THE DAY AFTER.
Next day! It was a lovely summer day, but very hot and stifling in Hyde
Park Square. Miss Campbell did not permit her pupil so much as that
wistful gaze from the window across the brown park and dusty trees,
which is the favorite consolation of such prisoners. She allowed no
indulgence on account of an unsettled mind, but rather the reverse. And
what a day it was! nothing but sunshine, heat, blazing pavements
outside, airless rooms, all hot and heavy with the warm carpets and
curtains of English use and wont. Vera read Rollin’s Ancient History all
the afternoon, not even trying, as she often did, to interest herself in
Xerxes, but thinking all the time of yesterday, and of all that
happened. “Perhaps the world may end to-night.” What did he mean? Would
he have liked it to go on, and on, that progress through the darkness,
without seeing anything, without saying much, but now and then
half-a-dozen words quite low, under cover of the lively chatter of the
two people opposite? Was it possible that _he_ would have liked that? As
for Vera, she did not ask herself if she liked it. It had changed the
world to her; it had given her a new world of her own into which she
could retire safely, almost glad of the Rollin, and think it all over
again,--the few words that meant so much, the consciousness of nearness
and companionship, the dreamy sweep of movement through the soft night.
“Are you sleepy, my dear?” said Miss Campbell, somewhat sharply rousing
her.
“N--no,” said Vera.
“I thought you must be sleepy, you mumble your words so, and shut your
eyes. I suppose you were kept up very late at the villa,” the old
governess said. She disliked the villa with an intensity of dislike such
as mingled jealousy and fear alone could produce. She was afraid that
any day Mrs. Tremenheere might come back and turn her out of a
comfortable home; and she was jealous of the mother’s influence with
Vera, of whom in her way this hard-featured, hard-principled woman was
fond, though she could not express her fondness in any ingratiating way.
“Go on, my dear, and rouse yourself up,” she said--and Vera went on; but
when she shut her eyes she could see that scene, and feel it, as vividly
as if it were still existing, and still within the possibilities that it
might go on for ever; and then her voice would drop, and there would be
a pause in the reading of which she was scarcely conscious; for dreaming
even of that description in a hot July afternoon is akin to sleep.
“This will never do, Vera,” said Miss Campbell; “I suppose your mother
did not have a ball last night? Go and put on your hat; we may have our
walk now, and perhaps that will rouse you up.”
They went out for their walk when the afternoon was beginning to cool a
little, and went to Kensington Gardens, which was the usual scene of
their daily promenade. A demure little girl in a white frock, not even
made quite “long” as yet, with a very precise, elderly lady by her,
straight as a piece of iron, and as unbending--this sort of thing is to
be seen in Kensington Gardens every day. They walked down the broad
walk and up again, going quickly, but not too quickly, not to attract
attention, Miss Campbell keeping a steady look-out around her, on her
guard against any possible danger, Vera very silent, scarcely raising
her eyes.
“Miss Campbell!” suddenly said a voice beside her, which made Vera’s
heart beat. She gave such a sudden start of surprise, and grew so red
with wonder and joy that Miss Campbell vaguely perceived with a corner
of her eye that something was the matter. “This is a most unlooked-for
pleasure. I have been waiting here wondering if I should see anybody I
knew now that all the world is pouring out of town. You are still in
London? Ah!” said Oswald, coldly turning round and bowing, “I beg your
pardon, Miss Tremenheere.”
Vera, who was not used to such transparent deceits, was wounded to her
innocent heart. “So he does not care about seeing _me_! I am only an
accident. He saw nobody but Miss Campbell!” the foolish little girl said
to herself. And she did not trust herself to look at him lest he should
see the hot tear which this mortification had forced into her eyes, and
consequently never received the glance he sent to make up for his meagre
salutation. Fane had as little doubt that she understood him perfectly,
and was laughing secretly at his enthusiasm for Miss Campbell, as he had
of his own existence.
“You have the advantage of me,” said Miss Campbell. “I beg your pardon.
One meets so many people in society----”
“Oswald Fane,” he said. “I had the pleasure of dining the other day in
Hyde Park Square----”
Miss Campbell gave him a keen glance. “I recollect,” she said. “A
friend, I think, of Mrs. Tremenheere’s?”
What was he to say? Offend Vera by disclaiming any particular friendship
with her mother, or ruin his hopes of Miss Campbell’s help by claiming
this? “I have known Mr. and Mrs. Tremenheere about the same time,” he
said, “and I have had the pleasure of visiting both. But I think I have
known some relations of yours in Scotland longer than either--the
Campbells of Stormaway? I am sure I have heard them talk of you.”
