The Ballad and the Source by Rosamond Lehmann Page A

to make it out, no doubt, to suit their book. It’s peculiar what jealousy can demean a man to. But there! Man!”
    She pointed an unspeakable meaning with a venomous snort and chuckle. I saw the old dragon—her feud with our butler—about to rear its hoary head, and said hastily, to distract her:
    â€œTell me about Miss Sibyl. What was she like?”
    â€œOh, she was a Beauty, was Miss Sibyl. The Young Beauty of the season,” said Tilly, smiling, musing. “There was more beauties then too. There was Lily Langtry—the Jersey Lily. But she wasn’t the only one. … I stood on a chair in the Park to watch ’er drive by.”
    â€œWho? Miss Sibyl?”
    â€œCertindly not. Whatever would I want to do that for, when she was in and out of my room all day? Yes, and dressed ’er for ’er first ball. She did look a picture that night, I will say. ‘ I shall never care for Society, Tilly. It’s all a trumpery sham. I want to do something different—something to show I’ve a brain as well as a face. …’ She was ’igh-spirited, that was all. She needed guidin’. She was a orphan, of course. I dare say that ’ad somethink to do with it. She’d ’ad a funny bringin’ up from all accounts. There was somebody was ’er guardian—the name’s slipped me — no better than ’e should be. Well-connected­­­­ too. One night there was a ring at the front door and in she flew. ‘ Madrona, will you take me in?’ That was the name she called ’er—Madrona. She’d run ’alf across London in ’er evenin’ gownd and sating slippers. She did pant. I never ’eard the rights of it—there was a lot of talk. But there she stayed. Of course she’d often stayed before, just for short visits—the families ’ad been friendly a long way back, I fancy. She’d be goin’ on nineteen then. Oh, she was a wild thing! She did what she pleased and she said what she pleased—but I never thought there was no vice in ’er—just ’igh-spirited; and didn’t ’er eyes give a spark like, if anybody crossed ’er!”
    At this evocative stroke. I felt my inside turn over. Oh yes, I knew Miss Sibyl. Something came up in my throat and almost suffocated me. Tilly went on:
    â€œBut she never tried no tricks with ’er. It was: ‘Yes, darlin­’ Madrona, certindly, sweetest Madrona ’— as meek as milk. Talk of love and gratitoode—she went on as if she fair worshipped ’er.”
    â€œYou mean she fair worshipped Grandma?”
    â€œThat’s what I said.”
    â€œShe still does!” I cried in triumph. “She’s always talking about her. Oh Tilly, you must see her! Her name’s Mrs. Jardine now. Did she have another husband who died?”
    â€œNot as I know of.” A complicated expression crossed Tilly’s face. “Oh, ’e died in ’is own good time, I dare say,” she added cryptically. “I don’t know nothink about that.”
    â€œBut you said she was called Mrs. Herbert—”
    â€œAnd so she was.” Tilly closed her lips sharply. “I’m not likely to forget that—considerin’ she married ’im from your grandfather’s house. Mr. Charles ’Erbert. I’m not one to put names on people that don’t belong to ’em.”
    I realised that my approach was faulty, and that I must be wily and devious until the tide flowed up again and overwhelmed such scruples as appeared to have arisen.
    â€œCan I thread your needle?” I said.
    She handed it over to me, and I threaded it and gave it back to her; and she told me to look in her left-hand top drawer if I fancied a fondant. When I had eaten it, I said:
    â€œDid Grandma love her too?”
    â€œShe did.” Tilly laid down her work and mopped her eyes. Tears often rolled out of