Bath Tangle

harsh disposition! She cannot be aware—even if he were as kind, as considerate as—” Her voice failed; she turned away her head, colouring painfully.

Unconsciously, he placed his hand over hers, as it lay on the arm of her chair, and pressed it reassuringly. It seemed to flutter under his. After a moment, it was gently withdrawn, and Fanny said, a little breathlessly: “I should not have spoken so. I don’t wish you to think that I was not most sincerely attached to Lord Spenborough. My memories of him must always be grateful, and affectionate.”

“You need say no more,” he replied, in a low voice. “I understand you perfectly.” There was a brief pause; then he said, with a resumption of his usual manner: “I am afraid you must sometimes be lonely now that Serena is so often with her tiresome protégée. I have a very good mind to give her a scold for neglecting you!”

“Indeed, you must do no such thing! I assure you, she doesn’t neglect me, and I am not at all lonely.”

It was true. Since she had emerged from her strict seclusion she had never lacked for company, and had by this time many acquaintances in Bath. She received and returned morning visits, attended one or two concerts, dined out several times, and even consented to appear at a few select rout-parties. She felt herself adventurous indeed, for she had never before gone alone into society. Before her marriage, she had dwelt in her mother’s shadow; after it, in her husband’s, or her stepdaughter’s. She was too well-accustomed to every sort of social gathering to feel the want of support, and only one circumstance marred her quiet enjoyment of Bath’s mild social life. Protected as she had been, she had never learnt how to hold her many admirers at a distance. She was not naturally flirtatious, and an elderly and fond husband, who knew his world, had taken care not to expose her to the temptations of fashionable London. Would-be cicisbeos, throwing out lures, had made haste to seek easier game after encountering one look from my Lord Spenborough; and Fanny had continued in serene unconsciousness that she was either sought or guarded. But so young and so divinely fair a widow exercised a powerful fascination over the susceptible, and she soon found herself in small difficulties. A shocked look was enough to check the advances of her more elderly admirers, but several lovelorn youths seriously discomposed her by the assiduity of their attentions, and their apparent determination to make her and themselves conspicuous. Serena would have known just how to depress pretensions, but Fanny lacked her lightness of touch, and, moreover, could never bring herself to snub a young gentleman who bashfully presented her with an elegant posy, or ran all over town to procure for her some elusive commodity which she had been heard to express a wish to possess. She believed that her circumstances protected her from receiving unwanted proposals, and comforted herself with the thought that the more violent of her adorers were too young to nourish serious intentions. It came as a severe shock to her, therefore, when Mr Augustus Ryde, the son of an old acquaintance of her mother’s, so far forgot himself as to cast himself at her feet, and to utter an impassioned declaration.

He had gained admittance to her drawing-room by offering to be the bearer to Fanny of a note from his gratified parent. He found Fanny alone, looking so pretty and so fairy-like in her clinging black robe and veil, that he lost his head. Fanny, having read Mrs Ryde’s note, said: “Excuse me, if you please, while I write an answer to Mrs Ryde’s kind invitation! Perhaps you will be so obliging as to deliver it to her.” She made as if to rise from her chair, but was prevented by Mr Ryde’s throwing himself on to his knees before her, and imploring her to hear him.

Startled, Fanny stammered: “Mr Ryde! I beg you—get up! You forget yourself! Oh, pray—!”

It was to no avail. Her hands were seized, and covered with kisses, and upon her outraged ears fell a tumultous torrent of words. Desperate attempts to check this outpouring were unheeded, possibly unheard. Mr Ryde, not content with laying his heart at her feet, gave her an incoherent account of his present circumstances and future expectations, swore eternal devotion, and declared his intention of plunging into the Avon if denied hope. Perceiving that she shrank back in alarm, shocked tears in her eyes, he begged her not to be frightened, and contrived to get an arm round her slim waist.

Into this ridiculous scene walked Major Kirkby, unannounced. He checked on the threshold, considerably astonished. One glance sufficed to put him in tolerably accurate possession of the facts. He trod briskly across the floor, as the disconcerted lover turned a startled face towards him, and Fanny gave a thankful cry. A hand grasping his coat-collar assisted Mr Ryde to rise swiftly to his feet. “You had best beg Lady Spenborough’s pardon before you go,” said the Major cheerfully. “And another time don’t come to pay a morning visit when you’re foxed!”

