"I should be very glad if you would."
Gilbert was called, and the result was more satisfactory than Albinia thought that Genevieve deserved. His frenzy had tended to wear itself out, and he had been so dreadfully alarmed about India and his father, that in his relief, grat.i.tude, and fear of being sent out, he was ready to promise anything. Before his father he could go into no rhapsodies, and could only be miserably confused.
"Personally," said Mr. Kendal, "it is creditable that you should be attracted by such estimable qualities, but these are not the sole consideration. Equality of station is almost as great a requisite as these for producing comfort or respectability, and nothing but your youth and ignorance could excuse your besetting any young woman with importunities which she had shown to be disagreeable to her."
There was no outcry of despair, only a melancholy muttering. Then Mr.
Kendal p.r.o.nounced his decree in terms more explicit than those in which Albinia had exacted the promise. He said nothing about persecution, nor was he unreasonable enough to command an instant immolation of the pa.s.sion; he only insisted that Gilbert should pay no marked attention, and attempt no unsanctioned or underhand communication. Unless he thought he had sufficient self-command to abstain, his father must take "further measures."
As if fearing that this must mean "Kendal and Kendal," he raised his head, and with a deep sigh undertook for his own self-command. Mr.
Kendal laid his hand on his shoulder with kind pity, told him he was doing right, and that while he acted openly and obediently, he should always meet with sympathy and consideration.
Two difficult points remained--the disposing of the young people.
Gilbert was still over young for the university, as well as very backward and ill-prepared, and the obstinate remains of the cough made his father unwilling to send him from home. And his presence made Genevieve"s absence necessary.
The place had begun to loom in the distance. A former governess of Albinia"s, who would have done almost anything to please her, had lately been left a widow, and established herself in a suburb of London, with a small party of pupils. She had just begun to feel the need of an additional teacher, and should gladly receive Genevieve, provided she fulfilled certain requisites, of which, luckily, French p.r.o.nunciation stood the foremost. The terms were left to Albinia, who could scarcely believe her good fortune, and went in haste to discuss the matter with the Belmarches.
It almost consoled her for what she had been exceedingly ashamed to announce, the change of purpose with regard to Gilbert, which was a sentence of banishment to the object of his folly. Nothing pained her more than the great courtesy and kindness of the two old ladies to whom it was such a cruel stroke, they evidently felt for her, and appeared to catch at Mrs. Elwood"s offer, and when Albinia proposed that her salary should be a share in the instructions of the masters, agreed that this was the very thing they had felt it their duty to provide for her, if they had been able to bring themselves to part with her.
"So," said good Madame Belmarche, smiling sadly, "you see it has been for the dear child"s real good that our weakness has been conquered."
Genevieve was written to, and consented to everything, and when Mr.
Kendal took Gilbert away to visit an old friend, his wife called for Genevieve at the convent to bring her home. Albinia could not divest herself of some curiosity and excitement in driving up to the old-fashioned red brick house, with two tall wings projecting towards the street, and the front door in the centre between them, with steps down to it. She had not been without hopes of a parlour with a grille, or at least that a lay sister would open the door; but she saw nothing but a very ordinary-looking old maid-servant, and close behind her was Genevieve, with her little box, quite ready--no excuse for seeing anything or anybody else.
If Genevieve were sad at the proposal of leaving home and going among strangers, she took care to hide all that could pain Mrs. Kendal, and her cheerful French spirit really enjoyed the prospect of new scenes, and bounded with enterprise at the hope of a new life and fresh field of exertion.
"Perhaps, after all," she said, smiling, "they may make of me something really useful and valuable, and it will all be owing to you, dear madame. Drawing and Italian! When I can teach them, I shall be able to make grandmamma easy for life!"
Genevieve skipped out of the carriage and into her aunt"s arms, as if alive only to the present delight of being at home again. It was a contrast to Sophy"s dolorous visage. Poor Sophy! she was living in a perpetual strife with the outward tokens of sulkiness, forcing herself against the grain to make civil answers, and pretend to be interested when she felt wretched and morose. That Gilbert, after so many ravings, should have relinquished, from mere cowardice, that one hope of earning Genevieve by honourable exertion, had absolutely lowered her trust in the exalting power of love, and her sense of justice revolted against the decision that visited the follies of the guilty upon the innocent.
She was yearning over her friend with all her heart, pained at the separation, and longing fervently to make some demonstration, but the greater her wish, the worse was her reserve. She spent all her money upon a beautiful book as a parting gift, and kept it beside her, missing occasion after occasion of presenting it, and falling at each into a perfect agony behind that impalpable, yet impa.s.sable, barrier of embarra.s.sment.
It was not till the very last evening, when Genevieve had actually wished her good-bye and left the house, that she grew desperate. She hastily put on bonnet and cloak, and pursued Genevieve up the street, overtaking her at last, and causing her to look round close to her own door.
