"Children," said Miss Boucheafen, abruptly, "you have been good to-day,
and it is fine. We will go out."
The children, engaged in turning their nursery into a very fair
imitation of Pandemonium and in driving the unhappy nursemaid nearly
mad, stopped their various operations at these words from their
governess as she entered, and stared at her--partly perhaps because
they were not conscious of having been less troublesome than they
usually were, but more because of her last sentence. Did Mademoiselle
really say, "We will go out?" She had been their governess for six
weeks now, and during all that time had not once been outside the
street door.
"Do you mean you'll take us?" cried Tom, the eldest and the
readiest-tongued.
"Shan't go with Ellen, I shan't!" muttered Floss, sulkily.
"Nasty Ellen--won't go with Ellen!" whimpered Maggie, with a thumb in
her mouth.
"You will all go with me and Ellen," said Alexia, quietly, beginning
with her deft fingers to remove grubby pinafores and brush tumbled
hair. "Will you get ready, Ellen? And do not waste time, please, or we
shall lose the best part of the afternoon."
Ellen departed willingly. She was not sure that she liked Mademoiselle,
but there was no doubt that she intensely detested her daily task of
taking the three "troublesome brats" for their walk. If Mademoiselle
liked to try it--well, Ellen only breathed a fervent wish that she
might like it--"that's all!"
Miss Boucheafen, making great haste over the toilet of her pupils, had
them ready and was ready herself before Ellen, and filled up the spare
time by pacing the hall from end to end as she waited. Not hastily--the
perfect grace of her every motion was too complete for haste--not even
impatiently, for the set expression of her face never changed, and no
flush of excitement tinted the ivory pallor of her cheeks. If her eyes
were a little brighter, a little wider open than usual, it was very
little. Mrs. Jessop, passing through the hall as the governess and
pupils waited, confessed to herself, with reluctant honesty, as she
looked at the stately young figure in its plain dark dress, that there
was no denying that "Ma'm'selle" did look like a queen.
It was the beginning of May, and, for a wonder, hot and bright enough
almost for July; the afternoon sun shone down warm and brilliant. As
Alexia stepped out into its glare, she stopped and almost staggered,
putting her hand to her throat, while she shivered violently. The
round-eyed maid, watching, was quite sympathetic. No wonder she felt
odd, poor young lady, remembering what had happened to her the last
time she was out!
"Where shall we go?" demanded Tom, tugging at Alexia's hand.
"Want to go an' see Mrs. Yeslie," murmured Maggie.
"I'm going to look at the shops," declared Floss with emphasis. "I can
spend my shilling if I want to, Uncle George said!"
"No, no--not to-day," demurred the governess, quickly. "Listen,
children. The shops you can see any day--to-morrow, perhaps; but to-day
we will go somewhere else."
"Where else?" demanded Floss, critically, with a fond look at the
shilling which he had drawn out of his knickerbocker pocket.
"Into the park," said Alexia. "We will all ride there in a tram-car.
You will like that?"
"Finsbury Park?" questioned Tom. "Oh, all right! I don't mind. Only, I
say, let's go up to the water where the ducks are!"
"Yes--let's," added Floss, restoring the shilling to his pocket.
"Want's some buns to feed 'em wiv, poor fings," murmured Maggie, with
pathetic intonation.
"Yes, you shall go [to] the water and have the buns," said Alexia. She
had been walking rapidly all this time--almost too rapidly for the
little feet trotting beside her--and did not pause or speak until they
reached Highbury Corner, which was more crowded and busy than usual
this warm afternoon. A tram-car was waiting, and she hurried her
charges into it, taking no heed of Tom's desire to sit where he could
see the horses, or of Floss's loudly-expressed determination to ride on
the roof. She took her seat, and, leaning back, drew her black gossamer
veil tightly over her face, and closed her eyes, seeming to become
totally oblivious of her surroundings.
Ellen, sitting with Maggie on her knee, distracted by Tom's ceaseless
questions upon the one side and by Floss's incessant demands to be put
out on the roof upon the other, felt a little sulky and injured. Really
it was too bad of mademoiselle! If she came out with the children she
might at least take her share in amusing and keeping them quiet. Ellen,
at any rate, was not sorry when the park-gates were reached. A
plentiful supply of buns was procured, and the children, with shrill
screams and whoops of delight, started off for the ducks and the water.
