A VISIT TO LONDON
A FEW days after Hope had gone to "The Retreat," Avice Parr called upon
her.
Hope received her in the drawing-room—a room shrouded in holland
coverings, and seldom used.
"I have come," Avice said hesitatingly, "because my father thought I
ought. I have not seen you since we heard about Kitty. I could hardly
believe it, but as it has come to nothing, perhaps I ought not to
mention it."
"Oh, please do," said Hope. "I want to know your feelings about it. I
am so very fond of Kitty, you know."
"Kitty is a careless child still," said Avice, in a tone of severity.
"I can't think how your brother could have filled her head with such
nonsense."
"He doesn't think it nonsense. I own it was premature, but he was going
away, and I suppose for once the impulse of the moment overcame his
caution."
"And here is Kitty fastening up her hair and lengthening her skirts,
and talking as if she were really going to marry him. I think if you
had known how things were going, you ought to have stopped it. We did
think she was safe with you."
"But," said Hope, feeling taken aback by Avice's calm disapproval, "I
hadn't an idea how things were going. Brian is such a quiet reserved
boy. He never took me into his confidence. And I don't think the
experience will do Kitty harm. She has no silliness about her, as many
girls have. You have lamented over her carelessness and heedlessness. I
expect you will find this will make her more serious and thoughtful."
"It is all ridiculous!"
Avice seemed so perturbed that her usual politeness forsook her.
Hope could not sympathise with her. She knew how much of Avice's
unfulfilled duties Kitty continually undertook, and that in many ways
she had more practical common-sense than her elder sister. She wondered
if a little jealousy had crept into Avice's heart.
"Well," Hope said pleasantly, "they are not properly engaged, we won't
think any more about it. Perhaps it will come to nothing. I am sorry it
has vexed you so, but I have had nothing to do with it."
With an effort Avice tried to talk of other matters. She began telling
Hope of a young factory-girl whom she had dissuaded from marrying, and
was evidently elated at her success.
"She is only seventeen, and he is twenty. It is dreadful to see them
rushing into married life with so little money to keep a home together."
"Yes," assented Hope, "but sometimes marriage is better for them; it
saves worse troubles, and very often steadies a young fellow."
And then, after a little more desultory talk, Avice departed, and Hope
said to herself after she had left:
"I know why I do not like her—she is never interested in me, so my
dislike is a purely selfish one. She never asked me a question about
myself, whether I was comfortable here, or how I liked it. She is only
interested in her special 'protégées,' and I am not one of them. And
yet she is really good."
Hope had no other visitors except Kitty, who ran in to see her very
often; but Mr. Spencer did not care for her entertaining any one. His
attitude towards her grew daily more exacting and capricious, and Hope
began to find that she had very little time to herself. Mrs. Hadley
preserved a sullen silence, and in many little ways which were in her
power, she made Hope extremely uncomfortable. If it had not been for
her Indian letter, which came to her regularly once a week, Hope would
have been very unhappy. As it was, she tried to live in the future; and
in writing to Lancelot she said nothing of her discomforts, so that he
was unaware of her exact position.
One day, in talking to Mr. Spencer, she happened to mention her coming
marriage.
He looked up, quite vexed.
"Pshaw! Don't talk to me of your marriage! Girls don't know when they
are well off. If you stay with me, and continue to please me, I can
promise you at my death a nice little fortune. I have no kith or kin,
and I can leave my money to whom I will. You will be an independent
woman then, and will be thankful you took my advice. Marriage is very
well for some, but it would be a mistake for you. You would expect too
much from your husband, and then when disillusion came, your life would
be spoilt. Stay with me, and you will not regret it."
"But," said Hope, "I thought I made you understand that this is only a
temporary arrangement. I am very grateful to you for the interest you
take in me, but I might hear by any mail from Mr. Dane or his mother
that they would like me to go out to them. If Mrs. Dane comes back in
June, I shall most likely go to her. I believe she will want me to do
so. It is very good of you to have me at all, but I cannot stay with
you long."
"Then why did you come to me at all?"
Mr. Spencer's eyes blazed, and he fell into a towering passion. "Do you
think I took the trouble to alter my household for a passing visitor?
Do you think I put up with Mrs. Hadley's insolence when she heard of
your coming, and actually was forced to increase her wages—do you think
I did this to have you come in and turn my house upside down, and then
leave me in a few months' time?"
"Oh, why do we talk of the future?" said Hope. "I am sorry I mentioned
my plans. It is all uncertain. I may be able to stay with you a year,
should you wish it. I can't tell. I had no idea I had made such
difficulties; perhaps I had better leave you at once?"
The old Squire's temper passed as quickly as it had come.
"No, no, we will say no more. You wouldn't have the heart to leave me.
