雙語(yǔ)·家庭女教師

THE two girls were alone in their room. The light had been extinguished, and all was dark except for a faint shimmer from the two beds. They were both breathing so quietly that they might have been supposed to be asleep.

“I say,” came a gentle, hesitating whisper from one of the beds. The twelve-year-old girl was speaking.

“What is it?” asked her sister, who was a year older. “I’m so glad you’re still awake. I’ve something to tell you.”

There was no answer in words, only a rustle from the other bed. The elder girl had sat up, and was waiting, her eyes a sparkle in the dim light.

“Look here, this is what I want to tell you. But, first of all, have you noticed anything funny about Miss Mann lately?”

“Yes,” said the other after a moment’s silence. “There is something, but I hardly know what. She’s not so strict as she used to be. For two days I haven’t done my exercises, and she never scolded me about it. I don’t know what’s happened, but she doesn’t seem to bother about us any more. She sits all by herself, and doesn’t join in our games as she used to.”

“I think she’s unhappy, and tries not to show it. She never plays the piano now.”

There was a pause, and then the elder girl spoke once more:

“You said you had something to tell me.”

“Yes, but you must keep it to yourself. You mustn’t breathe a word about it to Mother, or to your friend, Lottie.”

“Of course I won’t,” answered the other indignantly. “Do get on!”

“Well, after we’d come up to bed, it suddenly struck me that I’d never said good night to Miss Mann. I didn’t bother to put on my shoes again, and I tiptoed across to her room, meaning to give her a surprise.So I opened her door quietly, and for a moment I thought she wasn’t there. The light was on, but I couldn’t see her. Then suddenly—I was quite startled—I heard someone crying, and I saw that she was lying dressed on her bed, her head buried in the pillows. She was sobbing so dreadfully that it made me feel all queer, but she never noticed me. Then I crept out and shut the door as softly as I could. I stood outside there for a moment, for I could hardly walk, and through the door I could still hear her sobbing. Then I came back.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then the elder girl said with a sigh:

“Poor Miss Mann!” and there was another pause.

“I wonder what on earth she was crying about,” resumed the younger girl. “She hasn’t been in any row lately, for Mother hasn’t been nagging at her as she always used to, and I’m sure we’ve not been troublesome. What can there be to make her cry?”

“I think I can guess,” said the elder.

“Well, out with it!”

The answer was delayed, but at length it came:

“I believe she’s in love.”

“In love?” The younger girl started up. “In love? Who with?”

“Haven’t you noticed?”

“You can’t mean Otto?”

“Of course I do! And he’s in love with her. All the three years he’s been living with us he never came for a walk with us until two or three months ago. But now he doesn’t miss a day. He hardly noticed either of us until Miss Mann came. Now he’s always fussing round. Every time we go out, we seem to run across him, either in the Park or in the Gardens or somewhere—wherever Miss Mann takes us. Surely you’ve noticed?”

“Yes, of course I’ve noticed,” answered the younger. “But I just thought...”

She did not finish her sentence.

“Oh, I didn’t want to make too much of it either. But after a time I was sure that he was only using us as an excuse.”

There was a long silence, while the girls were thinking things over.The younger was the first to resume the conversation. “But if so, why should she cry? He’s very fond of her. I’ve always thought it must be so jolly to be in love.”

“So have I,” said the elder dreamily. “I can’t make it out.”

Once more came the words, in a drowsy voice:“ Poor Miss Mann!”

So their talk ended for that night.

They did not allude to the matter again in the morning, but each knew that the other’s thoughts were full of it. Not that they looked meaningly at one another, but in spite of themselves they would exchange glances when their eyes had rested on the governess. At meals they contemplated their cousin Otto aloofly, as if he had been a stranger. They did not speak to him, but scrutinized him furtively, trying to discover if he had a secret understanding with Miss Mann. They had no heart in their amusements, for they could think of nothing but this urgent enigma. In the evening, with an assumption of indifference, one of them asked the other:

“Did you notice anything more to-day?”

“No,” said the sister, laconically.

They were really afraid to discuss the subject. Thus matters continued for several days. The two girls were silently taking notes, uneasy in mind and yet feeling that they were on the verge of discovering a wonderful secret.

