"What a courageous man – port in the forenoon!" he said, to the Count.
The other said nothing, but inwardly devoted the newcomer to the deeps of Hades.
"And smoking to our old port!"
"A cigar doesn't make much difference to club-wines, young gentleman," said the Count, grandly.
"Heard a good thing just now. Fellow was abusing Scotchmen to a Scotch tradesman, and of course Bannockburn was mentioned. 'Why,' says the Englishman, 'plenty of my countrymen were buried at Bannockburn, and there you have rich harvests of grain. Plenty of your countrymen were buried at Culloden, and there you have only a barren waste. Scotchmen can't even fatten the land.'"
"Did he kill him?"
"No; the Englishman was a customer."
Once more the Count was left to his happy imaginings.
"Then the marriage," he thought to himself, "then the marriage, – the girls in white, champagne, fun, horses, and flowers, and away for France! No Trouville for me, no Etretât, no Biarritz. A quiet old Norman town, with an old inn, and an old priest; and she and I walking about like the lord and lady of the place, with all the children turning and looking at her as if she were an Italian saint come down from one of the pictures in the church. This is what I offer her – instead of what? A sempstress's garret in Camden Town, or a music-mistress's lodgings in Islington, surrounded by squalid and dingy people, glaring publichouses, smoke, foul air, wretchedness, and misery. I take her from the slums of Islington, and I lead her down into the sweet air of Kent, and I make a queen of her!"
The Count's face beamed with pleasure, and port. The very nimbleness of his own imagination tickled him —
"Look at her! In a white cool morning-dress, with her big heaps of black hair braided up, as she goes daintily down into the garden in the warm sunshine, and her little fingers are gathering a bouquet for her breast. The raw-boned wives of your country gentry, trying to cut a dash on the money they get from selling their extra fruit and potatoes, turn and look at my soft little Italian princess as she lies back in her barouche, and regards them kindly enough, God bless her! What a job I shall have to teach her her position – to let her know that now she is a lady the time for general good-humour is gone! Mrs. Anerley, yes; but none of your clergymen's wives, nor your doctors' wives, nor your cow-breeding squires' wives for her! Day after day, week after week, nothing but brightness, and pleasure, and change. All this I am going to give her in exchange for the squalor of Islington!"
The Count regarded himself as the best of men. At this moment, however, there strolled into the smoking-room a certain Colonel Tyrwhitt, who was connected by blood or marriage with half-a-dozen peerages, had a cousin in the Cabinet, and wore on his finger a ring given him by the decent and devout old King of Saxony. This colonel – "a poor devil I could buy up twenty times over," said the Count, many a time – walked up to the fireplace, and turning, proceeded to contemplate the Count, his wine, and cigar, as if these objects had no sensible existence. He stroked his grey moustache once or twice, yawned very openly, and then walked lazily out of the room again without having uttered a word.
"D – n him!" said the Count, mentally; "the wretched pauper, who lives by loo, and looks as grand as an emperor because he has some swell relations, who won't give him a farthing. These are the people who will be struck dumb with amazement and envy by-and-by. My time is coming.
"'Ah! my dear fellah!' says this colonel to me, some morning; 'I've heard the news. Congratulate you – all my heart. Lord Bockerminster tells me you've some wonderful shooting down in Berks.'
"'So I have,' says I; 'and I should be glad, Colonel, to ask you down, but you know my wife and I have to be rather select in our choice of visitors – '
"'What the devil do you mean?' says he.
"'Only that our list of invitations is closed for the present.'
"Suppose he gets furious? Let him! I don't know much about fencing or pistol-shooting, but I'd undertake to punch his head twenty times a week."
The Count took another sip of port, and pacified himself.
"Then the presentations to Her Majesty. I shouldn't wonder if the Queen took us up when she gets to learn Annie's story. It would be just like the Queen to make some sort of compensation; and once she saw her it would be all right. The Court Circular– 'Osborne, May 1. Count Schönstein and Lady Annie Knottingley had the honour of dining with the Queen and the Royal Family.' Lord Bockerminster comes up to me, and says —
"'Schönstein, old boy, when are you going to give me a turn at your pheasants? I hear you have the best preserves in the South of England.'
