COUSIN BECKY'S CHAMPIONS

BY

ELEANORA H. STOOKE

AUTHOR OF "ROBIN OF SUN COURT," "GRANFER AND ONE CHRISTMAS TIME," ETC.

WITH TWO FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

BY ISABEL WATKIN

LONDON

NATIONAL SOCIETY'S DEPOSITORY

19, GREAT PETER STREET, WESTMINSTER, S.W.

NEW YORK: THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 & 3, BIBLE HOUSE

1909

[All rights reserved]

CONTENTS

Chapter

I. THE HOME IN PRINCESS STREET

II. WHY AUNT JANIE CALLED

III. AT THE ROOKERY

IV. COUSIN BECKY'S ARRIVAL AT BEAWORTHY

V. AFTER THE SNOWSTORM

VI. "SHOWING OFF"

VII. SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE ROOKERY

VIII. COUSIN BECKY FINDS A HOME

IX. A MORNING WALK

X. BROUGHT TO BOOK

XI. IN THE CLOCK CASE

XII. COUSIN BECKY TELLS A SECRET

XIII. THE CALAIS NOBLE

XIV. MR. MARSH DISCOVERS HIS LOSS

XV. EDGAR LEARNS HIS FATHER'S SUSPICION

XVI. UNDER A CLOUD

XVII. IN VIEW OF A HOLIDAY

XVIII. THE REAPPEARANCE OF THE CALAIS NOBLE

XIX. AN ACCIDENT TO EDGAR

XX. COUSIN BECKY TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE

XXI. AT THE MILL HOUSE

XXII. AN UNFORESEEN EXPERIENCE

XXIII. RESCUED

XXIV. CONCLUSION

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A PERILOUS SITUATION

COUSIN BECKY AND POLLY

CHAPTER I

THE HOME IN PRINCESS STREET

"TAKE that—and that—and that, and now go home and tell Aunt Janie I've smacked her dearie! I don't care if she calls and complains of me to mother—it would be like her to do that!" And the angry speaker—Roger Trent, a boy of about nine years of age—turned on his heel, and with head held high and flashing eyes, walked off, his heart beating fast with indignation as his mind dwelt wrathfully on the incident which had caused him to so far lose his temper as to cuff his companion in the open street.

A few minutes previously he had been walking amicably by the side of his cousin, Edgar Marsh, on their way home from school, when the latter had caught up a stone, which he had shied at a terrier with such true aim that it had hit the poor animal in the leg and sent it howling pitifully down the street; whereupon Roger had turned upon his cousin and dealt him several swift blows, for he hated anything like cruelty, and he possessed a fiery temper which often got him into trouble.

"I suppose there'll be no end of a row now," he reflected somewhat ruefully; "but Edgar's as old as I am and quite as big, so it wasn't cowardly to hit him, and he deserved what he got. I wish, though, I'd remembered what mother said, that she hoped I would try to keep the peace with Edgar. But I'm sure if she'd heard that poor little dog howling with pain, she'd have been angry herself; and Edgar could have hit me back if he'd liked—there is no fight in him! I wish he wasn't my cousin; and, oh, how I wish my father wasn't working for his father, then—"

He paused in his reflections, for he had turned down a side street, called Princess Street, and had reached home—a house in the midst of a long row of others, all exactly alike—and there at the sitting-room window were his mother and his sister Polly, watching for him. The angry cloud lifted from his countenance at the sight of the pair, and he smiled and nodded; but his mother had been quick to notice that something had gone wrong, and her first words, when her son entered the sitting-room, were:

"What is amiss, Roger? Have you been in mischief?"

"Why, mother, how sharp you are!" he exclaimed. Then he told her what had occurred, whilst she listened attentively, her face, which was pale and careworn, taking a decidedly anxious expression.

"Oh, Roger, you should not have struck your cousin!" she cried reprovingly when he had concluded his tale. "You really must try to keep your temper under better control, my dear boy."

"But, mother, it was cruel and wicked of Edgar to hit the poor dog," interposed Polly eagerly. "He had no right to throw a stone at it."

"Certainly not. Nevertheless, Roger had no right to hit Edgar. Two wrongs do not make one right."

Polly looked unconvinced. She was a pretty little girl, a year her brother's senior, with fair hair and honest grey eyes.

"I expect Aunt Janie will make a fuss," she observed, "for Edgar's sure to tell her—he's such a little tell-tale—and she always takes his part. That's so unfair. Oh, mother, I can't like Aunt Janie, I can't! I suppose she's kind—oh yes, I know she is, but sometimes I wish she wasn't, and then I shouldn't feel so bad about not liking her more."

