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VOL. XI., NO. 10. NOVEMBER 18, 1893. Subscription Price, $1.50
THE ADVENTURES OF
AN UGLY GIRL
BY
MRS. GEORGE CORBETT
Author of “When the Sea gives up its Dead,” “Adventures
of a Stowaway,” “A Sailor’s Life,” “The Child
of the Wreck,” “The Mystery of Fellsmere,” “Tom
Penn’s Derelict,” “Adventures of an Amateur Detective,”
“Secrets of a Private Enquiry Office,”
“The Missing Note,” “New Amazonia,” “Adventures
of a Lady Detective,” etc., etc.
Issued Semi-Monthly.
Entered at the Post-Office at New York as second-class matter.
PETER FENELON COLLIER, PUBLISHER, 523 W. 13TH ST., N.Y.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ADVENTURES
OF
AN UGLY GIRL
BY
MRS. GEORGE CORBETT
Author of “When the Sea gives up its Dead,” “Adventures of a
Stowaway” “A Sailor’s Life,” “The Child of the Wreck,” “The
Mystery of Fellsmere,” “Tom Penn’s Derelict,” “Adventures
of an Amateur Detective,” “Secrets of a Private Enquiry
Office,” “The Missing Note,” “New Amazonia,” “Adventures
of a Lady Detective,” etc., etc.
-------
Specially written for “Once a Week Library”
-------
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1898 by
PETER FENELON COLLIER,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE ADVENTURES OF
AN UGLY GIRL.
----------
CHAPTER I.
“As ithers see us.”—BURNS.
“COME, Dora! I shall never be ready, if you don’t make haste. They will
be here in ten minutes, and my hair is not half so nice as it ought to
be, thanks to your carelessness.”
“You are very good to ignore my own claims to attention so utterly. I
have been helping you this half-hour and have barely time enough left to
change my frock. To make my own hair presentable is impossible now.”
“Why, what does it matter how your hair is dressed, or what sort of a
gown you put on? You may just as well spare your pains, for
unfortunately nothing that you can do seems to mitigate your ugliness.
I’m sure I cannot think where you get it. You are—”
But, somehow, I did not feel inclined to wait for the end of Belle’s
encouraging lecture. Perhaps it was because I was so often treated to my
beautiful elder sister’s homilies that they had lost the spark of
novelty and had acquired a chestnuty flavor. Perhaps I failed to
recognize any generosity in her persistent efforts to nip such latent
buds of vanity as from time to time tried to thrust their poor little
heads above the chill crust of ridicule and contumely. Perhaps I was
really as bad-tempered as I was said to be. Anyhow, my behavior could
not claim to be either quiet or elegant as I stormily quitted Belle’s
room, slamming the door behind me with such violence as to elicit from
my more well-bred sister a little shriek of affected dismay. So far from
feeling sorry that I had given Belle’s nerves a shock, I wished
viciously that her fingers had been jammed in the doorway, or that
something equally disastrous had occurred to take off the edge of her
conceit and self-satisfaction. In the corridor I met my brother Jerry,
of whom I was devotedly fond. But, although he had evidently some
interesting remark to make, I did not stop to speak to him, but hurried
noisily to my own room, where I locked myself in, and threw myself on
the bed, to give way to a storm of sobs and tears.
“And all for what?” it may be asked. “Surely a spiteful remark from one
sister to another is hardly worth all this display of feeling.” Ah,
well, perhaps _one_ such remark now and then might be treated with the
cool contempt which spiteful utterances deserve. But does the reader
know what it is to be perpetually and persistently snubbed from one
year’s end to the other? Does he realize how hard it must be for a
sensitive and love-craving girl to be reminded that she is ugly and
unattractive? Not reminded once in a way either, but pretty nearly every
day of her life. Or does any one doubt how the heart must needs ache to
see all the love and flattery of friends and relations alike showered
upon a being whom you know to be empty-headed and frivolous, while
everybody seems to regard your plain exterior as sufficient reason why
you should be snubbed and neglected?
