CHAPTER XII.
THE PHOTOGRAPH AGAIN.
When fingers are set to work for the first time at dressing and undressing any one else than their natural owner, they are apt to feel uncommonly as if they were all thumbs; such, at least, was the conclusion I came to at the outset of my career as lady's-maid. But a very little practice sufficed to make the awkward sensation wear off; and, after that, I was able easily to fulfil the duties of my post. To these duties I had no dislike, and much preferred being engaged in performing them to spending my time amongst other domestics; for I could wait on two ladies without shocking my self-respect in any way, whereas I felt ashamed and degraded at the mere idea of being liable to be persecuted by a man like Perkins. I tried hard to conquer this squeamishness, telling myself that it was ridiculous and inconsistent for a woman like me to be so particular, after having deliberately elected to knock about in the world, and take what came. But my endeavours to reason myself into a sensible view of the matter were in vain, and completely failed to uproot the feeling that to be taken liberties with by a man-servant was a humiliation not to be endured.
The Perkins incident having put me out of charity with the whole class—females and males alike—to which he belonged, it was a satisfaction to me that I was to be the sole attendant accompanying Mrs. Rollin and Kitty Mervyn abroad. This obviated all danger, at all events for the present, of my having to associate with obnoxious comrades. On the score of being dull for want of company I felt no uneasiness, for I knew by experience that I could amuse myself perfectly well when left to my own devices. Besides—had I not now the opportunity which I had desired for observing Kitty Mervyn, and trying to make out her character? I habitually regarded every one with indifference; but she had for me a strange fascination, which was strong enough to overcome that indifference, and I was quite astonished at the extent to which she interested me. Let me enumerate some of the attractions and qualities, both bodily and mental, of this young lady, who was at once my mistress, and also—though she would have been very greatly surprised to be told so—my connection.
In appearance she was tall, handsome, and imperial-looking, with a bright and open expression of countenance. Her disposition was upright, proud, honourable, and averse to everything mean. In conversation she was clever, quick-witted, lively, and pleasant. And as, furthermore, she was endowed with great social talent and a remarkable knack of pleasing all with whom she came in contact, she won hearts right and left, and was considered charming wherever she went. She was, however, far from faultless. The germ of worldliness, which inevitably creeps into an education amongst fashionable people, had begun to develop itself, and to taint her nature; and the conclave in her father's housekeeper's room had certainly not erred in attributing to her pride and ambition. So marked was her inclination to haughtiness that, when first I knew her, it sometimes puzzled me why she should take the trouble she did to make herself universally agreeable—even to people for whom she did not care, from whom there was nothing to be gained in return, and who were nobodies in her estimation. As, however, I came to understand her better, I discovered the key to this enigma, and perceived that she was actuated—whether consciously or only instinctively I do not know—by a strong desire for two things which seemed almost as indispensable to her as the air she breathed. These two things were popularity and power, and without them she was never really happy.
Her frank genial manner was well adapted to make people believe her to be an unreserved, easily-read individual; but the more attentively I studied her, the less inclined did I feel to think that impression a correct one. I had doubts whether she ever showed much of her real self; whether there were not recesses, of unsuspected depth, hidden within her where no mortal eye could penetrate; and whether she did not often make use of unreserve as a mask to conceal its opposite. The possibility of this made her all the more attractive to me. Curiosity as to what might lie beneath the surface she presented to the world, served to increase the drawing towards her that I had always felt; and had I been so placed as to have a chance of making friends with her, I should certainly have tried to do so. But it was, as I well knew, hopeless to attempt such a thing in my present position; for she was not the sort of girl to condescend to familiar intercourse with social inferiors, and in her eyes I was simply a maid. Under the circumstances, it would obviously be ridiculous if I were to let myself become fond of her, and I resolved firmly not to be guilty of any sentimental folly of the kind. Yet, in spite of this prudent resolution, I must confess that I sometimes had hard work not to yield to the indefinable charm which she had for me; and had she vouchsafed me any special marks of favour, I am afraid I should inevitably have made a fool of myself, and become romantically devoted to her. As, however, I had no particular attraction for her, such as she had for me, that fact contributed greatly to restrain my liking within reasonable limits. To indulge in an unrequited attachment had always seemed to me decidedly weak and contemptible (notwithstanding that such a man as the author of the Vita Nuova had done it); and it would have discomposed me immensely to detect in myself any symptoms of being capable of that weakness.
In short, I was sufficiently smitten with Kitty to have cast prudence to the winds, and let my whole heart go out to her, if she had held up her finger to me. But that little word "if" made just all the difference. My sense of dignity might safely be reckoned on to assist reason and prudence in fighting against an infatuation for any person who did not care for me in return.
From London we proceeded to Paris; thence we travelled slowly across France, stopping at various places of interest, and presently reached Cannes, where my two ladies meant to make a stay of a week or so before journeying on into Italy.
So far, I had seen and heard nothing to confirm the gossip about Lord Clement's admiration for Kitty, which had been communicated to me by the servants. But I received ample proof of its truth on the day after our arrival at Cannes, and this happened in the following manner:—
I was engaged in brushing the dust off a dress which Kitty had been wearing, when I found in the pocket a letter which she had received that morning from England. I did not hesitate to read it. When letters have secrets in them, people do not leave them about, thought I; so, since Kitty has not troubled to take this one out of her pocket, of course there are no private matters in it, and there is no reason why I should not see if the contents are amusing.
