CONJECTURES.
Miss Maurice was not in the house when Geoffrey Ludlow and his wife
made that visit to Lord Caterham which had so plainly manifested
Margaret's imprudence and inexperience. The housekeeper and one of the
housemaids had come to the assistance of the gentlemen, both equally
alarmed and one at least calculated to be, of all men living, the most
helpless under the circumstances. Geoffrey was "awfully frightened," as
he told her afterwards, when Margaret fainted.
"I shall never forget the whiteness of your face, my darling, and the
dreadful sealed look of your eyelids. I thought in a moment that was
how you would look if you were dead; and what should I do if I ever had
to see _that_ sight!"
This loving speech Geoffrey made to his wife as they drove
homewards,--she pale, silent, and coldly abstracted; he full of tender
anxiety for her comfort and apprehension for her health,--sentiments
which rendered him, to say the truth, rather a trying companion in a
carriage; for he was constantly pulling the glasses up and down, fixing
them a button-hole higher or lower, rearranging the blinds, and giving
the coachman contradictory orders. These proceedings were productive of
no apparent annoyance to Margaret, who lay back against the cushions
with eyes open and moody, and her underlip caught beneath her teeth.
She maintained unbroken silence until they reached home, and then
briefly telling Geoffrey that she was going to her room to lie down,
she left him.
"She's not strong," said Geoffrey, as he proceeded to
disembarrass himself of his outdoor attire, and to don his
"working-clothes,"--"she's not strong; and it's very odd she's not more
cheerful. I thought the child would have made it all right; but perhaps
it will when she's stronger." And Geoff sighed as he went to his work,
and sighed again once or twice as he pursued it.
Meanwhile Lord Caterham was thinking over the startling incident which
had just occurred. He was an observant man naturally, and the enforced
inaction of his life had increased this tendency; while his long
and deep experience of physical suffering and weakness had rendered
him acutely alive to any manifestations of a similar kind in other
people. Mrs. Ludlow's fainting-fit puzzled him. She had been looking
so remarkably well when she came in; there had been nothing feverish,
nothing suggestive of fictitious strength or over-exertion in her
appearance; no feebleness in her manner or languor in the tone of her
voice. The suddenness and completeness of the swoon were strange,--were
so much beyond the ordinary faintness which a drive undertaken a
little too soon might be supposed to produce,--and the expression of
Margaret's face, when she had recovered her consciousness, was so
remarkable, that Lord Caterham felt instinctively the true origin of
her illness had not been that assigned to it.
"She looked half-a-dozen years older," he thought; "and the few words
she said were spoken as if she were in a dream. I must be more mistaken
than I have ever been, or there is something very wrong about that
woman. And what a good fellow he is!--what a simple-hearted blundering
kind fellow! How wonderful his blindness is! I saw in a moment how he
loved her, how utterly uninterested she is in him and his affairs. I
hope there may be nothing worse than lack of interest; but I am afraid,
very much afraid for Ludlow."
And then Lord Caterham's thoughts wandered away from the artist and his
beautiful wife to that other subject which occupied them so constantly,
and with which every other cogitation or contemplation contrived to
mingle itself in an unaccountable manner, on which he did not care
to reason, and against which he did not attempt to strive. What did
it matter now? He might be ever so much engrossed, and no effort at
self-control or self-conquest would be called for; the feelings he
cherished unchecked could not harm any one--could not harm himself now.
There was great relief; great peace in that thought,--no strife for him
to enter on, no struggle in which his suffering body and weary mind
must engage. The end would be soon with him now; and while he waited
for it, he might love this bright young girl with all the power of his
heart.
So Lord Caterham lay quite still upon the couch on which they had
placed Margaret when she fainted, and thought over all he had intended
to say to Geoffrey, and must now seek another opportunity of saying,
and turned over in his mind sundry difficulties which he began to
foresee in the way of his cherished plan, and which would probably
arise in the direction of Mrs. Ludlow. Annie and Margaret had not
hitherto seen much of each other, as has already appeared; and there
was something ominous in the occurrence of that morning which troubled
Lord Caterham's mind and disturbed his preconcerted arrangements. If
trouble--trouble of some unknown kind, but, as he intuitively felt,
of a serious nature--were hanging over Geoffrey Ludlow's head, what
was to become of his guardianship of Annie in the future,--that future
which Lord Caterham felt was drawing so near; that future which would
find her without a friend, and would leave her exposed to countless
flatterers. He was pondering upon these things when Annie entered the
room, bright and blooming, after her drive in the balmy summer air, and
carrying a gorgeous bouquet of crimson roses.
