A VISIT OF SEVEN MINUTES.
Emma’s prophecy came true for once—in fact, as far as I know, it was
the solitary occasion on which her vivid daydreams were realized.
We were overwhelmed with civilities and invitations (chiefly to
tea). Every day brought flowers and books, and it was quite a common
occurrence to see a carriage and pair waiting at our modest entrance.
Mrs. Cholmondeley proved to be as good as her word, and took us for
several drives. We were shown “The Abbey,” as people called it—a
low-lying, venerable, gray structure, with fine old trees and wonderful
cloisters. We went to tea at the rectory, to lunch with Lady Bloss,
and to quite a smart musical evening party at the Dovecote. The curate
called, also Dr. Skuce, and—oh! great event!—Sir Warren Hastings
Bloss! He came to “talk over India.” He announced his errand quite
frankly to Emma, and he actually remained an hour and a half. Never had
Mrs. Gabb ushered so many gentry up and down her narrow stairs—no, not
in the twenty years she had let lodgings; and her manner was now as
unpleasantly obsequious as it had formerly been otherwise.
A cup of her own tea was a pleasant little attention which she carried
to us before rising, and she had become quite liberal in the matter
of candles and clean tablecloths. Even indirectly, we were beholden
to Lady Hildegarde for many bounties. “_She_ was expected at the end
of the week,” so Miss Skuce informed us, and I am confident that the
entire community were on the _qui-vive_ to see on what terms the great
lady would be with the reduced gentlewomen at Mrs. Gabb’s in the High
Street! I believe they anticipated boundless intimacy, measuring its
dimensions by the size of the photograph in Emma’s possession. No one
in the whole country had been endowed with a promenade copy in full
court dress. If Lady Hildegarde’s esteem was to be measured by the
size of her picture, Emma, my stepmother, stood second to none in her
regard. Of course, every one knew that we were poor. I am certain that
Mrs. Gabb, in exchanging confidences in the hall with Miss Skuce,
had informed her that we got in coals by the sack, and dined on two
chops and a rice pudding. I am equally positive that Miss Skuce was
furiously jealous of our other acquaintances. Were we not her own
special discovery? The nearer the advent of Lady Hildegarde, the more
anxiously affectionate she became; she called me “Gwen,” and looked in
to see “how we were getting on” at least once a day. One evening she
hurried in in a state of breathless excitement.
“They have arrived,” she announced. “Mrs Smith saw the station brougham
loaded with luggage. I expect Lady Hildegarde will be in to see you
to-morrow at cockcrow—well, at any rate, directly after breakfast.”
“She does not know I am in Europe, much less in Stonebrook,” replied
Emma; “we never corresponded.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. I know from my own experience that she hates
writing letters—she never even writes to _me_! But she is a dear,
sweet thing, and never forgets her friends; she is all heart. At the
same time, I think that, perhaps, it would be well to drop her a nice
little note. She might be startled to see you, or she might feel _hurt_
to hear about you from a mere outsider. If you like to write a line, I
will walk out to the lodge and leave it this afternoon.”
This kind offer Emma declined, but she accepted the hint, and tossed
the following letter across the table to me that same evening. I read
it and approved—all save the remarks about myself, which she refused
to modify—and took it out and dropped it into the post-office with my
own hands. This is what it said—
“DEAR LADY HILDEGARDE,
“I am sure you will be surprised when you look at the signature
at the end of this note, and still more astonished to hear that
I am living, temporarily, in your own part of the world with my
step-daughter. I have met with sad changes since the happy days when
you and I were in India. My dear husband was taken from me very
suddenly; he was never a saving man, always so open-handed, and we
had put by nothing. The old rajah, our friend—who was in bad health,
and worked upon by native intrigues—treated me most strangely. He is
dead, and his heir makes me a very small allowance, which is my sole
income. I have, however, a kind, devoted daughter—step-daughter—who
nurses me, spoils me, and shields me, just as her father used to do! I
have also a stout heart, and some good friends; but my present life is
a truly bitter contrast in every respect to the days that are gone!
