Miss Podds persisted in calling it a soirée. It turned out to be a
scrambling sort of entertainment, and must have amused Mr. Angerstyne.
Biddy had poured the bowl of sweet custard over the meat patties by
mistake, and put salt on the open tartlets instead of sugar. It seemed
nothing but fun to us all. The evening, with its mistakes, and its
laughter, and its genuine hospitality, came to an end, and we started to
go home under the convoy of Mr. Angerstyne, all the Sanker boys, except
Toby, attending us. It was a lovely moonlight night; Mrs. Lake, who had
come in at the tail of the soirée to escort the girls home, remarked
that the moon was never brighter.
"Why, just look there!" she exclaimed, as we turned up Edgar Street,
intending to take that and the steps homewards; "the Tower gates are
open!" For it was the custom to close the great gates of Edgar Tower at
dusk.
"Oh, I know," cried Fred Sanker. "The sub-dean gave a dinner to-night;
and the porter has left the gates wide for the carriages. Who is good
for a race round the green?"
It seemed that we all were, for the whole lot of us followed him in,
leaving Mrs. Lake calling after us in consternation. The old Tower
porter, thinking the Green was being charged by an army of ill-doers,
rushed out of his den, shouting to us to come back.
Much we heeded him! Counting the carriages (three of them) waiting
at the sub-dean's door, we raced onwards at will, some hither, some
thither. King went back to Mrs. Lake. The evening coolness felt
delicious after the hot and garish day; the moonlight brought out the
lights and shades of the queer old houses and the older cathedral.
Collecting ourselves together presently, at Fred Sanker's whoop, Mr.
Angerstyne and Anne were missing.
"They've gone to look at the Severn, I think," said Dan Sanker. "I heard
him tell her it was worth looking at in the moonlight."
Yes, they were there. He had Anne's arm tucked up under his, and his
head bent over her that she might catch his whispers. They turned round
at hearing our footsteps.
"Indeed we must go home, Mr. Angerstyne," said Julia Podd, who had
run down after me, and spoke crossly. "The college clock is chiming a
quarter to eleven. There's Mrs. Lake waiting for us under the Tower!"
"Is it so late?" he answered her, in a pleasant voice. "Time flies
quickly in the moonlight: I've often remarked it."
Walking forward, he kept by the side of Julia; Anne and I followed
together. Some of the boys were shouting themselves hoarse from the top
of the ascent, wanting to know if we were lost.
"Is it all settled, Anne?" I asked her, jestingly, dropping my voice.
"Is what settled?" she returned. But she understood; for her face looked
like a rose in the moonlight.
"You know. _I_ can see, if the others can't. And if it makes you happy,
Anne, I am very glad of it."
"Oh, Johnny, I hope--I hope no one else does see. But indeed you are
making more of it than it deserves."
"What does he say to you?"
"He has not _said_ anything. So you see, Johnny, you may be quite
mistaken."
It was all the same: if he had not said anything yet, there could be no
question that he meant soon to say it. We were passing the old elm-trees
just then; the moonlight, flickering through them on Anne's face,
lighted up the sweet hope that lay on it.
"Sometimes I think if--if papa should not approve of it!" she whispered.
"But he is sure to approve of it. One cannot help liking Mr. Angerstyne:
and his position is undeniable."
The sub-dean's dinner guests were gone, the three carriages bowling them
away; and the porter kept up a fire of abuse as he waited to watch us
through the little postern-door. The boys, being college boys, returned
his attack with interest. Wishing the Sankers good-night, who ran
straight down Edgar Street on their way home, we turned off up the
steps, and found Mrs. Lake standing patiently at her door. I saw Mr.
Angerstyne catch Anne's hand for a moment in his, under cover of our
entrance.
The morning brought news. Dr. and Mrs. Lewis were on their way to
Maythorn Bank, expected to reach it that evening, and the young ladies
were bidden to depart for it on the following day.
* * * * *
A wonderful change had taken place in Dr. Lewis. If they had doubted
before whether the doctor was not falling into his dotage they could not
doubt longer, for he was decidedly _in_ it. A soft-speaking, mooning
man, now; utterly lost in the shadow cast by his wife's importance. She
appeared to be smiling in face and gentle in accent as ever, but she
overruled every soul in the house: no one but herself had a will in it.
What little strength of mind he might have had, his new bride had taken
out of him.
Anne did not like it. Hitherto mistress of all things under her father,
she found herself passed over as a nonentity. She might not express an
opinion, or hazard a wish. "My dear, _I_ am here now," Mrs. Lewis said
to her once or twice emphatically. Anne was deposed; her reign was over.
