CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE BAIT IS TAKEN
Mrs. Anerley felt very nervous in going to visit Miss Brunel. She had never seen an actress in private life; and, on the stage, this particular actress had seemed so grand and majestic – so thoroughly out of and beyond the ordinary sphere of everyday existence – that she almost feared to approach so glorious a creature.
She was very particular about her dress; and perhaps she inwardly composed a few phrases to break the difficulty of introduction.
But there was no awkwardness where Mr. Anerley was concerned. He went forward, and took the girl by the hand, and told her, in as gentle a way as possible, the object of their mission. She was apparently much touched by this sign of their thoughtfulness and goodness; and said so briefly. Mrs. Anerley forgot all her prepared little speeches. While her husband talked to Annie Brunel, she stood and watched the strange intensity of the girl's large dark-grey eyes. There was no embarrassment there, and no scanning of the embarrassment of others; they were too absent, and yet full of a strong personal feeling, which showed itself as she accepted, with great gratitude, Mr. Anerley's offer.
"There is one other thing you ought to do," he said. "Get away from the house at once."
"If we could only have asked you to come down to our house in the country for a few days," said Mrs. Anerley, in her kindly way, "that would have been the best thing for you, and a great pleasure to us."
"You would have asked me to visit your home?" said the young girl, suddenly flashing her clear honest eyes on Mrs. Anerley's face.
"Yes – why not?" said Mrs. Anerley, almost in fright, fancying she had committed herself.
"You are very kind indeed," said Annie Brunel. "Actresses are not accustomed to such kindness – especially from strangers."
"But you mustn't call us strangers," said Mr. Anerley, good-naturedly. "We have the pleasure of knowing you very well; and in a few days we hope you will know something of us, if we can be of any service to you. To live in this house, alone, with these sad remembrances, is very unwise; and, in a day or two, you must leave it."
"Yes, I must leave it – because I must go where I can earn my bread. Has your son told you, sir, that I have left the stage? So I have; but at present I have no clear idea of what I must do – and yet I must do something."
"I am afraid you have placed yourself in a very perilous position," said Mr. Anerley.
"But I got to dislike the stage so much that I had to leave it."
"Why you should have left the stage!" exclaimed Mrs. Anerley, in open admiration, leaving the sentence unfinished.
Annie Brunel looked at her for a moment, and said, slowly —
"I have been very fortunate in giving you a good impression of myself. I thought most ladies outside the theatre looked down upon us theatre folk; and I was afraid you had come here only at your son's solicitation, with a sort of – "
"Ah, don't say any more," said Mrs. Anerley, with a genuine pain on her face. "It is not right to judge of people like that. I wish I could only show you what Dove and I would like to do in taking you among us, and making you comfortable, until you should forget this sad blow."
"As for her," said Miss Brunel, with a smile, "I knew she was too gentle and good to despise any one, the moment I saw her. But she was so much sweeter and truer than ordinary women that I accounted for it on that ground; and I grew so fond of her in a few minutes. And you, too – what can I offer you for your goodness to me but my gratitude and my love?"
"My poor girl!" said Mrs. Anerley, with a touch of moisture in the corner of her eyes, "I hope we may have some opportunity of proving to you what we think of you."
Mr. Anerley found that Will had explained to Miss Brunel the circumstances in which the family were now placed; so that he was relieved from the embarrassment of saying that whatever aid he might give her would not be pecuniary aid. But he had not much experience yet of the girl to whom he was speaking – of the quaint plainness and directness of her speech, the very antithesis of the style and manner which Mrs. Anerley had expected to meet.
Annie Brunel told him what small savings she possessed, and asked him if these could be made to cover all the expenses of the funeral, so that she might start on her new career unencumbered with debt. He thought it might be done, and he at once assumed the management of the sad details of the business before them.
"But then," she said, "I have the servant to pay: and I don't know what arrangement I may be able to make with the landlord of the house. Hitherto he has been very obliging."
"That, also, I will look after," said Mr. Anerley, "if you can put confidence in a man who has so successfully managed his own affairs as to bring his whole family into poverty."
"And I? Can I do nothing for you?" said Mrs. Anerley. "We who are all suffering from some kind of trouble should be glad to accept help from each other. Now, tell me – the clothes you may want – what have you done?"
