ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
BY
ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.
NEW YORK:
GEORGE MUNRO'S SONS, PUBLISHERS,
1? TO 27 VANDEWATER STREET.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
CHAPTER I.
DOSSEE.
A peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom.
Old Saying.
IT was only the other day that Launcelot Chudleigh came upon a
half -finished portrait that he had painted of Dossie as a child. He was
moving some large dusty portfolios that had long blocked up a corner
of his studio, when the rotten strings of one gave way, and out tumbled
a miscellaneous collection of hastily drawn sketches, crude studies,
sunny little bits of scenery, here and there a larger piece with the colors
only half washed in, as though the brush had been flung away in de-
spair; groups of figures with no particular background, a gondola float-
ing in a very hazy sea, an Italian peasant with a Madonna" face and the
inevitable large-eyed babe in her arms, a little flower-girl with a gay
kerchief on her head and a string of brown beads round her neck.
Launcelot turned them all over with a droll, humorous smile. He was
amused, as middle-aged people often are when they come unexpectedly
on some toy or relic of their childhood. Ah, well! he had been young
too, like other people. He had attempted and had failed; and, of course
his failures had seemed pathetic to him, Youth seldom finishes what it
begins; it is ready to set the world on fire with its hasty energy, then
comes reality, disappointment, the plain prose of life.
Launcelot was moralizing over his sketches when one fluttered slowly
to his feet. He uttered an exclamation as he picked it up and brushed
the dust off it very tenderly.
It was the portrait of a child, but not a pretty child. A pale, plaint
ive little face, shaded by soft yellowish hair; the mouth was grave and
unsmiling, the great wistful eyes looked at one rather sadly. " What
does it mean?" they seemed to ask, and the droop of the lids seemed to
demand the same question. Under it was written t4 Dossie, aged ten."
Launcelot regarded it long and fixedly. " It is very like her still,'
he murmured to himself. "I have half a mind to finish it now; it
would be a surprise to Dorothea. I wonder if she would recollect it, or
Madella> it is not so badly done after all." And then he added, after a
pause, " That must have been sketched the week before Jack went
away poor old Jack! how well I remember that time. " And then he
sighed, and laying the picture on the table lie restored the other sketches
to the portfolio
It was a gray March afternoon, and the east wind, that abomination
to ail right minded Englishmen, was pia-yiruka^lr^jri swnphony on the
HE < v
I -art of If ! to share al her father's likes
andcualib ' father h <ul that tlu i cast u-; :
him foe. :;Ntic to the whole world, lie
i buttoned up and shrug
g:ng hissinnild' " What, a dele-table din.
be had m . - dust whirling down the white
road " There, run in ' Mrs. Slater that she must not
u go ou'r- i be a good girl and
nelp nic p.rint this eveniu| '.ick Weston waved" his hand a;
off in the direction of I ho station.
' Father alw:i that," thought Dossie, as she closed the door
went back ' na looked round the empty room a little
wistfully I am u good gir after all?" Another long
da\ to be spent ail alone for of course 31 rs. Slate: would be to.
tc talk to her, and Nancy would be hard at work, too. Nancy \
be black-leading stoves witb. ratlin a smutty face, or scrubbing lloors.
an' Airs. Slater, with floury elbows or hands whitened with hot.
suds, would be kneading dijugh, or slamming oven doors, or wringing
out mysterious long wisps that resolved tnemselves into stil] more
terious garments
It w r ould be, ' Go away, Miss Dosie dear, for the place, ain't tit for
ycu to stand upon," from poor, overworked, good-humored Nancy,
tiial, " Run away, dearie, do, for I have not a minute hardly to draw* a
breath in," from the equally tasked mistress of the house.
There were other lodgers in No. 28 Wenvoe Road besides Mr. AY<
dnd his little daughter. Another artist occupied the drawing room tlio
a pallid young man with long hair and a seedy- brown v< w he
had lately become a social democrat, and spouted for the hour to-
at Tjablic meetings on the wrongs of the working classes Jack \\
never held any intercourse with him, he always wished him a very curt
good morning when they encountered each other on the stairs 1 1
a f ar more genial nod for the little gray headed clerk on, the upper floor,
in spite of an execrable clarionet with which he tortured his neighbors.
into the small liours s but then hs always said Gregson was such a harm-
less, hard working old fellow, and never gave his landlady any trouble,
blacking his ownT)oots, and only coming home to tea, and never com
plaining if Nancy forgot to fill his coal-scuttle on a cold winter's night
" and he has had his troubles too. poor old man," finished .i
had a soft heart.
Dossie heaved a deep sigh as she looked round the empty room. It
was a very pleasant room in Bummer-time when the folding-doors weic
open, for the glass door led into a small garden, but just now it had ;*
forlorn, untidy aspect. The breakfast things had not been cleared away
from the round table Mrs. Slater arid Nancy were too busy at p
- the only cheerful window was blocked by her father's easel, the couch
and half the chairs were littered with papers, books, and a het.
mass of odds and ends; the lire, which had been ruthlessly poked
impatient hand, wa- now a bed of red cinders. Portfolios, pal
isical instruments, coats and rugs were on c
able article of furniture I>ro\vn spairows were chirping and picking up
the crumbs that had been lavishly strewn for them, in spite of the
mall black kitten who watched them through the .
ONLY TUK GOVERNESS. 7
actually ono pert little fellow seemed to cock his head at her in a know
inu' waV. as if he knew that she could not reach him. How was Dossie
through her long solitary day? that was the question she was re-
solving with a puckered forehead and a very grave face, while the kit-
ten patted the glass with soft, velvety paws, and the sparrows llew
away. There was the room to tidy, but there would be plenty of time
for that before father came home; 'it was no use learning any more les-
sons, as he had not heard the last, and she had finished the dusters Mrs.
Slater had given her 1o hem, and of course she was much too busy to
find her any more work.
Never mind, she would get on with her writing and have quite a long
bit to show her father in the evening. How he did laugh over it, to be
sure. She had been rather hurt about his laughing at first, until he had
explained to her very kindly that it was only the idea that amused him,
and that really he was very much pleased with the whole thing.
There was no empty space on the round table for her writing mate-
rials, so Dossie wedged herself in with some difficulty between the easel
and the window: there was a nice window-seat there that opened like a
box, a curious contrivance made by some previous lodger. Here Dossie
kept her treasures her little work-box and lesson-books, and childish
odds and ends, and from this dusty receptacle she triumphantly pro-
duced a bundle of copy-books, tied together with blue ribbon.
Five minutes more and Dossie had forgotten the world, the east wind,
and the solitude she had so dreaded, in the proud delight of composi-
tion. The scratchy pen never paused as Mrs. Slater cleared the break-
fast things and made up the fire. " Poor little soul!" she said to her-
self as wlie bustled out of the room with the tray, "she is as good as
gold. Few children would amuse themselves as Miss Dossie does. Bless
her little heart! She is making believe to write some story, I expect.
We should never get the ink off her hands if Nancy had not bought
that pumice-stone."
lju! - of ink, smudges, erasures, and an occasional difficulty
in spelling some desirable word, Dossie worked on, quite oblivious of
lime, ooly pausing to stroke the kitten, which had crept into her lap and
-'irring contentedly in that warm receptacle. They eat their din-
ner together in gypsy fashion, for Mrs. Slater never troubled to spread
a cloth for Dossie alone: the little tray was placed on the window-seat,
and by and by Xancy took it away and the copy-books were replaced.
" I am getting on beautifully, Nancy, " exclaimed Dossie, with a
beaming smile, that lighted up her pale little face like a ray of sun-
Rhine. " If I take great pains with it, perhaps father will have it print-
ed some day."
"Of course he will, Miss Dosie," returned Nancy, stoutly; "it is
quite as good as any real printed book. It almost made me cry, it did,
the other night," And this flattering testimony to the intrinsic worth
of her work was an immense consolation to Dossie.
Nancy's value as a critic might have been held somewhat cheaply by
either people. Her childhood had been spent in a work-house, a place
where the intellectual activities seldom attain rapid growth; neither was
the position of maid-of-all-work in a house where lodgers are kept a
perfectly fortuitous one for the development of critical acumen, or the
faculty of nice discrimination; nevertheless, Nancy's sympathy and hon-
est faith were great sources of comfort to Dossie, who had no compau*
ions of her own age.
Sometimes Dossie, staring wide awake into the darkness, would hear
ONLY ]
Nancy come up heavily to bed, and would beg her, in a plaintive \
with her n littl> never refused; however tired and sleepy
she might be, she would sit on the hard uncomfortable l>o\. with the
tallow candle guttering in the tin candlestick, wliile Do ie, propped
against her nest of pillow, read aloud her composition in a voice I rein -
Mini; with "I call it beautiful, Miss Dosie," \ould
murmur, with difficulty Suppressing a yawn; sometimes her head would
nod drowsily with cold and fatigue, but she alwa; 1 that she
had heard every word.
-ie returned to her labors with increased alacrity when Nancy had
carried away the luncheon-tray. Her hands were very inky, anil slit-
had a red spot on either cheek, "and perhaps she felt a little cramped and
sleepy, but what did that all matter? But, one of those interruptions
which Hale describes as " a breach, or break, caused by the abrupt in-
:tion of something foreign," was to happen to the small author,
for at that moment a thin, dark young man, in a foreign-lookin.u
coat lined with fur, was standing before the door of >
Road, waiting with an air of philosophic patience until Nancy had
pulled down her sleeves and tied on a clean apron.
" Yes, sir," observed Xaucy, dropping a little wooden courtesy; and
as the gentleman turned round rather quickly, she added, " We ain't got
a ' let ' up, Mrs. Slater says, because we are full at present."
'* Oh " staring at her in rather a bewildered fashion " I am sure I
am very glad to hear it. Your neighbors are not so lucky, for I saw
several placards up; but I have not come after lodgings. I believe a
gentleman of the name of Weston lives here."
* Yes, sir; our parlor lodger, but he is not in. Miss Dosie that is
the little girl is in."
" Oh, very well, I will speak to her," returned the stranger, with an
air of relief; and Xancy, without wasting any more words, thrust her
head into the parlor and observed, " Here is a gentleman, Miss Dosie,
There was a small demon in the shape of a black kitten washing it
very busily on the hearth-rug, but no human being that he coul<.
The room had a desolate, untidy aspect, and looked like a bachelor's
den. " I suppose she is upstairs," he muttered, and then he went up
to the easel.
But the next moment he recoiled with a start, and uttered an exclama-
tion, for he had caught sight of a small head, covered with rough yel-
lowish hair, lying on the window-seat in a very limp manner; it might
have belonged to a good-sized doll, only it moved at the sound of his
voice. " 1 believe I was asleep," remarked Dossie, with dignity, e
moved her cramped limbs with difficulty and struggled to her feet! " If
you please, father is out, and I do not know who you are."
" 1 dare say not, my little girl," returned the young man, shaking
the small ink-stained hand very kindly, and drawing her out of the
corner; " but I dare say when we have had a little talk we shall be
friends. Do you know, I first saw your father when lie was only
a big school-boy; he was seventeen or eighteen, I forget which, but
quite still a boy, and I was a little fellow about six or B<
younger."
One of Dossiers sudden smiles, that always took people by sin;
irradiated her binall fuco us she heard this. " Oh, did you really know
ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
father then? How you could help me. I never knew any one before
who could tell me what he was like us a boy; of course you do not
know what I mean by wanting to know all this, but if I tell you I am
sure you would help me," looking at him with a child's unerring in-
stinct that he was to be trusted.
" To be^sure I will help you," was the quick reply. " May J take
off my overcoat first"? thank you and as I knew your father all those
years ago may I stir the fire? I am afraid I forgot what the maid called
you; Miss Dossie, was it?"
" No, Dossie; at least father always calls me Dossie, but Nancy will
always call me Dosie. I don't like it, it is such a sleepy name, but
Nancy never can see the difference. Oh, what a beautiful blaze you
have made! Muff is quite pleased, listen how she purrs. Father almost
pokes the fire to pieces, but it never is as bright as that. Please take
that chair, Mr. Oh, now I come to think of it, I do not know your
name either how funny. ' '
" I am afraid you will think it rather a difficult name, Miss Dossie:
Launcelot Chudleigh rather a mouthful, eh, but people often call me
Lance for brevity's sake. Now, I should very much like to know what
that shake of the head means."
" I am only thinking," was the oracular reply, as Dossie drew a stool
to the hearthrug. "I always shake my head when I think hard.
When you spoke to me first, I thought you were young, very young,
but I am not so sure now."
Mr. Chudleigh laughed; he had often been accused of this before.
lie was wonderfully young-looking for his age, which was in reality
about two-and-thirty; his face, without being exactly handsome a
term that would not have suited it at all was so full of life and energy
and repressed enthusiasm that it seemed to speak even when in repose;
the mouth, hardly shaded by the small trim mustache, was beautifully
formed and characteristic, and the gray eyes looked very kindly at
Dossie.
Children and animals never misunderstood Launcelot Chudleigh,
though a few of his equals in age called him a hare-brained enthusiast,
and accused him of posing as an English Don Quixote. " It is Chud-
Ifigh's role to be peculiar," people would say. " I believe he does odd
tilings to keep up his character for singularity, or because he thinks it
artistic." " I dare say, after all, his unselfishness is only a form of re-
fi ned egotism, a subjective idealism," finished one cranky old philoso-
pher, who always grumbled at Launcelot and secretly loved him.
Launcelot was immensely amused by Dossie's artless speech. You
can never deceive children, he moralized; they had found out long ago
that he was a boy at heart still, he was afraid he should never grow old
and dignified like other people. Even when his head was gray, his
heart would be young; he knew this, he had always known it, and had
railed at himself for not being more of a melancholy Jacques; but a
man must act up to his nature, and now this demure little thing, with
her flaxen doll's head, had found him out. So this was Jack's child;
but she was not a bit like poor old Jack, and some one had told him her
mother had been pretty; well, she could not take after her mother either,
unless she were a very washed-out edition.
" Well," he observed, briskly, as Dossie seemed a little absent and
disinclined to speak, " what is this important matter in which I am to
help you?" and as though the question had recalled her wandering
10
'In 1 chilil ran to the wind
full
vll me, !:
v laugh*; and s:iy.*. rMiculous thin::- or scribbles : a the
Mea how naughty lit
" Uut what is ft what are you writii, ! Launcclot, in a kind,
pu/./leil toi " My di ar child, ho\v you must have steeped yourself in
:aiiu"'d fingers rather pitifully.
" Ye*;. Imt Nancy
father does not mind, ami I the ink myself. Now, then, I am
iroiiiiT to li-ll you: 1 am writing father's life, because he is quite the best
man iii the world, and, of course, his life ought to be written."
CHAPTER II.
"THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT."
This is the man, all tattered and torn,
Who married the maiden all forlorn, etc.
i-}l Rhyme.
LAUNCELOT dared not reply to this astounding piece of information
for fear he should burst out laughing, and by so doing offend mortally
this whimsical little being, so he bit his lip hard to conceal a smile
taking one of the copy-books out of Dossie's hand he bent over it with
"f profound interest.
" Father's History " was written in large, childish round-hand, but
underneath, in bold masculine handwriting, was inscribed " The life of
Jack West on, by his daughter, being a full and veracious account of
the m:in, his morals, and complete history up to date, drawn from an
infantile point of view. Motto for same, ' This is the house that .lack
built."
" I am sure it must be very interesting, Miss Dossie, " observed
Launcelot, politely, but in rather a stifled voice; he was growing very
the face in the effort to conceal his risibility tl-
thing ever heard: how delighted jladella would be to know it.
uld you mind very much if I were to read a page or two? If I
am to help you by any choice reminiscences it will be necessary for me
little of the style, unless," regarding the many blots dubiously,
"you were to read it to me yourself."
<*<\ Dossie, joyously. " I think that would be much
. 1 always read it to father and Nancy; but," regarding him with
a puxzle.-l expression, " how will you. ever know which is miu.
. is father's, for he has written such funny things? If I v
and (ouzh just 'hem, 'you know that would nmn I tin
father's."
" That will be a capital plan," replied Launcelot. taking up the poker
Deration: his shoulders were heaving, 1
1 him. " What a nice man lie was," thought Do-sic; " ]K
light f;il that he had known her faii oy: he would L
ing tilings to tell her presently:" and then she cleared her
it. Launcelot glanced at her 'lit he
impolitic to relinquish the poker.
! am writing father's life -piite the ' in ihu
ONLY Tin: UOVERX] 11
world, and so beautiful. I know every one thinks so, because when
we are walking together people look at him so; he is so big and strong,
and holds up his head like a king, and he has a nice reddish-brown
beard, curly rather. Muff likes it, for she tried to go to sleep in it once,
only he put her down vere carefully father never hurts anything and
called her an impudent little cat,' oh, I see," and here Dossie coughed
gently " ' N.B. Rather a negative virtue that, " he never hurl
thing." When a man is his worst enemy he is sure to do mischief
enough. How about the talent laid up in the napkin all these yrai>?
I- mind, my Dossie; believe in your father with the beautiful faith
of childhood, " the best man in the world " what a stone launched by
a tiny hand; it hits hard somehow.
" ' Father and I have always lived together since mother died, some-
limes in one place and sometimes in another. Now and then when we
are very comfortable it makes me sorry when father says he lias no
money, and the lodgings are too expensive, and we must " move on."
He threatens sometimes to take to a caravan, but that is only his joke.
Father is such a jokey man. I cried about it once when we were in that
pretty cottage on the common. I did love blackberrying in the lanes
so, but father took me on his knee and looked ready to cry too, and
begged me not to be sorry, because it made him so unhappy, and that
he would give me all I wanted if he could only sell his pictures, but he
was down on his luck, as usual; and there were big tears in his eyes
when he said this.
' ' So I never tell him I am sorry now, but I do hope that we shall
not leave here for a long time, for Mrs. Slater and Kaucy are so kind,
and on Sunday father always takes me into the park to see the deer.
; ' Father says when he was a baby his name was John, but his friends
always call him Jack. lie never will talk of the time when he was H
boy; he always says he was much the same as other boys, only a great
pickle. He is dreadfully lazy the only thing that seems to interest him
is the part about mother,' dear me, hem! 'N.B. My poor prctl\
Pen! Is it any wonder? A man, unless lie be an absolute brute, which
I always maintain Jack Weston was not, is ^ever indifferent to his
guardian angel. God knows how I loved the darling, and yet I failed
to make her happy. She was too tender, too sensitive for this hard
workaday world my little Dossie takes after her there, I fear. AY hat
an unlucky beggar 1 have been! Two good women to love me, and yet
here I am a threadbare, lonely man, a painter of bad pictures, with
hardly a friend in the world except a stray Bohemian, and a little help-
less female child for whose future I am responsible.' Father was very
sad when he wrote that," finished Dossie; "he could not joke a bit:
he just put his head on his hands and groaned, but when I asked him
what was the matter he would not answer.
' ' Father was very young when he first saw mother. He says he
had quarreled with his friends, and was sketching in a pretty village in
one of the midland counties. He lodged at the inn, and was very happy
anrl comfortable.
' It was a sweet little village, with cottages all covered with roses
and all sorts of climbing plants, and just outside the village near the
church was a queer old red-brick house, with a beautiful lawn and a
cedar-tree. It was a girls' school, and kept by two funny old ladies, 1
forget their names.
' ^Father used to meet the girls walking two-and-two on a summer's
evening; some of them would notice him and nudge each other as they
12 ONLY THK COVKKXESS.
1. but there was one young lady in gray, who walked last, who
was the quietest and prettiest of them all.
' ' Father ealled her for a long time " his little Quaker friend
cause she was so demure-looking, and always wore such sober <
hut when he came to look at her more closely he said she reminded him
of a little pale snow-drop, there was something so fresh and pure ahout
her: these are father's own words.
' He got to know the clergyman presently, and his wife told father
that the name of his little Quaker friend was Penelope Martin, that she
was an orphan, and very friendless and poor, and that she was the
junior English governess at the Cedars. " But we are all very fond of
her, Mr. Weston," she added, " for Miss Martin is so good and amiable,
and we are delighted to have her with us on half-holid Heie
Dossie paused to cough, and Launcelot, who had long ago laid down
the poker, stole another glance at her from under his hand. Even Dos-
sie hardly knew the deep interest with which her silent auditor followed
every word, especially the annotations.
" ' How well I remember those dear old vicarage days. Mrs. More-
land was a good friend to us both while she lived; she was a motherly
soul, and gave Pen good counsel.
' Those half-holidays were my red- letter days. What delicious after-
noons we spent in the old garden, making believe to play with the chil-
dren; what strolls in the dewy lanes to hunt for glow-worms; what whis-
pered conversations in the moonlight when 1 took Pen h<5rne. No man
ever had a prettier little sweetheart, and yet her shyness gave me trouble
enough sometimes she would hardly look at me, and yet all her ways
were so dainty, so bewitching. She told me afterward she was afraid
to let herself love me, because she did not believe in happiness coming to
her. Her life had been hard, and perhaps she did not better it by marry-
ing Jack Weston.
1 Father says the old school- mistress tried to prevent her marrying
him, but he got his way in the end. They were very poor, for mother
had only a five pound note in her pocket, and father had only his pict-
ures, but neither of them minded it at first.' Oh, dear, here comes
father again! he never was lazy about mother.
* Pen did not mind; I can take my oath of that. She was as happy
as a child let out of school, and it was the prettiest sight in the world to
see her playing at housekeeping.
" ' The rooms were never untidy then. She had a knack of making
everything look its best. There were always flowers; Pen loved tlow-
ers. Sometimes I would find the mantel-piece wreathed with bright-
colored leaves. She would not paint a bit, but yet all her tastes were
artistic. I never saw her look shabby all those years, and yet we were,
dreadfully poor, and I know she seldom bought a new dress. I can not
tell how she managed it, but she wore herself out; poor Pen!
' ' I wish I were like mother, but father says I shall never be half so
good and pretty. My little brothers, Johnnie and Willie, were like her,
only they died. Willie was such a fair, darling baby, and mother doted
on "him. He died after the whooping-cough, and father says poor
mother never got over his loss, she tired herself so with nursing him;
and then I was born, and somehow she got weaker and weaker, until
she was loo tired to live any longer ' hem
' ' Right, my little Dossie; she just faded away, poor Pen! Ai
fche was loath to leave me and the child. She was always telling me
h')vr happy 1 had made her. and yet all the time I knew how the
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 13
and worries had fretted her. There was never money for anything;
the pictures hung on hand. I believe in my heart that, after all, sin-
was not sorry to lie down with the boys. She was always grieving for
them, Willie especially. Often and often I have found her crying, only
ehe would not tell me the reason. She was quiet and reserved to the
last, poor Pen! but I knew when I lifted her and felt how light and thin
she was, that she was just wasting away, and that she would not be
loug with us.' That is all I care to read," finished Dossie, candidly,
<l but I am getting on as fast as I can. Father has promised me a lot
of anecdotes, only I am obliged to wait for them. 1 have written a good
deal more to-day, only I have smudged the words so that I can't read
them. I think I am a little tired," she ended, with a si#h.
" Of course yon are tired, you poor little thing," returned Launcelot,
in the voice that always won 'children's hearts. He was troubled to see
the utter want of color in the child's face, and how drooping and weary
she looked. " Now what shall we do until father comes home? Have
you a ball or a skipping-rope? I am very partial to a top myself; but
then you see I am only a big boy. Little girls like dolls, do they not?"
" Mine is broken," returned Dossie, in rather a lachrymose manner.
"I was dreadfully sorry when she died, but father gave her a grand
funeral, and then ne said I was getting too old for such babyish things.
I should like to play with you verj r much, for you are such a nice man,
and I am sure father will think so; but it is getting dark, and I have to
tidy the room before Nancy brings in the tea-things."
" All right," returned Launcelot. " I am a handy fellow for mak-
ing things ship-shape. Supposing we go to work together. Now, Miss
Dossie! Why should not these coats "find a place on the pegs outside?
And there is room' for the rugs too. " And, acting on his words, Launce-
lot dashed out of the room with an armful of heterogeneous wraps, and
on his return commenced clearing the chairs and couch, while Dossie,
with a minute and very dirty duster in her hand, followed him about
meekly.
"Now then, " observed Launcelot, cheerily, when his labors were
over, " don't you think you might try to get rid of these ink-stains?"
and Dossie nodded and vanished.
" After all, she is an interesting little thing," was Launcelot's mental
comment when she was left alone; " but then all children interest me;
they are the very salt of the earth but she is plain, very plain. I am
sure Madella would say so she thinks so much of good looks but she
would be very kind to her. Madella has the best heart in the world.
Poor old Jack, he little knows I have been behind the scenes. I declare
that account was very touching. The little monkey has a good mem-
ory," and then he took out a letter from his pocket, and began reading
it with a knitted brow. " My dear Launcelot," it said, " I wonder if
you will recognize this handwriting, and whether you ever remember tke
existence of a certain individual called Jack Weston.
" Do you ever recall your old school-days, and how unmercifully you
used to chaff Uncle Jack? You were a clever little chap then, and had
far more brains in your curly head than fell to my share.
' ' But you will be saying to yourself, ' Why is the fellow writing to
me after a silence of fourteen years?' Well, I will tell you.
" I was walking down Pall Mall with a man I knew the other day,
when he suddenly said, * There goes that queer fellow, Chudleigh.
Ilallain always calls him the Wandering Jew. He is always going to
and fro on the earth, like some one who shall be nameless, ' and then
N
yon pi .1 me in tlu- fare cut your uncle eon
Ah, you mean Launeelot Chudleigh, I - rned,
quietly; ' well, : ' of nephew of mine at least my sister mar-
ried lus father when lie was a small boy, but I can not ansv
relationship. We have not met for almost fou: beard
M o
l. do yon know. 1 ronld not get yon out of my head. 1
the g] -:i to run after yon and ask yon to shake hands; then I
lit I would question (Jreene. and when I had pumped him sulli-
. 1 made up my mind to write to yon. \~<>ilt'i font.
yon are not too proud to come and see a fellow who is down
on his luck, and who has not a friend in the world, you will find me at
ul, Richmond.
" Yours truly,
" JACK
Laimcelot was just replacing the letter in the envelope when he heard
a latch key turning in the hall door, and Dossie's shrill little voice on
the stairr
h, father, dear, how late you are; has the east wind been very
bad?"
"Pretty bad, my pet. At least, I ani as cross as possible. Well.
what is it, Dossie? You look as though you were going to eat me np."
" Oh, father, such a surprise! You have no idea what you will find
in the parlor."
" Fee-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman," continued the
same cheery voice, and the next moment a very big man in an ulster en-
tered the room.
"An apt quotation," observed Launcelot, stepping forward in hi
alert way. " How do you do, Uncle Jack?"
" Laimcelot, old fellow!" And then the two men grasped hands, and
the face of the elder man became strangely pale for a moment.
" It is good of you to come," he said, rather gruffly, as though un-
willing to show emotion. "I am very much surprised; I hardly ex-
1 it. You are not so much changed, Launcelot I should know
you anywhere."
"lean not return the compliment," was the reply, and Launcelot
looked at him attentively. Dossie was right, he thought. Jack
ton was certainly a striking-looking man. He was powerfully made,
only his broad shoulders had a slight stoop in them. II
handsome, loo. and the golden-brown beard gave him an air of dignity
which the careless good nature which was his normal expression hardly
out. " When a man is his worst enemy," Launcelot said to him-
self (for Jack's annotations had stamped themselves on his mei
now and then he would repeat a phrase with parrot -lik
Launcelot's vivacity and easy boyish manners often <!<
They had no idea of the quiet penetration that underlaid his bno\
lie had an extraordinary power of reading charaet. He
instinctively the salient points; manneii radic-
minor ditlieulties never long baffled him. He always worked his
;t of the man. Xow and then he made mi
-lit for virtues they i.
them at their wcrst.
Launeelol's quick eyes hud noticed several things during that lirst
u nailer of an hour, during which he and Jack common-
ONLY THE ftOYER'N'ESS. 15
places. Nancy was laying the tea table, and Dossie vras helping her;
the child seemed to have a passion for service and by mutual consent
both men confined themselves to generalities, the weather, politics, and
the dullness in trade.
Lnuncelot found plenty to say on all these subjects, for he was a ready
t Ikcr and rarely cared to hold his tongue long; but he entered several
items on the tablets of his memory, to be pondered over in quiet.
Item number one: Why was Jack's coat so shabby? Launcelot ob-
jected on principle to a shabby coat. There must be " something rot-
ten in the state of Denmark " when a man allows his clothes to tell a
tale of ill success.
Item number two: Why did his hand tremble as he took up the tea-
caddy? V
Item number three: Why had his placid, good-tempered-looking face
turned so pale when they had first met? Strong men do not ordinarily
change color; they were such complete strangers to each other that
Launcelot, while he had anticipated a heart}' welcome, was hardly pre-
pared for any show of emotion, but perhaps the poor beggar had gone
through so much trouble.
They talked shop all the tea-time at least that was how Jack ex-
.".\ it. Launcelot spoke of his studio which he had built at the
Witchens. " Oh, oh, you still live at the Witcheus?" observed Jack,
evidently feeling his way a little.
" Yes, my father bought it, it is mine now; it is rather a big house,
but we manage to fill it. Madella and the girls are at Mentone now. "
" Who? oh, I know. My sister Delia," speaking with some slight
embarrassment; " so you keep to your old childish name for your step-
mother?"
" Yes, it just suits her; do you remember how my father wanted me
t:i call her mother or mamma, and 1 refused, because" I said Jack always
culled her Delia; we came to a compromise at last, and I coined the
word Madella; it was very wise of her to tell me how much she liked it,
for I was inclined to be a rebel."
" Yes, I remember;" but Jack added, hastily, as Dossie's eyes grew
largo and curious, " Are your pictures successful?" and Launcelot was
quick to take the hint.
" Oh, as to that, I do not care to sell my pictures, but people do buy
them. I have just come back from Rome; I was in the Austrian Tyrol
all the summer, but the boys wanted me. By the bye, do you know
Singleton expects to make a hit this season? he has painted a very power-
ful picture, ' The Ten Virgins.' " And here followed a rapid discussion
on the merits and demerits of several artists and their work, to which
Dossie listened with rapt attention. She made no attempt to interrupt
them, only her little hand stole into her father's, and Lauucelot noticed
how lie patted it softly from time to time, as though he never forgot her
presence.
By and by he turned to her, and asked her gently if it were not time
for Nancy to put her to bed.
Dossie's face fell. " Only just time, father, and I am not a bit
sleepy; but if you wish me to go"
" I do wish" it, darling; you see this gentleman and I have a great
deal to talk about, and " but Dossie needed no more; evidently her
father's wish was law to her. She rose at once, and held up her face to
be kissed, then she went round to Launcelot and gave kim her hand
very gravely.
1(5 ONLY THF.
;<>od-night. Mi i hope wo shall see a great deal of each
otlior in future," and Dossie's sad little face brightened at the kind
words, as she lifted the kitten and stole noiselessly out of the room.
But for several minutes after she had closed the door, the silence was
still uubroken between the two men.
CHAPTER III.
"LIKE THE BIRDS OP THE AIR."
Nothing is ever lost, while much is always gained, by attending to the good of c.
thing before its evil. GRIN DON.
There may be epics in men's brains, just as there are oaks in acorns, but th tree
ami the book must come out before we measure them. EMERSON.
THERE is something oppressive in this sort of silence; in one sense it
is far more eloquent than speech, one dreads to utter the first word.
To Jack Weston the very air seemed surcharged with suppressed mean-
ing, with mysterious possibilities. An uneasy conviction that the man
he had summoned to his help out of sheen longing for human sympathy
might perchance sit in judgment upon him, made him almost repent of
his hasty impulse. Why had he invoked these ghosts of his dead
youth? why had he tried to bridge over the chasm that severed his
earlier and later life? Jack's broad shoulders were still more bent as
he asked himself these questions; he averted his eyes rather moodily
from his silent companion. It was Launcelot who spoke first, but hi's
few words broke through the barrier at once.
"Tell me all about it, Jack," he said, very quietly. "You have
been fourteen years sending for me, but you see 1 came at once."
" I do not know what there is to tell,^' replied the other, slowly. " I
have been a fool and made a mess of me life; many men have done the
same. I am not the only reprobate in the world," finished Jack, witfc
a dismal smile.
" I dare say you are right," was the cool response, " but, we may as
well avoid generalities for the present. I do not know how you t'eel
about things, but I have always found too much dilliculty in keeping
myself in order to meddle about other folks' business. No doubt there
are plenty of fools in the world, some of them very pleasant fellows,
but when a man owns himself to be beaten by ill-luck, and confe-
the same time that he has not a single friend, I am inclined to think that
there must be more than foolishness at the bottom."
" Of course I have laid myself open to this," was Jack's gloomy an-
swer, and his good-natured face grew heavy and forbidding. " 1 \\as
a fool, after all, to send for you."
" My dear fellow, a hundred times no! There was method in your
madness then. Now listen. I don't mean to be hard upon you, but i
want you to be frank with me; your little Dossie has taken me behind
the scenes, and I know you have- had your blessings like other men. 1
wish I had seen your wife, Jack; she must have, been a good woman:
she has taken my fancy, and," added Launcelot, with a curious smile,
" I was always fastidious about women."
" Pen was the dearest and the sweetest wife that a man could h
burst out Jack, with a sort of break in his voice; " she was a heroine in
her little way. If tilings were hard, she never complained. Sin
bit of a Puritan, was Pen, but somehow 1 liked it. in her; I.
her happy. When I came home discouraged and sore hearteil,
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 17
with empty pockets, she would just smile in my face, and say, ' Never
mind, Jack, we have our crumbs too to-day like the birds of the air, and
we are not to fret about to-morrow.' My blessed Pen! it was the boy's
death broke her down: she was never the same woman after that."*
"I wonder " began Launcelot, and then he paused, as though
doubtful how to go on. ;
" You wonder she did not heal the breach. Well, I never gave her
the chance. She knew I had a sister, and that was all. I never spoke
to her of Delia."
" What a grievous mistake!"
" Oh, no doubt. I was sowing a plentiful crop just then. I do not
mind owning to you now that I was an egregious ass. Poor Delia had
been very good to me. She had paid my debts again and again, but
when she married your father things were very different; she let rue see
very plainly then that she was ashamed of having such a scapegrace for
a brother."
" You wrong Madella there," was the warm answer; " no one can
accuse her of want of generosity. I have never heard her speak a hard
word of you, though I suppose your conscience tells you that you have
behaved most unkindly to her. It is always ' Poor Jack, I wonder what
has become of him? I hope his wife is good to him: it is hard not to
know if he has any children,' and so on. No, I will not have Madella
blamed."
" I suppose you will allow that she .had not a will of her own after
she married Chudleigh, and I suppose you will admit that your father
ruled us both with a rod of iron."
" Humph!" in a dubioui tone. " I am hardly prepared to admit even
as much as that. As long as he lived, Madella was the happiest woman
in the world. They exactly suited each other; perhaps he was rattier
strict, even with his own boys, but then you see he held old-fashioned
opinions on the rights of parents. He was not sufficiently enlightened
to hold the doctrine of obedience to children. He was a disciplinarian,
and liked to rule his own household."
Jack smiled grimly. " Of course I can not expect you to side with
me against your own father, but you were a kind little champion in
those days, so I will forgive your sarcasm. Of course I knew I was an
apple of discord, and that poor Delia would have been happier without
me. I never could be civil to Chudleigh. I am afraid 1 hated him.
It seemed to me a mean thing to live under a man's roof and eat at his
table, and all the time be hostile to him, so when things became worse
I just broke away from it all."
" I know you behaved like a madman."
" Freedom seemed glorious to me then," went on Jack, without heed-
ing this. " I believe if 1 had only kept single and stuck to my work, I
should have done well enough; but I met Pen, and then it was all up
with me."
*' Yes, and it was that imprudent marriage that incensed father/' re-
turned Launcelot. " I remember, as though it were yesterday, his com-
ing into the morning- room when I was reading ' Dombey and Son ' to
Madella. ' I have had a letter from Walter Moreland, an old school-
fellow of mine,' he began; ' do you know what that fool of a brother of
yours has done now? He has actually marrie4 married without a
penny in his pocket: a beggarly little governess too. Now, Delia, listen
to me, I wash my hands of that boy forever. He is utterly incorrigible
and irreclaimable. Not one farthing of my money shall he touch from
IS ONLY Tin: GOVERN!
tins day forth;' and, though ^ladella cried and hogged him to let her
write t<> you once, lie would not give way."
yet you .--ay he was not hard?"'
"No, I' think he had a right to lie disj leased. No man lias a right to
marry and bring children into the worid unless he can sec hi
clearly to make provision for them. You could not expect my father
,;>port your family."
"1 never a^kcd him for a penny, or Delia cither," returned Jack.
angrily. " I have far too much pride to beg help from any man. You
think because I have made a mess of my life, and have done v
things, that 1 have not tried to do better. Pen knows how hard 1
worked, she never blamed me for idleness. Of course we were foolish
to marry so young. Pen was a mere child, and 1 was headstrong an<!
inexperienced. Well, we have ' dree'd our weird,' and seen evil
but 1 am not sure if it all came over again that I should not do exactly
the same thing. Pen and 1 were happy in spite of it all; we were too
fond of each other to be miserable. She always believed in my < .
ness. Why, bless you, if any one had told Pen my pictures were mere
daubs and not worth their frames, she would have been ready to shut
the door in his face. Dossie takes after her mother in that ' fii.
Jack;' she actually believes in me too."
Launcelot regarded him with a pitying look. Jack's frankness touched
him; he could understand that women even good women might find
him lovable, and yet he was a reprobate; he must have deteriorated
since his wife's death. No doubt he had kept straight for Pen's sake,
but he must find out something more even at the risk of offending him.
" Look here, old man," he exclaimed, suddenly, " we are becoming
quite confidential, talking in quite a brotherly style. Now I like that;
I am always glad when a fellow speaks out without any humbug, it
makes me think more of him indeed it does and we need not always
be flinging a man's follies in his face; that sort of thing is too agg:
ing. What I want to know now is, how do you and Dossie live? If
your pictures are bad, how do they sell? Have you any plan for the
future?"
" Do you smoke?" was the unexpected answer to this. " I am fond
of a pipe myself; it soothes the nerves. 1 could not live without my
pipe. If you will excuse me I will ring for some water; a little whisky
would not come amiss."
" Not for me," returned Launcelot, decidedly. " I never take spirits;
indeed, I am no smoker, but 1 will help myself to a cigarette to keep
you company. You will think I am a queer sort of fellow," he con-
tinued, " but I have a horror of such stimulants. I have no objection
to good claret or hock or any of those light wines that one takes with
one's meals, but there I draw- the line."
Jack was placing the whisky-bottle on the table. He shook his head
at this.
" Pen never allowed this sort of thing either; poor little girl, I should
have shocked her dreadfully. But it has become a necessity to mo
now. Why, my dear fellow," rather irritably, " ho\v do you sup;
should get through the long evening, when Dpssie is in bed and 1 have
only my thoughts to keep me company, if I did not banish the g]
somehow? 1 hope 1 do not often take too much," finished Jack, hum
My. " I don't wish to disgrace myself, for 1 >. e, but one must
get rid of the blue devils."
ill nerer get rid of them in that way. Why not content
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 19
yourself with a pipe to-night? You are not alone. Look here. I know
it is no good preaching to people, and 1 don't want you to think me
strait-laced and that sort of thing, but if you sit here evening after
evening trying to forget your trouble by drowning it in whisky and
water, I say that you are simply destroying yourself, soul and body.
Give it up, my dear fellow, before the habit gets too strong and mas-
ters you."
" Pshaw! I am no worse than hundreds of other men. It does not
follow that because I do not pretend to be a saint I am the other thing.
A glass of good wholesome stuff like this does no harm in the long run."
" Mere sophistry," returned Launcelot, sadly. " You can not drown
trouble of mind in one glass. Are you sure you keep an exact account?
Do you always measure accurately? Does not appetite and capacity
grow with indulgence? Give it up, Jack, for God's sake!"
" Let us change the subject," was the impatient answer. " No one
can call me a bad-natured fellow, but I am a bit cranky on some points,
and apt to turn rusty. Don't let us argue at our first meeting. I won't
take a second glass to-night, I vow. It does me good to see you sitting
there. I thought perhaps you would take fright at my shabby coat,
and cut your visit short."
" No, indeed," returned Launcelot, cheerfully. " I am waiting until
you see fit to answer my questions. How do you and Dossie live? Ex-
cuse my plain speaking, but I never could beat about the bush."
" No, you were always an impudent little beggar. By the bye, how
do you continue to look so young? There are only a few years between
us, and already there are gray hairs in my head."
" I take life easily; that is all. Now, Jack, I insist on an answer."
" All right; you shall have it. What do you want to know how do
I and Dossie live? Well, very much as Pen said ' like the' birds of the
air.' Sometimes there are plenty of crumbs, and then we have a good
time; and sometimes the dealers, confound them! tell me that they are
sick of my pictures, that they hang on hand, that the subject is stale,
or the market is overstocked, and then we have to do as well as we can."
" I trust the latter is not your position at the present moment," but
as Launcelot threw out this feeler he was taken aback to see Jack draw
himself up with an air of dignity, while an embarrassed flush crossed his
face.
" Excuse me, but I would rather not answer that question."
" All right," was the cheerful response, " I retract it; consider it un-
said. I suppose you are still fond of your work? You would rather
be an artist than anything else?"
' ' Upon my word, I do not know. I am so sick of the whole thing
that I should not care if I never painted another picture; one grows so
weary of failures. When I was in the calf stage I thought myself a
sort of sucking Salvator Rosa. I fancied Jack Weston would do a thing
or two that would set the Thames on fire; now I paint old women and
little bits of landscape for bread and cheese, and sometimes we have to
go without the cheese.
" The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts," returned Launce-
lot, a little dreamily. " Depend upon it, old fellow, the calf stage, as
you call it, is far the happiest time in one's life. Salvator Rosa! Why,
s.t eighteen I had an ambition that landed me at the footstool of thaf
prince of Titans, Michael Angelo. Ah! ' there were giants in those
days,' Jack. I still worship my old ideals, and burn incense before
their shrines; but the difference is that now I can content myself with
20 OXLT 'I
reverence and admiral inn; they arc my ma-tern, my teachers, and I
dabble \vi?'n a IVw colors like 8 child,' at their feet, make a study or
two, and call myself an artist."
.lack suddenly burst out laughing.
" DC you remember your picture of Satan, and how one of the serv-
ants nearly went into a fit when she came upon it suddenly, and nurse
scolded hm* for being such a gaby? ' It is nothing but ah ugly
sweep, you silly girl,' she said, ' and Mr. Launeelot ought to 1 -
-ft- his time and good paints over such a patchy concern.'
Launeelot. I can see your face now."
Launeelot smiled grimly. " I am afraid I felt pretty bad, and
YOU were crowing over my discomfiture. Fancy my terribly beautiful
Lucifer turned into a sweep. Ah, one's dreams die hard. 1 remember
I would not touch my brush for a month after nurse's unluck
mark."
" What a droll fellow you were, Launeelot," and thereupon followed
one reminiscence after another; boyish adventures which generally
ended disastrously for Jack, scrapes out of which Launeelot had h
him, fishing and sketching excursions that they had enjoyed together;
and as they talked, Jack's countenance cleared and grew animated, and
the lines on his forehead seemed to smooth themselves out. By and by
he began to question Launeelot in his turn.
" So you are all at the Witchens? I wonder you have not married."
" So do I," was the brisk answer, " but I have never managed to fall
properly in love. I did propose to one young lady, but she would not
have me. She said I bored her so with philanthropy, and that she never
knew what I was talking about. She was a lovely creature; but when
I took matters into consideration afterward 1 was really quite glad that
she had said No. 1 told her so afterward, and thanked her for saving
us both from a great mistake. ' I was too hasty about it altogether,' I
continued, ' I did not properly balance things; you are quite right, we
should both have been miserable. ' Would you believe it, she did not
seem pleased at that, either; she muttered something about my being a
very singular man. I painted her afterward, we became quite
friends, and when she married I was her husband's best man."
" Pshaw! you could not have cared for the girl a bit."
"I don't know. I was hard hit for a few days; she really was a
beautiful creature, only shallow. That is why I have never married.
The girls I fancied were all handsome, but they all disappointed me. 1
nearly proposed to another, only I heard her scolding her maid for drop-
ping some wax on a silk dress, and I did not admire the tone and style.
The English was perfect, but somehow it reminded me of an old Irish-
woman I had heard in Whitechapel it was the tone. So much de-
pends on the tone," finished Launeelot, sententiously.
" Still, a fellow like you, with plenty of money and no incumbrance,
ought to be able to find a good wife without much trouble. Why, look
at me, not a penny in my pocket, and yet I got Pen."
but you were such a good-looking beggar; and a woman like
your Pen never crossed mv path. Some of the girls made 1
and I did not like that, and if my fancy turned on one in particular, she
ire to be engaged; in fact, like Dick Swiveller of immortal mrm
ory, I never loved a dear ga/elle. but she was sure to marry the n
gardener;" and with these words he rose.
" Oh, you are not going'?" exclaimed .lack, blankly. "And you
'ot told inc. a word about the kids?" but Launeelot did not re-
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. %\
I
sume his seat; he took out his watch and looked at it, and then stood
on the rug warming himself as he spoke.
" Kids? There are only two now, Sybil and Freckles Fred, I mean :
the others are all grown up. Why, Geoffrey has left Oxford, and is
reading for the bar, and Bernard is at Magdalene; as for the girls, Bea-
trix and Pauline, they are "both out, as they call it. Bee is very pretty,
rather in Madella's style, only not so soft-looking; Pauline is a nice
sensible girl. No incumbrances I like that, when I have a family of
girls and boys to IOOK after. There, time is up; I must be off or I shall
lose the last train. Good-night, old fellow. I will see you again in a
few days, and we will have another talk; I shall find you here?" inter-
rogatively.
: ' Yes, I think so, but do not make it long before you come," replied
Jack, wringing his hand. Launcelot bore the pain without wincing,
but his face was very grave as he went down the steps.
" He would not speak out, and it seemed hardly right to press him.
I had to feel my way. Poor old Jack, I like him, I always liked him,
but he wants ballast; he is very weak. He means no harm, but he is
slipping down the hill fast. It is a dangerous sort of thing to shut one's
self up every night with a pipe and whisky and water, especially if one
is haunted by a dead face that is dearer than any living one, and per-
haps debts and duns in the background. It takes a great many glasses
to drown that sort of thing. No, no, we must put a stop to this. Poor
little Dossic, he dotes on her; but she is terribly neglected. What would
Matlella have said to her frock? He is not the man to be trusted with
a child; he wants looking after himself. If I could only get him away
and ask M add la to take Dossie. Why, she would be a nice companion
to Sybil. .Miss Kossiter could look after them both really a brilliant
idea, but will he let me have her? will he listen to reason? will he be
capable of the sacrifice? Miss Rossiter would be good to her, I know;
she is a kind-hearted creature by the bye, how infatuated they all are
about her, even Pauline. I don't mind owning I was a bit fascinated
myself; she is very taking. Madella looks vexed when I tell her she is
far too handsome for a governess; she will not allow she is so very hand-
some. Well, I wish I had them all safely back. It is rather slow at
present for Geoff and myself." And so Launcelot's thoughts ran on,
but they always returned to one point: What could he do to benefit
poor Jack Weston?
He would have been easier in his mind if he could have looked into
the parlor he had just left. Jack smoked out his pipe, then he knocked
out the ashes, and locked up the untouched whisky.
" Just this once to please him," he muttered, " and I want a steady
head for to-morrow. I will go up to Dossie instead; I have hardly
spoken to her to-night."
Dossie slept in a little room next to her father's. As he softly opened
the door she started up in bed with an exclamation of delight. A pale
misty moonlight crept through the uncurtained window, and lighted up
faintly the little pale face and long fair hair.
" How is it you are awake, my darling? Do you know it is past
eleven?"
" Yes, but I was thinking, and it is so cold," shivering as she crept
into her father's arms. " Has that nice man gone? He is such a nice
man, father. He has got such a kind voice, and his eyes laugh so, and
he looks so happy, much happier than other people."
" Oh. he was always like that. Yes, he is a good fellow. I am glad
22 ONLY THE OOYEKXESS.
to h-ive seen him again, and now, 1 ' i must go to sleep. Have
yon prayed for poor fall,
" < Hi, yes; I m.'viT in: b>ng prayer for you, and a short one
for mother and Johnnie and Willie just (Jinl bless them that the.
not feel forgotten or neglected; there IS no harm in that, fat!
" !No li:inn at all, darling. Ten, even in Paradise, would be all the
happier to know her little -ill blessed her every night; let no on
suade you that it ean be wrong. 1 have not taught you niueh, 1>
1 was never as good as your dear mother, but as long as you say your
prayers and re;ul the Bible she left you, you can't do amiss."
father, dear, I know 3-011 often tell me so. Do you read your
Bible '
" Well, you see, I am often too busy," stammered Jack: how could
he tell his child that he had never opened it since Pen's death? When
lie and 1 )ossie went to church together he would be thinking of a hun-
dred other thin.- ;he sermon; he only went for the child's
and to help her find her places in the big prayer-book. " Whal
good of it all?" he would say to himself; " 1 have never been sure of
anything since Pen died. I never had much religion, and the little I
-ed is buried with her. ' We shall meet again, Jack. 1 could
not die happily and not believe that,' that was what she said, the dar-
ling, but how is one to know that?"
4 ' Go to sleep. Dossie," he continued, unwilling to carry on th
versa tion, and the child lay down obediently and let him cover her up.
The touch of the little cold hands rather haunted Jack when h
back to his own room.
" She wants her mother, poor little thing. Pen would never have let
her go to bed cold; she is delicate and excitable, and her circulation i*
slow. I must take her for a walk to-morrow when I have linishcd my
work," and with this resolution he fell asleep.
CHAPTER IV.
IN THE EDITOR'S ROOM.
As we become more truly humau, the world becomes to us more truly divine.
DOCTOR MOORE.
To be a. physiognomist, in regard either to the face of nature or the face of m.-m,
needs accordingly, first that we be great-souled, else we can not possibly coi
the greatness of that we contemplate. No bad, conceited, or affected man ca i
be a phj'siognomist. GRINDON.
ONE afternoon about a week after his visit to 28 Wenvoe Road,
Launcelot Chudleigh walked briskly down one of those quiet streets
leading out of the Strand. The weather was still bitterly cold, -March
wore its lion-like aspect, and certainly at the present moment showed
no intention of developing its lamb-like qualities; the wind was in the
north, the heavy atmosphere predicted a fall of snow before morning,
and already a few particles were falling; the faces of many of the
passers-by had a nipped, exasperated expression, as though they bore a
grudge against the weather. A few of them looked enviously at
the trim, alert figure in the foreign overcoat. Launcelot walked' on
:itedly: he was quite impervious to the cold; the inward glow of a
ulent purpose was keeping him warm. His j.,
rapid, and few men could have kept up with him; and as he walked,
his quick bird-like E ; -> scan face after face, half curiouw-
OKLY THE GOVERNESS.
ly, half sympathetically. The study of human nature was a passion
with Launcelot, a crowd delighted him; the city with its surging musses,
its business-like proclivities, its never-ceasing procession of eager,
thoughtful men all bent on one pursuit, and all hurrying as though the
moments were precious as sifted gold, was like a vast treasure-house to
him, where priceless stores of human activities and human inu
were laid up. Launcelot had no hermit-like qualities; in spite ^of many
inward resources, he would have been miserable in any fertilized soli-
tude. Waller's lines would have been exactly true of him:
" Hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no man abide.
Thou must have uncommended died."
Life, movement, ceaseless work, and, if possible, constant change of
ideas, were as necessary to Launcelot as the air he breathed ; it was a
favorite speech of his, that so few men knew how to live, tlu-y simply
existed. To him life was almost overpowering in its intense interest,
"and one would think some fellows had two or three lives to throw
away," he would say, " they seem to care so little what they do with
themselves;" and yet we shall never be young again, and time is pass-
ing quickly with all of us.
The street into which he had turned was a very quiet one, and was
chiefly occupied by publishers, charitable associations, and agencies for
various companies.
Launcelot stopped abruptly before a house with "Imperial Review
Office " written on the door, walked into the office, and asked a gniy-
haired clerk if Mr. Thorpe were disengaged. On receiving an answer
in the affirmative, 1m knocked at the door of the editor's room, and,
hardly waiting for permission to enter, took off his hat and marched in.
A gentleman who was writing by the window looked up at him anil
nodded.
" How do you do, Chudleigh? Punctual to a minute, I see. If you
will allow me, I will just finish this letter and then it will be of! my
mind. There is to-day's copy of the 'Imperial,' if you will ai
yourself for five minutes."
" All right," was the laconic reply, and Launcelot threw himself down
in an arm-chair by the fire, but though he took the paper he did not
once glance at it. His eyes traveled round the room, with its business-
like litter, the big editor's table, covered witji letters, documents, papers,
magazines; then his attention wandered to the thoughtful, absorbed
face opposite to him.
Mr. Thorpe was about his own age, perhaps a year or two older; a
quiet-looking, gentlemanly man, without any pretensions to good looks,
with the sort of face one would hardly notice in a crowd, for there was
nothing to strike an observer, no special or marked characteristic. There
aie hundreds of faces of which one could say this, quiet, self-contained,
unattractive faces that somehow fail to elicit any attention. The fore-
head was good and showed intellectual power, but the eyes were rather
a cold gray. The lower part of the face was somewhat long and nar-
row, and the firmly closed lips gave one the impression that Mr. Thorpe,
though a clever man, was slightly prejudiced in his ideas and given to
hold his opinions tenaciously. No doubt he would be hard in his judg-
ments and at no time so brimming over with the milk of human kind-
ness as the man who occupied his arm-chair; in fact, they were com-
plete contrasts, for Mr. Thorpe loved silence, and was fonder of solitude
than of most men's company.
24 ONLY THE f-SS.
Launcelot watched him la/.ily as ho dashed off. his letter, put 5'
its envelope, rang the bell and desired the mi to take it ?it om>
to its destination, and then crossed the room and took a chair '
Launeelot, As lie stood ereet for a moment one could see that h.
not tall but his figure Was good, lie was extremely thin, but, tl;
pale and somewhat worn, there was no look of ill health about, hin
voiee was low-pitched for a man, but very distinct, and he prouo
his words slowly and with precision.
" I am sorry to have kept you waiting," he began, " but Mullins has
let me in for a troublesome bit of business. What disagreeable w<
biting as January; I expect we shall have a downfall of snow before
many hours are over. "Well, I think I have heard of a berth for your
friend; at least something has turned up that may suit him."
"Ah, I knew I had come to the right man," returned Launeelot.
" Let me hear all about it, Thorpe."
" Well, it may not suit him," was the cautious reply, " but anyhow
it is the only thing that offers just now. Have you ever heard me speak
of Xeale? it used to be Crosbie & Ncale, of Blackf riars, but the firm
failed, and they have dissolved partnership. It is young Xeale I mean,
Alfred: he is going to cut the whole concern: he can't get on with his
brother, a queer sort of customer, I should say. Well, Alfred Neale is
going out to South Australia. A large sheep-farm has been o:
him. The owner, a friend of his, wants to get rid of it has made his
fortune, I believe. He has some money to invest and it promises to be
a good thing, and he wants another man to go out with him and be a
soft of partner. Alfred is not a bad iello\v; he never.liked olKcc work
an 1 lie was always crazy for colonial Jife, but he is steady as men go
only sociable in his nature. He says ff it would not be a risky sort of
thing and that no girl would put up with the life, he should like to take
a wile out with him, but of course he would not have the face to pro-
pose such a thing to any young lady; so he wants a pleasant, com-
panionable fellow who will be useful and pay his share."
" Yes, I see/' replied Launeelot, doubtfully; " but South Australia
it is a great distance I am not sure what my man would say to that."
" Ah, people don't think much of the distance now. 1 have known
several men who went there and back for a mere pleasure trip. Times
have changed in this respect, Chudleigh."
" Ah, but there is a child in the case, that makes all the difference.
Bachelors like you and me, Thorpe, can not enter into a father's feel-
ings;" but here he stopped, for a shadow crossed Mr. Thorpe's fa
shadow so marked that Launeelot could not but be struck with it.
" Go on, Chudleigh," observed the other, somewhat impatiently, ar,
though vexed at Launcelot's inquiring look; "there is a child in the?
case, you say."
" Yes, a little girl; this adds to the difficulty, and he dotes on her,
poor fellow. I think your friend would like Weston, he is good-nat-
ured and companionable, and has many good points, but trouble and ill
luck are playing the very deuce with him; not that there is much
amiss," as Mr. Thorpe looked up rather sharply at this " lie is weak
and careless, and since his \vife died he has let himself drift a bit, but
we can alter all that, Change of scene and change of occupation will
be his best cure. His pictures do not sell, and lie is getting .sick of hi*-'
brushes and palettes, lie. is a big, broad-chested fellow, with a fist that
could fell ;ui ox. He would make a splendid navry."
" We must ee what Neale says; the two men ought to meet and d>*
tKLY THE GOVERNESS. 25
cuss matters. There is no time to lose; Neale wants to be oft next
month."
"Ail right, I will see Weston about it this evening. Now about
terms and outfit," and then he and Mr. Thorpe plunged into details.
"It is not a great sum," observed Launcelot, when they had fully
discussed every point; " he could easily be induced to take it as a loan.
He is a sort of connection, so it is all in the family."
" And you intend to lend it to him yourself," inquired Mr. Thorpe,
fixing his cold, gray eyes on Launcelot's face with rather an inscrutable
expression. " Few men would be so generous to a mere connection."
" Pooh! it is nothing; I shall not miss it. To be sure, the boys cost
a great deal, especially Geoffrey, but as long as I remain a bachelor
there is enough and to spare for all of us. ' '
" Your brother Geoffrey is to be a barrister, I hear?"
" Yes, he is eating his dinners and reading hard ; he is a clever fel-
low, and will make his mark by and by. They are all fine fellows and
give me very little trouble; it would be odd if I minded any outlay for
them
" Surely they are not dependent on you, Chudleigh; excuse me, but
you know I take a great deal of interest in your affairs."
" Well, no: of course my step mother has a proper provision made
for her and her children by my father's will, and a small sum has been
set apart for each of them, girls as well as boys, but it would hardly be
sufficient for all they want boys are extravagant, and my step-mother
has never been known to refuse them anything. I very soon had to
take things into my own hands; my step-mother could not even manage
her own income. Now she has everything she wants for herself and
the girls, and never troubles herself to inquire whether our united funds
will besir the outlay."
" Humph, I rather doubt the wisdom of this sort of family arrange-
ment," returned Mr. Thorpe, with a sarcastic smile. " Supposing you
were to marry, Chudleigh, and wanted to bring your wife to the
Witchcns, how would your step-mother and her daughters like to turn
out?"
" I am not sure that I should ask them to turn out: there are other
houses to be had besides the Witchens. I could keep my studio, arid
pshaw! it is idle to enter into this sort of detail. I must first find the
wife, and then " but here he paused again, for the same inexplicable
cloud rested ou his friend's face. But before he could finish his sen-
Mr. Thorpe interrupted him.
" Wait a moment, Chudleigh, please; I want to say something. 1 let
nn assertion of yours pass uncontradicted just now, and it seems hardly
fair and honest. You said we were both bachelors. I know you have
always thought so, but you are wrong. I am a married man."
Launcelot stared at him incredulously, and it was evident from his
expression that his friend's statement had given him an unpleasant
shock. They were somewhat new acquaintances; a year ago they had
not known of each other's existence, but a strange tie united them,
cementing the few months' friendship with the intimacy of years.
Launcelot had saved Mr. Thorpe's life at the peril of his own, and he
Knew from that day that in spite of outward coldness and much differ-
ence of opinion, Ivan Thorpe loved him like a brother.
And now he had kept his married life a secret from his friend! No
wonder Launcelot, who was frank and open as the day, felt himself a
little aggrieved.
2G ONLY THF,
" I always meant to toll yiv.i." went on Mr. Thorpe, speaking in the
same slow, precise way. ' ; 1 always told Rachel that I wished you to
know, but somehow one defers an unpleasant communication even tu
our closest t'rieiul. My wife has left. me. "
" Indeed!" returned* Launcelot, still more shocked, but hardly know-
ing how to express his sympathy.
"It was what people call incompatibility of temper. Our natures did
not suit at least, she said so. She was very unhappy, vory undisci-
plined, and she wanted to go away. I let her go; there was not much
comfort in the house while she stayed, she and Rachel did not :
together. She was young, and our ways did not suit her. There; was
no scandal, she just went back to her people that is all. I thought
perhaps she would come back, but she has never done so."
" And you let her go?" exclaimed Launcelot, half indignantly. He
was quite bewildered by Mr. Thorpe's manner; he had spoken in short,
abrupt sentences, with a pause between each, as though each word were
weighted with lead. There was no anger, no sorrow perceptible in his
manner: he rather spoke as though the matter concerned some other
man. He was a little pale, and there was a look of hardness about his
mouth, that was all.
" Of course I set her free when she told me the life was killing her by
inches," was the impassive answer. " Would you have me keep a
woman against her will? She was in the wrong, she was always in the
wrong, but she would not own it. We were better apart: one has
peace," and here there was a caught breath, almost like a sigh. " You
will keep this to yourself, Chudleigh. I am a stranger in your parts,
and there is no need for idle gossip. I wished you to know, that is all
I have to say."
" One moment, Thorpe," and Launcelot spoke impulsively; " I am
awfully sorry for you, old fellow. I never dreamed of trouble like this.
I never could have imagined you were a married man Perhaps it will
come right some day. Of course you correspond with her?"
" Not now; her letters always made me angry. Rachel writes some-
times; at least, I think so, but I am not sure. Nothing makes an im-
pression on her, she has no sense of duty. I gave it all up long ago. : '
" But but you must have cared for her or you would not have mar-
ried her," returned Launcelot, growing more puzzled every minute.
" She was young and poor, and very beautiful at least I thought so,
but I am no judge; yes, I suppose I cared for her once, but she has no
heart. A woman can not have any heart when she leaves a good hus-
band. I always did my duty by her, Rachel says so."
" Good-bye," interrupted Launcelot, hastily. " I am very sorry I
am indeed. I will come and see you again, Thorpe, either here or at
Riversleigh, but I must go now." Lauucelot had no pressing engage-
ment, but he felt as though the atmosphere of the room would choke
him; it positively irritated him to listen to those short, dry sentences
which seemed to deal with a woman's happiness as though it were a
block of wood; the leisurely clipping away of facts, the hard, concise
statements without a touch of feeling in voice or manner, were more
than he could bear; another time he would go into it, if Thorpe wished
it, but he had heard enough for the present.
Mr. Thorpe did not seem to notice this repressed impatience: he held
out his hand rather solemnly.
" 1 .shall always be glad to see you, Chudleigh; there is no man whose
friendship I value as I do yours; and as you know you are a prims
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 27
favorite with Rachel, and she is hard to please, like the rest of hor sex,
yon can not come too often; but remember, this is to be a sealed sub-
ject between us."
" Do you mean we must not speak of it again even between our-
selves?''
" That is my meaning, certainly. I can not talk over my wife with
another man. Rachel has been my only confidante, but all the same I
wished you to know;" and then again they shook hands solemnly, and
Launcelot went down the long passage and let himself out into the
street with the look of perplexity still in his face.
It was odd that his first connected thought was " Poor Mrs. Thorpe,
I pity her." Strange that in the first instance his sympathy should be
with the woman who had plainly deserted her path of duty instead of
resting with the deserted husband, but Lauucelot was a creature of im-
pulse, and very warm-hearted, and he had felt himself repelled by the
other man's coldness. "He is a good fellow," he reflected, "a
thoroughly good fellow, and I ought to know; but I do not believe he
has an ounce of passion in his nature. They are both worthy creatures.
I have not a word to say against him or Miss Rachel. I like her less
than him, but then he is my friend; still a young, undisciplined nature,
perhaps with a hasty temper attached to it, would meet with scant sym-
pathy from either of them. Depend upon it, Miss Rachel had a hand
in making her sister-in-law wretched. I am sorry for the girl, I am in-
deed; and yet, poor old Thorpe, I am sorry for him too; there was a sort
of hopelessness in his voice, not exactly pain, it was too frigid for that,
but as" though some experiment on which he had set his heart had failed,
and the disappointment was a heavy one. Halloo," pulling himself up
abruptly at this point, and stopping in the middle of the crowded pave-
ment, to the confusion of the busy passers-by, " what is the matter, my
little man?" to a ragged urchin who was crying bitterly, and gazing
distractedly into the road; and as the boy did not seem to hear his ques-
tion, he put his hand on his shoulder.
The child turned round in affright, evidently expecting " the peeler "
had got hold of him; then, reassured by Launcelot's friendly expression,
he blubbered out
" Please, sir, some cove has been and shoved all my matches into the
road, and the 'osses have scrunched them, and he never gave me noth-
ing, he didn't, and father's in the hospital, and baby's bad, and mother
and none of us have had anything to eat to-day."
" Oh, they all say that," observed an old gentleman who was passing,
" and they expect us to believe it."
" But what if it be true?" returned Launcelot, quietly. He still had
hold of the boy, and seemed perfectly indifferent to the fact that a,
small crowd had collected. A butcher-boy and a sweep were trying to
pick up a box or two between the horses' feet, but the child only shook
his head and sobbed afresh.
" They are scrunched, and I ain't sold one. The cove took and
pushed me. ' Out of my way, you little beggar,' he says, and I warn't
begging, and 1 tripped up, and the matches went, and mother said I
was to be careful. ' '
" Where does your mother live?" asked Launcelot, looking down
into the dirty, tear-stained face, that was very thin and sharp. He was
a small, stunted creature, miserably clad and neglected looking, arid yet
with an air of innocent childhood about him that one rarely sees in the
precocious city Arab.
28 OXLY Tin: HOVKKNESS.
" Please, *ir, we ain't lived anywheres since father was took to tha
hospital. We was sold up, and we only sleeps at places so inuHi a
night or in the casual. Mother is there, under the arch, with Sn
baity. Mother sells llowers, but she has got her basket still full -
ig to snow, and coves won't stop to buy."
" Come with me, boy. I want to speak to your mother; she shall
not scold you. I will tell her some one pushed you;" but ;>
Launcelot saw the woman's face he did not fear a torrent of viti;
tion. She was a weak, miserable-looking creature, still quite young.
She was evidently too much engrossed in trying to feed her sickly
b iliy with a dry crust which she had obtained somehow, and had di
between the children, to notice the accident. The other child, a black-
eyed little girl of three or four, held out her crust for her broti
see. "I've dot some bread, Tim; come and have a bite," she said,
pushing it toward him.
" Your little boy has had a misfortune," began Launcelot, with the
courtesy he always showed to the poorest vagrant manners cost noth-
ing, and go a long way, he used to say. " Some careless person knocked
against him and upset his matches in the road." But as the poor creat-
ure looked up from her fruitless endeavor to push the crust into her
baby's mouth, for the child only spluttered and refused the hard, dis-
tasteful food, he continued, with a quick change of tone, " You all look
very cold, and Tim says you are hungry. There is a coffee-tavern just
by here; if you will come with me I will give you a meal."
" God bless you, sir; it would be a kind act, for we are near starv-
ing," returned the woman, sheltering her baby carefully under her thin
shawl and giving her basket to Tim.
" Ah, you will soon feel better," observed Launcelot: but he said no
more, only conducted his strange guests through the friendly swing
door, and established them at a small table beside a blazing tire.
" Now, there is no hurry. I am going to leave you to enjoy your
meal," he said, presently, when he saw them served with 'cups of
smoking coffee and piles of bread and butter. He had ordered some
warm bread and milk for the baby, and noticed with pleasure that the
mother fed the famished little creature before she tasted food herself,
and yet her cheeks were hollow with famine. " Thank God the moth-
erhood has not died out of her heart," he said, inwardly, and then aloud,
" Let the children have some cake when they have finished the
and butter, Mrs. Martin. I am going away for a short time, but I will
be back before they have done," and as the brisk little woman behind
the counter nodded in reply Launcelot left the shop and, walkii
about a hundred yards, dived down another side street, quieter than
the one where the " Imperial Review " office was situated.
"It is just handy for the present case," he muttered, and then In-
stopped before a dingy-looking house, on the inner door of which was
written, " Charitable Association for the Employment of Women and
Children," and, turning the handle, he found himself in a small, private
booking-office, with a partition dividing it in two, and, passing behind
the screen, encountered the inquiring glance of a quiet, lady-like woman
who was writing at a lartre, square table.
" Mr. Chudleigh!" with a slight accent of surprise in her voi
" Yes, Miss Thorpe. Please excuse my abrupt entrance, but I hure
a family round the corner for whom I wish tc bespeak your kindnaw."
OKLY THE GOVEKNESS. 29
CHAPTER V.
LAUNCELOT 's PROTEGEES.
The quality of mercy is not strained-
It clroppetn as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
SHAKESPKARE.
Miss THORPE looked quietly amused as Launcelot blurted out this
abrupt statement, but she was evidently accustomed to his impulsive
ways.
" A whole family! I wonder at your courage, Mr. Chudleigh, espe-
cially after our late experience and yet there was only a boy in that
case/'
" Oh, there is a boy now," he returned, in rather a crest-fallen man-
ner, for lie did not care to be reminded of his failures; every one is duped
now and then, he thought. " A boy and a girl and a baby, without
counting the mother, and I think you will say you have never seen a
more wretched lot. They are at the coffee-tavern round the corner.
Will you see them there, or shall I fetch them here to the office?"
" I think I would rather see them here; but there is no hurry for a
few minuses, is there? I should very much like to finish this report;
it will not take me more than ten minutes, and then I will interview
your protegees."
Miss Thorpe spoke with the quick, decided air of a busy woman who
has not a minute to lose, and Launcelot, who knew her well, wasted no
more words, but applied, himself to the task of replenishing the fire.
Miss Thorpe was at least ten or twelve years older than her brother,
to whom she bore a strong resemblance, but she had greater claims to
good looks; and while Mr. Thorpe, with his quiet, well-bred manners,
seldom made a strong impression at first on strangers, Miss Thorpe at-
tracted a great deal of attention from people who were not afraid of a
strong-minded woman, and, though not a general favorite with her own
sex, her opinions were always heard with deference.
She had a refined, sensible face and great dignity of bearing, but a
physiognomist or acute observer of human nature would have been
perplexed by certain incongruities of feature; for example, the broad,
benevolent forehead and pleasant gray eyes were somewhat neutral-
i/.ed by the thin, firmly closed lips and determined jaw; the lower part
of the face was elongated like her brother's, and reproduced the same
expression of tenacity, approaching to hardness.
Launcelot and she were 011 excellent terms with each other. He had a
great respect and admiration for her; but he thought less of her a3
a woman than of Mr. Thorpe as a man, and yet she invariably turned
her softest side to him.
But they had had many an argument together, arid Launcelot had
soon discovered for himself that, though singularly upright and pure-
minded, and with a noble sense of duty, she had narrow views and
strong prejudices, and that while she was faithful to her friends, she
was bitterly antagonistic to those who had the misfortune to offend her,
in fact, as Launcelot once said in his dry way, " Miss Thorpe is a
philanthropist, but she is hardly charitable;" and though he was never
30 ONLY TITE
like!}' to incur hw severe judgment on his own account, lie often ^
for greater toleration to lie shown to less- favored mortals.
- Thorpe's m.i.-ier-pas>iitn was alfection for her brother. IT<
her only remaining relative, and they had never been separated. The
d'il'erenee in their ages lent Something of maternal solicitude 1o her
He kid been a delicate boy, and for some years her <
an anxious one, but as he regained his health and censed to !
pendent on her for comfort, he never forgot how much lie owed his
lit well-being to her unwearied care and nursing, and ;i
to manhood, her influence over him increased instead of lessened, and
"loin acted against her advice, except ill the case of his unfortu-
nate marriage.
They were both undemonstrative, deep-thinking people, and seldom
made any protestation of affection; but a profound sympathy united the
brother and sister, and, though iheir work in life differed, they thought
alike on most points.
Lauucelot was quite aware that Miss Thorpe regarded him with
peculiar favor as her brother's friend, and, in spite of a tendency to
feminine jealousy, she would allow him to monopolize Ivan's company
to any extent. She owed him too deep a debt of gratitude to think any
such sacrifice could repay him. Had he not saved her brother's life
and at the peril of his own, and that under terrible circumstances?
They had met Launcelot Chudleigh, for the first time, on the Engadhie,
and, as it often happens with traveling acquaintances, they struck up a
rapid intimacy, and made many pleasant excursions together. It was
on one of these expeditions, undertaken without a guide, that the acci-
dent happened that might have ended fatally for at least one of the party,
and which none of the three were ever likely to remember without a
shudder until their dying day.
Launcelot was assisting Miss Thorpe in her search for a particular
Alpine plant which she was anxious to add to her collection, and which
grew in this part, when a slight sound behind them attracted his atten-
tion, and the next moment he had sprung to his feet with a low ex-
clamation of horror.
There had been no cry for help, and how it had happened no one knew;
perhaps Mr. Thorpe had gone too near the edge of the precipice or the
earth had slipped; he had been in safety a minute before, and now all
but his head arid arms had disappeared from their view he was literally
hanging over the terrible abyss that yawned in giddy depths below him,
while he clung for dear life to a broken splinter of rock, on the ed
the. ravine, that might at any moment be dislodged and uprooted by the
sheer weight of his body.
Kven at this moment of supreme and deadly peril, Launcelot noticed
two things, on which he afterward commented first, that Ivan in his
despair uttered no cry for help, and that his white face and eyes, dilated
with mental anguish, were fixed not on them but on the blue sky above
them; and secondly, that the moan that escaped Miss Thorpe's lips wus-
ined before it broke into a scream, though other women would
have rent the air with unavailing shrieks.
" Hold fast, for God's sake!" Launcelot's lips, parched with terror,
could hardly utter the words; the next moment he was lying with his
f;ire elo-e to the ,tr round, moving warily toward the edge of the clmsm,
4i ll his aim gripped Ivun's body, then lie cautiously wound his other
aim round the splintered rock.
I think it will last our time," he muttered; " now, Thorpe, loose
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 01
one *innd and hold me round the neck. ISIow then, let go " An in-
stant's ton-ilk.- strain on Ijaimcelot's part, an agoni/ed eil'orl on Ivan's,
and the two men were in safety, and when Miss Thorpe, who had tiling
herself on her knees, dared to look up, she saw her biother lying sense-
less on tlu- ground, and Launcelot beside him. panting and voiceless,
with a carious gray look on his face, too much spent to do anything
but to make a sign that she could find the flask of brandy that he always
carried about him.
NVlien Ivan roused to complete consciousness he looked long and
steadily at Launcelot.
" You have saved my life, Chudleigh. I do not believe any other
man would have done it;" and then, in a husky tone, " and at the risk
of your own."
" Pooh! nonsense," returned Launcelot, still very pale, and trying to
hide the pain of his sprained arm. " I could have done nothing with-
out your help: your nerve was splendid. If you had riot kept so still,
no human power could have prevented you from being dashed to
3; it was real pluck, and no mistake, that made you hold on and
do as you were told. Mis.s Thorpe was a bit of a heroine too," with an
attempt at a smile; " if she had screamed we should both have been
lost; one ought hardly to breathe in such a case," finished Launcelot,
and then he set his teeth hard and tried not to groan.
M'veitheless, I shall always feel that under Providence I owe you
my life," replied the other, quietly, and as he spoke there was a sudden
flash of "feeling in the cold, gray eyes that told Launcelot that the hid-
den depths of this man's nature had been stirred, and that henceforth
lie would ever regard himself as bis debtor, but the next moment he said,
with a change of tone
" I>y heavens! you are hurt, Chudleigh: you wince with pain, your
lips are quite white. Rachel, where is the flask?" but Launcelot shook
his head.
"I do not want brandy now; it is my arm and shoulder that are
sprained. You are no light weight, Thorpe, and, confound it, I believe
you have dislocated my neck," and then he laughed, but immediately
frowned with pain. " Let us get back to the hotel; there is nothing the
matter with my legs. Miss Thorpe, will you give your brother the
support of your arm, he looks shaky still?" but Ivan would not hear of
tins arrangement.
Launcelot walked on steadily, and every now and then he said a word
or two, but the brother and sister scarcely answered, they only ex-
chuimed looks of wonderment. What pluck, what endurance! Once
Rachel took her brother's hand and pressed it, and a great tear rolled
down her cheeks.
" But for him I should have no brother now," site said, in a low
voice. " Ivan, I can scarcely endure even the thought."
" It was almost miraculous," he returned, looking at the ground;
" no other man could have done it. A minute's hesitation and it would
have been too late. I could not have held on much longer," he paused,
and then went on as though to himself. " I had no hope: I thought it
was all up with me," and then, with rather a pale flicker of a smile,
" Joan would have been a widow. It is rather a pity for her."
Miss Thorpe's face grew stern, but she did not answer. In her heart
she was sorry that that name should be mentioned at such a moment,
'ijut just then Lauucelot turned back and made some trifling observation,
and there was no more said between the brother and sister.
32 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
Launcelot had a very had time for a fortnight after tin's. Th<
located shoulder was a trille compared to his sprains, hut he hem- his
pain as cheerily as he could, and I In- Thorpes nursed him with un:
ting attention and devotion, Rachel grew very fond of him; lie v,
excellent patient, and seldom argued about his treatment, lie made
love to her as he did to all -women, only in an innocent, brotherly man-
ner, that quite fascinated her. and she soon treated him as she treated
Ivan. A strong friendship between this singular trio was speedily
cemented in Launcelot's sick-room, and in spite of the Thorp,
and undemonstrative manner, Lanncclot knew that they would be Ids
friends for life. He still preferred Ivan to his sister, but that w
cause his peculiar taste led him to prefer softer women. Ivan's culture
and intellectual caste of mind, his varied knowledge and qu;
pn\ver, made him a delightful companion to Launeelot; he soon found
out he was sympathetic as well as dependable'and it was not until
their interview in the editor's room that Launeelot discovered how little
Ivan had ever talked of his own private affairs, though he had always
been interested in all his friend's personal matters. Launceloi'
rested furtively on Miss Thorpe's face as she finished her report; the
words that Mr. Thorpe had just uttered were still sounding in hi-
"she was young and poor, and very beautiful, and and undisci-
plined." " Poor thing, what chance would she have against this calm,
law-loving, reasonable woman?" thought Launeelot, with a growing
pity for the misguided and feckless young creature who had forfeited
her own rights.
" She and Rachel could not get on," Mr. Thorpe had added, in a
weary tone, that spoke of bitter and hopeless conflicts. "Of cour.se
not, if they were to be true to their separate natures," was his internal
response, and as he looked again at the calm, strong face, which, even
in repose, gave the idea of an unflinching and despotic will, just then
Miss Thorpe raised her head and intercepted this critical glance, with a
smile that was very bright and pleasant.
" There, I have finished; how patient you have been, not a r<
movement. Why, Ivan would have walked up and down the room a
dozen times, but then he never allows me to keep him waiting; he
never will own that it is our feminine prerogative. Now, NT. Chud-
leigh, as you have been good enough to consult me, I suppose you will
leave things in my hands."
" C'cla xa sans dire. I am quite aware of Miss Thorpe's dislike to any
interference," was the slightly mocking answer. " Of course, I mean
to hold my tongue."
" Well, well, fetch your family, and let us get it over," was the
good-humored response, and Launeelot needed no second bidding
The snow was beginning to fall as he hastened down the strce:
made him rejoice that the poor creatures had been fed and warmed.
In a few minutes he had marshaled them safely into Miss Thorpe's
presence, and was listening with much interest to her quiet, .skillful
questions.
The woman seemed willing enough to answer them; her husband was
rmonger, she said, and sold all sorts of greenstuff. She could
not deny that he drank sometimes, though he was not a bad husband
when lie was sober; but they had done' poorly fur a long time, and
things had been going from bad to worse when the accident happened.
()ii being croaB-examined she at once admitted that certainly Ucb hn<l
had a lrop too much that day; he was put out at having to part with
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 33
the donkey, because they could not afford to keep him, and he had had
a quarrel with the coster that bought him, but then they had made it
up and had a glass together. It was dark when he crossed the road,
and the van knocked him over, but it was no one's fault but Bob's.
"To which hospital did they take your husband?" asked Miss
Thorpe.
" To the one in the Whitechapel Road, please, my lady," returned the
woman.
"The London Hospital: I know the chaplain, and can easily make
inquiries. I will write to-night." And, somewhat to her surprise, the
woman's face brightened.
AV r ould she "ask the gentleman, then, to tell Bob that she and the
young 'uns were getting along somehow? For you see, missis," she
continued, " all the worriting in the world will not help my master to
mend his broken bones; and he is a worrier, is Bob, when he can't got
no liquor to drown them sort of thoughts."
Miss Thorpe raised her eyes and looked at Launcelot. " You will
find it is all true," he telegraphed back, and she half nodded; and then,
to his great relief, he heard her tell the woman that she and the children
should be sheltered for a night or two at their Refuge, while inquiries
were made. " The poor baby looks very ill, and you are far from well
yourself. If we find you have spoken the truth, and your husband is
really disabled, we shall try to help you as long as he is in the hos-
pital." And then, on touching a hand-bell beside her, a stout, middle-
nged woman, with a face very much scarred with the smallpox, entered
the room.
" Betty, will you show this woman the way to the Refuge; I will be
round in half an hour," and then with a kindly nod she dismissed them,
but Launcelot patted Tim's curly head as he passed him, and slipped a
bright sixpence into his hand. "Always tell the truth, my boy, and
shame the devil," he said, by way of precept.
"Father's great friends with the devil/' returned Tim, with native
impudence, but his blue eyes looked wistfully into Launcelot's kind
face: " he is always a-talking of him."
" Hold your tongue, Tim, and don't treat the gentry to none of your
emperencc," observed his mother, with a rough shove, a form of argu-
ment to which Tim yielded. Launcelot's eyes twinkled as they closed
the door.
"I have rather taken a fancy to that little chap. You must not let
him go, Miss Thorpe, he is a jewel in the rough, is Tim. He is a friend
of father's, is he? that is a trifle cutting to say of one's parent."
" Mr. Chudleigh, did you notice Betty just now?"
" No yes; she was an extremely plain person."
" Ah, I was not thinking of her looks. Betty is an important person
in my eyes she is my factotum. I should be lost without her, and yet
she was only a w r aif and stray like this w r oman."
" You don't say so!"
" I met her in Hungej-ford Market. She was starving, desperate; all
her children were dead, and she meant to drown herself that night. I
took her hand 1 had no refuge then, and this society was not organ-
ized. 1 was in fear and trembling what Ivan would say, but ho did not
gay much. Betty was grateful and to be trusted, and we have not
parted since; b^it, as you remark, she is not handsome," finished Mis-*
Thorpe, with quiet sarcasm.
" You are a good woman," was the reply. " Thank you for telling
34 ONLY Tin: i-ss.
me this; I like to hear such ihi: a pleasant focli
1 must go to poor \Veston. (Juod-bye, ."Miss Thorpe, and thank
you liavc been a real help to me."
" She w a good woman," he repeated, us he again faced tlie driving
snow; " but what a contrast to Madellu. .Mudella would have had that
dirty-l'aeed baby in IUT arms; she can not look at a baby "without Ki
it. Miss Thorpe is nut a demonstrative woman; now I come to thi:
it, I do not believe she ever kissed her own brother; at least. 1
never seen her do it. JSonie brothers and sisters are like that, it de;
on their bringing up."
Launcelnt had nearly reached Richmond before a certain cravin-
void reminded him that he had not dined, and that, in fart, dinne:
an unattainable, luxury for this night, unless he left his charitable
sion unfulfilled.
He had a tine, healthy appetite, and though he was by no IM
dainty or fastidious, he was a little particular about his food, and i
could be brought to understand why a man should not enjoy the
things of this life.
" There is a lot about eating and drinking in the Bible," he once ob-
served, when one of his sisters took him to task for being too material
in his tastes. " Those old patriarchs had a grand notion of hospitality;
I dare say roast kid w r as a savory dish when a man was spent with
fatigue and hunger. And then there was the land tlowing with milk
and honey; well, I suppose people w r ere to enjoy plenty of good thiirj-*
there." And when an admirable example of abstineice was quoted by
another sister who was a little inclined to High Church views, he had
replied with a fine scorn: " Ah, I don't hold with your medieval saints
at all, Bee; why, would you believe it," addressing the company at
large, " that actually some outlandish bishop or other, who was after-
ward canonized, was not aware that he had finished his poached
but went oil calmly sopping his bread in the water they had been boiled
in? and Bee actually admires this ridiculous absence of mind!''
41 Ah, but he is not telling the story in an interesting way; it wa-
Francis de Sales and " but here Launcelot pushed his chair
with a derisive laugh, and refused to hear any more.
And now he remembered he had lunched early on a sandwich and
of claret, intending to dine at his club that night, lie wondered
what he should have ordered: a fried sole, or some turbot, perhaps and
some of those excellent cutlets they cooked cutlets so well and a
morsel of gorgonzola to follow. Well, really, as the sense of h
increased, he was not sure about the cutlets: a slice o1F the joint.
loin of beef, for example, would be more satisfying; and then all at
he recalled the little group ia the coffee- tavern, the way the famished
children had almost torn at the bread and butter. " Me dreil'ul hun-
gry," she had said, clutching a large lump of plum-cake in one hand
and a half-bitten slice in the other.
" Good heavens!" thought Launcelot, as he recalled thN hat
a terrible feeling it must be to be really hungry! It woul i
discipline to miss a meal now and then, just to have a taste of \\iiai
ires sulVer day after day." and Launeeloi shook In
a powdered with snow-flakes, and knocked at 2s AWnvne i;
for a cup of weak, sloppy tea. and a crust of bread and !<
1 the craving within," he said in himself, . iiuuy
- with a great effort.
a I interrupting you?" he tsked, putting his head into the room
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 35
ftfter a preliminary tap. Dossie, who was just then balancing a large
Britannia metal tea-pot with great difficulty, put it down to clap her
hands, and her father started up from his chair.
*' Launcelot! who ever would have expected you on such a night?
Sit down, my dear fellow, and warm yourself. Have you dined? No!
Dossie, run down to Mrs. Slater and ask her to make some fresh tea;
this is poor stuff. Tell her it must be hot and strong. Now, Launce-
lot, try some of this pie; it is not so bad. Mrs. Slater makes famous
pics, and the steak is not so tough as usual."
"Tough! it is excellent," returned Launcelot, falling to with an
alacrity that delighted his friend. Hunger is certainly a sauce piquant,
for Launcelot was ready to swear that no steak pie had ever seemed so
delicious. " Why are you not doing justice to it too?" he asked, for
Jack's portion lay untasted on his plate. /-
"Father says he can not eat to-night," returned Dossie, anxiously;
" his head aches, and he can not talk either." Launcelot darted one of
his quick looks at Jack as the child spoke was he ill, or had anything
fresh happened? He looked pale, haggard, unshorn, and he seemed to
rouse himself with difficulty to entertain his guest.
Dossie seemed uneasy about him, for she watched him with a grave
womanish expression on her pale little face. " This is nice hot tea, la-
ther; it will do your head good," she said, carrying the cup round to
him. " Shall 1 toast you a bit of bread my own self?" but her father
only shook his head with a faint smile.
" Never mind me, Dossie, you must look after our friend here;" and
Dossie, somewhat sadly, turned her attention to her guest.
Launcelot took no notice of this little by-play; something was amiss,
that was evident. He was sure of it when, after the meal was finished,
Jack called the child to him and whispered a word or two in her ear.
Dossie's lip drooped, but she uttered no audible protest; she went up
straight to Launcelot and offered him a limp little hand.
" Father thinks, as 1 have a cold, Nancy had better put me to bed,"
she said, in a patient, small voice that went to Launcelot's heart,
"Wait a moment, ^my dear," he said, putting his arm round her;
" there is something in the hall that we must look at together. May I
fetch it in, Jack? Nancy can wait a few minutes," and as Jack offered
no remonstrance, Lauucelot went out of the room and returned immedi-
ately with a neat, brown paper parcel, with " Miss Weston " written
on it in large printed letters.
Dossie's eyes sparkled, and the blood rushed to her face.
"Is it for me reajly for me?" she exclaimed, incredulously. " Fa-
ther dear, will you undo the knots? Ah, that is better," as Launcelot
produced a knife, " I do hate knots so oh " a long-drawn-out " oh "
of ecstasy, as the wrappers were removed, and revealed a beautiful green
Russia leather writing-case of the most complete description, with a
gilt monogram " D. W." in the center.
Dossie was absolutely speechless as she regarded the treasure. Launce-
lot put the little key in her hand and made her open it, and there dis-
played the numerous wonders ivory pen and pencil-case, paper-knife,
and store of dainty paper and envelopes, a blotting-book, inkstand, and
lovely gold scissors.
" Father, oh, father!" was all she could reiterate, but Jack, though
he was moved by the sight of hig child's pleasure, shook his head in a
disapproving manner.
30 ONLY Tin:
"This is wronjr of you, Launce! >t," he said, irravcly; " it is far too
handsome aiul cosily I'.'.r a baby. Why, it is real Russia leather."
" Tut nODSensel 1 wanted Dossie to have something really nice. 1
never give cheap presents to young ladies " but Dossie interrupted
him.
"I shall keep it all my life it is the very, very thin* I wan tod; a
teal writing-case of my own," and then she went
and put up her face beseechingly. " ( Hi, 1 want to kiss you." sh,
" 1 do want to kiss you so," and as Launrelot bent over her, smiling at
her child-like simplicity, she put her arms round his neck. " I think
you are the nicest man next to father that I have ever Been, " finished
Dossie, as she carried over her treasure to show Nancy.
CHAPTER VI.
"DOSSIE WILL NOT FORGIVE ME."
My poverty and not my will consents.
Romeo and Juliet.
" WHAT a pity we can not always be a child," observed Launeelot, in
an amused tone; "such a little gives them pleasure. They are the,
truest philosophers, after all; one would do well to take a lesson out of
their books," then in the same quiet, matter-of-fact manner, " What's
up to-night, Jack? You look quenched somehow, as though something
has gone wrong with you."
" Never mind; it is safest sometimes to hold one's tongue," was the
gruff answer.
" Least said, soonest mended, you mean. Well, you may be as brief
as you like; brevity is the soul of wit. I completely indorse that senti-
ment."
" No, confound you; don't you see? I want no questions," was the
irritated reply. " I meant to tell you, and then I changed my mind. I
don't believe you would be a safe confidant; you are too too " and
here he hesitated for a word " too soft-hearted."
" Oh, come now," returned the other, cheerfully, " I can stand abuse,
but there are limits to everything; soft-hearted, I object to that
phrase; it is like comparing me to a worn-out pincushion. Soft no, I
am hard, hard as adamant," striking himself on the chest, " except to
children;" but as the other made no sort of response to this, he con-
tinued more seriously: " Come, Jack, I have not deserved this; do I
look like a man who would fight shy of a fellow in trouble?"
Jack raised his. heavy eyes at this, and a curious dimness crept over
them.
" Give it up, Lance," he said, tremulously, going back unconsciously
to the old boyish name. " Don't mix yourself up in my alTairs. I am
not fit company for a fellow who has kept himself straight all his life.
I am a black sheep, and all the washing will not make me v\hite. I
Lave, made a mess of my life, as I told you, and now things have come
h a pass that 1 may as well lling up the game "
" Humph," thoughtfully, " I never could see how that is to be done,
ir pictures won't sell, eh?"
" No, the dealer says In; has had enough, and that the last lot hangs
on hand. 1 think I told you that bHore. 1 have been to over so many
men, and they all say tlie same that my pictures are not what they
used to be. What am I to do?" finished Jack, in a tragic voice, that
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 3?
was nevertheless very pathetic. "I have broken into my last sover-
eign, and there is the child, and how am I to go and hang myself?"
" Ah, true," was the equable answer. " Dossie would make that a
very inconvenient mode of proceeding, because you see a man can not
go decently out of the world and leave his child to starve or go to a
work-house no, no, that would be very un-English and uugentlemau-
ly."
" Ah, confound it all!" returned poor, sore-hearted Jack, " can't you
answer a fellow seriously when he he is broken-hearted?" and here
somelhiug like a sob or an oath, or a mingling or both, rose to his lips;
" fancy Pen's little girl in a work-house!
" Chut, man, a mere figure of speech. Now fet us leave tragedy and
confine ourselves to commonplace. You are in what the Yankees call
'a fix ' at the present moment; the money- supply has stopped; your
wares are a drug in the market; you owe perhaps a trifle of rent."
" Only a week. Mrs. Slater would not allow me longer credit."
"Ah, a sensible, business-like woman. I rather respect her since I
have eaten half that pie. Well, Jack, things seem pretty bad; indeed,
they could hardly look worse, from your point of view. Now, I have ;i
proposition to make: drop your paint-brush, and take to sheep-farming
in Australia."
Jack frowned and pulled his beard impatiently.
" Are you in your senses?" he asked, mirthfully. " I never thought
you particularly practical, but still I should have imagined that any one
not a child would have known something in the shape of capital is re-
quired for that sort of tiling. There is the voyage and the ouliit, nut
to mention the buying of sheep, and a few other items."
" Oh, 1 know all about it; but I am perfectly serious, I assure you.
There is a berth open to your acceptance, if you will only be man
enough to take it," and in a quiet, distinct voice, that was not without
its soothing influence on the half-bewildered Jack, he laid the whole
plan before him.
" It will be a loan, and you can easily repay it iri three or four years, "
lie continued; " it will be just the life to suit you, Jack, for you were
always given to roving. Neale is a pleasant fellow, they say sociable
and open-handed. I should think you would chum excellently together.
Come, strike while the iron is hot; you will not get such a chance as
this every day."
"It is the first that has ever been offered to me," returned the other,
slowly. " I should be a fool to say no, but," with a quick change of
tone, " how about Dossie? It would be rather a rough life for my
little girl."
" My dear fellow, what are you thinking about? Dossie do you
suppose two men could hamper themselves with the care of a child ?
Neale would not hear of such a thing for a moment. There is a house,
to be sure, rather a rough one, but there is not another within ten
miles; the shepherd's wife has a hut close by, but she would hardly be
the sort of woman to take care of a young lady."
" No, no, I see it would never do. Dossie would grow up rough and
uneducated, and with Neale no, of course it would never answer.
Why did you propose such an impossible scheme? Launcelot, I really
thought for the moment that it would be a solution to my difficulty."
" You are right there; it will be a turning-point in your life. I mean
you to go, but you must leave Dossie behind."
lack almost sprung from his chair. " Leave Dossie, never!" he said
38 ONLY Tin:
in a voice so loud anil angry that it would have daunted any other man,
but Launcelot mere! him and went on.
" You have not heard me to the end in i'aet you d<>
the situation. Of course you miM leave Dossie in Kim-land. Your
ill not be worse than many Indian ollicers, wl,
with their children. During the few year- you are out there sou will
"rkinr and making a home for her. I>y the time si mirh
to be your housekeeper, you will come back with money in your j
to enjoy your hard-earned rest. 1 '
"But btit the child?" staring at him. "Would you 1.
away and break Dossie's heart':"
"Children's hearts do not break so easily," returned Lau
calmly. " Don't glare at me as though you thought me a brute.
am thinking of the child's good as well as yours.' Dossie will fret at
first, for she is absolutely devoted to you, but Madella will soon contrive
to make her happy."
" Delia? What has my sister to do with it?'"
" Why, Dossie will go to the Witchens, of course," was the :
answer. " It will be her home until you have one ready for her.
Don't trouble yourself about Madella; she does whatever 1 tell her. Do
you think she would not be kind to your motherless child? Why, the
thing will work admirably all round," he continued, with animation.
" Sybil is only two years older than Dossie, and very backward and
childish for her age, so they will do their lessons together. Miss '
tcr is an excellent governess, and makes Sybil very happy. They will
have masters besides, so Dossie will be quite an accomplished young
lady. ' '
But Jack could bear no more. He pushed his chair back, and walked
hurriedly up and down the room.
"You mean well, Launcelot, and and it is an awful temptation,"
he said at last, bringing out his words with difficulty. " I should like
to make a fresh beginning, but it can not be done. I must find work
in England. Dossie has never been away from me, and Pen IV,
I must take care of her. You do not understand, but I believe it would
break both our hearts to have the ocean between us."
Launcelot was silent for a few minutes, and then he said, quietly,
" You must not decide now, Jack; you must think it over. After all.
there are some things a man must settle for himself God forbid that I
should meddle with you or your child, but " with a pause that spoke
volumes "do not throw away lightly such a chance, for 1)
sake."
His words seemed to arrest Jack's attention; his reslless strides
ceased, and he stood still for a moment.
" For Dossie's sake! What do you mean? Am I not giving it all up
just for the child's good?"
" No," was the reply. A very decided No.
" But I am " angrily. " I am keeping my promise to Pen, and try
do my duty by her child."
I am quite sure you mean to do so, but do you think any mother
and especially such a loving one as you describe her i ;ld be
'd with the life your child leads? How arc VOM to help it i
keep her with you? You must work, and pardon m< must
ed. She has no one to teach her. She is Crowing up prr-
fttive for \v;mt o! womanly training; and IK.-.
you to give her a good education? Do you think her mother would not
ONLY THE GOVE11NESS. 30
be far more contented to know she was leading a regular healthy life
with other children under Madella's tender care? No, Jack do not
deceive yourself; do not mistake selfishness for love. It is for Dossie's
good that you should go, and for her good also that she should be left
behind."
It cost Launcelot an effort to say all this, with Jack's miserable eyes
fixed on him. But it was his duty to speak plainly. Had his words
gone home? He rather thought so from the expression on Jack's luce,
though he only flung himself petulantly into his arm-chair when
Launcelot had finished.
" I can not talk any more about it it makes me sick. I will think it
over; and and when will you come again?"
" To-morrow evening about half past eight. Will that suit you?' 1
returned Launcelot, taking the hint and putting on his overcoat with
cheerful alacrity. His manner conveyed no impression that he was
hurt by this abrupt dismissal, or thought Jack somewhat selfish to de-
mand 'the sacrifice of another evening. Launcelot had his friend's in-
terest too much at heart to take heed of such things. But Jack recol-
lected himself in time.
"I have no right to be troubling you like this making you tramp
down here in all weathers. Is there anywhere where I can speak to
you at your club? Or shall I write? though I am not much of a
hand at a letter."
" No, no; I will run down just for an hour I shall think nothing of
it. And, Jack, don't trouble to wait tea; I shall have dined " (a mental
resolution to that effect was entered on the tablets of his memory even
at that supreme moment). " Good-night, old fellow! I wish I were
leaving you more comfortably."
" Oh, it is not your fault," was the dreary answer. " I have made
my bed, and must lie on it." And then he accompanied his gm
the door. Launcelot looked back at him as he went down the steps.
lie was standing on the threshold, staring out at the whirling snow, un-
ions that the soft white particles were powdering his brown beard.
AVlmt a handsome fellow he was, thought Launcelot; big and strong
and powerful. And then, oddly enough, an old nursery doggerel came
into his head
" This is the man, all tattered and torn,
Who married the maiden all forlorn. 1 "
"Poor Pen! poor little Dossie! and above all, poor, unstable Jack!"
finished Launcelot, as a great wave of pity surged up in his heart for
the man he had left. Perhaps if he had seen Jack sitting motionless
and still, staring into the black ashes until half the night had gone, he
would have felt still more sorry for him.
For even a weak man fights a fierce battle sometimes, and is only over-
come by the repeated assaults of the enemy, and though Jack was y
reprobate in many people's eyes, he had his good impulses, his honest
purposes of amendment, like other men, and was never so completely
overcome of evil that he did not remember and cherish the good lessons
that had been taught him; and many a rigid Pharisee, whose nature
had not tempted him, would have been incapable of the blind devotion
and tender idolatry lavished by Jack on his motherless child.
" She loved much," was spoken of a great sinner, of one who had
drunk deeply of the dregp of sin; and may we not with trembling hope
believe of many a poor prodigal, that omniscient lovo sees the good that
40 OKLY THE OOVV. TINT
lies between the strata of evil; the poor, feeble striving, so quieklv
choked, for a better life; the half-paralyzed efforts the dumb cry lor
another chanee, for help, for deliverance? Alas for us, for "The first
.shall be last and the last first " was certainly spoken by One \vho knew
the hearts of men.
Liiuucelot was very busy all the next day. lie went up to his club
in St. James's Street early in the morning to read the papers and write
his letters a very usual' habit of his when he was not at work in his
studio, for he loved the bustle of the West Knd, especially at the begin-
ning of the season; and, as he said, his friends always knew where to
find him.
One of his letters a long, chatty one was directed to Mrs. Clmd
leigh, Villa Campanini, MenTone, but from the first page to the last lie
made no mention of Jack Westou. The other letter was much shorter,
but seemed to cost him a great deal of thought, for he frowned over it
with a dissalisiied air. "I think I have laid it on pretty well," h
to himself, as he wrote the address" Bernard Chudleigh, Magdalene
College, Oxford," but the next moment his face relaxed: " Poor old
Bear we were all young once," and he slipped a check into the en-
velope in rather a hasty manner, as though he were ashamed of the
action.
After this he went to lunch with a friend who had chambers in
Jermyn Street, and spent a pleasant hour listening to the discussion of
two literary men on the necessity of an international copyright and some
sort of society or association for the protection of authors. When he
had quite exhausted the subject, he sent for a hansom, and had himself
conveyed to Waterloo; there he sent off a telegram, and then took a
ticket' for Chelsea.
An acquaintance of his, a rising artist, was to exhibit his new picture
to a few friends, and afternoon tea was provided for their refreshment.
Launcelot had already seen the picture, but he always enjoyed tin-so
little gatherings, and he liked to flirt in a harmless way with his friend's
sister a handsome young widow who presided over the tea-table on
these occasions.
It was rather a picturesque scene. Outside the sun was shining on
the crisp snow, "as though it were January instead of March/' ob-
served Mrs. MacDonald, with a shiver, but the great logs were burning
cheerily on the hearth, round which the ladies were grouped in their
furs and velvets.
Ferguson, Launcelot's friend and host, moved among them in his
brown velvet coat and a hot-house flower in his button-hole; the picture
stood on its great easel in the middle of the room, and a tall, striking
looking brunette in a dark-red mantle was standing before it with the
air of a devotee.
"It is perfectly lovely, Mr. Ferguson," she said, folding her slim
hands together and looking at him with expressive eyes. " That girl's
face is beautiful. I am sure it will haunt me."
" A girl's face will haunt one sometimes," returned Mr. Ferguson,
lightly, but there was a certain meaning in his tone, for the girl colored
and turned away. " Estelle, have you some tea for Miss Graham? I
am going to fetch her some. Look, this chair will just suit you. Miss
Graham," dragging out a heavy, black carved Indian chair. " It was
good of you Lo enliven my studio with that choice bit of color," with
an approving glance at the mantle. " One of these days I want you to
me i'or Eleanor in the scene with fair Rosamond.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 41
Launcelot listened to tin's little conversation with inward amusement.
Ferguson was hard hit, he thought, and certainly Edna Graham was
handsome enough to satisfy even an artist's fastidious taste; and then
he looked round the studio with its beautiful collection of cabinets and
choice china. The curtains were real Utrecht velvet, costly skins lay
on the dark, stained floor. Mrs. MacDonald poured out fragrant tea
into lovely old Worcester cups. Ferguson had plenty of money, and
his pictures always sold; and then Launcelot thought of poor Jack in
his shabby coat, with that fixed, miserable look upon his face. " Poor
beggar, it does seem hard," he muttered, as he turned to the tea-table,
and was welcomed by a beaming smile from the fair widow.
It was late when he left Clieyne Walk, and Launcelot walked briskly
to the station and soon found himself en route for Richmond. When
he arrived, he went to a quiet-looking hotel, and ordered a cutlet and
a small bottle of claret, and while the cutlet was being cooked, he went
to the bar to inquire for his telegram. It was handed to him at once.
" Quite correct husband dying. Deserving case for our society
Rachel Thorpe." "All right: I was sure of it," was Launcelot 's in-
ternal comment, as he went back to the coffee-room. " Tim, my lad,
the chaplain has his work cut out for him; it is time that father of
yours gave up his companion, the devil not a choice friend for a death-
bed, Tim," and he shook his head and prepared to enjoy his cutlet.
It was a little after half past eight when Nancy admitted him in her
usual fashion, by slamming the street-door behind the visitor, and duck-
ing her head in the direction of the parlor. " He's in, and I've just
tooked tea away," observed Nancy as she clattered down-stairs.
Launcelot knocked gently, and then opened the parlor-door; they had
evidently not heard him. Jack was sitting before the fire with Dossie
on his knee; the child's arms were round his neck and her face buried
on his shoulder. Something in their attitude made Launcelot say to
himself, " He is going, and she knows it;" but he came forward in his
usual manner.
" Halloo, Jack, are you both asleep?" he exclaimed, cheerfully.
" Dossie is going to sleep, I believe," returned Jack, with an uneasy
look in the child's face. "You will ask Nancy to put you to bed,
won't you, darling eh, what?" as Dossie whispered something in his
ear. " Oh, yes, I will come and say good-night the last thing; but you
must be asleep mind there shake hands with Launcelot. I declare,
} T OU were going to forget him altogether."
"Never mind, I will forgive her," replied Launcelot, patting the
little hand kindly, but it went to his heart to see that she never raised
her eyes or spoke to him, and that her hand lay loose and unrespon-
sive in his.
" She thinks it is my fault that I am robbing her of her father," he
thought, a little bitterly, for he cold not tear to be misunderstood, even
by a child; and he watched her slow, listless movements rather wist-
fully. She had not been crying, but she looked pale and heavy as
though she were stunned.
" Well," drawing a long breath, as the door softly closed upon her
retreating figure, " well, Jack?"
" Oh, you know!" returned the other, in rather a forced manner.
: ' That child's face has told you; she took it like a lamb, though never
shed a tear. ' Of course you know best, father. ' Upon my word, I
felt like that old patriarch, Abraham, when he was going to stick the
knife into his lad's throat," went on Jack, with a miserable laugh; " it
OXLY TTTE OOYTflX :
, i, ui_-b<it (hero is no ram in
tin- thi. k< ! i -
it out his hand and grasped Jack.
-oing, tin
m;l it! and confound you too! Look here, Lance, I did
not sleep a \vink last night not a wink and T never touched a drop
until I had made up my mind; I just sat here and had it out with my-
self and Pen."
" Pen?" looking at him narrowly, nntil his eyes grew misty and he
liged to turn them away.
"Ay. 'Pen, poor little sweetheart I could see her plainly, hut of
course I am meaning no nonsense: she was sitting there, but it WHS
only in my thoughts 1 could see her. She wore her little gray gown,
and L could see her blue eyes looking at me, half gently, half sadly.
1 P>e a good man, Jack, for Dossie's sake. She will soon ha've no
one hut you; do your best for her, dear: make her as happy:,
can. ' Ah, I could hear those words quite plainly; she really spoke them
a few weeks before she died."
"Yes"
" Well, I thought it all out, and your words seemed to hold me some-
how; you seemed to think Dossie was neglected and precocious: 'Do
you think her mother would not be more content to know she was lead-
ing a regular healthy life?' that was what you said. ' Do not mistake
selfishness for love; it is for Dossie's good that she should be left be-
hind.'"
" Well?"
" Well, I believe you are right; it is selfishness. It just breaks my
heart to part with the only creature in the world who loves me and never
gives me a reproachfuriook. But it is for Dossie's good, and 1 mean
to go; I will see Neale to-morrow."
" Jack, let me shake hands with you again. You are a fine fellow!
I I respect you." But Launcelot found it necessary to stir the tire
somewhat loudly after this.
" Delia will look after the child, you say?" asked Jack, with the pale
glimmer of a smile at hearing such words applied to him.
"Madella? I should think so. Listen to me, a moment, Jack My
people are away, as you know, but they will be back soon; <
going to fetch them. I do not mean to write about things. You know
of old how little flurries Madella; she would drive the girls and h
crazy in her hurry to get home. There is plenty of time; at leasi.
if it comes to the worst, and you have to leave England before they are
back, Dos.sie will be all right. I know some people, intimate friends
of mine, who wiil look after the child; and when Madella arri
will just take Dossie by the hand and say, ' Jack has sent you his little
girl, and he wants you to keep her until he comes back.' Well," with
still greater animation, " can you see the tableau? Madella, with the
running down her face, and Dossie in her arms: 'Jack's child!
oh, how I mu*t love her for him.' Why I can hear her say it, bless
you. I know all Madella's little ways by this time," went on Launce-
lot, cheerfully, pretending not to see the tears standing in the poor fel-
" I \\\>\) 1 could have seen Delia; she was always kind. Do you
think Neale. would wait a little?"
" Oh, we will see about that to-morrow. There are heaps of things
to be done: ieale to interview, outfit to be ordered, and a host of
ONLY THE <U)V.KK.NESS. 43
arrangements. Don't trouble about Dossie. Miss Thorpe and her
brother will look after her, and they live only two miles from the
W lichens, so I could see Dossie every day and take her out I do not
waul to write to Madella for fear Bee might make a, fuss. Girls give a,
let ot trouble sometimes, and Bee is a bit meddlesome. ' Hold your
tongue, mi-s, your mother will do as I tell her,' that is how 1 manage
lice: and my lady tosses her head, and never ventures to say a word.
Slit; is a good girl, is Bee, only she likes to have a finger in tin- pie."
Launcelot was rattling out nonsense to give Jack a chance of recover-
ing himself, but by and by he said seriously
""Jack, I am awfully obliged to you for not disappointing me. I
could see no other way of helping* you and Dossie. I do believe with
God's blessing you will turn the corner now, and be a credit to us all.
There, I won't bother you any more to-night. Come up to the club to-
morrow morning, and \ve will see Neale. Thorpe says we shall find
him in anytime from three to six; you shall lunch with me, and we
will go together. There is my card; remember 1 :!() sharp."
" Very well," returned Jack, "I will look you up, if if," with a,
rueful smile, " you are not ashamed of my shabby coat," but Launce-
loi's reply to this was only a hearty grasp of the hand.
" Thank Heaven that is over!" he muttered, as he walked briskly
down the silent street; and then oddly enough he thought of the little*
cold hand that had lain so loosely in his.
" Dossie will not forgive me, I am afraid," he said to himself, rather
sadly, as he turned into the station.
CHAPTER VII.
VOICES OP COMFORT.
Life's more than breath, and the quick round of blood;
"Tis a great spirit and a busy heart.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the most, acts the best.
Festus.
JACK WESTON was true to his word, and kept his appointment most
punctually, and as Launcelot saw him from the window of his dub
walking down St. James's Street, he felt that hy should not be ashamed
to be seen in his company anywhere. In spite of the old-fashioned cut
of his coat, and that suspicious shininess about the seams, " there was
an air of indefinable distinction and good breeding about Jack that
marked a gentleman," though perhaps it might be added, a gentleman
who had seen better days, and who was obviously on the shady side of
life.
When Launcelot went to bed that night he told himself that he was
satisfied with his day's work, and that Jack had shown a great deal of
pluck. "There" is plenty of good stuff in him if one can only get it
out," he thought " I like a man who goes straight at a thing." The
interview with the Xeales had been very satisfactory; the younger
brother Alfred had evidently taken to Jack at once. Indeed, Jack's
handsome face and careless good nature made him a general favorite.
The two men were complete opposites. Alfred Xealfc was an awkward,
high-shouldered man, with reddish hair, and a singularly plain face, but
his voice was pleasant, and, in spite of a slight hesitation in his speech,
there was something frank and agreeable in his manner that made peo-
ONLY THK INVERNESS.
pie forget his defects. It -was said of him that he never lost a friend or
made an enemy, and Launcclot felt intuitively that he was one to be
trusted.
The busii <>on settled, Launcelot putting in a word now and
then. Jaek, who had been very cool and collected the whole time,
only once looked unea-y, when the younger Neale had asked it' he could
dy to .-tart in a fortnight's time, but Lauucclot had answered for
him without a moment's hesitation.
"Oh, there will be no difficulty about that; Nicholson Wright will
do the whole thing for us. 1 shall take "\Vcston there to-morrow."
Then as Jack looked at him significantly he continued; " Oh, I will
answer for it that my people will 1x3 back in ten days' time. (Jcoll
means to start to-morrow evening, and, as I told you, I can easily square
matters with the Thorpes." and with this .lack seemed satisfied.
l>nt when they went out in the street together he said, rather abrupt-
ly, " 1 must say Neale took me somewhat aback just now: 1 expected
to have al least another mouth in England; but when one has to make
a painful wrench, it is as well to get it over," and Lauucelot agreed
very heartily with this.
Dossie had not once been mentioned between them, but just before
they parted Launeelot asked after her.
" Oh, she does not say much, but she looks pale; she looks very
pale," returned Jack, hurriedly.
" Poor little thing!" and then Launeelot added, cheerfully, "Look
here, Jack, you must go to Singleton and have a good photograph taken,
cabinet size, and we will put it in a smart frame, and give it to her by
and by, and and " frowning prodigiously, " there was a pug puppy
1 saw the other day dear me, where was it? a regular little beauty,
and they said it was for sale. Oh, I know, Jim Barrett had it. 1 w'ili
go and have a look at it, and if it promises well we will get it foi
sie. A puppy will do more for her than all the consoling words in the
world, eh!" looking at Jack in surprise, " why are you breaking my
wrist with that list of yours?" but Jack made no answer, his handshake
was eloquent enough if only Launeelot had chosen to understand it.
