It is always rather melancholy arriving at home alone, and I miss Palestrina very much at these times, and I feel ill-disposed towards Thomas. Down-Jock pretended not to know me, and barked furiously when I drove up to the door, and then ran away on three legs, making believe, as he sometimes does when he wants to appeal to one's pity, that he is old and lame.
It was still early in the afternoon, and the sunshine was blazing over everything when I hobbled down the hill to inquire for Miss Lydia. The houses in Stowel are all roofed with red tiles, and each garden has flowering shrubs in it or beds full of bright-coloured flowers, so that the little place has a very warm and happy look on a sunny summer day. A great heavy horse-chestnut tree hung over the walls of the doctor's house, and scattered fragments of pink blossom when the soft air stirred gently. The wistaria on the post-office was in full bloom. And the place was so full of pleasant sounds this afternoon—of singing birds, and heavy-rolling wagons moving up the broad street, and the laughter of children, and the soft rush of the summer wind through the trees—that one felt that a day like this gave one a very strong leaning in favour of the happy view that life is, after all, a good thing.
One had, of course, to stop and speak to several old friends, who said they were thankful to see me back, as though a visit to London was an expedition fraught with many dangers.
When I reached the little cottage with the green gate, and the maid opened the door to me, she told me that Lydia Blind had died an hour ago.
The staircase of the little house is directly opposite the front door. I could not but believe that if I waited a little while Miss Lydia would descend the stairs, as she always did, with a smile which never failed to welcome every one. Or, if she were not within doors, that I would only have to pass out into the little garden at the back of the house to find her. I thought suddenly of the words of a boy I used to know at school, who, when a young playfellow died, said between his sobs, "It was so hard upon him dying before he had had a good time." Certainly ever since we knew her Lydia's life had been one long sacrifice to a witless invalid, and I couldn't help feeling that perhaps no one would ever know the extent of her patient service. Probably there never lived a more unselfish woman, and I cannot think why she never married.
She was a person who lacked worldly wisdom, and in worldly matters she was not prosperous—she never sowed that sort of grain. It was very touching to find that she had not even a few trinkets to leave behind, but that one by one each had been sold to pay for something for the invalid—a doctor's fee, or a chemist's heavy bill. She left the world as unobtrusively as she lived in it. Her last illness was very sudden and brief, and probably she would have been thankful that the little household was spared any extra expense.
The news of Lydia's death was unexpected by every one. When I turned and left the house and was walking home again, I met Mrs. Taylor going to inquire about her neighbour's health, with an offering of fruit in a little basket. She begged me, in the Stowel fashion, to turn and walk back with her, declaring that she felt so seriously upset by the news that if I would only see her as far as her gate I should be doing her a kindness. In the garden the General, who had run down to Stowel for a couple of days, was reclining in a deck-chair, Indian fashion. He was reading some cookery recipes in a number ofTruth, and he turned to his niece as she crossed the lawn and said, "Do you think your cook could manage this, Mary? Select a fine pineapple——"
"Oh, uncle," said Mrs. Taylor with a good deal of feeling, "we have had such bad news! Our dear old friend in the village, Miss Lydia Blind, is dead."
"What Lydia Blind?" said the General; and Mrs. Taylor replied,—
"You never knew her, dear. She wasn't able to come to the party; indeed, I think she has been ailing ever since about that time, but we had no idea that the end was so near."
"It can't be the Lydia Blind I used to know?" said the General.
"Oh no, you couldn't have known her," said Mrs. Taylor with a sob; "she was just a dear old maiden lady living in the village on very small means."
"She hadn't a sister called Belinda, had she?" said the General.
Mrs. Taylor said she had, and I remembered suddenly how I had seen Lydia Blind standing one morning in front of the General's picture in the photographer's shop, and had heard her say, "I used to know him."
Mrs. Taylor went indoors, and I said good-bye, but the General said to me abruptly, "I should like to see her; will you take me there?" And he did not speak again until we found ourselves in the little porch of the cottage. He looked very tall standing by the low door of the house, and an odd idea came to me that Miss Lydia would have been proud of her afternoon caller.
"Let me go alone," he said gruffly, when he had asked permission to go to her room; and I waited in Lydia's morning-room, with its twine cases and unframed sketches, and the photographs of babies.
"I cannot see the sister," said the General irritably, when he had rejoined me in the darkened room. "Is she still dumb, poor thing? If ever there was a case," he went on, "of one life—and, to my mind, the sweeter and the better life—being sacrificed to another, it is in the case of Lydia Blind." He sat down on the little green sofa, and looked about him with eyes that seemed to see nothing. "I never expected such a thing," he said; "I couldn't have expected a thing like this ... I didn't even know she lived here.... Do you remember her," he said, "when she was very pretty? No, no, of course you wouldn't.... It doesn't hurt you to walk a little, does it? I have lived nearly all my life out of doors, and when anything upsets me I cannot stand being within four walls...."
We went out and crossed the field-path into the woods beyond. The paths of the wood are narrow and uneven, and at first we walked in single file, until we came to the broader road beyond the stream, and then we walked on side by side, the General suiting his pace to my slow, awkward gait.
"... Did you ever know the Bazeleys at all? No, you wouldn't, of course: that would be before your time. They had a very pretty place in Lincolnshire—a charming place—with a veranda round the house, and wicker-chairs with coloured cushions on them—more like an Indian house than an English one.... Harold Bazeley was in love with Lydia too." (I believe the General was talking more to himself than to me.) "It was one night sitting in the veranda that I heard him begin to make love to her for all he was worth, and I had to cut it.... Poor chap! he came into the smoking-room that night, where I was sitting alone, and he sat down by the table and put his head in his hands. He may have been saying his prayers (for he was always a religious man ... he did a lot of good for the men under him in India), and I sat with him till it was time to go to bed. I don't know if it was any comfort to him, but I knew from his face that Lydia must have said no, and I thought perhaps he wouldn't like being alone.... Well, then of course one didn't like to rush in and ask one's best friend's girl to marry one so soon after his disappointment. One had very strict ideas about honour in those days; I hope one has not lost them.... It is very odd that I was never here before, until last spring. Nearly all my service has been abroad, and I generally used to spend my leave hunting or in London, and my niece used to come up and stay with me there.... I didn't care much for Taylor in those days, but he really isn't a bad sort of fellow."
