“Dear Mrs. Hayes,“I hope you are none the worse for yesterday’s excursion. I send you a few flowers. I remember how fond you were of them and your wonderful garden at Jam-Jam-More. I have ventured to tell my florist to supply you constantly. I amvery busy getting under weigh. I start the first thing to-morrow. Kind regards to Miss Hayes and yourself.“Yours sincerely,“E. Somers.“P.S.—I find I have some of the books you mentioned that you would like to read, and am sending them round to you.”
“Dear Mrs. Hayes,
“I hope you are none the worse for yesterday’s excursion. I send you a few flowers. I remember how fond you were of them and your wonderful garden at Jam-Jam-More. I have ventured to tell my florist to supply you constantly. I amvery busy getting under weigh. I start the first thing to-morrow. Kind regards to Miss Hayes and yourself.
“Yours sincerely,
“E. Somers.
“P.S.—I find I have some of the books you mentioned that you would like to read, and am sending them round to you.”
The books (a huge parcel of the newest publications) duly arrived; most of them had never been cut! I’m afraid Mr. Somers stretched a point when he said hehadthem. Choice flowers recalled him to our minds three times a week, and it did not need the fragrant roses, carnations, and lilies to remind Emma of one Indian guest who had not forgotten her.
The autumn went by without any incident, save that Emma’s strength andspirits flagged. The memory of that day on the river had visited her for weeks; but what is one happy day out of three hundred and sixty-five—one swallow in a summer?
We were now at Stonebrook on her account. Her doctor had forbidden her to spend the winter season in town, and ordered her to Sussex; and although (as I have hinted) our locality and abode were not particularly exhilarating, still, I was by no means sorry to get away from London.
LADY HILDEGARDE’S PHOTOGRAPH.
Afterwaiting twenty minutes in semidarkness (poor people must exercise patience), the lamp—welcome herald of tea—was carried in by Mrs. Gabb, whose expressive countenance distinctly warned off either questions or expostulations. She proceeded to dash down the blinds, bang the shutters, coal-scuttle, fire-irons, and finally the door.
By lamplight our little apartment did not look nearly so mean and shabby as by day. Emma had marvelous taste in an airy, sketchy style—a taste which, she assured me, was common to many Anglo-Indian ladies, who were frequently compelled to make a very little furniture go a long way, and who were unsurpassed in the art of makeshifts. Some grasses and winter berries filled several bowls and vases; a few pretty Eastern ornaments were scattered about; an Indian drapery was thrown carelessly over the sofa. A smart paper lamp-shade and two or three silk cushions brightened up the room, and last, not least, a considerable gallery of photographs. They caught the eye on all sides, and had a truly imposing effect. Emma had been twelve years in the East, and had accumulated many portraits. Here was a smart cavalry man—an A.D.C.; there an imposing general officer covered with orders; a Ghoorka, a hill beauty, a polo pony, an Indian picnic, a wedding group, a lady in a rickshaw, holding over herself a coquettish Japanese umbrella. They made indeed a goodly show, and as Emma remarked, “putting sentiment altogether on one side, were easily carried about, and went a long way towards furnishing a shabby sitting-room.” Whilst the tea was drawing, I tidied up, swept the hearth, straightened the lamp-shade, collected and put away straggling books and papers. Meanwhile, Emma drew forth a pack of somewhatpasséecards, cleared a space on the table, and proceeded to deal them out in four neat rows.
“I am going to do your fortune,” she announced.“This is your birthday. I wish it had not come on a Friday; however, let me see. Oh, dear, dear, dear!Allthe bad cards are settling round you. Tears, a disappointment! there is sickness, you see; a journey, a dark man, and a dark woman; she is antipathetic to you, and will injure you. Yes. Look, I have counted again; she comes right between you and the marriage card! You will get your wish.”
“But I have not thought of any wish.”
“Ah! and I see money; but here is this horrible ace of spades—the death card.”
At this instant we heard a strange voice, and a sound of scuffling steps in the passage.
“Some one is coming!” I had barely uttered the warning, and Emma had only time to throw a newspaper over the pack, when Mrs. Gabb, flinging open the door, shrilly announced, “Miss Skuce.”
Whereupon a tall elderly lady, in a long damp waterproof, bounced into the room, showing every one of her front teeth.
“Pray excuse my calling at this late hour,” she said, shaking hands with us effusively.“At least, it is not really late, only half-past four, quite visiting timestill; but it is so dark, it might be the middle of the night.”
To which statement we politely assented, and also further conceded “that it had been a shockingly wet day.”
“And how do you like dear little Stonebrook?” she asked. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll just take off my cloak.”
“Oh, it is not very lively,” replied Emma; “but then, I came here for my health.”
“Ah, indeed,” rising to hang her waterproof carefully over a chair, and taking a seat nearer to Emma whom she stared at exhaustively.
Emma, though thin and fragile, was still a pretty woman. She wore a handsome black satin and lace tea-gown (a remnant of better days); diamonds (of ditto) sparkled on her wasted hands, andher expressive eyes were lit up with vivacity. Even this unexpected visit from a garrulous old maid made quite an agreeable break in the otherwise dreary wet day.
“How long shall you stay, do you think?”
“I really have not formed any plans—possibly all the winter.”
“And Miss——,” looking at me interrogatively. “Surelynot your daughter?”
“No, my step-daughter—Miss Hayes.”
“It’s a terrible dull place for young people, especially if they are accustomed to India,” smiling at me blandly.
“I have never been in India since I was two months old,” I replied with precipitation.