" She shall have the puppy, poor little mite!" he muttered, and lie
made it his first business on the following day before he met Jack at the
outfitter's, to go down to Jim Barrett and inspect the pug baby.
There was plenty of occupation for Launeelot the next day; and he
and Jack were on their feet from morning to night. He had to leave
him to finish by himself at last, as he had to meet his brother Geoffrey
at the club they had arranged to dine together before Geoffrey went
off to the station.
Launeelot was somewhat late, and found Geoffrey walking up and
down the room chafing at the delay.
" This is too bad, Launce," he said, impatiently, as Launeelot hur-
ried up with an apology. " 1 shall have scarcely time to eat my dinner
before the train starts. ' '
' You are always eating dinners, Geoff," returned Launeelot,
an allusion to the duties of an embryo barrister. " .My dear
]y, with an
boy, there is plenty of time, and it could not be helped, I had such an
awful lot of business to do."
" Oh, yes, you are always so busy," returned the other, in a qui//ical
voice; and then they took their places at the table, and Launeelot in-
spected the wine carte with a gravity worthy of a better cause.
The brothers were not much alike. Geoffrey was a fair, gentlemanly
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 45
looking young fellow, with rather a plain, clever face, but it lacked the
mimation and brightness that made Launcelot's so attractive even to
strangers.
He was quieter and more reserved, and there was a curl of the lip
tint could be satirical. In the family circle Geoffrey was regarded as
a genius. He read a great deal, and was rather fond of airing his opin-
ions. He had already written some clever articles for the "Imperial
Review," though no one knew of this fact but Lauucelot and Mr.
Thorpe. Launcelot was immensely proud of him, and always took a
snub from Geoffrey in good part. "Young cocks crow loudly," he
would say; " Geoff will be more humble and think less of himself by
find by. These clever boys have not learned to control their own
-; lie is practicing on us beforehand getting his hand in for cross-
examination." And he never would own that his younger brother was
wanting in respect to him. Perhaps after all, he was judicious in his
treatment, for though Geoffrey and Bernard teased him and laughed at
him unmercifully they secretly adored him, and he had more influence
over them than he knew. Launcelot was too busy and sweet-natured
to assert authority, unless it were really necessary to do so; but now and
then he had spoken seriously and with much displeasure to one or the
other of the boys, as he called them, though Geoffrey was four-aud-
Iwenty; and then he had never spoken in vain.
On the present, occasion Geoffrey's sarcasm had been brief, and they
had dined amicably together; but when Launcelot accompanied his
brother to the station he spoke a parting word or two.
" Geoff, you will tell the mother I want her back as soon as possible.
I am tired of my bachelor existence."
" All right. Any message to the girls?"
" Yes; love to Pauline, and tell Bee not to be up to her nonsense; no
more dawdling in the Riviera sharp's the word!"
" Ah, sharp's the word; I'll be sure to tell Bee that."
" And whisper to that monkey, Sybil, that I have got a great big doll
being dressed for her nearly as big as herself, and she and Miss Rossi-
ter will have to look after it. Oh, by the bye, kind regards to Miss
Hossiter."
"All right."
" And Geoff, don't tell the mother about the chicken-pox and measles
breaking out at Uppingham. Freckles has not had either, and he is
coming home in ten days."
" Oh, of course; I never meant to mention anything of the kind.
We are moving, Launce take care!"
" Good-bye, old fellow! Bring them all back as soon as possible."
And Geoffrey nodded and took out his traveling cap. " What a fel-
low he is!" he said to himself; " he forgets nothing. Won't Sybil turn
up her nose though when I tell her about the doll!"
Early in the following week Launcelot had to call on a friend at Mort-
lake, and as it was still light when he had ended his visit, he thought
he would walk over and see how matters were progressing at Wenvoe
I load. He had expected to find Jack at home he rather wanted to
have a talk with him; but he found Dossie alone. He had not seen her
for nearly a week not since that night when-she would not look at him
and he saw a great change in her.
She was sitting on the rug in front of the fire, evidently doing noth-
ing, though she had an old coat of Jack's lying across her lap, with a
button half sewed on, and the needle stuck in the cloth. She had
ONLY !
dwindled in those few days, Launcelot thought, and a sudm
terror and responsibility came over him. Her <
Ji she had cried a good deal, and she looked ill and miserable 1 .
it up ami greeted Launcelot without a smile, with an ol,:
; womanly dignity tliat would havo amused him u
cumstances, but now he only looked gravely into her sad little
e said, detaining her tor a moment, "you a
glad to seo me. Ilo\v very, very angry you must hi; with me, to
it up a whole week/'
She colored, and snatched her hand away, but more with nervou
than temper.
" You must riot say that, Mr. Lance," her abbreviation of Ins immc.
" I am not angry with you now. Father said I was not to be."
" My dear little girl," in rather a hurt voice, " I think your fall
far kinder to me than you are. You have really no cause to
with me," but though he put his arm round her thin little slim
and tried to draw her closer to him as he spoke, she resisted, and
averted her face.
" You must not do that, Mr. Lance, for I have been very naughty,
even father says I have been naughty. Oh, you don't know,"
gave a short laugh of incredulity. " I told him over and over
that I hated you for taking him away, and I really meant it."
Lauucelot heard this stoically, but he felt a slight pang at the child's
words; it was disagreeable to be hated even by this scrap of humanity.
" Am I taking your father away, Dossie? Is it my fault that he is
poor and can not sell his pictures?" "
" We have always been poor," she replied, trying to disengage her-
self from the hands that held her so firmly and kindly, but si
gentle to do more than move uneasily in his grasp, and Launcelot would
not set her free. " We were always pooroh, ever since 1 was a baby
and father did not mind it; but now you have asked him to ^u away
with that horrid red-haired man, and he is going!" with a sob.
" My child," returned Launcelot, in a voice that soothed her in spite
of her grief, " you are too young and too ignorant to understand why
this advice that seems so cruel to you is really the kindest and
advice in the world. If you loved your father half as well as h<
you, you would not hate me for helping him to go."
" Oh, I do not hate you now," rather shocked at this plain speaking
it somehow sounded worse from Launcelot's lips " only 1 ean not
quite forgive you. Poor father does not want to go; he is miserable,
and I oh, What shall I do, what shall I do!" and forgetting all her ani-
mosity, Dossie buried her face on his shoulder, and bin
of tears. Launcelot drew the unhappy little creature closer in his
and showed his wisdom and tact by letting her cry her heart out undis-
turbed by any reproof, but when she was calmer and able to listen he
set himself to comfort her in good earnest. First lie made her under-
stand that in some strange inscrutable way it was for her father':
that he should go away, that it made him very unhappy to be M poor,
that, they would not have bread to eat if he stayed in England.
but you are rich, father says so. You would not let us
starve," observed Dossie, with a child's faith that a friend should l>c
bread-giver
" Child, child, you do not understand; bread eaten at another mn's
mid choke most of us. You must take my word for ii .
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 47
sie, until you are older, that father will be all the happier for going
11 Without mei Oh, no, Mr. Lance!"
"But I say yes. Now, Dossie, do be quiet, like a good girl, and
to me." And then he drew such an artful and glowing descrip-
tion of Jack's life in that unknown country, of how he would work to
?>ney for Dossie, and how Dossie must grow big and strong and
a great many things, that she might be able to preside over the
iful little house he had got ready for her, " not a house like this,"
:iir round the shabby room with well-counterfeited disdain, " but a
! ittle cottage with new carpets and curtains, and lots of pretty fur-
, and roses growing in the garden, and an arbor where father can
his pipe in the evening. And there must be some ivory chess,
hat I may come over and play chess sometimes, and we will get
I hi that is the dear, dear mother who will take care of you while
futhrr is away we must ask her, I say, to choose the prettiest tea set
>u to make our tea in, and the tea-pot must be real silver and not
Britannia metal."
" Oh, yes," exclaimed Dossie, charmed into a moment's forgetfulness
of her woe, and fixing her big eyes on him in rapt attention; and it
was then that the idea came into Launcelot's head that he would make
a hasty sketch of the child and give it to Jack, but when he propounded
this scheme to Dossie, she began to cry again so bitterly that he was
puzzled.
" Oh, it is only because I said I hated you, and you are really such a
nice kind man," sobbed Dossie, with a penitent hug; "do please for-
give me, Mr. Lance."
" Of course I forgive you, my dear little girl. Well, we are friends
now. I never could see why people need be cross because they are un-
happy; it makes things so much harder," finished Launcelot, philo-
sophically. It must be acknowledged that he certainly lived up to his
philosophy, for he was rarely cross, except on principle, and in the
most reasonable way. " Very well, Dossie, I will bring my palette and
paints to-morrow, and you must brush your hair very nicely, and tell
Nancy to get out the tangle; it is such pretty hair if you would only
comb it and keep it tidy," a piece of advice that made Dossie open her
eyes; her father never told her to brush her hair.
This reconciliation was very satisfactory to Launcelot; it would have
pained him to be regarded as a sort of cruel fate in the child's eyes, ;m
embodied fetish or Juggernaut of circumstance that was to stamp and
crush out her happiness. The situation would not have suited him at
all. He was very much interested in Dossie. She was by no means a
pretty child, but she had expression and quaintness, and she had sweet
little ways witk her that appealed to his soft side; the thought of this
small waif that would so soon be fatherless touched him with a sort of
nathos. She would be cast on him for protection, and he was beginning
10 realize that his impulsive generosity was adding a new responsibility
\o a life that was certainly not without its burdens.
But Lauricelot's nature was expansive, it was always seeking newobjects
of interest; his impulses were forever crowding each other out; he liked
playing the part of a minor Providence in other people's lives, and his
tthies seldom lay long dormant. If he had lived in medieval
times he would have been a zealous knight-errant; the rescue of dis-
1 damosels, of oppressed childhood or old age, would have been
work just suited to his peculiar temperament; but as his honest kindly
48 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
heart boat beneath the broadcloth jiml line linen of the nineteenth cent-
ury, he had to tind other scope for his philanthropy.
Launcelot brought down his color-box and soon, produced two very
pleasing sketches of Dossie, one of which lie put away carefulh' in his
portfolio. Jack almost broke down when he saw the little picture; it
was a mere sketch, but it was wonderfully true to the life; the wide
childish eyes looked troubled and inquiring, they always had this look
now; the 'lips had a sad curve, the little pale face was grave and un-
smiling. " Oh, Dossie, why did you not smile?" exclaimed Jack, re-
proach full }'; "is that the way you mean to look at your poor father
when he has nothing but this picture to console him? but but it is
beautiful, it is my Dossie to the life!" and the big tears stood in Jack'*
eyes as he pored over his treasure.
Dossie had been perfectly silent when the photograph in its handsome
velvet frame had been placed before her, but her lips had turned white.
For a moment she positively could not speak. "Is it for me; is it my
very own?" she faltered, by and by.
" Yes, my pet; and it is Launcelot's present to you. You must thank
him, not me, Dossie."
But to their surprise Dossie shrunk a little further away.
" I can't thank Mr. Lance, father; he is too kind. I want to do some-
thing for him my own self." And now the tears ran down her face.
" And so you shall; you. shall do lots of things for me, Dossie," re-
turned Launcelot, cheerfully. He saw the childish heart was quite op-
pressed by its load of gratitude; other children would have been loud
in their expression of ecstasy, but the delicacy conveyed in those few
words touched him far more. ' ' I want to do something for him my
own self," rang in his ears the whole day afterward.
Dossie was a little puzzled by the next gift the pug puppy which
arrived in Launcelot's pocket about three days before Jack was to sail;
in fact, for the first few hours her feelings on the subject were sadly
mingled, and her pleasure in the new possession was certainly not with-
out alloy. ,
It was a dear delightful puppy, and the sight of its black wrinkled
nose was enough to distract any child. It was the loveliest, dearest,
sweetest puppy she had ever seen; but how was she to do her duty by
it when she had all those buttons to sew on and all those things things
to pack? for Jack contrived small artful jobs to keep her busy most of
the day. But now how was she to work with the puppy rolling on her
lap, and every now and then whining and trying to lick her fare: when
the black muzzle and scratchy paws seemed everywhere; when the
sooty kitten give him furtive dabs every time he passed her, and then
sat up on end and spat at him? There was so much valuable time lost
in making peace between them, so much coaxing and petting before the
puppy would consent to curl himself up and be quiet; but as she busied
herself in making a comfortable bed on the sofa, Jack and Launcelot
exchanged meaning glances full of satisfaction.
Launcelot had looked rather grave when he arrived, and after the
Mtation of the infant pug he had had a long conversation with Jack
in the window.
"I told you so," returned Jack, when he had heard all Lauucelot
had to say. " I knew they would not be home in time."
" It is no one's fault; they are on their way," was the eager reply.
" It is only Bee's sprained ankle that is detaining them. Silly girl, why
need she have stepped on that piece of orange-peel? It is those con
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 49
founded high- heeled boots of hers. Bee is so vain. Jack, I am awfully
sorry about it, I am indeed; but it is no one's fault."
"*No, it is only my cursed ill-luck," was the answer; " things never
will turn up as I want them. I should like to have seen Delia and
asked her to be kind to Dossie. No offense to you, Launcelot, but I
should have gone away happier if I could have seen them together."
" Of course I know what you mean, and it is a horrible nuisance; but,
Jack, you may trust me. I can answer for Madella as I can for myself;
that woman has never disappointed me. Look here, I have been down
to see the Thorpes, and we have made all arrangements. Directly you
start, I shall take Dossie over to Riversleigh and leave her with Miss
Rachel, and then I shall be able to give you the last news of her. You
can go on board and wait for me; there will be plenty of time for me to
do the thing nicely."
" Thanks; what a brick you are, Launcelot."
" Then we will settle it so. Miss Rachel is fond of children, and she
will be very good to Dossie, I know. I think we may expect Madella
in about ten days' time."^ And then they had turned from the window
and watched Dossie as she put her troublesome charge to bed.
" It will do: the little animal will give her plenty of work," observed
Lauucelot in a low voice, and then he had summoned Dossie to a solemn
conclave for bestowing a name on the puppy.
CHAPTER VIII.
"OH, MY LITTLE CHILD, MY LITTLE CHILD!"
Oh, the little birds sung east, and the little birds sung west;
Toll softly !
And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed round our incompleteness,
Round our restlessness His rest.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
LAUNCELOT sacrificed a great deal of his time to Jack's service. He
paid frequent visits to Wenvoe Road, and his tact and shrewd common
sense smoothed many a difficulty, and made those last few days less
unbearable to both father and child. A little judicious sympathy, a
few words of encouragement, did much to put heart in Jack. The idea
of making a fresh beginning, of breaking off old habits, of atoning for
past mistakes, was nerving him for the parting. Launcelot's generosity
made him feel himself a debtor. " Whatever happens, I must not dis-
appoint him," was his one thought.
Launcelot was not the man for half measures. Geoffrey always said
of him that he rode a hobby to death, and though this was an exaggera-
tion it was nevertheless true that Launcelot threw himself into any new
pursuit or fresh interest with a zest and self-absorption that rendered
himself oblivious of everything else for the time. He liked to go straight
at a thing and carry it through. It was this that made him such a
valuable ally. People who needed help, and whose cause he had
espoused, never felt that his interest nagged or his sympathy failed
them until he had got their heads above water. " Now you feel the
ground firm under your feet, and you must shift for yourself;" and if
he did not exactly say these words, he certainly acted up to the spirit of
ihem.
One of his numerous proteges whom he had thus helped to find his
foothold once more said to him, reproachfully, " You take far less in-
terest in. me, Chudleigh, now that I am a decent fellow, and when other
ONLY Till: GOVERNESS.
people are just beginning to remember my existence, than when I was
an unlucky beggar going downhill as fast as I could."
" You are wrong," returned Launcelot, with a friendly smii'
shall always take interest in you, only you need me less, and tin i
others who need me more."
When the last day came Laimcelot carefully kept aloof from W<
lioad. " Do-sic must have you all to herself to-morrow ; 1 shall not
come near you," he had said to .lack the preceding night, and the other
had Quietly acquiesced in this. Jack thought that long, drcai
would never pass, and yet he treasured every minute as though lit
u miser counting out his gold.
It was one of those hopelessly wet days, when from morning to night
the gray overcharged clouds showed no doubt of their meaning: when
tin 1 silent, continuous rain fell without pause or intermission. Jack
regarded the prospect ruefully, and his heart felt like lead in his I
lie had meant to take Dossie for a last walk. lie thought he could
have got through the hours better in the open air, but he found himself
kept an enforced prisoner. " We must make the best of it," he mut-
tered, as he turned from the window; and then he called Dossie to help
him with his packing, and they were both exceedingly busy for the rest
of the morning. It may be doubted whether Dossie was' much help,
but he liked to see her little fingers smoothing out his ties, or laboriously
carrying the heaviest articles she could find. When there was nothing
else she could do she stood beside him with Beppo, the pug puppy in
her arms watching him as he rammed down his coats and shirts.
" What lots of things! How clever you are, father, to get them all in!"
sighed Dossie, when the last portmanteau was packed.
Jack hardly knew how they got through the afternoon; he smoked a
pipe or two, and watched Beppo and the kitten at their play, and he
walked up and down the room with Dossie hanging to his arm, and
told her a great deal about the life he should lead, and about the plants
and the trees, or any little fact he had gleaned about the country, and
Dossie listened as though it were a new gospel and everything depended
on her not losing a word, and at tea-time he pretended to be very
cheerful, and to enjoy the hot buttered toast that Dossie had prepared,
and he \vould eat it although he felt as if every mouthful would choke
him. Dossie wielding the heavy Britannia metal tea-pot with both
hands as usual, and absorbed in her labors of love, hardly saw the long
wistful glances that rested on her face, but though she fed the puppy
she scarcely tasted food herself.
" I am not hungry, father. I think it makes me feel sick even te,
look at things," she said, when he pressed her to eat, and then the tears
came into her eyes, and he did not venture to say more. But when tea
was over there was no more pretense at cheerfulness or any more talk
about that .strange far-off country, but as Jack lifted the child on his
knee and felt the tight clasp of her arms round his neck, a soil of pux-
xled sadness came over his face, for the time was growing very >hort
now, and there were words that he ought to say to Dossie that w< re
very ditlicult to be spoken. lie had an idea that he ought to give her
sound fatherly advice, and to speak words of wisdom that she might
,re up when lie had gone; he must do what other fathers would
have done in his case: if only lie could think what to say.
a-," lie began a! la-t, when the silence had lasted along
time, " I think you and I ought to have a little talk together."
ONLY THE OOVEKNESS. 51
"Yes, father," but Dopie did not move; she had srof one hand en-
tangled in the long heard, and no\v she li^hleiK-d lier bold a liitlu.
" I want you to promise me something, pet;" but to his consternation
Dossie interrupted him in a most pitiful voice.
" Ah, no, father please please do not make me promise any-
thing but that, father dear."
" But, my darling " t
" Oh, father, please don't," still more plaintively; " it is hard enough
without that, and it will only make it so much worse. Don't make me
think I am naughty every time I fret; you want me to promise not to
fret when you are gone, but ah, how dreadful that would be, for if I
cry and I must cry I shall think now I am disobeying father and
breaking my promise, and that will make it so much worse."
" Well, well," kissing the little pleading face, " I will not ask you to
promise; but, Dossie, I must say something. If you want to please me,
if you want to make me less miserable, you will write and tell me that
you are happy."
" I must not say it if it is not true, father, must I?"
" Xo, no; for Heaven's sake be your mother's child, and always
speak the truth the truth, Dossie, before everything; but you can
make it true, my darling: you can say to yourself, I will be happy for
father's sake, because he never likes me to be sad, and then the happi-
ness will come."
"Will come," echoed Dossie, in mild parrot fashion, but her face
belied her words; a child's present misery never grasps the idea of fut-
ure alleviation; now is forever, time is eternity, there are no possible
horizons to a child's grief, the prospect presents a blank.
"And you will be a good child," went on Jack, pausing over his
words as his difficulty about the good advice grew greater. Dossie
could not help him here. She could hardly read his thoughts at this
crisis; and yet Jack was longing ardently to do v his duty to his mother-
less child.
" I will try, father," in the same automatic voice.
" And and you will always say your prayers and read your Bible
your dear mother's Bible that I gave you, Dossie. I am afraid "in a
conscience-stricken voice " that I ought to have read to you more, but
I never had time."
"Oh, but you did read to me," returned Dossie, rousing at this.
" Don't you remember, father, when I had the measles you read
Joseph and his brethren and Daniel in the lions' den oh, and about
Goliath, too. I remember we were in the little cottage at Slough, and
there were no books, and you were afraid I was dull; oh, I did enjoy
it so; you read beautifully, and I know I cried over that poor Joseph;
oh, I know the Bible well," finished Dossie, contentedly; "I always
listen at church, and one hears a lot that way."
" Yes, but you do not know your Catechism; Delia will be shocked
at that," replied Jack, with a sigh. He was afraid he was very much
to blame; he had never taught Dossie that she had to renounce the
world, the flesh, and the devil, or to keep her hands from picking and.
stealing. He had expected her to grow up good without example or
precept; now and then he had bidden her never to forget her prayers,
and he had been careful to take her to church every Sunday, though
his inclinations would have kept him away; but when she had ques-
tioned him about what the preacher meant, he had been obliged to con-
fess that he never listened to sermons.
53 OKLY TTTE flOVEKXESS.
" I wonder why people preach them, then?" returned Do^sie, in rx-r-
fpr-tly gmd faith: "perhaps they want to do themselv< idy it
is a pity they talk so loud and tire thcni-elvc- if no one listens."
"I am afraid Delia will be shocked at your ignorance," went on
Jack. " Your aunt Delia believes in the Catechism and that sort of
thing: she is an awfully good woman. Dossie, I want you to be a
child to her and try and love her. She was very kind to me, and I
a lot of trouble. Look here " and Jack's tone became impressive " I
want you to say something for me. You must not forget, Dossie. You
must say her, ' Aunt Delia, I am Jack's little girl, and he wants you to
love me. You were very good to him. when he was a little boy, and he
knows you will be good to me, and and he sends his love.' Now re-
peat this after me." Dossie repeated the words obediently; then she
said
" I will not forget, father; I will say them every word, and if I am
very much frightened I will shut my eyes. Is Aunt Delia a very nice
lady? Why have we not seen her?"
41 Because because it is my fault. She was good to me, and I treated
her badly, and so she never knew Pen;" and as Dossie opened her eyeg
rather widely at this confession, he went on, hurriedly
" Never mind how it all happened, darling. I am sure, quite sure,
you will soon love your aunt Delia; she is a sweet woman, and Launce-
iot is devoted to her. Launcelot will be your friend too."
" Yes, father, and I like him very much; he is so trustable " one of
Dossie 's favorite expressions.
Jack smiled.
" So he is, my pet, so he is. Trustable, that just expresses it. Why,
I am a lucky fellow after all, Dossie. I shall say to myself very often,
' Here 1 am working hard to make a home for my little girl '
"That is the house that Jack built, father," interrupted Dossie,
quaintly.
" Yes, and the bricks shall be hard shining sovereigns, all saved for
Dossie to spend, and when I look at them I shall say, ' There is my lit-
tle girl in England growing up to be a wise, sweet woman, getting all
ready for her old father when he comes home a rich man.' '
" Shall you soon get rich, father?"
" Why, of course," trying to joke. " What am I going all that way
for except to pick up gold and silver off that mighty Tom Tiddler's
ground;" and then, checking himself with a sigh, " but I shall not stay
to grow overrich; we don't want much, do we, Dossie? just a little
place to hold our two selves and a garden where I can smoke my pipe
of an evening, and where you can grow all your flowers."
" Lupins, and slocks, and marigolds; do let us have marigolds, I am
so fond of them."
" Oh, of course; * golden bells and cockle shells, and marigolds all in
a row.' I can smell your flowers now."
"Oh, how nice," replied Dossie. " I must grow up quick, or I shall
not be tall enough to be your housekeeper;" and for a few blissful mo-
ments her imagination bridged over the years of separation and antici-
p ited the reunion, but the next minute she shivered and grew pale.
" You must not talk any more, darling," observed Jack, anxiously.
" It is time for you to go to bed, I think " counterfeiting an excellent
yawn. " I am rather sleepy myself. You see, we shall have to get up
early, and " as Dossie, in no way deluded by this sudden fatigue, onlv
clung to him with mute entreatj " if you will be good and go now; 'l
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 53
will come and sit by you till you go to sleep;" and comforted by the
thought that her dark hours would be soothed by that beloved presence,
Dossie as usual went off obediently.
Jack never knew how long he sat in that dark garret listening to the
rain beating on the roof. Dossie's two little hands clasped his arm, her
hot face lay against his shoulder. She was not crying, he was sure of
that, for he could see her eyes staring into the darkness, but he dared
not speak to her lest the flood-gates should open, and she was so young
and weak that he feared any more agitation for her.
" Shut your eyes, darling," he whispered, and she had closed them
at once, but it was hours before he could hear the measured breathing
that told him the worn-out child had fallen asleep, before he dared to
move his cramped arms and steal on tiptoe from the room.
There was something heroic in the way he had combated his restless,
ness, and had restrained any expression of weariness. He felt he would
rather die than loosen those little hands that held him so fast.
" Father sat by me in the dark nearly all night," Dossie said, some
months afterward, when she and Launcelot were spending their Sunday
evening on the terrace at the Witchens. " I held him tight; I was so
afraid he might leave me, but he stayed oh, ever so long."
Launcelot was leaning on the low wall, looking out on a placid scene,
a heath bathed in the mellow light of a harvest moon. The little episode
touched him; the thought of the poor prodigal sitting patiently by his
child's bedside. "It is like a parable," he mused; "I suppose the
Almighty Father watches His human children just in that way. All
one has to do is to cling hold tight, as she says but when the darkness
comes, one lets go. Yes, that is the pitj of it one lets go. ' '
As Launcelot drove up in his hansom the next morning, he felt he
had an unpleasant business before him. " It seemed to me as though I
had to shepherd some bleating lamb whose mother had gone to the
butcher's," he observed afterward to Miss Thorpe.
Nothing ruffled Launcelot's equable nature so much as the idea of a
scene. These disturbed phases of human emotion were always classed
in his mind with volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, cataclysms, and other
violent agencies of nature.
In spite of his impulsive and sensitive temperament, he had a touch
of the stoic about him; if he suffered, he wrapped his mantle round him
like an old Roman, and suffered silently. In Jack's place he would
have spared himself and the child the prolonged agony of parting, he
would have left her sleeping and stolen from the house; but Jack's soft
nature was not capable of such sublime effort as this.
" Let me keep her until the last minute," he pleaded. " You shall
take her away before my luggage is put on the cab, but you must not
begrudge me this last hour," and of course Launcelot could say no
more.
But he doubted Jack's wisdom when he entered the room. The child
was enduring agony; he could see that. She was dressed in her little
cloak and hood-bonnet which always transformed her into a little Puri-
tan. She had been calm. until she heard the hansom drive up, and then
she had flung herself into her father's arms and was holding him with
all her childish force, and nothing would induce her to lift her head.
Jack looked up with a mute entreaty for help; he saw his mistake
now, and Lauucelot was not slow to respond.
" Oh," he said, cheerfully, " Dossie is bidding you good-bye, is she?
Very well, she must be quick about it. I see your cab coming round
f> I OXLY THE
the corner. Jack, and you will h;ive to look sharp and help the man
with all those traps; you Imve only ten minutes to do everything."
"J)o you hear what Lance- says, my darling?" said Jack, huskily,
but he woke to deaf cars. Dossie was past listening no\v; lhe\
spoke to her, but in vain; and then Launcelot made a sign that hc'v
take her out of her father's arms. Jack understood him. " ()n<
ment irive me one moment," he said; and then, almost roughly, he
drev; back the child's head and covered the little white faee with
siouate kisses. " Oh, my little child, my little child!" Launcelot heard
him groan, as very firmly but tenderly he unloosed Dossie's grasp, and
lifted her up.
moment.
But it went to his heart to see how she shrunk from him when he
tried to draw her closer to him in the cab; no one should comfort her
for her father's loss, that is what her action said to him. lie had the
tact to leave her alone, only now and then he touched the little listless
hand, but his pressure was not returned.
" She is tasting the bitterness of death," he said to himself, and once
when the cab stopped in a crowded thoroughfare, he leaned forward
and peered under the little hood-bonnet. She was shedding no tears,
but the sick white look of childish despair appalled him.
" If she lives until she is an old woman, she will never live through- a
worse moment," he thought. " Thank God, we shall have a woman to
help us soon; the child must have some relief, or she will never weather
this."
Launcelot thought that long drive would never have an end. " Arc
you not very tired, Dossie?" he said once, trying to break the silence
between them, but she only shook her head.
But it was a relief when the cab turned into the quiet secluded corner
where the Thorpes lived; it was called Priory Road, but Mr. Thorpe
always spoke of it as the Close.
It was a strangely quiet little corner, a terrace of old-fashioned houses
standing back in narrow strips of gardens, and a little further on was
the large roomy vicarage.
A low white house adjoined the picturesque almshouses and the pretty
quaint garden with its rustic seats, and at the other end was the beauti-
ful church, with its gray old tower and lime walk and peaceful church-
yard.
It was a beautiful spot, and one that Launcelot loved. Often had he
and Mr. Thorpe strolled up and down the church-yard. Sometimes
they would linger under the limes, and Launcelot would look up at
the gray old church, and then feast his eyes on the quaint lovely old
almshouses. " You are right to call it the Close, Thorpe," he would
say; " it has just the same sleepy, reverent aspect that one sees in &
cathedral close; the wicked world lies outside; a sort of Sabbath still-
breathes over the place. The church is always open, you
good very good; one could learn to pray here. LOOK at the sun-
hind those trees, Thorpe, and the gleam of that water. The alnHiouse
windows are shining like gold, and the peaked roofs arc so clearly dc-
iinder that pink sky. \Vhat a ^low! wli.it coloring! how uoixi of
two old women in their black poke bonnets to add life to the
.; my dear fellow, 1 could rhapsodize; for hours."
ONLY THE GOYE11NESS. 55
" Better not, as "Rachel is waiting dinner for us," Mr. Thorpe would
perhaps say; he would often silence Launcelot 's artistic raptures with
some such chilling response, but in reality his heart clave to the place
with a strength of attachment that would have surpiised his friend.
"It is just the place for a tired man. I should like to die here,
Rachel," he had once said, but Rachel had scouted this idea with some
energy. She was a woman who talked and thought more of living than
dying; she always said the first was every one's business, and the sec-
ond belonged to no one. "If we live well, that is all that can be ex-
pected of us." She would add, " Dying, well that is not in our hands
at all; we must die as God wills."
Miss Thorpe was standing at the open door when the cab drove up.
She looked trim and alert in her neat black gown Miss Thorpe always
VUHC black, and dressed in the plainest 'fashion; her hair was drawn
slightly from her face, and showed the wide benevolent forehead.
Her eyes glistened a little as Launcelot carried in the weary child
and placed her in Miss Thorpe's arms.
" Poor little dear," she said, in her quiet voice, and she untied the
hood, and looked kindly into the woe-begone little face. " So father
has gone, poor father! but he will soon come back again;" and some-
how those few simple words broke down Dossie's unnatural calm.
" Oh, my father, my father!" she sobbed, clinging to Miss Thorpe of
her own accord.
Miss Thorpe looked at Launcelot, significantly.
" Let her cry, it will do her good," her eyes seemed to say; then aloud,
" Mr. Chudleigh, will you ask the man to bring in the little girl'* box
my maids are busy and then Dossie and I will go upstairs. I know
we must not keep you now, but you will be back in time for dinner."
" Oh, yes; you will probably see me before that. It is not half past
ten yet; there is no need to say good-b}^," and with a swift look* at Dos-
Bie, whose little frame was now quivering with sobs, he entered the cab
again and was driven rapidly away.
" I always thought she was a good woman, but I did not know she
had a way like that with her, "he said to himself, thinking of Miss
Thorpe; " but I suppose most women have the maternal instinct, it is
born with them; but, somehow, if I were a child, and an unhappy one,
I could not fancy myself clinging to Miss Thorpe, certainly not if
Madella were anywhere near. I believe I worship that woman," fin-
ished Launcelot, with an odd little smile.
CHAPTER IX.
RACHEL THORPE.
Be hopeful; make allowances; put yourself in other people's places; avoid both
the stoical and epicurean extremes ; be neither sinner nor pharisee, and you have
secured the safest and pleasantest prong of our three-cornered dilemma Thrte-
Cbrnered Essays.
IT was not surprising that Launcelot looked utterly fagged and weary
when he drove up to the door of No. 8 Priory Road, that afternoon.
He had passed two very trying hours with Jack, on board, walking up
and down the deck. Jack had utterly broken down at last; the thought
of the long years before he should see England and Dossie again depi i\ < '\
him of all courage. " I don't feel as though I could go through wiiu
it," he muttered more than once.
Launcelot did not desDise Jack for this faint hear tedness he should
f0 ONLY 'J'HJ: <;<>Y!:ii.\!
lit- in his place, lie thought; he did not haruis him either
with well-meant but mi-taken cheerfulness, as most i*>ople would have
done, trying to distract him fiom his misery by judicious aphorisms
and truisms that would have been an affront to his understanding; on
tlie contrary, he walked beside him, keeping pace with his ri
strides, and scarcely speaking at all until some freti'ul word on Jack's
part compelled an answer.
" Poor dear fellow," he thought, when at last he had quitted the
gangway, and Jack, with hazard face, leaned over to see the 1
him. " I am afraid it will go hard with him for a long time," and he-
eat his luncheon sadly, and took a stroll in the park, but the painful
recollection was still strong on him when he dismissed his cab aim
at the bell of No. 8 Priory Road. Regarded from the outside it was
hardly a cheerful-looking abode. The projecting wall of the white house
dosed it on one side; the house itself was high and narrow, with old-
fashioned windows that belonged to the period in which it was built,
and no new-comer would have guessed the exceeding pleasantin
the interior.
The study would be empty about this hour, so Launcelot went at
once to the drawing- room, where Miss Thorpe was generally to be
found in her leisure hours. It was a charming room, with cozy nooks
about it, and Launeelot, who had spent many pleasant evenings with
the brother and sister, was wont to declare that he knew 7 of no ploas-
anter one. The furniture w r as arranged with a view to comfort, and
the large easy-chairs were placed just at the right angle from the tire,
with a glass screen to temper the heat.
Miss Thorpe was sitting in her favorite high-backed chair by the lire.
It was one of her characteristics never to indulge in one of those soft
lounging-chairs so much affected.Jby the modern woman. A small
square low table stood beside her, and the little brass kettle hissed and
spluttered cheerfully on its trivet. A great black cat lay asleep on the
tiger-skin rug. Launcelot thought it all looked very cozy.
Miss Thorpe looked up with the smile with which she always greeted
her favorite.
" That is right," she said, cordially; " I hardly expected you so soon,
but I am delighted to see you. How tired you look, Mr. Chudleigh.
Draw up that big easy-chair close to the table, and 1 will give you a cup
of tea. I am sure you deserve it, for you have worked like a ho;
day."
Launcelot received the cup of tea gratefully, but before he tasted it
he asked after Dossie.
"Poor little dear/' returned Miss Thorpe, and a shade passed over
her fine face. " I have had a sad time with her. It is very tr\ ;
see a child in such trouble; somehow it seems unnatural. I though i ,-he
would have cried her heart out when you had gone. 1 hardly knew
what to do with her, but I am thankful to say the outburst'];
hausted her, and she and the puppy are both asleep on the big couch in
my room. When she wakes up I ihall put her to bed; she is utterly
spent, and fit for nothing else."
Launcelot looked grave at this account. ' : She is unusually sensitive
for a child of her age. I am afraid she is almost too delicately <
i/.od. I hope you induced her to take some food; she has been starving
If lately."
" .She would have it that she could not eat, but I made her swallow -<\
cup of itrong broth. The puppy had his dinner; she actually rousd
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 57
herself to feed U. I shall coax her to take some bread and milk when
she wakes, poor child; one must be a little firm with her, though she
seems docile by nature."
" I am afraid you can hardly judge of her to-day; she is an interest-
ing little creature, gentle, yet with plenty of originality, certainly an
uncommon child. I wonder if you have found this out?"
" Oh, children always interest me," was the somewhat evasive an-
swer. " Ivan and I like to have a child about us. I am a little doubt-
ful whether he will find Dossie interesting. He likes high-spirited,
merry children, and I should fancy Dossie is always rather sedate, and
then she is not what you would call an attractive child."
" You mean pretty; well, no, Dossie is certainly not pretty, but she
has good points, as I found out when I made that sketch. She is pale,
but her complexion is good, and she has a lovely dimple, and I never
saw more expressive eyes, they seem to tell so much, and I think a great
deal could be done with her hair."
Launcelot spoke quite seriously; he had begun to think Dossie had a
nice little face, and it was one of his idiosyncrasies never to criticise
what he loved, and he had grown very fond of the poor child. Miss
Thorpe's remarks rather hurt him, and yel she had carefully modified
her opinion out of respect to his feelings; in reality, she thought Dossie
a very plain little girl, and she was sure her brother would not take
to her.
She smiled now in an amused way that rather nettled him, so she
said, somewhat shortly
' ' I hope it will not bore you having her here. I am afraid the poor
little thing may give you a great deal of trouble."
" Oh, I don't mind trouble," was the cheerful response. " That sort
of thing comes into the day's work. "We are put into the world to help
other people. Dossie shall have every care, if it were only for your
sake, Mr. Chudleigh, and we shall find a way to comfort her, I hope,
before long. Ivan understands children, and they are always happy
with him. By the bye, if you have finished your tea and feel more
rested, I want to have a little talk with you about Ivan," and, as he put
down his empty cup and looked at her inquiringly, she continued, in
her quiet, impressive voice, " Ivan told me last night that he had
spoken to you about his unlucky marriage. I always wanted him to do
so, but he found it so difficult to open the subject; but I am glad, very
glad, that you. know."
" Why?'' was Launcelot's sole response to this; he felt the mono-
syllabic reply was unsatisfactory, but it was all that occurred to him;
but Miss Thorpe had her answer ready.
" Need you ask?" she returned, quickly. " Mr. Chudleigh, you do
not know how much I am depending on you. This friendship is the
finest thing that has happened to Ivan for years. Nothing has inter-
ested him so much since his wife left him; it has roused him and made
him a different man."
" His wife's loss is making him still unhappy, then?" asked Launce-
lot. He was very anxious for Miss Thorpe's answer, but it struck him
that she evaded the question.
" Of course he feels his position bitterly; his temperament was never
very gay, but there is no need for him to shut himself up as though he
were a hermit at his age it is absurd but he alwaj r s says he can not
mix with peoplo unless they know he is a married man; and he would
rather keep to himself than tell his story. It is on this point that I want
58 OXLY TITE GO VET? "Si
your hcAp, Mr. rimdleiirh. My influence will not avail here, and I am
looking to you to roiiM' him from this morbid stato, and induce him to
re-enter Bociety."
"You must not depend on me too much. I have never been able
even to indiK-e him to dine with us at the Witchens."
" That was because he had not told you about Joan; it will be differ-
ent now. "We talked about it last night, and he owned he had no ob-
jection to your people knowing the bare facts of the case. He dreads
idle gossip, and on Joan's account he wishes to keep it quiet; but I
managed to extract a sort of promise that for the future he would not
refuse your invitations."
" I am glad you have told me this, Miss Thorpe. Your brother made
me understand that it must be a sealed subject between us, and, though
it is not a pleasant thing to say, you know the world so well that
sure you will not misconstrue my meaning when I say that with ,\
s, and both of them attractive girls, I could hardly introdi
married man under the guise of a bachelor."
' ' No, you are quite right. It is always best to be open in such cases.
Ivan .is so indifferent to women that he never thinks of this. I am very
anxious that Ivan should visit at the Witchens. I think it will be the
opening for greater sociality; but all the same I would recommend you
to state the case clearly to your step-mother, and see if she has any ob-
jection."
" Oh, of course. I always tell Madella everything."
" And you are guided by her advice?"
" Well, no. I think it is the other way about; she is guided by mine.
When I tell her things, she always says, ' What is your opinion, Lance?'
a/nd that settles it." '
"In that case you know her answer beforehand." But Launcelot
would not allow this; he always talked things over with her, and their
opinions never clashed; he had never know her decide anything without
him. Bee, his eldest sister, often influenced her in his absence, but
when he came back Bee went to the wall.
Miss Thorpe was a little puzzled by all this.
" Perhaps I ought to ask you then if you have any objection to Ivan
meeting your sisters?" but Launcelot only laughed in reply.
" 1 shall be delighted to introduce Thorpe, and should not be afraid
of trusting him if I had twenty sisters. Bee and Pauline will only pity
him and call him poor fellow, and as for Madella, she will be ready to
move heaven and earth to bring him and his wife together again. Uy
the bye, Miss Thorpe, may I ask you a question? Why did your brother
fall in love with her if she were so unlikely to suit him?"
Launcelot often asked questions that would be impertinent on any one
part, but no one ever took offense. Miss Thorpe seemed to think
his curosity quite natural; he and Ivan were close friends, and it was
only right that he should know all the ins and outs of this wretched
business. She rather wished to tell him herself; he would then 1
plain unvarnished statement of facts and no exaggeration, and she. an-
ed with (he utmost readiness, though with a slight >hrug of the
.should--:-. " U'hy do men do foolish things? Ivan "is not the only
u who has fallen in love with an attractive face and ]>}<
u always admired Joan, she was very tnkii
ai.l, though I never agreed with them; she wa3 too Irish for my
" Do you mean she is Irish?"
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 59
" Yes, on the father's side; he was one of those impulsive, hot-tem-
pered Irishmen that one dreads to have much to do with. Oh, I wil'
allow Joan had her advantages; her mother died when she was a baby,
and she was only fourteen when she was left ail orphan, and the auut
who brought her up was one of those' worldly, scheming women that
have so bad an influence on girls. I do not believe she had any love for
Ivan. She always said her aunt persuaded her to marry him because
she was so poor; but still, any other woman would have learned to love
him when she came to see how good he was."
" That is what Madella sometimes tells the girls that love often
comes after marriage."
" She might at least have done her duty to him, one would have
thought: common gratitude for his kindness and consideration should
have kept her from quarreling with his sister and making his home mis-
erable," and here Miss Thorpe's mouth grew stern; " but from the first
Joan set herself against me."
" "Were you or your sister-in-law the mistress of the house?" asked
Launcelot, quietly. " Excuse a seemingly rude question, Miss Thorpe,
but you are admitting me to peculiar privilege*, and I know how much
depends on these little feminine matters."
" Oh, I don't mind the question. I want you to see exactly how we
are circumstanced; of course I knew my place the sister had to give
way to the wife. Joan had the head of the table, and the keys. I gave
no orders, after she entered the house; was it my fault, Mr. Chudleigh,
that she knew nothing about household management, that everything
was out of gear in a week, and that both the servants gave warning?
When Ivan complained, I refused to listen to him; it was no longer iny
province to interfere."
" I think you showed very good sense in this."
"Indeed, I think you would have no reason to find fault with me
unless you thought it wrong for me to remain in the house; but Ivan
and I had never been separated. I had no other home, and indeed lie
never wished to part with me; when Joan asked him to choose between
us he refused to listen to her, and to turn his only sister out of the
house."
" Do you mean she wished you to go?"
" I suppose so. I know she told Ivan over and over again that she
could not live with me, that I chilled and misunderstood her, that it was
bringing ice and fire together; she was always making those exaggerated
speeches. The scenes grew intolerable at laet even Ivan could no
longer put up with them. Joan had the most passionate, undisciplined
nature; it wore out his patience at last."
Lauucelot leaned his chin on his hand, and seemed to cogitate for a
mordent; then he said, in a cool sort of voice
" It is always an experiment bringing a third person to share the home
of a young couple; it requires peculiar tact and very nice discrimination
to steer clear of concealed quicksands. I rather hold myself to the good
old words, ' that a man should leave his father and brother,' all his be-
longings in fact, ' and cleave to his wife;' there are always dangerous
ingredients difficult to fuse in a mixed household."
Miss Thorpe was too sensible to resent this speech, which certainl '
held a truism, but she colored slightly as though she were not quiie
pleased.
" I dare say you are correct, but in my sister-in-law's case I think she
had no right to feel injured. Ivan spoke to her very early in their ca
60 ONLY TIM: ;OVI-:R\ESS.
iciit; he told her that IK- still wished me to share his home, and
: her if she h;ul any objection, and she made none oh, none, at all.
Of course. 1 see now 'that' she was too indifVerent to give it really a
thought. When she' lirst eaine she was very all'eetionate in her manner
to nie, and said once or t wire how nice it was to have a sister; and she
tried to lind out Ivan's tasles from me, but all this very soon chain
" I suppose you hear from her sometimes?" but this abrupt question
seemed to take* Miss Thorpe by surprise, and for the lirst time she hesi-
tated.
" Well no at leust, I have riot heard for along time. Ivan likes
ine to write but but her letters always make me angry; she always
seems to imply that I was the means of preventing her from coming to
an understanding with her husband."
Launcelot looked a little grave at this.
" I wonder how it would be " and then he stopped and began again.
" Miss Thorpe, if I were you, I would bring them together again: your
brother must want his wife, a man when he is once married can not
relish a bachelor existence. I dare say she made him miserable, but I
think he should give her another chance; incompatibility of temper;
well, that is a poor excuse to put asunder those whom God has joined
together. Of course, you agree with me every woman would do so.
If Mrs. Thorpe were to come home, and you were to live close by I
am afraid I am taking a liberty, and saying too much but it is your
own fault "
" Oh, I do not mind," she returned, quietly, but her mouth was very
stern; " you know you may say anything you like to us; are you not
our friend, one of ourselves?" and here she looked at him wistfully.
" I wish I could convince you of one thing, that I am not so selfish as I
appear; if it were for Ivan's good, I would go to-morrow. I would seek
I mean, I would write to Joan and beg her to come back, but know-
ing them both as I do, I can not do this; no, I would rather repeat your
words, and move heaven and earth to keep them apart."
There was a momentary flash in the gray penetrating eyes of Launce-
lot Chudleigh as Miss Thorpe said this a wonderful "interior illumina-
tion that was gone in a second and then all he said was this
" Indeed? Then you are not afraid of the responsibility of deciding
on another human being's happiness. I always think it requires the
wisdom of omniscience to adjust other people's circumstances," and
though Miss Thorpe felt the veiled sarcasm underlying his words, she
answered with the utmost mildness.
" I think you would modify your views if you were to sec Ivan and
his wife together. She brings out his .weak points but, hush! there is
his key turning in the lock, he must not know we have been talking of
this. I think I will go up and see if Dossie is awake. Ivan is so quick,
he always notices in a moment if I am agitated," but as Launcelot
watched her put a chair back straight that was somewhat awry, and
move a stool that seemed in the way, he thought it required very shrewd
ihat Mi-s Thorpe was agitated. The next moment he heard
her talking to her brother in the hall in her usual voice, asking him if
lie were tired, and begging him to ring lor some fresh \<
"Oh, no," he returned, quickly. "1 have more regard for my
digestion than that: it is only you women who c'in all'ord to !
I will go and have a talk with Chudleigh instead."
" You look done up," was his first observation when he and Launee-
:-.itl adjourned, to the study, and I. niiicd the
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 61
fact, and after that he gave rather a graphic account of the way he had
spent nis time since morning, and Mr. Thorpe listened with his usual
air of quiet interest.
But all the time Launcelot talked he felt aware that his manner was
different, his easy enjoyment of his friend's conversation and ready
sympathy was merged into something that was anxious and yet critical;
he seemed to be looking at him with other eyes, to be searching for
some evidence that he required. This watchfulness wearied him, and
yet through the whole evening he never relaxed it, and more than once
Miss Thorpe's manner showed a shade of anxiety as Launcelot answered
with unusual absence of mind. She was afraid her brother would
notice that he was unlike himself, but Mr. Thorpe only thought he was
fagged with his heavy day's work.
Launcelot very nearly betrayed himself once in an unguarded mo-
ment; he had said good-night, but Mr. Thorpe had put on his old felt
hat and had sauntered through the church-yard with him, tempted by
the mild spring atmosphere and the beauty of the startigbted heavens. In
spite of his fatigue, Launcelot could not refrain from rhapsodizing a lit-
tle as he leaned on the palings and watched the pale glimmer of moon-
light on the red-tiled roofs of the alms-houses, while the aged inhab-
itants slept peacefully and dreamed the dreams of old age.
"Don't you often think over Carlyle's words, Thorpe: 'When I
gazed into those stars, have they not looked down upon me as with pity,
like eyes glSieuing with heavenly tears over the little lot of man? I
always think starlight harmonizes even with one's blackest moods '?"
" Oh. I am no poet," was the somewhat scornful reply to this, but
Launcelot did not seem to hear; he was trying to recall a passage in
some essay he had read that had much struck him, and, as his way was,
he began half unconsciously to repeat it aloud: " There is always a deep
vein of sorrow and disappointment, of shadow and drawback, in every
human life. One man wrote ' Miserrimus ' on his tomb, and there are
many who would not refuse that briefest, saddest , and most significant
of epitaphs. Whenever I come to know people whose lot seems most
enviable and brilliant, I know that it is only a matter of time, and I
shall unexpectedly open some closet door and discover a skeleton. " But
happily, his voice dropped over the concluding sentence.
"' Are you quoting something it hardly sounds like extempore phi-
losophy," asked Mr. Thorpe, impatiently.
" Oh, it is something I've read; 1 have a habit of recollecting things
at odd moments. Don't take any notice: I am in a pessimist mood
there must be something wrong with my digestion."
*' You are tired," returned his friend, putting his hand on his
shoulder. "You have put yourself in that poor fellow's place until
your own sympathy has worn you out; you will not be yourself until
you have had a good sleep. Oh, I know you thoroughly; you pretend
not to care and all the time you are quite miserable. I wish I were
like that; I suppose I have my feelings, and am sorry, too, after a fash-
ion, but my sympathy has never spoiled my appetite yet."
" You mean I did not enjoy my dinner,' 5 replied Launcelot, solemn-
ly, as they walked toward the cab-stand. " No doubt that is the real
cause of my pessimism. I still feel remorse for lost opportunities; even
the prospect of enjoying future dinners does not console me in the least
Of course I know you are laughing, Thorpe; your cool temperament
never fashes itself with these trifles, but a man's dinner, and indeed his
breakfast, are serious ingredients in hia life's well-being or ill-being,
ONLY THE
plicr has his human nmK" I'mishr
lot. s!i'<'puy, ;ti whieh Air. Thorpe only laughed again.
" Oli, 1 won't argue with you to-night: we arc not on equal
am quite frc.-h ;md shall work half the night, and you ar<
and mind. You know the Creek proverb, 'Sleep is the modi, i:
every disease.' Try it, Chudleigh, and to-morrow you will be the
impractical optimist that has so often put me out of patience.
comes cabby, so good-night!"
But Lauiicelot made oae more speech that night.
'' My friend," he said to the cabman, as he drew up at the Wit
" when you are old, and the rheumatism has got into your hone.-
would you like to be whipped uphill arid refused time to tak nr
breath? If you had shown a little more humanity to your poor i
would have given you double fare; and, indeed, if you pron.
that whip aside you may have an extra sixpence," and then IK
on his heel and left the man looking dubiously after him.
" lie's a rum customer," he observed, as he climbed up on
again, and jerked the reins as a reminder that the old mare might as
well be quick about it.
" I wonder what the brutes must think of us," soliloquized Launce-
lot, as he stood in the glass porch; "some of them must fed quite
ashamed of human acquaintances. ' Which of us two is the brute?' as
the ill-used donkey said to the costermonger. ' They are all alike
bruteses,' as that poor Irishwoman remarked to me one day. Well,
Fen wick," as a gray-haired butler opened the door, " any news of the
travelers?"
" No, Mr. Launcelot, but we are getting the rooms ready for fear of
a telegram."
41 All right; it is best to be beforehand," and then he took his cham-
ber candlestick and went up to his room.
CHAPTER X.
"OXFORD BLUE, IF YOU PLEASE."
Life is a weariness only to the idle, or where the soul is empty; and hotter than to
exist thus vacantly is it for longevity as to birthdays to be denied. GRINDON.
And the feeble little one must stand
In the thickest of the fight.
ADELAIDE ANM: PUOCTKU.
MR. THORPE was perfectly correct in his prognostication. Launce-
lot woke to fresh energy the next morning. His health was perfeet;
and a few hours' sle^C after any great strain of mind or body, always
restored him. He was too strong and active, too full of life, to fed the
lassitude of weaker mortals; ennui he had never experienced, inactivity
imply death to him. The torpid condition of lymphatic and aim-
less natures drove him to the borders of irritability. To him eha;
work was' perfect rest, and a day overbrimming with employ men i and
human interests was a day well spent.
He was going down to Hampshire that afternoon, to spend two or
three days at a friend's country-house; but as lie dressed himself he
planned how h< ' d'ore he left, town.
He interviewed Mrs. Fenwiek while he eat his breakfast. Six
an old servant, and had acted as nurse to all his step- brothers ai-
ters, anO now she tilled the position of general supervisor, or house-
keeper. Sfce had left the Wi tokens for u few years on her marriage
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 63
with the butler, Y,ut as they had no children they had willingly returned
to their duties Fenwick especiall}', who thought that Mr. Launcelot
and the young gentlemen would not get on without him.
" Yeni see, the plate and the cellar has always been on Fenwick's
mind-," observed his wife, feelingly. " He never rightly enjoyed him-
self worrying how Stewart would manage them. It is just of a piece
with my fretjting over the linen, and I see there is a hole burned right
through the best damask table-cloth all along of Laura's carelessness.
But there, things will get wrong when there is no one to look after
them," finished the worthy woman with a sigh of content, as she looked
through the well stored presses.
It was to Mrs. Fenwick that Lauucelot gave the charge of his pack-
ing; for though he could be self- helpful on occasion there was no one
so waited upon. The household in general vied with each other in an-
ticipating the young master's wishes, and even Neale, the solemn-faced
groom, brightened when the order was given to him to bring round thcj
phaeton and bay mare, as tPiie master would drive himself into town.
As soon as Launcelot had finished his breakfast and glanced at the
paper he went through the hot-houses, and had a long and important
consultation with the gardener. " You must have all this attended to
at once, Stokes," he said, very seriously. "The mistress and the
young ladies will.be back in a few days, and they will soon be thinking
of their tennis-parties. Why, it is April now."
" Very true, Mr. Launcelot," returned Stokes, in his usual grumbling
tones. " Miss Beatrix has been writing about the new fernery she
wants made. I have set the lads to dig up the borders this very morn-
ing. They were wanted for the drain-pipes in the kitchen-garden, but
Miss Beatrix's orders were to be carried out so her ma said and so,
of course, t'other job must wait."
" Oh, of course, Stokes, young ladies must be attended to first. Let
us go and have a look at the fernery; ' behind the rosery ' was Miss
Beatrix's orders, ' just before 3^ou come to me terrace,' " and disregard-
ing the old man's growls that he could not leave his work, Launcelot
led the way to the fernery
After this he went into^iis studio and wrote a letter or two, and then
drawing on a pair of imniaculate driving-gloves he nodded pleasantly
to Neale, and got into his phaeton. As he drove rapidly across the
common and down the hill toward Overton, his spirits seemed to rise.
He had to check his mare at the bridge, for the little toll-house was
still fliere, and the first pile of the new bridge had not yet been driven
in. But Launcelot was conservative in his tastes, in spite of his love
of change, and the old wooden bridge, with its queer old toll-house,
was very dear to him. He always diove over it slowly, and looked
down at the broad, sunshiny river, with its steamers and barges and
tiny boats. The gray tower of Riversleigh church stood out distinct and
clearly cut against the soft spring sky; the trees on the banks made a
dark background; a brown sail in the distance gave a spot of pict-
uresque color. A group of ragged urchins leaned over the parapet to
see the steamer lowering ^its funnel as it passed under the bridge; a
four-in-hand dashed over it at the same moment to the shrill sound of
the French horn sunshine, movement, happy faces, the gleam of water,
all filled Launcelot's eyes and mind with a sense of well-being and con-
tentment.
Just at the entrance of Priory Road he came upon Miss Thorpe, in
her neat black bonnet and cloak, looking the very personification 01
OttLY T 1-SS.
brisk, capable middle age, and always to Launcclot.'s eyes loo],
thorough gentlewoman. He gave the reins to Xcale and got down to
speak t'o her. She seemed somewhat surprised by this early visit, as lie
hail told them he was going down to Hampshire.
" You must not be too anxious about Dossie," she said, in quite a
motherly voii-e. "She slept very well last night, and did not, disturb
me once"; but she seems very weak, and hardly able to hold up her head
this morning. AVe must give her time to recover herself; she has evi-
dently been overstrained."
" Is she not up, Miss Thorpe?" asked Launcelot, vaguely auxin
this account, and wishing heartily that his step-mother were in Kng-
land.
" Oh, yes: she would get up and dress herself. I could not induce
her to lie in bed: she is on the couch in the drawing-room. Shall I
come back with you, or would you rather see her alone V"
" I think we shall get on better alone, thank you, and it is a pity to
hinder you. You look dreadfully business-like, Miss Thorpe. I expect
you are going to your office?"
" Yes, for a few hours, but Merton will look after Dossie, Well, my
time is certainly precious, so I will say good-bye," and she shook hand's
cordially, and walked on.
Launcelot knew instinctively why Dossie had insisted on dressing
herself and going down-stairs. She was expecting him; he was sure
of it, when he opened the drawing-room door and saw her small, eager
face; she was sitting up among the pillows with a red spot on either
cheek and her eyes wide with expectation.
But the sight of his familiar smile brought back the events of yester-
day too vividly, for before he could reach her she had covered her faeo
with her hands, and it went to his heart to hear her pitiful sobs ' ' Oh,
Mr. Lance! Mr. Lance!"
" Yes, my dear, what is it?" he said, sitting down beside her and
stroking' the fair tangled hair. " You must not cry when you see me,
Dossie, or I shall think you are not pleased to see me."
" Ah, but I am. I have wanted you so, and now " but she could
say no more, only her convulsive clasp of his hand, and the way she
laid her cheek against it, spoke volumes to Launcelot. lie was the
only link with her old life in her utter desolation. In the unfathered
blank of her present existence, his face seemed the only familiar object
to the lonely child the only one in this great, strange world who could
talk to her of her father.
Launcelot understood this, and he was very patient with her tears.
>n as she could listen to him, he told her all she wanted to know:
how her father had looked and what he had said, and the last m.
he had sent her, and how he hoped she would soon begin a letter lo
him.
" And if I were you, Dossie," he went on, cheerfully, " I would set
about it very soon; not to-day because your head aches, but to-mor-
row, or the next day. You need not write much to tire yourself, but
just a little every day what you are doing, and what you think of
your new friends. You have not seen Mr. Thorpe yet, but his E
she is very nice and kind, and I am sure she was good to you y
" Oh, yes she is a very kind lady," returned Dossie, sedately. " Six-
was good to 1 5eppo too, thouuh she says she does not like puppies and
: hud one in her room before; but, \Ir. Lance, she says, it is naughty
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 65
to make myself ill with fretting, but but how am I to live without fa-
ther?"
" My dear child," returned Launcelot, gravely, " there are other chil-
dren who are more unhappy than you, whose father will never come
back to them again. There was one little girl I knew, whose father
died, and she had no mother, and her case was sadder than yours," and
then he stopped, for the recollection was a painful one. The child had
been sickly, and she had pined and wasted in her uncongenial home
among strangers, and had soon followed her father. No, he would not
tell her about poor little Gretchen, and yet the child had died with her
hand in his and a smile on her face. " Lebewohl, mein Herr," had
been her last words to him, and then, " Im Himmel ach der liebe
Vatcr," faintly articulated with her failing breath.
No, he would not talk about little Gretchen. The child had a
pulmonary complaint, and would never have grown into healthy wom-
anhood. Dossie was of a different caliber altogether; she was only over-
strained, as Miss Thorpe had sitid, so he evaded her question about the
little girl and suddenly asked her if she would make him a pincushion,
" for I have only this, Dossie," pulling out a faded one from hig
pocket; " this was Sybil's work, and she was very proud of it, but you
see all the color is gone. I should like a dark-blue one for the boat
race Oxford color, you know. Miss Thorpe will tell you all about it,
and it must be just the size to slip into my waistcoat pocket, and I
should like black and white pins placed alternately; and it must be Ox-
ford-blue, if you please."
Dossie's miserable little face, sodden with much crying, looked a
shade less woe-begone as Launcelot held forth about the pincushion.
She even agreed that Merton should be summoned, and the shade of
the silk left to her selection,
" And while you are about it, you might make one for my brother
Geoffrey, too; he is a very nice fellow, Dossie, and I know he would be
ever so much obliged to you." And as Merton undertook to go to the
haberdasher's at once, Dossie promised that she would set about them
that very afternoon. " And a turn, in the garden would do Beppo
good," went on Launcelot, with a serious face; " he does not seem quite
himself," which was the fact, as the little animal had been eating too
much, and was suffering the consequences of excessive repletion; "a
little fresh air would be extremely beneficial to him," and Dossie was
induced to promise that she would take the puppy for an airing.
He left her soothed and pacified by his promise to come soon again
and to take her and Beppo for a walk. " You will be a good child
until you see me again," he said, lifting the little hands to his lips, but
Dossie, not content with this, tlirew her arms round his neck. " I will
be good. I will try to be good, Mr. Lance, but I do ache so." " Poor
little thing," he returned, smiling at her with full sympathy, and, in
spite of herself, Dossie felt comforted; for even a childish burden can
be lifted by a word of kindness, and a cup of cold water given to one
of these little ones may prove a fountain of refreshment. A grain of
dust is a mountain of care to the toiling ant, and a child's heart-break
is veritable heart-break, though it may be easily consoled; perhaps
Launcelot's sunshiny influence was never more powerful for good than
when Dossie dried her eyes at his persuasion, and undertook her labori-
ous task of pincushion-making.
Miss Thorpe could hardly believe the evidence of her senses when she
returned that afternoon and found Dossie sitting up among the sofa cush-
06 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
ions with a small table before her strewn with card-board and snippcti
of dark-blue ribbon, while the result of an hour's labor was mani!
a tiny pincushion.
The child looked flushed and weary, but she held it up triumphantly
for Miss Thorpe's inspection.
" Look here, I have done this all myself. Mr. Lance asked me to
make it, he wanted a pincushion so badly, and it was to be a tiny,
weeny thing for life waistcoat pocket."
" Why, you have done it beautifully. You are a clever little girl,
Dossie, returned Miss Thorpe, with warm approval, and a smile of
pleasure crossed Dossie's face; she gazed at her handiwork proudly.
" It ought to be nice for him," she replied, " and I like < !
He asked me to make one for his brother Geoffrey, and I was thinking "
here her manner grew reflective" that perhaps Bernard would like
one too, and there is Fred onSy they call him Freckles."
" Yes, and I am sure my brother would be most gratified for one,"
returned Miss Thorpe, with ready tact; and though after a time
sie's interest waxed languid, and she pushed away her work a little
fretfully, Miss Thorpe wisely took 1*0 notice; but when tea was brought
in she talked to her about some poor children for whom she and Merlon
were hard at work, and she described their wretched condition so
graphically that Dossie soon fell into the trap, and at once offered to
make a gayly striped pinafore for the baby.
Dossie did not see Mr. Thorpe for two or three days after her arrival.
Without being actually ill, she continued very weak and ailing, and
though she occupied herself during a few hours in the day, she still
moped and fretted miserably; indeed, more than once Miss Thorpe
feared that the child would really be ill. She grew thinner; there were
always black lines under her eyes, and she feared that she cried herself
every night to sleep, for often as she listened outside the door she would
hear the plaintive cry: " Father, oh, father, dear, I do want you
followed by a smothered sob.
" Poor little soul!" Miss Thorpe would say, but she never entered tho
room. She was very kind to Dossie, very wise and judicious in her
treatment of the child, but it was not her nature to spoil any one.
Dossie had clung to her at the first moment, attracted by her kind eyes
and the mildness of her voice, but she never gave way in her pre
again. Miss Thorpe had a bracing philosophy of her own, though .she
rarely preached it. She thought too much petting was bad for children,
and though she liked to have them about her, and always made them
happy, they did not attach themselves to her as they did to her brother;
unconsciously they were always on their best behavior in her
All her life she had worked for the neglected children of the metro,
and it was a work for which she would have laid down her life; but no
passionate maternal love throbbed in her heart for any individual child.
Even the little ones whom she had saved from cruel parents, whom she
had clothed and fed often at her own expense, were not nearer to her
inner consciousness than hosts of others whom she hoped to n
For she was a philanthropist ill its broadest and v, . , and any
1 affection such as Launcelot lavished on his protegee would have
seemed to her to narrow and routine her sympathies.
' AVe must ;dl go through it," she would Kiirh as she went down-
with Dossie's tremulous little voice ringing painfully in her
" Man, and woman, too, is born to trouble, but she is young to be
And it never occurred to her that >-!. ,ke the tired lit!
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 67
her shoulder and comfort her. " Children only give way all the more
if they are noticed," she would say; and to this rule she allowed no ex-
ception.
Dossie had not yet seen Mr. Thorpe, but one day when Launcelot had
written to say that he should be detained a little longer in Hampshire,
Miss Thorpe read the letter to Dossie, and then she asked her pleasantly
if she would take it into her brother'* study, and carry him a cup of tea
at the same time.
Dossie was not shy with strangers, so she made no objection to this,
and a few minutes afterward Mr. Thorpe heard a smn'll wxice at his
elbow, and turning round in some surprise, saw Dossie's pale face and
large, wistful eyes raised to his.
For one moment his fastidious taste suffered a brief shock at the sight
of Launcelot's new protegee. Miss Thorpe had been right when she
said her brother liked pretty children, for he was a man most keenly
sensitive to outward beauty, and Dossie was by no means a pretty child.
It needed some discernment to detect future possibilities in the quaint,
old-fashioned face and figure which the shabby brown frock certainly
did not set off to advantage. Launcelot, who was an artist, had once
looked critically at the garment in question. " Madella will alter all
that," he said to himself; " dress will do a great deal for Dossie, her
pale tints want warmth and color." But Mr. Thorpe, who was neither
artist nor poet, may be forgiven if he thought Dossie a very ordinary
specimen of childish humanity. But he hid these feelings and addressed
her very kindly.
" So you are little Miss Weston, are you?" he said, quietly.
" Yes, I am Dossie," and pushing the tea-cup toward him, " I have
brought you your t$a and Mr. Lance's letter."
" Thank you, my dear. I will see what our friend has to say for
himself. Will you stop and talk to me a little, or would you rather go
back to Rachel?"
" Oh, I will stop here, please," returned Dossie, without hesitation,
feeling she had been on her good behavior long enough, and, like all
children, ready for anything in the shape of novelty; " that is, if I
shall not be in your way."
"Oh, no. I like little girls to keep me company," replied Mr.
Thorpe, pleased by this ready courtesy; and, indeed, there was a gen-
tleness and innate good breeding in Dossie that always won people after
a time. " So Mr. Chudleigh can not get away just yet. Well, I hope
you can make yourself happy with us a little longer."
" Oh, yes," returned Dossie, with grave politeness. " I like being
here. Miss Thorpe is teaching me to make clothes for poor children,
but of course I shall like to live with Mr. Lance best. You like Mr,
Lance too, do you not?" fixing her eyes on Mr. Thorpe's face.
Now, why it came into his mind to tell her he never could quite make
out, but the next moment his arm was round Dossie, holding her in
quite a fatherly fashion, and he was telling her about that terrible
scene in the Engadine, to which Dossie listened with wide eyes and
rapt attention.
" Oh," she sighed, drawing a deep breath when he had finished this
fascinating recital, " how you mast love Mr. Lance!"
Mr. Thorpe made no response to this; he was asking himself why he
had told this story, but the answer did not seem forthcoming. He had
never spoken of it to any one, and yet this little stranger girl with her
large, solemn, blue eyes had drawn it from him.
68 ONLY THE COY
"I think," went on Dossie, clamping her hands together in her old-
fashioned way, " that Mr. Lanee is as bravo as those old knights father
talks about; one of them had .Mr. Lance's name."
" Ah, Sir Lauucclot; but he was not always brave, Dossio; lie could
do a. mean thing, though he repented it afterward, and," ho muttered
half to himself, " ' so groaned Sir Launeelot in remorseful pain, not
knowing he should die a holy man.' I think Sir Galahad was a bettor
sort of fellow, by all accounts."
" Father was 'always sorry for Sir Launcelot," returned Dossie, seri-
ously; "he loved the queen and made poor King Arthur unhappy.
Mr. Lance would never make anyone unhappy; he would rather die
first. Oh, I know all about him. He is so good, and 1 am sure his
life ought to be written too," went on Dossie, who certainly had a pas-
sion for biographies, and always desired to immortalize her d
friends
" There speaks a kind little friend," was Mr. Thorpe's reply to this.
" Yes, this second Launcelot is a grand fellow, but we will not tell him
so, Dossie, or he will get conceited, and conceited people are a bore."
But Dossie would not allow this. She maintained with a good deal
of heat that Mr. Lance could never be conceited, and they had quite an
argument on the subject.
" That child is very original," was Mr. Thorpe's comment that even-
ing to his sister when Dossie had gone to bed. ' ' Chudleigh is not so
wrong, after all. She is an interesting little creature."
"Not to me," replied Miss Thorpe, placidly. "1 like her, but she
does not interest me as Jessie and Maud Sothern did."
" Oh, they are a different sort," returned her brother, but he said no
more; only Miss Thorpe noticed that the next day Dossie volunteered
to take in the cup of tea to Ivan, and that she remained a long time in
the study.
And the next afternoon she was watching at the window anil ran to
the door to let him in, and Mr. Thorpe, seeing that the child showed a
decided predilection for his society, good-naturedly kept her witli him,
and gave her employment in tidying sundry drawers, and tearing up
paper.
.Miss Thorpe smiled benevolently when she found them busily em-
ployed. " Children are always happy with Ivan; he has the best heart
in the world. If he had only a little girl of his own!" she thought, as
with a sigh she went back to her sewing-machine.
CHAPTEK XI.
THE GREEN DOOB IN THE WALL.
Beauty consists of a certain composition of color and figure, causing delight in
the beholder. LOCKE.
The old definition of beauty in the Roman school was " multitude in unity," and
there is no doubt that such is the principle of beauty. COLERIDGE.
DOSSIE had been little more than a week at Priory Road when one
afternoon as she was sitting at work with Miss Thorpe there was a
knock at the door, and the next moment, Launcelot entered the room.
Aquicksflush rose to Dossio's laee. but her gladness seemed of the
silent sort. She hardly looked up as Launcelot bent over her with a
kind inquiry; but lie had seen the sudden Hush of joy in her eyes and
knew that, her child-like frame was trembling with suppressed feeling,
ONLY THE GOYEBKESS, 69
so he prudently left her alone for a few minutes, and then he said, in a
quiet, inatter-of-fact tone, "It is a lovely afternoon; don't you think a
run on the common would do Dossie and Beppo good, Miss Thorpe? I
have sent on my luggage to the Witchens, and I have nothing on earth
to do with myself."
" I think it is a very good idea," returned Miss Thorpe, briskly. She
was turning the heel of a stocking as she spoke. " Run and put on
your hat, my dear," and Dossie obeyed, nothing loath. Launcelot
waited until she had closed the door, and then he said, in a dissatisfied
voice
" Dossie does not do you credit; she looks dwindled somehow. I
hardly know how to express it."
" She has fretted so," returned Miss Thorpe, quietly; " most children
forget their troubles in a week, but Dossie broods too much over hers.
She has a great deal of character for her age. Ivan takes a great in-
terest in her, and sometimes succeeds in rousing her, but I generally
found it answered better to leave her alone." Launcelot made no reply;
he thought Dossie looked as though she had been too much alone, but
he was quite aware of Miss Thorpe's theories on this subject; she was &
rigid disciplinarian.
" I dare say her method would answer with most children," he saidl
to himself, " but I fancy she does not quite hit it off with Dossie;" but
he was too lazy for an argument, so he watched the firm white hands
and flashing knitting-needles for a few minutes, and then he said
" I shall not need to trouble you must longer with Dossie. I am ever
so much obliged to you for all you have done for her; ray people will be
back to-morrow."
" Ah, indeed," glancing at him with interest; " then you are going
to sleep at the Witcheus to-night?"
" Yes, I came up on purpose to be ready to welcome them. I shall
tell Madella that I shall never consent to this wholesale flitting again.
I have been quite lost without them all. I declare it will be a treat to
box Freckles 's ears again; the young monkey arrives to-morrow from
Uppinghum."
" I always told Ivan that you were cut out for a married man," re-
turned Miss Thorpe, smiling; " in spile of your roaming propensities
your tastes are decidedly domestic, " and though Launcelot smiled at
this shrewd remark, he looked a little queer over it too.
Dossie's entrance spared him any necessity for reply, and he rose at
once, saying they must not waste any more time. Miss Thorpe followed
them to the door to ask him to take a hansom up the hill, as Dossie was
not strong enough for so long a walk, and to this he agreed at once.
" Well," he said, glancing at her serious little face in its old-fashioned
gray hood and he was amused to see how people looked at them, and
no wonder, for the young man's graceful figure in his light, well-cut
overcoat made a strange foil to the pale, tired-looking child in her out-
grown brown frock and shabby cloak " well, Dossie, and so you are
pleased to see me this time; and now is that letter written?"
" Oh, yes," returned Dossie, breathlessly, " and it is such a long one.
I have told father everything oh, everything only now and then I
could not help making a blot or smudge- when I could not help crying,
you know, and so I am afraid if father can read it."
" Ah, we must alter that," replied Launcelot, in his quick, alert man-
ner; not for worlds would he have Jack see that poor blotted little effu-
sion all ink-stains and tears; what father could have borne such a sight!
70 ONLY !
" I will tell you what you must do. ! >u must Ji:
of paper and a new pen, and copy out every word, and tin
no blots and no stains, and then I will put il "in tin envelops and j.
and when .lai-k gets it he will say, ' \Vhat pains that dear child must
have taken! I can read every word as clearly as print,' " and i
wa* charmed with this advice.
He a-ked her presently when the hansom had put them down and
liiev were walking hand 'in hand over the wide breezy common, with
Beppo rollicking after them in puppy fashion, how she liked be:
Priory Koad, and if she were rather fond of her new friends.
" Oh, I like it pretty well," returned Dossie, sedately. " I think Miss
Thorpe is good to everybody. She does speak so kindly to all tin
old women we meet, and when she scolds she scolds beautifully, with-
out looking really veqr angry, you know. One mas AN
her oh, he frightened me so, but Miss Thorpe was not a bit frig],;
she told him he ought to be ashamed of himself to speak so to a lady,
and he actually minded her and went away. I think every one minus
Thorpe," finished Dossre, in a meditative manner, " but I lik.
Thorpe best." Launcelot turned round at this; he looked rather
pleased. " You are a sensible child," he said; "there is not a better
fellow living than Thorpe, but I hardly expected you to find that out."
" Oh, 1 liked him ever since he talked about you," went on Dossie.
" He is very quiet. Sometimes he hardly speaks, and theu all at once
lie wakes up, and says something nice. He is not as nice as you, Mr.
Lance, of course not, but he is trustable," airing her favorite
again. ^/
Launcelot chuckled. " She is wonderfully knowing, " he said to him-
self. " Thorpe is worth his weight in gold, and she has found it out,"
and then he roused himself and changed the subject.
" Don't you like this common, Dossie? I wish you and Beppo would
have a race together down that palh;" but the child shook her head.
" I don't feel like running, Mr. Lance. I like to keep with you here.
Oh, yes; 1 think it is a beautiful place so wide, all bushes and sky, and
the birds sing so."
" You should hear them in the early morning. Now, do you si
long wall with all those glass houses? Lpok how far it goes."
" Oh, yes. What a big place! I vender who lives there some one
very rich?"
"Well, I will tell you. Launcelot Chudleigh, Esq., R. A., lives
there. Dear me, what great eyes, Dossie! Yes, that is the Win
and this is Brentwood Common. Look how the common stret< i
.rden wall, and shuts us in all round nothing but gorge and \
berry Bushes. And there is the little town of Brentwood; and all along
there in the distance there are line big houses standing back from the
road, and a pond where the boys slide, and" but I inter-
rupted him.
" You live here, Mr. Lance? Oh, I had no idea you we;.
What a lovely big place; and, oh dear, is that th< garde:
should like to see it!"
" And so you shall," was the answer; and to Do>sieV immen
produced a key from his pcckel, and. 'i. into
lopr in tin- Wall that i i hardly n
\i worn stone >trpv " ()j r l;idy>hij
me aloiiif, DM--H-; th \vhy 1 should
LOW you the garden and the hot house*. You i,
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 71
flowers if you like. Stokes won't take any notice," he muttered, " and
we need not go near the house;" and the child followed him delightedly
up the steps, which lauded them on a broad gravel terrace with seats at
either end. The wall was low, and even Dossie could see the stretch of
common, dotted over with seats, with the wide sky-Hue, the whole pros-
pect bathed in the soft, clear light of a spring afternoon. Launeelot
leaned his arms on the wall, and gazed abstractedly into the distance.
" How I love spring," he said, more to himself than to Dossie. " It is
the time for youth, for hope, for love so Tennyson says, at least. Isn t
it in ' Locksley Hall ' that he says
" ' In the spring a, livelier iris changes on the burnished <:<
In the spring a. young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love-/
That is why one hears of so many matches, I suppose, made up in the
n. ' We are desired to announce that a marriage will shortly come
oil between the Hon. Algernon Featherhead and Lady Fatima Grildes-
leigh. ' One could annotate ' Locksley Hall ' thus :
" 'In the spring maneuvering mothers whisper in a stern aside,
" He is but the second brother; you must never be his bride'/' '
Bad for Geoffrey, that; but let us continue. I feel inspired:
" ' In the spring the ball-room darlings mind their ma and whisper low,
Saying, "Dost thou love me, Baron?" sighing, " I have loved thee so."
Love took up that stately Baron'
Oh, by Jove no impossible!"
And the reason of this sudden exclamation on Launcelot's part, and
why he broke off his absurd doggerel rhyme and looked exceedingly
disconcerted and foolish, was owing to the -fact that a tall, handsome
young lady had just stepped out from the shrubbery that closed in the
terrace and was standing regarding him with intense astonishment.
" I thought I heard voices," she said, as though still incredulous of
her eyes, " but I could not be sure. Have you scaled the wall, Mr.
Chudleigh? And, oh dear, there is a little girl too."
"Miss Rossiter," returned Launeelot, in a most bewildered voice,
" what on earth does this mean? I will take my oath that the telegram
said to-morrow."
" Yes," but here she laughed merrily, " that was Mr. Geoffrey's mis-
take. He put the wrong date, and so, of course, no one expected us.
Poor Mrs. Chudleigh was ready to cry about it when Mrs. Fen wick told
her that you had not arrived. She was quite pale with the disappoint-
ment. ' '
" And you are all here?"
" Oh, yes; all but Fred. Mr. Bernard met us at the station. They
are all so cross with Mr. Geoff rey for making that mistake: but now
you must come and see them. They are all in the morning- room.
Fen wick has just brought in tea. Oh, how delighted they will be!"
"Wait a moment, please," returned Launeelot, in rather a rueful
voice; and then he looked at Dossie and laughed, as he thought of their
ridiculous position. And Miss Rossiter laughed too, in a pleasant sort
of way, as though she were somehow amused.
She was an exceedingly handsome young woman. Indeed, most peo
pie called her beautiful, in spite of the marked irregularities that de-
tracted from any perfection of feature; but then very few cared to criti-
cise so charming a face. She had very dark Irish-gray eyes eyes that
could be very subtle and mischievous and tender and a wonderfully
72 ONLY TJIK <;u\ M-I; NESS.
transparent complexion with quick varying color, and lier head, that
was very tinelv shaped, was covered with thick coils of reddish-brown
hair,
She was very tall, and her ligure was somewhat full; but she moved
very quickly and gracefully, so that it was a pleasure to watch her.
Indeed, she seemed full of life and energy and buoyant health. Her
voice wa^ clear and sweet, and there was something in her laugh that
reminded one of a child a certain abandon and enjoyment that one
rarely sees in a growu-up person.
It was hardly a matter for surprise then that Launcelot, in spite of
his perplexity, should look at her with some interest and a great deal of
attention. His artistic taste commended the dark-gray dress and the
bunch of yellow daffodils she held in her hands.
" Mi-s Roftsiter, you have come upon me like a whirlwind; I don't
think I was ever so surprised in my life. I have not even shaken
hands, and yet we have not met for rive months. I need not ask how
you are, you look first-rate, and " but she interrupted him with just a
of impatience in her manner.
" Oh, we know Mr. Chudleigh never pays compliments. Yes, I am
well, always well; I am absurdly strong, you know. Please tell me
who this little girl is? for do you know it is rather cold here on the ter-
lace, and I have not even my hat."
" Of course you will take cold, and after Mentone too; is that the
way you play with your health, Miss Rossiter? Now please listen to
tne; I will not keep you a moment, you must go back to the house and
not tell any one you have seen me; and when I have taken Dossie home,
i will come back."
" Dossie!" returned Miss Rossiter, utterly bewildered by Launcelot's
mysterious manner. " Is she a little friend of yours, or a prote.
she added, after a quick glance at the child's shabby dress. " Poor
little thing, she looks very tired; why do you not bring her in, and give
her some Tea?''
" No, I must speak to Madella first. I can not introduce her in this
nbrupt fashion. Miss Rossiter, it is too long a tale to tell now, and
Dossie is tired. I want no one. to see the child, and so we will make
our escape this way; please say nothing about us " but here Launce-
lot broke off and said, " By Jove," again under his breath. " Mi<s
Rossiter, can not your woman's wit help us? There is that confounded
fellow Geoffrey actually smoking his cigar outside, on the common.
"We are in a regular trap. What on earth can I do with Do-
" I will take her up to the school-room; no one will notice us. and
you can just walk into the morning-room. Yes, that will be bcsi ; I
will give her some tea, and no one will see her or ask questions; and
then when it is dark I will bring her into the garden: it will be a-
as a game of hide-and-seek, will it not, Dossie V" and Mi
laughed in such an infectious way that Launcelot joined her.
" Oh. it is too ridiculous altogether; never mind, Dos>-ie. we imM do
as this lady bids us. (Jo in with her and have some- tea. and I will fetch
you by and by;" and, though Dossie could not comprehend Hie situa-
tion in the least, she was not at all reluctant logo with Mi
whose face and voice had taken her childish fancy; so she squee/cd the
puppy in her arms, and allowed herself t<> be led away into the shrub-
A nario-.v path Jed them into the roscry; and out of this they turned
Mi'-o a wide gravel walk, which in summer must be very pleasant and
ONLY THfc GOVERNESS. 73
shady; but now no leafy screen interposed between them and the long
white house, only the great trees stretched out their bare branches in
the spring sunshine. In front of them lay what Dossie afterward de-
scribed as a beautiful park, but which in reality was a very extensive
lawn, adorned with grand old cedars, and weeping elms, and groups of
ornamental shrubs, between which they glided, Miss Rossiter holding
the child's hand in a firm, cool grasp.
" We must go round by the front," she whispered, " no one will see
us;" and opening the little iron gate, they passed through a wide court-
yard, and then through a glass porch fitted up with plants in bloom like
a greenhouse, and then into a large square hall, that looked like a room,
only some packing-cases lay on the tessellated pavement, and wraps} and
rugs littered the oak settles and tables.
" Don't breathe, Dossie," whispered Miss Rossiter in her ear, and
then they went up a dark handsome staircase, and down a long passage,
until Miss Rossiter opened a door, and said, " Here we are; this is the
school-room and we are safe. Now sit down, my dear, and take off
your bonnet, and I will tell Jane to get us some tea," and so saying, she
pushed Dossie gently into an easy-chair, and left the room.
Dossie looked round with admiring eyes. How very, very rich Mr.
Lance must be to have such a beautiful house, she thought. School-
rooms were always ugly, but this looked like a drawing-room. There
were so many pretty things about, pictures and china and handsome
book-cases; there was a couch, too, and delightfully easy chairs; and
ilowers on the table; a great bowl of scarlet anemones, and a china
basket full of daffodils. There was a photograph of a child in a velvet
frame standing on the writing-table, a pretty little dark-eyed girl, with
loosely flowing hair, whom Dossie afterward heard was Sybil.
Dossie was quite contented-to sit still and look about her; she was
still far from strong, and her legs ached with fatigue, and the appear-
ance of a neat house-maid with the tea-tray was a very welcome sight.
Miss Itossiter followed her.
" This little girl, a friend of mine, is very tired and hungry, Jane,"
she said; " I have brought her in fora rest," and Jane looked pleasantly
at Dossie as she put the buttered cake within her reach.
" Now, my dear," observed Miss Rossiter as soon as they were left
alone, and looking at Dossie in an amused way, " perhaps you will
kindly tell me your name: Dossie, that is how Mr. Chudleigh addressed
you, but Dosie is hardly your real name?"
" Oh, no: my name is Dorothea Penelope Weston," replied Dossie,
with dignity, " only father says that when I was a little thing I always
called myself Dossie, so he and mother got into the way, too; mother's
name was Penelope; she was very pretty."
" Indeed?" and here Miss Rossiter tried not to laugh. Weston! she
had never heard the name; it must be one of Mr. Chudleigh's numerous
protegees; most likely she was poor she was very shabbily dressed.
He probably intended his step-mother to befriend her.
" Have you known 'Mr. Chudleigh long, my dear?"
" Oh, no; I never saw him at all until three weeks ago. I never
knew there was such a person as Mr. Lance at all, but father knew him.
They had lived together when they were boys, and father is so fond of
him."
" Do you live in Overtoil, Dossie?"
" Oh, no, we never lived anywhere; that is, we never stayed long in
any place Father is an artist and paints beautiful pictures, but
74 ONLY T. i : i:\ESS.
but " a shadow crossing her face" Mr. Lance lias sent him awaj' to
the other end of the world, and now " But here Dossie broke into a
sob and could say no more.
"Poor little dear "kissing her "never mind, we will not talk
about it any more. Look, this is Sybil's portrait; it was taken two
ra her hair in a plait now. Is she not a pretty lit-
her like a gypsy?" But as she chattered on, showing Dos-
i-r another, she told herself that she had better put no
more :o the child. There was evidently some mystery about
Mid, and it was not her ail'air to find it out. It was rather hard to
repress her curiosity when Dossie, in the course of her conversation,
asked, molly, " where she would sleep when she came to live at the
Witcl
" Live here! what do you mean?" asked the governess, thrown off
her guard by this artless speech.
" .Mr. Lance is going to tako care of me until father comes back," re-
turned Dossie, quietly. " I am to learn things with Sybil. Mr. Lance
told father that you would be very kind to me. I am glad I like you,"
went on Dossie, fixing her eyes seriously on Miss Rossiter's fa< <
would be so dreadful to live here and not like people," but in a tone of
conviction, " I can't help liking you because you are so nice and
pretty." And Miss Rossiter was so charmed with this outspoken com-
pliment that she kissed Dossie again, and they were now chattering
together like old friends.
CHAPTER XII.
MADELLA.
My noble goasips, ye have been too prodigal. SHAKESPEARE.
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good; the goodness that it
*heap in beauty, makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace being the soul of your
complexion, should keep the body of it ever fair. SHAKESPEARE.
MKANWIIILK Lnuncclot had crossed the lawn boldly, and turning
round the corner of the house walked up to an old-fashioned bay-win-
dow, and raising the sash, coolly walked in.
" Launcelot, why, Lance, dear old Lance! Cleverly done, old fel-
low! My darling boy, how you startled me! Oh, Lancy, you duck. 1 "
Such were the greetings that 'met his ear; but without a word in reply
Launcelot walked straight to a lady who had just set down her tea cup
and was rising from her chair, and put his arms round her still without
id, but the gladness in his eyes was sufficient speech.
" My own boy, how I have wanted you!" said this lady with more
than one motherly kiss, and she put back his hair with a hand that was
sparkling with rings, and looked in his face as mothers only can look.
And no one who saw them would have guessed that this was a meelinir
mother and her step-son.
" Madulla," he said, quietly, and in a tone of honest convictpon. " 1
think you have grown more lovely than ever, 'and Mrs. C'Kudlri'j n
" Your d IJirrnard are waiting to speak to you, "sin
pushing him gently away. " You miisl. tell liee she is looking charm
:lous of the old mother."
le liis rounds; but when lie had lin-
!.: U (> mother to
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 75
him a cup of tea. " For no one makes tea like you," he continued,
pathetically, " and I shall not feel that I have you really at home again
Until you pour me out a cup of tea with your own hands."
"Always a flatterer, Lance," she returned, smiling; but her smile
was very sweet.
The world had long indorsed Launcelot's opinion that Mrs. Clmdleigh
was a lovely woman, and that not even her handsome young daughter
Beatrix could ever hope to emulate her mother's beauty. When young,
more than one artist had asked to paint her, and under one picture had
been written, but it was the work of a rejected suitor, " A daughter of
the gods, divinely tall, and most divinely fair," but those were the duts
when Delia Weston had more lovers than dresses, and married to get
rid of them all, as she once told Launcelot.
She was a dark-huiivJ, sweet looking girl then, and now her hair was
silvery white; but she was sweet-looking still. Her face was still won-
derfully young for her age, and a delicate bloom still lingered on it; and
in spite of her forty-eight years, her color varied like a girl's. It was
this soft brilliancy of complexion, set off by the silvery hair, that made
her so striking in appearance. Those who knew and loved her always
said Mrs. Chudleigh was a girl in heart still; she was as innocent now,
when she was surrounded by her grown-up children, as though she
were in her teens. Length of years and many troubles had not taught
her knowledge of the world. She believed vaguely and sorrowfully in
evil and sin. Of course there were wicked people, people who did
wrong, the criminal classes and others, but but she never cared to
enter on the subject; with so much goodness in the world, it was fool-
ish and morbid to dwell on the darker shades of life.
Her husband hud adored this innocence; he had never expected to
meet anything so fresh and uncorrupted out of Eden, as he said, and
he had been her lover until the day of his death.
This innate purity had been her safeguard through her widowhood.
No one ventured to repeat a scandalous story in her hearing. Any tale
of sin had been always hushed in her presence. " Mrs. Chudleigh never
likes to hear these things; it makes her ill, and she only frets about it
afterward," people often said, and more lhan one strong-minded woman,
who thought it her duty to renovate society and was prepared to wade
through the mire that she might benefit her fellow-creatures, had been
heard to express her opinion that an old childhood was hardly a becom-
ing age, and that there was something narrow and self-indulgent in a
nature like Mrs. Chudleigh's; "a woman with grown-up sons and
daughters," added one irascible spinster, who had been much enraged
by Mrs. Chudleigh's unconscious dignity.
" I don't call it proper, my dear, for unmarried women to go poking
about public-houses and those low places," she remarked, placidly.
" Clergymen have to do that sort of thing, but then they are men, and
men know everything, as dear Gilbert used to say, but women are best
at home, and, I must say, Miss Benson has shocked me dreadfully. I
am sorry if I seemed rude, but I did not like her style of conversation
/it all, and as to reading that tract, of course I burned'it, for fear Launce-
iot or the boys should see it."
"Madella," observed her step-son once, when he noticed how calm
she enforced silence when some undesirable subject came on the t(ipi* t
" I am afraid you are not a woman of enlightened intelligence and en-
larged views. You are always obstructing free argument hindering
conversation, in fact."
76 ONI.. TlIK liUYKKXESS.
" I can't help it, Lance. I think it was wrong of Doctor Elliott to
mention such a fact before Pauline."
" Pauline is far wiser than her mother," returned Launcelot, in a
teasing voiee. "She scorns to 1x3 behind her age. Xo\v, don't shake*
your head. I know you have no interest in your neighbors' rubbish-
: you object to be told why people don't care to call on him; bul
all the sumo, Doctor Elliott will think you a narrow-minded woman."
" It does not in the least matter to me what Doctor Elliott thii
returned Mrs. Chudleigh, a little petulantly.
" Madella," was the mournful answer, " how could your consc:
allow you to tell such a lib, and to me of all persons? Have you But
been adored by mankind ever since your childhood, and would you not
be miserable if people ceased to adore you? AVliy, the good opinion of
the gardener's boy is necessary to your perfect content: you would
worry yourself if even Jemmy Stokes found fault with you, and yet the
opinion of the vice-chancellor of Magdalene is nothing to you."
" Launcelot, how can you be so "tiresome? You ought to have told
Doctor Elliott to defer the discussion until you were in the studio."
" Nonsense! and you call yourself the mother of a family. To think
of a woman of your age looking at the world like a nun through her
grating. Do you know, except for my father and myself, I expect you
would have got yourself and the girls into many a scrape. It does not
do to go through the world like a horse with blinkers, who onl\
straight before him. It does not pay, Madella; you will find this out
for yourself one day."
" Perhaps you may be right, dear," she answered, gently. " I have
often been afraid of doing rash, impulsive things," and here she looked
a little uncomfortable, for she remembered that her step-son had re-
proved her rather sharply for her selection of Miss Rossi ter for a
erness, though he had said less about it lately. " I never feel quii<
unless you are with me; but Lance," with a simplicity that touched
him, " 1 always pray that I may be guided right; so I can not go far
wrong."
" No," he said, looking at her kindly; " no one but a villain won! I
take advantage of you, and I am no pessimist to believe that the world
abounds in ready-made villains; but don't you sometimes wish that you
could fashion a little world of your own, where there would be no pov-
erty, and no misery, and no crime, no ill-used animals, no degraded
children?"
" Why, that would be heaven, Lance," she returned, with a sigh.
" My dear, I am not so unreasonable as that: as long as the world lasts
there must be sin and pain."
" Yes," retorted Launcelot, somewhat dryly, "and so long as she
lives will Madella dwell in her own house, and pull down her blinds,
and stop her oars with soft cotton- wool, that she may not hear the. L
of human victims, or see how cruelty still stalks abroad. ' Oh, my
soul, come thou not near their habitations!' " and when he had said
this, he turned on his heel and went out.
Launcelot received his cup of tea, he threw himself down in an
hair, and looked round his family circle with intense pride and
deli,
It was certainly a charming scene. Outside the spring sunshine wa
lyint: on the M/ft velvety turf; a bright lire burned on the hearth.
Sybil, who was chilly, was lying on the black bearskin rug, in company
with a large tawny ISt. Bernard dog, Luuncelut's .special property.
OffLY THE GOVERNESS. 77
Sybil was a pretty, dark-eyed child of twelve, with a bright, piquant
face. Beatrix, or Bee as she was generally called, was in a low chair,
drawn close to the fire. She was a tall, slight girl, as her mother had
been at her age, and was decidedly pretty. Her face was a fine oval,
she had regular features, a complexion that was very soft and brilliant,
and hair that looked the color of a chestnut ripened by the sun.
Pauline, who was two years younger than her sister, had a bright
sensible face, without any special claim to good looks; her hair was
reddish in tint, and her complexion somewhat; pale, though she was
perfectly strong and healthy. She had soft brown eyes that could be
very expressive, and people who knew both girls often preferred Pauline
because they said she had no nonsense about her, and did not give her-
self airs like Bee, but then Bee was a trifle spoiled.
Geoffrey was still smoking his cigar on the common, but Bernard,
who came next to him in age, was stretching himself lazily on a corner
of the couch; he was a handsome young fellow of two-and-twenty, very
frank and good-tempered-looking, but without Geoffrey's cleverness.
He had the correct Oxford cut about him, and was evidently somewhat
of a dandy; he was almost as dark as Sybil, and being a boating man
his brown skin was tanned by exposure to the loug-protraated east
winds.
He had been the last to greet Launcelot, and had appeared slightly
confused at his brother's abrupt entrance, but the hearty grasp of his
hand, and " How are you, Bear, old fellow?" had set him at his ease.
" We only want Geoff and Freckles to be complete," observed
Launcelot, presently. " Well, Bee, you have got to the end of your
such a good time it was delicious. I never enjoyed myself so much in
nrv life; even Pauline was reconciled to it after the first fortnight."
" Yes, but I am thankful to be home again," returned Pauline,
quickly both the girls spoke alike, in a quick decided way; " I should
have been very dull at first if it had not been for Miss Rossiter. I can't
make friends all of a sudden, as Bee does. I like to take my time and
be sure I like people, and then there is no fear of dropping them after-
ward. Bee never minds dropping people she used to know."
" Are you and Miss Rossiter chums still, Paul?" inquired Launcelot,
with some interest.
'"As though you need ask," returned Bee, with a little scornful curl
of her lip. " They have been inseparable this winter. Actually Paul-
ine used to refuse the donkey expeditions unless Miss Rossiter went too;
people used to think Miss Rossiter was our sister."
" She was very much admired," put in her mother.
" Yes," returned Pauline, mischievously, for she was not above teas-
ing her sister, " she and Bee were rival beauties. I am afraid Bee has
not quite got over Colonel Dacre's remark that "Miss Chudleigh was
pretty and piquant, and all that sort of thing, but for a fine woman
.give him Miss Rossiter she was doosidly handsome, and no mistake.' '
" My dear Pauline," remonstrated her mother, in an alarmed voice,
and Launcelot and Bernard burst out laughing.
" Well, mother, Colonel Dacre said it, and I am only quoting."
" But there is no need to quote slang, Pauline."
" Xo, it was a strong expression," returned the girl, calmly, " and of
Course he ought not to have used it. I never thought much of Colonel
78 OK i i:ss.
-If. Mis< --iiil she was sure he was padded any-
ledyed his mustache. " ami Bernard roared again.
i, Paul; this is rattling good spurt, isn't it. Lance?"
" ]V>ift be absurd," returned Deo, with decided acrimony; "of
course Pauline is only trying to tease me lieeause I said she and Miss
.r were inseparable, but even Nora Ilamblyn said it was rather a
mistake taking her about with us everywhere."
Launeelot's manner became attentive all at once. "I hope Sybil's
3 did not suffer V" he said, quickly.
" Xo, my dear, no," returned his step-mother, placidly, " they were
all very industrious in the morning. Pauline worked at her Italian. I
got her a master as you advised, but of course they were free in the
afternoon; eve* Sybil joined in the donkey excursions, you know, and
irse Lady Hamblyn or I acted as chaperon. Dee had so many
friends, and I wished Pauline to enjoy herself, and as Miss Kossiter was
too well, they were all as merry as crickets."
Launcelot received this speech a little gravely; a close observer would
aid lie, was not quite pleased.
" And who are the Hamblyus?" he asked, and Bee took upon herself
to answer.
" Oh, they are such nice people, Lance. Lady Hamblyn is a widow;
her husband was Baron Hamblyn; he had softening of the brain.
Geoffrey knew about him; they are still in deep mourning for him.
Mr. Hamblyn, the son Oscar they call him," and here Bee changed
color for a moment, " is a barrister too; he and Geoffrey got very in-
timate, and Nora is such a nice-looking girl just your sort, Launcelot."
"Oh! just my sort. I have not the faintest idea what that is but
upon my word you seem to know," with a touch of sarcasm in his
voice, but he was growing secretly anxious. Bee's little blush had not
hist upon him; he had trusted them to remain without him all
these months very reluctantly. He did not believe Bee was the least
bit delicate; it was all humbug of Dr. Tillotson saying a winter at Men-
tone would be necessary; she had caught cold, and it had settled on her
-colds often settled on girls' chests but there was nothing the
matter with her lungs, he would take his oath of that a healthy young
creature like Bee!
But he had been weak for once, and had given in to Madella's earnest
solicitations. The poor woman had lost one child; Lily, who came be-
tween Fred and Pauline, had died when she was sixteen, of a chill
lit when overheated by dancing; but then Lily had been delicate
from her birth. But Made'lla had been in such agony about
; tain that her lung was affected and was in such a fuss and lidgct
altogether, that Launcelot, who never could refuse her anything, had
yielded in spite of his better judgment. He had taken them over him-
nd had settled them in the villa, and had begged his step-mother to
bil go on regularly with her studies, and to be careful what ac-
quaii allowed for the girls; and Mrs. Chudleigh had promised
both these things most readily.
But he had little dreamed that his sisters and Miss Rossiter would be
involved in a round of gayeties. lie knew nothing of the social
it the Villa Campanini, and the small and early evenings at the
Yih;; ilamblyns, still in their deep mourning, resid-
. ical comment on Dee's remark only covered a deep state
und a decided wish that he and not Geoffrey had fetched
had forgotten all about. Jack \Veston and !><>
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 79
Bee, who was not so clever as Pauline, did not detect the malice in
iirother's toue.
"Oh, Nora is very handsome," she went on, tranquilly, " a very
taking girl altogether. Geoffrey was evidently struck with her; she
rides beautifully, and she is very clever, and so amusing!"
" Query!" observed Pauline. . and Launcelot looked at her
sharply, and then she pursed up her lips in a droll way and shook her
head a*t him.
" Nora is coming to stay with us next month; I hope you will not
mind, L;iuncelot? They have a house at South Kensington, so we shall
he elose neighbors. Of course they are not so well off no\v their father
is dead; there are a good many sons, and only the eldest is out in the
world, so they have to be careful. Nora said they had only a small
house, and though the3 r still kept the brougham, she had had to give up
her riding-horse because of the groom. They will do better, she snys,
when the boys are settled; one is at Cambridge and one at Woolwich,
and there are two at Charterhouse."
" Oh, indeed!" returned Launcelot, in an inexplicable tone that
made Bernard indulge in a grin; " and so Miss Hainblyn is coming to
the Witchens?"
" If you do not mind, Launcelot," replied his sister, politely. " Of
course you are master here."
" Yes, and Madella is mistress," taking her hand. " AVell, my lie.ge
lady, is Bee to have her visitor?"
" Well, we all like Nora, Launce; at least, I believe Pauline did not
much care for her," and here Pauline made one little moue again.
" Perhaps Lady Hamblyn is rather worldly for a widow, but Sir Charles
was much older and a great invalid, so perhaps " and here Mrs. Chud-
leigh paused impressively "but we can not be all alike when your
dear father died, Lance, I went out nowhere for more than two years,
and "
" Lady Hamblyn has only been a widow seven months," burst in
Pauline, indignantly, " and slie let the young people dance at her house,
and Nora danced, and I do think it was hardly decent."
" Yes; but, Paul," pleaded her sister, eagerly, "you must consider
circumstances; you know, Geoffrey told us poor Sir Charles had been
ill for more than two years, and they had had all that time to face it.
Nora said herself that of course she did not mean to dance this season,
only that at Rome one must do as the Romans did, and it did not mat-
ter abroad, so few people knew them. Her mother thought it. selfish to
rob them of their little pleasures, and they did not want Oscar to be
dull, and so "
" Oh, yes," returned Pauline, impatiently, " Nora can be very plausi-
ble when she wants to bring you over to her side, but it always struck
me that she wore her mourning more for the Baron Hamblyn than for
the father; there were never any tears in her voice when she spoke of
him, but only when she told us about her bay mare being sold, she was
pathetic enough then!"
" Ah, you are always so severe on Nora," answered Bee, crossly;
" you are p-ejudicing Launcelot against her, and making him believe
she is a frivolous sort of girl, and you know I wanted him to like her
it does make such a difference when Launce likes people who stay in the
house."
" My dear," replied Launcelot, in a soothing voice, " I will promise
to be pleasant to your guest, onl}- you mutt not expect me to fall is.
80 ONLY T KRNESS.
love with her; T am quite a reformed member of soeiety in that iv
aud look upon young ladies now from quite a brotherly point of view.
I will leave our fair visitor expectant to (JeolTrey."
" Oh, hush!'' from Bee, in a vexed voice; " I am quite sure Nora
will never have anything to say to (JeolTrey, though I must own
" Who is using my name?'' asked thai individual, walking into the
room at that moment. " Halloo, Launee; no one told me you had ar-
rived; how do you find yourself, old fellow?" shaking hands warmly,
" fresh as paint, eh? Mother," turning to her in a vexed sort ot
" who on earth have you got upstairs? I was outside the school -room
just now, aud I heard some animal scratching aud whining to get out.
So I opened it, and there was a child curled up in a big chair half asleep,
and a pug puppy rolling on the floor, and Miss Itossiter held up her
linger and begged me to go away and "
" Good heavens, I have forgotten all about Dossie!" exclaimed
Launcelot, in a conscience-stricken voice.
" And who may Dossie be?" asked Geoffrey, in a quizzical voice, as
he noticed his brother's embarrassment, while Sybil jumped up from
the rug in great excitement.
" A little girl and a puppy! oh, I must go and see!" and she Avas
rushing away when Lauucelot caught her.
" You must do nothing of the kind, Sybil. Sit down and hold your
tongue like a well-behaved child. Madella, don't look so alarmed', the
puppy won't bite; Miss Rossiter took Dossie upstairs to give her some
tea; she is a little girl whom I want you to adopt, Madella mia," iia-
ished Launcelot, with the utmost calmness.
CHAPTER XIII.
"l AM JACK'S LITTLE GIRL."
I clung about her neck-
Young babes who catch at every shred of wool
To draw the uew light closer, catch and cling
Less blindly. In my ears my father's word
Hummed ignorantly. as the sea in shells
" Love love iny child! 11
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
MRS. CHCDLEIGH'S exclamation of dismay was drowned in the gen-
eral outcry that greeted Launcelot's announcement. The room seemed
tilled with a hubbub of girlish voices -and laughter. Bernard burst into
a tit of uncontrollable merriment that seemed to annoy ( Jeoll'rey, for he
bid him shut up with his foolery, for liow on earth were they to henr
: other speak?
" Of course he is not serious," continued the 3 r oung barrister, easting
an uneasy glanee, however, at Launcelot as he spoke. " Why, the child
is a washed-OUt, shabby. little thing! not at all a ea<e for adoption, I
should say it is only a joke, Launee could not be so absurd," finished
"rey, with a cynical curl of his lip.
"Couldn't he!"' returned Bernard, delighted at the opportunity of
getting a rise out of the wise Geoffrey. " Where is your memory' old
man? Have you forgotten that miserable little atom of humanity that
I/tnce found in the gutter, whom mother and lire draughted oil' prompt-
ly to one of Dr. Barnardo's refuges, and the Italian "hurdy-gurdy boy
with the white mice, who had to sleep in the stable because he '
flirty oh, and the poor man with the bad le^ a very interesting case
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 81
that who made off with a dozen silver spoons the next morning, It-liv-
ing us his blessing; and there was the old woman, too, who had a boo
in her bonnet, and thought she was c/t route to the New Jerusalem.
Launcelot must needs lodge and board the old party until she thought
fit to shuffle off this mortal coil; not to mention Scamp, whom the boys
were pelting to death on the common, and "
" Come, that's enough, Bear," interrupted Launcelot, good-humored-
ly. " I do not want my good deeds paraded after this fashion."
But Geoffrey again struck in:
" Oh, of course we all know Launcelot's hobby; there is always some
half-starved case on hand. But this appears a different affair alto-
gether. Charity is one thing, and adoption is another; that is why I
say Laiincc is only joking."
" No, by heavens! I am serious," returned Launcelot, who had now
taken the plunge and felt quite comfortable; indeed, if the truth must
be known, he rather enjoyed the whole scene. Geoffrey's disgusted
face, the girls' mystification, his step-mother's alarm, were all sources
of amusement to him. From sheer i'un he could not forbear teasing
them all a little. " Don't, shake your head, Geoff; I am perfectly grave,
I assure you. The child is the daughter of an old friend of mine who
is in rather shady circumstances " (here there was a groan from Ber-
nard); " he is obliged to go to South Australia for some years, and I
have promised him that we will look after Dossie in his absence. She
is a nice little thing, only rather delicate."
" Yrs, but there is no need to have her here," interrupted Bee, in
rather a sharp voice. '' One child is enough in the house. Of course
you will send her to school, Launce; they could board her in the holi-
days as well. It will be a great expense, but anything would be better
than inflicting her on us," with a displeased toss of her head. But Bee
sometimes gave herself airs with her elder brother.
" Well, you need not go near the school-room unless you like," re-
turned Launcelot, quietly. " I had no idea you disliked children so
much, Bee. Pauline is very fond of them Of course Dossie will live
here. She will do her lessons with Sybil, and Miss Rossiter will look
after them both."
" Miss Rossiter may object to another pupil. I think you ought to
consult her first," observed Pauline, rather anxiously.
" My dear Paul, Miss Rossiter is under orders as long as she stays at
the AVitchens," replied Launcelot in a tone which, quiet as it was, be-
trayed that he meant to be master. " Of course I shall speak to her,
but she is far too good-natured to raise any objection. 1 am sorry that
you are none of you pleased with this addition to our family circle, but
you see it is my affair and Madella's " with a gleam of fun in his eyes.
" Will you come up with me to the school-room now?" turning to his
step-mother; " I want you to see Dossie alone first. She is very miser-
able, poor little thing, at parting from her father, and you must be very
kind to her, for she has no mother."
Mrs. Chudleigh did not reply, but she rose at once from her seat. It
did not need a second glance at her face to see how reluctantly she
obeyed her step-son, but not for one moment did she try to resist his
will.
If Launcelot had wished her to adopt a dozen children she would only
have remonstrated very gently with him, and then set herself meekly to
fulfill his behest. In spite of his love, for her he ruled her implicitly;
rer since her husband's death his will hud been her law. She was one*
82 ONLY TIIK (iOVEKNESS.
of those women to whom a state of obedience was absolutely necr
power was a mutter of indifference to her. If people only loved her,
she would be ready to do anything in return for them. L-umcclot rev-
erenced, potted, and adored her, and she repaid him with perfect devo-
tion to his will. Strange to say, this dependence made her chief happi-
it even consoled her in some measure for the loss of her hi^band.
She never decided anything without reference to Launcelot; only once
had she differed from him and got her own way, and that was in the
Mentone plan. She had triumphed greatly at the time, but all the same
she had grown a little weary of her liberty. More than once during the
winter she had suffered from an uneasy conviction that Launcelot might
disapprove of this or that thing; but Bee had taken her in hand, and
had acted as regent in his stead.
It would only be fair to say that Launcelot was no despot. If he
tyrannized over his step-mother, it was certainly a very wise and loving
tyranny. He even kept up the fiction of consulting her on every mat-
ter, though he took care to inform her of his decision beforehand. When
the servants came to him for any unusual order he always gravely sent
them to the mistress of the house. " You can mention, Fenwick, that
I think so and so might be done," he would add, rather casually. " Oh,
if Mr. Launcelot said that, it must be done, of course, Fcnwick,
Mrs. Chudleigh's invariable reply. " I would not go against his orders
for the world." And with this remark she always silenced any grum-
bling on the part of the young people: " My dear Geoffrey, your broth-
er is so much older; of course he knows best;" or, "I can't he!]) it,
Bee; Launce must have his way in this. This is his own house, re-
member, and he is not bound to keep us in it. Your father's will would
never have allowed me means to live as we are living now. You owe
so much to Launce's generosity, my darling, that any complaint seems
ungrateful."
Launcelot detained his step-mother for a moment as they crossed the
hall together.
" Madella," he said, gently, " you are behaving like an angel in this;
I know you are sorry that I want Dossie to live here, but you won't hurt
my feelings by saying so. I call that so good of you."
' ' You are master here, Launce, ' ' she replied, and there was a trace of
sadness on her beautiful face. "I have no right to question your
wishes."
" No right, Madella? Who has a better right, I should like to know?
Xow, listen to me for a moment, dear. You are so good about thin, you
shall be the arbiter of Dossie's fate. If, when you see the child and hear
her little story, you decide it will be better not to bring her up with
Sybil, you shall send her to school as Bee suggests; it will be in your
own hands, remember. Dossie is to be your child, not mine, and I will
promise to agree with your opinion," and as Mrs. ChudlcighV
cleared at this unexpected concession to her good sense, the young
hypocrite turned away for fear his mischievous eyes should betray him,
for did he not know that Madella would be the first to plead with him
for Jack's child?
Dossie was wide awake and talking to Miss Rossiter as they em
the school-room. " What a long time Mr. Lance is," they heard her
" I think he must have forgotten to letch me."
"Oh, j , and slopped as the door o;
" Oil, there he is, and Mrs.' Chudleigh too.''
ie, will you come here a moment?" observed Launcelot, hold
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 83
ins: out his hand to his protegee; but, to his surprise, she took no notice
of him. She came forward indeed, but her eyes were fixed with intense
wist fulness on his companion's face. She twisted her hands nervously,
i hough she was not a shy child, and her face worked as though she were
going to cry.
" Is this Aunt Delia?" she asked, somewhat awed by Mrs. Chud-
leigh's stately presence; " but of course it must be. Aunt Delia, 1
have got to say something and I am trying to remember. Oh, I know,"
and here Dossie shut her eyes tightly.' " Please I am Jack's little girl,
and he wants you to love me. You were very good to him when he
was a little boy, and he knows you will be good to me, and he sends his
]ove ; and I think that was all."
Mrs. Chudleigh became very pale; she looked at her step-son help-
lessly.
' What does she mean, Launce? Jack? She can not mean my poor
lost Jack!" but here Miss Rossiter softly left the room.
"Yes," returned Launcelot, with a reassuring smile, "this is
Dorothea Penelope Weston, your own brother's child, your only niece.
Aunt Delia yes, of course you are Aunt Delia to Dossie;" and as he
spoke, Mrs. Chudleigh drew the child closer to her.
" My darling! Can it be possible; Jack's child? my poor foolish boy,
Jack! and your mother is dead? Oh, don't cry, please don't cry. You
shall be my own dear little girl;" but the tears were running down Mrs.
