Читать книгу The Serpent's Tooth - B. M. Croker - Страница 6

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THE great day dawned at last; the day of the Hunt Ball, which took place annually in the Town Hall of Ridgefield, and was attended by everybody who was anyone—and many nobodies.

Letty’s white crêpe, completed with her assistance, was charming; soft, girlish, and yet distinguished—for her mental eye had copied it from one of the trousseau gowns of a young and royal princess.

Mrs. Fenchurch, who was not remarkable for her taste in dress, wore a ginger-coloured velvet, with opal ornaments; but she carried herself with dignity and looked a Claremont, and a personage! Colonel Fenchurch, in his pink coat, black satin breeches, and neat silk stockings, squeezed himself into the brougham, with many compliments for his two companions.

The town of Ridgefield was eight miles away, and as the family bowled along the road at a steady pace, the Colonel dozed, his wife meditated with closed eyes; but their niece all the time stared out on the brown hedges and bare ditches, which were illuminated by the flashing carriage lamps. Of what was she thinking? Was it possible that she was wondering if Lancelot Lumley would be at the ball?

The Holt party were somewhat late arrivals, and when the carriage drew up under an awning in front of the Town Hall, the first to step out and run the gauntlet of many spectators was Colonel Fenchurch. He had a remarkably well-turned leg, and looked particularly spruce. His wife followed with impressive deliberation, and last of all came the young lady in white. Her appearance was greeted with a loud murmur, as she floated up the steps in the wake of her relations.

As they left the cloak-room, Mrs. Fenchurch, who had received many greetings, was confronted with a lady in a superb sable cloak; a handsome woman with flashing black eyes, and wearing in her hair a magnificent diamond ornament.

“Oh, Mrs. Fen,” she exclaimed, “how are you? Going strong, eh?” Then her eyes suddenly alighted on Mrs. Fen’s companion, and she gave her a hard, critical stare.

“Ah, I suppose this little girl is the niece? going to take her preliminary canter?” and with a patronising nod, she passed on to the dressing-room.

Letty encountered her aunt’s eye, who, seizing her arm to lead her forward, said:

“That is Mrs. Flashman, a wonderful rider, but an odious, detestable creature, who slams gates, jostles you at fences, and swears at her horses, and her servants.”

Two minutes later, Miss Glyn found herself with a programme in her hand, standing in the ball-room. This was beautifully decorated, a military band was established in the gallery, and the sides of the room and a sort of platform at the upper end were densely crowded with guests. Others were promenading up and down impatiently awaiting the next waltz. Many neighbours had brought large house-parties, whose smart gowns and splendid jewels, gave an air of London society to the Brakesley Hunt Ball.

Mrs. Fenchurch paced slowly towards the dais. On her way, she encountered several acquaintances, and introduced her niece to Lord Seafield—a thin young man with a very prominent nose and no chin—to Sir Edgar Broome, the M.F.H., and to the Dowager Duchess of Campshire.

Before ascending the platform, she was accosted by Lancelot Lumley, who came forward eagerly, programme in hand, and said:

“I hope Miss Glyn can spare me a couple of waltzes?”

Miss Glyn promptly produced her programme, and he scribbled his initials before three. The next, which was just beginning, the one before supper, and number twelve.

Mrs. Fenchurch looked on with glum disapproval. Three dances to an impecunious subaltern! But she could not offer any audible objection, and as the band struck up he said:

“Shall we make a start now before the room gets crammed?” and light as a feather the young lady was whirled away, and the elder was compelled to mount to the platform alone. But from this and other coigns of vantage, the extraordinary beauty of Miss Glyn was soon remarked. Indeed, her own chaperon, as she surveyed her through her best gold glasses, assured herself, that she had never until now realised the girl’s astonishing good looks! Of course dress went a long way, so did youth—and candle-light; but Letty’s profile was perfect, her complexion, the shape of her face, the setting on of her head, were beyond criticism—and then her grace!

As Dorothy Fenchurch watched the white form revolving round and round, she began to experience an intoxicating sensation; the stimulating conviction was borne in upon her, that she had a valuable prize to offer in the marriage market!

