Kate Jamieson, who is the independent member of The Family, and has
been in a situation for some years as companion to a lady at Bath, has
written home what she calls a "joint-letter" to apprise the whole of
her family at one and the same time that she is engaged to be married.
The excitement which this letter produced in the little household is
hardly possible to describe. The news arrived when the Jamiesons were
at breakfast. Perhaps I should mention, before going any further, that
the Jamiesons' only extravagance is to take in three daily papers. One
is an evening paper, which arrives at breakfast-time, and the other two
are morning publications, which arrive at the same hour. It is
customary for the members of this family each to read his own
particular paper aloud during the entire meal, the rest of the party
read their letters to each other, and there are still left several
voices to demand what you will have for breakfast, to inquire how you
have slept, and to comment upon the weather. So that from half-past
eight until nine a cross-fire of conversation is going on all the
time....
"I see Hearne has scored sixty-eight at cricket, not out. That's not
bad, you know. Kent ought to be looking up. The Australians are doing
well. Yorkshire might do better. Extraordinary! Here's this chap who
promised so well bowled for a duck!" This from the eldest son of the
House of Jamieson; while at precisely the same moment may be heard the
voice of Maud: "I must say I am rather astonished at the way boleros
have remained in. This is one of the prettiest designs I have seen
this year. How soon one gets accustomed to small sleeves. Well, I
cannot say I like these Chesterfield fronts."
Mrs. Jamieson is meanwhile reading aloud the columns of births, deaths,
and marriages from beginning to end. Her limited acquaintance with the
outside world might seem to preclude her from any vivid interest in
those who must necessarily only be names to her, yet she finds
subject-matter for comment through the entire perusal of the column.
Needless to say, Mrs. Jamieson inclines to regard only the sadder
aspects of these natural occurrences, and her comments thereupon are
full of a sort of resigned melancholy. From her corner of the table
may be heard the plaintive words: "Here's a young fellow of twenty-four
taken," or, "Fourscore years, well, well, and then passed away!" While
the happier news of birth provokes her to hark back to an announcement
of a similar nature in the family, perhaps only a year ago, and to talk
of the responsibilities and the expense that the poor young couple will
have to undergo. Mettie, who spends the greater part of every day
writing letters, and whose chief joy in life is to receive them, reads
the whole of her correspondence aloud from beginning to end; while
Margaret Jamieson, behind the teapot, is letting off rapid volleys of
questions respecting individual tastes about cream and sugar, and the
Pirate Boy offers ham-and-eggs or sausages in a deep stentorian bass.
In the midst of this confusion of noise, when only a Jamieson, whose
ear is curiously trained to it, can possibly hear what is being said,
Mrs. Jamieson bursts into tears and, in the strong Kentish dialect of
her youth, exclaims: "Here's our Kate going to be married!"
After the first burst of delighted surprise, there is a family feeling
of apology towards Maud. That Kate should marry first is surely a
little disloyal to the beauty of Belmont, and Mrs. Jamieson goes so far
as to say: "Never mind, Maud; it will be your turn next."
After that, they all, singly and severally, recall their
previously-expressed opinion that they knew something was up, and that
certainly Kate could not have given them a more pleasant or more
unexpected surprise.
The letter is then read aloud, and it is so long that one is glad to
think that the absent Kate did not attempt to duplicate it, but
contented herself with the Pauline method of one general epistle. With
the Jamieson characteristic of telling everything exhaustively, Kate
writes:--
"Mr. Ward is not at all bad-looking; a little hesitating in his manner,
and inclined to be untidy--you see, I am telling you everything quite
candidly--but of course I can remedy all these defects when we are
married. He has a short brown moustache, and rather a conical-shaped
head." (This is a fault that one feels Kate will not be able to
remedy, even when she has married him.) "He looks clever, though I do
not think he is, very; he is well-connected, but does not know all his
best relations. Poor, but with generous instincts"--one feels as
though a chiromancist were reading a client's palm--"well-read, but
without power of conveying intelligence to others; hair rather thin,
and (I am afraid) false teeth; very religious, but I consider this in
him more temperament than anything else. He has had a hard life, and
not always enough to eat, until his uncle died; but now he could be
quite independent if he liked, but he prefers the position which a
Government appointment gives him.
"I hope to bring him down to stay when I return; please let him have
the south bedroom, as that is the warmest, and I do not think James is
very strong. I should like him to have a fire at night--I can arrange
that with mother, as I feel quite well off now. We are to be married
in July, and I am giving up my post here at once, so as to see
something of you all before I go away."
At this point the letter referred once more to Mr. Ward's personal
appearance, and the description was of so great length that when
Margaret Jamieson, who had run all the way from her home to ours to
give it to us to read, asked me breathlessly what I thought about it, I
determined to leave unread the remaining paragraphs, and to judge for
myself of the bridegroom when he should come to Belmont and we should
be invited to meet him.
