My own mother had made a runaway match with my father, was sternly disowned by all her relatives, and cut off without even the proverbial shilling. She died when I was a month old, and I was subsequently sent to England. There I was received by two maiden ladies, “who took entire charge of children from India, their arrangements being those of a family, and not of a school”—vide the prospectus.
With these good people I spent ten very happy—I may add, luxurious—years. It was an establishment solely suited to the children of the wealthy, and my father discharged all expenses with liberal and punctual hand. He held an excellent appointment at the court of the native prince, and had married, eight years after my mother’s death, pretty, penniless Miss Burke, who happened to be on a visit to friends in his neighborhood. Her enemies declared that Miss Burke was an empty-headed, flighty little fool—vain, delicate, and wildly extravagant; and that my father—who really required some one to manage his affairs, and curb his expensive tastes—would have been far wiser had he selected instead one of the excellent Miss Primmers—the Reverend Jeremiah Primmer’s well-brought-up missionary daughters—and that such a match as he contemplated was madness, so far as improvidence and waste went—a mixture of oil and flame. Nevertheless, in spite of these prophets, who prophesied evil things, my father and his vivacious young Irish wife were excessively happy. They were both given to hospitality, were both easy-going and open-handed; they liked India, Indian ways, and Indian friends. He only returned once to England to see me, and she but rarely, to refurbish her wardrobe—and pay me flying visits. Then she loaded me with gifts, treats, and caresses, and was so young, so pretty, and so merry, that she embodied my idea of a charming elder sister. I never, somehow, identified her as my stepmother—whom I mentally sketched as the old, wicked, long-nosed person pervading fairy tales. When I was fourteen, I was sent to an English school in Paris, and there I learnt to dance, to sing, and accompany myself on the guitar (it was such a nice portable instrument, suitable to India). It had been arranged that I was to join my people when I was eighteen, and already my outfit was under discussion, my escort for the passage sought for, when the news arrived of my father’s sudden death. He had been killed by a fall from his horse, when out pigsticking, and Emma was returning home alone, a widow in straitened circumstances. No, they had never saved one single rupee; their two pairs of hands had ever been open. They entertained lavishly; she dressed magnificently; he kept several race-horses, and their household expenses were enormous. For they had caught some of the infection from their surroundings, and the recklessness and display of the palace was reflected in their home. All things considered, Emma bore the change in her circumstances with surprising equanimity. She rarely complained. She was so easily amused and interested, so easily roused to animation; but it made me sad to note her wandering eye, when we were abroad, always scanning the crowd, in intent search for some familiar face, some one she knew in old days.
And then her disappointments: the Sugdens, who scarcely deigned to bow to her; the Woden-Spunners, who invited us to a crush, and left us totally unnoticed all the evening—and the cabs and our gloves alone had come to seventeen shillings. Poor Emma explained to me, with pitiful eloquence, that the Woden-Spunners had never been intimate friends. However Emma was soon to discover that every one was not like the Woden-Spunners.
One morning, we were shopping in the Army and Navy Stores—my father had always been a subscriber, and Emma clung to “the Stores” as if they embodied a faint, faint reflection of her more prosperous days. The various departments were crammed full, and I never remembered to have seen such a long double line of carriages in waiting, or such an assorted crowd of dogs in durance on the steps.
Our purchases were, needless to say, moderate, and we carried them ourselves. They consisted on this occasion of a packet of candles, a packet of bloaters, an untrimmed straw hat, a pound of fresh butter, and two pounds of pressed beef.
It was extremely warm—a sultry July day—as we toiled up to the turnery department. At the corner of the stairs, a young man, who was flying down at breakneck speed, brushed against Emma; he paused for a second to lift his hat and apologize, then exclaimed in quite another key—a key of cordial pleasure.
“Why, it’s Mrs. Hayes, I declare! Where did you drop from? I am delighted to see you!”
As we were blocking up the landing, I moved on, and waited at the top of the stairs, leaving Emma and her newly discovered old friend—a friend who was sincerely glad to meet her—still conversing with great animation. Yes, I could read it in his gestures, and the expression of his back. He was tall and square-shouldered, his long frock-coat and shining top-hat adding to his stature. So far I had not caught a glimpse of his face. Presently they turned and ascended together, still talking volubly. I believe that he imagined Emma to be alone, until she said, as she put her hand on my arm—
“This is my step-daughter, Miss Hayes.”