CHAPTER XIV

Dear Nancy,

I have received your letter, and accept the situation, all shall be as you wish. I am sorry to find that you dislike me so inveterately, and decline what you describe as 'Payment'—but it cannot be helped. Let me assure you, that I have no intention of coming into your life, and the marriage, as far as I am concerned, shall be as though it had never taken place. I have arranged to make you a yearly allowance (£250) which will be paid to our mutual friend, Ted Dawson. The estate and personal affairs have been satisfactorily settled.

Yours faithfully,
Derek Danvers Mayne.

When he handed this note to Mrs. Hicks, she turned it over, looked at the superscription, and remarked:

"Well, why not?" he protested; "I feel sure Nancy would not have opened it, had it been addressed to 'Mrs. Mayne.'"

Early that same afternoon Mayne rode down the ghât,—in what a different frame of mind, to the blithe expectations with which he had gaily ascended the same road! Near the foot of the hills he encountered a syce, who salaamed to him profoundly! Could there be anything ironical in that salute? The man was leading a remarkably hot grey pony; the pony was carrying a side-saddle.—An episode was closed.

CHAPTER XIV

"NANCY SITS WITH SORROW"

Nancy, the ayah, Togo and the luggage, arrived at Coimbatore station without any incident, much less a half-expected "hue and cry." Here Mrs. Simpson awaited them with her roomy bullock cart, drawn by a pair of huge Nellore bullocks, and carried the little party to her large and comfortable bungalow on the outskirts of the town. She was delighted to welcome her nursling,—to whom she had always been devoted.—She made her eat, and insisted upon putting her to bed, and treating her precisely as if she were still a small child!

When Nancy was at rest, in her spacious white cot, Jane Simpson sat by her side, and listened with tearful sympathy to details of the illness and death of her former master; for all this, she had been prepared, but the unexpected news of Nancy's marriage, reduced her to a condition of stunned, and horrified silence.

Jane Simpson was by nature excessively prim, a little narrow-minded, strictly conventional, but a most worthy person. Her house, her person, and especially her hands, were beautifully kept. When she had deposited Nancy at school in Eastbourne, she subsequently turned her attention to professional nursing, and after several years' experience, had attracted the attention of one of her patients, married him, and returned to India,—a country she abused for its slack unpractical ways, but nevertheless liked it all the same. Bob Simpson's pay was liberal, and although they had no family, Jane was a very busy and contented woman.

From her point of view, everything should be foreseen, cut and dried, punctual to a second, and absolutely proper and correct. This sudden marriage of her little girl to an acquaintance no better than a stranger, figuratively swept her off her feet! However, like a prudent woman, she said little. Nancy was looking desperately ill, a different creature from the buoyant Nancy of Fairplains: so silent, haggard, and lifeless. What further information Mrs. Simpson required was eagerly supplied by the ayah, who though not actually present, had witnessed the marriage ceremony in the drawing-room,—through an obliging crack in the door.

"Mayne Sahib and the Missy, standing before the Padre, both looking too sorry. Mayne, he very nice gentleman. His butler telling, a good sahib, and no evil liver,—everyone liking. He money got, too. Yesterday giving me twenty rupees," and the ayah's black eyes glistened greedily.

"Do you think he will come down here after Miss Nancy?" anxiously inquired Mrs. Simpson.

"How I telling, Memsahib?" throwing up her small brown hands, "but for what good? My Missy plenty sick, soon, soon, very sick—and maybe die.—Ah ye yoh!" and she wrung her hands.

Part of this augury came true. The dreaded reaction set in, Nancy had a bad attack of fever, and was seriously ill. She was lucky to find herself in Jane Simpson's care, and with the help of a good doctor, and the best of nursing, at the end of three weeks, she had recovered; but rose from her bed a shattered wreck, wasted to a shadow, with a small wan white face, from which all trace of sunburn and tan had now completely disappeared.

During the fever, Mrs. Simpson kept all visitors steadily at bay. Training as a professional nurse, had invested her with an inflexible attitude, and even Mrs. Ffinch, who had motored down on two occasions, could not succeed in interviewing the invalid; but when Nancy was convalescent, the position was stormed.

Mrs. Ffinch brought her neighbour, Mrs. Hicks, with her in the car, and during most of the journey, the two ladies wrangled, for they held diametrically opposite views with respect to the protégée they were about to visit. Mrs. Hicks declared "that it would be a great pity there should be a complete breach between Nancy and Captain Mayne." She was sentimental, and soft-hearted in her way,—fond of the girl, and well disposed towards the man.

"By and by, if they're let alone, believe you me, they'll make friends! After all, Mayne is a fairly good match. I am told he has five hundred a year, and expectations from an uncle."

"Yes," broke in Mrs. Ffinch, who was not soft-hearted, and whose own love affair had been strangled. "You can imagine the uncle's delight—I know the old man—when he hears that his nephew and heir, has picked up a little nobody off an Indian coffee estate!"

"I don't think that's a very nice, or kind, way to speak of Nancy," gobbled Mrs. Hicks, swelling with indignation.

"My dear, good Mrs. Hicks, don't be angry; it's not my idea, I do assure you; only one that would undoubtedly present itself to this rich old man! I propose to shelter Nancy under my own wing. I shall be going home next spring, and as soon as she has recovered from her grief, I shall take her about, and give her a good time—and——"

"And marry her off," broke in Mrs. Hicks, with challenging insolence. "Match-making with you is just a play; all excitement and amusement. However, you can't marry Nancy, for you know as well as I do, she has a husband already!"

