Book: Uncle Max

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UNCLE MAX

by

ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY

Author of 'Nellie's Memories,' 'Wee Wifie,' 'Robert Ord's Atonement,'
etc.

1894







CONTENTS


I. Out of the Mist

II. Behind the Bars

III. Cinderella

IV. Uncle Max Breaks The Ice

V. 'When The Cat Is Away'

VI. The White Cottage

VII. Giles Hamilton, Esq

VIII. New Brooms Sweep Clean

IX. The Flag of Truce

X. A Difficult Patient

XI. One of God's Heroines

XII. A Missed Vocation

XIII. Lady Betty

XIV. Lady Betty Leaves Her Muff

XV. Up At Gladwyn

XVI. Gladys

XVII. 'Why Not Trust Me, Max?'

XVIII. Miss Hamilton's Little Scholar

XIX. The Picture In Gladys's Room

XX. Eric

XXI. 'I Ran Away, Then!'

XXII. 'They Have Blackened His Memory Falsely'

XXIII. The Mystery at Gladwyn

XXIV. 'Weeping may endure for a Night'

XXV. 'There is no one like Donald'

XXVI. I hear about Captain Hamilton

XXVII. Max opens his Heart

XXVIII. Crossing the River

XXIX. Miss Darrell has a Headache

XXX. With Timbrels and Dances

XXXI. Wedding-Chimes

XXXII. A Fiery Ordeal

XXXIII. Jack Poynter

XXXIV. I communicate with Joe Muggins

XXXV. Nightingales and Roses

XXXVI. Breakers Ahead

XXXVII. 'I claim that Promise, Ursula'

XXXVIII. In the Turret-Room

XXXIX. Whitefoot is saddled

XL. The Talk in the Gloaming

XLI. 'At five o'clock in the Morning'

XLII. Down the Pemberley Road

XLIII. 'Conspiracy Corner'

XLIV. Leah's Confession

XLV. 'This Home is yours no longer'

XLVI. Nap barks in the Stable-yard

XLVII. At last, Ursula, at last!'

XLVIII. 'What o' the Way to the End?'





CHAPTER I

OUT OF THE MIST


It appears to me, looking back over a past experience, that certain days
in one's life stand out prominently as landmarks, when we arrive at some
finger-post pointing out the road that we should follow.

We come out of some deep, rutty lane, where the hedgerows obscure the
prospect, and where the footsteps of some unknown passenger have left
tracks in the moist red clay. The confused tracery of green leaves
overhead seems to weave fanciful patterns against the dim blue of the
sky; the very air is low-pitched and oppressive. All at once we find
ourselves in an open space; the free winds of heaven are blowing over us;
there are four roads meeting; the finger-post points silently, 'This way
to such a place'; we can take our choice, counting the mile-stones rather
wearily as we pass them. The road may be a little tedious, the stones may
hurt our feet; but if it be the right road it will bring us to our
destination.

In looking back it always seems to me as though I came to a fresh
landmark in my experience that November afternoon when I saw Uncle Max
standing in the twilight, waiting for me.

There had been the waste of a great trouble in my young life,--sorrow,
confusion, then utter chaos. I had struggled on somehow after my twin
brother's death, trying to fight against despair with all my youthful
vitality; creating new duties for myself, throwing out fresh feelers
everywhere; now and then crying out in my undisciplined way that the
task was too hard for me; that I loathed my life; that it was impossible
to live any longer without love and appreciation and sympathy; that so
uncongenial an atmosphere could be no home to me; that the world was an
utter negation and a mockery.

That was before I went to the hospital, at the time when my trouble was
fresh and I was breaking my heart with the longing to see Charlie's face
again. Most people who have lived long in the world, and have parted with
their beloved, know what that sort of hopeless ache means.

My work was over at the hospital, and I had come home again,--to rest, so
they said, but in reality to work out plans for my future life, in a sort
of sullen silence, that seemed to shut me out from all sympathy.

It had wrapped me in a sort of mantle of reserve all the afternoon,
during which I had been driving with Aunt Philippa and Sara. The air
would do me good. I was moped, hipped, with all that dreary hospital
work, 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 said wearily, 'and I would rather go home.
Give my love to Lesbia; I will see her another day.'

'Lesbia will be hurt,' remonstrated Sara. 'What a little misanthrope you
are, Ursula! St. Thomas's has injured you socially; you have become a
hermit-crab all at once, and it is such nonsense at your age.'

'Oh, let me be, Sara!' I pleaded; 'I am tired, and Lesbia always chatters
so; and Mrs. Fullerton is worse. Besides, did you not tell me she was
coming to dine with us this evening?'