One little thing, that happened, she certainly did not like. Though
humble-minded, entirely without self-assertion, sweet-tempered and
modest as a girl should be, she did not like this. Mrs. Lewis sent out
invitations for dinner to some people in the neighbourhood, strangers to
her until then; the table was too full by one, and she had told Anne
that she could not sit down. It was too bad; especially as Julia and
Fanny Podd filled two of the more important places, with bunches of
fresh sweet-peas in their hair.
"Besides," Mrs. Lewis had said to Anne in the morning, "we must have a
French side-dish or two, and there's no one but you understands the
making of them."
Whether having to play the host was too much for him, or that he did
not like the slight put upon his daughter, before the dinner was half
over, the doctor fell asleep. He could not be roused from it. Herbert
Tanerton, who had sat by Mrs. Lewis's side to say grace, thought it
was not sleep but unconsciousness. Between them the company carried
him into the other room; and Anne, hastening to send in her French
dishes, ran there to attend upon him.
"I hope and trust there's nothing amiss with his heart," said old Coney
doubtfully, in the bride's ear.
"My dear Mr. Coney, his heart is as strong as mine--believe me,"
affirmed Mrs. Lewis, flicking some crumbs off the front of her
wedding-dress.
"I hope it is, I'm sure," repeated Coney. "I don't like that blue tinge
round his lips."
They went back to the dinner-table when Dr. Lewis revived. Anne remained
kneeling at his feet, gently chafing his hands.
"What's the matter?" he cried, staring at her like a man bewildered.
"What are you doing?"
"Dear papa, you fell asleep over your dinner, and they could not wake
you. Do you feel ill?"
"Where am I?" he asked, as if he were speaking out of a dream. And she
told him what she could. But she had not heard those suspicious words of
old Coney's.
It was some minutes yet before he got much sense into him, or seemed
fully to understand. He fell back in the chair then, with a deep sigh,
keeping Anne's hand in his.
"Shall I get you anything, papa?" she asked. "You had eaten scarcely any
dinner, they say. Would you like a little drop of brandy-and-water?"
"Why was not your dress ready?"
"My dress!" exclaimed Anne.
"She said so to me, when I asked why you did not come to table. Not
made, or washed, or ironed; or something."
Anne felt rather at sea. "There's nothing the matter with my dresses,
papa," she said. "But never mind them--or me. Will you go back to
dinner? Or shall I get you anything here?"
"I don't want to go back; I don't want anything," he answered. "Go and
finish yours, my dear."
"I have had mine," she said, with a faint blush. For indeed her dinner
had consisted of some bread-and-butter in the kitchen, eaten over the
French stew-pans. Dr. Lewis was gazing out at the trees, and seemed to
be in thought.
"Perhaps you stayed away from home rather too long, papa," she
suggested. "You are not accustomed to travelling; and I think you are
not strong enough for it. You looked very worn when you first came home;
worn and ill."
"Ay," he answered. "I told her it did not do for me; but she laughed. It
was nothing but a whirl, you know. And I only want to be quiet."
"It is very quiet here, dear papa, and you will soon feel stronger. You
shall sit out of doors in the sun of a day, and I will read to you. I
wish you would let me get you----"
"Hush, child. I'm thinking."
With his eyes still fixed on the outdoor landscape, he sat stroking
Anne's hand abstractedly. Nothing broke the silence, except the faint
rattle of knives and forks from the dining-room.
"Mind, Anne, she made me do it," he suddenly exclaimed.
"Made you do what, papa?"
"And so, my dear, if I am not allowed to remedy it, and you feel
disappointed, you must think as lightly of it as you are able; and don't
blame me more than you can help. I'll alter it again if I can, be sure
of that; but I don't have a moment to myself, and at times it seems that
she's just my keeper."
Anne answered soothingly that all he did must be right, but had no time
to say more, for Mr. Coney, stealing in on tip-toe from the dining-room,
came to see after the patient. Anne had not the remotest idea what it
was that the doctor alluded to; but she had caught up one idea with
dread of heart--that the marriage had not increased his happiness.
Perhaps had marred it.
Maythorn Bank did not suit Mrs. Lewis. Ere she had been two weeks at it,
she found it insufferably dull; not to be endured at any price. There
was no fashion thereabout, and not much visiting; the neighbours were
mostly simple, unpretending people, quite different from the style of
company met with in garrison towns and pump-rooms. Moreover the few
people who might have visited Mrs. Lewis, did not seem to take to her,
or to remember that she was there. This did not imply discourtesy: Dr.
