It is scarcely possible that many women have led a more dull,
monotonous, miserable life than Annie Fleude; actual want, and the
real nip of actual poverty, with some variety and excitement, would
have been preferable! All her days since she left school--and she was
now thirty--had been dedicated to querulous old people. Her uncle, a
paralytic, who lived at Camberwell--in a gloomy, semi-detached house
overlooking a damp garden--had engrossed the entire summer of her
youth. Her stagnant existence had been narrowed to the routine of the
household, and the only breaks she enjoyed were an occasional Sunday
School Treat, a Magic Lantern Lecture, or a Summer Sale!
When Mr. Jonas Fleude died he left his niece thirty pounds a year,
and figuratively handed her on to his sister, Mrs. Pyzer, a deaf old
lady residing in the Midlands, and here, if possible, Annie’s case was
worse--she had jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire!
The locality in which Mrs. Pyzer resided was neither town, village, nor
country, but combined all the drawbacks, and none of the advantages,
of the three. Battsbridge was a collection of houses near a cross-road
in Flatshire. These had been built in the immediate vicinity of a once
celebrated posting inn--a hostelry of no little importance in the old
coaching days. It was situated on the great North Road--cautiously
aloof from the temptations of a market town--capable of accommodating
many guests, and its stables received one hundred and fifty horses.
But time and the railway had brought changes, and diverted the traffic
elsewhere. The stables fell into ruins, the inn was turned into six
cottages, and the inn’s parasites alone remained!--four substantial
detached houses of the Georgian period, red-faced, ugly, and close to
the road, with little mean enclosures, flagged paths in front, and
large straggling gardens at the rear. They were of different sizes and
ages, but were all at the same side of the highway, facing north, and
resembled substantial suburban residences which had ventured into the
country--and gone astray!
Besides these houses, Battsbridge boasted a large forge and a tiny
post-office--where sweets, tobacco, and stationery were sold. The
parish church was two miles by road--and one mile across the fields and
stiles. The nearest town and railway-station was four miles distant
along a dreary, monotonous stretch of the great North Road. Here, at
Idleford, a fine old county town, were shops, a market square, a town
hall, two churches, and a considerable railway-station. It was one
of Ann Fleude’s few relaxations to plod to this station, buy a paper
or two from the tempting bookstall, watch the passengers depart and
arrive, and witness the great Scotch expresses, with their huge green
engines, thunder by. She often lingered for the best part of an hour
(there was nothing attractive awaiting her at home), solaced herself
with refreshment-room tea and buns, and boldly pretended that she
was expecting the arrival of a friend! These expeditions to Idleford
station were her gala days--think of it! Her aunt, Mrs. Pyzer, was
ill-tempered, tyrannical, rheumatic, and deaf. Her two servants,
ancient retainers, were elderly women settled in their ways; the rooms
were low and dark, and held a perpetual atmosphere of mouldy hay.
No sun ever entered them, and with the consent of Mrs. Pyzer and her
servants--no _air_. The furniture dated from the epoch of the old
lady’s marriage--when black horsehair and solid mahogany was the rage;
the beds were four-posters, with bolsters and mattresses stuffed with
rank and noisome feathers of fabulous age: the whole character of the
house was to correspond--nothing young or modern was ever to be found
within it. Its mistress objected to new-fangled ways, she disliked cut
flowers, pet animals, or even birds, and lived apparently in a world of
her own--the past.
Mrs. Pyzer did not appear till lunch-time, and then she was always
accompanied by shawls, cushions, and her ear-trumpet. Her food
consisted of mince and milk puddings; her drink was hot brandy and
water. She subscribed to the parish magazine, a local weekly paper,
and some missionary journals, but set her face sternly against novels,
cards and callers. The oldest and (in her own opinion) most respected
residence of Battsbridge, she believed that she had done a deed of
remarkable benevolence in giving a home to her niece Annie, whom she
looked upon as a mere child--but nevertheless expected her to share the
tastes of a woman who was eighty-one last birthday.
