These were Annie’s happy days; for if Cecil did play golf with the Miss Grants, or tennis with the Miss Thornhills, he spent his evenings with her, slipping in (after his mother and the servants had gone to bed) through an open back window, and they had chicken mayonnaise, and various other delicacies, prepared by Annie’s clever hands, washed down with Burgundy, or whisky and seltzer; and Cecil smoked—yes, actually a meerschaum in Mrs. Pyzer’s dining-room—a room in which a pipe had not been lit for half a century! It is scarcely necessary to mention that the two servants were fully aware of these secret orgies, but they held their tongues, assented to the preparations, and washed up the plates; for it would suit them, supposing, as they expressed it, “anything happened,” to remain on. Shortly after this, something did “happen.” Old Mrs. Pyzer died, and Annie Fleude, now mistress of the house, reigned in her stead.
The operation for cataract proved immediately afterwards successful; and Mrs. Brandon had her eyes opened in another direction, and an entirely different fashion, by a friend. Cecil, she was informed, “had got into a most shocking scrape about racing; it was really scandalous and notorious; the talk of all the sporting men in India”; but, after her first anger, the fond mother succumbed to her son’s plausible excuses and caresses, and endeavoured—since the East was closed to him—to find him another post. To this he was rather averse, and suggested living at home, and being her companion and comfort; but Charlotte Brandon was a Spartan mother, and determined that her boy should go forth once more into the world’s battle, and make himself a name. The benighted parent was ignorant of the fact that he had already made “a name” as the shadiest gentleman rider in India—and a thorough-paced little scamp.
Presently the engagement was breathed into her ear. To this, however, she failed to show the same indulgence. The ungrateful old woman was beside herself with fury, heaped abuse on deceitful, scheming Ann, and forbade her her presence, and her house.
Her tongue became venomous, as she assured her dear Cecil that it was bad enough for him to disgrace himself in India, but to come home and marry and settle down beside her, with a vulgar old maid—never!
“Give her up!” she cried, “give her up at once, or I will never leave you a penny, and I shall alter my will.”
She looked, as she was, cold, cast-iron, and nothing he could do or say would melt her decision. So he was compelled to agree. He had one long and tearful interview with Annie; this took place in the musty old dining-room—from which his sobs and hers were audible in the kitchen—but on the following day, when walking with his mother and encountering his lady-love out of doors, he passed her without acknowledgment—and looked the other way.
Poor Miss Annie Fleude was broken-hearted; she wrote Cecil many piteous, passionate letters, all unavailing; for he was a weak little fellow, ever dominated by a stronger will, and hence his defection and silence.
The story of his racing had somehow reached England. How tiresome it is that in cases where one would like to keep matters quiet, almost every person one meets has relations out in India! Girls and their parents now suddenly cooled; invitations ceased, even although Cecil Brandon would have £1,200 a year on the death of his mother, and was undeniably well connected. However, Mrs. Brandon exerted herself amazingly. She wrote letters (with her own hand)—dozen of letters, and she carried Cecil away from Battsbridge to London, and at last found him a promising appointment in the Belgian Congo. It offered fine pay; her son could stand a warm climate, he had a knack of picking up languages, and he would return home in two years. In short, it was a first-rate opening! When all had been arranged, the little man wrote to Annie to inform her of his prospects, and to say good-bye. In reply to this letter, she immediately went up to London and sought an interview with him and his mother at their hotel. She was desperate, and determined not to lose her little lover without a life and death struggle. At first she was piteous and heartbroken—foolishly endeavouring to work upon Mrs. Brandon’s feelings.
“I served you for a whole year,” she declared brokenly. “Could a daughter have done more for you than I did? Your son loves me, and I love him; I will make him a good wife. I have enough to live on, since my aunt is dead. The house is mine, he will be close to you, and you will have his society, and the comfort of his being near you. I beg and implore you not to send him away to the Congo; it is an awful place; he is all you have, and he is all I have—let us live at Battsbridge, and be happy. If you insist on his going to Africa it will break my heart, for something tells me that I shall never, never—see him again.”