"Oh, dear," cried the nursemaid, quite dismayed at suddenly finding
herself alone with the governess, "they'll lose themselves, Ma'm'selle!
There's such a many other children about we shall never find 'em."
"Keep them in sight, then," said Alexia. "Follow them, Ellen. You had
better not wait for me. My head aches, and I cannot walk fast."
"But we shall lose you, too, Ma'm'selle," demurred the girl,
hesitatingly.
"No, no; I will follow you slowly. Go; they may fall into the water if
you linger."
"Miss Maggie's nigh sure to, with they buns!" said the girl, taking the
alarm, and without any more loitering she darted after the runaways.
Alexia did not follow. For a moment she stood on the broad gravel walk
looking about her. Groups of figures were scattered about the smooth
turf--young ladies with novels; old ladies with crochet and poodles;
nurse- [here a lack in the original text] The girl looked, not at, but
around and beyond them; her great eyes seemed to be searching, as if
surprised at not seeing something, and yet dreading to see it. Then
their expression changed; for a moment her figure swayed; the next she
was walking gracefully, slowly, languidly, toward a rustic seat which
stood upon the smooth greensward in a somewhat lonely spot. It stood at
an angle formed by two flower-beds, and was backed by a clump of
shrubbery. Upon it there was one figure seated--that of a man.
The governess approached this figure slowly. A middle-aged man,
loosely-dressed, hair turning gray, dark-complexioned, with a scar on
his cheek, a scar such as a slash with a keen-edged knife might have
made. She approached and passed him; she did not look at him; he did
not look at her; he appeared to be quite absorbed in absently cutting
and fashioning a rough stick with the aid of a large clasp-knife. He
gazed before him abstractedly, brushed the splinters of wood from his
knee, and laid the knife down upon the seat beside him, the edge of the
blade uppermost. The girl shuddered; the ivory pallor of her cheeks
grew gray beneath her veil. She passed on round the clump of bushes and
returned. The man had abandoned his whittling, and, with his chin upon
his hand, whistled as he looked down at the grass at his feet. His
right hand played absently with the open knife; now the edge was
upward, now downward, now he half closed it, then opened it wide again.
Alexia Boucheafen's breath came rapidly; one violent throb of her heart
almost suffocated her; but, graceful, upright, stately, she passed the
seat as though it were vacant; she did not appear to glance at the man
sitting there, toying with the knife, and whistling under his breath.
She passed him, and, as she did so, her gloved hand made a swift
motion, and a white object gleamed upon the turf behind her. A paper
had fluttered from her fingers, and lay close to the rustic seat.
Tom, Floss, and Maggie, flinging pieces of bun to voracious ducks, were
delighted--far too absorbed to remember their governess; and Ellen,
finding herself fully occupied in keeping their hats on their heads and
themselves outside the railings that surrounded the lake, had also
forgotten Miss Boucheafen completely. The girl was quite startled when
she saw the tall dark figure suddenly beside her, the great bright eyes
shining through the black veil. And how pale she was--her cheeks were
quite white!
"Lor, Ma'm'selle," she cried, with loud-voiced sympathy, "how bad you
do look!"
"I'm tired," said Alexia abruptly. "Children, are you ready to go?"
"Ready? Why, we ain't had half a walk!" demurred Tom.
"I'm hungry!" exclaimed Floss, tugging at Miss Boucheafen's gown.
"Maggie went an' threw all the buns to the ducks, she did--little
stupid."
"You 'tory, I never! You eatened two yourself, you did," Maggie
declared indignantly. "You's a geedy boy--a dedful geedy boy! Isn't he
a geedy boy, Ma'm'selle?"
"Never mind, we will get more buns as we go out," said Alexia. "Come
now, children. I am tired--my head aches. We will come some other
time--to-morrow perhaps--and stay longer. Come now."
They walked away from the water, and gained the broad path leading to
the gates. Alexia slackened her pace, and, releasing Floss's hand, but
still retaining Maggie's, fell slightly behind, sauntering slowly,
playing with the buttons of her cloak, keeping her eyes fixed straight
before her. They were passing a seat close to the edge of the path,
upon which a man was sitting--a middle-aged, loose-jointed man with
gray hair. A bright object lay at his feet--a small ball of gorgeous
tints; the child saw it, uttered a delighted cry, and struggled to
release her hand. It was released and she started to pick up the prize.
