"Who was Miss Kingscott?"
"Aye, that would be telling, sure," as a native of the Emerald Isle says
when you question him about anything he does not care to disclose. But
few persons could give you any satisfactory answer to your enquiry, not
even the sharp, shrewd old dowager in whose employ she now was. She
might tell you that Miss Kingscott was a governess, a lady's companion--
regarding her in the light of a saleable article of furniture--and that
she came to her well recommended, and that she supposed she knew what
she professed to teach, and was worth her wages, or she would not be
hired; but she personally thought her "a bold hussie," and that was all.
Knowledge has its limits, and there Mrs Hartshorne ceased.
Who was Miss Kingscott? An easy question on the face of it, but one
requiring a very complicated answer. Who was she? Why, _une fille
errante_, a nobody's child, a sort of female Bedouin, whose hand was
against every man's--and woman's also--as she thought theirs to be
against her. A woman young, beautiful, and, beyond all, clever, and not
only very clever but heartless, and as devoted to self as she was _sans
coeur_. One who could take her part--aye, and play her part--before the
world; a fair face with a devil's heart--that is if a devil does have a
heart--and great keen basilisk eyes. One who might be anything and
everything, for you could hardly judge her as to what _role_ would suit
her best, or rather suit her purpose best. A child yesterday, a woman
to-day--nay, she could never have been a child. Only a governess now
mayhap, but she might be _miladi_ to-morrow if she plays her cards well.
Pshaw! she always played her cards well, for there's a rare little
plotting head on her well-formed shoulders. Miss Kingscott, _entendez
vous_, is a clever woman; one day she may be any character she please,
and God knows what the next.
Now to sketch her personal attributes. In the ante-passport abolition
days an employe in the _Bureau des Passeportes_ might have put her down
as follows: _Des yeux--gris; nez--aquilin; teint--pale; cheveux--noirs;
et taille moyenne_. In plain English she was a girl--woman that is--of
some five feet two in height, of pale--strange the French have no
distinction between pale and sallow--complexion, and with black hair and
grey eyes. Grey eyes the Gallic officer would call them, but that would
not describe them; they were basilisk eyes, eyes that had a depth of
cunning, and treachery, and entrancement in them, which no colour term
would express.
Ten years ago Clara Joyce--she had lately adopted the name of Kingscott,
bequeathed her by a maiden aunt, who left her nothing else but her
patronymic, which she could wear or not as she pleased, for there was no
one living to question her right to the same--filled the position of
English governess at a _Pensionat des Filles_ in the _Rue des
Courcelles_ in Paris. The school was a famous one, and is a famous one
still, so we must not be too particular about names or dates exactly.
Her previous life had been one of hardship, slavery, and neglect. Her
parents had died when she was quite young, and she was placed at school,
not to learn merely her education like her mates, but to learn her
profession. She was to be a governess, and her earlier years were but a
training for what she had afterwards to go through. First, she was a
scholar _pur et simple_; next, she became a sort of general drudge, or
female usher, as she grew older; and then her aunt--when the harpy who
watched over her budding intellects grew tired of her temper, and
declared her to be sufficiently taught to be able to teach others,--told
her she could do nothing more for her, having recommended her to a
situation, where she was engaged to teach every possible and impossible
grace and accomplishment at starvation rate, and _ma tante_ washed her
hands metaphorically of her. This aunt of hers, who was the only
relative that Clara Joyce ever remembered coming across, was by no means
the sort of person to impress anyone with the idea of domestic
affection, so houseless, homeless, and friendless, the girl had been all
her school life, and houseless, homeless, and friendless she was when
turned out into the world.
The very marrow of her nature had been frozen by her surroundings, and
the life of a governess was not one to imbue her with any better
feelings, although it increased her knowledge of human nature. One
situation after another she filled in England until she was fairly sick
of her country, and she eagerly accepted the position offered her in the
_pensionat_ in Paris, thinking that it might throw her into a fresh
field and improve her chances of rising in the social scale. She had
been an _intriguante_ early, her experiences of life already had
deepened her convictions that in order to succeed she must skilfully
manoeuvre the wires, looking upon her fellows as puppets; but even then
if she had had a fair chance--good heavens! how many of us are there not
crying out for a fair chance--Clara Joyce would have turned out a very
different person from the Clara Kingscott, of our story; but it was not
to be.
