A bird of passage

Lady Grubb's visit was succeeded by one from Mrs. Home—a kind, well-meaning little lady, as we know, but as yet attired in what had been a very nice Dirzee-made garment at Port Blair, and even passed muster for best on board ship, but which stamped her at once in the eyes of the Miss Platts as "bad style."

Her boys, too, so eager was she to see Helen, were not yet equipped in their new suits, and were anomalous spectacles in Highland kilts and sailor hats.

Clara and Carrie did not condescend to appear on this occasion, they saw amply sufficient of Mrs. Home and family over the dining-room blind.

Helen felt a sense of burning humiliation and shame to think that now, when she was at home among her own people, they would not even take the trouble to come upstairs and thank Mrs. Home for her great kindness to her, nor even so much as send her a cup of tea. She hoped in her heart that her friend would think they were out! But they went audibly up and down stairs and laughed and shut doors, and Mrs. Home was neither deaf nor stupid.

She stayed an hour, and Helen enjoyed her visit greatly (despite her disappointment at the non-appearance of her relations or, failing them, the tea-tray). It was one little oasis in the desert of her now dreary life; they conversed eagerly together and talked the shibboleth of people who have the same friends, in the same country; they kissed and cried a little, and parted with mutual promises of many letters, for Mrs. Home was going to Jersey, and thence to the Continent.

"Your friends are not our friends, and our friends are not your friends," said Carrie forcibly, and Helen felt that indeed, as far as appearance went, her visitors had not been a success, and for her own part never dreamt of being admitted within the sacred circle of her cousins' acquaintance.

Now and then she met people accidentally in the hall, or in the street when walking with her cousins; and once she overheard Carrie saying to Clara, apropos of visitors,—

"Of course there is no occasion to introduce Helen to any one," and this amiable injunction was obeyed to the letter. However, the omission sat very lightly on the once admired of all admirers at Port Blair.

One morning it happened that Helen was in the drawing-room when a bosom friend of Carrie's came to call—a Miss Fowler Sharpe, a fashionable acquaintance whom the Misses Platt toadied, for she had the entrée to circles barred to them, and they hoped to use her as a pass key.

They made a great deal of the lady, flattered her, caressed her, and ran after her, all of which was agreeable to Miss Sharpe. She was a very elegantly dressed London girl, who spoke with a drawl, and gave one the idea that her eyelids were too heavy for her eyes. She had come over to Cream Street to make some arrangements about an opera-box, and to have a little genteel gossip.

Helen was busily engaged in sewing Madras muslin and coloured bows on the backs of some of the chairs, where she was "discovered" by her cousins and their friend, to whom she was presented in a hasty, off-hand manner, which plainly said, "You need not notice her!"

Miss Sharpe stared for a second, vouchsafed her a little nod, then sat down with her back to Helen and speedily forgot her existence.

The three friends were soon deep in conversation, whilst she worked steadily on, kneeling at the chair she was dressing with her face turned away from the company.

Their principal topics were dress and weddings, weddings and dress, and who was flirting with whom, and what was likely to be a match, and what was not, and who looked lovely in such a gown, and what men were in town.

At length Helen, who had not been attending, caught one syllable that made her start and pause, and then listen with a heightened colour and a beating heart.

"Yes, I hear that Gilbert Lisle is actually coming back; he has been away among savages this last time, positively fraternizing with cannibals."

"Gilbert Lisle coming home!" cried Carrie. "Then Kate Calderwood will be happy at last. I suppose it will be all arranged this season?"

"Yes, his father is most anxious that he should settle; indeed, I believe he wrote him out a furious letter, and said that if he did not come home without delay he would marry again himself!" At this threat all three ladies laughed immoderately.

"Imagine any sane woman marrying such an old Turk as Lord Lingard!" drawled Miss Sharpe. "He is seventy if he is a day, bald and beaky, and with a temper that has a European notoriety; the very idea of his supposing that he would get any one to take him!"

"Yes, hideous old creature," chimed in Clara; "he always reminds me of a white cockatoo with a pink bill."

(Nevertheless, any one of these young ladies would have said "Yes" with pleasure had Lord Lingard asked them to be his.)

"I cannot imagine how any one ever married him originally," pursued Miss Sharpe; "and yet they say that Lady Lingard was one of the handsomest women of her day."

"Oh, but," put in Clara, delighted to impart this class of information, "you know, they say that she married him out of pique, and she did not live long. I suppose he worried her into her grave."

"No," rejoined Miss Sharpe; "though he may have helped to kill her, she died of consumption."

"Did she? and her eldest son is following her. He is in a rapid decline," added Carrie. "And you say that Gilbert Lisle is really coming home?" suddenly falling back on the original topic.

"So I'm told. Mother is going to send him a card for our dance. But I never believe in him till I see him."

"How I wish we knew him," ejaculated Clara, looking at her visitor wistfully.

