JANET:

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VII, Issue 2, 10 January 1891, Page 4

JANET:

Thus serial com me nee d in the 'Graphic' on Ncce usher 15. Back numbers man be obtained.

THE STORY OF A GOVERNESS.

By

MRS. OLIPHANT.

Author of ‘ Laird of Worlaw,' ‘ Agnes.

CHAPTER XIX. IHE It EDITH paused at the door inspecting the quiet interior thus thrown open to him—in which he was not looked for, and where, accordingly, his arrival remained unobserved—the doors being all open still for the exit of Doltf. It startled him a little to find in how like its ordinary condition everything was, and how little sign of the absence of a habitual visitor was about the place. There were a hundred signs of Doll!', but even the place near Gussy usually though tacitly reserved for himself was filled up, and Gussy sat at the eternal woman’s work, which, in some circumstances, is so exasperating to a man, as ■composed asif he had never crossed her horizon. They were all at it, Mrs Harwood with the crewels, Janet with something •else. He wondered, half angrily, if they would go for ever with their heads bowed over that infernal sewing whatever might happen, even that quick little thing, that creature born under more variable skies, the governess. She, however, was the first to find him out. A consciousness of some new element in the warm atmosphere, something that had not been there a minute before, moved Janet. She looked up and uttered a faint exclamation. Ah ! he had thought there was no difference, but there had been a difference. Gussy had been sitting like a statue, quite still, not the faintest thrill of movement in her. She did not •expect him, or anyone, she was not thinking of him, or anyone, quite self-contained, self-absorbed. He was almost ashamed to think how he had been thinking of her, complacently realising her suspense, and disappointment, and wonder at his non-appearance. The extreme composure of her aspect gave Meredith a shock which would have done much to redress the balance between them. She did not •even raise her head at Janet’s exclamation. It was Mrs Harwood who did that, crying out, ‘ God bless me ! Charley !’ with a pleasure of which there could be no doubt. And a sort of shock passed over Gussy, electric, spasmodic, he could not tell what it was, something that moved her from the crown of light hair on her head to the tip of the shoe which was visible under her gown. It all passed in a minute, nay, in a second as so many a crisis does. He could see it go oyer her ; had not his eyes been opened by a sense of guilt, and by various other convictions, he might have known nothing of it; but he did, and suddenly became aware that he had something more to deal with than a girl’s momentary annoyance at the absence of the man whom she was beginning to care for. At the end of that moment, when he had come forward to shake hands with Mis Harwood, Gussy rose, and gave him her hand with perfect composure. On

her side she was quite sure that she had betrayed nothing, not even the mere surprise which would have been so natural. * You have been a great stranger, Charley,’ said Mrs Harwood. ‘ Yes, indeed,’ he said, * no one can know that so well as I. I have been driven to the end of my patience. I kept hoping that one of you would take a little interest, and ■ask what I was about.’ He kept his eyes on Gussy, but Gussy never moved or gave sign of consciousness. * My dear boy,’ said Mrs Harwood, ‘ women never like to interfere—to ask what a young man is about. You are so much more your own masters than we are. We know very well that if you want to come you will come, and if you •don’t ’ ‘How unjust you aie with your general principles ! Here is one poor miserable exception then to the rule—who has tried to come, and thought he could manage it evening after ■evening. Well, it is all in the way of business. You have always been afraid I was idle. What will you say when I tell you that I have been in chambers —sometimes till eight ■and nine o’clock every night ?’ ‘ I shall hope it means a lot of new clients, Charley,’ the ■old lady said. * Well, I think it does.’ He did not wink at Janet —oh, no ! that would have been vulgarity itself—the sort of communication which takes place between the footman in a play and the chambermaid who is in his confidence. Mr Charles Meredith’s manners were irreproachable, and vulgarity in that kind of way impossible to him. But he did catch ■Janet’s attention with a corner of his eye, as it were, which expiessed something a little different from the •open look which was bent on Mrs Harwood—or, rather, on Gussy, at whom he glanced as he spoke. And then he' entered into certain details. Mrs Harwood, though she was disabled and incapable of getting out of her chair, was an excellent woman of business, and she entered into the particulars of his narrative with great interest. She said at the end, with a satisfied nod of her head : * Well, Charley, I hope we may now feel that you are beginning to catch the rising tide.’ * I hope so, too,’ said the young man. And then it seemed to dawn upon him that these agreeable auguries might lead him too far. ‘ A little time will tell,’ he said, ‘whether it’s a real beginning or only a Hash in the pan. lam afraid to calculate U|»on anything too soon. In three months or so, if all goes on well ’ Janet asked herself, with a keenness of inquiry which took lier by surprise, what, oh, what did he mean by three months? 'Was that said tor Gussy ? Was it said for anyone else? Did he, by any possibility, think that she cared —that it pleased her to know that he was deceiving Mrs Harwood and her daughter? She felt very angry at the ■whole matter, which she thought she saw through so com-

