A NEW STATION OF LIFE.
We were met at Chalgrove station by the coroneted carriage and
high-stepping horses, as foreseen by Miss Skuce’s eager imagination. My
scanty, shabby baggage was entirely the affair of a tall footman, who
ushered me to this splendid equipage with an air of solemn deference,
which afforded ample testimony that Lord Chalgrove’s niece was
_somebody_.
“I’m extremely anxious about Dolly,” said my uncle as we bowled along
at a rapid rate.
This was the third or fourth time, within three or four hours, that he
had made the same remark.
“She won’t give in—she has such a spirit—but I know she is more
injured than we suspect, and that Dr. Harwood has rather a grave
opinion of her case. An accident to the spine is always a serious
matter.”
“I should think it was,” I assented. “But then, she has youth on her
side, which is something.”
“And she will have _you_ by her side, which will be something,”
he replied. “It seems almost providential—_quite_ providential,
indeed—that I should have been able to lay claim to a relation, to a
young companion for her, just at this critical time.”
“Most providential for _me_, uncle, seeing that I have neither friends
nor home.”
“And here _is_ your home now, my dear,” he said, as we dashed between a
pair of great stone pillars. “This is Chalgrove, where your mother was
born. There were only two of us, and we were always greatly attached
to one another—and she was the leading spirit of the two, afraid of
nothing not even of my father; and many a scrape we got into together,
though I was the elder by five years.”
Chalgrove Chase was a lovely place—not a new place in old clothes, nor
an old place decked out in modern garments; but a beautiful, dignified,
venerable pile, standing among sloping green glades and fine forest
trees. We entered through a hall or armory lined with coats of mail and
feudal banners, and passed into a great gallery paneled with carved
oak, and hung with impressive-looking portraits; everything around me
spoke of generations of magnificence, and of dignified prosperity. And
I was, in a way, a daughter of this wealthy and ancient house!
The real daughter of the house received me with wide-open arms, as she
lay upon a couch in her boudoir. Poor girl! even now I saw a sad change
in her; her merry, dancing eyes looked anxious, and almost tragic; were
they already deploring her blighted youth? Her lips were drawn with
pain, her cheeks had lost their pretty contour. Yes, in ten days’ time
Dolly Chalgrove was wasted to a shadow!
Her spirits, however, were still in robust condition, and she hailed
me with enthusiasm, and—what is more lasting—with warm and enduring
affection.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t care for many girls!” she confessed as
I sat beside her, “and those who have been my chief pals have a horrid
knack of getting married, and that puts an end to everything; because,
once a girl marries, she tells all she hears to her husband, and even
lets him read her letters, and that three-cornered sort of business is
most unsatisfactory. But now I have you, my own first cousin, who is
the image of my Aunt Gwendoline, father says, and as I resemble her
too, no wonder we are almost like sisters, and that I was drawn to you
on the spot!”
“And I to you,” I answered emphatically.
“You remember that I told you to look out for me in the sporting
papers; but I never dreamt that when you did see me mentioned in a
paragraph, it would be as the victim of a ‘shocking accident in the
hunting field.’ It was not really the horse’s fault, though he has a
hot temper. Another woman was riding jealous—she actually rode _at_
me! She crossed us at a fence. He jumped wildly, and fell—fell on
me, on stones. I put up my hands (as I always do) to save my face;
but in his struggles he kicked me in the back. You say I shall get
better. No, my dear Cousin Gwen, I’m going to let you into a horrible
secret—I shall get _worse_. I feel it. Every day I am more loglike and
powerless. Oh, I am so sorry for the poor, poor pater. He and I always
hunted in couples, always went everywhere together. Gwen, you will have
to be a daughter to him and take my place.”
Dolly’s sad presentiment came true; all that winter, spring, and
summer, she never left her bed, and I nursed her. At length there was
a shade of improvement, and we took her abroad by easy stages, and
remained there for months. She is no longer bedridden, or a helpless
invalid, or chained to her sofa always.
This she declares she owes to me; but that is only a way of saying
that she is fond of me. Her own patience, fortitude, and cheerful
disposition did more for her than our assiduous care and foreign baths.