At length, it was at supper, the younger girl noticed that the governess made an almost imperceptible sign to Otto, and that he nodded in answer. Trembling with excitement, she gave her sister a gentle kick under cover of the table. The elder looked inquiringly at the younger, who responded with a meaning glance. Both were on tenterhooks for the rest of the meal. After supper the governess said to the girls:

“Go to the schoolroom and find something to do. My head is aching, and I must lie down for half an hour.”

The instant they were alone, the younger burst out with:

“You’ll see, Otto will go into her room!”

“Of course,” said the other, “That’s why she sent us in here.”

“We must listen outside the door.”

“But suppose someone should come...”

“Who?”

“Mother.”

“That would be awful,” exclaimed the younger in alarm.

“l(fā)ook here, I’ll listen, and you must keep cavy in the passage.”

The little one pouted.

“But then you won’t tell me everything.”

“No fear!”

“Honour bright?”

“Honour bright! You must cough if you hear anyone coming.”They waited in the passage, their hearts throbbing with excitement. What was going to happen? They heard a footstep, and stole into the dark schoolroom. Yes, it was Otto. He went into Miss Mann’s room and closed the door. The elder girl shot to her post, and listened at the keyhole, hardly daring to breathe. The younger looked enviously. Burning with curiosity, she too stole up to the door, but her sister pushed her away, and angrily signed to her to keep watch at the other end of the passage. Thus they waited for several minutes, which to the younger girl seemed an eternity. She was in a fever of impatience, and fidgeted as if she had been standing on hot coals. She could hardly restrain her tears because her sister was hearing everything. At length a noise startled her, and she coughed. Both the girls fled into the schoolroom, and a moment passed before they had breath enough to speak. Then the younger said eagerly:

“Now then, tell me all about it.”

The elder looked perplexed, and said, as if talking to herself:

“I don’t understand.”

“What?”

“It’s so extraordinary.”

“What? What?” said the other furiously.

The elder made an effort:

“It was extraordinary, quite different from what I expected. I think when he went into the room he must have wanted to put his arms round her or to kiss her, for she said: ‘Not now, I’ve something serious to tell you.’ I couldn’t see anything, for the key was in the way, but I could hear all right. ‘what’s up?’ asked Otto, in a tone I’ve never heard him use before. You know how he generally speaks, quite loud and cheekily, but now I am sure he was frightened. She must have noticed that he was humbugging, for all she said was: ‘I think you know well enough.’—‘Not a bit.’—‘If so,’ she said in ever so sad a tone, ‘why have you drawn away from me? For a week you’ve hardly spoken to me; you avoid me whenever you can; you are never with the girls now;you don’t come to meet us in the Park. Have you ceased to care for me all of a sudden? Oh, you know only too well why you are drawing back like this.’ There was no answer for a moment. Then he said: ‘Surely you realize how near it is to my examination. I have no time for anything but my work. How can I help that?’ She began to cry, and while sobbing, she said to him gently: ‘Otto, do speak the truth. What have I done that you should treat me like this? I have not made any claim on you, but we must talk things out frankly. Your expression shows me plainly that you know all about...’”

The girl began to shake, and could not finish her sentence. The listener pressed closer, and asked:

“All about what?”

“All about our baby!”

“Their baby!” the younger broke out. “A baby! Impossible!”

“That’s what she said.”

“You can’t have heard right.”

“But I did. I’m quite sure. And he repeated it: ‘Our baby!’ After a time she went on: ‘what are we to do now?’ Then...”

“Well?”

“Then you coughed, and I had to bolt for it.” The younger was frightfully perplexed.

“But she can’t have a baby. Where can the baby be?”

“I don’t understand any more than you.”

“Perhaps she’s got it at home. Of course, Mother would not let her bring it here. That must be why she is so unhappy.”

“Oh, rot, she didn’t know Otto then!”

They pondered helplessly. Again the younger girl said:

“A baby, it’s impossible. How can she have a baby? She’s not married, and only married people have children.” “Perhaps she is married.”

“Don’t be an idiot. She never married Otto, any-how.”

“Well, then?”

They stared at one another.

“Poor Miss Mann,” said one of them sorrowfully.

They always seemed to come back to this phrase, which was like a sigh of compassion. But always their curiosity blazed up once more.

“Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?”

“How on earth can I tell?”

“What if I were to ask her, tactfully?”

“Oh, shut up!”

“Why shouldn’t I? She’s so awfully nice to us.”

