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.