Lewis and his daughter had just come into the place, strangers, so to
say, and people could not practically recollect all at once that
Maythorn Bank was inhabited. Where was the use of dressing up in
peacock's plumes if nobody came to see her? The magnificent wardrobe,
laid in during her recent honeymoon, seemed as good as wasted.
"I can't stand this!" emphatically cried Mrs. Lewis one day to her
daughters. And Anne, chancing to enter the room unexpectedly at the
moment, heard her say it, and wondered what it meant.
That same afternoon, Dr. Lewis had another attack. Anne found him
sitting beside the pear-tree insensible, his head hanging over the arm
of the bench. Travelling had not brought this second attack on, that
was certain; for no man could be leading a more quiet, moping life than
he was. Save that he listened now and then to some book, read by Anne,
he had no amusement whatever, no excitement; he might have sat all day
long with his mouth closed, for all there was to open it for. Mrs.
Lewis's powers of fascination, that she had exercised so persistently
upon him as Mrs. Podd, seemed to have deserted her for good. She passed
her hours gaping, sleeping, complaining, hardly replying to a question
of his, if he by chance asked her one. Even the soft sweet voice that
had charmed the world mostly degenerated now into a croak or a scream.
Those very mild, not-say-boo-to-a-goose voices are sometimes only kept
for public life.
"I shall take you off to Worcester," cried Mrs. Lewis to him, when he
came out of his insensibility. "We will start as soon as breakfast's
over in the morning."
Dr. Lewis began to tremble. "I don't want to go to Worcester," said he.
"I want to stay here."
"But staying here is not good for you, my dear. You'll be better at Mrs.
Lake's. It is the remains of this paint that is making you ill. I can
smell it still quite strongly, and I decidedly object to stay in it."
"My dear, you can go; I shall not wish to prevent you. But, as to the
paint, I don't smell it at all now. You can all go. Anne will take care
of me."
"My dear Dr. Lewis, do you think I would leave you behind me? It _is_
the paint. And you shall see a doctor at Worcester."
He said he was a doctor himself, and did not need another; he once more
begged to be left at home in peace. All in vain: Mrs. Lewis announced
her decision to the household; and Sally, whose wits had been well-nigh
scared away by the doings and the bustle of the new inmates, was
gladdened by the news that they were about to take their departure.
"Pourtant si le ciel nous protège,
Peut-être encore le reverrai-je."
These words, the refrain of an old French song, were being sung by Anne
Lewis softly in the gladness of her heart, as she bent over the trunk
she was packing. To be going back to Worcester, where _he_ was, seemed
to her like going to paradise.
"What are you doing _that_ for?"
The emphatic question, spoken in evident surprise, came from her
stepmother. The chamber-door was open; Mrs. Lewis had chanced to look in
as she passed.
"What are you doing that for?" she stopped to ask. Anne ceased her song
at once and rose from her knees. She really did not know what it was
that had elicited the sharp query--unless it was the singing.
"You need not pack your own things. You are not going to Worcester. It
is intended that you shall remain here and take care of the house and of
Sally."
"Oh, but, Mrs. Lewis, I could not stay here alone," cried Anne, a
hundred thoughts rushing tumultuously into her mind. "It could not be."
"Not stay here alone! Why, what is to hinder it? Do you suppose you
would get run away with? Now, my dear, we will have no trouble, if you
please. You will stay at home like a good girl--therefore you may unpack
your box."
Anne went straight to her father, and found him with Herbert Tanerton.
He had walked over from Timberdale to inquire after the doctor's health.
"Could this be, papa?" she said. "That I am to be left alone here while
you stay at Worcester?"
"Don't talk nonsense, child," was the peevish answer. "My belief is that
you dream dreams, Anne, and then fancy them realities."
"But Mrs. Lewis tells me that I am not to go to Worcester--that I am to
stay at home," persisted Anne. And she said it before Mrs. Lewis: who
had come into the room then, and was shaking hands with the parson.
"I think, love, it will be so much better for dear Anne to remain here
and see to things," she said, in that sweet company-voice of hers.
"No," dissented the doctor, plucking up the courage to be firm. "If Anne
stays here, I shall stay. I'm sure I should be thankful if you'd let us
stay: we should have a bit of peace and quiet."