She will never, alas, be able to walk, to dance, to mount a horse
again! She will be a cripple, more or less, as long as she lives.
Nevertheless, she takes a vivid interest in life—life, in which my
pretty, vivacious, warm-hearted Cousin Dolly can be but a bystander and
spectator. She takes a keen interest in Everard and me. We have been
engaged to be married for some time—with the full approval of both
families.
Yes, Lady Hildegarde paid a three days’ visit to the Chase when we
returned from Germany, ostensibly to inquire for Dolly, and judge of
her progress with her own eyes; but in reality to ask me (to command,
exhort, and entreat, me) to be her son’s wife.
For, strange as it may appear, it will be _my_ hand, and not poor
Dolly’s, that alone can join the great Chalgrove fortune to the
impoverished Somers estates!
I am mistress of a splendid establishment, with an admirable
housekeeper as viceroy. And I “fell into the ways of the place,” as she
expressed it, with extraordinary ease.
I suppose there was something in belonging by blood to the race that
had lived there for generations! Ideas, instincts, tastes, manners, are
surely hereditary! Who would believe that I had spent so many sighs
and tears over a much smaller domestic budget, or with what an anxious
eye I had scanned the butter (salt butter) and the candles, in order
to measure their consumption? Who would imagine that I knew far better
than my own scullery-maid the cheap parts of meat; and that once
an unexpected deficit of two and fourpence half penny had cost me a
sleepless night!
How I wished that Emma, the partner of those dark days, had been alive
to enjoy the sunshine of my present prosperity!
I have not forgotten Stonebrook—nor has it forgotten me. I send
punctual remembrances to Mrs. Gabb and the Mounds; and Miss Skuce
clings to me. She favors me with long letters (crossed) and elaborate
Christmas cards, and receives in return hampers of game and hothouse
fruit. Uncle Chalgrove calls her “a kind, good, warm-hearted old soul!”
and I leave him in his ignorance. I have steadily turned a deaf ear to
her continual importunities and eager appeals for my photograph, and
she mentions that she would “_prefer_ a large one, in my court train!”
She shall never possess a picture of mine, large or small, plain or
colored, for I well know how it would stand on her mantelpiece, to be
criticised, explained, and talked over, and have all its poor little
history garrulously related. No, never, _never_!
Everard, my cousin and _fiancé_, spends most of his time at the Chase.
We are to live there altogether in the coming by and by. He and I often
walk out beside Dolly’s invalid chair, and accompany her round the
park, the grounds, gardens, or to her favorite haunt, the paddocks, to
see the pensioners and the young horses. Among the former is Diable
Vert (fat, lazy, and dead lame). Dolly was firm with respect to her
former favorite, and obtained a reprieve for him, as he was being led
forth to execution. He also had suffered in that dreadful accident, and
is worthless as a hunter; but he hobbles up to the gate whenever he
hears the voice of his comrade in misfortune.
I know that Everard often—nay, perhaps always—wonders why I am not
more cordial to his mother. She knew my own mother intimately long
ago, and has repeatedly assured me, with what poor Emma called her
“irresistible” manner, that she will take her old friend’s place, and
be _more_ than a mother to me! Naturally, I have never once referred
to our unpleasant little encounter in Mrs. Gabb’s lodgings, nor to
Emma, nor to India, nor to any delicate subjects. I am always civil
and—I hope—agreeable. I shall never tell tales to Everard. Perhaps
he may have his suspicions—who knows? Perhaps Miss Skuce took all
Stonebrook into her confidence—perhaps not. But it is a curious fact,
that latterly he has ceased to urge me to pay visits to the Abbey, or
to inquire why I invariably decline his mother’s continual and pressing
invitations to stay with her for a week or two—or even to spend
_Christmas_!
THE END.
Transcriber’s Notes
Page 70 — chimmey changed to chimney.
Page 94 — charperon changed to chaperon.
Page 98 — breakast changed to breakfast.
Page 177 — my fine eathers changed to my fine feathers.
Page 201 — kettle of ho water changed to kettle of hot water.
Page 244 — aknowledged changed acknowledged.