COMING HOME.
The party which set out from Suffolk Street next morning was a mighty
one; there were the children, the ayah, the new nurse whom Anne had
engaged in town, to take charge of her little nephews as soon as they
got accustomed to their new life; and Seton, the ancient serving-woman,
whom the sisters shared between them; and Sir Robert's man, not to speak
of Sir Robert himself and the Miss Dorsets and Ursula. Easton was within
a dozen miles of Carlingford, so that they all travelled together as far
as that town. The Dorset party went farther on to the next station, from
which they had still six miles to travel by carriage. They set down
Ursula on the platform with her box and her parcel, and took leave of
her, and swept out of the station again, leaving her rather forlorn and
solitary among the crowd. "Disgraceful of May not to send some one to
meet the child. I suppose he knew she was coming," said Sir Robert. And
Ursula had something of the same feeling, as she stood looking wistfully
about her. But as soon as the train was gone, her name was called in a
somewhat high-pitched voice, and turning round she found herself hugged
by Janey, while Johnnie, fresh from school, seized her bag out of her
hand by way of showing his satisfaction.
"We didn't come up till we could make sure that the Dorsets were out of
the way," said Janey, "and, oh, is it really you? I am so glad to get
you home."
"Why didn't you want to see the Dorsets? They are the kindest friends we
have in the world," said Ursula. "How is papa? Is he in a good humour?
And the rest? Why did not some more come to meet me? I made sure there
would be four at least."
"Amy and Robin have gone out to tea--they didn't want to go; but papa
insisted. Oh, he is very well on the whole. And Reginald is at home, of
course, but I thought you would like me best. Johnnie came to carry the
bag," said Janey with a natural contempt for her younger brother. "What
a big parcel! You must have been getting quantities of presents, or else
you must have packed very badly, for I am sure there was lots of room in
the trunk when you went away."
"Oh, Janey, if you only knew what I have got there!"
"What?" said Janey, with quiet but composed interest. It never occurred
to her that she could have any individual concern in the contents of the
parcels. She was a tall girl who had outgrown all her frocks, or rather
did outgrow them periodically, with dark elf locks about her shoulders,
which would not curl or _crêper_, or do anything that hair ought to do.
She had her thoughts always in the clouds, forming all sorts of
impossible plans, as was natural to her age, and was just the kind of
angular, jerky school-girl, very well intentioned, but very maladroit,
who is a greater nuisance to herself and everybody else than even a
school-boy, which is saying a good deal. Things broke in her hands as
they never broke in anybody else's; stuffs tore, furniture fell to the
ground as she passed by. Ursula carefully kept her off the parcel and
gave it to Johnnie. One of the railway porters, when all the rest of the
passengers were disposed of, condescended to carry her trunk, and thus
they set out on their way home. The parsonage was close to St. Roque, at
the other end of Grange Lane. They had to walk all the way down that
genteel and quiet suburban road, by the garden walls over which, at
this season, no scent of flowers came, or blossomed branches hung forth.
There were red holly-berries visible, and upon one mossy old tree a gray
bunch of mistletoe could be seen on the other side of the street. But
how quiet it was! They scarcely met a dozen people between the station
and St. Roque.
"Oh, Janey, is everybody dead?" said Ursula. "How dull it is! You should
see London----"
"Ursula," said Janey firmly, "once for all, I am not going to stand this
London! A nasty, smoky, muddy place, no more like Carlingford than--I am
like you. You forget I have been in London; you are not speaking to
ignorant ears," said Janey, drawing herself up, "and your letters were
quite bad enough. You are not going to talk of nothing but your
disagreeable London here. Talk to people who have never seen it!" said
the girl, elevating her shoulders with the contempt of knowledge.
"That time you were at the dentist's--" said Ursula, "and call that
seeing London! Cousin Anne and Cousin Sophy took me everywhere. We went
to drive in the Park. We went to the Museum and the National Gallery.
And, oh! Janey, listen! we went to the theatre: think of that!"
"Well, I should like to go to the theatre," said Janey, with a sigh.
"But you told me in your letter. That's what comes of being the eldest.
Unless you get married, or something, nobody will ever think of taking
_me_."
"You are five years younger than I am," said Ursula, with dignity.
"Naturally, people don't think of a girl at your age. You must wait till
you are older, as I have had to do. Janey! guess what is in _that_?"
"Your new dress--your ball-dress. If it isn't crumpled as you said, you
can't have danced very much. I know my dress will be in tatters if I
ever go to a ball."
"I danced as much as I wished. I did not know many people," said Ursula,
drawing herself up. "Of course at this time of the year nobody is in
town, and we hardly knew any one--and of course--"
"Of course, you only knew the fashionable people who are out of town in
winter," cried Janey, with a laugh which echoed along the street. Ursula
had not come home from London to be laughed at by her younger sister,
she who had been petted by the Dorsets, and whose opinion even Sir
Robert had asked on various occasions. She felt this downfall all the
more deeply that she had been looking forward to so many long talks with
Janey, and expected to live all her brief ten days' holiday over again,
and to instruct her young sister's mind by the many experiences acquired
in that momentous time. Poor Ursula! ten days is quite long enough to
form habits at her age, and she had been taken care of, as young ladies
are taken care of in society; accompanied or attended wherever she went,
and made much of. To find herself thus left to arrive and get home as
she pleased, with nobody but Janey to meet her, was a terrible
falling-off; and to be laughed at by Janey was the last step of all.
Tears filled her eyes, she turned her shoulder to her companion,
averting her head; and this was all poor Ursula had to look to. The
dreary Carlingford street, papa finding fault, everything going wrong,
and Janey laughing at her! To be Cousin Anne's maid, or governess to the
little Indian children would be better than this. For five minutes more
she walked on in offended silence, saying nothing, though Janey, like
the school-girl she was, made frequent use of her elbow to move her
sister.
"Ursula!" the girl said at last, with a more potent nudge, "what's the
matter? won't you speak to me?" And Janey, who had her own
disappointment too, and had expected to be received with enthusiasm,
burst out crying, regardless of appearances, in the middle of the
street.
"Janey, for Heaven's sake--people will see you! I am sure it is I who
should cry, not you," said Ursula, in sudden distress.
"I don't care who sees me," sobbed Janey. "You have been enjoying
yourself while we have stayed at home, and instead of being pleased to
come back, or glad to see us--Oh, how can you be so cold-hearted?" she
said with a fresh burst of tears.
Here the other side of the question suddenly dawned upon Ursula. She had
been enjoying herself while the others stayed at home. It was quite
true. Instead of feeling the shock of difference she should have thought
of those who had never been so lucky as she was, who had never seen
anything out of Carlingford. "Don't be so foolish, Janey," she said, "I
_am_ glad;--and I have brought you such beautiful presents. But when you
do nothing but laugh----"
"I am sure I didn't laugh to hurt. I only laughed for fun!" cried Janey,
drying her eyes not without a little indignation; and thus peace was
made, for indeed one was dying to tell all that happened, and the other
dying to hear. They walked the rest of the way with their heads very
close together, so absorbed that the eldest brother, coming out of the
gate as they approached, stood looking at them with a smile on his face
for some time before they saw him. A slight young man, not very tall,
with dark hair, like Ursula's, and a somewhat anxious expression, in
correct English clerical dress.
"Has it all begun already?" he said, when they came close up to him, but
without perceiving him, Ursula's face inspired with the pleasure of
talking, as Janey's was with the eager delight of listening. The house
was built in the ecclesiastical style, with gables and mullioned
windows, which excluded the light, at least, whether or not they
inspired passers-by with a sense of correct art, as they were intended
to do. It was next door to the church, and had a narrow strip of
shrubbery in front, planted with somewhat gloomy evergreens. The gate
and door stood always open, except when Mr. May himself, coming or
going, closed them momentarily, and it cannot be denied that there were
outward and visible signs of a large, somewhat unruly family inside.
"Oh, Reginald!" cried Ursula. "You have come home!"
"Yes--for good," he said with a half-laugh, half-sigh. "Or for bad--who
can tell? At all events, here I am."
"Why should it be for bad?" cried Janey, whose voice was always audible
half-way up the street. "Oh, Ursula, something very nice has happened.
He is to be warden of the old college, fancy! That _is_ being provided
for, papa says; and a beautiful old house."
"Warden of the old college! I thought it was always some old person who
was chosen."
"But papa says he can live at home and let the house," cried Janey.
"There is no reason why it should be an old gentleman, papa thinks; it
is nice, because there is no work--but look at Reginald, he does not
like it a bit; he is never satisfied, I am sure, I wish it was me--"
"Come in," said Reginald hastily, "I don't want all my affairs, and my
character besides, to be proclaimed from the house-tops." Janey stopped
indignant, to make some reply, and Ursula, grasping her arm, as she
feared, with an energetic pinch, went in quickly. Little Amy had been
playing in the little square hall, which was strewed with doll's
clothes, and with two or three dolls in various stages of dilapidation.
Some old, ragged school-books lay in a corner, the leaves out of one of
which were blowing about in the wind. Even ten days of Anne Dorset's
orderly reign had opened Ursula's eyes to these imperfections.
"Oh, what a muddle!" she cried; "I don't wonder that Reginald does not
care for living at home."
"Oh, I wish papa heard you!" cried Janey loudly, as Ursula led the way
into the drawing-room, which was not much tidier than the hall. There
was a basket-full of stockings to be mended, standing on the old
work-table. Ursula felt, with a sinking of the heart, that they were
waiting for her arrival, and that Janey had done nothing to them. More
toys and more old school-books were tossed about upon the faded old
carpet. The table-cover hung uneven, one end of it dragging upon the
floor. The fire was burning very low, stifled in dust and white ashes.
How dismal it looked! not like a place to come home to. "Oh, I don't
wonder Reginald is vexed to be made to live at home," she said once
again to herself, with tears in her eyes.
"I hope you have enjoyed yourself," her brother said, as she dropped
wearily into the old easy-chair. "We have missed you very much; but I
don't suppose you missed us. London was very pleasant, I suppose, even
at this time of the year?"
