the meeting between margaret and annie maurice, which geoffrey had so anxiously desired, had taken place, but could scarcely be said to have been successful in its result. with the best intention possible, and indeed with a very earnest wish that these two women should like each other very much, geoff had said so much about the other to each, as to beget a mutual distrust and dislike before they became acquainted. margaret could not be jealous of geoffrey; her regard for him was not sufficiently acute to admit any such feeling. but she rebelled secretly against the constant encomiastic mention of annie, and grew wearied at and annoyed with the perpetually-iterated stories of miss maurice's goodness with which geoffrey regaled her. a good daughter! well, what of that? she herself had been a good daughter until temptation assailed her, and probably miss maurice had never been tempted.--so simple, honest, and straightforward! yes, she detested women of that kind; behind the mask of innocence and virtue they frequently carried on the most daring schemes. annie in her turn thought she had heard quite enough about mrs. ludlow's hair and eyes, and wondered geoff had never said any thing about his wife's character or disposition. it was quite right, of course, that he, an artist, should marry a pretty person; but he was essentially a man who would require something more than mere beauty in his life's companion, and as yet he had not hinted at any accomplishments which his wife possessed. there was a something in lord caterham's tone, when speaking to and of geoffrey ludlow, which had often jarred upon annie's ear, and which she now called to mind in connection with these thoughts--a certain tinge of pity more akin to contempt than to love. annie had noticed that caterham never assumed this tone when he was talking to geoffrey about his art; then he listened deferentially or argued with spirit; but when matters of ordinary life formed the topics of conversation her cousin seemed to regard geoffrey as a kind of large-hearted boy, very generous very impulsive, but thoroughly inexperienced. could arthur caterham's reading of geoffrey ludlow's character be the correct one? was he, out of his art, so weak, vacillating, and easily led? and had he been caught by mere beauty of face? and had he settled himself down to pass his life with a woman of whose disposition he knew nothing? annie maurice put this question to herself with a full conviction that she would be able to answer it after her introduction to mrs. ludlow.
about a week after geoffrey had given his first drawing-lesson in st. barnabas square, annie drove off one afternoon to elm lodge in lady beauport's barouche. she had begged hard to be allowed to go in a cab, but lord caterham would not hear of it; and as lady beauport had had a touch of neuralgia (there were very few illnesses she permitted to attack her, and those only of an aristocratic nature), and had been confined to the house, no objection was made. so the barouche, with the curly-wigged coachman and silver-headed footmen on the box, went spinning through camden and kentish towns, where the coachman pointed with his whip to rows of small houses bordering the roadside, and wondered what sort of people could live "in such little 'oles;" and the footman expressed his belief that the denizens were "clerks and poor coves of that kind," the children of the neighbourhood ran out in admiration of the whole turn-out, and especially of the footman's hair, which afforded them subject-matter for discussion during the evening, some contending that his head had been snowed upon; some insisting that it "grew so;" and others propounding a belief that he was a very old man, and that his white hair was merely natural. when the carriage dashed up to the gates of elm lodge, the misses coverdale next door were, as they afterwards described themselves, "in a perfect twitter of excitement;" because, though good carriages and handsome horses were by no means rare in the pretty suburb, no one had as yet ventured to ask his servant to wear hair-powder; and the coronet, immediately spied on the panels, had a wonderful effect.
the visit was not unexpected by either margaret or geoffrey; but the latter was at the moment closely engaged with mr. stompff, who had come up to make an apparently advantageous proposition; so that when annie maurice was shown into the drawing-room, she found margaret there alone. at sight of her, annie paused in sheer admiration. margaret was dressed in a light striped muslin; her hair taken off her face and twisted into a large roll behind; her only ornaments a pair of long gold earrings. at the announcement of miss maurice's name, a slight flush came across her face, heightening its beauty. she rose without the smallest sign of hurry, grandly and calmly, and advanced a few paces. she saw the effect she had produced and did not intend that it should be lessened. it was annie who spoke first, and annie's hand was the first outstretched.