The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the General seemed to wake from the reverie in which he had been talking to me, and said: "You oughtn't to be out after sunset, if you have still got malaria about you," and we began to walk slowly homewards.
"It was just such an evening as this," he said, "when I bade her good-bye, meaning to come back in a little while and ask her to marry me. She was standing by the gate—fine old gates with stone pillars to them, and the sun shone full in her eyes.... I suppose that gentle, sweet look never left them, did it? They were closed, of course, when I saw them just now.... She was wearing a white dress that evening, I remember—a sort of muslin dress which I suppose would not be fashionable now, but which looked very pretty then. It had a lot of pink ribbons about it, and there was a great bunch of pink moss-roses in the ribbon of her belt.... Do you know I never picture her except as the girl who stood by the gate with the sun behind her, and the roses in her belt. I think I lost my head a little when it came to saying good-bye, and I began to say things which I had not meant to say—she looked so pretty with the red sunlight upon her, and her white muslin dress almost turned to pink in the glare.... I don't think she was surprised, only sweeter and gentler than before, and a curious, happy look was in her eyes. But I stopped in time, and stammered like a fool, thinking of poor Harold Bazeley, and then I said good-bye rather hurriedly. But I came back again to the gate where she was still standing, and asked if I might have one of the roses in her belt. And she gave me the whole bunch.
"... It must have been after this that the father died and left them very poor, and then the sister (this one, Belinda) had a stroke of paralysis, and there was no one to look after her but Lydia.... I wrote and proposed to her before I went to India—asked her to come with me as my wife. But she said she could not marry while her sister lived. It isn't as though we could have remained in England, and she could have lived with us; but of course India would have been an impossibility for the poor thing. We never thought in those days that poor Belinda would live long. And then she made a sort of recovery, but was still quite helpless, and Lydia wrote and asked me to wait for her no longer.... I never heard that she had come to live at Stowel."
The broad, wide village road was dim with twilight when we walked homewards along it—The Uncle and I. The children had all gone indoors, and the flowers in the little garden had lost their colour in the dim light.
As we passed by the cottage the General halted on the quiet, deserted road and took off his hat, then he leaned over the little green paling and drew towards him a branch of a moss-rose tree that Miss Lydia had planted there. He plucked a bud from it and held it to his face. Then he said gently, "They are the same sort, but they do not smell so sweet."
Mrs. Fielden came to Stowel for the funeral, and did not return to London again. She went to pay some visits, I believe, and afterwards she will go to Scotland to stay with the Melfords, as she always does in August. It was a very quiet summer. Anthony went to Ireland to fish, and Major Jacobs went with him instead of me: Anthony and I used to take the fishing together. Even Frances Taylor went north to stay with Mrs. Macdonald, and the Reading Society postponed its future meetings till the winter should come again.
Undoubtedly Kate Jamieson's wedding was a stirring event in a very dull time. The festivities connected with it were carried out with the Jamiesons' usual energy and lavishness. It is possible to be lavish on five hundred a year. That is one of the pleasing things that kind-hearted people like the Jamiesons can prove. No one was omitted in the list of invitations to the reception which was held on the lawn in front of the house. And there the whole of the Jamiesons' wide circle of friends was gathered together, forming an assembly which surely only the censorious mind could find fault with. The refreshments, these good Jamiesons informed us, with their ingenuous interest in discussing detail, were prepared by Margaret, and Kate contributed to the payment of their ingredients from her small savings. The group of bride and bridesmaids, which was photographed at the front door, each wearing an expression of acute distress upon her face, was George's own idea, and was nobly paid for by him.
It was announced at the wedding-feast—although it had been whispered for a long time—that there was soon to be another break in the Jamieson family. We all instantly prepared a smile of congratulation for Maud, and some disappointment was felt when it was discovered that the remark applied to Mrs. Jamieson's youngest son, Kennie. The Pirate had for some time been informing his friends that the Wild West was "calling to him," and that he had the "go fever," and that "once he had known the perfect freedom of life out there" it was impossible to settle down to the conventionalities of English society again. The Pirate had obtained a post as purser on one of the ships of the company to which he belonged, and he appeared at the wedding-breakfast in a suit of white ducks, a gold-laced cap, and the famous cummerbund. I have a strong suspicion that he had a revolver concealed in a mysterious pocket, from the way his hand, in moments of excitement, occasionally moved towards it; but fortunately the wedding-party was of so peaceful a description that it was not necessary to produce the weapon.
Since the exciting news of Kennie's proposed departure for Buenos Ayres Mettie has developed nerves and hysteria. But so limited is the power of imagination or discrimination in the human mind, that I must honestly confess that I never once connected her indisposition and low spirits with the news of her cousin's departure. Mettie has added to a certain helplessness which always distinguishes her a tendency to tears, and to sitting alone in her bedroom and sniffing dolorously; the big thin nose requires constant attention, and there are red rims round poor Mettie's eyes. The Jamiesons, who trace every variation in life to a love affair, are not long of course in coming to the right and the sentimental—nay, from the Jamieson point of view, the only reasonable explanation of this change in their little cousin. But Mettie has entreated them to say nothing, and to let her suffer in silence, and they are too loyal to betray her interesting confidences. Kennie himself is, I believe, still unaware of the interest he is exciting in Mettie's gentle breast, but doubtless the little woman's extreme timidity and her clinging disposition appeal in no small measure to the Defender of the Sex. Mettie raises meek, adoring eyes to the Pirate's ruddy face, under the gold-laced cap, and murmurs with clasped hands: "You will never come back to us—I know it, I feel it! You will be murdered by some gang of cut-throats, and then what will I—I mean your mother, do?" The Pirate plumes himself and struts, and the dangers that his little cousin has so powerfully depicted for him make his young heart swell.
