HALF CONFIDENCE.
‘What do you mean by not having any bridesmaids, Sibyl?’ demands
Jenny, as the sisters walk slowly along the garden path. ‘You can’t
be married without them, can you?’
‘Yes,’ answers Sibyl; ‘I know a girl who was married one morning with
not a soul belonging to her in the church.’
‘Gracious goodness! Who gave her away?’
‘The beadle.’
‘How horrid!’
‘And now let’s be serious, Jenny. Do you remember that man who came
here two years ago in the winter, and questioned you about me?’
‘As if I were likely to forget him!’
‘If he were to come again, and want to see me, what should you say to
him?’
‘Well, that would depend upon how he was dressed. If he looked like
a beggar, as he did last time, I should tell him some bouncer or
other, and send him away, because I’m sure you wouldn’t like a ragged
person to come and ask for you at Lancaster Lodge.’
‘What a sensible girl you are, Jenny!’
‘Yes, I believe my head is screwed on pretty tight.’
‘Now listen, darling. If that poor young man should come here again
and ask you questions about me, you must contrive to send him away
with the idea that I am ever so far from Redcastle. In Scotland,
Ireland, anywhere you like. But you must not say that I am abroad,
as he knows that I’m within a twenty-four hours’ post of London. Say
what you like, but don’t let him know that I’m in Redcastle; and
whatever you do, don’t mention uncle Trenchard’s name.’
‘I’ll be as secret as the grave,’ answers Jane, solemnly. ‘Don’t you
think that tea will be overdrawn?’
‘Let it draw a little longer. We all like it strong, you know. You
shall have this hat next week, Jenny, since you think it pretty.’
‘Pretty! It’s absolutely divine! Marion will be awfully jealous.’
‘I can’t help that. If Marion were a little more civil I should give
her plenty of pretty things. Now listen, Jenny. Suppose that poor
young man were to say curious things--were to tell you something
strange about me----’
‘What could he tell me?’ asks Jane, making her eyes as round as
marbles.
‘Never mind what. You must not be surprised, and you must not let
him discover anything from your manner. Above all, remember that he
is to know nothing about uncle Trenchard. It is nothing wrong that I
am asking you to do, Jenny, except so far as it is wrong to tell a
falsehood, and I really think even that is excusable when one is in a
great dilemma.’
‘_I_ don’t mind telling a bouncer,’ says Jane, boldly. ‘Bouncers
never weigh much on my conscience.’
‘It is very wicked to tell stories in a general way. You ought to
know that, Jenny. But this is quite an exceptional case. It is all
for the best. All will come right in the end. And I shall love you
dearly, Jenny, if you will help me out of my difficulties. Mind,
the person I speak of may not come here again. I only wish you to be
prepared for him if he should come.’
‘I’m prepared,’ answered Jenny, boldly. ‘Poor fellow! I did feel
sorry for him that bitter winter day. He looked so tired and
worn--very good-looking, too, in spite of all. How handsome he must
be when he’s well dressed!’
‘Yes, he is very handsome,’ says Sibyl, pensively.
‘And you like him, Sib--just a little bit?’
‘I loved him with all my heart--I love him still--I am true to him
through all difficulties. Remember that always, Jenny.’
‘Gracious!’ cries Jenny. ‘And it is on his account that you would
refuse to marry Sir Wilford Cardonnel if he were to ask you?’
‘Yes, Jenny.’
‘But I say, Sib, suppose he should come to the front door, and Marion
or Hester should get hold of him?’
‘You must be on the watch to prevent that. If he comes at all, he is
likely to come within the next few days. I rely upon your cleverness
to prevent his seeing Marion or Hester.’
‘Very well. It will be difficult, but I’ll do my best. And now I’d
better run and call Marion to tea, or she’ll begin to think there are
secrets between you and I.’
‘Between you and me, Jenny!’
‘Oh, bother! If I say me, it’s I; if I say I, it’s me. I’ll run for
Marion.’
Again appears that vision of legs whirling wildly, and scanty
skirts flying in the wind. Sibyl strolls along the path, and looks
at the big cabbage roses, the red crinkled wall, the sprawling
vegetable marrows, the flush of uncultivated fertility. Red and
yellow dragon’s-mouth flourishes on the wall. Stonecrop in full
flower yonder on the sloping roof of the tumbledown old shed,
that serves as a stable, converts the thatch into a roof of gold.
Butterflies, bees, and all the summer insects, are flying from flower
to flower, carrying the yellow pollen on their honey-smeared wings,
and intermarrying all the families of blossoms as they flutter to
and fro. It is only poverty’s poorly tended garden, but how full
of colour and perfume and beauty! It is almost as good as uncle
Trenchard’s velvet lawn and mosaic flower-beds. ‘One feels more at
home here,’ thinks Sibyl.
‘I wish I were Jenny or Marion, without a care for what to-morrow may
bring forth,’ she thinks; ‘even though I forfeited my chance of uncle
Trenchard’s fortune.’
Marion comes along the path by the gooseberry bushes presently,
tearing her muslin skirt once or twice by contact with the straggling
thorny branches on the way, and muttering little ejaculations which
come as near swearing as a lady can permit herself to venture.
