her head and walked the distance. "Such a mistake, to have taken a
place for them so near Hyde Park!" whispered Miss Cattledon as we were
following--and I'm sure she must have been in a gracious mood to give me
the confidence. "Neither Sir John nor Miss Deveen has much notion of
the requirements of fashionable society, Mr. Ludlow: as to poor Lady
Whitney, she is a very owl in all that relates to it."
Poor Lady Whitney--not looking like an owl, but a plain, good-hearted
English mother--was the first to see us. There was no dinner-party
after all. She sat on a chair just inside the drawing-room, which was
precisely the same in build and size as Miss Deveen's, but had not her
handsome furniture and appointments. She said she was glad to see me,
and would have invited me with Joe, but for want of beds.
They were all grouped at the other end of the room, playing at forfeits,
and a great deal too busy to notice me. I had leisure to look at them.
Helen was talking very fast: Harry shouting; Anna sat leaning her cheek
on her hand; Tod stood frowning and angry against the wall; the young
ones were jumping about like savages; and Bill Whitney was stuck on
a stool, his eyes bandaged, and the tips of a girl's white fingers
touching his hands. A fairy, rather than a girl, for that's what she
looked like, with her small, light figure and her gauze skirts floating:
Miss Sophie Chalk.
But what on earth had come to her hair? It used to be brown; it was now
light, and gleaming with gold spangles. Perhaps it belonged to her fairy
nature.
Suddenly Bill shouted out "Miss Chalk," threw off the bandage, and
caught her hands to kiss her! It was all in the forfeits: he had a right
to do it, because he guessed her name. She laughed and struggled, the
children and Helen were as wild Indians with glee, and Tod looked ready
to bring the roof down. Just as Bill gave the kiss, Anna saw me.
Of course it created an interlude, and the forfeits were thrown up. Tod
came out of his passion, feeling a little frightened.
"Johnny! Why, what in the world brings you here? Anything wrong with my
father?"
"I am only come up on a visit to Miss Deveen, Tod."
"Well, I'm sure!" cried Tod; as if he thought he ought to have all the
visiting, and I none of it.
Sophie put her hand into mine. "I am so glad to see you again," she said
in her softest tone. "And dear Mrs. Todhetley, how is she? and the sweet
children?"
But she never waited to hear how; for she turned away at some question
put by Bill Whitney.
Sir John came in, and the four old ones sat down to their whist in the
small drawing-room opening from this. The children were sent to bed.
Sophie Chalk went to the piano to sing a song in hushed tones, Tod
putting himself on one side, Bill on the other.
"Are _both_ of them going in for the lady's favour?" I asked of Anna,
pointing to the piano, as she made room for me on the sofa.
"I think Miss Chalk would like it, Johnny."
"How well Bill is looking!"
"Oh, he has quite recovered; he seems all the stronger for his accident.
I suppose the rest and the nursing set him up."
"Is Sophie Chalk staying here?"
"No; there's hardly room for her. But she has been here every day and
all day since we came up. They send her home in a cab at night, and one
of the maids has to go with her. It is Helen's arrangement."
"Do you like London, Anna?"
"No. I wish I had stayed at home."
"But why?"
"Well--but I can't tell you every reason."
"Tell me one?"
Anna did not answer. She sat looking out straight before her, her eyes
full of trouble.
"Perhaps it is all nothing, Johnny. I may be fanciful and foolish, and
so take up mistaken notions. Wrong ones, on more points than one."
"Do you mean anything--_there_?"
"Yes. It would be--_I_ think--a terrible misfortune for us, if William
were to engage himself to Sophie Chalk."
"You mean Tod, Anna?" I said, impulsively.
She blushed like a rose. "Down at Whitney I did think it was he; but
since we came here she seems to have changed; to be--to be----"
"Going in for Bill. I put it plainly you see, Anna."
"I cannot help fearing that it would be a very sad mistake for either
of them. Oh, Johnny, I am just tormented out of my peace, doubting
whether or not I ought to speak. Sometimes I say to myself, yes it
would be right, it is my duty. And then again I fancy that I am
altogether mistaken, and that there's nothing for me to say."
"But what could you say, Anna?"
Anna had been nervously winding her thin gold chain round her finger.
She unwound it again before answering.
"Of course--what could I? And if I were to speak, and--and--find there
was no cause," she dreamily added, "I should never forgive myself. The
shame of it would rest upon me throughout life."
"Well, I don't see that, Anna. Just because you fancied things were
serious when they were not so! Where would be the shame?"
