Читать книгу The Serpent's Tooth - B. M. Croker - Страница 4

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IT must be admitted that November is not an auspicious month for a stranger to make acquaintance with the English country; the trees are bare and leafless, the fields empty and uninteresting, and what can be said for monotonous, muddy roads, cold frosty mornings, and long dark nights?

However, Letty speedily settled into her awarded niche, and endeavoured to make herself at home. She soon became acquainted with the dogs and horses, with her uncle’s little fads, and her aunt’s peculiarities, duly appeared at church, was presented to the parson’s afflicted wife, and made a state call upon Mrs. Hesketh. Also, she did her utmost to be useful; but her well-meaning efforts were not always successful. For instance, with respect to arranging flowers, the schoolgirl had no experience, her vases looked ragged, or in clumps; she lacked the ‘airy, fairy’ touch of an expert—but that, no doubt, would come. Then as to dusting the valuable old china; here again she was something of a failure. In handling a cherished blue plate, it slipped through her fingers as a thing alive, rolled defiantly along a stone passage, and subsided in a dozen pieces. Although Mrs. Fenchurch had picked this up for sevenpence in a village inn, it was a good specimen, and she showed her displeasure and annoyance plainly—in fact so plainly, that Letty wept! However, day by day the new-comer improved; she helped her aunt to feed the fowls, and date and pack the eggs for sale, assisted in the greenhouse, brushed and exercised the dogs, and took an humble and subordinate part in Mrs. Fenchurch’s numerous and absorbing occupations.

The Holt was situated at the extremity of a picturesque village, which consisted of a rambling street of red brick or black and white houses; half-way down this, perched on a high bank, was a fine old church, with its surrounding graveyard; and here and there, were little shops, and quaint signboards, and what had once been a celebrated posting inn—now used for the storage of grain. At the further end of Thornby was a grim-faced Georgian mansion, standing back from the road, its lawn and approach well screened from view by thick laurel hedges; immediately behind the residence, were large and unexpectedly delightful grounds. Mrs. Hesketh, who had occupied Oldcourt for ten years, was a childless widow, with few belongings or intimates; once a notable leader in society, but latterly indifferent health, and serious money losses, had swept her out of the social current, and she had come to Thornby to live near her active cousin, Dolly Fenchurch, possibly in hopes of catching the contagion of her love for a busy rural life. An intellectual woman, and an omnivorous reader, Maude Hesketh dwelt to a great extent within herself; eagerly watching, through the columns of the Press, the great world as it went rolling by.

Once a year she emerged from her retirement, and went to take the waters at Aix; but the remainder of the time she occupied herself with her books, her flowers, and her own thoughts. In spite of her solitude, Mrs. Hesketh was beautifully dressed, she dressed to please and satisfy a dainty, fastidious taste. Her house, too, was refined, and filled with old French furniture, clever impressionist sketches, bibelots, and exquisitely bound books; and although she had lost a considerable part of her income in a notorious financial failure, she was comfortably off, and kept a carriage, which she rarely used. The lady had the reputation of being eccentric, and something of a mystery; chiefly because she held herself studiously aloof from her neighbours, and was said to give herself ridiculous airs! This was a mistake. Mrs. Hesketh did not cultivate local society, simply because it bored her. She was not interested in parish squabbles, county scandals, or domestic servants; but she visited in the village, where she was much beloved by the poor.

To sum her up, Maude Hesketh was a clever, noble-hearted, dissatisfied woman, bitterly disappointed to find that with all her gifts and opportunities, she had made so little of her life. And now, as she would say to herself, “There is no time—it is almost over!”

But to return to The Holt after this digression. The new inmate was beginning to make her presence felt in the household, she was a ready learner, being both keen and adaptable; her aunt’s example and capabilities impressed her enormously; every day, every hour seemed to have its own particular task. Mrs. Fenchurch had a wonderful sense of organisation and routine, and never one moment to spare. Her writing-room was the nucleus of her activities; here on a neat bureau were ‘the books.’ The house books, the village books, the visitor’s book, the clothing club book, the letter book, the garden book, and last but not least—the egg book! A certain amount of this order and energy was imparted to her niece; the mistress of the house knew how to make use of capable subordinates—she would have made an efficient, though not very popular or gracious abbess—was thoroughly practical, and far-reaching—and particularly prided herself on her sense of justice!

As it happened to be good hunting weather, and an open winter, she left Letty at home as often as three days a week, to act as regent, answer messages, visit the greenhouses, and the poultry-yard, attend the sewing club, and exercise the dogs.

Colonel Fenchurch had suggested that his niece should learn to ride. He had even put her up on old Playboy, and taken her round the fields with a leading-rein, declaring that “the girl really had the riding flair—it was her Irish blood no doubt; she was not a bit afraid, and stuck on like a leech,” but his wife had negatived the idea with prompt decision.

