"True," admitted Alexia Boucheafen, calmly.

"Since you can give me absolutely no clue, I am afraid that the chances of capturing him, particularly after the lapse of a month, are so small as to be worth nothing."

"Less than nothing," she a.s.sented. "It would be better to abandon the endeavor."

"I am afraid that is what will have to be done, from sheer lack of ground to work upon. But it is horrible," said the Doctor, rising with an unusual display of excitement--"absolutely horrible to think of this scoundrel's going scot free! It is abominable that such things should be possible in the heart of a great city such as this!"

A smile parted the girl's lips, but it did not light up her drooping eyes. The smile seemed to imply that such a city held secret stranger things than that. Doctor Brudenell did not see the smile; he was a clever man, but it would have been far beyond his fathoming if he had seen it. He returned to his chair and sat down again.

"In asking my questions, Miss Boucheafen, I have forgotten yours. I a.s.sume that you wished to ask me some."

"Yes." She looked straight into his eyes again, and her slender hands were clasped firmly together; he fancied he detected an expression of doubt and anxiety in her glance. "Sir, I have said that I am almost strong--you know that I am so. It follows, then, that I shall be able soon to leave here."

Yes, it certainly followed that such an event would take place--the Doctor acknowledged it, but at the very thought he experienced a strange sense of loss. She was so young, so beautiful, so friendless.

Where would she go? What would she do? He was silent, and waited for her to continue speaking. It seemed that she drew courage from his look, for, after she had glanced at him with eager scrutiny, she went on abruptly:

"I shall be able to leave, but I do not desire it. I am alone, I am friendless, penniless. Doctor Brudenell, I beg you, let me remain!"

"Remain?" he echoed in bewilderment.

"Yes. Why should I not? I have been a governess; it was to be a governess that I came to this England of yours--it is a governess that you require for the children, your nephews and niece-- Your housekeeper told me so but a little while ago. I should be industrious; I could teach them well. Suffer me, then, to remain."

The Doctor hesitated, feeling uneasy, astonished, puzzled. Did she mean it? Did she fully realize what she was doing--she, young, beautiful, talented--in pleading to be tied down to the dull routine of a nursery-governess? Did she remember that beneath his roof her position might be questioned by carping feminine tongues? He remembered it--not for his own sake, but for hers; but he only answered, overcoming his first feeling of surprise:

"But my dear young lady, you must be perfectly aware that your attainments are far beyond those required for the teaching of such young children as these."

"Ah, sir, yes! But are beggars then choosers?"

Doctor Brudenell got up, walked to the window and back again.

"It is a fact," he said, slowly, "that in London you have no friends?"

"Yourself," she replied.

"And beyond?"

"Not one."

"Then, until you wish to leave, or until some more suitable and congenial sphere of work is opened for you, remain, my child."

George Brudenell, speaking thus, had forgotten her beauty, her queen-like dignity, and remembered only her youth and helplessness. He went down-stairs with an odd feeling, thinking how quickly, with what almost disconcerting rapidity, she had, after her point was gained, recovered that icy composure of manner; remembering, too, how cold and lifeless her hand had lain in his when she gave it in saying good-night. But he was glad that she was going to stay; he had that curious sense of relief from tension which is the result of anxiety removed, as though to protect her, to befriend and keep her safe, were an object which had long lain near his heart. He was a little astonished, but he explained his feeling to himself. She was too young and far too beautiful to live friendless in the modern Babylon called London.

He rang for Mrs. Jessop, and explained to that excellent woman this new phase of affairs. Mrs. Jessop, respectfully listening, received the news in a manner which could hardly be termed gracious, but prudently gave but small expression to her opinions. Mrs. Jessop's situation in the Doctor's household was a very comfortable one, and she did not desire to lose it; but Mrs. Jessop's eyes were as keen as those of most women, a fact which she often insisted upon when talking to various confidential friends--so keen, indeed, that they sometimes descried things which did not exist. At present, however, Mrs. Jessop merely told herself that, if Miss Boucheafen had not been quite so handsome, her chance of remaining in her present quarters would not have been by any means so great.

Mrs. Jessop, having formed this astute conviction, walked out of the dining-room, and went down to her snug sitting-room, where, sitting down by the fire, she fell to darning a table-cloth while she thought things over. She had arrived at a conclusion that would have astonished her master, and she chanced to want more cotton, and rose to get it from her work-box. And among the reels and hanks of tape she saw something that astonished her.

