'THERE IS NO ONE LIKE DONALD'
Mrs. Carron very kindly took my place that I might be with Jill that last
evening, and we spent it in Jill's favourite fashion, talking in the
firelight.
She was a little quiet and subdued, full of regret at leaving me, and
more affectionate than ever.
'I have never been so happy in my life,' she said, in rather a melancholy
voice. 'When I get to Hastings, my visit here will seem like a dream, it
has been so nice, somehow; you are such a dear old thing, Ursula, and I
am so fond of Lady Betty, I shall ask mother to invite her in the
holidays.'
'And there is no one else you will regret, Jill?' I asked, anxious to
sound her on one point.
'Oh yes; I am sorry to bid good-bye to Mr. Tudor. He has been such fun
lately. I really do think he is quite the nicest young man I know.'
'Do you know many young men, my dear?' was my apparently innocent remark;
but Jill was not deceived by this smooth speech.
'Of course I do,' in a scornful voice; 'they come to see Sara, and I
hate them so, flimsy stuck-up creatures, with their white ties and absurd
little moustaches. Each one is more stupid and vapid than the other. And
Sara must think so too; for she smiles on them all alike.'
'You are terribly hard on the young men of your generation, Jill; I
daresay I should think them very harmless and pleasant.' But she shook
her head vigorously.
'Why cannot they be natural, and say good-natured things, like Mr. Tudor?
He is real, and not make-believe, pretending that he is too bored to live
at all. One would think there was no truth anywhere, nothing but tinsel
and sham, to listen to them. That is why I like Mr. Tudor: he has the
ring of the true metal about him. Even Miss Darrell agrees with me
there.'
'Do you discuss Mr. Tudor with Miss Darrell?'
'Why not?' opening her eyes widely. 'I like to talk about my friends,
and I feel Mr. Tudor is a real friend. She was so interested,--really
interested, I mean, without any humbug,--at least, pretence,' for here I
held up my finger at Jill. 'She wanted to know if you liked him too, and
I said, "Oh yes, so much; he was a great favourite of yours," and she
seemed pleased to hear it.'
'You silly child! I wish you would leave me and my likes and dislikes out
of your conversations with Miss Darrell.'
'Well, do you know, I try to do so, because I know how you hate her,--at
least, dislike her: that is a more ladylike term,--you are so horribly
particular, Ursula; but somehow your name always gets in, and I never
know how, and there is no keeping you out. Sometimes she makes me
dreadfully angry about you, and sometimes she says nice things; but
there, we will not talk about the double-faced lady to-night. I
understand her less than ever.'
We glided into more serious subjects after this. I made Jill promise to
be more patient with her life, and work from a greater sense of duty, and
I begged her most earnestly to fight against discontent, and exorcise
this youthful demon of hers, and again she promised to do her best.
'I feel better about things, somehow: you have done me good, Ursie; you
always do. I must make mother understand that I am nearly a woman, and
that I do not intend to waste my time any longer dreaming childish
dreams. I suppose mother is really fond of me, though she does find fault
with me continually, and is always praising Sara.' Jill went on talking
in this way for some time, and then we went upstairs together.
I was rather provoked to find Mr. Tudor at the station the next morning.
I suppose my steady look abashed him, for he muttered something about
Smith's bookstall, as though I should be deceived by such a flimsy
excuse. After all, Mr. Tudor was not better than other young men; in
spite of Jill's praises, he was capable of this mild subterfuge to get
his own way.
Jill was so honestly and childishly pleased to see him that I ought to
have been disarmed. She went off with him to the bookstall, while I
looked after her luggage, and they stood there chattering and laughing
until I joined them, and then Mr. Tudor grew suddenly quiet.
As the train came up, I heard him ask Jill how long they were to stay at
Hastings, and if they would be at Hyde Park Gate before Easter.
'I shall be up in town then,' he remarked carelessly, 'to see some of my
people.'
'Oh yes, and you must come and see us,' she returned cheerfully.
'Good-bye, Mr. Tudor. I am so sorry to leave Heathfield.'
But, after all, Jill's last look was for me: as she leaned out of the
carriage, waving her hand, she did not even glance at the young man who
was standing silent and gloomy beside me. I felt rather sorry for the
poor boy, as he turned away quite sadly.
'I must go down to the schools: good-bye, Miss Garston,' he said
hurriedly. One would have thought he had to make up for lost time, as he
strode through the station and up the long road. Had Jill really taken
his fancy, I wondered? had her big eyes and quaint speeches bewitched
him? Mr. Tudor was a gentleman, and we all liked him; but what would
Uncle Brian and Aunt Philippa say if a needy, good-looking young curate
were suddenly to present himself as a lover for their daughter Jocelyn?
