The Adventures of an Ugly Girl

But as soon as breakfast was over, I had a private confabulation with Mr. Garth, in which he fully approved of my intention of going to see Madame Kominski at once.

“Let me see,” he said by-and-by. “There is a train from Moorbye at 12:52. This would enable you to reach Kensington by 4:30, a good time, I should imagine, for catching the lady at home. If you fail to see her this evening, you can either return here, or put up at a hotel which I can recommend for the night. If you do not come to an arrangement, you will return and stay here, of course, until something else turns up. Should you, on the other hand, find the appointment one that you can accept, your future proceedings will be arranged between Madame Kominski and yourself.”

“The 12:50 train will suit me admirably,” I said. “I shall have time to pay a visit to Bobby and Teddy. They, at least, will remember me with affection.”

“Then suppose you get ready at once, Dorrie. I will go with you, as I want to see John Page. He has had frequent touches of rheumatism lately, and I promised to take him some liniment. I can talk to him while you interview your pets.”

“Miss Morris is anxious to go to the Grange. But I would much rather go without her this morning.”

“My wife will amuse her. I can take her, together with her sister, to have a look at Courtney Grange to-morrow.”

Half an hour later the vicar and I were walking briskly toward my old home, and I was feeling happy at the mere sight of the waving corn-fields and smiling hedge-rows which stretched on our right hand, in vivid contrast to the semi-barrenness and sober but quaint coloring of the moorland on our left. I found it impossible to pass all the floral treasures which greeted me by the way, and my heart presently grew heavy at the thought that it might possibly be years before I was able to gather another bunch of wild flowers on my native heath. When the chimneys of the Grange came in sight, I had a fierce battle to fight with my avowed determination not to enter its doors again, and I found that sentiment was, after all, a much stronger passion in me than wounded pride.

“Oh, I must run in and see Martha,” I exclaimed, when at last we emerged from the long avenue. “Do wait a minute here, while I run round to the back and give her a surprise.”

Suiting the action to the word, I left the good-natured vicar to his own devices, while I hurried round to the kitchen entrance, anxious to see Martha at her usual avocations, in order that I might fancy this hurried visit to my home more homelike. Somewhat to my disappointment, Martha was not half so surprised as I had fancied she would be.

“Eh! is that you, Miss Dora?” she exclaimed, dropping the potato she was peeling, as I impetuously sprang into the kitchen and gave her a warm greeting. “I thought maybe you would come to-day; and you’ll find your room quite ready for you.”

“But how could you know I was coming?” I inquired blankly. “I never sent you word that you might expect me.”

“No, but Mr. Courtney did. We got a letter from him this morning. Here it is.”

I took the letter, which she pulled out of her pocket for me, and read it, feeling as if all the romance were knocked out of me again.

“Prepare Miss Dora’s room. If she is not already at the Grange, you may expect her soon.”

That was all, and I could not help a slight feeling of vexation at its tenor. True, it implied that my father had not really intended to banish me altogether. But it also evinced such a determination to ignore any mental distress in which I might be submerged that it convinced me more than ever of the hopelessness of ever expecting my father to show the least spark of true affection for me.

“And how is John?” I asked soberly.

“John! Why, John’s pretty much as usual, I think,” said Martha, with a sharp touch of asperity in her voice. “But somehow he seems to be everlastingly complaining of late, and it’s ‘Oh, my leg! Oh, my back!’ nearly all day long.”

“Then he must be really ill.”

“Not he. He’s just taken a lazy fit, and wants pampering, that’s all.”

“Which he isn’t likely to get from the wife o’ his buzzim,” broke in John’s voice at this juncture.

“Oh, John, I quite forgot!” I exclaimed penitently. “The vicar is waiting for you on the steps. He has got some liniment for you.”

John hobbled off at once, calling out, as he did so: “There’s a letter waiting for you upstairs, Miss Dora.”

Aroused to sudden curiosity, I at once ran up to my old room, and almost cried with joy to see Lady Elizabeth’s beloved handwriting. If my father’s missive lacked sympathy, his wife’s made ample amends for it, for it breathed of nothing but love and anxious care for my well-being. It had been taken for granted by my stepmother that I would come straight to the Grange and wait quietly there for the return of the rest of the family. I resolved to perpetuate her comforting delusion as long as I could, and forthwith wrote her a letter, in which I thanked her warmly for all the nice messages she sent me, and assured her that she need have no uneasiness about me, as I should make myself quite comfortable while at Moorbye.

Then I sallied out to the stables, having wondered already how it was that I had seen nothing either of Bobby or of Teddy. Even as I got quite up to the stable door they were both still invisible, and a vague feeling of impending calamity seized me, as the old familiar whistle, to which my erstwhile playmates had been wont to respond so joyously, failed to evoke the usual boisterous signs of recognition from either of them. I certainly did hear a feeble whine, but could hardly credit it to be Bobby’s usually clamorous voice.

“Oh, my God!” I thought dumbly, “is a new trouble about to befall me?”

Then I walked slowly forward, feeling a leaden weight on limbs and brain alike. With quaking heart and anxious eyes I peered in the direction of Teddy’s old stall, and when I failed to see the dear little ugly companion of my happiest frolics, I only felt the mist which covered my eyes to be the outcome of a dreary conviction which had been stealing over me ever since I emerged from the house. For a moment a deadly faintness almost overpowered me, so that I had to seize the nearest available support, in order to prevent myself from falling. While I still stood, feeling half dazed with a newly added sense of misery, I once more heard the feeble imitation of a whine which had already attracted my attention. Then, looking down, I saw, painfully rolling toward me, a little round body that must be, could be, nothing but my darling Bobby. Hastily stepping forward, I stooped and lifted the object, and oh! how can I ever describe what I felt when, taking it to the light, I discovered it to be none other than my beloved pet! Poor fellow! he had recognized me, and, though almost at death’s door, had made a desperate effort to meet me once more.

I sat down with him on my lap and bent over him in an agony of grief. He, in his turn, fondly licked my fingers and looked at me with a piteous, all-adoring love shining out of the beautiful eyes which were already fast glazing over with the last dread film.

“Oh, my darling!” I moaned, as I kissed his dear little head over and over again. “What have I done that I should lose everything I love? I would give ten years of my life to see you frisk about me in the old happy way. Can’t you really get better, now that I have come?”

Did the poor thing understand me, or was he only making a supreme effort to make me comprehend how glad he was to see me? Perhaps it was both, for he always was more intelligent than some human beings I have encountered. Be this as it may, he suddenly rose to his feet, and stood looking in my face for a moment almost the picture of his old excitable self, with sparkling eyes and quivering body. Then he gave a sharp, glad bark, and dropped, lifeless, on the lap of one of the most desolate human beings on earth.

How long I sat there in my misery I do not know, but was at last interrupted by the voice of the vicar, who, perceiving what had happened, asked me no questions, but, gently lifting poor Bobby’s body into a basket which stood close by, suggested that we should bury him ourselves before we returned to the vicarage. As one in a dream, I let him lead me whither he would, and together we went down to the old orchard, where, presently, my kindly friend took upon himself the office of grave-digger. Concerning Teddy, I asked no more questions just now, for I no longer believed him to be alive.

When I had marked Bobby’s resting-place, I turned to John Page, whom, for the first time, I noticed to be standing near me. “And now,” I said, my voice still shaken with sobs, “tell me how it is that you never sent us word that my pets were ill.”

“Indeed, miss, I did,” answered John, with a sympathetic look at my grief-stricken face. “I sent the master word about everything. You had only been gone a day or two when Teddy began to fret and go off his feed. He would seek you in the yard, and in the orchard, and in all sorts of likely and unlikely places, and when he couldn’t see anything of you, he would whinny that pitifully that neither Martha nor me liked to hear him. We used to try to pet him up a bit. But it was no go, and we could see that if he went on fretting like that things would soon go wrong with him. Bobby, too, hung his head, and walked about looking the picture of misery. When you were away at my lady’s place, before, they both took on considerable. But you were not quite so long away, and it hadn’t such an effect on them as it’s had this time. It was only last week that Teddy died, and Bobby has never been out of the stable since. I have done what I could for him, but anybody could see that he wouldn’t be here long. The master knew Teddy was dead, and I’m sure I thought you knew all about it. I buried him just at the foot of the paddock, feeling that that was where you would have liked to put him, if you had been at home.”

