Chapter XI: The Day After

Next day! It was a lovely summer day, but very hot and stifling in Hyde Park Square. Miss Campbell did not permit her pupil so much as that wistful gaze from the window across the brown park and dusty trees, which is the favorite consolation of such prisoners. She allowed no indulgence on account of an unsettled mind, but rather the reverse. And what a day it was! nothing but sunshine, heat, blazing pavements outside, airless rooms, all hot and heavy with the warm carpets and curtains of English use and wont. Vera read Rollin’s Ancient History all the afternoon, not even trying, as she often did, to interest herself in Xerxes, but thinking all the time of yesterday, and of all that happened. “Perhaps the world may end to-night.” What did he mean? Would he have liked it to go on, and on, that progress through the darkness, without seeing anything, without saying much, but now and then half-a-dozen words quite low, under cover of the lively chatter of the two people opposite? Was it possible that _he_ would have liked that? As for Vera, she did not ask herself if she liked it. It had changed the world to her; it had given her a new world of her own into which she could retire safely, almost glad of the Rollin, and think it all over again,--the few words that meant so much, the consciousness of nearness and companionship, the dreamy sweep of movement through the soft night.

“Are you sleepy, my dear?” said Miss Campbell, somewhat sharply rousing her.

“N--no,” said Vera.

“I thought you must be sleepy, you mumble your words so, and shut your eyes. I suppose you were kept up very late at the villa,” the old governess said. She disliked the villa with an intensity of dislike such as mingled jealousy and fear alone could produce. She was afraid that any day Mrs. Tremenheere might come back and turn her out of a comfortable home; and she was jealous of the mother’s influence with Vera, of whom in her way this hard-featured, hard-principled woman was fond, though she could not express her fondness in any ingratiating way. “Go on, my dear, and rouse yourself up,” she said--and Vera went on; but when she shut her eyes she could see that scene, and feel it, as vividly as if it were still existing, and still within the possibilities that it might go on for ever; and then her voice would drop, and there would be a pause in the reading of which she was scarcely conscious; for dreaming even of that description in a hot July afternoon is akin to sleep.

“This will never do, Vera,” said Miss Campbell; “I suppose your mother did not have a ball last night? Go and put on your hat; we may have our walk now, and perhaps that will rouse you up.”

They went out for their walk when the afternoon was beginning to cool a little, and went to Kensington Gardens, which was the usual scene of their daily promenade. A demure little girl in a white frock, not even made quite “long” as yet, with a very precise, elderly lady by her, straight as a piece of iron, and as unbending--this sort of thing is to be seen in Kensington Gardens every day. They walked down the broad walk and up again, going quickly, but not too quickly, not to attract attention, Miss Campbell keeping a steady look-out around her, on her guard against any possible danger, Vera very silent, scarcely raising her eyes.

“Miss Campbell!” suddenly said a voice beside her, which made Vera’s heart beat. She gave such a sudden start of surprise, and grew so red with wonder and joy that Miss Campbell vaguely perceived with a corner of her eye that something was the matter. “This is a most unlooked-for pleasure. I have been waiting here wondering if I should see anybody I knew now that all the world is pouring out of town. You are still in London? Ah!” said Oswald, coldly turning round and bowing, “I beg your pardon, Miss Tremenheere.”

Vera, who was not used to such transparent deceits, was wounded to her innocent heart. “So he does not care about seeing _me_! I am only an accident. He saw nobody but Miss Campbell!” the foolish little girl said to herself. And she did not trust herself to look at him lest he should see the hot tear which this mortification had forced into her eyes, and consequently never received the glance he sent to make up for his meagre salutation. Fane had as little doubt that she understood him perfectly, and was laughing secretly at his enthusiasm for Miss Campbell, as he had of his own existence.

“You have the advantage of me,” said Miss Campbell. “I beg your pardon. One meets so many people in society----”

“Oswald Fane,” he said. “I had the pleasure of dining the other day in Hyde Park Square----”

Miss Campbell gave him a keen glance. “I recollect,” she said. “A friend, I think, of Mrs. Tremenheere’s?”

What was he to say? Offend Vera by disclaiming any particular friendship with her mother, or ruin his hopes of Miss Campbell’s help by claiming this? “I have known Mr. and Mrs. Tremenheere about the same time,” he said, “and I have had the pleasure of visiting both. But I think I have known some relations of yours in Scotland longer than either--the Campbells of Stormaway? I am sure I have heard them talk of you.”

