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 what is the 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 of Lancelot, must know how she had spoiled her brother’s life; how could she 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—they could 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; these were 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 ombre
Étouffer mon ennui?
Ma tristesse est plus sombre