Janet was not at all satisfied with herself after this performance. She understood, if nobody else did, the attitude of Gussy towards her; the half-defiance, half-sympathy, and entire doubtfulness with which the young lady of the house began to regard her. All the events of the evening, taken together, had given Miss Harwood a sensation of doubt. She was not clever enough to put one thing to another, and divine that there was a connection between the meeting with Meredith and the sudden engagement which prevented him from coming to dinner, and his unexpected appearance at night; but she had a vague feeling of doubt, which originated in the instinct of her emotions rather than in any exercise of reflection. She blamed neither of them, unless, indeed, a faint sensation of displeasure, too little to deserve that name, towards Janet could be called blame. She thought that the governess wished to be of the party, to thrust her services upon them, to share the amusement without consideration that something more than amusement was beneath. Her mind did not go any further than this, but it gave her a slight soreness towards the other girl, who did not understand—a soreness modified by a kind of uneasy gratitude to Janet for having really served her after all. Whatever her motive was, Janet in her compunction for her behavior altogether (though, after all, there was nothing for which she could blame herself, the fault lay entirely with the other, or almost entirely), was, after this, very anxious to put herself at the service of Gussy. She put aside occupations of her own to play these accompaniments again and again. She it was who urged upon Miss Harwood the unceasing practice which was necessary to bring her song to perfection.

“It is so different when you are standing up before a crowd of people, and it all seems to float away from you; so different from singing at home.”

“Then you have done it yourself?” said Gussy, surprised.

“Oh, only at our little concerts at Clover, where I knew everybody: and I only played, which is not nearly so bad; but I have seen people who, for a minute, forgot everything, and looked as if they would run away.”

“I don’t think I shall want to run away,” said Miss Harwood, with dignity.

“Oh, no, I didn’t suppose so; but you will feel so much more comfortable if you know your song well. Shall we go over it once again?”

“It is very kind of Miss Summerhayes,” said Mrs. Harwood, feeling a want of warmth in her daughter’s reception of this generous offer. “It is very nice of her,” the old lady added, “for it can’t matter a bit to her. It is not as if she were teaching you, when she might get some credit from it. It is entirely good feeling.”

“I am sure I am—much obliged to Miss Summerhayes,” said Gussy. And she was aware that what her mother said was quite true. She was not an impulsive person in general, but a sudden movement of remorse for her own ingratitude and appreciation of the other’s unselfishness seized her all at once. “I don’t see,” she said, “why we should go on calling her Miss Summerhayes when she has been three months in the house, and always so nice. I am sure she would prefer it, mamma, if you at least were to call her Janet; and it is a pretty name, too; not like our solemnities in the Harwood family.”

Janet was taken very much by surprise. She was not quite sure that she was so much gratified as she expected to be, and it took her a certain effort to get up the little burst of pleasure and gratitude which was becoming. It is a sad thing to be expected to be grateful for a favor which does not appear to yourself in that light. Janet had always been called Janet by everybody all her life, so that she rather preferred at present to be Miss Summerhayes. However, she succeeded in assuming the air of delighted surprise which was necessary in the circumstances, and when Mrs. Harwood kissed her, and said, with her motherly smile, “I shall like so much to call you Janet, my dear,” the genuine kindness touched her heart.

“I hope I shall never do anything to vex this dear old lady,” she said to herself.

The silent prayer was not realized, but still it may be put on record as a real moment of feeling in Janet’s very contradictory little being. She was very uncertain what Gussy could mean in thus opening to her the gates of intimacy, and receiving her, as it were, on a new footing. What did she mean by it? But Miss Harwood herself could not have told. She meant a momentary compunction, a half-apology, and to compensate the girl a little for the involuntary doubt she had of her. If there was anything more in it, Gussy herself was unconscious of further motive. It was something in the nature of a penance, no doubt; for Miss Harwood loved the governess a trifle less as Janet, in the intimacy of the closest intercourse, than she had done as a stranger and Miss Summerhayes.

