Chapter II: Why Aunt Janie Called

Mrs. Marsh was a tall, handsome woman, several years the senior of her sister-in-law, whom she greeted in a manner which, though intended to be kindly, was more than a little patronising. She kissed her niece and nephew, and then seated herself in an easy chair near the fire, whilst the children withdrew to the window to watch for their father's arrival.

"I don't believe she has come to complain of you, Roger," whispered Polly, "for she called you 'my dear.'"

Roger nodded, intensely relieved in mind. He was looking at his aunt's carriage a trifle enviously, and thinking he would like the situation of coachman so as to drive the beautiful horses he so greatly admired. But when he said so to Polly, she appeared indignant at the idea, and bade him be quiet and listen to what Aunt Janie had to say.

"No, thank you, Mary," Mrs. Marsh replied, in response to her sister-in-law's offer of a cup of tea. "I merely called to see Martin—" Martin was Mr. Trent—"to tell him about a letter I've received from Cousin Becky. You've heard of her, of course—Rebecca Trent, a first cousin of father's?"

"Oh yes!" answered Mrs. Trent, with a show of keen interest. "Martin was telling the children about her the other day, and wondering what had become of her. He will be so glad to hear you have heard from her. She must be an old woman now?"

"Close on seventy. She used to visit at our house when Martin and I were about the age of Polly and Roger; but she always made her home with her brother, who had been left a widower with a young family. In fact, she brought up his children. In the letter I have to-day had from her, she informs me that her brother is dead, and that now she is all alone."

"How sad!" exclaimed Mrs. Trent with ready sympathy, whilst Polly and Roger exchanged concerned glances. "Poor soul! But I suppose she has means to provide herself with another home?"

"I should say that is very doubtful. Cousin Becky never had any property, as far as I know, and it is certain her brother could do nothing towards making a provision for her in case she survived him, for he lived on his pension—he was a retired naval officer, as doubtless Martin has told you—and had very little private property. Becky ought to have gone into a situation when she was young, instead of living with her brother, then perhaps she would have been able to make some provision for her old age—I've written and told her so."

Mrs. Marsh paused, for at that moment the sitting-room door opened to admit her brother. Mr. Trent was tall, and very like his sister in features, but there the resemblance between the two ended, for the expression of his countenance was good-humoured, and his many troubles had failed to embitter him, for he owned a hopeful disposition and one of the kindest hearts in the world, whereas Mrs. Marsh, in spite of her air of prosperity, looked anything but a contented woman.

"Oh, father, Aunt Janie has had a letter from Cousin Becky!" cried Polly, eager to be first with the news.

"Well, I am glad," Mr. Trent declared heartily, as selected a chair by his sister's side and, sitting down, took the letter which she had drawn from her pocket and now offered to him. "You and I were very fond of her when we were youngsters, Janie, and she was very good to us, I remember. What has the dear old body to say for herself?"

"You had better see!" Mrs. Marsh responded dryly.

Thus advised, Mr. Trent opened the letter and read aloud as follows:—

"My DEAR JANIE,—"

"It is many years since you and I met, but there is still a warm corner in my heart for the little girl and boy who were such firm friends of mine in those days when I used to visit at their home; and I hope they may have some kindly remembrances of 'Cousin Becky'—which hope impels me to write to you now. Dear Janie, I am left all alone. A few months since my dear brother died after a long illness; and his three children are all married and far away. The boy is settled in New Zealand, and the two girls are in India—one is married to an officer in the Army, the other to an engineer. My nephew has offered me a home, but I am too old to be transplanted to the other side of the world, so I have declined his offer, and now propose to visit Beaworthy with the idea of settling there. I have pleasant recollections of the place, and as you and Martin are my only relations in England, I feel I should like to pass my remaining days near you. Could you recommend me to lodgings, or to any nice family who would take a boarder? I have no doubt you can assist me in this matter, and I shall eagerly await your reply."

"With my love to Martin and yourself, and hoping soon to see you both
and to make the acquaintance of your husband and boy,"

"I am, my dear Janie,"
"Your affectionate cousin,"
"Rebecca Trent."

"I suppose you've written and asked her to visit you, Janie," remarked Mr. Trent as he returned the letter to his sister.

