Chapter XVIII: Miss De Jobbyns' Admirer

'You will be good enough to keep the children quiet and amused this evening, Miss Cheyne,' said Mrs. De Jobbyns, 'as we have company coming to dinner. Also have them nicely dressed, as they may be sent for to dessert or to the drawing-room.'

Being now used to be spoken to in this style, Alison merely bowed, on which Mrs. De Jobbyns said, sharply,

'You heard me, I presume?'

'Yes; you certainly spoke loud enough.'

Mrs. De Jobbyns frowned. She would have liked her to add 'ma'am,' like any other paid dependant; but Alison, of course, never thought of such a thing.

'You may withdraw now, Miss Cheyne,' said the lady, with an assumption of would-be dignity that sat rather absurdly on the whilome dispenser of glasses of gin and bitters and pints of stout at the bar of the 'Black Swan.'

'Oh, Miss Cheyne, I wonder when the wedding is to be!' exclaimed little Irene when Alison returned to the school-room.

'Whose wedding, dear?' she asked.

'Why, Vic.'s--don't you know she is going to be married to that rich military swell?'

'Oh, fie, Irene--you must not use such terms!'

'Why not? I heard cook call him so when she told the tablemaid, and said we two girls would be bridesmaids.'

Intent on a book she had procured--by the way, save photographic albums in which the De Jobbyns family were reproduced endlessly, there were no books in the house--Alison thought no more of the matter; but when evening was drawing on she heard the soft rustle of a long silken skirt, as Miss De Jobbyns, arrayed for conquest, swept in, wearing a really beautiful costume of dark blue velvet and light blue silk, smothered with cream-tinted lace.

'He is coming--he is coming to dinner--mamma got him to promise that he would, at last!' exclaimed the young lady, pirouetting about in the extravagance of her joy. 'Tell me how you like my dress?'

'It is indeed exquisite--in material,' replied Alison, who of course had dined in the school-room with her pupils at one o'clock, and felt little or no interest to learn that Miss Victoria's lover, or admirer, was coming to a little dinner _en famille_ at seven p.m.

'He will soon be here--how do you think I look?' she asked for the third or fourth time.

As Alison's delicate fingers were adjusting some parts of the lace, the sharp eyes of Miss De Jobbyns observed--as they had often done before--the ring, the engagement ring, which the former had received from her lover, under the whispering beeches, one evening.

'It is very beautiful, and must be valuable,' said Miss De Jobbyns, examining it closely.

'It is valuable.'

'Too much so, I think, for--for one teaching to wear.'

'When it was given to me, teaching was not thought of,' said Alison, in a low, sad voice.

'I have no end of lovely rings; but,' urged the girl, who was by nature covetous, 'you might lend it to me, just for to-night, though you wouldn't lend that funny ornament for the Le Robbynson's ball.'

'Excuse me,' replied Alison, coldly, 'it never leaves my finger.'

'Not even when you wash your hands?'

'Not even then.'

'You will spoil these beautiful stones.'

'It shall never be seen on another hand while I live.'

'Indeed,' sneered Miss De Jobbyns; 'and thereby hangs a tale, I suppose. Upon my Sam you are very romantic! Of course you got it from the fellow whose photo you wear, but will let no one see?'

Alison made no reply, but her colour came and went with annoyance at the girl's brusquerie; and the latter began to chant the praises of her admirer, a subject of which her listener was utterly weary.

'He has we don't know how many thousands a year--think of that; oh my! Talking of love, I heard him say laughingly to mamma, who was chaffing him on the subject, that he would not be in love with anyone again.'

'And what of that?'

'He meant, of course, with anyone again but me.'

'How do you construe his remark thus?'

'Because his eyes met mine as he said so; and I do hope I blushed--I am sure I did.'

'And he is rich, you say?'

'Yes, rich enough to satisfy even mamma.'

'That is fortunate,' replied Alison, with a sigh, as she recalled her father's bitter opposition to her own engagement, and all the wiles and worry of Cadbury.

'Fortunate indeed; but there is about Bevil----'

'BEVIL!' exclaimed Alison, startled by the uncommon name.

'Don't snap me up so! Yes, Bevil is his name--sweetly pretty I think it--Bevil Goring.'

