A POOR RELATION.
"Oh, she is rich in beauty, only poor!"
_Romeo and Juliet._
"YOU had better have your big box kept in the back hall—it will
scarcely be worth while to take it upstairs, and it might only rub the
paper off the wall."
This was almost the first greeting that Helen received from her aunt
Julia.
"And, dear me, how thin you have grown! I would have passed you in the
street," was her eldest cousin's welcome.
Mrs. Platt and her two daughters, Clara and Caroline, had returned
from church, and found their expected guest awaiting them alone, in
the drawing-room! "Surely one of them might have stayed at home," she
said to herself with a lump in her throat and a mist before her eyes.
She had latterly been made so much of at Port Blair that her present
reception was indeed a bitter contrast. It undoubtedly _is_ rather
chilling to arrive punctually from a long journey (say, half across
the world), and to find that your visit is a matter of such little
moment to your relations, that they have not even thought it necessary
to remain indoors to await, much less to send to meet you! Helen felt
strangely neglected and depressed, as she sat in the drawing-room in
solitary state, still wearing her hat and jacket, and feeling more like
a dependant, who had come to seek for a situation, than a near relation
to the lady of the house. She had fully an hour in which to contemplate
the situation, ere her aunt and cousins returned. They were three very
tall women, and made an imposing appearance, as they filed in one after
another in their best bonnets, with their prayer-books in their hands.
They kissed her coolly, inquired when, and how, she had arrived, and
then sat down and looked at her attentively.
Mrs. Platt was a thin, fair lady, with handsome profile, who had
married well; and contrived to keep herself aloof from the general
wreckage, when her maiden home was broken up; ambition was her
distinctive characteristic; she had married well, and got up in the
world, and now she hoped to see her daughters do the same.
To effect a lodgment in an upper strata of society, to mix with what
she called the "best people," was her idea of unalloyed happiness.
In her grander, loftier style she was every bit as fond of a title as
our dear friend Mrs. Creery.
Besides all this she was a respectable British matron, who paid her
bills weekly, went twice to church on Sunday, never darkened the door
of an omnibus, or condescended to use a postcard. Still, in her own
genteel fashion, she was a capital manager, and generally made eighteen
pence contrive to do duty for two shillings. She was honest, scheming,
hard to every one, even to herself, making all those with whom she came
into contact useful to her in some way; either they were utilized as
social stepping-stones, or givers of entertainment, concert, and opera
tickets, flowers, or better still, invitations to country houses; all
her friends were expected to put their shoulder to her wheel in some
respect—either that,—or she dropped their acquaintance under these
circumstances.
It will be easily imagined, how very unwelcome to such a lady as Mrs.
Platt was the unlooked-for return of this handsome, penniless niece!
The Misses Platt were tall young women, of from six, to eight and
twenty years of age; they had unusually long necks, and carried their
noses in the air; they were slight, and had light eyes and eyebrows,
which gave them an indefinite, unfinished appearance; their hair was of
a dull ashen shade, and they wore large fluffy fringes, were considered
"plain" by people who did not like them, and "elegant-looking girls" by
those who were their friends.
They were unemotional, critical, and selfish, firmly resolved to get
the best of whatever was going; for the Miss Platts influenced their
mother as they pleased, and had the greatest repugnance to having their
cousin Helen thus billeted upon them.
They called everything, and every person, that did not meet with their
approval "bad style," and worshipped coronets, as devoutly as their
parent herself.
By-and-by the new arrival had some tea, was assured that she would be
"all the better for a night's rest," and was escorted to the very top
of the house, by an exhausted cousin, to what her aunt called "her
old room." This was true,—it was not the guest-chamber, but a very
sparsely-furnished apartment, on the same floor with the maids. And
here her relative deposited her candlestick, nodded a condescending
good-night, and left her to her repose. This was her home-coming!
