'WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY'
Aunt Philippa had one very good point in her character: she was not of
a nagging disposition. When she scolded she did it thoroughly, and was
perhaps a long time doing it, but she never carried it into the next day.
Jill always said her mother was too indolent for a prolonged effort; but
then poor Jill often said naughty things. But we all of us knew that Aunt
Philippa's wrath soon evaporated; it made her hot and uncomfortable while
it lasted, and she was glad to be quit of it: so she refrained herself
prudently when I spoke of my approaching departure; and, being of a
bustling temperament, and not averse to changes unless they gave her much
trouble, she took a great deal of interest in my arrangements, and bought
a nice little travelling-clock that she said would be useful to me.
Seeing her so pleasant and reasonable, I made a humble petition that Jill
might be set free from some of her lessons to help me pack my books and
ornaments. She made a little demur at this, and offered Draper's services
instead; but it was Jill I wanted, for the poor child was fretting sadly
about my going away, and I thought it would comfort her to help me. So
after a time Aunt Philippa relented, after extorting a promise from Jill
that she would work all the harder after I had gone; and, as young people
seldom think about the future except in the way of foolish dreams, Jill
cheerfully gave her word. So for the last few days we were constantly
together, and Fräulein had an unexpected holiday. Jill worked like a
horse in my service, and only broke one Dresden group; she came to me
half crying with the fragment in her hand,--the poor little shepherdess
had lost her head as well as her crook, and the pink coat of the shepherd
had an unseemly rent in it,--but I only laughed at the disaster, and
would not scold her for her awkwardness. China had a knack of slipping
through Jill's fingers; she had a loose uncertain grasp of things that
were brittle and delicate; she had not learned to control her muscles or
restrain her strength. She had a way of lifting me up when I teased her
that turns me giddy to remember: I was quite a child in her hands. She
was always ashamed of herself when she had done it, and begged my pardon,
and as long as she put me on my feet again I was ready to forgive
anything. Jill felt a sort of forlorn consolation in using up her
strength in my service: she would hardly let me do anything myself;
I might sit down and order her about from morning to night if I chose.
I made her very happy by leaving some of my possessions under her
care--some books that I knew she would like to read, and other treasures
that I had locked up in my wardrobe. Jill had the key and could rummage
if she liked, but she told me quite seriously that it would comfort her
to come and look at them sometimes. 'It will feel as though you were
coming back some day, Ursie,' she said affectionately.
Late one afternoon I left her busy in my room, and went to the Albert
Hall Mansions to bid good-bye to Lesbia. I had called once or twice, but
had always missed her. So I slipped across in the twilight, as I thought
at that hour they would have returned from their drive.
The Albert Hall Mansions were only a stone's throw from Uncle Brian's
house, so I considered myself safe from any remonstrance on Aunt
Philippa's part. I liked to go there in the soft, early dusk; the smooth
noiseless ascent of the lift, and the lighted floors that we passed, gave
one an odd, dreamy feeling. Mrs. Fullerton had a handsome suite of
apartments on the third floor, and there was a beautiful view from her
drawing-room window of the Park and the Albert Memorial. It was a nice,
cheerful situation, and Mrs. Fullerton, who liked gaiety, preferred it
to Rutherford Lodge, though Lesbia had been born there and she had passed
her happiest days in it.
I found Mrs. Fullerton alone, but she seemed very friendly, and was
evidently glad to see me. I suppose I was better company than her own
thoughts.
I liked Mrs. Fullerton, after a temperate fashion. She was a nice little
woman, and would have been nicer still if she had talked less and thought
more. But when one's words lie at the tip of one's tongue there is little
time for reflection, and there are sure to be tares among the wheat.
She was looking serious this evening, but that did not interfere with her
comeliness or her pleasant manners. I found her warmth gratifying, and
prepared to unbend more than usual.
'Sit down, my dear. No, not on that chair: take the easy one by the fire.
