A Lame Dog's Diary Part 9

"Miss Lydia was never intrusive," said Mrs. Taylor.

Mrs. Lovekin was one of those who avoided the difficulty raised by Mrs.

Taylor's unusual form of invitation by meeting her accidentally in the baker's shop, where an a.s.sortment of cakes was being ordered for the tea-party, and signifying her intention of coming to tea. "No need to write, I suppose," said Mrs. Lovekin lightly, "as I have met you?"

Both Mrs. Taylor and the baker's wife thought it would have been in better taste if Mrs. Lovekin had then withdrawn, instead of remaining in the shop and hearing what was ordered.

Mrs. Taylor had made up her mind at an early stage in the proceedings that she would be very firm indeed about the matter of dispensing tea herself in her own house. She would appropriate one teapot, and her daughter should have the other, and not even to shake hands with a late-arriving guest would they run the risk of letting this badge of office fall into the hands of the co-hostess.

"And if," said Mrs. Taylor, "I find that she is appropriating The Uncle too much, I shall not hesitate to remove him, on the plea of introducing him to some other and more important guests."

It was in church on Sunday that we were first allowed to see The Uncle, and this is only following the usual custom in Stowel. Church on Sunday is, as it were, the public life of the town. After a death it is customary to wait until the family has appeared in church to pay visits of condolence--not so much to avoid intrusiveness in the first hour of grief as from a feeling that perhaps the c.r.a.pe mourning will not have arrived. In the same way, if any one moves into a new house--a very unusual proceeding--we are made aware that the carpets are all down, and the drawing-room curtains are hung, when the new arrivals are seen in their pew on Sunday. This, also, is accepted as a token that calling may now begin. Mrs. Taylor said afterwards, in describing that first Sunday when The Uncle appeared in Stowel Church, that her heart beat so painfully at the door that she thought she would have been obliged to turn back. It was a triumphal progress that the party of four made up the centre aisle to their pew, but the inward excitement of the Taylors rendered a natural deportment difficult.

Neither Mrs. Taylor nor her daughter joined in the hymns or the responses that Sunday morning. It is doubtful whether they heard a word of the service.

Sir John is a very military-looking person, with white whiskers and a bald pink head. He sat between Mrs. and Miss Taylor, who supplied him with hymn and prayer books in as natural a manner as they found it possible to a.s.sume; and Mr. Taylor sat at the end of the pew with a genial expression on his face, and a look of tempered pride, due no doubt to the fact that the General was "one of my wife's people," and not a blood relation of his own.

It was a disappointment to Mr. Taylor that his own sister, Mrs.

Macdonald--widow of a Scotch gentleman, whom the Taylors always talk of as "The Laird"--was not able to come to this family gathering. But Mrs. Macdonald pleaded spring-cleaning as an insuperable objection to leaving home at present.

As Miss Taylor, Mrs. Macdonald used to be one of Stowel's central figures, for she was a lady of considerable means and an indefatigable housekeeper; and Mr. Macdonald was considered to have done well when he took her as his bride to the North.

The Sunday on which the Taylors appeared in church with The Uncle was curiously hot for the time of year. It was very stuffy in church, and Miss Lydia had a slight fainting attack, and had to leave before the service was over. Following the accepted custom in Stowel, my sister called the next day to ask how she did. But indisposition, usually a matter of solemn pleasure with us, was overshadowed and shorn of its interest by the presence of The Uncle amongst us. Even the Vicar looked keenly at him from the pulpit before his sermon began, but no one except Mrs. Lovekin was forward enough to address the august party as they left the church. Mrs. Lovekin, who always affirmed that she saw no difference in rank, was the very first person in Stowel to shake hands with The Uncle. She overtook the Taylors before they had even reached the gate of the churchyard, and was perforce introduced to their relative, "who," Mrs. Taylor said afterwards, "was almost more cordial than she could have wished him to be; but of course his manners were always perfect." What annoyed every one a little in the days that followed was that Mrs. Lovekin constantly referred to the General as if he had been an old friend; whereas of course it was well known in what an intrusive way her precedence had been gained. During the week, however, we all had an opportunity of seeing Sir John, for he was marched in triumph up and down the village street regularly twice a day. Miss Taylor even condescended to subterfuge in the matter. For having taken The Uncle as far as the baker's at the end of the town, with a view to continuing the walk into the country at The Uncle's request, she pretended to have forgotten something at the draper's, and marched him down the street again, in the proud knowledge that all eyes, whether from pedestrians or from the interior of shops and houses in the High Street, were turned upon her. The tobacconist from whom The Uncle bought some tobacco gave Miss Taylor quite a sympathetic look as he said, "Allow me to send it for you, Sir John." And Miss Taylor said, "Do allow him to send it, uncle! I am sure that you ought not to carry parcels for yourself."

