by Ellen Wood
“But she did not do so?”
“Certainly not. Miss Beauchamp came to me, telling me what had occurred, and I was only too glad to engage her at once as governess to my children. We had a little acquaintance with the Lortons, and I had seen Miss Beauchamp several times, and liked her. She came into this house straight from the Lortons when she quitted them, and very pleased we were to secure her.”
A different account, this, from the one given by Mrs. Lorton; but Jane had felt certain the other was not strictly in accordance with truth.
“How long did Miss Beauchamp remain with you?” she inquired.
“Only a short time. She had been with us about six months, when she told me she must give warning to leave. I was so surprised; so sorry.”
“Why did she give warning? From what cause?”
“She did not say what, and I could not draw it from her, Miss Beauchamp was invariably reserved as to her private affairs, her family and all that; though open as the day in regard to general matters. All she said was, that she wished to leave; and when I pressed her to state frankly whether there was anything in my house that she disliked or wished altered, she answered that she was perfectly happy in it: and, but for compelling circumstances (I remember the expression still), should not have thought of leaving it.”
“And did she quit it instantly; that day; as she had Mrs. Lorton’s?”
“No, no,” said Mrs. West. “It was a month’s warning that she gave me, and she remained until its close. Then she left us.”
“Where did she go to then?”
“We never knew. There appeared, as it seemed to us some little mystery connected with it: — though in truth that may have been only fancy on our part. Many a governess when quitting her situation does not deem it necessary to proclaim her future movements to those she leaves behind her.”
“In what way did there seem to be a mystery connected with it?” asked Jane.
“Well, I can hardly describe it to you,” was the frank reply. “We fancied it chiefly, I believe, from Miss Beauchamp’s entire silence as to her future proceedings. I told her I should be happy to be referred to; but she replied that she had no intention of taking another situation, and therefore should not require a reference.”
“What was she going to do, then?” asked Jane in amazement.
“I am unable to say. I remember we wondered much at the time. She had never spoken of her family, and we picked up the notion, - though it may not have been a correct one, that she was without relatives. An impression arose amongst us that she was going to be married.”
“To be married?” echoed Jane, her pulses quickening.
“We had no real reason for thinking it,” continued Mrs. West. “I put the question to her, I remember, whether she was about to take up her abode with relatives, and she laughed and said, No, she was going to embark in a new way of life altogether.”
“It is very strange!” exclaimed Lady Jane. “Do you not know where she went to when she quitted your house? — where she drove to, for instance? Whether she went into the next street? — whether she went into the country? — in short, what her immediate movements were?”
“I would tell you in a moment, if I knew; but I never have known,” replied Mrs. West. “She went away in a cab with her luggage, not stating where. We thought it strange that she should preserve to us this reticence: we had been so very intimate together. We all liked Miss Beauchamp very much indeed, and had treated her entirely as a friend.”
“Did she seem to be in good spirits when she left you?”
“Quite so; she was as gay as possible, and said she should come back and see us some time. You seem very anxious,” added Mrs. West, noting her visitor’s perplexed brow.
“I am indeed anxious,” was the answer. “How long do you say this was ago?”
“It was last June. Twelve months ago exactly.”
“And you have never since seen her, or heard from her?”
“Never at all. We have often wondered what has become of her.”
“I must find her,” exclaimed Jane in some excitement. “As to her having married, that is most improbable; she would not be likely to enter on so grave a step without the knowledge of her family. At least, I — I — should think she would not,” added Jane, as a remembrance of Laura’s disobedient marriage arose to her mind, rendering her less confident. “I may as well tell you who Miss Beauchamp is,” she resumed; “there is no reason why I should not do so. My father, a gentleman born and highly connected, was very poor. There were four daughters of us at home, and Clarice, the third—”
“Then — I beg your pardon — you are Miss Beauchamp’s sister?” interrupted Mrs. West quickly.
“Yes. Clarice took a sudden determination to go out as governess. She had been highly educated, and so far was well qualified for the work; but her family were entirely against it. Clarice persisted; she had but one motive in this, to lessen expenses at home: a good one, of course, but my father could not be brought to see it. He said she would disgrace her family name; that he would not have a daughter of his out in the world — a Chesney working for her bread. Clarice replied that no disgrace should accrue to the name through her, and she, in spite of all our opposition, quitted home. She went, I find, to the Lortons first, calling herself Miss Beauchamp; she had been christened Clarice Beauchamp; Clarice, after her great-aunt, the Countess of Oakburn; Beauchamp, after her godfather.”
“Then she is not Miss Beauchamp?”
“She is Lady Clarice Chesney.”
Mrs. West felt excessively surprised. Like her neighbour Mrs. Lorton, she had not been brought into familiar personal contact with an earl’s daughter — except in waxwork.
“I have the honour then of speaking to — to—”
“Lady Jane Chesney,” quietly replied Jane. “But when Clarice was with you she was only Miss Chesney; it is only recently that my father has come into the title. You will readily imagine that we are most anxious now to have her at home, and regret more than before that she ever left it.”
