^^^^^m^^-r.: :.y;^'- -' i ^■1 ^^wi^v^-/ i • f ■ V t; THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES BENTLEYS' FAVOURITE NOVELS. Each Work can be had separately, price 6s., of all Booksellers IN Town or Country. By RHODA BROUGHTON. Cometh up as a Flower. Good-bye^ Sivcetheart ! Joan. Nancy. Not Wisely, but too Well. Red as a Rose is She. Second Thoughts. Belinda. ' Doctor Cupid! By Mrs. ALEXANDER. The Wooing dt. Her Dearest Foe. Look before you Leap. The AdniiraVs Ward. The Executor. The Freres. Which shall it be ? By J. SHERIDAN LE FANU. Uncle Silas. Ln a Glass Darkly. The House by the Churchyard. By MARCUS CLARKE. For the Term of his Natural Life. By HAWLEY SMART. Breezie Laiigton. By HECTOR MALOT. No Relations. (With illustrations.) By ROSA N. CAREY. Nellies Memories. Barbara Heathcotes Trial. Not like other Gu'ls. Only the Governess. Queenie's Whim. Robert Ord's Atonement. Uncle Max. Wee Wife. Wooed and ATarried. By W. E. NORRIS. Thiriby Hall. A Bachelor's Blunder. Major and Minor. The Rogue. By Mrs. Annie EDWARDES. Leah: a Woman of Fashion. Ought We to Visit Her ? A Bail-Room Repentance. A Girton Girl. By Mrs. RIDDELL. George Geith of Fen Court. Susa?i Drummond. Berna Boyle. By the Hon. L. WINGFIELD= Lady Grizel. By HENRY ERROLL. An Ugly Duckling. Continued on Next Page. RICHARD BENTLEY & SON. NEW BURLINGTON ST., LONDON, i"lubU$her3 in ©rliinarB tc ^er #ajf5tjii the (i^uccn. BENTLEYS' FAVOURITE wmiS-^onHnned. Each Work can be had separately, price 6s., of all Booksellers IN Town or Country. By MARIE CORELLL A Romance of 2 wo Worlds. Vendetta ! Thelma. By F. MONTGOMERY. Misunderstood. Seaforth. Thrown Together. By E. WERNER. No Siir?-ender. Success : and how he won it. Under a Charm. Fickle Fortune. By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. The Three Clerks. By Mrs. NOTLEY. Olive Varcoe. By FRANCES M. PEARD. Near Neighbours. ANONYMOUS. The Last of the Cavaliers. By Lady G. FULLERTON. Fllen Middleton. Ladybird. Too Stra?ige not to be True. By JESSIE FOTHERGILL. The First Violin. Borderland. JLealey. Kith and Kin. Probation. By HELEN MATHERS. Com in' thro' the Rye. Sam's Sweetheart. By Mrs. PARR. Adam a?id Eve. Dorothy Fox. By Baroness TAUTPHCEUS. The Lnitials. Quits. By CHARLES READE. A Perilo2is Secret. By JANE AUSTEN. (Messrs. Bentleys' are the only complete Editions of INliss Austen's Works.) Emma. Lady Susan^ and., The Watsons. Ma?isfield Park. Northanger Abbey ^ and, Persuasio7i. Pride and Prejudice. Sense and Sensibility. 'QUEENIE'S WHIM,' by ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, and 'THE ROGUE,' by W. E. NORRIS, are just added to the Series. RICHARD BENTLEY cS: SON, NEW BURLINGTON ST., LONDON, 9^^ Pf cy^^^c^^ ^.Y^-r^k ie-.-c. ^ '^^.=w-/^/^ t^vi^^ 0^'LY THE GOVERNESS ONLY THE GOVERNESS ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY author of ' Nellie's memories,' 'not like other girls,' 'uncle max,' etc. SECOND EDITION LONDON RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON fJublishcrs in ©rbtttrtrji to- ^cr Jtjtjcstu the Quccii 1890 [A// rights reserved.^ 4415 CONTENTS, CHAPTF.Ti I. DOSSIE ..... II. 'THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT III. 'like the birds of the air' IV. IN THE editor's ROOM V, launcelot's protegees VI. 'DOSSIE VvTLL not FORGIVE ME VII. VOICES OF COMFORT . VIII. 'OH, MY LITTLE CHILD, MY LITTLE CHILD IX. RACHEL THORPE X. 'oxford blue, IF YOU PLEASE ' XI. THE GREEN DOOR IN THE WALL XII. MADELLA . . . , XIII. ' I AM jack's LITTLE GIRL ' . XIV. THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS XV. 'MY SONNE'S FAIRE WIFE ELIZABETI XVI. bee's SATURDAYS XVII. ' ONLY sybil's GOVERNESS ' . XVIII. A CINDERELLA DANCE XIX. 'but there is erica' XX. ' I DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS ' XXI. 'SHE IS NOT TREATING US WELL' XXII. ' I CAN HELP YOU, HULDAH ' XXIII. UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES XXIV. A MODERN BAYARD XXV. RACHEL'S SILENCE XXVI. 'NO, NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILD' XXVII. IN THE STUDIO XXVIII. 'JOAN, COME BACK' . XXIX. JOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS. XXX. LAUNCELOT FINDS FAULT WITH THE SALAD PAGE I 8 i6 25 34 44 54 62 71 80 88 96 105 114 123 132 142 152 161 169 180 188 198 207 217 225 233 244 254 263 t^'-iL^i-'^' VI CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXXI. 'THEN VOU ARE ENGAGED TO IIIM ?' XXXII. 'OSCAR IS A SAD BOY ' XXXIII. * BE A BKAVE LITTLE WOMAN ' XXXIV. *OH, YES; HE COMES EVERY SUNDAV XXXV. ' JOAN — REALLY— JOAN !' XXXVI. RACHEL'S NEMESIS XXXVII. 'WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HER?' XXXVIII. LAUNCELOT'S riCTURE XXXIX. ' HE IS IIEDLEY TO MR ' XL. PAULINE XLI. FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS XLII. 'THIS IS NOT MY LITTLE GIRL !" XLIII. BUILDING JACK's HOUSE XLIV. DOROTHEA . • ' . XLV. THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW XLVI. LAUNCELOT'S FIANCEE XLVII. JEMMY stokes' ERRAND XLVIII. LAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH PAGE 273 282 291 300 310 320 3=9 339 347 357 366 375 385 394 403 413 422 430 ONLY THE GOVERNESS CHAPTER I. DOSSIE. ' 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 httle bits of scenery, here and there a larger piece with the colours only half washed in, as though the brush had been flung away in despair ; groups of figures with no particular background, a gondola floating 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 smfle. He was amused, as middle-aged people often are when they come unex- pectedly 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, disappoint- ment, 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, I 2 ONLY THE GOVERNESS plaintive 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 lips seemed to demand the same question. Under it was written, ' 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 he restored the other sketches to the portfolio. It was a grey March afternoon, and the east wind, that abomina- tion to all right-minded Englishmen, was playing a dreary sym- phony on the bare tree-tops of the limes and acacias that grew in the small gardens of Wenvoe Road. Dossie hated the east wind ; she always regarded it as a personal enemy. It was part of her childish creed to share all her father's likes and dislikes, and her father had once said that the east wind always made him feel disagreeable and antagonistic to the whole world. He had gone out this very morning, with his coat buttoned up and shrugging his shoulders at the dismal prospect. ' What a detestable chmate !' he had muttered, as he watched the grey dust whirling down the white road. ' There, run in, Dossie, and tell Mrs. Slater that she must not let you go outside the door to- day ; and be a good girl, and you shall help me paint this even- ing ;' and Jack Weston waved his hand and set off in the direction of the station. ' Father always says that,' thought Dossie, as she closed the door and went back to the parlour and looked round the empty room a little wistfully. ' I wonder if I am a good girl after all?' Another long day to be spent all alone — for of course Mrs. Slater would be too busy to talk to her, and Nancy would be hard at work too. Nancy would be blackleading stoves, with rather a smutty face, or scrubbing floors, and IMrs. Slater, with floury elbows or hands whitened with hot soapsuds, would be kneading dough, or slam- ming oven doors, or wringing out mysterious long wisps that re- solved themselves into still more mysterious garments. It would be 'Go away, Miss Dossie dear, for the place ain't fit for you to stand upon,' from poor, overworked, good-humoured Nancy ; and ' Run away, dearie, do, for I have not a minute hardly DOSSIE 3 to draw a breath in,' from the equally tasked mistress of the house. There were other lodgers in No. 28, Wenvoe Road, besides Mr. Weston and his little daughter. Another artist occupied the drawing-room floor — a pallid young man with long hair and a seedy-brown velvet coat — who had lately become a social democrat, and spouted for the hour together at public meetings on the wrongs of the working classes. Jack Weston never held any intercourse with him ; he always wished him a very curt good-morning when they encountered each other on the stairs. He had a far more genial nod for the little grey-headed clerk on the upper floor, in spite of an execrable clarionet with which he tortured his neigh- bours into the small hours ; but then he always said Gregson was such a harmless, hard-working old fellow, and never gave his land- lady any trouble, blacking his own boots, and only coming home to tea, and never complaining 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 Jack, who had a soft heart. Dossie heaved a deep sigh as she looked round the empty room. It was a very pleasant room in summer-time when the folding doors were open, for the glass door led into a small garden, but just now it had a forlorn, untidy aspect. The breakfast things had not been cleared away from the round table — Mrs. Slater and Nancy were too busy at present ; the only cheerful window was blocked by her father's easel ; the couch and half the chairs were littered with papers, books, and a heterogeneous mass of odds and ends ; the fire, which had been ruthlessly poked by an im- patient hand, was now a bed of red cinders. Portfolios, palettes, colour-boxes, musical instruments, coats and rugs were on every available article of furniture. Brown sparrows were chirping and picking up the crumbs that had been lavishly strewn for them in spite of the green eyes of a small black kitten who watched them through the glass door ; actually one pert little fellow seemed to cock his head at her in a knowing way, as if he knew that she could not reach him. How was Dossie to get through her long solitary day? that was the question she was revolving with a puckered forehead and a very grave face, while the kitten patted the glass with soft velvety paws and the sparrows flew 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 lessons, as he had not heard the last, and she had finished the dusters Mrs. Slater had given her to hem, and of course she was much too busy to find her any more work. 4 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 materials, 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 pre- vious 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 produced 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 de- light- of composition. The scratchy pen never paused as Mrs. Slater cleared the breakfast things and made up the fire. ' Poor little soul !' she said to herself as she 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.' But, regardless of ink, smudges, erasures and an occasional difficulty in spelling some desirable word, Dossie worked on — quite oblivious of time — only pausing to stroke the kitten, which had crept into her lap and was purring contentedly in that warm receptacle. They ate their dinner together in gipsy 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 Nancy 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 httle face like a ray of sun- shine. ' If I take great pains with it, perhaps father will have it printed some day.' ' Of course he will, Miss Dossie,' 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 other people — her childhood had been spent in a workhouse, a place where the intellectual activities seldom attain rapid growth ; DOSSIE 5 neither was the position of maid-of-all work — m a house where lodgers are kept — a particularly fortunate one for the develop- ment of critical acumen, or the faculty of nice discrimination ; nevertheless Nancy's sympathy and honest faith were great sources of comfort to Dossie, who had no companions of her own age. Sometimes Dossie, staring wide awake into the darkness, would hear Nancy come up heavily to bed, and would beg her, in a plaintive voice, to sit with her a little. Nancy never refused, how- ever tired and sleepy she might be ; she would sit on the hard un- comfortable box, v/ith the tallow candle guttering in the tin candle- stick, while Dossie, propped against her nest of pillows, read aloud her composition in a voice trembling with eagerness. ' I call it beautiful, Miss Dossie,' Nancy would murnaur, with difficulty sup- pressing a yawn ; sometimes her head would nod drowsily with cold and fatigue, but she always persisted that she had heard every word. Dossie returned to her labours with increased alacrity when Nancy had carried away the luncheon-tray. Her hands were very inky, and she had a red spot on either cheek, and perhaps she felt a little cramped and sleepy, but what did all that matter ? But one of those interruptions which Hale describes as ' a breach, or break, caused by the abrupt intervention of something foreign,' was to happen to the small author, for at that moment a thin, dark young man, in a foreign-looking overcoat, lined with fur, was standing before the door of No. 28, Wenvoe Road, waiting with an air of philosophic patience until Nancy had pulled down her sleeves and tied on a clean apron. ' Yes, sir,' observed Nancy, dropping a little wooden curtsy ; 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 neighbours 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 parlour 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 Nancy, without wasting any more words, thrust her head into the parlour and observed, * Here is a gentle- man. Miss Dosie, asking to see your papa,' and then p"omptly vanished. *I beg your pardon for this intrusion,' began the young man quickly, and then he stopped in some confusion. 6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Where was the h'ttle girl ? There was a small demon in the shape of a black kitten washing its face very busily on the hearthrug, but no human being that he could see. 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 exclamation, for he had caught sight of a small head, covered with rough yellowish 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. ' I believe I was asleep,' re- marked Dossie with dignity, as she 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.' ' I 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 great friends. Do you know, I first saw your father when he was only a big schoolboy ; he was seventeen or eighteen, I forget which, but still quite a boy, and I was a little fellow about six or seven years younger.' One of Dossie's sudden smiles, that always took people by sur- prise, irradiated her small face as she heard this. ' Oh, did you really know father then ? How you could help me ! I never knew anyone before who could tell me what he was like as 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 instinct that he was to be trusted. ' To be sure I will help you,' was the quick reply ; ' may I 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 Dosie, was it ?' ' No, Dossie ; at least, father always calls me Dossie, but Nancy will always say 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 DOSSIE 7 stool to the hearthrug ; ' I ahvays 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 ; he was wonderfully young-looking for his age, which was in reality about two-and-thirty ; his face, without being exactly hand- some, 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 moustache, was beautifully formed and characteristic, and the grey eyes looked very kindly at Dossie. Children and animals never misunderstood Launcelot Chud- leigh, 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 Chudleigh's ro/e to be peculiar,' people would say. ' I be- lieve he does odd things to keep up. his character for singularity, or because he thinks it artistic.' 'I dare say, after all, his unselfish- ness is only a form of refined egotism, a subjective idealism,' finished one cranky old philosopher, 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 grey, 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 someone 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 whicn I am to help you ?' and as though the question had recalled her v/andering thoughts, the child ran to the window-seat and returned with her arms full of the copybooks. * Oh yes, you can help me,' she exclaimed breathlessly. ' Every now and then I have to stop because I do not know any more, and father is too lazy to tell me ; he is very lazy sometimes, and very often he only laughs and says ridiculous things, or scribbles nonsense on the nice clean page; you have no idea how naughty he is.' 8 ONLY THE GOVERNESS * But what is it^vhat are you writing ?' asked Launcelot in a kind, puzzled tone;S ' My dear child, how you must have steeped yourself in ink !' regarding the stained fingers rather pitifully. ' Yes, but Nancy has got some pumice-stone; it all comes out, so father does not mind, and I bought the ink myself. Now, then, I am going to tell you : I am writing father's life, because he is quite the best man in the world, and, of course, his life ought to be written.' CHAPTER IL 'this is the house that jack built.' * This is the man all tattered and torn who married the maiden all forlorn,' etc. — Nzirse/y Rhyme. Launcelot dared not reply to this astounding piece of informa- tion for fear he should burst out laughing, and by so doing offend mortally this whimsical little being, so he bit his lip hard to con- ceal a smile, and taking one of thxC copy-books out of Dossie's hand, he bent over it with an air of profound interest. 'Father's History' was written in large childish round-hand, but underneath in bold masculine handwriting was inscribed, ' The life of Jack Weston, by his daughter, being a full and vera- cious account of the man, his morals, and complete history up to date, drawn from an infantile point of view. Motto for same, " This is the house that Jack built." ' ' I am sure it must be very interesting, Tvliss Dossie,' observed Launcelot politely, but in rather a stifled voice ; he was growing very red in the face in the effort to conceal his risibility — this was the most amusing thing ever heard ; how delighted Madella would be to know it ! ' Should 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 to judge a little of the style, unless,' regarding the many blots dubiously, ' you were to read it to me yourself.' ' Oh yes,' assented Dossie joyously. * I think that would be much better. I always read it to father and Nancy ; but,' regard- ing him with a puzzled expression, ' how will you ever know which is mine and which is father's, for he has put such funny things ? If I were to stop and cough — ^just " hem," you know, that would mean I am going to read father's.' 'THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT* 9 * That will be a capital plan,' replied Launcelot, taking up the poker in desperation ; his shoulders were heaving, but of course the big coal baffled him. 'What a nice man he was,' thought Dossie, ' how delightful that he had known her father as a boy ; he would have plenty of interesting things to tell her presently ;' and then she cleared her throat and began. Launcelot glanced at her over one shoulder, but he thought it impolitic to relinquish the poker. ' " I am writing father's life because he is quite the best man in the world, and so beautiful. I know everyone 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 very 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 hurt anything.' 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 years ? Never mind, my Dossie; believe in your father with the beautiful faith of child- hood. * 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, sometimes in one place and sometimes in another. Now and then when we are very comfortable it makes me sorry when father says he has 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 joky 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 Nancy 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. He never will talk of the time when he was a boy ; iie always says he was much the same as other boys, only a great pickle. He is dreadfully lazy — the only thing lo ONLY THE GOVERNESS that seems to interest him is the part about mother," dear me, hem ! " N.B. — My poor pretty Pen ! Is it any wonder ? A man, unless he be an absolute brute, which I always maintain Jack Weston was not, is never 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 work-a-day world. My little Dossie takes after her there, I fear. What an unlucky beggar I 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 helpless 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 quarrelled 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 and 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, I 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 passed; but there was one young lady in grey, who walked last, who was the quietest and prettiest of them all. ' " Father called her for a long time ' his little Quaker friend,' because she was so demure-looking, and always wore such sober colours ; but when he came to look at her more closely, he said she reminded him of a little pale snowdrop, there was something so fresh and pure about 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 IMartin is so good and amiable, and we are delighted to have her with us on half-holidays.' " ' Here Dossie paused to cough, and Launcelot, who had long ago laid down the poker, stole another glance at her from under his hand. Even Dossie hardly knew the 'THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT' ii deep interest with which her silent auditor followed every word, especially the annotations. ' " How well I remember those dear old vicarage days ! Mrs. Moreland 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 afternoons we spent in the old garden, making belief to play with the children ! v/hat strolls in the dewy lanes to hunt for glow- worms ! what whispered conversations in the moonlight when I took Pen home ! 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 afterwards she was afraid to let herselt love me, because she did not believe in happiness coming to her. Her hfe had been hard, and perhaps she did not better it by marrying Jack Weston. *" Father- says the old schoolmistress 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 pictures, 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 flowers. Sometimes I would find the mantelpiece wreathed with bright-coloured leaves. She could 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 cannot 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. Wilhe was such a fair, darling baby, and mother doated 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 some- how she got weaker and weaker, until she was too tired to live any longer " — hem ! '"Right, my little Dossie ; she just faded away, poor Pen! And yet she was loath to leave me and the child. She was always 12 OXLY THE G0VERXE5S telling me how happy I had made her, and yet all the time I knew how the debts and worries had fretted her. There was never money for anything ; the pictures hung on hand. I believe in my heart that, after all, she 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 she 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 long with us." Thot is all I care to read,' finished Dossie candidly, ' 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. I 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 sigh. ' Of course you 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 colour 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 man- ner. ' I was dreadfully sorry when she died, but father gave her a grand funeral, and then he said I was getting too old for such babyish things. I should like to play with you very 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 making things shipshape. 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, Launcelot 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 labours 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 he was left alone ; ' but then all children interest me ; they are the very salt of the earth — but she is plain, 'THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT' 13 very plain. I am sure Madella would say so — she thinks so much of good looks — but she would be ver)- kind to her. ]\Iadella has the best heart in the world. Poor old Jack, he little knows I have been behind the scenes. I declare that account was ver}^ touch- ing. The little monkey has a good memory,' 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 recog- nise this handwriting, and whether you ever remember the exist- ence of a certain individual called Jack Weston ? ' Do you ever recall your old schooldays, 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, " ^\^ly is the fellow writinj^ 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, Chud- leigh. Hallam 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 you passed, and actually looked me in the face — cut your uncle, confound you ! " Ah, you mean Launcelot Chudleigh, I see,'"' I returned quietly ; " well, he is a sort of nephew of mine, at least my sister married his father, when he was a small boy, but I cannot answer for our relationship. We have not met for almost fourteen years, and my beard is a capital dis- guise." ' Well, do you know, I could not get you out of my head. I had the greatest wish to run after you and ask you to shake hands ; then I thought I would question Greene, and when I had pumped him sufficiently I made up my mind to write to vou. Voila tout. ' Now, if you 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 28, Wenvoe Road, Richmond. ' Yours truly, 'Jack Weston.' Launcelot 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 staircase. * Oh, father dear, how late you are ! has the east wind been ver}' bad ?' ' Pretty bad, my pet. At least I am as cross as possible. 14 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Well, what is it, Dcssie? You look as though you were going to eat me up.' ' Oh, father, such a surprise ! You have no idea what you will find in the parlour.' '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 entered the room. ' An apt quotation,' observed Launcelot, stepping forward in his alert way. * How do you do, Uncle Jack ?' ' Launcelot, 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 unwillingly to show emotion. *I am very much surprised; I hardly expected it. You are not so much changed, Launcelot — I should know you anywhere.' ' I cannot return the compliment,' was the reply, and Launcelot looked at him attentively. Dossie was right, he thought. Jack Weston was certainly a striking-looking man. He was powerfully made, only his broad shoulders had a slight stoop in them. He was very handsome, too, and the golden-brown beard gave him an air of dignity which the careless good-nature which was his normal expression hardly bore out. ' When a man is his worst enemy,' Launcelot said to himself (for Jack's annotations haH stamped themselves on his memory ; every now and then he would repeat a phrase with parrot-like glibness). Launcelot's vivacity and easy boyish manners often deceived people. They had no idea of the quiet penetration that underlay his buoyancy. He had an extraordinary power of reading character rightly. He seemed to grasp instinctively the salient points ; mannerisms, contradictions, minor difficulties never long baffled him. He always worked his way to the heart of the man. Now and then he made mistakes, and gave people credit for virtues they never possessed, but he never judged them at their worst. Launcelot's quick eyes had noticed several things during that first quarter of an hour, during which he and Jack exchanged common-places. Nancy was laying the tea-table, and Dossie was 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 dulness in trade. Launcelot found plenty to say on all these subjects, for he was a ready talker 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. 'THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT' 15 Item number one : Why was Jack's coat so shabby ? Launcelot objected on principle to a shabby coat. There must be ' some- thing rotten 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 ? 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 colour; they were such complete strangers to each other, that Launcelot, while he had anticipated a hearty wel- come, was hardly prepared 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 expressed it. Launcelot spoke of his studio which he had built at the Witchens ; ' Oh, oh, you still live at the Witchens ?' 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. IMy sister Delia,' speaking with some slight embarrassment ; ' so you keep to your old childish name for your stepmother?' ' Yes, it just suits her; do you remember how my father wanted me to call her mother or mamma, and I refused, because I said Jack always called 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 large and curious, 'Are your pictures successful?' and Launce- lot 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 powerful 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 Launcelot noticed how he patted ifc 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. i6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 him her hand very gravely. ' Good night. Miss Dossie, I hope we shall see a great deal of each other in future,' and Dossie's sad little face brightened at the kind v.-ords, 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 unbroken between the two men. CHAPTER III. 'like the birds of the air.' 'Nothing is ever lost, while much is always gained, by attending to the good of a thing before its evil.' — Grindon. ' There may be epics in men's brains, just as there are oaks in acorns, but, the tree and 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 meaning, with mysterious possibilities. An uneasy conviction that the man he had summoned to his help, out of sheer longing for human sympathy, might perchance sit in judg- ment upon him, made him almost repent of his hasty impulse. Why had he invoked these ghosts of his dead youth ? \\hy 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 his 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 I 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 my life ; many men have done the same. I am not the only reprobate in the world,' finished Jack with a dismal smile. 'LIKE THE BIRDS OF THE AIR' 17 * 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 feel about things, but I have always found too much difficulty in keeping myself in order to meddle about other folks' business. JSlo 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 confesses at the same time that he has not a single friend, I am inclined to think that there must be more than foolish- ness at the bottom.' ' Of course I have laid myself open to this,' was Jack's gloomy answer, and his good-natured face grew heavy and forbidding. ' I was a fool after all to send for you.' ' My dear fellow, a hundred times no ! There was method in your madness then. Now hsten. 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. I 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 have,' burst out Jack, with a sort of break in his voice ; ' she was a heroine in her little way. If things were hard she never com- plained. She was a bit of a Puritan, was Pen, but somehow I liked it in her ; her religion made her happy. When I came home discouraged and sore-hearted, 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 little Pen ! it was the boys' death broke her down : she was never the same woman after that.' ' I v;onder ' 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 me 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 i8 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 have 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 dubious 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 rather 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 Vv^as a disciplinarian, and liked to rule his own household.' Jack smiled grimly. ' Of course, I cannot expect you to side with me against your own father, but you were a kind little cham- pion 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 I 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 heeding this. ' I believe if I 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 my father,' returned Launcelot. 'I remember, as though it were yesterday, his coming into the morning-room when I was reading " Dombey and Son " to Madella. " I have had a letter from Walter Moreland, an old schoolfellow of mine," he began ; " do you know what that fool of a brother of yours has done now ? He has actually married without a penny in his pocket — a beggarly little governess too. Now, Delia, listen to me, I wash my hands of that boy for ever. He is utterly incorrigible and irreclaimable. Not one farthing of my money shall he touch from this day forth;" and, though Madella cried and begged him to let her write to you once, he v^ould not give way.' 'LIKE THE BIRDS OF THE AIR' 19 ' And yet you say he was not hard ?' ' No, I think he had a right to be displeased. No man has a right to marry and bring children into the world unless he can see his way clearly to make provision for them. You could not expect my father to support your family.' ' I never asked him for a penny or Delia either,' 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 wrong things, that I have not tried to do better. Pen knows how hard I worked ; she never blamed me for idleness. Of course we were foolish to marry so young. Pen was a mere child, and I was headstrong and inexperienced. Well, we have " dree'd our weird," and seen evil days, but I am not sure if it all came over again that I should not do exactly the same thing. Pen and I were happy in spite of it all ; we were too fond of each other to be miserable. She always believed in my cleverness. Why, bless you, if anyone 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,' finished 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 becom- ing 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 aggravating. 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. I 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 I will help myself to a cigarette to keep you company. You will think I am a queer sort of fellow,' he continued, ' but I have a horror of such stimulants. I have no objection to good claret or hock or any of those light 20 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 neces- sity to me now. Why, my dear fellow,' rather irritably, ' how do you suppose I should get through the long evenings, when Dossie is in bed and I have only my thoughts to keep me company, if I did not banish the ghosts somehow ? I hope I do not often take too much,' finished Jack humbly. * I don't wish to disgrace myself, for Dossie's sake, but one must get rid of the blue devils.' ' You will never get rid of them in that way. Why not content 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 straitlaced 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 masters 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 cannot drown trouble of mind in one glass. Are you sure you keep an exact account ? Do you always measure accurately ? Does not appe- tite 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 ? Excuse 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 grey hairs in my head.' 'LIKE THE BIRDS OF THE AIR* 2i ' 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 Hve ? 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 unsaid. 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 Launcelot, 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, at eighteen I had an ambition that landed me at the footstool of that Prince of Titans, Michael Angel o. 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 reverence and admiration ; they are my masters, my teachers, and I dabble with a few colours, like a child, at their feet, make a study or two, and call myself an artist.' Jack suddenly burst out laughing. ' Do you remember your picture of Satan, and how one of the servants nearly went into a fit when she came upon it suddenly, and nurse scolded her for being such a gaby ? " It is nothing but an ugly-faced sweep, you silly girl," she said, "and Mr. Launcelot ought to be ashamed to waste his time and good paints over such a patchy concern." Poor Launcelot, I can see your face now.' Ixiuncelot smiled grimly. ' I am afraid I felt pretty bad, and 22 ONLY THE GOVERNESS that you were crowing over my discomfiture. Fancy my terribly beautiful Lucifer turned into a sweep! Ah, one's dreams die hard. I remember I would not touch my brush for a month after nurse's unlucky remark.' ' What a droll fellow you were, Launcelot !' and thereupon fol- lowed one reminiscence after another ; boyish adventures which generally ended disastrously for Jack, scrapes out of which Launcelot had helped 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 Launcelot 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 after- wards I was really quite glad that she had said No. I told her so afterwards, 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 afterwards, we became quite good friends, and when she married I v;as her husband's best man.' ' Pshaw ! you could not have cared for the girl a bit.' ' I don't knovv\ 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. I nearly proposed to another, only I heard her scolding her maid for dropping 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 Irishwoman I had heard in Whitechapel — it was the tone. So much depends on tlie tone,' finished Launcelot sententiously. ' Still, a fellow like you, with plenty of money and no encum- brance, 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.' ' Yes, but you were such a good-looking beggar ; and a woman like your Pen never crossed my path ; some of the girls made *LIKE THE BIRDS OF THE AIR' 23 love to me, and I did not like that, and if my fancy turned on one in particular, she was sure to be engaged ; in fact, like Dick Swiveller of immortal memory, I never loved a dear gazelle, but she was sure to marry the market gardener ;' and with these words he rose. ' Oh, you are not going ?' exclaimed Jack blankly. ' And you have not told me a word about the kids ?' but Launcelot did not resume his seat ; he took out his watch and looked at it, and then stood on the rug v/arming 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, Beatrix 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 encumbrances — I like that, when I have a family of girls and boys to look 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 ?' interrogatively. ' 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 perhaps debts and duns in the back- ground. It takes a great many glasses to drown that sort of thing. No, no, we must put a stop to this. Poor little Dossie, he doats on her ; but she is terribly neglected. What would Madella 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 Madella to take Dossie ! Why, she would be a nice com- panion to Sybil. Miss Rossiter 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 hand- some for a governess ; she will not allow she is so very handsome. 24 ONLY THE GOVERNESS AVell, I wish I had them all safely back. It is rather slow at pre- sent 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 parlour 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 lit 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 e:yes laugh so, and he looks so happy, much haj^pier than other people.' ' Oh, he was always like that. Yes, he is a good fellow. I am glad to have seen him again ; and now, Dossie, you must go to sleep. Have you prayed for poor father ?' ' Oh yes ; I never miss a good long prayer for you, and a short one for mother and Johnnie and Willie — just God bless them, that they may not feel forgotten or neglected ; there is no harm in that, father.' ' No harm at all, darling. Pen, even in Paradise, would be all the happier to know her little girl blessed her every night ; let no one persuade you that it can be wrong. I have not taught you much, Dossie. I was never as good as your dear mother, but as long as you say your prayers and read the Bible she left you, you can't do amiss.' ' Yes, father dear, I know you often tell me so. Do you read your Bible too ?' ' 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 he and Dossie went to church together he would be thinking of a hundred other things besides the sermon ; he only went for the child's sake, and to help her find her places in the big Prayer-book. *What is the good of it all?' he would say to himself ; ' I have never been sure of anything since Pen died. 'LIKE THE BIRDS OF THE AIR 25 I never had much rehgion, and the little I possessed is buried with her. " We shall meet again, Jack. I could not die happily and not believe that ;" that was what she said, the darling, but how is one to know that ?' 'Go to sleep, Dossie,' he continued, unwilhng to carry on the conversation, and the child lay down obediently and let him cover her up. The touch of the little cold hands rather haunted Jack when he got back to his own room. ' She wants her mother, poor Kttle thing ; Pen would never have let her go to bed cold ; she is delicate and excitable, and her circulation is slow. I must take her for a walk to-morrow when I have finished my work,' and with this resolution he fell asleep. CHAPTER IV. IN THE editor's ROOTJ. * As we become more truly human, the world becomes to us more truly divine.' — Dr. JMoore. ' To be a physiognomist, in regard either to the face of nature or the face of man, needs accordingly, first that we be great-souled, else we cannot possibly compass the greatness of that we contemplate. No bad, conceited, or affected man can ever be a physiognomist.'— 6^nW^«. 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 lamblike 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 secret grudge against the weather. A few of them looked enviously at the trim alci t figure in the foreign overcoat. Launcelot walked on contentedly, he was quite impervious to the cold ; the inward glow of a benevolent purpose was keeping him warm, his pace was always rapid, and few men could have kept up with him ; and as he walked, his quick bird-like glances seemed to scan face after face, half curiously, half sympathetically. The study of human nature was a passion with Launcelot, a crowd delighted him ; the city with its 26 ONLY THE GOVERNESS surging masses, its business-like proclivities, its never-ceasing pro- cession 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 interests were laid up. Launcelot had no hermit-like qualities ; in spite of many inward resources, he would have been miserable in any fertilised solitude. Waller's hues v/ould have been exactly true of him : ' Hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men 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 favourite speech of his, that so few men knew how to live, they 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 litde what they do with themselves ; and yet we shall never be young again, and time is passing 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 v/ith ' Imperial Re- view Office ' written on the door, walked into the office, and asked a grey-haired clerk if Mr. Thorpe were disengaged, and on receiv- ing an answer in the affirmative, 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 vvindov/ looked up at him and nodded. ' How do you do, Chudleigh ? punctual to a minute, I sec. If you will allow me, I will just finish this letter, and then it will be off my mind. There is to-day's copy of the " Imperial," if you will amuse 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 travelled round the room, with its business-like litter, the big editor's table, covered with letters, documents, papers, magazines ; then his attention wan- dered 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 IN THE EDITOR'S ROOM 27 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 are hundreds of faces of which one could say this, quiet, self-contained, unattractive faces that some- how fail to elicit any attention. The forehead was good and showed intellectual power, but the eyes were rather a cold grey. The lower part of the face was somewhat long and narrow, 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 judgments, and at no time so brimming over with the milk of human kindness as the man who occupied his arm-chair — in fact, they were complete contrasts ; for Mr. Thorpe loved silence and was fonder of solitude than of most men's company. Launcelot watched him lazily as he dashed off his letter, put it into its envelope and then rang the bell and desired the messenger to take it at once to its destination, and then crossed the room and took a chair beside Launcelot. As he stood erect for a moment, one could see that he was not tall, but his figure was good. He was extremely thin, but though pale and somewhat worn, there was no look of ill-health about him ; his voice was low-pitched for a man, but very distinct, and he pronounced 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 disagree- able weather — biting as January ; I expect we shall have a down- fall 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 Launcelot : ' 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 Neale ? — it used to be Crosbie and Neale, of Blackfriars, but the firm failed and they have dissolved partnership. It is young Neale I mean, Alfred — he is going to cut the whole con- cern ; 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 offered him. The owner, a friend of his, wants to get rid of it — has made his fortune, I beheve. 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 sort of partner. Alfred is not a bad fellow ; he never liked office work and he was 28 ONLY THE GOVERNESS always crazy for colonial life, but he is steady as men go— only sociable in his nature. He says if it would not be a risky sort of thing and that no girl would put up with the life, that he should like to take a wife out with him ; but of course he would not have the face to propose such a thing to any young lady ; so he wants a pleasant companionable fellow who will be useful and pay his share.' ' Yes, I see,' replied Launcelot 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. I have known several men who went there and back for a mere pleasure- trip. Times have changed in this respect, Chudleigh.' ' A-h, but there is a child in the case, that makes all the differ- ence. Bachelors like you and me, Thorpe, cannot enter into a father's feelings ;' but here he stopped, for a shadow crossed Mr. Thorpe's face — a shadov/ so marked that Launcelot could not but be struck with it. ' Go on, Chudleigh,' observed the other somewhat impatiently, as though vexed at Launcelot's inquiring look ; ' there is a child in the case, you say?' ' Yes, a litde girl ; this adds to the difficulty, and he doats on her, poor fellow. I think your friend would like Weston, he is good-natured 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. ' He is weak and careless, and since his wife 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 he is getting sick of his brushes and palettes. He is a big, broad-chested fellow, with a fist that could fell an ox. He would make a splendid navvy.' ' We must see what Neale says ; the two men ought to meet and discuss matters. There is no time to lose ; Neale wants to be off next month.' ' All 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 grey eyes on Launcelot's face with rather IN THE EDITOR'S ROOM 29 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 fellow, 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 ex- travagant, 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 bear the ouday.' * Humph, I rather doubt the wisdom of this sort of family arrangement,' returned Mr. Thorpe, with a sarcastic smile. ' Sup- posing you were to marry, Chudleigh, and wanted to bring your wife to the Witchens, 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, and — 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 on his friend's face. But before he could finish his sentence Mr. Thorpe interrupted him. 'Wait a moment, Chudleigh, please, I want to say something. I let an 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 un- pleasant 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 30 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 out- ward coldness and much difference of opinion, Ivan Thorpe loved him like a brother. And now he had kept his m.arried life a secret from his friend ! No wonder Launcelot, who was frank and open as the day, felt himself a little aggrieved. ' I always meant to tell you,' went on Mr. Thorpe, speaking in the same slow, precise way. ' I always told Rachel that I wished you to know, but somehow one defers an unpleasant communica- tion even to our closest friend. My wife has left me.' ' Indeed !' returned Launcelot, still more shocked, but hardly knowing 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 un- happy, very undisciplined, and she w^anted to go away. I let her go ; there was not much comfort in the house while she stayed, she and Rachel did not get on together. She was young and our w^ays 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 indignantl)'. 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 w^as 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 Hke 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 sometimes ; at least, I think so, but I am not sure. Nothing IN THE EDITOR'S ROOM 31 makes an impression 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 married 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 cannot have any heart when she leaves a good husband. 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.' Launcelot had no pressing engagement, 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 seem 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. ' I. 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 prime favourite with Rachel, and she is hard to please, like the rest of her sex ; you cannot come too often, but remember, this is to be a sealed subject between us.' ' Do you mean we must not speak of it again even between ourselves ?' 'That is my meaning certainl}^ I cannot 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 jMrs. Thorpe, I pity her !' Strange that in the first instance his sym- pathy should be with the woman w^hb had plainly deserted her path of duty instead of resting with the deserted husband; but Launcelot was a creature of impulse, 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 32 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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; but 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 indeed ; 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. Halloa !' pulling himself up abruptly at this point, and stopping in the middle of the crowded pavement, to the con- fusion of the busy passers-by, 'what is the matter, my little man ?' to a ragged urchin who was crying bitterly, and gazing dis- tractedly into the road ; and as the boy did not seem to hear his question 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 nothing, 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 I 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 look- ing, and yet there was an air of innocent childhood about him that one rarely sees in the precocious city Arab. ' Please, sir, we ain't lived anywheres since father was took to the hospital. We was sold up, and we only sleeps at places so IN THE EDITOR'S ROOM 33 much a night or in the casual. Mother is there, under the arch with Sue and baby, Mother sells flowers, but she has got her basket still full cos it is going 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 someone pushed you ;' but as soon as Launcelot saw the woman's face he did not fear a torrent of vituperation. She was a weak, miserable-looking creature, still quite young. She was evidently too much engrossed in trying to feed her sickly baby with a dry crust which she had obtained somehow, and had divided 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 brother to see. ' I've dot some bread, Tim ; come and have a bite,' she said, pushing it towards him. ' Your little boy has had a misfortune,' began Launcelot, with the courtesy he always show^ed to the poorest vagrant — manners cost nothing, and go a long w\ay, he used to say ; ' some careless person knocked against him and upset his matches in the road.' But as the poor creature looked up from her fruitless endeavour to push the crust into her baby's mouth, for the child only spluttered and refused the hard, distasteful 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 starving,' 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 fire. ' 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 motherhood has not died out of her heart,' he said inwardly, and then aloud, ' Let the children have some cake w^heri they have finished the bread 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, walking on about a hundred yards^, 34 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 he stopped before a dingy-looking house, on the inner door of which was written : ' Charitable Association for the Employment of Women and Children.' 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 ladylike woman who was writing at a large square table. ' Mr. Chudleigh !' with a slight accent of surprise in her voice. * Yes, Miss Thorpe. Please excuse my abrupt entrance, but I have a family round the corner for whom I wish to bespeak your kindness.' CHAPTER V. LAUNCELOTS PROTEGEES. ' The quality of mercy is not strained — It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.' S/ia/:es/caj-e. 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, especially 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 crestfallen manner, for he 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 minutes, 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. LA UNCELOVS PROTEGEES. 35 wasted no more words, but applied himself to the task of replenish- ing 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 attracted a great deal of attention, from people who were not afraid of a strong-minded woman, and though not a general favourite 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 ex- ample, the broad benevolent forehead and pleasant gray eyes were somewhat neutralised 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 on excellent terms with each other. He had a great respect and admiration for her ; but he thought less of her as 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, and 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 mis- fortune to offend her ; in fact, as Launcelot once said in his dry way, ' Miss Thorpe is a philanthropist, but she is hardly charit- able ;' and though he was never likely to incur her severe judg- ment on his own account, he often wished for greater toleration to be shown to less favoured mortals. Miss Thorpe's master passion was affection for her brother. He was her only remaining relative, and they had never been separated. The difference in their ages lent something of maternal solicitude to her love. He had been a delicate boy, and for some years her charge had been an anxious one, but as he regained his health and ceased to be dependent on her for comfort, he never forgot how much he owed his present well-being to her unwearied care and nursing ; and as he grew to manhood, her influence over him increased instead of lessened, and he seldom acted against her advice, except in the case of his unfortunate marriage. They were both undemonstrative, deep-thinking people, and :^ — 2 3G ONLY THE GOVERNESS seldom made any protestation of affection ; but a profound sympathy united the brother and sister, and though their work in -life differed, they thought alike on most points. Launcelot was quite aware that Miss Thorpe regarded him with peculiar favour as her brother's friend, and, in spite of a tendency to feminine jealousy, she would allow him to monopolise Ivan's company to any extent. She owed him too deep a debt of grati- tude 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 Chud- leigh, for the first time, on the Engadine, and, as it often happens with travelling 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 accident 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 par- ticular Alpine plant which she was anxious to add to her collec- tion, and which grew in this part, when a slight sound behind them attracted his attention, and the next moment he had sprung to his feet with a low exclamation 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 and arms had disap- peared 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 edge of the ravine, that might any moment be dislodged and uprooted by the sheer weight of his body. Even at this moment of supreme and deadly peril, Launcelot noticed two things, on which he afterwards 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 was restrained 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 face close to the ground, moving warily towards the edge of the chasm, till his arm gripped Ivan's body, then he cautiously wound his other arm round the splintered rock. LA UNCELOTS PROTEGEES 37 * I think it will last our time,' he muttered ; * now, Thorpe, loose one hand and hold me round the neck. Now then, let go.' An instant's terrific strain on Launcelot's part, an agonised effort on Ivan's, and the two men were in safety; and when Miss Thorpe, who had flung herself on her knees, dared to look up, she saw her brother lying senseless on the ground, and Launcelot beside him, panting and voiceless, with a curious gray look on his face, too much spent to do anything but to make a sign that she should find the flask of brandy that he always carried about him. When 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 without your help ; your nerve was splendid. If you had not kept so still no human power could have prevented you from being dashed to pieces ; it was real pluck, and no mistake, that made you hold on and do as you were told. Miss 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. ' Nevertheless, 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 hidden depths of this man's nature had been stirred, and that henceforth he would ever regard himself as his debtor ; but the next moment he said with a change of tone : ' By heavens ! you are hurt, Chudleigh ; you Vv'ince 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 this arrangement. Launcelot walked on steadily, and every now and then he said a word or two, but the brother and sister scarcely ansv/ered, they only exchanged looks of wonderment. What pluck, what endur- 3S ONLY THE GOVERNESS ance ! 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,' she 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, but just then Launcelot turned back and made some trifling observation, and there was no more said between the brother and sister. Launcelot had a very bad time for a fortnight after this — the dislocated shoulder was a trifle compared to his sprains ; but he bore his pain as cheerily as he could, and the 1 horpes nursed him with unremitting attention and devotion. Rachel grew very fond of him ; he was an excellent patient, and seldom argued about his treatment. He made love to her, as he did to all women, only in an innocent, brotherly manner that quite fascinated her, and she soon treated him as she treated Ivan. A strong friend- ship between this singular trio was speedily cemented in Launce- lot's sick-room, and in spite of the Thorpes' reserve and un- demonstrative manner, Launcelot knew that they would be his friends for life. He still preferred Ivan to his sister, but that was because his peculiar taste led him to prefer softer women. Ivan's culture and intellectual cast of mind, his varied knowledge and quiet sense of power, made him a delightful companion to Launce- lot ; he soon found out he was sympathetic as well as dependable, and it was not until their interview in the editor's room that Launcelot 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. Launcelot's eyes rested furtively on Miss Thorpe's face as she finished her report ; the words that Mr. Thorpe had just uttered were stiU sounding in his ears — 'she was young and poor, and very beautiful, and — and undisciplined.' ' Poor thing, what chance would she have against this calm, law- loving, reasonable woman?' thought Launcelot, with a growing pity for the misguided and feckless young creature who had for- feited her own rights. LAUNCELOTS PROTEGEES 39 * She and Rachel could not get on,' i\Ir. Thorpe had added, in a weary tone, that spoke of bitter and hopeless conflicts. ' Of course 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 de- spotic 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 restless 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, Mr. Chudleigh, as you have been good enough to consult me, I suppose you will leave things in my hands.' * Cela va 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-humoured response, and Launcelot needed no second bid- ding. The snow was beginning to fall as he hastened down the street, and made him rejoice that the poor creatures had been fed and warmed. In a few minutes he had marshalled them safely into Miss Thorpe's presence, and was listening with much interest to her quiet, skilful questions. The woman seemed willing enough to answer ; her husband was a costermonger, she said, and sold all sorts of green stuff. She could not deny that he drank sometimes, though he was not a bad husband when he was sober ; but they had done poorly for a long time, and things had been going from bad to worse when the accident happened. On being cross-examined she at once admitted that certainly Bob had had a drop too much that day ; he was put out at having to part with 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. 40 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Would 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 get 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 hospital.' And then, on touching a hand-bell beside her, a stout, middle-aged woman, with a face very much scarred with the small-pox, 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 imperence,' observed his mother w4th a rough shove, a form of argument 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 waif and stray like this woman.' ' You don't say so !' * I met her in Hungerford Market. She was starving, desperate ; all her children were dead, and she meant to drown herself that night, I took her hand — I had no Refuge then, and this society was not organised. I was in fear and trembling what Ivan would say, but he did not say much. Betty was grateful, and to be LAUNCELOTS PROTEGEES 41 trusted, and we have not parted since ; but, as you remark, she is not handsome,' finished Miss Thorpe, with quiet sarcasm. * You are a good woman,' was the reply. ' Thank you for tell- ing me this ; I like to hear such things, it gives -me a pleasant feeling. Now I must go to poor Weston. Good-bye, Miss Thorpe, and thank you, you have been a real help to me.' 'She t's a good woman,' he repeated, as he again faced the driving snow ; ' but what a contrast to Madella ! Madella would have had that dirty-faced baby in her arms ; she cannot look at a baby without kissing it. Miss Thorpe is not a demonstrative woman ; now I come to think of it, I do not believe she ever kissed her own brother; at least, I have never seen her do it. Some brothers and sisters are like that; it depends on their bring- ing up.' Launcelot had nearly reached Richmond before, a certain craving and void reminded him he had not dined, and that, in fact, dinner was an unattainable luxury for this night, unless he left his charitable mission unfulfilled. He had a fine healthy appetite, and though he was by no means dainty or fastidious, he was a little particular about his food, and never could be brought to understand why a man should not enjoy the good things of this life. 'There is a lot about eating and drinking in the Bible,' he once observed 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 was a savoury dish when a man was spent with fatigue and hunger. And then there was the land flowing with milk and honey ; well, I suppose people were to enjoy plenty of good things there.' And when an admirable example of abstinence 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 medissval saints at all. Bee ; why, would you believe it,' addressing the company at large, ' that actually some outlandish bishop or other, who was afterwards canonised, was not aware that he had finished his poached eggs, but went on calmly sopping his bread in the water they had been boiled in? and Bee actually admires this ridiculous absence of mind !' ' Ah, but he is not telling the story in an interesting way ; it was St. Francis de Sales — and ' but here Launcelot pushed his chair away with a derisive laugh, and refused to hear any more. And now he remembered he had lunched early on a sandwich 42 ONLY THE GOVERNESS and glass of claret, intending to dine at his club that night ; he 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 hunger increased, he was not sure about the cutlets ; a slice off the joint, a sirloin of beef, for example, would be more satisfying, and then all at once he recalled the little group in the coffee-tavern, the way the famished children had almost torn at the bread and butter. ' Me drefful hungry,' the girl 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 this scene, ' what a terrible feeling it must be to be really hungry ! It would be a good discipline to miss a meal now and then, just to have a taste of what these poor creatures suffer day after day,' and Launcelot shook himself, for he was powdered with snowflakes, and knocked at 28, Wenvoe Road. ' Now for a cup of weak sloppy tea, and a crust of bread and butter to still the craving within,' he said to himself, dismissing imaginary flavours with a great effort. ' Am I interrupting you ?' he asked, putting his head into the room after a preliminary tap. Dossie, who was just then balancing a large Britannia metal teapot 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, Launcelot, try some of this pie ; it is not so bad. Mrs. Slater makes famous pies, 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 piquante, 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 cannot eat to-night,' returned Dossie anxiously ; ' his head aches, and he cannot 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 enter- tain his guest. Dossie seemed uneasy about him, for she watched him with a LA UNCELOTS PROTEGEES 43 grave womanish expression on her pale little face. * This is nice hot tea, father, it will do your head good,' she said, carrying the cup round to him. ' Shall I 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 I 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, Launcelot went out of the room and returned immediately 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 — really for me ?' she exclaimed incredulously. ' Father 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 centre. Dossie was absolutely speechless as she regarded the treasure. Launcelot put the little key in her hand and made her open it, and there displayed the numerous wonders — ivory pen and pencil- case, paper-knife and store of dainty paper and envelopes, a blot- ting-book, inkstand, and lovely gold scissors. ' Father, oh father !' was all she could reiterate, but Jack, though he was moved by the sight of his child's pleasure, shook his head in a disapproving manner. ' This is wrong of you, Launcelot,' he said gravely ; ' it is far too handsome and costly for a baby. Why, it is real russia- leather.' ' Tut — nonsense ! I wanted Dossie to have something really nice. I never give cheap presents to young ladies ' but Dossie interrupted him. ' I shall keep it all my life — it is the very, very thing I wanted ; a real writing-case of my own,' and then she went close to Launcc* 44 ONLY THE GOVERNESS lot, and put up her face beseechingly. ' Ob, I want to kiss you,' she said, ' I do want to kiss you so,' and as Launcelot bent over her, smiling at her childlike simplicity, she put her arms round his neck. ' I think you are the nicest man next to father that I have ever seen,' finished Dossie, as she carried out 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 cannot always be children !' observed Launcelot, 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 m the same quiet matter-of-fact manner, ' What's up to-night. Jack ? you look quenched somehow, as though something had 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 endorse that sentiment.' ' 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 continued 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 uncon- sciously to the old boyish name. ' Don't mix yourself up in my affairs. I am not fit company for a fellow who has kept himself 'DOSSIE WILL NOT FORGIVE ME' 45 straight all his life. I am a black sheep, and all the washing will not make me white. I have made a mess of my life, as I told you, and now things have come to such a pass that I may as well fling up the game.' ' Humph,' thoughtfully ; ' I never could see how that is to be done. So your pictures won't sell, eh ?' ' No, the dealer says he has had enough, and that the last lot hang on hand. I think I told you that before. I have been to ever so many men, and they all say the same — that my pictures are not what they used to be. What am I to do ?' finished Jack in a tragic voice, that was nevertheless very pathetic. 'I have broken into my last sovereign, 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 cannot go decendy out of the world and leave his child to starve or go to a workhouse — no, no, that would be very un-English and ungentlemanly.' 'Ah, confound it all!' returned poor sore hearted Jack, * can't you answer a fellow seriously when he — he is broken-hearted ?' and here something like a sob or an oath, or a mingling of both, rose to his lips ; ' fancy Pen's little girl in a workhouse !' ' Chut, man, a mere figure of speech. Now let 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 a 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 anyone not a child would have known something in the shape of capital is required for that sort of thing. There is the voyage and the outfit, not to mention the buying of sheep, and a few other items.' ' Oh, I 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 46 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 in three or four years,' he 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 one 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 difticulty.' ' You are right there ; it will be a turning-point in your hfe. I mean you to go, but you must leave Dossie behind.' Jack almost sprang from his chair. ' Leave Dossie, never !' he said in a voice so loud and angry, that it would have daunted any other man ; but Launcelot merely looked at him and went on : ' You have not heard me to the end — in fact, you do not com- prehend the situation. Of course you must leave Dossie in England. Your case will not be worse than many Indian officers, who have to part with their children. During the few years you are out there you will be working and making a home for her. By the time she is old enough to be your housekeeper, you will come back with money in your pocket to enjoy your hard-earned rest' ' But — but the child ?' staring at him. ' Would you have me go away and break Dossie's heart ?' ' Children's hearts do not break so easily,' returned Launcelot calmly. ' Don't glare at me as though you thought me a brute, for I 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.' 'DOSSIE WILL NOT FORGIVE ME' 47 * Delia ? What has my sister to do \Yith it ?' * Why, Dossie will go to the Witchens, of course,' was the ready answer. ' It will be her home until you have one ready for her. Don't trouble yourself about Madella; she does whatever I tell her. Do you think she would not be kind to your motherless child? Why, the thing will work admirably all round,' he con- tinued 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 Rossiter 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 cannot be done. I must find work in England. Dossie has never been away from me, and Pen — Pen said 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 Dossie's sake.' His words seemed to arrest Jack's attention ; his restless 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 trying to 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 to be— would be satisfied with the life your child leads ? How are you to help it if you keep her with you ? You must work, and — pardon me — Dossie must be neglected. She has no one to teach her. She is growing up precocious and imaginative for want of womanly training ; and how are you to give her a good education ? Do you think her mother would not 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, 48 Oy^LY THE GOVERNESS 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 face, though he only flung himself petulantly into his arm-chair when Launcelot had finished. ' I cannot 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 ?' 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 demand the sacrifice of another evening. Launcelot had his friend's interest too much at heart to take heed of such things. But Jack recollected 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.' x\nd then he accompanied his guest to the door. Launcelot looked back at him as he went down the steps. He was standing on the threshold, staring out at the whirl- ing snow, unconscious that the soft white particles were powdering his brown beard. What 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.' ' 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 overcome by the repeated assaults of the enemy ; and though 'DOSSIE WILL NOT FORGIVE ME' <9 Jack was a 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 greater sinner ; of one who had drunk deeply of the dregs of sin ; and may we not with trembling hope believe of many a poor prodigal, that omniscient Love sees the good that lies between the strata of evil ; the poor feeble striving, so quickly choked, for a better life ; the half- paralysed efforts — the dumb cry for another chance, for help, for deliverance ? Alas for us ! for ' The first shall be last and the last first ' was certainly spoken by One who knew the hearts of men. Launcelot was very busy all the next day. He 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-End, especially at the beginning 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. Chudleigh, Villa Campanini, Mentone, but from the first page to the last he made no mention of Jack Weston. The other letter was much shorter, but seemed to cost him a great deal of thought, for he frowned over it with a dissatisfied air. ' I think I have laid it on pretty well,' he said to himself, as he wrote the address — ' Bernard Chudleigh, Magdalen College, Oxford,' but the next moment his face relaxed — ' Poor old Bear — we were all young once,' and he slipped a cheque into the envelope 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 tele- gram, 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 rJways enjoyed these little gatherings, and he liked to flirt in a 4 50 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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/ observed 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 hothouse 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 w^ill haunt me.' ' A girl's face will haunt one sometimes,' returned Mr. Ferguson lightly ; but there w^as a certain meaning in his tone, for the girl coloured 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 to enliven my studio with that choice bit of colour,' with an approving glance at the mantle. ' One of these days I want you to sit to me for Eleanor in the scene with Fair Rosamond.' Launcelot listened to this little conversation with inward amuse- ment. 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 collec- tion 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 Cheyne Walk, and Launcelot walked briskly to the station, and soon found himself en route for Rich- mond. 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 DOSSIE WILL NOT FORGIVE ME 51 was sure of it,' was Launcelot's internal 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 her visitor, and ducking her head in the direction of the parlour. * He's in, and I've just tooked tea away,' observed Nancy as she clattered downstairs. Launcelot knocked gently, and then opened the parlour 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. ' Halloa, 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 some- thing in his ear. ' Oh, yes, I will come and say good-night the last thing, but you must be asleep, mind. There — shake hands v.ith Launcelot. I declare you were going to forget him alto- gether.' ' 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 unresponsive in his. ' She thinks it is my fault— that I am robbing her of her father,' he thought a little bitterly, for he could not bear to be misunder- stood, even by a child ; and he watched her slow listless move- ments rather wistfully. She had not been crying, but she looked pale and heavy, as though she were stunned. ' Well,' drawing a long breath, as the door sofdy 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 could not have been a pleasant business, but — but — t'lere is no ram in the thicket for me.' Launcelot put out his hand and grasped Jack's. 52 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' You are going, then ?' ' Yes, confound it ! and confound you, too ! Look here, Lance, I did not sleep a wink last night — not a wink — and I never touched a drop until I had made up my mind ; I just sat here and had it out with myself and Pen.' ' Pen ?' looking at him narrowly, until his eyes grew misty and he was obliged to turn them away. ' Ay, Pen, poor little sweetheart ! I could see her plainly, but of course I am meaning no nonsense : she was sitting there, but it was only in my thoughts I could see her; she wore her little gray gown, and I could see her blue eyes looking at mc, lialf gently, half sadly. * " Be a good man, Jack, for Dossie's sake, she will soon have no one but you, do your best for her, dear ; make her as happy as you 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 somehow ; you seen^ed to think Dossie was neglected and pre- cocious : " Do you think her mother would not be more content to know she was leading 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 behind." ' '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 reproachful look. But it is for Dossie's good, and I 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 fire 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 ; Geoffrey is 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 herself crazy in her hurry to get home. There is plenty of time, at least ; even if it comes to the worst, and you have to leave England before they are back, Dossie will be all right. I know some people, intimate friends of mine, who will look after the child ; and when Madella arrives, I will just take Dossie by the hand and say, " Jack has sent you his little girl, and 'DOSSIE WILL NOT FORGIVE ME' 53 •lie wants you to keep her until he comes back." Well,' with still greater animation, ' can you see the tableau ? Madella, with the tears running down her face, and Dossie in her arms : " Jack's child ! oh, how I must 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 Launcelot cheerfully, pretending not to see the tears standing in the poor fellow's eyes. ' I wish I 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 ; Neale to interview, outfit to be ordered, and a host of arrangements. Don't trouble about Dossie. Miss Thorpe and her brother will look after her, and they live only two miles from the Witchens, so I could see Dossie every day and take her out. I do not want to write to Madella for fear Bee might make a fuss. Girls give a lot of trouble sometimes, and Bee is a bit meddlesome. " Hold your tongue, miss, your mother will do as I tell her," that is how I manage Bee ; and my lady tosses her head, and never ventures to say a word. She is a good girl, is Bee, only she likes to have a finger in the pie.' Launcelot was rattling out nonsense to give Jack a chance of recovering 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 we will see Neale. Thorpe says we shall find him in any time from three to six ; you shall lunch with me, and we will go together. There is my card : re- member, 1.30 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- lot'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. 