For a Year

by Annie Hall Cudlip (uncredited).

Originally published in Saint Pauls (Virtue & Co.) vol.2 #9 (Jun 1868).

"Wanted, as Companion and Finishing Governess for a Young Lady, a person who is thoroughly competent to teach German and Italian, and the harp. Salary, £100 a year. Address Q.S.L., Post-office, Risdon, —shire." I wanted a situation, and believed myself to be "thoroughly competent" to impart the accomplishments specified in the above advertisement. I read it in the first edition of the "Times" one Monday morning about two o'clock, as I sat eating my luncheon in the dusky background of that most convenient haunt for governesses and other unprotected ladies, the confectioner's at the corner where Oxford and Regent Streets cross each other. I had been all the morning drawing from the life in a well-known studio in Newman Street,—one of a miscellaneous group who were pursuing art, more or less industriously, for more or less disinterested reasons.
        My own pursuit of art I may as well acknowledge at once was not very earnest. I was "doing a little in oils," I always said at home when I was questioned as to my progress, and I had the satisfaction of looking down upon my sisters as I said it. They only blended colours and portrayed form in Berlin wool on canvas.
        The truth is, that home life to the majority of young women of my status in society is a very dull thing. My father is a medical man, practising at Brompton, making a good income, living in very good style, and withal educating his children thoroughly well. My two brothers are University men, and were intended for the learned professions, and my two sisters and myself, after being well grounded by a clergyman in England, had been given four years abroad,—two in Germany and two in a French convent near Paris.
        We all had "resources within ourselves," as the conventional phrase has it. That is to say, culture had taught us to appreciate good literature, nature had given us great musical talent which careful scientific instruction had developed well, and we were all adepts in the art of so arranging our household-gods as to put them in a fair light before other people. Still, I the eldest and most restless-natured of the three, felt that I needed something more to make life full enough for me. I wanted to do something with the time that remained over and above to me, when I had read and played and visited till I was tired.
        I had been a student at the atelier in Newman Street about five months when this advertisement which I have copied came upon me like a revelation. In an instant I resolved to follow the path it pointed out. I would be that governess-companion, and utilise my knowledge of German and Italian, and the harp. I had often wished to get out of London: now, the opportunity was given me, and I would go.
        I was in a small flush of excitement when I determined on this. Delays are dangerous. I would write at once. I would not wait to go home and discuss my project in family council. So I paid for my luncheon, bought a sheet of paper and an envelope, and sat down again in the midst of that army of educational martyrs who congregate at this shop, to write an application for the situation advertised.
        It has never been in my nature to vacillate—to put my hand to the plough, and then draw back because the ground to be traversed is rough or dangerous. As soon as I had penned my application, I felt that I was bound in honour to myself to stand the consequences of it. If they would have me, I was pledged to go,—although my letter was not posted yet.
        It was a sultry July day this one on which I made my first effort to "do something," and a feeling of idleness, languor, and general disinclination to go back to the close, stuffy studio possessed me when I had finished my letter. Though I could hardly have given a reason, I felt justified in being idle for the remainder of this day. I think the feeling arose from my having taken steps towards being so uncommonly industrious for an indefinite period in the matter of this governess-companionship business.
        The room in which I sat and the shop in front of it, teemed with members of the class to which I aspired just now to belong. The earnest aspiration caused me to regard them more curiously than I had ever done before, and I fell to speculating whether that indelible stamp which marked them daughters of mental toil, would ever be impressed on my brow as it was on theirs. There were many types of this great order there. Daily governesses, drawing mistresses, teachers of singing, teachers of music; German, French, and Englishwomen; they were all there mixed up in this place, day after day, during their hour of freedom, yet utter strangers to one another at last as at first.
        I fancied, being young, imaginative, and self-satisfied, that I had no inconsiderable insight into character in those days;—that I could read who and what these people were in their faces, manners, and customs. The middle-aged woman in the corner reading the leading article in the "Daily Telegraph," and making a hearty luncheon of beef and stout, could be nothing, I decided, but a singing-mistress; no one else would so recklessly venture upon so stupifying a beverage at that hour of the day; and looking at her face, I made out a little story to fit it, and told myself that she must have been a concert-singer once,—and pretty about the same timé; that her soft brown hair and eyes, and pale, fair, smiling, composed face, had won the love of some one who wanted to marry and could not support her; that she had married him, as thousands of women do, for companionship, protection, as some one to care for her as years creep on, and because she would not be called an old maid;—and that now he was ill, or not doing anything remunerative, and she was teaching singing to support herself, and doing it cheerfully.
        Leaving her to her leading article, her beef and stout, my gaze sought a pair who were at the same long table with myself,—evidently a mother and daughter. The mother was a wisp of a woman in rusty black, with a pale sorrowing face; the daughter was a delicate-looking girl, of about nineteen or twenty, a pretty exotic-looking creature, like a foreign white lily. They were both turning over the papers that lay upon the table when I looked at them first, and after a while the daughter's eye fell on the same advertisement that had attracted my attention. Her face grew crimson and her eyes brightened as she hastily handed it to her mother with the words,—
        "Shall I try for it?"
