AUNT ARABELLA
Mrs. Arabella Jenkins (née Travers), a stout little widow of
sixty-four, occupied a large and lugubrious mansion in Queen's
Gate, S.W. She was also the mistress of five thousand a year, eight
servants--not including a permanent "char"--and one dog. Her mother,
a pretty Scotch girl, had been of "no family," according to various
disappointed dowagers--"just someone Charles Travers had picked up
when shooting on a moor, and by no means a suitable châtelaine for
Lambourne."
However, the poor despised lady reigned but a few short years, and
was succeeded, after a heartless interval, by a dashing damsel of
undeniable birth,--the mother of Laurence Travers, and his two
brothers,--who ably assisted her reckless husband to squander the
remains of a famous estate.
At nineteen, Arabella Travers was a beauty of the Dresden china type: a
fair, fluffy little creature, with sunny hair and an exquisite pink and
white complexion. Possibly she was shrewd enough to foresee how family
affairs were drifting, for at the age of one and twenty, she accepted a
rich elderly suitor from the City, and exchanged a cheery country life
for a somewhat gloomy establishment in town.
There had never been much in common between Arabella, her smart
stepmother, and riotous, high-spirited brothers. The Travers boys
laughed at, and mimicked old Sammy Jenkins, and old Sam openly abused
their mad folly, and extravagance, and rarely invited them under his
roof.
However, he made Arabella an adoring and indulgent husband, spoiled and
petted her most injudiciously, and permitted her to believe, that there
was no one in the whole world as important or as beautiful as herself!
Having entirely uprooted all that was best in her character, he died,
leaving his widow every shilling he possessed,--to the wrathful
indignation of his anticipating kindred.
A long impending crash promptly followed the death of Charles Travers.
The estate was sold for the benefit of creditors, Mrs. Travers retired
to Bournemouth, and there died within a year. Her three sons scattered
over the world; one went to India, another to Australia, a third
to South Africa. In a short time, the family were extinct, all but
prosperous Arabella, and handsome Laurence,--who, having made a fair
start in coffee, returned home for a few months' holiday.
As he was a most presentable relative, his stepsister saw a good deal
of him, proudly exhibited him at tea-parties, and dinners, and exerted
herself to find him a suitable--that is to say--a well-dowered wife. In
one direction, she had even made overtures on his behalf, but before
her plans had time to materialize, Laurence returned to the East, and
married a wretched, penniless little governess! If he had been guided
by his wise relative, he could have married a rich, rather plain young
woman, who had been greatly attracted by his personality, and have
enjoyed the easy life of a country gentleman, and revived something of
the Travers prestige; instead of which, there he was, grilling out in
India, grubbing away at a coffee estate.
Figuratively his sister washed her little fat hands of him; there had
been a brief interchange of disagreeable letters--such as appear to be
the copyright of near relatives--subsequently succeeded by a death-like
silence.
Mrs. Jenkins ceased to trouble herself further with respect to her
brother--"impossible," she declared, "to help those who refused to
help themselves"--but vague scraps of information had reached her
indirectly. She heard of the birth of a child, the death of his wife,
and his financial collapse.
Sunken in selfishness, and egoism, Arabella Jenkins had almost
forgotten her brother Laurence, when a twenty years' silence was
broken; a letter written by an unsteady hand, announced his impending
departure from this world, and appealed to a childless woman to give
his little girl a home. Later, she had seen the announcement of
his death in the _Times_.--It had been duly advertised by the ever
thoughtful Mrs. Ffinch.
So Laurence was gone--and only forty-seven!--and now there was his
orphan. What was she to do about her? As dear Mrs. Taylor truly said,
"at her time of life, and in her state of health, it was monstrous to
suppose, that she should be saddled with an encumbrance." Of course
she must receive the girl for a few weeks, and possibly some of her
many friends, such as Lady Constance Howler, or Mrs. Fitzallen Jones,
might find her a situation. As for being permanently troubled with this
responsibility, the idea was simply too utterly ridiculous.
The early beauty of Arabella Travers had not lasted--save in the lady's
own opinion. Bright hair and a rose-leaf skin, belong to the days of
one's youth. Mrs. Jenkins was now a stout, short-necked, squat little
body, with a pair of arrogant blue eyes, and an assertive nose. Happy
in the delusion that she did not look a day over thirty, she dressed
the age at great expense, and in the most villainous taste.