pletely, but which, after all, she did not in the least see through. Janet thought that for some reason or other this young man was ‘ amusing himself,’ according to the ordinary jargon, with Miss Harwood’s too-little concealed devotion, that he secretly made fun of the woman who loved, and was preparing, when the time caine, a disenchantment for her and revelation of his own sentiments, which would probably break Gussy’s heart. It can scarcely be said that Janet felt those sentiments of moral indignation which such a deliberate treachery ought to have called forth. She was still so far in the kitten stage that it half amused her to see Mr Meredith ‘ taking in ’ Miss Harwood. It amused her to think that probably he had been having some wild party of his young men friends (a party of young men always seems wild, riotous, full of inconceivable frolic and enjoyment to a girl’s fancy) ip his 'chambers, on some of those evenings which he so demurely repiesented to the old lady as full of business. She could not help an inclination to laugh at that. It is the kind of deceit that has always been laughed at since the beginning of time. But she felt angry about the three months. What did he mean by three months ? Was it for Gussy to lull her suspicions? Was it for—anyone else ! Janet felt as if she were being made a party to some unkind scheme which had not merely fun for its purpose. Why should he look at her in that comic way when he said anything particularly grave ? Janet turned round her little shoulder to Mr Meredith, and became more and more engrossed in her needlework. But yet it was strange that whatever she did he succeeded in catching her eye. ‘Someone has been singing,’ he said, presently, with a little start of surprise. ‘ I brought something with me I thought Gussy would like — but you have been singing without me ?’ He turned round upon her suddenly at this point. Gussy had been very quiet; she had said scarcely anything. She had allowed him to go through all those explanations with her mother. At first she had closed her heart, as she thought, against them ; but it is not so easy to close a heart when it is suddenly melted by a touch of thaw after a frost. Gussy had been frozen up hard as December—or even February—could do it. But what is frost when there comes that indescribable, that subtle, invisible breath which in a moment undoes what it has taken nights and days of black frost to do ? What a good thing it is to think that the frost which works underhand and throws its ribs across the streams, and its icicles from the roofs by degrees, takes days to make ice that will ‘ bear,’ and that the sweeter influence can biing all that bondage to ruin in an hour or two ! Gussy’s heart had frozen up, putting on an additional layer of ice every day; but in a moment it was all gone, sliding away in blocks, in shapeless masses, upon the irresistible flood. The flood, of course, is all the stronger from that mass of melted stuff that sweeps into it, giving an impetus to every swollen current. Gussy made an effort to feel as if all that melting and softening had not been, as if she were as she had been an hour before : but what attempt could be more ineffectual ? Frost may counterfeit a thaw on the surface when the sun shines; but what thaw can counterfeit frost ? It was not among the things that are possible. ‘ I have not been singing,’ shj said softly, her eyes wandering in spite of her to the little roll in his hand. ‘ You forget we have had something else to amuse us all these evenings. It is Dolff who has been singing.’ ‘ And a very nice voice he has got, now that it has been trained a little, poor boy,’ said his mother, ‘ though I am not very sure that I like his taste in songs.’ ‘ And Miss Summerhayes plays for him,’ said Meredith,

