MALVERN HOUSE.
"Come what, come may—
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day."
_Macbeth._
A FEW days after her aunt had thus frankly unfolded her plans, Helen
was out shopping,—officiating as companion and carrier to her cousin
Clara—and again encountered Mr. Quentin. He was strolling down
Piccadilly, looking like a drawing from a tailor's fashion plate, and
evidently in a superbly contented frame of mind. On this occasion
(being alone) he condescended to accost Miss Denis, entirely ignoring
their previous meeting in the park.
"Delighted to see you,"—shaking her vigorously by the hand. "And how
long have you been in town?"
"Nearly two months."
"I need not ask you how you are?"—Yes, to himself, she was getting
back her looks—"And where are you staying?"
"With my aunt—in Upper Cream Street."
"Upper Cream Street!" he echoed, with increased respect in his tone,
and a look of faint surprise in his dreamy blue eyes. "Then I shall
certainly make a point of coming to see you.—What is your number?"
"Thank you, very much; but I am leaving on Monday—(this was
Saturday)—and," looking him bravely in the face, she added, "I am
going to a situation. I am going out as a governess."
Mr. Quentin was somewhat disconcerted by this rather blunt
announcement, but he did not lose his presence of mind, and said in his
most airy manner,—
"Oh, really!—well, then, on another occasion I may hope to be more
fortunate—during the holidays, perhaps?" glancing interrogatively at
Clara Platt, who returned his gaze with a stare of dull phlegmatic
hauteur, implying an utter repudiation of her cousin, and all her
concerns.
Turning once more to Helen, he said,—
"Heard any news from Port Blair?"
"No, not lately."
"Awful hole, wasn't it? I wonder we did not all hang ourselves, or go
mad!"
"I liked it very much, I must confess," she replied, rather shyly.
"Oh!" shrugging his shoulders, "every one to their taste, of course.
No doubt it seemed an earthly Paradise to a young lady just out from
school; and you had it all your own way, you know. By-the-by, I wonder
what has become of Lisle? Some one said he was in California,—I
suppose _you_ have not heard?"
There was a half-ironic, half-bantering look in his eyes, and the same
amiable impulse that impelled him to pull the legs off flies when he
was a pretty little boy, was actuating him now.
"I," she stammered, considerably taken aback by this unexpected
question, and meeting his glance with a faint flush,—"Oh, no."
"Well, I see that I am detaining you now,"—with another glance at
Clara—"I hope we shall meet again before long; good-bye," and with
a smile and sweep of his hat, he walked away in a highly effective
manner. He was scarcely out of earshot, ere Miss Platt burst forth, as
if no longer able to restrain herself,—
"Helen, how could you! How _could_ you tell him all our private
affairs. I never was so disgusted in my life. What was the good of
informing him that you were going to be a governess, and, as it were,
thrusting the news down his throat?"
"What was the harm? For the future, of course, he will drop my
acquaintance. Though there is nothing degrading in the post, I am quite
certain that he, as he would call it, 'draws the line at governesses,'
and, indeed,—from what I have heard you say—so do you."
"Don't be impertinent to me, if you please, Helen. I think you totally
forget yourself sometimes, and all you owe to mother and to us."
"You need not be afraid, that I shall _ever_ allow such a heavy
obligation to escape my memory," returned Helen, with complete
equanimity.
Was she likely to forget these months of making, and mending, parcel
carrying, and general slavery to her cousins Clara and Carrie? Her
companion was conscious that there was a hidden sting in this speech,
but contented herself with gobbling some incoherent remark, lost in her
throat, about "ingratitude" and "insolence." After this little skirmish
the two ladies did not exchange another syllable, and they reached
their own hall door in dead silence.
"Odious, detestable girl!" cried Clara to her sister, as she flung off
her hat, and tore off her gloves in their mutual bower. "What do you
think? When we were coming home we met that Mr. Quentin, and he stopped
and talked to her for ever so long, and she never _introduced_ me!"
"Well, I'm sure! However, it was no loss, you know he has not sixpence."
"No; but listen. He asked her where she was staying, and said he was
coming to call, and she actually told him, with the utmost composure,
that he need not mind, as she was going to a situation on Monday as
governess—I was crimson! I'm sure she did it out of pure spite, just
to make me feel uncomfortable."
"Not a doubt of it," acquiesced her sister. "How excessively annoying!
That man knows the Sharpes, and Talbots, and Jenkins', and the whole
thing will come out now; after all the trouble we have taken to keep it
quiet, and telling every one she was going to friends in the suburbs."