She did not make a fuss before the parson. Perhaps she saw that to hold
out might cause some unprofitable commotion. Treating Anne to a beaming
smile, she remarked that her dear papa's wish was of course law, and
bade her run and finish her packing.
And when they arrived the next day at Lake's, and Anne heard that Henry
Angerstyne was in truth still there and knew that she should soon be
in his presence, it did indeed seem to her that she had stepped into
paradise. She was alone when he entered. The others had sought their
respective chambers, leaving Anne to gather up their packages and
follow, and she had her bonnet untied and her arms full of things when
he came into the room. Paradise! she might have experienced some bliss
in her life, but none like unto this. Her veins were tingling, her
heart-blood leaping. How well he looked! how noble! how superior to
other men! As he caught her hand in his, and bent to whisper his low
words of greeting, she could scarcely contain within bounds the ecstasy
of her emotion.
"I am so glad you are back again, Anne! I could not believe the good
news when the letter came to Mrs. Lake this morning. You have been away
two weeks, and they have seemed like months."
"You did not come over: you said you should," faltered Anne.
"Ay. And I sprained my foot the day you left, and have had to nurse it.
It is not strong yet. Bad luck, was it not? Bristow has been worse, too.
Where are you going?"
"I must take these things up to papa and Mrs. Lewis. Please let me go."
But, before he would release her hand, he suddenly bent his head and
kissed her: once, twice.
"Pardon me, Anne, I could not help it; it is only a French greeting," he
whispered, as she escaped with her face rosy-red, and her heart beating
time to its own sweet music.
"What a stay Mr. Angerstyne is making!" exclaimed Fanny Podd, who had
run about to seek Miss Dinah, and found her making a new surplice for
Tom.
"Well, we are glad to have him," answered Miss Dinah, "and he has had a
sprained ankle. We know now what is detaining him in Worcestershire. It
seems that some old lady is lying ill at Malvern, and he can't get
away."
"Some old lady lying ill at Malvern!" retorted Fanny, who liked to take
Miss Dinah down when she could. "Why should that detain Mr. Angerstyne?
Who is the old lady?"
"She is a relation of his: his great-aunt, I think. And I believe she is
very fond of him, and won't let him go to any distance. All these visits
he makes to Malvern are to see her. She is very rich, and he will come
in for her money."
"I'm sure he's rich enough without it; he does not want more money,"
grumbled Fanny. "If the old lady would leave a little to those who need
it, she might do some good."
"She would have to be made of gold and diamonds if she left some to all
who need it," sighed Miss Dinah. "Mr. Angerstyne deserves to be rich, he
is so liberal with his money. Many a costly dainty he causes us to send
up to that poor sick Captain Bristow, letting him think it is all in the
regular fare."
"But I think it was fearfully sly of him never to tell us why he went so
much to Malvern--only you must always put in a good word for everybody,
Miss Dinah. I asked him one day what his attraction was, that he should
be perpetually running over there, and he gravely answered me that he
liked the Malvern air."
Just for a few days, Dr. Lewis seemed to get a little better. Mrs.
Lewis's fascinations had returned to her, and she in a degree kept him
alive. It might have been from goodness of heart, or it might have been
that she did not like to neglect him before people just yet, but she was
ever devising plans for his amusement--which of course included that of
herself and of her daughters. Mr. Angerstyne had not been more lavish of
money in coach hire than was Mrs. Lewis now. Carriages for the country
and flys for the town--that was the order of the day. Anne was rarely
invited to make one of the party: for her there never seemed room. What
of that?--when by staying at home she had the society of Mr. Angerstyne.
Whilst they were driving everywhere, or taking their pleasure in the
town, shopping and exhibiting their finery, of which they seemed to
display a new stock perpetually, Anne was left at liberty to enjoy her
dangerous happiness. Dangerous, if it should not come to anything: and
he had not spoken yet. They would sit together over their German, Anne
trying to beat it into him, and laughing with him at his mistakes. If
she went out to walk, she presently found herself overtaken by Mr.
Angerstyne: and they would linger in the mellow light of the soft autumn
days, or in the early twilight. Whatever might come of it, there could
be no question that for the time being she was living in the most
intense happiness. And about a fortnight of this went on without
interruption.
Then Dr. Lewis began to droop. One day when he was out he had another
of those attacks in the carriage. It was very slight, Mrs. Lewis said
when they got back again; he did not lose consciousness for more
than three or four minutes. But he continued to be so weak and ill
afterwards that a physician was called in--Dr. Malden. What he said
was known only to the patient and his wife, for nobody else was
admitted to the conference.