"Nothing of the sort," rejoined the other, "any claim that Captain Mayne would put forward could easily be refuted. He won't do it though, and I suppose if he chose, he could sue Nancy for desertion."

Argument waxed fast and furious, and Mrs. Ffinch had much the best of the conflict. She kept her temper admirably, whilst her opponent was in a red-hot towering rage. On such occasions she completely cast all fear, and awe of the "Dictator," to the winds, and told her various, plain, and unpleasant truths. On the present occasion, she said:

"You know very well, that if you had been here and had a hand in this marriage of Nancy's, you would have made her stick to it through thick and thin—but as it was all got up in a hurry, and, so to speak, behind your back, you'll do all you can to smash it!"

Mrs. Ffinch's reply was an icy and dignified silence. The proper and suitable punishment for her companion would have been to open the door of the car, request her to descend, and allow her to walk the remainder of the distance down to Coimbatore.

For a long time, neither matron spoke; and the motor skimmed rapidly down the winding road, passing many familiar land-marks. The cold fit was now on Mrs. Hicks. She had let herself go, and said too much, and there wasn't the smallest doubt that her companion—from what she knew of her—would hold a truce for the present, but in some way or another "have it in for her" on a future occasion!

As they sped along the flat plains, in the direction of Coimbatore, Mrs. Ffinch broke the silence.

"I propose to take Nancy back with me this evening; her room is ready, and most of her mourning has been finished, so, dear Mrs. Hicks, on our return journey, I'm sure you won't mind sitting in front with the chauffeur, and I will take the poor child in beside me."

In her own opinion she was carrying out the part of a benevolent friend—she was saving Nancy from a loveless union, and the misery of being dragged round the world, by a man who did not want her.

The two well-meaning visitors were greatly shocked when they beheld their young protégée. She looked so dull, and vacant, almost like another creature! Her attitude resembled that of a wounded creature, cowering, and withdrawing, from those who wished to do her good. She resisted all Mrs. Ffinch's importunities and persuasions to accompany her to Clouds Rest. This, was the one subject on which the girl seemed to have a fixed opinion; nothing would induce her to return to the hills. Otherwise, whether she was to remain at Coimbatore, or go to England, to live, or to die,—was apparently a matter of complete indifference.

Whilst Mrs. Ffinch was holding a whispered conference with Jane Simpson, Mrs. Hicks seized the opportunity to give Nancy the note from Mayne. The girl turned it over listlessly.

"It is his answer to yours," explained Mrs. Hicks. "He wrote it right away, and gave it to me. I thought it better to wait until I could bring it down myself."

"I suppose so, thank you," she said as she opened it, glanced over it, and then tore it into four pieces. "That's done," she said, looking at Mrs. Hicks, with unexpected animation.

"Well, I'm not so sure!" rejoined the matron, "and I'm not of the same mind as Mrs. Ffinch. We quarrelled about the business the whole way down. Indeed, I think myself, she had half a mind to put me out on the side of the road! I'm afraid I let my temper get the better of me, and said lots of things I'm sorry for now. I expect Mrs. Ffinch is bitterly disappointed that you won't go back with her, Nancy. I shouldn't be surprised if she carried her point yet, and you know we'd all be only too glad to have you among us. Hush! here she comes!"

As the time passed, Nancy's grief and misery, instead of abating seemed to increase. She was no longer an invalid, but helped Nurse Jane about the house, knitted, sewed, and walked out daily. Her attitude was one of an unnatural passivity. Grief had burnt into her very soul, and her inner being was absorbed with one obsession: the memory of her father. Apparently his image filled her thoughts to the exclusion of all else. This much, Nurse Jane gathered, during their infrequent conversations—for Nancy now was almost dumb. As for Mayne, the girl appeared to have forgotten his existence! She was completely prostrated by the loss of her parent, and gradually sinking into an apathetic condition of mind and body, from which at all cost, she must be redeemed.

As Bob Simpson's cheery good humour, and Jane's authoritative efforts, had not the smallest effect upon this white-faced silent inmate, Mrs. Ffinch and Mrs. Hicks and Ted Dawson were summoned,—and held, so to speak, a committee upon the case. They decided that the girl must have a complete change, otherwise, it would be impossible for her to regain her normal balance! Mrs. Ffinch relinquished her efforts to induce Nancy to live with her, had obtained her aunt's address, and sent her one of her most diplomatic letters—to which there had been a cool, but polite reply.

Mrs. Jenkins had also written to her niece, offering to receive her, and to give her an asylum until she could make other arrangements. Nancy, who had been two months at Coimbatore, was a wan, hollow-eyed spectre of herself: it was evident, that in her present environment she would never recover her mental poise. In the day-time she sat and walked, and talked like some dull automatic figure—entirely indifferent to her surroundings. As Mrs. Ffinch gravely considered her—she mentally concluded that, "that way madness lies!" and Mrs. Simpson's friends, who had known the gay and happy Miss Nancy Travers, assured one another, there was no doubt at all, but that the broken-hearted girl was either dying, or going out of her mind!

"She must be sent away at once!" such was Mrs. Ffinch's mandate, after a protracted interview with Nurse Jane. "There is her aunt's invitation—she has the money for her passage, her mourning is ready, and, as it happens, most providentially, Mrs. Sandilands is going home by the Patna. They can travel together. I shall wire to Cook, make all arrangements, secure a separate cabin for Nancy, and this day week, she will find herself at sea!"

