CHAPTER III.

"I say, Pauline, is that Miss Rossitor going in at No. 3? It's just

like what I remember of her dear old-maidish figure. I know she was

expected home this month."

"Poor old Rossitor!" laughs Pauline. "Do you remember, Addie, the long

mornings she used to spend trying to make Bob and you understand the

difference between latitude and longitude?"

"I remember," answers Addie, with a sigh, "that she was wonderfully

patient and painstaking with us, and I wish now with all my heart that

I had profited more by her teaching. Pauline, I think I'll just run in

and see if it is she. You and Lottie can return and let auntie know

where I am."

Miss Rossitor, a neat bright-eyed little woman of thirty-five, daughter

of a deceased clergyman, had, some three years before, undertaken the

education of Colonel Lefroy's neglected children, spending three or

four hours every morning in their dilapidated school-room. She had

become much attached to her unruly pupils, and it was with sincere

regret that she had to give them up and go abroad as resident governess

in a French family, being very poor herself, and finding it impossible

to get her quarterly applications for salary attended to by the gallant

but ever-absent colonel.

"You old dear!" cries Addie, kissing the little lady vehemently. "It is

you, really! I'm so glad to see you again! When did you arrive? How did

you manage to get leave?"

"I arrived last night; mother did not expect me for another

week. I managed to get leave, because, most fortunately--I mean

unfortunately--well, well"--with a beaming smile--"we won't try to

qualify the circumstance--at any rate, one of my pupils had a bad

attack of rheumatic fever, and was ordered to some German baths for a

couple of months, and, as the family have accompanied her, I got leave

for the time being. Now let me have a look at you, my dear Addie. Well,

to be sure, what an immense girl you have grown! But your face has not

changed much. And all the others--the boys--I suppose they have shot up

too? Three years do make a difference, do they not?"

"Rather!" cries poor Addie, lugubriously plunging at once into the

subject of her woes. "It has made an immense difference to us. Oh, Miss

Rossitor, you left us three years ago the happiest, the most contented

and united family under the sun--you return, to find us the most

miserable, destitute outcasts in England! Oh, oh!"

"There, there, child; don't give way so, don't, dear! Tell me all your

troubles, Addie; it may lighten them for you. I don't know anything

about you clearly: mother has not had time to tell me yet; we've had

visitors all the morning."

"There--there is little to tell. About two months ago we were

turned out of Nutsgrove. Every article of furniture was sold by

auction--even--even mother's wedding-presents--and the place was bought

by Tom Armstrong, the great vitriol and chemical manure man of Kelvick.

That's the whole story."

"But your--your father, child! What of him? Surely he did not allow--"

"He--he--did nothing. He mortgaged every stick to the place, and did

not even pay the interest on the money raised."

"And, Addie, where is he now?"

"I don't know," she answers drearily--"in America somewhere, I believe;

he disappeared nearly three years ago. He backed the wrong horse for

the Derby, just ran down here for half an hour, burned some papers in

his study, kissed us all round, and went away. We never heard from him

afterward--at least, not directly."

"But surely he can not have deserted you altogether--have left you five

children totally unprovided for?"

"He left us with a capital of four pounds fifteen between us--four

pounds fifteen--not a penny more! And we have had nothing from him

since; and yet the Scripture tells us to honor our parents!"

"Hush, child--hush! We must not question the commands of Holy Writ.

Why, if it comes to that, women are ordered to love, honor, and obey

their husbands; and, oh, my dear, my dear," continues the little

woman, the corkscrew ringlets of her frisette nodding with impressive

emphasis, "if you could only have seen or heard the men some women are

called upon to honor--to honor, mind you--why, you--"

"Ah, but that is different, quite different! A woman has the power of

choosing her husband; if she selects the wrong man, there is no one

to blame but herself. But a child can't choose its own father; if it

could, you may be sure poor Bob wouldn't have selected one who would

rob him of his patrimony and cast him penniless on the world without

even the resource of education."

"Come, Addie dear, are you not too severe on your father? He has had

many temptations, has been unfortunate in his speculations; but, when

he knows the state you are in, you may be sure he will make an effort

to help you--probably send for you all and give you a home in the new

world."

Addie does not reply at once; a sudden wave of color floods her soft

face, and she says hurriedly--

"After all, why shouldn't I tell you? I--I dare say you will hear it

from some one else; I--I suppose half the county knows it."

"Knows what, dear?"

"That our father has abandoned us altogether--that he has other

family-ties we--we knew nothing of--"

"Addie, my dear, what are you talking of?"

"He did not leave England alone, Miss Rossitor," she answers excitedly;

"he asked none of us to go with him, but he took two other children we

had never heard of, and a--a wife. I believe she was an actress at a

London theater--"

"My dear child," interrupts Miss Rossitor, much flurried and shocked,

"where did you hear all this? Who told you? Do the others know?"

"No; I did not tell them--I don't mean to do so. I heard it all one day

accidentally. Aunt Jo and Lady Crawford were discussing it; they did

not know I was behind the curtain. My dress was all torn, and I didn't

want Lady Crawford to see me, so I hid there, and--and was obliged to

hear it all."

