“To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
WORDSWORTH.
“They order,” said I, “these things better in France.”
STERNE.
THEnext morning was bright and sunny. Marion woke early, feeling, thanks to her eighteen years, perfectly rested and refreshed. Under these circumstances too, as might be expected, her spirits were considerably better than they had been the previous night, when she cried herself to sleep in her fatigue and distress.
She lay quietly for a few minutes, hazily glancing round at the quaint little room, exquisitely clean and fresh, certainly, for Madame Poulin was a model housewife, but looking somewhat bare to Marion’s thoroughly English eyes. Still, the very strangeness was pleasant, and the sunshine pouring in through the uncurtained window, was bright enough to fill even this plain little room with light and beauty.
Feeling buoyant and cheerful, Marion sprang up, and was nearly dressed, when a small tap at the door, and the request, “May I tum in?” announced the presence of Master Charlie. His tidings were not of the cheeriest.
“Poor Mamma was very tired and couldn’t get up, and May was not to wait breakfast.” It was really not to be wondered at, for Cissy was by no means a robust person, though fortunate in the possession of a most cheerful disposition and a wonderful amount of energy and spirit. Notwithstanding, however, all the good will in the world, she was now forced to confess herself on the point of being very thoroughly knocked up; so Marion breakfasted alone. But for the remembrance of Harry’s letter, she would have felt very bright and happy this first morning at Altes. The weather was exquisitely beautiful. From the little terrace on to which opened most of their rooms, there was a lovely view of the mountains, standing out sharp and clear against the intense, perfect blue of the sky. What a colour! How utterly indescribable to those who have never chanced to see it! How different from the bluest of our northern skies is this rich intensity of azure! In the reaction of the present clay against exaggeration of sentiment or language, it has, I know, become the fashion to disbelieve and decry many “travellers’ stories” that used to be undoubtingly accepted. Still, as all reactions do, this one has gone too far, and a spirit of cynical scepticism is fast undermining much of the pleasure simple-minded stay-at-home people (certainly a very small minority now-a-days) used to derive from the descriptions of their more fortunate sight-seeing neighbours.
People are told that it is all humbug and nonsense about southern skies having a richness and depth of colour unknown in those of the north. That the Mediterranean is just like any other sea, and the tints of its waters not one whit more varied or brilliant than may be seen at any English coast on a sunny day. Doubtless, the north has its own peculiar and precious beauties, and well and fitting it is that its children should appreciate and prize them. But why therefore set ourselves to ignore or make light of the more vivid and striking loveliness we must turn southwards to see? For my part I can only tell of things as they seemed to me; and I come too of an older generation; one in which people were not ashamed to wonder and admire, heartily and even enthusiastically. No poor words of mine could ever in the faintest degree picture the marvellous perfection of those blue skies of the south, at which I gazed with a very ecstasy of delight, or of the waves like melted emeralds and sapphires lapping softly the silvery sparkling sands. They come to me in my dreams even now, and I wake with a vain longing to hear their gentle murmur.
Think, in contrast, of the faint, sickly hues brought before us by our English words “sky-blue “and “sea-green!” Assuredly those who love chiefly beauty in colour, must not look for it hereabouts.
Marion stood on the terrace for some little time in perfect enjoyment. She was just at the age to take unalloyed pleasure in the loveliness of the outer world. It woke no painful remembrance, stirred up no bitter association or fruitless longing. Alas, alas, that there should be so few, so very few, to whom, in later years, the beauty of this beautiful world, if not altogether hidden by the thick veil of past sorrows, is truly what is always meant be, a delight, a refreshment, “a joy forever.”
Surely it is more or less in our or power keep or make it so? At least, one cheering thought might be drawn from it by even the most weary and heavy-laden spirit. It tells us that we and our sorrows are not forgotten, for there, before us in every leaf and blade of grass the Universal Beauty reveals to us the Universal Love. But a girl at eighteen does not stop to analyse the sensations of pleasure aroused by a beautiful landscape. Marion only thought that it was lovelier than anything she had ever imagined, and well worth corning so far to see. She was fortunate in being so fresh to such scenes. It seems to me most mistaken kindness to take young children sight-seeing, even of nature’s sights. They become familiar with beauty of these noblest kinds long before it is in the least possible that they can feel or appreciate it. And this familiarity ends generally in utter indifference; ignorance in short that there is anything to admire. Not that children should be brought up among dinginess and ugliness. The prettier and sweeter their surroundings the better. But oh parents and teachers, do leave the little creatures simple and fresh! To my mind a child of ten years old, who has been half over the continent, and chatters pertly of Switzerland and Mont Blanc, Naples and Mount Vesuvius, is in-finitely more to be pitied than we children of long ago, who talked to each other with bated breath of these wonders we should see “when we grow big,” and who believed implicitly in Robinson Crusoe and the Swiss family, if not in Liliputland and Hassan of Balsra!
Some time passed, and then Marion reluctantly withdrew from the terrace and re-entered the little salon. It looked quite dark from the contrast with the flood of light outside; and as the girl’s eye fell on her little writing-desk which she had set on the table intending to write to Harry, it seemed as if the darkness had entered her heart too.
“What can I say to him?” thought she, “and poor Cissy ill and tired. I can’t even talk to her!”
And then there came before her a picture of Harry compelled to confess all to his father. A terrible scene of parental reproaches and harshness. Harry cast of for ever, perhaps running away to sea, and his life utterly separated from hers, and from all happy and wholesome influences. It was too dreadful to think of! Very foolish and exaggerated no doubt. Still such things have been! Then too, there was great excuse for Marion’s anxiety, even if carried too far. Harry, though little more than two years her junior, had been almost like a son to her as well as a brother. She was naturally stronger in character than he, and also much more thoughtful and considerate. And then to a gentle unselfish girl it comes so naturally to act a mother’s part at almost any age. I think as I write of a tottering nursemaid of six or seven, all but overwhelmed by the baby in her arms, at first glance quite as big as herself. A cold day and the clothing of both babies of the scantiest. Of course the small nursemaid has a tiny shawl. Small nursemaids always have. Her charge at last succumbs to cold and sets up a dismal howl. Then see the poor little woman, poor baby that she is, untaught, unkempt, uncared for. With what sweetest tenderness she soothes the crying infant, seating herself with infinite pains on a door step, and wrapping round the other the poor little rag of a shawl which was the only protection of her own shivering shoulders. Dear, good little girl. True-hearted, unselfish child. How many such as these are in our streets! Ugly, dirty little creatures we shrink from them as we pass, who yet are already fulfilling nobly, in utter unconsciousness, their part of woman’s work.