If the reader has ever had any of these experiences, he will the more
readily understand my inability to restrain my tears on the especial
occasion just mentioned. For it really was a very especial occasion, and
I had been more anxious to look well at this particular moment than I
ever remembered to have been in my life. I had hoped that Belle, just
for once in a way, would take a little interest in my personal
appearance, and that she would help me to create as good an impression
as possible upon the newcomer whose advent I had both dreaded and longed
for.
But Belle was too self-engrossed, and too firmly convinced of my
hopeless unpresentability, to give the slightest thought either to me or
to my feelings. Nay, she had even claimed so much of my time in the task
of enhancing her own beauty, that, as we have seen, I had only a few
minutes left for myself, and even this morsel of time was not utilized
by me, as things turned out.
The fact is, I was anxious and overwrought, and Belle’s unkind speeches
had multiplied all day until they had utterly broken my composure. “Can
it really be true,” I wondered in abject misery, “that nothing I can
either do or wear will help to mitigate the first feeling of repulsion
which my new mother must necessarily experience at the sight of my
ugliness?”
The question was of very vital import to me, for I longed for the advent
of at least one sympathetic woman in the house; and when I heard that my
father, now three years a widower, was about to marry again, I hoped,
with a fervor that was nearly akin to agony, that his second wife would
be the friend I so sorely needed. True, she would be my stepmother, and
she would naturally assume the direction of the household affairs, at
once placing the daughters of the house in a subordinate position. This
being the case, I believe it would have been more orthodox to have
railed against the new invasion, and to have followed the prevailing
social custom of resolving to make life miserable for the woman who had
presumed to step into my mother’s place. But I always was terribly
unorthodox in many things, and, considerably to my father’s surprise, I
expressed my enthusiastic delight at the prospect of having a stepmother
to reign over me.
He need not have been surprised, if he had ever taken the trouble to
understand me. But he was wrapped up in Belle’s charms, and never looked
at me without regretting either my ugliness or my temper, which all in
the house, except dear little Jerry, pronounced unbearable. And yet I
can truthfully say, that if I had experienced anything approaching to
just treatment, I should have been infinitely sweeter-tempered than my
much-bepraised sister, than whom none could have been more unfeeling to
the motherless girl whose heart ached for a little love. I generally did
Belle’s bidding, for she always contrived to make things unpleasant for
me if I rebelled against her authority. But to Lady Elizabeth Courtney I
felt ready to yield the most devoted service and obedience, if only she
would love me just a little in return; and I had anxiously revolved
every means of creating a favorable impression upon her. I meant to have
taken considerable pains with my toilet, and to have welcomed the
home-coming bride with radiant smiles.
And this was how my good resolves had ended. Just when—after working
hard all day to see that everything was conducive to a warm and
comfortable home-coming—I had begun to hurry through my toilet, I was
summoned to Belle’s aid, with the result that instead of giving my
stepmother a smiling welcome I was up in my own room, with a face red
and swollen with weeping, and a heart full of angry feeling, when she
arrived. Presently I heard a carriage approaching, and at the same
instant Jerry knocked vigorously at my bedroom door.
“Be quick and come down, Dorrie,” he cried, in an eager, excited voice.
“Papa and Lady Elizabeth are nearly here, and I want you to run down the
avenue with me to meet them.”
“I’m not coming,” I answered, with a sob that was audible to Jerry and
provoked him to quick wrath.
“I knew she would!” he exclaimed. “That horrid Belle’s been at her
tricks again and said something nasty. But don’t let her have the best
of you like that. Don’t you know that you promised to go with me to meet
them, and if you don’t come they won’t believe you are glad about it.”
“I can’t help it, Jerry,” was my mournful reply. “I look so hideous just
now that I could not possibly face a stranger. Run off quickly yourself.
