RETROSPECTIVE.
It would be a new experience for me to take the lead, to be manager,
financier, adviser. When I had restored Emma, after some difficulty,
and left her comparatively composed—and armed with salts and fan—I
ran up to my own room, locked the door, and sat down to think.
Something must be done immediately; we ought to leave our extravagantly
expensive lodgings without even a week’s delay. If Mrs. Keene would
but let us off, it would save twelve guineas, and then we should have
twelve pounds twelve shillings, to add to that ghastly eightpence. Mrs.
Keene was always very pleasant to me: I would muster up courage, and
go and speak to her, and tell her that we had received unexpected news,
and were obliged to retrench. I must honestly confess that my heart
beat fearfully fast as I knocked at the door of her sanctum, and heard
her shrill “come in.”
The interview passed off much better than I anticipated—although the
cauliflower still rankled in her mind. She, fortunately for us, had
just heard of what she termed “a good let”—old customers, who wished
to come in immediately, and she agreed to our prompt departure without
demur, saying with immense condescension, “These sort of apartments are
not suitable for any but wealthy folk, as can pay well, and is above
fighting over vegetables!”
She, however, gave me some useful hints as to where to look for
cheaper and humbler quarters. I hurried round to Madame Ninette, and
countermanded my new dress, and, after a hasty lunch, Emma and I set
out in quest of apartments in keeping with our means. We searched on
foot the whole of that warm June afternoon, and at last discovered
two neat, cheap little rooms over a dairy in a street in Chelsea. We
took them on the spot, and returned to pack our belongings. I packed
everything; for Emma, between the emotions of the morning and the miles
we had trudged in the sun, was completely exhausted, and I easily
prevailed on her to sit on the sofa and rest.
Beguiled by an amusing magazine, and a box of Fuller’s sweets—poor
remnants of her little luxuries—she soon forgot all her sorrows, and
to have seen her reclining there, looking so pretty in her cool black
tea-gown, and dainty little beaded shoes, no one would have believed
she had a care in the world. What a child she was in some ways! As for
myself, I was not yet eighteen, but I had accepted such a leaden load
of responsibility that I began to feel an old woman. The next morning
our luggage, books, plants, and umbrellas were packed in and on a cab,
and we started off for Carlyle Buildings, our future residence. As soon
as we had rearranged our boxes, books, and plants, and given our meager
orders—I was now housekeeper and purse-bearer—Emma sat down, as she
expressed it, “to face the future resolutely.”
It was a great comfort that she owed no money, otherwise it was
anything but a brilliant outlook. All that remained to her, when
everything had been summed up, was her wardrobe, her jewelry, a small
pension, and a large circle of Indian friends.
We lived through the winter on the proceeds of a splendid diamond
bracelet, and the hopes of getting some Indian children. Yes, Emma
entertained the not uncommon idea of setting up a happy home for the
children of her acquaintances. She was as sanguine as possible. Nothing
ever damped her good faith in the future, and “a turn of luck.”
“I shall take a charming, sunny old place deep in the country, about
twenty miles from London; keep a nice pony-carriage, cows, a donkey,
French _bonnes_, and a governess, and charge two hundred a year. I
shall easily collect a dozen children—twelve will be _ample_ to begin
with—and there, you see, is upwards of two thousand a year at once!
The Blairs, and Joneses, and Smithsons, dear old friends, will be only
too thankful for the chance.”
And, full of enthusiasm, she despatched many eager letters to the
parents among her acquaintance; but, strange to relate, not one of
these correspondents availed herself of her kind proposals, though they
wrote long, affectionate epistles, suggesting the offspring of _other_
people! Perhaps they were afraid that pretty little Mrs. Hayes, ever
impulsive, extravagant, and gay, was too lively and erratic to take
charge of their delicate darlings—besides, she was poor.
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.