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The Late Miss Hollingford
BY ROSA MULHOLLAND
(LADY GILBERT)
Author of "Cynthia's Bonnet Shop" "Giannetta" "Hetty Gray" "Four Little
Mischiefs" &c.
_ILLUSTRATED_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND DUBLIN
[Illustration: RACHEL RETURNS TO HER MOTHER.]
PREFACE.
"The Late Miss Hollingford" was published a good many years ago in the
pages of _All the Year Round_.
It has never till now been re-published in England, though it has been
translated into French under the title of _Une Idée Fantasque_, and
issued by the Bleriot Library, with a preface by M. Gounod. It has also
appeared in Italian. In the Tauchnitz Collection it is bound in with _No
Thoroughfare_, having been chosen by the late Charles Dickens as a
pendant for his own story in a volume of that series.
Mr. Dickens was so pleased with this tale, and some others by the same
author, then a very young beginner, that he wrote asking her to
contribute a serial story of considerable length to his journal.
"The Late Miss Hollingford" (the title of which was chosen by Mr.
Dickens himself) comes now asking for a favourable reception from the
public, in the name of the great master of English fiction--long passed
away from among us.
CHAPTER I.
A dear old lady tells us this story in the late autumn evenings. Now the
harvest is in, huge haycocks shelter the gable, the honey is strained
and put by in jars, the apples are ripened and stored; the logs begin to
sputter and sing in the big parlour at evening, hot cakes to steam on
the tea-table, and the pleasant lamp-lit hours to spread themselves.
Indoor things begin to have meaning looks of their own, our limbs grow
quiet, and our brains begin to work. The moors beyond the window take
strange expressions in the twilight, and fold mysteries into their
hollows with the shadows of the night. The maids in the kitchen sing
wild ballads to one another round the ingle; and when one of us young
folks threads the rambling passages above to fetch a stray thimble from
one of the lavender-scented bed-rooms, she comes back flying down the
great hollow staircase as if a troop of ghosts were at her heels. It is
the time to enjoy a story, a true story, the story of a real life; and
here it is, as our dear old lady is telling it to us.
* * * * *
When I first learned, my children, that I was the ward of my mother's
early friend, Mrs. Hollingford, and was to live under her roof after my
departure from school, I little thought that a place like Hillsbro' Farm
was ever likely to be my home. I was a conceited young person, and fond
of giving myself airs. My father was colonel of his regiment, and I
thought I had a right to look down on Lydia Brown, whose father was in
business, though she wore velvet three inches deep upon her frocks,
while mine had no better trimming than worsted braid. I had spent all my
life at school, from the day when my father and mother kissed me for the
last time in Miss Sweetman's parlour. I remember yet my pretty mother's
pale tearful face as she looked back at me through the carriage window,
and my own paroxysm of despairing tears on the mat when the door was
shut. After that I had a pleasant enough life of it. I was a favourite
at school, having a disposition to make myself and others as happy as I
could. I required a good deal of snubbing, but when properly kept down I
believe I was not a disagreeable girl.
My Indian letters generally contained some bit of news to amuse or
interest my companions, and now and again captain, or ensign somebody,
home upon sick leave, called and presented himself in Miss Sweetman's
parlour, with curious presents for me, my mistresses, or favourite
companions. I remember well the day when Major Guthrie arrived with the
box of stuffed birds. Miss Kitty Sweetman, our youngest and best-loved
mistress, was sent on before me to speak civilly to the gentleman in the
parlour, and announce my coming. Miss Kitty was the drudge of the
school, the sweetest-tempered drudge in the world. She was not so well
informed as her elder sisters, and had to make up in the quantity of her
teaching what it lacked in the quality. She was fagged, and hunted, and
worried from morning till night by all the small girls in the school.
She would have been merry if she had had time, and she was witty
whenever she could get the chance of being anything but a machine; but
she was not always happy, for I slept in her room, and I sometimes heard
her crying in the night. As I remember her first she was young and
pretty, but as time went on she grew a little faded, and a little
harassed-looking; though I still thought her sweet enough for anything.
