THE DANVERS FAMILY
In spite of her settled conviction that, weary though she was, she was
far too miserable to close an eye that night. Margaret's slumbers were
sound. A vigorous banging on a door in the near neighbourhood of her
own, a banging which was answered by a sleepy and irritable yell, roused
her about six o'clock the next morning. Otherwise she could have slept on
for another hour or more. But once awake further sleep was impossible.
Not only were her neighbours exceedingly noisy--from snatches of
conversation shouted across the passage as they dressed, Margaret
gathered that most of the junior members of the house were going down to
the sea to bathe--but her own thoughts were of themselves sufficient to
keep her awake. She had fallen asleep the night before with the dismal
thought in her mind that though her long desired wish to stay in a house
full of young people had been most unexpectedly realised, the very first
thing she had done was to declare enmity with all of them, and the
depressing fact came vividly before her mind the instant she awoke. She
found herself wishing most fervently that she had been content to remain
Margaret Anstruther, and had never met Eleanor Carson, or conceived the
mad idea of changing places with her. However, as it was obviously too
late to entertain reflections of that sort now, she made an effort to
dismiss that unprofitable wish from her mind, and in order to divert her
thoughts the more effectually, resolved, early though it was, to get up.
As soon as the sound of many feet clattering noisily downstairs told her
that the coast was clear, she found her way to the bathroom, and having
bathed and dressed felt more courage to face the trials of the day that
lay before her.
There was no one about as she went downstairs, and she passed out through
the open front door and went into the garden.
The Cedars--described by the local house agents as one of the finest
residential mansions in Seabourne--stood in about three acres of ground,
which, though to Margaret accustomed to the big gardens of the country,
seemed a small enough piece of land to belong to such an imposing looking
house as The Cedars, was in reality unusually large for a town where
property was so valuable and ground rents as enormous as they were in
Seabourne. The grounds had been laid out to the utmost advantage. A wide
lawn, planted here and there with clumps of flowering shrubs, sloped
slightly away from the front of the house, and at the bottom of it lay
two sunk tennis courts surrounded by high wire-netting. On the other side
of the drive were kitchen and fruit gardens.
Her tour of the grounds finished, Margaret conceived the idea of going on
to the downs, the foot of which were scarcely a stone's throw away from
the gate, and seeing if she could discover in which direction Windy Gap
lay. It was still quite early and she had plenty of time at her disposal
before breakfast. It was a stiff climb to the top of the downs and took
longer than she had thought, even though she left the white road that
went zigzagging to the summit and took a short cut up an exceedingly
steep footpath. But the view that she got when she reached the top
brought a little cry of amazed wonder to her lips, and she felt amply
repaid for her long, toilsome climb. Accustomed as she had been all her
life to the flat, tame scenery that surrounded her native village, she
had had no idea that anything as lovely as this could exist. Never had
she seen anything like it. The wide downs appeared to stretch away for
miles and miles in front of her forming undulating hills and valleys.
Below, at the foot of the high white cliffs that now rose to a dizzy
height sheer above the water, and now dipped almost to its level, lay the
sea glittering and sparkling in the sunlight. For the most part the downs
were bare and wind-swept, but in the hollows small villages nestled with
here and there a square grey tower rising through the trees that
surrounded the tiny hamlets. One of these she felt sure must be Windy
Gap, because looking eastwards she could see the flat, marshy ground
through which the train had taken them the day before, and though of this
she could not be certain, for a light mist veiled the distant view, she
even thought she could descry the long white road leading upwards to the
downs from the plain beneath them.
Somewhere over there, then, Eleanor was at that moment, and whatever else
she might be doing she was not roaming at her own sweet will on the
hillside as she, Margaret, was at that moment doing. And her intense
satisfaction at the thought of her own freedom swept away the few
uncomfortable doubts and fears that had been harassing her ever since she
awoke that morning. Come what might, she would enjoy herself she thought
determinedly.
But as a matter of fact the invigorating, bracing air, the brilliant
sunshine pouring down on land and sea, had already acted like a tonic
upon Margaret's spirits, her troubles seemed to roll away of their own
accord and she felt that it would be impossible not to be happy at The
Cedars.
So, much the better for her walk, she presently climbed down the hill
again, and turned into the road that led homewards. The windows of the
dining-room looked on to the drive, and as she passed them she saw that
every one was seated at breakfast, and it was with an inward and very
rapid sinking of the heart that she realised that she would have to go in
late and face the entire assembled party.
