A bird of passage

by B. M. Croker

They called everything, and every person, that did not meet with their approval "bad style," and worshipped coronets, as devoutly as their parent herself.

By-and-by the new arrival had some tea, was assured that she would be "all the better for a night's rest," and was escorted to the very top of the house, by an exhausted cousin, to what her aunt called "her old room." This was true,—it was not the guest-chamber, but a very sparsely-furnished apartment, on the same floor with the maids. And here her relative deposited her candlestick, nodded a condescending good-night, and left her to her repose. This was her home-coming! However, she was very tired, and soon fell asleep, and forgot her sorrows; but very early the next morning, she was awoke by the roar of the London streets, for you could call it nothing else. Mrs. Platt, though occupying a most fashionable and expensive nutshell, was close to one of the great arteries of traffic. Helen lay and listened. What a contrast to the last place where she had slept on shore, where the bugle awoke the echoes at five o'clock in the morning, where wheels and horses were absolutely unknown, and the stillness was almost solemn, only broken by the dip of an oar or the scream of a peacock! She turned her eyes to a picture pinned to the wall, facing the foot of her bed, the picture of a merry-looking milkmaid, with a pail under her arm; the milkmaid was smiling at her now, precisely as she had done less than a year ago,—when she had slept in that very room previous to starting for Port Blair. Then she had seemed to her imagination, to wish her good speed. Surely that gay expression seemed to augur the future smiles of fortune! Ten months ago she had stared at that picture, ere she had set out for her voyage, full of hope and happy anticipations; and now, ere the year had gone round, she was back again, her day was over, her happy home in those sunny islands among tropical seas, had vanished like a dream! She had visited, as it were, an enchanted land, where she had found father, home, friends—ay, and lover, and had returned desolate and empty-handed (save for that "sorrow's crown of sorrow"), to face the stern realities of life,—and to earn her daily bread. She gazed at the mocking milkmaid, and closed her eyes. Oh! if she could but wake and find that the last four months had been but a horrible dream.

The Platts were late people, they scorned the typical first worm. Helen, accustomed to early (Eastern) hours, had a very long morning, entirely alone. She dared not unpack, she had no work to do, and could find no books to read; for her aunt, who was most economical in regard to things that did not make a show, did not subscribe to a library, merely took in a daily paper, and preyed, on her friends, for her other literature.

Breakfast was at eleven o'clock, and during that meal letters were read, the daily programme arranged, and people and places discussed, whose names were totally unknown to Helen. Now and then, her cousins threw her a word or two, but there was no cordiality or friendship in their tone; it did not need that, to tell her she was not welcome, and she sat aloof in silence, feeling as if she were an utter alien, and as if her very heart was frozen. And yet these were her own flesh and blood—her father's sister and nieces—her nearest, if not her dearest! How different to Mrs. Home, Mrs. Graham, and Mrs. Durand!—ay, even Mrs. Creery had shown her more affection than her own aunt.

Helen soon fell into her proper niche in the family. After breakfast she went out and did all the little household messages to the tradespeople, and made herself useful, i.e., mended her aunt's gloves, and hose, wrote her notes, and copied music for her cousins.

She dined early, when her relatives lunched, as they frequently had people in the evening.

There was a kind of back room or den upon the second landing, where the Platt family sat in déshabillé, partook of refreshments, wrote letters, ripped old dresses, and held family conclaves. Here Helen spent most of her time, and being very clever with her needle, did many "odd jobs" for her relatives. Better this, than sitting with idle hands, staring out on a back green the size of a table-cloth, surrounded by grimy walls, with no more interesting spectacle to enliven the scene, than the duels, or duets, of the neighbouring cats. So it was, "Helen, I want you to run up this," or "to tack that together," or "just to unpick the other thing," and she became a valuable auxiliary to Plunket the lady's-maid, not merely with her needle alone,—she soon learned to be very handy with a box-iron!

Of course she was never expected to accompany the family, when they went out in the brougham, her aunt saying to her in her suavest tone, "You see, dear, your mourning is so recent" (her father was five months dead), "I am sure you would rather stay at home." Accordingly the three ladies packed themselves into the carriage most afternoons, and went for an airing, leaving their poor relation, with strict injunctions to "keep up the drawing-room fire," and "to see that tea was ready to the moment of five." Sometimes they gave "at homes," the preparations for which were left to Helen, who worked like a slavey. These "at homes" were chiefly remarkable for a profusion of flowers, weak tea, weaker music, and a crush.

Next to the cook, Helen was decidedly the most useful member of the household, she was kept fully occupied all day long, and in constant employment, was her only escape from her own thoughts. She was not happy; nay, many a night she cried herself to sleep; her aunt was cool and distant, as though she had displeased her in some way; but to Helen's knowledge, she had given her no cause of offence since the terrible incident of the tea-cup, years and years previously.

Her cousins were sharp, critical, and patronizing, and evidently considered that she occupied a very much lower social status than themselves.