The village church was quite full of spectators and friends; nearly all our acquaintances in the village wore new gowns—or apparently new gowns—for the wedding. Mrs. Lovekin, in a black-cloth mantle with bead-trimming, showed guests into their pews, and directed the children at the doorway into giving a ringing cheer as the bride drove up to the church. It was whispered by a wag that Mrs. Lovekin would like to don a surplice and officiate at the interesting ceremony herself. There was a party in white cotton gloves, who banged doors and shouted "Drive on!" and it was hard to realize that this was the Jamiesons' odd man and gardener, transformed for the occasion. He wore a large white ribbon rosette in his button-hole, and all the morning he had been busy erecting an archway over the gate at Belmont with Union Jacks displayed thereon, out of consideration, as he explained, to the late Captain Jamieson, he being military. The Miss Traceys were resplendent in brown dresses and profuse lace neckties, securely anchored to their chests by massive brooches; the dresses were afterwards mentioned in an account of the wedding in the local paper, and it was cut out and carefully kept by the Miss Traceys, who pasted the interesting news in a small album for news-cuttings which they bought for the purpose.
At the Jamiesons' little house there was, I understand, a wild state of confusion and energy from a very early hour in the morning, and looking-glasses and hand-mirrors were in great demand. The centre of interest there, it seems, was Kate's bedroom, where the whole of The Family congregated to give Kate a last kiss before the veil was put on, and to wish her happiness again and again. George, who throughout the entire proceedings made a laudable attempt to appear calm, at last told his sister that it really was time to start, and the carriage rolled down the hill, and Kate Jamieson alighted from it, and walked up the aisle of the old church leaning upon her brother's arm. Eliza Jamieson was busy with a note-book the whole time, and almost one seemed to begin to see the wedding through her journalistic eyes.
Our curate's wife, who is still far from strong, asked Palestrina to look after Peggy, who expressed a wish to see the wedding, and I was interested to find how many little games Peggy had invented for herself by way of getting through the tedium of a service—games which, I imagine, she had been preparing during the many services which a curate's little girl is supposed to attend.
"If you press your eyes to the back of your head as far as you can," she whispered to me, "you can see green and red and blue spots, and then open them and you can see green and red and blue spots round father." And again: "I can say, 'We beseech Thee!' seven times over while the choir are singing it, if we have Jackson'sTe Deum." And then: "Do you know what Georgie and I do, when we are sent to church alone? We hide in the pew until no one thinks we are there, and then we pop up in the middle of the service and begin to say the responses. When we sit with the Sunday-school children we play at 'My husband and your husband,' and then we each choose in turn which husband we'll have in the congregation. You see, the first man who comes in is to be the first child's husband, and the second the second child's, that's how we manage; last Sunday I got the baker's boy."
Mr. Swinnerton was at the wedding, somewhat inclined to be consequential, as usual; but as he devoted his whole attention to Margaret, one could not but feel that his presence was acceptable. (We are on the tip-toe of expectation to know when Mr. Swinnerton will "come to the point.") Margaret Jamieson looked after the needs of the Higginses' relations, and attended to the wants of all the humbler of the guests.
There was still another element of interest in the marriage-party in the person of Mr. Evans, who ran down from Hampstead for it. "If Mr. Evans comes," Maud said, with the characteristic fine common sense of the Jamiesons, "I want you all to understand that it is all quite over between him and me. But what I have always thought about Mr. Evans is this—that he is the sort of man who would like The Family, and I do not see why he should not take a fancy to one of the other members of it. I am quite sure his affection for me was based upon my suitability. He often told me, for instance, that he would like a wife who had been brought up to do things for herself, and could manage on a small income and dress cheaply, and I am sure we can all do that. And after all, if that is so, one of us is as suitable as another. He had very definite ideas about a wife; but I couldn't help feeling all the time that it was some one like ourselves that he had in his mind. He seemed to have a great dread of any one who was too smart; and I said to him at the time—for of course we both talked about our families a good deal, as one does in the first stages—that we were all very homely sort of people. I could always put myself in the background if he seemed, for instance, to take a fancy to Gracie. And Gracie herself has often said that she thinks she would like a man to wear a white watered-silk waistcoat."
Gracie looked quite pleased with the arrangement, and Mr. Evans was asked down "as a friend." And I should here like to record—only of course it is going too far ahead—that before the summer was over, Mr. Evans, charmed with The Family, as Maud felt he would be, and convinced of their suitability, had chosen Gracie from amongst the remaining Miss Jamiesons who were still at the disposal of those who seek a wife. Gracie's energy charmed Mr. Evans. He often said afterwards that he believed he had got the pick of the basket after all.
It was quite evident to me, and I believe to most of the Jamiesons' guests, that one of the mysteries, so dear to the hearts of Stowel, was in preparation for the wedding afternoon. Not even my sister and I had been initiated into the secret; but Mrs. Jamieson, it must be confessed, took away from the shock of surprise which might have been ours, by referring during the whole afternoon to the entertainment which was to take place later. The Jamiesons had decided that the lawn, newly mown, was to be suddenly cleared of trestle-tables and garden-chairs, and that a small band of musicians was to spring up unexpectedly out of the ground, as it were, and that every one was to know suddenly that they were in the midst of an impromptu dance. Now Mrs. Jamieson, nervously expectant, and half fearing from the detached manners of her daughters (so well did the Miss Jamiesons simulate their ignorance of what was before them) that they must indeed have forgotten about the dance, interrupted every conversation by creeping up to them in her melancholy, quiet way, and saying, "Shall I get them to clear away now?"
