but he was a thoroughly kind, polite, and by no means unlettered old man; and Geraldine enjoyed and was grateful, while the children were his darlings, and were encouraged to take all manner of liberties with him.
Among the advantages of the change was the having Felix always at hand; and though she really did not see him oftener in the course of the day than at St. Oswald's Buildings, still the knowing him to be within reach gave great contentment to Cherry. The only disadvantage was that he lost his four daily walks to and fro, and hardly ever had sufficient fresh air and exercise. He was indeed on his feet for the most of the day, but not exerting his muscles; and all taste for the active sports in which his kind old master begged him to join seemed to have passed away from him when care fell upon him. He tried not to hold his head above the young men of his adopted rank, many of whom had been his school-fellows; but, except with the members of the choir and choral society, he had no common ground, and there were none with whom he could form a friendship. Thus he never had any real relaxation, except music, and his Sunday walks, besides his evenings with his sisters and of play with the children. It was not a natural life for a youth, but it seemed to suit with his disposition; for though not given to outbursts of animal spirits, he was always full of a certain strong and supporting cheerfulness.
Indeed, though they did not like to own it to themselves, the young people had left behind them much of the mournfulness of the widowed household, which had borne down their youthful spirits; and though the three elders could never be as those who had grown up without care or grief, yet their sunshine could beam forth once more, and helped them through the parting with their best friend. For Mr. Audley's sister-in-law died in the beginning of June, and his father entreated him to go abroad with his brother, so that he was hurried away directly after midsummer, after having left his books in Felix's charge, and provided for the reception of the dividends in his absence.
His successor was a quiet amiable young Mr. Bisset, not at all disinclined to cultivate Felix as a link with the tradesfolk; only he had brought with him a mother, a very nice, prim, gentle-mannered, black-eyed lady, who viewed all damsels of small means as perilous to her son. Had she been aware that Bexley contained anything so white and carnation, so blue-eyed and straight-featured, so stately, and so penniless as Wilmet Underwood, he would never have taken the Curacy. She was a kind woman, who would have taken infinite pains to serve the orphan girls; and she often called on them; but when the Rector's wife had told her that such a set had been made at Mr. Audley that he could bear it no longer, it was but a natural instinct to cherish her son's bashfulness.
That autumn Wilmet came home elevated by the news that the head teacher was going to retire at Christmas, and that she was to be promoted to her place of forty pounds a year. Her successor was coming immediately to be trained, being in fact the daughter of Miss Pearson's sister, who had married an officer in the army. She had been dead about three years, and the girl had been living in London with her father, now on half pay, and had attended a day-school until he married again, and finding his means inadequate to his expenses, and his wife and daughter by no means comfortable together, he suddenly flitted to Jersey to retrench, and made over his daughter of seventeen to her aunts to be prepared for governess-ship.
This was the account Miss Pearson and Miss Maria gave to Wilmet, and Wilmet repeated to Geraldine, who watched with some interest for the first report of the newcomer.
'She is rather a nice-looking little thing,' was the first report, 'but I don't know whether we shall get on together.'
The next was, 'Miss Maria has been begging me to try to draw her out. They are quite distressed about her, she is so stiff and cold in her ways with them, and they think she cries in her own room.'
'Poor thing, how forlorn she must be! Cannot you comfort her, Mettie?'
'She will have nothing to say to me! She is civil and dry, just as she is to them.'
'I think she can talk,' said Angela.
'How do you know anything about it, little one? said Wilmet.
'I heard her talking away to Lizzie Bruce in the arbour at dinner- time. Her face looked quite different then from what it does in school.'
'Then I hope she is settling down to be happier,' said Wilmet thoughtfully; but, having watched Angela out of hearing, she added, 'Not that I think Lizzie Bruce a good friend; she is rather a weak girl, and is flattered by Carry Price making a distinction between her and some of the others.'
'When is Carry Price ever going to leave school?'