        "It is one more chance," the sad mother answered tenderly. And when I knew they wished for it, I was sorry that I was pledged myself to try for the situation. Opposite to this mother and daughter who had enlisted my sympathies, sat a girl of about three or four and-twenty, in whose manner there was that unmistakable mixture of the corrective and instructive air that permeates so many of the women whose mission in life it is to form the manners and the mind of the rising generation. "Shall I lose my individuality while I am with these people near Risdon?" I mentally asked myself. The thought of failing in my attempt, of being refused, never entered into my calculations for a moment. "Shall I ever lower my voice and sober my bearing with that odious involuntary humility which used to oppress me so much in my own governesses? What will be the experience of my year of tuition, I wonder?" So I soliloquised until the clock struck three. The crowd had nearly dispersed to their accustomed avocations, and I rose and walked away leisurely to a cab that conveyed me home.
        I need scarcely say that as mine was an entirely unlooked-for scheme, so was it entirely disapproved of by all the members of my own family. My father said that he liked to have all his girls about him of an evening. My mother added that "Life was full of temptations to young people, especially young women, and she should never know a happy moment while I was away with these strangers." And my sisters half envied and half blamed me for going away from the monotonous routine that could, in their estimation, be interrupted with propriety only by marriage.
        However, to cut a long story short, I adhered to my plan, and when the advertiser wrote to me to accept my offer of service, I proceeded to carry out that plan without delay by starting off at once to the Risdon railway-station, where a carriage was to meet and carry me to my new home.
        My father and mother both saw me safely to the Great Western terminus, and bade me farewell with a few tears and a great many prognostications of my finding things at Wearham Chase duller than I should be able to endure. "If you do, you'll think of what I have always said, that home is the proper place for young girls," my mother said, kissing me. "If you do, you'll know where to come," my father continued, following her example. And I laughed happily, and told them, "Let what would happen, I would stand it for a year." Then we parted, and for an hour or two I indulged myself unrestrainedly in a fit of natural depression. But at mid-distance my youth and the elasticity of my temperament triumphed, together with the conviction I had that I was doing the right thing in endeavouring to help myself.
        It was about five o'clock in the afternoon when the train stopped, and I heard the guard shout out "Risdon!" In a few minutes I and my luggage were planted on the platform, the train was whirling on, and a servant in a plain, grey livery was asking me if I "was Miss Archer." My response in the affirmative was corroborated by the tickets on my trunk; so directing a porter to shoulder the latter, this servant respectfully showed me the way out from the station to the road, where a handsome carriage and a pair of bay horses were awaiting me.
        "How far is it to Wearham Chase?" I asked, as I took my seat, and the man replied "Six miles." "It must be in the heart of the country, indeed," I thought. To be six miles from a railway-station was a more delightfully secluded fate than I had ever hoped would be mine. And in such a lovely land as this appeared to be, with its wealth of verdure and water, of hill and valley. It was a fate to rejoice in, and I rejoiced accordingly.
        I have reason to know that six good English miles do lie between Risdon station and Wearham Chase. But on the occasion of my first travelling over the road, the magical influence of the fresh, beautiful country was over me so strongly, that we seemed to be upon the grounds of the Chase as soon as we were clear of the environs of the railway-station. We entered the grounds through a sufficiently imposing gateway that was placed at the angle of two roads. There was a well-kept piece of turf outside the gates,—a piece of turf that gave wayfarers a hint as to the nature of the land within. One portion of it was shaded by a fine willow, the others were studded with a whitethorn, an auraucaria, and a shapely, glossy-leafed holly. I had barely time to take in the promise these shrubs gave of greenness in winter, before the gates,—or doors rather, for they were of solid wood,—swung open, and we rolled into an avenue that wound along for a mile at least under the shade of fine old elms.
        Long before this time intense curiosity as to the people with whom I had come to sojourn for a year claimed me for its own. I must confess to having been possessed with a raging impatience to see them and the house. I kept on putting my head out, first at one window, then at the other, warily, lest I should be detected in the undignified act. At length the trees ceased to overshadow the drive, which wound round in a grand sweep to the front of a large, lofty, many-windowed mansion of red bricks,—the sort of house that old English gentlemen who had a fine estate did build for themselves in the golden days of good Queen Anne.
