She was a tall girl, taller than Janet, but considerably less so than
her sister, with a well-knit and active figure, clad in the shapeless
garments which are considered appropriate to her age, a great mane of
light brown hair falling on her shoulders, and a pair of gray eyes,
which were not soft like Gussy’s, nor with any tone of blue in them; but
with a glimmer of that yellow light which makes gray eyes fierce. Her
eyebrows were slightly puckered, giving a keen arch over her eyes, to
which this gave (when one was looking for it) a look of repression, a
hint of a possible blaze and spring. But otherwise there was no sign in
Miss Julia of anything out of the way or alarming. She thrust out a hot
hand to Janet, said “How d’ye do?” because she could not help herself,
accepted without any thanks her tea from her sister, and retired at once
to the background. Gussy gave a significant look to Janet, and elevated
her eyebrows; but the new-comer saw nothing remarkable in the drawing
back of the half-grown, shy girl who established herself at a table,
ingenuously set up an open book, which she had apparently brought in
with her, so that she could read while she consumed her cake and bread
and butter, and made herself comfortable in a way which Janet envied,
but did not feel herself called upon to disapprove. To-morrow, perhaps,
when she was the governess in charge--but at present her mind was still
free of any responsibility. A certain restraint, however, seemed to fall
upon the conversation after the entrance of Julia. The very monologue of
Gussy, the little chirp of protest from the other side of the curtain
did not seem so free. They asked Janet a few questions about her
journey, which had been inconsiderable, which was absolutely so
unimportant, and then it was suggested she might like to go upstairs.
It was evident that the Harwoods intended to be very good to their
governess, for she found a pretty room, well furnished and warm with
firelight, awaiting her--a better room than had been hers at Rose
Cottage, or even in the vicarage.
“I hope you will be comfortable, and I hope you will like us,” said Miss
Harwood, as she left her.
Janet sat down in a comfortable chair by the fire. She felt very
comfortable, in a state of pleasant exhilaration, but also with a faint
consciousness of having had, so to speak, the ground cut from under her
feet. If this was what it was to go out governessing, what was the
meaning of all the fables which she had been told from her childhood?
From _Jane Eyre_, to the _Family Herald_, they had all been in one
tale--there had been compensations of an exciting character, no doubt,
always, or almost always--but never a reception like this. She laughed
to herself as she sat and watched the firelight dancing in the mirror
over the mantelpiece, and in the dressing-glass on the table. Quite as
nice as coming on a visit, in short, just the same, though perhaps had
she come on a visit she would not have been at once and so fully taken
into the family concerns of her hosts. At the same time there was a
trifling disappointment in Janet’s little soul. She had fully intended
to conquer fate, to make a brilliant fight, to come out triumphant and
victorious more than words could say. And to find that there was nothing
to fight about, that all was to be easy and agreeable, every authority
on her side, and circumstances in her favor--took the wind out of her
sails, to change the metaphor. It brought a little ridicule into the
whole matter. To think that she had been so screwing up her courage,
fortifying herself, and that her heart had beat so high, and that she
had walked into this new world with such a determined little step, as if
she were marching to military music, with her colors flying and her
bugle sounding, all to fall into a lap of luxury, to be received with
open arms and almost caresses at the last!
In course of time, however, Janet reminded herself that instead of being
the last, this after all was only the very first of her new experiences.
Mrs. Harwood might turn out to be very different from the amiable and
jocular old lady she appeared at first. Gussy, instead of being the
nicest of fair-haired girls, might develop the falseness and treachery
which some people thought went with that complexion. Other complications
might arise. And then there was Ju.
Ah! Ju! Janet felt a little injured, wounded in her pride, when that
consideration suddenly came in and thrust itself upon her. She had
anticipated a great many evils, but she had never thought that to master
an unruly girl taller than herself would be the chief or the first
feature of her warfare. It was almost ludicrous to think of Ju, that
child, in her short petticoats and flying hair, as a synonym of fate.
Janet had been accustomed to be the favorite of the children wherever
she went. The little ones had always liked her, gathered about her,
petitioned her to tell them stories, to sing them some of her funny
songs, to make up games for them. She was famous in Clover and for quite
twelve miles round for this quality. “Delightful with children!” that
was what was said of her. And in looking forward upon the future she had
never taken into account any difficulty in that respect. The
difficulties she had expected had been in (perhaps) the exacting and
unjust mother, (perhaps) the jealous and spiteful girl, (perhaps) the
undue admiration of the male persons about, and their universal feeling
that the governess was much better worth looking at and talking to than
the ladies of the house.
