The Clever Woman of the Family. Yonge Charlotte Mary

receive unless she took it in earnest, as in the present instance.

      “Why not—I ask why not? Some women have broken through prejudice, and why should not others? Do you not agree with me, Fanny, that female medical men—I mean medical women—would be an infinite boon?”

      “It would be very nice if they would never be nervous.”

      “Nerves are merely a matter of training. Think of the numbers that might be removed from the responsibility of incompetently educating! I declare that to tempt a person into the office of governess, instead of opening a new field to her, is the most short-sighted indolence.”

      “I don’t want to tempt any one,” said Fanny. “She ought to have been out before and be experienced, only she most be kind to the poor boys. I wanted the Major to inquire in London, but he said perhaps I might hear of some one here.”

      “That was right, my dear,” returned her aunt. “A gentleman, an officer, could not do much in such a matter.”

      “He always does manage whatever one wants.”

      At which speech Rachel cast a glance towards her mother, and saw her look questioning and perplexed.

      “I was thinking,” said Grace, “that I believe the people at the Cliff Cottages are going away, and that Miss Williams might be at liberty.”

      “Didn’t I know that Grace would come out with Miss Williams?” exclaimed Rachel. “A regular eruption of the Touchettomania. We have had him already advertising her.”

      “Miss Williams!” said Mrs. Curtis. “Yes, she might suit you very well. I believe they are very respectable young women, poor things! I have always wished that we could do more for them.”

      “Who?” asked Fanny.

      “Certain pets of Mr. Touchett’s,” said Rachel; “some of the numerous ladies whose mission is that curatolatry into which Grace would lapse but for my strenuous efforts.”

      “I don’t quite know why you call them his pets,” said Grace, “except that he knew their antecedents, and told us about them.”

      “Exactly, that was enough, for me. I perfectly understand the meaning of Mr. Touchett’s recommendations, and if what Fanny wants is a commonplace sort of upper nursemaid, I dare say it would do.” And Rachel leant back, applied herself to her wood carving, and virtually retired from the discussion.

      “One sister is a great invalid,” said Grace, “quite a cripple, and the other goes out as a daily governess. They are a clergyman’s daughters, and once were very well off, but they lost everything through some speculation of their brother. I believe he fled the country under some terrible suspicion of dishonesty; and though no one thought they had anything to do with it, their friends dropped them because they would not give him up, nor believe him guilty, and a little girl of his lives with them.”

      “Poor things!” exclaimed Lady Temple. “I should very much like to employ this one. How very sad.”

      “Mrs. Grey told me that her children had never done so well with any one,” said Mrs. Curtis. “She wanted to engage Miss Williams permanently, but could not induce her to leave her sister, or even to remove her to London, on account of her health.”

      “Do you know her, Grace?” asked Fanny.

      “I have called once or twice, and have been very much pleased with the sick sister; but Rachel does not fancy that set, you see. I meet the other at the Sunday school, I like her looks and manner very much, and she is always at the early service before her work.”

      “Just like a little mauve book!” muttered Rachel.

      Fanny absolutely stared. “You go, don’t you, Rachel? How we used to wish for it!”

      “You have wished and we have tried,” said Rachel, with a sigh.

      “Yes, Rachel,” said Grace; “but with all drawbacks, all disappointments in ourselves, it is a great blessing. We would not be without it.”

      “I could not be satisfied in relinquishing it voluntarily,” said Rachel, “but I am necessarily one of the idle. Were I one of the occupied, laborare est orare would satisfy me, and that poor governess ought to feel the same. Think of the physical reaction of body on mind, and tell me if you could have the barbarity of depriving that poor jaded thing of an hour’s sleep, giving her an additional walk, fasting, in all weathers, and preparing her to be savage with the children.”

      “Perhaps it refreshes her, and hinders her from being cross.”

      “Maybe she thinks so; but if she have either sense or ear, nothing would so predispose her to be cross as the squeaking of Mr. Touchett’s penny-whistle choir.”

      “Poor Mr. Touchett,” sighed Mrs. Curtis; “I wish he would not make such ambitious attempts.”

      “But you like the choral service,” said Fanny, feeling as if everything had turned round. “When all the men of a regiment chant together you cannot think how grand it is, almost finer than the cathedral.”

      “Yes, where you can do it,” said Rachel, “but not where you can’t.”

      “I wish you would not talk about it,” said Grace.

      “I must, or Fanny will not understand the state of parties at Avonmouth.”

      “Parties! Oh, I hope not.”

      “My dear child, party spirit is another word for vitality. So you thought the church we sighed for had made the place all we sighed to see it, and ourselves too. Oh! Fanny is this what you have been across the world for?”

      “What is wrong?” asked Fanny, alarmed.

      “Do you remember our axiom? Build your church, and the rest will take care of itself. You remember our scraping and begging, and how that good Mr. Davison helped us out and brought the endowment up to the needful point for consecration, on condition the incumbency was given to him. He held it just a year, and was rich, and could help out his bad health with a curate. But first he went to Madeira, and then he died, and there we are, a perpetual curacy of £70 a year, no resident gentry but ourselves, a fluctuating population mostly sick, our poor demoralized by them, and either crazed by dissent, or heathenized by their former distance from church. Who would take us? No more Mr. Davisons! There was no more novelty, and too much smartness to invite self-devotion. So we were driven from pillar to post till we settled down into this Mr. Touchett, as good a being as ever lived, working as hard as any two, and sparing neither himself nor any one else.”

      Fanny looked up prepared to admire.

      “But he has two misfortunes. He was not born a gentleman, and his mind does not measure an inch across.”

      “Rachel, my dear, it is not fair to prejudice Fanny; I am sure the poor man is very well-behaved.”

      “Mother! would you be calling the ideal Anglican priest, poor man?”

      “I thought he was quite gentlemanlike,” added Fanny.

      “Gentlemanlike! ay, that’s it,” said Rachel, “just so like as to delight the born curatolatress, like Grace and Miss Williams.”

      “Would it hurt the children?” asked Fanny, hardly comprehending the tremendous term.

      “Yes, if it infected you,” said Rachel, intending some playfullness. “A mother of contracted mind forfeits the allegiance of her sons.”

      “Oh, Rachel, I know I am weak and silly,” said the gentle young widow, terrified, “but the Major said if I only tried to do my duty by them I should be helped.”

      “And I will help you, Fanny,” said Rachel. “All that is requisite is good sense and firmness, and a thorough sense of responsibility.”

      “That is what is so dreadful. The responsibility of all those dear fatherless boys, and if—if I should do wrong by them.”

      Poor Fanny fell into an uncontrollable fit of weeping at the sense of her own desolation and helplessness, and Mrs. Curtis came to comfort her, and tell her