WE GET INTO SOCIETY.
Emma’s bedroom was immediately beneath mine, and during the night I
heard her coughing repeatedly, a nasty little short hacking cough. I
went to her early in the morning, in order to condole with her and urge
her to remain in bed; but she was already dressed.
“Kept me awake, my cough, you say? Yes, but I did not mind,” was her
extraordinary statement. “I did not want to sleep, I had so much to
think about—so many pleasant thoughts.”
“_I_ know what you have been thinking about,” I said, as we sat down
to breakfast—“or, rather, of whom you have been thinking—of Lady
Hildegarde.”
“Of course—why not? I have not seen her for four years and
more—nearly five—but she is not the sort of person who would _ever_
change; and really, I hope you won’t think it very mean of me to say
it, but she is under obligations to me, and I am not too proud to
allow her to repay me. I nursed her for weeks, and we gave her the
best nourishment, medical attendance, champagne, ice, all gratis,
the rajah’s own saloon carriage to the junction, and, when she said
good-by, she seemed really _quite_ affected, and gave me two large
photographs of herself, and kissed me over and over, and said, ‘I
cannot find words to express all I _feel_, but I shall never, never,
never forget you—my own sister would not have done more! You have
saved my life, and you will, I hope, find some day that I am a woman
of deeds—not words!’ And now, here is her opportunity. What a piece
of luck our coming here! Just by chance! We knew no one in London,
and I was too ill latterly to take you about; here Lady Hildegarde
will be your sponsor in society and introduce you everywhere. Her own
daughter is married, and she is very fond of going out and chaperoning
girls—she told me so. I must see about your dresses, my dear. I have
a lovely white satin that I only wore once, and that will alter quite
easily for you!”
Emma was radiant. Positively she looked ten years younger than she
had done yesterday. Ah! hope, delusive hope, how many flattering
tales had you not told her! One drop of this elixir of life seemed
to intoxicate her. Give her, figuratively, a stick, or a pebble, and
straw,—what grand castles she created and peopled. Sometimes, as we
sat over the fire together, her eloquent tongue and facile imagination
drew forecasts and anticipations so brilliant and so vivid that I
could compare them to nothing but fairy stories, or the Arabian Nights
Entertainments.
After breakfast, when I was out doing our insignificant marketing, I
noticed Miss Skuce at a distance, with both hands uplifted, her chin
wagging vigorously, holding forth at great and uninterrupted length to
two ladies, who seemed interested. I also caught sight of her at our
mutual grocer’s—she was purchasing eggs, which she carried off, packed
in sawdust, in a paper bag. Surely—surely—— However, time would tell
(time _does_ tell on eggs.)
That afternoon, by three o’clock, our little room was full of
visitors—we were positively short of chairs! Miss Skuce was the first
arrival—carrying in her hand a present in a basket (it contained eggs
and flowers.) The Misses Benny, extremely exclusive spinsters from
the Dovecote, appeared bearing their mama’s card and excuses—prim,
long-nosed women, wearing severe tailor-made dresses, prim felt hats
with one wing, and attired alike even to their gold bangles and brown
kid gloves.
“We heard from Miss Skuce that you are a great friend of Lady
Hildegarde’s,” said the elder of the sisters, addressing Emma in a
high-pitched, shrill voice. “Indeed, I see her over there on the
chimney-piece! You knew her in India, did you not?”
“Yes,” assented Emma. “I knew her very well.”
“I dare say you will see a great deal of her. She adores India, and
brought home such lovely curios—embroidery, rugs, ivory work, and such
a _sweet_ little silver teapot the shape of an elephant.”
“Yes, I remember it—my husband gave it to her,” returned Emma, eagerly.
“Ah, you don’t _say_ so! I hope we shall see you on Thursday. We want
you to come over to tea at the Dovecote, just outside the town, at four
o’clock. We hope to have a few people and a little music. Your daughter
sings, I believe?”
“Thank you, we shall be very happy.”
“I suppose you have not made many acquaintances here, as yet?”
“No; no one has called but Miss Skuce.”
