Uncle Max | Page 2

so they said. It would distract and amuse me to watch Sara
making her purchases. Reluctance, silent opposition, only whetted their
charitable mood.
'Don't be disagreeable, Ursula. You might as well help me choose my
new mantle,' Sara had said, quite pleasantly, and I had given in with a
bad grace.
Another time I might have been amused by Aunt Philippa's majestic
deportment and Sara's brisk importance, her girlish airs and graces; but
I was too sad at heart to indulge in my usual satire. Everything seemed
stupid and tiresome; the hum of voices wearied me; the showroom at
Marshall and Snelgrove's seemed a confused Babel,--everywhere
strange voices, a hubbub of sound, tall figures in black passing and
repassing, strange faces reflected in endless pier-glasses,--faces of
puckered anxiety repeating themselves in ludicrous _vrai-semblance_.
I saw our own little group reproduced in one. There was Aunt Philippa,
tall and portly, with her well-preserved beauty, a little full-blown
perhaps, but still 'marvellously' good-looking for her age, if she could

only have not been so conscious of the fact.
Then, Sara, standing there slim and straight, with the furred mantle just
slipping over her smooth shoulders, radiant with good health, good
looks, perfectly contented with herself and the whole world, as it
behooves a handsome, high-spirited young woman to be with her
surroundings, looking bright, unconcerned, good-humoured, in spite of
her mother's fussy criticisms: Aunt Philippa was always a little fussy
about dress.
Between the two I could just catch a glimpse of myself,--a tall girl,
dressed very plainly in black, with a dark complexion, large,
anxious-looking eyes, that seemed appealing for relief from all this
dulness,--a shadowy sort of image of discontent and protest in the
background, hovering behind Aunt Philippa's velvet mantle and Sara's
slim supple figure.
'Well, Ursula,' said Sara, still good-humouredly, 'will you not give us
your opinion? Does this dolman suit me, or would you prefer a long
jacket trimmed with skunk?'
I remember I decided in favour of the jacket, only Aunt Philippa
interposed, a little contemptuously,--
'What does Ursula know about the present fashion? She has spent the
last year in the wards of St. Thomas's, my dear,' dropping her voice,
and taking up her gold-rimmed eye-glasses to inspect me more
critically,--a mere habit, for I had reason to know Aunt Philippa was
not the least near-sighted. 'I cannot see any occasion for you to dress so
dowdily, with three hundred a year to spend absolutely on yourself; for
of course poor Charlie's little share has come to you. You could surely
make yourself presentable, especially as you know we are going to
Hyde Park Mansions to see Lesbia.'
This was too much for my equanimity. 'What does it matter? I am not
coming with you, Aunt Philippa,' I retorted, somewhat vexed at this
personality; but Sara overheard us, and strove to pour oil on the
troubled waters.

'Leave Ursula alone, mother: she looks tolerably well this afternoon;
only mourning never suits a dark complexion--' But I did not wait to
hear any more. I wandered about the place disconsolately, pretending to
examine things with passing curiosity, but my eyes were throbbing and
my heart beating angrily at Sara's thoughtless speech. A sudden
remembrance seemed to steal before me vividly: Charlie's pale face,
with its sad, sweet smile, haunted me. 'Courage, Ursula; it will be over
soon.' Those were his last words, poor boy, and he was looking at me
and not at Lesbia as he spoke. I always wondered what he meant by
them. Was it his long pain, which he had borne so patiently, that would
soon be over? or was it that cruel parting to which he alluded? or did he
strive to comfort me at the last with the assurance--alas! for our mortal
nature, so sadly true--that pain cannot last for ever, that even faithful
sorrow is short-lived and comforts itself in time, that I was young
enough to outlive more than one trouble, and that I might take courage
from this thought?
I looked down at the black dress, such as I had worn nearly two years
for him, and raged as I remembered Sara's flippant words. 'My darling,
I would wear mourning for you all my life gladly,' I said, with an
inward sob that was more anger than sorrow, 'if I thought you would
care for me to do it. Oh, what a world this is, Charlie! surely vanity and
vexation of spirit!'
I did not mean to be cross with Sara, but my thoughts had taken a
gloomy turn, and I could not recover my spirits: indeed, as we drove
down Bond Street, where Sara had some glittering little toy to purchase,
I reiterated my intention of not calling at Hyde Park Mansions.
'I do not want any tea,' I