Letty had listened to this bitter indictment with rapidly changing colour; she knew that her aunt had never cared for her; but that she absolutely hated her, and felt her to be a burden and an interloper, came as a revelation. She left the room in silence, and Mrs. Fenchurch, who was trembling with passion, snatched up the brocade, carried it into the maid’s working-room, and commanded her to lose no time about making it up for Miss Glyn. But afterwards, when she had cooled, Mrs. Fen began to realise that she had gone too far; for once in her life she acknowledged to herself, that she had said too much.
Colonel Fenchurch was surprised and concerned when he saw his niece at lunch with a very white face, and very red eyes. She ate scarcely a morsel, and seemed to find considerable difficulty in swallowing or speaking. On his wife’s brow there sat a heavy cloud, and he noticed the servants glancing significantly at one another—something had happened—there had been a blow up! But he, being a cautious and somewhat nervous little gentleman, talked about the weather and a lame horse, and withdrew as soon as possible into the shelter of his smoking-room; where he consoled himself with a recent copy of the Field, and a good cigar.
During the afternoon, Mrs. Fenchurch, having fortified herself with a large glass of port and quinine, climbed up to the top of the house, to make the amende to her niece.
“Well, Letty,” she began as she entered, “I am sorry we have had a difference of opinion; but I suppose you will allow that you are little more than a child, and that I am a woman of experience, and should know what should be done, and worn, better than yourself?”
Letty stood up, her lips twitched, and her eyes filled with tears as she answered:
“I am sorry, aunt, that you are displeased with me, and I—I—suppose I was impertinent. I meant no harm in sending for the crêpe dress, and indeed I thought it would save you buying my ball-gown.”
This was precisely the attitude of which Mrs. Fenchurch most warmly approved, and as the girl looked completely cowed, she said:
“I am sorry that I lost my temper—so let us make it up; and as you have bought the white crêpe, you shall wear it. The other will come in later,” and having offered, what she considered, a most remarkable concession, Mrs. Fen kissed her niece sharply, and walked downstairs. After she had departed, Letty stood listening to her descending footsteps; somehow her aunt’s footsteps, coming or going, invariably made her heart flutter like that of some terrified animal. When the last sound had died away, she flung herself down upon her bed. She didn’t care about the ball, or the crêpe dress—or anything! She was an interloper; no one wanted her. How bitter it was, to eat bread that was begrudged. In what shape or form could she ever find release?
It was agonising to reflect, that she might go on living month after month, and year after year, under the roof of a woman who had called her a pauper, and a burden.