“What’s the use. They never tell us that sort of thing. If they are talking about them when we come into the room they immediately dry up, and begin to talk rot to us as if we were still kids—though I’m thirteen. What’s the use of asking her, just to be humbugged?”

“But I want to know.”

“Well, of course, I should like to know too.”

“What bothers me is that Otto pretended not to know anything about it. One must know when one has a baby, just as one knows one has a father and mother.”

“Oh, he was only putting it on. He’s always kidding!”

“But not about such a thing. It’s only when he wants to pull our leg.”

They were interrupted by the governess coming in at that moment, and they pretended to be hard at work. But it did not escape them that her eyelids were red, and that her voice betrayed deep emotion. They sat perfectly quiet, regarding her with a new respect. “She has a baby,” they kept on thinking; “That is why she is so sorrowful.” But upon them, too, sorrow was stealing unawares.

At dinner next day, they learned a startling piece of news. Otto was going away. He had told his uncle that he had to work extra hard just before examination, and that there were too many interruptions in the house. He was going into lodgings for the next two months.

The girls were bubbling with excitement. They felt sure that their cousin’s departure must be connected in some way with the previous day’s conversation. Instinct convinced them that this was a coward’s flight. When Otto came to say good-bye to them they were deliberately rude, and turned their backs on him. Nevertheless, they watched his farewell to Miss Mann. She shook hands with him calmly, but her lips twitched.

The girls were changed beings these days. They seldom laughed, could not take pleasure in anything, were sad-eyed. They prowled restlessly about, and distrusted their elders, suspecting that an intention to deceive was lurking behind the simplest utterance. Ever on the watch, they glided like shadows, and listened behind doors, eager to break through the net which shut them off from the mystery—or at least to catch through its meshes a glimpse into the world of reality. The faith, the contented blindness of childhood, had vanished. Besides, they were continually expecting some new revelation, and were afraid they might miss it. The atmosphere of deceit around them made them deceitful. Whenever their parents were near, they pretended to be busily engaged in childish occupations. Making common cause against the world of grown-ups, they were drawn more closely together. A caressive impulse would often make them embrace one another when overwhelmed by a sense of their ignorance and impotence; and sometimes they would burst into tears. Without obvious cause, their lives had passed into a critical phase.

Among their manifold troubles, one seemed worse than all the rest. Tacitly, quite independently of one another, they had made up their minds that they would give as little trouble as they could to Miss Mann, now that she was so unhappy. They were extremely diligent, helping one another in their lessons; were always quiet and well behaved; tried to anticipate their teacher’s wishes. But the governess never seemed to notice, and that was what hurt them more than anything. She was so different now. When one of the girls spoke to her, she would start as though from slumber, and her gaze seemed to come back to them as if it had been probing vast distances. For hours she would sit musing, and the girls would move on tiptoe lest they should disturb her, for they fancied she was thinking of her absent child. In their own awakening womanhood, they had become fonder than ever of the governess, who was now so gentle towards them. Miss Mann, who had been lively, and at times a trifle overbearing, was more thoughtful and considerate, and the girls felt that all her actions betrayed a secret sorrow. They never actually saw her weeping, but her eyelids were often red. It was plain she wanted to keep her troubles to herself, and they were deeply grieved not to be able to help her.

One day, when the governess had turned away towards the window to wipe her eyes, the younger girl plucked up courage to seize her hand and say: “Miss Mann, you are so sad. It’s not our fault, is it?”

The governess looked tenderly at the child, stroked her hair, and answered:

“No, dear. Of course it is not your fault.” She kissed the little maid’s forehead.

Thus the girls were continually on the watch, and one of them, coming unexpectedly into the sitting-room, caught a word or two that had not been intended for her ears. Her parents promptly changed the conversation, but the child had heard enough to set her thinking.

“Yes, I have been struck by the same thing,” the mother had been saying. “I shall have to speak to her.”

At first the little girl had fitted the cap on her own head, and had run to consult her sister.

“What do you think the row can be about?”

But at dinner-time they noticed how their father and mother were scrutinizing the governess, and how they then looked significantly at one another. After dinner, their mother said to Miss Mann:

“Will you come to my room please? I want to speak to you.”

The girls were tremulous with excitement. Something was going to happen! By now, eavesdropping had become a matter of course. They no longer felt any shame; their one thought was to discover what was being hidden from them. They were at the door in a flash, directly Miss Mann had entered.

