MISS BRUNEL AT HOME.
Will Anerley did not forget his promise to visit Annie Brunel, but he
seemed in no hurry to fulfil it. Had he been a young man about town,
the temptation of having something special to say at his club or at
dancing parties about the new actress, of whom everybody was talking,
would have proved too much for him. When a man, however, spends most of
his dancing years abroad, and gets a good deal knocked about the world,
he ceases to long for the petty celebrity of social gossip, and has no
great desire to become a temporary hero among a lot of well-meaning but
not very profound people, who are sure to mispronounce his name and take
him for somebody else.
It happened one morning, however, that he had been invited to breakfast
with a noble lord, then in the government, who was desirous of getting
some special information wherewith to confound an opposition member who
had given notice of his intention to ask a particularly ugly question in
the House. His lordship thanked Will heartily for his kindness, hoped he
might be able to return the service in some slight way; hinted something
about a day's fishing if Anerley happened to be in the neighbourhood of
a place of which he had never heard before; and then proceeded to get in
order the catapult with which he hoped that evening to demolish the
indiscreet member.
Having nothing particular to do just then, Will thought he would take a
stroll in Kensington Gardens, and proceeded to take a short cut in that
direction. Passing a little _cul-de-sac_ of a street, which had not
above half-a-dozen houses on each side, it struck him that the name on
the wall was familiar to him. He then remembered that this was the
place in which Annie Brunel lived; and thinking the occasion very
opportune, he turned the corner and walked down to the proper house.
They were very pretty little houses, with white pillars and porticoes
draped with Virginian creepers, and with a good many trees around them.
Miss Brunel had been fortunate enough to get the offer of one of these
houses, furnished, at a moderate rent, and she and Mrs. Christmas had
decided at once to accept it. It was a quiet little place, pleasantly
situated, with a tolerably large garden behind.
Will passed inside the gate, and was about to ascend the steps, when the
door above was opened, and a young lady came out of the house. Somehow
he fancied he had seen her before--where, he knew not. She was rather
an attractive-looking little person, with a pert, slightly up-turned
nose, big and rather wicked blue eyes, short, loose brown curls, and a
decided look of violet-powder about her forehead and neck. The saucy
bright eyes looked at Will for a moment with a bold familiar glance, and
there was a shadow of a smile on her pretty lips.
Of course he took off his hat, and muttered something like "Good
morning."
"Good morning," she said, holding out her hand, and looking at him with
those dangerous blue eyes. "Don't you remember me?"
The moment he heard the voice, he recognised it. It was the thrilling
voice of "Perseus," of "Good-for-nothing" Nan, of "Peggy Green," of "The
Little Rebel," of "Mrs. White," of "Fatima," of "Rose Dufard"--of Nelly
Featherstone. Had her eyelashes been caked with cosmetique, her lips
reddened with salve, and the violet-powder of her face tempered with
glycerine and rouge, he would have recognised her at once; but there was
a good deal of difference between Miss Featherstone in morning costume,
with cold daylight on her face, and Miss Featherstone in the dashing and
glittering garments of "Conrad the Corsair," with the glare of the
footlights on her forced complexion and brilliant ornaments. For the
rest, he had only heard of her as a good and well-meaning little girl,
to whom Nature had given a deadly pair of eyes and a warm temperament.
He was at first rather taken aback by her proffered friendship; but a
few commonplaces relieved him from the predicament. She gave him a
parting smile full of sweetness; and he went up to the door, and entered
the house, leaving his card with the servant.
Presently Mrs. Christmas entered the drawing-room, and said that Miss
Brunel would be glad to see him out in the garden, where she was then
engaged.
"You seem to have been ill, Mrs. Christmas," said Will. "I hope that
wild adventure upon Hounslow Heath had nothing to do with it."
"Indeed, I'm afraid it had, Mr. Anerley," said the little woman, whose
bright eyes were unnaturally bright, her face also being unusually pale.
