money with him! And from a word or two my lady let fall in her first distress, I've a notion that he went of his own accord without marching orders, you understand." "Not likely," said Mr. Edwards; "many a gentleman as lives too freely is took off suddenly in middle-life, and I did hear there was cholera in Paris. As for his money, everybody knows he was one of the richest gentlemen going, and, of course, all he had comes to our Miss Hilda. Bless her, pretty dear! she do take her pa's death to heart. And what's become of that fine young spark that seemed to worship the very ground she trod on not a week ago? Where's Mr. Trelawny, I say? ? " "Oh! it's not proper to be courting and a death in the family, and the mistress is very particular." But for all that, both butler and lady's-maid had their own convictions, which too soon amounted to certainties. At the end of a week Hilda came down stairs, looking wretchedly thin, and white, and listless; but she said she was quite well again, she only wanted a little fresh air to make her stronger, and to give her an appetite. "She was the ghost of her old self," Patty declared, and she did wish Mr. Trelawny would come back again. Surely there could be no impropriety in his coming and going, though, of course, general visitors could not be received. But all the other upper-servants knew by this time that Major Capel had committed suicide, after repeated heavy losses at the gaming-table, and that he was more than suspected of practices which stamped him as a blackleg; that had he lived, he would have been ignominiously scouted from the society of gentlemen. Mr. Edwards read the newspapers, and imparted his knowledge to Mrs. Parrott, and Mrs. Parrott told the coachman, with whom she was about to "form an alliance," according to her own account; and they all began to wonder whether Miss Capel would have any fortune at all, and whether Mrs. Mowbray would continue her present expensive establishment, and finally, whether their own wages-some of which were in arrears-would be paid in full. A few notes of condolence came from friends, but they were very few, and vaguely and formally worded. How could it be otherwise? It was difficult to know what to say under such painful-some people said such disgraceful-circumstances. And Mrs. Mowbray had not many real friends. The mere woman of the world may have a large and brilliant circle, and many seeming intimates, but friends who may be trusted and depended on, come weal, come woe, she very seldom has the happiness to possess. As for Hilda, she was pitied more or less sincerely; but no one thought of comforting her, far less of helping her, supposing she needed help. And a few very virtuous ladies shook their heads when her name was mentioned, and whispered that they had always thought there was something rather strange about her, and she must have had some knowledge of her father's source of income! must have known that she was taking a position to which she was not entitled, spending extravagantly the Major's ill-gotten gains, and associating with persons of unblemished reputation under false pretences! A Hilda knew nothing of these uncharitable comments, and had she known would not have greatly cared. person who is suffering the extremest agonies of ticdoloreux is scarcely cognisant of pin-pricks; nor can one in extremity of grief, bowed down with heaviest and irremediable sorrow, take much heed of the careless world's vain blame or foolish praise. There are few low-class ruffians who do not count it an ignoble action to strike a fallen foe-to kick a man when he is down! But there are many so-called Christian ladies and gentlemen-ladies, especially, I fear-who do not hesitate cruelly to stab, with bitter and scornful words, a fallen friend. When shall we learn that, of all graces, charity is the greatest, the most Divine ?-the charity that is kind, that "thinketh no evil, rejoiceth not in iniquity. When true charity and true brotherly love pervade the whole Christian Church, then will the Millennium at once set in, and the reign of the saints commence. And still Mr. Seeley paid his visits, and held_long private conversations with Mrs. Mowbray, and Hilda wondered what they could find to talk about. Strange to say, it had not yet occurred to her to think practically of her future. They would have to keep fewer servants, perhaps; they might have to content themselves with the old brougham and one horse, and she could no longer have carte-blanche at sundry Court milliners and dressmakers now that she could contribute little or nothing to their united expenses. But, doubtless, when her poor father's affairs were wound up-she had somehow caught the phrase something would remain, on which, with economy, she could dress herself, and pay her own private expenses, and auntie, she supposed, was very well off, though she really did not know. And even these thoughts were vague and shadowy, floating, as it were, in her mind without shape, and without coherence. She thought her cup of bitterness was full to overflowing. She