Why, Jill would be rich some day,--poor Ralph was dead, and she and Sara
would be co-heiresses. Her parents would expect her to make a grand
match.
I shook my head gravely over poor Lawrence's prospects as I took my way
slowly up the hill. I was rather glad when his broad shoulders were out
of sight; I should be sorry if any disappointment were to cloud his
cheery nature.
I missed Jill a great deal at first, but in my heart I was not sorry
to get rid of the responsibility; a lively girl of sixteen, with strong
individuality and marked precocity, is likely to be a formidable charge;
but Mrs. Barton lamented her absence in no measured terms.
'It seems so dull without Miss Jocelyn,' she said, the first evening.
'She was such a lively young lady, and made us all cheerful. Why, she
would run in and out the kitchen a dozen times a day, to feed the
chickens, or pet the cat, or watch me knead the bread. She and Nathaniel
got on famously together, and often I have found her helping him with the
books, and laughing so merrily when he made a mistake. I used to think
Nathaniel did it on purpose sometimes, just for the fun of it.'
Yes, we all missed Jill, and I for one loved the girl dearly. It made me
quite happy one day when she wrote a long letter, telling me that she was
delighted with her new governess.
'Miss Gillespie is as nice as possible,' she wrote. 'I already feel quite
fond of her; my lessons are as interesting now as they used to be dull
with Fräulein. She knows a great deal, and is not ashamed to confess when
she is ignorant of anything; she says right out that she cannot answer my
questions, and proposes that we should study it together. I quite enjoy
our walks and talks, for she takes so much interest in all I tell her.
She is a little dull and sad sometimes, as though she were thinking of
past troubles; but I like to feel that I can cheer her up and do her
good. Mother and Sara are delighted with her; she plays so beautifully,
and they say that she is such a gentlewoman. When we come downstairs in
the evening she will not allow me to creep into a corner; she makes me
join in the conversation, and coaxes me to play my pieces; and she tries
to prevent mother making horrid little remarks on my awkwardness.
'"It will all come right, Mrs. Garston," I heard her say one day. "It is
far wiser not to notice it: young girls are so sensitive, and Jocelyn is
keenly alive to her shortcomings." And mother actually nodded assent to
this, and the next moment she called me up, and said how much I had
improved in my playing, and that Colonel Ferguson had told her that I
had been exceedingly well taught.
'By the bye, I am quite sure that Colonel Ferguson intends to be my
brother-in-law: he is always here in the evening, and yesterday he sent
Sara such a magnificent bouquet.'
Jill's chatty letters were always amusing. She had prepared me
beforehand, so I was not surprised at receiving a voluminous letter from
Aunt Philippa a few days afterwards, informing me of Sara's engagement to
Colonel Ferguson.
'Your uncle and I are delighted with the match,' she wrote. 'Colonel
Ferguson belongs to a very good old family, and he has private property.
Your uncle says that he is a very intelligent man, and is much respected
in the regiment.
'Mrs. Fullerton thinks it is a pity for Sara to marry a widower; but I
call that nonsense; he is a young-looking man for his age, and every one
thinks him so handsome. Sara, poor darling, is as happy as possible. I
believe that they are to be married soon after Easter, as he wants to get
some salmon fishing in Norway: so we shall come up to Hyde Park Gate
early next week, and see about the trousseau, for there is no time to be
lost.'
Sara added a few words in her pretty girlish handwriting.
'I wonder if you will be very much surprised by mamma's letter, Ursula
dear. We all thought he liked Lesbia, but no, he says that was entirely a
mistake on our part, he never really thought of her at all.
'Of course I am very happy. I think there is no one like Donald in the
world. I cannot imagine why such a wise, clever man should fall in love
with a silly little body like me. I suppose I must please him in some
way, for, really, he seems dreadfully in love.
'You must come to my wedding, Ursula, and I must choose your dress
for you; of course father will pay for it, but I promise you it shall
be pretty, and suitable to your complexion. I mean to have eight
bridesmaids. Jocelyn will be one, of course, and I shall get that tall,
fair Grace Underley to act as a foil to her bigness. I shall not ask
poor Lesbia to be one; it would be too trying for her, and I know you
will not care about it; but you must come for a week, and see all my
pretty things, and help poor mamma, for she has only Jocelyn: so remember
you are to keep yourself disengaged the week after Easter.'
