"YOU ARE GOING TO SPOIL MY LIFE."
Two days had passed since Miss Hastings' arrival. On a beautiful
morning, when the sun was shining and the birds were singing in the
trees, she sat in the study, with an expression of deepest anxiety, of
deepest thought on her face. Pauline, with a smile on her lips, sat
opposite to her, and there was profound silence. Miss Darrell was the
first to break it.
"Well," she asked, laughingly, "what is your verdict, Miss Hastings?"
The elder lady looked up with a long, deep-drawn sigh.
"I have never been so completely puzzled in all my life," she replied.
"My dear Pauline, you are the strangest mixture of ignorance and
knowledge that I have ever met. You know a great deal, but it is all of
the wrong kind; you ought to unlearn all that you have learned."
"You admit then that I know something."
"Yes; but it would be almost better, perhaps, if you did not. I will
tell you how I feel, Pauline. I know nothing of building, but I feel as
though I had been placed before a heap of marble, porphyry, and
granite, of wood, glass, and iron, and then told from those materials to
shape a magnificent palace. I am at a loss what to do."
Miss Darrell laughed with the glee of a child. Her governess, repressing
her surprise, continued:
"You know more in some respects than most educated women; in other and
equally essential matters you know less than a child. You speak French
fluently, perfectly; you have read a large number of books in the French
language--good, bad, and indifferent, it appears to me; yet you have no
more idea of French grammar or of the idiom or construction of the
language than a child."
"That, indeed, I have not; I consider grammar the most stupid of all
human inventions."
Miss Hastings offered no comment.
"Again," she continued, "you speak good English, but your spelling is
bad, and your writing worse. You are better acquainted with English
literature than I am--that is, you have read more. You have read
indiscriminately; even the titles of some of the books you have read are
not admissible."
The dark eyes flashed, and the pale, grand face was stirred as though by
some sudden emotion.
"There was a large library in the house where we lived," she explained,
hurriedly, "and I read every book in it. I read from early morning until
late at night, and sometimes from night until morning; there was no one
to tell me what was right and what was wrong, Miss Hastings."
"Then," continued the governess, "you have written a spirited poem on
Anne Boleyn, but you know nothing of English history--neither the dates
nor the incidents of a single reign. You have written the half of a
story, the scene of which is laid in the tropics, yet of geography you
have not the faintest notion. Of matters such as every girl has some
idea of--of biography, of botany, of astronomy--you have not even a
glimmer. The chances are, that if you engaged in conversation with any
sensible person, you would equally astonish, first by the clever things
you would utter, and then by the utter ignorance you would display."
"I cannot be flattered, Miss Hastings," Pauline put in, "because you
humiliate me; nor can I be humiliated, because you flatter me."
But Miss Hastings pursued her criticisms steadily.
"You have not the slightest knowledge of arithmetic. As for knowledge of
a higher class, you have none. You are dreadfully deficient. You say
that you have read Auguste Comte, but you do not know the answer to the
first question in your church catechism. Your education requires
beginning all over again. You have never had any settled plan of study,
I should imagine."
"No. I learned drawing from Jules Lacroix. Talk of talent, Miss
Hastings. You should have known him--he was the handsomest artist I ever
saw. There was something so picturesque about him."
"Doubtless," was the dry response; "but I think 'picturesque' is not
the word to use in such a case. Music, I presume, you taught yourself?"
The girl's whole face brightened--her manner changed.
"Yes, I taught myself; poor papa could not afford to pay for my lessons.
Shall I play to you, Miss Hastings?"
There was a piano in the study, a beautiful and valuable instrument,
which Sir Oswald had ordered for his niece.
"I shall be much pleased to hear you," said Miss Hastings.
Pauline Darrell rose and went to the piano. Her face then was as the
face of one inspired. She sat down and played a few chords, full,
beautiful, and harmonious.
"I will sing to you," she said. "We often went to the opera--papa,
Jules, Louis, and myself. I used to sing everything I heard. This is
from 'Il Puritani.'"
And she sang one of the most beautiful solos in the opera.
Her voice was magnificent, full, ringing, vibrating with passion--a
voice that, like her face, could hardly be forgotten; but she played and
sang entirely after a fashion of her own.
"Now, Miss Hastings," she said, "I will imitate Adelina Patti."
Face, voice, manner, all changed; she began one of the far-famed
prima-donna's most admired songs, and Miss Hastings owned to herself
that if she had closed her eyes she might have believed Madame Patti
present.
"This is _a la_ Christine Nilsson," continued Pauline; and again the
imitation was brilliant and perfect.
The magnificent voice did not seem to tire, though she sang song after
song, and imitated in the most marvelous manner some of the grandest
singers of the day. Miss Hasting left her seat and went up to her.
"You have a splendid voice, my dear, and great musical genius. Now tell
me, do you know a single note of music?"
"Not one," was the quick reply.
"You know nothing of the keys, time, or anything else?"
"Why should I trouble myself when I could play without learning anything
of the kind?"
"But that kind of playing, Pauline, although it is very clever, would
not do for educated people."
"Is it not good enough for them?" she asked, serenely.
"No; one cannot help admiring it, but any educated person hearing you
would detect directly that you did not know your notes."
"Would they think much less of me on that account?" she asked, with the
same serenity.
"Yes; every one would think it sad to see so much talent wasted. You
must begin to study hard; you must learn to play by note, not by ear,
and then all will be well. You love music, Pauline?"
How the beautiful face glowed and the dark eyes shone.
"I love it," she said, "because I can put my whole soul into it--there
is room for one's soul in it. You will be shocked, I know, but that is
why I liked Comte's theories--because they filled my mind, and gave me
so much to think of."
"Were I in your place I should try to forget them, Pauline."
"You should have seen Sir Oswald's face when I told him I had read Comte
and Darwin. He positively groaned aloud."
And she laughed as she remembered his misery.
"I feel very much inclined to groan myself," said Miss Hastings. "You
shall have theories, or facts, higher, more beautiful, nobler, grander
far than any Comte ever dreamed. And now we must begin to work in real
earnest."
But Pauline Darrell did not move; her dark eyes were shadowed, her
beautiful face grew sullen and determined.
"You are going to spoil my life," she said. "Hitherto it has been a
glorious life--free, gladsome, and bright; now you are going to parcel
it out. There will be no more sunshiny hours; you are going to reduce me
to a kind of machine, to cut off all my beautiful dreams, my lofty
thoughts. You want to make me a formal, precise young lady, who will
laugh, speak, and think by rule."
"I want to make you a sensible woman, my dear Pauline," corrected Miss
Hastings, gravely.
"Who is the better or the happier for being so sensible?" demanded
Pauline.
She paused for a few minutes, and then she added, suddenly:
"Darrell Court and all the wealth of the Darrells are not worth it, Miss
Hastings."
"Not worth what, Pauline?"
"Not worth the price I must pay."
"What is the price?" asked Miss Hastings, calmly.
"My independence, my freedom of action and thought, my liberty of
speech."
"Do you seriously value these more highly than all that Sir Oswald could
leave you?"
"I do--a thousand times more highly," she replied.
Miss Hastings was silent for some few minutes, and then said:
"We must do our best; suppose we make a compromise? I will give you all
the liberty that I honestly can, in every way, and you shall give your
attention to the studies I propose. I will make your task as easy as I
can for you. Darrell Court is worth a struggle."
"Yes," was the half-reluctant reply, "it is worth a struggle, and I will
make it."
But there was not much hope in the heart of the governess when she
commenced her task.