THE GOVERNESSES.
For some time after Mrs. Blunden’s carriage rolled away from the door,
Florence remained like one stupefied. As her aunt’s words resounded in
her ears, a terrible suspicion grew upon her that there was truth in
the tale, and that the money was actually withdrawn.
She had a hazy recollection of her father coming to her bedside one
evening, when her head was wandering, and asking her to sign a paper
he held in his hand. She remembered, too, how, when the circumstance
recurred to her memory, she had asked him what he had wished her to
write. Ah, and it was this that troubled her more, far more, than the
loss she had sustained, for, without the slightest hesitation, he had
carelessly answered:
“I told you--did I not--that your Aunt Margaret had sent a note of
inquiry? If she had not seen your own signature to the reply I have
written in your name, we should have had her fussing here to nurse you.”
Florence, weak and wanting quiet, had felt grateful to him at the time
for his thoughtful consideration. Could it really be that he had been
deceiving her at the moment she kissed and thanked him thus warmly? Had
he taken advantage of her helplessness to rob her of the bequest she
had guarded so jealously for his sake?
Starting up with an anguished cry, she told herself it could not be
true. Her father, a gentleman by birth and of unimpeachable honor,
could not be guilty of this paltry deed. No, no--it was impossible; she
had been foolish to believe it so readily--she should have demanded
further particulars from Mrs. Blunden, and not let her go until she had
explained herself. Now nothing remained but to wait until Mr. Heriton
came home, and then frankly tell him what she had heard.
But what a task for a loving daughter! If the accusation were false,
with what just indignation he would meet it! If he had indeed possessed
himself of this money---- At the mere thought Florence covered her face
with her hands, and sank down in her former position.
All idea of visiting Miss Denham was abandoned. The afternoon glided
away, and the servant came in to lay the cloth; but Florence did not
seem conscious of her presence until, with a pitying touch on her arm,
the girl said:
“You’re not so well, are you, miss? Let me ask missus for a glass of
wine for you; she never begrudges nothing you has.”
Without waiting for a refusal, she went for the cordial, and stood over
the pale, exhausted girl until she had swallowed it. Then Florence laid
her head back on the pillows, and tried by perfect stillness to baffle
the heavy aching in her head and heart.
Mr. Heriton came in with his usual air of self-importance, a roll of
papers in his hand, at which he glanced occasionally as he muttered
some calculations.
“Fifty-two and fifty--no, fifty and a half--is---- Ah, my dear, not so
well to-day? You must have a few weeks by the sea to set you up. Fifty
and a half---- Why, whose is this?”
As he spoke he picked up a silk scarf which his daughter had seen
around Mrs. Blunden’s neck when she came into the room.
“It belongs to Aunt Margaret, sir.”
“What! Has she been here?” he asked, with knitted brows. “I wish you
would not encourage her visits! I have repeatedly told you that I would
rather not have any communication with such a coarse-minded, unfeeling
woman as my sister has shown herself of late years.”
Florence raised herself, and plunged desperately into the subject that
troubled her.
“My aunt will not come here again, sir; she is very angry with me.”
“Had she the impertinence to tell you so?”
“She is angry,” Florence went on, in tones that faltered despite her
utmost efforts, “because she thinks I have deceived her. She has
been--on business of her own, I suppose--to the banker of her late
husband, and----”
“Well?” queried her father, finding that she paused; his own face
flushing and eyes sinking as they met her wistful gaze.
“And she tells me that my legacy has been drawn out. Oh, papa!”
Florence flung herself into his arms, sobbing. “It is not true, is it?
Do tell me that it isn’t true!”
“And if it is, what then?” he retorted. “If it had not been for my
meddling, mischief-making sister you would have known nothing of the
circumstance until I was prepared to return the loan. You don’t suppose
I mean to rob you, child, do you?”
Without replying, she turned from him and wept as if her heart would
break. Nothing angered him more than the sight of her tears, and he
soon worked himself into the belief that he was an ill-used man.
