WEDDING-CHIMES
When we had finished the flowers and brought in Aunt Philippa to see the
effect, I left the others and went up to my room. I had been busy since
the early morning, and felt I had fairly earned a little rest.
The room that was still called mine had a side-window looking over the
Park. Down below carriages were passing and repassing; a detachment of
hussars trotted past; people were pouring out from the Albert Hall,--some
afternoon concert was just over; the children were playing as usual on
the grass; the soft evening shadows were creeping up between the trees;
the sky was blue and cloudless. May was wearing her choicest smiles on
the eve of Sara's wedding-day.
Martha, the schoolroom maid, had brought me a cup of tea; the rest of the
family were crowded in Uncle Brian's study; the dining-room was already
in the hands of Gunter's assistants; the long drawing-room and inner
drawing-room were sweet with roses and baskets of costly hot-house
flowers; a bank of rhododendrons was under the hall window; the house was
full of sunshine, flowers, and the ripple of laughter. I could hear the
laughter through the closed door. Sara's musical tinkle rang out whenever
the door opened. I had fallen into a sort of waking dream, when something
white and golden passed between me and the sunlight; a light kiss was
dropped on my drowsy eyelids, and there was Lesbia smiling at me.
She looked so cool and fair in her white gown, with a tiny bouquet of
delicious tea-roses in her hand, her golden hair shining under her little
lace bonnet. I thought she looked more than ever like Charlie's white
lily, only now there was a touch of colour on her face.
'Oh, Ursie dear, I am so pleased to see you!' she said gently, laying
the flowers on my lap. 'Clayton told me that every one else was in Mr.
Garston's study, so I begged to run up here. We only came up from
Rutherford this morning, and we have been so busy ever since. I was
afraid you were asleep, for I knocked at the door without getting any
answer; but no, your eyes were wide open; so you were only dreaming.'
'I believe I was very tired, they have kept me running about all day.
Take this low chair by the window, dear, and tell me all about yourself.
Do you know it is six months since we met? There must be so much to say
on both sides. But, first, how is Mrs. Fullerton? and is it Rutherford
that has given you those pretty roses, Lesbia?' But the roses I meant
were certainly not on my lap.
She answered literally and seriously, in her usual way: 'Yes, they are
from Rutherford: I cut them myself, in spite of Patrick's grumbling.
Mother is very well, Ursula; I am sure the country agrees with her. We
have been there since March, and these two months have been the happiest
to me since dear Charlie died.'
'You need not tell me that,' I returned, with a satisfied look at the
sweet face. 'Health has returned to you; you are no longer languid and
weary; your eyes are bright, your voice has a stronger tone in it.'
'Is it wrong?' she answered quickly. 'I do not forget, I shall never
forget, but the pain seems soothed somehow. When I wake up in the bed
where I slept as a child, I hear the birds singing, and I do not say to
myself, "Here is another long weary day to get through." On the contrary,
I jump up and dress myself as quickly as I can, for I love to be out
among the dews; everything is so sweet and still in the early morning;
there is such freshness in the air.'
'And these early walks are good for you.'
'Oh, I never leave the grounds. I just saunter about with Flo and Rover.
When breakfast is ready I have a bouquet to lay beside mother's plate.
Dear, good mother! do you know she cannot say enough in praise of
Rutherford, now she sees the breakfasts I eat? I think she would be
reconciled to any place if she saw me enjoy my food: at the Albert Hall
Mansions I never felt hungry; I was always too tired to eat.'
'I knew Mrs. Fullerton would never repent her sacrifice.'
'No, indeed; mother and I have never been so cosy in our lives. She sits
in the verandah and laughs over my quarrels with Patrick: he is quite as
cross-grained as ever, dear old fellow, but there is nothing that he will
not do for me. We are making a rose-garden now. Do you remember that
sunny corner by the terrace and sundial?--dear Charlie always wanted me
to have a rose-garden there. We have trellis-work arches and a little
arbour. Patrick and Hawkins are doing the work, but I fancy they cannot
get on without me.'
She stopped with a little laugh at her own conceit, and then went on:
'And I am so busy in other ways, Ursula. Every Monday I go to the
mothers' meeting with Mrs. Trevor, and I have some of the old women at
the almshouses besides,--I am so fond of those old women,--and I have
just begun afternoons for tennis; people like these, and they come from
such a distance. Mr. Manners declares the Rutherford Thursdays will
soon be known all over the country.'