She was followed by Stephens, carrying two tall Venetian glasses. He
placed them on a table, and then withdrew.
"Look, Arthur," said Annie; "we've been to Fulham, and I got these fresh
cut, all for your own self, at the nursery-gardens. None of those
horrid formal tied-up bouquets for you, or for me either, with the
buds stuck on with wires, and nasty fluffy bits of cotton sticking to
the leaves. I went round with the man, and made him cut each rose as I
pointed it out; and they're such beauties, Arthur! Here's one for you
to wear and smell and spoil; but the others I'm going to keep fresh for
ever so long."
She went over to the couch and gave him the rose, a rich crimson
full-formed flower, gorgeous in colour and exquisite in perfume. He
took it with a smile and held it in his hand.
"Why don't you put it in your button-hole, Lord Caterham?" said Annie,
with a pretty air of pettishness which became her well.
"Why?" said Lord Caterham. "Do you think I am exactly the style of
man to wear posies and breast-knots, little Annie?" His tone was sad
through its playfulness.
"Nonsense, Arthur," she began; "you--" Then she looked at him, and
stopped suddenly, and her face changed. "Have you been worse to-day?
You look very pale. Have you been in pain? Did you want me?"
"No, no, my child," said Lord Caterham; "I am just as usual. Go on
with your flowers, Annie,--settle them up, lest they fade. They are
beautiful indeed, and we'll keep them as long as we can."
She was not reassured, and she still stood and gazed earnestly at him.
"I am all right, Annie,--I am indeed. My head is even easier than
usual. But some one has been ill, if I haven't. Your friends the
Ludlows were here to-day. Did no one tell you as you came in?"
"No, I did not see any one; I left my bonnet in the ante-room and
came straight in here. I only called to Stephens to bring the
flower-glasses. Was Mrs. Ludlow ill, Arthur? Did she come to see me?"
"I don't think so--she only came, I think, because I wanted to see
Ludlow, and he took advantage of the circumstance to have a drive with
her. Have you seen her since the child was born?"
"No, I called, but only to inquire. But was she ill? What happened?"
"Well, she was ill--she fainted. Ludlow and I were just beginning to
talk, and, at her own request, leaving her to amuse herself with the
photographs and things lying about--and she had just asked me some
trifling question, something about Lionel's portrait--whose it was, I
think--when she suddenly fainted. I don't think there could be a more
complete swoon; she really looked as though she were dead."
"What did you do? was Geoffrey frightened?"
"Yes, we were both frightened. Stephens came, and two of the women.
Ludlow was terrified; but she soon recovered, and she would persist in
going home, though I tried to persuade her to wait until you returned.
But she would not listen to it, and went away with Ludlow in a dreadful
state of mind; he thinks he made her take the drive too soon, and is
frightfully penitent."
"Well but, Arthur," said Annie, seriously and anxiously, "I suppose he
did. It must have been that which knocked her up. She has no mother or
sister with her, you know, to tell her about these things."
"My dear Annie," said Lord Caterham, "she has a doctor and a nurse,
I suppose; and she has common-sense, and knows how she feels,
herself--does she not? She looked perfectly well when she came in, and
handsomer than when I saw her before--and I don't believe the drive had
any thing to do with the fainting-fit."
Miss Maurice looked at Lord Caterham in great surprise. His manner and
tone were serious, and her feelings, easily roused when her old friend
was concerned, were excited now to apprehension. She left off arranging
the roses; she dried her finger-tips on her handkerchief, and placing
a chair close beside Caterham's couch, she sat down and asked him
anxiously to explain his meaning.
"I can't do that very well, Annie," he said, "for I am not certain
of what it is; but of this I am certain, my first impression of Mrs.
Ludlow is correct. There is something wrong about her, and Ludlow is
ignorant of it. All I said to you that day is more fully confirmed in
my mind now. There is some dark secret in the past of her life, and the
secret in the present is, that she lives in that past, and does not
love her husband."
"Poor Geoffrey," said Annie, in whose eyes tears were standing--"poor
Geoffrey, and how dearly he loves her!"