An access of terrible shyness rushed over her at the thought, and to
delay the evil moment as much as possible she went up to her room and
took off her hat and smoothed her hair. But she could not linger over
that operation indefinitely, especially as a housemaid who had already
arrived to do her room volunteered the information that the breakfast
gong had sounded nearly a quarter of an hour ago. With slow, reluctant
feet that halted at every step Margaret went down the wide, shallow
stairs. If any one had told her three days ago that she would go thus
laggingly to resume acquaintance with a room full of young people she
would have found difficulty in believing them. A buzz of talk and
laughter struck loudly on her ear as she pushed the door open and went
in.
Every member of the family, except Mrs. Danvers who never came down to
breakfast, were assembled in the room, and, or so at least it seemed to
Margaret as she hung for a moment unperceived in a hesitating manner on
the threshold, they were all talking together.
In addition, Maud, who presumably occupied her mother's place at the head
of the table, but who had vacated it for the time being, was balancing
herself on the fender reading out scraps of news from a letter she held
in her hand.
One of the two cadets had evidently only just made his appearance at
breakfast, for he was standing at the sideboard, complaining, as he
lifted the covers and inspected the contents of the hot dishes, that not
a single thing worth eating had been left for him.
"You shouldn't be such a lazy person then," called a girl who was seated
near Geoffrey. "Of course, the early birds get all the worms."
"I am sorry, Miss Joan, that you liken our good food to worms," said the
boy, as, having passed the contents of all the dishes in review, he slid
a couple of poached eggs and a few rashers of bacon on to his plate, and
took his seat beside the girl who had called out the remark.
"I was speaking comparatively," she said in a condescending tone, as she
tilted her nose in the air. "I have heard before that one should not
speak comparatively to boys of your age, and now I know."
At that there arose a delighted shout of laughter, and Maud called across
from the fireplace that little girls should not use words they could not
understand. "You meant figuratively, my dear Joan," she said.
Joan, who looked about sixteen, tossed the long, fair pigtail in which
she wore her hair over her shoulder and began readily enough to join in
the laughter to which her mistake had just given rise. But all of a
sudden her countenance changed, and appearing to fly into a violent
passion she started up from her chair, and stamped her foot and cried
out:--
"I won't be laughed at, I won't, I won't! I hate you all!"
And burying her face in her handkerchief, she raced across the room, and
dashed full tilt into Margaret who was still hesitating unperceived in
the doorway.
At that a sound like a little gasp went up from the others, and though
the gasp was in some cases followed by a little giggle, to their credit
be it said most of the young faces wore a look of concern that Margaret
should have made her appearance just in time to hear her outburst of the
night before mimicked for the general amusement. Would she get angry
again, or would she burst out crying? From what they had seen of her the
night before, she was quite as likely to do one as the other. But to the
general surprise she did neither, and for the simple reason that she had
failed to grasp the fact that Joan's grief was all a sham, and that it
was she herself who was being made game of. Joan, after one swift glimpse
to see against whom it was she had so violently cannoned, turned away,
and dropping her face in her handkerchief, again appeared to cry
violently. Margaret felt quite sorry for her, and forgetting all her
shyness tried to comfort her.
"I know how unpleasant it is to be laughed at," she whispered in her ear;
"but if you pretend not to mind and laugh back you will not mind it so
much."
But Margaret's sympathy, far from making Joan ashamed of herself, amused
her immensely, and keeping her face turned away from Margaret, she looked
up out of her handkerchief and winked at the others and giggled. But when
she found that no one else was laughing, her own giggles died away, and
she began to sidle uncomfortably towards her chair.
Though none of the others had heard what Margaret had whispered to her,
they had guessed, from the sympathetic expression of her face, that she
had taken Joan's pretence of rage for a real outburst, and was comforting
her; and that in spite of that, Joan should still wish to make game of
her seemed to them horribly unfair. Geoffrey was the first to show his
disapproval of Joan's conduct. A joke was a joke, he thought, but his
young cousin must be taught that she could not make game of a fellow
guest--not without their sanction, at any rate. So getting up and coming
round the table, he shook hands with Margaret, wished her good morning,
and found a place for her next him.
"Come back to the table and do your duty, Maud," he said, as his sister
showed no signs of moving from the fireplace; "or if you want to go off,
let Hilary take your place. There are several of us wanting more tea.
Will you have tea or coffee, Miss Carson?"
"I'll pour out for you, Maud," Hilary said, starting up.
"No, you won't, my dear," Maud said, coming back to her place. "I haven't
half finished my brekker. But I thought you had had breakfast ages ago,
Miss Carson, with the kids in the nursery."
"Oh, ought I to have had my breakfast there?" Margaret said
uncomfortably, letting the fork she had just taken up fall with a clatter
on to her plate.
Maud shrugged her shoulders. "There is no ought about it," she said
carelessly. "But the kids do have their breakfast in the nursery, and
I believe the idea was that you should have yours there with them."
"Well, any way, Miss Carson," put in Geoffrey pleasantly, "you show your
good taste in preferring our society to theirs. Our manners may leave a
good deal to be desired"--though he did not glance at Joan, that young
person knew well that her recent behaviour was in his mind, and got very
red--"but theirs are worse. Their sense of humour is distinctly inferior,
and they think it awfully funny to put salt in your tea, and to mix
mustard with your pudding when you aren't looking, and things of that
sort, you know."
No one knew better than her brother that Maud's remark had not been
intended to convey a hint that Miss Carson's place as governess was with
her young charges. The disagreeable habit of implying things was not one
of Maud's faults. Innuendos were beneath her--what she wanted to say she
said outright. But sometimes, as in this case, her brother wished she was
not so utterly indifferent to the effect her bluntness produced. It was
because he had seen Margaret wince under it that he had exerted himself
to remove any unpleasant impression that her words might have left on the
holiday governess's mind.
"I--I do like your company best, of course," Margaret said. Then, with a
heightening colour, and in a stammering, choked voice which showed what
an effort it was to overcome her shyness and speak so that every one
could hear, she said, "I beg your pardon for saying last night that I
hated you all. Of course, it was not true."
"That is a great weight off our minds," said Maud in a tone of
raillery. "Now we can breathe again. We were so afraid that you
hadn't--well--exactly taken to us last night."
The light-hearted way in which she spoke quite robbed the words of any
sting they might otherwise have conveyed, and Margaret was able to join
in the laughter which this very mild way of describing the feeling she
had shown the previous night evoked.
She was finding out that very little made the Danvers laugh, and when she
came to think it over, she arrived at the right conclusion that she found
this surprising, not because they laughed more than other young people,
but because she had been used to the society of people who laughed so
very much less. But anything seemed to serve with them as a cause for
laughter. If the joke were a good one it evoked hearty laughter, if it
were a bad one the perpetrator was laughed at; and if fresh jokes, good
or bad, ran short, there was seemingly an endless store of old ones to be
drawn upon, supplemented by catchwords and phrases from the latest
musical comedy. These, of course, were even more unintelligible to
Margaret than the rest of the queer, scrappy talk that made up the bulk
of their conversation; but as she made no attempt to share in it, the
fact that even their most everyday slang expressions were strange to her,
passed unnoticed. For the most part, however, they were too much occupied
with their own affairs to have much attention to spare for her; and it
dawned upon Margaret, before even that first meal in their society was
ended, that she need not have been afraid that they would bear malice
against her for her outburst of the night before. They were really
scarcely interested enough in her to do that. Under cover of the brisk
chatter that went on round her, she took the opportunity of glancing
round the table and studying the various members of the household.
With the exception of herself they numbered eight, and though there
had been considerably more young people than that present in the
billiard-room last night, she gathered from the conversation that was
going on round her that, during the holidays at least, Mrs. Danvers kept
a sort of open house for all the friends of her own children.
Opposite Margaret, on Geoffrey's other hand, sat Joan Green. Though she
was only fifteen, she looked at least a year older, in spite of the fact
that she wore her hair in a long, thick plait down her back. Margaret,
who was still under the impression that Joan had been flying from the
room in a rage as she came in, and that she had been the means of
soothing her back to a better temper, was a little hurt and puzzled at
the studious way in which Joan's eyes avoided hers. Once when she had
caught their glance for a moment, and had smiled a friendly recognition
into them, she had been rewarded by a cold glare that had quite startled
her. Next to Joan sat Hilary, and the two girls had seemingly a great
deal to say to each other, for though now and again they joined in the
general conversation, for the most part they talked together in
undertones audible to themselves alone. Hilary's face was a pale likeness
of Maud's. Her eyes were not so blue, nor was her complexion so tanned as
her sister's, and though her features resembled Maud's sufficiently
closely to cause them to be easily recognised as sisters, Hilary's face
lacked the look of sparkling vivacity which made Maud's face so
attractive. On the other side of Hilary and next to Maud sat Jack, with
his brother Noel, the other naval cadet, facing him. Then came Nancy, the
girl who had offered Margaret chocolates and advice the previous evening,
and when she caught Margaret's eyes now she smiled and nodded as much as
to say she quite understood the latter's desire to find out what they
were all like.