Her house was warm, dark, and stuffy; very thick red carpets led the
way from hall to drawing-room. Here again was a red carpet, heavy
crimson curtains, and solid furniture of the most debased Victorian
type, of which the crowning atrocity was a large distorted ottoman
in the middle of the room. The walls were covered with chromes, and
mirrors in ponderous frames: a life-sized portrait of the mistress
of the house hung opposite the fireplace, and seemed determined to
challenge attention; it had been painted more than thirty years
previously, and portrayed a slim young lady, with rosy cheeks,
snow-white neck and arms,--and a voluminous blue dress. On her satin
lap reposed a small King Charles,--which same animal, beautifully
stuffed, and sheltered in a glass case, confronted visitors on the
first landing, and struck terror into the hearts of his own species.
The portrait, the ottoman, and a grand piano, were the chief features
of the apartment, which also contained a good many "occasional" chairs,
and tables, various gaudy cushions, and lamp-shades (the spoils of
bazaars), and a large collection of small rubbish. Mrs. Jenkins was not
what is called "house-proud," and had made no alterations in what had
been her bridal home,--merely contributing the cheap little souvenirs
she had picked up on the Continent; such as Swiss carvings, Italian
delf, marble letter-weights, and paper fans. Her interest was mainly
centred in herself,--and the condition of her health; fortunately she
was as strong as the proverbial horse, and endowed with a hardy Scotch
constitution, otherwise she must have succumbed to the extraordinary
variety of medicines she sampled, and the different "cures" she
underwent. The lady took too little exercise, and too much nourishment.
Even when she was supposed to be completely prostrate, heavily laden
trays were welcomed by an astonishing appetite, which disposed of their
dishes with healthy voracity, and provoked much ribald jeering among
her retinue below stairs. The assimilating of prescriptions in the
shape of drops or tabloids, were with Mrs. Jenkins, a confirmed habit
and joy,--and took the place of cigarettes,--so soothing to other women.
Doctors who attended Mrs. Jenkins, were legion in number--occasionally
two or three, unknown to one another, prescribed for the same case.
According to her statement, she had been threatened with almost every
known complaint: arthritis, appendicitis, angina pectoris, seemed to
dog her steps, and yet her recuperative vitality was incredible.
One week prone in bed with nurses in attendance, and straw laid down
in the street: long ere the straw was removed, the invalid might have
been seen making a hearty lunch at "Prince's" or doing a matinée at the
Haymarket. Indeed, it was on record, that a bewildered caller had found
the knocker at No. 900 muffled, and on inquiring for the sufferer with
almost bated breath, was informed that she was at Ranelagh!
Arabella Jenkins endeavoured to make the most of two worlds: the gay,
hustling, social world, and the invalid sphere,--bounded by doctors,
friendly inquiries, flowers, and commiseration. Nothing made Mrs.
Jenkins more indignant--indeed furious--than any doubt of the bona
fides of her ailments.
She posed as an extraordinarily plucky woman, who bore her sufferings,
after the manner of the Spartan boy and fox; and those doctors who
refused to see eye to eye with her, or to take part in a medical
farce, were inscribed in her black books as not merely incapable, but
the deadliest of enemies. For all her masterful, despotic ways and
heavy purse, Mrs. Jenkins was more or less in the hands of her eight
servants, her old friends, and her numerous parasites.
She held a court of elderly women; ladies in waiting (for favours)
attended her, flattered her, and sung her praises,--particularly in
her own presence. These, she rewarded with dinners, presents, drives,
her cast-off gowns, and her confidence. They had all expressed deep
sympathy over the impending invasion of this girl; for it was no secret
that "dearest Arabella did not care for young people." Intensely
jealous of each other's influence, they combined in a solid phalanx,
against an intrusive outsider.
Two of Mrs. Jenkins' chief friends were sitting with her one afternoon
late in June. One had presented flowers, the other had propped her
up with cushions, and brought her a footstool--almost as if she was
recovering from one of her notable heart attacks. In reality, she was
awaiting the arrival of Miss Nancy Travers,--and Miss Nancy Travers was
late!
Mrs. Taylor, chief counsellor, and parasite, was a widow with a
masculine cast of face, a dark red complexion, and beetling black
brows; being tall and massive, Mrs. Jenkins' dresses required a vast
amount of letting out and letting down, before she could assume them.
She lived in a little flat in Earl's Court, and was dependent on
dearest Arabella,--whom she had known as a girl, a fact which made her
position as mistress of the robes impregnable,--for many an excellent
meal, a serviceable cast-off costume, and her summer holidays. In
return for these benefits, she offered continual incense in the
shape of flattery, and much engrossing gossip--having a wide, and
illegitimate knowledge of other people's affairs.
