Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 26, September, 1880

by Various

MRS. PINCKNEY'S GOVERNESS

The short October day had come to an end. It had been one of those soft, misty, delicious days common enough at this season of the year. The gathering darkness perplexed the young girl who, without maid or escort of any kind, stood peering through the gloom at the little way-station. Discouraged, apparently, at the result of her search, she entered the station-house, and inquired, in rather a depressed voice, if they knew whether Mrs. Pinckney had sent a carriage or vehicle of any kind for her: "she was expected," she added.

Youth and good looks are naturally effective, and the young Irishman in authority there, Michael Redmond, was by no means insensible to their influence. He darted out with an air of alacrity, returning, however, almost immediately with the depressing information that Mrs. Pinckney's carriage was not there. "She went herself to the city this morning, madam," he said, with an effort at consolation. "Perhaps in her absence the servants have forgotten—" Here he paused.

"It is very unfortunate," she murmured, evidently not accustomed to such emergencies. Nature, however, although ill-seconded by her previous life, had given her both courage and decision. "Is there nothing here which I can hire? is there nobody to drive me to Mrs. Pinckney's?"

"I'll see, madam," returned the young man.

Why he used the term "madam," which was undoubtedly misplaced, toward so youthful a person, is only to be explained by an idea he had of exaggerated respect, a kind of protection apparently to her loneliness and helplessness.

He darted headlong out again into the darkness. "There is a boy here with an open wagon, madam," returning almost as quickly as he went out. "It is not an elegant conveyance, but—" and he hesitated—"it is the only one."

"Oh, it will do, thank you: anything will do which can carry me to the house. Is there room for my trunk?"

Michael with strong, serviceable arms swung the trunk lightly into the wagon. She was already seated, the boy, who was to drive, beside her.

"Oh, thank you." She drew a diminutive purse from her travelling-bag, and was evidently about to recompense him when something in his manner deterred her. She thanked him again, for gracious words fell lightly and easily from her lips, and the little vehicle went rattling out upon the road.

Mrs. Pinckney's house was four or five miles from the station: the boy drove at a furious pace, and it was by good luck rather than by good guidance that no catastrophe occurred. The beautiful day was succeeded by a cloudy evening: neither moon nor stars were visible, and as they passed through the avenue leading to the house, under the branches of magnificent old trees, large drops of rain began to fall. The light which shone through the open door revealed camp-chairs still standing on the lawn, and children's toys were scattered over the veranda. The boy's rough feet as he carried in her trunk annihilated the face of a smart French doll, and Miss Featherstone's dress caught on, and was torn by, a nail in a dilapidated rocking-horse. The light came from a picturesque-looking lamp which hung from an arch in the centre of a broad, low hall. She rang the bell: the sound reverberated through the house, yet no one came. The boy, who had stood the trunk on end, growing impatient, rang again: they heard voices, hubbub and confusion, children's cries, servants summoned, a man speaking very volubly in French. Then very imperfect English sentences were shouted in a kind of despair. The door was divided in the middle, with a large brass knocker as an appendage to the upper half. Miss Featherstone, growing anxious and impatient, sounded this vigorously, which brought a maid, who had evidently quite lost her head, to the door.

"This is Mrs. Pinckney's?" said the young girl in prompt, cheerful tones. "I am Miss Featherstone, the governess, whom Mrs. Pinckney expects."

"Yes, ma'am," replied the servant in an absent, distracted manner.

"Marie!" shrieked the French voice in shrill tones of alarm and anger.

"Please, miss, I must go. Do come in and sit down: I'll send somebody—"

"Marie! Marie!—Where is that vilaine femme?"

At the second summons she fled, leaving Miss Featherstone and the boy, standing with her trunk on his shoulders, on the threshold.

The young girl walked in, sat down in a large leathern chair, and was taking out her purse to pay her driver when a little fat man, with a very red face and bushy black hair, came flying through the hall, carrying a child in his arms. He was followed by two or three sobbing children and the girl whom Miss Featherstone had already seen. "My dear mees," he said, never stopping until he reached the governess, "see this leetle enfant, this cher petit Henri. He has already one contortion—spasm—what you call it?—and I fear he goes to have one other. Ma chère mademoiselle, have you some experience? Is it that you know what we shall do?"

The child lay pale and unconscious in the arms of the distressed little foreigner. Miss Featherstone tore off her gloves; her purse, unheeded, fell on the floor; she led the way into the nearest room, which proved to be the dining-room, the helpless group following. "Bring a tub of hot water for his feet," she said in calm, decided tones. She was seated, and had taken the child in her arms.—"Now, monsieur"—to the Frenchman—"will you be kind enough to give me some ice from that pitcher on the sideboard behind you?"

She drew a delicate little handkerchief from her pocket, and, putting pieces of ice in it, held it to the child's head. "Some one," she continued, "take off his shoes and stockings."

Her composure restored a degree of order, although no one seemed to have recovered their senses sufficiently to obey her as to the child's shoes. The boy who had acted as her driver knelt down and proceeded to accomplish it. When the poor little feet were up to the knees in hot water and the child was evidently reviving, she said, "The doctor should be sent for immediately. As this boy has a horse and wagon at the door, it would be best to send him. What is the name of your family physician?"

"Doctor Harris."

"You know where he lives?"

"Oh yes, ma'am, very well."

"Stop a moment: some one write a line, so that there shall be no mistake."

The foreigner flung up his hands with a gesture of despair. "It is so difficile for me to write l'Anglais—" he began.

With the child lying on her left arm she opened her bag with her right—the little driver, the most collected person besides herself of the party, holding it up to her—found a scrap of paper and a pencil and wrote a brief, urgent appeal to the physician to come immediately, mentioning that the mother was from home, and signing herself "Laura Featherstone, governess."

Sooner than she would have believed possible Doctor Harris appeared: he came in his own gig, the little driver who had been so active in the events of the evening vanishing entirely from the scene, and, as it was afterward remembered, in the confusion without his douceur.

