At ten o’clock the next morning Norah and Magdalen stood alone in the
hall at Combe-Raven watching the departure of the carriage which took
their father and mother to the London train.
Up to the last moment, both the sisters had hoped for some explanation
of that mysterious “family business” to which Mrs. Vanstone had so
briefly alluded on the previous day. No such explanation had been
offered. Even the agitation of the leave-taking, under circumstances
entirely new in the home experience of the parents and children, had
not shaken the resolute discretion of Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone. They had
gone—with the warmest testimonies of affection, with farewell embraces
fervently reiterated again and again—but without dropping one word,
from first to last, of the nature of their errand.
As the grating sound of the carriage-wheels ceased suddenly at a turn
in the road, the sisters looked one another in the face; each feeling,
and each betraying in her own way, the dreary sense that she was openly
excluded, for the first time, from the confidence of her parents.
Norah’s customary reserve strengthened into sullen silence—she sat down
in one of the hall chairs and looked out frowningly through the open
house door. Magdalen, as usual when her temper was ruffled, expressed
her dissatisfaction in the plainest terms. “I don’t care who knows it—I
think we are both of us shamefully ill-used!” With those words, the
young lady followed her sister’s example by seating herself on a hall
chair and looking aimlessly out through the open house door.
Almost at the same moment Miss Garth entered the hall from the
morning-room. Her quick observation showed her the necessity for
interfering to some practical purpose; and her ready good sense at once
pointed the way.
“Look up, both of you, if you please, and listen to me,” said Miss
Garth. “If we are all three to be comfortable and happy together, now
we are alone, we must stick to our usual habits and go on in our
regular way. There is the state of things in plain words. Accept the
situation—as the French say. Here am I to set you the example. I have
just ordered an excellent dinner at the customary hour. I am going to
the medicine-chest next, to physic the kitchen-maid—an unwholesome
girl, whose face-ache is all stomach. In the meantime, Norah, my dear,
you will find your work and your books, as usual, in the library.
Magdalen, suppose you leave off tying your handkerchief into knots and
use your fingers on the keys of the piano instead? We’ll lunch at one,
and take the dogs out afterward. Be as brisk and cheerful both of you
as I am. Come, rouse up directly. If I see those gloomy faces any
longer, as sure as my name’s Garth, I’ll give your mother written
warning and go back to my friends by the mixed train at twelve forty.”
Concluding her address of expostulation in those terms, Miss Garth led
Norah to the library door, pushed Magdalen into the morning-room, and
went on her own way sternly to the regions of the medicine-chest.
In this half-jesting, half-earnest manner she was accustomed to
maintain a sort of friendly authority over Mr. Vanstone’s daughters,
after her proper functions as governess had necessarily come to an end.
Norah, it is needless to say, had long since ceased to be her pupil;
and Magdalen had, by this time, completed her education. But Miss Garth
had lived too long and too intimately under Mr. Vanstone’s roof to be
parted with for any purely formal considerations; and the first hint at
going away which she had thought it her duty to drop was dismissed with
such affectionate warmth of protest that she never repeated it again,
except in jest. The entire management of the household was, from that
time forth, left in her hands; and to those duties she was free to add
what companionable assistance she could render to Norah’s reading, and
what friendly superintendence she could still exercise over Magdalen’s
music. Such were the terms on which Miss Garth was now a resident in
Mr. Vanstone’s family.
Toward the afternoon the weather improved. At half-past one the sun was
shining brightly; and the ladies left the house, accompanied by the
dogs, to set forth on their walk.
They crossed the stream, and ascended by the little rocky pass to the
hills beyond; then diverged to the left, and returned by a cross-road
which led through the village of Combe-Raven.
As they came in sight of the first cottages, they passed a man, hanging
about the road, who looked attentively, first at Magdalen, then at
Norah. They merely observed that he was short, that he was dressed in
black, and that he was a total stranger to them—and continued their
homeward walk, without thinking more about the loitering foot-passenger
whom they had met on their way back.
After they had left the village, and had entered the road which led
straight to the house, Magdalen surprised Miss Garth by announcing that
the stranger in black had turned, after they had passed him, and was
now following them. “He keeps on Norah’s side of the road,” she said,
mischievously. “I’m not the attraction—don’t blame _me_.”
Whether the man was really following them, or not, made little
difference, for they were now close to the house. As they passed
through the lodge-gates, Miss Garth looked round, and saw that the
stranger was quickening his pace, apparently with the purpose of
entering into conversation. Seeing this, she at once directed the young
ladies to go on to the house with the dogs, while she herself waited
for events at the gate.
There was just time to complete this discreet arrangement, before the
stranger reached the lodge. He took off his hat to Miss Garth politely,
as she turned round. What did he look like, on the face of him? He
looked like a clergyman in difficulties.