"'Well, you see, my lord,' I say, carelessly, 'I have the Duke of S – and a party of gentlemen going down on the 1st, and the Duke is so particular about the people he meets that I – you understand?'
"And why only a Duke? The Prince of Wales is as fond of pheasant-shooting as anybody else, I suppose. Why shouldn't he come down with the Princess and a party? And I'd make the papers talk of the splendid hospitality of the place, if I paid, damme, a thousand pounds for every dish. Then to see the Princess – God bless her, for she's the handsomest woman in England, bar one! – walking down on the terrace with Annie, while the Prince comes up to me and chaffs me about some blunder I made the day before. Then I say —
"'Well, your Royal Highness, if your Royal Highness was over at Schönstein and shooting with my keepers there, perhaps you might put your foot in it too.'
"'Count Schönstein,' says he, 'you're a good fellow and a trump, and you'll come with your pretty wife and see us at Marlborough House?'"
The Count broke into a loud and triumphant laugh, and had nearly demolished the glass in front of him by an unlucky sweep of the arm. Indeed, further than this interview with these celebrated persons, the imagination of the Count could not carry him. He could wish for nothing beyond these things except the perpetuity of them. The Prince of Wales should live for ever, if only to be his friend.
And if this ultimate and royal view of the future was even more pleasing than the immediate and personal one, it never occurred to him that there could be any material change in passing from one to the other. Annie Brunel was to be grateful and loving towards him for having taken her from "the squalor of Islington" to give her a wealthy station; she was to be equally grateful and loving when she found herself the means of securing to her husband that position and respect which he had deceived her to obtain. Such trifling points were lost in the full glory which now bathed the future that lay before his eyes. Annie Brunel had shown herself not unwilling to consent, which was equivalent to consenting; and there only remained to be reaped all the gorgeous happiness which his imagination, assisted by a tolerable quantity of wine, could conceive.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MOTHER CHRISTMAS'S STORY
Annie Brunel ran into Mrs. Christmas's room the moment Count Schönstein had left, and, sitting down by the bedside, took the old woman's lean hand in hers.
"Lady Jane, I have been looking over the advertisements in the Times, and do you know what I have found?"
"No."
"One offering me a marvellous lot of money, and a fine house in the country, with nice fresh air and constant attendance for you. Horses, carriages, opera-boxes, months at the seaside – everything complete. There!"
"Why don't you take it, sweetheart?" said the old woman, with a faint smile.
"Because – I don't say that I shan't take it – there is a condition attached, and such a condition! Not to puzzle you, mother, any more, Count Schönstein wants me to be his wife. Now!"
"Are you serious, Annie?" said Mrs. Christmas, her aged eyes full of astonishment.
"I can't say. I don't think the Count was. You know he is not a witty man, mother, and it mightbe a joke. But if it was a joke, he acted the part admirably – he pulled two leaves out of my photographic album, and nibbled a hole in the table-cover with his nail. He sate so, Lady Jane, and said, in a deep bass voice, 'Miss Brunel, I have 30,000*l.* a year; I am old; I am affectionate; and will you marry me?' Anything more romantic you could not imagine: and the sighs he heaved, and the anxiety of his face, would have been admirable, had he been dressed as 'Orlando,' and playing to my 'Rosalind.' 'For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.' 'Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours!'"
"Sweetheart, have you grown mad? What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say. Must I describe the whole scene to you? – my lover's fearful diffidence, my gentle silence, his growing confidence, my wonder and bewilderment, finally, his half-concealed joy, and my hasty rush to you, Lady Jane, to tell you the news?"
"And a pretty return you are making for any man's confidence and affection, to go on in that way. What did you say to him?"
"Nothing."
"And what do you mean to say?"
"Nothing. What can I say, Lady Jane? I am sure he must have been joking; and, if not, he ought to have been. At the same time, I don't laugh at the Count himself, mother, but at his position a few minutes ago."
"And as you laugh at that, you laugh at the notion of becoming his wife."
The smile died away from the girl's face, and for some time she sate and gazed wistfully before her. Then she said —
"You ought to be able to say what I ought to do, mother. I did not say no, I did not say yes; I was too afraid to say either. And now, if we are to talk seriously about it, I am quite as much afraid. Tell me what to do, Lady Jane."