        A clock that was placed in the wall above the entrance-door struck six as I got out of the carriage and passed into the hall, where I was met by a lady whom I at once put down in my own mind as the housekeeper. She was an old, quiet, gentle-faced lady, in dark grey silk, with a massive gold chatelain hanging at her side, from which depended a few keys in token of her calling. She gave me a grave yet gracious welcome, took me up to a beautifully-furnished bedroom, and promised to send a servant to help me to prepare for the seven o'clock dinner, for which the family were already dressing. When she had done this she walked with a hesitating step to the door, but came back directly to the couch on which I had seated myself, to say,—"You look almost as young as your pupil, Miss Archer; it will be a pleasant surprise to her to see you what you are."
        "Why?" I asked, laughing, and then added, "Please tell me your name; I ought not to remain ignorant of the name of my first friend at Wearham Chase."
        "I am Mrs. Digby, the housekeeper," she replied; and then she went on to tell me that she had lived at Wearham Chase in her present capacity for the last ten years only, but that she had known the family all her life, her father having been their solicitor, and her husband land agent to the late Mr. Hazelwood, the present proprietor's brother.
        "And is Miss Hazelwood,—my pupil that is to be,—their only daughter?" I asked.
        "Your pupil is not a Miss Hazelwood; she is not their daughter, but my mistress's niece," Mrs. Digby said. "She is a Miss Verney, but she's made quite as much of by master and every one else as if she was a child of the house. If she guessed what you were like she would have been to see you before this," the housekeeper continued, laughing; "but she's very high-spirited, and the plan of having a governess didn't please her."
        "Who planned it, then?" I asked.
        "Mr. and Mrs. Hazelwood thought it best that Miss Verney should have full occupation for a year," Mrs. Digby said, gravely, and I repeated after her,—
        "For a year! why that is just as long as I hope to stay here; our plans seem to agree wonderfully well." Then I made greater haste than usual to dress, without paying any attention to the look of surprised horror with which the excellent retainer of the house of Hazelwood regarded the stranger who made such daringly light mention of the arrangements of that high and mighty race.
        I was only just dressed when the dinner bell rang. Mrs. Hazelwood, I heard, was "waiting for me in the drawing-room." So, ushered by Mrs. Digby, to the drawing-room I went. A tall, fair, pale woman, with an exceedingly graceful figure and manner, rose and advanced courteously to make me welcome as Mrs. Digby mentioned my name, She held out her hand to me, said a few kind words, by which she made me understand that she was both glad to see me, and glad to see me what I was, and then rang the bell, and desired that Miss Verney should be asked to come to us at once.
        When the door closed behind the servant who went on this mission, Mrs. Hazelwood turned to me again, and said hurriedly,—
        "Miss Archer, before I even introduce my niece and you to each other, let me bespeak your interest in her, and forbearance towards her. She is not much younger than you are. She has been petted, prized, and indulged all her life. She is peculiarly situated; she has been most severely tried; these circumstances combined, have rendered her less patient and considerate than we could desire to see her. Be kind to her," she continued hurriedly, as the door opened, and a young lady came hastily into the room.
        As she came swiftly across the floor towards the chair in which Mrs. Hazelwood had seated herself abruptly when the door opened, I had time to see that she was a beautiful, graceful young creature. Her face had the delicate oval, and the exquisite, straight, chiselled nose of a Greek statue. Her bright golden hair was drawn back from her forehead under black velvet fillets, and raised up high behind, in an enormous chignon. The proportions of her splendid figure were well displayed in a full, long dress of soft white llama. She was both a statuesque and a fashionable-looking beauty; and I began to wonder what I was to teach this belle, who was a woman grown.
        "I heard that you wanted me, Aunt Emily," she began, without so much as glancing towards me; "what is it?"
        Her voice was young and fresh, rich and full, but there was a jarring chord somewhere. It did not sound contented.
        "I want to introduce you to Miss Archer, dear Isabel," Mrs. Hazelwood replied; and I fancied that I detected a conciliatory strain in the elder lady's tone, as she addressed the younger one. Miss Verney turned slightly towards me, and made a cold, but perfectly graceful inclination of the head. She was evidently disposed to regard me as an interloper, an inferior, and a nuisance generally; and I had not the slightest intention of being so regarded by her.
        "You did not expect to find Miss Archer what she is, did you?" Mrs. Hazelwood asked cheerfully.
        "No; I did not," the girl answered slowly, scrutinising my countenance closely the while.
        "And I did not expect to find you what you are, when I so hastily answered the advertisement, or I should not have had the presumption to do so," I said laughing. And then her beautiful mouth dimpled at the corners, the lips parted, her little white teeth glittered, and her whole face was transformed by a smile.
        "I can only hope that neither governess nor pupil are disagreeably surprised," Mrs. Hazelwood said, with a relieved air. Then, as the servant threw open the door, the mistress of the house added, "Your uncle will not be home to-night, Isabel; we dine alone."
