lord caterham's suggestion that annie maurice should cultivate her drawing-talent was made after due reflection. he saw, with his usual quickness of perception, that the girl's life was fretting away within her; that the conventional round of duties which fell to her lot as his mother's companion was discharged honestly enough, but without interest or concern. he never knew why lady beauport wanted a companion. so long as he had powers of judging character, he had never known her have an intimate friend; and when, at the death of the old clergyman with whom annie had so long been domesticated, it was proposed to receive her into the mansion at st. barnabas square, lord caterham had been struck with astonishment, and could not possibly imagine what duties she would be called upon to fulfil. he heard that the lady henceforth to form a part of their establishment was young, and that mere fact was in itself a cause for wonder. there was no youth there, and it was a quality which was generally openly tabooed. lady beauport's woman was about fifty, a thorough mistress of her art, an artist in complexion before whom madame rachel might have bowed; a cunning and skilled labourer in all matters appertaining to the hair; a person whose anatomical knowledge exceeded that of many medical students, and who produced effects undreamt of by the most daring sculptors. there were no nephews or nieces to come on visits, to break up the usual solemnity reigning throughout the house, with young voices and such laughter as is only heard in youth, to tempt the old people into a temporary forgetfulness of self, and into a remembrance of days when they had hopes and fears and human interest in matters passing around them. there were sons--yes! caterham himself, who had never had one youthful thought or one youthful aspiration, whose playmate had been the physician, whose toys the wheelchair in which he sat and the irons by which his wrecked frame was supported, who had been precocious at six and a man at twelve; and lionel--but though of the family, lionel was not of the house; he never used to enter it when he could make any possible excuse; and long before his final disappearance his visits had been restricted to those occasions when he thought his father could be bled or his mother cajoled. what was a girl of two-and-twenty to do in such a household, caterham asked; but got no answer. it had been lady beauport's plan, who knew that lord beauport had been in the habit of contributing a yearly something towards miss maurice's support; and she thought that it would be at least no extra expense to have the young woman in the house, where she might make herself useful with her needle, and could generally sit with mrs. parkins the housekeeper.
but lord beauport would not have this. treated as a lady, as a member of his own family in his house, or properly provided for out of it, should annie maurice be: my lady's companion, but my cousin always. no companionship with mrs. parkins, no set task or suggested assistance. her own room, her invariable presence when the rest of the family meet together, if you please. lady beauport did not please at first; but lord beauport was firm, firm as george brakespere used to be in the old days; and lady beauport succumbed with a good grace, and was glad of it ever after. for annie maurice not merely had the sweetest temper and the most winning ways,--not merely read in the softest voice, and had the taste to choose the most charming "bits," over which lady beauport would hum first with approval and then with sleep,--not merely played and sung delightfully, without ever being hoarse or disinclined,--not merely could ride with her back to the horses, and dress for the park exactly as lady beauport wished--neither dowdy nor swell,--but she brought old-fashioned receipts for quaint country dishes with which she won mrs. parkins's heart, and she taught hodgson, lady beauport's maid, a new way of _gauffreing_ which broke down all that abigail's icy spleen. her bright eyes, her white teeth, her sunny smile, did all the rest for her throughout the household: the big footmen moved more quickly for her than for their mistress; the coachman, with whom she must have interchanged confidential communications, told the groom she "knowed the p'ints of an 'oss as well as he did--spotted them wind-galls in jack's off 'ind leg, and says, 'a cold-water bandage for them,' she says;" the women-servants, more likely than any of the others to take offence, were won by the silence of her bell and her independence of toilette assistance.
lord caterham saw all this, and understood her popularity; but he saw too that with it all annie maurice was any thing but happy. reiteration of conventionality,--the reception of the callers and the paying of the calls, the morning concerts and afternoon botanical promenades, the occasional opera-goings, and the set dinner-parties at home,--these weighed heavily on her. she felt that her life was artificial, that she had nothing in common with the people with whom it was passed, save when she escaped to lord caterham's room. he was at least natural; she need talk or act no conventionality with him; might read, or work, or chat with him as she liked. but she wanted some purpose in life--that caterham saw, and saw almost with horror; for that purpose might tend to take her away; and if she left him, he felt as though the only bright portion of his life would leave him too.
