Chapter IX: Miss Cottrell's Alias

MY hopes were doomed to disappointment. Aunt Clara wrote that Agneta would be only too pleased to share my room, as she had a nervous dread of sleeping alone in a strange place. So I had to resign myself to the inevitable, and I tried to do it with as good a grace as possible. Aunt Clara said that she would like Agneta to join us in the following week; thus my room had soon to be prepared for another occupant. There was ample space in it for two bedsteads, and aunt had everything arranged very comfortably, but for me, its charm had gone when it was no longer my own sanctum.

"It may not be for long, Nan," my aunt said, reading my thoughts, as together we inspected the new arrangements. "I cannot tell how long these guests will remain with me. I naturally hope they will stay all the summer, but I shall be exceptionally fortunate if they do. When there is another room vacant Agneta shall have it."

"You forget that she does not like to sleep alone," I said. "Oh, it will be all right, auntie. I dare say we shall get on nicely together, and it will be better for you, for then you can let the vacant room to some one else."

"If any one else wants it," said Aunt Patty smiling. "I am really very thankful to have all my rooms occupied. It makes things much easier, and it might have been so different."

That day I received a box from home. It struck me as a curious coincidence, when I perceived that it contained the evening gown that had belonged to my cousin, but was now to be worn by me. I had asked Olive to send it as soon as possible, for I felt altogether too dowdy of an evening in contrast with Paulina's splendour, to say nothing of Miss Cottrell's tasteless efforts at display. Veiled with black grenadine, and finished with dainty frills and furbelows by Olive's clever fingers, the pink gown was so transformed, that I doubted if even its former wearer would recognise it. As I examined it, I remembered the spots we had seen on the bodice, which Olive had declared to be tears. Surely she was mistaken!

Then I saw that Olive had pinned a little note to the sleeve.

"Dearest Nan," she wrote, "I do hope you will like this frock. I really feel that I have succeeded beyond my hopes. Last night I tried it on, and even mother said it was very pretty, while Peggy grew green with envy, and declares she shall ask Aunt Patty to have her another year. Is it not funny to think that you will wear it before the eyes of its former owner? I hardly think, though, that she will know it again. We were so surprised to hear of Aunt Clara's plan, and only think, Agneta is to break her journey in London, and will stay a night here, so we shall all see her! Aunt Clara gives a poor account of her though, says she is nervous, depressed, excitable, and difficult to manage at home, and hints that it is all owing to a 'foolish fancy' for a man who is a 'sad detrimental.' Poor little cousin to have lost her heart so soon, and to one of whom her parents disapprove! Peggy says that it makes her as interesting as the heroine of a penny novelette. We all look forward to seeing her, and mother is going to write and ask her to stay a few days with us. Do write soon and say how you like the frock and tell us the latest about Pollie Dicks."

"Your loving sister,"
"OLIVE."

"So those were tears!" I said to myself, as I folded up Olive's letter. "Poor Agneta! I wonder what the 'sad detrimental' is like. She is to be sent down here to be well out of his way. Probably it is not so much that Manchester does not suit her, as that it does not suit Aunt Clara to keep her in Manchester just now. I wonder how she likes being banished to this rural solitude." And I, as well as my sisters, began to look forward with some curiosity to making our cousin's acquaintance.

We expected Agneta about the middle of the week, but mother succeeded in keeping her for a day or two, and sent us word that she would come on Saturday. An early train was named, and Aunt Patty asked me to drive into Chelmsford in the "sociable" and meet my cousin at the station. It was a lovely day, and I ran cheerfully to get ready. I was so glad that Agneta should arrive on a day when "Gay Bowers" was looking its best. Already there were roses opening their pink petals against the wall of the house, and the flower-beds were bright with scarlet geraniums and verbenas. Through the staircase window I caught sight of Miss Cottrell's garden hat away in the corner to which she devoted her energies, and was glad to think that she was engaged in gardening. Paulina, I knew, was busy with letters, which she meant to "mail" later, so I hoped to get off by myself on this occasion.

But I congratulated myself too soon. When I came downstairs the carriage was not yet at the door, but Miss Cottrell came hurrying in from the garden.

"Are you going to Chelmsford to meet your cousin?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered, putting on my gloves with an air of haste.

"Can I go with you?" she asked. "I want to change my book at the railway stall."

"You had better let me do that for you," I said. "I must be off in three minutes."

"Oh, but I can be ready in that time," she said, "and there are other things I want to do in town."

"Very well, if you will not make me late for the train," I said coldly.

I felt sure that nothing short of telling her I did not want her would deliver me from her company.

She was back again almost as soon as the conveyance drove up. She had changed her hat and added a gauzy ruffle, which was rather incongruous, to the morning blouse which so ill-became her heavy thick-set figure. She looked an odd individual, and I could not help wondering what Agneta would think of her.

