I slackenedmy pace when I got to the top of the first flight of stairs, and walked softly through the corridor where the nursery was, for fear of waking Mona; and, as I went slowly along the passage leading to the turret stairs, I began to think of what Mr. Rayner had called me, and wondered what he meant by saying I had no soul.
“It wasn’t because I am not sorry for him, for he must have seen that I am,” thought I. “I suppose I don’t show my sympathy in the right way; but I could not very well say more about it without being disrespectful. And I must not forget that Mr. Rayner is not only much older than I, but also my employer.”
And so I crept up the turret stairs with my candle, and opened the door of my room.
It was quite a calm night, and I walked in very slowly, yet, as I entered, my candle went out suddenly, as if blown by a gust of wind; and I fancied I heard a slight sound as of a human breath blowing it. I stepped forward quickly, a little startled, and tried to peer into the darkness. But it was impossible to see, for my fire had gone out, the blinds were down and the curtains drawn, and not a ray of moonlight could get in. I stood for a few moments, still frightened, in the middle of the room, and then cautiously made my way in the direction of the mantelpiece, where I kept my match-box. I made a slight noise as I passed my fingers over the different articles there, and, just at the moment that I knocked over a china ornament which fell into the fireplace, above the noise it made as it broke to pieces in the grate I heard a sound behind the screen which stood between the bed and the door, and, turning quickly, I was in time to see a figure come swiftly round it and disappear through the still open door. I could distinguish nothing; nevertheless, suppressing my inclination to scream, I rushed to the door and caught in the air at the figure I could no longer see; but I felt nothing.
Then I crept back into my room, shaking from head to foot, and hardly daring to move in this direction or that, for fear of encountering another dim figure. I closed the door behind me, sick with fear lest I should be shutting myself in with more unwelcome visitors; and, starting at the slight creaking that a board made here and there under my own feet, I again searched the mantelpiece for the match-box. My hands trembled so that it was a long time before I could be sure that it was not there; and then I turned and felt my way to the table; and, after moving most of the things on it, I at last satisfied myself that it was not there either. Then I groped my way to one of the windows—I had not thought of that before—drew the curtains and pulled up the blind. The moon gave only a fitful light, being obscured every other minute by thin driving clouds, and it only served to make shadows in the room which were more fearful to me, in my nervous state, than darkness itself. I had one more search for the matches, but could not find them even now.
It was out of the question to undress by such weird moonlight, fancying dim shapes in every corner and noises behind me whichever way I turned; so I determined to conquer my fears and go downstairs with my candle and get a light below. There were sure to be some matches in the kitchen, and I reflected that enough moonlight would come in over or through the shutters to let me see my way without making a noise.
So I groped my way down the back-staircase, which I had never used before, got safely to the bottom, turned to my left, and felt for a door. The first opened into a big black cupboard where I felt brooms, which I shut again quickly; the second was locked, but the key was in the door, and I softly turned it. This was indeed the kitchen; but the moment I found this out, and gave a sigh of relief, I heard on the floor a sound which I knew too well to be the rush of myriads of blackbeetles; and, as I would rather have faced a dozen dim human figures than have felt under my foot the “scrunch” of one blackbeetle, I had to shut that door too as quickly as I had shut the other.
The only thing left for me was to feel my way back to the staircase, go down the passage at the other side of it, which led past Mr. Rayner’s study, and so into the hall, where I knew the exact position of the match-box which stood on the hall table.
My only fear now was that I might meet Mr. Rayner, in the event of his not having left the house yet to go to his room. If I met him, I should have to account for my presence wandering about the house at this time of night, and I felt that I was still too much discomposed by the fright I had received for his sharp eyes not to notice my pallor and my quaking hands; and then I should have to tell him what I had seen, and there would be a search and an explanation, and I should get some one into trouble. For my fears had not gone beyond thinking that it was Sarah or one of the other servants who—perhaps wishing to give me a fright, perhaps only all but caught in the untimely enjoyment of one of my easy-chairs—anxious to escape detection, had blown out my candle, hoping to slip out in the dark unheard.
However, I got back safely to the bottom of the staircase without seeing or hearing anything, and I was creeping along the passage when I caught the first faint sound of voices. I stopped, then went on again softly, while the sounds became plainer, and I found that they proceeded from Mr. Rayner’s study, the door of which I had to pass. I discovered by the thin thread of light it let out upon the passage that this door was ajar, at the same moment that I recognized Sarah’s voice. She was speaking in a low sullen tone, and, as I drew nearer, I was arrested half against my will by words which seemed to apply to myself—“Against the stupid baby-face of a chit hardly out of the nursery herself. Governess indeed!”
“Is that all you have to say?” said Mr. Rayner very low, but in his coldest, most cutting tone.
“That’s—that’s all I have to say,” said Sarah, with a choking sound in her voice.
The woman was evidently unhappy; I almost pitied her.
“Then the matter is easily settled. You can go.”
“I can go! I go! Do you know what you’re saying? Do you think you could replace me as easily as you can such as her?” said she, forgetting all respect due to her master, as her voice, still low, trembled with rage.
“That is my affair. You wished me to choose between the services of an underpaid governess and those of an overpaid servant. I have chosen.”
“Overpaid! My services overpaid! My services can’t be overpaid!” she hissed out.
“As long as you joined discretion to your other undoubted good qualities, I paid you according to that estimate. Now that you let yourself be swayed beyond all bounds of prudence by trifling feelings of jealousy and spite, like a foolish girl, your value runs down to that level. You are no longer a girl, Sarah, and your position is changed in many ways since then, in most for the better. If you cannot accept the changes quietly, you had better go.”
“And you would let me go—for a new-comer?” said the woman passionately.
“I cannot think of sending away any member of my household for the caprice of any other member of it, however valuable a servant she may have been—”
“May have been—may have been! My work is not over yet, and, if I don’t work for you, I’ll work against you,” she broke out in a fury. “I’ll—”
“Not so fast, not so fast,” said he slowly. “You will find that up-hill work when you have to deal with me, Sarah Gooch.”
He spoke in the hard tone I had heard him use once or twice before—a tone which always made me shudder. Then his voice changed suddenly to a genial, almost caressing tone.
“Now do you think you will be able to get on without me as well as I can without you?”
There was a pause. Then I heard Sarah burst into sobs and low passionate cries for pity, for forgiveness.
“Why are you so hard? How can you have the heart to talk like that about my services, as if I was too old for anything but money-bargains? That chit, that Christie girl, that you put before me, will never serve you like I’ve done.”
“The services of a governess are not the same as those of a servant. That is enough about Miss Christie, Sarah.”
“Enough and welcome about the little flirt—a creature that keeps diamonds from one man in her desk, and wears round her neck a letter from another which she kisses on the sly! Oh, I’ve seen her, the little—”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Rayner sharply. “And what if she does? It is no business of mine.”
I heard him rise hastily from his chair and walk across the room; and I fled past like a hare. Trembling and panting, I found my way to the hall table, took out of the box there half a dozen matches, and crept guiltily, miserably upstairs. I had listened, as if chained to the spot, to their talk, and it was only now that I had fled for fear of discovery that I reflected on what a dishonorable thing I had done.