CHAPTER XV

A FRIEND IN NEED

Thanks to Mrs. Ffinch's promise and her prompt exertions, within a week's time Nancy found herself in the Madras roads, on board the P. & O. steamer Patna, bound for London. The Patna was a full boat, carrying a mixed multitude of cheerful passengers. Among these was Blanche Sandilands (née Meach), a remarkably pretty woman in exuberant spirits,—embarking on her first trip to England in the character of a rich, popular, much admired young matron. Her cabin was crammed with flowers and books, friends to bid her good-bye were assembled in flattering numbers, and among these, she anxiously looked about for her charge.

Yes, there was that invaluable Mrs. Ffinch,—and could it be Nancy Travers? Nancy, so altered as to be almost unrecognizable. The bright school-girl, she remembered, as just out from England, brimming over with happiness, and gaiety, was now a wan white creature in deep mourning, with sad abstracted eyes. Thank goodness, they were not sharing the same cabin, or she would certainly be flooded out with tears! What, she asked herself, could she do with her? Mrs. Sandilands had been looking forward to such a ripping time on the voyage: the Bruffs, and the Colvilles, Captain Yates and Mr. Orme, were on board, but there would not be much fun for her, if all day long she was tied to such a wet blanket as this poor child—who appeared to be actually stupefied with grief.

To her immense relief, the lively lady soon discovered that Nancy Travers would be no encumbrance. It was true that she sat beside her at meals (nobly representing the traditional death's head), but otherwise effaced herself, seeming to prefer solitude, and her own company, sitting aloof with a book, or disappearing for hours into her nook of a cabin in the stern.

Mrs. Sandilands lent her novels, offered her chocolates, and little toilet luxuries, kissed her perfunctorily night and morning, and left her to herself,—assuring her friends, that such was the truest kindness, and went her own light-hearted way to play deck games, and Bridge; or to embark on such amusing and harmless flirtations, as are expected of the prettiest woman on the ship.

At Colombo the passengers went bodily ashore, and enjoyed the few gay hours at the Galle Face Hotel, explored the bazaars, or darted off in rickshaws to inspect the Cinnamon gardens. With their return at dinner time, they brought a horde of new comers,—tourists, planters, and their belongings.

Among the crowd, one figure was conspicuously prominent, and proceeded at once to dominate the ship.

"Yet after all, what was Mrs. De Wolfe?" asked a girl plaintively, "but an ugly, rude, old woman?"

The lady appeared to know several of the passengers, and to be a sea friend of the captain's; for a special place had been reserved at his table, also she enjoyed a large double cabin, and was attended by a hard-featured, but dignified maid.

In appearance, Mrs. De Wolfe looked formidable enough! Tall and bony, with a long, wrinkled face, a commanding hooked nose (a family feature descending through generations), sharp black eyes, heavily marked brows, and a tightly closed mouth, which, when open, displayed two gleaming rows of expensively fitted teeth. Her hands exhibited knotted veins, and surprisingly large knuckles, but the lady's most distinctive endowment was a far-reaching, masculine voice. Her style of dress was tailor-made, and suitable, her only jewellery, a thin wedding ring.

What was her claim to the almost subservient homage which she received? She was suffered to break into the most interesting conversation; her remarks were listened to with profound respect, and she was waited on with slavish assiduity. Perhaps the answer was, that the old lady had influence, a strong personality, a sharp tongue, and great possessions. She was a masterful, independent individual, who did what she liked, went where she fancied, and said what she pleased! Nancy shrank from her instinctively, and when on deck, kept well out of her orbit, and beyond the range of those piercing eyes.

One evening, as she sat pretending to read, she was startled by a deep voice speaking over her shoulder. It said:

"What's the matter with you? Why don't you go and play about? You look like a sick chicken!"

As Nancy gazed straight up into the old wrinkled face, her lips twitched, but she made no reply. Mrs. De Wolfe, who evidently expected an answer, waited for a moment, still staring fixedly. It was something like the children's game of "Who will laugh first?" Then with an indignant "Humph!" she moved away.

The Patna, four days out from Colombo, had experienced fairly fine weather, and real tropical heat. Nancy slept in the top berth of her tiny cubby hole, with the port wide open, and was dreaming a delightful dream, when it suddenly turned to a sense of horrible reality and drowning. She was roused by a wandering green wave, which, having discovered an inviting porthole, flowed in torrents over her prostrate form, and completely swamped the cabin. As soon as she had recovered her breath, and the shock, she endeavoured to close the port. It proved much too stiff. Then she sprang down into the water on the floor, snatched at her dressing-gown, and opening the door, screamed for a steward. A man in the next cabin had evidently met with the same catastrophe, and was in a similar plight. He and Nancy faced one another in the passage, a dripping, shivering pair! Very soon a bedroom steward appeared on the scene, there was loud talking, splashing, mopping. In the midst of this, a door opened, and a gruff voice demanded:

Then the face of Mrs. De Wolfe appeared. She wore a large lace-frilled nightcap, "and looked for all the world," as the young man subsequently described, "like the wolf in Red Riding Hood."

"There's been a sea into these two cabins, ma'am," explained the steward, "and this 'ere lady and gentleman has been washed out!"

The old woman now came forth, and surveyed them impartially; the smart clean-shaven man in pink pyjamas, and a blanket; the girl in a blue dressing-gown, with two long plaits of hair dripping down her back, and instantly recognized the "Ghost," Nancy's nickname on the boat.

"You come along in here," she commanded, stretching out her bony hand, and taking her by the wrist. "Steward, send my maid at once," and the cabin door closed on the pair—the wolf, and the lamb!