“Butyouwere?” she observed, turning to Emma. “And army—of course?” in a confidential key.
“No. My husband had an appointment at the court of the Rajah of Jam-Jam-More. He was his medical adviser.”
“Ah, I understand”—in a patronizing key—“a native doctor!”
“Oh no!” bursting into a merry laugh; “doctor to a native prince.”
“Dear me! Is it not the same thing? How nice this room looks! Your own pretty things, I amsure. What quantities of charming photographs! May I peep at them?”—rising with a sprightly air.
“Oh, certainly, with pleasure. But they are chiefly Indian friends—and I doubt if you will find them interesting.”
“I amalwaysinterested in other people’s friends. But what do I behold?”—striking an attitude—“a bunch of peacock’s feathers! So unlucky! Why do you keep them, dear Mrs. Hayes?”
“They belong to Mrs. Gabb—not to me—you must ask her.”
“And you are not superstitious? Table-turning, palmistry, second sight, planchette: do you believe in any of those?”
“I don’t think I have much faith in any of them—no, not even planchette—though I heard a horrible story of a planchette who aggravated inquirers by writing such horrible things, that one man, in a rage, pitched it into the fire when it immediately gave a diabolical scream, and flew up the chimney.”
At this little anecdote I broke into a loud laugh—I invariably did so.
“Of course,thatwas arrant nonsense!” remarked Miss Skuce, carefully replacing the peacock’s feathers, and recommencing a tour of inspection.
I watched her attentively, with her pointed nose, near-sighted eyes, looped-up skirts, with a rim of chalky mud, and square-toed laced boots—shaped like pie-dishes—as she made a deliberate examination of Emma’s little gallery, throwing us remarks over her shoulder from time to time.
“I always make a point of calling on new people—strangers,” she announced from over the edge of a large durbar group. “They must find it so desperately dull, and I’m an old resident. My brother is a doctor. Most of the neighbors don’t visit; they draw the line at the hotel, and never notice people in lodgings, since that awful scandal at Mrs. Tait’s, three years ago. I cannot—ahem—repeat the story, justnow,” and she looked at me expressively; “but I will tell you all about it another time. I dare say the rectory peoplemaycome. At any rate”—casting an appreciative glance at Emma’s unexpectedly elegant appearance—“I shall make a point of mentioning you to them.”
“Oh, thank you very much, but we are only here for a change,” protested Emma; “the doctors said I must have dry bracing air, and——”
“What have I got here?” interrupted our visitor, who had been routing on the chimney-piece, behind a fire-screen. “Alargephotograph of dear Lady Hildegarde Somers!” holding it in both hands as if it were some holy relic. “Howdidyou come by it?” she demanded, in an impressive key.
“She gave it to me, of course,” was Emma’s simple reply.
Miss Skuce’s little eyes widened as she stood on the rug, clasping her treasure-trove, and contemplating Emma with an air of tragic interrogation.
“Then youknowher?” she gasped out at last.
“Intimately. At least, she stayed in our house in India for six weeks, so I suppose I may say that I know her rather well.”
Miss Skuce was now compelled to seek a seat, and signed to my stepmother to continue.
“My husband and I had numbers of visitors in the cold weather; they came to see the Jam-Jam, and the old tombs and temples, and we put them up in our house, and got them shooting and sport.”
“What kind of sport?” questioned her listener.
“Sometimes tiger-shooting, sometimes hunting with cheetahs, sometimes elephant-catching or pigsticking.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Miss Skuce, who was visibly impressed.
“You see, my husband had a capital appointment, though hewasuncovenanted. He drew large pay, and was supplied, besides, with carriages and horses, a house and servants.”
“Howverynice! And about her ladyship?”
“Oh, Lady Hildegarde and Mr. Somers and their son came to us for ten days, but she unfortunately got a touch of the sun, and was laid up for weeks. My husband attended her, I nursed her, and we did all we possibly could for her. She was a charming patient, andsograteful. Mr. Somers and his son went on to the frontier, and left her with us during her convalescence. She joined them in Bombay. I have never seen her since I came to England.”
“Really. How strange!”
“But I met her son in London last summer. Such a handsome, unaffected young fellow (my poor husband took a great fancy to him). He was just on the eve of starting off to America, but he managed to give us two delightful days—one of them on the river—and was altogether most kind. He told me that his father and mother were abroad. I have quite lost sight of the whole family now. I don’t even know where they live when theyareat home. I have lost sight of so many people,” added Emma, with a regretful sigh.
“Not know where the Somers live!” repeated Miss Skuce.“Why, my dear Mrs. Hayes, they live within three miles of where you are sitting!—at Coppingham Abbey, the show place of this part of the world. The Somers of Coppingham are not rich—as riches are understood now—and I am afraid poor dear old Mr. Somers has lost a great deal of money over mines in South America, and stocks—he was never a business man; but the family are as old as the hills. Miss Somers made a splendid match last year, she married Lord Polexfen; certainly he is rather ancient forher, but then you cannot have everything. Maudie is very handsome, but frightfully ambitious, worldly, haughty; quite,quitebetween ourselves—Inever took to Maudie.”
I heartily but secretly applauded this sentiment.
“Of course, it was not a love-affair—respect on one side, admiration on the other—and, as I have told you, Maudie could not expect everything, and—and she thought——”
“That an old lord was better than none at all,” I supplemented briskly.
“Oh, I would not saythat, by any means,” returned Miss Skuce, ratherstiffly. (It was evident that no one else was to be permitted to censure this august young woman.) “The family are frequently abroad now, but are always here in December and January. And so, you tell me, you know dear Lady Hildegarde intimately?”
