When Mary Elizabeth Braddon named her monthly magazine Belgravia, she had every intention of harnessing the elegance associated with that London neighborhood. This story by an anonymous author certainly emphasizes class boundaries as it demonizes the governess in a number of ways. The description of her appearance includes a racial slur; the offensive term appears four times in that 1869 volume of Belgravia, attesting to its perceived acceptance among middle-class Victorian readers.
CHAPTER I
“I’m afraid you’ll have but a dull time of it, old fellow; it isn’t too late to write, and say we find we can’t manage it, even now; not but that the poor old guv would be awfully cut up, and the girls too, for that matter.”
“I wouldn’t disappoint them for the world,” broke in the individual addressed; “so that’s settled. As for being slow, or anything of that sort, it’s never slow with plenty of girls in the house.”
“O, there’s plenty of ’em, if that’s all,” rejoined the first speaker; and his tone, to one who did not know him as his friend did, might perhaps have sounded just a trifle unappreciative of the blessing; “but when it’s a fellow’s sisters, you know—”
“Yes, but then you see, my dear Jack, in my case it’s another fellow’s sisters. So, come, pack up your traps; and then hurrah for the governor and the girls!”
Jack, thus adjured, said no more. The hint that even now, at the eleventh hour, there was yet time to reconsider their plans, had been thrown out, truth to tell, and his friend knew, in no anxiety of Jack’s for himself. Indeed it is to be more than doubted if the disappointment of either the “governor” or the girls would have greatly exceeded Jack’s own, had his suggestion of giving up the projected home-visit been differently received. So that was settled. An hour or so later, and the December fog was stealing down on the dingy London streets and over its murky river; but Jack Layford and his friend were leaving it all—river, streets, and fog—fast behind them, as, tearing, puffing, snorting, they sped on their iron road eastward.
“Only a couple of years,” Jack is saying from his snug corner of the first-class G. E. railway carriage that they have contrived to secure all to themselves,—“only a couple of years! I can scarcely believe it; and to think that we might never have known each other at all, Phil, if it hadn’t been for that jolly old umbrella of mine!”
And Jack spoke truth; but for the said umbrella the two friends might never have been even acquaintances. East and west, just so far apart, had their courses lain. East, Jack Layford; west, Philip Carlyon. So far west indeed the latter, that he could not well have made it farther; unless, that is, he had quitted terra firma altogether and taken to the sea. East and west through school-days and college-days. Then had come the world (which was London) and Jack Layford’s umbrella (on Phil Carlyon’s toes); and east and west had met at last, to be east and west no longer.
Jack loved to go over the story of that first meeting; how, seated side by side in the pit of the Haymarket one raw November evening, strangers both in the great city, they had stolen shy glances at one another, it might be, but nothing more; until the row at the end, “when I brought that umbrella of mine down on your ‘patents,’ Phil, and you swore; and then there was supper together at Evans’s; and that’s how it all came about, eh, old fellow?”
But, as Jack says, two years ago all this. Friends now; Damon and Pythias, with various other small and harmless jokes at the two’s expense; but Damon and Pythias knowing very little of one another’s personal history and belongings, as is not unfrequently the case when the surnames of those gentlemen happen to be Bull. Layford, for instance, knew in a kind of general way that his friend Carlyon was an only child, with an adoring mother down at some outlandish-sounding place in Cornwall, to which he vanished now and then for a week or so, as the fit took him; knew also that he had an income of some sort, and concluded it to be a good one; rides in the Row, balls, fêtes, &c. in the season, with the moors or Norway for the vacation months, being a state of things scarcely attainable by the present means of so many dinners a week during term-time, with a remote contingency of briefs in the future. Again, with Carlyon, he, for his part, had a kind of vague knowledge of his friend Jack being one of a large family, the rest of which were girls; knew, furthermore, that there was no mother, and that “the guv,” as Jack was irreverently given to term him, was the best of old fellows, and farmed some hundreds of acres down in Suffolk, as other Layfords had done before him time out of mind; and lastly, though not least, that he made the said Jack a very fair allowance, though he had been ever so little disappointed when that young gentleman had suddenly announced his intention of renouncing the church for something more substantial in the shape of common law.
“Here we are, old fellow, home at last!”
And how home-like the old house gleamed through the winter’s night! a little foggy, even down here. Home-like even to Philip Carlyon’s eyes, to whom it brought no memories, no associations; home-like indeed to honest Jack’s, to whom it brought both things.
