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.