turning round upon Janet with a laugh. He faced her this time, looking at her frankly, not trying to catch any corner of her eye. His look had a gleam of merriment and saucy satisfaction which made Janet glow with anger. Didn’t! tell you so ? he seemed to say with his raised eyebrows. He laughed out with a genial roar of amusement. ‘ I knew Miss Summerhayes would play for him,’ he cried. How did he know anything of the kind ? How dared he laugh in that meaning way ? How dared he look at Janet as if he had found her out, as if she, too, had a scheme like himself? Janet gave him a look in return which might have turned a more sensitive man to stone, and she said, with great dignity, wrapping heiself up in the humility of her governess state as in a mantle, ‘ I am here to play for anyone who wishes for my services, Mr Meredith, as I think you ought to know.’ ‘ Good heavens,’ said Mrs Harwood, ‘ my dear child. 1 hope you don’t take it in that serious way. If it is so disagreeable to you, my dear, you shall never be asked to humour poor Dolff again.’ ‘ Oh, Mrs H arwood, that is not what I meant ! I am very glad to do it for anyone, but I don’t like to hear people talk —to hear people laugh ’ * The little thing is in a temper,’ said Meredith aside to Gussy, ‘ have I said anything so dreadful ? Come and try whether they have thumped the piano all to pieces, and then we can talk.’ ‘ I don’t know that you have said anything dreadful. And we can talk very well here,’ said Gussy in the same undertone. ‘ She is like a little turkey cock,’ said Meredith. ‘ What has been going on ? To think that something should always turn up, a farce or a tragedy when one is out of the way for a few days.’ Gussy asked herself, with a catching of her breath, ii it were a farce or a tragedy ? How true that was ! No, it would not be a tragedy now—now that he had come back. ‘ Nothing has been going on—except softie silly songs,’ she said. It did not occur to her that her own songs were silly, or that there might be two meanings to the word, but Meredith was more ready in his comprehension. ‘ Ah, some silly songs !’ he said. Upon which Gussy, feeling more and more the soft welling up from under the crackling frost of the warm waters, felt a compunction. ‘ Poor Dolff,’she said, ‘ is not altogether exalted in his tastes, you know. And he had taken a musichall craze. I suppose it is from the music-hall they come, all those wonderful performances. But he likes them, it appears as well—as well ’ ‘ As we like ours,’ said Meredith. ‘ Well, ours—,’ she coloured a little as she said the word : but why should she not say it, seeing he had thus given her the cue ? ‘ Ours are better worth liking. At the same time,’ said Gussy, returning to her own self, ‘ we are always so silly in this family that we can’t do anything without doing a great deal too much of it. We can’t, I fear, take anything moderately. We do it with all our heart.’ ‘ That is why you do it so well,’ said Meredith. His voice had a slight quaver in it, which mighthavebeen taken inmore senses than one. It might have meant emotion, and again it might have meant a suppressed laugh, for to imagine that Dolff sang his music-hall songs exceptionally well because he sang them with all his heart was a little trying to the gravity. But now that he had set up a conversation sotto voce, and now that Gussy had been brought back to talking of what was habitually done ‘ in the family,’ Mr Meredith felt that he had got back upon the old ground. As for Janet, she packed up her sewing things in her

little basket, and begged Mrs Harwood’s permission to retire. ‘I have a little headache,’ she said. Good Mrs Harwood was much concerned and very sorry, but agreed that quiet and going to bed early was the best thing for a headache. And when the lovers—were they lovers ?—went to the other room, Janet rose and stole away. She was not .gone so soon but that she heard Meredith burst into a laugh over Dolfl’s songs, which were all scattered about. He sang a snatch of one of them mockingly as she was .going Out, and caught her with a wave of his hand, an elevation of his eyebrows, and a slight nod of bis head. He would not let her escape, he who had so easily made up his own difficulties, but must discharge that arrow at her, hold that whip of mockery over her. Janet closed the door upon herself with a studied quiet, which was even more demonstrative of her state of mind than had she shut it with a violent slam, as Julia would have done ; but it was more hard to suppress the pants of her labouring, angry breath.

