MISS COTTRELL'S ALIAS
MY hopes were doomed to disappointment. Aunt Clara wrote that Agneta
would be only too pleased to share my room, as she had a nervous dread
of sleeping alone in a strange place. So I had to resign myself to the
inevitable, and I tried to do it with as good a grace as possible. Aunt
Clara said that she would like Agneta to join us in the following week;
thus my room had soon to be prepared for another occupant. There was
ample space in it for two bedsteads, and aunt had everything arranged
very comfortably, but for me, its charm had gone when it was no longer
my own sanctum.
"It may not be for long, Nan," my aunt said, reading my thoughts, as
together we inspected the new arrangements. "I cannot tell how long
these guests will remain with me. I naturally hope they will stay all
the summer, but I shall be exceptionally fortunate if they do. When
there is another room vacant Agneta shall have it."
"You forget that she does not like to sleep alone," I said. "Oh, it
will be all right, auntie. I dare say we shall get on nicely together,
and it will be better for you, for then you can let the vacant room to
some one else."
"If any one else wants it," said Aunt Patty smiling. "I am really very
thankful to have all my rooms occupied. It makes things much easier,
and it might have been so different."
That day I received a box from home. It struck me as a curious
coincidence, when I perceived that it contained the evening gown
that had belonged to my cousin, but was now to be worn by me. I had
asked Olive to send it as soon as possible, for I felt altogether
too dowdy of an evening in contrast with Paulina's splendour, to
say nothing of Miss Cottrell's tasteless efforts at display. Veiled
with black grenadine, and finished with dainty frills and furbelows
by Olive's clever fingers, the pink gown was so transformed, that I
doubted if even its former wearer would recognise it. As I examined
it, I remembered the spots we had seen on the bodice, which Olive had
declared to be tears. Surely she was mistaken!
Then I saw that Olive had pinned a little note to the sleeve.
"Dearest Nan," she wrote, "I do hope you will like this frock.
I really feel that I have succeeded beyond my hopes. Last night I tried
it on, and even mother said it was very pretty, while Peggy grew green
with envy, and declares she shall ask Aunt Patty to have her another
year. Is it not funny to think that you will wear it before the eyes
of its former owner? I hardly think, though, that she will know it
again. We were so surprised to hear of Aunt Clara's plan, and only
think, Agneta is to break her journey in London, and will stay a night
here, so we shall all see her! Aunt Clara gives a poor account of her
though, says she is nervous, depressed, excitable, and difficult to
manage at home, and hints that it is all owing to a 'foolish fancy'
for a man who is a 'sad detrimental.' Poor little cousin to have
lost her heart so soon, and to one of whom her parents disapprove!
Peggy says that it makes her as interesting as the heroine of a penny
novelette. We all look forward to seeing her, and mother is going to
write and ask her to stay a few days with us. Do write soon and say
how you like the frock and tell us the latest about Pollie Dicks."
"Your loving sister,"
"OLIVE."
"So those were tears!" I said to myself, as I folded up Olive's letter.
"Poor Agneta! I wonder what the 'sad detrimental' is like. She is to
be sent down here to be well out of his way. Probably it is not so
much that Manchester does not suit her, as that it does not suit Aunt
Clara to keep her in Manchester just now. I wonder how she likes being
banished to this rural solitude." And I, as well as my sisters, began
to look forward with some curiosity to making our cousin's acquaintance.
We expected Agneta about the middle of the week, but mother succeeded
in keeping her for a day or two, and sent us word that she would come
on Saturday. An early train was named, and Aunt Patty asked me to drive
into Chelmsford in the "sociable" and meet my cousin at the station.
It was a lovely day, and I ran cheerfully to get ready. I was so glad
that Agneta should arrive on a day when "Gay Bowers" was looking its
best. Already there were roses opening their pink petals against
the wall of the house, and the flower-beds were bright with scarlet
geraniums and verbenas. Through the staircase window I caught sight
of Miss Cottrell's garden hat away in the corner to which she devoted
her energies, and was glad to think that she was engaged in gardening.
Paulina, I knew, was busy with letters, which she meant to "mail"
later, so I hoped to get off by myself on this occasion.
But I congratulated myself too soon. When I came downstairs the
carriage was not yet at the door, but Miss Cottrell came hurrying in
from the garden.
"Are you going to Chelmsford to meet your cousin?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered, putting on my gloves with an air of haste.
"Can I go with you?" she asked. "I want to change my book at the
railway stall."
"You had better let me do that for you," I said. "I must be off in
three minutes."
"Oh, but I can be ready in that time," she said, "and there are other
things I want to do in town."
"Very well, if you will not make me late for the train," I said coldly.
I felt sure that nothing short of telling her I did not want her would
deliver me from her company.
She was back again almost as soon as the conveyance drove up. She had
changed her hat and added a gauzy ruffle, which was rather incongruous,
to the morning blouse which so ill-became her heavy thick-set figure.
