Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  At that moment one stood in the doorway, her haughty eyelids raised in astonishment, her blood bubbling up in fiery indignation. It was Lady Jane Chesney. She had come in search of the governess in consequence of the communication made by Lucy. That any serious intention accompanied that kiss, Jane suspected not. Never for a moment had it glanced across Jane’s mind that her father would marry again. In her devotion, her all-absorbing love, there had existed not a crevice for any such idea to intrude itself. She gazed; but she only believed him to have been betrayed into a ridiculous bit of folly, not excusable even in a young man, considering Miss Lethwait’s position in the family; worse than inexcusable in Lord Oakburn. And the governess, lingering in the room with him, standing passively to receive the kiss! No pen could express the amount of scornful condemnation cast on her from that moment by Jane Chesney.

  Too pure-minded, too lofty-natured, too much the gentlewoman to surprise them, Jane drew back noiselessly, but some movement in the velvet curtain had attracted the notice of the earl. The door to this room was a sliding panel — which Miss Lethwait had opened when the pipe was finished — with looped-up inner portieres of crimson.

  The curtain stirred, and Lord Oakburn, probably thinking he had been hidden long enough away from his guests, and that it might be as well to show himself again, if he wished to observe a decent hospitality, went forth. Jane waited an instant, and entered. The governess was sitting then, her hands clasped before her, as one who is in deep thought or pain, her eyes strained on vacancy, a burning spot on her cheeks, scarlet as the geranium wreath in her black hair.

  “Are you here, Miss Lethwait? I have been searching for you everywhere. Allow me to request that you pay proper attention to Lady Lucy.”

  She spoke in a ringing tone of command, one never yet heard by the governess from the quiet Jane Chesney. Miss Lethwait bowed her head as she quitted the room in obedience to see after Lucy, and the scarlet of emotion on her face was turning to pallor.

  Jane watched her out. She was not one to make a scene, but she had to compress her lips together, lest they should open in defiance of her will. Her mind was outraged by what she had witnessed; the very house was outraged; and she determined that on the morrow Miss Lethwait should leave. In her fond prejudice she cast little blame on her father; it all went to the share of the unlucky governess. Jane believed — and it cannot be denied that circumstances appeared to justify the belief — that Miss Lethwait had sought Lord Oakburn in that room, and hidden herself there with him on purpose to play off upon him her wiles and fascinations.

  “Never more shall she have the opportunity,” murmured Jane, “never more, never more. Ere midday to-morrow the house shall be rid of her.”

  Jane mixed again with the crowd, but so completely vexed was she by what had occurred that she remained silent and passive, not paying the smallest fraction of attention to her guests. As she stood near one of the windows of the drawing-room, certain words, spoken in her vicinity, at length forced themselves on her notice: words that awoke her with a start to the reality of the present.

  “Her name’s Beauchamp. My mother wrote to one of the governess-agencies over here, I believe, and they sent her out to us in Canada.”

  Jane turned to look at the speaker. He was a stranger, a very young man, brought that evening to the house by some friends, and introduced by them. His name, Vaughan, had not struck upon any chord of Jane’s memory at the time; but it did so now in Connection with the name of Beauchamp. Could he indeed be a member of that family in Canada to whom the Miss Beauchamp had gone out?”

  “And she is an efficient governess?” continued one of the voices. It was a lady speaking now.

  “Very much so, indeed,” replied Mr. Vaughan. “I have heard my mother say she does not know what she should do without Miss Beauchamp.”

  All her pulses throbbing with expectant hope, Jane moved up, and laid her finger on Mr. Vaughan’s arm.

  “Are you from Canada?”

  “From Lower Canada,” he replied, struck with the suppressed eagerness of her tone. “My father, Colonel Vaughan, was ordered there some years ago with his regiment, and he took his family with him. Liking the place, we have remained there, and—”

  “You live near to Montreal?” interrupted Jane, too anxious to allow him to continue.

  “We live at Montreal.”

  “I heard you speak of a Miss Beauchamp: a governess, if I understood you rightly?”

