THE REAL LADY HILDA

A SKETCH

BY

B. M. CROKER

AUTHOR OF

“PRETTY MISS NEVILLE,” “DIANA BARRINGTON,” “MR. JERVIS,”

“PROPER PRIDE,” “PEGGY OF THE BARTONS,” “BEYOND THE PALE.”

“On souffre quelquefois plus de la mort d’une illusion que de la perte d’une réalité.”

NEW YORK

F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY

11 East 16th Street

LONDON—CHATTO & WINDUS

1899

Copyright, 1899

BY

F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY

[5]

CONTENTS.

[7]

CHAPTER I.

WAITING FOR THE LAMP.

“Too early for the lamp, I suppose, and yet too dark to read a line.” And my stepmother closed her novel, with an impatient snap, as she added, “This is the worst of these horrid, poky lodgings; one never can have anything at the time one wants it. What a dismal little den it is, Gwen! What possessed us to come here?”

I could have answered the question promptly and briefly in a single word [8]“Poverty;” but, as it was a term my relative specially detested, I merely shrugged my shoulders, and continued to gaze into the miserable apology for a garden which ran between our quarters and the high street of Stonebrook, an insignificant market town in Sussex.

Certainly there was not much to see, amid the creeping shadows of a November afternoon. A dripping hen, wading carefully across the road; a coal-cart, the driver enveloped in empty sacks; and the undertaker’s retriever—black and curly, as an undertaker’s dog should be—sitting in his master’s doorway, and yawning most infectiously. If we had lived opposite to the post-office, the lending library, or even the hotel, we should have enjoyed a livelier outlook, but “Mound & Son—Funeral Establishment—Coffins, Hearses, and every Requisite,” to quote from the in[9]scription over the door, in rigid white characters on a mourning ground, afforded but a gloomy and dispiriting prospect. It was too dark to descry more than the outline of an ornamental sign, on which was depicted an elegant open glass vehicle, drawn by four prancing black horses, with nodding plumes and streaming tails—triumphant-looking steeds, who seemed to say, “Man treats most of us barbarously all our lives, then kills us, and makes money of our very skin and bones; it

affords us sincere pleasure to carry him to the grave, and ‘see the last of him.’”

The interior of our sitting-room corresponded with its dreary view—a lodging-house apartment pur et simple, with narrow windows, hideous wall-paper, the inevitable round table, cheap chiffonier, and bulgy green rep sofa, to complete the picture. The fire was low, and unques[10]tionably in a bad temper, emitting every now and then slow and sullen puffs of yellow smoke. It was raining hard outside, and at regular intervals an intrusive drop came spluttering down the chimney.

“Dear me, what a sigh!” exclaimed my stepmother. “Mariana in the Moated Grange could scarcely surpass it! Cheer up, Gwen; a girl of nineteen has no business to be melancholy—though I grant that you have some provocation. Never meet troubles half-way, that is my motto. I have an idea that our luck will turn soon: I saw two magpies to-day.”

I burst into a short, involuntary laugh.

“Oh yes, you may laugh, my old-head-on-young-shoulders, but I mean to have a regular good talk with the cards by and by; in the meanwhile, we will ring for the lamp and tea. Mrs. Gabb will say it is too early, but [11]I intend to brave her for once. Britons never shall be slaves!”

And she gave the bell a peal far more befitting the summons of a wealthy woman than of a reduced widow lady, who was going to dine on poached eggs, and was two weeks in arrears with her rent.

There was only a difference of twelve years between us, and Emma, as my stepmother wished me to call her, was a pretty little Irishwoman, with black hair, dark blue eyes (wonderful eyes and lashes), and a radiant smile. No more generous, hospitable, or impulsive creature ever breathed. She was, moreover, a determined optimist, who looked steadily at the bright side of things, and enjoyed extraordinary high spirits, and the comic (or sunny) view of life. Generally, she was to be seen on what is called “the top of the wave,” though, occasionally, there [12]came a terrible reaction, and she sank, overwhelmed, into the black abysmal depths which are the birthright of those who are endowed with a nervous, highly strung, mercurial temperament.

Two years previous to this dreary November day, my father had died in India, and six months later, Emma, having returned home, had summoned me from school to join her in London.

