Read Ebook: The Heart of Una Sackville by Vaizey George De Horne Mrs Tarrant Peter Illustrator

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Ebook has 772 lines and 65679 words, and 16 pages

eive me. I've been home with friends, so I know; but my mother is different. I don't think I should like it if she did come! It doesn't fit into my idea of her, some way. Mother is like a queen-- everyone waits upon her, and goes up to her presence like a throne-room. I peeped into the mirror in the hall as I passed, and tucked back some ends of hair, and straightened my tie, and then the door opened, and there she stood--the darling!--holding out her arms to welcome me, with her eyes all soft and tender, as they used to be when she came to say "good night." Mother is not demonstrative as a rule, so you simply love it when she is. She looks quite young, and she was the beauty of the county when she was a girl, and I never did see in all my life anybody so immaculately perfect in appearance! Her dresses fit as if she had been melted into them; her skirts stand out, and go crinkling in and out into folds just exactly like the fashion-plates; her hair looks as if it had been done a minute before--I don't believe she would have a single loose end if she were out in a tornado. It's the same, morning, noon and night; if she were wrecked on a desert island she would be a vision of elegance. It's the way she was born. I can't think how I came to be her daughter, and I know I'm a trial to her with my untidiness.

We hugged each other, and she put her hands on each side of my face, and we kissed and kissed again. She is taller than I am, and very dark, with beautiful aquiline features, and deep brown eyes. She is very slight--I'm sure my waist is about twice as big--and her hands look so pretty with the flashing rings. I'm awfully proud of my mother!

"My darling girl! How rejoiced I am to have you back. Sit down here and let me see you. How well you look, dear--not any thinner yet, I see! It will be delightful to have you at home for good, for Vere is away so much that I have felt quite bereft. Sit up, darling--don't stoop! It will be so interesting to have another girl to bring out! There are plenty of young people about here now, so you need not be dull, and I hope we shall be great companions. You were a sad little hoyden in the old days, but now that you have passed eighteen you will be glad to settle down, won't you, dear, and behave like the woman you are. Have you no little brooch, darling, to keep that collar straight at the neck? It is all adrift, and looks so untidy. Those little things are of such importance. I had such a charming letter from Miss Martin, full of nice speeches about you. She says you sing so sweetly. You must have some good lessons, for nothing is more taking than a young voice properly trained, and I hope you have no foolish nervousness about singing in public. You must get over it, if you have, for I rely on you to help me when we have visitors."

"I want to help you, mother. I will truly try," I said wistfully. I don't know why exactly, but I felt depressed all of a sudden. I wanted her to be so pleased at my return that she didn't notice anything but just me, and it hurt to be called to order so soon. I looked across the room, and caught a glimpse of our two figures reflected in a glass--such a big, fair, tousled creature as I looked beside her, and my heart went down lower then ever. I shall disappoint her, I know I shall! She expects me to be an elegant, accomplished young lady like Vere, and I feel a hoyden still, and not a bit a grown-up woman; besides, father said I was to keep young. How am I to please them both, and have time left over to remember Miss Martin's lessons? It strikes me, Una Sackville, you have got your work cut out.

Mother brought me up to see my room. She has looked after it all herself, and taken no end of trouble making the shades. It looked sweet in the sunshine, and I shall love sitting in the little round window writing my adventures in this book; but now that it's dark I miss the girls: I wonder what Lorna and Florence are doing now? Talking of me, I expect, and crying into their pillows. It seems years since we parted, and already I feel such miles apart. It seems almost impossible to believe that last night I was eating thick bread-and-butter for supper and lying down in the middle bed in the bare old dormitory. Now already I feel quite grown up and responsible. Oh, if I live to be a hundred years old, I shall never, never be at school again! I've been so happy. I wonder, I wonder shall I ever be as happy again?

The weather has been lovely, and I do think ours is the very dearest old house in the world. It is described in the guide-books as "a fine old Jacobean mansion," and all sorts of foreign royal creatures have stayed here as a place of refuge in olden days before father's people bought it. It is red brick covered with ivy, and at the right side the walls go out in a great semicircle, with windows all round giving the most lovely view. Opposite the door is a beautiful old cedar, which I used to love to climb as a child, and should now if I had my own way. Its lower branches dip down to the grass and make the most lovely bridge to the old trunk. On the opposite side of the lawn there's another huge tree; hardly anyone knows what it is, but it's a Spanish maple really-- such a lovely thing, all shining silver leaves on dark stems. I used to look from one to the other and think that they looked like youth and age, and summer and winter, and all sorts of poetical things like that.

I spend the mornings with father, and the afternoons with mother. At first she had mapped out my whole day for me--practising, reading, driving, etcetera, but I just said straight out that I'd promised to go the rounds with father, and I think she was glad, though very much surprised.

"He will be so pleased to have you! It's nice of you, dear, to think of it, and after all it will be exercise, and there's not much going on in the morning."

She never seemed to think I should enjoy it, and I suppose it would bore her as much to walk round to the stables and kennels, and talk to the keepers about game, and the steward about new roofs to cottages, and cutting timber, as it does him to go to garden-parties and pay formal calls. It seems strange to live together so long and to be so different.