"i must introduce myself, mrs. ludlow," said she, "though i suppose you have heard of me from your husband. he and i are very old friends."
"o, miss maurice?" said margaret, as though half doubtful to whom she was talking. "o yes; geoffrey has mentioned your name several times. pray sit down."
all this in the coldest tone and with the stiffest manner. prejudiced originally, margaret, in rising, had caught a glimpse through the blinds of the carriage, and regarded it as an assertion of dignity and superiority on her visitor's part, which must be at once counteracted.
"i should have come to see you long before, mrs. ludlow, but my time is not my own, as you probably know; and--"
"yes, mr. ludlow told me you were lady beauport's companion." a hit at the carriage there.
"yes," continued annie with perfect composure, though she felt the blow, "i am lady beauport's companion, and consequently not a free agent, or, as i said, i should have called on you long ago."
margaret had expected a hit in exchange for her own, which she saw had taken effect. a little mollified by her adversary's tolerance, she said:
"i should have been very glad to see you, miss maurice; and in saying so i pay no compliment; for i should have been very glad to see any body to break this fearful monotony."
"you find it dull here?"
"i find it dreary in the extreme."
"and i was only thinking how perfectly charming it is. this sense of thorough quiet is of all things the most pleasant to me. it reminds me of the place where the happiest days in my life have been passed; and now, after the fever and excitement of london, it seems doubly grateful. but perhaps you have been accustomed to gaiety."
"yes; at least, if not to gaiety, to excitement; to having every hour of the day filled up with something to do; to finding the time flown before i scarcely knew it had arrived, instead of watching the clock and wondering that it was not later in the day."
"ah, then of course you feel the change very greatly at first; but i think you will find it wear off. one's views of life alter so after we have tried the new phase for a little time. it seems strange my speaking to you in this way, mrs. ludlow; but i have had a certain amount of experience. there was my own dear home; and then i lived with my uncle at a little country parsonage, and kept house for him; and then i became--lady beauport's companion."
a bright red patch burned on margaret's cheek as annie said these words. was it shame? was the quiet earnestness, the simple courtesy and candour of this frank, bright-eyed girl getting over her?
"that was very difficult at first, i confess," annie continued; "every thing was so strange to me, just as it may be to you here, but i had come from the quietude to the gaiety; and i thought at one time it would be impossible for me to continue there. but i held on, and i manage to get on quite comfortably now. they are all very kind to me; and the sight of mr. ludlow occasionally insures my never forgetting the old days."
"it would be strange if they were not kind to you," said margaret, looking fixedly at her. "i understand now what geoffrey has told me about you. we shall be friends, shall we not?" suddenly extending her hand.
"the very best of friends!" said annie, returning the pressure; "and, dear mrs. ludlow, you will soon get over this feeling of dulness. these horrible household duties, which are so annoying at first, become a regular part of the day's business, and, unconsciously to ourselves, we owe a great deal to them for helping us through the day. and then you must come out with me whenever i can get the carriage,--o, ive brought lady beaupores card, and she is coming herself as soon as she gets out again,--and we'll go for a drive in the park. i can quite picture to myself the sensation you would make."
margaret smiled--a strange hard smile--but said nothing.
"and then you must be fond of reading; and i don't know whether mr. ludlow has changed, but there was nothing he used to like so much as being read to while he was at work. whenever he came to the priory, papa and i used to sit in the little room where he painted and take it in turns to read to him. i daresay he hasn't liked to ask you, fearing it might bore you; and you haven't liked to suggest it, from an idea that you might interrupt his work."
"o yes, ive no doubt it will come right," said margaret, indisposed to enter into detail; "and i know i can rely on your help; only one thing--don't mention what i have said to geoffrey, please; it might annoy him; and he is so good, that i would not do that for the world."
"he will not hear a word of it from me. it would annoy him dreadfully, i know. he is so thoroughly wrapped up in you, that to think you were not completely happy would cause him great pain. yes, he is good. papa used to say he did not know so good a man, and--"
the door opened as she spoke, and geoff entered the room. his eyes brightened as he saw the two women together in close conversation; and he said with a gay laugh:
"well, little annie you've managed to find us out, have you?--come away from the marble halls, and brought 'vassals and serfs by your side,' and all the king's horses and all the king's men, up to our little hut. and you introduced yourself to margaret, and you're beginning to understand one another, eh?"
