IN WHICH EVERYTHING IS SETTLED TO MRS. PLATT'S SATISFACTION.
"When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?"
_Moore._
LADY GRUBB'S visit was succeeded by one from Mrs. Home—a kind,
well-meaning little lady, as we know, but as yet attired in what had
been a very nice Dirzee-made garment at Port Blair, and even passed
muster for best on board ship, but which stamped her at once in the
eyes of the Miss Platts as "bad style."
Her boys, too, so eager was she to see Helen, were not yet equipped in
their new suits, and were anomalous spectacles in Highland kilts and
sailor hats.
Clara and Carrie did not condescend to appear on this occasion, they
saw amply sufficient of Mrs. Home and family over the dining-room blind.
Helen felt a sense of burning humiliation and shame to think that now,
when she was at home among her own people, they would not even take the
trouble to come upstairs and thank Mrs. Home for her great kindness to
her, nor even so much as send her a cup of tea. She hoped in her heart
that her friend would think they were _out_! But they went audibly up
and down stairs and laughed and shut doors, and Mrs. Home was neither
deaf nor stupid.
She stayed an hour, and Helen enjoyed her visit greatly (despite her
disappointment at the non-appearance of her relations or, failing them,
the tea-tray). It was one little oasis in the desert of her now dreary
life; they conversed eagerly together and talked the shibboleth of
people who have the same friends, in the same country; they kissed and
cried a little, and parted with mutual promises of many letters, for
Mrs. Home was going to Jersey, and thence to the Continent.
"Your friends are not our friends, and our friends are not your
friends," said Carrie forcibly, and Helen felt that indeed, as far as
appearance went, her visitors had not been a success, and for her own
part never dreamt of being admitted within the sacred circle of her
cousins' acquaintance.
Now and then she met people accidentally in the hall, or in the street
when walking with her cousins; and once she overheard Carrie saying to
Clara, apropos of visitors,—
"Of course there is no occasion to introduce Helen to any one," and
this amiable injunction was obeyed to the letter. However, the omission
sat very lightly on the once admired of all admirers at Port Blair.
One morning it happened that Helen was in the drawing-room when a bosom
friend of Carrie's came to call—a Miss Fowler Sharpe, a fashionable
acquaintance whom the Misses Platt toadied, for she had the _entrée_ to
circles barred to them, and they hoped to use her as a pass key.
They made a great deal of the lady, flattered her, caressed her, and
ran after her, all of which was agreeable to Miss Sharpe. She was a
very elegantly dressed London girl, who spoke with a drawl, and gave
one the idea that her eyelids were too heavy for her eyes. She had come
over to Cream Street to make some arrangements about an opera-box, and
to have a little genteel gossip.
Helen was busily engaged in sewing Madras muslin and coloured bows
on the backs of some of the chairs, where she was "discovered" by
her cousins and their friend, to whom she was presented in a hasty,
off-hand manner, which plainly said, "You need not notice her!"
Miss Sharpe stared for a second, vouchsafed her a little nod, then sat
down with her back to Helen and speedily forgot her existence.
The three friends were soon deep in conversation, whilst she worked
steadily on, kneeling at the chair she was dressing with her face
turned away from the company.
Their principal topics were dress and weddings, weddings and dress, and
who was flirting with whom, and what was likely to be a match, and what
was not, and who looked lovely in such a gown, and what men were in
town.
At length Helen, who had not been attending, caught one syllable that
made her start and pause, and then listen with a heightened colour and
a beating heart.
"Yes, I hear that Gilbert Lisle is actually coming back; he has been
away among savages this last time, positively fraternizing with
cannibals."
"Gilbert Lisle coming home!" cried Carrie. "Then Kate Calderwood will
be happy at last. I suppose it will be all arranged this season?"
"Yes, his father is most anxious that he should settle; indeed, I
believe he wrote him out a furious letter, and said that if he did not
come home without delay he would marry again _himself_!" At this threat
all three ladies laughed immoderately.