As Marion’s dismal imaginations had reached their height, she was again interrupted by Charlie.
“Mamma is awake and wants to speak to you,” was his message, which Marion was very glad to hear.
“May,” said Cissy, after assuring her cousin that she was much less tired now and would be quite herself by the afternoon, “May dear! do you know I’ve been thinking ever so much in the night about this affair of Harry’s. Don’t think me hard or cruel for what I am going to say, for I’m sure I don’t mean to be; but I can’t help having a sort of feeling that perhaps after all it would be best for you to advise Harry to tell all to your father. Though he is stern I don’t think he is really hard-hearted. And then it is such a pity for a boy to begin any concealment from his father. Don’t you think so yourself, dear?”
“As a rule certainly I do,” said Marion, “but in this case it is so different. Cissy, you don’t know Papa. It is not the harshness at the time that I so dread for Harry, though that would be bad enough. It is the thought of the dreadfully galling way he would be treated afterwards. Papa would make him feel that he had utterly lost confidence in him. He would run away before long, I am sure. And think what might become of him! No, Cissy, I can’t advise him to go to my father if there is any possible way of avoiding it.”
“Well, dear, I suppose you know best,” replied Mrs. Archer, “only thinking it over last night it seemed to come before me that it would berightfor Harry to confess his fault (for after all it was undoubtedly his own fault), to Uncle Vere, and take his reproaches manfully as a merited punishment. Not that I do not feel very sorry for him, poor fellow, for after all it was a mere piece of boyish folly.”
“And folly which he bitterly repents, I assure you,” said Marion; “but oh, Cissy, can’t you think of any plan to help him? I must write to-day.”
“I can help you so far,” said Cissy. “I can lend you the money for two or three months. You see we are sure to be here for six months, and I can let some of my bills, the rent, I dare-say, run on till Christmas any way. So there will be no fear of our running short. I only wish I could clear poor Harry of this horrible debt altogether. But if the worst comes to the worst I can write to George and he will only think I have been rather more extravagant than usual.”
“That you certainly shall not have to do, dear Cissy,” exclaimed her cousin; “rather than that, I would face Papa myself and risk the worst he could say or do to me, for he should never know it had been Harry’s debt, though I fear he would suspect it; but if you can really lend me the money, Cissy, I promise you I shall find some way of repaying it before we leave Altes. I shall not tell Harry how I have got it, as he would be dreadfully hurt at my having told you, and still more ashamed of my having borrowed it in this way, so remember it is my debt and not his, and if I don’t pay, it you may put me in prison,” he added, gaily, so great her relief at the thought of Harry’s safety.
“Very well, you may be quite sure that I shall do so,” replied Cissy, “and now run off and write your letter. I will give you three ten pound notes, so that you may send the first halves of them to-day.”
Gratefully kissing the kind little woman, Marion obeyed. Her high spirits lasted till her letter was written, and with its precious enclosure carefully posted with her own hands. Then as she walked slowly homewards a little of the weight returned to her mind. How was she now to repay Cissy? That her cousin should suffer more than the mere temporary inconvenience of having advanced the money she was determined should not be the case. Certainly there was no immediate hurry about the matter, but Marion was not one of those people who think it quite time enough to face a difficulty when it is close at hand, and her active imagination at once set to work on all manner of possible and impossible schemes.
She would take in fine needlework and get up at unearthly hours to do it without Mrs. Archer’s knowledge, She would paint same exquisite landscapes that would be sure to sell.
On reflection, however, she saw obstacles in the way of executing either of these projects. She was not, in the first place, remarkably proficient with her needle, nor was she conceited enough to think that her water colours were much above the average of most young-lady-like productions of the kind.
And in the second place, supposing she had anything to sell how could she, an utter stranger in a foreign town, find a purchaser?
And so one after another or half-a-dozen promising looking schemes was passed in review and rejected by her common sense as impracticable.
Still on the whole she was rather amused than distressed. Her mind at ease about Harry, all other considerations seemed trifling. There was even something, exciting and exhilarating about the novelty of the idea. And she was young and strong, and to such the grappling with a difficulty has a curious charm of its own. Even about such a sordid matter as the making or earning of thirty pounds! That in some way or other her voluntary promise to her cousin should be redeemed she was determined. And the girl was not one to undertake what she would not fulfil.
It was too hot to leave the house for some hours after noon. Cissy herself on a sofa in the coolest earner, declaring it felt something like India, and then suddenly remembered her housewifely responsibilities, rang for Madame Poulin, and entered, somewhat vaguely it must be confessed, on the subject of dinners. All, however, was charmingly satisfactory. Though not professing to do much cooking herself, the good lady assured Madame all could be agreeably arranged, for her brother was the head of the best hotel in Altes, but a two minutes’ walk beyond the post-office, and would supply regularly a dinner for any number from two to a dozen, at a really moderate price. Or ifces dameswould prefer a little variety now and then, there was the table d’hôte at this same hotel every day at five, where the choice of viands would be greater and the company of the most select.
“That would be rather amusing now and then for a change” observed Mrs. Archer.
Marion preferred the idea of a private repast, but agreed that they might go and “see what it was like.”
For to-day, however, Madame Poulin was requested to order a comfortable little dinner in their own quarters, and after some further conversation on the subject of Charlie’s tastes, the pleasant old lady retired, leaving behind her a decidedly favourable impression, which longer acquaintance only confirmed.
