"WILL YOU TAKE BACK THOSE WORDS, MAUD?"
A very few minutes were sufficient for the inspection of Annette's
scanty stock of clothes. Averil's eyes grew misty over the little
pile of coarse, neatly mended linen; the worn shoes, the pitiful
contrivances, gave more than one pang to her warm heart.
"How can she contrive to look so ladylike?" she thought, as she
remarked the frayed edges of her black gown; "none of them seem to have
noticed that indefinable air that stamps her as a true gentlewoman.
I wish Maud and Georgina had half such good manners; but they are
thorough girls of the period."
Annette looked at her wistfully when the brief survey was over.
"I told you the truth, my cousin, did I not, when I said I was poor? In
the Rue St. Joseph it did not seem to matter, but here, among all these
fine people, I do not love to be shabby."
"Oh, we will alter all that," returned Averil, cheerfully. "I shall
give you the same outfit I gave Lottie when she first came to live
here. As I am to enact the part of fairy godmother, I am sorry that
the pumpkin-coach is wanting; but we shall do very well, I dare say."
And then, as she went to her room, she reproached herself for not being
sufficiently grateful for her riches. "How often have I complained
of the burden of my wealth!" she said to herself. "How often have I
longed to shift my responsibilities and to betake myself to a cottage
with Lottie and Unwin! Why am I so impatient, so cowardly? I ought to
rejoice at the richness of the talent intrusted to me. 'Give an account
of thy stewardship.' Yes, those awful words will one day sound in my
ears. So much has been given me, that surely much will be required.
Oh, what a poor creature I am, for I would willingly, thrice willingly
give it all if only I could be like other girls!" Here she caught
sight of herself in the glass, and a flush came into her pale, sad
face. "No one--no one guesses my weakness; even Unwin, dear soul, only
thinks I am tired and far from strong. But One knows," raising her eyes
reverently; "and He who has laid this cross upon me will surely help me
to carry more bravely to the end." And then she whispered, softly:
"'Multiply our graces,
Chiefly love and fear;
And, dear Lord, the chiefest
Grace to persevere.'"
That afternoon Annette thought she was in fairyland. If Averil had been
a benevolent fairy and had waved her magic wand, she could not have
worked greater wonders, and yet it was all so quietly done. Averil
seemed to know just what she wanted, and her orders were executed in a
marvelous way. They went to a linen warehouse first, and then drove to
a dressmaker.
"Mrs. Stephens will know exactly what to get us," Averil remarked in
the hansom. "As you are in mourning, there will be no need to select
shades. She will take your measure and show us a few stuffs. We shall
not be fatigued with looking over fashion books. Annette, you must not
be afraid of speaking. If any material takes your fancy, please tell me
so without reserve. Lottie always chooses her own gowns, and she has a
very pretty taste."
But, in spite of this kindly permission, Annette could not bring
herself to speak, except at last, when Averil felt a timid touch on her
arm.
"Do not give me so much," she pleaded, in a grave tone of remonstrance.
"My cousin, you are too extravagant. I shall ruin you. How many more
dresses? One for morning, and one for promenade, and a dinner-dress,
and yet another. Why should I have that other, Cousin Averil?"
"Why? Because you will have to look your best on Tuesday, when all my
friends are coming," returned Averil, smiling. "My dear Annette, you
have no idea of the crowds that are invited. The grenadine is for that
occasion. Now you must have a hat and a jacket; and then there are
boots and shoes. Come, we have no time to waste in talking;" and again
they jumped into the hansom.
More purchases--gloves, a sunshade, even an umbrella, then two weary,
jaded beings were driven back through the sweet evening air. Averil
leaned back in the corner of the hansom, with closed eyes, almost too
tired to speak. Her frail form ached with fatigue, her heart felt
peaceful and at rest; she had forgotten herself in giving pleasure to
another, and the reward of unselfishness was hers already. Annette was
silent too: her heart was too full for speech. "For what is it that I
can say?" she thought; "to thank is only to give words. I must wait and
prove my gratitude in other ways;" and Annette's girlish bosom throbbed
with sweet, warm feelings. Already she loved her cousin, already her
orphaned heart seemed to cleave to her. "If thou hadst known her, thou
wouldst have loved her too, my mother," she thought, as her dark eyes
were fixed on the blue, cloud-flecked sky.
As Annette sprung lightly from the hansom and ran up the steps of
Redfern House, she noticed how slowly and stiffly Averil moved after
her. "Oh, you are tired, tired!" she said, remorsefully. "Miss Jones
will tell me I have killed you."
"Lottie knows better than that. I am so often tired, Annette. Why,
Roberts"--interrupting herself--"that is surely not the gong? It is
only just seven."
Roberts looked embarrassed. "The young ladies have ordered dinner half
an hour earlier," he said, in a rather hesitating fashion. "I told
them, ma'am, that half past seven was the hour mentioned, but Miss Maud
said--"
"Do you mean that dinner is actually served?" and a slight frown
crossed Averil's brow. "Annette"--turning to her cousin "there is no
time to dress; will you please take off your hat, and come down into
the dining-room?"