"You don't understand, Johnny. _I_ should feel it. And so I wish I had
stayed down at Whitney, out of the reach of torment. I wish another
thing with all my heart--that Helen would not have Sophie Chalk here."
"I think you may take one consolation to yourself, Anna--that whatever
you might urge against her, it would most likely make not the smallest
difference one way or the other. With Tod I am sure it would not. If he
set his mind on marrying Sophie Chalk, other people's grumbling would
not turn him from it."
"It might depend a little on what the grumblings were," returned Anna,
as if fighting for the last word. "But there; let it drop. I would
rather say no more."
She took up a photograph book, and we began looking over it together.
"Good gracious! Here's Miss Cattledon? Small waist and all!"
Anna laughed. "She had it taken in Bath, and sent it to William. He had
only asked her for it in joke."
"So those studs have never turned up, Anna?"
"No. I wish they would. I should pray night and morning for it, if I
thought it would do no one an injury."
"Johnny!" called out Sir John.
"Yes, sir."
"Come you, and take my hand for five minutes. I have just remembered a
note I ought to have written this afternoon."
"I shall be sure to play badly," I said to Lady Whitney, who had fallen
to Sir John in cutting for partners.
"Oh, my dear, what does it matter?" she kindly answered. "I don't mind
if you do. I do not play well myself."
* * * * *
The next morning Miss Cattledon went out to ten-o'clock daily service.
Miss Deveen said she had taken to the habit of doing so. I wondered
whether it was for the sake of religion, or for that grey-haired curate
who did the prayers. Sitting by ourselves, I told Miss Deveen of the
commission I had from Mrs. Todhetley; and somehow, without my intending
it, she gathered a little more.
"Go by all means, and learn what you can, Johnny. Go at once. I don't
think you need, any of you, be afraid, though," she added, laughing. "I
have seen very much of boy-and-girl love; seen that it rarely comes to
anything. Young men mostly go through one or two such episodes before
settling seriously to the business of life."
The omnibus took me to Oxford Street, and I found my way from thence
to Torriana Square. It proved to be a corner house, its front entrance
being in the square. But there was a smaller entrance on the side
(which was rather a bustling street), and a sort of office window, on
the wire blind of which was written, in white letters, "Mr. Smith,
wine-merchant."
A wine-merchant! Well, I was surprised. Could there be any mistake? No,
it was the right number. But I thought there must be, and stood staring
at the place with both eyes. That _was_ a come-down. Not but that
wine-merchants are as good as other people; only Sophie Chalk had
somehow imparted the notion of their living up to lords and ladies.
I asked at the front-door for Mrs. Smith, and was shown upstairs to a
handsome drawing-room. A little girl, with a sallow face, thin and
sickly, was seated there. She did not get up, only stared at me with her
dark, keen, deep-set eyes.
"Do you know where your mamma is, Miss Trot?" asked the servant, putting
a chair.
"You can go and search for her?"
She looked at me so intently as the maid left the room, that I told her
who I was, and what I had come for. The child's tongue--it seemed as
sharp a one as Miss Cattledon's--was let loose.
"I have heard of you, Johnny Ludlow. Mrs. Smith would be glad to see
you. You had better wait."
I don't know how it is that I make myself at home with people; or,
rather, that people seem so soon to be at home with me. I don't _try_ to
do it, but it is always so. In two or three minutes, when the girl was
talking to me as freely as though I were her brother, the maid came back
again.
"Miss Trot, I cannot find your mamma."
"Mrs. Smith's out. But I was not obliged to tell you so. I'll not spare
you any work when you call me Miss Trot."
The maid's only answer was to leave the room: and the little girl--who
spoke like a woman--shook her dark hair from her face in temper.
"I've told them over and over again I will not be called Miss Trot. How
would you like it? Because my mamma took to say it when I was a baby, it
is no reason why other people should say it."
"Perhaps your mamma says it still, and so they fall into it also."
"My mamma is dead."
Just at the moment I did not take in the meaning of the words. "Mrs.
Smith dead!"
"Mrs. Smith is not my mother. Don't insult me, please. She came here as
my governess. If papa chose to make a fool of himself by marrying her
afterwards, it was not my fault. What are you looking at?"
I was looking at her: she seemed so strange a child; and feeling
slightly puzzled between the other Mrs. Smith and this one. They say I
am a muff at many things; I am sure I am at understanding complicated
relationships.
"Then--Miss Chalk is--_this_ Mrs. Smith's sister?"
