CHAPTER XXXIV
THE shock of Cara’s desertion prostrated her mother, and for many days she remained at the Paradis, blanched and shaken, a stricken, ghost-like guest. Her friend (now completely restored) had taken the helm of her life in her hands, and was making rapid preparations for their departure to England.
“My poor dear child,” she said, “I am desperately sorry for you. That your wound is deep, I know. ‘How sharper than the serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,’ so said old King Lear; all the same, you will get over it.”
“No, never, never!” replied Letty with energetic emphasis; and her voice and face were unrecognisably hard.
“Certainly you will. I speak from experience. When my little boy died——”
“Your boy!” interrupted Letty, lifting her head; “I never knew you had a child!”
“I do not speak of him, but he was my treasure: a darling. When he was three years old he fell out of a window, and was killed before my very eyes. Then, indeed, I would gladly have laid me down anddied—but here I am! trying to encourage you to rise againand plod along the highway known as Life. If Harry had lived, he would be your age; it is thirty-five years since they closed the coffin-lid upon his little angel face. To add to my agony, my husband declared that the accident wasmyfault; the child was watching me mounting my horse, he overbalanced, the nurse grabbed at him, but only his sash, remained in her hand.”
“How dreadful!” cried her listener with streaming tears.
“Yes, dear, you may weep a little for me; but as for yourself, you must dry your tears, and enter upon another life.”
It had been mooted on the mountain-side, in farm-houses and cow-houses, that the rosy-cheeked English girl, claimed by a rich father, had forsaken the pretty mother who for thirteen years had toiled for her support. Ah, awustus maden!—(a bad girl).
A surprising amount of kindly sympathy was felt and shown; many little farewell gifts were left at the Paradis, addressed to ‘Frau Glyn,’ and one afternoon Letty nerved herself to ascend to Les Plans, for the last time, in order to take leave of its inmates. There they were, all ready to welcome her! the Josts, Freda, the Frau herself, and a new dog—another Karo. In the low-roofed sitting-room, when Letty and Frau Hurter were alone, she said:
“All my little things here, my chair, and lace pillow, work-basket, harmonium, and tea-service I hope you will accept.”
“But,mein liebe Frau, I never sew or play tunes. I am old, and my fingers are like wood.”
“Fritz’s wife will be young?”
“Fritz—ach ye!Heknows. My cousin writes he is as mad, and off his head; he says he goes to America, he cannot live here, ever—withouther. The boy comes to say good-bye in two days, and then we are forsaken—you and I, by those for whom we would give the life’s blood.”
“He will get over it, dear Frau. Fritz is so young. Ask him to come and talk to me, and I will do my best, to persuade him to stay.”
“Yes, it may do good, since he loves you—we can but try,” she paused to wipe her eyes on her apron; “but as for you, dear lady, my heart aches. It seems but yesterday, when you stood out there in the garden in the sunshine agirl, with Mitli in your arms. What you have been to her ever since, the good God, and I, alone know. Now she has deserted you; try and put her away from your thoughts.—You are still young, you have your own life.”
“I am going to make another home; but what can replace achild?” cried Letty, rising as she spoke. “I want to see her room, and settle about her things.”
“Her room is dusted and in order, otherwise as she left it. We will go there now,” and Frau Hurter climbed the stairs, and threw open the door into an empty chamber.
There were Cara’s familiar frocks hanging on familiarhooks; her silver-backed hair-brushes (a birthday gift) on the dressing-table; a hat with the pins still sticking in it, as it had been cast down, lay on the bed. There was a little writing-table and blotter—both spattered with ink—and peeping in at the window that hoary old pear tree—the accomplice of the girl in her midnight flights.
“Ach ye!” exclaimed Frau Hurter in a lachrymose key, “there is the blouse you made her; the skirt you embroidered, the little slippers.—Freda and I will pack everything, and send them down by Jost.”
“No, no; I could not bear to see them again,” protested Letty, making an effort to choke back her tears. “Pleasekeepall, except the books and writing materials, and personal treasures,” gathering them together in feverish haste.
“Here are dozens and dozens of letters,” announced Frau Hurter, who was diving into a deep drawer.
“What of them,meine Frau?”
“Let them go too.”
“To England! Why not burn them?”
“No, no, we will stuff them into this silk work-bag, and tie them securely—let the child have all shevalues. I will send a maid to-morrow to pack, and forward everything to London.” After a pause, and a last look round, she added, “I have been very, very happy here, dear Frau, and I love your country—but I am leaving it in a few days,—never to return.”
The two women clasped hands, and Frau Hurter, the stony-faced, suddenly drew her fellow-sufferer intoher bony embrace, and kissed her with a sort of dry and concentrated passion.
As Letty walked down the hill that lovely September evening, she halted for a farewell look at the gleaming lake and range of mountains—a scene beloved and familiar as the face of a dear friend. How many hundred times had she climbed this well-worn path—since the day she had first carried Cara to the farm! Here on this very spot, the little plateau under the pear trees, had Cara thrown her arms about her, assuring her with warm kisses that “she would never, never,neverleave her own darling Mum!”
As a pair of sad eyes, rested on the matchless prospect, the sun was setting behind Pilatus,—who stood forth grim and rugged, against a flaming background of red and gold—a glorious afterglow spread itself over the slopes of the Rigi, changing its strata of granite to rose-colour, the intervening pastures to a cloudy blue. Then very gradually, as if by the touch of a magic wand, a delicate ethereal haze dissolved the entire scene into an exquisite shade of amethyst,—the curtain had fallen, and a glorious September day, was numbered with the past.
The air was still: the sleepy tinkling of a little stream, a far-away hoot of some steamer approaching a landing-stage, the faint sound of a chapel bell were the only sounds that broke a curiously reverent, and impressive silence.
Presently beautiful Hesperus, wrapped in her mistymantle, came gliding along the mountain-tops, and hung her bright star in the sky, and Letty continued her way.
Blagdon’s arrivals and departures were notoriously abrupt, and after a busy and exciting three days in Paris, he appeared in Hill Street with his unheralded companion; looking forward with a sort of brutal glee to ‘taking a splendid rise out of old Connie.’ He had merely announced his immediate return, ‘bringing a friend.’
It was eight o’clock when he entered his smoking-room, closely attended by Cara (who had been not a little impressed by her father’s wealth, the appearance of the home, and its group of silent, dignified men-servants—a home whereshewas to reign as mistress). Here, sunken in an arm-chair, with a dog on her lap, a cigarette in her mouth, a sporting paper in her hand, they discovered Lady Rashleigh. She was greatly changed; her figure was shapeless, her hair a foxy grey, her skin coarse, and deeply lined—altogether, especially in a shabby deshabille, she deservedly earned the adjective ‘Blowsy.’ Yet at race meetings, in a well-cut coat and handsome furs, Con Rashleigh was still regarded as a wonderful woman for sixty—pity she had let her figure go!
“Hullo, Blag!” she exclaimed, as she removed her cigarette, “so here you are! Have you seen this Handicap—why—who’s this?” surveying her niecewith an aggressive stare. Hugo occasionally introduced startling acquaintances. “Who have we here?” throwing down the Pom, and rising heavily to her feet.
The stranger was a tall, handsome girl with a vague resemblance to someone—why, to Letty, to be sure! In an illuminating flash she saw it all! Blag had sprung one of his jokes on her, and brought home the daughter!
“It’s only my little girl,” he announced with indescribable pride; “five-foot-six in her stockings. She has chucked Switzerland, and come to live with me.”
“Ah, so this is Cara,” drawing her towards her as she spoke.
Ciel!How her aunt smelt of whisky, and tobacco;—just like a man, thought the girl as she passively submitted to her kisses.
“Why did you not prepare me? Why keep this pleasure to yourself?” continued Lady Rashleigh with ostentatious composure.—In that brief moment she had decided to be civil to the new-comer, and make noscene. Hugo was undoubtedly struck, but his fancies never lasted; he would tire of his novelty before the month was out, and she resolved to sit tight in Hill Street—the flat was let. This well-grown interloper knew nothing of English society, and she determined to keep her in the background, and rule her, as she had done the pink-cheeked little fool, her mother.
But it was not long—in fact, less than five minutes—before Connie Rashleigh discovered her mistake. Cara was a true chip of the old block, as hard and ruthlessas herself, and with all the cocksureness and cruelty of youth. The girl’s manner was self-possessed, she talked glibly of Paris and their journey, and became surprisingly animated as she volubly described her new gowns. Meanwhile, her father looked on with swelling pride. His eyes seemed to ask, Was there ever such a complexion? such hair? such teeth? Connie Rashleigh stared and listened with a feeling of dismal apprehension—which apprehension proved to be but too well founded, when at a hint from her father, Cara, in a trailing tea-gown, sailed into the dining-room before her aunt, and sank into a chair at the head of the table.
“Cara is beginning as she is to go on,” explained Hugo. “She is installed as the mistress of the house—the robes, and the keys—eh, Cara?”
His methods were ever blunt: his idea of diplomacy a bludgeon!
And Lady Rashleigh, choking with impotent fury, was compelled to subside into a place at the side of the board, with what appetite and grace she could assume.
“Champagne, Carter—the ’94,” commanded his master; “we will drink Miss Blagdon’s health and welcome.”
From this hour war—internecine, secret, and deadly—was declared between aunt and niece; but the victory was ever to the young. Cara ruled her father, dominated the household, and openly despised her predecessor.
Cara was a ‘female bounder,’ in the opinion of that lady, and brutally selfish. She ‘grabbed’ everything: the best room, the use of the motor, the carriage, the pick of Mudie’s books, and the most comfortable chairs. She poured out tea, did the honours with amazing self-possession, and left her aunt to enjoy the agreeable sensation of being the odd one out,—and that, in the house in which she had been born!
Hugo had a few words to say to his sister with respect to the new mistress.
“Look here, old girl, you must make it all right for Cara. Take her round the Scrope lot, and write to those in the country, and tell them she is with me. I want her to get a flying start; and you know on which side your bread is buttered,” he added with blunt significance and doubtful taste. “After Christmas we are going to Monte Carlo, and you must trot back to your own flat; the girl says this house wants doing up, and that the curtains and paper in the drawing-room, make her sea-sick.”
The curtains and paper, Lady Rashleigh’s joy and delight, had been her own selection!
Mr. Blagdon did not (as his sister had hopefully anticipated) tire of his new discovery; on the contrary, he was blatantly proud of his daughter, of her youth, good looks, and animal spirits. She was not a success among her grandmother’s set (and a little cowed by that old lady), but for the sake of the family, they accepted this loud, bouncing young person—they shrank from further scandal. The girl carried herselfwell, knew how to dress, spoke French fluently, and danced admirably. She might have beenworse! Who could believe, that she had been brought up on a Swiss farm? but then, these dear ladies had no experience of the modern education which is afforded in Swiss schools.
This quick-witted, adaptable damsel, soon picked up society and racing jargon; she had the aplomb of a woman of thirty, ruled her adoring father, banished her unruly aunt, patronised—yes, patronised, the Slaters, and overawed Lord Robby—in short, a domestic Queen Elizabeth!
It was a cruel blow to poor Lady Rashleigh to be compelled to abandon her luxurious home, the use of a motor, gifts of money, and the loan of jewels, in order to make way for a bold, aggressive young woman, who was said to bear a resemblance to herself! She retired in deplorably low spirits to what she was pleased to call ‘her lair.’ A six-roomed flat, with two good sitting-rooms, two small bedrooms, and the usual black hole for the accommodation of servants. Cara paid her aunt a prompt visit—inspired by curiosity, not affection. The suite, shabby and dusty, commanded an extensive view of a garage; the drawing-room was well furnished, but had the rakish air of apasséebeauty; and sofas and cabinets, (evident spoil from Sharsley,) blocked up too much space. The bedroom,—also encumbered by Sharsley furniture, seemed to be half filled with piles of shabby cardboard boxes of all sizes; here too were dozens of dustymedicine bottles, ragged novels, old shoes, and on the dressing-table, a coil of false hair, cigarette ashes, a syphon, and the latest edition ofRuff. Two little barking Poms ran in and out; and a gloomy cook, with arms akimbo, stood in the kitchen doorway staring with lowering eyes. Everything was untidy, neglected, and squalid. No wonder Aunt Con preferred to hang on in Hill Street!
And so the months passed, and Cara tasted intoxicating delights of which she had merely dreamt. Among her father’s associates, Miss Blagdon enjoyedun grand succès. Here was no shrinking, awkward hostess, but one whose dancing, skating, riding, and repartee found many admirers,—whilst her influence over an adoring parent was paraded with noisy ostentation. As for her mother—she stored her comfortably away in the remotest garret of her mind. They had met once; it happened in a block in Piccadilly. Cara, queening it in a huge open motor, with furs and rug of sable; her mother and Mrs. Hesketh in a station omnibus, with luggage on top. She had stared at her Mum, and the Mum had bowed, but Cara was so taken aback by the unexpected encounter, that she forgot to return the salute; then there was a violent jerk, the policeman had given a signal, and the omnibus passed on.
What a thing to have happened—she had actually cut her own mother. How funny!