        Before dinner was over, I had become interested in both my companions. The elder lady was very kind to me,—not in the oppressively kind, largely superior manner which is conventionally ascribed to ladies in some three-volume records of governesses' woes, but kind in a way that made me feel glad that I had obeyed my impulse, and answered her advertisement. The young lady appealed to me still more strongly. She was charming, cultivated, fascinating. But every now and then there crept into her manner, and into her face, some of that same discontent which I had observed in her voice when she first spoke on entering the drawing-room. This shade of dissatisfaction deepened when dinner was over, and we had gone back to the drawing-room. For a time she talked to me,—of my life in Germany, of my home life; of the dulness of this country life of hers, surrounded as it was with beauties; of new books and new operas, and new music generally. She talked gaily enough of all these things, for a time.
        But only for a short time. Before the lamp was lighted, while the window was still open to admit the soft twilight, and the softer summer air, her mood changed, and she grew so silent and sad, that I found myself watching her white, thoughtful face with pity. Her aunt saw me doing this, I think, for she said quickly,—"Sing me something, Miss Archer, to the harp, will you? it will be such a treat for me to hear the harp again."
        I went over to the harp and tried it. It was in perfect order, and I asked,—"Who keeps it in tune, Mrs. Hazelwood? Harp-strings will not bear neglect; I should have thought this was well attended to."
        "Because I have had a tune on it to-day," Mrs. Hazelwood replied. "It is Isabel's instrument; but she gave it up after a few lessons."
        "Why did you do that?" I asked, as I sat down, and drew the harp towards me. She was lounging gracefully on a couch near me, and as she turned her face to me to give her answer, I saw that the sadness had vanished, and that her face was dimpled with smiles,
        "Because,—because it bored me, as most other things did about that same time. I was sick and weary of the world and all in it; and as I couldn't 'sing to the harp with a psalm of thanksgiving,' I wouldn't sing at all."
        "Isabel!" her aunt said reproachfully; shocked at the light manner in which Miss Isabel had made her quotation. I thought that the best thing I could do would be to sing, and so stop the conversation. Accordingly, I commenced, and had the satisfaction of feeling, when my song was half over, that half my audience had wearied of it. Miss Verney had sauntered out through the open window on to the terrace.
        "Miss Archer," Mrs. Hazelwood said in a low tone, as soon as my strain was over, "I do hope that my niece will repose confidence in you. I am sure that it will do her good. Try to win her to do it."
        "I will try, if you wish me to do so," I replied.
        "And you will succeed if you try. I feel sure of that. We do love her so dearly," the lady went on energetically, "and we have been so unhappy about her unhappiness, so fearful that we may not have done everything for the best!"
        "What are you saying, Aunt Emily?" Miss Verney asked, suddenly stepping back into the room. "Don't waste your time in here any longer. Come out and look along the beech-tree avenue; it looks grand to-night."
        It did look grand that night;—that double row of beeches on either side of a luxuriantly fern-bordered broad grass walk. It led away from an old disused terrace at some short distance from the house,—a terrace, the mere contemplation of which brought back hoop and farthingale; talk about Addison, Steele, "Old Sarah," the arrogant pretensions of the great Dutch hero, and other topics that were current when that old terrace was new.
        In front of it ran a low castellated wall, and at intervals along this wall marble vases, stiff, but shapely in form, were placed. Many of them were mutilated, but in spite of being thus defaced, they were fair objects in the warm moonlight of that glorious July night.
        "The beech-tree avenue is the glory of Wearham Chase," Miss Verney said, when we had stood looking into its depths from the end of the terrace for some time. "As you are a stranger, seeing it for the first time, you ought to know the position it takes among avenues. It is quite in the front ranks of the noble army of avenues. I hope you are impressed with it, Miss Archer."
        The young lady spoke with a little laughing air of scorn of that which she was extolling in words. I observed this, and at the same time observed that her manner pained her aunt. So I answered her as though she had spoken in honest earnest, and said,~"This beech tree avenue might be the glory of a king's park. I am impressed with it; but words must always be inadequate to convey such impressions from one to another."
        Miss Verney shrugged her shoulders. "What a pity Uncle James is not here to hear Miss Archer," she said, turning to Mrs. Hazelwood. Then she clasped her light scarf round her closely, and said hurriedly,—"Well, I'm getting very cold, but I won't insist on your feeling a chill. Good night, dear Aunt Emily; good night, Miss Archer. You will find me your most obedient pupil to-morrow, but to-night I claim the liberty of the subject, and shall go off to bed now at once."
        She was gone from us almost before I had time to say "good night," and we were left alone on the steps at the end of the terrace looking along the beech-tree avenue in embarrassed silence. Presently, after tho lapse of a minute or two, Mrs. Hazelwood spoke. "Miss Archer," she said energetically, "do strive to win Isabel's confidence; do not be discouraged by what you have seen of her to-night; I had high hopes, great expectations of possible good, when I advertised for an intelligent and cultivated companion for her. I think you will more than realise them. God grant you patience." "Can the young lady be mad," I thought, but I said nothing, and Mrs. Hazelwood went on;—"We have no children of our own, and our love for her, and pride in her, are very great; too great perhaps; yet with all our care we have not been able to avert bitter misery from her, and I fear there is more in store for her. I will not tell you what it is yet, as I hope she may open her heart to you. I am sure you will have a healthy influence over her."
