WITH TIMBRELS AND DANCES
Aunt Philippa and Sara came to meet me at Victoria. They both seemed
unfeignedly glad to see me.
Aunt Philippa was certainly a kind-hearted woman. Her faults were those
that were engendered by too much prosperity. Overmuch ease and luxury had
made her lymphatic and indolent. Except for Ralph's death, she had never
known sorrow. Care had not yet traced a single line on her smooth
forehead; it looked as open and unfurrowed as a child's. Contentment and
a comfortable self-complacency were written on her comely face. Just now
it beamed with motherly welcome. Somehow, I never felt so fond of Aunt
Philippa as I did at that moment when she leaned over the carriage with
outstretched hands.
'My dear, how well you are looking! Five years younger.--Does she not
look well, Sara?'
Sara nodded and smiled, and made room for me to pass her, and then gave
orders that my luggage should be intrusted to the maid, who would convey
it in a cab to Hyde Park Gate.
'If you do not mind, Ursula, we are going round the Park for a little,'
observed Sara, with a pretty blush.
Her mother laughed: 'Colonel Ferguson is riding in the Row, and will be
looking out for us. He is coming this evening, as usual, but Sara thinks
four-and-twenty hours too long to wait.'
'Oh, mother, how can you talk so?' returned Sara bashfully. 'You know
Donald asked us to meet him, and he would be so disappointed. And it is
such a lovely afternoon,--if Ursula does not mind.'
'On the contrary, I shall like it very much,' I returned, moved by
curiosity to see Colonel Ferguson again. I had never seen him by
daylight, and, though we had often met at the evening receptions, we
had not exchanged a dozen words.
I thought Sara was looking prettier than ever. A sort of radiance seemed
to surround her. Youth and beauty, perfect health, a light heart, and
satisfied affections,--these were the gifts of the gods that had been
showered upon her. Would those bright, smiling eyes ever shed tears? I
wondered. Would any sorrow drive away that light, careless gaiety? I
hoped not. It was pleasant to see any one so happy. And then I thought
of Lesbia and Gladys, and sighed.
'You do not look at all tired, Ursie,' observed Sara affectionately,
laying her little gloved hand on mine. 'She looks quite nice and fresh:
does she not, mother?--I was so afraid that you would have come up in
your nurse's livery, as Jocelyn calls it,--black serge, and a horrid
dowdy bonnet.'
'Oh no; I knew better than that,' I returned, with a complacent glance
at my handsome black silk, one of Uncle Brian's presents. I had the
comfortable conviction that even Sara could not find fault with my bonnet
and mantle. I had made a careful toilet purposely, for I knew what
importance they attached to such things. Sara's little speech rewarded
me, as well as Aunt Philippa's approving look.
'It has not done her any harm,' I heard her observe, _sotto voce_. 'She
certainly looks younger.'
I took advantage of a pause in Sara's chatter to ask after Jill. Aunt
Philippa answered me, for Sara was bowing towards a passing carriage.
'Oh, poor child, she wanted to come with us to meet you, but it was
Professor Hugel's afternoon. He teaches her German literature, you know.
I was anxious for her not to miss his lesson, and she was very good about
it. She is coming down to afternoon tea, and of course we shall see her
in the evening.'
'Poor dear Jocelyn! she was longing to come, I know. You and Miss
Gillespie are terribly severe,' observed Sara, with a light laugh. She
was so free and gay herself that she rather pitied her young sister,
condemned to the daily grind of lessons and hard work.
'Nonsense, Sara!' returned her mother sharply. 'We are not severe at all.
Jocelyn knows that it is all for her good if Miss Gillespie keeps her to
her task. My dear Ursula, we are all charmed with Miss Gillespie,--even
Sara, though she pretends to call her strict and old-fashioned. She is a
most amiable, ladylike woman, and Jocelyn is perfectly happy with her.
'I am very pleased with Jocelyn,' she went on. 'You have done her good,
Ursula, and both her father and I are very grateful to you. She is not
nearly so wayward and self-willed. She takes great pains with her
lessons, and is most industrious. She is not so awkward, either, and Miss
Gillespie thinks it will be a good plan if I take her out with me driving
sometimes when Sara is married. I shall only have Jocelyn then,' finished
Aunt Philippa, with a regretful look at her daughter. I was much
interested in all they had to tell me, but I was not sorry when we
entered the Park and the stream of talk died away.
I almost felt as though I were in a dream, as the moving kaleidoscope
of horses and carriages and foot-passengers passed before my eyes.
Yesterday at this time I was sitting in poor Robert Lambert's whitewashed
attic, listening to the sparrows that were twittering under the eaves.
