The shock of Cara’s desertion prostrated her mother, and for many
days she remained at the Paradis, blanched and shaken, a stricken,
ghost-like guest. Her friend (now completely restored) had taken the
helm of her life in her hands, and was making rapid preparations for
their departure to England.
“My poor dear child,” she said, “I am desperately sorry for you. That
your wound is deep, I know. ‘How sharper than the serpent’s tooth it is
to have a thankless child,’ so said old King Lear; all the same, you
will get over it.”
“No, never, never!” replied Letty with energetic emphasis; and her
voice and face were unrecognisably hard.
“Certainly you will. I speak from experience. When my little boy
died----”
“Your boy!” interrupted Letty, lifting her head; “I never knew you had
a child!”
“I do not speak of him, but he was my treasure: a darling. When he was
three years old he fell out of a window, and was killed before my very
eyes. Then, indeed, I would gladly have laid me down and _died_--but
here I am! trying to encourage you to rise again and plod along the
highway known as Life. If Harry had lived, he would be your age; it
is thirty-five years since they closed the coffin-lid upon his little
angel face. To add to my agony, my husband declared that the accident
was _my_ fault; the child was watching me mounting my horse, he
overbalanced, the nurse grabbed at him, but only his sash, remained in
her hand.”
“How dreadful!” cried her listener with streaming tears.
“Yes, dear, you may weep a little for me; but as for yourself, you must
dry your tears, and enter upon another life.”
It had been mooted on the mountain-side, in farm-houses and cow-houses,
that the rosy-cheeked English girl, claimed by a rich father, had
forsaken the pretty mother who for thirteen years had toiled for her
support. Ah, a _wustus maden_!--(a bad girl).
A surprising amount of kindly sympathy was felt and shown; many little
farewell gifts were left at the Paradis, addressed to ‘Frau Glyn,’ and
one afternoon Letty nerved herself to ascend to Les Plans, for the
last time, in order to take leave of its inmates. There they were, all
ready to welcome her! the Josts, Freda, the Frau herself, and a new
dog--another Karo. In the low-roofed sitting-room, when Letty and Frau
Hurter were alone, she said:
“All my little things here, my chair, and lace pillow, work-basket,
harmonium, and tea-service I hope you will accept.”
“But, _mein liebe Frau_, I never sew or play tunes. I am old, and my
fingers are like wood.”
“Fritz’s wife will be young?”
“Fritz--_ach ye!_ He _knows_. My cousin writes he is as mad, and
off his head; he says he goes to America, he cannot live here,
ever--without _her_. The boy comes to say good-bye in two days, and
then we are forsaken--you and I, by those for whom we would give the
life’s blood.”
“He will get over it, dear Frau. Fritz is so young. Ask him to come and
talk to me, and I will do my best, to persuade him to stay.”
“Yes, it may do good, since he loves you--we can but try,” she paused
to wipe her eyes on her apron; “but as for you, dear lady, my heart
aches. It seems but yesterday, when you stood out there in the garden
in the sunshine a _girl_, with Mitli in your arms. What you have
been to her ever since, the good God, and I, alone know. Now she has
deserted you; try and put her away from your thoughts.--You are still
young, you have your own life.”
“I am going to make another home; but what can replace a _child_?”
cried Letty, rising as she spoke. “I want to see her room, and settle
about her things.”
“Her room is dusted and in order, otherwise as she left it. We will go
there now,” and Frau Hurter climbed the stairs, and threw open the door
into an empty chamber.
There were Cara’s familiar frocks hanging on familiar hooks; her
silver-backed hair-brushes (a birthday gift) on the dressing-table;
a hat with the pins still sticking in it, as it had been cast down,
lay on the bed. There was a little writing-table and blotter--both
spattered with ink--and peeping in at the window that hoary old pear
tree--the accomplice of the girl in her midnight flights.
“_Ach ye!_” exclaimed Frau Hurter in a lachrymose key, “there is
the blouse you made her; the skirt you embroidered, the little
slippers.--Freda and I will pack everything, and send them down by
Jost.”
“No, no; I could not bear to see them again,” protested Letty, making
an effort to choke back her tears. “Please _keep_ all, except the books
and writing materials, and personal treasures,” gathering them together
in feverish haste.
“Here are dozens and dozens of letters,” announced Frau Hurter, who was
diving into a deep drawer.
“What of them, _meine Frau_?”
“Let them go too.”
“To England! Why not burn them?”
“No, no, we will stuff them into this silk work-bag, and tie them
securely--let the child have all she _values_. I will send a maid
to-morrow to pack, and forward everything to London.” After a pause,
and a last look round, she added, “I have been very, very happy here,
dear Frau, and I love your country--but I am leaving it in a few
days,--never to return.”