They listened, but all they could hear was a faint murmur of conversation. Were they to learn nothing after all? Then one of the voices was raised. Their mother said angrily:

“Did you suppose we were all blind—that we should never notice your condition? This throws a pretty light upon your conception of your duties as a governess. I shudder to think that I have confided my daughters’ education to such hands. No doubt you have neglected them shamefully...”

The governess seemed to break in here with a protest, but she spoke softly, so that the girls could not hear.

“Talk, talk! Every wanton finds excuses. A woman such as you gives herself to the first comer without a thought of the consequences. God will provide! It’s monstrous that a hussy like you should become a governess. But I suppose you don’t flatter yourself that I shall let you stay in the house any longer?”

The listeners shuddered. They could not fully understand, but their mother’s tone seemed horrible to them. It was answered only by Miss Mann’s sobs. The tears burst from their own eyes. Their mother grew angrier than ever.

“That’s all you can do now, cry and snivel! Your tears won’t move me. I have no sympathy with such a person as you are. It’s no business of mine, what will happen to you. No doubt you know where to turn for help, and that’s your affair. All I know is that you shan’t stay another day in my house.”

Miss Mann’s despairing sobs were still the only answer. Never had they heard anyone cry in this fashion. Their feeling was that no one who cried so bitterly could possibly be in the wrong. Their mother waited in silence for a little while, and then said sharply: “Well, that’s all I have to say to you. Pack up your things this afternoon, and come to me for your salary to-morrow morning. You can go now.”

The girls fled back to their own room. What could have happened? What was the meaning of this sudden storm? In a glass darkly, they began to have some suspicion of the truth. For the first time, their feeling was one of revolt against their parents.

“Wasn’t it horrid of Mother to speak to her like that ?” said the elder.

The younger was a little alarmed at such frank criticism, and stammered:

“But...but...we don’t know what she’s done.”

“Nothing wrong, I’m certain. Miss Mann would never do anything wrong. Mother doesn’t know her as well as we do.”

“Wasn’t it awful, the way she cried? It did make me feel so bad.”

“Yes, it was dreadful. But the way Mother shouted at her was sickening, positively sickening!”

The speaker stamped angrily, and tears welled up into her eyes.

At this moment Miss Mann came in, looking utterly worn out.

“Girls, I have a lot to do this afternoon. I know you will be good, if I leave you to yourselves? We’ll have the evening together.”

She turned, and left the room, without noticing the children’s forlorn looks.

“Did you see how red her eyes were? I simply can’t understand how Mother could be so unkind to her.”

“Poor Miss Mann!”

Again this lament, in a voice broken with tears. Then their Mother came to ask if they would like to go for a walk with her.

“Not to-day, Mother.”

In fact, they were afraid of their mother, and they were angry because she did not tell them that she was sending Miss Mann away. It suited their mood better to be by themselves. They fluttered about the room like caged swallows, crushed by the atmosphere of falsehood and silence. They wondered if they could not go to Miss Mann and ask her what was the matter; tell her they wanted her to stay, that they thought Mother had been horribly unfair. But they were afraid of distressing her. Besides they were ashamed, for how could they say a word about the matter when all they knew had been learned by eavesdropping? They had to spend the interminable afternoon by themselves, moping, crying from time to time, and turning over in their minds memories of what they had heard through the closed door—their mother’s heartless anger and Miss Mann’s despairing sobs.

In the evening, the governess came to see them, but only to say good night. As she left the room, the girls longed to break the silence, but could not utter a word. At the door, as if recalled by their dumb yearning, Miss Mann turned back, her eyes shining with emotion. She embraced both the girls, who instantly burst out crying. Kissing them once more, the governess hurried away.

It was obvious to the children that this was a final leave taking.

“We shall never see her again,” sobbed one.

“I know. She’ll be gone when we come back from school tomorrow.”

“Perhaps we shall be able to visit her after a time. Then she’ll show us the baby.”

“Yes, she’s always such a dear.”

“Poor Miss Mann!”

The sorrowful phrase seemed to hold a foreboding of their own destiny.

“I can’t think how we shall get on without her!”

“I shall never be able to stand another governess, after her.”

“Nor shall I.”

“There’ll never be anyone like Miss Mann. Besides...”

