The Uncle, Sir John, is coming to stay at the Taylors', and the town is
in something of a flutter over this event. It was hoped that the
Taylors would give a tea-party in honour of their guest, but there is a
shrewd notion abroad that no one will be allowed to see very much of
him except at a distance. The Taylors had hoped that there would be
some occasion during his visit on which The Uncle might speak in
public, and Mr. Taylor has tried, half jestingly, to induce his brother
townsfolk to arrange what he calls "something in the political line"
while the august relative is staying with him. I think we owe it to
the fact that the political meeting was found to be an impossibility
that we were asked to tea at the Taylors'.
Invitations, instead of taking the form of a friendly note, after the
pattern of Stowel invitations in general, were conveyed on one of Mrs.
Taylor's visiting cards, with "At home, Thursday the 17th, four to
seven," upon it. "A little abrupt," ladies of Stowel were inclined to
think, but of course the Taylors are people of some importance in the
place. No one quite knew how to answer the invitation, and a good many
friendly little visits were paid on the afternoon on which it arrived,
and the mysterious card was produced from a bag or purse, with the
smiling apology, "I am sure fashions change so quickly that one hardly
knows how to keep up with them." And then ideas were exchanged as to
the reply suitable to such a form of invitation. Miss Tracey said that
she always thought that an invitation was accepted in as nearly as
possible the same manner in which it was given, and she announced that
she and her sister meant to return one of their own visiting-cards to
Mrs. Taylor, with the day and the hour named upon it, and "With
pleasure" written underneath. This was considered suitable, for the
most part; but those who still had doubts upon the subject made
elaborate efforts to meet Mrs. Taylor during the morning's shopping,
and to say to her in a friendly way, "We are coming, of course, on
Thursday. Will you excuse our writing a note, at this busy time?"
The Miss Blinds always send their thanks for a "polite invitation" in
the old style, but on this occasion Miss Lydia was obliged to offer
regrets as well as thanks, as she had not been very well lately. She,
I suppose, was the only person in Stowel who did not accept Mrs.
Taylor's invitation. Two parties are, of course, never given on the
same day, and it would be considered eccentric to prefer staying at
home to going out.
"I am sorry Miss Lydia cannot come," said Mr. Taylor, when the notes of
acceptance were being opened at breakfast-time; "after all, it is not
every day that people have a chance of meeting so distinguished a man
as the General."
"Miss Lydia was never intrusive," said Mrs. Taylor.
Mrs. Lovekin was one of those who avoided the difficulty raised by Mrs.
Taylor's unusual form of invitation by meeting her accidentally in the
baker's shop, where an assortment of cakes was being ordered for the
tea-party, and signifying her intention of coming to tea. "No need to
write, I suppose," said Mrs. Lovekin lightly, "as I have met you?"
Both Mrs. Taylor and the baker's wife thought it would have been in
better taste if Mrs. Lovekin had then withdrawn, instead of remaining
in the shop and hearing what was ordered.
Mrs. Taylor had made up her mind at an early stage in the proceedings
that she would be very firm indeed about the matter of dispensing tea
herself in her own house. She would appropriate one teapot, and her
daughter should have the other, and not even to shake hands with a
late-arriving guest would they run the risk of letting this badge of
office fall into the hands of the co-hostess.
"And if," said Mrs. Taylor, "I find that she is appropriating The Uncle
too much, I shall not hesitate to remove him, on the plea of
introducing him to some other and more important guests."
It was in church on Sunday that we were first allowed to see The Uncle,
and this is only following the usual custom in Stowel. Church on
Sunday is, as it were, the public life of the town. After a death it
is customary to wait until the family has appeared in church to pay
visits of condolence--not so much to avoid intrusiveness in the first
hour of grief as from a feeling that perhaps the crape mourning will
not have arrived. In the same way, if any one moves into a new
house--a very unusual proceeding--we are made aware that the carpets
are all down, and the drawing-room curtains are hung, when the new
arrivals are seen in their pew on Sunday. This, also, is accepted as a
token that calling may now begin. Mrs. Taylor said afterwards, in
describing that first Sunday when The Uncle appeared in Stowel Church,
that her heart beat so painfully at the door that she thought she would
have been obliged to turn back. It was a triumphal progress that the
party of four made up the centre aisle to their pew, but the inward
excitement of the Taylors rendered a natural deportment difficult.
