BREAKFAST AT REDFERN HOUSE.
Annette was an early riser; she had slept soundly in her new, luxurious
bed, and awoke refreshed and full of energy. When she had dressed
herself carefully, and had disposed of her scanty stock of clothing in
the big wardrobe that seemed to swallow it up, she was at a loss what
to do. She had read her chapter in the new Bible--with her mother's
worn old Bible lying all the time on her lap--but there were no other
books, and no work that she could do. She would have liked to have used
her pretty blotting-case, but no one would expect a letter. Perhaps she
could find her way to her cousin Averil's sitting-room--there would be
plenty of books there.
Annette had just reached the hall when the sound of a piano from a room
near excited her curiosity. Perhaps Miss Jones was practicing, and
would tell her what to do. As she opened the door Lottie looked up and
nodded, while she finished her scale.
"Good-morning, Miss Ramsay," she said at last, as Annette stood by the
piano looking with some envy at her brisk little fingers. "I hardly
expected to see you before the breakfast-bell rang. So you have found
your way in here."
"Am I wrong to come here?" asked Annette, looking round the bright,
home-like apartment, with its well-littered work-tables and handsomely
filled book-shelves. "I was about to find my cousin's room, only the
sound of the piano attracted me. How beautifully you play, Miss Jones!
Your fingers seem to fly over the keys. For myself, I have never
learned music"--somewhat mournfully.
"Oh, I was only playing my scales," returned Lottie, carelessly. "Yes,
you were quite right to come here; no one goes to Averil's room without
permission. It is her private sitting-room, you see, and I dare say she
is reading there now. This is the morning-room, where every one sits,
and works, and writes their letters."
"Morning-room! Is there then a room for evening?" asked Annette, in
such a puzzled tone that Lottie could not help laughing.
"Well, there is the drawing-room, you know, and we certainly use that
of an evening--that is, when we entertain visitors. Would you like to
see it?" And Lottie, who was a little weary of her scales, rose with
alacrity. She was beginning to think Annette a very amusing person.
She thoroughly enjoyed the air of wonder with which she regarded
everything.
"But this room is magnificent. I have never seen so grand a room," she
kept repeating at intervals.
"Yes it looks very nice when it is lighted up," replied Lottie
nonchalantly. "Averil has the art of making all her rooms look
comfortable and home-like. There is nothing stiff even in this one.
Some people's drawing-rooms always have an unused look, just as though
no one ever lived in them."
"Two fire-places, and all those big windows, and a floor so long that
one could dance over it. Ah! I thought that was a stranger, that girl
in black, with the pale lace and I see it is myself." And Annette stood
before the glass panel, gravely regarding herself, while Lottie watched
her in some amusement.
"I think you will know yourself again," she said, a little
sarcastically. But the sarcasm was lost on Annette, who was still
contemplating her image with the utmost seriousness.
"Forgive me if I keep you too long," she returned; "but until this
moment I do not think I have ever seen myself clearly; that is why I
interview myself as I would a stranger. It is good, it is wholesome, to
realize that one has no claims to admiration--a pale, long face--Bah!
You shall take my place, Miss Lottie--the big glass will be more
pleased to reflect you."
The little compliment pleased Lottie, though she pretended to laugh it
off. "You are not fair to yourself" she said, blushing. "The glass has
not seen you talk. When people are animated they look better. No one
can judge of themselves. Averil always speaks of herself as an ugly
little thing; it is a sort of craze with her to think she shocks people
at first sight. But there are times, I assure you, when I almost think
she is beautiful. Oh! there is the breakfast-bell. I am so glad, for I
am as hungry as a hunter. Come along, Miss Ramsay; we shall find Averil
at her post."
Averil, who was almost hidden behind the big urn, looked up from her
letters, and gave Annette a kind welcome.
"Have you slept well, dear? I think you look more rested. Mrs. Willmot,
this is my cousin, Annette Ramsay"--addressing a tall, fine-looking
woman in widow's dress, who was reading the paper in the window.
"Oh, indeed!" she returned, rather coolly, holding out her plump white
hand as she spoke, but without advancing a step. "I hope you are very
well, Miss Ramsay."
"I am always well, thank you," returned Annette, shrinking a little
from the keen scrutiny of those handsome hazel eyes. It must be
confessed Mrs. Willmot's reception was somewhat chilling. "To that lady
I am an unwelcome visitor," she thought; for the girl was tolerably
shrewd and clear-sighted.
"Come and sit by me, Annette," observed Averil, quickly. "Lottie, will
you help Annette to some of that omelet? The others are not down--we
generally begin without them. I wonder how you felt when you woke up in
a strange room this morning, and if you wished yourself back in the Rue
St. Joseph?"