"I had just begun to look over some things when you came in."
"Shall I stay and help you until dinner-time? Do let me."
And so, whilst Mr. Anerley went off to see the landlord, Mrs. Anerley stayed behind and lent her assistance to that work in which the feminine heart, even when overshadowed by a funeral, finds consolation and delight. And she afterwards declared that she had never worked with a pleasanter companion than this patient, self-possessed, and cheerful girl, whose queenly gestures, and rich voice, and dark clear face had so entranced and awed her when 'Juliet' came upon the stage.
The two women became confidential with each other in the most natural and easy way. Mrs. Anerley entirely forgot the actress, and became wonderfully fond of and familiar with this quaint-mannered girl, with the splendid hair and the honest eyes.
"For my own part," she said to her, "I am not at all sorry that my husband has lost this money, if it were not likely to affect Dove's comfort. You know he is such a very good man, and the very kindest and best husband a woman could wish to have; but I cannot tell you how it troubles me sometimes to think that he is not of the same religious opinions as the rest of us. That is the only thing; and I am sure it has been brought on by his being too well-off, and having nothing to do but read and speculate. He has never been put in a position requiring that aid and comfort we get from religious service; and it is only carelessness, I am convinced, has led him away."
"And now you think this misfortune – "
"Not the misfortune altogether, but the rougher fight he will have with the world. He will be glad to have that sense of peace and rest with which people sit together in church, and forget their everyday troubles. If it will only do that for him – if it will only bring him back to us – I shall be glad that we have lost every penny we had in the world. It has been my trouble for years to think of his perilous state."
"He does not look like a man who would believe anything dangerous."
"I hope not – I hope not," said the tender wife; "I hope it is not dangerous. And yet I shall never feel that he is safe until he returns to the old faith and opinions he had when I first knew him. Even then, when a very young man, I was never sure of him. But he was always so respectful to every kind of religion, whether he believed in it or not, that I – yes, I – took him on trust."
"You do not seem to have regretted your choice," said Annie Brunel.
"No," she said, with a pleased and proud smile, "You won't find many people live more comfortably than we. But there is that one thing you see – "
"And your son – does he go with his father in these things?"
"I don't think so. I hope not. But both of them are such good men that I can't make up my mind to go and speak to them as if – as if they were sinners, you know."
A perplexed, humorous smile came over her face; and yet Annie saw that her friend was very much in earnest over this matter. It was the one bitter thing in this good woman's contented and peaceful lot.
After that interview Mrs. Anerley spent the better part of each day with her new protégée, and a wonderful love grew up between the two women – motherly and tender on the one side, trusting and childlike on the other. And for the first day or two Mr. Anerley paid far more attention to Annie Brunel's affairs than he did to his own, until Mrs. Christmas was hidden away from a world that had perhaps not been over-kind to her, and until the young girl was ready to go forth and seek her own existence. Will during this time never came near. He was trying to repair the beautiful world that he had shattered, and he kept faithfully to the task.
Finally, there came the question as to how Annie Brunel was to earn a living, and the Times was again called into requisition. Many a weary hour did Mrs. Anerley and her charge spend in reading through the advertisements, and writing letters in reply to those which seemed most suitable. No answer came to any one of these applications. For some reason or other they had not thought it worth while to reply to the advertisement about music, French, and private theatricals; but at last the pertinacity with which the lines appeared in the newspaper drew discussion down upon them.
"If I were to be asked how I became proficient in theatricals, I should have to say I was on the stage; and I don't wish to do that."
"Why, dear?"
"Because the people might say they did not wish to have an actress in the house, and I want to avoid the insult."
"My dear, you have the absurdest notions. If they had seen you on the stage, they will be all the more delighted to have you. It was because you were an actress, I firmly believe, that I came to see you; and in a few days I have made a daughter of you."
"Nobody seems inclined to answer my letters," said the girl, ruefully.
"You may wait, and wait, for months," said Mrs. Anerley. "Add this one to the number, and tell them who you are. But you must tell them that you only want a small salary, or they will never think of engaging you."