And she paused and surveyed Emma with her head on one side. It was abundantly demonstrated by our visitor’s face and gestures that, from being strangers in the land—mere wandering, homeless nobodies—we had been suddenly promoted to the footing of people of distinction, the intimate friends of the mistress of the show place of the county. The alteration in Miss Skuce’s manner was as amusing as it was abrupt—from an air of easy patronage to an attitude of humble and admiring deference—the transition was absolutely pantomimic.
“Dear Lady Hildegarde is the moving spirit of the whole neighborhood,” she remarked. “She issoactive, her ideas are so full of originality, her energy is marvelous; no one would believe that she has a married daughter, and a son of seven-and-twenty. And she is so fond of having young people about her. I am certain that she will be immensely taken with this pretty child,” indicating me with a wave of the photograph in her hand. “She will introduce her to all the best people; she will have her stay at the Abbey, and give a ball for her, of that I feel confident.”
“Oh no, no! Absurd! Nonsense!” protested Emma, with a beaming smile. But, unless I was much mistaken, the long seven-leagued boots of Emma’s imagination had carried her far ahead of Miss Skuce’s gratifying predictions. An agreeable idea once planted in her mind, immediately struck root, grew, and flourished, like Jack’s immortal beanstalk.
“HowI wish you had let me know that you were a friend of Lady Hildegarde’s,” continued Miss Skuce, effusively, “instead of remaining, if I may say so, so foolishlyincog.The Bennys of the Dovecote, and the Prouts, will be overwhelmed to think that they have not called. Her ladyship will say we haveallneglected you! I hope the people here are satisfactory? Mrs. Gabb has rather a tongue, but she is very clean. Are you comfortable, dear Mrs. Hayes?”
“Yes, thank you; I might be worse.”
“I must send you some fresh eggs. How are you off for literature?”
“In a starving condition. I’ve not seen a new book for months.”
“Oh, then we willallsupply you! I notice that you take theSussex Figaro,”lifting the paper with a sudden swoop, and thereby discovering the neatly arranged rows of playing cards!
It would be difficult to say which of the two ladies looked the more taken aback and out of countenance. Miss Skuce stood for a second with her mouth half open, paper in hand. Emma became scarlet, as she hastily scrambled the cards together.
“So you play patience, I see,” said our visitor, after a pause, and with really admirable presence of mind.
“Oh, anything, everything, fromecartéto—to old maid, pour passer le temps. I hope you will have some tea. Gwen, whathavewe been thinking about? Come along and pour it out.”
In ten minutes’ time, Miss Skuce had nearly emptied her third cup, and, enlivened by the fragrant herb, had becomemost talkative and confidential, and developed a truly warm interest in us and our concerns.
Emma was advised whom she was to know, and whom she mustnotknow on any account; where she was to deal, whose fly she was to hire for parties—all was laid before her in detail. A stranger entering the room would naturally have supposed that this eager lady, who was nursing her empty teacup, was an old and intimate friend.
Finally, with lavish promises of eggs, books, and flowers, Miss Skuce, as she expressed it, “tore herself away.” She must have managed to whisper a few words on the stairs or in the passage, for when Mrs. Gabb came to remove the things, she wore an unusually benign aspect; there was no angry banging and clanging of unoffending and inanimatearticles. On the contrary, she poked the fire with an extravagant hand, drew the curtains noiselessly, and remarked in a surprisingly affable tone that “she had made us a nice little batter pudding,” and “that it was a wet night.”
So much for numbering a large photograph of a local magnate among our household gods! If her mere portrait had wrought such an agreeable transformation in visitor and landlady, what might we not expect from the presence of Lady Hildegarde herself?
WE GET INTO SOCIETY.
Emma’sbedroom was immediately beneath mine, and during the night I heard her coughing repeatedly, a nasty little short hacking cough. I went to her early in the morning, in order to condole with her and urge her to remain in bed; but she was already dressed.
“Kept me awake, my cough, you say? Yes, but I did not mind,” was her extraordinary statement. “I did not want to sleep, I had so much to think about—so many pleasant thoughts.”
“Iknow what you have been thinking about,” I said, as we sat down to breakfast—“or, rather, of whom you have been thinking—of Lady Hildegarde.”
“Of course—why not? I have not seen her for four years and more—nearly five—but she is not the sort of person who wouldeverchange; and really, I hope you won’t think it very mean of me to say it, but she is under obligations to me, and I am not too proud to allow her to repay me. I nursed her for weeks, and we gave her the best nourishment, medical attendance, champagne, ice, all gratis, the rajah’s own saloon carriage to the junction, and, when she said good-by, she seemed reallyquiteaffected, and gave me two large photographs of herself, and kissed me over and over, and said, ‘I cannot find words to express all Ifeel, but I shall never, never, never forget you—my own sister would not have done more! You have saved my life, and you will, I hope, find some day that I am a woman of deeds—not words!’ And now, here is her opportunity. What a piece of luck our coming here! Just by chance! We knew no one in London, and I was too ill latterly to take you about; here Lady Hildegarde will be your sponsor in society and introduce you everywhere. Her own daughter is married, and she is very fond of going out and chaperoning girls—she told me so. I must see about your dresses, my dear. I have a lovely white satin that I only wore once, and that will alter quite easily for you!”