when you knew me in Jam-Jam-More. I suppose—indeed, I am sure—that
one cannot eat one’s loaf and have it. I have eaten _my_ loaf, and,
now that my dear husband is gone, I have no spirit, nor, indeed,
health, for anything; but there is my little girl of nineteen, with
all her best days before her. I hope a few crumbs of pleasure may fall
in her way. I came home nearly two years ago, and have lived in London
until lately, but doctors have driven me out of it to find a more
bracing air. We came to Stonebrook quite at haphazard, and I now think
it was a most fortunate chance that guided me here, since I find that
this little town is within a few miles of your home. I hope you and
yours are well, and that I shall see you ere long. Believe me,
“Very sincerely yours,
“EMMA HAYES.”
There was no answer to this letter for three days, and then a messenger
brought the following reply:—
“Coppingham Abbey, Thursday.
“DEAR MRS. HAYES,
“_So_ sorry to hear of your bereavement. Accept our warmest sympathy
for your sad loss. I am pleased to hear that you are within easy reach
of me, but I must warn you that Stonebrook is a most unfortunate
locality for any one at all delicate. Yon should lose _no time_ in
going farther south—say to Devonshire. I can recommend you to such
nice lodgings in Torquay. I have an immensity to do, and am dreadfully
busy, but I shall hope to go and see you ere long.
“Yours faithfully,
“HILDEGARDE SOMERS.”
“Well, so you’ve had a letter from her ladyship!” cried Miss Skuce. “I
saw the servant leave it just now. I am certain she is enchanted at the
prospect of seeing you!”
Emma commanded her countenance sufficiently to nod and smile. Oh, what
hypocrites we are! Speaking for myself, I could have torn the note into
fifty little pieces, and stamped upon it—yes, and it does me good to
say so; but Emma had a sweet, long-suffering, gentle nature, whereas
I was ever notorious for having a turbulent disposition and a proud
spirit.
“She is in town this morning,” continued Miss Skuce, and she folded
her hands and arranged her draperies, evidently prepared to indulge
us with a protracted sitting. “I am certain she is coming to see you.
No!”—starting a little—“why, that is the Abbey carriage passing now.
Look, Gwen, look!”
I bent my head forward, and saw a well-appointed landau, with fine big
horses and powdered servants. Lady Hildegarde was lying back, wrapped
in costly furs, and was engaged in an animated conversation with
another lady—whose face was most beautifully painted.
“They lunch early, you see,” explained Miss Skuce, apologetically. “She
will be in this evening without fail”—rising as she spoke—“and if she
says anything about _me_, you can tell her that I have been looking
after you, dear Mrs. Hayes, and making you take care of your precious
health.” And she simpered herself out of the room.
Lady Hildegarde did not call that evening—no, not for a whole week. I
noticed her driving by on several occasions. As she did not know me by
sight, I ventured on a good stare. She was a wonderful woman for her
age—fifty (so said the “Peerage”), and she seemed very sprightly and
entertaining as she talked to her invariable companion, always in the
same vivacious fashion.
“How well she looks,” exclaimed Emma, peeping from the background;
“how young, and handsome, and prosperous! No wonder the other lady
laughs—she was always so amusing and irresistible.”
“But I don’t like her face, Emma. With all its smiles, it could be very
grim and hard.”
“Oh, my dearest Gwen, that is imagination; she has a most charming
expression. When you know her, you feel that you could do _anything_
for her!”
“Probably; but she would not do anything for _me_! I am positive that
I shall not like her. She is home nearly a week, and I think she might
have come to see you!”
“My dear, fiery, touchy Gwen, she has so much to do—a great household,
visitors, engagements, and she knows that she need not stand on
ceremony with _me_, I who have nursed her, dressed her, written private
letters for her, sat up with her at night. I don’t expect her to be
ceremonious, as if I was a stranger—but young people are so hard—so
exacting.”
“I think she ought to be very grateful to you, Emma,” I persisted,
doggedly.
