yes; little annie maurice, lady beauport's companion, was the heiress of the rich and eccentric mr. ampthill, so long known in society. the fact was a grand thing for the paragraph-mongers and the diners-out, all of whom distorted it in every possible way, and told the most inconceivable lies about it. that annie was mr. ampthill's natural daughter, and had been left on a doorstep, and was adopted by lady beauport, who had found her in an orphan-asylum; that mr. ampthill had suddenly determined upon leaving all his property to the first person he might meet on a certain day, and that annie maurice was the fortunate individual; that the will had been made purposely to spite lady beauport, with whom mr. ampthill, when a young man, had been madly in love--all these rumours went the round of the gossip-columns of the journals and of society's dinner-parties. other stories there were, perhaps a little nearer to truth, which explained that it was not until after lionel brakespere's last escapade he had been disinherited; indeed, that parkinson of thavies inn and scadgers of berners street had looked upon his inheritance as such a certainty, that they had made considerable advances on the strength of it, and would be heavily hit: while a rumour, traceable to the old gentleman's housekeeper, stated that annie maurice was the only one of mr. ampthill's connections who had never fawned on him, flattered him, or in any way intrigued for his favour.
be this as it might, the fact remained that annie was now the possessor of a large fortune, and consequently a person of great importance to all her friends and acquaintance--a limited number, but quite sufficient to discuss her rise in life with every kind of asperity. they wondered how she would bear it; whether she would give herself airs; how soon, and to what member of the peerage, she would be married. how _did_ she bear it? when lord beauport sent for her to his study, after mr. ampthill's funeral, and told her what he had heard, she burst into tears; which was weak, but not unnatural. then, with her usual straightforward common-sense, she set about forming her plans. she had never seen her benefactor, so that even mrs. grundy herself could scarcely have called on annie to affect sorrow for his loss; and indeed remarks were made by mr. ampthill's old butler and housekeeper (who, being provided with mourning out of the estate, were as black and as shiny as a couple of old rooks) about the very mitigated grief which annie chose to exhibit in her attire.
then as to her mode of life. for the present, at least, she determined to make no change in it. she said so at once to lord beauport, expressing an earnest hope that she should be allowed to remain under his roof, where she had been so happy, until she had settled how and where she should live; and lord beauport replied that it would give him--and he was sure he might speak for lady beauport the greatest pleasure to have miss maurice with them. he brought a message to that effect from lady beauport, who had one of her dreadful neuralgic attacks, and could see no one, but who sent her kind love to miss maurice, and her heartiest congratulations, and hoped that miss maurice would remain with them as long as she pleased. the servants of the house, who heard of the good fortune of "the young lady," rejoiced greatly at it, and suggested that miss would go hout of this at once, and leave my lady to grump about in that hold carriage by herself. they were greatly astonished, therefore, the next morning to find annie seated at the nine-o'clock breakfast-table, preparing lady beauport's chocolate, and dressed just as usual. they had expected that the first sign of her independence would be lying in bed till noon, and then appearing in a gorgeous wrapper, such as the ladies in the penny romances always wore in the mornings; and they could only account for her conduct by supposing that she had to give a month's warning and must work out her time. lady beauport herself was astonished when, the necessity for the neuralgic attack being over, she found annie coming to ask her, as usual, what letters she required written, and whether she should pay any calls for her ladyship. lady beauport delicately remonstrated; but annie declared that she would infinitely prefer doing exactly as she had been accustomed to, so long as she should remain in the house.
so long as she should remain in the house! that was exactly the point on which lady beauport was filled with hope and dread. her ladyship had been cruelly disappointed in mr. ampthill's will. she had suffered herself to hope against hope, and to shut her eyes to all unfavourable symptoms. the old gentleman had taken so much notice of lionel when a boy, had spoken so warmly of him, had made so much of him, that he could not fail to make him his heir. in vain had lord beauport spoken to her more plainly than was his wont, pointing out that lionel's was no venial crime; that mr. ampthill probably had heard of it, inasmuch as he never afterwards mentioned the young man's name; that however his son's position might be reinstated before the world, the act could never be forgotten. in vain algy barford shook his head, and caterham preserved a gloomy silence worse than any speech. lady beauport's hopes did not desert her until she heard the actual and final announcement. almost simultaneously with this came lord beauport with annie's request that she should be permitted to continue an inmate of the house; and immediately lady beauport conceived and struck out a new plan of action. the heritage was lost to lionel; but the heiress was annie maurice, a girl domiciled with them, clinging to them; unlikely, at least for the few ensuing months, to go into the world, to give the least chance to any designing fortune-hunter. and lionel was coming home! his mother was certain that the letter which she had written to him on the first news of mr. ampthill's illness would induce him, already sick of exile, to start for england. he would arrive soon, and then the season would be over; they would all go away to homershams, or one of beauport's places; they would not have any company for some time, and lionel would be thrown into annie maurice's society; and it would be hard if he, with his handsome face, his fascinating manners, and his experience of women and the world, were not able to make an easy conquest of this simple quiet young girl, and thus to secure the fortune which his mother had originally expected for him.
