Miss Annie
Of course one had to go immediately and tell all this to Miss Annie.
Miss Annie lived with her sister in a charming verandahed house, hidden
in wisteria and clematis, and everything was delightful in connection
with the two sisters except the illness which made a prisoner of Miss
Annie. Miss Annie lay on a bed covered with beautiful drawn thread work
over pink satinette and wore rings that provoked a hopeless passion in
Elma.
Whenever she considered that one day she might marry a duke, Elma
pictured herself wearing Miss Annie's rings.
From the drawn thread work bed Miss Annie ruled her household, and
casually, her sister Grace. It never appeared that Miss Annie ruled
Miss Grace however; nothing being more affectionate than the demeanour
of the two sisters. But long ago, the terrifying nature of Miss Annie's
first illness made such a coward of poor, sympathetic Miss Grace, that
never had she lifted a finger, or formed a frown to reprove that dear
patient, or prevent her having her own way. The nature of Miss Annie's
illness had always been a source of great mystery to the Leighton girls.
It was discussed in a hidden kind of way in little unintelligible nods
from grown up to grown up, and usually resolved itself into the
important phrase of "something internal." Old Dr. Merryweather, years
ago, had landed himself into trouble concerning it. "A poor woman would
get on her feet and fight that tendency of yours," he had said to Miss
Annie. "Money simply encourages it. You will die on that bed if you
don't fight a little, Miss Annie." Miss Annie had replied that in any
case her bed was where she intended to die, and forthwith procured quite
sweetly and pathetically, yet quite determinedly, another doctor. That
was over twenty years ago; but Miss Grace still passed Dr. Merryweather
in the street with her head down in consequence. She did all she could
to provide the proper distraction for Miss Annie, by encouraging
visitors and sacrificing her own friends to the leadership of her
sister. Miss Annie had always shone in a social sense, and she let none
of her talents droop merely because she was bedridden. It was
considered a wonderful thing that she should manage the whole household,
to the laying down or taking up of a carpet in rooms which she never
saw. Gradually, on account of this wonderful energy of Miss Annie's,
Miss Grace acquired a reputation for ineptitude to which her sister
constantly but very gracefully alluded. "Poor Grace," she sighed.
"Grace takes no interest in having things nice."
It was Miss Grace however who, in her shy old-fashioned manner, showed
interest in the blue-eyed, fair-haired Leighton children, and introduced
them to her sister when they were practically babies. She decoyed them
into the house by biscuits covered with pink icing, which none of them
ever forgot, or allowed themselves to do without. Even Mabel, with her
hair up, accepted a pink biscuit at her first tea there after that great
occasion. They always felt very small delicious children when they went
to Miss Annie's. They had acquired, through Miss Annie, a pleasant easy
manner of taking the nervous fussy attentions of Miss Grace. It was
astonishing how soon they could show that in this establishment of
magnificence, Miss Grace did not count. She was immaterial to the
general grandeur of the verandahed palace belonging to Miss Annie. They
were always on their best behaviour in the house where not only a
footman, but an odd man were kept, and Elma, at the age of seven, had
been known to complain to Mrs. Leighton when a housemaid was at fault,
"We ought to have a man to do this!" Indeed there seemed only one
conclusion to it with Elma: that after knowing exactly what it was to
call on people who had men servants, in her youth, when she grew up she
should be obliged to marry a duke. The duke always met her when she
waited for Miss Grace in the drawing-room. He had a long curling
moustache, and wore his hair in waves on either side of a parting, very
clamped down and oily, like Mr. Lucas, the barber. It was years before
she sacrificed the curling moustache to a clean-shaven duke, and
shuddered at the suggestion of oil in his hair.
The despair of her life stood in the corner of the white and gold
drawing-room. It was an enormous Alexander harmonium. Once, in an easy
moment, on conversing affably with her duke in a whisper, she had
suggested to him that Miss Grace might let her play on this instrument.
Miss Grace, coming in then, was in time to see her lips moving, and
considered that the sweet child worked at her lessons. Elma was too
sincere to deceive her. "I was talking to myself and wondering if you
would let me play on the harmonium."
