MARGARET AND ANNIE.
The meeting between Margaret and Annie Maurice, which Geoffrey had so
anxiously desired, had taken place, but could scarcely be said to have
been successful in its result. With the best intention possible, and
indeed with a very earnest wish that these two women should like each
other very much, Geoff had said so much about the other to each, as
to beget a mutual distrust and dislike before they became acquainted.
Margaret could not be jealous of Geoffrey; her regard for him was not
sufficiently acute to admit any such feeling. But she rebelled secretly
against the constant encomiastic mention of Annie, and grew wearied at
and annoyed with the perpetually-iterated stories of Miss Maurice's
goodness with which Geoffrey regaled her. A good daughter! Well,
what of that? She herself had been a good daughter until temptation
assailed her, and probably Miss Maurice had never been tempted.--So
simple, honest, and straightforward! Yes, she detested women of that
kind; behind the mask of innocence and virtue they frequently carried
on the most daring schemes. Annie in her turn thought she had heard
quite enough about Mrs. Ludlow's hair and eyes, and wondered Geoff had
never said any thing about his wife's character or disposition. It
was quite right, of course, that he, an artist, should marry a pretty
person; but he was essentially a man who would require something more
than mere beauty in his life's companion, and as yet he had not hinted
at any accomplishments which his wife possessed. There was a something
in Lord Caterham's tone, when speaking to and of Geoffrey Ludlow,
which had often jarred upon Annie's ear, and which she now called to
mind in connection with these thoughts--a certain tinge of pity more
akin to contempt than to love. Annie had noticed that Caterham never
assumed this tone when he was talking to Geoffrey about his art; then
he listened deferentially or argued with spirit; but when matters of
ordinary life formed the topics of conversation her cousin seemed to
regard Geoffrey as a kind of large-hearted boy, very generous very
impulsive, but thoroughly inexperienced. Could Arthur Caterham's
reading of Geoffrey Ludlow's character be the correct one? Was he,
out of his art, so weak, vacillating, and easily led? and had he been
caught by mere beauty of face? and had he settled himself down to pass
his life with a woman of whose disposition he knew nothing? Annie
Maurice put this question to herself with a full conviction that she
would be able to answer it after her introduction to Mrs. Ludlow.
About a week after Geoffrey had given his first drawing-lesson in St.
Barnabas Square, Annie drove off one afternoon to Elm Lodge in Lady
Beauport's barouche. She had begged hard to be allowed to go in a cab,
but Lord Caterham would not hear of it; and as Lady Beauport had had
a touch of neuralgia (there were very few illnesses she permitted to
attack her, and those only of an aristocratic nature), and had been
confined to the house, no objection was made. So the barouche, with
the curly-wigged coachman and silver-headed footmen on the box, went
spinning through Camden and Kentish Towns, where the coachman pointed
with his whip to rows of small houses bordering the roadside, and
wondered what sort of people could live "in such little 'oles;" and
the footman expressed his belief that the denizens were "clerks and
poor coves of that kind," The children of the neighbourhood ran out in
admiration of the whole turn-out, and especially of the footman's hair,
which afforded them subject-matter for discussion during the evening,
some contending that his head had been snowed upon; some insisting
that it "grew so;" and others propounding a belief that he was a very
old man, and that his white hair was merely natural. When the carriage
dashed up to the gates of Elm Lodge, the Misses Coverdale next door
were, as they afterwards described themselves, "in a perfect twitter of
excitement;" because, though good carriages and handsome horses were by
no means rare in the pretty suburb, no one had as yet ventured to ask
his servant to wear hair-powder; and the coronet, immediately spied on
the panels, had a wonderful effect.
The visit was not unexpected by either Margaret or Geoffrey; but the
latter was at the moment closely engaged with Mr. Stompff, who had
come up to make an apparently advantageous proposition; so that when
Annie Maurice was shown into the drawing-room, she found Margaret there
alone. At sight of her, Annie paused in sheer admiration. Margaret was
dressed in a light striped muslin; her hair taken off her face and
twisted into a large roll behind; her only ornaments a pair of long
gold earrings. At the announcement of Miss Maurice's name, a slight
flush came across her face, heightening its beauty. She rose without
the smallest sign of hurry, grandly and calmly, and advanced a few
paces. She saw the effect she had produced and did not intend that it
should be lessened. It was Annie who spoke first, and Annie's hand was
the first outstretched.
