CHAPTER IV.
It was now the end of May, and Miss Lane was to leave Garstone Vicarage in the last days of June. She went through the dull round of her daily duties as carefully as ever; but the buoyancy of spirit that had formerly made her the children’s favorite play-fellow out of school-hours had deserted her.
The meals, at which the bright young girl had once set the talk going, were once more the most solemn of ceremonies. The Reverend Mr. Mainwaring wished that that unlucky kiss had been ignored; he saw in fancy her inevitable successor, the usual under-bred, old-young governess, without an idea, but with a fund of chirpy small-talk, of the kind which he had suffered before the advent of Miss Lane. He knew she must be blameless in this matter; but he was not a man given to interference in domestic affairs, and, as his wife had decreed that she should go, he made a half-hearted remonstrance, forbade her being sent away before the end of the quarter, and submitted.
Joan and Betty, especially the latter, would have liked to show their resentment more openly had they dared; but it was not easy in face of their victim’s well-judged conduct. She was so grave, so matter-of-fact, so painstaking with them in school-hours, put it so plainly before them that their heads could find out for themselves as much as she could tell them—which was far from being the case—that they could not but treat her with respect in the schoolroom; while out of it she scarcely spoke to them more than was absolutely necessary. But it was a dull life for her; and, shut out thus from the world around her, she found a resource in writing. This little creature was full of fiery ambitions, and one of them was to make a name some day as an author. So, when tea was over, and she could throw off the Mainwarings for the day, she hurried through the garden to her cottage, and spent the last hours of the day, half in quiet study for self-improvement, half with pen, paper, and her own fancy.
So the weeks went on toward the time of her departure; and meanwhile she saw no more of the Braithwaites, except when one or other of the brothers would ride past her and the children in their morning walks.
But George was interested enough in the pretty little governess to find out, without apparent curiosity, that she was going to leave; and he kept this discovery to himself. He did not neglect to warn Harry not to force himself into the girl’s society again; but he resolved to have a farewell interview with her himself. The chance came in the third week in June, when a grand flower-show, held just outside Beckham, had brought all the scattered neighborhood together.
It was a showery day, and the festivities suffered. Showily-dressed and sometimes well-dressed women made their way over sodden grass and slippery earth from one dripping tent to another under the umbrellas of men who were only looking out for a chance of slipping away for a cigar, and did not care a straw for the roses which their companions told them were “lovely,” and were roused only to a limp enthusiasm by some uninteresting patent invention in the “agricultural implement” tent.
The Mainwarings were all there. Gardening was a hobby with the elders; they knew, and called all flowers by their Latin names, and Mrs. Mainwaring’s happiest hours were spent, with dress tucked up, hands hugely gloved, and face glowing with enthusiasm, bedding out geraniums, or collecting and carrying off for destruction myriads of slugs which threatened her favorite plants. Joan and Betty did not care much for flowers; but they were glad of an opportunity to wear new and particularly tasteless dull-green gowns trimmed with many little bits of fringe of a different shade, and their appearance might chance to get them an invitation to a dance or a garden-party. The children had begged to go, to get a holiday, and Miss Lane went to look after them.
So that, when George Braithwaite came on to the ground, in dutiful attendance upon his mother and sister, a rapid inspection of the tents soon convinced him that his opportunity was come. He knew better than to set to work with Harry’s clumsiness. He went up to the Mainwaring children, talked to them a little while without taking any notice of the governess beyond raising his hat to her, and then drew Mrs. Mainwaring’s attention to a plant which he said had a strange history, which she must ask the owner to tell her, insinuated a compliment to lean pink-eyed Joan, and talked to mother and daughters for some time in what he considered his best manner. And then he told Bertram, whose hand he held all the while, that there was “a grand gentleman” making a speech in another of the tents, and asked him if he would not like to see him, and then asked the two younger girls if they would not like to go too; and they all thought they should like to go anywhere with this nice, kind gentleman, and they all said, “Yes.” Then Mr. Braithwaite was afraid he could not take them all three across without their getting wet, but said to the elder of the two small girls:
“Ask your governess to take you under one umbrella, and I will take care of these two little ones.”