She should never forget the frightened hurt look on Miss Grace's face.
"Never ask me that again, dear child. It was hers--when she was able
to--to----" Miss Grace could go no further.
The blue eyes filling with frightened tears in front of her alarmed the
gentlest soul in the world.
"But, my pet," she said very simply, "there's my own piano."
Could one believe it? Off came all the photograph frames, and the large
Benares vases on China silk, brought years ago from the other side of
the world by Miss Grace's father, and Elma played at last on a
drawing-room grand piano. Mrs. Leighton's remained under lock and key
for any one below a certain age, and only the schoolroom upright
belonged to Elma. What joy to play on Miss Grace's long, shiny, dark,
ruddy rosewood! She must have the lid full up, and music on the desk.
Miss Grace made a perfect audience. Elma regretted sincerely the fact
that her legs stuck so far through her clothes, so that she could not
trail her skirts to the piano and arrange them as she screwed herself up
on the music stool. However, what did a small thing like that matter
while Miss Grace sat with that surprised happy look on her face, and let
her play "anything she liked"? Anything Elma liked, Miss Grace liked.
In fact, Miss Grace discovered in her gentle, amiable way, a wonderful
talent in the child. It formed a bond between the two which years never
broke. Miss Grace would sit with her knitting pins idle in her lap, and
a far-away expression in the thin grey colour of her eyes. Elma thought
it such a pity Miss Grace wore caps when she looked so nice as that.
She would think these things and forget about them and think of them
again, all the time her fingers caressed the creamy coloured keys, and
made music for Miss Grace to listen to. Then exactly at four o'clock,
Miss Grace seemed to creep back to her cap again, and say that tea would
be going in and they must "seek Miss Annie."
Miss Annie poured tea from the magnificent teapot, which the footman
carried in on a magnificent silver tray. She reclined gracefully in
bed, reaching out a slender arm covered with filmy lace to do the
honours of the tea table. Crumpets and scones might be passed about by
Miss Grace. In a very large silver cake basket, amongst very few pieces
of seed cake (Miss Annie took no other) Elma would find a pink biscuit.
After that the ceremony of tea was over. It was wonderful to see how
Miss Annie poured and talked and managed things generally. Elma could
play to Miss Grace, but politeness somehow demanded that she should talk
to Miss Annie.
Elma had always, more than any of the Leighton children, amused Miss
Annie. The little poses, which Miss Grace, with wonderfully sympathetic
understanding, had translated into actual composition in music, the
poses which caused Elma to be the butt of a robustly humorous family,
crushing her to self-consciousness and numbness in their presence, Miss
Annie had the supreme wisdom never to remark upon. Had not Miss Grace
and she enjoyed secretly for years Elma's first delightful blunder?
"My father and mother are paying a visit to the necropolis. They are
having a lovely time. Oh! is that wrong? I'm sure it is. It's London
I mean."
They had known then not to laugh, and they never did laugh. The little
figure, with two fierce pigtails tied radiantly with pink bows, the blue
eyes, and very soft curling locks over the temples, how could they laugh
at these? Instead they took infinite pains over Elma's long words.
Miss Annie herself invariably either felt "revived" or "resuscitated" or
polished things of that description. It pleased her that such an
intensely modern child should be sensitive to refinement in language.
For a time Elma became famous as a conversationalist, and was known in
her very trying family circle as Jane Austen or "Sense and Sensibility."
The consequences of her position sent her so many times tearful to bed,
that at last she put a severe curb on herself, and never used words that
had not already been sampled and found worthy by her family. The
afternoons at Miss Annie's, however, where she could remove this curb,
became very valuable. The result was that while things might be
"scrumptious" or "awfully nice" or "beastly" at home, they suddenly
became "excellent" or "delightful" or "reprehensible," in that cultured
atmosphere. Only one in the world knew the two sides to Elma, and that
was her dear and wonderful father. She was never ashamed of either pose
when completely alone with that understanding person. Her mother could
not control the twitching at the lips which denotes that a grown-up
person is taking one in and making game of one. Elma's father laughed
with the loud laugh of enjoyment. It was the laughter Elma understood,
and whether or not a mistake of hers had caused it, she ran on to wilder
indiscretions merely that she might hear it again. Oh! there was nobody
quite so understanding as her father.