        "You are very kind to say so," I replied, scarcely knowing what to reply.
        "Not kind," the lady went on in an agitated tone; "I am perhaps a little too candid; but Isabel is so precious to me, a childless woman, that I am apt to lose judgment about her, and both to conceal and to lay bare too much concerning her. But it is getting chilly; we will go in." We went in, and after a little more conversation on indifferent topics, and a little more music, and some light refreshment, we went to bed, without seeing anything more of Miss Verney for that night. The next morning I came to a definite understanding with my employer as to what I was expected to teach my pupil. I learnt that I was to be ready "to bear with her at all times." That "was all," Mrs. Hazelwood said imploringly. "The German and French and harp might amuse her sometimes, but what she wants is companionship of a—of a—of a similar kind to yours, I am sure, my dear Miss Archer," Mrs. Hazelwood said, finishing off with a complimentary generality.
        All this promised pleasantness and ease enough;—rather too much ease, in fact; for at first I did not at all incline to the state of salaried idleness to which I was condemned by Miss Verney's caprice, and Mrs. Hazelwood's indulgence of it. But after a time I became so completely one of the family, that I took my large share of the goods that were provided quite complacently, and never strove to teach Isabel to do more than love me.
        I had been there about three months before I got hold of any sort of clue as to the reason of Isabel's uncertain demeanour, and the Hazelwoods' strange surrendering of themselves to it. The girl was evidently idolised by her aunt, and very much considered, loved, and indulged by her uncle. Still at times there would be in her manner towards them such a burst of untoward discontent and dissatisfaction, that if I had not begun to love her dearly, I should have held her very much to blame. But at the close of a bright, beautiful, ruddy and golden October day, Isabel asked me to go and sit in her dressing-room with her, before the hour of dressing for dinner. It was a charmingly pretty as well as an exceedingly comfortable room. Two sides of the walls were panelled with mirrors; the third held a capacious wardrobe between the windows; the fourth was occupied by the fireplace, on one side of which was the entrance to her bedroom, screened by day with heavily falling curtains; the other side of the fireplace was taken up with a huge dressing-table, in the centre of which swung a cheval glass. There were easy-chairs, a low ottoman, a couch, and one or two fancifully shaped tables. On this special evening the room looked specially pretty, for a small char-wood fire burnt on the grate, and on one of the fanciful tables tea and thin bread-and-butter, served in the rarest Dresden, stood ready prepared for us.
        As soon as I was installed in one of the easiest chairs, with a cup of tea in my hand, Miss Verney began;—"I have never liked to ask you before, but I will now, Miss Archer. Do you;—has my aunt said anything,—or has Mrs. Digby told you anything about me?"
        She asked in a hesitating, affectedly careless manner, that was not natural to her. I saw that her face had flushed a good deal, and that she was trying to read the truth in my eyes, without exactly meeting them. However, I wished to meet her gaze fully before I answered. Then I said, "They have never either of them said more to me about you than this,—that you are very dear to them both, and that Mr. and Mrs. Hazelwood prize you as their own child, and value your happiness above their own. Is there more to tell?"
        I asked the question frankly, and frankly she answered me, as she placed herself in the chair opposite to me;—"Only this;—that I am engaged to be married."
        "Really! And soon? No, they never hinted at that great fact. I wish you joy, Isabel, with all my heart."
        "And with all my heart I thank you for the wish, and believe it will be realised," she said heartily. "So they have never told you? And I have been half angry the whole time you have been here, fancying that they had."
        "Why should you be angry at my hearing of your happiness?"
        "Because—; oh! it's so tedious to give reasons; because it's in the future, and because third people always make a bungle of such matters when they try to unravel them for the benefit of a fourth."
        "Shall you be married soon?"
        "In about eight months from now. It was to help me to bear this year of engagement patiently that they secured you as my companion. And really, Helen, as good uncle would have it, I couldn't have had a dearer one. Are you engaged?" I told her that I had not the honour of being so, and asked her where her future husband was, and what was his name and occupation. "His name is Boulding;—Gerald Boulding, of Clanmere, one of the finest places in the country, about twenty miles from here; his health has been, not bad, but not quite good for the last six months, and he's on the Continent. You're sure you never heard of him?"
        "Quite sure."
        "Never heard of his being here, at Wearham Chase, at all?"
        "Never," I replied.
        "Ah," she said, with a relieved air. "I made sure that dear old Digby had been babbling. I'm delighted to find that she has not. And Aunt Emily has not spoken of him either?"
