“Now, Constance, that we have a moment alone, what is this about you?” began Mr. Yorke, as they stood together in the garden.
“Annabel said the truth--that I do think of going out as daily
governess,” she replied, bending over a carnation to hide the blush
which rose to her cheeks, a very rival to the blushing flower. “It is a
great misfortune that has fallen upon us--at least we can only look at
it in that light at present, and will, beyond doubt, be productive of
some embarrassment. Do you not see, William, that it is incumbent upon
us all to endeavour to lighten this embarrassment, those of us who can
do so? I must assume my share of the burden.”
Mr. Yorke was silent. Constance took it for granted that he was
displeased. He was of an excellent family, and she supposed he disliked
the step she was about to take--deemed it would be derogatory to his
future wife.
“Have you fully made up your mind?” he at length asked.
“Yes. I have talked it over with mamma--for indeed she and I both seem
to have anticipated this--and she thinks with me, that it is what I
ought to do. William, how could I reconcile it to my conscience not to
help?” she continued. “Think of papa! think of his strait! It appears to
be a plain duty thrown in my path.”
“By yourself, Constance?”
“Not by myself,” she whispered, lifting for a moment her large blue
eyes. “Oh, William, William, do not be displeased with me! do not forbid
it! It is honourable to work--it is right to do what we can. Strive to
see it in the right light.”
“Let that carnation alone, Constance; give your attention to me. What if
I do forbid it?”
She walked a little forward, leaving the carnation bed, and halted under
the shade of the dark cedar tree, her heart and colour alike fading. Mr.
Yorke followed and stood before her.
“William, I must do my duty. There is no other way open to me, by
which I can earn something to help in this time of need, except that
of becoming a governess. Many a lady, better born than I, has done it
before me.”
“A daily governess, I think you said?”
“Papa could not spare me to go out altogether; Annabel could not spare
me either; and--”
“I would not spare you,” he struck in, filling up her pause. “Was that
what you were about to say, Constance?”
The rosy hue stole over her face again, and a sweet smile to her lips:
“Oh, William, if you will only sanction it! I shall go about it then
with the lightest heart!”
He looked at her with an expression she did not understand, and shook
his head. Constance thought it a negative shake, and her hopes fell
again. “You did not answer my question,” said Mr. Yorke. “What if I
forbid it?”
“But it seems to be my duty,” she urged from between her pale and parted
lips.
“Constance, that is no answer.”
“Oh, do not, do not! William, do not you throw this temptation in my
way--that of choosing between yourself and a plain duty that lies before
me.”
“The temptation, as you call it, must be for a later consideration. Why
will you not answer me? What would be your course if I forbade it?”
“I do not know. But, Oh, William, if you gave me up--”
She could not continue. She turned away to hide her face from Mr. Yorke.
He followed and obtained forcible view of it. It was wet with tears.
“Nay, but I did not mean to carry it so far as to cause you real grief,
my dearest,” he said, in a changed tone. “Though you brought it on
yourself,” he added, laughing, as he bent his face down.
“How did I bring it on myself?”
“By doubting me. I saw you doubted me at the first, when Annabel spoke
of it in the study. Constance, if you, possessed as you are of great
acquirements, refused from any notion of false pride, to exert them for
your family in a time of need, I should say you were little fitted for
the wife of one whose whole duty it must be to do his Master’s work.”
“You will sanction the measure then?” she rejoined, her countenance
lighting up.
“How could you doubt me? I wish I could make a home at once to take you
to; but as you must remain in this a little longer, it is only fair
that you should contribute to its maintenance. We all have to bend to
circumstances. I shall not love my wife the less, because she has had
the courage to turn her talents to account. What could you be thinking
of, child?”
“Forgive me, William,” she softly pleaded. “But you looked so grave and
were so silent.”
Mr. Yorke smiled. “The truth is, Constance, I was turning in my mind
whether I could not help to place you, and pondering the advantages and
disadvantages of a situation I know of. Lady Augusta is looking out for
a daily governess.”
“Is she?” exclaimed Constance. “I wonder whether--I--should suit her?”
Constance spoke hesitatingly. The thought which had flashed over her own
mind was, whether Lady Augusta Yorke could afford to pay her
sufficient remuneration. Probably the same doubt had made one of the
“disadvantages” hinted at by Mr. Yorke.
“I called there yesterday, and interrupted a ‘scene’ between Lady
Augusta and Miss Caroline,” he said. “Unseemly anger on my lady’s part,
and rebellion on Carry’s, forming, as usual, its chief features.”
