Book: Uncle Max

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'"And there is Kitty; and he has enough of his own; and a sickly body
like Phoebe would hinder the comfort of the house, and I have promised
mother to take care of her." And then she asked my opinion. Well, I could
not but own that with the shop and the house to mind, and five children,
counting Kitty, and a bedridden invalid, her hands would be over-weighted
with work and worry.

'"I think so too," she answered, as quietly as possible, "and I have no
right to burden Duncan. I am sure he will listen to reason when I tell
him Phoebe is against our marrying." And she never said another word
about it. But Duncan came to me about six months afterwards and asked me
to put up his banns.

'"I wanted Susan Locke," he said, in a shamefaced manner, "but that
sister of hers hinders our marrying; so, as I must think of the children,
I have got Janet Sharpe to promise me. She is a good, steady lass, and
Susan speaks well of her."'

Uncle Max had told his story without interruption. I listened to it with
almost painful interest.

With what quiet self-denial this homely woman had put aside her own hopes
of happiness for the sake of the sickly creature dependent on her! She
had owned her affection for Duncan with the utmost simplicity; but in her
unselfishness she refused to burden him with her responsibilities. If she
married him she must do her duty by him and his children, and she felt
that Phoebe would be a drag on her strength and time.

'She is a good woman, Uncle Max,' I observed, when he had finished.
'She is working herself to death, and Phoebe never gives her a word
of comfort.'

'How can you expect it?' he replied quietly. 'You cannot draw comfort out
of empty wells, and poor Phoebe's heart is like a broken cistern, holding
nothing.'

'But surely you talk to her, Uncle Max?'

'I have tried to do so,' he answered sadly; 'but for the last year she
has refused to see me, and Hamilton has advised me to keep away. If I
cross the threshold it is to see Miss Locke. I thought it was a whim at
first, and I sent Tudor in my stead; but she was so rude to him, and
lashed herself into such a fury against us clerics, that he came back
looking quite scared, and asked why I had sent him to a mad woman.'

'She was angry with me to-day.' And I told him about the blind.

'That is right, Ursula,' he said encouragingly. 'You have made a good
beginning: the singing may do more to soften her strange nature than all
our preaching. You will be a comfort to Miss Locke, at any rate.' And
then he stopped, and looked at me rather wistfully, as though he longed
to tell me something but could not make up his mind to do it 'You will be
a comfort to us all if you go on in this way,' he continued; and then he
surprised me by asking if I had not yet seen the ladies from Gladwyn.

The question struck me as rather irrelevant, but I took care not to say
so as I answered in the negative.

'You have been here nearly a week; they might have risked a call by this
time,' he returned, knitting his brows as though something perplexed him;
but I broke in on his reflections rather impatiently.

'I declare, Max, you have quite piqued my curiosity about these people;
some mystery seems to attach to Gladwyn. I shall expect to see something
very wonderful.'

'Then you will be disappointed,' he returned quietly, not a bit offended
by my petulance. 'I cannot help wishing you to make acquaintance with
them, as they are such intimate friends of mine, and I think it will be a
mutual benefit.'

Then, as I made no reply to this, he went on, still more mildly:

'I confess I should like your opinion of them. I have a great reliance in
your intuition and common sense; and you are so deliciously frank and
outspoken, Ursula, that I shall soon know what you think. Well, I must
not stay gossiping here. Your company is very charming, my dear, but I
have letters to write before bedtime. You will see our friends in church
on Sunday. I hear Miss Elizabeth comes home to-morrow; she is the lively
one,--not quite of the Merry Pecksniff order, but still a bright, chatty
lady.

"From morning till night
It is Betty's delight
To chatter and talk without stopping."

'You know the rest, Ursula, my dear. By the bye,' opening the door, and
looking cautiously into the passage, 'I wonder whom the Bartons are
entertaining in the kitchen to-night? I hear a masculine voice.'

'It is only Mr. Hamilton,' I returned indifferently. 'I heard him come
in half an hour ago; he is giving Nathaniel a lesson in mathematics.'

'To be sure. What a good fellow he is!' in an enthusiastic tone. 'Well,
good-night, child: do not sit up late.' And he vanished.

I am afraid I disregarded this injunction, for I wanted to write to my
poor Jill--who was never absent from my mind--and Lesbia; and I was loath
to leave the fireside, and too much excited for sleep.

When I had finished my letters I still sat on gazing into the bright
caverns of coal, and thinking over Susan Locke's history.

'How many good people there are in the world!' I said, half aloud; but I
almost jumped out of my chair at the sound of a deep, angry voice on the
other side of the door.

'It is a thriftless, wasteful sort of thing burning the candle at both
ends. Women have very little common sense, after all.'

I extinguished the lamp hastily, for of course Mr. Hamilton's growl was
meant for me, though it was addressed to Nathaniel. I heard him close the
door a moment afterwards, and Nathaniel crept back into the kitchen. I
woke rather tired the next day, and owned he was right, for I found my
duties somewhat irksome that morning. The feeling did not pass off, and
I actually discovered that I was dreading my visit to Phoebe, only of
course I scouted it as nonsense.

Miss Locke was out, and Kitty opened the door. Her demure little face
brightened when she saw me, and especially when I placed a large
brown-paper parcel in her arms, of that oblong shape dear to all
doll-loving children, and bade her take it into the kitchen.

'It is too dark and cold for you to play outside, Kitty,' I observed,
'so perhaps you will make the acquaintance of the blue-eyed baby I have
brought you; when Aunt Susan comes in, you can ask her for some pieces to
dress her in, for her paper robe is rather cold.'

Kitty's eyes grew wide with surprise and delight as she ran off with her
treasure; the baby-doll would be a playmate for the lonely child, and
solace those weary hours in the sick-room. I would rather have brought
her a kitten, but I felt instinctively that no animal would be tolerated
by the invalid.

It was somewhat dark when I entered the room, but one glance showed me
that my directions had been obeyed; the window was unshaded, and the
flowers were in their place.

Phoebe was lying watching the fire. I saw at once that she was in a
better mood. The few questions I put to her were answered quietly and
to the point, and there was no excitement or exaggeration in her manner.

I did not talk much. After a minute or two I sat down by the uncurtained
window and began to sing as usual. I commenced with a simple ballad, but
very soon my songs merged into hymns. It began to be a pleasure to me to
sing in that room. I had a strange feeling as though my voice were
keeping the evil spirits away. I thought of the shepherd-boy who played
before Saul and refreshed the king's tormented mind; and now and then an
unuttered prayer would rise to my lips that in this way I might be able
to comfort the sad soul that truly Satan had bound.

When my voice grew a little weary, I rose softly and took down the old
brown sampler, as I wished to replace it by a little picture I had
brought with me.

It was a sacred photograph of the Crucifixion, in a simple Oxford frame,
and had always been a great favourite with me; it was less painful in its
details than other delineations of this subject: the face of the divine
sufferer wore an expression of tender pity. Beneath the cross the Blessed
Virgin and St. John stood with clasped hands,--adopted love and most
sacred responsibility,--receiving sanction and benediction.

I had scarcely hung it on the nail before Phoebe's querulous voice
remonstrated with me.

'Why can you not leave well alone, Miss Garston? I was thanking you in my
heart for the music, but you have just driven it away. I cannot have that
picture before my eyes; it is too painful.'

'You will not find it so,' I replied quietly; 'it is a little present I
have brought you. My dead brother bought it for me when he was a boy at
school, and it is one of the things I most prize. He is dead, you know,
and that makes it doubly dear to me. That is why I want you to have it,
because I have so much and you so little.'

My speech moved her a little, for her great eyes softened as she looked
at me.

'So you have been in trouble, too,' she said softly. 'And yet you can
sing like a bird that has lost its way and finds itself nearly at the
gate of Paradise.'

'Shall I tell you about my trouble?' I returned, sitting down by the
bed. It wrung my heart to talk of Charlie, but I knew the history of
his suffering and patience would teach Phoebe a valuable lesson.

An hour passed by unheeded, and when I had finished I exclaimed at the
lateness of the hour.

'Ay, you have tired yourself; you look quite pale,' was her answer; 'but
you have made me forget myself for the first time in my life.' She
stopped, and then with more effort continued, 'Come again to-morrow, and
I will tell you my trouble; it is worse than yours, and has made me the
crazy creature you see. Yes, I will tell you all about it'; but, half
crying, as though she had little hope of contesting my will, 'You will
not leave that picture to make my heart ache more than, it does now?'

'My poor Phoebe,' I said, kissing her, 'when your heart once aches for
the thought of another's sorrow your healing will have begun. Let that
picture say to you what no one has said to you before, "that all your
life you have been an idolater, that you have worshipped only yourself
and one other--"'

'Whom? What do you mean? Have you heard of Robert?' she asked excitedly.