If he had come to the door, thrown it open, and seen me cowering with parted lips against the wall within a few feet of it, how Sarah would have triumphed in the justice of her hatred of a girl who could be guilty of such meanness! And how Mr. Rayner’s own opinion of me would have sunk! He would have seen how wrong he was in considering the eavesdropping governess the superior of the devoted servant.
I cried with shame and remorse as I stumbled up the turret stairs, shut myself in my room, and lighted my candle. I did not feel a bit frightened now; I forgot even to turn the key in the lock; this last adventure had swept away all remembrance of the previous one. When at last I began to think collectedly of what I had heard, I felt no longer any doubt, from what Sarah had said about the nature and extent of her services, that she was in reality the responsible guardian of Mrs. Rayner, and that, when she spoke of working against her master if he sent her away, she meant to publish far and wide what he had so long and so carefully kept secret—the fact that he had a wife tottering on the verge of insanity. I did not wonder now so much as I had before at the depth of her jealousy of me. I saw how strong the woman’s passions were and how deep was her devotion to her master, and I began to understand that it was hard for her to see so many little acts of consideration showered on a new-comer which she, although her service had been so much longer and more painful, could not from her position expect. And I got up from the chair I had sat down on, trying to forgive her, yet hoping she would go away all the same.
As I rose, I caught sight of my desk, which I suddenly saw had been moved. I might have done that myself in my search for the matches; but it flashed through my mind that Sarah had told Mr. Rayner that I kept diamonds in my desk. But it was locked, and the keys were always in my pocket. However, I opened it and looked into the top compartment, where I kept Mr. Rayner’s present. There it was in its case, looking just as usual. Then I opened the lower compartment, with the intention of reading through just once more, before I went to bed, those two notes that I had had from Mr. Reade, one on that day and one on the day before, about the church-work. And the last one, the one that had come with the cigar-box on that day, was not there! A suspicion flashed through my mind which made my breath come fast—Sarah had taken it!
It was Sarah then whom I had surprised in my room that evening! She had managed by some means to open my desk, seen the pendant, and, having made a grievance against me of the fact that I received letters from a gentleman, had taken the letter out and probably shown it to Mr. Rayner on some pretence of having “picked it up,” to prove to him by the direction in a handwriting which he knew that I was carrying on a clandestine correspondence with Mr. Laurence Reade. And I remembered that she had already taken the first note to Mr. Rayner. Well, if she had read both the notes—for they were lying together in my desk—she must have seen that they were of a very innocent kind; but how was Mr. Rayner, who had not read them, to know this? I was annoyed and disgusted beyond measure; I could have forgiven her anything, even her meanness in playing spy while I looked at the note which I wore round my neck, but stealing my precious letter. I shed some more tears at the loss of it, wondering whether she would ever take the trouble to restore it, polluted as it would be by having been read by her unkind eyes.
Then I went to bed, very tired and very unhappy; and at last I fell asleep, with my hands clasping the note that Sarah could not get at, which I wore in the case round my neck.
Perhaps the excitement and agitation of the evening had caused my sleep to be lighter than usual. At any rate, I was awakened by a very slight noise indeed, so slight that I thought it must have been the work of my nervous fancy; and my sleepy eyes were closing again, when I suddenly became conscious that there was a light in the room not that of the rising sun.
Fully awake now, and cold all over with this new fright, I saw by the flickering on the ceiling that the light must come from a candle behind the screen; I saw that it was being carried forward into the room, and then I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. My fingers were still clinging to the little case; but they were wet and clammy with horror. Was it Sarah? What was she going to do now? To put back my letter? I did not dare to look.
I lay there listening so intently that I could hear, or fancy I heard, each soft step taken by the intruder. Then they stopped; and from the effect of the flickering light through my closed eyelids I guessed that the candle was being raised to throw its light on my face. Still I had self-command enough to lie quite still and to imitate the long-drawn breathing of a sleeping person. But then my heart seemed to stand still, for I felt the light coming nearer, and I heard the faint sound of a moving figure growing plainer, until the light was flashed within a foot of my face. I could not have moved then. I was half paralyzed. Then I noticed a faint sickly smell that I did not know, and a hand was laid very softly upon the bed-clothes.
Still I did not move. I had formed a sort of plan in those deadly two minutes, which seemed like two hours, when the light was coming nearer and nearer to my face. The hand crept softly up, and slipped under the bed-clothes close to my chin, till it touched my fingers clutching the little leathern case. It tried to disengage them; but my clasp of my treasure was like grim death. Then the hand was softly withdrawn. I heard the drawing of a cork, I smelt the faint smell more strongly, and a handkerchief wet with some sickening, suffocating stuff was thrown lightly over my face.
Then I started up with a shriek as loud and piercing as my lungs could give, tore the handkerchief from my face, and confronted Sarah, who drew back, her dark face livid with anger, but without uttering a sound. In her hand she held a little bottle. I tried with a spring to dash it from her grasp; but she was too quick for me, and, with a step back against the screen, she held it out of my reach. Then the screen fell down with a loud crash. My attention was distracted from the woman to it for one moment, and in that moment she made another spring at my neck. But then there was a sound outside which had as many terrors for her as her own hard voice had for me. It was Mr. Rayner, calling sharply and sternly—
“Sarah, come out here!”
She started; then her face grew sullen and defiant, and she stood like a rock before me. Again Mr. Rayner called.
“Sarah, do you hear me? Come here!”
And, as if a spell had been cast upon her which it was vain for her to fight against, she went slowly out of the room, and I was left alone.
I sprang from the bed, locked the door, and fell down against it in the dark and cold in a passion of hysterical sobs that I could not restrain. Then they died away, and I felt my limbs grow numb and stiff; but I had not power to move, and I thought I must be dying.
Then I heard a fall at the bottom of the stairs and a woman’s cry, and immediately after a voice outside roused me.
“Miss Christie!”
It was Mr. Rayner calling softly through the door. I did not answer or move.
“Miss Christie, my dear child, are you there? Are you conscious? Are you ill?”
And I heard the handle of the door turn; but it was locked. I raised my head from the ground, and said, in a weak quavering voice—
“I am not ill, thank you, and I am quite conscious.”
“But your voice is weak. Are you hurt? Did that woman hurt you?” he asked anxiously.
“No, no; I am only frightened; I am not hurt. I will tell you all about it to-morrow, Mr. Rayner. I can’t talk now.”
“But I cannot go away and sleep, my child, till I am quite satisfied that you are all right. Put on your dressing gown, and come out and let me see you and be sure.”
But I felt that I could not leave my room again that night.
“I am really quite well, only I cannot come out to-night, Mr. Rayner. I am too much shaken with the fright; I am indeed.”
“I will fetch you some brandy-and-water, and put it here for you, outside the door, then.”
“No, please don’t; I should not dare to take it in. I feel that, if I opened the door, she might get in. If I saw her again to-night, it would kill me!” I sobbed. “Oh, please keep her away!”
I was getting hysterical again.
“She shall not come near you, child; I swear it! You are quite safe. I will lock the door at the bottom of these stairs, and come and let you out myself in the morning,” he said, in a low voice.