CHAPTER XX. .She sent out before her into the hall a bursting sigh, a hot wave of that impatient, fiery breath which seemed to raise a little mist before her eyes as she emerged into the silence and found herself alone, leaving mockery and music, and sentiment true and false, behind. What did he mean, what did he want, that visitor whose non-appearance had held the household in suspense, whose coming had introduced so many elements of disturbance ? It cannot be said that -Janet herself had been uninfluenced by his absence. It had been a fact of which she could not get rid, always present with her as with Gussy, though in a different way. Certainly, he had taken away much of the salt of life with him—the interest, the drama. And now that he had come back the salt had not lost its savour; it was almost too keen : it affected sharply not only the chief personage in the piece, but the audience. He was now more than actor —he was audience also ; and that look of intelligence which had conveyed so many confidences on his own part now expressed the most daring suggestion as to hers. Janet burst ■out of the room with a sense that her period of peace was over. His looks would put motives to the most trifling actions. What had he to do with her ? How dared he to suggest that this booby, this music-hall hero, this cherished ■only son, could in any way aflect the life of J anet ? ‘ Miss Summerhayes plays his accompaniments.’ The tone was light enough, the laugh as light; but it stung Janet to the very depths of her heart. Something cold and fresh blowing in her face made her turn to the door, which had been left inadvertently open, filling the house with the chill of December. Outside it was a beautiful night—the moon shining full, the stars sparkling with that keen glitter which is given by frost, the shadows of the leafless trees standingas if engraved upon the whiteness, not a breath stirring. Moonlight is always an attraction to a girl, and the outer air the best calmer of feverish thoughts. She caught a shawl from the stand, and, wrapping it round her, went softly out. Everything was very still. Talk of the silence of the hills ! The hills ■have sounds innumerable that can never be silenced—movements of birds, of insects, of living creatures of all kinds ; rustlings among the heather ; tinklings of water ; the air itself, occupying vast fields of space, has a breath—which means silence, but is not. But, if you like, the silence in St. John’s Wood ! That is something worth speaking of. There was not a sound. At long intervals, when anybody moved in the world outside, you could hear the distant footstepwalk out of the unknown, advance step by step as if it had been that of a messenger of doom, diverge, pass away again, grow fainter and fainter till it went out in the stillness like the withdrawal of a light. That mystic, unseen passage occurred from time to time, but faintly at a distance. Sometimes there came into the absolute stillness a distant jar of wheels, increasing and diminishing in the same manner, going out.in space. When Janet stole out, in her little thin evening shoes that made no sound, the house stood .surrounded by that intense quiet and moonlight like a house in a dream. Like its own enclosure of humble human garden soil, these mystic atmospheres isolated and surrounded it from everything else in the world. It was almost an awe to steal round the white path, and cross the branching shadows that lay over it in all the complication of their elaborate anatomy, and watch the dark and solid dwelling standing in the midst, surrounded by all that reverence of nature, with a touch of yellow light here and there in its windows, and such foolish evanescent fret and jar of feelings -and thoughts within ! Janet’s own little step which was scarcely so much as the stir of a bird, struck, she felt, a half-guilty little broken note into the profound calm. The -chill of the air cooled her little head. She was all so small, so insignificant an atom in that silent world, troubled about matters so infinitesimally little, so unworthy to be breathed in the all-listening ear of night. She had made the round of the garden, which was a long piece of ground, more than half of it grass, and of a very woodland aspect for anything so near London, and was about passing the side of the house on her way back, when • Janet’s attention was suddenly roused in a very extraordinary way. The house was square, of the commonest ■comfortable form ; but on the western side there had been built on to it at some time previous period a wing, which projected in front, making a gable, and slightly outpassing the corps du logis. This wing, however, was not, so far as •Janet knew, ever used at all. If used, it was as a lodging ■or workshop, whatever his employment might be, for the mysterious Vicars, who yet was not mysterious at all —the manservant of whom more had been seen since DolfFs return home, and who, Janet had vaguely understood, lived in some corner of the house, carrying on his own avocations, whatever they were, but at hand when he was wanted for any special service—a privilege given by the kindness of Mrs flarwood to an old servant, hut also a convenience to herself. It was after Janet had seen this personage ■carrying through an open door, which had all the appearance at other times of being hermetically closed, a tray covered with dainties, that Mrs Harwood herself had explained the position of Vicars to the governess, thus ■ settling the question. Nothing could possibly be more uninhabited, more shut-up and empty, than the wing. It had two long windows on the upper floor, facing the garden, which were so grown over with ivy that it was clearly apparent no light could enter, or human uses be served by them. The ivy was carefully trained, and perhaps a little thinner than usual at this time of the year. As Janet came ■opposite the window, something—she could not tell what—-