It was hardly in her grasp when she screamed out, frightened, for the
man with the gray hair had taken hold of her arm, and was speaking to
her, not roughly, although his voice was harsh and stern.
"My little one--see, the lady has dropped this paper. Give it to her;
and as for this bauble, take it. Go!"
He released her. The child was scared, but she held in one hand the
paper he had given to her, in the other the gay-colored ball. He
pointed peremptorily after the tall retreating figure of Alexia
Boucheafen, and, frightened at his frowning face, the child darted
toward "Ma'm'selle."
"Ma'm'selle, Ma'm'selle!" She tugged at the governess's dress, at her
hand. "'Ook what he dave me!"--holding up the ball. "Nice, nice man,
vewy nice! Floss s'an't have it, he s'ant--Floss a geedy boy. He dived
it me for meself. Oh, an' yes!"
With a sudden remembrance of something less absorbing than the ball,
she held up the paper--a mere folded scrap. Alexia seized it eagerly,
held it fast in her hands, asked almost inaudibly:
"Who gave it to you, child?"
"Him did. You droppened it. Him," said the child, turning round to
point. Then she cried out blankly, "Oh, him's gone!"
Miss Boucheafen glanced behind her hastily. The seat by which the
gay-colored ball had lain was empty. She opened the paper, and read
within it, written in a blood-red color, the one word "Absolved!"
* * * * *
Doctor Brudenell found his nephews and niece unusually excited and
talkative when, as was his custom, he came up after his dinner to see
them in Miss Boucheafen's pleasant sitting-room. The rides in the
tram-cars, the park, the buns, and the ducks were enlarged upon in
turn; and then Maggie produced her ball, and plunged onto such broken
and lavish praises of the "vewy nice man" that the Doctor looked at the
governess for enlightenment.
"A gentleman in the park, sir, gave her the ball," explained Miss
Boucheafen gravely.
"And zou a letter!" cried Maggie.
"And also returned me a paper that I had dropped," amended Alexia.
"I see. Well, don't smash more windows with the ball than you can
help," said the Doctor, putting his niece down upon her feet.
He rose and approached the stately young governess, standing, beautiful
in the light of lamp and fire, one hand drooping at her side, the other
lying upon the marble of the mantel-piece, hardly whiter and hardly
colder. George Brudenell had begun to think that her coldness and
gravity suited her beauty--laughter, blushes, dimples would have
spoiled it. Her frigid manner did not repel him now; it had a charm for
him which no warmth and graciousness could have had; and yet,
perversely he longed intensely to see her both kind and sweet. How
beautiful she was! He glanced at her reflected face in the mirror, and
winced and frowned and bit his lip, seeing his own beside it. A small,
plain, dark, clean-shaven man--he was her very antithesis.
Intellectual-looking, pleasant, refined he might perhaps claim to be
considered; but how utterly, painfully unattractive he must be to her!
"I am glad to hear that you have been out, Mademoiselle," he said
kindly.
"The day was so fine--it tempted me," replied Alexia.
"A very good thing; the confinement was telling upon you," resumed the
Doctor. "Let me advise you to try to get out once at least every day."
"I shall do so, sir, with your permission--now."
"Now that the first plunge is taken," he remarked good-humoredly.
"Well, that is wise. Do not go too far, or let these youngsters trouble
you too much either out of doors or in, and you will soon feel the
benefit."
"You are very good, sir," murmured the governess; "but I am quite
well--indeed, quite strong."
"You must let me be the best judge of that, Mademoiselle. I am afraid
you have overtaxed your strength to-day. You are looking tired."
"I am not so, indeed. Not at all too tired to play, if you desire it."
"Thank you, Mademoiselle," said the Doctor simply.
There was a piano in the room, a tolerable one; and Alexia moved slowly
toward it and sat down. It had become quite an institution, this
half-hour's playing which she gave the Doctor when he came up-stairs to
bid the children good-night. He was disappointed if by any chance she
missed it, perhaps because he hardly saw her at any other time, and
because it was something to be able from his distant seat to watch her
as she played. He learned her attitudes, her expressions, the poise of
her head, the curve of her full throat by heart at these times.
