“Lady Hildegarde has kindly offered to send for us.”
“Nonsense!—and Mr. Somers is so churlish of his horses?”
“Yes, we are to sleep at the Abbey that night,” said Emma, carelessly.
“Well, upon my word, I call that doing it comfortably. I am _so_ glad,” suddenly rising and wringing Emma’s hand. “You _will_ enjoy it! Christmas at the Abbey! You will have no end to tell us. Oh, by the way, did you—did she—mention me?”
“No,” was the rather shamefaced admission.
“You see,” continued Emma, “she was not here long, and was entirely taken up with other topics—India, you know. However, when I am under her roof, I shall certainly make a point of telling her of your kindness.”
“Oh, no, no, no—ten thousand times no! It’s not worth mentioning, only that I am _sure_ she would be glad to know that, in her absence, her friends were taken good care of. I’ll bring you some eggs to-morrow.” (There had been a considerable pause with regard to these eggs.) Finally Miss Skuce kissed Emma with almost passionate fervor—believing that a peeress had left a recent impress on the same pale lips—and went forth in haste to spread the news.
It lost nothing in the telling! Lady Hildegarde had lunched—no, she had had tea with us. The Hayes were going to stay at the Abbey—to _live_ there. Lady Hildegarde had adopted Miss Hayes. It took ten days to sift facts from fiction, and then it was generally allowed that we were to dine at the Abbey, that one of the Abbey carriages was to fetch us, and we were to remain all night. To be invited to dine at the Abbey on Christmas Day was a conspicuous favor, and civilities, which had somewhat flagged within the last few weeks, were now rekindled more warmly than ever.
A few days before Christmas, Emma and I were taking a constitutional (a walk for duty, not for pleasure) between two bare uninteresting hedges, about a mile from Stonebrook. We had been stitching all the morning at the dress in which I was to make my _début_ at the Abbey—a rich white satin, long and plain, which Emma had worn but once, and that fitted me with surprisingly little alteration, beyond lengthening the skirt.
This tramp along a muddy footpath was the result of my companion’s extreme anxiety with respect to my complexion! I had been forced abroad—much against my inclination—to “get a color.” As we trudged together, in somewhat gloomy silence, a smart little sandy-haired horse-woman trotted gaily by, followed by a groom. She glanced at us carelessly in passing, looked back, and finally drew up short. It was Mrs. Cholmondeley.