Chapter IX: Dear Annette

It was a noticeable fact, that though the Beachborough folk were, as they would themselves have expressed it, "main curous" about Mrs. Stothard and her position in the Derinzy household, none of them devoted much time to speculating about Miss Annette, or Miss Netty as she was generally called by them. That she was a "dreadful in-vallid" all knew; that she was sometimes confined to the house for weeks together when labouring under a severe attack of her illness--which was ascribed by some to nerves, by some to weakness, and by others to a curious disorder known as "ricketts"--was also well known. It was understood, moreover, that she did not like her indisposition alluded to; and consequently, when she occasionally appeared in the village, accompanied by her aunt Mrs. Derinzy, it was a point of politeness on the part of the villagers to ignore the fact of their not having seen her for weeks past and the cause of her absence, and to entertain her with gossip about Bessy Fairlight's levity, Giles Croggin's drunkenness, Farmer Hawkers' harvest-home, or such kindred topics. No one ever mentioned illness or doctors before Miss Netty; if they had, Mrs. Derinzy, a woman of strong mind and, when necessary, sharp tongue, would speedily have cut in and changed the conversation.

But although the Beachborough people saw little of Annette Derinzy, that little they liked. Amongst simple folk of this kind a person labouring under illness, more especially chronic illness--not any of your common fevers or anything low of that kind, which nearly everybody has had in their time, and which are for the most part curable by very simple remedies--but mysterious illness, which "comes on when you don't expect it," as though most disorders were heralded and the exact time of their arrival announced by infallible symptoms, and which lasts for weeks together--such a person takes brevet rank with their acquaintance, and is looked up to with the greatest respect. Moreover, Miss Netty had a very pleasant way with her, being always courteous and friendly, sometimes, indeed, a little too friendly; for she would want to go into the fishermen's cottages, and into the lacemakers' rooms, and would ask questions which were not very pertinent, or indeed very wise; until she was brought up very short by her aunt, who would take her by the elbow, and haul her away with scant ceremony. And another great thing in her favour was, that she was very pretty.

Ah, well-meaning, kindly people, who endeavour to cheer your ugly children by repeating the scores of old adages with which the stupidity of our forefathers has enriched our language, telling them that "beauty is only skin deep," that "it is better to be good than beautiful," that "handsome is that handsome does," and a variety of other maxims of the same kind--when will you be honest, and confess that a pretty face is almost the best dowry a young girl can have? It gains her admirers always, and very frequently it gains her friends; it makes easy and pleasant her path in life, and saves her from the bitterest distress, the deepest laceration which can be inflicted on the female heart, in the feeling that she is despised of men, which, being translated, means that she is neglected, while others are appreciated. Miss Netty was pretty decidedly, but she was in that almost incredible position of being unaware of the fact. Save her own family and the people in the village, she saw no one; and though the gossips were inclined not to be reticent of their admiration even in the presence of its object, they were always restrained by a wholesome dread of the wrath of Mrs. Derinzy, which on more than one occasion had been evoked by the compliments paid to her niece.

It was the more extraordinary that such persons as Mrs. Powler and Mrs. Jupp should have admired Annette, as her style was by no means such as generally finds favour with persons in their station in life. Great black staring eyes, snub noses, firm round red cheeks, bright red lips, and jet-black hair, well bandolined and greased so as to lie flat on the head, or corkscrewed into thin ringlets, generally make up their standard of beauty. Country people have a great opinion of strength of limb and firmness of flesh; and "she be _that_ hard," was one of the most delicate tributes which a Beachborough swain could pay. In the agricultural districts those womanly qualities of tenderness, softness, and delicacy, which are so prized amongst more refined circles, are rather held at a discount; they are regarded by the rustic mind as on a level with piano-playing and Berlin-wool working--good enough as extras, but not to be compared with the homely talents of milking and stocking-darning. Personal appearance is regarded in much the same way, elegance of form being less thought of than strength, and a large arm obtaining much more admiration than a small hand. Annette was a tall, but a slight and decidedly delicate-looking girl.

"It isn't after her uncle she takes," Mrs. Powler would say; "a little giggling, flibberty-gibbet of a man, that might be blowed away in a pouf!"

