A FIERY ORDEAL
It is a hackneyed truism, and, like other axioms, profoundly true, that
wedding-festivities are invariably followed by a sense of blank dulness.
It is like the early morning after a ball, when the last guests have left
the house: the lights flicker in the dawn, the empty rooms want sweeping
and furnishing to be fit for habitation. Yawns, weariness, satiety, drive
the jaded entertainers to their resting-places. Every one knows how
tawdry the ball-dress looks in the clear morning light. The diamonds
cease to flash, the flowers are withered, the game is played out.
Something of this languor and vacuum is felt when the bride and
bridegroom have driven away amid the typical shower of rice. The smiles
seem quenched, somehow; mother and sisters shed tears; a sense of loss
pervades the house; the bridal finery is heaped up in the empty room; one
little glove is on the table, another has fallen to the floor. All sorts
of girlish trinkets that have been forgotten lie unheeded in corners.
I know we all thought that evening would never end, and I quite
understood why Jill hovered near her mother's chair, listening to her
conversation with Mrs. Fullerton. Every now and then Aunt Philippa broke
down and shed a few quiet tears. I heard her mention Ralph's name once.
'Poor boy! how proud he would have been of his sister!' Uncle Brian heard
it too, for I saw him wince at the sound of his son's name; but Jill
stroked her mother's hand, and said, quite naturally, 'Most likely Ralph
knows all about it, mamma, and of course he is glad that Sara is so
happy.'
Our pretty light-hearted Sara. I had no idea that I should miss her
so much! Indeed, we all missed her: it seemed to me now that I had
undervalued her. True, she had not been a congenial companion to me in my
dark days; but even then I had wronged her. Why should I have expected
her to grope among the shadows with me, instead of following her into the
sunshine? Sara could not act contrary to her nature. Sad things depressed
her. She wanted to cause every one to be happy.
Her feelings were far deeper than I had imagined them to be. I liked the
way she spoke to Jill when she was bidding good-bye to us all.
'Jocelyn dear, promise me that you will be good to mother. She has no one
but you now to study her little ways and make her comfortable, and she is
not as young as she was, and things tire her.' Of course Jill promised
with tears in her eyes, and Sara went away smiling and radiant. Jill was
already trying to redeem her promise, as she hovered like a tall slim
shadow behind her mother's chair in the twilight.
'Come and sit down, Jocelyn, my dear,' observed Aunt Philippa at last, in
her motherly voice. When I looked again, Jill's black locks were bobbing
on her mother's lap, and the three seemed all talking together.
There was very little rest for any one during the next few days. Sara's
marriage had brought sundry relations from their country homes up to
town, and there was open house kept for all. Jill went sight-seeing with
the young people. Aunt Philippa drove some of the elder ladies to the
Academy, to the Grosvenor Gallery, to the Park, and other places.
Every day there were luncheon-parties, tea-parties, dinner-parties; the
long drawing-room seemed full every evening. Jill put on one or other of
her pretty new gowns, and played her pieces industriously; there was no
stealing away in corners now. There were round games for the young
people; now and then they went to the theatre or opera: no wonder Jill
was too tired and excited to open her lesson-books. My fortnight's visit
extended itself to three weeks. Aunt Philippa could not spare me; she
said I was much too useful to her and Uncle Brian. I wrote to Mrs. Barton
and also to Lady Betty, and I begged the latter to inform her brother
that I could not leave my relations just yet.
Lady Betty wrote back at once. She had given my message, she said, but
Giles had not seemed half pleased with it. She thought he was going away
somewhere, she did not know where; but he had told her to say that there
were no fresh cases, and that Robert Lambert was going on all right, and
that as I seemed enjoying myself so much it was a pity not to take a
longer holiday while I was about it, and he sent his kind regards; and
that was all. I suppose I ought to have been satisfied, but it struck me
that there was a flavour of sarcasm about Mr. Hamilton's message.
But he was right; I was enjoying myself. Lesbia was still in town, and I
saw her every day. My acquaintance with Miss Gillespie grew to intimacy,
and I think we mutually enjoyed each other's society. Aunt Philippa
seemed to turn to me naturally for help and comfort, and her constant
'Ursula, my dear, will you do this for me?' gave me a real feeling of
pleasure; and then there was Jill to pet and praise at every odd moment.