"It's to be impromptu, mamma," entreated the Miss Jamiesons in agitated whispers. It had been decided between them that Gracie, as the youngest of the party, should exclaim suddenly, as if by some happy inspiration, "I vote we dance;" and that then in a perfectly easy and natural manner guests and entertainers alike should, with the utmost friendliness, help to push back the tables and chairs into the lilac bushes, and that then the musicians should be hastily summoned from the kitchen, where they were to have tea. Before that time arrived the unfortunate Mrs. Jamieson had, as one might say, almost skimmed the cream off the whole thing. Her nervousness would not allow her to rest, and in the end she had established the musicians in the three chairs so artlessly prepared for them under the chestnut-tree; and there they were with fiddle and concertina long before Gracie had found an opportunity for making her impromptu suggestion. Their sudden appearance, one could not but feel, detracted from the unprepared effect that had been intended, and they stood waiting to begin with quite a forlorn appearance until the Pirate, for whom the arrival of the hour means the arrival of the man (if the Pirate is anywhere about), called out in his loud tones, "Strike up, you fellows, and let us have a dance!" and the very next moment the white drill suit and the gold-laced cap of Kennie might have been seen in the middle of the lawn. He gallantly seized Mettie round the waist and scattered the guests by the onslaught and the fierce charge he made upon them, and soon had cleared a space in which he footed it gaily. The Higginses, who had been rather shy during the reception, hastened to find partners, and warmed to the occasion at once. Young Abel Higgins, the handsome young farmer from Dorming, said it was the pleasantest entertainment he had ever been at. "There is no cliquism about it," he remarked. "You just say to a girl, 'Will you dance?' and up she comes; it doesn't matter if she's a lord's daughter!"
Mr. Swinnerton devoted much of his attention and his conversation to me during the afternoon. He discussed what he calls "military matters" at great length, pointing out the mistakes of every general in South Africa, at the same time clearly stating what Mr. Swinnerton would have done under similar circumstances, and lamenting the inefficiency of the War Office. Later in the afternoon, however, when he found me where, as I hoped, I had effectually concealed myself behind a laurel bush, Mr. Swinnerton plunged heavily into the question of marriage; and this, as Maud would say, was surely a very hopeful sign. I was disappointed, however, to find that his views regarding the happy state of matrimony seemed to have been made almost entirely from one point of view, and that point of view himself.
"Don't you think," he began ponderously, as he seated himself beside me after the rather heavy fatigue of dancing on a lawn to the strains of a band that did not keep scrupulous time—"don't you think that a man ought to see a girl in her own home before he makes up his mind?"
I dissented on the plea of over-cautiousness, but Mr. Swinnerton did not hear me.
"What I think," he went on, "is that marriage is a serious undertaking for a man, and that one ought to be very sure of one's own mind."
I admitted the seriousness of matrimony, but thought it applied equally to the woman.
This remark also seemed to escape Mr. Swinnerton's attention. Indeed, I found that what is extremely irritating about this fellow is that his mind never diverges from his own topic; he seems quite incapable of excursions into the thoughts and feelings of the persons he addresses, but plods steadily on his own path, pleased to give his own views, and quite unaffected by the differences of opinion that are offered him. There is a legend of my childhood that records that a man once said, "It is bitt——" and then went to sleep for a thousand years, and when he woke up he said, "—erly cold." I am often reminded of this story when I listen to Mr. Swinnerton's plodding conversation.
"What I feel is," he went on—and one knew that no fatigue on the part of the listener would be noticed by him—"what I feel is, that the man being the head of the woman he should always choose some one who is docile and good-tempered, and perhaps above all things a good cook. That's the very first thing I would teach a woman—to be a good cook. It's so important for a man to have his meals really nice and nicely served. Don't you agree with me?"
"It is very important," I said.
"I am so glad you agree with me." Mr. Swinnerton occasionally remarks on an agreeable clause in one's conversation, whereas a disagreement never even penetrates his mind. "Of course, you fellows with your mess and all that can scarcely realize how necessary it is that a man's wife should be a good cook. And then she ought to be thoroughly domesticated," went on Mr. Swinnerton's heavy voice; "a woman should not always be wanting to go out in the evening. What I feel is that the home should constitute the woman's happiness."
"And cooking?" I said.
"Yes, and cooking," said Mr. Swinnerton. "I do not want my wife to have any money; I had much rather she had to come to me for things. I am not greedy about money. I am comfortably off, but I think a man should have entire control of the purse. One could knock off any expenditure on a wife's dress, if that is the case. Ladies like a new bonnet, and I should always give my wife a new bonnet if things had been nice."
I remarked that Mr. Swinnerton was very generous.
"I know I am generous. Of course, a man gives up a great deal when he marries, but I do not know that in the matter of expense it would cost me more to keep a small house than to pay for lodgings."
"It depends," I said, "what wages you give your wife. An occasional new bonnet would not be an extravagant salary, if she turned out to be a really good cook."
For the first time Mr. Swinnerton seemed struck by the wisdom of my remarks. "No, it would not," he said; "it would not. I know that I would make a good husband," he remarked; "and I feel that I have a future before me in the volunteers."
Margaret joined us at this moment, and Swinnerton smiled indulgently at her, without offering, however, to give her his seat. I do not think that Margaret noticed this, as she did not notice any omission on Mr. Swinnerton's part.
"I hope you are not very tired," she said. "Your journey from London and then this little dance must be very fatiguing, I am afraid."
"Men don't get tired," said Mr. Swinnerton grandiosely, and he looked towards me for applause. He did not, however, ask her to dance, and Margaret moved away to attend to other guests.
"She's a very nice-looking girl," said Mr. Swinnerton approvingly, "and a well-brought-up girl, too."
So I suppose it is still hopeful, as the Jamiesons would say. But I pray that Margaret Jamieson will remove Mr. Swinnerton hence when she has married him.
Kate and Mr. Ward drove to the station in the best landau and pair of horses from Stowel Inn. Mr. Ward was so upset from first to last by the ceremonies and the heat that his conical-shaped head, covered with the dew of nervous perspiration, steamed like a kettle; but his affection for his bride and his evident delight and pride in her were undeniable, and although resenting in his mild way the stinging shower of rice with which he was pelted, and the usual facetious jokes that were made on the bride and bridegroom, Mr. Ward nevertheless beamed with good-nature all the time.
