Under False Pretences. Sergeant Adeline
should be perfectly free. My children grow up like young plants, with plenty of sun and air; they play as they like; they work when they feel that they can work best; and, if at times they are a little noisy, at any rate their noise never develops into riot."
Percival did not, perhaps, intend her to hear him, but, below his breath, he burst into a sardonic, little laugh and an aside to his sister Kitty.
"Never into riot! I never heard them stop short of it!"
Mrs. Heron looked at him uncertainly, and took pains to explain herself.
"Up to a certain point, I was going to say, Percival, dear. At the proper age, I think, that discipline, entire and perfect discipline, ought to begin."
"And what is the proper age?" said Percival, ironically. "For it seems to me that the boys are now quite old enough to endure a little discipline."
"Oh, at present," said Mrs. Heron, with undisturbed composure, "they are in Elizabeth's hands. I leave them entirely to her. I trust Elizabeth perfectly."
"Is that the reason why Elizabeth does not dine with us?" said Percival, looking at his step-mother with an expression of deep hostility. But Mrs. Heron's placidity was of a kind which would not be ruffled.
"Elizabeth is so kind," she said. "She teaches them, and does everything for them; but, of course, they must go to school by-and-bye. Dear papa will not let me teach them myself. He tells me to forget that ever I was a governess; but, indeed"—with a faint, pensive smile—"my instincts are too strong for me sometimes, and I long to have my pupils back again. Do I not, Kitty, darling?"
"I was not a pupil of yours very long, Isabel," said Kitty, who never brought herself to the point of calling Mrs. Heron by anything but her Christian name.
"Not long," sighed Mrs. Heron. "Too short a time for me."
At this point Mr. Heron, who noticed very little of what was going on around him, turned to his son with a question about the politics of the day. Percival, with his nose in the air, hardly deigned at first to answer; but upon Vivian's quietly propounding some strongly Conservative views, which always acted on the younger Heron as a red rag is supposed to act upon a bull, he waxed impatient and then argumentative, until at last he talked himself into a good humour, and made everybody else good humoured.
When they returned to the untidy but pleasant-looking drawing-room, they found Elizabeth engaged in picking up the children's toys, straightening the sheets of music on the piano, and otherwise making herself generally useful; She had changed her dress, and put on a long, plain gown of white cashmere, which suited her admirably, although it was at least three years old, undeniably tight for her across the shoulders, and short at the wrists, having shrunk by repeated washings since the days when it first was made. She wore no trimmings and no ornaments, whereas Kitty, in her red frock, sported half-a-dozen trumpery bracelets, a silver necklace, and a little bunch of autumn flowers; and Mrs. Heron's pale-blue draperies were adorned with dozens of yards of cheap cream-coloured lace. Vivian looked at Elizabeth and wondered, almost for the first time, why she differed so greatly from the Herons. He had often seen her before; but, being now particularly interested by what he had heard about her, he observed her more than usual.
Mrs. Heron sat down at the piano; she played well, and was rather fond of exhibiting her musical proficiency. Percival and Kitty were engaged in an animated, low-toned conversation. Rupert approached Elizabeth, who was arranging some sketches in a portfolio with the diligence of a housemaid. She was standing just within the studio, which was separated from the drawing-room by a velvet curtain now partially drawn aside.
"Do you sketch? are these your drawings?" he asked her.
"No, they are Uncle Alfred's. I cannot draw."
"You are musical, I suppose," said Rupert, carelessly.
He took it for granted that, if a girl did not draw, she must needs play the piano. But her next words undeceived him.
"No, I can't play. I have no accomplishments."
"What do you mean by accomplishments?" asked Vivian, smiling.
"I mean that I know nothing about French and German, or music and drawing," said Elizabeth, calmly. "I never had any systematic education. I should make rather a good housemaid, I believe, but my friends won't allow me to take a housemaid's situation."
"I should think not," ejaculated Vivian.
"But it is all that I am fit for," she continued, quietly. "And I think it is rather a pity that I am not allowed to be happy in my own way."
There was a little silence. Vivian felt himself scarcely equal to the occasion. Presently she said, with more quickness of speech than usual:—
"You have been in Scotland lately, have you not?"
"I was there a short time ago, but for two days only."
"Ah, yes, you went to Netherglen?"
"I did. The Luttrells are connections of yours, are they not, Miss Murray?"
"Very distant ones," said Elizabeth.
"You know that Brian Luttrell has gone abroad?"
"I have heard so."
There was very little to be got out of Miss Murray. Vivian was almost glad when Percival joined them, and he was able to slip back to Kitty, with whom he had no difficulty in carrying on a conversation.
The studio was dimly lighted, and Percival, either by accident or design, allowed the curtain to fall entirely over the aperture between the two rooms. He looked round him. Mr. Heron was absent, and they had the room to themselves. Several unfinished canvasses were leaning against the walls; the portrait of an exceedingly cadaverous-looking old man was conspicuous upon the artist's easel; the lay figure was draped like a monk, and had a cowl drawn over its stiff, wooden head. Percival shrugged his shoulders.
"My father's studio isn't an attractive-looking place," he said, with a growl of disgust in his voice.
"Why did you come into it?" said Elizabeth.
"I had a good reason," he answered, looking at her.
If she understood the meaning that he wished to convey, it certainly did not embarrass or distress her in the least. She gave him a very friendly, but serious, kind of smile, and went on calmly with her work of sorting the papers and sketches that lay scattered around her.
"Elizabeth," he said, "I am offended with you."
"That happens so often," she replied, "that I am never greatly surprised nor greatly concerned at hearing it."
"It is of little consequence to you, no doubt," said Percival, rather huffily; "but I am—for once—perfectly serious, Elizabeth. Why could you not come down to dinner to-night when Rupert and I were here?"
"I very seldom come down to dinner. I was with the children."
"The children are not your business."
"Indeed they are. Mrs. Heron has given them into my charge, and I am glad of it. Not that I care for all children," said Elizabeth, with the cool impartiality that was wont to drive Percival to the very verge of distraction. "I dislike some children very much, indeed, but, you see, I happen—fortunately for myself—to be fond of Harry, Willie, and Jack."
"Fortunately, for yourself, do you say? Fortunately for them! You must be fond of them, indeed. You can have their society all day and every day; and yet you could not spare a single hour to come and dine with us like a rational being. Vivian will think they make a nursery-maid of you, and I verily believe they do!"
"What does it signify to us what Mr. Vivian thinks? I don't mind being taken for a nursery-maid at all, if I am only doing my proper work. But I would have come down, Percival, indeed, I would, if little Jack had not seemed so fretful and unwell. I am afraid something really is the matter with his back; he complains so much of pain in it, and cannot sleep at night. I could not leave him while he was crying and in pain, could I?"