These are the difficulties chiefly set forth in novels, and, after all,
it was from novels that Janet derived her chief conceptions of life. But
a struggle with a wayward pupil had not occurred to her as one of her
possible trials. After all, to look at it impartially, it was a not
unnatural difficulty. She ought to have considered it one of the things
most likely to happen, but it was a poor unromantic difficulty with
nothing at all spirit-stirring in it. To wrestle in spirit with a
naughty girl, to fight for obedience, for nice manners, for lessons
learnt! Oh dear, oh dear! These were no doubt things as distinctly
belonging to a governess’s business as her grammar or her book of
marks--but Janet had not taken them into account, and they seemed
disappointing and ignoble trifles after the things for which she was
prepared.
The dinner was good; the table was nicely served. It was apparent that
the Harwoods were not people of yesterday. Their silver was heavy and
old, marked not with a crest, but with a solemn “H,” as a family perhaps
not deeply acquainted with fantastic trophies of heraldry, but extremely
conscious of the credit of their name. And everything shone and sparkled
with that nicety of good usage which is never more perceptible than in
those well-to-do English houses were splendor is never aimed at.
Mrs. Harwood was wheeled in in her chair, and, now that Janet could see
her, proved to be a pretty old lady, rather different from her
daughters, not, indeed, a similar type at all--a woman with lively dark
eyes and warm tones of color in her complexion, and, even in her
crippled condition, much more active in her movements than her eldest
daughter at least. They had all dressed for dinner, according to that
all-prevailing English practice which no other country knows--Gussy, in
a pretty blue dress, which lent a little animation to her extreme
fairness; Julia, in a white frock; even Mrs. Harwood, in a changed cap
and shawl. How strange it was to sit down in the midst of this
unaccustomed company, amid all these unknown surroundings, in one’s
mourning--a little black figure unlike any of them, yet one of the
family! It gave Janet once more a thrill of novel sensation that ran all
over her. She sat opposite to the mirror which was over the mantelpiece
(there were mirrors over all the mantelpieces), and as it was tilted
forward a little Janet could see herself, which gave her much amusement
and encouragement. She looked very different from all the rest in her
black frock. The second time she looked she had a vague perception that
certainly she looked no worse than the rest--perhaps, better. At all
events, there is no harm in being consoled about your appearance and
feeling that you are no worse than the people about you. Janet felt
disposed to have an occasional laugh and pleasant little remark now and
then between herself and the little girl in black opposite to her in the
glass. Somehow she liked the looks of that little thing the best.
And the talk flowed on, all through dinner and afterwards in Mrs.
Harwood’s room, where they sat after dinner round the twinkling
fireplace, all made of shining brass and steel. How it shone and
twinkled and reflected every flame, and threw off glimmers of
concentrated light! The mother was wheeled back to her usual place.
Gussy took up her position by a screen on the other side, and Julia and
Miss Summerhayes found their places between. This nomenclature had been
adopted at once, to Janet’s great amazement. It was as if a partnership
had been made which nobody could interfere with. Mrs. Harwood and her
elder daughter were distinct personalities, but the other pair were Ju
and Miss Summerhayes.
“It ought to be Miss Summerhayes and Ju,” said Gussy, “but it does not
run so well. One can’t end off well with a ridiculous little syllable.
This is where I always sit, and you must find a place according to what
you like best. We live very quietly, partly because mamma will not get
out of that chair.”
“Can’t, Gussy. Don’t let Miss Summerhayes form such a bad opinion of
your mother.”
“Miss Summerhayes will form her own opinion quickly enough. I only give
her a sketch of the circumstances. This is how we are night after night,
often the whole winter through. It ought to be very dull, and it must
look very dull to you, but, somehow, we are hardened, and don’t feel it,
except when Dolff is at home. When Dolff is at home, we ought to tell
you, Miss Summerhayes, that there are sometimes a few parties--dinner
parties, not very interesting, friends of the family; and on those
occasions--it is better to say it to Miss Summerhayes just at once,
without waiting till the time comes--don’t you think, mamma?”
