CINDERELLA
As I opened the schoolroom door a half-forgotten picture of Cinderella
came vividly before me.
The fire had burnt low; a heap of black ashes lay under the grate; and by
the dull red glow I could see Jill's forlorn figure, very indistinctly,
as she sat in her favourite attitude on the rug, her arms clasping her
knees and her short black locks hanging loosely over her shoulders. She
gave a little shrill exclamation of pleasure when she saw me.
'Ah, you dear darling bear, do come and hug me,' she cried, trying to get
up in a hurry, but her dress entangled her.
'Where is Fräulein?' I asked, pushing her back into her place, while I
knelt down to manipulate the miserable fire. 'Jill, you look just like
Cinderella when the proud sisters drove away to the ball. My dear, were
you asleep? Why are you sitting in the dark, with the fire going out, and
the lamp unlighted? There, it only wanted to be stirred; we shall have
light by which to see other's faces directly,'
'Fräulein has a headache and has gone to lie down,' returned Jill, and,
though I could not see her clearly, I knew at once by her voice that she
had been crying; only she would have been furious if I had noticed the
fact. 'I hope I am not very wicked, but Fräulein's headaches are the
redeeming points in her character; she has them so often, and then she
is obliged to lie down.'
'Of course you have offered to bathe her head?' I asked, a little
mischievously, but Jill, who was unusually subdued, took the question
in good part.
'Oh yes, and I spoke to her quite civilly; but I suppose she saw the
savage gleam of delight in my eyes, for she was as cross as possible, and
went away muttering that "Meess Jocelyn had the heart like the flint; if
it had been Meess Sara, now--" and then she banged the door, so the pain
could not have been so bad after all. It is my belief,' went on Jill,
'that Fräulein always has a headache when she has a novel to finish.
Mamma does not like her to set me an example of novel-reading, so she
is obliged to lock herself in her own room.'
I took no notice of this statement, as I rather leaned to this view of
the subject myself. Fräulein's round placid face and excellent appetite
showed no signs of suffering, and her constant plea of a bad headache was
only received with any credulity by Aunt Philippa herself; neither Sara
nor I had much respect for Fräulein Sonnenschein, with her thick little
figure, and big head covered with flimsy flaxen plaits. We were both
aware of the smooth selfishness of her character, though Sara chose to
ignore it for Jill's benefit. She was industrious, painstaking, and
capable of a great deal of dull routine in the way of duties, but she
was far too fond of her own comfort, and all the affection of which she
was capable was lavished upon her own relatives; she had cared for Sara
moderately, but her other pupil, Jill, was a thorn in her side. So I
passed over Fräulein's headache without comment, and took Jill to task
somewhat sharply for the comfortless state of the room. A good scolding
would rouse her from her dejection; the blinds were up and the curtains
undrawn; the remains of a meal, the usual five-o'clock schoolroom tea,
were still on the table. Jill's German books were heaped up beside her
empty cup and the glass dish that contained marmalade; the kettle
spluttered and hissed in the blaze; Jill's little black kitten, Sooty,
was dragging a half-knitted stocking across the rug.
'I forgot to ring for Martha,' faltered Jill; 'she will come presently.
Don't be cross, Ursula. I like the room as it is; it is deliciously
untidy, just like Cinderella's kitchen; but there is no hope of the fairy
godmother; and you are going away, and I shall be ten times more
miserable.'
It was this that was troubling her, then; for I had told her my plans and
all about my letter to Uncle Max. Perhaps she had heard his voice in the
hall, for Jill's pretty little ears heard everything that went on in the
house: she admitted her knowledge at once when I taxed her with it.
'Oh yes, I know Mr. Cunliffe is here. I heard papa go out and speak to
him; his voice sounded quite cheerful; and now he has come and it will
all be settled; and you will go away and be happy with your poor people,
and forget that I am fretting myself to death in this horrid room.'