One day we were all called upon to admire Sara's new signature, 'Sara
Ferguson,' written in bold, girlish characters. 'Donald is looking over
my shoulder as I write it, dear mamma,' Sara wrote, in a long postscript.
'Are husbands always so impertinent? Donald pretends that it is part of
his duty to see that I dot my _i_'s and cross my _t_'s: he will talk such
nonsense. There, he has gone off laughing, and I may end comfortably by
telling you that he spoils me dreadfully and is so good to me, and that
I am happier than I deserve to be, and your very loving child, Sara.'
'Poor darling! she always did make her own sunshine,' murmured Aunt
Philippa fondly.
Now, that afternoon who should call upon us but Mr. Tudor? Jill was out,
as usual, riding with two of her cousins and Uncle Brian; they had gone
off to Kew or Richmond for the afternoon; but Aunt Philippa, who had been
dozing in her easy-chair by the window, welcomed the young man very
kindly, and made him promise to stay to dinner.
Mr. Tudor tried not to look too much pleased as he accepted the
invitation. A sort of blush crossed his honest face as he turned to me:
he had two or three messages to deliver, he said. Mr. Cunliffe had given
him one, and Mrs. Barton, and Lady Betty. She, Lady Betty, wanted me to
know that Miss Darrell was going to Brighton for a week or ten days, and
that she hoped I should come home before then.
I heard, too, that Mr. Hamilton had gone to Folkestone, and that he had
tried to induce Uncle Max to go with him. 'But it is no use telling him
he wants a change,' finished Mr. Tudor, with a sigh; 'he is bent on
wearing himself out for other people.'
Mr. Tudor and I chatted on for the remainder of the afternoon. I had
taken him out on the balcony: there were an awning and some chairs, and
we could sit there in comparative privacy looking down on the passers-by.
Aunt Philippa was nodding again: we could hear her regular breathing
behind us: poor woman! she was worn out with bustle and gaiety. I was
thankful that a grand horticultural _fête_ kept all the aunts and cousins
away, with the exception of the two who were riding with Jill.
Clayton brought us out some tea presently, and we found plenty of topics
for conversation.
All at once I stopped in the middle of a conversation.
'Mr. Tudor, have my eyes deceived me, or was that Leah?'
'Who?--what Leah? I do not know whom you mean!' he returned, rather
stupidly, staring in another direction. There was a cavalcade coming up
the road,--a tall slim girl, on a chestnut mare, riding on in front with
a young man, another girl and an elderly man with a gray moustache
following them, a groom bringing up the rear.
Of course it was Jill, smiling and waving towards the balcony; she could
not see Mr. Tudor under the awning, but she had caught sight of my silk
dress. Jill looked very well on horseback: people always turned round to
watch her. She had a good seat, and rode gracefully; the dark habit
suited her; she braided her unmanageable locks into an invisible net that
kept them tidy.
'Is that Miss Jocelyn?' asked Lawrence, almost in a voice of awe. The
young curate grew very red as Jill rode under the balcony and nodded to
him in a friendly manner.
'There is Mr. Tudor,' we heard her say. 'Be quick and lift me off my
horse, Clarence.' But she had slipped to the ground before her cousin
could touch her, and had run indoors.
Mr. Tudor went into the room at once, but I sat still for a moment.
Why had I asked him? Of course it was Leah. I could see her strange
light-coloured eyes glancing up in my direction. What was she doing in
London? I wondered. She was dressed well, evidently in her mistress's
cast-off clothes, for she wore a handsome silk dress and mantle. Had they
quarrelled and parted? I felt instinctively that it would be a good day
for Gladwyn if Leah ever shook off its dust from her feet. Gladys
regarded her as a spy and informer, and she had evidently an unwholesome
influence over her mistress.
We separated soon after this to dress for dinner, and Mr. Tudor went to
his hotel. I was rather sorry when I came downstairs to find that Jill
had made rather a careless toilet. She wore the flimsy Indian muslin gown
that I thought so unbecoming to her style, with a string of gold beads of
curious Florentine work round her neck. She looked so different from the
graceful young Amazon who had ridden up an hour ago that I felt provoked,
and was not surprised to hear the old sharp tone in Aunt Philippa's
voice:
'My dear Jocelyn, why have you put on that old gown? Surely your new
cream-coloured dress with coffee lace would have been more suitable. What
was Draper thinking about?'