Doctor Harris, a comparatively young man, was cheerful and reassuring. "There will probably be no recurrence of the convulsions," he said, examining the child, who was sleeping tranquilly in the young girl's arms; "but what was the exciting cause? what has he been eating?"

"I find him with a grand heap of the raisins and the nuts," replied the French tutor excitedly. "Madame goes to town this morning and takes la bonne pour s'en servir—le pauvre enfant est abandonné, voilà tout!" Gesticulating with much vehemence, he sat down at the conclusion as if exhausted by his efforts.

"What has been done for the child?" asked the physician in a cautious whisper.

The little Frenchman rose; his eyes flashed; he waved his fat, short arms toward Miss Featherstone: "Cette chère mademoiselle, she is one angel from the sky: she do it all," with increased animation and violence—"ice for his head, hot water for his feet. I could not tink, I was so *accablé"

This vehement declamation not being calculated to ensure the patient's slumbers, Doctor Harris ordered the little fellow to be undressed and put to bed immediately. "I should like to see you, my dear young lady, when you are at leisure," he said as Miss Featherstone rose, still with the child in her arms, and was following the maid to the nursery: "I have directions to leave in case of a recurrence. However, I don't think there will be any return of the convulsions," he added.

The maid, reduced to helplessness by terror, looked on while Miss Featherstone undressed the sleeping boy. She laid him in the bed, ordered the servant to sit by his side until her return, put the candle on the floor so that it would not shine in his face, and went out to meet the doctor.

"Who will be with the child during the night?" was his first query.

"Hèlas! I do not know," cried the foreigner with a gesture of despair.

"If there is no one else to take care of him I will," replied the young girl cheerfully.

"It is infâme!" said the tutor.—"Cette chère mademoiselle has but arrived: she is weary. Parbleu! she must be hungry. Why not somebody tink of dis?—My dear mees, have you had dinner? Non? J'en etais sûr," with a groan.

Mr. Brown—for that was the tutor's very English name—was so dramatic in the expression of his good feeling that Miss Featherstone could not repress a smile as she turned to the physician, and, taking out her pencil and a little memorandum-book, said, "If you'll give me directions, Doctor Harris, I think that I'm perfectly competent to take care of the child."

Doctor Harris, who was gallant and a bachelor, made a whispered remonstrance referring to her fatigue, but she replied gravely, "I am in perfect health, and it never makes me ill to sit up with a sick person: I have had experience." Some painful remembrance evidently agitated her, for her voice suddenly failed.

They were interrupted by the sound of carriage-wheels rolling rapidly up the avenue.

"Voici madame!" cried Mr. Brown, who flew to the door to hand Mrs.
Pinckney out.

He had taken the earliest opportunity to enlighten her as to the child's illness, for they heard her exclaim, "I know it: oh, I have heard of it! Where is the doctor?"

Mrs. Pinckney was tall and slight: she had blonde hair, large, beautiful eyes—they were blue—and regular features. In short, she was exceedingly pretty: so thought Doctor Harris, and he made many salaams before her.

"Oh, doctor," she exclaimed, rushing up to him and grasping his arm, "is there any danger? Tell me, is there any danger?"

"Not the slightest, ma'am," he replied promptly.

She wouldn't be reassured: "But why not? Convulsions are so serious, they are so terrible! I had a relative who was ruined for life by epilepsy: he was a handsome fellow, but he lost good looks, mind, everything. Oh, Doctor Harris, don't tell me that my poor little Harry is to have epilepsy!" She had the art of puckering her forehead into a thousand wrinkles, yet looking lovely in spite of it.

"I certainly shall not tell you anything of the kind," said the doctor with a reassuring smile, "for it wouldn't be true; but who is the relative who had epilepsy?"

"Oh, a nephew of my husband, and he had a dreadful fall. He fell out of a second-story window: it was in the country, and rather a low house, but it finished him, poor fellow! Oh, doctor, sit down: I am tired to death, and this news has so upset me! Will you assure me, upon your honor, that my child will never have epilepsy?"

"Sincerely, Mrs. Pinckney, I don't think there is the least danger; but you must be careful as to what he eats. Nuts and raisins are not a particularly wholesome diet for a child three years old."

She looked about inquiringly, and did not seem the least surprised as her eye fell on Miss Featherstone.

The tutor, still irate from his alarm, exclaimed, "You take la bonne, madame. I am occupy with mes élèves: then I am not in his care."

Mrs. Pinckney, who was not an irritable woman, took no notice of this implied reproach: "What is to be done with him to-night, Doctor Harris? Can you sleep here?" As he shook his head, "You'll come the first thing in the morning? Oh, doctor, can I go to bed and sleep comfortably? Do you assure me that there is not the slightest danger of a recurrence of those dreadful spasms?"

When the distressed mother spoke of sleeping comfortably a smile, which all his admiration for the fair widow could not restrain, flickered over Doctor Harris's face: "I was about to give this young lady"—and he turned to Miss Featherstone—"directions for the night, as we didn't expect you home: she has been very kind and efficient, and was going to take care of the child; but now—"

He was interrupted by Mrs. Pinckney crossing the room, seizing Miss
Featherstone's hand and kissing her with effusion: "My dear Miss
Featherstone—your name is Featherstone, is it not?—I have no words to
thank you sufficiently."

"Oh, the chère mees!" burst forth the little Frenchman. "I was so full of frighten I not know what to do, which way to turn myself; and she, so calm, so smooth," he said, hesitating for a word, and apparently discomfited when he found it—"she take the helm, she issue the orders: every one obey, and the child is saved." After this peroration he glanced around as if for applause.

"I was about to say," resumed Doctor Harris, "that, now that the nurse has returned, Miss Featherstone, who has been travelling all day, had better have some dinner and be sent to bed."

"Oh, certainly," replied Mrs. Pinckney; "and now that I'm so much relieved I'd like some dinner myself.—Mr, Brown, do you know what prospects there are of our having any dinner?"

The tutor shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands with a deprecatory gesture: "I know not, my dear madame. Les enfants et moi, we have our dinner at two o'clock: we did not comprehend that madame would return to-night," as a happy apologetic afterthought.

