JANET :

New Zealand Graphic, Volume V, Issue 46, 15 November 1890, Page 4

JANET :

THE STORY OF A GOVERNESS.

By MBS. OLIPHANT. Author of‘That Unfortunate Marriage

< HAPTER I

NET SIMMERHAYES did not start in life with the feelings usually attributed to the young governess when beginning what is certainly a very thankless trade, with about as little prospect of continued prosperity as any jn the world. Many

representations of that sad and resigned young heroine have appeared before tlie world. We all know the appearance of the slight girl in deep mourning shyly coming into a strange house and a new world, shrinking alike from kindness and neglect; feeling that she is likely to be shut out from everything that is agreeable, expecting humiliation, and if not ready to take offence, at least quite aware that nobody is likely to take her feelings into consideration, or think that she is made of young flesh and blood like the others. There are many excuses for this frame of mind, and in many cases the worst prognostics are carried out. But I am very glad to say that this was not at all the idea with which the subject of this story prepared to go forth upon the world.

He>- position up to this time had not been like that of the young ami gentle governess of romance, an exceptionally sheltered and happy one. She had not been the only daughter of a doting father or mother, whose want of means to piovide for her was only discovered upon their sudden death. On the contrary, Janet’s experience was entirely that of a dependent. It is true the dependence was more or less a natural one. She was the i elation of her patroness, and she had grown up from childhood in Miss Philipson’s house, without any consciousness that it was not her home, and with much of the feelings, of a child, always subject, always liable to be reproved, and little considered, but only in a way common to children. She had been very well educated on the whole, very well cared for, nicely dressed, since that was accoiding to the fitness of things, and not allowed in anything to fall behind the neighbouring girls of her age in any pleasure or accomplishment. It would have been contrary to Miss Philipson’s credit, and it would have impaired her comfort, if Janet had not been on a level with the rest, or if she bad not been cheerful and happy in her life. She was always kind to the girl, not being naturally unkind to anyone. She liked to have everything pleasant about her, and she had a conscience besides—both which things were very good for her little cousin. She did not provide for Janet, but that was all—and indeed, having done so much for her, and given her on the whole such a happy life up to her twentieth year, there was no failuie of duty in this ; and though some of Janet’s friends were inclined to blame Miss Philipson, Janet herself was much more just, and neither felt nor expressed any blame. ‘ Aunt Mary was always good to me,’ the girl said. ‘ I had no right to that, but she gave it tne freely, ami we were very happy together, and certainly I had no right to expect any more.’

‘ My dear, I would not for the world impair your gratitude ■or your affection for your poor aunt,’ said the Vicar’s wife ; • iri many things she deserved it fully, but—’ • There is no “ but,” ’ said Janet. She was not perhaps quite so much overcome by grief as her friends would have liked to see her. There is a very simple standard in this respect which people like to see followed. They like to see a grief which is overwhelming for the moment, tears without measuie, a sorrow which can take no comfort, all the better if it makes the mourner ill, and perhaps confines her to bed for a few days in a shrouded room, without any occupation but that of blooding and weeping over her loss. And then they expect her to cheer up —not too quickly, but with a little visible advance every day, an advance which they can feel to be owing more or less to their own sympathetic kindness and good offices. Janet had to a certain extent followed this unspoken rule. She had cried a great deal, though her health had not at all suffered ; but after the funeral she had perhaps too quickly regained her cheeifulness. When the doctor proposed to her, which was a thing that happened very soon after, it had been all she could do not to laugh at the droll idea that any one should think it possible she would marry a middle-aged country doctor, she —Janet ! She did laugh in the safety of her own room where nobody could hear her, recalling his look, and all the peculiarities of his unattractive person and his rough riding dress. He wanted to save her from the life of a governess by binding her to him, and his shabby home, ami his busy, dry, joyless existence. How extraordinary, how ludicrous it was that anybody should think it was better to vegetate than to go out into the world and seek your fortune ! Janet had lived at ('lover all her life ami she liked the little place. The scenes were all so familiar, the people were all friends ; but then she never for a moment supposed that she would be Isuind to such a seclusion. It had always been her expectation that one time or another she was to fling herself forth upon the world.

