ANNIE.
Lord Caterham's suggestion that Annie Maurice should cultivate her
drawing-talent was made after due reflection. He saw, with his usual
quickness of perception, that the girl's life was fretting away within
her; that the conventional round of duties which fell to her lot as his
mother's companion was discharged honestly enough, but without interest
or concern. He never knew why Lady Beauport wanted a companion. So long
as he had powers of judging character, he had never known her have
an intimate friend; and when, at the death of the old clergyman with
whom Annie had so long been domesticated, it was proposed to receive
her into the mansion at St. Barnabas Square, Lord Caterham had been
struck with astonishment, and could not possibly imagine what duties
she would be called upon to fulfil. He heard that the lady henceforth
to form a part of their establishment was young, and that mere fact
was in itself a cause for wonder. There was no youth there, and it
was a quality which was generally openly tabooed. Lady Beauport's
woman was about fifty, a thorough mistress of her art, an artist in
complexion before whom Madame Rachel might have bowed; a cunning and
skilled labourer in all matters appertaining to the hair; a person
whose anatomical knowledge exceeded that of many medical students, and
who produced effects undreamt of by the most daring sculptors. There
were no nephews or nieces to come on visits, to break up the usual
solemnity reigning throughout the house, with young voices and such
laughter as is only heard in youth, to tempt the old people into a
temporary forgetfulness of self, and into a remembrance of days when
they had hopes and fears and human interest in matters passing around
them. There were sons--yes! Caterham himself, who had never had one
youthful thought or one youthful aspiration, whose playmate had been
the physician, whose toys the wheelchair in which he sat and the irons
by which his wrecked frame was supported, who had been precocious at
six and a man at twelve; and Lionel--but though of the family, Lionel
was not of the house; he never used to enter it when he could make any
possible excuse; and long before his final disappearance his visits had
been restricted to those occasions when he thought his father could be
bled or his mother cajoled. What was a girl of two-and-twenty to do in
such a household, Caterham asked; but got no answer. It had been Lady
Beauport's plan, who knew that Lord Beauport had been in the habit of
contributing a yearly something towards Miss Maurice's support; and
she thought that it would be at least no extra expense to have the
young woman in the house, where she might make herself useful with her
needle, and could generally sit with Mrs. Parkins the housekeeper.
But Lord Beauport would not have this. Treated as a lady, as a member
of his own family in his house, or properly provided for out of it,
should Annie Maurice be: my lady's companion, but my cousin always. No
companionship with Mrs. Parkins, no set task or suggested assistance.
Her own room, her invariable presence when the rest of the family meet
together, if you please. Lady Beauport did not please at first; but
Lord Beauport was firm, firm as George Brakespere used to be in the old
days; and Lady Beauport succumbed with a good grace, and was glad of it
ever after. For Annie Maurice not merely had the sweetest temper and
the most winning ways,--not merely read in the softest voice, and had
the taste to choose the most charming "bits," over which Lady Beauport
would hum first with approval and then with sleep,--not merely played
and sung delightfully, without ever being hoarse or disinclined,--not
merely could ride with her back to the horses, and dress for the Park
exactly as Lady Beauport wished--neither dowdy nor swell,--but she
brought old-fashioned receipts for quaint country dishes with which
she won Mrs. Parkins's heart, and she taught Hodgson, Lady Beauport's
maid, a new way of _gauffreing_ which broke down all that Abigail's
icy spleen. Her bright eyes, her white teeth, her sunny smile, did all
the rest for her throughout the household: the big footmen moved more
quickly for her than for their mistress; the coachman, with whom she
must have interchanged confidential communications, told the groom
she "knowed the p'ints of an 'oss as well as he did--spotted them
wind-galls in Jack's off 'ind leg, and says, 'a cold-water bandage
for them,' she says;" the women-servants, more likely than any of the
others to take offence, were won by the silence of her bell and her
independence of toilette assistance.
Lord Caterham saw all this, and understood her popularity; but he saw
too that with it all Annie Maurice was any thing but happy. Reiteration
of conventionality,--the reception of the callers and the paying of the
calls, the morning concerts and afternoon botanical promenades, the
occasional Opera-goings, and the set dinner-parties at home,--these
weighed heavily on her. She felt that her life was artificial, that she
had nothing in common with the people with whom it was passed, save
when she escaped to Lord Caterham's room. He was at least natural; she
need talk or act no conventionality with him; might read, or work, or
chat with him as she liked. But she wanted some purpose in life--that
Caterham saw, and saw almost with horror; for that purpose might tend
to take her away; and if she left him, he felt as though the only
bright portion of his life would leave him too.
Yes; he had begun to acknowledge this to himself. He had fought against
the idea, tried to laugh it off, but it had always recurred to him.
