The adventurous lady

by J. C. Snaith

XV

As Elfreda dressed for dinner in her meager and cheerless bedroom she felt that interesting developments might be at hand. Her sense of humor was keen and she was ready to enjoy every moment of the situation for which she had made herself responsible. It would not be her fault if coming events did not help to lighten her lot. Secretly, however, she was more deeply annoyed than she chose to admit, even to herself, by Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson’s ukase. How dare the woman, how dare any woman venture to treat her in that way! She must try to remember, of course, that the position she now chose to occupy was quite outside her experience; at the same time while the new governess in the privacy of her room proceeded to inspect the array of evening garments in the tin trunk labeled “Cass,” she felt absurdly hostile, not merely to Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, but also to the relations and friends of that lady and to all their works.

Consideration of the wardrobe of Miss Cass disclosed it to be strictly, even painfully, limited. In spite of this handicap, Elfreda, however, was fully determined to make the most of herself for that evening, and took considerable pains with her toilette. The best she could muster was a black silk skirt, a semi-décolleté blouse of black chiffon and a pair of velvet slippers. Elfreda was much too matter of fact to paint extravagant pictures of her own appearance, but when she looked in the glass and beheld the prim result of her labors it needed all the humor she possessed to save her from laughing on the wrong side of her mouth.

Still, the fighting spirit of a hundred “Catkin Earls” or so had been awakened in the frilled bosom of the new governess. Black chiffon or no black chiffon, she was out for blood that evening. She went down to dinner on the stroke of eight with certain grim thoughts smoldering in the depths of a heart that had inherited a quite honest share of natural arrogance. In the drawing room General Norris stood in the center of the hearthrug, alone. The master and mistress of the house and the fair Dolores were not quite up to time.

“I hope you enjoyed your walk, Miss Cass.” The young man’s voice sounded just a shade reproachful.

“Ye-es.” There was a world of doubt in the tone of the new governess, but in the odd way she had of looking at people she looked at George Norris. There was a smile in the look, which in spite of the circumstances or perhaps because of them, was somehow queerly attractive. You couldn’t call her pretty, the young man decided, but in that smile was something, although perhaps he didn’t know it, which spoke to him far more deeply than a merely superficial attractiveness would have done. As for Elfreda, she had reached the conclusion already that this distinguished soldier was a very simple and extraordinarily handsome young man.

Their brief talk was interrupted almost at once by the entrance of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson and the fair Dolores. The lady of Birmingham looked more metallic than ever in a glittering green dress with hair ornament to match, yet so clear was her skin, so good were her teeth, so bright was her hair that most people would have considered her uncommonly handsome. At any rate that was Miss Parbury’s estimate of herself and she had all the assurance of recognized beauty. The single glance she cast at the chiffon blouse and the cheap black skirt of the little governess had a touch of scornful pity. Perhaps it would have been pity unadulterated had she not already discussed Miss Cass with her hostess and had they not agreed to doubt whether the new governess quite knew her place.

During dinner, alas, this doubt crystallized into certainty. Miss Cass did not know her place. She insisted on taking such an important part in the conversation that the fair Dolores and even Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson herself came perilously near to being outshone. On every subject that presented itself for discussion she talked confidently and with point, and from time to time, to the growing resentment of the other ladies, she even dared to indulge in a little badinage. Governesses at The Laurels in the last four years had been many, but before the meal was at an end Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson had sorrowfully concluded that this was a new kind of governess altogether.

Miss Cass had been highly recommended by no less a person than Canon Carnaby of Laxton, whose brother, the Reverend Sirius Carnaby, was the venerable incumbent of the neighboring parish of Yeldham, but her conduct at the dinner table, in the stern purview of her critics really amounted to “showing off.” For a full half of the meal she entirely monopolized General Norris, that is to say she would have monopolized him had not the hostess and Miss Parbury been determined that she should not; for the other half she was bewildering the company with the originality of her remarks, the independence of her judgment and the range of her information. Just before the meal came to an end, however, she was guilty of a decidedly bad break.

Apart from the military prowess of George Norris, his real claim to distinction in the sight of his former employers was that he had been “taken up” by some very “nice” people. Foremost among these was that exclusive clan the Lancelots of Amory Towers, the chimney pots of whose ancestral seat were visible on a clear day from The Laurels’ back windows. The Lancelots were the sun of the local firmament round which all minor stars and planets were more or less content to revolve. This family was too well established to insist unduly on its position; for generations its name had been known for miles round not merely as a symbol of place and power, but also as a cause of place and power in others. The Lancelots were what their neighbors desired to be; at least that was the opinion of Mrs. Trenchard-Simpson, although just what they were beyond the fact that they were “very influential” would have been difficult to say.