“I am certain that she is not a bit changed. Just like her son,”
rejoined her loyal defender. “We should think the best of every one! I
am sure she _is_ just the same as ever.”
Two days more, and yet Lady Hildegarde had not called. Ten days had
elapsed since her return, and she had not condescended to come and
see us. Miss Skuce was visibly uneasy and rather snappish; also the
Miss Bennys were a little cold in their manner when we accosted them
after church, and Mrs. Gabb—oh, truly portentous symptom!—ceased to
administer cups of tea gratis. At last, one evening quite late, when
the chimney was smoking horribly, and there was no lump sugar for tea,
she called—came in a one-horse brougham, and remained exactly seven
minutes by the clock.
She was exceedingly gracious, shook Emma by both hands, talked of the
dear old days in India, of clever, kind Dr. Hayes. “And so this is his
daughter! I must have a good look at her,” scanning me up and down with
her eye-glass. “She is like him, is she not? He was fair, was not
he—with a reddish beard?”
“Oh no,” replied Emma, and her voice trembled. “I’m afraid you don’t
quite remember him—he was very dark.”
“Ah! yes, so he was. I declare I was thinking of some one else.
I meet such thousands of new people every year. One thing I have
_not_ forgotten: your too delicious wire mattresses—such a treat in
India—and your charming landau on cee springs; and, oh yes, those
absurd old elephants! Dear Mrs. Hayes,” gazing closely at Emma, “you
look as if this cold climate did not agree with you; you have got quite
hollow-cheeked and thin.”
“I have been rather ailing,” said Emma, faintly.
“You really must get away to Torquay this Christmas. Have you made any
friends here?”
“Scarcely friends,” was her reply; “though people have been most kind
to me. My friends are in India.”
“I wonder you don’t go back to them! I really would advise it,” rising
as she spoke. “Meanwhile, we must see something of you, and I’ll
send you some game and fruit. Supposing”—and she hesitated for a
moment—“you were to dine with us on Christmas Day, eh?—it will cheer
you up—and bring the little girl, too—will you?”
“I am sure you are very kind, but——”
“Now, no buts,” she protested playfully. “We dine at eight.
Just a family gathering; and, look here”—she seemed subject to
afterthoughts—“I’ll send for you and send you home. I’ve had a good
many drives in _your_ carriage,” she added, quite affectionately.
I saw the tears standing in Emma’s eyes. I was but a mere spectator,
and had nothing to do but look on, and I had had ample opportunity of
observing Lady Hildegarde. She afforded a sharp contrast to Emma, who
seemed unusually small, delicate, and forlorn. Her visitor, who did
not look her age, was tall, slight, and held herself well. She had a
smooth and beautiful complexion, brown hair worn over a cushion, a pair
of bright eyes, an animated expression, and a pointed chin. She was
dressed in a sort of pelisse, richly trimmed with priceless sable, and
a smart little French bonnet which bristled with wings.
“Now, I will take no excuse; there is no occasion for me to send you a
formal card, is there?”
“Oh no, no,” protested Emma, eagerly.
“Then, Christmas Day is a fixture, remember. Be ready at half-past
seven, please, for Hugo is so fidgety about his horses, and hates them
to be kept standing. On second thoughts, had you not better stay all
night? Yes, that’s it! Just bring a basket trunk, and we will send you
home after breakfast. Now, now,” with a gay, imperative gesture, “pray
don’t say a word—it is all settled;” and, with a hasty good-by, she
was already at the door.
But it was Emma’s turn to introduce an afterthought, and my impulsive
little Irish stepmother cried, “Oh, do wait one second, Lady
Hildegarde; I want to ask about your son.” I was facing her ladyship,
and noticed that her gracious countenance had assumed an impatient
expression. This expression became absolutely grim as the words, “We
saw him in London—he was _so_ good to us!” fell on her ear.
“In London!” she repeated slowly, turning about to confront Emma, and
speaking in a cool, constrained voice—an insolent voice. “How _did_ he
discover you?”