A few minutes passed in silence till it occurred Marion that it would be as well for her to write her father announcing their safe arrival. This task accomplished, and Cissy declaring she was too tired to go out, Marion settled herself in a snug corner by the window with an interesting book, which she had read half of on the journey. But alas for her pleasurable intentions! Hardly had she opened the volume when an interruption appeared in the person of Charlie in a state of tremendous eagerness to write a letter to Foster. The poor little fellow had really been very good all day, doing his best to get on pleasantly with Thérèse, who was certainly good nature itself, and had been making, on her side, super-human efforts to amuse her small charge and to understand his observations. Still as she was us wholly innocent of English as the child of French, it was rather trying work for both. Marion felt that, Charlie deserved some reward, so she laid down her book and established him on her knee with a sheet of note-paper before him and a pencil in his hand.
The nature of their occupation being a very engrossing one Marion did not hear the sound of a carriage drawing up at the door below the little terrace, nor did she pay attention to the slight bustle of bell-ringing, enquiries made and answered, which ensued.
In another moment, however, the door of the room opened and Thérèse ushered in a visitor, whom Cissy started up to receive. Marion was reluctant to disturb Charlie, and being almost hidden by the curtains sat still, quietly observing the new corner who, cordially greeting Mrs. Archer, had evidently not noticed that there was anyone else present.
The visitor was an elderly lady, tall, and well dressed, with some remains of former beauty, of a pleasing, though not very striking, kind. Her expression was gentle, but somewhat anxious and uneasy, which was soon explained, by her announcing herself to be very deaf.
“Very deaf, indeed, my dear,” she repeated to Mrs. Archer in her fussy way. Whereupon poor Cissy, of course, set to work shouting in a shrill, high-pitched tone, of all others the most impossible for a deaf person to catch the sound of.
After one or two trials, however, she got on a little better, and succeeded in explaining to Lady Severn, as Marion had already guessed her to be, her regret at having failed in meeting with a desirable young lady as governess, owing to the delay in the letter’s reaching her which contained her friend’s request.
Lady Severn was evidently disappointed, but consoled herself by entering at great length into her troubles and anxieties with respect to her grand-daughters’ education. Mrs. Archer listened sympathisingly, as was her wont. But so absorbed was the elder lady by her own recital, that it was not till she rose to go, that she remembered to make enquiry for her hostess’s child, or children, and for the last news of Colonel Archer.
The satisfactory state of her husband’s health having been communicated, Cissy, suddenly remembering that, in the confusion of Lady Severn’s unexpected entrance, and the subsequent discovery of her deafness, she had not introduced her young cousin, turned to look for her. There the pair was still seated in perfect content. Charlie, perched on Marion’s knee, as quiet as a mouse, had found ample amusement in peeping from behind the curtains at the funny old lady whom Mamma was shouting to.
But now, at a sign from his mother, he slipped down and ran forward to be kissed and admired as a fine little fellow, and “so like his papa was when I first remember him,” said Lady Severn, adding in an undertone, as a tear glistened in her eye, “They were two such fine boys, my dear, your husband and my poor John. And he left no son to succeed him, you know. Only the two little girls. Not but what they are very dear creatures, but I can’t help wishing there had been a boy. And so does Ralph himself, for that matter! But it can’t be helped.”
Marion listened with some curiosity to these allusions to the family history she had already heard. Half unconsciously stepping forward into the room, Lady Seven’s glance at last fell upon her, and Cissy hastened to apologise and explain. Unfortunately, however, in her eagerness to introduce her pretty guest, Mrs. Archer pitched her voice badly, and the result was that the old lady caught no words of the sentence but the two last.
“Miss Vere,” Cissy had ended with.
“Miss Freer,” repeated Lady Severn with satisfaction at her own acuteness. “Miss Freer, I hope you will like Altes. And you, too, my dear little fellow”—to Charlie—“there are some lovely walks in the neighbourhood, which I do not think Miss Freer will consider too far for these sturdy little legs.”
“Vere,” ejaculated Cissy, “my cousin, Miss Vere.”
“Miss Vere,” again repeated Lady Severn with perfect satisfaction; “oh yes, I caught the name, thank you. I am generally rather clever at catching names correctly. Besides, it is familiar to me. It is the name of our much-respected surgeon at Medhurst. Perhaps he may be a relation of yours, Miss Freer? It is not a very common name.”
Marion replied, with malicious calmness, that she was not aware that she had any relations at Medhurst. But, by this time, Cissy was beyond attempting further explanations. She controlled herself sufficiently to accompany Lady Severn to the head of the stairs, where the good lady favoured her with some further remarks still more distressing to her gravity, on the subject of Miss Freer; and then she rushed back into the room, scarlet with suppressed laughter, though, at the same time considerably annoyed.
“Marion, how could you,” she exclaimed, “standing there in that demure way, and answering that you had no relations at Medhurst? Do you know that the old goose thought you were my companion or Charlie’s governess? I am not sure which. Imagine Uncle Vere’s face, if he had seen it! She told me, as she said goodbye, that she only wished she could meet with just such a young lady for her two dear creatures. I tried to explain, but it was hopeless. Really, you might have helped me.”
“Truly, I don’t see how,” said Marion: “would you have had me confuse the poor lady still more by shouting my name into her one ear while you were doing the same into the other? And she was so pleased at her own cleverness. It would really have been a shame to undeceive her. Besides,” she went on more seriously, “I truly don’t see what harm it does me for Lady Severn, or anybody else, to take me for a governess. Don’t vex yourself about it, Cissy. It really doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” said Mrs. Archer almost angrily, “and it was all my own stupidity, too, in not introducing you properly at first. But I was all but asleep when she came in, and then Icouldn’tmake her hear.”
“But how does it matter?” asked Marion gently, seeing that her cousin was really annoyed.
“In a hundred ways. I want you to enjoy your visit here, and have a little more variety than in your dull life at home. I want you to make some nice acquaintances, and to be admired, and all that sort of thing, you know. And what a stupid beginning, to be mistaken by our only acquaintance for a governess!”
“Governesses are not altogether debarred from all the pleasant things you name, are they?” said Marion, “I really can’t see anything dreadful either in the mistake or the reality, had it existed. But seriously, Cissy, leave off thinking about it, do.”
