ANOTHER BLUNDER.
The old year died out; the new one came in--not attended with any very
bright auspices for the persons concerned in this story. John Hubbard
was, perhaps, the only one of them who was pleased with present events,
and hopeful for the future. During many a secret conclave with his
good-natured, pretty, limp, and lying little wife, he speculated on what
shape his governess's gratitude would ultimately assume.
Mr. Anerley had not succeeded in getting any employment. Several times
he was offered certain situations, and was on the point of accepting,
when his son peremptorily forbade any such notion.
"If you can get proper employment, and proper remuneration," said Will,
"well and good; if not, the pound or two you would get would not
compensate for the trouble and ignominy of such a position."
Will's voice in the matter was powerful, for he was supporting the
household with such exertions as he was yet permitted to make. The old
man did not think of trouble or ignominy. He thought only of Dove, and
the numerous little luxuries to which she was accustomed. Nor dared he
speak of this, except to his wife; for both saw the perpetual endeavours
that Will was making for all of them. Sometimes the old man distrusted
the audacious cheerfulness with which Will insisted on his mother and
Dove having this or that particular luxury; and once he made a discovery
that led him to think retrospectively of many things.
Down in St. Mary-Kirby there was no home entertainment which afforded
Dove so much pleasure as having red mullet and champagne for supper; and
the disgraceful little epicure picked so daintily her tiny morsel of
fish, and sipped so quaintly, with coquettish eyes thrown at her father,
her glass of wine, that to the other people the feast was much more
aesthetic than sensuous.
"Mother," said Will, one evening, when he came home (but his words were
directed to Dove), "we haven't had red mullet for supper for a long
time. I've brought home some; and I've brought home a small case of
champagne for the especial use of people who behave themselves."
"Oh, Will!" said the mother, "what extravagance!"
"The boy's mad!" said the father.
"Do you hear them, Dove? Now they have misconducted themselves, you and
I shall have all the champagne to ourselves."
What a merry little party it was, that evening! The landlord of the
house lent them the proper wineglasses; Dove went and put on part of the
blue pearl head-dress the Count had given her, to make-believe she had
been at the theatre; and when they sate down at the bright white cloth,
with everything on the table as brilliant and clean as fingers could
make it, it was quite like old times.
"Now, Will," said Mr. Anerley, "let's see what you've brought. Mind
you, my taste isn't dulled by want of exercise."
"I didn't consider your taste a bit, sir. I got the wine for Dove, and
it is as sweet as----"
"Herself! These young people are too bashful to pay compliments
nowadays. Ah, Dove, don't these bits of blue paper hold wonders within
them--the treasures of the deep--the only fish worth calling a fish--and
every one of them with a diamond ring in its mouth? Here, Will, give me
your ring, that I may see how it looks on the nose of this famous fellow
which I mean to give to Dove."
The young man darted a hasty deprecating look towards his father, and
the blood rushed over his face. The father caught that swift look, and
glanced at the finger on which Will generally wore this ring--one he had
brought from Turkey. There was no ring there; it _had_ been there that
morning.
Mr. Anerley did not enjoy the supper. Sometimes the fish seemed to
stick in his throat; and the wine had a bitter flavour.
But he did not spoil the enjoyment of the others; and Dove's delight at
recalling one of the old bygone evenings was immense. She persisted in
making-believe that they had been to the theatre, and criticized the
actors gravely and severely. She pecked at her little piece of fish
like a thrush at a ripe white cherry; and she wore on her pretty, small,
blue-veined wrist a wonderful bracelet that Will had brought her from
abroad.
"Shall I kiss the goblet for you, Sir Knight?" she said, taking a little
sip out of Will's glass.
"And yours, venerable sir?"
"It seems to me," said Mr. Anerley, "that the old custom was a system of
levying blackmail on all the wineglasses round. Still, I will pay the
price. Well, now it isn't bad wine; but the bouquet is clearly owing to
you, Dove."
"I didn't like the lover to-night," said Dove, critically. "He seemed
as if his clothes were quite new. I can't bear a lover coming with new
clothes, and trying to make an effect. A lover should forget his tailor
when he is in love. And I am against people being married in new
clothes, with bridesmaids in new clothes, and everybody in new clothes,
and everybody feeling cramped, and stiff, and embarrassed. When I
marry, I shall have my husband wear the old, old suit in which I used to
see him come home from his work!--the clothes which I've got to love
about as much as himself. I shan't have the tailor come between him and
me."
