Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “You took me by surprise, sir,” Rachel said with an effort.

  “Still, you will pardon me, will you not?”

  “Oh, yes.” She was still in a state of dreadful perplexity. She was sure, she was nearly sure that he was playing with her, and, whether that were so or no, the intrusion of the male element in a form so disturbing was the last thing for which she was prepared. She longed for him to go, but he showed no intention of going. He settled himself comfortably on the faded red cushion that covered the window seat, and she was distressingly conscious that the light fell on her face.

  “You have had — but you cannot have had at your age — a long experience of teaching?”

  “I have had none.”

  “And you have not seen your pupil?”

  “No.”

  “Then I am afraid that you are unaware of the difficulties of your task? Unconscious of the troubles before you? Ann is a monkey, ma’am, wilful, violent, untamed; in her worst fits malign, and at her best,” his eyes twinkled as he piled phrase on phrase and saw her lengthening face, “a sackful of tricks! A very imp of the devil! Her mother, a sensible woman, but weak where she is in question, has spoiled her a merveille. Now, ma’am,” he leant forward with interest. “I crave your confidence. I am anxious to know how you will deal with her.”

  “I shall do my best,” Rachel replied.

  “But how? How, dear lady? For that is the question. If you have not experience, still I am sure — I read it in your face — that you have already decided on your course; that you have that instinct, that flair that at once suggests a treatment.”

  “I must see her before I can decide,” Rachel said. She had not only no answer ready, but she had a horrid suspicion that he was still playing on her inexperience.

  “But how? How, ma’am?” he insisted, refusing to take her answer. “Will you reason with her? Or fondle her? Or whip her? But I see,” as Rachel, now offended by his persistence, showed her feeling in her eyes, “you refuse to confide in me. You do not think me worthy of confidence. You feel that you can rely so confidently on your tact, your gentleness — I read it in your eyes — your powers, that you need no hints! That the aid of a friend, the willing aid, is of no importance, ma’am?”

  “Oh, no, no!” Rachel cried, driven to the wall. “I shall be thankful for help, sir. I shall be thankful for any advice that you can give me.”

  “But I have pressed too much?” he retorted, drawing back with an injured air. Which, indeed, was exactly what Rachel, puzzled and perplexed, was feeling. “I have extorted but an unwilling consent! You feel that you can stand alone, that those little hands are strong enough to deal with any trouble that awaits them? You are proud. Too proud, too self-reliant, ma’am, and I can believe it, to need assistance. Very good!” He made a show of rising. “I shall watch the result with interest. My goodwill you will have, though you will not confide in me.”

  He had all the air of an offended man, and Rachel, who was beginning to believe in his protestations, surrendered. “But, indeed, indeed,” she said eagerly, “you misunderstand me, sir. You misunderstand me strangely. I have no experience, and — and if out of yours, sir, you can suggest anything helpful, I shall be greatly obliged.”

  But this was not enough for the odd man before her.

  “You accept, but you accept unwillingly,” he rejoined. “I say again, you are proud.”

  “I am nothing of the kind.”

  “Nay, I read it in your eyes. They are speaking eyes. They are clear as crystal and betray your thoughts. You are saying, ‘This man domineers and I will not be domineered over.’”

  But Rachel was not without perception. “Perhaps you read my mind by your own, sir,” she said.

  What — wit? Wit as well as—” he bowed, his eyes laughing. “But I will not offend you by speaking too plainly. Then to the point, ma’am, which is ——

  Ann? Well, let me tell you, somewhere in that impish child’s heart is a streak of gold, and I have found that streak. I have been happy enough to tap that softer vein. Within limits I can influence Ann, I can even control her.”

  Rachel could believe it. Innocent as she was, she could believe that with his looks, his smile, his eyes, he could influence anything of the female sort, even a girl of twelve years old. She looked at him expectant.

  He seemed to be waiting for her to speak. “And, sir?” she said doubtfully.