"Yes," chimed in Clara, wrathfully. "What possesses people to persecute
us with questions about our cousin—our _pretty_ cousin, forsooth! Such
a sweet-looking, interesting girl. Pah! I'm perfectly sick of her name,
and the prying and pushing of one's acquaintance, is really shameless.
Old Mrs. Parsons has returned to the charge again and again. She has no
more tact or delicacy than a cook. Do we ever worry her, about _her_
poor relations, and 'how they have been _left_,' as she calls it?"
"No, thank goodness," replied Carrie, emphatically; now addressing
herself to her own plain reflection in the looking-glass. "There is
no coarse, vulgar curiosity about _us_, I am happy to say. _We_ are
ladies."
And with this sustaining conviction in their bosoms, these two sweet
sisters descended affectionately arm in arm to luncheon.
On Monday morning, Mrs. Platt herself carried her niece to her future
abode in the family brougham. Their destination was a square, detached,
red brick mansion, remarkable for long rows of windows with brown wire
blinds, an outward air of primness bordering on severity, and a brass
plate on the gate the size of a tea-tray, which bore the following
address: "Malvern House.—Mrs. Kane's establishment for young ladies."
As Helen and her aunt ascended the spotless steps, and rang the
dazzling bell, the sound of many pianos, all discoursing different
tunes, scales, songs, and exercises, was absolutely deafening.
Mrs. Kane received her new governess very graciously, and when Mrs.
Platt had taken her departure, she personally introduced her to the
scene of her future labours without any unnecessary delay, sweeping
down upon the classes with Miss Denis in her train, and launching her
into school-life with a neat little speech, which had done worthy
service on similar occasions.
The school-room was a long apartment, lighted by five windows and lined
with narrow black desks, at which were seated about fifty girls; and
although silence was the rule, a little low buzz, a kind of intangible
humming of the human voice, was distinctly audible to the new arrival,
as she stood in the midst of what, to a timid young woman, would have
seemed a kind of social lion's den.
Mrs. Kane had twenty boarders and thirty day scholars; and between
the two parties an internecine war was quietly but fiercely carried
on from term to term, and from year to year, and handed down from one
generation to another, as faithfully as the feud between the Guelphs
and Ghibellines. It was rumoured in both factions that Bogey's
successor ("Bogey" was their flattering sobriquet for their late
governess) "had come in a carriage and pair; Annie Jones had seen it
out of the music-room window;" and the young ladies were inclined to
treat her with more tolerance, than if she had merely arrived in an
ordinary "growler." Of course, all the hundred eyes were instantly
unwinkingly fixed on the new-comer as she walked up the room in the
wake of her employer. They beheld a young lady in deep mourning, slight
and fair, and—yes—positively pretty! quite as good-looking, and not
much older than Rosalie Gay, the belle of the school. They noticed that
she did not appear the least bit shy or nervous (twelve years in a
similar establishment stood to Helen now); she was not a whit abashed
by the gaze of all these tall, staring girls, who were subsequently
surprised to discover that she was perfectly conversant with school
rules and routine; and more than this, that despite her youth, and fair
sad face, she could be both determined and firm.
A large staff of masters, who taught music, singing, drawing, dancing,
and literature, came and went all day long at Malvern House; but the
only resident teachers besides Helen, were a Mrs. Lane, a widow, who
looked after the housekeeping, poured out tea, and taught needlework,
and Mademoiselle Clémence Torchon, a Parisienne, with whom Helen found
herself thrown into the closest companionship. They occupied the same
room, sat side by side at table, and walked together daily behind the
long line of chattering boarders. Clémence was a young woman of about
eight-and-twenty, who had come to England more with a view of learning
that language, than of imparting her own tongue. She was square,
and stout, and sallow; was better conversant with French poetry,
than verbs, maintaining her personal dignity by a stolid impassive
demeanour; boasted a noble appetite, and was unblushingly selfish, and
surprisingly mean. She honoured her new companion with a large share
of her confidence, and during their daily airings, poured into her
unwilling ears, the praises of a certain adorable "Jules," and even
compelled her, when half asleep at night, to sit up and listen to his
letters! letters written on many sheets of pink paper, and crammed with
vaguely sentimental stilted sentences, signifying nothing tangible,
nothing matrimonial, but nevertheless affording the keenest pleasure
to Mademoiselle Torchon. The young English teacher could not afford to
quarrel with so close an associate, and feigned a respectable amount of
civility and interest; but how often did she wish "_ce cher Jules_,"
not to speak of his effusions,—at the bottom of the deep blue sea!