Mr. Jones, the doctor, and his wife, resided at Battsbridge, also
two faded old sisters, the Misses Horn-Finch, and in the largest and
most important of the four houses dwelt the widow of a late rector, a
certain Mrs. Brandon, who considered herself, like her abode, to be
vastly superior to her neighbours. She owned the largest garden, also
a thatched arbour, and a greenhouse, kept three maids, and was visited
by the County; and it was to Mrs. Brandon that Annie Fleude looked
for all her little pleasures. Now and then she lent her a book--a new
novel--or invited her to tea, or took her out driving, when she hired
a brougham from Idleford, and made a few calls (leaving Annie meanwhile
sitting in the carriage). Annie was not acquainted with the resident
gentry; indeed, it was no secret that her father had been a bankrupt
auctioneer--though Mrs. Pyzer, his sister, had married far above her
deserts, a retired Major from a West Indian regiment, and always spoke
of herself as “a Military Lady.”
Annie’s days were all precisely alike--week after week--month after
month--year after year. As soon as she had breakfasted, she dusted
the drawing-room, did some sewing and mending, and watered the plants
in the frame. They dined at three o’clock; when she had settled her
aunt, told her all the news, and left her to doze, she went forth on
the household messages, such as to a farm for eggs and butter, to a
cottager for chickens, or for a solitary aimless walk along the country
road; then came seven o’clock tea, a game of backgammon, a bowl of
bread and milk, and to bed--and the next morning _da capo_.
Annie Fleude had endured this existence for three weary years,
notwithstanding determined and desperate efforts to effect a release.
She walked to church twice on Sundays, and in all weathers, and taught
laboriously in the Sunday-school, until the announcement of the
curate’s marriage--the wretch had been secretly engaged for years! Then
there was the Rector, a hale, rosy-cheeked old gentleman of seventy--he
was undoubtedly flattered by her profound interest in his sermons;
he lent her books, she knitted him socks, accepted his invitation to
tea, and to see his roses; all was going admirably, till some wicked
interfering person sounded a note of alarm, and one of his married
daughters appeared upon the scene--so _that_ chance of escape was
barred! There was a yearly subscription ball in Idleford. To this Miss
Fleude went once, wearing a new black net gown, her hair beautifully
dressed, and chaperoned by the doctor’s wife--but alas, she was a
wallflower! No one noticed her, or “requested the pleasure of a dance,”
except the young man from the station bookstall, and the chemist’s
assistant.
There were various bazaars, where Miss A. Fleude served on committees,
and assisted at stalls, carried dolls for raffles, dipped in bran-pies,
and was gay, vivacious, and useful, and pretended to enjoy herself!
Local ladies, when comparing notes, said:
“That Miss Fleude at Battsbridge isn’t a bad sort of person--I shall
ask her to help me at my rummage sale.”
But even at the rummage sales poor Annie failed to find a likely
suitor! And yet poor Annie was not plain: tall, flat-backed, with
rather a long face, thick brown hair, fine brown eyes, a passable nose,
and beautiful white teeth. Sometimes she would stare at herself in her
little spotted mirror, with a drawer beneath it, and shake her head at
her reflection, and say:
“Oh, you wretched, blighted sort of creature! Whatever were you born
for, _I_ should like to know? Have you ever had one really happy day to
look back upon--one splendid, dazzling hour? And yet you are not ugly,
you are not an idiot, you have thirty pounds a year--and more to come.
But what is the good of it all? No one wants you--you are like a thing
in prison, and the best that could happen to you would be to have a
nice, easy, painless sort of illness--and to _die_!”
As she thus wished for her own demise, tears would rise into her
eyes and trickle down her face; then she would shake her fist at her
reflection, and say:
“Annie, you must buck up! When things come to the worst, they mend.
I’ll subscribe to the library, I’ll buy a bicycle, and I’ll stick
up for myself more than I do; everyone imposes on _me_ because I am
so good-natured. I’m called ‘Gentle Annie.’ I mend Mrs. Brandon’s
lace--yes, and her stockings--I go messages for the Finches, and I
teach the Jones’ child music. I take the smallest piece of cake, the
weakest cup of tea--but I’m not going to be good-natured and gentle any
more, but fierce and aggressive, and fighting, and I’ll just see how
that will answer!”
But these good resolutions were generally of short duration--her
courage evaporated within an hour; she had arranged her aunt’s
knitting, shrieked through the ear-trumpet till she was hoarse,
undertook other people’s distasteful tasks, and was just as obedient,
“gentle,” and good-natured as ever.
At last cruel Fortune remembered her captive, the unfortunate woman,
who never had a gleam of sun in her life, who had no one to love and to
care for--for who could care for Mrs. Pyzer? a passionate, selfish, and
greedy old beldame--a woman whose life was passing away, as if she were
a stone at the bottom of a disused well.
