diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 64892-0.txt | 4576 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 64892-0.zip | bin | 0 -> 222814 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 64892-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 369018 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 64892-h/64892-h.htm | 5202 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 64892-h/images/i_cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 272971 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 |
8 files changed, 9794 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/64892-0.txt b/64892-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a73a487 --- /dev/null +++ b/64892-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4576 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Real Lady Hilda, by Bithia Mary Croker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will +have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using +this eBook. + +Title: The Real Lady Hilda + A Sketch + +Author: Bithia Mary Croker + +Release Date: March 21, 2021 [eBook #64892] + +Language: English + +Produced by: MWS, Fiona Holmes, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images + generously made available by The Internet Archive/American + Libraries.) + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REAL LADY HILDA *** + + +Transcriber’s Notes. + +Hyphenation has been standardised. +Other changes made are noted at the end of the book. + + + + + THE REAL LADY HILDA + + A SKETCH + + BY + + B. M. CROKER + + AUTHOR OF + + “PRETTY MISS NEVILLE,” “DIANA BARRINGTON,” “MR. JERVIS,” + “PROPER PRIDE,” “PEGGY OF THE BARTONS,” “BEYOND THE PALE.” + + “On souffre quelquefois plus de la mort d’une illusion + que de la perte d’une réalité.” + + NEW YORK + F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY + 11 EAST 16TH STREET + LONDON—CHATTO & WINDUS + 1899 + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1899 + +BY + +F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + CHAP. PAGE + I. Waiting for the Lamp 7 + + II. Retrospective 21 + + III. A Question of Taste 33 + + IV. Lady Hildegarde’s Photograph 63 + + V. We get into Society 83 + + VI. A Visit of Seven Minutes 95 + + VII. Four in a Fly 118 + + VIII. The Chalgrove Eyebrows 137 + + IX. “We need not Ask if You have Enjoyed Yourself” 158 + + X. “Who _are_ these Chalgroves?” 179 + + XI. Mrs. Mound’s Opinion 193 + + XII. “Indian Papers, Please Copy” 203 + + XIII. Kind Inquiries 223 + + XIV. “Miss Hayes, I believe?” 240 + + XV. A New Station of Life 255 + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +WAITING FOR THE LAMP. + + +“Too early for the lamp, I suppose, and yet too dark to read a line.” +And my stepmother closed her novel, with an impatient snap, as she +added, “This is the worst of these horrid, poky lodgings; one never can +have anything at the time one wants it. What a dismal little den it is, +Gwen! What possessed us to come here?” + +I could have answered the question promptly and briefly in a single +word “Poverty;” but, as it was a term my relative specially detested, +I merely shrugged my shoulders, and continued to gaze into the +miserable apology for a garden which ran between our quarters and the +high street of Stonebrook, an insignificant market town in Sussex. + +Certainly there was not much to see, amid the creeping shadows of a +November afternoon. A dripping hen, wading carefully across the road; +a coal-cart, the driver enveloped in empty sacks; and the undertaker’s +retriever—black and curly, as an undertaker’s dog should be—sitting +in his master’s doorway, and yawning most infectiously. If we had lived +opposite to the post-office, the lending library, or even the hotel, +we should have enjoyed a livelier outlook, but “Mound & Son—Funeral +Establishment—Coffins, Hearses, and every Requisite,” to quote from +the inscription over the door, in rigid white characters on a mourning +ground, afforded but a gloomy and dispiriting prospect. It was too dark +to descry more than the outline of an ornamental sign, on which was +depicted an elegant open glass vehicle, drawn by four prancing black +horses, with nodding plumes and streaming tails—triumphant-looking +steeds, who seemed to say, “Man treats most of us barbarously all our +lives, then kills us, and makes money of our very skin and bones; it +affords us sincere pleasure to carry him to the grave, and ‘see the +last of him.’” + +The interior of our sitting-room corresponded with its dreary view—a +lodging-house apartment _pur et simple_, with narrow windows, hideous +wall-paper, the inevitable round table, cheap chiffonier, and bulgy +green rep sofa, to complete the picture. The fire was low, and +unquestionably in a bad temper, emitting every now and then slow and +sullen puffs of yellow smoke. It was raining hard outside, and at +regular intervals an intrusive drop came spluttering down the chimney. + +“Dear me, what a sigh!” exclaimed my stepmother. “Mariana in the Moated +Grange could scarcely surpass it! Cheer up, Gwen; a girl of nineteen +has no business to be melancholy—though I grant that you have some +provocation. Never meet troubles half-way, that is my motto. I have an +idea that our luck will turn soon: I saw two magpies to-day.” + +I burst into a short, involuntary laugh. + +“Oh yes, you may laugh, my old-head-on-young-shoulders, but I mean to +have a regular good talk with the cards by and by; in the meanwhile, we +will ring for the lamp and tea. Mrs. Gabb will say it is too early, but +I intend to brave her for once. Britons never shall be slaves!” + +And she gave the bell a peal far more befitting the summons of a +wealthy woman than of a reduced widow lady, who was going to dine on +poached eggs, and was two weeks in arrears with her rent. + +There was only a difference of twelve years between us, and Emma, as +my stepmother wished me to call her, was a pretty little Irishwoman, +with black hair, dark blue eyes (wonderful eyes and lashes), and a +radiant smile. No more generous, hospitable, or impulsive creature ever +breathed. She was, moreover, a determined optimist, who looked steadily +at the bright side of things, and enjoyed extraordinary high spirits, +and the comic (or sunny) view of life. Generally, she was to be seen +on what is called “the top of the wave,” though, occasionally, there +came a terrible reaction, and she sank, overwhelmed, into the black +abysmal depths which are the birthright of those who are endowed with a +nervous, highly strung, mercurial temperament. + +Two years previous to this dreary November day, my father had died in +India, and six months later, Emma, having returned home, had summoned +me from school to join her in London. + +I had previously been given to understand that we were now very +poor—my lessons had been curtailed, my mourning was inexpensive; I +was therefore astonished to find my stepmother established in most +luxurious lodgings in Sloane Street, for which she paid—it being the +season—twelve guineas a week. These rooms were crammed with quantities +of the choicest blooms, cut and in pots, for Emma was passionately fond +of flowers—she declared that she could not exist without them. Her +weeds were as gloomy and superb as it was possible for weeds to be, and +in no quarter was there the smallest hint of that detestable visitor +who, when it comes in at the door, sends another inmate flying out +through the window. + +A smart _coupé_ from the Coupé Company, called every afternoon, and +took us out shopping and into the park; Emma’s ideas were apparently +as magnificent as of yore. I was fitted out by “Ninette,” her own +milliner, in a black crépon and silk, and a large French picture-hat, +with black ostrich feathers—expense absolutely _no_ object. It was not +for me, a girl of eighteen, to make inquiries respecting our finances. +I took for granted that the phrase “left badly off” meant at least a +thousand a year. Emma had imparted to me that her auction had brought +in a large sum, and that she expected the old Jam-Jam—meaning the +Rajah of Jam-Jam-More—“to do something handsome for both of us.” + +Meanwhile we remained in Sloane Street, were extravagant in flowers, +books, and _coupés_, and hospitable Emma haled in every passing +acquaintance to lunch, tea, or dinner. She had no plans, beyond a +desire to remain in London and “look about her;” which looking about +her signified the constant expectation of coming across the familiar +faces of Eastern friends. Miserable mofussilite! poor deluded Emma! +She had a foolish idea that the metropolis resembled a great Indian +station, and that she could scarcely cross the road without meeting +some one she knew. + +Her special friends were not in England. At the moment they had either +just gone back, or were not coming home till next year. I noticed—not +once, but repeatedly—that when we encountered her mere acquaintances, +and they asked where we were living, an expression of significant +astonishment was visible in their faces the moment our address was +mentioned. I also noted an increased cordiality of manner, and an +alacrity in assuring Emma that they would be delighted to come and see +her. I do not say this of all, but of some. + +And then one morning the crash came. I met our landlady on the stairs, +looking excessively fierce and red in the face, and I subsequently +discovered Emma encompassed with letters, bills, and books, and +dissolved in floods of tears. + +“She has just given me notice!” she cried, alluding to our landlady; +“and indeed, Gwen, after I pay her for the week, how much money do you +think I have left?” She burst into a wild, hysterical laugh, and pushed +across the table towards me a silver sixpence and two coppers. + +“What—what is this?” I stammered. + +“It’s eightpence. Can’t you _see_? And it’s all we have in the world!” + +I remember that I turned it over mechanically, and giggled. I knew +nothing of money matters. I had never had the spending of a sovereign +in my life. + +I was aware that Emma was extravagant, that she never could resist +what she called “a bargain,” never could keep money in her pocket. It +was quite one of her favorite jokes to exclaim, “Bang goes another +five-pound note!” + +I had participated in this jest with smiling equanimity, and the +supreme confidence of youth: I believed that my stepmother, and only +relative, had an ample supply of money somewhere. But—eightpence! + +I stared at the two coppers and the little bit of silver in dismayed +silence. + +“Take off your hat, Gwen,” continued Emma, impetuously, “and listen to +me. I’m not fit to be trusted with money—never was; I _can’t_ keep +it. ‘Sufficient unto the day,’ has always been my motto. You, I can +see, are prudent; you are good at figures, old beyond your years. I +suppose you take after your mother’s people, for your father was nearly +as—as—extravagant and heedless as myself. Now I’m going to lay my +affairs before you—place everything in your hands, and let you manage +all our money.” + +“Eightpence!” I repeated half under my breath. + +“You know, we never saved a penny. I had a few hundreds of pounds from +our auction, and I’ve spent that. A short life, and—a—a merry one!” +looking at me with her pretty sapphire-colored eyes drowned in tears. +“We have had a good time, have we not? And I was certain that the dear +old Jam-Jam, who was _so_ fond of your father—and, indeed, with every +reason—would give us a handsome pension. But I have had a horrible +letter by the mail just in. The Jam-Jam, who has been ailing for +months—the new doctor did not understand his constitution—is dead. I +am truly sorry.” A fresh burst of tears. + +“Was all this grief for the Jam?” I asked myself, and stood confounded. + +“My dear, we are paupers,” she sobbed. “Mr. Watkins, the agent, says +that the new rajah, the nephew, a detestable creature, who I know +never could endure _me_, will only give a hundred and thirty pounds a +year, and that has been wrung from him with the greatest difficulty. +And then, as if this letter was not _enough_, here is one from the +bank, to say my account is overdrawn, and I thought I had three hundred +pounds there still! I never, I knew, kept a proper account. Just drew +checks, and never or seldom filled up the tiresome counterfoils, and +now there is their hideous bank-book, all so neatly made up: ‘Self, +ten pounds; Self, forty pounds; Self, twenty pounds.’ I can’t think +what has become of it! I’m not used to keeping money, you see. I +never bothered about putting down my expenses. Mrs. Keene brought me +up these horrid letters, and came in too to ask about dinner, and +I told her it was really shameful to charge two and sixpence for a +cauliflower, and that we really could not afford to pay her prices, +and she was quite insolent. When I have paid her, we shall have +just—this—this—eightpence——” + +And she dashed it over nearer to me, and, leaning her head on her arms, +went off in hysterics. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +RETROSPECTIVE. + + +It would be a new experience for me to take the lead, to be manager, +financier, adviser. When I had restored Emma, after some difficulty, +and left her comparatively composed—and armed with salts and fan—I +ran up to my own room, locked the door, and sat down to think. +Something must be done immediately; we ought to leave our extravagantly +expensive lodgings without even a week’s delay. If Mrs. Keene would +but let us off, it would save twelve guineas, and then we should have +twelve pounds twelve shillings, to add to that ghastly eightpence. Mrs. +Keene was always very pleasant to me: I would muster up courage, and +go and speak to her, and tell her that we had received unexpected news, +and were obliged to retrench. I must honestly confess that my heart +beat fearfully fast as I knocked at the door of her sanctum, and heard +her shrill “come in.” + +The interview passed off much better than I anticipated—although the +cauliflower still rankled in her mind. She, fortunately for us, had +just heard of what she termed “a good let”—old customers, who wished +to come in immediately, and she agreed to our prompt departure without +demur, saying with immense condescension, “These sort of apartments are +not suitable for any but wealthy folk, as can pay well, and is above +fighting over vegetables!” + +She, however, gave me some useful hints as to where to look for +cheaper and humbler quarters. I hurried round to Madame Ninette, and +countermanded my new dress, and, after a hasty lunch, Emma and I set +out in quest of apartments in keeping with our means. We searched on +foot the whole of that warm June afternoon, and at last discovered +two neat, cheap little rooms over a dairy in a street in Chelsea. We +took them on the spot, and returned to pack our belongings. I packed +everything; for Emma, between the emotions of the morning and the miles +we had trudged in the sun, was completely exhausted, and I easily +prevailed on her to sit on the sofa and rest. + +Beguiled by an amusing magazine, and a box of Fuller’s sweets—poor +remnants of her little luxuries—she soon forgot all her sorrows, and +to have seen her reclining there, looking so pretty in her cool black +tea-gown, and dainty little beaded shoes, no one would have believed +she had a care in the world. What a child she was in some ways! As for +myself, I was not yet eighteen, but I had accepted such a leaden load +of responsibility that I began to feel an old woman. The next morning +our luggage, books, plants, and umbrellas were packed in and on a cab, +and we started off for Carlyle Buildings, our future residence. As soon +as we had rearranged our boxes, books, and plants, and given our meager +orders—I was now housekeeper and purse-bearer—Emma sat down, as she +expressed it, “to face the future resolutely.” + +It was a great comfort that she owed no money, otherwise it was +anything but a brilliant outlook. All that remained to her, when +everything had been summed up, was her wardrobe, her jewelry, a small +pension, and a large circle of Indian friends. + +We lived through the winter on the proceeds of a splendid diamond +bracelet, and the hopes of getting some Indian children. Yes, Emma +entertained the not uncommon idea of setting up a happy home for the +children of her acquaintances. She was as sanguine as possible. Nothing +ever damped her good faith in the future, and “a turn of luck.” + +“I shall take a charming, sunny old place deep in the country, about +twenty miles from London; keep a nice pony-carriage, cows, a donkey, +French _bonnes_, and a governess, and charge two hundred a year. I +shall easily collect a dozen children—twelve will be _ample_ to begin +with—and there, you see, is upwards of two thousand a year at once! +The Blairs, and Joneses, and Smithsons, dear old friends, will be only +too thankful for the chance.” + +And, full of enthusiasm, she despatched many eager letters to the +parents among her acquaintance; but, strange to relate, not one of +these correspondents availed herself of her kind proposals, though they +wrote long, affectionate epistles, suggesting the offspring of _other_ +people! Perhaps they were afraid that pretty little Mrs. Hayes, ever +impulsive, extravagant, and gay, was too lively and erratic to take +charge of their delicate darlings—besides, she was poor. + +Oh, that was a dreary winter, when we existed on hope deferred! Emma +was delicate—she had a troublesome cough; she required dainties, +flowers, books, amusements, variety. Her gay spirits were fitful; she +was not often on the top of the wave now, but liable to terrible fits +of weeping and depression. She wept for many things I could not obtain +for her. For instance, for India—for the sun (the sun in London in +January!), for her old servants her old friends—where were they? Those +abroad sent long, affectionate letters, occasional newspapers, and +little presents; those at home—well, at the moment there were none at +home, none whose attachment would stand the strain of coming at least +three miles to visit a shabby little widow, in very humble lodgings. +I grew up that winter. I became ten years older. I learnt to market, +to haggle, to housekeep, to concoct beef-tea and puddings, to make a +little money go a long way. I learnt the cheap shops, the cheap little +joints. I used to go out with our thrifty landlady to the Marlborough +Road on Saturday nights, and bring home _such_ bargains! I was thankful +when the winter came to an end, the days grew longer and lighter, and +Emma recovered her health and her spirits. We partook of the season’s +delights in a very mild and inexpensive form; we went per ’bus to some +picture-galleries, to the shilling places at concerts, and occupied +chairs in the Row. Emma liked to sit there the whole afternoon, +returning home by what we called “our own green carriage” in time for +our frugal tea. + +“Oh, what a different life from what I have been accustomed to!” +she complained to me one day. “Watching from my penny chair the +crowds and crowds of happy people streaming by, and never seeing one +familiar face! The scores of visitors your father and I put up in +Jam-Jam-More—for races, picnics, dinners, shooting-parties, and I +never see one of them. Do you think they are _all_ out of town? or +do they catch sight of me and flee?” and she laughed—such a dreary +little laugh. “Of course, I know that is nonsense, but it _does_ seem +so odd that I never come across any of what we used to call ‘the +cold-weather folks,’ except indeed Captain Goring, and he gave me +the cold shoulder—he barely raised his hat; and young Randford—you +remember I met him in Piccadilly?—he did stop and speak to me, and +said that he must try and come and call on me, and would look over his +engagements and see what afternoon he could spare, and I never heard +anything more about him. Would you believe it?—he spent three weeks +with us in India, and welcome, and rode and drove our horses as if they +were his own, and when he was leaving, he made _such_ a fuss about his +dearest, kindest, prettiest Mrs. Hayes!” + +“That was India?” I ventured to suggest. + +“Yes, India is one place—England another. I was a fool out there! If I +had not kept open house—a sort of pleasant hotel, where there was _no_ +bill—for all these thankless, selfish wretches, I should be driving in +my carriage now, and as for you, dear old Gwen——” + +“Oh, I shall do very well,” I interrupted. “I wish you would not worry +yourself about _me_.” + +“We always intended you to come out, enjoy yourself, and make a nice +match perhaps. And we did not spend as much as we might have done on +your education; we thought it unnecessary, with the rupee at such +ruinous exchange. We never dreamt that you would have to earn your own +bread—oh, never—never!” + +“Never mind me, dear!” + +“But I _do_ mind—it is my duty to mind! Who would have thought that +your father would not live to be a fine hale old man of eighty? He had +a splendid constitution. Sometimes, when I used to be a little scared +at our big bills, and suggested our trying to retrench, he always +said, ‘The old Jam-Jam will provide for us; he will give me a fine +pension. He has promised me twelve hundred a year. It is only when +one feels young and active that one _wants_ money. When I begin to +feel anno domini, we will go home and live very comfortably at Bath or +Cheltenham.’ And here have I come home all alone, and you and I have +to struggle along on a hundred and thirty pounds a year—and—and my +diamond ornaments.” + +I recollect that the poignant contrast between past and present so +utterly overwhelmed poor Emma, that she could not restrain her tears, +and suddenly rising from her seat, and signing to me to accompany her, +she departed with unusual precipitancy. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A QUESTION OF TASTE. + + +It was indeed a most lamentable truth that I was not as accomplished +as most of the girls of my age. I could not paint or play the violin, +I had no knowledge of the German language, I was ignorant of the agile +art of skirt-dancing, and could not ride a horse—much less a bicycle. +However, Emma found consolation in the fact that I “walked well, and +carried myself with grace!” + +“This was satisfactory,” I assured her with a laugh, “as I was never +likely to have anything to carry _me_! As to walking, I was bound to be +a foot-passenger all my days.” + +I spoke French fluently, played the piano and guitar, was an excellent +needle-woman; but these would scarcely justify me in seeking a place +above that of a cheap governess or waiting-maid. The struggle for +existence was now so fierce, the half-million surplus women were such +keen competitors for bread, that life was nothing more nor less than +one long hardly contested battle. I had grasped this fact, young as I +was. I was a good accountant (whilst Emma could not do the simplest +little sum in addition); and, as purse-bearer, many a weary half-hour +I sat up at night, working out our little budget, and striving to make +both ends meet. + +Yes, I was ostensibly the purse-bearer, and, if left a free hand, I +could manage to balance our income; but I was _not_ independent. Emma +was subject to wild lavish outbursts of her old Indian generosity; she +would overwhelm me with unexpected gifts—expensive gifts. I never knew +when one of these awful surprises was in store for me—and also the +accompanying bill. + +I had long refrained from admiring anything in the shop windows. +Nevertheless, I was endowed with a white chiffon parasol, an opera +cloak, three pairs of scarlet silk stockings, an exquisite silk and +lace petticoat—I who so sadly wanted everyday gloves and boots. I +wanted them subsequently for a considerable period. Remonstrance only +brought tears, and at last I came to the conclusion that such outbursts +were ungovernable impulses of Emma’s inborn, long-nurtured generosity; +that the disease was incurable, and these occasional attacks afforded +her relief from an ever-pressing, maddening desire to lavish money! + +My own mother had made a runaway match with my father, was sternly +disowned by all her relatives, and cut off without even the proverbial +shilling. She died when I was a month old, and I was subsequently sent +to England. There I was received by two maiden ladies, “who took entire +charge of children from India, their arrangements being those of a +family, and not of a school”—_vide_ the prospectus. + +With these good people I spent ten very happy—I may add, +luxurious—years. It was an establishment solely suited to the children +of the wealthy, and my father discharged all expenses with liberal +and punctual hand. He held an excellent appointment at the court of +the native prince, and had married, eight years after my mother’s +death, pretty, penniless Miss Burke, who happened to be on a visit to +friends in his neighborhood. Her enemies declared that Miss Burke +was an empty-headed, flighty little fool—vain, delicate, and wildly +extravagant; and that my father—who really required some one to +manage his affairs, and curb his expensive tastes—would have been far +wiser had he selected instead one of the excellent Miss Primmers—the +Reverend Jeremiah Primmer’s well-brought-up missionary daughters—and +that such a match as he contemplated was madness, so far as +improvidence and waste went—a mixture of oil and flame. Nevertheless, +in spite of these prophets, who prophesied evil things, my father +and his vivacious young Irish wife were excessively happy. They were +both given to hospitality, were both easy-going and open-handed; they +liked India, Indian ways, and Indian friends. He only returned once to +England to see me, and she but rarely, to refurbish her wardrobe—and +pay me flying visits. Then she loaded me with gifts, treats, and +caresses, and was so young, so pretty, and so merry, that she embodied +my idea of a charming elder sister. I never, somehow, identified her as +my stepmother—whom I mentally sketched as the old, wicked, long-nosed +person pervading fairy tales. When I was fourteen, I was sent to an +English school in Paris, and there I learnt to dance, to sing, and +accompany myself on the guitar (it was such a nice portable instrument, +suitable to India). It had been arranged that I was to join my people +when I was eighteen, and already my outfit was under discussion, my +escort for the passage sought for, when the news arrived of my father’s +sudden death. He had been killed by a fall from his horse, when out +pigsticking, and Emma was returning home alone, a widow in straitened +circumstances. No, they had never saved one single rupee; their two +pairs of hands had ever been open. They entertained lavishly; she +dressed magnificently; he kept several race-horses, and their household +expenses were enormous. For they had caught some of the infection from +their surroundings, and the recklessness and display of the palace was +reflected in their home. All things considered, Emma bore the change in +her circumstances with surprising equanimity. She rarely complained. +She was so easily amused and interested, so easily roused to animation; +but it made me sad to note her wandering eye, when we were abroad, +always scanning the crowd, in intent search for some familiar face, +some one she knew in old days. + +And then her disappointments: the Sugdens, who scarcely deigned to +bow to her; the Woden-Spunners, who invited us to a crush, and left +us totally unnoticed all the evening—and the cabs and our gloves +alone had come to seventeen shillings. Poor Emma explained to me, with +pitiful eloquence, that the Woden-Spunners had never been intimate +friends. However Emma was soon to discover that every one was not like +the Woden-Spunners. + +One morning, we were shopping in the Army and Navy Stores—my father +had always been a subscriber, and Emma clung to “the Stores” as if +they embodied a faint, faint reflection of her more prosperous days. +The various departments were crammed full, and I never remembered to +have seen such a long double line of carriages in waiting, or such an +assorted crowd of dogs in durance on the steps. + +Our purchases were, needless to say, moderate, and we carried them +ourselves. They consisted on this occasion of a packet of candles, a +packet of bloaters, an untrimmed straw hat, a pound of fresh butter, +and two pounds of pressed beef. + +It was extremely warm—a sultry July day—as we toiled up to the +turnery department. At the corner of the stairs, a young man, who was +flying down at breakneck speed, brushed against Emma; he paused for a +second to lift his hat and apologize, then exclaimed in quite another +key—a key of cordial pleasure. + +“Why, it’s Mrs. Hayes, I declare! Where did you drop from? I am +delighted to see you!” + +As we were blocking up the landing, I moved on, and waited at the top +of the stairs, leaving Emma and her newly discovered old friend—a +friend who was sincerely glad to meet her—still conversing with great +animation. Yes, I could read it in his gestures, and the expression +of his back. He was tall and square-shouldered, his long frock-coat +and shining top-hat adding to his stature. So far I had not caught a +glimpse of his face. Presently they turned and ascended together, still +talking volubly. I believe that he imagined Emma to be alone, until she +said, as she put her hand on my arm— + +“This is my step-daughter, Miss Hayes.” + +He glanced at me politely, then his casual glance suddenly changed into +a long scrutinizing gaze of astonishment—no, not of admiration, merely +unqualified amazement. + +He was a good-looking young man, with a somewhat thin, aristocratic +face, brown hair, brown eyes, and a light, reddish-brown mustache. + +“I used to know your father, Miss Hayes. My people and I stayed with +him in India, you know.” + +I did not know—how should I? + +“He was awfully good to me, and took me out shooting and +elephant-catching.” Then, suddenly turning to Emma, he said, “What are +you going to do now? It is one o’clock. Will you come and have lunch +with me at the club, or will you lunch here?” + +“Oh, here, thank you, since we are on the spot; and I am told that the +curries are celebrated.” + +“All right, then, we will try the curry. Allow me to relieve you of +your parcels.” + +In another second, and despite our vehement expostulations, this smart +young man was actually carrying our beef, butter, and candles, and +leading the way to the refreshment department. Five minutes later, we +were seated at a little table, and Emma, with her gloves off and menu +in hand, was, by our host’s desire, ordering our lunch. No, after all, +it was much too hot for curry; it was a day for mayonnaise and aspic +jelly. He seemed most anxious to please my stepmother, and to make much +of her. Poor Emma! she was unused to such attentions; they brought a +brilliant color to her cheek, and a sparkle to her eyes. She brightened +up wonderfully under their influence. + +Warm as the room was, I found myself rather “out in the cold.” These +two had so many subjects in common, so many topics which were closed +to me. They talked of places and people I had never seen, of the great +camp at Attock, of the rajah’s big shoot, and finally of that young +man’s own relations. + +“So you have not seen my mother since she stayed with you at +Jam-Jam-More? She and my father are abroad now, and I am off to +South America in three days. I’ve been buying my kit here. Done a +tremendous morning’s work. I’m combining business and pleasure. My +father has considerable investments out there which he wants me to look +after—then I’m going to the West Indies.” + +“It seems to me you are never at home,” said Emma. + +“No one ever is at home now. Home is the last place in which to look +for people in these days. A great rage for rambling has seized old and +young. We migrate to the South of Europe for the winter, show ourselves +in town for a few weeks in the spring, and then start off again. I +think the old people are far the worst—they set the example. I tell my +mother she is like the wandering Jew.” + +“Does Lady Hildegarde never come to town?” + +“No, not the last two years.” Then, looking over at me; “Did _you_ have +a good time this season, Miss Hayes?” + +“A good time!” repeated Emma. “Why, the poor child has never been +anywhere. You forget——” + +“Yes—yes, of course; you could not take her. I wish my mother had been +in London,” he continued genially. “She would have been delighted to +have chaperoned her to no end of smart functions, and presented Miss +Hayes at a drawing-room.” + +It was quite clear that this young man did not realize the fatal change +in our circumstances. + +“She has never been anywhere,” continued Emma—“never been to a dance, +or a race-meeting——” + +“There is Sandown to-morrow. I’m a member; will you come with me? I +can take two ladies. It ought to be a capital day: Eclipse Stakes, you +know. I’ll meet you at Waterloo——” + +“No, no, no,” interrupted Emma. “I would not go, and, of course, +Gwen——” + +She hesitated. No, certainly, I could not accompany this nameless young +man alone. + +“Well, look here,” he said impetuously. “Let us do _something_ +to-morrow. This is Tuesday, and I’m off on Saturday morning, and shall +not be in England again for ages. Have you any engagement?” + +“No—none.” The very idea made her smile. + +“Then what would you like to do? Would you care to go up the river? +Start from Paddington about ten, go to Maidenhead, get a good boat, and +lunch in the Cliveden Woods, or up some nice cool backwater, row down +to Taplow, have tea at the inn, come back to town in time to dine and +do the theater. How would that be?” + +“Oh, Mr. Somers, you take away my breath! The expedition up the river +would be as much as we can manage, and delightful, would it not, Gwen?” +appealing to me. + +“Yes,” I assented. “Delightful indeed, if it won’t be too much for +_you_?” + +“Not at all, my old-head-on-young-shoulders. She”—to our host—“takes +such care of me, and manages all our affairs: she might be _my_ mother! +We will accept the river part of the program.” + +“Then that is quite settled. I meet you to-morrow at ten o’clock sharp +at Paddington?” + +The room was now crammed, and I noticed that our companion had a +bowing or nodding acquaintance with many customers. + +“Your sister is married?” observed Emma. “I saw it in the papers. You +are not married, are you?” + +“Perish the thought! I am——” + +“Oh, Everard!” cried a clear, high-bred voice, and a tall, fair, +supercilious-looking girl halted at our table. “Fancy seeing _you_ +here, lunching in the Army and Navy Stores among your parcels,” +glancing at our belongings. “How _very_ domestic!” + +“I have just met an old Indian friend,” he explained, rather +consciously. “And we are having tiffin together, as you see.” + +“Oh, I see,” staring straight at _me_, with a look of arrogant inquiry, +which made me color warmly: well, yes, call it blushing. Why should I +blush? I had never met this man till half an hour ago, and here was +this ultra-smart young woman in a French bonnet standing over me, her +pale blue eyes distinctly telling me that I was a designing adventuress. + +“Mrs. Hayes,” he said, “this is my sister, Lady Polexfen.” Emma bowed, +and Lady Polexfen lowered her eyelashes. “I was just speaking of you, +Maudie,” he added. “Talk of an angel, you know. We stayed with Mrs. +Hayes in India. It was at her house my mother was so ill.” + +“Indeed!” indifferently, now turning her bracelet to consult her watch. + +“Mind