  “I am willing to use that — shall I say that influence? —— — in Miss South’s favour. Always supposing,” he conditioned, with a whimsical look, “that she is not proud. Of course, if you still feel that you can, if you prefer to stand alone — but there,” laughing frankly, “I make no conditions. Only I hate proud people.”

  Rachel suffered a fresh attack of shyness. “I have nothing of which to be proud,” she said. “And I am much obliged to you.”

  He rose. “Then I am forgiven for my persistence? I shall sometimes be welcome here? I shall find here,” he repeated with feeling, “that welcome, that semblance of home which is to be found nowhere else in this great house?”

  Rachel, her face warm, she could not tell why, murmured some words of thanks. He listened with attention, seemed to hear her with approbation. Then, turning to the window, he said something of the solitude of the house, of the life led in it, of the lack of society, congenial society, of the isolation of their common position. He had laid aside his ambiguous manner, he spoke with propriety — and with every word he rose in Rachel’s opinion.

  Presently, in a serious tone, “You know, I suppose that all is not well between Lord Effingham and our dear lady? I break no confidence in telling you that. It is no secret and you must soon learn it. The faults in my opinion, but I may be partial, are on one side, the merits, the conspicuous merits on the other. Ah, you start — you think that I should not prepossess you? And perhaps you are right — I value your good opinion and must not risk it. In a house that is so divided, so distracted, a house in which you and I stand isolated, may!” — he held out his hand and as she nervously placed hers in it he bowed low over it—” may I go with the feeling that I have made a new friend?”

  “You are very kind.” She was at once moved and embarrassed.

  “Kind?” he rejoined sadly — and he seemed to be a different man from the one who had broken in upon her so turbulently. “Well, it is something. For alas, there is little kindness here. I thank you. I thank you. Until we meet again, count, ma’am, upon the best offices that I can do you.” Then, turning abruptly when his hand was already on the door, “We are friends?” he said, with a sweetness that it was impossible to resist. “I have not flattered myself? I have not mistaken that?”

  “I trust we shall be,” Rachel murmured.

  “Thank God!” he ejaculated. And with that he passed out and closed the door behind him. It was not the first time that he had made his exit with those words.

  As he passed, a slender graceful figure, down the broad stairway, he smiled at his thoughts. “Dear little thing!” he reflected. “It is cruel to tease her, but who could resist the temptation? She is like a mountain pool, one moment all light and colour, the next a rippling shadow. That tremulous mouth, those limpid eyes, I must see more of them. I must see them brighten when I come and grow dull when I go! But dear innocent, not to harm her! No, no! A slight tendresse — I owe that to myself, and it will educate her, and amuse me when my lady is not here.”

  Above stairs the squeak of the baize door had left Rachel at liberty to return to her time-table. But she was in no mood to return to it. Her cheeks were hot, her mind was in a whirl, she could not apply herself. She must be moving, be shutting this and opening that, be rising to her feet as soon as she had seated herself. And this restlessness? It was all Lady Ann, she told herself; Lady Ann and the sad account of her pupil that she had heard, and the trying prospect that it presented. It was all Ann; how was she to deal with her? How manage her? It was a most trying, grave, important problem. No wonder that the
consideration of it unsettled her.

  But had she been frank with herself, she must have admitted that it was not the thing that had been told, it was the teller that disturbed her. It was the interview, so odd and vivid, the looks, the tones, the solicitude expressed and the friendship offered that left her unquiet; that quickened her pulses and troubled her senses, that compelled her to open the window and sweep back the ringlets that would fall over her face. It was the man. It was the impact with a new, ambiguous, perplexing force that drove her thoughts out of their placid channel and hurried them on in flood.

  It had been so odd an interview. It had thrust upon her notice a character so novel — and almost any man at close quarters had been novel to Rachel! He had taken a kind of possession of her, had teased and puzzled and all but offended her. He had been at one time utterly unreasonable, and then in a moment he had shown himself so different, so kind, so gentle. He had at once tormented and soothed and flattered her!

  She decided at last, when time and reflection had restored her self-possession, that men in this new world must be like that. That it was only her youth and inexperience that found him strange and that she must accustom herself. She must harden herself.