54 ONLY THE GOVERNESS CHAPTER VII. VOICES OF COMFORT. • Lifi/s more than breath, and the quick round of blood ; 'Ti'; a great spirit and a busy heart. Wc 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.' Fes f us. Jack Weston was true to his word, and kept his appointment most punctually, and as Launcelot saw him from the window of his Club walking down St. James's Street, he felt that he 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 interviev.' with the Neales 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 favourite. The two men were complete opposites. Alfred Neale 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 agree- able in his manner that made people forget his defects. It was said of him that he never lost a friend or made an enemy, and Launce- lot felt intuitively that he was one to be trusted. The business was soon settled, Launcelot putting in a word now and then. Jack, who had been very cool and collected the whole time, only once looked uneasy, when the younger Neale had asked if he could be ready in a fortnight's time ; but Launcelot had answered for him without a moment's hesitation : ' Oh, there will be no difficulty about that, Nicholson and Wright will do the whole thing for us. I shall take W^eston there to-morrow.' Then as Jack looked at him significantly he con- VOICES OF COMFORT 55 tinued, ' Oh, I will answer for it that my people will be back in ten days' time. Geoff means to start to-morrow evening, and as I told you I can easily square matters with the Thorpes/ and with this Jack seemed satisfied. But when they wTnt out in the streets together he said rather abruptly, ' I must say Neale took me somewhat aback just now. I expected to have at least another month in England, but when one has to make a painful wrench, it is as well to get it over,' and Launcelot agreed very heartily with this. Dossie had not once been mentioned between them, but just before they parted Launcelot 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 Launcelot 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 I saw the other day, dear me — when was it ? — a regular little beauty, and they said it was for sale. Oh, I know, Jim Barrett had it. I will go and have a look at it, and if it promises well, we will get it for Dossie. 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 fist of yours ?' but Jack made no answer, his handshake was eloquent enough if Launcelot had chosen to understand it. ' She shall have the puppy, poor little mite !' he muttered, and he 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 Launcelot the next day ; 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 Geofirey at the club — they had arranged to dine together before Geoffrey went off to the station. Launcelot 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 Launcelot hurried up with an apology ; ' I shall have scarcely time to eat my dinner before the train starts.' ' You are always eating dinners, Geoff,' returned Launcelot gravely, with an allusion to the duties of an embryo barrister. ' My dear boy, there is plenty of time, and it could not be helped. I had such an awful lot of business to do.' 56 ONLY THE GOVERNESS *0h yes, you are always so busy,' returned the other in a quizzical voice ; and then they took their places at the table, and Launcelot inspected the wine-carte with a gravity worthy of a better cause. The brothers were not much alike. Geoffrey was a fair, gentle- manly-looking young fellow, with rather a plain, clever face, but it lacked the animation 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 that 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 opinions. He had already written some clever articles for the ' Imperial Review,' though no one knew of this fact but Launcelot 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-and-by. These clever boys have not learnt to control their own forces ; he is practising 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 un- mercifully 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 dis- pleasure to one or the other of the boys, as he called them, though Geoffrey was four-and-twenty ; 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 accom- panied 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 I e not to be up to her non- sense ; 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 Rossiter will have to look after it. Oh, by-the-bye, kind regards to Miss Rossiter.' ' All right.' VOICES OF COMFORT 57 * 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 travelling-cap. ' What a fellow 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 Mortlake, and as it was still light when he had ended his visit, he thought he would walk over and see how matters were progress- ing at Wenvoe Road. 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 nothing, though she had an old coat of Jack's lying across her lap, with a button half sewn on, and the needle stuck in the cloth. She had dwindled in those few days, Launcelot thought, and a sudden sense of terror and responsibility came over him. Her eyes were heavy, as though she had cried a good deal, and she looked ill and miserable. She got up and greeted Launcelot without a smile, with an old-fashioned womanly dignity that would have amused him under other circumstances, but now he only looked gravely into her sad little face. ' Dossie,' he said, detaining her for a moment, ' you are not a bit glad to see me. How very, very angry you must be with me, to keep it up a whole week !' She coloured, and snatched her hand away, but more with nervousness than temper. 'You must not say that, Mr. Lance,' her abbreviation of his name. ' 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 father is far kinder to me than you are. You have really no cause to be angry with me ;' but though he put his arm round her thin little shoulders 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,' as he gave a short laugh of incredulity. ' I told him over and over again that I hated you for taking him away, and I really meant it.' 58- ONLY THE GOVERNESS Launcelot 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 cannot sell his pictures ?' ' We have always been poor,' she replied, trying to disengage herself from the hands that held her so firmly and kindly, but she was too gentle to do more than move uneasily in his grasp, and Launcelot would not set her free. 'We were always poor, oh, ever since I was a baby, and father did not mind it ; but now you have asked him to go 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 under- stand why this advice that seems so cruel to you is really the kindest and wisest advice in the world ; if you loved your father half as well as he loves 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 cannot 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 animosity, Dossie buried her face on his shoulder and burst into a passion of tears. Launcelot drew the unhappy little creature closer in his arms, and showed his wisdom and tact by letting her cry her heart out undisturbed by any reproof; but when she was calmer and able to listen he set himself to com- fort her in good earnest. First he made her understand that in some strange inscrutable way it was for her father's good that he should go away, that it made him very unhappy to be so poor, that they would not have bread to eat if he stayed in England. ' Yes, but you are rich, father says so. You would not let us starve,' observed Dossie, with a child's faith that a friend should be also a bread-giver. ' Child, child, you do not understand ; bread eaten at another man's expense would choke most of us. You must take my word for it, Dossie, until you are older, that father will be all the happier for going away.' ' Without me ! Oh, no, Mr. Lance !' ' But I say yes. Now, Dossie, do be quiet, like a good girl, and listen to me.' And then he drew such an artful and glowing description of Jack's life in that unkno^Yn country, of how he would VOICES OF COMFORT 59 work to get money for Dossie, and how Dossie must grow big and strong and learn a great many things, that she might be able to preside over the beautiful little house he had got ready for her, ' not a house like this,' looking round the shabby room with well- counterfeited disdain, ' but a dear little cottage with new carpets and curtains, and lots of pretty furniture, and roses growing in the garden, and an arbour where father can smoke his pipe in the evening. And there must be some ivory chessmen that I may come over and play chess sometimes, and we will get Madella — that is the dear, dear mother who will take care of you while father is away — we must ask her, I say, to choose the prettiest tea set ifor you to make our tea in, and the teapot must be real silver and not Britannia metal.' 'Oh, yes,' exclaimed Dossie, charmed into a moment's forgetful- ness 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 forgive 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 unhappy ; it makes things so much harder,' finished Launcelot philosophically. 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, an 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 with her Lliat appealed to his soft side ; the thought of this small waif that would so soon be fatherless touched him with a sort of pathos. She would be cast on him for protection, and he was beginning to 6o ONLY THE GOVERNESS realise that his impulsive generosity was adding a new responsi- bility to a life that was certainly not without its burthens. But Launcelot's nature was expansive, it was always seeking new objects of interest ; his impulses were for ever crowding each other out; he liked playing the part of a minor Providence in other people's lives, and his sympathies seldom lay long dormant. If he had lived in mediaeval times he would have been a zealous knight-errant ; the rescue of distressed damozels, of oppressed childhood or old age, would have been work just suited to his peculiar temperament ; but as his honest kindly heart beat beneath the broadcloth and fine linen of the nineteenth century, he had to find other scope for his philanthropy. Launcelot brought down his colour-box and soon produced two very pleasing sketches of Dossie, one of which he put away care- fully 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 unsmiling. ' Oh, Dossie, why did you not smile?' exclaimed Jack reproachfully; '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's 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 shrank a little farther away. ' I can't thank Mr. Lance, father, he is too kind. I want to do something 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,' returned Launcelot cheerfully. He saw the childish heart was quite oppressed by its load oi 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 afterwards. Dossie was a little puzzled by the next gift — the pug puppy which arrived in Launcelot's pocket about three days before Jack VOICES OF COMFORT 6i 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 without 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 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 face ; when the black muzzle and scratchy paws seemed everywhere ; when the sooty kitten gave 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 presentation 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 Launcelot 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 confounded high-heeled boots of hers. Bee is so vain. Tack, I am awfully sorry about it, I am indeed ; but it is no one's fault.' ' No, it's 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 offence to you, Launce- lot, 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.' 62 O:\LY THE cover:; ESS ' 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/ ob- served Launcelot in a low voice, and then he had summoned Dossie to a solemn conclave for bestowing a name on the puppy. CHAPTER VIII. ' OH, !\IV LITTLE CHILD, MV LITTLE CHILD !' « 'Oil, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west ; Toll softly ! And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed round our incompleteness, Round our restlessness His rest.' Elizabeth Barrett Broujning. 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. K little judi- cious sympathy, a few words of encouragement, did miuch 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 disappoint him,' was his one thought. Launcelot was not the nian for half-measures. Geoffrey always said of him that he rode a hobby to death, and though this was an exaggeration, 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 flagged 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 them. 'OH, MY LITTLE CHILD, UY LITTLE CHILD r 63 One of his numerous proteges whom he had thus helped to find his foothold once said to him, reproachfully, ' You take far less interest in me, Chudleigh, now that I am a decent fellow, and when other 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 smile ; ' I shall always take interest in you, only you need me less, and there are others who need me more.' When the last day came Launcelot carefully kept aloof from Wenvoe Road. ' Dossie must have you all to herself to-morrow ; I shall not come near you,' he had said to Jack the preceding night, and the other had quietly acquiesced in this. Jack thought that long, dreary day would never pass, and yet he treasured every minute as though he were a miser counting out his gold. It was one of those hopelessly wet days, when from morning to night the gray over-charged clouds showed no doubt of their meaning ; when the silent, continuous rain fell without pause or intermission. Jack regarded the prospect ruefully, and his heart felt like lead in his breast. He had meant to take Dossie for a last walk. He 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 muttered, 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 labori- ously 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 would eat it although he felt as if every mouthful would choke him. Dossie 64 ONLY THE GOVERNESS wielding the heavy Britannia metal teapot with botli hands as usual, and, absorbed in her labours 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 to 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 pretence 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 sort of puzzled sadness came over his face, for the time was growing very short now, and there were words that he ought to say to Dossie that were very difficulc to be spoken. He had an idea that he ought to give her sound fatherly advice, and to speak words of wisdom that she might treasure up when he had gone ; he must do what other fathers would have done in his case ; if only he could think what to say. ' Dossie dear,' he began at last, when the silence had lasted a long time, ' I think you and I ought to have a little talk together.' ' Yes, father,' but Dossie did not move ; she had got one hand entangled in the long beard, and now she tightened her hold a little. ' I want you to promise me something, pet,' but to his conster- nation Dossie mterrupted him in a most pitiful voice. ' Ah, no, father — please — please — do not make me promise — anything but that, father dear.' ' But, my darling ' ' 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 dread- ful 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 y^ou want to make me less miserable, you will write and tell me you are happy.' ' I must not say it if it is not true, father, must I ?' * No, 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 happiness will come.' 'OH! MY LITTLE CHILD, MY LITTLE CHILD r 65 * Will come,' echoed Dossie, in mild parrot fashion, but her face belied her words ; a child's present misery never grasps the idea of future alleviation ; now is for ever, 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 his duty to his motherless 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 questioned him about what the preacher meant, he had been obliged to confess that he never listened to sermons. * I wonder why people preach them then,' returned Dossie in perfect good faith ; ' perhaps they want to do themselves good, only it is a pity they talk so loud and tire themselves 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 good child to her and try and love her. She was very kind to me, and I gave her a lot of trouble. Look here ' — and Jack's tone 66 ONLY THE GOVERNESS became impressive — ' I want you to say something for me. You must not forget, Dossie. You must say to her : " Aunt Delia, 1 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 repeat 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 ?' ' 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 eyes rather widely at this confession, he went on hur- riedly : ' 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 Launcelot 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 favourite 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 I 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 little 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 ?' * W^hy, 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 over-rich ; we don't want much, do we, Dossie ? just a httle 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 stocks, 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! MY LITTLE CHILD, MY LITTLE CHILD P 67 * Oh, how nice !' rephed Dossie. ' I must grow up quick, or 1 shall not be tall enough to be your housekeeper ;' and for a few blissful moments her imagination bridged over the years of separa- tion and anticipated 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 ' — counterfeit- ing 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, only clung to him with mute entreaty, ' if you will be good and go now, I 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 dark- ness, but he dared not speak to her, lest the floodgates 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 arm and steal on tiptoe from the room. There was something heroic in the way he had combated his restlessness, 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 afterwards, 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 hght 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 pity of it — one lets go.' 5—2 68 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 afterwards 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 Puritan. 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 Launcelot 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 the corner, Jack, and you will have to look sharp and help the man with all those traps ; you have only ten minutes to do everything.' ' Do you hear what Lance says, my darling ?' said Jack huskily, but he spoke to deaf ears. Dossie was past listening now; they both spoke to her, but in vain ; and then Launcelot made a sign that he would take her out of her father's arms. Jack understood him. ' One moment — give me one moment,' he said ; and then, almost roughly, he drew back the child's head and covered the little white face with passionate 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. 'Oil MY LITTLE CHILD, MY LITTLE CHILD P 69 He felt her struggle for a moment, almost convulsively, in his grasp. ' Dossie,' he said quietly, ' you must not make your father so unhappy ; be a good child, and try to bear it ;' and she was quiet in a moment. But it went to his heart to see how she shrank from him when he tried to draw her closer to him in the cab ; no one should com- fort her for her father's loss — that was what her action said to him. He 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 leant 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 live 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. * Are 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 ahnshouses, and pretty quaint garden with its rustic seats, and at the other end was the beautiful church, with its gray old tower and lime walk and peaceful churchyard. It was a beautiful spot, and one that Launcelot loved. Often had he and Mr. Thorpe strolled up and down the churchyard. 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 a cathedral close ; the wicked world lies outside ; a sort of sabbath stillness breathes over the place. The church is always open, you say ; good — very good ; one could learn to pray here ; look at the sunset behind those trees, Thorpe, and the gleam of that water. The almshouse windows are shining like gold, and the peaked roofs are so clearly defined under that 70 ONLY THE GOVERNESS pink sky. What a glow ! what colouring ! how good of those two old women in their black poke-bonnets to add life to the scene ! My dear fellow, I could rhapsodise for hours.' * 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 surprised his friend. ' It is just the place for a tired man. I should like to die here, Hachel,' 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 everyone's busi- ness, and the second belonged to no one. ' If we live well, that is all that can be expected 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 wore 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 somehow those few simple words broke down Dossie's un- natural 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's 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-bye,' and with a swift look at Dossie, 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, RACHEL THORPE 71 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,' finished 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.' — Three-cornei-ed 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 deprived him of all courage. ' I don't feel as though I could go through with it,' he muttered more than once. Launcelot did not despise Jack for this faint-heartedness — he should have felt the same in his place, he thought ; he did not harass him either with well-meant but mistaken cheerfulness, as most people would have done, trying to distract him from his misery by judicious aphorisms and truisms, that would have been an affront to his understanding ; on the contrary, he walked beside him, keeping pace with his restless strides and scarcely speaking at all, until some fretful word on Jack's part compelled answer. ' Poor dear fellow,' he thought, when at last he had quitted the gangway, and Jack, with a haggard face, leant over to see the last of him. ' I am afraid it will go hard v/ith him for a long time,' and he ate his luncheon sadly, and took a stroll in the park, but the painful recollection was still strong on him when he dismissed his cab and rang at the bell of No. 8, Priory Road. Regarded from the outside it was hardly a cheerful-looking abode : the pro- jecting wall of the white house closed it on one side ; the house itself was high and narrow, with old-fashioned windows that be- longed to the period in which it was built, and no new comer would have guessed the exceeding pleasantness of 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 cosy 72 ONLY THE GOVERNESS nooks about it, and Launcelot, who had spent many pleasant evenings with the brother and sister, was wont to declare that he knew of no pleasanter one. The furniture was arranged with a view to comfort, and the large easy-chairs were placed just at the right angle from the fire, with a glass screen to temper the heat. Miss Thorpe was sitting in her favourite high-backed chair by the fire. It was one of her characteristics never to indulge in one of those soft lounging chairs so much affected by 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 cosy. Miss Thorpe looked up with the smile with which she always greeted her favourite. ' 1 hat 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 I will give you a cup of tea. I am sure you deserve it, for you have worked like a horse all 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 trying to see a child in such trouble ; somehow it seems unnatural. I thought she would have cried her heart out when you had gone. I hardly knew what to do with her, but I am thankful to say the outburst has exhausted her, and she and the puppy are both asleep on the big couch in my room. When she wakes up I shall 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 organized. I hope you induced her to take some food ; she has been starving herself lately.' 'She would have it that she could not eat, but I made her swallow a cup of strong broth. The puppy had his dinner — she actually roused herself to feed it. 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 in- teresting little creature, gentle, yet with plenty of originality, cer- tainly an uncommon child. I wonder if you have found this out?' ' Oh, children always interest me,' was the somewhat evasive answer. ' Ivan and I like to have ^ child about us. I am a little RACHEL THORPE 73 doubtful 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 yet 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 he 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 monosyllabic 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 interested 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 Launcelot. He was very anxious for Miss Thorpe's answer, but it struck him that she evaded the question. 74 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' 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 always says he cannot mix with people 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 your help, Mr. Chudleigh. My influ- ence will not avail here, and I am looking to you to rouse him from this morbid state, and induce him to re-enter society.' ' You must not depend on me too much. I have never been able even to induce him to dine with us at the Witchens.' ' That was because he had not told you about Joan ; it will be different now. We talked about it last night, and he owned he had no objection 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 I am sure you will not misconstrue niy meaning when I say that, with young sisters, and both of them attractive girls, I could hardly introduce a 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 objection.' ' Oh, of course. I always tell INIadella everything.' * And you are guided by her advice ?' ' Well, no. I thir^ it is the other way about ; she is guided by mine. When I tell her things, she always says, "What is your opinion, Lance ?" and 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 known 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. Aliss Thorpe was a httle 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. ' I shall be delighted to introduce Thorpe, and should not be ] RACHEL THORPE 75 afraid of trusting him if I had twenty sisters. Bee and Pauh'ne 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. By-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 anyone else's part, but no one ever took offence. Miss Thorpe seemed to think his curiosity 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 have a plain unvarnished statement of facts and no exaggeration, and she answered with the utmost readiness, though with a slight shrug of the shoulders, ' Why do men do foolish things ? Ivan is not the only sensible man who has fallen in love with an attractive face and pleasing manners — gentlemen always admired Joan; she was very taking, as they said, though I never agreed with them ; she was too Irish for my taste.' ' Do you mean she is Irish ?' * Yes, on the father's side ; he was one of those impulsive hot- tempered Irishmen that one dreads to have much to do with ; oh, I will allow Joan had her disadvantages ; her mother died when she was a baby, and she was only fourteen when she was left an orphan, and the aunt 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 learnt 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 v/ould have thought ; common gratitude for his kindness and consideration would have kept her from quarrelling with his sister and making his home miserable,' 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 privileges, 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 76 ONLY THE GOVERNESS had to give way to the wife. Joan had the head of the table, and 1;he 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 my 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 he 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 last — even Ivan could no longer put up with them. Joan had the most passionate, undisciplined nature ; it wore out his patience at last.' Launcelot leant his chin on his hand, and seemed to cogitate for a moment ; 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 mother," all his belongings in fact, " and cleave to his wife ;" there are ahvays dangerous ingredients difficult to fuse in a mixed household.' Miss Thorpe was too sensible to resent this speech, which certainly held a truism, but she coloured slightly as though she were not quite 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 engagement ; he told her that he still wished me to share his home, and asked her if she had any objection, and she made none — oh, none at all. Of course, I see now that she was too indifferent to give it really a thought. When she first came she was very affectionate in her manner to me, and said once or twice how nice it was to have a sister ; and she tried to find out Ivan's tastes from me, but all this very soon changed.' ' I suppose you hear from her sometimes ?' but this abrupt RACHEL THORPE 77 question seemed to take IMiss Thorpe by surprise, and for the first time she hesitated. * Well — no — at least, I have not heard for a long time. Ivan likes me 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 v/onder how it would be ' and then he stopped and biigan 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 cannot 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 knowing them both as I do, I cannot 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 Launcelot Chudleigh as Miss Thorpe said this — a wonderful in- terior illumination 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 cir- cumstances,' 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 see 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 shrev/d eyes to see that Miss Thorpe 78 ONLY THE GOVERNESS was agitated. The next moment he heard her talking to hei brother in the hall in her usual voice, asking him if he were tired, and begging him to ring for some fresh tea. ' Oh, no,' he returned quickly. ' I t^ve more regard for my digestion than that ; it is only you women who can afford to be so reckless. I will go and have a talk with Chudleigh instead.' 'You look done up,' was his first observation when he and Launcelot had adjourned to the study, and Launcelot at once admitted the fact, and after that he gave rather a graphic account of the way he had spent his time since morning, and iSIr. 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 him- self, but Mr. Thorpe only thought he was fagged with his heavy day's work. Launcelot very nearly betrayed himself once in an unguarded moment ; he had said good-night, but Mr. Thorpe had put on his old felt hat and had sauntered through the churchyard with him, tempted by the mild spring atmosphere and the beauty of the starlight heavens. In spite of his fatigue Launcelot could not refrain from rhapsodizing a little as he leant on the palings and watched the pale glimmer of moonlight on the red-tiled roofs of the almshouses, while the aged inhabitants slept peacefully and dreamt 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 glistening with heavenly tears over the little lot of man ? I always think starlight harmonises 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 RACHEL THORPE 79 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 philosophy ?' asked Mr. Thorpe impatiently. * Oh, it is something I've read ; I 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 fashion, but my sympathy has never spoiled my appetite yet.' *You mean I did not enjoy my dinner,' replied Launcelot solemnly, as they walked towards 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 his life's well-being or ill-being. Even a star-gazing philosopher has his human needs,' finished Launcelot sleepily, at which Mr. Thorpe only laughed again. 'Oh, I won't argue with you to-night, we are not on equal terms. I am quite fresh and shall work half the night, and you are used up, body and mind. You know the Greek proverb, " Sleep is the medicine for every disease." Try i<-, Chudleigh, and to-morrow you will be the same impractical optimist that has so often put me out of patience — there comes cabby, so good-night !' But Launcelot made one more speech that night. * My friend,' he said to the cabman, as he drew up at the Witchens, ' when you are old, and the rheumatism has got into your bones, how would you like to be whipped up hill and refused time to take your breath? If you had shown a little more humanity to your poor beast I would have given you double fare ; and, indeed, if you promise to lay that whip aside you may have an extra sixpence,' and then he turned on his heel and left the man looking dubiously after him. 8o ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' He's a rum customer,' he observed as he dimbed up on his box 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,' soliloquised Launcelot as he stood in the glass porch ; ' some of them must feel 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, Fenwick,' as a gray-haired butler opened the door, ' any news of the travellers ?' ' No, Mr. Launcelot, but we are getting the rooms ready for fear of a telegram.' ' All right ; it is best to be beforehand,' and then he took his chamber 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 better than to exist thus vacantly is it for longevity as to birthdays to be denied.'-— Crindon. * And the feeble little ones must stand In the thickest of the fight.' Adelaide Anne Proctor. JvIr. Thorpe was perfectly correct in his prognostication. Launcelot woke to fresh energy the next morning. His health was perfect ; and a few hours' sleep, after any great strain of mind or body, always restored him. He was too strong and active, too full of life, to feel the lassitude of weaker mortals ; ennui he had never experienced, inactivity was simply death to him. The torpid condition of lymphatic and aimless natures drove him to the borders of irritability. To him change of work was perfect rest, and a day over-brimming with employment 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 he dressed him- self he planned how he was to see Dossie before he left town. He interviewed Mrs. Fenwick while he ate his breakfast. She was an old servant, and had acted as nurse to all his step-brothers and sisters, and now she filled the position of general supervisor, 'OXFORD BLUE, IF YOU PLEASE' 8i or housekeeper. She had left the Witchens for a few years on her marriage with the butler, but as they had no children they had willingly returned to their duties — Fenwick especially, who thought that Mr. Launcelot and the young gentlemen would not get on without him. * You see, the plate and the cellar has always been on Fenwick's mind,' observed his wife feelingly. ' He never rightly enjoyed himself worrying how Stewart would manage them. It is just of a piece with my fretting over the linen, and I see there is a hole burnt right through the best damask tablecloth all along of Laura's care- lessness. 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 Launcelot gave the charge of his packing; 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 anticipating the young master's wishes ; and even Neale, the solemn-faced groom, brightened when the order was given to him to bring round the phaeton and bay mare, as the 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 morning. 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 rosiery " was Miss Beatrix's orders, "just before you come to the terrace,'" and disregarding the old man's growls that he could not leave his work, Launcelot led the way to Mie fernery. After this he went into his studio and wrote a letter or two, and dien drawing on a pair of immaculate driving - gloves he nodded pleasantly to Neale, and got into his phaeton. As lie drove rapidly across the common and down the hill towards Overton his spirits seemed to rise. He had to check his mare at the bridge, for the little toll -house was still there, 82 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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, wath its queer old toll-house, was very dear to him — he always drove over it slowly, and looked down at the broad sunshiny river with its steamers and barges, and tiny boats. The gray towers 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 picturesque colour. A group of ragged urchins leant 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 — sun- shine, movement, happy faces, the gleam of water, all filled Launce- lot's eyes and mind with a sense of well-being and contentment. Just at the entrance of the Priory he came upon Miss Thorpe, in her neat black bonnet and cloak, looking the very personifica- tion of brisk, capable middle-age, and always to Launcelot's eyes looking a thorough gentlewoman. He gave the reins to Neale and got down to speak to her. She seemed somewhat surprised by this early visit, as he had told them he was going down to Hampshire. * You must not be too anxious about Dossie,' she said, in quite a motherly voice. '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. We must give her time to recover her- self; she has evidently been overstrained.' ' is she not up. Miss Thorpe ?' asked Launcelot, vaguely anxious at this account, and wishing heartily that his step-mother wxre in England. ' 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?' ' 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 hands cordially, and walked on. Launcelot knew instinctively why Dossie had insisted on dress- ing herself and going downstairs. 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 'OXFORD BLUE, IF YOU PLEASE' S3 yesterday too vividly, for before he could reach her, she had covered her face with her hands, and it went to his heart to hear her pitiful sobs — ' Oh, IMr. 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. He 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. As soon 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 message he had sent her, and how he hoped she would soon begin a letter to 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- morrow, or the next day ; you need not write much to tire your- self, 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 sister, she is very nice and kind, and I am sure she was good to you yesterday.' ' Oh, yes, she is a very kind lady,' returned Dossie sedately. ' She was good to Beppo too, though she says she does not like puppies, and never had one in her room before ; but, Mr. Lance, she says it is naughty to make myself ill with fretting, but — but, how am I live without father ?' ' My dear child,' returned Launcelot gravely, ' there are other children who are more unhappy than you, whose fathers 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 du liebe Vater !' faintly articulated with her failing breath. No, he would not talk about little Gretchen. The child had a 6—2 84 ONLY THE GOVERNESS pulmonary complaint, and would never have grown into healthy womanhood. Dossie was of a different calibre altogether ; she was only overstrained, as JNIiss Thorpe had said, 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 his pocket ; ' this was Sybil's work, and she was very proud of it, but you see all the colour is gone. I should like a dark blue one for the boat-race — Oxford colour, 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 Oxford 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 pin- cushion. 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, hfting the little hand to his lips, but Dossie, not content with this, threw 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 child's burthen 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 laborious task of pincushion-making. Miss Thorpe could hardly believe the evidence of her senses when she returned that afternoon and found Dossie sitting up 'OXFORD BLUE, IF YOU PLEASE' 85 among the sofa-cushions with a small table before her strewn with cardboard and snippets of dark-blue ribbon, while the result of an hour's labour was manifest in a tiny pincushion. The child looked flushed and weary, but she held it up triumph- antly 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 his 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 handi- work proudly. ' It ought to be nice for him,' she replied, ' and I like doing it so. 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 — only they call him Freckles.' ' Yes, and I am sure my brother v/ould be most gratified for one,' returned Miss Thorpe, with ready tact ; and though after a time Dossie's interest waxed languid, and she pushed away her work a little fretfully. Miss Thorpe wisely took no notice; but when tea was brought in she talked to her about some poor children for whom she and Merton w^re 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 gaily 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 so,' followed by a smothered sob. ' Poor little soul !' Miss Thorpe would say, but she never entered the 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 anyone. 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 presence 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 86 ONLY THE GOVERNESS liked to have them about her, and ahvays made them happy, they did not attach themselves to her as they did to her brother ; unconsciously they were always on their best behaviour in her presence. All her life she had worked for the neglected children of the metropolis, 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 rescue. For she was a philanthropist in its broadest and widest sense, and any special affection such as Launcelot lavished on his protegee would have seemed to her to narrow and confine her sympathies. ' We must all go through it,' she would sigh as she went down- stairs, with Dossie's tremulous little voice ringing painfully in her ears. ' Man, and woman too, is born to trouble, but she is young to begin.' And it never occurred to her that she might take the tired little head on 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 exception. Dossie had not yet seen Mr. Thorpe, but one day when Launcelot had written to say that he should be detained a httle longer in Hampshire Miss Thorpe read the letter to Dossie, and then she asked her pleasantly if she would take it into her brother's 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 afterwards Mr. Thorpe heard a small voice 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 colour.' But Mr. Thorpe, who was neither artist nor poet, may be forgiv'en if he thought Dossie a very ordinary specimen of childish humanity. But he hid these feelings and addressed her very kindly. 'OXFORD BLUE, IF YOU PLEASE' 87 * So you are little Miss Weston, are you ?' he said quietly. ' Yes, I am Dossie,' and pushing the teacup towards him, ' I have brought you your tea 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 behaviour 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 gentleness and innate good breeding in Dossie that always won people after a time. 'So Mr. Chudleigh cannot 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 chil- dren, 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 v/hen he had finished this fascinating recital, ' how you must love Mr. Lance 1' Mr. Thorpe made no response to this ; he was asking himself why he had told this story, but the answer did not seem forth- coming. He had never spoken of it to anyone, and yet this little stranger girl with her large solemn blue eyes had drawn it from him. ' I think,' went on Dossie, clasping her hands together in her old-fashioned way, ' that Mr. Lance is as brave as those old knights father talks about ; one of them had Mr. Lance's name.' ' Ah, Sir Launcelot, but he was not always brave, Dossie ; he could do a mean thing, though he repented it afterwards, and,' he muttered half to himself, ' " so groaned Sir Launcelot in remorseful pain, not knowing he should die a holy man." I think Sir Galahad was a better sort of fellow by all accounts.' * Father was always sorry for Sir Launcelot,' returned Dossie seriously ; ' he loved the Queen and made poor King Arthur un- 88 ONLY THE GOVERNESS happy. ]\Ir. Lance would never make anyone unhappy ; he would rather die first Oh, I know all about him. He is so good, and I am sure his life ought to be written, too,' went on Dossie, who certainly had a passion for biographies, and always desired to im- mortalize her dearest friends. ' There speaks a kind litde 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 evening 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. ' I 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 re- mained a long time in the study. And the next afternoon she was watching at the window and 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 with him, and gave her employment in tidying sundry drawers, and tearing up paper. Miss Thorpe smiled benevolently when she found them busily employed. ' 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. CHAPTER XL 'the green DOO] * Beauty consists of a certain composition of colour 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.' — Colei-idge. 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. 'THE GREEN DOOR IN THE WALL' 89 A quick flush rose to Dossie's face, but her gladness seemed of the silent sort. She hardly looked up as Launcelot bent over her with a kind inquiry ; but he had seen the sudden flush of joy in her eyes and knew that her childlike frame was trembling with suppressed feeling, so he prudently left her alone for a few minutes, and then he said, in a quiet matter-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 interest 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 a rigid disciplinarian. ' I dare say her method would answer with most children,' he said 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 much longer with Dossie. I am ever so much obliged to you for all you have done for her ; my people will be back to-morrow.' ' x\h, indeed,' glancing at him with interest, ' then you are going to sleep at the Witchens 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' ears again ; the young monkey arrives to-morrow from Uppingham.' ' I always told Ivan that you were cut out for a married man,' returned Miss Thorpe, smiling ; ' in spite of your roaming propen- sities your tastes are decidedly domestic,' and though Launcelot c/5 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 outgrown 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 manner ; not for worlds would he have Jack see that poor blotted little effusion all ink-stains and tears; what father could have borne such a sight ? ' I will tell you what you must do, Dossie ; you must have a fresh sheet of paper and a new pen, and copy out every word, and there must be no blots and no stains, and then I will put it in an envelope and post it, and when Jack gets it he will say, " What pains that dear child must have taken ! I can read every word as clearly as print," ' and Dossie was charmed with this advice. He asked her presently, when the hansom had put them down and they were walking hand in hand over the wide breezy common, with Beppo rollicking after them in puppy fashion, how she liked being at Priory Road, 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 the poor old women we meet, and when she scolds she scolds beautifully, without looking really very angry, you know. One man was very rude to her — oh, he frightened me so, but Miss Thorpe was not a bit frightened ; 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 everyone minds Miss Thorpe,' finished Dossie, in a meditative manner, ' but I like Mr. Thorpe best.' Launcelot turned round at this ; he looked rather pleased. ' You 'THE GREEN DOOR IN THE WALL' 91 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, I liked him ever since he talked about you,' went on Dossie ; ' he is very quiet. Sometimes he hardly speaks, and then all at once he wakes up, and says something nice. He is not as nice as you, Mr. Lance, of course not, but he is trustable,' airing her favourite word again. Launcelot chuckled. ' She is wonderfully knowing,' he said to himself. ' 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 path ;' but the child shook her head. ' I don't feel like running, Mr. Lance. I like to keep with you here. Oh, yes ; I 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 see that long wall with all those glass houses ? Look how far it goes.' ' Oh, yes. What a big place ! I wonder 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 Witchens, and this is Brentwood Common. Look how the common stretches to the garden wall, and shuts us in all round — nothing but gorse and blackberry bushes. And there is the little town of Brentwood ; and all along there in the distance there are fine big houses standing back from the road, and a pond where the boys sHde, and ' but here Dossie interrupted him. ' You live here, Mr. Lance ? Oh, I had no idea you were so grand. What a lovely big place ! and, oh dear, is that the garden? How I should like to see it !' ' And so you shall,' was the answer ; and to Dossie's immense surprise Launcelot produced a key from his pocket, and inserting it into the lock of a green door in the wall that Dossie had hardly noticed disclosed a flight of worn stone steps. ' Open sesame ; your ladyship may have your wish. Come along, Dossie ; there is no reason why I should not show you the garden and the hot- houses. You may gather some 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 landed 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-line, the whole 92 ONLY THE GOVERNESS prospect bathed in the soft clear hght of a spring afternoon. Launcelot leant 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 Tenny- son says, at least. Isn't it in " Locksley Hall " that he says : ' " In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove ; 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 season. " We are desired to announce that a marriage will shortly come off between the Hon. Algernon Featherhead and Lady Fatima Grildesleigh." One could annotate " Locksley Hall " thus: ' In the spring manoeuvriDg mothers whisper in the stern aside : " He is but the second brother ; you must never be his bride !" Ead 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 ex- ceedingly 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 Launcelot, in a most bewildered voice, ' what on earth does this mean ? I will take my oath that the tele- gram said to-morrow.' ' Yes,' but here she laughed merrily, ' that w'as Mr. Geoffrey's mistake. He put the wrong date, and so, of course, no one ex- pected us. Poor Mrs. Chudleigh was ready to cry about it when Mrs. Fenwick told her that you had not arrived. She was quite pale with the disappointment.' ' And you are all here ?' ' Oh, yes ; all but Fred. Mr. Bernard met us at the station. They are all so cross with Mr. Geoffrey for making that mistake ; but now you must come and see them. They are all in the morn- ing-room. Fenwick has just brought in tea. Oh, how delighted they will be !' 'THE GREEN DOOR IN THE WALL' 93 * Wait a moment, please,' returned Launcelot, 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 was somehow amused. She was an exceedingly handsome young woman. Indeed, most people called her beautiful, in spite of the marked irregu- larities that detracted from any perfection of feature; but then very few cared to criticise so charming a face. She had very dark Irish gray eyes — eyes that could be very subtle and mischievous and tender — and a wonderfully transparent complexion with quick varying colour, and her head, that was very finely shaped, was covered with thick coils of reddish brown hair. She was very tall, and her figure 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 was clear and sweet, and there was something in her laugh that reminded one of a child — a certain abando7i and enjoyment that one rarely sees in a grown-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. ' Miss Rossiter, 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 five months. I need not ask how you are, you look first-rate, and ' but she inter- rupted him with just a trace 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 terrace, 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 me ; I will not keep you a moment : you must go back to the house and not tell anyone you have seen me ; and when I have taken Dossie home, I will come back.' ' Dossie !' returned Miss Rossiter, utterly bewildered by Launce- lot's mysterious manner ; ' is she a little friend of yours, or a pro- tegee ?' 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 cannot introduce her in 94 ONLY THE GOVERNESS this abrupt 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 Launcelot broke off and said, ' By Jove,' again under his breath. ' Miss Rossiter, cannot 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 Dossie ?' ' I will take her up to the schoolroom — no one will notice us — and you can just walk into the morning-room. Yes, that will be best ; 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 as good as a game of hide-and-seek, will it not, Dossie ?' and Miss Rossiter laughed in such an infectious way that Launcelot joined her. ' Oh, it is too ridiculous altogether ; never mind, Dossie, we must do as this lady bids us. Go in with her and have some tea, and I will fetch you by-and-by ;' and, though Dossie could not comprehend the situation in the least, she was not at all reluctant to go with ]\Iiss Rossiter, whose face and voice had taken hei childish fancy ; so she squeezed the puppy in her arms, and allowed herself to be led away into the shrubberies. A narrow path led them into the rosary ; and out of this they turned into a wide gravel walk, which in summer must be very pleasant and 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 afterwards described 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 a little iron gate, they passed through a wide courtyard, 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 schoolroom, and we are safe ; now sit down, my dear, and take off your bonnet, and I will tell Jane to get us some 'THE GREEN DOOR IN THE WALL' 95 tea,' and so saying, she pushed Dossie gently into an ensy-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. Schoolrooms were always ugly, but this looked like a drawing- room. There were so many pretty things about, pictures and china and handsome bookcases ; there was a couch, too, and delightfully easy chairs ; and flowers 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, who Dossie afterwards 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 appearance of a neat housemaid with the tea-tray was a very welcome sight. Miss Rossiter followed her. ' This little girl, a friend of mine, is very tired and hungry, Jane,' she said ; ' I have brought her in for a 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 Dossie 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 stepmother to be- friend her. ' Have you known Mr. Chudleigh long, my dear ?' * Oh, no ; I never sav/ 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 Overton, 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 ■ — but' — a shadow crossing her face — 'Mr. Lance has sent him away to the other end of the world, and now ' But here Dossie broke into a sob and could say no more. 96 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' 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 years ago. She wears her hair in a plait now. Is she not a pretty little girl, rather like a gipsy ?' But as she chattered on, showing Dossie one thing after another, she told herself that she had better put no more questions to the child. There was evi- dently some mystery about the child, and it was not her affair to find it out. It was rather hard to repress her curiosity when Dossie, in the course of her conversation, asked coolly ' where she would sleep when she came to live at the Witchens.' ' Live here ! what do you mean ?' asked the governess, thrown off her guard by this artless speech. ' Mr. Lance is going to take care of me until father comes back,' returned 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 face ; ' it 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 compliment that she kissed Dossie again, and they were now chattering together like old friends. CHAPTER XIL MADELLA. ' l\Ty noble £][0sslps, ye have been too prodigal.' — Shahespeare. ' The hand that liath made you fair hath made you good ; the goodness, that is cheap in beauty, makes beauty brief in goodness ; but grace being the soul of your complexion, should keep the body of it ever fair. ' — Shakespeare. Meanwhile Launcelot had crossed the lawn boldly, and turning round the corner of the house, walked up to an old-fashioned bay window, and raising the sash, coolly walked in. ' Launcelot, why Lance, dear old Lance ! Cleverly done, old fellow ! My darling boy, how you startled me ! Oh, Lancy, you duck !' 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 a word, but the gladness in his eyes was sufficient speech. ' My own boy, how I have vranted you !' said this lady with MA BELLA 97 more than one motherly kiss, and she put back his hair with a hand that was sparkhng 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 meeting between a stepmother and her stepson. ' Madella,' he said quietly and in a tone of honest conviction, ' I think you have grown more lovely than ever,' and Mrs. Chudleigh blushed like a girl. 'Your sisters and Bernard are waiting to speak to you,' she said, pushing him gently away. 'You must tell Bee she is looking charming too, or she will be jealous of the old mother.' And then Launcelot leisurely made his rounds ; but when he had finished he came back to the tea-table, and asked his step- mother to give 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 endorsed Launcelot's opinion that Mrs. Chudleigh 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 days 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-haired, sweet-looking girl then, and now her hair was silvery white ; but she was sweet-looking still. Her face was still wonderfully young for her age, and a delicate bloom still lingered on it ; and, in spite of her forty-eight years, her colour 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 sur- rounded 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 foolish and morbid to dwell on the darker shades of life. 98 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Her husband had adored this innocence ; he had never ex- pected 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 widow- hood. 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 afterwards,' people often said ; and more than 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 becoming 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 w^omen 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 at all ; and as to reading that tract, of course I burnt it, for fear Launcelot or the boys should see it.' ' Madella,' observed her stepson once, when he noticed how calmly she enforced silence when some undesirable subject came on the taj>is, ' I am afraid you are not a woman of enlightened intelligence and enlarged views. You are always obstructing free argument — hindering conversation, in fact.' ' I can't help it. Lance. I think it was wrong of Dr. Elliott to mention such a fact before Pauline.' * Pauline is far wiser than her mother,' returned Launcelot in a teasing voice. ' She scorns to be behind her age. Now, don't shake your head. I know you have no interest in your neigh- bour's rubbish heaps ; you object to be told why people don't care to call on him ; but all the same. Dr. Elliott will think you a very narrow-minded woman.' ' It does not in the least matter to me what Dr. Elliott thinks,' returned Mrs. Chudleigh, a little petulantly. ' Madella,' was the mournful answer, ' how could your con- science allow you to tell such a hb, and to me of all persons ? Have you not been adored by mankind ever since your childhood, and would you not be miserable if people ceased to adore you ? MA BELLA 99 Why, 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 Dr. 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 my- self, 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 only sees 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 stepson had reproved her rather sharply for her selection of Miss Rossiter for a governess, though he had said less about it lately. ' I never feel quite safe unless you are with me, but. Lance,' with a simplicity that touched him, ' I always pray that I may be guided right ; so I cannot go far wrong.' ' No,' he said, looking at her kindly ; ' no one but a villain would 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 poverty, 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 drily, 'and so long as she lives will Madella dwell in her own house, and pull down her blinds, and stop her ears with soft cotton-wool, that she may not hear the groans 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. As Launcelot received his cup of tea, he threw himself down in an easy chair, and looked round his family circle with intense pride and delight. It was certainly a charming scene. Outside the spring sunshine was lying on the soft velvety turf; a bright fire burnt on the hearth. Sybil, who was chilly, was lying on the black bearskin rug, in company with a large tawny St. Bernard dog, Launcelot's special 7 — 2 loo ONLY THE GOVERNESS property ; Sybil was a pretty, dark-eyed child of twelve, with a bright, piquante 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 colour 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 herself 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 long-protracted 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 tether at last. I don't mean to give you a chance of Mentone again, so I hope you and Paul have made the most of your oppor- tunities.' ' Oh, yes,' returned his sister with sparkling eyes, ' we have had such a good time — it v>^as delicious. I never enjoyed myself so much in my 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 afterwards. Bee never minds dropping people she used to know.' MA BELLA loi *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 Pauline 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 teasing 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 piquante, and all that sort of thing, but for a fine woman give him Miss Rossiter — she was doosidly hand- some, and no mistake." ' ' My dear Pauhne !' 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.' ' No, 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 Dacre myself. Miss Rossiter said she was sure he was padded — anyhow, he dyed his moustache,' and Bernard roared again. ' Go on, Paul ; this is ratding good sport, isn't it, Lance ?' * Don't be absurd,' returned Bee, with decided acrimony; 'of course Pauline is only trying to tease me because I said she and Miss Rossiter were inseparable, but even Nora Hamblyn said it was rather a mistake taking her about with us everywhere.' Launcelot's manner became attentive all at once. * I hope Sybil's lessons did not suffer ?' he said quickly. 'No, my dear, no,' returned his stepmother 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 ; even Sybil joined in the donkey ex- cursions, you know, and of course Lady Hamblyn or I acted as chaperon ; Bee had so many friends, and I wished Pauline to enjoy herself, and as Miss Rossiter was young too — well, they were all as merry as crickets.' Launcelot received this speech a little gravely ; a close observer would have said he was not quite pleased. ' And who are the Hamblyns ?' 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 102 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 colour for a moment, ' is a barrister too ; he and Geoffrey got very intimate, 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 litde blush had not been lost upon him ; he had trusted them to remain with- out 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 IMentone would be necessary ; she had caught cold, and it had setded on her chest — 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 IMadella's earnest solicitations. The poor woman had lost one child ; Lily, who came between Fred and Pauline, had died when she was six- teen, of a chill caught when overheated by dancing ; but then Lily had been delicate from her birth. But Madella had been in such agony about Bee — was so certain that her lung was affected — and was in such a fuss and fidget altogether, that Launcelot, who never could refuse her anything, had yielded in spite of his better judg- ment. He had taken them over himself and had settled them in the villa, and had begged his stepmother to let Sybil go on regu- larly with her studies, and to be careful what acquaintances she allowed for the girls ; and Mrs. Chudleigh had promised both these things most readily. But he had little dreamt that his sisters and Miss Rossiter would be involved in a round of gaieties. He knew nothing of the social evenings at the Villa Campanini, and the small and early evenings at the Villa Nevado, where the Hamblyns, still in their deep mourning, resided ; and his satirical comment on Bee's remark only covered a deep state of anxiety, and a decided wish that he and not Geoffrey had fetched them home ; for he had forgotten all about Jack Weston and Dossie. Bee, who was not so clever as Pauline, did not detect the malice in her brother's tone. ' 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 soUo voce, and Launcelot looked at MA DELL A 103 her sharply, and then she pursed up her hps in a droll way and shook her head at him. ' Nora is coming to stay with us next month ; I hope you will not mind, Launcelot? They have a house at South Kensington, so we shall be close neighbours. Of course they are not so well off now 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 they still kept the brougham, she had had to give up her riding horse because of the groom. They will do better, she says, 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 Hamblyn 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. * Well, my liege lady, is Bee to have her visitor ?' * Well, we all like Nora, Lance ; at least, I believe Pauline did not much care for her,' and here Pauline made one little moiiche 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. Chudleigh paused impressively, ' but we cannot 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 she 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 matter 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 plausible 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 !' I04 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Ah, you are always so severe on Nora,' answered Bee crossly, * you are prejudicing 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 Lance likes people who stay in the house.' ' My dear,' replied Launcelot in a soothing voice, ' I will promise to be pleasant to your guest, only you must not expect me to fall in love with her ; I am quite a reformed member of society in that respect, and look upon young ladies now from quite a brotherly point of view. I will leave our fair visitor expectant to Geoffrey.' ' Oh, hush !' from Bee in a vexed voice, ' I am quite sure Nora will never have anything to say to Geoffrey, though I must own ' ' Who is using my name ?' asked that individual, walking into the room at that moment. ' Halloa, Lance, no one told me you had arrived ; how do you find yourself, old fellow ?' shaking hands warmly, ' fresh as paint, eh ? Mother,' turning to her in a vexed sort of way, ' who on earth have you got upstairs ? I was outside the schoolroom just now, and I heard some animal scratching and 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 Rossiter held up her finger 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 was rushing away when Launcelot caug?it 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,' finished Launcelot with the utmost calmness. I AM JACK'S LITTLE GIRL' lo: CHAPTER XIII. ' I AM JACK'S LITTLE GIRL.' ' I clung about her neck — Young babes who catch at every shred of wool To draw the new light closer, catch and cling Less blindly. In my ears my father's word Hummed ignorantly, as the sea in shells — " Love — love my child !" ' Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Mrs. Chudleigh's exclamation of dismay was drowned in the general outcry that greeted Launcelot's announcement. The room seemed filled with a hubbub of girlish voices and laughter. Bernard burst into a fit of uncontrollable merriment that seemed to annoy Geoffrey, for he bid him shut up with his foolery, for how on earth were they to hear each other speak ? ' Of course he is not serious,' continued the young barrister, casting an uneasy glance, however, at Launcelot as he spoke. ' Why, the child is a washed-out, shabby little thing ! — not at all a case for adoption. I should say it is only a joke. Lance could not be so absurd,' finished Geoffrey with a cynical curl of his Hp. ' 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 Lance found in the gutter, whom mother and Bee drafted off promptly 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 was so dirty — oh, and the poor man with the bad leg — a very interesting case that — who made off with a dozen silver spoons the next morning, leaving us his blessing ; and there was the old woman, too, who had a bee in her bonnet, and thought she was en 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- humouredly. ' I do not want my good deeds paraded after this fashion.' ^ But Geoffrey again struck in : lo5 ONLY THE GOVERNESS * Oh, of course we all know Launcelot's hobby ; there is always some half-starved case on hand. But this appears a different affair altogether. Charity is one thing, and adoption is another ; that is why I say Lance 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 stepmother's alarm — were all sources of amusement to him. From sheer fun he could not forbear teasing them all a litde. ' Don't shake your head, Geoff; I am perfecdy 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 Bernard) ; ' he is obliged to go out 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.' ' Yes, 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. Lance ; they could board her in the holidays 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 schoolroom unless you like,' returned 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. ' IMy dear Paul, ]\Iiss Rossiter is under orders as long as she stays at the Witchens,' replied Launcelot in a tone which, quiet as it was, betrayed that he meant to be master. ' Of course I shall speak to her, but she is far too good-natured to raise any objection. I 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 schoolroom now ?' turning to his stepmother, ' I want you to see Dossie alone first. She is very miserable, 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 ccat. It did not need a second dance at her face to see how 'I AM JACK'S LITTLE GIRL' 107 reluctantly she obeyed her stepson, 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 fulfil his behest. In spite of his love for her he ruled her implicidy ; ever since her husband's death his will had been her law. She was one of those women to whom a state of obedience was absolutely necessary; power was a matter of indifference to her. If people only loved her, she would be ready to do anything in return for them. Launcelot reverenced, petted, and adored her, and she repaid him with perfect devotion to his will. Strange to say, this dependence made her chief happiness ; it even consoled her in some measure for the loss of her husband. She nevtr 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 tyrannised over his stepmother, it was certainly a very wise and loving tyranny. He even kept up the fiction of consulting her on every matter, 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, Fenwick,' was Mrs. Chudleigh's invari- able reply. ' I would not go against his orders for the world.' And with this remark she always silenced any grumbling on the part of the young people : ' My dear Geoffrey, your brother is so much older ; of course he knows best ;' or, ' I can't help it, Bee , Lance must have his way in this. This is his own house, remember, 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 Lance's generosity, my darling, that any complaint seems ungrateful.' Launcelot detained his stepmother 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 loS ONLY THE GOVERNESS you won't hurt my feelings by saying so. I call that so good of you.' 'You are master here, Lance,' she replied, and there was a trace of sadness on her beautiful face. ' I have no right to ques- tion your wishes.' ' No right, Madella ? Who has a better right, I should like to know ? Now listen to me for a moment, dear. You are so good about this, 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. Chudleigh's face 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 entered the schoolroom. 'What a long time Mr. Lance is !' they heard her say ; ' I think he must have forgotten to fetch me.' ' Oh, no,' began the governess, and stopped as the door opened. ' Oh, there he is, and Mrs. Chudleigh too.' 'Dossie, will you come here a moment?' observed Launcelot, holding 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 wistfulness on his companion's face. She twisted her hands nervously, though 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. Chudleigh's stately presence ; ' but of course it must be. Aunt Delia, I 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 5^ou will be good to me, and he sends his love," and I think that was all.' Mrs. Chudleigh became very pale ; she looked at her stepson helplessly. ' What does she mean. Lance ? Jack ? She cannot mean my poor lost Jack !' but here Miss Rossiter softly left the room. 'Yes,' returned Launcelot with a reassuring smile, 'this is Dorothea Penelope AVeston, 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. 'I AM JACK'S LITTLE GIRL' 109 * 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 w^ay, 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 Rossiter, to whom he explained matters more fully, but when he came back they were still at it, and his stepmother was crying bitterly. ' This is wrong,' he said, taking her hand ; ' you will make your- self 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 father would be so sorry,' she whispered, laying her cheek against Mrs. Chudleigh's ; but Mrs. Chudleigh continued to sob in a most heart-broken w^iy. ' 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 Rossiter to take the child away for a little, and sitting down by his stepmother, he gave her a full account of his meeting with Jack and all that he could remember of Jack's married life. 'You can write to him, poor fellow, and tell him you have forgiven him for all his neglect.' ' Of course I have forgiven him. Is it not until " seventy times seven," Lance ? and my poor Jack never meant to be unkind. Oh, I am so glad his wife was so good to him — poor Penelope, and I never HO ONLY THE GOVERNESS even saw her. I think Dossie has Jack's eyes, but she is not really hke him,' and so she rambled on, now bemoaning poor Jack, and now making plans for Dossie's comfort, until Launcelot 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 retire to her room. The rest of the party had long ago exhausted their grumbling, and had separated to his or her private domains, and they had only just re-assembled 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 lead- ing 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 moustache, 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 always very fond of him. Dear Launcelot has seen a great deal of him lately, and now he has brought me his little motherless 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 was 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 Lance 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 con- temptuous glance at her eldest brother. ' What a stupid joke ! Geoffrey made me so cross when he repeated it.' But she con- descended to take Beppo in her arms, and to question Dossie a litde, after the fashion of a spoilt child, while Bernard regarded them with extreme amusement, but without leaving his favourite corner. ' I am a cousin too,' he observed, when opportunity brought him in contact with the child. ' Yes, I know ; you are Bear,' replied Dossie, without the least embarrassment. ' I have made you a pincushion, too— dark blue. 