you turn up in good time to-morrow. We are going down to Sandown +on the coach. Dolly Chalgrove is coming.” She paused for a second, as +if to allow sufficient time for this impressive piece of news to soak +thoroughly into his mind. + +“And, remember, if you keep us waiting, as you often do, you will +discover that I am anything but an angel!” + +“I won’t keep you waiting,” responded her brother, serenely, “for the +excellent reason that I’m not going to Sandown! I’m going up the river +instead.” + +“And breaking your other engagements?” she asked sharply. + +“I can’t see that at all. It was left an open question.” + +“_Was_ it!” she exclaimed, in a still sharper key. And again she looked +over at me with a gleam in her eye, and I could see that, cool as she +tried to appear, she was furiously angry; indeed, her voice trembled +a little as she added, “Well, of course, it is merely a question of +taste!” + +And this was her last word—her parting shot. With an overwhelmingly +haughty bow—to be distributed amongst us—Lady Polexfen swept away, +and joined two gentlemen and a lady, who had been interested spectators +of the recent slight passage-at-arms. Speaking for myself, I felt +decidedly uncomfortable, and it was some seconds before I ventured to +look at our host. Yes, undoubtedly he had reddened a little (whether +with anger or shame I could not guess), and was carefully filling +Emma’s wine-glass. + +“How _very_ pretty your sister is!” she ventured with great +magnanimity, endeavoring to take the rough edge off our thoughts. +“I never saw a more delicate profile! She is a little like Lady +Hildegarde.” + +“Yes, she resembles my mother a good deal in many ways, and, being her +only daughter, she has been a bit spoiled—always wants her own way, as +you may see.” + +“And now, Mr. Somers,” continued Emma, “you will not make a stranger +of _me_, nor allow me to accept any little arrangements your sister has +made. You must postpone our trip. You know you can take us up the river +_any_ time!” + +But to this suggestion he would not listen, and displayed a will fully +as robust as his relative’s. In fact, he became almost angry at last, +and Emma was compelled to succumb. + +We accordingly spent a delightful, never-to-be-forgotten afternoon on +the river, rowed here and there, as fancy dictated, by two stalwart +boatmen. Mr. Somers, in a sailor hat and flannels, occasionally +took an oar himself, and even gave me a lesson. A dainty luncheon +had been provided, which we discussed under cool green branches, up +a deliciously sequestered backwater; then followed the row down to +Taplow, and our tea at the inn: in fact, every item of the program was +conscientiously carried out; and during that long summer’s day, in the +intimacy of picnicking and boating, Mr. Somers and I made extraordinary +strides in advancing our acquaintance. + +We parted reluctantly at Paddington Station, full of plans for the +morrow. We were to lunch with Mr. Somers again, and accompany him to a +very private view of most lovely Indian paintings. Emma struggled hard +against this second encroachment on his time, and struggled as vainly +as any kid in the folds of a boa constrictor! + +“Of course,” he said, half playfully, “if she had something better on +hand, and was already tired of his society——” + +And what could she answer? She could only murmur deprecating +ejaculations of dissent, assent, and gratitude. + +As we drove home in a hansom (a rare extravagance), exchanging voluble +raptures, an obtrusive chill little idea suddenly got in and sat down +between us. + +What were we to wear? A serge skirt and a shirt had done very well for +the river; but for a smart luncheon at a smart club, for an exclusive +gathering at a private view, where possibly all the gowns would be +carefully noted down and described in the papers, our now rusty black +dresses would be, oh, so sadly out of place! + +“It does not matter so much about me, dear,” said Emma, “but you. +I am so sorry now that your best crépon came in for that shocking +wetting last Sunday. Oh, _why_ did I not take a cab?” she exclaimed +regretfully. “And your poor hat received its death-blow. _This_ is no +climate for ostrich feathers—not like India, where you can wear your +best frocks and hats for months without one moment’s anxiety, and when +the rains do come it is not before they have given at least a week’s +notice!” + +“And that drenching shower, not giving one second—beyond half a +dozen immense drops, and after that the deluge! However, I can curl +the feathers up, press out my skirt, and, with a new pair of gloves, +perhaps I can manage to pass in a crowd!” + +Really, we did not present at all such a bad appearance as we emerged +from our lodgings next morning, nor did we feel beneath the occasion, +at our very pleasant and recherché lunch. It was only when we got among +the present season’s new dresses, and stood side by side with the +latest and most costly fashions, that our poor black feathers looked a +little battered and draggled! + +I saw it myself, but Mr. Somers did _not_. No, no, all his attention +was occupied in entertaining us—in showing us the best pictures, the +most popular or unpopular celebrities, the beauties, the political +stars, and the leaders of fashion. Among these I noted, without his +assistance, his own sister, Lady Polexfen. She was dressed in a +large white hat, and filmy summer gown, this warm July day, and was +sauntering around, attended by a military man, occasionally scanning +people or pictures, with a long-handled eye-glass. After a time, _we_ +came into its range! + +I turned away hastily, for I had no desire to encounter her ladyship, +and affected to be absorbed in a beautiful sketch of sunrise on the +Jumna, and the Taj! This was a much-admired gem, and the crowd gathered +closely around it. + +I hoped that Lady Polexfen had already passed by. Then I heard her +voice say, close behind me, “My dear Everard!” Then, in fluent French, +“What on earth _are_ you doing here, dragging about these shabby, +second-rate women? Have you lost your senses? And you know this is a +place where _every_ one sees every one.” + +“So it seems!” he answered, in equally fluent French, “but there is no +occasion for you to see _me_. These shabby people, as you call them, +are not second-rate, but first-rate.” + +“The Marchioness of Kinsale pointed you out to me, and laughed. She was +so amused at my eccentric brother.” + +“Horrid, painted old harridan!” he answered, now roused to aggression. +“I would not be seen speaking to her, if I were you; but, then, _you_ +are not particular, as long as a woman has a handle to her name and a +bran-new gown to her back! Now, _I_ prefer the society of _ladies_.” + +“Oh, very well, _very_ well,” in a choked voice. “Pray, pray go your +own way, and you’ll see where it lands you. Only, don’t come to me +for advice and assistance!” And here, as Emma turned and asked me +for the catalogue, our neighborhood was, perhaps, suspected, for +Lady Polexfen’s remonstrances ceased, and presently I saw her large +picture-hat slowly passing through a doorway into another room. + +As Emma had not caught sight of her, I kept this delightful experience +entirely to myself. It certainly rather threw a cloud over the pleasure +of my day—a cloud which, I must confess, Mr. Somers—so cheery, +so courteous, so chivalrous, so determined to treat us as great +ladies—did much to dispel. + +As we took leave of him, and thanked him warmly for all the pleasure he +had given us, he looked hard at me from under the brim of his tall hat, +and said— + +“The pleasure has been conferred by Mrs. and Miss Hayes, and I trust +that this will not be the last day by many that we shall spend +together.” + +Next morning brought a messenger with a note from Mr. Somers, and a +quantity of lovely flowers. Of course, I read this note, which was +written in a bold, black, determined sort of hand; it said— + + “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 am very 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 he _had_ them. 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 +and spirits 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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +LADY HILDEGARDE’S PHOTOGRAPH. + + +After waiting 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 +somewhat _passée_ cards, 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! _All_ the 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 time _still_; 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, and her 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. “_Surely_ not 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. + +“But _you_ were?” 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 am _sure_. 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 am _always_ interested 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, _that_ was 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, just +_now_,” and she looked at me expressively; “but I will tell you all +about it another time. I dare say the rectory people _may_ come. 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. “A _large_ photograph +of dear Lady Hildegarde Somers!” holding it in both hands as if it +were some holy relic. “How _did_ you 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 you _know_ her?” 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 he _was_ +uncovenanted. He drew large pay, and was supplied, besides, with +carriages and horses, a house and servants.” + +“How _very_ nice! 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, and _so_ grateful. +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 they _are_ at 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 for _her_, but then you cannot have everything. Maudie is very +handsome, but frightfully ambitious, worldly, haughty; quite, _quite_ +between ourselves—_I_ never 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 say _that_, by any means,” returned Miss Skuce, rather +stiffly. (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 is _so_ active, 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. + +“_How_ I 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 foolishly _incog._ The Bennys of the Dovecote, and +the Prouts, will be overwhelmed to think that they have not called. Her +ladyship will say we have _all_ neglected 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 will _all_ supply you! I notice that you take the +_Sussex 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, from _ecarté_ to—to old maid, pour passer +le temps. I hope you will have some tea. Gwen, what _have_ we 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 become most 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 must _not_ know +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 inanimate +articles. 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? + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +WE GET INTO SOCIETY. + + +Emma’s bedroom 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.” + +“_I_ know 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 would _ever_ +change; 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 really _quite_ affected, and gave me two large +photographs of herself, and kissed me over and over, and said, ‘I +cannot find words to express all I _feel_, 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 +(time _does_ tell on eggs.) + +That afternoon, by three o’clock, our little room was full of +visitors—we were positively 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 +a _sweet_ little silver teapot the shape of an elephant.” + +“Yes, I remember it—my husband gave it to her,” returned Emma, eagerly. + +“Ah, you don’t _say_ so! 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, “_she_ calls 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?” + +“Of _hers_!—of Miss Skuce’s!” in a loud voice. “Oh, dear me, what +_has_ she been telling you? She is never invited to the Abbey, except +once a year to the dignity ball here—and Lady Hildegarde merely makes +_use_ of 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. + +“_So_ pleased to find you at home,” offering two fat fingers, and +looking round anxiously for a _solid_ seat. “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 hair and a long-handled +eye-glass, by means of which she noted everything. + +“Lady Bloss is quite _too_ amusing,” she remarked, after she had sped +that lady most affectionately, and asked her _why_ she 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 her _credit_!” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +A VISIT OF SEVEN MINUTES. + + +Emma’s prophecy 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 many bounties. “_She_ was expected at the end +of the week,” so Miss Skuce informed us, and I am confident that the +entire community were on the _qui-vive_ to 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 am equally 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 to _me_! 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 feel _hurt_ +to 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 when you 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 days that 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 eaten _my_ loaf, 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, + + “_So_ sorry 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 lose _no time_ in + 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 a little—“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 about _me_, 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. As she 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 do _anything_ +for her!” + +“Probably; but she would not do anything for _me_! 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 with _me_, 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 she _is_ just 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 have +_not_ forgotten: 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 in _your_ carriage,” she added, quite affectionately. + +I saw the tears standing in Emma’s eyes. 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 was _so_ good 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. “How _did_ he +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, so _you_ were 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 must +_really_ go. 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, _that_ is +over!”—and then she drove off. + +“_How_ kind!” 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 more _would_ you +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. + +“Last _evening_! 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 with _me_.” + +“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! that _is_ a 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 am _so_ glad,” +suddenly rising and wringing Emma’s hand. “You _will_ enjoy 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 am _sure_ she 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 +that a 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—to +_live_ there. 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. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +FOUR IN A FLY. + + +A few days 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 my _début_ at 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 a _big_ dance if _I_ had 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——” + +“But _I_ know them, and _I’ll_ ask. 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 during the remainder of our walk, and +over our tea! + +“I am sure the Bennys will _hate_ having 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 than _I_?” + +“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, I _wish_ you 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— + + “DEAR MISS HAYES, + + “We shall be delighted to take you to Mrs. Cholmondeley’s to-morrow + evening, and will call for you at a quarter to nine. + + “Yours very sincerely, + “JESSICA BENNY.” + +“There! You see you have no alternative,” cried Emma, triumphantly. +“Just scribble a nice little note and say that you accept their kind +offer with much pleasure.” + +When I had despatched my reply, and taken up my needlework, Emma +continued— + +“I wonder if you will know any one in the room. I do _hope_ Lady +Hildegarde will be there. I am sure she will look after you, and make +it pleasant for you.” + +I was not so sanguine on this point, but I merely said with a laugh— + +“Perhaps we shall have Lady Polexfen, too. Do you think _she_ will make +it pleasant for me?” + +“She is a cold, arrogant wretch; not one bit like her mother or her +brother. I wish he were to be there. He would be sure to notice you.” + +“Notice me!” I echoed. + +“There, now—there, now! My dear Gwen, you know what I mean. No +offense, as they say. Upon my word, when your eyes flash like that, I +feel quite terrified. I cannot think where you get your pride—and you +are desperately proud—certainly not from your poor dear father. He +had not a scrap of pride—except—just on one subject.” And she gazed +rather dreamily at the lamp. + +“And what was that subject?” I inquired. + +No answer. She did not seem to hear me. Her thoughts were far away. + +“What subject, Emma,” I repeated, “was my father’s one sensitive +point?” + +“Oh”—rather confusedly—“it was an old, old story. It is no use in +recalling it now. Would you mind running into my room, dear, and +fetching me the large scissors?” + +It was evident that my usually communicative stepmother wished to +change the conversation. + +The next evening I placed myself and my toilet entirely in Emma’s +hands. She was a clever hairdresser, and lingered long over my +adornment; it being, as she confessed to me, “a labor of love.” When +the last pin had been fastened, she surveyed me with an air of critical +approval, and said— + +“Now, Gwen, look at yourself, and tell me your candid opinion of Miss +Hayes?” + +I rose up and surveyed my appearance in a narrow little mirror in +her wardrobe, whilst Emma stood on a chair and held the flat candle +triumphantly over my head. + +I wore my thick fair hair turned off my face as usual; a long plain +white satin gown, a lace fichu knotted in front, and a little gold +necklet and locket which had once belonged to my own mother. + +“I think, since you ask me,” I said, “that Miss Hayes is absurdly +overdressed, most unsuitably got up. This magnificent satin, this +cobwebby lace, are ridiculously out of place on _me_.” + +“They don’t look out of place, I can assure you; you become them to the +manner born. You might be a countess in your own right, as far as your +appearance and style are concerned. I must say, Gwen, that you are a +girl that it is a pleasure to dress; you have quite a grand air, such a +remarkable carriage.” + +“Carriage!” I repeated, with a laugh of scorn. “I wish I _had_ a +carriage—yes, and a pair—so that I need not intrude upon the Miss +Bennys; three in a fly are too many.” + +“Oh, and do take care of your gown, darling; lift it up well, and hold +the train in your lap. This is only a dress rehearsal for Christmas +Day, and I should be _so_ vexed if you got your frock tumbled or +soiled.” + +I promised in the most solemn manner to take the greatest care of my +toilet, and refused for the tenth time the eagerly pressed loan of her +diamond brooch, “just to give the lace a finish.” + +“My dear Emma, I am going to this party to please you; I am wearing +lace and satin fit for a duchess to please you; but I really must +decline the diamonds. As it is, people will be quite sufficiently +tickled, when they compare my costume with my position and +surroundings; they will say all sorts of nasty things.” + +“They will say you are a princess in disguise!” + +“Pooh! they will say I am a pauper who has been swindling some London +dressmaker! I shall make myself small, and sit in a corner, and try and +escape notice,” and I sailed into the sitting-room. + +Here I found an immediate opportunity of testing the effect of my +transformation. Mrs. Gabb, who (as an excuse to obtain a private view) +was making up the fire, dropped the poker with a frightful clang, as +she ejaculated— + +“Good laws—laws me! Well—I never!” which I accepted as a very +handsome tribute to my splendid appearance. In another five minutes the +glories of my costume were concealed beneath a long fur-trimmed evening +cloak (yet another relic of Emma’s wealthy days), and I found myself +shut into a fly, with my back to the horse, and driving away with the +two Miss Bennys and Mrs. Montmorency Green, their cousin. I ventured to +thank them, rather timidly. + +“It is so very kind of you to take me,” I murmured; “and I am quite +ashamed of crushing you like this.” + +“Well, you must only make yourself as _small_ as you can,” said the +elder, with asperity. “We would do _anything_ to oblige dear Mrs. +Cholmondeley; and she made quite a point of our taking you with us.” + +The tone in which this was said left no doubt on my mind that Miss +Benny was extremely surprised at Mrs. Cholmondeley’s enthusiasm. + +“I suppose it will not be a large party?” I hazarded, still more +timidly. + +“Not a large party! We shall have half the county; _every one_ will be +there. The Moate is such a dear old place—splendid pictures, grand +reception-rooms—and the Cholmondeleys do everything so well; they gave +three weeks’ invitation, so it’s sure to be extra smart!” + +Three weeks’ invitation, and I had been asked at the eleventh hour! I +now shrank into my corner of the fly and relapsed into silence, feeling +as small as Miss Benny could possibly desire. + +As we bowled steadily along the hard country roads, my three companions +launched into the news of the neighborhood, entirely ignoring my +presence. I gathered that Mrs. Montmorency Green was a newcomer, and +that her cousins were anxious to post her up in all the fashionable +intelligence. + +“They have a large house-party at the Moate, and there will be a lawn +meet to-morrow,” said Miss Benny. + +“I wonder if the Somers will give a dance this winter?” added her +sister. “I should like Annie here to see the Abbey—it’s such a +wonderful old place. The library is what was once the monks’ refectory.” + +“Oh, there will be no dances at the Abbey now that Lady Hildegarde has +married her _daughter_,” remarked her sister decisively. + +“But she has a son!” + +“My dear Jessica, a mother does not give balls for her son: she leaves +that to other women!” + +“They have lost a lot of money lately; old Mr. Somers is in his dotage, +and has burnt his fingers badly over investments in South America, and +the son _must_ marry money. Both families wish him to marry”—here the +fly rattled over a sheet of stones, and I lost the name. “His mother +is quite determined about it. I don’t call her a good-looking girl, +and I can’t imagine what any of the men see in her, except unlimited +effrontery. She calls herself advanced. _I_ call her abominably fast. +She goes about everywhere alone, just as she pleases, hunts, and keeps +race-horses. They say her style of conversation is most extraordinary. +She shoots, smokes, fishes, and rules her poor father with a rod of +iron. In fact, she is just like a young man!” + +“Only, young men don’t generally rule their fathers with a rod of +iron,” said the cousin, smartly. + +“And I don’t believe that she keeps race-horses,” put in Miss Jessica. + +“I should like to see her. I hope she will be at this place to-night,” +remarked Mrs. Green. “If she _is_, you must be sure and point her out.” + +“Oh, you may easily recognize her! She is always surrounded by a +multitude of men, and you can hear her voice above the band!” rejoined +Miss Benny. Then, suddenly, to me, “Are you asleep, Miss Hayes?” + +“Oh no.” + +“I’m afraid”—with a sigh—“you will find it rather dull to-night, +as you are a stranger, and know so few people. However, you can amuse +yourself looking at the pictures—they are all masterpieces, and there +is sure to be a good supper.” + +I made no reply. No doubt I must make up my mind to play the _rôle_ of +looker-on; I was well accustomed to the part. + +We were now in the avenue, which was very long, and quite a string of +carriages were already disgorging their contents. We drove under a +portico, stepped out on red cloth, were ushered up by powdered footmen, +and passed on to the ladies’ room, where three or four smart maids were +ready to relieve us of our wraps. The Miss Bennys and their cousin +nodded to several acquaintances, and made a bold and combined assault +upon the dressing-table. The sisters Benny were dressed alike in prim +black evening dresses, with stiff little bouquets pinned in on the left +side—just over the region of the heart. Their hair was extremely +neat, and really their anxiety was unnecessary; however, they powdered +their noses and twitched their fringes; meanwhile, I had divested +myself of my long mantle, and patiently awaited their good pleasure. + +At last they were ready, and as Miss Benny’s eyes fell on me I saw +a change come over her whole face. She glanced expressively at her +relatives, and then again at me. As I waited humbly for her to pass +out, she found her voice. + +“Upon _my_ word!” she exclaimed, with a very forced smile. “If we are +to go by _appearances_, Miss Hayes”—now looking me up and down from +head to foot—“we should walk after _you_!” And then, with a violent +toss of her head, she led the way out of the room, followed by her +cousin, Miss Jessica Benny, and last and least—myself. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE CHALGROVE EYEBROWS. + + +We passed into a large, oak-paneled hall, and then up a wide, shallow +staircase, carpeted with soft crimson carpet, and lined with large +oil paintings, chiefly portraits. At the head of the stairs we were +received by Mrs. Cholmondeley, all smiles, diamonds, and blue crêpe. +She was surrounded by a crowd which appeared to have overflowed from +the reception-rooms. Our hostess passed on my three companions, with +three smiles and three hurried nods, but looked at me for quite five +seconds, and, putting forth a most dainty hand, drew me affectionately +towards her. + +“She is in my charge now,” she called after the Miss Bennys. +“Thank you _so_ much. Dear me!” she continued, turning to me with +a little dry laugh, “do you know that you are a very pretty and +distinguished-looking girl, and are bound to be the belle of the +evening? Yes, indeed, my charming, blushing Cinderella. Aubrey Price, +come here,” beckoning to an extremely lackadaisical young man, who +now lazily approached. “I give Miss Hayes into your charge. Take +the greatest care of her. Take her to the refreshment-room—the +morning-room, you know—and get her tea—or something.” + +And, behold! I was launched out there and then into an acquaintance. My +cavalier surveyed me, and I surveyed my cavalier, with much gravity. He +was fair, slight, rather good-looking, and clean-shaven. He displayed +a vast expanse of shirt-front, and wore a pair of exquisitely fitting +gloves. + +“Well, I suppose we must obey orders,” he answered, “whether you want +tea or not.” + +We accordingly wended our way to the buffet, where he exerted himself +to procure me a cup of coffee, and stood and watched me as I sipped it. +I looked up suddenly, and caught his rather small, keen blue eyes fixed +on me, and nearly upset the contents of my cup over the front of my +immaculate white gown. + +“These sort of half-and-half affairs are ghastly,” he remarked, as he +took my cup. “Don’t you think so?” + +“No; I do not,” I answered bravely, for this fine old house, crowds of +gay, well-dressed people, delicious strains of a string band, lights, +flowers, pictures, were to my mind extremely enjoyable. “But, of +course, I should prefer a real dance.” + +“And I should _not_,” he rejoined energetically. “Here, at least, you +can sneak away and go to sleep in a comfortable armchair; but at what +you call a ‘real dance,’ upon my word, the way in which hostesses drive +and hustle one about is enough to call for the intervention of the +police or the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; and, +if you stand against a wall, people trample on your feet!” At the mere +recollection of his sufferings, he almost looked as if he was going to +cry. + +“The remedy is in your own hands,” I replied unfeelingly. “_Dance._” + +“No, no,”—shaking his head,—“not if I know it. I don’t mind sitting +out now and then, just to oblige; but I draw the line at dancing. I’m +too old.” + +I gazed at him in amazement. He could not be more than four or +five-and-twenty at the most. + +“Then why do you go to dances, where you are so cruelly ill-used?” I +asked; “hustled, as you say, and driven about and trampled on?” + +“Oh, I only go when duty calls me, and, thank goodness, that is not +often. When the ball is given by one’s cousin’s cousin, or one’s aunt, +or some old pal of my governor’s.” + +“Then your father is actually alive?” + +“Alive! I should think so! And a younger man than I am. _He_ dances, so +does my mother.” + +“Really! And you go about in a bath-chair?” + +“Well, not just _yet_. I’m not altogether so feeble as I look”—in a +bantering tone. “I say, are you staying in the house?” + +“No; I have only just arrived.” + +“Then”—with much animation—“did you notice if it was freezing when +you came along?” + +“No; it was just beginning to drizzle.” + +“Then that’s all right. You see, the hounds meet here to-morrow, the +best draw at this side of the county, and the country is all plain +sailing, very sound going. You hunt, of course?” + +“No, indeed. But do you?” + +“Don’t I? Every one hunts down here. I’ve had fifty days this winter +already.” + +“Oh, then you are not too decrepit to ride?” I inquired. + +He stared at me for a second, and burst into a roar of laughter as he +answered— + +“I hunt six days a week regular; there’s nothing to touch it.” + +“You must require a good many horses.” + +“Yes, pretty well; I have thirty, but two of them are dead lame, and +three are mere jumping hacks. Would you like to come down-stairs and do +the picture-gallery? This blessed demi-semi dance won’t begin for an +hour.” + +“I should like to see the pictures very much indeed,” I answered; and +we made our way slowly back to the head of the stairs. The crowd was +immense. There seemed to be two or three hundred people present. The +grand staircase was deserted now. Guests had arrived and ebbed away to +the ball-room or tea-room. We descended the delightfully shallow stairs +side by side, I moving with the dignity due to my rich satin train, +which trailed behind me languidly. + +There were some new arrivals in the hall, chiefly men. One of them +looked up suddenly, and I saw that it was Mr. Somers. He contemplated +me and my cavalier with unconcealed surprise. However, he had +evidently made up his mind that I was no ghost, but my own solid self, +for as I put my white slipper on the last step, he came forward with an +out-stretched hand, and said— + +“How do you do, Miss Hayes? You were the last to speed me, and almost +the first person I meet when I return home. Hullo, Aubrey,” to my +companion, “going strong, eh? How are all the horses?” + +“Oh, fairly fit. When did you come back?” + +“This afternoon; and my sister put me on duty at once, you see. She is +stopping all night for the meet to-morrow, and so am I.” + +“So am I,” echoed the other triumphantly. + +“How is Mrs. Hayes?” inquired Mr. Somers. “Is she here this evening?” + +“She is pretty well, thank you. No, she is not here to-night.” + +“Are you staying in the neighborhood?” + +“Yes; for the present—at Stonebrook.” + +“I’m delighted to hear it. Where are _you_ bound for, Aubrey?” + +“We are going to do the pictures. I’m showman.” + +“What a preposterous fraud! Miss Hayes, he knows no more of pictures +than he does of making a watch! I’ll take you round the gallery; at +least, I know a Landseer from a Rubens.” + +“Not a little bit of it,” rejoined the other. “Miss Hayes was given +into my sole charge—were you not, Miss Hayes?