“I HAVE been here only six months,” said Miss Hofland. “I am engaged for a year, like you. I was sent on trial at first to see if the child would take to me, poor little thing! I didn’t think she could take to anybody: but I’ve changed my opinion.” She added, “Hetty, she is fond of you.”

“Poor child!”

“Yes, poor child! but she is a rich child at the same time, and luckier a great deal than either you or I.”

“Oh, don’t say so, Miss Hofland. If you had ever been with us at home, you would not say any one was happier than me.”

“Well, my dear, so much the better for you. I never pretended to be very happy. I have no home at all, and I have been teaching children in one house and another since I was sixteen. I have never had any youth. It is hard to go on teaching all one’s life, and that not even for somebody one cares for, but only just for one’s self, to keep the life in one, which one doesn’t much wish to keep.”

“Oh, Miss Hofland!” Hetty cried.

“It is quite true, my dear. Why should one? One has to live, because one has been brought into the world. And then one goes on working, a stranger everywhere, never with any home just in order to have enough to eat and clothes to put on. Oh, I have always envied the poor girls, whom everybody is sorry for, who have to send their money home to their mothers! It has always been said I was so well off, I had nobody but myself to think of. Well, don’t let us talk like this. It frightens you, and it does me no good. My dear, this is a very strange house.”

“It is very quiet,” Hetty hazarded: and then felt frightened for what she had said.

“Quiet! It wasn’t quiet at one time, I believe, when she first married him; and now they say he’s mad, and she is away. And why is that doctor always about, my dear? Don’t you notice how often he is here? The servants are not always ill, but my belief is that Mr. Darrell is here every day; and when we meet him in the park, how is it that he’s always so anxious to explain where he’s going? I don’t understand about that man.”

“He looks very nice,” said Hetty, apologetically, feeling that it was hard to condemn a man who probably was not to blame.

“Oh, he is nice enough. I don’t say anything about his niceness. But why is he so often here? Mrs. Mills is not a confirmed invalid, but he is always having long talks with her, and when any one sees them they look startled. Would you like to hear what I think? I think both Mrs. Mills and Mr. Darrell are in the secret, and know why Mrs. Rotherham is away: and perhaps Mr. Hayman too.”

“But then it must be quite right if the clergyman knows it,” said Hetty, brought up with a faith in clergymen which her companion did not share. Miss Hofland shook her head.

“I don’t say it’s right, and I don’t say it’s wrong. I say it’s very strange. Clergymen know very queer things sometimes. They can’t help it. Indeed, people who do queer things are very apt in my experience to tell a clergyman. It seems like getting a sanction to it. If he tells them not to do it, they don’t mind; they take their own way: but they always feel a satisfaction in thinking he knows. It shares the responsibility. He can’t be so very hard upon them after if he has known all the time: and I daresay some of them think they can persuade God it’s all right, because the clergyman knows.”

“Oh, Miss Hofland!” cried Hetty again.

“My dear, I know you are shocked by what I say; and I wouldn’t speak to you in this way if I had any one else to speak to. It is more than human nature is equal to, to keep quite silent. One can’t help noticing, you know. I’ve been in a great many houses, and known a great many family secrets. There is almost always something to find out, but generally it is quite on the surface; either it is a son who is making them unhappy, or a girl who has a love affair, or husband and wife don’t get on: these are the common things. But this place is full of mystery. Don’t you feel it in the air?”

“I should never have thought of anything——” said Hetty: and paused, afraid to seem to reproach her companion, or to say anything that was not quite true.

“If I had not put it in your head? I shouldn’t wonder. When I was like you, I never took any notice. You are not what I call governessy, my dear: but you would be the same as I am if you went in for my kind of life. I can’t help noticing now. I find out things without meaning to; you do when you are in a family without belonging to it, and have no occupation for your mind but to watch, and nobody to say it to. Then every little thing is an interest, and to put two and two together—— But I won’t frighten you. Do your people intend you to be a governess, my dear?”

