Читать книгу The Serpent's Tooth - B. M. Croker - Страница 8

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FOR one whole week the post-bag carried to Mrs. Fen a sharp disappointment, instead of an expected letter. In the course of certain promenades and tête-à-têtes at Bonham Court, Blagdon had accepted the lady’s warm invitation to come and see them, and promised to fix his own day; indeed the last words he uttered, as he pressed her hand in a significant farewell, were:

“I will write.”

This encouraging pledge had maintained certain buoyant hopes, but now these hopes began to sink, and fears to rise.

By most exasperating ill-luck, Mrs. Fenchurch was engaged to attend a function in London—the wedding of a niece, who was making a marriage that reflected credit on the whole connection. She had forwarded a handsome gift (one of her bargains), and angled for an invitation to spend a week with a relative in Portland Place, in order, she declared, “to help dearest sister Cecilia and see the whole ‘thing through.’”

Carefully matured plans, laid weeks ahead, were on this occasion too previous; but how was the unhappy woman to know that by her absence from home at the critical moment, she was risking the prospects of an alliance that would throw Cecilia’s paltry triumph into the cold, cold shade. The baffled chaperon looked worn and worried; her condition communicated itself to others. She complained of neuralgia—Mrs. Fenchurch’s neuralgia was an ailment to be feared—these were uncomfortable days for her household: everything seemed to go wrong: servants, dogs, appointments, and clocks.

But in her aunt’s anxieties respecting Hugo Blagdon, Miss Glyn had no share; indeed, she scarcely cast a thought to that important personage. On the other hand, it must be frankly admitted that her mind was too frequently occupied by Lancelot Lumley.

Although the school at Dresden was notably strict et bien surveillé, nevertheless the Teuton atmosphere breathes romance and sentiment, and a certain amount of this had penetrated through the secluded walls of Madam Franck’s establishment; girls whispered to one another of love’s young dream, yes, and of—lovers. Also, in the vacation spent in Dresden, Letty had read not a few selected novels, including those by Sir Walter Scott, Mrs. Gaskell, and Miss Young. As for her favourite heroes, she was divided between Sir Guy Morville and Wilfred of Ivanhoe. Since she had made Mr. Lumley’s acquaintance, Wilfred the Palmer bore away the palm. The fresh imagination of Sweet Seventeen discovered a remarkable resemblance between the twelfth-century crusader, and the smart young officer of the present day—both had grey eyes, and crisp light hair, both were soldiers and bold horsemen. Besides certain attributes shared with the disinherited knight, Lancelot Lumley danced admirably, had an infectious laugh, and a delightful personality, that set one immediately at ease.

As she compared his light, active figure and clean-cut, tanned face, to her aunt’s beau-ideal, Mr. Blagdon, with his ponderous form, brick-coloured countenance, and heavily scented person, the young lady threw up her chin with a gesture of scornful disparagement. She recalled Lumley’s glance of profound interest and respectful homage, and then thought, with a shudder, of Blagdon’s insatiable black eyes—these looked as if their owner, like some fabled monster, was prepared to devour her alive! Miss Glyn had only met Mr. Lumley on five occasions, and yet she remembered almost every sentence they had exchanged—especially what he had said—oh fatal, fatal symptom in the case of a maiden, who has never yet encountered an object on which to lavish the overflowing tenderness of a warm and innocent heart. Secretly, she looked forward to their next meeting; she liked to hear of him (already ‘Him’ with a capital). His name casually mentioned, caused her pulse to flutter and her colour to rise. At the Rectory, she listened thirstily to tales of Lance’s boyish scrapes, and Lance’s successes; anecdotes of his generosity, unselfishness, and courage, were poured into the girl’s enchanted ears—for next to Mabel the boy was a favourite topic,—and to talk long and copiously to a sympathetic companion, was one of the invalid’s few remaining pleasures. Meanwhile, the girl mended lace, or made neat covers for books in the parish library, and absorbed many intoxicating impressions.