'To-morrow is Sunday,' I returned, touching her softly. 'I am going to
church in the morning, and I shall not be here until evening; but we
shall have time then for a long talk, and you shall tell me everything.'
And then, without waiting for an answer, I left the room. It was late
indeed. Miss Locke had long returned, and was busying herself over her
sister's supper; she held up her finger to me smiling as I passed, and
I peeped in.

Kitty was lying on the rug, fast asleep, with the doll in her arms.

'I found them like this when I came in,' whispered Miss Locke; 'she must
have been listening to the music and fallen asleep. How late you have
stopped with Phoebe! it is nearly eight o'clock!'

'I do not think the time has been wasted,' I answered cheerfully, as
I bade her good-night and stepped out into the darkness. Is time ever
wasted, I wonder, when we stop in our daily work to give one of these
weak ones a cup of cold water? It is not for me to answer; only our
recording angel knows how some such little deed of kindness may brighten
some dim struggling life that seems over-full of pain.




CHAPTER XII

A MISSED VOCATION


It was pleasant to wake to bright sunshine the next morning, and to hear
the sparrows twittering in the ivy.

It had been my intention to set apart Sunday as much as possible as a day
of rest and refreshment. Of course I could not expect always to control
the various appeals for my help or to be free from my patients, but by
management I hoped to secure the greater part of the day for myself.

I had told Peggy not to expect me at the cottage until the afternoon;
everything was in such order that there was no necessity for me to forgo
the morning service. My promise to Phoebe Locke would keep me a prisoner
for the evening, but I determined that her sister and Kitty should be set
free to go to church, so my loss would be their gain.

I thought of Jill as I dressed myself. She had often owned to me that the
Sundays at Hyde Park Gate were not to her taste. Visitors thronged the
house in the afternoon; Sara discussed her week's amusements with her
friends or yawned over a novel; the morning's sermon was followed as a
matter of course by a gay luncheon party. 'What does it mean, Ursula?'
Jill would say, opening her big black eyes as widely as possible: 'I do
not understand. Mr. Erskine has been telling us that we ought to renounce
the world and our own wills, and not to follow the multitude to do
foolishness, and all the afternoon mother and Sara having been talking
about dresses for the fancy-ball. Is there one religion for church and
another for home? Do we fold it up and put it away with our prayer-books
in the little book-cupboard that father locks so carefully?' finished
Jill, with girlish scorn.

Poor Jill! she had a wide, generous nature, with great capabilities, but
she was growing up in a chilling atmosphere. Young girls are terribly
honest; they dig down to the very root of things; they drag off the
swathing cloths from the mummy face of conventionality. What does it
mean? they ask. Is there truth anywhere? Endless shams surround them;
people listen to sermons, then they shake off the dust of the holy place
carefully from the very hem of their garments; their religion, as Jill
expressed it, is left beside their prayer-books. Ah! if one could but see
clearly, with eyes purged from every remnant of earthliness,--see as the
angels do,--the thick fog of unrisen and unprayed prayers clinging to the
rafters of every empty church, we might well shudder in the clogging
heavy atmosphere.

Jill had not more religion than many other girls, but she wanted to be
true; the inconsistency of human nature baffled and perplexed her; she
was not more ready to renounce the world than Sara was, but she wished
to know the inner meaning of things, and in this I longed to help her.
I could not help thinking of her tenderly and pitifully as I walked
down the road leading to the little Norman church. I was early, and the
building was nearly empty when I entered the porch; but it was quiet and
restful to sit there and review the past week, and watch the sunshine
lighting up the red brick walls and touching the rood-screen, while a
faint purple gleam fell on the chancel pavement.

Two ladies entered the seat before me, and I looked at them a little
curiously.

They were both very handsomely dressed, but it was not their fashionable
appearance that attracted me. I had caught sight of a most beautiful and
striking face belonging to one of them that somehow riveted my attention.

The lady was apparently very young, and had a tall graceful figure, and
strange colourless hair that looked as though it ought to have been
golden, only the gloss had faded out of it; but it was lovely hair, fine
and soft as a baby's.

As she rose she slightly turned round, and our eyes met for a moment;
they were large, melancholy eyes, and the face, beautiful as it was, was
very worn and thin, and absolutely without colour. I could see her
profile plainly all through the service, but the dull impassive
expression of the countenance that she had turned upon me gave me a
sensation of pain; she looked like a person who had experienced some
great trouble or undergone some terrible illness. I could not make up
my mind which it could be.

