This was rather an incongruous ending to Miss Twettenham’s speech, but the old lady’s eyes bespoke her trouble, and she went on:
“It seems to me, my dear, that, with her love of admiration, she will be like a firebrand in the camp, and I shudder when I think of what Mr. Perowne will say, when I’m sure, sisters, we have striven our very best.”
“Indeed, indeed we have.”
“Then we can do no more,” sighed Miss Twettenham, who now smiled in a very pleasant, motherly way. “There, Grey, my dear, I am not going to cross-examine you about this naughty child, and we will say no more now. Some tender young plants grow as they are trained, and some persist in growing wild. I tremble for our handsome pupil, and shall often wonder in the future how she fares, but promise me that you will be to her the best of friends.”
“Indeed I will,” said Grey earnestly.
“It will be a thankless office,” said Miss Julia.
“And cause you many a heartache, Grey Stuart,” said Miss Maria.
“Yes, but Grey Stuart will not pay heed to that when she knows it is her duty,” said Miss Twettenham, smiling. “Leave us now, my dear; we must have a quiet talk about Helen, and our arrangements while she stays. Good-bye, my child.”
The good-bye on the old lady’s lips was a genuine God be with you, and an affectionate kiss touched Grey Stuart’s cheek, as she left the room, fluttered and in trouble about her schoolfellow, as the prophetic words of her teachers kept repeating themselves in her ears.
Volume One—Chapter Four.
Dr. Bolter’s Question.
“Dr. Bolter, ma’am,” said the elderly manservant, seeking Miss Twettenham the next afternoon, as she was sunning herself in a favourite corner of the garden, where a large heavily-backed rustic seat stood against the red-brick wall.
The pupils were out walking with her two sisters—all save Helen Perowne and Grey Stuart, who were prisoners; and Miss Twettenham was just wondering how it was that a little tuft of green, velvety moss should have fallen from the wall upon her cap, when the old serving-man came up.
“Dr. Bolter! Dear me! So soon!” exclaimed the old lady, glancing at Helen Perowne, book in hand, walking up and down the lawn, while Grey Stuart was at some little distance, tying up the blossoms of a flower.
Miss Twettenham entered the drawing-room, and then stood gazing in wonder at the little plump, brisk-looking man, with a rosy face, in spite of the deep bronze to which it was burned by exposure to the sun and air.
He was evidently about seven or eight and forty, but full of life and energy; a couple of clear grey eyes looking out from beneath a pair of rather shaggy eyebrows—for his face was better supplied with hirsute appendages than his head—a large portion of which was very white and smooth, seeming to be polished to the highest pitch, and contrasting strangely with his sunbrowned face.
As Miss Twettenham entered, the little doctor was going on tiptoe, with open hands, towards the window, where he dexterously caught a large fly, and after placing it conveniently between the finger and thumb of his left hand, he drew a lens from his waistcoat pocket, and began examining his prize.
“Hum! Yes,” he said, in a low, thoughtful tone, “decided similarity in the trunk. Eyes rather larger. Intersection of—I beg your pardon! Miss Twettenham?”
The lady bowed, and looked rather dignified. Catching flies and examining them in her drawing-room by means of a lens was an unusual proceeding, especially when there were so many much worthier objects for examination in the shape of pupils’ drawings and needlework about the place.
Miss Twettenham softened though directly, for the manners of Dr. Bolter were, she owned, perfect. Nothing could have been more gentlemanly than the way in which he waited for her to be seated, and then, after a chatty introduction, came to the object of his visit.
“You see, my dear madam, it happens so opportunely my being in England. Perowne and Stuart are both old friends and patients, and of course they did not like the idea of their daughters being entrusted to comparative strangers.”
“So you will be friend, guardian, and medical attendant all in one?” said Miss Twettenham, smiling.
“Exactly,” said the little doctor. “I have never seen them; they are quite schoolgirls—children, I suppose?”
“Ye-es,” said Miss Twettenham, who had a habit of measuring a young lady’s age by its distance from her own, “they are very young.”
“No joke of a task, my dear madam, undertaking the charge of two young ladies—and I hope from my heart they are too young and plain to be attractive—make it difficult for me.”
There was a bright red spot on each of Miss Twettenham’s cheeks, and she replied with a little hesitation:
“They are both young, and you will find in Miss Stuart a young lady of great sweetness and promise.”
“Glad to hear it, my dear madam. Her father is a very dry Scot, very quaint and parsimonious, but a good fellow at heart.”
“Most punctual in his payments,” said Miss Twettenham, with dignity.
“Oh, of course, of course!” said Dr. Bolter. “More so, I’ll be bound, than Perowne.”
“Mr. Perowne is not so observant of dates as Mr. Stuart, I must own, Dr. Bolter,” said Miss Twettenham.
“No, my dear madam; but he is as rich as a Jew. Very good fellow, Perowne?”
Miss Twettenham bowed rather stiffly.
“Well, my dear madam, I am not going to rob you of your pupils for several weeks yet, but I should like to make their acquaintance and get them a little used to me before we start on our long voyage.”
“They are in the garden, Dr. Bolter,” said Miss Twettenham, rising. “I will have them sent for—or would you—”
“Like to join them in the garden? Most happy!”
Miss Twettenham led the way towards a handsome conservatory, through which there was a flight of steps descending to the lawn.
“Dear me! ah, yes!” exclaimed the doctor. “Very nice display of flowers! Would you allow me? My own collections in the jungle—passiflora—convolvulaciae—acacia.”
He drew some dry seeds from his pocket, and placed them in the old lady’s hand, she taking them with a smile and a bow; after which they descended to the soft, velvety, well-kept lawn.
“Most charming garden!” said the doctor—“quite a little paradise! but no Eves—no young ladies!”
“They are all taking their afternoon walk except Miss Stuart and Miss Perowne,” replied the old lady. “Oh!”
She uttered a sharp ejaculation as a stone struck her upon the collarbone and then fell at the doctor’s feet, that gentleman picking it up with one hand as he adjusted his double eyeglass with the other.
“Hum! ha!” he said drily. “We get our post very irregularly out in the East; but they don’t throw the letters at us over the wall.”
Miss Twettenham’s hands trembled as she hastily snatched the stone, to which a closely-folded note was attached by an india-rubber band, from the Doctor’s hands.
“What will he think of our establishment?” mentally exclaimed the poor little old lady, as she glanced at the superscription, and saw that it was for