Confused, and indignant, Mr Ryde hotly refuted this suggestion, and tried somewhat incoherently to assure both Fanny and the Major of the honourable nature of his proposal. But Fanny merely hid her scarlet face in her hands, and the Major propelled him to the door, saying: “When you are five years older you may make proposals, and by that time you will know better than to force your attentions upon a lady whose circumstances should be enough to protect her from annoyance. Take yourself off! If you oblige me to escort you downstairs, I shall do so in a way you won’t care for.”

With these damping words, he pushed Mr Ryde out of the room, and shut the door upon him. “Stupid young coxcomb!” he remarked, turning again into the room. Then he saw that Fanny was by no means inclined to laugh the matter off, but was, in fact, excessively distressed and agitated, and he went quickly towards her, exclaiming in concern: “You must not take it so to heart! The devil! I wish I had kicked him downstairs!”

She tried to overcome her emotion, but as fast as she wiped the tears from her cheeks her eyes filled again. The novelty of the experience had upset her as much as its impropriety. She was trembling pitiably, and as pale as she had before been red. “How could he? How could he insult me so?” she sobbed.

“It was very bad, but he didn’t mean to insult you!” the Major assured her. To be sure, he deserves to be flogged for impertinence, but it was nothing more than a silly boy’s infatuation!”

“Oh, what must my conduct have been to have allowed him to suppose that such dreadful advances could be welcome to me?” wept Fanny. “Not one year widowed, and this—! I never dreamed—it never occurred to me—”

“No, no, of course it did not!” said the Major soothingly, dropping on one knee in precisely the spot vacated by Mr Ryde, and taking the widow’s hand in a comforting clasp. “You are not to be blamed! Your conduct has been irreproachable! Don’t—! I can’t bear to see you so unhappy, my—Lady Spenborough!”

“I beg your pardon—it is very silly!” Fanny choked, making heroic efforts to compose herself, and succeeding only in uttering a stifled sob. “I didn’t know how to stop him, and he kept on kissing my hands, and saying such things, and frightening me so! Indeed, I am very sorry to be so foolish! I am s-so very in-much obliged to you for s- sending him away! I can’t think w-what I should have done if you had not c-come in, for he—oh. Major Kirkby, he actually put his arm round me! I am so much ashamed, but indeed I never gave him the least encouragement!”

At this point, the Major, going one better than Mr Ryde, put both his own arms round the drooping figure, cradling it protectively, and saying involuntarily: “Fanny, Fanny! There, my darling, there, then! Don’t cry! I’ll see to it the young cub doesn’t come near you again! There’s nothing now to be frightened of!”

Quite how it happened, neither knew. The outraged widow, finding an inviting shoulder so close, sank instinctively against it, and the next instant was locked in a far more alarming embrace than she had been subjected to by the unlucky Mr Ryde. The impropriety of it did not seem to strike her. Her heart leaped in her bosom; she clung tightly to the Major; and put up her face to receive his kiss.

For a long moment they stayed thus, then, as though realization dawned simultaneously on each of them, Fanny made a convulsive movement to free herself, and the Major’s arms dropped from about her, and he sprang up, exclaiming: “Fanny! Oh, my God, my God, what have I done?”

They stared at one another, pale as death, horror in their faces. “I—I beg your pardon!” the Major stammered. “I didn’t mean—Oh, my darling, what are we to do?”

The colour came rushing back to her cheeks; so tender a glow shone in her eyes that it was all he could do not to take her back into his arms. But she said in a constricted voice:

“You were only trying to comfort me. I know you did not mean—”

“Fanny, Fanny, don’t say it! We could not help ourselves!” he interrupted, striding over to the window, as though he dared not trust himself to look at her. “The fool that I have been!”

Such bitter anguish throbbed in his voice that she winced, and bowed her head to hide a fresh spring of tears. A long silence fell. Fanny surreptitiously wiped her eyes, and said faintly: “It was my fault. You must forget—how silly I was. I don’t regard it. I know you cannot have meant it.”