—and I am responsible +for her. Go up-stairs—you will find some old friends,” he added, +rather significantly. + +During this polite competition for my company, Miss Benny and her +cousin had been hovering about in our vicinity, and now accosted me— + +“Ahem, Miss Hayes, my dear, the dancing will not begin for half an +hour; don’t you think you had better come and sit with _us_ till then?” + +But I had not forgotten my recent treatment at her hands, and said— + +“Oh, thank you, Miss Benny, I am just going to see the pictures, as +you recommended, and you know I _have_ sat with you for nearly an hour +already in the fly, and you will have me again going back.” + +Miss Benny sniffed, glared, and backed herself away in purple wrath. + +“I see you are a match for Miss Benny,” said Mr. Somers, with a grin. + +“Miss Hayes is a match for most people. She has been pitching into +_me_ for not dancing,” said my escort with serene complacency. + +“And quite right too, you _are_ a lazy beggar!” + +But I noticed that Mr. Somers looked at me with a puzzled air. I dare +say he scarcely recognized the meek, shabbily dressed girl of last July +in the present Miss Hayes. I was puzzled also—I scarcely recognized +myself. I was _tête montée_; my surroundings, my splendid gown, had +transformed me; it was certainly another young woman, a total stranger, +who was sauntering about in my body, and treading on air! + +“When the dancing begins I shall fetch you, Miss Hayes. I hope you will +give me the first waltz,” and he took out a small pencil, “and two +others. May I have five and ten?” + +“Yes; but I should warn you that I am not an experienced performer.” + +“So much the better; you won’t want to steer,” writing rapidly on his +shirt cuff. + +To my great surprise I saw Mr. Aubrey Price also preparing _his_ shirt +cuff for manuscript. + +“And I—how many may I have, if you please?” + +“Oh, really, I should not like to victimize you,” I protested. + +“Nonsense! Shall we say the first square and the _pas de quatre_?” + +“Very well, if it will not be too fatiguing for you,” I replied, +and he also scribbled on his cuff; and then we walked on into the +picture-gallery. + +The gallery was full of people, and between looking at them and +the pictures the moments flew. I had not half made the tour of the +paintings when I found Mr. Somers already claiming me. We went +up-stairs to the dancing-room—two immense drawing-rooms, decorated +with flowers and palms. The deep windows held seats, and there were two +or three sofas at one end of the ball-room, otherwise it was empty. +A string band was stationed in the conservatory. Many couples were +swimming round to the strains of the Hydropaten waltz, and in another +second Mr. Somers and I had joined them. + +The floor was perfect, and the music corresponded. Dancing came to me +almost by nature, and I had been extremely well taught; then I was +young, slender, tireless. We went round, and round, and round, with an +easy swing, until the waltz ceased in one long-drawn-out, wo-begone +wail. + +“Thank you,” said my partner; “that _was_ a treat! Your estimation of +your dancing is too modest. You dance like a South American.” + +As I had never seen a South American, I could not say whether that +was a compliment or otherwise. Whilst we threaded our way into the +tea-room, I noticed that my partner appeared to know every one, and +that they all seemed glad to see him. Smiling ladies accosted him and +asked when he had come back; men slapped him on the shoulder, and I +noticed that some looked hard at him, and then sharply at me. At last +we reached our goal, and as he brought me an ice he said— + +“Where did you learn to dance?” + +“In Paris. I was at school there for four years.” + +“Then, of course, you speak French like a native?” + +“I can make myself understood.” + +“I see you are accustomed to under-rate your accomplishments. Shall we +go into the next room, and get out of this crush?” + +We moved into what was Mrs. Cholmondeley’s boudoir, and was now +reserved for sitters-out. Here I recognized several familiar faces. +Amongst them the Miss Bennys and their cousin, who were seated in a row +watching me. Close beside us, before the fire, stood an animated, not +to say noisy group, consisting of half a dozen young men and several +girls. One of the latter was the center of attraction; every one of the +others seemed to address her, or to wish for her sole attention, and I +did not wonder. She appeared to be exceedingly vivacious and amusing, +and was pretty and uncommon-looking. Her costume was peculiar, but I +rightly guessed it to be the work of a Parisian artiste. The body was +of black _crêpe de Chine_ gathered into bands of gold embroidery, the +shirt of white brocade, with a thick border of Neapolitan violets; +a crimson crêpe scarf was tied negligently round her dainty waist, +violets were tucked into her bodice and her hair, which was fair and +very abundant. She had penciled, dark eyebrows, and dark gray eyes, +which former afforded a striking contrast to her light locks. I never +saw any one with a more piquant expression, or with such a wonderfully +varied play of features. She wore unusually long gloves, and brandished +an enormous black feather fan, as she talked with much volubility. +Suddenly she caught sight of my companion, and paused as he said— + +“How are you, Miss Chalgrove?” + +“Why, Everard!” she exclaimed, “I had no idea you were here, though I +knew you were expected. Why did you not come with Maudie?” + +“I had only just arrived, and, like you ladies, I had all my unpacking +to do, and to dress and fix my hair.” + +“But you had no dinner here——?” + +“Yes, I had something on the stairs, like the children. Have you had +good sport this winter?” + +“Capital! I’ve brought one of my gees here; father is here, too. He has +brought old Champion.” + +“I saw him going very well on Saturday week,” put in a tall, thin man. +“From Benson’s Cross, you know. He was quite in the first flight in +that second run, you remember.” + +And now every one of these people began to talk clamorously, and at +once—and all about hunting. Their conversation was extraordinary (to +an outsider). Mr. Somers was drawn into the conversation, and was not +a whit behind-hand; but just flowed like a tide into the subject, +as interested and excited as the most rabid fox-hunter among them. I +caught such scraps as—“Got hung up in a nasty corner,” “Miss Flagg +at the bottom of a ditch, her saddle in one field, her horse in the +other,” “scent catchy,” “foxes not very good,” “drains all open,” +“the pace terrific,” “the ladies screaming behind him.” It was all +Greek to me. + +I stood a little aloof, though not conspicuously so—for the room +was full—and watched this girl. She had a loud, clear, far-carrying +voice and laugh; she was small, slight, and dazzlingly fair, her +fair skin enhanced by her black brows and lashes. Somehow, her face +seemed familiar to me; she was like some one I knew. Who could it be? +As I meditated, I glanced unconsciously into the great mirror above +the chimney-piece, in which we were all reflected, and instantly +recognized who it was that she resembled. It was _myself_! I recalled +with a sudden thrill that my own mother’s name was Chalgrove. Perhaps +this girl was some connection—perhaps my cousin! More unlikely things +might be! + +She was smart, popular, pretty, wealthy, and what is known as “in the +swim.” She was holding quite a small court on the hearthrug—a gay, +quick-witted, and capricious queen. + +What a contrast to myself—a poor obscure nobody, and at the present +moment nothing more nor less than a mere daw decked out in peacock’s +feathers! I gazed at Miss Chalgrove—I had heard of her—Lord +Chalgrove’s sole child and heiress. I stared at her contemplatively +in the mirror; suddenly she looked up, and our eyes met! Whatever she +was about to say died away in a sort of broken sentence, and then +she unexpectedly touched me on the arm with her fan, and said with a +radiant smile— + +“Yes, I see it too! Is it not _extraordinary_? We are as like as the +proverbial two peas; only you are the better looking of the two—the +sweet pea, and I am the common or garden pea! Joking apart, we might be +sisters. Where _did_ you get the Chalgrove eyebrows and upper lip?” + +I colored furiously, for I was instantly the center of attention. +It seemed to me that every eye was fastened on my face, and the +distinctive Chalgrove features! To my immense relief, Mrs. Cholmondeley +at this moment made a sort of swoop into our circle, saying as she did +so— + +“Come away, my dearest child! you have fallen for your sins into the +hunting set. They can talk, think, dream of nothing else. Were they not +talking of horses? Oh, Mr. Somers, your sister is looking for you.” + +I heard a scrap of another conversation as I was being swept off—the +words, “My double—who is she?” + +“I see,” continued my hostess, “you are getting on capitally! I’m going +to introduce you to Sir Fulke Martin. He _asked_ to be presented. He is +immensely rich, so be sure you are _very_ nice to him!” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +“WE NEED NOT ASK IF YOU HAVE ENJOYED YOURSELF.” + + +Sir Fulke, who appeared to be expecting us, was a stout, bald +gentleman, with a pair of hard brown eyes and a fixed smile. He bowed +profoundly over his stiff shirt-front, as we were introduced; then Mrs. +Cholmondeley immediately cut me adrift, saying in her quick little way— + +“Now, Sir Fulke, there is a dance going on. Do take Miss Hayes into the +ball-room!” + +Sir Fulke piloted me carefully—danced with me carefully, but there +was not the same swing and go as with my former partner. Sir Fulke +gasped out several leading questions, and threw out filmy feelers in +order to discover who I was, and where I came from. I did not satisfy +his curiosity. Perhaps, if he had known that he was merely dancing with +Miss Hayes, who lived in cheap lodgings in Stonebrook, he would have +abandoned me in the middle of the room! He was very full of information +about himself, and talked of his place, his shooting, his hunters, +his intimate friend the Duke of Albion, and his sister la Comtesse de +Boulotte. + +As we danced, he paused several times to rest and to take breath, and +as we stood against the wall on one occasion, I found that my neighbor +was Miss Chalgrove. + +“Ah, so _here_ you are!” she exclaimed gaily. “We ought to know one +another, don’t you think so—and without any formal introduction? Are +you staying in Stonebrook?” + +“Yes, for the present.” + +“You hunt, of _course_?” gazing at me eagerly. + +“Not I. I have never even been on a horse’s back.” + +“_What!_” she ejaculated, as if such an idea was too difficult to grasp. + +“Then we are not alike in everything. Why, I”—touching herself with +her fan—“_live_ in the saddle—spend my days there, and would sleep +there if it were possible.” + +“Yes, I know. I’ve heard you are a splendid horse-woman.” + +“I’m going to have such a day to-morrow! I’ve brought over a new +hunter, a French steeplechaser, and mean to cut them all down—men and +women. Look out, and you’ll see an account in the _Field_.” + +“Yes—I shall certainly look for it, and I hope you will get the brush.” + +“Have you any sisters?” she asked suddenly. + +“No—no sisters or brothers.” + +“Neither have I. How I wish——” + +Whatever she was about to wish was cut short by her impatient partner, +who now put in his claim, and plunged along with her into the revolving +crowd. + +I danced with Mr. Aubrey Price (the owner of thirty hunters), and as we +subsequently promenaded in the long corridor, we encountered a spare, +gray-haired, gentlemanly man, who stared so fixedly at me that I felt +quite uncomfortable. + +“That is Lord Chalgrove,” said Mr. Price. “He looked as if he knew you?” + +“Oh no, he does not. I have never seen him in my life.” + +“Well, I _hope_ he will manage to recognize you again, at any rate. I +wish he would keep his daughter in order! What do you think she said to +me just now?” + +“I am sure I cannot imagine.” + +“That she would like to hold a class to teach young men manners?” + +“Were you to be a pupil?” + +“Of _course_! I shouldn’t wonder if my would-be teacher comes to grief +to-morrow. It’s a nasty country, tricky fences, and, by Jove! by all +accounts, she has got a horse to match.” + +“Why does her father allow her to ride him?” + +“_Allow_ her! It’s little you know Dolly Chalgrove. She allows _him_ +to hunt—she allows him to call his soul his own! He gives her a very +loose rein; he is a widower, you see, and she’s his only child, and +very clever and taking, and like a sister of his that was ill-treated +and that died, and so he makes it up to Dolly. Capital business for +Dolly, eh?” + +“Yes, I suppose it is, in some ways.” + +“A wonderful girl to ride to hounds, has a string of hunters and pays +top prices; very odd, but very good-hearted and genuine—no nonsense +about her. They say she is to marry Somers. I’m not sure that _he_ +quite sees it, but his mother is awfully keen on it. He will be Lord +Chalgrove if he lives long enough; his father is the next male heir, +and it would be a sound thing to keep the money and the title in the +same family. The Somers are fearfully hard up.” + +“Are they?” + +“Yes; so I suppose it is bound to come off. Lady Hildegarde is very +strong.” + +“Then you take for granted that Miss Chalgrove would accept Mr. Somers +as a matter——” + +“As a matter of course,” he finished briskly. + +“What nonsense! How can you tell?” + +“A straw shows how the wind blows!” + +“I give you that straw for your opinion, and,” now warming up, “I think +it is too bad to discuss a girl, and take all sorts of things for +granted. It is taking a great liberty with her name.” + +“Hullo, _now_ I’m catching it! I mean no harm; every one discusses his +neighbors’ little affairs. I don’t know what we should do without them. +If you bar that subject, what _are_ we to talk about—come now?” + +“Books, politics, the weather.” + +“No, thank you”—with great scorn. + +“Well, then, horses.” + +“Ah, that’s better.” + +We were now in the ball-room once more, where we were promptly joined +by Mr. Somers. + +“You look as if you two were quarreling,” he remarked; “so I think I +had better separate you at once.” + +“Yes, I’m crushed flat. I’m not to talk of my neighbors. We have fought +over Miss Chalgrove.” + +“Indeed! That is strange, for she and I have just had a severe +passage-at-arms.” + +“Oh, that does not surprise me! It’s quite _en règle_,” and he grinned +significantly. + +Mr. Somers took no notice of the impudent hint, but said, “It’s +about a horse she will ride, in spite of her father or any one—a +steeplechaser she has picked up—and she is bound to have some nasty +accident if some one does not shoot him. I’ve a good mind to shoot him +myself, although he is a magnificent fencer, and can go all day—a +French horse, called Diable Vert.” + +“Oh, by Jove! I know him—a real nasty-tempered brute. He won two or +three good races, and then cut up rusty. They say he killed a jockey at +Auteuil.” + +I stood against the wall between the two men as they talked, and +noticed that the sofas were occupied, the recesses of the windows full +of lookers-on. Lady Bloss and her daughter were sitting together, and +surveying me and my companions with unaffected interest. The former +presently beckoned to me to approach. I did so, rather reluctantly, +followed by my two cavaliers, whilst Sir Fulke hovered at a little +distance. + +“Oh, good evening, Miss Hayes,” said Lady Bloss, in her loftiest +manner. “So surprised to see _you_ here!”—looking me slowly up and +down. “Pray, where is Mrs. Hayes?” + +“She is at home,” I meekly replied. + +“And so you came alone; how very independent!” + +“Oh no; I came with the Miss Bennys.” + +“I did not know that you ever went out of an evening. We had a little +dance last week, and I would have asked you, only I did not think you +would like the _expense_ of a fly!” And she threw back her head, and +sniffed. + +I am sure Mr. Somers heard, and also Mr. Price; and a girl at the other +side of Lady Bloss tittered quite audibly. + +I, however, merely bowed. It was a safe reply. What could I say?—the +expense of a fly _was_ an object to me. However, I was soon whirling +round the room with my partner; and I had numerous partners, I could +have danced every dance thrice over. Yes, I was enjoying myself +enormously. I suppose my head was turned; I could not understand +myself. I was surely a changeling. My luxurious surroundings, my +splendid gown had transformed me. As I have said before, it was another +young woman than Gwendoline Hayes—a stranger, who was walking about in +her body, who received admiring glances with an air of cool unconcern, +who accepted Sir Fulke’s and Mr. Price’s _petits soins_ with affable +condescension. + +I saw Lady Polexfen fanning herself languidly in the doorway. As I +passed out on her brother’s arm there was a block, and we stood for an +instant side by side. She was splendidly dressed in silver brocade and +sea-green, and ablaze with diamonds; her waist resembled an hour-glass, +and her hair was dressed French style, over her ears. She affected +not to see me, but she was as fully conscious of my vicinity as I was +of hers. A tall, dark, sardonic man was beside her. Her brother did +not notice her, but I did, as she turned to the dark man and whispered +something, at which he laughed delightedly—and then looked hard at me. + +Mr. Somers took me in to supper. It was served at little tables—a +commendable arrangement—and we sat down _tête-à-tête_. + +“I suppose you are staying with friends in the neighborhood?” said my +companion in his genial voice. + +“No; we are only in lodgings in Stonebrook.” + +“Lodgings! I did not know there were such things to be had. Don’t you +find it rather—rather—slow?” + +“We must cut our coat according to our cloth. We cannot afford grand +quarters.” (I saw his eyes fixed momentarily on my, so to speak, +“coat” of filmy lace and satin.) “The doctors ordered my stepmother +out of London to some dry, bracing climate. Of course, we should have +preferred Biarritz, or Nice; but—well, here we are at Stonebrook +instead, and it suits Emma pretty well.” + +“You have seen my mother, of course?” + +“Oh yes, she has been to call on us.” I was on the eve of adding—and +we are to dine with you _en famille_ on Christmas Day; but something +inexplicable restrained me. + +“She has only lately returned home, and I hope we shall often see you +and Mrs. Hayes?” + +I made no answer. I did not think his wish was at all likely to be +realized. + +“By the way, you saw Miss Chalgrove. Do you know that you are +curiously alike in appearance—only you are much the taller of the +two? The resemblance struck me the first time I saw you; you might be +sisters, or, at any rate cousins.” + +“I have no sisters or cousins.” + +“Oh, surely you must have cousins—even half a dozen. Why, I possess +half a hundred.” + +“If I have, I have never heard of them.” + +“Do you mean to say that you have no relations?” + +“None that I know of. My father had an only brother in the navy. He was +drowned years ago, and he himself lived in India so long that he lost +sight of all his connections.” (I did not mention my mother. Why should +I tell him that she had been disowned by her family?) “I had not seen +my father since I was eight years old.” + +“Then I saw him, and knew him well, quite recently—knew him better +than you did, if I may say so, Miss Hayes, for, of course, two men have +more in common than a man and a little girl in pinafores. He was a rare +good sort.” + +“Yes, I believe he was. I wish he was alive now with all my heart. It +seems so hard that people in the prime of life are cut off, and old men +and women who have lived their lives out, and are tired of existence, +drag on wearily year after year.” + +“Yes, there’s my poor father,” said Mr. Somers; “his bodily health is +good—it is the health of a young man—whilst his mind is dying.” + +I had heard of that, but felt it only polite to express sympathetic +surprise. + +“He was in a railway accident years ago, and it’s coming against him +now. And how is Mrs. Hayes?” he inquired, rather abruptly. + +“Pretty well.” + +“I am coming to see her immediately—to-morrow—only it is a hunting +day; but, perhaps, I can look in for a flying visit.” + +“And was your expedition successful?” I asked. + +“No, not a bit. The business part was a dead failure, and only throwing +good money after bad; but, as you may have noticed, I’m not at all +clever. I did my little best, and I could do no more. However, I +enjoyed the trip, as a trip, extremely. There is the band again: shall +we go and take a turn?” + +“But I believe I am engaged to some one,” I answered, rising all the +same. + +“Pray, how can you tell? you have no program—no, not even a +shirt-cuff!” + +And thus persuaded, against my conscience, we began; but, before I +had been twice round the room, I was claimed by Sir Fulke, and not +alone Sir Fulke, but a little weather-beaten cavalry man, who was very +positive that “this was _his_ dance.” + +As we stood disputing amicably, I was suddenly arrested by a higher +power. Alas! poor Cinderella’s trivial triumph was over, her hour had +come. + +The Miss Bennys waylaid me with grave, determined faces, much to my +companions’ disgust, and Miss Benny said in a very loud voice— + +“Scott, the fly man, is waiting, Miss Hayes. We promised not to detain +him after one o’clock; it is now half-past one. Therefore, if you are +returning in _our_ charge, I must ask you to come home at _once_.” + +“And my dance?” cried Mr. Aubrey Price. + +“And mine?” echoed Sir Fulke. + +There was no use in attempting to resist them—no time to take leave of +my hostess: she was at supper. I was in the Miss Bennys’ clutches; they +were inexorable. This was _their_ moment of triumph, and I was carried +away, followed to the very door of the fly by four eligible partners, +uttering loud regrets. + +Mr. Somers pressed my hand as he said good-by, and added, “I shall look +forward to seeing you soon—in a day or two.” + +“We need not ask if you have enjoyed yourself, Miss Hayes,” +exclaimed the elder Miss Benny in an acrid key. “I admire your”—I +thought perhaps she was going to say dress or dancing, but it was +my—“wonderful self-confidence! Mrs. Cholmondeley seems to have _quite_ +taken you up! She is fond of doing that; she took a fancy to an +Australian girl, she met on board ship, and actually brought her home, +and had her with her, taking her everywhere for months. People called +her the kangaroo; she was a horror.” + +The tone implied, that I was a horror also,—if not actually a +kangaroo. I burst out laughing. I laughed loud and long; I could not +stop. I suppose I was almost hysterical. The reaction from the late +brilliant scene, where I had been made much of, where I had danced and +enjoyed the pleasures of this life for the very first time, where I +had been conscious of whispered flattering comments, and eloquently +flattering eyes, where I had sniffed a little of the intoxicating +incense of admiration, and felt that youth and beauty are a great +power, was too much. Then to come down to being one of four in a close +stuffy fly, to remember the dingy little bedroom in which I must +shed my fine feathers—how seven-and-sixpence for my share of the +conveyance would pinch my weekly purse, and that I had forgotten to +buy bacon for the morrow’s breakfast! All these thoughts and contrasts +were jumbled up in my excited brain, and I laughed loud and long. My +indecorous hilarity was succeeded by a freezing silence—a terrible, +accusing, blank silence, which lasted the whole way home. For five long +miles there was not a sound in that fly, save a sneeze or a yawn. The +experience was appalling; it got upon my nerves. I felt inclined to +sing or to scream. Luckily I controlled myself, or I should probably +have been delivered at the door of the lunatic asylum. At last we +drove up to Mrs. Gabb’s. I opened the door and sprang out, then I +politely thanked the Miss Bennys for their escort, and wished them all +a fair good night—which met with no response. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +“WHO _ARE_ THESE CHALGROVES?” + + +I let myself in with a latchkey—Mr. Gabb’s own particular key—and +crept stealthily up-stairs, hoping that Emma was asleep, and that I +could thus sneak past her door unheard; but no: she was evidently on +the watch for my return, and called out to me to come into her room, +desiring me to “turn up the lamp, take off my cloak, and tell her all +about it!” + +I obediently sat down on a low chair facing her, and began to describe +everything to the best of my power; the drive, the arrival, the lovely +old house, the crowds, the dresses, and how Mrs. Cholmondeley had +singled me out and introduced me to partners. + +“Your dress is almost as fresh as ever—that is one comfort. Was Lady +Hildegarde present?” inquired Emma anxiously. + +“No, only Lady Polexfen. She did not notice me. But Mr. Somers was also +there. He fulfilled your fondest hopes—he ‘noticed me’ a good deal.” + +“What do you mean, Gwen?” + +“I mean that he danced with me three or four times, took me in to +supper, and finally put me into the fly.” + +“That was very kind of him. Just like him!” + +“Oh, I had plenty of partners. I was not at all an object of charity, +I can assure you! Mr. Somers asked for you, and said he was coming to +see you immediately, and oh, Emma, I had such a curious experience! I +met a girl to-night who might be my own sister, we are so much alike. +She remarked the resemblance too, and Mr. Somers said that it struck +him the first time he ever met me.” + +“And who was she?” + +“A Miss Chalgrove; the Honorable Dolly Chalgrove.” + +I noticed that Emma gave a little start. + +“My mother’s name was Chalgrove. This girl and I are so much alike that +we might be cousins. She is so bright and animated and fascinating, +that I took a fancy to her on the spot. I _wish_ she was my cousin. It +is really too bad that I have no relatives, not a single cousin, and +Mr. Somers has fifty!” + +“I dare say you have fifty third or fourth cousins somewhere in the +west of Ireland,” said Emma shading her face with her hand (and I +noticed with a sharp pang how thin and transparent that hand had +become). “But it would take a lifetime to discover them, and probably +they would not repay the trouble. Your father was not anxious to claim +them. After his mother’s and his brother’s death, some ‘cousin’ took +advantage of his absence abroad to claim the little property that was +his by right. He might have gone to law, but he would not. It would +have brought him home, and cost him another fortune.” + +“Well, but, Emma, what about my mother’s relations?” + +“They were a forbidden topic—a dead letter. Your father could not +bear their name mentioned. They were very grand people, who expected +their only daughter to make a brilliant match, instead of running +away with a penniless army doctor—they never acknowledged her, never +forgave her, no, never noticed her, no more than if she had ceased to +exist. She fretted a good deal when she was in poor health. She wrote, +and they returned the letter unopened. Your father, easy-going man as +he was, resented this to the end of his days; and when he received a +letter after _her_ death, he treated it in the same fashion—returned +it as it came.” + +“But all this time, who _are_ these Chalgroves? Please tell me, Emma, +for of course you know.” + +“Yes; but your father did not wish _you_ to know. However, +circumstances alter cases. He never dreamt that you would be left +almost homeless and friendless, instead of living under his own roof, +surrounded with every comfort and pleasure his love could give you.” + +“Yes, of course, I know all that—I am confident of that; but, once +more, about the Chalgroves?” + +“I will tell you another time—to-morrow——” + +“No, no; now. Please, please; it won’t take you five minutes, and I +shall not rest or sleep till you satisfy me.” + +“I can tell you very little, dear. Your father was extremely reticent +on this one subject; but I believe that he and your mother met at a +fancy ball. It was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Her +people would not hear of it. She was extremely pretty, charming, and +young, and they expected her to make a splendid match. They hurried her +away to a distant country place, but it was all of no use; and when she +heard that he was going to India she insisted on accompanying him, and +she ran away and they were married in London. I believe she made an +attempt to see her people and say farewell before she sailed, but they +refused to receive her, and sent out a message, ‘Not at home.’ She did +not want anything from them, only to say good-by. They were furious, +and never forgave her; her father was inflexible. He and her mother are +dead long ago. Her brother is Lord Chalgrove.” + +“I saw him to-night,” I broke in; “he looked so hard at me!—I suppose +he noticed the likeness. And he is my uncle, and that nice girl is my +first cousin. How strange!” + +“Yes. How strange that you should come across them here! They live in +Northamptonshire, where they have a lovely old place called The Chase. +Your mother was the Honorable Gwendoline Chalgrove, but she dropped +the prefix altogether when she married, so I was told by people at +Jam-Jam-More. She was a most graceful, elegant creature, a splendid +horse-woman, but as ignorant of the value of money, or of housekeeping, +as an infant—as, indeed, I might say, myself! Your father was devoted +to her memory, and I was never one bit jealous. Her memory was dear +to me, too, though I never saw her. There was something so touching +and so romantic about her life—a delicate girl brought up in luxury, +abandoning everything for love, and fading away like a fragile flower +in an uncongenial climate! + +“Your father used to go and look at her grave every Sunday morning. +Over it there stood a white cross, and just the one word ‘Gwendoline.’ +He kept all her little belongings under lock and key, in a leather +despatch-box—her Prayer-book, sketches, and letters (I gave you her +little trinkets); they are all in the big bullock trunk down-stairs, +along with your father’s books and clothes. I’ve never had the heart to +open it. Mrs. Gabb keeps it in the back hall. Would you like to examine +it?” + +“Yes, I should very much.” + +“And these people that you met to-night—it was certainly a wonderful +chance your coming across them. I am so glad you wore your white satin, +darling. Perhaps your uncle may make inquiries, and find out who you +are. Of course, the first advances—any advances—must come from +_them_.” + +“Of course!” I assented emphatically. + +“You may suppose that it was a delicate question for me to meddle +with—a _second_ wife; but once or twice I did venture to say that +it was a pity to lose sight of the Chalgroves, on your account. Your +father never would hear me out; you were never to know them. The topic +was his Bluebeard’s closet, and I dared not open it.” + +“I don’t wonder.” + +“Oh, you must not be like him. I have heard that the present lord is a +simple, unaffected, homely man. He may discover you—why not?—from the +likeness, if he even heard your name.” + +And she pushed back her hair, and sat up in bed, her eyes blazing +with excitement. An alluring vision was before them as she spoke. She +already beheld me comfortably installed in Chalgrove Chase! Oh, I knew +her _so_ well! + +“You have got an idea into your head,” I said, “and please, please, +chase it out immediately. Lord Chalgrove will never seek me out; he +does not know of my existence. He was probably surprised to see that +an ordinary young woman had been endowed with the family type of +feature. He will never give me another thought, no more than if he saw +a groom wearing a suit of clothes resembling the Chalgrove livery. His +daughter, who is not at all conventional, actually addressed me, and +asked how I came by the Chalgrove eyebrows.” + +“Oh, my dear Gwen! And what _did_ you say?” + +“What could I say?” I answered, rising. “I said nothing. ‘How does one +say nothing?’ To you I say, at last. ‘Good night.’” And, stooping down, +I kissed her, and, gathering up my various accoutrements, departed, and +crept up to my own room. + +But I did not go to bed immediately. I sat brushing my long fair locks, +and slowly reviewing all the events of this remarkable evening. + +Between intervals of hair-brushing, I studied the Chalgrove brows and +upper lip that confronted me in that miserable looking-glass. The +eyebrows were slightly arched, finely penciled, and quite black. The +Chalgrove lip was short, and a little—well, if not scornful—haughty. +And it was a lying lip: for, as far as one is permitted to know one’s +self, I was neither. + +The clock was striking three when I crept into bed, and fell asleep +almost as my head touched the pillow, and enjoyed unusually interesting +dreams. + +The next morning a brace of pheasants and a huge bouquet of violets +were left at the hall door, with Mr. Everard Somers’ compliments for +Mrs. Hayes. + +We went to tea at the rectory that afternoon. I took my guitar, by +request, and played and sang. I was becoming quite a society girl! I +wore a smart toque—made by my own hands—and a bunch of violets, +and received an unusual share of the conversation. The fame of my +_début_ had been noised abroad; one girl asked me where I got my guitar +ribbons; another, where I got my toque; a third, where I had obtained +the lovely violets, and who was my dressmaker? + +“I hear your daughter looked quite nice last night,” said Mrs. Blunt +(our rector’s wife), affably. + +“Nonsense, mother,” said her well-named daughter. “We were told she was +the beauty of the evening, the cynosure of all eyes, and I’m sure I am +not surprised.” + +When we returned home it was late, and we were sorry to find that Mr. +Somers had called: his card lay on the table. + +Mrs. Gabb hurried up after us to explain. + +“I thought as how you were in, Mrs. Hayes, so I asked him up, and he +sat and waited for over half an hour. He wrote a bit of a note. It’s +there in the blotter.” And there it was: + + “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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +MRS. MOUND’S OPINION. + + +On Christmas 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, was most 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!” + +“_Do_ shut the window!” I implored; but I spoke to deaf ears. + +There were wheels in the distance—a long 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 carriage _is_ rather 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! _That_ would 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, _too_ cruel”—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 +feel _so_ ill. 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. I hurried her into her room, +undressed her, and put her to bed. + +“I’m so cold—oh, _so_ cold!” 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, moaning and 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 for _you_ here, 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!” + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +“INDIAN PAPERS, PLEASE COPY.” + + +All that 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, nor _one_ +word 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, _did_ she 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 to _me_. I never wish to see her again,” +I rejoined in an emphatic whisper. + +“It certainly _is_ most 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 told _me_. 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. _I_ don’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, +what _will_ you 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 and +Murrays 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 ever lift 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 was very 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 contrast this 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, a _bonne 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! There she 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 to _that_. 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 the _Times_ for you,” producing a +pencil—“the _Times_ and the _Stonebrook 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; but _I_ don’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 Bennys _always_ said 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 was _true_!” + +“Why!” cried my visitor, stretching out her neck and craning forward, +“here _is_ Lady 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! _What_ news 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!” dropping her 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’m _so_ sorry; I forgot all about sending for +you—never thought of it _once_—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 forget _me_, +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 to _her_ +memory. 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 of _that_! +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +KIND INQUIRIES. + + +“So you’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 that _writing_ would 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, +_insisted_ on your accompanying her. I told her she must take _no_ +refusal, 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—_only_ a 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 were _not_ yourself 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 but needlessly +dreaded, meant a miserable, poverty-stricken _mésalliance_. 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 taboo _me_, Miss Hayes?” he asked +appealingly. “I received great kindnesses, without _question_, +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, _that_ old 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; but _we_ have 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 mean _that_!” + +“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 one +thing—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, _how_ do 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 even she must have seen that she was +greatly _de trop_. + +“So sorry to hear that Miss Chalgrove has met with an accident in the +hunting-field. I saw it in the paper. How anxious _you_ must 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 all _comme il faut_ to 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’t _see_ me. 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 at _that_ hour 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 his _mother_ would 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 discuss _me_, whilst I turned down the lamp, threw +myself on the sofa, and cried comfortably for a couple of hours. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +“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 many dumb +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 packed up 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 clothes _swell_! 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 see _any one_,” I +began. + +“He says he must see you; and he—I couldn’t well catch his name, but +I believe he is _lord_. 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 of the 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. There _was_ a 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 was _dead_. 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, she says. 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 the _Times_ notice, and put two +and two together, and here I am! Even if your 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 ‘a _lord_,’ 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 time with 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’ll _never_ forget 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 in _The Family Reader_ or _Bow 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 own _uncle_—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 her +_oldest_ friend, 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 +Lord Chalgrove, and accosted him warmly. He said something in reply, +and then both ladies turned and looked hard at _me_; 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. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +A NEW STATION OF LIFE. + + +We were 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 was +_somebody_. + +“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 have _you_ by her side, which will be something,” +he replied. “It seems almost providential—_quite_ providential, +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 for _me_, uncle, seeing that I have neither friends +nor home.” + +“And here _is_ your 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 rode _at_ +me! 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 get _worse_. 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 is fond 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 be _my_ hand, 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 “_prefer_ a 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 and _fiancé_, 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 +is worthless 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 +be _more_ than 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 has ceased 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 spend +_Christmas_! + + +THE END. + +Transcriber’s Notes + +Page 70 — chimmey changed to chimney. +Page 94 — charperon changed to chaperon. +Page 98 — breakast changed to breakfast. +Page 177 — my fine eathers changed to my fine feathers. +Page 201 — kettle of ho water changed to kettle of hot water. +Page 244 — aknowledged changed acknowledged. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REAL LADY HILDA *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so +the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. +Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this +license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and +trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be +used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the +trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project +Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this +eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use +this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, +reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be +modified and printed and given away--you may do practically ANYTHING in +the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. +Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially +commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE + +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or +any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the +terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all +copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. If +you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be used +on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree +to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that +you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works even without +complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C +below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help +preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. +See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and +you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent +you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating +derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project +Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the +Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic +works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with +the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name +associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this +agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full +Project Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with +others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States + and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no + restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it + under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this + eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the + United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where + you are located before using this eBook. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a +notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright +holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United +States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or +providing access to a work with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" +associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with +the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission +for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set +forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access +to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided that: + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the +use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method you +already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the +owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has agreed to donate +royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each +date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your +periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such +and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the +address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to the +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you +in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not +agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm License. You must +require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works +possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access +to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any +money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the +electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of +receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free +distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth +in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in +Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your +equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. +YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, +BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN +PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND +ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR +ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES +EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect +in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written +explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received +the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your +written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the +defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will remain +freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and +permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. To +learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and +how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the +Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state +of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue +Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification number is +64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. +federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt +Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date +contact information can be found at the Foundation's website and +official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the +number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely +distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of +equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to +$5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with +the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where +we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any +statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside +the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with +anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg-tm +eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, including +how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to +our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + diff --git a/64892-0.zip b/64892-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1a04879 --- /dev/null +++ b/64892-0.zip diff --git a/64892-h.zip b/64892-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d146e66 --- /dev/null +++ b/64892-h.zip diff --git a/64892-h/64892-h.htm b/64892-h/64892-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aed1917 --- /dev/null +++ b/64892-h/64892-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5202 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Real Lady Hilda, by B. M. Croker. + </title> + + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/i_cover.jpg" /> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2{ + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} + +.nopagebreak { + page-break-before: avoid; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +p.yrs { + text-indent: 0em; + margin-left: 45%; + text-align: left; +} + +p.sig { + text-indent: 0em; + margin-left: 55%; + text-align: left; +} + +/* fonts */ + + .p70 { + font-size: 0.70em; + text-align: center; +} + + .p80 { + font-size: 0.80em; + text-align: center; +} + + .p90 { + font-size: 0.90em; + text-align: center; +} + + .p110 { + font-size: 1.10em; + text-align: center; +} + + .p130 { + font-size: 1.30em; + text-align: center; + font-weight: bold; +} + +.space-above2 { + margin-top: 2em;} + +.space-above4 { + margin-top: 4em;} + +/* horizontal rules */ + +hr.tb {width: 40%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-left: 30.0%; + margin-right: 30.0%;} + +hr.chap {width: 50%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-left: 25.0%; + margin-right: 25.0%;} + +hr.small { + width: 10%; + margin-left: 45.0%; + margin-right: 45.0%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; +} + +hr.chap1 {width: 60%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 20.0%; + margin-right: 20.0%; + border:4px double gray; +} + +/* tables */ + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.toc { + margin: auto; + width:auto; + max-width: 40em; +} + +.chapnum { + text-align: right; + padding-right: 1.0em; +} + +.pagenum {/* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +/* Images */ + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; +} + +img {max-width: 100%; height: auto;} + +.cover { + margin-top:1.5em; + margin-bottom:1.5em; + text-align: center; +} + +.x-ebookmaker + .cover{ + display: none;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:smaller; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif;} + </style> + </head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.1em; font-weight:bold'> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Real Lady Hilda, by Bithia Mary Croker +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> + +<div style='display:table;margin-bottom:1em;margin-top:1em;'> + <div style='display:table-row;'> + <div style='display:table-cell;padding-right:0.5em;'>Title:</div> + <div style='display:table-cell;'>The Real Lady Hilda</div> + </div> + <div style='display:table-row;'> + <div style='display:table-cell;padding-right:0.5em;'></div> + <div style='display:table-cell;'>A Sketch</div> + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:table;margin-bottom:1em;'> + <div style='display:table-row;'> + <div style='display:table-cell;padding-right:0.5em;'>Author:</div> + <div style='display:table-cell;'>Bithia Mary Croker</div> + </div> +</div> + +<div style='margin-bottom:1em;'>Release date: March 21, 2021 [eBook #64892] +</div> + +<div style='margin-bottom:1em;'>Language: English</div> + +<div style='display:table;margin-bottom:1em;'> + <div style='display:table-row;'> + <div style='display:table-cell;vertical-align:top;'>Produced by: </div> + <div style='display:table-cell;'>MWS, Fiona Holmes, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</div> + </div> +</div> + +<div style='margin-bottom:1.4em;'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REAL LADY HILDA ***</div> + +<div class="transnote"> +<h2 class="nopagebreak" title="">Transcriber’s Notes.</h2> + +<p>Hyphenation has been standardised.</p> +<p>Other changes made are noted at the <a href="#end_note" title="Go to the End Note">end of the book.</a></p> +</div> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/i_cover.jpg" alt="" width="632" height="1000" /> +</div> + +<p class="space-above2"></p> + +<h1>THE REAL LADY HILDA</h1> + +<p class="center p130"> A SKETCH</p> + +<p class="space-above4"></p> + +<p class="center p80"> BY</p> + +<p class="center p110"> B. M. CROKER</p> + +<p class="center p80"> AUTHOR OF</p> + +<p class="center p80"> “PRETTY MISS NEVILLE,” “DIANA BARRINGTON,” “MR. JERVIS,”</p> +<p class="center p80"> “PROPER PRIDE,” “PEGGY OF THE BARTONS,” “BEYOND THE PALE.”</p> + +<p class="space-above4"></p> + +<p class="center"> “On souffre quelquefois plus de la mort d’une illusion + que de la perte d’une réalité.”</p> + +<p class="space-above4"></p> + +<p class="center p80"> NEW YORK</p> +<p class="center p80"> F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY</p> +<p class="center p70"> <span class="smcap">11 East 16th Street</span></p> +<p class="center p70"> LONDON—CHATTO & WINDUS</p> +<p class="center p70"> 1899</p> + +<p class="space-above4"></p> +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p class="center p90">Copyright, 1899</p> + +<p class="center p70">BY</p> + +<p class="center p70">F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY</p> + +<hr class="chap1" /> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> +<hr class="small" /> + +<table class="toc" summary="Contents"> +<tr> + <td><small>CHAP.</small></td> + <td> </td> + <td><small>PAGE</small></td> +</tr> + <tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="1">I.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">Waiting for the Lamp</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="2">II.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">Retrospective</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="3">III.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">A Question of Taste</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="4">IV.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">Lady Hildegarde’s Photograph</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="5">V.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">We get into Society</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="6">VI.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap"> A Visit of Seven Minutes</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="7">VII.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">Four in a Fly</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_118">118</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="8">VIII.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">The Chalgrove Eyebrows</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="9">IX.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap"> “We need not Ask if You have Enjoyed Yourself”</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="10">X.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">“Who <em>are</em> these Chalgroves?”</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_179">179</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="11">XI.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">Mrs. Mound’s Opinion</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="12">XII.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap"> “Indian Papers, Please Copy”</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="13">XIII.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">Kind Inquiries</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_223">223</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="14">XIV.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap">“Miss Hayes, I believe?”</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_240">240</a></td> + </tr><tr> + <td class="chapnum"><abbr title="15">XV.</abbr></td> + <td><span class="smcap"> A New Station of Life</span></td> + <td class="right"><a href="#Page_255">255</a></td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p> + + + + +<hr class="chap1" /> +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p class="center">WAITING FOR THE LAMP.</p> + + +<p>“<span class="smcap">Too</span> early for the lamp, I suppose, and yet too dark to read a line.” +And my stepmother closed her novel, with an impatient snap, as she +added, “This is the worst of these horrid, poky lodgings; one never can +have anything at the time one wants it. What a dismal little den it is, +Gwen! What possessed us to come here?”</p> + +<p>I could have answered the question promptly and briefly in a single +word <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>“Poverty;” but, as it was a term my relative specially detested, +I merely shrugged my shoulders, and continued to gaze into the +miserable apology for a garden which ran between our quarters and the +high street of Stonebrook, an insignificant market town in Sussex.</p> + +<p>Certainly there was not much to see, amid the creeping shadows of a +November afternoon. A dripping hen, wading carefully across the road; +a coal-cart, the driver enveloped in empty sacks; and the undertaker’s +retriever—black and curly, as an undertaker’s dog should be—sitting +in his master’s doorway, and yawning most infectiously. If we had lived +opposite to the post-office, the lending library, or even the hotel, +we should have enjoyed a livelier outlook, but “Mound & Son—Funeral +Establishment—Coffins, Hearses, and every Requisite,” to quote from +the in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>scription over the door, in rigid white characters on a mourning +ground, afforded but a gloomy and dispiriting prospect. It was too dark +to descry more than the outline of an ornamental sign, on which was +depicted an elegant open glass vehicle, drawn by four prancing black +horses, with nodding plumes and streaming tails—triumphant-looking +steeds, who seemed to say, “Man treats most of us barbarously all our +lives, then kills us, and makes money of our very skin and bones; it +affords us sincere pleasure to carry him to the grave, and ‘see the +last of him.’”</p> + +<p>The interior of our sitting-room corresponded with its dreary view—a +lodging-house apartment <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pur et simple</i>, with narrow windows, hideous +wall-paper, the inevitable round table, cheap chiffonier, and bulgy +green rep sofa, to complete the picture. The fire was low, and +unques<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>tionably in a bad temper, emitting every now and then slow and +sullen puffs of yellow smoke. It was raining hard outside, and at +regular intervals an intrusive drop came spluttering down the chimney.</p> + +<p>“Dear me, what a sigh!” exclaimed my stepmother. “Mariana in the Moated +Grange could scarcely surpass it! Cheer up, Gwen; a girl of nineteen +has no business to be melancholy—though I grant that you have some +provocation. Never meet troubles half-way, that is my motto. I have an +idea that our luck will turn soon: I saw two magpies to-day.”</p> + +<p>I burst into a short, involuntary laugh.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, you may laugh, my old-head-on-young-shoulders, but I mean to +have a regular good talk with the cards by and by; in the meanwhile, we +will ring for the lamp and tea. Mrs. Gabb will say it is too early, but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>I intend to brave her for once. Britons never shall be slaves!”</p> + +<p>And she gave the bell a peal far more befitting the summons of a +wealthy woman than of a reduced widow lady, who was going to dine on +poached eggs, and was two weeks in arrears with her rent.</p> + +<p>There was only a difference of twelve years between us, and Emma, as +my stepmother wished me to call her, was a pretty little Irishwoman, +with black hair, dark blue eyes (wonderful eyes and lashes), and a +radiant smile. No more generous, hospitable, or impulsive creature ever +breathed. She was, moreover, a determined optimist, who looked steadily +at the bright side of things, and enjoyed extraordinary high spirits, +and the comic (or sunny) view of life. Generally, she was to be seen +on what is called “the top of the wave,” though, occasionally, there +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>came a terrible reaction, and she sank, overwhelmed, into the black +abysmal depths which are the birthright of those who are endowed with a +nervous, highly strung, mercurial temperament.</p> + +<p>Two years previous to this dreary November day, my father had died in +India, and six months later, Emma, having returned home, had summoned +me from school to join her in London.</p> + +<p>I had previously been given to understand that we were now very +poor—my lessons had been curtailed, my mourning was inexpensive; I +was therefore astonished to find my stepmother established in most +luxurious lodgings in Sloane Street, for which she paid—it being the +season—twelve guineas a week. These rooms were crammed with quantities +of the choicest blooms, cut and in pots, for Emma was passionately fond +of flowers—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>she declared that she could not exist without them. Her +weeds were as gloomy and superb as it was possible for weeds to be, and +in no quarter was there the smallest hint of that detestable visitor +who, when it comes in at the door, sends another inmate flying out +through the window.</p> + +<p>A smart <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coupé</i> from the Coupé Company, called every afternoon, and +took us out shopping and into the park; Emma’s ideas were apparently +as magnificent as of yore. I was fitted out by “Ninette,” her own +milliner, in a black crépon and silk, and a large French picture-hat, +with black ostrich feathers—expense absolutely <em>no</em> object. It was not +for me, a girl of eighteen, to make inquiries respecting our finances. +I took for granted that the phrase “left badly off” meant at least a +thousand a year. Emma had imparted <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>to me that her auction had brought +in a large sum, and that she expected the old Jam-Jam—meaning the +Rajah of Jam-Jam-More—“to do something handsome for both of us.”</p> + +<p>Meanwhile we remained in Sloane Street, were extravagant in flowers, +books, and <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coupés</i>, and hospitable Emma haled in every passing +acquaintance to lunch, tea, or dinner. She had no plans, beyond a +desire to remain in London and “look about her;” which looking about +her signified the constant expectation of coming across the familiar +faces of Eastern friends. Miserable mofussilite! poor deluded Emma! +She had a foolish idea that the metropolis resembled a great Indian +station, and that she could scarcely cross the road without meeting +some one she knew.</p> + +<p>Her special friends were not in Eng<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>land. At the moment they had either +just gone back, or were not coming home till next year. I noticed—not +once, but repeatedly—that when we encountered her mere acquaintances, +and they asked where we were living, an expression of significant +astonishment was visible in their faces the moment our address was +mentioned. I also noted an increased cordiality of manner, and an +alacrity in assuring Emma that they would be delighted to come and see +her. I do not say this of all, but of some.</p> + +<p>And then one morning the crash came. I met our landlady on the stairs, +looking excessively fierce and red in the face, and I subsequently +discovered Emma encompassed with letters, bills, and books, and +dissolved in floods of tears.</p> + +<p>“She has just given me notice!” she cried, alluding to our landlady; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>“and indeed, Gwen, after I pay her for the week, how much money do you +think I have left?” She burst into a wild, hysterical laugh, and pushed +across the table towards me a silver sixpence and two coppers.</p> + +<p>“What—what is this?” I stammered.</p> + +<p>“It’s eightpence. Can’t you <em>see</em>? And it’s all we have in the world!”</p> + +<p>I remember that I turned it over mechanically, and giggled. I knew +nothing of money matters. I had never had the spending of a sovereign +in my life.</p> + +<p>I was aware that Emma was extravagant, that she never could resist +what she called “a bargain,” never could keep money in her pocket. It +was quite one of her favorite jokes to exclaim, “Bang goes another +five-pound note!”</p> + +<p>I had participated in this jest with smiling equanimity, and the +supreme confi<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>dence of youth: I believed that my stepmother, and only +relative, had an ample supply of money somewhere. But—eightpence!</p> + +<p>I stared at the two coppers and the little bit of silver in dismayed +silence.</p> + +<p>“Take off your hat, Gwen,” continued Emma, impetuously, “and listen to +me. I’m not fit to be trusted with money—never was; I <em>can’t</em> keep +it. ‘Sufficient unto the day,’ has always been my motto. You, I can +see, are prudent; you are good at figures, old beyond your years. I +suppose you take after your mother’s people, for your father was nearly +as—as—extravagant and heedless as myself. Now I’m going to lay my +affairs before you—place everything in your hands, and let you manage +all our money.”</p> + +<p>“Eightpence!” I repeated half under my breath.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p> + +<p>“You know, we never saved a penny. I had a few hundreds of pounds from +our auction, and I’ve spent that. A short life, and—a—a merry one!” +looking at me with her pretty sapphire-colored eyes drowned in tears. +“We have had a good time, have we not? And I was certain that the dear +old Jam-Jam, who was <em>so</em> fond of your father—and, indeed, with every +reason—would give us a handsome pension. But I have had a horrible +letter by the mail just in. The Jam-Jam, who has been ailing for +months—the new doctor did not understand his constitution—is dead. I +am truly sorry.” A fresh burst of tears.</p> + +<p>“Was all this grief for the Jam?” I asked myself, and stood confounded.</p> + +<p>“My dear, we are paupers,” she sobbed. “Mr. Watkins, the agent, says +that the new rajah, the nephew, a detestable creature, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>who I know +never could endure <em>me</em>, will only give a hundred and thirty pounds a +year, and that has been wrung from him with the greatest difficulty. +And then, as if this letter was not <em>enough</em>, here is one from the +bank, to say my account is overdrawn, and I thought I had three hundred +pounds there still! I never, I knew, kept a proper account. Just drew +checks, and never or seldom filled up the tiresome counterfoils, and +now there is their hideous bank-book, all so neatly made up: ‘Self, +ten pounds; Self, forty pounds; Self, twenty pounds.’ I can’t think +what has become of it! I’m not used to keeping money, you see. I +never bothered about putting down my expenses. Mrs. Keene brought me +up these horrid letters, and came in too to ask about dinner, and +I told her it was really shameful to charge two and sixpence for a +cauliflower, and that we <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>really could not afford to pay her prices, +and she was quite insolent. When I have paid her, we shall have +just—this—this—eightpence——”</p> + +<p>And she dashed it over nearer to me, and, leaning her head on her arms, +went off in hysterics.</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p class="center">RETROSPECTIVE.</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> would be a new experience for me to take the lead, to be manager, +financier, adviser. When I had restored Emma, after some difficulty, +and left her comparatively composed—and armed with salts and fan—I +ran up to my own room, locked the door, and sat down to think. +Something must be done immediately; we ought to leave our extravagantly +expensive lodgings without even a week’s delay. If Mrs. Keene would +but let us off, it would save twelve guineas, and then we should have +twelve pounds twelve shillings, to add to that ghastly eightpence. Mrs. +Keene was <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>always very pleasant to me: I would muster up courage, and +go and speak to her, and tell her that we had received unexpected news, +and were obliged to retrench. I must honestly confess that my heart +beat fearfully fast as I knocked at the door of her sanctum, and heard +her shrill “come in.”</p> + +<p>The interview passed off much better than I anticipated—although the +cauliflower still rankled in her mind. She, fortunately for us, had +just heard of what she termed “a good let”—old customers, who wished +to come in immediately, and she agreed to our prompt departure without +demur, saying with immense condescension, “These sort of apartments are +not suitable for any but wealthy folk, as can pay well, and is above +fighting over vegetables!”</p> + +<p>She, however, gave me some useful <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>hints as to where to look for +cheaper and humbler quarters. I hurried round to Madame Ninette, and +countermanded my new dress, and, after a hasty lunch, Emma and I set +out in quest of apartments in keeping with our means. We searched on +foot the whole of that warm June afternoon, and at last discovered +two neat, cheap little rooms over a dairy in a street in Chelsea. We +took them on the spot, and returned to pack our belongings. I packed +everything; for Emma, between the emotions of the morning and the miles +we had trudged in the sun, was completely exhausted, and I easily +prevailed on her to sit on the sofa and rest.</p> + +<p>Beguiled by an amusing magazine, and a box of Fuller’s sweets—poor +remnants of her little luxuries—she soon forgot all her sorrows, and +to have seen her reclining there, looking so pretty in her cool <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>black +tea-gown, and dainty little beaded shoes, no one would have believed +she had a care in the world. What a child she was in some ways! As for +myself, I was not yet eighteen, but I had accepted such a leaden load +of responsibility that I began to feel an old woman. The next morning +our luggage, books, plants, and umbrellas were packed in and on a cab, +and we started off for Carlyle Buildings, our future residence. As soon +as we had rearranged our boxes, books, and plants, and given our meager +orders—I was now housekeeper and purse-bearer—Emma sat down, as she +expressed it, “to face the future resolutely.”</p> + +<p>It was a great comfort that she owed no money, otherwise it was +anything but a brilliant outlook. All that remained to her, when +everything had been summed up, was her wardrobe, her jewelry, a small +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>pension, and a large circle of Indian friends.</p> + +<p>We lived through the winter on the proceeds of a splendid diamond +bracelet, and the hopes of getting some Indian children. Yes, Emma +entertained the not uncommon idea of setting up a happy home for the +children of her acquaintances. She was as sanguine as possible. Nothing +ever damped her good faith in the future, and “a turn of luck.”</p> + +<p>“I shall take a charming, sunny old place deep in the country, about +twenty miles from London; keep a nice pony-carriage, cows, a donkey, +French <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bonnes</i>, and a governess, and charge two hundred a year. I +shall easily collect a dozen children—twelve will be <em>ample</em> to begin +with—and there, you see, is upwards of two thousand a year at once! +The Blairs, and Joneses, and Smithsons, dear old <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>friends, will be only +too thankful for the chance.”</p> + +<p>And, full of enthusiasm, she despatched many eager letters to the +parents among her acquaintance; but, strange to relate, not one of +these correspondents availed herself of her kind proposals, though they +wrote long, affectionate epistles, suggesting the offspring of <em>other</em> +people! Perhaps they were afraid that pretty little Mrs. Hayes, ever +impulsive, extravagant, and gay, was too lively and erratic to take +charge of their delicate darlings—besides, she was poor.</p> + +<p>Oh, that was a dreary winter, when we existed on hope deferred! Emma +was delicate—she had a troublesome cough; she required dainties, +flowers, books, amusements, variety. Her gay spirits were fitful; she +was not often on the top of the wave now, but liable to terrible fits +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>of weeping and depression. She wept for many things I could not obtain +for her. For instance, for India—for the sun (the sun in London in +January!), for her old servants her old friends—where were they? Those +abroad sent long, affectionate letters, occasional newspapers, and +little presents; those at home—well, at the moment there were none at +home, none whose attachment would stand the strain of coming at least +three miles to visit a shabby little widow, in very humble lodgings. +I grew up that winter. I became ten years older. I learnt to market, +to haggle, to housekeep, to concoct beef-tea and puddings, to make a +little money go a long way. I learnt the cheap shops, the cheap little +joints. I used to go out with our thrifty landlady to the Marlborough +Road on Saturday nights, and bring home <em>such</em> bargains! I was thankful +when the winter came to an end, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>the days grew longer and lighter, and +Emma recovered her health and her spirits. We partook of the season’s +delights in a very mild and inexpensive form; we went per ’bus to some +picture-galleries, to the shilling places at concerts, and occupied +chairs in the Row. Emma liked to sit there the whole afternoon, +returning home by what we called “our own green carriage” in time for +our frugal tea.