"The heroine was rather pretty," hazarded Will, concerning the imaginary
play.
"Well, yes. But she made love to us, and not to him. And I can't bear
kissing on the stage--before such a lot of people--why don't they do all
that before they come on the stage, and then appear as engaged or
married?"
"But you would have to employ a chorus to come and explain to the
audience what was going on in the 'wings,'" said Will.
And so they chatted, and gossiped, and laughed, and it seemed as if they
were again down in the old and happy Kentish valley.
When they had retired for the night, Mr. Anerley told his wife his
suspicions about the ring.
"I was afraid he had done something like that," she said. "But who
could regret it, seeing Dove so delighted? I hope he won't do it again,
however. I should tell him of it but that I know he will be vexed if we
mention it."
By common consent the case of champagne was relegated to the grand
occasions of the future. The family was not in a position to pay a
wine-merchant's bill; and so they remained contented with the knowledge
that on any sudden prompting they had it in their power to become
extravagant and luxurious.
Then Dove was better, so far as they could see; and they bore their
little hardships with wonderful equanimity. She was better, doubtless,
but she was very delicate; and the doctor had had a long and serious
conversation with Mr. Anerley, in which he was advised to take Dove to
spend the rest of the winter in Italy. Sirius was quite as possible a
destination.
By this time Annie Brunel had become familiar with the Hubbard family,
and had definitely entered upon her new duties. The longer she stayed
in the house, the more she was puzzled by the consideration with which
every one, except her pupils, treated her; and even they were
impertinent not through intention, but by habit. Mrs. Hubbard was
almost obtrusively affectionate towards her governess. Everything was
done to make her residence in the house agreeable. She lunched and
dined with Mrs. Hubbard, so that poor Miss Betham's sherry was never
called into requisition. When there was a dinner-party or a dance in
the house, Annie Brunel was invited as a guest, introduced to visitors
as a guest, treated with all the courtesy due to a guest. She was never
asked to sing by the Hubbards; although she played and sang enough at
the solicitation of other people. The children were taught to consider
her, not as a governess, but as a friend of their mamma's. When there
were people at the house, they were obliged to treat her as a gracious
and distinguished lady who had come to spend the evening, not as a poor
governess expected to find correct accompaniments for people who
gratuitously changed the key three or four times in the course of a
song.
As a governess, she ought to have been very grateful for such treatment.
Yet she felt far from happy or contented. She did not like the pale,
round-shouldered, nervous man who never looked one in the face. Despite
the gratitude she could not but feel towards Mrs. Hubbard, she did not
admire or love much that lady, whose unnecessary mendacity she had once
or twice discovered. Here, however, was a home. Outside, the cold
elements, the chiller hearts of strangers, the vicissitudes, trials,
struggles, martyrdom of a fight for life; inside, warmth and comfort,
apparently true friends, and easy duties. She tried to be grateful for
all these things; and when moods of lonely despair and melancholy
overwhelmed her, she upbraided her own weakness, and resolved to be more
thankful in the future.
The Count had not ventured to go near her. He was satisfied to know
that she was in safe keeping. He could bide his time. He had made one
blunder; he would not again commit the mistake of forcing marital
concerns upon her while she was moved by grief for the loss of an old
friend. He allowed the slow passing days and weeks to work for him;
trusting that in time he would only have to step in and reap the rich
harvest his prudence had prepared.
But he called frequently at the office of his brother, to receive
reports. And the tone of the Count, on one or two occasions, was
sufficient to stir up a mild remonstrance from even that patient and
much-enduring person.
"You talk to me as if you had paid me to engage her and keep her in the
house for you."
"Did you engage her for yourself? You know I suggested the thing to
you; and am prepared to reimburse you for any extra expense you may have
been put to."
"I declare," said the milder brother, "you talk as if you were fattening
a pig, and I was watching the yard. You come and look over the palings,
and gloat over your future satisfaction, and compliment me if the
prospect is pleasing to you. Mind you, I don't think you have any
supreme claim on the girl."