"Is it so entirely a matter of indifference that you can accept my advice?"
"It is quite a matter of indifference," said the girl, calmly.
"Do you love him, Annie?" said the old woman.
For one brief second the girl's thoughts flashed to the man whom she did love; but they returned with only a vague impression of pain and doubt. She had not had time to sit down and reason out her course of duty. She could only judge as yet by the feelings awakened by the Count's proposal, and the pictures which it exhibited to her mind.
"Do I love him, mother?" she said, in a low voice. "I like him very well, and I am sure he is very fond of me; I am quite sure of that."
"And what do you say yourself about it?"
"What can I say? If I marry him," she said, coldly, "it will give him pleasure, and I know he will be kind to me and to you. It is his wish – not mine. We should not be asking or receiving a favour, mother. I suppose he loves me as well as he loves any one; and I suppose I can make as good a wife as any one else."
There was in this speech the faint indication of a bitterness having its root in a far deeper bitterness, which had suggested the whole tone of this interview. When Mrs. Christmas thought the girl was laughing cruelly at a man who had paid her the highest compliment in his power, when she saw this girl exhibiting an exaggerated heartlessness in talking of the proposed marriage as a marriage of convenience, she did not know that this indifference and heartlessness were but the expression of a deep, and hopeless, and despairing love.
"Poverty is not a nice thing, mother; and until I should have established myself as a teacher of music, we should have to be almost beggars. The Count offers us a pleasant life; and I dare say I can make his dull house a little more cheerful to him. It is a fair bargain. He did not ask me if I loved him: probably he did not see the necessity any more than I do. What he proposes will be a comfortable arrangement for all of us."
Mrs. Christmas looked at the calm, beautiful, sad face, and said nothing.
"I think the Count is an honourable, well-meaning man," continued the girl, in the same cold tone. "If he sometimes makes himself ridiculous, so do most of us; and doubtless he is open to improvement. I think he is remarkably good-natured and generous, and I am sure he will be kind to us."
Consider Mrs. Christmas's position. An old woman, almost bedridden, ailing, and requiring careful and delicate attention, – one who has seen much of the folly of love and much of the power of money, – is asked for her advice by a young girl who is either on the one hand to marry a wealthy good-natured man, willing to give both a comfortable home, or, on the other hand, to go out alone into the world of London, unprotected and friendless, to earn bread for two people. Even admitting that no grain of selfishness should colour or shape her advice, what was she likely to say?
Ninety-nine women out of a hundred, under such circumstances, would say: "My dear, be sensible, and accept the offer of a worthy and honourable gentleman, instead of exposing yourself to the wretchedness and humiliation of poverty. Romance won't keep you from starving; and besides, in your case, there is no romantic affection to compel you to choose between love and money. People who have come to my time of life know the advantages of securing a happy home and kind friends."
This, too, is probably what Mrs. Christmas would have said – if she had not been born and bred an actress. This is what she did say: —
"My dear" (with a kindly smile on the wan face), "suppose you and I are going forward to the footlights, and I take your hand in mine, and look into your face, and say, 'Listen to the sad story of your mother's life?'"
"Well, Lady Jane?"
"You are supposed to be interested in it, and take its moral deeply to heart. Well, I'm going to tell you a story, sweetheart, although you may not see any moral in it – it's a story your mother knew."
"If she were here now!" the girl murmured, inadvertently.
"When I was three years younger than you, I was first chambermaid in the Theatre Royal, Bristol. Half the pit were my sweethearts; and I got heaps of letters, of the kind that you know, Annie – some of them impudent, some of them very loving and respectful. Sometimes it was, 'My dear Miss, will you take a glass of wine with me at such and such a place, on such and such a night?' and sometimes it was, 'I dare not seek an introduction, lest I read my fate in your refusal. I can only look at you from afar off, and be miserable.' Poor boys! they were all very kind to me, and used to take such heaps of tickets for my benefits, for in Bristol, you know, the first chambermaid had a benefit like her betters."
"There were none better than you in the theatre, I'm sure, mother," said Annie.