        "Indeed she has not," I said, thinking the while that it would have been only natural if some one had mentioned to me the current engagement and approaching marriage of the one who was the centre of all interest at Wearham Chase. Having broken the ice, Miss Verney enlarged upon the theme as only a woman can enlarge upon a theme that is dear to her. She told me that she had not seen Mr. Boulding for nearly five months; that he would remain away until April, when he would return, and set about the alterations that were to be made at Clanmere for the reception of its mistress;—and that in June,—in the month of roses,—they were to be married. "But there are dull, dreary months to be lived through before my wedding-day comes," she said, at the end of a long, loving account which she had given me of him. "There is a weary time to be passed in some way or other, before Gerald comes back in April. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I suppose we had better dress for dinner, Helen, and not bewail the inevitable any longer just now."
        I got up to go away to my own room at the hint; but before I went I said, "You are a happier girl than I thought you even, Isabel. I have always believed your position to be a most enviable one; but through ignorance I underrated its attractions."
        She shook her head despondingly. "I am not half as happy as you are, Helen, in spite of it all;—but it's no use complaining. I can't mend matters," she said, turning away to one of the glasses. "These months of anxiety and suspense are altering me," she added impatiently, as she looked at the reflection of her fair young face. "Gerald will not find me improved if he does;—when he does—come back." From this time Miss Verney spoke freely to me on the subject. Once or twice she mentioned having heard from Mr. Boulding. She showed me a ring, a rare intaglio, that he had sent her from Florence, and consulted me about her trousseau. "Aunt Emily says it will be quite time enough to set about ordering it when Gerald comes back to England," she said to me one day; "but I should like to begin at once. There will be so much to do."
        "But it can surely be done in a couple of months," I said, laughing. "Remember the old adage, Isabel, 'There's many a slip'—."
        "How I detest vulgar old proverbs," she replied angrily, and dropped the subject of the trousseau for a week or two.
        Soon after this Mrs. Hazelwood spoke of Mr. Boulding to me for the first time. She mentioned him merely as one of the great county men; and so in order that there might not be any misunderstanding between us, and that she might not suspect me of undue reserve, I told her that Isabel had mentioned her engagement to me. Mrs. Hazelwood watched me anxiously while I was making this communication, and when I closed it she said;—"I am very very glad that Isabel has of her own accord told you so much, Miss Archer. I hoped before this that she would have told you more; the reason James and I have been so reserved on the point is that we wished Isabel to tell you herself; you had heard nothing of it before, had you?" I assured her that I had not heard anything of it before, and could not help wondering why they made a mystery of what promised to be such a good match for Isabel. However, I learnt no more just then, for, after expressing a hope that her niece would still further confide in me, and that I might prove, when this confidence was made, the judicious friend they expected me to be, Mrs. Hazelwood resumed her reserve.
        Time went on, and April was close at hand. I must state here that it struck me as strange that Miss Verney's engagement was never alluded to in the society of the neighbourhood. The Hazelwoods entertained and visited a great deal, and their beautiful niece was evidently regarded as an acquisition wherever she appeared. But no notice was ever taken of her being a betrothed, and no one ever named Mr. Boulding before her. At length Mrs. Hazelwood solved this mystery for me. Their kindness and consideration for me had won from me in return a very genuine regard and affection for the whole family. They were conscious of this, and made me feel that they were glad of it. It was early in April, a day or two before Mr. Boulding was expected home, that Mrs. Hazelwood enlightened me as to the cause of Isabel's disquiet. "I could have wished she had told you everything herself," the dear old lady said with a sigh ; "but as she has not, I will. The fact is, her uncle and I don't quite like Mr. Boulding, or quite approve of the marriage."
        "Why not?" I asked in surprise.
        "It's a long story, but I will tell it briefly," she replied. "Gerald Boulding has been the best match in the county ever since he came of age; so that when three years ago he proposed to Isabel every one congratulated and envied us. We were very proud and pleased ourselves, for,—though married or single she will have the same portion from my husband as he would have given a daughter,—it was a brilliant marriage for her. There had been rumours of wildness and dissipation, but there are such about many young men. We had even heard a word of an attachment of long years to some one whom our dear child ought never to have succeeded. But we were made to disregard all these things by his protestations, and Isabel's love for him. Two years ago they were to have been married; everything was ready,—the guests invited,—the day named in the local papers,—the poor child in such a blaze of unclouded happiness as she cannot know again,—when a cruel blow fell. A messenger came one night from Clanmere with a letter to Mr. Hazelwood. It was from Gerald Boulding, stating that he was obliged to go abroad,—that untoward circumstances prevented his marrying at the time appointed, but that he hoped to come back in a few weeks and explain himself, and win Isabel's forgiveness. Think of the scandal at the time! Think of how it deepened when, instead of weeks, he stayed away months! At last, when he did come back, we used all the power our love gave us over Isabel to induce her to have nothing more to do with him. We failed. She forgave him, though he gave no proper explanation of his conduct, and we were obliged to give our consent to the renewal of the engagement, if he stood the test of constancy he himself proposed,—namely, time and absence from her. He now professes to have stood that test, and is coming back, as you know, to be married in June."
