"YOUR GOOD SOCIETY IS ALL DECEIT."
Miss Hastings had been prepared to see a hoiden, an awkward, unfledged
schoolgirl, one who, never having seen much of good society, had none of
the little graces and charms that distinguish young ladies. She had
expected to see a tall, gaunt girl, with red hands, and a general air of
not knowing what to do with herself--that was the idea she had formed.
She gazed in wonder at the reality--a magnificent figure--a girl whose
grand, pale, statuesque beauty was something that could never be
forgotten. There was nothing of the boarding-school young lady about
her; no acquired graces. She was simply magnificent--no other word could
describe her. Miss Hastings, as she looked at her, thought involuntarily
of the graceful lines, the beautiful curves, the grand, free grace of
the world-renowned Diana of the Louvre; there was the same arched,
graceful neck, the same royal symmetry, the same harmony of outline.
In one of the most celebrated art galleries of Rome Miss Hastings
remembered to have seen a superb bust of Juno; as she looked at her new
pupil, she could almost fancy that its head had been modeled from hers.
Pauline's head was royal in its queenly contour; the brow low, white,
and rounded at the temples; the hair, waving in lines of inexpressible
beauty, was loosely gathered together and fastened behind with a
gleaming silver arrow. The eyes were perhaps the most wonderful feature
in that wonderful face; they were dark as night itself, somewhat in hue
like a purple heartsease, rich, soft, dreamy, yet at times all fire, all
brightness, filled with passion more intense than any words, and shining
then with a strange half-golden light. The brows were straight, dark,
and beautiful; the lips crimson, full, and exquisitely shaped; the mouth
looked like one that could persuade or contemn--that could express
tenderness or scorn, love or pride, with the slightest play of the lips.
Every attitude the girl assumed was full of unconscious grace. She did
not appear to be in the least conscious of her wonderful beauty. She had
walked to the window, and stood leaning carelessly against the frame,
one beautiful arm thrown above her head, as though she were weary, and
would fain rest--an attitude that could not have been surpassed had she
studied it for years.
"You are not at all what I expected to see," said Miss Hastings, at
last. "You are, indeed, so different that I am taken by surprise."
"Am I better or worse than you had imagined me?" she asked, with
careless scorn.
"You are different--better, perhaps, in some things. You are taller.
You are so tall that it will be difficult to remember you are a pupil."
"The Darrells are a tall race," she said, quietly. "Miss Hastings, what
have you come here to teach me?"
The elder lady rose from her seat and looked lovingly into the face of
the girl; she placed her hand caressingly on the slender shoulders.
"I know what I should like to teach you, Miss Darrell, if you will let
me. I should like to teach you your duty to Heaven, your
fellow-creatures, and yourself."
"That would be dry learning, I fear," she returned. "What does my uncle
wish me to learn?"
"To be in all respects a perfectly refined, graceful lady."
Her face flushed with a great crimson wave that rose to the white brow
and the delicate shell-like ears.
"I shall never be that," she cried, passionately. "I may just as well
give up all hopes of Darrell Court. I have seen some ladies since I have
been here. I could not be like them. They seem to speak by rule; they
all say the same kind of things, with the same smiles, in the same tone
of voice; they follow each other like sheep; they seem frightened to
advance an opinion of their own, or even give utterance to an original
thought. They look upon me as something horrible, because I dare to say
what I think, and have read every book I could find."
"It is not always best to put our thoughts in speech; and the chances
are, Miss Darrell, that, if you have read every book you could find,
you have read many that would have been better left alone. You are
giving a very one-sided, prejudiced view after all."
She raised her beautiful head with a gesture of superb disdain.
"There is the same difference between them and myself as between a
mechanical singing bird made to sing three tunes and a wild, sweet bird
of the woods. I like my own self best."
"There is not the least doubt of that," observed Miss Hastings, with a
smile; "but the question is not so much what we like ourselves as what
others like in us. However, we will discuss that at another time, Miss
Darrell."
"Has my uncle told you that if I please him--if I can be molded into the
right form--I am to be heiress of Darrell Court?" she asked, quickly.
"Yes; and now that I have seen you I am persuaded that you can be
anything you wish."
"Do you think, then, that I am clever?" she asked, eagerly.
"I should imagine so," replied Miss Hastings. "Pauline--I need not call
you Miss Darrell--I hope we shall be friends; I trust we shall be happy
together."
"It is not very likely," she said, slowly, "that I can like you, Miss
Hastings."
"Why not?" asked the governess, astonished at her frankness.
"Because you are to correct me; continual correction will be a great
annoyance, and will prevent my really liking you."
Miss Hastings looked astounded.
"That may be, Pauline," she said; "but do you know that it is not
polite of you to say so? In good society one does not tell such
unpleasant truths."
"That is just it," was the eager retort; "that is why I do not like good
society, and shall never be fit for it. I am truthful by nature. In my
father's house and among his friends there was never any need to conceal
the truth; we always spoke it frankly. If we did not like each other, we
said so. But here, it seems to me, the first lesson learned to fit one
for society is to speak falsely."
"Not so, Pauline; but, when the truth is likely to hurt another's
feelings, to wound susceptibility or pride, why speak it, unless it is
called for?"
Pauline moved her white arms with a superb gesture of scorn.
"I would rather any day hear the truth and have my mind hurt," she said,
energetically, "than feel that people were smiling at me and deceiving
me. Lady Hampton visits Sir Oswald. I do not like her, and she does not
like me; but she always asks Sir Oswald how his 'dear niece' is, and she
calls me a 'sweet creature--original, but very sweet' You can see for
yourself, Miss Hastings, that I am not that."
"Indeed, you are not sweet," returned the governess, smiling; "but,
Pauline, you are a mimic, and mimicry is a dangerous gift."
She had imitated Lady Hampton's languid tones and affected accent to
perfection.
"Sir Oswald bows and smiles all the time Lady Hampton is talking to him;
he stands first upon one foot, and then upon the other. You would
think, to listen to him, that he was so charmed with her ladyship that
he could not exist out of her presence. Yet I have seen him quite
delighted at her departure, and twice I heard him say 'Thank Heaven'--it
was for the relief. Your good society is all deceit, Miss Hastings."
"I will not have you say that, Pauline. Amiability, and the desire
always to be kind and considerate, may carry one to extremes at times;
but I am inclined to prefer the amiability that spares to the truth that
wounds."
"I am not," was the blunt rejoinder. "Will you come to your rooms, Miss
Hastings? Sir Oswald has ordered a suite to be prepared entirely for our
use. I have three rooms, you have four; and there is a study that we can
use together."
They went through the broad stately corridors, where the warm sun shone
in at the windows, and the flowers breathed sweetest perfume. The rooms
that had been prepared for them were bright and pleasant with a
beautiful view from the windows, well furnished, and supplied with every
comfort. A sigh came from Miss Hastings as she gazed--it was all so
pleasant. But it seemed very doubtful to her whether she would remain or
not--very doubtful whether she would be able to make what Sir Oswald
desired out of that frank, free-spoken girl, who had not one
conventional idea.
"Sir Oswald is very kind," she said, at length, looking around her;
"these rooms are exceedingly nice."
"They are nice," said Pauline; "but I was happier with my father in the
Rue d'Orme. Ah me, what liberty we had there! In this stately life I
feel as though I were bound with cords, or shackled with chains--as
though I longed to stretch out my arms and fly away."
Again Miss Hastings sighed, for it seemed to her that the time of her
residence at Darrell Court would in all probability be very short.