"Imagine any sane woman marrying such an old Turk as Lord Lingard!"
drawled Miss Sharpe. "He is seventy if he is a day, bald and beaky,
and with a temper that has a European notoriety; the very idea of his
supposing that he would get _any one_ to take him!"
"Yes, hideous old creature," chimed in Clara; "he always reminds me of
a white cockatoo with a pink bill."
(Nevertheless, any one of these young ladies would have said "Yes" with
pleasure had Lord Lingard asked them to be his.)
"I cannot imagine how any one ever married him originally," pursued
Miss Sharpe; "and yet they say that Lady Lingard was one of the
handsomest women of her day."
"Oh, but," put in Clara, delighted to impart this class of information,
"you know, they say that she married him out of pique, and she did not
live long. I suppose he worried her into her grave."
"No," rejoined Miss Sharpe; "though he _may_ have helped to kill her,
she died of consumption."
"Did she? and her eldest son is following her. He is in a rapid
decline," added Carrie. "And you say that Gilbert Lisle is really
coming home?" suddenly falling back on the original topic.
"So I'm told. Mother is going to send him a card for our dance. But I
never believe in him till I see him."
"How I wish we knew him," ejaculated Clara, looking at her visitor
wistfully.
"Oh, you know he is not a society man, only goes to a few houses and
some country places where there is good shooting; now and then you see
him at a ball, or in a squash in some staircase; but he has a very
fair idea of his own value, and never makes himself _cheap_," and Miss
Sharpe smiled rather disagreeably.
"That's the way with all these rich bachelors," exclaimed Carrie. "They
are so spoilt, and so abominably conceited."
"I wonder how he got on among the savages?" said Miss Sharpe.
Little did she guess that the girl who was sitting in the background,
with bent head and burning face, could have answered her question then
and there.
"I wonder if it will come off with Katie, after all?" exclaimed Carrie.
"She is the girl he used to ride with in the park last year, is she
not?—very freckled, with high shoulders. She comes to our church. I
wonder what he sees in her?" she added.
"It is his father, my dear, who sees _everything_ in her: her property
'march,' as they call it, with the Lingard estates."
"And so she is to be Mrs. Gilbert Lisle?"
"I believe so." And with this remark the subject dropped.
Helen had listened to this conversation with crimson face and throbbing
heart. Everything was accounted for now; he had been simply amusing
himself with her. This man, who was accustomed to be made much of by
London beauties, who was eagerly sought for by house parties in country
houses—was it likely that he would be really serious in making love
to an obscure girl like herself, a girl whom he had come across in his
wanderings among savage islands? "No," she told herself, "not at all
likely; his actions spoke for him. He had been simply seeing how much
she would believe, repeating a _rôle_ that he had doubtless played
dozens of times previously. And during his wanderings his wealthy
destined bride, Miss Calderwood, was all the time awaiting him in
England. _She_ was to be Mrs. Gilbert Lisle."
"I do declare you have stitched that on the wrong side out! What can
you _have_ been thinking of?" demanded Clara very sharply, when her
fashionable friend had departed. "You will have to rip it, and put it
on properly. Your wits must have been wool-gathering!"
If Clara had known where her cousin's thoughts had been, she would
have been very much surprised for once in her life, and ejaculated her
favourite exclamation, "Fancy, just fancy!" with unusual animation.
The day after this visit Helen was asked to accompany her cousin
Carrie on foot to Bond Street, not an unusual honour. She was useful
for carrying small parcels; true, her mourning was shabby, but none of
the Platts' acquaintances knew who she was, and, if the worst came to
the worst, she might pass as a superior-looking lady's-maid. On their
way back from the shops Carrie took it into her head to take a turn
in the park. It was about twelve o'clock, and the Row was gay with a
fashionable throng of pedestrians. Carrie met several friends, to whom
she gave a bow here and a nod there, and Helen, to her great amazement,
recognized one while yet afar off, and, although garbed in a frock
coat and tall hat—yes, she actually beheld Mr. Quentin coming towards
her, walking with a very well-dressed woman, and followed by two red
dachshunds. She was positive that the recognition was mutual, and was
pleased in her present barren life to hail any acquaintance from Port
Blair—even him! When they came almost face to face she bowed and
smiled, and would have stopped, but he merely glanced at her as if she
were some most casual acquaintance, swept off his hat, and passed on.
