“WHO _ARE_ THESE CHALGROVES?”
I let myself in with a latchkey—Mr. Gabb’s own particular key—and
crept stealthily up-stairs, hoping that Emma was asleep, and that I
could thus sneak past her door unheard; but no: she was evidently on
the watch for my return, and called out to me to come into her room,
desiring me to “turn up the lamp, take off my cloak, and tell her all
about it!”
I obediently sat down on a low chair facing her, and began to describe
everything to the best of my power; the drive, the arrival, the lovely
old house, the crowds, the dresses, and how Mrs. Cholmondeley had
singled me out and introduced me to partners.
“Your dress is almost as fresh as ever—that is one comfort. Was Lady
Hildegarde present?” inquired Emma anxiously.
“No, only Lady Polexfen. She did not notice me. But Mr. Somers was also
there. He fulfilled your fondest hopes—he ‘noticed me’ a good deal.”
“What do you mean, Gwen?”
“I mean that he danced with me three or four times, took me in to
supper, and finally put me into the fly.”
“That was very kind of him. Just like him!”
“Oh, I had plenty of partners. I was not at all an object of charity,
I can assure you! Mr. Somers asked for you, and said he was coming to
see you immediately, and oh, Emma, I had such a curious experience! I
met a girl to-night who might be my own sister, we are so much alike.
She remarked the resemblance too, and Mr. Somers said that it struck
him the first time he ever met me.”
“And who was she?”
“A Miss Chalgrove; the Honorable Dolly Chalgrove.”
I noticed that Emma gave a little start.
“My mother’s name was Chalgrove. This girl and I are so much alike that
we might be cousins. She is so bright and animated and fascinating,
that I took a fancy to her on the spot. I _wish_ she was my cousin. It
is really too bad that I have no relatives, not a single cousin, and
Mr. Somers has fifty!”
“I dare say you have fifty third or fourth cousins somewhere in the
west of Ireland,” said Emma shading her face with her hand (and I
noticed with a sharp pang how thin and transparent that hand had
become). “But it would take a lifetime to discover them, and probably
they would not repay the trouble. Your father was not anxious to claim
them. After his mother’s and his brother’s death, some ‘cousin’ took
advantage of his absence abroad to claim the little property that was
his by right. He might have gone to law, but he would not. It would
have brought him home, and cost him another fortune.”
“Well, but, Emma, what about my mother’s relations?”
“They were a forbidden topic—a dead letter. Your father could not
bear their name mentioned. They were very grand people, who expected
their only daughter to make a brilliant match, instead of running
away with a penniless army doctor—they never acknowledged her, never
forgave her, no, never noticed her, no more than if she had ceased to
exist. She fretted a good deal when she was in poor health. She wrote,
and they returned the letter unopened. Your father, easy-going man as
he was, resented this to the end of his days; and when he received a
letter after _her_ death, he treated it in the same fashion—returned
it as it came.”
“But all this time, who _are_ these Chalgroves? Please tell me, Emma,
for of course you know.”
“Yes; but your father did not wish _you_ to know. However,
circumstances alter cases. He never dreamt that you would be left
almost homeless and friendless, instead of living under his own roof,
surrounded with every comfort and pleasure his love could give you.”
“Yes, of course, I know all that—I am confident of that; but, once
more, about the Chalgroves?”
“I will tell you another time—to-morrow——”
“No, no; now. Please, please; it won’t take you five minutes, and I
shall not rest or sleep till you satisfy me.”
“I can tell you very little, dear. Your father was extremely reticent
on this one subject; but I believe that he and your mother met at a
fancy ball. It was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Her
people would not hear of it. She was extremely pretty, charming, and
young, and they expected her to make a splendid match. They hurried her
away to a distant country place, but it was all of no use; and when she
heard that he was going to India she insisted on accompanying him, and
she ran away and they were married in London. I believe she made an
attempt to see her people and say farewell before she sailed, but they
refused to receive her, and sent out a message, ‘Not at home.’ She did
not want anything from them, only to say good-by. They were furious,
and never forgave her; her father was inflexible. He and her mother are
dead long ago. Her brother is Lord Chalgrove.”
“I saw him to-night,” I broke in; “he looked so hard at me!—I suppose
he noticed the likeness. And he is my uncle, and that nice girl is my
first cousin. How strange!”
“Yes. How strange that you should come across them here! They live in
Northamptonshire, where they have a lovely old place called The Chase.
