that her sensitive spirit shrank within her, reconciling her even to the more bearable hardships of Mrs. Mallory's school, to say nothing of the genial influence permeating it, in which she had lived and breathed so long, and had yet to learn to exist without. Her health, however, did not improve; her attacks became of still more frequent recurrence, and they, being of a nature which medical treatment could not reach, so completely pressing upon the nervous system, were but the more irritating to her employer, and indeed to all those less patient and sympathetic than her friend. Some indeed went so far as to say these attacks were put on to escape from her work, and call forth the indulgent devotion of Miss Lawson; and it was on one of these occasions we have specially presented to my readers at the opening of this chapter-a chapter drawn, we fear, to a somewhat tedious and, monotonous length. CHAPTER IV. A SCHOOL-GIRL JESUIT. SCARCELY had Miss Lawson completed her services to the invalid and sat down soothingly by her side, when there came a sharp knock at the door, eliciting from the patient a start of nervous disturbance, and from her friend a frown of impatient displeasure; whilst the parlor maid, putting in her head, said, "I beg your pardon, Miss, but the gentlemen are in the drawing-room waiting to see you; and Missus desired me to say, you must go down to them immediately." "I shall go when I am ready; and another time, please to knock more gently when Miss Lynde is in bed," was Gwendoline's haughty answer. The maid departed abashed, and .quickly brushing down her wavy braids (which had a knack of falling somewhat into admired disorder when left long to themselves), and arranging them by her friend's small looking-glass, Gwendoline said with the slight increase of color the message had summoned to her face "Well, I wonder what I shall have to listen to to-day. I shall not be gone long, Bona; try to get a little sleep whilst I am away." "Oh no, I shall not sleep till I see you back safely; I always feel when they come, as if I were going to lose you forever." "Nonsense, love, you need not fear that. The worst they can do is to keep us longer here together, but I hope to bring things to a crisis to-day if possible, to a more desirable situation for us both. I see you are not fit for your present position, though you have done your best. I must not have your health sacrificed; so take good heart; I must see what can be done." She went down-stairs; and Bona soon heard the door of the drawingroom shut-not bang, but close in that peculiarly strong, firm, and determined way, totally without jarring noise, such as characterized Gwendoline's commonest action; and involuntarily, as the contrast struck her more sadly even than usual in her weariness, both physi cal and mental this day, she sighed heavily at the difference this simple circumstance sufficed to bring home to her, which every thing belonging to herself displayed. What a feeble ineffectual person she felt in comparison! How unfitted for the life of toil and struggle which hers must surely be; yet there was much capacity for romantic heroism, germs of self-devotion within her, but the energy of action was wanting, of brave perseverance in the simple obvious path of uncongenial duty; and there came before her as if in reproachful condemnation at that moment, the text of last Sunday's sermon, "Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice; to hearken, than the fat of rams." Whether the application to her own case seemed slightly far-fetched or not, the fact is Bona was one of those purely emotional characters, the most unhappy, perhaps, which can be bestowed upon women; so dependent are they on fate, or circumstance, in what manner it shall lead them; whether healthfully or unhealthfully; whether to their weal or woe; oftener far, we fear, on the latter course. Timid, hesitating, yet incautious, and impulsive in action; sensitive, yet impassionable and rash, they oftener prove a misery than a blessing to themselves and others. Wanting the Wanting the ballast of this world's wisdom, scarcely strong enough in their strivings for the next, they hang between earth and heaven, unfit, in their own estimation, for either; "Neither for the land, nor for the dunghill" (as Bona once expressed it, in one of her self-condemning fits of humble despondency), "but men" the human beings for which they have perhaps falsely, or morbidly sacrificed themselves-" cast them out." Alas! as we shall see hereafter, it was on this rock-the spirit of mistaken self-devotion, of missing the substance for the shadow-that poor Bona's frail bark of life eventually split. In the meantime there glided into the room a girl of very distinctive character to the two we have already introduced. Her name was Tina Ramus, and she was only sixteen; a small, lithe, Italian-looking girl; indeed her family were on one side Italian or rather Maltese-some said Jews, and no one had been surprised from her appearance to hear that she had Jewish blood in her veins, though in her character she partook certainly more of the Roman Catholic sect. She was, in short, the