He did not care for music, and had no knowledge of the airs she played,
but he knew that he had heard no playing like hers. The magic of her
fingers made the instrument speak.
Thanking her now, he did not leave the room as usual, but lingered even
after the children had said good-night and gone to bed. Alexia looked
at him questioningly, and he began to speak--awkwardly, as she saw, but
with how much reluctance she did not suspect.
"Mademoiselle, you will pardon my recalling it. But you recollect when
you first expressed a wish to remain here?"
"Yes."
She spoke quite quietly, but her eyes involuntarily widened and her
lips parted. She put her hand to her bosom, felt the stiffness of paper
there, and then the hand fell at her side again, and she sat looking at
the fire.
"You recollect," resumed George Brudenell, with a reluctant troubled
glance at her averted face, "that I told you then how perfectly aware I
was that the post you wished to fill was completely below your
capabilities--that in it you would be thrown away, in short--and that
at the best it could only be considered as an occupation for you until
something better should offer?"
"I remember, sir."
The Doctor hesitated; that "sir," with its stiffness, its cool, formal,
respect, jarred upon him more and more day by day; and she hardly ever
failed to use it. He was too diffident to remonstrate with a few gay
words, as a more confident, easy man would have done, and chafed under
it in silence.
"I am happy to tell you that something has offered."
It was a lie, and he knew it; the thought of losing her, cold and
statuesque as she was to him, made him miserable, filled his heart with
a keen pain--a pain which had brought very near the inevitable
revelation that he was bound to make to himself. Alexia raised her head
and looked at him, but she did not speak. He went on:
"It is in the family of one of my patients--not as governess, but as
companion to his wife. They are wealthy, and she is a refined,
cultivated, and kindhearted woman; you could, I think, hardly fail to
be comfortable with her, if you care to accept the post." He paused
again, but finding her still silent, went on. "That you would be upon
terms of perfect equality I need not say. This lady--Mrs. Latimer--
would like to see you, if you care to think further of it."
Alexia looked into his face with her great sombre eyes.
"Sir, do you then wish me to leave here?"
"Wish?" he echoed.
Was there really a sorrowful, almost reproachful, intonation in her
voice? He was foolish enough to fancy so, weak enough to encourage this
sudden rapid beating of his heart.
"Because, if not," she went on gently, "I would rather stay here, if I
may."
"Mademoiselle, are you sure of that? Consider."
"Quite sure. I am comfortable--here it is home; you have been so kind
to me! Ah, sir, do not send me away!" She spoke entreatingly, eagerly,
and to herself she added, pressing her hands again upon her breast, "If
he sends me from the house, I am lost."
"My child," said George Brudenell simply, again remembering only how
young she was as he spoke to her thus protectingly, "stay if you wish,
and as long as you wish. You shall leave only when you yourself desire
it."
"I shall not do that," murmured Alexia softly; and then, having no
further excuse for remaining, he went away.
The Doctor fell into a reverie before his study fire presently, and
forgot the book upon his knee. He had the pleasant consciousness of an
uncongenial task conscientiously performed, and without its anticipated
unwelcome results being left behind. It was not an idea of his own
which had caused him to inquire among his patients for a suitable
situation for Alexia Boucheafen, but the hints, and then downright
urgings, of his friend Mrs. Leslie. Both she and Kate Merritt had seen
the governess, for in her kindness of heart the elder lady had paid
more than one visit to Laura's children. Mrs. Leslie had been
astonished at Alexia's beauty and stateliness, sympathetic and
questioning over her story, and, upon hearing that she was to remain in
the Doctor's house, had been amazed. A conventional-minded woman, with
all her kindness of heart, Mrs. Leslie had been shocked. Perhaps she
might not have been so had there been no scandalized and indignant
influence upon her own side; but Kate had been excessively voluble upon
this incipient fulfillment of her predictions, and had let her sister
have very little peace indeed. Finally, Mrs. Leslie had summed up the
whole case to the Doctor by assuring him that it would never do.
Well, it would have to do, he decided, when he roused himself
sufficiently to know what he had been thinking about. The girl should
stay if she preferred it, that was certain, in spite of all the
opinions in Christendom. He rather enjoyed this outrage upon the
proprieties, forgetful altogether that the same thought had been in his
own mind. He was glad to know that she was tranquil and safe. Nothing
more, consciously, yet.