You are looking rather fagged, Ursula. It seems to be the fashion with
young people now: they get middle-aged before their time. Oh yes, Lesbia
is out. It is the Engleharts' "At Home," and she promised to go with Mrs.
Pierrepoint. But she will be back soon. Now we are alone, I want to ask
you a question. I am rather anxious about Lesbia. Dr. Pratt says there
is a want of tone about her. She is too thin, and her appetite is not
good. The child gets prettier every day, but she looks far too delicate.'
I could not deny this. Lesbia certainly looked far from strong, and then
she took cold so easily. I hinted that perhaps late hours and so much
visiting (for the Fullertons had an immense circle of acquaintances,
with possibly half a dozen friends among them) might be bad for her.
Mrs. Fullerton looked rather mournful at this.
'I hope you have not put that in her head,' she returned uneasily.
'All yesterday she was begging me to give up the place and go back to
Rutherford Lodge. Major Parkhurst is going to India in February, and so
the house will be on our hands.'
'I think the change will be good for Lesbia. It is such a pretty place,
and she was always so fond of it.'
'Oh, it is pretty enough,' with a discontented air; 'but life in a
village is a very tame affair. There are not more than four families in
the whole place whom we can visit, and when we want a little gaiety we
have to drive into Pinkerton.'
'I think it would be good for Lesbia's health, Mrs. Fullerton.'
'Well, well,' a little peevishly, 'we must talk to Dr. Pratt about it.
But how is Lesbia to settle well if I bury her in that poky little
village? Perhaps I ought not to say so to you, Ursula; but poor dear
Charlie has been dead these two years, so there can be no harm in
speaking of such things now. But Sir Henry Sinclair is here a great deal,
and there is no mistaking his intentions, only Lesbia keeps him at such
a distance.'
I thought it very bad taste of Mrs. Fullerton always to talk to me about
Lesbia's suitors. Lesbia never mentioned such things herself. As far as I
could judge, she was very shy with them all. I could not believe that the
placid young baronet had any chance with her. She might possibly marry,
but poor Charlie's successor would hardly be a thick-set, clumsy young
man, with few original ideas of his own. Colonel Ferguson would have been
far better; but he evidently preferred Sara.
I was spared any reply, for Lesbia entered the room at that moment. She
looked more delicately fair than usual, perhaps because of the contrast
with her heavy furs. Her hair shone like gold under her little velvet
bonnet, but, though she was so warmly dressed, she shivered and crept as
close as possible to the fire.
Mrs. Fullerton had some notes to write, so she went into the dining-room
to write them and very good-naturedly left us by ourselves.
Lesbia looked at me rather wistfully.
'I have missed you twice, Ursula. I am so sorry; and now you go the day
after to-morrow. I wish I could do something for you. Is there nothing
you could leave in my charge?'
'Only Jill,' I said, half laughing. 'If you would take a little more
notice of her after I have gone, I should be so thankful to you.'
I thought Lesbia seemed somewhat amused at the request.
'Poor old Jill! I will do my best; but she never will talk to me. I think
I should like her better than Sara if she would only open her lips to me.
Well, Ursula, what have you and mother been talking about?'
'About Rutherford Lodge,' I returned quickly. 'Do you really want to go
back there?'
'Did mother talk about that?' looking excessively pleased. 'Oh yes, I
am longing to go back. I don't want to frighten you, Ursie, dear,--and,
indeed, there is no need,--but this life is half killing me. I am too
close to Hyde Park Gate; one never gets a chance of forgetting old
troubles; and then mother is always saying gaiety is good for me, and she
will accept every invitation that comes; and I get so horribly tired; and
then one cannot fight so well against depression.'
I took her hand silently, but made no answer; but I suppose she felt my
sympathy.
'You must not think I am wicked and rebellious,' she went on, with a
sigh. 'I promised dear Charlie to be brave, and not let the trouble spoil
my life; he would have it that I was so young that happiness must return
after a time, and so I mean to do my best to be happy, for mother's sake,
as well as my own; and I know Charlie would not like me to go on
grieving,' with a sad little smile.