This incident, however, or something, gave Marion herself ample subject for reflection; for she was unusually thoughtful and silent all the afternoon. In the course of the evening, Mrs. Archer received a note from Dr. Bailey, apologising for not having already called to see her, and expressing hopes that, when she had got over the fatigue of her journey, Mrs. and Miss Bailey might have the pleasure of making her acquaintance.
“He must be a civil, kindly old man,” said she after reading it, “but I don’t exactly see the necessity of a friendship with Madame and Mademoiselle. I wonder how they know anything about me, unless they call in a semi-professional sort of way on all the papa’s lady-patients.”
“I should hardly think they could find time for that,” said Marion “but perhaps they have heard about you from some one.”
“Oh, yes, by-the-bye,” exclaimed Cissy, “I remember Lady Severn said she had got my address from the Baileys. Really, Marion, it was horribly rude of me not to answer her letter! I suspect it was her eagerness on the governess question that brought her to call so quickly. But I daresay she’s very good and kind. Indeed, I know she is, for George says she was almost like a mother to him, long ago, when his own mother was in India.”
“Lady Severn doesn’t look particularly delicate,” remarked Marion, “do they always spend the winter abroad?”
“Oh dear no. She’s not delicate, if by that you mean a consumption, or anything of that kind. I daresay she is not remarkably strong, and then she is no longer young. Sir John’s death aged her terribly, I believe. But it is principally on account of one of the little girls, that they have spent the last two or three years on the Continent. The younger one, I think—Sybil she is called—who was very ill soon after her father’s death, and her grandmother thought she was going to die, and came abroad in a fright. The child’s all right again now, but I suppose Lady Severn is over anxious and fussy. I fancy, too, she dislikes the idea of returning to Medhurst, for it was there her son died.”
“I can’t help thinking,” said Marion, after a minute or two’s silence, “that there is some-thing unnatural in Lady Severn’s devotion to the memory of the one son, and apparent indifference to the other. Even what she said to-day, about regretting that Sir John had left no boy, struck rue as a curious thing to say, considering that Sir Ralph is her own son. Unless, indeed, he is peculiarly unlovable, or has, in some way or other, forfeited his mother’s affection by his own fault?”
“Well, it does seem queer,” replied Cissy, “but still from what I have heard, I can understand it in a sort of way. You see from boyhood John Severn was looked upon as the heir, and Ralph was so different. Quiet and grave, and not the sort of character to be much noticed in any way. Whereas Sir John must have been a splendid fellow really. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to any one that Ralphcouldbecome the head of the house! But if you are interested in the family, May, I dare say you will have opportunity enough while here to study their various peculiarities.”
“What is the other child called?”
“I don’t know, or if I ever did I’ve forgotten. Girls of ten and twelve don’t interest me particularly; though I liked you, May, when you were a little girl,” said Mrs. Archer, affectionately; “you were such a dear, shy little thing, and you had such funny, quaint ways. I never can believe you are the same. You seemed to me to become grown-up all in a minute. With my never seeing you all these years after toy marriage, I kept fancying in that silly way that I should come home and find you just as I left you.”
“Then you don’t think me very childish now, do you?” asked Marion, rather anxiously, “do I look much younger than I am, do you think, Cissy?”
“What has put that in your head all of a sudden?” said Mrs. Archer, laughing. “I thought you were far too wise ever to think about outward looks at all. That’s the very thing about you that is so unlike most girls. You are such an indescribable mixture of extreme girlishness and preternatural wisdom. You look such a perfect child sometimes, at the very moment that I am shaking in my shoes before you, and your dreadfully good advice. You certainly would make a capital governess, Marion, if you kept your pupils in as good order as poor me! Only you are fa too pretty. All the big brothers and gentleman-visitors would fail in love with you to a certainty.”
“Don’t Cissy, please don’t joke in that sort of way. I want to ask you seriously; do you really think I should make a good governess?”
“Of course you would. I believe you might make a good anything you chose. You are certainly clever enough to manage me in a way that fills me with amazement and admiration. But do think of something more interesting than governesses. Thank goodness there’s no fear of your ever having to be one.”
“Isn’t there? Well, I don’t know. Stranger things happen every day. Why Papa might loose all his money, and I might have to earn my bread like a model young lady in a story book.”
“You might, undoubtedly, but also you might, not,” answered her cousin, carelessly, and then changing the subject, she continued: “What should you say to our dining at thetable d’hôteto-morrow? Wouldn’t it be rather amusing?”
“If you like,” replied Marion, “though it would be pleasanter if we knew anyone likely to be there. Didn’t you, say you knew another family there?”
“Oh, yes, the Berwicks. I must, look them up, I suppose, for they are old friends, and they don’t know I’m here. But I’m getting sleepy, Marion. Are you ready to say good night? I hope you won’t mind breakfasting alone again, for I want to be quite rested by to-morrow afternoon, so that we may go a walk or a drive. I’m afraid it has been very stupid for you today.”
“But it would be much more stupid if you were to get ill, Cissy dear,” said Marion, “so rest by all means. I shall have breakfast early and perhaps go out a little walk on my own account, with Charlie and Thérèse, before you are up.”
As she spoke her eye fell on a calling-card lying on the table. It was that of Lady Severn, which, Thérèse being rather untaught in such matters, had followed instead of preceding her into the room. Marion took it up and looked at it closely. In the corner was written the temporary address: “Rue des Lauriers, No. 5.” A trifle, but it decided a good deal. “Now that I know the address,” thought the girl, “I can go there in the morning before Cissy is up.”
“Sweet fickle Love, you grow for some,And grip them to their grief,As sudden as the redwings comeAt the full fall of the leaf.“And sudden as the swallows go,That muster for the sea,You pass away before we know,And wounded hearts are we.”
W. P. L.
“Rue des Lauriers, No. 5:” last thought in her head at night, first when she woke in the morning. In her dreams too the words had been constantly before her: “No fear of my forgetting the address,” said Marion to herself.
Breakfast over, she arranged with Thérèse and Charlie, to accompany them in their morning walk about twelve o’clock. And then she fidgeted about, unable to settle to anything; rather frightened, if the truth must be told, at the thought of what she was about to do.