Mrs. Pinckney glanced at a little watch which she took from her belt: "Twelve o'clock, but the servants probably have not gone to bed."—She rang the bell. "Mary," to a maid who entered, "tell the cook to make some tea and send in cold chicken or beef—whatever is left from dinner."

"I think the fire is out, Mrs. Pinckney," the servant hesitatingly replied.

"Oh, no matter: let her get a few chips and make a fire: I must have my tea."—Doctor Harris rose. "Oh, doctor, don't go until you have taken one more look at my darling."

The nursery was on the same floor. Mrs. Pinckney insisted on kissing the child, much to the physician's annoyance. He checked her, and carefully refrained from talking himself while in the room. As he was taking leave at the front door she repeated, "Now, doctor, you're sure I can be comfortable—that I can go to bed and go to sleep? Tell me positively"—and she looked earnestly in his face—"that the child will never have another convulsion."

He laughed, and bent an admiring tender, gaze on the pretty mother, who stood appealingly before him: "My dear Mrs. Pinckney, I cannot swear positively that Harry will never have another convulsion, particularly if he is allowed to eat nuts and raisins ad libitum: however, with ordinary care I don't think it at all probable."—"Is it possible," he reflected as he drove home, "that I want to marry that woman, selfish and inconsiderate as she is? Why, she would have let the governess, a perfect stranger, sit up with the child if I hadn't interfered! She is awfully pretty, though. I can't help liking her: then, her money would be a comfortable addition to my professional emoluments."

Although the hot, strong tea was very grateful in her exhausted condition, this, with the very excitements of the day, kept Miss Featherstone awake the brief remainder of the night. She breakfasted the following morning with the children and their tutor. To her great surprise, little Harry, looking pale and wan, was at the table.

"Madame is too ill to rise," Mr. Brown announced in his very best English, "and the bonne is attending her. Will this dear mees take the head of the table and us oblige by pouring out the coffee?"

Miss Featherstone cheerfully acceded, and left her own breakfast cooling while she coaxed and consoled the little invalid, who was quite fretful after his last night's experiences. She was making an attempt to eat something herself when Mrs. Pinckney sent for her, and, as there was no one to take care of the child, she carried him in her arms to his mother's room.

"Good-morning, Miss Featherstone;" and she devoured the curly-headed boy with kisses. Mrs. Pinckney, reclining on large pillows, looked prettier than ever. No degree of negligence affected her appearance: her light, curling, slightly-dishevelled hair and delicate, clear skin were the more attractive under conditions which would be fatal to many women. "Sit down, Miss Featherstone.—Adèle!" calling to the nurse, "you must take dear little Harry away: I want to talk to Miss Featherstone. Be very careful of him: don't let him eat or over-fatigue himself. And, Adèle, after lunch come and help me dress: I think I should feel better for a drive.—Don't you think I should feel better for a drive, Miss Featherstone? I'm in miserable health," she added as the door closed on the nurse and child, "I've had so much trouble. I've lost my husband—he died of consumption"—she seized her pocket-handkerchief and began to cry: "I was alone, except for servants, with him at St. Augustine. I think his family were very inconsiderate. I wrote letter after letter, telling them of his condition and begging and imploring them to come to my assistance; but no one came. I had just left him for a few hours to get a little rest—I was so worn out with anxiety and the responsibility—and he died—alone—with his nurse—" Sobs choked her voice.

Miss Featherstone rose and kissed her: it was a way she had of comforting. Mrs. Pinckney received the caress graciously, and pressed her hand.

"Then my income is not nearly so large as it was," she resumed, "and I'm obliged to practise a great deal of economy. I've discharged my maid, and share the children's nurse with them, and Adèle is growing quite discontented with double duty. I parted with Baptiste also: it was a frightful sacrifice, for he was just a perfect butler. I'm always having economy talked at me by my husband's family, and I hate it!" with a discontented sigh. "I had a house in New York," she continued, "which they urged me to give up. They said I couldn't afford to keep both, and it was better for the children to keep the country-house, and that here on the river it would be easy to get to town. I'm extravagantly fond of going to the theatre and opera, and have had in a great measure to relinquish it. I went even when I was in mourning: the doctors said I must be amused. We'll go sometimes this winter together," she added coaxingly. "Well, now, Miss Featherstone, as to your rôle of governess: I don't feel as if you were to be anything but my nice new friend, you were so kind last night to my dear little Harry. You teach the common English branches and the rudiments of Latin, French and music? Mr. Brown—is it not an odd name for such a thorough Frenchman? but his father was English, although he was born and educated in France—Mr. Brown teaches them Latin and French at present, but I don't know how long I shall keep him; so you'll be relieved of that. I shall want you to act as a friend in the household—I'm so much of an invalid—sit at the head of the table occasionally, and give orders to the servants."

Miss Featherstone looked slightly perplexed. Her duties as governess were mingling in a distracting manner with those of housekeeper.

"The children are so young," Mrs. Pinckney said apologetically, "they can't be kept at their lessons from morning till night. Rose is eleven, Alfred nine, Dick seven. Harry might possibly learn his alphabet, but I doubt it. You can arrange the hours and studies to suit yourself; and I want you to govern and manage the children—relieve me in that way as much as possible. I hope you'll be very comfortable and happy in my house, Miss Featherstone. If there is anything out of the way in your room or anywhere else, let me know. I'm sure we shall be good friends;" and with a hearty, affectionate kiss she dismissed the governess.

As Miss Featherstone descended the stairs she met Doctor Harris, gallant and gay, with a rose in his buttonhole, followed by the nurse and child, on a visit of reassurance to the fair mother.

Nothing is truer than that homely old proverb, "The lame and the lazy are always provided for;" and Mrs. Pinckney was provided for effectually when she lit upon Miss Featherstone. Just before Christmas the governess was summoned to an interview with Mrs. Pinckney, who was, as usual, in bed: "Oh, my dear Miss Featherstone, I'm in despair—ill again. Christmas coming, and my husband's brother, Colonel Pinckney, is on his way to make us a visit. If there's any one I feel nervous and fidgety before, it is Colonel Pinckney: he seems to look you through and see all your faults and weaknesses: at least, he does mine, and he makes me see them too, which I don't like one bit. I do the best I can: I'm in such miserable health, and have had so much to break me down. Did you ever know any one, dear Miss Featherstone, who had had so much trouble?—my husband's death and all."