"I declare," said Mrs. Jessop to herself, "if I haven't forgot to give it to her after all!"

"It" was the only thing which had been found upon Alexia Boucheafen, the tiny roll of paper, covered with its grotesque red characters and tied with its piece of faded silk. Rather ashamed of her forgetfulness and neglect, the housekeeper took it and went up-stairs at once to the new governess's room.

Alexia was sitting by the fire, almost as Doctor Brudenell had left her, her chin drooping upon her hands, her face almost hidden by her hair. She started at Mrs. Jessop's entrance, flung back the black tresses, and looked up.

"What is it?"

"I'm sure I'm very sorry, miss," Mrs. Jessop faltered, finding herself forced into somewhat reluctant respect before the bright gaze of the imperious eyes, "and I hope you'll excuse my forgetfulness. I quite forgot until just this moment to give you this."

For a moment the girl stared languidly at the extended hand, then with a cry sprang suddenly from her chair, seized the little packet, and pressed it pa.s.sionately to her lips and to her breast.

"Ah," she cried, "he did not take it--he did not take it--he did not take it"--incoherently repeating the words and redoubling her strange caresses.

"Take it, miss!" exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Jessop. "Why, what should he want to take it for, the murdering villain? And how could he take it, seeing that it was fast inside the bosom of your gown?"

"Go!" cried Alexia, pointing to the door with an imperious gesture.

"Leave me to myself!"

The housekeeper went with the impression that Miss Boucheafen had fallen upon her knees beside her chair, and that she was sobbing harsh suffocating sobs beneath the shining veil of her streaming hair.

Peace returned to the Doctor's household; the children were calmed, manageable; they stood in awe of their governess, but they liked her; in the staid Canonbury house Miss Boucheafen was popular. Her name was the only stumbling-block. Her pupils could not p.r.o.nounce it, the servants blundered over it, and Mrs. Jessop declared it "heathenish."

By slow degrees it was dropped, and she became merely "Mademoiselle."

CHAPTER IV.

"Children," said Miss Boucheafen, abruptly, "you have been good to-day, and it is fine. We will go out."

The children, engaged in turning their nursery into a very fair imitation of Pandemonium and in driving the unhappy nursemaid nearly mad, stopped their various operations at these words from their governess as she entered, and stared at her--partly perhaps because they were not conscious of having been less troublesome than they usually were, but more because of her last sentence. Did Mademoiselle really say, "We will go out?" She had been their governess for six weeks now, and during all that time had not once been outside the street door.

"Do you mean you'll take us?" cried Tom, the eldest and the readiest-tongued.

"Shan't go with Ellen, I shan't!" muttered Floss, sulkily.

"Nasty Ellen--won't go with Ellen!" whimpered Maggie, with a thumb in her mouth.

"You will all go with me and Ellen," said Alexia, quietly, beginning with her deft fingers to remove grubby pinafores and brush tumbled hair. "Will you get ready, Ellen? And do not waste time, please, or we shall lose the best part of the afternoon."

Ellen departed willingly. She was not sure that she liked Mademoiselle, but there was no doubt that she intensely detested her daily task of taking the three "troublesome brats" for their walk. If Mademoiselle liked to try it--well, Ellen only breathed a fervent wish that she might like it--"that's all!"

Miss Boucheafen, making great haste over the toilet of her pupils, had them ready and was ready herself before Ellen, and filled up the spare time by pacing the hall from end to end as she waited. Not hastily--the perfect grace of her every motion was too complete for haste--not even impatiently, for the set expression of her face never changed, and no flush of excitement tinted the ivory pallor of her cheeks. If her eyes were a little brighter, a little wider open than usual, it was very little. Mrs. Jessop, pa.s.sing through the hall as the governess and pupils waited, confessed to herself, with reluctant honesty, as she looked at the stately young figure in its plain dark dress, that there was no denying that "Ma'm'selle" did look like a queen.

It was the beginning of May, and, for a wonder, hot and bright enough almost for July; the afternoon sun shone down warm and brilliant. As Alexia stepped out into its glare, she stopped and almost staggered, putting her hand to her throat, while she shivered violently. The round-eyed maid, watching, was quite sympathetic. No wonder she felt odd, poor young lady, remembering what had happened to her the last time she was out!