And Polly looked down over herself and reflected that she really must be very ungrateful, seeing that she was clothed, at the present moment, in a frock which her mother had made for her from one of her aunt's cast-off gowns. "She isn't a bit like father," she proceeded; "no one would think they were brother and sister, like Roger and me. Oh, mother, if I was a rich lady and Roger had lost all his money and become quite poor, I know what I'd do!"

"Well?" said Mrs. Trent, inquiringly, amused at the little girl's earnestness. "What would you do, then?"

"I'd share my money with him," was the decisive reply.

"Of course you would, Polly," said Roger heartily. "And if I was rich and you were poor I'd go shares with you."

"You see, your aunt cannot do that, because her money is, a great part of it, her husband's," Mrs. Trent reminded them, "and your father would not like to take money from him—except what he earns."

"Did Uncle John ever want to give father some money?" Polly questioned inquisitively.

"N-o-o," her mother was obliged to admit. "But you must remember that your uncle has been very kind to us. When your father lost his money, it was your uncle who came forward and offered him employment in his office; but for that we should have come to want; and you know we often get fruit and vegetables from the Rookery gardens; and you and I, Polly, would have been very shabby before now but for your aunt's gifts of clothes. Don't let us be ungrateful, my dears!"

There was a brief silence. Mrs. Trent had spoken earnestly; and now she bent her head over the stocking she was in the midst of darning to hide the tears which glistened in her eyes. She was a very pretty woman; but though she was only a little over thirty years of age, her brown hair was streaked with white, and she had the appearance of one weighed down with many cares. When she had married, her husband had been a man in a good position as a clay merchant in the flourishing town of Beaworthy. The young couple had lived in a nice house in the suburbs, where the two children had been born; but, owing to heavy trade losses, and the failure of a bank in which Mr. Trent had had a considerable interest, the once prosperous man had been brought to the verge of ruin, and having failed in his business, he had been glad to accept a post as clerk in the office of Mr. Marsh, who had married his sister. Mr. Marsh was a clay merchant, too, but, unlike his brother-in-law, he was a successful trader, and it seemed as though everything he had touched had turned to gold.

Three years had now elapsed since the Trents had removed from their old home to their present abode in Princess Street, where they kept one servant instead of three, and dropped out of touch with many of their former acquaintances, as people do who have known better days. Sometimes Mrs. Marsh called upon her sister-in-law, and the inhabitants of Princess Street would flock to their windows to gaze at the carriage, with its pair of roan horses, drawn up before the Trents' door, and watch brown paper parcels and baskets carried into the house, and poor Mrs. Trent would blame herself for minding that everyone was aware she was indebted to her husband's sister for the clothes she wore and was really thankful to accept, and the surplus fruit and vegetables from her brother-in-law's gardens.

"If only Janie would walk when she comes to call, I should be so much better pleased," she had said to Mr. Trent on one occasion. "Her carriage is out of place in Princess Street." And then she had been sorry she had made the remark, because her husband had looked pained.

Mr. and Mrs. Marsh had only one child, the boy whom Roger had so promptly punished for his cruelty that afternoon. He was spoilt by his parents; and his cousins, up to the present, had seen very little of him, for their invitations to the Rookery had been few and far between, and he had rarely visited them at Princess Street. But during the last few weeks Edgar and Roger had clashed at the Grammar School, which they had attended since Christmas, and they had already had several disagreements, for the former had been brought up to be domineering, and the latter could not brook being dictated to by a boy of his own age.

"I am sorry I hit Edgar," Roger admitted by-and-by, when his temper had had time to cool, "especially before so many people. I'll apologise to him to-morrow, that is, if he doesn't tell Aunt Janie; but I expect he will. He's a rare sneak. Are we going to have tea before father comes home, or shall we wait for him, mother?"

"We will wait for him, my dear. He said he hoped to be back by half-past five."

"Oh, that's jolly!" Roger exclaimed, his countenance brightening. "We must keep up the fire, for it's awfully cold!" And he took up the coal shovel.

"I hope it will soon get warmer," Mrs. Trent remarked, "but I suppose we cannot expect it to do so in February. 'When the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen,'" she quoted with rather a rueful smile.

