The mother flourished amid all this.
"Better have them noisy than ill," she said.
But the growing girls, in turn, suffered bitterly. Ursula was
just coming to the stage when Andersen and Grimm were being left
behind for the "Idylls of the King" and romantic
love-stories.
"Elaine the fair Elaine the lovable,
Elaine the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her chamber in a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Launcelot."
How she loved it! How she leaned in her bedroom window with
her black, rough hair on her shoulders, and her warm face all
rapt, and gazed across at the churchyard and the little church,
which was a turreted castle, whence Launcelot would ride just
now, would wave to her as he rode by, his scarlet cloak passing
behind the dark yew trees and between the open space: whilst
she, ah, she, would remain the lonely maid high up and isolated
in the tower, polishing the terrible shield, weaving it a
covering with a true device, and waiting, waiting, always remote
and high.
At which point there would be a faint scuffle on the stairs,
a light-pitched whispering outside the door, and a creaking of
the latch: then Billy, excited, whispering: "It's locked--it's locked."
Then the knocking, kicking at the door with childish knees,
and the urgent, childish: "Ursula--our Ursula? Ursula? Eh, our Ursula?"
No reply.
"Ursula! Eh--our Ursula?" the name was shouted now Still
no answer.
"Mother, she won't answer," came the yell. "She's dead."
"Go away--I'm not dead. What do you want?" came the
angry voice of the girl.
"Open the door, our Ursula," came the complaining cry. It was
all over. She must open the door. She heard the screech of the
bucket downstairs dragged across the flagstones as the woman
washed the kitchen floor. And the children were prowling in the
bedroom, asking: "What were you doing? What had you locked the door for?" Then
she discovered the key of the parish room, and betook herself
there, and sat on some sacks with her books. There began another
dream.
She was the only daughter of the old lord, she was gifted
with magic. Day followed day of rapt silence, whilst she
wandered ghost-like in the hushed, ancient mansion, or flitted
along the sleeping terraces.
Here a grave grief attacked her: that her hair was dark. She
must have fair hair and a white skin. She was rather
bitter about her black mane.
Never mind, she would dye it when she grew up, or bleach it
in the sun, till it was bleached fair. Meanwhile she wore a fair
white coif of pure Venetian lace.
She flitted silently along the terraces, where jewelled
lizards basked upon the stone, and did not move when her shadow
fell upon them. In the utter stillness she heard the tinkle of
the fountain, and smelled the roses whose blossoms hung rich and
motionless. So she drifted, drifted on the wistful feet of
beauty, past the water and the swans, to the noble park, where,
underneath a great oak, a doe all dappled lay with her four fine
feet together, her fawn nestling sun-coloured beside her.