At the Vicarage they were exceedingly tender of the girl who was going forth u|>on fate like this. Mrs Bland made a survey of all her clothes, ami mended some and condemned others with a pathetic tenderness. ‘ You must have all your linen in order,’ she said, ‘ for there is nothing a girl is so apt to forget. I was in rags myself when my first wedding outfit wore out before I ever thought of getting a new set of things. A girl can see when she wants a new frock, but as for her under things, she always leaves that to her mother.’ ‘ But you forget, Mrs Bland, I have never had a mother,’ said J anet. ‘ Ah. my poor child ! .but you -were very kindly thought of, Janet, very kindly.’ * Do you think I meant any reproach to poor Aunt Mary? Oh, no, no ! She liked me to have everything. She liked me to be the best dressed child in the parish. But as I grew up I saw to it myself. She thought it was best for me. But I shall always take the most care of the buttons you have sewed on. Fancy sewing on buttons and seeing after tapes for me ’.’ ‘lt is the most natural thing in the woild,’ said the Vicaress. ‘ I only wish 1 could always take the charge of you, Janet; but we are old people, and we have little to leave, and it would only be putting off a little what would have to be faced at last.’ ‘ Dear Mis Bland !’ cried Janet, looking at her with something like tears in her eyes ; they were not tears —and yet even while they sprang by instinct of nature, the little thing could not help the rising of a revolt against the thought of settling again at Clover after she had once been unseated fiom her corner. At Clover ! when what she was thinking of was the world. ‘ But you must promise me, my dear,’ said the old lady, with a tremor in her voice, ‘ that as long as we live you will always look on the Vicarage as your home. If this Mrs Harwood should not turn out all you expect you must not think it necessary to stay on, you know, and fret yourself to death trying to make it do. You must always remember you have a home to come back to, Janet.’ ‘ But the Vicar thought Mrs Harwood was very nice.’ ‘ So he did, but in such cases a man’s opinion does not go for very much. If a woman looks nice and talks nicely, and has an agreeable smile, it is all the Vicar thinks of ; and most people are nice to him.’ ‘ How could they help it, he is so delightful himself?’ ‘ Well, I tell you, he is no judge ; and in the best of places, Janet, there is a great deal to put up with. Every fandly has its own ways, and you will be a stranger, and it will be hard for you to lie left out and to feel yourself always an outsider. There is a young lady, and she will go out to her parties and balls and you will be left behind. 1 don’t mean that you will feel it now, when your spirit is broken, but by and by, when in the course of nature ’ ‘ It would just be the same at Clover,’ said Janet ; ‘ theie are neither balls nor parties.’ ‘ Ah, but everything there is you are asked to. That makes such a difference, and it will not be the case there. My dear, I am frightened about you, for you are too bold. You don’t realise the difference. It will be a great difference,’ said Mrs Bland, shaking her head. Janet could have laughed, but did not. She was verybold. The new life and the strange family had no terrors for her. Novelty was dear, an exhilaration not a terror, to this little girl. Her heart was beating high with expectation while all these prophecies were poured into her ear. But it would not have been in good taste (Janet felt) to exhibit the real state of her feelings, so she answered, demurely, that she hoped she was not too bold. ‘ But, dear Mrs Bland, when one has to do it, don’t you think one had better try to do it cheerily- and think the best ? Don’t you remember the old song in the play that the Vicar likes so much — A merry heart goes all the way A sad one tires in a mile, a’! * That’s true enough,’ said Mrs Bland, still shaking her head, ‘ but men don’t know half that women have to put up with. Anyhow, Janet, my poor dear, you must always recollect this, that if it should ever become more than you can bear you must just give up the struggle and come back home. This is home so long as he and I are alive, and if he goes first, whatever poor little cottage I may get to hide my old head in, you’ll just be as welcome there ; and if I go first there will be ad the more occasion, for he will sorely want somebody to look after him.’ At the mingled prospect of Janet’s need, and her own poor little problematical cottage as the Vicar’s widow, and the Vicar’s want of somebody to look after him, Mrs Bland broke down entirely, and shed salt tears. Indeed, those things were all possible, though only one of the last two sorrows could be. But when an old pair come to the end of life, it is almost certain that one of them must, be left one day to survive and miss the other, though, to be sure, it does happen now and then that they are so blessed as to die within a day or two of each other, which is by far the best. Janet went to her old friend, and kissed her, and was, as Mrs Bland said, very sweet comforting the old lady- with tender words and letting fall a few tears, as it is easy on any provocation to do at nineteen. And immediately after it was teatime, and the Vicar came in from his study, where he was .writing his sermon, and everything became cheerful again. Afterwards Mrs Bland put all Janet’s ‘ things’ together, and looked at them with affectionate, complacent eyes, patting each snowy heap. * Now, Janet,’ she said, ‘ you have a dozen of each, my dear, and not a button or a tape wanting, and all the trimmings nice and in good order. That will last you for a long time. You must keep an eye upon the trimming, which London washerwomen tear dreadfully. I’ve put your oldfashioned Buckinghamshire lace, made in my old parish where I was born, on all the new ones. There is nothing that wears and washes so well. You never have had to think of these things till now ; but you must promise me to look them over carefully every Saturday. You know, “ A stitch in time ” ’

