a very sallow-complexioned woman of over sixty years of age called at
the office of Mr Daly the house-agent in Lynton--the nearest town--and
asked him if he had any detached houses of moderate rent and dimensions
that could be immediately obtained. The only stipulations she made
were, that it was to be taken by the year only, and must be furnished.
The rent, if necessary, would be paid in advance, and a banker's
reference given. Hilton Lodge, which had hitherto hung somewhat heavily
on Mr Daly's hands, was immediately mentioned. The woman, who gave
her name as Mrs Danton, accompanied the agent to view it, and being
satisfied, at once agreed to take it.
"It is not for myself exactly," she explained, "though I shall live
here. It is for an invalid cousin of mine--an old lady--Mrs Petre. I
reside with her--manage her affairs in fact--and--take care of her."
"There is no mental derangement?" queried Mr Daly, alarmed by the
measured way in which Mrs Danton enunciated her sentence.
"O dear, no," she replied; "but she is depressed--very much
depressed--in spirits. She has met with some severe money losses
lately, owing to a scoundrel of a nephew of hers who had behaved badly.
Happily, however, she has an annuity of a thousand a year, of which he
could not deprive her; but it has been a severe shock to her, and at
times she almost needs supervision."
'Mr Daly expressed due sympathy and commiseration, hoping, however,
that the change to Hilton Lodge might be of great benefit to the poor
old lady, whose age, Mrs Danton stated, was considerably over seventy.
'Soon afterwards, the new tenants, whose references had proved
unexceptionable, arrived, and in a short time they were fairly settled
in their new abode. The establishment consisted of a cook, a very old
woman; a housemaid, equally elderly, who was supposed, as it afterwards
turned out, to wait at table, and also to attend personally on Mrs
Petre; and a rather more juvenile coachman, whose duty it was to drive
out Mrs Petre daily in a small brougham with one horse, the lady being
invariably accompanied by the other member of her household--last,
but certainly not least in her own opinion, Mrs Danton, her cousin,
confidante, companion, or custodian--whatever she was, no one seemed
quite to know which. Some clever person at last discovered _who_ Mrs
Petre was. She was the widow of a General Petre of the Indian army;
and after this had been found out, a few of her nearer neighbours left
cards upon her. But for a long time nothing was seen of her beyond
occasional glimpses of a pale aged face in a close black bonnet, seated
side by side in the brougham with the yellow cadaverous countenance of
Mrs Danton.
'She certainly had a terrible countenance,' observed Mr Langley; 'it
was what you could have imagined belonging to the evil-eye. Yet it
seemed she was very attentive to the old lady; they were sometimes seen
walking about arm in arm, and Mrs Danton gave up her whole time--so it
seemed--to the care and amusement of her melancholy charge. Yet the
strange part of it was, that although the relationship between them was
said to be that of cousins, Mrs Petre, old, invalid, shabbily dressed,
and wretched-looking as she was, looked a thorough lady; whilst Mrs
Danton bore upon her the unmistakable stamp of vulgarity and want of
breeding. She tried hard to be a lady, and no doubt was fully persuaded
that she succeeded in her attempts. By degrees, however, she made her
way into the good graces of one or two of the families round about; and
into their ears--often in Mrs Petre's presence, who would sit silently
drinking in the oft repeated story of her wrongs--she would pour out
the history of the nephew's delinquencies. Such a villain as Aubrey
Stanmore, Mrs Danton alleged, did not exist; nothing was too bad to be
said of him; he had endeavoured to ruin his aunt, had deprived her of
every shilling that he could lay hold of, and instead of deploring his
conduct, rather gloried in it.
'This Aubrey Stanmore, to make my story clear,' said Mr Langley, 'was a
nephew of Mrs Petre's, for whom she had always had a great affection;
and by the joint advice of his father and his aunt, he had been induced
to exchange his military for a mercantile career, for which he had
neither the necessary capacity nor capital. This latter disadvantage
was in the first instance smoothed over by an arrangement between Mrs
Petre and the elder Mr Stanmore to become security for a certain sum,
which, thanks to Aubrey's ignorance of business matters, was quickly
swallowed up, necessitating either further securitiships or immediate
failure--a crisis not to be contemplated when a little prompt aid
might insure future wealth to the family through Aubrey's successes.