did not know that fresh trials were awaiting her-that still another ingredient, as yet untasted, was being added to the nauseous draught, in which her trembling lips were already steeped. Mrs. Mowbray was saying to the lawyer: "To-morrow, then, I must make Hilda understand that all is to be given up, and that I am leaving England, and cannot possibly take her with me." "I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; "Why let the stricken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep; It seemed as if the weather darkened in sympathy with Hilda's fortunes. Though it was by no means autumn yet, the summer had suddenly taken flight, frequent heavy showers chilled the air, the sun withdrew himself behind the leaden-coloured clouds, and the wind whistled eerily about the stately mansions of Kensington Gore. The season was at an end. Parliament was getting through its business as fast as possible, in anticipation of the Ministerial whitebait dinner; and people were thronging out of town, in spite of daily wind and rain, hoping that things might be different in the country. "It is so dreary! so dreary!" said poor Hilda, as she looked out on the wet, wind-tossed trees, and the muddy road below. She was sitting in her own room, beside a blazing fire, and though she wore a warm cashmere dressing-gown, she shivered. She felt always cold now, always tired, always sad and listless. The luncheon bell rang, and she went down without making any toilet. She was quite sure that no one would drop in, as in the old time, that seemed so very far away, though her mourning was not a fortnight old. She was not even sure of seeing her aunt, for Mrs. Mowbray remained now, as a rule, in her own apartments till dinner-time, retiring for the evening as soon as the meal was over. Once Hilda, longing for some relief from her sad thoughts, had ventured to take her crochet and offer to sit with her; but her aunt declined, on the plea of being too busy to talk. She had accounts to settle, and she could never make her figures add up unless she were quite alone. And there appeared to be some reason in what she said, for her desk, the table at which she sat, and a large basket at her side, overflowed with papers and little books, which looked like a sudden influx of tradesmen's accounts. Mrs. Mowbray made no explanation; she only requested politely, but very coldly, almost unkindly, Hilda thought, that she might not be interrupted. And it was to-day as it had been yesterday and the day before. Mrs. Parrott came with the usual message-Her lady was very much engaged, and was not coming down to luncheon. Would Miss Capel be so good as to excuse her. "I must excuse her," thought Hilda, as she sat down in her accustomed place and helped herself to bread-and-butter; there was nothing else on the table, except some sweet biscuits and the remains of a stale Madeira cake. "It would be of no use if I sent word that I particularly wanted to see her, she would not come; she cares nothing about me, one would think. Surely she is much changed since that dreadful evening! changed as regards myself, I mean. She does not try to comfort me, though she knows that my heart is almost broken. She leaves me alone day after day; it is nothing to her that I am wretched, ill, and solitary. And I always thought she cared for me. How many times has she declared that I was just the same as her own daughter, and that we were never to be quite separated-not even when I married. That will never be now-never! Never again can I trust man's fond words. Nor do woman's words seem to be much more reliable, if I am to judge by friends, and by my aunt herself. Is the world all like this, I wonder? Is there nobody true and faithful? Is life really so hollow, so false, so disappointing? And is society a mere sham? -a heartless, miserable, disgusting sham? And how bitterly cold it is! There ought to be a fire; we always have fires when the weather changes like this, whatever be the season. What has come to the servants, I wonder? there is no one in attendance! Not but what servants are a bore at luncheon, and I should have sent them away. Still, they ought not to take their dismissal for granted; they ought to be here just at first, to know if anything is wanted. I think I will have a glass of sherry, this claret is not fit to drink, and I am so cold. There is none on the table!" And Hilda rang the bell somewhat impatiently. No fire, no soup, no wine but this sour, undrinkable claret, on this cold, miserable day-it was quite too bad! It was several minutes before the bell was answered, and Hilda was about to ring again, when the door opened, and a young maid-servant, whose province hitherto had been altogether downstairs, made her appearance. "Did you ring, miss? "Yes, I did. There is no wine on the table but stale, bad claret, a week old; and there ought to be some soup. But why do you wait? Where is Biggs? "Biggs have gone away, miss, which he went last night, and so have Pritchard, and Sarah, and Mrs. Stoney, the head housemaid." |