The thought of being locked in did not reassure me much; but I thanked him and wished him good-night, with a last piteous appeal to him to keep Sarah away. Then I rose from the floor, stumbled to the table, struck a match and lighted my candle, and put it by my bedside. For the first time I was afraid of the dark. And I lay awake listening, and starting at the tiny cracks the wood made, until at last, worn out, I fell asleep.
The next morning I heard Mr. Rayner unlock the door at the foot of the staircase when I had just opened mine, ready to go down. He waited for me, looking up anxiously, and seemed shocked at my appearance. I had noticed myself, as I was dressing, how white and haggard I looked, and how dull and heavy my eyes were, with black rings round them.
“You ought not to have got up at all. You should have stayed in bed and had your breakfast brought up to you.”
I shuddered; I had had enough of bedside visits for a long time, and the thought of being a semi-invalid waited on by Sarah was too much for my self-command.
“Take my arm, child; you can scarcely walk. Come to breakfast; a cup of hot coffee will do you good. And, after that, you shall come into the study, and we will talk. Don’t say anything about it at breakfast; it might frighten my wife.”
I took his arm, for I really was not quite steady on my feet; and he led me into the dining-room, and put me into an arm-chair instead of the one I usually occupied at prayers. Then Haidee, who had seen at once that there was a change in me, and given me a double kiss as consolation, rang the bell to summon the servants to prayers. I held the arms of my chair, and kept my eyes on the ground and my lips tightly closed that I might give no sign when I saw Sarah’s face again; but, when they came in, I knew without looking up that she was not there. And Jane waited at table. Had Sarah gone already? My heart leapt at the thought. At breakfast Mr. Rayner said—
“I am going to propose a holiday for to-day. Both mistress and pupil are looking very seedy, and I think a day’s rest from lessons will do both good. My motives are not wholly unselfish, I am sorry to say, for I have the penny-bank accounts to do, and I want you to help me with them, Miss Christie, if you will be so kind as to spare me a couple of hours. I won’t keep you longer.”
I assented rather nervously. I should have a scene to go through with Mr. Rayner, and an announcement to make which would entail a lot of argument and some persuasion and resistance, which I scarcely felt equal to, shaken as I was.
“At what time will you want me, Mr. Rayner?”
“How soon after breakfast can you come?”
“May I have an hour first to finish some work I have to do? It doesn’t matter, if you would rather—”
“In an hour’s time I shall expect you in the study, then.”
After breakfast, I went upstairs, where I found Jane doing my room. I caught her looking at me shyly, as if I had gone up in interest in her eyes. She must have heard something of the night’s adventure—I wanted to know what. She prepared to leave the room when I entered.
“Never mind, Jane; don’t go. You have nearly finished, I see. So you are doing the rooms this morning?”
“Yes, miss; I’ve got to get into the way of it, miss.”
She gave a gasp, as if to continue, but stopped.
“Well?” said I, smiling, to encourage her to talk.
“You know Sarah’s going away, miss.”
“Is she?” said I, unable to keep my face from brightening at the welcome words.
“Yes, miss. Oh, there has been a rumpus, and no mistake! You just should have heard her go on! But she’s going, and I’m not sorry, for one.”
“What is she going away for?” said I.
“Don’t you know, miss?”
She spoke shyly, but was evidently prepared to disbelieve me if I said “No.”
“I can guess; but what reason did she give you?”
“Oh, it’s all along of you, miss! She burst in to cook and me this morning, and said as she wasn’t going to stay in a house where there was such goings on. That was what she said, miss.” And she paused, her shyness again getting the better of her anxiety to pour out all she had heard.
“Go on, go on. You know I asked you to tell me,” said I gently.
“Well, miss, she said all kind o’ things about you; but we didn’t take much notice o’ them, cook and me; we’re used to old Sally. But then she said—she said—”
“Yes—well?”
“She said as how she went up to your room, hearing a noise, and then—as how—”
“Go on.”
“Then as how—Mr. Rayner came up and—and wasn’t best pleased to find her there—”
“Yes—well?”
But Jane would not go on, but got very red, and fidgeted about with the cloth she was holding. And suddenly, as I watched the girl in wonder, the whole awful truth flashed upon me of the complexion that Sarah had given to the story. I did not speak for a minute—I only felt a strange little fluttering pain that seemed to be round my heart—and then I said very quietly—
“I suppose she didn’t tell you that she tried to steal something I wear round my neck; that, when she found she couldn’t, she threw a handkerchief steeped in some drug over my face to make me unconscious, that she might get at it more easily; that it was my screams that brought Mr. Rayner upstairs, and that he stood outside and called her till she came to him. Here, I’ll show you the very handkerchief.”
I had tucked it down in the corner of one of the drawers. It still smelt faintly of the stuff it had been soaked in. Little Jane’s face brightened with wonder and downright honest pleasure.
“I’m that glad, miss, I could dance,” said she. “She said Mr. Rayner let her fall downstairs in the dark, and went on up without taking no notice—and she really is a good deal bruised, and serve her right. But there never is no believing Sarah. And for her to talk about goings on! Oh, my, we did laugh, cook and me!” And Jane chattered on about Sarah and her many unpleasant attributes till she had finished her work, and left the room with a bright grin of friendship.
So Sarah, after doing me another wrong worse than all the rest in circulating lies to injure my reputation, was going. But she would probably not go at once, and I felt that I could not sleep another night in the same house with her. So I turned out all my things and packed my boxes, as I had determined to do while I lay awake during the past night. I looked into my desk, and found that my note had been replaced! I would announce to Mr. Rayner my determination to go when I went to the study, and ask permission to leave that very afternoon. I was sorry to leave the Alders, Mr. Rayner, and sweet little Haidee; and there was another reason which made the thought of leaving Geldham harder still to bear. But the terrors of the night I had passed through had had an effect upon me strong enough to outweigh every other consideration; even now, by daylight, I could scarcely look round my own familiar little room without a feeling of loathing of the scene of my horrible adventure.
There was another reason for my hasty flight. Sarah was a very valuable servant, as she had insisted, and as Mr. Rayner himself had admitted. Now I was the only obstacle to her remaining, and it was really better that the one of us who could best be replaced should go; and my well-founded fears that she might, after all, be retained in any case helped to strengthen my resolution to go. I had had no salary yet, as I had not been two months at the Alders, but my uncle had given me a sovereign to be put by, in case of emergency, and now the emergency was come. So I packed my boxes, and then went downstairs rather nervously to the study, having in my pocket the drugged handkerchief as a proof that my adventure was no fancy, as I guessed that Mr. Rayner would try to make me believe.
Mr. Rayner said “Come in” when I knocked, got up, placed me in an arm-chair by the fire, and asked me to wait while he spoke to Sam. He left the room, and I cautiously made friends with his big dog, who shared the hearthrug with me. He was very gracious, and I had progressed so far as to slide down from my seat to caress him better, when I looked up and saw Sarah.
I sprang to my feet, with a scream that I could not repress, and darted to the bell.
