Oh, that was a dreary winter, when we existed on hope deferred! Emma was delicate—she had a troublesome cough; she required dainties, flowers, books, amusements, variety. Her gay spirits were fitful; she was not often on the top of the wave now, but liable to terrible fits of weeping and depression. She wept for many things I could not obtain for her. For instance, for India—for the sun (the sun in London in January!), for her old servants her old friends—where were they? Those abroad sent long, affectionate letters, occasional newspapers, and little presents; those at home—well, at the moment there were none at home, none whose attachment would stand the strain of coming at least three miles to visit a shabby little widow, in very humble lodgings. I grew up that winter. I became ten years older. I learnt to market, to haggle, to housekeep, to concoct beef-tea and puddings, to make a little money go a long way. I learnt the cheap shops, the cheap little joints. I used to go out with our thrifty landlady to the Marlborough Road on Saturday nights, and bring home such bargains! I was thankful when the winter came to an end, the days grew longer and lighter, and Emma recovered her health and her spirits. We partook of the season’s delights in a very mild and inexpensive form; we went per ’bus to some picture-galleries, to the shilling places at concerts, and occupied chairs in the Row. Emma liked to sit there the whole afternoon, returning home by what we called “our own green carriage” in time for our frugal tea.
“Oh, what a different life from what I have been accustomed to!” she complained to me one day. “Watching from my penny chair the crowds and crowds of happy people streaming by, and never seeing one familiar face! The scores of visitors your father and I put up in Jam-Jam-More—for races, picnics, dinners, shooting-parties, and I never see one of them. Do you think they are all out of town? or do they catch sight of me and flee?” and she laughed—such a dreary little laugh. “Of course, I know that is nonsense, but it does seem so odd that I never come across any of what we used to call ‘the cold-weather folks,’ except indeed Captain Goring, and he gave me the cold shoulder—he barely raised his hat; and young Randford—you remember I met him in Piccadilly?—he did stop and speak to me, and said that he must try and come and call on me, and would look over his engagements and see what afternoon he could spare, and I never heard anything more about him. Would you believe it?—he spent three weeks with us in India, and welcome, and rode and drove our horses as if they were his own, and when he was leaving, he made such a fuss about his dearest, kindest, prettiest Mrs. Hayes!”
“That was India?” I ventured to suggest.
“Yes, India is one place—England another. I was a fool out there! If I had not kept open house—a sort of pleasant hotel, where there was no bill—for all these thankless, selfish wretches, I should be driving in my carriage now, and as for you, dear old Gwen——”
“Oh, I shall do very well,” I interrupted. “I wish you would not worry yourself about me.”
“We always intended you to come out, enjoy yourself, and make a nice match perhaps. And we did not spend as much as we might have done on your education; we thought it unnecessary, with the rupee at such ruinous exchange. We never dreamt that you would have to earn your own bread—oh, never—never!”
“Never mind me, dear!”
“But I do mind—it is my duty to mind! Who would have thought that your father would not live to be a fine hale old man of eighty? He had a splendid constitution. Sometimes, when I used to be a little scared at our big bills, and suggested our trying to retrench, he always said, ‘The old Jam-Jam will provide for us; he will give me a fine pension. He has promised me twelve hundred a year. It is only when one feels young and active that one wants money. When I begin to feel anno domini, we will go home and live very comfortably at Bath or Cheltenham.’ And here have I come home all alone, and you and I have to struggle along on a hundred and thirty pounds a year—and—and my diamond ornaments.”
I recollect that the poignant contrast between past and present so utterly overwhelmed poor Emma, that she could not restrain her tears, and suddenly rising from her seat, and signing to me to accompany her, she departed with unusual precipitancy.