In Silk Attire: A Novel

"But why not come with us?" said his mother.

"I would rather you went by yourselves. She will be only too grateful if you go to see her. She does not know how to manage a funeral. Then she is alone; you will be able to speak to her better than I, and in any case I must remain with Dove."

So they went, and when they were gone, Dove asked him to come and seat himself beside her couch. She put out her little white hand to him, and he noticed that her eyes were singularly large and clear. They were fixed upon him with the old tender sadness, and he was forced to think of the time when heaven itself seemed open to him in those beautiful, transparent depths. But why should they be sad? He remembered the old delight of them, the mystery of them, the kindness of them; and perhaps he thought that in a little time he would be able to awaken the old light in them, and rejoice in the gladness, and be honestly, wholly in love with his future wife.

"Why didn't you go with them?" she asked.

"And leave you alone?"

He could have wished that those eyes were less frank and less penetrating.

"Sometimes I fancy, Will, that you think me a great baby, and that there is no use explaining things to me, and that I am only to be petted and treated like a child. And so you have always petted me, like the rest, and I liked it very well, as you know. But if I am to be your wife, Will, you mustn't treat me as a child any more."

"Would you like to be old and wise and motherly, Dove? How must I treat you? You know you are only a poor little child, my dearest; but then, when we marry, you will suddenly grow very old."

There was no glad pleasure and hope in his voice, and doubtless she caught the tone of his speech, for the large eyes were absent and troubled.

"You are not frank with me, Will," she said, in a low voice. "You won't explain the difference there has been in you ever since you came back from Germany. Ah, such a difference!" she added, with a sigh, and her eyes were withdrawn from his face. "Perhaps I only imagine it, but everything seems altered. We are not to each other what we used to be: you are kinder than ever, I think, and you want to be what you were; but something has come between us, Will."

Every word she uttered lacerated his heart, for how could he look upon the patient, kind, sweet face, and tell a lie? – and how dared he tell the truth?

"Come closer, Will. Bend your head down, and I'll whisper something to you. It is this: Ever since you came back from Germany I have been wretched, without knowing why. Many a time I was going to tell you; then you always looked as if you were not as much my friend as you used to be, and I dared not do it. You have not been frank with me, and I have seen it often and often as I have watched you, and my heart used to lie cold and still like lead. And oh, Will, do you know what I've been thinking? – I've been thinking that you don't love me any more!"

She turned away her agonised face from him, and a slight shudder ran through her frame.

"Dove, listen to me – "

"And if it is true, Will," she said, with trembling lips, her face still being turned from him – "if it is true, don't tell me that it is, Will; how could I bear to hear you say that? I should only wish to die at once, and be out of everybody's way – out of your way too, Will, if I am in the way. I never expected to talk like this to you – never, never; for I used to think – down there in St. Mary-Kirby, you know – that you could never do anything but love me, and that we should always go on the same wherever we were. But things are all changed, Will. It was never the same after you left the last time, and since you have come back, they have changed more and more. And now up here in London, it seems as if all the old life were broken away, and we two had only been dreaming down there. And I have been sick at heart, and wretched; and when I found myself ill the other day, I wished I might die."

He had destroyed that beautiful world; and he knew it, although there was no chorus of spirits to sing to him —

"Weh! weh!Du hast sie zerstört,Die schöne Welt!Mit mächtiger Faust;Sie stürzt, sie zerfallt!* * * * *PrächtigerBaue sie wiederIn deinem Busen baue sie auf!Neuen LebenslaufBeginne,Wit hellem SinneUnd neue LiederTönen darauf!"

Was it possible for him to build it up again, and restore the old love and the old confidence? It was not until this heartbroken wail was wrung from the poor girl that he fully saw the desolation that had fallen upon them. Bitterly he accused himself of all that had happened, and vainly he looked about for some brief solace he might now offer her.

"You don't say anything," she murmured, "because you have been always kind to me, and you do not wish to pain me. But I know it is true, Will, whether you speak or not. Everything is changed now – everything; and – and I've heard, Will, that when one is heartbroken, one dies."

