MISS DE JOBBYNS' ADMIRER.
'You will be good enough to keep the children quiet and amused this
evening, Miss Cheyne,' said Mrs. De Jobbyns, 'as we have company
coming to dinner. Also have them nicely dressed, as they may be sent
for to dessert or to the drawing-room.'
Being now used to be spoken to in this style, Alison merely bowed, on
which Mrs. De Jobbyns said, sharply,
'You heard me, I presume?'
'Yes; you certainly spoke loud enough.'
Mrs. De Jobbyns frowned. She would have liked her to add 'ma'am,'
like any other paid dependant; but Alison, of course, never thought
of such a thing.
'You may withdraw now, Miss Cheyne,' said the lady, with an
assumption of would-be dignity that sat rather absurdly on the
whilome dispenser of glasses of gin and bitters and pints of stout at
the bar of the 'Black Swan.'
'Oh, Miss Cheyne, I wonder when the wedding is to be!' exclaimed
little Irene when Alison returned to the school-room.
'Whose wedding, dear?' she asked.
'Why, Vic.'s--don't you know she is going to be married to that rich
military swell?'
'Oh, fie, Irene--you must not use such terms!'
'Why not? I heard cook call him so when she told the tablemaid, and
said we two girls would be bridesmaids.'
Intent on a book she had procured--by the way, save photographic
albums in which the De Jobbyns family were reproduced endlessly,
there were no books in the house--Alison thought no more of the
matter; but when evening was drawing on she heard the soft rustle of
a long silken skirt, as Miss De Jobbyns, arrayed for conquest, swept
in, wearing a really beautiful costume of dark blue velvet and light
blue silk, smothered with cream-tinted lace.
'He is coming--he is coming to dinner--mamma got him to promise that
he would, at last!' exclaimed the young lady, pirouetting about in
the extravagance of her joy. 'Tell me how you like my dress?'
'It is indeed exquisite--in material,' replied Alison, who of course
had dined in the school-room with her pupils at one o'clock, and felt
little or no interest to learn that Miss Victoria's lover, or
admirer, was coming to a little dinner _en famille_ at seven p.m.
'He will soon be here--how do you think I look?' she asked for the
third or fourth time.
As Alison's delicate fingers were adjusting some parts of the lace,
the sharp eyes of Miss De Jobbyns observed--as they had often done
before--the ring, the engagement ring, which the former had received
from her lover, under the whispering beeches, one evening.
'It is very beautiful, and must be valuable,' said Miss De Jobbyns,
examining it closely.
'It is valuable.'
'Too much so, I think, for--for one teaching to wear.'
'When it was given to me, teaching was not thought of,' said Alison,
in a low, sad voice.
'I have no end of lovely rings; but,' urged the girl, who was by
nature covetous, 'you might lend it to me, just for to-night, though
you wouldn't lend that funny ornament for the Le Robbynson's ball.'
'Excuse me,' replied Alison, coldly, 'it never leaves my finger.'
'Not even when you wash your hands?'
'Not even then.'
'You will spoil these beautiful stones.'
'It shall never be seen on another hand while I live.'
'Indeed,' sneered Miss De Jobbyns; 'and thereby hangs a tale, I
suppose. Upon my Sam you are very romantic! Of course you got it
from the fellow whose photo you wear, but will let no one see?'
Alison made no reply, but her colour came and went with annoyance at
the girl's brusquerie; and the latter began to chant the praises of
her admirer, a subject of which her listener was utterly weary.
'He has we don't know how many thousands a year--think of that; oh
my! Talking of love, I heard him say laughingly to mamma, who was
chaffing him on the subject, that he would not be in love with anyone
again.'
'And what of that?'
'He meant, of course, with anyone again but me.'
'How do you construe his remark thus?'
'Because his eyes met mine as he said so; and I do hope I blushed--I
am sure I did.'
'And he is rich, you say?'
'Yes, rich enough to satisfy even mamma.'
'That is fortunate,' replied Alison, with a sigh, as she recalled her
father's bitter opposition to her own engagement, and all the wiles
and worry of Cadbury.
'Fortunate indeed; but there is about Bevil----'
'BEVIL!' exclaimed Alison, startled by the uncommon name.
'Don't snap me up so! Yes, Bevil is his name--sweetly pretty I think
it--Bevil Goring.'
