"Life has rising ills."--DYER.
"Papa, papa," says Miss Peyton, impatiently, without eliciting any
response.
It is half-past ten, and breakfast is on the table! So are two little
white pigeons, who have flown in through the open window, and are
sitting, one on Clarissa's shoulder, the other on the edge of the
table, picking crumbs out of her plate. The sun is streaming hotly in,
the breath of flowers floating faintly in his train. A bowl of roses,
half opened and filled with the dew of early morning, lies near
Clarissa's plate. Upon the window-sill, outside, another little
pigeon, brown-tinged and timid, stands peeping shyly in, envying his
bolder brothers, and longing for the pretty coaxing voice of his
mistress that shall make him brave to enter.
But to-day the welcome summons does not come. Miss Peyton has an open
letter in her hand, the contents of which have plainly disturbed and
interested her to an unusual degree; so that the little bird, whose
pretty brown plumage is being transformed by the sun into richest
bronze, grows each moment more dejected. Not for him the crumbs and
the "flesh pots of Egypt."
"One----two----If you don't answer me before I say three, papa, I
shall do something desperate," she says, again, raising her voice a
little.
But still papa takes no heed. At this moment, poor man, he is deep in
Mr. Forster's Irish Distress Bill, and is deaf to all surroundings.
Clarissa loses patience. Taking up a teaspoon, she makes a sharp
"assault and battery" upon an unoffending teacup, thereby creating a
din compared to which the noise of tomtoms would be sweetest music.
George Peyton is not proof against this tattoo. He looks up irritably,
and for a moment withdraws his mind from Mr. Forster's Bill.
"My dear Clarissa," he says, very justly incensed, "what is it? What
on earth is the matter with you? My dear, whatever it is, do stop that
unpleasant noise: it plays the very mischief with one's nerves."
"It is only a teaspoon," begins Miss Peyton, delighted with her
success.
"And a cup, I think," says Mr. Peyton. "Separately they are
unoffending, together they can annoy. If you will put that spoon out
of your hand, my dear, you will make me much happier."
"It was only when I was actually hoarse, from trying to attract your
attention, that I resorted to violent measures," says Clarissa,
severely.
"I beg your pardon," returns he, submissively.
"Now listen to my letter," says Clarissa. "I want your advice. It is
such a dear letter, and such a sad one; and--and something must be
done at once."
"I quite agree with you," murmurs her father, dreamily. Once again his
mind is losing itself in the folds of the fragrant "Times."
"MANNERTON, Tuesday, September 24.
"My DEAR CLARISSA,--
"So long a time has elapsed since last I saw or heard of you
that I half fear, as you read this, it will puzzle you to
remember the writer. Am I quite forgotten? I hope not; as I
want you to do me a great service. This reason for wishing
myself still in your memory sounds selfish,--almost rude; but
what can I do? Must I not speak the truth? And indeed I am in
sore trouble. I am friendless, all but homeless, and utterly
alone in the world. But, as I am quite determined to fight my
own way, I have decided on going out as a governess, and I
want you, dear, dear Cissy, to get somebody to try
me,--somebody who would not be too hard upon me, just at
first, until I had accustomed myself to the life and to the
children's ways. You may say I can paint very well, and,
though not a brilliant pianist, I have a good voice. (Do you
recollect how, at school, you used to say you liked to hear
me sing when the day was dying?) I can speak French and
German, but I know nothing of Italian or Latin, and I was
never very much at arithmetic, or that. I think I could get
on, after a little training; and at all events I know I must
try, as life here is not endurable.
"Oh, Cissy, if time has changed you, if you have grown cold
and careless, as all the rest of this cruel world, what shall
I do? But I will not believe that even a hundred years could
make you unkind or unfeeling. Do you think you will be very
long in answering this? Every hour I shall be listening for
the post: write to me, then, as soon as you can. I am very
unhappy here with Aunt Elizabeth, who does not care for me.
"I am, dear Clarissa,
"Your affectionate friend,
"GEORGIE BROUGHTON.
"P.S.--If you could get me pretty children, I should be so
glad; but of course it must not make any difference, and I
dare say ugly ones are just as nice, when one gets used to
them. I am dreadfully afraid of boys; but perhaps there may
be a few found somewhere amenable to reason, and at least one
or two who do not object to knees in their knickerbockers. Do
you remember the gardener's babies at Brussels, and how fond
they were of me? Dear Cissy, write soon."
This is the letter, with all its pathetic little confidences, its "do
you remembers?" and "have you forgottens?" and its tone,--half proud
and half beseeching,--that has touched Miss Peyton so deeply.
Her mouth trembles, there are tears in her voice and eyes, as she
finishes the last word and turns her face to her father. Something she
sees in that vague but kindly man checks her enthusiasm for the
moment; a thought but half defined, a suspicion, disgraceful if true,
crosses her brain and fills her with indignation.
"Papa! Have you been listening?" she asks, in her sternest tones.
"Listening, my dear? Of course I have. Yes, certainly, with all my
might," returns he, with unusual and therefore doubtful alacrity. As a
matter of fact, I don't think much would be said about his
"distinguished answering" were he to be examined in the letter just
read; but all the more for this reason does he assume an air of
surprise at Clarissa's question, and covers himself with an expression
of injured innocence. Unfortunately for him, however, Miss Peyton is a
person not to be done.