Jack scarcely waited for the dog-cart to stop; down went the reins, and Philip saw his big friend standing in a flood of light, the centre of a grand complication of female arms and heads, in the old-fashioned hall, before he himself had time to make his more leisurely descent. The young Cornishman stood for a moment irresolute, and with a feeling of something very like shyness, in the open doorway. But it was only for a moment. The old Squire had spied him out.
“Come in, sir; come in!” cried Jack’s governor, dragging his visitor by the hand, and shaking it warmly at the same time. “Why, Jack, sir, what are you thinking about, eh?”
“I can’t help it, sir,” cried poor Jack deprecatingly, and making an effort at freedom; “it’s the girls.”
But the girls had caught sight of the stranger by this time, and falling back, a laughing, blushing group, gave Jack his liberty.
“I see I needn’t introduce you to the governor, Carlyon,” said Jack with a nod, as he endeavoured to restore to something like order his ruffled plumes; “and these are the girls.” Having said which, Jack appeared to consider that he had fulfilled the whole duty of man under the circumstances, and proceeded forthwith to suggest hot water in the bedrooms, and something to eat in the dining-room as soon as practicable.
If Philip Carlyon had found the old house home-like in that view of it from the outside, he found the great dining-room with its panelled walls, blazing fire, and soft lamp-light, with tea awaiting them, more home-like still. Perhaps it was not just these things alone that served to give the home-like look. There was a something there that Philip Carlyon’s home, happy as it might have been, had never known. There was the old Squire, firm and stalwart still, with his cheery voice and bright keen eyes, and hair too that was crisp as ever, if the dark brown was here and there streaked with gray. And there were the girls. Philip began counting them to himself, and wondering which was which, for Jack had in a measure accustomed him to their names. There was one Phil knew must be Miss Layford. She it was who made the tea, attended to the Squire, and was moreover evidently an authority with the rest. Jack sat next her; and Phil thought that if the choice had been given him, he might perhaps have chosen that seat too. She was not much like Jack, this eldest sister, excepting that she was rather tall, taller by some inches than any of the other girls—though more than half of them, it is true, had not yet done growing, even among the bigger ones. Then if she was not exactly what could be called dark—nothing like so dark as Philip himself, for instance—she had certainly nothing of Jack’s fairness.
Philip came to the decision, by the time that tea was over, that Miss Layford’s hair must be chestnut, and her eyes—well, chestnut too. Great soft brown eyes, with a dash of red gold in them—he had a favourite dog at home with just such eyes. But Miss Layford’s guest—desirable in his eyes as that occupation might have seemed—could not sit staring at her all tea-time.
There was a lady seated opposite him, at whom—had his taste in the matter been consulted—Philip Carlyon would perhaps rather not have looked at all; and yet he did look more than once, and was savage with himself in consequence. Not one of the family, as he easily discovered, for she was addressed as Miss Dormer. She appeared to have the charge of the half-dozen or so of girls seated near; among them two little ones, twins evidently—with round curly heads, fair, like Jack’s, and very round eyes, blue, also like Jack’s—who stared shyly at the strange guest, reminding him forcibly of two little robins on the look-out for crumbs. “She’s the governess,” said Phil to himself; “but then why is she here in the holidays?”
After a time he found himself asking why she was there at all, and finally came to the decision that he would not sit opposite her again if he could help it. Her eyes offended him. “Confound her, why can’t she keep ’em to herself!” he growled; “they’re like gimlets, by Jove!” Even the unfortunate young woman’s hair must needs irritate him; and yet it was such hair as all the “Macassar” of Rowland6 and his tribe could scarcely have induced on half-a-dozen heads in the United Kingdom,—luxuriant, black—raven black. “She’s a nigger, I believe,” was Phil’s final conclusion; “only she’s managed to get some of the dye out of her hands and face.” But the round of observation was not yet complete—“the girls” were by no means exhausted. There was one, for instance, seated next Philip, Flop by name—self-achieved, as he shortly discovered—with whom—after she had all but deposited a cup of tea in his lap, and had dropped her spoon, knife, and various other trifles below the table, which he had been under the necessity of diving for and recovering—he found himself on terms of almost brotherly intimacy. Then there was Emmy, and Lotty, and Bessie; though which was which, together with a few other little details connected with them, was a subject upon which our friend Philip’s ideas were at present a trifle misty.