such was lady beauport's day-dream now, and to its realisation she gave up every thought, in reference to it she planned every action. it has already been stated that she had always treated annie with respect, and even with regard: so that the idea of patronage, the notion of behaving to her companion in any thing but the spirit of a lady, had never entered her mind. but now there was an amount of affectionate interest mingled with her regard which annie could not fail to perceive and to be gratified with. all was done in the most delicate manner. lady beauport never forgot the lady in the _intrigante_; her advances were of the subtlest kind; her hints were given and allusions were made in the most guarded manner. she accepted annie's assistance as her amanuensis, and she left to her the usual colloquies on domestic matters with the housekeeper, because she saw that annie wished it to be so; and she still drove out with her in the carriage, only insisting that annie should sit by her side instead of opposite on the back-seat. and instead of the dignified silence of the employer, only speaking when requiring an answer, lady beauport would keep up a perpetual conversation, constantly recurring to the satisfaction it gave her to have annie still with her. "i declare i don't know what i should have done if you had left me, annie!" she would say. "i'm sure it was the mere thought of having to lie left by myself, or to the tender mercies of somebody who knew nothing about me, that gave me that last frightful attack of neuralgia. you see i am an old woman now; and though the carringtons are proverbially strong and long-lived, yet i have lost all my elasticity of spirit, and feel i could not shape myself to any person's way now. and poor caterham too! i cannot think how he would ever get on without you. you seem now to be an essential part of his life. poor caterham! ah, how i wish you had seen my other son, my boy lionel! such a splendid fellow; so handsome! ah, lord beauport was dreadfully severe on him, poor fellow, that night,--you recollect, when he had you and caterham in to tell you about poor lionel; as though young men would not be always young men. poor lionel!" poor lionel! that was the text of lady beauport's discourse whenever she addressed herself to annie maurice.
it was not to be supposed that annie's change of fortune had not a great effect upon lord caterham. when he first heard of it--from algy barford, who came direct to him from the reading of the will--he rejoiced that at least her future was secure; that, come what might to him or his parents, there would be a provision for her; that no chance of her being reduced to want, or of her having to consult the prejudices of other people, and to perform a kind of genteel servitude with any who could not appreciate her worth could now arise. but with this feeling another soon mingled. up to that time she had been all in all to him--to him; simply because to the outside world she was nobody, merely lady beauport's companion, about whom none troubled themselves; now she was miss maurice the heiress, and in a very different position. they could not hope to keep her to themselves; they could not hope to keep her free from the crowd of mercenary adorers always looking out for every woman with money whom they might devour. in her own common sense lay her strongest safeguard; and that, although reliable on all ordinary occasions, had never been exposed to so severe a trial as flattery and success. were not the schemers already plotting? even within the citadel was there not a traitor? algy barford had kept his trust, and had not betrayed one word of what lady beauport had told him; but from stray expressions dropped now and again, and from the general tenor of his mother's behaviour, lord caterham saw plainly what she was endeavouring to bring about. on that subject his mind was made up. he had such thorough confidence in annie's goodness, in her power of discrimination between right and wrong, that he felt certain that she could never bring herself to love his brother lionel, however handsome his face, however specious his manner; but if, woman-like, she should give way and follow her inclination rather than her reason, then he determined to talk to her plainly and openly, and to do every thing in his power to prevent the result on which his mother had set her heart.