When I had left the cottage I had walked down country roads, meeting
nothing but a donkey-cart and two tramps.
Now the sunshine was playing on the rhododendrons and on the green leaves
of the trees in Hyde Park. A brass band had struck up in the distance.
The riders were cantering up and down the Row, to the admiration of the
well-dressed crowds that sauntered under the trees or lingered by the
railings. Carriages were passing and repassing. A four-in-hand drove past
us, followed by a tandem. Beautiful young faces smiled out of the
carriages. A few of them looked weary and careworn. Now and then under
the smart bonnet one saw the pinched weazened face of old age,--dowagers
in big fur capes looking out with their dim hungry eyes on the follies of
Vanity Fair. One wondered at the set senile smile on these old faces;
they had fed on husks all their lives, and the food had failed to nourish
them; their strength had failed over the battle of life, but they still
refused to leave the field of their former triumphs. Everywhere in these
fashionable crowds one sees these pale meagre faces that belong to a past
age. They wear gorgeous velvets, jewels, feathers, paint: like Jezebel,
they would look out of the window curiously to the last. How one longs to
take them gently out of the crowd, to wash their poor cheeks, and lead
them to some quiet home, where they may shut their tired eyes in peace!
'What is the world to you?' one would say to them. 'You have done all
your tasks,--well or badly; leave the arena to the young and the strong;
it is no place for you; come home and rest, before the dark angel finds
you in your tinsel and gewgaws.' Would they listen to me, I wonder?
Sara's soft dimples came into play presently. A pretty blush rose to her
face. A tall man with a bronzed handsome face and iron-gray moustache had
detached himself from the other riders, and was cantering towards the
carriage that was now drawn up near the entrance: in another moment he
had checked his horse with some difficulty.
'I have been looking out for you the last three-quarters of an hour,' he
said, addressing Sara. 'I could not see the carriage anywhere.--Miss
Garston, we have met before, but I think we hardly know each other,'
looking at me with some degree of interest. Sara's cousin was no longer
indifferent to him.
I answered him as civilly as I could, but I could see his attention
wandered to his young _fiancée_, and he soon rode round to her side of
the carriage. It was evident, as Lesbia said, that the colonel was
honestly in love with Sara. She looked very young beside him, but there
must have been something very winning in her sweet looks and words to the
man who had known trouble and had laid a young wife and child to rest in
an Indian grave.
Before the evening was over I felt I liked Colonel Ferguson immensely,
and thought far more of Sara for being his choice; there was an air of
frankness and _bonhomie_ about him that won one's heart; he was sensible
and practical. In spite of his fondness for Sara, he would keep her in
order: one could see that. I heard him rebuke her very gently that first
evening for some extravagance she was planning. They were standing apart
from the others on the balcony, but I was near the open window, and I
heard him say distinctly, in a grave voice,--
'I am very sorry to disappoint you, but I must ask you to give up this
idea, my darling; it would not be right in our position: surely you must
see that.'
'No, Donald, I do not see it a bit,' she answered quickly.
'Then will you be satisfied with my seeing it, and give it up for my
sake, dear?'
I knew when they came back into the room that he had got his way. Sara
was smiling as happily as usual: her disappointment had not gone very
deep. Her future husband would have very little trouble with her. She was
neither self-willed nor selfish. She wanted to be happy herself and make
other people happy; she would be easily guided.
When we left the Park Colonel Ferguson rode off to his club, and we drove
home rather quickly. There were some visitors waiting for Sara in the
drawing-room, so I went up to my old room to take off my bonnet. Martha
would unpack my boxes, Aunt Philippa told me, as she gave me another kiss
in the hall.
I had not been there for five minutes when I heard flying footsteps down
the passage, and the next moment Jill's strong arms had taken me by the
shoulders and turned me round.
'Now, Jill, I don't mean to be strangled as usual'; but she left me no
breath for more.
'Oh, my dear, precious old bear, this is too good to be true! I nearly
cried with joy this morning at the idea of seeing you in your old room
and knowing you will be here a whole fortnight. I declare, after all,
Sara is very nice to get married.'
No, Jill was not changed; she was as real and big and demonstrative as
usual, but somehow she looked nicer.
'You must be quick,' she continued, 'for father has come in, and Clayton
has taken in the tea. We must go down directly; but I want you to see
Miss Gillespie first.' And Jill looked proud and eager as she led me down
the passage.
The schoolroom was still the same dull back room that Aunt Philippa
thought so conducive to her young daughter's studies, but it certainly
looked more cheerful this evening.
