“Annabel said the truth—that I do think of going out as daily governess,” she replied, bending over a carnation1 to hide the blush which rose to her cheeks, a very rival to the blushing flower. “It is a great misfortune that has fallen upon us—at least we can only look at it in that light at present, and will, beyond doubt, be productive of some embarrassment2. Do you not see, William, that it is incumbent3 upon us all to endeavour to lighten this embarrassment, those of us who can do so? I must assume my share of the burden.”
Mr. Yorke was silent. Constance took it for granted that he was displeased5. He was of an excellent family, and she supposed he disliked the step she was about to take—deemed it would be derogatory to his future wife.
“Have you fully6 made up your mind?” he at length asked.
“Yes. I have talked it over with mamma—for indeed she and I both seem to have anticipated this—and she thinks with me, that it is what I ought to do. William, how could I reconcile it to my conscience not to help?” she continued. “Think of papa! think of his strait! It appears to be a plain duty thrown in my path.”
“By yourself, Constance?”
“Not by myself,” she whispered, lifting for a moment her large blue eyes. “Oh, William, William, do not be displeased with me! do not forbid it! It is honourable7 to work—it is right to do what we can. Strive to see it in the right light.”
“Let that carnation alone, Constance; give your attention to me. What if I do forbid it?”
She walked a little forward, leaving the carnation bed, and halted under the shade of the dark cedar8 tree, her heart and colour alike fading. Mr. Yorke followed and stood before her.
“William, I must do my duty. There is no other way open to me, by which I can earn something to help in this time of need, except that of becoming a governess. Many a lady, better born than I, has done it before me.”
“A daily governess, I think you said?”
“Papa could not spare me to go out altogether; Annabel could not spare me either; and—”
“I would not spare you,” he struck in, filling up her pause. “Was that what you were about to say, Constance?”
The rosy9 hue10 stole over her face again, and a sweet smile to her lips: “Oh, William, if you will only sanction it! I shall go about it then with the lightest heart!”
He looked at her with an expression she did not understand, and shook his head. Constance thought it a negative shake, and her hopes fell again. “You did not answer my question,” said Mr. Yorke. “What if I forbid it?”
“But it seems to be my duty,” she urged from between her pale and parted lips.
“Constance, that is no answer.”
“Oh, do not, do not! William, do not you throw this temptation in my way—that of choosing between yourself and a plain duty that lies before me.”
“The temptation, as you call it, must be for a later consideration. Why will you not answer me? What would be your course if I forbade it?”
“I do not know. But, Oh, William, if you gave me up—”
She could not continue. She turned away to hide her face from Mr. Yorke. He followed and obtained forcible view of it. It was wet with tears.
“Nay, but I did not mean to carry it so far as to cause you real grief, my dearest,” he said, in a changed tone. “Though you brought it on yourself,” he added, laughing, as he bent4 his face down.
“How did I bring it on myself?”
“By doubting me. I saw you doubted me at the first, when Annabel spoke11 of it in the study. Constance, if you, possessed12 as you are of great acquirements, refused from any notion of false pride, to exert them for your family in a time of need, I should say you were little fitted for the wife of one whose whole duty it must be to do his Master’s work.”
“You will sanction the measure then?” she rejoined, her countenance13 lighting14 up.
“How could you doubt me? I wish I could make a home at once to take you to; but as you must remain in this a little longer, it is only fair that you should contribute to its maintenance. We all have to bend to circumstances. I shall not love my wife the less, because she has had the courage to turn her talents to account. What could you be thinking of, child?”
“Forgive me, William,” she softly pleaded. “But you looked so grave and were so silent.”
Mr. Yorke smiled. “The truth is, Constance, I was turning in my mind whether I could not help to place you, and pondering the advantages and disadvantages of a situation I know of. Lady Augusta is looking out for a daily governess.”
“Is she?” exclaimed Constance. “I wonder whether—I—should suit her?”
Constance spoke hesitatingly. The thought which had flashed over her own mind was, whether Lady Augusta Yorke could afford to pay her sufficient remuneration. Probably the same doubt had made one of the “disadvantages” hinted at by Mr. Yorke.
“I called there yesterday, and interrupted a ‘scene’ between Lady Augusta and Miss Caroline,” he said. “Unseemly anger on my lady’s part, and rebellion on Carry’s, forming, as usual, its chief features.”
“But Lady Augusta is so indulgent to her children!” interrupted Constance.
