balmy mornings in the early summer.
Miss Susan shook her head doubtfully.
'Unless you have a love of your vocation you will never succeed, MissCrofton,' she said solemnly.
I freely confess that this love she spoke of never came to me. I triedto do my duty, and I endured all the hardships of my life in, I hope, acheerful spirit. But the dry monotony of the studies had no element ofpleasantness, and I used to wonder how Miss Susan could derivepleasure--as it was evident she did--from the exercise of her authorityover those hapless scholars who had the misfortune to belong to herclass. Day after day they heard the same lectures, listenedsubmissively to the same reproofs, and toiled on upon that bleak barehigh-road to learning, along which it was her delight to drive them.Nothing like a flower brightened their weary way--it was all alike dustand barrenness; but they ploughed on dutifully, cramming their youthfulminds with the hardest dates and facts to be found in the history ofmankind, the dreariest statistics, the driest details of geography, andthe most recondite rules of grammar, until the happy hour arrived inwhich they took their final departure from Albury Lodge, to forget allthey had learnt there in the briefest possible time.
How my thoughts used to wander away sometimes as I sat at my desk,distracted by the unmelodious sound of Miss Susan's voice lecturingsome victim in her own division at the next table, while one of thegirls in mine droned drearily at Lingard, or Pinnock's _Goldsmith_, asthe case might be! How the vision of my own bright home haunted meduring those long monotonous afternoons, while the March winds made thepoplars rock in the garden outside the schoolroom, or the April rainbeat against the great bare windows!
CHAPTER II.
MILLY'S VISITOR.
It was not often that I had a half-holiday to myself, for Miss SusanBagshot seemed to take a delight in finding me something to do on theseoccasions; but whenever I had, I spent it with Milly Darrell, and onthese rare afternoons I was perfectly happy. I had grown to love her asI did not think it was in me to love any one who was not of my ownflesh and blood; and in so loving her, I only returned the affectionwhich she felt for me.
I am sure it was the fact of my friendlessness, and of my subordinateposition in the school, which had drawn this girl's generous hearttowards me; and I should have been hard indeed if I had not felttouched by her regard. She soon grew indescribably dear to me. She wasof my own age, able to sympathize with every thought and fancy of mine;the frankest, most open-hearted of creatures; a little proud of herbeauty, perhaps, when it was praised by those she loved, but neverproud of her wealth, or insolent to those whose gifts were less thanhers.
I used to write my home-letters in her room on these rare and happyafternoons, while she painted at an easel near the window. The room wassmall, but better furnished than the ordinary rooms in the house, andit was brightened by all sorts of pretty things,--handsomely-boundbooks upon hanging shelves, pictures, Dresden cups and saucers,toilet-bottles and boxes, which Miss Darrell had brought from home.Over the mantelpiece there was a large photograph of her father, and bythe bedside there hung a more flattering water-coloured portrait,painted by Milly herself. It was a powerful and rather a handsome face,but I thought the expression a little hard and cold, even in Milly'sportrait.
She painted well, and had a real love of art. Her studies at AlburyLodge were of rather a desultory kind, as she was not supposed tobelong to any class; but she had lessons from nearly half-a-dozendifferent masters--German lessons, Italian lessons, drawing lessons,music and singing lessons--and was altogether a very profitable pupil.She had her own way with every one, I found, and I believe Miss Bagshotwas really fond of her.
Her father was travelling in Italy at this time, and did not oftenwrite to her--a fact that distressed her very much, I know; but sheused to shake off her sorrow in a bright hopeful way that was peculiarto her, always making excuses for the dilatory correspondent. She lovedhim intensely, and keenly felt this separation from him; but thedoctors had recommended him rest and change of air and scene, she toldme, and she was glad to think he was obeying them.
Upon one of these half-holidays, when midsummer was near at hand, wewere interrupted by an unwonted event, in the shape of a visit from acousin of Milly's; a young man who occupied an important position inher father's house of business, and of whom she had sometimes talked tome, but not much. His name was Julian Stormont, and he was the only sonof Mr. Darrell's only sister, long since dead.