By a curious coincidence, the day and hour of Mr. Lumley’s arrival and Mrs. Fen’s departure were simultaneous; indeed, they actually met on the little platform at Tatton, the lady, encumbered with a goodly quantity of luggage, queer-shaped domestic parcels, and even returned empties. All these were, however, the care of Tom, and she hurried off to take her ticket; as she turned away from the window she was accosted by, of all people, young Lumley! How good-looking he was, she noted fretfully, and what on earth was bringing him to Thornby again? Could it be Letty? She must have a word with Tom at once; he was on no account to invite Lancelot to The Holt, not on any pretext whatever. Meanwhile, she extended a stiff hand, and said:

“What, back already! How do you manage to get all this leave? It looks as if they were able to spare you!” and she smiled disagreeably.

What the deuce was the matter with Mrs. Fen? Lumley wondered; and they had always been such pals—why had she her knife into him? (Mrs. Fen confessed to a weakness for young men, and even allowed herself to be chaffed about ‘her boys.’ She liked them to hail her at Meets, jog beside her from cover to cover, could make herself agreeable at a ball supper, and had been known to sit out. Young fellows looked on Mrs. “Fen” as a good sporting sort, with no nonsense about her, she had even been consulted on delicate affairs; and more than once, her unsuspected finger had been busy in other people’s pies!)

“I’ve only got a few days,” he began. “Hullo, here’s your train! Why, it’s gone mad, it’s punctual! I’ll look after you all right—let me have your dressing-case and traps. Come on,” and before the unfortunate lady could protest he had seized upon her bag and was running along the platform.

“Where’s Tom?” she screamed as she hurried in his wake. “I particularly want to speak to him—I must see him. There he is on the bridge talking to Major Bassett! Oh, he is never in the way, when he is wanted.”

“Here you are,” cried Lumley, wrenching open a door, and bundling her wraps and parcels into an empty carriage. “Got it all to yourself. Great luck!”

He was really too officious: Mrs. Fen’s sharp eye had detected the Countess of Hopeland in another compartment, and they could have travelled up together so sociably and comfortably.

“Hurry up! Hurry up!” shouted the guard sharply: the traffic at Tatton, was insignificant, no need to delay.

“I see you have a foot-warmer,” said the irrepressible Lumley. “Can I get you anything?”

“If you could get hold of Tom,” standing up as she spoke; “it’s most important!”

Tom by this time was approaching at the double, but the train was moving too.

“I say, can’t I give him your message?” asked Lumley as he kept pace beside the carriage door.

“No, no, no!” snapped the lady with irritable impatience, and it seemed to the good-natured and bewildered young man, that the last look he received from Mrs. Fen, had been positively malignant and menacing!

Colonel Fenchurch was delighted to meet Lancelot Lumley, whom he had known from boyhood and helped into his own corps. He gave him a lift to Thornby, enjoying en route a full budget of regimental news; and when he deposited his passenger and portmanteau at the Rectory, invited him to The Holt that same evening to take pot luck.

It was a memorable occasion. Miss Glyn in white and blushes, occupied her aunt’s place—a lovely vice-reine. The menu was excellent—Letty had taken particular pains with the flowers, and candle-shades, as well as her own toilet,—though her fingers shook unaccountably as she did her hair, and endeavoured to fasten maddening hooks,—that attached themselves to everything but their corresponding eyes, as if they were alive and possessed! However, the result of the toilet was all that could be desired, and the timid hostess descended to the drawing-room. With the first laugh her tremors vanished, and somehow the absence of the Lady of The Holt, contributed to the ease and gaiety of the little gathering. Conversation flowed uninterruptedly, laughter was frequent and hearty, and the rose-shaded candles illuminated a thoroughly congenial trio. The Colonel related old stories,—now undismayed by his Dorothy’s frowns,—and drank two glasses of port; the pug was made happy with a bone, Letty put her elbows on the table and chattered like a schoolgirl, remained whilst the men smoked, and subsequently in the drawing-room delighted them with her songs. Lancelot Lumley hung over the piano (and the Colonel dozed by the fire, with Sammy the pug, also dozing, on his knee) absorbing music and love—it was without exception the most glorious evening he had ever spent!

