It was at a late hour for Les Plans, when Letty, seeing a light,
timidly pushed open the kitchen door, and beheld Frau Hurter bending
over the table, iron in hand, and oh, happy opportunity, alone! She was
nervously anxious to have a little private talk about Cara--but how to
begin?
“I wonder if you would mind pressing this?” she enquired, exhibiting a
strip of delicate embroidery. “See, it is finished at last.”
“Yes,” assented Frau Hurter, straightening herself, taking it from her,
and examining it carefully. “Beautiful work,--and should fetch a good
price.”
(‘A good price’ was her _ne plus ultra_ of attainment.)
“It is for a blouse for Mitli.”
“Ah--true--everything is for Mitli.”
“I’m afraid she is out of favour with you?” ventured her mother timidly.
“Ach ye! She is indeed changed. It is another Mitli, _Mein Frau_.
I have eyes and ears, and I hear tales--half of them I do not
believe--for I still love the _kindli_--I cannot help myself.”
“What have you heard? I implore you to tell me. Who has been talking?”
“Elizabeth Baer for one. I met her a few days ago at market, and she
came over and spoke, and said that Mitli is a Wustus Madel, and had a
bad influence on her girl Berthe--she had forbidden her the house!”
“No!” ejaculated Letty in a tone of angry astonishment. “Impossible!”
“Yes; Mitli puts ideas into Berthe’s head, ideas about money, dress,
and young men, and she makes the girl her tool, and has, Jesus Maria!
corrupted her mind.”
“My child corrupt anyone! How dared she say such things!”
“At least she makes trouble,--and now she no longer is received--no,
not these two months.”
“Oh, surely you must be mistaken,” but the remonstrance was
half-hearted; “she was there last week.”
“No doubt Mitli pretends she still goes to Les Lilacs--it has its
conveniences.”
“But if not at the Baers,--_where_ is she?”
“Ah,” putting down the iron, and lifting her hard brown hands, “it is
not for me to say; but this I know; she deceives us. Many an hour when
the girl is supposed to be at classes, or with her school mates, Mitli
is elsewhere. She has been given too much love, and liberty, and too
much trust.”
And with this pronouncement, Frau Hurter turned to the stove to fetch
another iron.
Cara’s mother ascended to her room, filled with anxiety and
far-reaching fears. As she stood at the open window, looking out on
the lake and the stars, inhaling air honey-sweet, with the breath
of flowers,--a singular desolation, a sense of homelessness, and
loneliness, came upon her. Something had overtaken her, from which
there was no escape; something had died in her heart--the belief in
Cara’s truth, and innocence. She opened the communicating door very
gently, and peeped into the next room. Cara was asleep, with a candle
guttering beside the bed. An open book lay on the floor. Letty picked
it up and glanced at the title. _Bel Ami_, Guy de Maupassant. Then
she blew out the light, returned to her own room, undressed, and went
to bed, where she lay awake for hours; blaming herself for blunders
and failures, making good resolutions, now and then bursting into
stifled sobs, till the sparrows in the pear tree began to twitter,
and an exquisite new day came stealing down the mountains. Now that
she had an assured income of two hundred a year, Letty had ceased to
work incessantly for daily bread, and had spare time, to spend with
her girl, to share her walks, and excursions, and amusements; but her
proffered companionship appeared to be unwelcome. When she suggested
a row on the lake, a tea picnic, a steamer trip, she was generally
assured that such outings were impossible, Cara’s engagements were so
numerous; she was playing tennis with the Maas girls, or spending the
day at Engelberg with her drawing-mistress, or going to the swimming
baths with their friends of the Weggisgasse, and much-sought-for Mitli
seemed to have no desire and no leisure, for the society of her mother.
During the last fortnight, a sudden and strange change had come over
the girl; looking back, Letty dated it from the day of the fête, or a
little later. She had become silent, moody, and almost morose--as if
she cherished a mortal grievance and was offended with everyone; and
sometimes when she looked up her mother found Cara’s eyes fixed upon
her with a sullen, almost hostile expression. What did it mean? Cara no
longer cared to visit the Paradis, to tea or _déjeuner_--once hailed
as a welcome treat. She shut herself up in her room, writing letters,
and every morning walked down to Mitzau to the post office,--instead of
awaiting the leisurely arrival of the facteur.