'Bravo, Lesbia! you are taking your position nobly, my dear; this is just
what Charlie wanted to see you,--a brave sweet woman who would not let
sorrow and disappointment spoil her own and other people's lives.' Then,
as she blushed with pleasure at my words, I said carelessly, 'Do you
often see Mr. Manners?'
'Oh yes,' she returned without hesitation,--'on my Thursdays, and at
church, and at the vicarage: we are always meeting somewhere. He was
Charlie's friend, you know, and he is so nice and sympathising, and tells
me so much about their school life and college life together. He was so
fond of Charlie, and the undergraduates used to call them Damon and
Pythias.'
'To be sure: Charlie was always talking about Harcourt. He has grown very
handsome, I have heard.'
'Mother says so: he is certainly good-looking,' she answered simply; 'and
then he is so kind. I feel almost ashamed at troubling him so much with
our business and commissions, but he never seems to mind any amount of
trouble. I have never met any one so unselfish.'
I turned away my head to hide a smile. Lesbia was quite serious. She was
too much absorbed in the memory of Charlie to read the secret of Harcourt
Manners's unselfishness: the kindly attentions of the young man, his
solicitude and sympathy, had not yet awakened a suspicion of the truth.
One day Lesbia's eyes would be opened, and she would be shocked and
surprised to find the hold that Charlie's friend had got over her heart.
Very likely she would dismiss him and lock herself up in her room and cry
for hours; probably she would persist for some weeks in making herself
and him exceedingly unhappy. But it would be all no use; the tie of
sympathy would be too strong; he would have made himself too necessary to
her. One day she would have to yield, and find her life's happiness in
thus yielding. Charlie's white lily was too fair to be left to wither
alone, and I knew Harcourt Manners would be worthy to win the prize.
I could see it all before it happened, while Lesbia talked in her serious
way of Mr. Manners's unselfishness. Presently, however, she changed the
subject, and began questioning me eagerly about my work; and just then
Jill joined us, and placed herself on the floor at my feet, with the firm
intention, evidently, of listening to our remarks.
The conversation drifted round to Gladwyn presently. I could see Lesbia
was a little curious about these friends of mine that I had mentioned
casually in my letters.
'I can't quite make out the relationship,' she said, in a puzzled tone.
'You are always talking about this Gladys. Is she really so beautiful and
fascinating? And who is Miss Darrell?'
'You had better ask me,' interrupted Jill, quite rudely, 'for Ursula is
so absurdly infatuated about the whole family; she thinks them all quite
perfect, with the exception of the double-faced lady, Miss Darrell; but
they are very ordinary,--quite ordinary people, I assure you.'
'Now, Jill, we do not want any of your impertinence. Lesbia would rather
hear my description of my friends.'
'On the contrary, she would prefer the opinion of an unprejudiced
person,' persisted Jill, with a voluble eloquence that took away my
breath. 'Listen to me, Lesbia. This Mr. Hamilton that Ursula is always
talking about'--how I longed to box Jill's pretty little ears! she had
lovely ears, pink and shell-like, hidden under her black locks--'is an
ugly, disagreeable-looking man.'
'Oh!' from Lesbia, in rather a disappointed tone.
'He is quite old,--about five-and-thirty, they say,--and he has a long
smooth-shaven face like a Jesuit. I don't recollect seeing a Jesuit,
though; but he is very like one all the same. He has dark eyes that stare
somehow and seem to put you down, and he has a way of laughing at you
civilly that makes you wild; and Ursula believes in him, and is quite
meek in his presence, just because he is a doctor and orders her about.'
'My dear Lesbia, I hope you are taking Jill's measure with a grain of
salt. Mr. Hamilton is not disagreeable, and he never orders me about.'
Jill shook her head at me, and went on:
'Then there is the double-faced lady--but never mind her; we both hate
her.'
'You mean Miss Darrell, Mr. Hamilton's cousin?'
'Yes, Witch Etta, as Lady Betty calls her. She is a dark-eyed, slim piece
of elegance, utterly dependent on her clothes for beauty; she dresses
perfectly, and makes herself out a good-looking woman, but she is not
really good-looking; and she is always talking, and her talk is exciting,
because there is always something behind her words, something mildly
suggestive of volcanoes, or something equally pleasant and enlivening.
