“Besides ‘tis known he could speak Greek,  As naturally as pigs can squeak.”
 
BUTLER’S HUDIBRAS.
 
 
 
AS Harry Vere turned the corner of the square, a carriage drove past him, in the direction of his father’s house. It passed quickly, but not before he had recognised the lady seated in it.
 
“What a blessing,” thought he to himself, “that Cissy was looking the other way, or as sure as fate she would have stopped, and cross-questioned me in that chatter-boxing way of hers. People all say she is so lively and charming. I dare say she is, but all the same I think Marion is worth a dozen of her.”
 
And so thinking, the boy hailed a passing hansom, and was quickly whirled off to the railway station.
 
Marion sitting alone, meditating sadly enough on Harry and his troubles, was soon interrupted. A soft rustle outside, the door gently opened, and her cousin entered.
 
“Oh, Marion, dear,” said she, as she kissed her, “I am in such a terrible fuss, and have been so busy all the morning that I have not got half my shopping done. So if you don’t mind, instead of my staying home, will you come out with me and help me to finish it, and we can settle all our plans on the way.”
 
“By all means,” replied Marion, “I shall be ready in two minutes,” and so she was, being in certain respects somewhat of an exception to young-ladyhood in general. There are, I think, by-the-way, some advantages to a girl in being brought up in a masculine household. With no sisters to back her small delinquencies, she is pretty sure, sooner or later, to discover that it is really much better and more comfortable to follow the example of the menkind about her, in such trifles as punctuality and other “minor morals” of the kind; adherence to which women in general seem to consider by no means an addition to their charms.
 
Hardly was Mrs. Archer again seated in the carriage when she commenced to pour into the sympathising ear of her cousin the recital of her many and all but overpowering afflictions.
 
“Only think, Marion,” said she, with the most self-pitying tone, “this whole day have I been rushing about in this carriage to one register-office after another, only varied by frantic dives into institutions for finding, or rather not finding unexceptionable governesses. Me, of all people on earth, to be entrusted with the selection of a model governess as if I hadn’t long ago forgotten every thing any of mine ever taught me. Though I must say, looking for nurses is almost as bad. And with the horrible feeling on me all the time, of how this carriage hire will be running up. It is really too bad of that tiresome old lady and that stupid girl. Just when I meant to be so economical too, and clear off all my bills before going away; for I really owe such a dreadful amount. I declare, Marion, I have a great mind to set off for India at once, instead of going to Altes.”
 
All this medley of grievances little Mrs. Archer ran through in such a hurry, that but for being pretty well accustomed to her rather bewildering way of talking, Marion would have been utterly at a loss to make sense or it. Knowing by previous experience that it was useless to attempt to put a word, till Cissy stopped from sheer want of breath, she patiently waited till this occurred; and then said quietly,
 
“Really, Cissy, you should have some pity on my dullness of apprehension. Why have you been running about to register-offices? I heard nothing of all this last night, when I saw you. I haven’t the slightest idea what tiresome old lady and stupid girl you are talking about. Nor can I see how going to India would pay your debts?”
 
“For goodness sake, Marion, don’t be so precise and methodical, or I’ll shake you,” replied Cissy, “how could I have told you last night what I didn’t myself know till this morning. And as to my bills, of course I am all right in India, as George looks after me there. He is so dreadfully particular never to owe anything, and not to spend too much and it is knowing this that makes me hate so not to manage with what he sends me, for I know it is the very utmost he can afford. I suppose I am one of those people Aunt Tremlett always speaks of as ‘very deficient in good management, my dear.’ But I really can’t help it. I’m too old to learn.”
 
“Well, we shall be very economical at Altes, Cissy,” said Marion, cheerfully; “I won’t let you buy anything. Not even velvet suits for Charlie! Though I’m sure you can’t want money more than I do,” she continued, with a sigh.
 
“You, child. What nonsense!” exclaimed her cousin, “if you don’t get money itself you get money’s worth, and no trouble of bills or any thing. You are talking rubbish, Marion. Wait till you are married, and the cares of life are upon you, before you talk wanting money.”
 