'I AM JACK'S LITTLE GIRL' in Oxford colour, you know — because Mr. Lance says you are an Oxford man.' ' Sharp child that,' observed Bernard sof/o voce ; but he con- tinued with much gravity : ' You must call him Cousin Launcelot, not Mr. Lance.' ' No, he is not my own cousin, father told me so ; he is only Mr. Lance. Geoffrey is my cousin, and you and Fred too. Oh, I know all about it,' finished Dossie with rather an important air, feeling herself suddenly enriched by so many relations. She looked round benignantly 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 girls in the white gowns were her cousins ; and there were Geoffrey and Bernard, for whom she had made the pin- cushions, and that nice, friendly Miss Rossiter. What a lot of nice people ! Oh, if only her father 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 comfortably in bed. ' Emma can do it another night, but I will attend to my new little pupil this evening,' she said pleasantly, and Mrs. Chudleigh 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 centre 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 pun Sybil pinched him. Miss Rossiter looked him full in the face and dropped him a mocking little curtsy. 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. Chud- leigh treated her young governess with such injudicious familiarity. Very few mothers with three grown-up sons would have ventured 112 ONLY THE GOVERNESS on engaging 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 eyesore to her. ' I cannot help my nature,' she said once to Launcelot, who was teasing her on the subject. ' I do love pretty faces and things. I cannot 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 him before I can be satisfied. There is always something,' she finished contentedly, ' either a nice expres- sion or 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 — ladies 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' ears to-morrow !' and as they all laughed at this, he continued with much solemnity : ' Madella, you and the girls must never leave me so long again.' * Why,' asked Sybil with great curiosity, ' have you got into mis- chief, Lance ?' — a question that highly amused Bernard. ' No, my dear, no,' shaking his head ; ' but a man without his womankind is an odd sort of animal. Fancy GeofT and myself in this big house ; why, we could not stand it. We used to take to argument, but he always beat me, so we got tired of that. No, Bee, you must try your little games elsewhere. I can't let you all so easily out of leading strings.' ' How can you be so foolish ?' she answered rather pettishly. ' I could not help being ill, could I, mother ?' ' No, my darling, of course not. Lance is only joking.' ' Yes, but there is always something beneath his jokes,' her colour 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 longer.' ' Yes, but, Bee,' interposed Pauline eagerly, ' if it had not been for that last fortnight we should never have got to know the Maxwells. Is it not strange. Lance,' turning to him, ' actually some Riversleigh people came over from Montreux about three weeks before we left ? They took the Ericsons' rooms in the next villa to 'I AM JACK'S LITTLE GIRL' 113 ours, and we saw so much of them. Dr. Maxwell doctored Bee's ankle.' ' Maxwell — do I know the name ?' returned Launcelot thought- fully ; ' somehow it seems familiar to me.' ' Well, they have only just come to Riversleigh. Dr. 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 consist ?' ' Why,' she said with an apologetic laugh, ' Dr. 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 Dr. Maxwell took a bigger house, and they have all settled at Riversleigh with him, and it does seem hard, as Charlotte said.' ' Pauline was hardly civil to the Hamblyns, but she and Miss Rossiter were always w^ith Miss Maxwell,' observed Bee wn"th an annoyed air, ' though what they could both see in that plain, awkward girl is more than I can say.' ' Yes, but Maxwell is a nice gentlemanly fellow,' interposed Geoffrey in an amicable tone ; ' I think Lance would like him. It is 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 with great attention. He was evidently bent on extracting every possible particular relating to the Mentone friends. The girls had always chatted frankly to him of their doings ; even Bee, who could be a rebel at times, was never quite happy unless Launcelot approved of her little plans. Pauline was quite ready to satisfy his curiosity. * Yes, indeed— there is Mrs. Maxwell, who is rather an invalid, and her blind sister, Aunt Myra as they call her, who has always lived with them ; and the eldest sister, Brenda, has spinal com- plaint, and Prissy, the youngest one, is dreadfully delicate. That is why they went to Montreux, but it has not done her much good, and Charlotte says they will not be able to afford it again.' Laun'jelot began counting on his fingers in Dundreary fashion. ' Invalid 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 is hard lines, a dilapidated family like that' S 114 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Yes, but, Lance, there are two sisters who married and went to India, \vho were quite strong, and Charlotte says she and her brother are as tough as possible, and she only regrets that she cannot help him by teaching, only with all those invalids she 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 ailments. 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 gauche.^ '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 is comfortable.' ' Ah, Dame Partlett wants to be fussing over her new child,' observed 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,' re- turned 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 Bro'cvning, 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 attention. ' Old Lance is going to make us a speech.' ' No, my dear boy^ nothing of the kind. I only want to ask you as a personal favour to myself, as well as to your mother, to be as kind as possible to poor little Dossie, and to give you an oppor- tunity of asking me any questions you like about her;' for Launcelot THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS 115 knew that the girls at least were dynig of curiosity, which their good feelings obliged them to restrain in their mother's presence. Of course he was overwhelmed with questions about this un- known 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.' ' I wish Dossie were a pretty child,' observed Bee, with languid interest, while Geoffrey muttered something about ' children being a bore in a house.' ' I think she will be a godsend to Sybil,' replied Launcelot ; ' you have all spoiled that litde monkey among you. Dossie is a good little thing, and you will all hke her in time.' ' Lance's geese are always swans,' was Bernard's impertinent observation after this. ' Come, that is hardly fair, Bear. I think I am a pretty good judge of character,' returned Launcelot, who was the least bit touchy on this point ; he prided himself on a very nice discrimina- tion ; and though, like other mortals, he was sometimes liable to error, he never liked to be reminded of any past mistakes ; to the end he wished his geese to remain swans. The discussion ended after this. Geoffrey and Bernard retired to the billiard-room, and Bee went in search of her mother, but Launcelot linked his arm in PauUne's and asked her to keep him company for a little. He made no outward distinction between his sisters, for he was very fond of them both, but in reality Pauline was his favourite. She was very sensible and matter of fact, and he could rely on her thoroughly. She was more amicable than Bee, who had her little tempers, but they were both bright happy young creatures, and he was justly proud of them. As they sauntered through the hall, arm in arm, they came upon Miss Rossiter, who was standing in the glass entry looking out into the moonlit courtyard, for the bare sweep of gravel walk before the house, closed in by high walls, gave one the idea of a courtyard. ' Oh, there is Huldah,' exclaimed Pauline rather unguardedly : and as Launcelot looked a little surprised, she added quickly, ' I only call her by her Christian name when we are alone, because Bee is so tiresome about my liking her so much; but I cannot 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 ii6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 ?' As she 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. Lance, so there can be no possible harm,' and as her brother made no audible objection, she darted to the oak settle and caught up some fur-lined cloaks that still lay there. ' You had better go without me,' observed Miss Rossiter, ' Mrs. Chudleigh may want me.' ' Nonsense,' returned Launcelot vigorously to this, and IMiss Rossiter drew the hood over her bright hair, the soft lining of fur setting off her charming face, and accompanied them without another word. ' Oh, how delicious !' exclaimed Pauline when they had gained the terrace, and were leaning against the low wall looking over the common. The broad expanse of heath was bathed in the pure silvery light ; the gorse, broom, and even the rough brambles, seemed touched with a separate glory and radiance ; the clump of young firs in the distance stood up dark and distinct against the sky ; a few twinkling lights from the village, or rather the little town, of Brentwood quivered from the hollow ; a gaslight or two among the trees near the front entrance of the Witchens 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, Lance, but, somehow, I 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 moment he asked Miss Rossiter, who was standing by him, if she had ever experienced 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 Huldah, 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, Lance ?' THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS 117 *What is your definition of a home?' she returned, fixing her large eloquent eyes on Launcelot as she spoke. She often had these grave moods when she was with him and PauHne ; 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 sombreness so soon replaced by childlike mirth. Launcelot liked these varying moods ; he admired them as he admired the varying tints of a transparent complexion, or the changes of a cloudy April sky — nature delighted in these sw^ift metamorphoses, and he de- lighted in them too. He had always been interested in Miss Rossiter, but he had never admired her so much as he did to- night. Either she had grown handsomer since 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 wiiich 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-place ;" but he adds a quotation from Dryden, that " Home is 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 without her will, so he took no 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 Launcelot. ' 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 jokes without being sat upon,' observed Launcelot feelingly. ' Oh, of course, how often you have told Bear to shut up, and not make an ass of himself !' ' True ; but I never remember that he ever did shut up.' *No, but he never minded you telling him, Bear is such a ii3 ONLY THE GOVERNESS sweet-tempered boy. Why, even Geoffrey lets himself be snubbed sometimes, when Bee is in one of her little black day moods ; but who cares for Bee's sharp speeches ? why, the very essence of home life is that one can say and do what one likes.' ' Oh, one could live in a home like that,' observed Miss Rossiter with a sigh. ' I don't think I ever knew a family like yours, Mr. Chudleigh ; you are all so different, not one of you alike, and yet you never really 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 England.' ' Oh, we are well enough,' he retorted with a laugh ; ' they are all good boys and girls on the whole.' ' If they were not, you would still be fond of them,' she returned with some 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 brother or sister. Home has only been to me the four walls and roof, until I came here.' ' Come, I 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 I not owe to ^Mrs. Chudleigh and to you, Pauline?' ' Nonsense !' returned that young 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 schoolroom ; but your sisters are so good to me, Mr. Chudleigh, Pauline especially, 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, Lance ; 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 earthquake — that would be too dreadful : but if there had been one I should have liked to be there at the time.' ' Oh, but Geoffrey said it was all nonsense ; it was never pre- THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS 119 dieted at all. Can you understand such a morbid craving, Lance ? Why, I should have wished myself a hundred miles away.' ' So should I. I object on principle to any stampede or panic. A crowd mad with fear must be a most unedifying sight. Miss Rossiter,' in a serio-comic voice, ' I feel half inclined to move a little further away after that remark ; your close vicinity makes me uneasy.' ' You doubt my sanity ?' laughing. * Well, I own it was rather an extraordinary speech. I dare say I should have been as terrified as other people if it had really happened, but I do enjoy a new sensation.' ' In — deed ?' in a slow, drawling tone. ' 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 to see a fire ; the very descriptions are enough. Only, of course, I mean without loss of life.' 'Huldah, I do wish you would not talk so wildly,' returned Pauline, in a vexed voice. ' It always troubles 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. W^hy, I never can endure that chapter about Korah, Dathan 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 to 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 cannot 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 undeviating pre- cision, 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 to cater 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 awkwardly. What I really meant was that I would rather know life under its wider and more terrible aspects, than go on day 120 O.YLY THE GOVERNESS after day leading the meagre 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 dulness of those faces !' and she shivered. 'Why do they not go mad or kill themselves? 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 atten- tion a moment ?' turning to her with a good-natured air ; and in spite of her reluctance 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 in your madness. Like all insane people you evidently believe yourself sane — you actually mean what you say.' ' I mean 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 be. You are finding fault with quiet, matter-of-fact lives. They are — according to you — prosy, monotonous, unutterably dreary ; but you are making a grave mistake. It is not the life, but the environment of which you are speaking.' ' Oh, you are too clever for me, Mr. Chudleigh ; I am not capable of making such nice distinctions.' ' But you are capable of feeling them,' he persisted. ' Now listen to me. I am going to repeat a passage from a favourite author of mine, Grindon. I have read it over until I know it by heart. He is speaking in his chapter on Longevity of the true measurement of life. He says : "Real, human life is immeasur- able, if " — digest this "if," Miss Rossiter — "we will have it so ;" and then he goes on, " ' Every day,' remarks 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 feelings and their expression into deeds as elevated and amiable as we can THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS 121 reach to;" and then he goes on to quote from Martineau's "Endeavours after the Christian Life:" "'The mere lapse of years is not hfe. 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, eh ? — " ' and turn the wheel of wealth ; to make reason our book-keeper and convert thought into an implement of trade; this is not hfe. 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 philo- sophy, 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 commonplace. 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. No, 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 — conflicts which leave their scars for ever. Many are thankful for the quiet routine that dulls the memory of " the too vividly painted past." Yes, they fear to move out of their groove foy very dread of meet- ing some pale ghost of their dead and buriea happiness,' but here he stopped abruptly, for a low sob escaped Miss Rossiter. * No, no ; I will not believe you,' she said, in a choked voice. ' Oh, how you pain me ! It cannot be so ! No one could live down misery in that way,' and then she paused and looked at him in a half frightened manner, as though imploring him to take back his v.'ords. ' I think I have spoken the truth,' he returned gently, ' but indeed I did not mean to pain you. I was only speaking as I should to Beatrix or Pauline, if they indulged in such exaggerated talk. You were too hard upon other people, you looked only on the outside of things. You must go deeper. You must learn charity before you judge truly of life.' ' Yes,' she replied humbly, ' I know you meant it only for my good. I have been very foolish ; I ought not to have talked so. May I wish you good-night now, for I am very tired ?' 122 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' I am sorry I tired you/ he answered penitently, ' but I cannot wish one of my words unsaid.' ' No, indeed,' observed Pauhne, when their companion's grace- ful figure had turned the angle of the house. ' I am very glad you spoke so seriously, Lance. I am very fond of Huldah — indeed I may say I love her — but there are times when she distresses me by this wild, flighty talk of hers. I sometimes think how shocked mother would be to hear her, but Huldah is always careful in her presence.' ' Ah,' he returned absently, ' she is young and undisciplined, and she has 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 w^as through a small conservatory. The room was quite dark when he entered it, but he lighted a small bronze lamp that stood on the writing-table and seated him- self 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 and 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 gentleman's study. A bay window^ with a deep recess com- manded 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 read- ing-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 wanted 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 children,' and he softly quoted to himself the quaint lines : THE TERRACE AT THE WITCHENS 123 * "That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! To manye more than 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, soliloquising 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 one's imagination somehow; she has never been out of my mind a single day all this time ; she is a woman that one cannot forget. If she were to marry, I do not believe her husband would lead a very prosaic existence ! she is very exciting ; a man would hardly fmd her restful.' And then he made a sort of grimace and shook himself, but there was a strange glow in his eyes, as he turned away humming the musical lines of Jean Ingelow's poems that had been floating in his head for days : ' " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! calling', Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away, I heard her sing, Cusha ! Cusha ! all along, Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melic groweth Faintly came her milking song." ' CHAPTER XV. ' Mv Sonne's faire wife Elizabeth.' 'One can sometimes love that which we do not understand, but it is im- possible clearly to understand what we do not love.' — Grindon'' s '^ Life and Nature^ Launcelot drove Dossie down to Priory Road the next morning to explain matters more thoroughly to Aliss Thorpe and to bring 124 OyJLY THE GOVERNESS away the shabby portmanteau that held the child's scanty wardrobe. 'She looks brighter already,' observed Miss Thorpe, when Dossie had left the room on some errand ; and she was right ; even a few hours had made a difference in her appearance. 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 confused, half-waking grief in those kind arms. The forlorn little creature, so suddenly weighted with trouble, was not left to battle through the dark miserable hour alone — no, that was not Mrs. Chudleigh's way — she had fallen asleep again com- forted, and still holding her aunt's hand, and her refreshing morn- ing's slumbers had been broken by Sybil, who stood by her cousin's bed with her hands full of spring flowers that she and Miss Rossiter had just gathered. ' You were so fast asleep that we did not like to rouse you,' Sybil 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 garden and across the common.' ' Lie still, and I will bring you some breakfast, my dear,' added Miss Rossiter, who had followed Sybil, and she kissed Dossie very affectionately. Dossie did as she was told, and lay very con- tentedly watching the governess arrange the flowers. Miss Rossiter looked as bright as tjie spring morning, glowing with fresh air and exercise — a very different being from the girl whose wild talk had jarred upon Pauline's sense of fitness — earthquakes, uncongenial homes, sombre fancies were all relegated to the dead past. Evidently things wore a brighter aspect for her this morn- ing. All the time she filled bowls and vases with Sybil's help, she sang snatches of Italian airs in a charming voice. Launcelot heard her as he went down the long passage, and smiled to himself. Miss Thorpe bade good-bye very kindly to Dossie, and told her that she must often come and see her and Ivan, but Dossie made no audible reply to this. She gave a little, sigh of rehef when she found herself in the phaeton again, and Launcelot turned the mare's head in the direction 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.' ' I don't want to go very often,' returned Dossie with simple truthfulness. ' Miss Thorpe is very kind, but I would rather stop with you and Aunt Delia,' and Lai^icelot said nothing more. 'MY SONNE'S FAIRE WIFE ELIZABETir 125 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 rela- tions 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 tenderness ; she had Dossie constantly with her, and watched over her health with natural anxiety. After her aunt Delia Dossie placed Miss Rossiter in her list of favourites, though she still regarded Launcelot as her chief friend; but the governess's bright genial nature, her childlike mirth and sense of fun, had a fascination for the child, who was rather pre- cocious and old-fashioned in her ways. Beatrix and Geoffrey came last in her estimation, 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 be- wildered 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 anyone trouble. The youngest boy, Fred, or Freckles as he was generally called, from the fact that his fair skin was always liable to freckles, endorsed the general opinion that Dossie was a nice little girl. Freckles was a pleasant-looking boy, vvith rather melancholy brown eyes, and an unusually gentle bearing ; but woe be to the boy who was deceived by the mild suavity of Freckles' manner or the languid indifference of his voice ! Freckles would draw out jokes that would convulse his brothers and sisters with laughter; when people predicted the gentle melancholy lad would 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 her eyes, when an un- usually bad report of the young scapegrace reached her ears ; Mear Fred is so very 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 plagued his nurse to death, and now he is 126 ONLY THE GOVERNESS the torment of all his masters. Mischief is natural to him, I believe ; he cannot help playing pranks any more than Jack could.' But though Launcelot held this view of Freckles' de- pravity he was exceedingly fond of the boy, and P'reckles, who adored his eldest brother, never attempted one of his practical jokes on him, his (Launcelot's) position of head of the family in- vesting him with a certain dignity even in Freckles' lawless eyes. It was hardly surprising then that Dossie, to whom boys were unknown animals and who had never had a boy friend of her own, was sadly puzzled by the lugubrious Fred. On the first evening touched, and indeed instinctively drawn to him by the plaintive expression of the lad's soft brown eyes, she had whispered to him : ' What are you thinking about ? why do you look so dreadfully unhappy? has anyone been scolding you ?' ' No,' returned Freckles slowly, ' but can you keep a secret ?' ' Yes — no — at least I would rather not know, if it is anything very bad,' replied Dossie, shrinking back a little. ' Oh, it won't hurt you,' a little contemptuously ; ' but there, girls never can 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 spoilt a splendid thing of mine last holidays.' '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 cup- board in Bee's room ; well, I owe her a grudge, and I am going to pay my lady out. I am going to hide behind all her dresses, and just before she turns the gas on, I mean to say, in a sepulchral tone, "Ah, what dost thou, Beatrix?'" but what was to follov/ 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 reluctantly renounced his novel vengeance, but he never afterwards confided his plans to Dossie. ' Girls are no good,' he observed on more than one occasion in her 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 and then she electrified him by whispering in his ear when he looked unusually sad, ' Please don't do it. Freckles, you had much better 'MY SONNE'S FAIRE WIFE ELIZADETIP 127 not,' a species of clairvoyance that made him speechless with amazement. Launcelot had got his way, the new picture was in full progress, and Miss Rossiter sat to him daily. She was always accompanied to the studio by Pauline, who was her brother's pupil, and painted landscapes very prettily; some- times Mrs. Chudleigh would bring her work and join the young people, but her presence was never the slightest constraint or hindered the flow 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 difficult to lure him from his easel. The day seemed too short, and at such times any interruption was irksome to him. But he did not care for solitude, and nothing pleased him better than for Mrs. Chudleigh or Pauhne to sit beside him and take interest in his work. Bee seldom came, though he always wel- comed her most heartily, but Bee was too active and managing to have many idle hours on her hand. She had no special taste for art, and she liked better to practise on the grand pianoforte in the big empty drawing-room, or to study German. Now and then, when the sitting was over, they would all as- semble for five o'clock tea in the west window, as it was called, instead of adjourning to the drawing-room or morning-room. These occasions were highly prized by Dossie ; the little square tea-table round which they crowded looked so cosy 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 Launcelot would break off abruptly and go back to his painting, while the girls still Hngered 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 Rossiter standing beside them, the carved cabinets and tables beyond, a soft background of green lawn with a dark cedar spreading its wide foliage, and Sybil's tame pigeons fluttering about the window-sill. At this time Launcelot passed hours daily in Miss Rossiter's presence, but he never once noticed an approach to sadness in her manner. Sometimes he would pretend to grumble at her prosaic cheerfulness. ' Now, Elizabeth,' 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 lookmg so provokingly happy ? 128 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Have I not read the poem over and over again to you ? and yet you will not understand the duty that is required of you !' ' Oh !' she said with a sort of frank impertinence, ' it is " Cusha, 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 milking-shed." ' * No, no,' he returned impatiently, ' you have done with the milking song for ever. Jetty and Whitefoot have long ago been choked by the murderous surf, you are no longer looking for them. You are startled to see the line of foam, the thunder of the mighty wave is in your ears, you are straining your eyes, and your infant is at your breast, and the other child has hidden his little face in your gown. What does it mean — the noise, the breaking spray, the sullen roar ? Ah, it is of the children you think, and of the distant husband, and of the death wave !' ' Oh, your descriptions are too vivid,' she returned with an in- A voluntary shudder ; ' I do not wish to think about such dreadful i' things.' {^ Launcelot smiled. ' Never mind, we shall do very well, I dare say ; I shall have to recall a certain expression that was pathetic enough for my pur- pose,' and here her colour changed a little, 'and there is one thing, there must have been a 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-humouredly, 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 afterwards he saw her cross the lawn with the two litde girls, and it seemed to him as he watched her as though the grass could hardly feel those light springy footsteps. Launcelot used to talk to her vv'hen he had an easy piece of work before him ; she was very fresh and lively in conversation, and often made speeches that were sparkling with naivete and wit, but he could never induce her to speak of her old life ; she only told him once that she had lived as companion with an old lady who died and who was very kind to her, but that she liked being with children best. 'MY SONNE'S FAIRE WIFE ELIZABETH' 129 ' Do you know,' he said one day, very thoughtfully, when Pauline had left them alone for a few minutes, ' that I have found out something about you that has greatly surprised me ?' ' About me ?' she asked ; but he could see that she was very much startled. ' ' Yes, I have discovered that in spite of all your frankness you are a very reserved person, that no one can make you open your lips if you think proper to close them, and I confess that this surprises me a good deal ; it is an incongruity, so much frankness and yet such impenetrable reserve.' 'Oh, I am not naturally reserved,' she returned with rather a con- 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 time 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 Bee was entertaining 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 gaiety seemed to pervade the house, she was always so good-natured and pleasant, so ready to do kind things for everyone, from attending Mrs. Chudleigh when she suffered from one of her bad sick headaches, to nursing the kitchenmaid with a quinsy. Launcelot found her in the stable-yard once, binding up Neale's cut finger, and the children at the gardener's cottage were devoted to her ever since she had nursed their baby brother in an attack of croup. No, there was no denying her goodness of heart ; and then how charming were her manners, so perfectly devoid of self-conscious- ness and coquetry ! She never gave herself the airs of a pretty woman, or seemed to expect admiration. He had watched her often, 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 governess. He had once hinted this to his stepmother, and she had answered 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 conscious. Miss Rossiter does not care for gentlemen at all. I thmk their admiration bores her ; she seems to enjoy ladies' com- 9 130 ONLY THE GOVERNESS pany best. She is a very steady young person, and exceedingly well behaved; indeed, her tact is admirable. I often thought so at jSIentone when all those silly fellows were pestering her with attention.' ' IMadella,' was all his reply to this, ' I do not know whether you are exceedingly wise or exceedingly fooUsh, but if mischief comes it will be your doing,' ' Oh, Lance,' in a hurt voice, ' what can you mean — mischief? Why, Geoffrey has never taken the least notice of her, I have told you so before ; he was far more attentive to Nora Hamblyn. And as for Bear, why he would never think of such a thing. Oh, I can trust my boys,' finished the simple woman. ' I am thankful that the dear girls should have such a steady companion,' Launcelot was quite ready to endorse his stepmother's opinion as to Miss Rossitefs 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 refused to acknowledge even to himself that he was in danger of falling in love with Miss Rossiter. 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 iits. He said to himself that he was delighted to have his womanfolk about him again ; that he had missed 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 compete with Miss Rossiter. Strange to say, she generally sang 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 Launce- lot 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 declare himself moonstruck or bewitched ; but he 'MY SONNE'S FAIRE WIFE ELIZABETH' 131 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 AVitchens grew gay with garden-parties and impromptu dances, Launcelot became conscious that a curious conflict was taking place within him, that some indefinable instinct that almost seemed like a presentiment was moving him to resistance against the growing fascination that JNIiss Rossiter exercised over him ; he was vaguely sensible of this, and yet he could give no reason for these uneasy feelings. For the first time in his life he showed signs of a vacillating 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 him- self ; a singular cowardice that was foreign to his nature made him prefer to keep his feelings 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 do 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 anyone deny that she was a gentlewoman, that she was his sister's equal in good breeding ? No, he had never vexed himself with this sort of ques- tion. It was simply a strange instinct for which he could not account, that made him unconsciously resist a growing passion for a woman who certainly fascinated him more than any woman he had ever known. Sometimes he wondered what she thought of him, but he could never answer this question satisfactorily to himself She was always very friendly in her manner to him, but there was no shyness, no consciousness of the quiet looks that watched her day by day. ' Huldah wonders how anyone can be afraid of you,' Pauline said 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 shone to greater advantage, and she was always noticed in the Row. 'Oh, indeed?' observed Launcelot, flicking his mare's glossy flank with his whip. ' Yes, she says you are so perfectly gentle that one could tell you anything— confide in you, she meant ; and I said " Yes, that 0—2 132 ONLY THE GOVERNESS is very perfectly true, for when we were naughty httle girls and got into disgrace with our governess, Bee and I always got you to intercede for us, and 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 so we are,' finished Pauline, with an affectionate glance : but just then they reached a wider stretch of common, and Launcelot proposed a canter on the grass. ' If she were in any great trouble, would she come to me, I wonder ?' thought Launcelot, and this thought occupied him all throu^h the remainder of the ride. CPIAPTER XVI. bee's SATURDAYS. * I have been accustomed to study men's countenances, and I can read in thine honesty and resolution.' — Ivanhoe. ' The man whom I call deserving the name is one whose thoughts and exertions are for others, rather than for himself.' — Feveril of the Peak. When the second week in May arrived. Bee informed the assembled family one morning at the breakfast-table, with much solemnity, that their Saturdays were about to commence, and that their Mentone acquaintances. Miss Hamblyn and her brother, had promised to come on the opening one. ' Nora is to stay with us, you know,' observed Bee, carelessly addressing her eldest brother ; ' and we have sent a card to the Maxwells. Pauline seemed to wish it.' ' Oh, Bee, I thought you proposed it yourself,' responded Pauline, with heightened colour. ' I only said Charlotte would feel neg- lected if we asked the Hamblyns and ignored them, when Dr. Maxwell was so attentive about your ankle too.' ' My dear, you appeared to wish it very much,' was the rejoinder, for Bee could say sharp little things sometimes. ' You know I did not take a fancy to Miss Maxv/ell myself. She was so gauche and so badly dressed.' 'Pax, pax, my children,' observed Launcelot, who detected a retort hovering on Pauline's lips ; for, like most warm-hearted people, she disliked hearing any fault found with her friends, and BEE'S SATURDAYS 133 Bee could be merciless on small foibles. ' So the Saturdays are to begin as usual, with Geoffrey as master of the ceremonies ?' 'Well, you know, you never like a fuss,' was the smooth answer, ' and Geoff enjoys it.' 'Yes, Geoff is just the fellow for you ladies — makes himself pleasant, 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 in the camp, mind. This is Liberty Hall, and everyone's friends are to be welcomed,' with a stress on the last word. ' Thank you, Lance,' with a relieved air from Bee ; but Pauline only squeezed her brother's hand as he passed with a force that made him smile. ' Poor litde Paul ! I am afraid Bee provokes her sometimes,' he said to himself, as he sauntered into his studio. ' They are rather different in their tastes. 1 will keep a sharp look-out on these Hamblyns and Maxwells ; confound that Mentone !' and then he unfolded his paper. The Saturdays were much appreciated by the Chudleighs' friends, and were very different from 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 under- stand 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 visitor had departed, he took no leading part in the proceedings, and always referred any question to Bee or Geoffrey. It was unanimously voted by the neighbourhood that the Chud- leighs 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 be 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 recipient of one of these notes 134 ONLY THE GOVERNESS considered him or her self to be made free of the Witchens mitil the middle of August. There was always a goodly sprinkling of gentlemen on the Satur- days. 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 appear- ance, 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 Lance makes his appear- ance,' Bernard used to say in an injured tone. ' I do not know why they find him so attractive, for he is not a bit handsome, and does not fall in love with any of them. It is hard lines on us, Geoff.' But Geoffrey did not seem to see it ; he was much too satisfied with his own capabilities. Certainly on a hot, glowing July afternoon nothing could be pleasanter than the leafy walk leading to the rosery and terrace, and the cool shady seats under the big elms on the lawn. There were gay little seats under covering, and nooks and corners where flirtations could be carried on. Indeed, there was a low bench, under a rose-covered arch, that the Chudleigh girls had christened the Lovers' Bower, because more than one happy match had been finally cemented there. It must be owned chaperons found their task of watching over their young charges as difficult as the per- plexed hen who sees her web- footed brood take to the farm.yard pond. For, alas ! her disconsolate chuckings are without avail, as the downy rebels swim away from their foster-parent. 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 desirable than pacing the shrubberies in search of some runaway daughter, who w^as, perhaps, at that moment enduring the tropical heat of the hothouses, or visiting the puppies in the stable-yard or the baby at the gardener's house, or perhaps had even strayed into the studio — anywhere, to be out of reach of the maternal eyes. ' Why,' as one aggrieved matron complained, ' you may as well hunt for a needle in a hay-loft as try and find anyone at the Witchens.' BEE'S SATURDAYS 135 '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. Merriman. 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 window 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 here, mamma ?' observes Julia innocently, when she rejoins her agg-ieved mother. ' Captain Debenham has been taking me all through the hothouses — the ferns and flowers are so delicious !' ' Awfully pretty ! I assure j^ou I have had quite a grand time, M:s. Merriman. ^Miss Julia knows a lot about those sort of things ; she beats me hollow there.' Captain Debenham steals a look at his pretty companion as he speaks, but Mrs. Merriman is not so easily pacified ; she casts rather a withering glance at the handsome young officer, as she asks Geoffrey to see her to her carriage. Poor Mrs. Merriman ! she has reason to rue these Saturdays ; for the next year Julia married Captain Debenham, and crossed the ocean with him as cheerfully as the hen's youngest duckling crossed the pond. ' Chuck, chuck,' cries the poor little brown hen. ' Julia, Captain Debenham has nothing but his pay. You will be a miserable woman if you marry him;' but Mrs. Merriman might as well have held her peace. What girl cares about pro- spective poverty when she wants to rnarry the man she loves? Of course they had difficulties — plenty of children — troubles of all kinds ; but it may be doubted whether either of them ever re- gretted Mrs. Chudleigh's Saturdays. After all, very little satisfies young people — plenty of space, sunshine, 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. Everyone knew tea and coffee and claret-cup and most de- licious fruits were always to be had in the big dining-room ; the morning-room and the drawing-room were also pleasant resorts 136 ONLY THE GOVERNESS for quiet conversation, and now and then, but not always, the studio was open. As a rule, Launcelot preferred only admitting one or two favourites, and no one knew how Captain Debenbam had contrived to smuggle Miss Merriman into the west window. But what Bee loved above all things was to plan a delicious sur- prise for her friends ; more than once during the season the Wimberley band had been stationed in the glass anteroom lead- ing to the studio, and the visitors' ears had been regaled wi;h a choice programme of operatic music. On such occasions Bee and Pauline would drop hints lo a favoured few that a cold collation would be served at eight, and that there would be an impromptu dance in the hall, which vas very suitable to the purpose. Sometimes these hints came before- hand, in the shape of notes : ' We have ordered the Wimberley band for next Saturday, and hope to get up a litde dance after supper, so please come pre- pared. 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 morning. ' 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 understand.' ' 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. Lance ; that would be too shabby. Of course, we mean people like the Hayters and Pierrepoints to go as usual, at seven. I have told Fenwick 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 impromptu dance is quite another thing, and v/e do not want more than thirty to sit down.' ' I should think Fenwick would be content with a less number. You must recollect Madella does not like the servants to be over- BEE'S SATURDAYS 137 worked, and she has the good old-fashioned notions about Sunday.' ' Oh, of course, we all know mother's opinions on that point,' returned Bee impatiently ; ' that is why we stop dancing at eleven — three hours will be ample for Fenwick and Orson to clear away; and you need not trouble about Fenwick, Lance, for he enjoys the busde as much as we do.' ' I am glad to hear it, but. Bee, one word before you go — have you asked the Max\yells to remain ?' ' Well, no, it would not do the first time ; they have never even called here.' ' Neither have the Hamblyns, my dear ; but I suppose Mr. Hamblyn is to stay for the dance ?' ' Yes, but, Lance, Nora is to remain the week, so of course her brother would not go away ; they would think it so strange.' ' Well, never mind that ; let Geoffrey write a little note to Dr. Maxwell — he tells me he is a nice fellow — and inform him of the programme.' ' 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 dow^n 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, Lance 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 remark. ' I think we all ought to try and cheer him up, poor fellow, for 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 w^orked steadily at his picture the following Saturday afternoon, but every now and then he stole a glance from the west window. He saw Bernard cross the lawn in his flannels, bent on tennis ; then Bee in her white gown and pretty shady hat, accom- 138 ONLY THE GOVERNESS panied by Geoffrey ; then he heard heavy footsteps in the ante- room and was soon made aware that the band had arrived, and then he began leisurely putting away his things. But he did not hurry himself, though gay groups of young people were crossing and recrossing the wide lawn ; and already the tennis set were formed and in full play. For a litde while it pleased him to reconnoitre the scene from the distance. ' That is Miss Hamblyn, I suppose,' he said to himself, as a tall girl in black passed at that moment with Bee ; a young man with a dark moustache was escorting them, and the three seemed very happy. A minute afterwards Pauline appeared, with a very quiet-looking young lady ; this young lady was somewhat high-shouldered and used eye-glasses. They were followed by Mrs. Chudleigh, who was as usual perfectly dressed and moved with the air of a duchess ; she was holding Dossie's hand and talking with her accustomed graciousness to a grave-looking young man who walked beside her. 'I suppose that is Dr. Maxwell,' thought Launcelot; and he 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. Dossie's pretty white frock, with its lace and embroidery, and tastefully-trimmed hat, just suited her. Her fair hair w^as smooth and shining ; a little pink colour tinged her pale cheeks. 'Oh, I am so glad you have come !' she said, clinging to him affectionately. ' It is all so gay and beautiful — only we wanted you.' ' We always want him, do we not, Dossie ?' observed Mrs. Chudleigh, who had followed the child and overheard this. ' Dr. Maxwell, I must introduce you to my eldest son.' And then the two men shook hands. Dr. Maxwell was about Launcelot's age. He was not particu- larly good-looking ; he was dark complexion ed, and his features were marked and irregular, but he had a pleasant manner and seemed gentlemanly and agreeable. Launcelot was decidedly prepossessed in his favour ; he liked his thoughtful intelligent expression. But before they had exchanged many sentences together Pauhne and her companion joined them. BEE'S SATURDAYS 139 *This is Miss Maxwell, Lance,' she said, touching her brother on the arm to attract his attention. Launcelot looked up and saw the young lady with the eye-glasses. Miss Maxwell was very like her 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. Chudleigh. I was just asking your sister if you ever admitted „ rs.' Oh yes ; sometimes. T^Iy 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 Pauhne's coaxing to allow them one peep was utterly unavailing. ' I told you there would be nothing to interest you,' he observed to Miss ]\Iaxwell, 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 is 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 was the best he ever painted. Mother was so fond of it, she could not bear parting with it.' Launcelot looked up quickly. * Was that true, Madella ? had you really a fancy for it ? why did not someone tell me ?' in rather a vexed voice ; ' of course, I would not have sold it.' ' My dear Lance,' and Mrs. Chudleigh blushed like a girl, ' what extravagant generosity ! Do you think I would have let you lose five hundred pounds just to gratify my whim ? Of course, it was a beautiful picture ; the face of that fisherman's wife was so pathetic. I40 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Don't you remember, Pauline, how we all admired that figure, with the sunset shining behind it ?' 'Yes, mother; and we all said it was Launcclot's best picture. I thought Colonel Evans showed his taste in buying it.' ' But 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 morn- ing-room at the present moment.' ' My dear boy !' returned Mrs. Chudleigh in her soft cooing voice, and then she turned to Dr. Maxwell with a smile : ' I am afraid you will think me a spoilt 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 five hundred pounds as lightly as some of us would speak of five hundred 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, Dr. Maxwell, there was a question I meant to ask you; my sister tells me you have taken the Bridge House, at Riversleigh. I wonder if you have come across a friend of mine, who is your near neighbour — Mr. Thorpe ?' ' Thorpe — no — at least, he is not on my list of patients, and I have had no time yet to make any unprofessional acquaintances. A friend of yours, you say ?' ' Yes, he lives about a stone's throw from Bridge House, at No. 8, Priory Road ; his sister lives 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 newcomer, too ; he used to live at Sutton ; unfortunate domestic circumstances have made him somewhat of a recluse, but I want to rouse him up a bit.' Then Dr. Maxwell said 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 together in a low tone. Mrs. Chudleigh had seen some fresh guests enter the garden, so she hastened back to her duties, and took Dossie with her, and the two girls were left standing by the portfolio. Miss Maxwell looked at the sketches a little absently. ' Did you see Hedley's face,' she said at last rather abruptly, BEE'S SATURDAYS 141 ' when your brother spoke about keeping that picture for your mother? he looked quite touched, and yet I could see he was pained too ; your brother is very generous, but I think Hedley would be generous too if 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, I remember. Hedley is heavily burthened for so young a man. He has been just able to buy this partnership, but for some years his income 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 possibihty of that now.' ' I hope it is not a great disappointment,' replied Pauline rather vaguely, and not knowing exactly what she was expected to say. ' Oh, there was no special lady in the case,' returned Charlotte laughingly ; ' at least, if there was, Hedley has been very close about it ; only, don't you see, most men prefer having a wife to living unmarried, and it does seem such a pity that we should all be burthening 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 eagerly ; ' I cannot 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 me 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 cannot 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 this moment the two gentlemen rejoined them, and the conversation became more general. 142 ONLY THE GOVERNESS CHAPTER XVII. * His face was of that doubtful kind, That wins the eye but not the mind.' * J\ly thoughts are my own.' When Launcelot had done the honours of the studio thoroughly, and had exhibited his Roman and Etruscan curiosities, in which his visitors took an inteUigent 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 straight- forward way, *bat you have given us a great deal of pleasure.' ' Then I am already repaid,' was the courteous answer ; and 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 saw her brother. ' Here you are at last, Launcelot ; everyone has been inquiring after you. Where have you been all this time? I have been wanting to introduce you to my friend Miss Hamblyn.' ' 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 w^hom she had heard so much — the master of this beautiful house. Why, he was years older than his brother Geoffrey, and yet he looked quite boyish and insignificant ; and !Miss Hamblyn, who was a very dignified person, felt decidedly disappointed, for she liked tall, fine-looking men. ' I have heard a great deal about Miss Hamblyn,' returned Launcelot w^ith polite sincerity. ' This is your brother, I suppose?' turning to a singularly handsome young man, who was holding Bee's sunshade. Probably there was some admixture of foreign blood in the Hamblyn family, for Oscar had the olive complexion and dark liquid eyes that belong to the south. As Launcelot noticed the black silky moustache and faukless attire he uttered an inward groan. ' He ought to be labelled " Dangerous," ' he muttered. 'What was Madella thinking about, allowing such a good-looking fellow to dance attendance on Bee ?' 'ONLY SYBWS GOVERNESS' 143 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 Launcelot was vexed to see how this little remark so carelessly uttered seemed to heighten her colour. ' 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 was it by a dexterous little move- ment on her part the group broke up, and Launcelot found him- self pacing the shrubberies with Miss Hamblyn beside him, while Bee and her cavalier slowly followed them. Pauline and the Max- wells 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. He was not in the mood for strangers, and he found the society of his self-possessed 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 ladylike carriage ; she dressed well, walked w^ell, and was fluent and easy in speech. Nevertheless, she bored him ; and yet he could not find out the reason. ' She is 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 opiniona- tive for her age,' he went on ; but certainly Miss Maxwell was quite as decided, and he had not been bored by her. ' She is cold and self-satisfied, she thinks such an awful lot of herself,' finished this very churlish young man. ' She expects me to pay her attention and that sort of thing, but then I never come up to people's ex- pectations.' But notwithstanding this undercurrent 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 T44 ONLY THE GOVERNESS very interesting-looking ; there was something artistic about him.' Yes, she Hked him very much, as she assured Bee afterwards. ' Oh, everyone hkes Lance,' 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 nonsense.' ' He is perfectly right. I 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 dis- pleased 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 Launce- iot 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 Hamblyns 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. ' Vv'ell, she is very pretty, and I can't find fault with your taste.' ' Pshaw !' he muttered ungraciously, and then he pulled his moustache 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 answered demurely, ' Oh no, I have not for- gotten ; but I am a little tired, I think. Lance waltzes deliciously ■ — but I shall soon be rested,' and she made no objection when Mr. Hamblyn proposed a seat in the cool dimly-lighted draw- ing-room ; certainly Oscar Haiiiblyn was an adept in the dan- gerous art. Launcelot was not able to sustain an unbroken conversation with Miss Hamblyn ; 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 folks aie my guests, and I 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 'ONLY SYBIL'S GOVERNESS' 145 tennis ; you do 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 introduce him to you — Oliver Grayling, a friend of mine ; capital fellow, immensely rich — nothing on earth to do with his money ;' and here Launcelot dived dexter- ously between the tennis players and spectators, and tapped Mr. Grayling smartly on the shoulder. Miss Hamblyn received him graciously ; it was her role to be gracious. ' It is a mistake to snub people,' as she said, but in her heart she would rather have retained Launcelot. Mr. Gray- ling might be rich — why on earth had Launcelot mentioned that little fact ?— but he was bald, rather elderly-looking, forty at least, and wore spectacles, and more nervous than amusing. Neverthe- less Miss Hamblyn kindly took him in hand, and made the best of him ; for she also was a philosopher, and had a vast amount of prudence and foresight for a girl of two-and-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 his pace quickened, for there was Miss Rossiter in her yellow gown — was 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, v>'hat 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 only looking for my children,' she returned, knitting her brows as though she were vexed. ' I have lost them, and it is all that tiresome Mr. Hamblyn's fault. I wanted Dossie to have some tea — ^Irs. Chudleigh says she looks tired, and Mr. Hamblyn 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 inflicting 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 badly ; and I can't bear Mr. Hamblyn.' ' You — can't — bear — Adonis ?' with a pause between each word. ' Oh, I don't hke Adonises,' was the pettish answer. ' I don't 146 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 believe I hate him because he paid so much atten- tion to Beatrix at Mentone.' ' Miss Rossiter,' still more solemnly, * do you know you are letting the cat out of the bag to Beatrix' brother ?' ' Oh, that is nonsense ;' but she looked a little ashamed of herself. ' Of course, you know there were plenty of flirtations going on.' ' I am sorry to hear it,' he returned so gravely, that Miss Rossiter'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 I am so sure that Mr. Hamblyn is a flirt that I dislike him so ; why, he would pay any girl compliments by the score if she would let him ! but Bee is so innocent that she "svill 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 busi- ness when they did not please her.' ' Yes, but if Mr. Hamblyn does please her ?' * Oh, I see what you mean ; it is kind and friendly of you to put us on our guard. I did not want to misjudge anyone, but I shall keep a strict watch over the young man. I don't mind telling you in confidence, that I am not prepossessed in his favour. I am far better pleased with Pauline's new friends.' ' Dr. Maxwell and his sister ? oh, yes, they are so thoroughly nice ; I like them so much. Dr. Maxwell is a most superior man, and yet he seems to think so little of himself; and Miss Maxwell is clever too.' They had reached the terrace, but there were no children there; so Miss Rossiter said she must return to the house, and so they sauntered back slowly, meeting stray couples on their way. To Launcelot this was the pleasantest part of the afternoon. His companion suited him exactly. Her petulant little speeches amused him ; she was so frank and easy in her manners, so willing to talk or to be silent, so artlessly communicative, that Launcelot was sorry when the short walk was accomplished and she left him at the hall door. But they had not passed unobserved. Mr. Hamblyn had just crossed the lawn to speak to his sister as the two emerged from the shrubbery. 'ONLY SYBIL'S GOVERNESS' 147 * Who is that tall woman in the yellow gown walking with Chud- leigh ?' 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 carelessly ; and then in an undertone 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-coloured 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 anything but beautiful.' ' Nevertheless, it is not to my taste,' she replied with quiet pertinacity, ' and I think the gown hideous. Mamma would never have allowed a governess of ours to make herself so conspicuous, and I must say I wonder at Mrs. Chudleigh,' but Mr. Hamblyn merely laughed again, and shrugged his shoulders, as he crossed the lawn. Women always undervalue each other, he thought, but for his part he endorsed Mr. Grayling's opinion — he thought Miss Rossiter a superb creature ; perhaps he admired her all the more that she had repulsed his little attentions 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 there 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 upstairs to smarten themselves for the evening, they all wore cool summer 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. 'Qh Nora, you ought not to have changed your dress,' she said 10 — 2 148 ONLY THE GOVERNESS a little reproachfully, for Miss Hamblyn wore a charming demi- toilette of soft black gauze, trimmed with jet lace ; it is quite against our rule.' * I could not know that, my dear, could I ?' returned her friend with a smile, though she was perfectly aware of the fact. ' But nothing can be 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 he! friend's attire, which would throw them all in the shade, but Miss Hamblyn looked serenely unconscious of the girl's petulance as shf; drew 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 done with such good taste. He has been praising you all up to the 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.' ' Who — I ' but Bee tried not to look pleased. * It is so nice to see him look happy again, poor old fellow !' continued Miss Hamblyn, 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 matter-of-fact, and though it was perfectly true that she found the society of the handsome young barrister very seductive, she was not yet completely under his influence. ' He is always cheerful in your society, my dear,' returned her friend laughing ; ' but 1 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 sweetened 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. ' Lance calls it the Sanatorium, 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 'ONLY SYBIL'S GOVERNESS' 149 Nora, whose critical eyes noticed the old-fashioned furniture and rather shabby cretonne — every other room at the Witchens was fitted up handsomely and in modern style^ but Mrs. Chudleigh had kept for her own use the furniture she had used as a girl. Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait of her husband, a hand- some man, with Launcelot's eyes but with a sterner cast of coun- tenance, while the walls were covered with photographs of their children at different ages, in every variety of style and dress, 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 vase of flowers. In her children's eyes the mother's room was simply perfect, no seats were as comfortable as those old-fashioned easy-chairs, no couch like the one that stood in the window ; they regarded the various objects round them as sacred treasures. There was their father's writing-table, his favourite 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. Chudleigh used this room in the morning, she liked to write her letters undisturbed by the girls' chatter, but any invalid requiring quiet always found peaceful harbourage 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 ministering 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 arms again. ' I think it is a lovely room,' returned Bee, a little hurt at her friend's disparaging tone; Sve 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 Sanatorium.' ' That was very nice of him,' returned Miss Hamblyn vaguely, but in her own mind she thousrht the rockingr-chair would have been an improvement. The Chudleighs were certainly very con- servative and strong in their attachments ; she must take care not to offend their httle prejudices even if she could not understand them. She was very fond of her own mother, a gay handsome 150 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 detriment, but she never petted them ; she was ambitious and planned for their worldly advance- ment, but she could not have effaced herself for their sakes 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 spoilt as a child, and then as a girl kept rather too strictly; no high standard of duty had been placed before her. To be accom- plished, to make the best of her good looks, to dance well, and to make a satisfactory marriage — satisfactory, that is, in a worldly point of view — had been pointed out as her most serious duties. There had been no attempt 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 schoolroom 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 people 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 sister can be in one's way — but Sybil's governess !' ' Hush ! I am so afraid someone will hear you. Yes, I know what you mean,' for Bee had suffered more than one pang of jealousy on Miss Rossiter's account, and that very afternoon she had seen Mr. Hamblyn waylay her. ' I dare say you are right, and no doubt it is injudicious ; but mother and Pauhne are so devoted to her, and I must say she makes herself very necessary to us all.' ' I am afraid you are all making a mistake that you may live to repent,' returned the other sententiously. ' I remember a family once, where the governess was young and handsome, and the uncle— a rich man ' but here a low laugh from the curtained recess in the window startled the girls, and the next moment Miss 'ONLY SYBIL'S GOVERNESS' 151 Rossiter stepped down, looking very guilty and amused, with her hands held out in supplication : 'Do, please, forgive me; I could not help hearing what you said. I never thought you meant to go on,' — trying not to laugh, as Miss Hamblyn drew herself up in haughty displeasure. ' Don't say any more dreadful things about me, please ; they are not a bit true. I don't want to be in anyone's way, and I can't help them all being so kind to me ; even Bee,' — throwing her arms round her with a hearty kiss — ' Bee is very cross with me sometimes, but she is very good to me too, though I am " only Sybil's governess,'" with a gleam of fun in her eyes, as she looked at Miss Hamblyn. ' Listeners never hear any good of themselves ; you deserve all you have got,' returned Bee, who could not help laughing, but Miss Hamblyn looked solemnly displeased. She was in an awk- ward position, and she hated awkward positions. She was aware that she had regarded 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 was very annoying. This was her first evening at the Witchens, and she wanted everyone to regard her in a favourable light ; and now she had made Miss Rossiter her enemy. 'I am sure I never meant,' she began, stiffly, but the governess interrupted her with a light laugh : ' Please do not trouble yourself about a few words ; everyone has a right to his own opinion. I will undertake to forgive your unflattering estimate of me, if that is what you want,' and Miss Rossiter looked so indifferent and amused, that for once Miss Hamblyn felt small. She scarcely said a word as she followed Bee downstairs ; and it did not add to her enjoyment when she found herself seated at the table with j\Iiss Rossiter exactly oppo- site her, with Bernard and Oscar on each side of her, making herself equally agreeable to both. ' I hope I shall not get to hate her in time,' thought Nora, as she averted her eyes from the bright face and yellowish gown, and tried to carry on an animated discussion with Geoffrey on the merits of the last new book. 152 ONLY THE GOVERNESS CHAPTER XVIII. A CINDERELLA DANCE. * The mood of woman who can tell ?' ' A pretty lass though somewhat hasty.' If the afternoon had been a success it was generally allovred that the evening was a complete triumph. Even Mr. Hamblyn, who was a great authority in such matters, owned afterwards that for an impromptu ' small 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 evening. In spite of his sister's prudent warning, he had contrived to pay Beatrix 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 excellent use of any opportunity that occurred, that before they parted that night, both he and Beatrix felt that their intimacy had made a considerable stride. He had danced twice with Miss Rossiter, who, by Mrs. Chud- leigh's wish, had always taken part in all their entertainments. Miss Rossiter, who was passionately fond of dancing, could not find it in her heart to refuse so good a partner, but she* showed him so plainly that his attentions were repugnant to her, that Mr. Hamblyn, who had secretly preferred 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 brightened her eyes, and given fresh bloom to her cheek. She looked so fresh, so innocent, so piquante, 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 Alsfiers !' A CINDERELLA DANCE 153 'Why?' asked Bee innocently, as she played with her fan, but she blushed a little over the question. ' Need you ask ?" he returned softly. ' If we had not gone to Mentone 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 wonderfully 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 moustache. He was almost too 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 tremu- lously : ' I am not tired now, and mamma will be wanting me.' ' Do 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 himself; 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 another 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 disappoint- ment 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.' ' Dr. Maxwell,' she returned in a provoked tone, ' why will you always speak of yourself as though you were middle-aged, it is such nonsense making yourself out so old ?' ' I am two-and-thirty,' he returned, smiling a little at her girhsh brusquerie, ' is not that a grave age ?' ' No, of course not. Launcelot is thirty-two.' ' Oh, your brother, one would take him for two-and-twenty, he looks quite a boy, and he evidently enjoys dancing, for he has not sat out once.' ' Oh, Lance loves dancing and every sort of amusement. I am sure you would like it, if you tried.' But Dr. Maxwell shook his head. ' I am afraid you will not convert me, Miss Chudleigh, but I 154 ONLY THE GOVERNESS like to watch you all. You seem so happy. I wish Prissy could have been here, she begged hard to come, but it was hardly prudent.' ' But 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 throwing herself back.' ' So Charlotte says.' * Oh, we should all of us be lost without Charlotte, she is my mother's right hand, and mine too; and as for Brenda, she is utterly dependent on her. I have never seen two sisters so de- voted to each other. IMay 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 on 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 discontented 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 humour.' ' Charlotte is a great goose.' 'And I am a goose, too, for beheving her, I suppose,' laughing merrily. 'No, it will not do. Dr. Maxwell, I prefer Charlotte's opinion ; discontented people are always cross.' ' Indeed you are wrong,' more earnestly than the case 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 views of duty. ' I have my moods of discouragement like other people. I am often very discontented, not to say morose, only one need not show it. I suppose we would all of us like to choose our environ- ment, and I must own a few thousand pounds in the funds would sweeten existence.' Pauline elevated her eyebrows, but did not answer ; this state- ment 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. Riversleigh is not the place for either Brenda or Prissy, we are too near the river. Riversleigh 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. I could not find a suitable house in the town, and I have Bridge House on lease. Prissy ought to go to Montreux or A CINDERELLA DANCE 155 Mentone again this winter to escape the river fogs, but I know we shall not be able to manage it' - 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 I 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 hall, 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. Maxv/ell, waking 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 naive ; the world has not spoilt her yet. Most people admire the elder sister, and I suppose 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 bid him good-night, that he had done 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 liked Miss Ivlainwaring'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 cheer- ful and talkative ; but he still thought her ' earthly,' and the term was conclusive in his mind. Towards 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 beating 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. T56 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' I think you had better choose another partner ; there is Miss Hamblyn sitting down in the corner.' 'Ah, I never dance more than three times with any lady ; besides, I want to dance this valse with you.' Launcelot's tone w^as a httle peremptory, and perhaps Miss Rossiter felt she must not disobey the master of the house, for she let him put his arm round 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. 'That was delicious! We must have one turn more,' he pleaded as she stopped. ' You do not mean to say you are tired?' ' No ; but I would rather not dance any more,' she returned so decidedly that he had no option but to take her to a seat. He felt a little puzzled at her evident reluctance to dance with him. He had seen her dancing with Geoffrey, and, indeed, she had re- fused no one who had asked her. He knew she was not tired. She was a little pale with pleasure and excitement, that w^as all. ' I am afraid I didn't satisfy you,' he said in rather a piqued tone. ' Oh, Mr. Chudleigh ! and you dance so beautifully. You have been quite the best partner I have had this evening, though Mr. Hamblyn waltzes well.' ' Then why have you cut short my pleasure?' he persisted. ' It was very 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 w^as 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 as though she had hardly under- stood him. ' Come, I am very obstinate by nature, and I want to argue this A CINDERELLA DANCE is? out for my own peace of mind. I like dancing with you more than with anyone 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 ; but he determined he would have it out with her soon. He 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 days her satisfaction was less complete. It was evident that the fascinating Nora had found no favour 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 once offered to be of the party. ' Of course you will go with them, Geoffrey,' he would say in a cool off-hand manner. He even lent his horse to Geoffrey that he might ride with Miss Hamblyn. Bee did not dare grumble openly, for the young master of the house was a privileged person, and no one ventured to criticise his movements ; but she hinted pettishly now and then that she wished that tiresome picture was done, for she wanted Nora to think that only press of business made Launcelot shut himself up all day in his studio. But one afternoon when Geoffrey and Miss Hamblyn had started for a ride, Launcelot came into the morning-room, and asked Pauline if she cared to walk down to Overton with him. ' I have some business at the post-office and the bank, and as I have been working all the morning, a quick walk will do me good.' Pauline was delighted at the idea. A walk with Launcelot was always a much-cov<^ted pleasure ; but Bee, who was writing notes, looked up in rather an aggrieved manner. ' I thought you were so busy. Lance, 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 care less answer, and then mischief prompted him to add : ' I think Geoff is just a little bit soft on your fair friend.' ' Nonsense, Lance ! how can you be so absurd?' and Bee looked quite annoyed. ' Geoffrey is far too sensible to think of such a 158 ONLY THE GOVERNESS thing. Do you suppose a girl like Nora would have anything to do with a briefless barrister, a younger son, too ? Nora will marry well, or not at all' ' Geoff will not always be a briefless barrister, my dear. He is a rising 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 never 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 Hamblyn might think I was in love with her, and I assure you that I never intend to introduce her as your future sister-in-law.' 'Oh, Lance, 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 ihan you are to Nora. Oh, I know how you can be when you like people ; but it is evi- dent 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 favourite. I really believe the silly child is disap- pointed because I have not fallen in love with Miss Hamblyn.' ' Oh no. Lance,' 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.' ' VVhat 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 expects attention from gentlemen, and Bee is disap- pointed because you never offer to escort 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, A CINDERELLA DANCE 159 ' Bee is very fond of Nora, and thinks 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 fact that she was Oscar Hamblyn's sister. Pauline would not have betrayed Bee's little secret for the world. 'I suppose that fellow will turn up again on Saturday?' was Launcelot's next question. ' Whom do you mean — i\Ir. Hamblyn ? Oh yes, and he will take Nora back with him. Of course we shall see them often on our Saturdays.' ' 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 cannot deny that. Huldah does not like him either.' ' Miss Rossiter shows her discernment. She is a sensible young woman ;' and then he became silent all at once, for a charm- ing face 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 been 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, Lance ; we shall have a heavy shower directly, 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. Maxwell, 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 i6o ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 house. 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 ladylike-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 this Aunt Myra, or rather, I should say. Miss Royston,' laying his hand on the shoulder of a tiny bird-like woman with gray hair, who sat by her knitting. 