“A French governess!--she is not French, though she might be born in
France. Anybody might be born in France,” said Patricia, with some
scorn; “but her mother was Scotch--no, not English, Joanna, I know
better--just some Scotchwoman from the country; I should not wonder if
she was a little impostor, after all.”
“You had better take care,” cried Joanna, “I’m easier affronted than
Desirée; you had better not say much more to me.”
“It is true though,” said Patricia, with triumph; “she took quite a
fancy to Kirkbride, when she came first, and was sure she had heard of
the Kelpie waterfall. _I_ expect it will turn out some poor family from
this quarter that have gone to France and changed their name. Joanna may
be as foolish about her as she likes, but _I_ know she never was a true
Frenchwoman by her look. I have seen French people many a time in
England.”
“Yet you always look as if you would like to eat Desirée when she speaks
to you in French,” said Joanna, with a spice of malice; “if you knew
French people, you should like the language.”
“Low people don’t pronounce as ladies do,” said Patricia. “Perhaps she
was not even born in France, for all she says--and I am _quite_ sure her
mother was some country girl from near Kirkbride.”
“What is that you say?” said Melmar, who was present, and whose
attention had at last been caught by the discussion.
“I say Joanna’s French governess is not French, papa. Her mother was a
Scotchwoman and came from this country,” cried Patricia, eagerly. “I
think she belongs to some poor family who have gone abroad and changed
their name--perhaps her father was a poacher, or something, and had to
run away.”
“And that is all because Desirée thinks she must have heard her mamma
speak of the Kelpie waterfall,” said Joanna; “because she thought she
knew it as soon as she saw it--that is all!--did you ever hear the like,
papa?”
Melmar’s face grew redder, as was its wont when he was at all disturbed.
He laid down his paper.
“She thought she knew the Kelpie, did she?--hum! and her mother is a
Scotchwoman--for that matter, so is yours. What is to be made of that,
eh, Patricia?”
“_I_ never denied where I belonged to,” said Patricia, reddening with
querulous anger; “and I did not speak to you, papa, so you need not take
the trouble to answer. But her mother _was_ Scotch--and I do not believe
she is a proper Frenchwoman at all. I never did think so; and as for a
governess, Joanna could learn as much from mamma’s maid.”
Joanna burst out immediately into a loud defense, and denunciation of
her sister. Melmar took no notice what, ever of their quarrel, but he
still grew redder in the face, twisted about his newspaper, got up and
walked to the window, and displayed a general uneasiness. He was
perfectly indifferent as to the tone and bearing of his daughters, but
he was not indifferent to what they said in this quarrel, which was all
about Desirée. Presently, however, both the voices ceased with some
abruptness. Melmar looked round with curiosity. Desirée herself had
entered the room, and what his presence had not even checked, her
presence put an end to. Desirée wore a brown merino frock, like Joanna,
with a little band and buckle round the waist, and sleeves which were
puffed out at the shoulders, and plain at the wrists, according to the
fashion of the time. It had no ornament whatever except a narrow binding
of velvet at the neck and sleeves, and was not so long as to hide the
handsome little feet, which were not in velvet slippers, but in stout
little shoes of patent leather, more suitable a great deal for Melmar,
and the place she held there. The said little feet came in lightly, yet
not noiselessly, and both the sisters turned with an immediate
acknowledgment of the stranger’s entrance. Patricia’s delicate pink
cheeks were flushed with anger, and Joanna looked eager and defiant, but
quarrels were so very common between them that Desirée took no notice of
this one. She came to a table near which Melmar was standing, and opened
a drawer in it to get Joanna’s needlework.
“You promised to have--oh, such an impossible piece, done to-day!” said
Desirée, “and look, you naughty Joanna!--look here.”
She shook out a delicate piece of embroidery as she spoke, with a merry
laugh. It was a highly-instructive bit of work, done in a regular
succession of the most delicate perfection and the utmost bungling, to
wit, Desirée’s own performance and the performance of her pupil. As the
little governess clapped her hands over it, Joanna drew near and put her
arms round the waist of her young teacher, overtopping her by all her
own red head and half her big shoulders.
“I’ll never do it like you, Desirée,” said the girl, half in real
affection, half with the benevolent purpose of aggravating her sister.
“I’ll never do any thing so well as you, if I live to be as old as Aunt
Jean.”
“Ah, then, you will need no governess,” said Desirée, “and if you did it
as well as I, now, you should not want me, Joanna. I shall leave it for
you there--and now it is time to come for one little half hour to the
music. Will mademoiselle do us the honor to come and listen? It shall be
only one little half hour.”
“No, thank you! I don’t care to hear girls at their lessons--and
Joanna’s time is always so bad,” said the fretful Patricia. “Oh, I
can’t help having an ear! I can hear only too well, thank you, where I
am.”
Desirée made a very slight smiling curtsey to her opponent, and pressed
Joanna’s arm lightly with her fingers to keep down the retort which
trembled on that young lady’s lips. Then they went away together to the
little supplementary musical lesson. Melmar had never turned round, nor
taken the slightest notice, but he observed, notwithstanding, not only
all that was done, but all that was looked and said, and it struck him,
perhaps for the first time, that the English of Desirée was perfectly
familiar and harmonious English, and that she never either paused for a
word nor translated the idiom of one tongue into the speech of another.