It was a sultry afternoon, and we were spending it in a rusticsummer-house at the end of a broad gravel that went the whole length ofthe large garden. Milly had her drawing materials on the table beforeher, but had not been using them. I was busy with a piece of fancy-workwhich Miss Susan Bagshot had given me to finish. We were sitting likethis, when my old acquaintance Sarah, the housemaid, came to announce avisitor for Miss Darrell.
Milly sprang to her feet, flushed with excitement.
'It must be papa!' she cried joyfully.
'Lor', no, miss; don't you go to excite yourself like that. It isn'tyour pa; it's a younger gentleman.'
She handed Milly a card.
'Mr. Stormont!' the girl exclaimed, with a disappointed air; 'my cousinJulian. I am coming to him, of course, Sarah. But I wish you had givenme the card at once.'
'Won't you go and do somethink to your hair, miss? most young ladiesdo.'
'O yes, I know; there are girls who would stop to have their hair donein Grecian plaits, if the dearest friend they had in the world waswaiting for them in the drawing-room. My hair will do well enough,Sarah.--Come, Mary, you'll come to the house with me, won't you?'
'Lor', miss, here comes the gentleman,' said Sarah; and then decampedby an obscure side-path.
'I had better leave you to see him alone, Milly,' I said; but she toldme imperatively to stay, and I stayed.
She went a little way to meet the gentleman, who seemed pleased to seeher, but whom she received rather coldly, as I thought. But I had notlong to think about it, before she had brought him to the summer-house,and introduced him to me.
'My cousin Julian--Miss Crofton.'
He bowed rather stiffly, and then seated himself by his cousin's side,and put his hat upon the table before him. I had plenty of time to lookat him as he sat there talking of all sorts of things connected withThornleigh, and Miss Darrell's friends in that neighbourhood. He wasvery good-looking, fair and pale, with regular well-cut features, andrather fine blue eyes; but I fancied those clear blue eyes had a coldlook, and that there was an expression of iron will about the mouth andpowerful prominent chin. The upper part of the face was thoughtful, andthere were lines already on the high white forehead, from which thethin straight chestnut hair was carefully brushed. It was the face of avery clever man, I thought; but I was not so sure that it was the faceof a man I could like, or whom I should be inclined to trust.
Mr. Stormont had a low pleasant voice and an agreeable manner ofspeaking. His way of treating his cousin was half deferential, halfplayful; but once, when I looked up suddenly from my work, I seemed tocatch a glimpse of a deeper meaning in the cold blue eyes--a look ofsingular intensity fixed on Milly's bright face.
Whatever this look might mean, she was unconscious of it; she went ontalking gaily of Thornleigh and her Thornleigh friends.
'I do so want to come home, Julian,' she said. 'Do you think there isany hope for me this midsummer?'
'I think there is every hope. I think it is almost certain you willcome home.'
'O Julian, how glad I am!'
'But suppose there should be a surprise for you when you come home,Milly,--a change that you may not quite like, at first?'
'What change?'
'Has your father told you nothing?'
'Nothing, except about his journeys from place to place, and not muchabout them. He has written very seldom during the last six months.'
'He has been too much engaged, I suppose; and it's rather like him tohave said nothing about it. How would you like a stepmother, Milly?'
She gave
a little cry, and grew suddenly pale.
'Papa has married again!' she said.
Julian Stormont drew a newspaper from his pocket, and laid it beforeher, pointing to an announcement in one column:
'On May 18th, at the English legation in Paris, William Darrell, Esq.,of Thornleigh, Yorkshire, to Augusta, daughter of the late TheodoreChester, Esq., of Regent's Park.'
He read this aloud very slowly, watching Milly's pale face as he read.
'There is no reason why this should distress you, my dear child,' hesaid. 'It was only to be expected that your father would marry again,sooner or later.'
'I have lost him!' she cried piteously.
'Lost him!'
'Yes; he can never be again the same to me that he has been. His newwife will come between us. No, Julian,
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