'How do you do, Mr. Chudleigh?' responded Miss Royston in a chirpy voice, and her small face brightened with smiles. ' I am glad to see you again, my dear,' slipping a soft little hand into Pauline's, for in spite of her blindness Aunt Myra was the most sociable creature in the v>'orld, and when she liked a person's voice, nothing pleased her so much as to welcome her again. But Launcelot's attention was drawn to the motionless bright- eyed figure on the invalid couch, and when Dr. IMaxwell 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 counte- nance. Miss Maxwell was young, indeed quite a girl ; but suffering had worn and sharpened all the youthful lines, and robbed her face of colouring ; but the features were fine, the forehead broad and benevolent, and the large eyes were wonderfully calm and clear, while nothing could exceed the beauty of the hands that lay on the silken coiivre-picds. 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 favourite study with me, and I am so glad Charlotte and I learnt Italian when we were younger — a translation always impoverishes a poet's language.' ' It is full of noble and graceful images,' returned Launcelot, taking the book in his hand and glancing at the stanza she had just been reading. * *' Salve Regina " on the grass and flowers Here chanting I beheld those spirits sit. Who not beyond the valley could be seen. A CINDERELLA DAXCE i6i ' I thought I v^-ould make a picture of that once,' he went on. ' The whole scene is so steeped in tranquilUty and fragrance, the row of gentle penitents waiting so meekly for their allotted task of self-purification, guarded by the two angels in vesture " green as the tender leaves but nevv'ly born," and the lithe folds of the creep- ing 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 anyone.' 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 ?' ' 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. Chudleigh, but it is the fact, that I have an immense interest in my own personality ; 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 convey, 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. CHAPTER XIX. ' EUT THERE IS ERICA.' ' God bless her, poor thing ! she would bring all mankind to better thoughts if she could.' — Fair Maid of Ferth, Launcelot was in the midst of a description of Florence, to which Miss Maxwell was listening with rapt attention, when they heard the hall door open, and the next moment Charlotte entered II 1 62 ONLY THE GOVERNESS followed by a fair delicate girl, whom her brother addressed as Prissy. ' It is very convenient to have a house doctor, is it not ?' ob- served Brenda with a smile, when he had ordered Prissy with good-humoured peremptoriness to take off her wet waterproof and change her boots without a minute's delay. Prissy obeyed reluct- antly ; she was evidently a spoilt child. ' Hedley is quite rights 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 her- self 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 massive silver teapot and cream-jug and beautiful china; the diamond rings on Mrs. Maxwell's and Miss Royston's fingers ; 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 had subdued her naturally high spirits ; but when Dr. Maxwell had been called away to a patient, she spoke of him to Launcelot with much feeling. ' My son is ever}'thing to me,' she said. ' What would these poor girls have done without him ?' and then she looked at Brenda, and sighed ; ' it is a heavy burthen for a young man, is it not, ]\Ir. Chudleigh?' ' I am quite sure from the little I have seen of Dr. ^laxwell that he bears his burthens 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 his w^omankind. I assure you I speak from ex- perience,' — at which they all laughed. The rain still continued to fall heavily, so Launcelot proposed that he should go alone to Priory Road and call for Pauline when it had cleared 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 "without a word, wheeled her sister's couch into the back part of the room, so that she might not be tired by too many voices. 'BUT THERE IS ERICA ' 163 * Thank you, Char,' she said brightly, ' but you need not go away ; sit down by me and rest yourself wdiile Miss Chudleigh and I talk. It w^ill do you good,' taking her hand caressingly, but Charlotte shook her head. ' You must not tempt me, my dear. I must write to Sophy and tell her what I nave done at the stores ; she will want to know when to expect her things. Hedley 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 seem to mind it. I was so glad she had that evening's play at your house ; it did her so much good.' ' Ah, she must, come to us every Saturday, and Prissy too ; our friends have car^e 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 for the dancing.' ' Oh, we do not dance every Saturday, only now and then ; it is just a garden party : people meet their friends and play tennis.' ' Yes, Hedley said it was charming ; there was no stiffness or restraint, 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 is something so real and true about him ; and then he is so sympathetic — few young men would know how to talk to an invalid.' ' Lance is not a bit like other young men.' ' No ; one could see that in a moment. I think I puzzled him a little telling him I did not want to change places with anyone ; he looked so surprised.' ' I think I was surprised too 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 help- lessness 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 un- derstand you one bit,' and then Brenda laughed quite merrily. ' I dare say it does seem strange to people, but I can't help my feelings. I am a great deal too fond of myself, but think what I have battled 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 II — 2 i64 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Pauline, speaking out of the inexperience of her strong vigorous youth. ' How do you know that ?' was the quick response. ' I am tremendously 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 Hedley and Prissy; and I. must not forget Aunt Myra — Aunt Myra is an angel.' ' She seems very cheerful too in spite of her blindness,' for during the pauses in their conversation they could hear Miss Royston's chirping 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 pros- pect, 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 pastures by the River of Life. I should not want to rest. I have had rest enough here. I would just move on in that pure unearthly light and air, talking first to one and then another. Oh, it will be glorious !' 'You speak as though you could see it all,' said Pauline rather enviously, for though she was a good girl, and said her prayers carefully, and was more thoughtful than most young people, she had not reached Brenda's standard. ' Of course Aunt Myra and I see it ; what would be the use of believing it at all if it did not make one's life happier ? Sometimes when I lie awake, because my poor back is so bad, I cannot help longing for the end to come quickly ; but Hedley says there is no chance of that, that I have far too much vitality in me, and that it is possible that I may five a great many years unless any fresh complications arise.' ' Well, does not that make you unhappy ?' ' Not often, though, of course, I am depressed at times like other invalids, and then Charlotte and Hedley are so good to me because they know I cannot 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 enjoyment, and that it will be really I who will enjoy all the good things. So no wonder I would not change places with anybody, and if you were to talk to Aunt Myra you would find that she felt the same.' 'BUT THERE IS ERICA ' 165 * 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 stay in bed for years, and to spend their days alone, while I am able to use this nice couch, and be with my dear ones all day long. Do you know, Charlotte 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 use the 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 soon again ?' ' Indeed I will,' returned Pauline earnesdy, 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, I like those people,' observed Launcelot with hearty emphasis, as they recrossed Overton Bridge. ' Mrs. Maxwell is a most ladylike woman, and as for poor Miss Maxwell, she seems a fine intelligent creature. I quite approve of your new friends, my dear. It is an education to be amongst such women. I wish Bee had shared your good taste.' ' I am so glad you like them. Lance,' returned his sister. * Yes ; and I shall ask Dr. Maxwell to dine w^hen Thorpe comes next week. He has not fixed the day yet ; I v/ant them to know each other. By-the-bye, Paul, I was sorry you were not with me ; ]\Iiss 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 himself, quite unexpectedly, for he had written to say that he might be detained for days ! I was so pleased to see him.' ' And he has really promised to come next week ?' * Yes ; he made no sort of objection, and he looked pleased when I said I should ask Dr. Maxwell to meet him. He does not seem quite the thing, rather hipped. I saw Miss Thorpe was watching him somewhat anxiously. I am afraid he has rather a dull life, poor fellow.' ' Perhaps he wants his wife back ?' hazarded Pauline, who was aware of the bare facts of the case. ' It does seem so dreadful, Lance, when married people find they cannot get on with each other.' i66 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' People ought to have more forbearance with each other, my dear ; most hkely 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 Dr. Maxwell, I am sure,' rephed Pauhne, whose thoughts were still dwelling on her friends, and to this Launcelot yielded a warm assent, and the long walk was very pleasant to them both, as they exchanged their ideas on the excellences of the Maxwell family. The follovving 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 dovrn his brushes and palettes in a hurry. The lawn w^as almost empty, but a group of young people were chatting 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 Launcelot that Bee looked a little conscious and confused. ' I am glad you have put in an appearance at last, Lance,' she said, with meaning emphasis on the words ' at last.' ' Nora 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 putting 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 httle provoking. ' You have played your cards badly there, I am afraid, Nora,' he had said, with the brutal frankness to which some brothers are addicted, ' 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,' 'BUT THERE IS ERICA ' 167 * I do not think he is a marrying man,' returned Nora, with the utmost composure, though she had winced a Httle at this plain speaking ; ' but I have ahvays 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 a dear girl.' ' I am beginning to be of the same opinion myself,' he returned coolly ; but here Nora looked at him rebukingly, and held up an admonishing linger. ' Oscar, I do hope you mean to be careful.' ' Come, now, no preaching ; you know I never interfere with your little games, Nora.' ' No, 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 flirtation ; her brother would not like it, and we should both be banished from the Witchens. You are a dangerous person, Oscar; you make girls think you are in love with 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 deceiving yourself or me ; it will not do, Oscar, at any price. Bee has not more than five 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 cannot mean that you are really thinking of it ? You are only trying to frighten me? Of course I should love to have Bee for a sister-in-law, but there is Erica ; now it is no use your looking* angry whenever I mention Erica's name — much as you try the poor girl, I 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 the 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 1 68 ONLY THE GOVERNESS and Erica are cousins, and that your attentions mean nothing but cousinly affection. When there are two thousand a year in the case, attentions generally mean a good deal ; especially when the gentleman has college debts and wants a little capital' ' Nora, you are enough to drive a fellow crazy ; if you told Miss Chudleigh that I was engaged to my cousin Erica, you told a con- founded 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 because I give you a word of sisterly advice, all for your good ? Is it not understood between us that we are never to interfere with each other's little plans ? Of course I have not breathed a word about Erica's existence 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 think you ought to consider Erica ; if ever a girl was fond of a man, that girl is Erica.' * I wish she would not show her fondness, then, by being jealous of every woman to whom I say a civil word. I know if I were engaged to her to-morrow, she would make my life miserable ; her own want of beauty has soured her, I believe, for she will not tolerate a pretty face.' ' Oscar, I do 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 sister, during which Oscar looked out of the window and thought of Bee's pretty blushing face. Just 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 cannot 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 look 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 'BUT THERE IS ERICA ' 169 whistle — ' of course you will tell me it is not my afiliir, but it is evident to me that Erica considers you bound to her.' ' Perhaps both you and she will find yourselves mistaken one day,' Avas the imperturbable answer, and then his manner changed, and he said a little roughly, ' Look here, Nora, if things are to be pleasant between 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 suc- ceeded 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 mdispensable to him, and he knew that every tie of honour 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 grown 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 better 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 Saturday, poor little thing, she will be disappointed — and I pro- mised to go down — never mind, perhaps something will turn up to keep me in town. I need not bother my head about it now,' and the result of this vacillating policy was that Oscar did not go down to the Witchens that Saturday, and many succeeding ones, and that the complication showed no signs of growing clearer, while certain reproachful letters, with the signature ' Erica Stewart,' began to accumulate in the secret drawer of Oscar's desk. CHAPTER XX. 'l DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS.' * She has a quick and lively imagination and keen feelings, which are apt to exaggerate both the good and evil they find in life.' — Guy Manner ing. ' I cannot endure the sight of woman's tears.' — Ivanhoe. Launcelot was making such progress with his picture that he hoped to complete it in another fortnight or three weeks. The sittings had long ceased, but as yet there had been no opportunity I70 ONLY THE GOVERNESS for coming to an understanding with Miss Rossiter ; ever since that dance it had seemed to Launcelot that she had kept more than usual to the schoolroom, and that she was never to be seen without her little pupils. She had always been accustomed to spend her evenings in the dravv'ing-room and to join in anything 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 writting letters, or that Pauline and she had retired to the schoolroom to study Itahan together. One day he encountered 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, ' v/e 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 us as much as possible lately ?' asked 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 with a gleam of fun in her eyes ; but her tone was perfectly demure. ' Is it because grown-up people fatigue you that you have ceased to give us your company in the evening?' he asked pointedly. ' Why have you punished us by this desertion. Miss Rossiter ? why are we to miss the 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 Pauline and I wanted to get on with our Italian, and there was no other quiet time.' ' I must speak to Pauline,' he returned seriously. * I cannot 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 too busy to sing to us to-night.' '/ DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS' 171 * Oh, if you wish it,' she returned quickly. ' I did not mean to make myself disagreeable ; but one is not always in the mood to sing, and it is possible that one may be busy at times. But if you and Mrs. Chudleigh wish to hear me sing I have no right to refuse.' ' JMiss Rossiter, 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 favour. Oh, you know what I mean ; you were only pretending to misunderstand me.' ' It is no pretence to recognise my own position,' a little proudly. ' I never forget for one moment that I am only the governess. I have to be under orders, as you call it. I like to carry out all Mrs. Chudleigh's wishes ; it makes me happy only to serve her. If she wishes me to sing to her I would try to do my best, if I were as hoarse as a raven. I love her so, that I would be her servant if she needed me.' Launcelot looked at her ver}^ 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 towards the house, and she still held Dossie's hand. ' I think I loved her the 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 they 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 have your opinion ;' and as she hesitated, he continued a little im- patiently, ' You need not fear I shall detain you, and the children will like to see it.' And then she followed him v/ithout another word. But Launcelot knit his brows as he undid the curtain that hung before the unfinished picture. ' Does she guess anything from my manner ?' he thought anxiously. ' For some reason or other she is unwiUing 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 he stepped back from his picture. ' Well,' he said gaily, ' what do you think of it ? Do you re- cognise yourself, Elizabeth ?' 172 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Oh !' she returned earnestly, and he could see the surprise and awe in her eyes, ' it is far too beautiful for me ; it is a lovely pic- ture. Oh, how sad and frightened she looks, that poor Elizabeth ! and how the waves are washing to her feet — you can almost hear them ; and the youngest 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 cannot 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 conscious, 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 r she said, and there was a sob in her voice. ' It is her fate, and she cannot escape it ; and there is despair in her face, for she knows it is her fate.' ' My dear Miss Rossiter !' he remonstrated, for Sybil was look- ing at her in astonishment. And then he said quietly, ' You have walked too far, and you are tired. Sit down for a moment, and I will bring you a glass of wine. Stop with her, Dossie, and Sybil come with me,' for he was afraid of Sybil's sharp, curious glances. ' She is very emotional,' he thought, as he got the wine. ' I wonder why she was upset at seeing the picture ? She is far too sensitive about things.' Miss Rossiter had recovered herself during his brief absence ; she even laughed a little when she saw the glass of wine in his hand. ' How foolibh I am !' she said, in a tone of apology. ' I suppose after all I must have over-tired myself; and somehow that picture gave me a turn — I sat for it, you know — and it is so sad, and I do not like sad things.' ' No,' he returned cheerfully, ' the sunshine suits you best ; but you are better now, are you not ?' ' Oh yes ; much better. Come, Dossie, w^e must not hinder Mr. Chudleigh any longer.' ' One moment more,' detaining her. 'You will be in the draw- ing-room this evening ? I have a friend coming, and we want to have some music' ' Very w^ell. Shall you show your friend that picture ?' she a:ked quickly. 'I DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS' 173 *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 ? some- times I fancy she has. 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 be 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. He had 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 walking slowly up and down the long shrubbery path ; the young man with his head bent down a little, Dossie with her hands clasped round his arm, and her small, eager face upturned to his. ' I wonder what you and Mr. Chudleigh were talking about, Dossie ?' Miss Rossiter would say, putting back the child's long fair 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 in- variable reply, and sometimes it would be, ' I wanted to show my letter to Mr. Lance, but he says he is going to write to father him- self,' for, with his usual unselfishness and good nature, Launcelot wrote brief graphic accounts of Dossie to poor Jack, which were supplemented by long womanly ones from Aunt Delia. How the poor exile gloated over these letters, how his eyes gleamed at the sight of them ! Dossie's childish effusions were read until they were threadbare. Jack knew some of the simple sentences by heart. ' You must not think that I forget you, father dear, because I am so happy here, for I am always thinking 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, I mean to marry Mr. 174 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Lance because I love him 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 sweet- heart ?' 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 beautiful faith of childhood, that creates its own happiness ! God bless you, old fellow, for maldng 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 Weston.' One Sunday afternoon when the two little girls were sitting with him under the big elm on the lawn, Sybil said rather fretfully, fo'- she was accustomed to be spoilt by her brothers : ' You do not like Dossie better than me, do you. Lance ? 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 surprise. ' 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 favourite'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 me, so of course she is our little girl, 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 Rossiter once that when she grew up to be a woman she meant to marry you. Oh, they thought I 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.' Launcelot 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 dishonourable, and 1 did not think my little sister could behave so badly,' and as Sybil coloured 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 */ DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS 175 mine too, and no one shall find fault with our affection for each other. God knows I cannot afford to lose even a child's love, so I am not ungrateful for yours,' and so saying he vdped 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 afterwards to Miss RosGiter ; to his surprise she listened with unvronted gravity. ' Dossie is very young for her age — Sybil would never have made such a speech — but she is the most innocent child.' ' I hope she may long 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 she has more colour 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 happier than to arrange flowxrs 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, ' ]\Irs. Chudleigh will be so glad 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 way w^ith 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. I see you are 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. ' Remember,' as she turned away, with the children as usual hanging upon her, ' we must have all the nicest songs to- night, for Dr. 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 I have managed badly,' he thought with some 176 OXLY THE GOVERNESS annoyance. ' Those little monkeys made me forget the time ; it is an 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 carelessness. 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 ? are you ill ? something has happened ?' for her face was quite white, and there was a curious frightened expression in her eyes, an expression he had never seen in them before, and yet which struck him as strangely familiar. "What could it mean ? A quarter of an hour ago she had parted from him smiling and radiant, and now she was shrinking 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 effort. ' It is only that I do not feel quite well. I am a little faint — and — and giddy.' ' This is the second time to-day ; you alarm me. Miss Rossiter ; your hand 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 anyone look so ill' ' I will take it if you will tell no one — no one at all, I^Ir. Chud- leigh,' detaining him nervously. ' I do not wish anyone 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 step, 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 terrified, appalled look was in Miss Rossiter's eyes, too, and yet it was only illness, and not deadly peril, advancincf to meet her. What did it mean ? what could it mean ? '/ DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS' 177 and it was with a very grave face that Launcelot entered the draw- ing-room and made apologies to his guests. Once or twice during the progress of that long dinner Mrs. Chudleigh looked anxiously at her stepson. She thought Launce- lot was a little distrait and not quite in his usual spirits. ' Those children have tired you with their chatter, Lance,' she said once ; but Launcelot disclaimed this with a smile. No one else at the table noticed his gravity. Dr. ^Maxwell was talking to Geoffrey and Pauline. Bee, who had very pretty manners, w^as 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 gentleman had adjourned to the drawing-room, and then Pauline spoke to Launcelot. ' Is it not a pity, Lance ?' she said in a vexed tone. ' Huldah has a dreadful headache, and is obliged to go to bed, and all our prettiest quartettes 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 Dr. Maxwell would prescribe for her? Or we could send for Egerton,' and there was no mistaking Launce- lot's anxiety ; but Pauline took it all very coolly. ' Nonsense, Lance ! 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 Launcelot thoughtfully. ' So the children say. I went into the schoolroom to question them ; Sybil says they were all laughing together, and that Huldah noticed Puff, the gray kitten you know, was mewing to be let out, so she carried her down the corridor. They were iVi the middle of a game. Huldah was teaching them, so they waited impatiently for her to come back ; but to their surprise she did not come, and by-and-by Dossie found her lying on her bed, and complaining of intense headache. Dossie wanted to bathe her head with eau de Cologne and water, but Huldah only begged 12 lyS ONLY THE GOVERNESS to be left alone. I do not mean to let mother go to her, because talking makes her so much worse j and I dare say she \Yill soon fall asleep.' ' The music will not disturb her ?' ' Oh no, she will not even hear it ; at least, I think not. Oh, there is Bee playing an accompaniment ; we must go in. Lance,* 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 to see 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 unconscion- able 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 pretended to grumble at Launce- lot's obstinate refusal to admit him into the studio. ' I thought I was to see that picture and write a critique in the " Imperial Re- view," ' 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 com- pleted then, and we will have our coffee in the studio.' 'Very well; let me see, that will be Wednesday, August 3. I will try not to disappoint you. Now shall we go to the ter- race ? You are right, this cigar has a fine flavour. I smoke very rarely, and never unless I can get a choice cigar ; pipes were never in my line.' * I am glad you are satisfied with it,' returned Launcelot ab- sently, but it may be doubted whether he heard Mr. Thorpe's encomium. They were standing together on the gravel path out- side the drawing-room window, in a broad patch of silvery moon- light ; the schoolroom window 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 Miss Rossiter's pale face w^as looking down upon them, though it was 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 towards the terrace ; ' she told me once she hated the smell of tobacco ;' and then he wondered why Pauline had given him the impress / DO NOT LIKE SAD THINGS' 179 sion that Miss Rossiter had retired to rest. ' Unless my eyes deceived me she was still in her black lace dress/ he said to him- self ; ' well, I will make her tell me all about it to-morrow ;' and then he roused himself for one of those scholarly discussions in which the soul of Mr. Thorpe delighted, but this evening he was scarcely as brilHant as usual. ' To-morrow I will set the seal to my fate !' was his last thought that night before drowsiness overcame him ; but, alas ! circumstances did not favour this resolve. To his chagrin, Launcelot found, on opening his letters the next morning, that important trustee business summoned him to Cornwall, where he was likely to be detained for several days, and that it would be necessary 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 Fortesque and Burroughs about two or three things ; it is an awful nuisance !' ' I am so sorry, Lance,' returned Mrs. Chudleigh in a sympa- thising voice ; ' it is hard for you to have that long journey and all that trouble on other people's account.' ' Oh, 1 am getting lazy,' he replied with an effort to speak brighdy ; ' 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 pre- sently 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 Egerton.' ' Certainly, Lance. You need not be afraid ; your poor father always said I was always too ready to send for a doctor.' ' It is generally wise to do so, and so many things begin with a headache,' returned Launcelot — a speech which did not con- duce to his stepmother'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 hedgerows in the moonlight that night, his thoughts recurred persistently to the white-strained eyes and pale face that had starded him the preceding evening. ' It must have been a nervous attack,' he thought uneasily ; ^that fixed miserable look could hardly proceed from a head- 12 — 2 I So ONLY THE GOVERNESS ache.' And then he fell into a troubled doze and dreamt that the Witchens was on fire, and that Miss Rossiter stood at an upper windo\Y 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 disappeared 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.* ■ — 772e A)2tiqnary. ' I love not mystery or doubt.' — Rokehy. 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 rela- tive of the afflicted lad, and trying to smooth matters for the harassed widow. With this 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 who he thought would combine 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 were on a proper footing, and he could conscientiously free himself, he set his face homeward, and counted the hours with boyish impatience, as though the long journey would never be at an end. All this time a curious heimweh and a vague sense of trouble had kept him restless. He had never longed so much to be at home. Every delay fretted him ; he felt almost like a schoolboy when he saw his luggage put on the waggonette that was to take him to the station. He had heard twice from Airs. Chudleigh; but though her letters were as thoughtful and appreciative as ever, for the first time they failed to satisfy him. ; they seemed to tell him everything but what he most wished to know. 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.' 'SHE IS NOT TREATING US WELL* i8i And the second letter was still more unsatisfactory. ' 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 Y\-e notice anything is amiss.' ' There is something troubling her ; but I mean to convince her that her trouble is mine too,' thought Launcelot, as he leant back 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 heart seemed 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 eyes ? He reached London the next morning ; but, as he had a busi- ness interview 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 Witchens looked a pleasant abode. A cool summer breeze was blowing across Brentwood Common, rippling the leaves of the trees. He knevf they would all be gathered on the terrace to watch the sunset. x\s he drove in at the gate he could see the red^ glow behind the beeches and firs in Colonel Madison'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 is nothing like England.' And she had persisted in this opinion in spite of all Bee's arguments to the contrary. Yes, of course they were all there. Nevertheless he walked straight into the drawing-room, and found to his surprise that his stepmother was sitting alone reading in her favourite chair by the window, that overlooked the great cedar. She gave a little exclamation of pleasure when she saw Launcelot. ' Well,' he said, bending over her affectionately, ' have you waited here for me ? I suppose the others are on the terrace as usual ?' ' Yes, dear ; but I soon left them, for I thought you might arrive tired, and there would be no one to speak to you. We did i82 ONLY THE GOVERNESS not wait dinner, Lance, because you said things were to be as usual ; and I know how you disHke any fuss.' 'You are quite right, Madella, and I have already dined sumptu- ously at my club. Fawcett dined with me.' And then he briefly sketched the outline of his day's business, his interview at Lincoln's Lin, the letters 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, Lance,' observed his step- mother quietly. ' You have done two days' work in one, and after travelling 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 se.tle. Do you think that poor boy w^ill ever be able to manage his own affairs ?' But Launcelot shook his head in answer 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. Lance. I wonder you ever undertook it.' ' How could I refuse ? Such an old friend, too. Never mind, Madella, my shoulders are broad enough for any amount of burthens. Is^ow tell me, what has been worrying you ?' in a coax- ing voice. ' Oh, Lance, 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 bell and gave the order, delighted to do anything for her boy's comfort, he turned his face to the window a moment, and a swift undefinable expression passed over it, blotting out its bright- ness ; 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 per- plexities with her yeung adviser. 'SHE IS NOT TREATING US WELL' 183 ' She is not treating us well, Launcelot,' she complained. ' You know how fond we all are of her ; indeed, if she were my own daughter I 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 kind Miss Rossiter is in her schoolroom 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 she cannot possibly stay with us any longer.' * Madella !' but Launcelot was capable of no other word. What- ever he had expected to hear, it was not this. The Witchens without Miss Rossiter ! The mere thought seemed to hurt him physically and take away his breath. ' Did you ever hear of such a thing, to leave us without a vestige of excuse, for I cannot get her to tell me her reason ; she only cries as though her heart will break, and says that it is not caprice, but that she must go, and yet in the same breath she say5 that she has never been so happy anywhere else.' 'And she will not tell you her reason?' * No ; 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, Launcelot. I can do nothing with her; she actually wants to leave us at 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 friendless.' A dark flush crossed Launcelot's brow. ' Does she say so, Madella?' * 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 anyone been speaking to her? I mean-ydo you imagine ' but here T^rs. 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 unbounded 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. ' I do not know what to think,' she finished hopelessly. i84 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' 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 begged 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 doing some accounts in the morning-room she came in and said she must speak to me. I thought her manner strange, she looked very pale and excited, and then without a ^- ork of explana- tion she said very quickly just what I have told you, that we must not think her ungrateful for all our kindness, but she had made up her mind to leave the Witchens ; that she could not stay any longer, and that I must find another governess for Dossie and Sybil — at least it was to this effect, for I cannot remember her exact words.' ' And what was your answer, Madella ?' ' Well, Lance, 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 say, 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 v.-as her duty, and nothing could keep her ; and then Pauline came in, and matters only grew worse, and she was so hysterical at last that we dare not say 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 'SHE IS NOT TREATING US WELL' 185 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 she never found her unreasonable or wanting in good sense, and that we must wait for your return. " Lance 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 try to believe me when I tell you this is not the case, that necessity compels me to leave you, though I cannot 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 ; yes, 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 consolation 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.' ' 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 re- main.' '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 voice. I cannot explain now, but somehow I fancy we understand each 1 86 ONLY THE GOVERNESS other. In whatever way I act, promise me you will not be vexed with me, Madella.' ' No,' she returned gently, ' I shall not be vexed.' But it may be doubted if she really comprehended his meaning. Vexed with Launcelot ! Had she ever been angry with him in her life ? Were not all his actions good and sound in her eyes ? ' Thank you,' he said, pressing her hand ; and then he went outside in the dusky light and greeted his sister and Geoffrey. The first glance showed him Miss Rossiter was not of the party ; but he took no apparent notice of this fact until Pauline drew him aside. ' You have heard about Huldah, Lance ?' * 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 cannot understand Huldah at all. Every moment she contradicts herself; and yet w^e 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 afterwards 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 guessed anything from his manner lately ? had it been jess guarded and friendly than usual? had she taken alarm at the notion that she had found favour 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 nrudish woman would not have felt herself offended by such gentl'^ kindly attentions. No ; it could not be this that was driving her so re- luctantly 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 eyes, 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 learning their lessons as usual. So he shut himself in his studio on the pretence of work ; but he did not even uncover his picture. He wrote a few business letters, sorted and tore up an accumula- tion 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 shook hands with her quietly. 'SHE IS NOT TREATING US WELL 187 She did not raise her eyes or speak to him, but passed quickly to her seat, 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 dismay. She certainly looked very ill. A sort of dimness had crept over her beauty ; a dejection and paleness that filled him with pity. What had become of her pure and radiant bloom ? the light silvery laughter that had always been so musical in his ears ? the bright, quaint speeches that had enlivened the meals? He had never seen her sit there before silent and quenched and spiritless, speaking to no one, never raising her eyes ; and yet he could not address her. It was a blessing that Bee was more than usually talkative. She was full of an expected treat that afternoon. The Hamblyns had had a box at the Albert Hall offered them ; an unusually attractive concert was to take place that evening, and Nora had written to invite both her and Pauline. They were to remain the night, and Lady Hamblyn had promised to drive them home the following afternoon. Geoffrey would be there, 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. Chudleigh in a low tone to Miss Rossiter; but Launcelot heard every word. ' I was thinking of going into town, and the shops al^-ays please them, and you may be glad of the 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 andDossie,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 httle girl ! she wonders why I did not talk to her about her friend,' he thought, and then he 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 schoolroom, or whether he should send her a message, ^'hen to his rehef he saw her slowly crossing the lawn in the direction of the shrubbery, and at once made up his mind to follow her. i88 ONLY THE GOVERNESS It was an intensely hot July afternoon ; scarcely a leaf rustled, and only the white butterflies seemed to enjoy the cloudless sun- shine, 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 burnt 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 sunshade 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, ^liss 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 XXn. ' I CAN HELP YOU, HULDAII.' ' He writhed — then sternly manned his heart To play his hard but destined part.' Lofd 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 sup- ported the sunshade trembled slightly ; but there was no further protest on her part. She had no right to send the master of the house away, however irksome his presence might be to her, but neither would she offer him the least encouragement to remain ; so she did not draw away her dress to make room for him on the seat. Launcelot took no notice of this^- however. There was a 'I CAN HELP YOU, HULDAH' 189 low stump of a tree just by, on which he seated himself; the position was convenient, as he could see her face plainly. He was soon sensible that this arrangement embarrassed the young governess ; she glanced at him uneasily, and then looked away. ' Miss Rossiter,' he began quietly, and no one but he himself knew how unevenly his heart \vas beating, ' of course I have heard everything from Madella. She tells me that you have made up your mind to leave us.' She bowed her head at this, as though speech were difficult, and Launcelot went on in the same smooth even voice : ' You are unwilhng to remain any longer as Sybil's governess ; will you answer me one question frankly ? Has anyone in this house given you any just cause for complaint ?' ' No — no !' she returned eagerly, and her eyes filled with tcr.rs. * 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 little 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 cannot share it,' with evident misunderstanding of his meaning. ' I can never tell my trouble to anyone ; 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 no woman could have mistaken the meaning of his look, and indeed no living woman had ever seen those gray eyes dark and vivid with intense feeling — ' why should I not tell you the truth ?' Then she shrank away from him and covered up her face, and he heard her say amidst her wild weeping, that he must never speak to her in that way again, for she could never be his dearest — never — never; and he must not love her, and then her voice was choked 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 was as gentle as ever. ' Why may I not love you, dear ?' 190 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Because — because — oh, I am a wicked girl, but I never meant this ! I never dreamt of this ! God knows I would not have been so wicked. Mr. Chudleigh ' — hardly able to bring out her words, and he could see 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 are so good and true that you will soon get over your feeling for such a miserable creature, for I am not — I am not what you think me.' ' I cannot help that,' he answered doggedly, and the set purpose of his tone seemed to frighten her ; ' whatever you are, I cannot 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 deceived 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 set his teeth hard, as though he were in mortal agony ; his whole frame seemed to quiver as though he had received 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 done no moral wrong, for I could not know, how could I ? that such feelings would be an offence to you. Try to forget what I have just said, and consider me your 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 sprang from his seat as though he had been shot. ' No, don't tell me, I 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 litde while there was a bitter flood of thoughts that choked the man's speech, while the woman, humbled and guilty, sat at his side and wept until she had no tears left. '/ CAN HELP YOU, HULDAH' 191 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 flashed 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. I 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. I was not a bad girl ; it was only I did not like being married.' '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 this 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 help. I will try to follow your advice. I can trust you wholly.' ' 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 Launcelot afterwards as though his agonized prayer for help had been heard, and his soul had received invisible strength for that trying hour. Yes, 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. ' Now 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,' she 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 >vicked ! but before you judge me think what it was for me to have 192 ONLY THE GOVERNESS no mother to guide me, and though my father was kind, he was not wise ; v/hen 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 everyone'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 ate, 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 nothing would induce her to listen to me. I only know my life was so unbearable 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, he never scolded and found fault with me then, my im- pulsive 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 I did not love Ivan as a married woman ought to love her husband, I was so grateful to him for caring 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, I wanted to make him happy, but Rachel came between us.' 'And yet ]\Iiss Thorpe is a good woman.' ' So I thought, and I tried to be fond of her. I was fond of her at first, but good people have their faults ; from the first she was jealous of Ivan's love for me. Oh yes, I know what you are going to say, that she struggled against the feeling, but all the same, it was too much for 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 I '/ CAN HELP YOU, HULDAH' 193 You may pity them if you will and I shall not blame you, for they had enough to bear, but I was to 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 learnt reticence and self-control, and when Rachel spoke in her smooth sarcastic voice and exaggerated all my little short-comings, and Ivan gave me severe marital lectures, I lost my temper, and got into what Rachel called my Irish rages, and so 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 agaia ' I will not speak against him, for his sins are venial compared to mine, but if he had only been gentle with me, if he had only treated me as a wife ought to have been treated, I would never have asked to leave him. I 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 must 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 incorrigibly bad ; he could have won me by gentleness. I tried as a last resource to plead with hmi ; I reminded him that we had never misunderstood each other before Rachel came between us, and I begged him to find her another hom.e. " I will do all I can to replace her," I said, " I will try to learn your English ways and keep my temper." Oh, how angry he was ! He told me to my face that his sister, his poor faithful Rachel, should never be turned away from his roof while 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 by my beauty — that I made his life wretched, that he had never known an instant's peace since he had married me ! Oh, for once Ivan was in a towering passion.' ' That was because he loved you, Mrs. Thorpe.' She winced at hearing her old name, and darted a reproachful glance 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 hira he must choose between 13 194 OXLY THE GOVERNESS 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 tell me yet ; let me be quick and finish. I had a nervous illness, and Aunt Kezia was frightened, and when I got better she let me take a place as companion to an invalid lady living at Malvern ; she was very rich and had a beautiful place, and the change was good for me. I used 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 freedom.' ' Poor Miss Thorpe, she little thinks herself responsible for all this misery.' * Ah, you always take her part,' reproachfully. ' Men always do; but she is not a woman to be beloved by her own sex. She is too strong-minded, 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 m connection with my hus- band, but,' speaking very slowly, 'he was gentle at first, when he loved me.' ' And he loves you still !' She shook her head vehemently. ' No, no ! — a thousand times no ! Should I have pulled off my wedding-ring and called myself by another name if I had not known his love was dead, and I was only a hindrance and a burden ? I had to thank Rachel for that knowledge.' ' Mrs. Thorpe, pardon me, I believe you are labouring under a delusion.' ' And I tell you I am not ! Can I doubt the evidence of my own eyesight ? Let me explain it more clearly. I had just heard of Aunt Kezia's death, and the kind friend with whom I was hving lay in her last illness 3 my future was looking black enough, God *7 CAN HELP YOU, HULDAH' 195 knows, — and then Rachel's letter, the last I 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 I had forfeited Ivan's love, and worn out his long patience. Oh, I cannot 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 I declared I would be Ivan's wife no longer. The terms of our separation 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 heedless of consequences, that I would be free, indeed. When Mrs. Selby died, leaving me a small legacy, I went to the Governesses' Registry in Harley Street — we were in London then — and entered myself on the books as Huldah Rossiter, my mother's maiden name, and there I met your dear mother.' ' Good heavens ! do you mean to tell me that Madella took you without references ?' and at this question a ghost of the old smile crossed the girl's lips. ' She was very easily contented ; the fact is, we took a fancy to each other at the first moment. I told her I had been unfortunate; that my 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 hesitated at first, but appointed a second inter- view, and 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. Selby, 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 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 gover- ness. 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.' I^~2 1)6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS * Oh, Madella, Madella,' si^jhed 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. Chud- leigh ; 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 searching look on her face ; but though her colour 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 cannot think what a terrible moment that was to me when I looked out of the passage window and saw my husband crossing the courtyard. If I had not drawn back instantly he must have seen me, for he looked up, and then our eyes would have met ; that would have killed me I' with a shudder. ' Forgive me for interrupting you, but I must ask you another question. 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 un- common one. When I left my husband he was living at Sutton, and I never connected the Thorpes of Riversleigh with him and Rachel. I do not remember 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 bQlicve me ? I '7 CAN HELP YOU, HULDAH' 197 know your husband well. He has never ceased to love you, and in spite of his anger he wants you back.' ' }jut not now, Mr. Chudleigh. You forget ; if you know Ivan, you know him to be a man of narrow views and rigid on all points of honour. Is such an one likely to forgive a woman who has thrown off her responsibilities and has passed in society as an un- married 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 yourself ' '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 wanted my freedom.' ' You cannot 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 fulfil. No, do not let us argue ; you are exhausted, and I can talk no more. Remember your agree- ment : 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 everything 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, 198 OXLY THE GOVERNESS I am a great 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 find 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 going out. Will you tell Madella that I may possibly sleep 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.' 'That is not of the smallest consequence, thank you,' rather curtly. ' Will you let me wish good-night now ?' and as she stood looking at him 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 farther 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 dig 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 Launcelotj as he sat down wearily in his place. CHAPTER XXIII. UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES. * He forf![ot himself where he could be of use to others.' — ScoU. ' Something there yet remains for me in this world, were it only to bear my sorrows like a man and to aid those who need my assistance.' — Anon. In all the days of his happy vigorous life Launcclot 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. UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES 199 The severe tension, the ahnost intolerable strain during that long conversation, 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 so passionately loved could never be his wife, though that knowledge caused anguish to his man- hood, 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 temptation. At one time of his life, in his undergraduate 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 kept him straight. But the sense of his own uprightness and rectitude had not made him censorious. He was lenient to other men's failings, making allowances for the weakness of human nature. He never despised the youthful 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 his charity included all sorts and conditions of men, he was so far true to his own convictions that he would have his future wife as pure and perfect as an English girl should be. Susceptible as he was to beauty, he cared more that the inward shrine should be fair and well garnished. On this point he had ever been fastidious. ' You will never find a girl to suit you. Lance,' his stepmother had said to him, when he had been bewailing his bachelor condi- tion, and narrating to her with much humour his two matrimonial attempts. ' Ah, it is all very well, telling me about your fancy for Dora Rashleigh. She is a sweet girl, and thoroughly charming ; but if she had accepted you instead of Colonel Glynn, it would -200 ONLY THE GOVERNESS have been a short engagement. You never could have spent your Hfe with a girl who had simply no mind.' ' I dare say you are right, Madella,' he ansvrered, 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, Lance,' Bee said to him one day, when this subject was on the tapis, and he had been airing a few 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, and inoculate her with all your extraordinary notions.' * That is a good idea of yours,' returned Launcelot coolly. 'What do you say, Madella? Could you find a pretty little orphan of gentle birth, and no undesirable relatives, who could be my pupil from a tender age ? I dare say Bee's plan would work well, unless the orphan refused to marry me, and shunted mc off for a younger fellow.' Ah, well, they had often made themselves very merry at his expense ; but now, as Launcelot sat reviewing his troubles gloomily, it did seem 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. Inno- cent as he knew himself to be, the mere fact of the case sick- ened 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 this, for it seemed 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 for- ward on Brentwood Common, for the studio walls seemed to stifle him after a time, and fresh air had always been a necessity to him in unhappy moods, he arrived at the conviction that it was her childlike innocence 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 deep 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 labelled them ' Dangerous ;' for strong men drown when the waves of passion rise high. He could see the scared, troubled look on her face as she pushed away his hand — ' do not touch me ; do not look at me in UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES 2ot that way ' — as though her wifely instincts had taken alarm ; and then he could hear the sad break in her voice, and see the childish quiver of her lip — ' Oh, I am a wicked girl, but I never dreamt of this ! God knows I would not have been so wicked.' No, with all her foolishness and recklessness and blind disregard of duty, he knew that Ivan Thorpe could trust his wife. It had been her utter unconsciousness and fresh gaiety 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 see the gleam of fun in the Irish gray eyes, and a litde pout of the fresh lips that had answered one of his dry speeches. Oh, he had never met anyone like her. And now she could be nothing to him, or he to her, until they met in that land 'where there shall be neither marrying nor giving in marriage,' and theirs should be the bright satisfaction of the angels of God. ' Shall I ever 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 oblige, 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 suffered temporary paralysis. He was 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 Witchens, and his message had been given ; so for this one evening he \vas free — free from his stepmother'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 towards the horizon w^as piled up a glory of sunset clouds. The solitude, the intense silence, so healing to some natures, oppressed Launcelot even in his sorrow, and a longing 202 OXLY THE GOVERNESS 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 irresist- ible, 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 anything, 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 getting 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. He did a great deal of hard thinking and laid up a store of valuable resolutions for future digestion, as he walked through the West End, seeing many strange sights as he went. Now and then a block of foot passengers coming out of a theatre door brought him to a standstill, and he leant against a pillar and looked at the young and old faces that passed him, and thought how every one had his stor}', and wondered if any heart amongst 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 river, 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 the Whitechapel Road to Stepney towards 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. xA^s he passed the London Hospital some men carrying 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 UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES 203 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 building. What suffering bodies and souls there must be wiihin those walls ! Hundreds lying in those great wards trying to court a few hours' forgetfulness 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 pohceman, who was glad to have a w^ord with an honest man, and now, as he advanced toward the centre 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 give 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 attitude, and not believing it, as half the world 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 ourselves ; you must find it chilly standing there,' and then would have passed on, fearing the nature of his answer ; but the man turned slowly and heavily round, and the expression of his face, as the gaslight fell on it, made Launcelot keep his place. ' Yes, it is cold ; it will be colder by-and-by.' And then, in rather a dazed way, ' I never expected to hear anyone bid me good-night again ; thank you, mate.' ' Have you no one belonging to you then ?' asked Launcelot, quietly, resting his elbows on the parapet, with an evident intention of prolonging the conversation. The man looked a miserable object ; his fustian jacket was ragged, and his haggard, unshorn appearance was not much in his favour, but his voice had a country accent, and he spoke civilly enough. ' Oh, yes, I have my wife and the little uns,' he answered in a limp sort of way, ' but they will get on better without me. Look 204 ONLY THE GOVERNESS here, 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 drink- ing, 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 hardly 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, I am 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 barkened 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 baddish, and the baby too — there are three of 'em, for we have UNDER MIDNIGHT SKIES 205 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 a bakers shop, just to get sent to jail, and have a week of full meals, but somehow I could not do it.' ' Thank God ! for that shows you to be an honest man ; and you must thank Him, too, that you were saved from the sin of self- destruction — but, 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 breakfast ?' 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 hour or so, and she has prime coffee ; it is getting light already.' ' So I see.' Launcelot shivered slightly, for he felt not only the new day but a new phase of his existence had begun, and yet, though he did not realise 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 over- strained, 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 himself 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 labour market, hungry men praying for work, and yet, thank heaven, keeping their desperate hands off their neighbours' goods.' Launcelot revolved these questions wearily in his mind, until the mm jogged his Qlbgw in a shamefaced way. 2o6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' You were speaking of breakfast, sir ; old Betty will be ready- by now.' ' Then we will go at once/ returned Launcelot, wnth his old briskness, for he 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 flavour, 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 ate and drank, a little life and colour 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 waiting for a day's job, and a tribe of miserable ragged boys. Launcelot gravely invited them all to breakfast, and old Betty's stall was soon cleared. ' I think we may as well be going, Martin, before a crowd collects,' he whispered at length, when he saw the last slice of bread and butter in the dirty hand of a street Arab ; ' let us slip away.' But they were not quick enough to avoid the ringing cheer from the satisfied guests, and in spite of his despondency a faint smile rose to Launcelot's lips. ' Now for business,' he said, as they entered a quiet street, and taking out his pocket-book he wrote a few lines to Miss Thorpe, and 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 provide 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- cannot find work. here;, would it not be well to give him a decent suit of clothes and send A MODERN BAYARD 207 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 not 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 breakfast 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. ' Better let me give you a cup of tea, sir — the kettle is boihng, 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 stepmother. 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.' — Fevcril of the Peak. ' But, Madella ' ' Not another word, Launcelot. I have made up my mind ; that girl shall not reniain under my roof. Now it is no use your trying to influence 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 mother your own girls, but you will not extend your guardianship and charity to a poor mis- guided 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 ruffled than even Launcelot had feared 2o8 O^LY THE GOVERNESS she would be. The fair, placid face was flushed v^-ith the heat of righteous indignation ; the mild eyes sparkled with angry excite- ment. She looked as fierce as a swan when a strange footstep invades the sedgy bank w^here her cygnets' nest is hidden. For the first time, Launcelot's influence seemed to fail. For more than an hour he had been quietly reasoning w^ith 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 w^ell to anticipate an easy victory. There is no severer censor of her own sex than a thoroughly 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 to cast the first stone. It requires Infinite Love to raise the sinner. It w^as only Omnipotent Mercy that could endure the caressing touch of penitence and not be defiled 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 \ve have daughters of our own for whom we pray every night :' that is what they say ; and the ' Neither do I condemn thee ' is only spoken by 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 off her married 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. He 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 w^ho are dearest and closest to us ! Now, a little w^hile ago, if anyone had told me that you would have refused me anything I asked as a favour, I would not have believed him ; 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. ' Lance— 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 frightcncci A MODERN BAYARD 209 by his peremptory gesture and the sternness of his set white face. ' Mother ' — and she absolutely started ; he 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 begged her not to leave him again. ' Mother,' he said, and there v;as pleading in his tone, ' if you love me, never allude to this again. I need no words to assure me of your sympathy. Let the silence between us be unbroken.' ' Very well, Launcelot,' she answered meekly, and as she stooped and kissed his forehead he put back his head, and it seemed to rest involuntarily 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 — aye, almost broken-hearted — she knew that well. The largesse 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. Lance, do you think such a thing is possible ? Mr. Thorpe seems a stern man; he would hardly condone such an offence.' ' 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 undisciplined 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 the world's tender mercies, he dare not,' and Launcelot's hand clenched 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 husband's care. Sit down and let us talk about it a litde,' 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; 14 2IO ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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, Lance, 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 forgive that poor girl.' ' I will try, but you must give me time, and not ask me to do impossible 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 anyone so unhappy ; it is quite pitiful 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 contaminating 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, she has done exceedingly wrong. Sup- pose 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 to every sort of bad influence ; but if she could have been guilty of such deception, you would still have taken her to your heart, and remembered that she was your daughter. Oh, Madella, it is all very well to harden your heart now, but you will not find it so difficult to forgive her after all' But Mrs. Chudleigh would not allow this — she had maintained 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 severity. ' True, but I 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 finesse 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 A MODERN BAYARD 211 opportunity 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 pressing business, and then I shall put the whole thing in his hands. Perhaps 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, Madella, 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 under 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 /rfj'/r^t'i' has got into a bit of trouble. It is that Job Wilkinson ; I always said he had a bee in his bonnet. I must confess I wish Job were at Hanover at the present moment.' ' Yes, but it would never do to forsake the poor fellow,' replied Mrs. Chudleigh, with diplomatic and well-feigned interest. Job Wilkinson was a bore certainly, and most likely a rogue in the bar- gain, but anything 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 unfortunate young woman was in it ! Launcelot had been too generous to imply that his stepmother had been to blame in bringing a stranger under their roof, without satisfactory references, but all the same her conscience pricked her most sadly, and her self-accusation made her uneasy and irritable; her own injudiciousness had brought this trouble on him, and she felt all at once as though ten years were added to her cTge. ' Of course I must go,' he answered with some anno3'ance, ' but I think a nap would have done my head more good,' 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 Miss Rossiter, as she still called her, was not coming down to luncheon, but had sent a message by Sybil to excuse herself. ' You will come and carve for the children as usual, Lance, will you not ?' she asked with a sort of yearning to keep him in her sight. ' There is no reason why I should not come to any meals,' he answered quietly ; ' perhaps it is as well that Mrs. Thorpe should keep upstairs to-day, but she must not absent herself to-morrow. 14—2 212 ONLY THE GOVERNESS We may have to go on like this for a long time, for I cannot cheat myself into the 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 schoolroom 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 anxiously 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 dis- turbing 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. Launcelot had no thoughts for his little favourite ; he wrote his business letters, and then ordered his phaeton to be brought I A MODERN BAYARD 213 round, and drove himself to Priory Road. As he stood in the hall drawing on his driving-gloves his stepmother 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 suppose there can be no objection to their re- maining ?' ' None whatever. I shall be glad for them to stay,' he returned hastily, forgetting for a moment his fear of the Hamblyn connec- tion. He was only too thankful that the girls should be away ; he knew the interview with Joan would try his stepmother exceed- ingly, and she must have time to recover from her agitation. ' Tell Bee they may remain as long as they wish,' he said in quite a tone of relief as he stepped into the phaeton, and then drove quickly across the common and down the hill towards Overton. He found Miss Thorpe alone, with her little tea-table beside her ; as she took his hand her keen grey eyes instantly detected the alteration in his looks. ' You are tired or worried, perhaps both ; I ought not to have sent for you,' she said regretfully. ' I have ovef -walked myself,' was the evasive answer, ' and this dry heat tries one. 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 tea, and ignoring her favourite's careworn looks, treated him to a brief, business-like summary of Job Wilkinson's misdemeanours. ' We must just wash our hands of him ; he is worthless, quite v/orthless !' she 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 httle 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.' 214 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Oh, but I am doing nothing of the kind. I am simply plead- ing 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 shift- less creatures who only know how to put their hand to their mouth, that is your affair, not mine. Now I have another scold- ing in store for you. Our society is not elastic, and we have too many claimants for aid already, and yet you have sent us Joseph Martin 1' ' 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.' ' I think,' she returned slowly, but her fme face softened as she looked at him, 'that you are the most impulsive and injudicious person that I ever met, and that unless you keep your generosity in due bounds you will soon ruin yourself.' ' Still, it is a deserving case,' he replied, perfectly ignoring this lecture. ' Poor Martin ! My heart bled for him last night. Did he bring his wife and children ? I hope you considered his account satisfactory.' ' I think he spoke the truth. It is cer'.ainly a sad case ; the children look half starved, and the baby is dying. I have done my best for them. Betty has taken them home, and we have fitted them out with decent clothes ; they want to go back to their old village. ^Martin thinks his old master will give them a job. Shall we keep Mrs. Martin and the children for a week or so while he looks out for work ? The poor baby cannot last much longer, and one of the other children looks ill. If you agree to this Betty will house them, and I will give Martin his fare and a small sum for a week's food and lodging, that is, if you still 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 cannot 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 cheque now, or will you give me in the account afterwards ?' ' I should prefer the latter, and I have a little in hand still. Very well, I will settle the jNIartins to-morrow, and j\Irs. Wilkinson I A MODERN BAYARD 215 will be here to-night. Now let me give you another cup of tea, as we quarrelled 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 a hazardous experiment, and Miss Thorpe was a difficult person to influence, 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 some sensible perception, occasioned by some bodily or organic disorder or affection, as distinguished 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 afterwards. 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 216 ONLY THE GOVERNESS hats, but I did not see their faces. What made you mention Dossie ?' 'I thought perhaps you had seen their governess, Miss Rossiter;' but ]\Iiss Thorpe was too much engrossed by her own thoughts to notice Launcelot's pecuHar manner. ' It must have been transmission of thought. I have often read of people experiencing this sort of momentary illusion, only it made me feel very uncomfortable. I sometimes wish ' — and then she stopped and an uneasy expression crossed her face. ' Miss Thorpe, how long is it since you heard from your sister- in-law ?' ' Oh, a very long time,' but Launcelot could see that she made the admission somewhat reluctantly. ' Ivan wished to keep up a correspondence, as I told you, but it was terribly unsatisfactory and did no good. My last letter, with money enclosed, was returned to me. Joan had left her situation.' 'That was after ^Mrs. Selby's death.' * I suppose so,' but glancing at him still more uneasily ; ' how did you know Mrs. Selby 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 neighbourhood. 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. Selby 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.* RACHEVS SILENCE 217 CHAPTER XXV. Rachel's SILE^XE. * The fall thou darest to despise, May be the slacken'd angel's hand Has suffered it, that he may rise And take a firmer, surer stand ; Or, trusting less to earthly things, May henceforth learn to use his wings.' Adelaide Anne Procii,r. Miss Thorpe's singular avowal did not m. the least surprise Launcelot. All along there haa been a latent suspicion in his mind that his friend had acted most unwisely in making his sister the medium of communication with his wife. She had most un- doubtedly strengthened his prejudices, and fanned his anger when it was in danger of smouldering ; and more than once he had had reason to fear that Mr. Thorpe was not completely acquainted with his wife's movements. He remained so long silent, revolving probable consequences 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 defensive. ' I said you had no right to put such a question to me, and now you have less right to judge me. I am not ashamed of what I have done. How can you, or anyone, understand what I have been through on Ivan's account? My motives have justified my actions. If I held my tongue about Joan, if I did not share my anxieties with Ivan, it 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 mistake, and at the risk of offending you, I must add that you are not acting with your usual rectitude and high principle.' 