LADY HILDEGARDE’S PHOTOGRAPH.
After waiting twenty minutes in semidarkness (poor people must exercise
patience), the lamp—welcome herald of tea—was carried in by Mrs.
Gabb, whose expressive countenance distinctly warned off either
questions or expostulations. She proceeded to dash down the blinds,
bang the shutters, coal-scuttle, fire-irons, and finally the door.
By lamplight our little apartment did not look nearly so mean and
shabby as by day. Emma had marvelous taste in an airy, sketchy style—a
taste which, she assured me, was common to many Anglo-Indian ladies,
who were frequently compelled to make a very little furniture go a long
way, and who were unsurpassed in the art of makeshifts. Some grasses
and winter berries filled several bowls and vases; a few pretty Eastern
ornaments were scattered about; an Indian drapery was thrown carelessly
over the sofa. A smart paper lamp-shade and two or three silk cushions
brightened up the room, and last, not least, a considerable gallery of
photographs. They caught the eye on all sides, and had a truly imposing
effect. Emma had been twelve years in the East, and had accumulated
many portraits. Here was a smart cavalry man—an A.D.C.; there an
imposing general officer covered with orders; a Ghoorka, a hill beauty,
a polo pony, an Indian picnic, a wedding group, a lady in a rickshaw,
holding over herself a coquettish Japanese umbrella. They made indeed
a goodly show, and as Emma remarked, “putting sentiment altogether
on one side, were easily carried about, and went a long way towards
furnishing a shabby sitting-room.” Whilst the tea was drawing, I tidied
up, swept the hearth, straightened the lamp-shade, collected and put
away straggling books and papers. Meanwhile, Emma drew forth a pack of
somewhat _passée_ cards, cleared a space on the table, and proceeded to
deal them out in four neat rows.
“I am going to do your fortune,” she announced. “This is your
birthday. I wish it had not come on a Friday; however, let me see. Oh,
dear, dear, dear! _All_ the bad cards are settling round you. Tears,
a disappointment! there is sickness, you see; a journey, a dark man,
and a dark woman; she is antipathetic to you, and will injure you.
Yes. Look, I have counted again; she comes right between you and the
marriage card! You will get your wish.”
“But I have not thought of any wish.”
“Ah! and I see money; but here is this horrible ace of spades—the
death card.”
At this instant we heard a strange voice, and a sound of scuffling
steps in the passage.
“Some one is coming!” I had barely uttered the warning, and Emma had
only time to throw a newspaper over the pack, when Mrs. Gabb, flinging
open the door, shrilly announced, “Miss Skuce.”
Whereupon a tall elderly lady, in a long damp waterproof, bounced into
the room, showing every one of her front teeth.
“Pray excuse my calling at this late hour,” she said, shaking hands
with us effusively. “At least, it is not really late, only half-past
four, quite visiting time _still_; but it is so dark, it might be the
middle of the night.”
To which statement we politely assented, and also further conceded
“that it had been a shockingly wet day.”
“And how do you like dear little Stonebrook?” she asked. “If you’ll
allow me, I’ll just take off my cloak.”
“Oh, it is not very lively,” replied Emma; “but then, I came here for
my health.”
“Ah, indeed,” rising to hang her waterproof carefully over a chair, and
taking a seat nearer to Emma whom she stared at exhaustively.
Emma, though thin and fragile, was still a pretty woman. She wore a
handsome black satin and lace tea-gown (a remnant of better days);
diamonds (of ditto) sparkled on her wasted hands, and her expressive
eyes were lit up with vivacity. Even this unexpected visit from a
garrulous old maid made quite an agreeable break in the otherwise
dreary wet day.
“How long shall you stay, do you think?”
“I really have not formed any plans—possibly all the winter.”
“And Miss——,” looking at me interrogatively. “_Surely_ not your
daughter?”
“No, my step-daughter—Miss Hayes.”
“It’s a terrible dull place for young people, especially if they are
accustomed to India,” smiling at me blandly.
“I have never been in India since I was two months old,” I replied with
precipitation.
“But _you_ were?” she observed, turning to Emma. “And army—of course?”
in a confidential key.
“No. My husband had an appointment at the court of the Rajah of
Jam-Jam-More. He was his medical adviser.”
“Ah, I understand”—in a patronizing key—“a native doctor!”
“Oh no!” bursting into a merry laugh; “doctor to a native prince.”
“Dear me! Is it not the same thing? How nice this room looks! Your own
pretty things, I am _sure_. What quantities of charming photographs!
May I peep at them?”—rising with a sprightly air.
