CHAPTER XXIII
‘MAYTHORNE,’ where Mrs. Glyn—formerly Blagdon—had hidden her diminished head, was a fine old red-brick mansion standing in its own grounds and meadows, and within thirty miles of London. Once the family seat of a well-known banker, it was now the successful investment of a syndicate, and a more or less glorified hotel, boasting (in a not untruthful advertisement) of its splendid situation, salubrious air, far-famed gardens, comforts, and cows.
When Letty, fearing that her company was beginning to irk her friend, and reluctant to return to Thornby, had implored Mrs. Hesketh to find her a quiet haven, Mrs. Hesketh’s friends, had recommended her to Maythorne. In late spring and early summer, the Maythorne guests were dull and commonplace: various invalids, lame, blind, and halt, with their nurses; girls or boys brought for change after the usual measles or whooping cough; old maids and widows; who knitted and gossiped and paced the broad walks in couples, took tea in little coteries, and devoted their evenings to cribbage, and patience.
To these, the arrival of a strikingly beautiful girl, a married woman, alone, without even a maid, offered a nice fresh topic for discussion. ‘Mrs. Glyn’ lookedabout nineteen, had a private sitting-room, and was very reserved—but when addressed, discovered a sweet, low voice, and timid manners. She had no visitors, and there was rarely a letter for her in the hall rack. Mrs. Glyn sang delightfully, and went twice to church on Sundays; and this was all that could be found out.
By degrees, the stranger came to know various other women, especially two of them—the oldest residents, who made a point of speaking to everyone,—these were friendly, and invited her to tea, and taught her ‘demon’ patience, and borrowed herSpectator; but Sister Sophy and Sister Mary, were painfully inquisitive, and she was not sufficiently subtle to evade their polite and insidious enquiries,—or to avoid disaster in the cunning pitfalls they so skilfully laid with regard to her ‘home.’ Letty instinctively felt, that her answers were unsatisfactory, and withdrew from their society as imperceptibly as she dared, contenting herself with the company of the hotel dog, who attended her in her country walks, and took tea with her most afternoons.
Maythorne was an irregular old house, renovated; with white paint, modern furniture, and pretty chintz; its ceilings were low, its stairs shallow, and in the long passages were unexpected steps. Letty’s apartments were detached, she had selected them on purpose, that she might play and sing without disturbing her neighbours.
Around the house were smooth lawns of turf, winding paths and alleys among laurels and rhododendrons; here and there a noble forest tree, and clumps of rose-trees,and high delphiniums of a royal and dazzling blue, and here Letty spent many an hour with a book, her own thoughts, and the infatuated Toby. As June melted into an unusually warm July, the number of guests increased; day by day one noted new faces; large family parties, father, mother, boys and girls, who preferred the country, with golf, tennis, picnics, and bicycling, to the seductions of the seaside. The term of ‘week-end’ had not yet been coined, but the actual thing existed; and many city men ran down from town from Friday to Monday for golf, fresh air, and good country food. Maythorne had also a reputation for ‘pretty girls.’ By all accounts, there was a wonderful beauty staying there now; she sat in a niche near the far door and was alone. Also it was a case of ‘paws off!’ and the lady always got out of the room before the dessert, and disappeared.
It was true Mrs. Glyn got out of the room ‘before the dessert,’ those staring eyes frightened her, and she slipped away to a certain remote seat in the ground,—as yet undiscovered by others,—and there contemplated the undulating country, whose fresh green pastures, dark woods, and delicate blue distances, seemed to act as balm upon an open wound.
“But whatisthe good of it all?” she would murmur (a phrase caught from Cousin Maude). Why had she been born? where was her place in the world? No wife, and no widow; her child taken from her; no home, and but two friends, Frances and Cousin Maudie—an encumbrance to both! Frances, the sister ofLancelot, must know how she had spoiled her brother’s life; howcouldshe endure her? Cousin Maude, with her self-centred existence (out of which her divorce had figuratively torn her), had once more retreated into her shell. School-fellows, Irish cousins, which of these would venture to know her,—a divorcée? And who could blame them? She thought of the other girls here: happy girls of her own age; from her nook, she could hear gay voices and laughter on the croquet ground, but she might not mix with them; the old ladies had spoken—theycould associate with her—not so the young people.
Two girls, who happened to hear her singing, were entranced; and eagerly made friends with the performer; but when their portly mothers noticed them strolling in the grounds, with Letty in the middle, animated, and discoursing of music,—in answer to an imperative signal, she found herself suddenly deserted. Mrs. Glyn was not to be ‘known,’ that was too painfully evident; and the ‘mystery’ walked on alone, holding her head unusually high, acutely conscious that she was taboo! and filled with an angry, straining against circumstances, and against fate.