"I have done no such thing, Martin. Of course, I see that is what she expected—I can read between the lines, so to speak—but I talked the matter over with John, and we came to the conclusion that it would be wiser not to do so; if we once gave her a footing at the Rookery we might find a difficulty in getting rid of her, and—and—"

Mrs. Marsh paused and coloured as she met her brother's astonished eyes. There was a long, awkward silence, which Mrs. Trent at length broke by remarking gently:

"It is very sad to be old and poor, and especially for one who has led a noble and self-sacrificing life—"

"She ought to have considered herself," Mrs. Marsh broke in tartly, "and so I've reminded her. I've written and advised her to stay where she is, in London; I suppose she must have some friends there. I think she would be foolish to come to Beaworthy, anyway. Well, I really must go; I only came to show you Cousin Becky's letter, Martin. Good-bye, children. Good-bye, Mary. You're looking very pale, you ought to get out more." And Mrs. Marsh rustled out of the room followed by her brother.

The mother and children stood at the window and watched Mr. Trent assist his sister into the carriage and wrap the fur rug around her.

"Why doesn't she take you for a drive with her, sometimes, mother?" said Polly in a tone of dissatisfaction. She regarded her mother attentively as she spoke, and a pang of pain shot through her loving heart as she saw that Mrs. Trent was indeed very pale. "It's all very well to say you ought to get out more, but—oh, I wish we had a carriage for you to drive out in when the roads and streets are muddy, and—"

"Don't let your father hear you say anything like that," Mrs. Trent interposed hurriedly. "You need not trouble because I am pale—I always am, you know. There! Your aunt's gone; and now run and tell Louisa to bring in tea."

Polly obeyed, and by the time Louisa—the maid-of-all-work—had done her bidding, Mr. Trent had changed his coat for the older one he always wore at home in the evenings, and had returned to the sitting-room. During the meal which followed, Roger told his father how he had feared his aunt had come on another errand; and though Mr. Trent chided his son for having lost his temper and struck his cousin, he sympathised with the indignation which had caused him to act so impetuously.

"I should be sorry for you to be really at enmity with Edgar," he said gravely, "so I hope you will try to make peace with him to-morrow. His cruelty was probably the result of thoughtlessness, but it ought to be checked."

"Aunt Janie never thinks he does wrong," declared Polly. "And, oh, father, don't you consider it's very strange she doesn't want Cousin Becky to visit her?" she added eagerly.

"Yes, Polly, I do," Mr. Trent admitted with a glance at his wife. "I only wish we were better off so that we could ask Cousin Becky here, but I suppose it's not to be thought of under present circumstances."

"Why not, father?" asked Roger. "Do you think she would not like to come—that she would not like our house?"

"No. I am sure she would not mind our house being small and shabby, and in a street, for she has had to rough it in her day; but—" Mr. Trent paused and glanced at his wife again.

"We have no spare room," she remarked dubiously, "only that little attic next to Louisa's; we could not put a visitor there."

"Cousin Becky could have my room—it's rather small, of course, but it's very comfortable and sunny—and I'd go up in the attic," said Polly, whilst her father nodded approval.

"But, Martin, do you think she would be satisfied with our mode of living?" questioned Mrs. Trent. "I should like to write and ask her to come and stay with us until she has made her plans for the future, because she was kind to you years ago, but—"

"And now she is old and poor, Mary, I should like to be kind to her," broke in Mr. Trent, "especially as Janie—but never mind that! Janie doesn't realise what it is to be without money and friends, so we mustn't blame her if she appears a little hard. Cousin Becky must be very friendless, I fancy, or she wouldn't think of coming to Beaworthy. There are plenty of people who would want her to be their guests if she was rich, but she is doubtless as poor as ourselves. One more at our table surely cannot make much difference—eh, Mary?"

The children regarded their mother with expectant eyes, rather marvelling at the hesitancy they read in her face, for they were not troubled by thoughts of ways and means. A visitor in the house would have all the charm of novelty for them, and their father had told them so many reminiscences of Cousin Becky that they longed to see her.

"She is awfully nice, isn't she, father?" questioned Roger.

"She used to be very nice, my son, and I don't suppose she has much altered with age. She was never a fussy old maid, and she loved children dearly."

"Oh, mother, do write and ask her to come!" pleaded the little boy coaxingly.

"I certainly will, as you all seem to desire it so much," Mrs. Trent agreed with a smile, "and if she does come we will do our best to make her as comfortable and happy with us as possible. I only hesitated to invite her because I could not quite see how we were to manage; but since Polly is willing to give up her room, and your father thinks Cousin Becky will be satisfied with our humble fare—well, then, I'll write to-night."

Accordingly, as soon as tea was over, Mrs. Trent wrote the letter, and Roger ran out and posted it; and there was a general sense of satisfaction that the right thing had been done. In the course of a few days Cousin Becky's reply was received. It was a brief, grateful note of thanks and acceptance of the invitation, saying the writer hoped to be with her cousins in Princess Street the following week.