He invariably sent his compliments to Miss Annie, and one day, to
explain why she went there continually, she told him how she played on
Miss Grace's piano. He was greatly pleased, delighted in fact, and
immediately wanted her to do the same for him. Elma's sensitive soul
saw the whole house giggling at herself, and took fright as she always
did at the mere mention of the exhibition of her talents.
"I can't, when Miss Grace isn't there," she had exclaimed, and neither
she nor anybody else could explain why this should be, except Mr.
Leighton himself, who looked long and with a new earnestness at his
daughter, and never omitted afterwards in sending his compliments to the
two ladies to mention Miss Grace first.
Mabel was entirely different in the respect of playing before people.
She played as happily and easily to a roomful as she did alone. She
blossomed out with the warmth of applause and admiration as a rose does
at the rising of the sun.
"Mabel is prettier than Miss Dudgeon," said Elma to Miss Annie on the
day when she described the great "coming out" occasion.
Miss Annie arrested the handsome teapot before pouring further.
"What! anybody more pretty than Miss Dudgeon?" she asked. "That is
surely impossible."
"Mr. Maclean said so," said Elma.
"And who is Mr. Maclean?" asked Miss Annie.
"Oh--Mr. Maclean--Mr. Maclean is just Mrs. Maclean's nephew. But he
knows Miss Dudgeon, and he looked a long time at Mabel and said she was
prettier."
"You must not think so much of looks, Elma," said Miss Annie
reprovingly. "Mabel is highly gifted, that is of much more
consequence."
"Is it?" asked Elma. "Papa says so, though he won't believe any of _us_
can be gifted. He thinks there's a great deal for us to learn. It's
very de--demoralizing."
"Demoralizing?" asked Miss Annie.
"Yes, isn't it demora-lizing I mean, Miss Annie?" Elma begged in a
puzzled manner.
Miss Annie daintily separated half a slice of seed cake from the formal
pieces lying in the beautiful filigree cake basket.
"I do not think it is 'demoralizing' that you mean, dear.
'Demoralizing' would infer that your father, by telling you there was a
great deal to learn, kept you from learning anything at all, upset you
completely as it were."
Miss Annie was as exact as she could be on these occasions, when she
took the place of the little bright red dictionary.
This time her information seemed to please Elma immensely. Her eyes
immediately shone brilliantly.
"Oh, Miss Annie," she said, "it must be 'demoralizing' after all.
That's just how I feel. Papa tells me, and I see the great big things
to be done, and it doesn't seem to be any use to try the little things.
Like Mozart's Rondos! They _are_ so silly, you know. And when you see
people like Mr. Sturgis painting big e--e--elaborate pictures, I simply
can't draw at school at all."
Miss Grace leant forward on her chair, pulling little short breaths as
though not to lose, by breathing properly, one word of this. She
considered it marvellous that this young thing should invariably be
expressing the thoughts which had troubled her all her life, and never
even been properly recognized by herself, far less given voice to. It
enabled her on many occasions to see clearly at last, and to be able, by
the light of her own lost opportunities, to give counsel to Elma.
Miss Annie's eyes only looked calmly amused. It was an amusement to
which Elma never took exception, but to-day she wanted something more,
to prevent the foolishness which she was afraid of experiencing whenever
she made a speech of this nature. Miss Annie only toyed with a silver
spoon, however, looking sweet and very kindly at Elma, and it was Miss
Grace who finally spoke.
She had recovered the shy equanimity with which she always filled in
pauses for her sister.
"You must not allow the fine work of others to paralyze your young
activities," Miss Grace said gravely. "Mr. Sturgis was young himself
once, and no doubt at school studied freehand drawing very diligently to
be so great as he is now."
