"Good-morning, Miss Featherstone;" and she devoured the curly-headed boy with kisses. Mrs. Pinckney, reclining on large pillows, looked prettier than ever. No degree of negligence affected her appearance: her light, curling, slightly-dishevelled hair and delicate, clear skin were the more attractive under conditions which would be fatal to many women. "Sit down, Miss Featherstone.—Adèle!" calling to the nurse, "you must take dear little Harry away: I want to talk to Miss Featherstone. Be very careful of him: don't let him eat or over-fatigue himself. And, Adèle, after lunch come and help me dress: I think I should feel better for a drive.—Don't you think I should feel better for a drive, Miss Featherstone? I'm in miserable health," she added as the door closed on the nurse and child, "I've had so much trouble. I've lost my husband—he died of consumption"—she seized her pocket-handkerchief and began to cry: "I was alone, except for servants, with him at St. Augustine. I think his family were very inconsiderate. I wrote letter after letter, telling them of his condition and begging and imploring them to come to my assistance; but no one came. I had just left him for a few hours to get a little rest—I was so worn out with anxiety and the responsibility—and he died—alone—with his nurse—" Sobs choked her voice.
Miss Featherstone rose and kissed her: it was a way she had of comforting. Mrs. Pinckney received the caress graciously, and pressed her hand.
"Then my income is not nearly so large as it was," she resumed, "and I'm obliged to practise a great deal of economy. I've discharged my maid, and share the children's nurse with them, and Adèle is growing quite discontented with double duty. I parted with Baptiste also: it was a frightful sacrifice, for he was just a perfect butler. I'm always having economy talked at me by my husband's family, and I hate it!" with a discontented sigh. "I had a house in New York," she continued, "which they urged me to give up. They said I couldn't afford to keep both, and it was better for the children to keep the country-house, and that here on the river it would be easy to get to town. I'm extravagantly fond of going to the theatre and opera, and have had in a great measure to relinquish it. I went even when I was in mourning: the doctors said I must be amused. We'll go sometimes this winter together," she added coaxingly. "Well, now, Miss Featherstone, as to your rôle of governess: I don't feel as if you were to be anything but my nice new friend, you were so kind last night to my dear little Harry. You teach the common English branches and the rudiments of Latin, French and music? Mr. Brown—is it not an odd name for such a thorough Frenchman? but his father was English, although he was born and educated in France—Mr. Brown teaches them Latin and French at present, but I don't know how long I shall keep him; so you'll be relieved of that. I shall want you to act as a friend in the household—I'm so much of an invalid—sit at the head of the table occasionally, and give orders to the servants."
Miss Featherstone looked slightly perplexed. Her duties as governess were mingling in a distracting manner with those of housekeeper.
"The children are so young," Mrs. Pinckney said apologetically, "they can't be kept at their lessons from morning till night. Rose is eleven, Alfred nine, Dick seven. Harry might possibly learn his alphabet, but I doubt it. You can arrange the hours and studies to suit yourself; and I want you to govern and manage the children—relieve me in that way as much as possible. I hope you'll be very comfortable and happy in my house, Miss Featherstone. If there is anything out of the way in your room or anywhere else, let me know. I'm sure we shall be good friends;" and with a hearty, affectionate kiss she dismissed the governess.
As Miss Featherstone descended the stairs she met Doctor Harris, gallant and gay, with a rose in his buttonhole, followed by the nurse and child, on a visit of reassurance to the fair mother.
Nothing is truer than that homely old proverb, "The lame and the lazy are always provided for;" and Mrs. Pinckney was provided for effectually when she lit upon Miss Featherstone. Just before Christmas the governess was summoned to an interview with Mrs. Pinckney, who was, as usual, in bed: "Oh, my dear Miss Featherstone, I'm in despair—ill again. Christmas coming, and my husband's brother, Colonel Pinckney, is on his way to make us a visit. If there's any one I feel nervous and fidgety before, it is Colonel Pinckney: he seems to look you through and see all your faults and weaknesses: at least, he does mine, and he makes me see them too, which I don't like one bit. I do the best I can: I'm in such miserable health, and have had so much to break me down. Did you ever know any one, dear Miss Featherstone, who had had so much trouble?—my husband's death and all."
The young girl did not reply. Visions of her own lonely home rose before her—her mother fading slowly away under an accumulation of misfortunes; her only brother shot in the Union army; her father sinking into almost a dishonored grave through hopeless liabilities brought on indirectly by the war; she, petted and idolized, the only remaining member of the family, seeking her daily bread and finding a pittance by working among strangers. She hung her head and had not a word with which to reply.
"I dare say you've had troubles of your own," exclaimed Mrs. Pinckney. "Of course you have, or you wouldn't be here, you dear creature! It is well for me that you are here, though," kissing her affectionately. "Now, everything must be just right when this haughty, fastidious brother-in-law of mine comes. He isn't apt to find fault, but I am conscious that he is secretly criticising my dress, my dinners, the gaucheries of the servants, my moral qualities, even the way I turn my sentences. I shouldn't mind trying to talk my very best English if he were not prying into my motives: it is difficult to be on one's guard in every direction," with a sigh.
"I should think he'd be very disagreeable," said Miss Featherstone.