Light and hope came to Annie through the misfortune of another. Mrs.
Brandon, who had been becoming more and more near-sighted, had recently
consulted a specialist, who announced “cataract on both eyes.” This
was a terrible verdict to a woman so fond of reading, so active in her
garden, and such an indefatigable correspondent. However, after the
first shock, she pulled herself together, and seriously considered
the situation. She would be obliged to employ a companion and
secretary--what a bore to have a strange woman (who would probably be
odious) with her continually day after day, and she becoming blinder
and blinder, and falling by degrees into that other woman’s power. A
stranger would read her letters, would see her accounts, examine her
bank-book, and would probably require a handsome salary. Mrs. Brandon
began to look through a list of her connections. There was Constance
Talbot, a woman of a certain age, who would no doubt be glad of a
temporary home; but she would never stand the dulness of the place, and
always be wanting to run about the country, to lunch, and bridge. Then
there was her widowed niece, Mrs. Forrest; but she had such an awful
tongue, and was a most dangerous gossip. No, no, Sissie Forrest would
never do. Suddenly an idea dawned upon her! Why should she not make
use of good-natured Annie Fleude, who had ample time on her hands, a
pleasant voice, and wrote a good hand? She need not pay her a penny--on
the contrary, Annie would look upon the employment as an honour, and a
favour; she would be only too thankful for a few hours to escape from
that odious, deaf old woman.
Mrs. Brandon in appearance was tall, commanding, and arrogant, with a
high aquiline nose and piercing black eyes. In character she was hard,
determined and ambitious; her manner to her inferiors was uncertain.
One day she would be confidential, and even sympathetic, another
distant, and disagreeable. It was no secret that she had a handsome
fortune (twelve hundred a year) when as an heiress who was “getting
on,” she had given her hand to the Rector of Froom, and resignedly
settled herself to enact the _rôle_ of parson’s wife. The Rector had
survived ten years, and died, leaving his widow a well-to-do matron,
with one son, who had now been in India for a considerable time.
As soon as Mrs. Brandon had made up her mind about a suitable
companion, she sent in for Annie Fleude, and having bitterly
bewailed her sad circumstances, threw herself upon her kindness and
good-nature--but made no mention of any remuneration; and Annie, who
was only too pleased to find that she could be of valuable assistance
to such an important neighbour, entered upon her duties without delay.
But the Misses Horn-Finch (ever interested in other people’s affairs)
took counsel with the doctor’s wife, and the curate’s bride, and said:
“Mrs. Brandon really ought to pay--she can well afford it, but she is
very mean in some ways. She uses Annie as a companion, makes her read
all the papers, write all her letters, and manage the house.”
But Annie enjoyed this; Mrs. Brandon’s garden was pleasant to sit
in, indoors her armchairs were delightfully comfortable, her tea was
fragrant, and her cakes delicious. Annie had the pleasure of reading
the latest news, and the newest books, she met numbers of nice
people in Mrs. Brandon’s modern drawing-room--although she was never
introduced to them--she liked to see their smart clothes, and listen to
their smart talk. And as for acting as amanuensis--that was the best of
all! Miss Fleude’s own correspondence was pathetically scanty, and if
she liked one thing better than another, it was to receive a letter.
The few who wrote to her were old school-fellows, at long intervals,
and one or two neighbours in Camberwell. Sometimes for days and days
the stolid postman would walk past Mrs. Pyzer’s door, and on two or
three occasions Annie had actually addressed and posted a paper to
herself in Idleford--simply in order to hear his familiar knock! Now
she enjoyed the reading and writing of letters every day. Once a week
Mrs. Brandon dictated a long epistle to her son, who had an appointment
in India (something to do with indigo). Every one of Mrs. Brandon’s
friends had heard of “Cecil,” of his extraordinary cleverness at
school, his social successes, his devotion to his parent--but no one
had seen him, for Mrs. Brandon had only come to Battsbridge within the
last five years. How exciting it was to be corresponding with a young
man, to receive and read all his replies; these came almost every mail,
and were subsequently secured by elastic bands, and tidily stored in a
japanned box. Annie had been obliged to explain herself, in her first
letter, as the secretary who was temporarily his mother’s pen and eyes,
and he sent her charming little messages of thanks, and said:
“How nice and clearly you write, Miss Secretary. It is delightful to
read such handwriting.” Whereupon his mother exclaimed, “Tut, tut,
tut!” but Annie took greater pains than ever. She, however, had wit
enough to realise that Mrs. Brandon was a bitterly jealous mother,
and that she must be extremely cautious, and never obtrude her own
personality. The Indian letters were really interesting, and invariably
full of Cecil Brandon; a less experienced eye might have considered his
descriptions florid and exaggerated, and declared that there was rather
too much of the wonderful exploits of the writer. It is always so easy
to give oneself the _beau rôle_ in a letter!