"Don't interrupt the story, my dear; for we are at the footlights, and the gallery is supposed to be anxious to hear it. I declare I have always loved the top gallery. There you find critics who are attentive, watchful, who are ready to applaud when they're pleased, and to hiss when they're not. Well, there was one poor lad, out of all my admirers, got to be acquainted with our little household, and he and I became – friends. He was a wood-engraver, or something like that, only a little older than myself – long fair hair, a boyish face, gentleness like a girl about him; and nothing would do but that I should engage to be his wife, and he was to be a great artist and do wonders for my sake."
The hard look on the young girl's face had died away now, and there was a dreaminess in her eyes.
"I did promise; and for about two years we were a couple of the maddest young fools in the world – I begging him to make haste, and get money, and marry me – he full of audacious schemes, and as cheerful as a lark in the certainty of marrying me. He tried painting pictures; then he began scene-painting, and succeeded so well that he at last got an engagement in a London theatre, and nearly broke his heart when he went away there to make money for both of us."
The old woman heaved a gentle sigh.
"Whenever I'm very sad, all the wretchedness of that first parting of my life comes over me, and I see the wet streets of Bristol, and the shining lamps, and his piteous face, though he tried to be very brave over it, and cheer me up. I felt like a stone, and didn't know what was going on; I only wished that I could get away into a corner and cry myself dead. Very well, he went, and I remained in Bristol. I needn't tell you how it came about – how I was a little tired of waiting, and we had a quarrel, and, in short, I married a gentleman who had been very kind and attentive to me. He was over thirty, and had plenty of money, for he was a merchant in Bristol, and his father was an old man who had made a fine big fortune in Jamaica. He was very kind to me, in his way, and for a year or two we lived very well together; but I knew that he thought twenty times of his business for once he thought of me. And what was I thinking of? Ah, Miss Annie, don't consider me very wicked if I tell you, that from the hour in which I was married there never passed a single day in which I did not think of the other one."
"Poor mother!" said the girl.
"Every day; and I used to go down on my knees and pray for him, that so I might be sure my interest in him was harmless. We came to London, too; and every time I drove along the streets – I sate in ray own carriage, then, my dear – I used to wonder if I should see him. I went to the theatre in which he was scene-painter, thinking I might catch a glimpse of him from one of the boxes, passing through the wings; but I never did. I knew his house, however, and sometimes I passed it; but I never had the courage to look at the windows, for fear he should be there. It was very wicked, very wicked, Annie."
"Was your husband kind to you?"
"In a distant sort of way that tormented me. He seemed always to consider me an actress, and a baby; and he invariably went out into society alone, lest I should compromise him, I suppose. I think I grew mad altogether; for one day, I left his house resolved never to go back again – "
"And you said he was kind to you!" repeated the girl, with a slight accent of reproach.
"I suppose I was mad, Annie; at any rate I felt myself driven to it, and couldn't help myself. I went straight to the street in which he lived, and walked up and down, expecting to meet him. He did not come. I took lodgings in a coffeehouse. Next day I went back to that street; even then I did not see him. On the third afternoon, I saw him come down the steps from his house, and I all at once felt sick and cold. How different he looked now! – firm, and resolute, and manly, but still with the old gentleness about the eyes. He turned very pale when he saw me, and was about to pass on. Then he saw that my eyes followed him, and perhaps they told him something, for he turned and came up to me, and held out his hand, without saying a word."
There were tears in the old woman's eyes now.
"'You forgive me?' I said, and he said 'Yes' so eagerly that I looked up again. I took his arm, and we walked on, in the old fashion, and I forgot everything but the old, old days, and I wished I could have died just then. It seemed as if all the hard intervening years had been swept out, and we were still down in Bristol, and still looking forward to a long life together. I think we were both out of our senses for several minutes; and I shall never forget the light there was on his face and in his eyes. Then he began to question me, and all at once he turned to me, with a scared look, and said —
"'What have you done?'
"It was past undoing then. I knew he loved me at that moment as much as ever, by the terrible state he got into. He implored me to go back to my husband. I told him it was too late. I had already been away two days from home.
"'If I could only have seen you on the day you left your husband's house," he said, 'this would never have happened. I should have made you go back.'