The epistle was from Lady Mervyn, and the portion of it which most interested me ran thus:
"Lord Clement told me last week that he thought he should go yachting to the Riviera at once, and as I have little doubt what is the attraction that takes him there, I daresay you will see something of him before long. I do hope, dearest Kitty, that you will not set yourself against him, and that you will try and reconsider the answer you gave him before. I am, as you know, the last person to try to over-persuade you into a marriage against your own inclinations; but yet I cannot resist putting in a good word for him, for it touches me to see how truly he loves you, and how constant to you he is, in spite of your refusal. Besides that, he really is a man in a thousand, and one to whom any mother would trust her daughter joyfully. Not only has he the recommendations of rank and wealth, but moreover he is unusually amiable, high-minded, conscientious, steady, and superior to the temptations to folly and extravagance to which young men in his position are so peculiarly open. With the exception of yourself, I doubt there being a single girl in London—or in England either—who would not accept him gladly, if only he asked her. And I'm sure one can't wonder at his being so run-after as he is, when one remembers what his money and position are, what immense influence they give him, what an excellent character he bears, and how thoroughly good he is in every way. However, you know already how high he stands in my good graces, and I had better drop the subject for fear of boring you by going over the same old tale again. Only do remember, my darling, that it is only the earnest wish I have to secure your happiness which makes me so anxious for you not to dismiss him without well considering what you do. Otherwise you may, perhaps, some day find yourself repenting your past decision, and regretting that you were so persistent in rejecting one of the few men of whom it may truly be said, that he is all that a husband should be."
Not badly done, my lady, thought I, as I refolded the letter, and restored it to its place. You knew what a tempting bait power is to Kitty when you put in that bit about the influence which the young man's position gives him. And you understood who you were writing to when you reminded her of his attractiveness to other people—she's likely enough to value goods at the price the rest of the world put upon them. Evidently you, like the servants, are puzzled to account for her indisposition to receive the proposals of this rich, titled, desirable, and altogether delightful suitor. Well! it rather puzzles me too. Can it be that she prefers some one else? No one seems to suspect such a thing; but yet it might be true for all that. What if that photograph I found in her purse were the explanation of the mystery? There is no impossibility in the idea of a tendresse existing between her and Captain Norroy, which they have hitherto managed to conceal from other people. I wish I could see them together, and then I should have some chance of discovering whether this conjecture of mine is right or not.
Whilst speculating thus, a brilliant idea suddenly flashed into my mind. This was, that I might avail myself of the surreptitiously-obtained carte-de-visite (which I had carefully preserved), in order to find out what I wanted to know. I would produce it unexpectedly, when there was no chance of Kitty's being particularly on guard, and watch for any signs of emotion that she might show on seeing it.
Wrapped up exactly as it had been when in her purse, and even in the self-same bit of paper, I put it into a blank envelope, which I presented next time I went to wait on her.
"I picked this up on the floor, just outside," said I. "I was going to take it to the landlord; but then I thought perhaps it might be something of yours, as I found it close to the door of your room, so I had better ask you about it first."
The envelope was not fastened, as I had feared that if it were closed she would scruple to open it, which would be fatal to the success of my stratagem.
"Thank you," she answered, taking it from me carelessly. "I don't think it belongs to me, but I can soon see."
I was doing her hair at the time, and commanded an excellent view of her face reflected in the looking-glass opposite which she sat. Her expression of insouciance vanished like magic when she had undone the paper and seen what it contained. The colour rushed into her face, which softened for a moment in a way I had never before seen it do, then came a stern, rigid, haughty, resolute look, as though she would defy the whole world to discover whatever secret she chose to conceal.
She did not speak at first, but turned round the photograph again and again, examining both it and the paper in which it had been wrapped.
At last she said: "This certainly is my property; but I can't imagine how it came to be where you found it. I fully believed it to have been lost some time ago."
"Don't you think," I suggested, "that when you thought you had lost it, you had perhaps really only slipped it into your writing-case, or into some book or papers which you haven't happened to open since then until now? Then it fell out without your noticing it, and either you were at that time at the place where I picked it up, or else some one's dress may have swept it there from your room. It was very near to the door."
"That is possible, no doubt," she returned, thoughtfully. "Yet still, I can hardly believe it to have happened so. I felt as positive as one can be about anything, that it was not in an envelope at all, and that I had put it"—she hesitated a moment, and then finished, "somewhere else."
As she did not seem inclined to mention where she really had put it, I thought I had better pretend to suppose that its destination had been a photograph-album.
"It would be very easy to be mistaken about what you had done with it, though," said I. "Probably when it was given you it was in an envelope, and then you were interrupted just as you were going to stick it into your book, and after that you forgot all about it, and it got mislaid."
"Well, you may be right," she replied. "Indeed I don't see any other way of accounting for the matter. But it is odd how I can have been so completely wrong in the impression I had as to what I had done with it."
The theory I had propounded seemed sufficiently plausible to content her, and she did not again allude to the affair. But I had little doubt that she thought about it a good deal for all that, because of a new look which I noticed in her face occasionally during the next day or two, and which was different from any other that I had seen there hitherto. A gleam of soft light would flash out from her eyes, accompanied by an expression of countenance which was curious, half-ashamed, tender, and wistful, and gave the impression rather of unhappiness than of the joy a girl would be likely to feel when thinking of her lover. This look of sadness would last perhaps for a minute, and then invariably be succeeded by one that was scornful, hard, and impenetrable.
It was beyond me to interpret these signs satisfactorily. That Captain Norroy had power to excite emotions of some kind in her breast I felt sure; but whether these emotions were pleasurable or the reverse, I was unable to make out.