“It’s true, nevertheless,” maintained Marion; “but never mind about that now. You haven’t yet explained about the nurse and governess difficulty. Whom are you looking out for? Not for yourself? I thought you were so pleased with the maid you had engaged; and you don’t want a governess for Charlie?”
 
“Of course not; but that reminds me that I promised to buy him a bottle of red ink. Don’t let me forget. And also a wedding present for him to give to Foster, for she is a good soul really. She has put off her visit home till next week, so that she will see us safe off from Paris. It was only this morning I heard that the maid I had engaged can’t possibly come. She is ill or something. It is impossible to get one in her place at such short notice, so I have made up my mind, as Foster can go so far with us, to wait till we get to Altes, and get a French girl there to look after Charlie. It will be just as well, for she can teach him French. Provided he does not take it into his head to hate her for being what he calls a ‘Mounseer.’ ”
 
“Not a bit of him, if you tell him it would be rude and silly. I wish however that I could have helped you by taking my maid. But you see, I can’t do so, unless it had been arranged before, for mine, you know, is a rather venerable individual, and acts housekeeper to some extent. Tell me now about the governess mystery.”
 
“Oh!” said Cissy, “it was a letter I got this morning from old Lady Severn. They have just returned to Altes from some place or other where they have been during the summer, and she is in a great state to get a good English governess, for the very few daily governesses there have as much as they can do. So hearing accidentally of my going there, she write to ask me if I can hear of one, as it would be so much more satisfactory for me to see the unfortunate young lady in the first place. I daresay it would! But where the being in question is to be seen I haven’t yet discovered. I have got the names and addresses of two or three to tell her about, but I don’t think they seem particularly promising.”
 
“But what does an old lady want with a governess?” asked Marion; “didn’t you say Lady Severn was old?”
 
“Yes, of course,” answered Mrs. Archer, “sixty or seventy, or eighty for all I know. A regular old lady. But that does not prevent her having grandchildren, does it? Surely, though, Marion, you have heard of the Severns? Lady Severn is a step-sister of Lord Brackley’s in Brentshire. Did you never hear of them there?”
 
“No, not that I remember,” said Marion thoughtfully; “but you know I have not been there for several years. How is it the grand-children live with Lady Severn? Are their parents dead?”
 
“Yes, both,” replied Cissy, “and that’s how we know them. I mean,” she went on, “it was owing to George and these children’s father, the eldest brother, having been great friends at school and college. Old Lady Severn was devotedly attached to this son, Sir John, (the father died many years ago) and she has always kept up a correspondence with George for his sake. She and I have never met but she has written very cordially several times, and I was quite pleased to hear this morning of their being at Altes. I should have got her letter sooner, but not knowing my address, she sent it to George’s mother at Cheltenham to forward to me, which has, you see, caused all this hurry and fuss about a governess at the last minute.”
 
“How many children are there?” asked Marion.
 
“Two, both girls, ten and twelve, I think, their ages are. Their father died two years ago, so their uncle, Ralph Severn, is now the head of the family. Lady Severn has never got over Sir John’s death. It was very sudden, the result of an accident. He was her favourite too. I don’t fancy she cares very much for Sir Ralph, but, as far as I can judge, don’t think it is very much to be wondered at.”
 
“Why?” asked Marion, “is he not a good son?”
 
“Oh dear, yes,” said Cissy, “unexceptionably good in every respect. In fact, I fancy he is something of a prig and not half so attractive as his brother was. And besides, Sir Ralph has not been very much with his own family. John Severn was splendidly handsome, George has often told me. A grand, tall, fair man, and with the most winning manners. The sort of man who did everything well; riding and shooting and all those sorts of things you know. No wonder his mother was proud of him! Whereas Ralph is quite different, quite unlike his family, for they are all remarkably handsome people, and he is not at all so, I should say. Dark and sallow and gloomy looking. Horribly learned too, I believe. A great antiquary, and able to read all the languages of the Tower of Babel, I’ve been told. So he’s sure to be fusty and musty. He spent several years poking about for all manner of old books and manuscripts somewhere in the East.”
 
“How do you happen to know so much about him? Did you ever see him?” enquired Marion.”
 