Palestrina made me laugh when she came home in the evening. She had been down to the village to see the Pettifers and to show them her wedding finery, as she promised to do; for Mrs. Pettifer is ill in bed again, and was unable to stand at the church door with the rest of the crowd to see the wedding-party. My sister found the old lady weeping bitterly, and for a long time she could not guess the cause of her distress, until at last a remark of her husband's explained it. "She do take on like that tur'ble queer," he said, "as soon as ever the wedding-bells ring after a marriage is over."
"Yes," said Mrs. Pettifer; "I always say to myself, 'She's got him, and he ain't disappointed her after all.'"
Kennie sailed for Buenos Ayres the day after the wedding, and Mettie walked over to see us, being sent on some errand, I have no doubt, wherein she would be more usefully employed than in getting into the way of the staff of workers who were clearing up after yesterday's festivities. Mettie brought over Mrs. Ward's first telegram received that morning from Dover, and said it was too funny to think of Kate being Mrs. Ward. "Kate Ward," she said with one of her curious little chirruping laughs, "Kate Ward—do look at it!" And we dutifully replied that it certainly seemed the height of drollery.
Palestrina is not perfectly just to me when Mettie comes to call. She always remembers something important which she has until this moment forgotten, and with apologies to Mettie she flies off to see to it, and I am left with our caller. And then the marriage question is in full swing before one can prevent it. Mettie says she would never, never allow a man to know that she cared for him, and that no nice girl would. Did I think that if a girl never gave any evidence of her love, and died, it would be a very pitiful end? And of course I said that the pathos of the thing would strike one directly.
"After death," said Mettie, "she might still be his good angel. It is very strange," she said, "to think of becoming a being with wings. Do you know I often wonder what those wings can be like, and I cannot imagine them made of anything but white ostrich feathers, which I must say would look very pretty.... I am sure it is a brave thing to part and say nothing, but do you think that one might write?"
It was only then, at that precise moment, that I in any way connected Mettie's remarks with the thought of the Pirate Boy, now a purser in the —— Line.
"My dear Mettie," I said, "I should certainly write to him—write often, write affectionately, send him your photograph, work him a housewife for his cabin, carve him a frame for your photograph. I am delighted——"
"Oh! but nothing is settled yet," simpered Mettie.
It has sometimes struck me since, although one generally denies the suggestion, that the first sentiment of love-making may emanate from the woman's mind. But probably the Pirate will never know that it was not his own idea that he should fall in love with Mettie.
This evening I was looking over a lot of old letters, such as our fathers and mothers used to keep, put away in drawers with bits of ribbon tied round them in the days when there was more time for that sort of thing than there is now. And I came across the following letter, written in ink that has grown rather faded, and dated 1845. It describes a wedding, and I have saved it from a number of other letters which I have destroyed, to stick it into my diary as an appropriate sort of ending to my entries for to-day. The letter is a genuine one, and I have the original of it beside me now.
"MY DEAREST AUNT,
"You wished to hear all about our doings on Thursday. Though I dare say you have heard many editions of the affairs of that day, I take the earliest opportunity of relating to you, as I promised, my version of it, though how often was it wished that dear aunt and uncle had themselves been present to illuminate the picture. We all assembled at a quarter-past ten o'clock. The married ladies (and gentlemen, whether they were in that happy state or not) remained in the drawing-room till, at a given signal, the bride descended, followed by her bridesmaids—first Emily and myself, then Anne and Jane Schofield, then Anna and Eliza Schofield. The four first were in pink, the two last in blue. After talking over matters a little, we entered our respective carriages, mamma going in the first carriage, and papa and Mary bringing up the rear. We went through the ceremony very well. Mary responded in a perfectly clear and audible voice; but once the worthy bride-groom faltered, and as I stood next to him could perceive he was somewhat agitated. The ceremony of kissing being finished, we returned from church, when numerous and costly presents were exhibited to the eyes, and amongst them none more beautiful than my dear uncle and aunt's. But, by way of parenthesis, mamma wishes me to ask you, as Mary has two silver canisters, whether you would have any objection to change the kind and elegant expression of your feeling for Mary into a silver waiter. Knowing your kindness, we sent it by Uncle Kershaw. Now to proceed. We descended to breakfast—a most important business, which occupied us a considerable time—in the middle of which Uncle Ainsworth produced a bunch of grapes, and signified his intention of drinking Mary Schofield's health in the red juice of the grape. He immediately expressed the juice and suited the action to the word. Robert Arncliffe made a beautiful speech—quite a gem. We then proceeded to dress the bride in travelling attire. Then came the dreadful moment of parting. Mamma and papa got over it most wonderfully; suffice it to say our sisters' tears flowed most copiously on that day. After her departure, we took a drive to restore us to that harmony of spirits so desirable when persons are the entertainers of others. We drove through Hyde Park and Regent's Park in procession, and stopped to walk in the Zoological Gardens, coveting the society of the brute creation as well as the rational. We then returned to dinner, which was at seven, when, to our indescribable horror, on calling over the names of certain young ladies, we discovered their toilet was not complete when dinner was announced. After a small delay, however, the offenders appeared, and the business of dinner was commenced with astonishing vigour. There is no occasion to describe to you the manners and customs of a dinner-table, as a sameness must naturally pervade all such employments. We ladies at length signified our intention of leaving the gentlemen masters of the field, and Uncle Jesse came out with us and went to bed. We proceeded to enjoy a small quadrille, till I suppose the sound of feet called the other portion of the community from below. After tea and a little display of musical powers, we had another quadrille; but this did not occur till Emily was gone. We finally separated at half-past eleven. We have heard twice or three times from the newly-married people. They are in Bath to-day. Will you excuse, my dear aunt, this dreadful scrawl, but I have had so many notes to write, added to which I have sprained my right arm, which is now pleading to be spared any further exertions. Hoping that dear uncle and yourself, as well as dear Sarah, are well, and again begging to be excused this unconnected epistle, With united love to all, Believe me,
"Your very affectionate niece,"MARGARET M. NAYLOR.
"MECKLENBURGH SQUARE,August1845."