“Don’t!” said she sharply. “At least, wait one moment—give me a hearing. I’ll stay here—so. Mr. Rayner’ll be here in a minute; he won’t leave you for long,” said she, in a disagreeable voice. “I can’t hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt you last night; and I didn’t want to steal your letter either. What should I want to steal a bit of paper for? You see I know what it is. I only wanted to read it. I’m of a curious disposition, and I don’t stick at much to find out what I want to know—if it’s only trifles. The stuff on that handkerchief wouldn’t have hurt you, only made you sleep a little sounder, so as I could take the letter. I’d have put it back. I’m sorry I frightened you. I’ve come to ask you to forgive me.”
She said it in a dry hard tone, not as if she really repented her cruel action a bit.
“No, no; I can’t forgive you—at least not yet,” I said incoherently. “It wasn’t only wanting to steal my letter and to stupefy me, but the way you looked at me, the cruel way—as if—as if you would have liked to kill me,” I said, growing more excited as I remembered the terrible glare of her eyes when she sprang at me the second time. “I can’t forget it—oh, I can’t forget it! And you did something worse than that; you told the cook and Jane that Mr. Rayner was coming up to my room! Oh, that was wicked of you, for you knew it wasn’t true!”
“That’s that little tattling Jane, I know!” said Sarah vixenishly. “I never said such a thing at all; but she likes to make a story up of everything she hears. You know what a chatterbox she is, miss.”
I did know it; but I did not think Jane was likely to have altered Sarah’s story much. I was silent for a minute. Sarah began again in a different tone.
“You’re very hard upon a poor servant, Miss Christie, and it isn’t generous of you. I don’t deny that I was jealous of you, and that I wanted to prove to Mr. Rayner that you had letters on the sly from a young gentleman. There now—I’ve made a clean breast of it! But don’t it seem hard that I, who’ve served him and his well for nigh seven years, should have to go just at the word of a young lady who hasn’t been here two months?”
“It isn’t at my word, Sarah; I have had nothing to do with it.”
“Nothing to do with it? Can you deny that you dislike me?”
“I should never have disliked you if you had not over and over again shown that you hated me, and that it was distasteful to you even to have to serve me. And, as to your going away, I heard about it only this morning through asking Jane why she was doing my room.”
I blushed as I said this; but I could not confess to Sarah that the first mention I had heard of her departure was when I was listening outside the door of this very room on the night before.
“Then you don’t want me to go away?”
“It doesn’t matter to me whether you go or stay, as I have packed my boxes, and am going back to London myself this very afternoon.”
Sarah stared. Then she gave a disagreeable laugh.
“You won’t go,” said she.
“You can go upstairs and look at my boxes,” I said indignantly.
“Have you spoken to Mr. Rayner about it yet, may I ask, miss?” said she dryly.
“Not yet; but I am going to tell him this morning.”
“Then would you mind, before you go, miss”—she laid a peculiar emphasis on these words—“asking Mr. Rayner to let me stay? It won’t matter to you, you see; but it’s more to me than I can tell.”
And, for the first time during the interview, there was real emotion in her voice.
“But what I might say wouldn’t make any difference, Sarah,” I remonstrated gently. “You overrate my importance in this household in the strangest way. My words haven’t half the weight with Mr. Rayner that yours have.” Sarah looked at me eagerly as I said this, but she did not seem satisfied. “That is quite right and natural, as you have been here so long and are so much older too.”
She did not like my saying that, I saw, by the tightening of her thin lips; but I certainly had not meant to offend her. However, after a minute’s pause, she said again—
“Then, as you won’t be afraid of your words having any effect, miss, perhaps you will the less mind asking Mr. Rayner to let me stay.”
I shrugged my shoulders at her strange persistency; my words would certainly make no difference, and, as I was going away, she would probably stay; so I said—
“Very well; I will ask him.”
“You promise, miss?” said she, with a strange light in her eyes. “Gentlefolks like you don’t break their word, I know,” she went on quickly. “So, if you’ll only say ‘I promise,’ I shall know I can trust you, and that you bear no malice.”
She must indeed be anxious to obtain what she asked when she could stoop so far as to class me with “gentlefolk.”
“I promise,” said I.
She might have shown a little gratitude for what she had been so eager to get, I thought; but, as soon as the words had left my lips, she drew herself up from her imploring attitude triumphantly, and, with a simple, cold “Thank you, miss,” left the room.
Then I felt as if the study had suddenly grown lighter. Before long Mr. Rayner returned. I said nothing about Sarah’s visit, and nothing about my own departure, until after I had done the very little there was to do in settling the accounts of the penny-bank. This work had been only an excuse for giving me a holiday, because I looked ill, I felt sure; and, when it was finished, Mr. Rayner sent me back to the arm-chair again and poured me out a glass of wine. I began to feel nervous about my announcement.
“Have you quite got over your cruel fright now, little woman?” said he kindly.
“As much as one can get over a thing like that,” I said, in a low voice, my fingers shaking.
“One can’t forget it at once, of course; but I hope that a little care and a little kindness will soon drive that unpleasant adventure right out of your head.”
“If you mean your care and your kindness,” said I, looking up gratefully, “why, you can’t give me more than you have given me already, Mr. Rayner. But there are some experiences which one can never forget except away from the scenes where they happened. And, oh, Mr. Rayner,” I went on quickly, “you mustn’t think me ungrateful or capricious; but I have packed my boxes, and I want to ask you to release me from my engagement and let me go back to London by this afternoon’s train! For, if I had to sleep in that room another night, I should go mad!”
He came and sat by my side.
“My dear child,” he said gravely, “you can’t do that—for our sakes.”
“But I must—I must indeed!” I cried piteously. “You don’t know, you can’t tell what I suffered when I felt her hand creeping up to my throat, and thought I was going to be killed—I did indeed! And then I thought the stuff on the handkerchief was poison. She says it is only something to make you sleep. Is it true, Mr. Rayner? Here is the handkerchief.” And I pulled it from my pocket and gave it to him.
“Quite true,” said he; but I saw him frown. “It is chloroform, which she got out of my medicine-chest; I missed the bottle this morning. No, that wouldn’t have hurt you, child; I don’t suppose for a moment she meant to hurt you. But it was a cruel trick, all the same. Do you know”—and he looked at me searchingly—“what she did it for?”
“Oh, yes, she told me! She wanted to get at a letter—from a—from a friend, which I wore round my neck.” I felt myself blushing violently, knowing from what I had overheard Sarah say to him on the previous night that he knew all about that foolish pendant. “She wanted to read it, and she couldn’t get it without stupefying me, because I was holding it. But I have forgiven her, and promised I would ask you to let her stay. I told her it wouldn’t matter what I said; but she made me promise.”
“And what made you think what you said wouldn’t matter?” asked he gently.
“There is no reason why it should,” said I. “But I couldn’t have promised to ask you to let her stay if I had not been going away myself. Mr. Rayner, you must let me go.”