2i8 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 b}^ a friend, but we have always spoken the truth to each other, and I suppose I must bear it as patiently as I can. Even Ivan will tell me I am wrong, and yet I cannot regret 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 account ; 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 inquiries, but could only glean a few scanty facts — that both Mrs. Templeton and Mrs. Selby were dead, and that Joan had received a small legacy, and had left the neighbourhood 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. Templelon's death — indeed, it was in the paper — and I also mentioned to him that Joan in- variably 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 had sulked long enough she would write as usual, and tell me she had found another situation. I did not begin to feel seriously 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 be 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 RACHEUS SILENCE 219 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. Chudleigh ?' ' I am only thinking what complicated moral machines human beings, even the best of them, are. Here are you, a thoughtful, sensible woman, doing evil with all your might that good may come, and just because 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 are quite as uncomfort- able about your sister-in-law as you ought to be under the circum- stances. Now if I promise to set your anxieties at rest, will you give me your word of honour not to betray my confidence ?' ' 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 depend 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 Witchens.' ' 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.Rossiter, 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 ]\Iiss Thorpe's face as she listened, and at the close a fe\y 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. Fie, Miss Thorpe ! are these the lessons we learn from our professed Christianity, " unto seventy times seven ?" Do you mean that your sister-in-law has reached even those wide limits ?' ' Excuse me, I cannot 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 ansv.xr him. For- 220 O.YLY THE GOVERNESS give me if I tell you again how much you are disappointing me. I expected a more merciful judgment from a woman, but I will 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 the past, and take her under our roof again ! Mr. Chudleigh, you can- not be serious.' ' Indeed, I am. This is your brothers house ; his wife is its rightful mistress. The question lies between those two human souls, who have so entirely misunderstood each other. No sister has a right to come between a man and his wife. You see I am telling you the truth. I think you have been much to blame.' ' You mean because I would not leave Ivan ? Oh, I am not angry. You may say what you like to me. I am only sorry that you cannot 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 hindrance 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 his wife together. Do you mind my telling you this ?' ' No, of course not ; you are our one friend. But, Mr. Chud- leigh, 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 absorbing 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 object of her tenacious and jealous affection. It was because she feared a rival that his marriage had been so dis- tasteful to her. Even a niore perfect woman than poor faulty Joan RACHEL'S SILENCE 25t would have had to suffer much at her hands. Launcelot's shrewd- ness recognised this. He had spoken the truth very plainly to her, and now he would ?ay 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 selfishness 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. I believe when you think over things quietly that you will come round to my opinion, and then you will act generously and like yourself.' But she only shook her head. ' I am an obstinate woman, and I do not find it very easy to change my views. I feel and express myself strongly about thmgs, Mr. Chudleigh,' looking wistfully at him — and Miss Thorpe's eyes could be expressive 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 moment 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 a moment and seen the hard, stony look on Rachel Thorpe's face as she leant 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 Launcelot ; the strange news had overwhelmed her, and had made her feel numb and giddy. What an intense relief had come to her when she found he could tell her news of Joan ! No one knew what she had suffered all these months on that girl's account. It was true she had justified her silence to Launcelot, 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 clue to Joan's whereabouts. True, she had kept him in the dark for his own 223 ONLY THB^GOVERNESS 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 consciousness, and she could no longer deceive herself with plausible excuses. 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 neighbourhood? that at any moment they might meet face to face ? And then the scandal and disgrace of it all ! What mis- chief 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 deception would be the death-blow to his love, she knew, and the knowledge 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 when she read condemnation in her favourite's eyes — those honest gray eyes 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 recriminations on her part. If he would not listen to her defence 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 m.e by this time. He knows that I would not have deceived him except for his own good.' But, strange to say, even this reflec- tion did not comfort her. Conscience was awake in Rachel Thorpe at last, and would not be silenced by any plausible sophistries. RACHEL'S SILENCE 223 At this moment she heard the sound of her brother's latch-key turning in the lock, and rose hurriedly, smoothing her hair with her hands and shaking out the folds of her black dress. As she looked in the glass she saw the puckered lines of her forehead, and told herself that she would soon be an old woman ; and then, as though to point a contrast, Joan's face seemed to flash before her, the dark Irish gray eyes brimming over with life and fun, the beautiful mouth full and pouting like a child's, the small head with its coils of ruddy brown hair — Ivan's bride, whom he had introduced so proudly. Ah, how well she remembered that moment ! There had been no shyness, 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 re- membered 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 subsisted between them did not need any outward manifestation of tenderness. ' 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 contrive to drop one tear to his memory.' 224 OXLY THE GOVERNESS ' Nonsense, Ivan. AMiy, 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 would 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. ' I am like you, Rachel, I have no special love of money ; we neither of us have expensive tastes, this house is large enough for two,' look- ing round the small 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 con- tented her did not satisfy Ivan. At that moment she realised the difference in their natures. She asked nothing more of life than to go on from day to day as she was doing now — busy daylight hours spent in benefiting her poor fellow-creatures, peaceful even- ings 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 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 shining brown hair ; two or three letters, and a little chain she had left behind her, and which he found lying on his table. ' She said once she wanted a locket with a diamond star,' he 'NO, NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILD' 225 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,' Launcelot had said, and in this he was right. CHAPTER XXVI. * Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know ; Ciod giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.' Lozi'el/, If Launcelot had found his afternoon's work harassing, his step- mother 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 approach to electricity in the atmosphere, or to any disturbing influence that threatened a probable scene, seemed to flutter her nervous sensibilities. She could not under- stand 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 those 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,' she said once to a young widow who was bemoaning herself ; ' we must not fight against God. Why don't you give it all 15 226 ONLY THE GOVERNESS up, like a tired-out child, and ask Him to help you bear it ? That is what I did when my husband died, and the help always came.' She had sent up a message to the schoolroom by Dossie that she wished to speak to the governess, and would be with her in half an 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 httle black lace kerchief loosely knotted round her neck ; her cheeks were pale, and her eyes had the dim heaviness they had v\'orn 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 resolves, 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. ' ]\Iy dear, I cannot talk to you like this ; will you not sit down ?' but again Joan shook her head. ' No, INIrs. Chudleigh, I will not sit in your presence — a culprit 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 utterance — and the next instant she was at Mrs. Chud- leigh's feet, and her face was hidden in her lap, and the elder woman could feel the passionate 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 '.VO, XOT TOO LATE, MY CHILD* ^27 before, and I cannot 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 wtU have spoken to the wind — only a sob ansv/ered her. ' You ar^ so good yourself, that you cannot 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 deceived you. I know now what remorse means, and what Esau felt " w^hen he found no room for repent- ance." 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 are angry with me, and justly too, and yet you can speak gently ; you do not keep me at a distance with the blackness of your frown. I love to be here, it makes me feel better only to hold your dress.' Then Mrs. Chudleigh smiled faintly and took the girl's hands between her own. 'Joan — shall I call you Joan ? v.ill you hsten to me, as though you were my daughter ?' ' Yes, dear Mrs. Chudleigh, I will ; I will do anything, bear any- thing, if you will only forgive me, and call me Joan.' ' I shall hold you to that presently, but now^ let me ask you a question, for I fear you are very ignorant as well as wilful. Do you acknowledge Mr. Thorpe to be your true and lawful husband? will you own that you are bound to him by the laws of God and the Church ?' ' Yes,' rather reluctantly. ' Of course, Ivan and I were married.' 'Then, whether you love him or not, you owe him a life's obedience.' And thereupon, to the girl's astonishment, she broke into a little homily on wifely duties. If the husband who had loved her so wtU had heard that flood of silvery eloquence, his purified intelligence would have most surely rejoiced. To Joan it was a new language, a revelation. No one had so spoken to her before as this sweet woman was speaking to her now. 15—2 -28 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 hfe carrying the white standard unsuUied through the enemy's country ? Were 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. ' I have heard women complaining 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 good deal from their children, and God has given me a noble son, who has taught me many things. And I want to tell you this, that though we are not to blame for circum- stances, yet we are responsible for the way we turn 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 our own 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 God to love, honour, and obey ?" ' And then it was that Joan bowed her head, stricken through her heart and conscience. ' I should have been good if you had been my mother,' she said simply. And this little speech touched Mrs. Chudleigh extremely. ' Yes, but you will be good now, will you not, for I am going to kiss you in assurance of my forgiveness ? But there is something you must do first — you must put on your wedding-ring.' A painful blush came to Joan's cheek, but she made no answer, only unfastened her black lace kerchief, and drew a little hair chain within view, with two glittering rings attached to it. At a sign from Mrs. Chudleigh she put them on — the thick gold ring with its massive keeper — but her tears fell fast as she obeyed, and she seemed strangely agitated. ' That is the first step in the right direction,' observed Mrs. Chudleigh ; and then she put her arms round the girl and kissed her forehead. ' Now, Joan, you will go back to your husband like a brave, true-hearted wife.' ' Go back !' 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 between 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 'NO, NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILD' 229 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 thee " !' Joan shuddered. ^Oh, I know I am not fit to die.' * We are none of us fit ; but I think vre 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 him, 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 compromise. Mr. Thorpe may feel that you have forfeited his trust.' ' He will not forgive me ! I cannot expect him to do so !' she returned, 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 talk- ing 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 cannot 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 so miserable.' Then Joan remained silent ; but a few moments afterwards she said, in rather a shamefaced way : ' Mrs. Chudleigh, may I say something about your son ?' Then a sudden colour suffused Mrs. Chudleigh's fair, middle- aged face. ' No, my dear,' she said quietly, * I think not.' ' 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 230 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 more 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,' pressing her hands to her heart, ' when I think that perhaps I have caused him trouble too.' ' My son 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 your husband.' And then she rose, and bidding the girl gently go to her 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 downstairs. 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 anyone help loving her ? ]\Iy 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 her- self for these thoughts. ' What am I thinking about ? and there is that ill-used husband to be considered. Oh ! he must forgive her. We can none of us stand seeing Joan unhappy.' On entering the dining-room she was somewhat surprised to find Launcelot 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 mis- taking 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 httle 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 for ever on the 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 tc comfort him. 'NO, NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILD' 231 Mrs. Chudleigh was not a strong-minded woman. Her children never heard her say clever things. She did not read much, never- theless her influence was great with them. Her grown-up sons respected the simple goodness that seemed to surround her with an atmosphere of peace. 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. Lance,' she said wistfully. ' You do not know how I am blaming myself for all that has happened ; your dear father always said I was an injudicious woman, and indeed I feel he was right.' ' Madella !' ' Indeed, Lance, 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 cannot afford to be angry. What should I do without you now ? No mother could be more to me than you are.' ' My dearest 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 if we can only put Mrs. Thorpe in her rightful place again ?' And after a httle more such talk 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 dear, 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 Vv'icked. How can I expect Ivan to forgive me ?' ' Hush ! I cannot 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 I shall bathe your face and hands, and perhaps you may fall asleep.' And as Joan thanked her and submitted gratefully to her gentle manipu- lations, she added quietly, ' I am very wakeful myself and do not 232 ONLY THE GOVERNESS feci inclined for my bed. I mean to sit in this comfortable 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 ic i: you want, my dear ?' — for the girl held her fast. ' May I kiss you ? Oh, how I love you !' — half hysterically — ' how good you are to me ! You know how dreadful the night is with all 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. ' Oh that I could be a child again, that 1 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 beside her, but J\Irs. 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 satisfied 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 ]\Irs. 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 after- noon, and you need not trouble to come dovrn 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 her- self, and when Mrs. Chudleigh came in search of her an hour later she found her by the schoolroom window trying to occupy herself with some needlework. ' 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 to take the children out, and we shall not be back until dinner-time. I have asked Mrs. Fenwick to look after you.' ' Does she know ?' asked Joan in rather a trembling voice. 'NO, NOT TOO LATE, MY CHILD' 233 *The v.'hole house knows by this time,' returned Mrs. Chudleigh gravel)' ; ' to-morrow, when the girls come back, I will tell them 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 indispensable 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. Chudleigh made no reply. She knew her young daughter too well to expect 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 child ; ' 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 for- feited 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 came to her mind, ' He found no place for repentance, though he sought it carefully with tears.' CHAPTEPv XXVII. IN THE STUDIO. Love exist? not without hope, but mine was as nearly allied to despair as that of a sailor swimming for his life.' — T/ie Talisman. Launcelot had given orders that Mr. Thorpe should be brought at once to the studio and that coffee should be served there. When his friend was announced, he put down his paper and greeted him with his accustomed cordiality, and IMr. Thorpe noticed nothing unusual in his manner. 'Your peremptorily-worded note rather frightened me,' he ob- served cheerfully ; '"pressing business on which you needed me 234 ONLY THE GOVERNESS opinion." That was pretty strong. I had a paper to finish on the minor American novehsts, but I thought I would spare you an hour, and make it up by a Httle less sleep. What's in the wind, Chudleigh ? Now I come to 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 ?' ' Well, it is rather an upsetting business altogether ; but we will come to that presently. Take a cup of coffee after your walk, Thorpe. I am sorry if I have put you to any inconvenience, but there was no time to be lost.' 'Nothing wrong about investments, 1 hope? You are rather an unpractical fellow. Rachel says your proteges are like locusts, and will eat up all your substance. I fancy I am in the position to give you advice, for I have come into a tidy little fortune since I saw you.' '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, I am so glad ! No man deserves good fortune more.' 'And no man cares for it less, x'oi/d tout.^ Then Launcclot 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 under- stand 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 ab- sently, 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 expres- sion. Launcelot's society 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 leant back in his chair and watched him. ' Do we need all this illumination ? But perhaps you intend to IN THE STUDIO 235 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. I ought to see these things by daylight. I confess 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 con- ventional 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 some- thing more comfortable, 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. ' 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 himself, but when 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 — ' Chud- leigh, come here !' and there was something changed and hoarse in his voice. Launcelot obeyed and stood silently beside him. Mr. Thorpe pointed stiffly to the canvas. 'What does that mean ?' he asked, ' where — where — have you seen her ?' ' You recognise it then ?' was the quiet rejoinder. ' Recognise it !' he repeated with rising excitement in his voice. * Are there two faces like that ? Could any other vroman look like that ? Do you suppose I do not know my own wife ? That is Joan ! — Joan ! — as I stand here a living man.' ' You are right,' returned Launcelot ; ' the lady who did me the honour to sit for that central figure is Mrs. Thorpe.' * What !' turning on him with a look terrible to see on any man's 236 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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. Sit down ; before I can explain matters, I 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. Selby, of Roseneath.' ' Mrs. Selby is dead, has been dead for more than a year. She died soon after Mrs. Templeton.' ' Impossible ! You are labouring under some mistake. My sister would have been the first person to be acquainted with Mrs. Selby'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 wife's movements — that I am better informed of them than yourself 'What on earth are you driving at, Chudleigh? Speak out, man, if you have anything to tell me 1' ' I have much to tell you. In the first place, ]\Irs. Thorpe is under this roof.' ' Good heavens !' ' She has 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. ' Will you try to listen to me without interruption while I tell you everything from the beginning ? remember, it is painful for me as well as for you, for until the day before yesterday, I had no idea that the lady living in our house as SybiFs governess was Mrs. Thorpe.' 'What did she call herself?' 'Miss Rossiter.' Then Mr. Thorpe uttered a low groan, and when Launcelot looked at him next his face was shielded by his hand. IN THE STUDIO 237 ' Go on ; I will not interrupt you,' he said hoarsely. ' It was rather more than a year ago, I was at the Italian lakes, I remember, when I received a letter from my stepmother telling me she had engaged a new governess for Sybil. Stay, I have the letter here ; let me read exactly what she said — " You will be glad to hear, my dear Lance, that I have been at last successful, and have secured just the person 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 young person, very pleasant in manner, and seems full of life and vivacity. She has a lovely voice and plays exceedingly well, and seems ladylike as well as accomplished. Bee was charmed with her, and I must confess I liked her at once ; she looked so frank and good-humoured. She told me at once that she had never had any pupils, as her only situation had been with an invalid lady with whom she lived as companion ; but as this Mrs. Selby 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. Selby'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 house- keeper, I am not sure, but, anyhow, Mrs. Maclean says Mrs. Selby 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 previous companion, but she was a very ladylike person. I am afraid you will be vexed with me. Lance, for acting so impulsively, but when I saw Miss Rossiter again I 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 new governess. Pauline had struck up a friend- ship with her, and Sybil was a different child under her wise management. When I returned home, and saw Miss Rossiter, I confess that I blamed my stepm'other for indiscretion and want of worldly wisdom. I considered Miss Rossiter far too handsome for her position. I thought her singularly fascinating, and feared that my brothers would think so, too, but my disapproval made very litde impression on my stepmother ; 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 23^ ONLY THE GOVERNESS to expect nor demand admiration. She gave men no encourage- ment to approach her, and I do not beUeve the boldest of them ever ventm-ed to address a compliment to her. It was this pro- priety of behaviour that gave my stepmother such perfect confidence in her. I remember she once told me that Miss Rossiter was as dignified as though she were a married woman.' There was a pause here, as though Launcelot hoped for some interruption, but none came. Mr. Thorpe's face was still shielded from the light ; he did not move or change his attitude. Launcelot 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, though at the expense of such pain as even you cannot 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 tell me nothing, Chudleigh. I can understand for myself. Whatever happened, you were not to blame. I can trust the man who once stood between me and death.' ' Thank you,' was all that Launcelot could say, but he walked away to the window to recover himself. He stood for a moment crushing down the pain that seemed to suffocate him, while the dewy freshness of the evening air fanned his hot temples refresh- ingly. If he had stood there a moment longer he would have seen the gleam of a white gown moving between the dark shrubs. As he turned away a tall shadowy figure moved nearer to the window, as though drawn by some irresistible magnet, and a sweet frightened face in its black lace hood leaned softly against the framework. ' If I can only see him without being seen !' thought Joan, her heart palpitating at her own daring, and then 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 ha[)pen- , ing, and then she begged my pardon, poor child, and seemed almost beside herself with shame and penitence. " I am the wife of a good man," that is what she said to me.' ' Did she give you any reason for her extraordinary conduct in passing herself off as an unmarried woman ?' ' Yes ; we had a long talk, and she told me everything, as she 7.V THE STUDIO f»39 has since told my stepmother. She trusted me as though I vrere her brother ; she owned frankly that her married life had been very unhappy. She had the impression that her husband had never loved her; that he considered her presence burthensome 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 would be less intense. I am not defending her course of deception — 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, she has acted 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 wilful, 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 w^as the whole burthen 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 tenderness ? Do you mean to tell me that you do not think your sister has been hard on her ? that she has not exaggerated her faults instead of trying to hide them from her husband's eyes ? You have talked to me yourself, Thorpe ; you have owned that you knew her to be an undisciplined ignorant child when you married her, and yet you could leave her to be tutored and lectured by your sister ! Would any proud-spirited 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 intoler- able that he could have prayed for death to free him ?' ' Yes, she told me that, and she lamented that all her efforts to do better were misrepresented and misunderstood. She felt as though her heart were slowly breaking, as though she must die or go mad, and then it w^as 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 2^0 OXLY THE GOVERNESS free came into her mind, and she took off her wedding-ring and called herself j\Iiss Rossiter.' ' 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 the bottom— all her bitterness, all her hard sayings, are against your sister.' ' And yet Rachel was good to her.' ' I do not think i\Irs. Thorpe would endorse that opinion. She looked upon her as a hard keeper, as one who sowed dissension between her and her husband. I am your sister's friend as well as yours, Thorpe, and yet I dared 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 of Mrs. Selby'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 deceive me !' ' My dear friend, we are none of us infallible. God forbid that we should cast stones at one another ;' but ]\Ir. Thorpe did not seem to hear him. ' I was lonely enough when Joan left me ; but at least I had my sister. 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 blam.e. 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 repulsed me and threw me back, but, as her husband, I IN THE STUDIO 241 worshipped 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 was not wholly indifferent to me ! But she only took pains to show me that she hated me. She made my very love for her the means of torturing me. She would provoke me into saying bitter things, and then rage at me for my coldness and cruelty. Chudleigh, it was hell on earth ! I some- times wonder how I lived through it.' * I can understand how bad things were.' ' It was simply a maddening life for a man to lead. And yet a very little would have satisfied me. I did not ask a greater sacri- fice from Joan than many a one has had to ask from his wife. " I have a sister living with me to whom I owe everything ; she is dependent on me, and I am not a rich man, and cannot afford another establishment. Do you think you can live happily together as sisters for my sake ?" that is what I said to Joan before I married her, and her answer w^as frank and simple, " I have never had a sister, and I think it will be 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 interfere 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 lace hood, looking at them piteously, with the tears rolling dgwn her pale cheeks. ' Oh, please do not be angry with me 16 242 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 laboured breathing, and gave him an anxious glance, as he prepared to leave the room, but a sharp voice recalled him. * Where are you going, Chudleigh ? if you have ever been my friend, act as one now, and do not leave me. Tell my wife that I cannot — 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 ?' ' No,' 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.' ' Yery well,' she returned humbly, ' but to-morrow will not be to- night. You are making a mistake, Ivan, but you shall be obeyed/ and she turned away, bending her head gravely as Launcelot opened the door. ' Go to Madella,' he whispered, ' and I will look after him,' but she did not answer ; only as she looked at him there was a curious, almost a triumphant expression in her large soft eyes, and she looked more proud than ashamed of her impul- sive action. 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-night. 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 ?' ■ IN THE STUDIO 243 ' No ! — a thousand times no ! I am glorying in my own pru- dence ; 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 recon- ciliation.' ' 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 to 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 walked 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 un- willing to cover it up. ' It is not iinished, but I shall never touch 'it again,' he said to himself; 'it is my best picture. If I hve 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' 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 face with his hands, and the echo of mournful thoughts woke the old refrain 244 ONLY THE GOVERNESS * That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea, A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! To nianye more than myne 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- tinguished the lights, and crept wearily to his bed. CHAPTER XXVIII. 'JOAN, COME BACK.' * The time once was when I might have learned to love that man.' — /^ol> Roy. ' Cool as an icicle and determined as the rock it hangs upon.' — Attne of Gcierstein. Joan would have hesitated in complying with Launcelot's injunc- tion, but at that moment Mrs. Chudleigh, thinking she heard voices, opened the drawing-room door. Her surprise amounted to con- sternation 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 me 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 cannot believe my ears. Surely — but no — it is impos- sible — you could not have entered your husband's presence unless he sent for you !' ' There, I have shocked you again, and when I looked at Mr. Chudleigh 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, Jonn, but I am afraid you have 'JOAN, COME BACK' 245 been extremely injudicious. Will you tell me what you were doing downstairs at so late an hour ?' * Oh, yes, I well tell you everything. I could not stop in the schoolroom 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, movement of some kind seemed absolutely neces- sary to me, so I 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 to draw me as a moth is drawn towards the flame of a candle. I felt a strange desire to see Ivan without his perceiving me in return, but when I came close up to the window, I could hear Mr. Chudleigh speaking, and what he said was so beautiful that I could not help hstening, and Ivan answered him, and I stayed.' ' My dear, did not your conscience tell you that it was very dis- honourable to steal your husband's confidence in that way ? His words were not meant to reach your ears.' ' I never thought of that ; I never do 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 hght came into her eyes ; ' I heard Ivan say — yes, they were his very words — that he had always "loved me," and that he "loved me still.'" ' Yod did not deserve such a consolation.' ' Ah, but you see he said it, and Ivan never says what he does not mean. He never meant me to know it; he thinks 1 have for- feited all right to his affections ; but there it is, he cannot help himself, and I know now that all his coldness was assumed to punish me.' ' I am afraid all this will only add to Mr. Thorpe's displeasure. Men are very sensitive on these points of honour.' ' Yes, I 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. Chud- leigh being there — I never thought of him — I only wanted Ivan to look at me and see 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 he ill ?' ' 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.' c.:6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' But surely he will not refuse to see you ?' ' No, he is coming to-morrow ; that is his way, never to do any- thing 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 w^hen 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 before- hand. That is why I said to-morrow is 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 opportunity, 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 frightened. Why do girls marry, I wonder ? But all the same, I mean to obey him.' ' I am glad to hear you say this ; my son will be glad too. But, Joan, I must say one thing to you, I believe you have been deceiving 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 moments when I almost hated him. People do not feel Hke that when they are fond of a person.' ' I don't know,' observed i\Irs. Chudleigh doubtfully. She had a dim notion that there was something defective in Joan's reason- ing; only her own experience and knowledge of human nature w^ere not deep enough to verify her instinctive feeling that Joan was not perfectly indifferent to her husband, and when she spoke to Launcelot the next day, he endorsed 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. 'JOAN, COME BACK' 247 Probably his coldness has goaded her to desperation ; then his despotic will has fretted her beyond endurance, but he sees his mistake now.' ' And he is coming this afternoon ?' * Yes, he will be here about six. The girls are not coming back until late, so they will not be interrupted. If I were you I should tell Fenwick 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 interv^iew may be productive of no good at all. Still it is no use troubling ourselves beforehand. You 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 conversa- tioa Joan took her usual place at the luncheon table and made a biave effort to appear at her ease,' but though the children talked, there was very little said by their elders. Only when Sybil begged her governess to take them into the town to buy something for Fieckles' birthday, her mother interposed and suggested that E:nma should accompany them instead. ' You will come into the drawing-room and keep me company, nay dear, will you not ?' she observed very kindly to Joan, for she was unwilling to trust the girl out of her sight, and Joan followed her reluctantly. But there was not much conversation between them as they sat busying themselves over their work. Joan was rather silent and unapproachable; she answered I»Irs. Chudleigh's gentle remarks by monosyllabic 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 manner and appearance ; she had never seen her look as she did to-day. Joan had never worn black before, but this afternoon she had put on a 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 colours could have suited her so well. Restless nights and days of weeping had not clouded the pure transparency of her complexion, and in spite of her paleness and the heavy sadness in her eyes, Mrs. Chudleigh thought that Joan had never looked more lovely. They sat in silent companionship 248 ONLY THE GOVERNESS through the greater part of the afternoon, and then Joan suddenly put her hand to her throat and started up. ' I cannot sit any longer — I cannot ! Will you let me go out a little — ^just to the terrace and back ? I will not go out of your sight, if you prefer it.' ' 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, but 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 I fear Ivan. I wish 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 :o 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 vrould 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. Chudleigh 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, w^ith 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 v/indow, and stood there with her 'JOAN, COME BACK' 249 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, wilful creature, who had spoilt 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 voice 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 him, and he could have seen her eyes full of tears ! but the tide of her grief had turned, and had left her dry and hard. ' Yes, 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 honour differed, but I hardly thought that even you would have deigned to listen to words that you knew were never meant for your ears.' This unexpected thrust touched her too keenly, and a rush of angry colour answered him. ' Ivan, how dare you insinuate that I placed myself at the window with the express purpose of listening to your conversation with Mr. Chudleigh ! — how dare you !' And then she stopped, and her lips trembled. ' 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 something 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 250 ONLY THE GOVERNESS wonder you had the courage. T^Iost 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- rmg. 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. I 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 suffi- cient cause, and passed yourself off as an unmarried woman.' ' 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 conversation.' ' Have I made you angry ? But indeed I could not help men- tioning her name ; you v*'ould not understand otherwise what led me to do such a thing.' ' I understand 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 afternoon, never to see each other again ?' She 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 does 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 do not wish to be free, what then, Joan ?' ' That is for you to say,' she returned humbly. ' I have for- feited all right to make conditions.' ' Do you mean ' — looking at her as though he could not believe *yOAN, COME BACK' 251 his ears — ' that if I '.vere to tell you to come home Vv'ith me now — this 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. ' I 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 sombre 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 nobility 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 would 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 for ever reproaching me and there is Rachel ! No, Ivan, if you cannot forgive me, do not tell me to come back, for you know I 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. I must be sure, in my own mind, that I am not absolutely hateful to you as your husband before the same roof shelters us again. You think me hard, un- generous, but I am doing this for your own sake as well as my own.' ' Where do you wish me to live ?' she asked coldly. 'Not here; you cannot remain here. You must own I am right in saying so,' and she bowed her head in grave acquiescence. ' You remember Mrs. Medhurst, Joan ?' ' An old lady with white curls, who came over to Sutton one day, and said she knew you as a boy ?' ' Yes, she was my mother's friend. She is old — nearly seventy- 252 OXLY THE GOVERXESS 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 objection to stay with her for a time ?' He spoke almost as though he were asking a favour, and Joan's answer 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 slovvly 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 i\Irs. 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 ]\Irs. ]\ledhurst'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 generosity. He was ashamed of his irritable nerves, but he could not keep his voice under control. ' No, my wife has no need to earn her livelihood. 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 w4th 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 angril}-, 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 vrill 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.' ' I am a prisoner on parole then. Ivan, I must say I wonder at your indiscretion. I thought our notions of honour dift'ered ;' 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 'JOAN, COME BACK' 253 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, for Joan felt she could not be good much longer ; ' but all the same, you had 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 you for that.' ' I did not wish to speak on that subject,' he said stiffly, ' but perhaps I owe it to you to say something about my sister. I believe she has not behaved to you always with fairness. She was much too hard on a girl of your age. She demanded impossi- bilities. I see now it vras 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 this.' * 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 with- out 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 cannot wipe them away yet. When you forgive me really you shall give me your hand, but now I will 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. ' Jean, come back.' 254 ONLY THE GOVERNESS CHAPTER XXIX. JOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS. * Fhall 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 Woislcy. Before another half-hour had elapsed Mrs. Chudleigh had learned the result of the interview from IMr. 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 cannot help saying that I wish you could have decided otherwise.' ' You mean that Joan should come straight home to us ? If I listened to my own wishes, Mrs. 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 recon- ciliation 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 conversa- tion he got up and went away. ' He is very masterful,' Mrs. Chudleigh observed to her son afterwards. ' I can quite understand now why Joan is so afraid of him. He knows how to keep a woman down, and to make her feel the force of his displeasure without saying an angry word ; he never forgets himself for a moment, and yet as he talked I felt I never liked him so well' Joan tried to carry off her defeat with a high hand. ' It is just as I told you it would be,' she said, when Mrs. Chud- leigh entered the schoolroom with a very grave face. 'Ivan is JOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS 25c incorrigible. He has made up his mind that I am to be properly punished, and no sceptre 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 reck- less fashion.' ' I am afraid I did. I said some very provoking things, but he actually passed them by without a word. I was obliged to beg his pardon once, I forgot myself so, and then I remembered my vow of 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 strange it 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. Medhurst is a very nice old lady, and that you will be sure to like her. I confess I was touched by his thought- fulness 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 punish- ment, but, dear Mrs. Chudleigh, you will come and see me some- times — you and Pauline ?' ' Oh, yes, we will come ; but you will not be long there, we shall see you soon in your husband's house,' but Joan only shook her head dejectedly. ' There is no hope of that, and I do not know that I wish it. Ivan is coming to see me, but his visits will be terrible. Think of a wife and husband meeting under those circumstances ; it makes me feel like some poor convict, only there will be no grating between us. - But what on earth shall I say to him or he to me ? I shall not have even a good conduct badge to show him,' and then Mrs. Chudleigh smiled and gently reproved her. ' It will all come right in time, Joan, if you wiJl only be patient. 256 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Now the girls will be back directly, and I must go downstairs. Shall we see you in the drawing-room this evening ?' but to this Joan returned a decided negative. She was too depressed and sick at heart to join the family group ; the strain of that interview v/as beginning to make itself felt, and she was only fit to be alone. She sat alone in the schoolroom all that evening, and her thoughts were very terrible to her ; neither Beatrix nor Pauline came near her. At any other time Pauline would have sought her out at once, for they had always been inseparable, but as she sat there in dumb wretchedness she told herself that this too was part of her punishment. She did not see Pauline until late the next day. She had always breakfasted with her pupils in the schoolroom, 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 then ; 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 so 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 cannot under- stand 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, ' I 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 Vv^oman !' ' Of course it was very wrong,' J 0/1 A' LEAVES THE WITCHENS 257 ' Wrong ? I never heard of greater wrong-doing. Bee and I feel that poor Mr. Thorpe is greatly to be pitied. I arn sorry if I seem unkind, Huldah, but I cannot 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 I was angry too. I have only two friends in the world — you and Charlotte — and 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 to her experience, she hardly knew how to deal with it. The sight of Pauline's distress and perplexity was too much for Joan's soft 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 dis- appointed in me to care for my companionship now ; it is only an angelic nature like your mother's that knows how to forgive per- fectly. I shall 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 cannot forgive me?' Then Pauline looked at her wistfully and did not answer, and just then the gong sounded for luncheon. Bee's marked coldness and scant civility did not trouble Joan so much as Pauline's petulant sorrow ; it was the girl's first disap- pointment, and she bore it with youthful impatience. ' Mother, why can't people be good ?' she had said almost passionately the previous night. ' I think I must be wicked myself, for I cannot 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 Pauhne moped visibly over her broken friendship. Joan — or rather Huldah, 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 Brenda's cntliusiasm could not compensate for Joan's sweetness and lovable ways. After a time her girlish wrath began to evaporate and she became eager to make allowances for the culprit, and Mrs. Chud- 17 258 ONLY THE GOVERNESS leigh, who was a peacemaker 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 way.' And then Pauline went. Poor Joan, those last few days at the Witchens were very bitter 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 contrast to his old familiarity, even the little girls' round eyes, wide with childish curiosity, made her feel nervous and irrit- able ; indeed, she could hardly have lived through those days with- out some hysterical outbreak, except for ]\Irs. Chudleigh's motherly kindness, and the grave watchfulness with which Launcelot inter- posed between her and any threatened awkwardness. ' You must keep her with you as much as possible, Madella,' he had said to his stepmother. ' 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 Httle tempers. They will neither of them do anything to help her.' And he treated the children's curiosity in the same wise way. ' No, she is not T^Iiss Rossiter at all, but there were reasons why she did not wish to call herself Mrs. Thorpe. Her husband is very fond of her. Yes, she is unhappy ; she has known a great deal of trouble, poor thing, 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 console the children, who were very sad at the idea of losing their bright young governess. When the last morning came Bee's stiffness relaxed a little, and even Geoffrey's frigid politeness thawed into something like genuine feeling as Joan wished him good-bye. Perhaps he, too, felt there was something pathetic in the girl's pale face and dimmed gray eyes. * Good-bye. Keep up your courage ; it will all come right,' he said hurriedly, pressing her hand, for GeofiYey was a kind-hearted fellow in his way ; and then the children clung about her, and Bee and Pauline kissed her, both of them silently, only Pauline's eyes were red. And then Launcelot drew her arm in his and put her in the carriage, where Mrs. Chudleigh had already seated herself. yOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS 259 ' 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 bareheaded. ' Good ?' Would she ever know his nobleness ? Alas ! Joan in her tardy repentance had yet to realise the bitter truth that it is as impossible to estimate the probable consequence of even one act of wrongdoing 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 unborn 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 faggots 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 himself that the sunshine had left the house, and that henceforth he might write up ' Ichabod ' against his unlived life, for surely all glory had departed from him. Yes, as he sat there sad and lonely among his art treasures, try- ing to read but unable to fix his attention on the page, he was even now telling himself that his only chance of salvation, humanly speaking, was to work as though his Hfe depended upon it, and to love his fellow-creatures better than himself. And as these salutary thoughts passed through his mind, he repeated to himself Charles Kingsley's quaint lines — Hues that held a mine of wisdom in them : * Do the work that's nearest, Though it's dull at whiles, Plelping, when we meet them, Lame dogs over stiles ; See in every hedgerow , Marks of angels' feet, Epics in each pebble Underneath our feet.' Two hours later his stepmother 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. ' Well, Madella ?' ' Everything is as satisfactory as we could expect. Mrs. Med- hurst received Joan most kindly, and tried to put her at her ease. She began talking at once about Mr. Thorpe in the most natural 17—2 z6o ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 visit ; 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 INIrs. Medhurst's factotum lor 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 time to settle down. Of course she will feel strange at first,' was the somewhat evasive answer. Not for worlds would Mrs. Chudleigh have told Launcelot of the heartbroken way in which Joan threw herself in her arms and would hardly let her go. ' I have promised to drive over next week and take Pauline with me, if she will consent to accompany me. There is the dressing bell, Lance, and I must prepare for dinner. Pauline's friends, Charlotte Maxwell, and her sister, are coming.' But to this piece of information Launcelot merely returned an indifferent shrug of the shoulder. What did it matter to him if the whole world were coming to dinner? But even Launcelot in his solitary wretchedness, and Joan in her exile would hardly have consented to change places with Rachel Thorpe trying to break down the invisible barrier that seemed suddenly erected between her brother and herself. A week had passed since that evening when Ivan had left her to go to the Witchens, and yet no word had passed his lips about Joan. Only when he came back he had shut himself into his study without coming in search of her, as usual, to retail his news and wish her good-night ; and though she had sat in the drawing-room restless and miserable until half the night was over, she had not ventured to'go to him. liut the next morning he had met her as usual, and, in spite of his careworn look, there had been no perceptible change in his manner towards her. He had spoken of her work and his, and asked her opinion on the investment of some spare capital. ' I think railways will be the best and safest, though Steadman 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 yOAX LEAVES THE WITCHENS 261 presence, content if he never spoke a word to her until midnight. What did he want with her now ? And Rachel's face grew grim and gray as she sat alone trying 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 there, and trying to gulp down the lump in her throat, as she thought of her dear old room at the Witchens, Rachel was telling herself that she could bear it no longer, and w^hen she saw her brother putting up his paper and preparing to 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 article was 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, I cannot endure this state of things any longer ; if you are displeased with me, if I have disappointed you, why do you not tell me so plainly?' ' Because I did not wish to speak to you on the subject. Surely I have a right to be silent if I choose.' ' Not with me,' she returned bitterly, ' unless we have ceased to be friends and I am nothing to you. Even if I have made mistakes, if you think you have a right to be angry with me, you should tell me so, and give me an opportunity of clearing myself.' 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 wish me to say ?' he asked harshly, and the tone of his voice was dreadful to her. ' Say the truth — that you are angry with me for keeping my own counsel about Joan.' ' So I 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 v/hat you did, or rather failed to do, but, of course, I 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 who you knew was wandering in her wilfulness about the world, 262 ONLY THE GOVERNESS cruel to me, whom you also knew to be anxious and lonely. Why do you compel me to speak on this subject ? How am I ever to forget that I trusted my wife in your care, that I put the correspon- dence 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 sake I kept silence. I was terribly anxious about Joan, I would have given worlds for news of her, but I dared not add to your burthens ; and I 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 ? " Cease 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 ?' ' Of course she is coming back, when I think fit to fetch her, but she must earn my forgiveness first.' 'Then perhaps 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 triumph. 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 emo- tion. ' 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 !' but he turned away as though he were not ready to meet her grateful glance — but she laid her hand on his 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 ! — I am !' vehemently. ' I would give much to undo it now. You mean to forgive Joan — try to forgive me too.' * I have tried, but I feel as though I have lost all trust in human yOAN LEAVES THE WITCHENS 263 nature. Launcelot Chudleigh has been my only friend, and I think he is faithful.' ' And I have failed you ! Ivan, I think you have punished me sufficiently now, that I should live to hear such words from your lips.' And now it was Rachel who turned away that he might not see the tears running down her face. ' I am sorry if I have hurt you, Rachel, but if things are ever to come right between us I must speak the truth. In a little while, when Joan 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 to 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 to me.' ' 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, as 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 matters.' — Charles Kingsley' s Eulogy 011 Charles Blackford Matisjield. 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 eni^rossed that 264 OXLY THE GOVERNESS Freckles chose to sicken with the measles ; and as ill luck would have it, just as he was spending his holidays at a schoolfellow's house at Sutton. But then Freckles was always in some mischief, as Geoffrey remarked. When the latter reached them late one evening, about a week after Joan had left them, Freckles' hostess had written off in no small perturbation of spirit ; she had not long been married, and was new to her duties as stepmother, and was somewhat bewil- dered by the boisterous spirits of three fine healthy lads, who dubbed her Mammy on the spot, and ruled her most royally ever after with the full connivance and approbation of their father. i\Irs. Chudleigh left the family group at once and carried off the letter to discuss it privately with her chief adviser, who heard her to the end very patiently. ' I am afraid Mrs. Townsend is very much troubled, Lance ; she 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 responsi- bility. 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, Lance ? She was so helpful 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 unselfishness, though it was quite true that he had planned a lengthy tour. ' I am my own master, and can regulate my move- ments. We cannot 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. Dr. Maxwell said last Saturday that you were looking thin and rather out of sorts, and most likely you need the change.' ' Dr. Maxwell knows nothing about it,' returned Launcelot shortly ; and then, as though ashamed of his unusual irritation, he continued more quietly, ' Don't trouble about me, Madella, I am in first-rate condition. Just get that boy vv'ell, and take hini to LAUNCELOT FINDS FAULT WIFH THE SALAD 265 Eastbourne for a change, and I will stay and look after the girls, and Bernard when he comes back. I can go away later. Steadman 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 I 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 comfort- able about Bee ; she does not seem in her usual spirits.' 'I was thinking the same myself.' * And yet how pretty she is ! No wonder she gets so much attention, one seldom sees a prettier girl anywhere. Lance, I don't quite like talking of such things even to you, but do you think Mr. Hamblyn really admires her ?' ' I am afraid he admires any pretty face. He is a terrible flirt. Even his sister ov/ned that. I never did like the Hamblyn con- nection, only my opinion is in the minority.' ' But they are very well-bred young people, Lance, and Oscar Hamblyn 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 questions 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 v/ife.' ' Yes, but Bee is so young, there could be no harm in their waiting. And then she has a little money of her own,' urged Mrs. Chudleigh, who could not find it in her heart to be hard on so handsome a young man. Oscar Hamblyn's dark olive com- plexion and melancholy eyes generally made an impression on w^omen, and it could not be denied that his manners were very distinguished, however exacting and irritable he might be m the family circle. Launcelot was tempted to retort rather impatiently, but he forbore, and answered mildly : ' Yes, no doubt they would have enough to provide bread and cheese, but Hamblyn is the sort of man who has been used to champagne and oysters — you know what I mean. He would never settle down comfortably on small means. How do you know he is not in debt now ? Madella, I 266 ONLY THE GOVERNESS have often told you that you are not worldly-wise. Now I intend to look after Bee pretty sharply. Hamblyn comes here far too often. He is hanging about most Saturdays, with or without his sister, and I notice he monopolises Bee. Bee will have a piece of my mind if this goes on.' ' Oh, Lance, you will not be hard on the poor girl. Supposing * — and here she actually blushed as though she were a girl too — ' supposing she is beginning to care for him ?' ' For heaven's sake don't let us suppose anything so distressing !' returned Launcelot, in such an alarmed voice that his stepmother 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 as any old woman. Miss Beatrix will have to mind her behaviour. I shall be glad when these Saturdays are 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.' ' No, 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 Lance was rather hard on Bee. ' I am so glad you approve of her intimacy with the Maxwells. She goes two or three times a week to sit with that poor invalid.' ' Oh, she will get nothing but good there. I like every member of the family ;' and if Launcelot, in his enthusiasm for honest merit and sterling worth, was just a little short-sighted in this matter, even the wisest mortal is liable to error. Bee, in her wilfulness and girlish vanity, must be watched and guarded most sedulously, but it never entered into either Launcelot's or Mrs. Chudleigh's head that Pauline, in spite of her good sense and absence of coquetry, was a young, attractive girl, and that there might be possible risks in such frequent visits to a house where the master was unmarried and in the prime of his useful and energetic life. Granted that Dr. ]\Iaxwell 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 there was danger of a more subtle kind to be appre- hended when the son and brother was the hero and idol of a household of adoring women. Pauline might have wearied of dear Hedley's praises, of anecdotes of his wonderful boyhood from his mother and Aunt Myra, down to Brenda's and Charlotte's, and even Prissy's loudly-uttered encomiums on his professional clever- ness, his wisdom in dealing with his patients, his extraordinary LAUNCELOT FINDS FAULT WITH THE SALAD 267 fortitude and good temper. Perhaps it might have been well if Pauline had imitated Bee and laughed at the family egotism, instead of listening with increased interest and respect. Pauhne grew to believe at last that the two best men in the world were Launcelot and Dr. Maxwell ; 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 the doctor's dark, irregular features and deep-set eyes would bring a pretty pink colour 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 sister's 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 he sat alone writing, during his brief afternoon's rest, he could hear the girls' chatter and Pauline's musical laugh. ' How happy they seem ! Poor Brenda has got a friend at last to suit her,' he would think, and his brotherly gratitude showed itself by increased courtesy and attention to Pauhne when he paid one of his rare visits to the Witchens. ' 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 day when I got home they were all singing your praises. I think Aunt Myra's voice was the loudest.' ' I don't deserve any credit ;' it is for my own pleasure that I go to Bridge House,' Pauline would reply, with sturdy honesty. Nevertheless she blushed a little. ' I am very fond of your sisters, and now Mrs. Thorpe has left us I feel rather lonely.' ' Oh, yes, you were great friends with her too.' *Yes, Huldah 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, Dr. Maxwell, but I am so sorry when people disappoint me, when they are not quite what I think them. Huldah disappointed me, and I don't feel that I can be the same to her. Lance and even mother 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 mistakes,' and as Dr. Maxwell looked down at the girl's bright 268 OXLY THE GOVERNESS ingenuous face, he thought it would be a pity if the bitter ex- perience 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 anyone, he told himself. Happy the man who could win the love of that fresh young heart. And then he gave a quick impatient sigh, and went off in search of Launcelot, 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 Lance best,' she thought regretfully, not dreaming in her modesty that Dr. Maxwell was beginning 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' greeting, as she bent over his pillow, 'and none of those other fellows, not even Lance, will get you. I didn't want Susan. Susan is a duffer. I shall not take my medicine from anyone but you. So look out, mother.' Freckles was Freckles, in spite of the measles. He was a very original patient, and kept his doctor in fits of laughing. The boy's melancholy eyes and lackadaisical invalid airs and his droll speeches were too much for his professional gravity. ' Are your other sons like this one, Mrs. Chudleigh ?' he asked once. * Yes, we are an awful lot,' replied Freckles, ' but we don't take after mother. You should just see my eldest brother, sir, he is a terrible fellow for practical jokes — all artists are. They say the smell of the paint and too much art gets into their brains. They are obliged to find a vent somehow.' 'Fred, my dear boy, how can you talk such nonsense, about your brother — Lance, too, who is like a father to you all ? What will Dr. Mallin think?' ' That I must change this fellow's medicine or he will get too much for us ;' but Freckles only rolled his head on the pillow, and looked at the doctor reproachfully. ' I don't suppose you beheve in your drugs,' he said with ap- parent simplicity, ' but it would not look professional not to order something. Of 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 Longfellow's lines, sir ?' ^ Confound you, sir, for a young jackanapes 1' returned Dr. LAUXCELOT FINDS FAULT WITH THE SALAD 269 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 jMonte Christo,' 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 reddened, but she dared not contradict her young tyrant. Monte Christo 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 Christo pays them all out, that will curdle your blood for you, page 250 — you remember — I made you turn down the leaf. Now then, attention, Susan ; you can hre away, mother,' and Freckles thumped his pillow with anticipatory enjoyment, and composed himself to listen. But in spite of Mrs. Chudleigh's dislike to her son's choice of literature, and a few minor drawbacks of this kind, her duties were far lighter and more enjoyable than Launcelot's in his character as guardian to two pretty girls. On the whole Airs. Chudleigh enjoyed her present life. She was an excellent nurse, and never showed to better advantage than in a sick-room. Her rough schoolboy had never been dependent on her since his babyhood, and she was almost ready to endorse Freckles' 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 doated on his mother, though torture would not have induced him to con ^s as much, and to be the object of her sole care and petting, to Wf^ his every wish gratified, and to lay his commands on her and Susan indiscriminately, was such a novel state of affairs and so pleasing to his boyish pride that Freckles would have extended his convalescence indefinitely, but for the delightful prospect of a fortnight at Eastbourne. Things were not progressing quite so favourably at the Witchens, although Launcelot, with an unselfishness that few men would have shown under the circumstances, had shunted off his weight of heavy sadness into the background 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 surveils lance, and chose to resent it. She even made objections when 270 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 rather 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 do all their lessons with me. I am afraid I shall not be able to see Brenda quite so often, until mother comes back.' Charlotte would repeat her w^ords 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, Lance,' she said, firing up at once. ' You are as grave as a judge yourself, and yet you talk of my dulness. Nora was only saying the other day that she never saw anyone so altered, she was quite sure you were out of health, or had had something to worry you.' ' Miss Hamblyn does me too much honour 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 Launce- lot 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 colour and an uneasy expression on her face, looking after a tall gentleman who was walking down the path with a lady. LAUNCELOT FINDS FAULT WITH THE SALAD 271 'That was Hamblyn, was it not, Bee?' ' Yes,' she returned, looking still more uneasy. * I bowed to him, but he did not seem to recognise me ; did you see who was walking with him ?' ' A fair young lady, I think, but I hardly saw her face. I dare say he was not looking at us, Bee ; I often cut ladies of my acquaintance in that way,' and he changed the subject, for it was just possible that Oscar Hamblyn had recognised them, and that he was ashamed of his companion. ' I never had any opinion of him,' thought Launcelot, ' and I confess I do not like the look of this,' but on this point he wronged Oscar. Bee did not recover herself all day, and in the evening Launce- lot questioned Pauline. Pauline answered rather reluctantly : 'I think she is rather put out with Mr. Hamblyn. She is certain he saw her, for their eyes met, but he turned away and spoke to some lady who was walking with him. I do wish she did not think so much about the Hamblyns, Lance.' ' So do I, with all my heart,' but he said no more at that time. But when Saturday afternoon came, and brought Miss Hamblyn and her mother, he kept a close watch on Bee's movements. And he very soon became aware of a by-play going on between her and Mr. Hamblyn. Bee was decidedly on her dignity and kept him at a distance ; she would not understand his hints and implied apologies, she left him to himself and occupied herself with her other guests, looking very pale and pretty. It was plain, however, that Oscar was not to be rebuffed, he followed her boldly from place to place, watching his opportunity and in the end achieving his purpose. Poor little girl ! with all her wilfulness and dignified airs she was no match for Oscar's determination. Just as evening was drawing in and most of the people had gone, Launcelot walked briskly down the path to the terrace, congratu- lating himself that this was the last of Bee's Saturdays, when he was suddenly pulled up by hearing Oscar Hamblyn's voice close to him, and a moment afterwards Bee's answering him. The speakers were evidently on one of the shrubbery seats, and another few steps would bring him face to face with them as he paused uncertain whether to disturb the tete-a-tete ; a few words reached his ears, and he hastily beat a retreat. Launcelot was looking very fierce and angry by the time he reached the house. Pauline and Miss Hamblyn and Bernard were standing at the (drawing-room window. Launcelot called out to his brother : ' Bear, I wish you would look for Bee ; I fancy she and Mr. 272 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Hamblyn 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 Launcelot to himself; 'does he think this will pre- possess him in our favour ? I will stand no mere nonsense. I will talk to Bee to-night. What a blessing Madella is away ! she would spoil everything. She never will believe Bee can be in the wrong.' Launcelot's manner was decidedly stiff when he said good-bye to the Hamblyns, Bee looked at him wistfully in the hope that he would invite 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 everyone 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 had a grudge against Miss Hamblyn on his own account, discharged his errand with promptitude. ' You will come and see us, dear, will you not ?' observed Nora affectionately to her friend. ' Come on Wednesday, mamma and I will be quite alone.' ' Oh, not Wednesday ! I have an engagement for that after- noon,' returned Oscar in a low voice, and Bee flashed a look at him and then blushed very prettily. ' Very well, if you are good then,' in answer to another whisper, and then followed a prolonged shake of the hand. Launcelot was a little short with his sisters that evening ; he scolded Bee for being late for dinner, but she answered him amiably. Pauline and Bear exchanged glances of consternation when Launcelot found fault with the salad. ' I shall be glad when your mother comes back.' he said reproachfully to Bee ; ' she always looks after this sort of thing, but nothing is comfortable in her absence.' ' I tell you what, INIrs. Fenwick, there is a screw loose some- where, or master would not be so uncommon cross. I never heard him find fault with anything on the table before. Why, the salad never was better.' • ' Cross !' returned his wife, raising her eyebrows, ' why, Fenwick, you might as wtU tell me that that blessed baby' — pointing to a plump infant in pink bows belonging to the gardener's cottage, who v/as trying to swallow his dimpled fist — ' was cross. A\' ho 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 behever in Launcelot's virtues, bustled about in irate fashion after 'THEN YOU ARE ENGAGED TO HIM?' 273 her husband's injudicious speech. ' Cross, indeed ! who ever heard the hke ?' she muttered as she took the baby out of the cot and carried him home to his mother. CHAPTER XXXI. ' THEN YOU ARE ENGAGED TO HIM ?' * A woman does not like a man less for having many favourites, if he deserts them all for her : she fancies that she herself has the power of fixing the wan- derer ; that other women conquer like the Parthians, but that she herself, like the Romans, can not only make conquests, but retain them.' — Colton, ' Come on the terrace, Paul, while I smoke a cigarette,' observed Bear affably, and the two marched off arm in arm. Bee, who was turning over her music on the grand pianoforte, looked after them wistfully, as though she were inclined to follow them. Per- haps Launcelot would not care for music this evening, he looked decidedly glum ; anyhow she did not want to remain in his society. He had been very stiff 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. Lance never called her Beatrix unless he was going to reprimand her about something. ' Well,' she said pettishly, ' what is it now ? I hope you are not going to talk about the salad again.' ' No,' he returned quieily, ' I have something far more important to say. Please come away from the window, unless you want Fen- wick and Orson to hear us.' Then she came back into the room with rather a disconcerted air. 'You seem cross about something, Lance.' ' No, not 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 your elder brother, standing to you in the position of a guardian, I surely have a right to know the exact state of things between you and Mr. Hamblyn.' * What do you mean ?' she asked in rather a frightened voice. Then she plucked up a little spirit, and held her head very high. 18 274 OXLY THE GOVERXESS * I don't think you have the right to put such a question to me. You are very unkind about the Hamblyns, Lance. You are ahvays finding fault with my friends, and Nora is my intimate friend.' ' Is her brother your intimate friend too ?' Then Bee looked confused. ' 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, Lance.' 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 if she were, what would she have said to that conversation of yours with Oscar Hamblyn in the shrubberies ?' ' What do you mean ?' she gasped, but her eyes dropped before his. ' Oh, Launcelot, surely you were not so dishonourable as to listen.' 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 "dishonour"' and I have ever shaken hands. Bee. Still, as you appear to doubt nie, let me tell you what I really heard ' ' Oh, no ! no !' — trying to stop him, but Launcelot quietly con- tinued his speech. ' On my way to the terrace, I thought I heard voices in the shrubbery. They were yours and IMr. Hamblyn's ; and as I hesitated for a moment, not knowing whether to go on and dis- turb an interesting tcte-a-tcte or to turn back, I heard Mr. Hamblyn say — excuse me. Bee, but I intend to repeat the words — " You are so jealous, my darling ! You will never allow a poor fellow to amuse himself in your absence. Now, 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 right to question the wisdom of your conduct when you allow that fellow to 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, Lance ; there was nothing wrong in Oscar's speaking to me like that — he — we — love each other.' ' Has he told you so ?' 'THEN YOU ARE ENGAGED TO HIM?' 275 ' Yes,' hanging her head, 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 he informed you of this interesting fact ?' , ' Oh, Launcelot !' And now her eyes were full of tears. ' I see you consider me brutal, and I own I never felt so savage in my life. I think it will be best to answer me quite frankly ; when did Mr. Hamblyn speak to you first ?' ' Do you mean when did he tell me he was fond of me ? That evening we went to the Albert Hall.' ' Then you are engaged to him ?' ' No ; oh no !' ' Indeed ! I don't understand. I should have thought, judging from those terms of endearment, that you were )\\% fiajicee.'' ' No ' — rather sorrowfully, ' Oscar 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 sus- pected him.' 