LADY BEAUPORT'S PLOT.
Yes; little Annie Maurice, Lady Beauport's companion, was the heiress
of the rich and eccentric Mr. Ampthill, so long known in society. The
fact was a grand thing for the paragraph-mongers and the diners-out,
all of whom distorted it in every possible way, and told the most
inconceivable lies about it. That Annie was Mr. Ampthill's natural
daughter, and had been left on a doorstep, and was adopted by Lady
Beauport, who had found her in an orphan-asylum; that Mr. Ampthill
had suddenly determined upon leaving all his property to the first
person he might meet on a certain day, and that Annie Maurice was the
fortunate individual; that the will had been made purposely to spite
Lady Beauport, with whom Mr. Ampthill, when a young man, had been
madly in love--all these rumours went the round of the gossip-columns
of the journals and of Society's dinner-parties. Other stories there
were, perhaps a little nearer to truth, which explained that it was not
until after Lionel Brakespere's last escapade he had been disinherited;
indeed, that Parkinson of Thavies Inn and Scadgers of Berners Street
had looked upon his inheritance as such a certainty, that they had made
considerable advances on the strength of it, and would be heavily hit:
while a rumour, traceable to the old gentleman's housekeeper, stated
that Annie Maurice was the only one of Mr. Ampthill's connections who
had never fawned on him, flattered him, or in any way intrigued for his
favour.
Be this as it might, the fact remained that Annie was now the possessor
of a large fortune, and consequently a person of great importance
to all her friends and acquaintance--a limited number, but quite
sufficient to discuss her rise in life with every kind of asperity.
They wondered how she would bear it; whether she would give herself
airs; how soon, and to what member of the peerage, she would be
married. How _did_ she bear it? When Lord Beauport sent for her to his
study, after Mr. Ampthill's funeral, and told her what he had heard,
she burst into tears; which was weak, but not unnatural. Then, with her
usual straightforward common-sense, she set about forming her plans.
She had never seen her benefactor, so that even Mrs. Grundy herself
could scarcely have called on Annie to affect sorrow for his loss; and
indeed remarks were made by Mr. Ampthill's old butler and housekeeper
(who, being provided with mourning out of the estate, were as black and
as shiny as a couple of old rooks) about the very mitigated grief which
Annie chose to exhibit in her attire.
Then as to her mode of life. For the present, at least, she determined
to make no change in it. She said so at once to Lord Beauport,
expressing an earnest hope that she should be allowed to remain under
his roof, where she had been so happy, until she had settled how and
where she should live; and Lord Beauport replied that it would give
him--and he was sure he might speak for Lady Beauport the greatest
pleasure to have Miss Maurice with them. He brought a message to that
effect from Lady Beauport, who had one of her dreadful neuralgic
attacks, and could see no one, but who sent her kind love to Miss
Maurice, and her heartiest congratulations, and hoped that Miss Maurice
would remain with them as long as she pleased. The servants of the
house, who heard of the good fortune of "the young lady," rejoiced
greatly at it, and suggested that miss would go hout of this at once,
and leave my lady to grump about in that hold carriage by herself. They
were greatly astonished, therefore, the next morning to find Annie
seated at the nine-o'clock breakfast-table, preparing Lady Beauport's
chocolate, and dressed just as usual. They had expected that the
first sign of her independence would be lying in bed till noon, and
then appearing in a gorgeous wrapper, such as the ladies in the penny
romances always wore in the mornings; and they could only account for
her conduct by supposing that she had to give a month's warning and
must work out her time. Lady Beauport herself was astonished when, the
necessity for the neuralgic attack being over, she found Annie coming
to ask her, as usual, what letters she required written, and whether
she should pay any calls for her ladyship. Lady Beauport delicately
remonstrated; but Annie declared that she would infinitely prefer doing
exactly as she had been accustomed to, so long as she should remain in
the house.
So long as she should remain in the house! That was exactly the point
on which Lady Beauport was filled with hope and dread. Her ladyship
had been cruelly disappointed in Mr. Ampthill's will. She had suffered
herself to hope against hope, and to shut her eyes to all unfavourable
symptoms. The old gentleman had taken so much notice of Lionel when
a boy, had spoken so warmly of him, had made so much of him, that he
could not fail to make him his heir. In vain had Lord Beauport spoken
to her more plainly than was his wont, pointing out that Lionel's was
no venial crime; that Mr. Ampthill probably had heard of it, inasmuch
as he never afterwards mentioned the young man's name; that however
his son's position might be reinstated before the world, the act could
never be forgotten. In vain Algy Barford shook his head, and Caterham
preserved a gloomy silence worse than any speech. Lady Beauport's hopes
did not desert her until she heard the actual and final announcement.