So again, and yet again, did Mrs Petre extend a helping hand, until
the crash could no longer be averted, and the failure was announced.
Dearly as she loved her money, and violent as her wrath in the first
instance was, she was too fond of her favourite Aubrey to withhold a
free forgiveness, which would never have been cancelled but for the
appearance on the scene of this Mrs Danton, a needy widow, who fanned
the flame against Mr Stanmore so successfully that not only was he
sternly forbidden his aunt's house, but volumes of abuse, in her once
kindly, familiar handwriting, were circulated against him, damaging to
both his character and future prospects.
'He was a young man, barely thirty; and surely he might hope to
retrieve the past. One would have imagined so; but when he set about
trying to interest some of his aunt's old friends on his behalf, they
turned very coldly away. Mrs Petre's letters and denunciations bore
terrible weight against Aubrey; and when he appealed again and again
to her, the rebuffs he met with were studied in their insolence and
severity.
'Of course, Mr Stanmore attributed her violent behaviour to its real
cause--Mrs Danton, who had succeeded in persuading Mrs Petre to
discharge all her old servants, upon the plea that her poverty was so
great she could not afford to keep them. One in particular Mrs Danton
knew it would be necessary to dismiss, and that was Janet Heath, a very
superior sort of maid-housekeeper, who had been in her service for over
ten years. Janet was filled with indignation when Mrs Danton first took
up her residence with Mrs Petre, as she well knew the inferiority of
her position, which had hitherto only been acknowledged by the latter
so far as the gift of an occasional sovereign or a bundle of cast-off
garments went; and to have her suddenly set at the head of affairs, and
to have to listen silently to her scurrilous abuse of Mr Aubrey, was
more than Janet could calmly submit to. However, when Mrs Petre herself
told her that she did not wish her to remain, she had no choice but to
depart; and shortly afterwards she married a man to whom she had been
engaged for some years.
'But though she had left her service, Janet was too fond and faithful
quite to desert Mrs Petre. She resolved to go to see her as often as
she possibly could, and above everything to put in a good word as
frequently as occasion permitted for Mr Stanmore, whom Janet knew to
be, with all his other faults, a good-hearted and well-meaning young
man.
'This plan of visiting Mrs Petre in no way suited Mrs Danton's views.
She endeavoured, by covert insinuations against Janet, to poison Mrs
Petre's mind; but failing in that, she resolved to remove her from
Janet's vicinity, and to take a house of her own choosing, with an
establishment also selected by herself. She had been in power for about
two years when they came to Hilton Lodge, and in that time Mrs Danton
had wormed her way pretty successfully into the confidence of Mrs
Petre's old friends, and poisoned their minds most thoroughly against
her nephew, who after, to his great joy, having been sent for and fully
forgiven by Mrs Petre, had suddenly been told his visits to her house
were not desired, and that, although she had forgiven, she had no
intention of holding any further intercourse with him!
'This was a sad blow to Mr Stanmore; but from what he had seen of Mrs
Danton, he conceived it to be his duty to write out to his cousin
in India, Major Arthur Dumaresque, and tell him, as the only other
relative of Mrs Petre, that he did not consider she was in safe or
proper hands; and urged upon him the necessity for some action in the
matter.
'But in this too he had been forestalled, for Major Dumaresque had
already been communicated with by Mrs Danton, who, under cover of Mrs
Petre's name, wrote out such slanderous accounts of Mr Stanmore that
he was quite under the impression that Mrs Danton was only acting as
Mrs Petre's guardian angel, and was benevolently protecting her from
the spider, namely, Aubrey Stanmore. Mrs Danton represented in glowing,
though somewhat illiterate and misspelt, terms her entire devotion
to her dear cousin, her desire to act altogether so as to insure the
interests of Major Dumaresque, to whom Mrs Petre had resolved to leave
whatever fortune she might die possessed of. As for herself, she
wanted--nothing--but the heart and confidence of her charge.