Poor Addie's crimson face sinks upon her outstretched arm; for a time

she sobs bitterly, refusing to be comforted. However, a cup of tea has

a somewhat soothing effect, and after a time she resumes her tale of

desolation:

"When he went, poor Aunt Josephine came to take care of us--you know

she was our mother's eldest sister, a maiden lady who lived with a

widowed childless niece in a pretty little house at Leamington, where

everything was peace and quietness and neatness--three things Aunt

Jo loves better than anything else on earth; nevertheless she stayed

on with us ever since, and has supported us on her annuity of eighty

pounds a year."

"Supported six of you on eighty pounds a year! I can't believe that,

Addie!"

"And yet it is true. We did not have dinners _à la Russe_, you

understand, nor did we get our frocks from Paris, and the boys had to

give up their schooling; but we managed to rub along somehow, and were

happy enough, all except poor aunt, who has never enjoyed a peaceful

hour since she left Leamington. We had the house, you know, and the

garden, which was stocked with fruit and vegetables; there was an old

cow too, and a few hens, who laid us an egg occasionally. Oh, we didn't

mind--we got along famously! But now--now Heaven only knows what is to

become of us!"

"My poor, poor child," exclaims Miss Rossitor, with tears in her voice,

"this is too sad! Something must be done. You have some other relatives

to help you? Where are you staying now?"

"I'll tell you all about it. When we left Nutsgrove, two months ago, we

took up our quarters at Sallymount Farm, belonging to Steve Higgins,

who was a stable-boy in grandfather's time, and who married our old

nurse Ellen Daly. She had some spare rooms, and she asked us to use

them while we looked about us and decided what was to be done. We began

by sending round the hat, as Bob calls it, to all our kith and kin. You

know in the old days we seemed to have a lot of prosperous relatives; I

remember, when I was a small child, a whole band of cousins stopping at

Nutsgrove for the Kelvick races, with their maids and valets. And so we

thought, for the sake of the family name, they would help us; but--but

somehow the hat failed to reach them; they seemed to have moved on, to

have vanished into space--they weren't to be found, in fact."

"But there is Mrs. Beecher of Greystones, your father's half-sister.

She couldn't possibly overlook you."

"No, she couldn't well, living within twenty miles and having no

children of her own. She and the admiral came over and reviewed

us _en masse_, and, I believe, were nervously indisposed for days

afterward--the admiral had to swallow half a bottle of sherry before

he recovered from the shock of our combined comeliness. They stayed an

hour, and said as many disagreeable and insulting things during that

time as we had ever heard in our lives before. However, the upshot of

their visit was that Aunt Selina offered to send away her companion,

Miss McToadie, and take Pauline in her place. Aunt Jo closed with her

at once, not giving poor Polly a voice in her fate; and so she is to go

over to Greystones the day after to-morrow. Poor, poor Polly!"

"Well at any rate, she is sure of a home. The Beechers will eventually

adopt her; and they are very rich people. You should not pity her,

Addie; it would be very injudicious," says Miss Rossitor sagely.

"Oh, I didn't to her face! Adversity is teaching me wisdom, I can tell

you. After that, Robert was put up in the market, and found wanting in

capacity for commercial or professional pursuits, so an old relative

with an interest in shipping got him a berth on board a vessel going

to China with a cargo of salt. The most horrid line in the whole

mercantile service, poor Bob says; and the worst of it is he won't get

a penny of salary for nearly three years, and he'll have to work like

a galley-slave all the time. Fine opening, is it not? But beggars can

not be choosers, you would say. Well, Miss Rossitor, that is all our

relatives have done for us so far, except that dear Aunt Jo--Heaven

bless her!--has adopted, or, at least, will try to adopt Lottie, and

take her back to Leamington when we break up. There is some talk too of

getting Hal into a third-rate endowed school near London. Judge Lefroy,

a cousin out in India, promises to pay ten pounds a year toward it if

two other members of the family subscribe the same sum. But we've had

no other advances; and so Hal's affairs are _in statu quo_ at present;

in other words, he's a pensioner on the poor aunt who has taken Lottie."

"And you, my dear, have you any prospect for yourself?"

"I? Miss Rossitor, I am--don't laugh, please--trying to get a situation

as governess to some very small and ignorant children. You remember of

old my list of accomplishments? Well, I haven't swelled their quantity

or quality since. I can't run a clean scale up the piano yet; I don't

know the difference between latitude and longitude; compound proportion

is as great a mystery to me as ever; and yet three times last week

I offered my services to the public in the columns of the 'Daily

News,' 'Daily Telegraph,' and the 'Kelvick Gazette,' and received

only one answer. It was from a lady who would give me a home, but no

salary--which would not do, as I must at least have a few shillings to

buy shoes and stockings, _et cætera_."

"Only one answer! That was unfortunate. You can not have worded your

advertisement attractively enough, dear."

"Oh, yes, I did! Bob composed it in strict orthodox fashion.

Unfortunately there were lots of other governesses advertising, and

no one seeming to want them; but there was a great run on cooks and

barmaids and housemaids. I don't know what is to become of me, for

I can not and I will not live on poor auntie--that I'm determined!