I had previously been given to understand that we were now very poor—my lessons had been curtailed, my mourning was inexpensive; I was therefore astonished to find my stepmother established in most luxurious lodgings in Sloane Street, for which she paid—it being the season—twelve guineas a week. These rooms were crammed with quantities of the choicest blooms, cut and in pots, for Emma was passionately fond of flowers—[13]she declared that she could not exist without them. Her weeds were as gloomy and superb as it was possible for weeds to be, and in no quarter was there the smallest hint of that detestable visitor who, when it comes in at the door, sends another inmate flying out through the window.

A smart coupé from the Coupé Company, called every afternoon, and took us out shopping and into the park; Emma’s ideas were apparently as magnificent as of yore. I was fitted out by “Ninette,” her own milliner, in a black crépon and silk, and a large French picture-hat, with black ostrich feathers—expense absolutely no object. It was not for me, a girl of eighteen, to make inquiries respecting our finances. I took for granted that the phrase “left badly off” meant at least a thousand a year. Emma had imparted [14]to me that her auction had brought in a large sum, and that she expected the old Jam-Jam—meaning the Rajah of Jam-Jam-More—“to do something handsome for both of us.”

Meanwhile we remained in Sloane Street, were extravagant in flowers, books, and coupés, and hospitable Emma haled in every passing acquaintance to lunch, tea, or dinner. She had no plans, beyond a desire to remain in London and “look about her;” which looking about her signified the constant expectation of coming across the familiar faces of Eastern friends. Miserable mofussilite! poor deluded Emma! She had a foolish idea that the metropolis resembled a great Indian station, and that she could scarcely cross the road without meeting some one she knew.

Her special friends were not in Eng[15]land. At the moment they had either just gone back, or were not coming home till next year. I noticed—not once, but repeatedly—that when we encountered her mere acquaintances, and they asked where we were living, an expression of significant astonishment was visible in their faces the moment our address was mentioned. I also noted an increased cordiality of manner, and an alacrity in assuring Emma that they would be delighted to come and see her. I do not say this of all, but of some.

And then one morning the crash came. I met our landlady on the stairs, looking excessively fierce and red in the face, and I subsequently discovered Emma encompassed with letters, bills, and books, and dissolved in floods of tears.

“She has just given me notice!” she cried, alluding to our landlady; [16]“and indeed, Gwen, after I pay her for the week, how much money do you think I have left?” She burst into a wild, hysterical laugh, and pushed across the table towards me a silver sixpence and two coppers.

“What—what is this?” I stammered.

“It’s eightpence. Can’t you see? And it’s all we have in the world!”

I remember that I turned it over mechanically, and giggled. I knew nothing of money matters. I had never had the spending of a sovereign in my life.

I was aware that Emma was extravagant, that she never could resist what she called “a bargain,” never could keep money in her pocket. It was quite one of her favorite jokes to exclaim, “Bang goes another five-pound note!”

I had participated in this jest with smiling equanimity, and the supreme confi[17]dence of youth: I believed that my stepmother, and only relative, had an ample supply of money somewhere. But—eightpence!

I stared at the two coppers and the little bit of silver in dismayed silence.

“Take off your hat, Gwen,” continued Emma, impetuously, “and listen to me. I’m not fit to be trusted with money—never was; I can’t keep it. ‘Sufficient unto the day,’ has always been my motto. You, I can see, are prudent; you are good at figures, old beyond your years. I suppose you take after your mother’s people, for your father was nearly as—as—extravagant and heedless as myself. Now I’m going to lay my affairs before you—place everything in your hands, and let you manage all our money.”

“Eightpence!” I repeated half under my breath.

[18]

“You know, we never saved a penny. I had a few hundreds of pounds from our auction, and I’ve spent that. A short life, and—a—a merry one!” looking at me with her pretty sapphire-colored eyes drowned in tears. “We have had a good time, have we not? And I was certain that the dear old Jam-Jam, who was so fond of your father—and, indeed, with every reason—would give us a handsome pension. But I have had a horrible letter by the mail just in. The Jam-Jam, who has been ailing for months—the new doctor did not understand his constitution—is dead. I am truly sorry.” A fresh burst of tears.

“Was all this grief for the Jam?” I asked myself, and stood confounded.