She had drawn me down on the rug forcibly,--for she had the strength of
a young Titaness,--and was wrapping her arms around me with a sort of
fierce impatience. Her big eyes looked troubled and affectionate. Few
people admired Jill; she was undeveloped and awkward, full of angles, and
a little brusque in manner; she had a way of thrusting out her big feet
and squaring her shoulders that horrified Aunt Philippa. She was very
big, certainly, and would never possess Sara's slim grace. Her hair had
been cropped in some illness, and had not grown so fast as they expected,
but hung in short thick lengths about her neck; it was always getting
into her eyes, and was being pushed back impatiently, but she would much
oftener throw her head back with a fling like an unbroken pony, for she
was jerky as young things often are.
But, though, people found fault with Jill, and often said that she would
never be as handsome as Sara, I liked her face. Perhaps it was a little
irregular and her complexion slightly sallow, but when she was flushed or
excited and she opened her big bright eyes, and one could see her little
white teeth gleaming as she laughed, I have thought Jill could look
almost beautiful; but her good looks depended on her expression.
'I suppose it will be settled,' I replied, with a quick catch at my
breath, for the mere mention of the subject excited me; 'but you will be
a good child and not fret if I do go away. No, I shall never forget you,'
as a close hug answered me; 'I love you too dearly for that; but I want
you to be brave about it, dear, for I cannot be happy wasting my time and
doing nothing. You know how ill I was before I went to St. Thomas's, so
that Uncle Max was obliged to tell Aunt Philippa that I must have change
and hard work, or I should follow Charlie.'
'Oh yes, and we were all so frightened about you, you poor thing; you
looked so pinched and miserable. Well, I suppose I must let you go, as
you are so wicked as to disobey the proverb that "Charity begins at
home."'
'Listen to me, dear,' I returned, quite pleased to find her so
reasonable. 'I am very glad to know that I have been a comfort to you,
but I shall hope to be so still. I will write long letters to you, Jill,
and tell you all about my work, and you shall answer them, and talk to me
on paper about the books you have read, and the queer thoughts you have,
and how patient and strong you have grown, and how you have learned to
put up with Fräulein's little ways and not aggravate her with your
untidiness.' And here Jill's hand--and it was by no means a small
hand--closed my lips rather abruptly. But I was used to this sort of
sledge-hammer form of argument.
'Oh, it is all very fine for you to sit there and moralise, Ursula, like
a sort of sucking Diogenes,' grumbled Jill, 'when you know you are going
to have your own way and live a deliciously sort of three-volume-novel
life, not like any one else's, unless it were Don Quixote, or one of the
Knights of the Round Table, poking about among a lot of strange people,
doing wonderful things for them, until they are all ready to worship you.
It is all very well for you, I say; but what would you do if you were
me?' cried Jill, in her shrill treble, and quite oblivious of grammatical
niceties; 'how would you like to be poor me, shut up here with that old
dragon?'
This was a grand opportunity for airing my philosophy, and I rushed at
it. To Jill's amazement, I shook my hair back in the way she usually
shook her rough black mane, and, opening my eyes very widely, tried to
copy Jill's falsetto.
'How thankful I am Jocelyn Garston and not Ursula Garston,' I said,
with rapid staccato. 'Poor Ursula! I am fond of her, but I would not
change places with her for the world. She has known such a lot of trouble
in her life, more than most girls, I believe; she has lost her lovely
home,--such a sweet old place,--and her mother and father and Charlie,
all her nearest and her most beloved, and she is so sad that she wants
to work hard and forget her troubles.'
'Oh dear!' sighed Jill at this.
'How happy I am compared with her!' I went on, relapsing unconsciously
into my own voice. 'I am young and strong; I have all my life before me.
True, poor Ralph has gone, but I was only a child, and did not miss him.
I have a good father and an indulgent mother' ('Humph!' observed Jill at
this point, only she turned it into a cough); 'if my present schoolroom
life is not to my taste, I am sensible enough to know that the drudgery
and restraint will not last for long; in another year, or a year and a
half, Fräulein, whom I certainly do not love, will go back to her own
country. I shall be free to read the books I like, to study what I
choose, or to be idle. I shall have Sara's cheerful companionship instead
of Fräulein's heavy company; I shall ride; I shall walk in the sunshine;
I shall be a butterfly instead of a chrysalis; and if I care to be
useful, all sorts of paths will be open to me.'
