The Jamiesons have taken lodgings in West Kensington, which they
describe as being "most central"--a phrase which I have begun to think
means inexpensive--and near a line of omnibuses. George and the Pirate
are assiduous in taking their sisters to the Play and other places of
amusement, and are showing them something of London with a zeal which
speaks much for their goodness of heart. Even Mrs. Jamieson has been
out once or twice, and although doubly tearful on the morning following
any little bit of dissipation, her family feel that the variety has
been good for her. Eliza has found that London is radio-active, hence
enjoyable. And Eliza had been only once to the Royal Institution when
she said it! Maud's engagement to the Hampstead young man has been
finally broken off, and Maud has cried so much that her family have
forgiven her. Maud explains that it is such an upset for a girl to
break off an engagement, and The Family say soothingly that she must
just try and get over it.
"We hope," said Kate, "that next time things will arrange themselves
more happily, and at least we can all feel that Maud might have married
many times, had she wished to do so." There seems to be a strong
feeling in The Family that Maud will go on having opportunities.
Arguing from the general to the particular, they have proved, with a
sort of tribal feeling of satisfaction, that Maud is undoubtedly very
attractive to men, and that if one man likes her, why should not
another?
Still, we all felt that we could not have sympathized immediately with
another love affair of Maud's, and it was refreshing, not to say most
pleasing and surprising, to find that since her arrival in Town, it was
Margaret who attracted the notice of a gentleman, Mr. Swinnerton by
name, a friend of George's, who brought him to supper one Sunday
evening. The Jamiesons could see at a glance that Mr. Swinnerton was
"struck," and, as he called two or three times in the following week,
Margaret made the usual Jamieson opportunity of seeing Palestrina home,
one afternoon when she had been to call, to embark in confidences about
her lover in the usual Jamieson style. Margaret was diffident,
bashful, shy, uncertain about Mr. Swinnerton's feelings for her, and
hopelessly nervous lest her family should have had their expectations
raised only to be disappointed. She implored Palestrina over and over
again to say nothing about it to them, though it has been more than
obvious to us all along how full of expectation every member of The
Family is. It was a very wet evening as Margaret and my sister left
the Jamiesons' lodgings, but she hardly seemed conscious of the
inclemency of the weather, and begged Palestrina not to think of taking
a cab, as she particularly wished to speak to her.
"At first," she began, "I thought it must be Maud, although she has but
just broken off her engagement to Mr. Evans; still, one knows she is
the pretty one, and if any one calls often, it is generally her."
It was a little difficult to follow Margaret's rapid, ungrammatical
speech, but Palestrina and I both knew that to the vigorous minds of
the Jamiesons there must be a direct purpose in every action, and that
therefore if Mr. Swinnerton came to call he must have a purpose,
presumably a matrimonial purpose, for paying his visits. After two or
three afternoon calls from a gentleman the Jamiesons generally ask each
other ingenuously, "Which of us is it?" It hardly seems to them
respectable that a man should continue to pay them visits unless he
means to show a preference for one of them.
Presuming that it was not Maud he came to see, Margaret, with modest
hesitation and many blushes, asked Palestrina if she did not think it
possible that these visits might be intended for her.
"Please do not say anything about it to the others. I always have
hoped that if ever I had a love affair it would be when I was away from
home. Do you know at all what they think about it?"
She did not pause for a reply, but began again: "You see he has called
three times in one week, but" (hopelessly) "I am always surrounded by
The Family, and he couldn't say anything if he wanted to. Of course I
don't think it has come to anything of that sort yet; still, you know,
we could get to know each other better if there were not so many of us
always about. Maud doesn't mind a bit; she has had love affairs in
front of us all, and she does not mind talking about them in the least,
or even asking us to let her have the drawing-room to herself on
certain afternoons. But I don't feel as if I could bear to have this
discussed before anything is settled. And then we have so few
opportunities. Maud generally takes them to a distant church, and then
they have the walk home together. But I never quite know whether she
makes the suggestion about church, or if she merely thinks it would be
nice, and leaves the man to make it."
"Maud," I remarked parenthetically to Palestrina, "has raised
love-making to a science--an exact science."
"I hope you don't think for a moment," Margaret had gone on, "that I am
abusing Maud; you know how fond we all are of each other."