“Yes, once, on our way to India, he met us at Cairo. He had been vice-consul somewhere, I think, but when I saw him he was in the middle of his poking for these dirty old books. I thought him a great bore, but George rather liked him. He had not the slightest idea then of getting the title, and I believe he hates having it. But I declare, Marion, we have been chattering so about the Severns that we haven’t said a word about our plans.”
 
Whereupon ensued a Bradshaw and Murray discussion, in which Cissy, having previously crammed for the occasion, came out very strong. Marion felt dull and depressed, but glad that her cousin’s pre-occupation prevented her observing that she was less lively than usual.
 
The shopping was at last satisfactorily executed. Just as they were about to separate at Mr. Vere’s door, Marion remembered a message which her father had charged her to deliver to Mrs. Archer.
 
“Oh, Cissy!” she exclaimed, “Papa said I was to tell you that instead of leaving money with me here for my expenses, he has sent some to Paris, so that you won’t have any trouble about the exchange. I was to ask you when we got there, to call at somebody or other’s bank, I have the name written down, and there you will find fifty pounds waiting for you to use for me. And then Papa wants you, after getting to Altes, to make a sort of calculation as to what my expenses will be, and he will send whatever sum you need.”
 
“Awful prospect!” exclaimed Cissy. “Imagine me drawing out a set of what do you call them?—statistics, isn’t that the word?—for Uncle Vere, as to the average prices and probable amount of bread, meat, fruit, &c, likely to be consumed by a young lady with a healthy appetite in the course of six months. I declare I can’t do it, Marion, but we’ll see when we get there. So good bye till tomorrow morning. I needn’t impress upon such a model as you the expediency of being ready in time, and not forgetting your keys.”
 
And so saying she drove away.
 
The next morning saw our little group of travellers fairly started on their journey. Mrs. Archer in a violent, but amiable state of fuss; Charlie, thoughtful and meditative, as became a would-be author, but perfectly ready, nevertheless, to take the whole party, luggage included, under his small wing, and inclined also to be severe and cutting to his nurse on the subject of her lachrymose condition, owing to the fast approaching separation from her darling.
 
“It’s what I’ve told you thousands of times, Foster,” he observed; “if you love me better than Mr. Robinson, then marry me, and we shall never be parted no more; but if you do marry him I won’t be angry, and come and have tea with you on Sundays if you’ll let me spread my own toast.”
 
Marion was standing by the book-stall, idly eyeing its contents, when the sound of a voice beside her, enquiring for a newspaper, struck her with a half-familiar sound, and involuntarily she glanced at the speaker. He was quite a young man, six or seven and twenty at most he appeared to be. The momentary glimpse of his face, before he turned away, gave her the same vague impression of having met him before, though where or when she had no idea. A very pleasant face, any way it was. Somehow Cissy’s words, when describing Sir John Severn to her the day before, came into her mind. “A grand, tall, fair man, with the most winning manners.” Of which last, in the present case, she had soon an opportunity of judging, for at that moment Charlie, running up to her eagerly, stumbled and fell, poor little fellow, full length on the hard platform. The blow to his dignity was worse than the bump on his head, and his mingled feelings would, in another moment, have been beyond his control, had not the stranger in the kindest and gentlest way lifted the child from the ground, holding him in his arms while he carefully wiped the dusty marks from his face and hands.
 
“There, that’s all right again. Nothing for a brave little man like you to cry for, I’m sure,” said he brightly, at which well-timed exhortation Charlie was speedily himself again.
 
“Thank you very much,” said Marion. “Now Charlie, we’ll go hack to your mamma.”
 
But at the sound of her voice the stranger started.
 
“Surely,” he began, but the sentence was never completed, for at that moment went the bell rang, and Mrs. Archer hurrying up, swept them all off in her train, leaving the young man standing with a puzzled expression on his face, as Marion, involuntarily smiling at their mutual perplexity, half bowed in farewell as she passed him.
 
“Who could that be, Cissy?” said she, when they were at length satisfactorily settled amidst railway rugs and shawls, and Charlie having related his misfortunes to his mother, had been further consoled by a biscuit.
 
“Who could it be?” she repeated, “that tall, fair man who picked Charlie up so kindly. I am sure I have seen him before.”
 
