Bath Tangle

“Oh, no! I am persuaded you could not be!”

His eyes followed Serena and her admirer. “If all these moonstruck swains flatter themselves that she has any other intention than to enjoy a little sport they must be a set of ninny-hammers,” he remarked. “I own, it is not a sport I like, but there is no particular harm in it when the lady is as skilled in it as I perceive Serena to be.”

She thought that she could detect a note of reserve in his voice and said something about funning humours and openness of temper. He agreed to this; and she had the happy thought of adding that by dispensing her favours among several Serena was throwing sand in the eyes of those who suspected her of a single attachment. That made him laugh. He said: “Lady Spenborough, are you trying to bamboozle me, or has Serena been bamboozling you? She is enjoying herself hugely! Don’t look so anxious! Do you care to stroll in the wood? May I give you my arm?”

Her conscience told her that it was her duty to follow Serena, but since to do that would entail bringing the Major once more within sight and hearing of what could not (for all his brave words) but give him pain, she yielded to inclination. Nothing was more comfortable than a walk with Major Kirkby! He moderated his pace to hers, handed her carefully over the smallest obstacle, warned her of damp patches, and always chose a smooth path for her to tread. They were on the cosiest of terms, Fanny having very soon lost her shyness, and the Major discovering in her so sympathetic a listener that before very long he had put her in possession of nearly every detail of his career. In return, she told him all about her home, and her family, and how much she dreaded having her sister Agnes sent to live with her. He entered fully into her sentiments upon this; and although she never spoke of Mama except, with respect, or mentioned her marriage, it did not take him long to arrive at a pretty fair understanding of why she had accepted the hand of a man old enough to have been her father. His reflections upon this subject he kept to himself.

Nothing occurred to disturb the harmony of these summer days until one morning in June the Morning Post, when opened at the only page that interested Fanny, was found to contain a bomb-shell. She had just read aloud to Serena the news of the Princess Charlotte’s indisposition, and was about to speculate on the probable nature of the malady, when her eyes alighted on another item of social intelligence. A sharp gasp broke from her, and she cried out impulsively: “Good God! Oh, no! Impossible!”

“Well, what now?” inquired Serena, engaged in arranging roses in a bowl.

“Rotherham!” uttered Fanny, in a strangled voice.

Serena turned quickly to look at her. “Rotherham? What has happened to him?” she said sharply. “Is he ill too? Fanny, he’s not dead?”

“Oh, no, no!” Fanny said. “Betrothed!”

“Betrothed!”

“Yes! The most shocking thing! To Emily Laleham!”

“It’s not true!”

“It must be, Serena, for here it is, published. I don’t wonder at your amazement! That poor child! Oh, what a wicked, abominable woman Lady Laleham is! A marriage has been arranged—yes, and well do I know who arranged it!—between Ivo Spencer Barrasford, Marquis of Rotherham, and Emily Mary, eldest daughter of Sir Walter Laleham, Bart—You see, there can be no mistake! Oh, I don’t know when I have been more distressed!”

She looked up from the paper to Serena, standing like a stone in the middle of the room, two roses held in her hand, her cheeks perfectly white, and in her eyes an expression of blank horror.

“What have I done?” Serena said, in a queer, hoarse voice. “O God, what have I done?”

“Dearest, you are not to blame!” Fanny cried. “He met her in my house, not in yours! Not that I feel I am to blame either, for heaven knows I never invited Lady Laleham to visit me on that fatal day! And from all we hear of the horrid, encroaching way she has been thrusting herself into the highest circles, he must have met her somewhere, even if not in my house! Though, to be sure, it would not have been in that style, just seated round the table, as we were, conversing without the least formality. Oh, if I had known what would come of it, I would have been uncivil to Lady Laleham rather than have admitted her into the breakfast-parlour!” She saw that Serena was staring at her in a fixed, blank way, and then that a trickle of blood was running down one of her fingers. “Oh, you have scratched your hand with those thorns! Take care you don’t smear your gown, dearest!”

Her words seemed to recall Serena to herself. She gave a slight start, and glanced down at her hand. Her fingers unclenched themselves from about the rose-stems; she laid the flowers down, saying quietly: “So I have! How stupid! Pray, Fanny, attend to these! I must go and wash my hands.”

She went quickly from the room, and was gone for some time. When she returned, it was with some tale of having been obliged to mend the torn gathers of one of the flounces round the hem of her gown. Fanny, who knew that she never set a stitch, might, had her mind not been taken up with the news of Rotherham’s engagement, have felt considerable surprise at this unprecedented happening. As it was, she merely said absently: “How vexing! Have you sent your woman out? You know, Serena, the more I think of it the more I am convinced Lady Laleham had this in mind when she forced herself upon us that day!”

“Very likely. I put nothing beyond her!” Serena said lightly.

“I should never have thought Emily the kind of girl to take his fancy!”

“There is no telling what a man will fancy.”

“No, very true! But she is quite as silly as I am, and I thought he held silly females in the greatest contempt! Only think of that impatient, sarcastic way he speaks when one has said something he thinks stupid! He did seem to be amused by the droll things she said, not in the least meaning to be droll, but I thought he was quizzing her, and not very kindly!”

“So did I, but it appears that we were mistaken.”

“Yes, indeed! The Quenbury Assembly, too! That was why he chose to take his wards to it! But the way he spoke of Emily that very night, when you quarrelled with him about his having stood up only with her—how could he have done so, if he had felt the smallest tendre for her? Do you remember his telling us how he could get nothing out of her but Yes, and No, and so had drawn no more coverts, but had come to take his leave of us instead?”

“Very clearly. Also my own words on that occasion! I imagine her behaviour must have piqued him, and what began as an idle amusement became a serious pursuit. I daresay he can never before have tossed his handkerchief and not seen it picked up! I admire Emily very much, I did not think she had it in her to bring the odious Marquis so tamely to heel!”

“Oh, Serena, I am sure such a thought was never in her head! She did not like him! Indeed, I believe she was afraid of him! That is what makes this news so particularly dreadful!”

“If he loves her, she will have nothing to fear,” Serena said, a slight constriction in her throat.

“If—! I cannot credit it!”

“Whatever else you cannot credit, that at least is sure!” Serena said. “No other reason can possibly exist for his having asked her to marry him! She has nothing to recommend her, neither birth nor fortune, but a pretty face and the artlessness of a kitten!”

“Then he is infatuated, which is worse than all, for you may depend upon it he will soon recover from that, and grow bored with her, and make her miserable!”

“You take a gloomy view of her prospects!”

“Yes, for I know what a harsh temper he has, and how unfeeling he is, besides being proud and overbearing! And I know she has been forced into this by her hateful mother!”

Serena shrugged her shoulders. “Why put yourself in this passion, my dear? It is no concern of yours, after all!”

“Oh, no! But if you know what it means to a girl to be forced into marriage with a man more than twice her age you would not—” She stopped, aghast at her own words. The colour flooded her cheeks; she looked stricken, and blurted out: “I beg your pardon! I didn’t mean—I would not for the world—I don’t know how I came to say such a thing!”

“There is no need to beg my pardon. I always thought it atrocious, and sincerely pitied you.”

“No, no, don’t say so! Your papa—no one could have been kinder—more considerate! You mustn’t think that I meant to compare him for one moment with Rotherham!”

“I don’t. There, Fanny, don’t cry! It is all very sad, but there’s no use in becoming agitated over it. We have