Chudleigh's face as she lifted Dossie on her lap: and it was Dossie who
wiped them away with her own coarse little handkerchief.
" Aunt Delia, I am sure I shall love you," she whispered, Laying her
head on her shoulder, and Mrs. Chudleigh kissed her and cried over her
in the most motherly way, while Launcelot watched them both with
infinite content.
" Is she to go to school, or learn her lessons with Sybil?" he asked,
presently, when Dossie had told her pitiful little story of how father
had left' her and gone away to the other end of the world.
" Of course I don't mean to part with her!' : returned Mrs. Chudleigh,
indignantly. "Please don't interrupt the child, Launcelot. Yes,
darling, so he sat all those hours in the dark beside you; that was so
like Jack, he was always so kind-hearted."
Launcelot left them for a little while and went in search of Miss Ros
eitcr, to whom he explained matters more fully, but when he came back,
they were still at it and his step-mother was crying bitterly.
" This is wrong," he said, taking her hand; " you will make yourself
ill. Tell Aunt Delia she must not cry any more, Dossie."
And Dossie put her thin little arms round her aunt's neck.
" Oh, please don't; poor ftither would be so sorry," she whispered,
laying her cheek against Mrs. Chudleigh's; but Mrs. Chudleigh con-
tinued to sob in a most heart-broken way.
" It is not your fault, my darling; but if I had only seen him before
he went away it is that that frets me so. To think that I was away
when he wanted me, and all these years I have so longed to see him.
Ah, it is too hard, Launcelot." And he had some trouble in consoling
her, though he managed to pacify her at last. She would not hear of
Dossie leaving them that night, so Launcelot sent off a note to Miss
Thorpe; then he begged Miss Kossiter to take the child away for a little,
and sitting down by his step-mother Ire gave her a full account of his
meeting with Jack and all that he could remember of Jack's married
life.
84 OtfLY Tin: i:ss.
" You ear. write to him, poor fellow, and tell him. you have forgiven
him for all his lieu]'
"Of course 1 have forgiven him. Is it not until 'seventy times:
.' Launce? and my poor .lack never meant to be unkind. Oh, I
glad his wife was so good to him poor Penelope, and I never
even saw her. I think Dossie lias Jack's^eyes, but she is not really like
him," and so she rambled on, now bemoaning poor .lack, and now mak-
ing plans for Dosvjc's comfort, until Lauucelot gently reminded her
that the dressing-gong had long sounded, and that, so much talking and
excitement would make her head ache, and then she consented to id in-
to her room.
The rest of the party had long ago exhausted their grumbling, anil
had separated to his or her private domains, and they had only just re-
abled at the sound of the gong when Mrs. Chudleigh entered the
room, looking rather tired and worn from so much emotion, but with
a soft satisfied smile on her face, and leading by the hand a little pale
girl in a shabby brown frock.
Geoffrey only deigned one glance and went on with his paper, but
Bernard's white teeth gleamed under his mustache, while Bee looked
haughtily at her brothers.
"My dears," said Mrs. Chudleigh, placidly, " I have a great surprise
for you; this is your own little cousin Dorothea. Some of you elder
ones may remember your uncle Jack; at least, I think Geoffrey once
saw him, but I am not sure. Circumstances have kept us apart all these
years, but I was alwa}'s very fond of him. Dear Launcelot has seen a
great deal of him lately, and now he has brought me his little mother-
less child to keep for Jack's sake, until he comes home."
"Oh, that makes a difference," observed Geoffrey, coolly, laying
down his paper. " I did not know she was a relation. How do you
do, Dorothea?" shaking hands with her stiffly.
Bee followed Geoffrey's example, with a cold kiss, but Pauline
far more cordial in her greeting.
" Of course you are pleased, mother. No, I never remember hearing
about Uncle Jack, but it was nice of Launce to bring the child here.
Come and speak to your cousin, Sybil: you two children must be great
friends. Dossie what a funny little name; but we must keep Dorothea
until you are grown out."
" This is the big doll, I suppose?" observed Sybil, with a contemptu-
ous glance at her eldest brother. " What a stupid joke! Geoffrey
made me so cross when he repeated it." But she condescended to take
Beppo in her arms, and to question Dossie a little, after the fashion oi
a spoiled child, while Bernard regarded them with extreme amusement,
but without leaving his favorite corner.
" I am a cousin too," he observed, when opportunity brought him in
contact with the child.
1 Yes, I know; 3*011 are Bear." replied Dossie, without the lc;
-merit. " I have made you a pincushion too dark-blue, Oxford
color you know because Mr. Lance says you are an Oxford man."
"Sharp child that," observed iJernard, .W/V> wee; but, he, continued
with much gravity: "You must call him Cousin Launcelot, not Air.
Lance."
0, he is not my own cousin, father told me so; lie is only Mr.
Lance. (;<-i, iTn-v is my cousin, and you aiul Fred too. Oh, 1 know all
about it," finished Dossie with rut her an important, air, feeling h<
nly enrieliK'd by so many relations. She looked round benignant-
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 85
ly at them as they laughed. Yes, they were all very nice, but she
thought she liked Pauline and Bernard best.
" Come and sit by me, darling," observed Mrs. Chudleigh, in her
soft, motherly voice. " Don't laugh at the poor child, Geoffrey; she
must feel very strange among you all." But she was wrong. Dossie
was happier than she had been yet. She was in her dear Mr. Lance's
home, and this kind, lovely lady was her aunt Delia, and the pretty
gills in the white gowns were her cousins; and there were Geoffrey and
Bernard, for whom she had made the pincushions, and that nice,
friendly Miss Rossiter. What a lot of nice people! Oh, if only her fa-
ther could be there too! and Dossie's blue eyes grew sad and wistful
again. It was Miss Rossiter who noticed the child's drooping looks,
and who good-naturedly offered to withdraw with her and see her com-
fortably in bed. " Emma can do it another night, but I will attend to
my new little pupil this evening," she said, pleasantly, and Mrs. Chud-
leigh thanked her quite gratefully.
Just as they were leaving the room Bernard, who, in spite of his
lymphatic manner, never forgot a person's likes or dislikes, pointed out
feelingly to Miss Rossiter the box of French bonbons in the center of
the table.
** Oh, Bear," retorted Launcelot, who had noticed this little by-play,
" many good people in this world have to go without their deserts," for
which vile pirn Sybil pinched him.
Miss Rossiter looked him full in the face and dropped him a mocking
little courtesy. She looked very handsome to-night in her soft, silvery
dress and a dark crimson rose nestling at her white throat.
" I have known bad people who have escaped their deserts also," she
said, with a droll smile. " Come, Dossie, my child," and they went
out together hand in hand.
It was hardly surprising that people wondered that Mrs. Chudleigh
treated her young governess with such injudicious familiarity. Very
few mothers with three grown-up sons would have ventured on engag-
ing* such a striking-looking young woman; but such thoughts never
occurred to Mrs. Chudleigh.
It was one of her idiosyncrasies to care rather too much for the good
looks of those who surrounded her; a plain face was almost an eye-sore
to her.
" I can not help my nature," she said once to Launcelot, who was
teasing her on the subject. " I do love pretty faces and things. I can
not half like people until I find something to admire in them. When I
see a very unprepossessing person I am always obliged to find some good
point in them before I can be satisfied, There is always something, "
she finished, contentedly, " either a nice expression or a pleasant voice,
or a pretty figure or hand. Very few people are unredeemably ugly,
thank Heaven."
"Amen," returned Launcelot, piously, and then he added; "but
there are lots of faces one sees every day that one never wishes to see
again; but no doubt you are right ladie always are."
As soon as they were left alone Launcelot looked round the table with
what Bernard always termed his " Bless-you-my-children " expression.
" Oh," he said, drawing a deep sigh of contentment, " what a treat
it will be to box Freckles's ears to-morrow," and as they all laughod at
this, he continued with much solemnity, " Madella, you and the girls
iaust never leave me so long a^ain."
SO ONLY 'I KKNESS.
" \Vliy." asked Sybil, with great furiosity, " ha\
chic: . " a 'question that highly amused Bernard.
"No, my dc;,r, no," shaking his head; "but a man without his
womankind is an odd sort of animal. Fancy Geoff and myself in
this big IIOUM-: why, we could not stand it. We used to ta!
mi-lit, but ho always brat m:. so we got tired of that. No, 1>
must try your little games elsewhere." I can't let you all so easily Out
of leading-strii.
" How can you be so foolish?" she answered, rather pettishly. "I
wuld not help being ill, could I, mother?"
" No, my darling, of cour.se not. Launcc is only joking."
!>ut there is always something beneath his jokes," her color
rising. " He thinks it is my fault that we stopped so long away. That
sprain was certainly very unfortunate, as it detained us a fortnight
but, Bee," interposed Pauline, eagerly, " if it had not been for
that last fortnight we should never have got to know the Maxwell
it not strange, Lauucc," turning to him, " actually some Ittver-
people came over from Montreaux about three weeks before we left?
They took the Ericsons' rooms in the next villa to ours,, and we s
much of them. Doctor Maxwell doctored Bee's ankle."
" Maxwell do I know the name?" returned Launcelot, thoughtfully;
*' somehow it seems familiar to me."
" Well, they have only just come to Riversleigh. Doctor Maxwell is
Mr. Malcolmson's new partner, and they have taken that old house in
Wootten Road Bridge House. Charlotte, that is, Miss Maxwell, told
me all about it; it does seem so sad."
" Come, Paul, that is rather vague. Of what does the sadness con-
sist?"
"Why," she said, with an apologetic laugh, "Doctor Maxwell is
quite young and getting on so nicely in his profession, and, as his sister
remarked, they thought he would do so well, and then their father died,
and they found everything was mortgaged. There was nothing at all
for them to live on, so Doctor Maxwell took a bigger house, and they
ha\ < settled at Riversleigh with him, and it does seem hard, as Charlotte
said."
" Pauline \vas hardly civil to the Hamblyns, but she and Mi.-s !
ter were always with Miss Maxwell," observed Bee, with an an:
air, " though what they could both see in that plain, awkward girl is
more than I can
" Yes, but Maxwell is a nice, gentlemanly fellow," inti
Geoffrey, in an amicable tone; " I think Launcc would like him.
hard lines, as Paul says, for a man of his age to be saddled with a
family."
" Are there many of them?" asked Launcelot, who was listening wiih
great attention. He was evidently bent on extracting every po
particular relating to the Mentone friends. The girls had always
chatted frankly to him of their doings; even Hce, who could be a rebel
at times, was never quite happy unless Launcelot approved of her little
plans.
lisfy ]\\< curiosity.
. Maxwell, who is rather an invalid, and
Aunt My: .-all her, who has always lived with
them: an<: -phial complaint, and I'
the youngest one, ia dreadfully delicate. That is why they went to
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 87
Montreaux, but it has not done her much good, and Charlotte says they
will not be able to afford it again."
Lauucelot began counting on his fingers in Dundreary fashion. " In-
valid mother number one; blind aunt a staggerer .that, as Dick
Swiveller would say number two; sister with spinal disease, number
three; ditto with consumptive tendency, number four. Geoff is right;
it i.s hard lines, a dilapidated family like that."
"Yes; but, Lauuee, there are two sisters who married and went to
India, who were quite strong, and Charlotte says she and her brother
are as tough as possible, and she only regrets that she can not help him
by teaching, only with all those invalids s^ie has as much as she can do.
I did not care much for the younger sister Prissy, she struck me as rather
exacting and selfish, but Bee liked her best."
" Well; she is a nice, well-mannered sort of girl. I should have been
fonder of her company if she had talked less of herself and her ail-
ments. Geoff agreed with me; he called her little Miss I. I., but he did
not take to Miss Maxwell."
" No; she is too strong minded for me."
" Yes, and so gaMcJte.
" Maxwell is the best of the bunch. What is it, mother?" for Mrs.
Chudleigh seemed a little restless and distracted.
" Do not let me disturb you, my dears. Of course Launcelot wants
to hear all about your friends, but if you will excuse me I should like to
see if Dossie be comfortable."
"Ah, Dame Partlett wants to be fussing over her new child," ob
served Launcelot, rising to open the door. " Don't let her talk any
more to-night, Madella mia. Dossie is very excitable."
" Oh, you may trust me. I think I understand children," returned
Mrs. Chudleigh, with an amused smile. " I only want to see how she
looks when she is asleep poor little dear!"
CHAPTER XIV.
THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS.
I'm young in age, and younger still, I think,
As a woman.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
As soon as Launcelot had closed the door he came back to his place,
and told his brothers and sisters that he wanted to say a word to them.
" Hear, hear!" observed Bernard, rapping on the table to enforce at-
tention. " Old Launce is going to make us a speech."
" No, my dear boy, nothing of the kind. I only want to ask you as a
personal favor to myself, as well as to your mother, to be as kind as
possible to poor little Dossie and to give you an opportunity of asking
me any questions you like about her;" for Launcelot knew that the
girls at least were dying of curiosity, which their good feelings obliged
them to restrain in their mother's presence.
Of course he was overwhelmed with questions about this unknown
Uncle Jack in a moment, which he answered to the best of his ability.
" He is a very nice fellow, and I am sure you would all like him,"
he finished, " and though he has been down on his luck all these years,
and has made the grievous mistake of keeping aloof from his own
family, I fancy he has turned the awkward corner now and means to
be a credit to us all,"
ONLY Tin: <;>vi I;NKSS.
" I wish Do>*ie was a pretty child, " observed Bee, with languid in-
\\ hilc < Jcoll'rey muttered something about " children being a bore
in ii liou-e."
" 1 think she will be a godsend to Sybil," replied Launcelot;
have all spoiled that little" monkey among you. Possie is a good Uttle
thing, and you will all like her in time."
" Liiini ;.ie always swans," was Bernard's impertinent ob-
ion after this.
" Come, that is hardly fair, Bear. I think I uin a pretty good judge
of chancier," returned'Launcclot, wlio was the lea>t, bit touchy <m this
point; he prided himself on a very nice discrimination, and though,
like other mortals, he was sometimes liable to error, hi- never lik
uinded of any past mistakes; to the end lie wished his g
main swuiis.
The discussion ended after this. Geoffrey and Bernard retired to the,
billiard-room, and Bee went in search of her mother, but Lamm-lot
linked his arm in Pauline's and asked her to keep him company for a
little, lie made no outward distinction between his sisters, for he was
very fond of them both, but in reality Pauline was his favorite. She
was very sensible and matter-of-fact, and he could rely on her thorough-
ly. She was more amicable than Bee, who had her little tempers, but
they w r ere both bright happy young creatures, and he was justly proud
of them.
As they sauntered through the hall, arm in arm, they came upon
Mi<^ Rossiter, who was standing in the glass entry looking out into the
moonlighted court-yard, for the bare .sweep of gravel walk before the
house, closed in by high walls, gave one the idea, of a court -yard.
" Oh, there is Huldali," exclaimed Pauline, rather unguardedly; and
as Lauucelot looked a little surprised, she added quickly, " 1 only call
her by her Christian name when we are alone, because Bee is so tire-
some about my liking her so much; but I can not help it, she is a dear
girl, and I am very fond of her."
" That is right, stick up for your friend, Paul," returned her brother,
in a low tone of hearty commendation, and then aloud, " What a lovely
night, Miss Rossiter; are you studying astronomy, or only star-gazing?
-he turned with a slight start, he saw she looked rather pale, and
he fancied there were tears in her eyes.
" Oh, do let us go down to the terrace," pleaded Pauline. " Think
how beautiful the common will look; we will wrap ourselves up,
Launce, so then; can be no possible harm," and as her brother made no
i'U'lible objection, she darted to the oak settle and caught up .some fur-
liix'd drinks that still lay there.
" You had better go without me," observed Miss Rossiter.
('hudlei_ r li may want me."
" tfdpsertee," returned Launcelot, vigorously to this, and Mis> I.
ter drew the hood over her bright hair, the soft lining of fur setting o' r
her diarming face, and accompanied them without another word.
" Oh, how delicious!" exclaimed Pauline, when they had gained the
1 were leaning airiinst the low wall looking over the
iiiosi. The broad expanse of heath was bathed in the pun; silvery light;
iroom, and even the rouLih brambles seemed touched with a
lory and radianc"; tli-- lump of young iirs in tii
Htood up dark and distinct against th few twinkling lights
from the village, or rather the little town of Urcntwood, quivered iiom
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 89
the hollow; a gas-light or two among the trees near the front entrance
of the Witehens gave a sort of cheerfulness to the scene.
Pauline heaved a deep sigh of content.
" How I do love this place!" she said, enthusiastically. " I think it
would break my heart to leave the Witchens; mother is always telling
us that we shall have to turn out when you marry, Launce, but some-
how [ never seem to realize it."
" I dare say not. I don't realize it myself," was the cool answer, but
a queer look passed over Launcelot's face as he spoke, and the next mo-
ment he asked Miss liossiler, who was standing by him, if she had ever
expericneed what the Germans so forcibly term " heimweh?"
" You mean homesickness, do you not? No, never," she replied, in
a very low voice. " Pauline used to suffer from it often when she was
away, but I hardly wondered at her, such a beautiful home as this, and
such happy faces in it."
" My dear Huidah, what a tragical voice! One would think you had
never known what a happy home was. That is the impression she
gives; is it not, Launce?"
" What is your definition of a home?" she returned, fixing her large,
eloquent eyes on Launcelot as she spoke. She often bad these grave
moods when she was wilh him and Pauline; and Launcelot had often
thought how well they became her. He liked the ebullitions of deep
feeling that he sometimes could evoke by a word, the swift alternation
from grave to gay, the brief somberness so soon replaced by child-like
mirth. Launcelot liked these varying moods; he admired them as ho
admired the varying tints of a transparent complexion, or the changes
of a cloudy April sky nature delighted in these swift metamorphoses,
and he delighted in them too. He had always been interested in Miss
Rossitcr, but he had never admired her BO much as he did to-night.
Either she had grown handsomer-sine^ he had last seen her, or he viewed
her under a different aspect, but there was some fresh development in
her a new witchery to which he was keenly alive to-night. *' What a
beautiful creature she is, "he thought, as she turned her hooded face
full on him. "I am rather bad at definitions, " he answered, rather
provokingly, for he was making a mental sketch of her for future use;
" if you consult Webster and he is a very useful fellow in his way
you will find that he defines home very properly and correctly as a
' dwelling-house; the house where one resides; the place or country
where one dwells, and also all that pertains to a dwelling- pi ace;' but he
adds a quotation from Dryden, that ' Home ig the sacred refuge of our
life.' I think old Dryden is right there."
"Then I have never known such a home," returned the young
governess, in a voice so low that only Launcelot heard her; indeed, the
words seemed to escape her \vithout her will, so he took notice, and
Pauline interposed eagerly.
" Yes, that is just what home ought to be, a refuge from the world
outside : not merely four walls and a roof, but a place where people may
speak the truth and not offend."
" Contradict each other to their hearts' content?" annotated Launce-
lot.
" Yes, quarrel and make it up a dozen times a day if they like, rub
against each other's angles, and love each other all the better for the
friction."
"Where one fellow may refuse to laugh at another fellow's jokefl
without being sat upon/' observed Launcclot, feelingly.
90 ONLY THE dOVFKK!
" Oh, of course; how often you have told IVar to slmt up, and nt
make an ass of himself."
" True; but I never remember that he ever did shut up."
" Xo, but lie never minded you telling him. Hear is Mich *
. boy. Why, even Geoffrey lets himself be snubl>ed some'
when Be'e is 111*0110 of her little black-day
sharp speeches? -why. the yen : home-life is that 01 <
nay and do what one likes. : '
" ( )h, one could live in a home like that. " observed 3iiss J Jos-iter, with
a siiih. " I don't think I ever knew a family like yours. .Mr. Chudlci>h;
::re all so different, not one of you alike, and yet you is.
quarrel, it is only make-believe; you are all so fond and proud of each
other, that you do not think there is such another family in Kngland."
" oh, we are well enough," he retorted, with a laugh re all
good boys and girls on the whole."
" If they were not, you would still be fond of them," she returned,
with the same earnestness. " They are sacred to you, and all their
faults are as nothing, because you just love them; it is this tolerance,
this wide charity, that makes the beauty of your home."
" Yes; but, Huldah, most brothers and sisters love each other."
" Do they?" in a melancholy tone. " Well, I am no fair judge, for
I never had a brother or sister. Home has only been to me the four walls
and roof, until I came here."
" Come, 1 scent a compliment. You are going to tell us that we
have made you happy."
" I should be very ungrateful to deny it, when you have all been so
good to me. What do 1 not owe to Mrs. Chudleigh, and to you, Paul-
ine?"
" Nonsense!" returned that younger person, bluntly.
" I used to hate the thought of being a governess. I thought I
should be left out in the cold, and made to keep my place in the school-
room, but your sisters are so good to me, Mr. Chudleigh, Pauline
cially, that I feel as though I have lived here all my life."
" I am glad to hear it," was the cordial answer; " and you had a
good time with the girls at Mentone?"
" Oh, yes; it was delightful. We were all so happy, only I was sorry
we did not have the earthquake that was predicted."
" Miss Rossiter! I hope you are not serious. "
" That is right, Launce; she deserves a good scolding. I never heard
anything more wicked." .
" Then I have shocked you both. I am always shocking people: but
you must not misunderstand me. I did not wish for an earthqu
that would be too dreadful; but if there had been one 1 should have
::ked to have been there at the time."
" Oh, but Geoffrey said it was all nonsense; it was never pred
at all. Can you understand such a morbid craving. Lauiice? Why, I
should have wished myself a hundred miles a
" So should I. I object on princip! panic. A
crowd mad with fear must be a mo,-t unedifying sight. .Miss Kos
in a serio-comic voice, " 1 feel half incline!! a little further
away after that remark; your close vicinity makes me ui ; <
"You doubt my sanity?" laughing. "'Well. I ; icran
^dinary speech, 1 dan- say I should
other people if it, had really happened, but 1 do enjoy n new sensation."
" In drcdV" in a slow, drawling
ONLY THE GOVEKtfESS. 91
" A storm at sea now that would be grand; even a shipwreck, if
one could be sure of being saved; or a fire. Oh, I have always longed
A fire; the very descriptions are enough. Only, of course, I mean
without loss of life."
" Huldali, I do wish you would not talk so wildly," returned Pauline,
in n vexed voice. " It always troables me when you go on like this.
Launcelot is only laughing at you. He does not believe for a moment
that you are serious, neither do I. Why, I never can endure that chap-
ter about Korah, Dathun, and Abiram. It quite makes me sigh to think
of the little ones going down into the pit."
" My dear Paul, you and I are sober, matter-of-fact people. We
like our sensations tc be pleasant ones, and care nothing about their
novelty."
"Of course I deserve to be laughed at," in a slightly injured tone.
" I ought not to tell out my thoughts in that absurd way, but I can not
help my nature. Anything is better than stagnation and monotony.
Some lives remind me of the blind horse at the mill; they seem to turn
round and round with undeviatiug precision, not a footstep out of the
track. Oh, I should go mad if I were to lead that sort of life!"
" You would prefer wandering over the earth in search of cataclysms
and catastrophes of all descriptions. Vesuvius must light its fire for
you: Hecla boil with fury torpedoes and snakes, prairie fires and
gigantic railway accidents upon my word, I hardly know how we are
:<T for your morbid appetite in London."
" Mr. Chudleigh, you will make me very angry directly," with an
impatient stamp of her foot; " but I will not lay myself open to your
satire any more. Of course, I know I have expressed myself awkward-
ly. What I really meant was that I would rather know life under its
wider and more terrible aspects, than go on day after day leading the
<T existences that some people lead doing just the same things,
saying almost the same words, fearing to move a hair's-breadth out of
their narrow groove. Why, people who live in that way remind me of
some convicts I once saw exercising in a prison-yard. Oh, the great
black walls, and the dreary sky-lines, and the horrible dullness of those
faces!" and she shivered. " Why do they not go mad or kill them-
selves? I should, in their place."
" Miss Rossiter, I am afraid that you are exciting yourself."
" That is bidding me hold my tongue."
" Please do not accuse me of such rudeness; but all the same it is my
turn now."
" Oh, I am going in," she returned, provokingly. " You must keep
your little lecture for to-morrow night."
" We can walk and talk at the same time," he replied, coolly.
" Pauline, we are going back to the house now; the terrace is too cold
for you. Miss Rossiter, will you please give me your attention a mo-
ment?" turning to her with a good-natured air; and in spite of her re-
luctance she was obliged to listen.
" I think you have talked a good deal of nonsense to-night, but we
will let that pass. Young ladies often do talk nonsense, and no one
thinks the worse of them; but, unfortunately, there seems a method i?
your madness Like all insane people, you evidently believe yourself
sane 3 r ou actually mean what you say." '
" I ineun every word every word!"
"Oh!" with a sort of lofty pity that galled her more than his satire.
" That shows how very young you must ba You are finding fault
92 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
with qxivt, matter-of-fact lives. They are according to you !
monotonous, unutterably dreary; but you are making a grave mistake.
)t the life, but the environment, of which you arc speaking."
11 < >h, you are too clever for me, Air. Chudleigh; I am iiot capable ot
making such nice distinctions."
" I>ut you are capable of feeling them," he persisted. " Now listen
to me, I'am going to repeat a passage from a favorite author of irine,
Grindon. I have read it over until I know it by heart. lie is speaking,
in his chapter on Longevity, of the true measurement of life. I b
' Real, human life is immeasurable, if " digest this 'if,' Mi-
' we will have it so,' and then he goes on, 'Every day,' re-murks
Goethe, in his autobiography, * is a vessel into which a great deal may
be poured, if we will actually fill it up; that is with thoughts and I'eci-
;nd their expression into deeds as elevated and amiable as we can
reach to;' and then he goes on to quote from Martineau's ' Endeavors
after the Christian Life.' "The mere lapse of years is not life. To
eat, and drink, and sleep, to be exposed to the darkness and light, to
pace round the mill of habit ' : ' like your blind horse, ehV "and
turn the wheel of wealth; to make reason our book-keeper and convert
thought into an implement of trade; this is not life- In all this but a
poor fraction of the consciousness of humanity is awakened, and the
sanctities still slumber which make it most worth while to be.
' " Knowledge, truth, love, beauty, goodness, faith, alone give vitality
the mechanism of existence."
"That is beautiful," murmured Pauline. Miss Rossiter only said,
coldly, "You have a good memory," but all the same he knew how
attentively she had listened.
" I can say nothing half so wise as that; it is admirable philosophy,
but I feel I must set you right on one point. No human life, however
humdrum and uninteresting it may appear to a looker-on, is really com-
monplace; it is not commonplace or uninteresting to be born, to die, to
have the breath of life in our nostrils, to be made in the image of God.
N', you are wrong," throwing back his head with a quick, passionate
movement that seemed to awe Miss Rossiter, for she looked at him as
though fascinated in spite of herself. " Often and often behind these
dull, tedious lives, as you call them, lie hidden tragedies conllicts
which leave their scars forever. Many are thankful for the quiet routine
that dulls the memory of 'the too vividly painted past.' Yes, they
10 move out of their groove for very dread of meeting some; pale
ghost of their buried and gone happiness;" but here he stopped abrupt-
ly, for a low sob escaped Miss Rossiter.
" No, no; I will not believe you," she said, in a choked voice. " < Mi,
how you pain me! It can not be so! No one could live down misery
in that way;" and then she paused and looked at him in a half- fright-
ened manner, as though imploring him to take back his words.
" I think I have spoken the truth," he returned, gently, " but indeed
I did not mean to pain you. I was only speaking as 1 should to Iea-
trix or Pauline, if they indulged in such exaggerated talk. You are too
hard upon other people, you only looked on tin; outside of things. You
must go deeper. You must learn cliaritv before you judge truly of
life."
"Yes," she replied, humbly, "I know you nuiant it only for my
good. I have been very fooli>h; 1 ought not to have talked so. May I
wish you good-night now, for I am very tired?"
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 93
I am sorry I tired yon," he answered, penitently, "but I can not
wish one of my words unsaid."
"No, indeed," observed Pauline, when their companion's graceful
figure had turned the angle of the house. " I am very glad you spoke
iously, Launce. I am very fond of Hnldah indeed I may say I
love her but there are times when she distresses me by this wild,
Highly talk of hers. I sometimes think how shocked mother would ba
to hear her, but Huldah is always careful in her presence."
" All," he returned, absently, " she is young and undisciplined, and
slic lias never known a home;" and then* they reached the house, and
Launcelot bade his sister an affectionate good-night and went to his
studio.
It had been added recently to the house, and the only entrance was
through a small conservatory.
The room was quite dark when he entered it, but he lighted a small
bronxe lamp that stood on the writing-table, and seated himself in a
carved antique chair placed beside it.
It was an immense room, very finely proportioned, and was furnished
with great care. The studio proper, with its north light and raised dais,
only occupied half the space, and velvet curtains, at present undrawn,
could at any moment shut off the tall easel and half-finished canvases
ami all the artistic odds and ends that usually litter an artist's studio.
The other end of the room was charming, and was fitted up as a gen-
tleman's study. A bay-window with a deep recess commanded a view
of the lawn, a cushioned seat and a low tea-table occupied this space;
carved book-cases, cabinets, and one or two choice landscapes, and a
beautiful marble bust of Mrs. Chudleigh filled up the walls and niches
a portrait of her, painted by Launcelot himself, was placed opposite
the writing-table. A reading-desk and some easy-chairs completed the
furniture; handsome Oriental rugs and a skin or two covered portions
of the dark, polished floor.
As Launcelot laid his head against the back of his chair he wondered
what Jack would think of such a studio, and then he meditated how he
was to get Miss Rossiter to sit to him for his new picture.
" I want just that type of face for my central figure," he thought,
' My sonne's faire wife Elizabeth.' I always imagined her with just
that ruddy brown hair, moving across the grassy lea with her two chil-
dren," and he softly quoted to himself the quaint lines
" That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas !
To manye more thati myne and mee;
But each will mourn his own (she saith),
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath,
Than my sonne's wife Elizabeth."
' ' Madella must manage it for me," he continued, soliloquizing half
dreamily; " her face is just what I want, but there is no motherhood in
it ; the children must be young, mere toddling mites.
" ' And dark against day's golden death
She moveth where Lindis wandereth,
My sonne's faire wife Elizabeth.' "
And then he crossed the room, lamp in hand, and looked long and
thoughtfully at the canvas stretched on the easel.
" She is an extraordinary girl," he muttered, " but I found her very
interesting to-night. She is more than interesting; she takes hold of
04 ONLY THE
one's imagination somehow; she has no\ it of my mind ;
gle day all this time; she is a woman i! M'sho
to marry, 1 do not believe her husband would lea<;
existence! Sin- .citing; :i man would liardly find her restful."
And tlii'ii lie made a sort of grimace and shook himself, but t
strange glow in his eyes, as he turned away humming the musical lines
of -lean Inflow's poem thai had been floating in his nead for days:
C'usha' Cush:i! dislia!
Ere the early dews were fai.
Farre away, I heard her sin^,
Ousha! Cusha! all alotiL r ,
Where the reedy Lindis lloweth,
Floweth, floweth,
From the meads where nielieh ^roweth
Faintly came her milking s
CHAPTER XV.
"MY SONNF/S FAIKE -UIFE ELIZABETH."
One can sometimes love that which we do not understand, but it is impossible
clearly to understand what we do not love. GRINDON'S Life and Sot*
LAFNCELOT drove Dossie down to Priory Road the next morning to
explain matters more thoroughly to Miss Thorpe, and to bring away the
shabby portmanteau that held the child's scanty wardrobe.
"She looks brighter already," observed Miss Thorpe, when !>
had left the room on some errand, and she was right; even a few hours
had made a difference in her appe \rance.
The child had found herself all at once surrounded by kind, friendly
faces; she had awakened from a troubled dream the previous night to
see her aunt Delia beside her. Dossie had sobbed out all her con
half-waking grief in those kind arms. The forlorn little crcatn
suddenly weighted with troubled, was not left to battle through the
dark miserable hour alone no, that was not Mrs. Chudlei-
she had fallen asleep again comforted, and still holding her aunt's
hand, and her refreshing morning's slumbers had been broken by Sybil,
who stood by her cousin's bed with her hands full of spring flowers thai
she, and Miss Rossiter had just gathered.
" You were so fast asleep that we did not like to rouse y
>,said. " You must be dreadfully tired, Dossie. not to-wake this lovely
morning. Why, we have been for quite a long walk; all round the
i and across the common."
" Lie still, and I will bring you some breakfast,, my dear." add*d
Miss Rossiter, who had followed Sybil, and she kissed !
nffeclionately. Dossie did as she was told, and lay very contentedly
watching the governess arrange the tlowcrs. M-
bright as the spring morning, glowing with fresh air and e
dilTerent being to the girl whose, wild talk had jarred upon Paul-
ense of fitness; earthquakes, uneongeiiial homes, somber i.
led to the dead past. Kvidenllyti. -. brighter
' for her this morning. All the time l.owls and
with Sybil's help, she sung snalehe^ of Italian airs in a charming
Launcelot heard her as he went. d:>\vn the !
himself.
- Thorpe hade r that
m.st often come and >ee' her and Ivan, but Dossie made no audible
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 95
reply to this. She gave a lit.tle sigh of relief when she found herself in
the phaeton again and La uncelot turned the mare's head in the direc-
tion of Overton Bridge.
" I am afraid you do not appreciate my friends sufficiently, Dossie, ' %
observed Launcelot, pretending to shake his head. " You did not thank
Miss Thorpe for her kind invitation."
" 1 don't want to go very often," returned Dossie, with simple truth-
fulness. " Miss Thorpe is very kind, but I would rather stop with you
and Aunt Delia," and Launcelot said nothing more.
Dossie did not cease for many a long week to fret for her father.
Hers was a faithful nature, and all the kindness of her new relations
could not at first make her happy; but she no longer moped and pined
to the detriment of her health, and after a time her grave little face
brightened, and her eyes grew less sad and wistful.
From the first moment she manifested a strong affection for her aunt
Delia, and indeed nothing could exceed Mrs. Chudleigh's motherly ten-
derness; she had Dossie constantly with her, and watched over her
health with maternal anxiety.
After her aunt Delia Dossie placed Miss Rossiter in her list of favor-
ites, though she still regarded Lauucelot as her chief friend, but the
governess's bright genial nature, her child-like mirthand sense of fun
had a fascination for the child, who was rather precocious and old-
fashioned in her ways. Beatrix and Geoffrey came last in her estima-
tion, though she responded to their advances with the grave gentleness
that was natural to her; but they were all very kind to her, and even
Bernard, who was a general tease, would cease his jokes if Dossie
seemed at all bewildered by them; indeed, in spite of their disparaging
remarks, the whole family would have missed the quiet, blue-eyed child
who was always so ready to wait on everybody, and who never gave
any one trouble. The youngest boy, Fred, or Freckles as he was gen-
erally called, from the fact that his fair skin was always liable to
freckles, indorsed the general opinion that Dossie was a nice little girl.
Freckles was a pleasant-looking boy, with rather melancholy brown
eyes, and an unusually gentle bearing; but woe be to the boy who was
deceived by the mild suavity of Freckles's manner or the languid in-
difference of his voice.
Freckles would drawl out jokes that would convulse his brothers and
with laughter; when people predicted the gentle melancholy lad
wouk' certainly go into a decline, Freckles would be planning some
practical joke that would make Geoffrey or Bernard threaten dire
vengeance on his luckless head. Even his mother hardly understood
the boy.
" It must be a mistake, Launcelot," she would say, with tears in hei
eyes, when an unusually bad report of the young scapegrace reachcil
her ears; "dear Fred is so quiet and well-behaved, he would never
have incited those boys to such mischief."
" Freckles has never been out of mischief, except when he has been
asleep, since the day he was born," returned Launcelot, severely; " as
a baby he pla&ued his nurse to death, and now he is the torment of a!5
his masters. Mischief is natural to him, I believe; he can not help play
ing -anks any :-ore than Jack could." But though Launcelot held
this view of Fn -kles's depravity he was exceedingly fond of the boy,
and Freckles, wh > adored his oldest brother, never attempted one of his
practical jokes on him his, Launcelot's position of head of the family
investing him wit i a obtain dignity even in Freckles's lawless eyes.
l,ap,w-
96 ON: . rss.
It was hardly surprising then tl> :> whom boys were un-
known animals an 1 who had never had -i boy friend of her own
sadly pu/./led by the lugubrious 1'x d.
Oil ihe first evening, touched, and indeed instinctively drawn to him
by the plaintive expression of tlic lad's soft brown eyes, she had whis-
pered to him
What are you thinking about? Why do you look so dreadfully un-
:''. Has any one been scolding you?"
returned Freckles, slowly, " but can you keep
<; Yes no at least I would rather not know, if it is any thin
bad," replied Dossie, shrinking back a little.
" Oh, it won't hurt you," a little contemptuously; " but there, girls
never ran keep secrets. Sybil never could; she always blabbed out
everything to Miss Rossiter; that is why I call her ' Tell-tale Tit:' Tit
for short you know. She spoiled a splendid thing of mine last holi-
days "
" Oh, I wish you would tell me," sighed Dossie, in rather a trembling
voice. " I don't like secrets much, but when I see people unhappy I
always want to help them."
" Very well, then; you shall help me. You know that big cupboard
in Bee's room; well, I owe her a grudge, and I am going to pay my
Jady out. I am going to hide behind all her dve>srs, and just I
she turns the gas on, I mean to say, in a sepulchral tone, ' Ah, what
dost thou, Beatrix ' but what was to follow was never known, for
Dossie turned so pale and looked so frightened at the bare idea of such
a trick, and begged Freckles so earnestly not to do it, that he reluctant-
ly renounced his novel vengeance, but he never afterward confided his
plans to Dossie. " Girls are no good," he observed on more than one
occasion in hers and Sybil's hearing.
But he was very kind to her after his fashion, and Dossie grew to
understand him better. She never questioned him again on the meaning
of his melancholy and abstracted looks, but now 7 and then she electri-
fied him by whispering in his ear when he looked unusually sad,
" Please don't do it, Freckles, you had much better not," a species of
clairvoyance that made him speechless with ama/cment.
Launcelot had got his way: the new picture was in full progress, and
Miss Kossiter sat to him daily.
She was always accompanied to the studio by Pauline, who was her
brother's pupil, and painted landscapes very prettily, and sometimes
Mrs. Chudleigh would bring her work and join the young people, but
her presence w r as never the slightest constraint or hindered the How of
their lively talk.
These afternoons were very pleasant to Launcelot. His work always
entranced him, and when he had a picture on hand it was diHicult *to
lure him from his easel, The day seemed too short, and at such timea
any interruption was irksome to him.
But he did not care for solitude, and nothing pleased him better than
hudleigh or Pauline to sit beside him and take intere>t in his
work. I5ec scidom came, thotiirh he always welcomed hi .'lily,
but H'-e was too active; and managing to have many idle h';
hand. She had no special taste for arl. and she liked belter to pr
on the 12; rand pianoforte in Die big empty d rawing room, or to si nd_y
Xow and then, when the sitting was over, they uould all assemble
lur tive o'olock tea in the west win;'
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 97
jouraing to the drawing-room or morning-room. These occasions were
highly pri/ed by Dossie, the little square tea-table round which they
crowded looked so cozy and inviting. The children sat on the deep
step that led to the bay, and took their tea in picnic fashion, while their
elders laughed and chatted and discussed their little plans; sometimes
Launceloi would break off abruptly and go back to his painting, while
the girls still lingered at the table.
What a pretty picture it all made, he thought, and more than once it
came into his head that he must paint that family group; Madella and
the girls, the two children with the dogs stretched at their feet, Miss
.riding beside them, the carved cabinets and tables beyond, a
soft background of green lawn with a dark cedar spreading fts wide
foliage, and Sybil's lame p'geons fluttering about the window-sill.
At, this time Launcelot passed hours daily in Miss llossiter's presence,
but he never once noticed an approach to sadness in her manner. Some-
limes he would pretend to grumble at her prosaic cheerfulness. " Now
Kli/abeth," he would say, very gravely, "how am I to paint the
pathetic expression that ought to be on your face when you will persist
in looking so provokingly happy? Have I not read the poem over and
over again to you, and yet you will not understand the duty thai is re-
quired of you."
" Oh!" she said, with a sort of frank impertinence, " it is ' C'usha,
Cusha, Cusha,' that I am calling, and one need not look sad over that;
it is
" ' Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Come uppe Jetty: rise and follow
Jetty to the milkiug shed. 1 "
" No, no," he returned, impatiently; " you have done with the milk-
ng forever. Jetty and AVhitefoot have long ago been choked by
th'j murderous surf; you are no longer looking for them. You are
startled to see the line of foam, the thunder or the mighty wave is in
your ears, you are straining your eyes, and your infant is at your bteast,
and the other child has hidden his little face in your gown. What dot;s
it mean the noise, the breaking spray, the sullen roar? Ah, il is of
the children you think, and of the distant husband, and of the death-
wav<
" Oh, your descriptions are too vivid," she returned, with an invol-
untary shudder. " I do not wish to think about such dreadful
things."
Launcelot smiled.
r mind, we shall do very well, I dare say. I shall have to re-
call a cei tain expression that was pathetic enough for my purpose," and
her color changed a little; " and there is one thing, there must have
;i wind oh, yes, of course there must have been a wind, and it
has loosened the hair under your kerchief, and some of it must trail
over one shoulder."
"Very well, "-she returned, good- humoredly, for she was anxious
that he should not be disappointed with his beautiful picture, " Pauline
shall help me to arrange my wind-blown tresses to-morrow," and then
she gave herself a little shake as though she were weary of her long
standing, and a -few minutes afterward Tie saw her cross the lawn with
the two little girls, and it seemed to him as he watched her as though
the grass could hardly feel those light, springy footsteps.
Launcelot used to falk to her when he had an easy piece of work be-
fore him. She was very frt':h ;;;:d lively in conversation, and often
98 OXLY 1 KSS.
made speeches that were sparkling with naivete and \viL, but he
never induce her to speak of her old life; she only told him once that
Flic had lived as companion with an 'old lady who died and wbi
very kind to her, but that she liked being with children best.
"' Do you know," he said one day, very thoughtfully, when Pauline
had left them alone for a l'c\v minutes, " that fhave found out some-
thing about you that has greatly surprised me?"
"About me?" she asked; but he could sec that she was very much
startled.
" Vcs; I have discovered that in spite of all your frankn.
vjery reserved person, that no one can make you open your lips if you
think proper to close them, and 1 confess that this surprises me a
deal; it is an incongruity, so much frankness and yet such impenetra-
ble reserve."
" Oh, I am not naturally reserved," she returned, with rather a eon
strained smile, "but my life has been hard and has taught me many
useful lessons. Is it not Solomon who tells us that ' there is a lime to
talk and a time to be silent'?" But he made no answer to this, for he
was revolving in his mind the first part of her sentence.
" No, you are not naturally reserved; anyone can see that," and then
Pauline came back bringing an account of some visitors JJee was
taining in the drawing-room.
Launcelot was dimly conscious of the fact that he took far too much
pleasure in Miss Rossiter's society; he had been strangely interested in
her from the first, but since the return of the family from Mentone he
was aware that this interest had deepened. Her individuality and gavety
seemed to pervade the house, she was always so good-natured and pleas-
ant, so ready to do kind things for every one, from tending Mrs. ('hud
leigh when she suffered from one of her bad sick headaches, to nursing
the kitchen-maid with a quinsy. Launcelot found her in the stable-
yard once, binding up Neale's cut finger, and the children at th-
dener's cottage were devoted to her ever since she had nursed their
baby brother m an attack of croup.
No, there was no denying her goodness of heart; and then how charm-
ing were her manners, so perfectly devoid of self-consciousness and
coquetry! She never gave herself the airs of a pretty woman.
to expect admiration. He had watched her ofteu, and he had never
seen her brighten at the approach of any man, and yet few came to the
Witchens without paying marked attention to the handsome
He had once hinted this to his step-mother, and she had
quite placidly
" My dear, you are perfectly right. Miss Rossiter has no vanity. I
wish Bee would take after her in that respect Bee is far too con-.
Hiss Uossiter does not care for gentlemen at all. I think their admiia
lion 1)0 res her; she seems to enjoy ladies' company best , si:
Mcady youiiL! person, and exceedingly well behaved, indeed, her li
admirable. I often thought so at Mentone when all those silly fellows
were pestering her with attentions."
"MnMella," was all his reply to this, "I do not know whetl'
are exceedingly wise or exceedingly foolish, but if mischie.
will bo your doing."
" Oh, Launce," in a hurt voice, "what can you man mi
\Vhy, (Jeoffrey has never taken Hie lea^l notice of her, 1 have to)
M) before he was far more to Nora llamblyn, and H
why, he would never think of such a thing. Oh, 1 can trust my boys,
' OKLY THE GOVERNESS. 99
finished the simple woman. " I am on]}- thankful that the dear girls
should have such a steady companion."
Launcelot was quite ready to indorse his step-mother's opinion as to
Miss Rossiter's steadiness; her tact often surprised him, and she never
took advantage of the kindness and consideration shown her. She
never forgot, or let others forget, that she was Sybil's governess, and on
all occasions she showed a pretty deference to Bee, who was apt to be a
little exacting.
Launcelot did not care to question his feelings too closely. He re-
fused to acknowledge even to himself that he was in danger of falling
in love with Miss Kossite'r. He felt particularly happy just now, but
then he was never otherwise than happy. He had never indulged in
the discontented Byronic moods that are sometimes common to young
men of genius. His temperament was equable, and not subject *to hot
and cold fits. lie said to himself that he was delighted to have his
womenfolk about him again; that he had mi-sed Madella and the girls,
and that it was pleasant to have the old sociable evenings once more;
but he forbore to add that those evenings were strangely incomplete
without Miss Rossiter's presence. She had been absent once, and he
was surprised to find how much he had missed her, and how flat the
music sounded to him without the rich contralto voice that was one of
her attractions.
Launcelot was passionately fond of music, and could play and sing
very well himself; indeed, they were all musical, but no one could com-
pete with Miss Rossiter. Strange to say, she generally sung pathetic old
ballads, with a pathos and beauty of expression that was surprising in
so lively a person.
Once or twice the deep melodious voice had so moved Launcelot that
he had left the room and strolled up and down the hall, wondering at
the overpowering melancholy that had seized on him, and ready to de-
clare himself moonstruck or bewitched; but he never let her know the
extent of her power. But this was not all. As the spring crept on and
budded into early summer, and the "Witchens grew gay with garden-
parties and impromptu dances, Launcelot became conscious that a curi-
ous conflict was taking place within him, that some indefinable instinct
that seemed like a presentiment was moving him. to resistance against
the growing fascination that Miss Rossiter exercised over him; he was
vaguely sensible of this, and yet he could give no reason for these un-
f eel ings.
For the first time in his life he showed signs of a vaccilating will, and
his actions were contradictory and unequal, and yet no man could be
more decided on emergencies; nor had he ever been otherwise than
straightforward, but he was at a loss to understand his own feelings, or
what the subtle voice within -him meant that seemed to warn him that
any entanglement of this sort would only lead to unhappiness.
Launcelot refrained from arguing the question honestly with himself;
a singular cowardice that was foreign to his nature made him prefer to
keep his feeling in abeyance, and to drift on pleasantly from day to
day. So he never asked himself why he was not free to fall in love
with Miss Rossiter if he chose to dp so. No one would have a right
to object because she happened to be his step-mother's governess. Many
a man better born, and far more wealthy, would be glad to secure such
a prize. "Would any one deny that she was a gentlewoman, that she
was his sisters' equal in good breeding? No, he had never vexed him-
self with this sort of question. It was simply a strange instinct for
100 ONLY THE GOVERN!
which lie could not account, that made him unconsciously res
Ing passion for a woman who certainly fascinated himmoi-
woman he hail ever known.
Sometimes lie wondered what she thought of him, but he could never
answer this question satisfactorily to himself. She was aT
friendly in her manners to him, but theie was no shyness no
ness of the quiet looks that watched her day by day.
" Huldah wonders how any one can be afraid of you, " Pauli:
to him once, as they were riding together. Launcelot kept a riding-
horse for his sisters, and rode with them by turns. They were both
very fair equestrians, but Bee's beautiful figure showed to
vantage, and she was always noticed in the Row.
" Oh, indeed?" observed Lauucelot, flicking his mare's glossy 1lank
with his whip.
" Yes; she says you are so perfectly gentle that one could tell you any-
thing confide in you, she meant; and I said, ' Yes, that is very per-
fectly true, for when we were naughty little girls and got into di-
with our governess, Bee and I always got you to intercede for ue
then we were sure to be forgiven.' '
" And what did Miss Rossiter say to that, Paul, my dear?"
" Oh, she smiled, and said that she had never felt shy of you at all,
and that she could quite understand that we should all take our troubles
to you, and that we were happy to have so good a brother, and
are," finished Pauline, with an affectionate glance, but just then they
reached a wider stretch of common, and Launcelot proposed a rain
the grass.
" If she were in any great trouble would she come to me, I wonder?"
thought Launcelot, and this thought occupied him all through the re-
mainder of the ride.
CHAPTER XVI.
BEE'S SATURDAYS.
1 have been accustomed to study men's count enam-cs, aud I can read in thine
honesty aud resolution. Ivanhoe.
The man whom I call deserving tht> nann- is <>nr \\ hose thoughts un<l exertions are
iers rather thau for himself. Pet* ril of tltc I'mk.
WHEN the second week in May arrived, Bee informed the assembled
family one morning at the breakfast-table, with much solemnity. Ili.it
their Saturdays were about to commence, and that their iMentnno
acquaintances, Miss Uamblyn and her brother, had promised to come
on the opening one.
" Xora is to stay with us, you know," observed Bee, carelessly ad
dreeing her eldest brother, " and we have sent a card to the Maxwells,
Pauline seemed to wish it."
"Oh, Bee, 1 thought you proposed it yourself," responded Pauline,
wilh heightened color. ' " I only said Charlotte would t< :ted if
'-ed the Hamblyns and ignored them, when Doctor Maxwell was
so atientive about yo'ur ankle, too."
" My dear, you appeared 1o wish it very mueh," was the rejoinder,
f-ir B<-e could say sharp little things gometil "You know I did
not lake a fancy t<> .Miss M.-i.\ \\ell myself. She v.
'i-d. "
' Pax, pax, my children," observed Lauacelot, who delected n
ONLY THE GOTFENESS. 101
hovering on Pauline's lips; for, like Vaofjt "Varrii- hearted people, she
disliked hearing any fault found yi'th her, fri^n^.arr^ 5ee ft could be
merciless on small foibles. " So Vhe. S!jfii'Mjp>\ir6 to b^i-i.'as .uSual,
with Geoffrey as master of the ceremonies?"
" Well, you know you never care for a fuss," was the smooth an-
swer, " and Geoff enjoys it."
" Yes, Geoff is just the fellow for you ladies makes himself pleas-
ant and never looks too bored. There is a career before you, my boy!
Well, have your way, Bee, and let Pauline have hers. No division hi
the camp, mind. This is Liberty Hall, and every one's friends are to
be welcomed," with a stress on the last word.
"Thank you, Launce," with a relieved air, from Bee; but Pauline
only squeezed her brother's hand 1 as he passed with a force that made
him smile.
"Poor little Paul! I am afraid Bee provokes her sometimes, " he
said to himself, as he sauntered into his studio. " They arc rather
different in their tastes, i will keep a sharp lookout on these Hamblyna
and Maxwells; confound that Mentone!" and then he unfolded his
paper.
The Saturdays were much appreciated by the Chudleighs' friends,
and were very different to the crowded and formal " at homes " in which
society at present delights. They were in reality weekly garden-parties,
but a wet Saturday seldom kept people away. The girls and Geoffrey
managed everything, though their mother was nominal hostess. From
the first Launcelot gave them to understand that he was by no means
bound to present himself on these occasions; and though when he was
at home the first gleam of moving draperies between the trees always
lured him to the spot, where he invariably remained until the last vis-
itor had departed, he took no leading part in the proceedings, and always
referred any questions to Bee or Geoff rey.
It "was unanimously voted by the neighborhood that the Chudleighs
perfectly understood this sort of thing, and that these weekly receptions
were the pleasantest affairs possible.
Strangers and casual acquaintances received their invitation cards
with all due formality, and were only made aware of the fact that Mrs.
Chudleigh would be " at home " from four to seven on such and such
a date; but to their intimate friends Bee would write charming little
notes. " Our Saturdays will commence next week, and we hope to see
you and your sisters as often during the summer as you care to give us
that pleasure. Of course we shall be glad to see any friend who may
DC staying with you. We shall be able to manage three sets of tennis,
so of course you will bring your rackets," and so on. And the re-
cipient of one of these notes considered him or herself to be made free
of the Witcheus until the middle of August.
There was always a goodly sprinkling of gentlemen on the Saturdays,
Geoffrey knew several rising young barristers, and his and Bernard's
Oxford friends were available in the long vacation. Launcelot's club
and artist acquaintances often put in an appearance, for the Witchens
was considered a very pleasant house. Mrs. Chudleigh was still greatly
admired, and her soft graciousness made her a perfect hostess; while
Bee's pretty face and sprightly manners, and Pauline's gentleness and
good sense, made them much sought after by their friends, and
Geoffrey's cleverness and gentlemanly bearing always made their mark.
though neither he nor Bernard was as popular as their elder brother.
" The girls won't look at us when old Launce makes his appearance,"
103 Ols 3 KSS.
Bernard used to say, in an injured tone. " I do not, know why they
tiiul him-- r he is'noi a bit liandsoine, and does not 'fall in
lovt 1 will: ;uv<'l ilh-in'. It is' ha-'d lines on us, Geoff." Hi.
did not' seem 'to see U;" tie was much too satisfied with his own
biliii
CVitainly on a hot, Blowing July afternoon nothing (ouldbc j
anter than the leafy walk leading to the rosery and terrace, and the
cool, shady seats under the big elms on the hwu. Then little
under covering, and nooks and corners where flirtations could he
carried on. Indeed, there \vas a low bench, undei arch,
that the Chudleigh girls had christened the Lovers' Dower, because
more than one happy match had been finally cemented there. It must
be owned chaperones found their task of watching over their young
charges as difficult as the perplexed hen who .sees her web-1'ooted
U) the farm-yard pond. For, alas! her disconsolate clucking
without avail, as the downy rebels swim away from their t'o-
Elderly ladies are not fond of exertion, especially on a hot afternoon in
the dog-days; and a seat in the shade where they can watch the tennis,
or a corner in the cool dining-room, where ices and claret-cup and big
juicy strawberries were always to be procured, seemed far more d
ble than pacing the shrubberies in search of some runaway daughter,
who was, perhaps, at that moment enduring the tropical heat of the
hot-houses, or visiting the puppies in the stable-yard or the baity at the
gardener's house, or perhaps had even strayed into the studio any-
where, to be out of reach of the maternal eyes. " Why," as one
aggrieved matron complained, " you might as well hunt for a needle in
a hay-loft as try and find any one at the Witchens."
" I suppose it is for Miss Julia you are looking," observed Bernard,
sympathetically, as he overheard this little speech. " Let me go and
find her for you, Mrs. Merrinian. I think I saw her with Debenham
on the terrace," but the young scapegrace did not add that that was
half an hour ago, and that at that moment they were in the west win-
dow of the studio; of course they were not on the terrace, and of
course poor Mrs. Merriman had to chafe inwardly for the next hour.
" Is it late do you mean that the carriage is really lure, mam
observes Julia, innocently, when she rejoins her aggrieved mother.
" Captain Debenham has been taking me all through the hot-hou
the ferns and flowers are so delicious!"
" Awfully pretty, I assure you. I have had quite a grand time, Mrs.
Mcrriuian. Miss Julia knows a lot about those son of thing
beats me hollow there." Captain Debcnham steals a look al his prctly
companion as lie speaks, but Mrs. Merriman is not so easily pacified;
she cast rather a withering glance at the handsome young oli;
asks Geoffrey to see her to her carriage. Poor Mrs. Merriman! she has
i to rue these Saturdays; for the next year Julia married ( 'aptain
Debenham, and crossed the ocean with him as checi fully as the lien's
youngest duckling crossed the pond. " Chuck, ch'ick," cries the poor
little brown hen.
" Julia, Captain Debcnham has nothing but his pay. You will be a
;'ile woman if you marry him;" but Mrs. Merriman might as
well have held her pea ( -e. What girl cares about pro-
wh'-u >ln- wants to marry the n ! dim-
cullies plenty of children troubles of all kind; but it may be do
Whether either of th<: i .Mrs. Chudleigh's Satur<;
After all, very little wutislies young people plenty of ,-jpacc, sunshine,
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 103
a smooth tennis ground, and a liberal intermixing of the sexes, will
make most healthy young folks happy.
The Chudleighs made no special effort to entertain their friends; they
introduced the pleasantest young men they could find to the nicest
girls, without keeping them for themselves, for even Bee would be as
unselfish as Pauline in that respect. Geoffrey made up the tennis sets,
and there were bowls for any one who cared for that antiquated game,
but beyond this they took no further trouble.
Every one knew tea and coffee and claret-cup and most delicious
fruits were always to be had in the big dining-room; the morning-room
and the drawing- room were also pleasant resorts for quiet conversation,
and now and then, but not always, the studio was open. As a rule,
Launcelot preferred only admitting one or two favorites, and no one
knew how Captain Pebenham had contrived to smuggle Miss Mcrriman
into the west window. But what Bee loved above all tilings \vas to plan
a delicious surprise for her friends; more than once during the season,
the Winibork'y band had been stationed in the glass anteroom leading
to the studio, and the visitors' ears had been regaled with a choice pro-
gramme of operatic music.
On such occasions Bee and Pauline would drop hints to a favored
few that a cold collation would be served at eight, and that there would
be an impromptu dance in the hall, which was very suitable to the pur-
pose. Sometimes these hints came beforehand, in the shape of notes:
" We have ordered the Wimberley band for next Saturday, and hope
to get up a little dance after supper, so please, come prepared. We
shall dance from nine to eleven."
" Of course we shall have the band for the first Saturday," said Bee,
in a business-like tone, following Launcelot into his studio that morn-
ing.
" Very well, my dear."
" You see we have so many new people coming. Geoffrey is going
to ask lots of men. He declares he shall put from four to eleven on
the card mother sends to his friends. He has actually written in the
corner of several cards. ' Tennis at four; feed at eight; dancing nine to
eleven/ It is so absurd of him, but he declares all his friends will un-
derstand."
" Some of them will be very much obliged to Geoffrey for the hint.
No doubt they will arrive just in time for the feed."
" Oh, no, Launce; that would be too shabby. Of course we mean
people like the Hayters and Pierrepoints to go as usual, at seven. I
have told Feu wick they are not to begin to lay the table until a quarter
past. We shall have cleared away all the people we don't want by that
time."
" Well, my dear, you and Geoffrey can do as you think best. Make
your selection and be happy; only don't offend people.''
" Oh, we shall be very careful," returned the young diplomatist.
"We only want our intimate friends to remain. We can't make the
thing too big; a garden-party can be as large as you like, but an im-
promptu dance is quite another thing, and we do not want more than
thirty to sit down."
"I should think Fen wick would be content with a less number.
You must recollect Madella does not like the servants to be overworked;
and she has the good old-fashioned notions about Sunday."
" Oh, of course, we all know mother's opinions on that point," re-
turned Bee, impatiently; " that is why we stop dancing at eleven
104 ONLY TIIK I'SS.
hours will be ample for Fenwick and Orson to clear away: and yo
nerd not trouble about Fen wick. I.aunce, for lie enjoys the l>u
much as \ve do."
" I am glad to hear it: but. Bee, one word before you go ha
the Maxwells to remain?"
" Well, no; it would not do the lirst time; they have never even called
here."
ither have the Ilamblyns, my dear, but I suppose Mr. llamblyn
is to stay for the dunce."
V(>: but, Luuncc, Nora is to remain the week, so of com
brother would not go away; they would think it so strange."
" Well, never mind that; let Geoffrey write a little note to Doctor
Maxwell he tells me he is a nice fellow and inform him of the pro-
gramme."
"Very well;" but Bee did not seem pleased. "That will make
thirty-two, including ourselves."
" And Miss Rossiter?"
" Oh, of course Miss Rossiter."
" You don't want me to write to any men, I hope."
" Not this time, thank you; we don't want to overdo things."
" All right; what pleases you pleases me. I did try to get Thorpe,
but he is going down to the Isle of Wight. He has half promised to
look in on one of our Saturdays. ' '
" Of course we are always very glad to see any of your friends,
Launce dear," observed Bee, with the air of a princess, " but mother
and I think that it would be better to ask Mr. Thorpe to dinner first.
You see, his position is a little peculiar, but we all want to know him,"
she, added, heartily, as her brother seemed rather disturbed at this re-
mark.
" I think we all ought to try and cheer him up, poor fellow, Tor I am
afraid he has been hardly used," and then he made up his mind that
on the very first opportunity he would ask Mr. Thorpe to dinner.
" I shall want to show him that picture; it will certainly be my best,"
he thought, when Bee at last left him to his own reflections.
Launcelot worked steadily at his picture the following Saturday after-
noon, but every now and then he stole a glance from the west window.
\v Bernard cross the lawn in his flannels, bent on tennis; then
Bee in her white gown and pretty, shady hat, accompanied by (Jcoffrcy;
then he heard heavy footsteps in the anteroom, and was soon made
aware that the band had arrived, and then he began leisurely putting
away this things.
But he (lid not hurry himself, though gay groups of young people
wcrr < )') ing and recroseing the wide lawn, and already the tennis ,-H,
wen- formed and in full play. For a little while it pleated him to
recon noiter the scene from the distance.
" That is Miss Ilamblyn, I suppose," he said to himself, as a I;, I!
girl in black passed at that moment with Bee; a young man with a
dark mustache was escorting them, and the three seemed very happy.
A minute afterward Pauline appeared, with a very quiet ln<
:mg lady was somewhat high-shouldered ami
They were followed by Mrs. Chudleigh, who wa
i and moved with the air of a duchess; she wa^ hold-
ing Dnssie's hand, and talking with her accustomed graci
looking young man whu walked bc-idc her.
"Isuppo.se that is Doctor Maxwell," thought Launcelot, and ho
OHLY THE GOVERNESS. 105
stepped out through the window, taking care to lower the sash when
he reached the other side, for the studio, with its unfinished picture,
was not on view this afternoon.
Dossie dropped her aunt's hand and ran joyously to meet him. As
Launcelot looked at her, he wondered what Jack would have said at
'the transformation.
The shabby child in the little gray cloak and hood had changed into
a daintily dressed little lady. Dossic's pretty white frock, with its lace
and embroidery, and tastefully trimmed hat, just suited her. Her fair
hair was smooth and shining; a little pink color tinged her pale cheeks.
" Oh, I am so glad you have come!" she said, clinging to him affection-
ately. " It is all so gay and beautiful only we wanted you."
"We always want him, do we not, Dossie?" observed Mrs. Chud-
leigh, who had followed the child and overheard this. " Doctor Max-
well, I must introduce you to my eldest son." And then the two men
shook hands.
Dr. Maxwell was about Launcelpt's age. He was not particularly
good-looking; he was dark-complexioned, and his features were marked
and irregular, but he had a pleasant manner and seemed gentlemanly
and agreeable.
Launcelot was decidedly prepossessed in his favor; he liked his
thoughtful, intelligent expression. But before they had exchanged
many sentences together Pauline and her companion joined them.
" This is Miss Maxwell, Launce," she said, touching her brother on
the arm to attract his attention. Launcelot looked up and saw the
young lady with the eyeglasses.
Miss Maxwell was very like hex brother; they had both the same high
cheek-bones and dark complexion. Bee was right; she was certainly a
plain -girl, but she looked very animated and had a bright smile, and
seemed good-natured and sensible.
She accosted Launcelot very frankly as he shook hands with her.
" I have heard a good deal about your beautiful studio, Mr. Chud-
leigh. I was just asking your sister if you ever admitted strangers."
" Oh, yes, sometimes. My friends are often invited to five o'clock
tea when I have a picture on view. I am not throwing it open this
afternoon, as there is nothing of interest to exhibit; but if you care to
see it just the room, I mean you are welcome to do so."
" Oh, thank you; how very kind!" And Miss Maxwell looked much
pleased; and then Launcelot opened the window again, and they all
followed him in.
A screen had been drawn before the unfinished picture, for Launcelot
had already decided that no outsider but his friend Mr. Thorpe should
be invited to inspect it; so all Pauline's coaxing to allow them one peep
was utterly unavailing.
" I told you there would- be nothing to interest you," he observed to
Miss Maxwell, who was looking about her with great interest, but she
denied this with energy.
" I think it all interesting," she returned, with much vivacity. " It
i< a lovely room, is it not, Hedley? and so beautifully furnished. Is
this where you work, and are all those sketches yours?" and then
Launcelot good-naturedly opened one of his portfolios.
" If you could only have seen his last picture," observed Pauline,
regretfully; " but it is sold: the subject was taken from those words of
Kingsley, ' For men must work, and women must weep. ' I think it
106 OXLT TTTE COY 1
\va* the best ho ever painted. Mother was so fond of it she could not
bear parting with it."
Launcelot looked up quickly. " Was that true, Madella? hud you
really a fancy for it? \YliT did not some one tell me?" in rather a
!' course, I would not have sold it."
" My dear Launce," and Mrs. Chudleigh blushed like a girl, " what
extravagant generosity! Do you think I would have lei you lose live
hundred pounds just to gratify mv whim? Of course it was a beautiful
picture; the face of that fisherman's wife was ao pathetic. Don't you
lemember, Pauline, how we all admired that figure, with the >
shining behind it?"
5Tes, mother; and we all said it was Launcelot's best picture. I
thought. Colonel Evans show r ed his taste in buying it."
" l>ut he would not have had it if you had only told me this before,"
and a cloud crossed Launcelot's face. " I was not in need of the money,
and it might have been hanging in Madella's morning- room at the
ent moment."
" My dear boy," returned Mrs. Chudleigh, in her soft, cooing v
and then she turned to Dr. Maxwell with a smile. " I am afraid you
will think me a spoiled woman; I hardly dare express a wish for fear
my son should gratify it," and she looked very happy as she made this
little speech.
"Mr. Chudleigh is a fortunate man; most of us are debarred from
this sort of luxury," returned Dr. Maxwell, gravely. " He speaks of
live hundred pounds as lightly as some of us would speak of five hun-
dred pence."
" Not at all," was the amused answer. " I own it is a very useful
sum; it came in handy for the Mentone expenses, eh, Pauline? By the
bye. Doctor Maxwell" there was a question I meant to ask you': my
Hstrr tells me you have taken the Bridge House at Riversleigfa. I
wonder if you have come across a friend of mine, who is your near
neighbor, Mr. Thorpe?"
<v Thorpe no at least he is not on my list of patients, and 1 have
had no time yet to make any unprofessional acquaintances. A frieil
of yours, you say?"
" Yes; he lives about a stone's throw from Bridge House, at >
Priory Road; his sister live.s with him; he is the editor of the ' Imperial
Review,' and is a thoroughly nice fellow. His sister is nice, too, only
strong-minded; she belongs to some sort of charity organization society,
and does an immense deal of good."
" Thorpe no, I have never met him."
" I wish you would call upon him. He is a new-comer, too: he used
to live at Button. Unfortunate domestic circumstances have made him
.somewhat of a recluse, but I want to rouse him up a bit." Then Dr.
Maxwell saiil at, once that he would call, and as Launcelot took him to
another part of the room to show him some antique pottery, they talked
r in a low tone.
Mrs. Chuiileiirh had seen some fresh guests enter the garden, so she
hastened back to her duties and took Dossie with her, and the tw
left standing by the portfolio.
Maxwell looked at the sketches a little absently.
" Did you see Hedley's fa< < ! at last, rather abruptly, " when
your brother spoke about keeping thai picture for your mother? Ho
d quite touched, and yi-t I could see he was pained to... Your
brother is very generous, but I think Bedley would be trenerous too if
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 107
he could afford to be he always feels it so hard to be too poor to give
us the things we want."
"But you are not really poor, Charlotte?" for the girls had grown
very intimate during those three weeks of unrestrained intercourse, and
already called each other by their Christian names, after the fashion of
girls. " Bee said how nice your house was when we called; it all looked
so comfortable."
" We are certainly not rich," returned Miss Maxwell, with the
sturdy honesty that was her distinguishing trait. " You must not
judge by the relics of past grandeur; you admired our old oak furniture,
1 remember. Hedley is heavily burdened for so young a man. He
has been just able to buy this partnership, but for some years his in-
come will be very small; he has to make his way, and he has four
women on his hands. It does seem so hard, for, of course, at his age
men would be thinking of settling down getting married I mean; but
of course, as Hedley says, there is no possibility of that now."
" I hope it is not a great disappointment," replied Pauline, rather
vaguely, and not knowing exactly what she was expected to
"Oh, there was no special lady in the case," returned Charlotte,
laughingly; " at least, if there were, lledley has been very close about
it; only, don't you see, most men prefer having a wife to living unmar-
riedf and it does seem such a pity that we should all be burdening him
in this way. If I could only help him; but how could they manage
at home without me?"
" I am sure you help him enough as it is," answered Pauline, eager-
ly. " 1 can not make out how you find time for all you do, the house-
keeping and book-keeping, and all that reading aloud."
"Oh, I like to be busy," was the cheerful retort; "it makes m
miserable to be idle. Sometimes when Sophy and Caroline send me a
long list of commissions I get a little overwhelmed, but that is not
often. If one can not be ornamental, one may at least be useful,"
finished Charlotte, contentedly, "and I am vain enough to think that
neither mother nor Hedley could spare me;' : and at'lhis moment the
two gentlemen rejoined them, and the conversation became more gen-
eral.
CHAPTER XVII.
"ONLY SYBIL'S GOVERNESS."
His face was that of doubtful kind,
That wins the eye but not the mind.
SCOTT.
My thoughts are my own.
Anon.
WHEN Launcelot had done the honors of the studio thoroughly, and
had exhibited his Roman and Etruscan curiosities, in which his visitors
took an intelligent interest, he suggested that they should join the other
guests on the lawn.
" Yes, indeed. I think that we have taken up far too much of your
valuable time already," returned Miss Maxwell in her straightforward
way, " but you have given us a great deal of pleasure."
" Then I am already repaid," was the courteous answer; ftnd at this
moment they encountered the same little group that had passed the
window some time ago. Bee gave an offended toss of her head when
she s>aw her brother.
108 ONLY Till: <.n\n;XESS.
" Ilere you are at last, Launcelot; every one lias been inquiring after
you. Where have you been all this time? I have been wanting to in-
troduce you to my friend -Miss llamblyn."
"I do not think that we require an introduction," returned that
young lady, graciously, and her bright eyes took quiet stock of the slim,
young-looking man before her the rich, eccentric Launcelot Chudleigh,
of whom she had heard so much the master of this beautiful 1.
Why, he was years older than his brother Geoffrey, and yet he looked
quite boyish and insignificant; and Miss llamblyn, who was a very
dignified person, felt decidedly disappointed, for she liked tall, line-
booking men.
" I have heard a great deal about Miss Hamblyn," returned Launce-
lot, with polite sincerity. " This is your brother, I suppose?" turning
to a singularly handsome young man, who was holding Bee's sun-
shade. Probably there was some admixture of foreign blood in the
llamblyn family, for Oscar had the olive complexion and dark liquid
that belong to the south. As Launcelot noticed the black silky
mustache and faultless attire he uttered an inward groan. " He ou^ht
to be labeled 'Dangerous,'" he muttered. "What was Madelhi
thinking about, allowing such a good-looking fellow to dance attend-
ance on Bee?"
Perfectly unconscious of this criticism, Mr. Hamblyn addressed his
host with the easy, well-bred manners of a man of the world.
" It is really very good of you to allow us to come in this informal
way, Mr. Chudleigh. We saw a great deal of your mother and sisters
at Mentone. That is the best of life abroad, one gets to know people so
intimately. Why, a whole season in town would not have made us so
well acquainted with each other." Mr. Hamblyn glanced at Bee as he
spoke, and Lauucelot was vexed to see how this little remark, so care-
lessly uttered, seemed to heighten her color.
" I don't believe people ever know each other in society, " he returned,
rather more dogmatically than usual; " one only skims over the surface
somehow. ' '
" Ah, you are a philosopher, " observed Miss Hamblyn, in her smooth,
flexible voice; and then it was by a dexterous little movement on her
part the group broke up, and Launcelot found himself pacing the
shrubberies with Miss Hamblyn beside him, while Bee and her cavalier
slowly followed them. Pauline and the Maxwells had disappeared, and
later on he saw them in the distance with Miss Rossiter.
Strange to say, Launcelot felt a little impatience in his position. I Ie
was not in the mood for strangers, and he found the society of this self
-ed and talkative young lady rather irksome than otherwise.
For once he was inclined to be captious and fault-finding. He allowed
that Miss Hamblyn was a striking-looking girl, that she had a decided
claim to good looks; she had a fine complexion, good features, though a
little prononce; a very graceful figure and lady-like carriage; she di
well, walked well, and was iluent and easy in speech. Nevertheless,
she bored him; and yet he could not find out the reason.
la very earthly," he thought; but then many charming women
are earthly. Miss Rossiter was earthly, or whatever he meant by that
vague expression. " She is too decided and opinionative for her
nt <m. but certain! .\\vell was quite as decided, and he
hud not been bored by her. " She is cold and self -satisfied, she thinks
guch an awi'iK lot of herself," iini.-liud tin's very churlish young man.
> i -In me to pay her attention and that sort of thing, but then
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 109
I never come up to people's expectations. " But notwithstanding this
under-current of opposition, he made himself so agreeable that Miss
Hamblyn revoked her previous opinion.
"Mr. Chudleigh was quite out of the common; he was really very
interesting-looking; there was something artistic about him." Yes, she
liked him very much, as she assured Bee afterward.
" Oh, every one likes Launce," returned Bee, who had not a doubt
upon this subject. " Half the girls are in love with him. only he never
gives, them any encouragement. He thinks flirting nonsentfe. "
"He is perfectly right. 1 respect him for that," replied Miss
Hamblyn, seriously; and she meant what she said. Both she and her
brother were adepts in the art; but nothing would have displeased her
more than any attempt on Launcelot's part to flirt with her. The
change in their circumstances made her anxious to settle, and she felt
all such frivolities were out of the question now, and that she must take
more serious views of life.
"And I should leave it off too, if I were you, Oscar," she said,
rather gravely, that very night, as they stood and watched Launcelot
and Bee waltzing together. " It is not wise to have two strings to your
bow, at least."
"Perhaps you'll be good enough to mind your own business for
once, 'Nora," he had returned, rather sulkily; for Oscar had a temper,
and the Ilamblyns were not always civil to each other. But his sister
did not seem to mind this rough answer; she only laughed and patted
his shoulder.
" Poor boy, is he so badly hit?" she said. " Well, she is very pretty
and I can't rind fault with your taste."
" Pshaw!" he muttered, ungraciously, and then he pulled his mus-
tache rather gloomily as his eyes followed the slight, girlish figure.
When they had finished the dance he hurried up to her.
" The next is ours; have you forgotten?" he said, looking rather too
intently at her pretty, flushed face; but Bee dropped her eyelids and an-
swered, demurely, "Oh, no, I have not forgotten, but "I am a little
tired, I think. Launce waltzes deliciously but I shall soon be rested,"
and she made no objection when Mr. Hamblyu proposed a seat in the
cool, dimly lighted drawing-room; certainly Oscar Hamblyn was an
adept in the dangerous art.
Launcelot was not able to sustain an unbroken conversation with Miss
llarnblyn; every few minutes he had to stop and speak to people, and
to answer all sorts of inquiries. He apologized at last.
" This is very stupid for you," he said, in his pleasant way; " you
see all these good folk are my guests, and 1 have not spoken to them
yet. I am afraid I must leave you and do the civil. Where is Geoffrey?
Oh, I see he is organizing another set for tennis; you dp not play tennis,
I suppose?" looking down at her black dress. " Will you sit here in
the shade and watch them and oh, there goes Oliver; I must intro-
duce him to you: Oliver Grayling, a friend of mine; capital fellow, im-
mensely rich nothing on earth to do with his money, " and here Launce-
lot dived dexterously between the tennis-players and spectators, and
tapped Mr. Grayling smartly on the shoulder.
Miss Hamblyn received him graciously; it washer role to be gracious.
" It is a mistake to snub people," as she said, but in her heart she woukl
rather have retained Launcelot. Mr. Grayling might be rich why on
earth had Launcelot mentioned that little fact? but he was bald, rather
looking, forty at least, and wore spectacles, and more nervous
110 ONLY THE GOYERNESS.
than amusing. Nevertheless, Miss Ilamblyn kindly took him In hand,
and made the best of him; for she also was a philosopher, and had a
amount of prudence and foresight for a girl of two -ami-twenty.
Launcelot walked away very fast when he had regained his freedom.
" I must Confess I was bored," he said to himself, with some surprise
at the novelty of the sensation; and then his eyes brightened and hia
space quickened, for there was Miss Rossiter in her yellow gown
it yellow, though, or only pale golden brown? hurrying on before him
in the direction of the terrace.
" Why so fast?" he called out; and then she stopped and waited for
him to come up with her.
" Well, what is the matter?" he asked, quietly, for he saw she looked
hot and disturbed, and did not smile at him in her old way.
"Oh. I was onl}' looking for my children/' she returned, knitting
jer brows as though she were vexed. " I have lost them, and it is all
that tiresome Mr. Hamblyn's fault. I wanted DossiV to have son
Mrs. Chudleigh says she looks tired and Mr. Ilamblyn would detain
me, and now they are out of sight."
" I think Hamblyn was with Bee; I saw him with her just now."
" Oh, he has been with her most of the afternoon, but he has been in-
flicting his company on me for all that. I am sure I wish Beatrix would
keep him to herself; he is dreadfully stupid."
" Miss Rossiter, I am afraid yes, I really am afraid that you are
just a little bit cross."
" So I am;" but she laughed now. " I wanted to find Dossie so bad
ly; and I can't bear Mr. Hamblyn."
" You can't bear Adonis " with a pause between each word.
" Oh, I don't like Adonises," was the pettish answer. " I don't care;
a bit about handsome men; they only admire themselves: at least, if
they admire you, they expect you to do it in return. Of course he is
good-looking, but he knows it, and trades upon his knowledge. I be-
lieve I hate him because he paid so much attention to Beatrix at Men-
tone. ' '
" Miss Rossiter," still more solemnly, " do you know you are letting
the cat out of the bag to Beatrix's brother?"
" Oh, that is nonsense;" but she looked a little ashamed of h<
" Of course you know there were plenty of flirtation- going on."
" I am sorry to hear it," he returned, so gravel} that Miss KossiU-r's
manner changed at once, and she looked quite sorry for her thoughtless
speech.
" I wish I could learn to hold my tongue," she said, penitently. " I
always speak without thinking It is because ] am so sure that Mr.
Ilamblyn is a flirt that I dislike him so; why, he would pay an
compliments by the score if she would let him, but Bee is so in;
that she will believe him."
" And yet she is a thorough little woman of the world, and tolerably
sharp, too; I have seen her send men about their business when they
did not please her."
. but if Mr. Ilamblyn does please her?"
" Oh. 1 see what you mean; it is kind and friendly of you to put us
on our guard. I did not want to misjudge any one," but I shall 1
strict watch over the young man. I don't mind telling you, in coiili-
tlence, that. ! am not preposn-ssed in his favor. I am far hctter p <
with Pauline's new friends."
'odor Maxwell and his sister? oh. yes, they are thorouirhh
ONLY THE GOVEKNESS. Ill
like them so much. Doctor Maxwell is a most superior man, and yet
ems to think so little of himself; and Miss Maxwell is clever
too."
They had reached the terrace, but there were no children there; so
Rossiter said she must return to the house, and they sauntered
slowly, meeting stray couples on their way. To Launcelot this
!he pleasan test part of the afternoon. His companion suited him
ly. Her petulant little speeches amused him; she was so frank
.:ul easy in her manner, so willing to talk or to be silent, so artlessly
.'ininunicative, that Launcelot was sorry when the short walk was
romplished and she left him at the hall-door.
I>ut they had not passed unobserved. Mr. Hamblyn had just crossed
;\vn to speak to his sister as the two emerged from the shrubbery.
" \Vho is that tall woman in the yellow gown walking with Chud-
IfighV" asked Mr. Grayling, who was short-sighted; he still kept his
place beside Miss Hamblyn, but it must be confessed that the young
lady felt a trifle bored.
" Oh, that is only the governess, Miss Rossiter," she returned, care-
lessly; and then in an under-tone to her brother, " How very strange!
I must say I wonder at Mr. Chudleigh."
"She is very handsome," went on Mr. Grayling, in his fussy way.
" I was sure I had seen her before, but I could not remember her name;
she looked quite like a picture in that queer-colored gown, and with
that wonderful hair a very uncommon type of beauty."
"I do not admire Miss Rossiter," returned .Miss Hamblyn, coldly.
" I never cared for red hair."
" Come now, that is too bad, Nora," observed her brother, with a
laugh. "Miss Rossiter's hair is a ruddy brown; -no one with eyes in
his head would call it anythiug but beautiful."
"Nevertheless, it is not to my taste," she replied, with quiet per-
tinacity, "and I think the gown hideous. Mamma would never have
allowed a governess of ours to make herself so conspicuous, and I must
say 1 wonder at Mrs. Chudleigh," but Mr. Hamblyn merely laughed
again, and shrugged his shoulders as he crossed the lawn. Women
always undervalued each other, he thought, but for his part he indorsed
Mr. Grayling's opinion he thought Miss Rossiter a superb creature;
perhaps 'he admired her all the more that she had repulsed his little at-
tentions and laughed at his compliments.
"It is easier to get on with the other one," he said to himself, as he
made his way to Bee, who received him with a smile and a blush.
The afternoon had been quite a success, and theije had not been a
single hitch in the arrangements; the carriages had come up at the right
time, and the departing guests had expressed themselves much pleased
with the entertainments. Only a few tennis- players and a group or two
of young people were left on the wide lawn.
When the last carriage had driven off, Bee summoned the girls up-
stairs to smarten themselves for the evening. They all wore cool sum-
mer dresses, and with the addition* of fresh gloves, and a few flowers,
they looked as nice as possible. Most of the young men retired to the
billiard-room, and Fenwick and his helpers were exceedingly busy in
the dining-room.
When Bee went to Miss Hamblyn 's room with some white stephanotis
that she had picked for her she found her already dressed.
44 Oh, Nora, you ought not to have changed your dress," she said, a
ONLY T1TK f-'OYT.RXESS.
little reproachfully, for Miss irunblyn won- a charming demi-toilet of
soft black gauze, trimmed with jet lave; " it. is quite against our rule."
" I could not know Mint, my dear, could I'!" returned lu-r friend, with
n smile, though she was perfectly aware of the fact. "But nothing
' nicer than your white gown. Are those flowers for me? How
lovely and how good of you to bring them!"
" Oh, we provide flowers for all the girls," returned Bee, in an off-
hand manner, for she was a little provoked at the studied elegance of
her friend's attire, which would throw them all in the shade, but .Miss
Hamblyn looked serenely unconscious of the girl's petulance as she dre\v
on her' long white gloves. When she had finished she passed her arm
affectionately through Bee's.
"Oscar is so charmed with everything; he thinks things are don
wilh such good taste. He has been praising you all up to i he skies, and
praise is not much in Oscar's line; if he has a fault he is so terribly
fastidious, but you have managed to cure him."
11 Who I but Bee tried not to look pleased.
"It is so nice to see him look happy again, poor old fellow," con-
tanned Miss llamblyn, with a sigh. " I hope you will let him come
often, for it will do him so much good."
" We shall always be pleased to see your brother, Nora; but I think
he looks very well, and he is always cheerful," for Bee was very mat-
ter-of-fact, and though it was perfectly true that she found the society
of the handsome young barrister very seductive, she was not yet com-
pletely under his influence.
"He is always cheerful in your society, my dear," returned her
friend, laughing; " but I am not so sure that mother and I find him an
entertaining companion," which was certainly true, for the fascinating
Oscar was much given to air his little tempers in the family circle, and
the reverses of fortune and private difficulties of his own had not sweet-
ened a naturally impatient disposition. He was somewhat self-indulged,
and pleasure-loving by nature, and he did not like his little amusements
curtailed.
Bee blushed very prettily over this speech, but modesty and good
taste led her to change the conversation by proposing to show her friend
over the house, and as Nora acceded to this with much alacrity, they
went out into the corridor arm in arm.
" This is mother's dressing-room, where she generally sits in the
morning," began Bee. " Launce calls it the Sanitarium, because all
convalescents pass their days here; he thinks it the nicest room in the
house."
" It is very nice, but I like the morning-room better," observed Nora,
whose critical eye^ noticed the old-fashioned furniture: and rather shabby
cretonne. Every other room at the Witchens was fitted up handsomely
and in mo leni style, but Mrs. Chudleigh had kept for her own use the
furniture she had used as a girl. Over the mantel-piece hung the por-
trait of her husband, a handsome man, with Launcelot's eyes but with
si sterner cast of countenance, while the walls were covered' with photo-
graphs of their children at different ages, in every variety of style and
and on a stand in one corner was a beautifully finished miniature
of a fair-haired girl, the Lily who had died. Under this picture there
was always a va.se of ilowers.
In her eliiM; the mother's room was simply perfect,
nose old fashioned easy-chairs, no much
like the one that stood in the window; they regarded the various objects
ONLY THE GOVEIINESS. 113
round them as sacred treasures. There was their father's writing-table,
his favorite pictures, the watch that they had all played with in turn,
the beautiful iron casket where their mother kept her jewels, and that
no one could lift, and the cabinets of china with the lovely old tea-set
out of which she had drunk as a girl.
As a rule Mrs. Chudleigk used this room in the morning; she liked to
write her letters undisturbed by the girls' chatter, but any invalid re-
quiring quiet always found peaceful harborage in the mother's room.
Even Launcelot would forsake his beloved studio if a headache or
fatigue hindered work, and would expect his share of petting. It was
certain Mrs. Chudleigh never looked happier than when she was minis-
tering to her children. Her one regret was that Sybil had outgrown her
babyhood, and was growing too old to be petted, and she often owned
that she looked forward to her children marrying, that she might have
babies in her armsoigain.
" I think it is a lovely room," returned Bee, a little hurt at her
friend's disparaging tone; " we all like the dear shabby old furniture.
Mother wanted to buy a new American rocking-chair one day that took
her fancy, but Launcelot Would not hear of it. He said she might get
it for the morning-room, but no innovation could be allowed in the
Sanitarium."
" That was very nice of him," returned Miss Hamblyn, vaguely, but
in her own mind she thought the rocking-chair would have been an im-
provement. The Chudleighs were certainly very conservative and
strong in their attachments; she must take care not to offend their little
prejudices even if she could not understand them. She was very fond
of her own mother, a gay, handsome woman, but she never expected
much outward demonstration of affection from her. Lady Hamblyn
was very proud of her children and indulged them to their own detri-
ment, but she never petted them; she was ambitious and planned for
their worldly advancement, but she could not have effaced herself for
their sakcs as Mrs. Chudleigh could; neither did her children treat her
with the same reverence. The boys squabbled and fought with each
other in her presence, and Nora would tell her to her face that she was
wrong. The girl's bringing up had been altogether a mistake: she had
been spoiled as a child, and then as a girl kept rather too strictly; no
high standaritof duty had been placed before her. To be accomplished,
to make the best of her good looks, to dance well, and to make a satis-
factory marriage satisfactory, that is, in a worldly point of view had
been pointed out as her most serious duties. There had been no at-
tempt to check a naturally imperious temper, or the smooth selfishness
that underlay her character; so it was no wonder the poor girl grew up
as worldly minded and pleasure-loving as her mother.
When they had reached the school-room there were a few words said
on the subject of Miss Rossiter. Nora had praised this room cordially,
and had said that in her opinion Miss Rossiter was a very lucky person,
" for you all make so much of her, you know," she added, in a voice
that somehow conveyed a reproof.
" Ah, we are all very fond of her," returned Bee, who, like Pauline,
could be blunt at times. "' She is so good-natured and amusing."
" Oh, I dare say; but it is rather a dangerous experiment, lifting peo-
ple so completely out of their proper position. Gentlemen take so much
notice of her, and it must be a little awkward for you sometimes. Even
a siater can be in one's way but Sybil's governess!"
" Hush! I am so afraid some one will hear you. Yes, I know what
114 OKI > i:\ESS.
you mean," i'<>r Bee had suffered more than one ]">ang of jealoi;
Mi-s 'imt, and thai very afternoon she liail seen Mr.
llamblyn waylay lier. " 1 dare say you are right, and no doubt it is in-
judieious; but mother and Pauline' are so devoted toher, and I mi;
she makes herself very neeessary to us all."
" I am afraid you are all making a mistake that you may liv'
' relumed the other, senlentiously. " I remember a family
where the governess was young and handsome, and the uncle a rich
man " but liere a low laugh from the curtained recess in the "window
startled the girls, and the next moment Miss IJ< pud down,
looking very guilt}' and amused, with her hands held out in supplica-
tion.
" Do please forgive me; I could not help hearing what, you said. 1
never thought you meant to go on " trying not to laugh, as
llamblyn drew herself up in haughty displeasure.. " Don't say any
more dreadful things about me, please; they are not a bit true. I don'k
want to be in any one's way, and I can't help them all being so kind to
me: even Bee" throwing her arms round her with a hearty
" Bee is very cross with me sometimes, but she is very good to n,
though 1 am ' only Sybil's governess,' " with a gleam of fun in her
* she looked at Miss llamblyn.
" Listeners never hear any good of themselves; you deserve all you
have got," returned Bee, who could not help laughing, but
Hamblyn looked solemnly displeased. She was in an awkward posi-
tion, and she hated awkward positions. She was aware that she had re-
garded Miss Rossiter from the first with inward antagonism that she
had purposely undervalued her on every occasion and this untoward
circumstance would not add to their friendliness; altogether it \va-
annoying. This was her first evening at the \Vitchens, and she wanted
every one to regard her in a favorable light; and now she had made
Miss Rossiter her enemy. "I am sure I never meant," she In
stillly, but the governess interrupted her with a light laugh
" Please do not trouble yourself about a few words; every on<
right to his own opinion. I will undertake to forgive your initial ;
estimate of me if that is what you want," and Miss Rossiter loo!
indifferent and amused that for once Miss Hamblyn felt, small. She
scarcely said a word as she followed Bee down-stairs; and it did not add
to her enjoyment when she found herself seated at the table with
Rossiter exactly opposite her, with Bernard and < >> rh side of
her, making herself equally agreeable to both.
"I hope I shall not get to hate her in time," thought No
averted her eyes from the bright face and yellowish gown, and tried to
cany on an animated discussion with Geoffrey on the merits of the last
new book.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A CIN1) ]; K i: J, I, A DANCE.
The mood of woman who can tell?
SCOTT.
A pretty lass though somewhat !;
on.
IF the afternoon had been a .-i-nrrally allowed thai the
cvenii unplete triumph. Kven Mr. llamblyn, who
authority in such matters, owned afterward that 'fur an impromptu
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 115
" smalV and early " dance the Chudleighs had made rather a neat thing
of it, and that they had showed good taste in their arrangements.
In the first place the supper had been excellent, and there had been a
liberal supply of very fair champagne; then the Wimberley band had
played in good time and with much spirit; the dark, polished oak floor
had been perfect, and the hall had been brilliantly lighted; and last,
but not least, there had been several -pretty girls, so it was no wonder
Mr. Hamblyn owned that he had passed an exceedingly pleasant even
ing.
In spite of his sister's prudent warning he had contrived to pay Bea
trix a great deal of attention; and though she knew her duties too well
as a hostess to give him as many dances as he wished, he made such ex
cellent use of any opportunity that occurred that before they parted that
night both he and Beatrix felt that their intimacy had made a con-
siderable stride.
He had danced twice with Miss Rossiter, who, by Mrs. Chu'lleigh's
wish, had always taken part in all their entertainments. ."Miss Kossiter,
who was passionately fond of dancing, could not fintl it in her heart to
refuse so good a partner, but she showed him so plainly that his atten-
tions were repugnant to her that Mr. Hamblyn, who had secretly pre-
ferred her at first to Beatrix, was piqued, and transferred his allegiance
to his young hostess.
Bee was looking her best to-night; some inward happiness had bright-
ened her eyes and given fresh bloom to her cheek. She looked so fresh,
so innocent, so piquant, that Mr. Hamblyn's roving fancy seemed
caught at last, and it was with real feeling that he said to her as they sat
alone in the morning-room, " What a fortunate thing it was that my
mother changed her mind at the last moment about Algiers!"
" Why?" asked Bee, innocently, as she played with her Ian, but she
blushed a little over the question.
" Need you ask?" he returned, softly. " If we had not gone to Men-
tone I should never have met you, and now we are friends/'
" Oh, yes, of course we are friends," and Bee glanced at him shyly.
He looked wouderfulty handsome in the dim light; his face was half
turned from her, as though his own words had moved him, and she
could see the perfect profile, with the silky mustache. He was almost
top beautiful for a man, she thought, and her heart beat more quickly
with some indefinable emotion. Just then he moved his position, and
their eyes met; a sort of electric shock seemed to pass through the girl;
she rose and said a little tremulously
" I am not tired now, and mamma will be wanting me."
" Dp not make me think you are afraid of me; that would make me
too miserable," he returned, in the same pleading voice, but he did not
seek to detain her: perhaps he thought he had gone far enough that
night. She was a dear girl, and he was tempted to make a fool of him-
self; but he must not be imprudent; there were complications. He had
not made up his mind, so he took her back to her mother without an-
other word, and Bee hardly looked at him when he bade her good-night.
Perhaps Dr. Maxwell was the only person who did not thoroughly
enjoy the evening. Pauline found to her disappointment that he did
not dance, and that he only remained to give his sister pleasure.
" Charlotte has so little amusement in her life, poor girl," he said,
when Pauline remonstrated with him on his gravity. " Oh. no, I do
not dance. I had a weak ankle for some years, so I never formed the
habit as a young man. ' '
116 ONLY THE GOTERXT.SS.
" Doctor Maxwell." she returned, in a provoked lour, " why will you
always speak of yourself its though you were middle-aged? It is such
nonsense making yourself out so old."
" 1 am two-and-thirty," lie returned, smiling a little at her girlish
brusqiieric: " is not that :i grave
not. Launeelot is thirty-two. "
"Oh, your brother; one would take him for two-and-twenty : he
quite a boy, and he evidently enjoys dancing, for he has n
out once."
" Oh, Launee loves dancing and every sort of amusement. 1 am sure
you would like it if you tried." lint Dr. Maxwell shook his head.
" 1 am afraid you' will not convert me. Miss Chudleis;h. hut I like to
watch you all. You seem so happy. I wish Prissy could have been
here: she beirged hard to come, but it' was hardly prudent."
" liut she is much better, is she not?"
" We hope so; yes, she is certainly better. The worst of it is you
young ladies are so imprudent. Prissy is always doing foolish things
and tlirowiug herself back."
" So Charlotte says."
" Oh, we should all of us be lost without Charlotte: she is my moth-
er's right hand, and mine too; and as for Brenda, she is utterly depend-
ent on her. I have never seen two sisters so devoted to each other.
Mav I ask of what you are thinking, Miss Chudleigh?" for the girl
had raised her clear, serious eyes to his, and their expression touched
him.
" I was only thinking," she returned, simply, "what a useful life
yours must be, so many dependent o'n you for their daily comfort."
But he reddened slightly at her sympathetic tone.
" You are very kind to put it in that way; it is horrid of me to be dis-
contented sometimes, is it not?"
" Oh, I don't believe that for a moment. Charlotte was only telling
us the other day that you are never out of humor."
" Charlotte is a great goose."
" And I am a goose too for believing her, I suppose," laughing
merrily. " No, it will not do, Doctor Maxwell; I prefer Charlotte's
opinion: discontented people are always cross."
" Indeed you are wrong," more earnestly than the ease warranted,
for she had spoken half in jest; but he was bent on proving to this girl
that he was a mere mortal, and no hero with exaggerated vie
duty.
" I have my moods of discouragement like oth^r people. 1 am often
discontented, not to say morose, only one need not show it. 1 sup-
pose we \vould all of us like to choose our environment, and I must own
a few thousand pounds in the funds would sweeten existence."
dine elevated her eyebrows, but did not answer; this statement
rather surprised her.
" I mean," he added, quickly, for he did not wish her to mistake his
meaning or think him mercenary, " a few more hundreds a year would
enable my mother to have a home of her own. Riverslelgh is not the
pi; tee for either Brenda or Prissy; we are too near the river. Kivers-
Feigb lies low, and is certainly not bracing; they would both be better
in the country. But what are we to do? .My work lies here. 1 could
not lind a suitable housl- in the town, and I have Bridg< llou
V ought to g t" Monlreux or Meiilone again this winter to <
the iiver fogs, but J know we shall not be able to manage it."
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 117
" You must just do the best you can under the circumstances, and
leave results," returned Pauline, very sensibly. She had seen a great
deal of the young doctor during that fortnight at Mentone, and they
had had long conversations, in which Charlotte had joined; they were
quite like old friends now.
" Yes," he said, smiling at her, for her straightforward frankness had
pleased him from the first. " I must just do the best 1 can for them
all," and then Pauline saw her partner waiting for her, and reluctantly'
left her comfortable seat. She preferred talking to Dr. Maxwell to
dancing with Captain Grenfell; he was so nice and sensible, so superior
to the usual run of men.
Once, as she stopped in the giddy round, she looked across the halJ,
and saw that he was still standing in the same place, and that he had
been quietly watching her; and this gave her pleasure, for she somehow
wanted him to like her.
" Poor little girl, how happy she looks!" thought Dr. Maxwell, wak-
ing up from a brown study, as Pauline gave him a bright smile as she
passed on her partner's arm. " She is very fresh and nai've; the world
has not spoiled her yet. Most people admire the elder sister, and I sup-
pose she is prettier yes, that is the word for her but there is more in
this one's face."
Launcelot had enjoyed the evening most thoroughly. Bee assured
him very graciously, when she bade him good-night, that he had clone
his duty to his fair guests nobly.
" And you danced with Nora three times," in an approving tone.
" Oh, yes; I danced with Miss Hamblyn. Her step just suited mine;
but I like Miss Mainwaring's style quite as well."
" Yes, but Patty is so plain not that she can help it, poor girl; and
Nora is so handsome." But to this Launcelot made no audible reply.
He would not hurt Bee's feelings by saying that he did not personally
admire her friend. She was a fine girl, and very cheerful and talkative;
but he still thought her " earthly," and the term was conclusive in his
mind.
Toward the end of the evening as the numbers were thinning a little,
and they had begun to play one of Strauss's delicious valses, he saw
Miss Rossiter standing alone; she was watching the dancers, and beat-
ing time softly with her foot. In a moment he was beside her.
" Let us try this together," he said, quietly, but there was restrained
eagerness in his manner. " I have never danced with you;" but to his
surprise she hesitated and rather drew back.
" I think you had better choose another partner; there is Miss Ham-
blyn sitting down in the comer. : '
" Ah, I never dance more than three times with any lady; besides, I
want to dance this valse with you." Launcelot's tone was a little per-
emptory, and perhaps Miss Rossiter felt she must not disobey the master
of the house, for she let him put his arm around her without saying
anything more.
" Nonsense; why should I not have one dance with her?" thought
Launcelot. " If people talk, they will talk still more presently," and
then he became slightly dizzy at the idea he had conjured up, and so
dismissed it, and gave himself up to the pleasure of the moment.
He had had many good partners in his life, but never such a one as
Miss Rossiter. Nora Hamblyn could not hold a candle to her; her time
was perfect; she seemed to glide to the music like the spirit of the valse
itself; her light foot scarcely touched the floor.
118 ONLY TJIK M>vi.,iNESS.
" That was delicious. We must have one turn more, ' he pleaded tS
*he stoppod. " You do not mean to say you are tired?"
' No: but I would rather not dance any more,"' she returned.
v that, he had no option but to take; her to ;i seat, lie felt ;i little
pu/./led at her evident reluctance to dance with him. Jit; h
dancing with (Jcott'rey. and, indeed, she had refused no one who had
asked her. He knew she was not tired. She was a little pale with
pleasure and excitement, that was all.
" I am afraid I didn't satisfy you," he said, in rather a piqued
" Oh, Chudleigh, and you dance so beautifully. You have been quite
the best partner 1 have had this evening, though Mr. llamblvn \\
well."
" Then why have you cut short my pleasure?" he persisted. "It
ry ill-natured of you when I wanted another turn so badly."
"Not to-night. Please don't be vexed. I think I enjoyed it too
much. It is not good for me. When we were dancing together it did not
seem right somehow. I can't explain; and, of course, you think me
queer?"
" Well, you are queer, are you not?" but Launcelot looked at her
rather anxiously. She was quite pale now, and her large gray eyes had
a half- frightened expression, as though some thought were' troubling
her. " What am I to understand by this rigmarole that you think it
wrong to dance with me?" but she knitted her white brows, and looked
us though she had hardly understood him.
" Come, I am very obstinate by nature, and I want to argue this out
for my own peace of mind. I like dancing with you more than witk
any one else. Why do you dislike to dance with me?"
" I do not, I do not. What an idea, Mr. Chudleigh!"
" You do not dislike it?"
" Of course not. Why should I, when you dance so beautifully?"
" Thank you, Miss Rossiter. I love compliments. Well, then;"
but to his chagrin she gave an odd little laugh and fled, and he positively
saw her no more that evening.
" What a strange girl!" he said to himself as he walked away
he determined he would have it out with her soon. lie would finish
the picture, and then and then! and again there came that glow in his
eyes.
The evening had been a triumph to Bee; but during the next few
her satisfaction was less complete. It was evident that the fascinating
Nora had found no favor in Launcelot 's eyes.
He was very civil to her, and interested himself in any little plan that
his sisters had made for the amusement of their guest; but he never
offered to be of the party. " Of course you will go with them.
Geoffrey," he would say, in a cool, off-hand manner, lie even lent his
horse to Geoffrey that he might ride with Miss llamblyn.
Bee did not dare grumble openly, for the young master of the 1
was M privileged person, and no one ventured to criticise his movements;
but she hinted pettishly now and then that she wished that UP
picture was done, for she wanted Xoru to think that only press of busi-
ness made Launcelot shut himself up all day in his studio.
But one afternoon when Geoii'n-y and M'NS Eamblyn had started for
a ride, Launcelot came into the morning-room, and asked Pauline
I to walk down to Overtoil with him. " 1 have some bush:.
the post-ollicc and the bank, and as I have been working all the morn
Ing, a quick walk will do me good."
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. US
Pauline was delighted at the idea. A walk with Launcelot \v;ts
always a much-coveted pleasure; but Bee, who was writing notes, looked
lap in rather an aggrieved manner.
" I thought you were so busy, Launce, or else I would have asked you
to drive us to Richmond; it would have amused Nora so."
" Oh, I dare say she finds Geoff just as amusing," was the careless
answer; and then mischief prompted him to add, " I think Geoff is just
a little bit soft on your fair friend."
" Nonsense, Launce, how can you be so absurd?" and Bee looked
quite annoyed. " Geoffrey is far too sensible to think of such a thing.
Do you suppose a girl like Nora would have anything to do with a
briefless barrister, a younger sou, too? Nora will marry well, or not at
all."
" Geoff will not always be a briefless barrteter, my dear. He is a ris-
ing man."
" Still, Nora would never look at him. He is far too young for her,"
was the decided answer; and then Bee went on in a plaintive voice, " I
am so disappointed that you do not like Nora. She is such a sensible
girl; but you ueveD-seem to talk to her. She must wonder at it, for she
has always been accustomed to so much attention."
" But, my dear Bee, you forget I am an elder brother."
" Well, what of that?" rather crossly.
" It would never do for me to raise fruitless hopes, and if I were to
be too attentive in my character of host Miss Haniblyn might think I
was in love with her, and I assure you that I never intend to introduce
your future sister-in-law."
" Oh, Launce, I do wish you would talk sense. Who ever thought
of such a thing? I only meant when other girls come to the house you
are much nicer to them than you are to Nora. Oh, I know how you
can be when you like people, but it is evident that my friends are not
to your taste," and Bee tossed her head, for she was in one of her little
tempers, and went on with her notes; and Launcelot, with a brief
whistle that meant volumes, went out into the hall to summon Lion,
who always accompanied him.
But he was rather thoughtful as they crossed the common, and by
and by he began abruptly :
" Bee is in a pet with me; she seems put out because I do not admire
her favorite. 1 really believe the silly child is disappointed because I
have not fallen in love with Miss Hamblyn."
" Oh, no, Launce," returned Pauline, eagerly. " Bee would not be
so foolish. She said to me only the other day that she did not know the
girl who was worthy of you, and Nora was staying with us then."
" What did she mean, then?" he asked, rather puzzled.
" Well, you see, Nora has been accustomed to the very best society,
and people have made a great deal of her; in fact, she is a girl who ex^
pects attention from gentlemen, and Bee is disappointed because you
never offer to escoft them anywhere."
"Oh, is that all?"
" I think so;" then, in rather a hesitating voice, for it is not always
possible to tell everything even to the best of brothers, ' ' Bee is very
fond of Nora, and things so much of her opinion, though I must say
both Huldah and I think she is extremely carping and critical for a girl
of her age, and she wants her to form a good impression of us all."
But Pauline did not add that she thought Bee's nervous anxiety to
make Miss Hamblyn's visit pleasant to her was entirely owing to the
120 ONL^ I
fact that she was Oscar Ilamblyn's sister. Pauline would not have l>g
1 rayed lice's little secret for the world.
'" I suppose that fellow will turn up again ou Saturday?'' was 1
lot's next question.
" Whom do you mean Mr. Hamblyii? Oh, yes, and he will lake
Nora back with him. Of course we shall see them often on our Satur-
days ' '
"I am sorry to hear it," was the curt answer. "I don't take to
Hamblyn; too much of the fop for my taste."
" But he is very handsome; you can not deny that. Iluldah d<
like him, either."
"Miss Rossiter shows her discernment. She is a . 011111;
woman," and then he became silent all at once, for a charmin
was always before him day and night, and he wondered if he could wait
until the picture were finished, or if he should tell her what had
in his heart so long.
He was so absorbed by these thoughts that he was quite startled when
Pauline spoke to him.
" Look at those clouds, Launce; we shall have a heavy shower direct-
ly, and I have no umbrella."
" Nor I. I tell you what we will do, Paul; we will cross the bridge
and take refuge at the Thorpes'. You know I want you to call there
one day."
" Ah, but Bridge House is nearer; it is just by the station."
" There is not a stone's throw between them. Never mind, we will
do both; call at Bridge House first and then at Priory Road." And to
this Pauline agreed.
As they turned off the bridge the first heavy drops fell, and they
quickened their steps. The next moment they encountered Dr. ^lax-
well, who was turning in at his own gate. He looked very pleased as
he shook hands with them.
" Are you bringing your brother to call on us, Miss Chudleigh? It
is very good of you. Charlotte is not at home; but all the others will
be delighted to see you." And opening the door with his latch-key he
ushered them 'into the wide, cool passage, with an open glass door "that
led into the garden.
Bridge House was a substantial old-fashioned house, evidently built
very early in the century. The windows were high and narrow, and
an iron gate shut in the front garden.
The room they entered had folding-doors that were always open, and
made one long room that stretched from the front to the back of the
hoine. It was handsomely furnished and arranged with admirable
taste. Pauline had fallen in love with it from the first. She liked the
easy, old-fashioned couches and carved Indian cabinets.
A pretty, lady-like-looking woman in widow's dress rose from a low
chair by the window when she saw them.
" This is my mother," said Dr. Maxwell; " and tlh's Aunt Myra, or
rather, I should say, Miss Royston," laying his hand on the shoulder of
: tiny, bird-like woman with gray hair, wlio sat by her knittinar.
"How do you do, Mr. Chudleigh?" responded Mi i, in a
diirpy voice, and her small face brightened with sinil<-. '' I an
you again, n\\ -oft little hand into Paul
for in spite of her blindness Au;it .Myra \\;is the most sociable creature
in the world, ami when .4ir li nothing pleased her
10 much as to welcome her again.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 121
But Launcelot's attention was drawn to the motionless, bright-eyed
figure on the invalid couch; and when Dr. Maxwell suggested that they
must speak to Brenda, he crossed the room at once and sat down by
her, while Pauline chatted to Mrs. Maxwell and Aunt Myra.
Launcelot thought he had never seen a more interesting countenance.
Miss Maxwell was young, indeed quite a girl; but suffering had worn
and sharpened all the youthful lines, and robbed her face of coloring.
The features were fine, the forehead broad and benevolent, and the larg
veio wonderfully calm and clear, while nothing could exceed tfle
beauty of the hands that lay on the silken couvre-pieds.
To* Launcelot's surprise, Dante's " Purgatory " in the original lay
open before her. Miss Maxwell noticed his look and smiled; she had a
very bright, happy-looking smile.
" This is a favorite study with me, and I am so glad Charlotte and I
learned Italian when we were younger; a translation always impov-
erishes a poet's language."
" It is full of noble and graceful images," returned Lauucelot, taking
the book in his hand and glancing at the stanza she had just been read-
ing.
" ' Salve Regina ' on the grass and flowers,
Here chanting I beheld those spirits sit,
Who not beyond the valley could be seen. 1 '
44 1 thought I would make a picture of that once," he went on. <4 The
whole scene is so steeped in tranquillity and fragrance, the row of gen
tie penitents waiting so meekly for their allotted task of self-purification,
guarded by the two angels in vesture ' green as the tender leaves but
newly born,' and the lithe folds of the creeping serpent."
" Yes, indeed, it would be a splendid, subject," she replied, eagerly,
" but I believe only Dore has illustrated it. You are an artist, Mr.
Chudleigh. I could find it in my heart to envy you, if I ever envied
any one."
Launcelot looked at her half incredulously. Pauline had told him
that the girl was hardly ever out of pain, and that the doctors held out
small hope of improvement. He thought if he had been in her place he
would have envied the meanest creature living who had the use of its
limbs.
Dr. Maxwell answered his unspoken thought:
" Brenda is a good girl; she is always contented, and makes the best
of things."
" I am quite sure of that," he returned, softly. " But do you never
long to change places with people?"
44 To jump into somebody else's mind and body?" with an amused
smile. " No, thank you; myself and I are old friends and have learned
to put up with our failings. It is like deserting one's post to run away
from one's self. I dare say it all sounds nonsense to you, Mr. Chud-
leigh, but it is the fact that I have an immense interest in my own per-
sonality; it will be splendid to come right some day."
"Oh, I see what you mean," and the words " We shall all be
changed " flashed into his mind; no doubt that was the idea she meant
to convev, only she had expressed herself so quaintly; and his interest
deepened as he' went on talking to her, for he saw that a strong, healthy
mind dominated the frail, suffering body.
122 ois a ass.
CHAPTER XIX.
"BUT THERE IS ERICA."
God bless her, poor thing! she would bring all mankind to better thoughts if she
*ould. Fair Maid of Perth.
L.vrxn.LOT was in the midst of a description of Florence to which
Miss .Maxwell was listening with rapt attention when they heanl the
hall door open, and the next moment Charlotte, entered, followed by a
fair, delicate girl, whom her brother addressed as j':
"It is very convenient to have a house doctor, is if not?"
Brenda with a smile, when he had ordered Prissy with good-humored
peremptoriness to take off her wet water-proof und change her boots
without a minute's delay. Prissy obeyed reluctantly; she was evidently
a spoiled child.
" Hedley is quite right, my dear; please go at once," added the
mother, gently, and then she gave some order to Charlotte, who left the
room with her sister.
"Charlotte looks tired," observed Brenda, in an aside to Pauline;
" she has been to town to execute some commissions for Sophy; she
works far too hard for us all. I do not know what we should all do
without her," and there was something in Brenda's tone that told what
the sisters were to each other.
If Charlotte was fagged and weary, she kept these facts to herself.
A trim maid brought in the tea, and Charlotte sat down at the little
square table, as a matter of course.
Everything in the Maxwells' house spoke of better days. The :
ive silver tea-pot and cream jug and beautiful china; the diamond rings
on Mrs. Maxwell's and Miss- Roy ston's lingers; there was a quiet, highly
bred manner, too, about Mrs. Maxwell that showed she was conversant
with good society. She was not a great talker, trouble hail subdued
her naturally high spirits, but when Dr. Maxwell had been called
to a patient she spoke of him to Launcelot with much feeling.
" My son is everything to me," she said. " What would these poor
girls have done without him?" and then she looked at IJrenda, and
si-hod; " it is a heavy burden for a young man, is it not, Mr. Chnd-
leigh?"
" I am quite sure from the little I have seen of Doctor Maxwell that
he bears his burdens very cheerfully," replied Launcelot, "and I am
also certain," looking round the room, " that you all make him very
happy: there is nothing that a man likes better than to be fussed over
by this womankind. I assure you I speak from experience " at which
they all laughed.
The rain still continued to fall heavily, so Launcelot proposed that he
should go alone to Priory J Joad and call for Pauline when it had ci<
a little, and to this she agreed with alacrity.
"That is nice of him, and now we can have a talk." observed
Brenda, cheerfully; and Charlotte, who understood her meaning wilh-
word, wheeled her sister's couch into the back pait. of the room,
: she might not lie tired by too many voices.
" Thank you. Char," she said, brightly, " but you need Tint go away.
Sit down by me ami If while '.Miss ( 'Jmdleigh and I talk. It
will do you good," taking her hand caressingly, but Chariot!.- >]j<ok
her head.
OKLY THE GOVERNESS. 123
" You must not tempt me, my dear. I must write to Sophy and tell
her what I have done at the stores; she will want to know when to ex-
pect her things. Heclley will require me on his return," and with a
little nod she disappeared.
" Poor dear Charlotte, we all work her too hard," returned Brenda,
" but she does not seeni to mind it. I was so glad she had that even-
ing's play at your house; it did her so much good."
"And she must come to us every Saturday, and Prissy too; OUT
friends have carte blanche for the season."
" I am afraid that would be impossible, but we will coax Hedley to
take Prissy sometimes, when he is not too much engaged; but you must
not expect him to stay fqr the dancing."
" Oh, we do not dance every Saturday, only now and then; it is jusl
a garden-party; people meet their friends and play tennis."
Hedley said it was charming: there was no stillness or re-
straint, everybody seemed thoroughly happy and at his ease. I am so
glad you brought your brother to see us. I like him so much, there ia
something so real and true about him; and then he is so sympathetic:
lew young men would know how to talk to an invalid."
' Launce is not a bit like other young men."
"No; one could see that in a moment. I think I puzzled him a lit-
tle in telling him I did not want to change places with any one; he
looked so surprised."
" I think I was surprised top when I heard you say it."
" Oh, but I really meant it, only Aunt Myra is the only one who
understands me. Of course I should like not to be in pain, and to be
able to move about like other people, but my pain and helplessness are
not me; they are only the accidents of the case, the sad environment
that surrounds me. I would rid myself of them gladly if I could, but
not at the cost of getting rid of myself."
" Launcelot says I am dreadfully prosaic. I don't believe I under-
stand you one bit," and then Brenda laughed merrily.
" I dare say it does seem strange to people, but I can't help my feel-
ings. I am a great deal too fond of myself; but think what I have bat-
lied through. All these difficulties give one an interest in one's self; one
longs to know how the fight will go on and what the end will be one's
life is dreadfully interesting to one's self."
" Yes, but you have so little enjoyment in yours," returned Pauline,
speaking out of the inexperience of her strong, vigorous youth.
"How do you know that?" was the quick response. "I am tre-
mendously happy sometimes and in spite of pain I have my pleasures
like other people. I enjoy reading and thinking, a talk with Charlotte
is my greatest treat, and then they are all so good to me mother and
lie 1 ley and Prissy and I must not forget Aunt Myra Aunt Myra is
an angel."
41 She seems very cheerful too in spite of her blindness," for during
the pauses in their conversation they could hear Miss Royston's chirp-
ing tones.
" Of course she is cheerful she knows she will see one day, and she
is not too impatient to wait. Oh, you should hear us talk sometimes of
how we shall feel when we get to Paradise. Aunt Myra says she shall
just sit down and look at the beautiful prospect, and see the angels'
faces that will be enough happiness at first, she thinks; and I say my
idea will be just to keep moving about walking over the green'past-
ures br the River of Life. I should not want to rest. I have had rest
124 ONLY TIIF (iOVFKXESS.
enough i\ere. I would just move on in that pure unearthly light
air, bilking to one and then another. Oh, it will be glo; :
" You speak as though you could sec it all," said Pauline, rather en
viously, for though she was a good girl, and said her prayers carefully,
and was more thoughtful than most young people, she had not reached
Uremia's standard.
"ir<e Aunt Myra and I see it; what would be the use of believ-
ing it at all if it did not make one's life happier? Sometimes when I
lie awake, liecause my poor back is so bad, I can not help loniring for
the end to come quickly; but lledley says there is no chance of that,
that I have far too much vitality in ine, and that it is possible that I
may live a great many years unless any fresh complications a:
" Well, does not that make you unhappy?"
" Not often, though of course I am depressed at times like other in-
valids, and then Charlotte and lledley are so good to me because they
know I can not help it; oh, I do not often fret. When the pain is very
bad, I try to bear it by thinking that one day there shall be no more
pain, that this stupid back of mine will leave off aching some day. that
my suffering now is nothing compared to my future enjoy men!
that it will be really I who will enjoy all the good things. So no won-
der I would not change places with anybody, and if you were to talk to
Aunt Myra you would find that she felt the same."
" I don't think I shall pity you any more, Miss Maxwell."
"To be sure you will not. I never could bear to be pitied. Why,
think how much" worse it might be. Some people have to slay in bed
for years, and to spend their days alone, while 1 am able to use this nice
couch, and be with my dear ones all day long. Do you know, Char-
lotte and I share such a nice room on this floor, for I could not manage
stairs? It ought to have been a study for Hedley, but he has to u
dining-room for his patients. They have fitted up a nice little study for
him upstairs, which he uses in the evening, but it is not so convenient
for him."
" Charlotte told me that she never left you alone at night."
" No; they think I should be dull, away from them all, but that is
nonsense. I am never dull, but all the same I like to have Charlotte
with me; it is our time for quiet talk. Ah, there is Mr. Chudleigh back
again, and you must go, but you will come and see us both ML
" Indeed I will," returned Pauline, earnestly; and as the rain had
stopped, and the evening promised to be fine, they decided to walk up
the hill, instead of taking a hansom.
" Pauline, 1 like those people," observed Launcelot, with hearty em-
phasis, as they recrossed Overtoil Bridge. ".Mrs. Maxwell is a most
lady-like womam, and as for poor Miss Maxwell, she seems a line, intel-
ligent creature. I quite approve of your new friends, my dear. It is
an education to l>e among such women. I wish Bee had shared your
good '
" I am so glad you like them, Launce," returned his sister.
and I shall ask Doctor Maxwell to dine when Thorpe
week. He has not fixed the day yet; I want them to kno\\
other. By the bye, Paul, I was sorry you wen? not with me:
Thorpe would have liked to see you. She said so more than once, and
just as we were talking about you who should come in but Thorpe; him-
self, <|iiile unexpectedly, for In"; had written to say that he might be d
pleaded to sec him."
" And he has really promised t<
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 125
" Ytft; he made no sort of objection, and he looked pleased when I
aaid I should ask Doctor Maxwell to meet him. He does not seem quite
the thing, rather hipped. I saw Miss Thorpe was watching him same-
what anxiously. I am afraid he has rather a dull life, poor fellosv."
"' Perhaps he wants his wife back?" hazarded Pauline, who was
aware of the bare facts of the case. " It does seem so dreadful, Launce,
when married people rind they can not get on with each other."
" People ought to have more forbearance with each other, my dear;
most likely Thorpe, who is an excellent fellow in his way, would have
done better with a different sort of woman. Of course I am no judge
in such matters, but I should have thought Thorpe would have made a
first-rate husband. He is reserved, but has plenty of feeling, and he is
even-tempered. I like the way he treats his sister; he is so thoughtful,
too, in little things."
" So is Doctor Maxwell, I am sure," replied Pauline, whose thoughts
were still dwelling on her friends, and to this Lauucelot yielded a warm
assent, and the long walk was very pleasant to them both, as they ex-
changed their ideas on the excellences of the Maxwell family.
The following Saturday there was another gathering of young people
at the Witchens, but this time there was no band and no impromptu
dance for the evening.
Launcelot, who was much absorbed by his picture indeed, he was
often at work by six o'clock. in the morning had given, orders that no
one was to enter the studio, and it was not until he heard the carriages
driving up for the departing guests that he remembered that Miss
Hamblyn was leaving them, and put down his brushes and palettes in
a hurry.
The lawn was almost empty, but a group of young people were chat-
ting and laughing outside the drawing-room window, and a little apart
from them were Beatrix and Mr. Hamblyn, talking rather earnestly
together, but they stopped directly they saw him, and it struck Launce-
lot that Bee looked a little conscious and confused.
" I am glad you have put in an appearance at last, Launce," she said,
with meaning emphasis on the words " at last." " Xora thought that
she would have to go away without bidding you good-bye, and had sent
you a reproachful message; she is getting ready now, and they are put-
ting the luggage on the carriage."
And as she spoke Miss Hamblyn came out of the house. She received
Launcelot's excuse very graciously, for she had made up her mind, in
spite of a natural pang of wounded vanity, that no coldness on the part
of the young master of the house should prevent her intimacy with the
Chudleighs, and she spoke a word to this effect, when she found herself
alone with her brother.
His first speech had been a little provoking.
" You have played your cards badly there, I am afraid, Nora," ho
had said, with the brutal frankness to which some brothers are addict'
ed. " Mr. Chudleigh was very cool in his leave-taking; he is a pleasant
enough fellow in his way, but I fancy he has not taken much to either
of us."
" I do not think he is a marrying man," returned Nora, with the
utmost composure, though she had winced a little at this plain speak-
ing; "but I have always found him very nice. I certainly mean to
cultivate the Chudleighs, Oscar; they are very desirable people to know.
The house is delightful, and so are their friends; and as for Bee, she is
ftdearsirl."
129 OJTLY THE GOVERNESS.
"I an oeginning to be of the same opinion myself," he returned,
coolly; but here Nora looked at him rebukingly, and held up an admon-
ishing linger.
I do hope you mean to be careful."
" Come, now, no preaching; you know I never interfere with your
little ganirt*. Xora."
'o; but do listen to me, just this once, like a good boy. Bee is my
friend, and she is far too nice for any stupid flirtations; her brother
would not like it, and we should both be banished from the Witchen^.
You are a dangerous person, Oscar; you make girls think you are in
\ ith them, and then you suddenly get tired of them. I won't have
my dear little Bee made unhappy. "
"" But supposing I am really hit for once; even a flirt gets caught at
last."
" I do not believe it," in a very decided tone; " you are only <
ing yourself or me. It will not do, Oscar, at any price. Bee has not
more than live thousand pounds of her own."
" Well, five thousand is a neat little sum," replied her brother. His
tone seemed to mystify Nora, for she looked at him in genuine alarm.
" You can not mean that you are realty thinking of it? You are only
trying to frighten me? Of course I should love to have Bee for a
in- law, but there is Erica; now it is no use your looking angry when-
ever I mention Erica's name much as you try the poor girl, 1 do not
think that you would venture to treat her badly."
"Erica always Erica," in a fretful tone. "I tell you what it is,
Nora, I shall get to hate her if you and the mother persist in always*
worrying me about her. She gives me trouble enough without your
adding to it; one would think we were actually engaged to see how she
takes me to task."
" I consider you are engaged to Erica," was th^ unflinching reply.
Then Oscar's brow grew very black, and he muttered a strong word
under his breath.
" Oh, you need not put yourself out," went on Nora, who had heard
the strong word. " It is all very well for you to say that you and Krira
are cousins, and that your attentions mean nothing but cousinly
tion. AVhen there are two thousand a year in the case, attention-
erally mean a good deal; especially when the gentleman h
debts and wants a little capital."
"Xora, you are enough to drive a fellow crazy; if you told Miss
Chudleigh that I was engaged to my cousin Erica, you told a confound-
ed lie, and did me the worst possible turn, and " very savagely " I
vow I will never forgive you."
" My dear boy, why will you put yourself in such a fearful rage lie-
cause 1 give you a word of sisterly advice, all for your good? Is it not
understood between us that we are never to interfere with earh other's
little plans? Of course I have not breathed a word about Erica's <
enee to either Bee or Pauline."
Then Oscar's moody brow relaxed, and he drew a long breath of
relief.
"But all the same, I do not think you ought to consider Erica; if
u girl was fond of a man, that girl is Hi i
)j she would not show her fondness then, by being jealous of
woman to whom 1 say a civil word. 1 know if ,
to her to-morrow, she would make my lil'e miserable; her own want of
i.y hag soured her, I b. !"i ate a pretty 1
ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
" Oscar, I dp think you are too hard on poor little Erica; she is really
very nice looking when she is well dressed."
But a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders was the sole answer to
this; and there was a few minutes' silence between the brother and sis-
ter, during which Oscar looked out of the window and thought of Bee's
pretty, blushing 1 face.
i, then Nora disturbed his reverie.
" Oscar, I do wish you would tell me frankly exactly how you stand
with Erica. ' '
I am not engaged to her, that is all I know," he replied, brusquely.
' Perhaps not; but you can not tell me to my face that Erica does
not expect to be your wife." But to this he made no audible reply.
' Three years ago you asked her to marry you "
' And she refused you had better add that."
' She refused because with all her love for you she saw plainly that
you did not care for her. I think Erica did a wise thing then."
" I don't think I need be blamed then if I looked elsewhere for a
wife." Then she looked dubiously in his face.
" The question is, whether that offer has ever been repeated? Of
course you will not answer, Oscar " as he broke into a low whistle
*' of course you will tell me it is not my affair, but it is evident to me
that Erica considers you bound to her."
" Perhaps both you and she will find yourselves mistaken one day,"
was the imperturbable answer; and then his manner changed, and he
said a little roughly, " Look here, Nora, if things are to be pleasant be-
tween us you must just drop this sort of talk. Leave me to manage
Erica. I assure you we quite understand each other. Erica is not the
fool you think her, neither am I;" then Nora knew she must not say
another word.
Oscar was not in the best of moods that evening; he had succeeded in
silencing his sister, but he could not forget her words, and he knew she
had spoken the truth. His position was an awkward one; a rich wife
was indispensable to him, and he knew that every tie of hono? and
mutual understanding bound him to his cousin Erica. But he was not
in love with her, he never had been, and of late these bonds had gtown
irksome to him; he was half disposed, too, to make a fool of himself on
account of Bee's pretty face. "It is a confounded business altogether.
I wish I could see my way out of it," he thought, as he smoked his
solitary cigar that night. " Nora is too sharp by half, but I know bet-
'ter than to trust her. I suppose I ought to give the Witchens a clear
berth until I get over this fancy. Supposing I keep away next Satur-
day, poor little thing, she will be disappointed and I promised to go
down; nevermind, perhaps something will turn up to keep me in town.
I need not bother my head about it now," and the result of this vacillat-
ing policy was that Oscar did go down to the Witchens that Saturday,
and many succeeding ones, and that the complication showed no signs
cf growing clearer, while certain reproachful letters, with the signature
" Erica Stewart," began to accumulate in the secret drawer of Oscar's
tok.
128 OivL'* ffiE GOVERNESS.
CHAPTER XX.
"l DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS."
She has a quick and lively imagination and keen feelings, which are apt to exag
botb the good and evil they find in life. (Jut/ Munncring.
I can not endure the sight f woman's tears. Ivanhoe.
L AIN< KLOT was making such progress with his picture that he hoped
;iplete it in another fortnight or three weeks. The sitting
1, but as yet there had been no opportunity for coming to an
understanding with Miss Rossiter; ever since that dance it h:id
to Launcelot that she had kept more than usual to the school-room, and
that she was never to be seen without her little pupils. She had always
been accustomed to spend her evenings in the drawing-rooms and to
join in an3'thiug that went on, but now when Launcelot entered the
room after dinner he often missed her, and, on questioning Bee, would
hear she was reading, or writing letters, or that Pauline and she had re-
tired to the school-room to study Italian together. One day he en-
countered her accidentally on the common. She and the children were
returning from a long country walk. Dossie was hanging on one arm
and Sybil on the other, and the three seemed very happy and merry.
Launcelot stood by the green door in the wall, watching them as they
came slowly across the grass, threading their way through the brambles.
Dossie was the first to see him; she dropped the governess's arm and
ran forward to meet him.
" Oh, Mr. Lance!" she exclaimed, breathlessly, " we have had such
a walk, and Miss Rossiter has been telling us such a wonderful story.
I don't think I ever heard such an interesting one."
" Children are generous critics," observed Miss Rossiter, with a smile
at this outspoken compliment; " they appreciate one's poor little efforts
to amuse them most kindly; grown-up people are far more fatiguing."
" Is that why you have avoided lisas much as possible lately?"
Launcelot, quietly, as he drew back to let her pass. How bright and
winsome she looked this morning in her cool summer dress and shady
hat! which did not hide, however, the shapely neck and coils of ruddy-
brown hair.
" What do you mean?" she returned, looking up at him frith a gleam
of fun in her eyes; but her tone was perfectly demure.
" Is it because grown-up people fatigue you that you have c< :.
give us your company in the evening?" he asked, pointedly. " Why
have you punished us by this desertion, Miss Rossiter? why are we to
he songs that give us so much pleasure?"
" Oh, I have been busy," she answered, carelessly but it struck
Launcelot that her carelessness was a little assumed " and then Paul-
ine and I wanted to get on with our Italian, and there was no other
quiet time."
" I must speak to Pauline," he returned, seriousiy. " I can not have
gaps in the family circle of an evening. Pauline must study Italian at
another time, and I hope " with a slight emphasis " that you will not
be tor> busy to sing to us to-night."
" O)i, if you wish it," she returned, quickly. " I did not mean to
myself disagreeable; but one is not always in the mood to
and i: e that oiu: iiinv bf- busy at times.' Hut if you and Mrs.
C'hudleigh wibh to hear me .sing i have no right to refuse."
OJTLY THE GOVERNESS. 129
" Miss Roesiter, if you speak in that tone I will never ask you to sing
again?"
" In what tone?" she asked, rather provokingly.
" As though you were under orders. As though we had a right to
demand what I was asking as a favor. Oh, you know what I mean;
you were only pretending to misunderstand me."
"It is no pretense to recognize my ov. i," a little proudly.
" I never forget for one moment that I am only tK> governess. I have
to be under orders, as you call it. I like to carry out all Mr*, t
leigh's wishes; it makes me happy only to serve her. It' she wishes me
to sing to her I would try to do my best, if I were as hoai.se as a raven.
I love her so, that I would be her servant if she needed mo. ''
Launcelot looked at her very quietly. " I like you to feel like that,"
he said, gravely; "it gives me pleasure to hear you." Then, very
slowly, " I am glad you love Madella in that way."
" Oh, yes," she returned, but she began to walk more quickly toward
the house, and she still held Dossie's hand. " I think I loved her th
first moment I saw her. When she spoke to me and I' looked at her
kind, beautiful face, I lost my heart to her at once she is so good, so
good," but here she turned her head aside that Launcelot might not see
the tears that had started to her eyes.
Launcelot made no reply to this, but as Ihey crossed the lawn he
said, suddenly
" You never ask after the picture now, and it is nearly finished;
come into the studio a moment and look at it. I should like to hav
your opinion;" and as she hesitated, he continued a little impatiently,
" You need not fear I shall detain you, and the children will like to see
it." And then she followed him without another word.
But Launcelot knit his brows as he undid the curtain that hung be-
fore the unfinished picture. " Does she guess anything from my man-
ner?" he thought, anxiously. "For some reason or other she is un-
willing to be alone with me; ever since the dance I have noticed a
change in her. She tries to be frank and like her old self, but there is
an effort." But he had banished these uneasy reflections when ho
stepped back from his picture.
" Well," he said, gayly, " what no you think of it? Do you recog-
nize yourself, Elizabeth?"
"Oh!" she returned, earnestly, and he could see the surprise arid awe
in her eyes, " it is far too beautiful for me; it is a lovely picture. Oh,
how sad and frightened she looks, that poor Eizabeth! and how the
waves are washing to her feet you can almost hear them; and the
jroungest child is in her arms, and she wants to take the other, and she
knows they are to die together; and there is the poor husband waiting
for her, and before her is her watery grave. Oh, I can not look at it
any longer!"
"What is it?" he asked, anxiously, for he was astonished at the
effect of the picture. She had come up to it a little smiling and con-
scious, as though she were, looking at herself in a mirror, and her lips
were parted with shy amusement. She had taken off her hat, and he
could see her face plainly.
" It is far too beautiful for me," she had said, blushing slightly over
her words; and then all at once her eyes had grown wide and piteous,
and her cheeks were pale. "Oh, poor thing, poor thing!" she said,
and there was a sob in her voice. " It is her fate, aud she can not es-
cape it; and there is despair in her face, for she knows it is her fate."
130 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
" My dear Miss Rossiter!" lie remonstrated, for Sybil was looking at
her in* astonishment. And then lie said, quietly, You have walked
too far, -and yon are tired. Sit down fora moment, 'and I will bring
yon a glass of wine. Stop with her, Dpssie, and, Sybil, come with me,
for he "was afraid of Sybil's sharp, curious glances.
ie is very emotional," he thought, as he got the wine. " I won-
der why she was upset at seeing the picture? She is far too sensitive
about things. ' '
MissRossiter had recovered herself during his brief absence; she even
laughed a little when she saw the glass of wine in his hand.
<; How foolish I am!" she said" in a tone of apology. "I suppose
after all 1 must have overtired myself; and somehow that picture
me a turn 1 sat for it, you know and it is so sad, and I do not li!
tilings.'.'
"No," he returned, cheerfully, "the sunshine suits you best; but
you are better now are you not?'"'
"()h, yes; mucn batter. Come, Dossie, we must not hinder Mr.
Chudleigh any longer."
" One moment more," detaining her. " You will be in the drawing-
room this evening. I have a friend coming, and we want to have some
music."
" Very well. Shall you show your friend that picture?" she asked,
quickly.
" No, not until it is finished. It is only you who have been treated
to a private view." And then she smiled and led Dossie away.
" Yes, she is very emotional," he said again as he stood opposite his
picture. " How life-like it is! if Miss Rossiter were in trouble she
would look like that; one could imagine the expression on her face. I
wonder if she has ever known great trouble? sometimes I fancy sh<
And yet she is so gay and light-hearted. Will she ever tell me about
her life? There is one thing of which I am sure that I shall never l>e
able to part with this picture." And then he carefully painted in a bit
of drapery.
After all, Launcelot did not do much more work that day, for at
luncheon Sybil coaxed him to take her and Dossie for a drive. 11 <
seen very little of Dossie lately; his picture had engrossed him, and the
child was much occupied with her lessons. But now and then he would
come upon her and Sybil playing in the garden, and he would be
touched to see how Dossie would at once leave her game and run up to
him. Sometimes Miss Rossiter would see them from the window walk-
ing slowly up anil down the long shrubbery path; the young man with
hij head bent down a little, Dossie with her hands clasped round hi?
arm, and her small, eager face upturned to his.
" 1 wonder what you and Mr. Olmdlcigh wore talking about,
t>ic?" .Miss llossiter would say, putting back the child's long lair hair
with caressing hand, for she had grown very fond of her gentle little
pupil. Dossie gave her no trouble^ and was a most sweet, affectionate
child.
" Oh, of course we were talking of father," would be the invariable
reply; and sometimes it would be, " 1 wanted to show my letter to Mr.
e, but he si i"g to write to father himself," for with his
usual unselfishness and good nature J/tnneelot wrote brief, irrapl,
coui-t lack, which were supplemented by long, wom-
anly ones from Auiit Delia. How the poor exile gloated ov< i
ters, how his eyes gleamed at the si^ht \>r theml Dossie 's childish
ONLY THE GOVKKXESS. * 131
effusions were read until they were threadbare. Jack knew some of
the simple sentences by heart,'
" You must not think that I forgot you, father dear, because I am so
happy here, for I am always thiukiug about you, and trying to grow up
quickly that I may be ready for you. Mr. Lance and I do have such
nice talks together. I think him still quite the nicest man in the world;
and, father dear I think I must tell you a great secret when I grow
up really, 1 mean to marry Mr. Lance because I love bin so. " How
Jack roared over that sentence! He was even faithless enough to betray
Dossie.
" I wonder if you intend to be faithful to your childish sweetheart?"
Jack wrote once; " perhaps you did not know that Dossie has lost her
heart to you, and declares she will marry no one else. Oh, the beauti-
ful faith of childhood, that creates its own happiness! God bless you,
old fellow, for making my little girl so happy! What do I not owe to
you and Delia! If it does not make a different man of me, my name is
not Jack Wcston."
One Sunday afternoon when the two little girls were sitting with him
under the big elm on. the lawn, Sybil said rather fretfully, for she was
accustomed to be spoiled by her brothers
"Do you not like Dossie better than me, do you, Launce? You
ought not to be fonder of her, because she is not your sister."
" No, my dear," looking at the pretty, puckered-up face in some sur-
prise. " What should have put such an idea into your little head? I
am very fond of you both, Sybil."
" Yes; but I am your sister," persisted Sybil, who was in one of her
jealous moods, "and Dossie does not belong to you a bit. Freckles
said so the other day: she is not your real cousin, though she is ours."
" Never mind, she is my little friend," returned Launcelot, taking his
favorite's hand, for Dossie's head drooped rather sadly at this speech,
and he could see her lip was quivering. "You see, Uncle Jack gave
her to your mother and ine, so of course she is our little gir], and I shall
always feel that she belongs to us."
" Yes, but Dossie is so silly," went on Sybil, who was bent on airing
her imaginary grievances. " I heard her tell Miss Itossiter once that
when she grew up to be a woman she meant to marry you. Oh, they
thought 1 was not listening, but I heard every word, and though Dossie
was so stupid, Miss Rossiter did not scold her a bit; she only laughed
and said she could not marry a better man."
Lauucelot bit his lip to conceal a smile, and then he put on a severe
look.
" I do not think it is kind of you, Sybil, to repeat poor Dossie's little
speeches, especially when they were not intended for our ears; a man
would call that dishonorable, and I did not think my little sister could
behave so badly," and as Sybil colored under this unexpected rebuke,
he turned to his drooping little sweetheart.
" Don't cry, darling; Sybil was very naughty to tell me, but we
won't mind it, Dossie, you and I. You are father's little girl and mine
loo, and no one shall find fault with our affection for each other. God
knows I can not afford to lose even a child's love, so I am not ungrate-
ful for 'yours, " and go saying he wiped her tears away with a firm,
kindly hand, and then kissing her forehead gently, bade them both run
away to Miss Rossiter.
He recounted this little scene afterward to Miss Rossiter; to his sur-
prise she listened with unwonted gravity.
132' OKLY THE GOTERKESS.
" Dossie is very young for her age Sybil would never have mad*
such a speech but she is the most innocent child."
"I hope she may l>ng remain so; it is Dossie's great charm to me.
Do you notice how pretty she is getting, Miss Rossiter?"
"'I think she will be pretty when Bhe has more color and fills out a
little. She is certainly devoted to you, Mr. Chudleigh; when you are
out she watches for you from the window, and nothing makes her hap-
pier than to arrange flowers for the studio."
" She is a dear child," was the answer, and then the conversation
turned upon Sybil, who was just now leading her governess a life.
Launcelot took the children for a drive that afternoon, and it was so
late when they returned that they found Miss Rossiter watching for
them in the glass portico, evidently uneasy at the delay.
" Oh," .she said in a tone of relief, as she lifted Dossie down, while
Sybil scrambled over the wheel, "Mrs. Chudleigh will be so dad you
have arrived. We both thought some accident must have happened,
but no, you have only tired your poor horse to death, that is the
with you gentlemen."
" It is not my way," returned Launcelot, lightly. "Ruby looks
rather hot certainly, but we have done her no harm, have we, old girl?"
patting her glossy brown neck, while the mare whinnied with pleasure,
and rubbed her nose delightedly against his coat-sleeve. " But I am
afraid I am late, and my friends will be here directly. 1 see you arc
dressed;" for Miss Rossiter was in her customary black lace evening
dress, only to-night she had a knot of yellow roses at her throat. " Re-
member," as she turned away, with the children as usual hanging upon
her, " we must have all the nicest songs to-night, for Doctor Maxwell is
very fond of music."
"Very well," she said, smiling, and Launcelot looked after her
thoughtfully as he stood still stroking Ruby's neck. "To-morrow I
must speak to her to morrow," he said to himself as he went up to his
room. Launcelot was certainly very late. Long before he had finished
dressing Fenwick came to his door to say both the gentlemen had
arrived.
" Madella will say 1 have managed badly," he thought, with some
annoyance. " Those little monkeys made me forget the time; it is au
awful nuisance. Thorpe knows none of them, and will have to do the
best he can. I don't mind keeping Maxwell waiting, but with Thorpe
it is different," and he uttered another execration against his own care-
lessness.
He was hurrying down the lobby a few minutes later when he caught
sight of Miss Rossiter standing at the window overlooking the front
court. She turned round quickly as though startled, and then he saw
her more clearly.
" Miss Rossiter!" he exclaimed, much shocked, " what is the matter?
you are ill? something has happened?" for her face was quite white,
and there was a curious, frightened expression in her eyes, an e\
sion he had never seen in them before, and yet which struck him as
.strangely familiar. What could it mean? A quarter of an hQur ago
she had parted from him smiling and radiant, and now she was shrink-
ing into the folds of the curtains as though she would avoid him.
" There is nothing the matter," trying to laugh it off, but it was a
miserable ell'ort. " It is only that I do not feel quite well. I am a litllw
faint and and giddy."
"This is the second time fo-dav. You alarm me, Miss Rossiter,
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 133
your nand is as cold as ice," holding it tightly for a moment, though
she tried to draw it away. " And, good heavens, you are trembling.
Shall I call Madella or Pauline?"
" No, no!" but she could hardly speak " call no one; it will pass.
I will go and lie down; please leave me, Mr. Chudleigh."
" I hardly know how I am to leave you," he said, very gently; " but
perhaps if you lie down that will be best. I shall send you up some
champagne, and you must promise me to take it; for, indeed, I never
saw any one look so ill."
" I will take it if you will tell no one no one at all, Mr. Chudleigh,"
detaining him nervously. " I do not wish any one to know I am ill.
It will pass it always passes."
"Very well." he returned, reluctantly, and then very slowly she
moved away. She was not faint, for there was no faltering in her sU-p.
and it was the same graceful walk as ever; but should he ever forget
the expression on her face? and where had he seen it before? _ Then
suddenly, with a flash, he remembered his picture, and the piteous,
terrified expression in Elizabeth's eyes as she thought of her drowning
babes, and her very soul fainted for fear. Good heavens! and this ter-
rified, appalled look was in Miss Rossiter's eyes, too, and yet it was only
illness and not deadly peril advancing to meet her. What did it mean?
what could it mean? and it was with a very grave face that Lauucelot
entered the drawing-room and made apologies to his guests.
Once or twice during the progress of that long dinner Mrs. Chudleigh
looked anxiously at her step-son. She thought Launcelot was a little
ilixlntit and not quite in his usual spirits. " Those children have tired
you with their chatter, Launce," she said once; but Launcelot dis-
claimed this with a smile.
No one else at the table noticed his gravity. Dr. Maxwell was talk-
ing to Geoffrey and Pauline. Bee, who had very pretty manners, was
devoting herself to Mr. Thorpe's amusement. Mr. Thorpe was as quiet
as ever, but seemed thoroughly at his ease, and he and Dr. Maxwell
seemed to get on excellently together.
Nothing was said about Miss Rossiter until the gentlemen had ad'
journed to the drawing-room, and then Pauline spoke to Launcelol.
" Is it not a pity, Launce?" she said, in a vexed tone. " Huldah 'has
a dreadful headache, and is obliged to go to bed, and all our prettiest
quartets will be lost;" but to her surprise her brother took her by the
arm and led her outside the open window.
" I want to speak to you a moment, Paul. I feel uneasy about Miss
Rossiter. I saw her before dinner, and I thought she looked dreadfully
ill. Do you think Doctor Maxwell would prescribe for her? Or we
could send for Egerton?" and there was no mistaking Launcelot's anx-
iety; but Pauline took it all very coolly.
" Nonsense, Launce, it is only a bad sick headache: at least Huldah
said something about being subject to this sort of nervous attack,
though I don't believe we ever saw anything of the kind before. I
think it is ridiculous of a girl of her age to talk of nerves."
" I do not agree with you she is very sensitive; but surely, Paul,
you must have thought her looking ill?"
" Well, I can hardly say I have seen her; the room was quite dark,
and she could not bear me to pull the blind up, or to ask her questions.
Huldah hates any fuss when she is ill."
" It was a very sudden attack," observed Lauucelot, thoughtfully.
' ' So the children say, I went into the school- room to question theHL
134: ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
Sybil says they were all laughing together, and llmt TTuld
Fjuff, the gray kitten, you know, was mewing to be let out.
ried her down the 1 corridor. They were in the middle of a
lluldah was teaching them, so they waited impatiently for 1:
. but to their surprise she did not come, and by and by 1
found her lying on her bed, and complaining of intense headache.
wanted to bathe her head \\\il^cau-dc- Cologne and water, but
Huldah only begged to be left alone. I do not mean to let moth
to her, because talking makes her so much worse; and I dare say sh
will soon fall asleep."
" The music will not disturb her?"
" Oh, no, sbe w y ill not even hear it, at least I think not. Oh, there is
Bee playing an accompaniment; we must go in, Launce," and Pauline
disengaged herself from his detaining hand, and tripped back into the
room.
Dr. Maxwell took his leave somewhat early he had a patient i
on his way home but Launcelot induced Mr. Thorpe- to smoke a cigar
on the lawn, promising to walk with him across the common.
" We will bid good- night to the ladies." he said, " and though I am
no smoker myself I have a cigar that I think you will like particularly,
Thorpe; and as I know you keep most unconscionable hours, like most
literary men, there is no reason why we should not enjoy the view from
the terrace." And to this his friend made no objection, but he pre-
tended to grumble at Launcelot's obstinate refusal to admit him into the
studio. " I thought I was to see that picture and write a critique in the
* Imperial Review,' " he said, smiling.
" Do you happen to have your pocket-book with you, Thorpe?"
" Certainly. May I ask why?"
" Because I wish you to make a memorandum. I shall expect you to
dine with us to-day three weeks; the picture will be completed' then,
and we wall have our coffee in the studio."
"Very well; let me see, that w T ill be Wednesday/August 3. I w r ill
try not to disappoint you. Now shall we go to the terrace? You are
right, this cigar has a fine flavor. I smoke very raicly, and never un-
less I can get'a choice cigar; pipes were never in my line."
" I am glad you are satisfied with it," returned Launcelot, absently,
but it may be doubted whether he heard Mr. Thorpe's encomium. They
standing together on the gravel path outside the drawing-room
window, in a broad patch of silvery moonlight: the school-room win-
dow was just above them. Was it fancy, or did Launcelot see a dark
figure standing near it? The next moment he could have sworn that
Rossiter's pale face was looking down upon them, though i !
gone in an instant.
" She wants air, and the cigar will be unpleasant to her," thought
Launcelot, as he took his friend's arm and walked quickly toward the
terrace; '" she told me once she hated the smell of tobacco," and then
he wondered why Pauline had given him the impression that Miss Ros-
siter had retired to rest. " Unless my eyes deceived me she was still in
her black lace dress," he said to himself; " well, T will make; her tell
rnc all about it to-morrow," anil then he roused himself for one of those
scholarly discussions in which the soul of Mr. Thorpe delighted, but
thi> evenil --ar-cely as brilliant as usual. " To morrow I will
set the H-:d in my fate!" was his last thought that night before di
overcame him; but alas! circumstances did not favor this re
oJ.ve
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 135
To his chagrin Launcelot found on opening his letters the next morn-
ing that important trustee business summoned him to Cornwall, where
he was likely to be detained for several clays, and that it would be neces-
sary for him to start that very evening.
"And I must go up to town by the 12:15 train," he said, with an
annoyed air, "for I must see Fortescue and Burroughs about two or
three things; it is an awful nuisance. 1 '
" I am so sorry, Launce," returned Mrs. Chudleigh, in a sympathiz-
ing voice. " It is hard for you to have that long journey and all that
trouble on other people's account."
" Oh, I am getting lazy," he replied, with an effort to speak brightly.
" By the bye, Madella, how is Miss Rossiter this morning?"
" Not very well, I am afraid; her head is still bad, and Pauline has
persuaded her to lie down again. I shall go up to her presently when
you are gone."
"Will you tell her how sorry I am to hear of her indisposition?" he
said, rising and walking to the window. " And Madella?"
" Well, dear?"
" If she does not get better you will send for E^erton."
" Certainly, Launce. You need not be afraid; your poor father
always said 1 was always too ready to send for a doctor. ' '
4 ' It is generally wise to do so, and so many things begin with a head-
ache," returned Launcelot a speech which did not conduce to his step-
mother's peace of mind, for, like many kind-hearted people, she was
rather nervous about illness, though she could be an excellent nurse
and had plenty of presence of mind on emergencies.
But Launcelot's heart felt scarcely as light as usual as he saw the
walls of the Witchens receding from his view; and as he looked out at
the flying hedge-rows in the moonlight that night, his thoughts recurred
persistently to the wide-strained eyes and pale face that had startled
him the preceding evening.
" It must have been a nervous attack," he thought, uneasily; " that
fixed, miserable look could hardly proceed from a headache." And.
then he fell into a troubled doze and dreamed that the Witchens was on
fire, and that Miss Rossiter stood at an upper window wringing her
hands. "No one can save me!" he heard her say. " It is my own
fault. No one else is to blame; it is only fate;" and then she disap
peared in the flames, and with a groan of horror he woke.
CHAPTER XXI.
"SHE IS NOT TREATING US WELL."
I hope your present cause of distress is not so bad but it may be removed. Hie
Antiquary.
I love not mystery or doubt. Rokeby.
NEVER had the days seemed more irksome to Launcelot than those
he spent in the old house on the Cornish coast, settling the affairs of a
semi-imbecile minor, with his co-trustee, a relative of the afflicted lad,
and trying to smooth matters for the harassed widow.
With his wonted energy he threw himself heart and soul into the duties
of the present hour, saw the various tutors who applied for the post,
studied references, and finally engaged one whom he thought would com-
bine firmness with tact, and who would be likely to restrain the fits of
passion to which the poor young heir was liable; and as soon as things
136 ONLY THH (iOYKKXESS.
were on a proper footing, anil lie could conscientiously free himself, he
.-el his face homeward, and counted tin- hours with boyish innmt:
as though the long journey would never be at an end.
All this time a curious hcimir, // and a vague sense of trouble had kept
him restless. He had never longed so much to be at home. !
delay fretted him; he felt almost like a school-boy when he saw his lug-
gage put on the wagonette that was to take him to the station.
lie had heard twice from Mrs. Chudleigh; but though her letters
were as thoughtful and appreciative as ever, for the first lime they failed
to satisfy him; they seemed to tell him everything but what he most
wished to know r . She scarcely mentioned Miss Rossiter, and then only
very briefly. " I am sorry to say that Miss Rossiter is still very far
from well; indeed, Pauline and I think she looks extremely ill; but she
is very impracticable and refuses to see a doctor, so we are obliged to
leave her alone. ' :
And the second letter was still more unsatisfactoiy.
" Miss Rossiter is better, but she seems very low-spirited and unlike
herself. Dossie tells Pauline that she is always crying; but she will tell
none of us what ails her. She only seems annoyed if we notice any-
thing is amiss."
" There is something troubling her; but I mean to convince her that
her trouble is mine too," thought Launcelot, as he leaned baek against
the cushions, and looked out dreamily at the wide stretch of country.
" I suppose it was that picture that did the mischief, for I never knew
how hardly I was hit until then. I wonder what Madella will say when
I tell her? She does not guess, I believe." And then his In-;
to give a great throb. Would he be able to speak to her before a few
hours were over? Would she listen to him patiently? And what sort
of answer would there be for him in those beautiful, frank c\
He reached London the next morning; but, as he had a business in-
terview impending in Lincoln's Inn, he breakfasted and dined at his
club, and it was not until late in the evening that his hansom drew up
to the Witchens.
" After all, there is no place like home," he thought, as he handed the
cabman his fare; and indeed, on that July evening, the Wit<-hens 1
a pleasant abode. A cool summer breeze was blowing acr<s Brent wood
Common, rippling the leaves of the trees. He knew they would all be
gathered on the terrace to watch the sunset. As he drove in at the gate
he could see the red glow behind the beeches and firs in Colonel Madi-
son's little plantation. He could easily have let himself in at the green
door in the wall, and joined them; only the other evening they had all
been there, leaning on the low wall, and talking in eager under-tones of
Italian sunsets.
" But I like our English ones best," Pauline had said; " there it
nothing like England." And she had persisted in this opinion in
of all Bee's arguments to the contrary.
, of course they were all there. Nevertheless, he walked straight
into the drawing-room, and found to his surprise that his step-mother
' i ling alone, reading in her favorite chair by the window, that over-
looked the great cedar.
ave a little exclamation of pleasure when she saw Latin-
" Well," he, said, bending over her affectionately, " have you
or me? I suppose the others are on the i< :-ual."
<lear; but I soon left them, for I thought you might arrive,
tired, and there would be no one to speuk to you. We did not wait din-
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 137
ner, Launce, because yon said things were to be as usual; and I knot?
how you dislike any fuss."
" You are quite right, Mudella, and I have already dined sumptuously
at my club. Fa \vcett dined with me." And theu he briefly sketched
the outline of his day's business, his interview at Lincoln's Inn, the let-
ters he had written, and the calls he had paid; but all the time he talked
his eyes were fixed on the shrubbery path that led to the rosery and the
terrace.
" I think it is no wonder you are tired, Launce," observed his step-
mother, quietly. " You have done two days' work in one, and after
traveling all night too."
"But I am not the least tired," he returned; " so you may tell me
all your news. Your letters were far too short."
" Were they?" she replied; but she looked a little embarrassed. " I
did not want to trouble you about home worries when you had all that
tiresome business to settle. Do you think that poor boy will ever be
able to manage his own affairs?" But Launcelot shook his head in an-
swer to this.
" I doubt if he will live many years; but one never knows the end of
these cases. His poor mother frets dreadfully about him. I think I
have got the right man for him. Colonel Underleigh was much pleased
with my choice. We can afford liberal terms, but we must have the
right sort of fellow. Gerard needs a firm hand."
" It is a dreadful responsibility for you, Launce. I wonder you ever
undertook it."
" How could I refuse? Such an old friend, too. Never mind, Ma-
della; my shoulders are broad enough for any amount of burdens.
Now tell me, what has been wording you?" in a coaxing voice.
" Oh, Launce, not to-night. Worries of that sort will keep; and, in
spite of all you say, you must be tired."
" Very well, then you shall order me a cup of coffee," and as she
rang the jell and gave the order, delighted to do anything for her boy's
comfort, he turned liis face to the window a moment, and a swift inde-
finable expression passed over it, blotting out its brightness, but as she
took her seat beside him again, he said very quietly, " Now you must
tell me; of course I know it is about Miss Rossiter. "
" How could you guess that?" she returned, with some surprise; but
he only smiled faintly, and said, " Tell me all about it."
And she began at once, only too thankful to share her perplexities
with her young adviser.
"She is not treating us well, Launcelot," she complained. '"You
know how fond we ail are of her; indeed, if she were my own daughter
1 could hardly have done more for her."
" No, indeed she is always speaking of your goodness to her."
" We have never had a jarring word; she has been as docile and easy
to be managed as a child, and so kind-hearted. Even Bee says how
much improved Sybil is, and how wise and bind Miss Rossiter is in her
school-room discipline. The children are so perfectly happy with her;
dear little Dossie is always telling me how much she loves her, and
now she says she must leave us, that shp. can net possibly stay with us
any longer."
" Madella!" but Launcelot was capable of no other word. Whatever
he had expected to hear, it was not this. The Witchens without Miss
Rossiter! The mere thought seemed to hurt him physicallv and take
away his breath.
138 OXI.Y THE GOVERNESS.
" Did you over hear of sueli a thing to leave us without a vestige of
je, for I can not get, her to tell me her reason; she only ci
though her heurt will break, and says that it is not caprice, hut that she
must go, and yet in the s.-iine hreath she says that she has never bi
happy anywheie
" And will she not tell you her reason?"
" Xo; she only sobs and goes on in the most trying way neither
Pauline nor I can get her to speak; she really makes me quite ill.
Laimeelot. I can do nothing with her. She actually wants to leave
once, which is treating me very badly, and throwing the little girls
on my hands, and yet seems to have no definite plans, and is quite friend-
less. '*'
A dark flush crossed Launcelot's brow. " Does she say so, Ma-
della?"
" Yes; she said more than once that she had not a friend in the world
except us. ' '
" Oh, I am glad she did us that justice."
" Yes, indeed, I do believe she loves us all; but that makes it all the
more extraordinary for her to leave us. I do not know what to think.
Has any one been speaking to her? I mean do you imagine " but
here Mrs. Chudleigh broke down, for it seemed sacrilege even to hint
that Miss Rossiter should have met with any annoyance under that
roof: and if a dim suspicion of the truth had lately visited her her un-
bounded trust and confidence in her boy would have kept her silent
the king could do no wrong, and Launcelot was a king in her eyes no,
it was not for her to hint at such things. " 1 do not know what to
think," she finished, helplessly.
" Will you tell me a little more? I must get to the bottom of this.
"When did Miss Rossiter tell you she must go?
" Yesterday no, the, day before. I have been so worried I can
scarcely remember things. At first we thought she was ill, and 1"
her to see a doctor. She did not eat properly, and I am sure from her looks
that she did not sleep either, and then Dossie told us she woke in the
night and heard her sobbing. Dossie went to her once, and got into
her bed and begged her not to cry; and Miss Rossiter clung to her, and
would not let her go. Dossie says she put her to sleep at last, stroking
her hand as she used to stroke her father's."
"Go on," observed Launcelot, rather hoarsely, and he pretended to
stir his coffee.
" Well, I spoke to her very seriously, and so did Pauline. I told her
that it was my wish that she should see Mr. Egerton, but she would not
listen to reason; she persisted in saying that she was not really ill, only
nervous. I was almost angry with her at last, but even then she was
not shaken."
"Well?"
" Oh, I thought it best to leave her alone after that. I believe I did
not even see her the next day, and on Thursday morning as I was do-
ing some accounts in the morning-room she came in and said she must
; to me. I thought her manner strange. She looked very pale
and excited, and then without a word of explanation she said very
quickly just what I have told you, that we must not think her ungrate-
ful for all our kindness, but she hud made up her mind to leave the
"Witcnens: that she could not stay any longer, and that 1 must, liud an-
other and Sybil at least it was to that etlect, for I
can not remember her exact words;."
O^LY THE GOVERNESS. 139
" And what was your answer, Madella?"
" Well, Launce, of course I was excessively hurt, and I let her see it
it was so utterly unexpected; but at my first reproachful word she
broke down, and then, as I said, it was very trying. She was at my
feet in a moment, kissing my hands in her impulsive way and saying
how she loved us all, and what a dear house it had been to her, and that
it nearly broke her heart to leave us, but that she must go; it was her
duty, and nothing could keep her; and then Pauline came in, and mat-
ters only grew worse, and she was so hysterical at last that we dared not
ay another word."
" And this was on Monday?"
" Yes, and I have not spoken to her since; but last night she sent me
a little note by Pauline. Pauline is so good to her; she is terribly
grieved about it all, but she will not let me say a word against Miss
Rossiter. She declares that some trouble must have come to her; that
we never found her unreasonable or wanting in good sense, and that
we must wait for your return. ' Launce will know how to talk to her,
mother,' she said, more than once."
" Pauline is a sensible girl. May I see that note, Madella?" and Mrs.
Chudleigh handed it to him at once.
" My dearest Mrs. Chudleigh," it began, " I think the hardest part of
all is to know that you are accusing me of ingratitude in your heart.
Alas! I could read that thought in your eyes. Yes, you who have been
like a mother to me you whom I have loved and reverenced above
every other woman you think that I am acting unkindly and in caprice.
Will you t ry to believe me when I tell you this is not the case, that
necessity compels me to leave you, though I can not tell you the reason.
You have given me the dearest home I have ever known; you have
made me one of yourselves and treated me with kindness. How could
anything but necessity, therefore, justify so rash an act.
" No, my dearest and best friend, believe that I am telling you the
plain, unvarnished truth when I say I must leave you. I must; yet,
though the pain of bidding you all good-bye threatens to break my heart.
But do not let me go unforgiven; let me have at least the poor consola-
tion of feeling I am believed, and in some measure trusted. I think if
you could read my heart but God only can do that you would pity
me, and there would be no misunderstanding then.
" Yours most gratefully,
" HULDAH ROSSITER."
" Well, Launcelot?" for he still sat silent with his eyes fixed on the
signature, " what do you gather from that poor girl's letter?"
' That we have no right to accuse her of any ingratitude."
' You mean that she is unhappy?"
' Yes," he returned, briefly, " she is very unhappy."
' It is very strange. ' '
4 All mysteries are strange, and this is at present a mystery to us,
Madella. I shall speak to her to-morrow and ask her to remain."
'You?"
' Yes, I;" but as she looked timidly and doubtfully in his face he
said, quickly
"They are coming off the terrace; I hear Geoffrey's roice. lean
not explain now, but somehow I fancy we understand each other. IB.
whatever way I act promise me you will not be vexed with me, Ma-
della?"
140 ONLY TIII-: (.o\ I'KXKSS.
" Xo," she returned, gently, " I shall not be vexed." But i( '
doubted if she really comprehended his meaning. Vexed with L
rer been angry with him in her life? \Vere not all his
actions good and sound in
" Thank you," he said, pressing her hand; and then he went i
in the dusky light and greeted his sister and Geoffrey. The first plaee
showed hi ; was not of the party; but he took no a] (par-
ent notice of this fact until Pauline drew him aside.
" You have heard about Iluldah, Launce?"
" Yes; Madella has been telling me."
"Poor mother! it has been such a worry to her. I was afraid it
would make her quite ill. We can not understand Iluldah at all.
Every moment she contradicts herself; and yet we can see how unhappy
she is."
"I don't think I care to talk about it, Paul." Then Pauline knew
from her brother's manner that she had better say no more, and shortly
afterward Launcelot said he was tired and would go to bed.
But in spite of his fatigue it was long before he slept. All sorts of
harassing conjectures drove slumber from his eyes. Had she .u '.!
anything from his manner lately? had it been less guarded and friendly
than usual? had she taken alarm at the notion that she had found
favor in the eyes of the master of the house? But no; the most rigid
self-examination exonerated him from any imprudence of this sort.
The most sensitive and prudish woman would not have felt herself
offended by such gentle, kindly attentions. No; it could not be this
that was driving her so reluctantly from their roof. It must be then
that some sudden trouble had overtaken her. And again he thought,
and this time with a conscious shudder, of those fixed, miserable
in which lay the shadow of some terror or unexpected sorrow. It was
this trouble he was resolved to share, this mystery he determined to
solve: and with this resolution he at last fell asleep.
The next morning he heard from Pauline that the children were learn-
ing their lessons as usual. So he shut himself in his studio on the pre-
tense of work; but he did not even uncover his picture. He wrote a
few business letters, sorted 'and tore up an accumulation of papers on
his writing-table, and that was all.
Miss Rossiter made her appearance at luncheon. Somehow he had
not expected to see her there; but he suppressed his feelings and thuok
hands with her quietly.
She did not raise her eyes or speak to him, but passed quickly to her
ecat, and busied herself in attending to the children's wants.
It was long before he dared to steal a glance in her direction; but
when at last he did so the change in her appearance filled him with dis-
may.
She certainly looked very ill. A sort of dimness had crept over her
beauty; a dejection and paleness that filled him wilh pity.
What had become of her pure and radiant bloom? the light sil
:'i;r that had always been so musical in his ear.-? the bright, quaint
lies that had enlivened the meals? He had never s
e silent, and quenched, and spiritless, speaking to no one, I
ami yet lie could not address her.
It v. Ing thai lire wo.s more, than usually talkative. She was
full of an expected treat ikat afternoon. The Hamblyns had had a
il the Albert Hall offered them; an unusually at
was to take place that evening, and Nora hud written to invite both her
ONLY THE GOYERNESS. 141
and Pauline. They were to remain the night, and Lady HanVoiyn had
promised to drive them home the following afternoon. Geoffrey would
be tkere too, and sleep in town.
" It is a very good concert: Christine Nilsson is to sing," observed
Pauline, who was evidently trying to get up an enthusiasm; but her
remark fell rather flat.
" Should you like me to take the children for a drive?" observed Mrs.
Clmdleigh, in a low tone to Miss Rossiter; but Launcelot heard every
word. " I was thinking of going into town, and the t-hops always
please them, and you may be glad of a rest this afternoon."
" Thank you you are very good," she returned, in a measured voice.
" You will like that, will you not, my dears?" and there was an ecstatic
response from Sybil and Dossie, and then the party broke up.
Launcelot took his paper to the studio window; his sisters came in
presently and wished him good-bye, and Pauline looked at him a little
wistfully. "Poor little girl, she wonders why I do not talk to her
about her friend," he thought, and then lie heard the children's voices,
as they drove off for a delightful afternoon of shopping and bustle.
The house felt very silent; only he and Miss Rossiter were in it. He
was just pondering whether he might venture to go up into the school-
room, or whether he should send her a message, when to his relief he
saw her slowly crossing the lawn in the direction of the shrubbery, and
at once made up his mind to follow her.
It was an intensely hot July afternoon; scarcely a leaf rustled, and
only the white butterflies seemed to enjoy the cloudless sunshine, but he
knew that in the shrubbery there would be shade. There were pleasant
seats there under striped awnings, and in one of the trees they had slung
a hammock; below, the common would stretch burned and brown in
the sultry glare, but in the winding walk there would be coolness and
shade, and he would be able to speak to her, too, without interruption.
He found her seated under one of the awnings; Dossie's pug puppy
was curled up in the draperies of her pale-pink gown. She had her sun-
shade up and did not see him, and was evidently so absorbed in her
own thoughts that even his footsteps were unheeded; he almost feared
to startle her too abruptly when he addressed her by name.
"How comfortable and cool you look, Miss Rossiter!" but as she
lowered her sunshade with a faint expression of surprise, he saw at
once that she was not pleased to see him.
" I thought you had gone with the others, Mr. Chudleigh," she said;
and there was marked embarrassment and a little annoyance visible in
her manner. " I thought Beppo and I had the place to ourselves."
" And you are disappointed at finding your quiet invaded? You are
not in a talking mood, and you would have preferred your own society?
I am sorry for that, for " looking at her steadily " I have come here
for the express purpose of talking to you."
CHAPTER XXII.
"l CAN HELP YOU, HULDAH."
He writhed then sternly manned his heart
To play his hard but destined part.
Lord of the Isles.
Miss ROSSITER made no reply to this, but Launcelot heard a faint
sigh of intense weariness, and he noticed that the hand that supported
142 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
tin- sunshade trembled slightly, l)ut there was no further protest oa her
purl. She hud no right to send tlie muster of the house away, ho
irksome his presence might be to her, but neither would she offer him
the leust eiirourugeinent to remain; so she did not draw away her
to make room for him on the seat. Launcelot took no notice of this,
however. There was a low stump of a tree just by, on which he B<
himself; the position was convenient, as he could see her face plainly.
He was soon sensible that this arrangement embarrassed the young gov-
: she glanced at him uneasily, and then looked away.
" Mi-s Koxsiter," he began, quietly, and no one hut he himself knew
how unevenly his heart was beating, "of course 1 have heard
thing from Mudella. She tells me that you have made up your mind to
e us."
She bowed her head at this, as though speech were difficult, and
Launcelot went on in the same smooth, even voice.
" You are unwilling to remain any longer as Sybil's governess. Will
you answer me one question frankly? Has any one in this house given
you any just cause for complaint?"
*' No no!" she returned, eagerly, and her eyes filled with tears.
' ' You have only been too good to me, every one of you. I have never
met with such kindness in my life."
" That is well; then it is no fault of ours that is driving you away,
and yet something has happened I can see by your face that you are
in trouble."
" I am in great trouble," was the unexpected answer; and then a lit-
tle wildly, " but no one can help me, no one no one!"
" Are you so sure of that?" he returned, gently. " What if I tell you
that your trouble is mine, and that I ask no higher privilege than to be
allowed to share it?"
" But you can not share it," with evident misunderstanding of his
meaning. ' ' I can never tell my trouble to any one; what would be the
use, when no one living could help me?"
" I can help you, Huldah. As surely as I have loved you from the
first minute I ever saw your dear face, so"
But with a cry that sounded like an exclamation of horror, she caught
him by the arm, and with whitening lips prayed him to stop.
" Why should I stop, my dearest?" and 110 woman could have mis-
taken the meaning of his look, and indeed no living woman hud ever
seen those gray eyes dark and vivid with intense feeling" why should
I not tell you the truth?" Then she shrunk away from him and
ered up her face, and he heard her say, amidst her wild weeping, that
In: must never speak to her in that way again, for she could ne
his dearest never never ; and he must not love her, and then her
hoked with sobs.
Launcelot grew a little pale, but his hand closed firmly upon a fold
of her gown as though he feared she might leave him, but his voice
gentle us ever. *
" \Vhy may I not love you, dear?"
use because oh, I am a wicked girl, but I never meant this!
I never dreamed of this! God knows I would nt have been so wicked.
Mr. Chudleigh " hardly able to bring out her words, and he coul
how her poor throat swelled " if it would do any good I would beg
your forgiveness on my knees for causing you this pain, but you a
.-ml true that you will soo r feeling fortuch a miser
able creature, for I am not I am not what you think me."
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 143
" I can not help that," he answered, doggedly, and the set pin-pose of
his tone seemed to frighten her; " whatever you are, I can not help
loving you, and I must go on loving you all my life."
" No no!" she almost shrieked, and she pushed his hand away, " do
not touch me! do not say anything like that again! Oh, I have de-
ceived you cruelly, but I never thought of this; God knows such a
thought never came into my mind until the other day, and then I knew
I must go. Mr. Chudleigh, neither you nor any other man must speak
to me of love, for I am the wife of a good man the unhappy wife, it
is true but still I am a married woman."
For one moment Launcelot shut his teeth hard, as though he were in
mortal agony; his whole frame seemed to quiver as though he had re-
ceived a blow, and then with the intense force of his will he drove back
all feeling of his own personal pain, and though there was a gray tint
on his face, and a curious coldness and numbness in the region of his
heart, he compelled himself to think only of her.
" It is for me to beg your pardon, although " with a pathetic attempt
at a smile " I have clone no moral wrong, for I could not know how
could I? that such feelings would be an offense to you. Try to forget
what I have just said, and consider me your best friend. We " with
a catch of his breath " have always been friends, and I wish to help
you. You have a husband, you say; will you tell me his name?"
" If you wish it."
But before she could bring it out, Launcelot sprung from his seat as
though he had been shot.
" No, don't teil me, 1 know it let me tell you instead you are not
Huldah Rossiter you are Joan Ivan Thorpe's wife! I know it I
am sure of it; oh, my God!"
And here he sat down giddily, and for a little while there was a bitter
flood of thoughts that choked the man's speech, while the woman, hum-
bled and guilty, sat at his side and wept until she had no tears left.
But it was she who spoke first.
" How did you know it was Ivan?" she whispered.
Then Launcelot roused himself, and with an inward prayer for
strength and self-control, answered her gently:
" The truth Hashed on me as I spoke. I remembered your face that
evening when he came; you have never been the same since. Ivan is
my friend, my dear friend; there is no man dearer to me. 1 saved his
life once surely you owe it to me to tell me the whole truth."
"I owe you more than that," she answered, humbly; "I will tell
you everything. I will answer any question you wish, if you will only
forgive me, and not hate me for my deceit. There is nothing I will not
do to show my penitence. Oh, I am so miserable; I never meant to be
so wicked. 1 was not a bad girl; it was only I did not like being mar-
ried."
4 ' Wait a moment before you explain things. Give me your hand. I
will promise to forgive you if you on your side will promise something
in return. Give me the right as your husband's friend to help you in
tfliis crisis of your life to the utmost of my power, as though " here his
voice shook a little " as though I were your brother."
The generosity of this speech made her tears flow again, but she gave
him her hand at once.
" Oh, how good you are! you make me more than ever ashamed of
myself. I never had a brother yes, you shall haip. I will try to foil
low your advice, I can trust you wholly."
144 OKLY THE GOYEKNESS.
"God forgive me if I ever forfeit that trust!" returned the young
man, fervently, and the expression of his face made her think of
Nathanael, that Israelite without guile, and indeed it seemed to Launee-
lot afterward as though his Agonized prayer for help had been heard,
and his soul had received invisible strength for that trying hour,
though he knew that his fairest earthly hope was quenched that the
world would never look to him quite the same again; that the spring
and buoyancy of his youth were broken within him he could still look
at the woman who had deceived him with that gentle, pitying smile of
full and free forgiveness.
" Xow that is settled between us, and we are friends again; and now
you must tell me why you call yourself Huldah Rossiter, and wish to
pass for an unmarried girl.
"My name is Huldah,' sue returned; "Joan Huldah but I was
always called Joan. Oh, Mr. Chudleigh, you are so good yourself that
you will not understand how a girl could be so wicked, but before you
judge me think what it was for me to have no mother to guide me. and
though my father was kind, he was not wise; when I was passionate he
only laughed at me, and gave me what I cried to possess and and
though one does not like to say it of a parent, his example was not good,
and when he died and I went to live with Aunt Kezia, there was no
good influence for me there."
" Your aunt's name was Mrs. Templeton, was it not?"
" How did you know? but of course Ivan or Rachel must have told
you; well, she is dead now, so I hardly like to speak of her faults, but
poverty had soured her, and so perhaps she could not help making
every one's life round her miserable. She was a worldly, hard woman,
and she could say and do cruel things; she seemed to grudge me the
bread I eat, and yet she would not let me go out and work. I was fond
of children; I loved teaching, and I wanted to be a governess, but noth-
ing would induce her to listen to me. I only know my life was so un-
bearable at last that I thought I must run away, and then Ivan came,
and he was kind to me, and then they both talked me into promising to
marry him."
" You did not love him?"
Launcelot never raised his eyes as he put this question.
" No, it would not be true to say I loved him. Ivan knew I did not,
for I never deceived him, but I liked him, and he was so kind to me
oh, so kind! and I was willing at last to marry him. I think," with a
faint blush, " I was very near loving him by the time he took me home,
he was so different, so much nicer then."
" You mean when you were alone together."
" Yes; lie neverscolded and found fault with me then; my impulsive
ways did not seem to jar upon him. Oh. Mr. Chudleigh, I am telling
you the simple truth, as I should tell my brother if I had one, though 1
did not love Ivan as a married woman ought to love her husband, I was
so grateful to him for earing for me and taking me out of my miserable
life, that I tried with my whole heart to do my duty to him. I wanted
to please him, 4 wanted to make him happy, but Rachel came between
us."
" And yet Miss Thoq)e is a good woman."
" So I thought, and 1 tried to be fond of her. I was fond of her ;^
bill 'jd people have their faults; from the first she was jealous
m's lo\e for me. Oh, yes, I know what \ou are going to say, that
she struggled against the feeling, but all the siuue it was too much for
OlfTLY THE GOVERNESS. 145
her. She had been everything to him once, and she could not forgive
me for taking her place; from the first she misunderstood and disliked
me. Alas, my ways were not theirs! You may pity them if you \vill
and I shall not blame you, for they had enough to bear, but I was lo be
pitied too."
" I always knew that," he answered, more to himself than to her, as
she fixed her swollen eyes piteously on him.
"If my life with Aunt Kezia had been wretched, my married life
was intolerable. I had never learned reticence and self-control, and
when Rachel spoke in her smooth, sarcastic voice, and exaggerated all
my little shortcomings, and Ivan gave me severe marital lectures, I losl
my temper and got into what Rachel called my Irish rages, and s<
things went on from bad to worse; I could please neither of them, and
every day Ivan grew colder and sterner in his manner."
" Yes, I understand," for she had paused again.
" I will not speak against him, for his sins are venial compared t< ,
mine; but if he had only been gentle with me, if he hud only treated
me as a wife ought to have been treated, I would never have asked to
leave him. 1 would have tried to bear my life though it was killing
me, but he was bent on breaking my will. I was his wife and 11111*1
submit; he would not stoop to be tender over me. Rachel encouraged
him in this firmness, and between them they nearly drove me mad."
" Poor child, poor child!"
" You can speak kindly to me even now?" and a flush passed over
her wan face. " Oh, why was not Ivan like you? I was not iucoi
rigibly bad; he could have won me by gentleness. I tried as a last re
source to plead with him; I reminded him that we had never inisundei
stood each other before Rachel came between us, and I begged him t
find her another home. ' I will do all I can to replace her,' I said; ' >
will try to learn your English ways and keep my temper.' Oh, hov.
angry he was! He told me to my face that his sister, his poor faithfu,
Rachel, should never be turned away from his roof wlrile he had a crust
to share with her, that she was a good woman, and that I was not
worthy to compare with her, that he was a fool to have been caught b\
my beauty, that I made his life wretched, that he had never known ar<
instant's peace since he had married me! Oh, for once Ivan was in K
towering passion."
" That was because he loved you, Mrs. Thorpe."
She winced at hearing her old name, and darted a reproachful glancx
at Launcelot.
" I never told you you might call me that. Oh, how quick you are'
I would rather you had called me Huldah, but never mind. Well
when Ivan said that, I told him he must choose between Rachel and!
me, that nothing would induce me to go on living in the way we were
doing, that I should only hate him, that I was beginning to do so already
oh, you can guess the rest. When I asked him to give me my liberty
and let me go back to Aunt Kezia, he just bowed his head, and his face
was as hard and impenetrable as this wood," striking her hand on the
seat ' ' harder like marble and so he let me go. : '
"Mrs. Thorpe, consider; could any generous man refuse to release
you when you told him that living in his house was killing you? Most
likely he hoped that in a little while you would see your duty in its
right light and come back to him; indeed, I know from his own lips
that this is the case."
" Has he spoken of me to you? What has he said? But no, do not
14<> ONI i-ss.
tt-ll me yet; let me he quick and finish. I hud a nervous illness, and
Auut Ke/ia was frightened, and when I got better she let me take *
place as companion to an invalid lady living at Mai vei
rich and had a beautiful place, and the change was good for me. 1
to try to forget all about Ivan, only Rachel's letters kept the wounds
open. Oh, if you could only see those letters, dry, dogmatic, virtuous
letters, with not a trace of sisterly or even kindly feeling in them!
They only widened the breach, they only made me exult in my free-
dom."
" Poor Miss Thorpe; she little thinks herself responsible for all this
misery."
<l Ah, you take her part," reproachfully. " 3Icu always do; but she
is not a woman to be beloved by her own sex. She is too strong mind-
ed; she has too little pity for weakness; she has all Ivan's hardness, but
she is not capable of his gentleness. You are surprised at my using
that word in connection with my husband, but," speaking very slowly,
" he was gentle at first, when he loved rue."
" And he loves you still!"
She shook her head vehemently.
" No, no! a- thousand times no! Should I have pulled off my wed-
ding-ring and called myself by another name if I had not known his
love was dead, and I was only a hinderance and a burden? 1 had to
thank Rachel for that knowledge."
" Mrs. Thorpe, pardon me; I believe you are laboring under a delu-
sion."
" And 1 tell you I am not! Can I doubt the evidence of my own eye-
sight? Let me explain it more clearly. I had just heard of Aunt
Kezia's death, and the kind friend with whom I was living lay in her last
illness; my future was looking black enough, God knows and then
Rachel's letter, the last 1 have ever received from her, was put in my
hands. It was a hard, cruel letter; even you, who take her part, would
own that. She upbraided me with being a false wife, for having taken
vows I had no intention of fulfilling. She said that from that day forth
she would have nothing more to do with me; that 1 had forfeited
Ivan's love, and worn out his long patience. Oh, I can not remember
it all, but that was the gist of the whole that they were tired and sick
of me."
" Your sister-in-law had no right to interfere in the matter; but all the
same you have misunderstood her meaning. She wrote under strong
excitement."
" It did its work, though. In a fit of passionate anger and despair 1
declared I would be Ivan's wife no longer. The terms of our separa-
tion did not satisfy me. I was still under his control, he still sent me
money from time to time, and no doubt it was by his wish that Rachel
wrote to me. I determined in an evil moment", and quite heed!'
quences, that I would be free indeed. When Mrs. Weston died,
leaving me a small legacy, I went to the Gov< try in llar-
ivet we wore in London then and entered myself on the books
as Huldah Rossiter, my mother's maiden name, and there I met your
dear mother."
heaven*! do you mean to tell me that M;idella took you with-
out references?" and at this question a ghost of the old smile ci
k a fancy i
other at the first moment. 1 told her I had beem unfortunate; that my
ONLY THE GOVElltfESS. 14?
benefactress was dead, and had left me a small legacy, but that I had
no relation to speak for me, which was perfectly true. I also told her
of Aunt Kezia's death, which had thrown me on the world. She hesi-
tated at first, but appointed a second interview, afid when I saw her
again she said, to my surprise, that it was all right; a lady she knew
well had been acquainted with Mrs. Weston, and had heard her speak
with great affection of a young lady companion. 'To be sure,' she
continued, ' my friend made one mistake, for she thought it was a young
married lady, who had been separated from her husband; but of course
that must have been a mistake; she must not have meant you, my dear.'
' ' She certainly meant me,' was my reply, and to my intense relief
it was decided that I should come on trial as Sybil's governess. I told
Mrs. Chudleigh that I had never had a pupil before, but it appears she
and Bee were much taken with my playing and singing, and my French
accent was declared very satisfactory."
"Oh, Madella, Madella," sighed Launcelot, but he spoke only to
himself.
" And now you know all the rest. Oh, how happy you all made me!
There were times when I forgot Ivan, and felt as though I were a
child again. Do not look at me in that way, Mr. Chudleigh; indeed,
they were both happier without me they had each other. Ivan and
his faithful Rachel " and here she laughed a little hysterically " and
I I had my freedom."
" And a remorseful conscience to balance it."
" No, you must not say that; my conscience has not often troubled
me only now and then at the dance, perhaps."
" And why at the dance?" turning quickly round and fixing a search-
ing look on her face; but though her color rose under it, she would not
answer. How could she tell him of the womanly instinct that had
warned her the moment he had looked at her with those loving gray
eyes as he put his arm round her in the valse, that she was playing a
dangerous game of which evil might come?
"Oh," she said, evading this, "you can not think what a terrible
moment that was to me when I looked out of the passage window and
saw my husband crossing the court-yard. If I had not drawn back in-
stantly he must have seen me, for he looked up, and then our eyes
would have met; that would have killed me!" with a shudder.
" Forgive me for interrupting you, but I must ask you another ques-
tion. How is it Dossie never spoke to you of the Thorpes?"
" They did not seem to make much impression on her. She did
speak of them once or twice; but the name is not an uncommon one.
When I left my husband he was living at Sutton, and I never connect-
ed the Thorpes of Riversleigh with him and Rachel. I do not remem-
ber that Dossie even mentioned Miss Thorpe, only she spoke of a Mr.
Thorpe who was a nice man, and played with her. I think she said he
was quite old;" but here she hesitated and turned away. " I think-
that is, I thought Ivan did look much older. ' '
" No doubt, trouble has aged him. Whatever you may believe, Mrs.
Thorpe, your desertion has nearly broken his heart. A more lonely
man does not live than Ivan Thorpe."
She started, and her face worked with some strong emotion; but the
next moment she controlled herself.
"I think it is you who make a mistake now, " she returned, very
quietly. " Ivan is not the man to feel lonely; besides, he has Rachel."
" A sister is not like a wife. -Why will you not believe me? I know
148 ONLi THI-: <.OYI:I;NTESS.
husband well, lie ha- never ceased to love you, and ia spit* of
his anger lu- \vanls you back."
" But not no\v. Mr. t'hudleigh. You forget; if you know Ivan, you
know him to be a man of narrow views and rigid on all points of honor.
h a one likely to forgive a woman who has thrown off her re-
sponsibilities ami has passed in society as an unmarried girl?"
" He will find it difficult to forgive, certainly. No doubt his anger
will be bitter and hard to bear, but if you are patient and humble your-
self"
"I humble myself!" and here he saw all her beauty change, and
her eyes flash with scorn, but before she could say more he took her
hands and held them tightly.
" Never mind all that. You want to be good, I am sure you do, and
Madella and I will help you; only trust us, and do not fear to follow
our advice. You are not a coward; you know when people do wrong
they deserve to suffer, and you have done very wrong, for you have
sinned against the truth."
' ' Yes, I have done very wrong ' ' and at that gentle rebuke all her
pride fell from her " but I did not mean to be wicked. I only wauled
my freedom."
" You can not have that unless God thinks fit to take your husband;
no human power can free you from those solemn vows, which it is now
your duty to fulfill. No, do not let us argue; you are exhausted, and I
can talk no more. Remember your agreement: you have accepted us as
your friends and guardians. Under our roof you are safe; rest quietly
and think over what I have said, and leave every thing else in my hands.
I will talk to Madella and to your husband."
" Oh, no! no! Not my husband! You will not be so cruel!"
" You do not know how cruel I can be. I mean to be cruel for your
own good. I mean, God helping, to make you a happy woman in spite
of yourself; surely you can trust me?"
" Do not tell Ivan," she whispered; but he only looked at her with a
grave smile. " May I not go away first?" but he shook his head at this
childish speech.
" Where would you go, my poor child? Do you suppose other
women would be so foolish as Madella, and take you into their homes?
No, promise me faithfully that you will stay quietly here and obey us
I mean obey Madella."'
" Ah, I must promise, I suppose " in a despairing tone; " the thought
of going out in the world frightens me. I am not brave, I am a
coward. I am afraid of making mischief wherever I go. Oh, do you
think Mrs. Chudleigh will keep me when she knows all? She is very
sweet, very loving, but there are some things that good women lind it
hard to forgive."
" I think," he returned, steadily, " that you will have much to bear;
in sowing the wind you must expect to reap the whirlwind. Madella
will not be pleased in fact, she will be sadly ruffled. We must wait
for her good heart to assert itself, and you must be patient."
" Shall you speak to her to-night?" "
" No, not to-night, " and there was a muffled tone of exhaustion in
Launcelot's voice; " I must get my thoughts into shape first. I am
_ r out. Will you tell Madella that I may possibly lecp at my club
if I am detained late? Do not keep the house open after eleven."
" You are going out, and you do not look well; in fact, you look
very ill."
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 149
" That is not of the smallest consequence, thank you," rather curtly.
" Will you let me wish you good-night now?" and as she stood looking at
kirn rather ruefully he took her hand and pressed it kindly, and then
walked quickly through the shrubberies in the direction of the studio.
But as each step took him further from her, and the sound of her sad
musical voice was no longer in his ear, a thick darkness seemed to settle
upon his spirits, and those words of unutterable bitterness came to his
recollection :
" Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the
bitter in soul, which long for death but it cometh not, and did for it
more than hid treasures, which rejoice exceedingly and are glad when
they can find the grave?"
"They are grand words, and they seem to fit somehow," thought
Launcelot, as he sat down wearily in his place.
CHAPTER XXin.
UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES.
He forgot himself where he could be of use to others. SCOTT.
Something there yet remains for me in this world, were it only to bear my sor
rows like a man and to aid those who need my assistance. Anon,
IN all the days of his happy, vigorous life Launcelot had never passed
such an hour as that after he had closed the studio door and sat down
to look his trouble in the face.
The severe tension, the almost intolerable strain during that long con-
versation, had tried his powers of endurance to the utmost, and utter
collapse of all mental effort was the result. For a long time he could
only sit there holding his head in his hands, and asking himself with a
sort of bewilderment of wonder why of all men such a thing should
have happened to him.
Hitherto he had compelled himself to think only of her, but now he
had leisure to consider his own void and loss. It was not only the fact
that the woman he has so passionately loved could never be his wife,
though that knowledge caused anguish to his manhood, but his faith
had also suffered such shipwreck, so that for a little while he could only
think what a miserable affair this life was, and what a poor thing human
nature could be when the heavenly props had been removed.
Launcelot was by no means blind to his own merits. He knew far
better than others that his standard had been a higher one than that of
most men.
Intense self-respect had been his safeguard, and, in spite of the hot
blood of youth, had carried him triumphantly through many a tempta-
tion. At one time of his life, in his under-graduate days, he had not
been more thoughtful than other young men of his age; but even then
pride and a certain wholesome cleanliness of nature had left him straight.
But the sense of his own uprightness and rectitude had not made him
censorious. He was lenient to other men's feelings, making all allow-
ances for the weakness of human nature. He never despised the } r outh-
ful prodigals that he saw devouring husks and making believe to enjoy
them. He only longed to show them the truer pleasure of the higher
life. He knew himself to be happier than his fellows, because he had
kept innocency and done the thing that was right.
But though the broad level of Ms charity included all sorts and con
150 n.\M !
ditions of men. lie was so 1',-ir true to his own eon\ ' he would
have his future wife aa pure :ml perfect as an Knglish girl should he.
Susceptible as he was to beauty, lie eared more that tin hrinc
should be fair and well garnished. On this point he had ever been
fastidious.
" You will never find a girl to suit you, Launce," his step-mother had
said to him, when lie had been bewailing his bachelor condition, and
narrating to her with much humor his two matrimonial attempts.
"Ah, it is all very we ; l, Idling me about your fancy for Dora lia>,h-
leigh. She is a ;1, and thoroughly charming; but if sin
accepted you instead of Colonel Glynn, it would have been a short en-
gagement. You never could have spent your life with a girl who had
simply no mind."
" I dare say you are right, Madella," he answered, as though struck
by the truth of this remark. " But all the same, she was a dear little
thing, and I was very fond of her."
" I tell you what, Launce," Bee said to him one day, when tir
iect was on the /'^/"N and he had been airing a 1'ew of his opinions, " you
will never meet the girl you want in society. You are very peculiar
and quixotic. I don't believe you will ever marry unless you train
your future wife from a child, aud inoculate her with all your extraor-
dinary notions."
" That is a good idea of yours," returned Luuncelot, coolly. " What
dp you say, Madella? Could you find a pretty little orphan of gentle
birth, and no undesirable relatives, who could be my pupil from a ten-
der age? I dare say Bee's plan would work well, unless the orphan re-
fused to marry me, and shunted me off for a younger fellow."
Ah, well, tUey had often made themselves veiy merry at his expense;
but now, as Launcelot sat reviewing his troubles gloomily, it did
hard that he, of all men, should have met with such an experience
that he, Launcelot Chudleigh, should have made love to a married
woman, and she the wife of his dearest friend. No wonder the shock
had staggered him. Innocent as he knew himself to be, the mere fact
of the case sickened him.
And then he wondered why there was no anger in his heart against
Joan, but only a great pity and tenderness, and a longing to set her
right with the world; and he set himself to consider tin umed
to him a great problem, and he thought most men in his circumstances
would have felt themselves stirred to bitter wrath.
And after a great deal of hard thinking which he carried forward on
Brentwood Common for the studio walls seemed to stiiic him a
time, and fresh air had always been a necessity to him in unhappy
moods he arrived at the conviction that it was her child-liko inn<
that, in spite of her long deception, made her still so winning to him;
and though he would not own it to his conscience, he knew dee]) down
in his heart that if she were only free he would gladly make her his
wife still. But he shuffled off these thoughts hastily, and labeled them
" Dangerous;" for strong men drown when the waves of passion rise
high.
If.' could see th'! scared, troubled look on her face as she pushed away
his hand " Do not touch me; du not look at me in that way "as
though her wifely instincts had taken alarm; and then he could hear
nl break in her voice;, and see the childish quiver of her lip " Oh,
1 am a wicked girl, but I never dreamed of this! (Jod knows 1 would
not have becu so wicked." No, with nil her foolishness and reckless-
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 151
ness and blind disregard of duty, he knew that Ivan Thorpe could trust
his wife.
It had been her utter unconsciousness and fresh gayety that had won
him first, and not her beauty. She had been so different from other
girls; so altogether charming. And then he thought, with a groan, of
those sittings, and how he would look up from his easel and seethe
gleam of fun in the Irish-gray eyes, and a little pout of the fresh lip-;
that had answered one of his dry speeches. Oh, he had never met ;mv
one like her. And now she could be nothing to him, or he to her, unlil
they met in that land " where there shall be neither marrying nor giv-
ing in marriage," and theirs should be the bright satisfaction of the
angels of God.
" Shall I never get over it? And yet men always do," he thought;
for all his bright spirit was quenched and hopeless, and the margin of
the future looked dry and arid as a desert, and as yet the angelic visitant
Hope had not offered her sweet ministry. By and by he would see the
way to his duty and do it like a brave man for noblesse <>Mi(/c., but just
now he was only weak enough to bemoan himself like a sick girl. And
yet, though he knew it not, his guardian angel held his hand firmly, for
no good man ever suffers alone; neither is the wounded warrior left in
the midst of the battle to hew his way through the phalanx of his foes
unaided. " If thou faint in the day of adversity thy strength is small,"
said the wise man. Launcelot's strength was only latent, having suf-
fered temporary paralysis.
He \vas conscious presently by the refreshing coolness of the air and
the absence of all glare, that the evening had come, and on looking at
his watch was astonished to find that four hours had passed, and that it
was eight o'clock. They were at dinner at the Vvitchens, and his
message had been given; so for this one evening he was free free from
his step-mother's loving scrutiny, and the anxious questions that would
follow.
He had wandered a good way across the common, and was sitting on
a bench underneath a May-tree; all around him lay the open expanse
of broken ground thick with gorse and blackberry-bushes, and toward
the horizon was piled up a glory of sunset clouds. The solitude, the in-
tense silence so healing to some natures, oppressed Launcelot even in
his sorrow, and a longing for fellowship, for unspoken sympathy, even
the sympathy of a dog, seemed to draw him to the focus and heart of life
in the great hum of London; to his active mind movement was irresisti-
ble, and he never thought more clearly and to the point than in a
crowd.
To London, therefore, he set his face, and as he walked with his head
a little thrown back, and his eyes fixed wearily on the distance, people
looked after him curiously, thinking that he was walking for a wager,
for there was a set purpose in his face, and a gravity that might mean
nnything, from a lost lawsuit to a murder.
He slackened his pace when he got to Piccadilly, for he became all at
once conscious by his relaxed muscles that he was in need of food. Still
the idea of dinner gave him a feeling of nausea that there was no get-
ting over; so he went into a restaurant and had a couple of glasses of
good claret and a roll, and this relieved his faintness and disposed him
to renewed exercise.
The constant noise of vehicles, so far from fretting his nerves, seemed
a sort of lullaby to his pain, and he was almost sorry when they ceased
and the silence of night settled down on the great metropolis.
152 ONLY THK
He did a great deal of hard thinking and Inid up a store of valuable
resolutions for future di: he walked through the West Knd,
seeing many strange sights as lie went. Now and tlien a block of foot
- coming out of a theater door brought him to a standstill,
and he leaned against a pillar and looked at the young and old
that passed him, and thought how every one had his story, and won
dercd if any heart among them were as heavy as his.
By and by he found himself on the Embankment, and sat down for a
long time near Cleopatra's Needle, looking across the dark riveis and
asking himself all manner of questions.
But he was not tired yet, so he determined to make a night of it; he
had always promised himself that he would walk down Whitecliapel
Road and Stepney toward the small hours of the morning, and when
should he get such a chance again? So he shook himself into fresh
energy, and started off.
He had the great wide road almost to himself, though now and then
he met a shuffling figure or two, or encountered a miserable group on a
doorstep. As he passed the London Hospital some men cany ing a
rough sort of stretcher turned in at the gate, and he waited involuntarily
to see the ghastly load lifted off it.
" It was one of them Lascars did it," he heard one hulking fellow say
to another. " It is only that sort of breed that stabs a man in the back,
with a choice oath to follow
Launcelot stood for a long time looking up at the dark, massive build-
ing. What suffering bodies and souls there must be within those
walls. Hundreds Ijang in those great wards trying to court a few hours'
forgetfuluess of their pain " God bless the men and women who work
there!" he thought, as he walked quietly on, and something gentle
seemed to loose the tight band round his heart.
After a time, when he had gone through the length and breadth of
this eastern city of millions, and had been wrung with pity to know
that even night has no rest for some, and that dark deeds are done in
dark hours, when the prince of evil and his satellites hold high revel,
he came presently to another bridge, and here the loneliness and the sight
of the black, sullen river made him shiver and wish himself at home.
He had just exchanged greetings with a policeman, who was glad to
have a word with an honest man, and now, as he advanced toward the
center of the bridge, he became aware that a man in fustian clothes was
standing with his back to him leaning against the parapet.
Most men who carried a watch in their pocket would have been glad
to have given him a wide berth in so lonely a spot, but Launcelot was
not one of these.
He passed close to the man, and perceiving utter dejection in his atti-
tude, and not believing it, as half the wori'd would have done, to be due
to the influence of beer, he said, not cheerfully, for cheerfulness was
not possible to him this evening, but kindly enough, " Good-night; you
and I seem to have the bridge to <> You must find it chilly
standing there?" and then would have passed on, fearing the nature of
his ;ui.swe,r; but the man turned slowly and heavily round, and tl,
pression of his face, as the gas-light fell on it, made Launcelot keep his
place.
" Yes, it is cold; it will l)e colder by and by." And then, in rather
a dazed wav, "I never expected to hear anyone bid me good-nighf
again; thank you, in
" Have you no one belonging to you, then?" asked Launcelit, quiet-
OHLY THE GOVERNESS. 153
ly, resting his elbows on the parapet, with an evident intention of pro-
longing the conversation. The man looked a miserable object; his
fustian jacket was ragged, and his haggard, unshorn appearance was not
much in his favor, but his voice had a country accent, and he spoke
civilly enough.
" Oh, yes, I have my wife and the little mis," he answered, in a limp
sort of way, " but they will get on better without me. Look Mere, sir
for I see you are a gentleman I was just about making up my mind
to pitch myself over this 'ere bridge, and have done with the whole thing,
when you comes along, and ' Good-night,' says you in a friendly tone,
and somehow I don't seem to have the stomach for the job now."
" Why, of course not, you would not be such a fool; no man in his
senses would think of doing such a thing."
" Perhaps I ain't in my senses, then; anyhow I ain't been drinking,
for neither bit nor sup, except a drop of cold water, has passed my lips
this day; but all the same, if it hadn't been for that speech of yourn,
I should have been a dead man by now."
" Then there would have been two of us; for I should certainly have
jumped in after you, under the notion of saving you, and as I am hard-
ly an average swimmer, we might neither have reached the bank alive."
" Do you mean you would have troubled your head about me? There
are not many gentlefolks like you, lam thinking; most of 'em wouldn't
care a jot if a poor fellow chose to throw himself overboard."
" You are wrong there, but we won't argue about it; you are down
upon your luck evidently. I fancy from your speech that you are from
the country. ' '
" Ay, so I be, and I were a fool ever to come up to Lunnon; I had
tidy wages, and a wholesome place for the wife and little uns, but there
we could not bide content. The missus she was always worriting, and
wanting to do better, and a smart sort of chap comes to our village
' Go to Lunnon,' says he ' Lunnon is the market for work ' so we
just hearkened to him and packed up our traps."
" Oh, you made a mistake there."
" Don't I know it, sir?" rather fiercely. "If you ever meet such
another fool on this sort of errand, tell him for God's sake to bide where
he is. ' Don't come up to Lunnon, keep in your own village,' say that
to him. Why, we wouldn't have kept a pig in the place they put my
missus and me; and as for work, why, I have pretty nigh gone on my
knees for work' There are too many of you already, and we can't give
employment to half, ' that is what they say. I tell you what, sir, I have
sat down and cried like a child, when the dock gate has been shut
against me."
" Where are your wife and children to-night?"
" They've took 'em in at the casual, because my missus looked bad-
dish, and the baby too there are three ot 'em, for we have buried four
since we came up* to Lunnon, and Sal that is the eldest girl has gone
to the bad."
" And so you wanted to end your troubles, though in reality you
would only have begun them by laying a fresh burden on your wife'?"
" She will do better without me; she would beg her way back to her
own place, and get them to take her in at the house not that I would
ever have thought of doing such a thing if I had not been pretty nearly
starving not a mouthful yesterday, and only a crust or two the day
before; and I was that desperate I wanted to steal a loaf from baker's
151 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
shop, just to get sent to jail and have a week of full meals, but someliovr
L could not do it.''
" Tlmnk (Jod! for that shows you to be an honest man; and you
must thank Him, too, that you wore saved from the sin of self-destruc-
tion. 15ut there. I can't preach to a starving man; how soon do you
think the world will be awake, and you and I can get some break-
The man's hollow eyes brightened with a dim sort of light.
" Betty Stone is the earliest she will be down at the docks in another
dour or so, and she has prime coffee; it is getting light already."
" Sol see."
Launcelot shivered slightly, for he felt not only the new day, but a
new phase of his existence had begun; and vet, though he did not
reali/e it, the deed of mercy had already marked it as a golden day in
the annals of heaven. But the time had passed for brooding, and a sick
feeling of exhaustion, as though nature were overstrained, made him
sink on the stone bench and lay his head back against the parapet. He
would rather have been silent, but a sense of duty made him rouse him-
self and draw from the man, who was not loath to tell him, the whole
of his miserable story.
"After all," thought Launcelot, presently, "what are my troubles
compared to this poor fellow's? His sin has not been very heinous;
discontent and a wish to better his condition have brought him to this
pass, and yet, like Esau, ' he finds no place for repentance.' He would
willingly go back to his cottage and small wages, but the road is barred
to him. This is one of the problems of the great city, the overflow of
people from the country, the overstocked labor market, hungry men
praying for work, and yet, thank Heaven, keeping their desperate hands
off their neighbors' goods."
Launcelot revolved these questions wearily in his mind, until the man
jogged his elbow in a shamefaced way.
" You were speaking of breakfast, sir; old Betty will be ready by
now."
" Then we will go at once," returned Launcelot, with his old brisk-
ness, for be was never slow to feed hungry men; but after all Betty
kept them waiting a little longer, for they were her earliest customers.
Launcelot provided himself with a cup of the " prime coffee;" it was
hot and sweet, and of no particular flavor, but he managed a sip or two,
which did him good.
But the real benefit lay in watching Martin he had given his name,
Joseph Martin; to him the coffee was nectar and the huge slabs of bread
and butter food of the choicest quality; and as he eat and drank, a little
life and color seemed to come into his white face, and his eyes lost their
wild, hungry look.
By and by the coffee-stall became surrounded by men who were wait-
ing 'for a day's job, and a tribe of miserable, ragged boys. Launcelot
ly invited them all to breakfast, and old Betty's stall was soon
red.
" I think we may as well be going, Martin, before a crowd collects,"
lie whispered at length, when he saw the last slieo of bread and butter
in tlirj dirty hand of a street Arab; " let, us slip away." But they were
not qirlck enough to avoid the ringing cheer from the, satislied guests,
and in spite of his despondency a faint smile rose to Launcelot 's lips.
i'or busiiif .id. as they entered a quiet street; and tak-
iiook he wrote a few lines to Miss Thorp^ and
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 155
charged the man to deliver them without fail at her office, by eleven
o'clock.
" The lady to whom this is addressed will inquire into your case, and
do her best for you; if your wife is well enough to go with you, it would
be better to let Miss Thorpe see her and the children, as she will pro-
vide them with clothing, if necessary, and tell you where to find a
decent lodging. There is a shilling for you, and now you must pluck
up heart and hope for better days. Tell Miss Thorpe about your girl
she is in connection with a society for rescue work, and she must be
found; good-bye, Martin."
And Launcelot turned away quickly, for he saw the man's emotion
was getting the better of him, and he wanted to avoid well-merited
thanks.
But the words he had written to Miss Thorpe were these :
" My dear friend, Will you do your best for this poor fellow? he
wants a helping hand sadly. He can not find work here; would it not
be well to give him a decent suit of clothes and send him back to his
own village? Let it be at my expense if you will, only let it be done
thoroughly it is a sad story."
, It was still so early that he had to walk a long way before he could
find a cab that would take him to Brentwood Common : indeed, it was
n^t seven when he let himself in at the green door in the wall, and went
by the garden way to the side entrance, where the cook was holding a
colloquy with the milkman.
He wished her good-morning and gave her a message for Fenwick,
that he was not to be disturbed until he rang his bell, and then break-
fast was to be served for him in the studio.
" I will have a glass of that fresh milk now, and a crust of bread, if
you will be good enough to give it me, Mrs. Plumber," he added.
" Betler let me give you a cup of tea, sir the kettle is boiling, and
you look sadly jaded." And Launcelot did not refuse so tempting an
offer.
Then he went up to his own room, took a bath, and lay down on his
bed for an hour's sleep; his rest was brief, however. By ten he had
ended his solitary meal and opened his letters, and then he went in
search of his step-mother.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A MODERN BAYARD.
The man whom I call deserving the name is one whose thoughts and exertions are
for others rather than for himself. Peveril of the Peak.
" BUT, Madella-"
" Not another word, Launcelot. I have made up my mind; that girl
shall not remain under my roof. Now, it is no use your trying to in-
fluence me; this is not a matter that a young man can decide. If only
your poor father were alive but of course he would say a woman of
my age would know best. Think of the bad example for our girls; and
then there are Geoffrey and Bernard to consider. A mother must think
first of her own children."
" Granted, but a mother's duty need not stop there. That is the
worst of you good women you will mothe* your own girls, but you
156 ONLY THE <;<>vi:r;N
will not extend your guardianship and charity to a poor, misguided
young woman."
" Let her go home to her husband if he will have her!" returned Mrs.
Chudleigh, with decided temper, for there could be no doubt that she
was more seriously milled than even Launcelot had feared she would
be. The fair, placid faee was Hushed with the heat of righteous '
nation; the mild eyes sparkled with angry excitement. She loo!
fierce as a swan when a strange footstep invades the seduy bank where
her cygnets' nest is hidden. For the first time, Launcelot's intlucnce
seemed" to fail. For more than an hour he had been quietly reasoning
with her, but as yet he had made no impression; but all the same, he
did not appear cast down by his want of success. He had expected
difficulty and opposition; he knew human nature too well to anticipate
an easy' victory. There is no severer censor of her own sex than a
thorougldy good, pure-minded woman: such a one will refuse to allow
the force of a temptation that would have had no power over herself.
Invincible in her own innocence and integrity, she is ready and willing
the first stone.
It requires Infinite Love to raise the sinner. It was only Omnipotent
Mercy that could endure the caressing touch of penitence and not be de-
filed by it. But Christian women close their eyes and draw the hem of
their garment aside for fear of contamination. " You have fallen, but
we will not help you to rise, though we have daughters of our own fpr
whom we pray every night:" that is what they say; and the " Neither
do I condemn thee ' ' is only spoken b}' the Master they profess to serve.
Launcelot knew all this, and he knew, too, that in the eyes of that
loyal wife and mother Joan's sin was very black indeed she had not
only left her husband, but she had cast oil her marriage vows. " It is
her deception and ingratitude that sicken me, and the thought of the
mischief she has done," Mrs. Chudleigh had observed in an earlier part
of their conversation, but Launcelot had asked for no explanation of
this vague speech.
Tie had sat silent for a little while after she had delivered her last
fling. He would give her time to cool and to repent of some of her hard
speeches; but by and by he said, very quietly
" How easy it is to misunderstand even those who are dear*
closest to us. Now a little while ago if any one had told me that you
would have refused me anything I asked as a favor, I would not have
believed them; but it seems that there are limits even to Madella's
generosity. ' '
This reproach brought the tears to her eyes, and her bosom heaved a
little.
' ' Launce oh, my dear boy how can you have the heart to say such
a thing, when you know it is of you I am thinking, that it is for your
sake I want her to go? Oh, you have not said a word, but I know for
all that " but then she stopped, a little frightened by his peremptory
gesture and the sternness of his set white face.
"Mother" and she absolutely started; lie had never called her
mother but once in his life; when he was dangerously ill as a lad, and
the doctors had given her little hope, then he had called her to him and
1 her not. to leave him again. " .Mother," he said, and thei-
In his tone, "if you love me never allude to this again. I
..re me of your sympathy. Let the silence between
us be unbi
" Very well, Launcelot/' she answered, meekly, and as she stooped
OKLY THE OOYKRXESS. 15^
ed kissed his forehead he put back his head, and it seemed to rest in-
voluntarily against her shoulder.
" My dear boy, my poor boy!" she ventured to whisper, as though
she felt this mute appeal to her heart's core.
" I think I am tired," observed Launcelot, presently, as though his
manhood wished to apologize for this momentary weakness.
Tired ay, almost broken-hearted she knew that well. The laryes&e
and riches of his love were all wasted; that great, kingly heart had been
laid in the dust. " My poor boy, my darling boy!" she sighed, still
bemoaning him, and not knowing the advantage he would take of her
tenderness.
" Madella," he said, rousing himself, " if there be one thing that
could make me happier than I am at present, it would be to see Mrs.
Thorpe under her husband's roof again, to know they were united."
"Yes; but, Lauuce, do you think such a thing is possible? Mr.
Thorpe seems a stern man; he would hardly condone such an offense."
" It is his duty to condone it; he is her husband, remember that; he
is responsible for that poor girl. What right had he to yield to her un-
disciplined wishes? He should have kept her at all costs. If harm had
come to her it would be on his head. He dare not leave her exposed to
tbe world's tender mercies, he dare not," and Launcelot's hand clinched
itself involuntarily. " When I speak to him I shall tell him that he
has failed in his duty."
" You had better keep out of it, Launcelot." Then he looked at her
with extreme surprise.
" There I differ from you. I consider Miss Rossiter I mean Mrs.
Thorpe under our joint guardianship until she is restored to her hus-
band's care. Sit down and let us talk about it a little," for she was
still standing beside him with her hand on his shoulder; she had risen
to comfort him and had not cared to reseat herself, but now Launcelot
put her with gentle force into the chair beside him.
" That is more comfortable. You must not get pale and tired over
it, Madella, for you are my one comfort, and I am depending on your
help;" then metaphorically she was at his feet in a moment, she was
ready to do his bidding slavishly, if only she could be a comfort to her
boy.
" Oh, Launce, if I only could comfort you!"
" You shall, you always do. Now you are your own sweet self
again, and I can speak to you openly, but first you must promise to for-
give that poor girl."
' ' I will try, but you must give me time, and not ask me to do impos-
sible things; and, Launcelot, if she is not to leave the house directly, I
must make one condition, that she puts on her wedding-ring and calls
herself by her right name."
" You must tell her so; she will not refuse to be guided. She is very
miserable; I don't think I ever saw any one so unhappy; it is quite piti-
ful to see her. She has got herself into trouble, and she has no more
idea than a child what to do next. Indeed, you need not fear her con-
taminating Bee or Pauline; she is really good and innocent. Though
her impulsive nature has led her wrong, she will be the first to accuse
herself and implore your forgiveness."
"Yes; but, Launcelot, slie has done exceedingly wrong. Suppose
one of my daughters, Bee for example, had acted as Miss Rossiter has
oh, there is the old name."
" Bee had a good mother to teach her; she has not grown up exposed
15$ ONLY THE C.OYEKXESS.
to every sort of bful influence; but if she foukl have been guilty of snob
ion, you would still have taken her to your heart, and remembered
that she was your daughter. Oh. Madella, "it is all very well to h
your heart now, but you will not find it so dillicult to forgive her after
all." IJut .Mrs. C'hudlei^h would not allow this; she had main 1
her firmness for a whole hour, and she was unwilling to resume her old
limpness of purpose.
" I think it is for her to come to me." she said, with a touch of
rity.
. but 1 know you well enough to be sure you will not wait for
that. You must send the children out, and get her to talk to you about
her husband; a woman has more Jinexsc than a man. You will be able
to judge of her feelings, and know how to give her a word in season."
" She may refuse to listen to me."
" Oh, no, she will not refuse; she loves you dearly. Make an oppor-
tunity to speak to her this afternoon while the girls are absent they
will be back before evening. Now I am going to write a line to Thorpe.
I shall ask him to come up to-morrow evening and speak to me on press-
ing business, and then I shall put the whole thing in his hands. Per-
haps you had better tell the girls and Geoffrey; it is no use making a
mystery of it. I am giving you a great deal of unpleasant work. Ma
della, but I did not sleep last night, and my head is inclined to ache. I
shall keep quiet, and this feeling will pass off."
' ' Indeed, you do look wretchedly ill ; why, there are black lines un-
der your eyes. Oh, dear," interrupting herself, " I quite forgot to give
you this," and she handed him a note, "a messenger brought it this
morning."
" It is from Miss Thorpe," returned Launcelot, after he had mastered
the contents; " she wants me to call on her about five. One of my
numerous proteges has got into a bit of trouble. It is that Job AVilkiu-
son; I always said he had a bee in his bonnet. I must confess 1 wish
Job were at* Hanover at the present moment."
" Yes. but it would never do to forsake the poor fellow," replied Mrs.
Chudlcigh, with diplomatic and well-feigned interest. Job Wilkinson
was a bore certainly and most likely a rogue in the bargain, but
thing was better for Launcelot than brooding in his studio. If she
could only get him out of the house as much as possible while that un-
fortunate young woman was in it!
Launcelot had been too generous to imply that his step-mother had
boon to blame in bringing a stranger under their roof without satis-
factory references, but all the same her conscience pricked her most
sadly, and her self- accusation made her uneasy and irritable; her own
in judiciousness had brought this trouble on him, and she felt all at once
as though ten years were added to her age.
"Of course I must go," he answered, with some annoyance, " but I
think a nap would have done my head more good, 1 ' and then he rose
slowly from his chair, and walked out of the room; but she followed
him into the studio a few minutes later, to tell him that Mi-
still called her, was not coming down to luncheon, but had sent
y Sybil to excuse herself.
.did carve for the children as usual, Launce, will you
not?" she asked, with a sort of yearning to keep him in her sight.
"There is no reason why 1 should not come to any meals," he an-
d, quietly; " perhaps it is as well that Mrs. Thorpe should
/day, but she must not absent herself to-morrow. We may
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 159
have to go on \ike this for a long time, for I can not cheat myself into
tho belief that Thorpe will open his door to her at once. Let everything,
therefore, be as usual; if there be anyone I wish to avoid, I can dine at
my club," and this time she did not venture to contradict him.
Launcelot came in to luncheon, and talked to the two little girls, and
never even changed countenance when Sybil told him how bad poor
Miss Rossiter's headache had been all the morning. " She makes it
worse with crying; I tell her so over and over again," finished Sybil,
who was much dissatisfied with the change in her lively governess, and
who had never found the school-room so dull before. Dossie was
rather quieter than usual, and did not join much in Sybil's chatter, but
Launcelot noticed once or twice the blue eyes were fixed rather anxious-
ly on his face. When luncheon was over and he pushed back his chair,
he felt a little hand slip into his.
" Have you a headache, too, Mr. Lance?"
" Well, yes, it is rather bad, Dossie."
" Father had it once," she said, wistfully, " and he let me bathe his
head with eau-de-Cologne. Aunt Delia has some lovely eau-de-Cologne;
do let me put some on your forehead, it will do you ever so much
good."
" I am quite sure of that, dear," and for a moment Launcelot thought
how comforting it would be to lie down in a cool, shaded room and
submit to these childish manipulations; but there could be no rest for
him yet " but I have some letters to write, and then I must go out,"
and as her face fell at his words he kissed her forehead.
" I know what a dear little nurse you can be, Dossie, but I am too
busy to think of my headache;" but the kind words did not seem to
console Dossie, for she sighed heavily and her eyes filled with tears.
" I do not like Mr. Lance to look like that, Aunt Delia," she said,
when he had left the room; " it makes me ache somehow. I do wish
I could do something for him," and all that afternoon Sybil found her
a very unsatisfactory playfellow. Dossie moped, and even Beppo's
playful tricks failed to win a smile from his little mistress; the child's
sensitive and precocious nature felt the disturbing influences of the
moral atmosphere round her. If Mr. Lance were ill or unhappy, it
was plainly impossible for Dossie to be comfortable or at her ease.
Lauucelot had no thoughts for his little favorite; he wrote his busi-
letters, and then ordered his phaeton to be brought round, and
drove himself to Priory Road. As he stood in the hall drawing on his
driving- gloves, his step-mother came to him.
" I have just received a note from Bee," she said; " it was brought
by hand, and the messenger is waiting for an answer. Lady Hamblyn
wants both the girls to stay over to-morrow. There is to be a grand
concert at the Crystal Palace, to which she wants to take them. I sup-
pose there can be no objection to their remaining?"
" None whatever. I shall be glad for them to stay," he returned,
hastily, forgetting for the moment his fear of the Hamblyn connection.
He was only too thankful that the girls should be away; he knew the
interview with Joan would try his step-mother exceedingly, and she
must have time to recover from her agitation.
" Tell Bee that they may remain as long as they wish," he said, in
quite a tone of relief, ns he stepped into the phaeton, and then drove
quickly across the common and down the hill toward Overtoil.
He found Miss Thorpe alone, with her little tea-table beside her; as
160 ONL'N TI1K coVERNESS.
she took his hand her keen gray eyes instantly detected the alteration in
his looks.
" You are tired or worried, perhaps both. I ought not to have sent
for you," she suid. regretfully.
"'I have ovenvalked myself," was the evasive answer, " and this dry
heat tries oue. I expect a cup of your excellent tea will do me good;"
and Miss Thorpe, who was never slow to take a hint, poured out the
ud, ignoring her favorite's care-worn looks, treated him to a brief,
luiM'iie-s-liki- summary of Job Wilkinson's misdemeanors.
" V\V must just wash our hands of him; he is worthless, quite worth-
-he concluded.
" I dare say you are right: anyhow, I am too lazy to contradict you;
worthless, no doubt, but I think we will give the poor fellow another
chance."
" But, Mr. Chudleigh, I tell you Job is incorrigible."
" True. But Job has a wife and children, and he must have bread
to put in their mouths. He has a very small allowance of brains, and
I think his moral sense is not quite developed; but even incorrigible
people must be fed. ' '
" But not at the expense of our society!" she rejoined, waxing a
little warm at this opposition. " We only undertake to relieve women
and children; besides, I have proved to you already that the Wilkinsons
are not reliable. You, must excuse me if I say that I think you are
wrong in advocating their cause."
" Oh, but I am doing nothing of the kind. I am simply pleading for
mercy. Come, Miss Thorpe, I will not tax either your conscience or
the society, but I know you will not refuse to act as my private almoner.
Let Job have another chance; his wife is a decent body, whose only
fault is that she has married a fool."
"Very well," shrugging her shoulders, "I have given you my
opinion, and if you choose to saddle yourself with a set of shiftless
creatures who only know how to put their hand to the mouth, that is
your affair, not mine. Now I have another scolding in store for you.
O ur society is not elastic, and we have too many claimants for aid already,
and yet you have sent us Joseph Martin!"
" Oh, yes " waking up to interest now. " I am most anxious to
know the result of your interview with him; you remember what I said
in my note, that all expenses might be put to my account."
" 1 think," she returned, slowly, but her fine face softened as she
! at him, " that you are the most impulsive and injudicious person
t hat I ever met, and that unless you keep your generosity in due bounds
will soon ruin yourself. >:
" Still, it is a deserving case," he replied, perfectly ignoring this
e. "Poor Martin! My heart bled for him last night. Did he
bring his wife and children? I hope you considered his account satis-
factory."
" I think he spoke the truth. It is certainly a sad case; the children
look half starved, and the baby is dying. I have done my best for
thorn. Betty has taken them home, and we have fitted them out with
i clothes; they want to go back to their old village. Martin thinks
liis old ni!t-icr will give them a job. Shall we keep .Mrs. Martin and
Mldren for a week or so while he looks out for work? The poor
baby can not last much longer, and oue of the other children looks ill.
If you will agree to this Betty will house them, and I will give Martin
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 161
his fare and a small sum for a week's food and lodging that is if you
till persist in your generous intentions. ' '
" I think that will be the best plan. Don't stint the poor fellow; he
has been half starved too, and hungry men can not work well. Send
him back to his old place to-morrow morning, and feed up the wife and
children. Now I am your debtor, Miss Thorpe. Shall I write you a
check now, or will you give me in the account afterward."
" I should prefer the latter, and I have a little in hand still. Very
well, I will settle the Martins to-morrow, and Mrs. Wilkinson will be
here to-night. Now let me give you another cup of tea, as we quarreled
over the last."
Launcelot took the cup from her hand a little absently. A thought
had just occurred to him Should he make a confidante of Miss
Thorpe, without waiting to speak to her brother? The opportunity had
come unsought; he might try to soften her animosity against her sister-
in-law, to appeal to her justice and common sense. True, it was ;i
hazardous experiment, and Miss Thorpe was a difficult person to influ-
ence, but, as he hesitated, by a strange coincidence Miss Thorpe led to
the subject.
" Mr. Chudleigh," she began rather abruptly, " do you believe that I
am a person likely to be subjected to any hallucination?"
" That depends on what you mean to express by the term. In one's
dictionary the word means ' an error or illusion of sensible perception,
occasioned by some bodily or organic disorder or affection, as distin-
guished from a phantasm, which is owing to disorder of the mind or
imagination,' but in either case I should think you the very last person
to be duped by your imagination or senses."
" Well, I should have said just the same thing myself; it must have
been transmission of thought, but it certainly had the very strongest
appearance of reality, and made me uneasy for a long time afterward.
I did not tell Ivan, of course, but there can be no harm in mentioning it
to you. The other day I was paying a bill at Sparke's you know that
low shop by the bridge, I have dealt there for some time. Well, I was
just putting the change in my purse, counting it to make sure it was
correct, when all at once the thought of Joan flashed through my mind;
I looked up, and through the open door I could see her face as plainly
as I see you, and then it disappeared."
" Was she alone?"
" What a question! You speak as though it were really she, and not
a trick of my imagination. I tell you I only saw her face."
" You have not even an impression about her dress?"
" Yes, she wore a hat trimmed with dark-green velvet. I assure you
I saw it quite plainly; she was looking pale too, I noticed that. I
thought for a moment it was really Joan, and I rushed to the shop door
and looked up the street, but there was no one there only two little
girls looking in at the chemist's window."
" Was one of those little girls Dossie?"
" Dossie? I never thought about the child. How should I know?
They were in white frocks and wore broad-brimmed straw hats, but I
did not see their faces. What made you mention Dossie?"
" I thought perhaps you had seen their governess, Miss Rossi ter;"
but Miss Thorpe was too much engrossed by her own thoughts to notice
Launcelot's peculiar manner.
' ' It must have been transmission of thought. I have often read of
people experiencing this sort of momentary illusion, only it made me
162 ONLY Tin-
feel very uncomfortable. 1 sometimes \vish " and tlien she stopped,
and au uneasy expression crossed her !':;<
"Miss Thorpe, how long is it since you heard from your sister-in-
" Oh, a very long time," but Launcelot could see that she made the
admission somewhat reluctantly. " Ivan wished to keep up a-,
spomlence, as I told you, but it was terribly unsatisfactory ;uul did no
good. My last letter, with money inclosed, was returned to me.
had left her situation."
" That was after Mrs. Wcston's death.' 1
" I suppose so, but," glancing at him still more uneasily, " how did
you know Mrs. Western was dead?"
" I will tell you presently; I have had news of your sister-in-law.
Her aunt Mrs. Templeton is dead too."
A dark flush crossed Miss Thorpe's face.
" She did not tell us so; she left me to find out for myself, when my
letter was returned. I made inquiries, and found that they were both
dead and that Joan had left the neighborhood. Of course .she had taken
another situation, and she did not wish me to know her address."
" Miss Thorpe," returned Launcelot, very quietly, " I have a great
deal to tell you, but there is one question that I must have answered
first; does your brother know that Mrs. "Weston is dead? has he any
idea that Mrs. Thorpe is not still at Malvern?" but as he asked this a
hard look came into Miss Thorpe's eyes, and her thin lips twitched
nervously.
" No," she returned, steadily. " You have no right to put such a
question to me, but I will not tell you a lie. Ivan does not know; I
never told him. ' '
CHAPTER XXV.
RACHEL'S SILENCE.
The fall thou darest to despise
May be the slacken'd angers hand
Has suffered it, that lie may rise
And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or, trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use his wings.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
Miss THORPE'S singular avowal did not in the least surprise 1/nmce-
lot. All along there had been a latent suspicion in his mind th
friend had acted most unwisely in making his sister the medium of
communication with his wife. She had most undoubtedly st n
his prejudices, and fanned his anger when it was in danger o
ing: and more than once he had reason to fear that Mr. 'I
not completely acquainted with his wife's movenu i
lie remained so long silent, revolving probable- eon in his
mind, that Miss Thorpe naturally misunderstood him. She thought he
was too much shocked to speak, and placed herself at once on the de-
fensive.
1 you had no right to put such a question to me, and now
you I right to judge me. I ;mi not ashamed of what !
done. JIow can you, or any one, understand what 1 ha\e been tin
.nV.' My inotivi ^tilled my actions. If 1 held
on Iv
my tongue about Joan," if I did not stiare my anxieties with Ivan, it
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 163
was because I would not add to his heavy trouble. He had suffered so
much, I wanted, I longed for him to forget."
" Do you think a man is ever likely to forget such things?"
" I am not speaking literally. Of course he remembers and is sorry,
but his suffering is blunted; time is a merciful healer, and it is easier to
forget when there is nothing to recall things too vividly to one's mind.
It is. long since we have even mentioned her name; it is far better not
to speak of her. I think he is beginning to feel less sensitive about his
position."
" There I differ from you. I fear you are making a very grave mis-
take, and, at the risk of offending you, I must add that you are not act-
ing with your usual rectitude and high principle."
It was evident to Launcelot that this plain speaking gave Miss
Thorpe acute pain. The tears came into her eyes for a moment, but
she recovered herself at once.
"It is rather hard to be misjudged by a friend, but we have always
spoken the truth to each other, and I suppose I must bear it as patient-
ly as I can. Even Ivan will tell me I am wrong, and yet I can not re-
gret what I have done, when I think of the months of suspense I have
spared him. He would have made himself miserable on Joan's ac-
count; he would not have known a moment's peace."
" And you kept your anxieties to yourself?"
" I thought it kinder to Ivan to do so. I will not deny that I was
terribly uneasy when my letter was returned. I made all possible in-
quiries, but could only glean a few scanty facts that both Mrs. Tem-
pleton and Mrs. Selby were dead, and that Joan had received a small
legacy, and had left the neighborhood without stating her plans for the
future and without mentioning our name."
