Rupert Godwin

A DAUGHTER’S TRIAL.

Late though it was when she returned home after Mrs. Trevor’s party. Violet knew that she must be punctual in her attendance on her pupils on the following morning. At eight o’clock she was walking westwards, after having taken her scanty breakfast at home. No refreshment had ever been offered to her at Mrs. Trevor’s house, for the widow knew how to make the best of a good bargain; and liberal though she was in the matter of fine words and elegant compliments, she would have grudged her hard-working slave a cup of tea or a class of indifferent sherry.

Nine was striking as Violet was admitted into the hall. She was about to proceed to the back-staircase, which led to the schoolroom, when the man-of-all-work stopped her.

“My missus wants to see you in her boodore,” he said, with the cool insolence with which a well-paid footman addresses an ill-paid governess; “which it’s very important, and you wos to go upstairs immediate, and to look sharp about it.”

Violet was surprised at this summons, as Mrs. Trevor rarely rose until nearly mid-day, when it was her habit to sit sipping her chocolate and reading a novel until it was time to go out upon a round of fashionable visits; but, although the governess was surprised at this unexpected summons, she was in no way apprehensive of any unpleasantness in an interview with her employer.

Never had she looked brighter or prettier than when she presented herself before Mrs. Trevor, who had not long risen from her bed, and who sat untidily dressed in a loose morning-gown, at a well furnished breakfast-table. The barrister’s widow had acquired the tastes of an accomplished gourmet from her late husband, and was selecting the daintiest morsels out of a raised pie for her own consumption as Miss Westford entered the room.

Her favourite daughter Anastasia was sitting on the other side of the table, and a dark frown obscured that young lady’s handsome face.

She had perceived the impression made by Violet Westford on Sir Harold Ivry, and she felt something nearly akin to hatred for the innocent girl whose charms had outrivalled her own.

Violet saw at a glance that something had happened to alter her position in the estimation of Mrs. and Miss Trevor; but, as her conscience was entirely free from blame, she met the changed looks of the two ladies with a frank and fearless countenance.

“Miss Westford,” exclaimed Mrs. Trevor in the affected and high-flown manner which was peculiar to her, “when you first entered this room, you entered the presence of a woman who is as confiding as a child. I saw you, and I liked you. You are beautiful; and I am a sensitive creature, to whom the presence of beautiful things is almost a necessity. You sought to enter my employment; I accepted your offer with confidence; I admitted you into my household; I trusted you with the care of my innocent girls; and now—now, when I had lulled myself to rest, believing in your truth and purity, I find that I have nourished a viper.”

Violet started and turned deadly pale. Never before had Captain Westford’s daughter known what it was to receive an insult.

“Madam!” she exclaimed, with a sudden pride, which contrasted strangely with her usual gentleness, “you are mistaken in the person you address in this extraordinary manner.”

“I wish I were,” answered Mrs. Trevor, shaking her head solemnly. “I wish I were indeed mistaken, and that I could awake from my delusion to find you worthy of my confidence.”

“In what way have I proved myself unworthy of that confidence, madam?” asked Violet, with the same proud and fearless manner.

“O, Miss Westford,” ejaculated the widow, raising her lace-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, with a sniff that was meant for a sob, “it is a sad case—a most painful case. It is not yourself against whom I have anything to say—except, indeed, that you have withheld the truth from me.”

“I have withheld the truth, madam?” exclaimed Violet. “What truth have I withheld from you?”

“You entered my house under false pretences; you concealed from me the character of—your—unhappy mother.”

At this point Mrs. Trevor made a pretence of being almost overcome by her emotion.

“The character of my mother!” cried Violet. “What should I tell you of her, madam, except that she is the best and dearest of mothers, and that I love her better than my life?”

“Unhappy girl! Do you pretend to be ignorant of your mother’s character prior to her marriage with your father?”

“Ignorant, madam! What should I know of my dear mother? Who is it that dares sully her name by so much as a whisper?”

“One who knows her only too well,” answered Mrs. Trevor. “Alas, poor child! I begin to think you may indeed be ignorant of the truth. And yet surely you must know the maiden name of your own mother?”

A vivid blush suddenly dyed Violet’s pale cheeks. For a moment a deadly fear—shadowy, shapeless, but terrible—took possession of her.

She had never been told the maiden name of her mother. More than this, she remembered that she had never heard that mother allude to any one circumstance of her early life. A dark veil of mystery had seemed to shroud that portion of Mrs. Westford’s existence.

But the daughter’s love was stronger than the base feeling of suspicion, that poisonous and fatal weed which at times twines itself about the purest and truest heart.

“I beg to resign my situation here this instant, Mrs. Trevor,” Violet exclaimed, indignantly. “If any one has dared to slander my mother in your hearing, I declare that person to be the falsest and basest of mankind. But, be it as it may, I will not stop an hour in a house where my mother’s name has been sullied by the breath of suspicion.”

“The person who told me your mother’s sad story—sad and shameful also, alas!” sighed Mrs. Trevor, “is a person far too high in position to become the promoter of any idle slander. He spoke of facts—facts which I thought you might have been able to disprove; but you cannot do so. You cannot even tell me your mother’s maiden name. But I can tell you that name, Miss Westford. Your mother’s name was Ponsonby, and she was turned out of doors by her father, Sir John Ponsonby, when his heart had been almost broken by the disgrace which had fallen upon his daughter.”

“What disgrace, madam?”

Mrs. Trevor was silent. Rupert Godwin had not chosen to tell her that he was the lover whose conduct had caused a cruel slander to blacken the name of Clara Ponsonby.

“What was that disgrace, madam?” repeated Violet. “I have a right to know the extent of the falsehoods that some wretch has dared to utter against the best and purest of women.”

“Nay, child,” answered Mrs. Trevor, with affected sympathy; “enough has been said—more than enough! I pity your misfortune, for no misfortune can be greater than that of being the daughter of a worthless woman. I pity you, Miss Westford. But I am a mother myself; I have my own daughters to consider, and I cannot possibly allow you to enter this house again.”

“You cannot allow me, madam!” cried Violet, with passionate indignation. “Do you think my own feelings will allow me ever again to cross the threshold of a house in which my mothers name has been so cruelly and pitilessly slandered? No, Mrs. Trevor! I wish you good morning; and I can only trust that we may never again meet. You may have been deceived by your informant, but I cannot forgive you for being so ready to think ill of my dear mother.”

Having said this, Violet left the room, calm and dignified in outward seeming, though her heart was almost bursting with the agony that tortured it.

Mrs. Trevor sat for some moments staring at the door by which the young girl had left her apartments, as if she could scarcely collect her scattered senses.

“Did you ever see such assurance, Anastasia?” she exclaimed at last. “If this penniless girl had been the Queen of England she could scarcely have answered me more proudly. However, we’ve got rid of her, that’s one comfort. It’s very lucky Rupert Godwin told me what he did, for I’m sure that designing creature would have set her cap at Sir Harold Ivry, and tried to supplant you, my pet. I had my eye upon her last night, though she little knew it, and I saw her artful manœuvres.”

Anastasia Trevor bit her lips with vexation as she remembered the events of the previous evening—the evening which was to have been one long triumph to herself, and which had only resulted in bitter disappointment and humiliation. Hypocritical though we may be in our conduct to the world, we cannot deceive ourselves; and Anastasia knew only too well that Sir Harold’s admiration had been freely and spontaneously given, and that Violet had been even unconscious of the impression she had made.

“There’s one blessing,” exclaimed the fashionable Mrs. Trevor, after some minutes of meditation, “we save half a week’s salary by this quarrel—though where we shall get such another governess for the same money, goodness only knows!”