“Oh, certainly, with pleasure. But they are chiefly Indian friends—and
I doubt if you will find them interesting.”
“I am _always_ interested in other people’s friends. But what do I
behold?”—striking an attitude—“a bunch of peacock’s feathers! So
unlucky! Why do you keep them, dear Mrs. Hayes?”
“They belong to Mrs. Gabb—not to me—you must ask her.”
“And you are not superstitious? Table-turning, palmistry, second sight,
planchette: do you believe in any of those?”
“I don’t think I have much faith in any of them—no, not even
planchette—though I heard a horrible story of a planchette who
aggravated inquirers by writing such horrible things, that one man, in
a rage, pitched it into the fire when it immediately gave a diabolical
scream, and flew up the chimney.”
At this little anecdote I broke into a loud laugh—I invariably did so.
“Of course, _that_ was arrant nonsense!” remarked Miss Skuce, carefully
replacing the peacock’s feathers, and recommencing a tour of inspection.
I watched her attentively, with her pointed nose, near-sighted eyes,
looped-up skirts, with a rim of chalky mud, and square-toed laced
boots—shaped like pie-dishes—as she made a deliberate examination of
Emma’s little gallery, throwing us remarks over her shoulder from time
to time.
“I always make a point of calling on new people—strangers,” she
announced from over the edge of a large durbar group. “They must find
it so desperately dull, and I’m an old resident. My brother is a
doctor. Most of the neighbors don’t visit; they draw the line at the
hotel, and never notice people in lodgings, since that awful scandal at
Mrs. Tait’s, three years ago. I cannot—ahem—repeat the story, just
_now_,” and she looked at me expressively; “but I will tell you all
about it another time. I dare say the rectory people _may_ come. At any
rate”—casting an appreciative glance at Emma’s unexpectedly elegant
appearance—“I shall make a point of mentioning you to them.”
“Oh, thank you very much, but we are only here for a change,” protested
Emma; “the doctors said I must have dry bracing air, and——”
“What have I got here?” interrupted our visitor, who had been routing
on the chimney-piece, behind a fire-screen. “A _large_ photograph
of dear Lady Hildegarde Somers!” holding it in both hands as if it
were some holy relic. “How _did_ you come by it?” she demanded, in an
impressive key.
“She gave it to me, of course,” was Emma’s simple reply.
Miss Skuce’s little eyes widened as she stood on the rug, clasping
her treasure-trove, and contemplating Emma with an air of tragic
interrogation.
“Then you _know_ her?” she gasped out at last.
“Intimately. At least, she stayed in our house in India for six weeks,
so I suppose I may say that I know her rather well.”
Miss Skuce was now compelled to seek a seat, and signed to my
stepmother to continue.
“My husband and I had numbers of visitors in the cold weather; they
came to see the Jam-Jam, and the old tombs and temples, and we put them
up in our house, and got them shooting and sport.”
“What kind of sport?” questioned her listener.
“Sometimes tiger-shooting, sometimes hunting with cheetahs, sometimes
elephant-catching or pigsticking.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Miss Skuce, who was visibly impressed.
“You see, my husband had a capital appointment, though he _was_
uncovenanted. He drew large pay, and was supplied, besides, with
carriages and horses, a house and servants.”
“How _very_ nice! And about her ladyship?”
“Oh, Lady Hildegarde and Mr. Somers and their son came to us for ten
days, but she unfortunately got a touch of the sun, and was laid up
for weeks. My husband attended her, I nursed her, and we did all we
possibly could for her. She was a charming patient, and _so_ grateful.
Mr. Somers and his son went on to the frontier, and left her with us
during her convalescence. She joined them in Bombay. I have never seen
her since I came to England.”
“Really. How strange!”
“But I met her son in London last summer. Such a handsome, unaffected
young fellow (my poor husband took a great fancy to him). He was just
on the eve of starting off to America, but he managed to give us two
delightful days—one of them on the river—and was altogether most
kind. He told me that his father and mother were abroad. I have quite
lost sight of the whole family now. I don’t even know where they live
when they _are_ at home. I have lost sight of so many people,” added
Emma, with a regretful sigh.
“Not know where the Somers live!” repeated Miss Skuce. “Why, my dear
Mrs. Hayes, they live within three miles of where you are sitting!—at
Coppingham Abbey, the show place of this part of the world. The Somers
of Coppingham are not rich—as riches are understood now—and I am
afraid poor dear old Mr. Somers has lost a great deal of money over
mines in South America, and stocks—he was never a business man;
but the family are as old as the hills. Miss Somers made a splendid
match last year, she married Lord Polexfen; certainly he is rather
ancient for _her_, but then you cannot have everything. Maudie is very
handsome, but frightfully ambitious, worldly, haughty; quite, _quite_
between ourselves—_I_ never took to Maudie.”