For the first time in his life, he had moments of happy expectancy
of an interview that was to come, hours of happy reflection over an
interview that was past. Of course the Carry-Chesterton times came
up in his mind; but these were very different. Then he was in a wild
state of excitement and tremor, of flushed cheeks and beating heart
and trembling lips; he thrilled at the sound of her voice; his blood,
usually so calm, coursed through his veins at the touch of her hand;
his passion was a delirium as alarming as it was intoxicating. The
love of to-day had nothing in common with that bygone time. There was
no similarity between Carry Chesterton's dash and _aplomb_ and Annie
Maurice's quiet domestic ways. The one scorched him with a glance;
the other soothed him with a word. How sweet it was to lie back in
his chair with half-shut eyes, as in a dream, and watch her moving
quietly about, setting every thing in order, putting fresh flowers in
his vases, dusting his writing-table, laughingly upbraiding the absent
Algy Barford, and taxing him with the delinquency of a half-smoked
cigar on the mantelpiece, and a pile of cigar-ash on the carpet.
Then he would bid her finish her house-work, and she would wheel his
chair to the table and read the newspapers to him, and listen to his
quaint, shrewd, generally sarcastic comments on all she read. And he
would sit, listening to the music of her voice, looking at the quiet
charms of her simply-banded glossy dark-brown hair, at the play of
feature illustrating every thing she read. It was a brother's love
he told himself at first, and fully believed it; a brother's love
for a favourite sister. He thought so until he pictured to himself
her departure to some friend's or other, until he imagined the house
without her, himself without her, and--and she with some one else. And
then Lord Caterham confessed to himself that he loved Annie Maurice
with all his soul, and simultaneously swore that by no act or word of
his should she or any one else ever know it.
The Carry-Chesterton love-fever had been so sharp in its symptoms,
and so prostrating in its results, that this second attack fell with
comparative mildness on the sufferer. He had no night-watches now, no
long feverish tossings to and fro waiting for the daylight, no wild
remembrance of parting words and farewell hand-clasps. She was there;
her "goodnight" had rung out sweetly and steadily without a break in
the situation; her sweet smile had lit up her face; her last words
had been of some projected reading or work for the morrow. It was all
friend and friend or brother and sister to every one but him. The very
first night after Miss Chesterton had been presented to Lady Beauport,
the latter, seeing with a woman's quickness the position of affairs,
had spoken of the young lady from Homersham as "that dreadful person,"
"that terribly-forward young woman," and thereby goaded Lord Caterham
into worse love-madness. Now both father and mother were perpetually
congratulating themselves and him on having found some one who seemed
to be able to enter into and appreciate their eldest son's "odd ways."
This immunity from parental worry and supervision was pleasant,
doubtless; but did it not prove that to eyes that were not blinded by
love-passion there was nothing in Miss Maurice's regard for her cousin
more than was compatible with cousinly affection, and with pity for one
so circumstanced? So Lord Caterham had it; and who shall say that his
extreme sensitiveness had deceived him?
It was the height of the London season, and Lady Beauport was fairly
in the whirl. So was Annie Maurice, whose position was already as
clearly defined amongst the set as if she had been duly ticketed
with birth, parentage, education, and present employment. Hitherto
her experience had decidedly been pleasant, and she had found that
all the companion-life, as set forth in fashionable novels, had been
ridiculously exaggerated. From no one had she received any thing
approaching a slight, any thing approaching an insult. The great ladies
mostly ignored her, though some made a point of special politeness;
the men received her as a gentlewoman, with whom flirtation might
be possible on an emergency, though unremunerative as a rule. Her
perpetual attendance on Lady Beauport had prevented her seeing as much
as usual of Lord Caterham; and it was with a sense of relief that she
found a morning at her disposal, and sent Stephens to intimate her
coming to his master.
She found him as usual, sitting listlessly in his wheelchair, the
newspaper folded ready to his hand, but unfolded and unread. He
looked up, and smiled as she entered the room, and said: "At last,
Annie at last! Ah, I knew such a nice little girl who came here
from Ricksborough, and lightened my solitary hours; but we've had a
fashionable lady here lately, who is always at concerts or operas, or
eating ices at Gunter's, or crushing into horticultural marquees, or--"
"Arthur, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! You know, however, I
won't stoop to argue with you, sir. I'll only say that the little girl
from Ricksborough has come back again, and that the fashionable lady
has got a holiday and gone away."
"That's good; but I say, just stand in the light, Annie."
"Well, what's the matter now?"
"What has the little girl from Ricksborough done with all her colour?
Where's the brightness of her eyes?"
"Ah, you don't expect every thing at once, do you, sir? Her natural
colour has gone; but she has ordered a box from Bond Street; and as for
the brightness of her eyes--"
"O, there's enough left; there is indeed, especially when she fires up
in that way. But you're not looking well, Annie. I'm afraid my lady's
doing too much with you."
"She's very kind, and wishes me to be always with her."
"Yes; but she forgets that the vicarage of Ricksborough was scarcely
good training-ground for the races in which she has entered you,
however kindly you take to the running." He paused a minute as he
caught Annie's upturned gaze, and said: "I don't mean that, dear Annie.
I know well enough you hate it all; and I was only trying to put the
best face on the matter. What else can I do?"