'Well, there are cousins and cousins. Did he tell you the young lady's name ?' ' Yes, it was his cousin Erica — Erica Stewart. Such a plain little thing, and two or three years older than Oscar.' ' 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 had no right to speak to you 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 he has persuaded her to hold her tongue for his own purposes,' and his manner softened imperceptibly, for he could not long remain stern in the face of her distress. ' He never meant to betray his feelings,' continued Bee ; ' but we were alone, and then he spoke. He said he knew he was wrong, but he cared so much for me that he could not be happy until he knew whether his affection were returned.' (' I suppose you contented him on that point ?' iS— 2 276 OXLY THE GOVERXESS ' Oh, yes. I have never seen anyone to compare with Oscar, and it made me quite happy to know he cared for me ; and then he looked sad, because he said that there could be no engagement between us at present ; 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 arrangement 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 seeing each other, and he said that would make him so miser- able.' ' 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 honourable 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 ungentle- manly action to take advantage of our hospitality to entangle the affections of an inexperienced girl, and to draw her into this clan- destine 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 angrily. ' You forget that I have been out two seasons, that I could have married before if I liked.' ' Indeed, I do not forget, my dear, that you rejected an honest, brave young fellow, a gentlemen every inch of him, who would have made his wife a happy woman ; but I beg your pardon, he had red hair.' ' Nonsense, Lance ! as though that made me refuse him ! but how can you mention Sydney Ulverton and Oscar in one breath ?' ' ^Vhy, indeed, it is like weighing solid gold and tinsel together. Oh, Bee, my child, how can women be so blind and foolish ! You have endowed Mr. Hamblyn with virtues he will never possess, because he has a handsome face and good manners and knows how to flatter a pretty girl. I do not say that even Oscar Hamblyn has not got his good points, heaven forbid ! but this I do say, that your lover is a very weak, imperfect mortal ; that he is both con- ceited and selfish ; that he has extravagant tastes and no means to gratify them ; that his sense of honour is none of the finest, and 'THEX YOU ARE ENGAGED TO HIM?' 277 that if you ever marry him, it will be with a heavy heart that I shall give you away.' This speech, uttered with much gravity, effectually sobered poor Bee. It was dreadful to think that these were really Launcelot's sentiments, 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 believe him. He must be wrong about her poor Oscar. No doubt he had 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 independence 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 ? Bee looked up very piteously at her brother with her pretty eyes full of tears. ' You will not separate us, Lance ?' 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. Hamblyn. 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 commu- nications or letters — to speak plainly, no love-making, until he can come forward openly to claim you.' ' I am sure Oscar wall never consent to these terms,' she said, looking very miserable. ' Then I am afraid the Witchens will be closed to him ; but I believe you are wrong. If he is really in love with you, and desires to make you his wife, a little work and waiting will not deter him. Now don't look so broken-hearted over it. You can surely be satisfied with seeing 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 friend "Miss Nora here occasionally.' ' And you will tell mother all about it ?' ' Yes, when I go down to Eastbourne to settle them in their lodgings, and then I shall write to ^Mr. Hamblyn, and make an appointment for an interview.' ' He is going down to Lewes on Friday.' 'Very well, I can see him there; but, Bee, remember, no cor- respondence.' 2/8 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' 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, Lance, 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 I am sure she acted in the most deceitful way.' ' We will keep Mrs. Thorpe's name out of the conversation,' he returned quietly, though a wave of pain passed over him at the mere mention of her name. ' I only wish I could tell your mother that her daughter was half as penitent as that poor girl was,' and this reproach went home. ' Oh, I am sorry. Lance. 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 scolded, because I cannot help returning his affection.' ' Poor Htde thing, I suppose I must forgive you,' returned Launcelot, 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. ' I really am sorry, Lance,' she whispered ; ' please forgive 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 anything from mother ? Oh, she will be so hurt ;' but some- how Bee did not mind Pauline's blunt speeches. She was really a good girl, and the concealment had been odious to her, but her lover had so blinded her eyes by his plausible arguments, that even now Pauline could not bring her to own the heinousness of her fault. ' I told Lance I was sorry,' she said quite happily, ' and he was such a dear, but at first he quite frightened me.' Bee had shifted off her burthens 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 dreamt happily of her lover's dark eyes. Launcelot was far more anxious. He could not in his secret 'THEN YOU ARE ENGAGED TO HIM?' 279 heart believe that Oscar Hamblyn would stand the test of separa- tion 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 happi- ness. * 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 nature 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 behaviour for the next few days, and tried to make amends for her little tempers by all sorts of pretty atten- tions to Launcelot. ' Bee is as sweet as barley-sugar,' Bear said one day, ' I think she wants to get something out of Lance ;' at which speech they both changed countenance. Bee did not offer her first love-letter for Launcelot's perusal — it was far too precious to be seen by any eyes but hers — but she wrote back that they had been overheard the other day. Launcelot had discovered everything, and was annoyed at the secrecy ; he was very kind to her, but he had fully made up his mind to speak to Oscar. ' I am afraid his conditions will not please you,' she v/ ent 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 Oscar ' — and so on. ' Confound it all, it is just like my luck !' growled Oscar as he read that letter in his hotel bedroom. ' Now we shall have the brother, en grand 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 helping 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 five thousand pounds, and 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,' for whistling was one of his accomplishments. Launcelot was counting the days until Freckles' interesting con- 28o ONLY THE GOVERNESS valescence should have progressed far enough to permit his re- moval to Eastbourne. He was longing for motherly help and sympathy. ' I am afraid Madella will take their part,' he thought, ' unless Hamblyn's underhand ways prejudice her against hmi ; hut, all the same, I must not act on my own undivided responsi- bility. What a blessing that fellow is at Levies ! 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 absently. Bee and he were to dine at the Roskills' that evening, a family living in a large house across the common ; but at the last moment Bee turned captious. ' She 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 headache if she went, so Pauline might as well take her place.' Pauline made no demur. In her heart she disliked dinner parties quite as much as Bee, but she was very good natured, and seldom refused to comply with Bee's caprices. ' Very well, I will go,' she returned with cheerful acquiescence. ' Paul, you are a rattling good fellow, you are worth half-a-dozen Bees,' observed Bear admiringly. 'Pauline is always ready to do a kindness for everyone,' re- turned Launcelot approvingly. ' I wish Bee were not quite so exigcante^ for I know you do not want to go.' ' Oh, I don't mind with you, Lance ; and we will walk home across the common ; it will be a lovely night ;' and Pauline tripped away to put on her freshest and prettiest gown. Pauline had no idea that her unselfishness would be amply rewarded — that the first person who would meet her eyes in the Roskills' dining-room would be Dr. Maxwell. He came up and greeted her with marked pleasure. ' They told me I was to take in Miss Chudleigh to dinner, but I had no idea it was you they meant ;' and a certain intonation in his voice made PauHne's heart beat a little faster. How well Dr. Maxwell was looking ! she thought. Dark men always looked their best in evening dress. 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. Maxwell 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 com- plained of its tedious length when Dr. Maxwell lavished his whole 'THEN YOU ARE ENGAGED TO IIIM ?' 2S1 attention on her, and seemed even to forget his dinner in his animated talk. Launcelot grew a httle envious as he watched them ; his com- panion was 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 flaxen hair. She was pale and insignificant-looking, with light eyelashes and babyish blue eyes, and might be any age from sixteen to six-and-thirty, and her con- versation was hardly up to the level of mediocrity ; in a word, she was decidedly uninteresting. 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 Dr. Maxwell' ' Pauline, did you say ?' dropping her pince-nez with rather a disappointed air. ' Oh, that is not the same. I thought it was your sister Beatrix.' 'What, have you heard of them before?' he asked in some astonishment. ' Yes, from my cousins,' she replied quietly. ' I know your sister is very pretty, Mr. Chudleigh. 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 admired, but I prefer Pauline's face myself ;' and Pauhne, hearing her name, looked across the table with a bright smile. It was Launcelot who was inclined to stigmatise 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 swansdown, and took his arm. Dr. ALixv/ell, 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, Lance, it is such a delicious night, 283 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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, Lance, she came and talked to me and spoiled everything.' ' Whom on earth do you mean by " she " ?' ' Miss Stewart, the girl who sat by you at dinner.' * Oh, was that her name ? I could not hear what jMrs. Roskill called her, but she was a dreadfully uninteresting little person.' ' But, Launcelot, I don't think you take it in ; she is Erica Stewart — the Hamblyns' 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 Bee ? it has made me quite miserable — Miss Stewart declares she is engaged to her cousin Oscar, that he proposed to her years ago.' CHAPTER XXXII. 'OSCAR IS A SAD BOY.' * Has Fate o'erwhelmed thee with some sudden blow ? Let thy tears flow ; But know \vhen storms are past the heavens appear More pure and clear ; And hope when farthest from their shining rays For brighter days.' Adelaide Anne Procter, hs> Pauline uttered the last words 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, Lance, you do not even seem surprised, and it is all so dreadful ; poor dear Bee, and she is so fond of him !' ' I cannot say that I am surprised. I always expected some such dhio2iement as this. Hamblyn has not got the right straight- forward 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 times !' ' Well, not exactly engaged, but I had better tell you what she 'OSCAR IS A SAD BOY' 283 said, though it was odd giving me her confidence when we were perfect strangers to each other, but then she had her reasons.' ' I 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 see 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. Hamblyn 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 interested in Miss Stewart.' ' No, indeed, I could see how bored you felt ; not that anyone else would have noticed it, but I knew what your expression meant. Well, all dinner-time I could see she was watching me, at least I never looked up without encountering her eyes, and I began to wonder at last who she could be. But as soon as we were in the drawing-room she came up and introduced herself to me and asked me to go with her into the conservatory to look at some orchids, but instead of looking at them she began talking about Beatrix.' ' Oh, I recollect she mentioned Bee, but I gave her no en- couragement to go on.' ' Yes, she said how much she had heard of us both from her cousin Nora ; that Nora quite raved about Bee's beauty, and that she knew how often she and Oscar were at the Witchens ; and then her manner 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 en- gaged 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 matter-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 I 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 " No, indeed !" must have spoken volumes, for she reddened a little and bit her lip, though she answered in the same composed manner, ' Oh, Oscar is a sad boy, but he is only like other young men. 284 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Few can resist a flirtation with a pretty girl ; they do it just for the fun of the thing, and because it gives them a httle importance 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 myself up in a most dignified manner, and said in the most chilling voice I could assume, " Excuse me, Miss Stewart, but my sister is a perfect stranger to you, and you can have no right to bring in her name. I believe we were speaking of your cousin, Mr. Hamblyn," but she was not to be repressed. " I am sure I beg your pardon, Miss Chudleigh, 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 stiffly. 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 Chudleigh, 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 pro- posed 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 surprised 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 pro- pensity 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 I did not seem to dislike her so much as she went on talking. She is evidently an original sort of little person. ' " No ;" but looking at me in a queer kind of way, " but all the same I mean to marry Oscar in the spring, and have written to tell 'OSCAR IS A SAD BOY' 2S3 him so. Hov/ surprised you look ! Eut lie is engaged to me, you see ; and this was the arrangement between us, that 1 was to tell him when I had made up my mind that he was to be trusted. Of course, as he has said himself over and c>ver again, he has been ready for me these three years." ' " And you have made up your mind to trust him ?" but here she laughed again a little wickedly. ' *' Well, no, but 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 don't go away with the notion that I am a very forward peculiar person to have told you all this, for I meant it for the best. I 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 so great a right to be his wife, I would hesitate even now ? But 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 draw- ing-room.' ' Upon my word, Paul, I believe she meant well ; it was an un- commonly plucky thing for a girl to do. You may depend upon it some busybody or other has told her about that fellow's atten- tion to our Bee.' ' But, Lance, 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 to yield her rights. One thing is very evident, that she regards 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 wTCtch, 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 so savage with him for the mischief he has done ! Confound the fellow, why could he not let our little Bee alone ? How dare he make love to 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 Launcelot's face. 286 ONLY THE GOVERXESS ' For heaven's sake don't hint at such a thing ! Better any un- happiness than such a marriage as that ; fond of him as she is, Bee would never consent to such an arrangement; I know my sister better than that. With all her faults Bee would be too proud and honest to rob another girl of her just rights. What was Miss Stewart's message to her ? Tell me again ; it seems to me that the words were very pregnant with meaning.' ' " Will 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 has so great a right to be his wife, I would hesitate even now ; but I know him, and I know in time that I shall make him happy." ' Exactly so ; she knows him to be a weak, fickle, self-indulgent fellow, who cares more for himself than for anyone else. No doubt she is quite correct in her estimate of his character. She will 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 unmanageable at first. But she had better make up her mind to one fact — nothing will cure him of his flirt- ing, 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 plauitively : ' Oh, never mind about him ; the question is how are we to tell Bee?' and at this question Launcelot looked exceedingly grave. He seemed to think deeply, and after a few minutes' silence he said quietly : ' I think we will not tell her at all' ' But, Lance ' ' 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, Lance !' 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 pretences, 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 'OSCAR IS A SAD BOY' 287 me hard or unsympathizing, Paul, but I am boiling over with rage, when I think of the power that fellow has got. Why cannot one punish such a sin as that ? When I think how helpless and inno- cent many girls are, how little they know of a man's nature, how credulous and unsuspecting 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 honour. 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 bitter- ness 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 crossed by a vivid remem- brance of something Dr. Maxwell had said, or a sudden recol- lection of how he had looked. ' Nothing would ever make him do a dishonourable 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 morning. Bee was in one of her most lively moods ; she ques- tioned them about the party, and wanted to know whom Launcelot had taken in to dinner. ' Miss Stewart — what sort of a person was she, Lance ?' she asked innocently, and her brother's careless ' Oh, a plain, over- dressed little body, with very little to say for herself,' seemed to satisfy her. 'And Dr. Maxwell took Paul in?' ' Yes,' answered Pauhne, with a sudden blush, ' and he was very nice and amusing as usual, and I had dear old Colonel Dacre on my other side, so I was well off. I was rather sorry for poor Lance — he looked so bored.' But Pauline, as she talked, hardly dared to look at her sister's bright smiling face. ' What are you going to do this morning. Lance ?' she asked, as they rose from the table. Bernard — lazy fellow!— had not yet put in an appearance, and Bee had rung for fresh coffee and a hot rasher or two of bacon. 228 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Vv'hy don't you let Bear have cold coffee ?' grumbled Launcelot, as he heard her order ; ' what business has a strong healthy fellow to lie in bed half the morning ? — sitting up late reading— nonsense ! as 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 picture — it 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. He wore white flannels and looked a perfect embodiment of a handsome, 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. Lance, 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 devilled kidney ; pray see after his little comforts. Bee.' But as Launcelot levelled this sarcasm, Bernard only threw his head back with a laugh of intense e ijoyment. ' You are behind the times, my dear fellow ; we Oxford men know what suits our constitution. " Take plenty of rest," as Dr. Phillpot said last term, so I am carrying out his prescription. Now then, Fenwick, look sharp, some more toast, and you may as well boil another egg while you are about it.' But Launcelot 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 morning in a hammock, pretending to read, announced his intention of taking Pauline and Sybil on the river. ' I can't take more than two,' he observed, and Bee consoled Dossie by proposing that they should take their work and books into the shrubbery. ' It will be cool there, and we will have tea under the trees,' and Dossie thought this a charming arrange- ment. Launcelot worked on, oblivious of time as usual ; he was thank- ful when any occupation deadened thought — a sort of fiend of discontent and disappointed longing seemed to lie in wait for his 'OSCAR IS A SAD COY' 2C9 leisure hours. In his secret soul he began to fear whether he should ever enjoy the do/ce far fiiente again — whether pleasure had not become an unknown ingredient in his life. Things might be worse, however, he told himself, with grim philosophy — if he had not his work, for example ; he had feared at first that he should never care to paint another picture, but r. 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 pretence in one's work. The hidden trouble may colour the picture or give expression to the poem, and no one is the v/iser ; the real and fabled woe may be so cunningly blended that the keenest eye cannot 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 colour of his coat when his heart or his head grows gray.' And here Launce- lot sighed, and then set himself in dogged fashion to complete his hasty sketch. The afternoon shadows were deepening on the lavv'n, and he was just 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 admittance. As this was against the rules, Launcelot pretended to frown as he opened the door, but the first glance at the child's face made him say hastily, 'AVhat is the matter, ma petite 1 Has anyone frightened you or Beppo ?' for Dossie's blue eyes had a scared look in them. ' I think I Vv-as a little frightened, Mr. Lance,' she returned in her old-fashioned punctilious way. ' I am afraid there is some- thing the matter with Cousin Bee, she looks quite dreadful. We were ' ' Why, what do you mean, Dossie ?' ' 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 alcr.e. So it has come 1' he muttered to 290 ONLY THE GOVERNESS himself, as he crossed the lawn, wondering what he vras to say and do in such a painful emergency. But there was no hesitation at all about his manner when he saw her face. The poor girl looked as though she were turned to stone ; her pretty colour 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 clenched fingers, which somehow became cold and nerveless 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 himself,' he thought as his eye ran over the page. ' My own darling,' it began, ' how am I to prepare you for bad news? How am I to tell you, after all my protestations of affection, 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 for my wife. The future that we were to have shared together has become an impossibility — and yet I love you as dearly as ever. I wonder if you will ever forgive me ? I have 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 a little in your eyes, if your people blacken me to you. ' But now I must confess my sins. I have spoken to you of my cousin. Erica Stewart, but I never told you that three years ago I made her an offer. That offer was renewed from time to time, until it was arranged between us that I was to consider myself bound to her until she chose to accept me. ' I have no excuse to make for this. I did not love my cousin, but we wTre good friends ; and I was poor and in difficulties, and Erica was very generous. ' I thought little about the matter, and the future never troubled me until I met you, my darling, and then— then — the old bonds grew hateful 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 honour and gratitude ? ' I will not speak to you of my unhappiness ; I must dree my weird. Surely it is sufiicient punishment for all my ill doings to * OSCAR IS A SAD DOY 291 know that I have lost you, and by my own fault ! But at least I may entreat your forgiveness — I may ask you to think merci- fully of * Your devoted and penitent ' Oscar Hamblyn.* A dark look came over Launcelot's face as he read. ' Would his honour 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 scoter. * 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 Hamblyn. He has treated both of you as badly as possible. But before we talk about that let me give you her message ;' and very slowly Launcelot repeated the words, for there was a blank uncompre- hending look in Bee's eyes thnt told him the sharp anguish she was suffering had somewhat dulled her faculties. ' So 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 transgression 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 words. CHAPTER XXXHI. *EE A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN.' ' I would speak of hi^ chivalry — for I can call it nothing else— in daily life ; a chivalry which clothed the most ordinary and commonplace duties with freshness and pleasantness. I soon discovered that an 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.' — 'JVie Rev. IV. Harrison's Opinion of Charles Kin^shy. Launcelot remained silent for a few minutes after this. What word of comfort could he essay that could reach the half-stunned brain and heart, that seemed unable to realise the full extent of the blow ? If only his stepmother were here ! "What did he 19 — 2 292 ONLY THE GOVERNESS know of a girFs nature — its possibilities of self-torture — its want of discipline — its instinctive abhorrence of pain ? He 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 fulness to myself and my God.' But as he looked at Bee's strained eyes, wide with the misery she could not quite realise, he doubted whether silence w^ould be equally efficacious in her case. She was so young, and youth needs to give expression to its thoughts. With a delicacy of perception that few men would have shown under the circumstances, he had refrained from any loudly uttered vituperations against the man w^ho had wrought all this wrong. His words had been few and temperate. ' He has treated you both as badly as possible,' 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 telling Bee that the man she loved w^as a weak, dishonourable fool, who, after all excuses had been made, was most certainly 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 honour compelled him to marry her? he thought bitterl}^ Would he not have kicked over the traces long ago and jilted her, as a hundred men have jilted girls ? But on this point he kept silence then and for ever. Bee would discover her lover's unworthiness for herself in time ; any attempt to paint him in his true colours 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 I wish Madella were here to talk to you !' The tone, more than the words, touched her frozen brain, and the tears started to her eyes. ' Does mother know ? I should like to go to her, I — I — you are very kind and dear. Lance, 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 her young heart would break, * Curse the scoundrel !' muttered Launcelot between his teeth, and then he repented : ' No, not that. I will be neither his nor any man's judge. " Deliver us from evil," let me say that instead;' and then he tried to take his sister's hand, but she resisted, still BE A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN 293 weeping passionately. ' Mother ! it is mother I want,' he heard her say through her sobs. ^ Yes, dear, we will go together — to-morrow or the next day, it you like. Freckles is well enough to be moved now. You must let me take you, and then I can tell Madella. No, she does not know yet,' as Bee uttered a faint exclamation ; ' only Pauline and I know at present, but I will show her the letter, and repeat Miss Stewart's conversation, and then she will understand what to say to you.' ' But you will not speak against him to mother ; promise me — promise me, Lance, that you will not.' ' Have I been so hard to you that you cannot trust me, Bee ?' putting on a hurt manner. ' Oh 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 time. * I must answer that letter.' ' Is it absolutely necessar}'. Bee ?' ^ Yes — yes — of course. Do you not see how unhappy he is, how ashamed of his position ? If I only send three words I must tell him he is forgiven. Oh ! Lance,' 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 L-auncelot's voice took a deeper and sadder intona- tion, ' you would not willingly, if you could help it, I mean, love another woman'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 ?' ' Certain things kill love,' he returned gloomily. ' By-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.' 294 0.\LY THE GOVERNESS ' Lance !' and, in spite of her own misery, Bee glanced aL him in an awe-struck manner ; there was such repressed passion in his voice ; but he cahned himself at once at her look. ' ]\Iy dear little sister, this is a sad world.' ' A hateful world you mean.' * No, not hateful, as long as T^Iadella and a few good people are in it. I remember when I was your age, Bee, and some trouble had befallen me ; a friend whom I loved and trusted had gone wrong. Well, I remember brooding over my woes like a great sulky baby. I even went so far as to tell Madella that I was sick of the world, and longed to die.' ' Yes, Lance,' was the weary answer, and Launcelot knew the thought had come to her too. ' Well, IMadella smiled — you know her way — " You must be very young, my dear 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. 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 labourers. " And you, too, would claim } our penny a day," she said gently, " who wish to lay down 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. Whatever sorrow falls to my share in life, I do not vnsh to die until my time comes ; it is 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 circum- stances.' ' Oh, Lance, 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 he calmed himself with difficulty, and, kissing her forehead, 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, mistru'=t, 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 BE A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN' 295 Him I must commit both her future ?.r\6. mine.' But by 'her/ Launcelot was not speaking of Bee. For the time being he had forgotten her ; the flood-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, Launce- lot ; only such a portion as may cleanse the world-worn spirit, rebaptising it with a bitter but most healing baptism. ' The Lord sitteth upon the flood,' or, as the revised edition has it, ' sat as king at the flood.' Oh, the fulness of meaning involved in that ! * Yea, the Lord sitteth as king for ever ;' and then follows the exquisite benediction, ' The Lord will give strength to His people • — the Lord will bless His people with peace.' Launcelot did not tell himself this in so many words, though the sorrow 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. Suff'er 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 hfe, his daily thoughts, in what mode he carried that cross of his — it was for these things he was respon- sible. 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 in their place was the sunset sky and the sweet breath of firs and the loveliness of a world that even man's sin cannot spoil, and a thought of peace came nesthng to his harassed heart. ' Yes, it will be over one day. It is a hard fight ; harder than the poor child who is weeping yonder will ever guess ; it takes a man's strength to cope with it ; but there will be rest by-and-by, when the end comes and the wages are paid. And I wonder what the Master of the vineyard will say when — when ' But Launcelot 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 erect ; and then he thought of his new picture and smiled at his own quaint fancies, and so the dark hour faded from his memory. But before the evening had passed he received a message from 2rS ONLY THE GOVERNESS Eee. She had shut herself up in her o;vn room, refusing ad- mittance to everyone, though Pauline had pleaded with tears to be allowed to speak to her. When Launcelot obeyed her sum- mons he found the tray with the untasted food still on the threshold. Pauline, who had accompanied him on tiptoe, shook her head at the sight. ' She has eaten nothing ; she will be iH,' she faltered ; for to her healthy, robust organisation the loss of even one meal appeared serious. People must eat, even when they are in trouble, thought Pauline, this being the creed of many well-meaning simpletons. But Launcelot knew better than Pauline here. He remembered that terrible night when sheer physical faintness 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 the 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 grace- ful souvenirs. Bee sat by the window ; she had put on a cream-coloured tea- gown, perhaps for coolness, and her hair was pushed away from her face ; Launcelot thought she looked years older, even in those few hours. ' There it is. Lance,' she said, holding out a folded paper. ' I have been trying all this time to write it, but I can do nothing better, and I think it must go as it is.' ' May I read it, Bee ?" ' Oh, yes ; you may read it ; there is nothing that the whole world may not see ; yesterday vve belonged to each other, but to- day everything is changed : but, at least, he shall know that I have no anger against him.' ' Mv DEAR Oscar,' it began, ' of course you v.-ill expect an answer to your letter ; but when I try to write there seems so little that I can say. When you tell me 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 concerned, it seems to me that there is nothing more to be said. Of course I am dreadfully unhappy, but you do not need me to tell you that any girl would be unhappy when she has received such a letter. But you need not fear any re- proaches on my part ; I have forgotten already hov/ much I have to forgive. If you have done wrong, at least you are doing right now ; ycur cousin has the firet claim on you, and I do not wish to say another word on this subject. 'CE A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN' 207 ' G cod-bye, dear Oscar ; I am afraid I am writing coldly, and that this letter v>'ill disappoint you. I shall be sorry for that, for I would like to comfort you, but such comfort is not for me to give; still I shall pray always for your future happiness. ' Your sincere friend, 'Beatrix Chudleigii.' ' 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.' ' Will 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 mc to her — to-morrow ?' ' Oh no, not to-morrow.' ' Why not ?' she persisted in a fretful voice. But Launcelot evaded this question ; he did not dare tell her that he knew she would be unfit 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 v;ith his ov/n 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 v.-ill do what I can for ycu,' he said at last; *to-mcrrov/ 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 and join us, and I will telegraph to Donaldson to get those rooms for us ; we were to have the refusal, you know. I 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 ungracious, she added, ' Thank you, dear Lance, for arranging it all so nicely ; I want mother, and I would rather be anywhei'e 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 Bee was suffering with a miserable sick headache, and could not lift her head from the pillow. ' She has had a bad night, and this is the result,' ob- served Pauline gloomily, for she was full of angry grief on her sister's account. ' She sends her love to you, Lance, but she is 298 ONLY THE GOVERNESS not able to talk at present, so only Dcssie is with her, fanning her to sleep.' ' Dossie ?' ' Yes ; is it not odd that Bee should have such a fancy for the child, v/hen 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 Launcelot. ' A child's influence can make itself felt after all. I think Dossie's great charm is that she never thinks of herself.' ' Yes, and then she is growing so pretty.' ' Not exactly ; Dossie will never be prett}', 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 capabili- ties ; she has a hundred different expressions now.' But this was beyond Pauline. An unexpected visitor called that afternoon. Pauline had just gone 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 without waiting for Fenwick, he ushered her gravely into the drawing-room. Miss Hamblyn seemed rather confused when she saw him ; her serene self-possession failed her. ' I came to see Bee,' she said hurriedly. ' I am sorry,' returned Launcelot civilly : ' Bee has a headache and can see no one, and Pauline is with her. I am vexed that you should have this long journey for nothing.' ' Is Bee ill ?' with real feeling in her voice. ' Oh, I dreaded this ; but, Mr. Chudleigh, I can go up to her, can I not ? I know she vrould like to see me, especially after what has passed.' ' It is best to tell the truth, Miss Hamblyn. Bee is very much upset by your brother's letter, and I cannot allow her to be agitated by any more talk ; you are the last person I should wish her to see.' ' You are angry ; you think it is my fault ?' she asked quickly. * Why should you say such things ? I am angry with your brother ; he has not behaved like a gentleman. He has treated two women badly, and one of them is my sister. Any man would feel him.seif aggrieved 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. Chud- leigh : but he would not listen to me. I begged him not to flirt with Bee, but he was infatuated.' 'BE A BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN' 299 * A word from you would have put a stop to it, Miss Hamblyn,' returned 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 preferred 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.' ' ]\Ir. Chudlcigh, hov/ 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 Hamblyn ?' ' 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. Chudleigh ; I wish it had happened to any but Bee.' ' And this is a woman's notion of friendship,' thought Launcelot, as he watched the tall figure recede into the distance. ' That girl is a humbug ; I always said so.' And then he made up his mind that he would bring Madella round to his opinion, and get her to break off all acquaintance with the Hamblyns. Launcelot was able to carry out his plan, for the next day, when they arrived at their destination, they found the other travellers had already ensconced themselves in the comfortable lodgings. Freckles rushed downstairs to greet them. ' It is an awfully jolly house,' he observed rapturously ; ' there are two couches and six easy chairs in the drawing-room, and I have tried them all and don't know which to choose. What a lark, bringing Bee ! Yes, mater's upstairs, so go ahead.' ' My darlings, what a delicious surprise !' exclaimed IMrs. Chud- leigh, as Bee hurried up to her. * When I got your letter. Lance, 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 lug,c;nge 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 he spoke, closed the door again precipitately. One glance showed him what he wanted to know. Bee's bonnet 3CO ONLY THE GOVERNESS was off, and she was sitting on the couch with her head on her mother's shoulder. ' Tell me all about it, my darling. Of course I see you are un- happy ; tell your mother everything. Vv^hat is the good of having children if one is not to help them in their troubles !' finished Mrs. Chudleigh, fondling her girl s hand as she spoke. ' It is good for us that God made women so,' thought Launcelot as he walked slowly away. But it is doubtful what he meant by this vague speech. Was it of Bee he was thinking, or of the mother-love that was encompassing her ? ' I am glad I brought her,' he said to himself. ' Of course she will be unhappy every- where for a time, poor child ! but she will be 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; he comes every Sunday.' He smiled as men smile when they will not speak, Because of something bitter in the thought ; And still I feel hi^ melancholy eyes, 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 schoolroom, 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 growing 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 endorsed this opinion. To her he was the dearest and best of brothers ; she thought him the finest 'Oil, YES; HE COMICS EVERY SUNDAY' 301 company in the world ; his h'ttle jokes were miracles of wit in her eyes ; and she formed her opinions on his in the most unblushing, irresponsible way. ' I never found Lance 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 received a letter from her fixing her return for the next day. ' Dear Fred has left us,' she wrote. ' He and Forbes Cunning- ham travelled together. Forbes' uncle went with them to London, so I was quite easy in my mind about Fred. ' Of course there is nothing to keep me any longer from home, and I must see Bernard before he returns to Oxford, so you may expect me to-morrow by the 5.30 train from Waterloo. Dear Bee will not be with me ; she has decided to accept the Sylves- ters' 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 Bee good ; it is just the break she needs, and she does dread coming home so, poor darling ! On the whole, she has been very good and tries not to fret, but of course one sees what she suffers. 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 able to share it. Sometimes I think Bee will never be the same girl again.' * You have wanted me to look after you,' was Launcelot's greet- ing when he saw his stepmother's tired face, and she did not con- tradict him. ' I always want you, my dear boy,' she said affectionately ; ' but you are looking thin, Lance. Pauline tells me you are working far too hard.' * Paul had better mind her own business. But there, I v/on c scold 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 dear Bee to look after another governess.' Then a cloud came over Launcelot's face, and he changed the subject a little abruptly. 302 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' How long will Bee stay at Craven ?' ' Just as long as she likes. I saw Emmeline's letter, and it was as friendly as possible. She was to be sure to take her hab't, for there would be plenty of hunting, and she hoped Bee wouia come prepared for a very long visit. They were going to have some nice people staying in the house, and they wanted to get up private theatricals.' ' I should not have thought Bee would care for all that gaiety just now.' ' No ; she had a good cry when Emmeline's letter arrived. She said it would be so hard not to enjoy anything, but all the same she made up her mind to go. I think she is very brave over her trouble, but one can see how deep it has gone.' ' Oh yes ; Bee has plenty of pluck ; she is far too proud to wear the willow in public' ' Yes ; but I doubt Vv-hether she will ever care for anyone 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 fascinating about him. And then he was so de- voted to her.' ' A pretty sort of devotion !' 'Yes; of course he' is utterly worthless, one sees that now. Oh, Launcelot ! I begin to wish we had never gone to Mentone. I am so proud of Bee, and it would be such a pleasure to me to see her happily married. I always wanted my girls to marry. But now I am afraid if she ever settles it will be lace in life, and I do dislike late marriages.' * lAy 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, jMadella. I dare say Bee will not be an oM maid after all.' Mrs. Chudleigi:'s first drive after her return was to South Ken- sington, to call on Joan. She did not mention her intended visit to Launcelot ; neverthe- less he 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 3 but I can read your thoughts sometimes, You are very 'OH, YES; HE COMES EVERY SUNDAY* 303 transparent, 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. Chudleigh 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. I 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 w^as ill ; and I did so enjoy nursing him.' ' W^ell, 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 jNIrs. Medhurst's delight ; but the second time she came alone — at least, the little girls were in the carriage.' There was something meaning in Joan's voice, for Mrs. Chud- leigh 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 aU. I knew how you would take it to heart, and Air. Chudleigh, too, for he is so proud of his sisters ; but I always knew how it would be. I warned Mr. Chudleigh, and I tried to warn Bee, but I only made her angry with me.' 304 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Laiincelot thinks it is a providential escape for her.' ' He is right. I never had any opinion of that man, and then that hard, worldly sister of his aided and abetted him. I do hope Bee will have nothing more to do with her.' Then Mrs. Chudleigh with much solemnity informed her that the Plamblyns had been so officious, and had shown such bad taste altogether in the matter, that she had taken her son's advice, and had written to Lady Hamblyn telling her frankly that she thought it better to brealv off the acquaintance. ' Nora was so pertinacious that I was obliged to do it,' she fmished. ' She tried to see Cee, and v/hen Launcelot prevented it she wrote to her once or twice begging to be allowed to come. They were very injudicious letters, for she spoke slight- ingly of her future sister-in-law, and hinted far too plainly about poor Oscar's misery. Even Bee felt the bad taste, and offered no remonstrance when I spoke of breaking off all communication with the family.' ' You did perfectly right,' returned Joan with warm sympathy. * Bee's fancy for Miss Hamblyn will 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 mean- ness to take Miss Stewart's money and talk against her. I expect she is far too good for them.' ' Well, it has been a sad business,' observed Mrs. Chudleigh vv'ith a sigh ; ' but I must not talk only of my own affairs. How is LIr. Thorpe ? I suppose he has been to see you.' ' Ivan ? Oh, yes ; he 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 difficulties it has solved.' ' I really do not understand you, Joan ; please tell me seriously what you mean.' ' Well, our tete-a-tcies were too awkward, and when Mrs. Med- hurst 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 nervousness, so one Sunday as we were having tea he said rather shortly that we had better go to church, and ever since that we have gone together.' ' I think it is very nice of him to take ycu, Jean.' 'OH, YES; HE COMES EVERY SUNDAY' 305 ' I don't know about the niceness, but it was extremely odd. I could hardly keep myself serious as we walked along that first Sunday; it seemed exactly as though I were a young woman whom Ivan was courting; it was my Sunday out, and we were walking together after the manner of young men and young women.' ' My dear Joan, what an absurd idea — your own husband !' ' Ah, but we are strangers now, and do not know each other a bit ; you cannot think how polite Ivan is to me. He asks me all sorts of questions as we walk along, and I answer them all like a dutiful young woman. I tell him where I walk, and what books I read, and the amount of fancy work I do. I even described to him the design for a tea-cloth that was in my mind, and he thought it would be extremely pretty.' Mrs. Chudleigh took no notice of the tone in which all this was said ; she 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 always 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 favourite songs ?' Joan only blushed, and made no reply to this. ' Does not Mr. Thorpe ever speak of himself, Joan ?' 'Of himself? Oh no, I never give him the opportunity; he has the right to catechise me, and of course I answer all his ques- tions ; but I should hardly take the liberty of questioning him in return.' ' I 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 innocence. ' That you took care not to appear too much interested in your husband's talk. Oh, Joan ! when you say these things you dis- appoint me terribly. Can anything be more generous than your husband's behaviour, in spite of all your unwifely conduct, in spite 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 3o6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS in your heart, and v;hether he 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 pro- bation, and that makes me worse.' ' He is on his probation, you mean, poor fellow, and is fast losing hearty I should say. Ah ! it is all very well for you to make 5^our little jests, and to send him back to his desolate home with- out 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. I must just let things go. I can read in Ivan's eyes, in his every word and action, how little faith he has in 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 mocking speeches into your m.outh. He knows that if you would only be like little children again, and kiss and make friends, no two people would 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 will behave better to him next Sunday.' ' And you will question him a little about things that you know will interest him ?' ' Oh no ; I cannot promise to do that, but it will not be hard- ness or pride that keeps me silent — you do not know how 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 ac- ceded to this, they spent the remainder of the afternoon together. But in spite of her engrossing occupation, Mrs. Chudleigh noticed two things — that wherever they went looks of admiration rested on Joan's charming face, and that the girl seemed perfectly 'OH, YES; HE COMES EVERY SUNDAY' 307 unconscious of this. Her mood had changed from vague sadness and restlessness to ahiiost childlike mirth ; she revelled in the sunshine, the movement ; every fresh novelty attracted her. ' How happy everyone looks !' she said once ; * sometimes I think it is a sin to be 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. Launcelot could have given her no information ; by tacit con- sent 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 realised 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 Launcelot was true as his own nature. ' There is nothing I 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 hfe ; through the week he counted the hours until he saw her again, and yet he never left her without that miserable numb feeling of disappointment. What was the use of gazing at her loveliness if he could not see one softened look on that fair face, when light mocking words answered 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 v;as just as though she said to him, ' Yes, you are my husband, and I cannot refuse to obey you ; but you shall have nothing but passive obedience from me. 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 interest. I will be absolutely free to follow my own whims.' ' She hates me. 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 stieer hopelessness and misery of it all. Mrs. Chudleigh paid Joan another visit during the following ' -' ' - 20— z 3c3 ONLY THE GOVERNESS vv-eek. She was calling at a house just by, and she thought she would spend half-an-hour with the girl and see if her lecture had worked any beneficial 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 find- ing 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. I cannot stay long, so we must get our talk over quickly. Did your husband come 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 best behaviour, 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, ^'ou may read his letter if you like. Oh, there is nothing that you may net see,' as ]Mrs. Chudleigh hesitated. ' My dear Joan, — I am sorry to tell you that there is no possi- bility of our meeting for the next three or four weeks ; a very un- expected 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 Tvludie is paid, so you may send at once for any books you wish, and I have ordered 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. I have a good income now, and there is no necessity to deny yourself anything. Please treat my purse as your own from this moment. 'I remain, ' Your affectionate Husband, ' Ivan Thorpe.' ' Oh, Joan ! what a kind letter I You will answer it, will you not?' ' I suppose I must, but it is very provoking. It makes me so nervous to write to Ivan. His sentences arc stiff, but mine will be stiffer still. Of courac I must thank him for the books and the 'OH, YESy HE COMES EVERY SUNDAY' 309 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 Httle forced ; ' and I will not help myself to any of his money. I have plenty of my own, and I shall tell him I v/ant nothing — nothing at all — and I shall sign myself his dutiful wife.' ' I think that expression will hurt him ; you see he has put " affectionate " 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 him 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 ; behaviour that sorely puzzled that lady. But in her own mind she was convinced that Joan missed the excitement of those Sundays ; they gave a sort of piquancy and zest to the remainder of the w^eek. Most likely her power of tormenting her husband gave her pleasure, or perhaps, as Mrs. Chudleigh charitably suspected, she was disappointed at not carrying out her good resolutions ' I shall have forgotten them by the time Ivan comes home,' she 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. Chudleigh's way was the best after all ; for she took Joan's face between her hands and looked into the girl's eyes until they drooped under their black lashes. ' That is right, my child, don't be ashamed of letting me see that you miss your husband. A noble creature such as he is ought to be missed. Let him read the welcome on your face ; he will need no words, Joan — only just that look in your eyes to make his heart jump for joy.' ;io ONLY THE GOVERNESS CHAPTER XXXV. * JOAN — REALLY — JOAN !* ' Pale was the perfect face ; The bosom with long sighs labour'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 j had fail'd in all.' 'lennysoii^s Princess. About three weeks after this Launcelot was v:alking over the bridge one afternoon when he encountered Dr. Maxwell, and they stopped simultaneously. ' ^^'hy, 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, I suppose you 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. Plappily her face and the upper part of her body have escaped, but the worst part is that she was knocked against the kerbstone, and the spine has received severe injury.' Launcelot was silent from sheer feeling, but at last he put the question : ^ What is it you fear — that she will die ?' '- No, that she will not walk again. W^e have just had Montague down, and this is his opinion.' And here Dr. Maxwell explained the case to Launcelot in technical language, giving him their reasons for fearing paralysis of the lower members. ' Montague 'JOAN— REALLY— JOAN P 311 will be down again in a few days, and by that time we shall know how far the patient is internally injured.' ' 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. Max- well, with a 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 to comfort him.' ' I must go to him at once.' ' Very well, I will walk with you to the door. I never told you that fortunately I was passing just after the accident happened, and I helped to carry ]\Iiss Thorpe into the house.' ' And are you attending her ?' ' Yes ; but of course I wished for a consultation. There were complications 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 begged her brother to go downstairs, 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 suppose it is very serious ?" she said to him. But he evaded her question. I do not know her well, but I should say she had a strong, self-reliant nature. Here we are at No. 8, and I can see Mr. Thorpe is in his study. Tell him I shall look in about five.' ' This is a bad business, Merton,' observed Launcelot when the housemaid opened the door. She was an old confidential servant, and Miss 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 greeting as Launcelot silently wrung his hand. 'Yes, I have heard. I met Maxwell on the bridge just now, 312 OXLY THE GOVERNESS and he told nie, 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 cannot bear to think of the night you must have passed ; but of course you had Maxwell ?' 'Yes, and nothing could exceed his consideration; and then Miss iMaxwell came and sat 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 office was open he telegraphed to Dr. Montague, and also for a nurse ; she has just arrived, and Miss Maxwell has gone home.' ' I am glad you had a consultation. Montague is a first-rate man.' ' Ah, but his skill can avail nothing here. Think of my poor Rachel condemned to such a hideous doom — partial paralysis, that is w^hat they fear. Think what that means — to be as helpless as an infant ! When they told me what they feared I felt that I would rather have heard her death-vrarrant. 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 Galilceans were sinners above all the Galilaeans because they have suffered such things ?' But he did not speak them. They were both God-fearing, religious men, but it would not have been easy 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 : ' Things may be better than you think, Thorpe.' But the other only shook his head despondently. ' Of course we have all our faults, and Rachel has hers. Things have not been quite comfortable between us for the last two months, but all the same she was my best friend. You at least, Chudleigh, know what we have been to each other.' 'Yes, I know.' 'And nov/ 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 mainspring of that society ever since it was formed, and what w^ill 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.' ' jOAN— REALLY— JOAN !' 513 ' 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 h'terally overflowing with bitterness. There were hnes on his face and fresh streaks of grey in his hair that had not been there two months ago ; and now, because he had not suffered enough, as he told himself, his faithful friend had been struck down at his side in the very fulness 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 de- voted sister whose care had saved his life when he 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 suffering.' ' Oh, if they could tell us that ! but they do not know them- selves. 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 do try, but I think anything like hope is crushed out of me. No ; Rachel and I must dree our weird to the bitter end.' Then it was that a thought came to Launcelot, one of those impulses that seem like an inner inspiration. 'Go to her,' it said; 'make a final appeal.' And his check flushed, and then he took out his watch and looked at it. ' I am afraid I must leave you, Thorpe, but I shall be here to- morrow. 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. Max- well will be here directly — he told me to say so.' Then Launcelot walked away in the direction of the station and I^Ir. Thorpe went back to his study. Launcelot took the train to South Kensington, and then jump- ing into a hansom, had himself driven to Truro Square. He found Joan alone in the drawing-room. Mrs. Medhurst had a cold that confined her to her own room. She was evidently surprised to see Launcelot, and her colour rose at the sight of him. 314 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' You are the last person I expected to see, jNIr. Chudleigh !' she said, trying to appear at her ease. ' When I heard wheels I made up my mind that it was ]\Irs. Chudleigh 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 a rather serious errand. Do you know your sister-in-law has met with a sad accident ?' ' 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 twitched and the tears came into her eyes. ' Oh, how dreadful ! I never heard anything so shocking. Poor Rachel ! and she will never walk again. And she suffers, tod, 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 cannot attend to his comfort. He looked absolutely ill, poor fellow ! there was quite a shrunken look about him.' Launcelot was certainly not mincing matters, but he was determined to put things in their strongest light before Joan, but he was hardly prepared for the result of his words. ' Oh r 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 ]\Irs. 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 cannot 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 between 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.' ' You are very good — very kind to have taken all this trouble ; 'JOAN— REALLY— JOAN r 315 but, Ivan — on, Mr. Chudleigh, I am afraid if he should be angry !' ' He will not be angry.' ' How do you know ? I am not forgiven yet. I think it is rather a bold thing for me to do.' ' What, to go to your husband when he is in trouble ?' ' Yes, if he is still offended with me ; besides, he will be thinking of her now, and he will not want me.' ' T^Irs. Thorpe, if I were you I should go.' ' Why ?' ' Because it is your duty to be with your husband ; and because he is eating 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.' •' I want to go,' she whispered. ' I do not feel I can keep away.' ' Will you put on your bonnet then ? and I will take you. I have 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 herj and she went upstairs as obediently as a child. ' God bless her ! she has a good heart, and it belongs to her husband,' 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 comfort. Joan hardly spoke during their journey, but sat quiet and subdued in her corner of the railway carnage. 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 suddenly touched Launcelot's arm. * Are you coming in with me ?' ' Well, no ; that would hardly do.' ' I suppose not. Do you mind walking up and down for a few minutes ? 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 sends me away, I shall join you before that.' 3i6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' He will not send you away.' ' Don't be too sure of that. There, I have actually forgotten my gloves— how absurd ! Did you notice the omission, Mr. Chudleigh?' But 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 — ask Joan's name, but he did not catch her answer. Joan did not give her name. 'Your master knows me,' she said quickly, and she walked towards the study. A hesitating knock was follow^ed by a somewhat drow^sy ' Come in,' and with- out waiting for her courage to ooze out Joan opened the door. Mr. Thorpe was sitting by the fire ; perhaps he had been asleep, for his eyes looked heavy and dazed, and he made no attempt to rise from his chair when he saw Joan. The pale haggardness of his face filled her with dismay. Launcelot 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 1' ' 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 be 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 grey eyes, and if he did not take her to his heart at that moment it was because he wanted her to speak and tell him how this miracle had been effected, that she had come to him of her o\vn accord. ' Oh,' she went on, but he could hear how her voice trembled, ' when Mr. Chudleigh came and told me what had happened I felt as though I could not stop away any longer, as though I must brave everything 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 vou will only let me stay and nurse her.' ' You will stay here with her and me ? say that again, Joan.' ' Why, how could she go, poor soul ! when she will never walk again, and 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 ?' ' I think— I think——' But what ]\Ir. Thorpe thought was never ' JOAN— REALLY— jOAN I' 317 rendered in vrords, for his voice died away ; but as Joan looked at him everything 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 husband and wife kissed each other. There were broken words, sacred confidences never to be for- gotten by either speaker during the agitated minutes that followed the reconciliation. Of the two the man was the most moved ; his nature was stirred to its very depths. Joan wept and trembled as she realised for the first time how she had trifled with this gener- ous heart, how she had goaded and wounded it without com- punction 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 mc !' she said more than once. ' Cared for you, oh, my darling ! if you knew 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 vour coldness stopped me ; one kind word would have opened my 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 repulsed once, and that I would never give you a chance cf repelling me again.' ' Repulsed, Joan ?' ' Yes, that night at the Witcbens, when you would not look at me, though I pleaded with you. If you had listened to me I should have been kneeling beside you then as I am kneehng now.' ' Are you kneeling, my darling ? and I never knew it. How tired you must be ! and yet your dear face looks so fresh and beautiful. Let me give you this chair.' But Joan resisted this ; she was not tired a bit, and she liked her position ; and as she put her head down on his shoulder and nestled to him, Mr. Thorpe was satisfied to let things remain as they were. Joan was accept- ing 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 playfully 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 dis- appoint you again and again.' ' Oh, I am not afraid of that,' he ansvrcrcd in an offhand way. 3i8 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' 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 tease me. I 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 ? but we have both been very foolish people, but we 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 me and make much of me, I always feel as blissful as a cat warming herself before a fire 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 anyone told you that you have grown more beautiful than ever?' ' Oh, to hear his blarney !' she said, blushing nevertheless with pleasure. ' 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 w^hen he w^as 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 uncon- scionably 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 undis- guised 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 his eyes, and there was a choking sen- sation in his throat as he thought of the old desolate days. As soon as they were left alone Joan glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ' Ivan, it is getting late, I must go soon.' 'What do you mean?' he said, almost dropping his glass and ' JOAN— REALLY— jfOAN P 31J staring at 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 in both of hers ; ' I could not treat Mrs. Medhurst so badly. You know I only left word that I was going out with ]\Ir. 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 w^as far tx)0 nice for a keeper.' ' Joan, please don't be provoking.' 'Provoking, is it? Oh, the tyranny of these husbands ! But, Ivan, you must hear 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 have to fetch me.' ' Oh, I am to fetch you, am I ?' * Yes ; but not too early, please. I have all my things to pack. If you are good you may come to luncheon, and then 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 1 have been here.' ' I should not have told her,' he returned rather sadly ; ' there must be nothing to agitate her just yet.' ' 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, I shall never misunderstand Ivan again,' were the last waking thoughts that night before she sank into a happy dream. 320 ONLY THE GOVERNESS CHAPTER XXXVI. Rachel's nemesis. ' Thou hast clone 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 care '' 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 looked at his friend somewhat keenly. ' It is all right then. I am so glad, Thorpe.' ' Yes, I am going to fetch her now ; she could not stay last night, because they were expecting her back.' ' Don't let me keep you. I only want to know how Miss Thorpe 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 in modern houses, and the stairs are carpeted.' ' Still Miss Thorpe has sharp eyes, and that very cheerful ex- pression 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. What a mystery life is, Chudleigh ! One is struck down and another uplifted at the same moment. Last evening, as I sat alone in my study, I thought 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 hberty ? what do I not owe to you?— every- thing, everything !' RACHEL'S NEMESIS 321 * Absolutely nothing.' * Oh no ; I am not weighed down with a sense of my indebted- ness — not at all. You have been like a brother to me, and have treated Joan with the chivalry and good faith of a gentleman. \Vhy, 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 mind to him.' ' If it will do you good, Thorpe, but I would rather take every- thing for granted ; besides, I know you would have done the same for me.' ' I don't know that. I am not Launcelot Chudleigh.' ' All the better for you, old fellow,' remarked Lance 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 Rachel was not so well.' ' We think she is a trifle better, dear, but Chudleigh came in, and that detained me. Are we to have luncheon here ? But you must come away directly afterwards. I shall not be satisfied till I see you sitting opposite to me in the study. Why are you laugh- ing, Joan ?' ' Because — because you are so ridiculous,' she returned with a loving little squeeze of his hand to make up for her rude speech, for Joan could not long remain on her best behaviour, and it was too delicious to see Ivan showing all the impatience of a love- sick boy. ' But I will not tease you, Ivan, I will be good ; you shall have your luncheon, and I will wait upon you like a dutiful wife.' ' Indeed, no ; I mean to wait on my own sweetheart.' ' Oh ! to think of him courting me in that way ! Ivan, I am sorry I said you looked old — that I told Mr. Chudleigh so. I think you have grown younger — that I never knew you so young before.' But though Mr. Thorpe smiled at this, he saw very well that Joan was a little shy of him this morning, and that in spite of her bright speeches the tears lay very near the surface. Even as 21 322 ONLY THE GOVERNESS she jested with him, speaking of herself as his young woman and making httle jokes on the subject, her changing colour and quick, restless movements spoke volumes to the eyes that had now learnt 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, and 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 supersti- tion ; he only held her hand very tightly as though he understood her meaning. 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 his 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.' ' Yes, 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 a wife ought to be ; but I am only Joan, I cannot alter my nature.' ' I do not wish it altered,' he returned, looking into her sad, beautiful 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 1 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 happiness, 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 footstep 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 he spent with his sister, but in spite of all his efforts he could not entirely hide that some change had passed over him ; a RACHEL'S NEMESIS 323 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- well 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,' she returned with a short sigh ; ' I suppose 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 her letter to-morrow. It is a thoroughly sensible, business-like letter, and she speaks so kindly of you. I think she will be the right person in the right place. That was a happy thought of yours.' But there was no answering brightness on Rachel's pale face, only a slight twitching of the thin lips answered him. A fortnight had passed since Rachel's accident, but she had never since spoken to her brother on the subject of her helpless- ness. She had questioned Dr. Maxwell and had learnt from him all that it was necessary for her to know — that they hoped that in a little while she would cease to suffer, but she must never expect to lead an active life again. ' And I am only forty-five — hardly an old woman. Dr. Maxwell. But there, what is the use of complaining ? we must take what Providence 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. Now, my sister Brenda, for example, is one of the happiest women 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, no weak repinings should pass her hps — that she would not add to Ivan's trouble by letting 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 see that her mantle had fallen on a worthy suc- cessor, 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 Halliwell. ' Yes, it is a great relief to my mind to know that she has taken 21 — 2 324 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 working order ; but Miss Halhwell is exactly the person to carry on 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 ever 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. We do not need words, you and I ; if I said anything it would be to regret that I am to be an encumbrance to you all my life ; but I will not hurt you by saying even that.' 'That is the truest kindness you have yet shown me.' Then a softened look came to her eyes. ' No, I will not wrong your generosity by saying any such thing. I know what vre are to each other, and that there is no grudging thought in your mind.' Then he kissed her forehead, almost too much moved to speak, and as he did so he noticed hovr gray her hair was growing. ' I suppose you see Joan sometimes,' she continued presently, as though following out some train of thought. Ivan started, and had some difficulty in controlling the muscles of his face as he answered ; for was not Joan at that moment tidying his papers and singing under her breath at her work for fear Rachel should hear her ? 'Oh yes; I see her sometimes,' he returned rather awkwardly. *You know I told you so.' ' And she is well ?' ' 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 de- livered her message. Now there is nurse coming back, 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 always 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 another ; now it would wear a mocking expression, or the next moment the gray eyes would be brilliant and angry with excite- ment. ' It is only one of her Irish rages ; it is best to leave her RACHEL'S NEMESIS 325 alone,' she would have said at such a time. But even as the re- collection crossed her the expression would seem to change to one of sweetest entreaty. ' We are sisters : why can we not love each other ?' 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 punishment, 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?' had 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 hardness, had driven her sister- in-law away from her home — when her narrow 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 unhappiness, 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 vigour 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 uncleanness to the Divine eyes of her Judge ! ' Blessed are the merciful ;' but had she ever shown mercy ? * Blessed are the peacemakers ;' and she had sown bitterest dissen- sion. ' And I to dare to think myself a good woman !' thought Rachel, writhing under the fierce mysterious pain caused by those strokes of the two-edged sword that men call conscience — ' I 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 326 ONLY THE GOVERNESS had worked, and tears of womanly anguish coursed down her cheeks. ' No, I am not worthy ; I own my sm,' she murmured, clasping her hands in the darkness, ' but, good Lord, the sin is mine : let not these little ones suffer through my fault. Put it into some other woman's head to take up the dropped work, and I will be content to suffer.' And perhaps the pure unselfishness of this prayer brought the desired answer when Miss Halliwell offered herself for the work. After all, Rachel Thorpe was a good woman. If she had great faults she had great virtues too ; her patience and silent fortitude under suffering, her unwillingness to give unnecessary trouble, drew many a word of praise from her doctor and nurse. 'You are the best patient I ever had,' Dr. Maxwell said to her once. ' You make no objection to anything I prescribe ; and I know many people who would have their grumble at the doctor if I ordered them that.' ' There seems nothing left but obedience,' she answered with a smile. ' Besides, I should only think it ungrateful to grumble, when you take such trouble about me.' ' I only wish I could do more for you,' he returned with real feeling as he took his leave. Dr. Maxwell was beginning to feel great interest in his patient ; he told his sisters that Miss Thorpe was a fine 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 leafless trees 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 knowledge 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 13 that?' asked Rachel suddenly. ' Merton never runs upstairs in that way.' ' I will see,' he said, going to the door, for no answer seemed possible to him under the circumstances ; and there was Joan peep- ing at him from the opposite room. She looked rather aghast as he made a sign to her to close the door. * I see no one,' she heard him say after this little manoeuvre had RACHEL'S NEMESIS 327 taken place. * I think Merton and nurse are downstairs, but I will give them a hint to go up and down more quietly.' But Rachel begged him to do nothing of the kind — the house was silent enough, and she almost longed for some sound to break the monotony ; but, true to 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 sick-room, but he always evaded her request. * You must wait a few days longer,' he would say, ' until Maxwell is quite sure there will be no risk ; but I dread any agitation for Rachel in her present wxak state.' And Joan reluctantly sub- mitted. But she had no idea that Ivan was thinking more of her than of the poor invalid ; that his passionate fondness could not brook the thought of a cloud on that bright face. ' She is like a child in her happiness. I cannot endure the idea of her being imprisoned in that sick-room,' he would say to himself. ' Rachel will be hard and cold to her, and then Joan will droop. Oh no ; I must keep her to myself a little longer. I hope I am not selfish, but it is for Joan's sake.' Joan had no idea that Ivan was keeping them apart for any such reason. 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 consideration for her, and then she would have run upstairs and made her peace with Rachel. With all her faults, Joan was no cow^ard, and would not have shrunk from doing her duty to her sister-in-law. After all, it was Joan's knight-errant Launcelot who cut the Gordian knot of difficulty 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 thnik he would not mind the trouble of coming up.' ' My dear Rachel, Chudleigh never thinks anything a trouble. He calls constantly at the door to ask after you, and Mrs. Chud- leigh 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 that 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 328 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 me. Fancy Ivan making pretty speeches ! He says he has to make up for lost time, because he had been such an unsatisfactory lover. He had no idea that girk 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 always on the alert to open the door or wait upon her. Oh, women notice these little things. Depend upon it, he cannot bear her out of his sight. Joan tells me that though he pretends to grumble if she disturbs 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 up her work — a cushion that she was embroidering for Brenda. If Pauline in her sturdy honesty thought that Joan had hardly merited all this wealth of love, she was none the less thankful that her friend's troubles were over. She did not grudge Joan her happiness even though she dropped that sigh. ' Some people have so much, and others so little,' she said. ' There is Bee, now.' Then Mrs. Chudleigh looked grave at the mention of her daughter's name; for all the world knew that Oscar Hamblyn was to marry his cousin the following week. For RACHEL'S NEMESIS 129 some reason, matters had been hurried on, and Bee was still away, and would remain with the Sylvesters until the New Year. ' Yes, poor darling !' she returned, echoing Pauline's sigh ; for of all her children Bee was just then the one nearest her heart. She regarded her as the stricken deer that had gone apart to hide its wounds, and she only spoke of her in a tone of subdued tender- ness. 