Say that I have a headache or something of the sort, and that I shall
try to sleep it off. Run now, there’s a dear boy.”
And forthwith Jerry, whose real name, by-the-by, is Gerald Mortimer
Courtney, ran along the corridor, down the wide, shallow stairs, across
the tiled hall, and into the open air, just as the carriage containing
the newly married pair drove into the large graveled space in which the
chestnut avenue terminated. In spite of my discomfiture and
unpresentable appearance, I possessed my due share of curiosity, and
hastily jumped to my feet, crossed the room, and looked through the
window at the prancing horses and elegant equipage which bore the
newcomers. As soon as the carriage stopped, a liveried footman descended
and opened the door with a flourish. By the time he had let the steps
down, Belle and Jerry were at the carriage door, and I saw Mr. and Lady
Elizabeth Courtney get out and exchange smiles and kisses with my sister
and brother, while I, poor pariah, looked on with hungry eyes and an
aching heart, and bewailed my luck in seeming ill-natured and
inhospitable, after all my efforts to prove the contrary.
Lady Elizabeth, I must explain, had had some love passages with my
father a long time ago. But their youthful desires had been taught to
bow to the demands of fortune and position. Lady Elizabeth was the
daughter of an earl, and could aspire to more material comforts than
could have been provided for her by the penniless younger son of a
country squire. True, the earl had no money, and what little land was
still left him was mortgaged up to the hilt. But he had many friends who
possessed sufficient influence to pitchfork his four sons into
government sinecures. He had a cousin also, the Duchess of Lyndene, who
chaperoned his handsome, clever daughter through two whole seasons, and
eventually resigned her charge into the care of Samuel Chisholm,
Esquire, once upon a time a shoeblack, now the proud possessor of twenty
thousand a year, all made by the judicious advertisement of his prize
patent blacking.
Upon the whole, the earl’s daughter was supposed to have done tolerably
well for herself, and as her husband’s fortune steadily increased there
was every reason for her to feel satisfied. Even the incumbrance which
she had been compelled to take with the fortune was not especially
disagreeable to her, for Mr. Chisholm was a very clever man, whose
mental and social equipments kept pace with his fortunes, and, in spite
of his low origin and antecedents, he was as courtly and well-bred as
Lady Elizabeth’s nobly-born brothers. The pair therefore lived
harmoniously enough together, at least to outward seeming, for many
years. Then Mr. Chisholm died somewhat suddenly, and his will was read
in due course.
It was during that important ceremony that the unexpectedly bereaved
widow first felt real resentment against her late husband. For though he
had died a millionaire, he had only willed his wife a life interest of
five thousand a year, which was quite a paltry income compared with the
princely revenue she had expected to be hers. To her father a like
fortune was bequeathed, in addition to a sum of thirty thousand pounds
wherewith to redeem his impoverished estate. The widow’s brothers each
received a gift of five thousand pounds, and to the widow herself was
willed all the personal property of the deceased.
All the rest of his vast fortune was divided among a swarm of poor
relations, whose existence Lady Elizabeth had never acknowledged, but
who no doubt showered blessings on the memory of the dead man who had
thus befriended his own flesh and blood. The Earl of Greatlands, too,
declared himself delighted with his son-in-law’s generosity. But his
daughter did not hesitate to say that she had been treated shamefully,
and at once proclaimed her intention of resigning the tenancy of the
costly London establishment, which it would be a farce to attempt to
keep up on five thousand a year. She retired to a pretty place in the
country, declining to reside with her father, who, elated by his
unwonted prosperity, was actually talking of taking a young wife to
comfort his old age.
My father had, meanwhile, married my mother, whose memory I adore, for
she loved me passionately, and while she lived I was never humiliated,
as was perpetually the case after her death, which occurred some three
years before my story opens. I do not remember hearing how my father
came across Lady Elizabeth again, but I believe that their early
attachment soon reasserted itself, and though he was much the poorer of
the two, and encumbered with three children, the match was soon
arranged.