Once or twice mademoiselle had hinted, that she was good-naturedly
prepared to receive a return of confidences in kind; and had even gone
so far as to say, "Have _you_ ever had a lover?"
Her listener's thoughts turned promptly to a certain moonlight
night, the scent of orange-flowers, the shade of palms, and all the
appropriate accessories of a love-tale, not forgetting Gilbert Lisle's
eloquent dark eyes, and low-whispered, broken vows. Nevertheless, Miss
Denis cleverly parried this embarrassing question, and mademoiselle,
having but little interest to spare from her own affairs, dismissed the
subject with an encouraging assurance "that, perhaps some day or other
she might also have a Jules," as she was, though rather _triste_ and
frightfully thin, "_pas mal pour une Anglaise!_"
Mrs. Kane withdrew into private life the moment that school hours were
over. When the bell rang at four o'clock for the departure of the day
scholars, she disappeared and left the burden of surveillance to Miss
Denis and mademoiselle—the latter, like the unselfish darling that she
was, shuffled off her share of the load upon her companion's shoulders,
and generally ascended to her own room, where she lay upon her bed,
devouring chocolate-creams and French novels for the remainder of the
day.
Helen's duties commenced at seven o'clock in the morning, at which hour
she was obliged to be in the school-room, to keep order, and they were
not at an end till she had turned off the gas in the dormitories at
half-past nine at night; after that, her time was her own,—and she was
then at liberty to listen to Clémence's maunderings, and Jules' last
letter.
Mrs. Kane soon discovered that her new governess was a clever girl,
with stability and force of character beyond her years, moreover, that
she had unusual influence with the pupils, and was popular in the
school-room; so she engaged her permanently at a salary of forty pounds
a year—and washing. This offer was accepted with alacrity, for Mrs.
Platt seemed to have wholly forgotten her niece, and the comfortable
home that she had promised to secure for her, and Helen gladly settled
herself down, as a permanent member of the Malvern House staff. Weeks
rolled into months, months into quarters, and nothing came to break
the dull monotony of her existence, beyond occasional letters from
Mrs. Home and Mrs. Durand, and a visit to Smithson Villa; she actually
hailed the arrival of the yellow brougham, with unalloyed delight, and
had not shrunk from sharing it,—not merely with her hostess, and the
dogs, and the weekly groceries, but with a leg of New Zealand mutton,
that was to furnish forth the family dinner. She liked Lady Grubb,
despite her little eccentricities. She even enjoyed (so low had she
fallen!) the perusal of Mrs. Creery's latest effusions from Port Blair.
In Lady Grubb's back drawing-room, with one of these in her hand, she
seemed to hold in her grasp the last feeble link that bound her to her
former happy life among those distant tropical seas.
She did her utmost to live altogether in the present, to invest all
her thoughts and energies in her daily tasks, and to shut her eyes to
the future—and still more difficult feat—to close them to the past.
Month after month, she toiled on with busy, unabated zeal (Mrs. Kane
warmly congratulating herself on the possession of such a _rara avis_,
and giving her mentally, a considerable increase of salary). She rose
early, and went to rest late, her mind was at its fullest tension all
day long; she was working at too high pressure, the strain was beyond
her physical powers, and the consequence was, she broke down. Gradually
she lost sleep, and appetite, became pale, and thin, and haggard.
"My dear," said Mrs. Kane with some concern, "we must get you away for
a change. The doctor says you ought to go home, and have a good long
rest."
"But I have no home, Mrs. Kane.—I am an orphan," she returned,
gravely. "I'm not nearly as ill as I seem, in fact I'm not ill at all!
There is nothing the matter with me, I'm as strong as a horse. You must
not mind my _looks_!"
"Would you not like to go to your aunt's for a week or two? I see she
has returned from abroad."
"No, thank you, I would ten times rather go to the poor-house," she
answered, unguardedly. "Excuse me, perhaps I'm a little hasty, but I'm
proud, and I, if I must come to beggary, prefer public charity, to the
private benevolence of—relations."
But in spite of Helen's repudiation of the hospitality of her kindred,
Mrs. Kane wrote a polite little note to 15, Upper Cream Street, that
brought Mrs. Platt to Malvern House, the very next day,—in a peevish,
not to say injured, frame of mind.
"Well, Helen," she exclaimed, as her niece entered the drawing-room,
"so I hear you are in the doctor's hands;"—making a peck at her
as she spoke. "Let me see! there's not much the matter with you, I
fancy.—For goodness' sake, don't get the idea into your head that you
are _delicate_!"