"My dear Miss Sophy," cried Genevieve, "what is the matter? You are quite overcome."
"This book--" said Sophy--it was all she could say.
"Love--yes," said Genevieve. "Admiration--no."
"You shall not say that," cried Sophy. "I have found what is really dignified and disinterested, and you must let me admire you, Jenny, it makes me comfortable."
Genevieve smiled. "I would not commit an egoism," she said; but if the sense of admiration do you good, I wish it had a worthier cause."
"There"s no one to admire but you," said Sophy. "I think it very unfair to send you away, and though it is n.o.body"s fault, I hate good sense and the way of the world!"
"Oh! do not talk so. I am only overwhelmed with wonder at the goodness I have experienced. If it had happened with any other family, oh! how differently I should have been judged! Oh! when I think of Mrs. Kendal, I am ready to weep with grat.i.tude!"
"Yes, mamma is mamma, and not like any one else, but even she is obliged to be rational, and do the injustice, whatever she feels," said Sophy.
"Oh! not injustice--kindness! I shall be able to earn more for grandmamma!"
"It is injustice!" said Sophy, "not hers, perhaps, but of the world! It makes me so angry, to think that you--you should never do anything but wear yourself out in drudging over tiresome little children--"
"Little children are my brothers and sisters, as I never had any," said Genevieve. "Oh! I always loved them, they make a home wherever they are.
I am thankful that my vocation is among them."
In dread of a token from Gilbert, Genevieve would not notice it, but pursued, "You must come in and rest--you must have my aunt"s salts."
"No--no--" said Sophy, "not there--" as Genevieve would have taken her to the little parlour, but opening the door of the school-room, she sank breathless into a sitting position on the carpetless boards.
Genevieve shut the door, and kneeling down, found Sophy"s arms thrown round her, pressing her almost to strangulation.
"Oh! I wanted to do it--I never could wont you have the book, Genevieve? It is my keepsake--only I could not give it because--"
"Is it your keepsake, indeed, dear Miss Sophy?" said Genevieve. "Oh! if it is yours--how I shall value it--but it is too beautiful--"
"Nothing is too beautiful for you, Genevieve," said Sophy fervently.
"And it is your gift! But I am frightened--it must have cost--!" began Genevieve, still a little on her guard. "Dear, dear Miss Sophy, forgive me if I do seem ungrateful, but indeed I ought to ask--if--if it is all your own gift?"
"Mine? yes!" said Sophy, on the borders of offence. "I know what you mean, Genevieve, but you may trust me. I would not take you in."
Genevieve was blushing intensely, but taking courage she bestowed a shower of ardent embraces and expressions of grat.i.tude, mingled with excuses for her precaution. "Oh! it was so very kind in Miss Sophy," she said; "it would be such a comfort to remember, she had feared she too was angry with her."
"Angry? oh, no!" cried Sophy, her heart quite unlocked; "but the more I loved and admired, the more I could not speak. And if they drive you to be a governess? If you had a situation like what we read of?"
"Perhaps I shall not," said Genevieve, laughing. "Every one has been so good to me hitherto! And then I am not reduced from anything grander. I shall always have the children, you know."
"How I should hate them!" quoth Sophy.
"They are my pleasure. Besides I have always thought it a blessing that my business in life, though so humble, should be what may do direct good. If only I do not set them a bad example, or teach them any harm."
"Not much danger of that," said Sophy, smiling. "Well, I can"t believe it will be your lot all your life. You will find some one who will know how to love you."
"No," said Genevieve, "I am not in a position for marriage--grandmamma has often told me so!"
"Things sometimes happen," pursued Sophy. "Mamma said if Gilbert had been older, or even if--if he had been in earnest and steady enough to work for you in India, then it might--And surely if Gilbert could care for you--people higher and deeper than he would like you better still."
"Hush," said Genevieve; "they would only see the objections more strongly. No, do not put these things in my head. I know that unless a teacher hold her business as her mission, and put all other schemes out of her mind, she will work with an absent, distracted, half-hearted attention, and fail of the task that the good G.o.d has committed to her."
"Then you would never even wish--"
"It would be seeking pomps and vanities to wish," said Genevieve; "a school-room is a good safe cloister, probably less dull than the convent. If I wish at all, it will be that I may be well shut up there, for I know that in spite of myself my manners are different from your English ones. I cannot make them otherwise, and that amuses people; and I cannot help liking to please, and so I become excited. I enjoy society so much that it is not safe for me! So don"t be sorry, dear Sophy, it is a fit penance for the vanity that elated me too much that evening at Fairmead!"
Mademoiselle Belmarche was here attracted by the voices. Sophy started up from the ground, made some unintelligible excuse, and while Mademoiselle was confounded with admiration at the sight of the book, inflicted another boa-constrictor embrace, and hurried away.