A SYREN ADVENTURESS.

In the meantime Jane and Miss Gray were being whirled along the darkening roads with as much speed as an elderly horse and an elderly driver cared to accomplish.

‘I hope you will like Redcot, Miss Gray,’ Jane was overcoming her shyness to say cordially.

‘I am sure I shall,’ the stranger responded, with a fervour that might have startled Jane if she had been endowed with Susie’s gift of observation. The speaker’s ardour abashed herself, the moment the eager tone, which was the result of her repressed excitement, had slipped from her. She sought to remedy the blunder by recurring at once to the object of her coming to Redcot.

‘I am afraid it is too late for me to see my little pupils to-night,’ she suggested; ‘they will be in their nursery by this time.’

‘Well, their nurse has absurdly dogmatic, old-fashioned notions about their bedtime,’ said Jane. ‘I daresay she will be putting the children to bed before we reach home; but they are often in the schoolroom till their supper hour. They are ridiculously slow in getting their lessons done, yet I don’t believe either Ally or the boys have bad abilities, while I have been anxious not to begin by shirking anything.’

Miss Gray was silent. There was even a little involuntary movement of her shoulders, which was more like protest than assent.

‘No doubt you will have a much better method,’ said Jane modestly. ‘You understand the science of teaching. You will remedy the defects of my system.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Miss Gray quietly; ‘but you must not expect too much from me. If I understand some of the theories and a little of the practice of teaching, you must know the children as no stranger can know them. Children are so different.’

‘Certainly, but you are not going to be a stranger, and all children with the average amount of brains can be taught a great deal when it is done systematically. The thing is for the pupils to acquire the habit of learning at every moment, at every pore,’ declared Jane, rising to the occasion, and speaking not only didactically, but with the enthusiasm which was generally held more in reserve with her.

Miss Gray did not go on contradicting one of her employers, the late directress-general of the little Woods’ studies. Perhaps the newcomer did not think that persisting in an attitude of opposition would be either wise or worth while. She had some experience of the relations in which she stood to the experimenter and the objects experimented upon, and she might look upon Jane’s excellent sentiments pushed to extremity as a bushel of theory which an ounce of practice would reduce to its true proportions. Or she might be too much occupied looking about her to care to prolong a useless argument. She did show a commendable desire to become acquainted with her future surroundings. She peered through the darkness as the couple drove up the elm avenue. She paused a second looking up at the weather-stained house, and casting a rapid glance round the lawn and shrubbery lit up by the open hall door, as if she wished to take everything in before she entered.

Jane acted as a pioneer in conducting her companion through the labyrinths created by the superfluity of pillars and furniture in the hall; took her past the ghastly Judas--ghastlier than ever in the lamplight--up the stairs, and decided that, as it was so late, it would be better to show her at once to her room, and leave her to make whatever change of toilet was possible for her before dinner.

When Miss Prior was gone, Miss Gray rid herself of her encumbrances of hat and ulster. Then, though she had been told she had only a few moments to spare, she began to waste them scandalously for a person supposed to be endowed with the promptness and punctuality so desirable in a teacher of babes. She stood idly before the fire, busy only with her reflections.

Here was a better opportunity than Susie Crabtree had commanded at the station for seeing what the young woman, standing alone and off her guard, in the warm glow of the hearth, was like. In the first place, Miss Gray had not yellow hair, nor hair that by any stretch of imagination could be called golden, or even red; neither was it raven-black. Her eyes were not violet, neither were they of inscrutable darkness of hue. Her complexion was not pink and white like daisies: far less was it colourless as marble or creamy as ivory. She was not divinely tall, or of a dainty smallness. Yet she was fair to see, notwithstanding these trying negatives and the other disheartening facts which have to be recorded. She was about the middle size. Her hair was simply a chestnut brown. Her eyes were nothing more than hazel. Her colour was of such a healthy depth as well as purity that it was in danger of getting too red, as on the present occasion, and spreading, as it had spread now, under the influence of the cold drive, and of the sudden transference to the genial warmth of the room, to the tip of her chin. This chin was itself a blemish in her face, for it was a little too square for beauty. But her teeth were white and regular. Her mouth was at once ripe, red, and clearly cut, as charming as that of a Norman peasant woman. Her nose was well shaped, and the brows above her hazel eyes were well marked, straighter than Susie Crabtree’s, and more clearly defined than Jane Prior’s.

