Читать книгу The Serpent's Tooth - B. M. Croker - Страница 3

Table of Contents

COLONEL FENCHURCH stood on his own hearthstone—that is to say, the smoking-room rug—with his back to the fire, and a cup of tea in his hand. He was a good-looking dapper little man, with a neat white moustache, a cheery voice, and an unfailing flow of talk.

“I say, Doodie,” turning to a lady in a splashed habit, who was meditatively consuming buttered toast, “weren’t the roads beastly? Just look at my boots and leathers!”

Doodie, his wife, nodded, but made no other reply.

“A clinking run,” he continued, “and a lot of those thrusters got left—you went well—eh?—that was a nasty place out of the round plantation!—on the whole—a good hard day!”

Once more his better-half inclined her hatted head; evidently her mind was preoccupied. She was staring fixedly at a certain pattern in the carpet, with a remote and far-away gaze; a plain weather-beaten lady whose age—much discussed among her acquaintances—was probably five-and-forty; her habit displayed a slight square-shouldered figure; a pot hat pushed to the back of her head disclosed the inevitable red mark, a long but aristocratic nose, and a clever resolute countenance.

Dorothy Fenchurch was a notable example of the strong-willed active woman, mated to a weak, easy-going, good-tempered man: and the match had proved a conspicuous success. In the opinion of Tom Fenchurch, no wife in the County was fit to hold a candle to his wonderful Dorothy—what a housekeeper, horsewoman, companion!—and for her part, his Dorothy was contented. Greedy of influence, social and domestic, she thoroughly enjoyed the rôle of manager and mentor. How much more satisfactory to rule in a small establishment, and over a limited circle, than to languish at home, the insignificant member of an important house, who kept their women-folk inflexibly in the background; and so it came to pass that twelve years previously, the Honourable Dorothy Claremont bestowed her hand and her fortune on agreeable Colonel Fenchurch, who had little to offer her, besides his handsome face, his retired pay, and his heart.

The couple had settled down in a ramshackle old house, in a ramshackle old village in the Midlands, inconveniently remote from the railway, but within easy reach of the principal Meets of a well-known sporting pack. The bride’s relations—who had not favoured the alliance—shrugged their shoulders and commiserated ‘poor Dorothy.’ They little knew that ‘poor Dorothy,’ now thoroughly free and independent, was as happy as the day was long!

Here, in the sleepy hamlet of Thornby, the Honble. Mrs. Fenchurch soon made her presence felt. She, so to speak, ‘took hold’ with both hands; stirred up the villagers, the parson, and the doctor; improved the old manor out of all recognition—and that at no great expense.

This energetic lady had the good fortune to discover a priceless treasure in the village carpenter, and he and a journeyman mason, a few odd men, with Mrs. Fenchurch as architect, threw out a window here, shut up a door there, and boldly altered the principal staircase. By and by when visitors arrived to call, and were beholders of these amazing triumphs, more than one exclaimed:

“Why on earth did we not think of taking The Holt, and doing it up? It is perfectly delightful—who would have guessed at its capabilities?”

But these envious folk never considered that its present tenant was endowed with an unusual supply of brains, enterprise, and courage. She was a born decorator, a skilled upholsteress, and had a positive genius for gardening. Before long, the attractions of The Holt were famous within a radius of ten miles—Mrs. Fenchurch seemed to know exactly where to find the prettiest chintzes, the most unique furniture, the newest roses; and her cleverness in picking up prizes in old curiosity shops had become a proverb. It was said, that in a back street of the county town she had actually bought a wonderful old Chippendale sideboard for fifteen shillings—but this would appear to be incredible.

For twelve years The Holt was acknowledged to be one of the pleasantest houses in the County, its inmates the most popular, important, and influential couple of the neighbourhood, and here Doodie Fenchurch (with good-natured Tom as her consort) reigned alone and supreme.

But now a change was imminent; a princess was about to enter into this kingdom—yes, and to enter within half an hour. Possibly this was why its mistress seemed so unusually silent and distrait.