'Yes, to be sure; but she wanted us to meet the Percy Glyns. Mirrel and
Winifred Glyn are to be there this afternoon. Never mind, Lesbia will
understand when I say you are in one of your ridiculous moods.' And Sara
hummed a little tune gaily, as though she meant no offence by her words
and was disposed to let me go my own way.

'The carriage can take you home, Ursula; we can walk those few yards,'
observed Aunt Philippa, as she descended leisurely, and Sara tripped
after her, still humming. But I took no notice of her words: I had had
enough dulness and decorum to last me for some time, and the Black Prince
and his consort Bay might find their way to their own stables without
depositing me at the front door of the house at Hyde Park Gate. I told
Clarence so, to his great astonishment, and walked across the road in an
opposite direction to home, as though my feet were winged with
quicksilver.

For the Park in that dim November light seemed to allure me; there was
a red glow of sunset in the distance; a faint, climbing mist between the
trees; the gas-lamps were twinkling everywhere. I could hear the ringing
of some church bell; there was space, freedom for thought, a vague,
uncertain prospect, out of which figures were looming curiously,--a
delightful sense that I was sinning against conventionality and Aunt
Philippa.

'Halloo, Ursula!' exclaimed a voice in great astonishment; and there, out
of the mist, was a kind face looking at me,--a face with a brown beard,
and dark eyes with a touch of amusement in them; and the eyes and the
beard and the bright, welcoming smile belonged to Uncle Max.

As I caught at his outstretched hand with a half-stifled exclamation
of delight, a policeman turned round and looked at us with an air of
interest. No doubt he thought the tall brown-bearded clergyman in the
shabby coat--it was one of Uncle Max's peculiarities to wear a shabby
coat occasionally--was the sweetheart of the young lady in black. Uncle
Max--I am afraid I oftener called him Max--was only a few years older
than myself, and had occupied the position of an elder brother to me.

He was my poor mother's only brother, and had been dearly loved by
her,--not as I had loved Charlie, perhaps; but they had been much to each
other, and he had always seemed nearer to me than Aunt Philippa, who was
my father's sister; perhaps because there was nothing in common between
us, and I had always been devoted to Uncle Max.

'Well, Ursula,' he said, pretending to look grave, but evidently far too
pleased to see me to give me a very severe lecture, 'what is the meaning
of this? Does Mrs. Garston allow young ladies under her charge to stroll
about Hyde Park in the twilight? or have you stolen a march on her,
naughty little she-bear?'

I drew my hand away with an offended air: when Uncle Max wished to tease
or punish me he always reminded me that the name of Ursula signified
she-bear, and would sometimes call me 'the little black growler'; and at
such times it was provoking to think that Sara signified princess. I have
always wondered how far and how strongly our baptismal names influence
us. Of course he would not let me walk beside him in that dignified
manner: the next instant I heard his clear hearty laugh, and then I
laughed too.

'What an absurd child you are! I was thinking over your letter as I
walked along. It did not bring me to London, certainly; I had business of
my own; but, all the same, I have walked across the Park this evening to
talk to you about this extraordinary scheme.'

But I would not let him go on. He was about to cross the road, so I took
his arm and turned him back. And there was the gray mist creeping up
between the trees, and the lamps glimmering in the distance, and the
faint pink glow had not yet died away.

'It is so quiet here,' I pleaded, 'and I could not get you alone for a
moment if we went in. Uncle Brian will be there, and Jill, and we could
not say a word. Aunt Philippa and Sara have gone to see Lesbia. I have
been driving with them all the afternoon. Sara has been shopping, and how
bored I was!'

'You uncivilised little heathen!' Then, very gravely, 'Well, how is poor
Lesbia?'

'Do not waste your pity on her,' I returned impatiently. 'She is as well
and cheerful as possible. Even Sara says so. She is not breaking her
heart about Charlie. She has left off mourning, and is as gay as ever.'

'You are always hard on Lesbia,' he returned gently. 'She is young,
my dear, you forget that, and a pretty girl, and very much admired.
It always seems to me she was very fond of the poor fellow.'

'She was good to him in his illness, but she never cared for Charlie as
he did for her. He worshipped the very ground she walked on. He thought
her perfection. Uncle Max, it was pitiful to hear him sometimes. He would
tell me how sweet and unselfish she was, and all the time I knew she was
but an ordinary, commonplace girl. If he had lived to marry her he would
have been disappointed in her. He was so large-hearted, and Lesbia has
such little aims.'

'So you always say, Ursula. But you women are so severe in your judgment
of each other. I doubt myself if the girl lives whom you would have
considered good enough for Charlie. Yes, yes, my dear,'--as I uttered a
dissenting protest to this,--'he was a fine fellow, and his was a most
lovable character; but it was his last illness that ripened him.'

'He was always perfect in my eyes,' I returned, in a choked voice.