Taking his portrait, from top to toe, the picture of him began with a
tall hat, broadly encircled by a mourning band of crumpled crape. Below
the hat was a lean, long, sallow face, deeply pitted with the smallpox,
and characterized, very remarkably, by eyes of two different colors—one
bilious green, one bilious brown, both sharply intelligent. His hair
was iron-gray, carefully brushed round at the temples. His cheeks and
chin were in the bluest bloom of smooth shaving; his nose was short
Roman; his lips long, thin, and supple, curled up at the corners with a
mildly-humorous smile. His white cravat was high, stiff, and dingy; the
collar, higher, stiffer, and dingier, projected its rigid points on
either side beyond his chin. Lower down, the lithe little figure of the
man was arrayed throughout in sober-shabby black. His frock-coat was
buttoned tight round the waist, and left to bulge open majestically at
the chest. His hands were covered with black cotton gloves neatly
darned at the fingers; his umbrella, worn down at the ferule to the
last quarter of an inch, was carefully preserved, nevertheless, in an
oilskin case. The front view of him was the view in which he looked
oldest; meeting him face to face, he might have been estimated at fifty
or more. Walking behind him, his back and shoulders were almost young
enough to have passed for five-and-thirty. His manners were
distinguished by a grave serenity. When he opened his lips, he spoke in
a rich bass voice, with an easy flow of language, and a strict
attention to the elocutionary claims of words in more than one
syllable. Persuasion distilled from his mildly-curling lips; and,
shabby as he was, perennial flowers of courtesy bloomed all over him
from head to foot.
“This is the residence of Mr. Vanstone, I believe?” he began, with a
circular wave of his hand in the direction of the house. “Have I the
honor of addressing a member of Mr. Vanstone’s family?”
“Yes,” said the plain-spoken Miss Garth. “You are addressing Mr.
Vanstone’s governess.”
The persuasive man fell back a step—admired Mr. Vanstone’s
governess—advanced a step again—and continued the conversation.
“And the two young ladies,” he went on, “the two young ladies who were
walking with you are doubtless Mr. Vanstone’s daughters? I recognized
the darker of the two, and the elder as I apprehend, by her likeness to
her handsome mother. The younger lady—”
“You are acquainted with Mrs. Vanstone, I suppose?” said Miss Garth,
interrupting the stranger’s flow of language, which, all things
considered, was beginning, in her opinion, to flow rather freely. The
stranger acknowledged the interruption by one of his polite bows, and
submerged Miss Garth in his next sentence as if nothing had happened.
“The younger lady,” he proceeded, “takes after her father, I presume? I
assure you, her face struck me. Looking at it with my friendly interest
in the family, I thought it very remarkable. I said to myself—Charming,
Characteristic, Memorable. Not like her sister, not like her mother. No
doubt, the image of her father?”
Once more Miss Garth attempted to stem the man’s flow of words. It was
plain that he did not know Mr. Vanstone, even by sight—otherwise he
would never have committed the error of supposing that Magdalen took
after her father. Did he know Mrs. Vanstone any better? He had left
Miss Garth’s question on that point unanswered. In the name of wonder,
who was he? Powers of impudence! what did he want?
“You may be a friend of the family, though I don’t remember your face,”
said Miss Garth. “What may your commands be, if you please? Did you
come here to pay Mrs. Vanstone a visit?”
“I had anticipated the pleasure of communicating with Mrs. Vanstone,”
answered this inveterately evasive and inveterately civil man. “How is
she?”
“Much as usual,” said Miss Garth, feeling her resources of politeness
fast failing her.
“Is she at home?”
“No.”
“Out for long?”
“Gone to London with Mr. Vanstone.”
The man’s long face suddenly grew longer. His bilious brown eye looked
disconcerted, and his bilious green eye followed its example. His
manner became palpably anxious; and his choice of words was more
carefully selected than ever.
“Is Mrs. Vanstone’s absence likely to extend over any very lengthened
period?” he inquired.
“It will extend over three weeks,” replied Miss Garth. “I think you
have now asked me questions enough,” she went on, beginning to let her
temper get the better of her at last. “Be so good, if you please, as to
mention your business and your name. If you have any message to leave
for Mrs. Vanstone, I shall be writing to her by to-night’s post, and I
can take charge of it.”
“A thousand thanks! A most valuable suggestion. Permit me to take
advantage of it immediately.”
He was not in the least affected by the severity of Miss Garth’s looks
and language—he was simply relieved by her proposal, and he showed it
with the most engaging sincerity. This time his bilious green eye took
the initiative, and set his bilious brown eye the example of recovered
serenity. His curling lips took a new twist upward; he tucked his
umbrella briskly under his arm; and produced from the breast of his
coat a large old-fashioned black pocketbook. From this he took a pencil
and a card—hesitated and considered for a moment—wrote rapidly on the
card—and placed it, with the politest alacrity, in Miss Garth’s hand.
“I shall feel personally obliged if you will honor me by inclosing that
card in your letter,” he said. “There is no necessity for my troubling
you additionally with a message. My name will be quite sufficient to
recall a little family matter to Mrs. Vanstone, which has no doubt
escaped her memory. Accept my best thanks. This has been a day of
agreeable surprises to me. I have found the country hereabouts
remarkably pretty; I have seen Mrs. Vanstone’s two charming daughters;
I have become acquainted with an honored preceptress in Mr. Vanstone’s
family. I congratulate myself—I apologize for occupying your valuable
time—I beg my renewed acknowledgments—I wish you good-morning.”
He raised his tall hat. His brown eye twinkled, his green eye twinkled,
his curly lips smiled sweetly. In a moment he turned on his heel. His
youthful back appeared to the best advantage; his active little legs
took him away trippingly in the direction of the village. One, two,
three—and he reached the turn in the road. Four, five, six—and he was
gone.
Miss Garth looked down at the card in her hand, and looked up again in
blank astonishment. The name and address of the clerical-looking
stranger (both written in pencil) ran as follows:
_Captain Wragge. Post-office, Bristol._