"You shall have dry things immediately," said Mrs. De Wolfe, "and Haynes shall make you up a bed on the sofa here."

"Thank you, ma'am, you are very kind," chattered Nancy, whose teeth were like a pair of castanets.

Almost as her mistress spoke, Haynes made her appearance in a trim red flannel dressing-gown, and took the matter in hand with quiet promptitude. Nancy soon found herself invested in a beautiful silk and lace nightgown, which she regarded with unspeakable awe.

"It's quite all right, chicken," declared the old lady who had returned to her berth, "I wear plain upper garments, and keep the show for what I call my 'Undies.' It fits you to a T. Better sleep with the towel round your head. How on earth do you manage to hide all that hair!"

"Haynes, you'll bring two teas at half-past seven," continued Mrs. De Wolfe, totally unmoved by this command, "and now you may turn out the light, and go."

In the ensuing darkness, Nancy was able to reflect at leisure upon her novel position. She was actually sleeping in the cabin—and the nightgown—of the woman she most feared and avoided of all the passengers on board the Patna. Yet in spite of her overpowering personality, she had proved to be a good Samaritan, and not so alarming after all; consoled by this conviction, Nancy dozed off.

In the morning, Haynes—a celebrated Treasure—brought Nancy a cup of delicious "private" tea, and when she had drunk it, and thanked her hostess for a night's lodging, she slipped on her dressing-gown, and fled into her own quarters—once more habitable.

The little episode of the "wash-out" had no immediate results beyond the exhibition of two mattresses, and several blankets hung out to dry, and Nancy's acquaintance with Mrs. De Wolfe went no further. She shrank more and more into solitude and silence, and gave way to the gnawing misery and loneliness of her heart—plunged in the agony of a terrible loss, she was left to struggle in it quite alone.

One morning Mrs. De Wolfe encountered her face to face, at the top of the companion ladder, nodded brusquely, and stared. The girl's face subsequently haunted her. Oh, what a picture of real grief,—and nothing but grief! Impressed by this vision, she proceeded to make inquiries respecting the solitary young woman in mourning. Mrs. Sandilands (a notable chatterbox) volubly related the tale of tragedy, dwelt on Nancy's adoration for her father, their ideally happy life, his death,—and her altered fortune.

"Nancy has no one belonging to her, except a disagreeable aunt," she said, "a half-sister, who has been at daggers drawn with Mr. Travers for twenty years; however she has offered what she calls 'an asylum' to the girl, until she can find some job."

Mrs. De Wolfe nodded and grunted; she also marked, learned and inwardly digested this information.

A grand fancy ball was got up on board the Patna, in order to inaugurate her entrance into the Red Sea; the preparations, arrangements and expedients, afforded almost as much enjoyment as the dance itself. Such were its attractions, that Mrs. De Wolfe's special Bridge table was ruthlessly dissolved. One of the keenest players was appearing as Neptune, another as Mephistopheles, a stout, middle-aged lady as Ophelia. Mrs. De Wolfe made no change in her plain rich evening toilet—though more than one malicious tongue had suggested that "she might get herself up as the Witch of Endor."

Tired of looking on at the whirling crowd, she went on deck, and having descried a solitary figure leaning over the side, approached it stealthily and, so to speak, pounced!

"No, don't go away, little sick chick!" she said, laying her bony grasp on Nancy's arm. "Come over here, and talk to me," and Nancy was carried away a helpless prisoner, to where two deck-chairs happened to be placed close together. "You're not looking on?"

"Come now, do you think it is right to give way to it like this? keeping apart from your fellow creatures, and fretting yourself to death?"

"Pardon me, I do know! Your chaperone told me all about it. I'm sure if your father could see you,—and we have no proof otherwise,—it would hurt him terribly to witness such hopeless, useless, misery."

"My father was the same himself," declared Nancy, "after my mother died, and I was sent to England."

"I know; your friend, Mrs. Sandilands, an exhaustive talker, assured me, he was so heart-broken, that he allowed his affairs to what is called 'go to the dogs.' Did he not regret that?"

"You have your life to lead, my dear. Come, do not play the coward, but brace yourself for the race that is before you."

"What nonsense," protested the old lady, "I've no patience with this silly sort of talk."

For a moment there was no answer, and the silence was filled with the blare of the band, and a rousing Two-step.

"Don't I? I am not disposed to talk of my private affairs with strangers—but for once, I will." A harsh tragedy looked out of her old eyes, as she added: "Listen. You possibly see me a gruff, selfish, overbearing old woman, with not a thought in the world beyond her dinner, and a rubber of Bridge. Nevertheless, I have indeed known anguish—the wounds throb still. My husband left me, when we were young and happy; my eldest boy was killed at Magersfontein, my youngest, died of typhoid in India,—all alone; and here am I, all alone,—with nothing awaiting me but the grave." She paused, for a moment. "Now you have, I trust, a long useful life, and many happy hours before you. Why, you cannot be more than eighteen."

"And eighteen wishes to die! Mrs. Sandilands tells me you are going to live with an aunt in London. May I hear her name?"

"Strange, I think I've heard of her. She is a widow like myself,—very comfortably off. Her chief interest in life, is her health, a malade imaginaire. Do you know anything of nursing?"

"Well, then, my dear, I am well experienced—and I am going to prescribe for you. You are to come along with me, and look on at the ball; and then we will go and have a bit of supper. Yes, I insist!" There was no gainsaying this old lady.

