walk warily, conceal their arrival from her, and at all hazards keep
them in ignorance of Letty’s vicinity.
As might be expected, Mrs. Plassy’s first duty on arriving at an hotel,
was to scrutinise the list of guests. As her eye travelled over an
open page in the Visitors’ Book of the Paradis, her attention was
arrested by the name of ‘Hesketh.’ ‘Mrs. Carlton Hesketh and maid.
England.’ Yes, it must be the same; a hateful, supercilious woman, whom
it had been impossible to placate; a woman who declined to approach
when a vacant seat near Mrs. Plassy was patted invitingly, and when
endowed with a card, and address, made no appropriate return. Such a
creature was altogether insupportable, and she decided to ignore her
existence. However, this amiable intention was frustrated by Mrs.
Hesketh coming up to her in the lounge, and claiming her acquaintance.
She was actually quite gracious and friendly, and made flattering
enquiries respecting her health, and her plans. (It was good news to
the hypocritical widow, that the Plassys were moving on to Lucerne in
a day or two; they were merely stopping at the Paradis awaiting the
arrival of a friend.)
Thirteen years had passed over the heads of this roving couple, and
had treated them with callous cruelty. Time had not brought a suitor
to the feet of Miss Lydia, and on the other hand he had robbed her of
her lively spirits, and a certain amount of colour and hair. Lydia was
a discontented, embittered woman who had missed her way in life, and
was nearing the lamentable frontier of forty. She had a good figure,
an acid tongue (but could make herself agreeable), and a positive
genius for dress. Lydia and her mother were sincerely devoted to one
another. Proud, poor, ambitious, they contrived to make a brave show
on an income that would seem incredibly small in proportion to their
pretensions, and manner of living. Their appearance and dress were
ultra-fashionable, they proclaimed to envious listeners, that they had
discovered a secret treasure of a ‘little’ dressmaker--but the truth
was, their smart gowns were second, and even third hand--and as a rule,
their choice of hotels and acquaintances were fastidious and select.
Lydia announced that they were obliged to live abroad on account of
her mother’s health; whilst the supposed invalid exerted her failing
strength in order to get her dear girl settled. She frequented Alpine
resorts, famous for winter sports, popular cures, or the Riviera, and,
in short, any hunting-ground favoured by the eligible British bachelor.
In order to effect these costly adventures, the Plassys were at times
obliged to exercise the most rigid economies. They haunted cheap
_pensions_, where they shared a room for eight francs a day--food and
light, _tout compris_. Here they made their own tea with an Etna, here
they washed their handkerchiefs and stockings, here they wore out
their old clothes, and, so to speak, girded themselves for their next
encounter with Fortune.
The ladies had come to the too-expensive Paradis, in pursuit of a very
distant connection, a valetudinarian old bachelor of enormous wealth
and many whims and fancies--in the hope, that Lydia might prove to be
one of them!
The afternoon succeeding the fête, Letty, unaware of any lurking
pitfalls, descended to the Paradis, accompanied by Cara, and Mrs.
Hesketh, with a tremor in her heart, invited them to tea in a retired
summer-house in the grounds. Here they would be safe. As she sipped
weak tea, she noticed Letty’s haggard white face, testifying to
a sleepless night, the girl’s feverish restlessness, and roving,
dissatisfied eyes. It had long been planned that Tomlin was to have ‘an
afternoon in Lucerne,’ accompanied by Cara as companion and courier,
since the British maid could not speak a word of any language but her
own. They were to visit the panoramas, the museum, and the shops, and
details of the expedition were being finally discussed, when Mrs.
Plassy and her daughter strolled by arm in arm. For a moment Mrs.
Hesketh’s heart stood still, then throbbed on--the danger had passed!
No--by bad luck Cara gave one of her loud, somewhat foolish laughs--her
mother had spilt her tea.
Mrs. Plassy deliberately halted, turned about, and approached.
“Oh, dear Mrs. Hesketh,” she exclaimed, with lifted hands, “how
charming you all look! How much pleasanter to have tea out of doors.”
Then, glancing at Letty, she paused, and in a different key added, “I
think I have met--Mrs.--er--Mrs.----”
“Glyn,” added Mrs. Hesketh precipitately.
“Oh, yes,” with a slight bow, and steadily regarding her she added,
with deadly significance:
“_I know!_”
Then, turning to her daughter, “Lyddy, you have met Mrs. Glyn at
Cannes.”
Lyddy smiled and stared--her expression implied that she, too, knew all.
“And this young lady?” she asked, turning to Cara.
“My daughter,” replied Letty in a faint voice.
“Are you staying here, Mrs. Glyn?” enquired Mrs. Plassy, and her tone
was frigid and judicial. “I did not see your name in the hotel list.”
“Oh, no,” broke in Cara, attracted by these fashionable strangers, “we
live in a farm up the hill, called Les Plans.”
“How absolutely delightful!” murmured Miss Plassy. “It must be so
healthy--and so secluded,” and she threw Letty a significant glance.
“No, it’s horrid!” declared Cara rebelliously.
“Won’t you sit down, and have some tea?” urged Mrs. Hesketh (who
appreciated the crisis at its full value). “There is plenty of room,
and I’ll send for more cups.”
“I’ve finished,” announced Cara, rising as she spoke and offering her
seat to Mrs. Plassy, who sank into it with an air of satisfaction,
saying to herself as she drew off her gloves, “This will save me three
francs!”
“I don’t want any tea, thank you,” said Lydia Plassy, “so Miss Glyn and
I will stroll about, and make one another’s acquaintance.”
“Yes, a capital idea!” assented her parent. “Do you two girls go off
and amuse one another, and we old people will talk of old times.”
Thus dismissed, the girl of seventeen and the girl of thirty-seven,
walked away laughing and chattering. Their dress was almost
identical--white gowns, large hats wreathed with flowers; the sole
difference being that Cara wore roses, and her companion a wreath of
daisies.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Hesketh and her friend proved poor enough company for a
guest who was filled with a burning curiosity,--and they with a sense
of icy terror.
Mrs. Plassy knew everything; was her daughter in the secret? If so,
would she tell _Cara_?
The bare idea caused Letty to feel faint! the child had always been led
to suppose that her father was dead; this fact, never actually stated,
was nevertheless implied. She followed the two white figures with
straining eyes, and a wildly beating heart, whilst her friend and Mrs.
Plassy discoursed of hotels, and society. The latter lady pointedly
excluded Mrs. Glyn from the conversation; her attitude was rigid, her
glance expressed hostility, and disdain.
The miserable culprit realised, that she was meeting the eyes of a
world, who was still crying shame upon her, and measured the amount of
condemnation that awaited her in circles where her story was known. Of
late years this fact had slumbered.--At last the tension and situation
became unendurable, and with a murmured excuse she rose, and moved away
in search of the two girls.
“How young she looks!” exclaimed Mrs. Plassy. Then, in reply to a
glance, “I mean Mrs. Blagdon.”
“Hush!” with a horrified gesture; “I’ve not heard that name for years.”
“I suppose,” resumed the other, and her manner was aggressive, “she has
buried herself at the farm, on account of the child?”
Mrs. Hesketh nodded.
“Does the girl know?” she asked abruptly.
“Not yet.”
“Ah; when she finds out that she is the only child of a very rich man,
I don’t think _I_ should care to be in her mother’s shoes!”
“Don’t you?” retorted Mrs. Hesketh. “Her mother has forfeited her
income, her country, her friends, and devoted her life to her--is that
to count for nothing?”
“I’m afraid that young people are shockingly selfish and
ungrateful--especially when they are the objects of schemes for their
good,” replied Mrs. Plassy, who was thoroughly enjoying herself, and
determined that this detestable enemy should be remorselessly tortured.
“She looks to me like a girl who had expensive tastes, and would
appreciate luxury!”
“You don’t know Hugo Blagdon,” declared Mrs. Hesketh, with a note of
passion in her voice, “nor the bringing up that he would have given his
daughter!”