Although Lady Elizabeth had been dissatisfied with her widow’s portion
she was very much richer than we were, and her coming to Courtney Grange
was likely to be a very important event to the previous humble
inhabitants thereof. In addition to the Grange, which had been my
maternal grandfather’s property, my father had just six hundred a year,
derived partly from what his father had left him, partly from my
mother’s small fortune. Our establishment consisted of two servants, in
addition to the family. Their names were John and Martha Page. They had
never seen any other service but that of my father and grandfather, and
had lived seventeen years under the same roof before it entered their
heads to amalgamate their interests by marrying. They were quite used to
the constant scraping and economizing which we were compelled to
practice, and did not look upon the arrival of a new mistress as an
unmixed blessing, even though she was bringing a good income with her.
As for Belle, she was quite wild with delight at the gorgeous prospect
which opened itself before her mental vision. London seasons,
presentations at court, halcyon days of brilliant pleasure, and a swarm
of dukes and earls sighing for the honor of her hand. These were some of
the glowing visions in which she indulged.
“And I mean to get into Lady Elizabeth’s good graces, whether I like her
or not,” she informed me. “She can do so much for me if _she_ likes, and
I can be amiability itself when _I_ like. Besides, my looks will win her
over at once. She will soon see what credit I can do to pretty gowns. As
for you, you’ll be lucky if she tolerates you at all. I’m sure it’s a
shame that our family’s reputation for beauty should suffer as it does
through you.” And so on, _ad libitum_.
Of course, I was not surprised to see her warm, gushing welcome of my
father and his wife, nor to note the glance of surprised admiration
which the latter cast upon Belle and Gerald, for they were really both
very beautiful, and both tall and well-grown, with lovely golden hair,
rich deep blue eyes, and an exquisite complexion, united to perfect
features.
Lady Elizabeth, too, I was sorry to see, was a tall, handsome woman, who
by no means looked her forty years. When I say that I was sorry to
observe this, it must not be imagined that I grudged her her good looks.
But I had had a vague notion that if she were comparatively plain she
would the more easily sympathize with my troubles, into which no one in
the house except Jerry seemed able to enter. Now my hopes in that
direction were upset, and I already knew instinctively that my own
absence was being commented upon. I saw my father, the very picture of
masculine comeliness, glance up at my window with an angry frown, and I
knew almost as well as if I had been present what Belle and Jerry were
saying about me.
After all, I thought, I had been very foolish to let Belle’s ill-nature
and my own ill-temper spoil my resolve to make Lady Elizabeth’s
home-coming as pleasant as possible. Apart from looks, my remaining
upstairs would have already made me lose ground with my stepmother. Was
it too late, I wondered, to rectify my error, and make my appearance
before dinner was served? Answering the question in the negative, I
resolved to complete my toilet as quickly as possible, and get over the
ordeal of the first meeting without further loss of time.
So I began operations at once, wondering, while I brushed my hair, how
it was that I was so different to Jerry and Belle. I pulled faces at my
own ugly reflection in the glass, but as that only seemed to make
matters worse, I desisted. But I could not banish the discontent which
enhanced my ugliness, and made it almost perfect in its own way. Why was
I so short and dumpy? I asked myself vainly. And why was my hair so
black, and lank, and scanty? And how was it that my complexion was more
like Thames mud than anything else? And why was my face covered with
freckles? These freckles I always felt to be an especial aggravation of
nature; for whoever heard of freckles on a dark, sallow skin? And then,
how did it happen that my eyes were of a pale watery-brown hue, while I
had hardly got either eyelashes or eyebrows that were visible? And why,
oh, why! had my nose got that exasperating habit of looking skyward?