"You may be sure that that is the last thing I shall do, Aunt Julia."
"I must talk to Mrs. Kane, and tell her you should take extract of
malt. She will have to fatten you up.—Yes, certainly, you want
fattening;"—speaking exactly as if she were alluding to a young
Christmas turkey. "And so, I hear, you are giving satisfaction, and
that you are a very good musician, and linguist! I am glad your poor
father's extravagant education, has not been entirely thrown away! Mrs.
Kane speaks very highly of you. But, dear me, child, why did you not
take equal advantage of other opportunities; why did you not make hay
in the Andamans?"
"Hay! aunt. There was none to make, beyond a very small crop in the
General's compound."
"You know very well what _I_ mean, you provoking girl! I'm certain you
had offers of marriage. Now had you not?"
Helen made no disclaimer to this, beyond a slight shrug of her
shoulders.
"Come, come! Silence gives consent. How many?"
"What does it signify, aunt? All girls out there——"
"That is no answer," persisted Mrs. Platt, tapping her foot on the
floor.
"Well, I do not think it is fair to tell."
"But you could have married?"
"Yes, I suppose I may admit as much as that."
"And instead of being comfortably settled in your own house, here you
are, slaving away all your best years, and best looks in a school. I'm
sure you are sorry enough _now_, that you did not say 'yes!'"
"On the contrary, I have never regretted saying 'no,'—and never will."
"Perhaps there was some one who did _not_ come forward?" inquired the
elder lady, with a rather sour smile.
"Perhaps there was, aunt!" she rejoined, with a laugh, that entirely
baffled Mrs. Platt, who, after surveying her for some seconds in
searching silence, exclaimed,—
"Well, you are a queer girl! I can't make you out! I certainly could
not imagine _you_ caring a straw for any man! Your face entirely
belies your real disposition; it gives people the idea that you are
capable of deep feelings—perhaps of what is called '_une grande
passion_'—whereas, in reality, you are cold and as unresponsive as the
typical iceberg. However, considering your present circumstances, and
youth, and good looks,—perhaps it is just as well!"
Having delivered herself of this opinion, as though it were an oracle,
Mrs. Platt sank into a tone of easy confidential discourse, and
imparted to her listener, that her recent campaign on the Continent,
had not been entirely barren of results. A certain elderly widower,
had been "greatly attracted" by Clara, and had paid her considerable
attention, and that it was not unlikely, that they would have a wedding
before very long. And after a good deal more in this strain, and yet
more, on the subject of the frightful expenses she had incurred abroad,
and the paralyzing prices of some of the French hotels, Mrs. Platt,
with a final recommendation of extract of malt, went her way, and drove
home alone, in her comfortable, plush-lined brougham.
Helen continued to struggle on from day to day, and conscientiously
fulfilled her allotted duties. She indignantly refused to accept the
_rôle_ of invalid; she told herself that, could she but tide over
the next six weeks, she would contrive a trip to some cheap seaside
resort, and there recruit her shattered health—her health that was her
only capital! What was to become of her if she broke down? she would
have no resource but charity! She shivered at the very thought. Each
day her round of tasks became more of an effort; she felt as if some
dreadful, unknown illness was lying in wait, and dogging her steps hour
after hour. Sometimes the room swam round, and figures and words in
exercise-books seemed to mix and run about before her aching eyes. But
so far, by sheer force of will she fought off the enemy, and fiercely
refused to surrender.
When ten days had elapsed, Mrs. Platt was once more in Mrs. Kane's
drawing-room, the bearer of a letter in her pocket, that she flattered
herself would remove her poor relation entirely out of her own orbit.
"My dear, I declare you look really ill—very ill!" she exclaimed,
as her niece entered. "Don't come near me,"—moving suddenly across
the room, and making a gesture of repudiation with both hands,—"keep
away, there's a good girl! I'm certain you are sickening for
something,—diphtheria or small-pox! Small-pox is raging. You must see
a doctor immediately, and take precautions. If it is anything, you will
have to be sent to a hospital at _once_!"
"You need not be the least alarmed, Aunt Julia; there is nothing the
matter with me. My head aches, and I'm tired sometimes; that is all, I
assure you."