She did not venture to finish her sentence. An unconscious womanliness had made them feel a sort of veneration for Miss Mann, ever since they had known she had a baby. This was continually in their thoughts, and moved them profoundly.

“I say,” said one.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got an idea. Can’t we do something really nice for Miss Mann before she goes away, something that will show her how fond we are of her, and that we are not like Mother? Will you join in?”

“Rather!”

“You know how much she likes white roses. Let’s go out early tomorrow and buy some, before we go to school. We’ll put them in her room.”

“But when?”

“After school.”

“That’s no use, she’ll be gone then. Look here, I’ll steal out quite early, before breakfast, and bring them back here. Then we’ll take them to her.”

“All right, we must get up early.”

They raided their money-boxes. It made them almost cheerful, once more, that they would be able to show Miss Mann how much they loved her.

Early in the morning, roses in hand, they knocked at Miss Mann’s door. There was no answer.

Thinking the governess must be asleep, they peeped in. The room was empty; the bed had not been slept in. On the table lay two letters. The girls were startled. What had happened?

“I shall go straight to Mother,” said the elder girl. Defiantly, without a trace of fear, she accosted her mother with the words:

“Where’s Miss Mann?”

“In her room, I suppose.”

“There’s no one in her room; she never went to bed. She must have gone away last night. Why didn’t you tell us anything about it?”

The mother hardly noticed the challenging tone. Turning pale, she sought her husband, who went into Miss Mann’s room.

He stayed there some time, while the girls eyed their mother with gloomy indignation, and she seemed unable to meet their gaze.

Now their father came back, with an open letter in his hand. He, too, was agitated. The parents retired into their own room, and conversed in low tones. This time, the girls were afraid to try and overhear what was said. They had never seen their father look like that before.

When their mother came out, they saw she had been weeping. They wanted to question her, but she said sharply:

“Be off with you to school, you’ll be late.”

They had to go. For hours they sat in class without attending to a single word. Then they rushed home. There, a dreadful thought seemed to dominate everyone’s mind. Even the servants had a strange look. Their mother came to meet them, and began to speak in carefully rehearsed phrases:

“Children, you won’t see Miss Mann any more; she is...”

The sentence was left unfinished. So furious, so menacing, was the girls’ expression that their mother could not lie to them. She turned away, and sought refuge in her own room.

That afternoon, Otto put in an appearance. One of the two letters had been addressed to him, and he had been summoned. He too, was pale and uneasy. No one spoke to him. Everybody shunned him. Catching sight of the two girls sitting disconsolate in a corner of the room, he went up to them.

“Don’t you come near us!” both screamed, regarding him with horror.

He paced up and down for a while, and then vanished. No one spoke to the girls and they said nothing to one another. They wandered aimlessly from room to room, looking silently into one another’s tearstained faces when their paths crossed. They knew everything now. They knew that they had been cheated; they knew how mean people could be. They did not love their parents any more, did not trust Father or Mother any longer. They were sure they would never trust anyone again. All the burden of life pressed heavily upon their frail young shoulders. Their careless, happy childhood lay behind them; unknown terrors awaited them. The full significance of what had happened was still beyond their grasp, but they were wrestling with its dire potentialities., They were drawn together in their isolation, but it was a dumb communion, for they could not break the spell of silence. From their elders they were completely cut off. No one could approach them, for the portals of their souls had been closed—perhaps for years to come. They were at war with all around them. For, in one brief day, they had grown up!

Not till late in the evening, when they were alone in their bedroom, did there reawaken in them the child’s awe of solitude, the haunting fear of the dead woman, the terror of dread possibilities. It was bitterly cold; in the general confusion the heating apparatus had been forgotten They both crept into one bed, and cuddled closely together, for mutual encouragement as well as for warmth. They were still unable to discuss their trouble. But now, at length, the younger’s pent-up emotion found relief in a storm of tears, and the elder, too, sobbed convulsively. Thus they lay weeping in one another’s arms. They were no longer bewailing the loss of Miss Mann, or their estrangement from their parents. They were shaken by the anticipation of what might befall them in this unknown world into whose realities they had to-day looked for the first time. They shrank from the life into which they were growing up; from the life which seemed to them like a forest full of threatening shapes, a forest they had to cross. But by degrees this sense of anxiety grew visionary; their sobs were less violent, and came at longer intervals. They breathed quietly, now, in a rhythmical unison of peace. They slept.