"Well, mum," said little Ann Bradshaw, the "gell" who was specially retained for Mrs. Powler's service, and who, as jackal, purveyed all the gossip on which, after due preparation, her mistress lived--"well, mum, I du 'low Miss Netty's well enow to look at, but nothing like the Captain, who sure-_ly_ is a main handsome man!"

"Eh, dear heart, did one ever hear the like!" cried Mrs. Powler. "Here's chits and chicks like this talkin' about main handsome men! Why, Ann, you was niver in Exeter, or you'd have seen a waxy image just like the Captain, wi' his black hair and his straight nose, and his blue chin, in the barber's shop-window. Handsome, indeed!" said the old lady, with a recollection of the deceased Mr. Fowler's rotund face; "he's but a poor show; a mere skellinton of a chap!"

"Well, mum, it can't be said that Miss Netty favours her aunt Mrs. D'rinzy neither," said Ann, who, seeing her mistress was disposed for a chat, saw her way to at least postponing the execution of a very portentous and elaborate job of darning which had sat heavy on her soul for some days past. "Mrs. D'rinzy is that slight and slim and gen-teel in her make, which Miss Netty do not follow after."

"Slight, and slim, and genteel make!" repeated Mrs. Powler with much indignation, and a downward glance at her own pursy proportions; "ah, straight up and down like a thrashin'-floor door, if that's what ye mean! Lord love us, here's a gal as I took out of charity, and saved from goin' to the workis, a givin' her 'pinions 'bout figgers, and shapes, and makes, and the like, as though she was a milliner, or a middiff! Well, well, on'y to think!"

"I didn't mean no harm, mum, I'm sure," said the worldly-ise handmaiden, "and I don't think much of Mrs. D'rinzy, nor indeed of the Captain neither, since Nancy Bell--as you know is housemaid up at the Tower--told me how she'd found the stick-stuff which he du make his eyebrows of--black, and grease, and muck."

"No?" exclaimed the old lady, her good temper returning at the chance of hearing some spicy retailable talk. "Du he do that? Do'ee tell, Ann!"

Thus invited, Miss Bradshaw launched out into an elaborate story, rendered more elaborate by her anti-darning proclivities, of the mysteries of Captain Derinzy's toilet, as she had learned them from Miss Bell. Mrs. Powler encouraged her to prattle on this point for a long time; and when she had finished, asked her whether Nancy Bell had mentioned anything about the general way of living at the Tower, more especially as Miss Netty and Mrs. Stothard were concerned.

"Not that anything she says isn't as full of lies as a sieve's full of holes," said the old lady. "I mind the time"--a terrible old lady this, with an unexampled memory for bad things against people--"I mind the time when she was quite a little gell, and went and told the vicar a passil o' lies about her uncle, Ned Richards the blacksmith. And the vicar put Ned into his sermin the next Sunday, and preached at un, and everybody knowed who was meant; and Ned stood up in church, and gev it to the vicar back again; and Ned was had up for brawlin', as they called it, and there was a fine to-do, and all through Nancy Bell. But what does she say of Miss Netty, Ann? Are they kind to her like up there?"

"Oh, yes, mum; Nancy thinks so, leastwise. But no one sees Miss Netty often, mum."

"No one sees her?"

"Only Mrs. Stothard, mum. She and Mrs. Stothard has their rooms away from the rest, mum, lest they should disturb the Captain when Miss Netty's ill, mum; and no one sees her but Mrs. Stothard then."

"Ah," said Mrs. Powler, "David or Solomon, or one of 'em, I don't rightly remember which, were not far off when he said that the bread of dependence was bitter, and these great folk don't bake it no more sweet than others for their poor relations, it seems. So they take the board and lodgin' out of Mrs. Stothard by makin' her a nuss, eh, Ann?"

"They du indeed, mum. I du 'low that's why we niver see Mrs. Stothard in the village, being so taken up with Miss Netty, and a nasty temper, not caring to throw a word at a dog, likewise."

"How does Nancy think they git on betwixt themselves?"