“Really!” said Miss Campbell, gratified, “that was very kind. I know
the family you speak of--a very good family, but I cannot claim them as
near relations. There is some far cousinship, no doubt. It is gratifying
to my feelings that they should know--I mean remember me; and have you
seen them lately Mr.--Mr. Vane?”
“Fane. I met them in Scotland last year; indeed, I was at their house
for a few days. What a pleasant place to visit is a Highland country
house! Of course you remember your cousin’s delightful place?”
“Yes--yes--that is, I have been there very seldom, Mr. Fane; very
seldom, not since a child, I may say; and no doubt there are additions
and alterations----”
“They said it was a long time since they had seen you, and I promised to
let them know if I happened to meet you anywhere. A fortunate chance,
was it not? The daughters have grown up charming girls, and as for
Hector and Colin----”
“Yes--yes,” said Miss Campbell. She was for the moment quite bamboozled;
was he trying to deceive her, or was it really true that the Highland
magnates, whose names alone she was acquainted with, had found out and
recognised her as their kinswoman? After the first flush of
gratification she became uncertain, and did not know what to think. He
had turned, and was walking along with them. But he walked by Miss
Campbell’s side, taking no notice of Vera, who for her part went along
with downcast eyes, offended and never looking at him.
“By the way,” he said, “Miss Meadows, who is out of town for a few days,
gave me some books for Miss Tremenheere. May I bring them? I am going
away myself shortly. One day this week may I bring them, and discharge
my conscience of my commission before I go?”
“Oh, pray do not take the trouble. I will send a servant,” said Miss
Campbell, who had seen a sudden lifting of Vera’s eyes. “This is our
way, I think. Do not take the trouble. I must bid you good morning, Mr.
Fane.”
And he took his leave of them quite calmly, though he was going away.
Vera was so startled, so wounded, so suddenly thrown down out of all
those sweet vague dreams in which she had been indulging, that she could
not raise her eyes. Tears come so easily at sixteen. If he had really
gone and she had seen no more of him, Vera, after that first sharp shock
of mortification and disappointment, which made her poor little lip
quiver and her eyes fill, would no doubt have forgotten all about Oswald
Fane. But in the meantime the blow of his supposed indifference and the
sudden cruel end put all at once to the romance which was just
beginning, crushed her for the moment, depressed as she was by other
influences. She walked home by Miss Campbell’s side with a piteous
little face, not saying a word. Only once a little cry of impatience
burst from her. “I do not believe that gentleman knew much about my
cousins of Stormaway,” Miss Campbell said. “I think it was very strange
that he should have accosted me as he did, currying favor. If he is a
friend of Miss Meadows I must request her not to send her messages by
him. I am sure she has plenty of servants. I must tell her I do not
approve of calls from gentlemen.”
“Oh, you need not give yourself the trouble,” said Vera; “he is not
coming. He said it was to clear his conscience of his commission. He
never wanted to come.”
“So much the better,” said Miss Campbell dryly, and she talked about the
Aquarium in the Zoological Gardens, which was a safe subject. Vera no
longer trod on air; her dreams were gone and ended, her beautiful new
world broken like a bubble. She went into her own room and cried, tears
innocent and bitter, such as one sheds at sixteen, when every grief
seems eternal. It was all over, then. Not only should she never see him
more, but she had lost that sweet refuge into which she could retire as
she had done this morning when the day was dull, when Miss Campbell was
hard upon her.
Next morning, however, she had to go back to her lessons as usual. When
these came to a pause before luncheon, she wandered into the
drawing-room, intending to breathe forth some of her melancholy upon the
grand piano. Some one rose as she went in. The girl grew red all over
with a flush which was partly anger, and partly shame, and partly
delight.
“Oh!” she said impetuously, not knowing what she said, “I thought you
were gone.”
“Did you really think so?” said Fane. “No, impossible. I came this
morning that she might not have time to warn the servants not to admit
me.”
“But, Mr. Fane, of whom are you speaking? You seemed to know Miss
Campbell so well--to like her--and her relations.”
Fane laughed. Vera could not have explained what her feelings were at
that moment. Her heart bounded, and yet she did not like it. Why should
he deceive even Miss Campbell? She looked at him doubtfully--and yet how
happy she was!