'There, hold your tongue,' interrupted Jill, with a rough kiss; 'of
course I know I am a wicked, ungrateful wretch, and that I ought to be
more patient. Yes, you shall go, Ursula; you are a darling, but I will
not want to keep you; you are too good to be wasted on me; it would be
like pouring gold into a sieve. Well, I did cry about it this afternoon,
but I won't be such a goose any more. I will live my life the same way,
in spite of all of them, you will see if I don't, Ursula. Who is it who
says, "The thoughts of youth are long long thoughts"? I have such big
thoughts sometimes, especially when I sit in the dark. I send them out
like strange birds, all over the world,--up, up, everywhere,--but they
never come back to me again,' finished Jill mournfully; 'if they build
nests I never know it: I just sit and puzzle out things, like poor little
grimy Cinderella.'
Jill's eloquence did not surprise me. I knew she was very clever, and
full of unfledged poetry, and I had often heard her talk in that way; but
I had no time to answer her, for just then the first gong sounded, and I
could hear Sara running up to her room to dress for dinner. Jill jumped
up, and tugged at the bell-rope rather fiercely.
'Martha must have forgotten all about the tea-things; very likely the
lamp is smoky and will have to be trimmed. I must not come and help you,
Ursie dear, for I have to learn my German poetry before I dress.' And
Jill pulled down the blinds and drew the curtains with a vigorous hand.
Martha looked quite frightened at the sight of Jill's energy and her own
remissness.
'Why did you not ring before, Miss Jocelyn?' she said, plaintively, and
in rather an injured voice, as she carried away the tea-tray.
Uncle Max passed me in the passage; Clarence was following with his
portmanteau; he looked surprised to see me still in my bonnet with my fur
cape trailing over one arm; but I nodded to him cheerfully and went
quickly into my room.
My life at St. Thomas's had inured me to hardness; it had contrasted
strangely with my luxurious surroundings at Hyde Park Gate. Aunt Philippa
certainly treated me well in her way. I had a full share of the loaves
and the fishes of the household; my room was as prettily furnished as
Jill's; a bright fire burnt in the grate; there were pink candles on the
dressing-table. Martha, who waited upon us both, had put out my black
evening dress on the bed, and had warmed my dressing-gown; she would come
to me by and by with a civil offer of help.
I was rather puzzled at the sight of a little breast-knot of white
chrysanthemums that lay on the table, until I remembered Uncle Max; no
one had ever brought me flowers since Charlie's death; he had gathered
the last that I ever wore--some white violets that grew in a little
hollow in the ground of Rutherford Lodge. I hesitated painfully before
I pinned the modest little bouquet in my black dress, but I feared Uncle
Max would be hurt if I failed to appear in it. I wore mother's pearl
necklace as usual, and the little locket with her hair; somehow I took
more pleasure in dressing myself this evening, when I knew Uncle Max's
kind eyes would be on me.
I had not hurried myself, and the second gong sounded before I reached
the drawing-room, so I came face to face with Lesbia, who was coming out
on Uncle Brian's arm. She kissed me in her quiet way, and said, 'How do
you do, Ursula?' just as though we had met yesterday, and passed on.
I thought she looked prettier than ever that evening--like a snow
princess, in her white gown, with a little fleecy shawl drawn round her
shoulders, for she took cold easily. She had a soft creamy complexion,
and fair hair that she wore piled up in smooth plaits on her head; she
had plaintive blue eyes that could be brilliant at times, and a lovely
mouth, and she was tall and graceful like Sara.
They made splendid foils to each other; but in my opinion Sara carried
the palm: she was more piquant and animated; her colouring was brighter,
and she had more expression; but Charlie's Lily, as he called her, was
quite as much admired, and indeed they were both striking-looking girls.