"Well, you might know that. They are a pair, and I don't like either of
them. There are two crying babies upstairs now."
"Mrs. Smith's?"
"Yes, Mrs. Smith's"--with intense aggravation. "Papa had quite enough
with me, and I could have managed the house and servants as well as
_she_ does. And because Nancy Chalk was not enough, in addition we must
be never safe from Sophonisba! Oh, there are crosses in life!"
"Who is Sophonisba?"
"She is Sophonisba."
"Perhaps you mean Sophie Chalk?"
"Her name's not Sophie, or Sophia either. She was christened Sophonisba,
but she hates the name, and takes care to drop it always. She is a deep
one, is Sophonisba Chalk!"
"Is this her home?"
"She makes it her home, when she's not out teaching. And papa never
seems to think it an encroachment. Sophonisba Chalk does not keep her
places, you know. She thought she had got into something fine last
autumn at Lord Augustus Difford's, but Lady Augustus gave her warning at
the first month's end."
"Then Miss Chalk is a governess?"
"What else do you suppose she is? She comes over people, and gets a
stock of invitations on hand, and goes to them between times. You should
hear the trouble there is about her dresses, that she may make a good
appearance. And how she does it I can't think: they don't tell me their
contrivances. Mrs. Smith must give her some--I am sure of it--which papa
has to pay for; and Sophonisba goes in trust for others."
"She was always dressed well down with us."
"Of course she was. Whitney Hall was her great-card place; but the time
for the visit was so long before it was fixed, she thought it had all
dropped through. It came just right: just when she was turned out of
Lady Augustus Difford's. Helen Whitney had promised it a long while
before."
"I know; when they were schoolfellows at Miss Lakon's."
"They were not schoolfellows. Sophonisba was treated as the rest, but
she was only improving pupil. She gave her services, learnt of some of
the masters, and paid nothing. How old do you think she is?" broke off
Miss Trot.
"About twenty."
"She was six-and-twenty last birthday; and they say she will look like a
child till she's six-and-thirty. I call it a shame for a young woman of
that age to be doing nothing for herself, but to be living on strangers:
and papa and I are nothing else to her."
"How old are you?" I could not help asking.
"Fifteen; nearly sixteen. People take me to be younger, because I am
short, and it vexes me. They would not think me young if they knew how I
feel. Oh, I can tell you it is a sharpening thing for your papa to marry
again, and to find yourself put down in your own home."
"Has Miss Chalk any engagement now?"
"She has not had an engagement all this year, and now it's April! I
don't believe she looks after one. She pretends to teach me--while she's
waiting, she says; but it's all a farce; I won't learn of her. I heard
her tell Mr. Everty I was a horrid child. Fancy that!"
"Who is Mr. Everty?"
"Papa's head-clerk. He is a gentleman, you know, and Sophonisba thinks
great things of him. Ah, I could tell something, if I liked! but she put
me on my honour. Oh, she's a sly one! Just now, she is all her time at
the Whitneys', red-hot for it. You are not going? Stay to luncheon."
"I must go; Miss Deveen will be waiting for me. You can deliver the
parcel, please, with Mrs. Todhetley's message. I will call in to see
Mrs. Smith another day."
"And to see me too?" came the quick retort.
"Yes, of course."
"Now, mind, you can't break your word. I shall say it is me you are
coming to call upon; they think I am nobody in this house. Ask for
_Miss_ Smith when you come. Good-bye, Johnny Ludlow!"
She never stirred as I shook hands; she seemed never to have stirred
hand or foot throughout the interview. But, as I opened the door, there
came an odd sort of noise, and I turned to look what it was.
She. Hastening to cross the room, with a crutch, to ring the bell! And I
saw that she was both lame and deformed.
In passing down the side street by the office, some one brushed by,
with the quick step of a London business man. Where had I seen the
face before? Whose did it put me in mind of? Why--it came to me all in
a minute--Roger Monk's! He who had lived at Dyke Manor for a short
time as head-gardener under false auspices. But, as I have not said
anything about him before, I will not enter into the history now.
Before I could turn to look, Monk had disappeared; no doubt round the
corner of the square.
"Tod," I said, as soon as I came across him, "Sophie Chalk's a
governess."
"Well, what of that?" asked Tod.
"Not much; but she might as well have been candid with us at Dyke
Manor."
"A governess is a lady."
"Ought to be. But why did she make out to us that she had been a
visitor at the Diffords', when she was only the teacher? We should
have respected her just as much; perhaps made more of her."