        "She must be very fond of him," I said.
        "She is devoted to him," Mrs. Hazelwood replied; "badly as he behaved to her. She has only lived, I verily believe, on the thought of being united to him. Her uncle and I wanted to take her out of the neighbourhood, but she would not go. She said it would look as if she were ashamed either of him or of herself. Then her spirits got low, and her temper variable; and we advertised, and you came, and you know the rest. I assure you I have often trembled to think of the effects suspense and doubt would have on her."
        "It will soon be over now," I said cheerfully; and Mrs. Hazelwood sighed heavily as she replied,—
        "It will indeed."
        In a few days the recreant lover came; and when I saw him I could not wonder at Isabel having been lenient. He was refined, polished, cultivated, handsome, debonair in manner, and devoted to his betrothed. He loaded her with attentions and with rich gifts. He hurried on the alterations at Clanmere, and the bridal preparations at Wearham Chase. Once more the day was fixed and the guests invited. Isabel was in a perfect blaze of happiness. Even the Hazelwoods could not refuse to be cordial and pleased with a man who made life so bright a thing to their darling niece. The trousseau and the cake arrived,—the first was all that the heart of woman could desire, the second all that the art of confectionery could achieve, All the spare bedrooms in the house were strewn with rich silks and costly laces. The wedding-dress itself was a marvel of white satin and lace; the myrtle-wreath, the long veil, the bridal bouquets, all were perfect; and Isabel called upon me a dozen times a day to say that they were so.
        The wedding-day came. The marriage was to take place at half-past eleven, and at ten minutes to that hour I came from Isabel's room for the first time that morning, and went down-stairs. Mr. Boulding was to have come to the house, but he had not arrived. It was surmised that he had gone to the church; so a couple of messengers were despatched there to see if the surmise was correct. Minutes slipped by. I returned to Isabel, who was momentarily expecting to be summoned. She asked me some question about Gerald, and I told her what we thought, "that he had gone straight to the church." Her face grew very white, and she walked to the window which commanded a view of the beech-tree avenue, and gazed along its shaded vista with her eyes flashing and her lips quivering with excitement. "He would come this way,—it's the nearest road to Clanmere," she said, after a few minutes' silent watch. "Helen, go down and hear what uncle and Aunt Emily think we had better do. I will go down to the church; he may be there."
        "Wait a minute," I pleaded; "we shall hear directly Mr. Boulding arrives." Then, not daring to disobey her, I went to speak to the Hazelwoods, much as I dreaded leaving Isabel alone. I found the Hazelwoods in a room by themselves. They had come away from those of the guests who had assembled according to invitation before the ceremony at Wearham.
        "I could not face the gathering doubt which I saw growing amongst them," Mrs. Hazelwood said, excitedly; "I can't go and speak to that poor child. James, what can we do?"
        "Nothing," Mr. Hazelwood said sternly. "We can only wait for a while,—not for long."
        "Will you send to Clanmere to make inquiries?" Mrs. Hazelwood asked in a deprecating voice, after a short time.
        "Certainly not," he replied; and then I went back sadly to Isabel's room.
        She had become violently excited. It was now twenty minutes past twelve. I had no comfort to give her. "Are they going to send to Clanmere?" she asked impatiently, turning round sharply upon me as I approached her.
        "No," I answered, in a faltering voice. "Your uncle thinks he had better not."
        "Then Uncle James thinks,—oh, Heaven help me!—what does he think, Helen?" she cried. And as she spoke the tears fell down upon her cheeks, and rolled in large drops down upon the fleecy lace and glistening satin. "My heart will burst if this goes on much longer. I have been so tried. I have borne so much for him. He should have spared me this!" She broke into a passionate wail of woe as she said this, and flung herself down upon the couch, crushing her veil and wreath,—writhing in the agony of love and doubt, of dread and shame, that possessed her. I would not let my own tears fall. I could do nothing that could soothe her. All I could do was to put my cold hand on her fevered one, and press it lovingly.
        Suddenly she started erect. "Helen," she began, "I have told you much, but not all about Gerald;—once before he deceived me, and I forgave him. You did not know that?" I was not compelled to add to her humiliation by telling her that I did know it, therefore I held my peace. "But every one else knew it," she went on, her chest heaving, and her voice rising to a cry almost; "I would not break down then; and all these months I know Uncle James and Aunt Emily have been blaming themselves for giving way to my wishes; and now it will kill me." The clock struck one. "For mercy's sake go down again," she exclaimed, starting up. "Keep every one from me;—keep away yourself, till you can tell me he is come. I shall go mad if I am not left alone."