So the letter was written in accordance with these suggestions, and posted with several others. By that night's post – and the exceeding swiftness of the response might have provoked some suspicion in less unworldly minds – there came a letter. Annie Brunel was alone. She saw by the unknown handwriting that the letter was likely to be a reply to one of her applications; and for a minute or two she allowed the envelope to remain unopened, while she wondered what sort of destiny lay folded within it.
These were the words she read —
"Rose Villa, Haverstock Hill, October 29, 18 – .
"Mrs. John Hubbard presents compliments to Miss Brunel; is exceedingly obliged by the offer of her valuable assistance, and would Miss Brunel be good enough to call, at her convenience, any forenoon between ten and two? Mrs. Hubbard hopes that if Miss Brunel can be induced to accept the situation which lies at her disposal, nothing will be wanting to render her position in the house more that of a friend than an instructress. Mrs. Hubbard hopes her proposal, when properly explained to Miss Brunel, will meet with Miss Brunel's favourable consideration."
This to a governess! The girl scarcely knew how to regard the letter – so familiar, so respectful, so anxious.
"Here is another person who does not object to my being an actress. And I am to be her friend."
She came to the conclusion that a lady who could so write to a perfect stranger, must either be mad, or have an idea that, in asking Annie Brunel to her house, it was 'Juliet' or 'Rosalind' who might be expected to come.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE NEW GOVERNESS
It was a cold wet day, in the beginning of November, when Annie Brunel got out of the Hampstead 'bus, and found herself in the muddy highway of Haverstock Hill: a wet and cheerless day, with a damp and cutting wind, and a perpetual drizzling rain, that made the black stems of the leafless trees glisten and drip; a day to make the people who passed each other in the street, vainly muffled-up against the wet and the keen cold, hate each other with a vague and gratuitous hatred. There was scarcely a traveller on foot who did not regard all others in similar plight as somehow responsible for the contrariety of the elements.
"What a pity you should have come to-day!" cried Mrs. John Hubbard, as she came into the hall to receive her visitor. "I would rather you had broken a dozen appointments. I hope you are not wet. I hope you are not cold. Come into the drawing-room at once; there is a nice warm fire to bring the blood to your fingers again."
During this speech Annie Brunel had time to examine her future mistress. She was not obviously mad. Indeed, the coal-black hair, the rosy cheeks, the small and pretty mouth, the neat figure and small hands, were the natural ornaments of a person who seemed mentally far too colourless and contented ever to be troubled by intellectual derangement. Yet the new governess was as much puzzled by her reception as by the letter she had received.
"There now, take this easy-chair – let me draw it in for you – and we shall have a chat over the matter. I have hitherto only had a morning governess, you know; the poor girl took unwell some time ago, and she has not been here for some days now."
At this precise moment, Miss Betham was upstairs, packing her music and preparing for final departure. But to the good-natured and mentally limp Mrs. Hubbard, lying came as easily as telling the truth. She would not have told a lie to secure a particular end; but in the course of conversation she did not seem to recognise the necessity of being exact in her statements. She lied broadly and often; but she lied harmlessly – at least she meant to do no harm by her lying.
"I won't ask you any questions, Miss Brunel – not one. You have your own reasons for leaving the stage; and I'm not going to quarrel with what enables me to have your assistance (if we can make arrangements, that is), which I don't doubt for a moment."
"I am quite inexperienced, as I told you in my letter – "
"Oh, that does not signify," said the other, affably.
Annie Brunel looked up with a glance of astonishment, which any woman not a fool would have noticed.
"And if you think that I know enough to attempt to get into the way of teaching, I shall leave all the other arrangements to you. I am not anxious about the salary you may be inclined to give me; because, after all, it is only a trial. And if you think I am worth to you, in the meantime, so much per week as will keep me in food and pay my lodgings – "
"Your lodgings! I could not think of submitting you to the misery of lodgings so long as I have a comfortable room to offer you."
Mrs. Hubbard did not look like a practical joker; but her reception of the new governess looked uncommonly like a practical joke.
"You are very kind," said Annie, the wide eyes being a little wider than usual; "but I thought it was as a day-governess – "
"To be sure, we have always had a day-governess. But in your case I should prefer a resident governess, especially if you are about to leave your home and take lodgings."
"I meant to take lodgings somewhere near you, if I had the good fortune to please you."