When Mrs. De Wolfe and her young friend parted that night in their mutual passage, she said:

"I intend to take you in hand, Miss Nancy Travers. I shall not allow you to sit idle in the market-place, eating your heart out. To-morrow I'll give you some knitting, and teach you to play Piquet and Patience. You can look upon me as your deputy chaperone."

As deputy chaperone, she took entire charge of Nancy—who felt powerless to resist—the girl interested her surprisingly. When she forgot herself, she could talk, she could sew, she could even smile! By the time the Patna was in the Canal, Nancy was better. The sea-air revived her; her new acquaintance acted as a tonic, kept her incessantly occupied, promenaded the deck with her, told her stories, gave her sound advice, and from being a mere crumpled heap of hopeless misery lifted her once more to a foothold in life.

It had been discovered that the "Ghost," as she was called, was an excellent pianist, and consequently much in request to accompany song or violin. This demand brought her into communication with other young people—which was good for Nancy.

Mrs. Sandilands was amazed at the acquaintance which had been struck up between two such incongruous characters as Mrs. De Wolfe, and the Travers girl. What had they in common? However it came about, the old woman had effected a wonderful change, and as it were restored the Ghost to life, and the material world. She now went to and fro and mixed with other people, and no longer spent hours shut up in her little cabin.

"I stay in London occasionally, but my home is in the country,—also in the wide world—for I travel a great deal. Excuse my plain speaking, my dear, but have you no income at all? I understand that your father was a Travers of Lambourne, and I believe they went through every penny they possessed?"

"I have twenty pounds a year," replied Nancy, "and I have had a good education; but I'm afraid I look too young to be a governess. If the worst comes to the worst, I might go into a shop. I think I'd rather like that—millinery, or a ladies' outfitting—a sort of place where there are no men."

"No love affairs yet, I should imagine," said Mrs. De Wolfe, with customary bluntness.

"Yes, there was someone; someone I don't like; but it had nothing to do with a love affair—and I pray that we may never meet again."

"I'm afraid that will be no use, my dear—we all meet the very people we don't want to see!"

"I'm glad of that, my child, for the number of people who never wish to see me again, is fairly large. I hate cruelty, and snobbery; I speak out my mind rather freely, as I tramp through life. Well, my little chick, I've given you a lift on the road, haven't I?"

"You have indeed; I can't tell you all you have done for me, roused me from a stupor, that was creeping over me,—and helped me to make a fresh start. I can never thank you enough, never!"

"I don't want thanks. Give me deeds. You must write to me, Nancy. My bankers, Coutts, will always find me, and if I don't answer, never mind; I'm a shocking correspondent, my pen never saves my tongue. I'll come and see you when I pass through Town, and I hope I'll find you doing well. Be amenable to your father's sister: a rich, self-centred, elderly woman. Accept hard knocks—they will brace you—later on, you may find your life in pleasant places. I'd like to take you with me to Scotland, but I am under orders to visit old friends, who fix one's date of arrival, train, and room, with a firmness there is no withstanding, and I dare not be a deserter."

Nancy's were not the only thanks received by this social missionary. Pretty Mrs. Sandilands overwhelmed her with effusive gratitude, and flattering speeches.

"You took the girl off my hands, dear kindest lady, and have turned her into a new creature! I cannot imagine how you did it!"

"Nancy is like her father, you see—she takes everything so terribly, so foolishly, to heart."

"But what a good thing it is, that she happens to have a heart to take things to! Such folk are not common objects of the sea or shore in these days."

"Perhaps because people don't wear their hearts on their sleeves," retorted Mrs. Sandilands sharply. At this moment, her companion was summoned to receive a Marconigram, and she found herself unexpectedly abandoned with all the honours of the last word!

Later that same day, the Patna was berthed in the London Docks, and her horde of passengers scattered afar, every man and woman to their own; in most cases to forget within a few hours, those who had been their daily associates for the last four weeks.

CHAPTER XVI

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.

"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."

"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:

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?

"How much did he charge from Charing Cross?" demanded Mrs. Taylor,—an authority on fares.

"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."

"So you are not a Travers after all," she remarked. "How odd, and unexpected."

"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?"

"Then will you ring the bell? It is close to the chimney-piece—on the far side."

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!"

CHAPTER XVII

AS POOR RELATION

Nancy soon fell into the routine of the household, and led an active, useful life at 900, Queen's Gate. Undoubtedly it was good for her, that she had no leisure, nor any opportunity for reflection and solitude, save when in bed. Then she was so thoroughly tired, that she fell asleep almost as soon as her head was on the pillow. After all, the daily régime of this elderly establishment, was not so irksome to a girl who had been for years, accustomed to the strict discipline of a boarding school.

Within a week, the new arrival had learnt her aunt's chief ailments and requirements, taken a sharp impression of her character, and was not a little amazed at her own capabilities in measuring drops, picking up stitches, and writing notes. She also read aloud, and went endless messages. Many a tiresome errand did she save Baker, and the cook; many a toilsome journey did she make up those long flights of stairs: the excuse for such constant perambulation, being, "that she was young!"

At first, her visit had been spoken of as "temporary," Mrs. Taylor and Miss Dolling being actively engaged in searching for a suitable post for the interloper. The former, was particularly anxious to be rid of this too useful, and obedient relative,—who accomplished her tasks without complaint or murmur. The truth was, that Nancy had not forgotten Mrs. De Wolfe's wise counsel, and inwardly soothed her amour propre by saying to herself, "Aunt Arabella is Daddy's sister, and I must try to please her; though lots of the things I have to do, are hateful,—and Mrs. Taylor is more detestable than everything put together!"