The young girl did not reply. Visions of her own lonely home rose before her—her mother fading slowly away under an accumulation of misfortunes; her only brother shot in the Union army; her father sinking into almost a dishonored grave through hopeless liabilities brought on indirectly by the war; she, petted and idolized, the only remaining member of the family, seeking her daily bread and finding a pittance by working among strangers. She hung her head and had not a word with which to reply.

"I dare say you've had troubles of your own," exclaimed Mrs. Pinckney. "Of course you have, or you wouldn't be here, you dear creature! It is well for me that you are here, though," kissing her affectionately. "Now, everything must be just right when this haughty, fastidious brother-in-law of mine comes. He isn't apt to find fault, but I am conscious that he is secretly criticising my dress, my dinners, the gaucheries of the servants, my moral qualities, even the way I turn my sentences. I shouldn't mind trying to talk my very best English if he were not prying into my motives: it is difficult to be on one's guard in every direction," with a sigh.

"I should think he'd be very disagreeable," said Miss Featherstone.

"No:" the no was hesitating. "He is dangerously attractive: at least he attracts me. I'm all the time wondering what he is thinking, which keeps me perpetually thinking of him. He is a Southerner, you know, and was in the army; so you must be very careful,'my dear mees,' as Mr. Brown says, not to come out with your 'truly loyal' sentiments: he won't like them."

"I don't care whether he likes them or not." Miss Featherstone's face was crimson: it was the first spark of temper she had shown since she came into the house.

Mrs. Pinckney looked at her in surprise, then laughed: "I'm delighted to see something human about you: I thought you were a saint."

"By no manner of means," returned the governess curtly.

"I shall warn Dick not to get upon the subject of the war," was the note that Mrs. Pinckney, inconsequent as she generally was, made of the scene.—"But I'm forgetting why I sent for you," she said aloud. "I want you to go to town and buy Christmas presents and quantities of things to eat and drink. I was going myself, but I never can count upon a day as to being well with any certainty," with rather an ostentatious sigh. "I've made out a list: there's plenty of money, isn't there?"

Miss Featherstone had the care of the money and accounts: "Yes," hesitatingly; "that is—"

"No matter," interrupted Mrs. Pinckney. "I have accounts at hosts of places. The carriage is ordered to take you to the station: will you be ready, dear, at ten o'clock?"

Miss Featherstone looked at her watch and hurried to her room.

It was snowing when she returned from New York: great flakes fell on her as she stepped, loaded with bundles, out of the carriage. The children met her with joyful whoops at the front door: "Oh, here's clear little Miss Featherstone, and we know she's got our Christmas presents.—You can't deny it. Hurrah!"

They dragged her into the dining-room, where the table, decked with flowers, was handsomely arranged for dinner. A blazing wood-fire roared on the hearth: in front of it stood a tall, handsome man with a military air. He was dark, with brilliant eyes, a certain regularity of features, and, as his passport declared, his hair was dark brown and curly. Colonel Pinckney looked haughty and impenetrable, as his sister-in-law had described him. Mrs. Pinckney, exquisitely dressed, reclined in a large chair by the corner of the fireplace: she held up a pretty fan to screen her face from the heat, and was talking gayly to her brother-in-law. At a table in a corner Mr. Brown, by the light of a large lamp, was endeavoring, with great difficulty, to read an English paper.

"Oh, mamma, see poor little Miss Featherstone loaded down with boxes and bundles!" shrieked the children, dragging her up to the fire.

"Dear children, do go and get Adèle to take them," said their mother.—"Here, Mary," to a servant who entered, "carry these packages up to my dressing-room.—There are more in the carriage?" in reply to a remark of Miss Featherstone.—"Adèle," to her maid, who stood at the door, "bring in everything you find in the carriage."

Two or three weeks passed, and Colonel Pinckney made no sign of departure. In spite of his unsocial tendencies, he drove and dined out with his sister-in-law, for many nice people chose this winter to remain at their country-houses. He took long walks by himself, and made inroads into the school-room, for he was very fond of the children. Mrs. Pinckney was less frequently indisposed, and exerted herself in a measure to entertain him. She never, by any accident, occupied herself, and was one morning lying back in a large chair by a coal-fire in the library, her little idle hands resting on her lap, when Colonel Pinckney, who had been examining the books on the shelves which lined the room, assumed his usual position, with his back to the fire, and startled his sister-in-law by exclaiming, "Where did you get your white slave, Virginia?"—Mrs. Pinckney looked bewildered—"this young girl who fills so many places in the house? She appears to be nurse, housekeeper, governess and maid-of-all-work in one."

"My dear Dick, what do you mean?" exclaimed Mrs. Pinckney with some indignation. "Do you think I impose upon Miss Featherstone? I love her dearly. Then my delicate health, and you know I'm obliged to be economical."

Colonel Pinckney made a movement of impatience and almost disgust., "How much do you pay her?" he abruptly exclaimed, turning his flashing eyes upon his companion.

"How angry you look! how you frighten me!" said Mrs. Pinckney, who had a trick of coming out with everything she thought. "I pay her"—and she stammered—"two hundred dollars a year."

"The devil!" he exclaimed. "I beg your pardon, Virginia, but I can hardly believe it. What an absurd compensation for all that girl does! Why, one of your dresses frequently costs more than that: I see your bills, you know."

"I'm very sorry you do if this is the use you make of your knowledge," replied Mrs. Pinckney in an injured tone. "She is in mourning, and does not require many dresses: besides, Richard, no one preaches economy to me more than you do. I'm sick of the very word," petulantly.

"What position, really, is she supposed to occupy?"

"She is the governess," said Mrs. Pinckney in a sulky tone.