Seen just at home, running about in her school frocks and garden apron, Letty was merely a pretty girl, with lots of hair, and a good complexion; here, in the midst of the magnates of the land, she was the beauty of the evening! People—her neighbours—gathered about Mrs. Fenchurch and began to talk, discussing local news, the recent weather, the various notable magnates who had honoured the ball.

“I say, Mrs. Fen, have you noticed the lovely nymph in white and silver?” enquired the Secretary of the Hunt. “I haven’t seen anything so exquisite for years; do let me show her to you?”

“There is no occasion, thank you, she is my niece, Miss Glyn,” proclaimed the uplifted aunt.

“What—your niece?” echoed a matron. “Why, my dear lady, where have you kept her all this time?”

“She has only been with us about two months.”

“And you have defrauded us of two months,” burst in a young man. “Mrs. Fen, how dared you?”

“No, no,” protested Mrs. Flashman of the bold eyes and a scandalously décolleté dress. “Mrs. Fenchurch is a clever woman. She understands the art of an effective surprise!”

By this time the music had ceased, and Miss Glyn, a little breathless and looking radiantly happy, was brought back to her aunt—now encompassed by a number of men clamouring for introductions. In the midst of this triumphant scene, a square-shouldered individual, perfectly groomed, with the blue of his strong beard showing through his heavy, clean-shaven face, stepped up on the platform. It was the psychological moment! Here was the girl he had noticed at the gate, surrounded by competitive partners, and he said to himself, “No wonder!” This dazzling vision in white and silver, eclipsed every woman in the room! He accosted Mrs. Fenchurch with unusual empressement, and then glanced interrogatively at her companion.

“Oh, let me present you to my niece—Mr. Blagdon—Miss Glyn,” she murmured with effusive haste.

“Got any dances to spare?” he asked with an off-hand air.

“Yes,” she answered; “I have two or three left—but——”

“Are you engaged for the next?” he interrupted brusquely.

As this happened to be a set of Lancers, she breathed a reluctant “No.”

“Oh, then I may have it?” he declared, confronting her with a bold and confident eye. As she yielded her card, he wrote himself down for this, as well as two others (which Letty had secretly been keeping for Lancelot Lumley). “H. Blagdon” was also marked before an extra; but a man with many thousands a year is granted a liberal margin. Mrs. Fenchurch was looking on; her eyes glittered, a real colour came into her thin cheeks. Supposing that he had taken a fancy to Letty? It would be too wonderful to think of! The most promising suitor she had allowed herself to expect, was some officer from a neighbouring depôt; but then, until that evening she had never fully understood the value of the treasure she had hidden at The Holt. Now, her ambition, determination, and energy, were stirred, and she was resolved that Letty should make a great match. Everyone knew that Hugo Blagdon ‘barred girls’: he never noticed them, never danced with them—indeed, he rarely danced at all—generally he sat in a remote corner with some notorious married woman—yet here he was, filling up the programme of her niece, and devouring her shy beauty with his hard, bold eyes.

Undoubtedly most people liked to look at Letty. Was there ever such a perfect little nose, such a short upper lip, delicately cut mouth, or sweeping black lashes?

Presently the Lancers struck up, and Blagdon, offering his arm, conducted his partner down the room, as it were in triumph; undoubtedly she was the star of the evening! As he passed along, he noticed that the eyes of everyone were fixed upon his companion. This was just the sort of girl that would suit him for a wife! a girl so remarkable, so absolutely perfect in appearance, that all the jealous world would stare at her open-mouthed.

Having invited an aristocratic vis-à-vis, they took their places in a set and danced. Blagdon found Miss Glyn shy—she had not much to say for herself. With difficulty he gathered that she didn’t hunt, had only lately left school, and was seventeen last birthday; but it was sufficiently agreeable for him to feel that she was the cynosure of all eyes, and that he was the envy of every man in the room!

Mrs. Flashman, who was in the same set, swam hither and thither in her gorgeous French gown, and now and then darted glances of sarcastic amusement at her friend Hugo and the little baby; and whispered en passant in the Grand Chain:

“Where is the bread and butter?”

The remainder of that evening was, from her aunt’s point of view, an uninterrupted triumph for Letty: a number of influential people had begged to make her acquaintance; envious and rancorous rivals—mothers of large families, had uttered spiteful things about Hugo Blagdon. He had taken her niece to supper, had only danced with her that night, and when not dancing, had posted himself where he could keep her in view—all of which signs and tokens even the most comatose chaperon could not fail to note! Oh, it was undoubtedly a case.