Annette was about to disclaim this notion somewhat eagerly, when Mrs.
Willmot's clear, metallic voice struck in:
"I can not think why the girls are not down. We were home last night at
a ridiculously early hour. There is not the slightest excuse for being
so late. Lottie, do go up and hurry them. Georgina is getting into lax
ways. I am always telling her that early rising is the best cosmetic
for the complexion. I do not know if you have noticed it, Averil, but
Georgie is getting positively fat."
"No, I can not say that I have noticed it," returned Averil, rather
curtly. "They are not later than usual. I hope they will not keep
Lottie, or her breakfast will get cold." But Mrs. Willmot interrupted
her; this time she spoke in a decidedly injured voice.
"My dear Averil, it is too bad. The toast is hard again. I can not
possibly eat it. Really, Mrs. Adams is growing more careless every day."
"I am so sorry. Annette, would you mind ringing the bell, and I will
order some fresh toast to be made." Averil spoke with the utmost
good-humor, but as she gave the order Mrs. Willmot's cloudy brow did
not relax, and Roberts had hardly closed the door before she burst out
again:
"It is really shameful, Averil, to see how you are duped by your
servants. Look at the wages you give Mrs. Adams--nearly double what
I used to pay Ransome--and she is growing more neglectful every day.
Why, the lobster cutlets the other day were not fit to eat, and she
had flavored the white soup wrongly. How you can put up with such an
incompetent person, just because she is a respectable woman, passes my
comprehension. In my opinion old servants are mistakes. Of course, you
shake your head. One might as well talk to the wind. It is a little
hard that at my age and with all my experience, you will never consent
to be guided by me in such matters."
Averil elevated her eyebrows slightly. "I am afraid, my dear Mrs.
Willmot, that on these points we must agree to differ, as you well
know, for we have often discussed the matter. Nothing would induce
me to part with Mrs. Adams. She is an invaluable servant; she is
industrious and economical, and my father always praised her cooking.
I think Rodney has infected you with his club notions. He has got it
into his head that it is his prerogative as an Englishman to grumble,
but I mean to give him a strong hint to hold his tongue before Roberts.
By the bye, Mrs. Willmot"--gliding easily from the vexed topic--"I have
two more refusals this morning--from the Farnboroughs and Lathams."
"What are you saying about the Lathams, Averil?" interposed a fresh
voice, and a tall, striking-looking girl, the youthful image of her
mother, entered the room, followed closely by Lottie.
"Good-morning, mother! What are you frowning at?" bestowing a light,
butterfly kiss rather carelessly as she passed. "Oh!" with a sudden
change of tone, and with rather a cool stare at Annette. "This is Miss
Ramsay, I suppose. How do you do? Very well, I hope--pleasant journey,
and all that sort of thing?" And the young lady swept to her chair with
an impertinent insouciance of manner that some people thought charming.
"What has become of your sister, Maud?" asked her mother, in rather a
freezing tone.
"My sister?" with an amused air. "Is it not absurd, Averil, when mother
uses that dignified tone? I would not be Georgie for the world at this
moment. It is all Doctor Rathbone's fault. He took mother in to dinner
last night, and regaled her with all kinds of entertaining speeches.
He told her Georgie was getting fat, and that she ought to ride before
breakfast. Oh, no, I would not be in Georgie's shoes for the next
month." And Maud drew down the corners of her mouth in a ridiculous
manner, that nearly convulsed Lottie with suppressed merriment.
"I have often told Georgina that she ought to walk more," returned
Averil, rather seriously. "She is too fond of an easy chair, she reads
too many novels, and--" but here Mrs. Willmot checked her.
"There now, Maud, you are making Averil severe on Georgina, as usual.
You might know by this time how hard she always is on her, and yet
no girl ever deserved blame less. I told Doctor Rathbone that it was
laughing so much that made her fat. What a disagreeable old man he is!
I never saw her in better looks than she was last night. That blue
dress suited her admirably. I am sure Captain Beverley thought so, for
he was most attentive."
"I can't say I noticed it," replied Maud, coldly. "Have the Lathams
really refused, Averil? What a pity!"
Mrs. Willmot looked a little alarmed at her daughter's heightened color
and evident vexation.
"Oh, the room will be crowded as it is," she said, soothingly. "It
does not matter about the Lathams. Mrs. Mortimer was telling me last
night, Maudie, that she never saw you look to more advantage. 'Georgina
is very much improved,' she said, 'and you have reason to be proud of
them both; but in my opinion Georgina will never hold a candle to her
sister--she has not Maud's beautiful figure, you see.'"
