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.”