MOTHER CHRISTMAS'S STORY.
Annie Brunel ran into Mrs. Christmas's room the moment Count Schoenstein
had left, and, sitting down by the bedside, took the old woman's lean
hand in hers.
"Lady Jane, I have been looking over the advertisements in the _Times_,
and do you know what I have found?"
"No."
"One offering me a marvellous lot of money, and a fine house in the
country, with nice fresh air and constant attendance for you. Horses,
carriages, opera-boxes, months at the seaside--everything complete.
There!"
"Why don't you take it, sweetheart?" said the old woman, with a faint
smile.
"Because--I don't say that I shan't take it--there is a condition
attached, and such a condition! Not to puzzle you, mother, any more,
Count Schoenstein wants me to be his wife. Now!"
"Are you serious, Annie?" said Mrs. Christmas, her aged eyes full of
astonishment.
"I can't say. I don't think the Count was. You know he is not a witty
man, mother, and it _might_ be a joke. But if it was a joke, he acted
the part admirably--he pulled two leaves out of my photographic album,
and nibbled a hole in the table-cover with his nail. He sate _so_, Lady
Jane, and said, in a deep bass voice, 'Miss Brunel, I have 30,000*l.* a
year; I am old; I am affectionate; and will you marry me?' Anything
more romantic you could not imagine: and the sighs he heaved, and the
anxiety of his face, would have been admirable, had he been dressed as
'Orlando,' and playing to my 'Rosalind.' '_For these two hours,
Rosalind, I will leave thee._' '_Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee
two hours!_'"
"Sweetheart, have you grown mad? What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say. Must I describe the whole scene to you?--my lover's
fearful diffidence, my gentle silence, his growing confidence, my wonder
and bewilderment, finally, his half-concealed joy, and my hasty rush to
you, Lady Jane, to tell you the news?"
"And a pretty return you are making for any man's confidence and
affection, to go on in that way. What did you say to him?"
"Nothing."
"And what do you mean to say?"
"Nothing. What can I say, Lady Jane? I am sure he must have been
joking; and, if not, he ought to have been. At the same time, I don't
laugh at the Count himself, mother, but at his position a few minutes
ago."
"And as you laugh at that, you laugh at the notion of becoming his
wife."
The smile died away from the girl's face, and for some time she sate and
gazed wistfully before her. Then she said--
"You ought to be able to say what I ought to do, mother. I did not say
no, I did not say yes; I was too afraid to say either. And now, if we
are to talk seriously about it, I am quite as much afraid. Tell me what
to do, Lady Jane."
"Is it so entirely a matter of indifference that you can accept my
advice?"
"It is quite a matter of indifference," said the girl, calmly.
"Do you love him, Annie?" said the old woman.
For one brief second the girl's thoughts flashed to the man whom she did
love; but they returned with only a vague impression of pain and doubt.
She had not had time to sit down and reason out her course of duty. She
could only judge as yet by the feelings awakened by the Count's
proposal, and the pictures which it exhibited to her mind.
"Do I love him, mother?" she said, in a low voice. "I like him very
well, and I am sure he is very fond of me; I am quite sure of that."
"And what do you say yourself about it?"
"What can I say? If I marry him," she said, coldly, "it will give him
pleasure, and I know he will be kind to me and to you. It is his
wish--not mine. We should not be asking or receiving a favour, mother.
I suppose he loves me as well as he loves any one; and I suppose I can
make as good a wife as any one else."
There was in this speech the faint indication of a bitterness having its
root in a far deeper bitterness, which had suggested the whole tone of
this interview. When Mrs. Christmas thought the girl was laughing
cruelly at a man who had paid her the highest compliment in his power,
when she saw this girl exhibiting an exaggerated heartlessness in
talking of the proposed marriage as a marriage of convenience, she did
not know that this indifference and heartlessness were but the
expression of a deep, and hopeless, and despairing love.
"Poverty is not a nice thing, mother; and until I should have
established myself as a teacher of music, we should have to be almost
beggars. The Count offers us a pleasant life; and I dare say I can make
his dull house a little more cheerful to him. It is a fair bargain. He
did not ask me if I loved him: probably he did not see the necessity any
more than I do. What he proposes will be a comfortable arrangement for
all of us."
Mrs. Christmas looked at the calm, beautiful, sad face, and said
nothing.
"I think the Count is an honourable, well-meaning man," continued the
girl, in the same cold tone. "If he sometimes makes himself ridiculous,
so do most of us; and doubtless he is open to improvement. I think he is
remarkably good-natured and generous, and I am sure he will be kind to
us."
Consider Mrs. Christmas's position. An old woman, almost bedridden,
ailing, and requiring careful and delicate attention,--one who has seen
much of the folly of love and much of the power of money,--is asked for
her advice by a young girl who is either on the one hand to marry a
wealthy good-natured man, willing to give both a comfortable home, or,
on the other hand, to go out alone into the world of London, unprotected
and friendless, to earn bread for two people. Even admitting that no
grain of selfishness should colour or shape her advice, what was she
likely to say?