"My dear Mrs. Willmot, is it not a pity--" but here Averil stopped,
while Maud bridled her long neck, and tried not to look pleased at this
foolish flattery.
Just then an interruption occurred. The door opened rather noisily, and
a fine, buxom girl, with a broad, heavy type of face, and a profusion
of light, flaxen hair, made her appearance.
"Good-morning, good people all!" she said, airily, as she subsided
into a vacant chair. "Lottie, will you please cut me some of that
ham? I am literally starving, for Captain Beverley gave me no time to
eat my dinner. Why are you looking so glum, Averil? Oh, I see. I have
forgotten my manners. Miss Ramsay, please excuse me. I completely
overlooked you;" and Georgina, feeling that she had made a graceful
apology, turned her shoulder on Annette, and applied herself to her
breakfast.
"Averil," exclaimed Maud, at this moment, "I suppose we can have the
carriage this afternoon? We want to pay some calls."
"I am very sorry, Maud," began Averil, in a hesitating voice, "but my
cousin has some shopping to do."
"There are excellent shops in High Street," responded the young lady,
in the coolest manner. "Miss Ramsay will find all she wants at Siemans
& Little, or there is Barker," with a supercilious glance at Annette's
neat black dress.
"I am afraid, all the same, that you can not have the carriage this
afternoon, Maud."
"Not have it!" and here Maud looked excessively put out. "Averil, I
did not think you could be so inconsiderate. Mamma has all these calls
owing, and they positively must be paid, and to-morrow we are going to
that garden-party at Richmond, and the next day is Sunday, and Monday
is Lady Morrison's At Home, Tuesday is ours, and--"
Annette, who, had listened to this expostulation in puzzled silence,
suddenly interposed.
"The carriage, my cousin," she said, in some surprise. "What is it that
I want with a carriage? Surely I can walk, and then this young lady
will not be inconvenienced. Oh, yes, that is best, and I can walk."
But here Lottie nudged her impressively, and Averil said, a little
sadly, "But I can not walk, Annette--at least, very little walking
knocks me up."
"But is it absolutely necessary for Miss Ramsay's shopping to be done
to-day?" asked Maud, rather disdainfully.
"Say No, my cousin," whispered Annette, with a pained flush.
But Averil smiled back at her and said, "Hush!"
"I think it is you who are inconsiderate, Maud," she said, very
quietly. "Yes, it is absolutely necessary that Annette should not be
disappointed. But as your heart seems set on paying these visits, you
may have the carriage, and we will manage with a hansom, please say
no more about it," as Maud certainly had the grace to look a little
ashamed of herself. "Annette will not mind, I am sure. Now, will one
of you two girls look after Rodney when he comes down? I want Lottie
to finish her practicing before Herr Ludwig comes. Come, Lottie! come,
Annette!" and Averil beckoned to them.
As soon as the door closed behind them Lottie burst into an indignant
remonstrance. "Oh, Averil, how can you put up with it? It is really too
bad of Maud! and for aunt to encourage her in such impertinence!"
"Please, Lottie, dear, let the subject drop," and Averil's mouth had
a weary curve. "Time is too precious, and you and I have far too much
to do to waste it on such trifles. Annette, do you think you will be
dull in my sitting-room? I have my letters to write, and all sorts of
business."
"I shall not be dull if I can see you," returned Annette, simply.
"Since my mother's death I have worked alone. Alone! Ah, what a bitter
word! One is slow in learning it. Often I have forgotten--I have lost
myself in some dream. 'Is it so, mother?' I would say, and raise my
head. Alas! there were only the dark corners, the empty chair--no
answering smile to greet me. Oh, my cousin, I see I make you sad with
my little retrospect. But it was only to prove to you that I shall be
gay--what you call cheerful--by comparison."
Averil did not answer for a moment--when she next spoke it was to
question Annette about the torn lace flounce she was to mend for Lottie.
Annette was eager to begin her task; she wanted to show these dear
people that there was something she could do. "It is play to me," she
said, with innocent egotism. "You shall see, and Miss Lottie too, that
I can work well. 'One need not starve when one has ten fingers,' as
poor Clotilde says. Ah! poor Clotilde! she is peeling her onions now,
and perhaps saying a prayer for me in her heart. Hold! I am a sad
chatter-box. I will not speak again for an hour"--and for a wonder,
Annette contrived to keep her word. But though Annette's tongue was
silent, her thoughts were busy enough. Again and again she raised her
dark eyes from her embroidery, and fixed them on the quiet figure
before her, on the grave, intent face, on the small, busy hands,
as Averil wrote letters, added up bills, or made entries in her
housekeeping book.