'And he is rich, you say?'
'Yes; has twenty or thirty thousand a year at least.'
It cannot be the same, though the conjunction of name is very
singular, said Alison in her agitated heart.
'Is he a merchant,' she asked, 'a city man?'
'City be hanged!' responded this impulsive young woman. 'He is an
officer--a Captain in the Rifle Brigade, and, when not in town, hangs
out at Aldershot. But there is a carriage; the people are arriving,
and I must be off.'
She quickly withdrew, leaving Alison pale as a corpse, trembling in
every limb, and rooted to the spot, propping herself by a hand on the
table, till she sank into a chair, oblivious of the wonder with which
the two little girls regarded her sudden, and, to them, unaccountable
emotion.
For some time her thoughts were terrible. She recalled the drag
alleged by the public prints to be Goring's--the entertainment, given
even to royalty, at 'his rooms in Piccadilly,' all evidences of
wealth that must have come to him since the time she was decoyed to
the Continent, and in the fact of that wealth--the absence of which
was the cause of her father's hostility to the last hour of his
life--this girl's remarks now confirmed her!
That Bevil Goring could love or even admire such a girl--a man so
refined and delicate in taste and ideas--she never for a moment
imagined; but what did the whole situation and that girl's boastful
allegations mean? How came he to know such people, despite their
great wealth, and permit them to cultivate his acquaintance? Yet
matters seemed to have progressed so far that even the servants were
canvassing the prospects of a _wedding_!
More than all, why, oh why had he never attempted to discover her, to
trace her out, in these her days of poverty and sore trial!
The magnitude and the multitude of her thoughts overwhelmed her;
among these were emotions of sharp but just pride, keen
disappointment, bitterest doubt, and agonising mortification; but her
tears--usually so ready to flow--came not to relieve her now, and she
was only roused from a kind of feverish stupefaction by the entrance
of a servant to light the candles, and conduct 'the young ladies
downstairs to dessert,' an invitation to which they responded with
instant alacrity.
Stooping over the stair-bannister, she heard his voice once or twice
as the male guests filed off to the drawing-room after the ladies,
and it thrilled through her heart. A choking lump rose in her
throat, but still not a tear would come.
After a time she was roused by some one addressing her. It was a
servant, by nature saucy, under-bred, illiterate, and disposed to be
impertinent in general when she could be so with impunity.
'Were you addressing me?' asked Alison.
'Yes; the missus says as you are to tittivate yourself a bit and come
down to the drawing-room.'
'I am to--_what_?' asked Alison, sharply--for her at least.
'Tittivate yourself--it is Henglish; but, bein' Scotch, perhaps you
don't know what it means.'
'I am not going to the--drawing-room to-night.'
'You won't obey the missus?' exclaimed the servant, aghast.
'Certainly not in this instance.'
'Don't you know your place? You are honly a guv'ness, and guv'nesses
ain't ladies, whatever they may think.'
'What are they?'
'Mock ones.'
'Leave the room instantly--or----'
'Or what?' asked the girl, sharply.
'I'll get you turned out of the house.'
The girl withdrew uttering as Parthian shots some remarks about
'hupstarts hordering their betters about.'
In a few minutes Miss De Jobbyns, with some irritation of manner,
appeared to prefer the same request, adding that she was wanted for a
hand at whist.
'To come down to play whist? Is not this an unusual condescension?'
asked Alison.
'Yes,' was the cool response; 'ma thinks it part of your duty to make
yourself generally useful; and, I suppose, you can play whist?'
The girl was too underbred to be aware how heartless was the _sang
froid_, in which she suggested, or commanded, that Alison should make
herself useful.
'I would rather be excused.'
'But ma says you must!'
'Must--why?'
'A hand is wanted at the whist table, and I want Bevil at the piano,
all to myself.'
'It is utterly impossible. I have a headache,' replied Alison,
goaded to desperation.
'Bother your headache!' was the elegant response; 'try sal volatile,
Rimmel's vinegar, anything, but come.'
However, Alison remained inflexible, and so far from making herself
'useful' to either Mrs. De Jobbyns and her daughter, by appearing in
their circle downstairs, she retired to bed--to think and weep--but
not to sleep.
The vicar of Chilcote was, she knew, in town, and to him she would
appeal to procure her another home, where she would hear the name of
Bevil Goring no more!