“So sorry not to find you at home. I am off to town the day after Christmas for a short time. Hope to see you when I return.“E. S.”
“So sorry not to find you at home. I am off to town the day after Christmas for a short time. Hope to see you when I return.
“E. S.”
MRS. MOUND’S OPINION.
OnChristmas morning, Emma complained of a cold and a sharp pain in her chest. She did not venture to church, as it was a bitterly bleak day, but nursed herself up for the evening, declaring that in a snug brougham, with furs and a foot-warmer, she could brave Greenland itself. Mrs. Gabb and family were also spending the evening abroad.
“Hearing as you was dining and sleeping at the Abbey, ma’am, I take the liberty of leaving you,” she explained. (It was not the first liberty she had taken.)“I’ll have everything ready—candles and coal and hot-water—to last till half-past seven. We—Gabb and me and the children and Annie—are invited to my sister’s for six o’clock, and she lives a good bit the other side of the town. But, if it will inconvenience you, I’ll leave Annie to help you to dress, or anything.”
“No, no; not on any account.” Emma assured her that we could manage perfectly. “Please do not trouble about us,” she added, “but just see to the lights and fire. We will turn down the lamp before we leave.”
“There is nothing in the house for breakfast. But I suppose it won’t be required. You won’t be back till late in the forenoon?”
To which Emma smilingly assented.
As Emma believed that this festivity would be merely the forerunner of many, she took great pains with my dress, wasmost fastidious about the arrangement of my hair and the fit of my gloves, and put a finishing touch to my toilet in the shape of a curious old native necklet, made of amethysts and real pearls.
At last we were ready—all save our cloaks. Emma looked wonderfully pretty—her color was so brilliant, her eyes shone—the light of other days was in her face. Excitement and anticipation had thrown her into a fever of restlessness; it seemed to her active brain that so very much—in fact, all my future—was to hinge upon this eventful evening. If Lady Hildegarde (who was devoted to young people, and extremely fond of society) took a fancy to me, the thing was done—I was launched. If not, there was, I’m sure she firmly believed, an end of everything. I was doomed, and for life, to social extinction and obscurity.
We sat waiting, with merely the blinds down, so that we could easily scan the street. It was a bright moonlight night, and there was a sharp frost. The lamp was sputtering and blinking and making itself extremely unpleasant for lack of wick.
“We will turn it out,” I said, “and light the candles. There are only two small bits, but the carriage will be here immediately—in fact, I hear it now.”
Yes, a pair of horses, trotting briskly up the hard-frozen street. No; they went past.
“It is Lady Bloss,” said Emma, pulling up the blind and actually opening the window; “she is dining at the Cholmondeleys’. But I hear another coming. Ah, it’s only a dog-cart!”
“Doshut the window!” I implored; but I spoke to deaf ears.
There were wheels in the distance—along way off—and I was not to worry, but to put on my cloak at once.
Five minutes elapsed—ten minutes. I rose and pulled down the window without apology. A quarter of an hour!
“Yes,” cried Emma, half-hysterically; “the carriageisrather late, but I really hear it now. It is coming at last!”
But, no; it was merely Mound the undertaker, and family, in his own best mourning-coach. Then Emma’s little traveling-clock chimed out eight silvery strokes.
“And they dine at eight!” said Emma, under her breath. “Perhaps it was half-past,” she said. “Can the coachman have made a mistake?” And she looked at me with—oh, such a piteous, wistful, eager pair of eyes.
I made no reply. I dared not put my opinion into plain, brutal words, and tell the white-faced, anxious little inquirer,that “her friend Lady Hildegarde had forgotten us!” The fire had died down. The candles were expiring in their sockets. We sat together in absolute silence. Oh, if I live to be a hundred, I shall never forget the heartache I endured that miserable half-hour—not for myself, but for Emma.
At last she said, in a husky whisper—
“Gwen, Gwen! Are you asleep?”
“No.”
“Is it possible that she has forgotten us?”
“I’m afraid so,” I whispered.
“Oh no, she couldn’t. Christmas Day, too, and our places at table!Thatwould remind her—two places short. Or, could it be possible?—she was always rather heedless—yes”—now coming over to me, and looking at me with a haggard, white face—“you are right, she must have forgotten all about us. And she spent Christmas with me in my palmy days, and said—oh, what is the good of recalling it all now? Here are we two, on Christmas night, desolate and alone, without dinner or fire, and soon we shall be in outer darkness”—pointing to the candle. “Oh, it is too,toocruel”—and she burst into tears. “I had built on it so,” she sobbed—“this little visit, not for myself, but for you; I thought she would ask you to stay, and befriend you perhaps—when—when——”
“Never mind about me, darling,” I said kneeling down beside her,“she is a hard, selfish, worldly woman. I saw through her long ago. We bored her fearfully. She did not want us here. She was afraid we might become an incubus, because we are poor. She asked us in a spasm of shame at her own conduct, and on the impulse of the moment. Don’t cry—don’t, dearest! We must make the best of it. Oh, how cold the room is! I’ll take off my gown, and hunt up some chips and light a good fire, and go and see if I can’t find something to eat. I wonder where the matches are?”
In a very short time I had changed my dress and made a trip to the lower regions. Here I found some bits of coal and chips, the heel of a loaf, and, about a pint of skim-milk.
“Oh, Gwen dear,” gasped Emma, as I re-entered, “I must go to bed, I feelsoill. I’ve been fighting against it all day; but now there is a pain in my chest, just like a sword being run into it.”
And Emma stood up, and clutched hold of the chimney-piece, and turned on me a face gray and drawn with mortal suffering.
I was naturally greatly alarmed. Ihurried her into her room, undressed her, and put her to bed.
“I’m so cold—oh,socold!” she moaned; and so she was. But, alas, there was no fire, no hot water, no anything! I was at my wits’ end; then I suddenly bethought me of Mrs. Mound. I knew she was at home, and ran across to the little private door. After a very short interval, and as soon as I had breathlessly explained my troubles, Mrs. Mound (good, kind soul!) came over bearing a kettle of hot water, some mustard, and a lamp. She had despatched her eldest son to fetch Dr. Skuce without a moment’s delay.
“Your mother taken ill, and you all alone!” she said. “Dear, dear, dear! it’s terrible indeed! I’ll just fill a hot bottle and take it in, and have a look at her.”
Emma lay on her little bed, moaningand gasping in the grip of a great agony.
“You’ll be all right soon, ma’am. I’ll light a nice little fire, and get you a warm drink; and I have sent one of my boys for Skuce.”
She spoke to us both in the same cheerful and encouraging manner; but I heard her distinctly talking to her husband over the balustrades. What she said was evidently not for my ear, and nearly turned me to stone.
“It’s a bad business, Isaac. The poor little thing is past Skuce or any one. There will be a job foryouhere, before many days are over. I’ve seen pneumonia before—she has got it as bad as can be. Nothing can save her—I knew that, the moment I saw her face. Poor lady, she will be gone before the New Year!”
“INDIAN PAPERS, PLEASE COPY.”
Allthat miserable Christmas night Emma was desperately ill. The little lodging-house was in an uproar, and Mrs. Gabb was unmistakably annoyed at the prospect of having an invalid on her hands. Of course I undertook all the nursing, wrung out hot stupes, dressed blisters, administered draughts, and towards morning the patient fell asleep.
About twelve o’clock, when I chanced to go into our sitting-room, I discovered that it was already in possession of Miss Skuce, who was walking up and down like some caged animal.
“So your mother is ill?” she began abruptly.
“Very ill, I am afraid. It was kind of you to come so soon to ask for her.”
“And you never went to the Abbey, after all! The curate was there—I have just seen him—and he said there were no empty places, noroneword about you. How was that?” she demanded, as she paused and glared at me.
“Please speak in a low voice,” I said, “the walls are so thin, and Emma is not deaf. The truth was, that Lady Hildegarde forgot us altogether.”
“Tell me honestly, Miss Hayes,didshe ever ask you? I’d like to see her note.”
“You know, we told you that it was a verbal invitation. We were ready to start at half-past seven. We allowed Mrs. Gabb to leave us alone in the house. There was, of course, no dinner, no food, no fire, no lights; and there we sat famishing! My stepmother, who had been ailing all day, became seriously ill. She has fallen asleep now, after a very bad night, and must on no account be disturbed.”
“It’s most extraordinary: and her ladyship never even missed you. And now she has gone off to Brighton for a week.”
“Well, it is quite immaterial tome. I never wish to see her again,” I rejoined in an emphatic whisper.
“It certainlyismost mortifying,” said Miss Skuce, seating herself in Emma’s chair, and stretching out her goloshed feet. “To be asked to the Abbey, and to puff the news everywhere—and then to be forgotten! I had some eggs here; but, as your mother is ill, I won’t leave them.”
“No, pray don’t, on any account.”
“The Chalgroves have left the Moate, gone home, and nothing settled about the match. Young Somers is a fool. There is a rumor that he is in love with some wretched girl who hasn’t a penny, and Lady Hildegarde is nearly beside herself! Lady Polexfen told Captain Blackjohn, and he told young Ferrars, who told his mother, who toldme. By the way, Lady Polexfen—Maude, you know—is making herself the talk of the place, the way she is flirting with Captain Blackjohn. However, I’m forgetting that you are not Mrs. Hayes; we should not talk gossip to girls. Well, I must be going. I hope your mother will be better to-morrow; good-by. Oh, by the way, I quite forgot to wish you the compliments of the season, and all the usual sort of thing.Idon’t believe in a merry Christmas.”
“Neither do I,” I answered with all my heart.
“Well, good-by, good-by,” and seizing the eggs, she trotted down-stairs.
The next day, Emma was much worse.
“Gwen,” she gasped in a weak voice, “I am going to leave you; and oh, I am so miserable about you! My pension dies with me. We have barely what will pay our bills in hand. There is my watch, and some ornaments; they will pay for—for the funeral—and—a——”
“Oh, don’t!” I sobbed. “You are going to get well. You must and shall get well.”
“You have only eleven pounds a year, Gwen,—oh, my poor, poor Gwen, whatwillyou do? Oh, if your father and I could only have seen the future! And I have no friends! If it was next year, the Grahams andMurrays would be home. If only Lady Hildegarde——”
“Don’t mention her name,” I cried passionately. “And don’t trouble about me, darling. I shall manage. Think of nothing but yourself, and of getting well. You will, won’t you?”
“No; I’ve felt this coming for a long time. I am consumptive. The chill—oh! oh! this pain——”
“There, there! you shall not talk any more.”
“Oh, I must speak while I can—and I’m not afraid to go, Gwen. Why should I shrink from what all our beloved ones have passed through? Only for leaving you—dearest—dearest Gwen,” and her voice died away. I sat for a long time, holding her clammy hand in mine. “If the Chalgroves only knew!” she panted out.
I was silent. As far as I was concerned, they should never know, nor would I everlift a finger to summon my grand relatives.
Her mind wandered a good deal. There were disjointed scraps of sentences, of songs, of prayers, and something about Lady Hildegarde and a merry Christmas; and I could not understand whether she was rambling or not, as she said—
“A happy new year, Gwen, and many of them.”
After this she sank into a stupor, from which she never awoke, and gasped away her life at that fatal hour before dawn when so many souls are summoned. Now I was indeed alone. I cried a little—not nearly as much as Mrs. Gabb. I was thankful that there was an end to Emma’s terrible sufferings; but I felt in a sort of stupor myself—my brain seemed sodden. I had not slept nor taken off my clothes for three days. Mrs. Gabb wasvery kind, so were Mrs. Mound, the Doctor, and even Miss Skuce—but she was also terribly inquisitive.
The funeral was small, indeed, it could scarcely have been smaller. Dr. Skuce and I followed in the only mourning-coach. The cemetery was on a hillside, quite a mile from Stonebrook, and it was a bright springlike morning—a day that December had stolen from May, and that May would filch from December in turn—as we proceeded at a foot pace on our mournful errand.
There was a meet in the neighborhood; numbers of red-coated fox hunters trotted past on their hunters. One drew up for a moment to a walk, and lifted his hat as he went by. It was Mr. Somers. His scarlet coat, his bright handsome face, his spirited hunter, which he reined in with great difficulty—what a painful contrastthis picture afforded to that of myself—veiled, and shrinking into the corner of a dingy mourning-coach—following my only friend to her grave.
Little did Mr. Somers suspect, as he dashed onward, that he had been showing a last token of respect to Emma Hayes.
After the funeral, I had to face the world. Poor people cannot afford an extended period of retirement and mourning. I made my black gown, and as I sewed, I made plans. I had nearly twenty pounds. I had youth, health. I would go to London and work for my bread like other girls. But how? I could teach French. I could sew and embroider beautifully. No, I would not be a nursery governess, abonne d’enfants. I could play the guitar and sing. I had a fine mezzo-soprano, and had been well taught.My singing had been in requisition at the rectory tea-parties and in the church choir; but it would not bring me in a pennyworth of bread. I must leave Stonebrook; I saw no means of earning my living there, and I detested the place for many reasons. It was evidently well known that I had been left almost penniless. The rector and his wife had called; they had been very sympathetic, and had inquired as to my future plans; but they could not give me much beyond their sympathy. They had a large grown-up family, and but narrow means. Mrs. Cholmondeley was a victim to influenza, and extremely ill. The Blosses and Bennys had left cards, and this, with the exception of Miss Skuce, brought me to the end of my acquaintances. The mere fact of thinking of her appeared to have summoned her to my presence! Thereshe was, shaking her damp waterproof on the landing; it was a dreary, drizzling January afternoon.
“Do you know that you have never put it in the papers?” she began, without preamble. “I thought Mound would have seen tothat. It ought to be done at once.”
“Yes, of course; and I have been extremely remiss,” I acknowledged, with dismay.
“I will write it out and send it to theTimesfor you,” producing a pencil—“theTimesand theStonebrook Star. What shall I say?”
After thinking a moment, I said—
“‘December 27th, at Stonebrook, of acute pneumonia, Emma, widow of the late Desmond Hayes, Esq., L. C. S., M. D., of Jam-Jam-More, aged thirty-three. Indian papers, please copy.’”
“Very well. Now give me five and sixpence, and I will send it off by the next post,” returned Miss Skuce, when she had ceased to scribble. “And so I hear you are leaving!—Mrs. Gabb says you have given her notice.”
“Yes, I am going away very shortly to London.”
“Well, I think it is an extremely wise move. There is no opening here for a governess or companion; every one that I know is suited. I am very sorry for you, and for poor Mrs. Hayes; but I always felt that she was not long for this world. She was subject to delusions, wasn’t she, poor dear? That was all a delusion about Lady Hildegarde! Of course, other people call it by a nastier name; butIdon’t!”
“What do you mean?” I demanded indignantly.
“That the dear good soul imagined she knew Lady Hildegarde! But no one ever saw her ladyship here, and you were not present at the dinner. The invitation and acquaintance were in her imagination. I am aware that Mr. Somers has sent game and flowers, and called; but gentlemen’s attentions are on a totally different footing from those of the ladies of a family, and it is quite incredible that his mother, Lady Hildegarde, would stay for weeks as guest under a person’s roof, that she would be nursed and tended like a sister, and absolutely ignore the same kind friend when she came to live near her, and was in very poor circumstances. It is impossible! As for her photographs, they were bought in London. The Bennysalwayssaid so!”
“Miss Skuce!” I paused, and then added in a calmer tone,“It is not worth while debating the question. If you think we are impostors, I cannot help it; but every word that my stepmother said wastrue!”
“Why!” cried my visitor, stretching out her neck and craning forward, “hereisLady Hildegarde, I declare, and getting out! Maude Polexfen is in the carriage. Her ladyship is coming in—in here.”
“I shall not receive her,” I answered, rushing to the bell, but remembering, as I tore at it, that it was broken. In another minute Lady Hildegarde was in the room, swimming towards me with beautifully gloved extended hands.
“Oh, my poor dear child!Whatnews is this? Is it true about Mrs. Hayes?”
“If you mean that she is dead—yes,” I answered, still standing up, but making no effort to salute her.
“How frightfully sudden!” droppingher hands to her sides and sinking into Emma’s chair. “What was it?—nothing infectious, I trust?”
“No, nothing infectious.”
“Oh,” with a cool little nod, “how do you do, Miss Skuce? Pray” (to me) “tell me all particulars. My son only heard the sad news last evening. He was greatly shocked; and he despatched me at once, as you see!”—Evidently she was not a little proud of her promptitude and condescension.
“She caught a severe cold on Christmas Day—” I began.
“Oh, by the way, I’msosorry; I forgot all about sending for you—never thought of itonce—actually not till my son brought me the melancholy intelligence last night. He wanted me to come off here then and there. I am so very sorry!”
“You may well be sorry,” I answered, unable any longer to retain my attitude of frigid politeness, “for your negligence indirectly caused my mother’s death. Yes; she was so confident that you meant your invitation, that she allowed the people of the house to leave us, and here we sat that bitter night—perhaps you can remember the temperature—without fire or food, waiting for you to send for us. She would not believe that you could forget her; she thought so much of you—she was so genuine and affectionate. Miss Skuce, here, has been telling me that my mother suffered from delusions—that you never knew her in India. Did you?”
“Why, of course I did,” with a petulant gesture.
“And you stayed with her—for weeks.”
“Yes; I never denied it, that I am aware of!”
“And were nursed by her through a serious illness? Is this true, or was it a delusion?”
“My good young person! pray don’t be so excited. I am not accustomed to be brow-beaten in this fashion. You need not look at me as if I were a reptile! Come, I am a very busy woman; I have many claims on my time and my society. I am overrun, and apt to be a little forgetful; and I admit that, with respect to your stepmother, I have been rather slack. However, I always meant to be friendly—I shall make it up to you. I am aware that you are left totally destitute, and I know of a most excellent post which I can secure for you at once, as companion to a lady in New Zealand. I shall be happy to exert myself and get you this situation without delay, and I promise——”
“Pray do not trouble yourself about me,” I broke in. “I have no faith in your promises—or in you!”
Here Lady Hildegarde rose very slowly to her feet, and vainly endeavored to overawe me by her look, and cover indignation with dignity.
“You forget yourself, Miss Hayes,” she said in a freezing tone.
But I was now at bay, and replied—
“If you will be so good as to exert yourself so far as to forgetme, I shall be extremely glad.”
And then I held the door wide open, and, though my knees were shaking under me, I bowed her out. Turned out Lady Hildegarde! Oh, what a tale for the town! Miss Skuce, who had shrunk up into a corner, enjoyed the scene prodigiously, I am certain, though she felt it her duty to remonstrate most strongly with me.
“I apologize for all I said, for I have now her ladyship’s own words for her obligations to your stepmother, and I apologize tohermemory. She was a dear, sweet, ladylike creature! She would never have reproached Lady Hildegarde, nor flown at her like you. Oh, I shall never forget the look of you! Nor how you dashed her offer in her face, and drove her out of the room. You should have pocketed your pride and taken her reference—a titled reference. You forget that you should order yourself lowly and reverently to all your betters.”
“Do you call that mean, selfish, ungrateful woman my better?”
“Of course I do!” with emphasis.“There is no question ofthat! Fancy comparing yourself to the daughter of a duke! I think you behaved in a most vulgar, insulting, outrageous manner. You should——”
“Have played the hypocrite?” I suggested sarcastically.
“Well, well, I’ve no time to argue, for I must be going; but, mark my words, your high temper will bring you very low yet, as sure as my name is Sophia Ann Skuce.” Exit.
KIND INQUIRIES.
“Soyou’ll be going this day week?” remarked Mrs. Gabb, as she bustled in with the lamp. “And I’m sure I can’t wonder; it’s lonely-like for you being here in this room by yourself, and London is where most people goes to—it sort of sucks ’em in.”
“Yes; people who have to earn their bread have a better chance of doing so in London.”
“You’ll go in for governessing, I suppose?”
“No. I’m afraid I am not sufficiently accomplished.”
“Laws! I should have thought you was. But it’s a hard life, and poor pay, and often bad usage. And you do sing beautiful. Your voice sort of gives me a lump in my throat, and many’s the night Gabb and I, and sometimes a friend or two, have stood on the stairs, and listened to you a-playing and singing to that guitar. I’m sure you’d take splendidly at one of the music ’alls, if you could only dance a bit! Stop; what’s that, now? There’s a knock at the door, and the girl’s out.” And she rushed down-stairs, and in a very few seconds I was astonished to hear a manly foot in the passage, and she ushered in “Mr. Somers.”
He looked rather embarrassed, and very grave; whilst I, though almost speechless with surprise, was collected enough as I put down my sewing and rose to meet him.
“Miss Hayes, I hope you will pardon me,” he said, “for intruding on you at this hour and in this way; but I felt thatwritingwould be useless, and that I must see you face to face. I am sure I need not tell you how much I feel for your loss, nor how shocked I was to hear of Mrs. Hayes’s death. I believe I actually passed her funeral, when I imagined her to be alive and well.”
“Yes, you did. Won’t you sit down?” I said.
“We only heard the news last night. I was in hopes that my mother would have brought you back with her in the carriage to-day,insistedon your accompanying her. I told her she must takenorefusal, but—but”—and he hesitated, and his eyes fell from mine—“I am greatly distressed to learn that you and she have had a most unfortunate misunderstanding—onlya misunderstanding—it cannot be more. I know you both. I know my mother; she is absolutely incapable of giving offense; and I trust that I may say that I know you too.”
“You may, if you please. But sometimes I don’t know myself,” I answered recklessly.
“Perhaps you werenotyourself to-day. I did not hear what occurred, only this, that my mother returned without you, and she assured me that you absolutely refused to receive any kindness at her hands.”
What garbled story had she laid before him? Should I tell him the truth? No; it would humiliate him, and he had always been most loyal to us.
“Is this correct?” he inquired, in a low voice.
“Yes. I need not enter into unpleasant details, for Lady Hildegarde is your mother. But she has hurt my feelings most deeply.”
“I’m afraid she has an unfortunate manner sometimes; but she means well. She has had a lot of trouble lately. My father has been ailing for a long time, and we have been most unlucky in some money matters, and she is worried and perhaps a little brusque and sharp. I wish you understood one another.”
We understood one another to admiration. I was keenly alive to Lady Hildegarde’s family politics: how it was absolutely necessary that this young man—her son, so eagerly making her excuses to me—was bound, by every family law, to marry his cousin (and my cousin), Dolly Chalgrove—the marriage meant mental ease, suitability, prosperity, fortune. A marriage with me, which she bitterly butneedlessly dreaded, meant a miserable, poverty-strickenmésalliance. Yes; I acknowledge that. It was a notorious fact that Mr. Somers was not a squire of dames. Lady Polexfen had magnified his attentions to me. Hence her coldness and neglect of Emma, her eagerness to transport me to the Colonies, her lies to her son, and her stern determination to keep us apart—wide apart.
“And so you will not accept my mother’s friendship?” he pursued.
I shook my head with an emphasis that was some relief to my feelings, although it was not an act of courtesy to my visitor.
“Well,” and he rose as he spoke, a very tall figure in our little low room, “you surely will not taboome, Miss Hayes?” he asked appealingly.“I received great kindnesses, withoutquestion, from your father and mother. I knew your father better than you did yourself. You have told me that you have no relatives in this country.”
“None that I know,” I quibbled, “or that know of me.”
“Yes; you said so. Now, I hope you won’t think I am taking an awful liberty if I ask you what are your plans?”
“On the contrary, it is very kind of you to inquire. I am going to London in a few days, back to our old lodgings. I shall then look about for something to do. I should not care to be a nursery governess, nor, as my landlady suggests, sing and dance at a music-hall.”
“A music-hall!” His elbow swept a little saucer crash into the fender—he was too big for our room. “The woman must be mad!”
“Yes; she confesses that she has often listened outside on the landing when I played my guitar and sang, and thinks I would ‘take,’ as she calls it.”
“But——”
“But you need not be at all alarmed. I shall find some post, perhaps as clerk—I am clever at figures—perhaps as secretary. Mr. Blunt, the rector, will give me a character. I have only myself to please—no one’s wishes to consult.”
As I spoke, he had been fingering the little ornaments on the chimney-piece, with his head half turned away. Then he suddenly confronted me, and said—
“Miss Hayes, I hope what I am going to say will not startle you very much.”
I became cold all over, and my heart beat fast. Was he going to offer me money? I laid down my work to conceal my trembling hands, and looked up in his face.
“You will make me very happy if you will marry me.”
I sat for a moment speechless; then I also rose to my feet, and said in a low voice—I could not get it to sound, somehow—
“You cannot be in earnest, Mr. Somers.”
“I am in earnest—in deadly earnest, Miss Hayes.”
“You have seen me five times.”
“And every time I met you I have liked you better than the last. It began that day at the Stores. I am not a bit susceptible. I never felt drawn to any one in such a way. I have met heaps and heaps of girls, nice ones too and pretty, and gone away and forgotten them in half a day; but you I never forgot. Your memory, your face, came all the way with me out to South America, came back with me; and when I saw you sweeping down the stairs at the Moate that night, I said to myself, ‘Here she comes—my fate!’ My poor old governor has made an awful muddle of our affairs, and we are dreadfully hard up; but I can take one of the farms, and work it myself.” He paused suddenly, and looked at me expectantly.
“Mr. Somers,” I began, “you have—I have—” Then in a sudden burst the words came—“What you ask is impossible.”
“Why?” he questioned softly.
“There is Miss Chalgrove,” I replied, still more softly.
“Oh,thatold story!” with a shrug.“It would be an ideal match from the parents’ point of view, to combine the title and property with the money; butwehave to be considered. Thank God, we are not crowned heads, who must only consult the welfare of the State. In the first place, my cousin Dolly does not care a straw about me. I am her cousin, comrade, and old friend. She would not marry me for anything. She says she knows me too well; it would be extremely uninteresting and monotonous! Then, I would not marry her; she is a very good fellow, but too much of a handful for any man. She has been riding a brute of a horse in the teeth of every one of her relations, male and female, and I heard to-day that he has given her rather a nasty fall, and she says it’s nothing; but she is so plucky, she always makes light of everything that happens to herself. Well, you see, Miss Chalgrove is no obstacle.”
“No, but there is Lady Hildegarde. If I were to marry you, I should only add to her troubles, and possibly she to mine. You cannot say that your mother would approve of your engagement to a girl you have only met five times, and who is both penniless and friendless?”
He made no immediate answer to this difficult question, and I added—
“She and I do not love one another.”
“But if you love me, Gwendoline, that is the main question. God knows, I love you!”
“You pity me, I am sure; and pity——”
“No, I don’t,” he broke in impetuously, “not in that sense, and I don’t believe in that fusty old saying.”
“And you know nothing about me. You have seen so little of me,” I urged.
“With regard to some people, a little goes a long way. Oh, good heavens, I don’t meanthat!”
“I don’t think you know what you mean,” I answered remorselessly.
“Yes, I do; but I am not quick and brilliant like you. I am doing my best to tell you that you are everything in the world to me—more than father, mother, money. I meant that the little I saw of you went a long way to making me care for you; and you are laughing at my blunders, and raising objections. The real, true, and only obstacle is not Lady Hildegarde nor Miss Chalgrove, but Miss Hayes herself. She does not care a brass button about me—any fool can see that!”
He had actually worked himself into a passion.
“You are wrong,” I replied gravely. “The objections are insurmountable. I can never marry you; but I do care for you, and I can promise you onething—that I will never, never marry any one else——”
“But me—” (seizing my hand before I was aware). “Then, you will promise that, on your word of honor?”
“Yes; I will never marry any one—but you.”
“And when?”
“When your mother asks me to be her daughter-in-law,” I whispered.
His face fell, and he hastily released me, as at this moment, without knock or cough, the door was flung open, and Miss Skuce burst into the room, with a newspaper in her hand.
“Oh,howdo you do, Mr. Somers? I had no idea you were here. Don’t you remember me? I’m Miss Skuce—Dr. Skuce’s sister; he attends the Abbey servants, you know.”
Mr. Somers—who looked very black indeed—merely bowed. Was Miss Skuce abashed? No, not a whit; though evenshe must have seen that she was greatlyde trop.
“So sorry to hear that Miss Chalgrove has met with an accident in the hunting-field. I saw it in the paper. How anxiousyoumust be. I trust it’s not serious.”
“No, I believe not”—surveying her with cold curiosity.
“Well, it said that the horse fell on her”—sitting down, and apparently anxious to thresh out the subject at her leisure.
“Miss Hayes,” he said, turning to me, “I shall hope to see you again before you leave.”
He hesitated, reluctant to depart: he had so much to say to me! Then he shook hands, and, with an extremely cool bow to my visitor, walked out of the room. As the door closed after him, she jumped to her feet and cried—
“I saw him coming in. He has been here fully twenty minutes! It’s not at allcomme il fautto be receiving men. I knew you would be dreadfully uncomfortable, and so I trotted over. He had no business to call on you. He is a most overbearing-looking young man, and I can’t abide him! He always seems as if he didn’tseeme. What brought him? What did he want—eh?”
Oh, this woman—with her pitiless curiosity, her keen little questioning eyes, coming just after my late most trying interview—was quite insupportable! I could have stood up and screamed. I was overwrought, fagged, heartsore. I had had nothing to eat all day but a cup of tea and a slice of toast, for Lady Hildegarde’s pro-luncheon visit had effectually destroyed my appetite for my humble meal.
Still, I struggled for composure and forbearance, and offered a blank wall of impenetrability to Mrs. Gabb and Miss Skuce’s storm of questions; for Mrs. Gabb had entered with the tea-tray, and a friendly determination to know “what brought young Mr. Somers atthathour of the night?”
“It is but barely five,” I answered; “and he came to pay me a visit of condolence. He knew Mrs. Hayes very well in India.”
“It’s a most unusual thing,” said Miss Skuce, suspiciously. “I wonder what hismotherwould say to it?”
At last I got rid of my pair of tormentors. They found that I was indisposed to be communicative. I pleaded (with truth) that I had a dreadful headache. So they departed together—to wonder, suggest, protest, and to discussme, whilst I turned down the lamp, threw myself on the sofa, and cried comfortably for a couple of hours.
“MISS HAYES, I BELIEVE?”
Surely, there is no more melancholy task than collecting and putting away the belongings of the dead! Even such little everyday articles as gloves, pens, books, can inflict many agonizing stabs, however tenderly handled, ere they are thrust out of sight. Besides Emma’s own particular possessions, I had to open and investigate the great bullock trunk which contained the remnant of my father’s and mother’s property; so that I was at the present time actually surrounded and invested by the effects of three relatives who had passed away, and by manydumb and inanimate things, which nevertheless spoke with tongues.
The bullock trunk—being large and unwieldy—had been brought up to the drawing-room. I had given orders that no one was to be admitted. I had even locked the door, ere I turned the key in the trunk. It smelt strongly of camphor, and contained mostly my father’s effects—his uniform, his pistols, books, some rare coins, several valuable daggers, several files of paid bills, and boxes of cartridges. Quite at the bottom was a good-sized leathern despatch-box, and a few pale water-color sketches, carefully wrapped in tissue-paper, and also a slender gold-mounted riding-whip and a broken fan. The despatch-box was full of letters—my father’s and mother’s letters. I glanced at one or two. Somehow, I shrank from reading them, from prying into the secrets, the most sacred feelings of my dead parents. There was also an ivory Prayer-book, now very yellow, with the name, “Gwendoline Chalgrove,” inscribed in a bold hand. There were, moreover, a faded photograph of a girl, a little baby’s shirt, in which was stuck a rusty needle, and that was all.
These I put aside; they were relics to be specially treasured. And then I repacked the great box (filling up the space with some of poor Emma’s possessions), and sent it down-stairs. I had a great deal too many cases for a person of my indigent circumstances. My own paraphernalia was sufficiently modest, but I could not and would not abandon that great pile of luggage which had no living owners. I was going to London the next day. I had bidden good-by to the grave—paid our small accounts. I had packedup all Emma’s belongings. I was now busily putting together my own effects in my little room above the drawing-room: I do believe that one’s clothesswell! I was very hot and tired as I knelt on the floor stuffing mine into a choking trunk, when Mrs. Gabb came pounding up the stairs and gasped out as she opened the door, “There’s a gentleman below!” My mind of course, flew to Mr. Somers, and I made a gesture of dismissal. “I can’t seeany one,” I began.
“He says he must see you; and he—I couldn’t well catch his name, but I believe he islord. Here, just tidy yourself, and let me pick the white threads off you.”
I hurried down, with a very tumultuous heart, and discovered (as I had half suspected) Lord Chalgrove. The room was in the utmost confusion, and he was standing in the middle of it, with one ofthe little water-color drawings in his hand, which he laid aside as I entered.
“Miss Hayes, I—I believe?” he asked, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Yes; my name is Hayes.”
“You are the daughter of Desmond Hayes and my sister Gwendoline?”
“I am,” I acknowledged gravely.
“Then, my dear,” he said, taking my hand in his, “I have come to take you home.”
I gazed at him incredulously.
“You understand, don’t you, that I am your uncle? Your mother was my only sister—you are my nearest of kin, except Dolly. You are the image of my poor Gwen!”
And this sedate little gray-bearded gentleman, whom I had never spoken to before, drew me nearer to him and kissed me timidly.
“How did you find me out?” I asked as he sat down beside me.
“I saw Mrs. Hayes’s death in the paper. I made inquiries from Grindlay and Co. her agents. Therewasa Miss Hayes, they believed—a step-daughter—and I came by the first train. I am going to take you back with me to-day”—looking at his watch—“by the four o’clock train. We shall not be home before ten o’clock to-night. I see you are half packed.”
“Yes, I was going to-morrow.”
“Then I am just in the nick of time! I never knew of your existence, my dear, until this morning. I wish I had. There is no use in raking up old miseries now. My father and mother were stern and unforgiving—especially my father; and your mother had been everything to them—they were so proud of her. Well, she was headstrong. My Dolly is the same. Your father was a singularly handsome and fascinating fellow. She walked out and married him one morning in St. James’s Piccadilly; and my father, when he heard the news, drew the blinds down all over the house, and gave out that Gwen wasdead. And then poor Gwen died within a year in real earnest. We heard that the baby died too; but I—I wished to make sure, and I wrote out to your father and made inquiries, and offered to receive the child, if it had survived, and he simply returned me my own letter. If I had known, it would have been different for you of late years. Your father was too proud. Pride cost a good deal, you see. It cost my father his daughter—well, well!”
“How is Miss Chalgrove? I heard she had met with an accident.”
“It’s not much—a mere strain, shesays. Only for that, she would have accompanied me; but she has to lie still—a hard thing for her; and she is not Miss Chalgrove, but your cousin Dolly. She declares that she recognized you at a dance by your likeness to the family. I saw you too, and was struck by the same thing, but I thought it was accidental. Dolly tried to find out your name, and to get formally introduced to you, but she was told that you were a niece of some Miss Bennys, and that they had taken you away early in the evening. Then we returned home, and, almost immediately, she met with this horrible fall, and that put things out of her head until the other day, when some one wrote a letter and spoke of a pretty Miss Hayes, living here, having lost her stepmother. Then we saw theTimesnotice, and put two and two together, and here I am! Even ifyour likeness to Gwen did not speak for you, I see her things about. That Prayer-book, there, I gave her myself. How was it that you never sent me a line?”