But Cissy had not observed him, and though Marion amused herself by trying to guess the riddle she not succeed in doing so. The incident, however, was not without its use, for during the long journey to Paris, it took her thoughts a little off what had been engrossing them to an undesirable extent—her brother’s troubles.
 
Thinking seemed to bring her no suggestion as to any way of obtaining the thirty pounds, so she at last made the manful resolution for a time to dismiss the subject from her mind, and when arrived at Altes, if no other idea should strike her, to consult with Cissy, who was certainly quick-witted enough, and also thoroughly to be trusted once she really understood the necessity for silence on any particular subject.
 
The journey to Paris, including that horror of mild voyagers, crossing the channel, was safely accomplished. A day or two in the Paradise of milliners, during which time Cissy underwent torments, compared to which those of Tantalus were as nothing, from the sight of palaces of delight, yclept “magasins de modes,” into which she dared not venture, and from which her only safety was in flight.
 
A heartrending parting scene between Foster and her beloved Master Charlie, whose heroic fortitude gave way at the last; and again the little party, now reduced to three, are off on their travels.
 
“Now my dear Marion,” said Cissy, with the air of a very small Jeanne d’Arc about to lead an army into battle, “now our adventures are about to begin. Behold in me your only pillar of defence, your only refuge in danger, and—all that sort of thing, you know. Do be quiet Charlie; what is the matter with you?”
 
“Foster promised to buy one a gun in case we meet wobbers and fiefs,” said Charlie dole-fully, “and she forgot.”
 
“Never mind, child, I’ll get you one at Altes. I only wish we were there!” said his mother.
 
“By-the-by, Cissy, have you heard any more about our lodgings at Altes?” enquired Marion.
 
“Oh dear yes, I got an answer to any letter just as we started this morning, but I’ve hardly read it yet,” and as she spoke, Mrs. Archer drew it from her pocket. “Yes, that’s all right. It is from Bailey, the English doctor at Altes, to whom mine at home gave me an introduction. It’s really very kind. He says he has engaged a charming apartement for me, and cheap too, and that the daughter of the somebody—who is it, Marion? Oh, I see, the propriétaire. Yes, the daughter of the propriétaire, Madame Poulin, will be very happy to act as maid and look after Charlie. That’s a blessing. And he, that’s Dr. Bailey, will send some one to meet us on our arrival, so after all, Marion, we need not be afraid of meeting with much in the way of adventures.”
 
“Is inventures fiefs, Mamma?” asked Charlie, “for if they are, you needn’t he afraid. I can pummel them even without a gun. And take care of you too, May, if you’re good.”
 
“Thank you, Charlie,” said Marion, laughing, “I’ll not forget your promise.” And then, turning to Cissy, she asked if she knew anyone else at Altes besides Lady Severn.
 
“I had one or two introductions,” Mrs. Archer replied, “but I know no one personally, except old Major and Mrs. Berwick, who are residents there. They used to live at Clifton, and one of the daughters was at school with me. She can’t be very young now, for she was some years older than I.”
 
And so, chatting from time to time they beguiled the weariness of a long day shut up in a railway carriage. Charlie fortunately was very good, and when he got tired of looking out of the window, had the good sense to compose himself for a little siesta, which lasted till they were close to the town where they were to stay for the night. This they spent in a queer, old-world sort of hotel, where the windows of the rooms all looked into each other, and the beds were panelled into the wall, something like those in old Scotch farmhouses. I write of some few years ago. No doubt imperial rule has by this time “changé tout cela,” and, travelling in France is probably fast becoming as commonplace as anywhere else. The rest of the journey, which occupied two long days, was performed en diligence, an irksome enough mode of procedure, as those who have had the misfortune to be shut up in a coupé for twenty or thirty hours it a stretch cam testify.
 
The country for some distance was fertile, and here and there, when one got rid of the poplars, even picturesque. But halfway to Altes on the last day, it altogether changed in character, becoming utterly waste and sterile. Now, as far as the eye could reach, nothing was to be seen on either side of the road, but long stretches of bleak, barren moorland. Hardly, indeed, correctly described by that word, for our northern moors have a decided, though peculiar, beauty of their own, wholly wanting in the great, dead-looking wastes of this part of France, known as “les landes.” To add to the gloomy effect of the scene, a close drizzling rain began to fall, and continued without the slightest break, the whole of that dreary afternoon.
 