'As may be imagined, Aubrey's representations, and those of his wife
as well, were utterly thrown away upon Major Dumaresque. Being already
prejudiced, he refused to believe in them; joined in the abuse of Mr
Stanmore, and was well pleased to countenance and correspond with the
person who apparently had his interests so thoroughly at heart.
'Her triumph knew no bounds when she saw how her plans had succeeded,
for now the Stanmores stood alone as it were in the world. They had no
friends. This was Mrs Danton's perpetual solace and comfort, as well as
the knowledge that Aubrey's affairs could never be wound up and settled
without his aunt's co-operation, she being the largest creditor he had.
All seemed very hopeless to the Stanmores, still more so when they
heard that Mrs Danton had elected to carry poor old Mrs Petre off to
the country.
'However, Janet Heath was equal to the emergency. She went to Mr
Stanmore and told him that she was certain Mrs Petre was not only
perfectly sick of her companion, but that she had actually one day,
during a visit, asked her if she could possibly return to her service.
Just at this juncture Mrs Danton was called away to visit a daughter
it seemed she possessed; and Janet came to Mr Stanmore and urged him
to lose no time in going to see his aunt, and taking advantage of the
companion's absence to beg of her to make up her mind to prevent her
return. "For," said Janet, "my poor old mistress is in fear of her, Mr
Aubrey; she hasn't a shilling she can call her own; her very cheques
are now made out in Mrs Danton's name; and she told me she was sick
of her--but that till Major Dumaresque came home, she could make no
change."
'Mr Stanmore's blood boiled at Janet's revelations, which were far
more numerous than I can relate; but his position was a difficult one.
He had no one to turn to; no one to advise him properly. Mrs Petre's
injurious statements as regarded him had placed him in the most painful
predicament; but he was resolved on one thing--to lose no time in
attempting, at all events, to rescue his aunt from her present thraldom.
'But to whom could they turn? Something must be done. Mrs Stanmore
would not hear of her husband subjecting himself to fresh insults from
Mrs Petre's friends. She would write _once_ more to Major Dumaresque,
and see if she could not rouse him to a sense of the real character of
Mrs Danton. This she resolved in the presence of Janet Heath and Aubrey.
"Very well, Helen; write by all means," said Aubrey solemnly; "but I
have a strong conviction that that woman will never let my aunt live
until Arthur Dumaresque comes home."
'Long and anxiously did the Stanmores consult with the faithful Janet
as to the best means of watching over the old lady, who seemed bent
on allowing herself to be ruled by Mrs Danton, who had her now as
completely under her thumb as if she had been an infant. At last it was
settled, when they heard Hilton Lodge had been really engaged, that
Janet should take a little house as near it as possible, partly on the
plea of her child--she had one little girl, Emily by name--requiring
change, partly because of her anxiety to be near her old mistress. So
when the Dantonian establishment was fairly settled, Janet made her
appearance, greatly to the rage and disgust of the major-domo there,
but to the evident joy and relief of Mrs Petre, who took to writing
perpetual little plaintive notes to Janet, desiring her to come up to
see her.
'Janet had to encounter more than one covert insult at Mrs Danton's
hands, but she simply ignored them, and persevered most courageously in
presenting herself at Hilton Lodge whenever she was sent for. During
those visits she noticed the penniless condition of Mrs Petre, who
bitterly complained that "she had not a shilling in the world;" and at
last, thanks probably to Janet's vigorous promptings, the poor old lady
at length whispered to her that she would fain get rid of Danton, as
she called her, but she could not. "I shall do so when Major Dumaresque
comes home," she said, "and get _you_ to live with me, Janet."
'Gradually, however, Janet was doing good service to the Stanmores, for
Mrs Petre now, whenever occasion came, would talk of Aubrey with much
of her old kindliness, and with pride told Janet one day that he and
his wife had taken to magazine-writing, and were doing pretty well.