“Perniciously indulgent, generally; and when the effects break out in insolence15 and disobedience, then there ensues a scene. If you go there you will witness them occasionally, and I assure you they are not edifying16. You must endeavour to train the girls to something better than they have been trained to yet, Constance.”
“If I do go.”
“I knew how long it would last, Lady Augusta’s instructing them herself,” resumed Mr. Yorke. “It is not a month since the governess left.”
“Why does she wish to take a daily governess instead of one in the house?”
“Why Lady Augusta does a thing, is scarcely ever to be accounted for, by herself or by any one else!” replied Mr. Yorke. “Some convenience, or inconvenience, she mentioned to me, about sleeping arrangements. Shall I ascertain17 particulars for you, Constance; touching18 salary and other matters?”
“If you please. Papa is somewhat fastidious; but he could not object to my going there; and its being so very near our own house would be a great point of—”
“Constance!” interrupted a voice at this juncture19. “Is Mr. Yorke there?”
“He is here, mamma,” replied Constance, walking forward to Mrs. Channing, Mr. Yorke attending her.
“I thought I heard you enter,” she said, as Mr. Yorke took her hand. “Mr. Channing will be pleased to see you, if you will come in and chat with him. The children have told you the tidings. It is a great blow to their prospects20.”
“But they seem determined21 to bear it bravely,” he answered, in a hearty22 tone. “You may be proud to have such children, Mrs. Channing.”
“Not proud,” she softly said. “Thankful!”
“True. I am obliged to you for correcting me,” was the clergyman’s ingenuous23 answer, as he walked, with Mrs. Channing, across the hall. Constance halted, for Judith came out of the kitchen, and spoke in a whisper.
“And what’s the right and the wrong of it, Miss Constance? Is the money gone?”
“Gone entirely24, Judith. Gone for good.”
“For good!” groaned25 Judith; “I should say for ill. Why does the Queen let there be a Lord Chancellor26?”
“It is not the Lord Chancellor’s fault, Judith. He only administers the law.”
“Why couldn’t he just as well have given it for your papa, as against him?”
“I suppose he considers that the law is on the other side,” sighed Constance.
Judith, with a pettish27 movement, returned to her kitchen; and at that moment Hamish came downstairs. He had changed his dress, and had a pair of new white gloves in his hand.
“Are you going out to-night, Hamish?”
There was a stress on the word “to-night,” and Hamish marked it. “I promised, you know, Constance. And my staying away would do no good; it could not improve things. Fare you well, my pretty sister. Tell mamma I shall be home by eleven.”
“It’ll be a sad cut-down for ‘em all,” muttered Judith, gazing at Hamish round the kitchen door-post. “Where he’ll find money for his white gloves and things now, is beyond my telling, the darling boy! If I could but get to that Lord Chancellor!”
Had you possessed the privilege of living in Helstonleigh at the time of which this story treats—and I can assure you you might live in a less privileged city—it is possible that, on the morning following the above events, your peaceful slumbers29 might have been rudely broken by a noise, loud enough to waken the seven sleepers30 of Ephesus.
Before seven o’clock, the whole school, choristers and king’s scholars, assembled in the cloisters31. But, instead of entering the schoolroom for early school, they formed themselves into a dense32 mass (if you ever saw schoolboys march otherwise, I have not), and, treading on each other’s heels, proceeded through the town to the lodgings33 of the judges, in pursuance of a time-honoured custom. There the head-boy sent in his name to the very chamber34 of the Lord Chief Justice, who happened this time to have come to the Helstonleigh circuit. “Mr. Gaunt, senior of the college school”—craving holiday for himself, and the whole fry who had attended him.
“College boys!” cried his lordship, winking35 and blinking, as other less majestic36 mortals do when awakened37 suddenly out of their morning sleep.
“Yes, my lord,” replied the servant. “All the school’s come up; such a lot of ‘em! It’s the holiday they are asking for.”
“Oh, ah, I recollect,” cried his lordship—for it was not the first time he had been to Helstonleigh. “Give one of my cards to the senior boy, Roberts. My compliments to the head-master, and I beg he will grant the boys a holiday.”
Roberts did as he was bid—he also had been to Helstonleigh before with his master—and delivered the card and message to Gaunt. The consequence of which was, the school tore through the streets in triumph, shouting “Holiday!” in tones to be heard a mile off, and bringing people in white garments, from their beds to the windows. The least they feared was, that the town had taken fire.