" And you kept your brother in ignorance of all this?"
" Not entirely. I told him of Mrs. Templeton's death indeed it was
in the paper and I also mentioned to him that Joan invariably returned
the money sent for her use; and he told me to lock it up, and keep it
for her, as she would probably change her mind some day. Her last
letter had provoked me excessively, and I had sent back an angry reply.
I wish now I had used a milder tone. I thought the long silence was
intended to punish me for telling her sundry unpalatable truths, and
that when she hud sulked long enough she would write as usual, and
tell me she had found another situation. I did not begin to feel seri-
ously uneasy for some time."
" And you could take such a responsibility on yourself, not knowing
what had become of that poor girl? Miss Thorpe, how could you
ever answer to your brother if any evil had befallen her?"
Miss Thorpe turned perceptibly paler. He was putting her thoughts
too plainly into words. "How you talk!" she returned, angrily.
" Joan is very impulsive and foolish, but she knows how to take care of
herself. Nothing can have happened to her. She is only trying to give
us the slip. I shall hear of her one day."
" You will be glad to hear?"
"Undoubtedly: it would b3 the greatest relief; and there is always
the danger, too, that Ivan may question me more closely than I wish.
He has asked once or twice after her, but I have managed to satisfy
him without sacrificing the truth. I am afraid if Joan does not write
soon that I may have to tell him all, but I am putting off the evil day
as long as possible. Why are you looking at me so intently, Mr. Chad-
leigh?"
164 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
" I am only thinking what complicated moral machines human beings,
even the best of (hem. are. Here arc you, a thoughtful, sensible wom-
an, doing evil with all your might that good may come, and just be-
you know so clearly it is evil, you are quietly blindfolding yourself
and other people. Thank you for letting me see so much of "the truth.
You arc quite as uncomfortable about your sister-in-law as you ought
to be under the circumstances. Now, if I promise to set your anx-
itrest, will you give me your word of honor not to betray my con-
fidence?"
" You know something about Joan?" she replied, starting up in an
excited way that verified his words.
" Most assuredly, but my news will be kept to myself unless I can de-
pend on your silence."
" You know you can depend upon it," she returned, reproachfully.
" Mr Chudleigh, please do not keep me in such suspense."
" I will not. Mrs. Thorpe is at the Witchcns."
"No o "
' ' It was Mrs. Thorpe whom you saw that day. She has been living
at our house for months, indeed for more than a year. She is Miss Ros-
siter, Sybil's governess. "
" What do you mean? what can you mean?" and Miss Thorpe's voice
was dry and husky. " Joan at the Witchens, and you never told us!"
Then very gravely and very carefully, and with evident consideration
for the erring wife, Launcelot put her in possession of the main facts
of the case.
The look of intense relief that had greeted his first words faded from
Miss Thorpe's face as she listened, and at the close a few sternly
uttered words of sweeping condemnation fell from her lips.
" She has done for herself," was her concluding remark. " Even I,
whom you think so hard on her, would not have believed this. Ivan
will never forgive her."
" Then Ivan is not the man I take him to be. Fy, Miss Thorpe! are
these the lessons we learn from our professed Christianity, ' unto seventy
time seven?' Do you mean that your sister-in-law has reached even
those wide limits?"
' ' Excuse me, I can not reason on this basis. For once you must be
practical and look at this from Ivan's point of view. In his eyes, Joan
will have sinned past all forgiveness."
" Let him tell me so, and I shall know how to answer him. Forgive
me if I tell you again how much you arc disappointing me. I expected
a more merciful judgment from a woman, but I \\ill not argue the
point with you just now. Let me tell you what I intend to do. I have
written to your brother asking him to come to me to-morrow evening,
and then I shall tell him everything, and beg him to take his wife under
his protection, forgiving her as he will hope one day to be forgiven."
" You will send Joan back to us! you will ask us to condone tin
and take her under our roof again! Mr. Chudleigh, you can not be
serious."
" Indeed I am. This is your brother's house; his wife is its rightful
mistress. The question lies between those two human souls, who have
irely misunderstood eaeli other. -No M^ter has a right to come bc-
itn'ian and his wife. You see I am telling you the truth. 1 think
you have been much to blame."
" You mean because 1 would not leave Ivan? Oh, lam not angry.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 165
You may say what you like to me. I am only sorry that you can not
take my part that you side with Joan."
A hot flush swept over Launcelot's face. " I take no one's part. I
am on the side of justice and mercy. I want to see a grave mistake
rectified. I want two people who have only made each other miserable
to find the way to ultimate understanding and peace. ' '
" But you think I am the hinderance to this."
" Not intentionally, not with your own will. But a third person is
always a disturbing element in matrimonial disputes. I think it would
have been wiser if you had seen your way to leave your brother and
wife together. Do you mind my telling you this?"
" No, of course not; you are our one friend. But, Mr. Chudleigh,
how can you have the heart to condemn me to such exile! Ivan is my
life, he is all I have. We have never been separated. I do not believe
he would be happy without me. Joan does not love him; she makes
him miserable." And now a slow tear rolled down her cheek.
Launcelot was moved when he saw it. With all her faults, all her
prejudice and hardness, Rachel's love for her brother was a great ab-
sorbing passion. He was simply her life, as she expressed it. She had
no stores of tenderness for others; her strong, reticent nature was not
capable of many attachments. From his boyhood he had been the ob-
ject of her tenacious and jealous affection. It was because she feared a
rival that his marriage had been so distasteful to her. Even a more per-
fect woman than poor, faulty Joan would have had to suffer much at
her hands. Launcelot's shrewdness recognized this.
He had spoken the truth very plainly to her, and now he would say
no more to her. It needed other teaching than his to show her the
fallacy of her own words that it was because she did not love her
brother enough that such self-sacrifice was impossible to her. The
rigid, jealous bonds in which she held him were not to be compared
with the noble selflessness that would efface itself for the beloved object,
and Rachel Thorpe had yet to learn that the highest love demands least.
" I am truly sorry for you," Launcelot said, as he took leave a little
later on. '' I am afraid I am only adding to your trouble just now,
but I have faith in you. 1 believe "when you think over things quietly
that you will come round to my opinion, and then you will act gener-
ously and like yourself." But she only shook her head.
" I am an obstinate woman, and I do not find it very easy to change
rny views. I feel and express myself strongly about things, Mr. Chud-
leigh," looking wistfully at him and Miss Thorpe's eyes could be ex-
pressive when they chose. " Be my friend in one thing; do not let Ivan
be angry with me " Then he smiled at her very kindly, for he quite
understood where her fear lay.
" That is one thing over," he thought, wearily, as he stood still to
hail a passing hansom, and, as a great wave of heart-sickness passed over
him, he wondered for a mojnent how he was to go on living.
He had said he was sorry for her, but if he could have looked back
into that pretty drawing-room for a moment and seen the hard, stony
look on Rachel Thorpe's face as she leaned back in the great carved
chair and rested her aching head against the woodwork, he would have
been more than sorry his generous heart would have bled for her.
Rachel was alone now and could think it out quietly, and her face
grew pinched and wan as an old woman's. She had said little to Launce-
lot; the strange news had overwhelmed her, and had made hr feel
numb and giddy.
166 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
"What an intense relief had come to her when slie found he could tell
her news of Joan! No one knew what she had suffered nil these months
on that girl's account. It was true she had justified her
Laimcelot, but, all the same, her anxiety had been terrible. Often she
had passed sleepless nights thinking of Ivan's anger if he found out that
she had no clew to Joan's whereabouts. True, she had kept him in the
dark for his own good, but would he be grateful to her for her silence?
This was her secret fear.
And now he would know it, and not from her lips, and it was the
dread of his anger that made her look so wan. Ivan had never been
angry with her in his life, had never spoken roughly to her, and she
thought how terrible it would be to see his dear face turned from her in
displeasure, for a sudden strong light seemed to flood her inner con-
sciousness, and she could no longer deceive herself with plausible ex-
cuses. She had prided herself upon the purity of her motives, but as
she had listened to Launcelot's strange and inexplicable account, it was
impossible for her to deny that her silence had been a grievous mistake.
Would she have held her peace for a single day if she could have
guessed that all this time Joan was living in their immediate neighbor-
hood? that at any moment they might meet face to face? And then the
scandal and disgrace of it all! What mischief might not ensue from
such utter recklessness and disregard of consequences? How would
Ivan live through the miserable scenes that must follow? No, he would
never forgive Joan, she repeated over and over again. This long de-
ception would be the death blow to his love, she knew, and the knowl-
edge was bitter to her that Ivan was still fond of his wife, that in his
heart he cherished a secret hope that one day she would acknowledge
her faults and return to him.
And now perhaps he would be angry with them both and yet if she
had sinned it had been for his sake. It had been a sore moment to her
wheu she read condemnation in her favorite's eyes those honest, gray
that seemed to read her through and through. " You are not
acting with your usual rectitude and high principle," he had said to
her, but his voice had been very gentle, and she had winced at his
words as though a dart had been thrust through her.
But Launcelot's disapproval was as nothing compared with Ivan's.
And then she resolved that if his anger were great against her she would
try to bear it as meekly as she 'could there should be no angry recrimi-
nations on her part. If he would not listen to her defense, she would
be silent. "It is in his power to punish me to the very limits of my
deserts," she thought, bitterly, " but if the pangs be ever so great, I will
not ask him to spare me. He knows me by this time. He knows that
I would not have deceived him except for his own good." But, strangt
. , even this reflection did not comfort her. Conscience was ;i
in Rachel Thorpe at last, and would not be silenced by any plausible
sophistries.
A ; this moment she heard the sound of her brother's latch-key turning
in the lock, and rose hurriedly, smoothing her hair with her hand
."baking out the folds of her black dress. As she looked in th
lie puckered lines of her forehead, and told herself that she would
soon be an old woman; and then, as though to point a coir
Joan's face seemed to Hush before her, the dark Irish brim-
ming over with life and fun, the beautiful mouth, full and pouting
:he small he;id with its coils of ruddy-brown hair
Iran's bride, whom he hud introduced so proudly.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 1(37
Ah, how well she remembered that moment! There had been no shy
ness, no hesitation on the young wife's part. Joan's arms had been
round her in an instant.
' ' Be good to me and love me, Rachel. I have never had a sister of
my own." These had been her first words, and she remembered that
while her own eyes were dry, Joan's had been full of tears.
But this recollection made her shiver, and then she wondered why
Ivan did not come to her as usual, and went in search of him.
She found him sitting in his study, apparently doing nothing, for
even his paper lay untouched beside him. As he turned round at her
entrance she thought how tired and worn he looked. " Ivan is getting
old, too," she thought, with a sigh.
He held out his hand to her; they were both undemonstrative by
nature, and except on rare occasions he never kissed her. They both
preferred to shake hands; in spite of her great love for him, Rachel had
never shown him the soft, caressing ways that most women delight in;
such ways were not natural to her. The perfect friendship that sub-
sisted between them did not need any outward manifestation of tender-
ness.
" You are tired, Ivan."
" I was just thinking the same thing of you," he returned, quietly.
" It is the heat, I suppose, that makes you look so pale. Can you spare
a moment to sit down? I want to tell you something. You remember
Uncle Joseph?"
" Yes, indeed; one could hardly forget his cranky temper. It gave
me a horror of gout when I was quite a girl."
"Well, he is dead."
" Dead! Poor old man! Still, it is a comfort to know that he has
left no one to mourn for him."
" Except you and me, you undutiful niece. I wish you could con-
trive to drop one tear to his memory."
" Nonsense, Ivan. Why, we have never even seen the old man for
the last ten years."
" He has left me sole legatee, however. I had no idea he was worth
so much, he kept everything so close. Wyverne came up to the office
to-day. He says, when things are cleared there will be about seven or
eight hundred a year. The furniture is not good for much, and the
plate is electro, but there are some good books. '
" My dear Ivan, I am so glad. Poor Uncle Joseph! we all said he
would leave his money to some hospital, but of course he has done the
right thing: you were his only nephew."
" He might have remembered you too, Rachel."
" Oh, no, I have no need for money, except for my society. I woulcj
much rather have it as it is. Seven hundred a year! Why, Ivan, you
will be quite a rich man with all that and the ' Imperial Review ' you
are saving money now."
"I do not care to be rich," he returned, indifferently. " 1 am like
you, Rachel, I have no special love of mone} r ; we neither of us have ex-
pensive tastes; this house is large enough for two," looking round the
email study. " If things had been otherwise " and then he broke off
with a sigh.
A lump seemed to gather in Rachel's throat as she looked at him.
This money gave him no pleasure; then it would add no new interest
to his life.
The quiet routine of work and fraternal intercourse that contented hei
168 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
did not satisfy Ivan. At that moment she realized the difference in their
natures. She asked nothing more of life than to go on from day in day
as she was doing now busy daylight hours spent in benefiting her poor
fellow-creatures, peaceful evenings alone with Ivan.
But he, the lonely man, wanted his bright young wife's presence; he
yearned for children to climb upon his knee and call him father. There
were times when he would rather see Joan's face opposite to him in its
angry rebellion and discontent than to sit there looking into vacancy.
When Rachel had made some excuse to leave him, he rose and unlocked
a little drawer in his writing-table. It was full of his treasures some
photographs of Joan, taken during their wedding-tour; the gloves she
had worn as a bride; the first flower she had given him; a lock of shin-
ing brown hair; two or three letters, and a little chain she had left be-
hind her, and which he found lying on his table.
" She said once she wanted a locket with a diamond star," he thought;
" she had a fancy for diamonds indeed, for all bright things. I wanted
to save up and buy her one, only Rachel said it would be wrong and
foolish in our position. I could buy it now with Uncle Joseph's money.
I could give her everything she wanted, but she wants nothing from
me!" and then he sat down moodily, and the gold links of the chain
lay in the palm of his hand. " A more lonely hearted man never lived
than Ivan Thorpe," Latincelot had said, and in this he was right.
CHAPTER XXVI.
"NO, NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILD."
Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know ;
God giveth them to her alone,
And sweet they are as any tone
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.
LOWELL.
IP Launcelot had found his afternoon's work harassing his step-moth-
er had also been much tried by her interview with Joan.
Mrs. Chudleigh possessed one of those temperate, equable natures that
are singularly averse to either physical or moral storms. The least ap-
proach to electricity in the atmosphere, or to any disturbing influence
that threatened a probable scene, seemed to flutter her nervous
bilities. She could not understand a noisy grief, having always covered
the face of her own dead sorrows with a decent mantle of reserve and
sacred silence.
She had always borne her own troubles with a certain sweet dignity
that robbed them of all bitterness; she had loved her husband dearly,
and she loved him still, not believing in any possible disunion of th<*e
whom God had joined together. But though she had mourned most
truly for him, not one of her children had ever heard her say a single
repining or rebellious word.
Want of self-control, frantic asseverations, found no sympathy with
her. " My dear, you are making it all so much harder for yourself,"
id once to a young widow, who was bemoaning herself; " we must
not light against God. Why don't yon give; it all up, like a tired-out
child, and ask Him to help yon bear it? That is what I did when my
hu-band died, and the help always came."
She had sent up a nx ihe school-room by Dossie that she
wished to speak to the governess, and nould be with her in half an
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 169
hour's time. Then she made arrangements for the little girls to walk
over to Wimberley with one of the maids, and as soon as she had seen
them off the premises she went upstairs with a heavy heart. She had
promised Launcelot to do her best for the girl, but all the same she felt
as though she never wished to see her again.
Joan was standing by the table as she entered, as though she had risen
at the sound of her approaching footsteps. There was something pathetic
in her look and attitude. She wore a white gown and a little black lace
kerchief loosely knotted round her neck; her cheeks were pale, and her
eyes had the dim heaviness they had worn for days; and her hair,
usually so carefully arranged, clung damply to her temples, as though
she had been lying down and had forgotten to smooth it.
Mrs. Chudleigh hesitated a moment, and, in spite of all resolve, pity
began to agitate her motherly bosom. The girl looked very ill.
" Are you sure that you are fit to be up?" she began, softly; " shall
we wait until to-morrow?' But Joan shook her head vehemently at
this proposition.
" I shall not be any better to-morrow; I would rather have it over."
Then Mrs. Chudleigh sat down by the table, evidently expecting Joan
to follow her example, but the girl did not alter her position : she stood
before her, with her hands tightly grasping each other, and her eyes
fixed on the carpet.
" My dear, I can not talk to you like this; will you not sit down?"
but again Joan shook her head.
" No, Mrs. Chudleigh, I will not sit down in your presence a cul-
prit does not sit before his judge, and you are my judge." And then
she looked up, and the tears began to gather to her eyes, and the muscles
of her white throat worked, and a sort of sob seemed to choke her utter-
ance and the next instant she was at Mrs. Chudleigh 's feet, and her
face was hidden in her lap, and the elder woman could feel the passion-
ate heavings of her breast.
" My dear, my dear, this will never do!" she began, in gentle reproof,
putting her hand on the girl's head and trying to raise her, but Joan
resisted with all her strength. " This will do neither of us any good."
" I will not move until you have forgiven me! Oh, I can see how
angry you are! You have never looked at me like that before, and I
can not bear it! I think it will break my heart if you do not forgive
me! I love you so, and now you will tell me that you can never trust
me again!"
" Will you sit down quietly and hear what I have to say?" But she
might as well have spoken to the wind only a sob answered her.
' ' You are so good yourself that you can not understand how a poor
girl can be so bad, but indeed indeed I never meant to be wicked. I
was so unhappy and I wanted to be free, and there was no other way
than this, and I knew people often changed their names, and I never
thought about consequences, and how you would all think I had de-
ceived you. I know now what remorse means, and what Esau felt
' when he found no room for repentance. ' I would undo it all if I
could, but it is too late."
" No, not too late, my child, but it is not to me you ought to kneel."
Then Joan lifted her head slowly, and fixed her mournful eyes on Mrs.
Chudleigh's face; their appealing sorrow touched her more than any
words.
" You mean my husband? you are thinking of Ivan? Well, I should
have been at his feet long ago if he had been less hard to me. You RPQ
1?0 OKI I- S3.
angry with me, and justly too, and yet you can spcnk gently; you do not
keep' me ;it ;i distance with the blackness of yuur frown. I love to be
me feel better only to hold your Then Mrs.
C'luullei-'li smiled faintly and took the girl's hands be! \veon her own.
" .loan shall I call you Joan? will you listen to me, as though you
my dauixh'
sar Mrs. Cliudlci^h, I will; I will do anything, bear anything,
if you will only forgive me', and mil me .Joan."
:> I shall hold you' to that presently, but now let me ask you a ques-
tion, for I fear you are very ignorant as well as willful. Do you
acknowledge Mr. Thorpe to be j r our true and lawful husband? will you
own that you are bound to him by the laws of God and the Chun
" Yes/' rather reluctantly. " Of course, Ivan and I were married."
" Then whether you love'him or not, you owe him a life's oliedi
And thereupon, to the girl's astonishment, she broke into a little homily
on wifely duties.
If the husband who had loved her so well had heard that flood of
silvery eloquence, his purified intelligence would have most surely re-
joiced. To Joan it was a new language, a revelation. No one h
spoken to her before as this sweet woman was speaking to her now.
Were such things possible in this wicked world? Were there really
men and women mere flesh and blood who had so conquered the old
Adam within them that they walked through life carrying the white
standard unsullied through the enemy's country? AY.ere such purity
and self-sacrifice attainable? Then, indeed, even unhappy, disappointed
lives had their own lovely meanings.
' ' People are always blaming circumstances for what is often their
own fault," went on Mrs. Chudleigh. " 1 have heard women complain-
ing of their husbands, and mothers of their children, when the trouble
lies in their own unhappy natures. I wish I were a wise woman for
your sake. But I have daughters of my own, and mothers learn a
deal from their children, and God has given me a noble son, who' has
taught me ,.i;iny things. And I want to tell you this, that though we
arc not to blame for circumstances, yet we are responsible for tin
>ve 'lira them to account, and that we owe duties to the human beings
who share our homes. To be happy or unhappy may not be in your
pwn power, but there is one question that will be demanded of you
' How have you done your duty to the husband whom you vowed before
. love,' honor r.r^d obey?' " And then it was that Joan bowed her
stricken through her heart and conscience.
"I should have been good if you had been rny mother," she said,
simply. And this little speech touched Mrs. Chudleigh extremely.
" Yes, but you will be good now, will you not, for 1 am gn'wj; t<> kiss
you in assurance 01 my forgiveness? But there is soim-thing ymi must,
i you must put on your wedding-ring."
A painful blush came to Joan's cheek, but she made no answer, only
unfastened her black luce kerchief , and drew a little hair chain within
\vith two ^Utterinrr rings attached to it. At a siirn from
leigh she put them on the thick gold ring with its nns-ive 1
but her tears fell fast as she obeyed, and she seemed ~-(r
" That is the first step in the right direction," irs. Chud-
leigh; and then she; put her arms round the prl and kissed her fore-
Joan, you will go back to your husband like a brave,
true hearted wife."
CWLY THE GOVERNESS. 171
"Go lodck!" evidently shrinking at her words. "Do you really
mean I must go back to her and to that life death rather, for it was no
life?"
"Never mind all that. There is no she in the question; it lies be-
tween you and your husband. Go back. Of course you must go back
to him if he will open his doors to you. Oh, Joan! you are very young,
but the young die sometimes. Think what it would be if death came
and found you outside the path of duty how terrible would be his
message, ' The Master has come, and calleth for theel' '
Joaii shuddered.
" Oh, I know I am not fit to die."
11 We are none of us fit; but I think we are more ready to go when
we are in our right place, where He has put us. To leave it is to be like
the sentinel leaving his post before he is relieved. Oh, I am always so
sorry for people who lose their way, and never think of these things. "
" I have never thought of them before."
" Then you must make up for lost time, my dear. You must be very
humble before your husband, for your sin against him has been very
great. If he should refuse to forgive you, you must just set yourself to
obey hfm, and wait patiently until he shows signs of softening. Men
are 'not like us," finished the simple woman, " they are more masterful;
and when they have the right on their side they will not stoop to a com-
promise. Mr". Thorpe may feel that you have forfeited his trust."
" He will not forgive me! I can not expect him to do so!" she re-
turned, in a low voice. " If I were to humble myself ever so much, he
would only turn from me. Rachel says he has quite ceased to love
me."
" Rachel may be wrong. "
" There is no hope for me with Rachel. When you were talking
just now I thought I should like to try again and do better, but with
her it would be impossible. Of course everything she says is true; but
somehow one : s faults seem magnified in that strong, hard light. She
can not make allowances for my undisciplined nature and imperfect
education. She thinks I am all bad."
" Never mind; you must be patient over this too. Remember how
much reason you have given her for her complaints. If I were in her
place I should find it very difficult to forgive you for making a brother
o miserable."
Then Joan remained silent; but a few moments afterward she said,
in rather a shamefaced way
" Mrs. Chudleigh, may I say something about your son?"
Then a sudden color suff use*d Mrs. Chudleigh's fair, middle-aged face.
" No, my dear," she said, quietly, " I think not." t
" Just as you wish," returned Joan, in a proud voice. " It was only
because I thought you had a right to know that I wished to tell you."
And then she softened, and her beautiful eyes had their misty look
again. " Oh! I must tell you how good he is. Once or twice when he
was talking to me I thought he was mors like an angel than a man. He
did not think of himself, only of me, wanting me to be good. That is
how the angels feel, do they not? I I have such a pain here," press-
ing her hands to her heart, ' ' when I think that perhaps I have caused
him trouble too."
" My on is a good man," returned Mrs. Chudleigh, with dignity;
"things will not hurt him long. God will take care of that; you
must leave all that, and think only how you are to be reconciled to youi
172 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
husband." And then she rose, and bidding the girl gently go to hei
room and think it all out quietly on her knees, " for it is there we learn
to bear our troubles, Joan, ' she finished, she went slowly and sadly
down-stairs.
Sadly, because it was of her boy she was thinking, and not of poor,
repentant Joan. " Is it any wonder?" she said to herself. " With all
her faults how can any one Kelp loving her? My heart went out to her
in a moment. Launcelot is right; she is as ignorant and innocent as a
child. No one has taught her anything. Poor thing! poor young
thing! And he would have understood her and made her happy."
And then she blamed herself for these thoughts. " What am I think-
ing about? and there is that ill-used husband to be considered. Oh! ho
must forgive her. We can none of us stand seeing Joan unhappy."
On entering the dining-room she was somewhat surprised to find
Lauucelot walking restlessly up and down the long room. Directly he
caught sight of her he hurried up to her.
" Well, Madella?" in an inquiring tone; and there was no mistaking
the anxiety visible on his face.
"You were right," she answered, quietly. "After all, I did not
find it difficult to forgive her." Then he gave her a grateful look, and
as the little girls just then made their appearance, nothing more passed
between them.
But later in the evening they had a long talk together as they paced
up and down the terrace, with the moonlight making every furze-bush
visible on the common, while the sweet fragrance of a thousand flowers
came refreshingly from the garden; and though their lips were sealed
then and forever on one subject, what eloquence was in that silence!
It was well for Launcelot that at this period of heart loneliness and
inward desolation, when all the fair dreams of his manhood lay shattered
around him, this womanly sympathy had power to comfort him.
Mrs. Chudleigh was not a strong-minded woman. Her children never
heard her say clever things. She did not read much, nevertheless her
influence w r as great with them. Her grown-up sons respected the sim-
ple goodness that seemed to surround her with an atmosphere of j
A loving heart had taught her the secret of sympathy. She knew when
to speak and when to be silent.
She listened with deep interest to Launcelot's account of his interview
with Rachel Thorpe, and then they talked together very solemnly of the
painful ordeal of the morrow.
" I wish I could spare you that, Launce," she said, wistfully. " You
do not know how I am blaming myself for all that has happened; #our
dear father always said I was an injudicious woman, and indeed i
he was right. ' '
hulella!"
" Indeed, Launce, I do feel that you have a right to be angry with
me."
" It is a right I have no desire to use, Madella. We are too much to
each other; we can not afford to be angry. \Vhut should I do without
you now? No mother could be more to me than you are."
" My dean-si boy!"
" You must not' trouble yourself about a past mistake. I think our
mistakes and failures are often turned to good even in this world.
What does a little pain and difficulty matter it' we can only put Mrs.
Thorpe in her rightful place again?" And after u little r
inoie Mieh talk
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 173
they separated, and Mrs. Chudleigh went up to Joan's room. She felt
she could not rest until she knew whether the girl were asleep.
She found her lying wide awake, and, though the room was dark, she
knew at once by her voice that she had been weeping.
" My clear, it is twelve o'clock, and you are not asleep!"
" How can I sleep?" she returned, restlessly. " I do nothing but
think. I go over it all again and again, and it seems to me as though
no girl had ever been so wicked. How can I expect Ivan to forgive
me?"
" Hush! I can not let you talk now. You will make yourself ill."
returned Mrs. Chudleigh,* in a soothing, motherly voice, as she felt with
dismay the girl's burning hands and forehead. *' The children say you
have eaten nothing. I am going to bring you some lemonade, and you
must drink it, and then 1 shall bathe your face and hands, and perhaps
you may fall asleep." As Joan thanked her and submitted gratefully
to her gentle manipulations, she added, quietly, " I am very wakeful
myself, and do not feel inclined for my bed. I mean to sit in this com-
fortable chair by the window, for I have much to think about. Do not
take any notice of me; I do not wish to talk. Close your eyes and try
to lie quiet, and the restlessness will pass. What is it you want, my
dear?" for the girl held her fast.
" May 1 kiss you? Oh, how I love you!" half hysterically " how
good you are to me! You know how dreadful the night is with alf
these thoughts, and that is why you stay."
" If you talk I must go," she replied, gently, for she knew by the
strained, highly pitched voice that Joan must be soothed at all costs.
This girl, who was always in extremes, was now suffering the pangs of
acute'remorse.
" Oil, that I could be a child again, that I could undo the past!" she
moaned as she fell back upon her pillows. "Sleep! Shall I ever sleep
and forget!" But even as she spoke a strange sort of drowsiness crept
over her, a quieting influence that seemed to lull the agony. She
thought it was owing to the soothing presence of the good friend who
watched beaide her, but Mrs. Chudleigh knew otherwise; she was only
waiting until the sedative she had mixed in the lemonade had taken
effect. And when in less than an hour the girl's regular breathing sat-
isfied her that she was asleep, she quietly left the room.
That long sleep saved Joan. It was late before she woke nearly
noon and the maid who brought her coffee told her that the little girls
had done their lessons with Mrs. Chudleigh, and were now playing in
the garden,
" And if you please, ma'am," continued Emma, looking very serious
and round-eyed, " the mistress hopes that you will be quite easy about
them, as they are going to drive with her this afternoon, and you need
not trouble to come down to luncheon unless you feel inclined."
" Mrs. Chudleigh is very kind," returned Joan, feebly, for she felt
as though her strength were gone. Still she managed to dress herself,
and when Mrs. Chudleigh came in search of he*r an hour later she found
her by the school-room window trying to occupy herself with some
needle-work.
" Are you better, Joan."
" Yes, I think so; thank you. I had such a beautiful sleep; the pain
has quite gone out of my head."
" That is well/ but it has left you pale and weak. Now I am going
174 ONLY THE
to take the children out, mid wo shall not lv hack uutil dinner-time. I
have risked "Mrs. Foil wick to look after \
" Does she know?" asked Joan, in rather a trembling voice.
"The whole house knows by this time," returned Mrs. Chudleigh,
gravely. "To-morrow, when the girls come back, I will tell
myself."
" Pauline will never speak to me again!"
" You must not say that. Pauline is young, and of course she will
be much shocked. She is so absolutely true, that truth seems indis-
pensable to her. You must not mind if she be hard at first in her
judgment."
" Oh, no, no! I deserve hardness. You must not ask her to be kind
to me. I know we can never be friends again;" but to this Mrs. Chud-
leigh made no reply. She knew her young daughter too well to <
a charitable estimate of Joan's conduct. Bee would be less severe than
Pauline; her uncompromising honesty never could comprehend any
dereliction of truth. "Everybody always tells the truth, mamma,"
she had said once when quite a little girl; " only wicked people tell lies,
and none of them go to heaven," and she had scarcely modified her
views on this point.
Joan did not try to deceive herself. She knew she had forfeited the
good opinion of all these good friends the Miss Rossiter they loved
and trusted had never really existed.
" I should not mind being so unhappy if I could only undo it all,"
she thought; and again those pathetic, heart-searching words cai
her mind, " He found no place for repentance, though he sought it care-
fully with tears."
CHAPTER XXVII.
IN THE STUDIO.
Love exists not without hope, but mine was as nearly allied to despair as that of
a sailor swimming for his life. -The Talixmun.
LAUNCELOT had given orders that Mr. Thorpe should be brought at
once to the studio and that coitec should be served there. Wl;<
friend was announced, he put down his paper and greeted him with his
accustomed cordiality, and Mr. Thorpe noticed nothing unusual in his
manner.
" Your peremptorily worded note rather frightened me," he ob-
cheerfully; "'pressing business on which you needed my opinion-.'
That was pretty strong. I had a paper to finish on the minor Am.
novelists, but I thought I would spare you an hour, and make it up by
a little less sleep. What's in the wind, Chudleigh? Now
look at you, you don't seem quite up to the mark."
" Oh, yes. I am pretty fit, thank you."
" Nothing really wrong, I hope?"
" Wei., it is rather an upsetting business altogether; but wo will
come to that presently. Take a cup of coffee after your walk, Ti:
I am sorry if I have put you to any inconvenience, but th<
time to be lost."
!ng wrong about investments, 1 hope? You are rather an un-
practical fellow. Rachel says you r " :hor like 1"
will cat up all your E I fancy J am in the position to give you
advice, for I have come, into a tidy little fortune since I saw you."
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 175
" Not really?"
" Yes, a certain elderly relative has departed this life and left me his
little all. Oh, it will not seem much to a millionaire like you, but for a
struggling literary man seven hundred a year means riches."
"My dear fellow, 1 am so glad! No man deserves good fortune
more."
" And no man cares for it less, wild tout'' Then Launcelot looked
up rather sharply.
" Yes, I understand; but you will change your mind about that.
You work too hard, Thorpe. There will be no need for burning the
midnight oil now."
" There never has been, in the way you put it; if I work hard it is
because I have no interest outside my work. I begin to understand
why some men get into such grooves : they go on from day to day like
mere machines rather rusty ones, too they have no other life." *
" Oh, you must change all that now," returned Launcelot, absently,
and then he looked at his friend, who was enjoying his coffee leisurely
and moralizing over it. Mr. Thorpe looked better this evening: his
clever, well-cut face had a more animated expression. Launcelot's so-
ciety Always roused and interested him.
' ' Yes, we must change all that, ' ' repeated Launcelot, as he rose from
the chair, and walking to the other end of the room began lighting two
lamps held by bronze figures. Mr. Thorpe leaned back in his chair and
watched him.
" Do we need all this illumination? But perhaps you intend to show
me your picture. Do you mean to say it is finished after all?"
" No; but I should like to have your opinion for all that. Wait until
I have arranged the light; there is no hurry;" but Launcelot's hand
shook a little as he uncovered the easel, and the beautiful fresh face of
his Elizabeth seemed to flash from the canvas. But Mr. Thorpe did not
notice his nervousness, he was looking round the magnificent room with
undisguised admiration.
" This is how you rich artists live," he observed, sarcastically, " like
art princes. Those hangings are Venetian, are they not? That cabinet
looks to me priceless. 1 ought to see these things by daylight. I con-
fess I have a weakness myself for old oak. You have managed badly.
You ought to have invited me to afternoon tea, and received me in your
old velvet coat your conventional war-paint does not seem to suit your
surroundings."
" Oh, I have just come from the dinner- table, and have not changed
my coat;" and then Launcelot added, hastily, " If you will excuse me
for a moment, Thorpe, I shall be glad to get into something more com-
fortable, as we are not going into the drawing-room, and you can look
round you while I am gone," and as Mr. Thorpe nodded acquiescence
Launcelot left the room.
" That is the best plan after all," he thought, as he walked through
the glass corridor door. " What a fool one is at this sort of thing! I
felt it was impossible to begin the subject."
Launcelot had acted on a momentary impulse in thus absenting him-
self, but whea ten minutes later he returned in his old brown velvet
coat, he knew he had done the right thing; he felt it as he stood on the
threshold and saw his friend standing motionless before the easel, a
black rigid figure between the two bronze slaves holding the pure white
globes of light in their uplifted arms. At the sound of the opening
door, Mr. Thorpe half turned. " Chudleigh, come here!" and there
176 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
was something changed and hoarse in his voice. Laimcelot obeyed,
and stood s-ilently beside liim.
.Mr. Thorpe pointed stitlly to the canvas. " What does that m
Where where- have you seen her?"
" You reeogni/.e it, then?" was the quiet rejoinder.
" Rccogni/e i! \' he repeated, with rising excitement in his \
41 Are there two faces like that? Could any other woman look like lliat?
Do you suppose I do not know my own wife? That is Joan! Joan!
'and here, a living man."
"You are right," returned Launcelot; "the lady who did me the
honor to .sit for that central figure is Mrs. Thorpe."
" What!" turning on him with a look terrible to see on any man's
face. " Do you mean that my wife has condescended to be an
artist's model that Joan " but Launcelot would not let him finish;
he took his arm with a grave pitying look and led him away.
" Don't, Thorpe; it is desecration even to hint at such things before
that picture. I should have thought that that face would have rebuked
even an unworthy thought; but you are excited and unlike yourself.
Bit down; before I can explain matters, 1 must ask you a question.
Where do you believe your wife to be at the present moment?"
" At Malvern."
" Indeed? Can you vouch for that fact?"
" She's living by her own wish as companion to an invalid lady, Mrs.
Weston of Roseneath. ' '
" Mrs. Weston is dead; has been dead for more than a year. SI it-
died soon after Mrs. Templeton."
" Impossible! You are laboring under some mistake. My sister
would have been the first person to be acquainted with Mrs. Western's
death; she was in constant correspondence with Joan."
" We must leave that for the present. I dare not enter into that part
of the subject now. I want to convince you of the fact that for the last,
year you have known nothing of your w r ife's movements that 1 am
better informed with them than yourself."
" 'What on earth are you driving at, Chudleigh? Speak out, man, it'
you have anything to tell me!"
' I have much to tell you. In the first place, Mrs. Thorpe is under
this roof."
' Good heavens!"
' She h;i> been living under this roof for the last year."
' Chudleigh, one or other of us must be mad! God give me patience
to sit and hear you!"
" He will, Thorpe, He will," returned Launcelot, in a moved voice,
for the gray, drawn lines round Mr. Thorpe's mouth, and the .sudden
haggardness of his look, spoke of strongly controlled feeling. " AVill
3 r ou try to listen to me without interruption while I tell you everything
from the beginning? Remember il is painful for me us well as for you,
for until the day before yesterday I had no idea that the lady living in
our house as Sybil's governess was Mrs. Thorpe."
" What did she call herself?"
Iter." Then Mr. Thorpe uttered a low groan, and when
Launcelot looked at him next his face was shielded by his h;md.
on; 1 will not interrupt you," lie said, hoarsely.
"It was rather more tha- <>- -1 was at the Italian I
remember- when I received a, hiter from my step-mother tellii
ehe had engaged a new governess I'm- -Sybil. Stay, 1 have the lettui
ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
here; let me read exactly what she said: ' You will be glad to hear, my
Launce, that I have been at last successful and have secured just
the jjerson I want for Sybil. I have been several times to Harley Street,
but without any result, until I saw Miss Rossiter. She is an extremely
engaging 3 r ouug person, very pleasant in manner, and seems full of life
and vivacity. She has a lovely voice and plays exceedingly well, and
seems lady -like as well as accomplished. Bee was charmed with her,
and I must confess I liked her at once, she looked so frank and good-
humored. She told me at once that she had never had any pupils, as
her only situation hud been with an invalid lady with whom she lived
as companion, but as this Mrs. Weston was dead, and she had recently
lost her aunt who had brought her up, she wished to try her hand at
teaching, as she was fond of children. There was a little difficulty
about references, owing to Mrs. Weston's death, but I wrote to Mrs.
Maclean, who lives near Malvern, and begged her to make all necessary
inquiries. I think she saw the housekeeper, I am not sure, but, any-
how, Mr. Maclean says Mrs. Weston was one of the best-known people
in Malvern, and though she always thought her companion, whom she
had met once or twice, was a young married lady separated from her
husband, she supposed she was mixing her up in her mind with a pre-
vious companion, but she was a very lady-like person. I am afraid you
will be vexed with me, Launce for acting so Impulsively, but when I
saw Miss Rossiter again 1 engaged her, and she is coming to us next
week.'
" She came," went on Launcelot, putting the envelope in his pocket
again, "and every letter I received contained glowing accounts of the
governess. Pauline had struck up a frien<lship with her, and
Sybil was a different child under her wise management. When I re-
turned home, and saw Miss Rossiter, I confess that I blamed my step-
mother for indiscretion and want of worldly wisdom. I considered
Miss Rossiter far too handsome for her position. I thought her singu-
larly fascinating, and feared that my brothers would think so too, but
my disapproval made very little impression on my step-mother; both
she and the girls were infatuated with Miss Rossiter. After a time I
began to disapprove less myself. In spite of her frankness and vivacity,
I soon saw that Miss Rossiter appeared perfectly unconscious of the fact
that she was a young and lovely woman. She neither seemed to expect
nor demand admiration. She gave men no encouragement to approach
her, and I do not believe the boldest of them ever ventured to address a
compliment to her. It was this propriety of behavior that gave my
step- mother such perfect confidence in her. I remember she once told
vne that Miss Rossiter was as dignified as though she were a married
woman."
There was a pause here, as though Launcelot lipped for some inter-
ruption, but none came. Mr. Thorpe's face was still shielded from the
light; he did not move or change his attitude. Lauucelot turned a
shade paler, his manner became agitated and irresolute he had come
to a part of his story where he was in danger of breaking down.
" Thorpe " he began, and then stopped, " you have a right to know
it shall be told, if you wish it, thougli at the expense of such pain as
even you can not guess." Then the other man slowly raised his head
and looked at him; those cold, steady eyes seemed to read Launcelot
through and through.
" No," he said, " you need *ll me nothing, Chudleigh. I can under
178 ONLY THE GOYERNES8.
stand for myself. Whatever happened, you were not to blamt. I can
trust the man who once stood between me and death."
" Thank you," was all that Launcclot could say, but ho walked away
to the window to recover himself. He stood for a moment cm
down the pain that seemed to suffocate him, while the dewy
of the evening air fanned his hot temples refreshingly. If he had
there a moment longer he would have seen the gleam of a white
moving between the dark shrubs. As he turned away a tall, shadowy
figure moved nearer to the window, as though drawn by some irn
ble magnet, and a sweet frightened face in its black lace hood L
softly against the frame- work. " If I can only see him without l
" thought Joan, her heart palpitating at her own daring, ana
Launcelot's voice reached her ear and held her spell-bound.
" You must not blame her either. If you are her husband, you must
know how good she really is. At my first indiscreet word she told me
the whole truth that I must never speak to her in that way again, that
she had never thought of such a thing happening, and then she In-
my pardon, poor child, and seemed almost beside herself with sliamo
and penitence. ' I am the wife of a good man,' that is what sin
to me."
" Did she give you any reason for her extraordinary conduct in pass-
ing herself off as an unmarried woman?"
" Yes; we had a long talk, and she told me everything as she has
since told my step-mother. She trusted me as though I were her
brother; she owned frankly that her married life had been very un-
happy. She had the impression that her husband had never loved her:
that he considered her presence burdensome to him, and she also owned
that her sister-in-law had made her existence miserable."
" As she has told both of us many times."
" I wish you could have heard her every word; I think in that case
your anger will be less intense. I am not defending her course of de-
ception I am the last person to do so but I assure you, Thorpe, that
though she has treated you as few men have been treated, sin
more on a childish impulse to free herself from all trammels than from
any deliberate intention to do wrong."
" You can say this to my face?"
" Indeed I can. Of all girls she has been most ignorant and willful,
but few women have repented as she will repent. She is utterly crushed
beneath her own self-condemnation; ' Indeed, I never meant to be
wicked,' that was the whole burden of her cry."
" She has duped you, Chudleigh! You actually speak as though you
think Joan more sinned against than sinning!"
" Will you bear with me if I say_ that I do think so? that I think this
poor girl' for she is only a girl in years has met with scant tender-
ness? Do you mean to tell me that you do not think your si>ter has
been hard on her? that she has not exaggerated her faults insir
trying to hide them from her husband's eyes? You have talked to mo
yourself, Thorpe; you have owned that you knew her to be an in
plined, ignorant child when you married her, and yet you could leave
her to be tutored and lectured by your sister! Would any proud-spirit-
ed woman submit to such treatment? Would any uncontrolled temper
brook it for a moment?"
"Did Joan tell you that she made her husband's life so intolerable
that he could have prayed for death to free him?"
" Ye, she told me that, and tke lamented that all her efforts to do
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 1?9
better were misrepresented and misunderstood. She felt as though her
heart were slowly breaking, as though she must die or go mad, and the*
it was you gave her her freedom."
" I always meant her to come back."
"She did not think so. The idea had grown upon her that your
love was a thing of the past, that you were thankful to let her go; and
then it was that the temptation to set herself really free came into her
mind, and she took off her wedding-ring and called herself Miss Ros-
siter."
" Oh, she spoke the truth when she told me that she would soon
come to hate me! This last insult has proved it to me."
" She does not hate you, Thorpe, but she fears you as no woman
ought to fear her husband. She speaks of you with respect. I am not
sure that there is not a deeper feeling at tne bottom all her bitterness,
all her hard sayings, are against your sister."
" And yet Rachel was good to her."
" I do not think Mrs. Thorpe would indorse that opinion. She looked
upon her as a hard kecpar, as one who sowed dissension between her
and her husband. I am your sister's friend as well as yours, Thorpe,
and yet I dare to tell her to her face that she was wrong in remaining
under your roof."
" One moment, Chudleigh we are talking about Rachel how is it
that she remained in ignorance ol Mrs. Weston's death?" Then, as
Launcelot quietly explained the matter, toning it down as well as the
truth permitted, Mr. Thorpe's face grew grayer and more haggard.
" Do you mean that Rachel has deceived me? Oh, I know what you
mean "as Launcelot was about to interrupt him " that she meant it
for my good, but that is all nothing to me. I could sooner believe that
the sun would not rise again to-morrow than that Rachel could de-
ceive me!"
" My dear friend, we are none of us infallible. God forbid thai we
should cast stones at one another;" but Mr. Thorpe did not seem to
hear him.
" I was lonely enough when Joan left me; but at least I had my sis-
ter. What was my loneliness then compared to my solitude now?"
The words seemed forced out of his lips, as though in spite of his
proud reticence his pain must find vent. Perhaps the grave sympathy
of the man who had been like a brother to him moved him to speech.
" Perhaps you were right in much that you have said," he went on.
"I will take my share of blame. I was often hard on Joan. I did not
make allowances for her youth and imperfect education, but if I
wronged her I have been sorely punished, and what has my sin been
compared to hers?"
" Thorpe, what made you marry her?"
" Because, like a fool, I fell in love with her. Ah, I grant you she
never knew the extent of her power. I was a shy, diffident lover: it
was difficult for me to give expression to my feelings. She often re-
pulsed me and threw me back, but, as her husband, I worshiped her,
and in spite of the blackness of her sin against me the misery is I love
her still."
A faint tremulous sigh answered these words, but neither of the men
heard it.
" She has complained to you of my coldness, but if she could only
have read my thoughts! How I watched for one kind look or word to
tell me that my wife wr a ^~* wholly indiHeret to me! But she onty
180 ONLY TTTE
took pains to show me that she hated mo. She made my very love for
her the means of torturing m;-. She would provoke me into saving
filter tiling, and then r;:m k nt me for my coldness and cruelty. Chmi-
leigh, it was hell on earth 1 I sometimes wonder howl lived through it."
' L can iimic'M'ind how had tilings were."
" It was simply a maddening life for a man to lead. And yd a very
little would have' satisfied me. 1 did not ask a greater sacrifice from
.loan than many a one has had to ask from his wife. ' I have a
living with me to whom 1 owe every thing; she is dependent on me, and
I am'not a rich man, and can not afford another establishment. Do you
think you can live happily together as sisters for my sake?' that is
what 1 said to Joan before I married her, and her answer was frank and
simple: ' T have never had a sister, and I think it will he nice to have
Rachel with us, for she will teach me all your ways;' and yet before
six months were over she was telling me that either Rachel or she
must go."
" It was a difficult position, as you say.'*
" I held firm, and I do not think even now I was wrong. I said that
my sister should never leave my roof unless by her own free will and
you know the rest; there is nothing more to be said."
" Only one word, Thorpe. Your wife must come back to you at
once. Remember, you are responsible before God for that poor girl ! ' '
but a flash of the gray eyes warned Launcelot that he was treading on
dangerous ground.
"I would have suffered no other man to say the things to me that
you have said to-night, but even you can go too far. No one shall in-
terfere between my wife and me. Rachel will have to answer to me
for what she has done. It is for Joan to ask my forgiveness; I will
listen to no other pleading
" But if I do beg your forgiveness, Ivan, if I say that I am really and
truly sorry " and Joan stood before them, still in her little black laee
hood, looking at them piteously, with the tears rolling down her pale
cheeks. " Oh, please do not be angry with me because I stopped and
listened!" and she clasped her hands and looked at her husband. But
he stood with averted eyes as though suddenly turned to stone; only
Launcelot heard his labored breathing, and gave him an anxious glance,
as lie prepared to leave the room, but a sharp voice recalled him.
" Where are you going, Clmdleigh? If you have ever been my
friend act as one now, and do not leave me. Tell my wife that I can
not that I will not speak to her to-night."
"Mrs. Thorpe, you hear what he says; will you be good enough to
leave us? I think your husband is ill."
" Do you really wish me to go, Ivan?"
" Yes." But she still lingered.
" You will not even look at me?"
*' Xo," moving his dry lips with difficulty, " I will neither speak to
you nor look at you to-night. If you are really sorry, you will obey
me once as your husband. To-morrow I will hear you, not now."
" Very well," she returned, humbly, " but to-morrow will not be to-
night. You are making a mistake, Ivan, hut you shall be obeyed,'- ai><!
Burned away, bending her head gravely as Launceloi opened the
Afadella,' he whispered, "and I will look after him,"
be did not answer; only as she looked at him there w;is a CU1
'imnphat :i in her large soft eyes, and she looked
1 than Hshimied of her in ipulsive action.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 181
But Launcelot had no time to question the meaning of Joan's look.
He poured out some water and brought it to his friend, who took the
glass with a shaking hand.
"It was only giddiness: it has passed; but I think it would have
killed me to speak to her. "I must think over things quietly, and see
what is to be done. I will do nothing, promise nothing, to-night."
" You will let me see you home?"
" Pooh, nonsense! I am not ill; the walk back in the cool air will do
me good no, no more talk to-nidit, Chudleigh "
"Well!"
" You heard her ask me to look at her?"
"Yes."
" I did not dare to raise my eyes; the very sound of her voice was
enough for me. If I had looked I must have opened my arms to her,
hearing her speak in that way."
" Why do you tell me this now, unless you mean me to call her back
may I, Thorpe?"
" No! a thousand times no! I am glorying in my own prudence;
she shall not force forgiveness out of me like that. She must earn it
first, and humble herself before me."
" I think the other way would have been more generous."
" But I am not a generous man, and I will not consent to any hollow
truce. She must convince me of her penitence, she must give me some
proof that will satisfy me, or there will be no reconciliation."
"Oh, go your own way," returned Launcelot, half angrily, half
sadly. He knew that he could not alter the man's nature. One word,
one look, and the erring wife would have been at his feet, and all the
miserable past would have been wiped out.
" Oh, good Lord, how do we even venture to take those words upon
our lips?" he thought; " is there one of us who knows how to forgive
a brother's trespass?" and his noble heart grew sick within him, for
Joan had said to-morrow would not be to-day, and her unquiet, restless
soul might have set itself in bitterness before the husband and wife met
again.
" Yes, and my way will not please you," returned Mr. Thorpe. " We
are different men, and the same course of action would not be possible
to us, but I mean to do my best for Joan." Then he said good-night,
and went out into the summer night, but as he walked across the dark
common and down the long hill, a sweet voice broken with sobs seemed
to ring in his ears. " But if I beg your forgiveness, Ivan, if I say that
I am really and truly sorry "during all their unhappy married life
had he ever heard her speak in that voice before?
But Launcelot's face had a cloud on it as he re-entered the studio,
and stood for a moment before his picture, as though unwilling to
cover it up.
" It is not finished, but I shall never touch it again," he said to him-
self. " It is my best picture. If I live for fifty years, I shall not paint
another as good. To-morrow I shall send it to him; it is his by right."
And then as he looked at the green meads where mellich groweth,
which he had painted with such delight, and at the frightened cattle
huddled up into a heap, as the big advancing wave flowed over the
reedy Lindis's shore, and then at the pale face and strained eyes of the
sweet-faced mother as she pressed her babes to her bosom, a sudden sob
in his throat seemed to choke him, and he sat down and covered his
182 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
face with his hands, and the echo of mouruf ul thoughts woke the old
refrain again :
u That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea,
A fatal ebbe and tlo\v, alas!
To manye inoiv than inyne and mee:
But each will mourn his own (she saith)
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife Elizabeth."
" ' A fatal ebbe and flow,' indeed," he thought, when at last he ex
Unguished the lights and crept wearily to his bed.
CHAITER XXVIII.
"JOAN, COME BACK."
The time once was when I might have learned to love that man. Bob Roy.
Cool as an icicle and determined as the rock it hangs upon. Anne of Gcierstein.
JOAN would have hesitated in complying with Launcclot's injunction,
but at that moment Mrs. Chudleigh, thinking she heard voices, opened
the drawing-room door. Her surprise amounted to consternation when
she perceived the girl standing in the glass corridor that led out of the
studio.
" My dear, will you come in here for a moment? I must speak to
you. Surely that was not my son's voice that I heard just now?"
" Indeed it was, Mrs. Chudleigh. He was bidding nie come to you;"
and then she said, in a queer choked voice, " I have been in the studio,
I have seen Ivan, but he would not let me stay. I could not get him
to look at me or speak to me, and so I came away. "
" Joan, I can not believe my ears. Surely but no it is impossible
you could not have entered your husband's presence unless lie sent
for you!"
" There, I have shocked you again, and when I looked at Mr. Chiul-
leigh I could see he was shocked too. Why is it I must always do the
wrong thing, that I never have strength to resist the moment's impulse?
I think I am the worst girl that ever lived and yet I meant no harm,"
and here one or two tears fell which made Mrs. Chudleigh relax from
her unwonted dignity.
" I never meant to scold you, Joan, but I am afraid you have been
extremely injudicious. Will you tell me what you were doing clown-
tairs at so late an hour?"
" Oli, yes, I will tell you everything. I could not stop in the school-
room quietly; the thought that Ivan was in the house, that he and Mr.
Chudleigh were talking about me, made me so restless that I could not
settle to any employment. I felt a longing to be out in the air, move-
ment of some kind seemed absolutely necessary to me, so 1 went into
the garden. But even when I was there I could not keep away from
the house, and the lighted window of the studio seemed Jo draw
a moth is drawn toward the tlame of a candle. I felt a strange desire to
see Ivan without his perceiving me in return, but when I can
window, I could hear Mr. Chudleigh speaking, and what h'
w;t- so to autiful that I could not help listening, and Ivan answered him,
and I .stayed."
" ,My dear did not your conscience tell you that it was very dishoy/
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 183
oraMc to steal yonr husband's confidence in that way? His words were
not meant to reach your ears."
" I never thought of that I never /3o think, you know. Of course
it was wrong, but all the same I am thankful I did it. What do you
think, Mrs. Chudleigh?" and a proud light came into her eyes" 1
hoard Ivan say yes, they were his very words that he had always
' loved me,' and that he ' loved me still.' '
" You did not deserve such a consolation."
" Ah, but you see he said it, and Ivan never says what he does not
mean. lie never meant me to know it, he thinks I have forfeited all
right to his affections, but there it is; he can not help himself, and I
know now that all his coldness was assumed to punish me."
" 1 am afraid all this will only add to Mr. Thorpe's displeasure.
Men are very sensitive on these points of honor."
" Yes, 1 know that, and that is why I owned myself in the wrong. I
wished Ivan to know what I had done. I went into the studio and begged
for his forgiveness. I did not mind Mr. Chudleigh being there I never
thought of him I only wanted Ivan to look at me and sec how sorry I
was, but he would not speak to me, and then Mr. Chudleigh said my
husband was ill and I must come away."
" Was lie ill V"
" He looked very pale, old, and gray; I think I startled him. "When
he told me to go, of course I obeyed him. I made up my mind as I
listened to him outside the window that he should never have reason to
complain of my disobedience again."
" Hut surely he will not refuse to see you?"
" No, he is coming to-morrow; that is' his way, never to do anything
without due consideration. He would not let me take him by storm,
though one relenting word would have earned my life's gratitude. He
will go home and think about it all, and when' he has measured the
depths of my iniquities, he will decide on the duration and severity of
my punishment. If he forgives at all, it will not be yet. When we
meet to-morrow I shall waste no entreaties on him; he will have armed
himself against me beforehand. That is why I said to-morrow was not
to-day."
" My dear, if this is the spirit in which you intend to meet him, I can
hardly believe that any reconciliation will be possible. Surely you will
confess that you have done wrong?"
" Oh, yes; I will do as much as that, and if he will give me the op-
portunity I will own that I am sorry. I will even tell him that for the
future I will obey him."
" Are you sure that your purpose will hold good, Joan, that you will
really submit yourself to him?"
" Yes, I have promised you and Mr. Chudleigh to be good, and I will
not go back from my promise. I dare say Ivan will make my life
wretched. When I think of his power over me I am horribly fright-
ened. Why do girls marry, I wonder? But all the same, I mean to
obey him. ' '
*' 1 am glad lo hear you say this; my son will be glad too. But,
Joan, I must say one thing to you; I believe you have been decehjng
yourself in your heart you are really fond of your husband."
A burning flush crossed the girl's face as Mrs. Chudleigh spoke, her
head drooped suddenly as though she had been convicted of some fault.
" There was a time when I could have loved him," she returned,
tremulously, "but that time has long passed. There have been mo-
184 ONLY Tin: i:ss.
ments when I almost hated liini. People tit) not feel like that when tLe*f
art fond of a person."
"I don't know," observed Mrs. Chudleigh, doubtfully. She liad a
dim notion that theif \\as something defective in Joan's : only
her own experience and knowledge of liunian natui-i , deep
enough to rerify her instinctive feeling that .loan ws not perfectly in-
different to her husband, and when she spoke to Launcelot tin
day, he indorsed her opinion.
" Yes, she cares for him; I expect she has always cared. It is that
that has made her so unconscious of other men's admiration, but she
never believed until last evening in his affection for her. Probai
coldness has goaded her to desperation; then his despotic will li.i.s
fretted her beyond endurance, but lie sees his mistake now."
" And he is coming this afternoon?"
" Yes, he will be here about six. The girls are not coming baek until
late, so they will not be interrupted. If I were you I should tell 'Fen-
wick to show him into the morning-room, and then you can send her
to him."
" I hope her courage will not fail at the last moment,"
" Oh, no, there is no fear of that; she is no coward. The only fear
is that the interview may be productive of no good at all. Still, it is
no use troubling ourselves beforehand. Y r ou and I have done our parts,
and now we must leave it in other hands. ' ' And so saying he went
away, as though to put a stop to the conversation.
Joan took her usual- place at the luncheon-table and made a brave
effort to appear at her ease, but, though the children talked, ther
very little said by their elders. Only when Sybil begged her governess
to take them into the town to buy something for Frecklcs's birthday,
her mother interposed and suggested that Emma should accompany
them instead.
" You will come into the drawing-room and keep me company, my
dear, will you not?" she observed very kindly to Joan, for she was un-
willing to trust the girl out of her sight, and Joan followed her re-
luctantly.
But there was not much conversation between them as they sat busy-
ing themselves over their work. Joan was rather silent and unap-
proachable; she answered Mrs. Chudleigh's gentle remarks by mono-
syllabic replies, and Mrs. Chudleigh had sufficient tact to leave her to
herself.
But she puzzled herself once not a little over the girl's changed
ner and appearance; she had never seen her look as she did to-day.
Joan had never worn black before, but this afternoon she had pu:
black gown of some soft, silky material, and the narrow muslin edging
round her throat made her look almost quaint in her simplicity.
There was little doubt that the effect was studied, and that she wished
to appear in sober garb before her offended husband, but no coquettish
arrangement of colors could have suited her so well. I test less nights
and days of weeping had not clouded the pure transparency of her com-
plexion, and in spite of her paleness and the heavy sadness in her
Mr-. Chudleigh thought that Joan had never looked more lovely. They
sat in silent companionship through the greater part of the afternoon,
and then Joan suddenly put her hand to her throat and started up.
" 1 can not sit any longer 1 can not! Will you let me go out a littly
just to the terract and back? 1 will not go out of your sight, if you
prefer it."
ONLY THE GOTERKESS. St
" My dear, you speak as though you were a prisoner. Go out by all
means; the air will do you good."
" Thank you. I do not want to be impatient, bt the thought of
what is coming seems to put my nerves on edge. Ivan will be terrible!
terrible! When I think of it I want to run away and hide myself.
It is a sad thing when a woman fears her husband as [ fear Ivan. I
wisii he could kill me outright instead of putting me to the slow
torture!"
" My dear my dear!"
" Oh, I do not really mean what I say, only I have worked myself up
to such a pitch of nervousness. Please don't trouble about me; when
the time comes I shall have courage to go to him."
And with a little laugh she opened the glass door and stepped out on
the gravel walk.
" Poor child! I verily believe there is quicksilver about her. I never
saw a more excitable temperament. She tries to control herself, but
she has never learned the lesson of self-government, and one can do
nothing to help her."
Poor Mrs. Chudleigh was not spending a very pleasant afternoon; it
was almost a relief when Fenwick at last announced that Mr. Thorpe
was in the morning- room, and would like to speak to his wife.
She went through the shrubberies herself to fetch the girl, and sent
Fenwick about his business.
Joan caught sight of her at once, and hastened to meet her.
" You have come to fetch me yourself! How very kind! Is my
husband here? Oh, I am quite ready for him I will go to him at
once."
But as she would have passed her, Mrs. Chudleighi detained her
gently.
" Be very humble, Joan. Do not forget for a moment that he is
your husband, and that he has the right to find fault with you," and
then she let her go.
Joan walked straight into the morning-room, with set, pale lips, and
her head rather higher than usual. She bowed gravely to her husband
as he rose and put a chair for her; then motioning it aside, walked
quickly to the window, and stood there with her face averted and her
long neck turned from him, and after a moment's hesitation he followed
her.
It seemed as though speech were not possible to either of them. Joan
seemed to hear only the agitated beating of her own heart, while Mr.
Thorpe was only conscious that he and Joan were once more together
that at any moment he might hear her voice that he could even put
out his hand and touch her if he liked.
" You sent for me, Ivan?"
If at that moment Joan had realized her power and used it, she would
not have begged for forgiveness in vain, when her husband's heart was
aching with repressed love, and longing for the beautiful, willful creat-
ure who had spoiled his life; but Joan, in her shy pride, did not look at
him, and so the opportunity was lost.
" You sent for me, Ivan, and I am here," she repeated, in a voic
that chilled him.
This was not the way she had addressed him last night, when her
voice was broken with sobs, and the reality of her sorrow and penitence
had been evident even to him. If only she had stooped again to entreat
18 C ONLY 1 F.RNESS.
him. and lie could hare seen her eyes full of tears! Imt the tide of her
grief had turned, and had left her dVy and hard.
you are here, and now how am I to find words in which to
speak to you? how am I to tell you what you do not know already? I
always knew our notions of honor differed, but I hardly thought that
even you would have deigned to listen to words that you knew were
i leant for your
This unexpected thrust touched her too keenly, and a rush of angry
color answered him.
" Ivan, how dare you insinuate that I placed myself at the window
with the expre of listening to your conversation with Mr.
Chucllcigh! ho\v dare you!" And then she stopped, and her lips trem-
bled. "I beg your pardon; I ought not to have spoken in that tone.
You must say what you like to me, and I must bear it."
The apology disarmed him.
" Can you justify your conduct, Joan?"
" No, she returned, wearily, "I can justify nothing. Everything
is wrong, and the only pity is that I was ever born, to be the misery of
myself and other people. I did not mean to listen, only I heard some-
thing that touched me, and I could not go away, and I stopped and
you know the rest."
" Yes; and then you came in and asked me to forgive you. I wonder
you had the courage. Most women would sooner have sunk through
the floor than go out of their way to meet the husband they had loaded
with insult. Joan, tell me one thing. Was it because you hated me so
intensely that you took off your wedding-ring, and even refused to bear
my name?"
She stooped her graceful head now, as though she would willingly
have hidden her face from his keen, reproachful look, and her eyes
were fixed on the carpet.
" I did not hate you," she stammered, " but I was unhappy, and I
wanted to be free."
" Why did you not ask me to make such freedom possible? A legal
separation would have given you a fair amount of liberty. 1 could not
cease to be your husband, but at least I would not have held you to
your bond like a slave."
The intense scorn and anger in his tone were more acceptable to Joan
than the cutting coldness of old.
" I have treated you very badly, Ivan."
" Badly! I do not think any husband has been so ill-used before; all
the world will know that you left my protection without suflicicnt
cause, and passed yourself off as an unmarried woman."
1 ' Yes, it was wrong, but if you only knew how I repent my sin ! I
think it was Rachel's letter that made me so desperate. She made me
feel as though you hated me as though you would be glad to see the
last of me."
" Joan, if you please, we will keep my sister's name out of the con-
versation."
" Have I made you angry? But indeed I could not help mentioning
her name; you would not understand otherwise what led me lo do
a thing."
"I uuder.-tand far too much for my own peace of mind. Joan, for
once tell me the whole truth. Are you willing for us to part this after-
noon, never lo tee each other again?"
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 187
8h started, and turned very pale, but that forced, hard voice gave
no evidence of his inward agony.
" Oh, no!" she said, involuntarily, and a sort of dull gleam came to
his eyes as he heard the words. "I said I repented, Ivan what
repentance mean? I do not wish for freedom now; only mischief
would come of it. I am not fit to be trusted."
" I am thankful you have the honesty to own as much. If you d'.>
not wish to be free, what then, Joan?"
" That is for you to say," she returned, humbly. " I have forfeited
all right to make conditions."
" Do you mean" looking at her as though he could not believe life
ears " that if I were to tell you to come home with me now thig very-
afternoon you would obey me?"
" Yes,' : was the reply, but he saw her wince. " I have made up my
mind that I will never disobey you again. I have given you just cause
to be angry with me, and the only atonement I can offer is to submit
myself to my husband's will."
He put his hand to his chest as though he were conscious of some
pain, but there was no change in the measured slow tones.
" 1 am glad you know your duty at last; God grant it may not be
too late for you and me. But I should tell you a lie if I said that I
forgave you, Joan; I have tried all last night I was trying but the
bitterness of it all was too much for me."
Then for the first time she raised her eyes, and looked at him, and
when she saw the somber light in his eyes, and the hard pinched look
about his mouth, a hopelessness crept over her, and she saw he had
spoken the truth. He was a good man, but he had not sufficient nobil-
ity of soul to condone the past; he loved, but he did not trust her.
" I begin to fear that all power of forgiveness has left me."
" Then you must not ask me to come back," she replied, sadly. " It
would only be the old miserable life again ; but this time it w'ould be
worse. I should pine and sicken in such a captivity, and all my good
resolutions would avail me nothing. I should feel you distrusted my
every look and word; that in your heart you were forever reproaching
me and there is Kachel! No, Ivan, if you can not forgive me, do not
tell me to come back, for you know t must obey you. ' '
" I never meant to ask you," he returned, dryly, and then again she
looked at him, and a proud expression crossed her face. " I am not like
other men, Joan. I must see for myself some proof of your penitence
before I can say with any degree of truth that I forgive. I must learn
to trust you. 1 must be sure, in my own mind, that I arn not absolutely
hateful to you as your husband before the same roof shelters us again.
You think me hard, ungenerous, but I am doing this for your sake as
well as my own."
" Where do you wish me to live?" she asked, coldly.
" Not here; you can not remain here. You must own I am right in
eaying so," and she bowed her head in grave acquiescence.
" You remember Mrs. Medhurst, Joan?"
" An old lady with white curls, who came over to Button one day,
and said she knew you as a boy?"
" Yes; she was-iny mother's friend. She is old nearly seventy-five
but still as fresh and active as possible, and she lives in a very pretty
house in South Kensington. Do you think you would have any objec-
tion to stay with her for a time?"
188 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
TI spoke almost as though he were asking a favor, and Joan'i an-
,--,ver was prompt.
" I think the question is, do you wish me to go there, Ivan?"
" I do, but only for a time;" but she took no apparent notice of the
latter part of the sentence, though he said it slowly and with meaning,
and he might have added what was in his thoughts, " until I fetch you
home, I do wish it."
" Then of course I will go. I love Mrs. Chudleigh as though she
were my mother, and I love Pauline; but you are right, I must not
stay here. Am I to go as Mrs. Medhurst's companion? Is that what
you mean?"
" No! no!" he returned, impatiently, for, strange to say, her ready
submission to his will almost angered him. It seemed to cut the
ground from his feet, and made him feel that he was wanting in gen-
erosity. He was ashamed of his irritable nerves, but he could hot keep
his voice under control. " No; my wife has no need to earn her liveli-
hood. I have more money than I know how to spend. I will fix your
allowance, and if you exceed it, you can write to me for what, you
want. Mrs. Medhurst has invited you to stay with her as a friend.
She is wise as well as kind, and will ask no questions that you will not
care to answer. I shall be glad if you will make yourself pleasant to
her."
" Am I to go about alone? You had better tell me all your wishes,
Ivan." Then he bit his lip angrily, for he knew that tone of old.
" Mrs. Medhurst is not your keeper; she is only a kind old friend
who has offered a temporary home to my wife, because she knows the
circumstances, and thinks with me that it will be better for us to be
apart for a time."
" She is in your confidence?"
" Yes, she is in my confidence; she will be in yours, too, if you care
to make her a friend. She is a very comfortable sort of person. You
will find yourself thoroughly at home, and you will go in and out just
as you choose. ' '
ft I am a prisoner on parole, then. Ivan, I must sav I wonder at
your indiscretion. I thought our notions of honor differed, " but he
was wise enough to pass over this taunt in silence. He guessed how
her proud spirit was chafing under the yoke.
*' If you will not dislike it, Joan, I shall come and see you some-
times. I think it will be best, and" here he stopped, and then went
on a little awkwardly "and then, perhaps, there is some chance of
our becoming better friends. ' '
" I do not think so," was the provoking answer, far Joan felt she
could not be good much longer; "but all the same, you hud better
come and judge for yourself how I have been behaving."
" And you will write to me if you want anything not to Rachel."
Then she broke into an angry little laugh.
" I am glad there are to be limits to my obedience. Thank you for
sparing me one humiliation; at least, I can be grateful to vou for that. "
" I did not wish to speak on that subject," he said, stillly, '' but per-
haps I owe it to you to say something about my sister. I believe she
<>t behaved to you always with fairness. She was much too hard
on a girl of your age. She demanded impossibility mv it was
a mistake leaving the correspondence in her hands. It has widened the
breach between us; it has led to all this terrible state of things. "
' Thank you for telling me tub. "
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 189
' : It is the truth, and I must speak it, but from this moment I shall
never mention Rachel's name in this way again. Now there is nothing
more that I need say to you to-day. I will see Mrs. Chudleigh and
arrange with her about your visit to Mrs. Medhurst. I wish it to be
regarded as a visit."
"It is not penal servitude, then? I was wondering if I had any
chance of obtaining a ticket-of-leave. " Then he flung himself away
from her, in a sort of impotent rage that she had still the power to vex
him; but the next moment Joan called him back.
"Ivan, I will be good. You shall see how hard I mean to try."
And then she said, a little plaintively, " Were you going away without
saying good-bye?"
"" What is the use of all that between us?" he said, harshly, but all
the same he held out his hand. But Joan did not take it.
' ' You are right, Ivan. It is no use pretending to be friends, unless
one really forgives. My sins are too black; you can not wipe them
away yet. When you forgive me really you shall give me your hand,
but I will now only say that I am sorry," and then she passed by him,
and there was no longer the gleam of her ruddy-brown hair between
him and the setting sun, and the musical, scornful voice had died into
silence. " Joan, come back!" but there was no answer only the echo
of his own voice seemed to mock him. " Joan, come back."
CHAPTER XXIX.
JOAN LEAVES THE WITCHEN8.
Shall I for this indulge complaint,
Turn traitor and cry shame on life?
No! be my prayer, however faint,
Lord, help me to live out my strife.
PHILIP STANHOPE WORSLKT.
BEFORE another half hour had elapsed Mrs. Chudleigh had learned
the result of the interview from Mr. Thorpe himself, and in spite of her
disappointment and the strong disapproval with which she listened to
the proposed plan for Joan, she could not but own that he expressed
himself with great moderation, and certainly bore himself with dignity
under very trying circumstances.
" I am too great a stranger to have any right to obtrude my advice,"
she said when he had finished, " but you are my son's friend, and Joan
is very dear to us, and I can not help saying that I wish you could haye
decided otherwise."
" You mean that Joan should come straight home to us? If I listened
to my cwn wishes, JVJrs. Chudleigh, I should have taken her back at
once. A man wants his wife, and I have been lonely long enough; but
my sober judgment tells me that it would be wiser to wait; that there
will be more hope of a permanent reconciliation if we are apart a little
longer."
" Of course Joan will do as you wish?"
" Yes, she was far more reasonable than I hoped to find her. She
could not quite control her temper once or twice, but I could see how
sore she felt. I am not without hope, now that she has owned her
faults so frankly;" and then after a little more conversation he got up
and went away.,
"He is very masterful," Mrs. Chudleigh observed to her son after-
ward. "I can quite understand now why Joan is so afraid of him.
190 ONLY TTT F. . KSS.
Tie knows how to keep a woman down, and to make her feel the fore
of his displeasure without saving an angry word; lie never forgets him-
self for a moment, and yet. as lie talked i felt 1 never liked him so well.
loan tried to eany oiV her defeat with a high hand.
" It is just as I told you it would be," she said, when Mrs. Clmdloigh
entered the school-room with a very grave face. " Ivan is ineorri
lie has made up his mind that I am to be properly punished, and no
scepter of grace is to be extended to me: he has already settled the term
of my imprisonment, and has provided me with a keeper."
" My dear, I hope you did not talk to your husband in this r<
fashion."
"I am afraid I did. I said some very provoking things, but lie
actually passed them by without a word. I was obliged i<> beg his
pardon once, I forgot myself so, and then I remembered my v
obedience, and I told him he might say what he liked."
" He thought you were very reasonable."
A faint blush rose to Joan's cheek. " Did he say so? How sti-
lt would be to hear Ivan praise me! No, I will own that on the whole
he has not treated me badly; it is his nature to be severe; he is a hard
man, and soft speeches never came easily to him. He would have
shaken hands with me, only I told him there was no use in pretending
to be friends. ' '
" He says Mrs. Medhurstis a very nice old lady, and that you will be
sure to like her. I confess I was touched by his thoughtfulness for
your comfort. We have arranged that you are to go to Kensington on
Tuesday, and I am to drive with you, and, unless you object, I am to.
go in and see Mrs. Medhurst."
" You must do as you like about that, but Ivan will not be satisfied
unless you see me safe in charge of my keeper," and then she broke
down and hid her face on her friend's shoulder. " Oh, I have been so
happy here; I do love this place, and now you are sending me away!"
" I do not see how you could stay with us, Joan; my dear, think for
a moment, would it be right?"
" No no of course I must go, it is only part of my punishment;
but, dear Mrs. Chudleigh, you will come and see me sometimes you
and Pauline?"
" Oh, yes, we will come; but you will not be long there; we shall see
you soon4n your husband's house," but Joan only shook her hca
jectedly.
" There is no hope of that, and I do not know that I wish it, Ivan
uiiig to see me, but his visits will be terrible. Think of a wife amj
husband meeting under those circumstances; it makes me feel like
' onvict^only there will be no grating between us. I Jut. what on
earth shall I say to him or he to me? I will not have even a
duct badge to show him," and then Mrs. Chudleigh smiled and gently
reproved her.
" It will all come right in time, Joan, if you will only be ]
the girls will be back directly, and I must go down-stairs. Shall
e you in the drawing-room this evening?" but to this .loan returned
a decided negative. She was too depressed and siek at heart to join
the family group; the strain of that interview was beginning to make
itself felt, and she was only fit to be alone.
Bhe sat alone in the school-room all that evening, and her thou
were very terrible to her; neither Uratrix nor Pauline
At any other time Pauline would have sought her out at once, for they
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 191
had always been "inseparable, but as she sat there in numb wretched-
ness she told herself that this too was part of her punishment.
She did not see Pauline until late the next day. She had always break-
fasted with her pupils in the school-room, and it was not until luncheon
that she saw the rest of the family, and she had made up her mind that
she and Pauline would meet them; but just as the little girls had put
away their books and had run out in the garden, she heard a tap at the
door, and Pauline entered.
She came in hurriedly, and her manner was decidedly nervous; still
she was going to kiss Joan as usual, only Joan drew back.
"Perhaps you had better not kiss me, Pauline?" she said, rather
proudly.
" Oh, of course if you do not wish it," returned Pauline, awkwardly,
and then she moved the papers on the table, and seemed at a loss what
to say next. She did not like to encounter Joan's eyes, they looked so
sad and reproachful. " I promised mother that I would come and see
you," she went on, with a shade of temper in her voice, " not that there
is any use in doing so."
" Of course I know how you must feel about it, Pauline; you are so
honest, so absolutely true yourself, that you can not understand any
want of straightforwardness in others. I knew we could never be
friends again after this, that is why I told you not to kiss me."
" I think it is very hard upon me, Huldah," and then Pauline bit her
lips and reddened " 1 mean Mrs. Thorpe."
" My name is Huldah," returned Joan, coldly. " My aunt always
called me so: it was my husband and Rachel who preferred Joan. You
can go on calling me Huldah if you like.
"Thank you, I do prefer it;"
and then she added, brusquely, for
Pauline was always brusque when she felt most strongly about things,
" No, it is no use pretending; we can never be friends in the same
way; I thought you were a girl like myself, but all the time you were a
married woman!"
" Of course it was very wrong."
" Wrong! I never heard of greater wrong-doing. Bee and I feel that
poor Mr. Thorpe is greatly to be pitied. I am sorry if I seem unkind,
Huldah, but I can not say what I do not mean."
" I think it is kind to speak to me at all."
" I could not help crying about it when mother told me, and yet 1
was angry too. I have only two friends in the world you and Char-
lotteand now I have been deceived in you, it does seem so cruel,"
and Pauline's eyes filled with tears.- The whole thing was so foreign t<r
her experience, she hardly knew how to deal with it.
The sight of Pauline's distress and perplexity was too much for Joan's
oft heart, and the next moment she had caught the girl in her arms,
and had kissed her half a dozen times.
" Don't cry about me, Pauline darling, I am not worth it. You shall
say what you like to me, and I shall only love you all the better. Do
you think I shall ever forget all your goodness to me? I shall always
be grateful, always, even though we are no longer friends."
" But, Huldah, it has made me so unhappy, and I shall miss you so."
" You will be better without me, darling; you are too much disap-
pointed in me to care for my companionship now; it is only an angelic
nature like your mother's that knows how to forgive perfectly. I shalZ
not think you hard, Pauline; in your heart you will be sorry for me.
How can I expect you to feel otherwise when my own husband can not
OHLY THE
forgive me?" Then Pauline looked at her wistfully and did not an*
awer, and just then li, indcd for luncheon.
Bee's marked coldness aiui scant civility did not trouble Joan as much
as Pauline's petulant sorrow; it was the girl's first disappointment, and
she bore it with youthful impatience. " Mother, wlrjr can't people be
good?'' she had said almost passionately the previous night. " I think
I must be wicked myself, for 1 can not love people who disappoint me."
And indeed for a time her love for Joan seemed to die a natural death.
But affection is not so easily killed, and Pauline moped visibly over
her broken friendship. Joan or rather Iluldah, as she always 'called
her had been such a bright, joyous companion, they had had so much
in common, that Pauline found it hard to replace her. Even Charlotte's
kindly common sense and Uremia's enthusiasm could not compensate
for Joan's sweetness and lovable ways. A Her a lime her girlish wrath
began to evaporate and she became eager to make allowances for the
culprit, and Mrs. Chudleigh, who was a peace-maker by nature, rejoiced
at this softened mood.
" Yes, I will go and see her, mother; but we can never be friends
again."
" Perhaps not, my dear; but at least you can be kind to the poor girl.
She is trying to retrieve the past, and it is not for us to put a stumbling-
block in her \vay. " And then Pauline went.
Poor Joan, those last few days at the Witchens were very titter to
her! Pauline's estrangement and Bee's hauteur did not add much to
her comfort. Bernard was happily away with a reading-party, but
Geoffrey's elaborate civility made her uncomfortable, it was such a con-
trast to his old familiarity. E*ven the little girls' round eyes, wide with
childish curiosity, made her feel nervous and irritable; indeed, she
could hardly have lived through those days without some hysterical
outbreak, except for Mrs. Chudleigh's motherly kindness, and the grave
watchfulness with which Launcelot interposed between her and any
threatened awkwardness.
" You must keep her with you as much as possible, Madella," he had
said to his step-mother. " You must not let her sit and brood alone.
Pauline is unmanageable just now, and it is no use talking to Bee when
she is in one of her little tempers. They will neither of them do any
thing to help her."
And he treated the children's curiosity in the same wise way.
" Xo, she is not Miss Kossiter at all, but there were; reasons why she
did not wish to call herself Mrs. Thorpe. Her husband is very fo'nd of
her. Yes, she is unhappy; she has known a great deal of trouble, poor
tiling, and you must be very kind to her. She is going on a visit, to a
nice old lady, a friend of her husband, and after that she will go home,
and then perhaps you will see her." And this prospect seemed to ton-
sole the children, who were very sad at tin; idea of losing their bright
young governess. When the last morning came IJee'.s still'nc.-s relaxed
a little, and even Geoffrey's frigid politeness thawed into something like
genuine feeling as .loan wished him good bye. Perhaps he, too, felt
there was something pathetic in the girl's pale face and dimmed
" Good-bye. Keep up your courage; it will all come right." he said.
hurriedly, pressing her hand, for (JeolTrey was a kind-hearted follow in
his way; and then the. children clung about her, and Dee and Paulino
kissed her, both of them silently, only Pauline's eyes were red. And
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 193
then Launcelot drew her arm in his and put her in the carriage, where
Mrs. Chudleigh had already seated herself.
" Good-bye, Mrs. Thorpe. God bless you," he said. And Joan tried
to speak in answer but failed.
" Oh, how good he is!" she said, bursting into tears as they drove
away, leaving him standing there bare-headed. " Good?" Would she
ever know his nobleness?
Alas! Joan in her tardy repentance had yet to realize the bitter truth
that it is as impossible to estimate the probable consequence of even one
act of wrong-doing as it would be to measure the watery circles raised
by one small pebble flung out of an urchin's hand! It is a terrible
thought how our sins and failures influence other lives, how even un-
born generations may rue the effect of our want of faithfulness. The
worst part of Joan's punishment lay in the knowledge that she had
clouded the joyous existence of one of the happiest of God's creatures,
not dreaming, in her unavailing remorse, that the fagots she had
kindled would only scorch the outer man, that by Divine help the real
Launcelot would pass harmlessly through the purifying flame and rise
to nobler purposes.
But as Launcelot closed the heavy door behind him, and shut himself
in his solitary study, he told Jiimself that the sunshine had left the
house, and that henceforth he might write up " Ichabod " against his
unloved life, for surely all glory had departed from him.
Yes, as he sat there sad and lonely among his art treasures, trying to
read but unable to fix his attention oh the page, he was even now telling
himself that his only. chance of salvation, humanly speaking, was to
work as though his life depended upon it, and to love his fellow-creat-
ures better than himself. As these salutary thoughts passed through
his mind, he repeated to himself Charles Kingsley's quaint lines lines
that hold a mine of wisdom in them :
" Do the work that's nearest,
Though it's dull at whiles.
Helping when we meet them,
Lame dogs over stiles;
See in every hedgerow
Marks of 'angels 1 feet,
Epics in each pebble
Underneath our feet."
Two hours later his step-mother found him in the same attitude; but
as she stood beside him, putting back the thick waves of hair with soft,
motherly touches, he looked up at her and smiled.
" Weil, Maclella?"
"Everything is as satisfactory as we could expect. Mrs. Medhurst
received Joan most kindly, and tried to put her at her ease. She began
talking at once about Mr. Thorpe in the most natural way. She- calls
him Ivan, so I suppose they are very old friends. ' Ivan thought it
would be better for you to have a front room, my dear, during your visil ;
it is so much more cheerful.' Little speeches like that every now and
then. She seems a nice old lady, very lively and brisk for her age.
And the house is so pretty. A most respectable woman, who has been
Mrs. Medhurst's factotum for the last twenty years, showed us all over
it. Joan's room was charming, full of flowers, which she said Ivan had
ordered."
" And you left her fairly comfortable?"
" Well, we must give her lime to settle down. Of course she will
feel stiange at first," was the some what evasive answer, Not for worlds
194 ON :
"would Mrs. Olmdleigh have told Launcclot of the heart-broken way in
which .loan threw herself in her arms and would hardly let. h.
have promised to drive over next week and take Pauline with mi', if she
will consent to accompany my. There is the dressing- bell, Launce,
and I must prepaic for dinner. Pauline's friends. Charlotte .Maxwell
and her sister, are coming." Hut to this piece of information Launcc
lot merely returned an indifferent shrug of the shoulder. What did it
matter to him if the whold world were coming to dinner?
But even Launcelot in his solitary wretchedness, and .loan in her
exile, would hardly have consented to change places with Rachel Thorpe
Irving to break down the invisible barrier that seemed suddenly en
en her brother and herself. .V week had passed since that evening
when Ivan had left her to go to the Witchens, and yet no word had
d his lips about Joan. Only when he came back he hud shut
himself into his study without coming in search of her, as usual, to re-
tail his news and wish her good-night; and though she had sat in the
drawing-room i- i miserable until half the night was over, she
had not ventured to go to him.
But the next morning he had met her as usual, and, in spite of his
care-worn look, there had been no perceptible change iu his manner
toward her. lie had spoken of her work and his, and had asked her
opinion on the investment of some spare capital.
" I think railways will be the best and safest, though Stcadman wants
me to join their company, but I said, ' No, thank you, the affair looks
shaky now.' And I am not one for prolonging life at all costs." And
she had agreed with him.
And again that evening he had talked about investments, and when
he withdrew to his study under the pretext of business she made no
attempt to detain him; neither did she follow him, as she had so often
done, just for the pleasure of sitting silently in his presence, content if
he never spoke a word to her until midnight. What did he want with
her now? And Rachel's face grew grini and gray as she sat alone try-
ing to occupy herself.
But on the night in which Joan took possession of her strange new
room, and while she was looking with shy, wild eyes, like a captured
bird's, at the flowers that Ivan had sent tliere, and trying to gulp down
the lump in her throat as she thought of her dear old room at I he
Witchens, Rachel was telling herself that she could bear it no In
and when she saw her brother putting up his paper and prepari
leave the room as usual, the moment he had finished his dinner, she said,
rather sharply
" You are' surely not busy again to-night. Ivan. Your articL
finished yesterday."
" Oh, it is not business connected with the ' Imperial Review, ' " he
returned; " there are other things," and then he stopped as though he
were embarrassed.
" Why do you not tell me plainly that you have no longer any wish
for my company? that you would rather be alone? Ivan, 1 can not en
dure this state of things any longer; if you are displeased with ni'
>u, why do you not tell me so plainly?"
. to speak to you on the subject. Surely I have
n right to be -ilcnt if I rh.
" Not. with me," .-lie returned, bitterly, " unless we have ceased to be
.111 nothing to you. Even if 1 have made mi.stak-
yo;i think you have a right to be angry with me, you should tell i:
ONLY THE GOVERHESS. 195
and give me an opportunity of clearing m} r self." Then he closed the
door and walked across to the hearth-rug, and as he stood there looking
down upon her as she sat in her high-backed chair, his face looked dark
and gloomy.
" Well, what is it you wisli me to say?" he asked, harshly, and the
tone of his voice was dreadful to her.
' ' Say the truth that you are angry with rne for keeping my own
counsel about Joan."
" So 1 am, bitterly angry and disappointed; but there was no need to
tell you so. I have no wish to quarrel with you, Rachel. Doubtless;
you had your reasons for what you did, or rather tailed to do, but of
course 1 must regard you as Joan's enemy, and, as her husband, I am
bound to protect her against you." Then Rachel grew pale to her
lips.
" Oh, Ivan, how can you be so cruel?"
" Nay, it is you who have been cruel cruel to that poor child whom
you knew was wandering in her willfulness about the world, cruel to
me, whom you also knew to be anxious and lonely. Why do you
compel me to speak on this subject? How am 1 ever to forget thai I
trusted my wife in your care, that I put the correspondence in your
hands, and that for more than a year no word passed between you?"
" Ivan, it was a mistake, I own it frankly, but indeed it was for your
Bake I kept silence. I was terribly anxious about Joan; I would have
fiven worlds for news of her, but I dared not add to your burdens, and
thought," faltering in her speech under his cold, level glance, for she
had risen too, and they were nearly of a height, " I thought you would
suffer less, that in time you might cease to' miss her, if her name were
not mentioned between us."
" Pshaw! how can a woman of your intelligence deal in such false
sophistries? Do you not know a man's nature better than that V ' ( 'ease
to miss her.' Could you know Joan and think such a thing possible?
If I ever loved her, I love her ten times more in spite of her sins."
" Ivan, is Joan coming back here.' 1 "
" Of course she is coming back when I think fit to fetch her, but she
must earn my forgiveness first."
" Then p>.Thap> it will be best for me to leave you." Rachel's voice
was very faint, so that he could hardly hear the word.
" To leave me do you mean seek another home? No, Rachel. I
am not quite so angry as that. I will never turn my sister from my
doors, just when she is getting old too, neither will I give Joan that tri-
umph. She shall come here and take her place as my wife, and the
sole mistress of the house, and no one shall speak a word against her in
my hearing when I have once brought myself to forgive her, but all the
same she shall not drive my sister away."
" Thank you, Ivan," and Rachel's stern face twitched with emotion.
" I think it would break my heart to live under any roof but yours, but
all the same you have but to speak the word, and I will go."
" Then I will never speak it!" and he turned away as though he were
not ready to meet her grateful glance but she laid her hand on lib
arm.
" Ivan, do not go yet. You will let me say how truly sorry I am for
all this."
" I think you ought to be sorry, Rachel.''
" I am! 1 am!" vehemently. l< I would give much to undo it now
You mean to forgive Joan try to forgive me too."
10(5 ONLY TTTT: <;<>VI:I;N'ESS.
" I have tried, but T foci as though I h:iv<- ]-t. all tru^t in human nat-
ure. Launcelot Omdleiirh lias been my <>,dy friend, and I think ho ia
faithful."
"-And I have failed you! Ivan, I think you have punished mo sulli-
ciently now, that I should live to hear such words from your lips." And
now ii was Kachel who turned a.way that he might not see the tears run-
iiiug down her face.
" I am sorry if 1 have hurt you, Rachel, but if t lungs are ever to come
right between' us I must speak the truth. In a little while, when .loan
comes back to me, I shall feel less bitterly about things; until then you
must not try to force my confidence. I mean to behave tn you as well
as I can. Will that content you?"
" It must content me, I suppose; but, Ivan, surely you will tell me
where Joan is at present?"
Then he answered her with obvious reluctance.
" She is not at the Witchens. Mrs. Medhurst has kindly invited her
to spend the autumn with her."
" Do you wish me to go and see her?"
" Certainly not. I shall go myself, and if Joan wants anything she
will write tome."
" I think," she returned, slowly, for all the jealous pain in her nature
seemed to wake under his words, " that you are keeping back part of
the truth from me in your heart you have already forgiven Joan!"
" You are mistaken," was the somewhat dry answer, but a dusky
flush rose to his brow. "We have both of us hard natures, Rachel,
but I pray every night that I may be able to forgive her," and then, ;n
though he had said too much, he wished his sister good-night somewhat
abruptly and left the room.
CHAPTER XXX.
LAUNCELOT FINDS FAULT WITH THE SALAD.
In all my life I never heard that man give vent to a low or mean word, or evince
a low or mean sentiment. . . . This secret was very simple if one could attain it;
but he attained it by not trying to attain it, for it was merely never thinking about
himself. He was always thinking how to please others in the most trivial mat-
ters. CHARLES KINGSLEY'S Eulogy on Charles Jtluckford Mttn*ji< id.
TROUBLES seldom come singly, and the Chudleigh family were to
realize this homely truth, for it was just at this inconvenient time when
the minds of his elders were otherwise engrossed that Freckles cli
sicken with the measles; and, as ill-luck would have it, just as si,
spending his holidays at a school-fellow's house at Button. But then
Freckles was always in some mischief, as Geoffrey remarked.
When the letter reached them late one evening, about a week after
Joan had left them, Freckles's hostess had written off in no small per-
turbation of spirit; she had not long been married, and was new to her
duties as step-mother, and was somewhat bewildered by the boisterous
spirits of three tine, healthy lads, who dubbed her mammy on the spot,
and ruled her most royally ever after with the full connivance and ap-
probation of their father,
Mrs. Clmdleitrh left the family group at once and carried oil' the letter
cuss it privately with her chief adviser, who heard her to the end
rery patiently,
fc " I am afraid Mrs. Townsend is very mucii troubled, Lauuce; slio
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 197
says Cecil has never had the measles, though she hopes Frank and
Henry are safe. You see what she says about a spare room. I am quite
sure she would be much relieved if I were to go, and, of course, I should
like to nurse my own boy."
" Oh, yes, it is very evident that she is afraid of the responsibility.
Of course you must go, Madella mia, and, sorry as we shall be to lose
you, it is plain that your place is with Freckles. What a pickle that
boy is! One never knows what he will do next. "
"Mrs. Townsend says in her letter that she can make room for a
maid. Don't you think I might take Susan, Launce? She was so help-
ful last year when Sybil had the chicken-pox."
" Certainly, take Susan by all means, and then there will be no fear
of your knocking yourself up. Come, that is all settled. "
" No, not quite; you spoke of going away yourself next week?"
" Oh, there is no hurry about that," he returned, with ready unselfish-
ness, though it was quite true that he had planned a lengthy tour. " I
am my own master, and can regulate my movements. We can not both
leave home just now, as Geoffrey is going to Scotland and the girls will
be alone. ' '
"Of course I could leave them happily in your charge, but I do not
like to interfere with your plans, dear. I)octor Maxwell said last Satur-
day tliat you were looking thin and rather out of sorts, and most likely
you need the change."
"Doctor Maxwell knows nothing about it," returned Launcelot,
shortly; and then, MS though ashamed of his unusual irritation, he con-
tinued more quietly, " Don't trouble about me, Madella, I am in first-
rale condition. Just get that boy well, and take him to Eastbourne for
a change, and I will stay and look after the girls and Bernard when he
3 back. 1 can go away later. Stedman has work for some months
in Dresden; it would not be a bad idea to join him about the end of
September, and then go on to Berlin and Munich. It would be a change
after Italy, and 1 want to see the art galleries."
" That is so like you, dear, to make the best instead of the worst of
things. Well, I suppose I must accept the sacrifice. I could not go
away and leave the girls happily. I am not quite comfortable about
Bee; she docs not seem in her usual spirits."
" I was thinking the same myself."
" And yet how pretty she is! No wonder she gels so much attention-,
one seldom sees a prettier girl anywhere. Launce, I don't quite like
tdl king of such things even to you, but do you think Mr. Hamblyn
really admires her?"
" I am afraid he admires any pretty face. lie is a terrible flirt. Even
his sister owned that. I never did like the Hamblyn connection, only
my opinion is in the minority."
" But they are very well-bred young people, Launce, and Oscar Ham-
tlyn is a most striking- looking man. I am sure in good looks he would
match our Bee."
*' That is the way you women talk. What have looks to do with it,
Madella? It seems to me there are other and far more important ques-
tions to be asked before we permit any man to pay his addresses to one
of our girls. Do you think young Hamblyn is well principled? I will
undertake to say that he has a decided temper, his private means are
small, and he is young in his profession. I should think it would be
years before he could afford to keep a wife."
" Yes, but Bee is so young, there could be no harm in their waiting.
108
And then slip lias a little money of her own/.l urged Mrs. Chudleigh,
who could not find it in her heart to he hard on so handsome a \
ni:in. Oscar Ilamblyn's dark olive complexion and inelaiicho]
generally made an impression on women, and it could not be denied
that his 'manners were very distinguished, however exacting and hrita-
ble he might be in the family circle.
Launeelot was tempted to retort rather impatiently, but lie forbore,
and answered, mildly, " Yes, no doubt they would have enough to pro-
vide bread and cheese, but JIamblyn is the sort of man who has been
used to champagne and oysters you know what I mean, lie would
settle down comfortably on small means. How do you know ho
is not, in debt now? Madella, I have often told you that you are not
worldly wi>e. Xow, I intend to look after IJee. pretty sharply. Ham
blyn comes here far too often, lie is hanging about most Saturdays,
with or without his sister, and I notice he monopolizes Bee. Bee will
i piece of my mind if this goes on."
" Oh, Launce, you will not be hard on the poor girl. Supposing "-
and here she actually blushed as though she were a girl too" suppos-
ing she is beginning' to care for him?"
" For Heaven's sake don't let us suppose anything so distressing! '
returned Launeelot, in such an alarmed voice that his step- mother smiled;
" there is trouble enough without that." And then he added, hastily,
" You may trust me to look after my sisters. I shall be as lynx-eyed in
any old woman. Miss Beatrix will have to mind her behavior. 1 shall
ul when these Saturdays arc at an end. They bring a lot of idle
young fellows about the place. I wish Bee were more like Pauline.
Paul will never give us any trouble."
" Xo, indeed, she is a dear girl," replied her mother, fondly, who,
indeed, could see no faults in her daughters. In her secret heart she
thought Launce was rather hard on Bee. "I am so glad you approve
of her intimacy with the Maxwells. She goes t\vo or three times a week
to sit with that poor invalid."
" Oli, she will get nothing but good there. I like every member of
the family;" and if Lauucelot, in his enthusiasm for honest merit and
Iterling worth, was just a little short-sighted in this matter, even the
wisest, mortal is liable to error.
IJeo, in her willfulness and girlish vanity, must be watched and
guarded most sedulously, but it never entered' into either Launeelot .'s or
.Mrs. Chudleigh's head that Pauline, in spite of her good sense and ab-
sence of coquetry, was a young, attractive girl, and that there might be
po-sible risks in such frequent visits to a house where the master was
unmarried and in the prime of his useful and energetic life.
Granted tint Dr. Maxwell was far too busy a man to be found idling
about his mother's drawing- room, and that a few minutes' conversation
was all that ever passed between them at Bridge House, still then
danger of a more subtle kind to be apprehended when the son and broth-
er was the hero and idol of a household of adoring women. Pauline
might have wearied of dear lledley's praises, of anecdotes of his \\on-
! boyhood from his mother and Aunt Myra, down to Uremia'
Charlotte's, and even Prissy's loudly utteied encomiums on ins profes-
Monai - wisdom in dealing with his patients, his ext.raor
dinary fortitude and good temper. Perhaps it might have been well if
Pauline had imitated 15ee and laughed at the family egotism, instead of
ing with increased interest an Pauline .^ix.-w to believe
at lust that the two best men in the world were Launclot and I >r.
OJS T LY THE GOVERNESS. 199
.well; nay, she even secretly gave Dr. Maxwell the palm, as the more
sorely tried hero of the two. Not that she hinted this even to her crony
Charlotte, but her eyes brightened as the fond women talked. And
when Dr. Maxwell interrupted them with one of his flying visits, the
.sight of thy doctor's dark, irregular features and deep-set eyes would
bring a pretty pink color to her fresh girlish cheek, as she sat demure
and quiet by Brenda's couch.
Dr. Maxwell liked to see her there, though he treated her as his sis-
ters' friend, and made no attempt to linger in her pleasant company.
Still his shake of the hand was always cordial, and his " How are you
all at the Witchens, Miss Chudleigh?" was spoken with frank kindness.
Often, as she sat alone writing, during his brief afternoon's rest, he
could hear the girls' chatter and Pauline's musical laugh.
" 1 low happy they seem! Poor Uremia has got a friend at last to suit
her," he would think, and his brotherly gratitude showed itself by in-
creased courtesy and attention to Paidine when he paid one o'f his rare
visits to the Witcheus.
" How good you are to Brenda!" he would say; "you are putting
fresh brightness into that poor girl's life. You have no idea how she
looks forward to your visits, it is such a relief to Charlotte. The other
chiy, when I got home they were all singing your praises. I think Aunt
Myra's voice was the loudest."
" 1 don't deserve any credit: it, is for my own pleasure that I go to
Bridge House," Pauline would reply, with sturdy honest)'. Neverthe-
-lie blushed a little. " I am very fond of "your sisters, and now
Mrs. Thorpe has left us I feel rather lonely."
" Oli, yes, you were great friends with her too."
" Yes, Iluldah was very nice, and of course I am fond of her still, but
we can never be quite the same friends now. I am afraid I am a little
hard, Doctor Maxwell, but 1 am so sorry when people disappoint me,
when they are not quite what I think them. Iluldah disappointed me.
and I don't feel that I can be the same to her. Launce and even moth-
er think I am wrong, but one must act up to one's nature."
" I do not think you are wrong; it is your youth that is in fault.
When you are older you will learn to be more lenient to people's mis-
takes," and as Dr. Maxwell looked down at the girl's bright, ingenuous
face, he thought it would be a pity if the bitter experience of life were
ever to induce her to lower her standard. He liked her unflinching
honesty and love of truth, even her youthful intolerance and want of
charity were venial sins in his eyes. She would never disappoint any
one, he told himself. Happy the man who could win the love of that
fresh young heart. And then lie gave a quick, impatient sigh, and went
off in search of Launcclot, while Pauline looked after him wistfully,
and wished she were clever like Brenda or Charlotte, that she might
keep him by her side. " He likes to talk to Launce best," she thought,
regretfully, not dreaming in her modesty that Dr. Maxwell was begin-
ning to find a dangerous magnetism in those brown eyes.
Mrs. Chudleigh was quite satisfied to leave her girls under their
brother's guardianship. She went away quite happily the next day,
and was received rapturously by her young son.
" Now I shall have you all to myself, mother," was Freckles's greet-
ing, as she bent over his pillow, " and none of those other fellows, not
even Launce, will get you. I didn't want Susan. Susan is a duffer.
I shall not take my medicine from any one but you. So look out,
mother,"
200 OXl.Y THK (inVKUN!
cklos was Freckles, in spite of the measles. ITi> A\
nal patient, ami kept his doctor in tits of laughing. The be
choly eyes ami lackadaisical invalid airs and his droll speech*
much for his professional gravity.
" Are your other sons like this one, Mrs. Chudleigh?" he
we are an awful lot," replied Freckles, "but we don't lake
after mother. You should just see my eldest brother, sir, he i> a terri-
ble fellow for practical joke's all artists arc. They say the smell of the
paiot and too much art gets into their brain. They are obliged to j'md
a vent somehow. ''
"Fied, my dttir boy, how can you talk such nonsense about your
brother Launee, too, who is like a father to you all? What wil!
tnr Mallin think?"
11 That I must change this fellow's incdicinc or he will get too much
for us;" but Freckles only rolled his head on the pillow, and looked at
the doctor reproachfully.
" 1 don't suppose you believe in your drugs," he said, with apparent
simplicity, *" but it would not look professional not to order something.
( )f course, Susan can throw it away, so don't mind sending it; medicine,
like affection, never is wasted. Shall I show you my parody on I
fellow's lines, sir?"
" Confound you, sir, for a young jackanapes!" returned Dr. Mallin,
shaking his fist at this incorrigible patient, but he went off grinning.
" Now we have got rid of him, mother, we will go on with ' Monte-
Oristo, ' " observed Freckles, coolly; " and I won't have a word skipped,
mind. The more horrors the more I shall enjoy myself, and so will
Susan," with a wink at that respectable young woman. Poor Susan red-
dened, but she dared not contradict her young tyrant. " Monte Cristo "
gave her bad dreams of a night; she thrilled with horror as she listened
to it. "I don't think it is quite a nice book, Fred," his mother would
say; " I never did like French novels," but Freckles always overruled
her scruples.
' ' It is a splendid book. Just you wait until Monte Cristo pays them
all out, that will curdle your blood for you, page 250 you rememl
made you turn down the leaf. Now then, attention, Susan; you can
lire away, mother," and Freckles thumped his pillow with antici]
enjoyment, and composed himself to listen.
But in spite of Mrs. Chudleigh's dislike to her son's choice of litera-
'ure, and a few minor drawbacks of this kind, her duties were far
lighter and more enjoyable than Launcelot's in his character as guard-
ian to two pretty girls.
On the whole, Mrs. Chudleigh enjoyed her present life. She was an
excellent nurse, and never showed to better advantage than in a sick-
room. Her rough school boy had never been dependent on her since his
babyhood, and she was almost ready to indorse Freckles's remark,
" that if it were not for the horrid rash, and the doctor's stuff," here
Freckles added an adjective more strong than graceful, he should think
the measles were awfully jolly things. For Freckles in his way was
having a good time of it. In his boyish heart he doted on his mother,
though torture would not have induced him to confess as much, and to
be the object of her sole care and petting, to have his every wish grati-
fied, and to lay his commands on her and Susan indiscriminate!;,
such a novel state of affairs and so plensing to his boyish pride that
Freckles would have extended his coir. indefinitely, but for
the delightful prospect of a fortnight at Eastbourne. Things were not
ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
progressing quite so favorably at the Witoliens, although Launcelot,
with an unselfishness that few men would have shown under the cir-
cumstances, had shunted off his weight of heavy sadness into the back-
ground and exerted himself to be agreeable to his sisters.
But Bee showed herself decidedly ungrateful. She was clever enough
to read between the lines; she saw she was under surveillance, and
chose to resent it. She even made objections when Launcelot invited
her to ride with him, although she knew he would get his way in the
end.
"You had better ask Pauline," she would say; "I am very busy
this morning."
" So is Pauline, extremely busy; besides, she has to walk with the
children." For Pauline, with ready helpfulness, had installed herself
in Joan's place until another governess could be found, and was raiher
enjoying her new position. It gave her a sense of importance to say to
Charlotte, " I am in sole charge of Sybil and Dossie, and they did all
their lessons with me. I am afraid I shall not be able to see Bronchi
quite so often until mother comes back." Charlotte would repeat her
words probably in her brother's presence, and he would see that she
was not quite useless.
"I don't think I feel inclined to ride," returned Bee, assuming a
languid air, though her blooming complexion contradicted her words;
but Launcelot merely smiled at this lame excuse and ordered the
horses, and Bee retired to put on her habit in rather a sulky frame of
mind.
Another time, when he rallied her gently on her want of spirits, to
his great astonishment she turned the tables on him.
" I don't think that is quite fair, Launce," she said, firing up at once.
" You are as grave as a judge yourself, and yet you talk of my dull-
ness. Nora was only saying the other day that she never saw any one
so altered; she was quite sure you were out of health, or had had some-
thing to worry you."
"Miss Hamblyn does me too much honor by condescending to take
notice of my looks," returned Launcelot, sarcastically; and then he
walked off much displeased, leaving Bee mistress of the situation. This
sort of speech hurt him cruelly; no old Roman ever drew his toga more
sternly over his death- wound than Launcelot tried to hide his inward
pain. Suffer? of course he must suffer, but why should any prying
human eye take note of the fact?
One morning he was riding in the empty Row with Bee; they had
just been enjoying a delicious canter, when Launcelot proposed they
should draw up under the trees for a few; moments to rest Bee's mare,
as she looked a little hot. Bee was in a better temper this morning,
and had been laughing and talking in her old way, but all at once she
became very quiet, and Launcelot's last remark remained unanswered,
and on glancing round to know the cause he saw her, with heightened
color and an uneasy expression on her face, looking after a tall gentle-
man who was walking down the path with a lady.
" That was Hamblyn, was it not, Bee?"
" Yes," she returned, looking still more uneasy. " I bowed to him,
but he did not seern to recognize me. Did you see who was walking
with him?"
" A fair young lady, I think, but I hardly saw her face. I dare say
lie was not looking at us, Bee; 1 often cut ladies of my acquaintance in
that way," and he changed the subject, for it was just possible thai
ITamhlyn had rccoLMii/ed them, and that ho was ashamed of his
companion. " I never had any opinion of him," thought, l.auneelot,
"and I confess 1 do not like tiie look of this," hat on this point ho
wronged ( )sear.
did not reeovcr herself all day, and in the evening Lanneelot
questioned Pauline.
Pauline ai ilicr reluctantly
" 1 think -he is rather put. out with Mr. Hamblyn. She is certain he
saw her, for their eyes met. but he turned away and spoke to soin.
who was walking with him. 1 do wish she did not think so much
about the llamblyns, Launce."
- > do I, with all my heart,." hut he said no more at that time. But
when Saturday afternoon eame. and brought. Miss Jlamhlyn and her
mother, he kept a close watch on Px-e's movements. And h-
became aware of a by-play iroiiii; on between her and Mr. Hamblyn.
Bee was decidedly on her dignity, and kept him at a distan.-e; she
would not understand his hints and implied apologies, she left him to
himself and occupied herself with her other guests, looking v< T\ ivde
and pretty. It was plain, however, that Oscar was not to be rebull'ed;
he followed her boldly from place to place, watching his opportunity
and in the end achieving his purpose. Poor little girl! with all her will-
fulness and dignified airs, she was no match for Oscar's determination.
Just as evening was drawing in and most of the people had
Launcelot walked briskly down the path to the terrace, congratulating
himself that this was the last of Bee's Saturdays, when lie was sud-
denly pulled up by hearing Oscar Haniblyn's voice close to him, ami a
moment afterward Bee's answering him.
The speakers were evidently on one of the shrubbery scats, and
another few steps would bring him face to face with them as he p
uncertain whether to disturb the / a few words reached his
and he hastily beat a retreat. Launcelot was looking very tierce
and angry by the time he reached the house. Pauline and" Miss' Ham-
blyn and Bernard were standing at the drawing-room, window. L
.lied out to his brother
" Bear, I wish you would look for Bee; I fancy she and Mr. Ilamblyn
are near the terrace. It is quite time for her to come in," and Bernard
went off whistling.
" How dare that fellow make love to my sister in this clandestine
fashion?" said Launceiot to himself; "does he think this will prepos-
lim in our favor? I will .stand no more nonsense. I will talk lc
Bee to-night. What a blessing Madella is awayl she would spoil e
thing. She never will believe Bee can be in the wrong."
Launcelot's manner was decidedly stiff when he said good-bye to Hit
Hamblyns. Bee looked at him wistfully in the hope that he would in-
vite them to stay. " It is our last Saturday!" she said, regretfully.
" Of course it is the last; what is the use of keeping them on when
one is away? You have had one too many now?" observed her
brother, coolly. "Bear, will you see if the brougham is there?" and
Bear, who Inul a grudge airainst Miss Hamblyn on his own a<
1 his errand with promptitude.
" You will come and see us. dear, will you j
affectionately to her friend. " Come on Wednesday; mamma ami I
will be quite alone."
" Oh, not Wednesday 1 I will have an engagement for tha'
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 203
noon," returned Oscar, in a low voice, and Bee flashed a look at him
and then bluslred very prettily.
" Very well, if you are good then," iti answer to another whisper,
and then followed a prolonged shake of the hand.
Launeelot was a little short with his sisters that evening; he scolded
]>(( for being lute for dinner, but she answered him amiably. Pauline
and Hear exchanged glances of consternation when Launeelot found
fault with the salad. " I shall be glad when your mother comes back,"
ill, reproachfully to Bee; " she always looks after this sort of thing,
but nothing is comfortable in her absence."
" I tell you what, Mrs. Fenwick, there is a screw loose somewhere,
or master 'would not be so uncommon cross. I never heard him rind
fault with anything on the table before. "Why, the salad never was
better."
" Cross!" returned his wife, raising her eyebrows, " why, Femvick,
you might as well tell me that that blessed baby "pointing to a plump
infant in pink bows belonging to the gardener's cottage, who was trying
to swallow his dimpled tNt " w.-:. \Vho has a right to find
fault with the salad, or anything else, if it is not our young master, bless
him?" and .Mrs. Fenwick, who was a devout believer in Launeelot's
virtues, bustled about in irate fashion after her husband's injudicious
ii. " Cross, indeed! who ever heard the like?" she muttered as
she took the baby out of the cot and carried him home to his mother.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THEN YOl \ i:D TO HIM?"
A woman does m>t like a man k-.ss for having many favorites, if he deserts them
all for her: she fancies that she heiv P of fixing; the wanderer; that
oilier women conquer like the 1'artiiians, but that she herself , like the Romans, can
ly make conquests, but retain them. COLTON.
>ME on the terrace, Paul, while I smoke a cigarette," observed
Bear, aU'ably, and the two marched off arm in arm. Bee, who was
turning over her music on the grand piano-forte, looked after them wist-
fully, as though she were inclined to follow them. Perhaps Launeelot
would not care for music this evening, he looked decidedly glum; any-
how, she did not want to remain in his society. He had been very still'
and disagreeable with her "friends, and had found fault with her for
nothing at all. She wished her mother would come back if things were
to be like this; and Bee tossed her pretty head, unseen as she thought,
and walked with the air of a princess to the window.
"Beatrix, I want to speak to you." Bee started. Latince never
called her Beatrix unless he was going to reprimand her about some-
thing
"Well," she said, pettishly, "what is it now? I hope you are not
going to talk about the salad again?"
" No," he returned, quietly, " I have something far more important
to say. Please come away from the window, unless you want Fenwick
and Orson to hear us." Then she came back into the room with rather
a disconcerted air.
" You seem cross about something, Launce."
" ISuvnot cross, only seriously disturbed. Bee, my dear, I want you
to be perfectly frank with me. It will be the only course for you.
As vour elder brother standing to ygij. in the position of a guardian I
204 OXLY i i:ss.
purely have a riglit to know the- exact state of things between you and
Mr. ilamblyn.'^
"What do you mean?" she asked, in rather a frightened voice.
Then she plucked up a little spirit, and held her head very high,
don't think you have the right to put such a question to inc. You arc
very unkind about the lianiblyns, Launee. You are always finding
fault with my friends, and Nora is my intimate friend."
" Is her brother your intimate friend too?" Then "Bee looked con-
fused. " He is either your intimate friend or your lover. Tell me the
truth, have you engaged yourself to him?" Then the girl became
very pale.
"No. Launee." Then very indignantly, "I think your questions
are insulting; you have no right to speak to me like this.' I would only
allow my mother to say such things to me."
" Your mother is not here, but it' she were, what would she ha\
to that conversation of yours with Oscar Hamhlyn in the shrublx
" What do you mean?" .she gasped, but her eyes dropped before his.