She was restless, irritable, strange; undoubtedly her condition had
something to do with her correspondence, and her mother, acting upon
her newly formed resolutions, made bold enquiries.
One afternoon as they were walking down the hill together, she screwed
up her courage and said:
“Who is it you are writing to so constantly, Cara?”
“No one in particular,” answered the girl, with a toss of her head.
“But what a waste of time and energy!” Again she braced herself,
determined to exercise an authority too long relaxed.
“I think, dear, that I ought to know who is your correspondent.”
“Why, Mum,” and Cara came to a standstill, “this is something _quite_
new! You’ve never asked such a thing before.”
“But I believe I should have done so, Cara. Better late than never. I’m
afraid, dear child, that I have been hitherto too slack, too busy with
my work, to take a proper interest in your affairs.”
“This is too funny!” cried Cara angrily; “that old Hesketh spy, has put
you up to this.”
“No--and that is no way to speak of her,” reproved Letty with
surprising spirit; “and now I must insist on knowing who it is, that
you have been writing to to-day?”
“Oh, then, since you _insist_,” said Cara, putting her hand in the
pocket of her coat, “here is my correspondence,” and she exhibited a
letter addressed to, ‘Peter Robinson, Regent Street, London, W.’
“A man certainly, but a stranger to me.”
(There was another letter remaining in her pocket, and this was
inscribed to, ‘Hugo Blagdon, Esq., Sharsley Court, Yorks.’)
Letty, as she received Peter Robinson’s letter, felt a little abashed.
Could all the other suspicions have the same ending? Oh, could
they?--if so what a heavy load would be lifted from her mind!
“Yes, I see,” she assented, “you are sending for patterns; but surely
you are not continually writing to shops?”
“Why not? _You_ know best, why I have no English correspondence. The
July sales are on, and one gets things for half of nothing, trimmings,
stockings, gloves, scarves. Tomlin gave me the tip.”
“Oh, did she?” murmured Letty, not a little daunted by Cara’s manner;
then she resumed with an effort, “Cara, my dear, why will you not be
more open with me, and confide in me, and tell me things? No one in
the world, takes as much interest in you, or is as anxious for your
happiness, as _I_ am.”
The girl glanced slyly at the pretty, incredibly young-looking woman
who was her mother; with her clear complexion, abundant hair, and slim
figure, she might almost be a contemporary of her own!
“What sort of things?”
“Just the sort of things you tell your girl friends.” Cara broke out
into an irrepressible shout of laughter,--laughter, in which there
sounded a note of mockery or derision,--and Letty, with a heightened
colour, added:
“Frau Hurter has informed me, that you no longer go to the Baers--is
this the case?”
“Yes, I’ve had a terrific row with Berthe and her mother--horrible,
bourgeois brutes!”
“But you used to be so fond of Berthe--you’ve known one another nearly
all your lives.”
“I never knew her, or found her out, until lately. I’ll tell you all
about it another time. Here is the Paradis. I’m not going in. Give my
_hate_ to Mrs. Hesketh. Oh, well, darling Mum, don’t look so shocked,”
patting her lightly on the arm; “you know, I never mean the quarter of
what I say, and you also know, that she can’t endure the sight of me!”
Then Miss Glyn embraced her mother, and turned quickly about to walk to
Mitzau, and post her letter.
Mrs. Hesketh, who was awaiting her friend in the lounge, looked
unusually solemn as she asked, “What have you done with the girl?”
“She has gone to the post. I think, dear Cousin Maude, she has a sort
of instinct that you don’t care for her.”
“Let us have tea at once,” said her friend, brusquely ignoring the
question; “afterwards, we will go up to my room and hold a meeting.”
As the tea proceeded, Letty was conscious that there was thunder in the
atmosphere; the symptoms were as clear as when a storm was collecting
in the neighbouring mountains, and rugged old Pilatus arrayed himself
as a preliminary, in a series of scarf-like clouds. Although Mrs.
