'WHAT 0' THE WAY TO THE END?'
Two days afterwards I went back to the White Cottage and took up my old
life again,--my old life, but how different now!
I shall never forget how Phoebe welcomed me back, and how she and Susan
rejoiced when I told them the news. Strange to say, neither of them
seemed much surprised. They had expected it, Susan said, in rather an
amused tone, for it was easy to see the doctor had thought there was no
one like me, and was always hinting as much to them. 'Why, I have seen
him watch you as though there were nothing else worth looking at,'
finished Susan, with simple shrewdness.
I kept my own counsel with regard to Aunt Philippa and Jill, for I had
made up my mind to go up to Hyde Park Gate as soon as they had returned,
and tell them myself. But I wrote to Lesbia, with strong injunctions of
secrecy.
The answer came by return of post.
It was a most loving, unselfish little letter, and touched me greatly.
'I shall be your bridesmaid, Ursula,' it said, 'whether you ask me or
not. Nothing will keep me away that day. I shall love to be there for
dear Charlie's sake.
'The news has made me so happy. Mother scolded me when she found me
crying over your letter, but she cried herself too. We both agreed that
no one deserved happiness more. I am longing to see your Mr. Hamilton,
Ursie dear. He has one great virtue in my eyes already, that he
appreciates you,' and so on, in Lesbia's gentle, sisterly way.
The fact of our engagement made a great sensation in the place. People
who had hitherto ignored the village nurse came to call on me. I suppose
curiosity to see Mr. Hamilton's _fiancée_ brought a good many of them.
My new position was not without its difficulties. Giles, who was
impatient and domineering by nature, chafed much against the restraints
imposed upon him by my loneliness.
His brief calls did not suffice him. I would not let him come often or
stay long. Max asked us to the vicarage sometimes, and now and then
Gladys or Lady Betty would call for me and carry me off to Gladwyn for
the evening; and of course I saw Giles frequently when he visited his
patients, but with his dislike to conventionality it was rather difficult
to keep him in good-humour. He could not be made to see why I should not
marry him at once and put an end to this awkward state of things.
We had our first lovers' quarrel on this point,--our first and our
last,--for I never had to complain of my dear Giles again.
I think hearing about Lady Betty's long engagement with Claude Hamilton
had made him very sore. He had been bitterly angry both with poor little
Lady Betty and also with Gladys. He declared the secrecy had hurt him
more than anything; but Eric acted as peacemaker, and he was soon induced
to condone his sisters' trangression.
He came down to talk over the matter with me, and to tell me of the
arrangements he had made for them.
It seemed that a letter from Claude had arrived that very mail; telling
Giles of his promotion, and asking leave to come and fetch his dear
little Lady Betty. It was an honest, manly letter, Giles said; and as
Claude was in a better position, and Lady Betty had five thousand pounds
of her own, there seemed no reason against their marrying.
He had talked to both Max and Gladys, and they were willing that Claude
and Lady Betty should be married at the same time. The New Year had been
already fixed for Gladys's, and Max meant to get leave of absence for two
or three months and take her to Algiers; and as Claude would have to
start for India early in March, Giles thought the double wedding would be
best. They could get their _trousseaux_ together, and the fuss would be
got over more easily.
I expressed myself as charmed with all these arrangements, for I thought
it would be very dull for Lady Betty to be left behind at Gladwyn; and
then I asked Giles what he had settled about Eric.
He told me that Eric was still undecided, but he rather thought of going
to Cirencester to enter the agricultural college there.
'You see, Ursula,' he went on, 'the lad is a bit restless. He has given
up his absurd idea of becoming an artist,--I never did believe in those
daubs of his,--but he feels he can never settle down to city life. He is
very much improved, far more manly and sensible than I ever hoped to see
him; but he is of different calibre from myself,'
'Do you think farming will suit him?' I asked anxiously.
'Better than anything else, I should say,' was the reply. 'Eric is an
active, capable fellow, and he was always fond of out-door pursuits. He
is young enough to learn. I have promised to keep Dorlicote Farm in my
own hands until he is ready to take it. It is only ten miles from here,
and has a very good house attached to it, and Eric will find himself in
clover.' Then, as though some other thought were uppermost in his mind,
he continued, 'I am so glad that you and he are such friends, Ursula, for
he will often take up his quarters at Gladwyn.'