" Oh, Launcelot, surely you were not so dishonorable as to lis
He let that affront pass quietly, for he saw she was really frightened
now, and he wished not to estrange her, but to win her confidence
" I don't think ' dishonor ' and I have ever shaken hands, Bee. Still,
as you appear to doubt me, let me tell you what I really heard
" Oh, no! no!" trying to stop him, but Launcelot quietly continued
Lis speech.
" On my way to the terrace, I thought I lieard voices in the sli rub-
bery. They were yours and Mr. Ilamblyn's; and as I hesitated for a
moment, not knowing whether to go on and disturb an interesting
or to turn back, I lieard Mr. ITamblyn say excuse me, Bee, "hut [
intend to repeat % the words ' You are so jealous, my darling! You
will never allow a poor fellow to amuse himself in your absence. :
what harm could there be in my taking a walk with my cousin?' ' Was
she really your cousin, Oscar?' 'Of course she was, my pet!' and
here I turned on my heel and marched off in disgust. Now, Beatrix,
answer me fairly; do you not think, as your guardian, I have a ri^ht to
question the wisdom of your conduct when you allow that fell,
call you ' darling ' and I know not what besides?" But Bee, who had
changed from white to red during her brother's speech, interrupted him
with an attempt at dignity.
" Don't go on, Launee; there was nothing wrong in Oscar's speaking
to me like that lie \ve love eacL other."
11 Has he told you so?"
" Yea," hanging her Lead, but looking so sweet and pretty in her
maidenly confusion that Launcelot, who had worked himself into a
white heat, fairly groaned with impotent rage at "the impertinent
scoundrel," as he called him.
" May I ask when Le informed you of this interesting fact?"
" Oh, Launcelot!" And now her eyes were full of ;
" I Se you consfder me brutal, and I own 1 never felt -
my life. I think it will be be.* to answer me quite frankly: when' did
Mr. Hamblyn speak to you first?"
" Do you mean when did he tell me Le was fond of me? Tlw
ing we went to the Albert Hall."
" TLen you are engaged to him?"
" No- oh, no!"
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 205
" Indeed! I don't understand. I should have thought, judging
from those terms of endearment, that you were his flair
" No " rather sorrowfully, " O*car is very unhappy because he sees
no prospect of our engagement for a long time. That is why he has
not spoken to you; he says he has nothing to offer. But I tell him I
shall not mind waiting as long as I know he is fond of me, and that we
understand each other."
" It did not much look like understanding each other in the park the
other morning." Then Bee looked rather foolish.
"Of course I was silly about that. I ought not to have suspected
him."
"Well, there are cousins and cousins. Did he tell you the young
lady's name?"
" Vcs.it was his cousin Erica Erica Stewart. Such a plain little
thing, and two or three years older than < >
" Certainly you might have given him the benefit of the doubt, but
now I want you to tell me exactly what passed between you both. You
were his mother's guest, remember, and of all places he hud no right to
k to 3'ou under her roof."
"He never meant to speak," she returned, eagerly, and it struck
Launcelot that it was rather a relief to her that the truth should be
known. " Poor little girl, she is really open by nature," he thought,
" but lie has persuaded her to hold her tongue for his own purpo
and his manner softened imperceptibly, for he could not long remain
stern in the face of her distress. " lie never meant to betray his 1'eel-
" continued Bee; " but we were alone, and then he spoke, lie said
IK; knew he was wrong, but he cared so much for me that he could not
lie Inppy until he knew whether his affections were returned."
" 1 suppose you contented him on that point?"
" Oh, yes. I have never seen any one to compare with Oscar, and it
made me quite happy to know he cared for me; and then he looked sad,
liecause he said that there could be no engagement between us at pres-
ent; that he could not speak to you, because he had nothing to offer;
that he was in debt, though not very deeply; and that it could only be a
mutual understanding between us."
" But, Bee, is it possible that you could consent to such an arrange-
ment without consulting us? What will your mother say when she
knows that you have acted in this clandestine manner?"
" I wanted to tell mother dreadfully, but Oscar said that it would
place him in such an awkward position. He did seem so troubled,
poor fellow, and so afraid that you might interfere, and prevent us see-
ing each other, and he said that would make him so miserable."
" Of course he was thinking of himself, not you. That proves his
selfishness. Now, Bee, you need not fire up. You must bear to hear
the truth. An honorable man, even if he had been carried away by
his feelings, and had betrayed himself, would at least have atoned for
his fault by an honest declaration of his affection to either your mother
or me, and then would have abided by our decision. And I must say
I think it a mean and ungentlemanly action to take advantage of our
hospitality to entangle the affections of an inexperienced girl, and to
draw her into this clandestine connection. I do not think it promises
well for your future happiness, Bee."
" You speak as though I were a raw school-girl," returned Bee,
angril}-. " Y^ou forget that I have been out two seasons, that I could
have married before if I liked."
206 ONLY Till: KSS.
' Indeed, I do not forget, my dear, that you rejected nil h<
(nave young fellow, .1 gentleman every inch ut' him,' who would
made his wife a happy woman; bull beg your pardon, he h;id red h;dr. "
" Nonsense. Lauiice, as though that made me refuse him! but ho\v
can you mention Sydney Ulvcrton and Oscar in oi;>
" '\\'hy, indeed, it is like weighing solid gold and tinsel together. Oh,
ny child, how can women be so blind and foolish! You h;r
dowcd Mr. Hamblyn with virtues he will never pi
a handsome face and good manners and knows how to Hatter a pretty
girl. I do not say that even Oscar Hamblyn has not got his
points. Heaven forbid! but this I do say, that your lover
imperfect mortal; that he is both conceited and selfish; that he hi
travagant tastes and no means to gratify them; that his honor
is HOIK; of the iinest, and that if you ever marry him, it will be with a
heavy heart that I shall give j-ou away."
This speech, uttered with much gravity, effectually sobered poor
Bee. It was dreadful to think that these were really Launcelot's senti-
ments, but, of course, he was prejudiced. Oscar had once told her that
her brother was a man of strong prejudices, and she was inclined to be-
lieve him. He must be wrong about her poor Oscar. No doubt h
his faults like other young men, but he was so fond of her that she
would be able to guide him. Bee was not quite sure in her own mind
that she liked young men to be goody-goody. A little spice of inde-
pendence and pride Bee would not "add devilry seemed natural to
them; and then what a lover he was! How could any girl resist such a
Prince Charming?
15ee looked up very piteously at her brother with her pretty eyes full
of tears. " You will not separate us, Launce?" she said, timidly. " It
is too late to undo things now. and it would break my heart to part
from Oscar."
" I shall certainly not permit an engagement until Mr. Hamblyn has
paid off his debts, and has some chance of making an income, neither
will your mother or I countenance a secret understanding. I must, talk
to Madella and learn her wishes, 'and then I will speak to Mr. Ham-
blyn. I do not say that we shall forbid him the house. I have no wish
to act the tyrant, Bee, but you will both have to give me your word
that there shall be no private communications or letters to speak
plainly, no love-making until he can come forward openly to claim
you.''
" I am sure Oscar will never consent to these terms," she said, look-
ing very miserable.
" Then 1 an. afraid the Witchens will be closed to him; but 1 1>-
you are wrong. If he is really in love with you, anil desires to make
you his wife, a little work and waiting will not deter him. .Now, don't
JO broken-hearted over it. You can surely be satislied with &i
him from time to time, though I may as well tell you that we .shall not
trust you to Lady Hamblyn again. "Still, you can see your frien,
Mora 'here occasionally."*
; you will tell' mother all about it?"
i down to Eastbourne to settle them in their lodg
and then I shall write to Mr. Hamblyn, and make an appointment
for an interview/'
" He is goiiiH down to Lewes on Friday."
Very well, i can see him there; but, I3ee, remember, no correspond-
ence."
OKLY THE GOYERtfESS. 207
" He has promised to write to me," she whispered
" Then you must answer his first letter, and tell him there must be
no more. Let him know that I have found out things, and that I have
forbidden you to receive his letters. He will be on his guard then, and
will be prepared for my visit."
" Oh, Launce, I do think you are so hard; and now you will talk
mother over, and make her agree with you. You were not nearly so
severe with Mrs. Thorpe, though 1 am sure she acted in the most deceit-
ful way."
" We will keep Mrs. Thorpe's name out of the conversation," he re-
turned, quietly, though a wave of pain passed over him at the mere
mention of her name. " I only wish 1 could tell your mother that her
daughter was half as penitent as that poor girl was," and this reproach
went home.
1 ' Oh, I am sorry, Launce. I have been more miserable than you
know. I have always told mother and Pauline everything, and it
troubled me so to have a secret. I know you don't think as well of me
as you do of Pauline. You have never been angry with her; but I did
not try to make Oscar in love with me, and I do call it so hard to be so
jcolded, because 1 can not help returning his affection."
" Poor little thing, I suppose I must forgive you," returned Launce-
Jot, relenting at her tears. " Don't fret any more, but kiss me, like a
good girl." Then Bee nestled up to him and hid her face on his
Shoulder. " 1 really am sorry, Launce, " she whispered; "please for-
give me," and so peace was restored. Bee went to bed happily that
night, and poured out all her sorrows to Pauline, who was dreadfully
shocked and unusually sympathetic.
"I don't wonder Launcelot was angry. Bee. It was very wrong of
you both, and I must say I wonder at you. How could you keep any-
thing from mother? Oh! she will be so hurt;" but somehow Bee did
not mind Pauline's blunt speeches. She was really a good giri, and the
concealment had been odious to her, but her lover had so blinded her
by his plausible arguments, that even now Pauline could not bring
her to own the heinousness of her fault.
" I told Launce I was sorry," she said, quite happily, " and he was
such a dear, but at first he frightened me."
Bee had shifted oil her burdens in a light-hearted fashion. What did
waiting for a year or two signify, if Oscar were fond of her? And she
fell asleep and dreamed happily of her lover's dark eyes.
Lauucelot was far more anxious. He could not in his secret heart
believe that Oscar Hamblyn would stand the test of separation and
prove himself a constant lover. Bee trusted him with a girl's simple
faith, and never questioned his fidelity, but Launcelot held a different
opinion, and he feared for his young sister's happiness.
'.' I dare say he is in love with her after a fashion," he thought. " A
pretty little creature like Bee could well win a man's heart; but his nat-
ure is naturally cold and cautious, and there is one person he cares for
more than Bee, and that is himself. Fancy a selfish fellow like Oscar
Hamblyn. influencing the happiness of our Bee! I think Madella would
break her heart if anything went wrong with one of the girls. Oh,
life's an awful muddle, as that poor fellow said."
Bee was on her best behavior for the next few days, and tried to make
amends for her little tempers by all sorts of pretty attentions to Lauuce-
lot.
" Bee is as sweet as barley -sugar," Bear said one day. " I think she
ONLY 'l
wants to get .something out of Launcc;" at which speech they botn
.lid not oiVer her first love letter for Launcelot's perusal it was
far to prci join : - hut hers hut she wrote back that
overheard the other day. Launcelot had discovered
everything, and was annoyed at the secrecy; he was very kind toher,
but he had fully made up his mind to speak to Oscar. " I am afraid
nditions w'ill not please you," she went on. " You were right in
thinking that an engagement would not be allowed at present. Still,
you will be content to see me sometimes, will you not, dearest? and you
know that I would wait any number of years for you, my own ( )scar "
and so on.
'oufouiul it all, it is just like my luck!" growled Oscar, as he read
that letter in his hotel bedroom. " Now we shall have the brolher, t n.
f/ni/iff seigneur, I suppose, demanding my intentions. Well, they are
distinctly matrimonial; I do not intend to give up my little Beatrix.
Erica may tear her hair if she likes. The missis must give me a help-
ing hand: she and Nora can pinch a little. Nora ought to be settled
by this time: she is rather a dead weight. Beatrix will have Jive thou-
sand pounds, anU most likely her brother will do something handsome,
so I may as well be civil to him, though as for conditions well, we
shall see about that;" and Oscar looked rather wicked as he whistled
melodiously a few bars of " My love she's but a lassie yet."
Launcelot was counting the days until Freckles's interesting con-
valescence should have progressed far enough to permit his removal to
Eastbourne. He was longing for motherly help and sympathy. " 1
am afraid Madella will take their part," lie thought, "unless Ham-
blyn's underhand wa} r s prejudice her against him; but, all the same, I
must not act on my own undivided responsibility. What a bl<
that, fellow is at Lewes! There is no fear of his turning up when one is
off one's guard."
Launcelot was making his toilet while these thoughts passed through
his mind, and fastening his diamond studs rather alWntly. Bee and he
were to dine at the Koskills' that evening, a family living in a large
house across the common; but at the last moment Bee turned captious.
hated dinner-parties. The idea of a dinner party in August
just because an old uncle had arrived from India! And the Roskills'
dinners were always such stupid affairs; she was sure to have a h< ad-
ache if she went, so Pauline might as well take her place."
Pauline made no demur. In her heart she disliked dinner j>
quite as much as Bee, but she was very good-natured, and seldom re-
fused to comply with Bee's caprices. " Very well, I will go," sb
turned, with cheerful acquiesn
" Paid, you are a rattling good fellow; you are worth half a do/en
I Bear, admiringly.
" Pauline is always ready to do a kindness for every one," returned
Ixiuneelot, approvingly. " 1 wish Bee were not quite s
1 know you do not want to go."
" Oh,' I don't mind with you, Launce; and we will walk home across
the common; it \vill be a lovely night;'' and Pauline tripped av>
put on In :ud prettiest gown.
Pauline had no i iea that her HUH Itishmss would be amply rewarded
that the first person who would inei t her eyes in ihc Roskills' dining-
room would be Dr. Maxwell. He came up and greeted her witjj
marked pleasure.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 209
" They told me I was to take in Miss Chuclleigh to dinner, but I had
no idea it was you they meant;" and a certain intonation in his voice
made Pauline's heart beat a little faster. How well Dr. Maxwell
was looking! she thought. Dark men always looked their best in even-
ing-clress. It was all very well for Bee to call him plain, because her
mind was full of a certain dark-eyed Adonis. But certainly Dr. Max-
well was the most gentlemanly looking man in the room and then what
a clever face he had!
Pauline certainly enjoyed that dinner-party; she hardly complained
of its tedious length when Dr. Maxwell lavished his whole attention on
her, and seemed even to forget his dinner in his animated talk.
Launcelot grew a little envious as he watched them; his companion
Tvas hardly to his taste. His hostess had introduced him to a lady
whose name he had not caught, but he guessed she was unmarried.
She was rather a plain little person, exceedingly well dressed, and
wearing a diamond star in her tlaxen hair. She was pale and insignili-
cant- looking, with light eyelashes and babyish blue eyes, and might he
any age from sixteen in si'x-and-thirty, and her conversation was hardly
up to the level of mediocrity; in a word, she was decidedly uninterest-
ing. She volunteered an observation with some animation as they
placed themselves at the table and Launcelot inspected his menu-carte.
" I am told that Miss Chudleigh is here/' she said. " Can you point
her out to me?"
" My sister Pauline," he returned, in some surprise. " Oh, yes; she
is sitting nearly opposite to us; the gentleman beside her is Doctor Max-
well."
'' Pauline, did you say?" dropping her pince-nez with rather a dis-
appointed air. "'Oh, that is not the same. I thought it was your sis-
ter Beatrix."
" What, have you heard of them before?" he asked, in some aston-
ishment.
" Yes, from my cousins," she replied, quietly. " I know your sister
is very pretty, Mir. Ohudleigh. This one is nice-looking, but not what
I expected. I am told your sister Beatrix is quite a beauty."
"Some people say so," he returned, carelessly; "she is much ad-
mired, but I prefer Pauline's face myself;" and Pauline, hearing her
name, looked across the table with a bright smile.
It was Launcelot who was inclined to stigmatize dinner-parties that
day. It was quite a relief when the long evening was over and he
stood at the door looking out on the moonlight and -waiting for Pauline
to join him.
She came out presently with a lace scarf thrown over her hair, and in
her pretty cloak trimmed with swan's-down, and took his arm. Dr.
Maxwell, who was following her, bade them good-bye at the gate.
"There, that's over," observed Launcelot, in a tone of relief. "I
hope you enjoyed yourself more than I did, Paul."
""Oh, yes, very much, thank you," returned Pauline, rather inco-
herently. " Please walk slower, Launce; it is such a delicious night,
and there is no fear of catching cold; besides, I am wrapped up. I did
enjoy the first part of the evening until we went into the drawing-room,
and then, oh, Launce, she came and talked to me and spoiled every
thmg."
" Whom on earth do vou mean by ' she '?"
" Miss Stewart the girl who sat by you at dinner."
210 ON I
" Oh, was that her name? I could not hear what Mrs. Tvoskill called
her; but she was a dreadfully uninteresting little person."
" Rut. Launcelot, I don't 'think you take it in she is Kiira Stewart
the llamblyns' cousin. She came up and introduced herself to me,
and began talking about them in the oddest way and oh, dear! what
shall we do with ReeV it. has made me quite miserable M5>s Stewart
declares she is engaged to her cousin Oscar, that lie proposed to her
years ago."
CHAPTER XXXII.
" OSCAll is A SAD HOY."
Has Fate o'envhelmed tbee with some sudden blow?
Let thy tears How:
But now when storms are past the heavens appear
More pure and clear :
And hope when farthest from their shining rays
For brighter days.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
As Pauline uttered the last \rords with a little gasp of excitement,
Launcelot put his hand on her arm.
" There is no hurry, and you are wrapped up," he said, quietly,
" and the night is quite warm; let us sit down for a few minutes, and
then you can tell me all that passed between you and Miss Stewart."
" But, Launce, you do not even seem surprised, and it is all so dread-
ful. Poor dear Bee, and she is so fond of him!"
"I can not say that I am surprised. I always expected son
(liiiuni UK /it as this. Hainblyn has not got the right, straightforward
look about him. Engaged to his cousin? It is probably the truth. I
should say he is the sort of fellow to be engaged half a dozen tim
" Well, not exactly engaged, but I had better tell you what sii
though it was odd giving me her confidence when we were perfect
strangers to each other but then she had her reasons."
" 1 am quite sure of that."
" I could not help noticing her when we were at dinner. I think her
diamonds attracted me first; it seemed so strange to sec them on a mere
girl. But she is not so young as she looks; she must be thirty, only she
is such a pale, washed-out little thing. How can a man like Mr. J lam-
blyn make love to such an insignificant person?"
" My dear Paul, if you do not keep to the point we shall have to sit
here until morning. I don't think we were either of us much inte:
in Mis< Stewart.""
" No, indeed, I could see how bored you felt not thnt any o;
would have noticed it, but I knew what your expression meant, Well,
ull dinner-time I could see she was watching me, at least 1 never 1
up without encountering her eyes, and 1 began to wonder at last who
she could be. But as soon as we were in ihe drawing-n>om she came
up and introduced herself to me and asked me to go with her into the
rvatery to look at some orchids, but instead of looking at them
she began talking about Beatrix."
" Oli, I recollect she mentioned Bee, but I gave her no encouragement
on."
.id how much she had heard of us both from her '
ra quite raved about !' .and that .she knew
kow often she and Oscar were at the Witchens; and then her manner
OKLY THE GOVERNESS. 211
changed, and she said, in rather a constrained voice, that she supposed
we knew that she and Oscar meant to make a match of it some day
that they had been as good as engaged ever since they had grown up,
and that but for her poor uncle Charles's long illness they would have
been married by now. All this said quite bluntly and in the most mat-
ter-of-fact manner, and without a blush."
" Awkward for you, Paul/'
" Awkward! I turned as red as a turkey-cock in a moment, and
hardly knew if I was in my proper senses. You know I never could
hide my feelings, so I suppose my face betrayed my thoughts, for 1
only uttered a stupid ' Indeed,' for she looked at me and said rather
sharply, 'I suppose Oscar never gave you the impression of being an
engaged man?' and my indignant * Xo, 'indeed!' must have Spoken vol
urnes, for she reddened a little and hit her lip, though she answered in
the same composed manner, ' Oh, Oscar is a sad boy, but he is only like
other young men. Few can resist a flirtation with a. pretty girl; they
do it just for the fun of the thing, and because it gives them alittle im-
portance in their own eyes. They pride themselves on their conquests
very much as an Indian warrior prides himself on the number of his
scalps,' and here her laugh was not quite pleasant. ' I only hope Oscar
did not make himself too agreeable to your pretty sister.'
" This was too much. Was it not impertinent of her? I drew my-
self up in a most dignified manner, and said in the most chilling voice
I could assume. me, Miss Stewart, but my sister is a perfect
stranger to yoti, and you can have no right to bring in her name. I be-
lieve we were speaking of your cousin, Mr. Hamblyn,' but she was not
to be repressed. ' I am sure I beg your pardon, Miss ( 'hudleigh, but
you must scold Nora, not me, for she is the culprit; she warned me
once that Oscar was up to his old tricks, and went far too often to the
Witchens, but I only laughed at her'' Young men will have their
fling," I said.'
" ' I am very much obliged for this confidence,' I began, stiflly you
know how awkward I can be but Miss Stewart only looked at me in
an amused sort of way, and began to laugh she has rather a pretty
laugh.
; ' No, you are not a bit obliged to me; you think me a very blunt,
disagreeable sort of person. You are wondering how any stranger can
take such a liberty, but I can't help all that. I always was blunt, and
age does not mend matters, and in short I had my reasons. Now, Miss
Ghudleigh, I told you a bit of a fib just now, only I did not see how to
put things. I am not engaged to my cousin, but he is engaged to me.
Just let me tell you about it. I have my reasons for being confidential,
and they are not bad reasons. It has always been understood between
the two families that Oscar and I were to marry each other; but when
he proposed three years ago, I did not accept him definitely, and this
was the case each time he spoke to me on the subject. Did you speak?'
for I gave some sort of exclamation at this. ' I suppose you are sur-
prised at my obduracy. Yes, Oscar has proposed three times; but when
a girl is rich/ and here she sighed a little as though the sense of her
own wealth overwhelmed her, ' and the young man has college debts,
and has besides an unfortunate propensity for flirting, it is only wise to
be on one's guard.'
" ' And you are not engaged to him even now?' I observed, for
somehow 1 did not seem to dislike her so much as she went ou talking.
She is evidently an original sort of little person.
SI 2 ONLY r l KRXESS.
N\,,' but looking at me in a queer kind of way. ' lint all the same
.n to marry Oscar in the spring, and have written to tell him so.
!To\v surprised you look! But he is engaged to me, you see; and this
iiu'iit between us, that 1 was to tell him when I had made
up my mind thai lie was to In- trusted. Of course, as he has said him-
Vcr and over again, he has lx>en ready for me these three years.'
Ami you have made up your mind to trust him?' but hen
laughed again a little wickedly.
Well, no; hut I am afraid of his getting into mischief, and I think
it will be the best for him to have a .sensible wife to look after him, .Miss
Chudleigh,' and she looked at me rather nicely. 'Please dm
with the notion that 1 am a very forward, peculiar person to have
told you all this, for I meant it for the best. 1 am afraid I know a
little too much, and that Oscar has been a bad boy. Will you tell
your sister from me that if I did not know that it would be the best and
happiest thing for Oscar to marry me, and that no other woman had >o
great a right to be his wife, I would hesitate even now? Hut I know
him, and I know in time I shall make him happy. Please give my
love to her;' and then the tears came into her eyes, 'and before I could
answer her she had left me and joined Mrs. Roskill in the drawing-
room."
" Upon my word, Paul, I believe she meant well. It was an uncom-
monly plucky thing for a girl to do. You may depend upon it some
busybody or other lias told her about that fellow's attention to our
Bee/'
" But, Launce, surely she would not marry him if she really believed
him to be in love with another girl?"
" Well, you see, she regards "him as her own property, and does not
feel inclined 1o yield her rights. One thing is very evident, that she
ds Bee as a formidable rival."
How do you. mean?"
" Well, I expect that Hamblyn has been trying to free himself, and
that in the attempt he has only drawn his bonds tighter. Poor wretch,
one would be half inclined to pity him, for I believe he is as much in
love with Bee as his selfish nature will allow him to be, if one were not
vage with him for the mischief he has done! Confound the fellow,
why could he not let our little Bee alone! How dare he make L
her when he knew he was bound to marry another woman!"
" Don't you think Miss Stewart might set him free if she really knew
the circumstances of the case how much they cared for each" other,
and" but here Pauline stopped, half frightened by the frown on
Launcdot's face.
" For Heaven's sake, don't hint at such a thing! Better any unhap-
I than such a maniage as that. Fond of him as she is, U'ee would
consent to such an arrangement; 1 know my sifter better than
that. \Yith all her faults, Bee would be too 'proud and hone-1 to rob
another girl of her just rights. What was .Miss Stewart's i
h<-r? Tell me again'; it seems to me that the words were very
nant with meaning."
' AV511 you tell your sister from me,'" began Pauline, slowly,
" ' that if I did not' know that it would be the best and happiest thing
for Oscar to marry me, and that no other woman h. ' a right, to
be his wife, I would hesitate even now; but 1 know him, and 1 know
in time that I sh;.ll make him happy."
tly so; she knows him to be a weak, tickle, self-indulg<
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 213
low, who cares more for himself than for any one else. Xo doubt she is
quite correct in her estimate of his character. She TV ill fill his empty
purse, pay his debts, and give him a comfortable home and all the
luxuries his miserable soul delights in; and in return he will make her
a tolerably good husband, though he will be rather sulky and unman-
ageable at iirst. But she had better make up her mind to one fact-
nothing will cure him of his flirting, not the prettiest wife in the world.
He is the sort of fellow who can't be near a woman without making love
to her."
Pauline shrugged her shoulders at this description, and then she said,
a little plaintively
" Oh, never mind about him; the question is how are we to tell I '
and at this question Launcelot looked exceedingly grave. He seemed
to think deeply, and after a few minutes' silence lie stud, quietly
" I think we will not tell her at all."
" But, Launce "
" My dear, a day or two's delay will not matter. Why should either
you or I discharge such a cruel task? Let him tell her himself he
must, sooner or later. Depend upon it, Paul, that there will be a letter
before many days are over."
" But think of the dreadful shock oh, Launce!" and here the tears
came into Pauline's eyes.
" Should we lessen the shock by telling her ourselves? Can any form
of words palliate the fact that he has won her affection under false pre-
3, and that he is bound to marry another woman? How are we to
sweeten such a piece of intelligence as that?"
" And we are to wait for that dreadful letter?"
" Yes, I believe that will be the best plan. You must not think me
hard or unsympathizing, Paul, but 1 am boiling over with rage when I
think of the power that fellow lias got. AVliy can not one punish such
a sin as that '! AVhen I think how helpless and innocent many girls an;,
how little they know of a man's nature, how credulous and unsuspect-
ing they are the fond fools I am full of wrath against the men who
play them false. I should like to give them something that they would
carry to their dying day, to teach them not to play with such sacred
things as girls' hearts and women's honor. But there, I am sick of the
subject! Let us go in we shall do Bee no good if we talk here until
morning."
And so saying he rose from the bench and Pauline followed, almost
too awe-struck to speak. She had never seen Launcelot so stern, so
angry, in all her life before. The concentrated bitterness of his tone
certainly showed no want of feeling, only a man sometimes shows his
sympathy by righteous indignation.
Pauline passed a restless night; a strange medley of ideas haunted her
waking and dreaming thoughts. Her dread of Bee's unhappiness was
every now and then crosseoT by a vivid remembrance of something Dr.
Maxwell had said, or a sudden recollection of how he had looked.
" Nothing would ever make him do a dishonorable thing!" she said
to herself. " He is so unselfish and so absolutely true, he would bear
anything rather than make a girl unhappy," finished Pauline, with
girlish faith in her own ideal.
Neither Launcelot nor Pauline enjoyed their breakfast the next morn-
ing. Bee was in one of her most lively moods; she questioned them
about the party, and wanted to know whom Launcelot had taken in to
dinner.
214 ONLY TIM: GOVJ
cwart what sort of ;i p< -lie. Lamx
innocently, and her brother's careless " ( )li. a plain, overdressed littlo
body, with very littlo to say for herself," seemed to satisfy her.
" And Doctor Maxwell took Paul in?"
" Yes," answered Pauline, with a sudden Mush; " ;nid In
niee and amusing as usual, and 1 had dear old Colonel Dacre on my
other side, so 1 was well oil'. 1 was rather sorry ""for poor Laun.
looked so bored."
But Pauline, us she talked, hardly dared to look at her sister's b:
ami ling faee.
" What are you going to do this morning, Launce?" she a>k<
they rose from the table.
Bernard lazy fellow! had not yet put in an appearance, an
had rung for fresh coil'ee and a hot rasher or two of bacon.
" Why don't you let Bear have eold coil'ee V" grumbled Launeelot,
as he heard her order. " \Yhat business has ;i strong, healthy fellow
to lie in bed half the morning? sitting up late rending in
though that is any excuse: it is pure laziness. What did you ask me,
Paul? oh, what am I going to do? Well, I have an idea for a new pict-
ureit came into my head last night, so I am going to shut myself up
in the studio. Now then, Bear, what have you to say for yourself?"
" That I am uncommonly hungry," remarked Bernard, nodding
affably to his sisters, and seating himself at the deserted breakfast-table.
lie wore white flannels, and looked the perfect embodiment of a hand-
some, healthy young Englishman.
" There is fresh coffee coming, Bernard," remarked Bee, as she saw
him reach across the table for the coffee-pot, " and some bacon and an
egg."
" You are a duck," was Bear's answer to this. " Here's your health,
my lass, and a good husband for you before the year is out. Now then,
Launce, what's up, old fellow?"
" I used to think ten hours' sleep rather too much at your age, Bear;
but times have changed, so pray don't apologize. Perhaps 'the poor
boy would like an omelet, or a deviled kidney; pray see after his little
comforts, Bee." But as Launeelot leveled this sarcasm, Bernard only
threw his head back with a laugh of intense enjoyment.
" You are behiu 1 the times, my dear fellow; we Oxford men know
what suits our constitution. ' Take plenty of rest,' as Dr. Phillpi
last term, so I am carrying out his prescription. Now then, Fenwick,
look sharp; some more toast, and you may as well boil another
while you are about it."
But Launeelot heard no more. He went off to his studio, and was
presently so absorbed in sketching out a subject for a new picture that
he almost forgot Bee's prospective trouble. He took a hurried luncheon,
and then went back to his work. Bernard, who had passed the morn-
ing in a hammock, pretending to read, announced his intention of tak-
ing Pauline and Sybil on the river. "I can't take more than two,"
lie observed, and Bee consoled Dossie by proposing that they should
take their work and books into the shrubbery. " It will be cool (here,
and we will have tea under the trees," and Dossie thought this a charm-
ing arrangement.
neelot worked on, oblivious of time as usual: he was thankful
when any occupation deadened thought a sort, of fiend of di-content
and disappointed longing seemed to lie in wait for his leisure horn.
his secret soul he began to fear whether he should ever enjoy the dvlM
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 215
far nient^ again "whether pleasure hud not become an unknown in-
gredient in his life.
Things might be worse, however, he told himself, with grim phi-
losophyif he had not his work, for example; he luul feared at first
that he should never care to paint another picture, but a curious fancy,
an embodiment of his own sad thoughts, had come into his head, and he
was anxious to work it out.
" That is the best of being an artist or a poet," he thought, dreamily
that afternoon. "In one sense one must live a lie and pretend to be
happy at all costs, but there need be no pretense in one's work. The
hidden trouble may color the picture or give expression to the poem,
and no one is the wiser; the real and fabled woe may be so cunningly
blended that the keenest eye can not detect the reality. I suppose 'I
can suck melancholy out of a song,' with any melancholy .Jacques.
' Motley is the only wear ' for most fools, but a man may change the
color of his coat when his heart or his head grows gray.'" And here
Launcelot sighed, and then set himself in dogged fashion to complete
his hasty sketch.
The afternoon shadows were deepening on the lawn, and he was jus*
making up his mind to put away his work for the day and take a walk
before dinner, when a hesitating knock at the door, followed by a dog's
scratching, informed him that Dossie and Beppo were seeking admit-
tance.
As this was against the rules, Launcelot pretended to frown as 1m
opened the door, but the first glance at the child's face made him say
hastily, " What is the matter, n< />{</>? lias anyone frightened you
or Beppo?" for Dossie's blue eyes had a scared look in them.
" I think I was a little frightened, Mr. Lance," she returned, in her
old-fashioned, punctilious way. " I am afraid there is something the
matter with Cousin Bee, she looks quite dreadful. We were ;
" Why, what do you mean, Dossie V"
" Well, we were laughing and talking, and then Fenwick brought
her a letter, and she looked, oh, so pale, as she read it, and she will not
answer or say a word, and looks just as though she were dazed, so I
thought I would come and tell you."
" Always a wise little woman, Dossie," putting his hand on the fair
hair that 'was now.Madella's pride. " Thank you, my dear; I will go
to Bee at once. Never mind coming with me; I dare say she and I will
do better alone. So it has come!" he muttered to himself, as he crossed
the lawn, wondering what he was to say and do in such a painful
emergency.
But there was no hesitation at all about his manner when he saw r her
face. The poor girl looked as though she were turned to stone; her
pretty color had gone, and there was a faded look about her face that
made him set his teeth and mutter a word that was hardly a blessing,
while the pained, incredulous expression in her eyes gave him a sort of
shock. She did not speak, only looked at him, and tightened her grasp
on the paper that lay on her lap.
" I know all about it, Bee," he said, gently. " Will you let me read
the letter?" And without waiting for her permission he stooped and
unlocked the clinched fingers, which somehow became cold and nerve-
less in his grasp; but as he turned away to read it he saw a long shiver
pass over her. " Now let me see what the fellow has to say for him-
self," he thought, as his eye ran over the page.
Ml 'I ONLY TIIK (iOVKUN!
!yown darling," it began. " how ;nn I to prepare you forbad
How am 1 to tell you, after all my protestations of afTection,
that cruel necessity obliges me to resign you? Yes. it has come to this,
that we must part. I must never hope to win you i'or my wife. The
future that we were to have shared together has heroine an impossibility
and yet 1 love you as dearly us ever. I \vonder it' you will ever for-
give me? 1 liave treated you badly, but at least I can plead the force
of temptation. How Could I see you without loving you? Let this
excuse me .1 little in your eyes, if your people blacken me to you.
" Hut now I must confess my sins. 1 have spoken to you of my .
in, Krica Stewart, but I never told you that three years ago 1 made her
an oiler. That offer was renewea from time to time, until ii
arranged between us that I was to consider myself bound to her until
>he chos( to accept me.
" I have no excuse to make for this. I did not love my cousin, but
we were good friends; and I was poor and in difficulties, and Krica was
very generous.
" 1 thought little about the matter, and the future never troubled me
until I met you, my darling, and then then the old bonds grew hate-
ful and I struggled to be free. But no, at my first word Erica told me
that she considered we were engaged. And I, what could I say? How
could I answer her when I knew I was bound to her by every tie of
honor and gratitude?
" I will not speak to you of my unhappiness. I must dree my weird.
Surely it is sufficient punishment for all my ill doings to know that 1
have lost you, and by my own fault! But at least I may entreat your
forgiveness I may ask you to think mercifully of
" Your devoted penitent,
" OSCAR HAMF.LYN."
A dark look came over Launcelot's face as he read. " Would his
honor have bound him if Erica Stewart were poor?" he said to himself.
And then he replaced the letter in the envelope, and sat down by his
sister.
" You must face it, Bee, like a brave woman."
" It is true, then?" fixing her heavy eyes on him.
" Yes, dear, it is unfortunately too true. Pauline and I were waiting
for this letter. You know, we met Miss Stewart last night. She told
Paul all about her connection with llamblyn. He has treated hoth of
you as badly as possible. But before we talk about that let me give you
her message;" and very slowly Launeelot repeated the words, for there
was a blank, uncomprehending look in Bee's eyes that told him the
sharp anguish she was suffering had somewhat dulled her faculties.
you see," he finished, softly, " that Miss Stewart knows all about
it too, and has forgiven him his faithlessness; and yet it seems to me
that his sin against her has been greater than even his transgn
against you. She is determined to make the best of her bad bargain
and to marry him off-hand." But to this Bee made no sort of reply
and it may be doubted whether she even heard the wwds.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
"BE A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN."
I would speak of his chivalry for I can call i nothing else in daily life; a chiv-
alry which clothed the most ordinary and commonplace duties with freshness and
pleasantness. I soon discovered that au unswerving resolution at. all times and
under all circumstances to spare himself no trouble, and to sustain life at a lofty
level, was the motive of this chivalry. The KcVL'rtnd IF. llan-isuiCs opinion, of
LAUNCELOT remained silent for a few minutes after this. What word
of comfort could lie essay that could reach the half-stunned brain and
heart, that seemed unable to rcali/e the full extent of the blow? If only
his step-mother were here! What did he know of a girl's nature its
possibilities oi self-torture, its want of discipline, its instinctive abhor-
rence of pain? lie could only know how to deal with himself; from
the first moment that terrible trouble had fallen upon him, he had told
himself that no spoken sympathy could avail to comfort him. His
strength lay in silence, his self-respect, his peace of mind, depended on
it. People may guess, may suspect," he said to himself, " but the
thing shall only be known in its fullness to myself and my God." But
as he looked at Bee's strained eyes, wide with the misery he could not
quite realize, he doubted whether silence would be equally cllicacious in
her case. She was so young, and youth needs to give expression to its
thoughts. With a delicacy of perception that few men woidd have
shown under the circumstances, he had refrained from any loudly uttered
vituperations against the man \vho had wrought all this wrong. II is
words had been few and temperate. " lie has treated you both as badly
-ible," he had said; and then he had given it as his opinion that
Oscar's sin had been greater against Miss Stewart. He had said as
much as this, but he knew better than to break the bruised reed by tell-
ing Bee that the man she loved was a weak, dishonorable fool, who,
after all the excuses had been made, was most certainty selling his
birthright of honest manly choice for the good things of this life. If
Miss Stewart had been poor, would he have been so sure that honor
compelled him to marry her? he thought bitterly. Would he not have
kicked over the traces long ago and jilted her, as a-hundred men have
jilted girls? But on this point lie kept silence then and forever. Bee
woidd discover her lover's un worthiness for herself in time; any attempt
to paint him in his true colors would only make her distrustful of her
brother's sympathy and turn her against her best friend. ^
So when he spoke at last there was nothing galling in his speech.
" Oh, you poor little child!" he said, tenderly, "how 1 wish Madella
were here to talk to you!"
The tone, more than the words, touched her frozen brain, and th
tears started to her eyes.
" Does mother know? I should like to go to her, I I you are Very
kind and dear, Launce, but I can't stop here. I " and here the tears
began to flow, and Bee hid her face in her trembling hands, and wept
as though .Vier young heart would break.
"Curse the scoundrel!" muttered Launcelot between his teeth, and
then he repented: " No, not that. I will be neither has nor any man's
judge. ' Deliver! us from evil,' let me say that instead;" and then he
tried to Uke liis sister's hand, but she resisted, still weeping passionate-
218 ONLY THE
it is mother 1 want." lie heard her say through lief
icar, we \vill go together to-morrow or the next day, if you
like. ,1 enough 1" IK- moved now. You must let me fake
vou. ami then I can tell Madella. No, she does not know yi-i
Bee ullered a faint exclamation; " only Pauline and 1 know at present,
but 1 will show hur the Idler and repeat Miss Stewart's coin eisation,
and then she will understand what to say to you."
" Hut you will not speak against him to mother; promise me promise
me, Launce, that you wii;
" Have I been so hard to you that 3 r ou can not trust mo, nee?" put-
ting on a hurt manner.
""<>h. no, you have been so good, so kind. You have said as little
as possible; but. of course." in a voice of despair, "I know what you
think about it all."
" .Never mind that. Bee; be a. brave little woman, and we shall love
you all the better for this." Then she put her head down on his
shoulder, and, though she still wept, Launcelot knew those quiet tears
would only relieve the oppressed heart.
" I must write to him," she whispered, after a Mine. " I must am
swer that letter."
" Is it absolutely necessary, Bee?"
" Yes yes of course. Do you not see how unhappy ho is, how
ashamed of his position? If I only send three words I must tell him he
is forgiven. Oh! Lauuce. " and here she shuddered, " I thought in a,
few years I should have been his wife, and he is going to marry her
soon directly, and he does not love her he loves me.''
" You must not let your mind dwell on that fact; it will yield you
small comfort in the future. True, the sin will be his, but, my child,"
and here Launcelot's voice took a deeper and sadder intonation, " you
would not willingly if you could help it, 1 mean love another wom-
an's husband?"
" How am I to unlove him?" she returned, almost in despair. " I
do not mean to be wicked, but how am I to put away Oscar from my
life and thoughts."
crtain things kill love," he returned, gloomily. " I>y and by you
will not love him, but it will not be time that will cure you; no, in spite
of yourself, in spite of all your heart is telling you now, a time will
come when it will seem a sin 'and a shame even to think of him as you
are thinking now when you will set yourself with the whole force of
your will to efface that dearly loved image."
" Launce!" and, in spite of her own misery, I5ee glanced at him in an
'ruck manner, there was such repressed passion in his voice; but
he calmed himself at once at her look.
" My dear little sister, this is a sad world."
" A 'hateful world, you mean."
" No, not hateful, as long as Madella and a few good people are in
it. 1 remember when 1 was your age, Bee, and some trouble had be-
fallen me, a friend whom I loved and trusted had gone wrong. AVcll,
I remember brooding over my woes like H great sulky baby. I
went, so i'ar as to tell Madella that I was sick of the world, and 1<
to die. "
i-e," was the weary answer, and Launcelot knew the
thought had come to her too.
Veil, Madella smiled you know her way ' You must be very
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 219
young, my clear boy, to say that. It is what all young people say when
the world goes wrong with them. Older people know that it is pure
selfishness. 1 " What, die before your time comes before your work is
done? leave your little corner of the vineyard choked up with weeds
because, forsooth, you are too tired and too heart-sick to work?' And
then the dear creature opened her Bible and read to me the parable of
the laborers. ' And you," too, would claim your penny a day,' she said,
gently, ' who wish to lay do\vn your tools and go home before even the
noontide heat begins! I wonder what the Master of the vineyard would
say to that!' Bee, I never forgot that little sermon. 'YVhatevcr sorrow
falls to my share in life, I do not wMi to die until my time comes; it i*
cowardly to shrink even from prospective pain. ' I wonder what the
Master of the vineyard would say to that!' often comes into my mind
when I hear young people railing against their circumstances."
" Oh, Launce, I wish I were good like you and mother:"
" Thank God instead that you have not to answer for your brother's
sins; child that you are, what do you know of a man's temptations?"
and then again lie calmed himself with dilliculty, and, kissing her fore-
head, begged her not to talk any more, but to go in and rest; and she
rose obediently and left him alone to one of the bitterest hours that he
had ever passed.
But the foul fiend Despair and all his train of hideous satellites
doubt, mistrust,- suspicion, envy, hatred, and all unrighteousness
vanished back after a time into their pit of darkness, vanquished by the
sturdy honesty and courage that confronted them.
" What has happened is by the will of God, who has permitted these
sad accidents and failures for His own wise purposes. To Him I must
commit both her future and mine." But by " her," Launcelot was not
speaking of Bee. For the time being he had forgotten her; the Hood-
gates of passion were set open, and strange waters drenched his soul
with their salt waves. "All Thy waves and Thy billows have gone
over me." Ah, not all. Launcelot; only such a portion as may cleanse
the world-worn spirit, rebapti/.ing it with a bitter but most healing bap-
tism. "The Lord sitteth upon the flood," or, as the revised edition
has it, "sat as king at the Hood." Oh, the fullness of meaning in-
volved in that! " Yea, the Lord sitteth as king forever;" and then fol-
lows the exquisite benediction, " The Lord will give strength to His
people the Lord will bless Ilis people with peace."
Launcelot did not tell himself this in so many words, though the sor-
row of all the ages could have found expression in the words of the
shepherd-king; but in a dim sort of way he was living up to them, and
by so doing ennobling himself in the process.
' Suffer as he must, he was not morbid; when he told himself that he
had not sinned consciously for a single moment, that his love for Joan
was a grief and a mistake and utterly useless as far as his happiness in
this world was concerned, but, as he knew, no sin, he was .speaking
absolute truth. He was a man, and not an angel, and therefore he had
not foreseen such a calamity. But for what followed, his daily life,
his daily thoughts, in what mode he carried that cross of his it was for
these things he was responsible. Here was the battle-ground where
fiends might congregate, but for the future his future and hers that
most precious and faulty of women well, God must take care of His
own, thought Launcelot, feeling utterly baffled and wearied. And, lo
and behold, the demons had fled, and their place was the sunset sky
and the sweet breath of firs and the loveliness of a world that even man's
220 ONLY 'I KSS.
sin ran not spoil, and a thought of peace came nestling to his hai
" Yes. it will be over one day. It is a lianl fight; harder than
that poor child who is weeping yonder will c\ man's
strength to cope with it; but there will be rest by and by when tl
conies and the wages are paid. Ami I wonder \\hat tli of the
vineyard will say when when " But biuncclot did not finish the
sentence, only he looked into the crimson clouds with their edges tipped
with gold, and his eyes grew calm and clear, and his head was creel,
and then he thought of Ins new picture and smiled at his own (plaint
fancies, and .-o the dark hour faded from his memory.
But before the evening had passed IK; received u message from lice.
She had shut hei>elf up in her OWLI room, refusing admittance to every
one. though Pauline had pleaded with tears to lie allowed to speak to
her. When Launcclot obeyed her summons he found the tray with the,
un tasted food still on the threshold. Pauline, who had accompanied
him on tiptoe, shook her head at the sight. " She has calen nothing;
she will be ill," she faltered: for to her healthy, robust org <ni/atiou
the loss of even one meal appeared serious. 'People mu>t eat, even
when they are in trouble, thought Pauline, this being the creed of many
well-meaning simpletons. But Launcelot knew belter than Pauline
here. He remembered that terrible night when sheer phys.ical fai,
had driven him to take a glass of claret and a morsel of bread, when
the sight of a full meal would have turned him sick, and then he took
a small roll and a glass of wine off the tray and begged his sister, in a
whisper, to carry (he remainder away.
All the rooms at the Witchens were pretty, but it was allowed by
everybody that Bee's room was by far the prettiest; it was just what, a
girl's room ought to be, fresh and dainty, and full of graceful souve-
nirs.
Bee sat by the window; she had put on a cream-colored lea-gown,
perhaps for coolness, and her hair was pushed away from her
Launcelot thought she looked years older even in those few hours.
" There it is, Launce," she said, holding out a folded paper. " I have
been trying all this time to write it, but 1 can do nothing better, and I
think it must go as it is."
" May 1 read it, Bee?"
" Oli, yes, you may read it; there is nothing that the whole world
may not see. Yesterday we belonged to each other, but to-day everv-
thinu is changed, but at* least we shall know that 1 have no an^ef against,
him."
"Mv DEAR OSCAR," it began, " of course you will expect an an-
swer to your letter; but when I try to write there seems so little, that I
>y. When you tell we that we must have nothing more to do with
each other, that you and I must say good-bye as far as this world is
rued, it seems to rue that there 'is nothing mure to be said, of
course 1 am dreadfully unhappy, but you do not need me to tell you
that any girl would be unhappy when she has received such a i
But you need not fear any reproaches on my part; 1 have forgotten
ly how much I have to forgive. If you have done wroi
\ on are doing right now; your cousin lias the first claim on
and I do not wish to say another word on this subject.
"Good-bye, dear Oscar. 1 am afraid I am writing coldly, and that
this letter will disappoint you. I shall be sorry for that, for I would
OHLY THE GOVERKESS. 221
like to comfort you, but such comfort is not for me to give; still 1 shall
pray always for your future happh;
" Your sincere friend,
" BEATRIX CHUDLEIGH. "
" P.S. God bless you! Yes, I do forgive! I do!"
As Launcelot read it his eyes grew misty. " It is too good for him,
Bee, but all the same it shall go.""
" AVill you send it by this evening's post?"
" Oh, yes, there is no use in delay. Well, what is it, dear?" for she
was looking at him very wistfully.
" I was thinking of mother. When will you take me to her to-mor-
row?"
" Oh, no, not to-morrow."
" Why not?" she persisted, in a fretful voice. But Launcelot evaded
tin's question; lie did not dare to tell her that he knew she would be un-
lit to travel the next day, so he pretended to turn the matter over in his
mind while he broke bread into the wine and fed her with his own hand
as though she were a baby. " I am thinking about it; let me see you
finish this, and then I will tell you my plans," he said, quietly, and
actually she obeyed him like a child.
" I will do what 1 can for you," he said at last; " to-morrow would
not suit me at all, but I will take you to Eastbourne on the following
day. I will write to Madella by this evening's post to tell her to pack
up v and join us, and I will telegraph to Donaldson to get these rooms
for us; we were to have the refusal, you know. 1 could stop a day or
two, and then I can leave you and Madella together, and come back
here. Will that suit you, Bee?"
" Oh, yes, I suppose so," and then, as though her words sounded un-
gracious,' she added, " Thank you, dear Launce, for arranging it all so
nicely; 1 want mother, and I would rather be anywhere but here," and
Launcelot understood.
He had reason to congratulate himself on his foresight the next day,
when Pauline came down and told him that Dee was suffering with a
miserable; sick headache, and could not lift her head from the pillow.
" She lias had a bad night, and this is the result," observed Pauline,
gloomily, for she was lull of angry grief on her sister's account. " She
sends her love to you, Launce, but she is not able to talk at present, so
onlv Dossie is with her fanning her to sleep."
" Dossie?"
" Yes. Is it not odd that Bee should have such a fancy for the child,
when she was so against your bringing her into the house? She will
let Dossie do things for her when she will not allow Sybil to come near
her. But then Sybil is so noisy."
" I don't think any of us could spare Dossie now," replied Launce-
lot. " A child's influence can make itself felt after all. I think Dos-
sie's great charm is that she never thinks of herself."
" Yes, and then she is growing so pretty."
" Not exactly; Dossie will never be pretty, not even when she grows
up and she is growing fast, she is nearly eleven now; but she will be
very spirituelle-looking. Her face has great capabilities; she has a
kundred different expressions now." But this was beyond Pauline.
An unexpected visitor called that afternoon. Pauline had just gona
up to sit with Bee, and Launcelot was crossing the hall on his way to
the studio, when he saw Miss Hamblyn come up to the front door, and
ONLY THE
\villiout waiting for Fenwick lie ushered her gravely into the drawing
room.
Miss llamblyn seemed rather confused when slie saw him: her sereno
self i> i lu-r. " I came to Bee Bee," she said, hurriedly.
"I am sorry," returned Launeelot, civilly. ".Bee has a headache
jiinl can sec no one, and Pauline is with her. I am vexed that you
should have this long journey for nothing."
" Is IJee ill?" wiili real feeling in her .voice. "Oh, I dreaded this;
luit. .Mr. Chudleigh. I can go up to her, can I not? I know she would
;>ei iully after \vhat lias passed."
" It is best to tell the truth. Miss llamblyn. Bee is very much upset
by your brother's letter, and I can not, allow her to lie agitated by any
more talk; you are the last person I should wish her to see."
" You arc angry; you think it is my fault?" she asked, quickly.
" Why should you say such things? I am ;,ngry with your brother;
he has not behaved like a gentleman" He lias treated two women bad-
ly, and one of them is my sister. Any man would feel himself a--rieved
by such conduct."
" You are right: Oscar has been as bad as possible; it is his nature to
flirt. I used to lecture him. indeed I did, Mr. Chudleigh; but he would
not listen to me. I begged him not to flirt with Bee, but he w.
fatuated."
" A word from you would have put a stop to it, Miss Hamblyn," re-
turned Launcelot, in an icy manner.
" A word from me! why, I spoke hundreds of words."
" Yes, where they were of no avail; but one word would have opened
Bee's eyes and prevented all this misery. If you had only mentioned
Miss Stewart's name, nothing of this would have happened; but you
1 (referred to indulge your brother in his little games, and to see your
friend sacrificed; and this is your notion of friendship. A man would
not treat another man so."
" Mr. Chudleigh, how can you be so hard and stern, and I have made
myself quite miserable about Bee; but perhaps I ought not to wonder
that, you are so sore about it. You must hate the sight of us. I think.
Well, it is no use talking, so I may as well go; you will give my dear
love to Bee, will you not?*'
" I did not wish her to know you had been here. Do you mind my
keeping that message to myself," Miss llamblyn ?"
"Oh, no; I see what you mean. Perhaps I had better not come
again just yet, it would only disturb her. I am very sorry. I am indeed,
Mr. Chudlcigh; I wish it had happened to any but Bee.
" And this is a woman's notion of friendship," thought Launcelot, a*
he Watched the tall figure recede into the distance. " That girl Is a
humbug; 1 always said so." And then lie made up his mind that he
would bring Madella round to his opinion, and get her to break oil' all
acquaintance with the Hamblyns,
Launcelot was able to carry out his plan, for the next dav, when tliev
arrived at their destination, they found the other travelers ' had already
:iced themselves in the comfortable lodgings. Freckles rushed
down :eet them.
it i> an awfully jolly house," he observed, rapturously; " there are
>u<-h<- and six easv chairs in the drawing-room, and I have tried
them all and don't know which to choose. What a lark-bringing
JO ahead."
hat:/' delicious HUI, \elaimed Mrs. Child-
ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
leigh, as Bee hurried up to her. "When I got your letter, Launce,
telling me Bee was coming too, I was quite excited. Oh!" a soft, long
" oh " of infinite meaning. One glance at the poor girl's face told the
mother everything.
" Come along, Freckles; show me where the luggage is to go. Which
is Bee's room and which is mine? I want you to help me with my
Gladstone. Stay here a moment, I left my bag in the drawing-room."
But Launcelot, as lie spoke, closed the door again precipitately.
One glance showed him what he wanted to know. Bee's bonnet was
off, and .she was sitting on the couch with her head ou her mother's
boulder.
" Tell me all about it, my darling. Of course I see you are unhappy;
toll your mother everything. What is the good of having children if
one 'is not to help them in their troubles!" finished Airs. Chudleigh,
fondling her girl's hand as she spoke.
>- li is good for us that God made women so," thought Lauucelot as
he walked slowly away. Hut it is doubtful what he meant by this
rague speech. Was it of IJee he was thinking, or of the mother-love
that was encompassing her? " I am glad I brought her," lie said to
himself. " Of course she will be unhappy everywhere for a time, poor
child! but she will }>< less unhappy here." And then he resolved that
he would go back again to the Witchens as soon as possible and begin
his picture.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"OH, YES; in: >MI;S I.VKRY SUNDAY."
Hesmileil as men smile \\hen they will not speak,
NSC lit' sunn-tiling hitter in the thought;
And still I feel his iiielruicliol \
Look judgment on me.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
LAUNCELOT spent three days at Eastbourne, and then he came back
to his work.
A strange stillness seemed to permeate the Witchens. Geoffrey and
Bernard were yachting with a friend, and Pauline spent her mornings
in the school-room, and generally walked or drove with the little girls
in the afternoon; while Launcelot worked in his studio from morning
to evening, only indulging in a gallop or a six-mile walk before his
dinner.
Now and then, as he paced the long shrubberies and saw how the
trees were putting on their gorgeous autumn tints, and watched the red
and yellow leaves flutter to his feet, he told himself that he was grow
ing old with the year, and that he should soon attain to the soberness of
middle age.
" I am afraid Paul finds me a dull fellow," he said to himself. But
Pauline would not have indorsed this opinion. To her he was the dear-
est and best of brothers; she thought him the finest company in the
world: his little jokes were miracles of wit in her eyes; and she formed
her opinions on his in the most unblushing, irresponsible way.
"I never found Launce wrong yet," she would say triumphantly
when Bernard argued against him. No wonder Launcelot thought
Pauline a sensible girl and was honestly pleased with her society.
Mrs. Chudleigh remained away three weeks, and then Launcelot re-
ceived a letter from her fixing her return for the next da/.
2JH ONLY THE . KSS.
" 1 Var Fred has left us." she wrote. " lie tuul Forbes Cunningham
truvi-lctl together. Forbes's uncle went with them to London,
quite easy in my mind about Fred.
urse there is nothing to keep me ;my longer from home, und I
must see r>ern;ird lie fore lie returns to Oxford, so you may expect me
to-morrow by tin- r:3U train from \Vaterloo. I>car Bee will not be with
me: she has decided to accept the Sylvesters' invitation. You know
how often they have asked the girls, and they are your father's cousins.
They live in the prettiest part of Yorkshire, and the house and grounds
are charming, and then the eldest girl Rosalind is such a nice girl, and
just Bee's age.
" I think the change will do Bcc good: it is just the break she needs,
and she docs dread coming home so, poor darling! On the whole, sin-
has been very good and tries not to fret, but of course one sees what
she suITers. 'it has been a trying time for both of us. There is nothing
so hard to a mother as to see one of her children in trouble and not be
a I ile to share it. Sometimes I think Bee will never be the <ame girl
again."
" You have wanted me to look after you," was Launcelot's greeting
when he saw his step-mother's tired face, and she did not contradict
him.
" I alwaj's want you, my dear boy," she said, affectionately; " but
you are looking thin, Launce. Pauline tells me you are working far
too hard."
" Paul had better mind her own business. But there, I won't seold
her; she has been a good girl. She has given Sybil and Dossie regular
lessons, and she takes them out, and makes them as happy as possible."
" Yes, and it has been such a relief to my mind, for I was far too
much engaged with poor clear Bee to look after another gover
Then a cloud came over Launcelot's face, and he changed the subject
a little abruptly.
" How long will Bee stay at Craven?"
" Just as long as she likes. I saw Emmeline's letter, and it wa
friendly as possible. She was to be sure to take her habit, for there
would be plenty of hunting, and she hoped Bee would come prepared
for a very long visit. They were going to have some nice people stay-
ing in the house, and they wanted to get up private theatricals."
" I should not have thought Bee would care for all that gayety ju-4
now. ' '
11 Xo; she had a good cry when Emmeline's letter arrived. She >aid
it would be.so hard not to enjoy anything, 1ml all the same she made
up her mind to go. I think she is very brave over her trouble, but one
can see hw deep it has gone."
" Oh, yes; Bee has plenty of pluck: she is far too proud to wear the
willow in public."
" Vr-v, but 1 doubt whether she will ever care for any one again.
You have no idea how fond she was of him, poor girl! and no wonder.
For he was a most striking looking man, and there was something very
'ting about him. And then he was so devoted to her."
" A pretty sort of devotion!"
' Yes; of course he is utterly worthless, one sees that now. Oh,
Laum-dot! 1 begin to wish we had never gone to Mentone. J am so
pioud of lice, and it would be such a pleasure to me, to see her happily
i:iani'd. I always wanted my girls to marry. But now I am afraid if
she ever settles if will be late in life, and I do dislike late marriages."
OKLY THE GOVERNESS. 225
" My dear Madella, Bee is only twenty."
" She will be twenty-one in November."
" What a great age! And I shall be thirty -three next week. I don't
think one's fate is irrevocably fixed at twenty-one. Very few girls
marry their first love, so cheer up, Madella. I dare say Bee will not be
an old maid, after all."
Mrs. Chudlcigh's first drive after her return was to South Kensington,
to call on Joan.
She did not mention her intended visit to Launcelot; nevertheless, h
knew all about it, as he put her into the carriage.
"Shall you go to Truro Square first or last?" he asked, coolly; a
question that nearly took her breath away, for how could he guess that
Joan was in her mind?
" I did not say anything about it at luncheon, did I?" she asked, in
rather a bewildered voice.
" No; but I can read your thoughts sometimes. You are very trans-
parent, Madella. Please give my kind remembrances to Mrs. Thorpe."
Mrs. Chudleigh's first thought when she saw Joan was that she had
grown more beautiful than ever, and yet there was something different
in her expression.
What could it be? She was thinner, and certainly did not look
happy, and yet she was less depressed than on the former visit. Her
manner was a little restless and excited, but she greeted Mrs. Chud-
leigh with her old affection, and seemed unfeignedly glad to see her.
" This is so good of you, dear Mrs. Chudleigh," she said again and
again.
" Are you quite well, my dear?"
" Yes, quite well. You know there is nothing ever wrong with my
health. No amount of misery could kill me, I believe. Mrs. Medhurst
has not a grain of excuse for all the petting she gives me; but then the
dear old lady does love.to make a fuss."
" I am so glad she is good to you, Joan."
"Good is not the word; she spoils me dreadfully. I must be the
greatest prodigal ever known, for the fatted calf is daily prepared for
me. I ' eat the fat and drink the sweet ' every day. Why do you shake
your head? Am I quoting out of the Good Book? Ah, a bad habit.
1 must break myself of that. Still I do as I like, and amuse myself
from morning to night, and no one calls me to order. Just think of
that! Now, Mrs. Chudleigh, before I talk any more nonsense, let me
ask after Fred."
" He has gone back to Uppingham, and is as strong as ever, dear old '
fellow! Do you know, Joan, he was such a good boy all the time he
was ill; and I did so enjoy nursing him."
" Well, I always said he was the nicest boy I ever knew. I was
always fond of Fred. Pauline came to see me twice while you were
away. It was so kind of her. She brought Sybil and Dossie the first
time, and they all stayed and had tea, to Mrs. Medhurst's delight'; but
the second time she came alone at least the little girls were in the car-
riage."
There was something meaning in Joan's voice, for Mrs. Chudleigh
said, quickly, " I suppose she wanted to tell you about Bee?"
" Yes; it was good of her to tell me, though it made me so miserable.
I lay awake half the night thinking of you all. I knew how you would
take it to heart, and Mr. Chudleigh, too", for he is so proud of his sisters;
ft
ONLY 1 i:SS.
hut I always know how it would ho. I warned Mr. f hudleigh, nnd
1 tried to warn Hoc, hut I only made her angry with mo."
" Launcelol thinks it is a providential escape for Jier. "
" lie is riiiht. I never had any opiniow of that man, and then that
hard, worldly .sister of his aided and abetted him. 1 do hope lire will
have nothing more to do with her." Then Mrs. rimdlcigh with much
solemnity informed her that the Hamblyns had heen so ollicion
had shown such had taste altogether in the matter, that she had taken
her son's advice, and had written to Lady llamblyn telling her frankly
that she thought it belter to hrrak otf the acquaintance. " Nora was so
perlinacious tliat J was obliged to doit," she finished. " Slie tri
see l>ee, and when Laiincelot prevented it she wrote to her once or twice
'::g to he allowed to foine. They were very injudicious Icttc 1
she spoke slightingly of her future sister-in-law, and hinted far too
plainly about poor Oscar's misery. Even Bee felt the bad ta-ie, and
oll'ered no remonstiance when 1 spoke of breaking off all communica-
tion with the family."
" You did perfectly right," returned Joan, with warm sympathy.
" lice's fancy for Hiss Hamblynwifl soon die a natural death. 'I always
disliked her a cold, worldly 'minded girl, who thinks of nothing but
making a good settlement. It is just like their meanness to take
Stewart's money and talk against her. I expect she is fur too good for
them."
" Well, it has heen a sad business," observed Mrs. ('hudleigh, with a
sigh; "but I must not talk only of my own affairs. How is Mr.
Thorpe? I suppose he has been to see you."
" Ivan? Oh, yes; lie comes every Sunday."
" Is it possible?"
" Well, I suppose it is possible, for he comes;" and here a naughty
sparkle came into Joan's eyes; " and he always takes me to church."
" My dear!"
" Yes; is it not a clever idea of his? Really, I never gave Ivan credit
for such diplomacy; you have no conception how many ditliculties it
<!ved."
" I really do not understand you, Joan; please tell me seriously what
you mean."
" Well, our tcte-d-tetes were too awkward, and when Mrs. Medhurst
was present it was even worse, for nothing would make me open my
lips. I used to see Ivan get quite pale at last with suppressed nervous-
so one Sunday as we were having tea he said rather shortly that
Ave had better go to church, -and ever since that, we have gone together."
" I think it is very nice of him to take you, Joan."
" I don't know about the niceucss, but it was extremely odd. 1 could
hardly keep myself serious as we walked along that lirst Sunday. It
seemed exactly as though I were a young woman whom Ivan was court-
ing; it was my Sunday out, and we were walking together after the
manner of youtm' men and young women."
" My dear .Joan, what an absurd idea your own husband!"
" Ah, hut we aie strangers novr. and do not know each other a bit;
you can not think how polite Ivan is to me. He asks me all sorts of
'i'Mis as we walk along, and I answer them all like a dutiful j(
woman. I tell him where I walk, and what books 1 read, and the
amount of fancy work 1 do. I even described to him the design fora
oth that was in my mind, and he thought it would be
pretty."
OtfLY THE GOVERNESS. 227
Mrs. Chudleigh took no notice of the tone in which all this was said;
ihe only asked quietly what church they attended.
" Oh, St. Barnabas. Ivan likes it best, and of course it is for him to
choose; he is alwaj's vexed if I don't listen to the sermon, and he finds
out all the hymns for me, and we often sing out of the same book, and
then we go 'home back to Truro Square, I mean and if I am in a
good temper I sing to them after supper."
" And you choose your husband's favorite songs?"
Joan only blushed, and made no reply to this.
" hoes not. -Mr. Thorpe ever speak of "himself, Joan?"
" Of himself? Oh, no, I never give him the opportunity; he has the
all his questions, but
to catechise me, and of course I answer all his questions, but 1
should hardly take the liberty of questioning him in return."
11 1 am sure he would like to be questioned."
" Sometimes he speaks of his work, and tells me about any nice book
he is reading, but I am careful not to appear too much interested." But.
here she stopped, warned by the reproving look on Mrs. Chudleigh's
face.
" My dear, I hope I did not hear you rightly."
" Why, what have I said?" asked Joan, with an air of injured inno-
cence.
" That you took care not to appear too much interested in your hus-
band's talk. Oli, Joan! When you say these things } r ou disappoint me
terribly, ('an anything be more generous than your husband's be-
havior, in spite of all your unwifely conduct, in spile of all that has
passed between you? He is setting himself patiently and quietly to win
your confidence; he is trying to read what is in your heart, anil whether
lie may ever hope to draw you closer to him; and this is how you treat
him."
Joan hung her head as though she were abashed by this just rebuke
on her flippancy, but she answered, rather sullenly
" I can't help it. How am I to behave properly to Ivan when he
keeps me at this distance? Of course I feel I am on my probation, and
that makes me worse."
" He is on his probation, you mean, poor fellow, and is fast losing
heart, I should say. Ah! it is all very well for you to make your little
jests, and to send him back to his desolate home without one kind look
or word to remember all the week; but you are throwing away the most
precious opportunity in your life, an opportunity of being reconciled to
your offended husband, and of atoning for all your past failures."
"It is too late to atone for them. 1 must just let things go. I can
read in Ivan's eyes, in his every word and action, how little faith he
has hi me."
" My dear, that is just a bit of the devil's work. He knows that
only pride and jealousy are keeping you two apart, though neither of
you will confess it, and so he tries to widen the breach by putting mock-
ing speeches into your mouth. He knows that if you would only be
like little children again, and kiss and make friends, no two people
w^ould be happier. But no, you hide away all your feelings under a
jest."
" Don't say any more, dear Mrs. Chudleigh," pleaded Joan, with a
lovely look of penitence. " I know I have treated Ivan very badly, that
I have teased instead of conciliating him, and that I have pretended to
misunderstand all his hints that we should be friends; but indeed I w r ill
behave better to him next Sunday."
228 ONLY THE
:ul you -will question him u litttle about tilings that yon know will
interest him?"
" Oh, no; I can not promise to do that, but it will no) lie hard:
pride that keeps me silent you do not know Low afraid I am of Ivan.
Sometimes I dare not look at him, but if he talks to me I will show my
interest in every possible way, and I will not tease him once not once
- i will promise you that." '
" Then I will not scold you any more. Now, I have some shopping
to do for Pauline: would you like to come with me? Perhaps the drive
will do you good." And as Joan joyfully acceded to this, they spent
the remainder of the afternoon together.
Hut in spite of her engrossing occupation, Mrs. Chudleigh noticed
two things that wherever the}' went looks of admiration rested on
Joan's charming face, and that the girl seemed perfectly unconscious of
this. Her mood had changed from vague sadness and restle.-si ,
almost child-like mirth; she reveled in the sunshine, the movement;
every fresh novelty attracted her. " How happy every one looks!" she
said once; " sometimes I think it is a sin to be a miserable. I am happy
myself because I am with you, you dear woman!" And Joan looked
lovingly in her friend's face.
Mrs. Chudleigh did not retail any of this conversation to her son,
neither did he question her, except very briefly, but she would have
given much to know Mr. Thorpe's opinion of those Sundays.
Lauucelot could have given her no information ; by tacit consent the
two men saw very little of each other. Their friendship was still as
deep as ever, deeper on Mr. Thorpe's part, as he realized the mingled
generosity and delicacy with which Launcelot had ignored his own
trouble in the attempt to insure his friend's happiness. Joan's husband
was never likely to forget or think less of the man who had shielded
her faults and pleaded so nobly on her behalf; his gratitude to Launce-
lot was true as his own nature. " There is nothing 1 would not do for
him; but he is right we are better apart just now," Mr. Thorpe said
to himself. " If Joan ever comes back, he will see then what he is to
both of us." But here he sighed bitterly, for the doubt lay heavy in
his mind, would she ever come back?
Alas! those Sundays were fast becoming the torment and delight of
his life; through the week he counted the tours until he saw her again,
and yet he never left her without that miserable numb feeling of disap-
pointment,
AY hat was the use of gazing at her loveliness if he could not see one
softened look on that fair face, when light, mocking words an-
his most serious words, when she would not be grave or earnest for a
moment unless they were alone together, and then she froze into a
statue?
It was just as though she said to him, " Yes, you are my husband,
and I can not refuse to obey you; but you shall have nothing but pas-
sive obedience from inc. I will not try to understand your wishes, I
will talk or be silent as I like. I will not be coaxed into any show of
! will be absolutely free to follow my own whims."
ue. I believe she loathes the very sight of me, or she
would not treat me so." And actually that hard, self-repressed man
put down his head on the table and cried like a child with the sheer
hop <>!' it all.
Mis. Chudleigh paid -loan another visit during the following week.
.iling at a house just by, and she thought she would spend
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 229
half an hour with the girl and see if her lecture had worked any benefi-
cial results.
She found Joan in the pretty little sitting-room that had been allotted
to her private use; she was working at her embroidery-frame, but looked
rather pale and subdued. As usual she brightened up at the sight of
her friend, and, in the bustle of finding her a comfortable seat, ringing
for tea, and waiting on her, asking questions all the time, she began to
look more like herself.
" Yes, I have everything I want, so please sit down. 1 can not May
long, so we must get our talk over quickly. Did your husband -n V-
last Sunday, my dear, and did you keep your promise?"
" I had no chance," returned Joan, in rather a depressed voice, and
then she tried to pluck up a little spirit. " The young woman was on
her host behavior, but the young man played truant."
" Do you mean Mr. Thorpe never came?"
" No, and he is not coming next Sunday, or the Sunday after. There,
you ma} r read his letter if you like. Oh, there is nothing that you may
iiot see," as Mrs. Chudleigh hesitated.
" MY DEAR JOAN, I am sorry to tell you that there is no possibility
of our meeting for the next three or four weeks; a very unexpected
piece of business calls me to Dublin, and I shall be detained there for at
least a fortnight. I am sending you the name of my hotel in case you
care to write to me. I need not tell you that it will be a great pleasure
to me to receive any such letter.
" I must let you know, too, that your subscription to Mudie is paid,
80 you may send at once for any books you wish, and I have oidcred
the music for you. Pray tell me anything more that you need. I want
you to understand that it is always a satisfaction to me to gratify your
wishes. 1 have a good income now, and there is no necessity to deny
yourself anything. Please treat my purse as your own from this mo-
ment.
" I remain
" Your affectionate husband,
"IVAN THORPE."
" Oh, Joan! what a kind letter! You will answer it, will you not?"
" I suppose I must, but it is very provoking. It makes me so nerv-
ous to write to Ivan. Ilis sentences are stiff, but mine will be stiller
still. Of course I must thank him for the books and the music, for I
know they have given him trouble, but I wish he had not mentioned
his purse."
" My dear, he intends you to assert your rights."
" Oh, but I have no rights," she returned, hurriedly, and her manner
was a little forced; " and I will not help myself to any of his money.
I have plenty of my own, and I shall tell him I want nothing nothing
at all and I shall sign myself his dutiful wife."
" I think that expression will hurt him; you see he has put ' affection-
ate ' in his letter."
" And I am to follow his lead like a little sheep? No, thank you; I
must write my letter my own way, but it shall be a very civil letter, and
perhaps I shall tell you last Sunday's text. Oh, no, I forgot," and
here Joan blushed up to her eyes, and began to laugh, neither would
she repeat the text for Mrs. Chudleigh 's benefit behavior that sorely
puzzled that lady.
230 ONLY Tin: COVKKXESS.
But in her own mind she was convinced -frbnt Joan missed the exeile-
ini'iit of tlioso Sundays; Ilicy gave a soil, of piquancy and y.rst to tlio
remainder of the week. .Most likely her power of tormenting her hus-
band gave her pleasure, or perhaps', as Mrs. Chudleigh charitably sus-
pected, >lie was disappointed at not carrying out her uood resolutions.
" I shall have forgotten them by the lime Ivan comes home,
said, a little defiantly, "and then 'you will have to give me another
lecture."
What was to be done with such a provoking creature? Perhaps .Mrs.
Ohudleigh's way was the best, after all; for she took .loan's face be-
tween her hands and looked into the girl's eyes until they dropped
under their black lashes.
"That, is right, my child; don't be ashamed of letting me see that
you miss your husband, ;i noble creature such as he is ought to be
missed. Let him read the welcome on our facftj he will need no words,
Joan only just that look in your eyes to make his heart jump for joy."
CHAPTER XXXV.
"JOAN REALLY JOAN!"
Pale was the perfect face ;
The bosom with long sighs labor'd; and meek
Seem'd the full lips, and mild the luminous eyes,
And the voice trembled, and the hand.
She said
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail'd
In sweet humility; had failed in all.
TENNYSON'S Princess.
ABOUT three weeks after this, Launcelot was walking over the bridge
one afternoon when he encountered Dr. Maxwell, and they slopped
simultaneously.
" Why, Maxwell, you are quite a stranger. When are you coming
up to dine with us?"
" Oh, you must not ask me yet. I am terribly busy several bad
cases. By the bye, 1 suppose yoii are on your way to see poor Thorpe?"
" Poor Thorpe! what on earth do you mean?"
" What, have they not told you?"
" I have heard absolutely nothing."
" Then I am afraid you will be shocked to hear that poor Miss Thorpe
met with a terrible accident last night. You know what a fog we had.
"Well, on crossing the road from the station she was knocked down by
a van. ' '
" Good heavens!"
" It is a bad affair; there are no bones actually broken, though she is
cut about and contused, and we are not sure that there is not internal
mischief. Happily, her face and the upper part of her body ha 1
capcd, but the worst part is that she was knocked against the curb-
Btone, and the spine has received severe injury."
Launcelot was silent from sheer feeling, but at last he put the ques-
tion
" What is it you fear that she will die?"
" No, that she will not walk again. We have just had Montague
down, and ibis is hl8 -Opinion* too. And here Dr. Maxwell explained
the case to Launcelot in technical language, giving him their reasons for
ONLY THE GOVEENESS. 231
fearing paralysis of the' lower members. "Montague will be down
again in a few days, and by that time we shall know how far the
patient is internally injured. >J
" Does Thorpe know all this?"
" Yes, and of course he is dreadfully distressed. He keeps saying
that it would be better for her to die at once than lead this death in life;
but we have no choice in such matters," finished Dr. Maxwell, with ;i
faint shrug. " I tell him that it is very unlikely Miss Thorpe will make
an old woman, and, strange to say, that was the only speech that seemed
lo comfort him."
" I must go to him at once."
" Very well, I will walk with you to the door. I iiever told you that
fortunately I was passing just after the accident happened, and I helped
to carry Miss Thorpe into the house."
" And you arc attending her?"
" Yes; "but of course I wished for a consultation. There were com-
plications that made me fear for the result. Charlotte came over last
night, but we have a nurse now; but I tell Thorpe she will never be
able to do her work single-handed. The patient will need watching
night and day for a time. "
" Is she conscious?"
" Oh, yes; her head was untouched; but she has hardly spoken, and
seems in great suffering. That points to internal mischief. She 1"
her brother to go down-stairs, and seemed anxious that he should be
spared anything painful, and then she thanked Charlotte for coming to
her, and that was all."
" Did the consultation seem to disturb her?"
" No; she was very patient under Montague's examination. ' I sup-
pose it is very serious ?' she said to him. But he evaded her question.
1 do not know her well, but I should say she had a strong, self-reliant
nature. Here we are at Xo. 8, and I can see Mr. Thorpe is in his study.
Tell him I shall look in about live."
"This is a bad business, Merton," observed Launcelot, when the
house-maid opened the door. She was an old confidential servant, and
Alis^ Thorpe was much attached to her.
" Yes, indeed, sir my poor mistress! Who would have thought of
such a thing happening? I am thankful that you have come to see
master, for he was in a terrible way yesterday."" And Merton, who
looked as though she had not closed her eyes all night which indeed
was the case knocked at the study-door.
" So you have heard?" was Mr. Thorpe's greetingas Launcelot silent-
ly wrung his hand.
" Yes, I have heard. I met Maxwell on the bridge just now and he
told me, and then I came at once. I wish you had sent for me last
night, Thorpe."
" My dear fellow, what could you have done? Women have much
the best of it in one way: they can make themselves useful in an
emergency when a man has simply to stand aside "
" Oh, I should have found something to do; at least you would not
have been left lonely. I can not bear to think of the night you must
have passed; but of course } r ou had Maxwell?"
" Yes; and nothing could exceed his consideration; and then Miss
Maxwell came and set up with Merton. I call that Christian charity."
" Yes, she is a good creature."
" I suppose Maxwell told you all. As soon as the telegraph offic
ONLY TIIF GOVERN!
'[K-n lie telegraphed to I>r. Montague. and also for a mirsr
h;is just arrived, and .Miss Maxwell has gone home."
" I am dad you had a consultation. Montague is a first-rate man."
" Ah. hut his skill can avail nothing hcri'. Think of my poor Raehel
condemned to such a hideous doom partial paralysis, that is what they
fear. Think what that means to be as helpless as an inl'am! When
they told me what they feared, I felt that I would rather have heard her
death-warrant. What has she done that such a punishment should
come upon her?"
Launcelot, was silent, but certain words, spoken by a Divine Teacher,
came into his mind: " Think ye that these Galileans were sinners alovo
all the Galileans because they 'have sull'ercd such things?" Hut he did
peak them. They were both God-fearing, religious men, but it
would not have been c;isy to either of them to speak of what lay so deep
in their nature. So he only put his hand on Mr. Thorpe's shoulder and
said, quietly
" Tilings may be better than you think, Thorpe." But the other only
shook his head despondently.
" Of course we all have our faults, and Rachel has hers. Things
have not been quite comfortable between us for the last two mouths,
but ' all the same she was my best friend. You at least, Chudleigh,
know what w r e have been to each other."
" Yes, I know."
" And now to be told that, as far as this world is concerned, her
work is over: and after such an active life, too! She has been the main-
spring of that society ever since it was formed, and what will they do
without her? I have known trouble enough, God knows, of late, but
when this happened last night I felt as though my cup of bitterness
were brimming over."
"You must try to bear up, Thorpe." But as Launcelot spoke he
felt that his friend was speaking the truth, and that his cup was literally
overflowing with bitterness. "There were lines on his face and fresh
streaks of gray in his hair that had not been there two months ago; and
now. because he had not suffered enough, as he told himself, his faith-
ful friend had been struck down at his \side in the very fullness of life
and energy, and the deep tide of his brotherly love and pity washed
away all the remembrance of the injury she had wrought, and he could
only think of her as the devoted sister whose care had saved his life
when ho was a sickly boy.
" Yes, I must bear up, for she will need me, poor Rachel!" he said,
more in answer to his own thoughts than to Launcelot's little speech.
" She has no one but me. When I was a little fellow she gave up
everything to devote herself to me. Night and day she never left me,
and she was a young girl then; so it is my turn now to wait upon her."
I only trust that she may be spared suffer!]
" Oh, ff they could tell us that! but they do not know themselves.
Whatever she has to bear she will bear without complaint, but her life
will be just a martyrdom."
" Try and take a more hopeful view of things, Thorpe."
" I d'o try, but I think anything like hope is crushed out of me. No;
Itaehel ami I must dree our' weird to the hitter end."
Then it was that a thought came to L iiineelot, one of those impulses
that seem like an inner inspiration. "Co to her,'' it .said; " 11*
final appeal." And his cheek Hushed, and then he took out his watch
and looked at it.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 233
" I am afraid I must leave: you, Thorpe, but I shall be here to-mor-
row. I wish you would give me something to do for you."
" There is nothing, nothing; but, all the same, it does me good to see
you. I hoped you would have stayed with me."
" I have some business but I may possibly come back; do not expect
me, though. You will be sure to see me to-morrow. Maxwell will be
here directly lie told me to say so." Then Launcelot walked away in
the direction of the station, and Mr. Thorpe went back to his study.
Launcelot took the train to South Kensington, and then jumping into
a hansom had himself driven to Truro Square. He found Joan alone in
the drawing-room. Mrs. Med hurst had a cold that conlined her to her
own room.
She was evidently surprised to see Launcelot, and her color rose at
the sight of him.
" You are the last person I expected to see, Mr. Chudleigh!" she said,
trying to appear at her ease. " AVhen I heard wheels I made up my
mind that it was Mrs. Cliudleigh or Pauline."
"And of course you are disappointed," with an effort to throw off
his nervousness.
" Oh, no. I am very pleased to see you. It is so long since we met,
and you will be able to' tell me all the news. I am longing to hear how
Bee gets on with the Sylvesters."
" Very well, I believe. She rides a good deal; but, Mrs. Thorpe, I
have come upon rather a serious errand. Do you know your sister-in'
law has met with a sad accident?"
" I Rachel?"
"Yes. I only heard of it two hours ago, and I went at once to Priory
Road. Your poor husband is in great trouble," and then he gave her
an account of his interview with Dr. Maxwell and his subsequent visit
to Priory Road.
Joan became very pale as she listened to him; her lips twiched, and
the tears came into her eyes.
<l Oh, how dreadful! I never heard anything so shocking. Poor
Rachel! and she will never walk again. And she suffers too, you
say?"
" Yes, they fear she is internally hurt."
" Poor creature! Oh, I am more sorry for her than I can say; and
Ivan takes it badly?"
" Very badly, It has been such a shock to him, you see. He looks
wretched. I suppose he did not sleep last night, and they are all so
busy with her that they can not attend to his comfort. He looked abso-
lutely ill, poor fellow! there was quite a shrunken look about him."
Launcelot was certainly not mincing matters, for he was determined
to put things in their strongest light before Joan, but he was hardly pre-
pared for the result of his words.
" Oh!" she said, bursting into tears, " do you think I may go to him?
Would he be very angry if he saw me?"
"Angry, my dear Mrs. Thorpe why? I have come here with the
express purpose of asking you to come back with me."
" Do you mean that Ivan has sent for me?"
" No, I can not say that;" but he was sorry to see how the eager light
died out of her eyes at his words. " Your name was not mentioned be-
tween us; but as he talked to me of his trouble the thought came into
my mind that I would come and tell you how things were."
234 OXLY THE
" You are very good very kind to li;i\ -e taken all this trouble; but,
Ivan oh. Mr. Chudleiuh, 1 am afraid if li" should be fin
" lie A\ ill not In- angry."
4i I low do you know? I am not f9rgiven yet. I think it is rather i.
bold tiling for me lo do."
" What, to go to your husband when he is in trouble?"
If In- is still oiVended with me; besides, he will be thinking of
her now, and he will not want me."
" .Mrs. Thorpe, if I were you I should go."
Why'.'"
" IVeausc it is your duty to be with your husband, and because he is
raiinir out his noble heart with sorrow and loneliness. Never mind
whether he is angry or not. Just listen to your woman's heart that is
prompting you to go to him."
" 1 Want to go, = 8he whispered. " I do not feel I can keep away."
"Will you put on your bonnet then? and I will take you. I'lmve
kept my hansom, so we shall be at the station in a few minutes. Do
not delay. Please go and get ready." And as she stood irresolutely
by her chair he took her hand and led her to the door. " Do not keep
me waiting," he said, smiling at her, and she went upstairs as obedi-
ently as a child.
" God bless her! she has a good heart, and it belongs to her hus-
band," thought Launcelot, as he went back into the room. And as he
paced up and down he blessed her again in his inmost soul that, in spite
of all the sorrow she had caused him, she had yet left her image pure
and unstained in his mind. " I always said she was good, in spite of
all," he said, triumphantly, as though this thought were his sole com-
fort.
Joan hardly spoke during their journey, but sat quiet and subdued in
her corner of the railway carriage. Now and then the wide, beautiful
eyes had a scared look in them, but she did not again say she was afraid,
only as they walked down Priory Road in the November dusk she sud-
denly touched Lauucelot's arm.
" Are you coming in with me?"
" Well, no; that would hardly do."
' 1 suppose not. Dp you mind walking up and down for a few min-
I know it is childish of me to ask you, but it will give me more
courage if I feel you are just outside."
" Very well. I will be on guard for the next quarter of an hour
not longer, remember."
" No, a quarter of an hour will satisfy me. If he send me away, I
shall join you before that."
" lie will not send you away."
" Don't be too sure of that. There, I have actually forgotten my
how absurd! Did you notice the omission, Mr. Chudleigh?
l>ut Launcelot, assured her gravely that he had noticed nothing, and
then he set open the high iron gate and rang the bell for her. He heard
the servant it was not Merton aat .loan's name, but he did not catch
11 disl not give her name. " Your master knows me," she said,
quickly, and she walked toward the study. A hesitating knock
followed by a .somewhat drowsy " Come in," and without wailin
;rage to oo/.e out Joan opened the door.
Mr. Thorpe was sitting by the fire; perhaps he had been asleep, for
ked heavy and da/ed, and he made no attempt to rise from
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 235
his chair when he saw Joan. The pule hagganhu'ss of his face iilUvl
her with dismay. Laimcelot was right; he certainly looked ill.
" Always the same dream," she heard him mutter; "she comes in at
that door and looks at me."
" It is really Joan it is no dream wake up, Ivan," she said, coming
closer to him, but not venturing to touch him; then he gave a great
start.
" Joan really Joan! and here!"
" Yes," she said, taking courage, for he had not repulsed her, and
there was a strange eagerness in his voice that, thrilled her and drew her
closer. "Yes, do not he angry with me, Ivan, and send me away; '
and then she knelt down beside him, and he could see the marks of
recent tears upon her face, and the wistfulness in her great gray eyes.
and if he did not take her to his heart at that moment it was because lie
wanted her to speak and tell him how this miracle had been effected,
that slit; had come to him of her own accord.
"Oil," she went on, but he could hear how her voice trembled,
" when ]\Ir. Chudleigh came and told me what had happened I felt as
though I could not stop away any longer, as though 1 must brave
evervthing to let you know how sorry I am for her and you too. Poor
Rachel! to think of what she is suffering; but I will be so good, so
good, if you will only let me stay and nurse her."
" You will stity here with her and me? say that again, Joan."
" Why, how could she go, poor soul! when she will never walk
again, anil will have to be tended like a baby. She will want a sister
then to wait upon her. Oh, Ivan! do you think she will forget all that
has passed?"
" 1 think I think " But what Mr. Thorpe thought was never
rendered in words, for his voice died away; but as Joan looked at him
evervthing was made plain to her from that moment, and she not only
knew that she was forgiven, but that he had always loved her, and as
she felt his arms round her she lifted up her face to his, and the hus-
band and wife kissed each other.
There were broken words, sacred confidences never to be forgotten
by either speaker during the agitated minutes that followed the recon-
ciliation. Of the two the man was the most moved; his nature was
stirred to its very depths. Joan wept and trembled as she realized for
the first time how she had trilled with this generous heart, how she had
goaded and wounded it without compunction and pity, for the veil was
withdrawn now from her eyes, and she knew that what she had taken
for coldness was the proud reticence of a great love.
" If I had only known that you really cared for me!" she said more
than once.
" Cared for you, oh, my darling! if you knew T how I wanted you, and
what those Sundays were to me! Often and often I would have taken
you in my arms and begged you to come back, but your coldness stopped
me; one kind word would have opened rny lips."
"Oh, Ivan! and I only teased you. I longed to be friends all the
time, but it was my horrid pride. I said to myself that I had been re-
pulsed once, and that I would never give you a chance of repelling me
again."
" Repulsed, Joan?"
" Yes, that night at the Witchens, when you would not look at me,
though I pleaded w r ith you. If you had listened to me I should have
been kneeling beside you then as I am kneeling now,"
236 ONLY Tin: i-:ss.
" Are you kneeling, my darling? and I never knew it. TTow tired
you must lie! and yet your dear l':ice looks so fresh and beautiful, l.rl
ivc you this ehair." But Joan resisted this; she was not tired a
bit, and she liked her position; and as she put her head down on hi*
shoulder and nestled to him, Mr. Thorpe, was satisfied to let thin
main as they were. Joan was accepting her happiness with a child's
simplicity; everything had come right, and she and Ivan would never
misunderstand each other again, only she said to him once, half play-
fully and half seriously
"'You are saying all these pretty things to me, and I am, oh! so proud
to hear them; but you know I am still Joan, and shall disappoint you
again and again."
" ( )h, I am not afraid of that," he answered, in an offhand way. " I
dare say you will behave very badly sometimes, and give me plenty of
trouble, but I shall be proof against annoyance now when you tea.-
1 shall remind you of your own words." '
" What words?" she whispered, pressing closer to him.
" That you love me, and that you have never cared for any other
man; you 'will not be able to contradict that"
" And of course it is a wonderful thing that I should care for my own
husband," she returned, with a charming pout, " especially after 'all he
has done for me. Ivan, I don't mean ever to be afraid of you again,
but how could I help it when you kept me at such a distance? We have
both been very foolish people, but \ve know better now."
" I only hope I shall not spoil you, Joan."
" Try it," she returned, with a beaming look at him; " you will see
how spoiling agrees with me. When people are proud of nie and make
much of me, I always feel as blissful as a cat warming herself before a
tire in a placid, contented, purring state. You must never look sternly
at me again."
"Not when you wear that smile for me, certainly. Joan, do you
know, has any one told j r ou that }'ou have grown more beautiful than
ever?"
" Oh, to hear his blarney!" she said, blushing nevertheless with pleas-
ure. " Did you ever pay me compliments before, Ivan?" But if he
talked nonsense for the first time in his life, it might be forgiven him
when he was dizzy with this unexpected happiness.
But they both looked a little foolish when the maid came in and told
them that dinner was waiting; as it was, the meal was unconscionably
late, but Jane had almost forgotten her master.
"I hope you have laid for Mrs. Thorpe, " he observed, nervously,
conscious that Jane's eyes were resting on Joan's face; with undisgui>ed
curiosity; and then as she withdrew, too much astonished to answer, he
helped '.Joan to remove her bonnet and mantle, and then took her into
the dining-room.
It was rather an awkward meal, for neither of them liked to speak
much while Jane remained in the room; but once when Ivan looked up
and saw his wife's face opposite to him in the old place, as she sat with
downcast eyes playing with the food in her plate, a sort of mist rose to
68, and there was a choking sensation in his throat as he thought
of the old desolate days.
-oon as they were left alone, Joan glanced at the clock on the man-
tel-pi-
" Ivan, it is getting late; I must go soon.."
" What do you mean?" he sai I, almost dropping his glass and staring
OKLY THE GOVERNESS. 237
fit her. " If you think that I shall ever let you out of my sight again
you are mistaken, Joan."
"Oh, but I must go," she returned, laughing. " Just listen, Ivan,
and as he came round to her she took his hand iu both of hers; " I could
not treat Mrs. Mi dhurst so badly. You know I only left word that I
was going out with Mr. Chudleigh, and what would she think if I never
came back at all?"
"Nonsense! I will send her a message. You shall not leave me,
Joan."
" Oh! now we have the old masterful Ivan; but indeed you must give
me my way in this. I do not like to be shabby, and I am fond of Mrs.
Medhurst. She was far too nice for a keeper."
"Joan, please don't be provoking.''
" Provoking, is it? Oh, the tyranny of these husbands! But, Ivan,
you must hour reason; take me back to Truro Square; the air will do you
good, and you look frightfully pale. Then you will be able to sleep,
and when you wake in the morning you will remember that you came
to fetch me."
" Oh, I am to fetch you, am I?"
" Fes; but not too early, please. I have all my things to pack. If
you are good you may come to luncheon, and this young woman will
be ready for you."
" I wonder you have the heart to leave me." Then Joan looked very
softly at him.
" It is only for a few hours, and I do not want to be selfish. Ivan,
will you promise me one thing? do not tell Rachel that I have been
here.
" I should not have told her," he returned, rather sadly; " there must
be nothing to agitate her just }*et."
" No; and I will tell her myself. Oh, I mean to be so good to her,
and to you too. I think I am too happy ever to be naughty again."
And then as Joan took her husband's arm and walked with him in the
dim starlight, a sense of peace and right-doing seemed to steal over her,
and she knew the contrary currents of her nature would be checked and
controlled by the calm force of her husband's will that reasonable
man's will which is removed at once from weakness and tyranny.
" No, 1 shall never misunderstand Ivan again," were the last waking
thoughts that night before she sunk into a happy dream.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
RACHEL'S NEMESIS.
Thou hast done well, perhaps,
To show how closely wound
Dark threads of sin and self
With our best deeds are found;
How great and noble hearts,
Stirring for lofty aims,
Have still some earthly and
A meaner spirit claims.
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.
So it was that Ivan Thorpe won his wife's heart and kept it, and that
in his trouble Joan proved his truest comforter.
When Launcelot called the next day, he looktd at his friend some-
what keenly.
" It is all right, then? I am so glad, Thorpe."
OtfLY TTFE
" Yes, I am going to fetch her now; she could nol stay last night be-
cause they \vere expecting her back.''
" Don't let me keep you. 1 only want, to know how .Miss Thm-pe is
this morning."
" We hope the pain is lessening. She certainly slept a little. I had
a long talk with Maxwell just now, and he seemed rather more hopeful;
but we are to keep her perfectly quiet for the next week or two; she
must not even know that Joan is in the house."
" You will have to be very careful, then."
" Oh, yes, we must be careful. Happily, the house is old, and the
walls are thicker than the modern houses, and the stairs are carpeted."
" Still, Miss Thorpe has sharp eyes, and that very cheerful expression
may tell tales." Then Mr. Thorpe laughed.
' : Of course I know what you mean, but I feel grave enough when I
am in her room. Wh* a mystery life is, Chudleigh! One is struck
down and another uplijKd at the same moment. Last evening, as I sat
alone in my study, I ujpught things were at their worst, and then I
looked up, and there was Joan's face."
" I am glad you think I did not take a liberty in going to her."
" My dear fellow, a liberty? What do I not owe to you? everything,
everything!''
" Absolutely nothing."
" Oh, no; I am not weighed down with a sense of my indebtedness
not at all. You have been like a brother to me, and have treated Joan
with the chivalry and good faith of a gentleman. Why, it is to you I
owe my life and my wife's return, and yet I am not to speak of my
gratitude!"
" No, indeed; there must be no such word between us, Thorpe."
" Oh, but there must be, for Joan and for myself too. We will not
incur such benefits without owning ourselves grateful. If I am happy
enough to possess such a friend, I may surely speak out my inind to
him.'"
" If it will do you good, Thorpe, but I would rather take everything
for "ran ted; besides, I know you would have done the same for inc."
" I don't know that. I am not Launcclot Chudleigh."
" All the better for you, old fellow," remarked Launce, quaintly.
And then he took up his hat and walked with his friend to the station.
" So my young woman is ready for me," were Mr. Thorpe's first words
as Joan came into the room with a demure air, but looking so lovely.
" Oh, yes, and you are ten minutes late. I have been watching for
you for the last hour, and was just beginning to get anxious for fear
liachel was not so well."
" \Ye think she is a trifle better, dear, but Chudleigh came in, anil
that detained me. Are we to have luncheon here? But you must mine
away directly afterward. I shall not be satisfied till I see \ou sitting
opposite to me in the study. Why are you laughing, -loan?'
' Because because you arc BO ridiculous," she returned, with a lov-
ing Hi Me squee/e of his hand to make up for her rude speech, for .loan
could not long remain on her best behavior, and it was too delicious to
van showing all the impatience of a love-sick boy. " Hut I will
nol tea'-e you, Ivan, I will be good; you shall have your luncheon, and
1 will wait upon you like a dutiful wife."
" Indeed, no; I mean to wait on my own sweetheart."
" Oh! to think of him conning me in that way! Ivan, I am sorry I
said you looked old that 1 told Mr. Chudleigh so I think you hiiv
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 239
grown younger that I never knew you so young before. " But though
Mr. Thorpe smiled at tin's, he saw very well that Joan was a little shy
of him this morning, and that in spile of her bright speeehes the tears
lay very near the surface. Even as she jested with him, speaking of
herself as his young woman and making little jokes on the subject, her
changing color and quick, restless movements spoke volumes to the
eyes that had learned how to read her so truly.
But as they stood together on the steps of the house in Priory Road,
Joan slipped her hand into her husband's.
" Let us cross it together, Ivan," she whispered, ami now he could
see her eyes were wet. " Do you remember old Biddy's saying, ' Hand
in hand across the threshold for good luck, acushla?' "
Mr. Thorpe was in no mood to laugh at Joan's little superstition; he
only held her hand very tightly, as though he understood her mean-
ing!
But when they had entered the study and he had made her remove
her bonnet, he would have taken her in his arms with words of the
sweetest welcome, but she put her hands on his shoulder and bade him
wait a moment.
" Don't kiss me yet, Ivan; I want to say something to you."
" My darling, it was all said yesterday, and to-day it is my turn, and
I will not hear one word that relates to the past; this is our new life
that we are beginning together."
our new life," she echoed, " but I want you to remember all
I said to you yesterday. I will try to be good; I will try to be all that
n wife ought to be; but I am only Joan, I can not alter my nature."
" I do not wish it altered," he returned, looking into her sad, beauti-
ful eyes. "It was Joan whom I loved all those weary years ago,
though she never knew what was in my heart for her. It was Joan for
whom I pined and sickened in my loneliness, and whom I loved still
even when I was most angry with her, and it is the same Joan whom I
am holding in my arms now." And then she no longer refused to yield
herself to his caresses.
And so the new life began for them both; but in spite of their happi-
ness, a happiness that increased and deepened every day, there was
much to try them.
Upstairs Joan would pass her sister-in-law's room with noiseless foot-
step and bated breath; now and then she would pause on the threshold
as the faint tones of Rachel's voice met her ears, then the tears would,
come into her eyes and she would hurry on.
Ivan, too, had need of vigilance and 'circumspection during the hours
lie spent with his sister, but in spite of all his efforts he could not entire-
ly hide that some change had passed over him; a certain brightness of
eye and alertness of movement betrayed him.
Rachel would lie and look at him rather wistfully; once she said to
him, with a touch of pathos in her voice, " How well you look, Ivan!
One would think you have heard some good news."
"Well, so I have," he replied, with suspicious readiness. '" Max-
^rell tells me he- is perfectly satisfied with your progress, and that if
you go on as you are doing we shall see a decided improvement in a few
days."
" The pain is far less now," ?he returned, with a short sigh; " I sup-
pose I ought to be thankful for that. You have sent off the letters,
Ivan; have you had any answer?"
" Yes; Miss Halliwell will undertake the work, I will show you
240 ONLY TTTT:
li tier to-morrow. Tt is r, thoroughly sensible, business-like >
he speaks so kindly <>f you. 1 think she will be the right person
in the. right place. That was' a happy thought of yours." ' But lliere
was no answering brightness on J Michel's pale face, only a slight twitch-
ing of the thin lips answered him.
-V fortnight had passed since Rachel's accident, but she had never since
spoken to her brother on the subject of her helplessness. She had ques-
tioned Dr. Maxwell and had learned from him all that it was nee.
lor ir>r to know that they hoped that in a little while she would
to suffer. i.u she must never expect to lead an active life again.
" And I am only forty.fi ve hardly an old woman, Doctor Maxwell.
Bat there, what is the use of complaining? we must take what Provi-
dence orders."
' True; and things might be much worse," he returned, with a man's
philosophy. "You must make up your mind to be an invalid; but I
need not tell you, Miss Thorpe, that even an invalid has pleasures.
Mow, my sister Brencla, for example, is one of the happiest \vonun I
know." But Miss Thorpe remained silent. Complaint would do her
no good, and she had already determined, with the force of her strong
will, that whatever she suffered, 110 weak rcpiuings should pass her
lips that she would not add to Ivan's trouble by letttiug him know
what she suffered.
So, with a stern heroism that belonged to her nature, she set herself
to face the future. The work was taken from her, but at least she
could sec that her mantle had fallen on a worthy successor, and as soon
as possible she had sent for her brother, and had begged him to write
letters from her dictation, and one of these was to Miss Halli well.
" Yes, it is a great relief to my mind to know that she lias taken it,"
she went on, when her brother had ceased speaking. " I should have
been grieved if the society had suffered just as it is'in such good work-
ing order; but Miss Halli well is exactly the person to canyon the work.
She is strong, has no nerves; and then her time is her own. She lives
with a married sister who has no children, and has no duties to fetter
her."
" Yes, and she will be a godsend to you; but, all the same, no one
can even properly take your place, Rachel. I have never said a word
to you about your trouble " but she put up her hand to stop him.
" No, and I have thanked you for it. \Ve do not need word
and I. If I said anything it would be to regret that I am to be an' in-
eumbrance to you all my life; but I will not hurt you by saying
that."
" That is the truest kindness you have yet shown me." Then a sot!
r-ned look came to her eyes.
" No, I will not wrong your generosity by saying any such thing. I
know what we are to each other, and that there' is no grudging thought,
in your mind." Then he kissed her forehead, almost too much n
to speak, and as he did so he noticed how gray her hair was growing.
"I suppose you see Joan sometime-. .linued, pi<
though following out some train of thought. Ivan stalled, and' had
80me difficulty in Controlling the muscles of his face as he answered; for
ot .Joan at tliat moment tidying his papers and singing under he r
breath at her work for fear Rachel should hear her?
"Oh, ; her sometimes," he returned, rather awkwardly
' V*.u know I told you S."
" And she is well?"
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 241
" Oh, yes; but she is very grieved at what has happened. She has
sent her love to you again and again, only I have never delivered her
message. Now, there is nurse coming buck, and I must go." And he
rose, thankful for the interruption; for what if she should question him
too closely about Joan?
But Rachel lay for a long time without speaking after he had left her.
Joan why was Joan alway*in her mind now, night and day? Why
could she never get rid of her image for a single hour in spite of all her
efforts?
Always her face was before her, now in one mood and now in an-
other; now it would wear a mocking expression, or the next moment the
gray eyes would be brilliant and angry with excitement. "It is only
one of her Irish raises; it is best to leave her alone,", she would have said
at such a time. But even as the recollection crossed her, the expression
would seem to change to one of sweetest entreaty. " We are sisters:
why can not we love each of her V" it seemed to say. " If you love Ivan,
why are you so hard to me? You are cruel, Rachel," and so on in her
waking and dreaming moments.
Yes, she had been cruel to Joan; and this was her punishment, though
no such confession crossed her lips. She knew that this was her pun-
ishment, and in her helplessness and desolation she told herself that it
was the hand of her God that lay so heavy upon her.
" What has she done that such a punishment has come upon her?"
hud been Ivan's words, speaking in the bitterness of his heart. But
Rachel could have told him that her sin had been great. Had she not
made an idol of her brother? had she cared for aught in life but for
him and for her work? What would it avail to her that she had fed the
hungry and clothed the naked, when her cruelty, her coldness and hard-
had driven her sister-in-law away from her home when her nar-
row jealousy, her harsh judgment, had first alienated Ivan from his
wife, and had led to their separation?
True, Joan had sinned grievously; but had she no share in that sin
when she suffered the girl to wander about the world unguarded except
by her own innocence? What terrible responsibility she had incurred
by keeping this secret from Ivan! {She had sat beside him evening after
evening seeing his unhappiuess, and yet had held on her pitiless way!
She had done it for his good; but who had made her the arbiter of his
fate?
And now so she told herself her Nemesis had overtaken her. In
the full vigor and strength of her middle age an unerring blow had
struck her down and taken her work from her, she was no longer
worthy to do it God would not accept such sacrifice. The life that
had looked so pure and self-denying to others was full of hideous un-
clean ness to the Divine eyes of her Judge!
" Blessed are the merciful;" but had she ever shown mercy?
" Blessed are the peace-makers;" and die had sown bitterest dissension.
" And, to dare to think myself a good woman!" thought Rachel, wrath-
ing under the fierce mysterious pain caused by those strokes of the two
edged sword that men call conscience " to^believe that the world would
be better as long as I lived in it, who dared to do Christ's work without
the Christ-like spirit that should go with it!"
And then she thought of the ragged little ones for whom she had
Worked, and tears of womanly anguish coursed down her cheeks.
' No, I am not worthy; I own my sin," she murmured, clasping her
hands in the darkness, " but, good Lord, <h<> sin is mine: let not
OKI
little ones suffer through my fault. Put it into some other woman's
head to take up the dropped work, and I will 1. iffer."
And perhaps the pure un>eltMtness of this prayer brought the d<
when Miss llalliwell oil'ereil h erst- If for the work.
After all Rachel Thorpe was a good woman. If she- had ii \
she had great virtues too; her patience and silent fortitude under sutler-
ing, her unwillingDess to give unnecessary trouble, drew many a word
of praise from her doctor and nurse.
" You are the best patient 1 ever had," Dr. Maxwell said to her once,
make no I'hjei-lion to anything 1 presciibe; and I know many
le who would have their grumble ut the doctor if I ordered them
that."
"There seems nothing left but obedience," she answered, with a
smile. " Uesides. I should only think it ungrateful to grumble, when
you lake .such trouble about me!"
" I only wish I could do more for you," lie returned, with real feel-
ing, as he took his leave. Dr. Maxwell was beginning to feel great in-
iu his patient; he told his sisters that Miss Thorpe was a line.
creature.
But not all her doctor's skill or kindness or her nurse's attention could
lighten the tedium of those dreary November days, or lift that bitter
weight from Rachel's heart; and as she looked out on the 1(
and gray skies, she told herself that the winter of her life had come.
Ivan was very good to her, very gentle and attentive; but the knowl-
edge of his own happiness, and Joan's presence in the house, compelled
him to make his visits to the sick-room somewhat brief, he was so
afraid of betraying himself.
Once they both heard Joan pass the door she had forgotten for the
moment, and had run up in her old fashion. Ivan even fancied she
was humming a tune.
" Whose footstep is that?" asked Rachel, suddenly. " Merton never
runs upstairs in that way. ' '
" I will see," he said, going to the door; for no answer seemed ;
ble to him under the circumstances, and there was Joan, peeping at him
from the opposite room. She looked rather aghast as he n
to her to close the door.
"I see no one, " she heard him say, after this little maneiu
taken place. " I think Merton and nurse are down-stairs, but I will
give them a hint to go up and down more quietly." But Rachel 1"
him to do nothing of the kind the house was silent enough, ai
almost longed for .--ome sound to break the monotony; but, true 1o her
rule not to complain, she did not mention her feelings on this point.
Joan pleaded vainly with her husband to be allowed to enter the tick-
room, but he always evaded her request.
" You must wait a few days longer," he would say, "until Max-
well is quite sure there will be no risk; but I dread any agitation foi
Rachel in her presonl weak state." An, I.Joan reluctantly submitted.
I Jut she had no idea that Ivan was thinking more of her than of the
invalid; that his passionate fond IK-MS could not brook the th<
loud on that bright face. " She is like a child in her happ :
not endure the idea of her being imprisoned in that sick-room."
o himself. " Rachel will be hard and cold to hei
loan will droop. Oh, no; I must keep her to myself a little
. 1 hope I am not seliish, but it is for Joan's
Joan had no idea that Ivan was. keeping them apart for any
OKLY THE GOVERNESS. 243
son. If she had guessed the true state of the case she would have thrown
her arms round her husband's neck and thanked him for his tender con-
sideration for her, and then she would have run upstairs and made her
with Rachel. With all her faults, Joan was no coward, and
would not have shrunk from doing her duty to her sister-in-law.
After nil, it was Joan's knight-errant Launcelot who cut the Gordian
knot of dilliculty in his impulsive, practical way.
One afternoon, when Ivan came up to his sister's room, she asked him
if Mr. Chudleigh were still in the house. " I heard him speaking to
you in the hall when nurse left my door open just now," she said,
quietly, " and I should like to see him, if you think he would not mind
the trouble of coming up."
" .My dear Rachel, Chudleigh never thinks anything a trouble. He
call* constantly at the door to ask after you, and Mrs. Chudleigh or Miss
Pauline is here two or three times a week." But here Mr. Thorpe bit
his lip, as though he had said too much. It was quite true that the
ladies from the Witchens asked after his sister, but it was nevertheless
the fact thfit their visits were to Joan.
Mrs. Chudleigh had cried a little when she had taken Joan in her arms
during her first visit. The girl had come into the room smiling and
holding out her hands, and then, at the sight of her friend's face, she
had clung to her without speaking.
" My dear, I need not ask if you are happy," she said, fondling her.
" I am so glad, so very glad, Joan."
" Yes, and you are my first visitor," returned Joan, drying her eyes
and looking up with her beaming smile; " and you must stop and have
tea with me, and then you will see Ivan. Oh,' I don't think you will
know him, he is so changed. He has grown quite young and handsome,
I tell him. I never heard him laugh before, and I have made him laugh
twice already.
" You have given him back his youth, Joan."
" So he says. Oh, he is always making such pretty speeches to ine.
Ivan making pretty speeches! lie says he lias to make up for
ime, because he had been such an unsatisfactory lover. lie had
no idea that girls wanted pretty speeches made to them. He thought if
a man wanted to marry a woman that that was a compliment to last her
life; but he has found out his mistake now," with a merry nod of her
head.
," Joan is a fortunate girl; I can see her husband adores her," were
Mrs. Chudleigh's words to Pauline when she returned home that day.
" It was not what he said to her, for he is a very quiet man, but the
way he looked at her when she was speaking or if she. moved. He was
al \vays on the alert to open the door or wait upon her. Oh, women
notice these little things. Depend upon it, he can not bear her out of
his sight. Joan tells me that though he pretends to grumble if she dis-
turbs him at his work, he is never easy unless she brings her work and
sits with him; and he is teaching her book-keeping and helping her with
accounts, so that she may be able to manage her housekeeping. ,
She has much to learn, but he is so patient over her mistakes that she
will soon make a clever housekeeper."
"You are right, mother; I think she is very fortunate," returned
Pauline, with a sigh, which was quickly checked, however, as she took
np her work a cushion thot she was embroidering for Brenda. If
Pauline in her sturdy honesty thougl* that Joan had hardly merited all
this wealth of love, she was none the less thankful that her friend's
OXLY TITT:
troubles were over. Shi 1 did not erudge Joan her happi
though slu> dropped that sigh.
11 Some people have so much, and others so little," she .-aid. " There
A\" Then Mrs. Chudleigh looked grave at the mention of
her daughter's name; for all the world knew that Oscar Ilambh
to marry his cousin the following week. For some rca-on matters have
been hurried on. and Bee was still away, aud would remain with the
lers until the New-year.
" Yc>. poor darling!" she returned, echoing Pauline' or of
all her childn - just then the one nearest her heart. She re-
garded her as the stricken deer that had gone apart to hide its wounds,
and she only spoke of her in a tone of subdued tendern.
It may be doubted whether the Sylvesters saw any of this stricken-
deer mood. In spite of her trouble. Bee danced and hunted, and even
took a part in the private theatricals; and if she eame down in the
morning with pale cheeks and tired eyes, no sensible person would have
accused the successful young beauty of shedding tears instead of
ing.
" Every one admires )^our daughter Beatrix," wrote Cousin Emme-
liue; " she eclipses all our country girls. Captain Elliott seems serious-
ly smitten, and follows her about like a shadow; though I am o>
that the girl gives him little encouragement. He is only the
second son, but he will inherit his mother's fortune, so the title
not matter. And he is nice-looking, and is what lialpli calls a down-
right good fellow."
" Oh, my dear, Bee will never fancy any other man," observed Mrs.
Chudleigh, plaintively, as she folded up the letter. " If she had only
seen Captain Elliott first! Why, they are the Elliotts of Warburton
Abbey a very old family. But no, her life is blighted!" But to this
Launcelot made a very strange reply:
" I don't know about that, Madella. If Captain Elliott is a wise man,
he will just bide his time."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
" WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HER?"
Oh, might we all our lineage prove,
<Ji\v and forgive, do good, and love,
By soft endearments in kind strife
Light'nipg the load of daily life!
Christian 5
RACHEL'S gray eyes softened in their old way at the sight of her
favorite.
Launcelot w&a one of those men who seemed to understand by in-
ttinct how to behave in a sick-room; and yet he was perfectly \\>
to illness. He had been abroad at the time of Lily's death, and his fa-
ther's sudden seizure had allowed no protracted nursing. All th-
of the Chudleighs had been remarkably healthy; nevertheless, no trained
walked into the nvm with a firmer, lighter tread; and there was
iiing in the quiet, unhesitating manner in which he sat
down and took the invalid's hand, holding it for a minute or two be-
iie relinquished it.
" How irood of you to send for me, Miss Thorpe!"
