“Yes; but your father did not wish you to know. However, circumstances alter cases. He never dreamt that you would be left almost homeless and friendless, instead of living under his own roof, surrounded with every comfort and pleasure his love could give you.”
“Yes, of course, I know all that—I am confident of that; but, once more, about the Chalgroves?”
“I will tell you another time—to-morrow——”
“No, no; now. Please, please; it won’t take you five minutes, and I shall not rest or sleep till you satisfy me.”
“I can tell you very little, dear. Your father was extremely reticent on this one subject; but I believe that he and your mother met at a fancy ball. It was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Her people would not hear of it. She was extremely pretty, charming, and young, and they expected her to make a splendid match. They hurried her away to a distant country place, but it was all of no use; and when she heard that he was going to India she insisted on accompanying him, and she ran away and they were married in London. I believe she made an attempt to see her people and say farewell before she sailed, but they refused to receive her, and sent out a message, ‘Not at home.’ She did not want anything from them, only to say good-by. They were furious, and never forgave her; her father was inflexible. He and her mother are dead long ago. Her brother is Lord Chalgrove.”
“I saw him to-night,” I broke in; “he looked so hard at me!—I suppose he noticed the likeness. And he is my uncle, and that nice girl is my first cousin. How strange!”
“Yes. How strange that you should come across them here! They live in Northamptonshire, where they have a lovely old place called The Chase. Your mother was the Honorable Gwendoline Chalgrove, but she dropped the prefix altogether when she married, so I was told by people at Jam-Jam-More. She was a most graceful, elegant creature, a splendid horse-woman, but as ignorant of the value of money, or of housekeeping, as an infant—as, indeed, I might say, myself! Your father was devoted to her memory, and I was never one bit jealous. Her memory was dear to me, too, though I never saw her. There was something so touching and so romantic about her life—a delicate girl brought up in luxury, abandoning everything for love, and fading away like a fragile flower in an uncongenial climate!