I couldn’t speak. But I gave John a look which would show him that I exonerated him from blame and that I was grateful to him for what he had tried to do for me. Then I walked down to the paddock, to take one last look at poor old Teddy’s resting-place. And here a fresh idea seized me. My two pets had been such inseparable friends during life that I felt it cruel to part them in death, and returned to John, to ask him to bring Bobby’s body to be finally interred beside that of his friend and companion. My wish was soon accomplished, and then, without looking back at the old home even once more, I walked away toward the vicarage, followed by the vicar, and hardly knowing whether grief at my loss, or resentment at the callousness which had prevented my father from telling me the true state of the case, was predominant.

I had not walked far before I was overtaken by Mr. Garth, but there was very little said between us until we were nearly at the vicarage.

“Did you know that my pony was dead?” I asked him.

“Certainly not,” he replied. “I saw John last week, and he never mentioned either of your pets, though I do not doubt that he has taken good care of them. Very likely your father did not wish you to be told much about them, lest the news should unsettle you.”

“Yes, of course. That is the true explanation of the case. My father was actuated by tender regard for my feelings, and I ought to feel proportionately grateful. But, somehow, I don’t feel particularly moved in the direction of gratitude, and the sooner I am away from the neighborhood of Courtney Grange the better. I shall not regret my absence from it now, since my presence near it could only foster painful memories. The past is dead, and I must let my dead past bury its dead.”

“You have youth and energy on your side, my dear. I predict that in six months you will yearn for your old home again and be as happy as ever here.”

“Never! You do not know me, Mr. Garth. My experiences since I went to London have been such as to develop and increase the latent passions of my childhood, besides endowing me with others toward which I never suspected myself to have a leaning. Among the latter are self-reliance, independence, and firmness of purpose. They alone will forbid my early return to the Grange.”

“Well, I will not argue the point with you, child, as of course you know more about the matter than I do. But has it struck you that while we have been lingering at the Grange, time has been flying, and that you have missed the 12:50 train for London? You will have to put off your journey until morning, as the next train from here arrives in London too late to enable you to call at Madame Kominski’s house this evening.”

“Then what shall I do? How soon can I get there in the morning?”

“If you do not mind rising early, you can leave by the 6:30 A.M. train. That will land you in Kensington in good time.”

“If you and Mrs. Garth—”

“Pray don’t mention it, child. We are only too happy to do what we can for you. Oh, there they all are!”

“They” of whom he spoke were Mrs. Garth, Mrs. Marshall and Miss Morris, who were walking leisurely toward us, their hands full of wild roses and honeysuckle, which they had been pulling in the hedgerows. Master Vinnie was skipping alone in front, and having an occasional race with Leo, a splendid St. Bernard, who looked as wise as any of us.

The whole party looked so handsome, so happy, and so thoroughly satisfied with their lot in life, that my own isolation and loneliness struck me more forcibly than ever. I am not sure that I was not going to give way to another outburst of grief, when I chanced to look up into Mr. Garth’s face, and saw that the erstwhile sad and sympathetic expression of his countenance had vanished as magically as do morning mists before the power of the rising sun. He was smiling at the pleasant sight which greeted his gaze, and in an instant I was confounded by a sense of the selfishness of my own conduct. What right had I to obtrude my private griefs upon my friends? True, they were kind and sympathizing, but that did not deprive them of their due claim to consideration, and life does not hold so much happiness for any that one can afford to exchange the flowers of joy for the withered leaves of sorrow, even though the sorrow may more closely appertain to another.

I believe that great changes of character may be brought about in susceptible and highly-strung natures by trifling incidents, and a suddenly conceived resolve of my own was no particularly noticeable departure from a somewhat general rule. “If I cannot be happy myself,” I reflected, “I can at least conduce to the happiness of others by presenting a bright and cheerful front to the world. And this I will try to do in future, God helping me.”

It was in conformity with this resolution that I walked smilingly up to Mrs. Garth and her guests, and apologized for having kept the vicar so long away from them. Then I challenged Vinnie and Leo to a race, and, before Mr. Garth had time to conjecture the cause of the abrupt change in my demeanor, I was scampering down the lane with the delighted boy, and the no less delighted dog, who instantly entered into the spirit of the diversion suggested, as did also May Morris, who laughingly exclaimed that she saw no reason why she should not join in the fun, and promptly followed in our wake. We had half an hour of scampering and laughter, and returned to the vicarage breathless, rosy, and hungry. Perhaps Leo could hardly be accused of being either breathless or rosy, but he was certainly as ready for his midday meal as any of us. As for myself, I noted with surprise that my effort to appear cheerful and happy had recoiled upon myself, and that I no longer felt so miserable as I had done earlier in the day.

“You’re just a dear, jolly girl,” said May to me, as we were rehabilitating our toilet, previous to going down to lunch. “I’m awfully sorry you are going away so soon, and I’m awfully afraid lest those horrid Russians should lock you up in one of their dungeons. Just fancy how awfully horrid it would be if they were to hang you up by the thumbs, and flog you with a bundle of knouts!”

“My dear girl,” I said, unable to refrain from laughter at May’s limited and slangy vocabulary, as well as at her hazy and mixed-up notions of things Russian. “It is not by any means sure that I am going to Russia, and even if I do go, it is of no use anticipating unlikely contingencies.”

“Perhaps not,” retorted May sapiently. “But one may as well be prepared for possibilities, and then they don’t overtake one as a surprise. And, after all, there are perhaps worse things than the knout.”

“Hardly,” I rejoined. “The knout so generally proves an instrument of death that it must be regarded as the extreme punishment.”

“But suppose they banish you to Siberia?”

“I don’t see any probability of such a disaster, as, if I am lucky enough to secure the appointment I am seeking, I shall be very careful about what I say and do. And now—suppose we go downstairs?”

After luncheon the vicar announced his intention of paying some visits which he owed to a few of the poorer of his parishioners. “I do not care to inflict myself upon them in the forenoon,” he added. “They are generally busy, either cleaning or cooking, and do not care to be bothered by callers before they have had time to don themselves up a little.”

“But why should you trouble yourself to visit them at all, when you have a curate who could look after your poorer parishioners?” asked Mrs. Marshall. “The vicar of St. Dungaree’s Church only associates with, or speaks personally to, the well-to-do people of his parish. He never goes to any house of which the rent is less than seventy pounds per annum.”

“Then I suppose he does not think people with small incomes possess souls?” I ejaculated.

“Oh, dear, yes! of course they have souls. But you can’t attach as much importance to their conversion as if they were in a position to be of service to the church, as rich people can be, and a curate’s attentions are as much as they can expect.”

“Then we may conclude that the objects of a curate and of a vicar are entirely dissimilar. The curate wishes to save souls. The vicar is anxious to wheedle money out of his parishioners. Fie, Mrs. Marshall, how can you so depreciate Mr. Garth’s calling?”

“Good gracious! Miss Courtney. It’s you who are doing it, not me. I never thought of the matter in the light you are throwing upon it. And I am sure Mr. Garth understands my meaning very well.”

“To be sure I do,” responded the vicar, good-humoredly. “No doubt the vicar of St. Dungaree’s is swayed by motives which outsiders do not understand. For my own part, I am quite convinced of my own unfitness for a city living, as I have what some would consider inveterately democratic notions. For instance, I am far happier when chatting with old Mrs. Murfree, who has been bedridden for six years, and who nevertheless earns a precarious livelihood by knitting and coarse needlework, than when conversing with Lady Smythe, who imagines herself to be the greatest lady in the county. And I would much rather have a talk and a smoke with old Grey, our cobbler-poet, than be invited out to dine with the lord of the manor.”

“And that reminds me,” put in Mrs. Garth, “that Lady Smythe and her daughters are coming this afternoon for a game of tennis. The Worthingtons will probably be here, too, so I hope you will try to get back before they leave.”

The vicar, having promised to use his best endeavors in that direction, now hurried off. I would rather have been excused from meeting the coming guests, if I had consulted only my own inclination; and it required a little mental struggle on my part to induce me to persevere just then in my lately-formed resolve to be as cheerful as possible at all times. May Morris, superficial and shallow as she seemed, was a bright, merry girl, who did nothing to foster either lugubriousness or reserve, and with whom it would have been difficult for me to maintain a silent mood for any length of time. Vinnie, too, seemed to have taken immensely to me since the morning and eagerly importuned us for another romp. Thus it happened that when the Smythe family drove up to the door they were rather scandalized by seeing two young women, who were evidently utterly regardless of appearances, scampering along a sidewalk, laughing and panting, followed by a fleet-footed child, who was pelting them with daisies which had a few hours before bespangled the tennis lawn, and by an excited St. Bernard, whose occasional tugs had utterly ruined the fresh appearance of their gowns.