Nancy was not the only person who had noted the way in which Margaret's
eyes had been travelling round the table, for when the turn of the boy
next to her came to be inspected, she was startled to hear Geoffrey on
the other side of her say:--
"Don't waste time on him, Miss Carson. He's not worth it, I assure you;
that's only Edward--Silly Ned as we call him. You must call him that too;
he never answers to any other name."
"Oh!" said Margaret, glancing with some apprehension at the small boy on
her left as though she feared that he might think she was really going to
call him anything of the sort.
Though he, too, was unmistakably a Danvers, he was more like Hilary than
any of the others. He was a small, thin, delicate-looking boy, and he
wore spectacles.
"Yes, we call him Silly Ned because he has all the brains of the family.
He looks a mere child, doesn't he? But he's a sixth form boy at his
college, and he got a Mathematical Exhibition last term. He's also a
brilliant member of the cricket eleven. We try to take him down a peg or
two in the holidays, but it isn't much good. His prizes and his cricket
combined have made him too big for his boots. A nice little boy ruined,
that's what he is."
"Oh, shut up, Geoffrey," Edward said; "sarcasm isn't really your line,
you know."
"Meaning that it is his, or one of his," commented Geoffrey; "you see for
yourself what a bumptious babe it is, Miss Carson. Well, and now that you
have taken silent stock of us all, won't you tell us what you think of
us? But answer me one thing to start with. Which, in your opinion, makes
the most noise at breakfast, a girl's school, or the Danvers family?"
"Oh, I do not know, because I have never----" began Margaret, and then
stopped in great confusion, realising that she had been about to say that
she had never seen a girl's school at breakfast, and conscious that Joan,
who had overheard Geoffrey's question and her answer, was staring across
at her in obvious astonishment.
"Why, I thought you had come fresh from a school, Miss Carson," she said.
Before Margaret had time to answer a shout of laughter from Maud and the
two boys on either side of her drowned all chance of any one making their
voice heard at the other end of the table, and by the time comparative
quiet was restored Margaret had collected her wits, and had remembered
the part she was playing. She did not even look disconcerted when
Geoffrey, whose attention had been momentarily diverted from her by the
noise at the other end of the table, said thoughtfully:--
"You know, if the remark isn't rather a personal one--which it is by the
way--you aren't my idea of a governess a bit."
For it was so evident that he entertained no suspicion at all of the real
facts of the case that she saw there was no occasion for alarm. She even
smiled as she asked him in her prim, old-fashioned way in what respect
she then differed from the picture of a governess he had in his mind's
eye.
"Well, it isn't exactly that you look too young, for I know governesses
at girl's schools are young nowadays, and that they play games, and all
that. But you don't look to me quite self-confident or self-opinionated
enough. Eh! What do you think, Joan? Is Miss Carson your idea of a school
governess either?"
"No," said Joan promptly; and then Margaret, who could not know that Joan
had answered in the negative with the idea of giving the reply that she
fancied Margaret would like least, did change countenance a little. For
Joan's "No" was so very decisive. And it did not make her feel any the
more comfortable to know that Joan's eyes were fixed unblinkingly, and
pitilessly, on her blushes. For a moment Joan stared and Margaret
blushed, the latter miserably conscious meanwhile that if she wanted to
draw down suspicion upon herself she had only to continue to sit there
and look the picture of guilt, and the thing was done.
"Not a bit," Joan added with much emphasis, and in the amiable hope of
seeing Margaret look still more out of countenance.
But then Margaret pulled herself together. There had suddenly flashed
into her mind the recollection of the words Eleanor had used when she,
Margaret, had found it hard to believe that Eleanor had been a pupil
teacher and a governess for the last six years. And her excellent memory
coming to her aid, she quoted them now, exactly reproducing even the
light, bantering tone Eleanor had used.
"You write to Miss McDonald," she said, "and ask her what sort of a
governess Miss Carson was. I think she would bristle with indignation if
she were to hear any one doubt that she would have a governess in her
school who was incapable of keeping order. So please throw no cold doubts
on my abilities. The profession of a governess is the only one I am
fitted to follow, and if I was no good at that I should be hard put to it
to earn a living."