Cecil Brandon was in the local volunteers; his mother explained that
he had failed for the Army at home, not through his own fault (of
course), and that as she had a good deal of family interest, she had
found him an excellent post in the Bengal Presidency. He was delighted
with India; the life out there suited him, even the climate was not to
be condemned. Poor Cecil had always a delicate chest, and the winters
at home had been trying. Sometimes towards the end of one of his most
interesting and affectionate letters, there would be a playful request
for a little cheque.
“You see, he is obliged to keep up his position, and entertain,”
explained his mother; “I’m afraid he is rather inclined to be
extravagant, and that he can’t help, poor boy. He takes after his
grandfather, Carlyon of Carlyon, and has blue blood in his veins.”
Then she would contemplate her own long hands, and say, “Blue
blood!--blue blood is _always_ generous,” and yet, at the moment,
she was making use of Annie Fleude, and not giving her the smallest
return. “Cecil is all I have,” she would exclaim, “and I am ambitious
for him--ambition is my one weakness. There was never much outlook in
the Church for the aspirations of a Rector’s wife--even if she is well
born--but her son in India is different. I believe Cecil will make
himself a name.”
Then she would take up his photograph, and hold it close to her dim
eyes. Cecil’s photographs were numerous, in many styles and many sizes:
in volunteer uniform, dark green and silver, in a racing jacket, Indian
shikar kit, fancy dress, or plain mufti. His best portraits were large,
merely the head and shoulders, showing a face with thick wavy hair, a
wide forehead, well-opened eyes, and a large black moustache.
Between his letters, his mother’s copious reminiscences, and his
many photographs, Annie was already in love with Cecil Brandon--her
very first and possibly her very last romance. Once she stealthily
slipped a violet into the envelope, and he, in return, sent her
a leaf of lemon-scented verbena, with a line, “For the pretty
secretary.”--Needless to say, she did not read this aloud.
She treasured the leaf and its inscription, and oh, folly! put them
into a tiny gold locket--but then, you see, the poor thing had had so
little in her life!
It had been a trying winter. Mrs. Pyzer, who had long been feeble,
had now what is called “broken up.” The backgammon board and the big
knitting-pins were put away in a cupboard--they were not likely ever
to be wanted again. Owing to her aunt’s condition, Annie was more
mistress of her own time; she ordered the meals, altered the hours, and
the old servants offered no resistance. A will had been made, and they
had reason to believe that they had both been “well remembered.”
“It won’t be long now,” they remarked to one another, as they discussed
plans over their tea-pot; “the house and furniture and a small income
will go to Miss Fleude; well, she deserves something--she has had a
poor time, and is getting on.”
Meanwhile Cecil Brandon’s letters increased in number and interest;
lately he seemed to have done a great deal of racing; he described
his successes, the club dinners, the compliments paid him, and how
he had been riding for a native prince who had overwhelmed him with
thanks, and presented him with a magnificent pin. Of his own particular
business there was little information, but a great deal respecting the
Lucknow “week.”
One day a letter arrived; it was short, a mere scrawl, written in a
shaky hand. It said:
“DARLING OLD MUM,
“Don’t be frightened, but I have been very seedy; I have had a bad
go of fever, which I can’t shake off, and the doctors say I must go
home, so I start in a week.”
“In a week!” repeated Mrs. Brandon. “Why, then he will be here in a few
days! Oh, oh, to think of it, and he will find me nearly stone-blind!
Who is to get the house ready, and his room, and order things?--I am so
helpless that I must leave this to strangers, my poor darling sick boy.”
It is scarcely necessary to mention that Annie worked _con amore_;
fresh white curtains were hung up, new rugs were laid down, the garden
was robbed of flowers, and the old house seemed quite gay and festive.