“I will let you go if you wish it, though the Alders would seem more like a tomb than ever without you now, child, that we have got used to seeing your pretty little face and hearing your sweet little voice about the place,” said he sadly, almost tenderly; and the tears came to my eyes. “But you cannot go to-day. Think what people would say of us if it got rumored about that our child’s governess was so cruelly treated under our roof that she went away without a day’s warning; for every one counts upon you at the school-treat, and I believe our young friend Laurence—don’t blush, child—would go off his head, and accuse us of murdering you outright, if he were to hear you were gone. And you would find it difficult, believe me, child, to get another situation, if you left your first so quickly, no matter for what reason. No; you shall have a different room, or Jane shall sleep in yours for a week or so, until your very natural nervousness has gone off; and then, if, at the end of the three months, you still wish to go, why, we won’t keep you, child, though I think some of us will never get over it if you leave us too suddenly.”
He spoke so sweetly, so kindly, and yet with such authority of superior wisdom, that I had to give way. Then, bound by my promise, I had even to ask again that Sarah should stay, and he agreed that she should at once; and then I, not at all elated at the success of my intercession, begged him to let Jane do as much as possible for me just at first.
But later in the day it was not pleasant to see Sarah’s acid smile as she said, when she heard I was going to stay—
“I told you so, miss.”
And when I said to her, “I kept my promise, and asked Mr. Rayner for you to stay, Sarah,” she answered, “Then I am to stay, of course, miss?” in the same tone. And I was reluctantly obliged to admit that she was.
And, as I looked at her face, which could never seem to me again to look anything but evil, a sudden horror seized me at the thought that I had pledged myself to stay for five whole weeks more in the same house with this woman.
I tookadvantage of the rest of my day’s holiday to work very hard at the text I was doing for the church. I thought that Mr. Reade might call for it that day, but he did not. And the next day, which was Thursday, I finished it, and rolled it up in paper ready for sending away; but still he did not come to fetch it. Haidee and I did not go far that morning—a long walk tired her now; but in the afternoon, when lessons were over, I sauntered out into the garden, with a book in my hand, and went to my “nest,” which I had neglected to visit on the day before—a most unusual occurrence; but Mr. Rayner had forbidden me to go outside the house on that day, as I was rather feverish from the effects of the preceding night’s excitement.
I found Mona sitting among the reeds close to the pond, not far from my “nest,” crooning to herself and playing with some sticks and bits of paper. At sight of me she slid along the bank and let herself down into the mud below, as if to hide from me. When the child suddenly disappeared from my sight like that, I felt frightened lest she should fall into the water, or sink into the soft slime at the edge which she had chosen to retire into, and not be able to climb the slippery bank again. So I walked daintily through the reedy swamp which was her favorite haunt, and looked over the bank. She was busily burying in the mud, with the help of two little sticks, the bits of paper she had been playing with; and, when I bent down to speak to her, she threw herself upon her back, with her head almost in the water, and began to scream and kick. This uncalled-for demonstration made me think that she knew she was in mischief; and, leaving her for a moment to enjoy herself in her own way, I stooped and picked up one or two of the pieces of paper which formed her toys. There was writing on them in a hand I knew, and I had not made out a dozen words before I was sure that Mona had somehow got hold of a note from Mr. Laurence Reade to me.
Down I jumped in a moment, caring no more now for the mud, into which I sank to my ankles, than Mona herself. I dug up the bits she had buried, and took from her very gently those she was still clutching, though my fingers tingled to slap her. I hope it was not revenge that made me carry her indoors to be washed. Then I searched the ground where I had found her, and discovered more little bits, and under the seat of my “nest” a torn envelope directed to “Miss Christie.” I ran in, and up to my room, with my mangled treasure, carefully cleaned the fragments, and, after much labor, at last fitted them into a pretty coherent whole. The note ran, as well as I could make out—
“Dear Miss Christie,—I am so anxious about you that I must write. Is it true that”—here there was a piece missing—“an accident, that you are ill, hurt? If you are safe and well, will you pass the park in your walk to-morrow, that I may see you and know that you”—another piece missing. “I shall put this on the seat near the pond, where I know you go every evening.“Yours very sincerely,Laurence Reade.”
“Dear Miss Christie,—I am so anxious about you that I must write. Is it true that”—here there was a piece missing—“an accident, that you are ill, hurt? If you are safe and well, will you pass the park in your walk to-morrow, that I may see you and know that you”—another piece missing. “I shall put this on the seat near the pond, where I know you go every evening.
“Yours very sincerely,Laurence Reade.”
It was dated “Wednesday,” and this was Thursday afternoon; so that it was this morning’s walk that he had meant. Oh, if I had only come out here last night and found the letter! I would go past the park to-morrow; but perhaps it would be too late, and he would not expect me then—he would think I was too ill to come out.
So the next morning, in our walk, I took care to pass Geldham Hall, both going and returning; but the first time I saw no one in the park, and the second time, to my surprise, I saw Mr. Rayner and Mrs. Reade sauntering along together under the trees in a very friendly manner. I had noticed that it had gradually become quite natural for the haughty Mrs. Reade to turn to Mr. Rayner as soon as we all came out of church on Sunday, and for them to have a long chat together, while her daughters looked at the people from the Alders as superciliously as before; but I did not know that he visited at Geldham Hall, still less that he and Mrs. Reade were on terms of such intimacy that she leaned on his arm as they walked along, and laughed as he talked in a much more natural and unaffected manner than her dignity generally allowed.
The next evening I had to go to tea at Mrs. Manners’, to take part in a final discussion of the arrangements for the school-treat on the following day. Mrs. Manners, who was a very simple kindly lady, greeted me with rather a perturbed manner, and introduced me half apologetically to the Misses Reade, the elder of whom was stiffer and the younger more awkward than ever as they just touched my hand and dropped it as if it had been something with claws. They were icily obliged to me for the text, and said they would not have troubled me on any account, but their brother had insisted on taking it. Then they talked about village matters to Mrs. Manners, ignoring me altogether, until two little middle-aged ladies came in, who had dressed in an antiquated fashion a number of dolls for the sale, and who, on hearing who I was, seemed rather afraid of me. The Misses Reade were very kind to them in a patronizing way; and a shy girl came in, who was better dressed, more accomplished, and who had no worse manners than the Misses Reade, but they evidently looked down upon her from a very great height. I afterwards found that she was the daughter of an attorney, and could not expect to be so fortunate as to meet the ladies from the Hall, except at the Vicar’s, which was neutral ground.
I did not think it was at all a pleasant party. They all chattered about parish matters, district-visiting, and the Sunday-school, and the life the curate’s wife led her husband—of which I knew nothing at all; and I went to a table at the window, where there were two large albums of photographs, and looked at them by myself. But when Mr. Manners came in there was a little stir among them, and they all smiled at him and left off their chatter, and seemed to look to him to suggest a new topic; and he said the weather looked promising for next day, and they all flew upon this new topic and worried it to death. Then, when he had said a few words to each of them, he came up to me and asked me kindly why I was sitting all alone in a corner, and sat down by me, and told me who the people in the albums were, and showed me some pictures of Swiss scenery, and talked about the places they represented. I almost wished he would not, for the other ladies did not seem pleased.
Then we had tea, and Mr. Manners made me sit by him. He went out as soon as it was over, and we all went back into the drawing-room and wrote numbers on tickets; I forget what they were for, but I remember that there was great confusion because several of the ladies made mistakes, so that, while some numbers were missed out altogether, there were a great many tickets bearing the same number. Mrs. Manners asked me if I should like to come upstairs and see the things for sale, all the rest of the ladies having seen them many times already. So we went up together, and, while we were looking at them, she said nervously—
“You have never been in a situation before, have you?”