“I never heard anything about my mother’s people until after that ball, when I told my stepmother of Miss Chalgrove’s resemblance to myself. And then she told me all about my mother, and how my father would never hear the name of Chalgrove mentioned. He never dreamt that he would be leaving me alone in the world; and he was implacable on that one subject.”
We talked for more than half an hour, my uncle and I. I felt as if I had known him for a long time. I told him all my circumstances; in short, told him everything—excepting about Mr. Somers.
“You know the Somers, perhaps?” he asked.
“Yes; I—I—have met them.”
“They are connections of ours—of yours. Everard is my heir, as perhaps you may have heard, and a fine fellow. His father is my next-of-kin, but has completely lost his memory; and Lady Hildegarde and I, though we know each other since we were in pinafores—well—we don’t stable our horses together.”
(Nor did Lady Hildegarde and I use the same stable!)
“I suppose I ought to drive out to the Abbey; but it might run me for time, and we must go by the four o’clock train. May I ring for your landlady? She can help you to put your things up. Some she can send after you; and meanwhile I’ll go to the post-office and wire the news to Dolly.”
What a fuss Mrs. Gabb made! She was far more in the way than otherwise.However, in a very short time I had closed my gaping boxes, written directions, taken a dressing-bag, put on my hat and cloak, and was ready to start.
Miss Skuce entered as I was casting my last look round the sitting-room. (She had had her usual few words with Mrs. Gabb, and was almost incoherent.)
“Well, Gwendoline!”—a long pause, employed in staring at me very hard, as if she expected me to look different in some way—“and so your uncle is ‘alord,’ and has come to fetch you! Lord Chalgrove! Well, well, well! I congratulate you”—kissing me effusively—“I am quite broken-hearted that you are going.” She had never mentioned this before. “And you will be a great lady—indeed, I am not one bit surprised—you always had the grand air,” and she held me back at arm’s length, and surveyed me, this timewith undisguised admiration. “When you are living in high places, and driving in your coroneted carriage, you won’t forget your poor friends who were intimate with you” (far too intimate) “in your days of poverty and adversity?”
“No, no, Miss Skuce,” eager to escape, “I’llneverforget you—I can promise you that most faithfully.”
“Dear! You don’t mean to say that you have been over saying good-by to those horrid, common Mounds?”
“Certainly I have; they have been most kind to me. Why should I not take leave of them?”
“Well, I shall miss you frightfully. Living opposite to you has been as interesting as a tale inThe Family ReaderorBow Bells. What with your coming so poor and lowly, and then knowing Lady Hildegarde, and turning the heads of hundreds at the Moate ball—oh, I heard all about it—and then being left desolate, and scorned, and, lastly, being fetched away by a lord, your ownuncle—why, it’s most—most awfully affecting!” and she actually was so excited and upset that she began to cry.
In the midst of her sobs, my uncle reappeared, followed by a fly from the station. He gazed in puzzled bewilderment at Miss Skuce, who gasped out in jerky sentences—
“So sorry—to part—with this dear sweet girl—Lord Chalgrove. I am heroldestfriend, too—as she will tell you. Known her—known her since she first came—a—stranger to Stonebrook.”
“I am sure I am greatly obliged to you, ma’am. A kindness to my niece is a double kindness to me.”
“Then,” hastily drying her eyes,“will you do me a favor, and allow me to come and see her off, your lordship?”
“Certainly; only too delighted,” handing her into the fly: Mrs. Gabb and family, Mrs. Mound and family, being assembled, and spectators of this most proud moment!
Then I took leave of them all, and of that dingy little house, where I had known many sorrows and but few joys; and was rattled off to the station at a great pace—my uncle being engaged all the time in listening to Miss Skuce’s voluble regrets.
It was a new experience to me to be waited upon; my uncle took all trouble off my hands. Whilst he was getting the tickets, I noticed the Abbey carriage drive up; it contained Lady Hildegarde and Lady Polexfen—who was evidently going away. They seemed surprised to see LordChalgrove, and accosted him warmly. He said something in reply, and then both ladies turned and looked hard atme; but there was no time for further conversation, for our train was entering the station.
As my uncle joined me with tickets and newspapers, I said in a low voice, “Not in the same carriage with Lady Polexfen, please—please!”
Then I said farewell to Miss Skuce, who, sobbing hysterically, folded me in her arms; there was no use in struggling, but I promised myself that it would be for the last time. Much as I hated her endearments, they evidently afforded her sincere gratification.
As the clock pointed to four, we steamed slowly away, leaving her on the platform dissolved in tears, and Lady Hildegarde looking after us with a glare of stony incredulity.
A NEW STATION OF LIFE.
Wewere met at Chalgrove station by the coroneted carriage and high-stepping horses, as foreseen by Miss Skuce’s eager imagination. My scanty, shabby baggage was entirely the affair of a tall footman, who ushered me to this splendid equipage with an air of solemn deference, which afforded ample testimony that Lord Chalgrove’s niece wassomebody.
“I’m extremely anxious about Dolly,” said my uncle as we bowled along at a rapid rate.
This was the third or fourth time, within three or four hours, that he had made the same remark.
“She won’t give in—she has such a spirit—but I know she is more injured than we suspect, and that Dr. Harwood has rather a grave opinion of her case. An accident to the spine is always a serious matter.”
“I should think it was,” I assented. “But then, she has youth on her side, which is something.”
“And she will haveyouby her side, which will be something,” he replied. “It seems almost providential—quiteprovidential, indeed—that I should have been able to lay claim to a relation, to a young companion for her, just at this critical time.”
“Most providential forme, uncle, seeing that I have neither friends nor home.”
“And hereisyour home now, my dear,” he said, as we dashed between a pair of great stone pillars.“This is Chalgrove, where your mother was born. There were only two of us, and we were always greatly attached to one another—and she was the leading spirit of the two, afraid of nothing not even of my father; and many a scrape we got into together, though I was the elder by five years.”