As for Annie herself, she had become years younger, and did not look
a day more than five and twenty. She invested in a neat tailor-made
and an expensive hat, took lessons in dressing and waving her hair,
and presented an unusually smart appearance. As the critical time
drew nearer she could scarcely sleep with excitement; for once in her
life, when she did wake up in the morning, there was something to look
forward to! At last the great day dawned, and the traveller arrived
from Idleford in a station cab, which rocked and tottered under piles
of shabby baggage.
As Cecil Brandon descended at his mother’s gate, Annie with beating
pulses inspected him over her window-blind. Oh, such a little
shrivelled, sallow man! He looked fifty, and terribly ill! In spite of
her severe disappointment, Miss Fleude’s kind heart went out to him on
the spot, with a sort of almost maternal affection.
The following morning, with her hair beautifully waved, and wearing the
new tailor-made, she went next door to resume her duties, and make the
acquaintance of Mrs. Brandon’s celebrated son. She found him delighted
to see her, most agreeable and charming. His mother, however, had one
of her bad days, and was coldly patronising, and distant. No one would
suppose for a moment that all the successful preparations and clever
arrangements were entirely due to the exertions of her visitor.
It was really surprising the number of matrons with unmarried daughters
who now came to call on Mrs. Brandon, and make tender enquiries about
her eyesight.
Little Cecil was undoubtedly a ladies’ man, and enjoyed tea-parties
and luncheons, dinners and bridge; but Annie was his first, his _home_
friend. Many a day he stole in to see her, or they conferred together
in his mother’s summer-house--he having assured his parent that he was
about to walk into Idleford, or starting for an afternoon’s fishing, or
golf.
“The mater is deadly jealous of _you_,” he explained, “but you must not
mind her--she knows I am awfully gone on you, and that’s the reason she
has got her frills up.”
And indeed, in these latter days, Mrs. Brandon allowed herself to be
offensively rude to her secretary and companion. If she could have
dispensed with her services she would have done so; but who was to
write her letters? Who was to read her the morning paper? Certainly
_not_ Cecil, who rarely got out of his bed before eleven o’clock. Her
increasing blindness made her frantic; she had an instinctive feeling
that something hateful was going on around her, a something that she
could not see, or divine. After all, Cecil might flirt with Annie as
much as he pleased--a woman a head over him, thirty years of age, and
a nobody! Her name was really Flood, but some of her insignificant
relations had changed it into Fleude. They might change the spelling of
the name, but they could not change their status in life. Cecil must
marry well, a somebody, and an heiress, and as soon as her eyes had
been operated upon she was determined to look about her in good earnest.
Meanwhile the happy pair were privately engaged; they walked together,
they bicycled boldly into Idleford, they sat in the summer-house, and
Cecil talked of himself continually. One of Annie’s chief attractions
was the fact that she was a most patient and appreciative listener. He
really never tired of relating his wonderful exploits: the mad horses
he had ridden, the snakes he had destroyed, and the tigers he had shot;
in all these stories he filled the _rôle_ of a hero, brave to rashness;
and it happened that one day Annie had an opportunity of judging of
his courage for herself! A wild bullock, which was being led along the
country road, had broken away from its drover, and, with tail up, and
head down, came charging towards them.
“Look out, look out!” shrieked Cecil--it was almost the scream of
a woman; without another word, he disappeared over a wall with the
agility of a monkey, and Annie was left to face the coming adventure
alone! She stood her ground bravely, and as the beast charged, she
dashed at him with an open umbrella, which fortunately had the effect
of scaring the animal; and the valiant lady found herself scathless and
breathless. By and by, she saw two hands and a little head appearing
above the wall, and a squeaky voice enquired:
“Is he gone? Is the coast clear?” On receiving an encouraging
affirmative--and without blush, or shame--Cecil pulled himself up, and
dropped into the road. “They don’t often attack a woman--at least, that
is my experience in India,” he explained, “or of course I wouldn’t have
left you; but the fact is--and I make no secret of it to you--since
I have had this awful go of fever my nerves have completely gone to
pieces! India has skinned them raw.”
After this episode, it is not improbable that Annie accepted her
lover’s amazing experiences with more than a pinch of salt.
One evening, in the dusk in the summer-house, he confided to her that
he had been in an infernal scrape in India. It was all about a race, or
rather racing; of course he was as innocent as a new-born babe, but he
had been obliged to chuck it, and bolt! The doctor’s certificate was a
mere excuse. By degrees he would break this news to the Mum; she would
be furious at first, but she would soon see that he had been a mere
tool in the matter, the cat’s-paw of others; and she was so clever and
influential that she would soon find him another and better billet.