"Oh, pleasant!" said Ursula. "If you had been with me, how you would
have liked it! Suffolk Street is only an inn, but it is a very nice inn,
what they call a private hotel. Far better than the great big places on
the American principle, Sir Robert says. But we dined at one of those
big places one day, and it was very amusing. Scores of people, and great
mirrors that made them look hundreds. And such quantities of lights and
servants; but Sir Robert thought Suffolk Street very much the best. And
I went to two theatres and to a ball. They were so kind. Sophy Dorset
laughs at me sometimes, but Anne is an angel," said Ursula fervently. "I
never knew any one so good in my life."
"That is not saying much," said Janey, "for none of us are very good,
and you know nobody else. Anne Dorset is an old maid."
"Oh, Janey! how dare you?"
"And, for that matter, so is Sophy. Papa says so. He says she was
jilted, and that she will never get a husband."
"Hold your tongue," said Reginald fiercely, "if we are to hear what my
father says at second hand through an imp like you--"
"Oh, yes," said Janey, mocking, "that is because you are not friends
with papa."
"Janey, come and help me to take off my things," said Ursula, seeing
that Reginald would probably proceed to strong measures and box his
sister's ears. "If you were older, you would not talk like that," she
said, with dignity, as they went upstairs. "Oh, dear Janey, you can't
think how different Cousin Anne and Sophy are, who are not girls, like
us. They never talk unkindly of other people. You would get to think it
childish, as I do, if you had been living with Cousin Anne."
"Stuff!" said Janey. "Papa is not childish, I hope. And it was he who
said all that. I don't care what your fine Cousin Anne does."
Notwithstanding, the reproof thus administered went to Janey's heart;
for to a girl of fifteen, whose next sister is almost twenty, the
reproach of being childish is worse than any other. She blushed
fiery-red, and though she scoffed, was moved. Besides, though it suited
her to quote him for the moment, she was very far from putting any
unbounded faith in papa.
"Just wait a moment! See what Cousin Anne, whom you think so little of,
has sent you," said Ursula, sitting down on the floor with the great
parcel in her lap, carefully undoing the knots; for she had read Miss
Edgeworth's stories in her youth, and would not have cut the strings for
the world; and when the new dresses, in all their gloss and softness,
were spread out upon the old carpet, which scarcely retained one trace
of colour, Janey was struck dumb.
"Is that," she said, faltering and conscience-stricken, "for _me_?"
"This is for you; though you think them old maids--and that they will
never get husbands," said Ursula, indignantly. "What a thing for a girl
to say! And, indeed, I don't think Cousin Anne will ever get a husband.
There is not one in the world half good enough for her--not one! Yes,
this is for you. They went themselves, and looked over half the things
in the shop before they could get one to please them. They did not say,
'Janey is an unkind little thing, that will repeat all she hears about
us, and does not care for us a bit.' They said, 'Ursula, we must choose
frocks for Janey and Amy. Come and help us to get what they will like
best.'"
Janey's lips quivered, and two very big tears came into her eyes. She
was stricken with the deepest compunction, but her pride did not permit
her to give in all at once.
"I dare say you told her how badly off we were," she said.
"I told her nothing about it, and she did not say a word--not a word, as
if it were a charity--only to please you--to let you see that you were
remembered; but I dare say it is quite true after all," said Ursula,
with lofty irony, "that Cousin Anne will never get a husband, and that
they are old maids."
"Oh, you know I didn't mean it!" said Janey, giving way to her tears.
Then Ursula got up and took off her hat and smoothed her hair, feeling
satisfied with her success, and went downstairs again to Reginald, who
was seated on the dingy sofa waiting for her, to answer her questions
about the great event which had happened since she had been away.
Ursula's mind was full of the shock of the sharp impression made by her
return, though the impression itself began to wear away.
"I can understand why you don't care about living at home," she said.
"Oh I wonder if I could do anything to mend it! I am so glad you have
got something, Reginald. If you have a good servant, you might be quite
comfortable by yourself, and we could come and see you. I should not
feel it a bit--not a single bit; and it would be so much nicer for you."
"You are mistaken," said her brother. "It is not staying at home I
object to. We are not very tidy or very comfortable, perhaps, but we all
belong to each other, at least. It is not that, Ursula."
"What is it, then? Janey says," said Ursula, drawing a long breath of
awe and admiration, "that you are to have two hundred and fifty pounds a
year."
"For doing nothing," he said.
"For doing nothing?" She looked up at him a little bewildered, for his
tone struck Ursula as not at all corresponding with the delightful
character of the words he said. "But, Reginald, how nice, how very nice
it sounds! How lucky you must have been! How could it happen that such a
delightful thing should come to one of us? We are always so unlucky,
papa says."
"If you think this luck--" said Reginald. "He does, and he is quite
pleased; but how do you suppose I can be pleased? Thrust into a place
where I am not wanted--where I can be of no use. A dummy, a practical
falsehood. How can I accept it, Ursula? I tell you it is a sinecure!"
Ursula looked at him with eyes round with wonder. He seemed to be
speaking in some different language of which she understood nothing.
"What is a sinecure?" she said.