Almost simultaneously with this came Lord Beauport with Annie's request
that she should be permitted to continue an inmate of the house; and
immediately Lady Beauport conceived and struck out a new plan of
action. The heritage was lost to Lionel; but the heiress was Annie
Maurice, a girl domiciled with them, clinging to them; unlikely, at
least for the few ensuing months, to go into the world, to give the
least chance to any designing fortune-hunter. And Lionel was coming
home! His mother was certain that the letter which she had written
to him on the first news of Mr. Ampthill's illness would induce him,
already sick of exile, to start for England. He would arrive soon, and
then the season would be over; they would all go away to Homershams,
or one of Beauport's places; they would not have any company for some
time, and Lionel would be thrown into Annie Maurice's society; and it
would be hard if he, with his handsome face, his fascinating manners,
and his experience of women and the world, were not able to make an
easy conquest of this simple quiet young girl, and thus to secure the
fortune which his mother had originally expected for him.
Such was Lady Beauport's day-dream now, and to its realisation she gave
up every thought, in reference to it she planned every action. It has
already been stated that she had always treated Annie with respect,
and even with regard: so that the idea of patronage, the notion of
behaving to her companion in any thing but the spirit of a lady, had
never entered her mind. But now there was an amount of affectionate
interest mingled with her regard which Annie could not fail to perceive
and to be gratified with. All was done in the most delicate manner.
Lady Beauport never forgot the lady in the _intrigante_; her advances
were of the subtlest kind; her hints were given and allusions were
made in the most guarded manner. She accepted Annie's assistance as
her amanuensis, and she left to her the usual colloquies on domestic
matters with the housekeeper, because she saw that Annie wished it to
be so; and she still drove out with her in the carriage, only insisting
that Annie should sit by her side instead of opposite on the back-seat.
And instead of the dignified silence of the employer, only speaking
when requiring an answer, Lady Beauport would keep up a perpetual
conversation, constantly recurring to the satisfaction it gave her to
have Annie still with her. "I declare I don't know what I should have
done if you had left me, Annie!" she would say. "I'm sure it was the
mere thought of having to lie left by myself, or to the tender mercies
of somebody who knew nothing about me, that gave me that last frightful
attack of neuralgia. You see I am an old woman now; and though the
Carringtons are proverbially strong and long-lived, yet I have lost
all my elasticity of spirit, and feel I could not shape myself to any
person's way now. And poor Caterham too! I cannot think how he would
ever get on without you. You seem now to be an essential part of his
life. Poor Caterham! Ah, how I wish you had seen my other son, my boy
Lionel! Such a splendid fellow; so handsome! Ah, Lord Beauport was
dreadfully severe on him, poor fellow, that night,--you recollect, when
he had you and Caterham in to tell you about poor Lionel; as though
young men would not be always young men. Poor Lionel!" Poor Lionel!
that was the text of Lady Beauport's discourse whenever she addressed
herself to Annie Maurice.
It was not to be supposed that Annie's change of fortune had not a
great effect upon Lord Caterham. When he first heard of it--from Algy
Barford, who came direct to him from the reading of the will--he
rejoiced that at least her future was secure; that, come what might
to him or his parents, there would be a provision for her; that no
chance of her being reduced to want, or of her having to consult the
prejudices of other people, and to perform a kind of genteel servitude
with any who could not appreciate her worth could now arise. But with
this feeling another soon mingled. Up to that time she had been all in
all to him--to him; simply because to the outside world she was nobody,
merely Lady Beauport's companion, about whom none troubled themselves;
now she was Miss Maurice the heiress, and in a very different position.
They could not hope to keep her to themselves; they could not hope to
keep her free from the crowd of mercenary adorers always looking out
for every woman with money whom they might devour. In her own common
sense lay her strongest safeguard; and that, although reliable on all
ordinary occasions, had never been exposed to so severe a trial as
flattery and success. Were not the schemers already plotting? even
within the citadel was there not a traitor? Algy Barford had kept his
trust, and had not betrayed one word of what Lady Beauport had told
him; but from stray expressions dropped now and again, and from the
general tenor of his mother's behaviour, Lord Caterham saw plainly
what she was endeavouring to bring about. On that subject his mind was
made up. He had such thorough confidence in Annie's goodness, in her
power of discrimination between right and wrong, that he felt certain
that she could never bring herself to love his brother Lionel, however
handsome his face, however specious his manner; but if, woman-like, she
should give way and follow her inclination rather than her reason, then
he determined to talk to her plainly and openly, and to do every thing
in his power to prevent the result on which his mother had set her
heart.