“No, no,” she replied; “if Letty began to ride, she’d be wanting a hunter next, and this winter has been so frightfully expensive, what with the new flues in the greenhouse, and the kitchen range, and then I must get her some frocks for Christmas and the balls. She has nothing now, but hideous German clothes—her school-room horrors—but next year,” pursing up her lips, “perhaps—we shall see!”

And meanwhile Colonel Fenchurch gave his niece riding lessons on the sly; he took her out into the fields on off days when his wife was buried in important letters, and exercised the pony that in summer drew the garden mower. (The Holt was celebrated for its lawns of beautiful old turf.) Letty found her gaunt, hard-featured aunt both cold and unresponsive—the typical English character—but oh, so marvellously clever! As for her uncle—who was of her own blood—she adored him, and manifested this affection in many pretty ways; brought him his pipe and matches, folded up his gloves and mufflers, ran for his cap or hunting-crop. Tom Fenchurch liked it; it warmed his old heart to see this charming girl waiting upon him so eagerly; but his wife contemplated such attentions with a frosty eye. In her opinion, Letty was too impulsive and gushing; and she gave her sundry sharp hints and raps, generally accepted in silence and humility—for all her life long the girl was accustomed to the yoke of obedience. Her mental attitude was another affair, and though she loved her uncle, sad to relate niece Letty was now beginning to detest her aunt.

Accepting Letty as a mere child, and no more, Mrs. Fenchurch was astonished to discover that she was highly accomplished (but why not? She had been at school since she was five years old). She played music at sight, was an excellent German scholar, spoke French fluently, and executed most delicate embroideries—but was deplorably ignorant as to the cutting out and manufacture of garments, that were desirable and useful for the clothing club. It was evident that to her, life outside school and school routine was an absolutely unknown land. She had never seen a Meet, never been to a ball, or taken part in any social festivity. However all that would come in good time; meanwhile the girl was no trouble in the house, and proved surprisingly docile; never advanced opinions of her own, and did precisely as she was told. This aspect of her character appealed to Mrs. Fenchurch; there was nothing she enjoyed so keenly as settling the minds, and arranging the plans of others; and Letty, so to speak, left her life, her aims, and her future, entirely at her aunt’s disposal. Her will was really too flexible, she had no self-confidence, and in the anatomy of her individuality there was no such article as the proverbial backbone!

Mrs. Hesketh, who had taken one of her rare fancies to her cousin’s niece, invited her frequently to tea. It amused and interested her to sound the depths of this transparent young soul—to endeavour to draw out the ideas of sweet seventeen.

“My dear child, you are charming,” she declared, “and you are accomplished, but you cannot possibly go through life without a mind and opinion of your own! When I called to take you for a drive the other day, you could not positively say yes or no—but shall I? And then ‘Perhaps I’d better not,’ and then ‘I’m not sure if aunt won’t want me when she comes in,’ and again, ‘I’d like to go above all things, but I’m afraid I’ve kept you so long that I won’t have time to get ready now.’ And at the end, just as I was getting into the carriage, ‘Oh, how I wish I was going with you!’ Now if you continue like this—always standing between two forked roads, what will become of you? At present your aunt decides, but you cannot always be a tender plant, clinging to a stout support, can you?”

“No,” Letty replied; “I see what you mean, and I feel it myself; but all my days have been ordered for me; my clothes have been chosen, my letters read, my books and companions have been the choice of others; I have always walked in the path that was traced for me, and I seem to expect a guiding hand. If I ever had any will of my own—I believe it died years ago.”

“Look here, my good girl,” said Mrs. Hesketh impatiently, “if you have no will of your own, you must grow one! Now I will plant a little seed. You are asked to sing in the Parish Room on Saturday at the Penny Reading. I hear that your answer, since the matter has been left to you, is undecided.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me honestly, would you like to sing—or are you too nervous?”

“I am not the least nervous. I have been accustomed to sing and play at school concerts for years. I was quite a star!” and she laughed gaily; “and I really would like to sing on Saturday if I thought it would give people pleasure; but I have a sort of suspicion, that Aunt Dorothy would rather I didn’t!”

“That’s imagination,” protested Mrs. Hesketh. “Dorothy knows we are badly off for performers, much less stars. It isn’t as if this was to be a big public performance; there will only be the village folk that you see every day, the parson, the doctor, and myself. Now, Letty, look me straight in the face and tell me, do you wish to give these poor people a little pleasure? Will you sing? There must be no shilly-shallying—it’s yes or no—now.”

“Then,” lifting her laughing eyes, “yes.”

“That’s right. Just go over to my writing-table and write a note to Mr. Denton, and tell him that you will sing two songs with pleasure—you can drop it at the Rectory as you pass by.”

