The whole story, as it became known, partly in these confidences, partly afterwards, was this. The good lady, who had struck the family at first as a somewhat elderly mother for so young a daughter, had been for many years a governess, engaged all the time to a curate, who only obtained a small district incumbency in a town, after wear and tear, waiting and anxiety, had so exhausted him that the second winter brought on bronchitis, and he scarcely lived to see his little daughter, Arthurine. The mother had struggled on upon a pittance eked out with such music teaching as she could procure, with her little girl for her sole care, joy, and pride—a child who, as she declared, had never given her one moment’s pang or uneasiness.
‘Poor mamma, could she say that of any one of her nine?’ thought Bessie; and Mrs. Merrifield made no such attempt.
Arthurine had brought home all prizes, all distinctions at the High School, but—here was the only disappointment of her life—a low fever had prevented her trying for a scholarship at Girton. In consideration, however, of her great abilities and high qualities, as well as out of the great kindness of the committee, she had been made an assistant to one of the class mistresses, and had worked on with her own studies, till the wonderful tidings came of the inheritance that had fallen to her quite unexpectedly; for since her husband’s death Mrs. Arthuret had known nothing of his family, and while he was alive there were too many between him and the succession for the chance to occur to him as possible. The relief and blessing were more than the good lady could utter. All things are comparative, and to one whose assured income had been £70 a year, £800 was unbounded wealth; to one who had spent her life in schoolrooms and lodgings, the Gap was a lordly demesne.
‘And what do you think was the first thing my sweet child said?’ added Mrs. Arthuret, with her eyes glittering through tears. ‘Mammy, you shall never hear the scales again, and you shall have the best Mocha coffee every day of your life.’
Bessie felt that after this she must like the sweet child, though sweetness did not seem to her the predominant feature in Arthurine.
After the pathos to which she had listened there was somewhat of a comedy to come, for the ladies had spent the autumn abroad, and had seen and enjoyed much. ‘It was a perfect feast to see how Arthurine entered into it all,’ said the mother. ‘She was never at a loss, and explained it all to me. Besides, perhaps you have seen her article?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Her article in the Kensington. It attracted a great deal of attention, and she has had many compliments.’
‘Oh! the Kensington Magazine,’ said Mrs. Merrifield, rather uneasily, for she was as anxious that Bessie should not be suspected of writing in the said periodical as the other mother was that Arthurine should have the fame of her contributions.
‘Do you take it?’ asked Mrs. Arthuret, ‘for we should be very glad to lend it to you.’