“Miss Summerhayes has so much sense. I am sure she will understand the
size of the room and all that sort of thing,” said Mrs. Harwood.
“Just so. I was sure you would think it best. It is just this, that when
Dolff is at home and there are dinners, sometimes we may be unable to
ask you to make one, Miss Summerhayes.”
“Oh, is that all!” said Janet. She laughed with almost a little relief,
for she had not known what she might be about to be told. “I did not
expect even to dine downstairs,” she said. “I was told a governess never
did. Mrs. Bland told me all I should have to do--to dine at two with my
pupil, perhaps to come in to afternoon tea, then to disappear upstairs
and be seen no more. The vicar and she are saying to each other at
present: ‘Now Janet will be feeling very lonely. She will be finding
out what a solitary evening is.’ Dear people! I wish they could only see
me now.”
“Yes,” said the old lady; “and all you say, my dear, about them, and
about your arrival and everything, is very pretty. But your friends were
really quite right, for that is usually the case when a--young lady--is
in a family in this way. For you know every family has its own
ways--and--and a person, a lady who is not acquainted with them may
be--well, made uncomfortable, or the others may be obliged to stop
speaking with freedom when she is there. It does not matter among us,
who are all ladies together--and no secrets to discuss. But
occasionally, my dear, when my son is at home, or when circumstances
require it--you won’t think it means any unkindness?--but we are obliged
to recur to ordinary rules--for a few days--for a little while--perhaps
only for two or three times. It is just a sort of necessity. We can’t
help ourselves. I always think it easier to explain everything and set
everything on a simple footing at once.”
This was a very long speech for Mrs. Harwood to make, and Janet strove
to interrupt her a dozen times, to declare that she understood and that
no explanations were necessary. But it came to an end at last, and the
old lady pushed back her chair a little, and made a slight flourish with
her handkerchief, in the satisfaction of having relieved her mind. Gussy
immediately took up the _parole_ without a pause.
“You said ‘Janet,’ Miss Summerhayes--what a nice little prepossessing
natural name to have! Do you know what we are called, the unfortunate
members of this family? Oh, I see, she can scarcely keep from laughing,
mamma.”
“I! no, indeed; my name is dreadful, like a Scotch housemaid; everybody
says so,” said Janet, in some trouble, not knowing what was coming next.
“Wait till you know. I am Augusta, which is Minerva Press of the finest
water. And that poor child is Julia, and our only brother is
Adolphus--conceive such a thing!--born John if ever man was; such an
honest countenance, no pretension about it, and Adolphus put on him like
a pinchbeck coronet. It is too bad. Mamma denies any responsibility. She
says it was all my father’s fault.”
“I say,” said Mrs. Harwood, “that it was the family--don’t blame your
poor father. The Harwoods were always queer, and it was they who liked
those grand names.”
“You call them grand! I have to sink to Gussy, and she to Ju, and Dolff,
poor boy! did you ever hear a more miserable thing for a name? Dolff!
There is nothing in it, neither meaning nor sense. I know he would come
home a great deal happier if he were Jack.”
“What can the boy’s name have to do with his happiness?” cried Mrs.
Harwood, testily, pushing back her chair a little more.
“If he were in a more exalted sphere he would be called Dolly,” said his
sister, sadly. “Dolly! imagine, a man’s name!--Now if we had been born
in mamma’s time we would have been Mary and Elizabeth and John--how much
better! Or we might be, had mamma insisted on being in the fashion,
Dorothy and Mabel and Harold: not bad, though perhaps a little
artificial. But Augusta, Julia, and Adolphus! Can you wonder, Miss
Summerhayes, that we are all sometimes on the eve of rebellion, and if
mamma was not really so good might be tempted even to assault her,
though she declares it was not her fault?”
“Ju,” said Mrs. Harwood, “get up and read by the lamp. The firelight, I
am always telling you, will destroy your eyes.”
Julia was stretched out on the carpet with a book laid out close by the
gleaming, dazzling fire. She had her head supported in her hands, and
had not moved or shown any sign of life while this conversation was
going on. She took not the smallest notice of what her mother said.
“Ju,” said Gussy, “do you know that your hair will be ruined in that
heat? Nurse is always complaining it is scorched off your head.”
“And that is why you have such dreadful headaches. Get up and sit at the
table beside Miss Summerhayes.
But Ju neither moved nor spoke.