"No, you have not," she says, severe but calm. "You have not heard a
single syllable. Your mind was full of that miserable paper all the
time, and I am positive you were putting together some silly speech
that you imagine would electrify those absurd men in the House of
Commons."
"I don't think it was a very silly speech, my dear Clarissa,"
remonstrates Mr. Peyton, feebly.
"Oh, then you do acknowledge you were miles away in thought," says
Clarissa, triumphant, if disgusted.
"My dear girl, how you do misjudge me!" protests poor Mr. Peyton, at
his wits' end. "I assure you, I was all attention to that very
excellent letter from beginning to end."
"Were you?" returns she, sweetly. "Then, of course, you can tell me
what was the last word."
She has placed her elbows on the table, and has let her pretty face
sink into the palms of her hands, and is now regarding her father with
a smile, half mocking, half malicious.
"The last word! Oh, nonsense, my dear Cis! who ever remembered the
last word of anything, unless it happened to be 'The Burial of Sir
John Moore,' or 'Beautiful Star,' or something that way? But I know
your letter was all about a young woman who has got herself into a
mess and wants to come to you now as maid or laundress. But there is
always danger in that sort of thing, you know, and you mightn't like
it afterwards: and----"
"Oh, what an engrossing speech that imaginary one of yours must have
been!" says Clarissa, with a little distracted shake of her head. "I
knew you were in the room, didn't I? No, no, no, you are altogether
wrong: this is no letter from maid or laundress, but from Georgie
Broughton. (You must remember her name, I have so often mentioned it
to you.) She is the dearest little thing in the world,--quite that,
and more. And she writes, to tell me she is miserably poor, and wants
to go out as a governess."
"Poor girl! Of all unhappy resources, the last."
"Yes; isn't it wretched? But, you see, she is bound to do something,
and wearing out one's heart in a dingy school-room seems to be the
only course left open to a pretty girl like Georgie."
"Try Mrs. Redmond, then. She is looking out for a governess for the
children; and your friend might drop in there without further
trouble."
"Oh, papa, but all those children! and Mrs. Redmond herself, too, so
fretful and so irritable,--so utterly impossible in every way. Her
very 'How d'ye do?' would frighten Georgie to death."
"People don't die of chills of that description; and your poor little
friend can scarcely expect to find everything _couleur de rose_.
Besides, 'all those children' you speak of just resolve themselves
into two, as the boys are at school, and Cissy calls herself grown up.
I should think Cissy would be, in fact, a great comfort to her, and
would be amenable to her, and gentle--and that."
At this, Miss Peyton laughs a little, and bites her lip.
"Amenable," she says, slowly. "Do you know, I am afraid my Georgie is
even younger than Cissy?"
"Younger!"
"Well, she will certainly look younger; she has such a little, fresh,
babyish rose-bud of a face. Do you think"--anxiously--"that would
matter much?"
"It doesn't sound promising; but, if she is a good girl, one might
forgive the great crime of being fresh and young. Dear me, it is very
awkward. If she had been a nice, sensible, ugly, middle-aged person,
now, all would have gone well; but, after all, poor child, of course
she can't help her appearance."
"No, she certainly cannot," says Clarissa, with a sigh,
heart-felt pity in her tone. "And her eyes are the very color of
forget-me-nots,--quite the prettiest I ever saw. It is really too
bad."
"Redmond, himself, would make no difficulty about it. He
prefers to have young people about him, and was always, you know,
rather----rather melancholy when in Miss Prood's society, who was
really a most estimable woman, and one whose moral character one could
not fail to admire, when one forgot her nose, and her----"
"Temper?"
"Well, yes, she was rather excitable. But, as I was saying, Redmond
and your friend would probably pull very well; and then there's the
curate. Why,"--brilliantly,--"she might marry the curate!"
"Mr. Hastings?" says Clarissa, with animation, brightening visibly.
"Why, really, so she might. Such a good-looking man, too, and clever.
It is only a day or two ago since somebody said to me, 'He has the
very sort of face they make bishops of nowadays.'"
"What a very disinterested girl you are!" says her father, with a
smile, faint but amused: "without a moment's hesitation you surrender
every hope of making this embryo bishop your own. Can devotion farther
go? Well, take my advice; and, as your heart is set upon this thing,
go down to the vicarage to-day; tell Mrs. Redmond you have secured a
governess for her; do not discuss the subject,--simply state the fact;
and I think you will find her deeply grateful, in that you have put an
end to her difficulties, without compelling her brain to bear upon the
matter."
"Machiavelli was a poor creature, when compared with you," says Miss
Peyton, saucily. "What plots and plans swell out your busy brain! I
shall go to the vicarage to-day, as you advise, and be as sweet as
honey to Mrs. Redmond, and win my cause against all obstacles. But
first"--turning with a soft movement to caress the snowy pigeon that
rests upon her shoulder--"little home friends must be fed."
The bird, as though comprehending her words, flies through the open
window to the balcony outside, to nestle among its more timid
companions; whilst Clarissa, a creature scarcely less fair than they,
follows him, to fling breadcrumbs for their morning meal.
A little later, having dressed herself, she starts upon her errand,
ready to take the vicarage by storm.