Mrs. Jenkins ceased to trouble herself further with respect to her brother—"impossible," she declared, "to help those who refused to help themselves"—but vague scraps of information had reached her indirectly. She heard of the birth of a child, the death of his wife, and his financial collapse.
Sunken in selfishness, and egoism, Arabella Jenkins had almost forgotten her brother Laurence, when a twenty years' silence was broken; a letter written by an unsteady hand, announced his impending departure from this world, and appealed to a childless woman to give his little girl a home. Later, she had seen the announcement of his death in the Times.—It had been duly advertised by the ever thoughtful Mrs. Ffinch.
So Laurence was gone—and only forty-seven!—and now there was his orphan. What was she to do about her? As dear Mrs. Taylor truly said, "at her time of life, and in her state of health, it was monstrous to suppose, that she should be saddled with an encumbrance." Of course she must receive the girl for a few weeks, and possibly some of her many friends, such as Lady Constance Howler, or Mrs. Fitzallen Jones, might find her a situation. As for being permanently troubled with this responsibility, the idea was simply too utterly ridiculous.
The early beauty of Arabella Travers had not lasted—save in the lady's own opinion. Bright hair and a rose-leaf skin, belong to the days of one's youth. Mrs. Jenkins was now a stout, short-necked, squat little body, with a pair of arrogant blue eyes, and an assertive nose. Happy in the delusion that she did not look a day over thirty, she dressed the age at great expense, and in the most villainous taste.
Her house was warm, dark, and stuffy; very thick red carpets led the way from hall to drawing-room. Here again was a red carpet, heavy crimson curtains, and solid furniture of the most debased Victorian type, of which the crowning atrocity was a large distorted ottoman in the middle of the room. The walls were covered with chromes, and mirrors in ponderous frames: a life-sized portrait of the mistress of the house hung opposite the fireplace, and seemed determined to challenge attention; it had been painted more than thirty years previously, and portrayed a slim young lady, with rosy cheeks, snow-white neck and arms,—and a voluminous blue dress. On her satin lap reposed a small King Charles,—which same animal, beautifully stuffed, and sheltered in a glass case, confronted visitors on the first landing, and struck terror into the hearts of his own species.
The portrait, the ottoman, and a grand piano, were the chief features of the apartment, which also contained a good many "occasional" chairs, and tables, various gaudy cushions, and lamp-shades (the spoils of bazaars), and a large collection of small rubbish. Mrs. Jenkins was not what is called "house-proud," and had made no alterations in what had been her bridal home,—merely contributing the cheap little souvenirs she had picked up on the Continent; such as Swiss carvings, Italian delf, marble letter-weights, and paper fans. Her interest was mainly centred in herself,—and the condition of her health; fortunately she was as strong as the proverbial horse, and endowed with a hardy Scotch constitution, otherwise she must have succumbed to the extraordinary variety of medicines she sampled, and the different "cures" she underwent. The lady took too little exercise, and too much nourishment. Even when she was supposed to be completely prostrate, heavily laden trays were welcomed by an astonishing appetite, which disposed of their dishes with healthy voracity, and provoked much ribald jeering among her retinue below stairs. The assimilating of prescriptions in the shape of drops or tabloids, were with Mrs. Jenkins, a confirmed habit and joy,—and took the place of cigarettes,—so soothing to other women.
Doctors who attended Mrs. Jenkins, were legion in number—occasionally two or three, unknown to one another, prescribed for the same case. According to her statement, she had been threatened with almost every known complaint: arthritis, appendicitis, angina pectoris, seemed to dog her steps, and yet her recuperative vitality was incredible.
One week prone in bed with nurses in attendance, and straw laid down in the street: long ere the straw was removed, the invalid might have been seen making a hearty lunch at "Prince's" or doing a matinée at the Haymarket. Indeed, it was on record, that a bewildered caller had found the knocker at No. 900 muffled, and on inquiring for the sufferer with almost bated breath, was informed that she was at Ranelagh!
Arabella Jenkins endeavoured to make the most of two worlds: the gay, hustling, social world, and the invalid sphere,—bounded by doctors, friendly inquiries, flowers, and commiseration. Nothing made Mrs. Jenkins more indignant—indeed furious—than any doubt of the bona fides of her ailments.
She posed as an extraordinarily plucky woman, who bore her sufferings, after the manner of the Spartan boy and fox; and those doctors who refused to see eye to eye with her, or to take part in a medical farce, were inscribed in her black books as not merely incapable, but the deadliest of enemies. For all her masterful, despotic ways and heavy purse, Mrs. Jenkins was more or less in the hands of her eight servants, her old friends, and her numerous parasites.