“‘December 27th, at Stonebrook, of acute pneumonia, Emma, widow of the late Desmond Hayes, Esq., L. C. S., M. D., of Jam-Jam-More, aged thirty-three. Indian papers, please copy.’”
“Very well. Now give me five and sixpence, and I will send it off by the next post,” returned Miss Skuce, when she had ceased to scribble. “And so I hear you are leaving!—Mrs. Gabb says you have given her notice.”
“Yes, I am going away very shortly to London.”
“Well, I think it is an extremely wise move. There is no opening here for a governess or companion; every one that I know is suited. I am very sorry for you, and for poor Mrs. Hayes; but I always felt that she was not long for this world. She was subject to delusions, wasn’t she, poor dear? That was all a delusion about Lady Hildegarde! Of course, other people call it by a nastier name; but I don’t!”
“What do you mean?” I demanded indignantly.
“That the dear good soul imagined she knew Lady Hildegarde! But no one ever saw her ladyship here, and you were not present at the dinner. The invitation and acquaintance were in her imagination. I am aware that Mr. Somers has sent game and flowers, and called; but gentlemen’s attentions are on a totally different footing from those of the ladies of a family, and it is quite incredible that his mother, Lady Hildegarde, would stay for weeks as guest under a person’s roof, that she would be nursed and tended like a sister, and absolutely ignore the same kind friend when she came to live near her, and was in very poor circumstances. It is impossible! As for her photographs, they were bought in London. The Bennys always said so!”
“Miss Skuce!” I paused, and then added in a calmer tone, “It is not worth while debating the question. If you think we are impostors, I cannot help it; but every word that my stepmother said was true!”
“Why!” cried my visitor, stretching out her neck and craning forward, “here is Lady Hildegarde, I declare, and getting out! Maude Polexfen is in the carriage. Her ladyship is coming in—in here.”