My leg, "my best leg," as poor Beau Brummell used to say, has been hurting rather, for the last week or two. I do not know how Palestrina has discovered this, but the dear little woman is looking harassed and anxious, and she is trying to inveigle me into going up to London again, to get further advice from my doctor. She has broached the subject in several ways. There is a play going on at present which she would much like to see, if I will be kind enough to take her to London for a couple of days. Or there is some shopping which she wants to do, and she must have my advice on the subject. I believe that she does not like to allow, even to herself, that I ought to go expressly to see the surgeon, but she means to throw out the suggestion when we shall be in town together, and in this way she has decided, with her usual thoughtfulness, to spare me the anticipation of hearing that I am not going on as well as I ought to be doing. It is, however, much too hot to think of going up to London, so for the present none of Palestrina's deep-laid plans have been successful. It is broiling hot weather even down here in the country, but the mornings are cool and fresh, and, after tossing about half the night, I generally get up and go for a feeble sort of walk before breakfast. It is extraordinary how new and fresh the world feels in the early morning, while the dew is still on the grass, and the birds are singing without any fear that their concert will be stopped or disturbed by passers-by.
On my way home this morning I passed the Jamiesons' little house, and was hailed to come in by the flutter of nearly a dozen dinner-napkins waved to me from the window of the breakfast-room. It is impossible to pass Belmont without being asked to come in, or to leave the hospitable little house without an invitation to stay longer. Monday—this was Monday—is what the Jamiesons call "one of our busiest mornings," and I think that our good friends talk almost more than usual on the days on which they are most engaged.
As I entered the room, two of The Family had already finished breakfast, and were busy at a side-table, driving their sewing-machines. The whirring noise, added to the amount of talking that was going on, had rather a bewildering effect at first. There was, besides, the added confusion attendant upon what is known as "getting George off." The process seems to consist of shaking George into his City coat, brushing it, patting him on the back, telling him how nice he looks, hoping he will get down in the middle of the week, or at least not later than Friday afternoon, and giving him messages and remembrances to quite half a dozen friends in London. The Family chorus as I entered was something like this:—
"Cream or sugar, weak or strong?"
"Mettie, did you get your letters?"
"Eliza, which is your napkin-ring?"
"Please say what you will have; I have asked you at least half a dozen times."
"Do you mind the window open?"
"Does any one hear the bus?"
"Toast or rolls?"
"Which is your napkin-ring?"
"Did any one hear the rain last night?"
"You haven't said yet if you will have an egg."
"Mother is not well, and is not coming down this morning."
"Does any one mind if we go on with our machines?"
Over and above this, snatches of newspaper were read, and numerous directions were given to a very young servant as to how things should be placed upon the table—a proceeding which usually goes on at every one of the Jamiesons' meals. It is known as "training one of our village girls."
Gracie and Eliza were the two who sat at the side-table before their whirring sewing-machines, their very spectacles nearly darting from their heads with energy and speed. George said, "I wish one of you girls would mend my glove before I start;" and Gracie said, "Give it to me; I can spare five minutes off lunch-time to get this finished."
Margaret remarked, "Mamma seems very much out of spirits to-day, and I think one of us ought to go and play draughts with her."
Eliza took out her watch. "I can play draughts for thirty-five minutes," she remarked—"from eleven-five to eleven-forty—and then Gracie must take my place, as Margaret will be baking, and I have the soup-kitchen accounts to make up."
"I did not anticipate draughts this morning," said poor Gracie. "I must just get this done when I go to bed." This is the last refuge of the overdriven, and one which is so frequently alluded to by the Jamiesons that I often fear they deny themselves the proper amount of sleep.
George here kissed each of his sisters in turn, and ran upstairs to say good-bye to his mother, while the omnibus waited at the gate.
Maud, who was trimming hats for the whole family, and who was surrounded by a curious medley of ribbons and finery, said: "What about the Church Council work? I am afraid we have forgotten it."
"That's my business," said Gracie tragically; "and I must give this up;" and she stopped her sewing-machine, and rolled the purple cotton pinafore into a tight ball and placed it on the table.
"Dear Gracie," said Margaret, "could I not do it? I could get it in between the Kaffirs and my baking."
"I would offer to do it," said Eliza, with that affectionate helpfulness which distinguishes The Family, "only I am so filled up with soup." Eliza referred to her soup-kitchen accounts.
The small servant here appeared at the door, and said that an old woman wanted to see Miss Gracie.
"My time! my time!" said Gracie, and went to the back door to give the last shilling of her quarter's dress allowance to the poor woman in distress.
"The worst of playing draughts is," said Eliza, "that one can do nothing else at the same time, except it be to add up accounts in one's head. Otherwise I should have been only too glad. I tell you what I can do, though—I can play instead of Gracie this morning, if she won't mind my keeping the candle alight to do my Browning article after I have gone to bed."
Mettie always offers to help every one, but so slow is the little woman's way of working that the energetic family of Jamieson are quite aware that probably the business will be weeks in doing; so their answers to Mettie's offers, given in a kindly voice, are always: "My dear, you have got your letters to write, and your practising—we could not do without your singing in the evening, you know."
Mr. Evans, who was a guest in the house for a few days, was smoking his pipe in a leisurely way in the garden, and Gracie said: "I really do feel that I ought to give more attention to Mr. Evans, if only I had the time for it. Could one of you run into the garden and make a few pleasant remarks to him until I am ready?" And this Eliza did, first glancing at her watch in the characteristic Jamieson fashion, and coming in presently to say that she had sat "for ten solid minutes doing nothing, and that she does wish men had more resources of their own."
It would have been useless to suggest that the work should stop for a whole summer day. A child came in with some flowers as an offering to the Miss Jamiesons, and Eliza said: "Would you mind putting them down somewhere, my dear? I will try to get a minute to arrange them by-and-by." And then the machines began again, and I walked on homewards, and enjoyed a long, hot morning in the garden with a book.