The two women clasped hands, and Frau Hurter, the stony-faced, suddenly
drew her fellow-sufferer into her bony embrace, and kissed her with a
sort of dry and concentrated passion.
As Letty walked down the hill that lovely September evening, she halted
for a farewell look at the gleaming lake and range of mountains--a
scene beloved and familiar as the face of a dear friend. How many
hundred times had she climbed this well-worn path--since the day she
had first carried Cara to the farm! Here on this very spot, the little
plateau under the pear trees, had Cara thrown her arms about her,
assuring her with warm kisses that “she would never, never, _never_
leave her own darling Mum!”
As a pair of sad eyes, rested on the matchless prospect, the sun was
setting behind Pilatus,--who stood forth grim and rugged, against
a flaming background of red and gold--a glorious afterglow spread
itself over the slopes of the Rigi, changing its strata of granite
to rose-colour, the intervening pastures to a cloudy blue. Then very
gradually, as if by the touch of a magic wand, a delicate ethereal haze
dissolved the entire scene into an exquisite shade of amethyst,--the
curtain had fallen, and a glorious September day, was numbered with the
past.
The air was still: the sleepy tinkling of a little stream, a far-away
hoot of some steamer approaching a landing-stage, the faint sound of a
chapel bell were the only sounds that broke a curiously reverent, and
impressive silence.
Presently beautiful Hesperus, wrapped in her misty mantle, came
gliding along the mountain-tops, and hung her bright star in the sky,
and Letty continued her way.
* * * * *
Blagdon’s arrivals and departures were notoriously abrupt, and after a
busy and exciting three days in Paris, he appeared in Hill Street with
his unheralded companion; looking forward with a sort of brutal glee to
‘taking a splendid rise out of old Connie.’ He had merely announced his
immediate return, ‘bringing a friend.’
It was eight o’clock when he entered his smoking-room, closely
attended by Cara (who had been not a little impressed by her father’s
wealth, the appearance of the home, and its group of silent, dignified
men-servants--a home where _she_ was to reign as mistress). Here,
sunken in an arm-chair, with a dog on her lap, a cigarette in her
mouth, a sporting paper in her hand, they discovered Lady Rashleigh.
She was greatly changed; her figure was shapeless, her hair a foxy
grey, her skin coarse, and deeply lined--altogether, especially in a
shabby deshabille, she deservedly earned the adjective ‘Blowsy.’ Yet
at race meetings, in a well-cut coat and handsome furs, Con Rashleigh
was still regarded as a wonderful woman for sixty--pity she had let her
figure go!
“Hullo, Blag!” she exclaimed, as she removed her cigarette, “so here
you are! Have you seen this Handicap--why--who’s this?” surveying her
niece with an aggressive stare. Hugo occasionally introduced startling
acquaintances. “Who have we here?” throwing down the Pom, and rising
heavily to her feet.
The stranger was a tall, handsome girl with a vague resemblance to
someone--why, to Letty, to be sure! In an illuminating flash she saw
it all! Blag had sprung one of his jokes on her, and brought home the
daughter!
“It’s only my little girl,” he announced with indescribable pride;
“five-foot-six in her stockings. She has chucked Switzerland, and come
to live with me.”
“Ah, so this is Cara,” drawing her towards her as she spoke.
_Ciel!_ How her aunt smelt of whisky, and tobacco;--just like a man,
thought the girl as she passively submitted to her kisses.
“Why did you not prepare me? Why keep this pleasure to yourself?”
continued Lady Rashleigh with ostentatious composure.--In that brief
moment she had decided to be civil to the new-comer, and make no
_scene_. Hugo was undoubtedly struck, but his fancies never lasted; he
would tire of his novelty before the month was out, and she resolved to
sit tight in Hill Street--the flat was let. This well-grown interloper
knew nothing of English society, and she determined to keep her in the
background, and rule her, as she had done the pink-cheeked little fool,
her mother.
But it was not long--in fact, less than five minutes--before Connie
Rashleigh discovered her mistake. Cara was a true chip of the old
block, as hard and ruthless as herself, and with all the cocksureness
and cruelty of youth. The girl’s manner was self-possessed, she talked
glibly of Paris and their journey, and became surprisingly animated
as she volubly described her new gowns. Meanwhile, her father looked
on with swelling pride. His eyes seemed to ask, Was there ever such a
complexion? such hair? such teeth? Connie Rashleigh stared and listened
with a feeling of dismal apprehension--which apprehension proved to
be but too well founded, when at a hint from her father, Cara, in a
trailing tea-gown, sailed into the dining-room before her aunt, and
sank into a chair at the head of the table.