“No, never before.”
“A governess’s position has many trials and difficulties.”
“I haven’t met with many yet. I have been fortunate,” said I, smiling.
Mrs. Manners looked at me as if she wanted to ask more than she dared; but she only said—
“Of course some families are pleasanter to live with than others. But in all there arise occasions when we must pray for guidance”—and I thought of my resolution to go—“and when we must walk circumspectly”—and I thought of the best way of treating Sarah. I only answered—
“Yes, Mrs. Manners”—very gently.
She seemed pleased by my submission, and said suddenly, as if to herself, after looking at me for a few moments—
“An honest open face!”—which made me blush—then, in a quicker, more practical tone—“You have no father, and have always lived quietly with your mother? Of course you write to her often?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So that you can have the benefit of her counsel in any difficulty?”
I hesitated. Nobody ever seemed to think of going to mamma for counsel; we always kept things from her that were likely to disturb her, because she had delicate nerves, and used to go into hysterics if anything went wrong. So I said—
“In any difficulty I should have to think and act for myself, Mrs. Manners, because writing to mamma about it would only make her cry. But I have met with no great difficulties in my life so far.”
She looked at me again, as if a little puzzled, and then said—
“I hope you will not think I am catechising you rudely; but Mr. Manners and I take a great interest in you, knowing how young and inexperienced you are to have to go out into the world alone. And he thinks I have neglected you a little. But, you see, Mrs. Rayner is so very—reserved, and lives such a secluded life, that it is not easy to form an intimacy. But I want you to feel sure, my dear Miss Christie, that, if you should want a friend’s advice at any time, you need not fear to confide in me; and Mr. Manners, being a man and your parish clergyman, could help you in cases where my woman’s judgment might be at fault.”
I thanked her with tears in my eyes; for, although there was a shade of reserve in her manner, and although I did not think it likely that I should ever experience at the Alders any trial that she could help me in—for I could not confide a family secret, like Mrs. Rayner’s suspected insanity, to anybody—yet her manner was so sincere and so earnest that I was touched by it and grateful for it.
Then we went downstairs and finished up the evening with music. The two little middle-aged ladies sang, in thin cracked voices, some duets in Italian—passionate love-songs, the words of which they did not seem to understand. The elder Miss Reade played a movement of Mozart’s “Fantasia in C minor”—but I did not recognize it until near the end—and the younger a “Galop de Salon,” with the loud pedal down all the time. Miss Lane, the attorney’s daughter, sang “Little Maid of Arcadee,” which Mrs. Manners said she should have liked if the words had not been so silly. Then I was asked to play, and I chose Schumann’s “Arabesque,” and they seemed astonished and a little scandalized because I played it by heart. I heard Miss Reade whisper—
“I don’t like her style. That great difference betweenforteandpianoseems to me an affectation.”
While I was playing, Mr. Laurence Reade came in to take his sisters home. When I had finished, everybody looked at us as he shook hands with me in a rather distant manner; but he managed to press my hand before he let it go; so I did not mind. And everybody listened, as he said—
“We heard up at the Hall dreadful reports that you were ill, Miss Christie, and wouldn’t be able to come to the school-treat.”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t ill! One of the servants gave me a fright in the night,” said I. “I woke up and found her in my room amusing herself by ransacking my things. Then I screamed with all my might, and Mr. Rayner came up and called her out and scolded her.”
This explanation was listened to with profound attention by everybody in the room; and I was glad I had an opportunity of giving it, as I felt sure that some rumors must have got about; and it was better they should hear my version of the story. Then Mrs. Manners said she hoped Mr. Reade would not desert them at the last; and he promised to come and help, but said she must not expect him to sell pen-wipers.
“You are going to have a much grander affair than usual, I hear,” he ended—“more like a regular bazaar.”
“It sounds ungracious to say so,” she returned, rather anxiously, “but I am rather sorry that we have not kept to the old simple custom. Still, when Lady Mills offered a marquee, and to come herself and help to sell, and to bring her friends, we were obliged to make a difference. And then the band from Beaconsburgh—” She stopped, for it was old Mr. Reade who had offered to provide that.
“Ah, that’s my father’s fault!” the young man put in, laughing. “He’s a wicked old fellow, wanting to corrupt the rustic simplicity of the parish in his old age.”
His elder sister said “Laurence!” reprovingly. Mrs. Manners went on.
“And, if Lady Mills comes on the drag, she’ll bring a lot of idle young men”—Miss Lane and the younger Miss Reade looked up—“and there will be nothing to amuse them, for we have only one set of lawn-tennis—I think we must charge a penny a game for that”—in a practical tone—“and they will expect champagne and—”
“Oh, Lady Mills will bring that!” said Mr. Reade confidently, as if he had been on that drag with those idle young men himself.
“But Lady Mills and her set are not the style of people that Geldham is accustomed to,” said Mrs. Manners, in a superior tone.
“Oh, no!” assented Mr. Reade gravely.
“And they will make fun of everything; and the treat is after all for the village-people; and I don’t want those fast gentlemen from London to get talking to the village-girls.”
“I don’t think they will want to do so, Mrs. Manners, I don’t indeed,” said Mr. Reade.
“They are all good girls, those who will help at the treat—the first class at the Sunday-school.”
“Oh, those! Then I am sure you need not be afraid.”
“And they will want to amuse themselves, and take up the time of the sellers, your sisters and Miss Christie and—”
“I’ll keep them off, Mrs. Manners. The sellers shall not be teased by any impertinent and trifling young men. I’ll devote myself to looking after them.”
Simple Mrs. Manners, who had been in deep earnest all the time, began to have a suspicion that there was a lurking mirthfulness under Mr. Reade’s gravity; so she said severely—
“You will have to work, not to play, if you come, Mr. Reade, and set a good example to the others.”
“I will; but I sincerely hope they will not all follow it,” said he, in a laughing tone; then he turned and looked at me and made me blush.
And in the slight bustle of departure he whispered to me—
“Wait, and I’ll come back and take you home.”
But, when I had put on my hat and mantle, and Mrs. Manners had led me down into the drawing-room again, to say a few last words to me, and I was wondering how I could wait until Mr. Reade kept his promise and returned, I heard a ring and Mr. Rayner’s voice in the hall. I started and blushed, and Mrs. Manners stopped in her talk and looked at me very searchingly.
“Mr. Rayner must have come to fetch you home,” she said coldly.
I would not have missed the walk home with Mr. Reade for the world.
“I am afraid so,” I stammered.
She looked colder still at my confusion; but there was only one way out of it, so I burst out—
“Oh, Mrs. Manners, Mr. Reade said he would come to fetch me! What shall I do?”
“You would rather go with him?”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
Her manner changed all at once. She put her arm around me and drew me to the French window.
“There, my dear—run out there and wait at the gate on the left. That’s the way they always come from the Hall. It is a little deception, I am afraid; but there—go, child, go! He is a good lad.”