Emma was radiant. Positively she looked ten years younger than she had done yesterday. Ah! hope, delusive hope, how many flattering tales had you not told her! One drop of this elixir of life seemed to intoxicate her. Give her, figuratively, a stick, or a pebble, and straw,—what grand castles she created and peopled. Sometimes, as we sat over the fire together, her eloquent tongue and facile imagination drew forecasts and anticipations so brilliant and so vivid that I could compare them to nothing but fairy stories, or the Arabian Nights Entertainments.
After breakfast, when I was out doing our insignificant marketing, I noticed Miss Skuce at a distance, with both hands uplifted, her chin wagging vigorously, holding forth at great and uninterrupted length to two ladies, who seemed interested. I also caught sight of her at our mutual grocer’s—she was purchasing eggs, which she carried off, packed in sawdust, in a paper bag. Surely—surely—— However, time would tell (timedoestell on eggs.)
That afternoon, by three o’clock, our little room was full of visitors—we werepositively short of chairs! Miss Skuce was the first arrival—carrying in her hand a present in a basket (it contained eggs and flowers.) The Misses Benny, extremely exclusive spinsters from the Dovecote, appeared bearing their mama’s card and excuses—prim, long-nosed women, wearing severe tailor-made dresses, prim felt hats with one wing, and attired alike even to their gold bangles and brown kid gloves.
“We heard from Miss Skuce that you are a great friend of Lady Hildegarde’s,” said the elder of the sisters, addressing Emma in a high-pitched, shrill voice. “Indeed, I see her over there on the chimney-piece! You knew her in India, did you not?”
“Yes,” assented Emma. “I knew her very well.”
“I dare say you will see a great deal of her. She adores India, and brought home such lovely curios—embroidery, rugs, ivory work, and such asweetlittle silver teapot the shape of an elephant.”
“Yes, I remember it—my husband gave it to her,” returned Emma, eagerly.
“Ah, you don’tsayso! I hope we shall see you on Thursday. We want you to come over to tea at the Dovecote, just outside the town, at four o’clock. We hope to have a few people and a little music. Your daughter sings, I believe?”
“Thank you, we shall be very happy.”
“I suppose you have not made many acquaintances here, as yet?”
“No; no one has called but Miss Skuce.”
“Oh,” smiling,“shecalls on every one—so like her! She finds out all about strangers, and she is nicknamed the ‘Stonebrook News.’ She is a well-meaning person, but dreadfully pushing—you must really keep her in her place. Lady Hildegarde puts her down so beautifully.”
“But I understand that Lady Hildegarde is a particular friend of hers?”
“Ofhers!—of Miss Skuce’s!” in a loud voice. “Oh, dear me, whathasshe been telling you? She is never invited to the Abbey, except once a year to the dignity ball here—and Lady Hildegarde merely makesuseof her at bazaars and charity teas.”
The departing Bennys met in the narrow doorway Lady Bloss and Miss Bloss, the former a commanding matron in black velvet, with a miniature catafalque upon her stately head—aquiline, portly, immensely condescending, with a very large person and a small squeaky voice.
“Sopleased to find you at home,” offering two fat fingers, and looking round anxiously for asolidseat. “My daughter, Miss Bloss. I heard you were a very intimate friend of my dear cousin, Lady Hildegarde Somers. Some one happened to mention it when I was in the post-office, so I thought, as I was in town, I would just run over and see you!”
The idea of Lady Bloss running anywhere was too preposterous to entertain without smiles.
“And how do you like our little town? And were you long in India?”—and so on and so on. “And will you come to tea next week? I’ll send you a card.” And then she struggled up from her low seat, beckoned to her daughter, and really the room looked quite empty after their departure!
Little Mrs. Cholmondeley, the wife of a M. F. H., was still with us—a smart, fashionable-looking woman, with sandy hairand a long-handled eye-glass, by means of which she noted everything.
“Lady Bloss is quitetooamusing,” she remarked, after she had sped that lady most affectionately, and asked herwhyshe had not been to see her for such ages? “She is no more cousin to Lady Hildegarde than to the man in the moon; her husband was an old Indian judge, a K. C. B. She and Lady Hildegarde have the same dressmaker, and that is positively the only connection.”
“Oh yes, excuse me,” said her friend; “Lady Bloss’s uncle married a cousin of Lady Hildegarde’s aunt by marriage.”
“Oh, spare my poor stupid head!” cried Mrs. Cholmondeley. “I call that a conundrum, not a connection; don’t you, Mrs. Hayes?”
Emma smiled sympathetically; she hated riddles.
“I am sure the politics and parties of our Little Pedlington will amuse a woman of the world like you. Do you care for driving?”
Emma admitted that she liked it—in fine weather.
“Then I shall come some afternoon early and take you out. Will Monday suit you, at two o’clock?”
“Thank you, it is very kind of you.”
“And your daughter, too; there will be plenty of room. I hope two o’clock is not interfering with your dinner hour?”
Emma reddened, as she replied with some dignity—
“Oh no, thank you; we always dine late.”
Yes, we called it dinner. When our last visitor had driven away, Emma turned to me and said—
“My stupid brain is in a whirl. I can compare this afternoon to nothing less than a reception at Government House. I feel loaded to the earth with attention. I am to have drives, books, magazines, and even game and cough lozenges! What a funny world it is! A week ago—what am I saying? two days ago—these people stared over our heads, and looked at us as if we might give them smallpox; and behold all this change—this sudden thaw, all because I happen to know Lady Hildegarde. What did you think of them, dear—you know, you have a very critical mind?”