"Upon my word," murmured Maud to one of the boys, "the silent Miss Carson
is making quite a speech down at the other end of the table."
"I promise never to doubt your capabilities again," said Geoffrey with
mock solemnity. "We are satisfied that Miss Carson really is a governess,
aren't we, Joan?" he added, turning to his cousin.
"Oh, quite," said Joan slowly. Though she had not yet put the thought
into words Joan thought dimly that it was rather curious of Miss Carson
to insist so strongly on the fact that she had been a governess. Of
course, they all knew that beforehand, so why make such a point of it.
Hilary and Joan were the first to get up from table, and with linked arms
they sauntered out on to the terrace, their heads close together.
Margaret felt certain from a backward glance they threw in her direction
as they went out that they were whispering about her, and the knowledge
made her vaguely uncomfortable.
"Well, I suppose you two are off sailing again," said Maud to the two
cadets. "I should have thought you would have had enough of the sea in
term-time, and be glad enough to stay on shore when you got a chance."
"And that from a girl who thinks she knows everything," said one of the
boys in disgusted accents. "Did she think, then, that Osborne is a
sailing ship, or what?"
"Oh, well, you know what I mean," said Maud equably.
"I'll stay on shore, as you call it, like a shot, Maud," said Jack, "if
you'll give us a game of tennis. Come on now, you and I against Noel and
Nancy."
"Not taking any, thanks," was Maud's retort. "Get Hilary instead of me,
and the set would be all right."
"Oh, Hilary plays a rotten game!" said Jack, with true brotherly
frankness. "She can't play for nuts, and she talks all the time, and
won't run, and loses her temper."
"Hilary would be pleased if she heard you," remarked Maud lazily, as she
rose and strolled across to the fireplace.
"Oh, I hear, and I don't care two straws," called her sister from the
terrace. But her face, which was as black as thunder, looked as if she
did care nevertheless.
"Catch me wasting a whole day playing tennis," said Geoffrey. "I'm as
keen on a game as any one in the afternoon, but I am not going to be
glued to one little patch of grass all day."
"Of course not," put in Edward; "your favourite form of amusement we all
know nowadays, is to lie flat on your back on a dusty road tinkering at
your old motor-bike."
"And yours, apparently, to try and be funny at the expense of your elders
and betters," retorted Geoffrey. "Say much more, young man, and I'll take
you out in the trailer."
"Oh, but I wish you would, Geoffrey."
"Not much. The mater says she can't spare any of us yet, and certainly
not the "Hope of His Side." So trot away to your Latin essays, my son,
and don't waste time in idling like the rest of us."
"As a matter of fact, I'm going down to the cricket-ground with Tommy to
practice at the nets a bit with the professional," said Edward, nettled
at the imputation that he was going to spend the morning indoors. He was
not vain of his brains, but he was of his cricket, and though wild horses
would not have dragged from him the confession that he read Greek for
pleasure long after he ought to have been asleep, he would brag of his
batting averages to any one who would listen.
At that moment a maid entered the room and approached Margaret.
"If you please, Miss," she said, "the mistress says, will you wait for
her in the morning-room. She will be down in a moment, and wishes to
speak to you before you go out."
Margaret jumped up at once, glad of an excuse to leave the room, for
though she had finished her breakfast long before any of the others, she
had been too shy to rise and go away. Besides, she had not the least idea
where she ought to go, or what she ought to do.
"No need for you to hurry, Miss Carson," Maud called after her. "Mother's
minutes generally mean hours."
And in that Maud proved to have been right, for an hour and a quarter
passed before Mrs. Danvers made her belated appearance in the
morning-room. But as there was a goodly supply of magazines and
illustrated papers, Margaret did not find the time hang heavily on her
hands.
Truth to say, she was glad to be alone, and the knowledge that such was
the case depressed her very much. She had looked forward to the society
of other young people as the greatest happiness earth could give her, and
it was discouraging to find that the realisation of her wish was as yet
bringing her very little pleasure. She felt awkward and terribly shy in
their company, and she had an uneasy consciousness that they looked upon
her as a poor sort of creature, and very uninteresting--what, in short,
she said sadly to herself, for she was already picking up some of their
expressions--they would have called a bore.
When at last Mrs. Danvers did make her appearance she was full of
apologies for having kept Margaret waiting so long.
"You must blame the cook, my dear," she said cheerily, "not me. Oh, dear,
I am glad to sit down!"
She sank into a low easy chair with an air of fatigue, and Margaret
seeing her look round for a footstool, brought her one and placed it
under her feet.