Ninety-nine women out of a hundred, under such circumstances, would say:
"My dear, be sensible, and accept the offer of a worthy and honourable
gentleman, instead of exposing yourself to the wretchedness and
humiliation of poverty. Romance won't keep you from starving; and
besides, in your case, there is no romantic affection to compel you to
choose between love and money. People who have come to my time of life
know the advantages of securing a happy home and kind friends."
This, too, is probably what Mrs. Christmas would have said--if she had
not been born and bred an actress. This is what she did say:--
"My dear" (with a kindly smile on the wan face), "suppose you and I are
going forward to the footlights, and I take your hand in mine, and look
into your face, and say, 'Listen to the sad story of your mother's
life?'"
"Well, Lady Jane?"
"You are supposed to be interested in it, and take its moral deeply to
heart. Well, I'm going to tell you a story, sweetheart, although you
may not see any moral in it--it's a story your mother knew."
"If she were here now!" the girl murmured, inadvertently.
"When I was three years younger than you, I was first chambermaid in the
Theatre Royal, Bristol. Half the pit were my sweethearts; and I got
heaps of letters, of the kind that you know, Annie--some of them
impudent, some of them very loving and respectful. Sometimes it was,
'My dear Miss, will you take a glass of wine with me at such and such a
place, on such and such a night?' and sometimes it was, 'I dare not seek
an introduction, lest I read my fate in your refusal. I can only look
at you from afar off, and be miserable.' Poor boys! they were all very
kind to me, and used to take such heaps of tickets for my benefits, for
in Bristol, you know, the first chambermaid had a benefit like her
betters."
"There were none better than you in the theatre, I'm sure, mother," said
Annie.
"Don't interrupt the story, my dear; for we are at the footlights, and
the gallery is supposed to be anxious to hear it. I declare I have
always loved the top gallery. There you find critics who are attentive,
watchful, who are ready to applaud when they're pleased, and to hiss
when they're not. Well, there was one poor lad, out of all my admirers,
got to be acquainted with our little household, and he and I
became--friends. He was a wood-engraver, or something like that, only a
little older than myself--long fair hair, a boyish face, gentleness like
a girl about him; and nothing would do but that I should engage to be
his wife, and he was to be a great artist and do wonders for my sake."
The hard look on the young girl's face had died away now, and there was
a dreaminess in her eyes.
"I did promise; and for about two years we were a couple of the maddest
young fools in the world--I begging him to make haste, and get money,
and marry me--he full of audacious schemes, and as cheerful as a lark in
the certainty of marrying me. He tried painting pictures; then he began
scene-painting, and succeeded so well that he at last got an engagement
in a London theatre, and nearly broke his heart when he went away there
to make money for both of us."
The old woman heaved a gentle sigh.
"Whenever I'm very sad, all the wretchedness of that first parting of my
life comes over me, and I see the wet streets of Bristol, and the
shining lamps, and his piteous face, though he tried to be very brave
over it, and cheer me up. I felt like a stone, and didn't know what was
going on; I only wished that I could get away into a corner and cry
myself dead. Very well, he went, and I remained in Bristol. I needn't
tell you how it came about--how I was a little tired of waiting, and we
had a quarrel, and, in short, I married a gentleman who had been very
kind and attentive to me. He was over thirty, and had plenty of money,
for he was a merchant in Bristol, and his father was an old man who had
made a fine big fortune in Jamaica. He was very kind to me, in his way,
and for a year or two we lived very well together; but I knew that he
thought twenty times of his business for once he thought of me. And
what was I thinking of? Ah, Miss Annie, don't consider me very wicked
if I tell you, that from the hour in which I was married there never
passed a single day in which I did not think of the _other one_."
"Poor mother!" said the girl.
"Every day; and I used to go down on my knees and pray for him, that so
I might be sure my interest in him was harmless. We came to London,
too; and every time I drove along the streets--I sate in ray own
carriage, then, my dear--I used to wonder if I should see _him_. I went
to the theatre in which he was scene-painter, thinking I might catch a
glimpse of him from one of the boxes, passing through the wings; but I
never did. I knew his house, however, and sometimes I passed it; but I
never had the courage to look at the windows, for fear he should be
there. It was very wicked, very wicked, Annie."
"Was your husband kind to you?"
"In a distant sort of way that tormented me. He seemed always to
consider me an actress, and a baby; and he invariably went out into
society alone, lest I should compromise him, I suppose. I think I grew
mad altogether; for one day, I left his house resolved never to go back
again----"
"And you said he was kind to you!" repeated the girl, with a slight
accent of reproach.
"I suppose I was mad, Annie; at any rate I felt myself driven to it, and
couldn't help myself. I went straight to the street in which _he_
lived, and walked up and down, expecting to meet him. He did not come.
I took lodgings in a coffeehouse. Next day I went back to that street;
even then I did not see him. On the third afternoon, I saw him come
down the steps from his house, and I all at once felt sick and cold.
How different he looked now!--firm, and resolute, and manly, but still
with the old gentleness about the eyes. He turned very pale when he saw
me, and was about to pass on. Then he saw that my eyes followed him, and
perhaps they told him something, for he turned and came up to me, and
held out his hand, without saying a word."
