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_!
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