And the nice, kind gentleman ran off with Bertram and Marian, directing Miss Lane to follow with Ellen. But when, through the rain, they reached the long, damp tent where the people were crowding round a narrow deal-table to listen to the speech which an insignificant-looking little gentleman, standing in the mud, was delivering in a very low, monotonous voice, the little ones were disappointed; and Bertram said he did not look grand at all, in a voice much louder than the speaker’s. But George still pushed him benevolently forward through the crowd, until, by civil words and strong shoulders, he had managed to get all three children quite close to the table, where they could “hear Lord Ben Nevis distinctly” as he whispered. Then he dropped unselfishly into the back row of the crowd himself, and joined the governess.
“You will get your feet wet standing in all this slush,” said he.
And he found a board for her to put her feet on, and a box for her to sit on, and then stood bending down to talk to her with courteous attention which would have brought tears of envy to Joan’s eyes, had she seen him.
“What a shame of them to drag you out in the rain,” said he sympathetically.
“Oh, no!” she answered, smiling. “I am glad to be dragged anywhere, in any weather, as a change from the musty old school room.”
“I suppose you are. I can’t imagine how any girl can become a governess.”
She looked up at him in pathetic surprise.
“I don’t suppose any girl likes to be a governess; but there is nothing else for her if she is poor.”
“Oh, yes, there is—there’s the Thames!”
“But you wouldn’t recommend that, surely?”
“I don’t know that I wouldn’t. I would try it myself, rather than endeavor to cram knowledge into the heads of little fools who will never be any the better for it.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” she entreated. “It is just what I am tempted to think myself sometimes; but, if I gave way and really did believe I wasn’t doing them any good at all, just think what a martyrdom my life would be!”
“So it is,” said he, looking with his eyes a stronger meaning than his words bore.
She cast hers down and blushed. She had all a girl’s thirst for admiration, and the unaccustomed attention of a handsome man threw fresh charm into her manner, brightened her eyes, and made her lovelier than she dreamed.
“If not the Thames, what is there—what profession?” she asked as his eyes answered her.
“Well, there is the stage.”
“The stage!” she echoed, in horror. “You wouldn’t advise that, surely!”
“You speak of it with more horror than of the Thames.”
“Why, yes! I’d rather be a corpse than an actress!”
“But you wouldn’t have such a lively time of it,” said he, dryly.
“But, oh, to be stared at by everybody, and to paint, and be among horrid people, and for everybody else to look down upon you, and——Oh, I should not like it at all.”
“Well, isn’t it better to be looked at by everybody than not to be looked at, at all? But I suggested it only as an alternative to the Thames. Seriously, the Vicarage schoolroom must be a dull place.”
“It is. But I am going to leave it,” she answered, looking away, and her face flushing.
“Are you? I thought you would not be able to stand it long. You may do much better, and, at any rate, you have the satisfaction of knowing that you can’t do worse.”
“I don’t know about that,” said she, very gravely.
“At any rate, you will have a pleasant holiday among your friends first.”
She gave a rather grim smile.
“I don’t know about that, either. A semi-detached villa in the suburbs, among a family of children compared to whom the Mainwarings are angels, is not the place one would choose for a holiday.”
“You have a lot of young brothers and sisters, then?”
“Oh, no, I have none! I am an orphan; so I have to spend my spare time with an aunt who doesn’t particularly want me.”
“That is hard lines. Then you will teach again?”
“Yes, if I can get any pupils,” said she, rather sadly, thinking how much the shortness of her stay at the Vicarage would be against her chances of getting another engagement. “Not like this, though! I shall take lodgings in London and try to get daily pupils, for music, perhaps. Then I shall have more time to myself, and I can study better.”
“But you know enough already; and you will be frightfully dull if you live by yourself.”
“Not so dull as I am here. And, when I have got on with music and other things, I shall take another resident engagement—abroad this time. I think I should like to go to Russia or Canada.”
“Have you many friends in London?”
“No. I had some once, before papa died. But one falls out of the way of one’s friends somehow when one gets very poor. It isn’t their fault, and it doesn’t seem to be one’s own; but it always happens.”
“I want you to promise me something,” said George, in a low voice.
She looked up inquiringly.
“I want you to promise to give me your address in London if you settle there by yourself.”
