At the door of the lodgings Hilda alighted and rang the bell herself. Good Mrs. Halliss opened the door, and answered quickly that Mrs. Le Breton was at home. Her woman’s eye detected at once the coronet on the carriage, and she was ready to burst with delight when the tall visitor handed her a card for Edie, bearing the name of Lady Hilda Tregellis. It was almost the first time that Edie had had any lady callers; certainly the first time she had had any of such social distinction; and Mrs. Halliss made haste to usher her up in due form, and then ran down hastily to communicate the good news to honest John, who in his capacity of past coachman was already gazing out of the area window with deep interest at the carriage and horses.
‘There, John dear,’ she cried, with tears of joy in her eyes, forgetting in her excitement to drat the man for not being in the back kitchen, ‘to think that we should see a carriage an’ pair like that there a-drawin’ up in front of out own very ‘ouse, and Lady ‘Ilder Tergellis, or summat o’ the sort, a-comin’ ‘ere to see that dear little lady in the parlour, why, it’s enough to make one’s ‘eart burst, nearly, just you see now if it reelly isn’t. You could a’ knocked me down with a feather, a’most, when that there Lady ‘Ilder ‘anded me ‘er curd, and asked so sweet-like if Mrs. Le Breting was at ‘ome. Mr. Le Breting’s people is comin’ round, you may be sure of it; ‘is mother’s a lady of title, that much we know for certing; and she wouldn’t go and let ‘er own flesh an’ blood die ‘ere of downright poverty, as they’re like to do and won’t let us ‘elp it, pore dears, without sendin’ round to inquire and assist ‘em. Married against ‘er will, I understand, from what that dear Mr. Berkeley, bless ‘is kind ‘eart, do tell me; not as I can believe ‘e married beneath ‘im, no, not no ways; for a sweeter, dearer, nicer little lady than our Mrs. Le Breting I never did, an’ that I tell you. Sweeter manners you never did see yourself, John, for all you’ve lived among the aristocracy: an’ I always knew ‘is people ‘ud come round at last, and do what was right by ‘im. An’ you may depend upon it, John, this ‘ere Lady ‘Ilder’s one of his relations, an’ she’s come round on a message from Lady Le Breting, to begin a reconciliation. And though we should be sorry to lose ‘em, as ‘as stood by ‘em through all their troubles, I’m glad to ‘ear it, John, that I am, for I can’t a-bear to see that dear young fellow a-eatin’ ‘is life out with care and anxiety.’ And Mrs. Halliss, who had always felt convinced in her own mind that Ernest must really be the unacknowledged heir to a splendid fortune, began to wipe her eyes violently in her delight at this evident realisation of her wildest fancies and wishes.
Meanwhile, upstairs in the little parlour, Edie had risen in some trepidation as Mrs. Halliss placed in her hands Lady Hilda Tregellis’s card. Ernest was out, gone to walk feebly around the streets of Holloway, and she hardly knew at first what to say to so unexpected a visitor. But Lady Hilda put her almost at her ease at once by coming up to her with both her arms outstretched, as to an old friend, and saying, with one of her pleasantest smiles:
‘You must forgive me, Mrs. Le Breton, for never having come to call on you before; but I have been long meaning to, and doubting whether you would care to see me or not. You know, I’m a very old friend of your husband’s—he was SO kind to me always when he was down at our place in dear old Devonshire. (You’re a Devonshire girl yourself, aren’t you? just as I am. I thought so. I’m so glad of it. I always get on so well with the dear old Devonshire folk.) Well, I’ve been meaning to come for ever so long, and putting it off, and putting it off, and putting it off, as one WILL put things off, you know, when you’re not quite sure about them, until last evening. And then our friend, Mr. Arthur Berkeley, who knows everybody, talked to me about your husband and you, and told me he thought you wouldn’t mind my coming to see you, for he fancied you hadn’t much society up here that you cared for or sympathised with: though, of course, I’m dreadfully afraid of coming to call upon you, because I know you’re the sister of that very clever Mr. Oswald, whose sad death we were all so sorry to hear about in the papers; and naturally, as you’ve lived so much with him and with Mr. Le Breton, you must be so awfully learned and all that sort of thing, and no doubt despise ignorant people like myself dreadfully. But you really mustn’t despise me, Mrs. Le Breton, because, you see, I haven’t had all the advantages that you’ve had; indeed, the only clever people I’ve ever met in all my life are your husband and Mr. Arthur Berkeley, except, of course, Cabinet ministers and so forth, and they don’t count, because they’re political, and so very old, and solemn, and grand, and won’t take any notice of us girls, except to sit upon us. So that’s what’s made me rather afraid to call upon you, because I thought you’d be quite too much in the higher education way for a girl like me; and I haven’t got any education at all, except in rubbish, as your husband used always to tell me. And now I want you to tell me all about Mr. Le Breton, and the baby—Dot, you call her, Mr. Berkeley told me—and yourself, too; for, though I’ve never seen you before, I feel, of course, like an old friend of the family, having known your husband so very intimately.’
