“INDIAN PAPERS, PLEASE COPY.”
All that miserable Christmas night Emma was desperately ill. The
little lodging-house was in an uproar, and Mrs. Gabb was unmistakably
annoyed at the prospect of having an invalid on her hands. Of course
I undertook all the nursing, wrung out hot stupes, dressed blisters,
administered draughts, and towards morning the patient fell asleep.
About twelve o’clock, when I chanced to go into our sitting-room, I
discovered that it was already in possession of Miss Skuce, who was
walking up and down like some caged animal.
“So your mother is ill?” she began abruptly.
“Very ill, I am afraid. It was kind of you to come so soon to ask for
her.”
“And you never went to the Abbey, after all! The curate was there—I
have just seen him—and he said there were no empty places, nor _one_
word about you. How was that?” she demanded, as she paused and glared
at me.
“Please speak in a low voice,” I said, “the walls are so thin, and Emma
is not deaf. The truth was, that Lady Hildegarde forgot us altogether.”
“Tell me honestly, Miss Hayes, _did_ she ever ask you? I’d like to see
her note.”
“You know, we told you that it was a verbal invitation. We were ready
to start at half-past seven. We allowed Mrs. Gabb to leave us alone
in the house. There was, of course, no dinner, no food, no fire, no
lights; and there we sat famishing! My stepmother, who had been ailing
all day, became seriously ill. She has fallen asleep now, after a very
bad night, and must on no account be disturbed.”
“It’s most extraordinary: and her ladyship never even missed you. And
now she has gone off to Brighton for a week.”
“Well, it is quite immaterial to _me_. I never wish to see her again,”
I rejoined in an emphatic whisper.
“It certainly _is_ most mortifying,” said Miss Skuce, seating herself
in Emma’s chair, and stretching out her goloshed feet. “To be asked to
the Abbey, and to puff the news everywhere—and then to be forgotten! I
had some eggs here; but, as your mother is ill, I won’t leave them.”
“No, pray don’t, on any account.”
“The Chalgroves have left the Moate, gone home, and nothing settled
about the match. Young Somers is a fool. There is a rumor that he is in
love with some wretched girl who hasn’t a penny, and Lady Hildegarde
is nearly beside herself! Lady Polexfen told Captain Blackjohn, and
he told young Ferrars, who told his mother, who told _me_. By the
way, Lady Polexfen—Maude, you know—is making herself the talk of
the place, the way she is flirting with Captain Blackjohn. However,
I’m forgetting that you are not Mrs. Hayes; we should not talk gossip
to girls. Well, I must be going. I hope your mother will be better
to-morrow; good-by. Oh, by the way, I quite forgot to wish you the
compliments of the season, and all the usual sort of thing. _I_ don’t
believe in a merry Christmas.”
“Neither do I,” I answered with all my heart.
“Well, good-by, good-by,” and seizing the eggs, she trotted down-stairs.
The next day, Emma was much worse.
“Gwen,” she gasped in a weak voice, “I am going to leave you; and oh, I
am so miserable about you! My pension dies with me. We have barely what
will pay our bills in hand. There is my watch, and some ornaments; they
will pay for—for the funeral—and—a——”
“Oh, don’t!” I sobbed. “You are going to get well. You must and shall
get well.”
“You have only eleven pounds a year, Gwen,—oh, my poor, poor Gwen,
what _will_ you do? Oh, if your father and I could only have seen the
future! And I have no friends! If it was next year, the Grahams and
Murrays would be home. If only Lady Hildegarde——”
“Don’t mention her name,” I cried passionately. “And don’t trouble
about me, darling. I shall manage. Think of nothing but yourself, and
of getting well. You will, won’t you?”
“No; I’ve felt this coming for a long time. I am consumptive. The
chill—oh! oh! this pain——”
“There, there! you shall not talk any more.”
“Oh, I must speak while I can—and I’m not afraid to go, Gwen. Why
should I shrink from what all our beloved ones have passed through?
Only for leaving you—dearest—dearest Gwen,” and her voice died
away. I sat for a long time, holding her clammy hand in mine. “If the
Chalgroves only knew!” she panted out.
I was silent. As far as I was concerned, they should never know, nor
would I ever lift a finger to summon my grand relatives.
Her mind wandered a good deal. There were disjointed scraps of
sentences, of songs, of prayers, and something about Lady Hildegarde
and a merry Christmas; and I could not understand whether she was
rambling or not, as she said—
“A happy new year, Gwen, and many of them.”