“Really!” said Miss Campbell, gratified, “that was very kind. I know the family you speak of--a very good family, but I cannot claim them as near relations. There is some far cousinship, no doubt. It is gratifying to my feelings that they should know--I mean remember me; and have you seen them lately Mr.--Mr. Vane?”

“Fane. I met them in Scotland last year; indeed, I was at their house for a few days. What a pleasant place to visit is a Highland country house! Of course you remember your cousin’s delightful place?”

“Yes--yes--that is, I have been there very seldom, Mr. Fane; very seldom, not since a child, I may say; and no doubt there are additions and alterations----”

“They said it was a long time since they had seen you, and I promised to let them know if I happened to meet you anywhere. A fortunate chance, was it not? The daughters have grown up charming girls, and as for Hector and Colin----”

“Yes--yes,” said Miss Campbell. She was for the moment quite bamboozled; was he trying to deceive her, or was it really true that the Highland magnates, whose names alone she was acquainted with, had found out and recognised her as their kinswoman? After the first flush of gratification she became uncertain, and did not know what to think. He had turned, and was walking along with them. But he walked by Miss Campbell’s side, taking no notice of Vera, who for her part went along with downcast eyes, offended and never looking at him.

“By the way,” he said, “Miss Meadows, who is out of town for a few days, gave me some books for Miss Tremenheere. May I bring them? I am going away myself shortly. One day this week may I bring them, and discharge my conscience of my commission before I go?”

“Oh, pray do not take the trouble. I will send a servant,” said Miss Campbell, who had seen a sudden lifting of Vera’s eyes. “This is our way, I think. Do not take the trouble. I must bid you good morning, Mr. Fane.”

And he took his leave of them quite calmly, though he was going away. Vera was so startled, so wounded, so suddenly thrown down out of all those sweet vague dreams in which she had been indulging, that she could not raise her eyes. Tears come so easily at sixteen. If he had really gone and she had seen no more of him, Vera, after that first sharp shock of mortification and disappointment, which made her poor little lip quiver and her eyes fill, would no doubt have forgotten all about Oswald Fane. But in the meantime the blow of his supposed indifference and the sudden cruel end put all at once to the romance which was just beginning, crushed her for the moment, depressed as she was by other influences. She walked home by Miss Campbell’s side with a piteous little face, not saying a word. Only once a little cry of impatience burst from her. “I do not believe that gentleman knew much about my cousins of Stormaway,” Miss Campbell said. “I think it was very strange that he should have accosted me as he did, currying favor. If he is a friend of Miss Meadows I must request her not to send her messages by him. I am sure she has plenty of servants. I must tell her I do not approve of calls from gentlemen.”

“Oh, you need not give yourself the trouble,” said Vera; “he is not coming. He said it was to clear his conscience of his commission. He never wanted to come.”

“So much the better,” said Miss Campbell dryly, and she talked about the Aquarium in the Zoological Gardens, which was a safe subject. Vera no longer trod on air; her dreams were gone and ended, her beautiful new world broken like a bubble. She went into her own room and cried, tears innocent and bitter, such as one sheds at sixteen, when every grief seems eternal. It was all over, then. Not only should she never see him more, but she had lost that sweet refuge into which she could retire as she had done this morning when the day was dull, when Miss Campbell was hard upon her.

Next morning, however, she had to go back to her lessons as usual. When these came to a pause before luncheon, she wandered into the drawing-room, intending to breathe forth some of her melancholy upon the grand piano. Some one rose as she went in. The girl grew red all over with a flush which was partly anger, and partly shame, and partly delight.

“Oh!” she said impetuously, not knowing what she said, “I thought you were gone.”

“Did you really think so?” said Fane. “No, impossible. I came this morning that she might not have time to warn the servants not to admit me.”

“But, Mr. Fane, of whom are you speaking? You seemed to know Miss Campbell so well--to like her--and her relations.”

Fane laughed. Vera could not have explained what her feelings were at that moment. Her heart bounded, and yet she did not like it. Why should he deceive even Miss Campbell? She looked at him doubtfully--and yet how happy she was!