"i think we understand each other perfectly; and what nonsense you talk about the vassals and king's horses, and all that! they would make me have the carriage; and no one but a horrible democrat like you would see any harm in using it."
"democrat?--i?--the stanchest supporter of our aristocracy and our old institutions. i intend to have a card printed, with 'instruction in drawing to the youthful nobility and gentry. references kindly permitted to the earl of b., lord c., &c.'--well, my child," turning to margaret, "you'll think your husband more venerable than ever after seeing this young lady; and remembering that he used to nurse her in his arms."
"i have been telling miss maurice that now i have seen her, i can fully understand all you have said about her; and she has promised to come and see me often, and to take me out with her."
"that's all right," said geoffrey; "nothing will please me better.--it's dull for her here, annie, all alone; and i'm tied to my easel all day."
"o, that will be all right, and we shall get on capitally together, shall we not, annie?"
and the women kissed one another, and followed geoffrey into the garden.
that was the brightest afternoon margaret had spent for many a day. the carriage was dismissed to the inn, there to be the admiration of the ostlers and idlers while the coachman and footman, after beer, condescended to play skittles and to receive the undisguised compliments of the village boys. geoffrey went back to his work; and margaret and annie had a long talk, in which, though it was not very serious, annie's good sense perpetually made itself felt, and at the end of which margaret felt calmer, happier, and more hopeful than she had felt since her marriage. after the carriage had driven away, she sat pondering over all that had been said. this, then, was the miss maurice against whom she had conceived such a prejudice, and whom "she was sure she could never like?" and now, here, at their very first meeting, she had given her her confidence, and listened to her as though she had been her sister! what a calm quiet winning way she had! with what thorough good sense she talked! margaret had expected to find her a prim old-maidish kind of person, younger, of course, but very much of the same type as the miss coverdales next door, utterly different from the fresh pretty-looking girl full of spirits and cheerfulness. how admirably she would have suited geoff as a wife! and yet what was there in her that she (margaret) could not acquire? it all rested with herself; her husband's heart was hers, firmly and undoubtedly, and she only needed to look her lot resolutely in the face, to conform to the ordinary domestic routine, as annie had suggested, and all would be well. o, if she could but lay the ghosts of that past which haunted her so incessantly, if she could but forget _him_, and all the associations connected with him, her life might yet be thoroughly happy!
and annie, what did she think of her new acquaintance? whatever her sentiments were, she kept them to herself, merely saying in answer to questions that mrs. geoffrey ludlow was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen; that she could say with perfect truth and in all sincerity; but as to the rest, she did not know--she could scarcely make up her mind. during the first five minutes of their interview she hated her, at least regarded her with that feeling which annie imagined was hate, but which was really only a mild dislike. there were few women, annie supposed, who could in cold blood, and without the slightest provocation, have committed such an outrage as that taunt about her position in lady beauport's household; but then again there were few who would have so promptly though silently acknowledged the fault and endeavoured to make reparation for it. how openly she spoke! how bitterly she bemoaned the dulness of her life that did not argue well for geoffrey's happiness; but doubtless mrs. ludlow had reason to feel dull, as have most brides taken from their home and friends, and left to spend the day by themselves; but if she had really loved her husband, she would have hesitated before thus complaining to a stranger--would for his sake have either endeavoured to throw some explanatory gloss over the subject, or remained silent about it. she did not seem, so far as annie saw, to have made any attempt to please her husband, or indeed to care to do so. how different she was from what annie had expected! how different from all her previous experience of young married women, who indeed generally "gushed" dreadfully, and were painfully extravagant in their laudations of their husbands when they were absent, and in their connubialities when they were present. geoffrey's large eloquent eyes had melted into tenderness as he looked at her; but she had not returned the glance, had not interchanged with him one term of endearment, one chance pressure of the hand. what did it all mean? what was that past gaiety and excitement to which she said she had been accustomed? what were her antecedents? in the whole of her long talk with annie, margaret had spoken always of the future, never of the past. it was of what she should do that she asked counsel; never mentioning what she had done; never alluding to any person, place, or circumstance connected with her existence previously to her having become geoffrey ludlow's wife. what were her antecedents? once or twice during their talk she had used an odd word, a strange phrase, which grated on annie's ear; but her manner was that of a well-bred gentlewoman; and in all the outward and visible signs of race, she might have been the purest aristocrat.