“But Lady Augusta is so indulgent to her children!” interrupted
Constance.
“Perniciously indulgent, generally; and when the effects break out in
insolence and disobedience, then there ensues a scene. If you go there
you will witness them occasionally, and I assure you they are not
edifying. You must endeavour to train the girls to something better than
they have been trained to yet, Constance.”
“If I do go.”
“I knew how long it would last, Lady Augusta’s instructing them
herself,” resumed Mr. Yorke. “It is not a month since the governess
left.”
“Why does she wish to take a daily governess instead of one in the
house?”
“_Why_ Lady Augusta does a thing, is scarcely ever to be accounted for,
by herself or by any one else!” replied Mr. Yorke. “Some convenience, or
inconvenience, she mentioned to me, about sleeping arrangements. Shall
I ascertain particulars for you, Constance; touching salary and other
matters?”
“If you please. Papa is somewhat fastidious; but he could not object
to my going there; and its being so very near our own house would be a
great point of--”
“Constance!” interrupted a voice at this juncture. “Is Mr. Yorke there?”
“He is here, mamma,” replied Constance, walking forward to Mrs.
Channing, Mr. Yorke attending her.
“I thought I heard you enter,” she said, as Mr. Yorke took her hand.
“Mr. Channing will be pleased to see you, if you will come in and chat
with him. The children have told you the tidings. It is a great blow to
their prospects.”
“But they seem determined to bear it bravely,” he answered, in a hearty
tone. “You may be proud to have such children, Mrs. Channing.”
“Not proud,” she softly said. “Thankful!”
“True. I am obliged to you for correcting me,” was the clergyman’s
ingenuous answer, as he walked, with Mrs. Channing, across the hall.
Constance halted, for Judith came out of the kitchen, and spoke in a
whisper.
“And what’s the right and the wrong of it, Miss Constance? _Is_ the
money gone?”
“Gone entirely, Judith. Gone for good.”
“For good!” groaned Judith; “I should say for ill. Why does the Queen
let there be a Lord Chancellor?”
“It is not the Lord Chancellor’s fault, Judith. He only administers the
law.”
“Why couldn’t he just as well have given it _for_ your papa, as against
him?”
“I suppose he considers that the law is on the other side,” sighed
Constance.
Judith, with a pettish movement, returned to her kitchen; and at that
moment Hamish came downstairs. He had changed his dress, and had a pair
of new white gloves in his hand.
“Are you going out to-night, Hamish?”
There was a stress on the word “to-night,” and Hamish marked it. “I
promised, you know, Constance. And my staying away would do no good; it
could not improve things. Fare you well, my pretty sister. Tell mamma I
shall be home by eleven.”
“It’ll be a sad cut-down for ‘em all,” muttered Judith, gazing at Hamish
round the kitchen door-post. “Where he’ll find money for his white
gloves and things now, is beyond my telling, the darling boy! If I could
but get to that Lord Chancellor!”
Had you possessed the privilege of living in Helstonleigh at the time of
which this story treats--and I can assure you you might live in a less
privileged city--it is possible that, on the morning following the above
events, your peaceful slumbers might have been rudely broken by a noise,
loud enough to waken the seven sleepers of Ephesus.
Before seven o’clock, the whole school, choristers and king’s scholars,
assembled in the cloisters. But, instead of entering the schoolroom for
early school, they formed themselves into a dense mass (if you ever saw
schoolboys march otherwise, I have not), and, treading on each other’s
heels, proceeded through the town to the lodgings of the judges, in
pursuance of a time-honoured custom. There the head-boy sent in his name
to the very chamber of the Lord Chief Justice, who happened this time to
have come to the Helstonleigh circuit. “Mr. Gaunt, senior of the college
school”--craving holiday for himself, and the whole fry who had attended
him.
“College boys!” cried his lordship, winking and blinking, as other less
majestic mortals do when awakened suddenly out of their morning sleep.
“Yes, my lord,” replied the servant. “All the school’s come up; such a
lot of ‘em! It’s the holiday they are asking for.”
“Oh, ah, I recollect,” cried his lordship--for it was not the first time
he had been to Helstonleigh. “Give one of my cards to the senior boy,
Roberts. My compliments to the head-master, and I beg he will grant the
boys a holiday.”
Roberts did as he was bid--he also had been to Helstonleigh before with
his master--and delivered the card and message to Gaunt. The consequence
of which was, the school tore through the streets in triumph, shouting
“Holiday!” in tones to be heard a mile off, and bringing people in white
garments, from their beds to the windows. The least they feared was,
that the town had taken fire.
