“So Anne,” said he in his usual cheerful style, “I suppose you are off to do great things. Will you remember your Ben when you are at last a famous authoress?”
“Oh, Ben!” cried Anne, hurrying over to him and falling down upon her knees next to his couch, “how can you be so idiotic? There is not the least chance I shall be famous, and if I was, it should be half owing to your encouragement, for you know I should never have finished my novel without you.”
“Tush,” remonstrated the young man, but with a pleased look. He took one of her hands in his own and stroked it whilst they talked. “You know it was no such thing. It is your genius that wrote it, and if I helped at all, it was only in so far as I was able to make you cut out one or two of the more gushing phrases.”
“And to set in one or two of your own,” responded Anne, laughing.
“Well! What of it? I have none of your typical masculine pride about such things. When it comes to gushing, say I, I hope I am as good as anyone! Ah, well—it was fun, wasn’t it? And now you shall be a published authoress, and I shall be pleased to tell everyone that you are my sister, and to visit about the neighbourhood giving away copies with my signature within.”
Anne laughed and said nothing for a moment There was no need to, in truth, for the two possessed such a thorough knowledge of each other’s thoughts that conversation, when it came, was more like an intricate exercise for the fingers than a gesture which, once made, is the sum total of an idea.
“You must only promise me one thing, however,” continued the young man after a moment, “that you shall set down everything exactly as it happens, only changing it insofar as it is dull, and without any merit of humour.”
“And you shall not be angry if, in creating a comedy, the drama is obscured?”
“Think nothing of it! replied the young man with a magnanimous wave of his hand, “Only remember our old creed: If it is superfluous to the plot, or if it lacks all trace of human foible, it must go.”
“Surely you are very hard!” protested Anne. “Even in my letters must I be so confined? Am I to be allowed no leisurely rambling passages, wherein I may express the great ideas of the moment, or survey the scenery with elegiac prose?”
“You may do so,” responded her brother, pulling one of her curls, “at your peril. Only give me an idea of what is being said about London, and in one or two passages you may describe to me your surroundings—but pray leave off the elegiac prose. I shall read Byron if I am inclined to poetry; but for high jinks and keen satire, give me Anne Calder every time!”
Their mood grew more solemn for a while after this, and having irritated her brother most awfully by bidding him keep warm and safe at least three times, Anne rose reluctantly to go. As she was passing through the doorway, however, she hesitated and looked back:
“What should the plot of my letters be?” inquired she softly.
“Why!” exclaimed Ben, “have you not guessed? It is the best plot of all. The only plot, in fact, for you.”
Anne looked perplexed, and smiled uncertainly.
“The story,” responded Ben, “of the story’s authoress.” He paused for an instant and, smiling, commanded: “And let it be engrossing, if you please!”
Chapter VIII
“Miss Calder,” said Sir Basil Ives that evening as they were finishing their dinner, “I would be happy if you would join me for a glass of wine, if you have not some other plan.”
Anne looked up in astonishment from her pear, and replied that she was of course at her employer’s disposal. So taken aback was she by the invitation that she thought she must have replied too abruptly, for the Baronet looked down instantly into his plate and would not afterward raise his eyes again save to bid his ward good night. Even the child seemed taken aback; for her usual stream of chatter suddenly ceased, and she gazed back and forth between the two grown-ups in awe. Nicole’s amazement can well be understood, for in the several days since they had been a family, Sir Basil had hardly said one word at dinner. When Sir Basil joined them, he seemed to do so chiefly from a sense of duty, to judge by his long silence and the infrequency of his smiles. Whether he was simply arrogant, as Anne had thought at first, or encumbered by his own shyness, she could not tell. But she had laughed inwardly at the perplexity upon his face when he had first heard Nicole discourse upon her days’ lessons, and a walk they had taken in the park. Nicole was an unusual child by any standard; her conversation was so odd a mixture of precocious wisdom, childish delight, and disjointed narrative, that she could not much blame him for his confusion. And yet Anne did blame him, if not for his perplexity, then for making so little effort to understand the child. At first he had endeavoured to correct her when she had made some mistake. But Nicole, who would not take offense at anything, merely stared back with great solemnity, nodded, and went on as before. She could not be persuaded that her perceptions were not a subject of consuming interest to everyone, and Anne, after suggesting once that she ought to listen more and say less, had been dampened by the following argument:
“Why, I really think you are wrong, Miss Calder. For Papa said there ought never to be any silence at table, and if it were not for me, there should be silence always. For you and Sir Basil never converse, and Papa always said it is infinitely better when you are at table to say anything at all than nothing. Of course it is just the reverse at other times. At other times, Papa said, one ought always to be silent, unless one has something terribly clever to say. But you know,” finished the child with a grave little smile, “I am only a child, and have not always clever things to say!”
There could be no arguing with this, nor with the perfectly ingenuous fashion in which it was pronounced. Indeed, it seemed to Anne after observing both Nicole and her guardian for several days that the child possessed far more of that quality which may be called graciousness than her guardian. For while Nicole exhausted herself in the effort to amuse everyone, Sir Basil had not only no notion of how to talk to children, but no intention of learning. And this, as well as some other little incidents which had made her begin to dislike him for her own sake, had made her form an unfavourable opinion of the gentleman even before she had conversed with him above five times.