Janet gave the promise with all necessary earnestness, and the ‘ things ’ were carried upstairs and carefully packed. It was a sad evening at the Vicarage. The old people said all manner of sweet and pretty things to the neophyte, which Janet tried when she could to ward off by a little joke, or one of the many little speeches which all the Clover people expected from her : but though this might turn the edge of a piece of serious advice for a moment, the grave tone always came back. A sentence might Ire begun lightly, but it was sure to end with * remember Janet .’

The old people both kissed her and blessed her when she went upstairs to bed— * Die last night,’ they said to each other with an interchange of sympathetic glances. ‘ And she takes it so easily. She is not a bit daunted,’ said Mrs Bland, shaking her head. ‘ L’eihaps that's all the better,’ said the Vicar ; but the old couple were almost alarmed, in spite of themselves, at Janet s calm.

If they had but known! She went upstairs quietly enough, with a composed step. But when she got to her own room, which was, happily, at the other end of the house, Janet threw down on her bed the things she was carrying, which were presents from her old filends—a writing case from one, a work-basket from the other - and danced, actually danced a lively old hornpipe step, which she had learned when she was a child. She did it before the glass, ami nodded and smiled at herself as she Imbbed up and <lown. Then, stretching out her arms, Hung herself down in the old easy chair and said < Hurrah ! ‘ Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah !’ softly under her breath. ‘ The last night,’ said Janet to herself. The last of all this dull old life, which she knew in every feature, which never had anything new in it—no excitement, no change ; but to do the same things at the same hours every day, and come into meals and sit down in the same chair, and go to church, and go to bed. She was not at all without affection for the people who were so kind to her, but to feel herself upon the edge of the unknown went to Janet’s head. It was like laughing gas, or champagne, or any other stimulant to gaiety. Ihe idea intoxicated her. As for all the dolorous pictures that had been placed before,her, she believed none of them. I o go off among people she had never seen, to plunge into the midst of a life she knew nothing about, to become a member of a family whose name alone she knew —it was like beginning a new world to Janet. She would have everything to find about them —their Christian names, their stories, it they had any ; perhaps the family story, if there was one—the skeleton in the closet, the romance ; whatever there might be. What fun! she said to herself, clapping her hands. Even the new place would be something to begin with—the new home and customs, the new rooms. It appeared to her altogether in a bright light of expectation — everything nice, everything new. The name of Mrs Harwood, a widow ’ lady with three children, living in St. John’s Wood, will not, perhaps, appear exciting at the first glance. She was Sirs Novelty, the gatekeeper of the new world, to Janet, and her three children were three romances about to begin, m each of which Janet would come by degrees to be the heroine. The house in St. John’s Wood was the theatre, the stage on which she was to make her first appearance. She knew no more of that respectable (or dis-respectable) region than she did of Timbuctoo. As for the naughtiness, that was all a sealed book to Janet. Her wildest thoughts were as innocent as a child’s. She had absolute ignorance as a guard to her imagination, which is a guard always to be desired, and most so at nineteen. The life she longed to know was the common life of the world. Not even in her dreams had she thought of the transgression of any law. She expected to have her own merits recognised, to have adoration and homage laid at her feet, to find not only Prince Charming in the end, but, no doubt, many others whose sighs and glances would make existence very amusing. She expected that admiration would meet her, that she would be in the midst of a story before she knew. She expected to triumph all along the line. The world’s my oyster, which with this glance I’ll open. That was the light in which Janet contemplated the life of a governess in St. John’s Wood, which she was to begin next day.