'One day, Janet came up to Hilton Lodge at an earlier hour than usual,
without having been asked to do so by Mrs Petre; but the reason was
soon told--it was the sixty-eighth birthday of the old lady, and Janet
had come to congratulate her upon the day. Mrs Danton shewed some
annoyance at Janet's remembrance of the anniversary; but Mrs Petre
welcomed her with more animation and kindliness than she had hitherto
exhibited before Mrs Danton. "You must have some luncheon with me," she
said; "I am going to have it in the drawing-room, and I should like you
to stay for it."
'Janet had never been so honoured; hitherto an occasional glass of
wine was the most she had been accorded; but on this particular and
momentous day, she and her little girl Emily were both invited to
seat themselves at Mrs Petre's dinner-table, where they partook of an
excellent lunch.
"You must drink my health, Janet," said Mrs Petre; "this is some of
my old sherry, my treasure-wine. Danton sent up to town for it; you
remember it, don't you?"
"O yes, ma'am," said Janet; "I do indeed remember it; but you used not
to like it yourself."
"I don't care for it now," answered Mrs Petre, as with a very firm hand
she poured out a glass of wonderfully dark-coloured sherry.
"Thank you," said Janet, taking the glass; but before raising it to
her lips, added: "At your age we must not expect you to have many more
birthdays; but I do hope you may have a good number yet, and happier
than this, with peace in the family, and all the old times over again."
"Yes, yes," responded Mrs Petre; "when Major Dumaresque comes home. And
poor Aubrey! He was a nice boy; wasn't he, Janet?"
"That he was," said Janet heartily; "and is nice still."
"I'm glad I forgave him," observed Mrs Petre, helping the little Emily
to some pudding as she spoke. She had seldom taken so much notice of
Janet's child before; but on this particular day she fed her from her
own plate, and talked several times of Major Dumaresque's little girl;
for I have not before mentioned that he was a married man with one
child.
"You will like to see Miss Florence, won't you?" observed Janet. "She
will be such an amusement to you."
"O yes," responded Mrs Petre; "I am looking forward very much to seeing
her."
'After lunch was over, Mrs Petre and Janet sat talking for a short
time, when the door suddenly opened, and a stranger to Janet, a tall
dark man, walked into the room. From his immediately asking Mrs Petre
how she felt, Janet guessed he was a doctor, and her conclusion was
confirmed by his inquiring of her how she thought Mrs Petre was looking.
"Very well indeed," responded Janet; but from a feeling of delicacy,
she thought she would withdraw until the conference with the doctor was
over. Accordingly she descended to the dining-room, where Mrs Danton
was sitting; and in a few minutes was followed by the doctor, who
addressed himself to the latter.
"Did Mrs Petre have her draught this morning?"
"No," replied Mrs Danton; "I gave her a glass of wine instead."
"Did she get the laudanum?" asked the doctor in a low tone; and to this
question Mrs Danton's reply was made in a whisper, so inaudible that
Janet feeling herself _de trop_, again got up and rejoined the old lady
up-stairs.
"You have got a new doctor," remarked Janet.
"Yes," replied Mrs Petre; "I have had a cold lately; and Mrs Danton did
not like Mr Heywood, who is the leading man here. But this young man
seems civil enough."
"Well, I must be going now," said Janet presently.
"You can be driven home," answered Mrs Petre; "the carriage is at the
door now, I think, and it can come back for me."
"No," said Janet; "it drove away a minute ago."
"Drove away!" exclaimed Mrs Petre with a flash of her old temper, which
as I have before said, was a very violent one; Janet's presence no
doubt emboldening her to find fault with Mrs Danton's arrangements. "Go
and see where it has been sent to."
"Mrs Danton has sent the coachman to Lynton, to get a fowl for your
dinner," said Janet, coming back after her inquiry.
"I didn't want a fowl; I won't have a fowl! What does she mean by
sending for a fowl for me?"
'When Janet departed, she left Mrs Petre irritated against Mrs
Danton--a hopeful sign that self-assertion might yet enable her to
shake off the trammels into which she has got herself. And Janet
thereupon sat down and wrote a joyous little note to Mrs Aubrey
Stanmore, which she posted.
POST-LETTER ITEMS.