Evidently Port Blair and Rotten Row were two very different places.
A flood of scarlet rushed over her face, which her quick-eyed companion
did not fail to notice, and said—
"Who is that gentleman?"
"A Mr. Quentin. I knew him at Port Blair."
"Fancy! I have heard of him. He is quite in society; he is a friend of
the Sharpes. I believe he is rather fascinating—but frightfully in
debt."
Helen made no reply, but walked on in silence, and Miss Platt put two
and two together with much satisfaction to herself. Helen's undoubted
confusion signified of course that she cherished an unrequited
attachment for this good-looking, faithless man who had just now gone
by with a cool ceremonious bow. So much for her cousin's admirers in
the Andamans!
* * * * *
It was now the end of May, and Helen had been six weeks in London,
but so far not a word had been mooted to her about her future plans.
She made herself useful, working, shopping, going messages; her aunt
admitted to herself that she was quite as good as another servant in
the house (though she did not actually use the word servant, even in
her thoughts); she was a handy, useful, industrious girl, and did not
put herself forward; so the matter of getting her a situation had been
allowed to remain somewhat in abeyance.
Helen knew that she must eventually "move on," but had a nervous dread
of broaching the subject to her relations. Day after day she failed
to bring her courage to the sticking-point; but the question, ever
trembling on her lips, at last found utterance, and finding herself
alone with Mrs. Platt one morning, she said timidly—
"Have you made any plans about _me_, Aunt Julia?"
"Yes, my dear," was the surprisingly prompt answer, "it is all quite
settled; I had intended speaking to you before, but something put it
out of my head. I have an important letter to write just now, but when
the girls go out this evening you and I will have a talk together."
In due time the Miss Platts departed in the brougham, bound for a
little dinner and the play.
Helen, who had assisted to adorn them, partook of a meat tea with her
aunt, and then they both adjourned to the little den upon the stairs.
There, by the light of a crimson-shaded lamp, Mrs. Platt read the day's
news, and Helen sewed and waited—waited for a very long time, and,
needless to say, she was most impatient to learn her fate.
Her aunt was a lady who never worked, and rarely opened a book, but
devoted her whole time to writing, talking, organizing, eating,
sleeping and dressing. She perused the paper as a daily duty, just to
see what was going on; and after she had now read every word of it,
including advertisements, she folded it up with a crackling noise, and
said rather suddenly,—
"This is a capital opportunity for us to have a nice little chat. I
have been intending to speak to you for some time. Of course you know,
dear, that your father left his affairs in a terrible state. I was not
the least surprised to hear it, and all that can be scraped together
for you is fourteen pounds a year—less than a kitchen-maid's wages,"
shrugging her shoulders. "There is no use in saying anything about the
dead; what is done is done; nor that, to satisfy his ridiculous ideas
of honour, he left his only child——"
"No, no use, Aunt Julia, for I would not listen to you," interrupted
Helen with sudden fire. Mrs. Platt was astounded; this outbreak
recalled old days, she positively recoiled before the expression of her
niece's eyes, the imperious gesture of her hand. She leant back in her
chair with folded arms, and sat for some moments in indignant silence,
when she reached out two fingers and pulled the lamp-shade down, so
that her face was completely in the shadow. She had reason to do so,
for she was going to say things of which she might unquestionably be
ashamed; and once more she commenced, as if repeating something she had
previously rehearsed:
"Ours is the oddest family, we have so few relations on the Denis side,
no nice connections, no influential friends; when your grandfather (why
could she not say my father?) came to such a fearful smash all his old
associates abandoned him, as rats leave a sinking ship. I married, and
made new ties, your father married too; but, as far as I know, your
mother had no respectable belongings. My sister Christina also made a
wretched match; she married a half-crazy Irish professor she picked up
at Bonn, he afterwards came in for some miserable Irish property, on
which he lives, but _he_ could do nothing, he can hardly keep the wolf
and bailiffs from the door as it is. Christina, as I suppose you know,
died last Christmas."