It was after this that Giles asked me to marry him at once. He was
strangely unreasonable that morning, and very much bent on having his own
way. My objections were overruled one by one; he absolutely refused to
listen to my arguments when I tried to show him how much wiser it would
be to have his sisters and Eric settled before he brought me home as
mistress to Gladwyn.
It was the first time our wills had clashed; and, though I knew that I
was right and that he was wholly in the wrong, it was very painful for me
to refuse his loving importunities and to turn a deaf ear when he told me
how he was longing for his wife; but I held firmly to my two points, that
I would settle nothing without Aunt Philippa's advice, and that I would
not marry him until Easter.
I told him so very gently, but Giles was not quite like himself that day.
Lady Betty's secrecy was still rankling in his mind, and he certainly
used his power over me to make me very unhappy, for he accused me of
coldness and over-prudence, and reproached me with my want of confidence
in his judgment. My pride took fire at last, and rose in arms against his
tyranny. 'You must listen to me, Giles,' I returned, trying to keep down
a choking feeling. 'You are not quite just to me to-day, but you do not
mean what you say. You will be sorry afterwards for your words. If I do
not accede to your wishes, it is not because I do not love you well
enough to marry you to-morrow, if it were expedient to do so; but under
the circumstances it will be wiser to wait. I will marry you at Easter,
If Uncle Max comes back by that time, for neither you nor I would like
any one else to perform the ceremony. Will you not be content with this?'
'No,' he returned gloomily. 'You are keeping me waiting for a mere
scruple: neither Gladys nor Lady Betty would say a dissenting word if
I brought you to Gladwyn at once. You are disappointing me very much,
Ursula. I could not have believed that my wishes were so little to you.'
But he was not able to finish this cutting speech, for I could bear no
more, and suddenly burst into such an agony of tears that Giles was quite
frightened.
I found out then the goodness of his heart and his deep unselfish
affection for me. He reproached himself bitterly for causing me such
pain, begged my pardon a dozen times for his ill temper, and so coaxed
and petted me that I could not refuse to be comforted.
He laughed and kissed me when I implored him to take back his words about
my coldness.
'My darling!--as though I meant it!' he said; but he had the grace to
look very much ashamed of himself. 'Of course you were right,--you always
are, Ursula: we will wait until Easter if you think it best. Miss
Prudence shall have her own way in the matter; but I will not wait a day
longer for all the Uncle Maxes in the world.' And so we settled it.
I remember how I tried to make up to Giles for his disappointment, and to
show him how much I cared for him. We were dining at the vicarage that
evening with Gladys and Eric, and as he walked home with me in the
moonlight he took me to task very gently for being too good to him.
'You have been like a little angel this evening, Ursula, and I have not
deserved it. I believe I love you far more for not giving me my own way.
It was pure selfishness: I see it now.'
'I hope it is the last time that your will will not be mine,' I answered,
rather sadly. 'If you knew what it cost me to refuse you, Giles!' But one
of his rare smiles answered me.
It was the end of September when I went up to Hyde Park Gate to tell my
wonderful piece of news to Aunt Philippa and Jill. Jill was very naughty
at first, and declared that she should forbid the banns; her dear Ursula
should not marry that ugly man. But she changed her opinion after a long
conversation with Giles, and then her enthusiasm knew no bounds. It was
amusing to see the admiring awe with which Aunt Philippa looked at me. My
engagement had raised her opinion of me a hundredfold. I was no longer
the plain eccentric Ursula in her eyes; the future Mrs. Hamilton was a
person of far greater consequence.
I could see that her surprise could scarcely be concealed. I used to
notice her eyes fixed on me sometimes in a wondering way. She told Lesbia
that she could hardly understand such brilliant prospects for dear
Ursula. I had not Sara's good looks; and yet I was marrying a far richer
man than Colonel Ferguson.
'I think Mr. Hamilton a very distinguished man, my dear,' she continued,
much to Lesbia's amusement. 'He is peculiar-looking, certainly, and a
little too dark for my taste; but his manners are charming, and he is
certainly very much in love with Ursula. She looks very nice, and is very
much improved; but still, one hardly expected such a match for her.'
Lesbia retailed this little speech with much gusto. Dear Aunt Philippa!
she certainly did her duty by me then: nothing could exceed her kindness
and motherliness. And Sara came very often, looking the prettiest and
happiest young matron in the world, and almost overwhelmed me with advice
and petting.