Annie was not horrified by this confession; on the contrary she
consoled him, comforted him with her assurance of his mother’s loyal
belief in him, and herself swallowed every word of his plausible
excuses.
These were Annie’s happy days; for if Cecil did play golf with the
Miss Grants, or tennis with the Miss Thornhills, he spent his evenings
with her, slipping in (after his mother and the servants had gone to
bed) through an open back window, and they had chicken mayonnaise, and
various other delicacies, prepared by Annie’s clever hands, washed down
with Burgundy, or whisky and seltzer; and Cecil smoked--yes, actually a
meerschaum in Mrs. Pyzer’s dining-room--a room in which a pipe had not
been lit for half a century! It is scarcely necessary to mention that
the two servants were fully aware of these secret orgies, but they held
their tongues, assented to the preparations, and washed up the plates;
for it would suit them, supposing, as they expressed it, “anything
happened,” to remain on. Shortly after this, something did “happen.”
Old Mrs. Pyzer died, and Annie Fleude, now mistress of the house,
reigned in her stead.
* * * * *
The operation for cataract proved immediately afterwards successful;
and Mrs. Brandon had her eyes opened in another direction, and an
entirely different fashion, by a friend. Cecil, she was informed, “had
got into a most shocking scrape about racing; it was really scandalous
and notorious; the talk of all the sporting men in India”; but, after
her first anger, the fond mother succumbed to her son’s plausible
excuses and caresses, and endeavoured--since the East was closed
to him--to find him another post. To this he was rather averse, and
suggested living at home, and being her companion and comfort; but
Charlotte Brandon was a Spartan mother, and determined that her boy
should go forth once more into the world’s battle, and make himself
a name. The benighted parent was ignorant of the fact that he had
already made “a name” as the shadiest gentleman rider in India--and a
thorough-paced little scamp.
Presently the engagement was breathed into her ear. To this, however,
she failed to show the same indulgence. The ungrateful old woman was
beside herself with fury, heaped abuse on deceitful, scheming Ann, and
forbade her her presence, and her house.
Her tongue became venomous, as she assured her dear Cecil that it was
bad enough for him to disgrace himself in India, but to come home and
marry and settle down beside her, with a vulgar old maid--never!
“Give her up!” she cried, “give her up at once, or I will never leave
you a penny, and I shall alter my will.”
She looked, as she was, cold, cast-iron, and nothing he could do or
say would melt her decision. So he was compelled to agree. He had
one long and tearful interview with Annie; this took place in the
musty old dining-room--from which his sobs and hers were audible in
the kitchen--but on the following day, when walking with his mother
and encountering his lady-love out of doors, he passed her without
acknowledgment--and looked the other way.
Poor Miss Annie Fleude was broken-hearted; she wrote Cecil many
piteous, passionate letters, all unavailing; for he was a weak little
fellow, ever dominated by a stronger will, and hence his defection and
silence.
The story of his racing had somehow reached England. How tiresome
it is that in cases where one would like to keep matters _quiet_,
almost every person one meets has relations out in India! Girls and
their parents now suddenly cooled; invitations ceased, even although
Cecil Brandon would have £1,200 a year on the death of his mother,
and was undeniably well connected. However, Mrs. Brandon exerted
herself amazingly. She wrote letters (with her own hand)--dozen of
letters, and she carried Cecil away from Battsbridge to London, and
at last found him a promising appointment in the Belgian Congo. It
offered fine pay; her son could stand a warm climate, he had a knack
of picking up languages, and he would return home in two years. In
short, it was a first-rate opening! When all had been arranged, the
little man wrote to Annie to inform her of his prospects, and to say
good-bye. In reply to this letter, she immediately went up to London
and sought an interview with him and his mother at their hotel. She was
desperate, and determined not to lose her little lover without a life
and death struggle. At first she was piteous and heartbroken--foolishly
endeavouring to work upon Mrs. Brandon’s feelings.
“I served you for a whole year,” she declared brokenly. “Could a
daughter have done more for you than I did? Your son loves me, and I
love him; I will make him a good wife. I have enough to live on, since
my aunt is dead. The house is mine, he will be close to you, and you
will have his society, and the comfort of his being near you. I beg and
implore you not to send him away to the Congo; it is an awful place; he
is all you have, and he is all I have--let us live at Battsbridge, and
be happy. If you insist on his going to Africa it will break my heart,
for something tells me that I shall never, never--see him again.”