"No, Aunt Julia, I never heard of it."
"Oh, well, of course it does not affect you." (Nor did it apparently
much affect Mrs. Platt.) "She and I had not met for many years. Then
there is my aunt Sophia—your grand-aunt. She is an invalid, and lives
at Bournemouth, scarcely ever leaving her room. She is very wealthy,
and we correspond constantly, but most of her money goes to charities,
in which she takes an interest, and unfortunately she takes no interest
in _you_. She has got it into her head that you are worldly!"
Helen stared round the lamp-shade, to see if her aunt was joking.
"It's quite true," responded Mrs. Platt, meeting her gaze, "and once
she gets an idea into her head,—there it stays. So it is rather
unfortunate; but, at any rate, all her thoughts are at present centred
on a mission to the Laps. Then," with a perceptible pause, "we come
to myself. I am not a rich woman" (though she strained every nerve to
appear so, and had upwards of three thousand a year), "I spend every
penny of my income, and am often pressed for money. Of course, in the
country or at the seaside we would have a margin, but the girls would
not hear of living anywhere but in town—and naturally I have to study
them, and their interests."
"Of course, Aunt Julia," acquiesced her listener.
"This is a ruinous neighbourhood, and this house, though so tiny,
costs four hundred a year; no doubt for half that sum, I would get a
mansion in Bayswater; but, as the girls say, there is no use in being
in town at all if you don't live in the best part of it, and here we
are! Then we require to keep up a certain style to correspond with
the situation—a man-servant is indispensable, and a carriage; the
horses, of course, are jobbed. Again, we have to entertain, to go to
the seaside, to dress—and this last, even with Plunket making half the
things, costs a small fortune! The long and the short of it is that,
out of my very tolerable income, I never have a single sixpence at the
end of the year. This being the case, you will readily understand, my
dear Helen, that, much as I should _wish_ to do so—I cannot offer you
a home here."
"No, of course, Aunt Julia, I never expected you to do so," replied her
niece in a low voice.
"You are a sensible girl, wonderfully so for your age, and I talk
to you, you see, as openly and as frankly as if you were my own
contemporary. I could not afford to dress you as you would require
to be dressed, and take you out; besides, the brougham is a crush
for three as it is, and three girls at a dance would be out of the
question. I must say, I should have _liked_ to have given you a season,
but, as Clara points out, my taking you into society would entail
leaving one of them behind, and charity begins at home; and, candidly,
I am very anxious to see them settled."
"Yes, aunt, of course I understand that your own daughters should come
first."
"And besides all this, my love," waxing more affectionate as she
proceeded, "I really have no room to give you. Plunket requires one to
herself; there is mine, and the girls', and the spare room, and, you
see——"
"I see, Aunt Julia," interrupted her niece, "don't say another word.
And now what are your plans for me?"
"Well, I had hoped to have got you a very happy, comfortable home, with
a very rich old lady in the country, who required a nice cheerful young
girl to talk to her, and read to her, and be with her constantly. She
was rather astray mentally—a little weak, you know; but you would have
got two hundred a year. However——" and she stopped.
"However, aunt——?"
"Well, I heard indirectly that she was liable to rather _violent_
paroxysms occasionally, and came to the conclusion that it would not
do! I have been making inquiries among my friends—of course, it's
rather a delicate business, and I don't mention that you are my own
niece; it would be so very awkward, you know; but I hope to hear of
something suitable ere long. Meanwhile, dear, I'm sure you won't be
offended at my telling you that we shall want your room next week!"
Helen's hands shook, her lips trembled, so that for the moment she was
unable to speak. Was she to be turned out of doors? She had exactly
four pounds in her purse upstairs!
"Clara's rich godmother always comes to us for June," continued Mrs.
Platt, "and we have to study her, and to make the house bright and
pleasant; it is then we always give our little dinner-parties. We do
our best to please her; she is very liberal to the girls, and we could
not possibly put her off. She will have the spare room, as usual,—and
her maid always occupies _yours_."