There were tears in the old woman's eyes now.
"'You forgive me?' I said, and he said 'Yes' so eagerly that I looked up
again. I took his arm, and we walked on, in the old fashion, and I
forgot everything but the old, old days, and I wished I could have died
just then. It seemed as if all the hard intervening years had been
swept out, and we were still down in Bristol, and still looking forward
to a long life together. I think we were both out of our senses for
several minutes; and I shall never forget the light there was on his
face and in his eyes. Then he began to question me, and all at once he
turned to me, with a scared look, and said--
"'What have you done?'
"It was past undoing then. I knew he loved me at that moment as much as
ever, by the terrible state he got into. He implored me to go back to
my husband. I told him it was too late. I had already been away two
days from home.
"'If I could only have seen you on the day you left your husband's
house," he said, 'this would never have happened. I should have made
you go back.'
"Then I began to feel a kind of fear, and I said--
"'What am I to do, Charlie? What are you going to do with me?'
"'I?' he said. 'Do you ask me what I must do? Would you have me leave
my wife and children----?'
"I did not know he was married, you see, Miss Annie. Oh, the shame that
came over me when I heard these words! The moment before I scarcely
knew that I walked at all, so deliriously full of joy I was; _then_ I
wished the ground would open beneath my feet. He offered to go to my
husband and intercede for me; but I would have drowned myself rather
than go back. I was the wretchedest woman in the whole world. And I
could see that he loved me as much as ever, though he never would say
so. That is all of my story that need concern you; but shall I tell you
the rest, Miss Annie?"
"Yes, Lady Jane."
"Your mother was then the most popular actress in London; she could do
anything she liked in the theatre; and it was for that theatre that _he_
chiefly worked then, though he became a great artist afterwards. Well,
he took me back to the coffeehouse, and left me then; and then he went
and persuaded your mother to take an interest in me, and through her
means I got an engagement in the same theatre. From the moment I was
settled there, he treated me almost like a stranger. He took off his
hat to me in the street, and passed on without speaking. If I met him
in the theatre, he would say 'Good evening' as he would to the other
ladies. He used to send me little presents, and he never forgot my
birthday; but they were always sent anonymously, and if I saw him the
next day he seemed more distant than ever, as if to keep me away. Oh,
many and many a time have I been on the point of throwing myself at his
feet, and clasping his knees, and thanking him with my whole heart for
his goodness to me. I used to hate his wife, whom I had never seen,
until one Sunday morning I saw her and him going to church, one little
girl at his hand, another at hers--and the sweet face she had turned my
heart towards her. Would you believe it, he bowed to me as kindly and
respectfully as ever, and I think he would have stopped and spoken to me
_then_, only I hurried away out of his sight."
"And you never went back?" said the girl, softly.
"How could I go back, clothed with shame, and subject myself to his
suspicion? Besides, he was the last man to have taken me back. Once he
felt sure I had left his house wilfully, I am certain he did not trouble
himself much about me--as why should he?--why should he?"
"It is a very sad story, Lady Jane."
"And it has a moral."
"But not for me. You are afraid I should marry Count Schoenstein out of
pique, and so be wretched? But there is no other person whom I could
marry."
"Come closer to me, sweetheart. There, bend your head down, and
whisper. _Is there no other person whom you love?_"
The girl's head was so close down to the pillow that the blush on her
face was unseen as she said, in a scarcely audible voice--
"_There is, mother._"
"I thought so, my poor girl. And he loves you, does he not?"
"He does, Lady Jane. That is the misery of it."
"You think he is not rich enough? He has his way to make? Or perhaps
his friends?"
"You are speaking of----?"
"Mr. Anerley."
"But all your conjectures are wrong, mother--all quite wrong. Indeed, I
cannot explain it to you. I only know, mother, that I am very unhappy."
"And you mean to marry Count Schoenstein to revenge yourself----?"
"I did not say I would marry Count Schoenstein," said the girl,
fretfully, "and I have nothing to revenge. I am very sorry, Lady Jane,
to think of the sad troubles you have had, and you are very good to warn
me; but I have not quarrelled with anybody, and I am not asked to wait
in order to marry anybody, and----"
Here she raised herself up, and the old bitter hard look came to the sad
and gentle face.
"----And if I should marry Count Schoenstein, I shall disappoint no one,
and break no promise. Before I marry Count Schoenstein, he shall know
what he may expect from me. I can give him my esteem, and confidence,
and a certain amount of liking; and many people have lived comfortably
on less. And you, mother, should be the last to say anything against an
arrangement which would give you comfort, and relieve your mind from
anxiety----"
"And you have lived so long with me," said old Mother Christmas,
reproachfully, "and you don't know yet that sooner than let my comfort
bring you to harm, Annie, or tempt you to a false step, I would twenty
times rather beg my bread?"
"Forgive me, mother!" said the girl, impetuously, "but I don't know what
I've been saying. Everything seems wrong, and cruel, and if I forget
that you have been a mother to me, it is--it is because--I am--so
miserable that----"
And here the two women had a hearty cry together, which smoothed down
their troubles for the present, and drew them closer to each other.