It must be stated that while Anne possessed few of those vanities which are generally associated with womankind, such as a desire to be thought beautiful, or to be seated above every other lady at table, she was not altogether without vanity. All her life she had been treated as an intelligent being, her wit admired and her opinion sought. She knew she was handsome enough, and had never valued her own looks sufficiently to be proud of them. As to station—how could she have chosen the post of governess had she not sufficient humour to see the joke, not only upon others, but upon herself? She did not mind being “little better than a servant,” as Lady Cardovan had put it, but to be considered unfit for conversation, to be consigned to the intellectual as well as the physical confines of her post, enraged her. From the first, Sir Basil had treated her as if she were little better than a dimwit. When he had spoken to her, which he had done barely half a dozen times, it had always been with the condescension of a fine mind speaking to a dull one. When she had sought his advice in the matter of texts to be used in the tutoring of her pupil, he had shrugged:
“Use your own judgment, Miss Calder,” said he. “I do not suppose it matters much in the case of a girl. To be frank, I never supposed females had need of textbooks in any case. Indeed, it was my impression the only tools necessary for their education were a sewing basket and a drawing pad. But if you must have texts, pray do not bother me about it.”
And this was how he perceived the female brain! Anne went away laughing to herself, but having endeavoured twice more to bring up the subject and having been twice more rebuffed in a similar style, she gave up. So long as she could be autonomous, she did not mind. And with a little inner toss of her head, she determined to prove just how fine Nicole’s education could be under her tutelage. If it was as much for
her own pride as for the child’s betterment that she did so, it made little difference. Nicole would benefit for it, having as she did a keen curiosity and an amazing willingness to learn. Already this evening, Anne had felt a little thrill of triumph upon hearing her pupil narrate, in mind-boggling detail, some of the events of the Roman Conquest of Egypt. Sir Basil had looked in astonishment between the child and her governess, who only smiled calmly and corrected an error in the narration. She had been disappointed when the Baronet made no remark, and her first instinct now was to think he meant to congratulate her. “But,” said Anne to herself a moment later, “you had better not expect it. Such kind of men are incapable of admitting their own errors. I believe Sir Basil, for all his reputation of sagacity in diplomatic affairs, has very little sense of diplomacy with his underlings. Indeed, he ought to have, for everyone knows that people work harder when they are commended for their efforts.”
And so it was already with a negative sentiment in her heart that Anne took Nicole up to her bed and, leaving her with the promise that she should be up again directly herself, followed Sir Basil into the library.
She found the Ambassador standing by the fire with one arm upon the mantel. He was apparently so lost in thought that he did not notice her until she had stood in the doorway several moments together.
“Ah!” said he at last, with a start, “pray come in, Miss Calder. Here is a sofa by the fire, if you wish to be warm. I do not know if you are one of those females who condemns heat upon their faces, but if you are, here is a fire screen. I have asked the servant to bring in a bottle of port. Do you drink port?” Sir Basil, altogether, seemed so unsure of how he ought to behave under the circumstances that Anne could not help smiling to herself.
Surely, she thought, he would not behave so nervously if I was not a governess. I suppose he believes there are two races of women: one very fine, used to drinking port, and abhorring heat upon their flesh, and another, quite rough and humble, made tipsy by a sip of wine, and able to tolerate any amount of warmth.” But aloud she said, with a mischievious desire to contradict his prejudices: “I am one of those females, Sir, who cares very little where she sits so long as I do not freeze to death. As to port, I am very fond of it, so you must not offer me too much.”
Obviously taken aback by this sally, Sir Basil blanched slightly. “Perhaps he thinks I shall down the whole bottle at one gulp!” laughed Anne to herself.
But the Baronet had soon composed himself again, and if he from time to time cast a nervous glance in the direction of her glass, he concealed his interest as well as may be expected of a gentleman who is not used to dealing with governesses at all, much less tipsy ones. His chief preoccupation, in any case, was soon made evident.
“I am afraid I have not been of much help to you thus far, Miss Calder,” said he when the wine had been brought in and poured. “I have left you pretty well to your own devices with my ward, and it may seem to you that I have not offered you as much assistance as I should have done. The reasons for this are two-fold: First, I have some obligations to the Foreign Office, which have taken up a great deal of my time. But even setting this aside, there is another reason. As you know, I am a bachelor, and unaccustomed to children. My ignorance is so vast in this area that it seemed to me I had better leave the chief business of Nicole’s education to you. Indeed, my experience with little girls and what their education ought to be has been confined to what I have seen of my brother’s daughter, and I must tell you that what I have witnessed of her has not made me complacent on the subject”
Anne could well understand this: her one encounter with Miss Hargate, on the occasion when she had been brought downstairs to meet her new cousin, had not inspired her with admiration. The Hargates were noisy, dirty, abominably spoiled children, and from meeting them once, Anne was relieved of any desire of ever seeing them again. Indeed, this was an impression she had taken away of the whole family. In half an hour they had impressed her as vulgar and rude, treating herself with contempt and her pupil with indifference. But she could not very well tell this to Sir Basil, and so she only smiled.