"The coal heap's getting very low," announced Polly, as she watched her brother putting coals on the fire, "I peeped in to-day. I suppose they don't mind how much coal they use at the Rookery. Mother, it doesn't seem fair that Uncle John and Aunt Janie should be so rich when we are so poor. I don't believe they're any better than we are."

"Oh, hush, Polly!" cried Mrs. Trent. "You mustn't speak like that. Think of all our blessings. Sometimes I feel a very rich woman indeed."

"Why, mother!" exclaimed Roger in amazement.

"Rich because I have a good husband and children who give me a wealth of love," Mrs. Trent went on to explain with a smile which made her face look very pretty and young. "I wouldn't change places with any woman I know."

The boy threw his arms around her neck and kissed her with tender affection, for he was deeply attached to his mother, whilst Polly remarked:

"I'm glad you're like yourself, mother; I wouldn't have you like Aunt Janie for the world. Good gracious, here she is!" she exclaimed excitedly, rushing to the window as a carriage stopped at the door. "Yes, she's getting out; and oh, Roger, she does look so cross!"

"She's coming to complain about me, for certain," said Roger with a sigh of resignation, though he looked somewhat alarmed. He felt glad that he had confessed all that had occurred to his mother, and wondered what punishment his aunt would demand to have meted out to him for his treatment of her son.

"Well, of all the mean, spiteful boys I ever heard of, Edgar is the worst," declared Polly in an indignant whisper to her brother, as with a rustling of silken skirts Mrs. Marsh swept into the room. "I hope, Roger, that you hit him hard—he deserved it, I'm sure."

CHAPTER II

WHY AUNT JANIE CALLED

Mrs. Marsh was a tall, handsome woman, several years the senior of her sister-in-law, whom she greeted in a manner which, though intended to be kindly, was more than a little patronising. She kissed her niece and nephew, and then seated herself in an easy chair near the fire, whilst the children withdrew to the window to watch for their father's arrival.

"I don't believe she has come to complain of you, Roger," whispered Polly, "for she called you 'my dear.'"

Roger nodded, intensely relieved in mind. He was looking at his aunt's carriage a trifle enviously, and thinking he would like the situation of coachman so as to drive the beautiful horses he so greatly admired. But when he said so to Polly, she appeared indignant at the idea, and bade him be quiet and listen to what Aunt Janie had to say.

"No, thank you, Mary," Mrs. Marsh replied, in response to her sister-in-law's offer of a cup of tea. "I merely called to see Martin—" Martin was Mr. Trent—"to tell him about a letter I've received from Cousin Becky. You've heard of her, of course—Rebecca Trent, a first cousin of father's?"

"Oh yes!" answered Mrs. Trent, with a show of keen interest. "Martin was telling the children about her the other day, and wondering what had become of her. He will be so glad to hear you have heard from her. She must be an old woman now?"

"Close on seventy. She used to visit at our house when Martin and I were about the age of Polly and Roger; but she always made her home with her brother, who had been left a widower with a young family. In fact, she brought up his children. In the letter I have to-day had from her, she informs me that her brother is dead, and that now she is all alone."

"How sad!" exclaimed Mrs. Trent with ready sympathy, whilst Polly and Roger exchanged concerned glances. "Poor soul! But I suppose she has means to provide herself with another home?"

"I should say that is very doubtful. Cousin Becky never had any property, as far as I know, and it is certain her brother could do nothing towards making a provision for her in case she survived him, for he lived on his pension—he was a retired naval officer, as doubtless Martin has told you—and had very little private property. Becky ought to have gone into a situation when she was young, instead of living with her brother, then perhaps she would have been able to make some provision for her old age—I've written and told her so."

Mrs. Marsh paused, for at that moment the sitting-room door opened to admit her brother. Mr. Trent was tall, and very like his sister in features, but there the resemblance between the two ended, for the expression of his countenance was good-humoured, and his many troubles had failed to embitter him, for he owned a hopeful disposition and one of the kindest hearts in the world, whereas Mrs. Marsh, in spite of her air of prosperity, looked anything but a contented woman.

"Oh, father, Aunt Janie has had a letter from Cousin Becky!" cried Polly, eager to be first with the news.

"Well, I am glad," Mr. Trent declared heartily, as selected a chair by his sister's side and, sitting down, took the letter which she had drawn from her pocket and now offered to him. "You and I were very fond of her when we were youngsters, Janie, and she was very good to us, I remember. What has the dear old body to say for herself?"

"You had better see!" Mrs. Marsh responded dryly.