"Now listen, Virginia. I have seen that young girl darning stockings in the school-room and at the same time hearing the children's lessons; I have seen her arrange the dinner-table, with the children clinging to her skirts; I have seen her with the keys, giving out the stores; I know she keeps your accounts; and I can readily comprehend where those clear, well-expressed letters came from, although signed by you, which I have frequently received in my character of guardian and executor."

"You certainly don't think I meant to deceive you as to the letters?"

"Oh no," replied her brother-in-law: "I don't think you in the least deceitful, Virginia;" and in his own mind reflected, "'Hypocrisy is the homage which vice pays to virtue.'"

Nobody likes hypocrisy, to be sure, but Mrs. Pinckney did not take the trouble to veil her peccadilloes. Easy and indolent as she was, being now thoroughly roused by his thinly-veiled contempt, she endeavored to be disagreeable in her turn. With the most innocent air in the world she exclaimed, "I declare, Dick, I believe you're in love with Miss Featherstone, although you like fair women—"

"And she is dark," he interrupted.

"Regular features—"

"And her dear little nose is slightly retroussèe; but you cannot deny, Virginia, that she has a most captivating air."

"I'm fond of her, but I do not think her captivating." Mrs. Pinckney was now thoroughly out of temper. She was not naturally envious, but she could be roused to envy. "And so you're in love with her?" satirically.

"How can I help it?" he returned with a mocking air. "She has magnificent eyes, a bewildering smile: then she has that je ne sais quoi, as our foreign friend would say. There is no defining it, there is no assuming it. To conclude, I consider Miss Featherstone dangerously attractive."

"Just what I told her you were," returned Mrs. Pinckney, who saw he was trying to tease her, and had recovered by this time her equanimity. In spite of his phlegm he looked interested. "You'd better take care and make no reference to the war, for she is furiously loyal, I can tell you," said Mrs. Pinckney, recalling the conversation. "Since when have you been in love with her?"

"From the very first moment I saw her, when she entered the dining-room, her cheeks brilliant from the cold, her lovely eyes, blinded by the light, peering through their long lashes, a little becoming embarrassment in her air as she saw your humble servant—laden down with your bundles, and your children, as usual, clinging to her skirts."

"Dick, how disagreeable you are!" and Mrs. Pinckney began to pout again.

"We are all her lovers," he maliciously continued—"all the men here—Doctor Harris, Mr. Brown and—" he bowed expressively.

"Doctor Harris?" exclaimed his sister-in-law. This defection cut her to the heart.

"The day my namesake and godchild, little Dick, was ill I went to the nursery, as in duty bound: you know how fond I am of that child. There was Miss Featherstone, not the nurse, interested and concerned, sitting by the patient. There was Doctor Harris, interested and absorbed with Miss Featherstone. His looks were unmistakable: I saw it at a glance. And as for Mr. Brown, he raves about this 'dear mees' or 'cette chère mademoiselle' by the hour together. She carried his heart by storm the first time he saw her, as she did mine."

"How far does your admiration lead you? Do you wish any assistance from me?"

"As you please: I am indifferent," he returned, shrugging his shoulders. "Seriously, Virginia—I say this in my character of guardian and adviser-general to the family—I think what you give her is a beggarly pittance in return for all she does, and I suggest that you raise her salary."

Miss Featherstone, although prejudiced at first against Colonel Pinckney, grew by degrees to like him. His manner to her was grave and respectful; he carried off the children, quite conveniently sometimes, when she was almost worn out with fatigue; and the air of friendly interest with which his dark eyes rested upon her was in a manner comforting. Their little interviews, although she was unconscious of it, gave zest to her life.

One cold morning, as she sat before breakfast with little Harry on her lap, warming his hands before the dining-room fire, Colonel Pinckney exclaimed, "Miss Featherstone, did you have the care of that child last night?"

"Yes," as she pressed the fat little hands in hers.

"And dressed him this morning?"

"Why, yes. Colonel Pinckney, excuse me: why shouldn't I?"

"Virginia is the most selfish human being I ever knew in my life," he burst forth. "You, after working like a slave during the day, cannot even have your night's rest undisturbed. I'll speak to her, and insist upon it that this state of things shall not continue any longer."

Miss Featherstone looked annoyed: "Mr. Pinckney"—she never would, if she remembered it, call him "Colonel"—"I beg that you will do nothing of the kind. Mrs. Pinckney is quite ill with a cold: she can scarcely speak above a whisper, and she required Adèle's services during the night. I volunteered—it was my own arrangement—sleeping with the child," eagerly.

"Oh yes," he returned, "you are remarkably well suited to each other—you and Virginia: you give, and she takes," sarcastically. "Listen, Miss Featherstone. I have known that woman twelve years—it is exactly twelve years since my unfortunate brother married her—and in all that time I never knew her consider but one human being, and that was herself."

"Indeed, you're very much mistaken, Colonel—that is, Mr.—Pinckney, as far as I am concerned. Mrs. Pinckney is really very kind to me. I am exceedingly fond of her, but I cannot bear to see things going wrong, and when I can I make them right. Mrs. Pinckney is in delicate health."

"That's all nonsense," he interrupted. "She spends her time studying her sensations. If she were poor she'd have something better to do. I think you are doing wrong morally, Miss Featherstone. You are encouraging her in idleness and selfishness by taking her duties and bearing them on your young shoulders.—Now, Harry, come here," to that small individual, who slowly and unwillingly descended from the governess's lap: "leave Miss Featherstone, my young friend, to pour out the coffee and eat her own breakfast. Adèle is with mamma, is she? Well, Uncle Dick will give Harry his breakfast."

The cold was intense the following day, yet Miss Featherstone, well muffled up, was on her way to the hall-door, where the sleigh was waiting to take her to the station.

"Forgive me," exclaimed Colonel Pinckney, who waylaid her, much to her annoyance, "but what are you going to do for the family now?"

"I am going to New York to get a cook," she replied with a decided air.

"Do you know the state of the thermometer?"

"I don't care anything about it," with some obstinacy, tugging at the button of her glove.