Miss Gray did not look in the least like a Becky Sharp or a Lady Audley. She had all the appearance of a wholesome-hearted, sound, natural, English girl under her supposed load of learning, as happy as the deprivations of her orphan lot and the burden of her responsibilities would let her, probably more self-reliant and womanly, instead of girlish, than she would have been without the deprivations and the burden.

But contradictions will never cease. The fresh, honest, comely face was showing itself greatly excited in the shifting light. If anybody could have read Miss Gray’s thoughts they would have seemed sufficiently mysterious for an innocent genuine individual in her circumstances. She was thinking, ‘So I am actually here. I have succeeded in my enterprise--however much I may repent it. And that was Jane, while the other was Susie! Strange, to meet them in flesh and blood, and they to regard me from a totally different standpoint without having the slightest suspicion why I should be deeply interested in them! Upon the whole, from the little I have seen of the sisters, I believe I shall prefer Jane; though Susie is wonderfully pretty, and I fancy _he_ has a favour for her--I fear, I fear, on his weak side, poor fellow.’ And Miss Gray shook her head wistfully, deprecatingly, with a kind of precocious womanly wisdom.

Miss Gray’s train of thought was remarkable--out of a novel. It was decidedly unwarrantable--not to say objectionable--in a young woman who had not all the airs of a syren adventuress stealing into a guileless household and working incalculable havoc there.

She might have committed the further indiscretion of being late for dinner on her first evening, but she was interrupted in time. There was a tap at the door. When Miss Gray opened it she found Mrs. Prior on the threshold. There was no mistaking the mistress of Redcot, though she had not waited for an introduction to the new inmate of her family, and she had just received from a servant a salver with wine and cake. She had overcome the reserve which was growing on her in order to supply what she guessed had been an overlook on Jane’s part, though there was still a reflection of the reserve in Mrs. Prior’s heightened colour, and the slight embarrassment in her air. But her old-fashioned dignity and politeness, mingling with the hospitality that caused her to serve the stranger herself, prevented the hostess from being really flurried.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Gray, but my daughter ought to have seen that you had some refreshment as soon as you arrived, before you attempted to get ready for dinner. Don’t trouble to make much change in your dress; we are old-fashioned country people, and you must be tired after your long journey.’

Miss Gray had remained dumb in positive consternation. Something about Mrs. Prior and her entrance overwhelmed the girl. Her carnation colour deepened to crimson, and flooded her face and neck. She started forward with a little distressed cry. ‘Oh! don’t, Mrs. Prior, you are a great deal too good,’ she exclaimed. She took the salver from Mrs. Prior’s hands, set it down with trembling fingers, and stood like a delinquent with cast-down eyes, which, if they had been raised, would have been found suddenly brimming over with tears, before the simple, kindly, elderly lady.

Mrs. Prior in her turn was disturbed by the sensation she had created. In the later years of her life she had become accustomed to finding herself frequently called to account for not being on a level with a younger generation in knowledge of the world and its wickedness, and of undreamt-of standards of propriety. She began to dread that she had committed a grave solecism in the trifling piece of attention she had paid Miss Gray, else she--Mrs. Prior--could not have so upset the newcomer, the fully-armed, all-accomplished young lady whom Jane had selected, who was to be Jane’s friend. The offender could only take comfort in the consideration that the offence was a small matter after all. Then she fell back on the blamelessness of her motive, and recovered her equanimity as she withdrew.