If she smiles, for instance, one seems to think one must find out the
meaning of that.'
'Who has taught you all this, Jill?' asked Lesbia, bewildered by this
sarcasm.
'My mother-wit,' returned Jill, utterly unabashed. 'Well, then there is
Gladys. Ah, now we are coming to the saddest part. Once upon a time there
was a beautiful maiden, really a lovely creature,--oh, I grant you that,
Ursula,--but she fell under the power of some wicked magician, male or
female,--some folks say Witch Etta,--who changed her into a snow-maiden
or an ice-maiden. If she were only alive, this Gladys would be most
lovely and bewitching; but, you see, she is only a poor snow-maiden, very
white and cold. If she gives you her hand, it quite freezes you; her kiss
turns you to ice too; her smile is congealing. Ursula tries to thaw her
sometimes, but it does no good. She is only Gladys, the snow-maiden.'
I was too angry with Jill to say a word. Lesbia looked more mystified
than ever.
'If she be so cold and sad, how can Ursula be so fond of her?' she
demanded, in her practical way. But Jill took no notice, but rattled on:
'Little brown Betsy--I beg her pardon--Lady Betty, is the best of all:
she is really human. Gladys is only half alive. Lady Betty laughs and
talks and pouts; she wrinkles up like an old woman when she is cross, and
has lovely dimples when she smiles. She is not pretty, but she is quaint,
and interesting, and childlike. I am very fond of Lady Betty,' finished
Jill, with a benevolent nod.
I proceeded to annotate Jill's mischievous remarks with much severity.
I left Mr. Hamilton alone, with the exception of a brief sentence; I
assured Lesbia that he was not ugly, but only peculiar-looking, and that
he was an intellectual, earnest-minded man who had known much trouble.
Jill made a wry face, but did not dare to contradict me.
'As for his sister Gladys,' I went on, 'she is simply a most beautiful
girl, whose health has failed a little from a great shock'; here Jill and
Lesbia both looked curious, but I showed no intention of enlightening
them. 'She is a little too sad and quiet for Jill's taste,' I continued,
'and she is also somewhat reserved in manner, but when she likes a person
thoroughly she is charming.'
I went on a little longer in this strain, until I had thoroughly
vindicated my favourite from Jill's aspersion.
'You are very fond of her, Ursula: your eyes soften as you talk of her.
I should like to see this wonderful Gladys.'
'You must see her one day,' I rejoined; and then the gong sounded, and
Lesbia jumped up in a fright, because she said she would keep her mother
waiting, and Jill hurried off to her room to dress.
We had what Jill called a picnic dinner in Uncle Brian's study. Every one
enjoyed it but Clayton, who seemed rather put out by the disorganised
state of the house, and who was always getting helplessly wedged in
between the escritoire and the table. We would have much rather waited on
ourselves, and we wished Mrs. Martin had forgone the usual number of
courses. When it was over we all went into the long drawing-room, and
Jill played soft snatches of Chopin, while Sara and Colonel Ferguson
whispered together on the dark balcony.
Mrs. Fullerton and Lesbia joined us later on, and then Colonel Ferguson
took his leave. I thought Sara looked a little quiet and subdued when she
joined us; her gay chatter had died away, her eyes were a little
plaintive. When we had said good-night, and Jill and I were passing down
the corridor hand in hand, we could hear voices from Aunt Philippa's
room. Through the half-opened door I caught a glimpse of Sara: she was
kneeling by her mother's chair, with her head on Aunt Philippa's
shoulder. Was she bidding a tearful regret to her old happy life? I
wondered; was she looking forward with natural shrinking and a little
fear to the new responsibility that awaited her on the morrow? It was the
mother who was talking; one could imagine how her heart would yearn over
her child to-night,--what fond prayers would be uttered for the girl.
Aunt Philippa was a loving mother: worldliness had not touched the
ingrained warmth of her nature.
I am glad to remember how brightly the sun shone on Sara's wedding-day.
There was not a cloud in the sky. When I woke, the birds were singing in
Hyde Park, and Jill in her white wrapper was looking at me with bright,
excited eyes.
'It is such a lovely morning!' she exclaimed rapturously. 'Actually Sara
is asleep! Fancy sleeping under such circumstances! She and mother are
going to have breakfast together in the schoolroom. Do be quick and
dress, Ursula; father is always so early, you know.'