6 A hair oil much advertised in the Victorian period.
In the drawing-room, after tea, Phil found these little matters gradually resolving themselves, as was natural. And now, if Jack Layford’s friend had been disposed to envy him his position at the tea-table, how much more so when, Miss Layford having seated herself at the piano, that lucky young giant was at her side once more, turning over the leaves and calling her Margaret, while she, smiling and obedient, gave him song after song as it was called for! And all this while Phil was being literally held by the button by the somewhat prosy old Squire. After a time Miss Dormer went to the piano, but Jack did not turn over the leaves for her; and Philip, free by this time—feeling horribly rude all the while—would not make the offer; so it fell to the lot of the good-natured Flop—after, it is to be premised, she had by way of inauguration brought down the walnut-wood “what-not” and its load with a horrible crash to the ground. Nor had Philip Miss Layford even for an excuse, she having been called from the room just at the moment at which she rose from the piano; and although Phil kept a sharp look-out on the door, she did not return until the innocent Squire had once more captured his unwary guest. On the whole, perhaps the evening might, so far as our friend was concerned, have been more successful; but Phil consoled himself with the determination before he went to sleep that night to manage affairs better in future.
In accordance with which resolution, when Jack Layford descended to the breakfast-table the next morning, resplendent in pink and cords, he found another figure—not quite such a massive or brilliant one it may be, but quite as faultlessly turned out—in the field before him. There, seated at Margaret’s side, assisting her with the coffee-pot, buttering her toast, laughing, talking the while, doing everything in short just as if he had been the veritable Jack himself, sat Mr. Philip Carlyon. Was it Philip’s fancy, or did Jack’s bright face really cloud over at the sight? But for the utter absurdity of the thing, Philip could almost have said that it was so. Jack was certainly restless that morning. He wandered from the table to the sideboard, fluttered from cold meat to hot, and ended by eating neither. His principal occupation seemed to be watching the two at the head of the table; while Miss Dormer’s attention appeared to be divided among the three.
“Come, Carlyon,” cried Jack at last, “I think before the day is over you will wish you had eaten your breakfast instead of talking.”
But Carlyon only laughed.
“Mr. Carlyon does not agree with you.” The voice was Miss Dormer’s.
Mr. Carlyon was looking red now, Jack black, and Miss Layford—well, rather red also. At this moment the Squire came innocently to the general rescue.
“Well, if you won’t really take any more, Mr. Carlyon, I think we may as well be getting off.”
“I am ready, sir,” said Phil, rising.
Jack had already disappeared; and in a few minutes the girls had the old house to themselves.
There was a late dinner that day; and the evening was passed much the same as the previous one had been, with this exception, that Philip, strong in his resolution of the past night, did somehow contrive to manage affairs more to his own satisfaction. In the first place, he secured the much-desired post at Miss Layford’s piano, turned over the leaves and chose the songs, just as that lucky Jack had done the night before. He even condescended so far as to smile on his pet aversion, the governess, when her turn came; and, sitting by Margaret’s side in some far-off corner, made no sign of impatience throughout the entire performance. And Jack? From the chess-table, over which he sat with the “guv,” he cast so many restless glances at the far-off corner, made so many extraordinary moves, and was finally so evidently lost as to his own position in the game, or his adversary’s either, that the Squire at last good-naturedly sent him off to join his friend. But of this permission Jack did not avail himself. He made his way to the piano instead, dethroned Flop, again on duty, not in the gentlest manner, and was Miss Dormer’s humble slave for the rest of the evening.
The little black-eyed governess flushed a little as Jack came up.
“You find it dull,” she said softly; “and you want poor little nobody to take pity on you; so even I am of use sometimes, Mr. Layford?”
She was not looking at him; the dark eyes, with a strange light in them, were on the stray couple, whispering and smiling together in the distant corner. Jack’s eyes followed hers, as it was just possible she had intended they should do. It was only for a moment; then he turned them once more on her, and Miss Dormer knew that there was an angry flash in them, but not for her.
“Pray don’t talk like that, Miss Dormer,” stammered poor foolish Jack, “about being nobody, and—and that sort of thing. I’m sure you’re as good a friend as a fellow ever had; and while a fellow has a friend like you, by Jove!” cried Jack, almost aloud in his defiance, “I don’t see what he need care for any other.”
