CHAPTER II.
Palestrina and I live in the country, and whenever we are dull or sad,like the sailors in Mr. Gilbert's poem, we decide that ourneighbourhood is too deadly uninteresting, and then we go and see theJamiesons. They are our nearest neighbours, as they are also amongstour greatest friends, and the walk to their house is a distance that Iam able to manage. I believe that our visits to the Jamiesons are mostoften determined by the state of the weather. If we have passed a longwet day indoors I feel that it is going to be a Jamieson day, and Iknow that my sister will say to me after tea, "Suppose we go over andsee the Jamiesons;" and she generally adds that it is much better thansettling down for the evening at five o'clock in the afternoon.
I do not think that Palestrina was so sociable a young woman, nor didshe see so much of her neighbours, before I came home an invalid fromSouth Africa--I got hit in the legs at Magersfontein, and had the leftone taken off in the hospital at Wynberg--but she believes, no doubtrightly, that the variety that one gets by seeing one's fellow-men isgood for a poor lame dog who lies on a sofa by the fire the greaterpart of the day, wishing he could grow another leg or feel fit again.
Acting upon this unalterable conviction of my sister, we drive about inthe afternoon and see people, and they come and see me and suggestoccupations for me. In Lent I had a more than usual number of callers,which says much for the piety of the place, as well as for the goodnessof heart of its inhabitants.
There is a slight coolness between what is known as the "County" andthe Jamiesons, and their name is never mentioned without theaccompanying piece of information, "You know, old Jamieson married hiscook!" To be more exact, Mrs. Jamieson was a small farmer's daughter,and Captain Jamieson fell in love with her when, having left the army,he went to learn practical farming at old Higgins's, and he loved herfaithfully to the day of his death. She is a stout, elderly woman whospeaks very little, but upon whom an immense amount of affection seemsto be lavished by her family of five daughters and two sons. And ithas sometimes seemed to my sister and me that her good qualities are ofa lasting and passive sort, which exist in large measure in the heartsof those who bestow this boundless affection. Mrs. Jamieson's form ofintroducing herself to any one she meets consists in giving an accountof the last illness and death of her husband. There is hardly apoultice which was placed upon that poor man which her friends have notheard about. And when she has finished, in her flat, sad voice, givingevery detail of his last disorder, Mrs. Jamieson's conversation is atan end. She has learned, no doubt unconsciously, to gauge thecharacters of new acquaintances by the degree of interest which theyevince in Captain Jamieson's demise. It is Mrs. Jamieson's test oftheir true worth.
Of the other sorrow which saddened a nature that perhaps was never verygay, Mrs. Jamieson rarely speaks. Possibly because she thinks of itmore than of anything else in the world. Among her eight childrenthere was only one who appeared to his mother to combine all perfectionin himself. He was killed by an accident in his engineering worksseven years ago, and although his friends will, perhaps, only rememberhim as a stout young fellow who sang sea-songs with a distended chest,his mother buried her heart with him in his grave, and even the voiceof strangers is lowered as they say, "She lost a son once."
The late Captain Jamieson, a kindly, shrewd man and a Scotchman withal,was agent to Mrs. Fielden, widow of the late member for Stanby, andwhen he died his income perished with him, and The Family ofJamieson--a large one, as has been told--were thankful enough tosubsist on their mother's inheritance of some four or five hundred ayear, bequeathed to her by the member of the non-illustrious house ofHiggins, late farmer deceased. It is a hospitable house, for all itsnarrow means, and there live not, I believe, a warmer-hearted or moregenerous family than these good Jamiesons. The girls are energetic,bright, and honest; their slender purses are at the disposal of everyscoundrel in the parish; and their time, as well as their boundlessenergy, is devoted to the relief of suffering or to the betterment ofmankind.
Mrs. Fielden is of the opinion that nothing gives one a more perfectfeeling of rest than going to Belmont, as the Jamiesons' little houseis called, and watching them work. She calls it the "Rest Cure."Every one of the five sisters, except Maud, who is the beauty of thefamily, wears spectacles, and behind these their bright, intelligentsmall eyes glint with kindness and brisk energy. The worst feature ofthis excellent family is their habit of all talking at the same time,in a certain emphatic fashion which renders it difficult to catch whateach individual is saying, and this is especially the case when threeof the sisters are driving sewing-machines simultaneously. They have agenius for buying remnants of woollen goods at a small price, andconverting them into garments for the poor; and their first questionoften is, as they hold a piece of flannel or serge triumphantly aloft,"What do you think I gave for that?" Palestrina always names at leasttwice the sum that has purchased the goods, and has thereby gained acharacter for being dreadfully extravagant but sympathetic.
