Neighbours on the Green; My Faithful Johnny

‘My advice! before you see your sisters, before you tell Ursula!’ I cried, and then the General laughed and frowned, and looked angry and amused all in one. ‘That is just where my difficulty lies,’ he said. A difficulty about Ursula! it took away my breath.

‘You will not believe it,’ he said, ‘but it is quite true. Charles came to me this morning with the absurdest question. He came to ask me who it was that sat next Mr. Oakley at dinner at Bonport on Tuesday—eh? what, did you notice anything?’ he asked abruptly, for I had not been able to restrain a little exclamation. I have never boasted of my penetration, but from that moment I seemed to know exactly what he was going to say.

‘I know who sat next Mr. Oakley at dinner,’ I said.

‘Ursula, wasn’t it? we laid our heads together, and from all we could make out—he went to Charles first to find out who it was, and Charles, of course, made up his mind that it must have been one of the young ladies that had made such an impression. He proposed first Miss Woodroff and then the young widow: but no, no. Oakley said it was not a young lady. It was a lady whose hair was turning gray, who wore a cap, and used a double eye-glass. At last the conviction forced itself upon me. By Jove! it was Ursula—Ursula the man was thinking of! We both burst out laughing in his face– But afterwards,’ the General added gloomily with a flush of displeasure, ‘afterwards—I feel furious, Mrs. Mulgrave, though I may not show it; and that is why I have come first to you.

‘What did he want?’ I said, though I allow there was some hypocrisy in my question.

‘What did he want?—you may well ask. He is a man of sixty-five, older than I am. He wants—to marry my sister,’ said the General, with a half suppressed outcry of rage—‘a man who has risen from the ranks—a stranger—a—a confounded– I beg you ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Mulgrave; he wants to pay his addresses, if you please, to Ursula! God bless us all—did you ever hear such a thing? I feel much more like cursing than blessing, to tell the truth.’

‘But, General, he is very rich—richer than any one ever was before.’

‘Ah, you have got bitten too,’ he said, with a tone almost of disgust. ‘That is what Charles says; but what is his money to me? What is it to any of us, Mrs. Mulgrave? You would not upset all the order of your life and change your habits, and give up your own ways for a million of money, would you? After all, when you have enough to be comfortable, what does money matter? Even the most extravagant of women can’t put more than a certain number of yards of stuff into her dress. When you have enough, what does it matter whether the over-plus is counted by hundreds or by thousands?’ said the General, with magnanimous but new-born indifference. If he cared so little about it, why should he go to the City every day, I could not help saying to myself; and, indeed, it came to my lips before I knew.

‘If we all thought that,’ I said, ‘it would save a great deal of trouble. Perhaps you would not then have had these twelve gentlemen down to dinner and made all the mischief, General.’

General George laughed. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t,’ he said, ‘but that is different. It is not for the money, but the occupation. Mrs. Mulgrave; and of course when one has money invested one wants to make something by it. However my opinion is that it would be much better to say nothing about this folly to Ursula. To be sure,’ he added with a look of half-defiant assurance which he belied by a suspicious glance of inquiry at me,’ it might amuse her; but it could have no other effect. I don’t see why I should take any notice to Ursula.’

‘But Mr. Oakley—will he be satisfied?’

‘Old Oakley? Upon my word, I don’t see why I should consider him or what will satisfy him,’ said the General, growing red; but he was uneasy. He paused, then turned to me again. ‘If you were in my position, what should you do?’

‘I should tell her, and let her judge; after all, it is she who must decide.’

‘Decide—judge! you speak,’ cried General George, ‘as if it were possible—as if it might be within the bounds of– Bah! do you suppose that Ursula—Ursula! my sister—would, could hesitate one moment?’

‘No.’ I said ‘no,’ half because I really thought so, but half because he was so much excited, and it was necessary to calm him. ‘I do not suppose she would; but still, a woman should be told when a man– It is the greatest compliment he can pay her, and it is always flattering even when it is impossible!’

‘Flattering—a compliment! What can you be thinking of?’ the General cried in high disdain; ‘that an old fellow like that should propose to appropriate and take possession of—a lady! I don’t say my sister, which of course is the sting of it,’ he said with a laugh, calming down again, ‘but any lady–’

‘Dear General, forgive me,’ I said; ‘you always talk, you gentlemen, of marriage as the end of every woman’s ambition, and you are always ready to jibe at those who have not attained that great end. Then how, when this elevation is in her power, do you venture to think of keeping her in ignorance of it?’