Annette obeyed, but as she took her place at the dinner table beside
Lottie, she looked round her somewhat bewildered. "They must be going
to a party," she thought. Even Lottie was in white, the table was
dressed with flowers; surely it must be a fête day.
Averil came in by and by and took her place. She looked unusually
grave. Mrs. Willmot gave a deprecating cough, and threw back her
voluminous cap-strings.
"I hope my dear Averil, that the little change in the programme has not
inconvenienced you," she said, in a tone intended to be propitiatory;
"but Maud said that she was sure you had forgotten the concert at the
Albert Hall."
"It was Maud's doing, then. At least I need not apologize for my
walking-dress."
But though she said no more, Mrs. Willmot glanced nervously at her
daughters, and Maud tossed her head in a supercilious way. Only Rodney
seemed at his ease. Lottie looked red and uncomfortable until Averil
began talking to her.
"Are you going to the concert too, Lottie?" she asked, in some surprise.
"Not if you want me," returned Lottie, anxiously. "Only, as there was
a vacant seat in the box, aunt said I might as well go. I only knew it
about an hour ago. I had no idea at luncheon."
"My dear, there is no reason why you should not enjoy the treat, and
you have never heard Madame Patey: go, by all means. Annette and I are
both so tired that we should not be good company; indeed, I mean to
give her a book for the rest of the evening."
"Then you do not mind--oh, I am so glad!" and Lottie's brow grew clear
in a moment. She began to chatter to Annette about this wonderful
concert, and about the singer.
"What a fuss you make about it Lottie!" observed Maud, who seemed
somewhat out of temper. "Miss Ramsay will think you have never been to
a concert before."
"I have not been to many, and I think concerts are the most heavenly
things in existence; there is nothing on earth I love better than
music."
"Except a few superlatives," was the sarcastic rejoinder; and somehow
Lottie's innocent enthusiasm seemed quenched in a moment.
"What's up with you girls?" remarked Rodney, lazily, as the
conversation flagged at this point. "Lots of people talk in
superlatives, so you need not be down on Lottie. You and Georgie are
always awfully in love with something or other. It is awfully nice of
you, you know."
Maud gave him a withering glance, but made no answer, and he rattled
on in his good-humored, boyish way. He even addressed Annette once or
twice, as though to make amends for his sister's influence. Neither
Maud nor Georgina seemed disposed to trouble themselves about her.
In their eyes she was only an incumbrance--another applicant for
Averil's bounty. They had not been consulted in the matter. Averil
rarely consulted any one. If they had been asked for their opinion of
this new inmate of Redfern House, they would have termed her "a plain,
uninteresting, shabby little thing;" for the Miss Seymours were never
sparing of their adjectives. Lottie they tolerated. Lottie knew how
to make herself useful. They would have been at a loss without her;
in many ways she was invaluable. They had no maid. Mrs. Willmot's
means could not afford such extravagance, with Rodney's college debts
to pay, and a hundred private expenses. Lottie had excellent taste.
She was clever, and knew how to use her needle. She could turn a
dress and arrange a drapery; she could advise them on the choice of a
trimming. It needed all Averil's skillful management to prevent Lottie
from becoming a perfect drudge. Many a task of mending was privately
performed by Unwin, or one of Averil's protégées, to give Lottie
leisure for her beloved music. When it was possible to secure an hour
from interruption, Averil read French and history with her. The poor
girl felt her imperfect education bitterly, and Averil's strong will
was set on raising her to her own level.
"Is a bright, intelligent creature like Lottie to degenerate into a
mere lady's maid?" she would say to herself. "We must all serve our
apprenticeship. God forbid that I should hinder her from making herself
useful, but there are limits to everything: only Maud and Georgina do
not seem to recognize the fact. Why are some natures so selfish? I
suppose their mother has spoiled them. Some people would say that I was
spoiled, too, for I generally get my own way. Dear father! as though he
ever refused me anything."
As they left the dining-room, Annette lingered for a moment to admire
a fine bronze figure. The hall was somewhat dark, and in the summer
twilight she was unperceived by Averil, who had just joined Maud at the
foot of the staircase.
"Maud, I want to speak to you for a moment. What has happened just now
must never occur again." Averil spoke with a decision that was not to
be mistaken, and Maud looked excessively offended.
"I am sure I do not know why you are making all this fuss, Averil. What
does such a little thing signify? One would think, from your manner,
that I had committed some crime in asking Mrs. Adams to serve dinner
half an hour earlier."
"It was taking a great liberty, Maud; a liberty that must never be
repeated in my house. No one shall contradict the mistress's orders.
Mrs. Adams will be taught that she must only take orders from me. I am
sorry to have to speak like this, but you give me no option. This sort
of thing has occurred too often; I am resolved to put a stop to it."
"It is mamma who ought to be mistress of the house," returned Maud. "I
wonder you are not ashamed to put her in such a position. You treat us
all like children, and you are only a girl yourself."
"I shall not reply to you, Maud--recriminations are useless. You can
ask yourself, and I can safely leave to your conscience to answer,
whether one of you has received anything but kindness at my hands.
And what do you give me in return? Do you ever consult my taste, my
pleasures? Do you care for anything but your own wishes?"
