Читать книгу The Real Lady Hilda: A Sketch - B. M. Croker - Страница 5

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A QUESTION OF TASTE.

It was indeed a most lamentable truth that I was not as accomplished as most of the girls of my age. I could not paint or play the violin, I had no knowledge of the German language, I was ignorant of the agile art of skirt-dancing, and could not ride a horse—much less a bicycle. However, Emma found consolation in the fact that I “walked well, and carried myself with grace!”

“This was satisfactory,” I assured her with a laugh, “as I was never likely to have anything to carry me! As to walking, I was bound to be a foot-passenger all my days.”

I spoke French fluently, played the piano and guitar, was an excellent needle-woman; but these would scarcely justify me in seeking a place above that of a cheap governess or waiting-maid. The struggle for existence was now so fierce, the half-million surplus women were such keen competitors for bread, that life was nothing more nor less than one long hardly contested battle. I had grasped this fact, young as I was. I was a good accountant (whilst Emma could not do the simplest little sum in addition); and, as purse-bearer, many a weary half-hour I sat up at night, working out our little budget, and striving to make both ends meet.

Yes, I was ostensibly the purse-bearer, and, if left a free hand, I could manage to balance our income; but I was not independent. Emma was subject to wild lavish outbursts of her old Indian generosity; she would overwhelm me with unexpected gifts—expensive gifts. I never knew when one of these awful surprises was in store for me—and also the accompanying bill.

I had long refrained from admiring anything in the shop windows. Nevertheless, I was endowed with a white chiffon parasol, an opera cloak, three pairs of scarlet silk stockings, an exquisite silk and lace petticoat—I who so sadly wanted everyday gloves and boots. I wanted them subsequently for a considerable period. Remonstrance only brought tears, and at last I came to the conclusion that such outbursts were ungovernable impulses of Emma’s inborn, long-nurtured generosity; that the disease was incurable, and these occasional attacks afforded her relief from an ever-pressing, maddening desire to lavish money!

My own mother had made a runaway match with my father, was sternly disowned by all her relatives, and cut off without even the proverbial shilling. She died when I was a month old, and I was subsequently sent to England. There I was received by two maiden ladies, “who took entire charge of children from India, their arrangements being those of a family, and not of a school”—vide the prospectus.

With these good people I spent ten very happy—I may add, luxurious—years. It was an establishment solely suited to the children of the wealthy, and my father discharged all expenses with liberal and punctual hand. He held an excellent appointment at the court of the native prince, and had married, eight years after my mother’s death, pretty, penniless Miss Burke, who happened to be on a visit to friends in his neighborhood. Her enemies declared that Miss Burke was an empty-headed, flighty little fool—vain, delicate, and wildly extravagant; and that my father—who really required some one to manage his affairs, and curb his expensive tastes—would have been far wiser had he selected instead one of the excellent Miss Primmers—the Reverend Jeremiah Primmer’s well-brought-up missionary daughters—and that such a match as he contemplated was madness, so far as improvidence and waste went—a mixture of oil and flame. Nevertheless, in spite of these prophets, who prophesied evil things, my father and his vivacious young Irish wife were excessively happy. They were both given to hospitality, were both easy-going and open-handed; they liked India, Indian ways, and Indian friends. He only returned once to England to see me, and she but rarely, to refurbish her wardrobe—and pay me flying visits. Then she loaded me with gifts, treats, and caresses, and was so young, so pretty, and so merry, that she embodied my idea of a charming elder sister. I never, somehow, identified her as my stepmother—whom I mentally sketched as the old, wicked, long-nosed person pervading fairy tales. When I was fourteen, I was sent to an English school in Paris, and there I learnt to dance, to sing, and accompany myself on the guitar (it was such a nice portable instrument, suitable to India). It had been arranged that I was to join my people when I was eighteen, and already my outfit was under discussion, my escort for the passage sought for, when the news arrived of my father’s sudden death. He had been killed by a fall from his horse, when out pigsticking, and Emma was returning home alone, a widow in straitened circumstances. No, they had never saved one single rupee; their two pairs of hands had ever been open. They entertained lavishly; she dressed magnificently; he kept several race-horses, and their household expenses were enormous. For they had caught some of the infection from their surroundings, and the recklessness and display of the palace was reflected in their home. All things considered, Emma bore the change in her circumstances with surprising equanimity. She rarely complained. She was so easily amused and interested, so easily roused to animation; but it made me sad to note her wandering eye, when we were abroad, always scanning the crowd, in intent search for some familiar face, some one she knew in old days.