Letty rose and did as she was told, with her usual docile obedience, and presently returned with a note in her hand.

“Ah-ha!” said Mrs. Hesketh, giving her a sharp look, “thus we have planted the first seed!”

Saturday evening arrived, the Parish Room was packed to the doors and window-sills, and there was a good deal of clapping when Miss Glyn, radiantly pretty in her white school frock, was led upon the platform by the Rector. Her aunt, sitting in the front row, looked distinctly grim. Letty’s instinct was correct; it was true that she had been fiercely if secretly opposed to this exhibition! she did not wish to see the girl brought forward—at least not yet: Colonel Fenchurch, on the other hand, was the embodiment of triumphant expectation, and was prepared to lead the claque.

When the prelude on the battered village piano had ceased, Miss Glyn opened her pretty mouth, and began to sing “The Sands of Dee.”

Her voice was exquisite; honey-sweet, and full of restrained passion. She gave this most beautiful tragic song, with extraordinary dramatic expression, and yet in a simple, natural fashion, from the authoritative—

“Go, Mary, call the cattle home,”

till where the last words died away in a tremulous, half-stifled sob.

When she ceased, there was an awestruck breathless silence; in fact, you might have heard the fall of the proverbial pin.

What sort of singing was this? people asked themselves. Something new; something that gripped your heart-strings, something wonderful! Then came thunders of applause, shouts and hammerings and stamping with sticks and feet, such as never had been heard within the walls of the Parish School-house, yells of ‘Encore!’ to which the singer smilingly acceded and gave them “Robin Adair.” Again her audience listened with rapture.

Mrs. Fenchurch was equally astonished, and annoyed, by the composure and aplomb of a girl who in every-day life was so timid and retiring. To-night, she presented the confidence and air of a prima donna of twenty years’ experience; but Letty was for once upon solid ground; she knew her own capabilities, and the radiant and acclaimed Miss Glyn, was a totally different individual from the timid, wistful girl, who suffered herself to be scolded and hustled about The Holt.

In short, that evening Miss Glyn made her name, not only as a marvellous singer with a voice which the baker’s wife—who had been to London—compared to Patti’s—but also as a beauty!

Her fame now gradually oozed through the stolid clay surroundings, and reached villages and market towns that were afar off. These learnt, that the prettiest girl in the whole country-side was a little slip of seventeen, who lived in Thornby village.

It was about this period that Mrs. Fenchurch began to feel seriously jealous of her bright and charming inmate; so popular with the neighbours, with the household, and last, but not least—her husband.

She hated to see her looking at him, or speaking to him, with eyes at once innocent and caressing; and as for Tom, he was simply idiotic about his niece; from time to time, he would come into her bedroom, dressed, or half-dressed, as the case might be, to rave of Letty’s perfections and beauty; to descant on her sweet disposition, and to wind up by declaring, “She’s like sunshine in the house.” The poor man was undoubtedly bewitched, and his enthusiasm received but a tepid acknowledgment. (If you really wish to know a woman’s bad points—praise her to another.)

His wife very solemnly and deliberately, enumerated the girl’s many failings. She was unpunctual, she was forgetful, she was untidy—and she was weak. As for him, he was too silly for anything, and was only making himself absolutely ridiculous, and the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood!

But as it happened few of the Neighbourhood (spelt with a capital N) had beheld Colonel Fenchurch’s young relative. County folk do not visit in winter; the great summer gatherings, at cricket matches, tennis, garden parties, and picnics, were over: friends and acquaintances, for the most part, met and exchanged news and gossip in the hunting-field, and for this reason the beautiful flower blooming at The Holt, was so far blushing unseen.

It was Letty’s daily task to take the dogs out for exercise; Sam, the apoplectic pug, Jerry, the impetuous Irish setter, and Locky, the aggressive Aberdeen. One afternoon, as she was plodding along through a muddy lane accompanied by her usual escort, she heard the horn in the distance, and presently the trotting of horses, who were evidently approaching rapidly. And yes, here, coming round a sharp bend, was the whole red-coated hunt.

She hurried into the field with her precious charges, and snatching up the snorting and bewildered pug, established herself behind the gate, from where she could safely watch the cavalcade, as it splashed and pounded by.

A stout, dark-eyed man on a magnificent horse, glanced at her casually, then stared hard—finally he looked back. This individual was Mr. Blagdon, who was enjoying a day’s run, and rather middling sport with the Brakesby pack. He was struck by the figure at the gate; a girl with a beautiful eager face, holding in her arms a struggling dog; but although he made prompt enquiries, not one among his many acquaintances could tell him the name of the young lady in the blue cloak, whom they had passed in Rapstone lane.