"I do not believe," I said to Palestrina the other day, "that thesegood Jamiesons have a thought beyond making other people happy."
"That and getting married are the sole objects of their existence,"said Palestrina.
"It is very odd," I said, "that women so devoid of what might be calledsentiment are yet so bent upon this very thing."
"Eliza told me to-day," said Palestrina, "that as Kate has notmentioned one single man in her letters home, they cannot help thinkingthat there is something in it."
The Jamiesons have the same vigorous, energetic ideas about matrimonythat they have about everything else, and almost their sole grievance,naively expressed, is that Maud, "who gets them all"--meaning, Ibelieve, offers of marriage--is the only one of the family who isunable to make up her mind clearly on this momentous question.
"We should not mind," say the conclave of sisters during one of thenumerous family discussions on this subject, "even if she does get allthe admirers--for of course she is the pretty one--if only she wouldaccept one of them. But she always gets undecided and silly as soon asthey come to the point."
It should be observed in passing that the different stages ofdevelopment in love affairs are shrewdly noted and commented upon bythe Jamiesons. The first evidence of a man's preference is that he "isstruck;" and the second, when he begins to visit at the house, is knownas "hovering." An inquiry after Maud's health will sometimes elicitthe unexpected reply that another admirer is hovering at present. Thethird stage is reached when the lover is said to be "dangling;" and thefinal triumph, when Maud has received a proposal, is noted as having"come to the point."
If Maud's triumphs are watched with small sighs of envy by her sisters,they are a source of nothing but gratification to them to retail to theoutside world. There is a strict account kept of Maud's "conquests" inthe letters sent to relatives, and the evening's post will sometimescontain the startling announcement that Maud has had a fourth in oneyear.
"Of course, you know how fond we all are of each other," said ElizaJamieson to me one day with one of those unexpected confidences whichthe effeminacy of sickness seems to warrant, if not actually to invite,"but we can't help thinking that, humanly speaking, we should all havea better chance if only Maud would marry. No one would wish her tomarry without love, but we fear she is looking for perfection, and_that_ she will never get; and it was really absurd of her to be soupset when she discovered, after nearly getting engaged to Mr. Reddy,that he wore a wig. After all, a man may be a good Christian in spiteof having no hair."
"That is undoubtedly a fact," I said warmly.
"And Mr. Reddy had excellent prospects," said Eliza, "although perhapsnothing very tangible at present. Then there was Albert Gore, to whom,one must admit, Maud gave every encouragement, and we had begun tothink it quite hopeful; but just at the end she discovered that shecould not care for any one called Albert, which was too silly."
"She might have called him Bertie," I suggested.
"Yes," said Eliza eag
erly; "and you see, none of us hope or expect tomarry a man who has not some of these little drawbacks, so I really donot see why Maud should expect it."
Five matrimonial alliances in one house are, perhaps, not easilyarranged in a quiet country neighbourhood, yet there is always ahopeful tone about these family discussions, and it is very common tohear the Miss Jamiesons relate at length what they intend to do whenthey are married.
And there is yet another maiden to be arranged for in the little house;Mettie is the Jamiesons' cousin who lives with them, and I believe thatwhat appeals to me most strongly in this unknown provincial family istheir kindness to the little shrunken, tiresome cousin who shares theirhome. Mettie is like some strange little bright bird, utterly devoidof intelligence, and yet with the alertness of a sparrow. Her beadyeyes are a-twinkle in a restless sort of way all day long, and herlarge thin nose has always the appearance of having the skin stretchedunpleasantly tightly across it. The good Jamiesons never seem to beruffled by her presence among them, and this forbearance certainlycommands one's respect. Mettie travesties the Jamiesons in everyparticular. She has adopted their matrimonial views with interest, andshe utters little platitudes upon the subject with quite a surprisingair of sapience. One avoids being left alone with Mettie whenever itis possible to do so, for, gentle creature though she is, her remarksare so singularly devoid of interest that one is often puzzled tounderstand why they are made. Yet I see one or other of the Jamiesonswalk to the village with her every day--her little steps patteringbeside their giant strides, while the bird-like tongue chirps gaily allthe way.