“You think I should not tell a fib? Quite true. But then how was I to see you? That was the first thing I had to think of; and there was no harm done. It was a very innocent fib. I could not give up tamely all hope of seeing you again.”

Vera’s cheeks glowed and her heart beat. She did not say anything to check him--to demur to this statement. Was it not natural that he should want to see her? Had not she wanted too, though she would not say it, to see him?

“But you _are_ going away?” she said softly, with a very little subdued sigh.

“Not I--not so long as there is any chance.--Here is the book I spoke to you about, and another. Take them, please, before the dragon comes; I fear, I fear, she will be here directly. Ah, Miss Tremenheere, you cannot think how I have thought about those two days at the villa, and lived them over and over! Shall not you go there again, or to Miss Meadows? She knows me. She would not shut me out; and now that I have seen you it does not seem possible to live just as one lived before. Life is different. It is so much sweeter--better; since that day at Lord’s, that first wonderful day. I had never seen you till then.”

Vera stood silent, with the books in her hands, her eyes cast down, her cheeks glowing, her heart beating high, yet soft--not wildly in her ears, as it had done a little while before, but with a satisfied and quiet beating. How true it all was! Life was different, quite different, and yet it did not seem right for him to say so. But to listen to him? Civility demanded that she should listen to any one who talked to her, especially when he was a visitor, and she at home.

“You are very--kind, Mr. Fane,” she said at last, faltering. That was not at all what she meant, but what could she say?

“Kind! It is you who are kind, listening to me. Elinor Meadows would stand my friend if you were with her, and how good Mrs. Tremenheere was! But what must I do with this dragon? If I tell lies to her to please her, you will disapprove of me, and that I cannot bear; but still less can I bear not to see you. What can I do?”

“Mr. Fane: oh! please, don’t speak so--and you said you were going away.”

“I am going away when you go,” he said, “for I shall find out where you go, and follow you--don’t be angry, I can’t help it,--if it is only to see the light in your window. You wouldn’t like me to fall back, and be just the poor creature I was before I knew you? Yes, of course, you are angry with me for telling lies, Vera--you who are truth itself; but the more I see you the truer I shall be. Don’t give me up, because I can’t give you up. You are too sweet and too good to break my heart.”

All this no doubt would have seemed over-bold and over-sudden to a girl of twenty; but how could Vera discriminate, she upon whom the same spell had fallen? Did not she, too, feel how different life was, how transformed from the pale gray routine, the stagnant repression of the days before? The strangeness and excitement of it made her breathless.

“Oh! don’t talk so, please don’t talk so,” she cried.

“It is the only way I can talk,” said Fane. “The moment I saw you I knew what had happened to me. ‘That is she,’ I said to myself, ‘that is she--there is none in all the world like her.’ And--ah!--Good morning, Miss Campbell. I made bold to call to discharge my commission. Miss Tremenheere has got the books----”

“Good morning,” said Miss Campbell. “What books? I never permit Miss Tremenheere to read anything that I have not first looked at myself.”

“I have no doubt it is a very wise rule,” he said carelessly. “The books belong to Miss Meadows--it is she who sent me with them, and, of course, she is answerable.--I shall say I put them into your own hands, Miss Tremenheere. Any commands for Scotland, Miss Campbell? May I take tidings of you to your cousins? It would be a great pleasure to them--and I may say, to me.”

Miss Campbell looked at him seriously.

“Mr. Fane,” she said, “I don’t pretend to know what you mean by talking of my cousins, who, after all, are but distant relations upon whom I have no claim.”

“What I mean is to please you, of course,” said Fane with a laugh. “What else? If they were my people I should like friends to talk of them to me.”

“If that was all! but I do not forget my position; and--when a gentleman sets himself to flatter a lady in my position----” said the governess.

“Flatter! Do you think it flattering to remind you of your relations? It might be so to them,” said Fane with a bow and a smile. “Never mind, I shall hold my tongue another time if you don’t like the Stormaway people. In the meantime I must really say goodbye. Goodbye, Miss Tremenheere. I will tell Miss Meadows I saw you. And Miss Campbell, you will surely shake hands with me, and wish me luck among the grouse.”

“Now, if one could only tell what that young man meant!” said Miss Campbell, when he was gone. “He seems well-bred and agreeable, but he may have a motive of his own. Vera, it is the hour for Rollin. Get your book, my dear.”