I'd--I'd rather scrub kitchen floors, or pick potatoes in the field

like a laborer's daughter!" cries the girl passionately, her cheeks

flushing.

"Addie," says Miss Rossitor slowly, hesitatingly, "I think I know of a

situation that might suit you, if you really wish--"

"You do? Oh, you dear, you dear! Tell me quickly where it is."

"It's so wretched I'm almost ashamed to mention it; but you seem so

anxious, dear," says Miss Rossitor deprecatingly. "A friend of mine is

there at present; but she is leaving this week to better herself, as

indeed she might easily do. No, no, Addie dear, I won't tell you about

it--it's too miserable, too mean--"

"Oh, Miss Rossitor, dear friend, don't refuse to help me! I am not what

I was; all my stupid pride is gone; work is all I crave. Oh, can't you

feel for me, can't you understand me?" she pleads vehemently.

Miss Rossitor gently kisses the pleading upturned face, and then

answers gravely--

"That will do, child; I will hesitate no longer. The family I allude to

are retired Birmingham tradespeople, not particularly refined, I fear,

in their habits or surroundings. They have four children ranging in

age from five to twelve--one boy and three girls; these you would have

to educate, and you would have to be with them all day, take them for

walks, help the nurse to dress them in the mornings, even, I believe,

occasionally to mend their clothes. Your salary for all this would be

twenty-two pounds a year--think of that--twenty-two pounds a year!"

"Will you give me their address?" is all Addie says.

"I will write for you myself, dear child, it you wish it. You can at

least make a trial; but I warn you that the life of a nursery-governess

in an underbred household cramped probably in a suburban villa is very

different from what you--"

"I know, I know; but I am prepared to bear anything. What does anything

matter now that we are all separated and have lost our beloved home for

ever? Oh, Miss Rossitor"--springing to her feet and pacing up and down

the room with clinched hands--"that is the thought that stings, that

paralyzes hope, that deadens energy--to think that it is gone from us

for ever! Sometimes I feel that, if Heaven had made me a man, it would

not have been so."

"What would you have done, Addie?"

"I would have thrown myself into the fight, and have struggled

undaunted against any odds--against hardship and disappointment and

failure--until I had won it all back, until I had ousted the upstart

who supplanted us. If he, an illiterate tradesman, friendless, alone,

without money, without education, without help of any kind, succeeded

in amassing a large fortune, succeeded in becoming master-mariner

on the great tide of industry in his native town, why should not I,

with such a heart-moving aim in view--I, with the blood of heroes

running in my veins--do so likewise? But what is the use of talking?

What can a woman do, tied down, hampered, checked on every side by

the superstition of ages? Oh, it is too stifling, too exasperating!

Sometimes I wish I had never been born. What good am I? What place have

I in the world? What--"

"You will find your use in the place Heaven gives you, my dear, if you

only put your trust in Providence. Tell me, Addie, something about this

prosperous upstart, Armstrong of Kelvick. Have you met him? What sort

of man is he?"

"Oh, a very ordinary style of man indeed! There's nothing remarkable

about him in one way or another. He seemed quiet and heavy, I thought;

I didn't notice him very particularly. He came two or three times to

the farm to talk over some business matters with auntie."

"Then you did not find him oppressively vulgar, did you?"

"No, not oppressively so; but I'm no judge of manners, you know, having

so little to boast of myself; Bob and Polly, however, who understand

these things, say that he is an out-and-out cad, that his every

movement betrays him, and that no one but a person utterly devoid of

delicacy and good taste would have sent us a present of flowers and

vegetables out of our own garden as he did."

"He sent you flowers and vegetables! How was that?"

"Yes, to Aunt Jo. The last time he called she asked him, when

he was leaving, how the peas were doing this year down near the

currant-bushes--for you know our garden was supposed to produce the

finest peas in the county; and that evening he sent her up a basket of

flowers and vegetables, and a couple of quarts of gooseberries, enough

to make a glorious 'fool;' but Robert pitched the whole lot out of the

window indignantly, and when auntie sent the young Higginses to pick

them up again, he went out and kicked them all round. He's awfully

proud, you know, dear Robert; I remember you used to call him 'Robert

the Magnificent.'"

"Yes; I have seldom met a young gentleman of his years who had such a

high opinion of himself and his social dignity."

"He has just the same opinion now. I sometimes tell him he ought to

have been born a sultan. And to think of him swabbing decks and tarring

ropes--oh, dear!"

"The chances are that Mr. Armstrong sent you the flowers and vegetables

only in a spirit of harmless kindness," says Miss Rossitor musingly.

"I dare say. People of that sort don't understand our feelings. Bob

said that, had we given him the slightest encouragement, he'd have

probably asked us to dinner. Well, I must be going now. Thank you

sincerely for your much-needed kindness, dear friend. You'll let me

know my fate as soon as possible, won't you? And may I sometimes come

down to you in the morning for a practice? They haven't a piano at the

farm. I've been reading up my French for the last week. _Bonsoir, bonne

amie, bonsoir!_"