"Have _you_?"
"Certainly not."
"Well, what's the use of talking nonsense, Jack? If I marry her, it will
be as good for you as for me."
"How?" said the lawyer, coldly, and with affected carelessness.
"Well," replied the Count, with some embarrassment, "there's the money,
you see, coming into the family. That's a great matter."
"Yes, to _you_," said John Hubbard.
The Count looked at him for a moment; perhaps a thought struck him just
then that, after all, his brother might be sincere in his view of the
matter, and might testify his sincerity by carrying off the prize for
himself.
"Gad, he can't do that very well," said the Count to himself, with a
merry laugh, when he came to reflect on the conversation, "or what would
Jane say? The girl is useless to him, so what's the use of his talking
nonsense? Her money is safe from him, if safe from anybody."
But the more the Count thought over the affair, the less did he like the
tone that his brother had lately assumed in talking of Annie Brunel.
Further, he would have been as well pleased had he known that Miss
Brunel was not _quite_ so comfortable in his brother's house.
These things were the subject of much conjecture and calculation on his
part. They were also the theme of his after-dinner musings. Now,
after-dinner dreams and resolves are very beautiful at times; but they
should never be put down on paper. In an evil hour--it was one evening
after he had dined, all by himself, in that great house down in Kent--he
placed the following words in a letter to his brother:
"Balnacluith House, near St. Mary-Kirby,
"Jan. 17, 18--.
"DEAR JOHN,
"Let me add a word to what I recently said about Miss Brunel. It is
_your_ interest to forward _my_ interest, as you will discover. Now, I
am afraid you are treating her with so much mistaken kindness that she
will get to consider the position of governess pleasant. This is
misleading her. She will only suffer for it afterwards. Nothing like
wholesome severity at the time--nothing. Hubert Anerley came to me and
asked me to lend him some money and let him off a bargain about my
brougham and a pair of horses. Did I? I knew it would only delude him
with absurd hopes, and I said no; and so he accepted his fate, and I
suppose has set about repairing a fortune lost by his own carelessness.
That's _my_ way, Jack; and you're too kind to the girl. Get Jane to try
some wholesome severity--to teach her what a governess is--frighten
her--threaten to turn her out without a character, or something of the
sort. Anything, so she is made to understand how insecure her position
is. You understand? Then I step in, and our family becomes one of the
richest in England. What do you say to that? Do it at once--and firmly.
It will be better to be done _decisively--very decisively--and soon_.
"Your affectionate brother,
"FRED. v. SCHOeNSTEIN."
Frederick von Schoenstein should have seen his brother's face when that
letter arrived. It was not an expressive face; but on this occasion
there were several emotions clearly visible in it, and they were not of
a mournful kind. Indeed, John Hubbard looked upon this letter as worth
thousands of pounds to him. It was the key of the position. He showed
it to his wife.
"What a brute!" she said, "to think of harming the poor girl. I have
never liked your brother, my dear, since he began to try to entrap this
girl, but now I am beginning to hate him."
And doubtless Mrs. Hubbard imagined, quite honestly, that it was merely
compassion for her charming and unprotected governess which provoked her
mild wrath and contempt.
"Fred's a fool, my dear, or he wouldn't have written that letter."
"Why?"
"Don't you see?" observed the husband, proud of his superior masculine
perspicacity; "whenever he seeks to interfere with her, or with our
relations towards her, we have only to show her this letter, and I think
that will considerably cook his goose."
It was not often that the meek and proper brother of the Count was
tempted into slang; but on this great occasion, when a lucky chance had
delivered everything into his hands, he could not forbear.
Count Schoenstein never waited for that course of severity which was to
render Annie Brunel an easy capture. His solitary life at Balnacluith
House was becoming more and more unbearable; and so, at length, he
resolved to precipitate matters.
One forenoon, when he knew his brother would be out, he went up to
Haverstock Hill. His sister-in-law was a little frightened by his
appearance. She so far knew her own nature as to be aware that the
Count had only to command and she would obey. _How_ she wished that her
husband were at home!
The Count was gracious, but firm. He begged her to grant him an
interview with Miss Brunel, in tones which expressed his resolution to
obtain the interview, whether his gentle sister-in-law agreed or not.