"What, the Captain and Mrs. D'rinzy? Oh, they git on all right; leastwise, she's master, Nance says. The Captain isn't much 'count in his own house; but Mrs. D. niver let him see it, bless you; and he du bluster and rave sometimes, Nance say, when he's put out, and thinks she can't hear him."

"What puts 'im out, Ann? He hev an easy life of it, sure-ly: nothin' to do but to kick up his heels about the place."

"That's just it, missus. He wants something more to du. He du hate the place like pison, Nance have heerd 'im say, and ask Mrs. D'rinzy, wi' awful language, what they was waitin' and wastin' their lives here for."

"And what did she say then?"

"Allays the same. 'You know,' says she, 'you know what we're waitin' for; and it'll come, it'll come sure as sure.' 'Wouldn't it come just the same, or easier rather, if we was out of this, up in London, or somewheres?' the Captain says once. 'No,' says Mrs. D., 'it wouldn't. When we've got the prize under lock and key,' she says, 'we know where to look for it, and who to send for it; but when it's open to the world, there's no knowin' who may run off with it,' she says."

"A prize!" said the old lady, looking very much astonished--"got a prize under lock and key? Why, what could she mean by that? You hain't heerd in the village o' anything hevin' been found up at the Tower, hev you, Ann?"

Ann, leaning against the door, withdrew one foot from the floor, and slowly rubbed it up and down her other leg--a gymnastic performance she was in the habit of going through when she taxed her powers of memory. It failed, however, to have any result in the present instance; and Ann was compelled to confess that she had never heard of anything in particular being found at the Tower. She did this with more reluctance, as she foresaw the speedy termination of the gossip, and her consequent relegation to her darning duties.

But Mrs. Powler, who had been much struck with the conversation overheard by Nancy Bell, and repeated to her by her own handmaiden, sat pondering over the words for some time, allowing Ann to remain in the room, and at last bade her go round and ask Mrs. Jupp to step in for a few minutes. When Mrs. Jupp arrived, Mrs. Powler made Ann repeat her story; and when she concluded, the old lady bade her stand away out of earshot, and said to Mrs. Jupp in a hollow whisper:

"What do you think of that?"

"Of what?" asked Mrs. Jupp, in an equally ghostly tone.

"'Bout the prize? Do you think, Harriet, that it can be any of Fowler's 'runs'? They used to hide 'em in the first place as come handy, when the excisers was after 'em; and I've been wondering whether they might ha' stowed away some kegs, or bales, or things, in the lower garden, or thereabouts, and these D'rinzys ha' found 'em. I wonder whether I could claim 'em, Harriet?" said the old lady earnestly. "He left everything he had in the world to his beloved wife, Powler did."

Mrs. Jupp, who had been receiving these last words with many sniffs, denoting her content for her friend's notions, waited patiently until Mrs. Powler had finished, and then said:

"I don't think you need trouble yourself about that. It isn't about runs, or kegs, or bales, or anything of that kind, that Mrs. Derinzy meant, if so be she said anything of the kind, which I main doubt; Nancy Bell and your Ann being regular Anias and Sapphira for lying, or the man as was turned into a white leopard by the prophet for saying he hadn't asked the young man for a change of clothes."

"Du let alone naggin' and girdin' at my Ann for once, Harriet!" interrupted Mrs. Powler. "Let's s'pose Mrs. D'rinzy said it; there's no harm in s'posin', you know. What did she mean 'bout the prize?"

"Mean? What could she mean but Miss Netty?"

"Miss Netty! prize!" cried Mrs. Powler, to whom the combination of these words was hopelessly embarrassing. "Ah, well, I'm becomin' a moithered old 'ooman, I suppose?"

"No, no, dear," said Mrs. Jupp, who never liked to see the old lady put out. "I'm sure there's they as are twenty years younger would like to be able to see as far into a milestone as you can. Only you don't know about this, because you don't get out much now, and you don't know what's goin' on up at the Tower, save from Ann and suchlike. Now my ideer is, that Miss Netty has come into a fortin'."

"No!" cried the old lady.