Every one in our little neighbourhood walks into the village every day;it is our daily dissipation; and frivolous persons have been known togo twice or three times. On days when Palestrina thinks that I amgetting moped she steals the contents of my tobacco-jar, and then says,without blushing, that she has discovered that my tobacco is allfinished, and that we had better walk into the village together and getsome more. When I am in a grumpy mood, I reply: "It's all right, thankyou; I have plenty upstairs." But it generally ends in my taking thewalk with my sister.
Our house is pleasantly situated where, by peeping through a tangle ofshrubs and trees, we can see the lazy traffic of the highroad thatleads to the village. Strangers pause outside the screen of evergreenssometimes and peep between the branches to see the quaint gables of theold house. Its walls have turned to a soft yellow colour with old age,and its beams are of oak, gray with exposure to the storms of manywinters.
"This old hall of yours is much too dark," Mrs. Fielden said, when shecame to call the other day muffled up in velvet and fur. She lightedthe dull afternoon by something that is radiant and holiday-like abouther, and left us envying her for being so pretty and so young and gay."Oh, I know," she said in her whimsical way, "that it is Jacobean andearly Tudor and all sorts of delightful things, but it isn't verycheerful, you know. I'm so glad it is near the road; I think if Ibuilt a house I should like it to be in Mansion House Square, or insidea railway station. Don't you love spending a night at a station hotel?I always ask for a room overlooking the platform, for I like thefeeling of having the trains running past me all night. I love yourhouse really," she said, "only I'm afraid it preaches peace andresignation and all those things which I consider so wrong."
Since I have been laid up I have been recommended to carve wood, tobeat brass, to stuff sofa-cushions, and to play the zither; but thesethings do not amuse me much. It was Mrs. Fielden who suggested that Ishould write a diary.
"You must grumble," she said, raising her pretty eyebrows in theaffected way she has. "It wouldn't be human if you didn't; so why notwrite a diary, and have a real good grumble on paper every night beforeyou go to bed. Of course, if I were in your place I should grumble allday instead, and go to sleep at night. But I'm not the least bit aresigned person. If anything hurts me I scream at once; and if thereis anything I don't like doing I leave it alone. Palestrina," she saidto my sister, "don't let him be patient; it's so bad for him."
Palestrina smiled, and said she was afraid it was very dull for mesometimes.
"But if one is impatient enough, one can't be dull," said Mrs. Fielden."It's like being cross----"
"I am constitutionally dull," I said. "I used to be known as thedullest man in my regiment."
"You studied philosophy, didn't you?" said Mrs. Fielden. "That must beso depressing."
I was much struck by this suggestion. "I dare say you are quiteright," I said, "although I had not seen it in that light before. ButI'm afraid it has not made me very patient, nor given me a great mind."
"Of course, what you want just now," said Mrs. Fielden gravely, "is alittle mind. You must lie here on your sofa, and take a vivid interestin what all the old ladies say when they come to call on Palestrina.And you must know the price of Mrs. Taylor's last new hat, and how muchthe Traceys spend on their washing-bill, and you must put it all downin your diary. I'll come over and help you sometimes, and write allthe wicked bits for you, only I'm afraid no one ever is wicked downhere.
"Good-bye," she said, holding out the smallest, prettiest, mostuseless-looking little hand in the world. "And please," she addedearnestly, "get all this oak painted white, and hang some nice muslincurtains in the windows."
Kindly folk in Stowel are always ingenuously surprised at any one'scaring to live in the country; and although it is but a mile from hereto the vestry hall, and much less by the fields, they often question uswhether we do not feel lonely at night-time, and they are of theopinion that we should be better in "town." They frequently speak ofgoing into the country for change of air, or on Bank Holidays; butconsidering that the last house in the village--and, like the City ofZoar, it is but a little one--is built amongst fields, it might beimagined that these rural retreats could readily be found without thetrouble of hiring the four-wheeled dog-cart from the inn, or of takinga journey by train. Yet an expedition into the country is often talkedof as being a change, and friends and relations living outside the townare considered a little bit behindhand in their views ofthings--"old-feshioned" they call it in Stowel--and these countrycousins are visited with just a touch of kindly condescension by thedwellers in a flower-bordered, tree-shadowed High Street.
One is brought rather quaintly into immediate correspondence with thedomestic concerns of every one in Stowel, and Palestrina has beencoaching me in the etiquette of the place. It is hardly correct to doany shopping at dinner-time, when the lady of the house, busy feedingher family, has to be called from the inner parlour, where that familymay all be distinctly seen from the shop. Driving or walking throughStowel at the hour thus consecrated by universal consent to gastronomy,one might almost imagine it to be a deserted village. Even the dogshave gone inside to get a bone; and one says, as one walks down theempty streets, "Stowel dines."