yes; he had begun to acknowledge this to himself. he had fought against the idea, tried to laugh it off, but it had always recurred to him. for the first time in his life, he had moments of happy expectancy of an interview that was to come, hours of happy reflection over an interview that was past. of course the carry-chesterton times came up in his mind; but these were very different. then he was in a wild state of excitement and tremor, of flushed cheeks and beating heart and trembling lips; he thrilled at the sound of her voice; his blood, usually so calm, coursed through his veins at the touch of her hand; his passion was a delirium as alarming as it was intoxicating. the love of to-day had nothing in common with that bygone time. there was no similarity between carry chesterton's dash and _aplomb_ and annie maurice's quiet domestic ways. the one scorched him with a glance; the other soothed him with a word. how sweet it was to lie back in his chair with half-shut eyes, as in a dream, and watch her moving quietly about, setting every thing in order, putting fresh flowers in his vases, dusting his writing-table, laughingly upbraiding the absent algy barford, and taxing him with the delinquency of a half-smoked cigar on the mantelpiece, and a pile of cigar-ash on the carpet. then he would bid her finish her house-work, and she would wheel his chair to the table and read the newspapers to him, and listen to his quaint, shrewd, generally sarcastic comments on all she read. and he would sit, listening to the music of her voice, looking at the quiet charms of her simply-banded glossy dark-brown hair, at the play of feature illustrating every thing she read. it was a brother's love he told himself at first, and fully believed it; a brother's love for a favourite sister. he thought so until he pictured to himself her departure to some friend's or other, until he imagined the house without her, himself without her, and--and she with some one else. and then lord caterham confessed to himself that he loved annie maurice with all his soul, and simultaneously swore that by no act or word of his should she or any one else ever know it.
the carry-chesterton love-fever had been so sharp in its symptoms, and so prostrating in its results, that this second attack fell with comparative mildness on the sufferer. he had no night-watches now, no long feverish tossings to and fro waiting for the daylight, no wild remembrance of parting words and farewell hand-clasps. she was there; her "goodnight" had rung out sweetly and steadily without a break in the situation; her sweet smile had lit up her face; her last words had been of some projected reading or work for the morrow. it was all friend and friend or brother and sister to every one but him. the very first night after miss chesterton had been presented to lady beauport, the latter, seeing with a woman's quickness the position of affairs, had spoken of the young lady from homersham as "that dreadful person," "that terribly-forward young woman," and thereby goaded lord caterham into worse love-madness. now both father and mother were perpetually congratulating themselves and him on having found some one who seemed to be able to enter into and appreciate their eldest son's "odd ways." this immunity from parental worry and supervision was pleasant, doubtless; but did it not prove that to eyes that were not blinded by love-passion there was nothing in miss maurice's regard for her cousin more than was compatible with cousinly affection, and with pity for one so circumstanced? so lord caterham had it; and who shall say that his extreme sensitiveness had deceived him?
it was the height of the london season, and lady beauport was fairly in the whirl. so was annie maurice, whose position was already as clearly defined amongst the set as if she had been duly ticketed with birth, parentage, education, and present employment. hitherto her experience had decidedly been pleasant, and she had found that all the companion-life, as set forth in fashionable novels, had been ridiculously exaggerated. from no one had she received any thing approaching a slight, any thing approaching an insult. the great ladies mostly ignored her, though some made a point of special politeness; the men received her as a gentlewoman, with whom flirtation might be possible on an emergency, though unremunerative as a rule. her perpetual attendance on lady beauport had prevented her seeing as much as usual of lord caterham; and it was with a sense of relief that she found a morning at her disposal, and sent stephens to intimate her coming to his master.
she found him as usual, sitting listlessly in his wheelchair, the newspaper folded ready to his hand, but unfolded and unread. he looked up, and smiled as she entered the room, and said: "at last, annie at last! ah, i knew such a nice little girl who came here from ricksborough, and lightened my solitary hours; but we've had a fashionable lady here lately, who is always at concerts or operas, or eating ices at gunter's, or crushing into horticultural marquees, or--"
"arthur, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! you know, however, i won't stoop to argue with you, sir. i'll only say that the little girl from ricksborough has come back again, and that the fashionable lady has got a holiday and gone away."
"that's good; but i say, just stand in the light, annie."
"well, what's the matter now?"
"what has the little girl from ricksborough done with all her colour? where's the brightness of her eyes?"
"ah, you don't expect every thing at once, do you, sir? her natural colour has gone; but she has ordered a box from bond street; and as for the brightness of her eyes--"
"o, there's enough left; there is indeed, especially when she fires up in that way. but you're not looking well, annie. i'm afraid my lady's doing too much with you."
"she's very kind, and wishes me to be always with her."
"yes; but she forgets that the vicarage of ricksborough was scarcely good training-ground for the races in which she has entered you, however kindly you take to the running." he paused a minute as he caught annie's upturned gaze, and said: "i don't mean that, dear annie. i know well enough you hate it all; and i was only trying to put the best face on the matter. what else can i do?"