"I know that, Arthur; nor is it Lady Beauport's fault that she does
not exactly comprehend how a series of gaieties can be any thing but
agreeable to a country-bred young woman. There are hundreds of girls
who would give any thing to be 'brought out' under such chaperonage and
in such a manner."
"You are very sweet and good to say so, Annie, and to look at it
in that light, but I would give any thing to get you more time to
yourself."
"That proves more plainly than any thing, Arthur, that you don't
consider me one of the aristocracy; for their greatest object in life
appears to me to prevent their having any time to themselves."
"Miss Maurice," said Lord Caterham with an assumption of gravity,
"these sentiments are really horrible. I thought I missed my _Mill
on Liberty_ from the bookshelves. I am afraid, madame, you have been
studying the doctrines of a man who has had the frightful audacity to
think for himself."
"No, indeed, Arthur; nothing of the sort. I did take down the
book--though of course you had never missed it; but it seemed a dreary
old thing, and so I put it back again. No, I haven't a radical thought
or feeling in me--except sometimes."
"And when is the malignant influence at work, pray?"
"When I see those footmen dressed up in that ridiculous costume,
with powder in their heads, I confess then to being struck with
wonder at a society which permits such monstrosity, and degrades its
fellow-creatures to such a level."
"O, for a stump!" cried Caterham, shaking in his chair and with the
tears running down his cheeks; "this display of virtuous indignation is
quite a new and hitherto undiscovered feature in the little girl from
Ricksborough; though of course you are quite wrong in your logic. Your
fault should be found with the creatures who permit themselves to be so
reduced. That 'dreary old thing,' Mr. Mill, would tell you that if the
supply ceased, the demand would cease likewise. But don't let us talk
about politics, for heaven's sake, even in fun. Let us revert to our
original topic."
"What was that?"
"What was that! Why you, of course! Don't you recollect that we decided
that you should have some drawing-lessons?"
"I recollect you were good enough to--"
"Annie! Annie! I thought it was fully understood that my goodness was
a tabooed subject. No; you remember we arranged, on the private-view
day of the Exhibition, with that man who had those two capital
pictures--what's his name?--Ludlow, to give you some lessons."
"Yes; but Mr. Ludlow himself told us that he could not come for some
little time; he was going out of town."
"Ive had a letter from him this morning, explaining the continuance of
his absence. What do you think is the reason?"
"He was knocked up, and wanted rest?"
"N-no; apparently not."
"He's not ill? O, Arthur, he's not ill?"
"Not in the least, Annie,--there's not the least occasion for you to
manifest any uneasiness." Lord Caterham's voice was becoming very hard
and his face very rigid. "Mr. Ludlow's return to town was delayed in
order that he might enjoy the pleasures of his honeymoon in the Isle of
Wight."
"His what?"
"His honeymoon; he informs me that he is just married."
"Married? Geoff married? Who to? What a very extraordinary thing! Who
is he married to?"
"He has not reposed sufficient confidence in me to acquaint me with
the lady's name, probably guessing rightly that I was not in the least
curious upon the point, and that to know it would not have afforded me
the slightest satisfaction."
"No, of course not; how very odd!" That was all Annie Maurice said, her
chin resting on her hand, her eyes looking straight before her.
"What is very odd?" said Caterham, in a harsh voice. "That Mr. Ludlow
should get married? Upon my honour I can't see the eccentricity. It is
not, surely, his extreme youth that should provoke astonishment, nor
his advanced age, for the matter of that. He's not endowed with more
wisdom than most of us to prevent his making a fool of himself. What
there is odd about the fact of his marriage I cannot understand."
"No, Arthur," said Annie, very quietly, utterly ignoring the querulous
tone of Caterham's remarks; "very likely you can't understand it,
because Mr. Ludlow is a stranger to you, and you judge him as you would
any other stranger. But if you'd known him in the old days when he used
to come up to us at Willesden, and papa was always teasing him about
being in love with the French teacher at Minerva House, a tall old
lady with a moustache; or with the vicar's daughter, a sandy-haired
girl in spectacles; and then poor papa would laugh,--O, how he would
laugh!--and declare that Mr. Ludlow would be a bachelor to the end of
his days. And now he's married, you say? How very, very strange!"
If Lord Caterham had been going to make any further unpleasant remark,
he checked himself abruptly, and looking into Annie's upturned
pondering face, said, in his usual tone,
"Well, married or not married, he won't throw us over; he will hold to
his engagement with us. His letter tells me he will be back in town at
the end of the week, and will then settle times with us; so that we
shall have our drawing-lessons after all."
But Annie, evidently thoroughly preoccupied, only answered
methodically, "Yes--of course--thank you--yes." So Lord Caterham was
left to chew the cud of his own reflections, which, from the manner in
which he frowned to himself, and sat blankly drumming with his fingers
on the desk before him, was evidently no pleasant mental pabulum. So
that he was not displeased when there came a sonorous tap at the door,
to which, recognising it at once, he called out, "Come in!"