Jesuit of the school-(may there not be said to be one member answering to that description in every community, social and domestic even ?) one from whom Bona's spirit instinctively shrank in secret, and of whom Gwendoline more openly showed suspicion and dislike; so that Tina on her side feared Gwendoline; and it was generally when she knew the latter to be safely disposed of, that the girl, ever finding opportunity to glide and pry about the house, from which others by their habits or occupations were debarred, would seek out Bona, and under the mask of caressing blandishments and soft attentions, manage to leave some fresh sting, or a deeper shade of disquiet in the nervous young teacher's breast; indignantly animadverting, for instance, as on this occasion, on what Mrs. Mallory had let fall respecting her troublesome indispositions, the useless incumbrance which her professed teacher proved to her, alluding to impertinent speeches of some of the girls, of the servants even, concerning the fuss Gwendoline made about her, the trouble she gave unnecessarily in the house, the deceptive nature of these attacks; and all this, whilst sitting coiled up affectionately on the bed, a graceful little reptile whom Bona had not the courage, if the inclination to repel. For she had her part to play in Bona's apparently insignificant but not untragic history, had already gained that mastery which the possession of a secret gives to an unprincipled spirit over a weak or timid one. The history of this secret it may be better perhaps to give here. I have already alluded cursorily to the visit paid by Bona to her relatives in France. On her journey home she had met with an adventure, which would have been delightful excitement to any ordinary school-girl, but which to her, in spite of the dormant romance of her nature, proved eventually a source more of annoyance and dismay. Crossing in the steamboat from Boulogne to London, a passage known to be from eight to ten hours, Bona had remained seated on the deck, late in the evening, rather than descend into the closeaired cabin, and to the inevitable sickness it entailed. There she had suffered herself to be led into conversation by a foreigner of courteous and agreeable manners; little pleased at the opportunity of exercising her Italian, and interested in the accounts of his own beautiful country, which he graphically gave; whilst on her part, in discussions as to English manners and customs, she was drawn into rather, too free and confidential particulars concerning her own position and circumstances of life. a The foreigner soon knew the school at which she resided; the names of some of her school-fellows, and of the special friends she there possessed, in all which he manifested intelligent, but to all appearance, perfectly innocent and unconscious interest. It was the first time, he said, he had ever been in England; he spoke English tolerably well however, was rich, he insinuated, whilst on the other hand, Bona, with her girlish frankness, let him know that she was poor, but that there were several rich girls-her own particular friend especially-at the school where she was located. To the termination of the passage the stranger showed her all polite attention, assisting her with her boxes in the difficulties of disembark ation. When the steamboat arrived at the docks, there was Miss Lawson, with a servant and carriage to rcceive her friend, and the foreigner, scarcely noticed by Gwendoline, and forgotten by Bona, in the delight of the mutual reunion, had just time to catch a glimpse of the handsome light-haired English-woman, who so warmly received his dark-browed, delicate, little newlyformed acquaintance, before they were driven away, and he was left, thinking perhaps, and not unjustly, his late attentions somewhat ungratefully repaid. And certainly in railroad travelling it has often struck us how ungraciously and abruptly the acquaintance of some hours' length has terminated. We find an agreeable person, talk, laugh, become quite intimate, almost confidential, receive and bestow civilities, eat of each other's bread, drink of each other's cup, perchance-in fact fraternize in every possible way. Many an interesting anecdote is mutually exchanged, for it is astonishing how in some people (perhaps it may be the power of steam) the heart opens on a railway journey. We know a lady, who under such circumstances, actually once extracted do the strange forms and incidents of a dream; to be thought of perhaps no more. But, after all, it is very much the same with our journey through life. Faces and forms we in this evanescent manner encounter in our worldly flittings, soon vanish from our remembrance, whereas the faces of our old friends are never entirely effaced from our recollection. Even though long years may have divided us, a look, an air, a tone, recalls the past, and brings back in an almost mysteriously wonderful manner, old scenes, old feelings, bygone days which we had fancied to have been forgotten, but in reality had been only ly a valuable legal opinion from her fellow-traveller, a lawyer, going the circuit; it saved her a journey to London, besides the expense of the retaining fee. Yet what a complete change do our feelings undergo, when having gained our destination, and perhaps the whole family history has been interchanged, the door of the carriage opens-our charming fellow-traveller, very often without even a hasty farewell, steps out, the bustle and confusion already obliterating from his or her mind every trace of the past hours. And it is just the same with ourselves. The platform of a railway station seems at once to destroy the illusion of the journey, to turn it ailing smouldering in our hearts, into a sort of imagery; the dramatis persona of the rapid trajet melting from one's recollections, as ready to burst forth again.. And thus, "Nous revenons à nos moutons." CHAPTER V. THE HANDSOME FOREIGNER. BONA, alternately oppressed by her onerous duties and absorbed in her friend, would have quickly banished the attentive stranger from her thoughts, had not he come before her unexpectedly a day or two after her return to Brompton, in the course of a walk to the adjoining square with the younger girls; Tina also happening to be of the party. The foreigner took off his hat, and half paused as if to address her, but she, in an embarrassed manner returned his salutation, passing quickly on, too much taken up with escaping any further acknowledgment of their acquaintanceship, which she rightly felt under the circumstances would be highly improper, as well as most certain to draw down upon her her employer's displeasure, to note a glance of intelligence exchanged between Tina and her recent fellow-traveller, nay, . and even the hurried whisper the two found opportunity to interchange behind her back. One of the little girls, however, the youngest in the school, a child of eight, one of those creatures with eyes and ears everywhere, marked it all perfectly, and was well bribed by the elder pupil afterwards to keep her busy tongue silent. A nice initiation for little girls of her age, but one to which even in these days, the rising generation at many of the best of schools must be subjected, whilst liable to be exposed to the subtle infection of girls like Tina Ramus. But though that young person might pass scot free, Bona was not to escape so easily; the children being sent on to amuse themselves, she had to submit to artlessly playful examinations from Miss Ramus, with her arm linked caressingly within her own. "Where had she known that handsome foreign stranger? what was his name? who was he? did Gwendoline also know him?" "I am sure I do not know who he is; how can you call him handsome?" were Bona's slighting rejoinders. "He crossed over in the steamer from Boulogne with me the other day. No, Gwendoline, I am sure, knows nothing about him.” "How strange that he should have come upon you here; did you tell him you lived in this neighborhood?" "I am afraid-I believe I did," Bona said; hesitating and coloring. "But what does it signify? it is only an accident our meeting." "Well I don't know," Tina persisted the more, from seeing her companion was annoyed by it; "he must have taken a fancy to you, and you seem to have been pretty confidential with him; who knows how it may end, that he has not become your lover, and will marry you ?" "Good gracious, Tina," Bona exclaimed quite angrily, "in what a senseless, school-girl way you always talk about lovers and marrying! Thank you! no dirty foreigner for me, if ever such an unlikely thing did happen, as for any one to wish to marry a poor, plain, schoolteacher." would be angry," Tina continued mildly. "I think she would consider it great nonsense." "Well! but," returning to the point in a slightly injured spirit, 'you need not talk about dirty foreigners; you know I am half foreign myself," continued Tina. Bona did not answer. She was thinking how glad she should be when she got rid of Tina's arm, coiled round hers so softly, yet tenaciously; get rid of her indeed entirely, for a brief interval, for the half-hour allowed for preparation for dinner, was spent by Bona always in Gwendoline's private company, an oasis of time in her day's wilderness. "You do not, I suppose, mean that you think me dirty," still piteously persisted Tina. "My poor face is rather sallow perhaps." "My dear Tina," Bona exclaimed, now fairly laughing, "Dirty is that dirty does. I was, perhaps, thinking more of deeds than of complexion, and have no right certainly to call any one of any nation dirty if their deeds are individually pure and honorable; but I must go and see what they are doing to little Anna; they delight in teazing the poor child." And making an effort, she escaped to the children, and took possession of the aforesaid Anna, who was very fond of her. "Dirty foreigner!" How little did she dream that those words spoken lightly, in the dusty London Square that morning, would be brought home to her in such remote scenes and under such different circumstances! Tina could not say much more before the child, only as if she could not resist another thrust, she exclaimed maliciously Well, I suppose you and Miss Lawson intend to be old maids; or do you think she will relent at last |