Maud's experiences on matters matrimonial are always quoted as
precedent in the Jamieson family, and she is cited whenever anything of
the sort is afoot. Each phase in her experience is frankly discussed,
and conclusions are drawn from it; and I have heard the Jamiesons say,
"Mr. So-and-so must be in love with Miss So-and-so; he looks at her in
exactly the same way that Mr. Reddy used to look at Maud." Maud
herself, unconsciously as I believe, makes a sort of calendar of her
love affairs, and it is quite usual for her to date an event by
referring to it as having happened "in the Albert Gore days," or "when
Mr. Evans was hovering."
Margaret's voice had not ceased from the moment they left the lodgings
together. "It is, however, no use trying to copy other people in your
love affairs," she said, "because it seems to come to every one so
differently, and then of course different people must call forth
different feelings. I don't think I could have felt for Mr. Reddy, for
instance, quite as I do now, even if he had been in love with me. You
feel so bewildered somehow."
The walk had by this time become very rapid, and Margaret, in her
short-sighted way, knocked against all the foot-passengers whom she met
travelling in the opposite direction. Her umbrella showered raindrops
upon Palestrina, and she became so incoherent that my sister suggested
taking a cab to our flat, and talking things over quietly when they
should get there.
It was about eleven o'clock that night when Margaret Jamieson took
leave of us, and by that time I fancy the bridesmaids' dresses had been
arranged.
A few days later Palestrina received a note by the hand of a
messenger-boy; it bore the word "Immediate" on the cover, and had
evidently been addressed in some haste.
"DEAR PALESTRINA (it ran),
"Can you possibly come to make a fourth at a concert this afternoon?
Do come, even if it should be rather inconvenient to you. I want you
so much. Mr. Swinnerton has asked mamma and me, and he has taken
tickets. They are not reserved places, so we could easily arrange to
meet at the door and sit together. Three is such an awkward number. I
fear mamma does not care for him, and that is a great grief to me. I
will tell you everything this afternoon.
"Yours affectionately,
"MARGARET JAMIESON.
"_P.S._--It is all going to come right, I believe, but I have had
immense difficulties. Hardly ten minutes alone with him--you know we
have only one sitting-room.--but the family have been sweet."
"Hugo," said Palestrina, "this is an occasion when you could give very
substantial aid to a deserving family."
"I am sorry I am engaged this afternoon," I said, with an instinct of
self-preservation, without, however, having any definite idea of what
Palestrina might say next.
"It is I who am engaged this afternoon," said my sister smiling, "and
you are perfectly aware of that fact. Thomas is taking me down to
Richmond to introduce me to his aunt. Besides, Hugo, you know you like
music."
"I am very sorry, Palestrina," I said, "but it is quite impossible."
"Margaret is the Jamieson you like best," said Palestrina, "and I hate
to think of your being here alone a whole afternoon. What were you
thinking of doing?"
I had been thinking of going to this concert, and Palestrina guessed
it, of course....
I was at the door of the concert hall at two-thirty in the afternoon,
and found Mrs. Jamieson and Margaret and the young man already on the
pavement, looking as if they had stood there for a considerable time.
Mr. Swinnerton is a large, rather stupid-looking man, with a red face,
a crooked nose, and curly hair. He wore a dark blue overcoat, so thick
and strong that it reminded one of some encasement of plaster of Paris,
or of some heavy coat of mail. His hands were covered in yellow
dogskin gloves, equally unyielding, so that Mr. Swinnerton appeared
deprived of any agility of movement by his garments. Mr. Swinnerton is
in the volunteers, and has "Captain Swinnerton" printed on his cards.
He gave me the idea of seeming to think that every action of his was
some epoch-making event, and during the afternoon he frequently
referred to having seen a picture then on view at one of the galleries,
as though this were rather an up-to-date, not to say remarkable,
proceeding. Margaret seemed a good deal impressed by his manner, and
the Jamiesons had decided that he was "smart," which was a further and
quite unnecessary addition to Mr. Swinnerton's vanity, and very bad for
a gentleman of his complacent character.
He ushered us into the Queen's Hall in an important sort of way, which
gave one the impression that the place belonged to him; and the fact
that I was making a third in a party under his guidance convinced me
that I was in some sort adding to his self-satisfaction. Mr.
Swinnerton had chosen shilling places, because, as he informed us a
great number of times, these were in the best position for hearing the
music. Mrs. Jamieson was disappointed. In her class of life a treat
is given on a more magnificent scale.