And then her disappointments: the Sugdens, who scarcely deigned to bow to her; the Woden-Spunners, who invited us to a crush, and left us totally unnoticed all the evening—and the cabs and our gloves alone had come to seventeen shillings. Poor Emma explained to me, with pitiful eloquence, that the Woden-Spunners had never been intimate friends. However Emma was soon to discover that every one was not like the Woden-Spunners.

One morning, we were shopping in the Army and Navy Stores—my father had always been a subscriber, and Emma clung to “the Stores” as if they embodied a faint, faint reflection of her more prosperous days. The various departments were crammed full, and I never remembered to have seen such a long double line of carriages in waiting, or such an assorted crowd of dogs in durance on the steps.

Our purchases were, needless to say, moderate, and we carried them ourselves. They consisted on this occasion of a packet of candles, a packet of bloaters, an untrimmed straw hat, a pound of fresh butter, and two pounds of pressed beef.

It was extremely warm—a sultry July day—as we toiled up to the turnery department. At the corner of the stairs, a young man, who was flying down at breakneck speed, brushed against Emma; he paused for a second to lift his hat and apologize, then exclaimed in quite another key—a key of cordial pleasure.

“Why, it’s Mrs. Hayes, I declare! Where did you drop from? I am delighted to see you!”

As we were blocking up the landing, I moved on, and waited at the top of the stairs, leaving Emma and her newly discovered old friend—a friend who was sincerely glad to meet her—still conversing with great animation. Yes, I could read it in his gestures, and the expression of his back. He was tall and square-shouldered, his long frock-coat and shining top-hat adding to his stature. So far I had not caught a glimpse of his face. Presently they turned and ascended together, still talking volubly. I believe that he imagined Emma to be alone, until she said, as she put her hand on my arm—

“This is my step-daughter, Miss Hayes.”

He glanced at me politely, then his casual glance suddenly changed into a long scrutinizing gaze of astonishment—no, not of admiration, merely unqualified amazement.

He was a good-looking young man, with a somewhat thin, aristocratic face, brown hair, brown eyes, and a light, reddish-brown mustache.

“I used to know your father, Miss Hayes. My people and I stayed with him in India, you know.”

I did not know—how should I?

“He was awfully good to me, and took me out shooting and elephant-catching.” Then, suddenly turning to Emma, he said, “What are you going to do now? It is one o’clock. Will you come and have lunch with me at the club, or will you lunch here?”

“Oh, here, thank you, since we are on the spot; and I am told that the curries are celebrated.”

“All right, then, we will try the curry. Allow me to relieve you of your parcels.”

In another second, and despite our vehement expostulations, this smart young man was actually carrying our beef, butter, and candles, and leading the way to the refreshment department. Five minutes later, we were seated at a little table, and Emma, with her gloves off and menu in hand, was, by our host’s desire, ordering our lunch. No, after all, it was much too hot for curry; it was a day for mayonnaise and aspic jelly. He seemed most anxious to please my stepmother, and to make much of her. Poor Emma! she was unused to such attentions; they brought a brilliant color to her cheek, and a sparkle to her eyes. She brightened up wonderfully under their influence.

Warm as the room was, I found myself rather “out in the cold.” These two had so many subjects in common, so many topics which were closed to me. They talked of places and people I had never seen, of the great camp at Attock, of the rajah’s big shoot, and finally of that young man’s own relations.

“So you have not seen my mother since she stayed with you at Jam-Jam-More? She and my father are abroad now, and I am off to South America in three days. I’ve been buying my kit here. Done a tremendous morning’s work. I’m combining business and pleasure. My father has considerable investments out there which he wants me to look after—then I’m going to the West Indies.”

“It seems to me you are never at home,” said Emma.

“No one ever is at home now. Home is the last place in which to look for people in these days. A great rage for rambling has seized old and young. We migrate to the South of Europe for the winter, show ourselves in town for a few weeks in the spring, and then start off again. I think the old people are far the worst—they set the example. I tell my mother she is like the wandering Jew.”

“Does Lady Hildegarde never come to town?”

“No, not the last two years.” Then, looking over at me; “Did you have a good time this season, Miss Hayes?”

“A good time!” repeated Emma. “Why, the poor child has never been anywhere. You forget——”

“Yes—yes, of course; you could not take her. I wish my mother had been in London,” he continued genially. “She would have been delighted to have chaperoned her to no end of smart functions, and presented Miss Hayes at a drawing-room.”

It was quite clear that this young man did not realize the fatal change in our circumstances.

