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?