On Thursday, when we went to the party, we saw at once that the Taylors meant to make no sn.o.bbish distinction between their guests, but that each and every one of them was to be introduced to The Uncle.

"I am no good at this sort of thing, Mary," The Uncle said before the party began, "and I think I will walk over and see Willie Jacobs, and spend the afternoon with him." Mrs. Taylor turned pale at the suggestion. "It will ruin it!" she said. "I shall feel as if I had been acting on false pretences." And though the General remained, as he was requested to do, he showed a most irritating tendency to slip away, and sometimes he was not to be found at the most critical moments. Mrs. Taylor stationed him close to herself in the drawing-room where she received her guests. But at the very moment when she turned round to effect an introduction between him and some particular friend, it was discovered that the General had slipped off to the smoking-room or the tea-room, or was wandering aimlessly about the garden, looking at the flower-beds.

Altogether, that most successful afternoon (and the Taylors really did feel that it had been a success from the very highest point of view) had still some drawbacks to it, which they regret, and always will regret. For instance, when Miss Taylor had been dispatched into what the Taylors call the "grounds" to see "what The Uncle is doing"

(playfully), "and tell him to come and make himself agreeable," she had hardly departed to fulfil her mother's request when Mrs. Lovekin bore down upon the teapot, poured out several of the most distinguished cups of tea, and handed round macaroons as though they were her own. Last of all, as the party was breaking up, and Mrs. Lovekin's vicarious hospitality was therefore at an end, she was actually heard inviting The Uncle to come and call upon her. Even the Miss Blinds, on being told of the incident, admitted that this behaviour on Mrs. Lovekin's part could not be called anything but forward. Miss Lydia could only say, in a sort of sweet distress, "Perhaps she did not mean it;" but Miss Blind shook her head vigorously, and said, "Bad b.u.t.ter, bad b.u.t.ter, bad b.u.t.ter!"

Margaret Jamieson had, of course, been helping to prepare the party, for Margaret Jamieson always helps wherever there is anything to be done. And Eliza, we thought, made a deep impression upon The Uncle by her knowledge of literature, and the perfectly easy and natural way in which, without a moment's preparation, she alluded to the "atomic theory."

"Ah! you are one of the Reading Society young ladies that I heard about," said he. "Sorry I couldn't do more for you in the way of books, but that's not in my line at all, you know. I was educated at a Grammar School, and I never had the advantages that you young people have nowadays." (Mrs. Taylor thought this statement unnecessary, but reflected that great men often make allusions of this sort.) "However, if I ever can be of any use to you--getting you an order for reading at the British Museum, or anything of that sort--I hope you will let me know."

For one brief day the Jamiesons were inclined to tease Eliza about having made a conquest, but the Taylors would not have any nonsense of that sort for a moment. It made Mrs. Taylor quite nervous to think of such a thing, and she remarked that that was the worst of having distinguished people to stop with one; there was always somebody running after them. Eliza Jamieson, we noticed, was treated with marked coldness by the Taylors for some time afterwards, and Miss Taylor recollected darkly that it was Eliza's suggestion, in the first instance, that The Uncle should be consulted on the choice of books for the Reading Society. "She may," said Miss Taylor, "have had an eye on him from the first."

A purely visionary affair of this sort, however, could not be considered satisfactory or exciting, even by the Jamiesons; and the Taylors' suspicions and anxieties were put on one side for the time being--ousted from their place, as it were--by the very distinct and exciting rumours which have reached us about Maud. Maud has been staying with friends at Hampstead, and has written home in a certain veiled way which is very provoking, but which, nevertheless, gives the impression that another man has come to the point, and has proposed to Maud Jamieson. Maud seems out of spirits, and has written to say that she is returning; and this makes the sisters think that she must have accepted her present suitor, and is coming home to shed a few natural tears. Eliza, who walked over to tell us the news, voiced The Family's opinion when she said: "We have quite made up our minds that if Maud has said 'Yes,' she is to stick to it this time. She is always in a panic directly she has accepted any one, but we know that it would be the same whoever it was: and doubtless, unless we are firm, she will treat this admirer just as she treated Mr. Reddy and Albert Gore and the others. Mamma says that she will not have Maud coerced, and I am sure no one wants to coerce her; but why should she always get to a certain point, and then begin to have doubts? It is so unbusiness-like."

The very next day Maud Jamieson came to tea. She looked well dressed, as usual, and had some pretty spring finery about her--yellow mimosa wreathing a broad hat, and some yellow ribbons about her tasteful dress--but her pretty face looked very white, and she fidgeted nervously for half an hour, and then told me I was so sympathetic she would like to ask me something.

"I dare say," she said, "that you have heard something about Mr. Evans from The Family?"

I admitted that I had, and then there was a very long pause.

"How is one to know," said Maud, "when it is the real thing?"