The garden was very shady and pleasant, and one thought regretfully of the Jamiesons sitting indoors with their sewing-machines. Palestrina came out presently in a gray dress, very soft and cool-looking, and with a big sunshade over her head. She sat down beside me, and said in an off-hand way, and a determination to be congratulatory which was very suspicious: "I have got a pressing invitation for you." And she handed me a letter from Kate Ward.
Mrs. Ward wrote upon the almost immaculate notepaper which is affected by brides, I have often noticed that this superfine quality of paper is one of the first extravagances of young married life, as it is one of the first economies of a later date, and a little judgment will soon show how long a woman has been married by merely looking at her notepaper. Cream-laid, with a gold address at the top, bespeaks the early days of matrimony; and a descent through white stamping, no stamping, Hieratica to Silurian note, marks the different stages of the rolling years.
Kate said (on the best Court note) that she would never forgive us if we did not come and see her in her new home. James had been generous in the extreme, and they had bought everything "plain but good" for the house. And the whole expense of it had been covered by exactly the sum of money that they had laid by for the purpose. Kate continued, "But I will not bore you with a description of the house, for I want you to see it for yourselves," and then entered upon the usual Jamieson descriptive catalogue of every piece of furniture and every wallpaper which she had purchased.
I handed the letter back to Palestrina, who was sitting in an exaggerated attitude of ease and indifference on the edge of my deck-chair, and said to her, "Why leave Paradise? London will be atrocious in this hot weather, and I believe it would be tempting Providence to quit this garden."
"I am afraid it will give great disappointment to Kate if we do not go," said Palestrina, in a tone of voice which suggested that she had been prepared for opposition, and had rehearsed her own arguments beforehand. "After all, she lives in the suburbs, and has a garden of her own, and we need not stay more than two or three days."
"We shall have to do so much admiring," I said, smothering a yawn. "I know what brides are! You, Palestrina, probably know exactly the right thing to say about newly-laid linoleum and furniture which is plain but good, but I never do."
"I think I should like to go," said Palestrina, putting the matter upon personal grounds, as I knew she would do when she had entirely made up her mind that I must go up to London. What pressure she had brought to bear upon Mrs. Ward to induce her to invite us to the new house I cannot say, but some instinct told me that Kate had been warned to write a letter which might be handed to me to read.
I pointed out to Palestrina that, much as I should miss her at home, I should not stand in the way of her paying a visit to her old friend.
"I have accepted for us both from Thursday to Tuesday," said Palestrina firmly. "Oh, by-the-bye," she said, rising and going indoors, "I just sent a line to Dr. Fergus at the same time to say that you will look in and see him one morning, just to see that you are going on all right."
"You also were up early?" I said to the diplomat, who smiled at me from under her big umbrella without a vestige of shame at her own cunning. "I don't think it is fair on a crippled man to get up early and send off letters by the early post. It's a mean trick."
"You were up half the night," said Palestrina, nodding her head at me, "for I heard you." And she crossed the lawn and went indoors again.
The following Thursday we took train for Clarkham. I had never stayed in this part of the world before, till we came to visit Kate, and the suburb where she lives seems to me to be rather a pleasant place, with broad roads over whose walls and palings shrubs and red maples and other trees hang invitingly. And it is so near London that a very short run in the train takes one to Victoria Station. But the neighbourhood is not fashionable, and I cannot help remarking the apologetic tone in which every one we meet speaks of living here.
The Wards' house is a very nice little place, with very new wall-papers and very clean curtains and slippery floors, upon which art rugs slide dangerously. There is a small garden with a lawn and a brown hawthorn tree upon it, and there are two trim little maids who wait upon one excellently well. Kate is a thorough good manager, and her whole household reminds one of those pages on household management which one sees in magazines, describing the perfect equipment of a house—its management, and the rules to be observed by a young housekeeper.
There is a place for everything, and Kate says her wedding-presents are a great assistance in giving a home-like look to the house.
Mr. Ward leaves home at half-past nine every morning, and Kate shakes him into his coat in exactly the same way George used to be shaken into his, and stands at the hall-door with a bright smile on her face, until James has got into the morning bus and driven away, in a manner that is very wifely and commendable.
The unpretentious little household seems to be a very happy one, and Kate was quite satisfied with the praise which Palestrina bestowed upon everything.
"Of course," she said, "the great drawback is that the place is so unfashionable;" and we warmly protested against that being of the least consequence. But Kate said with her usual common sense: "It does matter, really. No one thinks anything of you if you live here, and nearly every one who has enough money always leaves directly. Still"—cheerfully—"one must expect some drawbacks, and I do think I have been very lucky. James is goodness itself, and quite a number of people have been to call."
We found to our dismay that Kate, with the laudable intention of amusing us, had accepted several invitations to what are called "the last of the summer gaieties." There were tea-parties and garden-parties given by her friends, to which we were expected to go; and her very nearest neighbours, who are generally known as the "Next Doors," actually invited us to dine.
"This afternoon," Kate said, "is the day of the Finlaysons' garden-party. They are frightfully rich people—ironmongers in the City; but you never saw such greenhouses and gardens as they have got! Do put on your best dress," she said to Palestrina, "and look nice; people here seem to dress so smartly for this sort of thing."
I think, indeed, it was the very grandest party to which I have ever had an invitation. Every one seemed to sail about in a most stately fashion, in a gown of some rich stuff, and there was such an air of magnificence about the whole thing that one hardly dared to speak above a whisper. There was a marquee on the lawn, with most expensive refreshments inside, and a great many waiters handing about things on trays. Mrs. Finlayson spoke habitually—at least at parties—in an exalted tone of voice, which one wondered if she used when, for instance, she was adding up accounts or saying her prayers. It was difficult to imagine that the voice could have been intended for private use—-it was such a very public, almost a platform voice, and the accent was most finished and aristocratic.
The Miss Finlaysons, in exquisite blue dresses and very thin shoes, also sailed about and shook hands with their guests in a cold, proud way which was very effective. Young Finlayson was frankly supercilious and condescending; and there was a schoolboy in a tall hat, who was always alluded to as "our brother at Eton." The excellent old papa of the firm of Finlayson and Merritt was really the most human and the least alarming of the whole party. He seemed quite pleased when Palestrina, in her soft gurgling way, admired his greenhouses and peaches, and he led her back to where his lady ("wife" is too homely a term) was standing in a throne-room attitude on the lawn, and remarked genially, "This young lady has just been admiring our little place, Lavinia."