CHAPTER 11. The household at the Vicarage was astir earlier than usual the next morning, which was altogether unnecessary, for Janet did not leave Clover till after twelve o’clock ; but that was a kind of tribute to the excitement in which everybody had a part. The morning was spent in investigations as to whether anything was wanting in Janet’s little travelling workcase, where she kept (by special provision of Mrs Bland) a reel of black silk and one of white cotton, needles, thini ble, and scissors ; or in her little writingbase, where (supplied by the Vicar) she had two sheets of Wiotepaper, two envelopes, two post-cards, the same of postage stamps, a pen on an ivory-holder, and a small travelling inkbottle. These little articles were quite independent of the handsome workbox and writing case severally given her by her kind friends, and were intended solely for the necessities of the journey, though, perhaps, as it was only three hours by railway to London such careful provisions were scarcely, necessary. Janet’s box was not locked till ten o’clock, in case someone might recollect something that had been forgotten ; but after every- precaution had been taken, the last strap fastened, her railway rug and cloak neatly, nay, almost more than neatly, put up, her own hat put on, and her coat buttoned to the throat, not one detail left which had not been attended to, there was still one hour to spare before the train left. They went out into the wintry garden, where everything was bare, and strolled round the walks—the three together, the Vicar in his greatcoat, prepared to accompany Janet to the railway, and Mrs Bland with a large white shawl over her cap. It was a beautiful morning, the sun shining red through the mist, and everything so warmed in colour and sentiment by those ruddy rays, that it was almost impossible to believe that it was a cold November day. ‘ I wish now,’ said the Vicar, ‘ that I had insisted, as I always wished, on going up with Janet to town, and seeing her safe in Mrs Harwood’s hands. * I almost wish you had, dear,’ said Mrs Bland. ‘ But 1 don’t,’ cried Janet. ‘ Oh, please don’t think of such a thing ! How am Ito learn to manage for myself if you pet me like this, as if I could do nothing? No, dear Vicar, I should so much prefer to part with you here, in our own dear Clover, and to keep the—image quite unbroken. ’ Janet was a little at a loss how to finish her sentence, but felt very successful when she thought of these words. Mrs Bland put up her handkerchief to her eyes. * There’s something in that,' she said, ‘ to leave us just as I hope you will find us when you come back. And always do remetiiber, Janet, if any difficulty should arise, that heie we are, always so happy to have you—only sorry that we can’t keep you altogether.’

‘ Always delighted to have you,'echoed the Vicar, ‘and sorry above measure ’ • But I hope no difficulty will arise,’ said Janet, very briskly ; * I don't intend there should. I am not quite like ■■ a little novice, am I ’ I have seen a little of the world. I remember watching how the governess at the Grange got on, or rather, how she didn’t get on, and thinking had I been in her place— ! So yon see lam not unprepared. And then it will be everything to know I may come back here foi my holidays, when I nave any.’ ‘ We ought to have made a condition about that.’ said the Vicar. ‘ I liave been thinking so for sbmfe time. AVe should have put it down in black and white, so many weeks at a certain time, say Christmas or Easter, instead of leaving it ■ to chance as we have done. ’ ‘ Not Christmas,’ said Mrs Bland, ‘ nor Easter either, for that would not be so convenient; but in August, when every • child has holidays. ’ ‘ Only then,’ said the Vicar—‘ for I thought of that—they • might Y>e going abroad, or to the seaside, or somewhere • >vhere it would be nice for Janet to go.’

< People very seldom take the governess with them when ’they go abroad,’ said Mrs Bland, shaking her head.