But if Mrs. Prior recovered her equanimity, Miss Gray lost hers. She made a gesture the moment she was left by herself, as if she would have covered her face with her hands, and cried half aloud--‘Oh! I am afraid I have been very wrong. How shall I carry out my purpose--if I ought to carry it out and not relinquish it at the outset? To have Mrs. Prior--how sweet and dear she looks! I don’t wonder that he is very fond of her--wait on me in this character, is too dreadful.’

But youth is mercurial. Soon Miss Gray not only turned to her toilet, she bestowed on it an amount of anxious consideration which some people would have thought totally unworthy of a learned lady. In place of slipping out of one dress and into another with the celerity acquired by long practice, and scarcely a glance into the mirror, which was Jane’s way, Miss Gray thought and hesitated. She opened her solitary trunk, and slowly took from it some trifles of gloves, shoes, and lace, then reluctantly shut it again, after she had indulged in one peep to see that no injury had been inflicted, in the packing, on the single gown it contained--a delicate expensive gown of palest, softest plush.

‘I dare say Jane will be severely plain,’ the stranger reflected, ‘and her mother implied something very simple--such as might be supposed to suit a governess’s purse--for me. This old black silk, which I have worn under my ulster, may do very well. It will be more in keeping. But, oh! I am so sick of black silks,’ drawing down the corners of her mouth as she made the disparaging confession to herself, ‘though I remember,’ she thought again, with a shrug of the shoulders and a twinkle of the eye, ‘I regarded this one, and that not so very long ago, such a desirable purchase--a most respectable best gown. But, if I could, I should so have liked to make a good impression on them the first night, as he would wish, if he knew.’ The thinker drew a long sighing breath. ‘I might have taken the bull--that is, the formidable old gentleman--by the horns and by storm. That is a horribly vain idea, above all when my blowsy charms are by no means out of the common. Still, I wish I could have worn my pretty gown to-night.’

The would-be wearer put on a dressing jacket, and began to brush her hair pensively. ‘I believe she would have liked it. She looks so nice and sympathetic, I wish I could kiss her; but if she were to propose some day to kiss me I’m sure I should die of shame and contrition, though I never meant to harm her or hers.

‘I have had so few pretty gowns,’ the dreamer returned to her ground of complaint, and dwelt on it with a persistency that showed she was a woman and a girl still. ‘This is the very prettiest I have ever had, and, though I may have many more, they will never be like the first. It will lie and fade and soil, perhaps get old-fashioned as well as shabby before I have a chance of putting it on. Well, as if that signified. What a goose I am!’ She suddenly pulled herself up, and made a gallant stand against her folly.

The old, big dinner-bell--there had never been a gong at Redcot--pealed forth with a crack in its voice.

Miss Gray sallied out in her characteristic black silk gown, in which, however, she looked bonnie enough, like a blushing June rose set among its dark leaves, and followed the servant sent to show her the way to the drawing-room. Miss Gray was introduced to the master of the house, who treated her as a gentleman treats a lady, but for anything further took very little notice of her, so that the trepidation with which she had been fencing, which she had been painfully keeping under strict control, might have been spared.

The dinner was quiet. Mr. Prior was taciturn, Jane was in one of her brown studies. Mrs. Prior had to make conversation on the weather, whether Miss Gray was fond of the country, whether she liked walking, &c., &c. The hostess had got so much out of the way of that particular service to society, in which she had never been a brilliant woman, in spite of her liveliness in private, that she did not play her part with great effect, and desisted from the effort as soon as she civilly could. She was driven to regret that there was no diversion caused by the presence of the children at dessert.

When the ladies went to the drawing-room, Jane engaged Miss Gray over the programme of the children’s lessons. Mr. Prior had his ‘Quarterly,’ Mrs. Prior her book. There was a little music, which was proposed as something more social and genial by Mrs. Prior. She contributed to it in the first place--playing an old-fashioned piece--not that she cared to play, or was very fond of music, but Jane was no musician, and Jane’s mother had a fine sense that Miss Gray should not be allowed to feel as if her accomplishments were being trotted out. When Mrs. Prior left the piano, Miss Gray complied with the invitation to play and sing. She did both in a well-taught, decidedly pleasing manner, a little spoilt by nervousness. The performance was quite satisfactory, without being anything marvellous.