I wrote back that same evening warm congratulations to Sara and Aunt
Philippa, and promised to come when Sara wanted me. A gay wedding was not
to my taste, but I knew I owed this duty to them: they had been kind to
me in their own fashion and according to their lights, and I would not
fail them. Easter would fall late this year,--in the middle of April:
there were still three months before Sara would be married, and most
likely by that time I should need a few days' rest and change.
The next morning I heard from Lesbia. It was a kind, sad little letter;
she told me she was glad about Sara's engagement, and as they were still
at Hastings she and her mother had called at Warrior Square, and had
found Sara and her _fiancé_ together.
'I think it has improved Sara already,' it went on; 'she was looking
exceedingly pretty, and in good spirits, and she seemed very proud of
her tall, grave-looking soldier. Mother and I always liked Colonel
Ferguson. He and Sara are complete contrasts; I think her brightness
and good-humour, as well as her beauty, have attracted him, for he is
honestly in love! I liked the quiet, deferential way in which he treated
her. I am sure he will make a kind husband. Mrs. Garston looked as happy
as possible. I did not see Jocelyn; she was out riding with her father.
'We are going down to dear Rutherford in March, but I have promised Sara
to come up for the wedding. Don't sigh, Ursula: it is all in the day's
work, and one has to do trying things sometimes.
'I have come to think that perhaps dear Charlie is better off where he
is. He was so enthusiastic and so true that life must have disappointed
him. Perhaps I should have disappointed him too; but no, I should have
loved him too well to do that.
'I shall love to be at Rutherford during the spring. Everything will
remind me of those sweet spring days two years ago. Oh, those walks and
rides, and the evening when we listened to the nightingale and he told me
that he loved me! I remember the very patch of grass where I stood. There
was a little clump of alders, and I can see how he looked then. Oh,
Ursula, these memories are very sad, but they are sweet, too; for Charlie
is our Charlie still, is he not?'
'Poor Lesbia!' I sighed, as I folded up her letter and prepared for my
day's work. 'It must be hard for her to witness Sara's happiness, when
her own life is so clouded. Her heart is still true to Charlie; but she
is so young, and life is so long. I trust that better things are in store
for her.'
Miss Locke was recovering very slowly. Years of anxiety and hard work
had overtaxed her strength sorely. Mr. Hamilton used to shake his head
over her tardy progress, and tell her that she was a very unsatisfactory
patient, and that he had expected to cure her long before this.
'If it were not for you and my dear Miss Garston, I should never be lying
here now,' she returned gratefully. 'I must have died; you know that,
doctor; and even now, in spite of all the good things you send me, I am
so weary and fit for nothing I feel as though I should never sit up
again.'
'Oh, we shall have you up before long,' he returned cheerfully. 'You
are only rather slow about it. You are not troubling about your work or
anything else, I hope, because the rent is paid, and there is plenty in
the cupboard for Phoebe and Kitty.'
'I know you have paid the rent, and I shall never be grateful enough to
you, doctor; for what should I have done, with this long illness making
me behindhand with everything? I am afraid Miss Garston puts her hand in
her pocket sometimes. I hope the Lord will bless you both for your
goodness to two helpless women. Ay, and he will bless you, doctor!'
'I am sure I hope so,' he returned, in a good-humoured tone, shaking her
hand. 'There! mind what your nurse says, and keep yourself easy: you will
find Phoebe a different person when you see her next.'
I was afraid Phoebe would find her sister much changed when they met.
Miss Locke had greatly aged since her illness; her hair was much grayer,
and her face was sunken, and I doubted whether she would ever be the same
woman again. Mr. Hamilton and I had already discussed the sisters'
future.
'I am afraid they will be terribly pinched,' he said once. 'Miss Locke
is suffering now from years of overwork. She will never be able to work
as hard as she has done. And she has to provide for that child Kitty, as
well as for poor Phoebe.'
'We must think what is to be done,' I replied. 'Miss Locke is a very good
manager: she is careful and thrifty. A little will go a long way with
her.'
Mr. Hamilton said no more on the subject just then, but a few days
afterwards he told me that he intended to buy the cottage. He had a good
deal of house-property in Heathfield, and a cottage more or less did not
matter to him.
'They shall live in it rent-free, and I will take care of the repairs.
There will be no need for Miss Locke to work so hard then. She is a good
woman, and I thoroughly respect her. Of course I know she is a favourite
of yours, Miss Garston, but you must not think that influences me.'
'As though I should imagine such a thing!' I returned, in quite an
affronted tone. But Mr. Hamilton only laughed.