'No, darling, and I quite understand you.' And she cheered up at that.
'I knew you would, and that is why I want to tell you things. I have
tried to do as mother wished, but I do not think her plan answers;
excitement carries one away, and one can be as merry as other girls
for a time, but it all comes back worse than ever.'
'Mere gaiety never satisfied an aching heart yet.'
'No; I told mother so, and I begged her to go back to Rutherford because
it is so quiet and peaceful there and I think I shall be happier. I shall
have my garden and conservatory, and there will be plenty of riding and
tennis. I am very fond of our vicar's wife, Mrs. Trevor, and I rather
enjoy helping her in the Sunday-school and at the mothers' meeting; not
that I do much, for I am not like you, Ursula, but I like to pretend to
be useful sometimes.'
'I see what you mean, Lesbia: your life will be more natural and less
strained than it is here.'
'Yes, and time will hang less heavy on my hands. I do love gardening,
Ursula. I know I shall forget my troubles when I find myself with dear
old Patrick again, grumbling because I will pick the roses. I shall sleep
better in my little room, and wake less unhappy. Oh, mother!' as Mrs.
Fullerton entered at that moment with a half-finished note in her hand,
'I am telling Ursula how home-sick I am, and how I long for the dear old
Lodge. Do let us go back, mother darling: I want to hunt for violets
again in the little shady hollow beyond the lime-tree walk.'
'Yes, dearest, we will go if you really wish it so much,' returned Mrs.
Fullerton, with a sigh. 'Why, my pet, did you think I should refuse?' as
Lesbia put her arms round her neck and thanked her. 'When a mother has
only got one child she is not likely to deny her much: is she, Ursula?'
'Oh, mother, how good you are to me!' returned Lesbia, and her blue eyes
were shining with joy. When Mrs. Fullerton had left the room again she
told me that she had often cried herself to sleep with the longing to be
in her old home again; she loved every flower in the garden, every animal
about the place, and she grew quite bright and cheerful as she planned
out her days. No, there was nothing morbid about Lesbia's nature; she was
an honest, well-meaning girl, who had had a great disappointment in her
life; she meant to outlive it if she could, to be as happy as possible.
A wise instinct told her that her best chance of healing lay in country
sights and sounds: the fresh gallop over the downs, the pleasant saunter
through the sweet Sussex lanes, the sweet breath of her roses and
carnations, would all woo her back to health and cheerfulness. When the
pretty colour came back into Lesbia's face her mother would not regret
her sacrifice; and then I remembered that Charlie's friend Harcourt
Manners lived about half a dozen miles from Rutherford, and always
attended the Pinkerton dances, and he was a nice intelligent fellow.
But I scolded back the foolish thoughts, and felt ashamed of myself for
entertaining them.
I parted from Lesbia very affectionately, for she seemed loath to say
good-bye, but I knew poor Jill would be grumbling at my absence; the
others were dining out, and I had promised to join the schoolroom tea,
which was to be half an hour later on my account, but it was nearly six
before I made my appearance, very penitent at my delay, and fully
expecting a scolding.
I found Jill, however, kneeling on the rug, making toast, with Sooty in
her arms; she had blacked her face in her efforts, but looked in high
good-humour.
'Fräulein has gone out for the whole evening: that freckled Fräulein
Misschenstock has been here, and has invited her to tea and supper. Mamma
said she could go, as you would remain with me, so we shall be alone and
cosy for the whole evening. Now, you may pour out tea, if you like, for I
have all this buttered toast on my mind. I am as hungry as a hunter; but
there is a whole seed-cake, I am glad to see. Now, darling, be quick, for
you have kept me so long waiting.' And Jill brushed vigorously at her
blackened cheek, and beamed at me.
But, alas! we had reckoned without our host, and a grand disappointment
was in store for us, though, as it turned out, things were not as bad as
they appeared to be at first.
