The Late Miss Hollingford

The Late Miss Hollingford, by
Rosa Mulholland

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Title: The Late Miss Hollingford
Author: Rosa Mulholland
Release Date: August 5, 2006 [EBook #18991]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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MISS HOLLINGFORD ***

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The Late Miss Hollingford
BY ROSA MULHOLLAND

(LADY GILBERT)
Author of "Cynthia's Bonnet Shop" "Giannetta" "Hetty Gray" "Four
Little Mischiefs" &c.
ILLUSTRATED
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW AND
DUBLIN

[Illustration: RACHEL RETURNS TO HER MOTHER.]

PREFACE.
"The Late Miss Hollingford" was published a good many years ago in
the pages of All the Year Round.
It has never till now been re-published in England, though it has been
translated into French under the title of Une Idée Fantasque, and issued
by the Bleriot Library, with a preface by M. Gounod. It has also
appeared in Italian. In the Tauchnitz Collection it is bound in with No
Thoroughfare, having been chosen by the late Charles Dickens as a
pendant for his own story in a volume of that series.
Mr. Dickens was so pleased with this tale, and some others by the same
author, then a very young beginner, that he wrote asking her to
contribute a serial story of considerable length to his journal.
"The Late Miss Hollingford" (the title of which was chosen by Mr.
Dickens himself) comes now asking for a favourable reception from the
public, in the name of the great master of English fiction--long passed
away from among us.
CHAPTER I.

A dear old lady tells us this story in the late autumn evenings. Now the
harvest is in, huge haycocks shelter the gable, the honey is strained and
put by in jars, the apples are ripened and stored; the logs begin to
sputter and sing in the big parlour at evening, hot cakes to steam on the
tea-table, and the pleasant lamp-lit hours to spread themselves. Indoor
things begin to have meaning looks of their own, our limbs grow quiet,
and our brains begin to work. The moors beyond the window take
strange expressions in the twilight, and fold mysteries into their
hollows with the shadows of the night. The maids in the kitchen sing
wild ballads to one another round the ingle; and when one of us young
folks threads the rambling passages above to fetch a stray thimble from
one of the lavender-scented bed-rooms, she comes back flying down
the great hollow staircase as if a troop of ghosts were at her heels. It is
the time to enjoy a story, a true story, the story of a real life; and here it
is, as our dear old lady is telling it to us.
* * * * *
When I first learned, my children, that I was the ward of my mother's
early friend, Mrs. Hollingford, and was to live under her roof after my
departure from school, I little thought that a place like Hillsbro' Farm
was ever likely to be my home. I was a conceited young person, and
fond of giving myself airs. My father was colonel of his regiment, and I
thought I had a right to look down on Lydia Brown, whose father was
in business, though she wore velvet three inches deep upon her frocks,
while mine had no better trimming than worsted braid. I had spent all
my life at school, from the day when my father and mother kissed me
for the last time in Miss Sweetman's parlour. I remember yet my pretty
mother's pale tearful face as she looked back at me through the carriage
window, and my own paroxysm of despairing tears on the mat when
the door was shut. After that I had a pleasant enough life of it. I was a
favourite at school, having a disposition to make myself and others as
happy as I could. I required a good deal of snubbing, but when properly
kept down I believe I was not a disagreeable girl.
My Indian letters generally contained some bit of news to amuse or
interest my companions, and now and again captain, or ensign

somebody, home upon sick leave, called and presented himself in Miss
Sweetman's parlour, with curious presents for me, my mistresses, or
favourite companions. I remember well the day when Major Guthrie
arrived with the box of stuffed birds. Miss Kitty Sweetman, our
youngest and best-loved mistress, was sent