“Quite by accident, I assure you!” Why should Emma’s tone so suddenly
assume an apologetic key? “We met at the Stores!”
“The Stores!”—a pregnant pause—“Oh, so _you_ were the people?” She
paused again, and continued in a more genial tone, “I think I did hear
something about it!” I was certain that she had heard everything about
it, and had been greatly displeased; but why?
“Where is Mr. Everard Somers?” pursued Emma, rather timidly; “and how
is he?”
“He is quite well, and rambling about as usual. Well, now, I must
_really_ go. Good-by. So glad to have seen you,” and she once more
nodded affectionately to Emma. I opened the door for her, and she
rustled down-stairs with a footstep as light and rapid as if she had
been but eighteen. In another moment we heard the bang of the carriage
door—a bang that seemed to say to me, “Thank goodness, _that_ is
over!”—and then she drove off.
“_How_ kind!” cried Emma. “Just her dear old self, isn’t she, darling?
Now, come, what did I tell you?” stroking my smileless face.
“I don’t think her kindness is so very remarkable, after all,” I
grumbled, as I tidied up a chair-back.
“How difficult it is to please you young people! What more _would_ you
expect, than to be asked to dinner on Christmas Day, to have a carriage
sent for you, and to remain at the Abbey all night?”
I made no reply. Perhaps I was grasping, perhaps I was too sanguine,
too childish; but I had expected something totally different. Happy are
those who do not expect!
“Well, has she been to call yet?” demanded Miss Skuce, in a querulous
voice, as she entered our apartments the next morning.
“Oh yes, last evening,” I answered promptly, with a sense of relief.
“Last _evening_! Nonsense!” was the rude response. “I never saw the
carriage. It wasn’t in the street.”
“At any rate, it was here yesterday,” replied Emma, rather stiffly.
“When?” very sharply.
“About half-past five or six o’clock; it was quite dark.”
“Pitch dark of course. Dear me, what a strange hour!”
“Well, you see, as Lady Hildegarde says herself, there is no occasion
to be ceremonious with _me_.”
“That’s true,” brightening up. “And what else did she say?”
“Oh, she talked of India and of old times. She has invited us to dinner
on Christmas Day.”
“Come! that _is_ a compliment. For, of course, it’s a family party. But
how will you get there? Scott never hires out his flies on Christmas
Day.”
“Lady Hildegarde has kindly offered to send for us.”
“Nonsense!—and Mr. Somers is so churlish of his horses?”
“Yes, we are to sleep at the Abbey that night,” said Emma, carelessly.
“Well, upon my word, I call that doing it comfortably. I am _so_ glad,”
suddenly rising and wringing Emma’s hand. “You _will_ enjoy it!
Christmas at the Abbey! You will have no end to tell us. Oh, by the
way, did you—did she—mention me?”
“No,” was the rather shamefaced admission.
Miss Skuce looked extremely glum.
“You see,” continued Emma, “she was not here long, and was entirely
taken up with other topics—India, you know. However, when I am under
her roof, I shall certainly make a point of telling her of your
kindness.”
“Oh, no, no, no—ten thousand times no! It’s not worth mentioning, only
that I am _sure_ she would be glad to know that, in her absence, her
friends were taken good care of. I’ll bring you some eggs to-morrow.”
(There had been a considerable pause with regard to these eggs.)
Finally Miss Skuce kissed Emma with almost passionate fervor—believing
that a peeress had left a recent impress on the same pale lips—and
went forth in haste to spread the news.
It lost nothing in the telling! Lady Hildegarde had lunched—no, she
had had tea with us. The Hayes were going to stay at the Abbey—to
_live_ there. Lady Hildegarde had adopted Miss Hayes. It took ten days
to sift facts from fiction, and then it was generally allowed that we
were to dine at the Abbey, that one of the Abbey carriages was to fetch
us, and we were to remain all night. To be invited to dine at the Abbey
on Christmas Day was a conspicuous favor, and civilities, which had
somewhat flagged within the last few weeks, were now rekindled more
warmly than ever.