The other lady was much older, and had no claims to beauty. I could see
her face plainly, for she looked round once or twice as though she were
expecting some one.

She must have been over thirty, and had rather a singular face; it was
thin, dark-complexioned, and very sallow; she was a stylish-looking
woman, but her appearance did not interest me. To my surprise, just as
the service commenced, Mr. Hamilton came in and joined them. So these
must be the ladies from Gladwyn, I thought. That beautiful pale girl must
be his sister Gladys, and the other one Miss Darrell.

I tried to keep my attention to my own devotions, but every now and
then my eyes would stray to the lovely face before me. Mr. Hamilton's
behaviour was irreproachable. I could hear his voice following all the
responses, and he sang the hymns very heartily.

I think he knew I was behind him, for he handed me a hymn-book, with a
slight smile, when I was offering to share mine with a young woman. Miss
Darrell gave me a curiously penetrating look when she came out that did
not quite please me, but the girl who followed her did not seem to notice
my presence. I sat still in my place for a minute, as I did not wish to
encounter them in the porch. I had lingered so long that the congregation
had quite dispersed when I got out, but, to my surprise, I could see the
three walking very slowly down the road. Could they have been waiting for
me? I wondered; but I dismissed this idea as absurd.

But I could not forget the face that had so interested me; and when I
encountered Uncle Max on his way to the children's service I questioned
him at once about the two ladies.

'Yes, you are right, Ursula,' he said, a little absently. 'The one with
fair hair was Miss Gladys: her cousin, Miss Darrell, sat by Hamilton.'

'But you never told me how beautiful she was,' I replied, in rather
an injured voice. 'She has a perfect face, only it is so worn and
unhappy-looking.'

'You must not keep me,' observed Max hurriedly; 'Miss Darrell wants to
speak to me before service.' And he rushed off, leaving me standing in
the middle of the path rather wondering at his abruptness, for the bell
had not commenced.

A little farther on, I came face to face with Miss Darrell; she was
walking with Mr. Tudor, and seemed talking to him with much animation.

She bowed slightly, as he took off his hat to me, in a graceful well-bred
manner, but her face prepossessed me even less than it had done in the
morning. She had keen, dark eyes like Mr. Hamilton's, only they somehow
repelled me. I was somewhat quick with my likes and dislikes, as I had
proved by the dislike I had taken to Mr. Hamilton. This feeling was
wearing off, and I was no longer so strongly prejudiced against him. I
might even find Miss Darrell less repelling when I spoke to her. She was
evidently a gentlewoman; her movements were quiet and graceful, and she
had a good carriage.

I was somewhat surprised on reaching the cottage to find Mr. Hamilton
sitting by my patient. He had Janie on his knee, and seemed as though he
had been there for some time, but he rose at once when he saw me.

'I was waiting for you, Miss Garston,' he said quietly. 'I wanted to give
you some directions about Mrs. Marshall'; and when he had finished, he
said, a little abruptly--

'What made you so long coming out of church this morning? I was waiting
to introduce my sister and cousin to you, but you were determined to
disappoint me.'

I was a little confused by this.

'Did you recognise me?' I asked, rather tamely.

'No,--not in that smart bonnet,' was the unexpected reply. 'I did not
identify the wearer with the village nurse until I heard your voice in
the Te Deum: you can hardly disguise your voice, Miss Garston: my cousin
Etta pricked up her ears when she heard it.' And then, as I made no
answer, he picked up his hat with rather an amused air and wished me
good-bye.

I was rather offended at the mention of my bonnet; the little gray wing
that relieved its sombre black trimmings could hardly be called smart,--a
word I abhorred,--but he probably said it to tease me.

'Ay, the doctor has been telling us you have a voice like a skylark,'
observed Elspeth, 'but I have been thinking it must be more like an
angel's voice, my bairn, since you mostly use it to sing the Lord's
praises, and to cheer the sick folk round you: that is more than a
skylark does.'

So he had been praising my voice. What an odd man!

I stayed at the cottage about two hours, and read a little to the
children and Elspeth, and then I started for the Lockes'.

Kitty clapped her hands when she heard she was to go to church with her
aunt Susan. I found out afterwards the child had always gone alone.