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 came 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 sleeping. ' Everyone admires your daughter Beatrix,' wrote Cousin Emme- line; 'she eclipses all our country girls. Captain Elliott seems seriously smitten, and follows her about like a shadow ; though I am obliged to confess that the girl gives him little encouragement. He is only the second son, but he will inherit his mother's fortune, so the title does not matter. And he is nice-looking, and is what Ralph calls a downright 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 XXXVIT. •^ WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HER?' * Oh, might we all our lineage prove, Give and forgive, do good, and love, By soft endearments in kind strife Light'ning the load of daily life !' Christian Year. Rachel's gray eyes softened in their old way at the sight of her favourite. Launcelot was one of those men who seemed to understand by instinct how to behave in a sick-room ; and yet he was perfectly 330 ONLY THE GOVERNESS unused to illness. He had been abroad at the time of Lily's death, and his father's sudden seizure had allowed no protracted nursing. All the rest of the Chudleighs had been remarkably healthy ; nevertheless no trained nurse walked into the room with a firmer, lighter tread, and there was something soothing in the quiet unhesitating manner in which he sat down and took the invalid's hand, holding it for a minute or two before he relin- quished it. ' How good of you to send for me. Miss Thorpe !' ' How good of you to come !' she returned, smiling. * I thought if I had to pass my life here,' looking round the comfortable room as she spoke, ' that it would be hard if I could not see my friends ; and you are my very special and particular friend, are you not?' with an attempt at playfulness ; but her lip trembled a little as she saw how much he was 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 ? I may truly say you have not been out of my mind for a single hour.' ' Oh, 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 Launcelot did not disturb her. But as he sat beside her couch in the wintry 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 fine face, and the broad benevolent forehead and the kind expression of the eyes neutralised the thin, severe lips. ' I hope you are thinking how comfortable I look,' she continued, rousing herself with an effort. ' Is not this invalid couch a grand invention? It saves nurse so much trouble. But it must have cost Ivan a great deal.' ' I don't suppose Thorpe minds that.' ' No, indeed ; Ivan spares no expense. But it was not Ivan who bought that lovely couvrepied^ all covered with embossed flowers, and fit 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 eat our grapes ; we have more than we want at the Witchens.' ' Oh, of course you do not wish to be thanked, but all the same 'WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HER?' 331 I mean to thank you. And now will you give your stepmother a message ? 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 only 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 Launcelot than to Ivan of her trouble. ' But I am not unselfish in my request. If you only knew how grateful I am for anything to break the monotony of the long day ! I suppose it is because one is weak that one cannot 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. Chudleigh, 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 sur- prised 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 for the last month ; but they were all too much afraid to let you know. The moment Mrs. Thorpe heard of your accident she came here to her husband and begged to be allowed to nurse you ; but he would not listen to that for a moment, because Dr. Maxwell said you were to be kept so quiet and nothing was to worry you, so she went back. But the next day Thorpe fetched her, and she has been here ever since.' ' Joan here !' and ]\Iiss Thorpe's tone was a little excited. ' Then that was the reason they would not leave my door open, and that Ivan stayed so little with me at first ! Ah, that accounts too for all that puzzled me. I thought he seemed so unaccountably cheer- ful — more as though he were trying to look grave than if he really felt so.' ' Poor fellow ! I suspect it was hard for him to disguise his feelings. Miss Thorpe, it is just as I told you ; they are two of 332 ONLY THE GOVERNESS the happiest people in the world now they understand each other — only they want you to share their happiness.' ' 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. Providence 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 reconciliation. Let me tell her that you are ready to see 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, 'though 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 go ; 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 .cannot summon up courage to send for her: my weakness is making me a coward for the first time in my life. Of course, you cannot understand such miserable indecision.' Launcelot seemed to ponder over these words ; he w^as 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 probable scene ; but what if there should be no scene ? Thorpe was out of the vray — 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 Launcelot cheerfully ; and he actually walked out of the room, leaving Miss Thorpe too much astonished at this brisk treatment to utter a 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 pale, with nervous coldness creeping round the region of her heart. How long it was since he had gone ! Ten minutes, surely ! Of course Joan was standing on her dignity and would not come. Well, she was the mistress of the house, and there would be no one to interfere with her just rights now. A poor paralysed creature with shattered nerves was not likely to be a formidable rival. 'WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HER?' 333 * I will own my fault against her. I will place myself in the wrong, and perhaps that will satisfy her ; and I will try and hold my tongue when she aggravates me with some of her Irish speeches ; but more than that I dare not promise.' Rachel was working her- self up to just that restless point when sheer nervousness would induce her to say the wrong thing ; in her 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 re- served, 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 gently on them and went downstairs. 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 you, or help nurse you, though I would have done any- thing to save you a moment's pain. Oh, you poor thing ! you poor thing !' kissing her and stroking her as though she were a child, and all the time the tears were lunning 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 your- self, " 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 behaviour, 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 tell me without any words that you too have forgiven me ; for Mr. Chud- leigh says that you are too weak to talk, and that there must be 334 ONLY THE GOVERNESS no scene at all; and he is the beet man in the world next to Ivan, and so he must be obeyed. Ah, now I have made you cry, and Ivan and Mr. Chudleigh will be angry with me ! Oh, my dear, my dear ! please don't do it !' And Joan put her own hand- kerchief 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 confes- sion. 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 shall IMerton 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 me. Now tell me, darling, will you have the curtains closed and the lamp lighted, or do you prefer the twilight ?' * Whichever you like, Joan.' * Very well, if I am to choose I should like the lamp, because I can see you better there, and you do look so nice ! I wonder whether it is the gray hair , that suits you so, or that lovely quilt and that dainty little blue shawl ! I never saw you in anything but black before. Now do you like the round table close to your couch ? and may I have my tea here too ? or will it disturb you ?' And as Rachel shook her head Joan tripped about the room and made her little preparations, quite unconscious of the tide of penitence and love that was rising in Rachel's breast. Rachel knew as she watched her that she had hungered secretly for a sight of Joan's bonnie face. The girl's fresh beauty and i^imple unconscious way filled her with surprise and admiration. How gracefully and quietly she moved about the room ! how lightly and easily she touched things ! Her questions did not fatigue Rachel, though their childishness made her smile. She was so anxious to please in trifles, so sure that Rachel must know her own mind and regulate her sick-room, she would scarcely take her own tea, of which she made a pretence, for watching every mouthful that Rachel took. ' Is that all you take ?' she said sorrow- 'WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HER?' 335 fully 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 the hearth and setded the flower-baskets to her liking 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 the speech she intended. * Joan, I believe we have both been to blame for the past trouble. If you had guarded your temper better and I had pro- voked you less and made things easier for you, you would never have left Ivan. And, my dear, 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 cannot 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 for your own hardness.' But Rachel only smiled at this very Irish sophistry and went on * If repentance means trying to do better, I hope to prove to both you and Ivan that I am truly repentant, though I am not a woman to put my deeds into words. To be sure, there is nothing I can do for either of you now ; I can give nothing and receive everything — which seems a very unfair arrangement under the circumstances.' ' Not at all,' maintained Joan stoutly. ' The real kindness and charity will be letting me wait on you after what has passed, giving sisterly rights to one who has justly forfeited them. It is you who will be the generous one, Rachel, when you permit me to take my place here. This room is your castle, and no one can invade it without your leave and licence.' ' Then I will make you free of it. Come when you like- and as often as you like, Joan, and I will try to be a good sister to you— and you know I never say things lightly.' And Joan, who had ever honoured Rachel in her heart in spite of all her girlish anger, knew that this was the truth, and that when Rachel could speak such words their reconciliation was indeed complete. When Mr. Thorpe came back that evening he marvelled greatly that Joan was not on the watch to greet him as usual. The draw- ing-room and study were both deserted. ' She must be upstairs dressing for dinner,' he thought ; and he wondered what gown she would wear, and if the dark red chrysan- 336 ONLY THE GOVERNESS themums he had brought with him would be available to complete her toilette, for it had become a habit with him to bring her in flowers ever since he had seen her delight over a few orchids he had brought her once from a friend's conservatory. He had something else for her to-night — a beautiful gipsy ring with three diamonds sunk in the thick gold band, that was to replace the old gold keeper — for he knew well that this was the anniversary of their wedding day, though he had taken no notice of the fact ; and he wondered if Joan had recollected it — she was always so careless of dates. In reality Joan was aware 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 altar a shy, 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 comfortable 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 his waistcoat pocket and the dusky red flowers in his hand, thinking of Joan's girlish fancy for diamonds because they flashed so brightly, while opposite to him hung Launcelot's picture in its handsome frame — ' My Sonne's fair wife Elizabeth.' ' Poor Chudleigh !' he thought as his eyes fell on it. But he never confessed even to himself the reason of his pity ; a sort of 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 — and only pray that your husband may be worthy of the friendship of such a man.' And then he muttered to him- self in a tone of grief that filled Joan's heart with dismay and girhsh 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, but at least his suffering shall be re- spected 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 conversation ; 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 'WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE HER?' 337 sitting as still as a mouse, almost afraid to draw her breath com- fortably for fear of disturbing that light slumber. She looked up and held up a warning finger as her husband advanced cautiously towards 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 nice talk !' ' Joan has been very good to me,' returned Rachel in a subdued voice, and the look that passed between the brother and sister was more eloquent than any words. ' Yes, you may take her away now, for I don't mean to be selfish, and she has been sitting here all the afternoon ; but you may both come 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 begging my pardon, and making out that she was the one in the wrong ! I tried to stop her, but I soon saw it was use- less, 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 their wedding day, her delight was unbounded. ' I wonder if it is wrong to be so happy !' she whispered. * Sometimes 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 then with one of those swift changes of mood that had been her fascination in Launcelot's eyes, her lovely face clouded, and she clung to her husband almost convulsively. ' 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 lesson I was too stupid to teach her? We are both learning it together now. " And with what measure ye mete " — oh, these are grand words, 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. Chud- leigh were ! could she ever have expected that such forgiveness could be accorded her— that after all her wilful wanderings and 22 338 ONLY THE GOVERNESS failures she should be led 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 eradi- cate 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 Bible, and had only gabbled her prayers by rote after parrot fashion, was learning now that religion meant something more than going to church and Hstening 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 loving others as well as themselves ; and in Launcelot's case it meant even more, for it inludced 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 Joan knew well. After all it was Rachel, not Ivan, who taught Joan to read her Bible, 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 these things.' 'It must be your mission to teach her, Rachel,' he returned with a smile ; for this information did not seem to shock him ; Rachel was a rigid disciplinarian, and he 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 essays. Joan might be a late gleaner in the field of truth, but at least she would be diligent and pains- taking 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 of 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 I had known all I know now I 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 sigh. LAUNCELOTS PICTURE 339 CHAPTER XXXVIII. launcelot's picture. * It was the Sea of Sorrow ; and I stood At midnight on the shore. The heavy skies Hung dark above ; the voice of them that wept Was heard upon the waters, and the chill Sad going of a midnight wind, which stirred No wave thereon.' Ezekiel and other Poems. When Launcelot looked back years afterwards to this period of his life, he would call it, smilingly, ' the winter of his discontent,' when he was least satisfied with himself and his surroundings. ' I was a grumbhng sort of fellow then,' he would 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 had turned topsy-turvy. I am afraid I was a selfish fool in those days.' Launcelot was inclined to cry peccavi, because unexpected trouble had befallen him, but all the same he carried his burthen steadily, and with a good deal of courage. After all, most people have to undergo this sort of experience and revulsion. There are sterile bits of bleak wilderness in most lives. Sometimes 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 un- accustomed eyes ; how sombre the light ; how desolate the sur- roundings ; 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 pros- perity will never cheat into utter oblivion of a bitter past — but with most the dark days are forgotten 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. Launcelot was quite ready for any consolation that might offer 22 — 2 340 ONLY THE GOVERNESS itself. He had no desire to become an eccentric misanthrope because his love had ended disastrously. But he could not deny to himself that life had become a very humdrum, ordinary affair ; that his enthusiasms had died a natural death ; that all pleasures seem flat, stale, and unprofitable, and that he seemed to take interest in nothing but his work. Launcelot would tell himself that ' not enjoyment and not sorrow is our destined end or way,' for he loved at all times to philosophise ; but this reflection brought more satisfaction to his head than his heart that ached with its novel feeling of loneliness. ' Never mind, it is dogged that does it,' he would say, applying the words of one of Trollope's characters to his own case. ' I will stick to my work and do the best I can 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 Chudleighs 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 Burlington House, he was aware that his companion attracted a good deal of attention. ' What a crowd there is round that small picture in the corner !' observed Beatrix presently. ' Lend me the catalogue a moment, Lance, I must look out the number; 408, "The Sea of Sorrow; by Launcelot Chudleigh." Why, it is your picture ! what a strange name ! and there is some poetry written 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 great host at rest ; and I beheld The shadow of Eternity lie deep And heavy on the sea.' LA UNCELOrS PICTURE 341 Bee made no further comment on the Rnes, but her face grew eager and wistful as she waited until there was space for her to 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 Launcelot glanced at her he was more than satisfied with the result of his work. At least there was one who would under- stand his meaning. And yet it seemed to puzzle many of the spectators. * Oh, what a dreadfully sad picture ! is it an allegory, papa ?' Bee heard one young girl say. In very tru^^h it was a sombre picture. A little boat with three figures in it was tossing on a wild and desolate sea. Scarped cliffs and rugged rocks bounded the inhospitable shore. A murky sort of twilight seemed to brood over the sullen waves. Only across the track of the water came a faint radiance as though heralding light. The figures were very striking. An old man in fisherman's garb was seated in the stern, a broken oar was in his hand — the other had drifted. Hopelessness 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 rude 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 dishevelled. His face was pale like his companions, but there was a steadfastness and fortitude in his attitude, as he gazed with unblenching eyes across the water. Bee's eyes seemed to turn in the same direction, and then she perceived 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 Bee in her awe and girlish reverence knew what that kingly hand signified. ' Oh, Lance, how beautiful T 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. Bee turned a little pale as she bowed in response. 'Oh, wait a moment, Oscar. I have not half looked at it,' 342 ONLY THE GOVERNESS observed the lady who was with him, and Bee saw a very pale, insignificant-looking girl trying to detain him. Bee, who was wedged in by the crowd behind her, bore her awkward position almost heroically. She kept her eyes on the picture all the time Oscar Hamblyn 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 fretfully, 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 sombre, dissatisfied look on Oscar's face that had once seemed to her the perfection of manly beauty. ' She is very plain,' she said to herself with a sort of shudder, and then 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 pre- vented 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 catalogue, 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 refused to accompany him to the other room, and was giving methodical attention to each picture in turn. Oscar might grumble and pull his moustache savagely as his pale little help- meet put up her eye-glasses and peered into every picture, but he knew of old that Erica could be obstinate. He revenged himself, however, by taking stolen glances at 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 saying to herself, for she had learnt something in these nine months ; ' but oh,' becoming weak and womanly in a minute, ' I wish that she looked nicer for his sake. I am afraid he is not happy.' Bee tormented herself with this reflection long after her first sickening heart-throb at the sight of her faithless lover had quieted down ; but if she had really grasped the truth of things, it was Erica to whom pity was due, though, as her sister-in-law would say con- temptuously, ' Erica married Oscar with her eyes open.' LA UNCELOTS PICTURE 343 Young Mrs. Hamblyn was making the best of a bad bargain. She was giving everything and receiving a very scanty return ; her wifely devotion was taken as a matter of course; her Hberahty could not satisfy the grasping natures of the Hamblyn fam.ily. Even before their honeymoon was over Erica had discovered that she must keep the mastery in her own hands, for fear her husband's prodigality and weak will should 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 kept him in order and drew her purse-strings tightly for his good. He 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 be obliged to respect her. Poor Bee was to undergo another unwelcome encounter. They were just entering another room, when a fair, highly-bred-looking man stopped just in front of them and offered Bee his hand. ' I scarcely ventured to hope we should meet again, Miss Chud- leigh,' he said with such unconcealed pleasure in his voice that Bee blushed as 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,' returned Bee politely. ' Yes, I heard from Maggie Sylvester that you were going.' Just then one of Launcelot's numerous acquaintances accosted 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. * I hope you will have a good passage.' And then Captain Elliott raised his hat and turned away. ' Well, my dear,' began Launcelot, but she stopped him hurriedly. ' Oh, Lance, I am so tired 1 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 : ' I am glad I saw Captain Elliott, Bee ; he is just what I ex- pected to find him : a fine, manly-looking fellow of whom any woman might be proud.' And then, as Bee did not answer, he went on : ' You know ^Lidella 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 344 ONLY THE GOVERNESS me. They know I gave him no encouragement — Lady Elliott told me so herself.' ' Does he know the reason of your refusal, Bee ?' 'That I cared for someone else. Oh yes. Of course he deserved to know the truth. I am afraid,' and here she blushed again, ' that he has not quite given up hope. He says when he comes back 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 reproachfully, as though I don't understand. Take my advice ; put him and every other man out of your head for a litde while, and by-and-by, when things look a little brighter, you will soon find out gold from dross, and who is the right man after all.' And then he broke off and said a little wistfully, ' I think you read my parable truly. Bee.' ' Do you mean the picture ? Oh, Lance, I am so glad you will not sell it. You must hang it in your studio, and then I can look at it sometimes ; it will be better than a sermon.' 'I will show you the poem \\hen I get home,' was all his answer, and Bee looked at him with a mute reverence. Lance was in some way altered, she thought, and yet no trouble ever seemed to touch him. Where had he learnt all his wisdom ? No one ever seemed to understand and sympathise like Lance. Bee would have to do without him soon, for Launcelot was to start the next day for his long-deferred trip. 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 hke 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 October 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 we shall be at Penzance 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 Launcelot. And so it was settled between them that he was to be perfectly free until Christmas. Perhaps Mrs. Chudleigh's intuition told her how heavy the strain of these months had been, and as LA UNCELOrS PICTURE 345 she looked at his careworn 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 loveh'ness of snow-capped mountains and smihng valleys, and set himself to learn the lesson 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 fellowship 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 favourite as ever with them ; but he had grown a little shy and reserved with them, as though resolved to carry out one of his friend's speeches — ' that Chudleigh had resolved to eschew matrimony.' ' No, I shall never marry,' he would say cheerfully ; and in his heart he felt that he was speaking the truth. ' I mean to make a model bachelor uncle, and spoil all my nephews and nieces.' It was towards the close of the summer, when Launcelot was wandering about the Austrian Tyrol, that he received an English paper and some letters with the Riversleigh post-mark, and read the announcement: 'On the 4th inst, 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 you wish to complete our happiness you will agree to this. At present I can tell you little about him, except that he is a big, healthy fellow, 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 346 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 yesterday, 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 doctor sadly ; his visits were always welcome to her. Joan liked him exceedingly, 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 liide it. He cannot refrain from starting up every time he hears Baby cry ; but he will get used to it in time. As for Joan, she is lovelier than ever. I think just this was wanting to bring out her womanliness — 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 neighbours. Springmead is a very pleasant house, and has a large garden attached to it. They are going to give up a room on the ground floor 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 Merton is to be my nurse. ' I have left off as many invalid habits as possible, and am as busy as my helplessness will allow. I am able to do a good deal for our society in the way of correspondence, and, to my delight, I find I can assist Ivan materially in his additional work. Indeed, the day is not 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 cannot tell you how I missed her during those three weeks. I felt my helplessness then, when I could not even 'HE IS HE D LEY TO ME' 347 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 letters. And then after a little thought he wrote to his friend, congratulating 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 httle chance of his returning to the Witchens before Christmas. CHAPTER XXXIX. * My fond affection ihou 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 7 Ah, no ! that smiling cheek Proves more unchanging love for me Than labour'd words could speak.' Towards the beginning of December Launcelot was setting his face homewards, 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 stepmother. 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 unselfishness 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 348 ONLY THE GOVERNESS face again. Geoffrey is as good as poj^sible and tries to take your place in everything, but you have ahvays been my right hand, Lance, and somehow I feel lost without you. I would give much to see you sitting opposite me this evening ; but there, I am a selfii^h 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 awTiy 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, and three days afterwards arrived at the Witchens. The welcome he received must have shown Launcelot how greatly he had been missed ; beaming faces surrounded the dearly loved son and brother; the very children — Sybil and Dossie — seemed to hang on his every word. Launcelot divided his atten- tions equally as well as he could ; he had gifts for everyone, some lovely Dresden china for his stepmother, pretty ornaments for his sisters, books for Geoffrey and Bernard, and a store of good things for the younger ones such as children love. ' But Dossie is not a little girl now,' he observed, as he looked at his favourite. Dossie was twelve years old now, and was grow- ing tall and slim ; her fair hair hung in a long smooth plait below her waist ; her little oval face was as pale as ever, but the deep blue eyes had their old affectionate look. Dossie did not speak her gladness in words ; she had grown shy with her old friend, but she watched his every look and was ready to anticipate his wishes as she sat in her corner mute as a bright-eyed mouse. Launcelot, 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 has grown prettier, but all the same I see a change in her. I have an uncomfortable suspicion that it is about Maxwell ; no one mentioned his name to-night ; but I hope not — I hope not.' It was not until late the following afternoon that he found him- self alone with 'his stepmother; the young master had had plenty of business to occupy him, and it was only when the dusk made idleness compulsory 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. Chudleigh's tea-table ; they were together in the morning-room, the girls were out with Geoffrey, and Sybil and Dossie were in the schoolroom with Mademoiselle, 'HE IS HEDLEY TO ME' 349 a good-humoured, talkative little Parisienne, who had replaced Joan. Fenton had just placed a large log on the fire, and already it spluttered 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 careworn expression 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 see from your letter that something was troubling you, and so I came home at once ; no one has said a word to me, but all the same I know it is about Pauline.' ' Oh, Lance, how could you guess ? I am sure dear Pauline was as cheerful as possible last night.' * Yes, but her cheerfulness was rather fcH-ced, and I noticed that she was a little shy with me. If you are going to tell me that she and Maxwell have fallen in love with each other I can only say I am extremely sorry ; there is no man I like and respect more, but it is utterly impossible for him to marry.' ' Yes, they both know that, and dear Pauline is so good about it. But, Lance, I do feel as though we have been most to blame. Why did we let her visit so much at Bridge House ? She and Charlotte have been inseparable all the summer, and then there was that poor Brenda, and so she was always seeing him. How can anyone wonder if they grew to care for each other ? ' It is really so, then ! Well, I can only say that I expected better things of a man like Dr. Maxwell. I thought, at least, that we could depend on him for upright, honourable dealing.' And Launcelot's eyes flashed ominously and his brow grew dark, for Pauline was his favourite 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, Lance, you are misjudging Dr. Maxwell,' she returned eagerly. ' Sorry as I am for what has happened, I am convinced that he never meant to do wrong ; he never spoke until after his illness, when he was too weak to resist the sudden temptation ; but let me tell you a little about it. Pauline wishes you to know, and then you will understand.' ' I shall understand that life is an awful muddle to most people,' he returned gloomily ; but she took no notice of this. 350 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Well, you see, Lance, we were at Penzance when Dr. Maxwell was first taken with the fever, though we returned home about a fortnight afterwards. I noticed Pauline was very much out of spirits just then — restless and ill at ease, but I w^as 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.' Launcelot groaned, but he did not interrupt her. ' When Dr. Maxwell became convalescent Pauline saw him almost daily. He assumed the right of an invalid to take posses- sion of the drawing-room couch, and in this way they were thrown a great deal together.' ' And he spoke to her ?' 'Yes, he spoke to her; but, Lance, he assures me — for I have seen him more than once — that nothing was further from his intention ; that though he has loved her for more than a year he never intended to betray 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 pos- sibility 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 year. '"What business had I to tell Pauline that I loved her," he 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 dishonourably as possible to your daughter." Oh, poor fellow ! I did feel sorry for him.' ' Of course you forgave him on the spot ?' ' Well, Lance, you would have forgiven him yourself if you had heard him. Just consider the circumstances. They were together, and he 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 strangely, and the next minute he told her that she must 'HE IS HEDLEY TO ME' 351 go away and leave him, for he could not bear to have her there 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 hopeless case ?' ' 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 v/ithout feeling ashamed of doing so. I am afraid it has gone very deep with them both, Lance. She 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 Max- well has persuaded her into any sort of engagement ?' 'No, indeed; he has told her in my presence that she is abso- lutely free ; he even begged her to forget his rash words. " I deserve to suffer," he said to her, " but I cannot bear to think that I have shadowed your bright young life ;" and then turning to me he said most earnestly, " You 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 anyone else, because she should always feel as though she belonged 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." ' " 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. Lance, 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 352 ONLY THE GOVERNESS her brother. On the contrary, she rather sought for it than other- wise. 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 colour, 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, Lance ; I felt so uncomfortable last night, feeling you did not know.' And then she stopped, and continued almost in a whisper, ' You must not be angry with me or Hedley.' 'Are you speaking of Dr. Maxwell, Paul ?' ' Yes, but 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. ' My poor little girl, has it gone as far as that ?' * Yes, it has gone as far as that ; but, Lance, you must not spveak in that pitying voice, as though some misfortune had over- taken 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 reasonable light ; believe me that I am speaking for the interest of you both ; such an arrangement as you seem to contemplate is perfectly impossible ; 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 silenced her. ' I must try and make you understand better what I mean, but it is so 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 my 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 Hedley and I have talked over things. You are not really vexed with him, are you, dear ?' inter- rupting herself as she saw the gravity on her brother's face. ' I think he ought not to have spoken, certainly.' ' Oh, but it was more my fault than his ; he told me to leave him because 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 however far we may be separated, I shall always know what I am to him — that in a way we belong to each other.' ' HE IS HEDLEY TO ME' 353 Launcelot shook his head ; his man's reason protested against this girhsh sophistry, but in his heart he loved her all the more for her innocence and generosity. ' I don't think Maxwell ought to hold you to any sort of engage- ment, 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 married to-morrow he w^ould 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 he was not a man to change, but that we must put aside all thoughts of any future together, for as long as his 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. Lance ; 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 wath her new stitches ; but you need not be afraid, I should choose the time when Hedley is engaged with his professional duties. We should seldom meet, and never alone ; now and then I might see him, and speak a friendly word or two, but you may trust us both — neither of us would think of seeking a meeting,' ' But all the same you would think of nothing else.* *You are wrong, dear,' looking up in his face with a sweet candid expression. ' Only trust me, and you will see how it will w^ork, how content I shall be, how eager to do all you wish me to do ; indeed, I mean to be happy, Lance ; I w^ill not waste time by fretting for what may never come ; there was only one thing I felt I could not bear— and that nearly broke me down— and that was when we w^ere at Penzance, and I thought Hedley would die without telling me he loved me, though I could see even then that he cared. Oh ! I was so wretched ; but I did not dare let mother 23 354. ONLY THE GOVERNESS or Bee know, though Bee guessed it, and was as kind as possible ; and then we came home, and when I saw him 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 ?' ' Hedley says I am not matter-of-fact at all, only more straight- forward 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 circumstances ; 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, Lance. I will try and follow all 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 ;£^i5o 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 twentv, Paul.' ' I shall be one-and-twenty in !March,' nodding her head defiantly at him. ' And Dr. Maxwell is about five-and-thirty ; why, he will soon be a middle-aged man !' * What does that matter ?' she returned demurely. * I prefer middle-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 attach- ment. He could both comprehend, and in a great measure ap- prove of, her arguments, but his common sense and knowledge of the world were antagonistic to her reasoning. ' Depend upon it there is hope at the bottom of all this seeming hopelessness,' he said to himself. ' I could detect it in every sentence. " Something will turn up, we shall not wait for ever." That is 'HE IS HEDLEY TO ME' 355 what they think, and the uncertainty will wear them out. I wish I could take her right away, make a real break, but it would make us all miserable to leave the Witchens ; even if I forbid her visits to Bridge House they must meet sometimes ; there will always be the chance of an encounter. Then at her age how can I expect her to submit blindly to my judgment ? and even if her love for us ensured 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 Overton Rise, returning from one of his weekly visits to Miss Thorpe. He was walking slowly, and appeared still languid from his ill- ness ; he seemed slightly confused when he saw Launcelot, and hesitated perceptibly 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 little bitterly, ' I wonder you shake hands with me, Chud- leigh, 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 to- gether. Of course I 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 will 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 myself 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 him- self ' Yes, I don't want to be hard, and it is no good groaning over what cannot be mend'ed ; as I told Pauline, there is no one I should like better for a brother-in-law, but there seems no chance of your filling the character.' ' No, indeed, I have my head belov; water-mark now. When a 23—2 356 ONLY THE GOVERNESS man is as heavily burthened as I am, and has had a long illness as well, he cannot expect things to go quite smoothly.' ' Maxwell, if any temporary help — a loan — would be of the least assistance, 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 understand this. There is nothing between us, Chud- leigh ; we were friends and acquaintances, that is all.' ' Pauline wishes to see your mother and sisters as usual. I con- fess that I do not quite approve of this.' * I hope you will change your mind. I should be more grieved than I am now, which is saying a good deal, if poor Charlotte and Brenda were to be punished for my misdemeanours ; 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 Pauline's happiness.' ' Yes, and it is my duty to think of it too,' returned Dr. Maxwell in a simple manly way that touched Launcelot. ' I know you" sister's heart thoroughly, and I am quite sure that it would be better to let her be with my mother and sisters as usual ; you may depend on my keeping out of the way. I value my own peace of mind too much to run knowingly 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 ov/n -iRdsh and intention to cross her path as little as possible.' ' I think you are right ; I should feel so in your case. Well, Maxwell, 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, Chud- leigh, you are treating me with undeserved generosity.' And then, as they had reached the hall gate, he stopped and wrung Launce- lot's hand, and went on alone. ' Poor fellovvT !' thought Launcelot as he retraced his steps a little, ' he looks sadly pulled down and out of sorts, but I can see now why Pauline has lost her heart to him. He is just the sort of man a girl would fancy — honest, straightforward, and clever. Well, hfe's an awful muddle — to myself and Bee and poor little Paul — but I think Bee's affairs will soon look up ; Elliott means PAULINE 357 to stick to it. Somehow it takes a deal of faith to get through one's life with decent contentment,' finished Launcelot with a sifih. 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 sometimes 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 whole- some 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 ap- peared 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; ' she 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 vacillating policy ; we are justified, therefore, on the score of her youth in expecting a permanent cure. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder;" I should be willing to back Captain 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 be starved for want of sustenance, and they will grow apart, or she will become soured with the long waiting, and if they ever come together as sober middle-aged people their happiness will be of the humdrum sort. Ten years ! why, his mother may live fifteen — twenty — years longer, and so may Brenda and Miss Royston ; it is the weakly ones who 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.' 358 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 prognos- tications ; her sturdy, robust nature scorned to droop because only a very limited happiness 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 v.-ith 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 Lance often says, " we do not realise how we act and react on each other," and he is quite right. I am sure if Lance were in any trouble he would not spoil other people's happiness by refusing to take interest in things, 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 weariness : in her home she was the same bright energetic Pauline, who thought of everyone and helped everyone; whose quiet, even cheerfulness never failed. Only as time went on Launcelot's keen eyes noticed that a cer- tain staidness 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 homage 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 beyond 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 w^hich she was compelled to move, neither did she inveigh ad nauseam against the hollow^ness of life; she submitted meekly as of old to all Bee's exactions, played tennis, practised accompaniments, and fatigued herself with all the new duets that Bee and Geoffrey wanted to get perfect ; in the season she put on her pretty dresses and went, under her mother's wing, PA ULINE 359 to the various balls, routs, kettledrums, and concerts, for which Mrs. Chudleigh and Bee had accepted invitations. Pauline always went sturdily through her evening's w^ork ; 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 w^as never absent-minded or wanting in wxU-bred interest ; but then at the same time she never seemed to understand the most deHcately turned compliment, and no partner, however perfect, was allowed to inscribe his name more than three times on her card — ' It 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, but you may depend upon it there is someone in the background ; there is no running to be made there,' was said by more than one who would fain have entered the lists against Dr. Maxwell. Pauline found 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. Cheerful- ness thrives on unselfishness, and one cannot begin to live for ->ther people without reaping the reward of a satisfied conscience. When Pauline wrote her brother's notes, nor walked or played with the children, or rode with Launcelot, chatting with him all the time, or even when she w'as planning dresses with Bee's dressmaker, she was doing her duty with the same heroism with which a soldier does his ; she w^as putting aside her own inclina- tions 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 were 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. Maxwell's mother and sisters. No one interfered wnth 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 any notice of this. Pauline, who was reading to Aunt Myra, flushed a little and held her breath for a moment. Pauline hardly dared to acknowledge 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 S6o ONLY THE GOVERNESS him without constraint. Everything was freely discussed in her presence. The last new patient and the article he had written for the * Lancet,' even the book he was reading — ' dear Medley'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 !' Oh 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 had 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 Medley's new socks, and when the five women had scraped together a small sum to purchase a new easy-chair for Medley's birthday, did not Pauline go with Charlotte to choose it because Pussy was too busy ? * 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 bad for you ?' Pauline put down her work and smiled in her mother's anxious face. * I wonder what has put that into your head ? I am afraid I must have discharged my duties badly, or you would never have asked such a question. Are you dissatisfied with me, mother ?' ' My dear, no. I tell Launcelot that you are good as gold ; you have never given me any trouble in your life, PauHne ; a better girl never lived.' And here Mrs. Chudleigh showed signs of emotion. ' What is it, then ?' returned Pauline, placing herself at her mother's feet ; but the smile was still on her face. ' Is it of me and my happiness that you are thinking?' and as her mother nodded at this, she continued cheerfully : ' Well, I can satisfy you on this point : these 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 I should find those visits very trying.' ' You mean because Medley and I do not meet. Oh, but then I do not expect to see him, so of course there is no uncertainty. PA ULINE 361 If I thought that at any moment he might enter the room, there might be some cause for restlessness, but I know him too well to expect such a thing.' ' Yes, but all the same you must long to see him,' sighed Mrs. Chudleigh. ' Yes, but one has to bear that sort of pain,' replied Pauline quickly. ' 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 trifling 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. Chudleigh 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. Some- times I think,' dropping her voice almost to a whisper, ' that he likes them to tell me things and ask my opinion. He never sends me a message ; oh no, he would never think of such a thing ; but, all the same, 1 know from Charlotte's manner when he 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 Lance says that he can see that' And then, to her mother's surprise and per- plexity, she suddenly broke down and hid her face on her mother's lap. Mrs. Chudleigh was much distressed. * What is it, darling ? I cannot bear to see you fret.' * No, and it is very selfish of me to let you see it, but I cannot 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 cannot bear to think that when that time comes I shall be no longer pretty or young ; it is only for his sake that I mind ;' and her mother had some difficulty in consoling her. Mrs. Chudleigh never mentioned these conversations to Launcelot 362 ONLY THE GOVERNESS — her girl's confidence was sacred ; all her children brought their joys and sorrows to her; even Geoffrey, reserved and self- contained as he was, would unfold his ambitions and plans for the future to that sympathising 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 Launcelot. ' Poor dear Pauline,' she said once, ' I would give much to see her happily settled. I wish I were a rich woman, Lance.' ' Do you think you ought to say such things to me ?' returned Launcelot, 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 J\Lixwell, 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 Miss Chudleigh acquiesced in this opinion, there was nothing more to be done. Launcelot was always very friendly in his manner when he met Dr. IMaxwell. 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 voice, he 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 occasions or to refuse the cup of tea that Joan offered him, and these opportunities were secretly prized by both of them. Launcelot was once present on one of these occasions. PA ULINE 363 Joan, who was in the secret, and was a vehement partisan of the lovers, had been a httle eager and pressing in her entreaty for Dr. Maxwell to stop and refresh himself with a cup of tea, and he had suffered himself to be persuaded. Launcelot, who was standing apart with Mr. Thorpe, told him- self that no stranger would have been deceived for a moment. Dr. Maxwell hardly spoke to Pauline at all until the last minute, and then the whole world might have heard his words ; neverthe- less the real facts of the case must have been plainly legible to the most casual spectator, for the girl's face absolutely beamed at his entrance. A look of perfect content came into her brown eyes, and yet she never turned her head to look at him until he came up to her ; while the glow in Dr. Maxwell's eyes as he caught sight of the slim figure in gray was perceptible enough to Launcelot, even though he stood talking to his hostess and made no attempt to join Pauline. Just as they were about to separate chance brought them to- gether, and then Launcelot heard him say : ' You 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 finish- ing 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 you walking all the way from the Witchens in that rain.' ' Rain never hurts me, and I had an ulster and umbrella,' she returned 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 heightened colour drew near her brother. So the winter passed, and then came spring ; and with the summer the whole Chudleigh family migrated to Scotland. Launcelot had promised his brothers to take a shooting lease for six weeks, and Mrs. Chudleigh and her two daughters and Dossie found accommodation at a cottage near. Freckles was at a schoolfellow's, and Sybil had been sent to a cousin in Devon- shire. Dossie was to have gone too, but she was growing very fast and 364 ONLY THE GOVERNESS looked delicate, and the doctor recommended moorland air ; so Launcelot at once said that room mnst be found for her. Dossie was still faithful to her childish predilections ; she still adored Mr. Lance, as she still called him, and followed him as closely as his shadow. Launcelot had not forgotten Jack Weston all this time: his stepmother's and Dossie's letters were often supplemented by a few lines in Launcelot's vigorous handwriting. ' I wish you could see Dossie now,' he wrote once ; ' she looks like a little Gretchen with her transparent skin and blue eyes and great shining plait of hair ; we all say Dossie is charming, and yet no one allov/s 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 being, 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 calibre than other children, and a word often jarred on her susceptibilities. Early in the summer Launcelot had taken a severe chill after overheating himself, and for some days he was so seriously indis- posed that his stepmother was quite alarmed. There was not the slightest danger, however, and after a few days' feverishness and lassitude his good constitution 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 says she lies awake for hours. I wish she were more like Sybil ; I do believe nothing would make Sybil lose her appetite.' Launcelot vras quite willing to see his little favourite. Dossie came to him at once, and Mrs. Chudleigh left them together. The child certainly looked as though she had been fretting, and Launce- lot gave her a little lecture. ' You ought not to care so much about me, Dossie,' he said, smoothing her fair hair ; ' I am not worth it. Fancy getting pale and thin because I 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 ? * Not wrong certainly,' smiling at her childishness ; ' but father PA ULINE 365 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 — because 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 cannot be two fathers,' she sobbed at last when Launce- lot 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, Dossie. Now if you love him and me, do put away that wet rag,' regarding the drenched handkerchief with much dismay, 'and talk to me like a reasonable 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 father ?' * 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 favourite 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 wist- fully. But Launcelot pointed out that this was impossible. They talked about it until Mrs. Chudleigh returned and banished Dossie, and as Launcelot talked the half-forgotten scheme came into prominence again. Why should he net do it? he thought that night and many times afterwards. Why should he not carry out this favourite project ? ' Perhaps not next year,' he said to himself, ' but the 366 ONLY THE GOVERNESS year afterwards. Elliott will be home before that, and perhaps Bee's affairs may be settled. Two years hence I may walk into Jack's log-cabin and wish him good-morning. Who knows ?' And from that moment the Australian scheme never faded entirely from Launcelot's mind. CHAPTER XLI. FIVE YEARS AFTERWxVRDS. ' Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ?' — SJiakespeare. * Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.' Goldsmith. One lovely May morning the green door leading from the terrace was thrown briskly open, and a fat, rollicking pug flew out with an asthmatic wheeze of joy, and commenced barking at a mild-look- ing cow tethered amongst the gorse. ' For shame, Beppo ! you are old enough to know better. Come here this moment, sir !' and the young lady who had followed him held up a 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 Witchens turned round to look after her. She moved so quickly and so lightly that her footsteps seemed to skim the ground. In accordance with a passing fashion, she was dressed entirely in gray, and the only colour 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 figure in its mouse-like trappings seemed to his old-fashioned ideas the embodiment of young ladyhood — a complete personifica- tion of the good old word ' gentlewoman.' Perhaps there was a touch of demure coquetry about her ; but what man, old or young, would find fault with that — especially as there was spirit and character to be read in the small oval face so nicely shaded by the gray hat? If Dorothea Weston's serious blue eyes recognised another admirer in the white-headed man who regarded her with such evident attention, she was already too much accustomed to such signs of approval to be flattered by it. riVE YEARS AFTERWARDS 367 Dorothea could add up her admirers by the score. All the old gentlemen of her acquaintance paid her compliments. Dorothea's thoughts were not dwelling on any benevolent- minded old gentlemen this morning ; she was enjoying the sweet spring sights with all her might. Brentwood Common was delicious under the May sunshine ; a soft breeze was just rippling the leaves. Everything looked bright and crisp and fresh ; even the newly painted benches and lamp-posts, and the yellow gravel outside the Witchens, added to the freshness of the effect. * The world looks so clean and good-humoured 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 such pains, the house looks beauti- ful. There is nothing more to be done now until we know they have arrived, and then won't Sybil and I rob the greenhouses !' And then she quickened her steps and called Beppo, and walked on in the direction of Overton Rise, and did not pause again until she reached an old-fashioned red-brick house, standing somewhat back from the road, with a long garden. Dorothea opened the gate and walked leisurely up to the house, taking 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 creditable to absent-minded people ; but to the end of time there will be separate generations of Eyes and No-eyes, after the fashion of the boy-heroes of that wise little tale. Dorothea did not make her way to the front door ; she turned aside, 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 her covered with books and writing imple- ments. A fur-lined rug covered 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. 368 ONLY THE GOVERNESS * Dorothea, this is nice. I was just longing for a chat with someone. I have worked until my head is muddled, and this delicious morning makes me lazy. Now you must bring out a comfortable chair for yourself, for I cannot think of going in yet. Joan wheeled me out here because she said the air would do me good. This is my first morning 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, I suppose Mrs. 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 spark- ling at the sight of the book, a beautifully bound edition of Mrs. Browning's poems. ' You ought not to have given me anything, Miss Thorpe ; I 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 enumerating the catalogue she displayed to her friend's admiring eyes a massive gold bracelet with a pearl clasp. ' How beautiful ! That is for to-night, of course. Well, many girls of eighteen are not so lucky. I suppose you and Sybil are very excited at the idea of your first ball; no, I beg Sybil's pardon, of course she came out last year ; how 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 raptures as Sybil does. She will look very well to- night ; she is to wear cream satin, 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 off anything.' ' Yes, and she will look very handsome. Sybil is a regular brunette beauty. What is your dress, Dorothea ?' ' White, of course. A dchitaiite must always wear white, as Hilda 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.' FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS 369 ' So Aunt Delia thinks, for she consults her about everything. Now, don't smile ; of course Sybil and I are dreadfully naughty about Hilda. 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.' ' 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 barristers ; 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 excitement in the Chudleigh family. Bernard's engagement has thrown Bee's son and heir into the shade, though one cannot soon forget Mrs. Chudleigh's delight at being a real live grand- mother.' ' 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 anyone 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 to India after all this year. It would be too hard for Mrs. Chudleigh to part with her grandson. And now Bernard is engaged. I wonder what Mr. Chudleigh will say to that ?' ' Aunt Delia thinks he will be pleased. Elsie is such a dear little thing I 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 24 370 ONLY THE GOVERNESS they must not think of marrying yet. He will get a house by-and- by, and then he will be sure of a certain income.' ' I suppose T^Iiss 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 travellers ?' ' No ; we cannot expect news. But Geoffrey says that we may have a telegram announcing the ship's arrival at any time, and then a few hours will bring them to the Witchens. Just fancy if the telegram come to-morrow, or the next day ! I shall certainly run down with it to Springmead before an hour is over.' ' Thank you, my dear 1 you are always so thoughtful. You never leave me out in the cold. Few invalids have so much to interest them.' 'Yes, but Mr. Lance left you in my charge,' answered Dorothea softly. ' Don't you remember the morning when he came to say good-bye to you, and brought me with him, and how he said that Pauline was so heavily burdened with the Bridge House affairs that he could not lay a feather's weight more on her, but that he hoped I should consider you my chief mission after Aunt Delia ? those were his very words.' * Yes, I remember,' returned INIiss 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 misunder- stand her ; she knew that the friendship between them was very real and deep. Dorothea's fine delicacy of perception and sympa- thetic 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 sufiering had ripened Rachel's finer qualities. If Miss Thorpe had opened her lips she would have said that Dorothea had nobly fulfilled her mission during those eighteen months. I^Iany an hour of physical depression and restlessness had been soothed by the 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. FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS 371 Joan's excessive vitality, her superabundant energy, fatigued the invaHd, 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 ov;n and Ivan's sake, their natures were too dissimilar to prevent friction. Now and then a dry caustic remark on Rachel's part brought the old flash to Joan's eyes and the im- patient answer to her lips. Joan was always penitent, and accused herself of cruelty in no measured terms when she saw the weary look on Rachel's pale face after one of these little fracas. ' What a wretch I am, darling !' she would say with a remorseful kiss. ' Scold me, please — scold me, and I will not say a word.' But Rachel with much magnani- mity 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, poor thing !' 'Yes, and 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. He was still Joan's lover as well as her husband, and in his heart he thought Rachel was the one to blame. Joan's life was brimful of interest now, with three children in the nursery. Launcelot's godson was a fine sturdy boy of six with his mother's eyes ; and next to him was a fair-haired Ronald ; Gwendoline, or Baby Gwen as she was called, was a soft round creature, her father's pet. They were all beautiful children, but Ronald was 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 v/ill be boys ' was his favourite speech, until it became a proverb in the house. But for all that he took care that he should be obeyed, and the httle 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 24 — 2 372 ONLY THE GOVERNESS floor on her fat little legs, ^Yith a lop-eared rabbit in her arms, ' and Gwenny loves him muchly.' ' So 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 lor 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 had 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 nonsense ; she is only seven-and-twenty, 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 ; Dr. Maxwell told me so himself. He was here yesterday, he looked dreadfully ill, poor fellow !' ' No wonder, with all his hard work, and, as Pauline says, he is devoted to his mother. And then it is such a pity that poor Prissy's marriage should be put off, Major Drummond cannot 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 Dr. Maxwell 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 FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS 373 bit of brightness in Bridge House. Don't you recollect how happy Dr. Maxwell looked when you congratulated him ? He was think- ing of something else, I believe.' 'Yes, I was sure from his manner that Pauline was in his thoughts — with Prissy and poor Miss Royston off 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 takes her full share of nursing, even the night- work.' ' Oh yes, she goes 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 is very trying for Pauline j' and to this Dorothea smiled assent. Then she 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 effort 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 was of Pauline, not of Dorothea, that she was thinking. And at that moment Pauline was kneeling down 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 ?' ' I do not understand — what am I to promise you, dear ?' * That you will not keep Hedley waiting long after I am gone. He will need his wife to comfort him for his mother's loss.' * If he need me, he must tell me so,' almost whispered PauHne, but her tears dropped fast. ' You may be sure I shall do all I can for him, but, dear Mrs. Maxwell, he will be too heavy-hearted to think of marrying then, surely — it will be better to wait a little longer.' ' And you 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 my poor Myra, and a sister to Brenda. Oh, no wonder Hedley loves you as he does, 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 y]\ ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 she was still his darling. Side by side they had worked together with the wall of fate dividing 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. Max- well's illness, there had been much to solace Pauline. The embargo tacitly pronounced upon their intercourse had been removed by the very force of circumstance ; Hedley could not be kept away from his mother's sick room, and Pauline, weary from her night's watching, often felt the restorative power of Hedley's grateful glance and smile. They had few opportunities for conversation even then. Mrs. Maxwell's sad sufferings prevented much talk, but Pauline was quite content to sit silent and watch the mother and son together. Sometimes Mrs. Maxwell would appeal to her : ' Do you see how gray my boy is getting ?' she said once when Hedley had come up to her bedside for a nioment. Pauline blushed at this direct speech, but Dr. Maxwell answered for her. ' Boy, indeed ! Will you ever realise 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, Hedley ?' Pauline's seemed to say, and he went away satisfied. It was always like this — fond looks and a quiet speech or two, but to Pauline they gilded those weary hours of sickness ; it made her happy to know that Hedley's careworn face lighted up with pleased recognition at the sight of her ; she knew that she was taking her place openly as his fiancee, though no words to that effect had passed between them. That very morning Hedley 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 cannot last much longer, only a few days. Dr. Phillips thinks, and when I am gone I want Pauline to come here in my place.' ' She will come all in good time, mother, but v/e will not talk cf FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS 375 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, Hedley ?' ' 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 cannot 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, I 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 XLH. ' THIS IS NOT MY LITTLE GIRL !' ^ ' This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.' ' 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.' ^./. Mic/cle. Dorothea went in search of Joan, and found her in her pretty drawing-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 conveyed such a hearty welcome, and Gwen held up her round chubby face for a kiss. ' Oo is Dottie,' she observed with extreme satisfaction, pointing her small finger at her. Joan had developed into a noble-looking woman. She had gi own 3/6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS a little stouter, and had a matronly air that became her well, and it was still the same charming face, full of life and vivacity, though the Irish gray eyes had a far softer expression. * I would not interrupt you and Rachel,' she said, as Dorothea lifted Gwen into her lap and sat down beside her, ' you seemed talking so cosily ; and Rachel is like most invalids, she never thinks three is a comfortable number. So I have saved my congratula- tions until now. Look, this is my little gift, dear — ours, I should say, for Ivan insisted on being included, he thinks so much of your kindness to poor Rachel. And then we always look upon you as belonging somehow to I\Ir. Chudleigh, and you know he and Ivan are like brothers.' ' Yes, 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 belonged to !NIr. Lance. Joan's selection was a large photograph of herself and her children in a beautifully -car\-ed frame, and Dorothea, who doted on the children, expressed great delight and admiration. ' Everyone is far too kind to me ! I never had so many pre- sents before ;' and then the bracelet was brought out, and the ball toilette discussed with due gravity, for Joan loved pretty things as much as ever, 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 were yesterday, that after- noon when you sat in the schoolroom 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. I never imagined for a moment that Mr. Lance would bring him back with him. That is why he has stayed so long away, that they might come back together.' ' 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 Witchens is a different place without Ml. Lance. Aunt Delia tried not to fret over the delay, but she 'THIS IS NOT MY LITTLE GIRL!' 377 says she shall never have the courage to let him go away again. She will have it that she is getting old, but I cannot 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, enclosing one of his new photos. He tells me that he has quite made up his mind to take Holy Orders, and that he has told his brother so. I don't know why I felt surprised, but somehow I cannot fancy Fred a clergyman,' and here Joan began to laugh as she hunted in her workbox for the photo. 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 photograph 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 how 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 halfs run before dinner, all in that lackadaisical voice of his, and his eyes closing as though he could hardly prop up his eyelids " for sheer weakness." ' ' Well, 1 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 staying at the Oxford House this Easter instead of coming home ; he has 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 wash I could see her dressed for her ball this evening,' thought Joan, as she carried Gwen back into the house. ' Ivan will have it that she is not a bit pretty, but I expect that she will look lovely 378 ONLY THE GOVERNESS to-night. There is something very taking about her — fetching, as Bernard calls it. Who ever would have thought that Dossie would have turned out so well ? she was such a washed-out little creature.' Sybil would have endorsed 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 figure 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 gently : ' 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 head, which was covered with soft golden plaits, and fastened with pearl pins. Her complexion was always pale, but to-night there was a faint tinge of colour that was very becoming, and her blue eyes were shining with suppressed excitement. ' Some 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 song says? "Tall women are admired and little ones be- loved." ' ' 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 he comes he will think you just the right height.' But Dorothea refused to hear any more ; she caught up her v/hite draperies and made Sybil a little curtsey, and retreated from the room in stately fashion, quite ignoring Sybil's mocking laugh. * THIS IS NOT MY LITTLE GIRL /' 379 The walls at the Witchens were thick. The two girls shut within their rooms heard nothing of the commotion and bustle downstairs — a cab 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. Chudleigh appears on the scene ; questions, embraces, a general hubbub, with Mrs. Geoffrey as onlooker. * Dear, dear, this is very unfortunate, extremely ill-timed !' she observes, but no one heeds her. Geoffrey is eagerly assisting his brother to relieve himself of his wraps. Mrs. Chudleigh, with tearful eyes, is looking first at Jack and then at Launcelot ; by- and-by she recollects the children, and somebody, probably Mrs. Geoffrey, proposes sending for Pauline. It was at this moment that Dorothea made her appearance. The door opened, everyone looked round, some one — probably Mrs. Geoffrey again — said, ' Come in, Dorothea.* But Launcelot looked in mute astonishment on the fairy vision on the threshold. Was this Dossie, this pretty young 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 my little girl Dossie !' Dorothea stood for a moment motionless with intense surprise ; there was a mist before her eyes, and she could see nothing. It seemed to 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 that 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 Dorothea's faint sob — she was actually crying ; her eyes would be red. What a humiliation for her, Mrs. Geoffrey Chudleigh, to introduce a red-eyed, crumpled debutante ! But unmindful of the crushed lilies Dorothea was clinging to her father as though only her sense of touch could assure her that this was 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 giving such eager kisses. ' I suppose my turn will come by-and-by,' observes Launcelot presently, and Dorothea starts and looks round in search of the well-known face. Launcelot, who is looking a little older, a little more bronzed, and with a suspicion of gray in his dark hair, smiles kindly at her. ' Oh, I did not mean to be rude, Mr. Lance,' she said, holding 38o ONLY THE GOVERNESS out her hand to him ; and Launcelot, who has never been greeted in this way before, but who acknowledges the nice distinction, Hfts Dorothea's hand to his Hps in courtly fashion, and then pats it before he lays it down. * And this is my little girl,' observes Jack, holding her at arm'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, indeed,' 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. He had an idea that he must look rather a rough customer to this dainty little creature, for everyone — 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 hand- some face ; his broad shoulders had not lost 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 per- ception told her that she might be proud as well as fond of her father. Perhaps he might not be the hero her childish fancy de- picted him, but he was an honest man who had done his work in the world, who had laboured 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 little nearer to them. He had planned and plotted for months to effect this reunion ; he had had his difficulties, but per- severance had triumphed, 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 Miss Rachel who always addressed her in that way, and latterly the others had followed their example. ' Dossie ' was felt to be 'THIS IS NOT MY LITTLE GIRL I' 381 too childish. Perhaps Launcelot reaUzed 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 hubbub — everyone speaking at once ; more em- braces ; a few earnest words between the brother and sister ; curious looks at the big bearded colonist from Princess Sybil, and last, but not least, an anxious protest from Mrs. Geoffrey. Mrs. Geoffrey was, as Miss Thorpe had described her, a very pretty young woman. She had an exquisitely fair skin and an extremely graceful figure, and her manners were quiet and ladylike, though, at times, she would assert herself with a decision that somewhat alarmed her mother-in-law. Mrs. Chudleigh 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 children's eyes. * Oh, my dear, do you think so ?' she said helplessly. ' Dossie, my darling, Hilda says that she cannot possibly wait any longer, and that you and Sybil will lose all the best dances.' 