Before the guest took his departure, various agreeable plans were laid for future meetings.

“Mind, you must drop in whenever you like, Lance,” said his host as he accompanied him to the hall door. “You know your way here—come up to lunch to-morrow at one sharp, and we will all go skating on Barnby Mere. I hear the ice is first-rate.”

The next afternoon’s post brought the Colonel a letter from his wife; it was short, urgent, and very much to the point. When he had read it, he tore it up thoughtfully and placed it in the fire; only to Mrs. Hesketh, when she dropped in to tea, did he divulge the contents. In reply to her question, “Heard from Doodie?” he answered:

“No—er—yes—just a line—I say, Maudie, it’s a bit awkward—she bars young Lumley, and I’ve been asking him to look in whenever he pleases. Now I’m not to let him put his nose inside the door!”

In reply to the lady’s elevated brows, he added:

“The fact of the matter is, Doodie’s afraid the boy might take a fancy to Letty.”

“And, of course, no subalterns need apply! I see; well, I believe that you are locking the door, when the steed is stolen.”

“What, you don’t mean that—it’s one of your jokes?”

“No, indeed, I’m in deadly earnest; but you must do as Doodie wishes.”

“He’s a nice young fellow, as keen as mustard, and straight as a die; and I’m fond of Lance.”

“So am I,” assented Mrs. Hesketh. “Wouldn’t they make an ideal couple!—so young and honest, and good-looking—but naturally we must not think of it. Where are they now? Together?” and she glanced at her companion with whimsical dismay.

“Yes, they went off to the skating after lunch. I intended going too, but I’ve a touch of gout.”

“What, all the way to Barnby Mere—alone? If Doodie knew, she’d have fit after fit.”

“No, no; I believe they were to call for Denton. But I say, Maudie, I’m rather in a hole, I’ve asked the fellow to shoot to-morrow, and to dine.”

“I’ll take him off your hands for dinner,” she answered with short decision, “the shoot can stand over. We must manage somehow.”

As Mrs. Hesketh walked through the village in the frosty January night, she heard two voices approaching; and presently Letty and her escort came into view.—They had deposited the Rector at home, and were en route to The Holt, unaware that its door was now, figuratively, barred against this undesirable Guest.

Moved by a sudden impulse, she resolved that her own house should stand wide for him, and for Letty. Yes, in spite of Doodie and Prudence! These two young people should have just one glimpse of Paradise, before the dust and tumult of the world overtook them.

Maude Hesketh was a clever woman, and it was marvellous how she contrived to arrange meetings without apparent effort, or giving cause for remark, much less gossip. She had a taste for psychology, for the study of character, and a charming romance unfolded under her own eyes was ten times more absorbing than any novel. She watched the swift and silent approaches of spirit to spirit, listened to the light raillery and random talk, that disguised much greater things,—which so far remained unspoken. Letty and Lancelot were unaware, that they were in the thrall of the all-compelling power, which insensibly draws youth to youth. But their hostess noted their happy faces, their tireless sociability, their frequent, and uncalled-for smiles.