  “Yes, I was speaking of Miss Beauchamp. She is my sisters’ governess. She came out to us from England.”

  “How long ago?”

  “How long ago? — let me see,” he deliberated. “I don’t think she has been with us much more than a twelvemonth yet.”

  It was surely the same. Jane without ceremony placed her arm within the young man’s, and led him to a less-crowded room.

  “I am interested in a Miss Beauchamp, Mr. Vaughan,” she said, as they paced it together. “A lady of that name, whom I know, went abroad as governess about a year ago. At least, we suppose she went abroad, though we don’t know with certainty where. I am very anxious to find her. I think the Miss Beauchamp you speak of may be the same.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” returned the young gentleman. “This one’s uncommonly nice-looking, Lady Jane.”

  “So was she. I should tell you that we have been making inquiries, and had learnt that a Miss Beauchamp went to Montreal about twelve months ago. That lady no doubt is the one in your house; it may be the one we are wishing to find. We have already sent out letters to ascertain, and are expecting their answers every day. How long have you been in England?”

  “Not a fortnight yet. I asked Miss Beauchamp if I could call on any of her friends in England with news of her; but she said she had none that she cared to send to.”

  “It can be no other than Clarice!” murmured Jane in her inmost heart. “I am sure it must be the same,” she said aloud. “Can you describe her to me, Mr. Vaughan?”

  “I can almost show her to you if I can catch sight of a young lady I was dancing with just now,” he replied. “I kept thinking how much she resembled Miss Beauchamp.”

  “A pretty little girl in a white crape frock and with a white wreath in her hair,” said Jane, eagerly, remembering how great a resemblance Lucy bore to Clarice.

  “I — no, I don’t think she wore a wreath,” returned Mr. Vaughan. “And she was not little. — She — there she is! there she is!” he broke off in quick excitement. “That’s the one; the lady in the blue dress, with some gold stuff in her hair. You can’t think how much she is like Miss Beauchamp.”

  Jane’s spirit turned faint. It was another disappointment. The young lady he pointed to was a Miss Munro, a very tall girl, with a remarkably fair complexion and light-blue eyes. No imagination, however suggestive, could have traced the slightest resemblance between that young lady and Clarice Chesney.

  “She!” exclaimed Jane. “Has Miss Beauchamp — your Miss Beauchamp — a complexion as light as that? Has she blue eyes?”

  “Yes. Miss Beauchamp is one of the fairest girls I ever saw. Her hair is flaxen, very silky-looking, and she wears it in curls. It’s just like the hair you see upon fair-complexioned dolls.”

  “It is not the same,” said Jane, battling with her disappointment as she best might. “The Miss Beauchamp I speak of has large soft brown eyes and brown hair. She is about as tall as I am.”

  “Then that sets the question at rest, Lady Jane,” returned the young man, alluding to the eyes and hair. “And our Miss Beauchamp is very tall. As tall as that lady standing there.”

  He pointed to Miss Lethwait. Jane withdrew her eyes in aversion, and they fell on Lucy. She made a sign to the child, and Lucy ran up, her brown eyes sparkling, her dark hair flowing, the bright rose shining in her damask cheeks.

  “There is a resemblance in this young lady’s face to the one I have been speaking of, Mr. Vaughan. The eyes and hair and complexion are just alike.”

  �
��Is there? Why that’s — somebody told me that was little Lady Lucy Chesney — your sister, of course, Lady Jane. She’s very pretty, but she’s not a bit like Miss Beauchamp.”

  Was it to be ever so? Should they appear to come on the very track of Clarice, only to find their hopes a delusion? Things seemed to be going all the wrong way to-night with Jane Chesney.

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  TURNED AWAY.

  LADY JANE CHESNEY sat in the small drawing-room. It was almost the only room that the servants had put into habitable order since the revelry of the previous night. Possibly Miss Lethwait may have deemed that to be the reason why her breakfast was that morning served apart. In the simple household, the governess had hitherto taken her meals with the family; but Jane would not again sit down to the same board with one who had so forgotten herself. Lucy, by Jane’s orders, was allowed to remain later than usual in bed.