  But one thing was certain, though she did not analyse its cause; and this was that the things about her, even the dull lesson-books and the ink-stained table, now wore another and a brighter aspect. The breath of young life, of the unexpected, of change and adventure, had moved on the face of them and enlivened them. As she gazed from the window and her eyes followed the cloud-shadows that travelled the glades and the wind that in its passage bent the meek heads of the ferns, as she drank in with her ears the cooing of the ringdoves, she found a new beauty in the scene, a fairer radiance in the sunshine, a deeper note in the forest peace.

  She was so thankful, so very thankful that in this strange place she had found a friend.

  CHAPTER VI

  IN TROUBLE

  LADY ELLINGHAM was after all to return along with the children, and Rachel had seldom spent more unpleasant hours than those which on the Monday preceded their arrival. She had seen no more of the smiling tutor, and the spell that he had momentarily cast over her had lost some of its power; while the prospect that he had disclosed remained to daunt her, and to daunt her the more as it opened more nearly before her. She felt, as she watched the slow progress of the clock and found herself unable to apply her mind to anything, that she had never before known what suspense was.

  To her shyness and inexperience it would have been no small ordeal to meet her employer and her pupil, had Lady Ann been an ordinary child. But after what she had heard of her stubborn temper and of Lady Ellingham’s predilection for her, the plunge troubled the girl exceedingly. And she had to contemplate it in solitude. She had not even Mrs. Jemmett for company. From the time of Mr. Girardot’s arrival the housekeeper had thought proper to serve the governess upstairs; and perhaps this was as well, for the house was in confusion below, the servants, their number mysteriously augmented, were everywhere, fires were lighting, beds were airing, and the grand suite that had not seen the light for weeks was being unshrouded. There were strange faces on the stairs and a new cook in the kitchen.

  But all this, and the stir and bustle that penetrated by fits to the schoolroom, did but serve to accentuate Rachel’s isolation, and to leave her at greater liberty to torment herself. She could not read, she could no more sew than fly. She passed restlessly between schoolroom and bedroom, and an hour before the earliest moment at which the travellers could appear had stationed herself at the window that looked to the front.

  Of course they were late, and it seemed to her, searching the long avenue to catch the first floating feather, the first token of their approach, that they would never come. The sun sank until it gilded only the crests of the forest. The three drives sank into sombre shadow. The stable clock tolled seven. Then when she had for a few seconds averted her eyes, they came. A post-chaise led the way, an open travelling carriage with four horses and an outrider followed, a fourgon with servants and luggage brought up the rear. Rachel watched their oncoming with a sinking heart, and before even the post-chaise reached the house she got a startling intimation of what she might expect. Out of it leapt a big band-box, that bounded and rolled across the sward. A second band-box followed, then a parcel which, amid shrieks of childish laughter, burst open as it fell. Still the post-chaise rolled on, swept round to the entrance, drew up.

  Out of it tumbled a boy and after him a girl, a tumult of scarlet cloth and floating black hair. She fell upon the boy, pummelling him with one hand, while with the other she beat him about the head with a velvet jockey-cap. The boy, shielding his head with his arms, fled whooping into the house, the girl followed, while the chaise, moving on towards the stables, gave Rachel a glimpse of two scandalized women.

  The sight was not reassuring. But the Countess was still to come. Rachel watched the travelling carriage draw up, and watched the servants gather about it.

  She saw Lady Ellingham alight — a dark, handsome woman, still and pale, in a drab travelling cloak with green facings and a black bonnet with a single green feather. She had a dog in her arms, but Rachel stayed to see no more. As the carriage drew on, she took a last glance at the mirror, saw that her cap was straight and her hair smooth, and stole back to the schoolroom. She did not know whether the unruly children or the stately mother alarmed her the more.

  She had barely seated herself at the table, with some dim notion of being found at her post, when the squeak of the baize door, followed by a rush of noisy feet and riotous voices, prepared her for the worst. The schoolroom door was flung wide and the children burst in, the boy leading. He saw Rachel and stood transfixed and staring, heedless of the blows that the girl continued to rain upon him.

