Wyllard's Weird: A Novel

by M. E. Braddon

"You needn't hope that, for you know girls never do. She is a poor sheep of a thing, and I don't suppose I hate her quite so much as some girls hate their governesses. But she is dreadfully dreary. She makes her own gowns; and of an evening her needle goes stitch, stitch, stitch, in time to the ticking of the clock, while I practise my scales. I don't know which I hate most, the clock, or the piano, or the needle."

"Poor Hilda, you must spend half your time with me in future. I shall call to-morrow, and ask your father's permission to have you at Penmorval as often as I like."

"He won't refuse, if there's any consistency in him," replied Hilda, "for he is always grumbling about the noise I make, and about my sliding down the banisters. How did he go downstairs I wonder, at my age? Those broad banisters at The Spaniards must have been made for sliding. But fathers are so inconsistent," concluded Hilda. "I shouldn't wonder if he wouldn't rather have me and my noise at home than allow me to be happy at Penmorval."

"Let us hope that he will be reasonable," said Dora, smiling, "even though he is a father."

Mrs. Wyllard called at The Spaniards next day, and was not too graciously received by Mr. Heathcote—old Squire Heathcote, as he was called in that part of the world. He was a testy invalid, a sufferer from some chronic complaint which was so obscure in its complications as to seem only an excuse for ill-temper, and he had not forgiven Dora for jilting his son. He softened gradually, however, melted by the sweetness of her manner, and by memories of days that were gone, when he had admired her mother, and had been ruthlessly cut out by her father. The eyes that looked at him seemed to be the eyes that he had loved in his youth.

"If you care to be troubled with the girl, I ought to be grateful for any kindness you may show her," said the Squire. "She makes more noise than a regiment, and she is always disobeying her governess, or neglecting her lessons; and then I am called upon to interfere. I wouldn't mind if they would fight it out between them, and leave me in peace."

"You shall be left in peace very often, if you will allow me to have Hilda for my little companion at Penmorval," said Dora. "And I promise you that her education shall not be altogether neglected while she is with me."

"If you can teach her manners, I shall be eternally your debtor," said the Squire. "I would much rather a young woman should know how to behave herself in society than that she should be able to read Æschylus or take a degree in mathematics."

Thus it came about that Hilda spent a great deal of her life at Penmorval, where the sheep-like governess escorted her, or whence she fetched her with unfailing patience, grateful exceedingly when she was rewarded with a cup of tea in Mrs. Wyllard's pretty drawing-room, or in the yew-tree arbour.

And thus in the seven happy years of Dora Wyllard's married life—her apprenticeship, as she had called it playfully last June, when the anniversary of her marriage came round—Hilda had been her chief companion. The girl had grown up at the young matron's side as a younger sister, and had been a link between Dora and Edward, albeit these two saw each other but seldom, for Edward's home had been in the neighbourhood of Plymouth until within the last two years.