Miss Lane hesitated. She was very much touched by his sympathy, very anxious not to lose it by offending him; but she did not think his request was one which she could or ought to grant. Independence had made her careful.
“I have not the least idea where I shall be, or if I shall be able to carry out my plan at all,” said she, evasively.
“Where there is a will there is a way, you know; and I should think that is more the case with you than with most people.”
“You are laughing at me. You think me too strong-minded.”
“I will tell you what I think of you when you have answered me. Now will you promise?”
“I don’t see of what use knowing my address would be to you, because as I shall be living quite alone, I can’t ever see any one.”
“That doesn’t follow. Do you mean that you would live the life of a hermit, and condemn yourself to solitary confinement of your own free will?”
“For a time. There is no help for it.”
“Yes, there is. We are going up to town, some of us, before long. I will ask my mother and Lilian to call on you. But I must know your address. And I could send you tickets for concerts and things, where you could go with your pupils, if you wouldn’t let any one accompany you who would enjoy it more. Would you let me take you to a concert?” he said, bending lower.
Miss Lane looked nervously down, then entreatingly up.
“I couldn’t,” she said, in a low voice.
He saw the pleading reluctance in her eyes, and pressed his advantage.
“You do not know how unhappy it makes me to think of your sacrificing your bright life alone in a dingy London lodging. However nice your pupils and their friends may be to you, their affection or—or esteem—can never be so strong as that of your own disinterested friends.”
He knew how to throw into these words a feeling and warmth which made the girl’s cheeks flush. There was a pause.
“You do believe in my friendship, do you not?” he asked, more softly still.
“Of course I do,” answered the girl, looking up with an effort. “I—I—am sure you mean to be very kind, Mr. Braithwaite.”
“Then don’t be too unkind to me. Promise me that you will send me your address in town.”
“I cannot,” said the girl; then, glancing round, she saw fixed upon her glassily the light, colorless eyes of her eldest pupil Joan.
Defiant bitterness and a dozen kindred feelings woke up within the little governess.
“I promise,” said she; and she let him take her hand and press it gently in his.
He turned and saw Joan—saw the malignant look in her eyes, and knew that she had been watching them. Nothing could have pleased him better.
“Ah, Miss Mainwaring, have you too been listening to Lord Ben Nevis’ speech? Not a bad speaker, though he gets rather in a tangle with his quotations sometimes.”
Joan would have liked to say something satirical, but nothing occurred to her. She had even to swallow her indignation so far as to talk quite amicably to this deceitful Lovelace, and to persuade herself into thinking that, though he might amuse himself for a few odd moments with that little Miss Lane, he found a taller, slimmer, less talky woman more permanently attractive. Still he had certainly been looking at Miss Lane, as he bent over her, where she sat in a corner of the tent, in an irritatingly admiring manner.
The truth was, though he scarcely acknowledged it to himself, that he was really a little in love with Miss Lane. She was not only sweetly pretty, but “good style,” the best-dressed woman there, in his opinion, not even excepting his sister. And he had no intention of losing sight of her. And why should he? She was already predisposed in his favor; she had few friends—none who could warn her that he was a dangerous acquaintance; she was going to live alone a dull life which would make her hail with gratitude any companionship as pleasant as he felt his to be to her; he would have many a dull and idle hour in town which might be pleasantly filled up by the charitable act of taking the pretty, prim little lady to a theater, or he would not even mind a picture-gallery, if she proved entertaining enough to reward him for such waste of his time. It would be pleasant for her, pleasant for him; and, as she had no friends, it could do her no harm in the eyes of the world which ignored her. He left the ground, satisfied that he had put this matter well in train.
She, meanwhile, in spite of one more degree of frost in the manner of her companions, went back to the Vicarage with them, feeling happier than she had felt for a long time. The kindly sympathy of this man, whose handsome face grew so soft when he spoke to her, and who had been her favorite among the Braithwaite brothers from the first, had taken her out of the shell of reserve she wore among the torpid natures around her. As she thought over the event of the day to her, that low-spoken conversation in the corner of the tent; recalled again each tone, each look of his; felt again in fancy the warm pressure of his hand, the question would rise in her mind, “Does he love me?” And she fell asleep, scarcely daring to hope, yet half believing that he did. At the moment when he said good-bye he had contrived to ask her on what day she was going back to London, and, almost without thinking what she was doing, she had told him. Would he be there to see her off, she wondered.