The other lady, Miss Dolling, was well and fashionably dressed--no
genteel mendicant this! but she was unfortunately plain: a long nose,
no chin, and fat flabby cheeks, largely discounted her string of
valuable pearls, and French toilette. Bessie Dolling, the original wife
selected for Laurence Travers, was as yet an unappropriated blessing:
after twenty years, she still hoarded Laurence's photograph, hugged
his memory, and firmly believed that if he had not been caught by an
adventuress, he would have returned to claim her. This fiction was a
sustaining consolation to the poor lady, did no one any harm, and need
not be begrudged.
The three friends were grouped round the open window overlooking
Queen's Gate; Galpin the butler had just removed the tea-things, and
departed with the tea-cloth neatly tucked under his arm. He was a
stout, clean-shaven man, with a considerable meridian, and a stern
mouth. N.B.--His mistress was not a little afraid of him.
"I wonder what she will be like?" said Miss Dolling suddenly.
"My dear Bessie, that is the tenth time you have made the same remark,"
peevishly protested Mrs. Taylor. "We shall know in a few minutes."
"She will be exactly like her father," announced Mrs. Jenkins as
if stating a fact; "a dark Travers, with black hair, and well-cut
features, especially the Travers' nose," and as she spoke, she put up
her hand and stroked her own organ, which was short, thick, and first
cousin to a _nez retroussé_.
"I shall send her to her room almost at once. These interviews are so
dreadfully trying for my poor heart."
"Yes, dear friend," purred Mrs. Taylor, "and we will take care, that
she does not talk to you about the panther, or how her father was
killed."
"Not killed at the time," contradicted Miss Dolling; "he died days
afterwards."
"It was the panther's doing all the same," argued Mrs. Taylor, "and to
think of Laurence Travers making _no_ provision for his girl,--I call
it downright wicked, leaving her entirely dependent on his dear, good,
golden-hearted sister."
At this moment, there was a sound of violent commotion, and deafening
barking on the stairs. The Pom who left the room in close attendance on
cream, and savoury sandwiches, had undoubtedly encountered a stranger.
Miss Dolling looked hastily out of the window and said:
"Yes--she has arrived! a four-wheeler, and several large boxes."
Further information was postponed, as the door opened, and Galpin
announced "Miss Travers." Enter, a thin, woebegone girl, with reddish
hair: dressed in a crumpled black muslin, and carrying a waterproof on
her arm.
Half way to the window, she paused for a moment, endeavouring to
discover which of these three women might be her aunt? Was it the big
one with the shiny red face, the thin one with the tortoise-shell
pince-nez,--that gave her such an owl-like expression,--or the little
fat one in pale blue chiffon? Evidently the latter, for she struggled
out of her arm-chair, and offered a podgy hand blazing with diamonds.
"How do you do--_no_!" drawing back. "No, no, please don't kiss
me!--I'm dreadfully afraid of microbes. My health, as you know, is so
uncertain, and I have to be very cautious. We have been expecting you
for the last half hour. What has kept you?"
"I believe the train was late," replied Nancy in a meek voice. Could
this little cross fat woman, be Daddy's sister?
"Oh, was it? Have you paid the cab?"
"Yes."
"How much did he charge from Charing Cross?" demanded Mrs. Taylor,--an
authority on fares.
"Four and sixpence."
"What!" The word was almost a shout.
"But I had luggage."
"Oh, yes, and your big boxes had better be kept below," said her aunt;
"I am so afraid of my poor walls being damaged. You can sit down,
Nancy. These are my friends, Mrs. Taylor, and Miss Dolling."
The ladies shook hands in silence. After a moment Miss Dolling said:
"Had you a good passage?"
"Yes, thank you."
Meanwhile her aunt was surveying Nancy with a look of puzzled
disappointment.
"So you are _not_ a Travers after all," she remarked. "How odd, and
unexpected."
"No, I believe I am a Blake."
"A Blake," repeated Mrs. Jenkins, "I never heard of the people," and
she knitted her light eyebrows as she reflected that possibly "Blake"
had been the maiden name of the adventuress? "I daresay you would like
to take your things off?"
"Yes, if you please, I should."
"Then will you ring the bell? It is close to the chimney-piece--on the
far side."
When Galpin awaited orders in the doorway, Mrs. Jenkins said:
"Tell Baker to come and show Miss Travers to her room."
Baker promptly appeared, took the new arrival, so to speak, in tow,
convoyed her to the fifth floor, and into a somewhat shabby apartment,
next to her own bower.
As soon as Nancy had left the drawing-room, the three ladies closed
in together comfortably, in order to discuss the new arrival with
unreserved enjoyment. The ultimate finding of the conference proved
unfavourable.
"The girl was not a Travers; her manners were awkward, and she was
quite hopelessly plain!"