“Oh,” smiling, “_she_ calls on every one—so like her! She finds out
all about strangers, and she is nicknamed the ‘Stonebrook News.’ She is
a well-meaning person, but dreadfully pushing—you must really keep her
in her place. Lady Hildegarde puts her down so beautifully.”
“But I understand that Lady Hildegarde is a particular friend of hers?”
“Of _hers_!—of Miss Skuce’s!” in a loud voice. “Oh, dear me, what
_has_ she been telling you? She is never invited to the Abbey, except
once a year to the dignity ball here—and Lady Hildegarde merely makes
_use_ of her at bazaars and charity teas.”
The departing Bennys met in the narrow doorway Lady Bloss and Miss
Bloss, the former a commanding matron in black velvet, with a miniature
catafalque upon her stately head—aquiline, portly, immensely
condescending, with a very large person and a small squeaky voice.
“_So_ pleased to find you at home,” offering two fat fingers, and
looking round anxiously for a _solid_ seat. “My daughter, Miss Bloss.
I heard you were a very intimate friend of my dear cousin, Lady
Hildegarde Somers. Some one happened to mention it when I was in the
post-office, so I thought, as I was in town, I would just run over and
see you!”
The idea of Lady Bloss running anywhere was too preposterous to
entertain without smiles.
“And how do you like our little town? And were you long in India?”—and
so on and so on. “And will you come to tea next week? I’ll send you a
card.” And then she struggled up from her low seat, beckoned to her
daughter, and really the room looked quite empty after their departure!
Little Mrs. Cholmondeley, the wife of a M. F. H., was still with us—a
smart, fashionable-looking woman, with sandy hair and a long-handled
eye-glass, by means of which she noted everything.
“Lady Bloss is quite _too_ amusing,” she remarked, after she had sped
that lady most affectionately, and asked her _why_ she had not been
to see her for such ages? “She is no more cousin to Lady Hildegarde
than to the man in the moon; her husband was an old Indian judge, a K.
C. B. She and Lady Hildegarde have the same dressmaker, and that is
positively the only connection.”
“Oh yes, excuse me,” said her friend; “Lady Bloss’s uncle married a
cousin of Lady Hildegarde’s aunt by marriage.”
“Oh, spare my poor stupid head!” cried Mrs. Cholmondeley. “I call that
a conundrum, not a connection; don’t you, Mrs. Hayes?”
Emma smiled sympathetically; she hated riddles.
“I am sure the politics and parties of our Little Pedlington will amuse
a woman of the world like you. Do you care for driving?”
Emma admitted that she liked it—in fine weather.
“Then I shall come some afternoon early and take you out. Will Monday
suit you, at two o’clock?”
“Thank you, it is very kind of you.”
“And your daughter, too; there will be plenty of room. I hope two
o’clock is not interfering with your dinner hour?”
Emma reddened, as she replied with some dignity—
“Oh no, thank you; we always dine late.”
Yes, we called it dinner. When our last visitor had driven away, Emma
turned to me and said—
“My stupid brain is in a whirl. I can compare this afternoon to
nothing less than a reception at Government House. I feel loaded to the
earth with attention. I am to have drives, books, magazines, and even
game and cough lozenges! What a funny world it is! A week ago—what
am I saying? two days ago—these people stared over our heads, and
looked at us as if we might give them smallpox; and behold all this
change—this sudden thaw, all because I happen to know Lady Hildegarde.
What did you think of them, dear—you know, you have a very critical
mind?”
“Well, since you ask me, I think that there seems to be a sliding-scale
of merit. Mrs. Benny looks down on Miss Skuce; Lady Bloss sniffs at the
Bennys; Mrs. Cholmondeley despises Lady Bloss; and no doubt, some one
else turns up her nose at her.”
“Lady Bloss’s dignity was something overpowering. She entirely shrank
from India and Indian topics, and yet she is a regular old Burra mem
Sahib, now I come to think of it. How I wish I had known!—I might have
talked to her in Hindostani. I dare say she would have had a fit!”
“I think it is most likely either that, or she would have called the
police.”
“Well, I must ask about a dressmaker immediately, and get your dresses
ready,” continued Emma, “for I can see that you are going to be
overwhelmed with invitations. Lady Hildegarde will, of course, chaperon
you everywhere; and I should like you to do her _credit_!”