made her look up. The moonlight was streaming full upon them, showing white crevices and reflections in the halfcovered window panes which never shower! by day. She stopped short, struck by an alarm and horror which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins. At the nearest window, in an opening made by the curvature of a great ivy branch half denuded of leaves, there appeared to her the face of an old man with white hair and a long white beard—a white image so like the moonlight that after the first dreadful realisation of what she saw as a face, Janet, in her terror, tried to persuade herself that it was only some effect of the white light shining upon the panes, which were covered by dust, and the droppings of the heavy foliage. If she hail hurried away then, flying indoors, sis was her first impulse, no doubt she would have l>een able to persuade herself that this was the case. But she was, on the other hand, too much frightened, too much excited, to fly. She stood still, scarcely able to draw her breath. A pale, very pale face, with a long white beard—patriarchal, like the beard of a prophet—white hair, deep-sunken, aged eyes, looking up towards the moon. A sort- oi frenzy of terror caught hold upon Janet, so that she could not move. Who was it ? Mho was it ? Vague recollections flew across her mind of things she had read —of an old blind mad king whom she remembered in her history—of—she knew not what. The thoughts thronged over her mind like clouds o’er the sky, and she could take no count of them. For there could be no king, no martyr, no prison, no madhouse here. Who was it ? Who was it ? Who was it 1 In a house in St. John's Wood, the most respectable, the most perfectly well known, and well established, in the midst of the quiet, within the tranquil garden surrounded by all the decorums of society. Who—oh, who could it be ? She stood transfixed, not thinking that she herself in the midst of that white light, a little dark figure, all surrounded and isolated by the brightness, was more clearly distinguishable than anything about her, and indeed, could scarcely fail to catch the eye of anyone who might be looking. Janet did not think of this, her whole mind being occupied with her extraordinary discovery. She was not afraid of being seen. She never realised the possibility—until suddenly, all in a moment as she stood and gazed, her whole bewildered being lost in wonder and amaze, she discovered, with a second shock even more potent than the first, that the face in the window had changed its direction and turned towards herself. Whether it was that Janet was too terrified to have the strength to fly, or whether that she was not so terrified as she thought, and more eager, more curious than she was frightened, it is certain that, though she shrank back a step upon herself, she did not run away, but stood there gazing with her heart in her mouth, and the sensation tingling through and through her, that not only did she see this extraordinary being, a real person whoever he was, but that he saw her. The head, with its white hair, turned slowly from contemplating the sky to contemplating her. He began to make signs to her, beckoning, bending forward till the crown of white hair was pressed against the pane, and seemed to sparkle and reflect, as if those patriarchal locks had been spun glass, the hard white blaze of the moon. Janet felt as if she could neither move nor breathe. It was real—it was not a dream —it was a man shut up there, who saw her, made signs, called for her help—an old man —a man in trouble. Her head seemed to go round, though her feet were planted on the path as if they had grown to it, or frozen there. What was she to do ? What could she do ? At this moment there came from within, from the room whence there stole a ray or two of yellow lamp light out into the whiteness of the moon, the sound of music—a few notes —tremulous notes—with which she was very familiar, every tone of which she could have anticipated. The sound made a diversion in her thoughts. She turned her head for a minute that way with a thrill of sensation, wondering if they could but see what she saw —if they only knew ! It was so strange to realise, as she did, with a sudden flash of consciousness, the tranquil room, the mother in her chair with her mild face full of gratification and reflected pleasure turned towards the pair at the piano in perfect composure and ease —the two singers busy with tlreir music, with themselves, thinking of nothing else. She took her eyes from the window in her startled realisation of all this, and turned her head for a moment in the direction of those unconscious people, who did not know In that moment, while her eyes wereaverted.theair was suddenly rent, torn asunder, cleft by the same wild, unnatural, and awful cry which Janet had twice heard before. Her feet, which seemed growing to the path, were loosened with a spring, and Janet too uttered a scream which she could not restrain. Where was it ? Though she was wild with terror, she had got sense enough left to see that the figure at the window had altered its position, and it was from thence the sound came. But her strength was equal to no more. She fled, forgetting all precautions, her feet flying over the hard path to the open door. She was dimly aware that the music had wavered, half stopped, and then gone on again, Gussy’s voice coming out loudly upon the night. After that Janet knew no more. She burst into the house, and stood panting in the hall, recovering her breath, not knowing what to do.