"i know that, arthur; nor is it lady beauport's fault that she does not exactly comprehend how a series of gaieties can be any thing but agreeable to a country-bred young woman. there are hundreds of girls who would give any thing to be 'brought out' under such chaperonage and in such a manner."
"you are very sweet and good to say so, annie, and to look at it in that light, but i would give any thing to get you more time to yourself."
"that proves more plainly than any thing, arthur, that you don't consider me one of the aristocracy; for their greatest object in life appears to me to prevent their having any time to themselves."
"miss maurice," said lord caterham with an assumption of gravity, "these sentiments are really horrible. i thought i missed my _mill on liberty_ from the bookshelves. i am afraid, madame, you have been studying the doctrines of a man who has had the frightful audacity to think for himself."
"no, indeed, arthur; nothing of the sort. i did take down the book--though of course you had never missed it; but it seemed a dreary old thing, and so i put it back again. no, i haven't a radical thought or feeling in me--except sometimes."
"and when is the malignant influence at work, pray?"
"when i see those footmen dressed up in that ridiculous costume, with powder in their heads, i confess then to being struck with wonder at a society which permits such monstrosity, and degrades its fellow-creatures to such a level."
"o, for a stump!" cried caterham, shaking in his chair and with the tears running down his cheeks; "this display of virtuous indignation is quite a new and hitherto undiscovered feature in the little girl from ricksborough; though of course you are quite wrong in your logic. your fault should be found with the creatures who permit themselves to be so reduced. that 'dreary old thing,' mr. mill, would tell you that if the supply ceased, the demand would cease likewise. but don't let us talk about politics, for heaven's sake, even in fun. let us revert to our original topic."
"what was that?"
"what was that! why you, of course! don't you recollect that we decided that you should have some drawing-lessons?"
"i recollect you were good enough to--"
"annie! annie! i thought it was fully understood that my goodness was a tabooed subject. no; you remember we arranged, on the private-view day of the exhibition, with that man who had those two capital pictures--what's his name?--ludlow, to give you some lessons."
"yes; but mr. ludlow himself told us that he could not come for some little time; he was going out of town."
"ive had a letter from him this morning, explaining the continuance of his absence. what do you think is the reason?"
"he was knocked up, and wanted rest?"
"n-no; apparently not."
"he's not ill? o, arthur, he's not ill?"
"not in the least, annie,--there's not the least occasion for you to manifest any uneasiness." lord caterham's voice was becoming very hard and his face very rigid. "mr. ludlow's return to town was delayed in order that he might enjoy the pleasures of his honeymoon in the isle of wight."
"his what?"
"his honeymoon; he informs me that he is just married."
"married? geoff married? who to? what a very extraordinary thing! who is he married to?"
"he has not reposed sufficient confidence in me to acquaint me with the lady's name, probably guessing rightly that i was not in the least curious upon the point, and that to know it would not have afforded me the slightest satisfaction."
"no, of course not; how very odd!" that was all annie maurice said, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes looking straight before her.
"what is very odd?" said caterham, in a harsh voice. "that mr. ludlow should get married? upon my honour i can't see the eccentricity. it is not, surely, his extreme youth that should provoke astonishment, nor his advanced age, for the matter of that. he's not endowed with more wisdom than most of us to prevent his making a fool of himself. what there is odd about the fact of his marriage i cannot understand."
"no, arthur," said annie, very quietly, utterly ignoring the querulous tone of caterham's remarks; "very likely you can't understand it, because mr. ludlow is a stranger to you, and you judge him as you would any other stranger. but if you'd known him in the old days when he used to come up to us at willesden, and papa was always teasing him about being in love with the french teacher at minerva house, a tall old lady with a moustache; or with the vicar's daughter, a sandy-haired girl in spectacles; and then poor papa would laugh,--o, how he would laugh!--and declare that mr. ludlow would be a bachelor to the end of his days. and now he's married, you say? how very, very strange!"
if lord caterham had been going to make any further unpleasant remark, he checked himself abruptly, and looking into annie's upturned pondering face, said, in his usual tone,
"well, married or not married, he won't throw us over; he will hold to his engagement with us. his letter tells me he will be back in town at the end of the week, and will then settle times with us; so that we shall have our drawing-lessons after all."
but annie, evidently thoroughly preoccupied, only answered methodically, "yes--of course--thank you--yes." so lord caterham was left to chew the cud of his own reflections, which, from the manner in which he frowned to himself, and sat blankly drumming with his fingers on the desk before him, was evidently no pleasant mental pabulum. so that he was not displeased when there came a sonorous tap at the door, to which, recognising it at once, he called out, "come in!"