“Are you mad, Florence, that you go on in this ridiculous manner?
Have done, I say! I’ll not put up with it! I consider that I have an
undoubted right, as your father and guardian, to invest your money for
your benefit. You must be of an avaricious disposition, or you would
not act in this way.”
Still she made no reply, but her silent grief eventually softened him,
and, sitting down beside her, he said, with more feeling:
“My dear, dear child, don’t weep like this! I cannot bear to see it;
and, indeed, my love, you are wrong to entertain such fears--you are,
really.”
“Papa, it was our little all. It was a provision for your old age,” she
murmured. “While that was safe I could bear the anxiety of the present.”
“I know, dear--yes, I know. I did not mean what I said when I called
you avaricious. You have been the tenderest, the most self-denying of
daughters to me. Heaven bless you for it! And don’t--don’t mistrust
me, Florry, my darling! I meant no wrong to you in taking that money. I
saw such a splendid opportunity of doubling it--for you, love--for you.
And it is as you say, our all--our last venture. Surely Heaven will not
let this tiny bark be wrecked, like the rest!”
Startled by the passionate anguish in his broken accents, Florence
looked in his face. For the first time it wore a frightened aspect: for
the first time his own sanguine faith in his success was shaken.
“I should go mad,” he muttered, “if Mason failed me and I was obliged
to know that I had ruined my child past redemption. Florence,” he
added, almost wildly, “don’t torture me with doubts and reproaches.
Mason has assured me that the money is safe, and he would not deceive
me; he dare not, I tell you--he dare not!”
“Hush, papa!” said Florence gently. “We’ll never mention it again. I’m
sure you meant well, so we’ll wait and hope.”
His looks cleared.
“Yes, yes, love, we’ll hope. Now you are my kind, sensible child once
more. We’ll hope, Florry; and when the hope becomes a certainty, and we
go back to Northumberland, my darling shall have a tiara of pearls for
her pretty brown hair, from her fond father. How well such an ornament
would become you! Which would you like best--pearls alone, or mixed
with sapphires? Not talk about it now, do you say? Very well, love; but
it shall not be forgotten.”
Florence waited on her father that night with a kind of protecting
tenderness in her voice and manner. This last rash act of his had set
the seal on their ruin, and she must nerve herself to that darksome
future which was inevitably coming upon them. He had no one but her to
care for him. Then she must be brave and energetic, and prepare herself
for the worst. Taking up the occupation of her new acquaintances over
the way seemed the most feasible method of helping herself when the
crash came and Mr. Heriton was forced to acknowledge the necessity. And
Florence waited impatiently till the week came round and she could call
upon them.
Susan Denham was alone when she entered, but her cordial greeting had
scarcely been spoken when her cousin joined them. She was a tall,
handsome woman, two or three years Florence’s senior, with commanding
deportment and an indescribable fascination about her, which she used
to laughingly declare was inherited from her Parisian mother.
Susan was thrown in the shade beside her handsome, imperious cousin;
yet there was something so sweet, or, rather, so good and true in her
every look and gesture, that to know her was to love her. You felt
instinctively that she was to be depended upon; and that, although
no scriptural quotations ever passed her lips, her religion was the
guiding principle of her blameless life.
After she had taken Florence’s hat and mantle, and given her the
softest seat in the bright little room, she sat smilingly by, while
Julia talked to their visitor. Florence was quietly amused at the
candor with which, after their mutual reserve wore off, both the
cousins confessed that they had long wished to make her acquaintance.
“Not from precisely similar motives,” Julia acknowledged. “I wanted
to know you because you were evidently a lady, intelligent and
accomplished; while Susan’s motives were----”
She stopped herself in a little confusion, but Florence finished the
sentence for her.
“Benevolent ones, were they not? She saw me very lonely and friendless,
and was eager to do me good. It is precisely because I think she will
help me that I have come to you now.”
Susan Denham dropped her work in her lap, and listened with grave and
encouraging attention.