  Lord Oakburn had taken his breakfast with Jane in this same small drawing-room. Everything in the house seemed at sixes and sevens, and he made no remark upon the absence of the governess and Lucy. His lordship was expending all his superfluous breath in a tirade against party-giving.

  “Where’s the use of it, after all?” he asked of Jane. “What end does it answer? Here we have the house turned topsy-turvy just for the sake of two or three hours’ crush! There’s no sense in it, Jane. What good does it do? The folks have the trouble of dressing themselves, and they come out for an hour, and then go back and undress? — wishing themselves quietly at home all the while. We shall be two days getting straight again. The thing’s just this, Jane: it may be all very well for people who keep a full set of servants in each department to enter on the folly, but it’s an awful bother for those who don’t. Catch me giving one next year! If you must give it on your own score, my Lady Jane, I shall go out the while.”

  Did the thought cross the earl’s mind as he spoke, that ere the next year should dawn, Lady Jane would no longer be his house’s mistress? Most probably: for he suddenly ceased his grumbling, drank his tea, and quitted the room, Jane vainly reminding him that he had made less breakfast than usual.

  She had the things taken away, and she took out her housekeeping book — for Jane was an exact account-keeper still — and made out what was due to Miss Lethwait. She had not yet been with them three months, but Jane would pay her as though she had been. Ringing the bell, Pompey came in to answer it.

  “Desire Miss Lethwait to step here,” said Jane.

  Miss Lethwait came in at once. It was an idle hour with her, Lucy being yet in her room. She was dressed rather more than usual, in a handsome gown that she generally wore to church on a Sunday: a sort of fancy material with rich colours in it. Had she put it on in consequence of her new position in relation to Lord Oakburn? — to look well in his eyes? There was little doubt of it. All night long she had lain awake: her brain, her mind, her thoughts in a tumult; the hot blood coursing fiercely through her veins at the glories that awaited her. One moment these glories seemed very near; real, tangible, certain; the next, they faded into darkness, and she said to herself that probably Lord Oakburn had only spoken in the passing moment’s delusion: a delusion which would fade away with the return of morning.

  The torment, the uncertainty did not cease with the day, and it brought a rich colour to her pale face, rarely seen there; never except in moments of deep emotion. As she entered Lady Jane’s presence with this bloom on her cheeks and the pure light shining upon her magnificent hair, her handsome gown rustling behind her and her fine figure drawn up to its full height, even Jane, with all her prejudice, was struck with her real grandeur.

  It did not soften Jane in the least; nay, it had the opposite effect. How haughty Jane could be when she chose, this moment proved. She was sitting herself, but she did not invite the governess to sit: she pointed imperiously with her hand for her to stand, there, on the other side the table, as she might have pointed to a servant. In her condemnation of wrong-doing, Jane Chesney did not deem the governess worthy of sitting in her presence.

  “Miss Lethwait, I find it inexpedient to retain you in my household,” began Jane in a coldly civil tone. “It will not inconvenience you, I hope, to leave to-day.”

  To say that Miss Lethwait gazed at Lady Jane in consternation, would be saying little. Never for a moment had she feared her to have been in any way cognizant of the previous night’s little episode in the smoking-room; she had only supposed this present summons had reference to some matter or other connected with Lucy. The words fell upon her as a shock, and she could only stand in astonishment.

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Jane,” she said, when she found her tongue. “Leave, did you say? Leave to-day!”

  “You will oblige me by doing so,” calmly replied Jane.

  Miss Lethwait stood before Lady Jane in silence. That calmness is so difficult to stand against! She might have met it better had her ladyship only been in a passion.

  “May I ask the reason for this sudden dismissal?” she at length murmured, with a rush of fear that Lady Jane must have been in some obscure corner of the smoking-room and witnessed the kiss.

  “I would prefer that you did not ask me the reason,” replied Jane. “Possibly you might find it in your own conscience if you searched for it. There are things which to the refined mind are derogatory even to think of, utterly obnoxious to speak about. I had deemed you a gentlewoman, Miss Lethwait. I am grieved that I was mistaken: and I bitterly regret having placed you in charge of Lady Lucy Chesney.”