I was praising Jill's buttered toast, for I knew she prided herself
on this delicacy, and she had just cut herself a thick wedge of the
seed-cake, which she was discussing with a school-girl's appetite, when
I heard Uncle Brian's voice calling for Ursula rather loudly: so I ran to
the head of the staircase, and, to my surprise, saw him coming up in his
slow, dignified manner.
'Look here, Ursula, I shall be late at the Pollocks', and your aunt and
Sara have gone on, and there is Tudor in the drawing-room, just arrived
with a message from Cunliffe. Of course we must put him up; but the
trouble is there is no dinner, and of course he is famished: young men
always are.'
My heart sank as I thought of Jill, but there was no help for it. Max's
friends were sacred. Mr. Tudor must be made as comfortable as possible.
'It cannot be helped, Uncle Brian,' I returned, trying to keep the
vexation I felt out of my voice. 'Supposing you send Mr. Tudor up to the
schoolroom, and we will give him some tea. Jill has made some excellent
buttered toast, and Clayton can get some supper for him by and by in the
dining-room: there is sure to be a cold joint,--or perhaps Mrs. Martin
will have something cooked for him.'
'That must do,' he replied, somewhat relieved at this advice. 'We shall
be back soon after tea, so you will not have him long on your hands.
Entertain him as well as you can, there's a good girl.' He had quite
forgotten, and so had I for the moment, that Fräulein was out for the
evening, and that possibly Aunt Philippa might object to a young man
joining the schoolroom tea; but, as it proved afterwards, she was more
shocked at Uncle Brian than at any one else: she said he ought to have
given up his dinner and stayed with his guest.
'I confess I do not see what Ursula could have done better,' she
remarked severely; 'she could not spend the evening alone with him in the
drawing-room; and of course he wanted his tea. That comes of allowing
Fräulein to neglect her duties: she is too fond of spending her time with
Fräulein Misschenstock.'
I did not dare break the news to Jill, for fear she should lock herself
in her own room, for she never liked the society of young men; they
laughed at her too much, in a civil sort of way: so I hurried down into
the drawing-room and explained matters to Mr. Tudor, whom I found walking
about the room and looking somewhat ill at ease.
He seemed rather amused at the idea of the schoolroom tea, but owned that
he was hungry and tired, as he had had a fourteen-mile walk that day.
'It is all Mr. Cunliffe's fault that I am quartered on you in this way,'
he said, laughing a little nervously--and very likely Uncle Brian's
dignified reception had made him uncomfortable; 'but he would insist on
my bringing my bag, and Mr. Garston has a dinner-engagement, and cannot
attend to business until to-morrow morning.'
'I am afraid you would like a dinner-engagement too, after your fourteen
miles,' I returned, in a sympathetic voice, for he did look very tired.
'We will give you some tea now, and then you can get rid of the dust of
the journey, and by that time Mrs. Martin will have done her best to
provide you with some supper.'
'I see I have fallen in good hands,' he replied, brightening at this in
a boyish sort of way. 'Where is the schoolroom? I did not know there was
such an apartment, but of course Mrs. Garston told me that her youngest
daughter had not finished her studies. I think I saw her once: she was
very tall, and had dark hair.'
'Oh yes; that was Jill--I mean Jocelyn, but we always call her Jill. Will
you come this way, please? Fräulein is out, and we were having a good
time by ourselves.'
'And I have come to spoil it,' he answered regretfully, as I opened the
door.
I shall never forget Jill's face when she saw us on the threshold. She
quite forgot to shake hands with Mr. Tudor in her dismay, but stood
hunching her shoulders, with Sooty still clasped in her arms and her
great eyes staring at him, till he said a pleasant word to her, and then
she flushed up, and subsided into her chair. I stole an anxious glance at
the cake; to my great relief, Jill had been quietly proceeding with her
meal in my absence, for I knew that in her chagrin she would refuse to
touch another morsel. I wondered a little what Mr. Tudor would think of
her ungracious reception of him; but he showed his good-breeding by
taking no notice of it and confining his remarks to me.