“But all little girls are not the same,” she ventured. “Indeed, they are as unlike as grown men and women. You ought not to form an impression of Nicole until you have grown to know her better. From what I have seen of her, she is as delightful a little person as ever I knew: full of curiosity, and exceedingly eager to please everyone—especially you, if I may say so, Sir.”
“I am very glad to hear you speak so well of her, Miss Calder,” replied the Baronet stiffly. “Lady Cardovan told me that I could rely upon your judgment, and so I am doubly pleased that you approve of your pupil’s habits.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Anne, laughing, “I did not say I approved her habits! I only said that she is a delightful child, and if she is guided properly, will no doubt make a delightful woman.”
Sir Basil seemed unsure of his ground. He looked doubtfully at Anne, whose eyes he had avoided throughout their conversation, and said with some hesitation, “I am afraid I do not quite understand you.”
“I only mean,” continued Anne, smiling despite herself at Sir Basil’s stiff manner, “that Nicole needs a great deal of guidance. Her mind is so quick and her desire to please so thorough, that if she has that she cannot fail to be a fine young woman. But she has evidently received a great many peculiar notions from her father, and to unravel those may be more difficult than anything else.”
“What do you mean, precisely?” inquired the gentleman, seeming almost to relax a little.
“To begin with, I believe she thinks that the highest aspiration possible for a woman is to be a femme fatale.”
“And is she not correct?” inquired Sir Basil with a sardonic smile. “Is that not what every woman longs to be? Surely they must begin at an early age, if they wish to succeed.”
“I suppose you are right. A great many of my sex must think so. And yet it is ironic that those who generally succeed are those who strive least for it. Lady Cardovan, for example—if you will excuse my saying so—is a very great lady, and must certainly have been a sort of femme fatale in her youth. And yet I have not observed that she is fond of bathing in milk, nor of any of the other vanities which my pupil associates with that state. Miss Lessington devours her history lessons in order to discover just such secrets. She has got it firmly in her mind in order to please her father’s memory, she must turn herself as quickly as possible into a grande dame.”
“That is a most remarkable theory,” observed Sir Basil. “It appears that I am destined to be as much educated by this process as my ward. But pray go on, Miss Calder—what on earth could have persuaded my cousin that his daughter ought to become such a creature?”
“I suppose it is every father’s wish that his daughter will be the finest lady in the world,” replied Anne (thinking of what her father’s disappointment must have been upon finding that he had sired a novelist and three very ordinary marriage-minded girls). “And I believe your cousin was not much mistaken in the thinking that his daughter was up to the task. Indeed, Nicole has all the raw elements of one. It is my own opinion, however, that she ought to be all the more carefully guided, just for that reason. Were she a dull, plain, stupid girl, I should not worry much about teaching her to think. I should simply give her, as you suggested, a sewing box and a drawing pad, and hope she would grow passably accomplished.”
“Instead of which, you suggest that she be force-fed history and Greek?” Sir Basil inquired with a cynical smile. “Will that help her to find a husband any quicker?”
Now it was Anne’s turn to be sardonic. “If you suppose the whole aim of womankind is to find a husband, then I suppose not. However, if you will allow that a woman has as much duty to cultivate her mind and tastes as a man, and that such cultivation will only help her to be a better, and a happier, person—whether she marry or no—then there can be no greater benefit to a young female than to be ‘force-fed’ as much of history, Greek, and
geography, and a knowledge of fine music and painting, as she can bear.”
Anne had spoken very forcefully, and now, conscious that her outbrust had amused Sir Basil, she felt a rush of heat in her cheeks.
“I suppose you find my convictions amusing,” she murmured, feeling more rage than mortification.
“On the contrary,” protested Sir Basil, but still with that smile which, more even than his condescension, annoyed her. “I find them perfectly admirable. It is only astonishing to hear them voiced with so much passion. I am not used to hearing ladies vent much energy upon any greater subject than bonnets or balls.
“Then you are certainly not used to listening to them very often,” Anne could not help retorting.
Now an elegant eyebrow mounted almost imperceptibly above an amused gray eye. “Certainly I am not in the habit of being scolded by them,” said he softly.
Anne saw that she had gone too far. For the first time, she felt the confines of her station. Hitherto, she had been more amused by it than suffocated, conscious as she was of playing a trick upon the world. But all at once she longed for the freedom of her true social station, if only that she might contradict this insufferable man as soundly as she would have any other.
“Oh, that I might once have met him at a dinner party and heard such insults cast upon my sex! Were I not employed by him as a governess, I should let him know what I think of him!” she cried inwardly. The idea delighted her, but with the greatest effort in the world, she reminded herself that she had made her own bed, and now she must lie in it. The benefits, in the long run, must outweigh the wounds to her pride, and only this thought prevented her from speaking her mind. Instead, she bit her lip, and murmured:
“I beg your pardon, Sir. The passion of the moment made me foolish. It is only that you seem to take so dim a view of my sex, and I believed I might persuade you otherwise.”
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