'I was in too great a hurry; I did not wait for Draper,' returned Jill
candidly. 'Draper was dreadfully cross about it, but I ran away from her.
What does it matter, mamma? They have all seen my cream-coloured dress,
except--' But here Jill laughed: the naughty child meant Mr. Tudor.
'I am afraid there is not time to change it now; but I am very much vexed
about it,' returned Aunt Philippa, in a loud whisper. 'You are really
looking your worst to-night.' But Jill only laughed again, and asked her
cousin Clarence when he took her down to dinner if it were not a very
pretty gown.
'I don't know much about gowns,' drawled the young man,--Mr. Tudor and
I were following them: 'it looks rather flimsy and washed out. If I were
you I would wear something more substantial. You see, you are so big,
Jocelyn; your habit suits you better.'
We heard Jill laughing in a shrill fashion at this dubious compliment,
and presently she and Mr. Tudor, who sat next to her, were talking as
happily as possible. I do not believe he noticed her unbecoming gown: his
face had lighted up, and he was full of animation. Poor Lawrence! he was
five-and-twenty, and yet the presence of this girl of sixteen was more to
him than all the young-ladyhood of Heathfield. Even charming little Lady
Betty was beaten out of the field by Jill's dark eyes and sprightly
tongue.
It was a very pleasant evening, and we were all enjoying ourselves: no
one imagined anything could or would happen; life is just like that: we
should just take up our candlesticks, we thought, and march off to bed
when Aunt Philippa gave the signal. No one could have imagined that there
would be a moment's deadly peril for one of the party,--an additional
thanksgiving for a life preserved that night.
And then no one seemed to know how it happened; people never do see,
somehow.
There was music going on. Agatha Chudleigh--the Chudleighs were Aunt
Philippa's belongings--was playing the piano, and her brother Clarence
was accompanying her on the violoncello. There was a little group round
the piano. Jill was beating time, standing with her back to a small
inlaid table with a lamp on it. Mr. Tudor was beside her. Jill made a
backward movement in her forgetfulness and enthusiasm. The next moment
the music stopped with a crash. There was a cry of horror, the lamp
seemed falling, glass smashed, liquid fire was pouring down Jill's
unfortunate dress. If Mr. Tudor had not caught it, they said afterwards,
with all that lace drapery, the room must have been in flames; but he had
jerked it back in its place, and, snatching up a bear-skin rug that lay
under the piano, had wrapped it round Jill. He was so strong and prompt,
there was not a moment lost.
We had all crowded round in a moment, but no one dared to interfere with
Mr. Tudor. We could hear Aunt Philippa sobbing with terror. Clarence
Chudleigh extinguished the lamp, some one else flung an Indian blanket
and a striped rug at Jill's feet. For one instant I could see the girl's
face, white and rigid as a statue, as the young man's powerful arms
enveloped her. Then the danger was over, and Jill was standing among us
unhurt, with her muslin gown hanging in blackened shreds, and with
bruises on her round white arms from the rough grip that had saved her
life.
One instant's delay, and the fiery fluid must have covered her from head
to foot; if Lawrence had not caught the falling lamp, if he had lost one
moment in smothering the lighted gown, she must have perished in agony
before our eyes; but he was strong as a young Hercules, and, half
suffocated and bruised as she was, Jill knew from what he had saved her.
As the scorched bear-skin dropped to the floor, Lawrence picked up the
Indian blanket and flung it over Jill's tattered gown. 'Go up to your
room, Miss Jocelyn,' he whispered: 'you are all right now.' And she
obeyed without a word. Miss Gillespie and I followed. I think Aunt
Philippa was faint or had palpitations, for I heard Uncle Brian calling
loudly to some one to open the windows. Jill was hysterical as soon as
she reached her room. She was quite unnerved, and clung to me, shaking
with sobs, while Miss Gillespie mixed some sal-volatile. I could not help
crying a little with her from joy and thankfulness; but we got her quiet
after a time, and took off the poor gown, and Jill showed us her bruises,
and cheered up when we told her how brave and quiet she had been; and
then she sat for some minutes with her face hidden in my lap, while I
stroked her hair silently and thanked God in my heart for sparing our
Jill.
