CHAPTER XI.
When I had dried my tears and sat down in my favorite arm-chair to consider my grievances against Sarah, I wondered what had made her take such a strong dislike to me as she seemed to feel. It was true that her manners were not very pleasant or amiable to anybody; but there was a malignity in the way she looked at me, and a spiteful coldness in her tone if she only asked me if I would have any more coals, as if she thought it was a great deal more than I deserved to have a fire at all. But she had never been so rude and harsh before as she was on this night, and I began to think that the reason for all her unkindness was her annoyance at the great consideration shown to me, for I was, after all, only a new-comer, while she, who had been in the family for years, was left in her room on the upper story and was not asked to sit for her portrait. It seemed a very silly feeling in a woman so old and sensible as Sarah was supposed to be, and who was certainly very well off for a servant, to show such a mean jealousy of a governess, who is always supposed to be a lady, even in those cases when everybody knows that she is not one. That is only fair, as her work is generally so much harder and so much more unpleasant than that of a servant. Then I thought of the experiences of the other governesses I had known, and I came to the conclusion that Sarah must have lived in families where the governess was snubbed and neglected as some of my friends had been by their pupils’ parents, and so she thought it a shame that I should be so much better treated than most of my sisterhood.
“She is only a crumpled rose-leaf, after all,” I thought to myself. “I am getting spoilt, and it is as well that there is some one to let me know that I am no more deserving than other people—only more fortunate. I suppose I ought to be thankful for Sarah!”
Then I thought of what Mr. Rayner had said about wearing the dazzling heart under my dress; and it was really so beautiful, and I was so grateful to him for his kindness—for it was not his fault that the gift had already brought down so much discomfort upon me—that I should have liked to do so; but two reasons prevented me. The one was that, if I had fastened it round my neck by a bit of ribbon and it had accidentally been seen by some one—Mrs. Rayner for instance, not to mention Sarah—I should have felt rather guilty and uncomfortable, as if I had done something to be ashamed of, that wanted excuses and explanations; and that feeling is, I think, a pretty sure sign that one is doing what is not quite right. The other reason was that I already wore a souvenir round my neck under my dress, fastened to a watch-guard; it was a little case that I had made out of the back of an old purse, and it contained the bit of paper with Mr. Reade’s apology which I had pulled off the rose that evening when I had found the basket of flowers in my “nest.”
Now, if I went on stringing around my neck all the letters and gifts I received, I should some day have as many trophies about my person as a wild Indian—only I should not take the pride in displaying them that he did. So I decided to lock up my pretty sparkling heart in my desk, and to be content with the less showy pendant I already wore. Sarah had seen it, of course—at least she had seen the cover, one evening when I had a cold, and she had brought me a cup of arrowroot, by Mr. Rayner’s orders, while I was undressing. I had seen, by the eager way in which she fixed her great black eyes upon it, that she was dying to know what it contained, and I was mischievously glad that she could not.
Mr. Rayner had given me the pendant on Saturday. The next day, when service was over, and we were standing about in the churchyard as usual, before Mr. and Mrs. Rayner’s departure gave Haidee and me the signal to go home, Mr. Laurence Reade left his party and stood looking at the gravestones, until the gradual moving on of the stream of people who were slowly coming out of the porch brought us past him. Then, as Mr. and Mrs. Rayner stopped to speak to some one, Mr. Reade said—
“Haidee, I’ll give you a penny if you can read that epitaph”—pointing to one in worn old-English characters. “Miss Christie, I believe it is as much as you can do; it is more than I can.”
And we stepped on to the grass, and Haidee knelt down and slowly spelt it out aloud. Mr. Reade kept his eyes fixed on the inscription as he bent over one side of the tombstone, while I looked at it from the other; but what he said was—
“It seems such a long time since Tuesday.”
Tuesday was the day on which he had bought the marbles. I could not laugh over a tombstone before all those people; so I said gravely—
“It is just five days.”
“Yes, but they have been such long days,” said he, in a low voice.
“Not really,” I answered. “The days are getting shorter and shorter now.”
“Don’t you know how long a day seems when you want to see a—a person, and you can’t? But perhaps you see the persons you like best to see every day?”
“I like to see my mother best, and she is a long way off,” said I gravely.
“Ah, yes, of course! But I wasn’t thinking of one’s family.”
“Perhaps you were thinking of the pretty girls who were in your pew last Sunday?”
“The Finches—Ethel and Katie? Oh, no, I wasn’t! I see quite enough of them. They’re coming again, too, to the school-treat. Don’t see why they can’t be contented with their own tea-fights. No; I was thinking of somebody quite different. Can’t you guess who?”
He was looking at me now, and not at the inscription at all. And in the pause which followed his words I distinctly heard Mr. Rayner’s bright voice saying archly—
“Laurence seems to have a great admiration for our pretty little Miss Christie; doesn’t he, Mrs. Reade?”
I did not hear her answer; but it was given in a displeased tone; and a minute afterwards she called her son sharply and said that they were waiting for him. But they all stayed in the churchyard for some minutes after that, and then I noticed that Mr. Rayner was still talking to Mrs. Reade, and that she seemed very much pleased and interested by what he was saying. I just heard her mention “the Bramleys” and “our branch” in her answers; so I guessed that they were what Mr. Rayner called “up the genealogical tree” together.