But the little fantastic dream she was indulging was not to last long. Joan was the person to destroy it. Within a few days of Miss Lane’s departure she asked her mother at tea-time if she had heard that George Braithwaite was going to be married.
“Dear me, no!” said Mrs. Mainwaring. “Who told you about it, Joan?”
“I heard it at the Lawsons’. It is to some cotton-lady, it appears, with large feet and a large fortune. I wonder how they will get on together; they say he never admires any woman of his own rank. But, then, I suppose he doesn’t consider a cotton-lady to be of his own rank; or perhaps he thinks more of her fortune than her face. I suppose that is necessary, with such a character for being dissipated as he has.”
Mrs. Mainwaring gave a warning glance from her eldest daughter to her husband. But the vicar did not mind a little bit of mild scandal—it amused him; and the reputation of the Braithwaite boys could hardly be injured by anything Joan might say. So she went on with all she had heard, and her own comments thereon, every word inflicting a wound, as, perhaps, she meant it to do upon one of her hearers.
Annie Lane walked back to her cottage that night with heart too sore for study. So he had been only amusing himself with her, after all, as she might have known he was doing! She should have known better than to trust another Braithwaite after Harry’s conduct toward her. She felt utterly humiliated and fierce with indignation against them. She had been the plaything of both, and the girlish pleasure she had felt in their admiration and attention had been dearly paid for.
She had one small revenge upon George. On Sunday, the day before her departure, he went to church and found an opportunity to whisper to her as they came out:
“I am going to see you off to-morrow. I shall be at the station.”
All the girl’s proud spirit flashed from her dark eyes as she raised her little head, and looking full into his face, said distinctly:
“I must beg that you will do nothing of the kind.”
He was amazed, but was clever enough to suppress everything but one quick glance of annoyance and surprise. Then he merely elevated his eyebrows, raised his hat, and with a careless “As you please,” went on to Joan Mainwaring.
The next day Miss Lane took a cold farewell of the family in which she had worked so hard, and was allowed to go by herself in a cab to Beckham Station. She had been able to remain calm in the face of them all; but before the two-mile drive was over, she was half-blind with tears. To be dismissed so coldly when she had tried so hard to do her duty well and to please them! To be dismissed, too, with an undeserved stain upon her character! It was too hard, too cruel, that at the outset of her life, when her very livelihood depended upon her own efforts, she should find herself clogged by this most unjust burden.
She was drying her eyes and trying to look as if she had not been crying as the cab reached the town, when a young man on horseback, who was riding in the opposite direction, passed, caught sight of her, and turning his horse’s head, followed the cab into the station. She was late, and the ticket-office was already open. She had just taken her ticket, and was walking away, with her eyes upon the purse in her hand, when a voice by her side made her look up with a start. It was Harry’s.
He was all mud-splashed with hard riding, his face was red and ashamed, and his voice was low and unsteady.
“Miss Lane, let me see after your luggage. Do—do let me, or—or I shall never forgive myself!”
She pointed it out to him very quietly, without a word except “Thank you.”
He saw it put into the van, found a corner-seat for her in an empty second class carriage, helped her in, and stood by the door nervously twisting the heavy handle.
“When are the holidays over, Miss Lane? When are you coming back?”
“I am not coming back here.”
She turned away her head; the tears were breaking forth again.
“Not coming back! Why?” he cried, quickly.
Her tears were flowing fast now. She looked at him with one swift glance of misery and reproach, and whispered brokenly:
“You ought to know why. Betty—Betty saw you!”
Harry sprung up on the step.
“What—that day when I—when I behaved like—like a cad? And you are going away because of me?”
The hasty, passionate nature of the lad was moved to a mighty impulse of remorse. She could only answer, pitying him and holding out her hand while she tried to smile through her tears:
“Never mind—never mind! I have forgiven you long ago. I—I—I only told you because you asked.”
He had seized her offered hand, when the guard came up to shut the door.
“Going, sir?”
“Yes!” cried Harry, carried away by the impulse of the moment.
He jumped into the carriage, the door was locked, the train was in motion, and he and Miss Lane had started together for London.