The servants came in to prayers, and the whole household retired early.

It was a somewhat bald realisation of a scene which had been anticipated often by one person present, and never without a thrill of emotion. But the veritable experience was not without its subtle interest for Miss Gray. She had directed many an intelligent glance to the objects around her--the icy mirrors, the side-tables with their gilt legs, the floral rug. She had watched covertly but breathlessly, as if with a kind of fascination, the unconscious, sombre figure of the master of the house, seated at his own little table, with his shaded lamp, restlessly fluttering the leaves of his magazine, and occasionally leaning back, and tapping with his paper-knife on the arm of his chair, not in time to the music, rather as if it were in an irritable accompaniment to his troubled thoughts. But, as so frequently happens, the interest felt by the looker-on was not exactly that which had been expected.

When Miss Gray was safe in her room again, she walked to her window and looked out on a bright moonlight night, which had succeeded the dark November day. ‘How peaceful and beautiful it is,’ the gazer considered. ‘It is charming; oh! dear, one could be so happy here, if everything else were as right as the dear old house.’

Then straightway Miss Gray resumed her former erratic line of meditation, with a renewal of the tendency to sum up the knowledge she had gained. ‘And this is Redcot! I am really here,’ she told herself in short, fragmentary ejaculations of wonder which could hardly believe itself, and was not unmixed with apprehension and repentance. ‘I declare,’ as she stared out, ‘that must be the mulberry tree under which the children kept house and played. I think I can catch a glimpse of the disused barn, where so many bats take refuge, while the owls affect the old mill. So that was the squire. He does look a little savage, but I should not have thought him without natural affection--rather the reverse.’

She had become more composed, and took to pondering. ‘Mr. Prior must have a lump of brain behind that big forehead--perhaps rather a conglomerate, heterogeneous lump. He ought to have a heart, however warped and soured, poor squire! which the twitching mouth obeys inadvertently. One sees where Jack has got the ugliness of which he is so humbly conscious, foolish boy! But he cannot be a bit like his father in other respects. Jack must be like his mother, dear soul! How prettily she played ‘The light of other days.’ Would she hate me if she knew it was I who sent him so far away from her when I did not know what else to do?

‘I suppose that was one of Mrs. Prior’s favourite stories she was reading. I longed to ask the name, but I durst not. The dog at her feet must have been “Tommy.” I ventured to pat him, and was rewarded by a most diabolical snarl, which seriously disturbed his mistress’s composure. Well, Tommy has not the second sight, that’s clear, else he might have detected a faint flavour of Jack, who was always good to him; I’ll vouch for that.

‘I’ve seen every one of them. I’ve only the children to be introduced to to-morrow. Will the grown-up people ever forgive me, and take kindly to me after this? Even Jane I suspect has some class pride, though he had none, or else love slew and buried it clean out of sight the first day we met. But it is not as if I had entered another family in the neighbourhood. The children are poor Alice’s daughter and sons, Jack’s own niece and nephews.

‘Still, to come among them in a false character, I am afraid nothing can excuse that, though I have done it to judge for myself, and convince myself that there are more persons than one to blame. I did not need to come here to be convinced of that, but I wished to be prudent--to satisfy the few people who really care whether I throw away my happiness and good fortune or not. I have to justify myself to dear old Mary, who was at my first college with me, and then we went to Germany, and came home together, and passed our examination on the very same day. I should not like, if I could help it, even to vex her father--kind, fussy Mr. Burton--who took me in charge before there was anything more than a hardy girl, who had been knocked about since she was a child, to take charge of. Anyhow, the thing is done and cannot be undone, without worse coming of it.’ And with this half fatalistic and wholly soothing reflection, Miss Gray prepared to read her chapter, say her prayers, and go to sleep, with a conscience that was not so heavily laden as to keep her awake.