"No, 'it would never do.' The seraphic voice, the spiritual countenance, the appealing helplessness, which had so moved my pity, must be to me as a dream from which I had awakened. Esperanza's fate must rest henceforward with herself, aided by honest Martha Blake, and helped, through Martha, from my purse. I must never see her again. No word had been spoken, no hint had been given of the love which it was my bounden duty to conquer and forget. I could contemplate the inevitable renunciation with a clear conscience.
"I worked harder in that term than I had worked yet, and shut my door against all the allurements of undergraduate friends and all the pleasures of university life. I was voted churlish and a muff; but I found my books the best cure for an unhappy love; and though the image of Miss Campbell was oftener with me than the learned shade of Newton or the later ghost of Whewell, I contrived to do some really good work.
"My mother and I wrote to each other once a week. She expected me to send her a budget of gossip and opinion, and it was only in this term that I began to feel a difficulty in filling two sheets of note-paper with my niggling penmanship. For the first time in my life, I found myself sitting, pen in hand, with nothing to say to my mother. I could not write about Esperanza, or the passionate yearning which I was trying to outlive. I could hardly expatiate upon my mathematical studies to a woman who, although highly cultivated, knew nothing of mathematics. I eked out my letter as best I could, with a laboured criticism upon a feeble novel which I had idly skimmed in an hour of mental exhaustion.
"I looked forward apprehensively to my home-going in December, fearing that some change in my outward aspect might betray the mystery of my heart. The holiday, once so pleasant, would be long and dull. The shooting would afford some relief perhaps, and I made up my mind to tramp the plantations all day long. At Cambridge I had shirked physical exercise; in Suffolk I would walk down my sorrow.
"A letter from my mother, which reached me early in December, put an end to these resolves. She had been somewhat out of health all through November; and her local medical man, who was old and passé, had only tormented her with medicines which made her worse. She had therefore decided, at Miss Marjorum's earnest desire, upon spending my vacation in London; and Jebson, her trusty major domo, had been up to town, and had found her delightful lodgings on the north side of Hyde Park. She would await me, not at Fendyke, but in Connaught Place.
"Connaught Place—within less than an hour's walk of Great Ormond Street! My heart beat fast and furiously at the mere thought of that propinquity. Martha's latest letter had told me that all attempts at finding a situation for my protégée had so far been without result. Martha and her charge had visited all the agencies for the placing of governesses and companions, and no agent had succeeded in placing Esperanza. Her education was far below the requirements of the least exacting employer. She knew very little French, and no German; she played exquisitely, but she played by ear; of the theory of music she knew hardly anything. Her father, an enthusiast and a dreamer, had filled her with ideas, but had taught her nothing that would help her to earn a living.
"'Don't you fret about her, Mr. George,' wrote Martha. 'As long as I have a roof over my head, she can make her home with me. Her bite and sup makes hardly any difference in the week's expenses. I'm only sorry, for her sake, that she isn't clever enough to get into a nice family in some pretty country house, like Fendyke. It's a dull life for her here—a back parlour to live in, and two old people for her only companions.'
"I thought of the small dark parlour in the Bloomsbury lodging-house, the tinkling old piano, the dull grey street; a weary life for a girl of poetic temperament reared in the country. That letter of Martha's, and the fact of being within an easy walk of Great Ormond Street, broke down my resolution of the last two months. I called upon Martha and her charge on the morning after I left Cambridge. I thought Esperanza looked wan and out of health, and could but mark how the pale, sad face flushed and brightened at sight of me. We were alone for a few minutes, while Martha interviewed a butcher, and I seized the opportunity. I said I feared she was not altogether happy. Only unhappy in being a burden to my friends, she told me. She was depressed by finding her own uselessness. Hundreds of young women were earning their living as governesses, but no one would employ her.
"'No lady will even give me a trial,' she said. 'I'm afraid I must look very stupid.'
"'You look very lovely,' I answered hotly. 'They want a commoner clay.'