CHAPTER XII.
"The snow is on the mountain,
The frost is on the vale,
The ice hangs o'er the fountain,
The storm rides on the gale."—Ouseley.
Clarissa's letter to Georgie Broughton receives a most tender response,—tender as it is grateful. The girl writes thankfully, heartily, and expresses almost passionate delight at Clarissa's instantaneous and ready sympathy.
The letter is short, but full of feeling. It conveys to Clarissa the sad impression that the poor child's heart is dry and barren for lack of that gracious dew called love, without which not one of us can taste the blessedness of life.
"Nothing is true but love, nor aught of worth;
Love is the incense which doth sweeten earth."
So sings Trench. To Clarissa, just now, his words convey nothing less than the very embodiment of truth. That Georgie should be unhappy for want of this vital essence cuts her to the heart,—the more so that Georgie persistently refuses to come to Gowran.
"Dearest Clarissa,—Do not think me cold or ungrateful,"—so she writes,—"but, were I to go to you and feel again the warmth and tenderness of a home, it might unfit me for the life of trouble and work that must lie before me. 'Summer is when we love and are beloved,' and, of course, such summer is over for me. I know my task will be no light or easy one; but I have made up my mind to it, and indeed am thankful for it, as any change from this must of necessity be pleasant. And, besides, I may not be a governess forever. I have yet another plan in my head,—something papa and I agreed upon, before he left me,—that may put an end to my difficulties sooner than I think. I will tell you of it some time, when we meet."
"Poor darling," says Clarissa, "what a wretched little letter!" She sighs, and folds it up, and wonders vaguely what this other plan of Georgie's can be. Then she writes to her again, and describes Mrs. Redmond as well as is possible.
"Accept her offer by return of post," she advises, earnestly. "Even if, after a trial, you do not like her, still this will be an opening for you; and I am glad in the thought that I shall always have you near me,—at least until that mysterious plan of yours meets the light. Mrs. Redmond is not, of course, everything of the most desirable, but she is passable, and very kind at heart. She is tall and angular, and talks all day long—and all night, I am sure, if one would listen—about her ailments and the servants' delinquencies. She is never without a cold in her head, and a half-darned stocking! She calls the children's pinafores 'pinbefores,'—which is quite correct, but very unpleasant; and she always calls terrible 'turrible;' but beyond these small failings she is quite bearable."
And so on. When Miss Broughton receives this letter in her distant home, she is again solemistress of a sickroom. Her aunt—the hard taskmaster assigned to her by fate—lies on her bed stricken to the earth by fever. To come to Pullingham now will be impossible. "Will Mrs. Redmond wait for a month, or perhaps two?" She entreats Clarissa to do what she can for her; and Clarissa does it; and the worried wife of the vicar, softened by Miss Peyton's earnest explanations, consents to expound Pinnock and "Little Arthur" to the small Redmonds until such time as Miss Broughton's aunt shall be convalescent.