CHAPTER XXXV
AS for Letty Glyn, she returned to Thornby bearing her maiden name; a disgraced wife, who eighteen years previously had left the village in such a blaze of triumph, that its reflection had illuminated three parishes. The knowledge of her altered circumstances had long been public property, and mothers whispered to their daughters as she passed, the story of pretty Miss Letty, sometimes adding: “Aye, she was a rare beauty, and carries her looks still!”
A paragraph in a society paper which penetrated to the Indian frontier, informed Colonel Lumley that ‘Hugo Blagdon and his daughter Miss Blagdon had returned to Hill Street from the Riviera.’
So Cara, the blue-eyed, had deserted her mother, and gone over to the enemy! And now Letty was free, since ‘the cause and impediment’ had abandoned her. He determined to go home at once; but leave, what about leave? Camps and manœuvres were on foot—he must bide his time until the autumn. Meanwhile, he wrote and announced his plans and intentions to Mrs. Glyn, Oldcourt, and she showed her friend part of a letter which said:
“I shall take three months’ ‘privilege leave’ to England, and I do not intend on this, the third, occasion, to return alone.”
It was early in September when Colonel Lumley landed at Dover. As he glanced through the day’s papers in the London train, his eye was arrested by this paragraph: “Sudden death of Hugo Blagdon, the well-known sportsman.”
It appeared that Mr. Blagdon had had a seizure on a race-course, been conveyed to his hotel in an unconscious condition, and there died. Here, indeed, was news!
That same evening Colonel Lumley went down to Thornby, where he was warmly welcomed by his relatives. He dined at Oldcourt, and as he and Letty sat once more at the table of a hostess who had once rashly attempted to lend a hand to Fate—they were a striking pair—though eighteen years had elapsed since their last meeting in that very room. In spite of the cruel shocks of fortune, Letty was still a beautiful woman; the line of her features, the delicacy of her skin, the shine on her glorious hair, had not been tarnished. She looked radiant in mauve chiffon, and wearing her mother’s Indian pearls. Her fiancé, bronzed and in a way storm-beaten, was handsome; the wearer of three well-deserved medals, and a leader of men—but the simple girl of seventeen, and young, eager, and impassioned Lancelot, were no more.
The following afternoon they walked together to the crooked bridge, so well remembered by both; they recalled that winter sunset, the spasmodic talk, the expressive silence of many years ago; between then and now, what a stretch of wide experience!