“There now,” I said at last. “I really must sit down a bit. Vinnie, hadn’t you better run in and ask nurse to sponge your hands and face, before any visitors see you? I think I must go in also and straighten my hair.”

“That’s just how I feel,” said May, so we all adjourned, in order to present a better appearance by-and-by.

An hour later both courts on the vicarage tennis lawn were occupied with players, most of whom wielded their racquets in such a way as to indicate considerable practice in the health-giving pastime upon which they were now engaged. The two brothers Worthington, sons of a local landed proprietor, were worthy partners of the Misses Smythe, and Mr. Graham, the doctor’s assistant—whose aider and abettor in all social functions at which they could both be present was Mr. Wix, our curate—was so evidently smitten by May’s charms that I caught myself wondering whether he would be able to supplant the fascinating actor. Mrs. Marshall had offered to let me play in her stead, but a reaction from my previous excitement had set in, and I craved quiet and repose. Leaving her, therefore, to a game which I knew she would enjoy, I strolled further away from the house, and presently sat down on the forked arm of an apple-tree which grew just behind the hut that had been erected for the accommodation of those who preferred to watch the game rather than take an active part in it. The branch of the tree hung so low that I had no difficulty in fixing myself comfortably upon it, and I soon found the repose of my situation so conducive to drowsiness that I think I must have gone to sleep for a little while.

At any rate I was roused by the sound of voices which I could not localize for a few moments, as I had not noticed the approach of the speakers, who were evidently now sitting in the hut close to me. My own name fell on my ears with somewhat startling distinctness.

“Miss Dora Courtney,” said a voice which I recognized as that of Lady Smythe, the wife of an ex-wine merchant who had chanced to be the mayor of a neighboring town on the occasion of the Queen’s Jubilee, and had consequently dropped into a knighthood. “Miss Dora Courtney surprises me by her behavior.”

“In what way, Lady Smythe? And who is the young lady, that she should evoke interest in you?” asked another voice, which was strange to me, but which had such a liberal allowance of flattering unction in it, and which laid such emphasis on the second person singular that I set its owner down for a toady of the first water at once.

“My dear Miss Grindle,” was the reply, “I am certainly exclusive. But I am able to take interest in many people whose position in society scarcely warrants notice from me. Otherwise you would hardly find me mixing indiscriminately with people at parties like this. It pleases commoners to be noticed by persons of title, and I pride myself upon being looked upon as more condescending than the rest of the nobility hereabouts.”

“Oh, you’re just an angel! If only the Mountmerlyns were like you.”

“Ah, yes! poor things! I feel sorry for them. What’s the use of their asthmatic old earldom, without money to keep it up? Such a struggle as they must have! And, between you and me, they’re dying to know Sir Robert and myself, but are overawed by a sense of the great difference in our position.”

“You mean—Lady Smythe?”

“We are so rich, and they are so poor. No wonder they are afraid of intruding upon us.”

“And this Miss Courtney?—”

“To be sure, we were talking of Miss Courtney. Well, she was brought up at Courtney Grange, and has a sister and brother who are perfectly lovely, strange as it may seem when you look at her plain face. I believe they pride themselves upon being a county family, but they were a very poverty-stricken lot until the father secured for his second wife a rich widow, the daughter of the Earl of Greatlands. Then one startling announcement followed another. Lady Elizabeth’s brother, the heir to the earldom, became engaged to the beautiful Miss Courtney. Then the wedding was put off because the old earl was to be married to the ugly Miss Courtney, the one who is here now. While all society was opening its eyes in amazement at this freak of the old earl, it was startled by the news of his death on his wedding-morning.”

“How shocking! And had the marriage taken place?”

“How could it? This girl would then have been the Countess of Greatlands.”

“Poor thing! What a dreadful disappointment for her.”

“Yes, you may well say so. And that is what surprises me so about her. She seems to be quite happy and merry. Look how she was running about the garden when we came—a perfect tomboy.”

“So she was. It’s really very indecent of her, when one comes to think of it. She ought to keep herself as quiet as if she were really a widow.”