Her most unwelcome task, was that of exercising the Pom twice daily on a lead—a job that really belonged to Baker. He was a little animal with an odious character,—and not a gentleman; quarrelsome, and insulting to other dogs, shamelessly greedy and inquisitive, and with a bark, that was almost worse than a bite!

Meanwhile Nancy plodded along, buoyed up by hope and letters,—hope that "Finchie" would be home in the spring, and find her a nice situation—with payment. Here, naturally, she received no salary; her wealthy aunt was in some ways surprisingly stingy; a miser with respect to stamps, and extraordinarily mean in the matter of coal, electric light, cab fares, and newspapers. As for the electric light, they often sat in semi-darkness, and yet Mrs. Jenkins thought nothing of paying from twenty to thirty guineas for a gown, or a shilling for a plover's egg!

Nancy's happiest moments were when the Indian mail arrived, and brought her long despatches from "Finchie," from Francis, from the Hicks family, and Teddy Dawson. The latter had once enclosed in a letter what is known as a "fat" cheque, amounting to sixty-three pounds and some odd shillings, which had been paid into Ted's account on her behalf by Mayne. This cheque was promptly returned, and Nancy scribbled at white heat, "I will not touch this money; please do not offer it again, or ever mention Captain Mayne; all that is a dreadful dream, which I am doing my best to forget."

Letters from India were not the only ones addressed to Miss Travers from the outer world. She had received a short note from Mrs. De Wolfe, and several ill-spelt scrawls, indited by Mr. Fletcher's valet. He was now living in a sanatorium in Switzerland, a confirmed invalid; indeed the valet, who was a Scotchman, informed Nancy that his master was "far through." Mr. Fletcher wished to hear how his little Nancy was faring? if she had need of money, and if her aunt kept her well supplied? otherwise she knew where to come for it. He would be her banker. But poor as she was, Nancy preferred to be independent. A portion of her savings, still remained intact.

She sent frequent letters to her old friend, gratefully declining his offer—telling him everything about herself, that she thought might interest or please him,—carefully omitting all disagreeables; she also added scraps of news, gleaned from her Indian correspondence; in short, Nancy had the art of composing cheery epistles, which were deeply appreciated by a sick, and solitary exile.

In August, Mrs. Jenkins journeyed to Harrogate, bearing Nancy and Baker in her train. The lady much preferred Scarborough, and cast many wistful thoughts in that direction, but then Baker had a married sister living at Harrogate, so there it was—or rather, there she was!

Mrs. Jenkins stayed for several weeks at a fashionable hotel, consulted a new doctor, sat about the gardens, sipped the waters, and compared gossip and symptoms with her friends. During the latter part of the visit, she allowed Nancy to spend a short time with Mrs. Briscoe at Eastbourne, whilst Mrs. Taylor, who had been languishing in her poky little flat, stepped nimbly into her shoes.

Nine hundred, Queen's Gate, was reopened at the end of September. The charwoman's parties came to an end, and the carriage horses no longer took the coachman's friends to Hampton Court, Kew, or "the pictures." Everything gradually settled into the usual routine, as far as Nancy was concerned; exercising the Pom, changing the library books, shopping at the Stores, and attending upon her relative.

One afternoon, as laden with parcels, she re-entered the house, Galpin handed her a card, on which was inscribed, "Mrs. De Wolfe, Newenham Court. So very sorry to miss you." The card was presently followed by a note, inviting Nancy to lunch with Mrs. De Wolfe at her hotel, but this, alas! she was compelled to decline, as the date fixed, happened to be her aunt's weekly "day," and she was on duty with the teapot.

A second note from Mrs. De Wolfe, repeated her disappointment at not seeing her young friend, especially as she was about to leave London, in order to spend the winter in the West Indies. Her disappointment was as nothing to Nancy's, for in her case, it was increased by despondency.

Ever since her arrival, under her aunt's roof, Mrs. Taylor had been ceaselessly endeavouring to remove her elsewhere. She had sought out, and suggested several situations, but these on examination had not proved to be satisfactory. One, was as an apprentice in a ladies' blouse and hat shop—to assist in the showroom and workroom, hours eight to six, dinner provided—no remuneration, but then "it was such a good opening," that Mrs. Taylor was enthusiastic. Another "opportunity," of which Nancy refused to avail herself, was as typist to a rising young dentist—and to give some assistance with the patients!

"But I'm afraid of dentists, and I cannot type!" protested Nancy. "If Aunt Arabella wishes, I can find a situation. Mrs. Briscoe will arrange for me—she has offered to do so."

Greatly to her friend's dismay, Mrs. Jenkins was not at present disposed to part with her useful slave, and sternly commanded Henrietta to postpone the search.

Autumn passed without any particular change; Nancy developed into a sort of extra lady's-maid, companion, secretary, and butt; Mrs. Jenkins saw a good deal of company: when her health permitted she was at home on "Tuesdays," and received many visitors,—as her teas were proverbially well provided—fruit and ices, were not unknown. These Tuesday afternoons, entailed weary hours for her niece, who stood pouring out, handing cakes, and generally assisting Galpin.

Mrs. Jenkins also gave occasional solemn dinners. These banquets were usually attended by various elderly men of her acquaintance, as she had a notable cook, and a famous bin of superior old port. At such festivities, Nancy was not expected to appear; her mourning was too deep. It was for this reason also, that Nancy was never invited to accompany her relative to any place of amusement. Mrs. Jenkins declared, that she could not possibly go into society for a full twelve-month. Her idea on the subject of mourning, was strict, and old-fashioned—mourning by the year,—crêpe by the yard. When the banquets took place, Nancy wrote out the menus, and name cards, arranged the flowers, and Bridge tables, and then thankfully retreated to the breakfast-room with a novel, and the Pom.