What was she to do 1 She stood leaning against the wall inside, safe from pursuit. And it was not till some time later that it occurred to her that, instead of being safe from pursuit, she was within the very walls of the house which enclosed the mystery, and that the prisoner, the maniac, whoever he was, the pale old man with the white hair, was an inmate of the same dwelling, and therefore she was witbin his reach far more easily than had she been outside. But this in her panic she did not think of. For the moment she felt securely sheltered, and stood gasping, recovering her breath, asking herself what she should do. They were singing in the drawing-room, singingasif all was right, as if nothing could ever be wrong. Had they not heard it ? Did they not care 1 They had not seen as she had, but how could they remain unconscious after that cry? Should she walk in and tell them—tell them? What should she tell them ? That there was someone shut up in the wing—an old man with white hair, with his pallid face pressed against the window lietween the branches of the ivy ? How could she go and tell them this ? ' Mrs Harwood, there is a man —an old man — at the window—in the wing ’ Was that whatshe should say? Some door might have been open and some madman got in. But then it was not the first time she had heard that cry. He must have been there for some time—he must have been there before she herself was. Perhaps perhaps —how coulds‘ie tell?—|>erhaps Mrs Harwood already knew —-perhaps——Janet panted and gasped, but after a time got

back her breath. But still she stood there thinking, wondering over her problem. What was she to do? Was it, |>erha|>s, her part to do nothing: —to ignore this sight she ha<l seen—to try to forget it ? Was it none of her business to interfere ? Was it her duty to tell at once her appalling discovery ? What was she to do ? In the meantime she had not closed the door, which still stood open, letting in the cold air of the night ; ami presently, while she still stood trembling, steps approached from the servants’ quartern. It was Vicars who made his appearance, and Janet almost had a new shock of terror as the man to whom she had never spoken before came up anil looked at her severely with suspicious eyes. He asked in a tone as severe as his look, ‘Was it you, Miss, as left the hall door open, to give everybody their death ?’ ‘ I—l found it open,’ Janet said, faltering. ‘ If a person finds a door open of a cold night it's their part, if they’ve any sense, to shut it,’ said Vicars. He never removed his look from her, fixing her with the eyes of a judge. ‘ May I ask, Miss, if it’s your custom to go ranging about the grounds at this hour of the night ?’ ‘ Oh, no,’ said Janet, ‘it was only an accident. I never did it before.’ ‘ I’m only a servant,’ said Vicars, ‘ but if I was the master I wouldn’t hold with folks going round and round of my house in the middle of the night looking things up.’ ‘ I have not been looking anything up,’ said Janet indignantly. She stood by while he closed the door ; but when he turned to go away made a step after him timidly. ‘Oh !’ she said, ‘ if you would only let me speak to yon for a moment. Mr Vicars, you said you were a servant ’ — ‘ Did you take me for the master, Miss ?’ he said with a low laugh. ‘Oh !’ said Janet. ‘if you would but tell me. Whois the oh! gentleman at the window with the white hair ? And why does he cry so ? I will never, never say a word if you will tell me. lam so frightened, I don’t know what to do.’ ‘ There is no gentleman at the window—and he don’t cry,’ said Vicars fixing her once more with keen eyes. ‘ But I saw him—and I’ve heard him, oh ! three times. Mr Vicars, tell me for goodness’ sake, does Mrs Harwood know ?’ ‘ You’d best go and tell her, and see what she’ll say. You’ll not stop another night in this house if you bother the missus with what you hear and see. You may take my word for it, Miss Peep and Pry.’ ‘ You are very impertinent,’said Janet indignantly, ‘ and I do not care in the least whether I stop here another night or not. Does Mrs Harwood know ?’ ‘ I’d advise you, Miss, not to offer her no information,’ said Vicars,’ about things as happen in her own house,’ and with this he turned his back on Janet, and went deliberately away. Should she go and tell Mrs Harwood what she had seen ? She turned towards the drawing room door, which was so close at hand. But she paused again before she had opened it. Had Vicars remained there she would certainly have done it ; but as he was gone, and as there was nobody to see, Janet hesitated, pondered—and, finally, though with a beating heart, and every nerve in her body thrilling, went away in the other direction and very softly and slowly, hesitating at every second step, retired upstairs. (TO BE CONTINUED.!