He turned round upon me almost with violence. ‘Elevation!’ he cried; then perceiving, I suppose, by something in my eyes what I meant, laughed more uneasily than ever. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘we may say silly things, I allow we all say silly things; but when you come to that—to speak of elevation for my sister from any offer, or that she should think it a compliment!—God bless us all!—there are a great many foolish things that one says, but you know better than to take it all for gospel. Of course when one speaks of women one does not think of– By Jove, I am only getting deeper. Don’t hit a man when he is down, but be serious, and give me your advice.’

‘One does not think of one’s own sisters,’ said I, for I did not mean to spare him, ‘only of other people’s sisters, or of those who have nobody to stand up for them; but I will not be ungenerous, General I will give you my advice. Tell Ursula, and let her judge for herself.’

‘Judge!—she can have but one opinion. But that is what Charlie says. I suppose the two of you must be right,’ said the General grudgingly. He walked on by my side in silence, cutting down the weeds by the roadside ferociously with his stick; then repeated with a still more churlish assent, ‘I suppose what you two people of the world say must be right.’

I smiled within myself to be called a woman of the world; but one must not take the words of an angry man to heart. When he came to the turn of the road which led to Brothers-and-Sisters he muttered something about getting it over, and took off his hat and left me without another word. Poor General George! Under all his pretences at anger he was in a great fright. Either he believed his own careless talk, and thought that a husband was too fine a thing for any woman to refuse, or else– But I need not discuss the vague feeling of insecurity which had begun to creep over him. For my part, I did not feel alarmed. I had more confidence in Ursula’s faithfulness than he had. At the same time, the crisis was exciting, and I thought the time very long until the evening began to darken, and I felt myself at liberty—dinner being over—to run over the corner of the Green which lay between us, as I often did in the evening, and see what Ursula said.

CHAPTER III

The family party was on the lawn as usual; Miss Stamford seated in her own chair with her knitting and her feet upon the lion-skin; while Mrs. St. Clair beside her, with a basket full of bright scraps, had been dressing dolls for a bazaar. Sophy was cutting off the withered roses with a large pair of garden scissors; all their occupations were quite as usual. But there was an aspect about the family which was not usual. In the distance the General’s step was audible pacing about; and there was an odour of his cigar in the air; all as peaceful, as homelike as it always was; but yet a something in the atmosphere which had not been there yesterday. As I came up with my shawl over my head, the General tossed his cigar away and came nearer, and Sophia put down the basket with the dead roses, and Mrs. St. Clair got up to get me a chair. The only one that had not changed in the least was Ursula, who raised her head and her eyes and gave me a friendly nod as she always did. She went on with her knitting without any intermission. It is work which does not demand attention, nor so much light as doll-dressing. They were all very glad to see me—more glad even than on ordinary occasions: for it was clear that the situation was highly tendu, as the French say, and that a new-comer was a relief.

‘What a beautiful evening!’ we all said together, and then stopped abashed, as people do who have rushed into the same commonplace speech.

Then Ursula added, ‘Of course, that is the first thing we must say to each other. I think there never was such a summer—so bright, so steady, one fine day after another. Here is a fortnight, or nearly so, that we have not had one drop of rain.’

‘Quite wonderful,’ said I. ‘The hay, I hear, is a sight to see. A day or two more, and we shall all begin to pray for rain. We are never content whatever we have.’

‘A little variety is always pleasant,’ Mrs. St. Clair said. Meanwhile, while we talked about the weather, the General hung about over our little group like a storm-cloud. He did not say anything, but he looked tempestuous; he, who was always so calm. Presently he turned away, and went off to say something to Simms, who appeared just then with a note or a message.

‘I suppose,’ said Mrs. St. Clair, turning to me, ‘you know all about it. George told us that he had met you, and told you–’

‘Yes, he told me;’ but I did not know what to say; they all wore a look of agitation, except Ursula, who was as calm as usual—more calm than usual, I should have said; but, no doubt, that was only in comparison with the agitation of the rest.

‘And I suppose you think like the rest, that I will jump at a husband the moment one is offered to me,’ said Miss Stamford with a smile.

‘We don’t think so, Ursula. We know it is not the first time. It is only George that is so frightened, poor fellow.’

‘Why should he be so frightened?’ Miss Stamford cried. ‘No; it is not the first time. I may take that little credit to myself. I might have my head turned, perhaps, if it had been the first time. But, after all, it is not so much to brag of. I suppose he wants somebody to take care of him when he gets old and feeble; but he ought to have somebody younger than me.’