So I ran swiftly across the lawn in the dusk, afraid of Mr. Rayner’s seeing me, and up the path between the laurel hedges which led to the side gate. The path curved just at the end, and I heard the gate swing to; but I could not stop myself. And, as Mr. Reade dashed round the corner, running too, I fell against him, and then panted out, “I beg your pardon,” very much confused. He had caught me by the arms, and he did not let me go, but held them very gently, while he said—
“Miss Christie! Pray don’t apologize. Where were you running?”
“I—I was going home,” I stammered in a low voice.
“But that is not the way.” A pause—then very softly—“Were you coming to meet me?”
“N-o,” said I, half crying, and disengaging myself.
It was so humiliating to have been caught running to meet Mr. Reade.
“No? I had hoped you were. For I’ve been running like a race-horse to meet you.”
I said nothing.
“Why did you want to run home so fast alone, when I had promised to come and fetch you?”
“I—I didn’t want to trouble you.”
“That was very kind of you. But, if I happen not to mind the trouble, may I see you home now I am here? Or would you prefer to go alone?”
“I would rather go alone, thank you,” said I, though it was heart-breaking to have to say it. But I thought it was time to show some spirit, for I saw that Mr. Reade did not believe me.
He stepped aside to let me pass, and raised his hat very stiffly; then his manner changed all at once.
“Why, you are crying! My darling, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”
I could not stop him—I did try—but he was so much bigger than I that he had his arms around me before I could get away.
“Oh, Mr. Reade, let me go!” I said, frightened.
But, as I held up my face to say it, he kissed me, and, after that, of course it did not matter, for I knew that he loved me and that I was safe with him.
I remember every word that he said to me as we walked towards the Alders that night; but, if I were to write it down, it would read just like the same thing over and over again, and not at all as it sounded to me.
We did not go straight back, but a longer way round, for fear the grass should make my feet wet; and we passed the front gate and went on to the side gate that led past the stables. And there Laurence left me, for I did not want that spiteful Sarah to see him with me. I went through into the shrubbery, so happy that I could scarcely keep from singing softly to myself. But, as I came close to the stables, I left off, for fear Mr. Rayner, who might be in his room, as it was now quite dark, should hear me, and want to know how I got back and why I was so late; and just then I could not have told him. I wanted to slip upstairs to my room without seeing any one, and go straightway to sleep with the remembrance of Laurence and his last kiss all fresh and undisturbed in my mind. Then I thought I should dream of him.
But I was disappointed. For close under the stable-wall I saw two men’s figures, neither of them Mr. Rayner’s, and one of them held a dark lantern. I was frightened, for they made no noise, and I thought they walked like thieves; so I crept in among the trees and watched them. One of them softly tried the door of the harness-room, through which one had to pass to get to the upper story where Mr. Rayner slept. Then they came away and walked first down the path a little way towards the house, and then up it towards where I crouched among the trees. They sauntered cautiously, but slowly, as if waiting for some one. I did not feel much afraid of their seeing me, for I knew I was well concealed; but I was eager to get out and alarm the house, and I dared not move while they were in sight. But, when they came close, I recognized in one Tom Parkes, Sarah’s lover, and in the other, much to my surprise, the gentleman who had visited Mr. Rayner after tea one evening, whose conversation with Sarah in the plantation had so surprised me by its familiar tone.
The moon, which had now risen high, fell full upon his face as he passed, and I had a better opportunity than before of observing him. He was rather short, of slim neat build, fair, clean-shaven, with gray eyes and an imperturbable expression of face. He had an overcoat and a big comforter over his arm, and was, as he had been before, very carefully dressed. When they were just opposite to me, they turned back, and, just as they got to the harness-room door again, Sarah came quickly from the house with a key, let them in, and followed herself. And in another minute Mr. Rayner passed me from the road and let himself in after them. I waited a few moments in wonder at this strange scene; it seemed to me that I was always seeing curious things at the Alders. But I had something pleasanter to think about than mysterious night-visitors, and I ran quickly and lightly down the path to the house, where Jane, very sleepy, and surprised at my being so late, let me in.
But that last adventure spoilt my dreams. I did indeed dream of Laurence; but I dreamt that I was carried away from him by burglars.
Laurencehad promised to come for me early the next morning, saying that I should be wanted to help to arrange the stalls.
“I’ll bring two of the Manners boys, and say we’ve come for the benches Mr. Rayner offered to lend for the children’s tea,” said he.
“Then I’ll say Mrs. Manners begs you to come at once, and I’ll start off with the boys; and, when we get outside the gate, I’ll send them on with the benches and wait about for you.”
I wondered why he could not wait for me in the house as a matter of course; but he knew best, and I said nothing.
The next morning I put on a white frock that I had been busily making during all my spare time for the last fortnight, and a broad sash of the palest lemon and pink that I had been saving up for some great occasion. Then I slipped into the garden before breakfast—for there was no knowing how soon after he might come—to gather a flower to wear at my throat. I purposely chose rather a faded little rose, in the hope that Laurence might notice it and get me one himself to wear instead. I was going to put it in water until it was time to start, when Mr. Rayner met me at the window.
“Hallo, Miss Christie, stealing my roses! Well, since you had resolved to burden your conscience with a crime, you might have made it worth your while. But I am not going to permit you to spoil the effect of your pretty frock and destroy the reputation of my garden by wearing such a misshapen thing as that! Never! Come out again with me, and we’ll find something better.”
This was not what I wanted at all; but I was obliged to follow him, and to seem pleased when he gathered and gave me the loveliest little late tea-rose possible, and then found a beautiful bit of long soft moss to put round it. Laurence would never dare to suggest that this was not pretty enough to wear.
After breakfast, I went into the schoolroom with Haidee; but I was not in my usual soberly instructive mood; and, when I heard the front-door bell ring, I took theChild’s Guide to Knowledgefrom Haidee’s hand and gravely held it before me for some minutes until she said timidly—
“It begins at ‘What is tapioca?’ Miss Christie.”
Then I felt ashamed of myself, and, making an effort, heard all the rest of her lessons as intelligently as was necessary, and set her a copy in my best hand. Then, just as I was thinking that my reward must be very near now, my heart sank as I heard Laurence’s step returning through the hall, and those of the boys with him, while yet I had not been summoned. I wondered whether Laurence had forgotten all about me, and could have burst into tears at the thought that he would soon be helping to arrange the stalls with pretty Miss Kate Finch. But presently, when disappointment had given place to despair, I came to what I suppose was a better mood, and reflected that it was all a just punishment for the careless and neglectful manner in which I was certainly performing my duties this morning. And I went in to dinner with all my bright spirits of the morning very properly chastened out of me.
It was wicked and ungrateful of me; but, when Mr. Rayner said brightly, “Mrs. Manners wanted you to go and help her to prepare for the afternoon’s festivities, Miss Christie; but we were not going to let you fag yourself out laying tables for a lot of dirty children, so I said you should come later,” I felt for the moment as if I quite disliked him, though it was really only another proof of his kindness and care of me.