However, she was very tired, and soon fell asleep, and forgot her
sorrows; but very early the next morning, she was awoke by the roar of
the London streets, for you could call it nothing else. Mrs. Platt,
though occupying a most fashionable and expensive nutshell, was close
to one of the great arteries of traffic. Helen lay and listened. What
a contrast to the last place where she had slept on shore, where the
bugle awoke the echoes at five o'clock in the morning, where wheels and
horses were absolutely unknown, and the stillness was almost solemn,
only broken by the dip of an oar or the scream of a peacock! She turned
her eyes to a picture pinned to the wall, facing the foot of her bed,
the picture of a merry-looking milkmaid, with a pail under her arm; the
milkmaid was smiling at her now, precisely as she had done less than a
year ago,—when she had slept in that very room previous to starting
for Port Blair. _Then_ she had seemed to her imagination, to wish her
good speed. Surely that gay expression seemed to augur the future
smiles of fortune! Ten months ago she had stared at that picture, ere
she had set out for her voyage, full of hope and happy anticipations;
and now, ere the year had gone round, she was back again, her day was
over, her happy home in those sunny islands among tropical seas, had
vanished like a dream! She had visited, as it were, an enchanted land,
where she had found father, home, friends—ay, and lover, and had
returned desolate and empty-handed (save for that "sorrow's crown of
sorrow"), to face the stern realities of life,—and to earn her daily
bread. She gazed at the mocking milkmaid, and closed her eyes. Oh! if
she could but wake and find that the last four months had been but a
horrible dream.
The Platts were late people, they scorned the typical first worm.
Helen, accustomed to early (Eastern) hours, had a very long morning,
entirely alone. She dared not unpack, she had no work to do, and could
find no books to read; for her aunt, who was most economical in regard
to things that did not make a show, did not subscribe to a library,
merely took in a daily paper, and preyed, on her friends, for her other
literature.
Breakfast was at eleven o'clock, and during that meal letters were
read, the daily programme arranged, and people and places discussed,
whose names were totally unknown to Helen. Now and then, her cousins
threw her a word or two, but there was no cordiality or friendship in
their tone; it did not need that, to tell her she was not welcome, and
she sat aloof in silence, feeling as if she were an utter alien, and
as if her very heart was frozen. And yet these were her own flesh and
blood—her father's sister and nieces—her nearest, if not her dearest!
How different to Mrs. Home, Mrs. Graham, and Mrs. Durand!—ay, even
Mrs. Creery had shown her more affection than her own aunt.
Helen soon fell into her proper niche in the family. After breakfast
she went out and did all the little household messages to the
tradespeople, and made herself useful, _i.e._, mended her aunt's
gloves, and hose, wrote her notes, and copied music for her cousins.
She dined early, when her relatives lunched, as they frequently had
people in the evening.
There was a kind of back room or den upon the second landing, where
the Platt family sat in _déshabillé_, partook of refreshments, wrote
letters, ripped old dresses, and held family conclaves. Here Helen
spent most of her time, and being very clever with her needle, did
many "odd jobs" for her relatives. Better this, than sitting with
idle hands, staring out on a back green the size of a table-cloth,
surrounded by grimy walls, with no more interesting spectacle to
enliven the scene, than the duels, or duets, of the neighbouring
cats. So it was, "Helen, I want you to run up this," or "to tack
that together," or "just to unpick the other thing," and she became
a valuable auxiliary to Plunket the lady's-maid, not merely with her
needle alone,—she soon learned to be very handy with a box-iron!
Of course she was never expected to accompany the family, when they
went out in the brougham, her aunt saying to her in her suavest tone,
"You see, dear, your mourning is so recent" (her father was five months
dead), "I am sure you would rather stay at home." Accordingly the three
ladies packed themselves into the carriage most afternoons, and went
for an airing, leaving their poor relation, with strict injunctions to
"keep up the drawing-room fire," and "to see that tea was ready to the
moment of five." Sometimes they gave "at homes," the preparations for
which were left to Helen, who worked like a slavey. These "at homes"
were chiefly remarkable for a profusion of flowers, weak tea, weaker
music, and a crush.
Next to the cook, Helen was decidedly the most useful member of the
household, she was kept fully occupied all day long, and in constant
employment, was her only escape from her own thoughts. She was not
happy; nay, many a night she cried herself to sleep; her aunt was
cool and distant, as though she had displeased her in some way; but
to Helen's knowledge, she had given her no cause of offence since the
terrible incident of the tea-cup, years and years previously.
Her cousins were sharp, critical, and patronizing, and evidently
considered that she occupied a very much lower social status than
themselves.