“But — am I to understand that you do not know where she is? — that she has not been home since she left us last June?” exclaimed Mrs. West in bewilderment.
“We do not know where she is. We do not know now where to look for her.”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“Until to-day I took it for granted that she was still in a situation in this neighbourhood,” explained Jane. “My father’s displeasure prevented my seeing personally after Clarice; in fact, he forbade my doing so. When I came out from home to-day I fully expected to take her back with me: or, if that could not be, to fix the time for her return. I never supposed but that I should at once find her; and I cannot express to you what I felt when the proprietor of the library, where I used to address my letters to Clarice, told me Miss Beauchamp had left the neighbourhood; — what I feel still. It is not disappointment; it is a great deal worse. I begin to fear I know not what.”
“I’m sure I wish I could help you to find her!” heartily exclaimed Mrs. West. “Where can she be? She surely cannot know the change in her position!”
“I should imagine not,” replied Jane. “Unless — but no, I will not think that,” she broke off, wiping from her forehead the dew which the sudden and unwelcome thought had sent there. “Unless Clarice should have married very much beneath her, and fears to let it be known to us,” was what she had been about to say “It has occurred to us sometimes that Miss Beauchamp might have taken a situation abroad; or with a family who afterwards took her abroad,” said Mrs. West. “What you say now, Lady Jane, renders it more than ever probable.”
Jane considered. It was certainly the most probable solution of the puzzle. “Yes,” she said aloud, “I think you must be right. It is more than likely that she is abroad in some remote continental city. Thank you for your courtesy in giving me this information,” she added, as she rose and laid a card on the table with her address upon it. “Should you at any
time obtain further news, however slight, you will, I am sure, be kind enough to forward it to me.”
Mrs. West gave a promise, and Jane went out to her carriage with a heavy heart. It was a most unsatisfactory story to carry back to Lord Oakburn.
Another carriage, with its hammer-cloth and its coronets and its attendant servants, and above all, its coat of arms, that of the Oakburn family, was at the door in Portland Place when Jane’s drew up. It was Lady Oakburn’s. Jane went into the hall; and sounds, as of voices in dispute, came from the room where she had left her father in the morning. The earl and his old dowager aunt were enjoying one of their frequent differences of opinion.
Lucy came running downstairs. “Have you come back to take me out, Jane?”
Jane stooped to kiss her. “My dear, you know that I never willingly break a promise,” she said, “but I almost fear that I must break mine to you to-day. I am not sure that I can go to the botanical fete. I have heard bad news, Lucy; and I shall have to tell it to papa in the best way that I can. But, if I don’t take you to-day, I will take you some other day.”
“What is the bad news?” asked the child with all a child’s curiosity.
“I cannot tell it you now, Lucy. Go back to Miss Lethwait. How long has Aunt Oakburn been here?”
“Ever so long,” was Lucy’s lucid answer. “She is quarrelling with papa about Clarice.”
“About Clarice!” involuntarily repeated Jane. “What about Clarice?”
“I was in the room with papa and Miss Lethwait when Aunt Oakburn came—”
“What took you and Miss Lethwait to it?” interrupted Jane.
“We went in to get those drawings; we did not know papa was there; and he kept us talking, and then Lady Oakburn came in. Jane, she looked so angry with papa, and she never said Good morning to him, or How do you do, or anything, but she asked him whether he was not ashamed of himself to let Clarice be abroad still as a governess; and then they began to quarrel, and Miss Lethwait brought me away.”
“How strange that they should all be suddenly wanting to bring home Clarice when we cannot find her!” thought Jane.
She motioned Lucy upstairs to the study, and entered the drawingroom. Lord Oakburn stood in the middle of the floor, his tongue and his stick keeping up a duet; and the dowager — her black bonnet awry, her shawl thrown on a neighbouring chair, and her cheeks flushed — was talking quite as angrily and more loudly than the earl. They had strayed, however, from the first matter in dispute — Clarice; had entered, in fact, upon at least a dozen others; just now the point of debate was the letting of Chesney Oaks, which had finally been taken by Sir James Marden.
Jane’s entrance put an end to the fray. The earl dropped his voice, and Lady Oakburn pulled her bonnet straight upon her head. These personal encounters were in truth so frequent between the two, that neither retained much animosity afterwards, or indeed much recollection of what the particular grievance had been or the compliments they had mutually paid each other.
“Well, and where is she?” began the earl to Jane.
Jane knew only too well to whom he alluded. The presence of the dowager made her task all the more difficult; but she might not dare to temporize with her father, or hide the fact that Clarice could not be found. She did not, however, reply instantly, and the earl spoke again.
“Have you brought her back with you?”
“No, papa. I”
“Then I’ll have the law of the people!” thundered the earl, working his stick ominously. “Here’s your aunt come down now with her orders about Clarice,” — with a fierce flourish towards the angry old lady. “As if I did not know how to conduct my own affairs as well as any interference can tell me!”
“No, you don’t, Oakburn. You don’t!