Marion, though neither morbid nor weak-minded, was yet, like all sensitive and refined organisations, keenly alive to the impressions of the outer world. A ray of sudden sunshine; a tiny patch of the exquisitely bright green moss, one sometimes sees amidst a mass of dingy browns and olives; or the coming unexpectedly towards the close of a dusty summer ramble on one of those fairylike wells of coolest, purest water all shaded round by a bower or drooping ferns and bracken,—these, and such things as these caused her to thrill with utterly inexpressible delight. But on the other side she, of necessity, suffered actual pain from trifles which, in coarser natures, waken no sense of jar or discord.
 
I do not, however, believe that this latter class of feelings is ever roused by nature herself, except where she has been distorted, or in some way interfered with. Even in her gloomiest and wildest aspects, the impression she makes upon us is of awe, but never horror; of melancholy, but never revulsion of pain, in some mysterious way so far transcending pleasure, as to be, to my thinking, the most exquisite of all such sensations.
 
In a half-dreamy, half-pensive mood sat Marion, this dull September afternoon, in the ugly, dingy old French diligence, intently gazing as if it fascinated her, on the far stretch of grim, brown waste all round; the rain dripping and drizzling, and the poor tired horses patiently splashing on through the mud, now and then encouraged by the queer outlandish cries of the driver. At last, the girl glanced round at her companions. Both fast asleep. There was nothing else to do, so she again betook herself to the window, and yielded to the gloomy fascination of the moor and the rain. It began, at last, to seem that her whole life had been spent thus, that everything else was a dream, and the only realities were the great trackless desert, and the diligence rumbling on for ever, where to and where from she seemed neither to know nor care. Then, I suppose, she must have fallen into a doze, or perhaps asleep outright. However this was, she must have shut her eyes for some time, for when she next was conscious of using them, all was changed.
 
Still the wide-stretching moor all round; but no longer brown and grim, it now appeared a field of lovely shades of colour; for far away at the horizon, the beautiful sun was setting in many-hued radiance, and the rain had all cleared away, except a few laggard drops still falling softly, each a miniature rainbow as it came. Marion watched till the sun was gone. Then the golden light grew softer and paler, the clouds melted from crimson and rose, to the faintest blush, and at last all merged in a silvery greyness, which in its turn gradually deepened again to the dark, even blue of a cloudless night. And one by one the stars came out, each in its accustomed place; all the old friends whom Marion had first learnt to call by name from the windows of the little cottage at Brackley. Somehow the strangeness and the loneliness seemed to leave her as she saw them, and a feeling of tranquil happiness stole over her. But this solitary evening in the old diligence was never forgotten, for it became to her one of those milestones in life, little noticed in passing, but plainly seen on looking back.
 
Soon, a rattle on the stop y, and lights of another kind from those overhead, told the travellers that their wearisome journey was ended at last. Cissy woke up brisk as ever; for whatever weak points Mrs. Archer may have had, she was certainly strong that of being an agreeable travelling companion. It is a trite saying, that there is no trial of temper equal to that afforded by being shut up together for weeks in a ship, or for days in a railway. But both of these tests Cissy’s amiability had stood triumphantly. Now rubbing her eyes as she sat up and looked about her, she exclaimed brightly, “Here we are, I declare, and now we shall soon be able to put this poor little fellow to bed comfortably,” glancing at still sleeping Charlie. Then, in the sudden inconsequent manner peculiar to very impulsive people, added hastily:—
 
“Marion, do you know it has just this instant struck me that I quite forgot to answer Lady Severn’s letter. How very stupid and careless of me! I shall have to go to see her to-morrow to explain about it.”
 
As she spoke, they drove into a covered courtway. The diligence drew up at last with a squeak and a grunt, as if it sympathised with the tired, cramped travellers it had brought so far. A jabber outside, and the conducteur jerked open the door, enquiring if Madame Archère were the name of “une de ces dames.”
 
“Archère. Archer,” repeated Cissy “yes, certainly, by all means. Now Charlie, my boy, wake up;” and so alighting from their coupé, they found that the very obliging Dr. Bailey had sent a man-servant and carriage to convey them to their apartement at the other end of the queer, rambling, up-and-down-hill little town.
 