To do Mrs. Hesketh justice, her friends were not altogether the mere victims of a cynical interest; in the core of a withered heart, long-forgotten emotions and sympathies, were stirring. In the days of her exquisite youth, Maude Charlton, too, had a gallant, handsome, penniless lover; but when love had extended imploring arms she suffered ambition to restrain her, and accepted instead of a heart’s devotion, middle age, position, and wealth. He, the abandoned, had gone to India and there shortly afterwards died. Often now, in the barren autumn of her life, did her thoughts turn to Lawrence Ormond—her heart ached and ached, as she thought with wet eyes, of his neglected grave in some sun-scorched up-country cemetery. Thirty years had elapsed since three volleys had been fired over that shrunken mound, and he was now forgotten by all. Mrs. Hesketh had a habit of whispering to herself, scraps of poetry, lines that she admired, and that dwelt in her memory, and as she recalled her young dead lover, she would murmur the appropriate quotation:

“Forget not Earth thy disappointed ones,

Forget not the forgotten.”

Then would brush away a tear that trickled down her cheek, and exclaim:

“You silly old woman; your mind is wandering—don’t drivel!”

Nevertheless, the spell of the past held her; and her cynicism was but skin deep. As an officer’s wife, knocking about the world with Lawrence, fighting its battles by his side, making the best of things, and seeing life in its wider aspect, she might have been a happy woman—and he still living. She had seen a letter from an army surgeon, in which the writer declared that Ormond had a splendid constitution, but made no fight. He seemed to have lost all interest in life, and to be glad to go out of it, and therefore fell an easy prey to the pestilence that walketh in darkness, and whose name is Cholera.

As Maude Hesketh crouched over her fire, dreaming of her youth, she asked herself why should not Lance and Letty benefit by her experience, and have their chance? This girl had no ambition, no extravagant tastes. Lancelot was clever and steady, and by all accounts bound to get on. If he only had his company, once in India, with a little help they could manage to scrape along. She would contribute a canteen of plate, all the house-linen, and a cheque.

And what about Doodie Fenchurch? demanded a sharp, inward voice, Doodie, whose head was filled with dazzling plans. Was she strong enough to withstand her masterful cousin and uphold the girl for the sake of sentimental memories and the ashes of her own long-dead romance? Alas! to this question, her mental reply was a prompt and unqualified ‘No.’

Her conscience now took Maude Hesketh in hand. She had indulged herself unwarrantably, she had enjoyed bringing the two children together in order to contemplate their happiness for her own gratification, and they would ultimately be called upon to pay for her entertainment—because she was a coward.

The few days’ leave had gone like a flash, and the end of the week found Mrs. Fenchurch at home, where, to borrow a military expression, ‘all were present and correct,’ although Tom was a little gouty and Letty looked pale—she must get her a tonic. Young Lumley had departed, Mr. Blagdon had not yet appeared—so far the coast was clear, and all was well!

Perhaps if Mrs. Fen had been behind the scenes she might have modified her opinion; but she did not know of those delightful skating parties on Barnby Mere. Letty and Lancelot skated admirably, better than any other couple; and skimmed round together at a racing pace, with the frosty air stinging their faces, the bright red sunset giving a colour to the cold, wintry scene. How was she to know of that evening at Oldcourt, when Letty sang Tosti’s “Good-bye,” with thrilling pathos, and Lumley, sitting in the shadow, had listened with folded arms, and a face of rigid pallor? How could she dream of their last walk with the Rector and Mrs. Hesketh, when they two lagged behind, at the crooked bridge in order to watch the gorgeous sunset, and Lumley said in a strange, husky voice:

“I’m off to-night—God knows when we shall meet again—but you know, Letty; you know——”

Letty’s heart leaped at the sound of her Christian name. She looked away, fixing her gaze on a great clump of snow-bound rushes, and awaited the end of the sentence with a thumping pulse. He was about to tell her what she longed to hear; but Lumley hesitated and controlled himself,—biting back words that crowded to his lips. He had all but succumbed to a fierce temptation to assure this little girl that he adored her.

Then came the voice of the Rector through the thin, frosty air, calling in a high, clerical monotone:

“Come on, come on, Lance; you have no time to spare! come on—come on.”

And they turned to obey this summons without a second’s hesitation, for though no word—no word of love—was uttered, the silence had spoken; the long self-conscious silence between these two young people—and silence can be eloquent!