"Yes, Aunt Julia."
"I have made a very nice, temporary arrangement for you, dearest! A
lady I know, who keeps a large school at Kensington, has most kindly
offered to take you gratis for a month or two,—till we can look about
us. You are to teach the younger classes French and music."
"In short, go to her as governess?"
"Oh, dear me, no," irritably; "it is a mere friendly offer. She obliges
you, you oblige her, as one of her staff has gone home ill, and she is
rather short-handed just now."
"And will she pay me?" inquired Helen as bluntly as Mrs. Creery herself.
"Oh, no, I don't think there was any reference to that! Perhaps your
laundress may be included; but you scarcely seem to understand that
she is going to give you board and lodging for _nothing_. You are not
sufficiently experienced for a governess!"
"But——" began Helen, thinking of her superior musical talents and
fluent French.
"But," interrupted her aunt tartly, "if you can think of any other
expedient for a couple of months, or have a better suggestion to make,
let us have it, by all means!"
Her hearer pondered. There was Miss Twigg, Miss Twigg no longer; she
was married, and had gone out to Canada. Mrs. Home was in Germany, her
former schoolfellows were scattered,—to whom could she turn?
"Of course this is a mere temporary step, as I said before," urged her
aunt. "I shall do much better for you in the autumn; I have great hopes
of getting you a comfortable home through some of my friends, and as a
favour to _me_. So, meanwhile, will you go to Mrs. Kane's or not?"
"Yes, aunt; I will do whatever you please."
"Very well, then, that is settled. I must get your things done up a
little first. Your aunt Sophia sent ten pounds for you, and I was
thinking that as the girls were going out of mourning—three months,
you know, is ample for an uncle—that you might help Plunket to remodel
one or two of their dresses for yourself."
Helen felt a lump in her throat, that nearly choked her. She would wear
a cast-off garment of Mrs. Home's with pleasure, and accept it as it
was meant; but Clara's and Carrie's!—never! And she managed to stammer
out,—
"No, thank you, Aunt Julia; I shall do very well."
"But that black every-day dress is not fit to be seen."
"It will do in the school-room,—and I shall get another."
"Now I consider that wanton extravagance, when you can have Clara's
for nothing. Perhaps your dignity is offended?" and she laughed at the
mere idea of such a possibility, and then added, "By the way, _are_ you
proud?"
Helen made no reply, but bent her eyes on her work.
"Then, my dear child, the sooner you get rid of that folly the
better,—for poverty, and pride, are no match for one another."
"How soon did you say I was to go to Mrs. Kane's, aunt?"
"On Monday next. You can leave your big box here still, and if you like
to come over to lunch every second Sunday, you may do so. But I doubt
if you will care for the long walk across the park,—or if Mrs. Kane
could spare a servant to walk home with you."
"Then, thank you, I won't mind."
"Well, dear," rising as if a load had been removed from her mind,
"I believe we have settled everything satisfactorily. It is so much
pleasanter to talk over these matters face to face. And now, love,
I'll say good-night. I daresay you would like to finish Carrie's
handkerchief before you go upstairs." Then, stooping and kissing her,
she added, "Be sure you put the lamp out carefully," and with this
parting injunction, Aunt Julia opened the door, and departed, leaving
her orphan niece alone with her own thoughts.
Helen stitched away mechanically for nearly ten minutes, then she laid
down her work, and sat with her hands lying idly in her lap, and her
eyes riveted upon the rose-coloured lamp-shade, but her thoughts did
not take any reflection from that brilliant hue. The life that had
begun so brightly now stretched out before her mental vision as grey
and dreary as a winter's day. She was imperiously summoned to work for
herself, to take up her post in the battle of existence, to toil for
her daily bread for the future,—her only aim being to lay by some
provision for her old age; she saw before her years of drudgery, with
but this end in view. She had no friends, no relations, no money. A
cold, dull despair settled down upon her soul, as she sat in the same
attitude for fully an hour. At last she rose, folded up her work,
carefully extinguished the lamp, and then made her way noiselessly up
to her own apartment under the slates.