At the time she entered the _pensionat_ she was barely twenty years of
age--she was now consequently just thirty--a handsome girl, although
somewhat thin and pale, from the hard life and harder living she had
gone through; and she now determined more than ever to take advantage of
her looks and chances, literally to husband her resources. To endeavour
in fact by a wealthy marriage--she had read and was told that eligible
_partis_ were much sooner picked up on the continent than in the more
calculating Britain--to rid herself for ever of her working life, and be
above the danger of want, which, poor _intriguante_, she had already
gone through, and the necessity for drudgery.
She had no romance in her nature, no absurd ideas on the subject of love
and happiness which the more benighted of us sometimes imagine to be
indissolubly connected with the married state; but, taking her as she
was, and putting such thoughts out of consideration, Clara Joyce, if she
had had the chance, as has been before suggested, might have made a most
exemplary wife for some one, and turned out, perhaps, a highly correct
and eminently respectable mother of a family. Consider, now, she was
brought up to slave for others, to subdue her own private feelings and
wishes, to conceal her own thoughts and opinions, to enact a series of
petty deceptions and tell white lies every day. How many are there not
of our noble army of British matrons who go through the same parts every
day? Fancy how Joan has to wheedle old Darby, and laugh at his stale
jokes and "keep up appearances," and slave for the children, so that her
life is one long drudgery, the same as Clara's. _Ma foi_! there are
slaves and slaves, many whose black skins are hidden by a white mask,
and whose chains clank beneath their silk or merino gowns.
French life with its manners and customs pleased our young _debutante_.
Although as a matter of course, _mademoiselles les etudiantes_ were
carefully looked after, yet she had plenty of liberty allowed her, for
she so "got round" the _directrice_ of the school that she was nearly
her own mistress; and she was not slow to employ her spare time in
seeing as much as she could of the gay city, its habits, and its
visitors. _Madame la Directrice_ would have been shocked if she had
known that her timid little modest English teacher, "such a quiet little
thing, _pauvre enfante_!" often went to fetes by herself, _sans
chaperone_, and had been even seen in one of those monstrous places--a
theatre! The _gouvernante_ was a shrewd, cautious little actress, and
_Madame la Directrice_ was as blind, bah! as a mole. It was easy enough
to make up a little story of relations to be seen, and to show letters
of invitation imploring a certain demure English teacher to visit her
poor aunt, who was all alone in Paris. And then the _pauvre enfante_
was so regular in coming back. She was always in at the fixed hour
every evening she went out--so quiet, so punctual. Madame never dreamt
of such things as bribing a _concierge_!
While Clara Joyce was thus busying herself in investigating human
nature, a certain young Englishman came to Paris, and in one of her
excursions he made her acquaintance. _Monsieur l'Anglais_ was tall and
handsome and rich. He had plenty of money, and was liberal, and was
looked upon as a _milord_ at least by those with whom he associated.
The young Englishman, however, was as shrewd and clever as the
_gouvernante_. Need it be said that his name was one with which we are
already acquainted? It was Allynne Markworth.
Clara Joyce was an elegant, pretty girl, and the way he made her
acquaintance was in itself an additional charm. Markworth was attracted
by her, and courted her society. He had then a little romance in him,
and was to a certain extent in love with her; but the girl was as
cautious as he was enamoured. She thought that at last she had
succeeded in picking up her eligible _parti_, not only a wealthy one,
but a young and handsome one also, a regular pearl of price. But, like
all young players, she underrated her adversary, and let him see her
hand too soon. Markworth was not one to be caught so easily. He was
one, also, who was marketing on his good looks, and contemplated
matrimony only through the diamond light of a fortune. He was not going
to sacrifice himself for a pretty English governess, who had only her
graces to recommend her, and not a sou of _dot_! He laughed at her when
she spoke of the hymeneal altar; and so poor Clara Joyce--one cannot
help pitying a clever woman who lays herself out to win and loses in the
end--had made her _coup_ and missed it just by a fluke!