After dinner, he himself accompanied Haidee and me to the High Field, where the bazaar and tea took place; Mrs. Rayner was not coming until later. The school-children had been there some time when we reached the field; and some of the rank and fashion of the neighborhood, the quiet people who came as a duty, were making purchases in the marquees. I saw Laurence standing outside the larger but less showy one of the two; he looked very grave and gloomy, and did not come forward towards us immediately, as I had expected. Was he offended because I had not come earlier? Surely he must have known how much I wanted to do so! His elder sister, much to my surprise, came out to meet me.
“We have been waiting for you such a long time, Miss Christie,” she said; “we have kept a place for you.”
And, although she did not speak much more pleasantly than usual, I thought it good-natured of her, and wondered whether Laurence had spoken to her about me and she was trying to be kind to please him. I followed her into the marquee, which was arranged with one long stall down each side. At one, cheap toys, sweets, and very innocent refreshments were to be sold; the Sunday-school girls stood behind it, presided over by the housekeeper from the Hall. Down the other side was a stall loaded with the usual display of mats, dolls, crochet-shawls, and tatting antimacassars, with here and there a gypsy-table or cushion mounted with wool-work, and a host of useful trifles, which were expected to fetch far more than their intrinsic value.
But the custom of former years, when the sale had been chiefly for the village-people, was not forgotten; and one end was piled up with underclothing and children’s frocks and a quantity of cheap crockery and ironmongery, the contributions of Beaconsburgh tradesmen. At this, decidedly the least interesting corner of the whole bazaar, Miss Reade asked me if I would mind standing.
“We chose this part for you, because you said you would like to have plenty to do; and we know you are patient. And I assure you the old women from the village will give you lots of occupation; they always want to turn over everything in the place and buy what they require for nothing.”
I think I would rather have sold some pretty things too; but of course somebody must sell the ugly ones, and I really wanted to be useful; so I looked carefully over the things under my charge and examined the price-tickets, which I thought was a business-like way of going to work, when Laurence at last strolled in and came up to me. He shook hands with a loving pressure, but he only said—
“How do you do, Miss Christie? They expected you earlier.”
And I felt so much chilled by the commonplace words and the “Miss Christie” that I could scarcely answer. I had not expected him to say “Violet” before everybody, as he had done when we walked home on the previous night; but he need not have used my prim surname at all. But, as he stooped to push under the stall a box that was sticking out, he said, in a very low voice—
“I must speak to you presently. You must make some excuse to get away, and I’ll watch you and meet you. I have some bad news—at least, I don’t know whether you will think it bad news.”
His whisper got so gruff during those last words that I longed to kneel down on the ground by him and put my arms round his neck and tell him not to mind, whatever it was; but I could only say softly, as I bent over a bundle of night-caps—
“Of course I shall think it bad if you do.”
And he just glanced up with a look that made me hold my breath and almost forget where I was, and his lips touched my frock as he rose, and I knew that the bad news was still not so bad as it might be.
Just then there was a stir and excitement outside, caused by the arrival of Lady Mills and some of her party. They came into our marquee, and I thought I had never seen any one so beautiful or so winning as Lady Mills herself, with her pretty cream-colored gown covered with lace and bunches of pale roses in her hat and on her dress. The ladies with her were beautifully dressed too, and I saw at once that they were indeed, as Mrs. Manners had said, not the style of people Geldham was accustomed to. They made us all, sellers and buyers, look very dowdy and old-fashioned, and they talked and laughed a little louder than we dared do, and moved about as if they were used to being looked at and did not mind it. There were only two gentlemen with the six or eight ladies, and I heard Lady Mills say to Mrs. Manners that the rest of the men were coming on the drag, and that she had given them strict orders that after a certain time they were to buy up all that was left on the stalls. Mrs. Manners seemed rather distressed at that, and said she did not want the gentlemen to purchase things which would be of no use to them; they had some smoking-caps and embroidered cigar-cases. But Lady Mills laughed, and said Mrs. Manners was too merciful; and then she left our marquee and went to superintend the finishing touches put to the arrangement of her own.
Presently we heard that the drag had arrived, and there was a little flutter among the ladies at our stall. As for me, I knew that these gentlemen, who seemed to be thought of so much consequence, would not want any of the things I had to sell; so I went on quite quietly serving the village-women, with whom I was doing very good business. However, when the gentlemen did lounge in, one of them, who was tall and had a long fair mustache, looked for a long time at the things at my end of the stall and asked the price of a tea-kettle. I thought he was amusing himself; but he bought it and carried it off; and presently two more gentlemen came into the marquee and straight up to my corner, and bought, the one a gridiron and the other a soap-dish.
Then the first one came back and asked the price of so many things that he took too much of my attention from my village customers; and at last I told him he would find some ties and cigar-cases and gentlemen’s things farther up the stall. But he put up his eyeglass and looked at me gravely, and said he could not afford to spend his money on trumpery—he wanted something useful; and could I oblige him with a toasting-fork? Then he was so long making up his mind between a penny one and a sixpenny one that I told him he had better buy them both, and, when he had settled which he liked best, he could give the other away. But he said, “That is an extravagant way of going to work,” and took the penny one.
When he had gone away, Laurence came up again, and I told him, laughing, about the funny purchases they had made. But he was not at all amused; he said it was tomfoolery.
They came again, though, and some more of them too; and at last the first one of all returned a third time and said he had been entrusted with a sovereign to lay out to the best advantage for a young couple who were setting up housekeeping. I had done such good business with the village-women and these unexpected customers that I had not a sovereign’s-worth of ironmongery and crockery left; so he bought up all I had, including two pair of pattens and a number of mouse-traps, and made up the money in holland pinafores.
Presently he came in again with Lady Mills, who asked Mrs. Manners if she could spare her another helper; and, looking down the stall, and seeing me with only a few aprons and children’s clothes left to sell, she asked if the little lady in white at the end could come; and Mrs. Manners, looking at me rather gravely and anxiously, as if she was sending me into a lion’s den, asked me to go. But the other ladies at our stall did not like it at all.
The other marquee looked like fairy-land. The two stalls had so many beautiful bright things on them, besides a quantity of flowers, and the ladies behind them, in their light dresses, looked so pretty. The village-people did not buy much here, but came in shyly in twos and threes, and talked in whispers. But there were all Lady Mills’s party, and a lot of Beaconsburgh people, and members of most of the rich families in the neighborhood. And there was a great deal of laughing and talking going on; and this marquee was altogether a much more amusing place than the other.
Lady Mills, who I thought had sweeter manners than any lady I had ever seen, thrust a big basket of flowers into my hands and told me to walk up and down and ask people to buy them. “Ask the gentlemen,” she whispered, with a pretty smile. But I did not like to do that; so I stood with my basket in a corner until the tall fair man who had bought so many things of me came up and gave me half-a-crown for one little bud; and I thought how silly it had been of him to make such a fuss over the toasting-forks when he was ready to give so much for a flower. And then Laurence found me out, and he walked up and down with me, holding my big basket; and I sold my flowers quickly, and was very happy indeed, for Laurence talked and whispered to me, and looked at me all the time as we moved among the crowd, and never once left my side while we were in that tent. He told me everybody said I was the prettiest girl there, which of course was nonsense; but it was very nice to hear him say so. When I had sold all the flowers, he whispered—