“She has never been anywhere,” continued Emma—“never been to a dance, or a race-meeting——”

“There is Sandown to-morrow. I’m a member; will you come with me? I can take two ladies. It ought to be a capital day: Eclipse Stakes, you know. I’ll meet you at Waterloo——”

“No, no, no,” interrupted Emma. “I would not go, and, of course, Gwen——”

She hesitated. No, certainly, I could not accompany this nameless young man alone.

“Well, look here,” he said impetuously. “Let us do something to-morrow. This is Tuesday, and I’m off on Saturday morning, and shall not be in England again for ages. Have you any engagement?”

“No—none.” The very idea made her smile.

“Then what would you like to do? Would you care to go up the river? Start from Paddington about ten, go to Maidenhead, get a good boat, and lunch in the Cliveden Woods, or up some nice cool backwater, row down to Taplow, have tea at the inn, come back to town in time to dine and do the theater. How would that be?”

“Oh, Mr. Somers, you take away my breath! The expedition up the river would be as much as we can manage, and delightful, would it not, Gwen?” appealing to me.

“Yes,” I assented. “Delightful indeed, if it won’t be too much for you?”

“Not at all, my old-head-on-young-shoulders. She”—to our host—“takes such care of me, and manages all our affairs: she might be my mother! We will accept the river part of the program.”

“Then that is quite settled. I meet you to-morrow at ten o’clock sharp at Paddington?”

The room was now crammed, and I noticed that our companion had a bowing or nodding acquaintance with many customers.

“Your sister is married?” observed Emma. “I saw it in the papers. You are not married, are you?”

“Perish the thought! I am——”

“Oh, Everard!” cried a clear, high-bred voice, and a tall, fair, supercilious-looking girl halted at our table. “Fancy seeing you here, lunching in the Army and Navy Stores among your parcels,” glancing at our belongings. “How very domestic!”

“I have just met an old Indian friend,” he explained, rather consciously. “And we are having tiffin together, as you see.”

“Oh, I see,” staring straight at me, with a look of arrogant inquiry, which made me color warmly: well, yes, call it blushing. Why should I blush? I had never met this man till half an hour ago, and here was this ultra-smart young woman in a French bonnet standing over me, her pale blue eyes distinctly telling me that I was a designing adventuress.

“Mrs. Hayes,” he said, “this is my sister, Lady Polexfen.” Emma bowed, and Lady Polexfen lowered her eyelashes. “I was just speaking of you, Maudie,” he added. “Talk of an angel, you know. We stayed with Mrs. Hayes in India. It was at her house my mother was so ill.”

“Indeed!” indifferently, now turning her bracelet to consult her watch.

“Mind you turn up in good time to-morrow. We are going down to Sandown on the coach. Dolly Chalgrove is coming.” She paused for a second, as if to allow sufficient time for this impressive piece of news to soak thoroughly into his mind.

“And, remember, if you keep us waiting, as you often do, you will discover that I am anything but an angel!”

“I won’t keep you waiting,” responded her brother, serenely, “for the excellent reason that I’m not going to Sandown! I’m going up the river instead.”

“And breaking your other engagements?” she asked sharply.

“I can’t see that at all. It was left an open question.”

“Was it!” she exclaimed, in a still sharper key. And again she looked over at me with a gleam in her eye, and I could see that, cool as she tried to appear, she was furiously angry; indeed, her voice trembled a little as she added, “Well, of course, it is merely a question of taste!”

And this was her last word—her parting shot. With an overwhelmingly haughty bow—to be distributed amongst us—Lady Polexfen swept away, and joined two gentlemen and a lady, who had been interested spectators of the recent slight passage-at-arms. Speaking for myself, I felt decidedly uncomfortable, and it was some seconds before I ventured to look at our host. Yes, undoubtedly he had reddened a little (whether with anger or shame I could not guess), and was carefully filling Emma’s wine-glass.

“How very pretty your sister is!” she ventured with great magnanimity, endeavoring to take the rough edge off our thoughts. “I never saw a more delicate profile! She is a little like Lady Hildegarde.”

“Yes, she resembles my mother a good deal in many ways, and, being her only daughter, she has been a bit spoiled—always wants her own way, as you may see.”

“And now, Mr. Somers,” continued Emma, “you will not make a stranger of me, nor allow me to accept any little arrangements your sister has made. You must postpone our trip. You know you can take us up the river any time!”

But to this suggestion he would not listen, and displayed a will fully as robust as his relative’s. In fact, he became almost angry at last, and Emma was compelled to succumb.

