Part 19 (1/2)
She smiles, lays her hand on Margery's shoulder, and gently, but with determination, draws her towards the door.
Once outside, she turns, and, locking the door, carefully puts the key in her pocket.
Slowly, reluctantly, she descends the stairs,--slowly, and with a visible effort, presses her lips in gentle greeting to her father's care-worn cheek. The bells still ring on joyously, merrily; the sun s.h.i.+nes; the world is white with snow, more pure than even our purest thoughts; but no sense of rest or comfort comes to Ruth. Oh, dull and heavy heart that holds a guilty secret. Oh, sad (even though yet innocent) is the mind that hides a hurtful thought! Not for you do Christmas bells ring out their happy greeting! Not for such as you does sweet peace reign triumphant.
CHAPTER XIII.
”Is she not pa.s.sing fair?”--_Two Gentlemen of Verona._
The day at length dawns when Miss Broughton chooses to put in an appearance at Pullingham. It is Thursday evening on which she arrives, and as she has elected to go to the vicarage direct, instead of to Gowran, as Clarissa desired, nothing is left to the latter but to go down on Friday to the Redmonds' to welcome her.
She (Clarissa) had taken it rather badly that pretty Georgie will not come to her for a week or so before entering on her duties; yet in her secret soul she cannot help admiring the girl's pluck, and her determination to let nothing interfere with the business that must for the future represent her life. To stay at Gowran,--to fall, as it were, into the arms of luxury,--to be treated, as she knew she would be, by Clarissa, as an equal, even in worldly matters, would be only to unfit her for the routine that of necessity must follow. So she abstains, and flings far from her all thought of a happiness that would indeed be real, as Clarissa had been dear to her two years ago; and to be dear to Georgie once would mean to be dear to her forever.
The vicar himself opens the door for Clarissa, and tells her Miss Broughton has arrived, and will no doubt be overjoyed to see her.
”What a fairy you have given us!” he says, laughing. ”Such a bewildering child; all golden hair, and sweet dark eyes, and mourning raiments. We are perplexed--indeed, I may say, dazed--at her appearance; because we have one and all fallen in love with her,--hopelessly, irretrievably,--and hardly know how to conduct ourselves towards her with the decorum that I have been taught to believe should be shown to the instructress of one's children. Now, the last young woman was so different, and--”
”Young,” says Miss Peyton.
”Well, old, if you like it. She certainly, poor soul, did remind one of the 'sere and yellow.' But this child is all fire and life; and really,” says the vicar, with a sigh that may be relief, ”I think we all like it better; she is quite a break-in upon our monotony.”
”I am so glad you all like her;” says Clarissa, quite beaming with satisfaction. ”She was such a dear little thing when last I saw her; so gentle, too,--like a small mouse.”
”Oh, was she?” says the vicar, anxiously. ”She is changed a little, I think. To me she is rather terrifying. Now, for instance, this morning at breakfast, she asked me, before the children, 'if I didn't find writing sermons a bore.' And when I said--as I was in duty bound to say, my dear Clarissa--that I did not, she laughed out quite merrily, and said she 'didn't believe me'! Need I say the children were in raptures? but I could have borne that, only, when Mrs. Redmond forsook me and actually laughed too, I felt the end of all things was come.
Clarissa,” (severely), ”I do hope I don't see you laughing, too.”
”Oh, no!--not--not much,” says Miss Peyton, who is plainly enjoying the situation to its utmost. ”It is very hard on you, of course.”
”Well, it is,” says the vicar, with his broad and rather handsome smile, that works such miracles in the parish and among the mining people, who look upon him as their own special property. ”It is difficult for a man to hope to govern his own household when his nearest and dearest turn him into open ridicule. Your little friend is a witch. What shall we do with her?”
”Submit to her,” says Clarissa. ”Where is she? I want to see her.”
”Cissy will find her for you. I dare say they are together, unless your 'Madam Quicksilver,' as I call her, has taken to herself wings and flown away.”
He turns, as though to go with her.
”No, no,” says Clarissa; ”I shall easily find her by myself. Go, and do what you meant to do before I stopped you.”
Moving away from him, she enters the hall, and seeing a servant, is conducted by her to a small room literally strewn with work of all kinds. Books, too, lie here in profusion, and many pens, and numerous bottles of ink, and a patriarchal sofa that never saw better days than it sees now, when all the children prance over it, and love it, and make much of it, as being their very own.
On this ancient, friend a tiny fairy-like girl is sitting, smiling sweetly at Cissy Redmond, who is chattering to her gayly and is plainly enchanted at having some one of her own age to converse with.
The fairy is very lovely, with red-gold hair, and large luminous blue eyes, soft and dark, that can express all emotions, from deepest love to bitterest scorn. Her nose is pure Greek; her lips are tender and mobile; her skin is neither white nor brown, but clear and warm, and somewhat dest.i.tute of color. Her small head is covered with ma.s.ses of wavy, luxuriant, disobedient hair, that s.h.i.+nes in the light like threads of living gold.
She is barely five feet in height, but is exquisitely moulded. Her hands and feet are a study, her pretty rounded waist a happy dream.
She starts from the sofa to a standing position as Clarissa enters, and, with a low, intense little cry, that seems to come direct from her heart, runs to her and lays her arms gently round her neck.
Once again Clarissa finds herself in Brussels, with her chosen friend beside her. She clasps Georgie in a warm embrace; and then Cissy Redmond, who is a thoroughly good sort, goes out of the room, leaving the new governess alone with her old companion.