I am a miserable old man, I never see a soul; I have almost lost the
art of conversation. Forget what I have said, and stay on with me.
Those Danes do not need you as I do."
Hope thought it best to say no more. She tried to make the most of her
surroundings, and succeeded in bringing both cleanliness and brightness
into the old house.
She endeavoured to make Mr. Spencer take an interest in his
tenants, and would come back after one of her rambles, describing
the dilapidated state of some of the farms, and the anxiety of the
hard-working tenants themselves that something should be done; but he
would only shake his head impatiently.
"I know what I can afford, and what I can't. They will never be
satisfied. The more I do for them, the more they want."
One morning she went to him in his study, and found him deep in a
letter that he had received. Hope was feeling a little depressed that
morning. For two weeks now she had received no letter from India, and
the one she was expecting from Lancelot would be that in reply to hers,
telling him of her father's death. She began to wonder whether the bad
climate of his district was affecting him, or whether he had by any
chance missed receiving her letter. She knew that when he heard her
news, he would write to her at once. It was not like him to miss the
mail at such a time.
As a rule she breakfasted alone. Since Mr. Spencer had broken his leg,
he did not leave his room till eleven o'clock, and Hope was glad to
have the first few hours in the morning to herself. She dusted the
rooms, arranged flowers, and did many little household duties that were
necessary.
Now as she entered his room, she saw that he was disturbed in mind.
"Come here," he said nervously; "shut the door and sit down, and listen
to this. All these years we have never corresponded; why should she
find me out now, and what does she want?"
He then proceeded to read his letter out.
"'DEAR ALAN,—I wonder if you have ever troubled to find out whether
I am dead or alive! In the accounts of the floods in your part a
short time ago, I saw mention of your name—I will not say that I had
forgotten your existence, but it revived the memories of past years. I
am alone in the world like you. My husband died five years ago. Would
you like me to pay you a visit? I am living in London now, and could
come down and see you any day.
"'Your affectionate sister
"'ELLEN.'"
"Oh," remarked Hope, "I think that very nice. Are you not glad to hear
from her?"
"Ellen was the youngest of us," said Mr. Spencer slowly and cautiously.
"She married a man in the navy—Harper was his name. Those service men
are always badly off unless they have private means, and Ellen was a
regular spendthrift. Most likely she has run heavily into debt since
she was a widow—perhaps she is going to be sold up—she wouldn't write
to me without a purpose, and she is too clever to hint that it is my
money she is after!"
Speeches like this always jarred on Hope.
"She is your sister. Why do you not take her letter as it reads? I have
always thought you ought to find your sister, and now she asks you to
let her come and see you. I don't see how you can refuse her."
"There is nothing easier than a refusal," said Mr. Spencer promptly.
"If I thought she might be of any service to me, I—I think I might ask
her from Saturday to Monday. But a woman's tongue can be a great trial,
and Ellen never minced her words."
"If she is badly off, you could give her a home," said Hope decidedly.
"That is just what I should never do. What would her pension be, I
wonder? She could not be penniless."
"What was her husband?"
"A captain. He retired as that. Now will you kindly sit still, and let
me think out a plan in my head. Ellen is a very obstinate woman. She
may come down upon me without any invitation on my part."
Silence fell upon them. Hope despaired of making Mr. Spencer take an
unselfish interest in others. At last he looked up with a gleam of
humour in his eye.
"I am going to appoint you a part to play in this little drama. I will
pay your return fare to London if you will go up quietly and find out
exactly where my sister is living, and what her sentiments are about
me. Find out if she is in a house of her own, or in lodgings, or in a
boardinghouse. You have plenty of friends in town. Can you not stay
with them for a few days?"
Hope was too astonished to speak for a moment.
"I could not act as a spy," she said, a little indignantly. "And as to
my friends—I have lost sight of them all for the past year. I—I—am not
in a position now to go visiting."
Poor Hope thought of her scanty wardrobe, and realised with a little
bitterness that none of her aunt's old friends would care to receive
a shabbily dressed, penniless girl into their fashionable homes. Only
Hester Chesney and Lady May Fosberry had stood by her through her
adversity, and neither of them was in town. Jim Horrocks was, but he
lived as a bachelor in chambers; and there was no one else to whom she
could turn. After some further talk, thinking that she might be the
means of uniting brother and sister together again, she assented to Mr.
Spencer's proposal.
"But," she stipulated, "if I go, I go in a straightforward way. I shall
call upon Mrs. Harper, and tell her about you. I shall not betray you.
I will not let her know of your unworthy suspicions. I shall be careful
not to commit you. That is all I can promise."
Mr. Spencer was beginning to have a respectful regard for Hope's good
taste and judgment. He was full of excitement, and launched into a long
dissertation on the follies of blood ties and family sentiments, but
concluded with saying that he would like her to go the very next day.