"I must introduce myself, Mrs. Ludlow," said she, "though I suppose you
have heard of me from your husband. He and I are very old friends."
"O, Miss Maurice?" said Margaret, as though half doubtful to whom she
was talking. "O yes; Geoffrey has mentioned your name several times.
Pray sit down."
All this in the coldest tone and with the stiffest manner. Prejudiced
originally, Margaret, in rising, had caught a glimpse through the
blinds of the carriage, and regarded it as an assertion of dignity and
superiority on her visitor's part, which must be at once counteracted.
"I should have come to see you long before, Mrs. Ludlow, but my time is
not my own, as you probably know; and--"
"Yes, Mr. Ludlow told me you were Lady Beauport's companion." A hit at
the carriage there.
"Yes," continued Annie with perfect composure, though she felt the
blow, "I am Lady Beauport's companion, and consequently not a free
agent, or, as I said, I should have called on you long ago."
Margaret had expected a hit in exchange for her own, which she saw had
taken effect. A little mollified by her adversary's tolerance, she said:
"I should have been very glad to see you, Miss Maurice; and in saying
so I pay no compliment; for I should have been very glad to see any
body to break this fearful monotony."
"You find it dull here?"
"I find it dreary in the extreme."
"And I was only thinking how perfectly charming it is. This sense of
thorough quiet is of all things the most pleasant to me. It reminds
me of the place where the happiest days in my life have been passed;
and now, after the fever and excitement of London, it seems doubly
grateful. But perhaps you have been accustomed to gaiety."
"Yes; at least, if not to gaiety, to excitement; to having every hour
of the day filled up with something to do; to finding the time flown
before I scarcely knew it had arrived, instead of watching the clock
and wondering that it was not later in the day."
"Ah, then of course you feel the change very greatly at first; but I
think you will find it wear off. One's views of life alter so after
we have tried the new phase for a little time. It seems strange my
speaking to you in this way, Mrs. Ludlow; but I have had a certain
amount of experience. There was my own dear home; and then I lived with
my uncle at a little country parsonage, and kept house for him; and
then I became--Lady Beauport's companion."
A bright red patch burned on Margaret's cheek as Annie said these
words. Was it shame? Was the quiet earnestness, the simple courtesy and
candour of this frank, bright-eyed girl getting over her?
"That was very difficult at first, I confess," Annie continued; "every
thing was so strange to me, just as it may be to you here, but I had
come from the quietude to the gaiety; and I thought at one time it
would be impossible for me to continue there. But I held on, and I
manage to get on quite comfortably now. They are all very kind to me;
and the sight of Mr. Ludlow occasionally insures my never forgetting
the old days."
"It would be strange if they were not kind to you," said Margaret,
looking fixedly at her. "I understand now what Geoffrey has told me
about you. We shall be friends, shall we not?" suddenly extending her
hand.
"The very best of friends!" said Annie, returning the pressure; "and,
dear Mrs. Ludlow, you will soon get over this feeling of dulness. These
horrible household duties, which are so annoying at first, become a
regular part of the day's business, and, unconsciously to ourselves, we
owe a great deal to them for helping us through the day. And then you
must come out with me whenever I can get the carriage,--O, Ive brought
Lady Beaupores card, and she is coming herself as soon as she gets out
again,--and we'll go for a drive in the Park. I can quite picture to
myself the sensation you would make."
Margaret smiled--a strange hard smile--but said nothing.
"And then you must be fond of reading; and I don't know whether Mr.
Ludlow has changed, but there was nothing he used to like so much as
being read to while he was at work. Whenever he came to the Priory,
papa and I used to sit in the little room where he painted and take it
in turns to read to him. I daresay he hasn't liked to ask you, fearing
it might bore you; and you haven't liked to suggest it, from an idea
that you might interrupt his work."
"O yes, Ive no doubt it will come right," said Margaret, indisposed
to enter into detail; "and I know I can rely on your help; only one
thing--don't mention what I have said to Geoffrey, please; it might
annoy him; and he is so good, that I would not do that for the world."
"He will not hear a word of it from me. It would annoy him dreadfully,
I know. He is so thoroughly wrapped up in you, that to think you were
not completely happy would cause him great pain. Yes, he is good. Papa
used to say he did not know so good a man, and--"
The door opened as she spoke, and Geoff entered the room. His eyes
brightened as he saw the two women together in close conversation; and
he said with a gay laugh:
"Well, little Annie you've managed to find us out, have you?--come away
from the marble halls, and brought 'vassals and serfs by your side,'
and all the king's horses and all the king's men, up to our little
hut. And you introduced yourself to Margaret, and you're beginning to
understand one another, eh?"
"I think we understand each other perfectly; and what nonsense you talk
about the vassals and king's horses, and all that! They would make me
have the carriage; and no one but a horrible democrat like you would
see any harm in using it."
"Democrat?--I?--the stanchest supporter of our aristocracy and our
old institutions. I intend to have a card printed, with 'Instruction
in drawing to the youthful nobility and gentry. References kindly
permitted to the Earl of B., Lord C., &c.'--Well, my child," turning
to Margaret, "you'll think your husband more venerable than ever after
seeing this young lady; and remembering that he used to nurse her in
his arms."
"I have been telling Miss Maurice that now I have seen her, I can fully
understand all you have said about her; and she has promised to come
and see me often, and to take me out with her."
"That's all right," said Geoffrey; "nothing will please me
better.--It's dull for her here, Annie, all alone; and I'm tied to my
easel all day."
"O, that will be all right, and we shall get on capitally together,
shall we not, Annie?"
And the women kissed one another, and followed Geoffrey into the garden.
That was the brightest afternoon Margaret had spent for many a day.
The carriage was dismissed to the inn, there to be the admiration
of the ostlers and idlers while the coachman and footman, after
beer, condescended to play skittles and to receive the undisguised
compliments of the village boys. Geoffrey went back to his work; and
Margaret and Annie had a long talk, in which, though it was not very
serious, Annie's good sense perpetually made itself felt, and at the
end of which Margaret felt calmer, happier, and more hopeful than
she had felt since her marriage. After the carriage had driven away,
she sat pondering over all that had been said. This, then, was the
Miss Maurice against whom she had conceived such a prejudice, and
whom "she was sure she could never like?" And now, here, at their
very first meeting, she had given her her confidence, and listened
to her as though she had been her sister! What a calm quiet winning
way she had! with what thorough good sense she talked! Margaret had
expected to find her a prim old-maidish kind of person, younger, of
course, but very much of the same type as the Miss Coverdales next
door, utterly different from the fresh pretty-looking girl full of
spirits and cheerfulness. How admirably she would have suited Geoff as
a wife! and yet what was there in her that she (Margaret) could not
acquire? It all rested with herself; her husband's heart was hers,
firmly and undoubtedly, and she only needed to look her lot resolutely
in the face, to conform to the ordinary domestic routine, as Annie had
suggested, and all would be well. O, if she could but lay the ghosts
of that past which haunted her so incessantly, if she could but forget
_him_, and all the associations connected with him, her life might yet
be thoroughly happy!
And Annie, what did she think of her new acquaintance? Whatever her
sentiments were, she kept them to herself, merely saying in answer
to questions that Mrs. Geoffrey Ludlow was the most beautiful woman
she had ever seen; that she could say with perfect truth and in all
sincerity; but as to the rest, she did not know--she could scarcely
make up her mind. During the first five minutes of their interview
she hated her, at least regarded her with that feeling which Annie
imagined was hate, but which was really only a mild dislike. There were
few women, Annie supposed, who could in cold blood, and without the
slightest provocation, have committed such an outrage as that taunt
about her position in Lady Beauport's household; but then again there
were few who would have so promptly though silently acknowledged the
fault and endeavoured to make reparation for it. How openly she spoke!
how bitterly she bemoaned the dulness of her life That did not argue
well for Geoffrey's happiness; but doubtless Mrs. Ludlow had reason
to feel dull, as have most brides taken from their home and friends,
and left to spend the day by themselves; but if she had really loved
her husband, she would have hesitated before thus complaining to a
stranger--would for his sake have either endeavoured to throw some
explanatory gloss over the subject, or remained silent about it. She
did not seem, so far as Annie saw, to have made any attempt to please
her husband, or indeed to care to do so. How different she was from
what Annie had expected! how different from all her previous experience
of young married women, who indeed generally "gushed" dreadfully, and
were painfully extravagant in their laudations of their husbands when
they were absent, and in their connubialities when they were present.
