WRITE A LETTER WHICH I AM NOT ALLOWED TO SEND.
IT was September ere we returned to The Towers. By that time I was as
strong and well as ever I had been—nay, stronger, for I was enjoying
the delightful sense of well-being, the wonderful rejuvenescence which
not seldom follows as an agreeable consequence of fever. With it, there
came a longing to employ my energy.
Before we left Southend, I had settled to a course of steady study, for
there was danger for me in an idle, dreamy existence. Mind and body
craved occupation. I felt it would be well for me to lead a bustling,
active life, so I wrote to Miss Carefull, asking her to help me to find
a suitable situation. I did not mind what sort of work it was, I said,
so long as I had plenty to do. She sent me a kind reply, promising me
all the assistance she could give, and advising me still to aim at
self-improvement, and be content to begin with a small salary, if the
employment left me leisure for study.
[Illustration: I DOUBTED THE EVIDENCE OF MY SENSES.]
My seeking a situation did not at all accord with Mabel's ideas. It
was bad enough that my engagement to Ralph Dugdale should be broken
off; but that I should persist in "going out as a governess" shocked
and dismayed her to the utmost. How was it that I could never see
things as she did? What would people say if they heard that I was not
to be married, but had "taken a situation"? Why could I not make my
home at The Towers? Little Percy would soon be old enough to receive
instruction, and I could teach him if I was so anxious to be a teacher.
Mabel could not understand why I resisted her persuasions. It was
impossible to show her that the life she pictured would be the worst
possible for me. I was sorry to cross her; the more so since she bore
with my perversity, as she deemed it, more patiently than she had been
wont to do.
We had not been many days at Burford when I received another note from
Miss Carefull. It was written in haste.
Her younger governess had just given her notice that, owing to the
ill-health of her mother, she would be obliged to leave the school at
Michaelmas. Miss Carefull said that she hardly liked to offer me the
post; but since I had affirmed that I was ready to undertake anything,
she thought there would be no harm in proposing it. I knew what were
the duties of her younger governess, so she need not go into details.
She could not give me time for consideration; but must ask me to let
her have a line by return of post to say whether or not I could agree
to her proposal.
I did not hesitate for a moment, though I was aware that the duties of
Miss Carefull's younger governess were not of the most pleasant nature.
She had to teach the youngest pupils, superintend the practice of
juvenile strummers on the piano, walk out with the boarders, keep order
in the schoolroom during silence hour, and do all that the superior,
more accomplished governess disdained to do. A dreary position it had
seemed to me in my schooldays, yet now I was eager to fill it. The
greater trials I had known since those days made the petty annoyances
of a teacher's life seem of small account.
But how Mabel opened her eyes when I showed her Miss Carefull's note,
and told her how I meant to answer it.
"You do not mean it, Dorothy," she said; "you cannot think what you
are doing. You forget what a miserable drudge Miss Carefull's junior
governess always was."
"I know she had a lot to do," I replied, "but that is what I want; I
should like plenty of work."
"Oh, Dorothy," said Mabel, with a kind of despair, "but what work it
is. I would not be in such a position for all the world. Have you
forgotten poor Miss Tyner, and how the girls persecuted her?"
"Miss Tyner was a weak creature," I answered. "I shall take care the
girls do not treat me as they treated her."
"Well, how you can choose to spend your days in teaching stupid
children to do their sums and write their copies, in contending with
tiresome school-girls, and taking wearisome marches behind the school,
when you might stay her with me and Percy, and watch the darling's
growth and all his pretty ways, is past my comprehension," said Mabel.
"I am afraid I have always been a puzzle to you, dear Mabel," I said,
gently; "but, believe me, I am not ungrateful for your kindness in
wishing me to stay. I would do so, indeed, if I could."
"I cannot understand you," she said, with a sigh; "but I suppose you
must take your own way."
I sighed too as I went away to write my letter to Miss Carefull. There
was no pleasure for me in thus taking my own way. I expected no joy in
the situation I chose to accept, but only that life would be made more
endurable by constant, regular occupation.
I seated myself at one of the tables in the library and wrote my reply
in clear, concise terms, finding a sort of fierce satisfaction in
binding myself to an irksome, monotonous life.
The library was in the front of the house. Its windows looked out on
the sweep of the well-kept carriage drive and the velvet lawn beyond
with its multiform beds brilliant with bright-hued flowers. I had
written and sealed my letter, and was idly resting on my elbow and
gazing through the window nearest me, when the sound of a horse's
approach reached my ears. It sent a sudden thrill through me, bringing
vividly before my mind a vision of Leonard mounted on Ariel. I had time
to calm myself and reflect that it was probably Howard returning from
the mills for luncheon rather earlier than usual, ere the rider came in
sight.
Then another thrill, like an electric shock, passed through me.