'That was because you loved him; and no doubt Lesbia possessed the same
ideal goodness for him. Love throws its own glamour,' he went on, and
his voice was unusually grave; 'it does not believe in commonplace
mediocrity; it lifts up its idol to some fanciful pedestal, where the
poor thing feels very uncomfortable and out of its element, and then
persists in falling down and worshipping it. We humans are very droll,
Ursula: we will create our own divinities.'

'Lesbia would have disappointed him,' I persisted obstinately; but I
might as well have talked to the wind. Uncle Max could not find it in
his heart to be hard to a pretty girl.

'That is open to doubt, my dear. Lesbia is amiable and charming, and I
daresay she would have made a nice little wife. Poor Charlie hated clever
women, and in that respect she would have suited him.'

After this I knew it was no good in trying to change his opinion. Uncle
Max held his own views with remarkable tenacity; he had old-fashioned
notions with respect to women, rather singular in so young a man,--for he
was only thirty; he preferred to believe in their goodness, in spite of
any amount of demonstration to the contrary; it vexed him to be reminded
of the shortcomings of his friends; by nature he was an optimist, and had
a large amount of faith in people's good intentions. 'He meant well, poor
fellow, in spite of his failures,' was a speech I have heard more than
once from his lips. He was always ready to condone a fault or heal a
breach; indeed, his sweet nature found it difficult to bear a grudge
against any one; he was only hard to himself, and on no one else did he
strive to impose so heavy a yoke. I was only silent for a minute, and
then I turned the conversation into another channel.

'But my letter, Uncle Max!'

'Ah, true, your letter; but I have not forgotten it. How old are you,
Ursula? I always forget.'

'Five-and-twenty this month.'

'To be sure; I ought to have remembered. And you have three hundred a
year of your own.'

I nodded.

'And your present home is distasteful to you?' in an inquiring tone.

'It is no home to me,' I returned passionately. 'Oh, Uncle Max, how can
one call it home after the dear old rectory, where we were so happy,
father, and mother, and Charlie--and--'

'Yes, I know, poor child; and you have had heavy troubles. It cannot be
like the old home, I am well aware of that, Ursula; but your aunt is a
good woman. I have always found her strictly just. She was your father's
only sister: when she offered you a home she promised to treat you with
every indulgence, as though you were her own daughter.'

'Aunt Philippa means to be kind,' I said, struggling to repress my
tears,--tears always troubled Uncle Max: 'she is kind in her way, and so
is Sara. I have every comfort, every luxury; they want me to be gay and
enjoy myself, to lead their life; but it only makes me miserable; they do
not understand me; they see I do not think with them, and then they laugh
at me and call me morbid. No one really wants me but poor Jill: I am so
fond of Jill.'

'Why cannot you lead their life, Ursula?'

'Because it is not life at all,' was my resolute answer: 'to me it is the
most wearisome existence possible. Listen to me, Uncle Max. Do you think
I could possibly spend my days as Sara does,--writing a few notes, doing
a little fancy-work, shopping and paying visits, and dancing half the
night? Do you think you could transform such a poor little Cinderella
into a fairy princess, like Sara or Lesbia? No; the drudgery of such a
life would kill me with _ennui_ and discontent.'

'It is not the life I would choose for you, certainly,' he said, pulling
his beard in some perplexity: 'it is far too worldly to suit my taste; if
Charlie had lived you would have made your home with him. He often talked
to me about that, poor fellow. I thought a year or two at Hyde Park Gate
would do you no harm, and might be wholesome training; but it has proved
a failure, I see that.'

'They would be happier without me,' I went on, more quietly, for he was
evidently coming round to my view of the case. 'Aunt Philippa does not
mean to be unkind, but she often lets me see that I am in the way, that
she is not proud of me. She would have taken more interest in me if I had
been handsome, like Sara; but a plain, dowdy niece is not to her taste.
No, let me finish, Uncle Max,'--for he wanted to interrupt me here.
'They made a great fuss about my training at the hospital last year,
but I am sure they did not miss me; Sara spoke yesterday as though she
thought I was going back to St. Thomas's, and Aunt Philippa made no
objection. I heard her tell Mrs. Fullerton once "that really Ursula was
so strong-minded and different from other girls that she was prepared for
anything, even for her being a female doctor."'

'Well, my dear, you are certainly rather peculiar, you know.'

'Oh, Uncle Max,' I said mournfully, 'are you going to misunderstand me
too? Providence has deprived me of my parents and my only brother: is it
strong-minded or peculiar to be so lonely and sad at heart that gaiety
only jars on me? Can I forget my mother's teaching when she said,
"Ursula, if you live for the world you will be miserable. Try to do your
duty and benefit your fellow-creatures, and happiness must follow"?'

'Yes, poor Emmie, she was a good woman: you might do worse than take
after her.'

