“That’s about it,” she admitted, cheerfully. “The fact is, I hate books, and sums drive me wild. What’s the use of them, Varley, dear? Why need I learn them? They make me cross, and give me a headache, and then I shy things at The Penman, and he looks cut up and deeply injured, and calls me ‘Miss Howard.’ I think you’d better chuck it, Varley; I do, indeed.”
“‘Chuck it,’” said Varley Howard, “though derived from the Greek, is very rarely used, even in the best society, where they are not over particular. I’m afraid you’ll have to stick to it, Esmeralda. You see, there is a prejudice—an unreasonable prejudice, perhaps—in favor of education. In fact, no young lady can be considered the complete article, unless she knows how to read and write, and add up, say, three figures.”
“Oh!” said Esmeralda. “Should you call me a young lady now, Varley?”
“Well, you are not a young gentleman.”
“I wish I was,” she said, with a sigh.
“I’m sorry to bother you about this,” went on Varley in his languid and impressive way; “but you see I’ve got to do my duty by you. I’m your guardian—but only your guardian—and some of these days some of your people may turn up and claim you. They would probably want to know what the devil I meant by it, if you did not know how to read and write.”
“They’ll never turn up,” said Esmeralda. “You’ve never found out anything about me, have you, Varley?”
“No,” he said, quietly; “and yet I’ve made diligent inquiry. But all the same, the time may come when you will be owned and walked off. You see, you may be a princess in disguise—though I don’t think it very probable—and a princess who couldn’t read or write would be somewhat of an appalling novelty.”
Esmeralda laughed, and threw her hair from her forehead with a slight graceful jerk which was unconsciously maddening.
“I did mean to send you to a boarding-school at Melbourne,” he continued in his slow, low voice; “but I’ve had a run of bad luck lately—”