Lady Hilda designedly delivered all this long harangue straight off without a break, in her go-ahead, breathless, voluble fashion, because she felt sure Edie wouldn’t feel perfectly at her ease at first, and she wanted to give her time to recover from the first foolish awe of that meaningless prefix, Lady. Moreover, Lady Hilda, in spite of her offhand manner was a good psychologist, and a true woman: and she had concocted her little speech on the spur of the moment with some cleverness, so as just to suit her instinctive reading of Edie’s small personal peculiarities. She saw in a moment that that slight, pale, delicate girl was lost in London, far from her own home and surroundings; and that the passing allusion to their common Devonshire origin would please and conciliate her, as it always does with the clannish, warm-hearted, simple-minded West Country folk. Then again, the deft hints as to their friendship with Arthur Berkeley, as to Ernest’s stay at Dunbude, and as to her own fear lest Edie should be too learned for her, all tended to bring out whatever points of interest they had together: while the casual touch about poor Harry’s reputation, and the final mention of little Dot by name, completed the conquest of Edie’s simple, gentle little woman’s heart. So this was the great Lady Hilda Tregellis, she thought, of whom she had heard so much, and whom she had dreaded so greatly as a grand rival! Why, after all, she was exactly like any other Devonshire girl in Calcombe Pomeroy, except, perhaps, that she was easier to get on with, and smiled a great deal more pleasantly than ten out of a dozen.
‘It’s very kind indeed of you to come,’ Edie answered, smiling back as well as she was able the first moment that Lady Hilda allowed her a chance to edge in a word sideways. ‘Ernest will be so very very sorry that he’s missed you when he comes in. He’s spoken to me a great deal about you ever so many times.’
‘No, has he really?’ Lady Hilda asked quickly, with unmistakable interest and pleasure. ‘Well, now, I’m so glad of that, for to tell you the truth, Mrs. Le Breton, though he was really always very kind to me, and so patient with all my stupidity, I more than half fancied he didn’t exactly like me. In fact, I was dreadfully afraid he thought me a perfect nuisance. I’m so sorry he isn’t in, because the truth is, I came partly to see him as well as to see you, and I should be awfully disappointed if I had to miss him. Where’s he gone, if I may ask? Perhaps I may be able to wait and see him.’
‘Oh, he’s only out walking somewhere—ur—somewhere about Holloway,’ Edie answered, half blushing at the nature of their neighbourhood, and glancing round the little room to see how it was likely to strike so grand a person as Lady Hilda Tregellis.
Hilda noticed the glance, and made as if she did not notice it. Her heart had begun to warm at once to this poor, pale, eager-looking little woman, who had had the doubtful happiness of winning Ernest Le Breton’s love. ‘Then I shall certainly wait and see him, Mrs. Le Breton.’ she said cordially. ‘What a dear cosy little room you’ve got here, to be sure. I do so love those nice bright little cottage parlours, with their pretty pots of flowers and cheerful furniture—so much warmer and more comfortable, you know, than the great dreary empty barns that most people go and do penance by living in. If ever I marry—which I don’t suppose I ever shall do, for nobody’ll have me, I’m sorry to say: at least, nobody but stupid people in the peerage, Algies and Berties and Monties I always call them—well, if I ever do marry, I shall have a cosy little house just like this one, with no unnecessary space to walk over every time you come in or out, and with a chance of keeping yourself warm without having to crone over the fire in order to get safely out of the horrid draughts. And Dot, now let me see, how old is she by this time? I ought to remember, I’m sure, for Mr. Berkeley told me all about her at the time; and I said should I write and ask if I might stand as godmother; and Mr. Berkeley laughed at me, and said what could I be dreaming of, and did I think you were going to make your baby liable to fine and imprisonment if it ever published works hereafter on philosophy or something of the sort. So delightfully original of all of you, really.’
Once started on that fertile theme of female conversation, Edie and Hilda got on well enough in all conscience to satisfy the most exacting mind. Dot was duly brought in and exhibited by Mrs. Halliss; and was pronounced to be the very sweetest, dearest, darlingest little duck ever seen on earth since the beginning of all things. Her various points of likeness to all her relations were duly discussed; and Hilda took particular pains to observe that she didn’t in the very faintest degree resemble that old horror, Lady Le Breton. Then her whole past history was fully related, she had been fed on, and what illnesses she had had, and how many teeth she had got, and all the other delightful nothings so perennially interesting to the maternal heart. Hilda listened to the whole account with unfeigned attention, and begged leave to be allowed to dance Dot in her own strong arms, and tickled her fat cheek with her slender forefinger, and laughed with genuine delight when the baby smiled again at her and turned her face to be tickled a second time. Gradually Hilda brought the conversation round to Ernest’s journalistic experiences, and at last she said very quietly, ‘I’m sorry to learn from Mr. Berkeley, dear, that your husband doesn’t get quite as much work to do as he would like to have.’