Well, Miss Kitty went down to the major, and I, following close upon her
heels, heard a little scream as I paused at the parlour door, and there
when I went in was a bronzed-looking gentleman holding Miss Kitty's two
hands in his, and looking in her face. And I could not care about the
birds for thinking of it, and when we went up to bed Miss Kitty told me
that Major Guthrie was an old friend of her family, and that he had said
he would call again. And surely enough he did call again; and then it
happened that the three Miss Sweetmans were invited out to an evening
party--a great event for them. I thought there was something very
particular about it, and so I took care to dress Miss Kitty with my own
hands. She had a plain white dress, and I insisted on lending her my
blue sash and coral necklace; and when she was dressed she put her
finger in her mouth, and asked, between laughing and crying, whether I
could further accommodate her with a coral and bells. She looked as
young as anybody, though she would make fun of herself. And when she
came in that night, and saw my open eyes waiting for her, she sat down
on my bed and began to cry, and told me that Major Guthrie had asked her
to marry him, and she was going to India as his wife. Then I heard the
whole story; how he had loved her dearly long ago; how her friends had
refused him because he was too poor, and she was too young; how after he
had gone off in a passion reverses had come upon them, and she and her
sisters had been obliged to open a school. And so Miss Kitty went out to
India, and the only thing that comforted me for her loss was the fact
that she took with her the embroidered handkerchief for my mother, and
the wrought cigar-case for my father, which it had taken my idleness a
whole year to produce. Ah, me! and my eyes never beheld either of these
three again: friend, father, or mother.
My first recollections of Mrs. Hollingford are associated with
plum-cake, birth-days, and bon-bons. I remember her as an erect,
dignified-looking lady in a long velvet cloak, and with a peculiarly
venerable face, half severe, half benevolent. I used to feel a little
nervous about speaking to her, but I liked to sit at a distance and look
at her. I had a superstition that she was the most powerful universal
agent in existence; that she had only to say, "Let there be plum-cake,"
and immediately it would appear on the table; or, "This little girl
requires a new doll," and at once a waxen cherub would repose in my
arms. The Miss Sweetmans paid her the greatest deference, and the girls
used to peep over the blinds in the school-room at her handsome carriage
and powdered servants. I remember, when a very little girl, presenting
myself before Miss Sweetman one day, and popping up my hand as a sign
that I wanted to ask a question. "What is the reason, Miss Sweetman," I
asked, "that Mrs. Hollingford makes me think of the valiant woman of
whom we were reading in the Bible yesterday?" But Miss Sweetman was
busy, and only puckered up her mouth and ordered me back to my seat.
Mrs. Hollingford used to take me on her knee and tell me of a little
girl of hers who was at school in France, and with whom I was one day to
be acquainted; and a tall lad, who was her son, used to call sometimes
with bouquets for Miss Sweetman or sugar-plums for me; but I was never
in her house, which I believed to be a palace, nor did I ever see Mr.
Hollingford, who was a banker in the city. After my twelfth birthday I
saw them no more. I missed the periodical appearance of the noble
countenance in the parlour. Miss Sweetman, with a very long face, told
me something of the breaking of a bank, ruin, and poverty. I was very
sorry, but I was too young to realise it much; and I went on thinking of
Mrs. Hollingford, in trouble, no doubt, and unfortunately removed from
me, but still going about the world in her long velvet cloak and with
her hands full of plum-cake.
So my youth went on till I was sixteen, pretty well grown for my years,
a little pert, a little proud, a little fond of tinsels and butterflies,
a little too apt to make fun of my neighbours, and to believe that the
sun had got a special commission to shine upon me, but withal
sympathetic and soft-hearted enough when in my right senses, and, as I
said before, not a bad sort of girl when properly kept down by a
judicious system of snubbing. I had already begun to count the months to
the happy time, two years hence, when, my education being finished, I
should at last rejoin my parents in India; and I was fond of describing
all the beautiful things I would send as presents to the friends who had
been kind to me in England. And then one fearful day came the black
letter bearing the terrible news which bowed my head in the dust,
scattered my girlish vanities, and altered my fate for life. Every one
in the house learned the news before me. I saw blank faces all around,
and could only guess the cause, so careful were they to break it to me
gradually. For two dreadful days they kept me on the rack of suspense,
while I did not know whether it was my father or mother who was dead, or
whether both were ill, or only one. But I learned all soon enough. There
had been a fever, and both were dead. I was an orphan, quite alone in
the world.