For, though the horse was not Ariel, the rider, seemed to me, was
Leonard Glynne. But in a moment he had passed the window, and in the
bewilderment and tremor, I doubted the evidence of my senses. The
sunlight had dazed me, a resemblance had misled me; it could not be
that he was here!
I heard the house-bell ring; heard the visitor being shown into the
smaller reception room at the other side of the hall, caught even,
for my hearing seemed to become preternaturally acute, the footman's
subdued, respectful tones, and the firmer, deeper voice that spoke to
him. Then I heard the door close, and with heart fluttering and every
nerve a quiver I waited, my ear following the servant's movements as he
went here and there and finally upstairs in search of someone. I had
time for many sensations, fears, surmisings, though it was but a minute
or two ere he appeared at the library door.
"A gentleman to see you, Miss Carmichael."
Mechanically I took the card extended to me on a salver. The hot blood
surged up in my face as I read the name of Leonard Glynne.
"Have you told Mrs. Steinthorpe?" I said, somewhat unsteadily.
"No, miss; the gentleman asked for you. Do you wish me to tell Mrs.
Steinthorpe?"
"No, no," I said, hurriedly, ashamed of the confusion I was betraying
to the servant's keen eyes; "it does not matter."
A few minutes later, I was shaking hands with Leonard Glynne. I could
not greet him with the old friendliness, I was nervous, and nervousness
gave to my manner an unusual coldness. I was aware that I was producing
a poor imitation of Mabel's stately demeanour towards an undesirable
acquaintance, whom she wished to keep at a distance; but I could not
help it, though I saw Leonard's countenance fall with a look of pain
and disappointment.
He, too, became cool and dignified. We sat a distance from each other,
a table loaded with bric-à-brac between us.
"I am staying a few days with my cousin at Dunsted," he said.
"You have come for the shooting, I suppose," was my reply.
"Yes; at least I have been amusing myself a little in that way. I
thought that as I was so near, I should like to ride over and inquire
how you were. Mrs. Lyell will be pleased to hear."
"Thank you," I said, austerely; "it was good of you to forsake the guns
this fine morning on my account."
"Oh, as for that, I am not much of a sportsman. I like well enough to
go with the other fellows, but following the dogs across the fields
becomes monotonous after a while, when you cannot bring down much."
"How is Mrs. Lyell?" I asked.
"Very well, thank you. She would have sent some message, no doubt, if
she had known that I should see you."
"Your cousin, Mrs. Gower, is well, I trust? I had the pleasure of
making her acquaintance just before I fell ill with scarlet fever."
"She was telling me how your illness almost began at her house. She is
very well. I hope you are quite strong again, Miss Carmichael?"
"I am perfectly well, thank you. I am afraid I alarmed Mrs. Gower very
much that day."
"Oh, I should not think so; Marion is not easily put out."
These polite commonplaces having passed, a pause ensued. I had time to
observe that Leonard had altered somewhat since I last saw him. He was
thinner and looked older; he had lost the air of cheerful satisfaction
with himself and his surroundings, which had distinguished him when I
made his acquaintance.
The stillness was broken by the sound of hoofs on the gravel outside.
A groom was leading past the window the horse Leonard had ridden. I
started up, reminded of the duties of hospitality.
"The man had better take your horse to the stable," I said, advancing
to touch the bell, "and my sister shall be told that you are here. You
will stay and take luncheon with us, of course."
"No, thank you; indeed, I cannot think of it," he said, with a hurried
movement, to prevent me from carrying out my intention of ringing the
bell. "Pray do not disturb Mrs. Steinthorpe. I must ride away almost
immediately; I only wanted to say a few words to you."
He spoke nervously, unsteadily. I moved back to my place, and sat down
in considerable tremor. Clearly it was not easy to say what he wished.
Another silence fell.
"We heard of your illness from Ralph Dugdale," he said, abruptly, at
last. "He rode over from Beechwood to tell Mrs. Lyell. I was at my
aunt's, and saw him."
"Indeed!" was all I could say. My face flushed hotly; a terrible
confusion seized me at the mention of Ralph's name.
"He came again after he had seen you; he came several times. We had
some talks together. He is a good fellow, is Ralph Dugdale."
This was dreadful. What had Ralph said? Had they talked of me? Oh,
surely he would not betray my secret?
"He told me," Leonard continued, seeing that I had nothing to say—"I
hope that you will not mind my knowing—he told me that you were no
longer engaged to him."
"And I have no objection to anyone's knowing that," I said, haughtily.
"It is true; we are no longer engaged."
And I looked at him with an air of defiance, as though I would say,
"What of that? Do you suppose that because I have sent him away, I
shall be ready to receive you?"
So Leonard understood my glance. His face fell; I saw his lips tremble.
The triumph of my pride brought me no satisfaction. The next moment I
was full of remorse and pain.
When he spoke again, his low tones seemed to breathe despair.
"Of course it could make no difference," he said, brokenly. "I might
have known."
With that, he rose to go.