'You are such an insignificant person, you see,' he went on
mischievously. 'You are of so little use to your generation. People do
not benefit by your example, or defer to your opinion. There is no St.
Ursula in the calendar.' Now what did he mean by all this rigmarole? But
he only laughed again in a provoking way, and went out.
I had had both the sisters on my hands. Those hours of fearful suspense
had told on Phoebe, and for a week or two we were very anxious about her.
I kept the extent of her illness from Susan, and she never knew that
Mr. Hamilton visited her daily. Strange to say, Phoebe gave us little
trouble. She bore her bodily sufferings with surprising patience, and
even made light of them; and she would thank me most gratefully when I
waited on her.
I was never long in her room. There was no reading or singing now.
Nothing would induce her to keep me from Susan. She used to beg me to
go back to Susan and leave her to Kitty. I never forgot Susan's look of
astonishment when I told her this.
'Somehow, it doesn't sound like Phoebe,' she said, looking at me a
little wistfully. 'Are you sure you understand her, Miss Garston?--that
something has not put her out? She has often sulked with me like that.'
'Oh, Phoebe never sulks now,' I returned, smiling at this view of the
case. 'She is not like the same woman, Susan. She thinks of other people
now.' Miss Locke heard me silently, but I saw that she was still
incredulous. She was not sanguine enough to hope for a miracle; and
surely only a miracle could change Phoebe's sullen and morbid nature.
The sisters were longing to meet, but the helplessness of the one and the
long-protracted weakness of the other kept them long apart, though only a
short flight of stairs divided them.
At last I thought we might venture to bring Susan into Phoebe's room.
The weather was less severe, and Susan seemed a little stronger, so Kitty
and I hurried ourselves in preparation for a festive tea in Phoebe's
room.
She watched us with unconcealed interest as we spread the tea-cloth, and
arranged the best china, and then placed an easy-chair by her bedside.
The room really looked very bright and cosy. A little gray kitten that I
had brought Kitty was asleep on the quilt; Phoebe had taken a great fancy
to the pretty, playful little creature, and it was always with her;
Kitty's large wax doll was lying with its curly head on her pillow.
Susan trembled very much as she entered the room, leaning heavily on
my arm. Phoebe lay quite motionless, watching her as she walked slowly
towards the bed, then her face suddenly grew pitiful, and she held out
her arms.
'Oh, how ill you look, my poor Susan, and so old and gray! but what does
it matter, so that I have got my Susan back? If you had died, I should
have died too; God never meant to punish me like that.' And she stroked
and kissed her face as though she were a child, and for a little while
the two sisters mingled their tears together.
Susan was too weak for much emotion, so I placed her comfortably in her
easy-chair, and bade her look at Phoebe without troubling to talk; but
her heart was too full for silence.
'Why, my woman,' she burst out, 'you look real bonnie! I do believe your
face has got a bit of colour in it, and you remind me of the old Phoebe;
nay,' as Phoebe laughed at this, 'I never thought to hear you laugh
again, my dearie.'
'It is with the pleasure of seeing you,' returned Phoebe. 'If you only
knew what I suffered while you lay ill! "there is no improvement," they
said, and Miss Garston looked at me so pityingly; and if you had died and
never spoken to me again,--and I had refused to bid you good-night,--you
remember, Susan! oh, I think my heart would have broken if you had gone
away and left me like that.'
'Nay, I should have thought nothing about it, but that it was just
Phoebe's way. Do you mean that you fretted about that, lass? Oh,' turning
to me, for Phoebe was crying bitterly over the recollection, 'I would not
believe you, Miss Garston, when you said Phoebe was changed, for I said
to myself, "Surely she will be up to her old tricks again soon"; but now
I see you are right. Nay, never fret, my bonnie woman, for I loved you
when you were as tiresome and cross-grained as possible. I think I cannot
help loving yon,' finished Susan simply, as she took her sister's hand.
That was a happy evening that we spent in Phoebe's room. When tea was
over we read a few chapters, Kitty and I, and then I sang some of
Phoebe's favourite songs. When I had finished, I looked at them: Phoebe
had fallen asleep with Susan's hand still in hers: there was a look of
peaceful rest on the worn gray face that made me whisper to Miss Locke,--
'The evil spirit is cast out at last, Susan.'
'Ay,' returned Susan quietly. 'She is clothed and in her right mind, and
I doubt not sitting at the feet of Him who has called her. I have got my
Phoebe back again, thank God, as I have not seen her for many a long
year.'