‘ But, dear Mrs Bland,’ said Janet, ‘ you always used to say one should not think of holidays till one has done some work. And it will come all right about that. The grand thing is having a place to come to when one is free ; a place,' •she said, with a little moisture springing into a corner of her bright eyes—a little real moisture, which Janet was quite pleased and almost proud to feel, as it carried out every necessity of her position— * which will feel like home.’ * In every way, I hope, my dear child,’ said Mrs Bland, with a sob, enfolding Janet in her arms and her white shawl, which were both motherly, warm and ample like her heart. The Vicar put his hand 'upon her shoulder, and patted it tenderly as she was held against his wife’s breast. When the girl freed herself (and a dreadful thought about her hat darted into her mind as she did so, for it is so easy to crush • crape) she gave a little laugh, and cried, ‘You must not -spoil me too much. I can’t go away crying ; it would not be lucky. Dear Vicar, there is one hud left in the china .vase beside your study window. Do get it for me to put in

my coat, and that will l>e the last thing, and a eheeiful thing : for it is nearly time for the train, and I must go now. ’ Janet kept her i>oint, and pinned the rose to her breast, after she hail given Mrs Bland her farewell kiss, and went away, looking back smiling and waving her hand till she was out of sight from the Vicarage gate. ‘ Bless her, she do have a spirit to keep up like that.’ said the Vicaiage cook,-who stood behind her unstress to see the last of Miss Janet. ‘lt’s all excitement,’ said Mrs Bland drying her eyes. ‘ 1 know she’ll break down dreadfully as soon a« she gets into the railway carriage by herself.’ ‘ Now, Janet, you are sure you would not wish mr to go with you ; for there is time enough yet to get a ticket, and send Mrs Bland a message?' said the Vicar, at the carriage door. ‘ No, no. No, indeed. It is far better to begin at once—to begin when I am not forced to do it,’ said Janet. ‘ And perhaps next time I travel alone it will be to come home,

which will make everything delightful. Good-bye! and, oh, thank you, thank you, a thousand times !’ ‘ God bless you, my dear child.’ When he had said these last words the Vicar turned right round and walked away, for his eyes were full; and I am glad to say that Janet too saw his back, as for the first time he turned it upon her, through a tear. It was an old back, in a somewhat rusty black coat, and with stooping shoulders, and there was a slight quiver of emotion in it as he turned away. Poor child ! poor little thing, setting out upon that world which is so cruel, which makes so small amount of soft things and little things like a bit of a girl, carrying them away upon its stream, drifting them into corners, taking all the courage and happiness out of them. ‘God bless her ! God help her !’ the Vicar said within himself as he hurried away. Janet had been deposited in a first-class carriage alone, with all her little properties carefully arranged about her. Henceforward probably she would have to travel by second or even third-class ; but Mr Bland had got her ticket for this last occasion regardless of expense, and had fee’d the

guard to take care of her, anil done everything for her as if she had been a princess. And lam happy to state that for the first mile or two Janet saw the familiar landsca|ie all dilated and out of drawing through the medium of tears. They were not many, noi were they bitter, but at least they were genuine. ‘ Poor old Vicar,’ she said to herself : ‘ poor Mrs Bland ; imor Aunt Mary ’ Even at that moment it was not herself she pitied, but those whom she left behind. She added at the end of a minute, • Poor old doctor,’ and burst into a laugh : and her heart jum|>ed up again after its momentary sympathetic depression, and the tears dried of themselves. Her heart jumped up with a throb almost of exultation. At last she had fairly esca]>ed —got away from the village and all the enveloping kindness and cares that bail l>een lavished upon her. Janet was not ungrateful any more than youth in the abstract is ungrateful, but the first sensation of freedom had something intoxicating in it ! Setting out to face the world ! She had been told all her life that she would have to do it some day : and though that eventuality had always

been held before her as a dreadful though inevitable prospect, it had lost all its terrors as contrasted with the monotony of the village life, which she knew by heart, and all the quiet evenings and dull days in which Janet had often felt as if her young activity and energy of mind must burst the very-walls of the dainty decorous cottage where it was so happy for her, so fortunate to have found a home. How often had she felt there as if she would like to take bold of the posts as Samson did, and shake it till it toppled down about her ears, not with any ill-meaning, but for sheer need of movement, mischief, something to happen. To face the world ! She looked it in the face with a smile of triumph and delight, as a sea-boy faces the smiling ocean that is in time to be his grave, as it had been his father’s before him. Janet was not afraid. The world s mine oyster. Her feeling was even more buoyant than that of the young man who goes up to London to seek his fortune, as being more entirely ignorant, visionary, and without foundation. A young man can at least amuse himself for his day, even if he is to be swept off upon the dark waters of ruin to-morrow ;