Then a terrible pain wrung my heart. Why did he not say what he meant?
Why did he go thus without giving me a chance of explaining?
He stood before me, but I did not put out my hand, nor did I look at
him. My eyes were following the movements of a bee, which was circling
round and round an épergne filled with flowers that stood on the table.
Suddenly the bee flew straight into the heart of a rose. I think that
large creamy rose carried both our minds to Weylea.
"See," I said, rising and leaning over the flowers, "this is just like
one of the roses in Mrs. Lyell's garden, those that grow against the
wall by the greenhouse. Do you remember?"
"I am not likely to forget," he said, his voice betraying strong
emotion. "Dorothy," he added, in quick, tremulous tones, "do you
remember how you once refused a rose I offered you? Tell me, did you
really think that day that I cared for Miss Carsdale?"
"Of course I did," was my reply.
"But how could you? You might have known there was nothing of that
sort. She was dear to me as my cousin Henry's 'fiancée,' that was all."
"How was I to know that?" I asked, half-laughing, yet with tears
burning beneath my eyelids. "You might have told me."
"I would have told you, but it was their secret. And I thought that
Rose would tell you herself, perhaps, if you would make a friend of
her. And then—then it seemed to me it did not matter, for I was sure
that you preferred Ralph Dugdale to me."
"Oh, how could you?" I began, but checked myself in shame-faced
confusion.
Then, as our eyes met, each read the heart of the other. We clasped
hands, and somehow, without much explanation, we arrived at a perfect
understanding.
After that, Leonard needed little persuasion to remain to luncheon.
I had difficulty in making Mabel comprehend what had come to pass, and
when I succeeded, she was not altogether pleased. She received Leonard
graciously, but her looks revealed to my experienced eyes that she was
wondering how I could prefer this young man, who was only "something
in the City," to Ralph Dugdale, who came of such a good family, was so
clever, and had such a grand career before him in all probability.
"Here is one comfort in it," she remarked to me, "you will not now
think of being Miss Carefull's junior governess."
And when I showed Leonard the letter I had written that morning, he
decided that it must not go, and I must send in its place another sort
of reply.
Thus it came to pass that, in spite of my preparations, it was some
years ere I had any experience of a teacher's toils.
Leonard was of Mabel's mind in wondering how it was that my heart chose
him in preference to Ralph.
"Such a noble fellow," he would say; "so clever, and sure to make
his mark some day. You will regret it, Dorothy, when you find what a
stupid, commonplace mortal you have chosen."
"No, no, I am not afraid," was my reply. "I know Ralph is great
and noble, but he was too much above me. I should have been a
disappointment to him. Now you and I, Leonard, are more on a level;
we suit one another exactly. And though we can never be brilliant and
famous, we will always aim at being good."
Let it not be supposed that in my happiness in Leonard's love, I forgot
the pain I had caused another. No, the memory of my great mistake lay
on my heart as a dark shadow of regret through all the brighter days
that followed. I regret it still, though so many years have passed; and
I have written this story of my girlhood in the hope of warning other
girls from committing the errors into which I fell.
My young days, vividly as I remember them, seem to have receded to a
great distance now, for I have girls and boys of my own growing up
around me, and begin to feel myself an old woman, though my husband
says it is absurd of me to use such an expression.
Our home is near Beechwood, where Ralph Dugdale lives with his sister.
Mr. and Mrs. Dugdale, also my dear old friend, Mrs. Lyell, have passed
beyond the veil of death. We are very proud of our friend Ralph
Dugdale—Uncle Ralph, our children call him—for he has won an honoured
name in the world of politics as a bold worker for righteousness, the
champion of all who are weak and oppressed. Faithfully has he kept his
promise to be a friend to me and mine. We have no friend like him, so
interested in all our concerns, so devoted to our children, so ready
to sympathise and help in every trouble. Leonard owes much to his wise
counsels and his stimulating influence. As for our children, they adore
him and dear Grace, and deem no family festival perfect unless it is
gladdened by their presence.
Mabel's husband, too, is in Parliament. They have a town house, and
spend part of each year in London. Mabel is a pretty woman still,
although she begins to look rather worn and harassed with the care of
her two establishments, her children, and her numerous servants. She
comes to see me as often as her many engagements permit. She seems
to enjoy a quiet day with me in my country home—for our house stands
amidst green fields, although not many miles from town. I fancy she
thinks sometimes that I, in my simple life, have the happier lot.
And truly the lines have fallen unto me in pleasant places. I am not
without cares; but I can enjoy that content that Shakespeare says is
"our best having." I would say to any girl who may read these pages,
Aim at contentment. Do not be restless and anxious, do not be impatient
as you look forward to the future. Let your life come to you as God may
order it, and trust your happiness to the Father's care. Wherever your
lot may be cast, and whatever your experience may be, it will be well
with you if in all your ways you acknowledge Him that He may direct
your paths.
[Illustration: THE END.]