Even as I asked these questions of myself, I felt how hopeless it was to
attempt to answer them. So I abandoned them and tried to console myself
with the reflection that my mouth was well-shaped and that I had
splendid teeth. But then my great red hands obtruded themselves upon my
notice, and blotted out all consciousness of my redeeming features. I
took considerable pains with my hair, and put on my best dress. Alas!
the latter was of a curious brown shade which somehow only seemed to
enhance my ugliness. Belle was dressed in a dainty pink cambric; but I
was never allowed such a luxury, as it was considered that I was too
untidy, and too plain, and altogether too unsuitable to indulge in
pretty things. Besides, we had to be economical, and as I could never
hope to captivate a lover, no matter how I was dressed, it would have
been a shame to waste money upon my futile adornment. So Belle argued,
and I had hitherto had no choice but to bow to her arguments.
I was at last ready to go downstairs, when once more Jerry came to look
me up.
“Oh, you’re donned up, are you?” he remarked. “And, upon my word, you’re
looking quite spry.”
But I was not to be soothed by such negative flattery as this, and
sternly asked Jerry what he meant by “looking quite spry.”
“Why, spry, you know, spry means—at least, I mean—that you look as if
you were going to a prayer meeting; that is, you look so prim, and tidy,
and straight. But, Dorrie, dear, I like you far better as you were this
morning, and as you generally are. You look real jolly then.”
Saying this, Jerry kissed me warmly, and I forthwith resigned myself to
the hopelessness of attempting to improve my appearance. This morning I
had worn an old lilac print that had originally been made for Belle. It
was faded with much washing, and possessed sundry little adornments in
the way of frayed edges and sleeves out at elbows. Truly, Belle had been
right, after all, and it was sheer folly on my part to rebel against
fate, since neither coaxing nor rebelling seemed to propitiate her.
Seeing, therefore, how stern and uncompromising she was with me, I
resolved to take less notice of her in future, and had no sooner made
the resolve than I began to feel peaceful and self-possessed. What if
the gift of beauty was denied me, had I not many other blessings to be
thankful for? In all my seventeen years of life I had never had anything
but the most robust health, and if my school record was anything to go
by, I possessed a much more valuable property in the way of brains than
Belle did. These should outweigh my physical defects, and prove my
passport to the world’s good graces.
I dare say Jerry was rather surprised to see me suddenly straighten
myself up, and assume a much more cheerful expression.
“What is Lady Elizabeth like?” I asked.
“Looks?”
“No, ways.”
“Well, I take her to be rather a brick, do you know. She was as pleasant
and as much at home with Belle and me as if she had lived here all her
life and had just been off for a holiday. She thinks we are just like
pa, and that is high praise, I should fancy.”
“Very high praise, Jerry. I wonder what she’ll say about me. But it
doesn’t matter. Is dinner nearly served?”
“Yes; but John was grumbling because you hadn’t helped to see that the
table was all right, as you had promised to do.”
“Oh! Poor John. It was a shame of me to forget all about him. I’ll hurry
down now and see what I can do. Come on, Jerry.”
A minute later we were both skipping nimbly downstairs, and while Jerry,
at my earnest request, ran round to the stable to see how my
bull-terrier, Bobby, was progressing, I ran into the kitchen to make my
peace with John and Martha. As Martha was somewhat sulky, and protested
that they had managed very well without me, I made my way to the
dining-room, and began swiftly to re-arrange the flowers which I had
culled for the table earlier in the day. John looked rather scandalized,
and remarked that he thought he knew how to arrange a table as well as
most folks. But I did not heed John’s grumbling much, for it was his
chronic condition, and I had just completed my little task to my own
satisfaction when John rang the second dinner-bell, the first not having
been noticed by me.
Just then Jerry came back.
“Bobby will be all right in a day,” he said, whereat I expressed my
satisfaction, for I had been greatly troubled when poor Bobby had come
limping home with every sign of war about him.
“And, oh!” I said, with sudden remembrance, “what has been done with the
wonderful carriage and pair, and those gorgeous servants?”