"Oh, you know he is not a society man, only goes to a few houses and some country places where there is good shooting; now and then you see him at a ball, or in a squash in some staircase; but he has a very fair idea of his own value, and never makes himself cheap," and Miss Sharpe smiled rather disagreeably.

"That's the way with all these rich bachelors," exclaimed Carrie. "They are so spoilt, and so abominably conceited."

"I wonder how he got on among the savages?" said Miss Sharpe.

Little did she guess that the girl who was sitting in the background, with bent head and burning face, could have answered her question then and there.

"I wonder if it will come off with Katie, after all?" exclaimed Carrie. "She is the girl he used to ride with in the park last year, is she not?—very freckled, with high shoulders. She comes to our church. I wonder what he sees in her?" she added.

"It is his father, my dear, who sees everything in her: her property 'march,' as they call it, with the Lingard estates."

"And so she is to be Mrs. Gilbert Lisle?"

"I believe so." And with this remark the subject dropped.

Helen had listened to this conversation with crimson face and throbbing heart. Everything was accounted for now; he had been simply amusing himself with her. This man, who was accustomed to be made much of by London beauties, who was eagerly sought for by house parties in country houses—was it likely that he would be really serious in making love to an obscure girl like herself, a girl whom he had come across in his wanderings among savage islands? "No," she told herself, "not at all likely; his actions spoke for him. He had been simply seeing how much she would believe, repeating a rôle that he had doubtless played dozens of times previously. And during his wanderings his wealthy destined bride, Miss Calderwood, was all the time awaiting him in England. She was to be Mrs. Gilbert Lisle."

"I do declare you have stitched that on the wrong side out! What can you have been thinking of?" demanded Clara very sharply, when her fashionable friend had departed. "You will have to rip it, and put it on properly. Your wits must have been wool-gathering!"

If Clara had known where her cousin's thoughts had been, she would have been very much surprised for once in her life, and ejaculated her favourite exclamation, "Fancy, just fancy!" with unusual animation.

The day after this visit Helen was asked to accompany her cousin Carrie on foot to Bond Street, not an unusual honour. She was useful for carrying small parcels; true, her mourning was shabby, but none of the Platts' acquaintances knew who she was, and, if the worst came to the worst, she might pass as a superior-looking lady's-maid. On their way back from the shops Carrie took it into her head to take a turn in the park. It was about twelve o'clock, and the Row was gay with a fashionable throng of pedestrians. Carrie met several friends, to whom she gave a bow here and a nod there, and Helen, to her great amazement, recognized one while yet afar off, and, although garbed in a frock coat and tall hat—yes, she actually beheld Mr. Quentin coming towards her, walking with a very well-dressed woman, and followed by two red dachshunds. She was positive that the recognition was mutual, and was pleased in her present barren life to hail any acquaintance from Port Blair—even him! When they came almost face to face she bowed and smiled, and would have stopped, but he merely glanced at her as if she were some most casual acquaintance, swept off his hat, and passed on. Evidently Port Blair and Rotten Row were two very different places.

A flood of scarlet rushed over her face, which her quick-eyed companion did not fail to notice, and said—

"Who is that gentleman?"

"A Mr. Quentin. I knew him at Port Blair."

"Fancy! I have heard of him. He is quite in society; he is a friend of the Sharpes. I believe he is rather fascinating—but frightfully in debt."

Helen made no reply, but walked on in silence, and Miss Platt put two and two together with much satisfaction to herself. Helen's undoubted confusion signified of course that she cherished an unrequited attachment for this good-looking, faithless man who had just now gone by with a cool ceremonious bow. So much for her cousin's admirers in the Andamans!

It was now the end of May, and Helen had been six weeks in London, but so far not a word had been mooted to her about her future plans. She made herself useful, working, shopping, going messages; her aunt admitted to herself that she was quite as good as another servant in the house (though she did not actually use the word servant, even in her thoughts); she was a handy, useful, industrious girl, and did not put herself forward; so the matter of getting her a situation had been allowed to remain somewhat in abeyance.

Helen knew that she must eventually "move on," but had a nervous dread of broaching the subject to her relations. Day after day she failed to bring her courage to the sticking-point; but the question, ever trembling on her lips, at last found utterance, and finding herself alone with Mrs. Platt one morning, she said timidly—

"Have you made any plans about me, Aunt Julia?"

"Yes, my dear," was the surprisingly prompt answer, "it is all quite settled; I had intended speaking to you before, but something put it out of my head. I have an important letter to write just now, but when the girls go out this evening you and I will have a talk together."

In due time the Miss Platts departed in the brougham, bound for a little dinner and the play.

Helen, who had assisted to adorn them, partook of a meat tea with her aunt, and then they both adjourned to the little den upon the stairs. There, by the light of a crimson-shaded lamp, Mrs. Platt read the day's news, and Helen sewed and waited—waited for a very long time, and, needless to say, she was most impatient to learn her fate.