"Yes," said Lord Caterham, "that's the worst of it; that, and his
unsuspiciousness,--he does not see what the most casual visitor to
their house sees; he does not perceive the weariness of spirit that
is the first thing, next to her beauty, which every one with common
perception must recognise. She takes no pains--she does not make the
least attempt to hide it. Why, to-day, when she recovered, when her
eyes opened--such gloomy eyes they were!--and Ludlow was kneeling
here,"--he pointed down beside the couch he lay on--"bending over
her,--did she look up at him?--did she meet the gaze fixed on her and
smile, or try to smile, to comfort and reassure him? Not she: I was
watching her; she just opened her eyes and let them wander round,
turned her head from him, and let it fall against the side of the couch
as if she never cared to lift it more."
"Poor Geoffrey!" said Annie again; this time with a sob.
"Yes, indeed, Annie," he went on; "I pity him, as much as I mistrust
her. He has never told you any thing about her antecedents, has
he?--and I suppose she has not been more communicative?"
"No," replied Annie; "I know nothing more than I have told you. She has
always been the same when I have seen her--trying, I thought, to seem
and be happier than at first, but very languid still. Geoffrey said
sometimes that she was rather out of spirits, but he seemed to think it
was only delicate health--and I hoped so too, though I could not help
fearing you were right in all you said that day. O, Arthur, isn't it
hard to think of Geoffrey loving her so much, and working so hard, and
getting so poor a return?"
"It is indeed, Annie," said Lord Caterham, with a strange wistful
look at her; "it is very hard. But I fear there are harder things
than that in store for Ludlow. He is not conscious of the extent of
his misfortune, if even he knows of its existence at all. I fear the
time is coming when he must know all there is to be known, whatever
it may be. That woman has a terrible secret in her life, Annie, and
the desperate weariness within her--how she let it show when she was
recovering from the swoon!--will force it into the light of day before
long. Her dreary quietude is the calm before the storm."
"I suppose I had better write this evening and inquire for her," said
Annie, after a pause; "and propose to call on her. It will gratify
Geoffrey."
"Do so," said Lord Caterham; "I will write to Ludlow myself."
Annie wrote her kind little letter, and duly received a reply. Mrs.
Ludlow was much better, but still rather weak, and did not feel quite
able to receive Miss Maurice's kindly-proffered visit just at present.
"I am very glad indeed of that, Annie," said Lord Caterham, to whom she
showed the note; "you cannot possibly do Ludlow any good, my child; and
something tells me that the less you see of her the better."
For some days following that on which the incident and the conversation
just recorded took place, Lord Caterham was unable to make his intended
request to Geoffrey Ludlow that the latter would call upon him, that
they might renew their interrupted conversation. One of those crises in
the long struggle which he maintained with disease and pain, in which
entire prostration produced a kind of truce, had come upon him; and
silence, complete inaction, and almost a suspension of his faculties,
marked its duration. The few members of the household who had access
to him were familiar with this phase of his condition; and on this
occasion it attracted no more notice than usual, except from Annie, who
remarked additional gravity in the manner of the physician, and who
perceived that the state of exhaustion of the patient lasted longer,
and when he rallied was succeeded by less complete restoration to even
his customary condition than before. She mentioned these results of
her close observation to Lady Beauport; but the countess paid very
little attention to the matter, assuring Annie that she knew Caterham
much too well to be frightened; that he would do very well if there
were no particular fuss made about him; and that all doctors were
alarmists, and said dreadful things to increase their own importance.
Annie would have called her attention to the extenuating circumstance
that Lord Caterham's medical attendant had not said any thing at all,
and that she had merely interpreted his looks; but Lady Beauport was so
anxious to tell her something illustrative of "poor Lionel's" beauty,
grace, daring, or dash--no matter which or what--that Annie found it
impossible to get in another word.