The fresh air and the sweet scent of the hedges, on which the may blossom still lingered, soon soothed my ruffled feelings, and I tried to respond amiably to Miss Cottrell's remarks.

"Now where do you wish to be put down?" I asked as we drove into the town. "If you are coming back with us, you must not be very long, or we shall all be late for luncheon."

"Oh, I will go straight to the station," she replied. "I like to be there when the train comes in. One sees life at a railway station, as dear Lady Mowbray used to say."

So it seemed that her business was a mere pretext for assisting at the meeting between me and the cousin of whom, as she had already discovered, I knew so little! I felt both cross and contemptuous; but my vexation vanished when the train came in, for a delightful surprise awaited me. One of the first persons to step on to the platform was my father!

"Oh, father, it is never you!" I cried, feeling ready to hug him. "How nice of you to come!"

"Nice for myself you mean," he said. "I felt it high time I came and saw how my Nan was getting on—to say nothing of your Aunt Patty and her 'paying guests'—so I thought I would bring your cousin down and have a peep at you all."

So saying he turned and gave his hand to a fair, slender girl, who stepped lightly from the carriage. I saw at a glance that she was very pretty, but her face was colourless, and, though she shook hands with me pleasantly enough, her manner showed a strange lack of animation. She wore a grey travelling gown, and a red hat which made me think of Olive's riddle.

"I am so glad you have such a nice day," I said. "It is really warm at last. I hope you like the country."

"Oh, yes, I like it well enough," she said indifferently. "It seems rather pretty about here."

"How well you look, Nan!" said my father. "You are not like the same girl whom I saw off from Liverpool Street four months ago. I hope 'Gay Bowers' will do as much for your cousin; she needs some roses badly. Why, Miss Smith, who would have thought of seeing you here? How are you?"

To my amazement I saw that it was Miss Cottrell whom he thus addressed. She shrank back, her face crimson.

"You are mistaken," she stammered, "my name is not Smith."

"Then you have changed it since I last saw you; you are married, I suppose," he said pleasantly; "for we certainly called you Miss Smith at the 'Havelock Arms.'"

"The ''Avelock Arms!'" she stammered. Her h's always dropped when she was agitated.

"Why, father, this is Miss Cottrell," I said, pitying her embarrassment as she grew redder and redder.

"Then she has changed her name," said my father, looking at her in astonishment, "for it was as Miss Smith I knew her in Devonshire. I used to stay sometimes at her uncle's inn, a very pleasant place of sojourn on the border of Dartmoor, where I went for the sake of fishing. But it must be nearly twenty years since I was last there. I heard only the other day that John Smith and his wife were both dead and the inn had changed hands. That is true, I suppose?"

He looked keenly at her as he spoke, and her eyes fell beneath his gaze. She was crimson. Her face was the picture of misery and shame. But it was clear that my father had not the least doubt of her identity with Miss Smith, and she dared not deny it.

"Yes, my uncle and aunt have passed away," she said awkwardly. "I do not remember that I ever saw you at their house. There are so many Smiths in the world that I thought I should like another name and took that of Cottrell, which was my mother's. I hope there is no harm in that?"

"Not at all; this is a free country, and it is not an unheard-of thing for people to change their names," said my father, anxious now to relieve the embarrassment which he had innocently caused. "I must see about your luggage, Agneta. Is there a conveyance outside, Nan?"

"John and the wagonette are there," I said. "Come, Agneta, we may as well take our seats."

Father was about to shake hands with Miss Cottrell when I said hurriedly:

"Miss Cottrell is coming with us, father; she is staying at 'Gay Bowers.'"

"Oh, that is right," he said quickly, but I saw a gleam of amusement leap into his eyes, and the corners of his mouth twitched.

Poor Miss Cottrell looked utterly bewildered and crestfallen as she followed us to the wagonette. She hardly said a word as we drove homewards. Father and I had a great deal to say to one another. I wanted to hear all the home news, but I tried to draw Agneta into the talk. As I observed her, it struck me that she was more like my mother than her own. I could trace no resemblance in her features to Aunt Clara, but something in her face reminded me of mother.

For some time Miss Cottrell's tongue was absolutely still, a thing I could hardly have believed possible, until father said:

"By the way, Miss Smith—Cottrell, I mean—I remember that it was only in the summer that you were at the 'Havelock Arms.' You lived with a lady—all, I have forgotten her name—who had an afflicted daughter whose nurse you were."

"Excuse me, sir," said Miss Cottrell angrily, "I was her companion."

"That would be the same thing under the circumstances, would it not?" he asked gently.

Miss Cottrell vouchsafed no reply, but her eyes flashed fire. I pitied the uncomfortable position into which false pride had led her, and hastily drew father's attention to the beauty of the common across which we were driving.

"So you have Professor Faulkner at 'Gay Bowers,'" father said presently. "I am looking forward to making his acquaintance."

I started and felt my colour rise.

"Why, what do you know of him?" I asked eagerly.

"No more than all the world may know," he said. "That he is a very brilliant young scholar and has written a scientific criticism of Shakespeare's plays which promises to become a standard work."

"Oh, father, you fairly frighten me!" I said; yet somehow I was very glad. "I know he writes and studies a great deal. He spends all the mornings in his room at work, yet he is so simple and human in his ways that auntie and I had almost forgotten that he is a learned professor."

"Don't you know yet, Nan, that greatness and simplicity are generally combined?" my father asked, with a smile. "It is your shallow-pated man who gives himself airs."

Aunt Patty was delighted to welcome father, for she had no more expected to see him than I had. We seemed a large party at luncheon, and there was plenty of talk, although Miss Cottrell was unusually silent. I was terribly afraid that father would call her "Miss Smith," but happily, he never addressed a remark to her, being much absorbed in talk with Colonel Hyde and Professor Faulkner. He seemed to get on exceedingly well with the latter, and I longed to hear what they were saying, but with Agneta beside me demanding my attention and Paulina chattering to me across the table, I could never catch more than a word or two. Paulina made various attempts to draw out Agneta, but with only partial success.

"Say," she said to me aside, after luncheon, "what is the matter with that cousin of yours? Is she shy, or sick, or what?"

"I don't think she is shy," I said, "but she has not been well lately and is rather depressed."

"I believe you," said Paulina; "but, do you know, it strikes me that she is not so meek as she looks and has a will of her own."

"Very likely," I said, reflecting that the curves of Agneta's mouth and chin were similar to mother's, and mother had never shown any lack of spirit and determination.

I was rather sorry to see Mr. Faulkner go off on his bicycle soon after luncheon, for I wanted father to know more of him. The rest of us spent the afternoon in the garden. Paulina and her father, Colonel Hyde and Agneta had a game of croquet, while Aunt Patty, father and I sat and chatted in the summer-house at the end of the lawn.

"Oh, father, do tell auntie about Miss Cottrell!" I said, after first looking cautiously round to be sure that the spinster was not within earshot, but for once she had taken herself out of the way.

"Alias Miss Smith," he said.

"Was it really an inn in which you used to see her?" I asked.

"Yes, a good old country inn, much frequented by fishermen in the season. I went there several summers in succession, till the cares of a family shackled my movements. John Smith and his wife were homely, honest folk who made us very comfortable in rustic fashion. They did not call the 'Havelock Arms' an hotel, nor speak of their boarders as 'paying guests,'" said my father with a mischievous glance at Aunt Patty.

"Their niece would have done so, if she had ever alluded to the business," I remarked. "I imagine John Smith was the uncle whose money she inherited."

"She told me he was in the tea trade," said my aunt.

Father laughed.

"Why, so he was," he said. "A good many tourists and picnic-parties used to come to the inn for tea. I believe he sold as much tea as beer."

"And was she really a nurse?" I asked.

"Well, yes, in a way, but not like a modern trained nurse," he replied. "Lady—let me see—"

"Mowbray," I suggested.

"Mowbray! that's the name," he said. "Well, Lady Mowbray had a daughter who was sadly afflicted—I believe she was almost an idiot—and Miss Smith used to take care of her—was her 'companion' as you heard her say. I suppose she thinks that word is more genteel than nurse. Lady Mowbray lived somewhere near Bath."

"And had also a house in Bryanston Street," I said.

"Ah, I see you know all about it," said my father.

"With a difference," I rejoined. "Lady Mowbray was Miss Cottrell's dearest friend and could not bear to be separated from her."

"Really! Well, I believe she was very grateful for Miss Smith's devotion to her child. Miss Smith was generally with them except that she came to the 'Havelock Arms' for a month or so in the summer, and then used to help her aunt look after her customers. So she has been posing here as a fine lady! How droll!"

And father quietly laughed with an air of the utmost amusement.

"She has tried to do so," said my aunt dryly.

"I am afraid she is sorely mortified to think that you have revealed so much to us," I said.

"We will not talk of it," said my aunt quickly. "Her vanity is foolish and paltry, but we will spare her feelings. I must ask Agneta not to mention it. Oh, dear, how white that girl looks!"

So my cousin became the topic of conversation, and father told Aunt Patty that Mrs. Redmayne begged that she would not allow Agneta to go up to London, on any pretext whatever, unless she or I could accompany her. I could see that aunt did not like the injunction.

"My guests are free to do as they like," she said. "This is not a boarding school."