"Yes," said Mrs. Jupp, nodding her head violently. "Yes, I think she have, and that's what her aunt meant about a prize, I take it. For don't you see, we've asked, all of us, often enough, what kept them livin' down here. 'Tain't that they come down for the shootin', or the yachtin', or that, jest at one season, like Sir 'Erc'les, though he was bred and born down here, and it's his fam'ly place. But there they stick, summer and winter, spring and autumn, never movin', though the Captain's a-wearyin' hisself to death; and there's no call for Mrs. Derinzy to stop here neither."

"Not for her health?"

"Not a bit of it! Between you and me, I think there's a consp---- However, I'll tell you more about that when I know more; meantime, I think Mrs. Derinzy's all right, and I don't think it's for health Miss Annette is kept here."

"The Dorsetsheer air----" Mrs. Powler began; but seeing an incredulous smile on her friend's face, she broke off shortly, and said: "Well, then, what does keep 'em down here?"

"The fortin' that we was speakin' of; the prize that Nancy Bell heard Mrs. D. tell off. Don't you see, my dear? Suppose what I think is right--they've got the poor thing down here in their own hands, to do jest what they like wi'; nobody to say, with your leave, or by your leave; cooped up there wi' them two old people and that termagant Mrs. Stothard. Now if she was away in London, or Exeter, or any other large place o' that sort, why o' course there'd be young men sweetheartin' her--for she's a main pratty gell, though slouchin', and not one to show herself off--and she'd be gettin' married, and her money would go away from them to her husband. That's what Mrs. D. meant about the prize bein' 'open to the world,' and people 'runnin' off with it,' and that like."

Mrs. Powler sat speechless for a few moments, looking at her friend with her sharp little black eyes, and going over what had just been told her in her mind. Her faculties began to be somewhat dimmed by age, and she required time for intellectual digestion. Mrs. Jupp knew her friend's habit, and remained silent likewise, thoughtfully rubbing the side of her nose with a knitting-needle which she had produced from her pocket. At length the old lady said:

"I du 'low you're right, Harriet, though I niver give you credit for so much sharpness before."

And Mrs. Jupp had many pleasant teas, and many succulent suppers, and much pleasant gossip, on the strength of her perspicacity in the matter of the great Derinzy mystery.

Strange to say, the woman's idea was not very far away from the truth. When Mrs. Derinzy told her husband that their son Paul should have a fortune of eighty thousand pounds, which he should receive from his wife's trustees, she made up her mind from that moment to carry her intention into execution, come what might. The girl was so young, that there was plenty of time for the elaboration of her plans--two or three years hence it would do to work out the scheme in detail; all that was necessary to see after was, that so soon as the girl arrived at an impressible age, she should be taken to some very quiet place, where she could see very few people, and that at that time Paul should be thrown in her way, and the result left to favouring chance. Mrs. Derinzy was doubtful whether anything ought to be said to Paul about it; but the Captain spoke up strongly, and declared that any attempt to dispose of "the young man by private contract" would certainly result in prejudicing him against his cousin, and that it would be much better if he were left to "shake a loose leg" for a time, as it would render him much more docile and biddable when they spoke to him afterwards. Mrs. Derinzy, violently objurgating such language on the part of her husband, yet comprehended the soundness of his advice; and Paul, who saw very little of Annette on the occasion of his holidays from school, and then only thought of her as a little orphan cousin to whom his parents acted as guardians, was left to take up his appointment at the Stannaries Office, without having the least idea that, like Mr. Swiveller, "a young lady, who had not only great personal attractions, but great wealth, was at that moment growing up for him."

The young lady who furnished forth all this feast of gossip to the good folks of Beachborough--gossip not so completely unlike the sort of thing which goes on in larger places, and is practised by more important communities--had not the least suspicion that she was an object of curiosity and discussion to her humble neighbours. She knew little of them--that is to say, of the less-poor class among the poor--for to the lowest and most suffering part of the community she was generous with the desultory kindness of an untaught girl; and she had no notion that she differed in circumstances or disposition from other people sufficiently to excite curiosity or induce discussion. Few girls of Annette Derinzy's age, in her position in life, are so ignorant of the world, so completely without the means of instituting comparisons in social matters, or unravelling social problems, as she was. The conventional schoolgirl of real life, though perhaps not the ritualistic innocent of the _Daisy-Chain_ literature, could have beaten Annette Derinzy hollow in comprehension of human aims and motives, and in knowledge of the desirabilities of life. She was passably content with herself and her surroundings, and had not yet been moved by any stronger feeling than irritation, caused by her aunt's troublesome over-solicitude for her health and Mrs. Stothard's watchfulness.

