The Serpent's Tooth

by B. M. Croker

Presently the grim-looking nurse picked up the child, and said:

“It’s time for Miss Cara’s tea,” and was about to carry her off when Lumley interposed.

“She is a darling!” he said, taking her little hand in his as it hung over the nurse’s shoulder. “I don’t know much about children, but she seems to be perfect—and very like you,” and he raised the little chubby fingers to his lips. Subsequently it was mooted in the servants’ hall, that that “’ere young Lumley the officer, who had been strolling about the grounds with the missus for the best part of an hour, had told her to her face that she was perfect and a darling, and that nurse had heard him say so, with her own two ears!”

No doubt it was from this source that the first faint whisper of gossip rose, and was wafted into the village; and possibly it was not very discreet of young Lumley to come up to Sharsley alone,—or even with his sister, two or three times a week. Passers-by peering through the railings in the park walls, had paused and stared; sometimes they could see two figures, pacing up and down the long terrace!

There was not the smallest harm in these walks and visits. Lumley brought errands and notes from Frances, and carried to her messages and books, for just at this time their father was very ill, and Frances was in close attendance, and never left the Rectory.

Letty enjoyed one luxury, and that was a liberal supply of books; no need for her to spend her allowance on frocks, and the quarterly payments went in relieving charities, subscribing to periodicals, and buying literature. Sometimes, she told herself that without these friends, that carried her out of her gloomy, isolated life, she would have gone melancholy mad. True, there was the child; but a baby aged two and a half, cannot altogether fill the life of an educated girl of twenty, and, besides this, the baby had a nurse who stood on her dignity, and required her nursery to herself.

Oh, the long, long hours that Letty spent alone, the only breaks being a hurried visit to the Rectory. How the pensive melancholy of the autumn woods oppressed her! the low, grey fog, lying in the hollows of the park, took the shape of shadowy spectres rising from their graves; bare brown trees, rooted in carpets of ruddy leaves, seemed to mock her with their crooked branches, and the staring sun, sinking into the west, to cast on her rays of pity and derision.

Yes, she had sold herself to escape immediate discomfort, and this was her punishment: an existence of loveless degradation. In winter, her solitude and misery pressed on her still more cruelly; she could relieve the villagers with blankets and coal, but what could she do for the thousands of perishing birds, the starving hares, the shivering cattle? The nights were the worst, when the wind came sobbing to the windows, shook the doors of the empty rooms, and moaned among the trees, with the despairing cries of a lost soul; rats in the old walls—and strange unaccountable noises—made sleep—broken—and waking a terror.

But here at last was summer! and she could spend most of her time out of doors. At the moment, she realised that it was an exhilarating change, to have a companion near her own age to stroll with through the woods, and talk to. Oh, if she had only been married to Lancelot Lumley! Into the emptiness of her heart, there stole the inevitable temptations of memory; but it was sinful to harbour such thoughts. Well, at any rate, Lancelot had never actually asked her to marry him—Hugo had—and so there it was. And here she was—the most miserable young woman within the four seas.

When Lumley had been at home for about a fortnight, and his father’s health had somewhat improved, he went over to see his relations the Dentons, and stayed with them for two days. From them, Mrs. Hesketh and Mrs. Fenchurch, he heard the real truth, which had been so carefully withheld when he had been on the spot: how Hugo Blagdon neglected his wife, cut her off from all society, and spent most of his time in London or Paris,—his excuse being that she was but one degree removed from imbecility.