MISS MORRELL
A companion-governess was procured for Sydney, the daughter of the vicar
of one of the churches near Donisbro’. The girl was unfeignedly delighted
at the prospect of a companion, even of the rather advanced age, as it
seemed to her, of three-and-twenty.
She grew quite excited over the arranging of Miss Osric’s room, and would
have liked to decorate it with some of the pretty things from her own.
But this Lady Frederica would not allow.
“You can have anything you like for her in reason, child,” she said,
“without stripping yourself. What, you don’t think there are enough
pictures in her room? Well, you may drive in with Ward to Dacreshaw this
afternoon, and get some, if you like. There is a good print-shop there.
Put the bill down to St. Quentin.”
But that was not necessary, for Sydney received a summons to the library
before she set out that afternoon.
Her cousin laid his pen down on her entrance; she saw he had been signing
a cheque.
“I haven’t started you on a dress-allowance, Sydney,” he said, “because
you had better let Aunt Rica rig you out at present. She knows how to do
the thing, you see. But you’ll want some money to play with, so there’s
your first quarter.” He held out the cheque.
Sydney gasped. “It isn’t for me, is it?”
“Yes, it is; there, put it in your purse. You can change it at the Bank
at Dacreshaw, where I hear you’re going. Good-bye, don’t spend it all on
chocolates!”
For the first time since her arrival at St. Quentin Castle, Sydney felt
almost happy. What Christmas presents she could get now for every one
at home! Should she choose them at Dacreshaw, or wait till she went to
Donisbro’ for the lessons in drilling and deportment she was to take with
a very select class of girls in the cathedral city?
She sat in a happy dream all through the drive, and only roused herself
when she reached the print-shop.
The Castle carriage was known, and the owner of the shop came forward
at once to serve the young lady, leaving the customer he had been
attending—a tall, graceful girl, some years Sydney’s senior, with great
calm, clear eyes.
Sydney found the shopman most obliging. He bowed repeatedly; he seemed
willing to reach down every picture in the shop for her to look at,
regardless of the trouble, and he asked with real anxiety after the
health of “his lordship, Lord St. Quentin.”
The tall girl had come rather near to them to examine a picture Sydney
had laid down. She started at the shopman’s question, looked irresolutely
for a minute at the younger girl, then came across to her with a smile.
“Miss Lisle,” she said, “you will not know me, but I know Lady Frederica
very well, and have stayed at Castle St. Quentin. I am Katharine Morrell.”
“Mr. Fenton told me about you,” Sydney said, brightening instantly.
Speaking to another girl felt like meeting a countryman in a strange and
savage land. “Do you live near?” she added eagerly.
“Some distance off; at Donisbro’,” she said; “my father is the Dean of
Donisbro’ Cathedral. I hear you are coming to the calisthenic class at
Lady Helmsley’s. Perhaps I shall see something of you, for I am taking a
little cousin to it.”
“I am _so_ glad you will be there,” Sydney said, brightening still more.
The girl had a lovely face, she thought, its slight look of sadness only
adding to its beauty. She was like some bygone saint.
“I am busy choosing a picture,” said Miss Morrell, “and you are, of
course, on the same errand. I am executing a commission for my father;
perhaps you are for your cousin? By the way, how is he?”
“He has been worse, but seems better these last few days,” Sydney
answered, rather doubtfully. “Dr. Lorry never tells us much about him.”
“They never do,” Miss Morrell said, in a low voice. “We are left to eat
our hearts out in ignorance, because, forsooth, they think a woman cannot
bear the truth. Oh, how much easier it would be if we might know, and
care, and be miserable if we wished!”
Sydney felt vaguely puzzled. Miss Morrell had spoken quietly, but her
voice vibrated, as though the words she spoke were almost forced from
her, and, as she turned away at the shopman’s approach, the girl saw her
hands were shaking. But, after that outburst, her manner returned to its
usual calm, and she busied herself with real kindness in helping Sydney
in that difficult thing—choice.