Back to the house of the head-master for the pantomime to be played
through. This usually was (for the master, as wise on the subject as
they were, would lie that morning in bed) to send the master’s servant
into his room with the card and the message; upon which permission for
the holiday would come out, and the boys would disperse, exercising
their legs and lungs. No such luck, however, on this morning. The
servant met them at the door, and grinned dreadfully at the crowd.
“Won’t you catch it, gentlemen! The head-master’s gone into school, and
is waiting for you; marking you all late, of course.”
“Gone into school!” repeated Gaunt, haughtily, resenting the
familiarity, as well as the information. “What do you mean?”
“Why, I just mean that, sir,” was the reply, upon which Gaunt felt
uncommonly inclined to knock him down. But the man had a propensity
for grinning, and was sure to exercise it on all possible occasions.
“There’s some row up, and you are not to have holiday,” continued the
servant; “the master said last night I was to call him this morning as
usual.”
At this unexpected reply, the boys slunk away to the college schoolroom,
their buoyant spirits sunk down to dust and ashes--figuratively
speaking. They could not understand it; they had not the most distant
idea what their offence could have been. Gaunt entered, and the rest
trooped in after him. The head-master sat at his desk in stern state:
the other masters were in their places. “What is the meaning of this
insubordination?” the master sharply demanded, addressing Gaunt. “You
are three-quarters of an hour behind your time.”
“We have been up to the judges, as usual, for holiday, sir,” replied
Gaunt, in a tone of deprecation. “His lordship sends his card and
compliments to you, and--”
“Holiday!” interrupted the master. “Holiday!” he repeated, with
emphasis, as if disbelieving his own ears. “Do you consider that the
school deserves it? A pretty senior you must be, if you do.”
“What has the school done, sir?” respectfully asked Gaunt.
“Your memory must be conveniently short,” chafed the master. “Have you
forgotten the inked surplice?”
Gaunt paused. “But that was not the act of the whole school, sir. It was
probably the act of only one.”
“But, so long as that one does not confess, the whole school must
bear it,” returned the master, looking round on the assembly. “Boys,
understand me. It is not for the fault itself--that may have been, as I
said yesterday, the result of accident; but it is the concealment of the
fault that makes me angry. Will you confess now?--he who did it?”
No; the appeal brought forth no further result than the other had done.
The master continued:
“You may think--I speak now to the guilty boy, and let him take these
words to himself--that you were quite alone when you did it; that no eye
was watching. But let me remind you that the eye of God was upon you.
What you refuse to tell, He can bring to light, if it shall so please
Him, in His own wonderful way, His own good time. There will be no
holiday to-day. Prayers.”
The boys fell into their places, and stood with hanging heads, something
like rebellion working in every breast. At breakfast-time they
were dismissed, and gathered in the cloisters to give vent to their
sentiments.
“Isn’t it a stunning shame?” cried hot Tom Channing. “The school ought
not to suffer for the fault of one boy. The master has no right--”
“The fault lies in the boy, not in the master,” interrupted Gaunt. “A
sneak! a coward! If he has a spark of manly honour in him, he’ll speak
up now.”
“As it has come to this, I say Charley Channing should be made to
declare what he knows,” said one. “He saw it done!”
“Who says he did?” quickly asked Tom Channing.
“Some one said so; and that he was afraid to tell.”
Gaunt lifted his finger, and made a sign to Charles to approach. “Now,
boy”--as the latter obeyed--“you will answer _me_, remember. The master
has called the seniors to his aid, and I order you to speak. Did you see
this mischief done?”
“No, I did not!” fearlessly replied little Channing.
“If he doesn’t know, he suspects,” persisted Hurst. “Come, Miss
Channing.”
“We don’t declare things upon suspicion, do we, Mr. Gaunt?” appealed
Charles. “I may suspect one; Hurst may suspect another; Bywater said
he suspected two; the whole school may be suspicious, one of another.
Where’s the use of that?”
“It is of no use,” decided Gaunt. “You say you did not see the surplice
damaged?”
“I did not; upon my word of honour.”
“That’s enough,” said Gaunt. “Depend upon it, the fellow, while he was
at it, took precious good precautions against being seen. When he gets
found out, he had better not come within reach of the seniors; I warn
him of that: they might not leave him a head on his shoulders, or a
tooth in his mouth.”
“Suppose it should turn out to have been a senior, Mr. Gaunt?” spoke
Bywater.
“Suppose you should turn out to be an everlasting big donkey?” retorted
the senior boy.