The Heart of Una Sackville. Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey
the matter with him—rheumatism? Is he quite crippled or able to get about?”
“Thompson? Splendid workman—agile as a boy. It was his mental condition to which I referred!”
“And in the end house of all?”
“Don’t know the name. Middle-aged couple, singularly uninteresting, and two big hulking sons—”
Big—hulking! It was most disappointing! No one was delicate! I twisted about on my seat, and cried irritably—
“Are they all well, every one of them? Are you quite sure? Are there no invalid daughters, or crippled children, nor people like that?”
“Not that I know of, thank goodness! You don’t mean to say you want them to be ill?” He stared at me as if I were mad, and then suddenly his face changed, and he said softly, “Oh, I see! You want to look after them! That’s nice of you, and it would have been uncommonly nice for them, too; but, never fear, you will find plenty of people to help, if that’s what you want. Their troubles may not take quite such an obvious form as crutches, but they are in just as much need of sympathy, nevertheless. In this immediate neighbourhood, for instance—” He paused for a moment, and I knew he was going to make fun by the twinkle in his eye and the solemn way he puffed out the smoke. “There’s—myself!” So I just paid him back for his patronage, and led up to the mystery by saying straight out—
“Yes, I know! I guessed by what you said about town that you had had some disappointment. I’m dreadfully sorry, and if there’s anything at all that I can do—”
He simply jumped with surprise and stared at me in dead silence for a moment, and then—horrid creature!—he began to laugh and chuckle as if it was the most amusing thing in the world.
“So you have been making up stories about me, eh? Am I a blighted creature? Am I hiding a broken heart beneath my Norfolk jacket? Has a lovely lady scorned me and left me in grief to pine—eh, Babs? I did not know you were harbouring such unkind thoughts of me. You can’t accuse me of showing signs of melancholy this last week, I’m sure, and as to my remarks about town, they were founded on nothing more romantic than my rooted objection to smoke and dust, and bachelor diggings with careless landladies. I assure you I have no tragic secrets to disclose! I’m sorry, as I’m sure you would find me infinitely more interesting with a broken heart.”
“Oh, I’m exceedingly glad, of course; but if you are so happy and contented I don’t see how you need my help,” I said disagreeably; and just then father came out of the cottage, and we started for home.
Mr. Dudley talked to him about business in the most proper fashion, but if he caught my eye, even in the middle of a sentence, he would drop his head on his chest and put on the most absurd expression of misery, and then I would toss my head and smile a scornful smile. Some day, when he finds out how old I am, he will be ashamed of treating me like a child.
William Dudley is the first stranger mentioned in these pages. For that reason I shall always feel a kind of interest in him, but I am disappointed in his character.
Chapter Four.
July 10th.
To-day I went a round of calls with mother, driving round the country for over twenty miles. It was rather dull in one way and interesting in another, for I do like to see other people’s drawing-rooms and how they arrange the things. Some are all new and garish, and look as if they were never used except for an hour or two in the evening, and some are grand and stiff like a hotel, and others are all sweet and chintzy and home-like, with lots of plants and a scent of pot-pourri in china vases. That’s the sort of room I like. I mean to marry a man who belongs to a very ancient family, so that I may have lots of beautiful old furniture.
Mother gave me histories of the various hostesses as we drove up to the houses.
“A dreadfully trying woman, I do hope she is out.” “Rather amusing. I should like you to see her.” “A most hopeless person—absolutely no conversation. Now, darling, take a lesson from her and never, never allow yourself to relapse into monosyllables. It is such a hopeless struggle if all one’s remarks are greeted with a ‘No’ or a ‘Yes,’ and when girls first come out they are very apt to fall into this habit. Make a rule that you will never reply to a question in less than four words, and it is wonderful what a help you will find it.
“Twist the ends of your veil, dear, they are sticking out … Oh dear, dear, she is at home! I do have such shocking bad fortune.”
She trailed out of the carriage sighing so deeply that I was terrified lest the servant should hear. I shall never call on people unless I want to see them. It does seem such a farce to grumble because they are at home, and then to be sweet and pleasant when you meet.
Mrs. Greaves was certainly very silent, but I liked her. She looked worn and tired, but she had beautiful soft brown eyes which looked at you and seemed to say a great deal more than her lips. Do you know the kind of feeling when you like people and know they like you in return? I was perfectly certain Mrs. Greaves had taken a fancy to me before she said, “I should like to introduce my daughter to you,” and sent a message upstairs by the servant. I wondered what the girl would be like; a young edition of Mrs. Greaves might be pretty, but there was an expression on mother’s face which made me uncertain. Then she came in, a pale badly dressed girl, with a sweet face and shy awkward manners. Her name was Rachel, and she took me to see the conservatory, and I wondered what on earth we should find to say. Of course she asked first of all—
“Are you fond of flowers?” and I remembered mother’s rule and replied, “Yes, I love them.” That was four words, but it didn’t seem to take us much further somehow, so I made a terrific effort and added, “But I don’t know much about their names, do you?”
“Yes, I think I do. I feel as if it was a kind of courtesy we owe them for giving us so much pleasure. We take it as a slight if our own friends mispronounce or misspell our own names, and surely flowers deserve as much consideration from us,” quoth she.
Goodness! how frightfully proper and correct. I felt so quelled that there was no more spirit left in me, and I followed her round listening to her learned descriptions and saying, “How pretty!” “Oh, really!” in the most feeble manner you can imagine.
All the while I was really looking at her more than the flowers, and discovering lots of things. Number one—sweet eyes just like her mother’s; number two—sweet lips with tiny little white teeth like a child’s; number three—a long white throat above that awful collar. Quotient—a girl who ought to be quite sweet, but who made herself a fright. I wondered why! Did she think it wrong to look nice—but then, if she did, why did she love the flowers just for that very reason? Rachel Greaves! I thought the name sounded like her somehow—old-fashioned, and prim, and grey; but the next moment I felt ashamed, for, as if she guessed what I was thinking, she turned to me and said suddenly—
“Will you tell me your name? I ought to know it to add to my collection, for you are like a flower yourself.”
Wasn’t it a pretty compliment? I blushed like anything, and said—
“It must be a wild one, I’m afraid. I look hot-housey this afternoon, for I’m dressed up to pay calls, but really I have just left school, and feel as wild as I can be. You mustn’t be shocked if you meet me in a short frock some morning tearing about the fields.”
She leant back against the stand, staring at me with such big eyes, and then she said the very last thing in the world which I expected to hear.
“May I come with you? Will you let me come too some day?”
Come with me! Rachel Greaves, with her solemn face, and dragged-back hair, and her proper conversation. To tear about the fields!