        Once more I went away on my hopeless mission. Some people whom I knew stopped me before I reached the door of the room in which the Hazelwoods were still alone. "Miss Archer," the lady said, "we feel that really, under the circumstances, it will be better for us to order our carriages and go away quietly."
        "Already?" I asked bitterly.
        She shrugged her shoulders. "We really think so;" she replied; "of course we hope for the best; but really, the position is so very painful;—the Hazelwoods are very much to be pitied, and so is poor Miss Verney;—but some people have foreseen this."
        "I will say good morning to you at once," I said coldly. Then I went in to take further counsel with poor Mrs. Hazelwood, who by this time was weeping almost as bitterly as the insulted bride-elect. We formed a thousand plans, abandoned them, and formed others. We hoped, we suggested, we excused. All in vain. The hours crept on. Twice I had. been up to Isabel's door, which was locked, and had been refused admittance by her.
        "You shall leave me alone," she said the last time I knocked. "I dare not see any one yet, Helen; you don't know what this is; it's worse than death."
        At three o'clock the house was deserted by all but the regular inhabitants. For the last hour we had obeyed Isabel's injunction, and had left her "alone" to battle with that agony which she had declared to be worse than death. During that hour I had remained with Mr. and Mrs. Hazelwood, for all reserve on the subject was banished now, and they spoke freely before me and to me of the insulting wrong that had been offered to their child. They blamed themselves in words that went to my heart, for that touch of weakness in their love for her which had induced them to consent to the renewal of the engagement which had once been broken. Blamed themselves, because they would suffer no shadow of their blame to fall on the poor, loving, betrayed, obstinate girl, who was wrestling with her sorrow alone up-stairs.
        "It broke her health and altered her temper the first time," poor Mrs. Hazelwood said at last.
        "By Heaven's help it shall not break her heart now," her husband answered; "all that love and care and change of scene can do, shall be done."
        "Ah! my dear, such love and care as this, faithful as it is, will never heal this wound, or fill this gap," the old lady said to him tenderly; "the more we cherish and prize her, the more she will feel that she has been slighted and scorned and slapped by the hand she prized and cherished most!"
        "I must insist on my child seeing me and speaking to me now," Mr. Hazelwood said in answer to this, rising up slowly as he spoke. "Come, Emily, let us go to her; alone, Miss Archer; not even you must see this meeting." He put his hand kindly on my shoulder, as he led his wife past me, and I stood back reverentially almost, for theirs was a great sorrow.
        A hush had fallen over the house, and through the silence that reigned I heard him knock at Isabel's door. Then he leant over the banisters and called impatiently, "Send a locksmith here; she can't open the door:" and then I forgot his request that I should remain below, and ran up to join them. "She cannot open the door," Mrs. Hazelwood said, getting hold of my hand and looking at me with frightened eyes, and I asked in a whisper,—
        "Did she tell you so?"
        "No!—yes, she said something. Ah!" this was a sigh of mingled terror and relief, as the door gave way and we got into the room.
        Isabel was standing by a table in the window that commanded the avenue, leaning against the table, evidently requiring its support. She moved her head slowly and with an effort as we approached her, and her lips moved, but I did not hear any words. The fair beauty of her face was gone, altogether gone. Not marred and disfigured by passion, but gone as utterly as if she had never been any other than the haggard woman we now looked upon. Of the misery, the pain, the hopelessness there was in her eyes as she turned them upon us, I can give no adequate idea.
        We did not speak to her. We were wise in that. We did not torture her with words then. Her uncle took her in his arms, and moved her from the window, and as he did so, she threw back one wild despairing glance along the avenue by which he had promised to come. "She is cold as death!" Mr. Hazelwood said, as he placed her on the sofa; and as he placed her she remained, making no movement to attain ease or rest, but just staying in the crumpled-up position which her helplessness had obliged him to place her in. We took off her wreath and veil very gently, and the hours went by, and we thought she was resting and praying, for her eyes were closed and her hands were clasped. But just as the sun was sinking she rose up with a suddenness that startled away the possibility of our attempting to stop her, and went over to the window once more. Then she turned away nearly blind and staggering, and when we caught her in our arms we knew that the tension had been too great, and that now it was nearly over.
        So she died, just as the day did, the day to which she had looked forward with such wearing fluctuations of feeling for a year. I can give no record of the time that followed. She was dead! Suddenly that fair beautiful thing that was lying on the couch was taken from us, and colder hands moved it about, and colder lips named it, and we were nothing. We were only "permitted" by the old nurse to remain in the room.
        Rumours came to us before we could go away from the place which had been the scene of that terrible life and death struggle, that the man on whose head her blood rests, had gone away from Clanmere the night before that fatal day. Strangers rent his place now, and he has never been heard of since Isabel died for him. It is still a heart-sickening mystery, whether his conduct was caused by wanton cruelty, by the consequences of some former crime committed by him, or by madness. It is hard to believe that insanity could have so deliberately planned such treachery.