'What do you mean. Aunt Delia?' exclaimed Dorothea ex- citedly. ' Hilda cannot 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 the 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 honourable to fulfil. If it were any other occasion — but Dorothea 382 ONLY THE GOVERNESS is a debutante, and such an opportunity to make her appearance at Lady Mervyn's house may never occur again. I am sure, if Mr. Weston only reahzed the importance 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 was 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 ruffled by what she chose to consider Dorothea's obstinacy. ' I cannot help it, Hilda, I am very sorry, but Sybil must go without me,' she began, but Launcelot interposed. He had been regarding his new sister-in-law critically, and had just made up his mind that in 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 with whom to live on the whole — but he could see that she was seriously disturbed, and that Geoffrey w^as getting uneasy. ' Dorothea,' he said gently, * I think Mrs. Geoffrey is right. There are certain duties X)ne owes to society ; we ought not to forego our engagements or disappoint people if we can help it. It seems to me that my sister-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 seen her brother for eighteen ; will you not trust him to us ? I will undertake to keep him safe until you turn up at breakfast-time.' ' Yes, my darling, he is quite right,* whispered Jack ; * go with your friends, Dossie, and I will talk to Delia.' Dorothea's blue eyes grew very wide and piteous. * Oh, must I go, Mr. Lance?' she asked ; *is it really my duty ?' and as Launce- lot only held out his hand by way of an answer, she kissed her father without another word, and suffered Launcelot to lead her away, while Ivlrs. Geoffrey followed on her husband's arm all smiles and good-humour. But as Launcelot stooped to put the white furred cloak over Dorothea's shoulders he looked in 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, Geoffrey, ^Yill 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 '77/75 IS NOT MY LITTLE GIRL P 383 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. ' How is she to enjoy herself when she is longing to be with Uncle Jack ?' 'Promise me you will enjoy yourself, Dorothea,' persisted Launcelot, 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, for Jack wanted to telegraph and wait for to- morrow.' 'Yes, yes, I Vvill try to enjoy it, if only to please Hilda,' she returned ; 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 she remembered with a shudder, even now, how she had clung with all her childish force to her father's neck, and how firmly Mr. Lance had 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, ' My 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 I 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, knowing 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 to himself. Dorothea shed a few quiet tears as the carriage rolled across the common, but Mrs. Geoffrey, with a tact that did her credit, left her alone and talked cheerfully to her husband and Sybil. ' It is very trying, dear,' she said in a sympathetic voice pre- sently, ' but you will feel all right by-and-by. Geoffrey, you must get Dorothea some coffee when we go in ; she has been over- excited. 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 anima- tion at the sight of the brilliantly-lighted rooms. The young debutante had behaved with great dignity and propriety, and had met with a great deal of attention. Mrs. Geoffrey overheard more 384 ONLY THE GOVERNESS than one person asking the name of the fair-haired girl with the HHes 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 Httle flushed with her arduous duties. ' She is a darling !' returned Hilda, enthusiastically, ' she does everything that I tell her. She has danced twice with Howard Mervyn and three times with the Hon. Edgar Trumpeton. Yes, I think we had better go now^ Sybil's card is full, but that cannot be helped ; I promised Dorothea that we would leave early.' ' Hilda is charmed with you,' observed Sybil, as the girls were put into the carriage, with Fenwick to mount guard over them on the coach-box. Mrs. Geoffrey w^as a little delicate, and it was not thought advisable for her to drive back to the Witchens. The Geoffrey-Chudleighs had a nice house at South Kensington, and Mrs. Geoffrey had her private brougham and her maid. ' She w^U be your fast friend now, Dossie ; she has already made a match for you with that bald-headed young man, Mr. Trumpeton — the Hon. Edgar, she called him. I think I should prefer Howard Mervyn myself. He is delightfully handsome, but Mr. Trumpeton is the richest pa rfi.' ' Oh, what nonsense you talk, Sybil !' returned Dorothea im- patiently. 'Who cares for Mr. Trumpeton? He danced well and his step suited mine, that was all. Now do let me be quiet and think about father ;' and as Sybil rather sulkily complied with this request, for she was an inveterate chatterbox and longed to expatiate on her conquests, Dorothea leant 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 the carriage rolled into the courtyard of the Witchens ; but as she stepped out she gave a little cry of delightful recognition, for Jack's big form blocked up the doorway. ' 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 ; Lance 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, and 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. BUILDING JACK'S HOUSE 385 CHAPTER XLIII. BUILDING jack's HOUSE. ' When a young woman behaves to her parents in a manner particularly tender and respectful, I mean from principle as well as nature, there is nothing good and gentle that may not be expected from her in whatever condition she is placed.' — Fordyce. The unexpected arrival of the travellers and Lady Mervyn's ball had somewhat disorganized the household at the Witchens ; it was not surprising, therefore, that when Launcelot made his appear- ance at the usual time the next morning he should find himself the sole occupant of the breakfast-room. Mrs. Chudleigh had kept her brother company while he waited for 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 hfe and Pen's perfections, and of his long, weary exile ; while his eager questions about ' his little girl,' as he still fondly called her, were answered fully by Aunt Delia, who could not speak too warmly of Dossie's sweetness of disposition, her un selfishness and goodness of heart. Launcelot was in his usual place by the window reading the * Times ' when Dorothea came in from the garden, looking as bright and fresh as though she had enjoyed a good night's sleep instead of retiring to bed at sunrise. She had some flowers in her hand still wet with dew, and she wore a little white gown that set off her pretty figure to perfection. One of the sudden bright smiles that had been her chief charm as a child lighted up her face when she saw Launcelot. ' 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 have been round the garden with Beppo, and everything looks so fresh and lovely. j\Ir. Lance,' looking at him shyly, * I am glad to find you alone, for there is something I must say to you. Last night — well, I could only think of father, and there was so much that we had to say to each other after eight years; but when I went up mto my room I remembered that I had not said one word, not one word, to thank you for bringing him back to me, and yet it was all your doing !' 25 386 ONLY THE GOVERNESS * Nonsense ! I have done nothing to deserve thanks. Besides, you wrote to me ; I 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 lovely. '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 colour 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 before from your lips ; before you 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 cannot always remain a child. There is no need to look at me so reproachfully. When I saw you last night in all that whiteness I said to myself, " 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 everyone 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 IMadella 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 praising people, and so is Pauline. They all spoil me, and that is why I have grown so conceited.' BUILDING JACK'S HOUSE 387 ' You are not conceited, Dorothea.' ' Oh, I don't know that ; I hke people to think well of me, and I am disappointed if they do not seem to care.' ' Madeila told your father last night that when he took you away the house would lose its sunshine. I call that a very pretty speech for Madeila to make.' But to Launcelot's surprise the young girl became 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 Madeila says, the place is big enough to hold us, but how about " the house that Jack built," eh, Dorothea? — the visionary cottage, where Jack is to smoke endless pipes in the back garden, while his little girl sits and talks to him.' Dorothea grew very pale. ' Do you 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, I 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. Madeila is longing to keep you both. She says Pauline will be settled before 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 Madeila 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 I may know them before- hand, 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 during the voyage he spoke a good deal about taking a small house near the ^Vitchens, that you might not be separated from your friends. You see, a man of his age likes a litde place of his own where he can be his own master ; and most hkely, too, he may feel a sort of desire to have you to himseit!' ' Thank you for telling me,' she said gently. ' But he is not a rich man, is he, Mr. Lance ?' 2- — 2 388 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Not 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 IMadella and I will always feel that you belong to us.' ' You are very kind,' she returned gravely ; ' but, Mr. Lance, it must make a difference. I have my father to consider now, and his wishes will be mine, and I must not separate myself from him in the least, because I am all he has in the world.' ' But you will be his child, whatever happens,' returned Launce- lot, touched by her uncomplaining sadness. ' " My daughter is my daughter all the days of her life," that is what the proverb says. Look here, Dorothea, I can see how you feel about leaving the Witchens and Madella ; let us ask your father to give it up. He is such a good fellow that he will never say a word. There is the old schoolroom, that he could call his den, and half a dozen rooms besides. Why, the cottage is only an idea ; it will be a dull life for a young girl like you.' ' 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 ? Oh, Mr. Lance, what an opinion you must have of me !' * I have a very good opinion of you,' he answered, smiling, ' it improves 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 years he has 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 lamplight, 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 BUILDING JACK'S HOUSE 389 myself that it was the truth and not a dream. It seemed so won- derful after all these years. I was so restless at 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 my 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 thoughtfulness. Dorothea seemed to show him new develop- ments every minute. Her quiet decision and womanliness sur- prised 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 welcomes awaited him. Miss Thorpe did not have her tete-a-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 Lance, for Launcelot had established brotherly relations with Ivan and his wife, and was the family friend and counsellor, the man whom everyone delighted to honour. Launcelot had long ago conquered the old pain ; his strong will and sense of rectitude had enabled him to triumph. He could accept Joan's frank affection with something like gratitude, for she had fulfilled his dearest hopes. Joan's knight had been jealous of his lady's honour. He had striven with patient effort to re-establish her in her own good opinion as well as in her husband's. In spite of her faultiness he had recognised her true nobility of character. She had not disappointed him, and now the time had come that he could regard her with brotherly pride and goodness — so gently does heahng Time lay his finger on mortal wounds. Miss Thorpe had him to herself by-and-by. Ivan, who re- spected his sister's invalid whims, only accompanied him to the threshold. ' Rachel never feels strong enough for more than one person at 390 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 favourite. 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 gentleness 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 getting dreadfully home-sick 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 will never grow old — at least,' correcting 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 stepmother;' 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 months ago I left an unformed growing girl, and on my return I find a finished 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 every 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 your tone that you thought Dorothea was just an ordinary young lady. We are all so fond of her here ; to me she has been the dearest little nurse and companion. I could give you a hundred instances of her thoughtfulness.' ' 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. She thinks 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 age, and can talk to Ivan on any subject — she is just as simple and unconscious as a child. And then she is so BUILDING JACK'S HOUSE 391 loyal in her attachments, too, so absolutely devoted to those she loves. You are still her hero, Mr. Chudleigh; Dorothea never changes in her allegiance to you.' ' No, she has strong conservative principles. I am old-fashioned enough to like that. Miss Thorpe, I wish you could have seen the meeting between her and Jack last night ! It was the prettiest scene ' and Launcelot'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 conversation 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 VVitchens. Dorothea had spent the day quietly with her father. They had sat together and walked together, and no one had interrupted them. Towards evening Launcelot found them on the terrace enjoying the sunset. Dorothea was holding Jack's arm ; they seemed talking earnestly together. 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 V/itchens, 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. Lance ? 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. GeofTrey 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 some- how, 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 1' 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 392 ONLY THE GOVERNESS first season that I am afraid she will be dreadfully disappointed if I do not wear them, and w^e have accepted so many invitations too. So I asked father if he would mind a solitary evening now and then w^hile 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 w^ould be no difficulty at all,' agreed Launcelot, as she made this appeal to him. ' I would take care that you should have your flowers in good time. Stokes should cut them w^hen he cuts Sybil's, 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 un- certainty in his manner. ' You see, Dossie has been spoilt. 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 cannot 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 to bind yourself to anything. My advice is, look out for a small furnished house about here, and take it say for six months and see how it answers. Dorothea can try her hand at house- keeping, and you will soon see how^ the thing works. It will be a sort of branch establishment to the Witchens. We will keep you stocked with fruit and flowers, Stokes will see to that ; and Madella's maid can put Dorothea's gowns in order, and she and Sybil will go out under Mrs. Geoffrey's wing. And when you are tired of each other's company — well, Fenwick can 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. Lance, 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 flowers, 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 Dorothea, ' I have not grown rich, even in eight years, and we cannot afford to live grandly — just a little BUILDING JACK'S HOUSE ■ 393 place big enough for our two selves and two tidy maids, 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 feeling that was almost envy. 'What does it matter how small our cottage 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. Lance. 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 Dorothea's sweet face that evening. They were a small party. Sybil had an engagement in the neighbourhood, and Pauline had been summoned 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 ; ' I must think of him now. Indeed, I like to be there, Lance,' as she 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 evening was chilly, there was a fire lighted by his orders, and the four gathered round it — Launcelot beside his stepmother, and Dorothea in a low chair by her father. Jack had his pipe, but he soon laid it down ; every now and then his big rough hand touched Dorothea's soft, shining hair, smoothing it with infinite tenderness. Dorothea was a little quiet and thoughtful ; she was listening to her aunt Delia and Launcelot, who were discussing Bernard's prospects. * The boy is an ass !' observed Launcelot with brotherly frank- ness. ' He tells me that he means to be married before the year is out. Why can't he wait until he gets a house ?' * 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. Dr. Carruthers makes no objections, so, I suppose, Bernard must have his way.' 394 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' I call it confoundedly impertinent to get married before his elder brother,' returned Launcelot. ' 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 Launcelot blandly. But Mr. Chudleigh 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 Lance.' 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 XLIV. 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. L. Wari?:^, ' A maiden never bold, Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion Blushed at herself.' S/iakcs^eare. 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 neighbourhood, 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 schoolroom, 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 working beside him or reading aloud, or practising her new songs, or tripping about the DOROTHEA 395 noom arranging flowers and feeding her birds, for she was never idle a minute. Jack hked the pretty old-fashioned room. He 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 interrup- tions. ' Jack must have her all to himself for a little while,' Launce- lot 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 pipe, or sauntered about the garden in a favourite shabby coat. Jack could make himself spruce at times, when he and Dorothea took their long walks or rides together. Launcelot had hired a stout cob for Jack's use, and now and then he would join them. How Dorothea enjoyed those rides, and what a pretty little horsewoman she looked cantering beside them on her bay mare, with her fair hair shining under her hat ! 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 resdess Jack was on these occasions ! how big and empty the great drawing-room looked when the girls had gone ! ' Let us go and have a smoke somewhere. Lance,' Jack would say, ' I am going to sit up for Dossie, and I 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 depressed her. It was quite a relief to her when the two gentlemen went off and left her with her mother. Uncle Jack's company imposed some degree of restraint on the conversation, and Pauline could not bring herself to speak about her friends at Bridge House to anyone but her mother. 'It does seem so dreadful for poor Prissy,' observed Mrs. Chudleigh in a sympathising voice on one of these occasions. Pauline had brought her work to the little table where her mother's favourite lamp stood. Jack had carried off Launcelot 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 cannot 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.' 396 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Of course, it is sad,' returned Pauline, ' but I never could understand why a wedding need be gay. Prissy will feel just as much married though she has only walked to the church in the early morning in her travelling 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 wnll have said good-bye, but they will see her again in a fort- night's time, just before they start.' ' I think that it 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 has 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, w^e have never been alone for a minute. And then he is too unhappy, he thinks of nothing but his mother.' ' It is very trying for you, my darling ; but, as Lance says, it is only what he expected. At one time there seemed no prospect at all of your m.arriage, but he thinks Hedley ought to settle things now.' * So he will, but there is no hurry.' But though her mother left this uncontradicted it was her opinion, and Launcelot's too, that the 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 burthens, 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 expressed his opinion that it was Maxwell's duty to settle things at DOROTHEA 397 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 perfectly happy, and so is Dorothea.' And Launcelot was quite ready to endorse this remark. But he saw very little of Dorothea except during the evenings, and even then Jack monopolised her. Not that there was an atom of jealousy in Jack's nature, but he was so wrapt up in his girl, so utterly and absolutely devoted to her, that he seemed un- conscious how often he claimed her attention, and how impossible it was for her to attend to anyone 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 naively sur- prised when he asked her for the first valse. ' 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 delightful partner. ' Oh, that was lovely 1' she exclaimed when the valse was finished. * Mr. Lance, I think no one dances as well as you do, your step is perfect.' ' 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 valses 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 monopolising 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 hand- some, 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 Dorothea coloured 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 answer- 398 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ing his little jokes ; and all at once the words would seem to falter on her lips, and she w^ould draw away from him with an air of dignity ; and when Launcelot tried to break through this sudden reserve he found himself confronted by a gentle firmness that seemed unassailable. ' Why have you grown shy with me, Dorothea ?' he said once when he had been greatly struck by this manner — at once so gentle and so repelling ; ' the child Dossie was never shy with me, that is why I say that she is gone and we have a new Dorothea in her place.' ' Oh Mr. Lance,' she said lightly, but she did not look at him, ' I thought "the old order changes;" is not that what you said? One cannot keep one's childish ways for ever.' ' Oh no,' returned Launcelot, bent on teasing her, ' I do not expect to find two little hands clasping my arm every time I take a turn in the shrubberies ; and when I come home after an hour's absence, of course there is no Dossie waving to me from the window — it is someone else who gets all these attentions now !' 'Ah, now you are teasing me,' she answered, but her cheeks •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 changing into earnestness, ' is not father happy ? I think he has never been so happy all his life long, and yet we cannot 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 dear delightful time at the Witchens should come to an end ! 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 v/ere 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 she 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. But he was very much interested in her ; in many ways she suited his fastidious taste. He admired her particularly this evening, and though he showed no wish to monopolise her he watched her a good deal, and on his return told his stepmother that her behaviour had been perfect. ' I was very much pleased with them both,' he said quietly ; DOROTHEA 399 * Sybil was evidently much admired, but I liked Dorothea's manner best. She is very gentle and yet she is piquante ; she can say things worth hearing, and she is unconscious of her cleverness. She has an innocent way with her that I like ; Trumpeton seemed to like it too. I fancy, from what Hilda says, that he is hard hit.' ' Do you really think so, Lance ? It would be a grand match for Dorothea I She would be the Hon. Mrs. Trumpeton, 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 hsping voice ! I think better things of the girl,' and he turned on his heel and could not be induced to say another word about the ball. Dorothea looked a little tired when she bade her father good- night ; Jack had waited up as usual, and was smoking in the porch when they arrived. ' You look pale, my pet,' he said anxiously ; ' have you danced too much ?' ' Danced too much !' with a merry little laugh. ' Father, dear, what an idea ! I am never tired w^ith dancing, the only difficulty is to stop, but all the same I am very sleepy,' and then she ran off humming a little air. Launcelot marvelled at this sudden fit of gaiety, for she had been extremely quiet all the way home. During their last dance together they had been chatting cheer- fully, 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. Miss 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 4CO ONLY THE GOVERNESS houses, and he said yesterday that I might settle on anyone I hked. 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 knew 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 Riversleigh 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, Drummond is waiting for you. We shall see you again by-and-by ;' and poor Prissy, with swollen eyes and the tears still running down her cheeks, suffered herself to be put in the carriage. ' Oh, Charlotte,' she exclaimed as her sister gave her a parting kiss, ' I can never thank Hedley for all he has done. Ask Pauline to be good to him. He looks so ill and so miserable!' But Major Drummond made a sign to Charlotte to say no more, and put his arm round his poor little wife. ' I will bring you to see them all again, my darling. This is not good-bye. Don't cry any more ;' and after a time Prissy allowed herself to be consoled. DOROTHEA 401 Launcelot went back to the Witchens after this, and Pauline went up to Brenda, who between nervous exhaustion and sisterly sympathy was suffering martyrdom. Charlotte was too busy to give tlie quiet undivided 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 she must be soothed at all costs, so she read to her and talked to her until her fluttered spirits had regained their usual tone. * Oh, how selfish 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. Oh, what poor creatures we are in spite of all our efforts ! 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 my 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 Bossuet, is it not ?' ' Yes. He is speaking of depression ; he says, " It is not true that sadness cannot 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 ways different from what we call sadness — it became depression — very anguish ; and was He not agitated when He exclaimed, ' My Soul is troubled ; what shall I say ? Father, save Me from this hour.' Was there not a certain anxious rest- lessness in the way He went three times to His disciples and returned three times to His Father ? *"A11 this teaches us that our Head bore in Himself all the weaknesses which His members were to bear, so far as the great- ness of His perfections admitted. . . . ' " It is not well to torment ourselves with investigating whether our sadness is the result of our own weakness or a Divine trial ; 26 402 ONLY THE GOVERNESS for supposing it to be the first, which is the safest behef, it is none the less true that God can use it to lead us His own way, as much as what comes immediately from Himself, because He overrules alike our weakness and our evil inclination — everything indeed, even to our sins, till they promote our salvation." ' ' Ah, yes, that is beautiful,' returned Brenda, with a quiet satisfied look in her eyes ; ' lay the book beside me, PauHne dear. I shall always feel as though mother 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. I think it was mother who first taught me to be brave, and try and bear things quietly. " We must not over- burthen people's sympathy," she would say ; " sympathy is capable of exhaustion." Ah, how wise she was !' ' I think it was just this that 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, llness and poverty, and countless anxieties, there was never any grumbling. You each carried your own burthens so cheerfully. Yes, indeed, Brenda,' as the invalid shook her head, ' how often have Lance and I talked about you and wondered over your patience !' ' 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 that horrid restlessness has gone. I don't care a bit for the worn tired feeling that comes afterwards. 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 affectionately ; 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 her^^elf rebuked as she went downstairs ; all day chc 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. iMaxwell and she had hardly THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW 403 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 he 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 doubts, they were un- worthy 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 in her old sensible way. CHAPTER XLV. THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEV/. • The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the conceal'd comforts of a man Lock'd up in woman's love.' When Pauline opened the door of the dining-room, expecting to find Charlotte, she was surprised to see that the sole occupant of the room was Dr. Maxwell sitting at his writing-table. Directly he saw her he pushed aside his papers and came towards 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 you 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, 26 — 2 404 O.YLy THE GOVERNESS ' Come with me into the garden, dear ; the air will refresh you, and it will do me good too.' And she went v.ith 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 it, and Dr. Maxwell and Charlotte spent all their leisure-time trying to cultivate 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 he 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 happi- ness. The inevitable delay fretted her. Again and again she spoke to me, and begged that I would lose no time in putting you in her place. She seemed 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 each other for six years, and I think I can say our love has grown. If I cared for you six years ago, you can judge what I feel for you now.' ' You are not tired of me, Hedley ?' ' Tired, my darhng !' drawing her closer. ' Do we grow tired of our greatest blessing? Even you cannot guess what you have been to me all these years ! You have been our good angel, I Pauline. Can I forget that you have been like a daughter to my mother, and the truest sister to Charlotte and Brenda ?' ' I loved to do things for your sake, Hedley — it made me happy.' ' I know it, love ; but you must not mistake my meaning if I avow to you now that our position tried me horribly — that I could often have found it in my heart to beg you not to come — that I could not bear it.' ' 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 ]\Iyra, just for the pleasure of hearing your voice, and then the thought that I must not cross the threshold, that a sense of honour kept me away, almost drove me crazy ! Those were my bad moods, when I made everyone round THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW 405 me uncomfortable. But there were other times when I was strong and reasonable, and then it comforted 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 hat 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 spite of our bad moods we never really doubted each other. Perhaps I have seemed cold to you sometimes, and you may have thought that I 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-morrow ?' ' 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. Maxwell roused in earnest at this, 'and we have been engaged six years ! Oh, that reminds me,' his tone changing into exquisite tenderness ; ' all these years I have never given you a present, 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 engagement 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 : ' I 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 you,' he returned gently; 'but all the same the world will recognise our position. Now will you tell Mrs. Chud- leigh that I will come and speak to her to-morrow ? And, Pauline, I will only venture to ask one favour — that our wedding may be quiet.' * I will be married in my travelling 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 v»'ould not suit either of us.' 4o6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS * No, indeed. I want no one but Geoffrey and Hilda, and perhaps 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. Things were made plain between them, and she no longer misunderstood his silent gravity, and as Hedley 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 yesterday.' ' I am quite satisfied with you as you are,' she returned con- tentedly, and she walked away happier, while Hedley stood and watched her. ' God has been very good to me,' thought Pauline, as she looked at the sunset. ' I was just losing faith and feeling jaded and miserable, and then Hedley 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 longed for 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, and Hedley'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 schoolroom 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 ; he 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 attentively as she joined him. ' You look very nice, Dorothea,' he said slowly; 'that is a pretty gown you have put on in honour of our first walk together.' ' Our first walk,' she replied with a little laugh ; ' how often THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW 407 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 answer 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 plea- sant garden, with a tiny lawn, and a gravelled path bordered 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 appear- ance, and showed them over the cottage, talking all the time in a- thin, highly-pitched voice that was very exasperating to Launcelot. It was certainly a nice little place ; the drawing-room, though somewhat low, was a pretty room, and very tastefully furnished, and a glass door led into a small conservatory. The dining-room was comfortable, and a small third room was fitted up as a study. Upstairs there were four good bedrooms and a bath-room, and though the back garden was small, it seemed to take Dorothea's fancy, and she pointed out an arbour 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 perfecdy satisfied with the cottage. Mr. Moore has spent a great deal on it. It is just the place for a newly-married couple, and I am quite sure,' with a winning smile at Dorothea, ' that you and Mr. Chudleigh will find it a pleasant abode.' Launcelot did not dare look at Dorothea as Miss Reynolds made this unlucky speech. He was afraid he should burst out 4oS ONLY THE GOVERNESS laughing in the spinster's face ; but Dorothea, who had blushed so vividly that even her little 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 him 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 Launcelot to explain matters, which he did somewhat curtly, drawing down voluminous apologies 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 voice, '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,' coming 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 LS 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' 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, T^.Ir. Lance,' she said quickly. ' 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. I only wish that it had been the truth, my dear, and then I should never have had to part with you.' THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW 409 Launcelot had made this little speech out of pure good-nature, and to put Dorothea at her ease ; but, when he turned round with the amused smile still on his face, he was appalled at the effect of his words — there was not an atom of colour in the girl's face, and she was trembling from head to foot, and her eyes were full of tears. He 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 hinder him from making it the truth ? In all his life Launcelot had never felt such a sudden impulse. Years afterwards he said that that quick flash of intelligence must have been the work of his good angel. A moment before he had been joking, and then something seemed to whisper to him, ' Why should it not be true ? Dorothea is yours — has always been yours — why not take the blessing Providence has given you ?' went on the same inward monitor. Launcelot was giddy and confused. Some hidden power seemed to subjugate his will ; he was almost as pale as Dorothea, and his voice 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 marry mc.' He 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 her 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 op- position fanned the sudden flame, and made things clearer and more possible. *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, * I think I have loved you always, Mr. 4IO ONLY THE GOVERNESS Lance, though I did not know what it meant, but I never — never could have cared for anyone else !' 'That is all I want to know,' he returned, taking her hand. ' Then, Dorothea, it is settled between us, that one day you are to be my dear little wife ?' but though Launcelot spoke so quietly, and there was no change in his tone, there was a sense of content- ment and marvellous well-being that told him that he had done the right thing for his own happiness. Dorothea made no audible answer, but she blushed, and left her hand in Launcelot's ; but the next moment she said shyly : ' Oh, 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 as usual.' ' Do you mind going by yourself?' he asked gently, ' for there is the cottage that you have to tell him about, and he must not be told everything at once. See here, Dorothea, I will leave you for a little, and go away and compose my thoughts, and when I come back I will speak to your father ;' and as Dorothea agreed to this, Launcelot dropped her hand, and quickly walked away across the common, while Dorothea moved towards Jack. ' Am I in my senses ?' thought Launcelot, as he strode on, caring little which path he took. * Is it possible that I who told Madella yesterday that I was an old bachelor, and should never marry, am to-day an engaged man, and engaged to Dorothea — to Dossie?' and here he laughed, and struck at some bushes he passed with his stick. ' Will Madella think I am crazy when I tell her ?' And then all at once he grew sober, and stood still, leaning his arms upon a fence and looking down at a pond where some ducks ■were swimming, for there suddenly flashed across his memory the charming face of his Elizabeth, 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 gnawing at his heart now as he recalled her image, only a sort of sadness as he thought of the long melancholy years that were past. Thank God, he had ceased to suffer, that Joan was 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 ad- vantage of Dorothea's youth and guilelessness ? True, she had betrayed herself in her childish way, but would it not have been THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW 411 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 fir^t. I was just joking and meant nothing, and she took it in earnest ; and 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 m.ood. His posi- tion amused him. In his secret heart he was proud of his new character as Dorothea's fiance ; 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 com- panionship. ' I shall not be lonely with Dorothea,' he thought, as he re- traced his steps, 'and I shall have her to think about instead of my stupid self;' and then his eyes brightened, 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 the cottage. Very probably Jack had waxed curious and rampant — and he found out afterwards that this was the case. ' Father saw I had been crying at once, and he was in such a way that I was obliged to tell the truth,' Dorothea said, when she found herself alone with 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 answered, looking down at his gentle little sweetheart with un- disguised affection, ' but I 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. 413 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' 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 serious. " Mr. Lance has asked me to be his wife, father." W^hy, 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. I 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 afterwards.' ' 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,' re- turned Jack, still wrathfuUy. ' You must have her if you want her. Do you think I 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. ' Dossie' is a fortunate girl, I know that.' ^ But there is a great deal more that I have to say,' returned Launcelot, glancing at Dorothea with a smile. The girl looked up at him a little sadly. ' Do make him happy, and never mind me,' her eyes 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 idea. I am not taking Dorothea away from you now. Nothing is further from my intention, or from hers either. She is very young, as 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 am to have my rights, as Dorothea's fiance? Well, that will satisfy me for a time ; we need not talk about anything else just now.' LAUNCELOTS FIANCEE 413 * What !' exclaimed Jack, staring at him, ' Do you mean that Dossie and I are really going to have the cottage — that you don't mean to take her away at once ?' ' Of course not,' returned Dorothea, but she blushed beautifully. "•■ Father dear, how can you talk so to Mr. Lance ? I am not going to be 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 you 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 Launcelot to himself. ' " I am not going to be married for a long time." Humph ! there are two people to be considered. I shall have to talk to her on this subject.' Nevertheless, Launcelot yielded for the present with a good grace, and Jack recovered his good-humour. 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 XLVL launcelot's fl\ncee. • 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.' 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 import- ance 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 unusually 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 feelings. The childish worship had developed gradually into the woman's deep admiring affection, and quiet and 414 ONLY THE GOVERNESS outwardly calm 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 honour 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, I have never said or done anything 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 my- self worthy of him? and yet no one could love him so well,' finished Dorothea with a flood of womanly pride and tenderness that pro- mised well for Launcelot's future. Launcelot, in his hasty impulse and in the almost exaggerated bhndness of his heart, had brought things to a swift conclusion. Dorothea had fascinated him, she had stirred his heart to unusual tenderness, and he felt himself justified in promising a life's devo- tion. 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 for Joan had left him somewhat arid and dry, he was still capable of warm, deep attachment, such as befitted middle age, a calm tranquil affection which would be none the less satisfying because it did not experience the cold and hot fits of youth. Launcelot had method in his madness, he had not thrown him- self 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 con- viction. ' 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 LA UN CE LOTS FIA NCEE 4 1 5 now, I have watched her so closely, she has interested me so thoroughly, these five weeks that I 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 ridiculous spinster put it into my head, but then marrying has not been in my thoughts lately — but all the same Dorothea is the only woman I could marry. I am fastidious, difficult to please, but a fine and delicate nature like Dorothea's will never jar upon me. I know her to be un- selfish, 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 con- sider.' Launcelot was becoming more satisfied with himself and his fiancee 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 afterwards entered the morning-room, inter- rupting Pauline, who was just in the midst of her interesting narra- tion. ' Oh, Lance, where have you been ?' observed Mrs. Chudleigh reproachfully. ' Fenwick 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 turning." " You may tell Maxwell that. Well, you both deserve to be happy ;' 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 J^Irs. 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 his old bachelor proclivities he fully intended to become a married man before many months were over, no words seemed adequate to express her joy. ' Oh, Lance,' she said tearfully, ' I only wanted this to make me perfectly happy, it is my one wish to see you married. You an old bachelor ! you !' with the utmost scorn at the idea. 'You think I shall make Dorothea a good husband?' he re- turned seriously. 4i6 ONLY THE GOVERNESS ' Yes, indeed ; and she will be a happy woman ;' and then she added, ' but it is your choice that dehghts me — Dorothea is per- fect.' ' Come now,' he said with a very bright expression, ' this 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 Htde mischievously, for he knew his stepmother'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 charm- ing. Do you know, Lance,' with a shrewd look, ' that the idea came into my head that night of your return ? Don't you remem- ber Dorothea coming into the room, looking such a darling in her white dress ? I 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 Lance takes a fancy 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 commanded certain privileges. ' I think she will suit you perfectly,' went on Mrs. Chudleigh, quite oblivious of her daughter's affairs ; and, indeed, Pauline with the unselfishness that belonged to her nature had at once with- drawn into the background. ' You are not easily satisfied, Lance, 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 he had better train his future wife from a child. Lance 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 aficctions, but she holds strong opinions and LAUNCELOrS FIANCEE 417 is slow to yield them ; she will listen meekly to your arguments, Lance, but I am not so sure she will yield a blind faith in every- thing.' '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 you know, Madella,' he observed quite seriously, ' I do not believe Dorothea 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 to her surprise Launcelot did not agree in this. ' He could wait,' he said ; ' they could very well wait. Dorothea was very young to be the mistress of a house like the Witchens, it would be better for her to have a little more experience ;' and then he added tenderly, ' I do not half like the idea of robbing you of your honours, Madella ; you have been our liege lady so long.' * Nonsense, Lance !' she returned good-humouredly, 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 be 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, Madella ? 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 the Witchens. No, we shall be a quartette — Doro- thea and myself and Jack and you, and if the house is not big enough to hold us and our quarrels' 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 perhaps she had wondered a little that no one had come in search of her. Launcelot met her at once. ' My dear Dorothea,' he said, ' you will have thought us very remiss, 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 earnestly, so that her colour changed a little, and kissed her very gravely on her lips. ' No one shall have his rights before I have mine,' he said quietly, and then he took her to his stepmother. It was evident that Dorothea was very much moved, but she. 27 4iS ONLY THE GOVERNESS took Mrs. Chudleigh's caresses and kind words ^Yith 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 he help it ?' with a shy glance at Launcelot ; ' but he is too much afraid of losing me to realise his pleasure just now. I 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 Launce- lot. ' 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 and 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/ returned 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 in- terloper — it is my idea that she will refuse to come under such circumstances.' ' I told you so, Madella !' returned Launcelot in a contented voice. 'We have been engaged just three hours, and by Jove there is the gong, and none of us are ready for dinner, and yet Dorothea and I think alike on every subject I' Then she did look at him. ' I am not so sure about that, Mr. Lance,' she said quietly ; ' I do not think Pauline would agree with you ;' and then they all dispersed in a great hurry. Dorothea bore her new honours very meekly. Perhaps she found her position a little difficult at first. Launcelot manifested a decided disposition to take full advantage of his right to mono- polise her as much as 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 Doro- LAUNCELOTS FIANCEE 419 thea to himself he would fetch her for a quiet talk in the studio or on the terrace. ' Yes, go with Lance,' 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 litde 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 become 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 herself 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 naivete, a certain fund of originality in- herent 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 fastidious-- ness. He was demonstrative by nature, and it pleased him that the love-making should be on his side. After that first uncon- scious 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 out stretched 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 con- gratulate 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,' returned Launcelot ; but Dorothea, who was picking up the roses, took no notice of this speech, neither did she see the bright un- 27 — 2 420 ONLY THE GOVERNESS derstanding 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 understood her, saw that she was much affected. ' This is kind to come to me so soon,' she said, taking both their hands ; ' you knew how I should want to see you.' * It was Dorothea who proposed it,' returned Launcelot ; ' I wrote to Thorpe, but it was she who said you would be looking for us. Dorothea always does think of things. I expect to be spared every kind of trouble in the future,' he finished con- tentedly. * Miss Rachel, it is Mr. Lance's way to say this sort of thing, but he knows that we shall not believe him.' ' Do you think it right of Dorothea to call me Mr. Lance ?' he returned mischievously ; * I have remonstrated with her once or twice, but it is of no use. Dorothea declares that she 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 any other,' returned Rachel, much amused at this. ' But it is a liberty I hope she w^ill soon take,' was the reply. * What is the use of having a young woman, if the young woman persists in 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 and 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 ; she 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 wonder- LAUNCELOrS FIANCEE 421 fully 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 that silence befitted the subject best. He was very happy, very satisfied, 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 liked to find out her beauties himself — that shy soft unfolding of herself was her chief charm in his eyes. He was astonished and dismayed to find how he missed her when, a fortnight after their engagement, Dorothea and her father left the Witchens and took possession of the cottage. Dorothea, with all her passionate love for Launcelot, was far more contented than he under the circumstances ; the knowledge that she would one day return as its mistress satisfied and made her happy in the present. As for Jack, he revelled in that cottage ; at last he had his httle girl wholly to himself Jack smoked endless pipes and really painted a good picture, while Dorothea busied herself in her simple housekeeping duties or worked beside him. After all, Launcelot and she were not separated. Dorothea and her father dined once or twice a week at the Witchens, and no day passed without a visit, however brief, from Launcelot. Dorothea did not share her lover's restlessness ; nevertheless, it gave her an exquisite sensation of pleasure to know that her presence was wanting to his happiness. Launcelot complained that the 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 grumbled. ' 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 in the garden, and we have been twice to the Witchens already this week. No, you must not press me, for I always hke to please you, and to-night I must stay with my father * 422 ONLY THE GOVERNESS — and then she dropped her voice — * it is the day mother died, and father would hke best to 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 afternoon I cannot ride vrith you, I have an engagement with Mapleson.' ' Then it cannot be helped ;' but she certainly looked dis- appointed. ' 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 learnt to call him by that name, though she still used it shyly. And she was right — Launcelot did know it. CHAPTER XLVII. JEMMY stokes' ERRAND. * If woman was Heaven's last new gift, the ever-new delight of man, it was because of her gentleness. That is properly the "strong enforcement" of the sex. ' — Ward. ' Ilalf-unbelieving doth my heart remain Of its great woe ; I waken, and a dull dead sense of pain Is all I know.' Tnnc/i. It was on a lovely August m.orning 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 ceremony, and another cousin, a young bar- rister, had acted as best man. JEMMY STOKES' ERRAND 423 Mrs. Chudleigh had been perfectly reasonable, and had agreed to everything, but on one point she had remained firm. Pauline's trousseau must be equal to her sister's ; and though the bride-elect remonstrated and urged very sensibly that her position was differ- ent from Bee's, and that she was going to marry a poor man, Mrs. Ghudleigh insisted on having her own way. ' Indeed, mother dear,' pleaded Pauline, ' you and Launcelot are far too generous. Of course I wish my things to be nice, Hedley is so particular about dress, and I should never care to be shabby. But we cannot afford to entertain people, so what can I want with all those pretty dinner dresses ?' ' Nonsense, Pauline !' returned her mother ingenuously ; ' dear Hedley is so exceedingly clever that his practice increases every day. He says himself that his income is now sufficient for moder- ate comfort. So you will not be so poor.' 'No, but we shall have to be very careful,' replied Pauline. * Besides, Hedley has always been quiet in his tastes, and does not care for gaiety 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 Christmas, and I don't suppose Launcelot will wait beyond the spring. When Dorothea comes here we shall be sure to have a good deal of company. Launcelot 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 Hedley will like to see me look nice.' ' There is only one thing that troubles me,' went on her mother after a short interval, ' but I know it cannot be helped, and you and Hedley will make the best of it — I suppose poor dear Brenda and Charlotte must always live at Bridge House.' Pauline looked up in unfeigned surprise. ' Why, mother darlmg, you talk as though Hedley and I should find them burdensome.' * Well, my dear, most newly-married people prefer to be alone. Of course I know what you are going to say — that it will be just the same with Lance and Dorothea. But just think of the differ- ence ! This house is so big that we shall each have our apart- ments ; we shall only meet at meals or in the evening — and not then unless we wish it. Dorothea is to have a charming boudoir made for her out of the morning-room, and your Uncle Jack will have the old schoolroom. Lance thinks the library that the boys 424 ONLY THE GOVERNESS used could be turned into a pleasant sitting-room for Sybil and myself, and the dining-room and drawing-room will be neutral ground. Besides, Dorothea will have her husband's studio; he means to have a corner expressly fitted up for her use. He 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. Lance means to have all Dorothea's rooms re- furnished — he is busy now planning their decorations — I assure you the morning-room will be lovely.' ' Yes, but, mother. Lance is so rich. But I think Hedley and I will be quite as happy,' returned Pauline with a bright smile. ' Hedley 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 shall see my friends in the drawing-room, and when the curtains are closed it forms two rooms, and Brenda 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's study. Charlotte has made it so comfortable ; there 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 anyone, my darling,' returned her 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 of nothing else ; and as for Brenda, I love her far too much to regard her in the light of a burthen.' ' 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 natural, but I 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. JNLixwell 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. Maxwell, 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 Pauline, with a young family growing up round her, would have need of all her prudent foresightedness and unselfish precaution. But it might be said JEMMY STOKES' ERRAND 425 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 people ever were more similar. I never noticed this before they were married, 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 contradicted me twice yesterday ; indeed we had quite an animated discussion !' ' My dear Lance, 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 some- how. Unhappily for me, she has what people call an inquiring mind ; she has a knack of putting awkward questions that one finds difficult to answer.' ' Well, well, a little contradiction is good for all of us,' returned his stepmother tranquilly, for she was perfectly satisfied with Dorothea's behaviour to Launcelot ; ' and you know you are dread- fully spoilt, Lance.' ' " 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-table put there for my use, and father says he shall expect to see me sometimes, 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 there to be peace in the house if you take my wife's part against me ? I have noticed before that, in your opinion, Dorothea's remarks have always been sensible. Dorothea has already a pretty good opinion of herself, and your injudicious partiality does not tend to teach her humility.' ' What was your answer then, Lance ?' asked his stepmother, smiling. ' Well, of course, I was very firm with her. Dorothea requires firmness. I pointed out to her that a man likes to enjoy his wife's society sometimes, and that I had never cared especially for soli- tude. " Oh, I know that," she said quickly, " and, indeed, I do 426 ONLY THE GOVERNESS not wish to leave you alone ;" but, of course, I would not allow that speech to mollify me. Dorothea knows how to temper hei bitterness with honey.' ' Bitterness, my dear Lance ! Dorothea has the sweetest dis- position possible ;' 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 receive her friends privately. Sybil, who has not yet achieved a matrimonial prize, I am sorry to say, has a bad habit of strumming on the grand pianoforte, and I have noticed that tranquillity is essential to your comfort, so you will allow me to suggest" but I will spare you the remainder of my speech, though I am grieved to say Dorothea said I talked a great deal of nonsense.' ' Well, so you do, Lance, 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 Launcelot only laughed and looked a httle guilty. Launcelot's engagement had gone on smoothly for some months ; Bernard had had his way, and he and his pretty little Elsie had been married early in the New Year ; the lugubrious Fred had taken deacon's 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 superintending 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 work- men obliged Mrs. Chudleigh and Sybil to migrate to Hastings for a few weeks ; but still Jack and Dorothea led their peaceful life at the cottage, and Dorothea had made no preparations for her marriage. When the spring came, Mrs. Chudleigh felt herself a little puzzled at the 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 stepmother calmly in the face. ' Upon my word, Madella, I don't know. I was only thinking yesterday that Jack had had his innings ; it is my turn now. He has had her to himself for more than nine months.' * You take it very coolly, Lance.' ' I was thinking so myself,' he returned with perfect equanimity ; JEMMY STOKES' ERRAND .427 then, as he saw her perplexed look, he continued seriously, ' the delay is not on my side. I would have married Dorothea most willingly within a month of our engagement, but she could not be brought round to my view of the subject, and in a weak moment I promised that she 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 favourite 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, and 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, Lance, 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 tranquilly, 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 important 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 yet,' for it pleased him to know that he would soon have his young wife to sit beside him. ' I think I have been tclerably patient,' he said to himself. '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 am fonder of her. After all, I am glad I 428 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 Launce- lot 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 she had thought only of her own wish she would gladly have been his wife. ' 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, he is always telling me so, but I have never been too young to understand him.' Launcelot was in a very merry mood at luncheon that day, and as Mrs. Chudleigh watched him drive off in his phaeton, she told herself that things were going well with her boy. * I have not seen him look like that since Joan left us ;' and then she sighed at the remembrance of those sombre days. ' I think he did not get over it for years,' she said to herself, ' he was as hardly hit as any 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 Httle.' Launcelot drove himself into town, and did his business, and then set his face homewards, 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 me on the terrace. It will be a lovely evening, and I must have her to myself for a little, and then we can finish our talk. Llalloa there !' — and Launcelot, who had been lost in dreamy anticipation, roused himself, and pulled up his mare pretty sharply as a boy crossed 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 JEMMY STOKES' ERRAND 429 their small wits. 'Why, it is Jemmy Stokes — what do you mean, you little monkey, 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, I never saw Ruby at all. I was just out of breath with running. Orson was out and — and Mr. Fenwick, he says, " Run for Dr. Higgenbotham, Jem, he is the handiest doctor, 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 ]\Iiss 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 his 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 Launcelot 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 seed 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. Fenwick comes out and gives me^ a shove. " Go to Dr. Higgenbotham sharp," he says — and off I runs.' Launcelot did not answer, but he mechanically let go the boy's jacket, and then, jumping into the phaeton, gave the astonished mare a cut with his whip that sent her up the hill dancing on three legs. In fact, most people stopped to look after them, think- ing Ruby had run away, but she was only indulging in an ill- tempered gallop. As for Launcelot, he held the reins in his numb hands and sat up stiffly, looking straight before him, and perfectly oblivious of Ruby's antics, though the groom was holding on behind. ' I cannot bear this ! — I don't see that I have any right to bear it !' he muttered between his teeth. ' There are limits to a man's endurance. Dorothea — my own little Dorothea — dead !' And yet he was not conscious that he thought anything at all ; only a 43<^ OSLY THE GOVERNESS 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 of despair on his face. ' I don't believe it ! — I am not called upon to believe it !' he said, in the same dull, inward voice, as Ruby made a final rush across the common and then darted in at the open gate of the Witchens, bringing out Mrs. Chudleigh and several of the house- hold in alarm, lest a fresh accident had occurred — and at the same moment Jack's cob and Dorothea's pretty little bay mare were led into the stable-yard. CHAPTER XLVni. LAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH. ' Whose soft voice Should be the sweetest music to his ear, Awaking all the chords of harmony ; ***** Whose pure transparent cheek when press'd to his Should calm the fever of his troubled thoughts, And win his spirit to those fields Elysian, The paradise which strong affection guards.' Bethuiie. When Launcelot threw down his reins and jumped from the phaeton he staggered slightly, but recovered himself in a moment. The faces in the glass porch bewildered him ; they seemed to corroborate Jemmy's vague recital. It was true then, he told him- self — 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 questions. Indeed, he could not have spoken at that moment to save his life. Happily, Mrs. Chudleigh saw his expression, and grasped the trjth. ' 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' LAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH 431 'She is not dead then?' for his stepmother'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 Lance, how could anyone 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 Dr. Higgenbotham 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 with her — and with me too !' returned Launcelot, and the tears came into Mrs. Chudleigh's eyes at his tone. ' No, no. Lance, we hope that she is not badly injured, after all. Now I must go back. Mrs. Fenwick and Sybil are there. I heard your wheels and came out because I did not wish you to be frightened, but it seems that I was too late. I will come back to you when Dr. Higgenbotham is gone ;' but Launcelot detained her. ' JNIadella, I must see Dorothea.' 'So you shall, dear — the moment Dr. Higgenbotham has finished you shall see her, even if she cannot speak to you. Let me go, Lance, the mother will be wanted ;' and then he let her leave him. ' What a fool I was to believe it !' he thought as he walked up and down the room to recover himself. ' It was the suddenness of the blow staggered me ; but I have once in my life known what is called the bitterness of death, and I feared I was to experience it again ;' and then he put his hand to his forehead, and was sur- prised to find how cold and damp it was. ' I am shaken all over,' he muttered; 'I don't remember ever feeling quite so bad before ;' and then he poured out some water and drank it, and stood by the window inhaling the fresh evening air, and then he began to feel more like himself ' I might have trusted God's goodness,' he thought remorsefully. ' I need not have been so ready to believe the worst.' But it seemed a long time before his stepmother came back to him. She came in looking flushed and anxious. ' I am so sorry to have kept you so long in suspense. Lance,' she began ; ' but Dr. Higgenbotham has only this moment gone. He has attended to the cuts, and I am thankful to say there is no other injury ; 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. Higgenbotham's stringent orders had raised a margin of doubt in her own mind. 432 ONLY THE GOVERNESS but she need not make Launcelot a sharer in her 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 for a minute.' 'Very well,' he returned quite quietly, for he had himself in hand now, and he followed his stepmother into the drawing- room. ' Here is Lance, my darhng !' he heard Jack say as they entered. Launcelot felt the old choking sensation come back when he saw Jack's face ; its ruddy complexion had perceptibly paled, but he was bent on self-control. ' Dorothea,' he said softly, kneeling down by the couch, and she 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. Launcelot tried to smile back at her, but she saw at once how agitated he was. ' Please don't look like that, Launcelot,' she whispered. * Indeed I am not so very much hurt ; it was far worse for father having to see it all.' But the faintness of her voice alarmed Launcelot, and he remembered that he was not to talk to her. ' You must not trouble about any of us,' he replied gently, ' you must think only of yourself, Dorothea, and about getting well. Now Dr. Higgen- botham says you are to be quiet, and I am going to follow his orders and carry you upstairs.' '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 am strong too,' he returned, and she knew by his tone that he meant to have his way. But as he laid her down on her own couch upstairs one of the long plaits floated past him, and Doro- thea's colour rose a little as she saw him touch it with his hps. Their eyes met, and he kissed her almost passionately. ' My little blessing,' he whispered, 'get well for me, for I cannot do without you !' and then he left her to his stepmother. ' I think Lance loves me more than he used,' thought Dorothea as she laid her aching head contentedly on her pillow, and the happy tears welled up to her eyes. What did her bruises and little pains signify when he had looked at her in that way, and he had called her ' his little 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. LAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH 433 * How did it happen, Jack?' he asked as soon as he found him- self 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 Zoo 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 reared 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 knees, 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, disregarding 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, Lance. I could see how cut up you were ; but, please God, we shall soon 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 conse- quences. It was a relief to Launcelot to leave him and indulge in a solitary stroll across the common ; it was refreshing to be alone with his own thoughts, and he mused happily over his many mercies. ' At least I have learnt something to-day,' he said to himself as he paced under the dark starry sky. 'I have learnt how much I love Dorothea, and that she is necessary to my happi- ness. 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. 28 434 ONLY THE GOVERNESS Jack's visits to the sick-room were severely curtailed, and all conversation forbidden ; while Launcelot was not suffered to cross the threshold, and could only send written messages with the flowers that greeted Dorothea every morning. Launcelot grumbled pretty freely whenever his stepmother gave him an opportunity of airing his gnevances. • Dr. Higgenbotham 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 can be in a sick-room. Miss Thorpe said this morning that it was too bad to exclude me.' ' It is hard, Lance,' replied his stepmother 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. Dr. 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 stepmother had been wise in her treatment. Dorothea looked very fragile and delicate, she had not regained her usual colouring, and though she pronounced herself quite well, she was evidently far uori strong. Launcelot found her in the ' Mother's room ' in a big euoy-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 !' he 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 amongst them again and spoke of going back to the cottage. This gave Launcelot the opportunity he wanted. ' Yes,' he said, ' you may go back to the cottage if you think LAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH 435 proper, but the question is how soon can you be ready for me ? PauHne took two months for her preparations, but I should think six weeks ample time.' And to his delight she did not contradict this statement. ' You must ask Aunt Delia,' she said shyly. ' If you are ready for me, 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 anything else you wish me to do?' * No, dear,' he returned quietly ; ' but it was not of our marriage I was thinking just then, but of something that was troubling me a little. Dorothea, you are very trusting, you do not take ad- vantage of your position to ask me awkward questions.' ' 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 lay deep in her eyes. ' I knew all about it, Launcelot. I was only a child ' — as he started and looked at her — ' but 1 was thought- ful 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 anyone, 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 were suffering, and often I cried myself to sleep because my Mr. Lance was 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 re- member 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. 28—2 436 ONLY THE GOVERNESS 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 darhng !' but she could see he was much affected. ' How little one is conscious of one's blessings ! 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 pray- ing beside me ;' and chen he added softly, ' the httle 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 life has tried him, for he is not really old.' ' He is only four or five years older than your humble servant,' returned 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 evening. 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 rather 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 that first year when Pen came to me — but we had our troubles even then. I don't know how it is, Lance, but a man can't drag a woman down to poverty without suffering for it.' ' And you will try to settle in comfortably at the Witchens ?' ' Why, of course I shall be comfortable under any roof that shelters Dossie. You are a good fellow. Lance, and will make my little girl happy, I know, but sometimes I think even you who LAUNCELOT FINDS THAT SKETCH 437 are going to be 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.' ' Sometimes I think I ought to stop on alone at the cottage, and not be in your way, but I know Dossie would not hear of it. But, Lance, I shan't trouble either her or you long ; there is a flaw in the machinery, and I know I shall never make an old man.' * Nonsense, Jack ! you are scarcely forty-five. Why, you are in the prime of life ; you could marry again to-morrow. Many a woman would be glad to say yes to a fine fellow like you.' * I should never put another woman in Pen's place i' returned Jack simply. ' 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 mischief 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 live 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?' ' No, indeed ; that is between you and me. We are old comrades, Lance ; even Delia must not know ; and as for my litde sunbeam, I would 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, I shall see your children and hers before I He down beside Pen.' ' Poor old Jack !' thought Launcelot, as he recalled this con- versation somewhat sorrowfully. 'Yet why do I say poor? are old age and the slow decay of one's faculties such unmixed bless- ings that I should pity the strong mar. likely to be taken in his 438 ONLY THE GOVERNESS prime? Jack is learning his lesson, I believe ; he has begun late, and he is not an apt scholar, rather slow and 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 learn it more quickly under the eyes of the Divine Teacher, in the higher and better school. " In My Father's house are many mansions ;" what if there be one set apart for simple souls who have not rightly learnt their life's lessons, who in their dulness made mistakes and faltered and tried again, and then lost courage, for even their fellows thought that they had failed ? but it may be the Master knew otherwise and called them up to Him for clearer light and teach- ing,' thought Launcelot. It was only last year that Launcelot Chudleigh 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 mornings 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 before Dorothea's eyes. Jack came round to look at it, but soon went back to his work, for the companion sketch, worn and dis- coloured, 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 hke that. Lance ?' 'You are very like it nov;,' he returned, looking at her critically, ' but you have grown much prettier, Dorothea ; you know I am always 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 !' ' But 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 as she spoke she crept a little closer to her husband's side. Launcelot looked at her fondly. LA UN CE LOT FLNDS THAT SKETCH 439 'You are happier now than you were then, Dorothea?' and thouo-h Dorothea only smiled and said ' Yes,' in her tranquil way, Launcelot was perfectly satisfied with her answer. His wife was not a woman of many words, but her smile was sufticiently eloquent. THE END BILLKSG AND SONS, HUNTERS, GUILDFOKD, /. Z>, cr" Ce. tJ^H ^J UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This bock is DUE on the last date stamped below. SEP 2 8 18I& DEC 3 ^ ^a«»» ?R2 4= 185b APR 2 REC'D LD-URU mi 1 7 19/3 10 DISCHARd scharWJri 19/3 E-URL 1979 Form L9-427n-8.'49(B5573)444 3 1158 00418 1995 JW' rrfi 1 1 1 5 ;ii ;