“H’m! widows! I don’t think much of them. They are a flighty lot. But what do you think people are saying about the ‘Greatlands Romance,’ as it is called?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. You see, I have been abroad, and—”

“And you can’t afford to buy the newspapers. Yes, I know all about that. Well, they say that the earl’s son—that is, the present earl, and his intended bride, Miss Belle Courtney, were furious when they heard of the old gentleman’s infatuation, and that they swore the marriage should never take place. One of the servants overheard a desperate quarrel between the two sisters, in which the elder vowed all sorts of horrible things. After that it was queer, to say the least, that the poor old man, who had gone to bed the night before quite healthy and happy, should be found to be dead when his valet went to rouse him on his marriage morning.”

“Good heavens! why, they must have murdered him!”

“Well, it certainly looks like it. They vowed he shouldn’t get married, and he didn’t live to get married. Of course, the other couple, now that all obstacles have been swept out of their path, will get married soon and share the wealth and title. But I wouldn’t like to stand in their shoes.—Oh, here is Mrs. Garth! Mrs. Garth, we have just been saying what a good thing it is for poor Miss Dora Courtney that she can be so cheerful after all her troubles.”

“Yes, she bears up wonderfully, poor child. But I have not seen her for some time. I thought she was perhaps in here with you. Where will you have your tea? Here, or in the drawing-room?”

“I think I would rather go indoors for a while. I want to look at some new prints Mr. Garth was telling me about.”

A few minutes later the hut had changed occupants, and May Morris, hot and excited after a victorious game, was pouring tea for the tennis players out of an urn which a servant had placed on the table, while the young men were handing the bread and butter plates round, amid a chorus of laughter and merry rapartee. I alone sat unobserved, lonely, and now once more thoroughly miserable, heedless of aught else save my own bitter reflections, and feeling as incapable of moving as I had done during the conversation between Lady Smythe and Miss Grindle.

That the tragedy of my life should be talked about did not surprise me. But that my own dreadful suspicions should have found an echo in the breasts of others was to me a most horrible revelation, which created in me so great a revulsion of feeling as to paralyze my energies pro tem. I could do nothing for a while but sit and wonder vaguely what would be the end of it all. Would the conviction of my sister’s guilt spread from one to another until the authorities felt bound to interfere, with the object of arriving at a complete solution of the mystery? Should I have to give evidence? And would Lady Elizabeth be called upon to witness against her brother and her stepdaughter? Would the name of both families be dragged through the mire of the criminal courts, and be gloated over by pothouse politicians in polemical discussions in re the immorality of the aristocracy? And, horror of horrors! suppose things were to come to the worst, was it possible that my beautiful sister, the pride of her father’s heart, and one of my darling mother’s children, could be sentenced to a shameful death! A murderer’s death is not more shameful than his crime, we know; but, alas! how many hearts bear witness to the agony inflicted on friends and relatives by the mandates of justice. It would kill Lady Elizabeth if the case were brought to trial, and this reflection was itself enough to strengthen my determination to avoid publicity henceforth. My very presence, it seemed, was sufficient to set the tongues of conjecture and suspicion wagging. My temporary absence might perhaps help people to forget the existence of myself and my history.

For the future, if I would avoid a crisis, I had better be seen and heard as little as possible; and this reflection made me so feverishly anxious to quit the country that I sprang from my seat in excitement and hurried toward the house as if thereby I could hasten the interview between Madame Kominski and myself. As I might have expected, I was intercepted on my way and besieged by inquiries as to where I had been hiding myself. My pale face and heavy eyes indorsed my plea of the desire of seclusion on the score of a violent headache, and I was allowed to go to my room, where Mrs. Garth soon followed me with a cup of tea and words of sympathy. Left alone once more, I meditated earnestly as to my future proceedings, finally coming to the conclusion that for the sake of Jerry and Lady Elizabeth, if not for the sake of my father and Belle, I must never divulge aught that could harm Belle, but must do all in my power to prevent the suspicions of others from being fostered.

In spite of my desire to appear as cheerful as possible, I felt myself unequal to the task of going downstairs again that afternoon. Evening found me able to appear more sociable, and the next morning saw me, primed with good wishes and affectionate “good-bys” from my dear good friends, Mr. and Mrs. Garth, both of whom had got up to escort me to the station, en route for Kensington, where I arrived in due course.