"If you do not wish to break my heart, Dove, don't talk like that," he said, beside himself with despair and remorse. "See, give me your hand, and I'll tell you all about it. Turn your eyes to me, dearest. We are a little changed, I know; but what does it matter? So soon as ever we can, we shall marry, Dove; and then the old confidence will come back again. I have been away so much from you that we have lost our old familiarity; but when we are married, you know – "

Then she turned, and the beautiful violet eyes were once more reading his face.

"You wish us to be married, Will?"

"My darling, I do," he said eagerly, honestly, joyously – for in the mere thought that thereby he might make some reparation there lay peace and assurance for the future. "I wish that we could be married to-morrow morning."

She pressed his hand and lay back on the cushion with a sigh. There was a pale, wan pleasure in her face, and a satisfied languor in her eyes.

"I think I shall make a very good wife," she said, a little while after, with the old smile on her face. "But I shall have to be petted, and cared for, and spoiled, just as before. I don't think I should wish to be treated differently if I knew you were frank with me, and explained your griefs to me, and so on. I wished, darling, to be older, and out of this spoiling, because I thought you considered me such a baby – "

"You will be no longer a baby when you are married. Think of yourself as a married woman, Dove – the importance you will have, the dignity you will assume. Think of yourself presiding over your own tea-table – think of yourself choosing a house down near Hastings, and making wonderful arrangements with the milkman, and the butcher; and getting into a terrible rage when they forget your orders, and blaming all their negligence on me."

"My dear, I don't think I shall have anything to do with butchers and milkmen."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think you will ever have any money to pay them with."

"So long as I have only one arm with which to work for you, Dove, you must learn to live on little; but still – "

"I shall not want much, shall I, if I have you beside me to make me forget that I am hungry? But it all looks like a dream, just like what is past. Are they both dreams, dearest? Were those real times down in the old house, when you and I used to sit together, or walk out together, over the common, you know, and over the bridge by the mill-head, and away over the meadows down by that strip of wood, and so on, and so on, until we came to the river again, and the road, and Balnacluith House, and the deer-park? How pleasant it was, in the summer evenings; but that seems so long ago!"

"How sad you have been these last few days, Dove!"

"Because I have been thinking, Will. And all that seems a dream, and all that is coming seems a dream, and there is nothing real but just now, and then I find you and me estranged from each other. Ah, yes, Will; you are very kind in speaking of our marriage; but we are not now what we were once."

"Dove," he said, with a desperate effort, "I cannot bear this any longer. If you go on moping like this, you will kill yourself. It is better you should know all the truth at once – you will listen, dearest, and forgive me, and help me to make the best we can of the future."

There was a quick sparkle of joy in her eyes.

"Oh, Will, Will, are you going to tell me all now?"

"Yes, dearest."

"Then you needn't speak a word – not a word – for I know you love me, after all. Perhaps not altogether; but quite enough to satisfy me, Will, and I am so glad – so glad!"

She burst into tears, and hid her face from him.

He scarcely knew whether grief or joy was the cause of this emotion; but in a minute or two she said —

"I am going to whisper something to you. You fell in love with Miss Brunel when you were over in Germany, and you found it out when it was too late, and you did not know what to do. Your kindness brought you back to me, though your thoughts were with her. Is it not all true I have been telling you? And I was afraid it would be so always, and that you and I were parted for ever; for you hid the secret from me, and dared not tell me. But the moment I saw in your eyes that you were going to tell me, I knew some of the old love must be there – some of our old confidence; and now – now – oh, my darling, I can trust you with my life, and my heart, and all the love I can offer you!"

"You have spoken the truth, Dove," he said, and he knew that her rare womanly instinct had not lied to her, "and you have made me happier than I have been for many a day. You do not blame me much for what is past and gone? And you see that after all the old love may come back between us; and you will help me to bring it back, and keep it safe."

"And I will be a true wife to you, Will."

She fixed her eyes gravely and earnestly upon him. Then she lifted his hand to her lips, and – bethinking herself, perhaps, of some quaint foreign custom of which she may have heard – she kissed it, in token of meek submission and wifely self-surrender.

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.