'She would not approve of the life I am leading at Hyde Park Gate,' I
went on. 'She and Aunt Philippa never cared for each other. I often think
that if she had known she would not have liked me to be there. Sundays
are wretched. We go to church?--yes, because it is respectable to do so;
but there is a sort of reunion every Sunday evening.'

'I wish I could offer you a home, Ursula; but--' here Uncle Max
hesitated.

'That would not do at all,' I returned promptly. 'Your bachelor home
would not do for me; besides, you might marry--of course you will,' but
he flushed rather uncomfortably at that, and said, 'Pshaw! what
nonsense!' We had paused under a lamp-post, and I could see him plainly:
perhaps he knew this, for he hurried me on, this time in the direction of
home.

'I am five-and-twenty,' I continued, trying to collect the salient points
of my argument. 'I am indebted to none for my maintenance; I am free, and
my own mistress; I neglect no duty by refusing to live under Uncle
Brian's roof; no one wants me; I contribute to no one's happiness.'

'Except to Jill's,' observed Uncle Max.

'Jill! but she is only a child, barely sixteen, and Sara is becoming
jealous of my influence. I shall only breed dissension in the household
if I remain. Uncle Max, you are a good man,--a clergyman; you cannot
conscientiously tell me that I am not free to lead my own life, to choose
my own work in the world.'

'Perhaps not,' he replied, in a hesitating voice. 'But the scheme is a
peculiar one. You wish me to find respectable lodgings in my parish,
where you will be independent and free from supervision, and to place
your superfluous health and strength--you are a muscular Christian,
Ursula--at the service of my sick poor, and for this post you have
previously trained yourself.'

'I think it will be a good sort of life,' I returned carelessly, but how
my heart was beating! 'I like it so much, and I should like to be near
you, Uncle Max, and work under you as my vicar. I have thought about this
for years. Charlie and I often talked of it. I was to live with him and
Lesbia and devote my time to this work. He thought it such a nice idea
to go and nurse poor people in their homes. And he promised that he
would come and sing to them. But now I must carry out my plan alone, for
Charlie cannot help me now.' And as I thought of the sympathy that had
never failed me my voice quivered and I could say no more.

'I wish we were all in heaven,' growled Uncle Max,--but his tone was a
little husky,--'for this world is a most uncomfortable place for good
people, or people with a craze. I think Charlie is well out of it.'

'Under which category do you mean to place me?' I asked, trying to laugh.

'My dear, there is a craze in most women. They have such an obstinate
faith in their own good intentions. If they find half a dozen fools to
believe in them, they will start a crusade to found a new Utopia. Women
are the most meddlesome things in creation: they never let well alone.
Their pretty little fingers are in every human pie. That is why we get so
much unwholesome crust and so little meat, and, of course, our digestion
is ruined.'

'Uncle Max--' But he would not be serious any longer.

'Ursula, I utterly refuse to inhale any more of this mist. I think a
comfortable arm-chair by the fire would be far more conducive to comfort.
You have given me plenty of food for thought, and I mean to sleep on it.
Now, not another word. I am going to ring the bell.' And Uncle Max was as
good as his word.




CHAPTER II

BEHIND THE BARS


It was quite true, as I had told Uncle Max, that the scheme had been no
new one; it was no sudden emanation from a girl's brain, morbid with
discontent and fruitless longings; it had grown with my youth and had
become part of my environment. As a child the thought had come to me as
I followed my father into one cottage after another in his house-to-house
visitation. He had been a conscientious, hard-working clergyman; in fact,
his work killed him, for he overtasked a constitution that was not
naturally strong. I accompanied my mother, too, in her errands of mercy,
and saw a great deal of the misery engendered by drink, ignorance, and
want of forethought. In the case of the sick poor, the gross
mismanagement and want of cleanly and thrifty habits led to an amount
of discomfort and suffering that even now makes me shudder. The parish
was overgrown and insufficiently worked; the greater part of the
population belonged to the working-classes; dissenting chapels and
gin-palaces flourished. Often did my childish heart ache at the
surroundings of some squalid home, where the parents toiled all day for
worse than naught, just to satisfy their unhealthy cravings, while the
children grew up riotous, half starved, and full of inherited vices.
There was a little child I saw once, a cripple, dying slowly of some sad
spinal disease, lying in a dark corner, on what seemed to me a heap of
rags. Oh, God, I can see that child's face now! I remember when we heard
of its death my mother burst into tears. They were tears of joy, she told
me afterwards, that another suffering child's life was ended; 'and there
are hundreds and hundreds of these little creatures, Ursula,' she said,
'growing up in sin and misery; and the world goes on, and people eat and
drink and are merry, for it is none of their business, and yet it is not
the will of the Father that one of these little ones should perish.'

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