It is a crisis in our lives, when, for the first time, we take what we believe to be an important step, entirely on our own responsibility. Well for us when this crisis does not occur too soon. Well too, when it is not deferred too late. Of the two extremes, doubtless the latter is the more to be dreaded. Better some sad tumbles and bruises; better indeed a broken limb, than the hopeless feebleness of members, stunted, if not paralysed for want of natural use. Experience is truly a hard schoolmaster, but we have not yet found a better one. Some day we must be self-reliant, or else be utterly wrecked and stranded. So, if for no higher motive than mere prudence and expediency, it is well not to delay too long the testing of our own powers, the trial of our individual strength.
Cissy had said truly that Marion was a curious mixture of simplicity and wisdom, child and woman. I wonder if in this lay her peculiar charm? But this, indeed, I cannot tell. The charm I have felt, deeply too, but like other sweet and beautiful things, I endeavoured in vain to analyse or define it.
The girl tried to read, or write or work; but all her attempts were useless. Like a naughty schoolboy, who has resolution enough to plan it truant expedition, but fails to conceal his excitement beforehand, so Marion was on the point a dozen times that morning, of betraying her strange intention. Had Cissy not been tired and sleepy when Marion peeped in to wish her good morning, she would infallibly have detected some unusual signs of excitement in her young cousin’s manner. A word from her and the whole would have been in her possession, and then — Marion’s life might have been more happily common-place, and this story of it would, in all probability, never have been written.
However it was not so to be. Twelve o’clock came at last, and with her little cavalier and Thérèse as escort, Marion sallied forth. The Rue des Lauriers she learnt from Thérèse, was about a quarter of a mile only from the street in which Mme. Poulin’s house was situated. Anxious that Charlie’s walk should not be curtailed on her account, and perhaps not sorry in her secret heart to delay, if only for half-an-hour, the task she had set herself, Marion proposed that they should in the first place take a stroll beyond the town. The day was much cooler than the preceding one. Indeed, it was cloudy enough to suggest the possibility of not far distant rain. Marion’s beautiful mountains were all but hidden in mist, and it was difficult to believe in the blue sky of yesterday. Still there were now and then breaks in the mist and clouds, showing that the loveliness was veiled only, not destroyed, Charlie’s remarks apropos of everything, from the fog-covered bills to the sisters of charity with their enormous flapping caps, were amusing enough. But Marion was too engrossed by her own thoughts to listen with her usual attention. As they reached the end of Rue des Laurier’s, a slight drizzle began to fall and Marion told Thérèse to hasten home with Charlie, as she herself had a call to make some little way up the street.
“Tell your mamma, Charlie,” she cried, as they separated, “if she wants me, that I shall be home in a very little while.”
No 5 was at the other extremity of the street, avenue almost it might have been called; for it was prettily planted with trees at each side, and the gardens of the houses, standing, many of them, detached or semi-detached in villa fashion, were bright and well kept. Those at the upper end were evidently of older date. No. 5 especially had a somewhat venerable air. It was built round three sides of a court laid out with turf and flower-beds, in the centre of which a little fountain was playing lazily, A damp, drizzling day, however, is hardly the occasion on which such a place is seen to advantage, and Marion decided mentally that she would have been sorry to exchange the little terrace on to which rooms opened, for the quaint old court-yard, however picturesque.
She rang bravely at what appeared to be the principal door, which to her surprise was opened by an old woman who informed her that the apartment of Miladi Severn was on the other side,au premier. The entrance opposite was open, so Marion ascended a flight of stairs and rang again at the first door that presented itself. This time she felt sure she was right, for a man-servant in English-looking attire appeared in answer to her summons. In reply to her enquiry as to whether she could see Lady Severn on a matter of business, he said that he would ask, and ushered her into a very pretty sitting room, opening, to her surprise, on to a pleasant garden. The mystery as to how she found herself again on the ground floor without having descended any steps, was explained, when she remembered that the Rue des Lauriers was built on a steep hill, at the upper extremity of which stood No. 5. How it came to be number five instead number one was a problem never satisfactorily solved.
Marion waited a few minutes and then the servant re-appeared, to say that Lady Severn would be ready to see the young lady almost immediately, if she would be so good as to give her name.
Here was a poser! Marion could not, yet bring herself to say “Miss Freer.” But a lucky compromise occurred to her.
“I have no card with me,” she said, “but Lady Severn will know who I am if you say I have come from Mrs. Archer’s.”
The name apparently was all required, for in another moment Lady Severn entered the room. She came in looking rather puzzled, but shook hands kindly enough with Marion, saying, as she did so, that she hoped. Mrs. Archer was not feeling ill or that anything was wrong with little Charlie.
“Oh dear no, thank you,” said Marion, “they are both very well. At least, my cou—Mrs. Archer is only a little tired still from the long journey. I should have remembered that you would be surprised at my calling so early, but I trust you excuse my having done so. The truth is I called on my own account, not on Mrs. Archer’s.”
“Indeed!” Lady Severn, looking still more puzzled, when a bright idea suddenly striking her, she exclaimed “oh, perhaps you have some friend, Miss Freer, who you think might suit me as governess for my little girls. A sister possibly,” she continued, for the expression of the girl’s face did not seem to contradict her assumption.
Profiting by Cissy’s dire experience of the day before, Marion took care to speak in a natural, regular tone, which she was pleased to find her companion heard perfectly. Probably her voice was rounder and fuller than Mrs. Archer’s, but however this may have been, the result was eminently satisfactory, and very possibly, still further prepossessed Lady Severn in her favour.
“Not exactly that,” she replied, “I have no sister. But what I have to propose is myself, as governess to your grand-daughters.”
“Yourself, my dear Miss Freer,” exclaimed lady Severn in amazement, “but how can that be? Are you not engaged already to Mrs. Archer? I supposed that you had accompanied her from England. And, excuse me, Miss Freer, but I should think on no account of interfering with any arrangements Mrs. Archer may be depending upon, even though you may not consider yourself exactly bound to her. You must not mind my speaking plainly, Miss Freer. Young people, and you look very young, are not always as considerate in these matters as they should be.”