“My dear, we are paupers,” she sobbed. “Mr. Watkins, the agent, says that the new rajah, the nephew, a detestable creature, [19]who I know never could endure me, will only give a hundred and thirty pounds a year, and that has been wrung from him with the greatest difficulty. And then, as if this letter was not enough, here is one from the bank, to say my account is overdrawn, and I thought I had three hundred pounds there still! I never, I knew, kept a proper account. Just drew checks, and never or seldom filled up the tiresome counterfoils, and now there is their hideous bank-book, all so neatly made up: ‘Self, ten pounds; Self, forty pounds; Self, twenty pounds.’ I can’t think what has become of it! I’m not used to keeping money, you see. I never bothered about putting down my expenses. Mrs. Keene brought me up these horrid letters, and came in too to ask about dinner, and I told her it was really shameful to charge two and sixpence for a cauliflower, and that we [20]really could not afford to pay her prices,

and she was quite insolent. When I have paid her, we shall have just—this—this—eightpence——”

And she dashed it over nearer to me, and, leaning her head on her arms, went off in hysterics.

[21]

CHAPTER II.

RETROSPECTIVE.

It would be a new experience for me to take the lead, to be manager, financier, adviser. When I had restored Emma, after some difficulty, and left her comparatively composed—and armed with salts and fan—I ran up to my own room, locked the door, and sat down to think. Something must be done immediately; we ought to leave our extravagantly expensive lodgings without even a week’s delay. If Mrs. Keene would but let us off, it would save twelve guineas, and then we should have twelve pounds twelve shillings, to add to that ghastly eightpence. Mrs. Keene was [22]always very pleasant to me: I would muster up courage, and go and speak to her, and tell her that we had received unexpected news, and were obliged to retrench. I must honestly confess that my heart beat fearfully fast as I knocked at the door of her sanctum, and heard her shrill “come in.”

The interview passed off much better than I anticipated—although the cauliflower still rankled in her mind. She, fortunately for us, had just heard of what she termed “a good let”—old customers, who wished to come in immediately, and she agreed to our prompt departure without demur, saying with immense condescension, “These sort of apartments are not suitable for any but wealthy folk, as can pay well, and is above fighting over vegetables!”

She, however, gave me some useful [23]hints as to where to look for cheaper and humbler quarters. I hurried round to Madame Ninette, and countermanded my new dress, and, after a hasty lunch, Emma and I set out in quest of apartments in keeping with our means. We searched on foot the whole of that warm June afternoon, and at last discovered two neat, cheap little rooms over a dairy in a street in Chelsea. We took them on the spot, and returned to pack our belongings. I packed everything; for Emma, between the emotions of the morning and the miles we had trudged in the sun, was completely exhausted, and I easily prevailed on her to sit on the sofa and rest.

Beguiled by an amusing magazine, and a box of Fuller’s sweets—poor remnants of her little luxuries—she soon forgot all her sorrows, and to have seen her reclining there, looking so pretty in her cool [24]black tea-gown, and dainty little beaded shoes, no one would have believed she had a care in the world. What a child she was in some ways! As for myself, I was not yet eighteen, but I had accepted such a leaden load of responsibility that I began to feel an old woman. The next morning our luggage, books, plants, and umbrellas were packed in and on a cab, and we started off for Carlyle Buildings, our future residence. As soon as we had rearranged our boxes, books, and plants, and given our meager orders—I was now housekeeper and purse-bearer—Emma sat down, as she expressed it, “to face the future resolutely.”

It was a great comfort that she owed no money, otherwise it was anything but a brilliant outlook. All that remained to her, when everything had been summed up, was her wardrobe, her jewelry, a small [25]pension, and a large circle of Indian friends.

We lived through the winter on the proceeds of a splendid diamond bracelet, and the hopes of getting some Indian children. Yes, Emma entertained the not uncommon idea of setting up a happy home for the children of her acquaintances. She was as sanguine as possible. Nothing ever damped her good faith in the future, and “a turn of luck.”

“I shall take a charming, sunny old place deep in the country, about twenty miles from London; keep a nice pony-carriage, cows, a donkey, French bonnes, and a governess, and charge two hundred a year. I shall easily collect a dozen children—twelve will be ample to begin with—and there, you see, is upwards of two thousand a year at once! The Blairs, and Joneses, and Smithsons, dear old [26]friends, will be only too thankful for the chance.”