Jill's ill-humour thawed by and by when she saw how he entered into the
spirit of the fun. He vaunted his own skill with the toasting-fork, and,
in spite of fatigue, insisted on superintending another batch of the
buttered toast; he was very particular about the clearness of the fire,
and delivered quite an harangue on the subject. Jill's sulky countenance
relaxed by and by; she opened her lips to contradict him, and was met so
skilfully that she appealed to me for assistance.
By the time tea was over, we were as friendly with Mr. Tudor as though we
had known him all our lives, and Jill was laughing heartily over his racy
descriptions of schoolroom feasts and other escapades of his youth. He
looked absurdly young, in spite of his clerical dress; he had a bright
face and a peculiarly frank manner that made me trust him at once; he did
not look particularly clever, and Jill had the best of him in argument,
but one felt instinctively that he was a man who would never do a mean or
an unkind action, that he would tell the truth to his own detriment with
a simple honesty that made up for lack of talent.
I could see that Jill's bigness and cleverness surprised him. He
evidently found her amusing, for he tried to draw her out; perhaps he
liked to see how her great eyes opened and then grew bright, as she
tossed back her black locks or shook them impatiently. When Jill was
happy and at ease her face would grow illuminated; her varying
expression, her animation, her quaint picturesque talk, made her
thoroughly interesting. I was never dull in Jill's company; she had
always something fresh to say; she had a fund of originality, and drew
her words newly coined from her own mint.
I do not believe that Mr. Tudor quite understood her, for he was a simple
young fellow. But she piqued his curiosity. I must have appeared quite a
tame, commonplace person beside her. When Jill went out of the room to
fetch something, he asked me, rather curiously, how old she was, and when
I told him that she was a mere child, not quite sixteen, he said, half
musing, that she seemed older than that. She knew so much about things,
but he supposed she was very clever.
We went down into the drawing-room after this, and Jill kept me company
while Mr. Tudor supped in state, with Clayton and Clarence to wait on
him. He came up after a very short interval, and said, half laughing,
that his supper had been a most formal affair.
'By the bye, Miss Garston,' he observed, as though by an afterthought,
'I hear you are coming down to Heathfield.' He stole a glance at Jill as
he spoke. She had discarded her Indian muslin and coral necklace as being
too grand for the occasion, and wore her ruby velveteen, that always
suited her admirably. She looked very nice, and quite at her ease,
sitting half-buried in Uncle Brian's arm-chair, instead of being bolt
upright in her corner. She had drawn her big feet carefully under her
gown, and was quite a presentable young lady.
I thought Mr. Tudor was rather impressed with the transformation
Cinderella in her brown schoolroom frock, with a smutty cheek and rumpled
collar, was quite a different person:--presto--change--the young princess
in the ruby dress has smooth locks and a thick gold necklace. She has big
shining eyes and a happy child's laugh. Her little white teeth gleam in
the lamplight. I do not wonder in the least that Mr. Tudor looks at Jill
as he talks to me. It is a habit people have with me.
But I answered him quite graciously.
'Yes, I am coming down to Heathfield the day after to-morrow. I suppose
I ought to say _Deo volente_. I hope you all mean to be good to me, Mr.
Tudor, and not laugh at my poor little pretensions.'
'I shall not laugh, for one,' he replied, looking me full in the face
now with his honest eyes. 'I think it is a good work, Miss Garston. The
vicar'--he always called Uncle Max the vicar--'was talking about it up
at Gladwyn the other day, and Mr. Hamilton said--'
'Gladwyn? Is that the name of a house?' I asked, interrupting Mr. Tudor
a little abruptly.
'To be sure. Have you not heard of Gladwyn?' And at that he looked a
little amused. But I was not fated to hear more of Gladwyn that night,
for the next moment Aunt Philippa came bustling into the room, and Sara
and Uncle Brian followed her.