"I want to go home," the doctor said to Anne the next morning, speaking
in his usual querulous, faint tone, and as if his mind were half gone.
"I'm sure I did not smell any paint the last time; it must have been her
fancy. I want to go there to be quiet."
"Well, papa, why don't you say so?"
"But it's of no use saying so: she won't listen. I can't stand the
racket here, child, and the perpetual driving out: the wheels of the
carriages shake my head. And look at the expense! It frightens me."
Anne scarcely knew what to answer. She herself was powerless; and, so
far as she believed, her father was; utterly so. Powerless in the hands
of his new wife. Dr. Lewis glanced round the room as if to make sure
there were no eavesdroppers, and went on in a whisper.
"I'm terrified, Anne. I am being ruined. All my ready-money's gone; she
has had it all; she made me draw it out of the bank. And there, in that
drawer, are two rolls of bills; she brought them to me yesterday, and
there's nothing to pay them with."
Anne's heart fluttered. Was he only fancying these things in his
decaying mind? Or, were they true?
"September has now come in, papa, and your quarter's dividends will soon
be due, you know. Do not worry yourself."
"They have been forestalled," he whispered. "She owed a lot of things
before her marriage, and the people would have sued me had I not paid
them. I wish we were back in France, child! I wish we had never left
it!" And, but for one thing, Anne would have wished it, too.
* * * * *
One afternoon, when it was getting late, Anne went into High Street to
buy some ribbon for her hair. Mrs. Lewis and her party had gone over
to Croome, some one having given her an order to see the gardens
there. Lake's house was as busy as it could be, some fresh inmates of
consequence being expected that evening; Anne had been helping Miss
Dinah, and it was only at the last minute she could run out. In coming
back, the ribbon bought, close to the college gates she heard steps
behind her, and found her arm touched. It was by Mr. Angerstyne. For
the past two days--nearly three--he had been absent at Malvern. The
sight of him was as if the sun had shone.
"Oh!--is it you?--are you back again?" she cried, with as much quiet
indifference as she could put on.
"I have just arrived. My aunt is better. And how are you, Anne?"
"Very well, thank you."
"Need you go in yet? Let us take a short stroll. The afternoon is
delightful."
He called it afternoon, but it was getting on fast for evening: and he
turned in at the college gates as he spoke. So they wound round St.
Michael's Churchyard and passed on to the Dark Alley, and so down the
long flight of steps that leads from it, and on to the banks of the
Severn.
"How are you all going on at Lake's?" he asked presently, breaking the
silence.
"Just as usual. To-day is a grand field-day," Anne added gaily: "at
least, this evening is to be one, and we are not to dine until seven
o'clock."
"Seven? So much the better. But why?"
"Some people of importance are coming----"
Mr. Angerstyne's laugh interrupted her. She laughed also.
"They are Miss Dinah's words: 'people of importance.' They will arrive
late, so the dinner-hour is put off."
"Take care, Anne!"
A horse, towing a barge, was overtaking them. Mr. Angerstyne drew Anne
out of the way, and the dinner and the new guests were forgotten.
It was almost dusk when they returned. The figures on the college tower
were darkened, as they came through the large boat-house gateway: the
old elm-trees, filled with their cawing rooks, looked weird in the dim
twilight. Mr. Angerstyne did not turn to the Dark Alley again, but went
straight up to the Green. He was talking of his estate in Essex. It was
a topic often chosen by him; and Anne seemed to know the place quite
well by this time.
"You would like the little stream that runs through the grounds," he was
observing. "It is not, of course, like the grand river we have just
left, but it is pleasant to wander by, for it winds in and out in the
most picturesque manner possible, and the banks are overshadowed by
trees. Yes, Anne, you would like that."
"Are you going through the cloisters?--is it not too late?" she
interrupted, quite at a loss for something to say; not caring to answer
that she _should_ like to wander by the stream.
For he was crossing towards the little south cloister door: though
onwards through the Green would have been their more direct road.
"Too late? No. Why should it be? You are not afraid of ghosts, are you?"
Anne laughed. But, lest she should be afraid of ghosts, he put her hand
within his arm as they passed through the dark narrow passage beyond the
postern; and so they marched arm-in-arm through the cloisters.
"To sit by that winding stream on a summer's day listening to its
murmurs, to the singing of the birds, the sweet sighing of the trees; or
holding low converse with a cherished companion--yes, Anne, you would
like that. It would just suit you, for you are of a silent and dreamy
nature."