Sometimes she felt that this life was almost too difficult! Mrs. Taylor's poisonous influence told heavily against her; her enemy was so often with her in the Gate; she lunched or dined two or three times a week,—and having a genuine appetite for small doles, carried away fresh eggs, extra flowers, half-cut cakes, a box of scented soap, and similar useful largesse! After her visits, Nancy always found her aunt more than usually snappy, and ill to please; yet on the other hand, Mrs. Jenkins had what her niece mentally called "her good days." On these, she would talk glibly enough about her brother Laurence; his mad pranks, his high spirits, his good looks, extraordinary love for animals, and general popularity with old and young.

It also seemed to the girl—who was gifted with a vivid imagination—that now and then, in her aunt's conversation, she caught a faint echo of familiar expressions, and that she saw at long intervals on the face of her despotic relative, a glimmer of her father's smile! For these somewhat far-fetched, and flimsy reasons, Nancy still clung to her post. After all, Aunt Arabella, with her funny ways, was her only near relative. She was Daddy's sister too, they had been brought up in the very same nursery, and had shared the same home.

The talks of "old times" at Lambourne, were considerably discounted by Mrs. Jenkins' rosy and prosy reminiscences of her own personal triumphs. On this subject, she could expatiate for hours,—content with a silent audience, or an occasional ejaculation.

"I daresay, my dear," she remarked to her niece, "that your father often told you, that I was the beauty of Blankshire, and how people would stand upon the road to look at me, and push and fight each other, to travel in the same railway carriage. The County ball was actually postponed, until I had returned home. After I was married, when I had a box at the theatre, it was most unpleasant the way the audience stared—every opera-glass levelled at poor me—and people waited in the vestibule, to see me pass out. Once when we were dining at a foreign restaurant, the prince of a royal house, sent round to inquire my name? Your uncle was furious, and I am sure it was the prince who sent me every morning, a most beautiful bouquet of flowers!"

She also related at considerable length, how several great artists had humbly implored permission to paint her portrait, but had been rudely snubbed by dearest Samuel: who had never allowed her picture to be on public exhibition.

Nancy listened with attentive interest to these tales of triumph, and faithfully believed in them. It may have been due to this artless confidence and appropriate deference, that she and her aunt were perceptibly drawing closer to one another; Nancy would receive an occasional kiss, a little patting of her hand, or even a word of praise, and thanks.

Alas, shortly before Christmas, a slump in Mrs. Taylor's dividends and a severe financial crisis, figuratively cast that lady at the feet of her wealthy school-fellow. Dearest Henrietta was received with open arms, offered the best spare bedroom, the second best, and most comfortable arm-chair, and soon settled down with remarkable ease into the position of an established resident.

Not long after this acquisition to the family circle, Mrs. Jenkins' manner to her niece underwent a change; she became querulous and fault-finding, and her "good days" were rare. Once, when the girl had ventured to speak of her old home, her friends, the far-away blue hills, and the coffee estate, Mrs. Taylor had coughed significantly, and her aunt had said:

"There, that will do, Nancy, that will do! I don't want to hear anything about those people; I am not interested."

As there were visitors present, Nancy was overwhelmed, and put to open shame by such a resounding slap in the face. Perhaps, after all, it was excellent discipline; Nancy the impulsive, was rapidly mastering the noble art of self-effacement and self-control. Her sorest trial was experienced of an evening, when Bridge was played, and Miss Dolling made a fourth. The scoldings administered to Nancy—especially when playing with Mrs. Taylor—made her so nervous that her mistakes were flagrant. She had actually been known to trump her partner's best card; more than once, she had been driven from the table in disgrace, and the rubber had ended in "cut throat."

Only for Mrs. Taylor (whose dislike amounted to personal enmity), Nancy believed that her aunt would have given her a small share of her heart; and for her own part, she made a great effort to storm her affections; but her attempts were invariably foiled by the sinister influence of Mrs. Taylor, who had marked "darling Arabella" for her own! She had reason to believe that her name was in "the will"—and naturally the fewer legatees the better!

Arabella was so weak and impressionable, she might take it into her head to make this niece her heiress! The girl was apparently good-tempered, and willing—but in reality, cunning, and deceitful. Arabella was of full habit; an apoplectic seizure might carry her off in a few hours, and she (Henrietta Taylor) was bound to be on her guard, and to take the situation firmly in hand. With this virtuous intention, she made stinging speeches, transformed harmless remarks, accused Nancy of untruth, and impertinence, and did her utmost to figuratively crush her out of existence like a black beetle, and create a wide breach between aunt and niece. Mrs. Taylor was particularly careful never to leave the pair alone; a tête-à-tête was always a serious danger to be avoided: precisely as if Mrs. Jenkins was a lovely young heiress—and Nancy, some unprincipled and discountenanced suitor! If by chance, she entered a room and there discovered the girl established with her relative, she looked so alarmingly black and lowering, that Nancy received an impression, that she had been caught in the act of stealing something that was the property of Aunt Arabella's old friend!

On the other hand, when Nancy found the couple together, her appearance was the signal for an abrupt and significant silence,—undoubtedly she and her short-comings, had been the topic of conversation.

In spite of this, Nancy had an instinctive impression that her aunt was a little afraid of her towering, black-browed inmate; once, when she made her a trifling and inexpensive present, she added:

"Don't show it to Henrietta," and on several occasions, she had whispered, "Not a word of this, to Mrs. T.!"