"Shall I sit next you, Mrs. Jamieson?" I said, for I believed that this
was what I was intended to say; but Mr. Swinnerton remarked to
Margaret, "I'll go next; I like to divide myself amongst the ladies."
Mrs. Jamieson looked uncomfortable in the small amount of space a
shilling had procured for her, and she suggested apologetically that
she would like a programme; but the music was beginning, and Mr.
Swinnerton put up his large, stiff-gloved hand like a slab, and said,
"Hush!"
We went faithfully through the orthodox Queen's Hall concert from the
very first note to the "Ride of the Valkyries," and after every item on
the programme our host turned to us, moving his whole body in his stout
coat, and said, "Isn't that nice now?--very nice I call it!" still with
an air of ownership.
Mrs. Jamieson slept a little; but the hardness of her seat made it an
uneasy resting-place, and it is to be feared that her mantle with the
storm-collar was too hot; but, she whispered to me in a burst of
confidence, she was unable to remove it owing to the fact that the
bodice and skirt of her dress did not correspond.
"I always like these places," said Mr. Swinnerton again; "they are
exactly in the centre of the hall, and another thing is, they are near
the door in case of fire."
Margaret assented sweetly. I always thought until to-day that Margaret
Jamieson was a plain woman; to-day I find she is good-looking.
"It is ridiculous," said Mr. Swinnerton, "to see the way people throw
their money away on really inferior seats, just because they think they
are fashionable."
Mrs. Jamieson stirred a little on her uneasy bench, and Mr. Swinnerton
said in self-defence, "Don't you agree with me, eh?"
"I think," said Mrs. Jamieson politely, "that perhaps for a long
concert the _fotoys_ would be more comfortable."
"Ah!" cried Mr. Swinnerton, "you want to be fashionable, I see; but
there are many of the best people who come to these seats. I know of a
Member of Parliament--I don't know him, I know of him" (we felt that
some connection with the Member had been established)--"who comes
regularly to these very places, and who declares they are the best in
the house."
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Jamieson simply, "he had never tried the _fotoys_."
After the concert was over, Mr. Swinnerton suggested that Margaret and
her mother should go and have tea at a bun-shop, qualifying the
suggestion with the remark, "I know you ladies can never get on without
afternoon tea." When with Mr. Swinnerton ladies are never allowed to
forget that he is a gentleman and they are ladies, and that a certain
forbearance is therefore extended to them. He offered his arm to Mrs.
Jamieson, who gathered up her skirt and umbrella in one hand, and
accepted the proffered support in some embarrassment. Margaret fell
behind with me, and whispered in a sort of excited way,--
"Hasn't it been lovely? Do tell me what you think--I mean about him."
"I haven't had much chance of judging," I replied stupidly; "but he
seems all right, although perhaps his ideas are not very large."
"Still, you mean that one could always alter that," said Margaret
quickly, with the true Jamieson optimism, as applied to the beneficial
results of matrimony. There is hardly, I believe, a defect that they
think they will not be able to eradicate in a future husband, save,
perhaps, the conical shape of Mr. Ward's head. "But I really do not
think there is anything that I would like altered," she added simply.
"His name is Tudor," she went on. "George calls him that now, and Maud
is beginning to do so--Maud is being so kind; she says it promotes a
familiar tone which is very helpful, to call him 'Tudor'--but I can't
call him anything but Mr. Swinnerton yet."
After tea Mr. Swinnerton asked us how we had enjoyed our entertainment,
and Margaret expressed herself in the highest terms in praise of it.
There seemed to be a lingering tendency on Mrs. Jamieson's part to
revert to the superior comfort of seven-and-sixpenny places and
armchairs, but we checked this by saying with emphasis that it was a
friendly afternoon of this kind that we really enjoyed. Mr. Swinnerton
then put the Jamiesons into an omnibus, and directed the conductor to
"let these ladies out at the top of Sloane Street," in a tone of voice
that suggested that they were to be caged and padlocked until that
place of exit was reached. He lifted his hat with a fine air to them,
and then, as I had called a hansom, he put me into it rather
elaborately, and cautioned the commissionaire at the door to "take care
of this gentleman."
He will probably call me a South African hero next; I wish he would
keep his attentions to himself.