The Adventures of an Ugly Girl

by Mrs. George Corbett

And this was how my good resolves had ended. Just when—after working hard all day to see that everything was conducive to a warm and comfortable home-coming—I had begun to hurry through my toilet, I was summoned to Belle’s aid, with the result that instead of giving my stepmother a smiling welcome I was up in my own room, with a face red and swollen with weeping, and a heart full of angry feeling, when she arrived. Presently I heard a carriage approaching, and at the same instant Jerry knocked vigorously at my bedroom door.

“Be quick and come down, Dorrie,” he cried, in an eager, excited voice. “Papa and Lady Elizabeth are nearly here, and I want you to run down the avenue with me to meet them.”

“I’m not coming,” I answered, with a sob that was audible to Jerry and provoked him to quick wrath.

“I knew she would!” he exclaimed. “That horrid Belle’s been at her tricks again and said something nasty. But don’t let her have the best of you like that. Don’t you know that you promised to go with me to meet them, and if you don’t come they won’t believe you are glad about it.”

“I can’t help it, Jerry,” was my mournful reply. “I look so hideous just now that I could not possibly face a stranger. Run off quickly yourself. Say that I have a headache or something of the sort, and that I shall try to sleep it off. Run now, there’s a dear boy.”

And forthwith Jerry, whose real name, by-the-by, is Gerald Mortimer Courtney, ran along the corridor, down the wide, shallow stairs, across the tiled hall, and into the open air, just as the carriage containing the newly married pair drove into the large graveled space in which the chestnut avenue terminated. In spite of my discomfiture and unpresentable appearance, I possessed my due share of curiosity, and hastily jumped to my feet, crossed the room, and looked through the window at the prancing horses and elegant equipage which bore the newcomers. As soon as the carriage stopped, a liveried footman descended and opened the door with a flourish. By the time he had let the steps down, Belle and Jerry were at the carriage door, and I saw Mr. and Lady Elizabeth Courtney get out and exchange smiles and kisses with my sister and brother, while I, poor pariah, looked on with hungry eyes and an aching heart, and bewailed my luck in seeming ill-natured and inhospitable, after all my efforts to prove the contrary.

Lady Elizabeth, I must explain, had had some love passages with my father a long time ago. But their youthful desires had been taught to bow to the demands of fortune and position. Lady Elizabeth was the daughter of an earl, and could aspire to more material comforts than could have been provided for her by the penniless younger son of a country squire. True, the earl had no money, and what little land was still left him was mortgaged up to the hilt. But he had many friends who possessed sufficient influence to pitchfork his four sons into government sinecures. He had a cousin also, the Duchess of Lyndene, who chaperoned his handsome, clever daughter through two whole seasons, and eventually resigned her charge into the care of Samuel Chisholm, Esquire, once upon a time a shoeblack, now the proud possessor of twenty thousand a year, all made by the judicious advertisement of his prize patent blacking.

Upon the whole, the earl’s daughter was supposed to have done tolerably well for herself, and as her husband’s fortune steadily increased there was every reason for her to feel satisfied. Even the incumbrance which she had been compelled to take with the fortune was not especially disagreeable to her, for Mr. Chisholm was a very clever man, whose mental and social equipments kept pace with his fortunes, and, in spite of his low origin and antecedents, he was as courtly and well-bred as Lady Elizabeth’s nobly-born brothers. The pair therefore lived harmoniously enough together, at least to outward seeming, for many years. Then Mr. Chisholm died somewhat suddenly, and his will was read in due course.

It was during that important ceremony that the unexpectedly bereaved widow first felt real resentment against her late husband. For though he had died a millionaire, he had only willed his wife a life interest of five thousand a year, which was quite a paltry income compared with the princely revenue she had expected to be hers. To her father a like fortune was bequeathed, in addition to a sum of thirty thousand pounds wherewith to redeem his impoverished estate. The widow’s brothers each received a gift of five thousand pounds, and to the widow herself was willed all the personal property of the deceased.

All the rest of his vast fortune was divided among a swarm of poor relations, whose existence Lady Elizabeth had never acknowledged, but who no doubt showered blessings on the memory of the dead man who had thus befriended his own flesh and blood. The Earl of Greatlands, too, declared himself delighted with his son-in-law’s generosity. But his daughter did not hesitate to say that she had been treated shamefully, and at once proclaimed her intention of resigning the tenancy of the costly London establishment, which it would be a farce to attempt to keep up on five thousand a year. She retired to a pretty place in the country, declining to reside with her father, who, elated by his unwonted prosperity, was actually talking of taking a young wife to comfort his old age.