In short, Mrs. Fenchurch was, so to speak, the presiding personality, the chairwoman of this drawing-room meeting; whilst the mistress of the house sat in a corner talking eagerly to the girl from the Rectory.
From the sofa, the Dowager’s soul went forth in arms. How dared this pushing, notoriously managing woman, ignore and eclipse two Mrs. Blagdons under their own roof—the home of her ancestors? There she was, actually exhibiting, and with pride, the Scrope Nankin Vases, that had been in the family for centuries, and drawing Lady Calthorpe’s special attention to a Cosway miniature of Angelina Scrope, her own grandmother. Oh, it was insufferable! Such manners should be dealt with by the penal laws.
Presently Mrs. Fen, in blissful ignorance of these smouldering fires, sailed across the room and sat down on the sofa in order to pay a little attention to old Mrs. Blagdon, “who seemed rather out of it”; but her polite advances were not welcomed. The Dowager declined to go into raptures over Jade, and pictures, to enlarge on objects familiar to Caroline Scrope since she could toddle; treasures which had been her own exclusive possessions for many years.
“Oh yes,” she assented icily, “no doubt these things in our collection impress an outsider. I was amused in watching you, as you went round exhibiting her relatives to Lady Calthorpe, who, however, has been here hundreds of times—and I could not help thinking what a capital person you would be as show-woman, in some historical house, such as Knole or Penshurst!”
This was a nasty speech, and entirely beneath the dignity of a Scrope; but the old lady was on fire; she was particularly sensitive with respect to Sharsley,—every bush and tree, every old book, and chair of which, were sacred to her; and to behold an absolute stranger, vaunting its treasures and doing the honours, was an exasperating and distracting experience.
Presently, she and her companion were engaged in a lady-like sparring match; and (the shameful confession must be made) occasionally dealt one another what is known as ‘blows below the belt.’ The Dowager, conveyed by looks and implication, more than actual speech, that her opponent had been undeservedly fortunate in placing her penniless niece in what had once been her own shoes! Mrs. Fenchurch, her blue blood boiling in her veins, had no hesitation in conveying to the Dowager, that she considered that her son was exceptionally favoured in marrying a girl who had well-born relations on both sides—and here she distinctly scored.
The attitude of these two matrons did not tend to promote conviviality; there was a vague impression of outstretched claws and flying fur, and the long-looked-for entrance of the men effected a happy diversion. The grand piano stood open, and the word ‘music’ was breathed by someone—possibly Mrs. Fenchurch.
“Come along, Letty, and let us have some of your parlour tricks,” said her husband, to whom a generous quantity of generous wine, had brought a certain amount of suavity.
The bride, silent and pale, rose immediately and went to the instrument, and although her voice and fingers seemed a little tremulous, gained confidence as soon as her uncle came and stood beside her. Her singing was voted delightful, and made a remarkable impression; the Rector’s thoughts flew to his choir; Lady Calthorpe’s to a charity concert. The voice was so fresh, so sweet, so flexible, and well trained; but to Lumley, mechanically turning over the leaves of an album, it was something more—to him it seemed to carry a note of hopelessness and despair.
Meanwhile Blagdon lay back in an arm-chair with one solid leg crossed over the other, and an expression on his flushed face which seemed to say: