CHAPTER XVI
AUNT ARABELLA
Mrs. Arabella Jenkins (née Travers), a stout little widow of sixty-four, occupied a large and lugubrious mansion in Queen's Gate, S.W. She was also the mistress of five thousand a year, eight servants—not including a permanent "char"—and one dog. Her mother, a pretty Scotch girl, had been of "no family," according to various disappointed dowagers—"just someone Charles Travers had picked up when shooting on a moor, and by no means a suitable châtelaine for Lambourne."
However, the poor despised lady reigned but a few short years, and was succeeded, after a heartless interval, by a dashing damsel of undeniable birth,—the mother of Laurence Travers, and his two brothers,—who ably assisted her reckless husband to squander the remains of a famous estate.
At nineteen, Arabella Travers was a beauty of the Dresden china type: a fair, fluffy little creature, with sunny hair and an exquisite pink and white complexion. Possibly she was shrewd enough to foresee how family affairs were drifting, for at the age of one and twenty, she accepted a rich elderly suitor from the City, and exchanged a cheery country life for a somewhat gloomy establishment in town.
There had never been much in common between Arabella, her smart stepmother, and riotous, high-spirited brothers. The Travers boys laughed at, and mimicked old Sammy Jenkins, and old Sam openly abused their mad folly, and extravagance, and rarely invited them under his roof.
However, he made Arabella an adoring and indulgent husband, spoiled and petted her most injudiciously, and permitted her to believe, that there was no one in the whole world as important or as beautiful as herself! Having entirely uprooted all that was best in her character, he died, leaving his widow every shilling he possessed,—to the wrathful indignation of his anticipating kindred.
A long impending crash promptly followed the death of Charles Travers. The estate was sold for the benefit of creditors, Mrs. Travers retired to Bournemouth, and there died within a year. Her three sons scattered over the world; one went to India, another to Australia, a third to South Africa. In a short time, the family were extinct, all but prosperous Arabella, and handsome Laurence,—who, having made a fair start in coffee, returned home for a few months' holiday.
As he was a most presentable relative, his stepsister saw a good deal of him, proudly exhibited him at tea-parties, and dinners, and exerted herself to find him a suitable—that is to say—a well-dowered wife. In one direction, she had even made overtures on his behalf, but before her plans had time to materialize, Laurence returned to the East, and married a wretched, penniless little governess! If he had been guided by his wise relative, he could have married a rich, rather plain young woman, who had been greatly attracted by his personality, and have enjoyed the easy life of a country gentleman, and revived something of the Travers prestige; instead of which, there he was, grilling out in India, grubbing away at a coffee estate.
Figuratively his sister washed her little fat hands of him; there had been a brief interchange of disagreeable letters—such as appear to be the copyright of near relatives—subsequently succeeded by a death-like silence.