After this she sank into a stupor, from which she never awoke, and
gasped away her life at that fatal hour before dawn when so many souls
are summoned. Now I was indeed alone. I cried a little—not nearly
as much as Mrs. Gabb. I was thankful that there was an end to Emma’s
terrible sufferings; but I felt in a sort of stupor myself—my brain
seemed sodden. I had not slept nor taken off my clothes for three days.
Mrs. Gabb was very kind, so were Mrs. Mound, the Doctor, and even Miss
Skuce—but she was also terribly inquisitive.
The funeral was small, indeed, it could scarcely have been smaller. Dr.
Skuce and I followed in the only mourning-coach. The cemetery was on a
hillside, quite a mile from Stonebrook, and it was a bright springlike
morning—a day that December had stolen from May, and that May would
filch from December in turn—as we proceeded at a foot pace on our
mournful errand.
There was a meet in the neighborhood; numbers of red-coated fox hunters
trotted past on their hunters. One drew up for a moment to a walk, and
lifted his hat as he went by. It was Mr. Somers. His scarlet coat,
his bright handsome face, his spirited hunter, which he reined in
with great difficulty—what a painful contrast this picture afforded
to that of myself—veiled, and shrinking into the corner of a dingy
mourning-coach—following my only friend to her grave.
Little did Mr. Somers suspect, as he dashed onward, that he had been
showing a last token of respect to Emma Hayes.
* * * * *
After the funeral, I had to face the world. Poor people cannot afford
an extended period of retirement and mourning. I made my black gown,
and as I sewed, I made plans. I had nearly twenty pounds. I had youth,
health. I would go to London and work for my bread like other girls.
But how? I could teach French. I could sew and embroider beautifully.
No, I would not be a nursery governess, a _bonne d’enfants_. I could
play the guitar and sing. I had a fine mezzo-soprano, and had been well
taught. My singing had been in requisition at the rectory tea-parties
and in the church choir; but it would not bring me in a pennyworth of
bread. I must leave Stonebrook; I saw no means of earning my living
there, and I detested the place for many reasons. It was evidently
well known that I had been left almost penniless. The rector and his
wife had called; they had been very sympathetic, and had inquired
as to my future plans; but they could not give me much beyond their
sympathy. They had a large grown-up family, and but narrow means. Mrs.
Cholmondeley was a victim to influenza, and extremely ill. The Blosses
and Bennys had left cards, and this, with the exception of Miss Skuce,
brought me to the end of my acquaintances. The mere fact of thinking
of her appeared to have summoned her to my presence! There she was,
shaking her damp waterproof on the landing; it was a dreary, drizzling
January afternoon.
“Do you know that you have never put it in the papers?” she began,
without preamble. “I thought Mound would have seen to _that_. It ought
to be done at once.”
“Yes, of course; and I have been extremely remiss,” I acknowledged,
with dismay.
“I will write it out and send it to the _Times_ for you,” producing a
pencil—“the _Times_ and the _Stonebrook Star_. What shall I say?”
After thinking a moment, I said—
“‘December 27th, at Stonebrook, of acute pneumonia, Emma, widow of
the late Desmond Hayes, Esq., L. C. S., M. D., of Jam-Jam-More, aged
thirty-three. Indian papers, please copy.’”
“Very well. Now give me five and sixpence, and I will send it off by
the next post,” returned Miss Skuce, when she had ceased to scribble.
“And so I hear you are leaving!—Mrs. Gabb says you have given her
notice.”
“Yes, I am going away very shortly to London.”
“Well, I think it is an extremely wise move. There is no opening here
for a governess or companion; every one that I know is suited. I am
very sorry for you, and for poor Mrs. Hayes; but I always felt that she
was not long for this world. She was subject to delusions, wasn’t she,
poor dear? That was all a delusion about Lady Hildegarde! Of course,
other people call it by a nastier name; but _I_ don’t!”
“What do you mean?” I demanded indignantly.
“That the dear good soul imagined she knew Lady Hildegarde! But no one
ever saw her ladyship here, and you were not present at the dinner.
The invitation and acquaintance were in her imagination. I am aware
that Mr. Somers has sent game and flowers, and called; but gentlemen’s
attentions are on a totally different footing from those of the
ladies of a family, and it is quite incredible that his mother, Lady
Hildegarde, would stay for weeks as guest under a person’s roof, that
she would be nursed and tended like a sister, and absolutely ignore
the same kind friend when she came to live near her, and was in very
poor circumstances. It is impossible! As for her photographs, they were
bought in London. The Bennys _always_ said so!”