"I have never been well since; but old folks like me mustn't complain,
you know, Mr. Anerley. We mustn't complain if we get ill at times."
"I'm sorry you've been ill. You ought to go and live in the warm fresh
air of the country, when the summer's fully in."
"I've never left Miss Annie for a day since her mother died, Mr.
Anerley; and I'm not going to forsake her now. It would be hard on both
of us."
"But she might go with you?"
"That's easy saying."
They went out and crossed a little bit of lawn, which had a few vases
upon it, and here and there a plot of spring annuals. A short distance
down the side-path they came to a small summer-house, which was arched
over with a piece of light framework; and in front of this framework
stood Annie Brunel, on a chair, tying up with loops of string the
bright-leaved creepers, which were yet in their erratic youth. Her
hands were busy over her head, and her face was upturned, showing the
fine outline of her neck and figure--a shapeliness of bust which was not
lessened by a tight-fitting and pretty morning dress, which Will thought
the most graceful thing he had ever seen, particularly as it caught
streaks of sunlight now and again through the diamond spaces above.
When he went up to her and shook hands with her, he fancied he observed
a slight tinge of embarrassment in her face; but that quickly wore off,
and she returned to her usual bright happiness of manner, continuing her
work by fits and snatches. And every position into which her beautiful
figure fell seemed more admirable than its predecessor.
"I wonder," thought Will, "if any man ever lifted her down from the
saddle; and did he immediately die of joy?"
Perhaps he was sorry at the moment that one's descent from a chair is so
obviously an easy feat.
"I'm doing this out of pure mischief," she said, "and earning for myself
such heaps of muttered scolding and ill will. The gardener comes to us
twice a week; and he is quite savage if I have meddled with anything in
the meantime. I can't pacify him. I have tried every means; but he is
too obdurate. Miss Featherstone says I ought to hire a young gardener,
and I might have the garden done any way I wished."
"Sulky servants are always the best servants," said Will, rather
absently; for the clear, dark Italian face, and the bright smile, and
the white teeth, oppressed him with a vague, delicious melancholy. "But
a gardener, whether he is good or bad, is always sulky. My mother is
afraid to touch one of the plants in the greenhouse until it is half
withered; and when some people come, and she carries off a lot of the
plants for the hall and dinner-table, she trembles to meet the old man
next morning. I suppose gardeners get so fond of their flowers as to be
jealous, and jealousy is always cross. By-the-bye, wasn't that Miss
Featherstone who left as I came in?"
"Yes."
"I scarcely knew her. In fact, I only saw her once before off the
stage--at that supper; and yet she was kind enough to bid me good
morning."
"Then she must have thought you were a newspaper gentleman," said Mrs.
Christmas, with a good-natured little laugh. "She is very partial to
them. And that one she knows just now teaches her such dreadful things,
and the heedless girl repeats them wherever she goes, to make people
laugh. What was it she said this morning, Miss Annie?--that on St.
Patrick's Day there were so many wicked things done in Ireland, that the
recording angel had to take to shorthand."
"Well, Lady Jane," said Miss Brunel, "you need not have repeated what
she said; and it's very wrong of you to say anything against poor Nelly,
who is a warm-hearted, mad little creature."
"She's not so simple as she looks," said Mrs. Christmas, nodding her
head sagaciously. "I am an old woman, and I know. And the way she uses
that poor young gentleman--him in the government office, who was at the
supper, you know, Mr. Anerley--is downright shameful. She told me this
morning that he made her swear on an open prayer-book never to put
bismuth on her arms or neck again; I suppose because he expects to marry
her, and doesn't want to have her all shrivelled up, and bismuth is very
bad, you know, for that; and that newspaper gentleman whom she knows
said, whenever she wanted to quarrel with the poor young man, and make
him believe that she had perjured herself all for the love of shiny
white arms, she ought to----!"
"Mr. Anerley," said the young girl, looking down from her work, "will
you silence that talkative child by giving it a piece of sugar? What
must you think of us actresses if she goes on like that?"
"_She_--bah!" said the old woman, in a melodramatic whisper, with a nod
towards Miss Brunel. "She knows no more of Nelly Featherstone and the
rest of 'em than an infant does. They don't talk to her like they do to
an old woman like me."
"Now I have finished," said the young lady, jumping lightly down from
the chair (Will did not even get the chance of taking her hand), "and
we'll go inside, if you please."
"Shall I bring in the chair?" asked Will.
"Oh, no! We leave the old thing out here: it is for no other use."
Somehow it seemed to be quite a valuable chair in his eyes: he would
have given a good deal to be its owner just then.
As they got indoors, Mrs. Christmas went upstairs, and Will followed
Annie Brunel into the drawing-room, which was rather prettily furnished,
and had a good deal of loose music scattered about the tables and piano.
He had been in finer drawing-rooms, with grander ladies; and yet he had
never before felt so rough and uncultivated. He wished he had looked
particularly at his hair and moustache before corning out, and hoped
they were not very matted, and loose, and reckless--which they certainly
were. Indeed, he looked like some stalwart and bronzed seaman who had
just come off a long voyage, and who seemed to regard with a sort of
wonder the little daintinesses of land-life.
"I thought you had quite run away with my sis----, with that young lady,
the other evening when she went to see you," he said.
"You would have been sorry for that," she replied, with a quiet smile.
Will was not at all so pleased with the gentle motherly tone in which
she uttered these words as he ought to have been. She seemed to take it
for granted that his love-secret was known to her; he would have
preferred--without any particular reason--its not being known.
"What a gentle, loveable girl she is!" continued the young actress. "I
never knew any one who so thoroughly won me over in a few minutes. She
was so sweet, and quiet, and frank; one could tell by her face
everything she thought. She must be very sensitive and affectionate; I
hope so tender a creature will never have to suffer much. And you--you
must be very proud of her."
"We all are."
Miss Brunel widened her eyes slightly, but said nothing.
"By the way," said Will, with an evident effort, "I gathered together a
number of Suabian peasant-songs when I was out there, which I should
like to hear you sing. I know you will like them, they are so tender
and simple. Dove has tried one or two of them, but her voice is
scarcely low and full enough for them----"
"Dove is your _sister's_ name, is it not?"
"Yes."
"And how do you know I can sing at all?" she asked, with a smile.
"As well ask a star if it has light," said he, warmly.
"You have lived too long in the East," she retorted, gently.
When Mrs. Christmas came into the room at that moment, there was a
slight constraint visible upon both the young people. Will felt that he
had gone a little too far; while Annie Brunel seemed to think that she
had rather rudely warned him off such dangerous ground. The danger was
not in the words, but in his tone.
Mrs. Christmas had just received an East London local paper, in which
some youthful poet had poured forth his rhapsodies over Annie Brunel and
her 'Juliet.' There was nothing remarkable in the verses, except that
the author hoped to meet Miss Brunel in heaven. This was natural
enough. The almost inevitable climax of a commonplace poem is heaven,
simply because heaven is the only idealism of commonplace minds. It is
almost a matter of necessity, therefore, that hymns should end with
"above," or "Eden," or "Paradise;" and that magazine poets should lay
down their pen with a sigh of relief when they have left their readers
somewhere among the fixed stars.
"It is kind of him to suppose that an actress may get to heaven at all,"
said Annie Brunel, when Mrs. Christmas had read the verses.
Once or twice before Will had remarked this tendency towards bitterness
of feeling in the young girl's contemplation of the non-professional
world. He could not divine its cause. He was vexed to see it; and now
he said, boldly:
"You ought not to speak like that, Miss Brunel. You wrong both yourself
and those of whom you speak. You really have imbibed--I don't know
how--a singular prejudice against people out of your own profession."
"Don't they refuse in France to bury actors in consecrated ground?"