ba: a giri. * little g xsraee. going to a isoase in Johns w», s. w it: fctJly. whaj w xnierml *eif-iela'4»>c. wiiax a 'luU heroic- iiearr Trie .leal -•-• * „■ i* very *iiif**renu ba: Juiet felt bo re-X*et- a*>r aLarai'. > *« k* V> -Jcv.uer fate. Whar *os* <•••! »i -.w %.-*■.«■ /. i bare -een to lave bad a looker ]■ before ier. to . a*e ?r>veiled tae whole *iay inoraer to u>ve been able t»» *•■> ■ her *ei*«k*e. her freed***. tc»e novelty oc have liked to arrive in be* sei wphe -* w it wto i vk. when <ae toold »xUy have a _ ißir*e or c e lite before her. *o a* to aa»e ap a '■ea*ari*-c f '• the xexc -say. wnieb wm*4 a fall discovery oc i e ••- *..e was wett «w le«l \n«. then Janet to think well ••< a penee Mr* HarwwiMi wwaUi be. Wtxxld *Se be the nice *weet »*<heriy perMd wt*> s**xiecio»e*» in a n»*el t**>k the yoa.?tx £**<ensee*t. ucr heart xml taa-ie her feel as a»Mue at oaee? Janet alhope»f not. foe that wo<M be too ex*y. t»» •roairuori - place and xne\-*xtm_ —«♦> frocr oce kind kome to another, and fad everything nxaiie ?aw*h f*»** her »w every d*:e. ».*r w ■ ild she be the perse-proad rich *-on.an who wooldrounder the •*» •- era»e— to beneath her n*>ciee. with a f».«xrnan who w »*xld a*k " Any aam* ’ a- wa* lone to Tocn Pinec. in •* haxdewis ’ when he went v»!•*•.< after ht* *i'»ter. Fo*4i~h J wiec in the exuberance »>f her life an*’. untried power taoozht it woold be • rather fan to have to -io with foeh a \eeiruea 1 -f the employer. >he telt with delight that die wool-:. : e able ?♦• hoM her ♦»wn. that no person. of the kind < • ■al-: over:*-me her. anti tiiat the fafet w->old be rather exh . tratinx than otherwise. ♦*r die perhape be a dne ‘ viy. :• •• due :<• e mde T wb»> would take a- little aotiee ae *“f the stranger. tzn**re her existetoe- and *!o<L-<der her only a mediani t*> -zrisd a little knowledge int«' er children All of these types Janet ha»i beheld in v*rtM.*i.-<is ncti<*a which hold' the mirror np to nature • which of them should die encounter ? >he not afraid •>f any. bat the •■cx<<-isuess that a battle of one kind or ocher would s*<>q declare itself gave excitement t«> her mind and light to her eye. There were several other fadnts in which Janet. I fear. V»k the vulgar anti 'Uperneial view. She feit with an in'tinetive certainty that the men of the house, if there were any. w«.rdd be on er dde. and that the visitor* who ought to admire the yoang Iwiy of the h«’’ase probably dnd the g'verßesfe -■.•■"e .-lctractive. She had an expeetattoe. alnioK r‘ -ing the length *>f a certainty, that she would be fallen in ’ove with by two »>r more very eligible perswßS at tile - L'C, and that whenever she was visible in. the room, and. ' .vf ad. if *he was eottspecaoasly negle?te*i. the eye •f • ■ - ' t - i • - • it. ~: make Mattering ari**xks between r-er and the -'»cher V:.u-._• ladies in a '.Lpcier poeitiee, and 'i-mment spec the fem ; .r' ne *pc:e an- i ;e.ab .*isy that kept her in the baekgrooi&i. Tli * *oe •m»o-iderei to be oae of she reeogah&d certain ties »d her future existence, and that a-suran«*e of being preferred! and -indicated gave aer a great deal oc pleasure. But to do her jxsciee thi* ■i-avietion did not occupy a very great part of her thoughts. Thu* Janet rat tie* t »>q through ail she brightest h*>urs »x the day toward* her fate. •TO BE CtJCmXITEIM