“I shall not receive her,” I answered, rushing to the bell, but remembering, as I tore at it, that it was broken. In another minute Lady Hildegarde was in the room, swimming towards me with beautifully gloved extended hands.
“Oh, my poor dear child! What news is this? Is it true about Mrs. Hayes?”
“If you mean that she is dead—yes,” I answered, still standing up, but making no effort to salute her.
“How frightfully sudden!” dropping her hands to her sides and sinking into Emma’s chair. “What was it?—nothing infectious, I trust?”
“No, nothing infectious.”
“Oh,” with a cool little nod, “how do you do, Miss Skuce? Pray” (to me) “tell me all particulars. My son only heard the sad news last evening. He was greatly shocked; and he despatched me at once, as you see!”—Evidently she was not a little proud of her promptitude and condescension.
“She caught a severe cold on Christmas Day—” I began.
“Oh, by the way, I’m so sorry; I forgot all about sending for you—never thought of it once—actually not till my son brought me the melancholy intelligence last night. He wanted me to come off here then and there. I am so very sorry!”
“You may well be sorry,” I answered, unable any longer to retain my attitude of frigid politeness, “for your negligence indirectly caused my mother’s death. Yes; she was so confident that you meant your invitation, that she allowed the people of the house to leave us, and here we sat that bitter night—perhaps you can remember the temperature—without fire or food, waiting for you to send for us. She would not believe that you could forget her; she thought so much of you—she was so genuine and affectionate. Miss Skuce, here, has been telling me that my mother suffered from delusions—that you never knew her in India. Did you?”