“Miss Skuce!” I paused, and then added in a calmer tone, “It is not
worth while debating the question. If you think we are impostors, I
cannot help it; but every word that my stepmother said was _true_!”
“Why!” cried my visitor, stretching out her neck and craning forward,
“here _is_ Lady Hildegarde, I declare, and getting out! Maude Polexfen
is in the carriage. Her ladyship is coming in—in here.”
“I shall not receive her,” I answered, rushing to the bell, but
remembering, as I tore at it, that it was broken. In another minute
Lady Hildegarde was in the room, swimming towards me with beautifully
gloved extended hands.
“Oh, my poor dear child! _What_ news is this? Is it true about Mrs.
Hayes?”
“If you mean that she is dead—yes,” I answered, still standing up, but
making no effort to salute her.
“How frightfully sudden!” dropping her hands to her sides and sinking
into Emma’s chair. “What was it?—nothing infectious, I trust?”
“No, nothing infectious.”
“Oh,” with a cool little nod, “how do you do, Miss Skuce? Pray” (to
me) “tell me all particulars. My son only heard the sad news last
evening. He was greatly shocked; and he despatched me at once, as you
see!”—Evidently she was not a little proud of her promptitude and
condescension.
“She caught a severe cold on Christmas Day—” I began.
“Oh, by the way, I’m _so_ sorry; I forgot all about sending for
you—never thought of it _once_—actually not till my son brought me
the melancholy intelligence last night. He wanted me to come off here
then and there. I am so very sorry!”
“You may well be sorry,” I answered, unable any longer to retain
my attitude of frigid politeness, “for your negligence indirectly
caused my mother’s death. Yes; she was so confident that you meant
your invitation, that she allowed the people of the house to leave
us, and here we sat that bitter night—perhaps you can remember the
temperature—without fire or food, waiting for you to send for us. She
would not believe that you could forget her; she thought so much of
you—she was so genuine and affectionate. Miss Skuce, here, has been
telling me that my mother suffered from delusions—that you never knew
her in India. Did you?”
“Why, of course I did,” with a petulant gesture.
“And you stayed with her—for weeks.”
“Yes; I never denied it, that I am aware of!”
“And were nursed by her through a serious illness? Is this true, or was
it a delusion?”
“My good young person! pray don’t be so excited. I am not accustomed
to be brow-beaten in this fashion. You need not look at me as if I were
a reptile! Come, I am a very busy woman; I have many claims on my time
and my society. I am overrun, and apt to be a little forgetful; and I
admit that, with respect to your stepmother, I have been rather slack.
However, I always meant to be friendly—I shall make it up to you. I
am aware that you are left totally destitute, and I know of a most
excellent post which I can secure for you at once, as companion to a
lady in New Zealand. I shall be happy to exert myself and get you this
situation without delay, and I promise——”
“Pray do not trouble yourself about me,” I broke in. “I have no faith
in your promises—or in you!”
Here Lady Hildegarde rose very slowly to her feet, and vainly
endeavored to overawe me by her look, and cover indignation with
dignity.
“You forget yourself, Miss Hayes,” she said in a freezing tone.
But I was now at bay, and replied—
“If you will be so good as to exert yourself so far as to forget _me_,
I shall be extremely glad.”
And then I held the door wide open, and, though my knees were shaking
under me, I bowed her out. Turned out Lady Hildegarde! Oh, what a tale
for the town! Miss Skuce, who had shrunk up into a corner, enjoyed
the scene prodigiously, I am certain, though she felt it her duty to
remonstrate most strongly with me.
“I apologize for all I said, for I have now her ladyship’s own words
for her obligations to your stepmother, and I apologize to _her_
memory. She was a dear, sweet, ladylike creature! She would never have
reproached Lady Hildegarde, nor flown at her like you. Oh, I shall
never forget the look of you! Nor how you dashed her offer in her face,
and drove her out of the room. You should have pocketed your pride and
taken her reference—a titled reference. You forget that you should
order yourself lowly and reverently to all your betters.”
“Do you call that mean, selfish, ungrateful woman my better?”
“Of course I do!” with emphasis. “There is no question of _that_!
Fancy comparing yourself to the daughter of a duke! I think you behaved
in a most vulgar, insulting, outrageous manner. You should——”
“Have played the hypocrite?” I suggested sarcastically.
“Well, well, I’ve no time to argue, for I must be going; but, mark my
words, your high temper will bring you very low yet, as sure as my name
is Sophia Ann Skuce.” Exit.