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.