In spite of herself, Marion felt a little indignant. This was the first slight taste of the disagreeables and annoyances (“insults,” a hotter-tempered and less calm-judging girl would have called them) to which, by the strange and almost unprecedented steps she had taken, she had exposed herself. What is commonly called “a dependent position,”—though whose are theindependent positions I have not yet, in the course of is long life, been able to discover,—has, I suppose, peculiar trials of its own. Yet I am anxious in the present case not to be misunderstood as exaggerating or laying undue stress upon those attendant upon governess life. Much harm has been dome already in this way, and were I desirous of entering at all upon the subject, I would much prefer to draw attention to the bright side of the picture; side which, I am happy to say, my own personal experience call vouch for us existing. It is afalseposition which is to be dreaded, and which is, in the evil sense of the word, a dependent one.
Marion seldom, if ever, blushed. But now, when this speech of Lady Severn’s roused her indignation, she felt the strange tingling sensation through all her veins, which agitation of any kind produced upon her, calm and self-possessed as she appeared. She replied quietly:
“If I were capable of behaving in any dishonourable way to Mrs. Archer, I should not think myself fit to be entrusted with the care of your grand-daughters, Lady Severn. But I assure you there is no such objection to my proposal. I only came from England with Mrs. Archer as a friend. We are indeed very old friends. I should not think of leaving her for more than a part of the day. What I was going to propose was that I should be the little girls’ daily governess—morning governess, I should say, for I should require to spend all my afternoons with Mrs. Archer.”
“Oh, I see,” replied Lady Severn. “You must pardon my not having quite understood the state of the case at first. What I wished, however, was to meet with a residential governess for the young ladies, my grand-daughters.”
Marion winced again, but pulled herself up in a moment. “Certainly,” thought she, “it must sound rather free and easy my speaking these children, whom I have never seen, as the little girls.” So she answered demurely,
“I understood that a residential governess was what you wished for the young ladies, but my idea was that in the meantime, while you have not succeeded in meeting with one, I might at least be able to employ the morning hours profitably. I think any rate I could kelp them from forgetting what knowledge they have already acquired.”
“Certainly, certainly,” replied Lady Severn graciously. “I have no doubt you could do far more than that, and I really think your idea, a very good one. I should, however, like to consult with my niece, Miss Vyse, before deciding anything. She takes a great interest in her little cousins, and is herself most highly accomplished. And as to terms, Miss Freer. Have you thought what you would wish to have as compensation for your morning hours?”
Wince number three! “How silly I am!” thought Marion, and answered abruptly:
“Thirty pounds; I mean,” she added hastily “if I were staying at Altes six months, and I taught the lit—the young ladies all that time would fifteen pounds a quarter be too much?”
Something in the child-like wistfulness of the sweet face appealing to her, so timidly and yet so anxiously, touched a chord in the not unkindly, though somewhat self-absorbed nature of the eider lady, and she exclaimed impulsively,
“Fifteen pounds a quarter too much, my dear? No, certainly not. I should much prefer making it twenty. But, my dear, you are so very young. Are you sure this is a wise step for your own sake? Would not your friends prefer your making a real holiday of this little time abroad with Mrs. Archer?”
“My friends are not likely to interfere,” said the girl, adding sadly, “I have no mother.”
How much those few words left to be inferred! They came very close home to Lady Severn’s heart. “No mother!” A sad little picture, as far as possible removed from the truth, but none the less touching on that account, rose before her mind’s eye of this motherless girl’s probable home. But though somewhat curious to hear more, she made no enquiry, which for aught she knew, might have touched some tender spot. She only said very gently:
“Poor child,” and then went on more briskly, “Well then so far there appears no difficulty. The sum I named would quite satisfy you, Miss Freer? Twenty pounds each quarter.”
“Twenty,” repeated Marion; “that would be forty pounds in six months. Oh no, thank you. I would much rather have only fifteen. Truly I don’t want more,” she added earnestly.
“But my dear, do you know you will never get on in the world if you are so very—the reverse of grasping?” remonstrated the old lady, half laughing at this very eccentric young governess; “your friends, even if they do not interfere with you in general, would certainly disapprove of your not taking as high a salary as is offered you, and which indeed from what I see of you, I feel sure you would do your best to deserve. Besides I should look to you for a good deal. My grand-daughters” (they were no longer the young ladies) “have several masters, for music, drawing, German, and so on. But I should wish you to superintend their preparations for their masters, as much at least as you found time for, besides yourself directing their English studies. You would feel able to undertake all this I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” said Marion. “I think I could do all that would be required by girls of their ages. I can play pretty well, I believe,” she said, with a pretty little air of half-deprecating any appearance of self-conceit—“at least I was well taught. I don’t draw much, but I could help them to prepare for their master, and I have studied German a good deal and Italian a little.”
“Do you sing too?” asked Lady Severn. “You should do so, and well, to judge by your voice in speaking which is peculiarly clear. Indeed, it is very seldom I can hear anyone as easily as you. I should like the children to sing a little now and then. Not much, of course. Not so as to strain their voices while they are so young, but I should like them to learn a little. Some of the simpler parts of glees, for instance. Their uncle, Sir Ralph Severn, is very fond of music, and has a remarkably fine voice. We often have little concerts among ourselves in the evenings, and it would be nice for Charlotte and Sybil to be able to join in them.”
“I do sing,” said Marion. “Not very much, though. But I could teach them in the simple way you wish, I am sure.”
“Then this terrible money appears the only obstacle?” said Lady Severn, smiling; “but, my dear, you must really think what your friends would say.”
“I assure you,” replied Marion, “l am quite free to judge for myself. Indeed, when I came to Altes I had no intention of making any money in this way. It was only hearing of your difficulty in meeting with a governess; it struck me I might do temporarily, for I was very anxious to make thirty pounds while here. Not more, truly. My friends could not object, for it was—” she went on hesitatingly, feeling she was getting on unsafe ground, “it was for one of them, the nearest of them, that I so much wanted the money at present.”