She was not, she believed, so strong as most girls of her age, who lived in comfort, and had nothing to trouble them; but she felt sure the care, the restrictions she had to undergo, were unwarranted by her health; and she sometimes got so far on the path of worldly wisdom as to suspect that her aunt made a great fuss with her, in order to get the credit of self-sacrifice and superlative duty-doing. Annette's perspicacity did not extend to defining the individuals in the narrow and ultra-quiet society of Beachborough, among whom, as Captain Derinzy would have said, they "vegetated," who were to be deluded into giving Mrs. Derinzy a better character than she deserved. Like "the ugly duck," who scrambled through the hedge, and found himself in the wide, wide world, the most insignificant change of position would, to Annette Derinzy, have implied infinite possibilities of enlightenment; but at present she was very securely on the near side of the hedge, and almost ignorant that there was a far side.

The young lady of whom Mrs. Derinzy invariably spoke as "dear Annette," even when she was most annoyed with or about her, as though she had set this formula as a rule and a reminder for herself, was a very pretty girl, belonging to a type of beauty which is rather commonly to be found associated with delicate health. She was rather tall, very slight, with slender hands, and a transparently fair complexion. Her features were not very regular, and but for the deep, dark eyes, and the remarkably sweet, though somewhat rare, smile which lighted them up, she would hardly have been pronounced handsome by casual observers. But she was very handsome, as all would have been ready to acknowledge afterwards who had noticed the extreme refinement of her general appearance and the gracefulness of her figure. Her beauty was marred by no trace of ill-health beyond the uncertainty of the colour--which sometimes tinted her cheeks brightly enough, but at others faded into a waxen paleness--and the occasional restlessness of her movements. Annette was not very striking at first sight; she was one of those women who do not become less interesting by observation, but who rather continue to occupy, to interest, perhaps a little to perplex, the observer. She was graceful, she was even elegant in appearance, but she was not gentle-looking. The dark eyes had no fiery expression, and the well-shaped mouth, not foolishly small or unpleasantly compressed, had decided sweetness in the full fresh lips; and yet the last thing any accurate noter of physiognomy would have said of Miss Derinzy was, that she looked gentle. Impatience, impulse, whether for good or ill to be determined by circumstances--these were plainly to be read in her face. And one more indication was there--not, it may be, legible to indifferent eyes, but which, had there been any to study the girl with the clear-sightedness of affection, would have made itself plain in all its present meaning and future menace--the vacuity of an unoccupied, inactive heart. Annette Derinzy loved no living human being. She knew neither love nor grief, the true civilising influences which need to be exercised in each individual instance, if the human creature is to be elevated above primitive conditions. She had no recollection of her parents, and therefore no standard by which to measure the tenderness which she might covet as a possession, or deplore as a loss--by whose depth and endurance she might test the shallowness and the insufficiency of the conventional observance shown to her by the interested relatives who furnished all her life was destined to know of natural love and care. She had no brother or sister, or familiar girlish friendships, nor had she ever displayed an inclination to contract any of those lesser ties with which genial and sensitive natures endeavour to supplement their deprivation of the greater. Either she was of a reserved, uncommunicative temperament, or she had been so steadily restricted from the society of other young people, that the habit of depending entirely upon herself had been effectually formed; for Annette never complained of the seclusion in which the family lived, and in some cases received with a sufficiently ill grace intelligence that it was about to be broken in upon.

