Chapter IV: Cousin Becky's Arrival at Beaworthy

"Isn't it nearly time for you to start, father?" asked Polly, turning from the window out of which, with her face pressed close to the glass, she had been watching the falling snow, and glancing at Mr. Trent, who, during the half-hour which had elapsed since the family had arisen from the tea-table, had been quietly reading the newspaper.

"Very nearly, my dear," he answered, raising his eyes to the clock on the mantelpiece, and then fixing them on his newspaper again.

"I believe the clock's rather slow, father, and it will take you quite quarter of an hour walking to the station. It's half-past six."

"And Cousin Becky's train is not due to arrive till ten minutes past seven, so there's plenty of time. Where is Roger?"

"Gone to put on his boots, father. Don't you think you had better put on yours?"

Mr. Trent laughed as he laid aside his newspaper. "I see you will not be satisfied till I am gone," he remarked. "Fetch my boots, there's a good girl."

Ten minutes later Mr. Trent and Roger were putting on their overcoats in the hall, preparatory to braving the snowstorm. The latter was quite as anxious to start for the station as Polly was to send him off. In fact, both children were much excited about their expected guest.

"You won't be able to wear this much longer," Polly observed, as she assisted her brother into his overcoat, which had become most uncomfortably tight for him. She buttoned it across his chest with some difficulty, adding, "You look like a trussed fowl."

"He has grown so much this winter," said Mrs. Trent, overhearing Polly's unflattering remark on her brother's appearance as she came downstairs. "I wish he could have a new overcoat, but—" She paused with a faint sigh, and Roger said quickly:

"Oh, this one will last me a long time yet, and I don't in the least mind how I look. It's a good warm old coat."

"That's right, Roger, never run down an old friend, especially one that's served you well," said Mr. Trent, at which they all laughed; for, poor though they were and obliged to practise many economies, they were a lighthearted family and happy amongst themselves.

"Surely you are very early in starting for the station," said Mrs. Trent. "There is half an hour before the train is due."

"Yes; but Polly is anxious to get us off," her husband returned, with a smiling glance at his little daughter, "and there's sure to be a good fire in the waiting-room at the station if we have long to wait. I shall not be surprised if the train is late to-night, the snowstorm will probably delay it a little."

"It's snowing very fast," announced Roger, as he opened the door and stepped into the street, followed by his father. "I believe it's inches deep already."

"We must keep up a good fire in the sitting-room, for Cousin Becky is sure to arrive very cold," said Mrs. Trent as she closed the front door. "I wish there was a fireplace in your bedroom, Polly, but the oil-stove has made it feel very warm and comfortable."

The little girl ran upstairs to the room she had vacated for Cousin Becky. A heating stove with a crimson glass shade stood on the floor, and threw a rosy glow around. The apartment was small and plainly furnished, but it looked very cosy, and Polly thought their expected visitor would be very hard to please if she was not satisfied with such a nice little room. She said something of the kind when she joined her mother downstairs a few minutes later, and Mrs. Trent smiled, but made no response. She was as curious as her children to see Cousin Becky, and not a little anxious as well. How the hands of the clock seemed to drag as Polly watched them! Seven o'clock struck, and nearly another hour paced before a cab drew up before the house. Then mother and daughter hastened into the hall, and the former flung open wide the door, a welcoming smile on her face.

"Here she is, Mary!" cried Mr. Trent, as he sprang out of the cab and assisted a little lady to alight. He led her immediately into the house, whilst Roger followed labouring under a bundle of wraps and a rug. "Here she is," he repeated, "almost frozen with cold, I believe. Becky, this is my wife, and this is my little maid, Polly. Go into the sitting-room, out of the draught, whilst I see to the luggage."

Not a word had the stranger spoken yet but she had taken Mrs. Trent's outstretched hand and warmly returned the kiss which the latter had given her; then she had kissed Polly, too, and now she allowed herself to be led into the sitting-room and established in the big, leather-covered easy chair by the fire.

"How good you all are to me!" she exclaimed at length with a quick breath, which sounded very like a sob, as she took off her thick veil, revealing a countenance which, though plain, was redeemed from insignificance by a pair of bright, observant dark eyes—wonderfully soft eyes they were at the present moment, for they smiled through a mist of tears. "Why, you might have known me all your lives by the warmth of your greetings.'"

"I have heard a great deal of you from my husband," Mrs. Trent told her. "You do not seem a stranger at all."

"I am pleased to hear that. What a glorious fire! A good fire is always such a welcome, I think. And what a cosy room!" And the bright, dark eyes wandered around the apartment with its worn Brussels carpet and well-used furniture, with appreciation in their gaze.

"I believe you will find the house comfortable, though small, and—I'm afraid—rather shabby," Mrs. Trent replied.

"It is a home," Cousin Becky declared with a pleased nod. "I've been in many large, handsomely-furnished houses that have never been that. Well," she said, turning her glance upon Polly, who had been watching her intently, "do you think you will like me, my dear?"

"Yes," Polly responded with a smile, by no means abashed at this direct question. "I am sure I shall. But you are not a bit like what I expected."

"Indeed! What did you expect?"

"I thought you would look much older," the little girl candidly admitted.

"I'm nearly seventy, my dear, and that's a good age. But I don't feel old, and I cannot have changed a great deal of late years—except that my hair has grown white—for your father recognised me the minute he saw me on the platform."

At that moment Mr. Trent appeared upon the scene, followed by Roger. They had been helping to take their visitor's luggage upstairs; and Mrs. Trent now suggested that Cousin Becky should go to her room and remove her travelling things, by which time she would be glad of some tea.

"What do you think of her, Polly?" asked Roger, as soon as their mother and Cousin Becky had gone upstairs together.

"I think she looks very nice and kind," was the prompt reply; "but what a little thing she is, Roger! Father, you never told us that."

In truth, Miss Trent was a very little lady, with a slight figure which was wonderfully upright and agile for one her age. When she returned to the sitting-room, Roger pulled the easy chair nearer the fire for her, and Polly placed a cushion behind her shoulders, and she looked at them both with a very tender light shining in her dark eyes.

"Thank you, my dears," she said with the smile which made her plain face look almost beautiful. "I will take the easy chair to-night as I am weary after my journey, but usually I am not so indulgent to myself. Roger, you are very like what your father used to be at your age."

"And do you think I am like Aunt Janie?" asked Polly, veiled anxiety in her tone.

"Slightly, perhaps; but you are more like your mother," was the decided reply.

"Oh, I am glad to hear you say that!" Polly cried delightedly. "I would rather not be like Aunt Janie at all; though everyone says she is very handsome," she added meditatively.

"Polly does not much care for Aunt Janie," Roger explained; "but she's very nice in her way. And Uncle John's very nice, too, but we don't see much of him. Oh, here's Louisa with tea—"

"Which I am sure Cousin Becky must be greatly in need of," Mrs. Trent interposed, not sorry of this opportunity of changing the conversation, "so hush your chatter, children, for a while, and let her take her meal in peace."

"I love listening to their chatter," Cousin Becky said. She did full justice to the chop which had been cooked for her and enjoyed her tea; and afterwards they all sat round the fire, and the children listened whilst their elders conversed about people and places they only knew by name. Then by-and-by Cousin Becky spoke of her brother's death, and her own forlorn condition.

"I cannot tell you how glad I was to receive your letter, my dear," she said to Mrs. Trent. "I considered it was especially kind of you to invite me to visit you as you had never seen me in your life."

"Father wanted you to come, and so did Polly and I," Roger informed her frankly, "but mother was afraid—" He paused in sudden confusion.

"Afraid you might not be satisfied with our mode of living, Becky," Mr. Trent said with a smile, whilst his wife shook her head at him reproachfully.

"The idea!" cried Cousin Becky with a laugh.

"I told her you had had to rough it in your day," Mr. Trent proceeded, "and that you were not a fussy old maid. You see we're living in a small way, and we've had reverses of fortune, as no doubt you have heard, but I don't think we're a discontented family, and we make the best of things—eh, my dear?" he questioned, turning to his wife.

"Yes," she answered, "or, at any rate, we try to do so. Children, I think it is time for you to say good-night; it is long past your usual bed-time."

"I wonder who put those lovely snowdrops in the vase on the dressing-table in my room," said Cousin Becky, as the young people rose obediently to retire for the night.

"Roger did," replied Polly, "he bought them on purpose for you. Do you like them?"

"Indeed I do. Thank you, Roger, so much; it was a most kindly thought which prompted you to get them for me."

The little boy blushed with pleasure, for it was nice to know the flowers were appreciated, and he had been wondering if Cousin Becky had noticed them. After the children had said good-night and left the room, they stood a few minutes in the hall, discussing their visitor in whispers.

"She's awfully jolly," Roger said decidedly, "and she seemed very pleased that I was at the station to meet her with father."

"I like her," Polly answered. "It must be very bad to be alone in the world if you're poor," she continued thoughtfully. "Did you see the tears in her eyes when she talked of her brother and said she had no home now?"

"Yes," assented Roger; "but she didn't say anything about being poor."

"No, but we know she is, from what Aunt Janie said. If she had been rich she'd have been invited to stay at the Rookery." Polly was a sharp little girl, and often surprised her elders by the clearness of her mental sight. "I'm glad she's come here instead," she added heartily, "for we should not see much of her if she was Aunt Janie's visitor."

"I expect not," agreed Roger. "Edgar says he doesn't like Princess Street, and I suppose Aunt Janie doesn't either. I don't mind, do you?"

Polly declared she did not, but her heart was hot with indignation; for she realised, more clearly than did her brother, that Aunt Janie despised their home.