I heartily but secretly applauded this sentiment.
“Of course, it was not a love-affair—respect on one side, admiration
on the other—and, as I have told you, Maudie could not expect
everything, and—and she thought——”
“That an old lord was better than none at all,” I supplemented briskly.
“Oh, I would not say _that_, by any means,” returned Miss Skuce, rather
stiffly. (It was evident that no one else was to be permitted to
censure this august young woman.) “The family are frequently abroad
now, but are always here in December and January. And so, you tell me,
you know dear Lady Hildegarde intimately?”
And she paused and surveyed Emma with her head on one side. It was
abundantly demonstrated by our visitor’s face and gestures that, from
being strangers in the land—mere wandering, homeless nobodies—we had
been suddenly promoted to the footing of people of distinction, the
intimate friends of the mistress of the show place of the county. The
alteration in Miss Skuce’s manner was as amusing as it was abrupt—from
an air of easy patronage to an attitude of humble and admiring
deference—the transition was absolutely pantomimic.
“Dear Lady Hildegarde is the moving spirit of the whole neighborhood,”
she remarked. “She is _so_ active, her ideas are so full of
originality, her energy is marvelous; no one would believe that she
has a married daughter, and a son of seven-and-twenty. And she is so
fond of having young people about her. I am certain that she will be
immensely taken with this pretty child,” indicating me with a wave of
the photograph in her hand. “She will introduce her to all the best
people; she will have her stay at the Abbey, and give a ball for her,
of that I feel confident.”
“Oh no, no! Absurd! Nonsense!” protested Emma, with a beaming smile.
But, unless I was much mistaken, the long seven-leagued boots of Emma’s
imagination had carried her far ahead of Miss Skuce’s gratifying
predictions. An agreeable idea once planted in her mind, immediately
struck root, grew, and flourished, like Jack’s immortal beanstalk.
“_How_ I wish you had let me know that you were a friend of Lady
Hildegarde’s,” continued Miss Skuce, effusively, “instead of remaining,
if I may say so, so foolishly _incog._ The Bennys of the Dovecote, and
the Prouts, will be overwhelmed to think that they have not called. Her
ladyship will say we have _all_ neglected you! I hope the people here
are satisfactory? Mrs. Gabb has rather a tongue, but she is very clean.
Are you comfortable, dear Mrs. Hayes?”
“Yes, thank you; I might be worse.”
“I must send you some fresh eggs. How are you off for literature?”
“In a starving condition. I’ve not seen a new book for months.”
“Oh, then we will _all_ supply you! I notice that you take the
_Sussex Figaro_,” lifting the paper with a sudden swoop, and thereby
discovering the neatly arranged rows of playing cards!
It would be difficult to say which of the two ladies looked the more
taken aback and out of countenance. Miss Skuce stood for a second with
her mouth half open, paper in hand. Emma became scarlet, as she hastily
scrambled the cards together.
“So you play patience, I see,” said our visitor, after a pause, and
with really admirable presence of mind.
“Oh, anything, everything, from _ecarté_ to—to old maid, pour passer
le temps. I hope you will have some tea. Gwen, what _have_ we been
thinking about? Come along and pour it out.”
In ten minutes’ time, Miss Skuce had nearly emptied her third cup,
and, enlivened by the fragrant herb, had become most talkative and
confidential, and developed a truly warm interest in us and our
concerns.
Emma was advised whom she was to know, and whom she must _not_ know
on any account; where she was to deal, whose fly she was to hire for
parties—all was laid before her in detail. A stranger entering the
room would naturally have supposed that this eager lady, who was
nursing her empty teacup, was an old and intimate friend.
Finally, with lavish promises of eggs, books, and flowers, Miss Skuce,
as she expressed it, “tore herself away.” She must have managed to
whisper a few words on the stairs or in the passage, for when Mrs.
Gabb came to remove the things, she wore an unusually benign aspect;
there was no angry banging and clanging of unoffending and inanimate
articles. On the contrary, she poked the fire with an extravagant
hand, drew the curtains noiselessly, and remarked in a surprisingly
affable tone that “she had made us a nice little batter pudding,” and
“that it was a wet night.”
So much for numbering a large photograph of a local magnate among our
household gods! If her mere portrait had wrought such an agreeable
transformation in visitor and landlady, what might we not expect from
the presence of Lady Hildegarde herself?