Mrs. Taylor was now enjoying what might be called "the time of her life." Of an afternoon, she accompanied her friend in the comfortable landau, behind a pair of fat brown horses,—royally arrayed in a superior, if secondhand, ermine stole, and muff. She was carried to theatres, lectures, concerts, and At homes: was suffered to make the first pounce upon new novels, enjoy breakfast in bed at pleasure,—and glasses of port at discreet intervals. Moreover, she had been endowed with several imposing costumes; and yet she was not happy! for Nancy Travers represented "Mordecai the Jew," in Queen's Gate,—and until she was dislodged, her enemy could know no peace.

It was ten months since Nancy had arrived from India, ten months of suppressed grief, hard work, and complete isolation. She had recovered her health,—thanks to incessant occupation, early hours, and good plain food. "The girl was picking up," as her aunt expressed it, and once or twice, she had actually been moved to remark, that in Nancy's now flawless skin, she saw something of "the family complexion!" (meaning her own). In spite of "the family complexion," Nancy was not treated as a relative, but an employée; her status in the establishment was that of a superior "tweenie"; as time went on, there were no longer any references to "old days at Lambourne," no affectionate pattings or strokings, no confidences, or small gifts—much less a condescending kiss.

Mrs. Taylor made as much mischief as lay in her power, and fomented and instigated "rows." She never gave her adversary credit for one good trait, but held up all her short-comings, in the domestic limelight. Late at night, when established at her ease in her friend's bedroom, she "talked over" the iniquities of the day with unctuous eloquence.

She (the chief parasite) loudly bewailed her poor darling Arabella's fate, in being compelled to support a thankless hanger-on! Pointed out, that Nancy was secretive, that she wrote too many letters, wasting her time and stamps; that she was cruel to the Pom, and flirted with the new doctor—even going so far as to lie in wait for him in the hall! Every one of these indictments was a deliberate and inexcusable falsehood; and perhaps Mrs. Jenkins, at the back of her mind, reminded herself that Henrietta "exaggerated"; but at last, after many vigorous efforts, Henrietta succeeded in rousing her effectually. One night, as soon as she had settled herself for the usual talk, she began abruptly:

"I do believe that girl has been complaining to Mrs. Devine, telling her that she is miserable here,—at least, that is what I inferred, from what Mrs. Devine said to me to-day. She was quite sniffy and stand-off, and refused a cup of tea."

"She said, that it was noticed how Miss Travers always went about alone; quite a well-known figure in Kensington Gardens, a tall girl in mourning, taking a Pom for exercise. That she was never to be seen with her aunt in the carriage, or at any place of amusement."

"Why, of course not!" burst out Mrs. Jenkins; "her year of mourning is not nearly up. What else?" she demanded dramatically.

"Is it likely, my good Henrietta, that I would allow my house to be overrun and turned upside down by a pack of young people, simply to amuse a girl who has to look to me, for her daily bread? I never cared for Mrs. Devine, but I had intended to invite her to my next large dinner-party. Now I shall cross her name off the list—she shall eat no more dinners or luncheons, here!"

"I should hope not!" said Mrs. Taylor emphatically, "for Mrs. Murray told me privately, how Mrs. Devine had remarked to her, that the girl was treated more like a servant, than a relative: said she was shabbily dressed, neglected, and snubbed, and that if Miss Travers had a spark of spirit, she would find another situation—and clear out!"

This conversation proved extremely agitating to Mrs. Jenkins. It came as a revelation; a shattering mental avalanche: that anyone among her acquaintance should dare to find fault with her! The extraordinary influence of Mrs. Taylor, was entirely due to her unfailing supply of the most honeyed flattery! Misguided Arabella, was invariably told the things she wished to hear, and lived under the impression, that she was beyond the reach of criticism; everything she did was right; she had felt complacently assured that her neighbours and friends unanimously applauded her, for her benevolence in giving a home to her orphan niece!

The recent exciting and unexpected information, brought on a sharp attack of nervous palpitation.—Whenever Mrs. Jenkins was annoyed, she immediately complained of "palpitation."—Mrs. Taylor had swift recourse to the usual remedy, a bottle of drops—and as she handed the wine-glass to her patroness, she said impressively:

"Darling Arabella, you know, you will never have any comfort or peace, until you get rid of that girl. She is accomplished, I understand, and now she is nineteen, and looks years older than when she arrived, surely her friend Mrs. Briscoe can find her a situation as governess?"

"No, no," protested Mrs. Jenkins, "I won't have that—Nancy is useful; clever with her fingers, active on her feet; the Pom is fond of her, and you know how few people he likes! Baker, too, though terribly against Nancy at first, thinks her a nice young lady. Of course, I need not tell you, that I never bargained for a girl in the house; and I daresay I should be happier without her, but if I were to allow Nancy to go away, and take a situation—just think of the talk!"

"It would be much better to have one big talk,—and get it over," declared Mrs. Taylor philosophically, "better to clear the air, than to have perpetual whispering. Some people are never happy, unless they are picking holes in such as you—whose shoes they are not fit to clean. And now, dearest Arabella, I cannot bear to see you worried,—as you know. If you could only make up your mind to let Nancy take a situation, we should all be so much more comfortable. Remember she is not actually your own niece; only your stepbrother's daughter. Do, do, think it over—good-night, my own—darling!"

"Good-night, Henrietta, and be sure you turn out the electric light on your landing. Last week, you left it on all night, and just think of how that will add to my quarterly bill!"