Phoebe was evidently expecting me, for her eyes were fixed on the door
as I entered, and the same shadowy smile I had seen once before swept
over her wan features when she saw me. She seemed ready and eager to
talk, but I adhered to my usual programme. I was rather afraid that our
conversation would excite her, so I wanted to quiet her first. I sang a
few of my favourite hymns, and then read the evening psalms. She heard
me somewhat reluctantly, but when I had finished her face cleared, and
without any preamble she commenced her story.

I never remember that recital without pain. It positively wrung my heart
to listen to her. I had heard the outline of her sad story from her
sister's lips, but it had lacked colour; it had been a simple statement
of facts, and no more.

But now Phoebe's passionate words seemed to clothe it with power; the
very sight of the ghastly and almost distracted face on the pillow gave
a miserable pathos to the story. It was in vain to check excitement while
the unhappy creature poured out the history of her wrongs: the old old
story, of a credulous woman's heart being trampled upon and tortured by
an unworthy lover, was enacted again before me.

'I just worshipped the ground he walked on, and he threw me aside like a
broken toy,' she said over and over again. 'And the worst of it is that,
villain as he is, I cannot unlove him, though I am that mad with him
sometimes that I could almost murder him.'

'Love is strong as death, and jealousy is cruel as the grave,' I
muttered, half to myself, but she overheard me.

'Ay, that is just true,' she returned eagerly: 'there are times when I
hate Robert and Nancy and would like to haunt them. Did I not tell you,
Miss Garston, that hell had begun with me already? I was never a good
woman,--never, not even when I was happy and Robert loved me. I was
just full of him, and wanted nothing else in heaven and earth; and when
the trouble came, and father and mother died, and I lay here like a
log,--only a log has not got a living heart in it,--I seemed to go mad
with the anger and unhappiness, and I felt "the worm that dieth not, and
the fire that is not quenched."'

I stooped over and wiped her poor lips and poor head, for she was
fearfully exhausted, and then in a perfect passion of pity closed her
face between my hands and bade God bless her.

'What do you mean?' she said, staring at me; but her voice trembled.
'Haven't I been telling you how wicked I am? Do you think that is a
reason for His blessing me?'

'I think His blessing has always been with you, my poor Phoebe, like the
sunlight that you try to shut out from your windows. You hide yourself
in your own darkness, and pretend that the all-embracing love is not for
you. Well may you call your present existence a tomb; but you must not
wrong your Almighty Father. Not He, but you yourself have walled yourself
up with your own sinful hands, and then you wonder at the weight that
lies upon your heart.'

'Can I forget my trouble when I am not able to move?' she said bitterly.
And it was sad to see how her hands beat upon the bedclothes. But I held
them in mine. They were icy cold. The action seemed to calm her frenzy.

'You cannot forget,' I returned quietly; 'but all this time, all these
weary years, you might have learned to forgive Robert.'

'Nay, I will have nothing to do with forgiving,' was the hard answer.

'And yet you say you love him, Phoebe. Why, the very devils would laugh
at such a notion of love.'

'Didn't I say I both loved and hated him?' very fiercely.

'Speak the truth, and say you hate him, and God forgive you your sin. But
it is a greater one than Robert has committed against you.'

'How dare you say such things to me, Miss Garston?' trying to free her
hands; but still I held them fast. 'You will make me hate you next. I am
not a pleasant-tempered woman.'

'If you do, I will promise you forgiveness beforehand. Why, you poor
creature, do you think I could ever be hard on you?'

The fierce light in her eyes softened. 'Nay, I did not mean what I said;
but you excite me with your talk. How can you know what I feel about
these things? You cannot put yourself in my place.'

'The heart knoweth its own bitterness, Phoebe; and it may be that in your
place I should fail utterly in patience; but if we will not lie still
under His hand, and learn the lesson He would fain teach us, it may be
that fresh trials may be sent to humble us.'

'Do you think things could be much worse with me?' becoming excited
again; but I stroked her hand, and begged her gently to let me finish
my speech.

'Phoebe, as you lie there on your cross, the whole Church throughout the
world is praying for you Sunday after Sunday when the prayer goes up for
those who are desolate and oppressed. And who so desolate and oppressed
as you?'

'True, most true,' she murmured.

'You are cradled in the supplications of the faithful. A thousand hearts
are hearing your sorrows, and yet you say impiously that you are on the
border-land of hell; but no, you will never go there. There are too many
marks of His love upon you. All this suffering has more meaning than
that.'

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