CHAPTER IV.
THE GOVERNESSES.
For some time after Mrs. Blunden’s carriage rolled away from the door, Florence remained like one stupefied. As her aunt’s words resounded in her ears, a terrible suspicion grew upon her that there was truth in the tale, and that the money was actually withdrawn.
She had a hazy recollection of her father coming to her bedside one evening, when her head was wandering, and asking her to sign a paper he held in his hand. She remembered, too, how, when the circumstance recurred to her memory, she had asked him what he had wished her to write. Ah, and it was this that troubled her more, far more, than the loss she had sustained, for, without the slightest hesitation, he had carelessly answered:
“I told you—did I not—that your Aunt Margaret had sent a note of inquiry? If she had not seen your own signature to the reply I have written in your name, we should have had her fussing here to nurse you.”
Florence, weak and wanting quiet, had felt grateful to him at the time for his thoughtful consideration. Could it really be that he had been deceiving her at the moment she kissed and thanked him thus warmly? Had he taken advantage of her helplessness to rob her of the bequest she had guarded so jealously for his sake?
Starting up with an anguished cry, she told herself it could not be true. Her father, a gentleman by birth and of unimpeachable honor, could not be guilty of this paltry deed. No, no—it was impossible; she had been foolish to believe it so readily—she should have demanded further particulars from Mrs. Blunden, and not let her go until she had explained herself. Now nothing remained but to wait until Mr. Heriton came home, and then frankly tell him what she had heard.
But what a task for a loving daughter! If the accusation were false, with what just indignation he would meet it! If he had indeed possessed himself of this money—— At the mere thought Florence covered her face with her hands, and sank down in her former position.
All idea of visiting Miss Denham was abandoned. The afternoon glided away, and the servant came in to lay the cloth; but Florence did not seem conscious of her presence until, with a pitying touch on her arm, the girl said:
“You’re not so well, are you, miss? Let me ask missus for a glass of wine for you; she never begrudges nothing you has.”
Without waiting for a refusal, she went for the cordial, and stood over the pale, exhausted girl until she had swallowed it. Then Florence laid her head back on the pillows, and tried by perfect stillness to baffle the heavy aching in her head and heart.
Mr. Heriton came in with his usual air of self-importance, a roll of papers in his hand, at which he glanced occasionally as he muttered some calculations.
“Fifty-two and fifty—no, fifty and a half—is—— Ah, my dear, not so well to-day? You must have a few weeks by the sea to set you up. Fifty and a half—— Why, whose is this?”
As he spoke he picked up a silk scarf which his daughter had seen around Mrs. Blunden’s neck when she came into the room.
“It belongs to Aunt Margaret, sir.”
“What! Has she been here?” he asked, with knitted brows. “I wish you would not encourage her visits! I have repeatedly told you that I would rather not have any communication with such a coarse-minded, unfeeling woman as my sister has shown herself of late years.”
Florence raised herself, and plunged desperately into the subject that troubled her.
“My aunt will not come here again, sir; she is very angry with me.”
“Had she the impertinence to tell you so?”
“She is angry,” Florence went on, in tones that faltered despite her utmost efforts, “because she thinks I have deceived her. She has been—on business of her own, I suppose—to the banker of her late husband, and——”
“Well?” queried her father, finding that she paused; his own face flushing and eyes sinking as they met her wistful gaze.
“And she tells me that my legacy has been drawn out. Oh, papa!” Florence flung herself into his arms, sobbing. “It is not true, is it? Do tell me that it isn’t true!”
“And if it is, what then?” he retorted. “If it had not been for my meddling, mischief-making sister you would have known nothing of the circumstance until I was prepared to return the loan. You don’t suppose I mean to rob you, child, do you?”
Without replying, she turned from him and wept as if her heart would break. Nothing angered him more than the sight of her tears, and he soon worked himself into the belief that he was an ill-used man.
“Are you mad, Florence, that you go on in this ridiculous manner? Have done, I say! I’ll not put up with it! I consider that I have an undoubted right, as your father and guardian, to invest your money for your benefit. You must be of an avaricious disposition, or you would not act in this way.”
Still she made no reply, but her silent grief eventually softened him, and, sitting down beside her, he said, with more feeling:
“My dear, dear child, don’t weep like this! I cannot bear to see it; and, indeed, my love, you are wrong to entertain such fears—you are, really.”
“Papa, it was our little all. It was a provision for your old age,” she murmured. “While that was safe I could bear the anxiety of the present.”
“I know, dear—yes, I know. I did not mean what I said when I called you avaricious. You have been the tenderest, the most self-denying of daughters to me. Heaven bless you for it! And don’t—don’t mistrust me, Florry, my darling! I meant no wrong to you in taking that money. I saw such a splendid opportunity of doubling it—for you, love—for you. And it is as you say, our all—our last venture. Surely Heaven will not let this tiny bark be wrecked, like the rest!”
Startled by the passionate anguish in his broken accents, Florence looked in his face. For the first time it wore a frightened aspect: for the first time his own sanguine faith in his success was shaken.
“I should go mad,” he muttered, “if Mason failed me and I was obliged to know that I had ruined my child past redemption. Florence,” he added, almost wildly, “don’t torture me with doubts and reproaches. Mason has assured me that the money is safe, and he would not deceive me; he dare not, I tell you—he dare not!”
“Hush, papa!” said Florence gently. “We’ll never mention it again. I’m sure you meant well, so we’ll wait and hope.”
His looks cleared.
“Yes, yes, love, we’ll hope. Now you are my kind, sensible child once more. We’ll hope, Florry; and when the hope becomes a certainty, and we go back to Northumberland, my darling shall have a tiara of pearls for her pretty brown hair, from her fond father. How well such an ornament would become you! Which would you like best—pearls alone, or mixed with sapphires? Not talk about it now, do you say? Very well, love; but it shall not be forgotten.”