The only sister of Colonel Fenchurch had made a runaway match with a harum-scarum Irishman, who was killed in India, leaving his widow almost penniless. She died soon afterwards, and the unnecessary infant who ought to have accompanied her mother, survived to be supported by the Fenchurch family—themselves uncomfortably impecunious. Now this girl was seventeen, and in spite of Mrs. Fenchurch’s lamentations, protestations, and suggestion that she should remain another year, Letty Glyn had left school, and was on her way to take up her abode with darling Uncle Tom, and dearest Aunt Dorothy.

Apparently dearest Aunt Dorothy was not warmly enthusiastic respecting her niece by marriage; but she was a woman who sedulously studied appearances. If Tom’s niece were turned out to earn her bread as companion or governess, what a talk there would be! There was positively no alternative, the girl must make her home at The Holt, in the character of le fâcheux troisième.

As a child, Letty had promised to be rather pretty, and Mrs. Fenchurch believed that with her own social advantages, she would marry her off ere long; but before arriving at this happy period, she resolved to make the poor relation useful in the house. She should dust china, arrange flowers, pour out tea, help in the garden, and take over the Mothers’ Sewing Club. Her own hands were more than full both at home and abroad (indeed, the influence of Mrs. Fenchurch now radiated far and wide), she was secretary here, treasurer and chairwoman there, and was often sorely pressed for time. Oh yes, Letty would have her uses; but all the same a girl in the house—a girl, who was always en evidence, to whom one must be a sort of model and sheep dog, would undoubtedly be an intolerable nuisance.

“I say,” began her husband, breaking in upon her reflections. She looked up at him quickly. “Isn’t Letty due about now? Six-thirty?”

“Oh yes, if the train is pretty punctual; but you know what these cross lines are.”

“Do you think she will be a little hurt at no one going to meet her—eh?”

“Hurt! My dear boy, what nonsense!”

“Well, of course, hunting is hunting, and Garfield Cross is our best meet. By the way, I suppose you sent the brougham? It’s an uncommonly cold, raw night.”

“The brougham? Certainly not! I sent the governess-car—yes,” in answer to his exclamation. “You see, dear, Collins has had three horses to do up—you know you had out two—you extravagant man, and I really couldn’t ask him to leave them all to James, so the boy took the car with the garden pony, and her luggage will come up to-morrow by the market-cart.”

“I say, old girl,” suddenly putting down his cup and going over to her, “it’s not a very warm reception, eh? The child has not been near us this five years—and it’s a long journey from Dresden, eh?” Then, in another and more caressing tone, he added, “You will be good to her, Doodie darling, won’t you? You can make it so awfully nice, if you like to, you know!”

“Am I not always what you call ‘good’ to my guests?” she demanded rather sharply.

“Oh, hang it all, Doodie, but she won’t be a guest! Letty is one of us, eh—isn’t she, old woman? Of course, I know it’s hard on you, and she has only her little bit of a pension; but a girl in the house will be cheery, eh? And you’ll take to her, I know,” and he put his arm round her neck, and gazed into her shrewd, thin face, and repeated, “Eh, darling, won’t you?”

Just at this moment the door opened, and a formal voice announced ‘Mrs. Hesketh.’

Mrs. Hesketh, a middle-aged lady with a stately carriage and the remains of great beauty, entered just in time to witness the caressing attitude of Colonel Fenchurch.

“We have had a row, you see!” he explained to the visitor with the gaiety of a schoolboy; “the old woman and I have had a shake-up, and been making it up—she will pound me out hunting. I call it deuced bad form, eh?”

Mrs. Hesketh, a widowed cousin who lived in the only other ‘house’ in the village, carefully removed her heavy sables before she replied.

“I should think, Tom, that you are used to that by this time. Had you had a good day?”

“Ripping!”

“Many out?”

“Oh, the usual lot, and Hugo Blagdon. By Jove! he does have wonderful cattle. I hear he pays as much as five hundred for a hunter. Yes, and he can ride them too,” he added with unusual generosity.

“But what brings him over to this side?” enquired Mrs. Hesketh with languid curiosity.