Miss Gillespie had gone downstairs to carry a good report to Aunt
Philippa. Directly she had gone, Jill jumped up, still shaking a little,
and went to her wardrobe.
'I must go downstairs,' she said, a little feverishly. 'I have never
thanked Mr. Tudor for saving my life. Help me to be quick, Ursie dear,
for I feel so queer and tottery.' And nothing I could say would prevail
on her to remain quietly in her room. While I was arguing with her, she
had dragged out her ruby velveteen and was trying to fasten it with her
trembling fingers.
'Oh, you are obstinate, Jill: you ought to be good on this night of all
nights.' But she made no answer to this, and, seeing her bent on her own
way, I brought her a brooch, and would have smoothed her hair, but she
pushed me away.
'It does not matter how I look. I am only going down for a few minutes.
He is going away, and I want to say good-night to him, and thank him.'
And Jill walked downstairs rather unsteadily.
Mr. Tudor was just crossing the hall. When he saw Jill, he hurried up to
her at once.
'Miss Jocelyn, this is very imprudent. You ought to have gone to bed: you
are not fit to be up after such a shock,' looking at her pale face and
swollen eyes with evident emotion.
Jill looked at him gently and seriously, and held out her hands to him
quite simply.
'I could not go to bed without thanking you, I am not quite so selfish
and thoughtless. You have saved my life: do you think I shall ever forget
that?'
Poor Lawrence! the excitement, the terror, and the relief were too much
for him; and there was Jill holding his hands and looking up in his face,
with her great eyes full of tears. It was not very wonderful that for a
moment he forgot himself.
'I could not help doing it,' he returned. 'What would have become of me
if you had died? I could not have borne it.'
Jill drew her hands away, and her face looked a little paler in the
moonlight. The young man's excited voice, his strange words, must have
told her the truth. No, she was not too young to understand; her head
drooped, and she turned away as she answered him,--
'I shall always be grateful. Good-night, Mr. Tudor: I must go to my
mother. Come, Ursula.'
She did not look back as we walked across the hall, though poor Lawrence
stood quite still watching us. Why had the foolish boy said that? Why had
he forgotten his position and her youth? Why had he hinted that her life
was necessary to his happiness? Would Jill ever forget those words, or
the look that accompanied them? I felt almost angry with Lawrence as
I followed Jill into the room.
Jill need never have doubted her mother's love. Aunt Philippa had been
too faint and ill to follow her daughter to her room, but her face was
quite beautiful with maternal tenderness as she folded the girl in her
arms. Not even her father, who especially petted Jill, showed more
affection for her that night.
'Oh, Jocelyn, my darling, are you quite sure that you are unhurt? Miss
Gillespie says you were only frightened and a little bruised; but I
wanted to see for myself. Mr. Tudor will not let us thank him, but we
shall be grateful to him all our lives, my pet. What would your poor
father and I have done without you?'
Jill hid her face like a baby on her mother's bosom: she was crying
quietly. Her interview with Mr. Tudor had certainly upset her. Uncle
Brian put his hand in her rough locks. 'Never mind, my little girl: it is
now over; you must go to bed and forget it,'--which was certainly very
good advice. I coaxed Aunt Philippa to let her go, and promised to remain
with her until she was asleep. She was very quiet, and hardly said a word
as I helped her to undress, but as I sat down by the bedside she drew my
head down beside hers on the pillow.
'Don't think I am not grateful because I do not talk about it, Ursie
dear,' she whispered. 'I hope to be better all my life for what has
happened to-night.' But as Jill lay, with wide, solemn eyes, in the
moonlight, I wondered what thoughts were coursing through her mind. Was
she looking upon her life preserved as a life dedicated, regarding
herself as set apart for higher work and nobler uses? or was her
gratitude to her young preserver mixed with deeper and more mysterious
feelings? I could not tell, but from that night I noticed a regular
change in Jill: she became less girlish and fanciful, a new sort of
womanliness developed itself, her high spirits were tempered with
softness. Uncle Brian was right when he said a few days afterwards
'that his little girl was growing a woman.'