“Yes, by all accounts he is a _viveur!_ and he looks dissipated. I’ve
seen him at Monte Carlo. Yet, after all, the girl is legally his; he is
her father.” A sharpness came into her speech, as she added, “Who would
believe that that quiet young woman, had it _in_ her to run off, first
with an officer, and then with her own child? Still waters run deep!”
So this was how people talked of her friend!
Mrs. Hesketh’s temper was simmering to boiling-point; she began to
realise that her adversary had set her heavy heel upon her neck, and
intended to keep it there.
“I must say that it has been a great thing for Mrs. Blagdon--I mean
Glyn--to have had your support,” continued Mrs. Plassy condescendingly.
“She is my friend--the best, most unselfish, and pure-minded woman, I
have ever known.”
“Yes, yes--how splendid of you to say so! I daresay Mrs. Glyn was not
_quite_ as much to blame as people made out.” (But in Mrs. Plassy’s
tone there lurked a reservation.) “And you, dear lady, are so unusually
broad-minded--I have always maintained this.”
Mrs. Hesketh swallowed her fury, and steadied her voice, resolved to
come to an understanding with this odious woman at all costs.
“Cara knows nothing of the past as yet, and it is her mother’s wish and
mine, that she remains in ignorance of it--for the present.”
“Your wishes are natural. If her mother’s story leaked out here, it
would be so awkward for the poor girl; and no doubt the farm people
might make difficulties. I suppose, according to our English law,
Mrs.--Glyn--is still liable to criminal prosecution?”
“There is no fear of that,” replied Mrs. Hesketh, speaking with sharp
irritation; “_no_ effort was made to recover Cara. Her father was
thankful to be rid of her.”
“She is a fine-looking young woman, on a rather large scale. I daresay
as she grows older, she will become like her aunt--too fleshy!”
“May be so; at present, the important matter is, that she should not
hear that she has an aunt--or a father.”
The two women gazed at one another in silence. Then Mrs. Hesketh,
mentally shuddering, prostrated herself in the dust. “Mrs. Plassy, you
are the only acquaintance who knows our secret, and if you will keep
it--I shall look upon it as the greatest _personal_ favour.”
“Of course you may rely upon us, dear Mrs. Hesketh,” replied the other
coldly. “Not a breath shall the child hear; as a matter of fact, we are
leaving early to-morrow for Lucerne. Our cousin finds the hotel too
near the lake, and insists on our accompanying him.”
“Your promise is extremely kind,” said Mrs. Hesketh, “for we do not
wish to disturb the present position until matters are settled in
England. And if I, in any way, can do _you_ a good turn, you have
only to name it--now or later; you will find that I can show,” here
she looked into her opponent’s faded eyes with peculiar significance,
“_substantial_ gratitude for a friendly silence.”
In that exchange of glances, how much had been said and answered!
Mrs. Plassy, a faithful interpreter, felt a warm glow of satisfaction.
That expressive gaze conveyed a promise to pay, and an I.O.U. of
considerable value--it implied, and was good for, introductions,
entertainments, prestige, and--loans.
“I am sure I shall be glad of any kindness,” she murmured with lowered
eyelids; “and you have so _much_ in your power.”
“At any rate, you may reckon on me,” declared Mrs. Hesketh, rising from
her chair. “I have a number of letters that I really must write for
this post,--and I am sure you will excuse me?”
“Of course, of course--with pleasure.” Which was not precisely the
right rejoinder. Then Mrs. Hesketh walked away across the grass,
carrying her still slender figure with unusual dignity, though her
hands were shaking, and her face was chalk-white. She felt utterly
shattered, prostrated, and disgraced, by the recent humiliating
interview.
* * * * *
Two days later Cara and Tomlin proceeded to Lucerne for the promised
outing. They accomplished a good deal of shopping and sight-seeing,
and Tomlin proved wildly extravagant with respect to chocolate,
picture postcards, and cheap brooches; but at the end of two hours,
the girl’s patience was threadbare; she was bored to death. She hated
interpreting, bargaining, and standing before shop-windows,--the
contents of which she knew by heart,--and hailed with joy the approach
of Lydia Plassy, who halted, and accosted her.
“What are you doing in Lucerne?”
“Nothing; we have been shopping, and looking at panoramas, and the old
bridge, and the museum.”
