The Late Miss Hollingford | Page 5

name of these people. The father was a banker, the bank smashed,
and he ran away with large sums of money."
I thought--nay, I was quite sure--that Miss Leonard started at the
mention of the word Hollingford; and I also thought that she turned
deathly pale; but she bent over her flowers at the moment, and the light
was very subdued. No one else seemed to notice it, so it is just possible
I may have been mistaken.

"Mr. Hill's new agent is, then, the son of Mr. Hollingford, the banker?"
said Miss Leonard, after a pause. "I did not know that they belonged to
that part of the country."
"Oh! I do not know about that; but the mother and son have taken a
farm there lately, trying to make shift for themselves, poor things! They
say young Hollingford has some Quixotic ideas about paying some of
his father's liabilities; and if he has, I am sure it is very creditable to
him. But I for one am inclined to doubt it. Bad conduct generally runs
in families."
"Madam," said I, with my cheeks getting very hot, "Mrs. Hollingford
was my mother's dear friend."
"Highty tighty, Miss Dacre," said the lady, "we never know how our
friends are going to turn out. I say nothing but what is true. And allow
me to warn you, my dear, that if you will persist in identifying yourself
with such people you must make up your mind to hear them spoken of
as they deserve."
"Madam," said I again, flashes of lightning now dancing before my
eyes, "I am very sorry I ever entered your house; and I shall certainly
never enter it again."
Not waiting for more I made her a curtsy, and walked out of the room. I
found the dressing-room where I had left my cloak, fully determined to
go home at once, if I could only get the carriage. I had to wait some
time, however, and whilst I sat alone the door opened and Rachel
Leonard came hurriedly up to my side.
"I could not go away without bidding you good-night," she said,
holding both my hands in both of hers. "Perhaps we may meet again.
God bless you!"
Her voice was unsteady, her face pale, her eyes wet. A lady came to the
door and said, "Now, Rachel, we are waiting!" She dropped my hand
and was gone.

"Who is she?" I asked of Grace, as soon as we were together, "What
relation is she to the Hills?"
"None whatever," said Grace; "only an adopted daughter. There is
some romantic story about her, I believe. She went to Mrs. Hill as a
companion first. The Hills, who are the most eccentric old couple in the
world, took a violent fancy to her, and adopted her for their own. I
believe she is an orphan of a very good family. They keep up a
wonderful fuss about her; and people say they have made her their
heiress."
"I wonder why she looked so strangely at the mention of the
Hollingfords?" I said musingly.
"My dear Margery," said Grace, shaking her head, "I give you up. You
are perfectly insane on the subject of the Hollingfords. What will you
imagine next?"
"I do not think I imagined it," said I. "I am sure that she turned as white
as your cloak."
"Well, well," said Grace, "there may be some deep mystery for all I
know. Miss Leonard may, like yourself, have a taste for agriculture; or
may have known young Mr. Hollingford before he turned ploughman. I
advise you to think about it. You have materials for a pretty romance to
take into exile with you."
And I did think about it long afterwards.
CHAPTER II.
My children, you must remember that I am speaking of an
old-fashioned time, and I travelled down to Hillsbro' by coach. The
promenade of a fashionable watering-place had hitherto been my idea
of the country. Imagine, then, how my hungry eyes devoured the new
beauties presented to them. I had provided myself with a book, and I
had hoped to fall asleep over it, yet here I was with my eyes riveted to a
pane of glass, afraid to wink lest I should miss something. Grace's

warning, "You will fret yourself to death, you will be back before a
month," grew faint in my ears. When night shut out my new world and
I fell asleep, I dreamed of extraordinary phenomena--trees stalking
about the plains, fairies leaping out of the foam of the rivers.
I opened my eyes to a rose-coloured dawn. We had stopped before a
little village inn. A row of pigeons with burnished necks looked down
on me from their perch on the signboard above the door; a half-dressed,
curly-headed child peeped