"Oh, no," said Elma, "that's one of the funny parts. Mr. Sturgis doesn't
approve of freehand drawing at all. He says it's anything but freehand,
he says it's--it's--oh! I mustn't say it."
"Say it," said Miss Annie cheerfully.
"He says it's rotten," said Elma.
There was something of a pause after this.
"And it's so funny with Mabel," said Elma. "Mabel never practises a
scale unless mamma goes right into the room and hears her do it. But
Mabel can read off and play Chopin. And papa takes me to hear Liszt
Concertos, and I can't play one of them."
"You can't stretch the chords yet, dearie," said Miss Grace.
"No, but it's very demor--what was it I said?" she asked Miss Annie
anxiously.
"Demoralizing," said Miss Annie.
"And there's paralyzing too," said Elma gratefully. "That's exactly how
I feel."
She sat nursing one of her knees in a hopeless manner, until it struck
her that neither Miss Annie nor Miss Grace liked to see her in this
attitude. Nothing was ever said on these occasions, but invariably one
knew that in order not to get on the nerves of Miss Annie, one must sit
straight and not fidget. Elma sat up therefore and resumed
conversation.
"Mabel says it is nothing to play a Liszt Concerto," said Elma
hopelessly.
"Is Mabel playing Liszt?" asked Miss Grace in astonishment.
"Mabel plays anything," sighed Elma.
"That is much better than being prettier than Miss Dudgeon," said Miss
Annie.
She took up a little book which lay near her. It was bound in white
vellum and had little gold lines tooled with red running into fine gold
clasps. Two angel heads on ivory were inserted in a sunk gold rim on
the cover. Miss Grace saw a likeness in the blue eyes there to the
round orbs fastened on it whenever Elma had to listen to the wisdom of
the white book. The title, _The Soul's Delineator_, fascinated her by
its vagueness. She had never cared to let Miss Annie know that in
growing from the days when she could not even spell, the word
"delineator" had remained unsatisfactory as a term to be applied to the
soul. There was The Delineator of fashions at home--a simple affair to
understand, but that it should be applied to the "ivory thoughts" of
Miss Annie seemed confusing. Miss Annie moved her white fingers,
sparkling with the future duchess's rings, in and out among the
gilt-edged pages. Then she read.
"The resources of the soul are quickened and enlivened, not so much by
the education of the senses, as by the encouragement of the
sensibilities, i.e. these elements which go to the making of the
character gentle, chivalrous, kind; in short, the elements which provoke
manners and good breeding."
Miss Annie paused. Her voice had sustained a rather high and different
tone, as it always did when she read from the white book.
"Mabel has very nice manners, hasn't she?" asked Elma anxiously.
"Do you know that you have said nothing at all about the Story Book
Girls to-day, and everything about Mabel," said Miss Annie. "I quite
miss my Story Books."
Elma's eyes glowed.
Miss Annie had marked the line where the dream life was becoming the
real life. Elma, in two days, had transferred her _mise en scene_ of
the drama of life from four far-away people to her own newly grown-up
sister. It was a devotion which lasted long after the days of dreaming
and imagining had passed for the imaginative Elma, this devotion and
admiration for her eldest sister.
In case she should not entertain Miss Annie properly, she ran back a
little, and told her how it was that Mabel had got a blue gown after
all. It was delightful to feel the appreciation of Miss Annie, and to
watch the wrinkles of laughter at her eyes.
Exactly at five o'clock however Miss Grace began to look anxiously at
Miss Annie, and Miss Annie's manner became correspondingly languid.
"You tire your dear self, you ought not to pour out tea," said Miss
Grace in the concerned tone with which she always said this sentence at
five o'clock in the afternoon.
Saunders came noiselessly in to remove, and Elma bade a mute good-bye.
"You tire yourself, dear," said Miss Grace to Miss Annie once more, as
she and Elma retired to the door.
"I must fulfil my obligations, dear," said Miss Annie.
She nodded languidly to Elma, and Elma thought once again how splendid
it was of Miss Annie to be brave like this, and wondered a trifle in her
enthusiastic soul why for once Miss Grace did not pour out tea for her
sister.