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 herself well, knew how to dress, spoke French fluently, and danced admirably. She might have been worse! 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 a passée beauty; 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 dusty medicine bottles, ragged novels, old shoes, and on the dressing-table, a coil of false hair, cigarette ashes, a syphon, and the latest edition of Ruff. 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 enjoyed un 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!