The window was opened. There was a window-box full of gay flowers. A
great bowl of my favourite wall-flowers was on the table, and another
vase, with trails of laburnum and lilac, was on Jill's little table. The
fresh air and sunshine and the sweet scent of the flowers had quite
transformed the dingy room. There was new cretonne on the old sofa, a
handsome cloth on the centre-table, and a new easy-chair.
Miss Gillespie was sitting by the window, reading. She had an interesting
face and rather sad gray eyes, but her manner was decidedly
prepossessing.
She looked at her pupil with affection. Evidently Jill's abruptness and
awkwardness were not misunderstood by her.
'I want you two to like each other,' Jill had said, without a pretence of
introduction; and we had both laughed and extended our hands.
'I seem to know you already, Miss Garston,' she said, in a pleasant
voice. 'Jocelyn talks about you so much that you cannot be a stranger
to me.--Do you know your father has come in, dear?' turning to Jill.
'Yes, and I must take my cousin downstairs. Good-bye for the present,
Gypsy.'
Miss Gillespie smiled again when she saw my astonishment at Jill's
familiarity.
'Jocelyn thinks my name too long, and has abbreviated it to Gypsy. Mrs.
Garston was terribly shocked at first, but I told her that it did not
matter in the least: in fact, I like it.'
'She is such a dear old thing!' burst out Jill, as we left the schoolroom
and proceeded downstairs arm in arm. 'I never think of her as my
governess; she is just a kind friend who helps me with my lessons and
walks with me. We do have such cosy times together. Does not the
schoolroom look nice, Ursie?'
'Very nice indeed, my dear.'
'So I think; but Sara says it is horrid: she has made mother promise to
give me her room directly she is married. Sara has a beautiful piano
there, and a book-case, and all sorts of pretty things. It is a lovely
room, you know, and looks out over the Park. Mother thinks it too nice
and pretty for a schoolroom; but I am to call it my study and keep it
tidy. And Gypsy is to have the old schoolroom for herself: so we are both
pleased. It is nice for her to have a room of her own, where she can be
alone.'
'Your mother is very kind to you, Jill.'
'Awfully kind--I mean very kind: Gypsy does so dislike that expression.
Do you know, I think you two are rather alike in that? Gypsy is very
unhappy sometimes, though. I have found her crying more than once when I
have left her long alone; only mother does not know, and I don't mean to
tell her, because she thinks people ought always to be cheerful. It was
so sad that clergyman dying,--the one she was to marry; his name was
Maurice Compton. I saw the name in one of her books: "Lilian Gillespie,
from her devoted friend, Maurice Compton."'
'My dear Jill, how long are you going to keep me standing in the hall?
Clayton will find us here directly.'
'Yes, I know'; but Jill showed no intention of moving; the prospect of
cold tea did not trouble her; 'but I want to tell you something before
you go in. Mother is certainly kinder to me than she ever has been; she
says I am to drive with her very often, and that she shall take me to see
picture-galleries. And father is going to buy a horse for me, because he
says I ride so well that I may go out with him, as a rule, instead of
with a master; and--'
'You shall tell me all that presently,' I returned, 'for I am too tired
to stand on this mat any longer. Are you coming, Jill? or shall I go in
without you?' but of course I knew she would follow me.
The room seemed full when we entered. Aunt Philippa was at the tea-table;
Sara was flitting about the room from one guest to another. Uncle Brian,
who was standing on the hearth-rug, put out his hand to me.
'I am glad to see you back again, Ursula,' looking at me with his cool,
penetrating glance. Uncle Brian was never demonstrative. 'I think the
work suits you, to judge by your looks. Take that chair by your aunt,
child, and she will give you some tea.' And accordingly I placed myself
under Aunt Philippa's wing, while Jill and a boy-officer with a budding
moustache waited on me.
The rest of the evening passed very pleasantly. I had a long conversation
with Miss Gillespie in the inner drawing-room while Sara and Jill played
duets: of course our subject was Jill. Miss Gillespie spoke most warmly
of her excellent abilities and fine development of character. 'She will
be a very striking woman,' she finished, when the last chords were played
and a soft clapping of hands succeeded. 'Whether she will be a happy one
is more doubtful: she must not be thwarted too much, and she must have
room to expand. Jocelyn wants space and sunshine.'
I thought these remarks very sensible; they taught me that Miss Gillespie
had grasped the true idea of Jill's character. There was nothing little
about Jill: she never did things by halves: she either loved or hated.
She was truthful to a fault. There was a massive freedom and simplicity
about her that would guide her safely through the world's pitfalls.
'Space and sunshine,' that was all Jill needed to bring her to maturity
and fruition. Some girls may be trusted to educate themselves. Jill was
one of these.