It was not so very late after all, though past poor Charlie’s bedtime, when they found themselves installed in the pretty little suite of rooms, which for several months to come they were to consider “home.”
 
The first thing to be done, of course, was to get the small gentleman of the party safely disposed of for the night. He pronounced himself too sleepy to want any supper; but brightened up in the most aggravating manner at the sight of pretty Thérèse Poulin, already prepared to commence her new duties as his personal attendant.
 
“Little Miss Mounseer,” said he deliberately, seating himself on a stool and staring lap in her face, “tell me what your name is.” To which, on Marion’s interpretation, the girl replied smilingly:
 
“Thérèse, mon cher petit monsieur. Thérèse Poulin.”
 
“Trays,” repeated he meditatively; “Trays, very well then, Trays. I’ll let you undress me if you’ll always let me spread my bread myself.”
 
Delighted at the promising aspect of the much-dreaded new nursery arrangements, Cissy and Marion made their escape to the little salle-à-manger, where Madame Poulin, a cheery active old body, had providently prepared tea à l’ Anglais, as she phrased it, for their refreshment.
 
Happening to ask, as she left the room, if the ladies had any messages they would like executed that evening; any letters to be posted for instance, a thought struck Cissy, and she enquired if the post-office were near at hand. To which Madame Poulin replied briskly, that it was in the very next street, just round the corner.
 
Then,” said Mrs. Archer, “pray send some one to ask if there are any letters lying there for me, for,” she added, turning to Marion, “it is quite possible there may be, as I gave no address, but, poste restante, and all yours will come under cover to me, as we agreed would be best.”
 
Five minutes later, Thérèse entered the room with two letters for Madame, which had been waiting her arrival since the day before. Tearing one open an enclosure fell out, addressed to Miss Vere, who seized it eagerly.
 
“From Harry, I see,” said Mrs. Archer, “what a model brother to write so quickly!”
 
But Marion did not respond with her usual brightness to her cousin’s remark, for before opening the envelope a misgiving came over her that its contents would not be of a cheerful nature. Nor, alas, were they! Poor Harry wrote in sore trouble. It appeared that the money lender, the “wretched little Jew,” of the boy’s story, had begun to have fears about obtaining from Cuthbert the sum he declared to be owing to him. The very day Harry had seen his sister in London, the man had stopped Cuthbert in the street, and had loudly threatened him with exposure unless the money were speedily forthcoming. The distress and anxiety all this was causing his friend, Harry very naturally felt must be put a stop to, and he wrote to say that he only waited for Marion’s reply, in the faint hope that some idea might have struck her, before making up his mind to risk all, and boldly apply to his father.
 
Marion shuddered at the bare thought. She was tired too, and over-excited by her several days’ travelling. Cissy was engrossed by her own letter, and did not for a moment or two notice poor Marion’s face of despondency and distress.
 
Suddenly looking up to tell some little piece of news, in which her young cousin might take interest, she was startled by the girl’s expression. “May, my dear child, whatever is the matter? Have you had news from home?” enquired she anxiously.
 
“Oh, no,” answered Marion, “at least, not exactly. Nothing but what I knew before.”
 
But the ice once broken, the impulse to confide her trouble to kind, sympathising Cissy, was too strong to be resisted, and in another minute Mrs. Archer was in possession of all the facts of the case.
 
She listened attentively, only interrupting Marion by little soft murmurs of pity for her anxiety. And when she had heard the whole she agreed with her cousin that it certainly would be very awful to have to apply to Mr. Vere, only she “really didn’t see what else was to be done.”
 
“If only, I could possibly spare the money,” she said, “but alas—”
 
“Cissy, you know I wasn’t thinking of that,” interrupted Marion; “I know you are rather short of money yourself, just now.”
 
“Indeed, I am,” said Cissy dolefully; “but now, May dear, you must go to bed and try to sleep. I promise you I’ll cudgel my brains well, and we’ll see by to-morrow if we cannot somehow or other help poor Harry out of his scrape.”
 
With which rather vague consolation, Marion, for the present had to be satisfied. And with an affectionate “good night,” the cousins separated.