“They went straight home. They belong to the earl. He sent them to meet
Lady Elizabeth at the station. Her own carriages are coming after she
has seen what arrangements it will be best to make here. I fancy she
doesn’t like the place very much.”
“Not like the Grange?” I exclaimed indignantly. “Why, she must be a
veritable heathen—”
“Dora, I regret that you should think fit to behave so badly, but must
demand a little of your attention, while I introduce you to the notice
of Lady Elizabeth Courtney.”
Was ever luck like mine? Here had I quite lost sight of the fact that my
father and his wife might enter the room at any time, and they had
actually overheard me speak in tones of contempt of the one woman on
earth whom I wished to propitiate! I turned hurriedly round, and saw my
father, looking very irate, Lady Elizabeth, looking coldly critical, and
Belle, looking ill-naturedly triumphant.
“I beg your pardon, papa. I did not mean it,” I stammered.
“No, I do not suppose you did mean us to overhear you,” he replied
sternly. “But I have no doubt that you had resolved to be intensely
disagreeable, and I tell you plainly that I will not have it. You see,
my love,” he said, turning to his wife, “you will have a little temper
and self-will to deal with, but I am sure you will know how to compel it
to keep within due bounds.”
What could I do or say after that? Nothing, of course, and I sat
miserably through the whole meal, while all but Jerry laughed and talked
as if quite unconscious of my presence. I would fain have escaped to my
own room when the dinner was over. But my father had taken it into his
head that I merely wanted to be obstinate and disagreeable, and
suggested that I should spend an hour in the drawing-room. I accordingly
took refuge at the piano. But my music was so melancholy that I am not
surprised that I was asked to desist, for, when you come to think of it,
“Killigrew’s Lament,” and “The Dead March in Saul,” haven’t a very
bridal sound about them.
So far Lady Elizabeth had not spoken directly to me, and whenever my
eyes wandered in her direction, I could see that her glance was very
critical, but I could not be sure that it was quite so disapproving as I
had expected. Yet, although I neither spoke, nor was spoken to, there
was no constraint between the others, for my father and Lady Courtney
were both good conversationalists, and Belle could chatter by the hour,
provided the talk was kept at a suitably frivolous level. Jerry, after
being petted and praised a little, had been sent to bed primed with a
quartet of kisses, and jubilant in the possession of a bright sovereign
which papa had given to him in honor of the advent of a new mistress at
Courtney Grange.
“Belle, dear, suppose you play us one of your pretty pieces,” said my
father. Whereupon I vacated the music-stool, and took refuge near the
big oriel window which overlooked the orchard, and which was my especial
delight. For it was like a small room in itself, and I did not feel
quite so lost among its cozy, faded draperies as I did in any other part
of our drawing-room, which always seemed to me to be much too large for
the furniture that was in it. Belle, after a great deal of fidgeting and
looking round at herself, to make sure that her dress was falling in
graceful folds, struck a few chords on what had been a very fine piano
in its day, but which even I, who was partial to all that had belonged
to my mother, was compelled to admit was getting out of date.
“I really don’t like to let you hear me for the first time on an old
instrument like this, Lady Elizabeth,” said Belle. “If my music strikes
you disagreeably, pray make all due allowance for the difficulties under
which I labor.”
“Pray don’t apologize, my dear,” answered Lady Elizabeth. “I know how to
separate the faults of the instrument from those of the player, and the
quality of the piano need not trouble you long, as in all probability a
grand of my own will be here in a day or two.”
“How delightful!” exclaimed Belle, and then she proceeded to give us a
specimen of the skill which, times without number, I had been advised to
emulate. She played “The Rippling Cascade” in a style that was faultless
as regards time and precision, following it up with “The Musical Box.”