“And as if I should not conduct them as I please without reference to interference,” continued the earl aggravatingly. “She’s my daughter, madam; she’s not yours.”
“Then why didn’t you prevent her going out at all? Why didn’t you drag her back with cords?” retorted the dowager, nodding her bonnet at her adversary. “I would; and I have told you so ten times over. What does Clarice say for herself?” she added, turning sharply upon Jane. “Why didn’t she come home of her own accord, without waiting to be sent for? She has the Chesney temper, and that’s an obstinate one. That’s what it is.”
“Aunt,” said Jane faintly, “ Papa,” she said, scarcely knowing which of them to address, or how to frame her news, “I am sorry to say that I cannot find Clarice. She — I—”
They both interrupted her in a breath, turning their anger upon Jane. What did she mean by “not finding” Clarice, when she had said all along that she knew where she was?
Poor Jane had to explain. That she had thought she knew were Clarice was; but that Clarice was gone: she had been gone ever since last June. Bit by bit the whole tale was extracted from Jane; the mystery of Clarice’s leaving Mrs. West’s so suddenly (and it really did look something of a mystery), and her never having been heard of since.
To describe the earl’s dismay would be a difficult task. When he fully comprehended that Clarice was lost — lost, for all that could be seen at present — his temper quite gave way. He stormed, he thumped, he talked, he abused the scapegoat Pompey, who had had nothing in the world to do with it, but who happened unluckily to come into the room with an announcement that luncheon was ready; he abused Lady Oakburn, he abused Jane. For once in her life the dowager let him go onto his heart’s content without retorting in kind. She had in truth her grand-niece’s welfare at heart, and the news Jane had brought terrified her. Lunch! No; they were in too much perplexity, too much real care, to sit down to a luncheon-table.
“I have contained myself as long as I could,” cried the dowager, flinging back the strings of her bonnet, and darting reproachful looks at Lord Oakburn. “Every week since you came to London have I said to myself on the Monday morning, he’ll have her back this week; but that week has gone on like the others, and he has not had her back — you, Oakburn! — and I said to myself, as I sat down to my breakfast this day, I’ll go and ask him what he thinks of himself. And I’ve come. Now, then, Oakburn!”
Poor Jane, utterly powerless to stem the raging spirits of the two, remembered that Lady Oakburn had been as ready as the earl to leave Clarice to herself: to say that she ought to be left to herself, unsought, until she should “come to her senses.”
“I want Clarice,” continued the dowager, while the earl marched to and fro in the room, brandishing his stick. “I’m going away next month to Switzerland, and I’ll take her with me, if she behaves herself and shows proper contrition for what she has done. As to your not finding her, Jane, that must be nonsense: you always were good for nothing, you know.”
“Dear aunt, the case is this,” said Jane in sadly subdued tones. “Perhaps you do not quite understand it all. I should not think so much of Clarice’s not having been, or sent, to Mrs. West’s since she left them; but what I do think strange is, that she should not have called or sent as usual for my letters. All the letters I have written to her since Christmas, three, were lying at the library still. I have brought two of them away with me, leaving the other, in case she should still call.”
“What has made her leave the letters there?” cried the dowager. “It is that which I cannot understand. It is that which — I don’t know why — seems to have struck my heart with fear.”
Lady Oakburn interrupted impatiently. “I don’t understand it at all, Jane. Perhaps you’ll begin at the beginning and enlighten me.”
“What beginning?” asked Jane, uncertain how to take the words.
“What beginning!” echoed the exasperated old lady. “Why, the beginning of it all, when Clarice first went out. I know nothing about the particulars; never did know. What letters did you send to her, and what answers did you get? — and where did she hide herself, and what did she tell you about it? Begin at the beginning, I say.”
“It will be two
years next month, July, since Clarice left us,” began Jane, with her customary obedience. “Some time in the following month, August, I received the first letter from her, telling me she had found a situation in the neighbourhood of Hyde Park, and that she would” — Jane hesitated a moment, but went on—” keep her vow.”
“Her vow! What vow?”
“She took a vow before leaving home, that she would never betray our name as connected with herself.”
“Oh!” said the countess. “She took it in a passion, I suppose.”
“Yes. She said she hoped the situation would prove a comfortable one, and that if I liked to write to her, I might address my letters ‘Miss Chesney,’ to be kept at a certain library in the neighbourhood, where she would call for them; but she again repeated that she was not known by her own name. I did write to her; three or four letters in the course of the next twelvemonth; and she answered them. She never told me she was not in the same situation, and I concluded she was there. Summer weather had come round then—”
“Get on with your story, Jane. What has summer weather got to do with it?” was the old lady’s angry reprimand. And Lord Oakburn had stopped his restless walk to listen.
“In that summer — I think it was in June — I had another letter from Clarice, telling me not to write until I heard from her again, as she might be going to the seaside. Of course I supposed that the family were going to take her. This, you observe, was the month when, as Mrs. West says, she left them. I heard nothing more until the next January, when she wrote to wish us the bonne année, a custom she had learnt in France; and that letter was forwarded to South Wennock from our old home at Plymouth. I”