Suddenly she began to sob hysterically, and falling upon her knees,
endeavoured to take Mrs. Brandon’s hand in hers; but Mrs. Brandon
pushed her away with surprising violence, and rising from her chair,
said:
“Cecil is going to Africa--I am sending him there on purpose to place
him out of _your_ reach!”
“Oh, you are a hard, hard woman!” said Annie, struggling to her feet.
“Will nothing I can do, or say, change you or soften your heart?”
“Nothing.”
Annie now turned and appealed to Cecil, and in vain. The battle between
two strong women for a weak man raged, but in the end the mother won.
Out on the lobby Cecil contrived to snatch a few moments with Annie,
assuring her that it would be all right, and that they would be true to
one another, and be married when he returned in two years’ time.
“Stand up for yourself now,” she answered fiercely, “stand up for
yourself, and me; you are a man, you are five-and-thirty, and should
know your own mind. We can be independent of your mother, and I am
ready to marry you to-morrow!”
“No, no, no,” he replied, “the mater has so much in her power, I dare
not risk it. Think of all she has to leave; and if she says that she
will cut me off with a shilling, by Jove, she’ll do it! We will just
bide our time--it will soon pass,” he declared, with cheerful optimism,
“and you and I will be married when I come back.”
“If you allow your mother to drive you out of the country,” said Annie,
and her face was white and rigid, “I tell you--that you will _never_
come back!”
At this he gave a funny little cackling laugh, and said:
“I bet you I will! I lay you fifty to one--eh?”
But Annie made no reply. She turned abruptly away, walked slowly down
the red carpeted stairs of the hotel, and never once looked back. It
was done--it was all over! Useless to attempt to dissuade him--he was
as wax in the hands of his parent.
Annie travelled to Battsbridge, a changed woman, and shut herself up
in her dismal house for many weeks. From time to time--through the
neighbours’ talk--she heard that Cecil Brandon was doing capitally in
the Congo, had been promoted to a post in the rubber district, far up
in the Interior, exerted a wonderful influence on the natives, and had
achieved success at last!
Eight months had elapsed, when the district was electrified by the news
of his death. A brief telegram announced that he had been suddenly
carried off by a virulent fever, prevalent in the jungle. His mother
was prostrate and inconsolable; but by and by she roused herself
sufficiently to dispatch a beautiful white marble tombstone to be
erected over Cecil’s grave. The common grief had not drawn her and her
neighbour any closer together; on the contrary, Annie was now a hard,
hopeless, embittered creature, who burnt with inextinguishable rage
against a mother who had murdered her son. Oh, that she could punish
her! Oh, that she might avenge him! Vainly and vainly did she cast
about in search of a weapon. At last--she found it!
Miss Fleude, who was now comfortably off, expended a good deal of
money on books, magazines, and journals; and, since Cecil had been in
Africa, had subscribed to many African papers. By chance an ill-printed
West Coast “rag” fell into her hands, and there she found, with other
weird information, a terrible story of cannibalism--in which no ghastly
detail was spared.
It appeared that a certain unpopular, tyrannical overseer had visited
an outlying village; that in the jungle, on his return towards
headquarters, he had become mysteriously separated from his escort,
and some of the natives, finding him, seized and carried him off, a
prisoner. These happened to be of the Lokele, a tribe of well-known
river cannibals, who wore necklaces of the teeth of those whom they
had eaten. Such had been unquestionably the fate of the unfortunate
official, whose boots and pocket-book were found, and whose name it had
been proved was “C. Brandon.”
When the agonised reader had come to the end of this description, she
fainted dead away, and was subsequently confined to her bed for a whole
week. At the end of the week Miss Fleude had recovered her strength,
renewed her animosity, and rekindled her hatred; she marked the
terrible paragraph with three crosses in ink, folded the paper neatly,
and then addressed and posted it to her next-door neighbour.
It had even more than the desired effect!
Shortly after the postman’s arrival the following morning, a grating
shriek rang through the house, and when the servants ran to see what
had happened, they found Mrs. Brandon lying back in her chair, with
staring open eyes, quite dead--with the fatal journal clenched in her
hands.
Miss Fleude still continues to reside at Battsbridge; she is kind
and charitable to the poor, but holds herself coldly aloof from her
neighbours, who, to tell the truth, are secretly afraid of the lady,
and no longer speak of her as “Gentle Annie.”