For a moment a lie hovered on her lips; but probably she knew it would
be of no avail; and so she only ventured on a remonstrance.
"If you do this now," said Mrs. John, "you will terrify her. She is not
prepared. She does not know you are connected with us----"
"I can explain all these matters," said the Count, peremptorily.
"Very well," said his sister-in-law, meekly.
In a minute afterwards, Annie Brunel entered the room. No sooner did
she see who the visitor was, than a surprised pleased light came into
her eyes, and the heart of the Count leapt for joy. How beautiful she
was to him then! The big bright eyes, the delicately rounded chin, the
pretty mouth, the fine southern languor, and grace, and softness of her
face and figure--and the cold, cheerless, empty desolation of
Balnacluith House!
She shook hands with him.
"How did you discover me here?"
"Don't you know?" he asked. "Don't you know that Mrs. Hubbard is my
sister-in-law--that her husband is my brother--have they never spoken of
me?"
In an instant the whole thing was laid bare to her. She understood now
the extraordinary courtesy of her mistress; she understood now the
references made by the children to the deer that their uncle Frederick
kept; and the advertisement--she saw that that was a trap. The
discovery shocked her a little, but it also nerved her. She knew she
had been deceived; she was yet unaware of any purpose that the deception
could serve; but she confronted the Count with an intrepid spirit, and
looked him in the face.
That look terrified him. "Have I," he thought, "made another blunder?"
The next moment found him entering on a long series of explanations,
entreaties, and superfluous assertions. It had all been done honestly.
They were afraid she would be homeless. They had advertised out of
friendly intention--in perfect good faith. He had refrained from
visiting the house, lest she should consider herself persecuted. The
Hubbards had not mentioned his name, fearing that even that might
frighten her.
For a minute or two these rapid revelations and confessions somewhat
confused her. But out of the blundering representations of the Count
arose certain facts strong and clear as the daylight.
"That advertisement _was_ a trap?" she said, fixing her large honest
eyes upon him.
"But, you see----"
"And they have been treating me kindly, and deceiving me at the same
time, that you might come----?"
"Don't say that," said the Count, deprecatingly. "They deceived you with
the best intentions towards yourself. And have I not the same
intentions? Look at your position--a governess, dependent on other
people for your bread, liable to be out of a situation and starving at
any moment, bound down to certain duties every day, and living a
solitary monotonous life. Then look at what you would be if you would
only listen to me; you would have nothing to do but enjoy yourself from
January to December--you would have everything at your command----"
"I think I have heard quite enough, Count Schoenstein," she said,
firmly. "And you would have spared both of us some pain if you had
taken the answer I gave you before."
"And that is your only answer?"
"It is."
"How can you be so cruel?--so unreasonable? What do you mean to do?"
"I mean to leave this house."
"Why?" he said, struck with astonishment.
"_You_ need not ask me why. You have been a good friend to me, and I do
not wish to part from you in anger. You have been kind to me. I am
sorry it is impossible for me to ask you to see me again. I do not wish
to see you again, or Mr. or Mrs. Hubbard, after what you have just told
me."
She left the room, and the Count sate staring blindly before him,
remotely conscious that something terrible had befallen him. The next
thing he saw was Annie Brunel entering the drawing-room, followed by
Mrs. John. The younger lady was dressed in black, and had now her
bonnet and shawl on.
"Dear me!" said Mrs. Hubbard. "You astonish me. Deceive you? Never
such a thought entered my head. And as for that advertisement, it was
no trap at all, but addressed to all governesses. Of course we knew
that you _might_ see it, and we were very glad when you did see it; but
that we intentionally deceived you, I appeal to Count Schoenstein, Miss
Brunel."
"What I know of these matters, Mrs. Hubbard, I have just learned from
Count Schoenstein," she said, coldly. "I don't accuse any one. Perhaps
you did nothing unusual. I don't know anything about the customs among
ladies. I have been brought up amongst another kind of people. Good
morning."
There was no resentment on the calm and beautiful face, nor the least
touch of sarcasm in the low soft voice. There was sadness, however--a
resigned, patient sadness, that smote the heart of both her auditors,
and kept them silent there, while she went outside--into London, alone.