“She does look so pretty, and so innocent!” admitted a wealthy matron, “and I admire her enormously as a picture—not otherwise. These ‘butter-would-not-melt-in-my-mouth’ class are notoriously dangerous!”
To some of the men, Mrs. Glyn was naturally all the more attractive, because of the ladies’ veto; thesewere only too anxious to cultivate her acquaintance, but she shrank from their neighbourhood, and treated their anxious overtures, with discouraging hauteur. Although she had youth, beauty, health, and five hundred a year, what, she asked herself, did it avail, a woman with a past, and without hope, or future? If she only had the necessary courage, she might follow the example of a recent suicide, and scribble on a card, ‘No home, no friends—Exit,’ and then go and drown herself; it would be a simple ending to all her troubles, and her hopeless yearnings for Cara, and for Lancelot. Her thoughts of him, were inexpressibly painful, and tinged with acute remorse. Over and over again, she recalled his stricken face, and stern accusation, “Letty, you have made a fool of me,” and this was true—a pitiless and unanswerable fact.
When the moon arose, and the bats began to flit about the garden, the mysterious beauty would repair to her own quarters, and there seek for sympathy in her piano. She sang not only well-known songs, but verses she had set to music. The air of one composition was peculiarly sad and haunting, and two City men who were strolling about together—discussing the market prices—halted, attracted by a beautiful voice which floated from an open window. As they stood, and listened, this is what fell on their ears.
“Où vivre? Dans quelle ombreÉtouffer mon ennui?Ma tristesse est plus sombreQue la nuit.“Où mourir? Sous quelle ondeNoyer mon deuil amer?Ma peine est plus profondeQue la mer.“Où fuir? De quelle sorteÉgorger mon remord?Ma douleur est plus forteQue la mort.”
“Où vivre? Dans quelle ombreÉtouffer mon ennui?Ma tristesse est plus sombreQue la nuit.“Où mourir? Sous quelle ondeNoyer mon deuil amer?Ma peine est plus profondeQue la mer.“Où fuir? De quelle sorteÉgorger mon remord?Ma douleur est plus forteQue la mort.”
“Où vivre? Dans quelle ombreÉtouffer mon ennui?Ma tristesse est plus sombreQue la nuit.
“Où vivre? Dans quelle ombre
Étouffer mon ennui?
Ma tristesse est plus sombre
Que la nuit.
“Où mourir? Sous quelle ondeNoyer mon deuil amer?Ma peine est plus profondeQue la mer.
“Où mourir? Sous quelle onde
Noyer mon deuil amer?
Ma peine est plus profonde
Que la mer.
“Où fuir? De quelle sorteÉgorger mon remord?Ma douleur est plus forteQue la mort.”
“Où fuir? De quelle sorte
Égorger mon remord?
Ma douleur est plus forte
Que la mort.”
As the last words died away, one of the audience gave himself a vigorous shake, carefully examined his half-finished cigar, and exclaimed:
“By George! that young woman must be in a bad way—eh? I wonder who she is? She is singing like one of those sirens that bothered old what’s-his-name. Shall we clap—eh?”
“No,” with prompt emphasis, “the girl is singing—and her voice is exquisite—like some unhappy soul who has lost everything in the world.”
“Oh, Bosh! you and your romantic fancies! Come along indoors and have a game of billiards. I’ll give you twenty up! There will be no more songs,—see, she has turned down the light.”
“All right, I see,” agreed the man of sentiment, as he reluctantly followed his challenger.
The morning after this incident, a letter from Frances Lumley not only distracted Letty’s thoughts, but carried her away from Maythorne. The stimulating news, which was in the postscript, said:
“I have just heard that little Cara and her new nurse have gone to Folkestone. The child had measles,but is now quite well; however, Doctor Griffen ordered sea air and change. Last time I saw her she was prettier than ever, and looked like alittle angel.”
“I have just heard that little Cara and her new nurse have gone to Folkestone. The child had measles,but is now quite well; however, Doctor Griffen ordered sea air and change. Last time I saw her she was prettier than ever, and looked like alittle angel.”
Within five minutes Cara’s mother was whirling over the pages of an A B C. She too would go to Folkestone and see her baby at all hazards. A new nurse—what a chance! She wired for rooms at one of the hotels, packed up her boxes, paid her bill, and the following day effected an early departure, arriving at Folkestone the same evening. Here at least, she would be breathing the same air as her darling.