Had Letty enjoyed her first ball? She was not sure. She enjoyed dancing with Mr. Lumley and with various other young men; she enjoyed the band, and the ices, and loved dancing for dancing’s sake, but somehow there seemed to be between Mr. Lumley and Mr. Blagdon a sharp but secret conflict for her company. When she was swinging round in the arms of Mr. Lumley, she was aware that the other was watching them closely; and when it was Blagdon’s dance he stalked up and claimed her with an air of appropriation, that she found both disagreeable and disconcerting.

However she danced the last waltz that evening with the soldier—who informed her that he had come all the way from Aldershot on purpose to claim her promise! He was so good-looking, he had a charming voice and such nice eyes; little Letty’s heart beat quickly, and the colour came into her cheeks.

“Give my love to Aunt Harriet,” he said; “and tell her that I will run over and see her before very long, and stay three or four days.”

For a moment the girl felt ecstatically happy, inspired by an unreasoning joy and strangely moved and uplifted; but it was Mr. Blagdon who escorted her to have a cup of soup at the buffet before she departed, who stared at her with an expression that frightened her, and who conducted her down to the entrance hall through a long line of spectators. And never had Letty known her aunt to be so gracious, so affectionate, or in such talkative good-humour; she had actually called her ‘darling!’

“I hope you are well wrapped up,” she urged; “take care of your dress, darling.”

“And mind you take great care of her,” supplemented Blagdon at the carriage window. He held out his hand to Letty, kept hers an unnecessary length of time, and squeezed it painfully ere he closed the door of the brougham and they drove off. The last object she beheld, thrown into sharp relief by the glaring lamps and red carpet, was his hard, staring brown eyes, his stolid, complacent face, and she sank into her corner with a sigh of relief. Thank goodness she would never see him again!

She was to hear of him, however! On the way home her aunt loudly sang the praises of Hugo Blagdon, the richest man in the county. He had the most lovely place, and was so popular; he had travelled a great deal, and owned a yacht and a coach, indeed everything—just like a prince in a fairy tale. During all these eulogiums and dazzling descriptions Colonel Fenchurch maintained an unusual silence.

“What do you think of him, Letty?” he enquired at last.

“He dances well,” she answered carelessly, “though he soon gets out of breath, and has rather an old-fashioned step.”

“Well, there is not a woman in this part of the world that isn’t delighted to have him for a partner,” said her aunt, with an air of finality; then, changing the subject, she proceeded to discuss the ball in detail, from the decorations to the soup. Her remarks about the guests—especially girls—were not altogether generous; now that she had, so to speak, her own goods to offer, Mrs. Fenchurch was a merciless critic of the wares of others.

“Did you notice Lady Vera, Tom? She’s supposed to be a beauty, a tall, scraggy, spotty creature, with a wreath over her nose?” A pause. “And how can Mrs. Reed allow her daughters to be seen in such filthy frocks!—anything good enough for the country. Those poor Bradfields hardly left their seats—so humiliating for a chaperon to have her charges on hand all the time—what do you say, Tom?”

But Tom’s sole reply was a gentle snore.

Then, turning to Letty and stroking her arm, her aunt said:

“My dear child, you were perfectly right about the white crêpe, you looked charming—charming! I was proud of you!” and as she pinched her wrist, playfully, the girl, with the quick insight of youth, divined that here was an entirely different relative to the one who had told her she was a ‘pauper, and a burden.’ She now addressed her, as if she were an equal—and indeed there was actually a tinge of deference in her remarks. What did it mean?

The Belle of the Hunt Ball toiled up to bed tired and footsore at five o’clock in the morning. She had enjoyed the evening immensely, and yet she had not enjoyed it! On the one hand, there was the dancing, the good partners, the charming things people had said to her, and the agreeable inward conviction of having been whispered about, and admired; on the other, there was the rich man, with his staring eyes and brusque, imperious manner—and the inexplicable rise in the temperature of her aunt’s affection. What did it mean?

And still wondering, Letty tumbled into bed, and presently entered the land of dreams.