She looked an odd individual, and I could not help wondering what
Agneta would think of her.
The fresh air and the sweet scent of the hedges, on which the may
blossom still lingered, soon soothed my ruffled feelings, and I tried
to respond amiably to Miss Cottrell's remarks.
"Now where do you wish to be put down?" I asked as we drove into the
town. "If you are coming back with us, you must not be very long, or we
shall all be late for luncheon."
"Oh, I will go straight to the station," she replied. "I like to be
there when the train comes in. One sees life at a railway station, as
dear Lady Mowbray used to say."
So it seemed that her business was a mere pretext for assisting at
the meeting between me and the cousin of whom, as she had already
discovered, I knew so little! I felt both cross and contemptuous; but
my vexation vanished when the train came in, for a delightful surprise
awaited me. One of the first persons to step on to the platform was my
father!
"Oh, father, it is never you!" I cried, feeling ready to hug him. "How
nice of you to come!"
"Nice for myself you mean," he said. "I felt it high time I came and
saw how my Nan was getting on—to say nothing of your Aunt Patty and her
'paying guests'—so I thought I would bring your cousin down and have a
peep at you all."
So saying he turned and gave his hand to a fair, slender girl, who
stepped lightly from the carriage. I saw at a glance that she was very
pretty, but her face was colourless, and, though she shook hands with
me pleasantly enough, her manner showed a strange lack of animation.
She wore a grey travelling gown, and a red hat which made me think of
Olive's riddle.
"I am so glad you have such a nice day," I said. "It is really warm at
last. I hope you like the country."
"Oh, yes, I like it well enough," she said indifferently. "It seems
rather pretty about here."
"How well you look, Nan!" said my father. "You are not like the same
girl whom I saw off from Liverpool Street four months ago. I hope 'Gay
Bowers' will do as much for your cousin; she needs some roses badly.
Why, Miss Smith, who would have thought of seeing you here? How are
you?"
To my amazement I saw that it was Miss Cottrell whom he thus addressed.
She shrank back, her face crimson.
"You are mistaken," she stammered, "my name is not Smith."
"Then you have changed it since I last saw you; you are married, I
suppose," he said pleasantly; "for we certainly called you Miss Smith
at the 'Havelock Arms.'"
"The ''Avelock Arms!'" she stammered. Her h's always dropped when she
was agitated.
"Why, father, this is Miss Cottrell," I said, pitying her embarrassment
as she grew redder and redder.
"Then she has changed her name," said my father, looking at her in
astonishment, "for it was as Miss Smith I knew her in Devonshire.
I used to stay sometimes at her uncle's inn, a very pleasant place
of sojourn on the border of Dartmoor, where I went for the sake of
fishing. But it must be nearly twenty years since I was last there. I
heard only the other day that John Smith and his wife were both dead
and the inn had changed hands. That is true, I suppose?"
He looked keenly at her as he spoke, and her eyes fell beneath his
gaze. She was crimson. Her face was the picture of misery and shame.
But it was clear that my father had not the least doubt of her identity
with Miss Smith, and she dared not deny it.
"Yes, my uncle and aunt have passed away," she said awkwardly. "I do
not remember that I ever saw you at their house. There are so many
Smiths in the world that I thought I should like another name and took
that of Cottrell, which was my mother's. I hope there is no harm in
that?"
"Not at all; this is a free country, and it is not an unheard-of thing
for people to change their names," said my father, anxious now to
relieve the embarrassment which he had innocently caused. "I must see
about your luggage, Agneta. Is there a conveyance outside, Nan?"
"John and the wagonette are there," I said. "Come, Agneta, we may as
well take our seats."
Father was about to shake hands with Miss Cottrell when I said
hurriedly:
"Miss Cottrell is coming with us, father; she is staying at 'Gay
Bowers.'"
"Oh, that is right," he said quickly, but I saw a gleam of amusement
leap into his eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched.
Poor Miss Cottrell looked utterly bewildered and crestfallen as she
followed us to the wagonette. She hardly said a word as we drove
homewards. Father and I had a great deal to say to one another. I
wanted to hear all the home news, but I tried to draw Agneta into the
talk. As I observed her, it struck me that she was more like my mother
than her own. I could trace no resemblance in her features to Aunt
Clara, but something in her face reminded me of mother.
For some time Miss Cottrell's tongue was absolutely still, a thing I
could hardly have believed possible, until father said:
"By the way, Miss Smith—Cottrell, I mean—I remember that it was only
in the summer that you were at the 'Havelock Arms.' You lived with a
lady—all, I have forgotten her name—who had an afflicted daughter whose
nurse you were."
"Excuse me, sir," said Miss Cottrell angrily, "I was her companion."
"That would be the same thing under the circumstances, would it not?"
he asked gently.