</p> + +<p>“Oh, what a different life from what I have been accustomed to!” +she complained to me one day. “Watching from my penny chair the +crowds and crowds of happy people streaming by, and never seeing one +familiar face! The scores of visitors your father and I put up in +Jam-Jam-More—for races, picnics, dinners, shooting-parties, and I +never see one of them. Do you think they are <em>all</em> out of town? or +do they catch sight of me and flee?” and she <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>laughed—such a dreary +little laugh. “Of course, I know that is nonsense, but it <em>does</em> seem +so odd that I never come across any of what we used to call ‘the +cold-weather folks,’ except indeed Captain Goring, and he gave me +the cold shoulder—he barely raised his hat; and young Randford—you +remember I met him in Piccadilly?—he did stop and speak to me, and +said that he must try and come and call on me, and would look over his +engagements and see what afternoon he could spare, and I never heard +anything more about him. Would you believe it?—he spent three weeks +with us in India, and welcome, and rode and drove our horses as if they +were his own, and when he was leaving, he made <em>such</em> a fuss about his +dearest, kindest, prettiest Mrs. Hayes!”</p> + +<p>“That was India?” I ventured to suggest.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes, India is one place—England another. I was a fool out there! If I +had not kept open house—a sort of pleasant hotel, where there was <em>no</em> +bill—for all these thankless, selfish wretches, I should be driving in +my carriage now, and as for you, dear old Gwen——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I shall do very well,” I interrupted. “I wish you would not worry +yourself about <em>me</em>.”</p> + +<p>“We always intended you to come out, enjoy yourself, and make a nice +match perhaps. And we did not spend as much as we might have done on +your education; we thought it unnecessary, with the rupee at such +ruinous exchange. We never dreamt that you would have to earn your own +bread—oh, never—never!”</p> + +<p>“Never mind me, dear!”</p> + +<p>“But I <em>do</em> mind—it is my duty to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>mind! Who would have thought that +your father would not live to be a fine hale old man of eighty? He had +a splendid constitution. Sometimes, when I used to be a little scared +at our big bills, and suggested our trying to retrench, he always +said, ‘The old Jam-Jam will provide for us; he will give me a fine +pension. He has promised me twelve hundred a year. It is only when +one feels young and active that one <em>wants</em> money. When I begin to +feel anno domini, we will go home and live very comfortably at Bath or +Cheltenham.’ And here have I come home all alone, and you and I have +to struggle along on a hundred and thirty pounds a year—and—and my +diamond ornaments.”</p> + +<p>I recollect that the poignant contrast between past and present so +utterly overwhelmed poor Emma, that she could not <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>restrain her tears, +and suddenly rising from her seat, and signing to me to accompany her, +she departed with unusual precipitancy.</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p class="center">A QUESTION OF TASTE.</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was indeed a most lamentable truth that I was not as accomplished +as most of the girls of my age. I could not paint or play the violin, +I had no knowledge of the German language, I was ignorant of the agile +art of skirt-dancing, and could not ride a horse—much less a bicycle. +However, Emma found consolation in the fact that I “walked well, and +carried myself with grace!”</p> + +<p>“This was satisfactory,” I assured her with a laugh, “as I was never +likely to have anything to carry <em>me</em>! As to walking, I was bound to be +a foot-passenger all my days.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> + +<p>I spoke French fluently, played the piano and guitar, was an excellent +needle-woman; but these would scarcely justify me in seeking a place +above that of a cheap governess or waiting-maid. The struggle for +existence was now so fierce, the half-million surplus women were such +keen competitors for bread, that life was nothing more nor less than +one long hardly contested battle. I had grasped this fact, young as I +was. I was a good accountant (whilst Emma could not do the simplest +little sum in addition); and, as purse-bearer, many a weary half-hour +I sat up at night, working out our little budget, and striving to make +both ends meet.</p> + +<p>Yes, I was ostensibly the purse-bearer, and, if left a free hand, I +could manage to balance our income; but I was <em>not</em> independent. Emma +was subject to wild lavish outbursts of her old Indian gen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>erosity; she +would overwhelm me with unexpected gifts—expensive gifts. I never knew +when one of these awful surprises was in store for me—and also the +accompanying bill.</p> + +<p>I had long refrained from admiring anything in the shop windows. +Nevertheless, I was endowed with a white chiffon parasol, an opera +cloak, three pairs of scarlet silk stockings, an exquisite silk and +lace petticoat—I who so sadly wanted everyday gloves and boots. I +wanted them subsequently for a considerable period. Remonstrance only +brought tears, and at last I came to the conclusion that such outbursts +were ungovernable impulses of Emma’s inborn, long-nurtured generosity; +that the disease was incurable, and these occasional attacks afforded +her relief from an ever-pressing, maddening desire to lavish money!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p> + +<p>My own mother had made a runaway match with my father, was sternly +disowned by all her relatives, and cut off without even the proverbial +shilling. She died when I was a month old, and I was subsequently sent +to England. There I was received by two maiden ladies, “who took entire +charge of children from India, their arrangements being those of a +family, and not of a school”—<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">vide</i> the prospectus.</p> + +<p>With these good people I spent ten very happy—I may add, +luxurious—years. It was an establishment solely suited to the children +of the wealthy, and my father discharged all expenses with liberal +and punctual hand. He held an excellent appointment at the court of +the native prince, and had married, eight years after my mother’s +death, pretty, penniless Miss Burke, who happened to be on a visit to +friends in his neighborhood. Her enemies <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>declared that Miss Burke +was an empty-headed, flighty little fool—vain, delicate, and wildly +extravagant; and that my father—who really required some one to +manage his affairs, and curb his expensive tastes—would have been far +wiser had he selected instead one of the excellent Miss Primmers—the +Reverend Jeremiah Primmer’s well-brought-up missionary daughters—and +that such a match as he contemplated was madness, so far as +improvidence and waste went—a mixture of oil and flame. Nevertheless, +in spite of these prophets, who prophesied evil things, my father +and his vivacious young Irish wife were excessively happy. They were +both given to hospitality, were both easy-going and open-handed; they +liked India, Indian ways, and Indian friends. He only returned once to +England to see me, and she but rarely, to refurbish her <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>wardrobe—and +pay me flying visits. Then she loaded me with gifts, treats, and +caresses, and was so young, so pretty, and so merry, that she embodied +my idea of a charming elder sister. I never, somehow, identified her as +my stepmother—whom I mentally sketched as the old, wicked, long-nosed +person pervading fairy tales. When I was fourteen, I was sent to an +English school in Paris, and there I learnt to dance, to sing, and +accompany myself on the guitar (it was such a nice portable instrument, +suitable to India). It had been arranged that I was to join my people +when I was eighteen, and already my outfit was under discussion, my +escort for the passage sought for, when the news arrived of my father’s +sudden death. He had been killed by a fall from his horse, when out +pigsticking, and Emma was returning home alone, a widow in straitened +circum<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>stances. No, they had never saved one single rupee; their two +pairs of hands had ever been open. They entertained lavishly; she +dressed magnificently; he kept several race-horses, and their household +expenses were enormous. For they had caught some of the infection from +their surroundings, and the recklessness and display of the palace was +reflected in their home. All things considered, Emma bore the change in +her circumstances with surprising equanimity. She rarely complained. +She was so easily amused and interested, so easily roused to animation; +but it made me sad to note her wandering eye, when we were abroad, +always scanning the crowd, in intent search for some familiar face, +some one she knew in old days.</p> + +<p>And then her disappointments: the Sugdens, who scarcely deigned to +bow to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>her; the Woden-Spunners, who invited us to a crush, and left +us totally unnoticed all the evening—and the cabs and our gloves +alone had come to seventeen shillings. Poor Emma explained to me, with +pitiful eloquence, that the Woden-Spunners had never been intimate +friends. However Emma was soon to discover that every one was not like +the Woden-Spunners.</p> + +<p>One morning, we were shopping in the Army and Navy Stores—my father +had always been a subscriber, and Emma clung to “the Stores” as if +they embodied a faint, faint reflection of her more prosperous days. +The various departments were crammed full, and I never remembered to +have seen such a long double line of carriages in waiting, or such an +assorted crowd of dogs in durance on the steps.</p> + +<p>Our purchases were, needless to say, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>moderate, and we carried them +ourselves. They consisted on this occasion of a packet of candles, a +packet of bloaters, an untrimmed straw hat, a pound of fresh butter, +and two pounds of pressed beef.</p> + +<p>It was extremely warm—a sultry July day—as we toiled up to the +turnery department. At the corner of the stairs, a young man, who was +flying down at breakneck speed, brushed against Emma; he paused for a +second to lift his hat and apologize, then exclaimed in quite another +key—a key of cordial pleasure.</p> + +<p>“Why, it’s Mrs. Hayes, I declare! Where did you drop from? I am +delighted to see you!”</p> + +<p>As we were blocking up the landing, I moved on, and waited at the top +of the stairs, leaving Emma and her newly discovered old friend—a +friend who was sincerely glad to meet her—still conversing <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>with great +animation. Yes, I could read it in his gestures, and the expression +of his back. He was tall and square-shouldered, his long frock-coat +and shining top-hat adding to his stature. So far I had not caught a +glimpse of his face. Presently they turned and ascended together, still +talking volubly. I believe that he imagined Emma to be alone, until she +said, as she put her hand on my arm—</p> + +<p>“This is my step-daughter, Miss Hayes.”</p> + +<p>He glanced at me politely, then his casual glance suddenly changed into +a long scrutinizing gaze of astonishment—no, not of admiration, merely +unqualified amazement.</p> + +<p>He was a good-looking young man, with a somewhat thin, aristocratic +face, brown hair, brown eyes, and a light, reddish-brown mustache.</p> + +<p>“I used to know your father, Miss <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>Hayes. My people and I stayed with +him in India, you know.”</p> + +<p>I did not know—how should I?</p> + +<p>“He was awfully good to me, and took me out shooting and +elephant-catching.” Then, suddenly turning to Emma, he said, “What are +you going to do now? It is one o’clock. Will you come and have lunch +with me at the club, or will you lunch here?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, here, thank you, since we are on the spot; and I am told that the +curries are celebrated.”</p> + +<p>“All right, then, we will try the curry. Allow me to relieve you of +your parcels.”</p> + +<p>In another second, and despite our vehement expostulations, this smart +young man was actually carrying our beef, butter, and candles, and +leading the way to the refreshment department. Five minutes later, we +were seated at a little table, and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>Emma, with her gloves off and menu +in hand, was, by our host’s desire, ordering our lunch. No, after all, +it was much too hot for curry; it was a day for mayonnaise and aspic +jelly. He seemed most anxious to please my stepmother, and to make much +of her. Poor Emma! she was unused to such attentions; they brought a +brilliant color to her cheek, and a sparkle to her eyes. She brightened +up wonderfully under their influence.</p> + +<p>Warm as the room was, I found myself rather “out in the cold.” These +two had so many subjects in common, so many topics which were closed +to me. They talked of places and people I had never seen, of the great +camp at Attock, of the rajah’s big shoot, and finally of that young +man’s own relations.</p> + +<p>“So you have not seen my mother since <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>she stayed with you at +Jam-Jam-More? She and my father are abroad now, and I am off to +South America in three days. I’ve been buying my kit here. Done a +tremendous morning’s work. I’m combining business and pleasure. My +father has considerable investments out there which he wants me to look +after—then I’m going to the West Indies.”</p> + +<p>“It seems to me you are never at home,” said Emma.</p> + +<p>“No one ever is at home now. Home is the last place in which to look +for people in these days. A great rage for rambling has seized old and +young. We migrate to the South of Europe for the winter, show ourselves +in town for a few weeks in the spring, and then start off again. I +think the old people are far the worst—they set the example. I tell my +mother she is like the wandering Jew.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Does Lady Hildegarde never come to town?”</p> + +<p>“No, not the last two years.” Then, looking over at me; “Did <em>you</em> have +a good time this season, Miss Hayes?”</p> + +<p>“A good time!” repeated Emma. “Why, the poor child has never been +anywhere. You forget——”</p> + +<p>“Yes—yes, of course; you could not take her. I wish my mother had been +in London,” he continued genially. “She would have been delighted to +have chaperoned her to no end of smart functions, and presented Miss +Hayes at a drawing-room.”</p> + +<p>It was quite clear that this young man did not realize the fatal change +in our circumstances.</p> + +<p>“She has never been anywhere,” continued Emma—“never been to a dance, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>or a race-meeting——”</p> + +<p>“There is Sandown to-morrow. I’m a member; will you come with me? I +can take two ladies. It ought to be a capital day: Eclipse Stakes, you +know. I’ll meet you at Waterloo——”</p> + +<p>“No, no, no,” interrupted Emma. “I would not go, and, of course, +Gwen——”</p> + +<p>She hesitated. No, certainly, I could not accompany this nameless young +man alone.</p> + +<p>“Well, look here,” he said impetuously. “Let us do <em>something</em> +to-morrow. This is Tuesday, and I’m off on Saturday morning, and shall +not be in England again for ages. Have you any engagement?”</p> + +<p>“No—none.” The very idea made her smile.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Then what would you like to do? Would you care to go up the river? +Start from Paddington about ten, go to Maidenhead, get a good boat, and +lunch in the Cliveden Woods, or up some nice cool backwater, row down +to Taplow, have tea at the inn, come back to town in time to dine and +do the theater. How would that be?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Somers, you take away my breath! The expedition up the river +would be as much as we can manage, and delightful, would it not, Gwen?” +appealing to me.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I assented. “Delightful indeed, if it won’t be too much for +<em>you</em>?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all, my old-head-on-young-shoulders. She”—to our host—“takes +such care of me, and manages all our affairs: she might be <em>my</em> mother! +We will accept the river part of the program.”</p> + +<p>“Then that is quite settled. I meet you to-morrow at ten o’clock sharp +at Paddington?”</p> + +<p>The room was now crammed, and I <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>noticed that our companion had a +bowing or nodding acquaintance with many customers.</p> + +<p>“Your sister is married?” observed Emma. “I saw it in the papers. You +are not married, are you?”</p> + +<p>“Perish the thought! I am——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Everard!” cried a clear, high-bred voice, and a tall, fair, +supercilious-looking girl halted at our table. “Fancy seeing <em>you</em> +here, lunching in the Army and Navy Stores among your parcels,” +glancing at our belongings. “How <em>very</em> domestic!”</p> + +<p>“I have just met an old Indian friend,” he explained, rather +consciously. “And we are having tiffin together, as you see.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I see,” staring straight at <em>me</em>, with a look of arrogant inquiry, +which made me color warmly: well, yes, call it blushing. Why should I +blush? I had <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>never met this man till half an hour ago, and here was +this ultra-smart young woman in a French bonnet standing over me, her +pale blue eyes distinctly telling me that I was a designing adventuress.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Hayes,” he said, “this is my sister, Lady Polexfen.” Emma bowed, +and Lady Polexfen lowered her eyelashes. “I was just speaking of you, +Maudie,” he added. “Talk of an angel, you know. We stayed with Mrs. +Hayes in India. It was at her house my mother was so ill.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” indifferently, now turning her bracelet to consult her watch.</p> + +<p>“Mind you turn up in good time to-morrow. We are going down to Sandown +on the coach. Dolly Chalgrove is coming.” She paused for a second, as +if to allow sufficient time for this impressive piece of news to soak +thoroughly into his mind.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p> + +<p>“And, remember, if you keep us waiting, as you often do, you will +discover that I am anything but an angel!”</p> + +<p>“I won’t keep you waiting,” responded her brother, serenely, “for the +excellent reason that I’m not going to Sandown! I’m going up the river +instead.”</p> + +<p>“And breaking your other engagements?” she asked sharply.</p> + +<p>“I can’t see that at all. It was left an open question.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Was</em> it!” she exclaimed, in a still sharper key. And again she looked +over at me with a gleam in her eye, and I could see that, cool as she +tried to appear, she was furiously angry; indeed, her voice trembled +a little as she added, “Well, of course, it is merely a question of +taste!”</p> + +<p>And this was her last word—her parting shot. With an overwhelmingly +haughty bow—to be distributed amongst us—Lady <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>Polexfen swept away, +and joined two gentlemen and a lady, who had been interested spectators +of the recent slight passage-at-arms. Speaking for myself, I felt +decidedly uncomfortable, and it was some seconds before I ventured to +look at our host. Yes, undoubtedly he had reddened a little (whether +with anger or shame I could not guess), and was carefully filling +Emma’s wine-glass.</p> + +<p>“How <em>very</em> pretty your sister is!” she ventured with great +magnanimity, endeavoring to take the rough edge off our thoughts. +“I never saw a more delicate profile! She is a little like Lady +Hildegarde.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, she resembles my mother a good deal in many ways, and, being her +only daughter, she has been a bit spoiled—always wants her own way, as +you may see.”</p> + +<p>“And now, Mr. Somers,” continued <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>Emma, “you will not make a stranger +of <em>me</em>, nor allow me to accept any little arrangements your sister has +made. You must postpone our trip. You know you can take us up the river +<em>any</em> time!”</p> + +<p>But to this suggestion he would not listen, and displayed a will fully +as robust as his relative’s. In fact, he became almost angry at last, +and Emma was compelled to succumb.</p> + +<p>We accordingly spent a delightful, never-to-be-forgotten afternoon on +the river, rowed here and there, as fancy dictated, by two stalwart +boatmen. Mr. Somers, in a sailor hat and flannels, occasionally +took an oar himself, and even gave me a lesson. A dainty luncheon +had been provided, which we discussed under cool green branches, up +a deliciously sequestered backwater; then followed the row down to +Taplow, and our tea at <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>the inn: in fact, every item of the program was +conscientiously carried out; and during that long summer’s day, in the +intimacy of picnicking and boating, Mr. Somers and I made extraordinary +strides in advancing our acquaintance.</p> + +<p>We parted reluctantly at Paddington Station, full of plans for the +morrow. We were to lunch with Mr. Somers again, and accompany him to a +very private view of most lovely Indian paintings. Emma struggled hard +against this second encroachment on his time, and struggled as vainly +as any kid in the folds of a boa constrictor!</p> + +<p>“Of course,” he said, half playfully, “if she had something better on +hand, and was already tired of his society——”</p> + +<p>And what could she answer? She could only murmur deprecating +ejaculations of dissent, assent, and gratitude.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> + +<p>As we drove home in a hansom (a rare extravagance), exchanging voluble +raptures, an obtrusive chill little idea suddenly got in and sat down +between us.</p> + +<p>What were we to wear? A serge skirt and a shirt had done very well for +the river; but for a smart luncheon at a smart club, for an exclusive +gathering at a private view, where possibly all the gowns would be +carefully noted down and described in the papers, our now rusty black +dresses would be, oh, so sadly out of place!</p> + +<p>“It does not matter so much about me, dear,” said Emma, “but you. +I am so sorry now that your best crépon came in for that shocking +wetting last Sunday. Oh, <em>why</em> did I not take a cab?” she exclaimed +regretfully. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>“And your poor hat received its death-blow. <em>This</em> is no +climate for ostrich feathers—not like India, where you can wear your +best frocks and hats for months without one moment’s anxiety, and when +the rains do come it is not before they have given at least a week’s +notice!”</p> + +<p>“And that drenching shower, not giving one second—beyond half a +dozen immense drops, and after that the deluge! However, I can curl +the feathers up, press out my skirt, and, with a new pair of gloves, +perhaps I can manage to pass in a crowd!”</p> + +<p>Really, we did not present at all such a bad appearance as we emerged +from our lodgings next morning, nor did we feel beneath the occasion, +at our very pleasant and recherché lunch. It was only when we got among +the present season’s new dresses, and stood side by side with the +latest and most costly fashions, that our poor black feathers looked a +little battered and draggled!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> + +<p>I saw it myself, but Mr. Somers did <em>not</em>. No, no, all his attention +was occupied in entertaining us—in showing us the best pictures, the +most popular or unpopular celebrities, the beauties, the political +stars, and the leaders of fashion. Among these I noted, without his +assistance, his own sister, Lady Polexfen. She was dressed in a +large white hat, and filmy summer gown, this warm July day, and was +sauntering around, attended by a military man, occasionally scanning +people or pictures, with a long-handled eye-glass. After a time, <em>we</em> +came into its range!</p> + +<p>I turned away hastily, for I had no desire to encounter her ladyship, +and affected to be absorbed in a beautiful sketch of sunrise on the +Jumna, and the Taj! This was a much-admired gem, and the crowd gathered +closely around it.</p> + +<p>I hoped that Lady Polexfen had already <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>passed by. Then I heard her +voice say, close behind me, “My dear Everard!” Then, in fluent French, +“What on earth <em>are</em> you doing here, dragging about these shabby, +second-rate women? Have you lost your senses? And you know this is a +place where <em>every</em> one sees every one.”</p> + +<p>“So it seems!” he answered, in equally fluent French, “but there is no +occasion for you to see <em>me</em>. These shabby people, as you call them, +are not second-rate, but first-rate.”</p> + +<p>“The Marchioness of Kinsale pointed you out to me, and laughed. She was +so amused at my eccentric brother.”</p> + +<p>“Horrid, painted old harridan!” he answered, now roused to aggression. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>“I would not be seen speaking to her, if I were you; but, then, <em>you</em> +are not particular, as long as a woman has a handle to her name and a +bran-new gown to her back! Now, <em>I</em> prefer the society of <em>ladies</em>.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, very well, <em>very</em> well,” in a choked voice. “Pray, pray go your +own way, and you’ll see where it lands you. Only, don’t come to me +for advice and assistance!” And here, as Emma turned and asked me +for the catalogue, our neighborhood was, perhaps, suspected, for +Lady Polexfen’s remonstrances ceased, and presently I saw her large +picture-hat slowly passing through a doorway into another room.</p> + +<p>As Emma had not caught sight of her, I kept this delightful experience +entirely to myself. It certainly rather threw a cloud over the pleasure +of my day—a cloud which, I must confess, Mr. Somers—so cheery, +so courteous, so chivalrous, so determined to treat us as great +ladies—did much to dispel.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> + +<p>As we took leave of him, and thanked him warmly for all the pleasure he +had given us, he looked hard at me from under the brim of his tall hat, +and said—</p> + +<p>“The pleasure has been conferred by Mrs. and Miss Hayes, and I trust +that this will not be the last day by many that we shall spend +together.”</p> + +<p>Next morning brought a messenger with a note from Mr. Somers, and a +quantity of lovely flowers. Of course, I read this note, which was +written in a bold, black, determined sort of hand; it said—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p> + +“<span class="smcap">Dear Mrs. Hayes</span>,<br /> +</p> + +<p>“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 am <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>very busy getting under weigh. I start the first +thing to-morrow. Kind regards to Miss Hayes and yourself.</p> + +<p class="yrs">“Yours sincerely,</p> +<p class="sig">“<span class="smcap">E. Somers</span>.<br /> +</p> + +<p>“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.”</p></div> + +<p>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 he <em>had</em> them. 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.</p> + +<p>The autumn went by without any incident, save that Emma’s strength +and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>spirits 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<p class="center">LADY HILDEGARDE’S PHOTOGRAPH.</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">After</span> waiting 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.</p> + +<p>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-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>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 um<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>brella. 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 +somewhat <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">passée</i> cards, cleared a space on the table, and proceeded to +deal them out in four neat rows.</p> + +<p>“I am going to do your fortune,” she announced. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>“This is your +birthday. I wish it had not come on a Friday; however, let me see. Oh, +dear, dear, dear! <em>All</em> the 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.”</p> + +<p>“But I have not thought of any wish.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! and I see money; but here is this horrible ace of spades—the +death card.”</p> + +<p>At this instant we heard a strange voice, and a sound of scuffling +steps in the passage.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Whereupon a tall elderly lady, in a long damp waterproof, bounced into +the room, showing every one of her front teeth.</p> + +<p>“Pray excuse my calling at this late hour,” she said, shaking hands +with us effusively. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>“At least, it is not really late, only half-past +four, quite visiting time <em>still</em>; but it is so dark, it might be the +middle of the night.”</p> + +<p>To which statement we politely assented, and also further conceded +“that it had been a shockingly wet day.”</p> + +<p>“And how do you like dear little Stonebrook?” she asked. “If you’ll +allow me, I’ll just take off my cloak.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it is not very lively,” replied Emma; “but then, I came here for +my health.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, indeed,” rising to hang her waterproof carefully over a chair, and +taking a seat nearer to Emma whom she stared at exhaustively.</p> + +<p>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, and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>her 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.</p> + +<p>“How long shall you stay, do you think?”</p> + +<p>“I really have not formed any plans—possibly all the winter.”</p> + +<p>“And Miss——,” looking at me interrogatively. “<em>Surely</em> not your +daughter?”</p> + +<p>“No, my step-daughter—Miss Hayes.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a terrible dull place for young people, especially if they are +accustomed to India,” smiling at me blandly.</p> + +<p>“I have never been in India since I was two months old,” I replied with +precipitation.</p> + +<p>“But <em>you</em> were?” she observed, turning to Emma. “And army—of course?” +in a confidential key.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p> + +<p>“No. My husband had an appointment at the court of the Rajah of +Jam-Jam-More. He was his medical adviser.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, I understand”—in a patronizing key—“a native doctor!”</p> + +<p>“Oh no!” bursting into a merry laugh; “doctor to a native prince.”</p> + +<p>“Dear me! Is it not the same thing? How nice this room looks! Your own +pretty things, I am <em>sure</em>. What quantities of charming photographs! +May I peep at them?”—rising with a sprightly air.</p> + +<p>“Oh, certainly, with pleasure. But they are chiefly Indian friends—and +I doubt if you will find them interesting.”</p> + +<p>“I am <em>always</em> interested 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?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span></p> + +<p>“They belong to Mrs. Gabb—not to me—you must ask her.”</p> + +<p>“And you are not superstitious? Table-turning, palmistry, second sight, +planchette: do you believe in any of those?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>At this little anecdote I broke into a loud laugh—I invariably did so.</p> + +<p>“Of course, <em>that</em> was arrant nonsense!” remarked Miss Skuce, carefully +replacing the peacock’s feathers, and recommencing a tour of inspection.</p> + +<p>I watched her attentively, with her pointed nose, near-sighted eyes, +looped-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>“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, just +<em>now</em>,” and she looked at me expressively; “but I will tell you all +about it another time. I dare say the rectory people <em>may</em> come. At any +rate”—casting an appreciative glance at Emma’s unex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>pectedly elegant +appearance—“I shall make a point of mentioning you to them.”</p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>“What have I got here?” interrupted our visitor, who had been routing +on the chimney-piece, behind a fire-screen. “A <em>large</em> photograph +of dear Lady Hildegarde Somers!” holding it in both hands as if it +were some holy relic. “How <em>did</em> you come by it?” she demanded, in an +impressive key.</p> + +<p>“She gave it to me, of course,” was Emma’s simple reply.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Then you <em>know</em> her?” she gasped out at last.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Miss Skuce was now compelled to seek a seat, and signed to my +stepmother to continue.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“What kind of sport?” questioned her listener.</p> + +<p>“Sometimes tiger-shooting, sometimes hunting with cheetahs, sometimes +elephant-catching or pigsticking.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” ejaculated Miss Skuce, who was visibly impressed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p> + +<p>“You see, my husband had a capital appointment, though he <em>was</em> +uncovenanted. He drew large pay, and was supplied, besides, with +carriages and horses, a house and servants.”</p> + +<p>“How <em>very</em> nice! And about her ladyship?”</p> + +<p>“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, and <em>so</em> grateful. +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.”</p> + +<p>“Really. How strange!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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 they <em>are</em> at home. I have lost sight of so many people,” added +Emma, with a regretful sigh.</p> + +<p>“Not know where the Somers live!” repeated Miss Skuce. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>“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 for <em>her</em>, but then you cannot have everything. Maudie is very +handsome, but frightfully ambitious, worldly, haughty; quite, <em>quite</em> +between ourselves—<em>I</em> never took to Maudie.”</p> + +<p>I heartily but secretly applauded this sentiment.</p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>“That an old lord was better than none at all,” I supplemented briskly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I would not say <em>that</em>, by any means,” returned Miss Skuce, rather +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>stiffly. (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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Dear Lady Hildegarde is the moving spirit of the whole neighborhood,” +she remarked. “She is <em>so</em> active, 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.”</p> + +<p>“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, im<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>mediately +struck root, grew, and flourished, like Jack’s immortal beanstalk.</p> + +<p>“<em>How</em> I 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 foolishly <em>incog.</em> The Bennys of the Dovecote, and +the Prouts, will be overwhelmed to think that they have not called. Her +ladyship will say we have <em>all</em> neglected 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?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, thank you; I might be worse.”</p> + +<p>“I must send you some fresh eggs. How are you off for literature?”</p> + +<p>“In a starving condition. I’ve not seen a new book for months.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, then we will <em>all</em> supply you! I notice that you take the +<cite>Sussex Figaro</cite>,” <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>lifting the paper with a sudden swoop, and thereby +discovering the neatly arranged rows of playing cards!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“So you play patience, I see,” said our visitor, after a pause, and +with really admirable presence of mind.</p> + +<p>“Oh, anything, everything, from <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ecarté</i> to—to old maid, pour passer +le temps. I hope you will have some tea. Gwen, what <em>have</em> we been +thinking about? Come along and pour it out.”</p> + +<p>In ten minutes’ time, Miss Skuce had nearly emptied her third cup, +and, enlivened by the fragrant herb, had become <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>most talkative and +confidential, and developed a truly warm interest in us and our +concerns.</p> + +<p>Emma was advised whom she was to know, and whom she must <em>not</em> know +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.</p> + +<p>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 inanimate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>articles. 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.”</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<p class="center">WE GET INTO SOCIETY.</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Emma’s</span> bedroom 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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“<em>I</em> know what you have been thinking about,” I said, as we sat down +to break<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>fast—“or, rather, of whom you have been thinking—of Lady +Hildegarde.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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 would <em>ever</em> +change; 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 really <em>quite</em> affected, and gave me two large +photographs of herself, and kissed me over and over, and said, ‘I +cannot find words to express all I <em>feel</em>, 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!”</p> + +<p>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,—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 +(time <em>does</em> tell on eggs.)</p> + +<p>That afternoon, by three o’clock, our little room was full of +visitors—we were <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>positively 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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” assented Emma. “I knew her very well.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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 +a <em>sweet</em> little silver teapot the shape of an elephant.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I remember it—my husband gave it to her,” returned Emma, eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Ah, you don’t <em>say</em> so! 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?”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, we shall be very happy.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you have not made many acquaintances here, as yet?”</p> + +<p>“No; no one has called but Miss Skuce.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” smiling, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>“<em>she</em> calls 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.”</p> + +<p>“But I understand that Lady Hildegarde is a particular friend of hers?”</p> + +<p>“Of <em>hers</em>!—of Miss Skuce’s!” in a loud voice. “Oh, dear me, what +<em>has</em> she been telling you? She is never invited to the Abbey, except +once a year to the dignity ball here—and Lady Hildegarde merely makes +<em>use</em> of her at bazaars and charity teas.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“<em>So</em> pleased to find you at home,” offering two fat fingers, and +looking round anx<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>iously for a <em>solid</em> seat. “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!”</p> + +<p>The idea of Lady Bloss running anywhere was too preposterous to +entertain without smiles.</p> + +<p>“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!</p> + +<p>Little Mrs. Cholmondeley, the wife of a M. F. H., was still with us—a +smart, fashionable-looking woman, with sandy hair<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> and a long-handled +eye-glass, by means of which she noted everything.</p> + +<p>“Lady Bloss is quite <em>too</em> amusing,” she remarked, after she had sped +that lady most affectionately, and asked her <em>why</em> she 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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, excuse me,” said her friend; “Lady Bloss’s uncle married a +cousin of Lady Hildegarde’s aunt by marriage.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, spare my poor stupid head!” cried Mrs. Cholmondeley. “I call that +a conundrum, not a connection; don’t you, Mrs. Hayes?”</p> + +<p>Emma smiled sympathetically; she hated riddles.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>Emma admitted that she liked it—in fine weather.</p> + +<p>“Then I shall come some afternoon early and take you out. Will Monday +suit you, at two o’clock?”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, it is very kind of you.”</p> + +<p>“And your daughter, too; there will be plenty of room. I hope two +o’clock is not interfering with your dinner hour?”</p> + +<p>Emma reddened, as she replied with some dignity—</p> + +<p>“Oh no, thank you; we always dine late.”</p> + +<p>Yes, we called it dinner. When our last visitor had driven away, Emma +turned to me and said—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“I think it is most likely either that, or she would have called the +police.”</p> + +<p>“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 her <em>credit</em>!”</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<p class="center">A VISIT OF SEVEN MINUTES.</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Emma’s</span> prophecy 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. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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 many <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>bounties. “<em>She</em> was expected at the end +of the week,” so Miss Skuce informed us, and I am confident that the +entire community were on the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">qui-vive</i> to 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 am <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>equally 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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“She does not know I am in Europe, much less in Stonebrook,” replied +Emma; “we never corresponded.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s nothing. I know from my own experience that she hates +writing letters—she never even writes to <em>me</em>! 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 feel <em>hurt</em> +to 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.”</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p> + +“<span class="smcap">Dear Lady Hildegarde</span>,<br /> +</p> + +<p>“I am sure you will be surprised when <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>you 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 days <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>that 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 eaten <em>my</em> loaf, 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,</p> + +<p class="yrs"> “Very sincerely yours,</p> +<p class="sig">“<span class="smcap">Emma Hayes</span>.”</p> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p> +<p>There was no answer to this letter for three days, and then a messenger +brought the following reply:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p class="right">“Coppingham Abbey, Thursday.</p> + +<p> +“<span class="smcap">Dear Mrs. Hayes</span>,<br /> +</p> + +<p>“<em>So</em> sorry 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 lose <em>no time</em> in +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.</p> + +<p class="yrs">“Yours faithfully,</p> +<p class="sig">“<span class="smcap">Hildegarde Somers</span>.”</p> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>little—“why, that is the Abbey carriage passing now. +Look, Gwen, look!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 about <em>me</em>, 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.</p> + +<p>Lady Hildegarde did not call that evening—no, not for a whole week. I +noticed her driving by on several occasions. As <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>she 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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But I don’t like her face, Emma. With all its smiles, it could be very +grim and hard.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, my dearest Gwen, that is imagination; she has a most charming +expression. When you know her, you feel that you could do <em>anything</em> +for her!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Probably; but she would not do anything for <em>me</em>! 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!”</p> + +<p>“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 with <em>me</em>, 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.”</p> + +<p>“I think she ought to be very grateful to you, Emma,” I persisted, +doggedly.</p> + +<p>“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 she <em>is</em> just the same as ever.”</p> + +<p>Two days more, and yet Lady Hilde<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>garde 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.</p> + +<p>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. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>“She is like him, is she not? He was fair, was not +he—with a reddish beard?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no,” replied Emma, and her voice trembled. “I’m afraid you don’t +quite remember him—he was very dark.”</p> + +<p>“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 have +<em>not</em> forgotten: 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.”</p> + +<p>“I have been rather ailing,” said Emma, faintly.</p> + +<p>“You really must get away to Torquay this Christmas. Have you made any +friends here?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Scarcely friends,” was her reply; “though people have been most kind +to me. My friends are in India.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I am sure you are very kind, but——”</p> + +<p>“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 in <em>your</em> carriage,” she added, quite affectionately.</p> + +<p>I saw the tears standing in Emma’s <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>eyes. 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.</p> + +<p>“Now, I will take no excuse; there is no occasion for me to send you a +formal card, is there?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, no,” protested Emma, eagerly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 was <em>so</em> good to us!” fell on her ear.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p> + +<p>“In London!” she repeated slowly, turning about to confront Emma, and +speaking in a cool, constrained voice—an insolent voice. “How <em>did</em> he +discover you?”</p> + +<p>“Quite by accident, I assure you!” Why should Emma’s tone so suddenly +assume an apologetic key? “We met at the Stores!”</p> + +<p>“The Stores!”—a pregnant pause—“Oh, so <em>you</em> were 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?</p> + +<p>“Where is Mr. Everard Somers?” pursued Emma, rather timidly; “and how +is he?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> + +<p>“He is quite well, and rambling about as usual. Well, now, I must +<em>really</em> go. 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, <em>that</em> is +over!”—and then she drove off.</p> + +<p>“<em>How</em> kind!” cried Emma. “Just her dear old self, isn’t she, darling? +Now, come, what did I tell you?” stroking my smileless face.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think her kindness is so very remarkable, after all,” I +grumbled, as I tidied up a chair-back.</p> + +<p>“How difficult it is to please you young people! What more <em>would</em> you +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?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>“Well, has she been to call yet?” demanded Miss Skuce, in a querulous +voice, as she entered our apartments the next morning.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, last evening,” I answered promptly, with a sense of relief.</p> + +<p>“Last <em>evening</em>! Nonsense!” was the rude response. “I never saw the +carriage. It wasn’t in the street.”</p> + +<p>“At any rate, it was here yesterday,” replied Emma, rather stiffly.</p> + +<p>“When?” very sharply.</p> + +<p>“About half-past five or six o’clock; it was quite dark.”</p> + +<p>“Pitch dark of course. Dear me, what a strange hour!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Well, you see, as Lady Hildegarde says herself, there is no occasion +to be ceremonious with <em>me</em>.”</p> + +<p>“That’s true,” brightening up. “And what else did she say?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she talked of India and of old times. She has invited us to dinner +on Christmas Day.”</p> + +<p>“Come! that <em>is</em> a compliment. For, of course, it’s a family party. But +how will you get there? Scott never hires out his flies on Christmas +Day.”</p> + +<p>“Lady Hildegarde has kindly offered to send for us.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense!—and Mr. Somers is so churlish of his horses?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, we are to sleep at the Abbey that night,” said Emma, carelessly.</p> + +<p>“Well, upon my word, I call that doing it comfortably. I am <em>so</em> glad,” +suddenly rising and wringing Emma’s hand. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>“You <em>will</em> enjoy it! +Christmas at the Abbey! You will have no end to tell us. Oh, by the +way, did you—did she—mention me?”</p> + +<p>“No,” was the rather shamefaced admission.</p> + +<p>Miss Skuce looked extremely glum.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, no, no—ten thousand times no! It’s not worth mentioning, only +that I am <em>sure</em> she 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 +that <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>a peeress had left a recent impress on the same pale lips—and +went forth in haste to spread the news.</p> + +<p>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—to +<em>live</em> there. 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.</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<p class="center">FOUR IN A FLY.</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">A few</span> days 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 my <em>début</em> at 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.</p> + +<p>This tramp along a muddy footpath was the result of my companion’s +extreme anxiety with respect to my complexion! <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>“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, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>“I’m having a party to-morrow night, some +music and a little dance. It would be a <em>big</em> dance if <em>I</em> had 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!”</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>“Oh, my dear! I wish I had your complexion!—your lovely roses!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“So I hear,” answered Emma, meekly. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But, really, we scarcely know the Misses Benny sufficiently well to +ask——”</p> + +<p>“But <em>I</em> know them, and <em>I’ll</em> ask. 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.</p> + +<p>Here was something to discuss during <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>the remainder of our walk, and +over our tea!</p> + +<p>“I am sure the Bennys will <em>hate</em> having 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 than <em>I</em>?”</p> + +<p>“You are quite different, dear. You don’t understand.”</p> + +<p>“No, I don’t understand,” I answered with angry impatience; “and I am +not going.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but, Gwen, I <em>wish</em> you to go. Go to please me. You never get any +variety or amusement.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>At this moment Mrs. Gabb appeared, with a cocked-hat note between her +finger and thumb.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p> + +<p>“It’s from the Dovecote, please, Miss; and the boy is in the hall +waiting for an answer.”</p> + +<p>The missive was addressed to me, and proved to be unexpectedly cordial. +It said—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p> + +“<span class="smcap">Dear Miss Hayes</span>,<br /> +</p> + +<p>“We shall be delighted to take you to Mrs. Cholmondeley’s to-morrow +evening, and will call for you at a quarter to nine.</p> + +<p class="yrs">“Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p class="sig">“<span class="smcap">Jessica Benny</span>.”</p> +</div> + +<p>“There! You see you have no alternative,” cried Emma, triumphantly. +“Just scribble a nice little note and say that you accept their kind +offer with much pleasure.”</p> + +<p>When I had despatched my reply, and taken up my needlework, Emma +continued—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p> + +<p>“I wonder if you will know any one in the room. I do <em>hope</em> Lady +Hildegarde will be there. I am sure she will look after you, and make +it pleasant for you.”</p> + +<p>I was not so sanguine on this point, but I merely said with a laugh—</p> + +<p>“Perhaps we shall have Lady Polexfen, too. Do you think <em>she</em> will make +it pleasant for me?”</p> + +<p>“She is a cold, arrogant wretch; not one bit like her mother or her +brother. I wish he were to be there. He would be sure to notice you.”</p> + +<p>“Notice me!” I echoed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span></p> + +<p>“There, now—there, now! My dear Gwen, you know what I mean. No +offense, as they say. Upon my word, when your eyes flash like that, I +feel quite terrified. I cannot think where you get your pride—and you +are desperately proud—certainly not from your poor dear father. He +had not a scrap of pride—except—just on one subject.” And she gazed +rather dreamily at the lamp.</p> + +<p>“And what was that subject?” I inquired.</p> + +<p>No answer. She did not seem to hear me. Her thoughts were far away.</p> + +<p>“What subject, Emma,” I repeated, “was my father’s one sensitive +point?”</p> + +<p>“Oh”—rather confusedly—“it was an old, old story. It is no use in +recalling it now. Would you mind running into my room, dear, and +fetching me the large scissors?”</p> + +<p>It was evident that my usually communicative stepmother wished to +change the conversation.</p> + +<p>The next evening I placed myself and my toilet entirely in Emma’s +hands. She was a clever hairdresser, and lingered long over my +adornment; it being, as she con<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>fessed to me, “a labor of love.” When +the last pin had been fastened, she surveyed me with an air of critical +approval, and said—</p> + +<p>“Now, Gwen, look at yourself, and tell me your candid opinion of Miss +Hayes?”</p> + +<p>I rose up and surveyed my appearance in a narrow little mirror in +her wardrobe, whilst Emma stood on a chair and held the flat candle +triumphantly over my head.</p> + +<p>I wore my thick fair hair turned off my face as usual; a long plain +white satin gown, a lace fichu knotted in front, and a little gold +necklet and locket which had once belonged to my own mother.</p> + +<p>“I think, since you ask me,” I said, “that Miss Hayes is absurdly +overdressed, most unsuitably got up. This magnificent satin, this +cobwebby lace, are ridiculously out of place on <em>me</em>.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span></p> + +<p>“They don’t look out of place, I can assure you; you become them to the +manner born. You might be a countess in your own right, as far as your +appearance and style are concerned. I must say, Gwen, that you are a +girl that it is a pleasure to dress; you have quite a grand air, such a +remarkable carriage.”</p> + +<p>“Carriage!” I repeated, with a laugh of scorn. “I wish I <em>had</em> a +carriage—yes, and a pair—so that I need not intrude upon the Miss +Bennys; three in a fly are too many.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, and do take care of your gown, darling; lift it up well, and hold +the train in your lap. This is only a dress rehearsal for Christmas +Day, and I should be <em>so</em> vexed if you got your frock tumbled or +soiled.”</p> + +<p>I promised in the most solemn manner to take the greatest care of my +toilet, and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>refused for the tenth time the eagerly pressed loan of her +diamond brooch, “just to give the lace a finish.”</p> + +<p>“My dear Emma, I am going to this party to please you; I am wearing +lace and satin fit for a duchess to please you; but I really must +decline the diamonds. As it is, people will be quite sufficiently +tickled, when they compare my costume with my position and +surroundings; they will say all sorts of nasty things.”</p> + +<p>“They will say you are a princess in disguise!”</p> + +<p>“Pooh! they will say I am a pauper who has been swindling some London +dressmaker! I shall make myself small, and sit in a corner, and try and +escape notice,” and I sailed into the sitting-room.</p> + +<p>Here I found an immediate opportunity of testing the effect of my +transformation. Mrs. Gabb, who (as an excuse to obtain a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>private view) +was making up the fire, dropped the poker with a frightful clang, as +she ejaculated—</p> + +<p>“Good laws—laws me! Well—I never!” which I accepted as a very +handsome tribute to my splendid appearance. In another five minutes the +glories of my costume were concealed beneath a long fur-trimmed evening +cloak (yet another relic of Emma’s wealthy days), and I found myself +shut into a fly, with my back to the horse, and driving away with the +two Miss Bennys and Mrs. Montmorency Green, their cousin. I ventured to +thank them, rather timidly.</p> + +<p>“It is so very kind of you to take me,” I murmured; “and I am quite +ashamed of crushing you like this.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you must only make yourself as <em>small</em> as you can,” said the +elder, with asperity. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>“We would do <em>anything</em> to oblige dear Mrs. +Cholmondeley; and she made quite a point of our taking you with us.”</p> + +<p>The tone in which this was said left no doubt on my mind that Miss +Benny was extremely surprised at Mrs. Cholmondeley’s enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“I suppose it will not be a large party?” I hazarded, still more +timidly.</p> + +<p>“Not a large party! We shall have half the county; <em>every one</em> will be +there. The Moate is such a dear old place—splendid pictures, grand +reception-rooms—and the Cholmondeleys do everything so well; they gave +three weeks’ invitation, so it’s sure to be extra smart!”</p> + +<p>Three weeks’ invitation, and I had been asked at the eleventh hour! I +now shrank into my corner of the fly and relapsed into silence, feeling +as small as Miss Benny could possibly desire.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span></p> + +<p>As we bowled steadily along the hard country roads, my three companions +launched into the news of the neighborhood, entirely ignoring my +presence. I gathered that Mrs. Montmorency Green was a newcomer, and +that her cousins were anxious to post her up in all the fashionable +intelligence.</p> + +<p>“They have a large house-party at the Moate, and there will be a lawn +meet to-morrow,” said Miss Benny.</p> + +<p>“I wonder if the Somers will give a dance this winter?” added her +sister. “I should like Annie here to see the Abbey—it’s such a +wonderful old place. The library is what was once the monks’ refectory.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, there will be no dances at the Abbey now that Lady Hildegarde has +married her <em>daughter</em>,” remarked her sister decisively.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p> + +<p>“But she has a son!”</p> + +<p>“My dear Jessica, a mother does not give balls for her son: she leaves +that to other women!”</p> + +<p>“They have lost a lot of money lately; old Mr. Somers is in his dotage, +and has burnt his fingers badly over investments in South America, and +the son <em>must</em> marry money. Both families wish him to marry”—here the +fly rattled over a sheet of stones, and I lost the name. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>“His mother +is quite determined about it. I don’t call her a good-looking girl, +and I can’t imagine what any of the men see in her, except unlimited +effrontery. She calls herself advanced. <em>I</em> call her abominably fast. +She goes about everywhere alone, just as she pleases, hunts, and keeps +race-horses. They say her style of conversation is most extraordinary. +She shoots, smokes, fishes, and rules her poor father with a rod of +iron. In fact, she is just like a young man!”</p> + +<p>“Only, young men don’t generally rule their fathers with a rod of +iron,” said the cousin, smartly.</p> + +<p>“And I don’t believe that she keeps race-horses,” put in Miss Jessica.</p> + +<p>“I should like to see her. I hope she will be at this place to-night,” +remarked Mrs. Green. “If she <em>is</em>, you must be sure and point her out.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you may easily recognize her! She is always surrounded by a +multitude of men, and you can hear her voice above the band!” rejoined +Miss Benny. Then, suddenly, to me, “Are you asleep, Miss Hayes?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid”—with a sigh—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>“you will find it rather dull to-night, +as you are a stranger, and know so few people. However, you can amuse +yourself looking at the pictures—they are all masterpieces, and there +is sure to be a good supper.”</p> + +<p>I made no reply. No doubt I must make up my mind to play the <em>rôle</em> of +looker-on; I was well accustomed to the part.</p> + +<p>We were now in the avenue, which was very long, and quite a string of +carriages were already disgorging their contents. We drove under a +portico, stepped out on red cloth, were ushered up by powdered footmen, +and passed on to the ladies’ room, where three or four smart maids were +ready to relieve us of our wraps. The Miss Bennys and their cousin +nodded to several acquaintances, and made a bold and combined assault +upon the dressing-table. The sisters Benny were dressed alike in prim +black evening dresses, with stiff little bouquets pinned in on the left +side—just over the region of the heart. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>Their hair was extremely +neat, and really their anxiety was unnecessary; however, they powdered +their noses and twitched their fringes; meanwhile, I had divested +myself of my long mantle, and patiently awaited their good pleasure.</p> + +<p>At last they were ready, and as Miss Benny’s eyes fell on me I saw +a change come over her whole face. She glanced expressively at her +relatives, and then again at me. As I waited humbly for her to pass +out, she found her voice.</p> + +<p>“Upon <em>my</em> word!” she exclaimed, with a very forced smile. “If we are +to go by <em>appearances</em>, Miss Hayes”—now looking me up and down from +head to foot—“we should walk after <em>you</em>!” And then, with a violent +toss of her head, she led the way out of the room, followed by her +cousin, Miss Jessica Benny, and last and least—myself.</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<p class="center">THE CHALGROVE EYEBROWS.</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> passed into a large, oak-paneled hall, and then up a wide, shallow +staircase, carpeted with soft crimson carpet, and lined with large +oil paintings, chiefly portraits. At the head of the stairs we were +received by Mrs. Cholmondeley, all smiles, diamonds, and blue crêpe. +She was surrounded by a crowd which appeared to have overflowed from +the reception-rooms. Our hostess passed on my three companions, with +three smiles and three hurried nods, but looked at me for quite five +seconds, and, putting forth a most dainty hand, drew me affectionately +towards her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span></p> + +<p>“She is in my charge now,” she called after the Miss Bennys. +“Thank you <em>so</em> much. Dear me!” she continued, turning to me with +a little dry laugh, “do you know that you are a very pretty and +distinguished-looking girl, and are bound to be the belle of the +evening? Yes, indeed, my charming, blushing Cinderella. Aubrey Price, +come here,” beckoning to an extremely lackadaisical young man, who +now lazily approached. “I give Miss Hayes into your charge. Take +the greatest care of her. Take her to the refreshment-room—the +morning-room, you know—and get her tea—or something.”</p> + +<p>And, behold! I was launched out there and then into an acquaintance. My +cavalier surveyed me, and I surveyed my cavalier, with much gravity. He +was fair, slight, rather good-looking, and clean-shaven. He displayed +a vast expanse of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>shirt-front, and wore a pair of exquisitely fitting +gloves.</p> + +<p>“Well, I suppose we must obey orders,” he answered, “whether you want +tea or not.”</p> + +<p>We accordingly wended our way to the buffet, where he exerted himself +to procure me a cup of coffee, and stood and watched me as I sipped it. +I looked up suddenly, and caught his rather small, keen blue eyes fixed +on me, and nearly upset the contents of my cup over the front of my +immaculate white gown.</p> + +<p>“These sort of half-and-half affairs are ghastly,” he remarked, as he +took my cup. “Don’t you think so?”</p> + +<p>“No; I do not,” I answered bravely, for this fine old house, crowds of +gay, well-dressed people, delicious strains of a string band, lights, +flowers, pictures, were to my mind extremely enjoyable. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>“But, of +course, I should prefer a real dance.”</p> + +<p>“And I should <em>not</em>,” he rejoined energetically. “Here, at least, you +can sneak away and go to sleep in a comfortable armchair; but at what +you call a ‘real dance,’ upon my word, the way in which hostesses drive +and hustle one about is enough to call for the intervention of the +police or the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; and, +if you stand against a wall, people trample on your feet!” At the mere +recollection of his sufferings, he almost looked as if he was going to +cry.</p> + +<p>“The remedy is in your own hands,” I replied unfeelingly. “<em>Dance.</em>”</p> + +<p>“No, no,”—shaking his head,—“not if I know it. I don’t mind sitting +out now and then, just to oblige; but I draw the line at dancing. I’m +too old.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p> + +<p>I gazed at him in amazement. He could not be more than four or +five-and-twenty at the most.</p> + +<p>“Then why do you go to dances, where you are so cruelly ill-used?” I +asked; “hustled, as you say, and driven about and trampled on?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I only go when duty calls me, and, thank goodness, that is not +often. When the ball is given by one’s cousin’s cousin, or one’s aunt, +or some old pal of my governor’s.”</p> + +<p>“Then your father is actually alive?”</p> + +<p>“Alive! I should think so! And a younger man than I am. <em>He</em> dances, so +does my mother.”</p> + +<p>“Really! And you go about in a bath-chair?”</p> + +<p>“Well, not just <em>yet</em>. I’m not altogether so feeble as I look”—in a +bantering tone. “I say, are you staying in the house?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p> + +<p>“No; I have only just arrived.”</p> + +<p>“Then”—with much animation—“did you notice if it was freezing when +you came along?”</p> + +<p>“No; it was just beginning to drizzle.”</p> + +<p>“Then that’s all right. You see, the hounds meet here to-morrow, the +best draw at this side of the county, and the country is all plain +sailing, very sound going. You hunt, of course?”</p> + +<p>“No, indeed. But do you?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t I? Every one hunts down here. I’ve had fifty days this winter +already.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, then you are not too decrepit to ride?” I inquired.</p> + +<p>He stared at me for a second, and burst into a roar of laughter as he +answered—</p> + +<p>“I hunt six days a week regular; there’s nothing to touch it.”</p> + +<p>“You must require a good many horses.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes, pretty well; I have thirty, but two of them are dead lame, and +three are mere jumping hacks. Would you like to come down-stairs and do +the picture-gallery? This blessed demi-semi dance won’t begin for an +hour.”</p> + +<p>“I should like to see the pictures very much indeed,” I answered; and +we made our way slowly back to the head of the stairs. The crowd was +immense. There seemed to be two or three hundred people present. The +grand staircase was deserted now. Guests had arrived and ebbed away to +the ball-room or tea-room. We descended the delightfully shallow stairs +side by side, I moving with the dignity due to my rich satin train, +which trailed behind me languidly.