Alas, alas, alas! A castle in the air had toppled down, and great was the fall thereof!
Mrs. Fenchurch’s first sensation was insensate fury with the girl; her second, a devout thankfulness that beyond her own household—that is to say, her husband and Cousin Maude—she had not trumpeted forth her hopes—since they had come to nothing.
Her manner to her niece now underwent an abrupt change; the wind instead of blowing from the south had set steadily into the east, and there remained. Fires in Letty’s bedroom and other small indulgences came to an end, and this particular month of February was, for several reasons, the most miserable the girl had ever known. Nothing that she did, or said, or wore, seemed to please Aunt Dorothy, and one day, after an undeserved scolding, the poor worm turned at last and said:
“I know, Aunt Dorothy, that I am one too many here.”
“How dare you say such a thing, you impertinent minx!” stormed her relative.
“But it is the truth,” argued Letty, plucking up some courage. “I am not happy, and you are not happy, and we really cannot go on in this way. I should like to return to Dresden; they will find me a place in the school as music teacher.”
“I never heard such insolence and nonsense!” cried Mrs. Fenchurch, her face red with temper. “Do you suppose your uncle would allow his niece to go out as a governess—earn her bread—and have everyone talking?”
“Well, many girls who are as good, or probably far better than I am, do it,” declared Letty, controlling her tears with difficulty; “and my master said that, with practice, I would make a professional singer.”
“Worse and worse. Why, you will be clamouring to go upon the stage next! Be so good as to understand, that you remain here, and do exactly as I wish, until you are one-and-twenty. Of course, someone may marry you, but penniless girls haven’t much chance of that in these times.”
Mrs. Fenchurch on every other subject was perfectly sane and reasonable; the exception was her husband’s niece. She was pretty, she was young, she was de trop, and her aunt sincerely hated her. Undoubtedly the unhappy young woman had got upon her nerves—the bitter disappointment after such exalted hopes, worked in her mind like a deadly poison. It was true that Letty had made an unexpected sensation at the ball, and at the Bonhams’ dance, but so far her triumph had borne no fruit. The weather had been dreadful, going about the country was out of the question, the roads were impassable with rain or snow, so Mrs. Fenchurch had been thrown back upon herself—there was no hunting, no gardening; Mothers’ Meetings and Village Choral Society failed to content her, and her sole outlet was Cousin Maude. To Oldcourt she carried her grievances, but Cousin Maude refused to see eye to eye with her, and generally took the part of Letty. If the girl was forgetful, if she had given a short answer, if she had slammed a door, after all, she was young; her life was not very exciting—and who is perfect?