We accordingly spent a delightful, never-to-be-forgotten afternoon on the river, rowed here and there, as fancy dictated, by two stalwart boatmen. Mr. Somers, in a sailor hat and flannels, occasionally took an oar himself, and even gave me a lesson. A dainty luncheon had been provided, which we discussed under cool green branches, up a deliciously sequestered backwater; then followed the row down to Taplow, and our tea at the inn: in fact, every item of the program was conscientiously carried out; and during that long summer’s day, in the intimacy of picnicking and boating, Mr. Somers and I made extraordinary strides in advancing our acquaintance.

We parted reluctantly at Paddington Station, full of plans for the morrow. We were to lunch with Mr. Somers again, and accompany him to a very private view of most lovely Indian paintings. Emma struggled hard against this second encroachment on his time, and struggled as vainly as any kid in the folds of a boa constrictor!

“Of course,” he said, half playfully, “if she had something better on hand, and was already tired of his society——”

And what could she answer? She could only murmur deprecating ejaculations of dissent, assent, and gratitude.

As we drove home in a hansom (a rare extravagance), exchanging voluble raptures, an obtrusive chill little idea suddenly got in and sat down between us.

What were we to wear? A serge skirt and a shirt had done very well for the river; but for a smart luncheon at a smart club, for an exclusive gathering at a private view, where possibly all the gowns would be carefully noted down and described in the papers, our now rusty black dresses would be, oh, so sadly out of place!

“It does not matter so much about me, dear,” said Emma, “but you. I am so sorry now that your best crépon came in for that shocking wetting last Sunday. Oh, why did I not take a cab?” she exclaimed regretfully. “And your poor hat received its death-blow. This is no climate for ostrich feathers—not like India, where you can wear your best frocks and hats for months without one moment’s anxiety, and when the rains do come it is not before they have given at least a week’s notice!”

“And that drenching shower, not giving one second—beyond half a dozen immense drops, and after that the deluge! However, I can curl the feathers up, press out my skirt, and, with a new pair of gloves, perhaps I can manage to pass in a crowd!”

Really, we did not present at all such a bad appearance as we emerged from our lodgings next morning, nor did we feel beneath the occasion, at our very pleasant and recherché lunch. It was only when we got among the present season’s new dresses, and stood side by side with the latest and most costly fashions, that our poor black feathers looked a little battered and draggled!

I saw it myself, but Mr. Somers did not. No, no, all his attention was occupied in entertaining us—in showing us the best pictures, the most popular or unpopular celebrities, the beauties, the political stars, and the leaders of fashion. Among these I noted, without his assistance, his own sister, Lady Polexfen. She was dressed in a large white hat, and filmy summer gown, this warm July day, and was sauntering around, attended by a military man, occasionally scanning people or pictures, with a long-handled eye-glass. After a time, we came into its range!

I turned away hastily, for I had no desire to encounter her ladyship, and affected to be absorbed in a beautiful sketch of sunrise on the Jumna, and the Taj! This was a much-admired gem, and the crowd gathered closely around it.

I hoped that Lady Polexfen had already passed by. Then I heard her voice say, close behind me, “My dear Everard!” Then, in fluent French, “What on earth are you doing here, dragging about these shabby, second-rate women? Have you lost your senses? And you know this is a place where every one sees every one.”

“So it seems!” he answered, in equally fluent French, “but there is no occasion for you to see me. These shabby people, as you call them, are not second-rate, but first-rate.”

“The Marchioness of Kinsale pointed you out to me, and laughed. She was so amused at my eccentric brother.”

“Horrid, painted old harridan!” he answered, now roused to aggression. “I would not be seen speaking to her, if I were you; but, then, you are not particular, as long as a woman has a handle to her name and a bran-new gown to her back! Now, I prefer the society of ladies.”

“Oh, very well, very well,” in a choked voice. “Pray, pray go your own way, and you’ll see where it lands you. Only, don’t come to me for advice and assistance!” And here, as Emma turned and asked me for the catalogue, our neighborhood was, perhaps, suspected, for Lady Polexfen’s remonstrances ceased, and presently I saw her large picture-hat slowly passing through a doorway into another room.

As Emma had not caught sight of her, I kept this delightful experience entirely to myself. It certainly rather threw a cloud over the pleasure of my day—a cloud which, I must confess, Mr. Somers—so cheery, so courteous, so chivalrous, so determined to treat us as great ladies—did much to dispel.

As we took leave of him, and thanked him warmly for all the pleasure he had given us, he looked hard at me from under the brim of his tall hat, and said—

“The pleasure has been conferred by Mrs. and Miss Hayes, and I trust that this will not be the last day by many that we shall spend together.”

Next morning brought a messenger with a note from Mr. Somers, and a quantity of lovely flowers. Of course, I read this note, which was written in a bold, black, determined sort of hand; it said—