Another pause. I wished with all my heart that I could have been more helpful to this young lady in such evident distress of mind; but the intricacies of Maud's thoughts are most difficult to follow, and I thought it better to wait until she had given me her entire confidence.

"Little things," said Maud, "might annoy one so much if one had always to live with a man. For instance, I do not think I could ever truly love a man who sniffs."

"Our friend Mrs. Fielden says," I remarked, "that a man generally proposes when he has a cold in his head. But I pointed out to her that these statistics do her no credit."

"Mr. Evans doesn't sniff," said Maud. "I was only citing that as an example of what one might find very trying in a companion for life."

I a.s.sented, and could only suggest hopefully the usual Jamieson remedy that such a defect might be cured after marriage.

"But men are so obstinate about some things," said Maud. "For instance, suppose a man were well off and of really excellent character, do you think it would matter much if he wore a white watered-silk waistcoat in the evening? Would it, for instance, appear an insuperable objection to most minds?"

I replied that doubtless it was a serious fault, but that I did not consider it an incurable one; and I further remarked, with what I hoped showed a broad and liberal way of looking at things, that all men had their idiosyncrasies. Maud admitted this, and seemed cheered by the reflection; but she pushed the matter further, and said she would like to know what sort of a man I should presume any one to be who wore a white watered-silk waistcoat.

"If you care for Mr. Evans--" I began, and regretted that one's articulate expression is sometimes behindhand in the matter of conveying the comprehensiveness of the inner working of one's mind----

"I am afraid I care for some one else," said Maud, bursting into tears.

"Let me see you home," I said, unable to think of any but this very doubtful method of consolation; still, it seemed unkind to let her go home alone when she had been crying.

On the threshold of the Jamiesons' house several of The Family were waiting for us, and they drew me into the drawing-room, while by tacit consent it seemed to be understood that Maud should not join in the conclave, but should go straight upstairs and take off her hat.

"Have you persuaded her?" said Eliza.

"I hope you have put a little common sense into her," said Kate.

James was admitted to family discussions now, and here remarked that he believed that all girls were happier married.

"Though, of course," said Mettie, "it is a great risk."

"Did she tell you," asked Gracie, "that she cares for some one else?"

I admitted that Maud had said something of the sort. And her family exclaimed triumphantly that this was always Maud's plea for releasing herself from an engagement as soon as that engagement had been made.

Mrs. Jamieson remarked that she would not like any of the girls to feel that they were not welcome at home, and all her affectionate daughters kissed her in turn, or patted her hand, and said that they knew that such a thought as wanting to get rid of one of them would never enter her head.

Mrs. Jamieson here left the room to seek her banished daughter and to administer comfort, and the members of The Family conclave said that they hoped that Mrs. Jamieson did not think that they had been unkind.

"If it had not happened so often!" sighed Eliza. "However, as we do not know Mr. Evans, he can't ask to come down and stay with us, as Mr.

Reddy did, so as to have an opportunity of pressing his suit."

"He cried so much one afternoon," said Kate, turning in an explanatory sort of way to Mr. Ward, "that I really thought I should have to send for mamma." James looked sympathetic, and Gracie added: "We all really felt quite relieved when he got engaged to some one else three weeks afterwards, and we hear that they are most happy, and have got a dear little baby."

CHAPTER IX.

Mrs. Fielden's motor car is still a matter of absorbing interest to the inhabitants of Stowel. When it breaks down, as it frequently does, there is always a crowd round it immediately. Our friends and neighbours in the town have an ingenuous respect for anything that costs a great deal of money, and they are quite congratulatory to any one who has been for a drive with Mrs. Fielden, and they talk about the motor and its owner, and who has seen it, and who has not, over their afternoon tea.

The motor car is a noisy, evil-smelling vehicle of somewhat rowdy appearance, which leaves a trail behind it as of a smoking lamp. It drew up at our door to-day, and kicked and snorted impatiently until we were ready to get into it. The next moment, with a final angry snort and plunge, it started down the drive and whizzed through the village and up the hill on the other side without pausing to take breath.

"The worst of a motor car is," said Mrs. Fielden, "that one gets through everything so quickly. In London I get my shopping done in about a quarter of an hour, and then I take a turn round Regent's Park, and I find I have put away about ten minutes, so I fly down to Richmond, and even then it is too early to go to tea anywhere. Talking of tea--isn't everybody very hungry? I am really ravenous--and that is the motor car's fault, too. Because one has learned to want one's meals by the amount of business one has got through, and when one has done a whole afternoon's work in three-quarters of an hour, one is dying for tea, just as if it were five o'clock."

"I have always been ravenous since I was in South Africa," said one of Mrs. Fielden's colonels, who had driven over in the motor car to take care of her and to bring us back. "I don't know when I shall satisfy the pangs of hunger which I acquired on the veldt."