Sixty-five is not what you would call young; but it was odd how we all were of opinion that Mr. Oakley’s time for being old and feeble was still a good way off, a thing to come. I acknowledged that I shared this weakness. We were all about the same age, and it did not occur to us that we were already old.

‘He shows his sense,’ said I, taking the part of the absent to whom nobody did any justice, ‘as well as his good taste. Poor man, though he is so rich, I am very sorry for him. I wish Ursula had met him twenty years ago when there would have been no harm–’

‘No harm! do you know that he is a nobody—a man self-made?’ said Mrs. St. Clair; ‘not a match for Ursula Stamford if he had been ever so young!’

‘But you did not think of that in Fia’s case,’ said Sophy; ‘he was rich and you never said a word. You thought it quite reasonable. ‘What do his grandfathers matter to us?’ you said. I am not sure myself whether it does or not; but you said so, you know; and George proposed the bride and bridegroom at the wedding, and everybody was pleased. Now this Mr. Oakley is a very nice man, whatever you say, for I had a good deal of talk with him myself; and if Ursula chose–’

‘You should not interfere,’ said Mrs. St. Clair; ‘you are always sentimental. Of course, if there is so much as a thought of a marriage, Sophy is always in favour of it; but to think of Ursula at her time of life!’

‘You all talk very much at your ease about Ursula,’ said Miss Stamford. ‘I suppose Ursula may have a word, a little share in it, for herself. The way my family consult over me’—she said, turning to me with a slight blush and laugh. ‘I think George might have held his tongue; that would have been the more satisfactory way.’

‘It was my fault,’ I cried hurriedly: ‘he told me that he thought it would be best not to tell you. You must forgive me, Ursula, if I gave him bad advice; I thought you ought to know.’

Before I had half said this, I saw I had made a mistake; but one must finish one’s sentence, however foolish it may be. Ursula suspended her knitting for a moment and looked at me with calm amazement.

‘Not tell me!’ she said. ‘Why should he have kept it from me?’

The emphasis was very slight, but it meant a great deal. It never occurred to her that a thing which concerned her so closely should have been kept from herself; the question was why should we know; and I confess I felt very much ashamed of having any say in it, when I met the calm, astonished look of her eyes.

‘It is getting a little chilly,’ she said, rising up. ‘I think it is time to go indoors.’

We all followed her quite humbly, and the General came stalking after us, more like a thunder-cloud than ever. He had been talking to poor Simms in a voice which was not pleasant, and he appeared at the drawings-room window by which we all entered with the large lion-skin in his arms.

‘I can’t have this left out all night in those heavy dews,’ he said. I do not think I ever saw those signs of suppressed irritation, which are too common in families, among the Stamfords before.

Next morning General George came in for a moment before I had breakfasted, to tell me for my satisfaction that all was right. His face was quite clear again. ‘I was a little cross last night. I fear you may have supposed that I for a moment doubted my sister. Not a moment, Mrs. Mulgrave. I have got to give him his answer, poor old fellow. I can’t help feeling a little sorry for him all the same. What bad luck for the poor old beggar! Of all the women there to hit upon the one who was simply hopeless! Some men always have that sort of fate.’

‘He showed his taste,’ said I; ‘but I heard he was the luckiest man in the world, General; that he always succeeded in everything; that however wild the project was, he was the man to carry it through.’

I said this partly in malice, I am bound to admit, and I was very successful. The General’s face clouded over again: he set his teeth. ‘He shall not succeed this time;’ and he said something more in his moustache, some stronger words which I was not intended to hear. It was all over then, this odd little episode. I stood and watched him from my door half relieved, half wondering. Was it all over? I did not feel so satisfied or so certain as General George.

A few days of perfect quiet ensued. When a week passed we all felt really satisfied. It was over then? Mr. Oakley had accepted his refusal. To be sure one did not see what else he could have done, though I confess that I had not expected it for my part. However, on the Sunday morning the moment I looked across to the Stamfords’ pew after getting settled in my own, it seemed to me that I could see indications of a new event. Both Mrs. St. Clair and Sophy were looking at me when I raised my head; they could not restrain themselves. They gave me anxious, significant glances with little hardly perceptible signs of the head and hand. When the service was over, and we were going out, Sophy was at my side in a moment. We were not actually out of church when I felt her arm slide into mine and a whisper in my ear. ‘She has got a letter!’ Sophy said, all in a tremble of eagerness. Mrs. St. Clair came up on the other side as soon as we were clear of the stream of people. ‘It is getting really serious,’ she said; ‘he will not take a refusal. It is quite absurd, and George is dreadfully angry. He is just as absurd on the other side.’

‘And what does Ursula say?’