I saw that Uncle Max took a great deal of notice of Lesbia, who sat next
to him. I could not hear their conversation, but a pretty pink colour
tinged Lesbia's face, and her eyes grew dark and bright as she listened,
and I saw her glance at her left hand where the half-hoop of diamonds
glistened that Charlie had placed there; she had not quite forgotten the
dear boy then, for I am sure she sighed, but the next moment she had
turned from Uncle Max, and was engaged in an eager discussion with Sara
about some private theatricals in which Sara was to take a part.
When we went back to the drawing-room we found Fräulein in her favourite
red silk dress, trying to repair the damage that Sooty had wrought in her
half-knitted stocking, and Jill, looking very bored and uncomfortable,
turning over the photograph album in a corner. She looked awkward and
sallow in her Indian muslin gown: the flimsy stuff did not suit her any
more than the pink coral beads she wore round her neck. Her black locks
bobbed uneasily over the book. She looked bigger than ever when she stood
up to speak to Lesbia.
'How that child is growing!' observed Aunt Philippa behind her fan to
Fräulein, whose round face was beaming with smiles at the entrance of the
ladies. 'That gown was made only a few weeks ago, and she is growing out
of it already. Jocelyn, my love, why do you hunch your shoulders so when,
you talk to Lesbia? I am always telling you of this awkward habit.'
Poor Jill frowned and reddened a little under this maternal admonition;
her eyes looked black and fierce as she sat down again with her
photographs. This hour was always a penance to her; she could not speak
or move easily, for fear of some remark from Aunt Philippa. When her
mother and Fräulein interchanged confidences behind the big spangled fan,
the poor child always thought they were talking about her.
Her bigness, her awkwardness, troubled Jill excessively. Her clumsy hands
and feet seemed always in her way.
'I know I am the ugly duckling,' she would say, with tears in her eyes;
'but I shall never turn into a swan like Sara and Lesbia,--not that I
want to be like them!'--with a little scorn in her voice. 'Lesbia is too
tame, too namby-pamby, for my taste; and Sara is stupid. She laughs and
talks, but she never says anything that people have not said a hundred
times before. Oh, I am so tired of it all! I grow more cross and
disagreeable every day,' finished Jill, who was very frank on the
subject of her shortcoming.
I would have stopped and talked to Jill, only Lesbia tapped me on the arm
rather peremptorily.
'Come into the back drawing-room,' she said, in a low voice. 'I want to
speak to you.--Jill, why do you not practise your new duet with Sara? She
will play nothing but valses all the evening, unless you prevent it'
But Jill shook her head sulkily; she felt safer in her corner. Sara was
strumming on the grand pianoforte as we passed her; her slim fingers were
running lazily over the keys in the 'Verliebt und Verloren' valse.
Clarence was lighting the candles; William was bringing in the coffee;
and Colonel Ferguson was following rather unceremoniously. People were
always dropping in at Hyde Park Gate: perhaps Sara's bright eyes
magnetised them. We had colonels and majors and captains at our will,
for there was a martial craze in the house: to-night it was grave,
handsome Colonel Ferguson.
He was rather a favourite with Uncle Brian and Aunt Philippa, perhaps
because his troubles interested them; he had buried his young wife and
child in an Indian grave, and some people said that he had come to
England to look out for a second wife.
He was a very handsome man, and still young enough to find favour in a
girl's sight, and his wealth made him a _grand parti_ in the parents'
eyes. At present he had bestowed equal attention on Sara and Lesbia,
though close observers might have noticed that he lingered longest by
Sara's side.
'How do you do, Colonel Ferguson?' said Sara, nodding to him in her
bright, unconcerned way, as she finished her valse. 'Mother is over
there talking to Fräulein: you will find your coffee ready for you.' And
her glossy little head bent over the keys again, while the lazy music
trickled through her fingers. Though Colonel Ferguson did as he was told,
I fancied he would keep a close watch over the young performer.