Uncle Brian was reading his paper as usual when I entered the study. Miss
Gillespie was pouring out coffee. Jill was fidgeting about the room,
until her father called her to order, and then she sat down to the table.
I do not think any of us enjoyed our breakfast. Uncle Brian certainly
looked dull; Jill was too excited to eat; poor Miss Gillespie had tears
in her eyes; she poured out tea and coffee with cold shaking hands.
'Lilian Gillespie, from her devoted friend Maurice Compton,' came into my
head: no wonder the thought of marriage-bells and bridal finery made her
sad. I am afraid I should have shut myself up in my own room, and refused
to mingle with the crowd, under these circumstances. I quite understood
the feeling of sympathy that made Jill stoop down and kiss the smooth
brown hair as she passed the governess's chair: it was a sort of
affectionate homage to misfortune patiently borne.
I went up to the schoolroom when breakfast was over. Aunt Philippa looked
as though she had not slept: there was a jaded look about her eyes. Sara,
on the contrary, looked fresh and smiling; she was just going to put
herself in her maid's hands; but she tripped back in her pretty muslin
dressing-gown and rose-coloured ribbons to kiss me and ask me to look
after Jill's toilet.
'Every one is so busy, and mother and Draper will be attending to me.
Do, please, Ursie dear, see that she puts on her bonnet straight.' And
of course I promised to do my best.
As it happened, Jill was very tractable and obedient. I think her
beautiful bridesmaid's dress rather impressed her. I saw a look of awe in
her eyes as she regarded herself, and then she dropped a mocking courtesy
to her own image.
'I am Jocelyn to-day, remember that, Ursula. I don't look a bit like
Jill. Jocelyn Adelaide Garston, bridesmaid.'
'You look charming, Jill--I mean Jocelyn.'
'Oh, how horrid it sounds from your lips, Ursie! I like my own funny
little name best from you. Now come and let me finish you.' And Jill, in
spite of her fine dress, would persist in waiting on me. She was very
voluble in her expression of admiration when I had finished, but I did
not seem to recognise 'Nurse Ursula' in the elegantly-dressed woman that
I saw reflected in the pier-glass. 'Fine feathers make fine birds,' I
said to myself.
I think we all agreed that Sara looked lovely. Lesbia, who joined us in
the drawing-room, contemplated her with tears in her eyes.
'You look like a picture, Sara,' she whispered,--'like a fairy queen,--in
all that whiteness.' Sara dimpled and blushed. Of course she knew how
pretty she was, and how people liked to look at her; but I am sure she
was thinking of Donald, as her eyes rested on her bridal bouquet. Dearly
as she loved all this finery and consequence, there was a soft,
thoughtful expression in her eyes that was quite new to them, and
that I loved to see.
We went to church presently, and Lesbia and I, standing side by side,
heard the beautiful, awful service. 'Till death us do part.' Oh, what
words to say to any man! Surely false lips would grow paralysed over
them!
A most curious thing happened just then. I had raised my eyes, when they
suddenly encountered Mr. Hamilton's. A sort of shock crossed me. Why was
he here? How had he come? How strange! how very strange! The next moment
he had disappeared from my view: probably he had withdrawn behind a
pillar that he might not attract my notice. I could almost have believed
that it was an illusion and fancied resemblance, only I had never seen a
face like Mr. Hamilton's.
The momentary glimpse had distracted me, and I heard the remainder of the
service rather absently; then the pealing notes of the wedding-march
resounded through the church; we all stood waiting until Sara had signed
her name, and had come out of the vestry leaning on her husband's arm.
I was under Major Egerton's care. The crowd round the door was so great
that it was with the greatest difficulty that he could pilot me to the
carriage. Lesbia was following us with another officer, whose name I did
not know. As we took our seats I distinctly saw Mr. Hamilton cross the
road. He was walking quietly down Hyde Park. As we passed he turned and
took off his hat. I thought it was a strange thing that he should be in
the neighbourhood on Sara's wedding-day, and that he should have deigned
to play the part of a spectator after his severe strictures on gay
weddings. I supposed his business in Edinburgh was finished, and he had
an idle day or two on his hands. I half expected him to call the next
day, for I had given him my address; but he did not come, and I heard
from Mr. Tudor afterwards that he had gone on to Folkestone.