There was not a scrap of selfishness in all this. However deeply
Arthur Caterham loved Annie Maurice, the hope of making her his had
never for an instant arisen in his breast. He knew too well that a
mysterious decree of Providence had shut him out from the roll of those
who are loved by woman, save in pity or sympathy; and it was with a
feeling of relief, rather than regret, that of late--within the last
few months--he had felt an inward presentiment that his commerce with
Life was almost at an end, that his connection with that Vanity Fair,
through which he had been wheeled as a spectator, but in the occupation
or amusement of which he had never participated, was about to cease. He
loved her so dearly, that the thought of her future was always before
him, and caused him infinite anxiety. Worst of all, there was no one of
whom he could make a confidant amongst his acquaintance. Algy Barford
would do any thing; but he was a bachelor, which would incapacitate
him, and by far too easy-going, trouble-hating, and unimpressive. Who
else was there? Ah, a good thought!--that man Ludlow, the artist; an
old friend of Annie's, for whom she had so great a regard. He was not
particularly strong-minded out of his profession; but his devotion to
his child-friend was undoubted; and besides, he was a man of education
and common sense, rising, too, to a position which would insure his
being heard. He would talk with Ludlow about Annie's future; so he
wrote off to Geoffrey by the next post, begging him to come and see him
as soon as possible. Yes, he could look at it all quite steadily now.
Heaven knows, life to him had been no such happiness as to make its
surrender painful or difficult It was only as he neared his journey's
end, he thought, that any light had been shed upon his path, and when
that should be extinguished he would have no heart to go further. No:
let the end come, as he knew it was coming, swiftly and surely; only
let him think that _her_ future was secured, and he could die more than
contented--happy.
Her future secured! ah, that he should not live to see! It could not,
must not be by a marriage with Lionel. His mother had never broached
that subject openly to him, and therefore he had hitherto felt a
delicacy in alluding to it in conversation with her; but he would
before--well, he would in time. Not that he had much fear of Annie's
succumbing to his brother's fascinations; he rated her too highly for
that. It was not--and he took up a photographic album which lay on his
table, as the idea passed through his mind--it was not that careless
reckless expression, that easy insolent pose, which would have any
effect on Annie Maurice's mental constitution. Those who imagine that
women are enslaved through their eyes--true women--women worth winning
at least--are horribly mistaken, he thought, and--And then at that
instant he turned the page and came upon a photograph of himself, in
which the artist had done his best so far as arrangement went, but
which was so fatally truthful in its display of his deformity, that
Lord Caterham closed the book with a shudder, and sunk back on his
couch.
His painful reverie was broken by the entrance of Stephens, who
announced that Mr. and Mrs. Ludlow were waiting to see his master.
Caterham, who was unprepared for a visit from Mrs. Ludlow, gave orders
that they should be at once admitted. Mrs. Ludlow came in leaning on
her husband's arm, and looking so pale and interesting, that Caterham
at once recollected the event he had seen announced in the _Times_, and
began to apologise.
"My dear Mrs. Ludlow, what a horrible wretch I am to have asked your
husband to come and see me, when of course he was fully occupied at
home attending to you and the baby!" Then they both laughed; and Geoff
said:
"This is her first day out, Lord Caterham; but I had promised to take
her for a drive; and as you wanted to see me, I thought that--"
"That the air of St. Barnabas Square, the fresh breezes from the
Thames, and the cheerful noise of the embankment-people, would be about
the best thing for an invalid, eh?"
"Well--scarcely! but that as it was only stated that my wife should go
for a quiet drive, I, who have neither the time nor the opportunity for
such things, might utilise the occasion by complying with the request
of a gentleman who has proved himself deserving of my respect."
"A hit! a very palpable hit, Mr. Ludlow!" said Caterham. "I bow,
and--as the common phrase goes--am sorry I spoke. But we must not talk
business when you have brought Mrs. Ludlow out for amusement."
"O, pray don't think of me, Lord Caterham," said Margaret; "I can
always amuse myself."
"O, of course; the mere recollection of baby would keep you
sufficiently employed--at least, so you would have us believe. But
I'm an old bachelor, and discredit such things. So there's a book of
photographs for you to amuse yourself with while we talk.--Now, Mr.
Ludlow, for our conversation. Since we met, your old friend Annie
Maurice has inherited a very large property."
"So I have heard, to my great surprise and delight. But I live so much
out of the world that I scarcely knew whether it was true, and had
determined to ask you the first time I should see you."
"O, it's thoroughly true. She is the heiress of old Mr. Ampthill,
who was a second cousin of her father's. But it was about her future
career, as heiress of all this property, that I wanted to speak to you,
you see.--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ludlow, what did you say?"
Her face was dead white, her lips trembled, and it was with great
difficulty she said any thing at all; but she did gasp out, "Who is
this?"
"That," said Lord Caterham, bending over the book; "O, that is the
portrait of my younger brother, Lionel Brakespere; he--" but Caterham
stopped short in his explanation, for Mrs. Ludlow fell backward in a
swoon.
And every one afterwards said that it was very thoughtless of her to
take such a long drive so soon after her confinement.