never meant to disobey it; but there was no help for it now.
“Are you not going to be my governess any longer?” questioned Lucy.
“I am sorry to have mentioned this, Lucy,” she murmured in contrition. “I ought not to have spoken to you. Will you kindly tell Lady Jane that I spoke in inadvertence, not intentionally; and that I am sorry to have done so?”
“But, Miss Lethwait———”
“But I cannot tell you anything,” was the interruption of the governess. “It may chance, my dear, that we shall meet again at some future time. I am not sure. What seems certain one day vanishes the next. But you may believe one thing, Lucy—that I shall always love you.”
She pushed the pretty arms away from her, and bolted herself in her chamber. Lucy flew to the breakfast-room, It was in the hands of the servants: it had been the supper-room of the previous night.
“Where’s Lady Jane?” asked the child, surveying the débris before her with interest.
The servants did not know, unless her ladyship was in the small drawing-room. And Lucy went to the small drawing-room in search of her.
Jane was there. She had been shut up there quietly with her housekeeping book since the dismissal of the governess; but she had risen now to go to Lord Oakburn.
“O Jane! Is Miss Lethwait really going?”
“Yes,” calmly replied Jane.
“Why? I am so sorry.”
“Hush, Lucy.”
“But you’ll tell me why, Jane? What has she done?”
“You must not ask, my dear. These things do not concern you. I will take your lessons myself until I can find some one in Miss Lethwait’s place, more suitable than she is.”
“But Jane———”
“I cannot tell you anything more, Lucy,” was the peremptory answer.
“It is enough for you to know that Miss Lethwait is discharged, and that she quits the house to-day. I am very sorry that she ever entered it.”
Leaving the little girl standing there, Jane went down to Lord Oakburn. He was seated in just the same position as when interrupted by Miss Lethwait: himself in a reverie, and the open letter before him.
Jane drew the velvet curtain close, and told him she had been discharging the governess. She found that she was unsuitable for her charge, was all the explanation she gave. Jane had taken her knitting in her hand, and she sat with her eyes bent upon it while she spoke; never raising them; saying as little as she possibly could say. It was terribly unpleasant to Jane to mention that name to her father, after what she had seen in that very room on the previous night.
The earl made no interruption. It may be, that Jane had feared she knew not what of question and objection; but he heard her in silence. He never said a word until she had finished, and then not much.
“It was rather cool of you to dismiss her without warning, my lady. A harsh measure.”
A rosy flush tinged Jane’s delicate features. “I think not, papa.”
“As you please,” returned the earl. “And now what’s to be done about Clarice?”
The question took her by surprise. Lord Oakburn pointed to the open letter.
“I got this letter this morning, Jane. We have been mistaken in supposing that it was Clarice who went to Canada. It was another Miss Beauchamp.”
“Oh yes, papa, I know it,” returned Jane, in much distress, as she reverted to the disappointment imparted by Mr. Vaughan. “I begin—I begin to despair of finding her.”
“Then you are a simpleton for your pains,” retorted the earl. “Despair of finding her! What next? She has gone on the Continent with some family, and is put down in their passport as ‘the governess:’ that’s what it is. Despair of finding her, indeed! I shall go off to that governess-agency place, and ask what they meant by leading us to believe that it was the same Miss Beauchamp.”
In his hot haste, his impulsive temper, the earl rose and departed there and then, hurling no end of anathemas at the unlucky Pompey, who could not at the first moment, in the general disarrangement, lay his hands on his master’s hat. And ere the sun was high at noon, the governess had quitted the house, as governess, for ever.
PLOTS FOR PLAYS.
Carlo Goldoni, Avocato Veneto, as he delighted to sign himself, flourished as a most prolific playwright about a century ago. He has left behind him some four and twenty volumes of comedies; of these, the far greater number bear the distinctive stamp of excellence, and are as worthy of acceptance now as they were when originally applauded by the critics of Venice and Mantua. Taken collectively, the entire of his works constitutes a mine of suggestive reference, which might well be utilised by our writers of to-day.
Why should we, in the matter of play