"There is one thing," said Mrs. Jamieson when, at the request of The
Family, Palestrina went to sit with her one afternoon a few weeks
later, to support her through the trying ordeal of waiting for Kate and
"James," as he is now familiarly called, to arrive; "the girls have
nothing to be ashamed of in their home." She looked with a certain
amount of pardonable pride at the clean white curtains, and we gathered
that we were meant to comment upon their early appearance. The white
curtains, Palestrina says, are not usually put up at Belmont until the
first week in May.
"They look very handsome," I said. It was a Jamieson afternoon--very
wet, but clearing up about sundown, and Palestrina had suggested my
escorting her as far as Belmont. But the rain came down in torrents
again when I would have started to return home, and the good Jamiesons
begged me to stay, to avoid the chance of a chill, and to meet James.
"It is the first break in the family," said Mrs. Jamieson tearfully,
"since poor Robert died. But, as James says, he hopes I am gaining a
son and not losing a daughter." From which I gathered that James was a
gentleman given to uttering rather a stale form of platitude.
All were waiting in a state of great trepidation the arrival of the
engaged couple, and it was quite hopeless to avoid the encounter, for
the rain descended in sheets outside, and preparations for supper
seemed to be going on in the dining-room at Belmont. It was decided,
by universal consent, that only Mrs. Jamieson and Palestrina and I
should be in the drawing-room at the moment when they should enter.
The presence of strangers, it was thought, would make it easier for
James at the meeting where all were kinsfolk except himself. With
their usual consideration The Family decided that the rest of their
large number should afterwards drop in casually, two by two, and be
introduced to the new brother-in-law without ceremony. Mrs. Jamieson,
who had not left the house that day, nor for many days previously,
having been absorbed in preparations for the expected guest, was
dressed in a bonnet and her favourite jacket with the storm-collar,
which, as she explained to my sister, took away from the roundness of
her face and gave her confidence.
Her habitual shyness, added to her fears of the unknown in the shape of
the future son-in-law, had wrought her into a sort of rigid state in
which conversation seemed impossible, and although we did our best to
divert her attention I am doubtful if she heard a word we said.
"They should be here soon," I remarked presently.
Mrs. Jamieson, following some line of thought of her own, remarked that
the first marriage in a family was almost like a death; and to this
mournful analogy I gave assent.
"Kate says he is quite a gentleman," hazarded Mrs. Jamieson, still
rigid, and now white with anxiety and shyness.
I found myself replying, without overdone brilliance, that that seemed
a good thing.
The sands of Mrs. Jamieson's courage were running very low. "I hope he
is not one of your grandees," she said apprehensively; "I would not
like to think of Kate not being up to him. But their father was a
gentleman--the most perfect gentleman I ever knew, and I have always
that to think of. Still, a gentlemanly man is all I want for any of my
girls, with no difference between the two families."
Sometimes in this way Mrs. Jamieson gives one an unexpected insight
into the difficulties of her life, and one feels that even her
admiration for her daughters may be tinged with a slight feeling of
being their inferior. I have heard her say, making use of a French
expression such as she hazards so courageously, that there is something
of the "_grawn dam_ about Maud;" and perhaps the loyal admiration thus
expressed may have been mingled with another sensation not so
pleasurable to the farmer's daughter.
I endeavoured to follow the intricacies of her train of thought, but
the station omnibus had stopped at the gate, and the moment of supreme
excitement had arrived.
Kate entered first. This was probably the crowning moment of her life.
She came in with a little air of assurance that already suggested the
married woman, and having kissed her mother she said in a proprietary
sort of way: "This is Mr. Ward, mamma."
Mr. Ward had a curious way of walking on his toes; he came into the
room as though tip-toeing across some muddy crossing on a wet day, and
shook hands with a degree of nervousness that made even Mrs. Jamieson
appear bold. One can hardly be surprised at Kate for having mentioned
that he has a conical-shaped head, for it is of the most strange
pear-shape, and the sparse hair hangs from a ridge behind like a
fringe. He sat down and locked his knees firmly together, with his
clasped hands tightly wedged between them, while Kate made inquiries
about the rest of the family, and I plunged heavily into remarks about
the weather and the state of the roads. It was a great relief when two
of the sisters entered, in their best silk blouses, even although they
repeated exactly what I had said a moment before about the weather and
the mud. Five minutes later, according to preconceived arrangement,
two other sisters came in and were kissed by Kate, and introduced by
her to James. We had unconsciously taken up our position in two
straight lines facing James, and it is no exaggeration to say that by
this time shyness was causing great beads of perspiration to stand out
on poor James's pear-shaped head. "Surely they will spare him any more
introductions before supper," I thought; but the door had again opened,
and Mettie and the Pirate Boy entered, and some unhappy chance was
causing these last comers to comment upon the weather and the state of
the roads, and to extend the line of chairs now facing James. We began
to make feverish little remarks to each other, as though we were all
strangers, and Palestrina asked Eliza if she were fond of dancing.