"In this neighbourhood you couldn't get lodgings; and if you go down to Camden Town, or over to Kentish Town – oh, my dear, I couldn't think of it. My husband is very particular about everybody connected with us being treated fairly – like one of ourselves, you understand; and as soon as he heard of your being inclined to answer the advertisement, he said —
"'I hope Miss Brunel will find a comfortable home here.'"
This was another lie – indeed, what little intellect the poor woman had chiefly took the form of invention.
"I am not anxious to go into lodgings," said Annie Brunel, with a smile, "as I had a good deal of experience of them at one time."
"Shall we consider it settled, then?"
"But you do not know whether I am fit for the duties you require."
"What an objection! I know you are."
"Then, as to terms – "
"We shan't quarrel about terms. Come and stay with us as soon as you can, and we'll make everything comfortable and agreeable for you, and we'll settle about terms afterwards. Then, you know, we shall have private theatricals to amuse you."
In certain stories, and in not a few dramas, Annie Brunel had seen a perfect stranger suddenly determine to play the part of a special Providence towards the heroine; but she was lost in astonishment to meet that incomprehensible friend in real life. Here she was, however; and when it is manna that the clouds rain, there is little reason in putting up an umbrella.
Mrs. Hubbard rang the bell, and sent a servant for the children. They came trooping down to the drawing-room, pushing each other, and looking very shy and a trifle sulky.
"This is the lady who will help you with your lessons now, my dears, since Miss Betham has gone."
"Miss Betham hasn't gone – she is upstairs yet," said Master Alexander, "and she has just told Kate to fetch her her sherry."
"Ah, come to look after some music she has left behind, perhaps," said Mrs. Hubbard, with a significant nod to Annie.
"You will find the children very obedient," she continued, "and nothing shall be wanting to add to your comfort. May we conclude the bargain to be settled?"
"Certainly, so far as I am concerned," said the girl.
These were the agreeable tidings which awaited Mr. John Hubbard when he returned home that night.
"She is such a charming person," said his wife; "I don't wonder at your brother being fond of her."
"He is fond of her money," said John Hubbard, gloomily, "and fancies himself sure of it now."
"It would be very wicked to take advantage of the girl's innocence in any way," said Mrs. Hubbard, a proposition to which her husband assented.
"But if we can touch her gratitude, my dear," said he, "there is no saying, as I told you before, what might happen."
CHAPTER XXXV.
ANOTHER BLUNDER
The old year died out; the new one came in – not attended with any very bright auspices for the persons concerned in this story. John Hubbard was, perhaps, the only one of them who was pleased with present events, and hopeful for the future. During many a secret conclave with his good-natured, pretty, limp, and lying little wife, he speculated on what shape his governess's gratitude would ultimately assume.
Mr. Anerley had not succeeded in getting any employment. Several times he was offered certain situations, and was on the point of accepting, when his son peremptorily forbade any such notion.
"If you can get proper employment, and proper remuneration," said Will, "well and good; if not, the pound or two you would get would not compensate for the trouble and ignominy of such a position."
Will's voice in the matter was powerful, for he was supporting the household with such exertions as he was yet permitted to make. The old man did not think of trouble or ignominy. He thought only of Dove, and the numerous little luxuries to which she was accustomed. Nor dared he speak of this, except to his wife; for both saw the perpetual endeavours that Will was making for all of them. Sometimes the old man distrusted the audacious cheerfulness with which Will insisted on his mother and Dove having this or that particular luxury; and once he made a discovery that led him to think retrospectively of many things.
Down in St. Mary-Kirby there was no home entertainment which afforded Dove so much pleasure as having red mullet and champagne for supper; and the disgraceful little epicure picked so daintily her tiny morsel of fish, and sipped so quaintly, with coquettish eyes thrown at her father, her glass of wine, that to the other people the feast was much more æsthetic than sensuous.
"Mother," said Will, one evening, when he came home (but his words were directed to Dove), "we haven't had red mullet for supper for a long time. I've brought home some; and I've brought home a small case of champagne for the especial use of people who behave themselves."
"Oh, Will!" said the mother, "what extravagance!"
"The boy's mad!" said the father.
"Do you hear them, Dove? Now they have misconducted themselves, you and I shall have all the champagne to ourselves."