This was to be a busy week in the parish. The school-treat, which had been put off this year, first on account of sickness in the village and then because of the wet weather, was now fixed to take place on Saturday; and the following day was to be the harvest festival. This was not a very great occasion with us, being signalized only by a special sermon, the harvest thanksgiving hymns—which would be rather inappropriate this year, as the farmers were grumbling more than usual at the damage done by the late heavy rains—and bunches of corn, which those same “thankful people” rather grudged us, in the church-windows and round the pulpit. The Misses Reade had undertaken most of the decoration of the church, as the Vicar’s wife had enough to do in preparing for the school-feast and accompanying sale.
The next day Haidee and I took a longer walk than usual; and, when we returned, Jane met me with a mysterious air in the hall.
“Oh, Miss Christie, young Mr. Reade called while you was out, and asked to see you! He said he had a message for you. And, when I said you was out and offered to give it you, he said he had better write it, as it was important. So he wrote a note for you; and please it wasn’t my fault, but Sarah got hold of it, and she took it to Mr. Rayner. I told her it was directed to you; but she wouldn’t take no notice.”
I went upstairs very much annoyed by this fresh indignity offered me by that hateful Sarah, and hurt and sorry beside, for I was longing to know what the note said. As soon as I got into the dining-room, however, Mr. Rayner came up to me smiling, and put it into my hands.
“Here is a billet-doux which has been left for you, Miss Christie. Now whom do you expect one from?”
“From nobody, Mr. Rayner,” said I, blushing very much.
This was not a story, because I knew the letter could not be at all the sort of communication he implied, but would contain, probably, some formal message from Mrs. Maitland.
I opened it at once to show that I did not think it of any consequence. It only said—
“Dear Miss Christie,—My sisters find there is so much to be done for the church that they are afraid they won’t be able to do it all. Would you be so very kind as to undertake part? If you would not mind, I will ride over with the work to-morrow after luncheon, about a quarter-past two. Yours sincerely, Laurence Reade.”
I think I was a little disappointed in the note; but it was all the better, as I could repeat in quite a careless way what it said; and then, just as I was wondering whether I should tear it up to show that I did not care, I saw that there was something written on the inside leaf, and I put it back into the envelope as if I did not notice what I was doing, and slipped it into my pocket.
Dinner was long that day; when it was over, I went into the schoolroom and drew out my letter again. The words on the inside leaf were—
“Why were you so unkind on Sunday?”
I had no way of sending back an answer; I could only wait till next day at a quarter-past two. But I think I could have sung through the lessons like the heroine of an opera that afternoon.
I had not thought it necessary to mention to Mr. Rayner the time at which Mr. Reade had said he should bring the work; at a quarter-past two we were always in the drawing-room all together. But the next day, the day of all others when it was important that I should stay and hear the explanations about the work I had to do, Mrs. Rayner asked me, directly after dinner, if I would mind writing some letters for her, to go by that afternoon’s post. I should have sat down to write them in the drawing-room, but Mrs. Rayner said—
“You would like to be undisturbed, I know. Shall I send your coffee to your room or to the schoolroom?”
I said, “To my room, if you please,” and went upstairs trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
It was silly of me; but I liked that half-hour in the drawing-room after dinner, and reading the papers over my coffee, and Mr. Rayner’s amusing comments on the news—it was such a pleasant rest.
I had got through one stupid letter—they were not at all important—when there was a knock at the door, and Jane came in, giggling and excited.
“Oh, miss, I’ve brought you a parcel, and I have made Sarah so wild!”—and she laughed delightedly. “I answered the bell, and there was Mr. Reade on his horse with this; and he said, ‘Take it to the schoolroom, please; it’s for Miss Christie;’ and then he got off, and I showed him into the drawing-room. And I saw you wasn’t in there, nor yet in the schoolroom. So when I got into the hall, thinks I, ‘I’ll be beforehand with old Sally this time!’ when out she comes and says, ‘Give that to me. I’ll give it to Miss Christie.’ ‘Never mind,’ says I, half-way up the stairs—‘don’t you trouble.’ And she made a grab at me, but I was too quick for her, and up I run; and here it is, miss.”
And she slapped the parcel down upon the table triumphantly.
“Thank you, Jane,” I said quietly. “It is only some work for the church from Miss Reade.”
Jane’s face fell a little; and then, as if struck by a fresh thought, she giggled again. I cut the string and opened the parcel to prove the truth of my words, and showed her the red flannel and the wheat-ears, which were to be sown on in letters to form a text. But in the middle was another note, and a box wrapped up in paper, both directed to “Miss Christie;” and at sight of these little Jane’s delight grew irrepressible again.
“I knew it!” she began, but stopped herself and said, “I beg your pardon, miss,” and left the room very demurely.
But I heard another burst of merriment as she ran downstairs. Then I opened the note; it only said—
“Dear Miss Christie,—I take the liberty of sending you a few late roses from a tree in a sheltered corner where the rain cannot spoil them. I hope they won’t smell of cigars; I could not find a better box. I will call to fetch the text, if you will let me know when I can see you. Yours sincerely, Laurence Reade.”
