The Late Miss Hollingford | Page 4

of people, absconded with his pockets
full of money, and never was heard of since?"
"Yes," said I; "but I have nothing to do with Mr. Hollingford. And I
daresay if his wife had taken ill-gotten riches down to Hillsbro' with her,
the police would have followed her before this; for she gives her
address quite openly."
I afterwards heard this lady telling Grace that her friend was a very pert
young woman. I did not mind, for, through fighting Mrs. Hollingford's
battles, I had come to think that I loved her memory; and I tried to do
so for my mother's sake.
"It is not at all necessary to live with a guardian," said Grace. "They say

Mrs. Hollingford makes butter and sells it; and Frederick says the son
is a mere ploughman. He is Mr. Hill's agent; Frederick met him by
chance, quite lately, when he was shooting at Hillsbro'."
"Agent, is he?" said I, mischievously. "Then I should think he must at
least know how to read and write. Come, that is not so bad!"
"You will get the worst of it, Grace," said Frederick Tyrrell, who was
listening. "Lucky fellow, Hollingford, to have such a champion!"
So here I had better explain to you, my dears, that Captain Tyrrell was,
even at this time, what old-fashioned people used to call a great beau of
mine; that he was fond of dangling about my skirts and picking up my
fan. Nothing more on this subject is necessary here. If you desire to
know what he is like, I refer you to an old water-colour sketch of a
weak-faced, washed-out-looking young man, with handsome features,
and a high-collared coat, which you will find in an old portfolio
upstairs, on the top shelf of the wardrobe, in the lumber-room. It was
done by Grace's own hand, a portrait of her brother, and presented to
me in those days. It has lain in that portfolio ever since.
Though I fought for the Hollingfords, and would hear no word against
them, I do confess that I suffered much fear as to how I should manage
to accommodate myself to the life which I might find awaiting me at
Hillsbro' Farm. That idea of the butter-making, for instance, suggested
a new train of reflections. The image of Mrs. Hollingford began to
divest itself gradually of the long velvet cloak and majestic mien which
it had always worn in my mind, and I speculated as to whether I might
not be expected to dine in a kitchen with the farm-servants, and to
assist with the milking of the cows. But I contrived to keep my doubts
to myself, and went on packing my trunks with a grudging conviction
that at least I was doing my duty.
And it is here, just when my packing was half done, that the strange,
beautiful face of Rachel Leonard rises up to take its place in my history.
I was introduced to her by chance; I did not know her story, nor that
she had a story, nor yet that she was connected with any people whose
intimate acquaintance I was likely to make in the future.

We met at a small musical party, where we had opportunities for
conversation. She wore a white Indian muslin, with a bunch of scarlet
flowers in the bosom. We were sitting in a softly lighted corner, and
her figure was in relief against a dark curtain. Her face was oval and
olive, with an exquisite mingling of warmth and purity, depth and
delicacy, in its tone. Her dark hair was swept up to the top of her head
in a crown of braids, as it was then worn. Her eyes were dark grey, and
very sweet, with a mysterious shadow of sadness about them when her
face was in repose; yet, when they smiled they shone more than any
eyes I have ever seen.
"Miss Dacre and Miss Leonard, I must make you acquainted," said our
hostess (the meddling lady whom I have already quoted on the subject
of the Hollingford misdemeanours). "You intend passing the winter at
Hillsbro', Miss Leonard."
"Yes," replied Rachel; "I believe we shall be at the hall about
Christmas."
"Ah! and you have never been there before? I can assure you it is the
most dreary place; you will be glad of a young friend in the
neighbourhood. Miss Dacre's whim is one of our amusements at
present. She is going to Hillsbro' to stay with a lady who is the mother
of Mr. Hill's agent."
"Mrs. Cowan?" said Miss Leonard, with a ladylike assumption of
interest in the subject.
"Not at all, my dear; the Cowans were worthy people, but Mr. Hill has
changed his agent. Have you not heard? No, of course. Hollingford is
the