Like most ill-tempered persons, Mrs. Derinzy had a keen perception of faults of temper, and no toleration for them. She declared that of all things she hated selfishness and sulk most; and the recipients of the sentiments were apt to think she had all the justification of it which an intimate knowledge of the vices in question could supply. She accused "dear Annette" at times of both, not altogether unjustly perhaps, but yet not with strict justice. If she was selfish, it was because her life was narrow; its horizon was close upon her; no large interests occupied it, no external responsibility laid its claims upon Annette. There did not exist anyone to whom she could feel herself indispensable, or even "a comfort;" and though she was surrounded with external care and consideration to what she held to be a superfluous and unreasonable extent, her native shrewdness led her to distinguish with unerring accuracy between this perfunctory and organised observance and the spontaneous affectionate guardianship, without effort on the one side or constraint upon the other, which the natural relationship of parent and child secures. She did not love her aunt Mrs. Derinzy, and she positively disliked the Captain, who reciprocated the sentiment; as was not unnatural, seeing that he was paying the price of success in his schemes against her peace and happiness by the unmitigated _ennui_ produced by his life at Beachborough. For what there really was of fine and noble, of amiable and elevated, in the character of Annette Derinzy, her own nature was accountable, and in no degree her training, associations, and surroundings. She had none of the enthusiasm and fancy of girlhood about her--the atmosphere of calculation, worldliness, and discontent in which she lived was too decidedly and fatally unfavourable to their growth--but she did not substitute for them any evil propensities or unworthy ambitions, and her chief faults were those of temper. She was undeniably sulky; her aunt did not traduce her on that point, though she did not fitly understand the origin of the defect, or make any kind or charitable allowance for its manifestation. Anger rarely took the form of passion with Annette; but when aroused, it was very difficult to allay, and her resentment was not easy to eradicate. The individual in the family whom she disliked most--her uncle--was that one who least often excited the girl's temper. She kept clear of him, away from him, as much as she could, and usually regarded him with a degree of contempt which seemed to act as a safeguard to her anger. But the internal life of the house, as shared by the three women, Mrs. Derinzy, her niece, and Mrs. Stothard, was sometimes far from peaceful. Annette was possessed of much better feelings than might have been expected, her antecedents and her present circumstances considered; and she was sometimes successfully appealed to to forego her own will and submit to Mrs. Derinzy's, by a representation of the delicacy of that lady's health, and the ill effect which opposition and the sudden estrangement of her niece would have upon her. Many quarrels were made up in this way, and not the less readily that Annette was curious about the condition of Mrs. Derinzy's health. She never exactly understood the nature of her illness--which did not seem to the girl to interfere with her pursuing the ordinary routine of a lady's life in a secluded country place, and admitted of all the moderate and mildly-flavoured diversions which such conditions of existence could bestow--but which was kept in view constantly by the patient herself and Mrs. Stothard, pleaded in support of the impossibility of any change in the mode of life of the Derinzy family, and substantiated by the periodic visits of Dr. Wainwright. Annette was wholly unconscious that while her own illness was the subject of village gossip, comment, and speculation, no one outside had any notion that Mrs. Derinzy was a chronic sufferer, requiring the expensive and solicitous care of a physician of eminence from London, who was well known in Beachborough to be such, and who was generally supposed to come to see the young lady. She would have been greatly angered had she suspected the existence of such an equivoque; for among the strongest of her feelings were a repugnance to knowing herself to be discussed, and an intense dislike to Dr. Wainwright.

Annette's conduct towards the confidential physician, who was said to be so clever in the treatment of disease, and especially of disease of the nondescript, or at least not described, kind from which Mrs. Derinzy suffered, had frequently been such as to justify her aunt's displeasure, and deserve her reprobation as ill-tempered and ill-bred. His appearance at Beachborough was invariably a signal for Annette's exhibiting herself in her least attractive light, and generally for open revolt against Mrs. Derinzy's wishes and authority. The girl would contrive to get out of the house unnoticed, and remain away for hours; or she would pretend illness and go to bed, and lie there quite silent and refusing food, until she was convinced, by the entrance of Dr. Wainwright into her room, and his accosting her with the calm imperturbable authority of a physician, that the very worst way in which to avoid seeing a doctor was by pretending to be ill. Or she would make her appearance just in time to sit down at dinner, and having returned his greeting with the utmost curtness and reluctance, maintain obstinate silence throughout the meal, and retire immediately on its conclusion. All remonstrances had failed to induce her to behave better in this respect, and even Dr. Wainwright's skilful quizzing of her for this peculiarity--which he told her was very unfashionable, because he was quite a favourite with the ladies--had no effect. She either could not or would not say why she disliked Dr. Wainwright, but she had no hesitation in acknowledging that she did dislike him.