What a merry little party it was, that evening! The landlord of the house lent them the proper wineglasses; Dove went and put on part of the blue pearl head-dress the Count had given her, to make-believe she had been at the theatre; and when they sate down at the bright white cloth, with everything on the table as brilliant and clean as fingers could make it, it was quite like old times.
"Now, Will," said Mr. Anerley, "let's see what you've brought. Mind you, my taste isn't dulled by want of exercise."
"I didn't consider your taste a bit, sir. I got the wine for Dove, and it is as sweet as – "
"Herself! These young people are too bashful to pay compliments nowadays. Ah, Dove, don't these bits of blue paper hold wonders within them – the treasures of the deep – the only fish worth calling a fish – and every one of them with a diamond ring in its mouth? Here, Will, give me your ring, that I may see how it looks on the nose of this famous fellow which I mean to give to Dove."
The young man darted a hasty deprecating look towards his father, and the blood rushed over his face. The father caught that swift look, and glanced at the finger on which Will generally wore this ring – one he had brought from Turkey. There was no ring there; it had been there that morning.
Mr. Anerley did not enjoy the supper. Sometimes the fish seemed to stick in his throat; and the wine had a bitter flavour.
But he did not spoil the enjoyment of the others; and Dove's delight at recalling one of the old bygone evenings was immense. She persisted in making-believe that they had been to the theatre, and criticized the actors gravely and severely. She pecked at her little piece of fish like a thrush at a ripe white cherry; and she wore on her pretty, small, blue-veined wrist a wonderful bracelet that Will had brought her from abroad.
"Shall I kiss the goblet for you, Sir Knight?" she said, taking a little sip out of Will's glass.
"And yours, venerable sir?"
"It seems to me," said Mr. Anerley, "that the old custom was a system of levying blackmail on all the wineglasses round. Still, I will pay the price. Well, now it isn't bad wine; but the bouquet is clearly owing to you, Dove."
"I didn't like the lover to-night," said Dove, critically. "He seemed as if his clothes were quite new. I can't bear a lover coming with new clothes, and trying to make an effect. A lover should forget his tailor when he is in love. And I am against people being married in new clothes, with bridesmaids in new clothes, and everybody in new clothes, and everybody feeling cramped, and stiff, and embarrassed. When I marry, I shall have my husband wear the old, old suit in which I used to see him come home from his work! – the clothes which I've got to love about as much as himself. I shan't have the tailor come between him and me."
"The heroine was rather pretty," hazarded Will, concerning the imaginary play.
"Well, yes. But she made love to us, and not to him. And I can't bear kissing on the stage – before such a lot of people – why don't they do all that before they come on the stage, and then appear as engaged or married?"
"But you would have to employ a chorus to come and explain to the audience what was going on in the 'wings,'" said Will.
And so they chatted, and gossiped, and laughed, and it seemed as if they were again down in the old and happy Kentish valley.
When they had retired for the night, Mr. Anerley told his wife his suspicions about the ring.
"I was afraid he had done something like that," she said. "But who could regret it, seeing Dove so delighted? I hope he won't do it again, however. I should tell him of it but that I know he will be vexed if we mention it."
By common consent the case of champagne was relegated to the grand occasions of the future. The family was not in a position to pay a wine-merchant's bill; and so they remained contented with the knowledge that on any sudden prompting they had it in their power to become extravagant and luxurious.
Then Dove was better, so far as they could see; and they bore their little hardships with wonderful equanimity. She was better, doubtless, but she was very delicate; and the doctor had had a long and serious conversation with Mr. Anerley, in which he was advised to take Dove to spend the rest of the winter in Italy. Sirius was quite as possible a destination.
By this time Annie Brunel had become familiar with the Hubbard family, and had definitely entered upon her new duties. The longer she stayed in the house, the more she was puzzled by the consideration with which every one, except her pupils, treated her; and even they were impertinent not through intention, but by habit. Mrs. Hubbard was almost obtrusively affectionate towards her governess. Everything was done to make her residence in the house agreeable. She lunched and dined with Mrs. Hubbard, so that poor Miss Betham's sherry was never called into requisition. When there was a dinner-party or a dance in the house, Annie Brunel was invited as a guest, introduced to visitors as a guest, treated with all the courtesy due to a guest. She was never asked to sing by the Hubbards; although she played and sang enough at the solicitation of other people. The children were taught to consider her, not as a governess, but as a friend of their mamma's. When there were people at the house, they were obliged to treat her as a gracious and distinguished lady who had come to spend the evening, not as a poor governess expected to find correct accompaniments for people who gratuitously changed the key three or four times in the course of a song.