</p> + +<p>There were some new arrivals in the hall, chiefly men. One of them +looked up suddenly, and I saw that it was Mr. Somers. He contemplated +me and my <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>cavalier with unconcealed surprise. However, he had +evidently made up his mind that I was no ghost, but my own solid self, +for as I put my white slipper on the last step, he came forward with an +out-stretched hand, and said—</p> + +<p>“How do you do, Miss Hayes? You were the last to speed me, and almost +the first person I meet when I return home. Hullo, Aubrey,” to my +companion, “going strong, eh? How are all the horses?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, fairly fit. When did you come back?”</p> + +<p>“This afternoon; and my sister put me on duty at once, you see. She is +stopping all night for the meet to-morrow, and so am I.”</p> + +<p>“So am I,” echoed the other triumphantly.</p> + +<p>“How is Mrs. Hayes?” inquired Mr. Somers. “Is she here this evening?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> + +<p>“She is pretty well, thank you. No, she is not here to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Are you staying in the neighborhood?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; for the present—at Stonebrook.”</p> + +<p>“I’m delighted to hear it. Where are <em>you</em> bound for, Aubrey?”</p> + +<p>“We are going to do the pictures. I’m showman.”</p> + +<p>“What a preposterous fraud! Miss Hayes, he knows no more of pictures +than he does of making a watch! I’ll take you round the gallery; at +least, I know a Landseer from a Rubens.”</p> + +<p>“Not a little bit of it,” rejoined the other. “Miss Hayes was given +into my sole charge—were you not, Miss Hayes?—and I am responsible +for her. Go up-stairs—you will find some old friends,” he added, +rather significantly.</p> + +<p>During this polite competition for my <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>company, Miss Benny and her +cousin had been hovering about in our vicinity, and now accosted me—</p> + +<p>“Ahem, Miss Hayes, my dear, the dancing will not begin for half an +hour; don’t you think you had better come and sit with <em>us</em> till then?”</p> + +<p>But I had not forgotten my recent treatment at her hands, and said—</p> + +<p>“Oh, thank you, Miss Benny, I am just going to see the pictures, as +you recommended, and you know I <em>have</em> sat with you for nearly an hour +already in the fly, and you will have me again going back.”</p> + +<p>Miss Benny sniffed, glared, and backed herself away in purple wrath.</p> + +<p>“I see you are a match for Miss Benny,” said Mr. Somers, with a grin.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Miss Hayes is a match for most people. She has been pitching into +<em>me</em> for not dancing,” said my escort with serene complacency.</p> + +<p>“And quite right too, you <em>are</em> a lazy beggar!”</p> + +<p>But I noticed that Mr. Somers looked at me with a puzzled air. I dare +say he scarcely recognized the meek, shabbily dressed girl of last July +in the present Miss Hayes. I was puzzled also—I scarcely recognized +myself. I was <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tête montée</i>; my surroundings, my splendid gown, had +transformed me; it was certainly another young woman, a total stranger, +who was sauntering about in my body, and treading on air!</p> + +<p>“When the dancing begins I shall fetch you, Miss Hayes. I hope you will +give me the first waltz,” and he took out a small pencil, “and two +others. May I have five and ten?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; but I should warn you that I am not an experienced performer.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p> + +<p>“So much the better; you won’t want to steer,” writing rapidly on his +shirt cuff.</p> + +<p>To my great surprise I saw Mr. Aubrey Price also preparing <em>his</em> shirt +cuff for manuscript.</p> + +<p>“And I—how many may I have, if you please?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, really, I should not like to victimize you,” I protested.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense! Shall we say the first square and the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pas de quatre</i>?”</p> + +<p>“Very well, if it will not be too fatiguing for you,” I replied, +and he also scribbled on his cuff; and then we walked on into the +picture-gallery.</p> + +<p>The gallery was full of people, and between looking at them and +the pictures the moments flew. I had not half made the tour of the +paintings when I found Mr. Somers already claiming me. We went +up-stairs to the dancing-room—two <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>immense drawing-rooms, decorated +with flowers and palms. The deep windows held seats, and there were two +or three sofas at one end of the ball-room, otherwise it was empty. +A string band was stationed in the conservatory. Many couples were +swimming round to the strains of the Hydropaten waltz, and in another +second Mr. Somers and I had joined them.</p> + +<p>The floor was perfect, and the music corresponded. Dancing came to me +almost by nature, and I had been extremely well taught; then I was +young, slender, tireless. We went round, and round, and round, with an +easy swing, until the waltz ceased in one long-drawn-out, wo-begone +wail.</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” said my partner; “that <em>was</em> a treat! Your estimation of +your dancing is too modest. You dance like a South American.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span></p> + +<p>As I had never seen a South American, I could not say whether that +was a compliment or otherwise. Whilst we threaded our way into the +tea-room, I noticed that my partner appeared to know every one, and +that they all seemed glad to see him. Smiling ladies accosted him and +asked when he had come back; men slapped him on the shoulder, and I +noticed that some looked hard at him, and then sharply at me. At last +we reached our goal, and as he brought me an ice he said—</p> + +<p>“Where did you learn to dance?”</p> + +<p>“In Paris. I was at school there for four years.”</p> + +<p>“Then, of course, you speak French like a native?”</p> + +<p>“I can make myself understood.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> + +<p>“I see you are accustomed to under-rate your accomplishments. Shall we +go into the next room, and get out of this crush?”</p> + +<p>We moved into what was Mrs. Cholmondeley’s boudoir, and was now +reserved for sitters-out. Here I recognized several familiar faces. +Amongst them the Miss Bennys and their cousin, who were seated in a row +watching me. Close beside us, before the fire, stood an animated, not +to say noisy group, consisting of half a dozen young men and several +girls. One of the latter was the center of attraction; every one of the +others seemed to address her, or to wish for her sole attention, and I +did not wonder. She appeared to be exceedingly vivacious and amusing, +and was pretty and uncommon-looking. Her costume was peculiar, but I +rightly guessed it to be the work of a Parisian artiste. The body was +of black <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">crêpe de Chine</i> gathered into bands of gold embroi<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>dery, the +shirt of white brocade, with a thick border of Neapolitan violets; +a crimson crêpe scarf was tied negligently round her dainty waist, +violets were tucked into her bodice and her hair, which was fair and +very abundant. She had penciled, dark eyebrows, and dark gray eyes, +which former afforded a striking contrast to her light locks. I never +saw any one with a more piquant expression, or with such a wonderfully +varied play of features. She wore unusually long gloves, and brandished +an enormous black feather fan, as she talked with much volubility. +Suddenly she caught sight of my companion, and paused as he said—</p> + +<p>“How are you, Miss Chalgrove?”</p> + +<p>“Why, Everard!” she exclaimed, “I had no idea you were here, though I +knew you were expected. Why did you not come with Maudie?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p> + +<p>“I had only just arrived, and, like you ladies, I had all my unpacking +to do, and to dress and fix my hair.”</p> + +<p>“But you had no dinner here——?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I had something on the stairs, like the children. Have you had +good sport this winter?”</p> + +<p>“Capital! I’ve brought one of my gees here; father is here, too. He has +brought old Champion.”</p> + +<p>“I saw him going very well on Saturday week,” put in a tall, thin man. +“From Benson’s Cross, you know. He was quite in the first flight in +that second run, you remember.”</p> + +<p>And now every one of these people began to talk clamorously, and at +once—and all about hunting. Their conversation was extraordinary (to +an outsider). Mr. Somers was drawn into the conversation, and was not +a whit behind-hand; but just <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>flowed like a tide into the subject, +as interested and excited as the most rabid fox-hunter among them. I +caught such scraps as—“Got hung up in a nasty corner,” “Miss Flagg +at the bottom of a ditch, her saddle in one field, her horse in the +other,” “scent catchy,” “foxes not very good,” “drains all open,” “the +pace terrific,” “the ladies screaming behind him.” It was all Greek to +me.</p> + +<p>I stood a little aloof, though not conspicuously so—for the room +was full—and watched this girl. She had a loud, clear, far-carrying +voice and laugh; she was small, slight, and dazzlingly fair, her +fair skin enhanced by her black brows and lashes. Somehow, her face +seemed familiar to me; she was like some one I knew. Who could it be? +As I meditated, I glanced unconsciously into the great mirror above +the chimney-piece, in which we were all <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>reflected, and instantly +recognized who it was that she resembled. It was <em>myself</em>! I recalled +with a sudden thrill that my own mother’s name was Chalgrove. Perhaps +this girl was some connection—perhaps my cousin! More unlikely things +might be!</p> + +<p>She was smart, popular, pretty, wealthy, and what is known as “in the +swim.” She was holding quite a small court on the hearthrug—a gay, +quick-witted, and capricious queen.</p> + +<p>What a contrast to myself—a poor obscure nobody, and at the present +moment nothing more nor less than a mere daw decked out in peacock’s +feathers! I gazed at Miss Chalgrove—I had heard of her—Lord +Chalgrove’s sole child and heiress. I stared at her contemplatively +in the mirror; suddenly she looked up, and our eyes met! Whatever she +was about to say <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>died away in a sort of broken sentence, and then +she unexpectedly touched me on the arm with her fan, and said with a +radiant smile—</p> + +<p>“Yes, I see it too! Is it not <em>extraordinary</em>? We are as like as the +proverbial two peas; only you are the better looking of the two—the +sweet pea, and I am the common or garden pea! Joking apart, we might be +sisters. Where <em>did</em> you get the Chalgrove eyebrows and upper lip?”</p> + +<p>I colored furiously, for I was instantly the center of attention. +It seemed to me that every eye was fastened on my face, and the +distinctive Chalgrove features! To my immense relief, Mrs. Cholmondeley +at this moment made a sort of swoop into our circle, saying as she did +so—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Come away, my dearest child! you have fallen for your sins into the +hunting set. They can talk, think, dream of nothing else. Were they not +talking of horses? Oh, Mr. Somers, your sister is looking for you.”</p> + +<p>I heard a scrap of another conversation as I was being swept off—the +words, “My double—who is she?”</p> + +<p>“I see,” continued my hostess, “you are getting on capitally! I’m going +to introduce you to Sir Fulke Martin. He <em>asked</em> to be presented. He is +immensely rich, so be sure you are <em>very</em> nice to him!”</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<p class="center">“WE NEED NOT ASK IF YOU HAVE ENJOYED YOURSELF.”</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Sir Fulke</span>, who appeared to be expecting us, was a stout, bald +gentleman, with a pair of hard brown eyes and a fixed smile. He bowed +profoundly over his stiff shirt-front, as we were introduced; then Mrs. +Cholmondeley immediately cut me adrift, saying in her quick little way—</p> + +<p>“Now, Sir Fulke, there is a dance going on. Do take Miss Hayes into the +ball-room!”</p> + +<p>Sir Fulke piloted me carefully—danced with me carefully, but there +was not the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>same swing and go as with my former partner. Sir Fulke +gasped out several leading questions, and threw out filmy feelers in +order to discover who I was, and where I came from. I did not satisfy +his curiosity. Perhaps, if he had known that he was merely dancing with +Miss Hayes, who lived in cheap lodgings in Stonebrook, he would have +abandoned me in the middle of the room! He was very full of information +about himself, and talked of his place, his shooting, his hunters, +his intimate friend the Duke of Albion, and his sister la Comtesse de +Boulotte.</p> + +<p>As we danced, he paused several times to rest and to take breath, and +as we stood against the wall on one occasion, I found that my neighbor +was Miss Chalgrove.</p> + +<p>“Ah, so <em>here</em> you are!” she exclaimed gaily. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>“We ought to know one +another, don’t you think so—and without any formal introduction? Are +you staying in Stonebrook?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, for the present.”</p> + +<p>“You hunt, of <em>course</em>?” gazing at me eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Not I. I have never even been on a horse’s back.”</p> + +<p>“<em>What!</em>” she ejaculated, as if such an idea was too difficult to grasp.</p> + +<p>“Then we are not alike in everything. Why, I”—touching herself with +her fan—“<em>live</em> in the saddle—spend my days there, and would sleep +there if it were possible.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know. I’ve heard you are a splendid horse-woman.”</p> + +<p>“I’m going to have such a day to-morrow! I’ve brought over a new +hunter, a French steeplechaser, and mean to cut them all down—men and +women. Look out, and you’ll see an account in the <em>Field</em>.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes—I shall certainly look for it, and I hope you will get the brush.”</p> + +<p>“Have you any sisters?” she asked suddenly.</p> + +<p>“No—no sisters or brothers.”</p> + +<p>“Neither have I. How I wish——”</p> + +<p>Whatever she was about to wish was cut short by her impatient partner, +who now put in his claim, and plunged along with her into the revolving +crowd.</p> + +<p>I danced with Mr. Aubrey Price (the owner of thirty hunters), and as we +subsequently promenaded in the long corridor, we encountered a spare, +gray-haired, gentlemanly man, who stared so fixedly at me that I felt +quite uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>“That is Lord Chalgrove,” said Mr. Price. “He looked as if he knew +you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, he does not. I have never seen him in my life.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Well, I <em>hope</em> he will manage to recognize you again, at any +rate. I wish he would keep his daughter in order! What do you think +she said to me just now?”</p> + +<p>“I am sure I cannot imagine.”</p> + +<p>“That she would like to hold a class to teach young men manners?”</p> + +<p>“Were you to be a pupil?”</p> + +<p>“Of <em>course</em>! I shouldn’t wonder if my would-be teacher comes to grief +to-morrow. It’s a nasty country, tricky fences, and, by Jove! by all +accounts, she has got a horse to match.”</p> + +<p>“Why does her father allow her to ride him?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p> + +<p>“<em>Allow</em> her! It’s little you know Dolly Chalgrove. She allows <em>him</em> +to hunt—she allows him to call his soul his own! He gives her a very +loose rein; he is a widower, you see, and she’s his only child, and +very clever and taking, and like a sister of his that was ill-treated +and that died, and so he makes it up to Dolly. Capital business for +Dolly, eh?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I suppose it is, in some ways.”</p> + +<p>“A wonderful girl to ride to hounds, has a string of hunters and pays +top prices; very odd, but very good-hearted and genuine—no nonsense +about her. They say she is to marry Somers. I’m not sure that <em>he</em> +quite sees it, but his mother is awfully keen on it. He will be Lord +Chalgrove if he lives long enough; his father is the next male heir, +and it would be a sound thing to keep the money and the title in the +same family. The Somers are fearfully hard up.”</p> + +<p>“Are they?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; so I suppose it is bound to come off. Lady Hildegarde is very +strong.”</p> + +<p>“Then you take for granted that Miss Chalgrove would accept Mr. Somers +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>as a matter——”</p> + +<p>“As a matter of course,” he finished briskly.</p> + +<p>“What nonsense! How can you tell?”</p> + +<p>“A straw shows how the wind blows!”</p> + +<p>“I give you that straw for your opinion, and,” now warming up, “I think +it is too bad to discuss a girl, and take all sorts of things for +granted. It is taking a great liberty with her name.”</p> + +<p>“Hullo, <em>now</em> I’m catching it! I mean no harm; every one discusses his +neighbors’ little affairs. I don’t know what we should do without them. +If you bar that subject, what <em>are</em> we to talk about—come now?”</p> + +<p>“Books, politics, the weather.”</p> + +<p>“No, thank you”—with great scorn.</p> + +<p>“Well, then, horses.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that’s better.”</p> + +<p>We were now in the ball-room once <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>more, where we were promptly joined +by Mr. Somers.</p> + +<p>“You look as if you two were quarreling,” he remarked; “so I think I +had better separate you at once.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I’m crushed flat. I’m not to talk of my neighbors. We have fought +over Miss Chalgrove.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! That is strange, for she and I have just had a severe +passage-at-arms.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that does not surprise me! It’s quite <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en règle</i>,” and he grinned +significantly.</p> + +<p>Mr. Somers took no notice of the impudent hint, but said, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>“It’s +about a horse she will ride, in spite of her father or any one—a +steeplechaser she has picked up—and she is bound to have some nasty +accident if some one does not shoot him. I’ve a good mind to shoot him +myself, although he is a magnificent fencer, and can go all day—a +French horse, called Diable Vert.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, by Jove! I know him—a real nasty-tempered brute. He won two or +three good races, and then cut up rusty. They say he killed a jockey at +Auteuil.”</p> + +<p>I stood against the wall between the two men as they talked, and +noticed that the sofas were occupied, the recesses of the windows full +of lookers-on. Lady Bloss and her daughter were sitting together, and +surveying me and my companions with unaffected interest. The former +presently beckoned to me to approach. I did so, rather reluctantly, +followed by my two cavaliers, whilst Sir Fulke hovered at a little +distance.</p> + +<p>“Oh, good evening, Miss Hayes,” said Lady Bloss, in her loftiest +manner. “So surprised to see <em>you</em> here!”—looking me <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>slowly up and +down. “Pray, where is Mrs. Hayes?”</p> + +<p>“She is at home,” I meekly replied.</p> + +<p>“And so you came alone; how very independent!”</p> + +<p>“Oh no; I came with the Miss Bennys.”</p> + +<p>“I did not know that you ever went out of an evening. We had a little +dance last week, and I would have asked you, only I did not think you +would like the <em>expense</em> of a fly!” And she threw back her head, and +sniffed.</p> + +<p>I am sure Mr. Somers heard, and also Mr. Price; and a girl at the other +side of Lady Bloss tittered quite audibly.</p> + +<p>I, however, merely bowed. It was a safe reply. What could I say?—the +expense of a fly <em>was</em> an object to me. However, I was soon whirling +round the room with my partner; and I had numerous <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>partners, I could +have danced every dance thrice over. Yes, I was enjoying myself +enormously. I suppose my head was turned; I could not understand +myself. I was surely a changeling. My luxurious surroundings, my +splendid gown had transformed me. As I have said before, it was another +young woman than Gwendoline Hayes—a stranger, who was walking about in +her body, who received admiring glances with an air of cool unconcern, +who accepted Sir Fulke’s and Mr. Price’s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">petits soins</i> with affable +condescension.</p> + +<p>I saw Lady Polexfen fanning herself languidly in the doorway. As I +passed out on her brother’s arm there was a block, and we stood for an +instant side by side. She was splendidly dressed in silver brocade and +sea-green, and ablaze with diamonds; her waist resembled an hour-glass, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>and her hair was dressed French style, over her ears. She affected +not to see me, but she was as fully conscious of my vicinity as I was +of hers. A tall, dark, sardonic man was beside her. Her brother did +not notice her, but I did, as she turned to the dark man and whispered +something, at which he laughed delightedly—and then looked hard at me.</p> + +<p>Mr. Somers took me in to supper. It was served at little tables—a +commendable arrangement—and we sat down <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tête-à-tête</i>.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you are staying with friends in the neighborhood?” said my +companion in his genial voice.</p> + +<p>“No; we are only in lodgings in Stonebrook.”</p> + +<p>“Lodgings! I did not know there were such things to be had. Don’t you +find it rather—rather—slow?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p> + +<p>“We must cut our coat according to our cloth. We cannot afford grand +quarters.” (I saw his eyes fixed momentarily on my, so to speak, +“coat” of filmy lace and satin.) “The doctors ordered my stepmother +out of London to some dry, bracing climate. Of course, we should have +preferred Biarritz, or Nice; but—well, here we are at Stonebrook +instead, and it suits Emma pretty well.”</p> + +<p>“You have seen my mother, of course?”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, she has been to call on us.” I was on the eve of adding—and +we are to dine with you <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en famille</i> on Christmas Day; but something +inexplicable restrained me.</p> + +<p>“She has only lately returned home, and I hope we shall often see you +and Mrs. Hayes?”</p> + +<p>I made no answer. I did not think his wish was at all likely to be +realized.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p> + +<p>“By the way, you saw Miss Chalgrove. Do you know that you are +curiously alike in appearance—only you are much the taller of the +two? The resemblance struck me the first time I saw you; you might be +sisters, or, at any rate cousins.”</p> + +<p>“I have no sisters or cousins.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, surely you must have cousins—even half a dozen. Why, I possess +half a hundred.”</p> + +<p>“If I have, I have never heard of them.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to say that you have no relations?”</p> + +<p>“None that I know of. My father had an only brother in the navy. He was +drowned years ago, and he himself lived in India so long that he lost +sight of all his connections.” (I did not mention my mother. Why should +I tell him that she had been disowned by her family?) <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>“I had not seen +my father since I was eight years old.”</p> + +<p>“Then I saw him, and knew him well, quite recently—knew him better +than you did, if I may say so, Miss Hayes, for, of course, two men have +more in common than a man and a little girl in pinafores. He was a rare +good sort.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I believe he was. I wish he was alive now with all my heart. It +seems so hard that people in the prime of life are cut off, and old men +and women who have lived their lives out, and are tired of existence, +drag on wearily year after year.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, there’s my poor father,” said Mr. Somers; “his bodily health is +good—it is the health of a young man—whilst his mind is dying.”</p> + +<p>I had heard of that, but felt it only polite to express sympathetic +surprise.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p> + +<p>“He was in a railway accident years ago, and it’s coming against him +now. And how is Mrs. Hayes?” he inquired, rather abruptly.</p> + +<p>“Pretty well.”</p> + +<p>“I am coming to see her immediately—to-morrow—only it is a hunting +day; but, perhaps, I can look in for a flying visit.”</p> + +<p>“And was your expedition successful?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“No, not a bit. The business part was a dead failure, and only throwing +good money after bad; but, as you may have noticed, I’m not at all +clever. I did my little best, and I could do no more. However, I +enjoyed the trip, as a trip, extremely. There is the band again: shall +we go and take a turn?”</p> + +<p>“But I believe I am engaged to some one,” I answered, rising all the +same.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Pray, how can you tell? you have no program—no, not even a +shirt-cuff!”</p> + +<p>And thus persuaded, against my conscience, we began; but, before I +had been twice round the room, I was claimed by Sir Fulke, and not +alone Sir Fulke, but a little weather-beaten cavalry man, who was very +positive that “this was <em>his</em> dance.”</p> + +<p>As we stood disputing amicably, I was suddenly arrested by a higher +power. Alas! poor Cinderella’s trivial triumph was over, her hour had +come.</p> + +<p>The Miss Bennys waylaid me with grave, determined faces, much to my +companions’ disgust, and Miss Benny said in a very loud voice—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Scott, the fly man, is waiting, Miss Hayes. We promised not to detain +him after one o’clock; it is now half-past one. Therefore, if you are +returning in <em>our</em> charge, I must ask you to come home at <em>once</em>.”</p> + +<p>“And my dance?” cried Mr. Aubrey Price.</p> + +<p>“And mine?” echoed Sir Fulke.</p> + +<p>There was no use in attempting to resist them—no time to take leave of +my hostess: she was at supper. I was in the Miss Bennys’ clutches; they +were inexorable. This was <em>their</em> moment of triumph, and I was carried +away, followed to the very door of the fly by four eligible partners, +uttering loud regrets.</p> + +<p>Mr. Somers pressed my hand as he said good-by, and added, “I shall look +forward to seeing you soon—in a day or two.”</p> + +<p>“We need not ask if you have enjoyed yourself, Miss Hayes,” +exclaimed the elder Miss Benny in an acrid key. “I admire your”—I +thought perhaps she was going <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>to say dress or dancing, but it was +my—“wonderful self-confidence! Mrs. Cholmondeley seems to have <em>quite</em> +taken you up! She is fond of doing that; she took a fancy to an +Australian girl, she met on board ship, and actually brought her home, +and had her with her, taking her everywhere for months. People called +her the kangaroo; she was a horror.”</p> + +<p>The tone implied, that I was a horror also,—if not actually a +kangaroo. I burst out laughing. I laughed loud and long; I could not +stop. I suppose I was almost hysterical. The reaction from the late +brilliant scene, where I had been made much of, where I had danced and +enjoyed the pleasures of this life for the very first time, where I +had been conscious of whispered flattering comments, and eloquently +flattering eyes, where I had sniffed a little of the intoxicating +incense of ad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>miration, and felt that youth and beauty are a great +power, was too much. Then to come down to being one of four in a close +stuffy fly, to remember the dingy little bedroom in which I must +shed my fine feathers—how seven-and-sixpence for my share of the +conveyance would pinch my weekly purse, and that I had forgotten to +buy bacon for the morrow’s breakfast! All these thoughts and contrasts +were jumbled up in my excited brain, and I laughed loud and long. My +indecorous hilarity was succeeded by a freezing silence—a terrible, +accusing, blank silence, which lasted the whole way home. For five long +miles there was not a sound in that fly, save a sneeze or a yawn. The +experience was appalling; it got upon my nerves. I felt inclined to +sing or to scream. Luckily I controlled myself, or I should probably +have been <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>delivered at the door of the lunatic asylum. At last we +drove up to Mrs. Gabb’s. I opened the door and sprang out, then I +politely thanked the Miss Bennys for their escort, and wished them all +a fair good night—which met with no response.</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<p class="center">“WHO <em>ARE</em> THESE CHALGROVES?”</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">I let</span> myself in with a latchkey—Mr. Gabb’s own particular key—and +crept stealthily up-stairs, hoping that Emma was asleep, and that I +could thus sneak past her door unheard; but no: she was evidently on +the watch for my return, and called out to me to come into her room, +desiring me to “turn up the lamp, take off my cloak, and tell her all +about it!”</p> + +<p>I obediently sat down on a low chair facing her, and began to describe +everything to the best of my power; the drive, the arrival, the lovely +old house, the crowds, the dresses, and how Mrs. Chol<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>mondeley had +singled me out and introduced me to partners.</p> + +<p>“Your dress is almost as fresh as ever—that is one comfort. Was Lady +Hildegarde present?” inquired Emma anxiously.</p> + +<p>“No, only Lady Polexfen. She did not notice me. But Mr. Somers was also +there. He fulfilled your fondest hopes—he ‘noticed me’ a good deal.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean, Gwen?”</p> + +<p>“I mean that he danced with me three or four times, took me in to +supper, and finally put me into the fly.”</p> + +<p>“That was very kind of him. Just like him!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Oh, I had plenty of partners. I was not at all an object of charity, +I can assure you! Mr. Somers asked for you, and said he was coming to +see you immediately, and oh, Emma, I had such a curious experience! I +met a girl to-night who might be my own sister, we are so much alike. +She remarked the resemblance too, and Mr. Somers said that it struck +him the first time he ever met me.”</p> + +<p>“And who was she?”</p> + +<p>“A Miss Chalgrove; the Honorable Dolly Chalgrove.”</p> + +<p>I noticed that Emma gave a little start.</p> + +<p>“My mother’s name was Chalgrove. This girl and I are so much alike that +we might be cousins. She is so bright and animated and fascinating, +that I took a fancy to her on the spot. I <em>wish</em> she was my cousin. It +is really too bad that I have no relatives, not a single cousin, and +Mr. Somers has fifty!”</p> + +<p>“I dare say you have fifty third or fourth cousins somewhere in the +west of Ireland,” said Emma shading her face with her hand (and I +noticed with a sharp <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>pang how thin and transparent that hand had +become). “But it would take a lifetime to discover them, and probably +they would not repay the trouble. Your father was not anxious to claim +them. After his mother’s and his brother’s death, some ‘cousin’ took +advantage of his absence abroad to claim the little property that was +his by right. He might have gone to law, but he would not. It would +have brought him home, and cost him another fortune.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but, Emma, what about my mother’s relations?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> + +<p>“They were a forbidden topic—a dead letter. Your father could not +bear their name mentioned. They were very grand people, who expected +their only daughter to make a brilliant match, instead of running +away with a penniless army doctor—they never acknowledged her, never +forgave her, no, never noticed her, no more than if she had ceased to +exist. She fretted a good deal when she was in poor health. She wrote, +and they returned the letter unopened. Your father, easy-going man as +he was, resented this to the end of his days; and when he received a +letter after <em>her</em> death, he treated it in the same fashion—returned +it as it came.”</p> + +<p>“But all this time, who <em>are</em> these Chalgroves? Please tell me, Emma, +for of course you know.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; but your father did not wish <em>you</em> to know. However, +circumstances alter cases. He never dreamt that you would be left +almost homeless and friendless, instead of living under his own roof, +surrounded with every comfort and pleasure his love could give you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes, of course, I know all that—I am confident of that; but, once +more, about the Chalgroves?”</p> + +<p>“I will tell you another time—to-morrow——”</p> + +<p>“No, no; now. Please, please; it won’t take you five minutes, and I +shall not rest or sleep till you satisfy me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p> + +<p>“I can tell you very little, dear. Your father was extremely reticent +on this one subject; but I believe that he and your mother met at a +fancy ball. It was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Her +people would not hear of it. She was extremely pretty, charming, and +young, and they expected her to make a splendid match. They hurried her +away to a distant country place, but it was all of no use; and when she +heard that he was going to India she insisted on accompanying him, and +she ran away and they were married in London. I believe she made an +attempt to see her people and say farewell before she sailed, but they +refused to receive her, and sent out a message, ‘Not at home.’ She did +not want anything from them, only to say good-by. They were furious, +and never forgave her; her father was inflexible. He and her mother are +dead long ago. Her brother is Lord Chalgrove.”