The inner drawing-room had heavy velvet hangings that closed over the
archway; on cold evenings the curtains would be drawn rather closely;
there would be a bright fire, and a single lamp lighted. Very often Uncle
Brian would retire with his book or paper when Sara's valses wearied him
or the room filled with young officers. Since Ralph's death he had
certainly become rather taciturn and unsociable. Aunt Philippa, who loved
gaiety, never accompanied him, but now and then Jill would creep from her
corner, when her mother was not looking, and slip behind the ruby
curtains. I have caught her there sometimes sitting on the rug, with her
rough head against her father's knee; they would both of them look a
little shamefaced, as if they were guilty of some fault.
'Go to bed, Jill; it is time for little girls to be asleep,' he would
say, patting her cheek. Jill would nestle it on his coat-sleeve for a
moment, as she obeyed him. Her father had the softest place in her heart.
She always would have it that her mother was hard on her, but she never
complained of want of kindness from her father.
'Colonel Ferguson comes very often,' remarked Lesbia, a little peevishly,
as she walked to the fireplace to warm herself: she was a chilly being,
and loved warmth. 'His name is Donald, is it not? some one told me so:
Donald Ferguson. Well, he is not bad; he may do for Sara. She has plenty
of quicksilver to balance his gravity.'
I was rather surprised at this beginning; but without waiting for any
answer, she went on.
'What is this Mr. Cunliffe tells me?' she asked, fixing her blue eyes
on my face with marked interest. 'You are going to carry out your old
scheme, Ursula, about nursing poor people and singing to them. He tells
me you have chosen Heathfield for your future home, and that he is to
find you lodgings. Sit down, dear, and tell me all about it,' she went on
eagerly. 'I thought you had given up all that when--when--' but here she
stopped and her lips trembled; of course she meant when Charlie died, but
she rarely spoke his name. I would not let her see my astonishment,--she
had never seemed so sisterly before,--but I took the seat close to her
and talked to her as openly as though she were Jill or Uncle Max; now and
then I paused, and we could hear Colonel Ferguson's deep voice: he was
evidently turning over the pages of Sara's music.
'Go on, Ursula; I like to hear it,' Lesbia would say when I hesitated;
she was not looking at me, but at the fire, with her cheek supported
against her hand.
'What do you think of it?' I asked, presently, when I had finished and
we had both been silent a few minutes listening to one of Mendelssohn's
Songs without Words that Sara was playing very nicely.
'What do I think of it?' she replied, and her voice startled me, it was
so full of pain. 'Oh, Ursula, I think you are to be envied! If I could
only come with you and work too!--but there is mother, she could not do
without me, and so we must just go on in the same old way.'
I was so shocked at the hopelessness of her tone, so taken aback at her
words, that I could not answer her for a moment: it seemed inconceivable
to me that she could be saying such things. Poor pretty Lesbia, whom
Charlie had loved and whom I considered a mere fragile butterfly. She
was quite pale now, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears.
'You do not believe me, Ursula; no, I was right--you never understood me.
I often told dear Charlie so. You think, because I laugh and dance and do
as other girls do, that I have forgotten--that I do not suffer. Do you
think I shall ever find any one so good and kind in this world again? Oh,
you are hard on me, and I am so miserable, so unhappy, without Charlie.
And I am not like you: I cannot work myself into forgetfulness; I must
stop with mother and do as she bids me, and she says it is my duty to be
gay.'
I was so ashamed of myself, of my mean injustice, that I was very nearly
crying myself as I asked her pardon.
'Why do you say that?' she returned, almost pettishly, only she looked so
miserable. 'I have nothing to forgive. I only want you to be good to me
and not think the worst, for I'm really fond of you, Ursula, only you are
so reserved and cold with me,'
'My poor dear,' I returned, taking the pretty face between my hands and
kissing it. 'I will never be unkind to you again. Forgive me if I have
misunderstood you: for Charlie's sake I want to love you.' And then she
put her head down on my shoulder and cried a little, and bemoaned herself
for being so unhappy; and all the time I comforted her my guilty
conscience owned that Uncle Max was right.