"If they did, the freaks of a clergy should never be blamed upon the
people of any country. I suppose the priests, through the use of the
confessional, were so dismayed about the prospects of their charge in
the next world, that they thought this distinction the only piece of
worldly consolation they could give them. But indeed, Miss Brunel, you
must abandon that touch of Bohemianism which you unconsciously allow to
escape you sometimes, and which is unfair to----"
"I won't have you argue for these people," she said, with a smile. "I
was glad you came here this morning, for I want to win you over to us.
Didn't I say, Lady Jane, when I first met him, that he was so unlike the
other--what shall I call them?--outsiders? Well, perhaps it is foolish
of me to talk about these people, for I know nothing whatever of them;
but I have been educated to consider them as so much raw material to be
deluded and impressed by stage effect, and I shall never be able to
regard them as anything else than strangers. Haven't you seen the
little girl in pink cotton and spangles who stands by while her father
is performing tricks before a lot of village people? Haven't you seen
her watch all the faces round, calculating the effect of the
performance, and wondering how much it will produce in halfpence? No,
you needn't laugh: that is precisely my attitude and feeling towards the
public."
"You may tell that to one who has never seen you on the stage," said
Will. "I _know_ that you have no more thought of calculating the effect
of what you are doing than the music of a violin has."
"That is because I am then a performer myself, and have to attend to my
business. When I stand in one of the entrances, and hear the buzz of
the theatre, I say to myself, 'My big children up there in the boxes,
you have paid so much to be amused, and you don't care much for me; but
in a few minutes I'll have you all as quiet as mice, and in a few
minutes more I'll have the prettiest and best among you crying.'"
"My poor Dove's eyes were tremulous all the evening after seeing you,"
he said.
"I like to hear you speak kindly of her," she replied, looking him
straight in the face with her clear and frank eyes. "She will need all
the tenderness that friends can give her to make her life a happy one."
Will felt a dull sense of pain at his heart (why, he knew not) on
hearing these true and touching words: somehow he fancied there was a
sympathy almost prophetic in them.
"Come," she said, briskly, as she rose and went to the piano, "I am
going to put you to the test. I make all my new friends submit to it;
and according as they pass through it I regard them afterwards. I am
going to play three funeral marches--Handel's, Beethoven's, and
Mendelssohn's. When the person experimented on prefers a certain one of
them, I consider her--I have not tried the experiment on a gentleman as
yet--merely emotional and commonplace; therefore I don't care much for
her. If she likes a certain other one, I think she is rather more
intellectual, with some dramatic sensitiveness; and then I like her a
good deal better. When she likes the third, then I think she must have
the divinest sympathies, and I am ready to fall in love with her."
She had sat down to the piano.
"But the peril of failure is too great; I dare not risk it," said Will.
"It is as hard a trial as the three caskets in the 'Merchant of Venice;'
only, if the prize were to be the same, the chance----"
He had spoken quite thoughtlessly; but he saw in a moment, by the pain
and confusion of the young actress, what a blunder he had made.
"Pray don't mind what I said, Miss Brunel," he urged. "I was talking to
you without thinking, as I should have talked to Dove. I will submit to
the three funeral marches, if you like----"
"I will spare you," she said, good-naturedly. "If you had some of your
Suabian songs here just now, I should sing them to you. But really it
seems a pity to use up such fine weather indoors; are you particularly
engaged to-day?"
"I have no engagement if I can be of service to you."
"Mr. Anerley, I am neither a bulbul nor a gazelle. Shall I be
trespassing on your time if I ask you to take a walk with me?"
"No."
"Lady Jane--Mrs. Christmas, I mean--and I take a stroll under the trees
in Kensington Gardens every forenoon when I have no rehearsal."
"And I," said Will, "was on my way to the same place, for the same
purpose, when I happened to see the name of the street, and thought I
might venture to trespass on your patience."
So she went and dressed; and then together they passed out into the open
air and the sunlight.
Will Anerley left that house a very different man from him who had
entered it an hour and a half before. Nor was he conscious of the
change.