‘Plague take the brambles!’ she cries. ‘At uncle Trenchard’s the
kitchen-garden is in its proper place, not all mixed up with the
flowers. How you must laugh at us, Sibyl, for drinking tea in such an
arbour as that, and calling it pleasure!’
‘Not at all. I am very fond of uncle Robert’s old garden; and I think
everything grows here better than at Lancaster Lodge.’
‘It’s very considerate of you to say that, in order to reconcile us
to our lowly lot,’ replies Marion with a sneer, as she takes her
place on the narrow green bench, and begins to pour out the tea.
‘Milk and sugar, I suppose? You used to take both when I had
the privilege of being intimate with you--of course it’s cream
at Lancaster Lodge--and the sugar doesn’t look as if it had the
jaundice, as ours does.’
Marion is not comfortably awake yet; her eyes have a watery look;
the great lump of hair and padding with which she adorns the top of
her head is pushed awry; her toilet has an air of faded fashion,
of tumbled frippery, which is suggestive of a struggle to be fine
under disadvantages. No dress is more becoming to a girlish wearer
than fresh uncreased muslin; but a muslin dress that has been worn
three days and slept in three afternoons is not the loveliest of
garments. Marion has pinned a bow here and there, and has put on the
last fashionable ruffle at one and elevenpence threefarthings, and
has done her best to embellish the soiled muslin, but the result is
failure, and she feels that it is so as she looks at Sibyl’s pure
white cambric and delicate Madeira embroidery.
‘I wonder you are so fond of mauve, Sibyl,’ she says, after a
critical survey of her sister’s hat. ‘It doesn’t suit you by any
means. You look as white as chalk.’
‘The warm weather is rather trying,’ answers Sibyl.
‘And you have such black marks under your eyes.’
‘I have not slept well lately.’
‘You look like it. One would think you had something dreadful on your
conscience. Take that horrid caterpillar off the bread-and-butter
plate, Jenny. I declare this den of yours swarms with reptiles. I saw
a toad under the bench yesterday.’
‘Toads are valuable animals,’ answers Jane. ‘They eat the snails like
one o’clock.’
‘Another of your ladylike similes. Poor uncle Robert! I pity him
when I think how his money was wasted in paying for that child’s
schooling. The only education she got was the bad language she picked
up in the street on her way to school and back. If uncle Trenchard
had a spark of family feeling he’d send her to a good boarding
school, where she’d be licked into shape.’
‘Licked into shape isn’t _my_ idea of elegant language,’ remarks
Jenny, with her mouth full of bread and butter.
‘But I forgot,’ pursues Marion, ignoring this interruption. ‘Uncle
Trenchard reserves all his generosity for _one_ member of this
family. Any attempt of ours to obtain a share of his favour would be
regarded as an intrusion. We are outsiders. But if ever a child was
going to ruin for want of proper tuition, Jenny is that child.’
‘I should have thought you might have taught her yourself, Marion,’
says Sibyl.
‘Should you? Then perhaps you’ll be kind enough to try the experiment
some morning for an hour or two before you think any more about it. A
more unteachable brat I never came across in all my life, and I took
the fourth class at Miss Worrie’s for a week when you were laid up
with scarlatina.’
‘I don’t like to be taught by an ignoramus,’ exclaims the
contumacious Jenny. ‘Who was it said _nous allerons_ was the future
of _aller_? People should learn before they teach. At least, that’s
my idea.’
Sibyl, wearied with these recriminatory passages, looks at her
watch, and finds that it is time for her to go back to Lancaster
Lodge.
‘It’s half an hour’s walk,’ she says. ‘And I must be dressed for
dinner by seven, uncle Trenchard likes me to be in the drawing-room
half an hour before dinner.’
‘Ah, no wonder you don’t care about our currant cake when you’re
going to have a regular tuck out at half-past seven,’ exclaims Jenny.
‘If you knew how little appetite I have for uncle Trenchard’s grand
dinners, Jenny, you wouldn’t envy me,’ says Sibyl.
‘In fact, my dear Jenny,’ exclaims Marion, going over to the enemy,
‘Sibyl is a woman of fashion, a superior being whom you and I are not
qualified to comprehend.’
This remark winds up the skirmish, Sibyl wishes Marion good-bye, and
leaves the arbour, followed by Jenny, who hangs on her as they walk
down the narrow path. At the kitchen window Sibyl pauses to say a
civil word to Hester.
‘And how are you, Hester, this warm weather?’ she inquires.
‘Just as hard at work as if it was cold weather,’ replies Hester, in
no wise mollified by the sweetness of this address. ‘Your uncle’s
shirts have to be washed, even if it is the dog days, and the
perspiration running down one’s face. As to how I am in myself, I
haven’t got time to think whether I’m ill or well, and that’s all
about it.’
‘I hope uncle Robert is feeling better than when I saw him last,’
remarks Sibyl, playing with the ivory handle of her parasol,
embarrassed by the faithful servant’s stern countenance.
‘Then he isn’t,’ snaps Hester. ‘And a deal you care about it. I
wouldn’t be an ’ypocrite, if I was you, Miss Sibyl. You’ve got your
rich uncle. Stick to him. And don’t pretend to care about the poor
uncle that brought you up.’
‘Upon my word,’ exclaimed Sibyl, half angry, ‘I wonder that I ever
come here.’
‘So do I, miss. You come so seldom that you might just as well stay
away altogether. It would be more consistent.’