"What are you cavilling at? As if a lady was never a teacher before!"
"Oh, Tod! it is not that. Don't you see?--if she had kept a chandler's
shop, and been open about it, what should we have cared? It was the
sailing under false colours; trying to pass herself off for what she is
not."
He gave no answer to this, except a whistle.
"She is turned six-and-twenty, Tod. And she was not a school-girl at
Miss Lakon's, but governess-pupil."
"I suppose she was a schoolgirl once?"
"I suppose she was."
"Good. What else have you to say, wise Johnny?"
"Nothing."
Nothing; for where was the use? Sophie Chalk would have been only
an angel in his eyes, though he heard that she had sold apples at a
street-corner. Sophie, that very morning, had begged Lady Whitney to let
her instruct the younger children, "as a friend," so long as they were
in town; for the governess at Whitney was a daily one, and they had not
brought her. Lady Whitney at first demurred, and then kissed Sophie for
her goodness. The result was, that a bed was found for Miss Chalk, and
she stayed with them altogether.
But I can't say much for the teaching. It was not Sophie Chalk's fault,
perhaps. Helen would be in the schoolroom, and Harry would be there; and
I and Anna sometimes; and Tod and Bill always. Lady Whitney looked upon
this London sojourn as a holiday, and did not mind whether the children
learnt or played, provided they were kept passably quiet. I told Sophie
of my visit to take the fichu, and she made a wry face over the lame
girl.
"That Mabel Smith! Poor morbid little object! What she would have grown
into but for the fortunate chance of my sister's marrying into the
house, I can't imagine, Johnny. I'll draw you her portrait in her
night-cap, by-and-by."
The days went on. We did have fun: but war was growing up between
William Whitney and Tod. There could no longer be a mistake (to those
who understood things and kept their eyes open) of the part Sophie Chalk
was playing: and that was trying to throw Tod over for William Whitney,
and to make no fuss about it, I don't believe she cared a brass button
for either: but Bill's future position in life would be better than
Tod's, seeing that his father was a baronet. Bill was going in for her
favour; perhaps not seriously: it might have been for the fun of the
moment, or to amuse himself by spiting Tod. Sir John and my lady never
so much as dreamt of the by-playing going on before their faces, and I
don't think Helen did.
"I told you she'd fascinate the eyes out of your head, Bill, give her
the chance," said I to him one day in the schoolroom, when Miss Chalk
was teaching her pupils to dance.
"You shut up, Johnny," he said, laughing, and shied the atlas at me.
Before the day was out, there was a sharp, short quarrel. They were
all coming for the evening to Miss Deveen's. I went in at dusk to tell
them not to make it nine at night. Turning into the drawing-room, I
interrupted a scene--Bill Whitney and Tod railing at one another. What
the bone of contention was I never knew, for they seemed to have reached
the end of it.
"You did," said Tod.
"I did not," said Bill.
"I tell you, you _did_, William Whitney."
"Let it go; it's word against word, and we shall never decide it. You
are mistaken, Todhetley; but I am not going to ask your leave as to what
I shall do, or what I shan't."
"You have no right to say to Miss Chalk what I heard you saying to-day."
"I tell you, you did not hear me say anything of the sort. Put it that
you did--what business is it of yours? If I chose to go in for her, to
ask her to be the future Lady Whitney--though it may be many a year, I
hope, before I step into my father's place, good old man!--who has the
right to say me nay?"
Tod was foaming. Dusk though it was, I could see that. They took no more
account of my being present, than of Harry's little barking dog.
"Look here, Bill Whitney. If----"
"Are you boys quarrelling?"
The interruption was Anna's. Passing through the hall, she had heard the
voices and looked in. As if glad of the excuse to get away, Bill Whitney
followed her from the room. Tod went out and banged the hall-door after
him.
I waited, thinking Anna might come in, and strolled into the little
drawing-room. There, quiet as a mouse, stood Sophie Chalk. She had been
listening, for certain; and I hope it gratified her: her eyes sparkled
a little.
"Why, Johnny! was it _you_ making all that noise? What was the matter?
Anything gone wrong?"
It was all very fine to try it on with me. I just looked straight at
her, and I think she saw as much. Saying something about going to search
for Helen, she left the room.
"What was the trouble, Johnny?" whispered Anna, stealing up to me.
"Only those two having a jar."
"I heard that. But what was it about? Sophie Chalk?"
"Well, yes; that was it, Anna."
We were at the front window then. A man was lighting the street-lamps,
and Anna seemed to be occupied in watching him. There was enough care on
her face to set one up in the dismals for life.