As lately as 1839, each inhabitant of these islands only wrote on an
average three letters per annum. In 1840, the year associated with
the introduction of the penny post, the total number of letters rose
to one hundred and sixty-nine millions, giving an average of seven
letters to each person, or something more than double the average of
the preceding year. Since then, the history of the British Post-office,
the greatest emporium of letters in the world, has simply been the
history of the growth of commerce and civilisation in our midst. Each
year the number of letters has surely and steadily increased, until, in
1875, it reached the enormous total of a thousand and eight millions,
or an average of thirty-one letters to each person in the United
Kingdom. Besides these, there were more than eighty-seven millions
of post-cards, and very nearly two hundred and eighty millions of
newspapers and book packets; so that a grand total of nearly fourteen
hundred millions of all descriptions of postal matter is reached. How
few of us can realise at the first blush what a thousand millions
represents!
While the average number of letters to each person in the United
Kingdom in 1875 was thirty-one, it was as high as thirty-five in
England and Wales, and as low as thirteen in Ireland. Scotland occupies
the happy medium between the two, shewing an average exactly double
that of Ireland, and about twenty-five per cent. below that of England
and Wales. It may be doubted, however, whether purely social and
domestic correspondence by letter is less frequently indulged in by the
Scotch people than by the English; and probably if London, where there
is quite an abnormal amount of correspondence, were excluded from the
calculation, Scotland would be found to be very nearly on a level with
England.
It is a striking and gratifying fact that only a mere fraction of
the total number of letters posted fail to reach their destination.
People often grumble at the bore of letter-writing, but seldom think of
the boon they enjoy in the penny post. To write, address, and post a
letter--and this is all the sender is required to do--is a mere trifle,
compared with the labour of the Post-office in earning the 'nimble
penny,' which is affixed to the letter in the shape of the 'Queen's
Head.' Think of what has to be done for a letter posted, say, in the
suburbs of London, and addressed to some remote village in the north
of England or in Scotland. Perhaps it has been posted over-night, in
which case the letter-carrier will be busy collecting and conveying it
to the sub-district office some hours before moderately early people
are thinking of getting up. From the Sub, it will be conveyed to the
Head District Office, there to be stamped, sorted, and despatched to
St Martin's-le-Grand. Here, in company with many thousands of others
which have arrived in the same way, it will probably be manipulated
as many as half-a-dozen times, in the different processes of facing,
dividing, sorting, and so on, before it reaches the stage of being
tied up in a bundle with a hundred or more of its fellows addressed
to the same town or district, and despatched on what may probably
be only the initial stage of its journey. If a night letter, Fate
may decree that it should pass under the scrutinising glance of that
sleepless official, the travelling sorter; in which case the bag, with
its seal hardly 'set' as yet, will be ruthlessly torn open, and the
bundles dispersed to the four corners of the railway sorting tender.
Here is a miniature post-office, with pigeon-holes, bags, and bundles
innumerable; whose officials, in a desperate effort to keep ahead of
the train, wait not for the shrill whistle of the guard or the first
puff of the engine to commence their hard night's work. There are
letters, letters everywhere, and not a moment to lose. There may be a
bag to sort and drop before the train has accomplished the first dozen
miles of its journey. Our letter is amongst the heap lying ready to be
operated upon; it will be got ready by-and-by, and towards the gray of
the morning it will be dropped at some little roadside station, whither
the mail-cart driver has driven half-a-dozen miles or more to receive
it. Thence to the post-office, another half-dozen miles; and here
again the familiar process of unpacking, resorting, and re-stamping.
Our letter is not for the town at which the bag is opened, but for
one of its outlying villages; and the rural postman must be called in
before the transaction, commenced in London some ten or twelve hours
previously, can be completed. Away he goes, ere yet it is daylight, bag
on shoulder, stick in hand, thinking less, probably, of the precious
secrets of which he is the bearer, than of his return with a similar,
although probably a lighter load in the evening. His life is not
exactly one round of pleasure, but an out-and-home sort of journey, in
which there is very little real progress, and the 'lettered ease' of
which consists in the occasional Sundays on which he is relieved of his
burden. He is the final link in the chain which, in the shape of men,
horses, steam-engines, has had to be put in motion in order to deliver
our penny letter!