“How _very_ exciting!” She glanced at Tomlin, who stood transfixed
before some exquisite embroideries. “It is getting on for four. Do come
along and have tea with me at Huguenin’s? She,” nodding at the maid,
“can easily amuse herself, and meet you at the boat.”
“I should love it,” said Cara eagerly, then added in French, “She’s my
policeman--and I’ll only be too thankful to be rid of her. She’s just
an old spy.”
Miss Plassy graciously explained the situation to Tomlin--who
recognising the lady as an hotel acquaintance of her mistress, agreed;
by no means reluctant, to have an hour to spend as she pleased, and to
be left to enjoy the shop-windows to her heart’s content.
Her mother had told Lydia,--from whom she had no secrets,--of her
conversation with Mrs. Hesketh, and the promise and understanding which
now existed between them.
“Hateful old woman, so disgustingly stuck up! Have you forgotten her
airs and snubs at Cannes?” said Lydia spitefully. “Now she wants
something badly she is as sweet as honey--bah! such people make me ill.
She asks you a great favour--yes--but what can she do for _us_?”
“My dear,” replied her mother, with impressive solemnity, “you know
very well, that she has it in her power, to be a _very_ helpful friend.”
But it was not merely the snubs that still rankled in Lydia’s mind--she
was accustomed to these; it was the never-forgotten fact, that a
charming young man, who was her devoted adherent, had been drawn from
his allegiance by the arrival of the mysterious beauty, Mrs. Hesketh’s
companion; and though the beauty never vouchsafed him a crumb of
encouragement, the capricious swain had failed to return to Lydia’s
lure; Mrs. Glyn had unintentionally cost Miss Plassy her lover.
“_I’ve_ made no promises,” said this lady to herself, “and if I get
a chance, I shall pay them both out--Mrs. Nose-in-the-Air, and the
divorcée.”
Now here was the ‘chance’ looking so beaming and pleased with herself,
as she tripped beside her hostess, along the Liongasse; and with this
girl as the instrument, Miss Plassy felt certain she could inflict
satisfactory punishment upon her mother. How she talked! chattering all
the time, and bubbling over with the _joie de vivre_.
“Yes, thank you,” said Cara, as they seated themselves, “a Pêche
Melba--I adore ices!” She removed her gloves, and settled her hat
with swift instinctive touches; and presently the two were exchanging
confidences as they sat _vis-à-vis_ across the marble-topped table,
awaiting their order.
“We are going on to St. Moritz next week,” announced Miss Plassy.
“Are you? How I envy you! We never go on.”
“No? But why not?”
“Because we are so poor.”
“We are poor too--church mice aren’t in it!”
“But not like us; we have not enough money to travel, or to live in
England.”
“Come, come, my dear girl,” protested Lyddy, suddenly planting her
elbows on the table, and staring into her face, “don’t be a little
ostrich! Surely you know--ah, here come our Pêche Melbas at last!”
“About what?” enquired Cara, plunging in her ready spoon.
“About your _mother_, my dear.”
“My mother! What about her?” The girl’s face was expressive of profound
indifference.
“Can’t you guess? Well, look here, promise me you won’t ever give me
away?”
“All right,” agreed Cara with a nod. “I can keep a secret--I know lots!”
“Tell me, have you never wondered, why you live out here?”
“Yes, but I’ve told you the reason.--We are so disgustingly poor.”
“Not really poor; your father is enormously rich, actually rolling in
money.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about!” protested Cara querulously.
“You are thinking of other people--_my_ father is dead,” and she took
another spoonful of ice.
“Well, yes, in a way. He _is_ dead to your mother.”
Cara gazed at the speaker blankly, her eyes became round, the pupils
looked like two small spots.
“Listen to me,” and as Miss Plassy leant across the table, spoon in
hand, her voice was emphatic, and her manner forcible. “You must know
some time, and I may as well tell you--_they_ never will!”
“Tell me what?”
“Why, about your father and mother,” a pause, followed by a dramatic
whisper, “_he divorced her_.”
“Miss Plassy, how dare you!” Cara’s face was crimson. “I don’t believe
you,” she added hysterically.
“Oh, very well, please yourself, my dear,” she replied with a mixture
of malice and gaiety. “The case was in all the papers, fourteen years
ago. People in England knew all about it,--and my mother remembers it
perfectly.”
Cara suddenly pushed away her plate, she was trembling violently, her
lips quivered. Was she going to cry?
“I’m so sorry you are upset,” continued the informer; “but to open your
eyes is the truest kindness. I can’t imagine how they have kept it from
you, all these years.”
“Kept what from me?” demanded the girl in a choking voice. “I can’t
think why you are telling me these awful things. I believe you are
inventing them.”
“Your father’s name is Blagdon--so is yours,” announced Miss Plassy
with bland composure. “Hugo Blagdon of Sharsley Court, a magnificent
place in Yorkshire. He is enormously rich; they say he has forty
thousand a year--pounds--not _francs_!”
“Oh!”
“And you are his only child, and heiress.”
Cara’s amazement was such, that she was unable to utter a word, but her
face worked convulsively. At last she stammered:
“This is a joke!”
“Not at all; I only wish it were my joke! When you were about three
years old, your mother ran away with a good-looking officer, I forget
his name; he did not marry her, and went to India. Afterwards, she and
Mrs. Hesketh travelled about together, and we met them at Cannes. Later
on, we saw in the papers that your mother had kidnapped you, from your
nurse, and disappeared,--and here you are! What a funny chance coming
across you at the Paradis!”
“So that’s the story--and it’s all true?”
Cara’s eyes glittered with excitement, her soft pink cheeks, were paler
than usual.
“True as gospel,” replied her companion emphatically; “as true as I
am sitting here. If your father knew of your whereabouts, he would
certainly claim you, and give you a ripping time. You might ask me to
stay?” she added playfully. “You would have motors, balls, racing, a
town house, a country house. I only wish _I_ had a chance of standing
in your shoes!”
“I declare you have made me feel quite giddy,” and Cara put her hand to
her head; “but I understand a lot of things--_now_.”
“Yes, I suppose you do.--You look pretty wide-awake.”
“I see why we have no English friends, except Mrs. Hesketh--whom I
hate, and who never ceases asking bothering questions, and making nasty
speeches, and tells me, that I can never repay the Mum for all she has
done for me.”
“Done you out of, she means!” briskly corrected Miss Plassy.
“And I remember a man we met ages ago on the Fluellen boat; awfully
good-looking; he and mother seemed so amazed to see one another. He was
going to India, and they had such a talk. After he left, the Mum cried
a lot. I think his name was Lumley.”
“That’s the man she ran away with!” declared Miss Plassy triumphantly.
“And now after hearing all this, I’ve got to go home to the Mum and
face her! I don’t see how I can ever forgive her; she has spoiled my
life. Oh,” and her voice was broken with emotion, “when I think of all
I have missed, since I was a kid, it’s too, too, awful!” and large
tears welled from Cara’s hard blue eyes.
“It will all come right some day,” said the other soothingly. “Why, you
are only seventeen, and not even out yet. Your mother just wanted you
all to herself, you see. _Do_ finish your ice.”
Cara felt that under the circumstances, it would be more dignified to
leave the ice untouched,--but it was characteristic of her, that she
gobbled down the remainder of the Pêche Melba, and left an empty plate.
“Of course, I know that I may rely on you to keep what you have heard
to yourself?” continued her companion,--Miss Plassy had thoroughly
enjoyed this interview;--a most pernicious satisfaction! but were
the details to reach the ear of Mrs. Hesketh, the result might prove
unpleasant, and a hinted-at reward be inflexibly withheld.
“Yes, you may be sure I shall hold my tongue and lie low for the
present. It was awfully kind of you to tell me, and if--if--what you
say ever comes true, you must stay with me and have a ripping time.”
“All right, I’ll remind you!” responded Lydia gaily.--(How delightful
to kill two birds with one stone, and receive grateful acknowledgments
from two quarters.) “There’s five o’clock striking now,” she added,
rising as she spoke; “if you want to catch the boat, you must run for
your life; here is your parasol--here are your gloves--fly!”