For three years after this I remained with the Miss Sweetmans, during
which time I had regained much of my old cheerfulness, and also some
degree of my natural pride and impertinence. My father and mother had
been to me a memory and a hope; now they were a memory only. After my
first grief and sense of desolation had passed, I went on with the
routine of my days much as before. I did not miss my father and mother
every hour as though I had lived under their roof and been familiar with
their faces and caresses. But the bright expectation of my youth was
extinguished, and I suffered secretly a great yearning for the love
which I had now no right to claim from anyone. The time was fast
approaching when I must take my school-books down from Miss Sweetmans'
shelves, pack up my trunks, and go forth among strangers. I had some
property, more than enough for my needs, and I was to dwell under the
roof of my guardian, Mrs. Hollingford. In the mean time, I paid several
visits to the home of a wealthy school-fellow, who had entered upon
fashionable life, and who was eager to give me a taste of its delights
before I yielded myself to the fate that was in store for me. I learned
to dress with taste, to wear my hair in the newest style, and to waltz
to perfection. But I could not go on paying visits for ever, and the
time arrived when I found it necessary to turn my back on lively scenes
and prepare for the obscurity of Hillsbro'. This was a remote place in
the north country, from whence were dated all the letters addressed by
Mrs. Hollingford to me since the time when she had become my guardian.
I did not go to Hillsbro' Farm in any unfair state of ignorance as to
the present worldly position of its owners. Grace Tyrrell (my
school-fellow) was careful to let me know the depth of the degradation
to which these friends of an old time had fallen from their once high
estate; also to make me aware of the estimation in which they were held
by the people of her world. The idea of my going to Hillsbro' was
ridiculed till I got angry, but not ashamed.
"Those poor Hollingfords!" said one lady. "I am sure it is very kind of
you, Miss Dacre, to pay them a visit; but _live_ with them, my
dear!--you could not think of identifying yourself with such people. Are
you aware that the father ruined numbers of people, absconded with his
pockets full of money, and never was heard of since?"
"Yes," said I; "but I have nothing to do with Mr. Hollingford. And I
daresay if his wife had taken ill-gotten riches down to Hillsbro' with
her, the police would have followed her before this; for she gives her
address quite openly."
I afterwards heard this lady telling Grace that her friend was a very
pert young woman. I did not mind, for, through fighting Mrs.
Hollingford's battles, I had come to think that I loved her memory; and
I tried to do so for my mother's sake.
"It is not at all necessary to live with a guardian," said Grace. "They
say Mrs. Hollingford makes butter and sells it; and Frederick says the
son is a mere ploughman. He is Mr. Hill's agent; Frederick met him by
chance, quite lately, when he was shooting at Hillsbro'."
"Agent, is he?" said I, mischievously. "Then I should think he must at
least know how to read and write. Come, that is not so bad!"
"You will get the worst of it, Grace," said Frederick Tyrrell, who was
listening. "Lucky fellow, Hollingford, to have such a champion!"
So here I had better explain to you, my dears, that Captain Tyrrell was,
even at this time, what old-fashioned people used to call a great _beau_
of mine; that he was fond of dangling about my skirts and picking up my
fan. Nothing more on this subject is necessary here. If you desire to
know what he is like, I refer you to an old water-colour sketch of a
weak-faced, washed-out-looking young man, with handsome features, and a
high-collared coat, which you will find in an old portfolio upstairs, on
the top shelf of the wardrobe, in the lumber-room. It was done by
Grace's own hand, a portrait of her brother, and presented to me in
those days. It has lain in that portfolio ever since.
Though I fought for the Hollingfords, and would hear no word against
them, I do confess that I suffered much fear as to how I should manage
to accommodate myself to the life which I might find awaiting me at
Hillsbro' Farm. That idea of the butter-making, for instance, suggested
a new train of reflections. The image of Mrs. Hollingford began to
divest itself gradually of the long velvet cloak and majestic mien which
it had always worn in my mind, and I speculated as to whether I might
not be expected to dine in a kitchen with the farm-servants, and to
assist with the milking of the cows. But I contrived to keep my doubts
to myself, and went on packing my trunks with a grudging conviction that
at least I was doing my duty.
And it is here, just when my packing was half done, that the strange,
beautiful face of Rachel Leonard rises up to take its place in my
history. I was introduced to her by chance; I did not know her story,
nor that she had a story, nor yet that she was connected with any people
whose intimate acquaintance I was likely to make in the future.