"But I do," he said. "Now, Miss Featherstone, while I'm here I am master of the house, and if it's necessary to go to town it's I that am going—to use Pat's vernacular—and not you. Give me directions, and I'll follow them implicitly."

"So Dick went, did he?" said Mrs. Pinckney. She was propped up in bed with large pillows: Miss Featherstone, still in her bonnet, sat by her side.

"Yes: it was very kind, for I don't know what would have become of the children all day, poor things! and you sick."

Mrs. Pinckney glanced searchingly at her. "Dick is very kind when he pleases, and exceedingly efficient," returned the invalid: "I've no doubt he'll bring back a capital cook."

"I had a great prejudice against Mr. Pinckney," said Miss Featherstone, slowly smoothing out her gloves, "but I confess it has vanished, there is something so straightforward and manly about him; and he certainly is very kind."

"He does not flatter you at all?"

"Oh no; and that is one reason I like him. I detest the gallant, tender manner which many men affect toward women."

"Doctor Harris, for instance?"

"Well, Doctor Harris, for instance," returned Miss Featherstone, smiling, and blushing a little.

"Doctor Harris has certainly made love to her, and Dick as certainly hasn't. I wonder—oh, how I wonder!—whether he was in earnest the other day?" Her large blue eyes were fixed scrutinizingly on the governess, although she thought, not said, these things. "He thinks you do a great deal too much in the house, and was quite abusive to me about it: he actually swore when he discovered the amount of your salary. Now, my dear Miss Featherstone, you may name your own price: I'll give you anything you ask, for no amount of money can represent the comfort you are to me."

"I don't want one cent more than I at present receive," replied the governess, kissing her fondly.

A few days after Colonel Pinckney—a self-constituted committee, apparently, for the prevention of cruelty to governesses—surprised Miss Featherstone in the school-room. She was seated before the fire in a low chair, little Harry, who was fretful from a cold, lying on her lap, the other children clustered around her. As he softly opened the door he heard these words: "'Blondine,' replied the fairy Bienveillante sadly,' no matter what you see or hear, do not lose courage or hope.'" As she told the story in low, drowsy tones she was also mending the heel of a little stocking.

"It is abominable!" the colonel cried: "you are worn out with fatigue: I hear it in your voice. I called you a 'white slave' to Virginia: nothing is truer. You've today given out supplies from the store-room, you were in the kitchen a long time with the new cook, you set the lunch-table—don't deny it, for I saw you—besides taking care of the children and hearing their lessons."

"While Mrs. Pinckney is ill this is absolutely necessary," she returned with decision: "of course it makes some confusion having a new cook—"

"Children," he interrupted, "this séance is to be broken up: scamper off to Adèle to get ready: I'll ask mamma to let you drive to the station in the coupé to meet Mr. Brown: there will certainly be room for such little folks.—And as to you, Miss Featherstone, as head of the house pro tem. I order you to put on your hat and cloak and walk in the garden for a while with me: the paths are quite hard and dry."

"Mamma! mamma! we are to drive to the station: Uncle Dick says so," shrieked the children, breaking up a delicious little doze into which Mrs. Pinckney had fallen while Adèle sat at her sewing in the darkened room.

"Is Uncle Dick going with you?"

"No, he is going to walk in the garden with Miss Featherstone."

Mrs. Pinckney felt quite cross: "He is positively insolent, ordering
things about in this way, interrupting my nap and all. What, under
Heaven, should I do without her if he is in earnest about Miss
Featherstone?"

If she could have heard what Colonel Pinckney was saying in the garden she would have been still crosser.

"I want to enlighten you a little as to my fair sister-in-law," he began after a few commonplaces.

"Oh, please don't, Colonel Pinckney"—unconsciously she was sliding into the "Colonel." "I'd much rather you wouldn't. I think—" and she hesitated.

"What do you think?"

"Why"—and she looked embarrassed—"I am afraid I shall not love Mrs.
Pinckney as well if you analyze and show up all her little weaknesses.
We could none of us bear it," she continued warmly. "Remember that
line—

Be to her faults a little blind.

I like to love people, and feel like a woman in some novel I've read: 'Long and deeply let me be beguiled with regard to the infirmities of those I love.'"

"You're an angel!" he cried.

Miss Featherstone looked startled and annoyed.

Colonel Pinckney, with much self-possession, recovered himself immediately. "We all know it," he continued jestingly—"Mr. Brown, the children, servants and all; but, in spite of this, you shall not be imposed upon. Now, I wish to give you a résumé of Mrs. Pinckney's life—"

"Oh, Colonel Pinckney! when we are under her roof!"

"It is a shelter bought with my father's money," he returned. "But you must and shall hear me: it is necessary. She is the incarnation of selfishness: in a young person it could go no further. One can pardon anything rather than selfishness. She entirely exhausted our charity during poor Harry's long illness. She travelled with every comfort that money could give: she had her maid, Harry had his man, the children were left with my mother. One winter they went to Nassau, the next to the south of France: from both places she wrote such despairing letters that my poor old father and mother were nearly beside themselves. It was like the explosion of a bomb-shell in the household when a letter came from Virginia. Sometimes I used to read and suppress them: they were filled with shrieks and lamentations. Harry was in a rapid decline; the mental torture was more than she could bear; some one must come immediately out to her, etc. The first winter my eldest brother went, to the serious injury of his business: he is a lawyer. I went when they were in Europe, my wound not yet healed. By George! Harry looked in better health than I: every one thought I was the invalid. The doctor was called in immediately, who said I had endangered my life by the expedition. I found out my lady had been to balls and on excursions all the time she was writing those harrowing letters."

"Is it possible," said Miss Featherstone, "that you think Mrs. Pinckney is false—that she deliberately tells untruths?"