“He’s only staying at the ‘Black Cock’ at Ridgefield for a week or so—it’s more central than Sharsley. Sharsley is a good bit out of the way for everything; seven miles from a railway station—monstrous, isn’t it in these days?”

“Yes, but we need not boast. Sharsley is a lovely old place; I shouldn’t mind living there myself!”

“No,” he answered with a laugh; “and a heap of other ladies will say ditto to Mrs. Hesketh, eh, Doodie?” appealing to his wife.

“I can’t think what’s keeping her,” was the irrelevant reply.

Mrs. Hesketh stared at her cousin with grave-eyed interrogation.

“Oh, I mean Letty Glyn, Tom’s niece, you know, Maudie. Didn’t I tell you that we expect her this evening, by the two o’clock from St. Pancras?”

“So you did; and she is coming to stay for some time?”

“To live with us altogether,” eagerly amended Colonel Fenchurch. “She is an orphan, the daughter of my poor sister Kathleen.”

Mrs. Hesketh glanced from him to his wife, but Mrs. Fenchurch’s expression was blank and noncommittal; she rose, walked to the fire, and brushed the crumbs from her habit into the fender.

“We are her only relations,” continued Colonel Fenchurch.

“Except her father’s people, who are paupers,” corrected a thin, high-pitched treble from the fire-place. “Irish paupers—with nothing to live on but family pride.”

“If she is like my poor sister, she ought to be a beauty,” urged her uncle, and his tone was anxious and conciliatory.

“She was some way from that when we last saw her,” declared his wife, turning to face them; “a long-legged creature, with a pair of sunken eyes and quantities of tousled hair. Of course, she may have improved,” she added tolerantly; “and,” with a glance at her husband’s chiselled profile, “I hope she will take after the Fenchurch family. A girl with a pretty face does get such a splendid start.”

“She does,” agreed Mrs. Hesketh, whose own beautiful face had been her fortune; “but if she hasn’t something to back it up in the way of character, or brains, or charm,—it’s not so much of a start, after all.”

“Hullo—wheels!” announced Colonel Fenchurch. “Here she is!” and he dashed into the hall.

“I think I ought to go,” murmured the visitor, reaching for her boa; “this is a family affair,” she added with a smile.

“And you are one of the family, Maudie,” declared Mrs. Fenchurch, laying a strong detaining hand upon her arm; “so you must stay.” Then, removing her hat, which she tossed on the sofa, she was about to follow her husband, when the door was thrown wide, and Colonel Fenchurch advanced into the room, beaming with pride, and leading a tall girl in a fur-lined cloak, who looked both timid and tired.

“My dear Letty, how late you are!” exclaimed her aunt, taking both her hands in hers and pecking her on the cheek; “and how frozen!”

“There was a slight accident which delayed us,” explained the girl nervously.

“Now, then, give me your cloak, and have some tea, and tell us all about it,” said her uncle, fussing round her.

“I am afraid the tea is rather cold,” said Mrs. Fenchurch, moving towards the tea equipage; “but we will have some more at once,” and she rang the bell violently.

“Maudie, this is my niece Lettice,” said Colonel Fenchurch, presenting her with ceremony. “Letty, Mrs. Hesketh is our nearest neighbour and your aunt’s cousin, and I hope you may find a corner in her heart.”

“My dear, you must be perished,” said the lady kindly. “Why, I declare you are positively shivering!”

“Oh no, no,” she protested, whilst her uncle helped her to remove her wrap. “This room is delightfully warm.”

“Now, Letty, take off your hat,” he urged eagerly.

“I am afraid my hair is dreadfully untidy,” but she nevertheless removed a fur cap, and bared a head of beautiful light brown hair, which exhibited a natural wave.

“So you have had a long journey,” continued Mrs. Hesketh.

“Yes, nearly two days—we all travelled together—I mean the girls at my school—as far as London.”

“And the crossing?”

“Oh,” with a quick, expressive gesture, “dreadful! I’d rather not think of it! Sometimes the boat stood upright!”

“Come tell us about your railway accident,” said her uncle cheerfully.

“It was really nothing,” she answered; “we ran past another train that had been shunted, and the end of it caught our carriage doors, or something—at any rate we were nearly shaken off the line. It gave us a shock, for we were travelling fast, and were dreadfully mixed up in our compartment.”