Geoffrey's large eloquent eyes had melted into tenderness as he looked
at her; but she had not returned the glance, had not interchanged with
him one term of endearment, one chance pressure of the hand. What did
it all mean? What was that past gaiety and excitement to which she
said she had been accustomed? What were her antecedents? In the whole
of her long talk with Annie, Margaret had spoken always of the future,
never of the past. It was of what she should do that she asked counsel;
never mentioning what she had done; never alluding to any person,
place, or circumstance connected with her existence previously to her
having become Geoffrey Ludlow's wife. What were her antecedents? Once
or twice during their talk she had used an odd word, a strange phrase,
which grated on Annie's ear; but her manner was that of a well-bred
gentlewoman; and in all the outward and visible signs of race, she
might have been the purest aristocrat.
Meantime her beauty was undeniable, was overwhelming. Such hair and
eyes Annie had dreamed of, but had never seen. She raved about them
until Caterham declared she must puzzle her brain to find some excuse
for his going to Elm Lodge to see this wonderful woman. She described
Margaret to Lady Beauport, who was good enough to express a desire to
see "the young person." She mentioned her to Algy Barford, who listened
and then said, "Nice! nice! Caterham, dear old boy! you and I will
take our slates and go up to--what's the name of the place?--to learn
drawing. Must learn on slates, dear boy. Don't you recollect the house
of our childhood with the singular perspective and an enormous amount
of smoke, like wool, coming out of the chimneys? Must have been a
brewery by the amount of smoke, by Jove! And the man in the cocked-hat,
with no stomach to speak of, and both his arms very thin with round
blobs at the end growing out of one side. Delicious reminiscences of
one's childhood, by Jove!"
And then Annie took to sketching after-memory portraits of Margaret,
first mere pencil outlines, then more elaborate shaded attempts and
finally a water-colour reminiscence, which was anything but bad. This
she showed to Lord Caterham, who was immensely pleased with it, and
who insisted that Barford should see it. So one morning when that
pleasantest of laughing philosophers was smoking his after-breakfast
cigar (at about noon) in Caterham's room, mooning about amongst the
nick-nacks, and trotting out his little scraps of news in his own odd
quaint fashion, Annie, who had heard from Stephens of his arrival, came
in, bringing the portrait with her.
"Enter, Miss Maurice!" said Algy; "always welcome, but more especially
welcome when she brings some delicious little novelty, such as I
see she now holds under her arm. What would the world be without
novelty?--Shakespeare. At least, if that delightful person did not make
that remark, it was simply because he forgot it; for it's just one of
those sort of things which he put so nicely. And what is Miss Maurice's
novelty?"
"O! it's no novelty at all, Mr. Barford. Only a sketch of Mrs. Geoffrey
Ludlow, of whom I spoke to you the other day. You recollect?"
"Recollect! the Muse of painting! Terps--Clio--no matter! a charming
person from whom we were to have instruction in drawing, and who lives
at some utterly unsearchable place! Of course I recollect! And you
have a sketch of her there? Now, my dear Miss Maurice, don't keep me
in suspense any longer, but let me look at it at once." But when the
sketch was unrolled and placed before him, it had the very singular
effect of reducing Algy Barford to a state of quietude. Beyond giving
one long whistle he never uttered a sound, but sat with parted lips and
uplifted eyebrows gazing at the picture for full five minutes. Then he
said, "This is like, of course, Miss Maurice?"
"Well, I really think I may say it is. It is far inferior to the
original in beauty, of course; but I think I have preserved her most
delicate features."
"Just so. Her hair is of that peculiar colour, and her eyes a curious
violet, eh?"
"Yes."
"This sketch gives one the notion of a tall woman with a full figure."
"Yes; she is taller than I, and her figure is thoroughly rounded and
graceful."
"Ye-es; a very charming sketch, Miss Maurice; and your friend must be
very lovely if she at all resembles it."
Shortly after, when Mr. Algy Barford had taken his leave, he stopped on
the flags in St. Barnabas Square, thus soliloquising: "All right, my
dear old boy, my dear old Algy! it's coming on fast--a little sooner
than you thought; but that's no matter. Colney Hatch, my dear boy, and
a padded room looking out over the railway. That's it; that's your
hotel, dear boy! If you ever drank, it might be _del. trem_., and would
pass off; but you don't. No, no; to see twice within six months, first
the woman herself; and then the portrait of the woman--just married and
known to credible witnesses--whom you have firmly believed to be lying
in Kensal Green! Colney Hatch, dear old boy; that is the apartment, and
nothing else!"