The blood rushed to Florence’s cheeks and temples, but she would not
play the coward, and, after a very short pause, she said:
“I must frankly tell you that I fear a change for the worse in our
circumstances. I must work for papa and myself, and--I want to be a
governess.”
Susan Denham sighed, and Julia impulsively exclaimed:
“Oh, choose any life but ours, Miss Heriton! You little know the
slights you would have to contend with--all your best feelings trampled
on--all your aspirations crushed beneath the contempt or indifference
of your sordid employers. You must be a lady in appearance, in
education, in tastes and sympathies, or you are not fit to be the
instructress of their children. But you must not consider yourself
their equal; you must neither associate with them, nor expect
consideration from them; and, above all,” she added, with a bitter
laugh, “you must not permit their sons to fall in love with you.”
“On the other hand,” said Susan gently, “you are fairly paid for your
labor. By consistent conduct you cannot fail to win the respect and
esteem of your employers; the children you teach often become very dear
to you, and, on the whole, the hardships of a governess’ lot are not
greater than those of any other profession.”
“Look on this picture, and on that,” laughed Julia, “and then say,
Miss Heriton, which strikes you most forcibly. Both are colored with
truth, but I think mine is according to the rule, and Susan’s forms the
exception.”
“If I were embarking in this new undertaking solely on my own account,”
Florence replied, after a few minutes’ consideration, “I think your
sketch of its difficulties would frighten me. But it is for papa; and
however toilsome or wearying the day might prove, I should be able to
return to him at night, should I not?”
Susan Denham pressed the hand Florence had laid on hers, as she
instinctively turned to read encouragement in those soft brown eyes.
“You will succeed, I think. A work begun in a right spirit rarely
fails. Now tell us what we can do to help you.”
“Yes, speak openly,” added Julia. “If it is a decided thing, I withdraw
my opposition, and will do my best to get you pupils. Shall you teach
under your own name?”
Florence’s face flushed this time with a little pride.
“I had not thought of that. Perhaps papa would not approve of it, and
yet I should not like to assume a false one.
“No slurs upon me, if you please,” cried Julia gayly. “But that
surprised look proclaims your innocence. Know, then, that although
at home I am simply Julia Denham, at the houses of my pupils I am La
Demoiselle Julie, and my French is far more correct than my English.
Susan shakes her head at me, but ladies will have foreign governesses
if they can get them, and they pay them much more liberally than their
own countrywomen. The substitution of Mademoiselle for plain Miss pays
for my kid gloves and collars.”
“Miss Heriton, I fancy, will be content with her own English
appellation,” said Susan, who never approved of anything that savored
of trickery. And she began to question and counsel Florence with as
much tact as kindness.
It was then arranged that she should study assiduously those subjects
in which she knew herself deficient, and avail herself of the cousins’
piano to get up her long-neglected music. While Susan went in search
of a manual which she thought would prove useful, Julia carelessly
observed:
“You are intimate with Lieutenant Mason, are you not?”
Surprised at the question, Florence answered:
“Papa is; but I have only seen him once at his mother’s. What made you
ask me?” she demanded, her fears aroused directly.
“I don’t know; mere curiosity, I believe. Lieutenant Mason is
distantly related to a family in which I teach, and I have seen him
occasionally--that is all, Miss Heriton.”
“I wish I did know more of him,” said Florence anxiously. “I wish I
knew whether he is to be trusted.”
Julia looked at her with surprise, not unmingled with displeasure.
“Of course he is! Who doubts Lieutenant Mason’s honor?”
“I’m so glad to hear you say this!” Florence cried joyfully. “Papa has
had some business transactions with him, and I could not help feeling
uneasy as to the results.”
“The lieutenant would not be very much pleased if he knew the
suspicions you entertain,” said Julia. “At least, I should think not.”
“If I have done him injustice, I am very sorry,” was the earnest reply.
She was heard with a laughing reminder that it is the fate of public
men to hear themselves maligned; and with this retort Julia’s annoyance
seemed to vanish, for as her cousin reëntered the room she began to
talk gayly of something else.