And, full of enthusiasm, she despatched many eager letters to the parents among her acquaintance; but, strange to relate, not one of these correspondents availed herself of her kind proposals, though they wrote long, affectionate epistles, suggesting the offspring of other people! Perhaps they were afraid that pretty little Mrs. Hayes, ever impulsive, extravagant, and gay, was too lively and erratic to take charge of their delicate darlings—besides, she was poor.

Oh, that was a dreary winter, when we existed on hope deferred! Emma was delicate—she had a troublesome cough; she required dainties, flowers, books, amusements, variety. Her gay spirits were fitful; she was not often on the top of the wave now, but liable to terrible fits [27]of weeping and depression. She wept for many things I could not obtain for her. For instance, for India—for the sun (the sun in London in January!), for her old servants her old friends—where were they? Those abroad sent long, affectionate letters, occasional newspapers, and little presents; those at home—well, at the moment there were none at home, none whose attachment would stand the strain of coming at least three miles to visit a shabby little widow, in very humble lodgings. I grew up that winter. I became ten years older. I learnt to market, to haggle, to housekeep, to concoct beef-tea and puddings, to make a little money go a long way. I learnt the cheap shops, the cheap little joints. I used to go out with our thrifty landlady to the Marlborough

Road on Saturday nights, and bring home such bargains! I was thankful when the winter came to an end, [28]the days grew longer and lighter, and Emma recovered her health and her spirits. We partook of the season’s delights in a very mild and inexpensive form; we went per ’bus to some picture-galleries, to the shilling places at concerts, and occupied chairs in the Row. Emma liked to sit there the whole afternoon, returning home by what we called “our own green carriage” in time for our frugal tea.

“Oh, what a different life from what I have been accustomed to!” she complained to me one day. “Watching from my penny chair the crowds and crowds of happy people streaming by, and never seeing one familiar face! The scores of visitors your father and I put up in Jam-Jam-More—for races, picnics, dinners, shooting-parties, and I never see one of them. Do you think they are all out of town? or do they catch sight of me and flee?” and she [29]laughed—such a dreary little laugh. “Of course, I know that is nonsense, but it does seem so odd that I never come across any of what we used to call ‘the cold-weather folks,’ except indeed Captain Goring, and he gave me the cold shoulder—he barely raised his hat; and young Randford—you remember I met him in Piccadilly?—he did stop and speak to me, and said that he must try and come and call on me, and would look over his engagements and see what afternoon he could spare, and I never heard anything more about him. Would you believe it?—he spent three weeks

with us in India, and welcome, and rode and drove our horses as if they were his own, and when he was leaving, he made such a fuss about his dearest, kindest, prettiest Mrs. Hayes!”

“That was India?” I ventured to suggest.

[30]

“Yes, India is one place—England another. I was a fool out there! If I had not kept open house—a sort of pleasant hotel, where there was no bill—for all these thankless, selfish wretches, I should be driving in my carriage now, and as for you, dear old Gwen——”

“Oh, I shall do very well,” I interrupted. “I wish you would not worry yourself about me.”

“We always intended you to come out, enjoy yourself, and make a nice match perhaps. And we did not spend as much as we might have done on your education; we thought it unnecessary, with the rupee at such ruinous exchange. We never dreamt that you would have to earn your own bread—oh, never—never!”

“Never mind me, dear!”

“But I do mind—it is my duty to [31]mind! Who would have thought that your father would not live to be a fine hale old man of eighty? He had a splendid constitution. Sometimes, when I used to be a little scared at our big bills, and suggested our trying to retrench, he always said, ‘The old Jam-Jam will provide for us; he will give me a fine pension. He has promised me twelve hundred a year. It is only when one feels young and active that one wants money. When I begin to feel anno domini, we will go home and live very comfortably at Bath or Cheltenham.’ And here have I come home all alone, and you and I have to struggle along on a hundred and thirty pounds a year—and—and my diamond ornaments.”

I recollect that the poignant contrast between past and present so utterly overwhelmed poor Emma, that she could not [32]restrain her tears, and suddenly rising from her seat, and signing to me to accompany her, she departed with unusual precipitancy.

[33]

CHAPTER III.

A QUESTION OF TASTE.