An early hour the next morning found Mrs. Glyn on the Leas, and as the month happened to be July these were crowded. For two whole days, among nurses and perambulators, she sought in vain for Cara. At last, in a block near the band shelter, she descried her treasure—attended by a buxom nurse, with a gaudy magazine tucked under her arm; Letty hovered around, or paced to and fro, till at last nurse and pram moved slowly away, and she, following at a discreet distance, discovered that they lodged in rooms not far from her own hotel. Her next move was to endeavour to make the nurse’s acquaintance, and this she accomplished by sitting beside her on a bench overlooking the sea, and offering timid remarks about the weather, and admiration of the sleeping child.
The nurse (with visions of Sharsley to support her) was inclined to be haughty and stand-off, but when she had scrutinised the young lady, and her well-cutcostume, her pretty hat, and good new gloves, she thawed so far as to admit that the ‘weather was a treat,’ and to accept the loan of an illustrated paper.
Letty, as she gazed at her sleeping child, was so overcome with emotion, that she was impelled to get up suddenly, and walk away; but presently returned as the moth to the candle, and with a steady voice informed the nurse, that “she was fond of children, and that the little girl reminded her of someone.”
“There is one o’clock striking,” said nurse, “and that remindsmethat it’s time for our dinner! Here’s your paper, miss, and thank you.”
“Oh, please keep it, I don’t want it back! I have any quantity of magazines, and books.”
“I do love reading, and specially magazines; but I can’t well leave this child to go and buy things—you see, I’m single-handed.”
“I will lend you magazines with pleasure,” volunteered this kind stranger. “Shall you be on the front to-morrow?”
“Yes, miss, at eleven, and if you can spare me something lively—I love murders—I’ll be obliged to you. I am a bit lonely now; a nurse, my friend, went yesterday. The family’s gone over to Boulogne, and I don’t have any talk with them boarding-house servants—they’re no class; I won’t deny that I’m sociable, but I’m suspicious of strangers, and as to who I know.”
“Of course,” assented Letty, “so am I—especially as I am here by myself.”
“Oh, indeed!” with a quick inquisitive glance,and then this pretty nameless young lady proceeded to inform her, that she was waiting to be joined by a relative, with whom she was going on the Continent; for, as she sat beside this unsuspicious woman, Letty had made up her mind to run away with the child! and was already maturing her plans.
Presently Cara awoke. She was a beautiful little girl of four, and as she opened her eyes, and stared up at the face bending over her, to that lady’s horror, and yet also to her joy, she ejaculated “Ma-ma!”
Her mother felt inclined to burst into tears, but struggled to subdue her feelings, which found relief in a wild, hysterical laugh.
“Aye, she takes you for her mamma,” explained the nurse. “Every nice-looking, fair young lady, is ‘mamma.’ The poor little thing has no mother,” she added in a low aside. “Could you believe that any woman with a heart in her body, could desertthat?”
‘That’ was still drowsy, and, lulled by the soft air and the distant band, had once more closed her forget-me-not blue eyes, and fallen asleep.
Letty realised that her self-control was slipping from her altogether, and with a hurried excuse of ‘letters,’ rose, and returned to her hotel. Each morning and afternoon, she sought out the ruddy-faced, brown-eyed nurse, with the smart white perambulator, and her efforts to ingratiate herself with an uneducated, chattering, kind-hearted woman, were almost those of a timid lover, seeking to propitiate his mistress. She was compelled to listen with averted face, whilstSmithson volubly related to her her own history—as reported and edited in the servants’ hall.
“The child is like her mother, they do say; anyway, in face. I never saw her—I’m a new-comer.Heis very ordinary: an ugly blue-and-red sort of colour, and twenty years older than his wife. She was just a slip of a schoolgirl, and by all accounts it was not so much her fault—left alone for months in that great lonely barrack of a place. They say the day after she ran off, she repented and came back, and he just threw her out! No one knows the rights of the story,—or where she is now.”
Naturally these confidences were agonising to the shrinking listener, who stared out on the shining sea, and faint French coast-line, with a rigid profile; or bent down her head, to finger the flounces of Cara’s doll.
It was an indescribable relief when Nurse Smithson selected another topic, and disclosed to her companion in glowing terms, the glories of Sharsley, and the wealth of its master. She gave luxuriant descriptions of the park, the size of the grounds, the fame of the pictures,—but kept back the fact, that the house was almost closed, and that the shooting had been let. Then she interrupted her tale to exclaim:
“Well, I neverdidsee a young lady so fond of children as you are,—miss, and the child has taken to you too! Some day, you will be having one of your own, I hope, and you will make a fine fuss with her, orI’mmistaken.”
Letty looked at her through blinding tears, then, startled by her companion’s gaze of speechless amazement, she hastily explained that “the glare of the sun on the sea was so dazzling, that it always made her eyes water!”