She was unwelcome, an interloper, and felt it keenly. More than once
she tried to screw up her courage, and ask her aunt what was to be
her future. Undoubtedly, she was not to remain on permanently as an
inmate of No. 15, Cream Street.—Her big box still stood in the back
hall. Somehow, she rarely had a chance of a few words with her aunt
alone, her affairs were never once touched upon in her hearing, and
yet she had reason to believe, that certain animated and rather shrill
conversations, that she frequently interrupted,—and that fell away
into an awkward silence as she entered a room,—were about her, and her
future destination!
* * * * *
Visitors came rapping at No. 15, Cream Street every afternoon, and two,
out of the dozens who had called, asked for "Miss Denis." A few days
after her arrival, she had been in the drawing-room with her cousins
Carrie and Clara, when her first caller made her appearance.
The drawing-room was an apartment that seemed to be all mirrors, low
chairs, small tables, and plush photo frames—a pretty room, entirely
got up for show, not use. Several of the chairs, were not to be
trusted, and one or two tables were decidedly dangerous, but the _tout
ensemble_ through coloured blinds, was everything that was smart and
fashionable, and "good style"—the fetish the Miss Platts worshipped.
On this particular afternoon Carrie was yawning over the fire, Clara
was looking out of the window, commenting on a coroneted carriage and
superb pair of steppers, with what is called extravagant action, which
had just stopped opposite. Mentally she was thinking, how much she
would like to see this equipage in waiting at their own door, when a
very curious turn-out came lumbering along, and actually drew up at
No. 15. A shapeless, weather-beaten, yellow brougham, drawn by a fat
plough-horse, and driven by a coachman in keeping with his steed—a man
with a long beard, a rusty hat (that an Andamanese would have scorned),
and a horse-sheet round his knees.
Little did Helen Denis dream that she was gazing at that oft-vaunted
vehicle—Lady Grubb's carriage.
"Good gracious, Carrie, who on earth is this?" cried Clara, turning to
her sister, who was now staring exhaustingly at her own reflection in
the chimney-glass. "And coming to call here! Oh, for mercy's sake, do
come and look!"
The door of the brougham was slowly opened, and a very stout old lady,
attired in a long black satin cloak, and gorgeous bonnet with nodding
plumes, descended, and waddled up the steps.
In the vacant carriage there still remained two fat pugs, a worked
cushion, a pile of books, and what certainly looked like a basket of
vegetables!
"It's no one _we_ know," said Clara contemptuously.
"It may be a friend of Plunket's, or a mistake."
Apparently it was neither, for at this moment the door was flung open,
and,—
"Lady Grubb!" was announced.
Very eagerly she advanced to Clara, with round, smiling face, and
outstretched hands, saying,—
"So glad to find you at home! My sister told me to be sure and call,
and as I was at the stores,"—here she paused and faltered, literally
cowed by the expression of Miss Platt's eyes—Miss Platt, who drew
back, elongated her neck, and looked insolent interrogation.
"I think you have been so good as to come and see me," murmured Helen,
hastily advancing to the rescue. "You are Mrs. Creery's sister?"
"Yes, and of course you are Miss Denis," seizing her outstretched hand
as if it were a life-belt, for poor Lady Grubb was completely thrown
off her balance, by the stern demeanour of the other damsel.
Helen led her to a sofa, and tried to engage her in friendly
conversation, but it was not easy to converse, with her two cousins
sitting rigidly by, as if they were on a board of examination, and not
suffering a word or look to escape them. They sat and gazed at Lady
Grubb in quite a combined and systematic manner; to them she was such a
unique object, and such utterly "awful style."
She, like her sister, was endowed with a copious flow of language,
but the very fountain of her speech was frozen by these two ice
maidens. The first few words she did manage to utter, were hurried and
incoherent, but presently she found courage to inquire after Maria, and
Nip, and Creery (horrible to relate, she called him "Creery"), and also
after many people, she had heard about at Port Blair.