“Well, since you ask me, I think that there seems to be a sliding-scale of merit. Mrs. Benny looks down on Miss Skuce; Lady Bloss sniffs at the Bennys; Mrs. Cholmondeley despises Lady Bloss; and no doubt, some one else turns up her nose at her.”
“Lady Bloss’s dignity was something overpowering. She entirely shrank from India and Indian topics, and yet she is a regular old Burra mem Sahib, now I come to think of it. How I wish I had known!—I might have talked to her in Hindostani. I dare say she would have had a fit!”
“I think it is most likely either that, or she would have called the police.”
“Well, I must ask about a dressmaker immediately, and get your dresses ready,” continued Emma, “for I can see that you are going to be overwhelmed with invitations. Lady Hildegarde will, of course, chaperon you everywhere; and I should like you to do hercredit!”
A VISIT OF SEVEN MINUTES.
Emma’sprophecy came true for once—in fact, as far as I know, it was the solitary occasion on which her vivid daydreams were realized. We were overwhelmed with civilities and invitations (chiefly to tea). Every day brought flowers and books, and it was quite a common occurrence to see a carriage and pair waiting at our modest entrance. Mrs. Cholmondeley proved to be as good as her word, and took us for several drives. We were shown “The Abbey,” as people called it—a low-lying, venerable, gray structure, with fine old trees and wonderful cloisters.We went to tea at the rectory, to lunch with Lady Bloss, and to quite a smart musical evening party at the Dovecote. The curate called, also Dr. Skuce, and—oh! great event!—Sir Warren Hastings Bloss! He came to “talk over India.” He announced his errand quite frankly to Emma, and he actually remained an hour and a half. Never had Mrs. Gabb ushered so many gentry up and down her narrow stairs—no, not in the twenty years she had let lodgings; and her manner was now as unpleasantly obsequious as it had formerly been otherwise.
A cup of her own tea was a pleasant little attention which she carried to us before rising, and she had become quite liberal in the matter of candles and clean tablecloths. Even indirectly, we were beholden to Lady Hildegarde for manybounties. “Shewas expected at the end of the week,” so Miss Skuce informed us, and I am confident that the entire community were on thequi-viveto see on what terms the great lady would be with the reduced gentlewomen at Mrs. Gabb’s in the High Street! I believe they anticipated boundless intimacy, measuring its dimensions by the size of the photograph in Emma’s possession. No one in the whole country had been endowed with a promenade copy in full court dress. If Lady Hildegarde’s esteem was to be measured by the size of her picture, Emma, my stepmother, stood second to none in her regard. Of course, every one knew that we were poor. I am certain that Mrs. Gabb, in exchanging confidences in the hall with Miss Skuce, had informed her that we got in coals by the sack, and dined on two chops and a rice pudding. I amequally positive that Miss Skuce was furiously jealous of our other acquaintances. Were we not her own special discovery? The nearer the advent of Lady Hildegarde, the more anxiously affectionate she became; she called me “Gwen,” and looked in to see “how we were getting on” at least once a day. One evening she hurried in in a state of breathless excitement.
“They have arrived,” she announced. “Mrs Smith saw the station brougham loaded with luggage. I expect Lady Hildegarde will be in to see you to-morrow at cockcrow—well, at any rate, directly after breakfast.”
“She does not know I am in Europe, much less in Stonebrook,” replied Emma; “we never corresponded.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. I know from my own experience that she hates writing letters—she never even writes tome! But she is a dear, sweet thing, and never forgets her friends; she is all heart. At the same time, I think that, perhaps, it would be well to drop her a nice little note. She might be startled to see you, or she might feelhurtto hear about you from a mere outsider. If you like to write a line, I will walk out to the lodge and leave it this afternoon.”
This kind offer Emma declined, but she accepted the hint, and tossed the following letter across the table to me that same evening. I read it and approved—all save the remarks about myself, which she refused to modify—and took it out and dropped it into the post-office with my own hands. This is what it said—
“Dear Lady Hildegarde,“I am sure you will be surprised whenyou look at the signature at the end of this note, and still more astonished to hear that I am living, temporarily, in your own part of the world with my step-daughter. I have met with sad changes since the happy days when you and I were in India. My dear husband was taken from me very suddenly; he was never a saving man, always so open-handed, and we had put by nothing. The old rajah, our friend—who was in bad health, and worked upon by native intrigues—treated me most strangely. He is dead, and his heir makes me a very small allowance, which is my sole income. I have, however, a kind, devoted daughter—step-daughter—who nurses me, spoils me, and shields me, just as her father used to do! I have also a stout heart, and some good friends; but my present life is a truly bitter contrast in every respect to the daysthat are gone! when you knew me in Jam-Jam-More. I suppose—indeed, I am sure—that one cannot eat one’s loaf and have it. I have eatenmyloaf, and, now that my dear husband is gone, I have no spirit, nor, indeed, health, for anything; but there is my little girl of nineteen, with all her best days before her. I hope a few crumbs of pleasure may fall in her way. I came home nearly two years ago, and have lived in London until lately, but doctors have driven me out of it to find a more bracing air. We came to Stonebrook quite at haphazard, and I now think it was a most fortunate chance that guided me here, since I find that this little town is within a few miles of your home. I hope you and yours are well, and that I shall see you ere long. Believe me,“Very sincerely yours,“Emma Hayes.”