The next morning Sara took possession of me. A great honour was to be
vouchsafed me: I was to be treated to a private view of the trousseau
and wedding-presents.
I had exhausted my vocabulary of admiring epithets, and sat in eloquent
silence, long before Sara had finished her display. It was like the
picture of Pandora opening her box, to see the pretty creature opening
the big, carved wardrobe to show me the layers of delicate embroidered
raiment, muslin and laces and jewels, curious trinkets and wonderful
gifts worthy of the Arabian Nights. There were two rooms full of
treasures that had been laid at her feet, and no doubt, like Pandora,
Sara had the rainbow-tinted hope lying amid the bridal gifts.
'This is Donald's present,' she said, smiling, showing me a diamond
spray. 'I am to wear it on Thursday: it is the loveliest present of
all,--though mother has given me that beautiful pearl necklace.'
'Wait a moment, Sara,' I said, detaining her as she closed the morocco
case: 'tell me, do you not feel like a princess in fairy-land, with all
this glitter round you? Does it all seem real, somehow?'
'Donald is real, anyhow,' she returned, with a charming blush. 'Nothing
would be real without him. Oh, Ursula, it is nice to be so happy! I
always have been happier than other girls.' And something like a tear
stole to her pretty eyes.
'Now you must see your own dress,' she continued, brushing off the tiny
tear-drop, with a laugh at her own sentimentality. 'What do you think of
that? Is that not charming taste?'
'It is far too good for me,' I returned seriously. 'How could Uncle Brain
buy that for me? It is beautiful; it is perfect, and just my taste.' And
then I could say no more, for Sara had placed her hands across my lips to
silence me.
'Then you must wear it, dear. Father and mother wanted to give you
something nice, because you were so good to Jocelyn, and I knew you had a
fancy for a velvet gown. Is not that yellowish lace charming, Ursula? and
the bonnet harmonises so well! Your bouquet is to be cream-coloured, too,
with just a tea-rose or so. You will look quite pretty in it, Ursula
dear. Do you know Donald liked the look of you so yesterday? he said you
looked so strong and sensible; he called you an interesting woman.'
I hastened to change the subject, for it recalled certain words that I
vainly tried to forget. It was a relief when visitors were announced and
Sara left me to go down to the drawing-room. I was glad to be alone for
a few minutes. Aunt Philippa came up soon afterwards with a bevy of
friends, and I escaped to my own room until luncheon-time.
I grew a little weary of the bustle by and by, and yet I was pleased and
interested too; the excitement was infectious; one smiled to see so many
happy faces; and then there was so much to do, every one was pressed into
the service. Jill shut up her books with a bang; her piano remained
closed. She and Miss Gillespie were answering notes, unpacking presents,
running to and fro with messages; people came all day long; they talked
in corners on the balcony, in Uncle Brian's study; no room was held
sacred.
A cargo of flowers arrived presently; the hall and drawing-room were to
be transformed into bowers. It must rain roses as well as sunshine on the
young princess. Sara's bright face appeared every now and then among the
workers; a little court surrounded her; sometimes Colonel Ferguson's
bronzed face looked over her shoulders.
'That is very pretty, Ursula. I see you have caught the right idea.
Jocelyn dear, you are overfilling that basket, and some of the stalks are
showing. Miss Gillespie will put it right for you. Come, Grace, shall we
go upstairs?'
Sara nodded and smiled at us as she led the way to the upper regions.
Pandora was for ever opening her box in those days: she was never weary
of fingering her silks and satins.
'Now she has gone, let us rest a little,' Jill exclaimed, letting her
arms fall to her side. 'Are you not tired of it all, Ursie dear? I get so
giddy that I keep rubbing my eyes. I never knew weddings meant all this
fuss. Why cannot people do things more quietly? If I ever get married I
shall just put on my bonnet and walk to the nearest church with father.
What is the use of all this nonsense? It is like decking the victim for
the sacrifice, to see all these roses and green leaves. Supposing we have
a band of music to drown her groans while she is dressing,' finished Jill
rebelliously, as she contemplated her flower-basket with dissatisfied
eyes.
Jill's speech recalled Mr. Hamilton's words most vividly: 'Because two
people elect to join hands for the journey of life, is there any adequate
reason why all their idle acquaintances should accompany them with
cymbals and prancings, and all sorts of fooleries, just at the most
solemn moment of life?' and again, '"Till death us do part,"--can any
one, man or woman, say those words lightly and not bring down a doom upon
himself?'
Could I ever forget how solemnly he had said this? After all, Mr.
Hamilton was right, and I think Jill was right too.