Neither Mrs. Taylor nor her daughter joined in the hymns or the
responses that Sunday morning. It is doubtful whether they heard a
word of the service.
Sir John is a very military-looking person, with white whiskers and a
bald pink head. He sat between Mrs. and Miss Taylor, who supplied him
with hymn and prayer books in as natural a manner as they found it
possible to assume; and Mr. Taylor sat at the end of the pew with a
genial expression on his face, and a look of tempered pride, due no
doubt to the fact that the General was "one of my wife's people," and
not a blood relation of his own.
It was a disappointment to Mr. Taylor that his own sister, Mrs.
Macdonald--widow of a Scotch gentleman, whom the Taylors always talk of
as "The Laird"--was not able to come to this family gathering. But
Mrs. Macdonald pleaded spring-cleaning as an insuperable objection to
leaving home at present.
As Miss Taylor, Mrs. Macdonald used to be one of Stowel's central
figures, for she was a lady of considerable means and an indefatigable
housekeeper; and Mr. Macdonald was considered to have done well when he
took her as his bride to the North.
The Sunday on which the Taylors appeared in church with The Uncle was
curiously hot for the time of year. It was very stuffy in church, and
Miss Lydia had a slight fainting attack, and had to leave before the
service was over. Following the accepted custom in Stowel, my sister
called the next day to ask how she did. But indisposition, usually a
matter of solemn pleasure with us, was overshadowed and shorn of its
interest by the presence of The Uncle amongst us. Even the Vicar
looked keenly at him from the pulpit before his sermon began, but no
one except Mrs. Lovekin was forward enough to address the august party
as they left the church. Mrs. Lovekin, who always affirmed that she
saw no difference in rank, was the very first person in Stowel to shake
hands with The Uncle. She overtook the Taylors before they had even
reached the gate of the churchyard, and was perforce introduced to
their relative, "who," Mrs. Taylor said afterwards, "was almost more
cordial than she could have wished him to be; but of course his manners
were always perfect." What annoyed every one a little in the days that
followed was that Mrs. Lovekin constantly referred to the General as if
he had been an old friend; whereas of course it was well known in what
an intrusive way her precedence had been gained. During the week,
however, we all had an opportunity of seeing Sir John, for he was
marched in triumph up and down the village street regularly twice a
day. Miss Taylor even condescended to subterfuge in the matter. For
having taken The Uncle as far as the baker's at the end of the town,
with a view to continuing the walk into the country at The Uncle's
request, she pretended to have forgotten something at the draper's, and
marched him down the street again, in the proud knowledge that all
eyes, whether from pedestrians or from the interior of shops and houses
in the High Street, were turned upon her. The tobacconist from whom
The Uncle bought some tobacco gave Miss Taylor quite a sympathetic look
as he said, "Allow me to send it for you, Sir John." And Miss Taylor
said, "Do allow him to send it, uncle! I am sure that you ought not to
carry parcels for yourself."
On Thursday, when we went to the party, we saw at once that the Taylors
meant to make no snobbish distinction between their guests, but that
each and every one of them was to be introduced to The Uncle.
"I am no good at this sort of thing, Mary," The Uncle said before the
party began, "and I think I will walk over and see Willie Jacobs, and
spend the afternoon with him." Mrs. Taylor turned pale at the
suggestion. "It will ruin it!" she said. "I shall feel as if I had
been acting on false pretences." And though the General remained, as
he was requested to do, he showed a most irritating tendency to slip
away, and sometimes he was not to be found at the most critical
moments. Mrs. Taylor stationed him close to herself in the
drawing-room where she received her guests. But at the very moment
when she turned round to effect an introduction between him and some
particular friend, it was discovered that the General had slipped off
to the smoking-room or the tea-room, or was wandering aimlessly about
the garden, looking at the flower-beds.