She had staked her all, her _petit rouleau_ of a heart on "black," and
here _noir perd et passe le coup_, as the gentleman, who presides over a
queer looking long table divided into red and black squares as to its
surface, at Homburg, says mechanically as he rakes in the little piles
of glittering coin and quires of _billets de banque_, while the unlucky
gamesters gaze on him ruefully, and bite their nails in disgust.
The girl was furious against him. She railed at him, she threatened
him, she vowed vengeance, but he did not care a jot. He had not
committed himself. He was too wary for that, and what did he care? She
bored him, he said, and so he took himself off, and left her to her own
machinations. But Clara was not one to be insulted or injured with
impunity. She had vowed vengeance, and she intended to have it. She
interested herself about Markworth. She wrote to England about him.
She found out many little things about him which he never thought any
one would recollect, or know here in Paris, at all events. By her
indefatigable exertions, she discovered after a year's spying, and
seeking, and enquiry, that Markworth was on the eve of marriage with a
millionairess--a besotted old widow of a Lyons manufacturer, who adored
Englishmen, especially if they were _milords_, and the young lady
communicated with the friends of the _devotee_. Through information she
gave, the match was broken off, and Markworth learnt who had spoiled his
little game. He could not do much, however; he could only expose her at
the Pension, and then there was a fine blow up with Madame Bonchose, the
_Directrice_. Of course Clara had to leave--such a "little snake in the
grass," as Madame called her. But she had had her revenge. Not that
she was satisfied yet. That was only the first of a series of attacks
she planned. She intended to be Mr Allynne Markworth's evil star
through life. It was an unlucky day for him, according to the Fates,
when he came across her orbit and discovered Clara Joyce.
After leaving the _Pensionat des Filles_ in disgrace, she next became a
_Femme de Chambre_ to a Marquise of questionable reputation, with whom
she remained some two years, travelling about and increasing her
knowledge of the world. But she had not forgotten Markworth, not she,
and was ready to lay her hand on him again whenever she had the
opportunity.
Time passed, and she came back once more to England. Her aunt died, so
she assumed her name; and, as Miss Kingscott now, she took a situation
once more in an English family at a cathedral town in the south. She
knew _he_ was in London now, and she wanted to be near him. She was so
fond of him, you see!
But she had another little game, too, to watch over. One day Doctor
Jolly had come to visit at the house where she was employed as a
governess, and where she was about leaving, on account of the breaking
up of the household. Doctor Jolly was impressed with her, and our
heroine, having made enquiries, thought there might be worse lots in
life than being a rich doctress: so she made eyes at him, and set her
cap coquettishly.
The doctor mentioned that Mrs Hartshorne was in want of a lady
companion for her daughter, and said he would recommend her.
Miss Kingscott was agreeable. She had heard there was an only son--Poor
Tom!--and who knew what might turn up? Besides, she would be near the
doctor, and consequently have him to fall back upon.
And so she came to be domesticated at The Poplars. The old lady
squabbled with her, but she gave her as much as she got; and the
dowager, pleased with having some one worth quarrelling with, retained
her.
Susan, of course, was passive in her hands, and the son of the house she
had not yet seen, so she bided her time, and diligently cultivated old
Jolly, whose cheery "How-de-do!" to her would be heard afar, echoing
through the poplar trees when he came to visit at the house, which he
now did much oftener than before.
She was surprised, naturally, to see Markworth at the present juncture,
but not so much as he was. He of course had not recognised her new
name, which, indeed, he had never heard of before; and would have been
as pleased--aye! more so--to have met his Satanic Majesty now than his
quondam Parisian love--the little English governess.
"Damn her!" he growled, _sotto voce_ to himself; "what the devil brings
her here to spoil my game?"
Volume 1, Chapter V.