Your mother was the Honorable Gwendoline Chalgrove, but she dropped
the prefix altogether when she married, so I was told by people at
Jam-Jam-More. She was a most graceful, elegant creature, a splendid
horse-woman, but as ignorant of the value of money, or of housekeeping,
as an infant—as, indeed, I might say, myself! Your father was devoted
to her memory, and I was never one bit jealous. Her memory was dear
to me, too, though I never saw her. There was something so touching
and so romantic about her life—a delicate girl brought up in luxury,
abandoning everything for love, and fading away like a fragile flower
in an uncongenial climate!
“Your father used to go and look at her grave every Sunday morning.
Over it there stood a white cross, and just the one word ‘Gwendoline.’
He kept all her little belongings under lock and key, in a leather
despatch-box—her Prayer-book, sketches, and letters (I gave you her
little trinkets); they are all in the big bullock trunk down-stairs,
along with your father’s books and clothes. I’ve never had the heart to
open it. Mrs. Gabb keeps it in the back hall. Would you like to examine
it?”
“Yes, I should very much.”
“And these people that you met to-night—it was certainly a wonderful
chance your coming across them. I am so glad you wore your white satin,
darling. Perhaps your uncle may make inquiries, and find out who you
are. Of course, the first advances—any advances—must come from
_them_.”
“Of course!” I assented emphatically.
“You may suppose that it was a delicate question for me to meddle
with—a _second_ wife; but once or twice I did venture to say that
it was a pity to lose sight of the Chalgroves, on your account. Your
father never would hear me out; you were never to know them. The topic
was his Bluebeard’s closet, and I dared not open it.”
“I don’t wonder.”
“Oh, you must not be like him. I have heard that the present lord is a
simple, unaffected, homely man. He may discover you—why not?—from the
likeness, if he even heard your name.”
And she pushed back her hair, and sat up in bed, her eyes blazing
with excitement. An alluring vision was before them as she spoke. She
already beheld me comfortably installed in Chalgrove Chase! Oh, I knew
her _so_ well!
“You have got an idea into your head,” I said, “and please, please,
chase it out immediately. Lord Chalgrove will never seek me out; he
does not know of my existence. He was probably surprised to see that
an ordinary young woman had been endowed with the family type of
feature. He will never give me another thought, no more than if he saw
a groom wearing a suit of clothes resembling the Chalgrove livery. His
daughter, who is not at all conventional, actually addressed me, and
asked how I came by the Chalgrove eyebrows.”
“Oh, my dear Gwen! And what _did_ you say?”
“What could I say?” I answered, rising. “I said nothing. ‘How does one
say nothing?’ To you I say, at last. ‘Good night.’” And, stooping down,
I kissed her, and, gathering up my various accoutrements, departed, and
crept up to my own room.
But I did not go to bed immediately. I sat brushing my long fair locks,
and slowly reviewing all the events of this remarkable evening.
Between intervals of hair-brushing, I studied the Chalgrove brows and
upper lip that confronted me in that miserable looking-glass. The
eyebrows were slightly arched, finely penciled, and quite black. The
Chalgrove lip was short, and a little—well, if not scornful—haughty.
And it was a lying lip: for, as far as one is permitted to know one’s
self, I was neither.
The clock was striking three when I crept into bed, and fell asleep
almost as my head touched the pillow, and enjoyed unusually interesting
dreams.
The next morning a brace of pheasants and a huge bouquet of violets
were left at the hall door, with Mr. Everard Somers’ compliments for
Mrs. Hayes.
We went to tea at the rectory that afternoon. I took my guitar, by
request, and played and sang. I was becoming quite a society girl! I
wore a smart toque—made by my own hands—and a bunch of violets,
and received an unusual share of the conversation. The fame of my
_début_ had been noised abroad; one girl asked me where I got my guitar
ribbons; another, where I got my toque; a third, where I had obtained
the lovely violets, and who was my dressmaker?
“I hear your daughter looked quite nice last night,” said Mrs. Blunt
(our rector’s wife), affably.
“Nonsense, mother,” said her well-named daughter. “We were told she was
the beauty of the evening, the cynosure of all eyes, and I’m sure I am
not surprised.”
When we returned home it was late, and we were sorry to find that Mr.
Somers had called: his card lay on the table.
Mrs. Gabb hurried up after us to explain.
“I thought as how you were in, Mrs. Hayes, so I asked him up, and he
sat and waited for over half an hour. He wrote a bit of a note. It’s
there in the blotter.” And there it was:
“So sorry not to find you at home. I am off to town the day after
Christmas for a short time. Hope to see you when I return.
“E. S.”