there was not a scrap of selfishness in all this. however deeply arthur caterham loved annie maurice, the hope of making her his had never for an instant arisen in his breast. he knew too well that a mysterious decree of providence had shut him out from the roll of those who are loved by woman, save in pity or sympathy; and it was with a feeling of relief, rather than regret, that of late--within the last few months--he had felt an inward presentiment that his commerce with life was almost at an end, that his connection with that vanity fair, through which he had been wheeled as a spectator, but in the occupation or amusement of which he had never participated, was about to cease. he loved her so dearly, that the thought of her future was always before him, and caused him infinite anxiety. worst of all, there was no one of whom he could make a confidant amongst his acquaintance. algy barford would do any thing; but he was a bachelor, which would incapacitate him, and by far too easy-going, trouble-hating, and unimpressive. who else was there? ah, a good thought!--that man ludlow, the artist; an old friend of annie's, for whom she had so great a regard. he was not particularly strong-minded out of his profession; but his devotion to his child-friend was undoubted; and besides, he was a man of education and common sense, rising, too, to a position which would insure his being heard. he would talk with ludlow about annie's future; so he wrote off to geoffrey by the next post, begging him to come and see him as soon as possible. yes, he could look at it all quite steadily now. heaven knows, life to him had been no such happiness as to make its surrender painful or difficult it was only as he neared his journey's end, he thought, that any light had been shed upon his path, and when that should be extinguished he would have no heart to go further. no: let the end come, as he knew it was coming, swiftly and surely; only let him think that _her_ future was secured, and he could die more than contented--happy.
her future secured! ah, that he should not live to see! it could not, must not be by a marriage with lionel. his mother had never broached that subject openly to him, and therefore he had hitherto felt a delicacy in alluding to it in conversation with her; but he would before--well, he would in time. not that he had much fear of annie's succumbing to his brother's fascinations; he rated her too highly for that. it was not--and he took up a photographic album which lay on his table, as the idea passed through his mind--it was not that careless reckless expression, that easy insolent pose, which would have any effect on annie maurice's mental constitution. those who imagine that women are enslaved through their eyes--true women--women worth winning at least--are horribly mistaken, he thought, and--and then at that instant he turned the page and came upon a photograph of himself, in which the artist had done his best so far as arrangement went, but which was so fatally truthful in its display of his deformity, that lord caterham closed the book with a shudder, and sunk back on his couch.
his painful reverie was broken by the entrance of stephens, who announced that mr. and mrs. ludlow were waiting to see his master. caterham, who was unprepared for a visit from mrs. ludlow, gave orders that they should be at once admitted. mrs. ludlow came in leaning on her husband's arm, and looking so pale and interesting, that caterham at once recollected the event he had seen announced in the _times_, and began to apologise.
"my dear mrs. ludlow, what a horrible wretch i am to have asked your husband to come and see me, when of course he was fully occupied at home attending to you and the baby!" then they both laughed; and geoff said:
"this is her first day out, lord caterham; but i had promised to take her for a drive; and as you wanted to see me, i thought that--"
"that the air of st. barnabas square, the fresh breezes from the thames, and the cheerful noise of the embankment-people, would be about the best thing for an invalid, eh?"
"well--scarcely! but that as it was only stated that my wife should go for a quiet drive, i, who have neither the time nor the opportunity for such things, might utilise the occasion by complying with the request of a gentleman who has proved himself deserving of my respect."
"a hit! a very palpable hit, mr. ludlow!" said caterham. "i bow, and--as the common phrase goes--am sorry i spoke. but we must not talk business when you have brought mrs. ludlow out for amusement."
"o, pray don't think of me, lord caterham," said margaret; "i can always amuse myself."
"o, of course; the mere recollection of baby would keep you sufficiently employed--at least, so you would have us believe. but i'm an old bachelor, and discredit such things. so there's a book of photographs for you to amuse yourself with while we talk.--now, mr. ludlow, for our conversation. since we met, your old friend annie maurice has inherited a very large property."
"so i have heard, to my great surprise and delight. but i live so much out of the world that i scarcely knew whether it was true, and had determined to ask you the first time i should see you."
"o, it's thoroughly true. she is the heiress of old mr. ampthill, who was a second cousin of her father's. but it was about her future career, as heiress of all this property, that i wanted to speak to you, you see.--i beg your pardon, mrs. ludlow, what did you say?"
her face was dead white, her lips trembled, and it was with great difficulty she said any thing at all; but she did gasp out, "who is this?"
"that," said lord caterham, bending over the book; "o, that is the portrait of my younger brother, lionel brakespere; he--" but caterham stopped short in his explanation, for mrs. ludlow fell backward in a swoon.
and every one afterwards said that it was very thoughtless of her to take such a long drive so soon after her confinement.