They had come to the conclusion that my position was a somewhat awkward
one, and that it would not do for me to go on living at the White
Cottage. They wanted me to give up my work at Heathfield until after my
marriage; and at last Aunt Philippa conceived the brilliant idea of
taking a house at Brighton for the winter.
'You have never liked Hyde Park Gate, Ursula,' she said, very kindly;
'and we shall all be glad to escape London fogs this year: your uncle
will not mind the expense, and I think the plan will suit admirably.
Heathfield is only twenty minutes from Brighton, and Mr. Hamilton will be
able to visit you far more comfortably, and you can sleep a night or two
at Sara's when you want to go up to London to get your _trousseau_.'
I thanked Aunt Philippa warmly for her kind thought, and then I wrote to
Giles, and asked his opinion. I found that he entirely agreed with Aunt
Philippa.
'I think it an excellent plan, dear,' he wrote; 'and you must thank your
good aunt for her consideration for us both. I shall see you far oftener
at Brighton than at the White Cottage. Miss Prudence will be less active
there: I shall be allowed to enjoy a reasonable conversation without the
speech--"Oh, do please go away now, Giles; you have been here nearly an
hour"--that invariably closed our cottage interviews.' I could see Giles
was really pleased with Aunt Philippa's proposition, so I promised to go
back to Heathfield and settle my affairs, and join them directly the
house in Brunswick Place was ready; and by the middle of October we were
all settled comfortably for the winter.
I found Giles was right. I saw him oftener, and there was less restraint
on our intercourse. He would come over to luncheon whenever he had a
leisure day, and take me for a walk, or drop in to dinner and take the
last train back. Gladys and Lady Betty came over perpetually. I used to
help them with their shopping, and often go back with them for a few
hours. Max was also a frequent visitor, and Mr. Tudor. Aunt Philippa kept
open house, and made all my visitors welcome. I think she was a little
sorry that Mr. Tudor came so perseveringly: but she was true to her
principles to let things take their course and not to fan the flame by
opposition. She was always kind to the young man, and though she
generally contrived to keep Jill beside her when he dropped in for
afternoon tea or encountered them on the parade, she did it so quietly
that no one noticed any significance in the action.
But I think Aunt Philippa's maternal fears would have been up in arms if
she had overheard a conversation between Jill and myself one wintry
afternoon.
Aunt Philippa had gone up to town to see Sara, who was a little ailing,
and she and Uncle Brian were to return later. Gladys and Giles were to
dine with us, and Max would probably join them. Aunt Philippa was very
fond of these impromptu entertainments, but she had not extended the
invitation to Mr. Tudor, who had called the previous day, and I had got
it into my head that Jill was a little disappointed.
She sat rather soberly by the fire that afternoon; but when Miss
Gillespie left us she took her usual seat on the rug, and her black locks
bobbed into my lap as usual, but I thought the firelight played on a very
serious face.
'What makes you so silent this afternoon, Jill?' I asked, rather
curiously; but she did not answer for a moment, only drew down my
hand, and looked at the diamonds that were flashing in the ruddy
blaze,--Giles's pledge that he had placed there; then she laid her cheek
against them, and said suddenly--
'I was only thinking, Ursie dear: I often think about things. Do you
remember that evening at Hyde Park Gate when the lamp fell on me, and
I might have been burnt to death?'
'Oh yes, Jill,' with a shudder, for I never cared to recall that scene.
'Well, I was thinking,' still dreamily. Then, with a change of manner
that startled me, 'Ursie, if a person saves another person's life, don't
you think that life ought to belong to them?--that is, if they wish it?'
with a sudden blush that rather alarmed me.
'Stop, my dear,' I returned coolly. 'This is very vague. I do not think
I quite understand. A person and another person, and them, too: it is
terribly involved. Which is which? As the children say.'
Jill gave a nervous little laugh, but her eyes gave me no doubt of her
meaning: they looked strangely dark and soft.
'Mr. Tudor saved my life,' she whispered. 'Ursie, if he wants it, that
life ought to belong to him.'
'Jill, my dear,' for I was thoroughly startled now. Things were growing
serious; but Jill gave me a little push in her childish way.
'Ursie, don't pretend to look so surprised: you knew all about it: I saw
it in your face. Don't you remember what he said that night, that he did
not know what would become of him if I died, that he could not bear it?