When a shop is closed on Thursday, which is early-closing day, one cangenerally "be obliged" by ringing at the house-bell, and, under conductof the master of the place, may enter the darkened shop by the sidedoor, and be accommodated with the purchase that one requires. For theold custom still holds of living--where it seems most natural for amerchant to live--in the place where he does his business. There is apleasurable feeling of excitement even in the purchase of a pot ofAspinall's enamel behind closed shutters, and this is mingled with afeeling of solemnity and privilege, which I can only compare, in itsmixed effect upon me, to going behind the scenes of a theatre, or beingpermitted to enter the vestry of a church.
Any purchases except those which may be called necessaries are seldomindulged in in our little town. A shop which contains anything butdress and provisions has few customers, and its merchandise becomeshousehold fixtures. I called at the furniture shop the other day; theplace looked bare and unfamiliar to me, but I did not realize what wasamiss until my sister exclaimed, "Where is the sofa?" The sofa hadbeen for sale for fifteen years, and had at last been purchased. Thereare other things in the shop which I think must have
been there muchlonger, and I believe their owner would part with them with regret,even were a very fair profit to be obtained for them. Palestrina tellsme she ordered some fish the other day, and was met with the objectionthat "I fear that piece will be too big for your fish-kettle, ma'am,"although she had never suspected that the size of her fish-kettle was amatter known to the outside world.
And yet Stowel prides itself more upon its reserve than upon anythingelse, except perhaps its gentility. There is a distinct air of mysteryover any and every one of the smallest affairs of daily life in thelittle place, and I hardly think that our neighbours would really enjoyanything if it were "spoken about" before the proper time. There issomething of secrecy in the very air of the town. No one, I am told,has ever been known to mention, even casually, what he or she intendsto have for dinner; and the butcher has been warned against callingacross the shop to the lady at the desk, "Two pounds of rumpsteak forMiss Tracey," or, "One sirloin, twelve two, for the Hall." Mr.Tomsett, who was the first butcher to introduce New Zealand mutton tothe inhabitants of Stowel, lost his custom by this vulgar habit ofassorting his joints in public. And Miss Tracey, who knew him best (hewas still something of a stranger, having been in Stowel only fiveyears), warned him that that was not the sort of thing we wereaccustomed to. "If you must make our private concerns public in thisway," she said, "at least it cannot be necessary to mention in whatcountry the mutton was raised."
It is even considered a little indelicate to remain in the post-officewhen a telegram is being handed in. And parcels addressed and laid onthe counter at the grocer's, although provocative of interest, are noteven glanced at by the best people.
On the authority of my sister, I learn that when the ladies of Stoweldo a little dusting in the morning the front blinds are pulled down.And keen though the speculation may be as to the extent of ourneighbours' incomes, the subject is, of course, a forbidden one. Poorthough some of these neighbours are, a very kindly charity prevails inthe little town. When the elder Miss Blind was ill--as she very oftenis, poor thing!--it might seem a matter of coincidence to theuninitiated that during that week every one of her friends happened tomake a little strong soup, a portion of which was sent to theinvalid--just in case she might fancy it; while the Miss Traceys, who,as all the world knew, had inherited a little wine from their father,the late Vicar of the parish, sent their solitary remaining bottle ofchampagne, with their compliments, to Miss Belinda. The champagneproved flat after many a year of storage in the lower cupboard of MissTracey's pantry, but the two sisters to whom it was sent, not beingfamiliar with the wine, did not detect its faults, and they left thegreen bottle with the gilt neck casually standing about for weeksafterwards, from an innocent desire to impress their neighbours withits magnificence.
Palestrina, with the good intention, I believe, of providing me withwhat she calls an object for a walk, asked me to call and inquire forMiss Blind on the day that the bottle of champagne was drawn andsampled. Miss Lydia was in the sick-room, and Mrs. Lovekin, who hadcalled to inquire, was sitting in the little parlour when I entered."How do you do?" she said. "I suppose you have heard about Belinda andthe champagne?"
The reproachful note in Mrs. Lovekin's voice, which seemed to tax theinvalid with ingratitude, subtly conveyed the impression that the flatchampagne had not agreed with poor Miss Belinda.
A Lame Dog's Diary Page 2