"You have everything," in the same proud, passionate tone. "How can you
expect us not to envy you, Averil? We are dependent on you, and I hate
dependence--just because mamma was cheated out of her rights."
"Maud," in a voice so hard and cold that Annette scarcely recognized
it, "I can bear much, but there are limits to my generosity. Will you
take back that speech, or shall I go to your mother?"
"I declare, you are too bad Averil," bursting into indignant tears.
"You are using your power mercilessly."
"Will you take back those words, Maud?"
"As though I meant them!"--dashing her tears away. "Of course; I know
the money is yours."
"You are wrong; it is not mine; it is no more mine than any other gift
I possess. I do not desire it--it is more a burden than a pleasure. At
times it is almost an unbearable responsibility. Not that I expect you
to believe me," rather sadly.
"Well, you know you are odd enough for anything. I never knew any one
like you, Averil."
"Are you quite sure you know me, Maud? Have you ever tried really to
know me? I am perfectly aware what you and Georgina think of me. Oh,
yes; I am odd, eccentric--none of your friends understand me."
"Oh, don't let us quarrel," returned Maud, impatiently. She had
recovered her temper, at least outwardly, for she thought it would be
more politic to keep the peace. "Of course, we never shall agree in
things. I love society, and you only care to associate with dowdy,
frumpish people. In your place, I should keep open house--I should
never be alone. But, there! one might as well argue with the wind."
And Maud shrugged her shoulders and ran up-stairs, leaving Averil
still standing there. Annette heaved a heavy sigh as she moved slowly
away; there was something indescribably pathetic in the small, slender
figure, the drooping head, the tightly locked hands.
"Oh, they are cruel, these people!" exclaimed Annette, half aloud.
"They care not to understand--they have no kindness in their hearts."
But, in spite of her sympathy and youthful indignation, she did not
venture for a long time to follow her cousin; she moved about uneasily,
taking up a book and laying it down again. She saw the party drive off
to the concert. Lottie kissed her hand to her, with a beaming smile,
as she passed. "She would not look so happy if she had heard that
talk," thought Annette. And then she could bear the solitude of the big
rooms no longer. And though her heart beat a little quickly at her own
temerity, she crossed the dusky hall again, and tapped softly at the
door of her cousin's room. Perhaps that light tap was inaudible, for
there was no answer, and Annette timidly entered. The moon had risen,
and a flood of silvery beams was pouring in at the open window, beside
which Averil sat. For a moment Annette thought she was asleep; she
was lying back in her chair with closed eyes, but as Annette advanced
noiselessly, she was shocked to see a large tear steal down her cheek,
followed by another.
Annette's affectionate heart could not bear the sight. She startled
Averil by stooping over her to kiss it away.
"Annette!" in rather an embarrassed voice. "My dear, why have you
followed me?" But this delicate hint that she would rather be alone was
lost on Annette.
"Don't be vexed with me, my cousin. I came because I overheard, and
because I was sorry for you. Indeed, I did not like you to be alone,
and Miss Jones was not here to comfort you. Oh, you have been shedding
tears! It was cruel--cruel to speak to you like that! You did well to
be angry."
"Oh, Annette, please hush! You must not say such things. It is never
well to be angry. I ought to know Maud by this time. She has a bad
temper when she is put out, she does not always measure her words.
Do you know why I am so unhappy? Not because of what Maud said, but
because I can not forgive myself for being so hard. Oh, I am proud,
terribly proud, and sometimes they make me suffer; but I do not often
forget myself. I think"--with a little sob--"that I was too tired; one
can bear so little when the body is weak."
"My poor dear!"--three little words; but the sympathetic tone was
infinitely soothing to Averil's sore spirit.
"Do not pity me too much; I deserve to suffer. I had no right to be so
angry."
"But, my cousin, surely Miss Seymour was in the wrong to contradict
your orders?"
"Most certainly; but I could have told her so more quietly. I was right
to reprove her, but I ought not to have suffered her to provoke me.
Annette, if only one could be sweet-tempered. One has to fight such a
hard battle sometimes--and, oh! I am so tired of it all."
"You are young, and have much to bear," returned Annette, in her
serious way. "And always goodness is difficult. How well do I remember
my mother speaking to me on this subject. One day, as we sat together
at our work, she surprised me by telling me that her temper was
naturally a bad one. Never shall I forget my astonishment. No, it could
not be possible. 'Seest thou, Annette,' she said--for we talked often
in the language of our adopted country--'I have taught myself, by God's
help, to control it while I was young. When I first married I was very
hasty, and would say bitter things when others displeased me; but one
day I said to myself, 'Felicia'--my mother's name was Felicia--'thou
art growing sharper every day. People will cease soon to love thee.
Thy tongue should be thy servant, not thy master.' My cousin, never
have I heard an irritable word from my mother's lips; her patience and
sweetness were wonderful. Do you care to know how she cured herself?
When her husband, her child, her servant, or perhaps some troublesome
neighbor, provoked her, she would be silent a moment, then she would
reply. And always she repeated the same words in her heart, 'Deliver
us from evil;' that was her charm of charms, as she called it. But it
answered well."