This carefully concocted letter—so different from the usual appeals—containing no references to other persons as to character or antecedents, generally had its effect, and in a few days Miss Betsey would find herself tête-à-tête with the Countess ——.
On entering the room she would make a profound curtsey, and, after thanking her ladyship for the honour, would open the fragile basket, which contained a few bottles of scent, some fancy soaps, ornamental envelopes, and perforated note-papers.
“Sit down, Miss Thirlbrook,” the Countess would open the conversation. “I see the articles. Your note, I think, mentioned something of your being in less fortunate——”
Miss Betsey would lower her eyelashes and bend her head—not too deferentially, but as if bowing to circumstances for her father—her dear father’s sake—for this was implied by her admirably concealed histrionic capability.
The lady would then suggest that she had a great many claims upon her consideration, and would delicately inquire into the pedigree and circumstances of Lieutenant Thirlbrook, formerly of his Majesty’s —d Regiment.
Miss Betsey’s replies were neither too ready nor too glib. She suffered herself to be drawn out, but did not advance a statement, and so established in her patroness’s mind the idea that she had to deal with a very superior person. The sum of the story of this interesting scion of a fallen house was, that her father was an old Peninsular officer—as would be seen by a reference to the Army List (Miss Betsey had found the name in an old list); that he had left the service during the peace in 1814; that a ruinous lawsuit, arising from railway speculations, and an absconding agent, had reduced them to—to—to their present position—and that six years ago, an old wound—received at Barossa—had broken out, and laid her father helpless on a sick bed. “I know that these articles,” Betsey would conclude, pointing to the fancy soaps and stationery, “are not such perhaps as your ladyship is accustomed to; but if you would kindly aid me by purchasing some of them—if ever so few—you would materially assist us; and I hope that—that we should not prove—either undeserving or ungrateful.”
When, as sometimes happened, ladies paid a visit to Lieut. Thirlbrook, everything was prepared for their reception with a dramatic regard for propriety. The garret was made as clean and as uncomfortable as possible. Mr. Kaggs was put to bed, and the purpled pinkness of his complexion toned down with violet powder and cosmetics. A white handkerchief, with the Thirlbrook crest in a corner, was carelessly dropped upon the coverlid. A few physic bottles, an old United Service paper, and a ponderous Bible lay upon a ricketty round table beside him. Mrs. Kaggs was propped up with pillows in an arm-chair near the fireplace, and desired to look rheumatic and resigned. Kitty was sent out of the way; and the two children were dressed up in shabby black, and promised plums if they would keep quiet. Miss Betsey herself, in grey stuff and an apron, meek, mild, and matronly beyond her years, glided about softly, like a Sister of Mercy connected with the family.
My readers must understand that Mr. Kaggs was the sole tenant of the house he lived in, though he pretended that he only occupied the garrets as a lodger.
During the stay of the fashionable Samaritans Lieut. Thirlbrook—who had received a wound in his leg at Barossa, under the Duke—would say but little, but now and then his mouth would twitch as with suppressed pain. The visitors were generally much moved at the distressing scene. The gallant veteran—the helpless old lady—the sad and silent children—and the ministering angel of a daughter, were an impressive spectacle. The ladies would promise to exert themselves among their friends, and do all in their power to relieve them.
“Miss Thirlbrook,” they would ask, as Miss Betsey attended them to the street-door, “those dear children are not your brother and sister, are they?”