The roses were in a cigar-box, and as long as they lasted they never smelt of anything but tobacco; but I began to think that perfume nicer than their own.
I was so happy that evening that I was glad when Mr. Rayner asked me to accompany his violin, and I was glad that he chose operatic selections again, for in the passionate and sweet music of Don Giovanni and Il Trovatore I could give vent to my feelings. I felt that I had never appreciated the beautiful melodies so well, nor helped so efficiently to do justice to them as I did in accompanying Mr. Rayner that night. He was so pleased with my help that he begged me to go on, with “Just one more” and “Just one more,” until long after Mrs. Rayner had gone to her room. I was nothing loath; I could have played till midnight. I did not say much in comment between the pieces, when Mr. Rayner asked, “How do you like that?” But I suppose it was easy to see by my face that I was enjoying the music intensely, for he just nodded and smiled and seemed quite satisfied.
The clock had struck the half-hour after ten, which was quite late for the household at the Alders, when he finished playing “Voi che sapete.”
“And how do you like that?” asked Mr. Rayner as usual, only that this time he put down his violin, and, drawing a chair close to my music-stool, ran his fingers over the keys of the piano, repeating the melody.
“Do you know the words? ‘Voi che sapete che cos’ è amore,’ ” he sang softly. “Do you know what that means?”
“Oh, yes!” said I, rather proud of showing off my small knowledge of Italian. “ ‘You who know what love is.’ ”
I drew my music-stool a little back, and listened while he sang it softly through. I had never known a love-song touch me like that before. I could almost have cried out in answer, as I sat with my head turned away, listening, almost holding my breath lest I should lose a sound. When he had finished, he turned round; I did not move or speak, and he jumped up, walked to the shutters, unbarred them, and threw open the window.
“I am suffocating. Oh for a Venetian balcony!” said he. “Come here, little woman.”
I rose and obeyed. He threw a woollen antimacassar round my head and shoulders, and drew me to the window.
“Look up there, child, at the moon through the tree-tops. Wouldn’t you like to be in Venice, listening by moonlight to those sweet songs in the very native land of the love they sing about?”
“I don’t want to be anywhere but here, Mr. Rayner,” said I, smiling up at the moon very happily.
“Why?”
But I could not tell Mr. Rayner why.
“I would give the whole world to be there at this moment with the woman I love. I could make her understand there!”
I was struck by the passionate tenderness in his voice, and suddenly made up my mind to be very bold.
“Then why don’t you take her there, Mr. Rayner?” I said earnestly.
As I spoke, smiling at him and speaking as gently as I could, though I felt terribly frightened at my own boldness, his eyes seemed to grow darker, and his whole face lighted up in an extraordinary way. I saw my words had made an impression, so I went on eagerly, pressing nervously the hand with which he was holding mine, for I was still afraid lest my audacity should offend him.
“Mr. Rayner, forgive me for speaking about this; but you spoke first, didn’t you? I have so often wondered why you didn’t take her away. It seems so hard that you, who want sympathy so much—you know you have often told me so—should have to live, as you say, a shut-up life, on account of the apathy of the woman to whom you are bound.”
He seemed to drink in my words as if they contained an elixir; I could feel by his hand that he was actually trembling; and I grew more assured myself.
“Now, if you were to take her away, although you might have a difficulty at first in persuading her to go, and force her, with the kind force you know how to use, to go among fresh faces and see fresh people, I believe she would come back to life again, and see how much better you are than other husbands, and love you just as much as ever. Oh, she couldn’t help it; you are so kind and so good!”
Then my heart sank, for I saw I had gone too far. As I spoke, from passionately eager, he looked surprised, puzzled, and then his face clouded over with a cold frown that chilled me with fear and shame. I drew my hand out of his quickly, and stepped back into the room. He followed and took my hand again, and, when I looked up, murmuring clumsy and incoherent apologies, his face was as composed and kind as usual; but I thought he looked rather sad.
“Never mind, little one; you have not offended me by speaking your mind out; don’t be afraid. But you don’t know, you cannot guess—how should a child like you guess?—how many or how deep a man’s cares may be while he is obliged to bear a brave front to the world. I think you would be sorry for me if you knew them.”
“I am sorry even without knowing them,” I said softly.
He bent down over me and looked into my eyes for a few moments. Then he raised his head, and laughed lightly.
“You are a fraud. Great gray eyes ought to be passionate, and yours are as cold as a lake on a still day. I believe you are an Undine! You have no soul.”
“Oh, Mr. Rayner!” I said mournfully, and I turned slowly to the piano to put away the music.
“Never mind; I will do that,” said he, in his usual tone. “I have kept you up long enough. Good-night, Undine.”
I was almost afraid he would again want to kiss me, and, after offending him once, I should not have dared to refuse. So I shook hands as hastily as I could, took my candle, and ran upstairs. I was very angry with myself for having been cold and unsympathetic—I had not meant to be so at all.
But the fact was I had been thinking the whole evening of Mr. Laurence Reade.