This question gave Hetty a still greater shock than all the rest. She cried, “Oh, I hope not!” in instinctive alarm; then grew very red, and looked wistfully at her companion, feeling that to repudiate Miss Holland’s profession in this eager way might be an offence.

“You would always have your family to fall back upon,” said Miss Hofland, “and you would be able to help them. If there are so many of you, it would be your duty to do that. And though it’s not Paradise, it’s better than marrying a poor curate, and bringing dozens of children into the world to misery, which is probably what you would do if you were not a governess. I am not fond of this way of living, but it’s better than that; at least you have nobody but yourself, and when you die there’s an end of it. The first money I ever laid by was just enough to bury me. I’ve always kept that safe. I should like to have things decent, and not to be thrown on charity for my last expenses. And when that comes, there’s an end of it: that’s a great comfort; nobody else will be left to trouble and toil on account of me.”

The governess delivered this little monologue in quite a cheerful tone of voice, without any appearance of being deeply moved by it; her dismal philosophy was so unaffected that it had ceased to touch her feeling. She described this desolate mental condition in tones of steady matter of fact, while the young creature beside her gazed at her with a dismay which was speechless. A thousand thoughts ran through Hetty’s mind as she spoke. To be a governess! would not that be her duty? ought not that to be her life too? She had never been called on to think of such questions. There was so much to do at home. It had not occurred to her that she could even be spared. To help mamma seemed the natural use of the eldest girl. Now there swept through Hetty’s mind a tumult of confused thoughts and newly-awakened alarms. Ah! who could doubt it? This was what must, what ought to be, that she who was the eldest should go out into the world and help the rest. How often had she heard mamma wondering, calculating how to get the boys the needful indispensable education, which would be necessary to fit them for making their way; and it had never occurred to Hetty to say, “Of course I must go and be a governess, and send home the money.” Was it perhaps because she did not know enough to teach? But she knew enough for the nursery. She did teach the little ones at home. And now another thought suddenly leaped into her young soul. Her mother had sent her because of the “advantages,” advantages to which Hetty had given so little thought. She perceived it all now. This was why mamma wanted her to have advantages, that she might be fitted for the life she would have to adopt, that she might be clever enough to be a governess! The discovery (as she thought it) fell into Hetty’s little heart like lead, and then a flush of shame swept over her—that she should not have divined it for herself; that she should not have seen that as the eldest it was her duty to help, and to help steadily. This was quite different from the little romance of paying the bills secretly, which had so much delighted her imagination; as much different as the actual burden of life is from the enthusiasm of the ideal. It did not inspire her as that had done; on the contrary, it fell upon her like something crushing and terrible. Not for this year only, as she had thought—not to go back triumphant with her fifty pounds, and buy mamma a sealskin, and settle forever at home. Ah, no! very different. She had left home for good, Hetty said to herself; she must never think of home again but as a holiday refuge. Her destiny was like Miss Hofland’s—to live in other people’s houses, to teach other people’s children, to lay up carefully out of her first earnings enough to bury her. Oh, dreadful, dreadful thought! All this while Miss Hofland went on quietly with her talk, not distressed at all by the miserable provision which she had thought it right to make.

“You should get up a little earlier to practise, my dear. I shall always be willing to give you a little more time. Rhoda could do very well without you for an hour in the afternoon, after dinner, you know. And if you liked to take up any subject after she has gone to bed?—We might read a little French, for instance; or German. You don’t know German at all, do you? I never grudge a little trouble when it’s for a purpose, and to help on one who has an object. One has more satisfaction in doing that—helping a comrade, as the men would say—than giving lessons to a pack of little girls who don’t want to learn, and never will do any good with it. Should you like to begin German? Well, my dear, I’ll look you out my old grammars, and we’ll begin to-morrow night.”

“You are very, very kind, Miss Hofland. What can I ever do for you, to show my gratitude? Mamma will be so thankful: so—happy.”

It went against the grain with Hetty in the first pang of this discovery to think that mamma would be happy, and yet there was nothing but thanks and gratitude due to Miss Hofland. The girl was half choked by this conflict of gratitude and misery, and did not know what to say.