" How .11 to come!" she returned, smiling. " I thought if
1 hud life here/' looking round the Comfortable room a
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 245
spoke, " that it would be hard if I could not see my friends; and you
arc mv vt't-y special and particular friend, are you not?" with an at-
tempt at playfulness; but her lip trembled a little as she saw how much
he \\;'.s affected by her words.
" I hope so. I have done nothing to forfeit my privileges. I wonder
if Thorpe has told you how often I have been to inquire after you? 1
may truly say you have not been out of my mind for a single hour."
'' Oli, we know who has the kindest heart in the world; that is what
I call friendship." And then she drew her hand away and lay quiet
for a few minutes, and Launcclot did not disturb her. ' But as she sat
beside her couch in the vvintery twilight, as the fire-light played upon
her pale face, he noticed, as Ivan had, how gray her hair was growing.
" This will make an old woman of her," he thought, regretfully; and
yet at the same time it struck him that she had never looked nicer. It
was a line face, and the broad, benevolent forehead and the kind ex-
11 of the eyes neutralized the thin, severe lips.
" I hope you arc thinking how comfortable I look," she continued,
rousing herself with an effort. " Is not this invalid couch a grand in-
vention? It saves nurse so much trouble. But it must have cost Ivan
a great deal."
" I don't suppose Thorpe minds that."
" Xo, indeed; Ivan spares no expense. But it was not Ivan who
bought that lovely com. re-pied t all covered with embossed flowers, and
lit for a princess; and it is not Ivan who keeps my room supplied with
hot-house flowers and then the fruit and game."
" Chut! As though such a trifle matters, my dear Miss Thorpe! It
is a charity to cat our grapes; we have more than we want at the
Witehcns."
" Oh, of course you do not wish to be thanked, but all the same I
mean to thank you. And now will you give your step-mother a mes-
I know it is she or Miss Pauline who arranges those lovely
baskets. Will you tell her that if either she or Miss Pauline will call to
see me I shall be too glad to thank them in person?"
"Would you really care to see Madella?" returned Launcelot, in a
pleased voice; for he had not expected this.
" Yes, I shall care to see any of your belongings, Mr. Chudleigh."
And she continued rather plaintively, for somehow it seemed easier for
her to talk to Lauucelot than to Ivan of her trouble. " But I am not un-
selfish in my request. If you only knew how grateful I am for any-
thing to break the monotony of the long day! I suppose it is because
one is weak that one can not control one's thoughts."
" Even in health it is difficult to do so," he replied, gravely.
" Yes, but mine are such sad thoughts. I am always thinking of
past mistakes, and if it be too late to hope to rectify them. Mr. Chud-
leigh, I wanted to tell you that you were right in what you said to me
about Joan. I am afraid I was too hard on her."
" Would you like to see her and tell her so?" he returned, in the most
matter-of-fact way, and not at all as though her remark surprised him.
" Yes no Ivan would not like it. He wished me to have nothing
to do with her; he told me so. I asked him if I should go and see
Joan, and he said certainly not."
" He has taken strange means to keep you apart then."
" How do you mean?"
" Why, Mrs. Thorpe is here living here and has been here for the
last mouth; but they were all too much afraid to let you know. The
21G OSXY Tin:
moment Mrs. Thorpe heard of your accident she came here to her hus-
biiul ami beu'uvd to be allowed to nurse ym; but he would not li>tm to
that for a luonu-nt. because Doctor Maxwell said you were to be k
quiet and nothing was to woiry you, so she went back. lint the next
clay Thorpe fetched her, and she has been here ever since."
"Joan here!'' and Aii<s Thorpe's tone was u little excited. " Then
that was the reason they would not leave my door open, and that Ivan
stayed so little with me ut first! Ah, that accounts, too, for all that
pu/./led me. I thought he seemed so unaccountably cheerful m
though he were trying to look grave than if he really felt so."
" Poor fellow! 1 suspect it was hard for him to disguise his feeling.
Miss Thorpe, it is just as I told you: they are two of the happie-
pie in the world now they understand each other only they wai;
to share their happii;
" I shall only spoil it, as I spoiled it before," she replied, bluntly.
" No; you are wiser now, and will do nothing of the kind. Provi-
dence has taken matters out of your hands. Your sister-in-law is re-
established in her proper place, and is only longing for a complete recon-
ciliation. Let me tell her that you are ready to sec her."
" To-day now? Oh, I am not strong enough for a scene you have
no idea how weak I am, and Joan is so excitable." And the old
irritable look came into Rachel's eyes.
" I will not press you against your will," returned Launcelot, gently,
" tfiough I think you would sleep better to-night, and enjoy greater rest
of mind, if you made the effort. But I am afraid I am tiring you; I
have already talked too much." But Miss Thorpe would not'let him
P>; she looked anxious and undecided, in just the nervous state that
would certainly induce a sleepless night.
" You are disappointed in me," she said at last, very abruptly; " you
thought I was a better Christian. I want to see Joan, but I can not
summon up courage to send for her: my weakness is making me a
coward for the first time in my life. Of course you can not understand
such miserable indecision."
Launcelot seemed to ponder over these words; he was bringing his
common sense to bear on the difficulty. Miss Thorpe was nervous, but
delay would only increase her nervousness; she seemed to dread a proba-
ble scene, but what if there should be no scene? Thorpe was out of the
way he had gone up to town. Should he take it on himself?
" I am afraid I must disappoint you; I can't bring myself to send for
her," she said, in quite a despairing voice.
" All right, don't flurry yourself; I will bring her," returned Lannee-
l.'it, cheerfully; and he actually walked out of the room, leaving
Thorpe too much astonished at this brisk treatment to utter u word,
She had not even the presence of mind to call him back, or to forbid
this independent action on his part; she could only lie there grim and
p;,le, with nervous coldness creeping round the region of her 1
How long it was since he had gone! Ten minutes, surely! Of course
Joan was standing on her dignity and would not come. Well, sh-
the mistress of the house, and there would be no one to interfere with
her rights just now r . A poor, paralyzed creature with shattered nerves
Was not likely to be a formidable rival.
" 1 will own my fault against her. I will pi arc myself in the wrong,
and perhaps that will satisfy her; and I will try and hold my t-
when she i <me (! her Irish speeches; but more than
that I dare not promise." Rachel was working herself up to just that
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 247
restless point when sheer nervousness would induce her to say thft
wrong thing; in hen heart she was longing for Joan's forgiveness, if her
pride could ever stoop to entreat for it; but it was just this confession
that was so difficult to her reserved, undemonstrative nature.
Poor Rachel lay quaking in no very enviable state of mind and body
when Launcelot's quick tap at the door announced his return; but he
only stood by it a moment to let Joan pass him, and then closed it gen-
tly on them and went down-stairs.
Rachel put out her hand and tried to speak as Joan came up to her
couch. No doubt Launcelot had been carefully tutoring Joan for the
part she was to play, for her step was quiet and her manner composed,
until the sight of that helpless figure under the eider-down quilt stirred
her out of her composure. That Rachel, the strong, untiring, energetic
woman, should be lying there helpless as a child! Oh, the pity of it!
Joan forgot the part assigned her there; instead of the calm, matter-of-
fact greeting that was to pass between them, she threw her arms round
Rachel, and burst into impulsive tears.
" Oh, my poor dear," she said, " this is too dreadful! To see you
lying here and not able to move, and they would not let me come to
were running down her cheeks in Joan's impulsive way.
"Oh, Joan," began Rachel, faintly; but Joan would not let her
speak.
" Oh, the times I have begged Ivan just to let me creep into the room
and sit by you a little when you were asleep! for I thought if you woke
up and found me here, you would have said to yourself, ' So Joan has
come back and wants to make herself useful, poor child; and I will be
good to her and let her stop; and there shall not be a word said about
her bad behavior, because we are sisters and Ivan has forgiven her.' '
" Joan Joan will you let me speak?"
" No, darling, not until you have kissed me, and that will lell me
without any words that you too have forgiven me; for Mr. Chudleigh
says that you are too weak to talk, and that there must be no scene at
all; and he is the best man in the world next to Ivan, and so he must
be obeyed. Ah, now I have made you cry, and Ivan and Mr. Chud-
leigli will be angry with me! Oh, my clear, my dear! please don't do
it!" And Joan put her own handkerchief to Rachel's eyes, and coaxed
and made much of her, until the sweetness of those caresses seemed to
melt the hard, frozen weight round Rachel's heart. Joan had taken
her by storm; there was no place for pride, no opportunity even for
confession.
Rachel in her weakness and confusion could only bring out a broken
Word or two at intervals, which Joan promptly quenched. " Sorry! of
course you are sorry, and so am I, that I was such a bad, ill-tempered
girl that you could not love me a bit; but we won't talk about that now;
It is dead and gone, as the children say. Oh, I am to forgive you, am
I? I thought it was I who was to be forgiven. But you shall have
your own way. Now let me get you your tea nurse has gone out for
a walk. Will it tire you too much to tell me how you like things, or
hall Merton come up?"
" No, no; please stop with me, Joan."
" Oh, I must kiss you again for that, it is so dear of you to want m&
24:8 ONLY Tin-: i:ss.
Xow U'll ino, dar] ; .r,, will you have the curtains closed and the lamf
lighted, or do \ it ?"
" Whichever you like, Joan."
" Very well; 'if I am to choose I should like the lamp, because 1 can
. and you do look so nice! I wonder whether il is
ay hair n . or that lovely quilt and that dainty little
liawll I never saw you in anything but back before. Now, do
you like the round table, clo-e to your couch? anil may 1 have i.
heie too? or will it disturb you':" And as Kachel shook her head, .loan
lri ; >pcd about the room and made her little preparations, quite uncon-
scious of tho tide of penitence and love thai was rising in Rachel's
breast.
Rachel knew as she watched her that she had hungered secretly 1'or a
sight of Joan's bonnie face. The girl's fresh beauty and simple uncon-
scious ways tilled her with surprise and admiration. How gracefully
and quietly she moved about the room! how lightly and ea-ily she
touched things! Her questions did not fatigue Kachel, though their
childishness made -her smile. She was so anxious to please in trill;
sure that Rachel must know her own mind and regulate her sick-room,
sh" would scarcely take her own tea, of which she made a pretense, for
watching every mouthful that Rachel took. "Is that all you take?"
fhe said, sorrowfully, when the little meal was ended " just a crumb
of sponge cake that would feed a canary!"
It. was not until Joan had cleared away the tea- things and brushed up
ihe hearth that she consented to sit quietly down and talk a little, and
then it was that Rachel made her little speech, though it was not quite
liie speech she intended.
" Joan, 1 believe we have both been to blame for the past trouble. If
you had guarded your temper better and I had provoked you less and
made things easier for you, you would never have leit Ivan. And, my
for my own peace of mind you must let me say this, that my
greatest sin against you was keeping Ivan in ignorance that you had left
your situation. A less generous woman than yourself would find it
hard to forgive that; and though you and he may pass it over in your
mutual content and happiness, it Is that sin I can not forgive myself."
" Then you are very naughty and uncharitable to your poor self,
Rachel, and we shall have to be dreadfully fond of you to make up lor
your own hardness." But Rachel only smiled at this very Iri h
sophistry, and went on
" If repentance means trying to do better, I hope to prove to both you
and Ivan that 1 am truly repentant, though I am not a woman to'pul
my deeds into words. To be sure, there is nothing I can do for cithei
'i now; I can give nothing and receive everything whi'
very unfair arrangement under the cireumstai
"Not at all," maintained Joan, stoutly. "The real kindness and
charity will be letting me wait on you after what has parsed, givi:
i splits to one who has justly forfeited them. It is }'ou who will be
,ic, Rachel, when you permit me to take my plan- here.
Thi< room is your castle, and no 'one can invade it without your leave
and li
" Then I will make you free of it. Come when you like and as often
i like, .loan, and 1 will try to bi ;<T to you and you
lightly." And .Joan, who had ever honored
Kache] in her heart in fcpite of all her girlioh anger, knew that thi-
OtfLY 'I l-RNESS. i4M
the truth, and that when Rachel couhl speak such words their recon-
ciliation was indeed complete.
When 'Mr. Thorpe came back that evening he marveled greatly that
Joan was not on the watch to greet him as usual. The drawing-room
and study were both deserted.
; ie must be upstairs dressing for dinner," he thought, and he won-
dered what gown she would wear, and if the dark red chrysanthemums
he had brought with him would be available to complete her toilet: for
it had become a habit with him to bring her in ilowers ever since he had
sc< a her delight over a few orchids he had brought her once from a
friend's conservatory.
lie hud something else for her to-night a beautiful gypsy ring with
three diamond-; sunk in the thick gold band, that was to replace I lie old
gold keeper for he knew well that this was the anniversary of her
wedding-day, though he had taken no notice of the fact; and he won-
dered it' Joan had recollected it, she was always so careless of dates. In
reality Joan was awa^of it, but a sort of mixture of pride and humility
and wholesome shame prevented her from mentioning it to Ivan. She
thought that Ivan, like herself, recoiled from the memory of that cold,
bleak wedding, when she had stood before the jillar ashy, reluctant
bride, who knew nothing of the nature of the man she was marrying,
except that he had spoken kindly to her and had promised her a com-
fortable home.
Ivan was in a far more lover-like mood now as he stood chafing in
his empty study, with the brilliant ring hidden in waistcoat pocket and
the dusky red ilowers in his hand, thinking of Joan's girlish fancy for
diamonds because they Hashed so brightly, while opposite to him hung
Launcclot's pict ure in its handsome frame " Mysonne's fair wife Eliza-
beth." " Poor Chudleigh!" he thought, as his eyes fell on it. r>ut he
never confessed even to himself the reason of his pity; a sortof delicacy
prevented him even from dwelling on the thought.
Once, in sheer wifely honesty, Joan tried to tell him of that little
scene, with hot blushes of shame on her face; but he had stopped her at
once.
" I am the last man to whom you should tell it, Joan. Forget it
every word find only pray that your husband may be worthy of the
friendship of such a man." And then he muttered to himself in a tone
of grief that filled Joan's heart with dismay and girlish compunction,
" And he must be the scapegoat; he must expiate our sins Joan's and
Rachel's and mine: and that pure, large nature must suffer; hut at
least his suffering shall be respected by me. " And Joan had hardly
ventured to open her lips for a long time after that.
As Joan had failed him, Mr. Thorpe restrained his impatience and
went into his sister's room to cheer her up with half an hour's conversa-
tion; but he was hardly prepared for the sight that met his eyes. For
Rachel, worn out with the emotions of the last few hours, had fallen
asleep with her hand in Joan's; Joan was sitting as stili as a mouse,
almost afraid to draw her breath comfortably for fear of disturbing that
light slumber. She looked up and held up a warning finger as her hus-
band advanced cautiously toward her. Joan's ruddy brown hair was
shining in the lamp-light; her eyes had a thoughtful look in them.
" Oh, you have waked her," she said, regretfully, as Rachel opened
her eyes and looked at them. " I heard your step, Ivan, but I could
not come to meet you as usual; Rachel and I have been having such a
liice talkl"
250 OHLY THE OOYERSTESS.
"Joan has been very good to pie," returned Rachel, In a suhduod
voice, and the look that passed between the brother and sister wa-
eloquent than any words. " Yes. you may take her away no\v, 1'or I
don't mean to be selfish, and she lias been Bitting here all the afternoon
but you may both eome to me after dinner if you will."
"Oh, Ivan, we are going to be sisters," exclaimed Joan, when she
found herself alone with her husband. " Poor Rachel I mean to love
her so dearly for your sake, and for her own too. Fancy her b.
my pardon, and making out that she was the one in the wrong! I tried
to stop her, but I soon saw it was useless, so I let her talk, and then she
fell asleep. ' '
Mr. Thorpe's answer was a very tangible one. When Joan saw the
diamonds sparkling on her finger, and knew that Ivan had remembered
that it was her wedding-day, her delight was unbounded.
" I wonder if it is wrong to be so happy!" she whispered. ' Some-
times I am afraid that it is too good to last you spoil me so dreadfully,
Ivan, and it is not as though I deserved it;" and 4ken with one, of those
swift changes of mood that had been her fascination in Luuncelot's
eyes, her lovely face clouded, and she clung to her husband almost
convulsivel} 7 ".
" Don't be so good to me, Ivan. I ought not to forget all my past
sins against you, and I know you will never remind me of them."
" Never, love; you are right there. Do you think I mean to fling
stones at my poor little sweetheart because she would not learn the les-
son I was too stupid to teach her? We are both learning it together
now. ' And with what measure ye mete ' oh, these are grand \\
Joan."
Joan's reply was not in words; she only touched her husband's hand
reverently with her lips. Oh, how good he and Mr. Chudleigh were!
Could she ever have expected that such forgiveness could be accorded
her that after all her willful wanderings and failures she should !
into the paths of pleasantness and peace!
Joan was learning new lessons of womanliness and self-guidance in a
good school; love and confidence were bidding fair to eradicate the
faults and ripen the virtues in Joan's nature. Joan, who had lived like
a heathen in her aunt's time, and had hardly opened her Hible, and had
only gabbled her prayers by rote after parrot fashion, was learning now
that religion meant something more than going to church and listening
to sermons.
In her husband's eyes, and in Launcelot Chudleigh 's too, it meant to
" do justly and walk humbly " with their God, to love truth for truth's
own sake, and to live the highest life possible; it meant lovin.tr otli
well as themselves; and in Launcelpt's case it meant even more, for it
included a passionate love of service, a disposition to give more than
"must," asking for little in return, and a courage that would not
scruple even at plucking out the right eye if duty demanded it, as .loan
knew well.
After all it was Rachel, not Ivan, who taught Joan to read her liible,
and who took herself most to task for the girl's heathenish ignorance.
" She knows absolutely nothing about religion," she said once, almost
in despair to Ivan. " An intelligent child in the Sunday-school would
put her to shame; she owns she has never even thought about
things."
"It must be your mission to teach her, Rachel," he returned, with a
mile; for this information did nut stem to shock him. Rachel Wii# a
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 251
rigid disciplinarian, and lie would not wound her sensitive scruples by
hinting that possibly Joan might be fulfilling her religious duties more
fully by controlling her temper than by reading a series of doctrinal
3. Joan might be a later gleaner in the field of truth, but at least
she would be diligent and painstaking to the extent of her power, and
her simplicity might gather in a richer harvest than many a wiser and
better woman.
" If I were only as good as Ivan!" to the end of her life Joan would
say this, for with added light and larger responsibility came a more
poignant sense ot imperfection. It was a good feature in her character
that Joan never glossed over her ill-doing in the past, never made light
of it or extenuated her conduct. "Oh, I was not a Christian then,"
she would .say, with one of her frank, sweet looks. " If 1 had known
all I know now 1 would never have done it. I wish for my children's
sake that their mother had been a good woman; but Ivan never wishes
them to know, and he is good enough for both," finished Joan, with a
smile and a si<ih.
CHAPTER XXXVHI.
LAUNCELOT'S PICTURE.
It was the Sea of Sorrow; and I stood
At midnight on the shore. The heavy skies
HuiiK dark above; the voice of them that wept
Was heard upon th<> waters, and the chill
Sad tfoin^ <>f a midnight wind, which stirred
No wave thereon.
Ezekiel and other Poems.
WHEN Lauucclot looked back years afterward to this period of his
life, he would call it, smilingly, " the winter of his discontent," when
he was least satistied with himself and his surroundings.
" I was a grumbling sort of fellow then," he w r ould say. "I had
been a devout believer in human happiness, an optimist in every sense
of the word; but just then things went wrong with me, and I felt as
though the poor old world luid turned topsy-turvy. I am afraid I was
a stilish fool in those days."
Lauucclot was inclined to crypeccavi, because unexpected trouble had
befallen him, but all the same he carried his burden steadily, and with
a good deal of courage.
After all, most people have to undergo this sort of experience and re-
vulsion. There are sterile bits of bleak wilderness in most lives. Some-
times one has to cross them in youth, sometimes in middle age.
Even in old age one shivers a little at the recollection of these barren
tracts. How vast and unending they looked to our unaccustomed
eyes; how somber the light; how desolate the surroundings; what a
sense of isolation, of unapproachable loneliness in those great solitudes
when we are set face to face with ourselves, and no other!
There are some who carry piteous records of their dreary pilgrimage
to their dying day some whom even present prosperity will never cheat
into utter oblivion of a bitter past but with most the dark days are for-
gotten in the warmth of household fires; they have only a scar or two
to remind them of the wounds that had once cost them such cruel throbs
of agony. Time is the great healer, they say, and in a sense that is
true.
Lauucelot was quite ready for any consolation that might offer itself.
253 OXLY Tin: r;ov
lie had no desire to become an eccentric misanthrope because his love
hud ended disastrously. But he conld not deny to himself thut life- had
become a very humdrum, ordinary all'uir; that his enthusiasms had died
a natural death; that all pleasures seemed Hut, stale, and unprofitable,
anil that he .seemed to tak" interest in nothing but his work.
Launcelot would tell himself that " not enjoyment and not sorrow is
our destined end or way," for lie loved at all times to philosophize;
but this reflection brought more satisfaction to his head than his heart,
thui aehed with its novel feeling of loneliness. " Never mind, it is
d that does it," lie would say, applying the words of one of
Trofiope's characters to his own case. " I will stick to my work and do
the best I ean for other people, and leave my happiness to take care of
itself."
Launcelot kept his word stoutly. He worked with a will during the
remainder of the winter, and finished his picture, which was exhibited
in May; but, to the chagrin of more than one would-be purchaser, it
was not for sale; no price could have tempted Launcelot to part
with it.
One afternoon he took his sister Beatrix to see it. She had stopped
with the Sylvesters until the middle of January, and had then paid a
round of visits in Devonshire, moving from one house to another, for
the Chudlcighs had a. large circle of Devonshire friends. It was the end
of May now, and she had only been at the Witchens a week.
Launcelot thought she was very much improved. She was a little
quieter and less decided in manner, but she seemed tolerably cheerful.
Perhaps she might be a trifle thin, but she looked wonderfully pretty,
and as Launcelot walked with her through the rooms of Burli;
House, he was aware that his companion attracted a good deal of atten-
tion.
" What a crowd there is round that small picture in the corner!" ob-
served Beatrix, presently. " Lend me the catalogue a moment, Launce,
I must look out the number; '408, The Sea of Sorrow; by Launcelot
Chudleigh.' Why, it is your picture! what a strange name! and theie
:ie poetry under it." And Bee's face grew serious as she read the
lines to herself:
" It was the Sea of Sorrow; neither sun
Nor moon did lighten it; the waters slept.
And dreamed not as they slept, for smile nor frown
Did cross their face. Around the mountains swept
Like a preut host at rest; and I beheld
The sh;.ulo\v of Eternity lie deep
And heavy on the sea."
Bee made no further comment on the lines, but her face grew <
nd wistful as she waited until there was space tor her lo edge in.
When at last she took her place before the picture she gave a little
quick sigh of appreciation, though she did not speak, but as Launcdoi
d at her he was more than satisfied with the result of his work.
At lease there was one who would understand his meaning.
And yet it seemed to pu/./le many of the spectators. "Oh, what a
dreadfully sad picture! is it an allegory, papaY" Bee heard one young
girl B
ry truth it was a somber picture. A little boat with tin-
in it v i on a wild and desolate sea. Scarped dill's and n.
bounded the Inhospitable shore. A murky sort of twilight seemed
-ver the sullen waves. Only across the track of the water
j:g light,
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 253
The figures were very striking. An old man in fisherman's garb was
seated in the stern; a broken our was in his hand, the other had drifted.
IIop<'iessh<.'vs was written in his aspect, his head was sunk, his gray
beard drooped on his breast, his knotted, work- worn hands still grasped
the useless oar. Of what avail were his thews and sinews now, when
the merciless tide threatened to dash their nulo bark against the pitiless
rocks? By his side was a woman in a mourning cloak. The hood had
fallen back, and showed a face, young, but haggard and wild with
misery. Despair was stamped upon her features, her strained eyes had
a fixed look of horror in them; the palms of the hands were pressed,
not in supplication, but in misery. At the prow stood a youth in a
minstrel dress: his head was bare and his hair disheveled. His face was
pale like his companions, but there was a steadfastness and fortitude in
his altitude, as he gazed with unblanehing eyes across the water.
nied to turn in the same direction, and then she per-
! that the faint light streaming' over the water came from a lamp
held by a shadowy hand half hidden by clouds. There was a wound
in the palm as though a nail had pierced it, and Bec-in her awe and
girlish reverence knew what that, kingly hand signified.
" ( >h, Laur.ce, how beautiful!" she began. But she did not finish her
sentence, for at the sound of her voice a gentleman who was standing
before her looked round hurriedly, and, raising his hat, moved away,
lice turned a little pale as she bowed in response.
" Oh, wait a moment, Oscar. I have not half looked at it," observed
the lady who was with him, and Bee saw a very pale, insignificant-look-
ing girl trying to detain him. Bee, who was wedged in by the crowd
behind her, bore her awkward position almost heroically. She kept her
<>n the picture all the time Oscar Ilamblyn was trying to make a
way for himself and his wife. And though her expression was a little
fixed, and there was a faint quivering of the nostrils. Bee held her head
as proudly as ever. " There is no hurry," observed Erica, rather fret-
fully, as she joined her husband. " I wish you cared more for pictures,
but 'they seem to bore you."
Bee did not hear any more, but that one glance had shown the somber,
disatisficd look on Oscar's face, that had once seemed to her the perfec-
tion of manly beauty.
" ,She is very plain," she said to herself, with a sort of shudder, and
(hen the press behind her relaxed, and Launcelot took her and drew her
aside.
" I am so sorry, Bee," he whispered; " but the world is such a small
place after all. Shall we sit down and rest a little?" But Bee's pride
would not allow such confession of weakness, though her limbs were
trembling under her, and a sort of giddiness prevented her from seeing
the pictures. " Oh, I am not so very tired," she observed; " we had
better do this room thoroughly." And Bee found the place in her cata-
logue, and pretended to ignore the fact that her successful rival was
standing a few yards from her.
Launcelot smiled grimly to himself as he saw Oscar's confusion and
discomfiture. His wife, who had a will of her own, had absolutely re-
fused to accompany him to the other room, and was giving methodical
attention to each picture in turn. Oscar might grumble and pull his
mustache savagely as his pale little helpmeet put up her eyeglasses and
peered into every picture, but he knew of old that Erica could be
obstinate. He revenged himself, however, by taking stolen glances at
254 OKLY THE GOVEKKESS.
Bee's half-averted face, which looked lovelier than ever in its girlish
pride.
" He shall not see that I care so very much," Bee was savin;; to her-
self, for she had learned something in these, nine months, " but on,
couiiug weak and womanly in a minute, " 1 wish that she looked
for his sake. I am afraid he is not happy." Bee tormented h
with this reflection long after her rir.st sickening heart-throb at tin
of her faithless lover had quieted down; but if she had really graspc
the truth of things, it was Erica to whom pity was due, though, as IK
sister-in-law would say contemptuously, " Erica married Oscar with h<
eyes open."
Young Mrs. Hamblyn was making the best of a bad bargain. Sh;
giving everything and receiving a very scanty return; her wifely dev<,
lion was taken as a matter of course; her liberality could not satisfy th
grasping natures of the Hamblyn family. Even before their h(
moon was over Erica had discovered that she must keep the mastery 'i
her own hands, for fear her husband's prodigality and weak will shouh
swamp them.
Bee need not have wasted her pity. Oscar had already far more than
his deserts. His plain-faced little wife adored him, though she kepi-
him in order and drew her purse-strings tightly for his good. lie dared
not neglect her, as he would have neglected any other woman when his
first fancy was over, and, in spite of her insignificance, he would Ixi
obliged to respect her.
Poor Bee was to undergo another unwelcome encounter. They were
just entering another room, when a fair, highly-bred looking m:in
stopped just in front of them and offered Bee his hand.
" I scarcely ventured to hope we should meet again, MissChudleigh, 1
he said, with such unconcealed pleasure in his voice that Bee 1)1 us i
she introduced him to her brother as Captain Elliott.
" I am going down to Southampton to-night," he said, looking at her
wistfully. " You know our regiment is embarking?"
" I hope Lady Elliott and your sisters are quite well, " relumed Bee,
politely. " Yes, I heard from Maggie Sylvester that you were going.' 1
Just then one of Launcelot's numerous acquaintances acenstetl him.
and he dropped back a few paces; when he rejoined them Captain
Elliott was taking his leave.
"Good-bye," Bee said, as she gave him her hand very gently. " 1
hope you will have a good passage.' 1 And then Captain Elliott i
his hat and turned away.
" Well, my dear," began Launcelot, but she stopped him hurriedly.
" Oh, Launce, I am so tired! do, please, take me home." And then he
saw that she looked very white and shaken. But as they walked down
Piccadilly he said, quietly
" 1 am glad I .saw Captain Elliott, Bee; lie is just what I expected to
find him: a line, manly looking fellow, of whom any woman might be
proud." And then, as Bee did not answer, he went on: " You know
Madella tells me everything, and so, of course, I am aware you have
given him his conge; he looks rather down, poor fellow!"
"Don't talk about it, " she returned, in a subdued voice; "if you
knew how unhappy it made me! But none of his people blame inc.
They know I gave him no encouragement, Lady Elliott told me e<
clf . ' '
" Does he know the reason of your refusal, Bee?"
*' That I cared for some one else. Oh, yes. Of coin rved
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 55
!o know the truth. I am afraid," and here she blushed again, '' that lie
has not quite given up hope. Pie says when he conies biu-k to England
he will try again."
" Then I, for one, vote Captain Elliott a brick," returned Launcelot,
enthusiastically. " Now, Bee, you silly child, don't look at me re-
proachfully, as though I don't understand. Take my advice; put him
and every other man out of your he:id for a little while, and by and by,
when things look a little brighter, you will soon rind out gold from
dross, and who is the right man after all." And I hen he broke off and
said, a little wistfully, " I think you read my parable truly, Bee."
" Do you mean the pictuie? Oh, Lumu'e, 1 am so glad you will not
sell it. You must hang it in your studio, and then I can look at it some-
times; it will be better than a sermon."
" I will show you the poem when 1 get home," was all his answer,
and Bee looked at him with a mute re- Launce was in some
way altered, she thought, and yet no trouble ever seemed to touch him.
Where had he learned all his wisdom? No one ever seemed to under-
stand and sympathize like Launce.
Bee would have to do without him soon, for Launcelot was to start
the next day for his long-deferred tiip. A friend of his was going on a
sketching excursion through Switzerland and the Austrian Tyrol, and
Launcelot was to bear him company through the summer and early
autumn.
Launcelot had finished his picture, and a vague restlessness made
him anxious to be gone. The Witchens had grown like a prison to
him, and he longed for a freer life and mountain air, and, like a wise
woman, Mrs. Chudleigh made no attempt to keep him; even when
Launcelot spoke in a desultory way of Munich, and even Prague, in Oc-
tober she did not wince.
" There is no reason why you should not have a long holiday," she
said, in quite a matter-of-fact way. " You know w r e shall be at Pen-
zance most of the summer, and we shall do very well for a little while,
even if you do go on. Geoffrey is older, and so much more thoughtful,
and Bernard never gives us trouble now."
" Yes, and I could come back if you wanted me," returned Launce-
lot. And so it was settled between them that he was to be perfectly
free until Christmas. Perhaps Mrs. Clmdleigh's intuition told her how
heavy the strain of these months had been, and as she looked at his
care-worn face, that was never without a bright smile for her, whatever
his mood might be, she knew how greatly he needed change.
So Launcelot went and feasted his eyes on the loveliness of snow-
capped mountains and smiling valleys, and set himself to learn the les-
son that Dame Nature in her bountiful moods would teach all her weary
children that, in spite of failures, life is full of grand and unutterable
meanings, and that they who are not afraid to wait and possess their
soul in patience will solve its enigmas by and by.
Launcelot did not strive after any impossibilities. He never cheated
himself with the idea that his youthful brightness would return, but he
helped himself largely to the good things that still fell to his share, and
in time owned himself moderately contented. His love of human fel
lowship drew him into congenial company, and his unfailing sympathy
and kindly nature always surrounded him with friends.
At this time of his life he mixed more exclusively with his own sex.
He still loved the society of cultured and intelligent women, and was as
great a favorite as ever with them; but he had grown a little shy and
OKLY THE i:33.
reserved with thorn, ns though resolved to carry out one of his friend's
lies" that I'hudleigh had resolved to eschew matrimony."
-.No. I <hall ocver many, "he would say, cheerfully; and in his heart
he felt tluit he was speaking the truth. " I mean to make a model
,elor uncle, and spoil all my nephews and nieces."
It was toward the close of the summer, when Launcelot was wander-
ing about the Austrian Tyrol, that he received an English paper and
some letters with the Riversleigh postmark, and read the announcement:
" On the 4th hist., the wife of Ivan Thorpe, of a son." A letter from
Mr. Thorpe and his sister accompanied the paper. Launcelot read his
friend's first. It was brief and concise, like the writer, but every word
breathed intense pride and satisfaction. "It is our great wish Joan's
and mine that you should stand sponsor for our boy," he wrote.
" We have already made up our minds that he is to be called Launcelot.
If j'ou wish to complete our happiness you will agree to this. At pres-
ent I can tell you little about him, except that he is a big, healthy fel-
low, with splendid lungs, and that he has his mother's eyes. His aunt
Rachel pronounces him a grand specimen of babyhood."
But the next sentence was of a different character:
" As your people are still at Penzance, I suppose you have not heard
of Maxwell's illness. He has had typhoid fever, and for some time
things looked very serious, but he is on the mend now. I saw him yes
terdiiy, and he looked a ghost of himself. Poor Miss Charlotte is almost
worn to a shadow with nursing and worry. Mrs. Maxwell was ill at
the same time, though not from the same cause. Rachel misses her doc-
tor sadly; his visits were always welcome to her. Joan liked him ex-
ceedingly, and he had grown very intimate with us all."
Rachel's letter was a little more descriptive:
" You may imagine how delighted we all are, and how proud I am
of my new title. Ivan says little, but one can see how happy he is.
The other day he came into my room with his son in his arms (fancy
Ivan acting nurse!), and laid him down beside me. You should have
seen the expression on his face his intense pride, and the pains he took
to hide it. He can not refrain from starting up every time he hears
baby cry; but he will get used to it in time. As for Joan, she is love-
lier than ever. I think just this was wanting to bring out her womanli-
ness she is so much gentler. Baby is more like his mother than his
father. He has Joan's gray eyes and dark lashes, but his mouth will
be like Ivan's. I only hope we shall not spoil him among us.
" Has Ivan told you that we are going to move at Michaelmas? There
is no room for a baby and an invalid in this house. Ivan has made up
his mind to take one of those red-brick houses on Overton Rise; so we
shall be near neighbors. Spring Mead is a very pleasant house, and has
u large garden attached to it. They are going to give up a room on the
ground iioor for my use. It is the best room in the house, but no other
will suit their purpose, as it opens on the veranda, and Ivan says I can
be wheeled out on the lawn every fine day.
" Joan and he have planned it all without consulting me. Part of it
is to be curtained off as my sleeping-room, and the remainder fitted up
as a sitting-room, and Morton is to be my nur
" I have left oil as many invalid habits as possible, and .im as busy
helplessness will allow. I am able to do a good deal for our
.y in the way of correspondence, and, to my delight, 1 liml I can
Assist Ivan materially in his additional work. Indeed, the day is not
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 25?
half long enough for all I have to do, and Joan pretends to grumble
when she brings her work in and I am too busy to talk to her.
" Joan is as great a chatterbox as ever, but she keeps us all lively;
indeed, I can not tell you how I missed her during those three weeks.
I felt my helplessness then, when I could not even give her a kiss of
congratulation. But now she and baby spend hours in my room.
"But I am chattering on and wearying your patience. You must
tell us all about yourself in return.
" I remain, my dear Mr. Chudleigh,
" Your affectionate friend,
"RACHEL THORPE."
" Yes, she needed just that the developing and softening touch of
motherhood to ripen her," thought Launcelot, as he put aside the let-
ters. And then after a little thought he wrote to his friend, congratu-
lating him and sending kindly messages to Joan. He would accept the
sponsorship, he said, but they must not expect him to be present at the
christening. He was going on to Munich and Prague, and there was
little chance of his returning to the "Witchens before Christmas.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
"HE IS HEDLEY TO MI."
My fond affection thou hast seen,
Then judge of my regret
To think more happy thou hadst been
If we had never met !
And has that thought been shared by thee?
Ah, no ! that smiling cheek
Proves more unchanging love for me
Than labored words could speak.
BAYLY.
TOWARD the beginning of December Launcelot was setting his face
homeward, and had reached Dresden, where he intended to spend a
week or two renewing his acquaintance with the picture-galleries; but
he changed his intention on receiving a letter from his step-mother.
Nothing had happened; his brothers and sisters were well, but there
was a vague word or two that gave him the impression that she was
disturbed and anxious, and was longing for his return, though her un-
selfishness forbade her to recall him.
" We have never been so long apart, and I am counting the days until
Christmas," she wrote, " when we are to see your dear face again.
Geoffrey is as good as possible and tries to take your place in every-
thing, but you have always been my right hand, Launce, and somehow
1 feel lost without you. I would give much to see you sitting opposite
me this evening; but there, I am a selfish old mother, and you must
not take any notice of my grumblings."
"After all, there are other things in life beside picture-galleries,"
thought Launcelot, " and I have been away nearly seven months. It is
I who am the selfish one." And in his impulsive way he packed up
his Gladstone, settled his hotel bill, took the first train that offered, an.;
three days afterward arrived at the Witchens.
The Welcome he received must have shown Launcelot how greatly he
had been missed. Beaming faces surrounded the dearly icved son and
brother; the rery children Sybil and Dossie -seemed to hang on his
a
258 ONLY Tin: COVKKXESS.
!, Launcclot divided his attentions equally as well as he
could, lie hail gifts lor every one: some lovely Dresden china for his
step-mother, pretty ornaments for his sisters, books for (JeolTrey anil
Bernard, and a store of good things for the younger oues such as chil-
dren love.
" But Dos.-ie is nut a little girl now," he observed, as he looked at his
favorite. Dossie was twelve years old now, and was-growing tall and
slim; her fair hair hung in a long, smooth plait below her waist; her
little oval face was as pal.; as ever, but the deep blue eyes had their old
affectionate look. I)o>sie did not speak her gladness in words; she had
grown shy with her old friend, but she watched his every look and \\as
ready to anticipate his wishes as she sat in her corner mute as a bright-
eyed* mouse.
" Lauucelot, in his quiet way, was trying to read every face in turn,
and his shrewdness was not long at fault. "It is about Pauline that
she is anxious" he said to himself when he retired to his room later;
" the girl looks well, she lias grown prettier, but all the same I see a
change in her. I have an uncomfortable suspicion that it is about Max-
well no one mentioned his name to-night but I hope not I hopo
not."
It was not until late the following afternoon that he found himself
alone with his step-mother; the young master had had plenty of busi-
ness to occupy him, and it was only when the dusk made idleness com-
pulsory that he pushed aside his letters and settled himself for a chat.
" This is just what I like," he said, lazily, as he threw himself into
an easy-chair beside Mrs. Clmdleigh's tea-table; they were together in
the morning-room, the girls were out with Geoffrey, and Sybil and Dos-
sie were in the school-room with mademoiselle, a good-huinorcd, talk-
ative little Parisienne, who had replaced Joan.
Fenton had just placed a large log on the fire, and already it splut-
tered and blazed with ruddy light. Outside, the December moon was
rising behind the cedar; Mrs. Chudleigh was leaning back in her chair
contemplating her boy's bronzed face with deep satisfaction; he looked
better, healthier, she thought; he was less thin, and the care-worn ex-
pression had entirely gone. Perhaps he was a little older and graver,
but what of that?
" Well, Madella?" he began again, this time inquiringly, and as she
seemed a little surprised at his tone he continued, " Of course I could
ee from your letter that something was troubling you, and so 1 eame
home at once; no one has said a word to me, but all the same I know it
is about Pauline."
" Oh, Launee, how could you guess? I am sure dear Pauline w
cheerful as possible last night."
" Yes, but her cheerfulness was rather forced, and I noticed that she
was a little shy with me. If you are going to tell me that she and Max-
well have fallen in love with each otlier, I can only say 1 am extremely
sorry; there is no man I like and respect more, but it is utterly im;
ble for him to marry."
"Yes, they both know that, and dear Pauline >(] about it.
But, Laurie*, I do feel as though we have been most to blame. Why
did we let her visit so much at IJridgr House'/ She and Charlotte have
trable all the summer, and then there was that poor J)i<
Knd s" ing him. How can anyone wonder if they
.re for each oth
'hen' Well, I eao ou)y say that I expected
ONLY THE OOVEUKESS. 259
th.ngs of a man like Doctor Maxwell. I thought, at least, thai we could
depend on him for upright, honorable dealing." And Lauucelot's eyes
flashed ominously and his brow grew dark, for Pauline was his favorite
sister, and the idea of trouble coming to her through any man alive
made him very sore.
Mrs. Chudleigh looked frightened at her son's expression; he seemed
almost as angry as he had been in Bee's case.
" Indeed, Launce, you are misjudging Doctor Maxwell,'' she returned,
eagerly. " Sorry as I am for what has happened, I am convinced that
lui never meant to do wrong; he never spoke until after his illness, when
In; was too weak to resist the sudden temptation. But let me tell you &
little about it. Pauline wishes you to know, and then you will under-
stand."
" I shall understand that life is an awful muddle to most people,"
he returned, gloomily; but she took no notice of this.
" Well, you see, Launce, we were at Penzance when Doctor Maxwell
was first taken with the fever, though we returned home about a fort-
night afterward. I noticed Pauline was very much out of spirits just
then restless and ill at ease but I was far too stupid to guess' the
cause. I spoke to Bee about it, but she threw no light on it at all. I
know now that she was perfectly aware of the true state of the case, but
she did not think it fair to betray Pauline. Nothing had passed between
them, and Bee felt she had no right to pry into her sister's secret. Well,
we got back to the Witchens, and then Pauline seemed brighter and
more like herself. Mrs. Maxwell had been dangerously ill too, and
Charlotte was almost worn out with her nursing, so Pauline went as a
matter of course every day to sit with Brenda and Aunt Myra. She
used to be there the greater part of the day, helping Charlotte with one
or other of them, and it never entered into my head that there could be
any risk. ' '
Laimcelot groaned, but he did not interrupt her.
" When Doctor Maxwell became convalescent Pauline saw him almost
daily. He assumed the right of an invalid to take possession of t he-
el rawing- room couch, and in this way they were thrown a great deal
together."
" And he spoke to her?"
" Yes, he spoke to her; but, Launce, he assures me for I have seen
him more than once that nothing was further from his intention; that
1 hough he has loved her for more than a year, he never intended to be-
tray himself. He is full of remorse and shame for what he has done,
and accuses himself for his want of self-control most bitterly. He says
that he of all men ought to have refrained from making love to any
girl; that there is no possibility of his marrying for the next ten years,
if then; that his long illness has only added to his difficulties; and that
his income will barely cover his expenses this 3'ear.
" ' What business had I to tell Pauline that I loved her,' lie said to
me, ' and to draw from her an avowal of affection in return? You'
ought to cut my acquaintance, Mrs. Chudleigh, for I have acted as dis-
honorably as possible to your daughter.' Oh, poor fellow! I did feel
sorry for him."
" Of course you forgave him on the spot?"
" Well, Launce, you would have forgiven him yourself if you had
heard him. Just consider the circumstances. They were together, and
lie was weak and very low from his illness. Pauline told me she was
just trying to cheer him up when she saw him looking at her very
260 ONLY THE fiOVERXESS.
strangely, and the next minute lie to;;l her that she must go away and
leave him, for he could not bear to have her the'-e and not speak; but
she stayed, and then it all came out that they loved each other."
" I suppose Pauline agrees that it is a hopele-s .
" Oh, yes; but all the same she seems very happy, poor child! She
will have it that it is so much better for him to have spoken, that it has
given her the right to think of him without feeling ashamed of doing
BO. I am afraid it has gone very deep with them both, Launce. Sin-
declares that she shall always feel as though she were engaged to him,
that she does belong to him in a sort of way, and that she would rather
live unmarried for his sake than marry any man living."
" Oh, but this is all nonsense. You don't mean to say that Maxwell
has persuaded her into any sort of engagement?"
" No, indeed; he has told her in my presence that she is absolutely
free: he even begged her to forget his rash words. ' I deserve to suffer,'
he said to her, ' but I can not bear to think that 1 have shadowed your
bright young life;' and then turning to me he said most earnestly, ' Yoq
must all teach her to forget me, Mrs. Chudleigh. She must not waste
her youth and sweetness waiting for a time that may never come to
either of us. I fear happiness is not for me, that I shall never know
the blessing of wife or child. Will you let your son know when he
comes home that I make no sort of appeal to his forbearance that I
resign all rights but friendship?"
" And what did Pauline say to this?"
"Well, poor darling! she was very impulsive. She told him just
what I said to you just now, that it would be impossible for her to
marry any one else, because she should always feel as though she be-
longed to him, but she should be quite content that they should only be
friends.
" * But you are free quite free/ he reminded her. ' I ask nothing
expect nothing. '
1 ' Oh, yes, I am as free as I wish to be, Hedley,' she said, smiling at
him in such a sweet, womanly way. She always calls him Hedley, even
to his mother, and after that there was little more to be said. You must
talk to her, Launce, and see what is to be done; but you will find her
very firm."
" Yes, I will talk to her," returned Launcelot, gravely, " and I think
I must have a word with Maxwell too, poor beggar! I feel as sorry for
him as possible, but all the same he ought to have held his tongue."
Pauline made no effort to avoid the impending interview with her
brother. On the contrary, she rather sought for it than otherwise.
When he asked her after dinner to come with him into the studio, she
at once signified her readiness to do so, and only her rising color, as he
looked at her half humorously, half sadly, betrayed her natural girlish
emotion.
" Paul! Paul! I am afraid you have been very naughty."
Pauline's honest brown eyes grew a little wistful.
" I am so glad mother has told you everything, Launce; I felt so un-
comfortable last night, feeling you did not know." And then sho
stopped, and continued almost in a whisper, " You must not be angry
with me or Hedley."
" An: you speaking of Doctor Maxwell, Paul?"
'nit he is Hedley to me." Then Launcelot put his hands on
her shoulders as she stood before him, looking so young and pretty in
her simple white gown, and regarded her very kindly
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 261
" My poor little girl, has it gone as far as that?"
" Yes, it has gone as far as that; but, Launce, you must not speak in
that pitying voice, as though some misfortune had overtaken me. I
would rather be his friend and go on as we are doing all my life long
than be the wife of any other man."
" You think so now; but, Paul, try to look at things in a more rea-
sonable light; believe me that I am speaking for the interest of you both.
Such an arrangement as you seem to contemplate is perfectly impossi-
ble; it would not work. How are you to be friends with a man who
would marry you to-morrow if he could?"
Pauline blushed a little at this plain speaking, but he had not
ilenced her.
" I must try and make you understand better what I mean, but it is
o difficult to explain things. You know mother has been very kind to
us; she was dreadfully sorry when Hedley spoke to me, but she did not
forbid uiy going to Bridge House. She said she would wait until you
came home and see what you would say, so I have been there as usual,
and Iledley and I have talked over things. You are not really vexed
with him, are you, dear?" interrupting herself as she saw the gravity
on her brother's face.
" 1 think he ought not to have spoken, certainly."
" Oh, but it was more my fault than his; he told me to leave him be-
cause he was too weak to leave me, but I did not obey him; but indeed
indeed I would not have it otherwise; don't you see that it is just
this that is to make my life's happiness? Whatever happens, and how-
ever far we may be separated, I shall always know what I am to him
that in a way we belong to each other."
Lauucelot shook his head; his man's reason protested against this
girlish sophistry, but in his heart he loved her all the more for her inno-
cence and generosity.
" I don't think Maxwell ought to hold you to any sort of engagement,
either open or implied," he said, rather severely.
" Hedley says the same as you: he will not let me consider myself
engaged to him; he persists that I am absolutely free, and that if I mar-
ried to-morrow he would have no right to reproach me. He begged
me to forget all about it until he saw that that sort of talk made me too
miserable, and then he said that if it would make me happier to know
that he should love me all his life I might be quite certain on that point,
for be was not a man to change, but that we must put aside all thoughts
of any future together, for as long as my mother and sisters lived he
could see no chance of his marrying."
" Then how do you propose to act under these circumstances? You
surely would not go to Bridge House three or four times a week?"
" Why not?" she returned, boldly, and he could see that she meant
to be firm. " Why should I be separated from my dearest friends?
Charlotte and I have grown to be like sisters; and as for Brenda, I think
I love her more every day. "
" But, my dear child."
" Wait a moment, Launce; they know about everything, and they are
all so good to me. Mrs. Maxwell says she is as fond of me as though I
were her own daughter; why should I deprive them of what is their
greatest pleasure? Yes, I would go as usual, and read to Brenda and
Aunt Myra, and help Mrs. Maxwell with her new stitches; but you
need not be afraid, I should choose the time when Hedley is engaged
^ith his professional duties. Wt should seldom meet, and never alone;
mi: <;<>
now ;uul (lion i might sec him. and :-;n;ik a friendly word or two, 1>u'
you may trust us both neither of us would think of seeking a
" But all the same you would think of nothing
" You are wrong, dear," looking up in his faee with a sweet, candid
expression. " Only iru^t me, and you will see how it will work, how
content I shall be, how eager to do all you wish me to do; in<:.
mean to be happy, L-uince; I will not waste time by fretting for what
may never come. There was only one thing I felt I could not <
and that nearly broke me down and that was when we were at Pen-
/ance, and I thought Hedley would die without telling me he loved me,
though I could see even then th:it he cared. Oh! I was so wretched,
but I did not dare let mother or Bee know, though Bee guessed r
was as kind as possible; and then we came home, and when I saw hiii:
we seemed to understand each other without a word."
" Do you know I can scarcely believe that it is my little matter-of-
fact Paul who is talking in this irrational way?"
" lledley says I am not matter-of-fact at all, only more straightfor-
ward and easily contented than other people. I do believe that in spite
of drawbacks I shall be happier than most girls would be under the cir-
cumstances; nothing would make me miserable but being separated
from them all, and never hearing anything about him. Oh," and now
her eyes were full of tears, "you will not refuse to let me be happy
in my own way! I will be so good, Launce. I will try and follow
alt your and mother's wishes if you will only give in to me in this
way."
Paul, you know I would help you to the fullest extent of my power,
but Maxwell is not the man who would accept an income with his wife
even if I could spare it, and you have only one hundred and fifty
pounds per annum for your own use."
"No, indeed. Hedley vows that nothing would ever induce him to
marry a woman with money he is very strong on that point."
" But at least I can say as much as this, that there is no man whom I
would more willingly welcome as a brother-in-law." Then Pauline
threw her arms round his neck and thanked him.
" Oh, I have not earned your thanks yet. Well, well, I must think
over it a bit, but remember you are only twenty, Paul."
" I shall be one-and- twenty in March," nodding her head defiantly at
him.
" And Doctor Maxwell is about five-and-thirty; why, he will soon be
a middle aged man!"
" What does that matter?" she returned, demurely. " I prefer mid
die-aged men." And then Launcelot felt she had the best of it.
Launcelot felt terribly exercised in his mind during the next, few
days. His nature had always been largely tinged with romance, and
all his sympathies were engaged in Pauline s unlucky attachment, Ik-
could both comprehend, and in a great measure approve of, her
ments, but his common sense and knowledge of the world we;
tagonistic to her reasoning.
Depend upon it, there is hope at the bottom of all this seeming hope-
-s," he said to himself. "I could detect it in
' Something will turn up, we shall not wait forever,' tlmt is what they
think, and the uncertainty will wear ih-m out. I wish 1 could take her
riVht away, make a ie.il break, but. it would ninkc us all mi--e.rable to
the Witchens. Kv;n if I forbid her visits to Bri ihcy
inust meet sometime;; there will alwav- be the chance of an <
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 203
Then at her age how can I expect her to submit blindly to rny judg-
ment? and even if her love for us insured perfect obedience to our
wishes, would she not mope and pine, deprived suddenly of all her
dearest interests ? I know Madella fears this when she advises leniency. ' '
Launcelot could arrive at no definite conclusion, and was still in the
same undecided mood when he encountered Dr. Maxwell on Overtoil
Rise, returning from one of his weekly visits to Miss Thorpe.
He was walking slowly, and appeared still languid from his illness;
he seemed slightly confused when he saw Launcelot, and hesitated per-
ceptibly as Launcelot held out his hand.
" I am glad to see you are so much better, Maxwell; but there is still
room for improvement."
" Yes; but I am all the better for my stay at Bournemouth. I am
twice the man I was before I went down there;" and then he said, a lit-
tle bitterly, "I wonder you shake hands with me, Chudleigh, after
what has happened!"
" You mean about Pauline? "Well, as you have paid your visit, and
we seem to be going the same way, we may as well walk together. Of
course 1 am very sorry about it, Maxwell."
" Not half so sorry as I am. I wish I had bitten out my unlucky
tongue before I had spoken to her. ' '
" It was a great mistake, your speaking. When a man knows that
he w r ill be unable to marry, he should be very careful how he conducts
himself to a woman. It seems to me such a pity that a young creature
like Pauline should be drawn into such a hopeless affair."
" You are quite right to speak strongly; I take all the blame on my-
self. I know her youth and innocence, and her position in my mother's
house ought to have been sufficient protection; but, Chudleigh, when a
man has been at death's door, and is reduced to such a pitiable state of
weakness, he is hardly master of himself."
" Yes, I don't want to be hard, and it is no good groaning over what
can not be mended; as I told Pauline, there is no one I should like bet-
ter for a brother-in-law, but there seems no chance of your filling the
character."
"No, indeed; I have my head below water-mark now. When a
man is as heavily burdened as I am, and has had a long illness as well,
he can not expect things to go quite smoothly."
" Maxwell, if any temporary help a loan would be of the least as-
sistance, you know how gladly I would offer it." Then a dusky red
came to the doctor's face.
" Not from you. I could not take it," with some emotion. " No, no,
things are not so bad as that; please God I shall soon right myself. I
only meant to convey to your mind that I have no hope of marrying, at
least for the next ten or twelve years. I have made your sister under-
stand this. There is nothing between us, Chudleigh; we were friends
and acquaintances, that is all."
" Pauline wishes to see your mother and sisters as usual. I confess
that I do not quite approve of this."
" I hope you will change your mind. I should be more grieved than
lam now, which is saying a good deal, if poor Charlotte and Brenda
were to be punished for my misdemeanors. You do not know what
your sister's visits are to Brenda, and the poor girl has so few pleasures
in her life. Aunt Myra, too, has grown to depend upon her."
" You know, Maxwell, it is my duty to think what is best for Paul
ine's happiness,"
ONLY THE COYl'KN
" Yes, and it is my duty to think of it too," returned Dr. Maxwell, in
a simple, manly way that touched Launcelot. "J know your si
heart thoroughly, and 1 am quite sure that it would be better to let her
be \\ith my mother and sisters as usual; you may depend on my
ing out of the way. I value my own peace of mind too much to run
kn <\vingly into danger; if we meet, our meeting will be accidental. A
man feels differently from a woman, and Pauline would not understand.
but it is my owii wish and intention to cross her path as little *-
sible."
" I think you are right; I should feel so in your case. A Veil, Max-
well, I will agree to what Pauline wishes, and see how things work. I
know I can trust you both."
" I shall not forfeit your trust a second time. Thanks, Ohudlcigh;
you arc treating me with undeserved generosity." And then, as they
had reached the hall gate, he. stopped and wrung Launcelot's hand, and
went on alone.
"Poor fellow!" thought Launcelot as he retraced his steps a little,
" he looks sadly pulled down and out of sorts, but I can f-ce now why
Pauline has lost her heart to him. He is just the sort of man a girl
would iancy honest, straightforward, and clever. "Well, life's an
awful muddle to myself and Bee and poor little Paul but I think
Bee's affairs will soon look up; Elliott means to stick to it. Somehow
it takes a deal of faith to get through one's life with decent content-
ment," finished Launcelot, with a sigh.
CHAPTER XL.
PAULINE.
Thou art a girl of noble nature's crowning.
HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
To a certain class of minds there is a great interest to be got out of
watching other people's lives; a " heart at leisure from itself " is some-
times content to expend its sympathy on others to stand aside, as it
were, and look on. Launcelot, who was a little weary from the crisis
through which he had passed, felt a certain wholesome stimulus in his
watchful guardianship of Pauline, in his anxiety that she should not
suffer from her own youthful zeal, or the injudicious leniency of her
advisers; the whole matter appeared to him in the light of a curious
problem: how would the solution be worked out?
Launcelot, who had always taken such cheerful views of life, felt
himself unaccountably disheartened on Pauline's account.
" She has set herself an impossible task," he said to himself:
will never be able to maintain even an average cheerfulness under such
depressing circumstances. Bee's miserable love-affair was better than
this; its very sharpness and severity obliged us to resort to rigorous
treatment. There was no delay, no racillating policy; we are justified,
therefore, on the score of her youth in expecting a permanent cure.
ence makes the heart grow fonder;' I should be willing to back
tin Elliott to any amount. But with Pauline the case is different.;
her spirits will be worn threadbare under these unnatural conditions;
her youth will fade under them; either her love for Maxwell will b
Starved for want of sustenance, mid they will grow apart, or she, will
Ixicomu soured witli the long waiting, and it' they ever come togeii.
r middle-aged people their happintw will be of the humdrum sort.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 265
Ten years! why, his mother may live fifteen. twenty venrs longer,
anti so may Brenda and Miss Hoyston; it is the weakly ones \vlio last
the longest and hold most tenaciously to life. Poor Maxwell! he is a
devoted son and brother, and I'll be bound he never suffers this sort of
thought to cross his mind, but I am only a looker-on."
Pauline was not unaware of her brother's careful surveillance; to a
certain extent it touched her; but she went on her own way sedately,
and seemed determined to contradict his dreary prognostications; her
sturdy, robust nature scorned to droop because only a very limited hap-
piness was permitted to her.
Pauline's common sense laid no undue blame on circumstances.
Many girls were unhappy in their love affairs; more than one of her
young companions had been unable to marry the man she loved.
" I would not change places with Isabel Somers, whose lover jilted
her so cruelly," she thought, " or with poor Lydia Meredith, who is in
mourning for her fiance. As long as Hedley is in the world and cares
for me, and I can see him sometimes, I do not mean to make myself or
other people miserable. There is too much selfishness in the world; as
Launce often says, ' we do not realize how we act and react on each
other,' and he is quite right. I am sure if Launce were in any trouble
he would not spoil other people's happiness by refusing to take interest
in tilings, and I will try to be like him."
And Pauline kept her word nobly; if she suffered and there were
times when she must have suffered no one perceived the inner weari-
in her home she was the same bright, energetic Pauline, who
thought of every one and helped every one; whose quiet, even cheerful-
ness never failed.
Only as time went on Launcelot's keen eyes noticed that a certain
staiducss and dignity took the place of the fresh girlishness. If Pauline
had been a young married woman she could not have held herself more
aloof from the other sex, or have shown more indifference to any hom-
age paid to her. "Not at home to suitors " was plainly written in
every look and gesture.
Pauline's intense loyalty for her lover convinced her that other men
were not to be compared to him; his intellectual powers, his unselfish and
blameless life, his devotion to the sickly household that owned him as
master, his patience under trials that would have fretted most men be-
yond endurance, made him a hero in her eyes. " There is no one like
him," she would say to herself after an evening spent among strangers.
Pauline did not chafe against the orderly grooves in which she was com-
pelled to move, neither did she inveigh ad nauseam against the hollow-
of life; she submitted meekly as of old to all Bee's exactions,
played tennis, practiced accompaniments, and fatigued herself with all
the new duets that Bee and Geoffrey wanted to get perfect; in the sea-
son she put on her very pretty dresses and went, under her mother's
wing, to the various balls, routs, kettledrums, and concerts for which
Mrs. Chuclleigh and Bee had accepted invitations.
Pauline always went sturdily through her evening's work; she never
disappointed her partners by shirking dances or getting up an excuse of
fatigue. She talked to them in a sensible, matter-of-fact way, which
they found refreshing after other girls' inanities; she was never absent-
minded or wanting in w r ell-bred interest; but then at the same time she
never seemed to understand the most delicately turned compliment, and
no partner however perfect, was allowed to inscribe his name more
2M ONLY THE novi
than three times on her card. " 11 is my rule," she would say, simply,
but at such moments she would summon up a look of dignity.
" She is an awfully nice girl, lint \ ou may depend upon it thi
some one in the background; there is no running to be niadu'l
~iid by more than one who would fain have entered the 1
Dr. Maxwell.
Pauline fount! that her chief strength lay in never evading a plain
duty; that in ministering to the small daily requirements of others she
achieved tolerable contentment for herself. Cheerfulness thrives on
unselfishness, and one can not begin to live for other people without
re-.iping the reward ot a satisfied conscience.
While Pauline wrote her brother's notes, or walked or played with
the children, or rode with Launcelot, chatting with him all the time, or
even when she was planning dresses with lice's dress-maker, she was
doing her duty with the same heroism with which a soldier does his;
she was putting aside her own inclinations to serve others.
No one at the Witchens ever saw Pauline idle or dreaming: her hands
were too full for that so many people wanted her; and then there weir
her visits to Bridge House and her sister-like services for Charlotte and
Brenda.
Those visits constituted the real interest of Pauline's life; it was at
Bridge House that her love fed itself by tender ministering to Dr. Max-
well's mother and sisters.
No one interfered with Pauline or called her to account if she went
too often. Launcelot soon discovered that Dr. Maxwell was absolutely
to be trusted. Never once did Pauline encounter him in his mother's
house. Once she heard his footstep pass the door, but no one took ;my
notice of this. Pauline, who was reading to Aunt Myra, Hushed a lit-
tle and held her breath for a moment. Pauline hardly dared to acknowl-
edge to herself how much she depended on those visits. At the Witchens
she rarely heard Dr. Maxwell's name mentioned, but in this house she
could speak of him without constraint. Everything was freely dis-
d in her presence. The last new patient 'and the article he hail
written for the " Lancet," even the book he was reading" dear lled-
ley's " opinions dominated that simple household, and Pauline felt as
though she were living beside him when even his words were repeated
to her.
" You are one of ourselves," Brenda would say, looking at the girl
fondly. " I wonder what Aunt Myra and I would do without you!"
Oli. yes, she was one of them. Did not Charlotte confide to her that
last week's expenses had exceeded the sum Hedley had given her? and
JiJi-l not Mrs. Maxwell talked to her for half an hour on the new cook's
delinquencies? Pauline had even helped in winding the yarn that was
intended for Iledley's new socks, and when the five women had scraped
her a small sum to purchase a new easy-chair for Hedley 's birth-
day, did not Pauline go with Charlotte to choose it because ,
isy?
" My darling, are you sure that all this does not try you too much?''
Mrs. Chudleigh said once when she and Pauline were 'together. Only
to her mother did Pauline ever speak of these visits, and to her but
rarely; but now and then Mrs. Chudleigh's maternal anxiety broke-
down the girl's natural reticence. " Are you sure that it is not bail for
you?"
Pauline put down her work and smiled in her mother's anxious
" 1 wonder what has put that into your head? 1 um afraid I must
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 267
discharged my duties badly, or you would never have asked such a ques-
tion. Are you dissatisfied with me, mother?"
" My dear, no. I tell Launcelot that you are good as gold; you have
ftever given me any trouble in your life, Pauline; a better girl never
lived." And here Mrs. Chudleigh showed signs of emotion.
" What is it, then?" returned Pauline, placing herself ul her mother's
feet; but the smile was still on her face. " Is it of me and my happi-
ness that you are thinking?" and as her mother nodded at this, she con
tinned cheerfully: "Well, I can satisfy you on this point: the.se visits
to Bridge House are good for me. I should not be so happy without
them. I seem happy, do I not?" with a sort of wistfulness in her
voice.
" Yes, dear, you are always as nice as possible. I wish Bee had your
even temperament " for Bee's moods were still variable and at times
stormy " but," recurring to her first speech, " I think in your case 1
should find those visits very trying."
" You mean because Iledley and I do not meet. Oh, but then I do
not expect to see him, so of course there is no uncertainty. If I thought
that at any moment he might enter the room, there might be sonic
for restlessness, but I know him too \vell to expect such a thing."
" Yes, but all the same you must long to see him," sighed Mrs. Chud-
leigh.
" Yes, but one has to bear that sort of pain," replied Pauline, quick-
ly. " It is not worse for me than it is for him."
" I think you are both very good about it."
" No, but I try to be," was the quiet reply, " and those visits help
me, oh, so much. ' '
" How do they help you, darling?"
" Can't you guess, mother dear? Think how sweet it is for me to
help him even in the most tritliug way. When I do anything for his
mother and sisters I feel it is for him I am doing it; he is so fond of
them all, especially of his mother."
" Yes, I can understand that."
" Of course you can understand it; were you not in love with father,
and he with you?" Then of course, as in duty bound, Mrs. Chudleigli
began to shed tears. " Do you think it is no pleasure to me to sit there
and hear them talk about him? They tell me everything just as though
I were engaged to him all about his patients, and his wonderful cures,
and what people say. Sometimes I think," dropping her voice almost
to a whisper, " that he likes them to tell me things and ask my opinion.
lie never sends me a message oh, no, he would never think of such a
thing but, all the same, I know from Charlotte's manner when lie is
undecided about anything, and then if I give my opinion it is sure to be
acted upon the next day; it was so about the dining-room carpet."
" My dear, it does seem such a strange position for a girl of your age. "
" Oh, but I am growing older every day; even Launce says that he
an see that." And then, to her mother's surprise and perplexity, she
Suddenly broke down and hid her face on her mother's lap.
Mrs. Chudleigh was much distressed.
" What is it, darling? I can not bear to see you fret/'
" No, and it is very selfish of me to let you see it, but I can not help
troubling sometimes to think that one must" get old. I am quite sure oh,
quite sure in my own mind that I shall be Hedley's wife some day,
but I can not bear to think that when that time comes I shall be no
208 ONLY TIT i: i nss.
longer pretty or young: it is only for his sake that I mind;" and hor
mower hud some dirticulty in consoling her.
Mis. Chudloigh never mentioned these conversations to Launcelot.
Her girl's confidence was sacred. All her children brought their joys
and sorrows to her; even Geoffrey, roerved and self -contained as he
was, would unfold his ambitions and plans for the future to that sym-
pathizing auditor; never once had she failed them. She was not a
clever woman, but her grown-up sons listened to her simple, kindly
words with as much reverence as though they were endowed with the
wisdom of Solomon.
"Mother understands exactly what a fellow feels," Bernard would
say when, chafing from his brother's well-meant rebukes, he carried his
boyish fumes into the mother's room. The very way in which she
stroked his closely cropped head and the tone in which she told him not
to mind Geoffrey's chaff were soothing in the extreme.
Now and then Mrs. Chudleigh would utter a little moan to Lau nee-
lot. " Poor dear Pauline," she said once, " I would give much to see
her happily settled. I wish I were a rich woman, Launce."
" Do you think you ought to say such things to me?" returned Lanncc-
lot, a little hurt at this. " Don't you know, Madella, that the half of
my fortune should be yours to-morrow if you needed it? But if you
are thinking of Maxwell, you might as well ask him to jump over the
moon as to touch a penny of our money. He is scrupulous to a fault;
he will never consent to marry until he can support a wife." And as
Mrs. Chudleigh acquiesced in this opinion, there was nothing more to
be done.
Launcelot was always very friendly in his manner when he met Dr.
Maxwell. The two men heartily liked and respected each other, and
on Launcelot's part it was a real sacrifice to principle to refrain from
asking Dr. Maxwell to the Witchens, but he dared not do it. Often as
he looked at Pauline in her pretty, girlish gowns, moving about the
drawing-room of an evening, and listened to her fresh young voirr, lie
was glad that Dr. Maxwell should be spared the sight. Pauline looked
so good and sweet, he thought; even the soft maturity that had crept
over her suited her.
But though Dr. Maxwell, in all loyalty and good faith, never spoke
to Pauline in his mother's house, there were times when they met on
neutral grounds; now and then there was a chance encounter on the
bridge, or on Overton Rise, and occasionally they met at the Thorpes.
Dr. Maxwell never thought it his duty to avoid Pauline on these oc-
casions or to refuse the cup of tea that Joan offered him, and these op-
portunities were secretly prized by both of them.
Launcelot was once present on one of these occasions.
Joan, who was in the secret, and was a vehement partisan of the
. had been a little eager and pressing in her entreaty for Dr. Max-
well to stop and refresh himself with a cup of tea, and he had suffered
himself to be persuaded.
Launeelot, who was standing apart with Mr. Thorpe, told himself
vM
that no stranger would have been deceived for a moment. Dr.
hardly spoke to Pauline at all until the last minute, and then the whole
world might have hoard his words; nevertheless, the real fads of the
aust have been plainly legible to the most casual spectator, for tlm
absolutely beamed al hi.- entrance. A look of perfect content
into li'-r brown eyes, and yet rhe never turned hor head to I
him until he came up to her while the jjlow in Dr. .Maxwell's ey<
ONLY THE GOVERNESS* 2G9
he caught sight of the slim figure in gray, was perceptible enough to
Lau ocelot, even though he stood talking to his hostess and made no at-
tempt to join Pauline.
Just as they were about to separate chance brought them together,
and then Launcelot heard him say
" Vou were at Bridge House yesterday, Charlotte tells me; I hardly
expected you could pay your usual visit, it rained so heavily."
" Oh, I do not mind rain,' she returned, brightly, "and nothing
would have induced me to disappoint Brenda; we are just finishing
such an interesting book."
"But you must take care of yourself," he replied, in a voice that
must have had a tender meaning to Pauline's ears, for she blushed very
prettily. " Brenda must not be too exacting, you do quite enough for
them all; I do not like to think of your walking all the way from the
Witchens in that rain."
" IJain never hurts me, and I had an ulster and umbrella," she re-
turned, smiling; "but if you do not think it right " and here she
paused.
" It is not right; please do not do it again, even for Brenda." And
then he took her hand and said good-bye, and Pauline, with a height-
ened color, drew near her brother.
80 the winter passed, and then came spring; and with the summer
the whole Chudleigh family migrated to Scotland. Lauucelot had
promised his brothers to take a shooting-lease for six weeks, and Mrs.
Ohudleigh and her two daughters and Dossie found accommodation at
a cottage near. Freckles was at a school-fellow's, and Sybil had been
sent to a cousin in Devonshire.
Dossie was to have gone, too, but she was growing very fast and
looked delicate, and the doctor recommended moorland air; so Launce-
lot at once said that room must be found for her.
Dossie was still faithful to her childish predilections; she still adored
Mr. Lance, as she called him, and followed him as closely as his shadow.
Launcelot had not forgotten Jack Weston all this time: his step
mother's and Dossie's letters were often supplemented by a few lines
in Launcelot 's vigorous handwriting. "I wish you could see Dossie
no\v," he wrote once; " she looks like a little Gretchen with her trans-
parent skin and blue eyes and great shining plait of hair. We all say
1 )o-;.- ie is charming, and yet no one allows that she is pretty: the shape
of her face is perfect, such a pure oval; but for all that one dares not
predict future beauty. At present she is as thin as a lath, but in a year
or two she will fill out. She is just the same gentle, affectionate little
bring, very sensitive, and ready to go through fire and water for those
she loves.
Dossie's extreme sensibility often troubled Launcelot. She seemed
made of finer caliber than other children, and a word often jarred on
her susceptibilities.
Early in the summer Launcelot had taken a severe chill after over-
heating himself, and for some days he was so seriously indisposed that
his step-mother was quite alarmed. There was not the slightest danger,
however, and after a few days' f everishness and lassitude his good con-
stitution asserted itself, and he shook off all traces of illness.
One evening, as Mrs. Chudleigh was sitting with him, she asked him
if Dossie might ^ come in and wish him good-night. "For, do you
know," she continued, " that poor child has nearly fretted herself into
a fever too, over your illness. She has not eaten properly, and Pauline
270 OSTLY THE
says she lie?. a\vako for hours. I wish she were more like Sybil, I d
believe nothing AYOiild make Sybil lose her appetite."
Launcclot was quite willing'to sec his little favorite. Dossie came to
him :it once, and Mrs. Chudleigh left them together. The ehil
tainly looked as though she had been fretting, and Launcelot gave her
a lit fie leeture.
" You ought not to care so much about me, Dossie," he said, smooth-
ing her fair hair; " I am not worth it. Fancy getting pale and thin be-
L choose to indulge in a feverish attack! I wonder what father
would say to that?"
" What do you mean?" she asked, timidly. "It is not wrong to
care for you, Mr. Lance, is it? 1 '
"Not wrong, certainly," smiling at her childishness; "but father
would think you had grown fonder of me than of him, and he would
not like that" But Launcelot's half- jesting rebuke was never finished,
for Dossie, to his infinite discomfort, covered her face with her hands
and began to cry bitterly.
Launcelot was much puzzled. He would not have hurt the child's
feelings for the world. But she had never minded his teasing before.
"This will never do," he said; kindly but firmly. " What will
Aunt Delia say if she comes back and finds you crying? Come, tell me
what it is all about." But that was just what Dossie could not do.
Her childish brain would have been perplexed to explain where the
real hurt lay; the right words would not have come to her. But
Launcelot's speech had gone deep; Dossie's conscience was sadly
alarmed. Did she care less for her father her own father be
she was so fond of Mr. Lance? Was she at all remiss in her memory
of that dear parent because the presence of this dearly loved friend made
her so happy? Dossie, in her passionate fealty and childish worship,
found herself wounded and perplexed.
' ' There can not be two fathers, ' ' she sobbed at last, when Launcelot
had coaxed and petted her for some time. " Please don't say such a
thing to me again, Mr. Lance. I never forget father never, never!"
" -My dear little soul, of course not. Why, I was only joking, Dos
sie. Now, if you love him. and me, do put away that wet rag," regard
ing the drenched handkerchief with much dismay, "and talk to me like
-onable child. Do you know, Dossie, that the idea has come into
my mind that one of these days I shall go and have a look at falh-
" You, Mr. Lance? Oh, I should lose you both!" rather piteously.
" No, only for a time a year or so. I have often talked it over with
your aunt Delia. It is a favorite scheme of mine; the voyage would be
delightful; and then I have always longed to see Australia. Think how
charmed your father would be to see me."
" I wish you could take me with you," observed the child, wistfully.
But Launcelot pointed out that this was impossible.
They talked about it until Mrs. Chudleigh returned and banished
', and, as Launcelot talked, the half -forgotten scheme came into
prominence again.
Why should he not do it? he thought that night and many times
afterward. Why should he not carry out this favorite project? ' " ]Vr-
not next year," he said to himself, "but tLe
Elliott 'will be home before that, and perhaps iis may 1>
lied. ! may walk into .lack' :: and wish him
Who knows'?" And from that moment the Australian
.cd tntirely from Launcelot's uiiad.
ONLY THE GOVEKXESS.
CHAPTER XLI.
FIVE YEARS AFTERWARD.
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?
SHAKESPEARE.
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.
GOLDSMITH.
ONE lovely May morning the green door lending from the terrace was
thrown briskly open, and si fat, rollicking pug Hew out with an asthmatic
whee/e of joy, and commenced barking at a mild-looking cow tethered
among the B
For shame, Beppo! you are old enough to know better. Come here
this moment, sir:' 1 and the young lady who had followed him held up
u neat little gloved hand in an admonishing manner.
This young lady had an exceedingly pretty figure, and walked in such
a sprightly, graceful manner that an old clergyman sunning himself on
a bench near the VVitchens turned round to look after her. She moved
so quickly and so lightly that her footsteps .seemed to skim the ground.
JShc was dieted entirely in gray, and the only color about her was the
gleam of soft, yellowish hair.
The old clergyman, who had daughters and granddaughters of his
own, looked at her benevolently as she passed. The dainty little tig are
in its mouse-like trappings seemed to his old-fashioned ideas the embodi-
ment of young ladyhood a complete personification of the good old
word " gentlewoman."
Perhaps there was a touch of demure coquetry about her; but what
wan, old or young, would find fault with that especially as there was
pirit and character to be read in the small, oval face so nicely shaded
by the gray hat? If Dorothea \Ves ton's serious blue eyes reeogni/ed
another admirer in the white-headed man who regarded her with such
"vident attention, she was already too much accustomed to such signs of
approval to be flattered by it. Dorothea could add up her admirers by
the seore. All the old gentlemen of her acquaintance paid her compli-
ments.
Dorothea's thoughts were not dwelling on any benevolent-minded old
gentleman this morning; she was enjoying the sweet spring sights with
all her might. Brentwood Common was delicious under the May sun
shine; a soft breeze was just rippling the leaves. Everything looked
bright and crisp and fresh; even the newly painted benches and lamp-
. and the yellow gravel outside the Witchens, added to the fresh
ne.-s of the effect.
"The world looks so clean and good-humored in May," thought
Dorothea, as she tripped between the furze bushes. " No dust, no dead
leaves, no bare brown stalks and odds and ends of last year's leavings,
nothing but nice little young shoots and tender green everywhere. I
suppose that is why our ancestors called it the merry month of May."
Then some deeper thought moved her as she stood still for a moment.
" I am glad that he said May. very glad. Everything will be looking
its best the garden and the common and then all the rooms have had
their spring cleaning and the new curtains are up. Aunt Delia has taken
sucli pains, th kousa looks beautiful. There is nothing more to be
272 ONLY THE OVER NESS.
done now until we know they have arrived, and then won't Sybil ami
I rob the greenhouses!" And then she quickened her steps and called
Heppo, and walked on in the direction of Overtoil Kise. and did not
pause again until she reached ;in old-fashioned red-brick house, Standing
fcomewhat back from the road, with a long garden.
Dorothea opened the gate and walked leisurely up to the house, tak-
inii notice of each shrub and flower-border as she passed, for she had an
orderly mind, and little things never escaped her. By this she added
to her stock of pleasures to an extent hardly credible to absent-minded
people; but to the end of time there will be separate generations <i
and Xo-eyes, after the fashion of the boy-heroes of that wise little talc.
Dorothea did not make her way to the front door; she turned a-ide
passing under an arch where pale climbing roses would be seen later,
and walked rapidly round to the back. Here there was a pleasant,
lawn, with some shady old trees at the bottom; and in the sunny
veranda a lady was lying on an invalid couch, with a table beside he'r
covered with books and writing implements. A fur-lined rug co
her, and she wore a dark-blue hood drawn over her gray hair.
She looked up and smiled pleasantly when she saw the young girl.
"Dorothea, this is nice. I was just longing for a chat with some
one. I have worked until my head is muddled, and this delicious morn-
ing makes me lazy. Now you must bring out a comfortable chair for
yourself, for I can not think of going in yet. Joan wheeled me out
here because she said the air would do me good. This is my first morn-
ing in my summer drawing-room."
"I had designs of bringing you out myself," returned Dorothea.
She had a soft, quiet voice, and when she spoke or smiled she showed a
charming little dimple. " It is almost like summer to-day; the air is so
warm, and the May smells so sweet on the common. 1 suppose 31 is.
Thorpe and the children are out?"
" Yes; but they will be back presently, and you are in no hurry, you
know. Joan left word that you were to be sure to stay. Now, what
am I thinking about? I have never even wished you happy returns of the
day; I must give you another kiss, and there is my trifling gift which
you must take with an old friend's love."
" How kind, how very kind!" returned the girl, her eyes sparkling
at the sight of the book, a beautifully bound edition of Mrs. Urowi
poems. " You ought not to have given me anything, Miss Thorpe; L
have had so many presents already. I must tell you about them all,
and I have brought Aunt Delia's to show you." And after enumerat-
ing the catalogue, she displayed to her friend's admiring eyes a m
gold bracelet with a pearl clasp.
' How beautiful! That is for to-night, of course. Well, many girls
hteeu are not so luck}'. I suppose you and Sybil are very excited
at the idea of your first ball; *o, I beg Sybil's pardon, of course she
came out last year; ho\v stupid I am getting!"
" I don't feel excited," returned Dorothea, in the quiet manner that
seemed habitual to her. " I am fond of dancing, but I do not go into
ruptures as Sybil does. She will look very well to-night; she is to \ve*r
. sal in, and Pauline has lent her her Venetian necklace, and she
will have a lovely spray of orchids. Sybil is so tall that she can carry
oil anything."
" res, and >he will look very handsome. Sybil is a regular brunette
.-. What is your dreas, Dorothea?"
" White, of course. A (/I'bttliihfi; must always wear white, as Hilda
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 273
says," returned Dorothea, with a certain droll inflection of voice as
though she knew she was saying something naughty.
" Hilda! that is Mrs. Geoffrey. Well, I suppose she knows all about
it. ' ' And the twinkle in Miss Thorpe's eyes corresponded to Dorothea's
voice. " You could not have a better adviser, I am sure, on all matters
of dress and etiquette."
" So Aunt Delia thinks, for she consults her about everything. Now
don't smile, of course Sybil and I are dreadfully naughty about [Tilda
She is really very nice and kind and sensible, but it is only her excessive
propriety that makes us laugh. She is so afraid, and so is Geoffrey,
that Sybil and I are just the least bit inclined to be unconventional
unconventionality is such a heinous sin in their eyes."
"She is rather proper, certainly. I have only seen her that once
when Geoffrey brought her; I thought her a very pretty young woman,
and rather nice in her manners, and certainly Geoffrey seemed proud
and happy enough."
" Yes; and they exactly suit each other, and everyone says he has
an admirable wife. She is certainly very fond of him and of us all."
14 Well, it was a very good match. Of course Geoffrey is a rising
man. but, all the same, the only daughter of a baronet with a nice little
fortune of her own would be considered a catch by most young bar-
risters; but Geoffrey has plenty of brains, as Ivan says; he will make
his mark one day."
" Bernard will do well for himself, too."
" Oh, to be sure. I had forgotten Bernard; that was the last new ex-
citement in the Chudleigh family. Bernard's engagement has thrown
Bee's son and heir into the shade, though one can not soon forget Mrs.
Chudleigh 's delight at being a real live grandmother."
" No, we were all so pleased about that. Dear Bee! how happy she
is! and we all like Gordon so much; Aunt Delia is devoted to him.
Don't you recollect how jealous Mr. Lance pretended to be, and how he
declared that Captain Elliott's opinions had more weight with Aunt
Delia than his?"
"Oh, that was only his fun. I never saw any one better pleased
than Mr. Chudleigh when he heard that Bee had made up her mind to
accept Captain Elliott. I am so glad for all your sakes that Bee will
not have to go 1o India after all this year. It would be too hard for
Mrs. Chudleigh to part with her grandson. And now Bernard is en-
i;aged. I wonder wbat Mr. Chudleigh will say to that?"
"Aunt Delia thinks he will be pleased. Elsie is such a dear little
tiling! We are quite fond of her already. Geoffrey and Hilda seem
satisfied about it; they think it is a good thing for Bernard to be so
closely connected with his chief. He is pretty sure of getting the next
vacant mastership. But Geoffrey says they must not think of marry
ing yet. He will get a house by and by, and then he will be sure of a
certain income."
" 1 suppose Miss Carruthers will have some money of her own?"
" Very little. There are several daughters, and Elsie is the youngest,
and Dr. Carruthers is not a rich man. Oh, they will do well enough,
Geoffrey says, if only Bernard will not hurry on things. But he is so
dreadfully in love that he will hardly listen to Geoffrey."
" Well, his eldest brother may have more influence. By the bye,
Dorothea, I suppose there is no more news of the travelers?"
" No; we can not expect news. But Geoffrey says that we may have
8, telegram announcing the ship's arrival at anytime, and then a few
^ Tin:
hours will bring thorn to the Wltchens. Just fancy if the telegram conic
to-morrow, or the next day! I shall certainly run down with it to Spring
Mead In- fore an hour is over."
" Thank you, my dear! you are always so thoughtful. You never
leave me out in the cold. Few invalids have 80 much to interest them."
"Yes, Imt Mr. Lance left you iu my charge," answered Dorothea,
softly. " Do you remember the morning when he came to say good-bye
to you, and brought me with him, and how he said that Pauline \\
heavily burdened with the Bridge House affairs that he could not lav a
feather's weight more oil her, but that he hoped I should consider you
my chief mission after Aunt Delia? those were his very words."
I remember," returned Miss Thorpe, and her strong, sensible
face softened visibly as her eyes rested on the girl. But she had never
been a demonstrative woman, and affectionate phrases did not come
easily to her. Dorothea did not misunderstand her; she knew that the
friendship between them was very real and deep. Dorothea's tine deli-
cacy of perception and sympathetic nature had drawn them together.
As a child Rachel Thorpe had repelled her; as a woman she admired
and loved her all the more that years of suffering had ripened Rachel's
liner qualities.
If Miss Thorpe had opened her lips she would have said that Dorothea
had nobly fulfilled her mission during those eighteen months. Many
an hour of physical depression and restlessness had been soothed bv th'e
girl's ready tact; her quiet, sweet-toned voice never jarred on Rachel's
nerves. She could bear to listen to her reading when a few sentences
from Joan would have distressed her. Joan's excessive vitality, her
superabundant energy, fatigued the invalid, even if the busy wife and
mother could have spared the time to sit inactive in Rachel's room;
dearly as Rachel loved her for her own and Ivan's sake, their natures
were too dissimilar to prevent friction. Xow and then a dry, caustic
remark on Rachel's part brought the old flash to Joan's eyes' and the
impatient answer to her lips.
Joan was always penitent, and accused herself of cruelty in no meas
urcd terms when she saw the weary look on Rachel's pale 'face aft<
of these little fracases. " What a wretch I am, darling!" she would
say, with a remorseful kiss. " Scold me, please scold me, and I will
ty a word." But Rachel, with much magnanimity, never availed
herself of this permission. It was only Joan's hot Irish blood; she
would grow older and wiser one day.
Joan would go sadly away and bemoan herself to Ivan; her husband's
sympathy was the refuge 'that never failed her. Ivan was never too
busy or too worried to listen to her confessions. "Never mind, dear,
you will do better by and by," he would say, stroking the ruddy-brown
hair. " Rachel is a little crotchety, but she has so much to suffer, pool-
thing!"
;nd I ought to have remembered that; but it was my horrid
temper. No, I do not deserve to be petted, Ivan; you are much too
good to me." But Mr. Thorpe never took any notice of this. 1!
still Joan's lover as well as her husband, and in his heart he thought
Ra-'hel was the one to blame.
Joan's life was brimful of interest now, with three children in the
;y. Launcelot'a godson was a line sturdy boy of six. with his moth
;iid next to him was a fair-haired Ronald; Gwendoline, or
Baby Gwen as she was called, was a soft, round creature, her father's
pit
OKLY THE GOVERNESS. 25
They were all beautiful children, but Ronald war the only one who
resembled his father in features. They were all merry, high-spirited
creatures, with Joan's vivacity and impulsive ways " my Irish rogues,"
as Mr. Thorpe sometimes called them but he would not have had them
like himself for the world. No father was ever prouder of his boys
than he; in spite of all Aunt Rachel's rebukes, he could scarcely bear
to restrain their wild spirits.
" Boys will be boys " was his favorite speech, until it became a
proverb in the house. But for all that he took care that he should be
obeyed, and the little lads were not slow in learning this lesson.
" Father told us not," was often overheard in the nursery.
" Father's a duck," put in Gwen, as she came waddling across the
floor on her fat little legs, with a lop-eared rabbit in her arms, "and
(J \\enny loves him muchly."
i) he is, my pet!" cried Joan, snatching up her little daughter and
nearly smothering her with kisses. " There is no one in the world like
father, and mother loves him muchly too."
The conversation had languished for a few minutes after Dorothea's
little speech. Rachel was thinking of those eighteen months and the
changes they had brought, but Dorothea, who was in holiday mood,
had sent her thoughts skimming across the ocean; in a moment they
hud boarded the " Atalanta;" there were two figures there that she
knew, Mr. Lance and a big, brown-bearded man with broad shoulders
and a stoop in them. Miss Thorpe imagined that the girl was thinking
of her first ball, and smiled benevolently at her rapt expression.
" I wish Pauline were going too," she said, following out this idea,
and Dorothea slightly started.
" Oh, you are thinking of the ball. But Pauline never cared for
them; she declares she is too old for dancing now, but that is such non-
sense ; she is only seven-and-t wenty, and as pretty as ever prettier, I
think."
" Yes, Pauline is one of those people who will wear well, but she is
not looking her best just now. Poor Mrs. Maxwell's illness is such a
grief to her; the poor thing suffers so much that her death will be a
merciful release. There is absolutely no hope; Doctor Maxwell told me
so himself. He was here yesterday; he looked dreadfully iJl, poor
fellow!"
" No wonder, with all his hard work, and, as Pauline says, he is de-
voted to his mother. And then it is such a pity that poor Prissy 's mar-
riage should be put off; Major Drummond can not wait for her later
than August."
" Well, then, they must get married quietly one morning. Prissy has
her outfit ready, and there need be no fuss; but from what Doctor Max-
well said yesterday I can see that he does not expect that his mother will
last long it may be over sooner than we think."
" I hope so, for Charlotte's sake; she is growing thinner every day,
but for Pauline she would have broken down long ago. It does seem
so sad; this time last year they lost Miss Royston; no one expected that
in the least."
" No, indeed, poor Aunt Myra ' the little blind saint,' as Joan always
called her. I think Brenda felt that most Miss Royston was her chief
companion."
" And now Mrs. Maxwell is dying, and poor Prissy is obliged to put
aside all her bridal finery. Prissy's engagement was the one bit of
brightness in Bridge House. Don't you recollect how happy Doctor
OXVT TTTE
Maxwell looked when you eongvatulated him? Tie was thinking of
something else, I b, li
" Yea, 1 was sure from his manner that Pauline was in his thoughts.
With Prissy uiul poor Miss Koyston oil his hands, there did seem more
probability of his taking a wife. Well, Pauline will have to comfort
him for his mother's loss. Mrs. Chudleigh tells me that she tak-
full share of nursing, even the night- work."
" oh, yes, she -joes every day. Poor Mrs. Maxwell never seems easy
if Pauline be missing; so Aunt Delia feels she must spare her."
" True, and she has you and Sybil, so she is not daughterless, but it
i; very trying for Pauline;" ami to this Dorothea smiled assent, Then
-he looked at her watch, and, with an exclamation at the lateness of the
hour, said that she must go in search of Mrs. Thorpe, and Rachel made
no elTort to detain her.
" We have had a nice long talk, and I know you will come soon and
tell me all about your conquests," she returned, with a warm kiss.
" Now I will rest until luncheon, if you will ring for Merton to wheel
me into the sitting-room," but as Rachel closed her eyes, it wasof Paul-
ine, not of Dorothea, that she was thinking.
And at that moment Pauline was kneeling clown beside the invalid,
with a thin, shadowy hand clasped in hers, and there were tears in her
eyes as she listened to her friend's feeble utterances.
" You will promise me, Pauline?"
_ _ gone. lie
will need his wife to comfort him for his mother's loss."
" If he need me, he must tell me so," almost whispered Pauline, but
her tears dropped fast. " You may be sure 1 shall do all I can for him,
but, dear Mrs. Maxwell, he will, be too heavy-hearted to think of marry-
ing then surely it will be better to wait a little longer."
" And vou have waited six years now? Oh, Pauline, I know how
good you have been to my boy. You have just waited and waited, and
been like an angel in the house, and no one has ever heard a complaint
from your lips; you have been like a daughter to me and mv poor M vra,
and a sister to Brenda. Oh, no wonder Hedley loves you as in-
that he thinks there is no girl in the world to compare with you."
This praise was very sweet to Pauline, though she had no answer to
make to it. Her patient devotion was reaping its reward now. No one
knew better than herself what she was to Hedley, and though for six
long years no word of love had crossed his lips, she knew that sin
still his darling.
Side by side they had worked together with the wall of fate divid-
ing them, but to love like theirs there seemed no dividing boundary.
For months they might not have interchanged a word, and yet there
seemed no break in their communion. " It is for life," Pauline had said
to him when she had acknowledged her love, and she had never taken
back those words. Of late, since Mrs. Maxwell's illness, there had been
mueli to solace Pauline. The embargo tacitly pronounced upon their
intereoursc had been removed by the very force of circumstances; Med-
ley eould not be kept away from his mother's sick-room, and Pauline,
from her night's watching, often felt the restorative pov
Medley's grateful glance and smile.
They had few opportunities for conversation even then. Mrs. Max-
well's snd sufferings prevented much talk, 1ml Pauline was quite content
to sit .-ilent and watch the mother and son together.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 277
Sometimes Mrs. Maxwell would appeal to her:
" Do you see how gray my boy is getting?" she said once, when Hal-
ley had come up to her bedside for a moment.
Pauline blushed at this direct speech, but Dr. Maxwell answered for
her:
" JJoy, indeed! Will you ever realize that I am forty-two, mother?
A man has a right to be gray at that age. Perhaps Pauline thinks it
an improvement; I am sure I hope so," with a wistful look at the fair
face that was even dearer to him than ever.
Pauline looked up and their eyes met. " What does it matter, Iled-
ley?" Pauline's seemed to say, and he went away satisfied.
It was always like this, fond looks and a quiet speech or two, but te
Paulina they gilded those weary hours of sickness; it made her happy to
know that Hedley's care-worn face lighted up with pleased recognition
at the sight of her; she knew that .she was taking her place openly as
. though no words to that effect had passed between them.
That very morning Iledley joined them almost before his mother had
ended her speech, and Mrs. Maxwell, with the tenacity of an invalid,
repeated her words, much to Pauline's distress.
" My dear son, I have been speaking to Pauline. I can not last much
longer, only a few days, Doctor Phillips thinks, and when I am gone 1
want Pauline to come here in my place."
" She will come all in good time, mother, but we will not talk of it
now," and Dr. Maxwell's face worked with pain. His mother seemed
feebler during the last few hours.
" Yes. but I like to talk of it. I am always thinking about it, am I
not, Pauline? There will be plenty of room then, when Myra and I
and Prissy are gone, and there will be money enough too, eh,lledlcyV"
" I don't know; I suppose so, mother." But Pauline could bear this
no longer; the muffled pain in Hedley's voice was not to be resisted.
" Do not talk to him now, dear. He can not bear it; he only wants
to think of his mother now; there will be time enough for other things
by and by;" but as Pauline stepped back, pale from her little protest,
Dr. Maxwell drew her to him for a moment, and kissed her forehead.
" God bless you, my darling! Yes, 1 can only think of my mother
now, but one day I shall hope to make up to you for all your goodness
to us all;" and here he broke down, as strong men are not ashamed to
break down beside the dying beds of the mothers who bore them.
CHAPTER XLII.
"THIS IS NOT MY LITTLE GIRL."
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
SHAKESPEARE.
And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In truth I'm like to greet.
W. J. MlCKLE.
DOROTHEA went in search of Joan, and found her in her pretty draw-
ing-room busily engaged in making a smock for baby Gwen, who was
playing with her doll at her feet.
Joan greeted her with her usual beaming smile, which always con
ONLY Till: (iOVKKXESS.
vfyed such a hearty welcome, and (Jwen held up licr round chubb\
for a kiss.
" ( >o is Pottie." she observed, with extreme satisfaction, pointing her
small ringer at her.
.loan hud developed into :i noble-looking woman. She had grown a
little stouter, and had a malronly air that became her well, and it was
till the same charming faee, full of life and vivacity, though the Irish-
yes had a far softer expression.
; 1 would not interrupt you and Rachel," she said, as Dorothea lifted
Owen into her lap and sat down beside her, " you seemed talk:
co/.ily ; and Kachel is like mo'st invalids, she never thinks three is ,-i
fortablc number. So I have saved my congratulations until
Look, this is my little gift, dear ours, 1 should say, for Ivan ii,
on being included, he thinks so much of your kindness to poor Kaehel.
And then we always look upon you as belonging somehow to Mr. C'hud-
leigk. and you know he and Ivan are like brothers."
I know, and it is very good of Mr. Thorpe," but Dorothea
hardly knew why she blushed over Joan's innocently meant speech;
she had always the same feeling herself, as though in some way she be-
longed to Mr. Lance. Joan's selection was a large photograph of her-
self and her children in a beautifully carved frame, and Dorothea, who
doted on the children, expressed great delight and admiration.
" Every one is far too kind to me! I never had so many presents be-
fore;" and then the bracelet was brought out, and the ball toilet dis-
cussed with due gravity, for Joan loved pretty things as much a
and she evinced quite a childish curiosity on the subject, which amused
Dorothea.
" And I suppose you are counting the days until your father arrives?"
observed Joan, when this topic had been exhausted. " Dear, dear. I
remember as though it w r ere yesterday, that afternoon \\hen you sat in
the school-room and told me about him. What an old-fashioned little
creature you looked in your hood-bonnet, and how you used to fret
about him! I had to take you into my bed often and cuddle you to sleep
as I do Gwen, because you were so miserable."
"I know you were very kind to me," returned Dorothea, with a
grateful recollection of her young governess. " Oh, yes, I can hardly
sleep sometimes for thinking how father will look. 1 never im;
for a moment that Mr. Lance would bring him back with him. Thai
is why he has stayed so long away, that they might come back to-
gether."
" It is another of Mr. Chudleigh's good deeds, but I shall be glad for
Ivan's sake when he returns, he does miss him so!"
" Not more than we do," returned Dorothea, with a sigh. " Aunt
Delia and I always say the "Witchcns is a different place without Mr.
Lance. Aunt Delia tried not to fret over the delay, but sli
shall never have tfce courage to let him go away again. She will have
it that she is getting old, but I can not see a bit of difference in her,
neither can Pauline."
" Of course not. She is as lovely as ever," replied Joan, briskly.
"What do you think, Dorothea? I had a long letter from Fred this
morning, inclosingone of his new photos. lie tells me that he has quite
made up his mind to take holy orders, and that he has told his h;
I don't know why I felt surprised, but somehow I can not fancy
Fred a clergyman," and here Joan began to laugh as she iiuuted in her
work-box for the photo.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 279
Fred, or Freckles, as his brothers still called him, had been a good-
looking, melancholy-eyed lad, and had now become a very handsome
young man, only there was still the same pathetic look of sadness in his
eyes. As Dorothea took the photograoh in her hand she began to laugh
too.
"Fred is such an absurd boy," she said, by way of explanation.
" Bernard is quite right when he declares that Fred always gives people
the idea that his affections have been blighted. Don't you recollect
the old lady who fell in love with him in the railway carriage, and lu\v
she told Fred that she had boys of her own, and begged him to keep his
feet and chest warm, young men were so imprudent? She evidently
thought Fred was in the first stage of decline."
" Oh, yes, I think I do remember something about it."
" I know Fred's answer surprised her, for he told her that he found
nothing so warming as a good spell of the dumb-bells after a cold bath,
or a mile and a half's run before dinner, all in that lackadaisical voice
of his, and his eyes closing as though he could hardly prop up his eye-
lids ' for sheer weakness.' "
" Well, I always said Fred was the nicest boy in the world," returned
Joan, reverting to her old opinion, " and Ivan says that in spite of his
nonsense he is as steady a fellow as he knows."
"So he is, and thoroughly in earnest, too. Why, he has been slay-
ing at the Oxford House this Easter instead of coming home; he luis
taken up work at the East End, and means to go on with it. Oh, Fred
is all right."
" My dear, he is a Chudleigh," replied Joan who had a devout belief
in the Chudleigh perfection; and then Dorothea got up and said that
she must go, and Joan and Gwen accompanied her to the door.
" I wish I could see her dressed for her ball this evening," thought
Joan as she carried Gweii back into the house. " Ivan will have it that
she is not a bit pretty, but I expect tnat she will look lovely to-night.
There is something very taking about her fetching, as Bernard calls
it. Whoever would have thought that Dossie would have turned out
so well? she was such a washed-out little creature."
Sybil would have indorsed this opinion. When Dorothea entered her
room that evening, the stately looking young brunette in her gleaming
satin gave a little exclamation of surprise at the sight of the dainty fig-
ure before her.
" Oh, Dossie, you do look nice! Doesn't she look nice, Pauline?" and
poor, tired Pauline, who had added the duties of lady's-maid to her
handsome young sister out of pure benevolence and love of service,
turned round with an approving smile.
" Oh, I think you are quite lovely," went on Sybil, bundling up her
train without ceremony and walking round her cousin. " Our chaperon
Hilda will be charmed ' Really, our debutante looks exceedingly well,
Geoffrey ' " pursing up her lips and bending her long neck, in evident
mimicry of her sister-in-law; and Pauline chimed in gentty
" Yes, Dossie dear, you do look just as I like to see you."
Dorothea gave a little satisfied glance at herself in the cheval glass,
and shook out the folds of her white gown sedately. At eighteen one
likes to be admired, and Dorothea had her little vanities like other girls.
As for Pauline, she thought that she had never seen anything prettier.
Dorothea looked so sweet and girlish; the lilies of the valley just suited
her style, and the little pearl necklace hardly showed against the white
round throat. Dorothea's fair hair was drawn to the top of her headf
280 ONLY 1 KSS.
which was covered with soft, golden plaits, and fastened with pent! pins
Her complexion was always pale, hut to-night there was a faint tinge ol
color Unit was very becoming, and her blue eyes were shining win
d excitement
me one is sure to fall in love with you to-night," went on Sybil,
as she arranged her orchids. " Don't you know what the old
' Tall women are admired and little ones beloved.' '
" Oh, but I am not little," protested Dorothea, in an injured voice.
for this was a sore point with her; " other people think I am quite tall.
except you, Sybil."
" .Never mind, Dossie dear," returned Sybil, mischievously; " when
lie comes he will think you just the right height." But Dorothea refused
to hear any more: she caught up her white draperies and made Sybil a
little courtesy, and retreated from the room in stately fashion, quite
ignoring Sybil's mocking laugh.
The walls at the Witchens were thick. The two girls shut within
their rooms heard nothing of the commotion and bustle down-stai
cub driving into the front court, followed by Mrs. Geoffrey's brougham-
doors opening and shutting, luggage being deposited in the hall,
Geoffrey's voice raised in exclamation; then a little cry as .Mrs. C'hud-
leigh appears on the scene; questions, embraces, a general hubbub, with
Mrs. Genii' ivy as on-looker. " Dear, dear, this is very unfortunai-
tremely ill-timed!" she observes, but no one heeds her. Geoff;
ly assisting his brother to relieve himself of his wraps.
Chudleigh, with tearful eyes, is looking first at Jack and then at Launce-
lol: by and by she recollects the children, and somebody, probably
Geoffrey, proposes sending for Pauline.
It was at this moment that Dorothea made her appearance. The
door opened, every one looked round, some one probably Mrs.
Geoffrey again said, " Come in, Dorothea." But Launeelot looked in
mute astonishment on the fairy vision on the threshold. Was this
Do.ssie, this pretty 3'0ting girl with piled-up golden hair and white
rounded arms? Could Dossie have developed into this bewitching young
lady? But his surprise was no match for Jack's as he stood tugging at
his rough beard and muttering, " This is not m}" little girl Do
Dorothea stood for a moment motionless with intense surprise; there
was a mist before her eyes, and she could see nothing. It seem
clear at the sound of Jack's voice.
" Father! father! don't you know me?" she said, running to him and
throwing herself in his arms. Mrs. Geoffrey groaned as she saw I hit,
close embrace; the lilies of the valley would all be crushed, she thought,
in Jack's mighty grip. She groaned still more as she heard Doroi
faint sob she was actually crying; her eyes would be red. What a
humiliation for her, Mrs. Geoffrey Chudleigh, to introduce a red
crumpled dihuhuite!
But, unmindful of the crushed lilies, Dorothea was clinging to her
father as though only her sense of touch could assure her that thi
no dream. Was it, could it really be her own father? Jack need not
question his child's identity, when her fresh young lips were givin-
" 1 suppose my turn will come by and by," observes Launeelot Mros-
ently. and Dorothea starts and looks round in search of the well-!,
neelot, who is looking;; iiltlc older, a little more luon/ed,
and with a suspicion ol gniy in his dark hair, smiles kindly at her.
" Oh, I did not. mean to -Mr. Lance," fche said, holding out
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 281
her hand to him; and Launcelot, who has never been greeted in thi*
way, but who acknowledges the nice distinction, lifts Dorothea's hand
to his lips in courtly fashion, and then pats it before he lays it down.
" And this is my little girl," observes Jack, holding her at arrn's-
length as she went back to him. " Somehow I can't believe it, Dossie;
but there is a look in your face that reminds me of Pen. Pen never
went to balls. I don't think I ever saw her in a white gown in my
life."
" Father, how can you talk as though you expected to find me still
the same little girl!" protested Dorothea. " You have been away eight
years, and of course I am a grown-up young lady now (" Grown up, in-
deed," muttered Launcelot). Now let me look at you," and Dorothea
dropped his hands and stepped back a few paces to contemplate him.
Jack bore the ordeal rather uneasily. lie had an idea that he must
look rather a rough customer to this dainty little creature, for every
one even Jack and Launcelot persisted that Dorothea was little, which
was not the truth.
Jack was older certainly. His hair and golden-brown beard were
streaked with gray, and there were deep lines on his handsome face; his
broad shoulders had not lo*t their stoop, but there was a different stamp
about him, a more marked individuality. One felt instinctively on
looking at him that this was a different Jack Weston from the man
" who had been no one's enemy but his own."
Dorothea's eyes softened as she looked at him: her nice perception
told her that she might be proud as well as fond of her father. Perhaps
he might not be the hero her childish fancy depicted him, but he was an
honest man who had done his work in the world, who had labored all
these years to make a home for his little girl. He looked older, yes, and
tired, but at least they could both feel he had earned his rest.
" Well, are you satisfied with him, Dorothea?" and Launcelot, who
had been looking on at this scene with kind, sympathetic eyes, moved a
Jittle nearer to them. He had planned and plotted for months to effect
this reunion; he had had his difficulties, but perseverance had tri-
umphed, and as he looked at the girl's radiant face he felt himself amply
rewarded.
Dorothea gave him a shy, startled look. He had never called her by
that name before, but somehow she liked it. It was Hilda and Mi.ss
Tlachel who always addressed her in that way, and latterly the others
had followed their example. "Dossie "was felt to be too childish.
Perhaps Launcelot realized instinctively the child Dossie was gone this
was a new Dorothea whose acquaintance he had to make.
" Are you satisfied?" he asked, and Dorothea turned round with a
beaming look.
" He is just the same," she said, triumphantly, " only he looks nicer
somehow. Father, do you know you are so big that you make me feel
quite a little girl still? What a pity your beard has grown gray! But,
after all, I do not mind; and as for those creases," indicating the lines
with her soft fingers, " we must smooth them out. You have worked
too hard, and you have had no one to take care of you, or to talk to you
and make you laugh, but it will be different now."
"Yes, indeed, I shall have my little girl to look after me," mur-
mured Jack, but his deep voice trembled a little as though he felt his
cup was filled to the brim. And then the door opened again, and this
time it was a young princess who stood on the threshold with a tired,
sweet-faced Cinderella behind her; and then again there was a little hub-
28 3 OXLY Tin:
bub every one speaking at once; more embraces; n few ear:
i-n the brother and sister; curious looks at the big bearded colonist
1'roni Princess Sybil, and last, but not least, mi anxious protest from
Mrs. (
Mrs. Geoffrey was, as Miss Thorpe had described her, a very pretty
young woman. She had an exquisitely fair skin and an extr.
graceful figure, and her manners were quiet and lady-like, though at
times she would assert herself with a decision that somewhat alarmed
her mother-in-law.
Mrs. (.'hudleigh looked alarmed now. Hilda had crossed the room
and spoken to her, and there was a troubled expression on the mother's
placid face, which was still as lovely as ever to her childr
" Oh, my dear, do you think so?" she said, helplessly. " Dossio, my
darling, Hilda says that she can not possibly wait any longer, and that
you and Sybil will lose all the best dances."
" What do you mean, Aunt Delia?" exclaimed Dorothea, excitedly.
" Hilda can not think that I can leave my father! What does it matter
about the dances? Do you think I should give a thought to the
grandest ball in the world, when I have not seen my own father for
eight years?"
"Geoffrey," returned his wife, in a tone of calm exasperation he
already knew well, " perhaps you will speak to your cousin; there are
duties that we owe to society, engagements that it is only honorable to
fulfill. If it were any other occasion but Dorothea is a <.l<'b-u1<intc t and
such an opportunity to make her appearance at Lady Mervyn's house
may never occur again. 1 am sure, if Mr. Weston only realized the im-
portance of the occasion, he would be the first to sacrifice his daughter's
company for a few hours."
Mrs. Geoffrey seldom made such a long speech. She w r as a woman
of few words, and governed her husband by a judicious tact that allowed
him to think himself master, but her smooth patience was milled by
what she chose to consider Dorothea's obstinacy.
" 1 can not help it, Hilda; I am very sorry, but Sybil must go with-
out me," she began, but Launcelot interposed. He had been regarding
his new sister-in-law critically, and had just made up his mind that iii
spite of her mild suavity Mrs. Geoffrey had a will of her own; not that
he disliked the look of her he was sure that she would be even-tempered
and reasonable in her demands, and a very pleasant person wilh whom
to live on the whole but he could see that she was seriously disturbed,
and that Geoffrey was getting uneasy.
" Dorothea," he said, gently, " I think Mrs. Geoffrey is right. There
are certain duties one owes to society; we ought not to forego our en-
gagements or disappoint people if we can help it. It seems to me that
tcr-in-law is putting herself to considerable inconvenience to act
as your chaperon. I am sure your father will gladly spare you for a
few hours. If you have not seen him for eight years, Madella has not
lier brother for eighteen; will you not trust him to us? I will un-
dertake to keep him safe until you turn up at break fast -time."
" Yes, my darling, he is quite right," whispered Jack; " go with your
friend-, DoBsie, and 1 will talk to Delia."
Dorothea's b!' ew very wide and piteous. " Oh, must I go.
Mr. Lance?" she asked, " is it really my duty?" and as Launccl<>;
held out his hand by way of an a: i her father without
another word, and suffered Launcelot to lead her away, while
;rey followed on her husband's arm all smiles and good humor.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 283
But as Launcelot stooped to put the white furred cloak over Dorothea's
shoulders he looked into her eyes for a moment. " You are very good
and reasonable," he said, quietly. "I am very pleased with you,
Dorothea;" and then aloud, " You will not stay very late, Geoil'rey, will
you?" but his wife answered for him.
"No, indeed," she said very graciously. "Dorothea shall decide.
how long she wishes to stay; she must show herself and go through a
few dances, but she need not do more than that. Of course Sybil's
pleasure will be spoiled, but "
" Oh, never mind me," returned Sybil, briskly. " I have been to too
many balls to fret over the loss of one, and to-night it is for Dossie to
decide," for even Sybil was touched by her cousin's gentle submission
and sad, disappointed face. " Plow is she to enjoy herself when she is
longing to be with Uncle Jack?"
" Promise me you will enjoy yourself, Dorothea," persisted Launce-
lot, leaning forward into the carriage and touching the girl's hand.
" Don't make me sorry that we came to-night. It was all my fault, foi
Jack wanted to telegraph and wait for to-morrow."
" Yes, yes, I will try to enjoy it, if only to please Hilda," she re
turned; but her hand felt a little cold in his kind clasp. How could he
know that the girl was recalling another scene! As he led her away shq
remembered with a shudder, even now, how she had clung with all hei
childish force to her father's neck, and how firmly Mr. Lance had un
loosened her little hands and had carried her away. She could recollect,
the way he pressed her to him and the very words he had said, " M}>
poor, dear little child! yes, I know you think me cruel, Dossie, but you
must have faith in me. Father has given you to me and 1 am to take
care of you until he comes back. Try to be good and reasonable, and
we will all love you, and remember you are my child now," and after
he had said this he had made no further effort to check her tears, know-
ing her childish grief must have vent; but from time to time he had
stroked her hair, or patted the little listless hand, making her feel his,
unspoken sympathy and knitting her young affections more closely tci
himself.
Dorothea shed a few quiet tears as the carriage rolled across the com-
mon, but Mrs. Geoffrey, with a tact that did her credit, left her alon^
and talked cheerfully to her husband and Sybil.
"It is very trying, dear," she said, in a sympathetic voice presently,
" but you will feel all right by and by. Geoffrey, you must get Dorothea
some coffee when we go in; she has been overexcited. I think a glass
of wine would do her good, and then she will not look so pale. We are
dreadfully late, but of course I shall explain things to Lady Mervyn."
After all, Mrs. Geoffrey declared herself perfectly satisfied when the
evening was over. Dorothea had regained spirits and animation at the
sight of the brilliantly lighted rooms. The }'.oung debutante had be-
haved with great dignity and propriety,- and had met with a great deal
of attention. Mrs. Geoff rey overheard more than one person asking the
name of the fair-haired girl with the lilies of the valley, and begging for
an introduction.
" I think Dorothea is a success, Hilda," observed Geoffrey, with an
admiring glance at his young wife, whose fair face was a little flushed
with her arduous duties.
" She is a darling!" returned Hilda, enthusiastically; " she does every-
thing that I tell her. She has danced twice with Howard Mervyn, and
three times with the Hon. Edgar Trumpeton. Yes, I think we had ber
284 ONLY Tin: <;<>VKRXESS.
tcr go now. Sybil's card is full, but that can not be helped; I promised
Porollira that we would leave early."