It was very plain to Helen, that Maria had painted her island home,
with an unsparing supply of gorgeous colours, and Lady Grubb looked
upon her absent relative's position, as something between that of
the Queen of Sheba, and the Princess Badoura without doubt. She then
murmured a few words of really kind condolence to Helen, and if she had
taken her departure at this point, all would have been well; but she
was now becoming habituated to the stony stare of the Misses Platt, and
felt more emboldened to converse,—and some malicious elf put it into
her head to say, with a meaning smile,—
"I am quite up in all the Port Blair news and Port Blair secrets, you
know. I've heard a great deal about a certain gentleman."
Helen became what is known as "all colours," and her two cousins "all
ears;" to them she had positively denied that she had left the ghost of
an admirer to lament her departure from the Andaman Islands.
"Oh, you know who I _mean_, I can see," continued the old lady
playfully. "She had any number of offers," addressing herself rather
triumphantly to the Miss Platts, "but Mr. Quentin is to be the happy
man," and here the wretched old woman, actually winked at Clara and
Caroline.
"Indeed, indeed, Lady Grubb, you are quite mistaken!" cried Helen
hastily. "Mr. Quentin is nothing to me but a mere acquaintance, and as
to anything else, Mrs. Creery—was—was joking!"
"Oh, well, well, we won't say a word about it now, but you must come
and spend a long day with me soon and tell me _everything_! I feel as
if I know you quite well, having heard of you so often from Maria. I'll
just leave my card for your aunt, and now I must really be going,"
standing up as she spoke. "I suppose Scully is waiting" (presumably the
uncouth coachman).
The Miss Platts did not ring the bell, neither did they deign to rise
from their chairs, but merely closed their eyes at their visitor, as
she made a kind of "shy," intended for a curtsey, and wishing them
"good afternoon," departed with considerable precipitation.
Helen went downstairs, and conducted Lady Grubb to the hall-door, and
presently saw her bowled away in her yellow chariot, with a brace of
pugs in her lap.
She was not a very distinguished person certainly, but she meant to be
friendly, to be kind, and a little of these commodities went a long way
with her now. She blushed, when she recalled her cousins' deportment.
Surely an Andamanese female, in her own premises (were they hole or
tree), would have shown more civility to a stranger. As she entered the
drawing-room, the Miss Platts exclaimed in one breath,—
"What a creature! Who is she?"
"She looks like an old cook!" supplemented Carrie. "I was _trembling_
lest any of our friends should come in."
"Her name is Grubb, she is sister to Mrs. Creery, the—" (how could she
give any approximate idea of that lady's pomp?) "the principal lady at
the Andamans!" she added rather faintly.
"Principal lady! What rubbish!" cried Clara. "If she resembles her
distinguished sister, I make you my compliments, as the French say, on
the class of society you enjoyed out there."
"Let us see where she lives. Where's her card? What is her
name?—Tubb—Grubb?" said Carrie. "Here it is," taking it up between
two supercilious fingers, and reading,—
=Lady Grubb=,
_Smithson Villas, Pimlico_.
"Pimlico! _So_ i should have imagined," for, of course, any one who
lived in that region was in the Miss Platts' opinion socially extinct.
"You certainly cannot do yourself the pleasure of spending a long and
happy day at Smithson Villas," said Carrie with decision. "Goodness
knows whom you might meet; and she would be bragging to her cronies
that you were _our_ cousin."
"I shall go if she asks me," replied Helen quietly. "It is no matter
who _I_ meet, and I will guarantee that your name does not transpire."
Was the girl trying to be sarcastic? Carrie looked at her sharply, but
Helen's face was immovable.
"Well, I do most devoutly trust that she will not see fit to wait upon
you again, or that if she does she will come in the laundry-cart!"
"I wonder what the Courtney-Howards thought of her. I'm sure I saw
Evelyn at the window," remarked Clara. "Oh!" she added with great
animation, "here is the Jenkins' carriage—Flo and her mother. What a
mercy that they did not come five minutes ago!"
Now ensued general arranging of hair, of chairs, and of blinds;
evidently the Jenkins were people worth cultivating, and indisputably
of "good style."
"Fly away, Helen, at once," cried Carrie, "and tell Price to bring up
tea in about ten minutes; and if there is time, you might just run
round the corner and get half-a-dozen of those nice little Scotch
cakes. I know Price hates being sent on messages in the afternoon, and
you don't mind."