“Dear Lady Hildegarde,
“I am sure you will be surprised whenyou look at the signature at the end of this note, and still more astonished to hear that I am living, temporarily, in your own part of the world with my step-daughter. I have met with sad changes since the happy days when you and I were in India. My dear husband was taken from me very suddenly; he was never a saving man, always so open-handed, and we had put by nothing. The old rajah, our friend—who was in bad health, and worked upon by native intrigues—treated me most strangely. He is dead, and his heir makes me a very small allowance, which is my sole income. I have, however, a kind, devoted daughter—step-daughter—who nurses me, spoils me, and shields me, just as her father used to do! I have also a stout heart, and some good friends; but my present life is a truly bitter contrast in every respect to the daysthat are gone! when you knew me in Jam-Jam-More. I suppose—indeed, I am sure—that one cannot eat one’s loaf and have it. I have eatenmyloaf, and, now that my dear husband is gone, I have no spirit, nor, indeed, health, for anything; but there is my little girl of nineteen, with all her best days before her. I hope a few crumbs of pleasure may fall in her way. I came home nearly two years ago, and have lived in London until lately, but doctors have driven me out of it to find a more bracing air. We came to Stonebrook quite at haphazard, and I now think it was a most fortunate chance that guided me here, since I find that this little town is within a few miles of your home. I hope you and yours are well, and that I shall see you ere long. Believe me,
“Very sincerely yours,
“Emma Hayes.”
There was no answer to this letter for three days, and then a messenger brought the following reply:—
“Coppingham Abbey, Thursday.“Dear Mrs. Hayes,“Sosorry to hear of your bereavement. Accept our warmest sympathy for your sad loss. I am pleased to hear that you are within easy reach of me, but I must warn you that Stonebrook is a most unfortunate locality for any one at all delicate. Yon should loseno timein going farther south—say to Devonshire. I can recommend you to such nice lodgings in Torquay. I have an immensity to do, and am dreadfully busy, but I shall hope to go and see you ere long.“Yours faithfully,“Hildegarde Somers.”
“Coppingham Abbey, Thursday.
“Dear Mrs. Hayes,
“Sosorry to hear of your bereavement. Accept our warmest sympathy for your sad loss. I am pleased to hear that you are within easy reach of me, but I must warn you that Stonebrook is a most unfortunate locality for any one at all delicate. Yon should loseno timein going farther south—say to Devonshire. I can recommend you to such nice lodgings in Torquay. I have an immensity to do, and am dreadfully busy, but I shall hope to go and see you ere long.
“Yours faithfully,
“Hildegarde Somers.”
“Well, so you’ve had a letter from her ladyship!” cried Miss Skuce. “I saw the servant leave it just now. I am certain she is enchanted at the prospect of seeing you!”
Emma commanded her countenance sufficiently to nod and smile. Oh, what hypocrites we are! Speaking for myself, I could have torn the note into fifty little pieces, and stamped upon it—yes, and it does me good to say so; but Emma had a sweet, long-suffering, gentle nature, whereas I was ever notorious for having a turbulent disposition and a proud spirit.
“She is in town this morning,” continued Miss Skuce, and she folded her hands and arranged her draperies, evidently prepared to indulge us with a protracted sitting. “I am certain she is coming to see you. No!”—starting alittle—“why, that is the Abbey carriage passing now. Look, Gwen, look!”
I bent my head forward, and saw a well-appointed landau, with fine big horses and powdered servants. Lady Hildegarde was lying back, wrapped in costly furs, and was engaged in an animated conversation with another lady—whose face was most beautifully painted.
“They lunch early, you see,” explained Miss Skuce, apologetically. “She will be in this evening without fail”—rising as she spoke—“and if she says anything aboutme, you can tell her that I have been looking after you, dear Mrs. Hayes, and making you take care of your precious health.” And she simpered herself out of the room.
Lady Hildegarde did not call that evening—no, not for a whole week. I noticed her driving by on several occasions. Asshe did not know me by sight, I ventured on a good stare. She was a wonderful woman for her age—fifty (so said the “Peerage”), and she seemed very sprightly and entertaining as she talked to her invariable companion, always in the same vivacious fashion.
“How well she looks,” exclaimed Emma, peeping from the background; “how young, and handsome, and prosperous! No wonder the other lady laughs—she was always so amusing and irresistible.”
“But I don’t like her face, Emma. With all its smiles, it could be very grim and hard.”
“Oh, my dearest Gwen, that is imagination; she has a most charming expression. When you know her, you feel that you could doanythingfor her!”
“Probably; but she would not do anything forme! I am positive that I shall not like her. She is home nearly a week, and I think she might have come to see you!”
“My dear, fiery, touchy Gwen, she has so much to do—a great household, visitors, engagements, and she knows that she need not stand on ceremony withme, I who have nursed her, dressed her, written private letters for her, sat up with her at night. I don’t expect her to be ceremonious, as if I was a stranger—but young people are so hard—so exacting.”
“I think she ought to be very grateful to you, Emma,” I persisted, doggedly.
“I am certain that she is not a bit changed. Just like her son,” rejoined her loyal defender. “We should think the best of every one! I am sure sheisjust the same as ever.”
Two days more, and yet Lady Hildegarde had not called. Ten days had elapsed since her return, and she had not condescended to come and see us. Miss Skuce was visibly uneasy and rather snappish; also the Miss Bennys were a little cold in their manner when we accosted them after church, and Mrs. Gabb—oh, truly portentous symptom!—ceased to administer cups of tea gratis. At last, one evening quite late, when the chimney was smoking horribly, and there was no lump sugar for tea, she called—came in a one-horse brougham, and remained exactly seven minutes by the clock.