Chalgrove Chase was a lovely place—not a new place in old clothes, nor an old place decked out in modern garments; but a beautiful, dignified, venerable pile, standing among sloping green glades and fine forest trees. We entered through a hall or armory lined with coats of mail and feudal banners, and passed into a great gallery paneled with carved oak, and hung with impressive-looking portraits; everything around me spoke of generations of magnificence, and of dignified prosperity. And I was, in a way, a daughter of this wealthy and ancient house!
The real daughter of the house received me with wide-open arms, as she lay upon a couch in her boudoir. Poor girl! even now I saw a sad change in her; her merry, dancing eyes looked anxious, and almost tragic; were they already deploring her blighted youth? Her lips were drawn with pain, her cheeks had lost their pretty contour. Yes, in ten days’ time Dolly Chalgrove was wasted to a shadow!
Her spirits, however, were still in robust condition, and she hailed me with enthusiasm, and—what is more lasting—with warm and enduring affection.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t care for many girls!” she confessed as I sat beside her,“and those who have been my chief pals have a horrid knack of getting married, and that puts an end to everything; because, once a girl marries, she tells all she hears to her husband, and even lets him read her letters, and that three-cornered sort of business is most unsatisfactory. But now I have you, my own first cousin, who is the image of my Aunt Gwendoline, father says, and as I resemble her too, no wonder we are almost like sisters, and that I was drawn to you on the spot!”
“And I to you,” I answered emphatically.
“You remember that I told you to look out for me in the sporting papers; but I never dreamt that when you did see me mentioned in a paragraph, it would be as the victim of a ‘shocking accident in the hunting field.’ It was not really the horse’s fault, though he has a hot temper. Another woman was riding jealous—she actually rodeatme! She crossed us at a fence. He jumped wildly, and fell—fell on me, on stones. I put up my hands (as I always do) to save my face; but in his struggles he kicked me in the back. You say I shall get better. No, my dear Cousin Gwen, I’m going to let you into a horrible secret—I shall getworse. I feel it. Every day I am more loglike and powerless. Oh, I am so sorry for the poor, poor pater. He and I always hunted in couples, always went everywhere together. Gwen, you will have to be a daughter to him and take my place.”
Dolly’s sad presentiment came true; all that winter, spring, and summer, she never left her bed, and I nursed her. At length there was a shade of improvement, and we took her abroad by easy stages, and remained there for months. She is no longer bedridden, or a helpless invalid, or chained to her sofa always.
This she declares she owes to me; but that is only a way of saying that she isfond of me. Her own patience, fortitude, and cheerful disposition did more for her than our assiduous care and foreign baths. She will never, alas, be able to walk, to dance, to mount a horse again! She will be a cripple, more or less, as long as she lives. Nevertheless, she takes a vivid interest in life—life, in which my pretty, vivacious, warm-hearted Cousin Dolly can be but a bystander and spectator. She takes a keen interest in Everard and me. We have been engaged to be married for some time—with the full approval of both families.
Yes, Lady Hildegarde paid a three days’ visit to the Chase when we returned from Germany, ostensibly to inquire for Dolly, and judge of her progress with her own eyes; but in reality to ask me (to command, exhort, and entreat, me) to be her son’s wife.
For, strange as it may appear, it will bemyhand, and not poor Dolly’s, that alone can join the great Chalgrove fortune to the impoverished Somers estates!
I am mistress of a splendid establishment, with an admirable housekeeper as viceroy. And I “fell into the ways of the place,” as she expressed it, with extraordinary ease.
I suppose there was something in belonging by blood to the race that had lived there for generations! Ideas, instincts, tastes, manners, are surely hereditary! Who would believe that I had spent so many sighs and tears over a much smaller domestic budget, or with what an anxious eye I had scanned the butter (salt butter) and the candles, in order to measure their consumption? Who would imagine that I knew far better than my own scullery-maid the cheap parts of meat;and that once an unexpected deficit of two and fourpence half penny had cost me a sleepless night!
How I wished that Emma, the partner of those dark days, had been alive to enjoy the sunshine of my present prosperity!
I have not forgotten Stonebrook—nor has it forgotten me. I send punctual remembrances to Mrs. Gabb and the Mounds; and Miss Skuce clings to me. She favors me with long letters (crossed) and elaborate Christmas cards, and receives in return hampers of game and hothouse fruit. Uncle Chalgrove calls her “a kind, good, warm-hearted old soul!” and I leave him in his ignorance. I have steadily turned a deaf ear to her continual importunities and eager appeals for my photograph, and she mentions that she would“prefera large one, in my court train!” She shall never possess a picture of mine, large or small, plain or colored, for I well know how it would stand on her mantelpiece, to be criticised, explained, and talked over, and have all its poor little history garrulously related. No, never,never!
Everard, my cousin andfiancé, spends most of his time at the Chase. We are to live there altogether in the coming by and by. He and I often walk out beside Dolly’s invalid chair, and accompany her round the park, the grounds, gardens, or to her favorite haunt, the paddocks, to see the pensioners and the young horses. Among the former is Diable Vert (fat, lazy, and dead lame). Dolly was firm with respect to her former favorite, and obtained a reprieve for him, as he was being led forth to execution. He also had suffered in that dreadful accident, and isworthless as a hunter; but he hobbles up to the gate whenever he hears the voice of his comrade in misfortune.
I know that Everard often—nay, perhaps always—wonders why I am not more cordial to his mother. She knew my own mother intimately long ago, and has repeatedly assured me, with what poor Emma called her “irresistible” manner, that she will take her old friend’s place, and bemorethan a mother to me! Naturally, I have never once referred to our unpleasant little encounter in Mrs. Gabb’s lodgings, nor to Emma, nor to India, nor to any delicate subjects. I am always civil and—I hope—agreeable. I shall never tell tales to Everard. Perhaps he may have his suspicions—who knows? Perhaps Miss Skuce took all Stonebrook into her confidence—perhaps not. But it is a curious fact, that latterly he hasceased to urge me to pay visits to the Abbey, or to inquire why I invariably decline his mother’s continual and pressing invitations to stay with her for a week or two—or even to spendChristmas!
THE END.