Florence waited on her father that night with a kind of protecting tenderness in her voice and manner. This last rash act of his had set the seal on their ruin, and she must nerve herself to that darksome future which was inevitably coming upon them. He had no one but her to care for him. Then she must be brave and energetic, and prepare herself for the worst. Taking up the occupation of her new acquaintances over the way seemed the most feasible method of helping herself when the crash came and Mr. Heriton was forced to acknowledge the necessity. And Florence waited impatiently till the week came round and she could call upon them.
Susan Denham was alone when she entered, but her cordial greeting had scarcely been spoken when her cousin joined them. She was a tall, handsome woman, two or three years Florence’s senior, with commanding deportment and an indescribable fascination about her, which she used to laughingly declare was inherited from her Parisian mother.
Susan was thrown in the shade beside her handsome, imperious cousin; yet there was something so sweet, or, rather, so good and true in her every look and gesture, that to know her was to love her. You felt instinctively that she was to be depended upon; and that, although no scriptural quotations ever passed her lips, her religion was the guiding principle of her blameless life.
After she had taken Florence’s hat and mantle, and given her the softest seat in the bright little room, she sat smilingly by, while Julia talked to their visitor. Florence was quietly amused at the candor with which, after their mutual reserve wore off, both the cousins confessed that they had long wished to make her acquaintance.
“Not from precisely similar motives,” Julia acknowledged. “I wanted to know you because you were evidently a lady, intelligent and accomplished; while Susan’s motives were——”
She stopped herself in a little confusion, but Florence finished the sentence for her.
“Benevolent ones, were they not? She saw me very lonely and friendless, and was eager to do me good. It is precisely because I think she will help me that I have come to you now.”
Susan Denham dropped her work in her lap, and listened with grave and encouraging attention.
The blood rushed to Florence’s cheeks and temples, but she would not play the coward, and, after a very short pause, she said:
“I must frankly tell you that I fear a change for the worse in our circumstances. I must work for papa and myself, and—I want to be a governess.”
Susan Denham sighed, and Julia impulsively exclaimed:
“Oh, choose any life but ours, Miss Heriton! You little know the slights you would have to contend with—all your best feelings trampled on—all your aspirations crushed beneath the contempt or indifference of your sordid employers. You must be a lady in appearance, in education, in tastes and sympathies, or you are not fit to be the instructress of their children. But you must not consider yourself their equal; you must neither associate with them, nor expect consideration from them; and, above all,” she added, with a bitter laugh, “you must not permit their sons to fall in love with you.”
“On the other hand,” said Susan gently, “you are fairly paid for your labor. By consistent conduct you cannot fail to win the respect and esteem of your employers; the children you teach often become very dear to you, and, on the whole, the hardships of a governess’ lot are not greater than those of any other profession.”
“Look on this picture, and on that,” laughed Julia, “and then say, Miss Heriton, which strikes you most forcibly. Both are colored with truth, but I think mine is according to the rule, and Susan’s forms the exception.”
“If I were embarking in this new undertaking solely on my own account,” Florence replied, after a few minutes’ consideration, “I think your sketch of its difficulties would frighten me. But it is for papa; and however toilsome or wearying the day might prove, I should be able to return to him at night, should I not?”
Susan Denham pressed the hand Florence had laid on hers, as she instinctively turned to read encouragement in those soft brown eyes.
“You will succeed, I think. A work begun in a right spirit rarely fails. Now tell us what we can do to help you.”
“Yes, speak openly,” added Julia. “If it is a decided thing, I withdraw my opposition, and will do my best to get you pupils. Shall you teach under your own name?”
Florence’s face flushed this time with a little pride.
“I had not thought of that. Perhaps papa would not approve of it, and yet I should not like to assume a false one.
“No slurs upon me, if you please,” cried Julia gayly. “But that surprised look proclaims your innocence. Know, then, that although at home I am simply Julia Denham, at the houses of my pupils I am La Demoiselle Julie, and my French is far more correct than my English. Susan shakes her head at me, but ladies will have foreign governesses if they can get them, and they pay them much more liberally than their own countrywomen. The substitution of Mademoiselle for plain Miss pays for my kid gloves and collars.”
“Miss Heriton, I fancy, will be content with her own English appellation,” said Susan, who never approved of anything that savored of trickery. And she began to question and counsel Florence with as much tact as kindness.
It was then arranged that she should study assiduously those subjects in which she knew herself deficient, and avail herself of the cousins’ piano to get up her long-neglected music. While Susan went in search of a manual which she thought would prove useful, Julia carelessly observed:
“You are intimate with Lieutenant Mason, are you not?”
Surprised at the question, Florence answered:
“Papa is; but I have only seen him once at his mother’s. What made you ask me?” she demanded, her fears aroused directly.
“I don’t know; mere curiosity, I believe. Lieutenant Mason is distantly related to a family in which I teach, and I have seen him occasionally—that is all, Miss Heriton.”
“I wish I did know more of him,” said Florence anxiously. “I wish I knew whether he is to be trusted.”
Julia looked at her with surprise, not unmingled with displeasure.
“Of course he is! Who doubts Lieutenant Mason’s honor?”
“I’m so glad to hear you say this!” Florence cried joyfully. “Papa has had some business transactions with him, and I could not help feeling uneasy as to the results.”
“The lieutenant would not be very much pleased if he knew the suspicions you entertain,” said Julia. “At least, I should think not.”
“If I have done him injustice, I am very sorry,” was the earnest reply.
She was heard with a laughing reminder that it is the fate of public men to hear themselves maligned; and with this retort Julia’s annoyance seemed to vanish, for as her cousin reëntered the room she began to talk gayly of something else.