Thus advised, Mr. Trent opened the letter and read aloud as follows:—

"My DEAR JANIE,—" "It is many years since you and I met, but there is still a warm corner in my heart for the little girl and boy who were such firm friends of mine in those days when I used to visit at their home; and I hope they may have some kindly remembrances of 'Cousin Becky'—which hope impels me to write to you now. Dear Janie, I am left all alone. A few months since my dear brother died after a long illness; and his three children are all married and far away. The boy is settled in New Zealand, and the two girls are in India—one is married to an officer in the Army, the other to an engineer. My nephew has offered me a home, but I am too old to be transplanted to the other side of the world, so I have declined his offer, and now propose to visit Beaworthy with the idea of settling there. I have pleasant recollections of the place, and as you and Martin are my only relations in England, I feel I should like to pass my remaining days near you. Could you recommend me to lodgings, or to any nice family who would take a

boarder? I have no doubt you can assist me in this matter, and I shall eagerly await your reply." "With my love to Martin and yourself, and hoping soon to see you both and to make the acquaintance of your husband and boy," "I am, my dear Janie," "Your affectionate cousin," "Rebecca Trent."

"I suppose you've written and asked her to visit you, Janie," remarked Mr. Trent as he returned the letter to his sister.

"I have done no such thing, Martin. Of course, I see that is what she expected—I can read between the lines, so to speak—but I talked the matter over with John, and we came to the conclusion that it would be wiser not to do so; if we once gave her a footing at the Rookery we might find a difficulty in getting rid of her, and—and—"

Mrs. Marsh paused and coloured as she met her brother's astonished eyes. There was a long, awkward silence, which Mrs. Trent at length broke by remarking gently:

"It is very sad to be old and poor, and especially for one who has led a noble and self-sacrificing life—"

"She ought to have considered herself," Mrs. Marsh broke in tartly, "and so I've reminded her. I've written and advised her to stay where she is, in London; I suppose she must have some friends there. I think she would be foolish to come to Beaworthy, anyway. Well, I really must go; I only came to show you Cousin Becky's letter, Martin. Good-bye, children. Good-bye, Mary. You're looking very pale, you ought to get out more." And Mrs. Marsh rustled out of the room followed by her brother.

The mother and children stood at the window and watched Mr. Trent assist his sister into the carriage and wrap the fur rug around her.

"Why doesn't she take you for a drive with her, sometimes, mother?" said Polly in a tone of dissatisfaction. She regarded her mother attentively as she spoke, and a pang of pain shot through her loving heart as she saw that Mrs. Trent was indeed very pale. "It's all very well to say you ought to get out more, but—oh, I wish we had a carriage for you to drive out in when the roads and streets are muddy, and—"

"Don't let your father hear you say anything like that," Mrs. Trent interposed hurriedly. "You need not trouble because I am pale—I always am, you know. There! Your aunt's gone; and now run and tell Louisa to bring in tea."

Polly obeyed, and by the time Louisa—the maid-of-all-work—had done her bidding, Mr. Trent had changed his coat for the older one he always wore at home in the evenings, and had returned to the sitting-room. During the meal which followed, Roger told his father how he had feared his aunt had come on another errand; and though Mr. Trent chided his son for having lost his temper and struck his cousin, he sympathised with the indignation which had caused him to act so impetuously.

"I should be sorry for you to be really at enmity with Edgar," he said gravely, "so I hope you will try to make peace with him to-morrow. His cruelty was probably the result of thoughtlessness, but it ought to be checked."

"Aunt Janie never thinks he does wrong," declared Polly. "And, oh, father, don't you consider it's very strange she doesn't want Cousin Becky to visit her?" she added eagerly.

"Yes, Polly, I do," Mr. Trent admitted with a glance at his wife. "I only wish we were better off so that we could ask Cousin Becky here, but I suppose it's not to be thought of under present circumstances."

"Why not, father?" asked Roger. "Do you think she would not like to come—that she would not like our house?"

"No. I am sure she would not mind our house being small and shabby, and in a street, for she has had to rough it in her day; but—" Mr. Trent paused and glanced at his wife again.

"We have no spare room," she remarked dubiously, "only that little attic next to Louisa's; we could not put a visitor there."

"Cousin Becky could have my room—it's rather small, of course, but it's very comfortable and sunny—and I'd go up in the attic," said Polly, whilst her father nodded approval.

"But, Martin, do you think she would be satisfied with our mode of living?" questioned Mrs. Trent. "I should like to write and ask her to come and stay with us until she has made her plans for the future, because she was kind to you years ago, but—"