“Very well, then,” said Lady Severn, “very well. As you wish it, we will leave it so at present:” adding to herself, “though you shall be no loser by it in the end, poor child,” And then aloud, “If you will call here to-morrow at the same time, I will give you my decision, and introduce your pupils to you. As to references, there need be no delay,” (fortunate that Lady Severn was thus easily satisfied, for references hail never entered poor Marion’s head) “for your being a friend of Mrs. Archer’s, is quite enough. And at your age, you cannot have had much former experience of teaching.”
“No,” replied Marion, “I never taught anyone regularly before.”
“I thought so, but I do not regret it. The children will probably be all the happier with you, than if you had been older and more experienced. And, for so short a time, it will be no disadvantage.”
So, with a cordial good morning from Lady Severn, and a kindly message or remembrance to Mrs. Archer, Marion took her departure. With a curious mixture of feelings in her heart, she slowly descended the flight of stairs to the courtyard, so wholly absorbed in her own cogitations, that she all but ran against a gentleman just entering the doorway, whose attention on his side was engrossed by the endeavouring to shut a rather obstreperous umbrella. A hasty “Pardon,” and he passed her, quickly running up the stair. She noticed only that he was slight and dark, and that he had on a very wet “Macintosh;” in those days, when but recently invented, not the pleasantest of attire, unless one had a special predilection for the odour of tar and melted India-rubber combined. “How can anyone wear those horrible coats?” said Marion to herself. But very speedily she was forced to confess that she would not be sorry were she to find herself magically enveloped in such a garment; for it was pouring, literally pouring, with rain. No longer drizzle, but good, honest, most unmistakable rain; and, of course, with her head full of blue sky and brilliant sunshine, as the normal condition of weather at Altes, she had brought no umbrella. There she stood, rather despondently staring at the fountain, which seemed to her in a much brisker mood than when she had observed it on entering. As far as she herself was concerned, Marion really was by no means afraid of a wetting, but then she knew the sight of her with drenched garments would seriously annoy Cissy, whom at this present time she was most especially anxious to conciliate. She thought of turning back and borrowing au umbrella from Lady Severn, but she felt rather averse to doing so, and had just made up her mind to brave it when a voice behind her made her start.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” it said, “il parait que vous n’avez pas de parapluie, et il pleut à verse. Permettez moi de vous ofrir le mien.”
The French was perfectly correct, the accent irreproachable, but yet a certain something, an undefinable instinct, caused Marion to hesitate in her reply, as she turned towards the speaker. She stopped in the “je vous remercie” she had all but uttered, and for it substituted a hearty “thank you,” as her glance fell on the gentleman who had a few minutes before passed her on his way in.
“Thank you,” she repeated, “you are very kind indeed.”
“Ah,” he said, with, she fancied, a slight expression of amusement on his quiet, grave face, “my accent still betrays me, I see. But I am not sorry it is so in the present ease, as nothing is more ridiculous than forsaking one’s native tongue unnecessarily. I think,” he added, “my umbrella is a good-sized one, and will protect you pretty well, opening it he spoke. This was more easily managed than the shutting had been, and, with repeated thanks, Marion had turned to go, when suddenly recollecting that she was in ignorance of the name and address of the owner of the umbrella, she stopped and asked if she should return it to number five.
“Yes, if you please,” he replied, “I live here. You will see my name on the handle. But do not trouble about sending it back at once. Any time in the next few days will do. I believe I have another somewhere. And, indeed, I much prefer being without one. These charming coats are much better things,” he added, regarding his attire with supreme satisfaction.
“Charming they may be to the wearer, but assuredly not becoming, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is.” said Marion to herself, as she crossed the courtyard under the shelter of the friendly umbrella. “I do think it was very kind of him, though, to lend me this, so I should not laugh at his queer appearance in that hideous coat, By-the-bye, I wonder what his name is.” By this time she was in the street, and stopped for a moment to decipher the letters on the handle: “R. M. Severn.”
“How funny!” thought she, “really my introductions to this family are rather peculiar. How amused Cissy will be!”
But, with the thought of Cissy, came hack rather uneasy sensations. Marion’s satisfaction at the success of her visit to Lady Severn, had for the moment caused her to forget the still more awful business before her: the confessing all to Cissy, and extorting from her a promise of co-operation, without which her scheme must infallibly fail. The part of the whole which she least liked to think of, was the being known under a false name. And yet this very mistake of Lady Severn’s had been one of the strongest inducements to her to offer herself as governess to these children; for, as MissVere, she felt that she could not have ventured on so bold and unusual a proceeding. Now, however, that the Rubicon was passed, it appeared to her that the turning back would entail greater annoyances and mortification on both herself and her cousin, than they could possibly be exposed to by perseverance in her intention. This she hoped to be able to demonstrate to Cissy, and thus to induce her to refrain from opposition. But the more she thought of it, the more she dreaded the coming interview. No use, however, in delaying it. She had hardly made up her mind as to how she should enter upon the awful disclosure, when she found herself at their own door, which was standing open, Cissy anxiously looking out for her.
“Oh, Marion,” she exclaimed, “how very naughty you are to stay out it the rain! I have been in such a fuss about you.”
“Oh, Cissy,” replied the delinquent, “how very naughtyyouare, to stand at the door catching cold!”
“Don’t be impertinent, Miss, but come in and take off your wet things, and then tell me what you have been about. Oh, I see, you had an umbrella. What a great, big one! Is that your own one?”
“No I got the loan of it,” said Marion hastily closing the conspicuous umbrella before Cissy had time to observe it more particularly. “Go into the drawing-room, Cissy, and I’ll be with you in five minutes, and tell you all my adventures in the rain.”
The five minutes had hardy elapsed when Marion rejoined her cousin. The damp day had rendered a tiny fire acceptable. Cissy was seated near it, and Marion knelt down on the rug before her, looking up into her face with a curious, half-anxious expression on her own.
“What is the matter, May? Have you really any adventures to tell me?” asked Mrs. Archer.
“Yes,” replied the girl quietly, “at least I have a confession to make to you. What do you think I have done, Cissy?”
“What do I think you have done? How can I think till I know? Don’t frighten me, May: tell me quickly what you mean.”