'And he is rich, you say?'

'Yes; has twenty or thirty thousand a year at least.'

It cannot be the same, though the conjunction of name is very singular, said Alison in her agitated heart.

'Is he a merchant,' she asked, 'a city man?'

'City be hanged!' responded this impulsive young woman. 'He is an officer--a Captain in the Rifle Brigade, and, when not in town, hangs out at Aldershot. But there is a carriage; the people are arriving, and I must be off.'

She quickly withdrew, leaving Alison pale as a corpse, trembling in every limb, and rooted to the spot, propping herself by a hand on the table, till she sank into a chair, oblivious of the wonder with which the two little girls regarded her sudden, and, to them, unaccountable emotion.

For some time her thoughts were terrible. She recalled the drag alleged by the public prints to be Goring's--the entertainment, given even to royalty, at 'his rooms in Piccadilly,' all evidences of wealth that must have come to him since the time she was decoyed to the Continent, and in the fact of that wealth--the absence of which was the cause of her father's hostility to the last hour of his life--this girl's remarks now confirmed her!

That Bevil Goring could love or even admire such a girl--a man so refined and delicate in taste and ideas--she never for a moment imagined; but what did the whole situation and that girl's boastful allegations mean? How came he to know such people, despite their great wealth, and permit them to cultivate his acquaintance? Yet matters seemed to have progressed so far that even the servants were canvassing the prospects of a _wedding_!

More than all, why, oh why had he never attempted to discover her, to trace her out, in these her days of poverty and sore trial!

The magnitude and the multitude of her thoughts overwhelmed her; among these were emotions of sharp but just pride, keen disappointment, bitterest doubt, and agonising mortification; but her tears--usually so ready to flow--came not to relieve her now, and she was only roused from a kind of feverish stupefaction by the entrance of a servant to light the candles, and conduct 'the young ladies downstairs to dessert,' an invitation to which they responded with instant alacrity.

Stooping over the stair-bannister, she heard his voice once or twice as the male guests filed off to the drawing-room after the ladies, and it thrilled through her heart. A choking lump rose in her throat, but still not a tear would come.

After a time she was roused by some one addressing her. It was a servant, by nature saucy, under-bred, illiterate, and disposed to be impertinent in general when she could be so with impunity.

'Were you addressing me?' asked Alison.

'Yes; the missus says as you are to tittivate yourself a bit and come down to the drawing-room.'

'I am to--_what_?' asked Alison, sharply--for her at least.

'Tittivate yourself--it is Henglish; but, bein' Scotch, perhaps you don't know what it means.'

'I am not going to the--drawing-room to-night.'

'You won't obey the missus?' exclaimed the servant, aghast.

'Certainly not in this instance.'

'Don't you know your place? You are honly a guv'ness, and guv'nesses ain't ladies, whatever they may think.'

'What are they?'

'Mock ones.'

'Leave the room instantly--or----'

'Or what?' asked the girl, sharply.

'I'll get you turned out of the house.'

The girl withdrew uttering as Parthian shots some remarks about 'hupstarts hordering their betters about.'

In a few minutes Miss De Jobbyns, with some irritation of manner, appeared to prefer the same request, adding that she was wanted for a hand at whist.

'To come down to play whist? Is not this an unusual condescension?' asked Alison.

'Yes,' was the cool response; 'ma thinks it part of your duty to make yourself generally useful; and, I suppose, you can play whist?'

The girl was too underbred to be aware how heartless was the _sang froid_, in which she suggested, or commanded, that Alison should make herself useful.

'I would rather be excused.'

'But ma says you must!'

'Must--why?'

'A hand is wanted at the whist table, and I want Bevil at the piano, all to myself.'

'It is utterly impossible. I have a headache,' replied Alison, goaded to desperation.

'Bother your headache!' was the elegant response; 'try sal volatile, Rimmel's vinegar, anything, but come.'

However, Alison remained inflexible, and so far from making herself 'useful' to either Mrs. De Jobbyns and her daughter, by appearing in their circle downstairs, she retired to bed--to think and weep--but not to sleep.

The vicar of Chilcote was, she knew, in town, and to him she would appeal to procure her another home, where she would hear the name of Bevil Goring no more!