Back to the house of the head-master for the pantomime to be played through. This usually was (for the master, as wise on the subject as they were, would lie that morning in bed) to send the master’s servant into his room with the card and the message; upon which permission for the holiday would come out, and the boys would disperse38, exercising their legs and lungs. No such luck, however, on this morning. The servant met them at the door, and grinned dreadfully at the crowd.
“Won’t you catch it, gentlemen! The head-master’s gone into school, and is waiting for you; marking you all late, of course.”
“Gone into school!” repeated Gaunt, haughtily39, resenting the familiarity, as well as the information. “What do you mean?”
“Why, I just mean that, sir,” was the reply, upon which Gaunt felt uncommonly40 inclined to knock him down. But the man had a propensity41 for grinning, and was sure to exercise it on all possible occasions. “There’s some row up, and you are not to have holiday,” continued the servant; “the master said last night I was to call him this morning as usual.”
At this unexpected reply, the boys slunk away to the college schoolroom, their buoyant spirits sunk down to dust and ashes—figuratively speaking. They could not understand it; they had not the most distant idea what their offence could have been. Gaunt entered, and the rest trooped in after him. The head-master sat at his desk in stern state: the other masters were in their places. “What is the meaning of this insubordination?” the master sharply demanded, addressing Gaunt. “You are three-quarters of an hour behind your time.”
“We have been up to the judges, as usual, for holiday, sir,” replied Gaunt, in a tone of deprecation. “His lordship sends his card and compliments to you, and—”
“Holiday!” interrupted the master. “Holiday!” he repeated, with emphasis, as if disbelieving his own ears. “Do you consider that the school deserves it? A pretty senior you must be, if you do.”
“What has the school done, sir?” respectfully asked Gaunt.
“Your memory must be conveniently short,” chafed42 the master. “Have you forgotten the inked surplice?”
Gaunt paused. “But that was not the act of the whole school, sir. It was probably the act of only one.”
“But, so long as that one does not confess, the whole school must bear it,” returned the master, looking round on the assembly. “Boys, understand me. It is not for the fault itself—that may have been, as I said yesterday, the result of accident; but it is the concealment43 of the fault that makes me angry. Will you confess now?—he who did it?”
No; the appeal brought forth44 no further result than the other had done. The master continued:
“You may think—I speak now to the guilty boy, and let him take these words to himself—that you were quite alone when you did it; that no eye was watching. But let me remind you that the eye of God was upon you. What you refuse to tell, He can bring to light, if it shall so please Him, in His own wonderful way, His own good time. There will be no holiday to-day. Prayers.”
The boys fell into their places, and stood with hanging heads, something like rebellion working in every breast. At breakfast-time they were dismissed, and gathered in the cloisters to give vent28 to their sentiments.
“Isn’t it a stunning45 shame?” cried hot Tom Channing. “The school ought not to suffer for the fault of one boy. The master has no right—”
“The fault lies in the boy, not in the master,” interrupted Gaunt. “A sneak46! a coward! If he has a spark of manly47 honour in him, he’ll speak up now.”
“As it has come to this, I say Charley Channing should be made to declare what he knows,” said one. “He saw it done!”
“Who says he did?” quickly asked Tom Channing.
“Some one said so; and that he was afraid to tell.”
Gaunt lifted his finger, and made a sign to Charles to approach. “Now, boy”—as the latter obeyed—“you will answer me, remember. The master has called the seniors to his aid, and I order you to speak. Did you see this mischief48 done?”
“No, I did not!” fearlessly replied little Channing.
“If he doesn’t know, he suspects,” persisted Hurst. “Come, Miss Channing.”
“We don’t declare things upon suspicion, do we, Mr. Gaunt?” appealed Charles. “I may suspect one; Hurst may suspect another; Bywater said he suspected two; the whole school may be suspicious, one of another. Where’s the use of that?”
“It is of no use,” decided49 Gaunt. “You say you did not see the surplice damaged?”
“I did not; upon my word of honour.”
“That’s enough,” said Gaunt. “Depend upon it, the fellow, while he was at it, took precious good precautions against being seen. When he gets found out, he had better not come within reach of the seniors; I warn him of that: they might not leave him a head on his shoulders, or a tooth in his mouth.”
“Suppose it should turn out to have been a senior, Mr. Gaunt?” spoke Bywater.
“Suppose you should turn out to be an everlasting50 big donkey?” retorted the senior boy.
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1
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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42
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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46
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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47
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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