  “By gum!” he said.

  The girl dropped her hands, tossed her black mane from her flushed face and stared — stared, and insolently. “Who are you?” she cried.

  Rachel rose, outwardly composed. “You are Lady Ann?” she said.

  “Golly, George, I know,” the girl exclaimed. “She’s the new sewing-maid. Here, you,” she continued, addressing Rachel rudely, “you’ve no business here, impudence! Get out, do you hear?”

  “This is the schoolroom,” the boy explained more gently.

  Rachel gathered her forces. “Yes,” she said calmly. “I know. I am not the new sewing-maid. I am your new governess, Lady Ann.”

  The girl scowled. “You are what?” she cried with violence.

  “Your new governess.”

  “By gum!” the boy exclaimed again. And whistling shrilly, he stared his hardest.

  But — the girl stamped her foot on the floor. “It’s a lie!” she retorted. She was all black; black angry eyes, black brows, a torrent of black hair. She was cast in a large mould and tall for her years. “You’re a devil! A devil! And you’ll have to get out of this, and quick too! This is my room!”

  Rachel ignored her. She looked at the boy. “You are Lord Bodmin?”

  “Don’t answer her!” the girl ordered. But he nodded.

  “Perhaps you will be good enough to tell her ladyship when you see her that I am here — Miss South — and will wait upon her when she desires to see me.”

  But Ann was furious, was perhaps alarmed — she wanted no governess. “You’ll go out!” she persisted. “No,” Rachel said firmly.

  The girl was about to retort when the boy seized her and dragged her away. “Oh, rats!” he said. “Come along, sis! Let’s go and rout out old Girry! And we are to have supper with mother.”

  “It’s some dirty trick!” Ann stormed. She flung a last “You devil!” at Rachel and made a hideous face, but allowed herself to be hauled away. That, however, was not the last of them. The door had scarcely slammed behind them when it was flung open and the velvet cap flew into the room. It went wide of Rachel and broke the glass of a picture.

  “Oh!” Rachel cried. Her knees were shaking under h
er and she had much ado not to burst into tears. “What a child! What a pupil! How can I ever manage her? And why, why did I come?”

  And for a while she gave way, her elbows on the table, her face hidden in her hands. Her loneliness and the child’s cruel lack of feeling overcame her. But her tears were almost as much the offspring of anger as of pain, and anger dried them quickly.

  Which was well, for she had not been alone ten minutes before she heard the baize door open, a measured step trod the passage and a perfunctory knock heralded Mrs. Jemmett. “You are to go to her ladyship, if you please, miss,” she said.

  “At once?”

  “Yes, miss, if you please.” The woman’s face was grave, and had Rachel looked closely at her she might have read compassion in her eyes.

  “Very well.” But conscious of her tear-stained face, “I will just smooth my hair,” she added. “Where is her ladyship?”

  “I am to take you down, miss.” And the housekeeper waited while the girl, crossing hastily to her bedroom, sponged away the tell-tale traces. They went down the grand staircase in silence, Rachel gathering her forces.

  Bowles was standing at the door of the Countess’s sitting-room. He opened it and Rachel, quaking but resolved, went in.

  It was clear that Lady Ellingham had lost no time in interviewing her, for although an Argand lamp shed a soft glow on the table on which it stood, the gold-fringed curtains had not been drawn and through the tall windows the trees showed dark masses against a pale sky. Rachel was aware of this, and later remembered it. But at the moment she saw only the woman in whose hands her fate lay, and whose hostility the very air of the room betrayed to her. She recognized that Lady Ellingham was strikingly beautiful, tall, erect, dark — and incredibly cold. Pride could not have harboured in a fairer form, and as with eyes a little narrowed she gazed at the girl, pride seemed to emanate from her.

  And yet — and yet Rachel fancied that she perceived ever so slight a change in that searching gaze; as if my lady had prepared herself for something and did not see precisely what she had expected to see. She stayed the girl by a gesture before she had advanced more than a pace into the room. “Be good enough,” she said, “to tell me your name.”