“Well, my dear, you must work very hard, and take advantage of all your opportunities,” said Miss Hofland; “one always regrets it in after life if one misses a chance. But it’s time now to go to bed. One wise thing in this hermitage,” she added, “is that they give us such good fires. Is your fire always good, my dear?” The governess followed Hetty along the corridor, into which this suite of rooms opened. It was very dimly lighted, and the two figures with their twinkling candles had a mysterious effect between the two dark wainscoted walls, which reflected the flicker of the lights. Miss Hofland went with Hetty into her room, and looked round it. “Yours is the only French window,” she said; “it opens into the garden, don’t you know. I prefer the sash-windows, they are much safer. But why don’t they shut your shutters and draw your curtains, my dear? You must not put up with any neglect.”

“Oh, I don’t like it so dark. I like to see the sky. I can’t breathe when the curtains are drawn. I am not accustomed to curtains,” said Hetty, feeling that she was making a confession of poverty. Miss Hofland gave an approving nod.

“It is a great deal better for the health,” she said; “still I can’t sleep unless it is dark, and they keep out the cold in this big house. I hope you always see that your window is well fastened. I must speak to Mrs. Mills about it. To live in this queer way, with a regiment of servants and not to be attended to, would be too absurd. Good-night, my dear,” Miss Hofland said. Her room was on the other side of the little passage, which also had a window looking out across the flower-beds of the parterre to the ghostly depths of the park. It was a moonlight night, and they both lingered looking out upon the strange, silent scene. The flower-beds were full of winterly chrysanthemums—for it was by this time November—which drooped their tall heads in the frosty air. The trees beyond stood up half stripped, showing here and there their great branches, with a leaf or two fluttering in the wind against the sky. Miss Hofland opened her own door with a shudder. “How cold it looks,” she said—“how still and deserted! I am glad everything is snug and shut up in my room. If I were to look out much longer I should see ghosts, I know I should. Run away, my dear, and get to bed.”

Hetty heard the little click of the key which Miss Hofland always turned at night, a precaution which had amused the girl on her first coming. “Fancy mamma locking her door!” she had said to herself. But it was eerie standing by that passage window by herself. She went back to her room and put down her candle, and took down her hair. Her mother had always been proud of Hetty’s hair. It was brown and silky, and very abundant, and, indeed, it was not so very long since it was first twisted up in that grown-up way which had made Hetty feel so dignified. Now that she had attained to that privilege she liked to shake it down, and feel it about her, rippling over her shoulders. But she had no leisure for any play that night. Her mind was overwhelmed with her new thoughts. An entire revelation had been made to her of her duty, of what girls were born for. To think she should have been so stupid, to suppose that all that was wanted was helping mamma with the children, mending, making, overlooking the housework! No, indeed, that was not all. It would be years before even Harry, the eldest boy, could earn anything; while Hetty was the eldest of all, and the first claim of duty naturally came to her. She strayed towards the window, half-undressed, to look out as people naturally do when they are full of thought, without any regard even to the moonlight, not thinking of anything outside, absorbed in those meditations which were not cheerful. The long pale distance between the trees, the masses of distant shadow, the chrysanthemums drooping as if whispering to each other close at hand, seemed to give a little air and outlet to the musing of her heart.

But all at once Hetty gave a smothered cry, and clung to the nearest solid thing, feeling as if the ground was reeling away from under her feet. Over the grass, which was damp and sodden with winter dews, winding among the beds and ranks of chrysanthemums, what was that she saw? Something black in the moonlight, a moving figure, the sight of which made her heart stand still. Her eyes seemed to strain out of her head, her heart to jump into her throat in sudden panic and horror. A man! Hetty rushed to the door in the first impulse after her senses returned to her; but then she remembered the key turned in Miss Hofland’s door; and though she opened her own softly, she closed it again, and locked it too, in her terror. And then she returned to the window, drawn as by a spell, to watch that mysterious figure slowly moving round and round among the drooping winter flowers.