Miss Cottrell vouchsafed no reply, but her eyes flashed fire. I pitied
the uncomfortable position into which false pride had led her, and
hastily drew father's attention to the beauty of the common across
which we were driving.
"So you have Professor Faulkner at 'Gay Bowers,'" father said
presently. "I am looking forward to making his acquaintance."
I started and felt my colour rise.
"Why, what do you know of him?" I asked eagerly.
"No more than all the world may know," he said. "That he is a very
brilliant young scholar and has written a scientific criticism of
Shakespeare's plays which promises to become a standard work."
"Oh, father, you fairly frighten me!" I said; yet somehow I was very
glad. "I know he writes and studies a great deal. He spends all the
mornings in his room at work, yet he is so simple and human in his ways
that auntie and I had almost forgotten that he is a learned professor."
"Don't you know yet, Nan, that greatness and simplicity are generally
combined?" my father asked, with a smile. "It is your shallow-pated man
who gives himself airs."
Aunt Patty was delighted to welcome father, for she had no more
expected to see him than I had. We seemed a large party at luncheon,
and there was plenty of talk, although Miss Cottrell was unusually
silent. I was terribly afraid that father would call her "Miss Smith,"
but happily, he never addressed a remark to her, being much absorbed
in talk with Colonel Hyde and Professor Faulkner. He seemed to get on
exceedingly well with the latter, and I longed to hear what they were
saying, but with Agneta beside me demanding my attention and Paulina
chattering to me across the table, I could never catch more than a word
or two. Paulina made various attempts to draw out Agneta, but with only
partial success.
"Say," she said to me aside, after luncheon, "what is the matter with
that cousin of yours? Is she shy, or sick, or what?"
"I don't think she is shy," I said, "but she has not been well lately
and is rather depressed."
"I believe you," said Paulina; "but, do you know, it strikes me that
she is not so meek as she looks and has a will of her own."
"Very likely," I said, reflecting that the curves of Agneta's mouth and
chin were similar to mother's, and mother had never shown any lack of
spirit and determination.
I was rather sorry to see Mr. Faulkner go off on his bicycle soon after
luncheon, for I wanted father to know more of him. The rest of us spent
the afternoon in the garden. Paulina and her father, Colonel Hyde and
Agneta had a game of croquet, while Aunt Patty, father and I sat and
chatted in the summer-house at the end of the lawn.
"Oh, father, do tell auntie about Miss Cottrell!" I said, after first
looking cautiously round to be sure that the spinster was not within
earshot, but for once she had taken herself out of the way.
"Alias Miss Smith," he said.
"Was it really an inn in which you used to see her?" I asked.
"Yes, a good old country inn, much frequented by fishermen in the
season. I went there several summers in succession, till the cares of
a family shackled my movements. John Smith and his wife were homely,
honest folk who made us very comfortable in rustic fashion. They did
not call the 'Havelock Arms' an hotel, nor speak of their boarders as
'paying guests,'" said my father with a mischievous glance at Aunt
Patty.
"Their niece would have done so, if she had ever alluded to the
business," I remarked. "I imagine John Smith was the uncle whose money
she inherited."
"She told me he was in the tea trade," said my aunt.
Father laughed.
"Why, so he was," he said. "A good many tourists and picnic-parties
used to come to the inn for tea. I believe he sold as much tea as beer."
"And was she really a nurse?" I asked.
"Well, yes, in a way, but not like a modern trained nurse," he replied.
"Lady—let me see—"
"Mowbray," I suggested.
"Mowbray! that's the name," he said. "Well, Lady Mowbray had a daughter
who was sadly afflicted—I believe she was almost an idiot—and Miss
Smith used to take care of her—was her 'companion' as you heard her
say. I suppose she thinks that word is more genteel than nurse. Lady
Mowbray lived somewhere near Bath."
"And had also a house in Bryanston Street," I said.
"Ah, I see you know all about it," said my father.
"With a difference," I rejoined. "Lady Mowbray was Miss Cottrell's
dearest friend and could not bear to be separated from her."
"Really! Well, I believe she was very grateful for Miss Smith's
devotion to her child. Miss Smith was generally with them except that
she came to the 'Havelock Arms' for a month or so in the summer, and
then used to help her aunt look after her customers. So she has been
posing here as a fine lady! How droll!"
And father quietly laughed with an air of the utmost amusement.
"She has tried to do so," said my aunt dryly.
"I am afraid she is sorely mortified to think that you have revealed so
much to us," I said.
"We will not talk of it," said my aunt quickly. "Her vanity is foolish
and paltry, but we will spare her feelings. I must ask Agneta not to
mention it. Oh, dear, how white that girl looks!"
So my cousin became the topic of conversation, and father told Aunt
Patty that Mrs. Redmayne begged that she would not allow Agneta to go
up to London, on any pretext whatever, unless she or I could accompany
her. I could see that aunt did not like the injunction.
"My guests are free to do as they like," she said. "This is not a
boarding school."