'When she can play Mendelssohn well enough to satisfy Mr. Bevan. I wonder Lady Price does keep her on here, but in the meantime we can only make the best of her.'
A day or two later, Wilmet and Angela came in from school eager, indignant, and victorious.
'You did manage it well! the younger was saying. 'I was so glad you saw for yourself.-Just fancy, Cherry, there were Carry Price and Lizzie Bruce turning out all the most secret corners of Miss Knevett's work-box, laughing at them, and asking horrid impertinent questions, and she was almost crying.'
'And you fetched Wilmet?'
'She was sitting out in the garden, showing some of the little ones how to do their crochet-it was the play-time after dinner-and I just went to her and whispered in her ear, and so she strolled quietly by the window.'
'Yes,' added Wilmet, 'and before I came to it Edith was saying to Jane Martin, on purpose for me to hear, that she thought it would be a good thing if Miss Underwood would look into the school-room. So Angel was not getting into a scrape.'
'I should not have minded if I had,' said Angel; 'it was such a shame, and she looks such a dear-'
'There she was,' said Wilmet, 'her fingers shaking, and her eyes full of tears, trying to do some work, while Carry Price went on in her scoffing voice, laughing over all the little treasures and jewels, and asking who gave them to her, and what they cost. All I could do was to put my hand on her shoulder and say I saw she did not like it; and then Lizzie Bruce looked ashamed, but Miss Price bristled up, and declared that Miss Knevett had unlocked the box herself. Then the poor child burst out that she had only said she would show her Maltese cross; she had never asked them to turn everything out, and meddle with it; and Carry tossed her head, just like my Lady, and said, 'Oh, very well, they did not want to see her trumpery, since she was so cross about it. I suppose you mean to show the things one by one to the little girls! A fine exhibition!' She cried out, 'Exhibit! I don't mean to exhibit at all; I only showed it to you as my friend!' Whereupon Carry Price flounced off with, 'As if I were going to make a friend of an underteacher!' and she went into a tremendous fit of crying, like what you used to have, Cherry, except that it was more passionate!'
'I'm sure I never had anything like that to cry for. What did you do with her? How lucky she had you!'
'Why, when she went on sobbing, 'I'll not stay here,' 'I won't be insulted.' 'I'll tell my aunts,' my great object was to get her upstairs, and to silence her, for I was sure Miss Pearson would dislike nothing so much as having a regular complaint from her about Carry; and, besides that, all the girls, who pity her now, would be turned against her, and think her a mischief-maker. I did get her up at last, and, oh dear! what a scene we had! Poor thing, I suppose she has been a spoilt child, going to a lady's fashionable institute, as she calls it, where she was a great girl, and rather looked up to, for the indulgences she got from her father-very proud, too, of being a major's daughter. Then came the step-mother; what things she said about her, to be sure! No end of misery, and disputes-whose fault, I am sure I don't know; then a crisis of debts. She says it was all Mrs. Knevett's extravagance; but Miss Pearson told me before that she thought it had been going on a long time; and at last, when the father and his wife and her child go off to Jersey, this poor girl is turned over to the aunts she never saw since her mother died, twelve years ago.'
'I dare say it is the best thing for her.'
'If she can only think so; but she fancies the being a teacher the most horrid thing in the world.'
'Oh, Wilmet!' interrupted Angela; 'why, you like teaching: and Robin means to be a real governess, and so do I, if I am not a Sister!'
'Me too,' called out Stella.
'But you see this unlucky girl can't understand that teaching may be a real way of doing good; she fancies it a degradation. She says she and her friends at her institute hated and despised the teachers, and played all manner of tricks upon them.'
'How foolish the teachers must have been!'
'She did say something about their being low and mean. She did me the favour to say not like me, and that she was quite shocked to find I was one of this dreadful race. It was quite amazing to her when I told her how Robina's dear Miss Lyveson keeps school without necessity, only to be useful. You may imagine what it is to her to be plunged all on a sudden into this unhappy class. She began by trying to take her old place as an officer's daughter,