“O hush, pray hush!” cried Miss Dormer softly, with a little sigh. But Jack would not hush.
What more he said need not be set down here; poor foolish fly, he knew the web was there, and the spider too, for that matter. He had known it before to-night; and yet he had only to be asked in a few soft words—combined with certain influences from without, of which Madame Spider knew the full worth—and he was ready to walk in. Poor foolish fly indeed! Mr. Jack Layford, then, having made about as great a fool of himself as a young man could well be expected to do in the time, Miss Dormer wisely determined to let well alone; but if she did not vouchsafe her cavalier any amount of conversation, she took care to keep him by her side. As for her silence, perhaps Miss Dormer was of opinion that the little tableau afforded by the handsome couple in the far-off corner was calculated to assist her plans, whatever they might be, more than any mere words of hers could do. And perhaps Miss Dormer was right.
“The glass is falling,” said the old Squire, as he bade his guest good-night. “We shall have snow before morning.”
Mr. Carlyon gave a little shiver.
“Does the idea of being snowed-up in a dull country-house quite give you the horrors, Mr. Carlyon?” asked Miss Layford laughingly, as she gave him her hand.
Philip laughed too.
“On the contrary, Miss Layford, I should only be too happy could it snow for ever.”
The Squire had moved off, but Jack stood near.
“Come and have a pipe, Carlyon. You would stand paying compliments until to-morrow morning.”
“Well, you needn’t stay to hear them, my dear fellow.—Now, need he, Miss Layford?”
“O, come along!” growled Jack.
“What a bear you are, Jack!—Now, isn’t he, Miss Layford?”
“O, dreadful!” and Miss Layford gave the “bear” her hand; but Jack would scarcely take the little hand that lay in his.
“Good-night,” he said; and then he marched out of the room. Philip followed him. In the hall, Jack turned:
“I don’t think I shall smoke to-night; you know the way if you care to; there’s tobacco and things about.”
“No, thank you,” said Carlyon; “if you’re not that way inclined, I’m off to bed; though I don’t see why you need have been in such a deuce of a hurry, if you didn’t mean to smoke after all.”
“O, there’s such lots to do to-morrow; the place to get done—holly, and all that sort of thing; then there’s people coming in the evening; Christmas-eve, you know; and the girls are best in bed.”
“I’m sure I didn’t want to keep the girls up,” said Philip, with a little twinkle in his dark eyes.
Jack gave a grunt; and Phil, unable to contain himself any longer, burst out laughing. Jack joined in.
“I’m in a beast of a temper, I know,” said poor Jack; “but I can’t help it.”
“Well, I won’t contradict you,” replied his friend; “and, as I fancy, the best place for you will be bed—like the girls, you know. Good-night.”
Jack was soon beyond the reach of his troubles; but his friend Carlyon did not find sleep come so easily. Jack puzzled him; many things puzzled him; but, there, it was no use bothering himself, he was no nearer any solution of the mystery. Phil decided that the only thing left for him to do was to look to time and chance—or even, should such a course seem advisable, to Jack himself—for an explanation.
The morning brought a fulfilment of the Squire’s prophecy. Philip Carlyon looked from his bedroom window on to a world of white—such a world as the young Cornishman had not often seen. “What,” Phil asked himself, as he went through the rather difficult operation of shaving, “what if they really were to be snowed-up? And what was the longest possible time such a state of things could be expected to last—a week, for instance—a month?” Then Phil laughed at his own folly. “Never mind; I must make the best of what time I have,” said he. And in a few minutes he was making the best of it accordingly, over the dining-room fire, with Miss Layford and a small detachment of the girls, cold, but merry as usual. In a minute or two Miss Dormer and her charges came in, after her the Squire; and then they sat down to breakfast. “Jack was always late,” Miss Layford said; and so was Flop. Not that Flop loved her bed particularly, but she always contrived to meet with so many checks and misfortunes in the course of her toilette, that it was like struggling against fate to get through it at all. Jack appeared in tolerably good time, for him, looking, as Phil was glad to think, decidedly improved in temper by the night’s rest. There was to be no getting out of the house that day for any one—at least, no one seemed disposed to try it. But there was plenty to be done in it, as Jack had said. There was work for all, even for the two round-headed, round-eyed little girls, who looked, Phil thought, more like two little robins than ever, as they went hopping about here and there, laden with bits of shining evergreen, as if bent on that fabled errand of mercy so dear to nursery days.