  All that Miss Lethwait possessed of anger rose up to boiling heat. Lady Jane’s tone was so stinging, so quietly contemptuous: as if she, the governess, were no longer worthy of any other. The taunt as to the gentlewoman told home.

  Retorting words rose to her tongue; but ere the lips gave utterance to them, prudence came to her, and they were choked down. A scene now with Lady Jane, and she might never be Countess of Oakburn. The scarlet hue of emotion tinged her cheek, deep and glowing, as it had on the previous night; but she compelled herself to endure, and stood in silence.

  “There is due to you a balance of six pounds,” resumed Jane; “and five pounds in lieu of the customary month’s warning will make it eleven. In justice I believe I ought also to advance to you money for a month’s board expenses: if you will name any sum you may deem suitable, I”

  “I beg your pardon, that is not customary,” passionately interrupted Miss Lethwait. “I could not accept anything of the kind.”

  “Then I believe you will find this correct,” said Jane, placing a ten-pound note and a sovereign on the table. And Miss Lethwait after a moment’s hesitation took them up.

  “I am sorry to have incurred your displeasure, Lady Jane,” she said, her anger subsiding. “Perhaps you will think better of me sometime.”

  The tone, in spite of herself, was one of deprecation. It grated on Jane Chesney’s ear. She raised her haughty eyelids, and bent on the governess one long look of condemnation.

  “Never,” she answered, with more temper than she had hitherto shown. “Your duties in this house are ended, Miss Lethwait. Any assistance that you may require in packing, I beg you will ring for. And I would prefer — I would very much prefer, that you should not see Lady Lucy before your departure.”

  “Sent out of the house like a dog!” murmured the unlucky governess to her own rebellious spirit. “But the tables may be turned; yes, they may be turned ere many months have gone by!”

  Jane moved her hand and bowed her from her presence, coldly civil, grandly courteous. She vouchsafed no other leave-taking, and the governess went forth from her presence, her cheeks hot and scarlet. Not many times in her life had that scarlet dyed the face of Eliza Lethwait.

  Outside the door she paused in indecision. In spite of all that had passed, she was not deficient in maidenly reticence, and to search out Lord Oakburn went against her. But it was necessary he should know of this dismissal, if the past night’s offer were to be regarded as an earnest one.r />
  She went swiftly down the stairs and found the earl in the small apartment that Lucy had called his smoking-room. He would go there sometimes in a morning if he had letters to write. The earl was seated, leaning over an open letter, his stick lying on the table beside it. He looked up when she entered.

  “Lady Jane has dismissed me, Lord Oakburn.”

  She spoke in no complaining tone, in no voice of anger. Rather in sadness, as if she had merited the dismissal. The earl did not take in the sense of the words; he had been buried in a reverie, and it seemed that he could not at once awake from it.

  “What?” cried he.

  “I am sorry to say that Lady Jane has dismissed me,” she repeated.

  “What’s that for?” he demanded, awaking fully to the words now, and his voice and his stick were alike raised.

  “Lady Jane did not explain. She called me in, told me I could not remain, and that she wished me to depart at once. I could not leave the house without telling you, Lord Oakburn, and — and — if you please — giving you my address. I shall go to my father’s.”

  “Shiver my timbers if you shall go out of my house in this way!” stormed the earl, striking his stick on the table. “My Lady Jane’s a cool hand when she chooses, I know; but you have a right to proper warning.”

  Miss Lethwait extended her hand, and exhibited the money in its palm.

  “Lady Jane has not forgotten to give me the warning’s substitute,” she said, with a proud, bitter smile.

  “Then, hark you, my dear! I am the house’s master, and I’ll let my lady know that I am. You shall not—”

  “Stay, Lord Oakburn — I beg your pardon,” she interrupted. “I could not remain in the house in defiance of Lady Jane. You have not thought, perhaps, how impossible it would be for one in my subordinate capacity to enter the lists of opposition against her. Indeed it could not be.”

  Lord Oakburn growled. But he made no answer. Possibly the sense of the argument was forcing itself upon him.