Did you see how he looked when he said it?'
I remained silent, for I could not deny that Mr. Tudor had betrayed
himself at that moment; but she went on very quietly, 'Ursie dear, I know
Mr. Tudor cares for me; he does not always hide it, though he tries to do
so. You see he is so real and honest that he cannot help showing things.'
'Jill,' I exclaimed anxiously, 'what would your mother say if she knew
this?'
'I think she does know it,' replied Jill calmly. 'She does not care for
Mr. Tudor to come so often, but she is good to him all the same. Neither
father nor mother will be pleased about it, because he is not rich, poor
fellow; not that I think that matters,' finished Jill, in a grave,
old-fashioned manner.
'My dear child,' in a horrified tone, 'you talk as though you were sure
of your own mind, and you are hardly seventeen.'
'So I am sure,' was the confused answer. 'If Mr. Tudor cares enough for
me to wait for a good many years,--until I am one-and-twenty,--he will
find me all ready: of course I belong to him, Ursula: has he not saved my
life? There is no hurry,' went on Jill, in her matter-of-fact way; 'he is
very nice, and I shall always like him better than any one else; but
I should not care to be engaged until I am one-and-twenty. One wants
a little fun and a good deal of work before settling down into an engaged
person,' finished the girl, with a droll little laugh.
I was spared the necessity of any reply to this surprising confession by
the entrance of our three visitors, for Max had encountered them at the
station, of course by accident, and had walked up with them. That fact
was sufficient to account for Gladys's soft bloom and the satisfied look
in her eyes: she looked so lovely in the new furs Giles had bought her,
that I did not wonder that Max was a little absent in his replies to me.
Jill had made some excuse and left us, and it was really a very good
idea of Giles's to ask me to come out on the balcony and look at the sea.
He wrapped me in his plaid and placed me in a sheltered corner, and we
stood watching the twinkling lights, and the dark water under the glimmer
of starlight. He had a great deal to tell me, first how happy Eric was in
his new work, and what cheerful letters he wrote to Gladys, and next
about Captain Hamilton, with whom he professed himself much pleased.
'Lady Betty is just as much a child as ever. It is ridiculous to think of
her as a married woman,' he went on; 'but Claude declares himself to be
perfectly satisfied. Well, there is no accounting for tastes,' with a
change of intonation that was very intelligible.
'And how is Phoebe, Giles?'
'Oh, first-rate,' he answered cheerfully; 'she likes her new couch much
better than the bed. I tell her if she goes on improving like this we
shall have her in the next room before Easter. By the bye, Ursula, have
you digested the contents of my last letter? Shall we go to the Pyrenees
to spend our honeymoon? It will be too early for Switzerland; we might
go later on, or to the Italian lakes.'
'Anywhere with you, Giles,' I whispered; and he gave me silent thanks for
that pretty speech.
He did not say any more for a little time, and I stood by him watching
the dark, wintry sea. Once my life had been dark and wintry too, but how
mercifully I had been drawn out of the deep waters and brought to this
dear haven of rest! As I crept nearer to Giles he seemed to utter my
unspoken thought.
'I am very happy to-night, Ursula, I have been thinking as I travelled
down what it will be to me to have you always near me, to share my work
and life. I am so glad you love Gladwyn so dearly.'
'Love Gladwyn,--your home, Giles: is there anything strange in that?'
'No, dear, perhaps not; but I like to hear you say so. There will not
be a wish of yours ungratified if I can help it. I mean to spoil you
dreadfully, Ursula.'
I told him, smiling, that I was not afraid of this threat, and just then
Max's voice interrupted us:
'Little she-bear, do you know this is dreadfully imprudent? Is this the
way Hamilton means to take care of you?'
'Wait a moment, Ursula,' whispered Giles. 'Do you hear that ballad-singer
in the square?' A voice clear and shrill seemed to float to us in the
darkness: 'Sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea,' she
sang. The waves seemed to splash in harmonious accompaniment; the lights
were flickering, the carriages rolling under the faint starlight. I saw
Giles's face--as I loved to see it--grave, thoughtful, and satisfied.
'After all,' he said, as though answering some inward questioning, 'a man
cannot know what his life will bring him. Do you remember what Robert
Browning says:
"What o' the way to the end?--The end crowns all."
The end crowns all to me, Ursula.' And Giles's deep-set eyes gave me no
doubt of his meaning.