I have not met many strangers as yet, because Vere is bringing down a party of visitors for August, and mother is not in a hurry to take me about until I have got all my things; but one morning, when I was out with father, I met such a big, handsome man, quite young, with a brown face and laughing eyes, dressed in the nice country fashion which I love--Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers and leggings. Father hailed him at once, and they talked together for a moment without taking any notice of me, and then father remembered me suddenly, and said--

"This is my youngest daughter. Come home from school to play with me, haven't you, Babs?" and the strange man smiled and nodded, and said, "How do, Babs?" just as calmly and patronisingly as if I had been two. For a moment I was furious, until I remembered my hockey skirt and cloth cap, and hair done in a door-knocker, with no doubt ends flying about all round my face. I daresay I looked fourteen at the most, and he thought I was home for the holidays. I decided that it would be rather fun to foster the delusion, and behave just as I liked without thinking of what was proper all the time, and then some day he would find out his mistake, and feel properly abashed. His name is Will Dudley, and he is staying with Mr Lloyd, the agent for the property which adjoins father's, learning how to look after land, for some day he will inherit a big estate from an uncle, so he likes to get all the experience he can, and to talk to father, and go about with him whenever he has the chance, and father likes to have him--I could tell it by the way he looks and talks. We walked miles that morning, over gates and stiles, and across brooks without dreaming of waiting for the bridges, and I climbed and splashed with the best, and Mr Dudley twinkled his eyes at me, and said, "Well jumped, Babs!" and lifted me down from the stiles as if I had been a doll. He must be terrifically strong, for I am no light weight, and he didn't seem to feel me at all.

After that morning we were constantly meeting, and we grew to be quite friends. He has thick, crinkly eyebrows, and is clean-shaven, which I like in his case, as his mouth has such a nice expression. He went on treating me as a child, and father seemed to think it was quite natural. He likes to pretend I am young, poor dear, so that I may be his playmate as long as possible.

Yesterday father went in to see some cottagers, and Mr Dudley and I sat outside on a log of wood, and talked while we waited for him like this. He--patronisingly--

"I suppose it's a great treat for you to getaway from school for a time. Where is your school? Town or country? Brighton--ugh!" and he made a grimace of disgust. "Shops--piers--hotels--an awful place! Not a bit of Nature left unspoiled; the very sea looks artificial and unlike itself in such unnatural surroundings!"

"Plenty of crocodiles on the bank, however--that's natural enough!" I said pertly. I thought it was rather smart, too, but he smiled in a superior "I-will-because-I-must," sort of way, and said--

"How thankful you must be to get away from it all to this exquisite calm!"

I don't know much about young men, except what I've seen of Spencer and his friends, but they would call exquisite calm by a very different name, so I decided at once that Mr Will Dudley must have had a secret trouble which had made him hate the world and long for solitude. Perhaps it was a love affair! It would be interesting if he could confide in me, and I could comfort him, so I looked pensive, and said--

"You do get very tired of the glare and the dust! Some of the girls wear smoked glasses in summer, and you get so sick of marching up and down the front. Do you hate Brighton only, or every towny place?"

"I hate all towns, and can't understand how anyone can live in them who is not obliged. I have tried it for the last five years, but never again!" He stretched his big shoulders, and drew a long breath of determination. "I've said `Good-bye' for ever to a life of trammelled civilisation, with its so-called amusements and artificial manners, and hollow friendships, and"--he put his hand to his flannel collar, and patted it with an air of blissful satisfaction--"and stiff, uncomfortable clothing! It's all over and done with now, thank goodness--a dream of the past!"

"And I am just beginning it! And I expect to like it very much," I thought to myself, but I didn't say so to him; and he went on muttering and grumbling all the time he was rolling his cigarette and preparing to smoke.

"You don't understand--a child like you. It's a pity you ever should, but in a few years' time you will be so bound round with conventions that you will not dare to follow your own wishes, unless you make a bold stroke for liberty, as I have done, and free yourself once for all; but not many people have the courage to do that--"

"I don't think it takes much courage to give up what one dislikes, and to do what one likes best," I said calmly; and he gave a little jump of surprise, and stared at me over the smoke of the match with amused eyes, just as you look at a child who has said a funny thing--rather precocious for its age.

"Pray, does that wise remark apply to me or to you?" he asked; and I put my chin in the air and said--

"Yes, yes. You must run the gauntlet. Poor little Babs!" he sighed; and after that we sat for quite an age without speaking a word. He was remembering his secret, no doubt, and I was thinking of myself and wondering if it was really true that I was going to have such a bad time. That reminded me of Miss Martin and her advice, and it came to me with a shock that I'd been home a whole month, and had been so taken up with my own affairs that I had had no time to think of my "sister." I was in a desperate hurry to find her at once. I always am in a hurry when I remember things, and the sight of the cottages put an idea into my head.

"Do you know the people who live in these cottages, Mr Dudley? I knew the old tenants, of course, but these are new people, and I have not seen them. Are they old or young, and have they any children?"

He puffed out words and smoke in turns.

"Is it ill, then, the poor little thing?"

"And in the next house?"

"Thompson--oldish man--widower. Maiden sister to keep the house in order--Thompson, too, I suspect by the look of him. Looks very sorry for himself, poor soul!"

"What's 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--"

"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.

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."

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