“You think I should not tell a fib? Quite true. But then how was I to
see you? That was the first thing I had to think of; and there was no
harm done. It was a very innocent fib. I could not give up tamely all
hope of seeing you again.”
Vera’s cheeks glowed and her heart beat. She did not say anything to
check him--to demur to this statement. Was it not natural that he should
want to see her? Had not she wanted too, though she would not say it, to
see him?
“But you _are_ going away?” she said softly, with a very little subdued
sigh.
“Not I--not so long as there is any chance.--Here is the book I spoke
to you about, and another. Take them, please, before the dragon comes; I
fear, I fear, she will be here directly. Ah, Miss Tremenheere, you
cannot think how I have thought about those two days at the villa, and
lived them over and over! Shall not you go there again, or to Miss
Meadows? She knows me. She would not shut me out; and now that I have
seen you it does not seem possible to live just as one lived before.
Life is different. It is so much sweeter--better; since that day at
Lord’s, that first wonderful day. I had never seen you till then.”
Vera stood silent, with the books in her hands, her eyes cast down, her
cheeks glowing, her heart beating high, yet soft--not wildly in her
ears, as it had done a little while before, but with a satisfied and
quiet beating. How true it all was! Life was different, quite different,
and yet it did not seem right for him to say so. But to listen to him?
Civility demanded that she should listen to any one who talked to her,
especially when he was a visitor, and she at home.
“You are very--kind, Mr. Fane,” she said at last, faltering. That was
not at all what she meant, but what could she say?
“Kind! It is you who are kind, listening to me. Elinor Meadows would
stand my friend if you were with her, and how good Mrs. Tremenheere was!
But what must I do with this dragon? If I tell lies to her to please
her, you will disapprove of me, and that I cannot bear; but still less
can I bear not to see you. What can I do?”
“Mr. Fane: oh! please, don’t speak so--and you said you were going
away.”
“I am going away when you go,” he said, “for I shall find out where you
go, and follow you--don’t be angry, I can’t help it,--if it is only to
see the light in your window. You wouldn’t like me to fall back, and be
just the poor creature I was before I knew you? Yes, of course, you are
angry with me for telling lies, Vera--you who are truth itself; but the
more I see you the truer I shall be. Don’t give me up, because I can’t
give you up. You are too sweet and too good to break my heart.”
All this no doubt would have seemed over-bold and over-sudden to a girl
of twenty; but how could Vera discriminate, she upon whom the same
spell had fallen? Did not she, too, feel how different life was, how
transformed from the pale gray routine, the stagnant repression of the
days before? The strangeness and excitement of it made her breathless.
“Oh! don’t talk so, please don’t talk so,” she cried.
“It is the only way I can talk,” said Fane. “The moment I saw you I knew
what had happened to me. ‘That is she,’ I said to myself, ‘that is
she--there is none in all the world like her.’ And--ah!--Good morning,
Miss Campbell. I made bold to call to discharge my commission. Miss
Tremenheere has got the books----”
“Good morning,” said Miss Campbell. “What books? I never permit Miss
Tremenheere to read anything that I have not first looked at myself.”
“I have no doubt it is a very wise rule,” he said carelessly. “The books
belong to Miss Meadows--it is she who sent me with them, and, of course,
she is answerable.--I shall say I put them into your own hands, Miss
Tremenheere. Any commands for Scotland, Miss Campbell? May I take
tidings of you to your cousins? It would be a great pleasure to
them--and I may say, to me.”
Miss Campbell looked at him seriously.
“Mr. Fane,” she said, “I don’t pretend to know what you mean by talking
of my cousins, who, after all, are but distant relations upon whom I
have no claim.”
“What I mean is to please you, of course,” said Fane with a laugh. “What
else? If they were my people I should like friends to talk of them to
me.”
“If that was all! but I do not forget my position; and--when a gentleman
sets himself to flatter a lady in my position----” said the governess.
“Flatter! Do you think it flattering to remind you of your relations? It
might be so to them,” said Fane with a bow and a smile. “Never mind, I
shall hold my tongue another time if you don’t like the Stormaway
people. In the meantime I must really say goodbye. Goodbye, Miss
Tremenheere. I will tell Miss Meadows I saw you. And Miss Campbell, you
will surely shake hands with me, and wish me luck among the grouse.”
“Now, if one could only tell what that young man meant!” said Miss
Campbell, when he was gone. “He seems well-bred and agreeable, but he
may have a motive of his own. Vera, it is the hour for Rollin. Get your
book, my dear.”
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