She was exceedingly gracious, shook Emma by both hands, talked of the dear old days in India, of clever, kind Dr. Hayes. “And so this is his daughter! I must have a good look at her,” scanning me up and down with her eye-glass.“She is like him, is she not? He was fair, was not he—with a reddish beard?”
“Oh no,” replied Emma, and her voice trembled. “I’m afraid you don’t quite remember him—he was very dark.”
“Ah! yes, so he was. I declare I was thinking of some one else. I meet such thousands of new people every year. One thing I havenotforgotten: your too delicious wire mattresses—such a treat in India—and your charming landau on cee springs; and, oh yes, those absurd old elephants! Dear Mrs. Hayes,” gazing closely at Emma, “you look as if this cold climate did not agree with you; you have got quite hollow-cheeked and thin.”
“I have been rather ailing,” said Emma, faintly.
“You really must get away to Torquay this Christmas. Have you made any friends here?”
“Scarcely friends,” was her reply; “though people have been most kind to me. My friends are in India.”
“I wonder you don’t go back to them! I really would advise it,” rising as she spoke. “Meanwhile, we must see something of you, and I’ll send you some game and fruit. Supposing”—and she hesitated for a moment—“you were to dine with us on Christmas Day, eh?—it will cheer you up—and bring the little girl, too—will you?”
“I am sure you are very kind, but——”
“Now, no buts,” she protested playfully. “We dine at eight. Just a family gathering; and, look here”—she seemed subject to afterthoughts—“I’ll send for you and send you home. I’ve had a good many drives inyourcarriage,” she added, quite affectionately.
I saw the tears standing in Emma’seyes. I was but a mere spectator, and had nothing to do but look on, and I had had ample opportunity of observing Lady Hildegarde. She afforded a sharp contrast to Emma, who seemed unusually small, delicate, and forlorn. Her visitor, who did not look her age, was tall, slight, and held herself well. She had a smooth and beautiful complexion, brown hair worn over a cushion, a pair of bright eyes, an animated expression, and a pointed chin. She was dressed in a sort of pelisse, richly trimmed with priceless sable, and a smart little French bonnet which bristled with wings.
“Now, I will take no excuse; there is no occasion for me to send you a formal card, is there?”
“Oh no, no,” protested Emma, eagerly.
“Then, Christmas Day is a fixture, remember. Be ready at half-past seven, please, for Hugo is so fidgety about his horses, and hates them to be kept standing. On second thoughts, had you not better stay all night? Yes, that’s it! Just bring a basket trunk, and we will send you home after breakfast. Now, now,” with a gay, imperative gesture, “pray don’t say a word—it is all settled;” and, with a hasty good-by, she was already at the door.
But it was Emma’s turn to introduce an afterthought, and my impulsive little Irish stepmother cried, “Oh, do wait one second, Lady Hildegarde; I want to ask about your son.” I was facing her ladyship, and noticed that her gracious countenance had assumed an impatient expression. This expression became absolutely grim as the words, “We saw him in London—he wassogood to us!” fell on her ear.
“In London!” she repeated slowly, turning about to confront Emma, and speaking in a cool, constrained voice—an insolent voice. “Howdidhe discover you?”
“Quite by accident, I assure you!” Why should Emma’s tone so suddenly assume an apologetic key? “We met at the Stores!”
“The Stores!”—a pregnant pause—“Oh, soyouwere the people?” She paused again, and continued in a more genial tone, “I think I did hear something about it!” I was certain that she had heard everything about it, and had been greatly displeased; but why?
“Where is Mr. Everard Somers?” pursued Emma, rather timidly; “and how is he?”
“He is quite well, and rambling about as usual. Well, now, I mustreallygo. Good-by. So glad to have seen you,” and she once more nodded affectionately to Emma. I opened the door for her, and she rustled down-stairs with a footstep as light and rapid as if she had been but eighteen. In another moment we heard the bang of the carriage door—a bang that seemed to say to me, “Thank goodness,thatis over!”—and then she drove off.
“Howkind!” cried Emma. “Just her dear old self, isn’t she, darling? Now, come, what did I tell you?” stroking my smileless face.
“I don’t think her kindness is so very remarkable, after all,” I grumbled, as I tidied up a chair-back.
“How difficult it is to please you young people! What morewouldyou expect, than to be asked to dinner on Christmas Day, to have a carriage sent for you, and to remain at the Abbey all night?”
I made no reply. Perhaps I was grasping, perhaps I was too sanguine, too childish; but I had expected something totally different. Happy are those who do not expect!
“Well, has she been to call yet?” demanded Miss Skuce, in a querulous voice, as she entered our apartments the next morning.
“Oh yes, last evening,” I answered promptly, with a sense of relief.
“Lastevening! Nonsense!” was the rude response. “I never saw the carriage. It wasn’t in the street.”
“At any rate, it was here yesterday,” replied Emma, rather stiffly.
“When?” very sharply.
“About half-past five or six o’clock; it was quite dark.”
“Pitch dark of course. Dear me, what a strange hour!”
“Well, you see, as Lady Hildegarde says herself, there is no occasion to be ceremonious withme.”
“That’s true,” brightening up. “And what else did she say?”
“Oh, she talked of India and of old times. She has invited us to dinner on Christmas Day.”
“Come! thatisa compliment. For, of course, it’s a family party. But how will you get there? Scott never hires out his flies on Christmas Day.”
“Lady Hildegarde has kindly offered to send for us.”
“Nonsense!—and Mr. Somers is so churlish of his horses?”
“Yes, we are to sleep at the Abbey that night,” said Emma, carelessly.