“Cara is beginning as she is to go on,” explained Hugo. “She is
installed as the mistress of the house--the robes, and the keys--eh,
Cara?”
His methods were ever blunt: his idea of diplomacy a bludgeon!
And Lady Rashleigh, choking with impotent fury, was compelled to
subside into a place at the side of the board, with what appetite and
grace she could assume.
“Champagne, Carter--the ’94,” commanded his master; “we will drink Miss
Blagdon’s health and welcome.”
From this hour war--internecine, secret, and deadly--was declared
between aunt and niece; but the victory was ever to the young. Cara
ruled her father, dominated the household, and openly despised her
predecessor.
Cara was a ‘female bounder,’ in the opinion of that lady, and
brutally selfish. She ‘grabbed’ everything: the best room, the use
of the motor, the carriage, the pick of Mudie’s books, and the most
comfortable chairs. She poured out tea, did the honours with amazing
self-possession, and left her aunt to enjoy the agreeable sensation of
being the odd one out,--and that, in the house in which she had been
born!
Hugo had a few words to say to his sister with respect to the new
mistress.
“Look here, old girl, you must make it all right for Cara. Take her
round the Scrope lot, and write to those in the country, and tell them
she is with me. I want her to get a flying start; and you know on
which side your bread is buttered,” he added with blunt significance
and doubtful taste. “After Christmas we are going to Monte Carlo, and
you must trot back to your own flat; the girl says this house wants
doing up, and that the curtains and paper in the drawing-room, make her
sea-sick.”
The curtains and paper, Lady Rashleigh’s joy and delight, had been her
own selection!
Mr. Blagdon did not (as his sister had hopefully anticipated) tire
of his new discovery; on the contrary, he was blatantly proud of his
daughter, of her youth, good looks, and animal spirits. She was not
a success among her grandmother’s set (and a little cowed by that
old lady), but for the sake of the family, they accepted this loud,
bouncing young person--they shrank from further scandal. The girl
carried herself well, knew how to dress, spoke French fluently, and
danced admirably. She might have been _worse_! Who could believe, that
she had been brought up on a Swiss farm? but then, these dear ladies
had no experience of the modern education which is afforded in Swiss
schools.
This quick-witted, adaptable damsel, soon picked up society and racing
jargon; she had the aplomb of a woman of thirty, ruled her adoring
father, banished her unruly aunt, patronised--yes, patronised, the
Slaters, and overawed Lord Robby--in short, a domestic Queen Elizabeth!
It was a cruel blow to poor Lady Rashleigh to be compelled to abandon
her luxurious home, the use of a motor, gifts of money, and the loan of
jewels, in order to make way for a bold, aggressive young woman, who
was said to bear a resemblance to herself! She retired in deplorably
low spirits to what she was pleased to call ‘her lair.’ A six-roomed
flat, with two good sitting-rooms, two small bedrooms, and the usual
black hole for the accommodation of servants. Cara paid her aunt a
prompt visit--inspired by curiosity, not affection. The suite, shabby
and dusty, commanded an extensive view of a garage; the drawing-room
was well furnished, but had the rakish air of a _passée_ beauty; and
sofas and cabinets, (evident spoil from Sharsley,) blocked up too much
space. The bedroom,--also encumbered by Sharsley furniture, seemed to
be half filled with piles of shabby cardboard boxes of all sizes; here
too were dozens of dusty medicine bottles, ragged novels, old shoes,
and on the dressing-table, a coil of false hair, cigarette ashes, a
syphon, and the latest edition of _Ruff_. Two little barking Poms ran
in and out; and a gloomy cook, with arms akimbo, stood in the kitchen
doorway staring with lowering eyes. Everything was untidy, neglected,
and squalid. No wonder Aunt Con preferred to hang on in Hill Street!
And so the months passed, and Cara tasted intoxicating delights of
which she had merely dreamt. Among her father’s associates, Miss
Blagdon enjoyed _un grand succès_. Here was no shrinking, awkward
hostess, but one whose dancing, skating, riding, and repartee found
many admirers,--whilst her influence over an adoring parent was paraded
with noisy ostentation. As for her mother--she stored her comfortably
away in the remotest garret of her mind. They had met once; it happened
in a block in Piccadilly. Cara, queening it in a huge open motor,
with furs and rug of sable; her mother and Mrs. Hesketh in a station
omnibus, with luggage on top. She had stared at her Mum, and the Mum
had bowed, but Cara was so taken aback by the unexpected encounter,
that she forgot to return the salute; then there was a violent jerk,
the policeman had given a signal, and the omnibus passed on.
What a thing to have happened--she had actually cut her own mother. How
funny!