George Jamieson, the eldest brother, was the last to enter the room,
and Kate said: "George, I am sure James would like to unpack before
supper;" and the unhappy James tip-toed out between the two lines of
chairs, with his eyes fixed upon the carpet.
"_Well?_" said Kate. And as The Family was The Family of Jamieson,
that of course was a signal for each member of it to say the kindest
thing that could possibly be said for the new arrival. Margaret found
that he had kind eyes. And Eliza said: "Not intellectual, but a good
man." Eliza, it must be remarked in passing, is the intellectual
sister, with a passion for accurate information, and for looking up
facts in the "Encyclopedia Britannica." Maud found that even his
shyness was in his favour, and disliked men who made themselves at home
at once. Mettie remarked that marriage was a great risk. This is one
of poor little Mettie's platitudes, which she makes with faithful
regularity upon all occasions. The Pirate Boy preferred, perhaps, a
more robust development, and throwing out his own chest, he beat it
with a good deal of violence, and said he would like to put on the
gloves with Mr. Ward. Mrs. Jamieson could be got to say nothing but
"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" at intervals. But Gracie, the youngest
daughter, remarked that she was sure that they would all get to like
him immensely in time.
Kate looked grateful, and spoke with her usual fine common sense.
"What I say is," she remarked, "that of course no one sees James's
faults more clearly than I do, but then I don't see why any of us
should expect perfection. We haven't much to offer: I am sure I have
neither looks, nor money, nor anything. And, after all, it's nice to
think of one of us getting married--and I was no bother about it," said
the independent Kate. "I mean, The Family had not to help, or chaperon
me, or ask James down to stay."
The sisters assented to this in a very hearty, congratulatory sort of
way; and then, as the rain had ceased, I took my leave, but Palestrina
was persuaded to stay and have supper. Kennie offered, in a doughty
fashion, to see me home. The boy's kindness of heart constitutes him
my defender upon many occasions, and he always looks disappointed if I
do not take his arm. I do not think that the peaceful country road in
the waning twilight could be considered a dangerous one, even to a
cripple like myself; but Kennie, armed with a large stick and wearing a
curious felt hat turned up at one side, appeared a most truculent
defender, and regarded with suspicion all the pedestrians whom we met.
Did but a country cart pass us, Kennie made a movement to ward off the
danger of a collision with his arm. There is something in my helpless
condition which, quite unconsciously I believe, produces a very
valorous frame of mind in the Pirate, and he beguiled the whole of the
way home with stories of his own prowess, and of the hair-breadth
escapes which he had had.
"I only once," he said, "had to take a human life in self-defence.
Curiously enough"--Kennie's voice deepened, and he spoke with the air
of a man who will spare a weak fellow-mortal all he can in the telling
of his tale, and he enunciated all his words with a measured calm which
was very impressive--"curiously enough, it was on the Thames
Embankment!" Kennie cleared his throat, and dropping the deep bass
voice of reminiscence, he began the history in a high-pitched tone of
narrative. "I was walking home alone one night from the City, when a
very strange, low fellow accosted me, and asked me for some money. The
man's destitute appearance appealed to me, and unfortunately I gave him
threepence. I suppose the action was about as dangerous a thing as I
could have done. It showed that I had money, and I was practically
defenceless while feeling in my pockets. The Embankment at that time
of the evening was almost deserted; I could see the shipping in the
river and the lights, and even passing cabs, but I was strangely alone,
and still the man followed me. At last, in desperation, I raised my
stick to drive him from me, and the next moment he had grappled with
me! Instantly my blood was up!" The Pirate Boy stood still in the
middle of the highroad, and went through a series of very forcible
pantomimic gestures, and with awful facial contortions, indicative of
violent exertion, he raised some imaginary object above his head and
flung it from him. "The next moment," said Kennie, "I heard a splash.
I had vanquished the man, and flung him far from me, straight from the
Thames Embankment into the river."
I was prepared to make an exclamation, but was prevented by Kennie, who
said in a dramatic sort of way, "Wait!" and went on with his story.
"My instinct was to plunge after him, but I heard no sound, no cry, and
from that day to this that struggle by the water's edge remains as one
of the most vivid experiences of my life--in England, at least. But
the man's end remains a mystery: I can tell you nothing more of him."
"I think I would have fished the poor wretch out," I said, and moved
onwards on our walk, our pause in the public highway having lasted a
considerable time.
"One learns rough justice out there," said Kennie.