Hesketh talked spasmodically of home news, and exchanged civil
greetings with acquaintances, her manner was abstracted. Undoubtedly
some subject lay heavily on her mind, and Letty hurried over her tea,
declining a second cup, and said:
“Do let us go upstairs, I cannot bear suspense--anything is better than
_that_.”
“So, then, you guess?” said her friend, leading the way to the
sitting-room, and drawing forward two chairs on her balcony.
“I cannot guess what you may have to say,--only that I’m sure it is
something to do with the child.”
“It has. Hitherto, excepting that night at the fête--and we might have
been mistaken--we have had nothing to support suspicion, beyond Frau
Hurter’s natural animosity towards a girl who has bewitched her son.”
“Yes,” agreed Letty breathlessly.
“And now, I have got hold of facts.”
“How? Facts!”
“By the means of unintentional eavesdropping in this very verandah.”
“Eavesdropping?”
“Yes, you know how sounds ascend. I was sitting up here last night
alone, enjoying the glorious view, and moonlight--vaguely aware that
some men were talking and smoking just below, and one of them who had
a loud, resonant voice, was describing someone who was splendid sport.
When he said ‘a flapper of seventeen,’ I pricked up my ears at once.
“‘Knows her way about,’ he went on, ‘uncommonly handsome--and up to all
sorts of games.’
“Letty, I leant nearer, and listened shamelessly, and another voice
asked:
“‘Where does she hang out?’
“‘At a farm up the hill here, a place called Les Plans.’
“‘Oh,’ said the other, ‘a native?’
“‘No--English--and by way of being a lady. She has lived here with her
mother since she was a kid; the mother is a damned pretty woman----’
“I am repeating what I heard verbatim--
“‘--but a fool. She lets the girl go marauding all over the place
alone. Ahem! Well, not exactly _alone_--because she trusts her
absolutely!’
“At this they all roared.” Here Mrs. Hesketh paused. Letty was now
sobbing audibly, her face buried in her hands.
“Then a man asked, ‘How did you find her?’” pursued Mrs. Hesketh.
“‘Angus McKenzie gave me the tip; he was here last year--met her on
the boat, and they got tremendously chummy. He used to take her about,
and give her treats, when she was supposed to be having lessons in
Lucerne--ha! ha! But, mind you, she knows how to take rattling good
care of herself. She was capital company, with a lot of “go,” and
wonderfully advanced ideas for her age--especially with regard to
spending money!’”
Here Mrs. Hesketh paused, and looked at her companion, who was still
sobbing hysterically.
“Letty, are you listening to me? Do please pull yourself together!”
“I am, of course, listening,” she gasped. “I am--oh, it is all my
fault. Oh, Cousin Maude, do not blame the child! I’ve been a bad mother
after all! I allowed her to slip out of my hands, and gave her her own
way, and was too, too indulgent; but I myself was so strictly brought
up, and had so little love, and sympathy, and freedom, I was resolved
that Cara should _never_ suffer in the same way.”
“Letty, be quiet!” interposed her friend angrily. “I won’t sit here,
and listen to you abusing yourself. You have been too self-sacrificing,
and, I’m afraid, weak. But how could you oppose your will to Cara’s?
Hers is of iron,--and you know your own failing. You sent her to
excellent schools, you believed she had good companions; you could
not conduct her to and from school, or be always with her like a
keeper--you had to work hard, to maintain yourself and her, and, when
possible, you shared her pleasures and made yourself her companion--you
could have done no more.”
“And I could not well do less,” said Letty as she dried her eyes. “Was
that all the men said?”
“No. It seems that Cara used to climb out of her bedroom window, and
descend by the pear tree into the garden, and sit in the summer-house,
smoking cigarettes with visitors from the Paradis; and for this reason,
the old watch-dog was put out of the way.”
“Oh, poor, poor Karo! I was sure he had been poisoned!”
