Читать книгу The Heart of Una Sackville - Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey - Страница 4

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Bed-time; my own room. May 14th.

It is different from school! My room is simply sweet, all newly done up as a surprise for me on my return. White paint and blue walls, and little bookcases in the corners, and comfy chairs and cushions, and a writing-table, and such lovely artistic curtains—dragons making faces at fleur-de-lys on a dull blue background. I’m awfully well off, and they are all so good to me, I ought to be the happiest girl in the world, but I feel sort of achey and strange, and a little bit lonely, though I wouldn’t say so for the world. I miss the girls.

It was awful this morning—positively awful. I should think there was a flood after I left—all the girls howled so, and I was sticking my head out of the carriage window all the journey to get my face cool before I arrived. Father met me at the station, and we spanked up together in the dog-cart. That was scrumptious. I do love rushing through the air behind a horse like Firefly, and father is such an old love, and always understands how you feel. He is very quiet and shy, and when anyone else is there he hardly speaks a word, but we chatter like anything when we are together. I have a kind of idea that he likes me best, though Spencer and Vere are the show members of the family. Spencer is the heir, and is almost always away because he is a soldier, and Vere is away a lot too, because she hates the country, and likes visiting about and having a good time. She’s awfully pretty, but—No! I won’t say it. I hereby solemnly vow and declare that I shall never say nasty things of anyone in this book, only, of course, if they do nasty things, I shall have to tell, or it won’t be true. She isn’t much with father, anyway, and he likes to be made a fuss of, because he’s so quiet himself. Isn’t it funny how people are like that! You’d think they’d like you to be prim and quiet too, but they don’t a bit, and the more you plague them the better they’re pleased.

“Back again, my girl, are you? A finished young lady, eh?” said father, flicking his whip.

“Very glad of it, I can tell you. I’m getting old, and need someone to look after me a bit.” He looked me up and down, with a sort of anxious look, as if he wanted to see if I were changed. “We had good times together when you were a youngster and used to trot round with me every morning to see the dogs and the horses, but I suppose you won’t care for that sort of thing now. It will be all dresses and running about from one excitement to another. You won’t care for tramping about in thick boots with the old father!”

I laughed, and pinched him in his arm. “Don’t fish! You know very well I’ll like it better than anything else. Of course, I shall like pretty dresses too, and as much fun as I can get, but I don’t think I shall ever grow up properly, father—enough to walk instead of run, and smile sweetly instead of shrieking with laughter as we do at school. It will be a delightful way of letting off steam to go off with you for some long country rambles, and have some of our nice old talks.”

He turned and stared at me quite hard, and for a long time. He has such a lot of wrinkles round his eyes, and they look so tired. I never noticed it before. He looked sort of sad, and as if he wanted something. I wonder if he has been lonely while I was away. Poor old dad! I’ll be a perfect angel to him. I’ll never neglect him for my own amusement like Resolution number one! Sentence can’t be finished.

“How old are you, child?” father said at last, turning away with a sigh and flicking Firefly gently with the whip, and I sat up straight and said proudly—

“Nearly nineteen. I begged to stay on another half year, you know, because of the exam, but I failed again in that hateful arithmetic: I’m a perfect dunce over figures, father; I hope you don’t mind. I can sing very well; my voice was better than any of the other girls, and that will give you more pleasure than if I could do all the sums in the world. They tried to teach me algebra, too. Such a joke; I once got an equation right. The teacher nearly had a fit. It was the most awful fluke.”

“I don’t seem to care much about your arithmetical prowess,” father said, smiling. “I shall not ask you to help me with my accounts, but it will be a pleasure to hear you sing, especially if you will indulge me with a ballad now and then which I can really enjoy. You are older than I thought; but keep as young as you can, child. I don’t want to lose my little playfellow yet awhile. I’ve missed her very badly these last years.”

I liked to hear that. It was sad for him, of course, but I simply love people to love me and feel bad when I’m gone. I was far and away the most popular girl at school, but it wasn’t all chance as they seemed to think. I’m sure I worked hard enough for the position. If a girl didn’t like me I was so fearfully nice to her that she was simply forced to come round. I said something like that to Lorna once, and she was quite shocked, and called it self-seeking and greed for admiration, and all sorts of horrid names. I don’t see it at all; I call it a most amiable weakness. It makes you pleasant and kind even if you feel horrid, and that must be nice. I felt all bubbling over with good resolutions when father said that, and begged him to let me be not only his playmate but his helper also, and to tell me at once what I could do.

He smiled again in that sad sort of way grown-up people have, which seems to say that they know such a lot more than you, and are sorry for your ignorance.

“Nothing definite, darling,” he said; “an infinite variety of things indefinite! Love me, and remember me sometimes among the new distractions—that’s about the best you can do;” and I laughed, and pinched him again.

“You silly old dear! As if I could ever forget!” and just at that moment we drove up to the porch.

If it had been another girl’s mother, she would have been waiting at the door to receive 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?