Mrs. Stothard's position in the Derinzy household, however anomalous in the sight of outsiders, was such as to make her perfectly aware of the relations of each of its members to the others, while there was something in her own relation to each respectively unknown to, uncomprehended by, them. She ruled them all in a quiet unobtrusive way, whose absolutism was as complete as it was unmarked, unmarred by any tyranny of manner. We have seen how Captain Derinzy and she were affected towards each other, and this narrative will have to deal with her manipulation of Mrs. Derinzy's "scheme." As for Annette, she seemed to be Mrs. Stothard's chief object in life, as she certainly constituted her principal occupation in every day. But not ostentatiously or oppressively so. If Annette had been called upon to say which of her three associates was least displeasing to her, which she least frequently wished away, she would have replied, "Mrs. Stothard;" but she did not love even her. With Mrs. Stothard, Annette seldom quarrelled; but a visit from Dr. Wainwright always furnished the occasion for one of their rare disagreements; so that when the elder woman came to tell the girl of his arrival one afternoon, while she was lying down to rest after a long ramble, she knew she was bringing her very unwelcome news.

Annette had been restless of late. She was not ill, and there were no symptoms of suffering in her appearance; but she had taken one of her fits of mental weariness, for which her life offered no irrational excuse, and, as her habit was, she had resorted, as a means of wearing it off, to severe bodily exercise, walking such distances as secured her against the danger of a companion, and yet never succeeding in being as tired as she wished to be.

"I should like to sleep for a week, a month, a year," she would say, "and wake up in some new world, with nothing and nobody in it I had ever seen before, and everything one thinks and says and does quite different."

But when Annette was weariest of mind, and tried to be weariest of body, she slept less, and her temper was at its worst. So Mrs. Stothard found her, when she urged her to get up and dress nicely for dinner, because Dr. Wainwright had arrived, more than usually recalcitrant.

"I shan't," said the girl, tossing her handsome arms over her head as she lay at full length upon a sofa in her dressing-room, and ruffling her dark hair with her wilful hands; "I shan't. I detest him; you know I detest him. What is he always watching me, and trying to catch my eye, for? He's a bad cruel man, and he comes here for no good. What's the matter with my aunt? She was very well on Monday."

"I don't know indeed, Miss Annette; the old complaint, I suppose."

"The old complaint! _what_ old complaint? It's all nonsense, in my belief, and he persuades her she's ill for a purpose of his own. At all events, let him see _her_ and be done with it; _I shan't_ go down to dinner."

"Oh yes, you will," said Mrs. Stothard, who had been quietly laying out Annette's dress, pouring hot water into a basin, and disposing combs and brushes on the toilet-table, "Oh yes, you will. You'll never be so foolish as to make a quarrel with your uncle and aunt about such a thing as that, and have the servants talking of it. Come, my dear, get up; you've no time to spare."

She looked steadily at the girl as she spoke, and put one hand under her shoulder, raising her from the pillow. Annette shrunk from her for a moment with a look partly cowed, partly of avoidance; the next she let her feet down to the floor, and stood up passively, but with her sullenest expression of face.

"Where's Mary?" she said.

"Busy with Mrs. Derinzy. She has been very poorly this afternoon. I'll help you to dress."

She did so silently; and Annette did not speak, but, like a froward child, twitched herself about, and made her task as troublesome as possible--a manoeuvre which Mrs. Stothard quietly ignored.

"Where is the odious man?" she asked suddenly, when she stood dressed for dinner before her toilet-glass, into which she did not look.

"In the drawing-room with the Captain; you had better join them."

"No, I won't, not till the bell rings. I'll keep out of his way as long as I can. I'm neither Dr. Wainwright's friend nor Dr. Wainwright's patient."