Four charming prints in sepia of well-known pictures were at length
decided on, and the man managed to fit them with frames from his store,
while Sydney was giving her opinion on the comparative merits of “The
Angelus” in sepia or black-and-white for the benefit of her new friend.
“You must come and have some tea with me at Grayson’s before you drive
home,” said Miss Morrell, when both had paid for their pictures, and
Sydney’s had been placed in the brougham. “Oh, yes, you must: you cannot
possibly be back at the Castle till long past tea time, and I have to
wait for papa, who is at a meeting. Tell your maid to go and get tea for
herself; the coachman will know, I expect, if he ought to put the horses
up.”
Greaves evidently thought he had better do so.
“Very good, ma’am. Call for you in ’arf an hour, ma’am,” he said, and
drove off to the St. Quentin Arms in the next street.
Sydney soon found herself at home with Miss Morrell, and the two girls
talked happily over the cream-cakes and fragrant tea for which Grayson’s
of Dacreshaw is noted. Ward drank hers in the room below with an easy
mind. She had heard enough of Miss Morrell in the servants’ hall of
Castle St. Quentin to feel certain that there could be no objection to
Miss Lisle associating with her.
Sydney took the larger share in the conversation. Miss Morrell had a
knack of drawing people out, and the girl found herself telling of the
Chichester family at home, and making her new friend laugh over funny
anecdotes of Fred and Prissie.
“You must have found it dull at the Castle just at first, after being
used to so large a party,” Miss Morrell said.
“I did,” Sydney owned frankly, “and I find it rather dull still. But Lady
Frederica is kind and amusing, and I like—yes—I do quite like, Cousin St.
Quentin.”
Miss Morrell had stooped to pick up the handkerchief she had dropped
while Sydney was speaking. She took rather a long time in doing so, and
when her head appeared again there was a lovely colour in her face.
“I am afraid I hear your carriage now, dear,” she said, rising, “and we
must not keep the horses standing, must we? No, put away your purse;
I _asked_ you to tea. I expect we shall find your maid waiting for you
downstairs.”
“I do hope I shall see you at the calisthenic class!” Sydney said
earnestly, and Miss Morrell smiled and said she hoped so too.
“Well, what do you think of Dacreshaw?” asked Lord St. Quentin, as Sydney
peeped into the library about an hour later, with a large parcel under
her arm.
She came and sat down beside him, and undid the string with business-like
gravity.
“It is a perfectly lovely place!” she assured him, “and the print-shop
is delightful. The pictures were all so nice that I hardly knew how
to choose among them. Look at that Greuze, Cousin St. Quentin, isn’t
her face just sweet? I’ve seen the original of that in the Wallace
collection. Hugh took Mildred and Dolly and me there one day last year.”
“That eternal Hugh!” muttered the marquess, but beneath his breath, and
Sydney chattered on without hearing.
“I couldn’t settle for _ever_ so long whether to have the girl with the
broken pitcher, or with the lamb, but Miss Morrell said——”
“_Who?_”
“Miss Morrell. She was there in the shop, Cousin St. Quentin, and oh, she
was so nice! She helped me choose, and we had tea together. She knows
Lady Frederica, but I don’t think she knows you—she didn’t say so, but
she asked how you were. Why, Cousin St. Quentin, would you like some more
drops, or shall I ring for Dickson?”
“No, I don’t want anything or anybody; it’s all right. Only you had
better go off to Aunt Rica. I’m tired to-night,” he said, turning away.
She was gathering up her pictures and going obediently, when he asked,
still with his head averted, “Which did you say was the picture _she_
liked?”
“The Broken Pitcher,” Sydney answered wonderingly.
“Well, you might leave me one to look at—that will do—the pitcher one, I
mean.”
Sydney propped her Greuze upon the table where he could see it
comfortably, and went out.