“And it appears, that when you supposed Cara to be spending the day
with Berthe, she was really lunching and carousing with one or other
of these festive strangers! This accounts, for her craze for pretty
restaurant frocks, smart beflowered hats, and all the reckless bills. I
gathered that she did not accept presents, beyond chocolates, flowers,
entertainments, and motor rides. Sometimes she motored home after the
last boat had gone, and had what they called uncommonly narrow shaves
of being spotted! Now, Letty, you positively _must_ assume another
attitude, and be firm, and absolute. There would be no use in my
talking to Cara--she abhors me. We will arrange to go to England as
soon as possible, and place the young woman in a school; this will no
doubt have a sobering effect and be a change that will do her good. I
know of a capital finishing establishment in Brighton, and with your
leave or without, I’ll write to-morrow.”
“Yes, as you like; but I feel bewildered, dazed----”
“You had better have an interview with Cara to-night, and tell her
you know all, and that in future you will never trust her out of your
sight. She shall not stir without you, or me, or Tomlin at her heels,
and in ten days we start for England. Settle up with Frau Hurter, and
leave all other arrangements to me. My poor Letty, I am sorry for you,
but I will stand by you shoulder to shoulder, and see you through this
crisis.”
“But it’s so easy for us to wonder, and blame, and plan. When Cara
comes on the scene, somehow I am always put in the wrong and defeated.”
“You cannot possibly be defeated on this occasion,” declared her
friend, with confidence. “All the right and might is on your side: the
right of a good and too unselfish mother, and the might of the purse.
Cara has no money.”
* * * * *
“Cara,” said her mother, coming into her room that evening, “I wish to
speak to you very seriously.”
Cara, who was in her petticoats, and in the act of unpinning her
abundant hair, turned about sharply and said:
“Oh, yes, let’s have it out, then! I’ve felt there was something in
the air. What has Frau Hurter been telling you _now_? She went for me
this morning like any old fish-fag, and said I had ruined Fritz, and
broken his heart, and he was no good for anything!” And she tossed back
a mane of hair, and glared a challenge.
“It is not Fritz, Cara. It is about the strangers--the Englishmen,
whom you meet clandestinely and go about with, motoring and amusing
yourself, when all the time I’ve been trusting you, and thinking you
were taking lessons in Lucerne.”
“Oh!” dropping her arms, “so it has leaked out at last! Well, it had
to some day. I’ve had a ripping time, and I’m not sorry.” And this
handsome young woman, with her bare arms and neck, and flowing hair,
faced her accuser unabashed, and unrepentant, assuring herself, she had
no reason to be afraid; she was always able to cow, and browbeat the
Mum.
“Oh, Cara, Cara! How _could_ you?” murmured her parent, with uplifted
hands.
“Well, I believe most people know I’ve friends--men friends. Fritz was
crazy, when he saw me speaking to Captain Seymour; but think of the
awful, awful life I lead here, and other English girls have such good
times! I’ve done no harm whatever--I’ve only amused myself. And why
not?”
“Getting out of your bedroom window at night, and sitting in the garden
with strange men from the Paradis!”
“Now, who can have told you that?” she asked sharply. “_Jost?_ though
for ten francs he swore he’d hold his tongue; treacherous old devil!”
“Never mind who told--I know everything.”
“Do you, Mum? I doubt it. I’ve had lots of affairs since I was
fifteen,” and she eyed her mother with amusement. “Yes, it’s in my
blood. You asked me to tell you things--and I _will_.”
Now that the ice was broken, Cara felt tempted to shock her mother; she
would enjoy the sensation.
“Since you were fifteen?” repeated Letty in an incredulous whisper.
Cara nodded, with smiling complacence.
“Yes, first, there was the violinist, an Italian, who said he was a
Count. He gave me chocolates and flowers,--till I spotted him in the
orchestra; but even then I was gone on Pablo. After Pablo, the nice
German boy from Heidelberg; he wrote me verses, and gave me a ring.
There was also Anton Baer, who took me up Pilatus when you thought I
was in bed at the Baers, with a sprained ankle; and Major McKenzie, who
spoke to me on the boat; and Captain Seymour--and always, always Fritz.”