meantime her beauty was undeniable, was overwhelming. such hair and eyes annie had dreamed of, but had never seen. she raved about them until caterham declared she must puzzle her brain to find some excuse for his going to elm lodge to see this wonderful woman. she described margaret to lady beauport, who was good enough to express a desire to see "the young person." she mentioned her to algy barford, who listened and then said, "nice! nice! caterham, dear old boy! you and i will take our slates and go up to--what's the name of the place?--to learn drawing. must learn on slates, dear boy. don't you recollect the house of our childhood with the singular perspective and an enormous amount of smoke, like wool, coming out of the chimneys? must have been a brewery by the amount of smoke, by jove! and the man in the cocked-hat, with no stomach to speak of, and both his arms very thin with round blobs at the end growing out of one side. delicious reminiscences of one's childhood, by jove!"
and then annie took to sketching after-memory portraits of margaret, first mere pencil outlines, then more elaborate shaded attempts and finally a water-colour reminiscence, which was anything but bad. this she showed to lord caterham, who was immensely pleased with it, and who insisted that barford should see it. so one morning when that pleasantest of laughing philosophers was smoking his after-breakfast cigar (at about noon) in caterham's room, mooning about amongst the nick-nacks, and trotting out his little scraps of news in his own odd quaint fashion, annie, who had heard from stephens of his arrival, came in, bringing the portrait with her.
"enter, miss maurice!" said algy; "always welcome, but more especially welcome when she brings some delicious little novelty, such as i see she now holds under her arm. what would the world be without novelty?--shakespeare. at least, if that delightful person did not make that remark, it was simply because he forgot it; for it's just one of those sort of things which he put so nicely. and what is miss maurice's novelty?"
"o! it's no novelty at all, mr. barford. only a sketch of mrs. geoffrey ludlow, of whom i spoke to you the other day. you recollect?"
"recollect! the muse of painting! terps--clio--no matter! a charming person from whom we were to have instruction in drawing, and who lives at some utterly unsearchable place! of course i recollect! and you have a sketch of her there? now, my dear miss maurice, don't keep me in suspense any longer, but let me look at it at once." but when the sketch was unrolled and placed before him, it had the very singular effect of reducing algy barford to a state of quietude. beyond giving one long whistle he never uttered a sound, but sat with parted lips and uplifted eyebrows gazing at the picture for full five minutes. then he said, "this is like, of course, miss maurice?"
"well, i really think i may say it is. it is far inferior to the original in beauty, of course; but i think i have preserved her most delicate features."
"just so. her hair is of that peculiar colour, and her eyes a curious violet, eh?"
"yes."
"this sketch gives one the notion of a tall woman with a full figure."
"yes; she is taller than i, and her figure is thoroughly rounded and graceful."
"ye-es; a very charming sketch, miss maurice; and your friend must be very lovely if she at all resembles it."
shortly after, when mr. algy barford had taken his leave, he stopped on the flags in st. barnabas square, thus soliloquising: "all right, my dear old boy, my dear old algy! it's coming on fast--a little sooner than you thought; but that's no matter. colney hatch, my dear boy, and a padded room looking out over the railway. that's it; that's your hotel, dear boy! if you ever drank, it might be _del. trem_., and would pass off; but you don't. no, no; to see twice within six months, first the woman herself; and then the portrait of the woman--just married and known to credible witnesses--whom you have firmly believed to be lying in kensal green! colney hatch, dear old boy; that is the apartment, and nothing else!"