"Then I began to feel a kind of fear, and I said —
"'What am I to do, Charlie? What are you going to do with me?'
"'I?' he said. 'Do you ask me what I must do? Would you have me leave my wife and children – ?'
"I did not know he was married, you see, Miss Annie. Oh, the shame that came over me when I heard these words! The moment before I scarcely knew that I walked at all, so deliriously full of joy I was; then I wished the ground would open beneath my feet. He offered to go to my husband and intercede for me; but I would have drowned myself rather than go back. I was the wretchedest woman in the whole world. And I could see that he loved me as much as ever, though he never would say so. That is all of my story that need concern you; but shall I tell you the rest, Miss Annie?"
"Yes, Lady Jane."
"Your mother was then the most popular actress in London; she could do anything she liked in the theatre; and it was for that theatre that he chiefly worked then, though he became a great artist afterwards. Well, he took me back to the coffeehouse, and left me then; and then he went and persuaded your mother to take an interest in me, and through her means I got an engagement in the same theatre. From the moment I was settled there, he treated me almost like a stranger. He took off his hat to me in the street, and passed on without speaking. If I met him in the theatre, he would say 'Good evening' as he would to the other ladies. He used to send me little presents, and he never forgot my birthday; but they were always sent anonymously, and if I saw him the next day he seemed more distant than ever, as if to keep me away. Oh, many and many a time have I been on the point of throwing myself at his feet, and clasping his knees, and thanking him with my whole heart for his goodness to me. I used to hate his wife, whom I had never seen, until one Sunday morning I saw her and him going to church, one little girl at his hand, another at hers – and the sweet face she had turned my heart towards her. Would you believe it, he bowed to me as kindly and respectfully as ever, and I think he would have stopped and spoken to me then, only I hurried away out of his sight."
"And you never went back?" said the girl, softly.
"How could I go back, clothed with shame, and subject myself to his suspicion? Besides, he was the last man to have taken me back. Once he felt sure I had left his house wilfully, I am certain he did not trouble himself much about me – as why should he? – why should he?"
"It is a very sad story, Lady Jane."
"And it has a moral."
"But not for me. You are afraid I should marry Count Schönstein out of pique, and so be wretched? But there is no other person whom I could marry."
"Come closer to me, sweetheart. There, bend your head down, and whisper. Is there no other person whom you love?"
The girl's head was so close down to the pillow that the blush on her face was unseen as she said, in a scarcely audible voice —
"There is, mother."
"I thought so, my poor girl. And he loves you, does he not?"
"He does, Lady Jane. That is the misery of it."
"You think he is not rich enough? He has his way to make? Or perhaps his friends?"
"You are speaking of – ?"
"Mr. Anerley."
"But all your conjectures are wrong, mother – all quite wrong. Indeed, I cannot explain it to you. I only know, mother, that I am very unhappy."
"And you mean to marry Count Schönstein to revenge yourself – ?"
"I did not say I would marry Count Schönstein," said the girl, fretfully, "and I have nothing to revenge. I am very sorry, Lady Jane, to think of the sad troubles you have had, and you are very good to warn me; but I have not quarrelled with anybody, and I am not asked to wait in order to marry anybody, and – "
Here she raised herself up, and the old bitter hard look came to the sad and gentle face.
" – And if I should marry Count Schönstein, I shall disappoint no one, and break no promise. Before I marry Count Schönstein, he shall know what he may expect from me. I can give him my esteem, and confidence, and a certain amount of liking; and many people have lived comfortably on less. And you, mother, should be the last to say anything against an arrangement which would give you comfort, and relieve your mind from anxiety – "
"And you have lived so long with me," said old Mother Christmas, reproachfully, "and you don't know yet that sooner than let my comfort bring you to harm, Annie, or tempt you to a false step, I would twenty times rather beg my bread?"
"Forgive me, mother!" said the girl, impetuously, "but I don't know what I've been saying. Everything seems wrong, and cruel, and if I forget that you have been a mother to me, it is – it is because – I am – so miserable that – "
And here the two women had a hearty cry together, which smoothed down their troubles for the present, and drew them closer to each other.