As Letty stood pale and rigid, as if turned to stone, Cara concluded:
“After all, I’ve done no harm; one is young but once!”
“No harm, Cara? I think you have broken my heart! A girl of seventeen
making herself notorious. Do you know that you are the laughing-stock
of men at the Paradis; who discuss you, and hold you very cheap?--no
harm in losing your good name!”
“As to broken hearts,” retorted Cara, who was now plaiting her hair
vigorously, “I don’t believe in them; and I’ve heard enough of that
rubbish from Fritz to last a lifetime.” The term ‘laughing-stock’ had
stirred her keenly, and she went on, her temper at white heat: “As for
my good name, I can take care of that; and, my darling Mum,” and she
drew herself up, and tossed back a plait, “_you_ are the last person to
talk of ‘a good name.’”
“What do you mean, Cara?” Letty asked faintly.
“I mean,” speaking with deliberate emphasis, “that I _know_.”
Her mother took two steps backwards, staggered blindly, and sat down on
the side of the bed,--her face as colourless as the counterpane.
“Yes, I must say, I think you should not have kept it from me, Mum. Of
course, I don’t think any the worse of you, dear.” She would have taken
her mother’s hand, but Letty pushed her from her, with impatience, and
her trembling lips put the question:
“Who told you?”
“Miss Plassy--she said I _ought_ to know.”
“Yes, go on,” urged her mother in a stifled voice; “be quick and tell
me.”
“She told me that my name is Blagdon. My father is enormously rich, and
that you ran away with an officer when I was a kid, and were divorced,
and a year later, you came and stole me from my nurse, and brought me
off here. That’s the story!--it sounds crude, but she swore it was true
and in all the papers. I can get over the divorce all right,” continued
Cara, with an air of superb generosity, “but really and truly, Mum, I
cannot forgive you for kidnapping me, and bringing me off abroad, to
lead this wretched, poverty-stricken life.”
“Cara,” cried her mother, rising to her feet, and speaking with
unexpected violence, “you have heard a garbled tale--only one side. Now
you shall hear mine,” and standing erect, confronting her daughter, she
poured forth the story of her wrongs, her misery, and her married life.
Her eloquence--the eloquence of a bursting heart--was such, that
even Cara for a moment felt moved, ashamed, yes, and repentant. So
overwhelming was the effect of her mother’s picture of a blighted
youth, a life of solitude, and her passionate attachment to herself,
that Cara for once betrayed into real personal feeling, fell into her
mother’s arms, overcome by a storm of unparalleled emotion.
At last, with sobs and caresses from Letty, murmurs of penitence and
adoration from Cara, mother and daughter, exhausted by this violent
strain, separated at last, to seek what rest they might.
For hours Cara lay watching the window with hard restless eyes, turning
over her mother’s story in her mind, and weighing it remorselessly. As
time passed, her feelings had subsided; it was one thing to be touched
by a beautiful face, an impassioned pleading, and unfortunate history;
it was another, in the dim, pale dawn, to recall facts--remorseless
facts. The fact of the divorce--the fact that her mother had stolen
her--the fact that she was an heiress--the fact that she, Cara, with
all her beauty, good birth, and cravings, was poor and insignificant,
and living on a few francs a week at a detestable old Swiss farm. Of
course, she was fond of the Mum; certainly she was fond of her; and she
had had a horrid life,--but probably she had not known how to manage
people. Probably?--why, of course not--she never could manage anyone!
She, Cara, had her own life to lead, and must strike out for herself.
Meanwhile she resolved to be very kind and good to the Mum,--and to
keep no more trysts. What brutes of men to talk! For the future, she
resolved to remain under her mother’s wing; it would be too ridiculous
for a great heiress to make herself cheap!
Letty as she lay also watching her window, never slept at all; her
thoughts were too active. She recalled Cara’s manner, her callous
admissions, her bombshell, and subsequently her surprising breakdown.
This, she knew from experience, to be but a temporary affair--there had
been former scenes and reconciliations, from which Cara had, as on the
present occasion, emerged victorious!