As for Letty herself, maddened by gibes, reproaches, and a lacerating tongue, at night she would wander round her room like a prisoner, wondering how she was to escape, wondering who could help her. Cousin Maude was her friend, but powerless; intercourse with Oldcourt was now strictly curtailed. Uncle Tom was attached to her, but entirely dominated by his wife.
Colonel Fenchurch had not been insensible to the suppressed antagonism and strained relations between aunt and niece; inwardly and with all his sore heart, he sided with Letty; but though physically bold as a lion, the little man lacked moral courage; he could face the biggest fence without flinching, but he dared not face Doodie and stand between her and her unreasonable treatment of his sister’s orphan; the situation filled him with secret bitterness and self-contempt. Hitherto, he had been absolutely content with his comfortable, well-ordered home, his well-bred hunters, and his masterful invaluable Doodie, till the girl had come to make a third at The Holt; and now in his eyes, his watchful consort frequently read questions, protests, and reproach.
And all on account of this detestable interloper!
In spite of his breezy, jaunty manner, it was no secret in the house or village, that the Colonel had a fine grey mare in his stable, and it was whispered that lately there had been rows; loud talking and angry voices overheard in the drawing-room long after Miss Glyn had gone to bed—but vain was the effort to dislodge the yoke of years!
The east wind had been particularly trying to Mrs. Fenchurch’s neuralgia, she had received a disappointing post, and carried away by this combination of circumstances, she vented her feelings on Letty, who had been so unfortunate as to upset a bottle of ink.
“Oh, what a mess! my good cover ruined!” she cried. “You never can do anything right or like other people. If only someone would marry you, and take you out of my house and out of my sight, I’d give a thousand pounds!”
Pacing up and down her room that same afternoon, her thoughts darting in all directions like some frantic sorely pressed fugitive, Letty came to a momentous decision. Escape for her life she must, and somehow! She had no money, no home to receive her; there was but one alternative, and as she stood in the window looking out on the bleak prospect, she vowed to herself that she would marry the very first man who asked her—yes, she would. Having made this desperate resolution, she broke down, burst into tears, and ran and buried her face in her pillow, in case her next-door neighbour (a housemaid) might overhear her too audible, and convulsive sobs.
Shortly after this scene, the unfortunate girl ‘brought home,’ as Mrs. Fenchurch expressed it, influenza from a cottage in the village, and was hors de combat for three weeks—entailing extra trouble to the servants, a visit from the local doctor, and a chemist’s bill.
Then one afternoon towards the end of March, Mrs. Fenchurch herself climbed up to visit the patient; her presence always made the girl’s heart flutter—beyond words to express she dreaded being alone with Aunt Dorothy; but on this occasion Aunt Dorothy looked almost agreeable, and was carrying in her hand a box which was addressed to ‘Miss Glyn, The Holt, Thornby,’ and had been despatched from the south of France.
“This has just come for you, Letty, and I have brought it up myself,” said Mrs. Fenchurch breathlessly. “Here are a pair of scissors—now let us see what is inside.”