"Oh, well,"—rather relieved—"I'm sure I _hope_ so, otherwise it would
be most awkward! I understand now, that you really require a change,
and it is principally about that, I have come over to see you. I have
had a letter I wish to show you,"—sinking into an easy chair, and
commencing to fumble in her pocket. "Yes, here it is,"—handing it
to her niece, who unfolded it, and ran her eyes over the following
effusion:—
"DEAREST MOTHER,—Carrie and I cannot possibly go home this week,
there is so much coming off; and _Mr. Jones is here_! Please send down
our black lace dresses, our new opera cloaks, and some flowers from
that man in the Bayswater Road. We shall be rather short of money,
so you might enclose some—say, a five pound note—in an envelope in
my dress pocket. So sorry you are having all this worry about Helen.
What a tiresome creature she is! Of course it is quite out of the
question, that we should take her in; be _sure_ you impress that very
firmly on her mind, mother dear. Is there not a convalescent home for
broken-down governesses? Some charitable institution that she could go
to?—"
"Charitable institution!" echoed Helen, aloud.
"Oh, dear me! I believe I've given you the wrong letter,"
exclaimed Mrs. Platt, in great confusion. "Here! this must be your
uncle's,"—extending her hand as she spoke. "I'm getting so blind, and
this room is so dark, I really can't see what I'm doing," she added, in
a rather apologetic tone, her eyes sinking before her niece's,—for she
saw in them that she had read what Carrie had written; as for Helen,
her heart beat unusually fast, her nerves were on edge, her wrath was
kindled.
"Quite out of the question that we should take her in!" She had never
dreamt of being lodged again under her aunt's roof, but somehow, seeing
the fact so plainly stated in black and white, stung her to revolt.
What had her aunt and cousins done for her, that she should be sent
hither or thither at their bidding? She had toiled for them, as an
upper servant, a lady help, in return for food and lodging, and she was
now wholly independent, and earning her own living by incessant hard
work. These thoughts flew through her mind as she opened letter No. 2,
which was written in a small cramped hand on a large sheet of paper,
and ran as follows:—
"Crowmore,
"Terryscreen, May 8th.
"DEAR MADAM,—I am this day in receipt of your communication,
informing me that my late wife's niece, Helen Denis, is in England,
an orphan, and entirely dependent on her friends."—"Dependent
on her friends!" re-read Helen, quivering with indignation and
self-restraint—"I shall be glad to give her a home under my roof, and
if you will favour me with her address I shall correspond with her
personally, and make all needful arrangements for her journey to this
place.
"I am, Madam,
"Your obedient servant,
"MALACHI SHERIDAN."
"A very kind letter," said his niece, gratefully.
"Yes, poor crazy creature," acquiesced Mrs. Platt, "I suppose he _has_
lucid intervals,"—then, after a pause, she added—"Of course you will
go, Helen?"
"I am not sure; I must think it over."
"Think it over! what nonsense. What more do you want? At any rate,
Helen, bear in mind, that _I_ have done all I can."
"Yes, Aunt Julia; pray do not trouble yourself any more about me; I
release you of all responsibility on my behalf. Indeed, in future, you
may as well forget my existence!"
She had risen as she spoke, and leant her elbow on the chimney-piece,
and her head on her hand. She looked unusually tall, and unexpectedly
dignified. For a moment Mrs. Platt felt almost in awe of her penniless
niece, but she soon recovered her ordinary mental attitude, and said
rather sharply,—
"Don't talk nonsense! I see your nerves and temper are completely
unstrung! I hope you will be all the better for your trip to Ireland,
but I'm _afraid_ you will find Mr. Sheridan's girls, a pair of uncouth,
ill-bred savages, and, of course, the place is quite in the wilds,
and——"
"So much the better, aunt; I like the wilds, as you call them, and you
know I'm accustomed to savages."
"Then I'm sure if _you_ are satisfied,—I am," said Mrs. Platt,
huffily. "And now I really must be going, for we have some people
coming to dinner,"—and with a polite message for Mrs. Kane, and
a request that Helen "would write if anything turned up," a vague
sentence, meaning perhaps a good situation, perhaps an offer of
marriage,—Mrs. Platt embraced her niece, and took her departure.
Helen remained shivering over the drawing-room fire, re-reading
her uncle's letter, and pondering on her future plans. After all,
disappointing as had been her experience of cousins, she might yet draw
a prize in the lottery of fate, and she determined to brave these Irish
Sheridans. She had thirty pounds in her desk, quite a small fortune,
and if the worst came to the worst, she could always beat a retreat.
With this prudent reservation in her mind, and a burning impatience to
escape _anywhere_, from her present surroundings, she sat down that
very hour, and wrote a grateful acceptance of her uncle's invitation,
and announced her intention of starting for Crowmore, within a week.