" Hilda is ehanned with you, ""observed Sybil, as the girls were put
into the carriage, with rYmvick to mount guard over them on the coach
bitx. .Mis. (Jcoll'rey was a little delicate, and it was not thought advisa-
ble for her to drive back to the Witchcns. The Geoffrey-Chudli
had a nice house at South Kensington, and Mrs. Geoffrey had her pri-
vate brougham and her maid. " She will be your fast friend now, Dos
sie; she has already made a match for you with that bald-headed young
man, Mr. Trumpeton the lion. Edgar, she called him. I think 1
should prefer Howard Mervyn myself. He is delightfully handsome,
hut Mr. Trumpeton is the richest part/'.''
" Oh, what nonsense you talk, Sybil!" returned Dorothea, impatient
ly. " Who cares for Mr. Trumpeton? He danced well, and his siep
suited mine, that was all. Now do let me be quiet and think about fa-
ther;" and as Sybil rather sulkily complied with this request, for she
in inveterate chatter-box and longed to expatiate ou her cono
Dorothea leaned back in a corner of the carriage and gave herself up to
delicious musings.
"I wonder if father is asleep?" she said, a little plaintively, as tin-
carriage rolled into the court-yard of the Witchens, but as she stepped
out she gave a little cry of delighted recognition, for Jack's big form
blocked up the door- way.
" I was not going to bed until I had had another look at you," he
said, as Dossie nestled up to him. " The others are all gone; Launee
was sleepy and Went off hours ago, but Delia has only just left me.
You are to go up to her, Sybil, for she wants to hear about the ball, ;md
Dossie is to stay and talk to me, but not for long I promised Delia
that faithfully! but I must have my little girl all "to myself for a few
minutes," finished Jack, with a satisfied look at his treasure.
CHAPTER XLIII.
BUILDING JACK'S HOUSE.
When a young woman behaves to her parents in a manner particularly tend
1 fill. ] mean from principle as well as nature, there is nothing #ood an> !
that may not be expected from her in whatever condition sin- is phuv.i
THK unexpected arrival of the travelers and Lady Mervyn's ball had
somewhat disorganized the household at the Wilchens; it was not
prising, therefore, that when Lauucelot made his appearance at the
time the next morning he should find himself the sole occupant of the
breakfast-room.
Mrs. Chudleigh had kept her brother company while he wailed lor
Dorothea's return from the ball, and the hours had passed quickly in
listening to Jack's penitent confessions, his account of his brief married
life and Pen's perfections, and of his long, weary exile; while hi-
questions about " his little girl," as he still fondly called In :
Bwered fully by Aunt, Delia, who could -not speak too warmly of D<
sweetness of disposition, her unselfishness and uondne-s of h<
mcelotwas in his. usual place by the window reading the " Ti;
when Dorothea came in from the garden, looking as l.ri-lit and fn
(hough she had enjoyed a. good i:i > instead of retiring I
She had some Jlov. ;il \vttwin
ore a little white gown th figure to perfe< '
(XNXY THE GOYERKESS. 285
One of the sudden bright smiles that had been her chief charm as a
fluid lighted up her face \vlien she saw Lauucelot.
" Down already, Dorothea!" he exclaimed, in genuine surprise, "I
did not expect to see you for hours."
" It was impossible to sleep on such a morning," she returned. " I
been round the garden with Beppo, and everything looks so fresh
and lovely. Mr. Lance," looking at him shyly, " 1 am glad to find you
alone, for there is something 1 must say to you. Last night well, I
could only think of father, and there was so much that we had to say
li other after eight years; but when I went up into my room 1 re-
membered that I had not said one word, not one word, to thank you for
bringing him back to me, and yetfit was all your doing."
. onsense! I have done nothing to deserve thanks. Besides, you
wrote to me; 1 have the letter still. Do you think I have forgotten all
the pretty things you said to me then?"
" I did not say half enough," she replied, with an earnestness that
made him smile; but he thought the sky itself could not be clearer than
those candid blue eyes.' Even as a child Dorothea's eyes had been love-
ly. " Why do you say that you have done nothing? but that is your
way. Father and I know better. We know all the months you stopped
away that you might help him settle things, and that he might have a
companion for the voyage. You are always doing kind things, Mr.
Lance, and yet I must not thank you!"
" You shall thank me if you will, Dorothea," he returned, taking her
hand, and then her color rose a little.
" You called me Dorothea last night and again this morning," she
said, after a moment's hesitation. " I have never heard that name be-
fore from your lips; before y^ou went away it was always Dossie."
" Ah, true," he said, teasing her a little in his old way; " but last
night it seemed to me that the child Dossie had gone, and that one
would not find her again."
" Gone!" in a hurt voice.
" Well, why not? The old order changes, and even Dossie can not
always remain a child. There is no need to look at me so reproach-
fully. \Vhen I saw you last night in all that whiteness I said to my-
self, ' This is a new Dorothea whose acquaintance I shall have to make.
This is not the Dossie I left.' Well, what now?" for she had dropped
his hand and moved away, and there was a troubled look on her face.
" Oh, how you talk! and yet I am not changed a bit. One must
grow up and be a woman, but I am still Dossie just as much as you are
Mr. Lance. It is not that I mind your calling me Dorothea I think I
like it from every one but father; to him I shall always be Dossie but
I want you to feel that I am just the same."
" No, you are not just the same you are a hundred times better,"
he said, gently, for he could see that she was really hurt. "I told
Madella so last night. I wish you could have heard her reply; I think
it would have satisfied you."
" But it is not compliments I want," she returned still more shyly,
but a little smile played round her lips. " Aunt Delia is always prais-
ing people, and so is Pauline. They all spoil me, and that is why I
have grown so conceited."
" You are not conceited, Dorothea."
" Oh, I don't know that; I like people to think well of me, and I am
disappointed if they do not seem to care."
" Madella told your father last night that when he took you away the
286 ONLY TTIE <;<>vn;N"ESS.
house wou'.d \ose its sunshine. I call that a very pretty speech for
Madella to make." l>ut to Launcelot's surprise the young girl be
suddenly serious.
" What do you mean?" she faltered. " The Witchens is my home,
is it not?"
" Yes, dear, if you and Uncle Jack will have it so. As Madella
the place is big enough to hold us, but how about ' the house that .lark
built,' eh, Dorothea? the visionary cottage, where .lack is to smoke
endless pipes in the back garden, while his little girl sits and talks to
him."
Dorothea grew very pale. " DO^ T OU mean," she asked, in a low
voice, " that it is still his plan that we should go away by our two selves
and live in a cottage, that he would prefer that to the Witchens? or is
it only one of your jokes, Mr. Lance?"
" Oh, no, 1 am not joking," he returned, quickly; "but you need
not make yourself unhappy about it. Your father will do just as you
wish; you have only to tell him that you would rather remain at the
Witchens, and he will never say another word about the cottage. Ma-
della is longing to keep you both. She says Pauline will be settled be-
fore long, and that Bernard will be married soon stupid fellow! and
that the house will be so big and empty with only Sybil and myself.
You know Madella loves numbers."
" Yes, I know; but, Mr. Lance, that is not the question. I have to
find out what are my father's wishes, and how I am to make him
happy. That is my duty now, is it not?"
" Undoubtedly; there can be no question about that'"
" Then will you tell me, please, what he said to you about the future
what were his plans, I mean, that 1 may know them beforehand, so
that when he talks to me I can understand what to answer?"
" Why, Dorothea, you look as sober as a judge. My dear child, I
hope your father means to be our guest for months. Certainly dining
the voyage he spoke a good deal about taking a small house near the
"Witt-hens, that you might not be separated from your friends. You
man of his age likes a little place of his own where he can be his
own master; and most likely, too, he may feel a sort of desire to have
you to himself."
" Thank you for telling me," she said, gently. "But he is not a
rich man, is he, Mr. Lance?"
" Xot rich, certainly, but he can make you comfortable in a small
way: and, Dorothea, your aunt Delia will still consider you one of her
daughters. You must not separate your interests from ours, or let
Jack's notions of independence affect you, for MadelJa and I will
always feel that you belong to us.''
" You arc very kind," she returned, gravely; "but, Mr. La:
must make a difference. 1 have my father to consider now, and his
wishes will be mine, and I must not separate myself from him in the
I am all he has in the world."
" lint you will be his child, whatever happens," returned Launcelot,
d iiy her uncomplaining sadne-s. " ' My daughter is my daugh-
ter all the days Of her life/ thai is what the proverb says. Look here,
Dorothen. I can see how you feel about leaving the Witrhens and Ma-
della. L( to give it up. lie is sin-h a good iVllow
that lie will nevi is UK; old school-mom, thai-he could
call liis den, and half a do/en m^ns besides. Why, the cottage is only
an idea; it will be a dull life for a young girl like you."
OHLY THE GOVERN i 28?
" And you think that I shall ask him to give it up?" she replied,
with a touch of scorn in her voice, " that I shall think of myself at all
in this? Oli, Mr. Lance, what an opinion you must have of me."
" I have a very good opinion of you," he answered, smiling; " it im-
proves every minute, but I can see no occasion for your making such a
sacrifice."
" And you would have me disappoint him? Oh, no, no! All these
years he has been working and slaving to make a home for his little
girl. Ah, you may joke about ' the house that Jack built,' but all these
weary year* lie ha* been building it brick by brick, and I am to go to
him and say that I do not want it, that I would rather remain in my
own dear home For it is my dear home, and I love it, I love it, but all
the same my father shall have his wish. Hush! here he comes. Not
one word of this. Mr. Lance; it is between you and me. Now I will
pour out your coffee, for you must be tired of waiting. Father," as
Jack entered the room, looking bigger and rougher and grayer than he
had looked by lamp-light, but still a grand figure of a man, " father,
you ought to have rested longer. No one is down but Mr. Lance, and
I am sure you are tired."
" I believe I am, Dossie," looking at the girl fondly as she hung about
him, " but there was no sleep for me last night; if I dozed, the thought
woke me that my little girl" was asleep near me, under the very same
roof. I could hardly help getting up to assure myself that it was the
truth and not a dream. It seems so wonderful after all these years. I
it last that I gave it up as a bad job, and when I pulled
up the blind, there you were gathering flowers, and looking like a white
May blossom. Fancy niy little girl Dossie instead of log cabins, and
the lowing of cattle and bleating of sheep! Somehow it seemed to me
like paradise/' finished Jack, with homely eloquence.
" Poor father, no wonder your eyes look tired, but I shall talk or read
you to sleep presently. Mr. Lance, I do not want to leave my father
for an instant to-day, but there is Miss Rachel, and I wanted her to
know of your return."
" That is easily settled," he returned, pleased at this new instance of
thoughtful ness. Dorothea seemed to show him new developments
every minute. Her quiet decision and womanliness surprised him; few
girls of eighteen would have had so much character. " I mean to go
down to Spring "Mead and report myself, so I can give Miss Rachel any
amount of messages. By the bye," looking at her steadily, " I believe
I owe you some thanks, there, and then Pauline came into the room
followed by Sybil, who looked very handsome and lackadaisical, and
declared she felt tired to death after her ball, and then the conversation
became general.
Launcelot kept his promise of going to Spring Mead, where rapturous
mes awaited him. Miss Thorpe did not have her tcte-d-tete until
the last. Mr. Thorpe carried him off to his study, where Joan joined
them, and the children came in and made wild dashes at Uncle Launce,
for Launcelot had established brotherly relations with Ivan and his
wife, and was the family friend and counselor, the man whom every
one delighted to honor. Launcelot had long ago conquered the oh]
pain; hia strong will and sense of rectitude had enabled him to triumph.
He could accept Joan's frank affection with something like gratitude,
for she 1 ad fulfilled his dearest hopes. Joan's knight had been jealous
of his lady's honor fie had striven with patient effort to re-establish
her in her own good opinion as well as in her husband's. In spite of
288 ONLY THE <;<>VKi:VESS.
lier faul.tiness he had recogni/.ed her true nobility of character. Sht
had not disappointed him, and now the time had come that he could
regard her with brotherly pride and goodness, so gently does healing
Time lay his finger on mortal wounds.
.Miss Thorpe had him to herself by and by. Ivan, who respected his
sister's invalid whims, only accompanied him to the threshold.
" Rachel never feels strong enough for more than one person at a
time," he explained; "Joan and I are the only exceptions. She still
suffers from those intense headaches, sometimes.'"
Rachel was somewhat agitated as she greeted her favorite. Her
nerves were not always under control, and though she chafed at her
weakness she could not restrain her tears at first, but Launcelot's gen-
tleness soon soothed her, and they were soon chatting away in their old
fashion.
" How well you look!" she said, presently; " I think that little dash
of gray just suits you. You look like a colonist yourself, so strong
and brown, and you are actually broader.*'
" I feel like a giant refreshed," he returned. " I believe I was get-
ting dreadfully homesick at last. I told Madella that I should never
leave her again."
" And how do you think Mrs. Chudleigh is looking?"
"Lovelier than ever," he returned, so earnestly that Miss Thorpe
looked quite amused. " Madella w ill never grow old at least," cor-
recting himself as though he had been guilty of an anachronism, " she
will be perfect at any age."
"Mr. Chudleigh, I believe you almost worship your step-mother,"
but he only smiled in answer.
" And Dorothea?" she continued, after Pauline's affairs had been
discussed, and a few other family items also.
" Oh," he said, lightly, " Dorothea is a new acquaintance; you must
not catechise me too closely on that subject. Eighteen mouths ago 1
left an unformed, growing girl, and on my return I find a fn
young lady, a young princess dressed for a ball, and of course I am a
little bewildered."
" Yes, I can understand your feelings. Dorothea has changed very
much during the last few months. She has developed, grown in <
way. I think you will be pleased with her."
I am very much pleased with her."
" I am glad to hear you say that. I was half afraid from } r our tone
that you thought Dorothea was just an ordinary young Uuby. ~We are
all so fond of her here; to me she has been the dearest little nurse am'
companion. I could give you a hundred instances of her thoughtful-
ness."
" Yes, she is very much grown," he returned, gravely.
" I am not easily pleased," returned Rachel, smiling, " but Dorothea
suits me perfectly. She is gentle, and yet she has plenty of character,
-links for herself , which is more than most girls do; and in spite
of her culture for Dorothea is extremely clever and well -read for her
.nd can talk to Ivan on any subject she is just as simple ami un-
ions as a child. And then she is so loyal in her attachments, too,
FO absolutely devoted to those she loves. You are still her hero, Mr.
Chudleigh; Dorothea never change" in her allegiance to you."
-he has itTOne conservative principles. I am old fashioned
enough to like that. 'Miss Thorpe, 1 wish you could have seen thu
meeting between her and Jack last night! It was the prettiest scene 1
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 289
and Laimcelot's eyes softened as he remembered the girl's sweet looks
and words, and the expression on Jack's rugged face. After all, it was
almost too sacred for repetition; and then he thought of their conversa-
tion this morning, and of Dorothea's quiet self-effacement. " My
father's wishes must be mine," she had said, quietly; and yet he knew
that her girlish heart was wrung at the thought of leaving the Witdiens.
Dorothea had spent the day quietly with her father. They hat! sat
together and walked together, and no one had interrupted them. To-
ward evening Launcelot found them on the terrace enjoying the sunset.
Dorothea was holding Jack's arm; they seemed talking earnestly to-
gether. When Dorothea turned round Launcelot thought she looked
a little pale and weary, but there was a bright smile on her face.
" Father and I are talking about the cottage, Mr. Lance," she said,
brightly, as Launcelot joined them. " Do you think Aunt Delia will
mind if we look out for it at once? Father says it is to be very near the
Witchens, so that I can run in and see you every day if I like, and that
will be so nice."
"I am so afraid Dossie will be dull," observed Jack, anxiously.
" What do you say, Launce? She has been used to you all, and then
you see there is so much luxury at the Witchens. I have been
talking to Delia, and she thinks it may interfere with Dossie's prospects
to take her away. She says Mrs. Geoffrey was bringing her out, and
that Dossie made a decided hit last night. Fancy Dossie a ball-room
belle! I don't seem to understand it somehow, but of course I must
not be selfish an old fellow like me. Dossie will marry one day, as
Pen did before her, but I should like to have her to myself for a bit
just a month or two before any young fellow comes. "
" Oh, father, how can you talk so?" returned Dorothea, with a
blush. " What are young fellows, as you call them, beside my father?
I do not want to go to balls and leave you, dear only, as Mr. Lance
said last night, we do owe a duty to people, and I should be sorry to
disappoint Aunt Delia and Hilda. Hilda was so kind last night, you
see," with a childishness that made both the men smile. " Aunt Delia
has given me such lovely dresses for my first season that I am afraid she
will be dreadfully disappointed if I do not wear them, and we have ac-
cepted so many invitations too. So I asked father if he would mind a
solitary evening now and then while I went out with Hilda; for if the
cottage be near, the carriage could easily fetch me, and father says he
shall always sit up for me, so there would be no difficulty about that."
" Oh, there would be no difficulty at all," agreed Launeelot, as she
made this appeal to him. " I would take care that you should have
your flowers in good time. Stokes should cut them when he cut
S} r birs, and the carriage would come all right."
" Yes, but you don't think Dossie will feel cramped in a little place
after this?" looking round him; and there was a trace of uncertainty in
his manner. " You see, Dossie has been spoiled. She has grown up a
fine lady with a maid to take care of her things, just as though she were
Delia's daughter, and a small house with two servants and a rough old
father will be such a change for her."
Dorothea raised her lovely eyes to Launcelot with a mute entreaty
that went to his heart. " Do help me," they seemed to say; " his mind
is set on this, and I can not disappoint him. What does it matter about
me?"
Launcelot rose to the occasion.
" I think it might be tried," he said, cheerfully. " There is no need
10
290 ONLY 'i i:ss.
to bind yourself to anything. My advice is, look out for a small fur-
nished house about here, and take it, say for six months and see how it
answers. Dorothea can try her hand at housekeeping, and you Avill
soon sec how the tiling works. It will be a sort of branch establishment
to the Witehens. We will keep you stocked witli fruit and tin
Stokes will see to that; and Madella's maid can put Doroth.
in order, and she and Sybil will go out under Mrs. Geoffrey's wing.
And when you arc tired of each other's company well, Fen wick
always lay two places more at the dinner-table, and I will come and
smoke my pipe with you, Jack, while Dorothea interviews the young
fellows. "Why, it will work excellently," as Dorothea thanked him
with a look, and Jack's cloudy face cleared in a moment.
" It sounds first-rate. What a fellow you are, Launce, for putting a
thing clearly! I was rather muddled over it. You see, I could not
bear that Dossie should lose her little pleasures and have no more pretty
gowns, and tlowers, and fallals that girls have, but Delia says she will
see about that; that Dossie is as much her child as ever, and that she
will order all her gowns as usual. You see, my pet," turning to Doro-
thea, " I have not grown rich, even in eight years, and we can not
aifor/1 to live grandly just a little place big enough for our two E
and two tidy inaids, and a little strip of garden. That is all we can
afford."
" Yes, father dear, and what could I want more?" looking up at
him with such love-filled eyes that Launcelot experienced an odd feel-
ing that was almost envy. " What does it matter how small our cot-
tage is, if I have you all to myself?" and as she reached up to kiss him,
Jack took her in his arms and blessed her in a broken voice.
"You have grown like Pen," he said, huskily; "she never had a
thought but for my comfort. She was a sunbeam in the house, was
Pen, and you will be like her. I am a lucky beggar, Launee. I don't
half deserve my blessings, but, please God, I'll learn to deserve them
better," finished Jack, reverently.
More than once Launcelot's eyes rested with quiet satisfaction on
I )orolhea's sweet face that evening. They were a small party. Sybil
had an engagement in the neighborhood, and Pauline had been sum-
in OIK .d in haste to Bridge House Mrs. Maxwell was dying, and at the
last moment Charlotte's strong nerves had given way.
" This is sad work for you, Paul," her brother said to her, as he put
her in the carriage.
"It is not so sad for me as for Hedley," she returned, quietly; " 1
must think of him now. Indeed, I like to be there, L;iun>
understood his doubtful look; " you need not pity me." And Pauline
was right. There was no happiness greater than this, than to know
she was the support and comfort of that stricken household.
Launcelot had invited the others into his studio, and, as the e\ >
was chilly, there was a tire lighted by his orders, and the four ga;
round it Launcelot beside his step-mother, and Dorothca'in a low
chair by her father. Jack h-id his pipe, hut he soon laid it down; .
now and then his big rough hand touched Dorothea's sofi, shining hair,
smoothing it with infinite tenderness. Dorothea wa> a little quiet and
thoughtful. "ing to her aunt Delia and Lam
Bernard's pio-;
" The boy is an ;i . vcd Laimeclot, with brotherly frai
'Ir tells me that he means to be married before the year is out. Why
he wait until he gets a house?"
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 291
" You see, he is so much in love, poor boy," returned Mrs. Chud-
leigh, in her motherly voice. " Elsie is a dear girl, and we are all so
fond of her, even Hilda. Doctor Carruthers makes no objections, so I
suppose Bernard must have his way."
" 1 call it confoundedly impertinent to get married before his elder
brother," returned Lauucelot. " Now, Madella, don't look at me with
those reproachful eyes, as though you did not know I was a confirmed
old bachelor. Why, I shall be forty next birthday," observed Launce-
lot, blandly.
But Mrs. Olmdleigh only said, indignantly, "What of that? You
are quite young-looking still. Isn't he, Dorothea! He could marry to-
morrow, if he liked. Any girl would be proud to have Launce."
But Dorothea did not answer; perhaps the question escaped her, only
as Jack's hand touched her again, she took it in both hers and kissed it.
" It is growing late, father," he heard her say.
CHAPTER XLIY.
DOROTHEA.
If loving hearts were never lonely,
If all they wished might always be,
Accepting what they looked for only,
They might be glad but not in Thee.
A.
A maiden never loved
Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion
Blushed at herself.
SHAKESPEARE.
THE next two or three weeks passed away smoothly and pleasantly at
the Witchens. To Dorothea and her father the month that followed
Jack's return was simply perfect, a time of such exquisite happiness as
few poor mortals are permitted to enjoy.
Jack still talked a great deal about the cottage, and spent hours in
searching the immediate neighborhood, but as yet his efforts had not
been rewarded by success. No suitable house could be found, so Jack
wisely resigned himself to his fate and spent his mornings in the old
school-room, as it was still called, which had been given up to his use.
Here he and Dorothea passed many pleasant hours, Jack at his easel
finishing some sketches that Launcelot had praised, and Dorothea work-
ing beside him or reading aloud, or practicing her new songs, or trip-
ping about the room arranging flowers and feeding her birds, for she
\vas never idle a minute.
Jack liked the pretty, old-fashioned room. lie owned that it was
almost as good as living in the cottage, for both Launcelot and Mrs.
Chudleigh took care that there should be no interruptions. 4< Jack must
have her all to himself for a little while," Launcelot would say; " we
must not grudge him Dorothea's society."
So Jack Weston was made happy in his own way. He had his little
girl's sunny face always beside him; no one found fault when he
smoked his pipes, or sauntered about the garden in a favorite shabby
rout. Jack could make himself spruce at times, when he and Dorothea
took their long walks or rides together. Launcelot had hired a stout
mi) for Jack's use, and now and then he would join them. How Don>
then enjoyed those rides, and what a pretty little horsewoman she looked
: 1,-NKSS.
cantering brside them on her bay marc, with her fair hair shilling under
her 1
Now and then Dorothea had to put on one of her pretty gowns and
go grumbling and protesting to some ball or "at home under Mrs.
Geoffrey's wing. How restless Jack was on these occasions! how big
and empty the great drawing-room looked when the girls had
" Let us go and nave a smoke somewhere, Launce," Jack would say;
" I am going to sit up for Dossie, and 1 must do something to while
away the time," and he and Launcelot would adjourn to the studio.
Those evenings were dull even to Launcelot; he missed the boys' jokes
and Bee's sprightly conversation. Pauline was quiet and subdued, and
talked very little; she moved about softly in her black dress, doing little
services for one and another. But the loss of her kind friend, and the
grief of the bereaved household, weighed on her spirits and depi
her. It was quite a relief to her when the two gentlemen went oil and
left her wuth her mother. Uncle Jack's company imposed some degree
of restraint on the Conversation, and Pauline could not bring herself t6
speak about her friends at Bridge House to an} r one but her mother.
" It does seem so dreadful for poor Prissy," observed Mrs. Chudleigh,
in a sympathizing voice, on one of these occasions. Pauline had brought
her work to the little table where her mother's favorite lamp stood.
Jack had carried off Lauucelot to the terrace for a moonlight saunter,
and Sybil and Dorothea were being driven to Hyde Park Gate, where
the Trumpetons were giving a grand ball. " Of course, we know
Major Drummond can not wait, and that it will be a quiet wedding,
but still for a bride to be in mourning I must say I am sorry for
Prissy."
" Of course it is sad,*' returning Pauline, " but I never could under-
stand why a wedding need be gay. Prissy will feel just as much mar-
ried though she only walked to the church in the early morning in her
traveling-dress. She will not wear black, of course. Hedley was
shocked at the idea, and so was Brenda, but a soft pretty gray will just
suit Prissy. ' '
" And they are to be married on Thursday?"
" Yes; Launcelot and I are to meet them at the church at half past
nine. There will be no one but Hedley and Charlotte, and a cousin of
Major Drummond's who is to act as best man. We are to go back to
breakfast at Bridge House, and by eleven o'clock Prissy will have
good-bye, but they will see her again in a fortnight's time, just before
they start."
" I think that is very nicely arranged. They could hardly have done
otherwise, as poor Mrs. Maxwell has only been dead three weeks. Poor
Prissy will feel leaving under such circumstances; and then Charlotte
lias been so ill."
' ' Hedley says she is much better now, but she looks wretchedly
thin."
" So does Hedley. I suppose, Pauline, that he has not spoken to you
yet?"
" No, mother, we have never been alone for a minute. And then he
is loo unhappy; he thinks of nothing but his mother."
" It is very trying for you, my darling, but, as Launce says, it is only
what ho expected. At one time there seemed no pm-peel a't all of your
inarri.-ii.re, but he thinks Hedley ouijil to settle tilings now."
will, but, then; is no hurry. " But though her mother left,
uncontraditced it was her opinion, and Lauucelot's too, that the
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 293
sooner Pauline and Dr. Maxwell were married the better it would be for
them both. All Pauline's interests were at Bridge House; she spent
hours there daily in attendance on Brenda, who was suffering much at
the time of her mother's death, and on Charlotte, whose strength had
suddenly broken down. No one could grudge Pauline those hours of
ministry to the two afflicted women, or doubt her right to share her
lover's burdens, but the strain of the two lives was telling on her spirits
she could no longer enter into Launcelot's jokes, or enjoy Sybil's
chatter. The endless talk about balls, and art, and the great busy world
outside bewildered her after months spent in sick-rooms. " I think I
have grown stupid," she said once, almost ready to burst into tears at
some teasing remark from Sybil, and it was then that Launcelot ex-
pressed his opinion that it was Maxwell's duty to settle things at once.
"For you see, Madella," he said, very sensibly, "how half-hearted
poor old Paul is about things. Her spirits are worn, and Sybil's nonsense
tries her. Even Jack's talk seems too much, that is why I take him
away. He has such a big, jovial voice and such a great laugh, but one
can't damp the poor fellow."
" No, indeed; it does one good to see him so happy. He is so per-
fectly happy, and so is Dorothea." And Launcelot was quite ready to
indorse this remark.
But he saw very little of Dorothea except during the evenings, and
even then Jack monopolized her. Not that there was an atom of jeal-
ousy in Jack's nature, but he was so wrapped up in his girl, so utterly
and absolutely devoted to her, that he seemed unconscious how often he
claimed her attention, and how impossible it was for her to attend to
any one else.
After that first morning Launcelot had never exchanged a word alone
with Dorothea, until one evening when he accompanied her and Sybil
to a dance at Mrs. Geoffrey's house.
Dorothea, who had never seen him dance, looked nal'vely surprised
when he asked her for the first waltz. " That is, if you do not think
me too old for dancing purposes," he added.
" Old!" she returned, indignantly; " why will you speak so of your-
self, Mr. Lance? It makes me feel vexed to hear you." But she could
not quite conceal her delight and astonishment at finding her hero a de-
lightful partner.
" Oh, that was lovely," she exclaimed, when the waltz was finished.
" Mr. Lance, I think no one dances as well as you do; your step is per-
fect."
" Why," he said, smiling at her frank compliment, " I was going to
say the same of you. You dance exceedingly well, Dorothea, and I am
going to put down two more waltzes on your card that is, if you will
allow me to do so?"
Dorothea gave her permission sedately. Two dances! he might have
had a dozen if he liked. She was only disappointed that he showed no
intention of monopolizing her. What was Mr. Trumpeton or those
stupid young officers compared to Mr. Lance? No, he was not tall, and
perhaps people would not call him handsome, ,but there was something
so distinguished about him, such an air of mingled ease and dignity.
Just then Launcelot looked round as though aware of the girl's innocent
scrutiny and gave her one of his bright, affectionate smiles, but Doro-
thea colored and turned shyly away. Every now and then this slight
veil of shyness or reserve hindered their brief intercourse; she would be
talking frankly to him in her old way, looking up in his face and au-
294 ONLY THE GOY
swering his little jokes; and all at once the, words would :-eem to fuller
on her lips, and she would draw away from him with ;in air of di:
and when Launcelot tried to break through this sudden reserve he :
himself confronted by a gentle firmness that seemed unassailable.
*' Why have you grown shy with me, Dorothea?" he when
lie liad been greatly struck by this manner, at once so gentle and
pelling. *' The child Doaeie was never shy with me, that is win-
that she is gone and we have a new Dorothea in her place."
" Oil, Mr. Lance," she said, lightly, but she did not look at him, " 1
thought ' the old order changes;' is not that what you said? OIK
not kv :-cp one's childish ways forever."
" Oh, no," returned Launcelot, bent on teasing her, " I do not expect
to find two little hands clasping my arm every time 1 take a turn in the
shrubberies; and when I come home after an hour's absence, of c
there is no Dossie waving to me from the window it is some on
who gets all these attentions now!"
" Ah, now, you are teasing me," she answered, but her cheek* were
burning; " you want me to believe that you are jealous of father, but,
you will not get me to believe that. Oh, Mr. Lance," her tone chang-
ing into earnestness, " is not father happy? I think he has never
s o happy all his life long, and yet we can not find the cottage."
" I shall have to find it for you," returned Launcelot, composedly,
and somehow a little pang went through Dorothea's heart. What if he
should keep his word, and this clear delightful time at the Wii
should come to an endl In spite of her love for her father it saddened her
to think of leaving that beautiful home, the only one she had ever known.
More than this Dorothea did not venture to own, even to herself; there
were hidden depths, closed even to her hidden consciousness, into which
she had no desire to look. She only knew that the idea of separating
her daily life from Launcelot's was exquisitely painful, so painful that
ghe had put away the thought entirely.
Launcelot was a little amused at Dorothea's shy moods, but now and
then he would feel piqued and perhaps hurt by the girl's reserve. ]>ut
he was very much interested in her; in many w r ays she suited his fastid-
ious taste. He admired her particularly this evening, and though he
showed no wish to monopolize her he watched her a good deal, and 011
his return told his step-mother that her behavior had been perfect.
"I was very much pleased with them both," he said, quietly.
" Sybil was evidently much admired, but I like Dorothea's manner
She is ver}' gentle, and yet she is piquant; she can say things worth
hearing, and yet she is unconscious of her cleverness. She has an inno-
cent way witL her that I like; Trumpeton seemed to like it too. 1
fancy, from whi:t Hilda says, that he is hard hit."
" Do you really think so, Launce? It would be a grand match for
Dorothea! She would be the Hon. Mrs. Trumpetou, and have her
house in town, and such a pretty place in Kent!"
" Pshaw!" returned Launcelot, contemptuously, for somehow the
idea did not please him at all. "Fancy Dorothea marrying that old
young man, with his bald head and lisping voice! T think better things
of the. girl," and he turned on his heel and could not be induced i
another word about the ball.
Doiotlie.i looked a little tin-d when she bade her fa;
had waited up as usual, and was .smoking in the porch when, thej
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. , 295
"You look pale, my pet," lie said, anxiously. " Have you danced
too much?"
"Danced too much!" with a merry little laugh. "Father dear,
what an idea! I am never .tired with dancing; the only difficulty is to
stop but all the same I am very sleepy," and then she ran off hum-
ming a little air.
Launcelot marveled at this sudden fit of gayety, for she had been ex-
tremely quiet all the way home.
During their last dance together they had been chatting cheerfully,
when all at once he had said
" Oh, by the bye, Dorothea, I have quite forgotten to tell you that I
think I haVe found the cottage. I met with it quite by accident; it was
not even advertised, and no one knew that it was to be let. Mi.-s
Thorpe told me about it. The people want to let it at once for six
months or even longer. The wife has to go abroad for her health to
some German watering-place or other, and it is very well furnished, and
is altogether a nice little place; it is in the Burnley Road, turning off
from the common, about half a mile from the Witchens, so you see it
would be quite close."
" I am glad of that," she answered, quietly, looking down at her
flowers. " And the people wish to let it at once?"
" Yes, they would go out next week. Shall we have a look at it to-
morrow before you talk to your father? It would be such a surprise to
him if we were to come home and tell him it is all settled."
"Oh, yes," she returned, quickly; "father is tired of looking at
houses, and he said yestreday that I might settle on any one I liked. I
think all these little details trouble him. It was so in the old days when
we were looking for lodgings, but I was too young to help him then;
but he shall not have anything to worry him now if I can prevent it."
Launcelot thought of this little speech as he watched Dorothea with
her father the slim, girlish creature, and Jack with his great muscular
frame and magnificent physique. Dorothea always looked so young
and childish beside Jack; his bigness seemed to swallow her up, and
yet already she guided him.
Launcelot thought a. good deal about Dorothea that night. How
cheerfully she had acquiesced in his little plan! She had not uttered a
dissenting word or entreated an hour's delay; she put aside her own-
wishes in a moment. It was this unselfishness that charmed him. He
was beginning to understand her thoroughly, and he knevr instinctively
that she would never disappoint him.
" She is a dear little thing," he thought; " I don't half like the idea
of parting with her. Confound Jack's obstinacy! Why can't he make
up his mind to stay here? I wish I could hit on some plan for keeping
them." Nevertheless, no such plan had occurred to Launcelot when he
and Dorothea started for Burnley Road the following afternoon.
He had been at Bridge House that morning with Pauline, and had
joined the Maxwells in Riversleigli Church. The quiet service had
seemed very solemn and appropriate to them both, but even Launcelot
felt himself moved when the trembling, pale-faced bride clung to the
brother who had taken the father's place to them both.
" Oh, Hedley," she whispered, " if only dear mamma could be here
to kiss and bless me!"
" She knows all about it, my dear," was his soothing answer. " You
must think of your husband to-day, Prissy; look, Druminond is waiting
for you. We shall see you again by and by;" and poor Prissy, with
ONLY THE r.OVKKXESS.
swollen eyes and the tears still running down her checks, suffered her
self to be put in the carriage.
" Oh, Charlotte," she exclaimed, as her sister gave her a purling kiss,
"lean never thank lledley for all he has done. Ask Pauline to 1m
good to him. He looks BO ill and so miserable!" lint 3Iajor Dnini-
mond made a sign to Charlotte to say uo more, and put his arm round
his poor little wife.
" I will bring you to see them all again, rny darling. This is not
good-bye. Don't cry any more;" and after a time Prissy allowed her-
self to be consoled.
Launcelot went back to the Witchens after this, and Pauline went up
to Brenda, who between nervous exhaustion and sisterly sympathy was
suffering martyrdom. Chailotte was too busy to give the quirt, un-
divided attention that she needed, and Pauline found herself a prisoner
for the remainder of the day.
Brenda was so seldom nervous and exacting that Pauline felt that sin;
must be soothed at all costs, so she read to her and talked to her until
her tl uttered spirits had regained their usual tone. " Oh, how selfMi I
have been!" she said at last. " You have been sitting in this darkened
room for hours listening to my grumbling fancies until you are quite
worn out. Do go down now, dear Pauline. I am so much better that
I know I shall soon sleep. Why can't one fight against these moods?
But no, the horrible depression will master one. Hedley says it is all
because one's nerves are unstrung, but I can never get it out of my mind
that it must be from some fault of iny own."
Pauline tried to repress a little sigh of weariness, but she took up a
book she had just laid down. " Have you forgotten the passage your
dear mother has marked? I was reading it to her the very day before
she died; she made me read it over and over again, and then she said,
' Oh, I must mark that; it will just suit Brenda when she has one of
her low fits. ' '
*' Darling mother! That was so like her. Yes, read it, Paul. "When
my head is like this I do not recall things easily; it is from Boussuct, is
it not?"
"Yes. He is speaking of depression; he says, ' It is not true that
sadness can not come direct from God witness that of the holy human
soul of our Lord.
" ' The heaviness in which the Evangelist tells us that it was plunged
was in no way different from what we call sadness; it became tl.
sion very anguish; and was He not agitated when He exclaimed, " My
soul is troubled; what shall I say? Father, save me from tihis hour?"
Was there not a certain anxious restlessness in the way He went three
times to His disciples and returned three times to His Father?
' ' All this teaches us that our Head bore in Himself all the weakness
which His members were to bear, so far as the greatness of His perfec-
tions admitted.
" ' It is not well to torment ourselves with investigating whether our
sadness is the result of our own weakness or a Divine trial; for suppos-
ing it to be the first, which is the safest belief, it is none the less true
that God can use it to lead us His own way, as much as what >
Immediately from Himself, because He overrules alike our weakne-
our evil inclination, everything indeed, even to our sins, till they
promote our salvation.' '
" All, yes, that is' beautiful," returned Brenda, witli a quid, satisfied
look in her eyes,- " lay the book beside me, Pauline dear. I shall always
OtfLY THE GOVERNESS. 297
feel as though .nothcr were speaking those words. I know she used to
suffer so much from depression. Hedley said it was physical depression
and could not be helped, but she never let us be troubled by it. She
used to say so little about herself, even to Hedley. 1 think it was moth-
er who first taught me to be brave, and try to bear things quietly. ' We
must not . overburden people's sympathy,' she would say; 'sympathy
is capable of exhaustion/ Ah, how wise she was!"
" I think it was just this thnt first struck me in you all," returned
Pauline, thoughtfully. "I liked the quiet way you all took things
most people make such a fuss; and yet with all your troubles, illness,
and poverty, and countless anxieties, there was never any grumbling.
You each carried your own burdens so cheerfully. Yes, indeed,
Uremia," as the invalid shook her head, " how often have Launce and
I talked about you and wondered over your impatience!"
" I have given you a specimen of my patience to-day," returned
Brenda, smiling. " But I could not help myself; Prissy upset me,
showing me her wedding-ring and sobbing over it, and then I missed
mother so," and here the tears would come, " and one can't jump up
and shake off depression, and must just lie and bear it. Never mind,
you have done me good and the horrid restlessness has gone. I don't
care a bit for the worn, tired feeling that comes afterward. I know I
shall just sleep it off. Ah, what a blessed thing sleep is! Kiss me,
dear, and now go down to Charlotte. I don't mean to behave in this
ungrateful way any more."
" Oh, Brenda, who can help loving you?" returned Pauline, affection-
ately; and indeed her heart clung in sisterly affection to this patient,
fine-hearted creature, who seemed to Pauline a miracle of fortitude and
endurance.
She felt herself rebuked as she went down-stairs; all day she had been
conscious of a heavy weight at her heart, a sort of impatient lassitude
fettered her. Pauline would have mocked at the idea of nerves, and yet
in reality she was sadly overstrained and in need of comfort.
Since his mother's death Dr. Maxwell and she had hardly exchanged
a word. She had been occupied with Brenda and Charlotte, and a great
deal of Charlotte's business had devolved upon her, but Dr. Maxwell
had kept away from his sister's room, and when he and Pauline met ho
had seemed abstracted and melancholy.
Once during the marriage service she had seen him looking at her
with grave attention, but he had looked away at once when their eyes
met, and Pauline had felt herself a little chilled. " He does not come
to me for comfort," she said, trying to fight down her weary feelings,
' ' and yet if I lost my mother no one but Hedley would console me.
Perhaps he does not love me as much as he used to do, or he would try
to be with me sometimes;" but the next moment Pauline repelled these
(iouhts; they were unworthy of herself and Hedley. Did he love her
less because he was mourning his mother so faithfully? " I have not
trusted him for six years to doubt him, now," Pauline said to herself i<
lier old sensible way.
298 ONLY Till
CHAPTER XLV.
THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW.
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the concealed comforts of a man
Lock'd up in woman's love.
MlDDLETOK.
WHEN Pauline openefl the door of the dining-room, expecting to find
Charlotte, she was surprised to see that the sole occupant of the room
. >r. Maxwell, sitting at his writing-table. Directly he saw her he
pushed aside his papers and came toward her.
" I was just coming in search of you. Please don't go away," as
Pauline seemed unwilling to disturb him. " Were you looking for
Charlotte? She has gone across to the Robertsons; they sent for her.
What have } r ou been doing with yourself all the afternoon?"
" I have been with Brenda. She has had such a bad day, but she is
better now, and seems inclined to sleep."
"Oh, the bustle and leave-taking have been too much for her; but
Charlotte ought not to have allowed you to sacrifice yourself in this
way. i have never seen you look so tired." And as the tears came into
Pauline's eyes at his kind tone, he said, gently, " Come with me into
the garden, dear; the air will refresh you, and it will do me good too."
And she went with him at once.
There was a nice old-fashioned garden behind the house, and though
it was not large all the family took a great pride and pleasure in ii .
Dr. Maxwell and Charlotte spent all their leisure time trying to culti-
vate a few flowers. Dr. Maxwell, indeed, was no mean gardener, and
was given to boast of his roses.
At the end of the shady lawn there was a seat under an acacia, and
here Dr. Maxwell led Pauline, and as she sat down beside her he said,
quietly
" I think the time has come for us to have a little talk together. You
know what my mother wished, Pauline?"
" Yes," she answered, simply.
" She was always thinking about us and planning for our happiness.
The inevitable delay fretted her. Again and again she spoke to me, and
d that I would lose no time in putting you in her place. Mie
.od to dread any further delay, especially for my sake."
" I know; she often talked to me too," returned Pauline, in a low
voice.
" I think she was right. What do you say, dear? We have loved
("u li other for six years, and I think I can say our love has grown. If
i eared for you six years ago, you can judge what I feel for you now."
" You are not tired of me, Hedley?"
" Tired, my darling!" drawing her closer. " Do we grow tired of
our greatest blessing? Even you can not guess what you h;.
me all these years! You have been our good angel, Pauline. Can I
that you have been like a daughter to my mother, and the i
bo Charlotte and Brenda'.'"
lo do things for your sake, Kedley it made me happy."
" 1 know it, love; but you must not mistake my meaning it' I a\o\v to
yo:j now that our position tried me horribly that 1 could oltm lia\ e
found it iu my heart to beg you not to come tkut I could not bear it."
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 299
" Oh, Hedley!" in a troubled tone.
" My darling, a man feels so differently about things. Often and
often I have stolen up to the drawing-room door when you were reading
to Brenda and Aunt Myra, just for the pleasure of hearing your voice;
and then the thought that I must not cross the threshold, that a sense of
honor kept me away, almost drove me cra/.y! Those were my bud.
moods, when I made every one round me uncomfortable. But there
were other times when I was strong and reasonable, and then it com-
forted me to know you were waiting for me, and that one of these days
we should be together."
" Poor Hedley! but you must not think that I was always happy.
I used to long so painfully for just a word to tell me that you still
cared."
" As though I could change!" he returned, with a glimmer of his old
smile. " No, Pauline, in spile of our bad moods we never really
doubted each other. Perhaps I have seemed cold to you sometimes,
and you may have thought that 1 could have spoken to you before.
But I did not wish to speak until I could ask you to fix the time for our
marriage. Will you write to your mother, or shall I come up to-mor-
row?""
"I think that will be best. But, Hedley, you must promise not to
flurry mother. She may not want to hurry things, and indeed there is
no need," rather shyly.
"No need," and Dr. Max well roused in earnest at this, "and we
have been engaged six years 1 Oh, that reminds me," his tone changing
into exquisite tenderness; "all these years I have never given you a
lit, and you have worn no pledge of my affection. Pauline, will
you let me put this ring on your finger? It was my mother's engage-
ment-ring, and she wore it to the hour of her death."
But Pauline hesitated as she looked at the magnificent half -hoop of
diamonds.
" Ought not Charlotte to have it?" she whispered.
" No, dear, Charlotte will have rings enough. There are all Aunt
Myra's. And I wish my wife to wear this always." Then Pauline
yielded, but as Hedley put it on she said, wistfully
" 1 shall love to wear it, but it makes no difference; I always felt I
was engaged to you, though I had no ring."
" And I to ybu," he returned, gently, " but all the same the world
will recognize our position. Now will you tell Mrs. Chudleigh that I
Avill come and speak to her to-morrow? And, Pauline, I will only
venture to ask one favor that our wedding may be quiet."
" I will be married in my traveling-dress, like Prissy, if you wish,'*
she replied, submissively.
" No, dearest, I do not wish that. Your mother will like to see you
in bridal white, and so shall I. You shall not be deprived of your
privileges, Pauline, but I think a gay wedding would not suit' either of
us."
" No, indeed. I want no one but Geoffrey and Hilda, and perhapa
Elsie to please Bernard indeed you need not fear, Hedley, mother will
do everything that you wish. Bee had a dreadfully gay wedding, and
I said then that nothing would induce me to follow her example."
" I know I am safe in your hands. Now, dear, I have a patient to
see on the hill, so we may as well walk together."
And as Pauline agreed to this they set out together.
It was her first walk with Hedley, and Pauline thoroughly enjoyed it
300 ONLY Tin: nov
Things \vcro made plain between them, and she no longer misundcr
his silent gravity; and as lledley looked at her bright face and saw the
happy look in the brown eyes, he thanked God that he had won her
faithful love.
" You will make me young again, dear," he said, as they parted on
the common. " Charlotte was moaning over my gray hairs vester
" 1 am qiritc satisfied with you as you are," she returned, com
ly, and she walked away happier, while lledley stood and watched lier.
i has been very good to me," thought Pauline, as she looked at the
sunset. " I was just losing faith and feeling jaded and misorabli-
then lledley spoke to me. I only just wanted the comfort of a word.
It was not that I really doubted or was impatient, but I so long.
him to speak. Oh, how dear he was! so gentle and so considerate, and
he does not think of himself at all, but only of me but he shall have
everything as he wishes it. I will tell mother that there must be no
fuss and no unnecessary delay; she will try to please us both,
Hcdley's wishes will be mine."
"While matters were being thus happily arranged between the lovers,
Launcelot had kept his engagement with Dorothea.
Jack was to know nothing of their expedition. At the last moment
Dorothea had tripped into the school-room in her walking-dress, and as
Jack looked up in some surprise from his easel she said, carelessly
" I am going out with Mr. Lance, father; Le wants to take me across
the common. I shall not be very long, and when I come back I dare
say you will be ready for your walk," and then she kissed him and
ran off.
Launcelot was waiting for her in the porch, and looked at her attent-
ively as she joined him.
" You look very nice, Dorothea," he said, slowly; " that is a pretty
gown you have put on in honor of our first walk together. "
" Our first walk," she replied, with a little laugh; " how often have
I been across the common with you, Mr. Lance a hundred times at
least!"
" Ah, that was Dossie," he returned, seriously. ' I can assure you
that I have never walked with Dorothea before;" but she made no'tin-
swer to this, only began talking about the cottage in a quiet, business-
like way.
They soon reached Burnley Road, and then Launcelot pointed it out,
a low, old-fashioned cottage, with a bay-window and a little trellis-work
porch, standing back in a small but exceedingly pleasant garden, with u
tiny lawn, and a graveled path planted with standard rose-trees.
" It is only a small place, and Jack is very big, but I think it will hold
you both," he remarked as they went up to the door.
" Mrs. Moore was out," the servant informed them, but her sister,
Miss Reynolds, would speak to them, and a thin, fussy-looking woman
with sandy hair and spectacles made her appearance, and showed them
over the cottage, talking all the time in a thin, highly pitched voice that
was vei \ exasperating to Launcelot.
It W&8 certainly a nice little place; the drawing-room, though some-
what low, was a pretty room, :;nd very tastefully furnished, and a
door led into a small conservatory. The dining-room was comfoi;
and a smaL third room wa^ lilted up as a study. l"p s tairs there
four good bedrooms and a bath room, and though the buck garde);
mall, it seemed to take Dorothea's fancy, und she pointed out an arbor
ONLY THE GOYERNESS. 301
with great delight. " Father will smoke his pipe there," she whispered,
and Launcelot nodded assent.
" You think it will do?" he asked aloud, when the question of terms
had been discussed.
" Oh, yes; it is just the thing," she returned, looking about her with
quiet satisfaction. " I think we may settle it, Mr. Lance; it will be such
a comfort, too, having the servants, and will save Aunt Delia the trouble
of looking out, and you see Miss Reynolds says we can have the cottage
"in ten days."
" Oh, yes," replied Miss Reynolds, " my sister is most anxious to be
off as soon as possible. I think you will be perfectly satisfied with the
Cottage. Mr. Moore has spent a great deal on it. It is just the place
''or ,-i newly married couple, and I am quite sure," with a winning smile
it Dorothea, "that you and Mr. Chudleigh will find it a pleasant
ibode."
Launcelot did not dare look at Dorothea as Miss Reynolds made this
Unlucky speech. lie was afraid he should burst out laughing in the
spinster's face, but Dorothea, who had blushed so vividly that even her
Mttle ears were pink, drew herself up with much dignity.
" I think my father will like the cottage," she said, civilly. " Will
you settle with Miss Reynolds, Mr. Lance?" but she also did not look at
Lim as she spoke but Miss Reynolds was unfortunately rather deaf.
" Already settled. I beg your pardon, Mr. Chudleigh, I had no idea
that this young lady was your wife. I should have said " but here
Dorothea fled into the conservatory and left Lauucelot to explain mat-
\vhich he did somewhat curtly, drawing down voluminous apolo-
gies and explanations that were alike tiresome.
Dorothea, hot and indignant, thought the odious woman would never
have finished, but Launcelot put in his word at last.
" Then that is all settled, Miss Reynolds," she heard him say at last,
in an unusually loud \oice, "and Mr. Weston and his daughter can
come in any day next week. Miss Weston will write to Mrs. Moore
when she has fixed the day. Now, Dorothea, we are ready, I think,"
coining in search of her, and Dorothea, who was twisting a bit of
geranium in her fingers, passed Miss Reynolds with a haughty little nod.
There was a gleam of fun in Launcelot's eyes as he followed her. The
mistake had amused him excessively, but he could see Dorothea was
annoyed, so he wisely talked about Mr. Moore's improvements and the
benefit of having a third room for Jack's use. And then he remarked
that it was quite early, and they might as well sit down on the common
and enjoy the fine air. And then he wondered what Pauline was doing
at Bridge House, and if she and Maxwell had come to terms yet; and
though Dorothea answered him sedately, he could see that she had by
no means recovered her equanimity. So he thought he would have it
out with her at last.
" Do you know," he said, lightly, " that I was very much flattered
by Miss Reynolds's speech? It was evident that she did not think me
old at all; on the contrary, she regarded me in the light of a smart young
bridegroom. I call that vastly complimentary. " But this remark failed
to mollify Dorothea.
'* Please do not joke about such things, Mr. Lance," she said, quick
ly. "I do not like this sort of joke."
" Neither do I," he returned, a little abashed at her grave tone. " It
seems to me that you and I think alike on most things, Dorothea, but
you must not be put out because of an old maid's mistake. 1 only
30.2 ONLY THE
that it had Loon the truth, my dour, mid then I should never have had
to part with you."
Launcelot had nuidc this little speech out of pure good-nature, and to
put Dorothea at .her ease; but, when he turned round with the ;in
-till on his face, he was appalled at the effect of his words there
\v:is not an atom of color in the girl's face, and she was trembling
head to foot, and her eyes were full of tears.
lie had been joking, and she had taken his words for earnest that
was his first thought, but the next why should it not be true what
should hindeY him from making it the truth?
In all his life Launcelot had never felt such a sudden impulse. Years
afterward he said that that quick flash of intelligence must hav
the work of his good angel. A moment before he had been joking, an<j
then something seemed to whisper to him, " Why should it not be true\
Dorothea is yours has always been j T ours: why not take the hi-.
Providence has given } r ou?" went on the same inward monitor.
Launcelot was giddy and confused. Some hidden power seemed to
pub jugate his will; he was almost as pale as Dorothea, and his
was not steady when he spoke again.
" Dorothea," he said, gently,^" it pains me to see you look like that,
and to see you turn away from me as though you feared me. I never
thought that such a thing could be possible that you could care for me
in that way. I thought I was too old. I only know it would be a very
happy thing for me if you could love me well enough to many me."
I IP" had spoken quietly that he might not alarm her, and yet it did not
seem to be he who had spoken, but as the last word passed his lips he
was grieved to see Dorothea shrink away, and cover up her face with
her hands. And he could scarcely hear Ler voice, it was so broken with
sobs, but with some difficulty he understood her to say that it must not
be that she was so young and childish, and that he was far too good
and too wise for her: that he did not mean it, that he surely could not
mean it!
" Why should I not mean it?" he returned, boldly, for this opposition
fanned the sudden flame, and made things clearer and more po>
" Do you think I would not keep you with me always if I could? and
there is no other way but this, and it seems to me a good way, and
somehow you have always belonged to me. Please don't cry so bitterly,
Dorothea. I want to make you as happy as I can, but I must know
what is in your heart for me, for if you do not love me well enough,
there is nothing more that I can say."
"Oh," she said, simply, "1 think I have loved you alwa\
I/mce, though I did not know what it meant, but I never never could
have oared for any one else!"
" That is all I want to know," he returned, taking her bund.
"Then, Dorothea, it is settled between us, that one day you are
my dear little wife?" but though Launcelot spoke so quietly, and Ihoro
was no change in his tone, there was a sense of contentment and mar-
velous well-being that told him that he had done the right thing f<
own happii
Dorothea made no audible answer, but she blushed, and left her hand
in Lauiicelot's; but the next moment she said, shyly
"Oli, Mr. Lance, there is father coming across the common, and he
is looking for us, and he will wonder if I do not run to meet him a*
usual."'
" Do you mind going by yourself?" h asked, gently, " for there is
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 303
the cottage that you hnve to loll him about, and he must not be told
thing at once. See hero, Dorothea, I will leave you for a little,
_ r o u\vay and compose my thoughts, and when 1 come, back I will
: to your father;" and as Dorothea agreed to this, Launcelot dropped
or hand, and quickly walked away across the common, while Dorothea
i toward Jack.
" Am I in my senses?" thought Launcelot as he strode on, caring
":tlc which path he took. " Is it possible that I who told Madella yes-
> that I was an old bachelor, and should never marry, am to-day
imaged man, and engaged to Dorothea to Dossie?" and here he
d, and struck at some bushes he passed with his stick. " Will
i think I am crazy when I tell her?"
And then all at once he grew sober, and stood still, leaning his arms
a fence and looking down at a pond where some duck., were swim-
ming, for there suddenly Hashed across his memory the charming face
!' lii.-s Eli/abeth, the face of the woman whom he had so passionately
loved. Yes, it was before him as though mirrored in the water; there
were the gray eyes gleaming with fun, the frank mouth Joan, lovely
and bewitching as ever but there was no numb miserable pain gnaw-
ing at his heart now as he recalled her image, only a sort of sadm
he thought of the long melancholy years that were past. Thank God,
he had ceased to sutler, Joan wa"s nothing to him now but a friend
whom he loved and reverenced. He had not wronged Dorothea in that;
he was free to love and marry. But the only question now was how far
his impulsiveness had been to blame: had he taken advantage of
Dorothea's youth and guilelessness? True, she had betrayed herself in
her childish way, but would it not have been wiser to wait until he was
sure that her affection was returned? There had been no wooing on his
part, not one word of love, and yet they were engaged!
" I think I must have been possessed. I hardly seemed master of my
own words," he thought, " but she looked so sweet and so unhappy
that I longed to comfort her. I believe it was nothing but a mistake at
first. I was just joking and meant nothing, and she took it in earnest;
rind yet though I know this, though I do not pretend to be in love with
Dorothea, I have no wish to take back a word. I am quite satisfied and
quite happy; and this is what puzzles me, that I am not a bit afraid of
the future either, hers and mine, though what Jack will say to me I
hardly know but I don't seem to care about that either."
Launcelot could make nothing of his present mood. His position
amused him. In his secret heart he was proud of his new character as
Dorothea's 'fiancee. In a dim way, for he could grasp nothing clearly,
he felt as though his life were suddenly enlarged; a new interest had
come into it. The sense of solitude that had so long harassed him was
soothed by the promise of future companionship. " 1 shall not be lonely
with Dorothea," he thought, as he retraced his steps, " and I shall have
her to think about instead of my stupid self;" and then his eyes bright-
ened, and he felt a quiet sensation of pleasure stealing over him as he
caught sight of Dorothea sitting in the same place where he had left
her talking to Jack, and he knew at once by her earnest manner, and
the look on Jack's face, that she had not waited for him to speak. Most
likely Jack had seen that she had been crying, and had questioned her
too closely, and she had not been able to satisfy him with her talk about
Wage. Very probably Jack had waxed curious and rampant and
he found out afterward that this was the case.
' ' Father saw I had been crying at once, and he was in such a way
304 ONLY TITE GOVERNESS.
thnt I was obliged to tell the truth," Dorothea said, when she found
her.-elf alone Avith Launcelot. " I did not want to tell him, but I could
not help myself."
" I stayed away too long; you must forgive me, Dorothea," he an-
swried, looking down at his gentle little sweetheart with undisguised
ahVction, e< but 1 was thinking over things, and the time passed so
quickly."
Jack looked very gruff and red when Launcelot joined them. " Have
you finished about the cottage?" he asked, looking at Dorothea.
" Hang the cottage!" replied Jack, sulkily; then, in spite of the
gravity of the situation, Launcelot burst out laughing.
" Oh, it is all very well for you to laugh," went on Jack, gloomily.
" What's the cottage to me when you have robbed me of Dossie? Why,
when she told me just now ? you might have knocked me over with a
feather! I could not believe she was very serious. ' Mr. Lance has
asked me to be his wife, father. ' Why, it was like a clap of thunder
to me!"
" Don't, Jack; please don't speak in that tragical voice, as though I
had done you an injury."
" So you have injured me, confound you! Isn't it injury to rob me
of my little girl? Here you have had her all these years, and just when
my turn has come you want to stop my innings. 1 must talk to Delia;
Dossie is not old enough to be married. Pen was nineteen the day we
were engaged. Dossie must follow her mother's example. Pen was
only a slip of a girl when she married me; ' far too young,' she said
afterward."
" All right, old fellow; we can settle that presently. You would
have no objection personally to me as Dorothea's future husband?"
" No objection! I would not let any other man have her," returned
Jack, still wrathfully. " You must have her if you want her. Do you
think 1 could refuse you anything?" and now Jack's eyes were dim.
" I think Dossie has always belonged to you more than to me. There,
we will say no more about it," as Launcelot grasped his hand. " Dos-
sie is a fortunate girl, I know that."
" But there is a great deal more that I have to say," returned Launce-
lot, glancing at Dorothea with a smile. The girl looked up at him a
little sadly. "Do make him happy, and never mind me," her wyes
seemed to implore, and Launcelot was not slow to take the hint,
" Don't be lugubrious, Jack; you shall have time to get used to the
i'lca. I am not taking Dorothea away from you now. Nothing is
further from my intention, or from hers either. She is very youn
you say; we will wait a little. That is your meaning, is it not, dear?
that I am to leave you with him for a time?"
" Yes," she answered, shyly, " that is what I meant."
" Oh, I could'read your thoughts. Well, next week you shall go to
the cottage. Your father will not object to my visits, eh, Jack? I are
to have my nights, as Dorothea's fiancee? Well, that will satisfy me for
a lime; we need not talk about anything else just now."
" What!" exclaimed Jack, staring at him. " Do you mean that Dos-
pie and I are really going to have the cottage that you don't mean to
take her away at once?"
" or course not," returned Dorothea, but she blushed beautifully.
" Father, dear, how can you talk so to Mr. LanceV I am not going to
IK- married for a long time. I am going to take care of you, and make
you happy, and Mr. Lance will come and see us. How could yo\t
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 305
think I could leave you just as you have come home to me?" and Jack
allowed himself to be soothed.
" Dorothea takes matters very coolly, upon my word," said Launce-
lot to himself. " 'I am not going to be married for a long lime.'
Humph! there are two people to be considered. I shall have to talk to
her on the subject." Nevertheless, Launcelot yielded for the present
with a good grace, and Jack recovered his good humor. After all, it
was only an engagement; he would have his little girl to himself for a
long time. He had always made up his mind that Dossie would marry
one day, and he would rather see her Launcelot's wife than give her to
any other man.
CHAPTER XLYI.
LAUNCELOT'S FIANCEE.
I love her with a love as still
As a broad river's peaceful might,
Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Goes wandering at its own will,
And yet doth ever flow aright.
LOWELL.
As soon as they arrived at the Witchens Dorothea went up quietly to
her room; like Launcelot, she felt she must be alone for a time to look
her new happiness in the face, and to realize the importance of the step
she had taken.
In spite of her youth and inexperience, and the simplicity that guided
her actions, Dorothea was grave by nature and her feelings were unusu-
ally deep; from a child Launcelot had been the object of her love and
reverence, but she had been unconscious of the real nature of her feel-
ings. The childish worship had developed gradually into the woman's
deep, admiring affection, and quiet and outwardly culm as she was, she
was inwardly overwhelmed by her happiness. Launcelot, who had taken
her hand for a moment as they stood in the hall, felt it tremble in his,
and looking at her he saw she was still pale. Most likely Jack's talk
had unnerved her.
"Would you not like to be quiet a little?" he said, interpreting her
feelings rightly. " I am going to Madella, but there is no reason why
you should not retire to your room;" and Dorothea had gratefully
availed herself of the permission.
But as she closed her door and sat down by the open window, she
told herself that she could not yet realize the wonderful thing that had
happened to her. It seemed incredible to her humility that she was
to be Mr. Lance's wife, that the child Dossie should attain to such an
honor as that.
" What could he see in me?" thought Dorothea, quite oblivious of
the sweet gifts of her girlhood, that were precious in the eyes of a man
like Launcelot. " I am not even pretty; 1 have never said or done any
thing particularly clever. I am full of faults, and am inexperienced
and childish, and he he is everything that is good and noble. How am
I ever to justify his choice and to make myself worthy of him? and yet
no one could love him so well," finished Dorothea, with a ilood"of
womanly pride and tenderness that promised well for Launcelot's
future.
Launcelot, in his hasty impulse and in the almost exaggerated blind
ness of Jiie heart, had brought things to a swift conclusion. Dorothea
ONLY THE OVER NESS.
had fascinated him; she had stirred his heart to unusual tend*
he felt himself justified in promising a life's devotion. If he had had
time to argue out the matter with himself in black and white, he would
have said most truthfully that, though he did not feel himself capable
of another strong passion, and though the fever-dream of his love lor
Joan had left him somewhat arid and dry, he was still capable of warm,
deep attachment, such as befitted middle age a calm, tranquil ailVoiinn
which would be none the less satisfying because it did notcxpc;
the cold and hot tits of youth.
Lauucelot had method in his madness; he had not thrown himsell
away on a mere dream, a chimera. Neither did he make himself the
victim of a hazardous experiment; he had acted on impulse, but he
conscientiously believed that he had done the right thing.
" Dorothea will never disappoint me," had been his inward convic-
tion. " If the love be greater on her side she will never know it," had
also been a concluding thought. " I am so fond of her now, I have
watched her so closely, she has interested me so thoroughly, these live
weeks that 1 know my love will grow; every day I find new beauties in her
character, every day she surprises me by some little trait which I think
charming. It is true I never thought of marrying her until that ridicu-
lous spinster put it into my head, but then marrying has not been in my
thoughts lately all the same, Dorothea is the only woman I could
marry. I am fastidious, difficult to please, but a fine and delicate nat-
ure like Dorothea's will never jar upon me. I know her to be unselfish;
she has tact, finesse, discrimination. I shall not be dull in her society;
when I am down or hipped, she will soothe and not rasp me. I am so
sure of all this that if it were not for Jack I would marry her to-morrow
sooner than let her leave the Witchens; but no, that would not suit
Dorothea; she has her father to consider."
. Launcelot was becoming more satisfied with himself and his fwncce
every minute, but then his natural impulsiveness was always capable of
these swift conclusions, and it was with a very bright face that he
shortly afterward entered the morning-room, interrupting Pauline, who
was just in the midst of her interesting narration.
" Oh, Launce, where have you been?" observed Mrs. Chudleigh, re-
proachfully. " Fen wick has been searching the house for you. I
wanted you to hear about dear Pauline; she and Hedley have settled
matters so nicely."
" I am delighted to hear it, Paul. ' It is a long lane that has no turn'
ing.' You may tell Maxwell that. Well, you both deserve to be hap-
py;" and then he added, quietly, " You are setting us a good example,
and Dorothea and I mean to follow it. We are going to make a match
of it, Madella."
It would be impossible to describe Mrs. Chudleigh's amazement and
rapture when Launcelot said this. For the first minute she believed he
was joking, though it had never been his habit to make this sort of
joke; but when he convinced her that he was serious, that he had really
proposed to Dorothea and been accepted by her, and that in spite of hi.-)
old bachelor proclivities he fully intended to become a married man be-
fore many months were over, no words seemed adequate
her joy.
" Oh, Laun- .id, tearfully, " I only wanted this to make me
., it is my one wish to see you married. You an old
lor! you!" with the utmost scorn at the idea.
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 307
" You think I shall make Dorothea a g^ml hu.--ba:ulv" ho returned,
eeriously.
" Yes, indeed; and she will be a happy woman;" and then she add-
ed, " but it is your choice that delights me Doiothea is perfect."
" Come now," he said, with a very bright expression, " (his is very
pleasant hearing. I was half of the same opinion myself, but it is
agreeable to know that our opinions coincide;" and he went on a little
mischievously, for he knew his step- mother's weak point, " I was half
afraid that you might tell me that you did not consider Dorothea pretty
not a fine' woman, you understand."
" No, but she can look lovely at times, and she is always charming.
Do J T OU know, Launce," with a shrewd look, " that the idea came into
my head that night on your return? Don't you remember Dorothea
coining into the room, looking such a darling in her white dress? 1
saw you quite start, as though it were a strange young lady, and not
Dorothea at all. And you did not kiss her as usual, though you had
been absent eighteen months, and you had always treated her like
Sybil, and I said to myself then, ' Suppose Launce takes a faury to her,
seeing her look so sweet and pretty!' "
" Yes, I was very much struck with her," he answered, slowly; and
then he said to himself, " No, I did not kiss her. She would not have
liked it; she gave me her hand like a princess; she looked very dainty
and unapproachable, and all her kisses were for Jack. She* has not
given me one yet," with a sudden remembrance that his position com-
manded certain privileges.
" I think she will suit you perfectly." went on Mrs. Chudleigli, quite
oblivious of her daughter's affairs; and, indeed, Pauline, with the un-
selfishness that belonged to her nature, had at once withdrawn into the
background. " You are not easily satisfied, Launce, or you would not
have waited for a wife until you were nearly forty."
"Don't you remember, mother," broke in Pauline at this point,
" how Bee once said that Launcelot was so fastidious that she did not
know how he would ever find a girl to suit him, and that h,e had better
train his future wife from a child, Launce was so ridiculous about it?"
" You see the plan has answered excellently," returned Launcelot,
with a droll look. "Dorothea is not an orphan, but she has no
mother, and she was a mere child when she came to the Witchens, and
of course I have inoculated her with all my pet theories."
" I don't believe anything of the kind," replied Pauline, with her old
bluntness. " Dorothea is one to think for herself; she is easily guided
through her affections, but she holds strong opinions and is slow to
yield them; she will listen meekly to your arguments, Launce, but I am
not so sure she will yield a blind faith in everything."
"But where is the dear child?" asked Mrs. Chudleigh at this point;
" surely you will bring her to me?" Then Launcelot promised to go in
search of her presently, and then he plunged into a discussion about the
cottage, and Jack's whim, that must be gratified at all costs " for do
S)u know, Madella," he observed quite seriously, " I do not believe
orothea would ever have promised to marry me if I had not given in
about the cottage."
Mrs. Chudleigh scouted Jack's idea as absurd; why need he disturb
them when they were all so comfortable, and when every one knew that
Dorothea could not bear to leave the Witchens? But Launcelot did not
agree in this.
" He could wajt," he said; " they could very well wait. Dorothea
308 ONLY THE COVER NESS.
was very young to be the mistress of a house like the Witchen.-;; it
would be better for her 1o have u little more experience;" and then he
added, tenderly, " 1 do not half like the idea of robbing you of yOUI
honors, Madella, you have been our liege lady so long."
" Nonsense. Lailnce!" she returued, good-humoredly, for this notion
did not trouble her in the least. " I shall abdicate most willingly for
your wife, my dear, and there are plenty of houses to bt found for Sybil
and me."
"Plenty of fiddlesticks!" was the wrathful answer. "I wonder
what Dorothea would say if she heard you? Don't you know us better,
MadellaV You and I will never part, I am sure of that. As for Sybil,
if I know anything of that young lady, she will not long remain at 1 lie
"NVitehcns. No, we shall be a quartet, Dorothea and myself and .hu-k
and you, and if the house is not big enough to hold us and our quar-
rels " but here his sentence remained unfinished, for at that moment,
Dorothea came quietly into the room. It was so late, and they had
talked so long, that she had already dressed for dinner, and perhaj
had wondered a little that no one had come in search of her. Launec-
lot met her at once.
" My dear Dorothea," he said, " you will have thought us ver
miss, but I would not let Madella disturb you, for I knew it was quiet
that you wanted and not talk;" and then he looked at her very earnest-
ly, so that her color changed a little, and kissed her gravely on her lips.
" No one shall have his rights before I have mine," he said, quietly,
and then he took her to his step-mother.
It was evident that Dorothea was very much moved, but she took
Mrs. Chudleigh's caresses and kind words with her usual tranquillity.
" I am glad you and Pauline are pleased," she said, in a low voice.
" I did not dare to ask myself how you would feel about this."
" And your father is pleased too, my dear?"
" Oh, yes, father is pleased; how can lie help it?" with a shy glance
at Launcelot; " but he is too much afraid of losing me to realize his
pleasure just now. 1 know father's way; he is really delighted, but he
must have his grumble out first."
" Yes, that is so like Jack."
" Other people beside Jack can* talk nonsense," returned Launcelot.
" What do you think, Dorothea?" for he wanted to make her look at
him again, and he did not wish her to be shy with him " Madella is
talking of leaving the Witchens; she thinks there will not be room for
her aiid Sybil when a certain young lady comes here as mistress. Half
a dozen rooms apiece will not satisfy her. What do you say, Dorothea?
this is for you to decide."
" I think there will be plenty of time to decide that presently," re-
turned the girl, quietly; but he could not get her to look at him, and
then she took Mrs. Chudleigh's hand and kissed it. " I think, Aunt
Delia," she said, " that if you go away there will be no mistress at all,
that there will be no young person to come as interloper it is my idea
that she will refuse to come under such circumstances."
" 1 told you so, Madella," returned Launcelot, in a contented voice.
" We have been engaged just three hours and by Jove, there is thr
gong, and none of us are ready for dinner and yet Dorothea and 1
think alike on every subject!"
Then she did look at him. "I am not so sure about that, Mr
Lance,' >hc .-aid, quietly; " I do not think Pauline would agree will/
you," and there they all dispersed in a great hurry
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 309
Dorothea bore her new honors very meekly. Perhaps she found hei
position a little difficult at first. Launcelot manifested a decided dis-
position to take full advantage of his right to monopolize her as much
a.s possible, and it was not always easy to satisfy him and not to neglect
her father; but Jack, who had been accusing himself of selfishness,
showed great magnanimity, and as Dorothea" had plenty of tact, she
soon contrived to adjust their claims with tolerable satisfaction to them
both.
She seldom walked or rode alone with Launcelot, but neither of them
minded Jack's company. When Launcelot wanted Dorothea to him-
self, he would fetch her for a quiet talk in the studio or on the terrace.
" Yes, go with Launce," Jack would say; " I shall do very well alone."
But often when they left him he would go to the window and watch
them until they were out of sight. " Bless her heart, how happy she
looks!" he would murmur. " I wish Pen could see her little girl now!
She promises to be as sweet a woman as her mother was." But Jack
in his loyalty to his dead wife erred a little Dorothea was likely to be-
come a sweeter woman than her mother. Pen's gentle, tranquil nature
had not Dorothea's mingled strength and delicacy; her fine intelligence
had been lacking to Pen's simplicity.
If Launcelot was not a very ardent lover, certainly Dorothea found
nothing lacking in his devotion. His tenderness for her was almost
reverential. The knowledge that this young creature had placed her-
self and her life's happiness in his hands invested his position with a
sacred sense of responsibility, and his chief pleasure was to study and
gratify her wishes.
Every day his young betrothed made herself more necessary to him.
Her freshness, her na'ivete, a certain fund .of originality inherent in her,
delighted and refreshed him. There was nothing crude or mawkish
about her excessive sensibility; the womanly reserve under which she
veiled her deep feelings satisfied his fastidiousness. He was demon-
strative by nature, and it pleased hirn that the love-making should be
on his side. After that first unconscious self -betrayal, Dorothea spoke
very little of her own feelings.
Two or three days after their engagement, he took her to Spring
Mead to receive their friends' congratulations. Mr. Thorpe was out,
but Joan, who was gathering roses in the front garden, dropped her
basket and went forward to meet them with outstretched hands.
" Is this allegorical, Mrs. Thorpe?" asked Launcelot, quaintly, as the
crimson and creamy roses rolled to his feet. " Dorothea, our friends
are prophesying a path of roses for us; let us hope there will be few-
thorns to prick our fingers."
" Oh, nothing is too good for you both!" exclaimed Joan, taking the
blushing girl in her arms. " Mr. Chudleigh, Ivan has been writing to
you; he is coming to the Witchens this evening to congratulate you
both. He was so excited when he read your letter! Indeed, I never
saw Ivan so excited about anything."
" That is very strange, when Dorothea and I take it so quietly," re-
turned Launcelot; but Dorothea, who was picking up the roses, took no
notice of this speech, neither did she see the bright understanding look
that passed between him and Joan. And then after a little more talk,
and when Launcelot had made her promise to come up to the Witchens
with her husband, they went to Rachel's room.
Miss Thorpe greeted them more quietly, but Launcelot, who under-
stood her, saw that she was much affected. " This is kind, to come to
olO ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
iid, taking both their hands; "you knew how 1
should want to sec- you."
" It was Dorothea who proposed it," returned Launcclot; "I v.
to Thorpe, llllt il W:ls sn(% wno said you would be lookim 1 >oro-
thea always does think of things. I expect to be spared every kind of
trouble in* the future," he finished, contentedly.
" Mi.-s Rarhcl, it is Mr. Lance's way to say this sort of thing, but he
knows th;,t we shall not believe him."
" Do you think it right of Dorothea to call me Mr. Lance?" 1.
turned, mischievously. " I have remonstrated with her once or 1
but it is of no use. Dorothea declares that Jie does not know me under
any other name, but I tell her people will think it so strange."
" Mr. Lance knows that I must have time to get used to any other
name," replied Dorothea, softly; " it is what I have called him 'from a
child."
" Yes, of course; and it seems to you a sort of liberty to use
other," returned Rachel, much amused at this.
"But it is a liberty I hope she will soon take," was the reply.
" What is the use of having a young woman, if the young woman per-
sists iii keeping one at a distance?" Then Dorothea flashed a look at
him, and her dimple came in play. At such moments she looked almost
lovely.
Rachel lay atod watched them, but she said very little until Dorothea
went in search of baby Gwen* and then she said, very earnestly, " How
she has grown! I must tell you, Mr. Chudleigh, that I have always
hoped for this."
" Hoped for this for Dorothea, do you mean?" in a tone of surprise.
" Yes, indeed; when I saw her growing up and developing day by
day into such a fine intelligent creature, I said to myself, ' This is the
girl to suit Mr. Chudleigh, if he could only bring himself to think so;
bhe will make him just the wife he wants.' "
" And I have done the right thing?"
" I think so, and Ivan thinks so, and we know something about
human nature. Dorothea is young, but her character is wonderfully
formed; she is very womanly, and she loves you with her whole heart."
" I believe you," he returned, in a moved voice, but not even to this
tried friend did he find it easy to speak of his betrothed he had a notion
ilence befitted the subject best. lie was very happy, very satis-
lied, and Dorothea was daily growing sweeter to him. She was much
to him, and he knew that she would be more as time went on, but he
did not care to talk of his affection to 'any one but her; and though it
pleased him to know that his friends approved his choice, he lik
find out her beauties himself that shy, soft unfolding of herself was
her chief charm in his eyes.
Hi was astonished and dismayed to find how he missed her wl
fortnight after their engagement, Dorothea and her father left the
Wiichens and took possession of the cottage. Dorothea, with all her
nate love for Launcelot, was far more contented than he imdev
the circumstances; the knowledge that she would one day return .
mistress satisfied and made her happy in the present.
As for Jack, he reveled in that cottage; at last he had his littl-
wholly to himself. Jack smoked endless pipes and really pah
picture, while Dorothea busied herself in her simple housekeeping
work beside him. After all, Launeelot and she were not
ded. Dorothea and her father dined once or twice a week i
THE GOVERNESS. 311
Witchens, and no day passed without a risit, however brief, from
Launcelot. Dorothea did not share her lover's restlessness, neverthe-
less, it gave her an exquisite sensation of pleasure to know that her pres-
ence was wanting to his happiness. Launcelot complained that tha
drawing-room looked empty in the evening, and that he could not always
leave his step- mother and come down to the cottage. And there was
Pauline, too, preparing for her marriage, and he liked to be with her as
much as possible.
" This sort of branch establishment is a failure, after all," he grum-
bled. " I don't believe you care for it yourself, Dorothea; it is only
Jack who delights in these poky little rooms. Why can't you come
up and dine to-night? Maxwell is coming, and I think Thorpe and his
wife, and we shall be a nice little party. Do come, dear."
"Not to-night," she answered, seriously. "Father and I have
planned to work i-.i the garden, and we have been twice to the Witchens
already this week. No, you must not press me, for I always like to
please you, and to-night I must stay with my father " and then she
dropped her voice " it is the day mother died, and father would like
> be quiet."
" Oh, of course, in that case. Why did you not tell me that before,
Dorothea? Well, he shall have you to himself, but to-morrow after-
noon I can not ride with you: I have an engagement with Maplcson."
" Then it can not be helped," but she certainly looked disappointed.
" Never mind, father and I will have a long country ride, and perhaps "
a little wistfully " we shall see you in the evening."
" Oh, yes; I will come across for an hour after dinner," he returned,
looking very much gratified, for she did not often ask him to come, and,
indeed, he gave her little occasion for such a request. " It is not often
that you let me see that I am wanted."
" Indeed, I always want you," she returned, earnestly, " but I think
you know that, Launcelot;" for she had learned to call him by that
name, though she still used it shyly. And she was right Launcelot
did know it.
CHAPTER XLYIL
JEMMY STOKES'S ERRAND.
If woman was heaven's last new gift, the ever-new delight of man, it was because
f her gentleness. That is properly the " strong enforcement " of the sex. WAKD.
Half unbelieving doth my heart remain
Of its great woe;
I waken, and a dull, *
TRENCH.
IT was on a lovely August morning that Pauline was married. Mrs.
Chudleigh had agreed to Dr. Maxwell's request, and the wedding was
a very quiet one. Only Bee and her husband, and Geoffrey and his
wife, and Bernard's pretty little fiancee Elsie, and Jack Weston and
Dorothea, were the invited guests. Bernard and Fred were of course
up for the vacation. A cousin of Dr. Maxwell had performed the cere-
mony, and another cousin, a young barrister, had acted as best man.
Mrs. Chudleigh had been perfectly reasonable, and had agreed t.i
everything, but on one point she had remained firm. Pauline's trous
scan must be equal to her stater's; and though the bride-elect remou
ftrated and urged very sensibly that her position was different from
ONLY TIIK (JOVKUNESS,
1 '<(' ni.d tli ;t she was going to many a poor man, Mrs. Chudleigh in
sisird on having her own way.
" Indeed, mother dear," pleaded Pauline, "you and Launrel'
far too generous. Of course I wish my things to be nice, 11
particular about dress, ami I should never cure to be shabby, lint we
can not afVord to entertain people, so what can I want with all tho.v-o
pretty d inner- dr<
"Nonsense, Pauline!" returned her mother, ingenuously; "dear
Iledley is so exceedingly clever that his practice increases every day.
lie says himself that his income is now sufficient for moderate comfort.
So you will not be so poor."
" No; but we shall have to be very careful," replied Pauline. " Be-
sides, Hedley has always been quiet in his tastes, and does not care for
gayety under any circumstances."
" But all the same he must mix in society; you must not let him rust.
And then you will be here a good deal. You see, Pauline," went on
Mrs. Chudleigh, seriously, "Bernard really means to settle at Christ-
mas, and I don't suppose Launcelot will wait beyond the spring. "\Yhen
Dorothea comes here w r e shall be sure to have a good deal of company.
Lauucelot likes society, and he is very hospitable; and I think Dorothea
enjoys it too in her quiet way. And so you will want all your pretty
dresses for the Witchens."
" Very well, mother dear; you shall have your way. I know Iledl'-y
will like to see me look nice."
" There is only one thing that troubles me," went on her mother after
a diort interval, " but 1 know it can not be helped, and you and lled-
ley will make the best of it I suppose poor dear Brenda and Charlotte
must always live at Bridge House.' 1
Pauline looked up in unfeigned surprise.
" Why, mother darling, you talk as though Hedley and I should find
them burdensome. ' '
" Well, my dear, most newly married people prefer to be alon
course I know what you are going to say that it will be just the same
with Launce and Dorothea. But just think of the difference. This
house is so big that we shall each have our apartments; we shall
meet at meals or .n the evening, and not then unless we wish it. Dow
thea is to have a charming boudoir made for her out of the inorning-
ropm, and your uncle Jack will have the old school-room. I.
thinks the library that the boys used could be turned into a pleasant sit-
ting-room for Sybil and myself, and the dining-room and drawing-room
will be neutral ground. Besides, Dorothea will have her hu.-''
studio; he means to have a corner expressly fitted up for her use. J !c
and I have planned everything. Your uncle Jack will have quite a
suite of rooms for his use. I think you and Bee will hardly know the
Witchens. Launce means to have all Dorothea's rooms refurnished
he is busy now planning their decorations: I assure you the morning-
room win be lovely."
"Yes: but, mother, Launce is so rich. But I think Iledley and /
will be quite as happy," returned Pauline, with a bright smile. " Hed-
ley and Charlotte have done the best they could with small means, and
I do not in the least require a sitting-room for my own use. I slmll see
my friends in the drawing-room, and when the curtains are closed it
forms two rooms, and Brendu will always remain in the inner one. I
could not trouble her with all my callers; and if I want a quiet corner
there is Hedley 'a study. CLuilotte has made it so comfortable; there
ONLY THE GOVEKXESS. 313
is a special chair and a little table for my use. So you see I need not
envy Dorothea."
" I don't think you ever envy any one, my darling," returned he^
mother, fondly.
"No, indeed, I would not be so wicked. I am so happy at the
thought of spending my life with Hedley that I can think or nothing
else; and as for Brenda, I love her far too much to regard her in the
light of a burden."
" True, dear, and Charlotte will be her nurse."
" Yes, Charlotte will be head-nurse, but I mean to take my share. I
.shall like to be alone with Hedley sometimes; and of course that is nat-
ural, but 1 do not think that I shall ever find my sisters in the way."
And Pauline proved the truth of these words, for the household at
Bridge House was a very happy one.
Young Mrs. Maxwell was fully contented with her lot; the happiest
woman in the world, she often called herself. She and Hedley were
not without their cares. What human lot is exempt from anxiety?
Pauline had to see her husband work hard, and for some years only a
moderate degree of success rewarded his efforts. He had plenty of
patients, but many of these belonged to the poorer class, and Dr. Max-
well, who was one of the most benevolent of men, often worked for
love's sake. Hedley did not become a rich man speedily. Indeed, at
no time in his life could he be regarded as specially wealthy; and Paul-
ine, with a young family growing up round her, would have need of
a)l her prudent foresighledness and unselfish precaution. But it might
IK; said with all truth that the heart of her husband safely trusted in
her, and indeed no wife was ever more entirely her husband's friend.
" Hedley and Pauline always think alike," Charlotte would say. " If
we ask one, we are sure of knowing the other's opinion. No two peo-
ple ever were more similar. I never noticed this before they were mar-
ried, but Pauline seems to have grown to Hedley somehow."
"Pauline is a pattern wife," observed Launcelot, when this speech
was retailed to him; " she always sees with her husband's eyes, and
agrees with him in everything. I always hold her up as an example to
Dorothea. I am grieved to tell you, Madella, that Dorothea contra-
dicted me twice yesterday; indeed, we had quite an animated discus-
sion!"
" My dear Launce, Dorothea is not your wife yet; you surely do not
exact a blind obedience," but Launcelot's eyes twinkled.
"Blind obedience does not belong to Dorothea's nature, somehow.
Unhappily for me, she has what people call an inquiring mind; she has
a knack of putting awkward questions that one finds difficult to an-
swer."
" Well, well, a little contradiction is good for all of us," returned his
step-mother, tranquilly, for she was perfectly satisfied with Dorothea's
behavior to Launcelot, " and you know you are dreadfully spoiled,
Launce."
' What is the use of spending all that money on a room where I am
never to sit?' those were her words, Madella. ' It is more fit for the
queen than for me; I never saw anything more lovely. And yet I am
to be always in the studio, and there is a writing-table and a work-tablf
put there for my use, and father say she shall expect to see me some*
times, and yet no one else must use that room.' "
" Well, my dear, I think that was a very sensible remark."
" Madella," observed Launcelot, in an exasperated voice, " how is
814 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
there 10 bo peace in the house if you take my wife's part against me? 1
have noticr-d before that, in your opinion, Dorothea's remarks have
alwa\ .sible. Dorothea has already :i pretty good opinion of
if, and your injudicious partiality does not tend to teach her
humility."
" What was your answer then, Launce?" asked his step-mother,
smiling.
" Well, of course I was very firm with her. Dorothea requires firm-
ness. I pointed out to her that a man likes to enjoy his wi f .
sometimes, and that I had never cared especially for solitude. ' Oh, 'l
know that,' she said, quickly, ' and, indeed, I do not wish to leave you
alone:' but, of course, I would not allow that speech to mollify me.
Dorothea knows how to temper her bitterness with honey."
" Bitterness, my dear Launce! Dorothea has the sweetest disposition
possible; 1 ' but he waived this remark aside loftily.
" ' The morning-room or boudoir, or whatever you please to call it,'
I returned, ' is for young Mrs. Chudleigh's use when she has sulked
with her husband a very probable contingency or wishes to r<
her friends privately. Sybil, who had not yet achieved a matrimonial
prize, I am sorry to say, has a bad habit of strumming on the grand
piano- forte, and I have noticed that tranquillity is essential to your com-
fort, so you will allow me to suggest' but I will spare you the re-
mainder of my speech, though I am grieved to say Dorothea said I
talked a great deal of nonsense."
" Well, so you do, Launce, but it is nonsense that Dorothea and I
love, and, of course, the dear child was full of gratitude for all your
thoughtfulness; for indeed no girl could be more studied, and it is only
her goodness that prevents her being thoroughly spoiled;" but Launce-
lot only laughed and looked a little guilty.
Launcelot's engagement had gone on smoothly for some months; Ber-
nard had had his way, and he and his pretty little Elsie had been mar-
ried early in the new jnear; the lugubrious Fred had taken de;i
orders at the same time, and had betaken himself to dingy lodgings at
Bethnal Green, leaving only Sybil to represent the family. Launcelot
spent the winter cheerfully, working at a new picture and superintend-
ing the redecoration of the rooms intended for Dorothea's use. Many
of the other rooms were painted and refurnished, and at one time the
discomfort of workmen obliged Mrs. Chudleigh and Sybil to migrate to
Hastings for a few weeks, but still Jack and Dorothea led their peace-
ful lives at the cottage, and Dorothea had made no preparations for her
marriage.
When spring came, Mrs. Chudleigh felt herself a little puzzled at tho
delay, and one day she asked Launcelot when he and Dorothea meant
to be married.
Launcelot, who was painting, laid down his palette and looked his
step- mother calmly in the face.
" Upon my word, Madella, I don't know. I was only thinkii
. that Jack had had his innings; it is my turn now. He ha
her to himself for more than nine months."
" You take it very coolly, Launce."
" I was thinking so myself," he returned, with perfect equanimity:
then. her perplexed look, he continued seriously, " The delay
i-> not on my side. I would have married Dorothea most willingly
i a month of our engagement, but she could not be brought i
t'j my vk-tt of the subject, and in a weak moment I promised tliat she
ONLY THE GOVEKNESS. 315
should have a year's freedom. You see, Madella, Dorothea was so very
young and Jack was not willing to let her settle, and so I was bound to
respect their wishes."
" Yes, but the year will be up in July."
" I was just pointing out that fact to Dorothea this morning. I told
her that I should hold her strictly to her bond, and I must confess that
she heard me with great attention. I gave her to understand that
August was my favorite month abroad, and that I had undertaken to
show her Switzerland, but she would not let me go on. She said she
must speak to you and Jack, cind give me her answer to-morrow."
" Oh, no wonder you take it coolly! Of course, things are as good
as settled. Dorothea will do exactly what you wish; and, Launcc, I
must say that you have been very good and patient. Few young men
would have been so unselfish."
" I think Dorothea will have a model husband," he returned, tran-
quilly, throwing back his head to look at his picture. " I hope she will
appreciate her blessings properly." Then Mrs. Chudleigh laughed,
and told him that he was in an absurd mood, and then proposed that
she should walk over to the cottage and interview Dorothea on the im-
portant subject.
" I am afraid you will find the cottage empty," he replied. " Jack
has asked Dorothea to ride with him. I have to drive into town for an
hour, so I could not accompany them."
" Never mind; I will write a little note and tell them to come up to
dinner, and then we can arrange things comfortably."
" Ah, that is a good idea," he returned, cheerfully; " they have not
dined here for a week." Then Mrs. Chudleigh said she would write
the note at once, and Launcelot set to work again vigorously. But
there was a bright look upon his face, and he whistled a few bars in his
old light-hearted fashion as he painted in a fresh fold of drapery, and
the tune was the old Scotch air of " My love she's but a lassie vet," for
it pleased him to know that he would soon have his young wife to sit
beside him. " I think 1 have been tolerably patient," he said to him-
self. ' ' I was a little restless at first when they went to the cottage, and
I missed Dorothea very badly, but things have gone better lately. I
think we understand each other more every day. She is not so shy
with me, and well, I dare say I ana fonder of Ler. After all, I am
glad I gave in to Jack's whims. She is so grateful, poor little darling,
and is always saying that she must make it up to me in the future. ' '
Launcelot was making light of his own unselfishness, but he was. not
a young man now, and so long an engagement was hardly to his taste.
He would have liked a quick courtship, and then to have settled down
contentedly, but Jack was not ready to part with his little girl, and
Dorothea, as usual, effaced her own wishes for his sake. "A little
waiting will not hurt us, when we are to spend our lives together," she
once said to Launcelot, but Launcelot had pointed to the streaks of gray
in his dark hair.
" You are not marrying a young man, my dear," he said, a little
sadly. " I think in spite of my philosophy I should be glad to shorten
my probation," and Dorothea had been a little moved by this. If sh?
had thought only of her own wish she would gladly have been his wif:
" He does not know how I love him! I never seem able to tell him
she said to herself as he left her. " I know he thinks me young, ho is
always telling me so, but I have never been too young to understand
Him.
310 ONLY THE GOVERNESS.
Launcelot was in a very mercy mood at luncheon that day, and ni
Mrs. Chudk'iirh watched him drive oil' in his phueton, she told herself
that things wciv jroin.ir well with her boy.
" 1 have not seen him look like that since Joan left us," and then she
sighed at the remembranee of those somber days. " I think he did not
i:vt over it 1'or years." she said to lierself; " he was as hardly hit ;i
man could be, 'but I am sure Dorothea makes him happy, lie was not
in love with her at first, but I am convinced that he is 'now. I could
see his expression as he talked about their marriage. I think the delay
has fretted him a little."
Launcelot drove himself into town, and did his business, and then
set his face homeward, with a pleased consciousness that he had done
his work well, and that an evening's enjoyment was before him.
" I shall leave Madella to talk to Jack,'"' he said, " but Dorothea must
come with ine on the terrace. It will be a lovely evening, and I must
have her to myself for a little, and then we can nnish our talk. Halloo
there!" and Launcelot, who had been lost in dreamy anticipation,
roused himself, and pulled up his mare pretty sharply as a boy ci '<
the road, at full speed, after the usual heedless habits of his class.
*' Now then, you young rascal!" he called out, for he was given to
bullying these young offenders, and frightening them out of their small
wits. " Why, it is Jemmy Stokes what do you mean, you little mon-
key, by running in front of Ruby like that? Do you know I might
have driven over you, and serve you right too?"
" Please, Mr. Chudleigh, sir, 1 never saw Ruby at all. I was just
out of breath with running. Orson was out and and Mr. Fenwick, he
says, ' Run for Doctor Higgenbotham, Jem, he is the handiest dodor,
and tell him to come up sharp ' and I have been, and he is driving up
the hill, but la! it ain't no manner of use, the poor young lady is dead!
I seed her myself." And here Jemmy began to blubber, and drew the
sleeve of his jacket across his eyes.
" What on earth do you mean, child? Has there been an accident?
How am I to know what young lady you are talking about?"
" Please, sir, it is Miss Dorothea. She was out riding with her
father" and then he stopped aghast at the result of his words, for
Launcelot had sprung out of the phaeton, and was standing over him,
shaking him by the collar, and his face was as white as a sheet, Jem
began to blubber again.
" Leave off that noise, sir, and tell me what you mean," said Launce-
lot, sternly; and Jem, in spite of natural obtuseness, saw he was in no
mood to be trifled with.
" Please, sir, I was in the front court along with mother, and I
it myself. There warn't no horses at all, only a four-wheeler, and Mr.
Weston had Miss Dorothea in his arms, and she were in her riding
habit, and her arms were dropped; and she looked awful, and mother
gave a screech. ' Why, she is dead, Jem!' she says; and then Mr.
wick comes out and gives me a shove. ' Go to Doctor libuenl
sharp,' he says and off I runs."
Launcelot did not answer, but he mechanically let go the
jacket, and then, jumping into the phaelon. gave the astonished i:
rut with his whip that sent her up the hill danein- on Hire-
fact, most people stopped to look alter them, thinking Ruby had nip
y, but she was only indulging in an ill-tempered gallop.
Launcelot^ % *o held the reins in his iiuinb hands and sat up
OKLY THE GOVERNESS. 31?
stiffly, looking straight before him, and perfectly oblivions of Ruby's
antics, though the groom was holding on behind.
" I can not bear this! I don't see that I have any right to bear itV
he muttered between his teeth. " There 1 are limits to a man's endur-
ance. Dorothea my own little Dorothea dead!" xVnd yet he was
not conscious that he thought anything at all; only a veil seemed to fall
from his eyes, and the great rush of pain and heart-sickness, and the
sense of overwhelming misery, told him what Dorothea was to him.
He need no longer beat about the bush and tell himself that he was fond
of her, when the dread of any ill befalling her had driven the blood to
his heart and there was that look cf despair on his face.
" I don't believe it! I am not called upon lo believe it!" he said, in
the same dull, inward voice, as Ruby made a final rush across the com-
mon and then darted in at the open gate of the Witchens, bringing out
Mrs. Chudleigh and several of the household in alarm, lest afresh acci-
dent had occurred and at the same moment Jack's cob and Dorothea's
pretty little bay rnare were led into the stable-yard.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
LATJNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH.
Whose soft voice
Should be the sweetest music to his ear,
Awakening all the chords of harmony;
********
Whose pure, transparent cheek when pressM to his
Should calm the fever of his troubled thoughts,
And win his spirit to those fields Elytsian,
The paradise which strong affection guards.
BETHUNE.
WHEN Launcelot threw down his reins and jumped from the phaeton
he staggered slightly, but recovered himself in a moment. The faces
iu the glass porch bewildered him; they seemed to corroborate Jemmy's
vague recital. It was true then, he told himself his beautiful little
sweetheart was dead! and for the second time his happiness seemed
doomed. " I don't feel as though I could bear this!" he said again to
himself, as he pushed through the excited little group, asking no ques-
tions. Indeed, he could not have spoken at that moment to save his
life.
Happily Mrs. Chudleigh saw his expression, and grasped the truth.
" Oh, my dear boy," she exclaimed, " who has been frightening
you? There has been an accident, oh, yes, but things are not so bad,
after all."
" She is not dead then?" for his step-mother's voice gave him power
to speak. She would not have looked or spoken in that way if Jemmy
Stokes had been correct.
" Dead!" in a shocked tone. " Oh, my poor Launce, how could any
one have been so cruel? Come with me here a moment, and sit down.
It has given you quite a turn, I can see. Jack and Doctor Higgenbot-
harn are with Dorothea. She has opened her eyes. She was only
stunned, and her head is rather badly cut."
" I thought it was all over vith her and with me too!" returned
Lancelot, and the tears came into Mrs. Chudleigh's eyes at his tone.
" No, no, Launce, we hope that she is not badly iniurcd after all.
How I must go back. Mrs. Fen wick and Sybil are there. I heard
OITLY I'SS.
your wheeiS a.,.! <,ame out lv. CMU-C T did not wish you to be fright'
hut it serins that I was too late. 1 will come back to you when 1
.vnbotham is gone," but Launcelot detained her.
'diuli'llii, I must see Dorothea."
" So you shall, dear the moment Doctor Higgenhotham h
you shall see her. even if she can not speak to you. Let me go, Laum-
the motner will he wanted," and then he let her leave him.
" What a fool I was to believe it!" he thought, as he walked up
down the room to recover himself. "It was the suddenness of i
blow staggered me; but 1 have once in my life known what is c
the bitterness of death, and I feared I was to experience it again;
then he put his hand to his forehead, and was surprised to find ho\
and damp it was. " I am shaken all over," he muttered; " I don't
member ever feeling quite so bad before;" and then he poured on
water and drank it, aud stood by the window inhaling the fresh e\ <
air, and then he began to feel more like himself. " I might h
God's goodness," he thought, remorsefully. " I need not have bi
ready to believe the worst."
But it seemed a long time before his step-mother came back to him.
She came in looking flushed and anxious.
"I am so sorry to have kept you so long in suspense, Launce," she
began, " but Doctor Higgenbothani has only this moment gone. lie
has attended to the cuts, and I am thankful to say there is no other in-
jury; but she is to be left very quiet, and you must not talk to her, for
after such an accident " but Mrs. Chudleigh prudently forbore to
finish her speech, for Dr. Hggenbotham's stringent orders had raided a
margin of doubt in her own mind, but she need not make Lamm
sharer in her own uneasiness. " She is to be carried up to her room,
and then Sybil and I will help her to bed, so you must only stay
minute."
" Very well," he returned, quite quietly, for he had himself in hand
now, and he followed his step-mother into the drawing-room. " Here
unce, my darling!" he heard Jack say as they entered.
Launcelot felt the old choking sensation come back when he
Jack's face; its ruddy complexion had perceptibly paled, but h'
l>ent on self-control.
"Dorothea," he said, softly, kneeling down by the couch, an-.
opened her eyes at once and smiled at him. Her face was very white,
and the long plaits of her fair hair had been uncoiled to allow of the
wound being dressed, and lay on her dark riding-habit.
Laimcelot tried to smile back at her, but she saw at once ho
he was.
" Please don't look like that, Launcelot," she whispered. " Indeed
I am not so Try much hurt; it was far worse for father having ;
it all." But the faintuess of her voice alarmed Launcelot, and
membered that he was not to talk to her. " You must not tiouhlo
about any of us," he replied, gently; " you must think only of y<
Dorothea, and about getting well. Now Doctor Iliggenbothain
you are to be quiet, and I am going to follow his orders an-i
to/'
" Oh, no," she said, holding his hand as he would have lifted her.
" you must let father do that. He is so big and strong that he will not
feel my weight." But Launcelot persisted.
"I; loo," lie returned, and she knew by his tone that he
meant to have his way. But as lie laid her down on her own couch up-
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 319
Btairs one of the long plaits floated past him, and Dorothea's color rose
a little as she saw him touch it with his lips. Their eyes met, and he
kissed her almost passionately.
" My little blessing," he whispered, " get well for me, for I cun not
do without you!" and then he left her to his step-mother.
" I think Launce loves me more than he used," thought Dorothea, as
that way,
blessing?" " What a .dear name!" she thought, and indeed that was
her one wish to be his" blessing.
Dorothea lay quite happily looking out at the evening sky, while
Launcelot and Jack strolled to the terrace.
" How did it happen, Jack?" he asked, as soon as he found himself
alone with his friend.
" It was coming up Overton Rise," returned Jack, hoarsely. " They
had got the steam-roller at work. I told Dossie to keep Zoe quiet, for
she seemed a bit fresh, and then, all at once, as I was speaking, the mare
reared and seemed to curvet across the road. And then she r
again, and overbalanced, and before I could get to them there was my
little girl on the ground, and Zoe's heels within an inch of her! And
the new flint stones were down, and Dr. Higgenbotham says that a
quarter of an inch deeper but there, I can't talk of it. I might have
seen my little girl killed before my eyes, and for a minute or two I
thought she was dead. I think those few minutes made an old man of
me," finished Jack, with a break in his voice.
" Yes, and you brought her home?"
" There was a cab waiting at some house, and I got into that with
Dossie. But I thought even that short drive would never come to an
end, and she did not open her eyes once, but just lay across my knee, like
oh, confound it, I shall never get it out of my mind!"
'* Let us talk of something else, Jack."
*' There was a bad scalp wound, and another cut," went on Jack, dis-
regarding this; " that is why we are to keep her so quiet. Delia says
I am only to wish her good-night. It is hard on you too, Launce; I
could see how cut up you were, but, please God, we shall have Dossie
right again."
" Amen," returned Launcelot; and then again he made an ineffectual
attempt to divert Jack's thoughts. He had to give it up at last. Jack
could not talk coherently on any subject; his conversation consisted of
snatches of painful recollection, with interjections of thankfulness, and
nervous fears of future consequences. It was a relief to Launcelot to
leave him and indulge in a solitary stroll across the common; it was re-
freshing to be alone with his own thoughts, and he mused happily over
his many mercies. "At least I have learned something to-day," he
said to himself as he paced under the dark starry sky. "I have learned
how much I love Dorothea, and that she is necessary to my happiness.
I would not change her for any woman, ' ' and Launcelot knew in his
heart that he spoke the truth.
Jack and he had rather a trying time of it for the next week or two.
Dorothea had had a severe shock and the head wound gave grave cause
for anxiety; quiet and freedom from all excitement were absolutely
necessary.
Jack's visits to the sick-room were severely curtailed, and all conver-
sation strictly forbidden; while Launcelot wns not suffered t-
320 OmY THE GOVERNESS.
threshold, and could only send -mitten messages with the flowers that
greeted Dorothea every morning.
Launcelot grumbled pretty freely whenever his step-mother gave him
an opportunity of airing his grievances.
"Doctor Higgeubotham is an old woman!" he once said, quite
angrily; " why did you not have in Maxwell? I don't believe he would
have forbidden my visits; you know yourself, Madella, how quiet I run
be in a sick-room. Miss Thorpe said this morning that it was too bud
to exclude me."
"It is hard, Launce," replied his step-mother, sympathetically.
" Yes, I know how quiet you can be, but the mere pleasure of seeing
you would excite Dorothea. Why, she flushes up every time she hears
your footstep, and she detects it in a moment. You must be patient for
a day or two longer, and, after that, Doctor Higgenbotham says there
will be no risk; she is really getting on very nicely," and after this
Launcelot held his peace.
But when at last he saw her, he owned that his step-mother had been
wise in her treatment. Dorothea looked very fragile and delicate; she
had not regained her usual coloring, and though she pronounced hsr-
self quite well, she was evidently far from strong.
Launcelot found her in the " mother's room," in a big easy-chair by
the open window. She wore a loose white tea-gown, and Sybil had
brushed back her hair and tied it with a ribbon, and this gave her a
childish look, but he thought he had never seen her look so sweet.
" Why, Dorothea, you remind me of the celebrated Doll's dress maker
in her garden bower," she said, sitting down beside her, and Dorothea
smiled.
"I could not bear my hair dressed," she said, quietly, "but the
wound has healed now. Father says he likes it best because I remind
him of, the old Dossie, but it makes me look too young."
" You must not grow any older," he returned, seriously; " to me
you are just perfect." And that day he made her a great many pretty
speeches.
But they did not have much conversation together, and more than a
week passed before Dorothea came among them again and spoke of go-
ing back to the cottage. This gave Launcelot the opportunity he
wanted.
"Yes," he said, "you may go back to the cottage if you think
proper, but the question is how soon can you be ready for me? Paul-
ine took two months for her preparations, but I should think six weeks
ample time." And to his delight, she did not contradict this state-
ment.
" You must ask Aunt Delia," she said, shyly. ' If you are ready
forme, Launcelot, I must not keep you waiting." Then he thanked
her very gratefully.
But he was unusually thoughtful that morning, and Dorothea looked
at him wistfully once or twice as though she would question the reason
of his gravity, and at last she said, gently
" Am I disappointing you in anything, Launcelot? Is there any-
thing else you wish me to do?"
" .No, dear," he returned, quietly, " but it was not of our marriage 1
was thinking just then, but of something that was troubling me a little.
Dorothea, you are very trusting; you do not take advantage of your
position to ask me awkward questions."
OKLY THE GOVERNESS. 321
" How do you mean?" she asked, and her lovely eyes had a shade of
anxiety in them. " Is it about the past you are thinking?"
" Yes," he said, in a relieved tone. " Most girls would ask a man
questions if he has been in love before, and if any woman has ever
been as dear to him, oh, and a hundred such questions. But you have
never put one."
" Because I had no need," she returned; but now the shadow lav
deep in her eyes, " I knew all about it, Launcelot. I was only a child "
as he started and looked at her " but I was thoughtful for my years,
and I was so fond of you that the change in you could not escape me.
No one told me anything, and I would have died sooner than speak to
any one, but in my own little way I put things together."
" And you knew about Miss Rossiter?" in an incredulous voice.
" Yes, so you need not tell me. Child as I was, I knew you wert
suffering, and often I cried myself to sleep because my Mr. Lance wai
so unhappy. I don't think I ever reasoned the matter out in my mind,
I was too young; but I saw that there was a grievous mistake that you
were trying to set right, and that you were in heavy trouble. Oh, how
I longed to comfort you ! I remember my nightly prayer for you then. ' '
" Tell it to me." he said, holding her hands. " It will do me good
even now, Dorothea." But she hesitated until he said again, " Please
tell it to me."
" I used to say," she whispered, * Oh, dear Lord, keep Mr. Lance,
as good as he is now, and make him a little less unhappy; and when I
grow up teach me how to be a comfort to him.' "
" I think the prayer has been answered, my darling!" but she could
see he was much affected. " How little one is conscious of one's bless-
ings! I was in bitter trouble because I thought my heart's affection
was wasted, mysteriously and absolutely wasted that I was battling
alone and all the time a little child was praying beside me;" and then
he added, softly, " the little child that was to be my wife."
Dorothea was silent for a minute, and then she said, very quietly
"It is strange how even then I felt as though I belonged to you. I
obeyed you almost as I obeyed father. Launcelot, have you noticed
how much older father has looked lately? I think his hard fife has tried
him, for he is not really old."
"He is only four or five years older than your humble servant," re-
turned Launcelot; " but there is no accounting for a man's looks. Your
father is big, and has a powerful frame, but I am strong and wiry;"
but he forbore to add that he thought, humanly speaking, that his own
lease of life would be longer than Jack's.
Strange to say, Jack spoke a word on that very subject the same even-
ing. They had. been sitting with Dorothea until Mrs. Chudleigh had
said that her patient had talked enough and must go to bed, and then
Jack had suggested the terrace; he had taken a fancy to smoke his pipe
there. He liked the wide stretch of heath and the twinkling lights from
the village, it gave him a sense of space and freedom. As they stood
together in the faint glimmering light, for the moon had not yet risen,
and they could hardly see each other's faces, Launcelot said, rathe*
abruptly
" I hope our arrangements meet with your approval, Jack that you
do not think that I have fixed too early a day for our marriage?"
"No," he said, slowly; "Dorothea will be nineteen. That was
Pen's age. I shall be willing to give her to you now. I have had a
happy year with my little girl, the happiest in my life, I think, except
11 , -a*-
OtfLY TTTE
that first year when Pen came to mo Imt wo had our troubles even
then. I don't know how it, is, L'lunrc. but a man can't drag a woman
down to poverty without suU'cring I' or it."
" And j'ou will try to settle in comfortably at the Witch
" Why, of course, I shall be comfortable under any roof that shelters
Dossie. * You are a good fellow, Launce, and will make my liti
happy. I know, but sometimes I think even you who are going
her husband do not know what Dossie is to me. I don't seem to have
a wish that is not connected with her. It has been so all along."
" I think I do know it, Jack."
iiietimes I think I ought to stop on alone at the cottage, anti not
be in your way, but I know Dossie would not hear of it. But, L..
I sha'n't trouble either her or you long; there is a flaw in the machinery,
and I know I shall never make an old man."
" Xonsense, Jack! you are scarcely forty-five. Why, you are in tho
prime of life; you could marry again to-morrow. Many a w
would be glad to s&y yes to a fine fellow like you."
" I should never put another woman in Pen's place," returned Jack,
simpty. " I know better than I used, and Dossie has taught me a lot
of things, and I feel sure now that Pen and I shall meet again. I think
a great deal about her, and I fancy to myself how pleased she will look
when I tell her her place has never been taken. She always believed in
me, did Pen, and I don't want to disappoint her.'*
" Of course; I see what you mean."
" I don't think it will be many years before I see her and the boys
again. I am not speaking without book, and I know where the mis-
chief lies." And then he added a word or two, and Launcelot knew
that he was speaking the truth, and that Jack would never make an old
man. " That is why I wanted my little girl to myself for a bit:" went
on Jack, cheerfully. " I am quite content to take things as they come,
and it won't trouble me to leave Dossie, for I know she will be safe with
you. Not that I need talk of dying yet, for Carrick says I may liva
for years; but when it comes Dossie will not be alone."
" Jack, you do not wish her to know what you have just told me."
" Xo : indeed; that is between you and me. We are old comrades,
Launce; even Delia must not know; and as for my little sunbeam, I
1 not sadden her for worlds. I am not a bit down about it; I was
never afraid of death, but I should like to know things a little better,
that was why I was glad to have Carrick's opinion, and please God 1
shall see your children and hers before I lie down beside Pen.'*
r'old Jack!" thought Launcelot, as he recalled this conversation
somewhat sorrowfully. " Yet why do I say poor? are old age and tho
H!OW dcca"y of one's faculties such unmixed blessings that I should pity
:oug man likely to be taken in his prime? Jack is learnii
; he has begun late, and he is not an apt scholar, rather
JK! clumsy perhaps, but the Master is merciful. Jack will have
time to get his task perfect, or else he will be set with the little ones to
it more quickly under the eyes of the Divine Teacher, in the
and better school. ' In My Father's house are many nmn> :
it there be one set apart for simple souls who have not ri.
! their life's lesson, who in their dullness made imV
1 and tried again, and then lost courage, for even their fellous
L-t that they had failed, but it may be the Master knew othn
and called them up to Him for clearer light and teaching?" thought
ONLY THE GOVERNESS. 323
It was only last year that Launcelot Ckudleigli found that sketch of
Dossie as a child and carried it into his wife's room. They had been
married some months then. Jack was painting in the window and
Dorothea was sitting beside him working she generally spent her morn-
ings in her husband's studio, but now and then Jack put in a plea for
her company and was never refused, in spite of Launcelot's grumbling.
" Look what I have found!" he exclaimed, flourishing the sketch be-
fore Dorothea's eyes. Jack came round to look at it, but soon went
back to his work, for the companion sketch, worn and discolored, lay
with all Dossie's letters in a drawer upstairs. But Dorothea took it out
of her husband's hand and regarded it gravely.
" What a sad little child!" she said. " Was I ever like that, Lance?"
" You are very like it now," he returned, looking at her critically,
" but you have grown much prettier, Dorothea; you know I am alwayi
telling you so."
" I know you are a flatterer, Lance," she replied, gently, and then
they both looked at the sketch again.
Dossie's large wistful eyes seemed to look back at them in a sort of
wondering perplexity.
" Poor little thing!" said Dorothea. " That was when father went
away. Oh, how unhappy I was!"
" JBut you had Lance even then, my darling," observed Jack, in his
tender voice.
" Yes, but he was not all that he is to me now," she replied, and aa
she spoke she crept a little closer to her husband's side.
Launcelot looked at her fondly.
" You are happier now than you were then, Dorothea?" and though
Dorothea only smiled and said " Yes," in her tranquil way, Launcelot
was perfectly satisfied with her answer. His wife was not a woman o
many words, but her smile was sufficiently eloquent.
14 DAY USE
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