We met at a small musical party, where we had opportunities for
conversation. She wore a white Indian muslin, with a bunch of scarlet
flowers in the bosom. We were sitting in a softly lighted corner, and
her figure was in relief against a dark curtain. Her face was oval and
olive, with an exquisite mingling of warmth and purity, depth and
delicacy, in its tone. Her dark hair was swept up to the top of her head
in a crown of braids, as it was then worn. Her eyes were dark grey, and
very sweet, with a mysterious shadow of sadness about them when her face
was in repose; yet, when they smiled they shone more than any eyes I
have ever seen.
"Miss Dacre and Miss Leonard, I must make you acquainted," said our
hostess (the meddling lady whom I have already quoted on the subject of
the Hollingford misdemeanours). "You intend passing the winter at
Hillsbro', Miss Leonard."
"Yes," replied Rachel; "I believe we shall be at the hall about
Christmas."
"Ah! and you have never been there before? I can assure you it is the
most dreary place; you will be glad of a young friend in the
neighbourhood. Miss Dacre's whim is one of our amusements at present.
She is going to Hillsbro' to stay with a lady who is the mother of Mr.
Hill's agent."
"Mrs. Cowan?" said Miss Leonard, with a ladylike assumption of interest
in the subject.
"Not at all, my dear; the Cowans were worthy people, but Mr. Hill has
changed his agent. Have you not heard? No, of course. Hollingford is the
name of these people. The father was a banker, the bank smashed, and he
ran away with large sums of money."
I thought--nay, I was quite sure--that Miss Leonard started at the
mention of the word Hollingford; and I also thought that she turned
deathly pale; but she bent over her flowers at the moment, and the light
was very subdued. No one else seemed to notice it, so it is just
possible I may have been mistaken.
"Mr. Hill's new agent is, then, the son of Mr. Hollingford, the banker?"
said Miss Leonard, after a pause. "I did not know that they belonged to
that part of the country."
"Oh! I do not know about that; but the mother and son have taken a farm
there lately, trying to make shift for themselves, poor things! They say
young Hollingford has some Quixotic ideas about paying some of his
father's liabilities; and if he has, I am sure it is very creditable to
him. But I for one am inclined to doubt it. Bad conduct generally runs
in families."
"Madam," said I, with my cheeks getting very hot, "Mrs. Hollingford was
my mother's dear friend."
"Highty tighty, Miss Dacre," said the lady, "we never know how our
friends are going to turn out. I say nothing but what is true. And allow
me to warn you, my dear, that if you will persist in identifying
yourself with such people you must make up your mind to hear them spoken
of as they deserve."
"Madam," said I again, flashes of lightning now dancing before my eyes,
"I am very sorry I ever entered your house; and I shall certainly never
enter it again."
Not waiting for more I made her a curtsy, and walked out of the room. I
found the dressing-room where I had left my cloak, fully determined to
go home at once, if I could only get the carriage. I had to wait some
time, however, and whilst I sat alone the door opened and Rachel Leonard
came hurriedly up to my side.
"I could not go away without bidding you good-night," she said, holding
both my hands in both of hers. "Perhaps we may meet again. God bless
you!"
Her voice was unsteady, her face pale, her eyes wet. A lady came to the
door and said, "Now, Rachel, we are waiting!" She dropped my hand and
was gone.
"Who is she?" I asked of Grace, as soon as we were together, "What
relation is she to the Hills?"
"None whatever," said Grace; "only an adopted daughter. There is some
romantic story about her, I believe. She went to Mrs. Hill as a
companion first. The Hills, who are the most eccentric old couple in the
world, took a violent fancy to her, and adopted her for their own. I
believe she is an orphan of a very good family. They keep up a wonderful
fuss about her; and people say they have made her their heiress."
"I wonder why she looked so strangely at the mention of the
Hollingfords?" I said musingly.
"My dear Margery," said Grace, shaking her head, "I give you up. You are
perfectly insane on the subject of the Hollingfords. What will you
imagine next?"
"I do not think I imagined it," said I. "I am sure that she turned as
white as your cloak."
"Well, well," said Grace, "there may be some deep mystery for all I
know. Miss Leonard may, like yourself, have a taste for agriculture; or
may have known young Mr. Hollingford before he turned ploughman. I
advise you to think about it. You have materials for a pretty romance to
take into exile with you."
And I did think about it long afterwards.