Altogether, that most successful afternoon (and the Taylors really did
feel that it had been a success from the very highest point of view)
had still some drawbacks to it, which they regret, and always will
regret. For instance, when Miss Taylor had been dispatched into what
the Taylors call the "grounds" to see "what The Uncle is doing"
(playfully), "and tell him to come and make himself agreeable," she had
hardly departed to fulfil her mother's request when Mrs. Lovekin bore
down upon the teapot, poured out several of the most distinguished cups
of tea, and handed round macaroons as though they were her own. Last
of all, as the party was breaking up, and Mrs. Lovekin's vicarious
hospitality was therefore at an end, she was actually heard inviting
The Uncle to come and call upon her. Even the Miss Blinds, on being
told of the incident, admitted that this behaviour on Mrs. Lovekin's
part could not be called anything but forward. Miss Lydia could only
say, in a sort of sweet distress, "Perhaps she did not mean it;" but
Miss Blind shook her head vigorously, and said, "Bad butter, bad
butter, bad butter!"
Margaret Jamieson had, of course, been helping to prepare the party,
for Margaret Jamieson always helps wherever there is anything to be
done. And Eliza, we thought, made a deep impression upon The Uncle by
her knowledge of literature, and the perfectly easy and natural way in
which, without a moment's preparation, she alluded to the "atomic
theory."
"Ah! you are one of the Reading Society young ladies that I heard
about," said he. "Sorry I couldn't do more for you in the way of
books, but that's not in my line at all, you know. I was educated at a
Grammar School, and I never had the advantages that you young people
have nowadays." (Mrs. Taylor thought this statement unnecessary, but
reflected that great men often make allusions of this sort.) "However,
if I ever can be of any use to you--getting you an order for reading at
the British Museum, or anything of that sort--I hope you will let me
know."
For one brief day the Jamiesons were inclined to tease Eliza about
having made a conquest, but the Taylors would not have any nonsense of
that sort for a moment. It made Mrs. Taylor quite nervous to think of
such a thing, and she remarked that that was the worst of having
distinguished people to stop with one; there was always somebody
running after them. Eliza Jamieson, we noticed, was treated with
marked coldness by the Taylors for some time afterwards, and Miss
Taylor recollected darkly that it was Eliza's suggestion, in the first
instance, that The Uncle should be consulted on the choice of books for
the Reading Society. "She may," said Miss Taylor, "have had an eye on
him from the first."
A purely visionary affair of this sort, however, could not be
considered satisfactory or exciting, even by the Jamiesons; and the
Taylors' suspicions and anxieties were put on one side for the time
being--ousted from their place, as it were--by the very distinct and
exciting rumours which have reached us about Maud. Maud has been
staying with friends at Hampstead, and has written home in a certain
veiled way which is very provoking, but which, nevertheless, gives the
impression that another man has come to the point, and has proposed to
Maud Jamieson. Maud seems out of spirits, and has written to say that
she is returning; and this makes the sisters think that she must have
accepted her present suitor, and is coming home to shed a few natural
tears. Eliza, who walked over to tell us the news, voiced The Family's
opinion when she said: "We have quite made up our minds that if Maud
has said 'Yes,' she is to stick to it this time. She is always in a
panic directly she has accepted any one, but we know that it would be
the same whoever it was: and doubtless, unless we are firm, she will
treat this admirer just as she treated Mr. Reddy and Albert Gore and
the others. Mamma says that she will not have Maud coerced, and I am
sure no one wants to coerce her; but why should she always get to a
certain point, and then begin to have doubts? It is so
unbusiness-like."