Uneasy suspicions began to play about his mind: he could scarcely say
what he feared, yet he feared something. The little governess was French
undeniably and emphatically--and yet she was not French, either, yet
bore an unexplainable something of familiarity and home-likeness which
had won for her the heart of Aunt Jean, and had startled himself
unawares from her first introduction to Melmar. He stood at the window,
looking out upon the blank, winterly landscape, the leafless trees in
the distance, the damp grass and evergreens near the door, as the
cheerful notes of Joanna’s music came stealing through the cold
passages. The music was not in bad time, and it was in good taste, for
Joanna was ambitious, and Desirée, though not an extraordinary musician
herself, kept her pupil to this study with the most tenacious
perseverance. As Melmar listened, vague thoughts, almost of fear, stole
over him. He had been a lawyer, and a lawyer of a low class, smart in
schemes and trickeries. He was ready to suspect everybody of cunning and
the mean cleverness of deceit. Perhaps this was a little spy whom he
fostered in his house. Perhaps her presence in the Edinburgh school was
a trick to attract Joanna, and her presence here a successful plot to
undermine and find out himself. His face grew redder still as he “put
things together;” and by the time the music ceased, Melmar had concocted
and found out (it is so easy to find out what one has concocted one’s
own self,) a very pretty little conspiracy. He _had_ found it out, he
was persuaded, and it should go no further--trust him for that!
Accordingly, when his daughter and her governess returned, Melmar paid
them a compliment upon their music, and was disposed to be friendly, as
it appeared. Finally, after he had exhausted such subjects of chat as
occurred to him, he got up, looking at Desirée, who was now busy with
her embroidery.
“I rather think, mademoiselle, you have been more than three months
here,” said Melmar, “and I have been inconsiderate and ungallant enough
to forget the time. I’ll speak with you about that in my study, if
you’ll favor me by coming there. I never speak of business but in my own
room--eh, Joan? You got your thrashings there when you were young
enough. Where does mademoiselle give you them now?”
“Don’t be foolish, papa,” said Joanna, jerking her head aside as he
pinched her ear. “What do you want of Desirée? if it’s for Patricia, and
you’re going to teaze her, I’ll not let her go, whatever you say.”
“And it is not quite three months, yet,” said Desirée, looking up with a
smile. “Monsieur is too kind, but it still wants a week of the time.”
“Then, lest I should forget again when the week was over, we’ll settle
it now, mademoiselle,” said Melmar. Desirée rose immediately to follow
him. They went away through the long passage, he leading, suspicious and
stealthy, she going after him, with the little feet which rang frankly
upon the stones. Desirée thought the study miserable when she went into
it. She longed to throw open the window, to clear out the choked
fire--she did not wonder that her pupil’s papa had a heated face, even
before dinner; the wonder seemed how any one could breathe here.
They had a conference of some duration, which gradually diverged from
Desirée’s little salary, which was a matter easily settled. Mr. Huntley
took an interest in her family. He asked a great many questions, which
the girl answered with a certain frankness and a certain reserve, the
frankness being her own, and the reserve attributable to a letter which
Desirée kept in her pocket, and beyond the instructions of which nothing
could have tempted her to pass. Mr. Huntley learned a great deal during
that interview, though not exactly what he expected and intended to
learn. The afternoon was darkening, and as he sat in the dubious light,
with the window and the yew-tree on the other side of him, he became
more and more like the big, brindled, watchful cat, which he had so
great a tendency to resemble. Then he dismissed “mademoiselle” with a
kindly caution. He thought she had better not mention--not even to any
one in the house, that her mother was a Scotchwoman--as she was French
herself, he thought the less said about that the better--he would not
even speak of it much to Joanna, he thought, if she would take his
advice--it might injure her prospects in life--and with this fatherly
advice he sent Desirée away.
When she was gone, he looked out stealthily for some one else, though he
had taken previous precautions to make sure that no one could listen. It
was Patricia for whom her father looked, poor little delicate Patricia,
who _would_ steal about those stone-cold passages, and linger in all
manner of draughts at half-closed doors, to gain a little clandestine
information. When Melmar had watched a few minutes, he discovered her
stealing out of a little store-room close by, and pounced upon the poor
little stealthy, chilly figure. He did not care that the grasp of his
fingers hurt her delicate shoulders, and that her teeth chattered with
cold; he drew her roughly into the dusk of the study, where the pale
window and the black yew were by no means counterbalanced by any light
from the fire. Once here, Patricia began to vindicate herself, and
upbraid papa’s cruelty. Her father silenced her with a threatening
gesture.
“At it again!” said Melmar; “what the deevil business have you with my
affairs? let me but catch you prying when there is any thing to learn,
and for all your airs, I’ll punish you! you little cankered elf! hold
your tongue, and hear what I have to say to you. If I hear another word
against that governess, French or no French--or if you try your hand at
aggravating her, as I know you have done, I’ll turn you out of this
house!”
For once in her life Patricia was speechless; she made no answer, but
stood shivering in his grasp, with a hundred terrified malicious fancies
in her mind, not one of which would come to utterance. Melmar
proceeded:--
“If anybody asks you who she is, or what she is, you can tell them _I_
know--which is more than you know, or she either--and if you let any
mortal suppose she’s slighted at Melmar, or give her ground to take
offense, or are the means of making her wish to leave this place--if it
should be midnight, or the depths of winter, I’ll turn you out of doors
that moment! Do you hear?”
Patricia did hear, with sullen terror and wicked passion, but she did
not answer; and when she was released, fled to her own room, ready, out
of the mere impotence of her revengeful ill-humor to harm herself, since
she could not harm Desirée, and with all kinds of vile suspicions in her
mind--suspicions further from the reality than Melmar’s had been, and
still more miserable. When she came to herself a little, she cried and
made her eyes red, and got a headache, and the supernumerary maid was
dispatched up stairs to nurse her, and be tormented for the evening.
Suffering is very often vicarious in this world, and poor Jenny Shaw
bore the brunt which Desirée was not permitted to bear.