As a governess, she ought to have been very grateful for such treatment. Yet she felt far from happy or contented. She did not like the pale, round-shouldered, nervous man who never looked one in the face. Despite the gratitude she could not but feel towards Mrs. Hubbard, she did not admire or love much that lady, whose unnecessary mendacity she had once or twice discovered. Here, however, was a home. Outside, the cold elements, the chiller hearts of strangers, the vicissitudes, trials, struggles, martyrdom of a fight for life; inside, warmth and comfort, apparently true friends, and easy duties. She tried to be grateful for all these things; and when moods of lonely despair and melancholy overwhelmed her, she upbraided her own weakness, and resolved to be more thankful in the future.
The Count had not ventured to go near her. He was satisfied to know that she was in safe keeping. He could bide his time. He had made one blunder; he would not again commit the mistake of forcing marital concerns upon her while she was moved by grief for the loss of an old friend. He allowed the slow passing days and weeks to work for him; trusting that in time he would only have to step in and reap the rich harvest his prudence had prepared.
But he called frequently at the office of his brother, to receive reports. And the tone of the Count, on one or two occasions, was sufficient to stir up a mild remonstrance from even that patient and much-enduring person.
"You talk to me as if you had paid me to engage her and keep her in the house for you."
"Did you engage her for yourself? You know I suggested the thing to you; and am prepared to reimburse you for any extra expense you may have been put to."
"I declare," said the milder brother, "you talk as if you were fattening a pig, and I was watching the yard. You come and look over the palings, and gloat over your future satisfaction, and compliment me if the prospect is pleasing to you. Mind you, I don't think you have any supreme claim on the girl."
"Have you?"
"Certainly not."
"Well, what's the use of talking nonsense, Jack? If I marry her, it will be as good for you as for me."
"How?" said the lawyer, coldly, and with affected carelessness.
"Well," replied the Count, with some embarrassment, "there's the money, you see, coming into the family. That's a great matter."
"Yes, to you," said John Hubbard.
The Count looked at him for a moment; perhaps a thought struck him just then that, after all, his brother might be sincere in his view of the matter, and might testify his sincerity by carrying off the prize for himself.
"Gad, he can't do that very well," said the Count to himself, with a merry laugh, when he came to reflect on the conversation, "or what would Jane say? The girl is useless to him, so what's the use of his talking nonsense? Her money is safe from him, if safe from anybody."
But the more the Count thought over the affair, the less did he like the tone that his brother had lately assumed in talking of Annie Brunel. Further, he would have been as well pleased had he known that Miss Brunel was not quite so comfortable in his brother's house.
These things were the subject of much conjecture and calculation on his part. They were also the theme of his after-dinner musings. Now, after-dinner dreams and resolves are very beautiful at times; but they should never be put down on paper. In an evil hour – it was one evening after he had dined, all by himself, in that great house down in Kent – he placed the following words in a letter to his brother:
"Balnacluith House, near St. Mary-Kirby,
"Jan. 17, 18 – .
"DEAR JOHN,
"Let me add a word to what I recently said about Miss Brunel. It is your interest to forward my interest, as you will discover. Now, I am afraid you are treating her with so much mistaken kindness that she will get to consider the position of governess pleasant. This is misleading her. She will only suffer for it afterwards. Nothing like wholesome severity at the time – nothing. Hubert Anerley came to me and asked me to lend him some money and let him off a bargain about my brougham and a pair of horses. Did I? I knew it would only delude him with absurd hopes, and I said no; and so he accepted his fate, and I suppose has set about repairing a fortune lost by his own carelessness. That's my way, Jack; and you're too kind to the girl. Get Jane to try some wholesome severity – to teach her what a governess is – frighten her – threaten to turn her out without a character, or something of the sort. Anything, so she is made to understand how insecure her position is. You understand? Then I step in, and our family becomes one of the richest in England. What do you say to that? Do it at once – and firmly. It will be better to be done decisively – very decisively – and soon.