The Determined Bachelor (10 page)

Anne was able to reply with some pride that the publisher had agreed to pay her one hundred pounds immediately, and more if the novel had success. Mr. Calder was quite dumbfounded by the largess of the figure, and repeated over and over that he had never dreamed a daughter of his might add to the family wealth, unless it was by marrying. Conscious of her father's amazement, and laughing inwardly at his complacent view of womankind, Anne endeavoured to reply as modestly as she could, although her pride was not a little piqued by the profundity of Mr. Calder's amazement at having raised up a daughter who could write.

“I hope,” said Anne, when her father's exclamations had died down a little, “that this news might make you take a more charitable view of my state. If I am able to earn a living by my pen, and wish to do so above everything, why cannot my sisters marry before me? You may say I am a spinster if you like, and I shall take up wearing a lace cap and going about the neighbourhood with baskets.”

“Your mother's pride would not allow of it, even if yours could,” replied Mr. Calder humourously, “for it might be taken as a reflection on her own beauty and charm if her eldest daughter was a spinster.”

Anne had already considered her mother's reaction, and having formed a scheme of her own by which nobody's pride could be offended and her own desires consummated, she now set it forth. Might not it serve everyone's wishes if she went to London? There her single state could not possibly mortify her mother, and there too she would be exposed to all manner of life, to add fuel to her literary fire. She had long considered the scheme, and the more she thought upon it, the more desirable it seemed. She had exhausted the resources of character and drama in the little village where they lived, and now longed for some greater view of humanity to write about. Yet how could she ever do so, had she not seen something of the world?

Mr. Calder was a liberal man, and entertained for his eldest daughter a deep affection and respect. Yet he was not so liberated from what he laughingly called his “ancient ways” to like the scheme. To begin with, there were practical objections: a hundred pounds was a vast sum, to be sure, but it was not sufficient to live upon above a month in the city.
He could provide her with an income from his own pocket, but was that wise? It would certainly cost more to keep her alive in London than at home, and he could not reasonably excuse giving one daughter so much more than all the others, especially if the money were to further a scheme which no one much approved. Her mother, he was sure, would raise violent objections, and where, after all, would she live?

But Anne could be as stubborn as her father, and having once set her mind to the scheme, she would not easily be opposed. Would not it serve if she found employment as a governess? She was very fond of children, and now that all her own brothers and sisters were nearly grown, she missed tutoring them. As she was not likely to have any of her own, it would satisfy her maternal instincts, and would leave time enough to scribble when she could.

Mr. Calder only chuckled upon hearing this. Had she any idea what her mother would say to this? It would cause her no end of mortification and shame. But Mr. Calder, who had not a little love of the ridiculous in him, was so amused that he grew quite soon to like the plan. He would give his consent, then, provided her mother could be persuaded to approve, and provided also that Anne found a suitable situation. In addition, he would give her outright the cost of a year's expenses at home: no more could he justify, and the offer was very gratefully received. Anne turned to leave, but was stopped by her father's voice,

“You know, my dear, that I admire your spirit. I believe—indeed, I pray—that you shall not be the cause of your own unhappiness.”

“Dear Papa!” cried Anne, “I believe for the first time in my life, I am completely happy!”

Mr. Calder looked grave. “That is all very well to say
now
, my dear, but you have only laid your plans. Perhaps when you have been a month in London, you shall think differently. You shall not have a mother or father to turn to then, and you will most certainly be very lonely. If you go, I shall expect you to stay a whole year. Else you might take your own decision too lightly. But after that, if you desire to come home, you know you may.”

A tear sprang into the young lady's eye despite herself, but nodding gravely, she agreed. Her former excitement returning almost instantly, however, she flew off to make her preparations and to inform her sisters. The younger Miss Calders were amazed, and second only to their mother in the intensity
of wailing they set up. At first it was: why should Anne be allowed to go to London, and not they? and soon afterward, however could they lift up their heads again, when their acquaintance learned that Anne had gone to be governess?

Mrs. Calder was most preoccupied with the last idea. What would her friends think of her?

“They may think what they like,” said Mr. Calder, coming into the room just then. “If their opinion is needed in order for you to form your own, then Anne has every reason to wish to leave us.”

His wife and daughters were silent after that, for they held Mr. Calder in awe. But as soon as Anne had returned from London with the news that she was engaged to be governess to Sir Basil Ives' ward, they were once more torn between envy and chagrin. Mrs. Calder wished to have a new wardrobe made up for her daughter, that the Baronet should know she was not the ordinary run of governess, and that her family was well able to dress her in silk.

“I think you need not bother, Mama,” said Anne. “Sir Basil will not care whether I wear silk or flannel, so long as I am neat. You had much better spend your money on my sisters, who are all longing for new gowns.” And this reply was so happily received by the younger Miss Calders that it won their good graces instantly.

Of all the family, only her father and her eldest brother seemed really sorry to see her go. Her sisters were all happy to have the field cleared for themselves, and her mama content to have the one great blot on her happiness removed from her sight. But Ben, who was the eldest child, was distraught. He was a young man of nine and twenty, but owing to a childhood infirmity which still kept him weak, had not grown to the great height and strength of his father and younger brothers. Of all her family, Anne was most loathe to part with him. They shared a special affection for each other, and were both addicted to reading books. In their childhood they had invented a world peopled by imaginary beings, half human and half elfin. For hours upon end they had told each other stories, and had laughed until tears ran down their cheeks. There existed between them a silent understanding which ran like a river beneath their conversation. Anne went last of all to bid him farewell, and found him upon a couch, for he was very seldom able to stay up all day. The sight of his poor withered frame, wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets, bearly tore her heart, and more so still when she met the
smiling gaze of his eyes, which, large by any standard, seemed like two great orbs set in the midst of his emaciated features.

“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: