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!”