“Well, upon my word, I call that doing it comfortably. I amsoglad,” suddenly rising and wringing Emma’s hand.“Youwillenjoy it! Christmas at the Abbey! You will have no end to tell us. Oh, by the way, did you—did she—mention me?”
“No,” was the rather shamefaced admission.
Miss Skuce looked extremely glum.
“You see,” continued Emma, “she was not here long, and was entirely taken up with other topics—India, you know. However, when I am under her roof, I shall certainly make a point of telling her of your kindness.”
“Oh, no, no, no—ten thousand times no! It’s not worth mentioning, only that I amsureshe would be glad to know that, in her absence, her friends were taken good care of. I’ll bring you some eggs to-morrow.” (There had been a considerable pause with regard to these eggs.) Finally Miss Skuce kissed Emma with almost passionate fervor—believing thata peeress had left a recent impress on the same pale lips—and went forth in haste to spread the news.
It lost nothing in the telling! Lady Hildegarde had lunched—no, she had had tea with us. The Hayes were going to stay at the Abbey—tolivethere. Lady Hildegarde had adopted Miss Hayes. It took ten days to sift facts from fiction, and then it was generally allowed that we were to dine at the Abbey, that one of the Abbey carriages was to fetch us, and we were to remain all night. To be invited to dine at the Abbey on Christmas Day was a conspicuous favor, and civilities, which had somewhat flagged within the last few weeks, were now rekindled more warmly than ever.
FOUR IN A FLY.
A fewdays before Christmas, Emma and I were taking a constitutional (a walk for duty, not for pleasure) between two bare uninteresting hedges, about a mile from Stonebrook. We had been stitching all the morning at the dress in which I was to make mydébutat the Abbey—a rich white satin, long and plain, which Emma had worn but once, and that fitted me with surprisingly little alteration, beyond lengthening the skirt.
This tramp along a muddy footpath was the result of my companion’s extreme anxiety with respect to my complexion!I had been forced abroad—much against my inclination—to “get a color.” As we trudged together, in somewhat gloomy silence, a smart little sandy-haired horse-woman trotted gaily by, followed by a groom. She glanced at us carelessly in passing, looked back, and finally drew up short. It was Mrs. Cholmondeley.
“Oh, so pleased to meet you!” she cried vivaciously. “How do you do, Mrs. Hayes?” nodding carelessly to Emma. Then, leaning down, and addressing me particularly,“I’m having a party to-morrow night, some music and a little dance. It would be abigdance ifIhad anything to do with it; but Jack won’t hear of that. He declares that it keeps people up too late, and hunting people should all be up at cockcrow. However, this function to-morrow will be over early, and I shall be so glad if you can come! I’m rather short of girls—of pretty ones, I mean. I can reckon on any number of plain ones!”
Who could resist such an invitation? I hesitated. I felt my face becoming rather warm. Surely I had a color now! Mrs. Cholmondeley was struck by it, for she exclaimed—
“Oh, my dear! I wish I had your complexion!—your lovely roses!”
She was not aware that I owed my lovely roses to the fact that she had ignored Emma as absolutely as if she had been my nurse.
“You know it’s only for young people, Mrs. Hayes,” she explained. “It would bore you to death. Chaperons are quite exploded, and girls go about everywhere now by themselves.”
“So I hear,” answered Emma, meekly.“And I am sure Gwen would be delighted to accept your kind invitation; but I don’t think she could very well go alone, and it’s a long drive.”
“I can easily settle all that. The Bennys shall call for her. Leave it all to me, please, and I’ll arrange everything. I’ll chaperon her myself, and take every care of her. Remember, she is to wear her smartest frock, and bring her roses.”
“But, really, we scarcely know the Misses Benny sufficiently well to ask——”
“ButIknow them, andI’llask. Now, please, Mrs. Hayes, don’t throw any more obstacles in the child’s way. The Bennys will call for your charming daughter at nine o’clock to-morrow evening. If they call in vain, I shall never, never speak to you again.” And, with a smiling nod, she gave her impatient horse the rein, and trotted briskly away.
Here was something to discuss duringthe remainder of our walk, and over our tea!
“I am sure the Bennys willhatehaving to take me,” I remarked. “I would really rather brave Mrs. Cholmondeley’s wrath and not go. She might have asked me before, if she desired my company so much; and I think it is extremely rude of her to leave you out, and declare that you would be bored. Why should you be more bored thanI?”
“You are quite different, dear. You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t understand,” I answered with angry impatience; “and I am not going.”
“Oh, but, Gwen, Iwishyou to go. Go to please me. You never get any variety or amusement.”
“It will be no amusement to me to drive six miles cramped up in a fly with the Miss Bennys, and to sit for a couple of hours with my back to the wall, not knowing a soul to speak to.”
“There will be music; and I dare say Mrs. Cholmondeley will get you some partners. Your dress is ready. I hope it won’t take any harm. It is not as if it was going to be a regular ball; if it was, I should be afraid to risk it. I want to keep the bloom on it for Christmas Day. I don’t suppose there will be a large gathering at the Moate, for I doubt if Mrs. Cholmondeley is in the best set. She is of no family, so Miss Skuce said, but had an immense fortune—made in margarine. It was kind of her to ask you, darling; and I really think you ought to take her invitation as it was meant—and go.”
At this moment Mrs. Gabb appeared, with a cocked-hat note between her finger and thumb.
“It’s from the Dovecote, please, Miss; and the boy is in the hall waiting for an answer.”
The missive was addressed to me, and proved to be unexpectedly cordial. It said—