Her aunt was a lady who never worked, and rarely opened a book, but devoted her whole time to writing, talking, organizing, eating, sleeping and dressing. She perused the paper as a daily duty, just to see what was going on; and after she had now read every word of it, including advertisements, she folded it up with a crackling noise, and said rather suddenly,—

"This is a capital opportunity for us to have a nice little chat. I have been intending to speak to you for some time. Of course you know, dear, that your father left his affairs in a terrible state. I was not the least surprised to hear it, and all that can be scraped together for you is fourteen pounds a year—less than a kitchen-maid's wages," shrugging her shoulders. "There is no use in saying anything about the dead; what is done is done; nor that, to satisfy his ridiculous ideas of honour, he left his only child——"

"No, no use, Aunt Julia, for I would not listen to you," interrupted Helen with sudden fire. Mrs. Platt was astounded; this outbreak recalled old days, she positively recoiled before the expression of her niece's eyes, the imperious gesture of her hand. She leant back in her chair with folded arms, and sat for some moments in indignant silence, when she reached out two fingers and pulled the lamp-shade down, so that her face was completely in the shadow. She had reason to do so, for she was going to say things of which she might unquestionably be ashamed; and once more she commenced, as if repeating something she had previously rehearsed:

"Ours is the oddest family, we have so few relations on the Denis side, no nice connections, no influential friends; when your grandfather (why could she not say my father?) came to such a fearful smash all his old associates abandoned him, as rats leave a sinking ship. I married, and made new ties, your father married too; but, as far as I know, your mother had no respectable belongings. My sister Christina also made a wretched match; she married a half-crazy Irish professor she picked up at Bonn, he afterwards came in for some miserable Irish property, on which he lives, but he could do nothing, he can hardly keep the wolf and bailiffs from the door as it is. Christina, as I suppose you know, died last Christmas."

"No, Aunt Julia, I never heard of it."

"Oh, well, of course it does not affect you." (Nor did it apparently much affect Mrs. Platt.) "She and I had not met for many years. Then there is my aunt Sophia—your grand-aunt. She is an invalid, and lives at Bournemouth, scarcely ever leaving her room. She is very wealthy, and we correspond constantly, but most of her money goes to charities, in which she takes an interest, and unfortunately she takes no interest in you. She has got it into her head that you are worldly!"

Helen stared round the lamp-shade, to see if her aunt was joking.

"It's quite true," responded Mrs. Platt, meeting her gaze, "and once she gets an idea into her head,—there it stays. So it is rather unfortunate; but, at any rate, all her thoughts are at present centred on a mission to the Laps. Then," with a perceptible pause, "we come to myself. I am not a rich woman" (though she strained every nerve to appear so, and had upwards of three thousand a year), "I spend every penny of my income, and am often pressed for money. Of course, in the country or at the seaside we would have a margin, but the girls would not hear of living anywhere but in town—and naturally I have to study them, and their interests."

"Of course, Aunt Julia," acquiesced her listener.

"This is a ruinous neighbourhood, and this house, though so tiny, costs four hundred a year; no doubt for half that sum, I would get a mansion in Bayswater; but, as the girls say, there is no use in being in town at all if you don't live in the best part of it, and here we are! Then we require to keep up a certain style to correspond with the situation—a man-servant is indispensable, and a carriage; the horses, of course, are jobbed. Again, we have to entertain, to go to the seaside, to dress—and this last, even with Plunket making half the things, costs a small fortune! The long and the short of it is that, out of my very tolerable income, I never have a single sixpence at the end of the year. This being the case, you will readily understand, my dear Helen, that, much as I should wish to do so—I cannot offer you a home here."

"No, of course, Aunt Julia, I never expected you to do so," replied her niece in a low voice.

"You are a sensible girl, wonderfully so for your age, and I talk to you, you see, as openly and as frankly as if you were my own contemporary. I could not afford to dress you as you would require to be dressed, and take you out; besides, the brougham is a crush for three as it is, and three girls at a dance would be out of the question. I must say, I should have liked to have given you a season, but, as Clara points out, my taking you into society would entail leaving one of them behind, and charity begins at home; and, candidly, I am very anxious to see them settled."

"Yes, aunt, of course I understand that your own daughters should come first."

"And besides all this, my love," waxing more affectionate as she proceeded, "I really have no room to give you. Plunket requires one to herself; there is mine, and the girls', and the spare room, and, you see——"

"I see, Aunt Julia," interrupted her niece, "don't say another word. And now what are your plans for me?"

"Well, I had hoped to have got you a very happy, comfortable home, with a very rich old lady in the country, who required a nice cheerful young girl to talk to her, and read to her, and be with her constantly. She was rather astray mentally—a little weak, you know; but you would have got two hundred a year. However——" and she stopped.