“Well, then, I will tell you quickly, Cissy. What I have done is this: I have engaged myself as daily governess to Lady Severn’s grand-daughters, for three months certainly, and, if possible, for six.”
“Marion,” said Cissy excitedly, “you are joking. You don’t mean that you have really done such a mad, unheard-of thing. You, Marion Vere, a daily governess! You Uncle Vere’s daughter! No, nonsense, you can’t be in earnest.”
“Yes, Cissy, I am, thoroughly and entirely in earnest. It came into my mind yesterday, when Lady Severn mistook me for Charlie’s governess. I saw before me a simple, easy way of making the money I required to pay back poor Harry’s debt, and I determined to carry out my scheme without telling you of it till it was done.” And then she gave her cousin a full account of her interview with Lady Severn, and the arrangements proposed; and without giving Cissy time to make any remarks, or to urge any objections, she went on to show her how easily and naturally the thing might be managed without anyone’s ever being in their secret. How Lady Severn’s mistaking her name, and the fact of her being a perfect stranger in Altes, would effectually prevent her identity with the daughter of the well-known Mr. Vere ever being suspected.
“And after all,” she continued, “it is such a very thrilling thing. I shall only be away for a few hours in the morning, and often indeed shall be home almost before you are dressed. The work itself, such as it is, will be exceedingly good for me in every way. I am really looking forward to it with the greatest pleasure.”
“It is not that part of it I am thinking of so much,” said Cissy gravely, “it is the disadvantage it may be to you in a hundred indirect ways, which you are too childish to think of. Even supposing, as may be the case, that the truth is never suspected, there is something very anomalous and undesirable about the whole affair. Especially the being known under a name that is not yours. Fancy, in after life, if it came out in the queer way that things do, that you had spent six mouths abroad under an assumed name! You must own, Marion, that it is enough to startle me to think of what you may be exposing yourself to; and to think it is all for the sake of that wretched money! As if I would not twenty times rather have lent you six times as much, whether you ever repaid it or not.”
“But Cissy, you couldn’t, and that settles the matter. You couldn’t have lent it, and I certainly wouldn’t have borrowed it without repaying it properly. The choice lay between my doing what I have done, or applying to Papa; and rather than go to him for it, I really think I would be a governess all my life. Besides,” she added, “seeing that so much is done, can it be undone? It seems to me the attempting to undo it, would entail all manner of disagreeable things; explanations of private matters to Lady Severn, a perfect stranger to me, and personally hardly better known to you. One thing I am quite sure of, and that is, that she would not forgive the part I have acted in the matter. Indeed I myself should feel dreadfully small! As far as my chances of enjoying my visit to Altes are concerned, which you, dear Cissy, think so much of, I assure you I am more likely to do so, as Miss Freer, Lady Severn’s daily governess, than as Marion Vere. I couldn’t get over the mortification, at having appeared so cunning. If I really earn the money, I shall feel that I am working for Harry, and somehow that prevents my feeling as if I were deceitful or scheming.”
And the more they talked it over, the more awkward appeared the complication. Or at least, Marion talked Cissy into thinking there was nothing for it but to go on with the plan.
“For indeed,” said Marion, by way of triumphantly summing up her argument, “I am under promise to Lady Severn to undertake the post, if she thinks me suitable. And I couldn’t go back from a promise.”
So, tired of discussion and rather bewildered by Marion’s eloquence, poor Cissy gave in, sorely against her will.
“It really will be great fun, putting every thing else aside,” said Marion. “Remember, Cissy, you must never call me ‘my cousin,’ or ‘Miss Vere.’ Fortunately we have no English servants with us, and Charlie always calls me May. Then all my letters, which won’t be many, come under cover to you. It will all answer beautifully.”
”I am sorry I can’t join you in seeing anything beautiful about the whole affair from beginning to end,” said Cissy,” but having given in, I must not be cross about it. I know you did it from the best of motives, but all the same it was fearfully rash. I believe it’s leaving off raining,” she added, as a sudden gleam of sunshine entered the room, “that reminds me, May, where did you borrow that great umbrella? Did Lady Severn lend it you?”
“No,” replied Marion, and then, not sorry to distract her cousin’s thoughts, she related her little adventure.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Archer, “that must certainly have been Sir Ralph. But don’t feel flattered by his civility, Marion. At this moment I have no doubt he has not the slightest idea if the person he lent it to was an ugly old woman or a pretty young girl. Very probably he would have lent it all the more heartily had you been the former.”
“Very likely,” said Marion, laughing, “outward appearance evidently does not trouble him much.”
And then, as it had really cleared up wonderfully, they set of for a walk.
“Remember, Cissy,” said Marion, “that Dr. Bailey is coming this afternoon.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Archer, “I had not forgotten it. But Marion, if I give in to this mad scheme of yours, you must instruct me what I am to do. Must I introduce you on all occasions in this new character of yours?”
“There will very seldom be any necessity for introducing me at all. You can speak of me and to me as you always do, which will seem quite natural. I told Lady Severn we were very old friends, and that I had just come abroad with you for the pleasure of the visit.”
“Very well,” said Cissy, “you shall hear me introduce you to Dr. Bailey, as a deserving young person whom I have a very good opinion of.”
But this introduction proved to be unnecessary. Dr. Bailey had hardly sat down before he remarked to Mrs. Archer, how pleased he was to hear that her young friend had undertaken, temporarily, the charge of the studies of the little Misses Severn. “An excellent arrangement,” he pronounced it, “your new pupils, Miss Freer,” (he had heard the name even!) “are charming children. The younger one especially is a great friend of mine. She has been far from strong, poor child, but is now much better. I should not, however, advise her being pressed forward in her lessons. Time enough for that, time enough.” And so he chattered on in a kindly, uninteresting way; told Mrs. Archer the names of the principal families, English, French, Russians, and Germans, who intended this year wintering at Altes; advised her by all means occasionally to dine at the table d’hôte of the “Lion d’Or,” as the variety would be good for her and the cooking excellent; and then took his leave with the promise of a speedy visit from the ladies of his household.
“A feast was also provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down; and what the conversation wanted in wit was made up in laughter.”
VICAR OFWAKEFIELD.