"Not a bit of it," interrupted Colonel Pinckney. "She loves to complain and make herself an object of sympathy. Poor Harry, of course, had a constant cough, and whenever he took cold all his distressing symptoms were aggravated: then she'd write her letters. By the time they were received he would be pretty well again. You can see for yourself what she is: she sends for Doctor Harris, has Adèle sleep on a mattress on the floor in her room, leaving little Harry to keep you awake all night—a fine preparation for the drudgery of the next day—then toward evening she rises, makes a beautiful toilette, and drives with me several miles to a dinner-party. Not a month ago, you remember, this occurred when we went to Judge Lawrence's. To go back to my poor brother: let me tell you what happened from her crying wolf so often. The next winter they went to St. Augustine: we live in Virginia, you know. A few weeks after their arrival the alarming letters began and continued to appear. I took it upon myself to suppress most of them, for really I had grown scarcely to believe a word she said with regard to her husband, and, as I am sanguine, thought poor Harry would overcome the disease, as our father had before him, and live to a good old age. One morning, however, a telegram came: he was dead!" Colonel Pinckney could scarcely speak. Recovering himself a little, he continued in husky tones: "He died alone with his nurse: Virginia, taking care of herself as usual, was in another room asleep."

"I wonder what they are talking about?" thought Mrs. Pinckney, twisting
her pretty neck in all directions so she could see them from her bed.
Their two heads were close together: he was speaking earnestly, and
Miss Featherstone's eyes were on the ground.

Mrs. Pinckney dressed and went down to dinner, although she had not quite recovered the use of her voice. "Dick," she whispered, "it was a fine move, your sending the children away this afternoon, so that you could have Miss Featherstone all to yourself. Did you come to the point?"

"No, but I will one of these days: I am preparing her mind," he added mischievously.

As time went on a vague uneasiness seized the young governess. She imagined Mrs. Pinckney was growing cool in her manner toward her: certainly, Doctor Harris, who was constantly at the house, was becoming importunate in his attentions. Once she looked up suddenly at as prosaic a place as the dinner-table. Colonel Pinckney was gazing both ardently and admiringly upon her. "Certainly I must be losing my senses to imagine these men in love with me: it's preposterous."

Mr. Brown put the matter at rest, as far as he was concerned, for one day, as she returned from a walk, he accosted her on the veranda, and with a series of the most violent grimaces and gesticulations, his eyes flashing, his face working in every possible direction, he told her that he was dèsolè: his life depended upon her. He was so odd and absurd in his avowal that she burst out laughing: then, as she beheld an indignant, inquiring expression on his honest red countenance, she grew frightened, sank on a seat and wept hysterically. This encouraged him: he sat down beside her and exclaimed, "Dear mees"—and he peered at her blandly—"your life is empty: so is mine. Let it be for me—oh, so beautiful!"—and he spread out his little fat hands with rapture—"to comfort and console one heavenly existence, ensemble." He placed a hand on each stout knee and gazed benignly down upon her.

She hung her head as sheepishly as if she returned the little foreigner's affection—afraid of wounding him, she was speechless—when at this unlucky moment Colonel Pinckney, coming suddenly round the house, walked up the steps. She saw him glance at her—Mr. Brown's back was toward him—and a smile he evidently couldn't restrain stole over his face.

"Oh, Mr. Brown, I'm so sorry!" she found courage at length to say. "You are very kind—you've always been kind to me from the moment I entered the house—but indeed you must never speak on this subject again." She shook hands with him in her embarrassment, apparently as a proof of friendship, then ran into the house.

"Virginia, what do you think has happened to me?" cried Colonel Pinckney, bursting into his sister-in-law's room, which he seldom invaded. "Yesterday, as I came up the steps, I surprised Mr. Brown, who was offering himself—bad English, poverty and all—to Miss Featherstone. This minute—by George!—I stumbled into the dining-room, and there is Doctor Harris going through the same performance."

"Sit down and tell me all about it," exclaimed Mrs. Pinckney, her curiosity overcoming her pique.

"Each time," continued Colonel Pinckney, "the lover's back was turned toward me, while I had a most distinct view of Miss Featherstone, who was blushing, hanging her head and looking as distressed as possible, poor little soul!"

"Why! won't she accept the doctor?" said Mrs. Pinckney with animation.

"It didn't look like it. I couldn't hear what he said, but his back had a hopeless expression. Did you know that she came from one of the best families in Philadelphia, that most aristocratic of cities, and that they were very wealthy? Her only brother was killed in the war, and she is the sole unfortunate survivor."

"She might do many a worse thing than marry Doctor Harris: he is well educated and a gentleman."

"She could do a better thing, and that is to marry me," exclaimed the colonel. "I'm going to give her a chance, and will tell you the result immediately. I wonder who'll stumble in upon my wooing?" and with mirthful eyes he darted out of the room.

"I never knew a man so changed," soliloquized Mrs. Pinckney. "He used to be haughty and reserved: now he talks a great deal, uses slang expressions and romps and plays with the children like any ordinary mortal. One can never tell whether he is in earnest or not. I don't believe he'd have told me if he'd really meant to offer himself."

A day or two afterward Miss Featherstone had occasion to go to town. It was exceedingly inconvenient, for she was needed everywhere as usual, but gloves and boots must be replenished, even by impecunious heroines. As she came down Colonel Pinckney handed her into the carriage and followed her. She felt a little annoyed, but supposed he was driving only to the station: however, he sent the coachman home, and when the cars came up he entered and took his seat beside her.

"You look depressed, Miss Featherstone: I hope that my going to New York meets with your approbation? I've been neglecting a thousand necessary matters, and the pleasure of your company to-day gave me the necessary incentive."

He was so frank as to his motives that Miss Featherstone laid aside her reserve in a measure, and became communicative. "Everything has changed, Colonel Pinckney," she said with a sigh. "Mrs. Pinckney has grown decidedly cool, and I think you have opened my eyes so that I don't love her quite as much as I did. I am sorry: I should rather have been blind. Then—" She paused, feeling that her confidences must go no further.

"Then," he continued, "it makes it very embarrassing that the tutor and family physician should both have fallen in love with you."

