Nevertheless, the spell of the past held her; and her cynicism was but skin deep. As an officer’s wife, knocking about the world with Lawrence, fighting its battles by his side, making the best of things, and seeing life in its wider aspect, she might have been a happy woman—and he still living. She had seen a letter from an army surgeon, in which the writer declared that Ormond had a splendid constitution, but made no fight. He seemed to have lost all interest in life, and to be glad to go out of it, and therefore fell an easy prey to the pestilence that walketh in darkness, and whose name is Cholera.
As Maude Hesketh crouched over her fire, dreaming of her youth, she asked herself why should not Lance and Letty benefit by her experience, and have their chance? This girl had no ambition, no extravagant tastes. Lancelot was clever and steady, and by all accounts bound to get on. If he only had his company, once in India, with a little help they could manage to scrape along. She would contribute a canteen of plate, all the house-linen, and a cheque.
And what about Doodie Fenchurch? demanded a sharp, inward voice, Doodie, whose head was filled with dazzling plans. Was she strong enough to withstand her masterful cousin and uphold the girl for the sake of sentimental memories and the ashes of her own long-dead romance? Alas! to this question, her mental reply was a prompt and unqualified ‘No.’
Her conscience now took Maude Hesketh in hand. She had indulged herself unwarrantably, she had enjoyed bringing the two children together in order to contemplate their happiness for her own gratification, and they would ultimately be called upon to pay for her entertainment—because she was a coward.
The few days’ leave had gone like a flash, and the end of the week found Mrs. Fenchurch at home, where, to borrow a military expression, ‘all were present and correct,’ although Tom was a little gouty and Letty looked pale—she must get her a tonic. Young Lumley had departed, Mr. Blagdon had not yet appeared—so far the coast was clear, and all was well!
Perhaps if Mrs. Fen had been behind the scenes she might have modified her opinion; but she did not know of those delightful skating parties on Barnby Mere. Letty and Lancelot skated admirably, better than any other couple; and skimmed round together at a racing pace, with the frosty air stinging their faces, the bright red sunset giving a colour to the cold, wintry scene. How was she to know of that evening at Oldcourt, when Letty sang Tosti’s “Good-bye,” with thrilling pathos, and Lumley, sitting in the shadow, had listened with folded arms, and a face of rigid pallor? How could she dream of their last walk with the Rector and Mrs. Hesketh, when they two lagged behind, at the crooked bridge in order to watch the gorgeous sunset, and Lumley said in a strange, husky voice:
“I’m off to-night—God knows when we shall meet again—but you know, Letty; you know——”
Letty’s heart leaped at the sound of her Christian name. She looked away, fixing her gaze on a great clump of snow-bound rushes, and awaited the end of the sentence with a thumping pulse. He was about to tell her what she longed to hear; but Lumley hesitated and controlled himself,—biting back words that crowded to his lips. He had all but succumbed to a fierce temptation to assure this little girl that he adored her.
Then came the voice of the Rector through the thin, frosty air, calling in a high, clerical monotone:
“Come on, come on, Lance; you have no time to spare! come on—come on.”