"However, aunt——?"

"Well, I heard indirectly that she was liable to rather violent paroxysms occasionally, and came to the conclusion that it would not do! I have been making inquiries among my friends—of course, it's rather a delicate business, and I don't mention that you are my own niece; it would be so very awkward, you know; but I hope to hear of something suitable ere long. Meanwhile, dear, I'm sure you won't be offended at my telling you that we shall want your room next week!"

Helen's hands shook, her lips trembled, so that for the moment she was unable to speak. Was she to be turned out of doors? She had exactly four pounds in her purse upstairs!

"Clara's rich godmother always comes to us for June," continued Mrs. Platt, "and we have to study her, and to make the house bright and pleasant; it is then we always give our little dinner-parties. We do our best to please her; she is very liberal to the girls, and we could not possibly put her off. She will have the spare room, as usual,—and her maid always occupies yours."

"Yes, Aunt Julia."

"I have made a very nice, temporary arrangement for you, dearest! A lady I know, who keeps a large school at Kensington, has most kindly offered to take you gratis for a month or two,—till we can look about us. You are to teach the younger classes French and music."

"In short, go to her as governess?"

"Oh, dear me, no," irritably; "it is a mere friendly offer. She obliges you, you oblige her, as one of her staff has gone home ill, and she is rather short-handed just now."

"And will she pay me?" inquired Helen as bluntly as Mrs. Creery herself.

"Oh, no, I don't think there was any reference to that! Perhaps your laundress may be included; but you scarcely seem to understand that she is going to give you board and lodging for nothing. You are not sufficiently experienced for a governess!"

"But——" began Helen, thinking of her superior musical talents and fluent French.

"But," interrupted her aunt tartly, "if you can think of any other expedient for a couple of months, or have a better suggestion to make, let us have it, by all means!"

Her hearer pondered. There was Miss Twigg, Miss Twigg no longer; she was married, and had gone out to Canada. Mrs. Home was in Germany, her former schoolfellows were scattered,—to whom could she turn?

"Of course this is a mere temporary step, as I said before," urged her aunt. "I shall do much better for you in the autumn; I have great hopes of getting you a comfortable home through some of my friends, and as a favour to me. So, meanwhile, will you go to Mrs. Kane's or not?"

"Yes, aunt; I will do whatever you please."

"Very well, then, that is settled. I must get your things done up a little first. Your aunt Sophia sent ten pounds for you, and I was thinking that as the girls were going out of mourning—three months, you know, is ample for an uncle—that you might help Plunket to remodel one or two of their dresses for yourself."

Helen felt a lump in her throat, that nearly choked her. She would wear a cast-off garment of Mrs. Home's with pleasure, and accept it as it was meant; but Clara's and Carrie's!—never! And she managed to stammer out,—

"No, thank you, Aunt Julia; I shall do very well."

"But that black every-day dress is not fit to be seen."

"It will do in the school-room,—and I shall get another."

"Now I consider that wanton extravagance, when you can have Clara's for nothing. Perhaps your dignity is offended?" and she laughed at the mere idea of such a possibility, and then added, "By the way, are you proud?"

Helen made no reply, but bent her eyes on her work.

"Then, my dear child, the sooner you get rid of that folly the better,—for poverty, and pride, are no match for one another."

"How soon did you say I was to go to Mrs. Kane's, aunt?"

"On Monday next. You can leave your big box here still, and if you like to come over to lunch every second Sunday, you may do so. But I doubt if you will care for the long walk across the park,—or if Mrs. Kane could spare a servant to walk home with you."

"Then, thank you, I won't mind."

"Well, dear," rising as if a load had been removed from her mind, "I believe we have settled everything satisfactorily. It is so much pleasanter to talk over these matters face to face. And now, love, I'll say good-night. I daresay you would like to finish Carrie's handkerchief before you go upstairs." Then, stooping and kissing her, she added, "Be sure you put the lamp out carefully," and with this parting injunction, Aunt Julia opened the door, and departed, leaving her orphan niece alone with her own thoughts.

Helen stitched away mechanically for nearly ten minutes, then she laid down her work, and sat with her hands lying idly in her lap, and her eyes riveted upon the rose-coloured lamp-shade, but her thoughts did not take any reflection from that brilliant hue. The life that had begun so brightly now stretched out before her mental vision as grey and dreary as a winter's day. She was imperiously summoned to work for herself, to take up her post in the battle of existence, to toil for her daily bread for the future,—her only aim being to lay by some provision for her old age; she saw before her years of drudgery, with but this end in view. She had no friends, no relations, no money. A cold, dull despair settled down upon her soul, as she sat in the same attitude for fully an hour. At last she rose, folded up her work, carefully extinguished the lamp, and then made her way noiselessly up to her own apartment under the slates.