But her playing was utterly devoid of expression. Pathos, tenderness,
power, fire, were all unknown musical quantities to her, as they are,
alas! to numbers of other conventional players; and whether it was
“Home, Sweet Home,” or “The Soldier’s Chorus,” each and everything was
played with the same clock-work insensibility to all the laws of
expression. I watched Lady Elizabeth narrowly, as she listened to
Belle’s efforts in the musical line, and (shall I own it?) I was
maliciously glad to notice a distinctly bored expression steal across
her features. There was one thing in which I could excel my usually
all-conquering sister, of which the lady whom we both desired to please
was evidently a judge, and I could not help rejoicing in the fact that I
was not quite weaponless in the fight for favor, though I had certainly
done anything but shine so far.
“What do you think of Belle’s performance?” asked my father, either
forgetful of my presence, or not caring whether I overheard the
conversation or not. Lady Elizabeth’s reply, though given in a low tone,
and under cover of the music, reached my ears quite distinctly.
“She is just a trifle disappointing there, Gerald. I should imagine your
younger daughter, Dora, to be much the better artist of the two. She
seems to be a trifle wild and ungovernable, but would, I think, be
amenable to reason, with judicious handling.”
“My dear Elizabeth, you don’t know her yet. Wait until you have seen
more of her, and then you will agree with me that she is more than
trying. Indeed, she is positively exasperating at times. Belle always
has some complaint to make of her, and I am not surprised that this
should be so, for it is a matter of impossibility to make her either
look or act like a lady. No one would dream that she was a Courtney.”
Often and often I had felt my heart ache at the neglect and carelessness
with which my father had always treated me, and I had grieved bitterly
at the lack of outward comeliness which seemed to be the passport to his
affection. But that he was actually so devoid of parental feeling as to
show himself positively antipathetic to me had never occurred to me.
Now, as I heard him saying things which must make me almost hateful in
Lady Elizabeth’s eyes, I felt myself harden toward him, and the love
which I had hitherto cherished for him fell from me like a worn-out
mantle. What! oh, what had I ever done that he should do that which
presumably only my bitterest enemy would do to me? Why should he try to
prejudice me in the eyes of his wife? Had he no remembrance of the
mother who loved me with a love equal to that which she bore for himself
and his happier children? Was he quite forgetful of all the little
efforts I had always made to increase his comfort? Did he really regard
me as quite removed from the sphere of a lady, because I had worked
hard, and made my hands red and unsightly, ever since I had realized how
difficult it was for Martha and John to manage our big house efficiently
without assistance? I, in my blindness, had hoped that he would commend
me for my industrious habits, and it was a bitter awakening to discover
that he only rated me on a par with, perhaps, a scullery maid.
I could feel my eyes begin to gain the fire they usually lacked, and the
hot blood suffused my cheeks as I sat trembling with anger, and fighting
madly to prevent myself from uttering the reproaches that forced
themselves to my lips. It would be well, I thought, to keep quiet until
the end of the play, and hear the verdict which Lady Elizabeth would
pronounce upon me. I therefore listened for her answer with tightly
clasped hands and motionless form, but with my attention strained to the
utmost, Belle having meanwhile reached the most flourishy part of
“Household Harmonies.”
“Do you think it quite fair to the child,” said my stepmother, “to give
implicit credence to what one sister says to the detriment of the other,
without giving the latter a chance to defend herself? Do not imagine for
a moment I have a thought of reproaching you. But I cannot help
contrasting the love and admiration you so openly display for Belle with
the coldness and actual displeasure with which you look at Dora. May not
this have much to do with the girl’s presumably bad temper and _gauché_
manners? You see, I want to make the best of all belonging to you,
Gerald, and I am inclined to think that there is more in your younger
daughter than you have given her credit for.”
“I should be only too glad to discover a single good quality in Dora,”
replied my affectionate father. “But I repeat that she is really
hopeless, and assure you, for your own future guidance, that her
disposition is on a par with her looks, than which nothing could very
well be more disappointing, considering the fact that she is the
offspring of a house which for generations has been famous for its
beauty.”