A day or two later, when Lord Caterham had rallied a good deal, and
was able to listen to Annie as she read to him, and while she was so
engaged, and he was looking at her with the concentrated earnestness
she remarked so frequently in his gaze of late,--Algy Barford was
announced. Algy had been constantly at the house to inquire for Lord
Caterham; but to-day Stephens had felt sure his master would be able
and glad to see Algy. Every body liked that genial soul, and servants
in particular--a wonderful test of popularity and its desert. He came
in very quietly, and he and Annie exchanged greetings cordially. She
liked him also. After he had spoken cheerily to Caterham, and called
him "dear old boy" at least a dozen times in as many sentences, the
conversation was chiefly maintained between him and Miss Maurice. She
did not think much talking would do for Arthur just then, and she made
no movement towards leaving the room, as was her usual custom. Algy was
a little subdued in tone and spirits: it was impossible even to him to
avoid seeing that Caterham was looking much more worn and pale than
usual; and he was a bad hand at disguising a painful impression, so
that he was less fluent and discursive than was his wont, and decidedly
ill at ease.
"How is your painting getting on, Miss Maurice?" he said, when a pause
became portentous.
"She has been neglecting it in my favour," said Lord Caterham. "She has
not even finished the portrait you admired so much, Algy."
"O!--ah!--'The Muse of Painting,' wasn't it? It is a pity not to finish
it, Miss Maurice. I think you would never succeed better than in that
case,--you admire the original so much."
"Yes," said Annie, with rather an uneasy glance towards Caterham, "she
is really beautiful. Arthur thinks her quite as wonderful as I do;
but I have not seen her lately--she has been ill. By the bye, Arthur,
Geoffrey Ludlow wrote to me yesterday inquiring for you; and only think
what he says!--'I hope my wife's illness did not upset Lord Caterham;
but I am afraid it did." Annie had taken a note from the pocket of her
apron, andread these words in a laughing voice.
"Hopes his wife's illness did not upset Lord Caterham!" repeated Algy
Barford in a tone of whimsical amazement. "What may that mean, dear
old boy? Why are you supposed to be upset by the peerless lady of the
unspeakable eyes and the unapproachable hair?"
Annie laughed, and Caterham smiled as he replied, "Only because Mrs.
Ludlow fainted here in this room very suddenly, and very 'dead,' one
day lately; and as Mrs. Ludlow's fainting was a terrible shock to
Ludlow, he concludes that it was also a terrible shock to me,--that's
all."
"Well, but," said Algy, apparently seized with an unaccountable access
of curiosity, "why did Mrs. Ludlow faint? and what brought her here to
faint in your room?"
"It was inconsiderate, I confess," said Caterham, still smiling; "but I
don't think she meant it. The fact is, I had asked Ludlow to come and
see me; and he brought his wife; and--and she has not been well, and
the drive was too much for her, I suppose. At all events, Ludlow and I
were talking, and not minding her particularly, when she said something
to me, and I turned round and saw her looking deadly pale, and before I
could answer her she fainted."
"Right off?" asked Algy, with an expression of dismay so ludicrous that
Annie could not resist it, and laughed outright.
"Right off, indeed," answered Caterham; "down went the photograph-book
on the floor, and down she would have gone if Ludlow had been a second
later, or an inch farther away! Yes; it was a desperate case, I assure
you. How glad you must feel that you wer'n't here, Algy,--eh? What
would you have done now? Resorted to the bellows, like the Artful
Dodger, or twisted her thumbs, according to the famous prescription of
Mrs. Gamp?"
But Algy did not laugh, much to Lord Caterham's amusement, who believed
him to be overwhelmed by the horrid picture his imagination conjured up
of the position of the two gentlemen under the circumstances.
"But," said Algy, with perfect gravity, "why did she faint? What did
she say? People don't tumble down in a dead faint because they're a
little tired, dear old boy--do they?"
"Perhaps not in general, Algy, but it looks like it in Mrs. Ludlow's
case. All I can tell you is that the faint was perfectly genuine and
particularly 'dead,' and that there was no cause for it, beyond the
drive and the fatigue of looking over the photographs in that book. I
am very tired of photographs myself, and I suppose most people are the
same, but I haven't quite come to fainting over them yet."
Algy Barford's stupefaction had quite a rousing effect on Lord
Caterham, and Annie Maurice liked him and his odd ways more than ever.
He made some trifling remark in reply to Caterham's speech, and took an
early opportunity of minutely inspecting the photograph-book which he
had mentioned.
"So," said Algy to himself, as he walked slowly down St. Barnabas
Square; "she goes to see Caterham, and faints at sight of dear
old Lionel's portrait, does she? Ah, it's all coming out, Algy;
and the best thing you can do, on the whole is to keep your own
counsel,--that's about it, dear old boy!"