</p> + +<p>“I saw him to-night,” I broke in; “he looked so hard at me!—I suppose +he noticed the likeness. And he is my uncle, and that nice girl is my +first cousin. How strange!”</p> + +<p>“Yes. How strange that you should come across them here! They live in +Northamptonshire, where they have a lovely old place called The Chase. +Your mother was the Honorable Gwendoline Chalgrove, but she dropped +the prefix altogether when she married, so I was told <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>by people at +Jam-Jam-More. She was a most graceful, elegant creature, a splendid +horse-woman, but as ignorant of the value of money, or of housekeeping, +as an infant—as, indeed, I might say, myself! Your father was devoted +to her memory, and I was never one bit jealous. Her memory was dear +to me, too, though I never saw her. There was something so touching +and so romantic about her life—a delicate girl brought up in luxury, +abandoning everything for love, and fading away like a fragile flower +in an uncongenial climate!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Your father used to go and look at her grave every Sunday morning. +Over it there stood a white cross, and just the one word ‘Gwendoline.’ +He kept all her little belongings under lock and key, in a leather +despatch-box—her Prayer-book, sketches, and letters (I gave you her +little trinkets); they are all in the big bullock trunk down-stairs, +along with your father’s books and clothes. I’ve never had the heart to +open it. Mrs. Gabb keeps it in the back hall. Would you like to examine +it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I should very much.”</p> + +<p>“And these people that you met to-night—it was certainly a wonderful +chance your coming across them. I am so glad you wore your white satin, +darling. Perhaps your uncle may make inquiries, and find out who you +are. Of course, the first advances—any advances—must come from +<em>them</em>.”</p> + +<p>“Of course!” I assented emphatically.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> + +<p>“You may suppose that it was a delicate question for me to meddle +with—a <em>second</em> wife; but once or twice I did venture to say that +it was a pity to lose sight of the Chalgroves, on your account. Your +father never would hear me out; you were never to know them. The topic +was his Bluebeard’s closet, and I dared not open it.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t wonder.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you must not be like him. I have heard that the present lord is a +simple, unaffected, homely man. He may discover you—why not?—from the +likeness, if he even heard your name.”</p> + +<p>And she pushed back her hair, and sat up in bed, her eyes blazing +with excitement. An alluring vision was before them as she spoke. She +already beheld me comfortably installed in Chalgrove Chase! Oh, I knew +her <em>so</em> well!</p> + +<p>“You have got an idea into your head,” I said, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>“and please, please, +chase it out immediately. Lord Chalgrove will never seek me out; he +does not know of my existence. He was probably surprised to see that +an ordinary young woman had been endowed with the family type of +feature. He will never give me another thought, no more than if he saw +a groom wearing a suit of clothes resembling the Chalgrove livery. His +daughter, who is not at all conventional, actually addressed me, and +asked how I came by the Chalgrove eyebrows.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, my dear Gwen! And what <em>did</em> you say?”</p> + +<p>“What could I say?” I answered, rising. “I said nothing. ‘How does one +say nothing?’ To you I say, at last. ‘Good night.’” And, stooping down, +I kissed her, and, gathering up my various accoutrements, departed, and +crept up to my own room.</p> + +<p>But I did not go to bed immediately. I sat brushing my long fair locks, +and slowly reviewing all the events of this remarkable evening.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span></p> + +<p>Between intervals of hair-brushing, I studied the Chalgrove brows and +upper lip that confronted me in that miserable looking-glass. The +eyebrows were slightly arched, finely penciled, and quite black. The +Chalgrove lip was short, and a little—well, if not scornful—haughty. +And it was a lying lip: for, as far as one is permitted to know one’s +self, I was neither.</p> + +<p>The clock was striking three when I crept into bed, and fell asleep +almost as my head touched the pillow, and enjoyed unusually interesting +dreams.</p> + +<p>The next morning a brace of pheasants and a huge bouquet of violets +were left at the hall door, with Mr. Everard Somers’ compliments for +Mrs. Hayes.</p> + +<p>We went to tea at the rectory that afternoon. I took my guitar, by +request, and played and sang. I was becoming quite a society girl! I +wore a smart toque—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>made by my own hands—and a bunch of violets, +and received an unusual share of the conversation. The fame of my +<em>début</em> had been noised abroad; one girl asked me where I got my guitar +ribbons; another, where I got my toque; a third, where I had obtained +the lovely violets, and who was my dressmaker?</p> + +<p>“I hear your daughter looked quite nice last night,” said Mrs. Blunt +(our rector’s wife), affably.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense, mother,” said her well-named daughter. “We were told she was +the beauty of the evening, the cynosure of all eyes, and I’m sure I am +not surprised.”</p> + +<p>When we returned home it was late, and we were sorry to find that Mr. +Somers had called: his card lay on the table.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gabb hurried up after us to explain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p> + +<p>“I thought as how you were in, Mrs. Hayes, so I asked him up, and he +sat and waited for over half an hour. He wrote a bit of a note. It’s +there in the blotter.” And there it was:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p class="right">“E. S.”</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<p class="center">MRS. MOUND’S OPINION.</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">On</span> Christmas 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.</p> + +<p>“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.) <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>To which Emma smilingly assented.</p> + +<p>As Emma believed that this festivity would be merely the forerunner +of many, she took great pains with my dress, was <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>most 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Yes, a pair of horses, trotting briskly up the hard-frozen street. No; +they went past.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“<em>Do</em> shut the window!” I implored; but I spoke to deaf ears.</p> + +<p>There were wheels in the distance—a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>long way off—and I was not to +worry, but to put on my cloak at once.</p> + +<p>Five minutes elapsed—ten minutes. I rose and pulled down the window +without apology. A quarter of an hour!</p> + +<p>“Yes,” cried Emma, half-hysterically; “the carriage <em>is</em> rather late, +but I really hear it now. It is coming at last!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>I made no reply. I dared not put my opinion into plain, brutal words, +and tell the white-faced, anxious little inquirer, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>At last she said, in a husky whisper—</p> + +<p>“Gwen, Gwen! Are you asleep?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Is it possible that she has forgotten us?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid so,” I whispered.</p> + +<p>“Oh no, she couldn’t. Christmas Day, too, and our places at +table! <em>That</em> would 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—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>“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, <em>too</em> cruel”—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——”</p> + +<p>“Never mind about me, darling,” I said kneeling down beside her, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>“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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Gwen dear,” gasped Emma, as I re-entered, “I must go to bed, I +feel <em>so</em> ill. 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.”</p> + +<p>And Emma stood up, and clutched hold of the chimney-piece, and turned +on me a face gray and drawn with mortal suffering.</p> + +<p>I was naturally greatly alarmed. I <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>hurried her into her room, +undressed her, and put her to bed.</p> + +<p>“I’m so cold—oh, <em>so</em> cold!” 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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Emma lay on her little bed, moaning <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>and gasping in the grip of a great +agony.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“It’s a bad business, Isaac. The poor little thing is past Skuce or any +one. There will be a job for <em>you</em> here, 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!”</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<p class="center">“INDIAN PAPERS, PLEASE COPY.”</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">All</span> that 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span></p> + +<p>“So your mother is ill?” she began abruptly.</p> + +<p>“Very ill, I am afraid. It was kind of you to come so soon to ask for +her.”</p> + +<p>“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, nor <em>one</em> +word about you. How was that?” she demanded, as she paused and glared +at me.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me honestly, Miss Hayes, <em>did</em> she ever ask you? I’d like to see +her note.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“It’s most extraordinary: and her ladyship never even missed you. And +now she has gone off to Brighton for a week.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it is quite immaterial to <em>me</em>. I never wish to see her again,” +I rejoined in an emphatic whisper.</p> + +<p>“It certainly <em>is</em> most 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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span></p> + +<p>“No, pray don’t, on any account.”</p> + +<p>“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 told <em>me</em>. 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. <em>I</em> don’t +believe in a merry Christmas.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Neither do I,” I answered with all my heart.</p> + +<p>“Well, good-by, good-by,” and seizing the eggs, she trotted down-stairs.</p> + +<p>The next day, Emma was much worse.</p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, don’t!” I sobbed. “You are going to get well. You must and shall +get well.”</p> + +<p>“You have only eleven pounds a year, Gwen,—oh, my poor, poor Gwen, +what <em>will</em> you 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 and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>Murrays would be home. If only Lady Hildegarde——”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“No; I’ve felt this coming for a long time. I am consumptive. The +chill—oh! oh! this pain——”</p> + +<p>“There, there! you shall not talk any more.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>I was silent. As far as I was concerned, they should never know, nor +would I ever <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>lift a finger to summon my grand relatives.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>“A happy new year, Gwen, and many of them.”</p> + +<p>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 was <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>very kind, so were Mrs. Mound, the Doctor, and even Miss +Skuce—but she was also terribly inquisitive.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 contrast <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>this picture afforded +to that of myself—veiled, and shrinking into the corner of a dingy +mourning-coach—following my only friend to her grave.</p> + +<p>Little did Mr. Somers suspect, as he dashed onward, that he had been +showing a last token of respect to Emma Hayes.</p> + +<hr class="tb" /> + +<p>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, a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bonne d’enfants</i>. I could +play the guitar and sing. I had a fine mezzo-soprano, and had been well +taught. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>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! There <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>she was, +shaking her damp waterproof on the landing; it was a dreary, drizzling +January afternoon.</p> + +<p>“Do you know that you have never put it in the papers?” she began, +without preamble. “I thought Mound would have seen to <em>that</em>. It ought +to be done at once.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course; and I have been extremely remiss,” I acknowledged, +with dismay.</p> + +<p>“I will write it out and send it to the <cite>Times</cite> for you,” producing a +pencil—“the <cite>Times</cite> and the <cite>Stonebrook Star</cite>. What shall I say?”</p> + +<p>After thinking a moment, I said—</p> + +<p>“‘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.’”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am going away very shortly to London.”</p> + +<p>“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; but <em>I</em> don’t!”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” I demanded indignantly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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 Bennys <em>always</em> said so!”</p> + +<p>“Miss Skuce!” I paused, and then added in a calmer tone, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>“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 was <em>true</em>!”</p> + +<p>“Why!” cried my visitor, stretching out her neck and craning forward, +“here <em>is</em> Lady Hildegarde, I declare, and getting out! Maude Polexfen +is in the carriage. Her ladyship is coming in—in here.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Oh, my poor dear child! <em>What</em> news is this? Is it true about Mrs. +Hayes?”</p> + +<p>“If you mean that she is dead—yes,” I answered, still standing up, but +making no effort to salute her.</p> + +<p>“How frightfully sudden!” dropping <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>her hands to her sides and sinking +into Emma’s chair. “What was it?—nothing infectious, I trust?”</p> + +<p>“No, nothing infectious.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“She caught a severe cold on Christmas Day—” I began.</p> + +<p>“Oh, by the way, I’m <em>so</em> sorry; I forgot all about sending for +you—never thought of it <em>once</em>—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!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Why, of course I did,” with a petulant gesture.</p> + +<p>“And you stayed with her—for weeks.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes; I never denied it, that I am aware of!”</p> + +<p>“And were nursed by her through a serious illness? Is this true, or was +it a delusion?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>“Pray do not trouble yourself about me,” I broke in. “I have no faith +in your promises—or in you!”</p> + +<p>Here Lady Hildegarde rose very slowly to her feet, and vainly +endeavored to overawe me by her look, and cover indignation with +dignity.</p> + +<p>“You forget yourself, Miss Hayes,” she said in a freezing tone.</p> + +<p>But I was now at bay, and replied—</p> + +<p>“If you will be so good as to exert yourself so far as to forget <em>me</em>, +I shall be extremely glad.”</p> + +<p>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 pro<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>digiously, I am certain, though she felt it her duty to +remonstrate most strongly with me.</p> + +<p>“I apologize for all I said, for I have now her ladyship’s own words +for her obligations to your stepmother, and I apologize to <em>her</em> +memory. 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.”</p> + +<p>“Do you call that mean, selfish, ungrateful woman my better?”</p> + +<p>“Of course I do!” with emphasis. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>“There is no question of <em>that</em>! +Fancy comparing yourself to the daughter of a duke! I think you behaved +in a most vulgar, insulting, outrageous manner. You should——”</p> + +<p>“Have played the hypocrite?” I suggested sarcastically.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<p class="center">KIND INQUIRIES.</p> + + +<p>“<span class="smcap">So</span> you’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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; people who have to earn their bread have a better chance of doing +so in London.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll go in for governessing, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“No. I’m afraid I am not sufficiently accomplished.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Miss Hayes, I hope you will pardon me,” he said, “for intruding on +you at this hour and in this way; but I felt that <em>writing</em> would 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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, you did. Won’t you sit down?” I said.</p> + +<p>“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, +<em>insisted</em> on your accompanying her. I told her she must take <em>no</em> +refusal, but—but”—and he hesitated, and his eyes fell from mine—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>“I +am greatly distressed to learn that you and she have had a most +unfortunate misunderstanding—<em>only</em> a 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.”</p> + +<p>“You may, if you please. But sometimes I don’t know myself,” I answered +recklessly.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you were <em>not</em> yourself 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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Is this correct?” he inquired, in a low voice.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes. I need not enter into unpleasant details, for Lady Hildegarde is +your mother. But she has hurt my feelings most deeply.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 but <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>needlessly +dreaded, meant a miserable, poverty-stricken <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mésalliance</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>“And so you will not accept my mother’s friendship?” he pursued.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Well,” and he rose as he spoke, a very tall figure in our little +low room, “you surely will not taboo <em>me</em>, Miss Hayes?” he asked +appealingly. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>“I received great kindnesses, without <em>question</em>, +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.”</p> + +<p>“None that I know,” I quibbled, “or that know of me.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But——”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>“Miss Hayes, I hope what I am going to say will not startle you very +much.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> + +<p>“You will make me very happy if you will marry me.”</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>“You cannot be in earnest, Mr. Somers.”</p> + +<p>“I am in earnest—in deadly earnest, Miss Hayes.”</p> + +<p>“You have seen me five times.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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—<em>my fate</em>!’ 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.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Somers,” I began, “you have—I have—” Then in a sudden burst the +words came—“What you ask is impossible.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” he questioned softly.</p> + +<p>“There is Miss Chalgrove,” I replied, still more softly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, <em>that</em> old story!” with a shrug. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>“It would be an ideal match +from the parents’ point of view, to combine the title and property +with the money; but <em>we</em> have 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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>He made no immediate answer to this difficult question, and I added—</p> + +<p>“She and I do not love one another.”</p> + +<p>“But if you love me, Gwendoline, that is the main question. God knows, +I love you!”</p> + +<p>“You pity me, I am sure; and pity——”</p> + +<p>“No, I don’t,” he broke in impetuously, “not in that sense, and I don’t +believe in that fusty old saying.”</p> + +<p>“And you know nothing about me. You have seen so little of me,” I urged.</p> + +<p>“With regard to some people, a little goes a long way. Oh, good +heavens, I don’t mean <em>that</em>!”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think you know what you mean,” I answered remorselessly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>He had actually worked himself into a passion.</p> + +<p>“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 one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>thing—that I will never, never marry any one else——”</p> + +<p>“But me—” (seizing my hand before I was aware). “Then, you will +promise that, on your word of honor?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I will never marry any one—but you.”</p> + +<p>“And when?”</p> + +<p>“When your mother asks me to be her daughter-in-law,” I whispered.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh, <em>how</em> do 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.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Somers—who looked very black indeed—merely bowed. Was Miss Skuce +abashed? No, not a whit; though even <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>she must have seen that she was +greatly <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">de trop</i>.</p> + +<p>“So sorry to hear that Miss Chalgrove has met with an accident in the +hunting-field. I saw it in the paper. How anxious <em>you</em> must be. I +trust it’s not serious.”</p> + +<p>“No, I believe not”—surveying her with cold curiosity.</p> + +<p>“Well, it said that the horse fell on her”—sitting down, and +apparently anxious to thresh out the subject at her leisure.</p> + +<p>“Miss Hayes,” he said, turning to me, “I shall hope to see you again +before you leave.”</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span></p> + +<p>“I saw him coming in. He has been here fully twenty minutes! It’s +not at all <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">comme il faut</i> to 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’t <em>see</em> me. What brought him? +What did he want—eh?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Still, I struggled for composure and forbearance, and offered a blank +wall of im<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>penetrability 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 at <em>that</em> hour of +the night?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a most unusual thing,” said Miss Skuce, suspiciously. “I wonder +what his <em>mother</em> would say to it?”</p> + +<p>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 discuss <em>me</em>, whilst I turned down the lamp, threw +myself on the sofa, and cried comfortably for a couple of hours.</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<p class="center">“MISS HAYES, I BELIEVE?”</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Surely</span>, 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 many <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>dumb +and inanimate things, which nevertheless spoke with tongues.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 packed <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>up 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 clothes <em>swell</em>! 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 see <em>any one</em>,” I +began.</p> + +<p>“He says he must see you; and he—I couldn’t well catch his name, but +I believe he is <em>lord</em>. Here, just tidy yourself, and let me pick the +white threads off you.”</p> + +<p>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 of <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>the little +water-color drawings in his hand, which he laid aside as I entered.</p> + +<p>“Miss Hayes, I—I believe?” he asked, after a moment’s hesitation.</p> + +<p>“Yes; my name is Hayes.”</p> + +<p>“You are the daughter of Desmond Hayes and my sister Gwendoline?”</p> + +<p>“I am,” I acknowledged gravely.</p> + +<p>“Then, my dear,” he said, taking my hand in his, “I have come to take +you home.”</p> + +<p>I gazed at him incredulously.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>And this sedate little gray-bearded gentleman, whom I had never spoken +to before, drew me nearer to him and kissed me timidly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></p> + +<p>“How did you find me out?” I asked as he sat down beside me.</p> + +<p>“I saw Mrs. Hayes’s death in the paper. I made inquiries from Grindlay +and Co. her agents. There <em>was</em> a 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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I was going to-morrow.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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 was <em>dead</em>. 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!”</p> + +<p>“How is Miss Chalgrove? I heard she had met with an accident.”</p> + +<p>“It’s not much—a mere strain, she <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> says. 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 the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Times</i> notice, and put two +and two together, and here I am! Even if <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> your 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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You know the Somers, perhaps?” he asked.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Yes; I—I—have met them.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>(Nor did Lady Hildegarde and I use the same stable!)</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>What a fuss Mrs. Gabb made! She was far more in the way than otherwise. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.)</p> + +<p>“<em>Well</em>, 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 ‘a <em>lord</em>,’ 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 time <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>with 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?”</p> + +<p>“No, no, Miss Skuce,” eager to escape, “I’ll <em>never</em> forget you—I can +promise you that most faithfully.”</p> + +<p>“Dear! You don’t mean to say that you have been over saying good-by to +those horrid, common Mounds?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly I have; they have been most kind to me. Why should I not +take leave of them?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p> + +<p>“Well, I shall miss you frightfully. Living opposite to you has been +as interesting as a tale in <cite>The Family Reader</cite> or <cite>Bow Bells</cite>. 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 own <em>uncle</em>—why, it’s most—most awfully +affecting!” and she actually was so excited and upset that she began to +cry.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>“So sorry—to part—with this dear sweet girl—Lord Chalgrove. I am her +<em>oldest</em> friend, too—as she will tell you. Known her—known her since +she first came—a—stranger to Stonebrook.”</p> + +<p>“I am sure I am greatly obliged to you, ma’am. A kindness to my niece +is a double kindness to me.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” hastily drying her eyes, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>“will you do me a favor, and allow me +to come and see her off, your lordship?”</p> + +<p>“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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +Lord <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>Chalgrove, and accosted him warmly. He said something in reply, +and then both ladies turned and looked hard at <em>me</em>; but there was no +time for further conversation, for our train was entering the station.</p> + +<p>As my uncle joined me with tickets and newspapers, I said in a low +voice, “Not in the same carriage with Lady Polexfen, please—<em>please</em>!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="chap" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<p class="center">A NEW STATION OF LIFE.</p> + + +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> were 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 was +<em>somebody</em>.</p> + +<p>“I’m extremely anxious about Dolly,” said my uncle as we bowled along +at a rapid rate.</p> + +<p>This was the third or fourth time, within three or four hours, that he +had made the same remark.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I should think it was,” I assented. “But then, she has youth on her +side, which is something.”</p> + +<p>“And she will have <em>you</em> by her side, which will be something,” +he replied. “It seems almost providential—<em>quite</em> providential, +indeed—that I should have been able to lay claim to a relation, to a +young companion for her, just at this critical time.”</p> + +<p>“Most providential for <em>me</em>, uncle, seeing that I have neither friends +nor home.”</p> + +<p>“And here <em>is</em> your home now, my dear,” he said, as we dashed between a +pair of great stone pillars. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>“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.”</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span></p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>Her spirits, however, were still in robust condition, and she hailed +me with enthusiasm, and—what is more lasting—with warm and enduring +affection.</p> + +<p>“To tell you the truth, I don’t care for many girls!” she confessed as +I sat beside her, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>“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!”</p> + +<p>“And I to you,” I answered emphatically.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></p> + +<p>“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 rode <em>at</em> +me! 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 get <em>worse</em>. 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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>This she declares she owes to me; but that is only a way of saying +that she is <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>fond 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></p> + +<p>For, strange as it may appear, it will be <em>my</em> hand, and not poor +Dolly’s, that alone can join the great Chalgrove fortune to the +impoverished Somers estates!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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; <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>and that once +an unexpected deficit of two and fourpence half penny had cost me a +sleepless night!</p> + +<p>How I wished that Emma, the partner of those dark days, had been alive +to enjoy the sunshine of my present prosperity!</p> + +<p>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 <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>“<em>prefer</em> a 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, <em>never</em>!</p> + +<p>Everard, my cousin and <em>fiancé</em>, 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 +is <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>worthless as a hunter; but he hobbles up to the gate whenever he +hears the voice of his comrade in misfortune.</p> + +<p>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 +be <em>more</em> than 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 has <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>ceased 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 spend +<em>Christmas</em>!</p> + + +<p class="center">THE END.</p> + + +<p class="space-above2"></p> + +<div class="transnote"> + <h2 id="end_note" class="nopagebreak" title="">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> +<p><a href="#Page_70" title="">Page 70</a>— chimmey changed to chimney.</p> +<p><a href="#Page_94" title="">Page 94</a>— charperon changed to chaperon.</p> +<p><a href="#Page_98" title="">Page 98</a>— breakast changed to breakfast.</p> +<p><a href="#Page_177" title="">Page 177</a>— my fine eathers changed to my fine feathers.</p> +<p><a href="#Page_201" title="">Page 201</a>— kettle of ho water changed to kettle of hot water.</p> +<p><a href="#Page_244" title="">Page 244</a>— aknowledged changed acknowledged.</p> + +</div> +<div style='margin-top:1.4em;'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE REAL LADY HILDA ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. +</div> + +<div style='margin-top:0.7em;font-weight:bold;text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE</div> +<div style='margin-top:0.3em;font-size:smaller;text-align:center'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. +</div> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:1.5em;font-weight:bold;'> +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person +or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: +</div> + +<blockquote> + <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most + other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions + whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms + of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online + at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you + are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws + of the country where you are located before using this eBook. + </div> +</blockquote> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: +</div> + +<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. +</div> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:1.5em;font-weight:bold;'> +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. +</div> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:1.5em;font-weight:bold;'> +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact +</div> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:1.5em;font-weight:bold;'> +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate +</div> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:1.5em;font-weight:bold;'> +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</div> + +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/64892-h/images/i_cover.jpg b/64892-h/images/i_cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8b52d48 --- /dev/null +++ b/64892-h/images/i_cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d357251 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64892 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64892) |