The very next day Maud Jamieson came to tea. She looked well dressed,
as usual, and had some pretty spring finery about her--yellow mimosa
wreathing a broad hat, and some yellow ribbons about her tasteful
dress--but her pretty face looked very white, and she fidgeted
nervously for half an hour, and then told me I was so sympathetic she
would like to ask me something.
"I dare say," she said, "that you have heard something about Mr. Evans
from The Family?"
I admitted that I had, and then there was a very long pause.
"How is one to know," said Maud, "when it is the real thing?"
Another pause. I wished with all my heart that I could have been more
helpful to this young lady in such evident distress of mind; but the
intricacies of Maud's thoughts are most difficult to follow, and I
thought it better to wait until she had given me her entire confidence.
"Little things," said Maud, "might annoy one so much if one had always
to live with a man. For instance, I do not think I could ever truly
love a man who sniffs."
"Our friend Mrs. Fielden says," I remarked, "that a man generally
proposes when he has a cold in his head. But I pointed out to her that
these statistics do her no credit."
"Mr. Evans doesn't sniff," said Maud. "I was only citing that as an
example of what one might find very trying in a companion for life."
I assented, and could only suggest hopefully the usual Jamieson remedy
that such a defect might be cured after marriage.
"But men are so obstinate about some things," said Maud. "For
instance, suppose a man were well off and of really excellent
character, do you think it would matter much if he wore a white
watered-silk waistcoat in the evening? Would it, for instance, appear
an insuperable objection to most minds?"
I replied that doubtless it was a serious fault, but that I did not
consider it an incurable one; and I further remarked, with what I hoped
showed a broad and liberal way of looking at things, that all men had
their idiosyncrasies. Maud admitted this, and seemed cheered by the
reflection; but she pushed the matter further, and said she would like
to know what sort of a man I should presume any one to be who wore a
white watered-silk waistcoat.
"If you care for Mr. Evans--" I began, and regretted that one's
articulate expression is sometimes behindhand in the matter of
conveying the comprehensiveness of the inner working of one's mind----
"I am afraid I care for some one else," said Maud, bursting into tears.
"Let me see you home," I said, unable to think of any but this very
doubtful method of consolation; still, it seemed unkind to let her go
home alone when she had been crying.
On the threshold of the Jamiesons' house several of The Family were
waiting for us, and they drew me into the drawing-room, while by tacit
consent it seemed to be understood that Maud should not join in the
conclave, but should go straight upstairs and take off her hat.
"Have you persuaded her?" said Eliza.
"I hope you have put a little common sense into her," said Kate.
James was admitted to family discussions now, and here remarked that he
believed that all girls were happier married.
"Though, of course," said Mettie, "it is a great risk."
"Did she tell you," asked Gracie, "that she cares for some one else?"
I admitted that Maud had said something of the sort. And her family
exclaimed triumphantly that this was always Maud's plea for releasing
herself from an engagement as soon as that engagement had been made.
Mrs. Jamieson remarked that she would not like any of the girls to feel
that they were not welcome at home, and all her affectionate daughters
kissed her in turn, or patted her hand, and said that they knew that
such a thought as wanting to get rid of one of them would never enter
her head.
Mrs. Jamieson here left the room to seek her banished daughter and to
administer comfort, and the members of The Family conclave said that
they hoped that Mrs. Jamieson did not think that they had been unkind.
"If it had not happened so often!" sighed Eliza. "However, as we do
not know Mr. Evans, he can't ask to come down and stay with us, as Mr.
Reddy did, so as to have an opportunity of pressing his suit."
"He cried so much one afternoon," said Kate, turning in an explanatory
sort of way to Mr. Ward, "that I really thought I should have to send
for mamma." James looked sympathetic, and Gracie added: "We all really
felt quite relieved when he got engaged to some one else three weeks
afterwards, and we hear that they are most happy, and have got a dear
little baby."