"Indeed," said my sister, "it seems to me very charming, and——"
"Hush, hush!" said Mrs. Finlayson playfully, but with an undercurrent of annoyance in her party voice. "I won't hear a word said in its praise—it is just a step to the West End."
"What is the actual distance?" I began.
It was old Finlayson who rescued me from my dilemma, and explained that until five years ago they had had a very tidy little 'ouse at 'ampstead, and that this present location, although so magnificent, was, in the eyes of his lady, really a stepping-stone to further grandeur and a more fashionable locality.
The Next Doors were introduced to us at this party, and we were much struck by the fact that, although they seemed appropriately lodged in a place well suited to them, and in a society certainly not inferior to themselves, they, too, instantly began to apologize for living at Clarkham.
"One feels so lost in a place like this," said Mrs. Next Door; "and although the boys are so happy with their tennis and things on Saturday afternoons, I cannot help feeling that it is a great drawback to the girls to live here."
A band began to play under the trees, and Palestrina said to me, with one of her low laughs: "I wonder if I shall begin to sail about soon? Isn't it funny! They all do it, and now that the band has begun I feel that I must do it too."
The Miss Finlaysons came up at intervals and introduced young men to her in a spasmodic sort of way. When one least expected it, some one in a tall hat and a long frock-coat was placed before Palestrina, and a Miss Finlayson said quite sharply, "May I introduce—Mr. Smith——" and then as suddenly retired. There was nothing for it but to make a little tepid conversation to the various Mr. Smiths, and Sonnenscheins, and Seligmanns who were in this way presented, and we noticed that almost every one of them began his conversation by saying, "Been going out a great deal lately? Done the Academy?" And then moved off to be introduced to some one else.
The young men were very supercilious and grand, and we could only account for it, on discussing the matter afterwards, by supposing that they thought Palestrina was a Clarkham young lady, and that this was their way of showing their superiority to her. One or two had certainly said to us with a dubious air, "Do you live in the Pork?" But it was not until the quieter moments that followed the stress of this regal party that we at all realized that this meant, Did we live in Clarkham Park.
Kate Ward was very agreeable and pleasant to every one, and was voted a nobody directly, and we heard it remarked that she had "no style." I think Kate must have overheard the remark, for she became a little nervous towards the end of the afternoon, and presently said, "Perhaps we ought to be going?" But young Finlayson was here suddenly introduced to her by one of his sisters, and Kate thought it necessary to make a few remarks before saying good-bye. She said something pretty about his sisters, who are undoubtedly handsome girls, and Mr. Finlayson said bitterly, "Yes, a good many so-called beauties in London would have to shut up shop if my sisters appeared in the Row. It is a beastly shame they have got to live down here!"
Kate said, "But I suppose they go to town occasionally?"
"Yes," said Mr. Finlayson; "but they ought to have their Park hacks, and do things in style. It is a shame the governor does not take a house in the West End."
My sister tried to look sympathetic.
"However," said Mr. Finlayson more hopefully, "we have taken a bit of a shoot in Scotland this year, so I hope the girls will have some society. Well, it is a deer forest really, and a very fine house and grounds," amended Mr. Finlayson, with a burst of candour.
Mrs. Finlayson sailed up, and stooped to make a few remarks about the gaiety of the past season to us. She said that she and her daughters were in demand everywhere, and that the other night in a West End theatre every lorgnette in the house was turned towards their box. "Rupert, of course, has his own chambers in St. James's, and knows every one."
The Miss Finlaysons shook hands, and said good-bye with their usual lofty condescension, and each said, "Going on anywhere?" to which we could only reply humbly that we had no further engagements for that afternoon.
Kate praised the party all the way home, and then said, with a burst of feeling: "Oh, how I do wish I were a swell! I know it's wicked, but I would snub one or two people."
The next morning, being Sunday, we went to church, and the feeling of equality with the rest of mankind which this gives one was very refreshing after the magnificence and social distinctions about which we had been learning so much during the last few days. But even in church one may notice how superior some families in Clarkham are to others. The pew-letting of the church seems to have been conducted on principles other than those recommended in Holy Writ. Richer folk—those with gold chains, for whom we learn precedence should not be accorded—occupied the front pews, furnished with red cushions and Prayer-Books with silver corners, while the humbler sort were accommodated with seats under the gallery. The Finlaysons sailed in rather late, with a rustle of their smart dresses, and kneeled to pray on very high hassocks, their elbows just touching the book-board in front of them, their faces inadequately covered with their tightly-gloved hands. The Next Doors had a pew half-way up the middle aisle. The day was hot, and the clergyman, a small devout-looking man, very earnest and really eloquent, was guilty sometimes in moments of excitement of dropping aitches. This of course may have been the result of the hot weather. It was something of a shock to notice that the little Next Doors—terrible children, of high spirits and pugnacious dispositions—were allowed to giggle unreproved at each omission of the aspirate on the part of the preacher. The Next Doors overtook us on our way out of church, and two of the pugnacious children, having dug each other with their elbows, and fought round me for permission to walk home with me and talk about the war, threw light upon their behaviour in church by remarking with smiling self-satisfaction, "Papa says we ought always to giggle when Mr. Elliot drops his aitches, to show that we know better...." Little brutes!
We spent a lazy afternoon under the brown hawthorn tree on the little lawn, and Thomas drove down to see Palestrina, and good Kate Ward put forth her very best efforts to give us a sumptuous cold supper. We found, to our surprise, that nightingales sing down here, and we sat on the lawn till quite late listening to them. Mr. and Mrs. Ward slipped their hands into one another's in the dark, and appeared to be most happy and contented.
"I am glad we came," said Palestrina that night, when Mrs. Ward had quitted the room. "Dear old Kate!"