"And don't tell the Hadleys where you are going," he added. "It is none
of their business. They don't know that I have a sister."
"I was thinking," said Hope thoughtfully, "that I might go to Miss
Rill's lodgings. When last I heard from her, she said she had found
some nice rooms, and not expensive ones. It would be cheaper than a
hotel."
"Yes, certainly. Hotels are ruinous."
Hope was enough of a girl to enjoy this little trip to town. Her life
was grey and monotonous; she welcomed any change that brought a break
into her life.
The next morning she started early. It was a bright frosty day, and
though it was three miles to the station, she thoroughly enjoyed every
step of the walk. A small boy from a neighbouring farm carried her
bag, and being always fond of boys, Hope began to chat with him. He
presently, to her great amusement, asked:
"Be you sent away, miss? 'Ave you lost your place?"
"No," she said laughing; "why do you ask such a question?"
"Mother says that Missus Hadley says it'll have to be her or you to
leave t'old Squire, and her thinks as 'ow it'll be you, please, miss!"
"Mrs. Hadley talks a great deal of nonsense!"
Hope's tone was lofty, but she was vexed that the village gossip should
touch on her position, and she relapsed into silence for the rest of
the way.
Her journey to town only took three hours. When she arrived at
Paddington Station, she found herself in a thick yellow fog. But Hope
was thoroughly at home in London; she took an omnibus to the address
Miss Rill had given her, and though she had to find the quiet little
street quite a distance from where the omnibus put her down, she lost
no time in arriving there.
A respectable-looking woman opened the door.
"A friend of Miss Rill's, do you say, ma'am? Well, to be sure! 'Tis a
pity you didn't come two weeks further back, for she's left me without
a word as to where she were a-fixing herself, and me a good friend to
her, believe me, ma'am. And there's a letter been a-waitin' her these
ten days or more, and one I giv' back to the postman four days ago. No,
I ain't the least notion where she is! Fact is—but will you come in and
take a seat?"
Hope obeyed, and in a dingy back sitting-room heard a sad account of
poor Miss Rill.
"She were hard up, poor thing, and if it 'adn't been that I'm a
hard-working widow woman myself with four children to eddicate,
and feed and clothe, all under twelve years, and a young man—a
medical—a-wantin' the room, and I havin' waited two weeks for her rent,
and then not 'aving the heart to take it, and seein' her go starving,
why, I won't say as I mightn't have let things run on, but she says to
me herself very quiet like:
"'Mrs. Edgar,' she says, 'I must find cheaper rooms in a cheaper
locality, and not having received as much as I expected this quarter,
will you kindly accept the gift of my books till I can settle up
properly,' which offer I took, seein' there were no better forthcoming.
"You see, ma'am, the poor lady had a book craze, and the books she
brought 'ome every blessed day were really enough to fill a cellar! She
'ad a craze for book-shops, an' yet she would never say why, for I'm
certain sure she never read the books.
"She says to me one day, 'Mrs. Edgar,' she says, 'I mean to visit every
book-shop in London, but,' she says, 'it takes a lot of money, Mrs.
Edgar,' she says, and with that the poor lady gives a big sigh. 'I
walk,' she says to me, 'all I can, but I wear out so many boots; and
the 'bus does take so many pennies!'
"'Then why,' says I to her, 'don't you give of it up, ma'am?'
"'Ah!' she says, with a shake of her head, 'I came to London to do it!'
"And I'll make bold enough to say, ma'am, that she'll bring herself to
the workhouse, if she goes on with it much longer."
Hope felt puzzled and perplexed.
Then she asked Mrs. Edgar if she could give her a bedroom for the night.
"I will, ma'am; I know a lady when I see one; and though it is only a
top front room, I think it will suit you, and for a trifle extry you
can have meals served in this very room we're in, being my own parlour,
which I keeps to myself."
So Hope conveyed her bag up two flights of steep stairs, and found the
room comfortable and fairly clean, for London. Then Mrs. Edgar showed
her Miss Rill's former rooms, and in the corner, stacked up against
the wall, was a goodly array of books. Hope looked at these curiously.
She wondered if it was a system of self-education, but the variety and
uselessness of many of them convinced her of the contrary.
There were children's toy-books, diaries, textbooks upon every
conceivable subject, from the management of racing-stables to babies
and mushroom-growing, novels in French and English, histories, books on
architecture, geology, and political economy.
As Hope looked at them, she wondered if Miss Rill's experience of
London life was turning her brain. And she determined to do her utmost
to trace her whereabouts before she returned to Mr. Spencer.
As soon as she had settled with Mrs. Edgar about her room, she went out
again, and half an hour after was knocking at the door of 1, Radford
Square, the address given by Mr. Spencer's sister.