Anne set down her pen, sealed up her letter, and was just rising to her feet when there came a knock at the door of her bedchamber. Hastily pushing the letter beneath her blotter, she called out to know who it was. A high voice replied, and in a moment the diminutive figure of Nicole Lessington appeared in the doorway. The child was dressed rather more appropriately than she had been on the day of her arrival in Regent’s Terrace, but there managed to survive, despite the neat sprigged muslin pinafore, the ruffled cap, and delicate white stockings embroidered with clocks (a gift from Lady Cardovan which had delighted the little girl so much that she could scarcely be persuaded to take them off at night) something of the air of a sprightly elf. Her curls were black and glossy and seemed always a little disordered, her cap persisted in going askew upon her head, and the great shining black eyes peering out above the red cheeks contained such an expression of candour that Anne, who was already a little flustered, grew unwittingly crimson beneath their gaze.
“Yes, Nicole?” she inquired briskly. “I supposed you would be another half hour at least with your history lesson. Have you learned it all in so short a time?”
“Nearly,” responded the little girl without much conviction. She was staring interestedly about her, for she had only been once before in Miss Calder’s private apartment. The chamber was a good deal smaller than her own, and not nearly so well appointed, but it seemed to her to contain mysteries and charms far exceeding those of her own handsome bedchamber, with its crimson brocade curtains, its view of Regent’s Park, and the vast bedstead which seemed to swallow her up at night. She moved closer to the oddly shaped window above the desk and gazed out upon the view of treetops and roofs.
“Well, that is not quite good enough, is it?” demanded her governess, but with sufficient amusement in her voice to offset the attempt at sternness. “Nearly learning a history lesson is not quite so good as learning it, do you think?”
“I suppose not,” responded the truant without any remorse. “But it was dreadfully dull. I thought if I was forced to read another phrase about old Greeks I should fall asleep.”
“Ha!” cried Anne, barely able to suppress a laugh, “old Greeks, is it? And what do you suppose they shall call you in a thousand years’ time? I suppose they shall speak of you as a modern little English girl, shall they?”
Nicole paused temporarily in her perusal of the adjacent building to ponder this interesting question.
“Do you suppose,” she inquired, leaning her elbows on the windowsill with her chin in the cup of her hands, “they shall think of me at all? If I grow up to be very great, like Sir Basil, perhaps they shall write a history of me.”
“Perhaps they shall. But I hardly think you will be fit to take up an ambassadorship if you don’t apply yourself to your lessons. I don’t suppose anyone would want an ambassador who knows nothing about those dull old Greeks.”
“I suppose not,” conceded Nicole with a sigh. Then, with a brighter look, she added, “But if I was only to be married to an ambassador, it shouldn’t matter much. I could be as ignorant as I pleased, so long as I was beautiful, and danced prettily, and knew all the clever things to say at balls. Then they should write about me only as being the most beautiful and witty lady in the world. I think,” continued the truant, still gazing raptly into space, “I should prefer that in any case. Anyone can be clever at history. But not everyone can be the most beautiful lady in the world!”
“I shall convey your opinion to Sir Basil,” responded Anne, smiling despite herself, “with perhaps the suggestion that a dancing master and a portrait painter would be more appropriately employed than a governess.”
“Oh!” cried Nicole, whirling around. “I hope you will not!”
Anne endeavoured to look amazed. “Why? Have you changed your mind so soon? Ambition is only good if it is steadfast, my dear little Nicole. You shall never succeed in being the belle of European society if you change your mind every moment.”
Nicole stared at her governess in momentary confusion, and then giggled. “You know I am only funning you, Miss Calder. I should be an idiot if I did not wish to learn everything I could. That is what Papa said I ought to do, and that is why he made Sir Basil my guardian. Only I do wish it were possible to learn everything without having to study so hard. It would be delightful if there was some method of pouring a great deal of knowledge into your ear, in only a moment’s time!”
“If that were possible,” said Anne, sitting upon a little settee near her desk, “then I can assure you that the whole population of Europe would be ambassadors. But it would not avail much in the end, you know. For at least half the satisfaction of accomplishment lies in the knowledge of its having been achieved solely by one’s own efforts and the cost of not a little hard work.”
Miss Lessington looked much interested in this idea, and with her keen black eyes fastened intently upon Anne’s amused hazel ones, cried: “Why, do you know that is exactly what my Papa always used to say! I believe you should have liked each other exceedingly well, Miss Calder—if only you had known him.”
Anne, noticing a rare tinge of sadness in the child’s expression, replied that she was sure she would have. Nicole’s little outburst hung in the air as she turned away again to the window, biting her lip. But in a moment she had turned back again, smiling brightly.
“I ought not to speak of him,” she said with a little impatient shake of her head which tugged at Anne’s heartstrings more than a torrent of tears could have. “He would not have liked it. Papa told me always to laugh when I was in danger of weeping. ‘If you persist long enough in laughing, my girl, you shall very soon find something to laugh about, for there is quite as much to be amused with in this life as there is to weep over.’ ”
Here was a sentiment with which Anne heartily concurred, and had she not at this moment been so torn herself between a desire to comfort the little girl and a wish to preserve her brave dignity by pretending nothing was amiss, she would have rushed to fold her in her arms and tell her so. But the sight of this tiny little woman (for Nicole, despite all her mussed curls and air of a disbanded gypsy girl still possessed a maturity in her manner and in her thoughts which quite overwhelmed her governess) struggling to collect her emotions and to present a brave front made her pause. From the first moment of their meeting, Nicole had displayed such a markedly independent nature, so little tendency to exhibit any grief over her misfortunes, or even to speak about them, that Anne was loathe to be the first to break the silence. True, the word papa had not cropped up infrequently—chiefly as introduction to some little proverb or piece of wisdom which that gentleman had apparently had in no small supply. “Papa” was forever being held up as the ultimate judge of any issue, and whether it was a question of which frock to don in the morning or which fork to use for the fish course, his preferences were always invoked. But as to any real reference to him, either to his history or his character, there had been none. Indeed, so reticent had Nicole seemed upon this subject that Anne was more and more mystified. It struck her that any recently bereaved child would speak openly of her lost parent, if only in an effort to assuage her grief. It was evident from all her references to him that Nicole had nearly idolized her father. Why, then, would she not talk more freely about him? Very gently, Anne bid the child to come sit beside her, and taking one small hand in her own, she asked if Nicole would not tell her a little about him.
Nicole received these solicitations with a solemn expression, and after wrinkling up her brow for a moment, in concentration, she nodded gravely.
“Papa,” she said slowly, “was the best man in all the world. He knew everything, and taught me all he could. It was the great ambition of his life that I should be a great lady, and so he was not sorry when he died, but told me it was a gift from Heaven, for I should be brought up as Sir Basil’s ward, and my guardian could do a great deal more for me than he could do himself.”
“But did you have no friends?” inquired Anne, rather surprised by this little speech. “Do not you miss your old home, and all your old ways of life?”
Now it was Nicole’s turn to look puzzled. “Why,” she replied, “I miss Papa! I miss Papa sometimes most dreadfully. He was my friend, and I his.” And with these words, the child gave a heaving shudder and burst into a flood of tears. Without much coaxing, Anne persuaded her to be embraced, and for some minutes the little girl shook and wept as if the end of the world had come. Anne was more pleased than sorry by this display, for it struck her as more natural than never shedding a tear, with all the fright and worry and sheer unhappiness which must have been her lot in the past weeks. And so, with much stroking and murmuring, she held the child tightly against her bosom and waited for the flood to subside of itself. This did not occur for some little while, and when it did, Nicole drew herself away and, clutching her hands in her lap, gave one last sob.
“I shall not do that again,” she said, almost as if in stern warning to herself.
“Why!” cried Anne, amazed, “why ever not? I am very glad you did, indeed! And very pleased you should have selected me to comfort you.”
Nicole gave her an uncertain smile. “You are not angry with me then?”
“Angry! Why on earth should I be angry?”
“Papa always said that no one much likes people who cry.”
“Nonsense,” retorted Anne, beginning to be irked with this famous papa, who had so much facile wisdom at his command but seemed more and more to have been a little inhuman. “Some people like them very well. I do not mean it is always proper to weep, nor that one ought to weep before simply anyone. But there is sometimes no better medicine for grief than tears, nor any better method of making a friend. I know that gentlemen do not always agree with this point, but you will find very few ladies who disagree. If your mother had lived longer, she would certainly have told you exactly the same. I wish most heartily she had, for in that case I make no doubt but that you would not be so loathe to be sad, nor show by any hint of weakness that you are a little girl, and not a grown-up woman.”
Nicole seemed to consider this point with some solemnity. Then, blinking a little, she offered Anne a trembling smile.
“I think,” she said in a rather hoarse voice, “I shall go and learn my history lesson now.”
Anne saw the child go with mixed emotions.
She could not have said, as she rose slowly to her feet and moved toward the same window before which Nicole had stood some moments before, exactly what she felt. For some while she stood motionless, gazing out over the line of crooked rooftops leading toward the tiny arch of Westminster Bridge, with its minute line of carriages and people. In the distance the waters of the Thames sparkled beneath the brilliant sun of a clear November afternoon, and across the river only a tiny spiderweb of streets and houses hinted at the vast population of London which had never set foot in Regent’s Terrace or Bond Street. Anne had not ceased to be amazed at the immensity of the city, nor at the extraordinary diversity of life going on within. The mere sight of that panorama thrilled her, with all the richness of humanity it implied. To think that she might never have come, might at this very moment have been a mere Mrs. Siddons presiding over her parlour and her dining table, with no greater ambition man serving five courses to her husband’s friends and possessing a wider command of the village gossip than her sisters! The idea made her laugh, and with a triumphant expression, she turned back into the room.
“My girl,” she murmured out loud, “you may very well have taken on more than you can manage, as Papa warned. But oh! I should infinitely prefer to fall upon a mountain path than to climb nimbly to the top of an anthill!”
And with this optimistic note, which her mother would have called foolhardy and would have brought a doubtful smile to her father’s lips, she retrieved her letter from beneath the blotting pad and, having sealed it up with wax and inscribed the address upon it, crept down the stairs and laid it in the letter tray for die servant to post. This secret little mission took no more than a minute, and when Nicole had finished studying the chapter on the old Greeks, she found her governess calmly preparing a lesson in geography.