Thus a vague mist of feeling rose between the two which did not in any way interfere with their present relations, and was, in fact, founded upon almost nothing, yet was full of undeveloped elements in which mischief might lie; while all around this nebulous region of uncertain sentiment shone the easy light of the household, untroubled by any mist, a sober, steady glow, not excessive, of good-humor and kindness, chiefly proceeding from the mild moon or household lamp of Mrs. Harwood, which reflected many different colored rays, reducing them, by the action of a steady, pleasant, good disposition, taking all things soberly and kindly, to a light which was warm without extravagance, and bright without dazzling. How happy were all her friends in Clover to hear that Janet had thus “fallen on her feet!”

The vicar called at the house in St. John’s Wood about this time, and carried back the most delightful report with him. The impression he himself produced was the best possible, for he was a handsome old gentleman, and perfect type of a country vicar, well got up and well-to-do. Mrs. Harwood was anxious that he should come back to dinner, and would have liked to pay him a great deal of attention, and Janet rose in everybody’s opinion, from that of the head of the house down to Priscilla, the parlor-maid, and Owen, the gardener, to whom Mr. Bland gave a shilling for calling a cab for him.

The vicar assured Mrs. Harwood that he and his wife felt towards little Janet as if she were a child of their own. And when he went back to Clover he assured an anxious party assembled at afternoon tea that he had seldom been more favorably impressed than by the charming family with whom Janet had found a home.

“A delightful, refined house, an admirable mother, and a charming young lady, quite the sort of friend I should have chosen for Janet, I scarcely saw her pupil, but I have no doubt, judging by all that I did see, that she was a sweet child, and worthy of the rest. No complications such as so often beset a young girl’s path; indeed, I should say that if we had chosen from one end of the country to the other we could scarcely have selected anything so desirable as Providence has procured for her—by chance, as we say. It is a lesson to me of trustfulness and dependence upon a higher guidance.”

The ladies were all deeply edified with this speech, feeling that what the vicar said, especially about Providence, was beautiful: and when they heard that Janet was called by her Christian name, there was a universal chorus of satisfaction. Dr. Harding, who had come in as he passed on his afternoon round, said “Humph!” behind their backs, shaking his head; but then he, as we are all aware, had reasons for thinking very ill of Janet’s foolish determination to measure her little strength against the world.

The concert took place shortly after the vicar’s visit, and Janet and her pupil, in the charge of a neighbor, Mrs. Hunter, from next door—as Mrs. Harwood was unable to take care of them herself—were present, happy spectators of Gussy’s success: for the duet was quite the success of the evening, everybody said. And the pair appeared on the platform together, with a little halo of romance about them, a pair of lovers, as the audience believed, though nothing was as yet announced, or positively known.

“Of course, we shall soon hear that it is all settled,” the friends of the family said to each other. “He is never out of the house, and singing together night after night; there is only one way in which that sort of thing can end.”

Some thought that Gussy Harwood, who would have a very tolerable fortune, should have secured something better than a briefless barrister. But others added that Charley Meredith had very good connections, and knew a number of solicitors, and was a pushing sort of man, one of those who always get on. And they looked very well together, quite a model couple; she so fair, almost too fair, but very well dressed to-night in a dark dress, which threw up her fairness and neutralized her want of color; and he, on the contrary, with so much color, such dark hair and mustaches, and such a fine bloom. The natural attraction of opposition could not have been more pleasantly set forth. Janet sat in her place among the audience, and looked at them with eyes a little—just a little—envious, yet pleased to shine in the reflected glory. The dark dress which was so successful was her doing. She had wanted Gussy to look her best, with a certain esprit de corps and desire for the credit of the house: and it was she who, with much ado, had persuaded both mother and daughter that the pale dresses in which Miss Harwood delighted would be out of place. Also it was she who had trained her in her song. It would not have been half so good but for Janet’s painstaking, and her determination to have it fully practised.