"I think of leaving," she continued, neither admitting nor contradicting his assertion. "Forgive me: you have spoken from the best motives, but I think you have made trouble," she added hesitatingly. "Mrs. Pinckney is now continually on the alert to prevent my working; she will no longer let little Harry sleep in my room; she orders the dinner for the first time since I've been in the house; the children are swooped off by Adèle as soon as their school-hours are over; and everything is odd, strange and uncomfortable. I think I must go away. I wrote an advertisement to put in the papers: perhaps you could do it for me?" she said timidly: "I dread going to the offices."

"Certainly," he replied courteously, and put it in his pocket.

Colonel Pinckney appeared to share her depression, and he sat for some time silent: then he said in an agitated voice, "It will be a sorrowful day for that house when you leave it: I never knew such a transformation as you have effected. Until this winter my only associations with it have been of dirt, gloom and disorder: the children were neglected and fretful, the dinners shocking and ill served; and this with an army of servants and money spent ad libitum. Now, on the contrary, the rooms are fresh, cheerful and agreeable; there are pleasant odors, bright fires, attractive meals; the children perfect both in appearance and manner; and all this owing to the influence—perhaps I ought to say labors—of one young, inexperienced girl. I've always imagined I disliked efficient women: I've changed my mind. When I was young a fair, indolent creature, always well dressed and smiling, was my beau ideal: now a brunette, bright and energetic—some one who never thinks of herself, but is making everybody else happy and comfortable—this is my present divinity." He smiled tenderly upon her.

Miss Featherstone endeavored to shake off her embarrassment. He was a frank, kind-hearted man, entirely unlike his sister-in-law's idea of him, with an exaggerated gratitude for her exertions in his brother's family. She would not be so silly as to imagine every man was being transformed into a lover. "You are kinder to me than I deserve," she said, then changed the conversation.

She expected to meet him as she took the train to return, but he was nowhere to be seen. He did not even appear when the train stopped, and she had a solitary drive to the house.

"Did you know that Dick had gone?" said Mrs. Pinckney at the dinner-table, levelling scrutinizing glances from her lovely blue eyes.

"No," answered the governess with sudden depression and embarrassment: "he said nothing about leaving this morning. You know Colonel Pinckney went to New York in the train that I did."

"You didn't see him after your arrival?"

"No: he put me on a car and left me."

"I suspect it was an after-thought," said Mrs. Pinckney. "I had a telegram, directing me to send on his travelling-bag by express: the rest of his luggage was to be left until further orders.—Is it possible that she has refused him?" thought Mrs. Pinckney behind her fan. She was occupying her usual seat by the fire: Miss Featherstone was in a low chair, with Harry on her lap, the other children hanging about her. She was telling them a story, but they were not as well entertained as usual. The young governess was unlike herself to-night, and little touches, dramatic effects and gay inflections of the voice were lacking.

A month passed, and nothing had been heard from Colonel Pinckney. "He might have written just one line," said his sister-in-law querulously. She was in her favorite position, propped up by pillows on the bed, Miss Featherstone at her side waiting to receive orders, for gradually all her old duties had been permitted to slip back into her willing hands. "Certainly he seemed to enjoy himself when he was here; yet not one line of thanks or remembrance have I received. I heard," she said mysteriously, "that Dick was very devoted to Miss Livingstone at Saratoga last summer—there's no end to the women who have been in love with him: perhaps this sudden move has something to do with her. Nothing but a great emergency can excuse him," petulantly.

That day, for the first time, the children wearied Miss Featherstone, and she carried them in a body to Adèle, saying that she had a violent headache and was going out in the garden for a walk. As she paced slowly up and down the tears fell over her pale cheeks. The only window from which she could be seen was Mrs. Pinckney's, and that lady, she knew, was too much absorbed in her own sensations to give her a thought. "How I despise myself!" she murmured, "how degraded I am in my own eyes! Can I ever recover my self-respect? I'm so miserable that I should like to die because Colonel Pinckney has left the house, and"—she hesitated—"because his sister-in-law thinks he was drawn away by Miss Livingstone, Oh!"—and she groaned and clasped her hands frantically together—"and all this agony for a man who has never uttered a word of love to me!" Here a remembrance of his whole air and manner rather contradicted this thought. "Everything wearies me: I am actually impatient of the children, and when Mrs. Pinckney wails and complains I can scarcely listen with decency. I want to burst out upon her and say, 'You silly, tiresome woman! you have had your dream of love and your husband; you have still four dear children; you have a home, plenty of money, hosts of friends, besides youth and good looks; while I am—oh, how desolate!'"

This imaginary attack upon Mrs. Pinckney seemed to comfort her somewhat, for she dried her tears and tried to form a plan of action: "He evidently didn't put my advertisement in the paper, for I've looked in vain for it. I must go away where I shall never see Colonel Pinckney again. I'll stifle, throttle, this miserable love, and endeavor once more to be enduring and courageous."

Just then the house-door opened: some one walked down the veranda steps and came rapidly in her direction.

"I have been looking everywhere for you," cried Colonel Pinckney; and he seized both her hands: "no one seemed to know where you had gone."

The bright color rose in her cheeks, and in spite of her resolve her eyes beamed with delight. She murmured inarticulately that she had told Adèle, then relapsed into silence.

"I have to implore your forgiveness for neglecting to obey as to the advertisement, but the truth is——" and he hesitated—"I have a plan. It may not meet with your concurrence," he added, "but I wished to submit it before you made other and irrevocable arrangements."

"You have thought of some position for me?" she forced herself to say, all the bloom and delight vanishing from her face.

"Yes. I know an individual who wants precisely such a person as you are, for—a wife."

"Colonel Pinckney!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"Do forgive me, dear Miss Featherstone. I am such a confounded poltroon"—and he seized her hands again—"that I dare not risk my fate; but that person is"—and he looked down upon her, his heart beating so violently that he could scarcely speak—"that person is—myself!"

Of what happened then Mrs. Pinckney, roused by her brother-in-law's return, was cognizant, for actually, in the open air, with her blue eyes bent eagerly upon them, he clasped the governess in his arms. "It is a fact accomplished!" cried the fair widow with a sigh, and sank back upon her pillows.