“And who were you mixed up with?” he enquired jocosely.

“The young man in the opposite seat,” and she coloured and laughed. “He wore an enormously thick ulster, and so I wasn’t a bit hurt.”

“And afterwards?”

“We had all to get out and wait at a tiny station for more than an hour—such a bare miserable——”

“Do you take sugar?” interrupted Mrs. Fenchurch, with the tongs in her hand.

“Yes, if you please, aunt—one lump.”

“Then here is your tea at last, and some nice hot toast,” said Colonel Fenchurch, approaching. As he sat down beside her he said, “And how did you and the young man continue the acquaintance so violently begun?”

“He asked me if I was hurt—that was all.”

“The least he could do! Why, bless my soul, he might have knocked all your front teeth down your throat, or put out one of your eyes—and then he would have had to marry you, eh?”

“I am sure he wouldn’t have agreed to that,” she answered gaily.

“He might go further, and fare worse,” rejoined her uncle, with a proud and significant glance at his wife, who had now approached the sofa.

“Of course, you left your luggage at Tatton, Letty?”

“Yes, Aunt Dorothy; I only brought up my dressing-bag. The boy gave me your message.”

“That was right. And now, as soon as you feel a little rested, I will take you upstairs. Your quarters are at the top of the house, but large and sunny—with a funny little staircase all to yourself!”

“I am sure it is charming, aunt,” rising as she spoke; “it will be delightful to have not only a staircase, but a whole room to myself,” and with a pretty little foreign curtsey to Mrs. Hesketh, the girl collected her wraps and followed Mrs. Fenchurch into the hall.

“Well, what do you think of her, eh?” enquired Colonel Fenchurch, retiring to the hearth-rug as to a vantage ground, and sticking his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat.

“She is lovely,” replied his companion, after a moment’s deliberation. “When one sees a girl so fresh, so exquisite, and so unconscious, one cannot help thinking of the quotation, ‘What of the lovers in the hidden years?’”

“Lovers be hanged!” he exclaimed irritably. “Letty is too young yet—we shall keep her with us as long as we can. She seems as simple as a child, doesn’t she?—and rather shy?”

“I fancy she is one of those girls who develop slowly. Her age may be seventeen, but in experience of life probably she is not more than ten or twelve.”

“Lots of girls know their way about the world at seventeen, and are one too many for many a man,” declared Colonel Fenchurch; “but I remember that my sister, ten years my junior, was extraordinarily young in her ideas, easily influenced, ready to be ordered about, and as obedient as if she were a kid. She never knew her own mind—or had any fixed opinions—except about Glyn. He made up her mind, and ordered her to run away with him, a handsome, reckless, dare-devil. They went out to India to his regiment, and he was killed within a year up on the frontier, some fool-hardy exploit, or he would be alive now.”

“And take his daughter off your hands,” suggested the lady.

“Oh, well, I am happy and proud to adopt his daughter—especially since I have none of my own.”

He paused, and stared down into the fire; his companion well knew that this was the one grief of his married life. Tom loved children, and was ever the most popular and entertaining guest at their dances and amusements; he longed to hear the patter of quick little feet up and down The Holt’s uneven passages. Doodie, his wife, had never shared this craving—the whole County was, so to speak, her child. Possibly she would not have objected to a fine clever boy, who excelled at games and was a brilliant success as a prize-winner, but a large family of daughters—no, thank you! Her husband, on the contrary, had a particular partiality for girls. Often, as he smoked a solitary pipe in the fire-light, with half-closed eyes, he seemed to see a golden-haired darling, the daughter of his dreams, sitting on the hearth-rug, or standing by the window. And here to-day, had actually come to him, the realisation of his visions!

“I do hope—I do hope——” he began, then hesitated.

Mrs. Hesketh raised her dark discontented eyes to his, and murmured an interrogative “Yes?”

After a momentary struggle between inclination and discretion, he continued, “Between you and me, Maudie,” lowering his voice to a whisper, “I hope to goodness that Doodie will take to her!”