Janet sat all impatient not to be on the platform along with them, longing for an occasion to show herself, half-believing to the very last that there would arise a commotion among the performers, and that some one would walk down the room to where she sat to ask if she would kindly come and accompany Mr. Meredith and Miss Harwood in their duet. She kept on expecting this until the very moment when they stood up, and the pianist who had accompanied everybody struck the first notes. Oh! said Janet to herself, impatient, what a mistake they were making! The pianist was a nobody, and did not know their voices, and could not half bring them out. If only she had been there! But she had to sit quiet and listen, which is very hard when you know that you could do it much better.

Janet was not thinking of Mr. Meredith any more than if he had been a cabbage, but she did want to share the triumph, she who had really brought it about, and she wanted to do what she could do so well instead of the inferior performer who did not do it half so well. But this is a trouble which accomplished persons must put up with continually, and after the first mortification was over Janet sat it out bravely, and even led the applause with a most energetic pair of hands, at the points where it ought to come in, and was most wanted to stimulate failing courage or cover a weak point. In this she behaved with the utmost generosity and desire that, notwithstanding their neglect of herself, the performance should succeed; and she listened to all the remarks with eager attention, especially those about the one way in which things of this kind must end. Was this the way in which Gussy’s romance was certain to end? Janet felt that she herself would not be nearly so much interested, not to say excited by it, if the conclusion was as certain as people thought. But she perceived clearly that if it did not end so it would be wrong, and Mr. Meredith much to blame. The drama altogether was breathless in its interest to this little spectator, because she felt that there was no certainty in it—that probably Mr. Charles Meredith was (so to speak, in the language of the stage) a villain, and Gussy, perhaps, a victim. Who could tell? It appeared, however, that Janet herself was the only person who had any doubt on the subject, and, an inexperienced little guesser as she was, how was she to know?

“Do you think Gussy and Charley are in love with each other?” said Julia suddenly, on their way home.

“Julia! one doesn’t talk of such things till—till they are publicly known.”

“For I don’t,” said Julia. “Gussy, yes, she is too silly. I could kill her when she looks at him so; but, Charley, no—and he’s the most important of the two, isn’t he, Miss Summerhayes?”

“I don’t know why he should be the most important; they are both equally important,” said Janet, in her rÔle of governess; “besides, it is not our business to discuss any such matter.”

“Oh! that is all bosh,” said Julia. “Of course, I must discuss it when it’s my own sister. I’ll tell you what I think. He has not made up his mind; he thinks he’ll do it, and then something makes him think that he’ll not do it. He knows that whenever he likes to put out his hand Gussy will——”

“Julia, I can’t let you talk so.”

“Whether I talk or not, I know it all the same,” said Julia. “I hate Charley Meredith, with his red cheeks. I can’t think what she sees in him; but, though I could kill her for being so silly, I don’t want our Gussy to be disappointed. I should like him to propose and her to refuse him; but, oh! I’m afraid there is not the least chance of that. Do you think a girl should accept the very first offer, Miss Summerhayes?”

“I don’t think at all on the subject,” said Janet.

She paused, and gave a little laugh, not a sigh, which would have been more appropriate, to the memory of Dr. Harding, who had procured her that gratification.

“Oh, nonsense!” cried Julia; “why do you laugh? You were thinking of someone, Miss Summerhayes. Look! there’s a light in the room over the porch. Don’t you see?” The girl gripped her instructress by the arm. “Look, look, Miss Summerhayes; don’t you see?”

“Don’t be so excited,” said Janet. “I see perfectly well: but I don’t know why you should excite yourself.”

“Oh, wait a bit!” said Julia; “wait a bit, and you’ll be excited too. You don’t know what it means yet. Janet—I’m going to call you Janet now—I’m so glad. Why, Dolff must have come home—that means Dolff!”

And Julia suddenly flung off from Janet’s side, and fled along the road like an arrow from the bow.