"No harm may come of it, Anna. Any way, you can do nothing."
"Oh, Johnny, I wish I knew!" she said, clasping her hands. "I wish
I could satisfy myself which way _right_ lies. If I were to speak,
it might be put down to a wrong motive. I try to see whether that
thought is not a selfish one, whether I ought to let it deter me. But
then--that's not the worst."
"That sounds like a riddle, Anna."
"I wish I had some good, judicious person who would hear all and judge
for me," she said, rather dreamily. "If you were older, Johnny, I think
I would tell you."
"I am as old as you are, at any rate."
"That's just it. We are neither of us old enough nor experienced enough
to trust to our own judgment."
"There's your mother, Anna."
"I know."
"What you mean is, that Sir John and Lady Whitney ought to have their
eyes opened to what's going on, that they may put an end to Miss Chalk's
intimacy here, if they deem the danger warrants it?"
"That's near enough, Johnny. And I don't see my way sufficiently clearly
to do it."
"Put the case to Helen."
"She would only laugh in my face. Hush! here comes some one."
It was Sophie Chalk. She looked rather sharply at us both, and said she
could not find Helen anywhere.
And the days were to go on in outward smoothness and private discomfort,
Miss Sophie exercising her fascinations on the whole of us.
* * * * *
But for having promised that lame child to call again in Torriana
Square, I should not have cared to go. It was afternoon this time. The
servant showed me upstairs, and said her mistress was for the moment
engaged. Mabel Smith sat in the same seat in her black frock; some books
lay on a small table drawn before her.
"I thought you had forgotten to come."
"Did you? I should be sure not to forget it."
"I am so tired of my lessons," she said, irritably, sweeping the books
away with her long thin fingers. "I always am when _they_ teach me. Mrs.
Smith has kept me at them for two hours; she has gone down now to engage
a new servant."
"I get frightfully tired of my lessons sometimes."
"Ah, but not as I do; you can run about: and learning, you know, will
never be of use to me. I want you to tell me something. Is Sophonisba
Chalk going to stay at Lady Whitney's?"
"I don't know. They will not be so very long in town."
"But I mean is she to be governess there, and go into the country with
them?"
"No, I think not."
"She wants to. If she does, papa says he shall have some nice young lady
to sit with me and teach me. Oh, I do hope she will go with them, and
then the house would be rid of her. I say she will: it is too good a
chance for her to let slip. Mrs. Smith says she won't: she told Mr.
Everty so last night. He wouldn't believe her, and was very cross over
it."
"Cross over it?"
"He said Sophonisba ought not to have gone there at all without
consulting him, and that she had not been home once since, and only
written him one rubbishing note that had nothing in it; and he asked
Mrs. Smith whether she thought that was right."
A light flashed over me. "Is Miss Chalk going to marry Mr. Everty?"
"I suppose that's what it will come to," answered the curious child.
"She has promised to; but promises with her don't go for much when it
suits her to break them. Sophonisba put me on my honour not to tell; but
now that Mr. Everty has spoken to Mrs. Smith and papa, it is different.
I saw it a long while ago; before she went to the Diffords'. I have
nothing to do but to sit and watch and think, you see, Johnny Ludlow;
and I perceive things quicker than other people."
"But--why do you fancy Miss Chalk may break her promise to Mr. Everty?"
"If she meant to keep it, why should she be scheming to go away as the
Whitneys' governess? I know what it is: Sophonisba does not think Mr.
Everty good enough for her, but she would like to keep him waiting on,
for fear of not getting anybody better."
Anything so shrewd as Mabel Smith's manner in saying this, was never
seen. I don't think she was naturally ill-natured, poor thing; but she
evidently thought she was being wronged amongst them, and it made her
spitefully resentful.
"Mr. Everty had better let her go. It is not I that would marry a wife
who dyed her hair."
"Is Miss Chalk's dyed? I thought it might be the gold dust."
"Have you any eyes?" retorted Mabel. "When she was down in the country
with you her hair was brown; it's a kind of yellow now. Oh, she knows
how to set herself off, I can tell you. Do you happen to remember who
was reigning in England when the massacre of St. Bartholomew took place
in France?"
The change of subject was sudden. I told her it was Queen Elizabeth.
"Queen Elizabeth, was it? I'll write it down. Mrs. Smith says I shall
have no dessert to-day, if I don't tell her. She puts those questions
only to vex me. As if it mattered to anybody. Oh, here's papa!"