“But a beautiful body does not invariably hold a beautiful mind, and of
course the obverse rule holds good. The fact is, I am not sure that I
have not taken a fancy to Dora. I have an idea that she is a girl of
great possibilities, under judicious management. Certainly, appearances
are against her at present, but appearances are but very circumstantial
evidence at best.”
“And how do you get over her rudeness to you on your arrival?”
“You mean her failure to meet me at the door?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I rather fancy that if I had been in her place I should have done
the same. It is bad enough to be such a contrast in looks to her
handsome sister, without having her plainness accentuated and aggravated
by the most unbecoming attire that could possibly have been procured for
her. Belle is beautifully dressed, and Dora’s frock is simply hideous.
Her hair, too, is plastered down in as ugly a fashion as possible. I
mean to alter all that, and the result will astonish you, I am sure.”
By this time Belle had noticed that she had an unappreciative audience,
and was closing the piano, contriving to display, as she did so, a
certain amount of well-bred annoyance, as I knew instinctively without
looking at her, so well was I used to her little ways. Lady Elizabeth
smiled pleasantly and said, “Thank you, my dear.” My father,
considerably to Belle’s own wonderment, appeared quite oblivious of her
beautiful presence, a thing she had never had to complain of before. He
looked like a man suddenly confronted with a new and mysterious riddle,
and as if he were not sure whether he ought not to doubt the sanity of
any one who could deliberately say anything in favor of me. True, old
Martha and her husband were sometimes quite ungrudging of their
commendation, after I had been specially useful to them. But they were
only servants, and it was perhaps natural that they should judge things
in a different way to more educated people.
As for me, I sat like one in ecstasy, for I had at last found some one
who was not only willing, but actually determined to see that I was
treated in a manner equal to the other daughter of the house, and not
relegated to the position of a menial. My father had evidently forgotten
that I was in the room. Lady Elizabeth thought I had left it, as was
evidenced by her parting words to Belle, as the latter was going up to
her own bedroom.
“Good-night, Belle,” she said. “To-morrow we will have a talk about what
we will do together in future, eh? And tell your sister that I hope she
will be well enough to go on an exploring expedition with me. I’m sure
she has a pretty garden and other interesting things of her own to show
me. She looks like a real lover of nature.”
Had my heart not been so full of conflicting emotion I could have
laughed at Belle’s stare of surprise. But laughter would have been
horrible to me just then, and would have seemed a desecration of the
purer sounds that rose to my lips.
Does the reader know how it feels to be in a state of joy so exquisite
that it is difficult to restrain the voice from shrieking aloud and the
limbs from dancing in wild abandonment? Even so did I feel when I rose
from my chair as Belle left the room. But my excitement ran into the
channels of gratitude and love, and I soon found myself kneeling at Lady
Elizabeth’s feet, sobs shaking my frame, tears streaming down my cheeks,
and broken words of feeling issuing from my lips.
“Dear, dear lady!” I cried. “Oh, how I bless you for your kind words!
You don’t know how I have hungered for love! You don’t know what a grief
it was to me to seem rude to you. You don’t know how grateful I can be.
I will do anything for you. I will work my fingers to the bone, if you
wish it. I will lay my life down for you, if you will only give me just
a little corner of your heart, just a little of the sympathy for which
my heart has been aching.”
“My dear child,” said my stepmother, as she clasped me warmly to her
breast, while genuine tears of sympathy actually rolled down her cheeks.
“My poor Dora! of course I mean to love you. And I want you to remember
that I am your mother, to whom you must come in all your troubles.”
Then, with an affectionate kiss, she released me, and I fled to my
bedroom, sobbing still with excitement, but proud, happy and exultant,
as I had never been in my life.
“She is an angel!” I thought, rapturously. “Oh! how happy we shall be
now!”
Alas, poor mortal! it is well for thee that the portals of the future
are impervious to thy gaze, and that it is forbidden thee to know how
small is perhaps thy destined share of happiness, the true elixir of
life.
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