"Thank you, my dear," she said, "and now if you will get me my knitting
from that table in the corner we will have a nice, cosy chat. Thank
goodness my work for the day is all done!" Ten minutes spent in the
kitchen assenting to all that a very excellent cook-housekeeper suggested
constituted Mrs. Danvers "work for the day." "There are many things I
wanted to ask you about my old friend and cousin, Miss McDonald. By the
way, what do you think of the children?"
When Margaret answered that she had not yet seen them, Mrs. Danvers,
after a short pause of astonishment, gave a vexed laugh. At least, to
start with, the laugh was tinged with vexation; but as she continued to
laugh the feeling of annoyance was merged into one of hearty amusement.
"That's Hannah all over," she said. "Hannah is jealous of you. She is
their nurse, you know, and has been with them since they have been born.
She's the only person who can manage them. I can't, and their mother
can't, though Joanna would be very angry if she heard I had said that.
But I told Hannah to bring the children down to see you here after
breakfast. However, as she did not choose to do so, it is no good
annoying her by saying anything about it. I will take you up to the
nurseries presently, when we have had that nice little chat about my dear
cousin. But Joanna," she said, reverting to her daughter and her
children, "is always going in for new systems with them. At one time her
theory was that they must not be spoiled by having any notice taken of
them. During that period they lived entirely in the nursery. I remember I
was staying there at the time, and I thought I had never enjoyed a visit
to my daughter so much. Next time I went the children were being brought
up in the fashion of their great-grandmothers. They were taught to say
'Ma'am' to their mother, and 'Sir' to their father, and were not allowed
to sit down in their presence, and never, never to speak unless they were
spoken to. I enjoyed that visit too. But the latest and the reigning idea
is that they are not to be thwarted or crossed in any way, and as for
being punished such barbarity is not to be thought of. If detected in
naughtiness they are to be reasoned with only, and if the naughtiness
is persisted in it is to be taken for granted that the small sinners are
ill, and must be gently nursed into good health and goodness again."
As she listened to this Margaret came to the conclusion that their mother
must be an extraordinarily silly woman, but when Mrs. Danvers went on to
add that Joanna, after expounding her new theory in detail, had gone away
to Norway to fish with her husband, and left her mother to find out how
it worked, Margaret smiled outright.
Mrs. Danvers laughed too. "It is rather funny," she said in her
good-natured way, "and the worst of it is that Joanna made me promise to
give her system a fair trial, and as I never broke my word to any of my
children yet, I am giving it a fair trial. And that is why, my dear, I am
so glad of your help. When Miss McDonald wrote to me and asked me if I
could find a holiday engagement for one of her governesses, I jumped at
the chance of having you. For, I said to myself that a governess of
Gertrude McDonald's would, of course, have discipline and all that sort
of thing at her fingers ends."
"Of course," said poor Margaret rather feebly, as Mrs. Danvers paused not
so much for a reply as to gain breath.
"Unyielding firmness without harshness on your side, implicit obedience
without fear on theirs is what Joanna aims at I believe," said Mrs.
Danvers cheerfully, "and it certainly sounds a delightful method. By the
way, if you get on with the children, Joanna has an idea of asking you to
stay with her permanently. She is going out to California next spring,
and will have to look out for a governess to go with her, as, of course,
she is taking the children. Would you like to go, or do you prefer
school-work?"
"I--I don't know," stammered Margaret, who totally unprepared for such
a proposition, did not know what answer to make. "I should have to ask
El----(my friend, I mean) what she thought of it. Ask her advice, I
mean."
"Quite so, quite so," Mrs. Danvers said. "But that's all in the future,
of course. The first thing you have to do is to make the acquaintance of
the children, and, as I said, Hannah has evidently carefully kept them up
in the nursery this morning. She is devoted to them, and can't bear the
idea of having to share her charge of them with a governess. So I am
afraid you may have a little unpleasantness to put up with at first. But
she is a good creature, and if you exercise a little tact you will soon
be able to smooth her down."
"Yes," said Margaret even more feebly than before. But Mrs. Danvers was
not an observant woman, and she was so far from suspecting the hidden
dismay with which her new holiday governess listened to her, that later
in the day she gave it as her opinion that underneath her exceedingly
quiet manner Miss Carson concealed an iron will, and that the reign of
stern discipline she was about to inaugurate would have an excellent
effect on her grandchildren. And she was genuinely astonished at the
derision with which her own children received this prophecy.